I think that I am in love with ideals, you see, and that is quite dangerous.
If I had lived in 1917 I would have been a socialist, undoubtedly - had I lived in 1952 I would have been a socialist also...but now the specter of communism is indeed little more than even that; it has disappointingly failed, proved to be untranslatable from idea to action. And where, then, does that leave me now? Reading Mayakovsky and Che Guevara and Gandhi and Tolstoy and Kierkegaard and Dostoevsky in this post-industrial, post-modern, post-revolutionary world? How do I make sense of antiquated thought and apply it to the present? Socialism, no - that, at least, I have decided. Or have I? Have I really rejected every tenet?
Mayakovsky and his passion, Che Guevara and his passion, Tolstoy and Gandhi and these men and their overwhelming desire for change - that, I think, is what I most admire, in spite of the means. Or perhaps even because of it.
I examine each from an intimate view and see a life led by infinite curiosity. What I would not do to have met them.