The Conquest of BreadKropotkin, Petr Alekseevich, kniaz
Philosophy
The Conquest of Bread
Kropotkin, Petr Alekseevich, kniaz
Anarchism; Communism
Take, indeed, a civilized country. The forests which once covered it
have been cleared, the marshes drained, the climate improved. It has
been made habitable. The soil, which bore formerly only a coarse
vegetation, is covered to-day with rich harvests. The rock-walls in the
valleys are laid out in terraces and covered with vines. The wild
plants, which yielded nought but acrid berries, or uneatable roots, have
been transformed by generations of culture into succulent vegetables or
trees covered with delicious fruits. Thousands of highways and railroads
furrow the earth, and pierce the mountains. The shriek of the engine is
heard in the wild gorges of the Alps, the Caucasus, and the Himalayas.
The rivers have been made navigable; the coasts, carefully surveyed, are
easy of access; artificial harbours, laboriously dug out and protected
against the fury of the sea, afford shelter to the ships. Deep shafts
have been sunk in the rocks; labyrinths of underground galleries have
been dug out where coal may be raised or minerals extracted. At the
crossings of the highways great cities have sprung up, and within their
borders all the treasures of industry, science, and art have been
accumulated.
Whole generations, that lived and died in misery, oppressed and
ill-treated by their masters, and worn out by toil, have handed on this
immense inheritance to our century.
For thousands of years millions of men have laboured to clear the
forests, to drain the marshes, and to open up highways by land and
water. Every rood of soil we cultivate in Europe has been watered by the
sweat of several races of men. Every acre has its story of enforced
labour, of intolerable toil, of the people's sufferings. Every mile of
railway, every yard of tunnel, has received its share of human blood.
The shafts of the mine still bear on their rocky walls the marks made by
the pick of the workman who toiled to excavate them. The space between
each prop in the underground galleries might be marked as a miner's
grave; and who can tell what each of these graves has cost, in tears, in
privations, in unspeakable wretchedness to the family who depended on
the scanty wage of the worker cut off in his prime by fire-damp,
rock-fall, or flood?
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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