Birth of Our Power by Victor Serge Richard Greeman Page A

won’t be distressed; but I won’tgo out of my way just to watch. I’d much prefer, you see, to walk that exquisite, brainless little Mercédès home again. If you take a beating, a few bastards who escape the firing squads will always find enough at my place to get themselves over the mountains or across the ocean; I’ll write you in at the head of the list. Of course, that won’t stop you from saying afterwards that I’m a coward. But don’t worry about it. Just don’t ask me for more.
Nada más!
That’s it, old boy.”
    The night dragged on; yet we weren’t the least bit tired. He continued his soliloquy.
    â€œYou see, nothing is real except you for yourself. Me for myself. I am alone, just like you. Close your eyes: the stars disappear. You might love a woman to the point of wanting to kill yourself for her: but you still wouldn’t feel anything when she had a toothache. Alone. Alone. We are all alone. It’s awful when you think of it! And life goes on, old boy, life goes on … I’m getting gray. I’ve got high blood pressure. What do I have to look forward to? Ten years? Fifteen? Not even that many. See, I might almost envy Concepción or Mercédès—or that twenty-year-old bruiser.”
    (A brawny soldier passed by along the street.)
    â€œDeath is nothing; it is life that is ineffable. How extraordinary to be here, to breathe in this coolness, to feel yourself moving, desiring, thinking, and to discover the world all around you! For the past fifteen years I’ve never been separated from this little toy (he opened his palm wide, uncovering a triangular object of blue-black steel). “Seven bullets ready at any time. The last one for me. With that certainty, no one is freer than I. When that decision has been made once and for all, you become strong. And wise. I love life, my friend. And I have only my own life. I only risk it to save it. I only fight for myself.
    â€œI have three forms of wealth: women, animals, and plants. My happiness is to walk in a garden where the plants are hardy, the flowers opulent. I crave plants that cry out, that bleed, that sing. And palm trees. Have you ever thought what a palm leaf is? It’s strong, supple and firm, full of sap, calm like the stars. There’s life. My happiness is to stroke a horse. You put your hand on his muzzle, pat him gently on the chest, and he looks at you like a friend. You’ll never have a better friend. (Have you ever noticed how the flesh of animals is charged with electricity?) My happiness is women, all women: I don’t even know which give me more pleasure, those I look at or those I take … What do you want me to risk all of that for? Go ahead and fight: I’ll hit the banks and then it’s off to Brazil!”

    3    (1879–1954) The “Robin Hood” of French anarchy, who stole only from the Church, the Military, and the wealthy, and gave most of the proceeds of his daring exploits to anarchist welfare funds. His specialty was to make monkeys out of magistrates and to escape from prisons (including Devil’s Island). He furnished the model for Maurice Leblanc’s famous character, Arsène Lupin. —Tr.

FOUR
Arming
    I HAD NO ANSWER FOR HIM. FAITH, CERTITUDE, ABSURDITY — THEY DON ’ T need an answer. “All the old poisons of Paris flow through your veins, my friend. Good night.” … Sometimes, under a light gray sky, the Seine brings strangely opulent iridescences to the slick surface of her still, green waters: pearl-gray, purple, rainbow-hued, opalescent blotches that poison her. More than anyone else—since I had seen them kill off the strongest of the strong—I was conscious of certain imponderable poisons, synthetic products which combine bourgeois temptations with a natural love of life, intelligence and energy with rebellion and poverty … Oh happy counterfeiters, carrying