To Obliterate Class Struggle Is Itself the Truest Class Struggle!

2006/3/16 11:29:13

Once upon a time, there was a type of bird even worse than an ostrich, squawking all day about so-called class struggle. Generally, what needs to be squawked about is what one isn't very confident about. Even a bird wouldn't squawk "a bird is a bird" all day just to prove its own existence. It's like the saying "those who use it know" — what needs to be squawked about isn't working. Those that truly work don't squawk; they just do it. So a bird that squawks isn't a good bird — same goes for dogs.

Then there's a type of bird even worse than the bird that's even worse than an ostrich, squawking all day about the so-called nonexistence of class struggle. Following the logic above, what needs to be squawked about isn't working, and the squawking about the nonexistence of class struggle only proves that class struggle needs no squawking. Just like the rising and setting of the sun — regardless of whether you squawk or not, what will be will be. Some things have nothing to do with squawking. The meaninglessness of squawking doesn't only manifest in certain special industries, special venues, and special occasions.

To obliterate class struggle is itself the truest class struggle. Even among birds — one with class struggle, one without class struggle — just on this alone they can fight until feathers fill the sky, let alone among humans. But humans are often worse than birds. Birds can at least fight until feathers fill the sky; humans mostly just open their mouths wide toward the sky and exchange some air. The squawking exchange of air is never a true exchange. True exchanges exchange blood and teeth. This is how history is. History is full of blood and teeth. Even if you refine humans into birds, history is still history.

So let squawking continue its exchanging, and exchanging continue its squawking — but what must be returned shall be returned! When you step into the arena, what you owe must be repaid. Even mob bosses understand this logic. Red, orange, yellow, green, cyan, blue, purple — who doesn't understand? Look — a flash of white light, and purple, blue, cyan, green, yellow, orange, red — blood blooms on history's burial shroud, and the color is black! History is squawking right now — in its special industry, special venue, special occasion way!