Reading Susan Sontag in New York gave me a starting flash of self-recognition, and I was at once pleased and ashamed to see myself: privileged, bourgeois, acquisitive, surrealistic.

In Chicago I was fortunate to meet with some thoughtful anarchists at the graves of Emma Goldman and the Haymarket Martyrs. They reminded me, as it were, of the underside of the bourgeois system; the suffering and exploitation on which the system, they say, depends

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