CZM Book Club : The Revolutionary Fables of Ricardo Flores Magón, Part Two

From where we were last week. I'm going to continue from where we were last week, which is that we were reading a bunch of different fables as it were written by Ricardo floresmcgon, who, if you didn't listen to last week's or don't know who that is, was a Mexican revolutionary, one of the main ideological thinkers of the Liberal Party prior to the Mexican Revolution, and ironically, the Liberal Party was the anarchist party because political terminology is

almost meaningless. And before and after mcgone helped with a lot of other people stage a massive uprising to try and bring power directly to workers and peasants and things like that across Mexico. He wrote a lot, and he worked with a newspaper that he and other people ran called Regeneracy on Regeneration, and he wrote a lot of parables, and so we're gonna we're gonna keep reading some of

those parables because I find them interesting. I also find them heavy handed, which is absolutely this is not the political way that I have any interest in writing. Personally. I find it really instructive to see the ways that different types of political fiction writers have written throughout the years.

And I don't want to make this like sweeping generalization that like, oh, one hundred years ago, before you know, Ursula Gwynn, people didn't ever bother having any subtlety or self critique in their political writing, because that's actually not the case at all, you know. I hope we get

to talk about it more at some point. But this whole thing, where as far as I can tell, if you were in the literature scene of France in the eighteen nineties and early aughts, you know, you pretty much were an anarchist, the same way that if you were a punk in the nineteen nineties and early aughts in the US, you know, if you wanted to be taken seriously, that's what you were. And I believe that the people writing that kind of literature saw themselves first and foremost

as literature writers. You know, an Oscar Wilde was a very good example of an anarchist fiction writer who certainly did not make his fiction bend to his political project. And we talked about it a bit in episodes that we did about Oscar wild But he actually very specifically believed that you didn't have art for socialism's sake, you had socialism for art's sake, because he wanted everyone to have the sort of free time in lives of leisure that more people can have when we actually share the

bounty of this earth, so that they can create things. Anyway. This first story that I'm going to read by Macgon is called Justice, and is from nineteen fourteen. This one's real subtle. The governor, the capitalist, and the priest rested that afternoon in the shadow of an ash tree, which glowed vigorously in the canyon of the mountain range. The capitalist, visibly agitated, mashed the pulp of a red booklet between his hands, and said, between sigh and sigh, all has

been lost. My fields, my cattle, my mills, my factories. Everything is now controlled by the revolutionaries. The governor, trembling with rage, said it has ended. Now no one respects authority and the priest elevated his eyes to the sky and said, remorsefully, wicked reason, she has murdered faith. The three pillars of society, thought, thought, and thought. The previous night, some fifty revolutionaries had invaded the village. The working class

of the area had received them with open arms. While the town was searching for the governor, the capitalist, and the priest to demand from them a strict account of their actions, they fled to the canyon seeking refuge. Our empire over the masses has ended, said the governor and the capitalist in one voice. The priest smiled and said, in a convinced tone, do not worry yourselves. Clearly faith

has lost some ground. However, I assure you that by means of religion, we can recuperate all that we have lost. First of all, it appears that the ideas contained in this evil booklet have triumphed in the village. They will certainly triumph if we remain inactive. I do not deny that these wicked ideas enjoy sympathy among the people. However, others refuse them, especially the ideas that directly attack religion. Among these last people, we must foment a reactionary movement. Fortunately,

the three of us could escape. If we had perished in the hands of the revolutionaries, the old institutions would have died with us. The capitalist and the governor felt as if they had been liberated from a terrible burden. Inspired by greed, the capitalist's eyes drizzled. How how would it be possible for him to enjoy again the possession of his fields, his cattle, his mills, and his factories.

Hadn't it all been just a cruel nightmare? Would he return to having the entire population of his district under his power thanks to the good minister of religion? And standing up, he shook his fist in the direction of the village, whose farm houses glowed brightly under the rays of the may sun. The governor, emotional said, with conviction, I have always believed that religion is the most solid

support of the principle of authority. Religion teaches that God is the first leader and that governors are his lieutenants on earth. Religion condemns rebellion because it considers governors to be above the people by will of God. Long live religion. Enamored by his own words, the governor snatched the red booklet from the hands of the capitalist, tearing it to pieces and throwing the scraps at the village, as if challenging the noble insurrectionary proletariats dogs. He cried, receive this

with my saliva. The bits of paper were blown by the air, flying cheerfully like Butterfli's plane. It was the manifesto of September twenty third, nineteen eleven. The first shadows of the night began to descend upon the valley. Through the twilight could be seen a red flag rippling on top of a small house in the village. It flaunted

in white letters, this inscription land and liberty. The governor, the capitalist, and the priest cried out, shaking their fists towards the village, nest of vipers, we will soon crush you. The last brush strokes of the sun still shone, emitting from the west. While disappearing, the frogs began their customary serenade, free, happy,

ignorant of the miseries that make men suffer. In the ash tree, a pair of mocking birds sang to each other of their free love without judges, without priests, without clerks. The gentle beauty of the hour invited the human heart, to expose all its tortures and to materialize all its sentiments in a work of art, making the rocks shudder. A formidable cry rolled through the dale. Who lives? The governor, the capitalist, and the priest trembled, foreseeing their end. The

night had finally come, shrouding everything in blackness. The mocking birds hushed up, the frogs down. A gust of wind stirred the bows of the ash in a sinister manner, and the awful darkness A resonating, fateful cry returned. Who lives? The three pillars of society remembered all their crimes in a second. They had enjoyed all the delicacies of life at the expense of the suffering of humble people. They had sustained the ignorance and misery of humanity in order

to satisfy their appetites. A sound of energetic footsteps drew closer to them. It was the soldiers of the people, the soldiers of the social revolution. A discharge of rifle shots felled the representatives of the hydra with three heads, Authority, Capital, and Church. And that's the end of the first story. But do you know what's not the end of you're not free from You're not free from advertisers because you have not had a social revolution that freed you from

this yoke. And so here you are listening to ads. Well, unless you have the social revolution of having cooler zone media, in which case you don't have to listen to ads. You just get to listen to ad pivots, which is the most fun part of the show for me. And we're back, so okay. Rather than talking about them all the en I wan't talk about that last story really quickly.

One of the things that I find so interesting about this story, there was this very strong conception in anarchist thought and a lot of you know, revolutionary movements that was specifically like these are the three heads authority, like the state, capital, and the church, and these are very

reasonable positions to have. And what's interesting is that if you look at some of the antecedents, like if you look at like the modern Zapatistas, which I'm currently doing a deep dive on on my show Cool People Who Did Cool Stuff, one of the things I found really fascinating is that when this appetist we're naming their territories. These are folks who have a bunch of autonomous territories

in Chiapas, the southeastern most state in Mexico. It's an indigenous run area basically that they that they control, and they named a lot of their municipalities all of these different things, and they named one of them Ricardo Floris Macgone, after the author of this text, not because he wrote this text, but because he was an important thinker in this tempted social revolution of you know, the nineteen oths.

But one of the other municipalities is named after San Juan the Liberator, and you know, is named after the first saint who is indigenous to North America. And there's not necessarily the same antagonism towards the church, but actually within this Bapatista camp, but there's also not necessarily the

same antagonism towards government. They perceive the idea of government as upside down from the way that normal society does, where they believe that you know, the people rule and the government follows is like their big thing, right, and

they've set up a lot of structures around that. And so you have this like movement that grew out of a lot of different movements, and one of the things that it grew out of was the liberation theology movement, and so I just find it fascinating how movements ebb and flow in the way that we frame these fairly important questions, and yet we're still part of the same

movement on some level. The Sapatistas, their famous thing is that they fight for a world in which many worlds are possible, and I fucking love that, and I think they're great. Anyway, let me read you another story Rewarding Merits nineteen sixteen. The prison and the temple chat secretly, like two cronies who are tied together more by the nooses of crime than those of friendship. From the citadel

escapes the stench of rotting cattle. From the temple emerges a few laden with dismay, saturated with swooning, like the mouth of a cave in whose darkness all the dehabilitated grovel and all the impotent wring their arms. I abhor the people, says the citadel, yawning. However, I bestow my consideration and respect to the worthy, distinguished people whose interests I shield. Each time the honorable guardian of order brings me a new guest, I shiver with emotion. My satisfaction climaxes.

When I feel more and more criminals stirring within my stone belly, there is a pause. Through the bars can be heard jangles of shackles, murmurs of protests, cracks of horsewhips, bullying voices of authority, amid the wheezing of harassed beasts, all of the horrible noises that form the horrible music of the prison. Great is your mission, my friend, the prison, says the temple. I reverently bow my tap before you. I also feel satisfied to be the shield of distinguished people.

Whereas you en chain the body of the criminal, I break the will of the people. I castraate their energy. Whereas you lift up a wall of stone between the hand of the poor and the treasures of the rich, I invent the fires of hell, putting them between the cupidity of the miserably poor and the gold of the bourgeoisie. There is a pause. Through the windows, and the doors enter the aromas of incense and the fetid perspiration of the clustered cattle. From the blue space emerges sounds of sobbing,

of supplications. A vile racket created by all the deabilitated people, and all the penitents, the abject music of the submissive and the defeated. As long as I remain standing, the Master sleeps tranquility. The prison says, while there are knees that touch my tiles, the Master's power will remain standing, says the temple. There is a pause. The prison and the temple appear to meditate, the first satisfied for enchaining the body, the second content for enchaining consciousness, both of

them proud of their merits. In the corner of a small cave, some dynamite overhears their conversation, powerfully restraining its forces so that it does not explode from indignation. Wait, it says to itself. Wait, monuments of barbarism, for the bold hand that will unleash the blast from my bosom will arrive sooner than you think. In the belly of misery convulses the fetus of rebellion. Wait, wait for the

fruit of centuries of exploitation and tyranny. The black phalanxes of men consume the last swallows of bitterness and sadness. The glass of patience overflows some more drops, and all the indignations will overflow. All the angers will leap out of their jail cells, all the audacities will transgress their limits, weight, somber edifices, cellars of agony. For in the Great Calendar of human suffering flares with colors of fire and blood, a red date, a new July fourteenth for all the bastilles,

those of the body and those of the consciousness. The cattle are standing up, converting themselves into men. Soon the sun will stop toasting the backs of the herd to illuminate the fronts of free men. Weight. You will remain standing only as long as I stay in this corner. But they forgot about the third pillar that keeps people, the fourth pillar that keeps people in line. Who could that be anyway unrelated? Here's some ads and we're back. I talked about this a little bit on the last one.

There's a certain kind of bitterness or sadness in mcgon's writing this period. Right, he's had this great revolution and lost, you know, I mean, they did a lot of good work, but the thing that they ended up laying the groundwork for was the Mexican Revolution, which was captured fairly soon. And the you know, the people that mcgone was helping, and that the maganestas more broadly in the Liberal Party were helping went and then put down the actual social revolution.

And so there's this intense bitterness and this like hope against hope being like no, no, no, We're going to remember the dynamite. There's the line that the dynamite is powerfully restraining its forces so that it does not explode

from indignation. And I think about this. I don't know if you'll watch and or but there's a part in it where an old revolutionary is talking about the space gasoline that they're in the process of stealing, and talking about how the revolutionaries like that gas They understand each other because they are the thing that explodes when there's too much friction in the air. And I just I like this mirror of ideas across one hundred years in

different countries. Okay, have one more story for him. The triumph of the social revolution from nineteen fifteen not dramatic at all. Juan is ecstatic. He has just seen a notice from Washington in a newspaper saying that they have recognized Kranza as the head of the executive power of the Mexican Republic. He effusively embraces his wife, Yosepha, He kisses his young son and yells out, Now peace will

be a reality. Misery will end. Long Live Kranza Yosepha stands there with her mouth open, looking attentively at her husband. She does not understand how merely raising a new president to power could put an end to misery. She casts a glance around the room, a room in a dead end alleyway in the Mexico City neighborhood of Tepozan, and sighs. Everything around her is miserable. The wicker chairs are breaking apart at the bottom. The plate of the brazier does

not have a sliver of carbon. The miserable bed flaunts sheets that display arbitrary drawings of maps, the product of a physically suffocated child. Atop the rickety table glows a stump of paraffin in the neck of a bottle streaked with dense droplets of melted fuel. Without realizing that his wife has not understood him, one yells an air of prosperity and liberty is opened before the Mexican people. Long

Live Caranza Yosepha opens her eyes insolently decidedly. She does not comprehend what relation could obtain between the exultation of an individual to power and the death of misery. She submerges herself in profound reflections until a Laos, perhaps the hungriest among the innumerable ones that populate her head, jabs her terribly and returns her to reality. She scratches furiously

eagerly for Nettek. At the same time, with a voice enfeebled from prolonged periods of fasting, she says to her husband, could you tell me one, what are the poor going to gain? When Kranza assents to the presidency? Come on, Yosepha, do you still not understand these things? We are going to gain laws that benefit the worker, the ones we have favor the agricultural workers. We are going to receive lands from the hands of the government. Finally, we are

going to enjoy liberty and well being. The outline of a grin forms on Josepha's lips, expressing the bitterness in her heart. Although poor, she has had the opportunity to read something about the history of Mexico. She remembers that all the presidents, before reaching a high position, swore thousands and thousands of times to dedicate all their concerns to

the well being of the people. This was offered by the proclamations of Enterbe, the manifestos of Bustamente, the edicts of Santa Anna, and the proclamations, Manifesto, songs and circulars of Zoolaga and Commandfort of Gonzales and of Diaz in a word of everyone, including Madero, all vowed to make the people happy, and the people were disgraced under all

of them. A bedbug walks slowly along the wall, as if killing time by going out for a stroll, while the poor people, the victims of the capitalist system, decide to go to bed. Josepha sees it, and, with a prowess that demonstrates a great deal of practice, smears it with the tip of her toe, leaving a bright red footprint on the wall. The miserable woman casts an almost sympathetic glance at her husband, a glance that appears to say, poor slave, when will you open your eyes? Wan is

radiant with joy and shaking. The newspaper overhead exclaims this a constitutional order. Respected individuals guarantee the prerogatives of citizenship without bonds, impartial administrative justice, free suffrage, no reelection honor among public functionaries. What more could you want, my wife? Why do you make your face look so sorrowful? Yosepha replies, this is all a very lovely dream. But what about the bread? Who will give us bread? Ha haha? For

that I have arms, Wan says, laughing. He adds, only the lazy will die of hunger. Discouraged, Yosepha lets her arms drop decidedly. She thinks Wan is a perfect sheep. Various louse bites make her scratch herself desperately until she begins to spout blood. Suddenly, peals are heard. It is the church bells of the parish of Santa Anna, drifting

from Teesalala. Comes the rumble of cries, the clatter of firecrackers, the peal of all the church bells that every temple emitted in turn, mixed with the triumphant notes of a military band playing a two step. The noise winds up, making Wan enthusiastic to the point of delirium. Taking off his hat, he marches out to the street to give free rein to his exultation, crying at the top of

his voice, Long Live Karanza. It is the supporters of Karanza, who are celebrating the recognition of Karanza's government extended by foreign governments and the capitalists they represent. A month has passed. One works, but his situation does not change. His miserable salary is just barely enough to prevent himself, Yosepha and

his young son from materially dying of hunger. The room still contains the same broken windows, the same miserable bed with its maps, the poor table that they still have not been able to replace. In the brazier, they still cannot cook a decent soup. Pieces of carbon cost too much as if they were made of gold. The many bloody grooves in the walls indicate that the bedbugs still have not abandoned their habit of going for a walk

before eating. The louses extract the fire from the poor Yosepha, how much have we gained from the elevation of Kranza, Truly, my beloved wan Yosepha said with a certain sneer. One scratches his head, Tormented by the louses and by the deception he believed that Koranza's ascendence to power would ensure abundance in the home. Nevertheless, he cannot accept defeat. He exclaims, it is impossible that a government could make the people

happy in just one month. Let's give them some time so that they can implement the reforms that will benefit the masses. Then we will see. A year has passed. The conditions of Juan's life are the same as before. Certainly, the salaries are now greater. However, the owner of the house has increased the rents of the rooms. The merchants have raised the prices of many primary necessities clothes. They're more expensive now than they were before. Now he works

no more than eight hours a day. However, in the end he has to do the same, exactly the same as he did before in twelve, fourteen and even sixteen hours. Yosepha has a copy of Regeneration hands. She reads it with marked interest, abandoning the reading for moments only when the pokings of the parasite make the intervention of her fingernails absolutely indispensable. One paces back and forth around the room,

visibly agitated. He holds a red booklet in his hand, whose color is the only joyous tone in this dark well of misery, filth, and sadness. It is the manifesto of September twenty third, nineteen eleven. Suddenly one interrupts his pacing and slapping his forehead, exclaims, what a blockhead I've been, And along with me, all the workers who supported Caranza, we live here in misery and the ultimate misery, even though we break our backs in work, just like we

did before we elevated that old scoundrel to power. Those redistributions of land wound up being the crudest deceptions. One has to bribe officials to get anything. The laws that supposedly protect the worker are actually written to protect capital. The bourgeoisie contrived to retrieve everything they had lost to us in a cunning manner. The concessions they made in their constitutional orders do not profit poor people. We continue to be in virtue of our miserable poverty, the same

pariahs as before. Death to Caranza, Death to all government, yells Yosepha, shaking the issue of regeneration in her hand like a flag. Long live anarchy, one yells, shaking the red booklet, whose pages spout the freshness of youth, the exultations of spring, the balm of hope, and the rays of the sun. For all who suffer for all who breathe, for all who drag their existence along the black abyss of slavery and tyranny. For the first time, the sordid room is ennobled, for it serves as the haven of

a pair of lions and a cub. Several days past, the barricades of Mexico City present a formidable front. The united neighborhoods of Merced, Curtados and Manzanadas have erected barricade in two hours. Men, women, elders, and children, and even some disabled people have taken part in the work. The ugly edifice of the Merced Market has provided most of

the material behind the barricade. Bristles, a sea of palm hats, the leather sandals, and the crude shoes of the defenders tread the black land energetically, now proud to serve as pedestals for a band of heroes. For many moments they await the attack of government forces. Everything is activity behind the barricade. The women dig trenches, the men wash their rifles, the children distribute outfits to those champions of the proletariat.

A red flag showing in white letters the inscription Land and Liberty smiles to the sun at the top of the barricade, sending its salute to all the disinherited of the earth. From its peak, the proletariat of Capital is up in arms against Capital, the government and the Church. The proletarians of Rostro and San Antonio abad do not display any less activity. The butchers sharpen their knives, testing

them with the tips of their thumbs. The streets adjacent to Rostro and the factory of Jlados and Tahitos are stripped of pavement. All the materials have been converted into resources for the construction of the barricade. Tables, pottery, pianos, clothing, mattresses all have been brought down in a horribly confusing heap of objects, serving to shield the noble bosoms of

its defenders. Blen and Solto de Laguo, San Cosme and Santa Maria de le Rivara, San Lazzaro and San Antonio, Tomotlan La Bolsa and Tapito, San Juan Nuolaco, Santa Maria de Loredonda La Laguina. All of the various districts of the populous city have vacated their neighborhoods. In their dwellings Emboldened by the revolutionary fire, they prepare to resist the attack of the military officers supporting Caranza. The barricades sprung forth from the land, and an opening and closing of eyes.

The barricades of Saint Lauranzo and San Antonio Tomatlan shows upon its summit a singular flag. It is an old petticoat torn and grimy. It is the flag of misery. It is the brave rag defining the world of oppression and privilege. As long as the tatters are not detached from the proletariat's bodies, the master remains tranquil. When it appears attached to the top of a staff, the world trembles. Whereas all the barricades are filled with enthusiasm, nothing surmounts

the activity, enthusiasm, audacity, and revolutionary zeal. In the united barricade of the neighborhoods of Peravio, Santa Anna and tessant aale Juan and Josepha do not rest for a moment. Blackened with powder, they look very beautiful, sweating, panting, crossing to and fro in the barricade, communicating energy and enthusiasm to its defenders. Suddenly, a formidable clamor, followed by rifle shots and bugle blasts can be heard from the direction

of Concepsion Tekipihuka. It is our comrades from bolsa and torpedo fighting. Juan cries, tossing his hat into the air. A few minutes later, the air resounds with the roar of cannons, the racket of rifle shots, the beating of the drums, the angry cries of the bugle, the martial airs of the military bands. They are all jumbled together in one singular, thunderous crack. Throughout the entire city. All

the barricades were being attacked simultaneously by Caranza's forces. Juan and Josepha climb to the height of the barricade, where they see a dense column of Kranza supporters approaching the streets of Santo Domingo on foot. Finally, the enemy is closing in comrades. They yell at the same time, everybody, choose the place that best suits you to defend our bastion.

In an instant, the barricade is crowned with rifles. The enemy places two cannons at the base of Santa Katarina Imoras Street, while part of the ca continues advancing toward the barricade, which is situated at the base of the street. An imperious voice emerges from the column when it is one hundred paces away from the barricade. In the name of the Supreme Government. Give yourselves up, it says, long live land and liberty. The defenders of the barricade answer.

Rifle shots follow rapidly from both sides. The cannons direct their projectiles against the center of the barricade in order to open a breach. The smoke saturates the atmosphere until it becomes unbreathable. The attack is furious, the resistance formidable. Quranza's officers accompany their shots with abuse of words. The proletarian defenders of the barricade sing, child of the people,

shackles constrict you. But this injustice cannot continue if your existence is filled with pain, rather than being a slave, prefer to die. Broadcasts to the four winds, like an invitation made to dignity and honor. Are the notes of this magnificent hymn, Of this hymn common to all the downtrodden of the world, Of this hymn that condenses all the bitter martyrdoms of the people and the anguish of its saints who long for redemption of this hymn that

is simultaneously a complaint, a protest, and a threat. The following day, the proletarians of Mexico City celebrate the triumph of the social revolution. The capitalist system has died the end, and like, yeah, what a not subtle peace, you know, but it's just direct. It's just like this man has

fought in this. You know. This is several years after the uprising failed, and so there's this kind of like it's almost like fan fiction for your own revolution, like rewriting it in some ways, or rather saying like, this is how it can be reborn and continue to be fought, you know. And it didn't, but it actually could have. That is a thing that has happened time and time again. I don't know. It's interesting, yeah, because it's such a blunt piece and doesn't match modern conceptions of how one

writes political literature. But there's just something to it, and I want to reread one of the lines, the Barricades of San Lorenzo and San Antonio. Tomultan shows upon its summit a singular flag. It is an old petticoat, torn and grimy. It is the flag of misery. It is the brave rag defying the world of oppression and privilege. As long as the tatters are not detached from the proletariat's body, the master remains tranquil. When it appears attached

to the top of a staff, the world trembles. I don't know, I feel like that's where I'll leave it. I'll be back next week with more of this stuff, and if you want to hear more about some amazing uprisings that happen in Mexico a little bit later. I'm currently working on a series of uncol people who did cool stuff about the Zapatista Rising and their ongoing work building autonomy and shap us that you can check out

wherever you are. Support people building autonomy and sometimes it's worth being a little cringing in your earnestness about what you believe, even if I think sometimes fiction should be written a little more subtly. But whatever, Hi, everyone, it could happen here as a production of cool Zone Media. For more podcasts from cool Zone Media, visit our website Coolzonemedia dot com or check us out on the iHeartRadio app, Apple podcasts, or wherever you listen to podcasts, you can

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