#artsybashev

The whole history of the human race is the history of martyrs and heroes perishing, and every epoch is a triumph of platitude. The best of people, those, who are worshipped by humanity, perish and perish, and walking on their corpses is a huge human herd. Heroes and martyrs of ideas are only here in order to glue together with their blood those bricks of communal happiness,  and every floor of the building they'll raise will primarily be populated by the triumphing pigs, snorting back in their direction with contempt. They, the dumb animals, will get everything: new inventions, beautiful buildings, luxury, wealth, freedom and beautiful women, and the suffering, the agonizing pondering and the self-sacrifice is reserved for those who selflessly believed in the right of the future generations to their soul and their life. This is how it's always been and always will be.

But had our hearing been able to perceive all the earth's noises at once, we would, through the thuds of machines being built, through the rustle of the billions of steps, through the noise of woods and seas, through the whisper of lovers and screams of women giving birth, through fire shots, music, yells, whistles and laughter, we could make out a continuous, monotonous, never stopping voice of death.   Moan and gasp the suffocating, shriek those in fevers, cry out the ones being murdered, squeal those being eaten by ulcers, and all this — screams, moans, squeals, weeps and bone cracking  — fuse into this droning, continuous note, the major note of life.