Thirty years ago a stooped man with hollow cheeks and a potbelly came out from behind the bookstacks, where he had spent most of his life, and kidnaped a state. Never before or after did he fire a gun or throw a bomb or raise his slim-fingered hands to strike a blow. In his name, nevertheless, more men have been slaughtered than in Attila's. His name was Lenin.*
In the bookstacks, he had read Bakunin, who dreamed of absolute freedom; Marx, who dreamed of absolute politico-economic science; and Rousseau, who dreamed of justice. More...
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