It Might Otherwise Appear Paradoxical That Money

The Country That Is More Developed Industrially Only Shows, To The Less Developed, The Image Of Its Own Future.

Capital Is Dead Labor, Which, Vampire-like, Lives Only By Sucking Living Labor, And Lives The More, The More Labor It Sucks.

In Every Revolution There Intrude, At The Side Of Its True Agents, Men Of A Different Stamp; Some Of Them Survivors Of And Devotees To Past Revolutions, Without Insight Into The Present Movement, But Preserving Popular Influence By Their Known Honesty And Courage, Or By The Sheer Force Of Tradition; Others Mere Brawlers, Who, By Dint Of Repeating Year After Year The Same Set Of Stereotyped Declamations Against The Government Of The Day, Have Sneaked Into The Reputation Of Revolutionists Of The First Water They Are An Unavoidable Evil: With Time They Are Shaken Off.

The Labour-power Is A Commodity , Not Capital, In The Hands Of The Labourer, And It Constitutes For Him A Revenue So Long As He Can Continuously Repeat Its Sale; It Functions As Capital After Its Sale, In The Hands Of The Capitalist, During The Process Of Production Itself.

Usury Lives In The Pores Of Production, As It Were, Just As The Gods Of Epicurus Lived In The Space Between The Worlds.