| Happy birthday, John Coetzee, you dead, Boer bastard. |
[11 Feb 2004|11:01pm] |
From the Desk of Cde. C. Nova
Tuesday, February 11th, 2004
Today's memo, comrades, concerns one of my favorite enemies. I relish this one with the same reverence that the oncologist holds for a particularly difficult carcinoma. With the same adoration that an epidemiologist beholds an especially virulent and destructive tropical nematode.
And what is this lovely malignancy? This delicious specimen of plague? Why, I'll tell you. He is none other than the dreaded Cryptolumpenprole.
Ahhh, the Cryptolumpenrprole. Bacteria. Scum. The Lowest form of life. He (and She!) is the infection, the fungiform, the ever-present spore which dooms all revolutions. The Plutocracy could not survive without him. He is that cancer's own antibody, defense mechanism of the malignant organs of this hierarchical civilization.
Who is the Cryptolumpenprole? What moves this backstabbing, traitorous slime? This creature loves his church, or rather, he fears it lovingly. He adores, envies, and fantasizes about being in the place of his masters. The landowners. The bankers. Men and women with money and privilege, whose imagination and cleverness he can't, with exceptions, hope to match, but whom he imagines himself the equal of if only he'd get his break. The sullen dreamer on the stable hay. The cheery cutthroat in her cubicle. The incompetent wrench-turner on the line that boasts about how much harder he works, and will go to the foreman about any fellow that rests a minute after the break whistle blows.
If he has a wife he keeps her in her place. If he has children, he beats them.
Now, you may notice that these are all the core traits of the regular lumpenproletariat. How does the this variety differ from the rest of its species? In one, simple way: a cryptolumpenprole is a member of the working class that has been recruited by the bourgeois to infiltrate a revolutionary worker's movement. He possesses all the same sentiments and motivations, only intensified, whetted by the prospect of surcease for his actions as an informant, and secreted away in his heart of hearts.
Of course his hopes are vain in both senses of the word. His treason against his own people will never gain him admittance into the society of his masters. Any capital reward he will receive will be riches to him, but of course not enough to buy him any meaningful advance. He has not the mannerisms, erudition, nor aesthetics of those he serves, and would never be accepted into their company except as entertainment: as a clown. They despise him for what he is. The greater the service he renders, the greater their contempt. Once the uprising is crushed, co-opted, or otherwise rendered impotent he will be discarded if at all possible, either by ostracism or by denunciation by his own employers as their agent.
At this point, if the light of wisdom glimmers in his mind (and his secret has not been revealed) he will throw his lot in with his comrades, even as they rot in a cell. Unfortunately, as his consciousness is raised his conscience will begin to gnaw at his heart. The rat will feel the stronger and stronger desire to confess to his brothers. Until he does he will have no satisfaction. Afterwards his outraged comrades will have theirs.
But if he can maintain, if he can suppress this urge and instead become a loyal warrior for the commonweal of his class he will have accomplished something: the transubstantiation of his own soul. Of course, there is always the worry that his former master will expose him for what he was, thus undermining the spirit and bonds of comradeship in the movement. If evidences of his treason are kept, they can be released at a strategic moment. Thus, even converted the cryptolumpenprole is an asset for the ruling class, and a tumor in the body politic of the revolutionary proletariat.
It is unlikely however that he will be completely abandoned by his owners at the end of his mission. Rather, he will be kept on, his loyalty bought by small sums and favors, and will continue to inform on whatever other groups accept this "veteran" into their ranks.
So what is to be done?
One cannot denounce him on suspicions alone. This will bring division in the heart of the movement. Even a successful exposure of this creature will sew seeds of paranoia in the ranks. If this veteran comrade could be a spy for the police, the government, or the management then who is surely not? No. The best way to deal with this slime is to bury him alive in a deep hole in the dead of night. If his disappearance is discovered a murder too soon it could have one of two effects: to inspire rash action, or to depress, dishearten, and terrify a budding revolutionary organization. To murder him just before the comrades undertake a revolt, and to do so in a way that leaves his body for all to find, is most preferable. The bourgeois will be called horrible monsters, the People will raise the red flag, and the cryptolumpen will have at last provided a service to his fellow men.
Unfortunately, in this America nearly all workers are lumpenprole of one sort or another, and the cryptolumpen are an anachronism. Like the Great Diseases of the last two centuries they are nearly extinct. There are so many eager informants and would-be traitors amongst the working class that there is as much tattle-tailing on each other as there is betrayal of True Heroes. The ratio of lumpen to revolutionaries is nearly a thousand to one, and that's an optimistic estimate. Bribery by the bourgeois is wholly unnecessary. In the sorry clime that confronts us this comrade can see no practical course other than the ruthless extermination of every member of every class, save the destitute and the clinically insane.
We could learn a lot from Pol Pot.
Sincerly,
Cde. Clark
|
(say your piece.)
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