If there is hope, it lies in the proles. If they could become conscious of their own strength, there would be no need to conspire. History does not matter to them. It was three years ago on a dark evening. Easy to slip the patrols, and I’d gone into the proletarian areas. There was no one else on the street, and no tele-screens. She said: ‘Two dollars,’ so I went with her. She had a young face, painted very thick. It was really the paint that appealed to me: the whiteness of it like a mask, and the bright red lips. There were no preliminaries. Standing there with the scent of dead insects and cheap perfume, I went ahead and did it just the same.
