Everything had fallen apart for Sergo. Bloody Sunday felt like yesterday to him. He shook his head. Four years had passed, and what had been accomplished? His dreams of building his factory drifted away like gun smoke.
Nothing was left, but the endless bickering. He was now certain that the party existed merely for its own division into countless factions. At some point, each of them would be arguing with themselves, each man forming and joining several of his own imaginary revolutionary factions. It was hopeless, madness. Marx talked of people coming together, not taking turns stabbing each other in the back. Continue reading Kirillov