Shoes, unlike feet, are not something you're born with. So you can choose what you want. At first be guided in your choice by people with experience,… - René Daumal

"Mi appellai ad alcuni capi di Frenetici i quali, secondo le mie indicazioni, si sono messi a organizzare la distruzione dei giovani. Il metodo è molto semplice: si prendono i bambini nel momento in cui la loro intelligenza non è ancora sviluppata, in cui le loro passioni obbediscono ancora al minimo stimolo; li si fa vivere intruppati, vestiti e armati in modo uniforme e, grazie a discorsi magici e a esercizi fisici collettivi di cui noi possediamo il segreto, diamo loro quello che noi chiamiamo il "culto dell'ideale comune": è una devozione assoluta a un personaggio sbraitante e autocratico, o a un certo modo di vestire, o a qualche parola d'ordine, o a una certa combinazione di colori, poco importa. Ci basta allora di aver qui due gruppi opposti (o più di due, ma preferibilmente in numero pari) di giovani mantenuti in questa tensione sentimentale; l'unica precauzione da prendere è di non lasciare al loro cervello il tempo di funzionare, ma è facile. Allora (mi capite?) quando sono al punto giusto, li si lascia andare gli uni contro gli altri... e, dopo, si può respirare per un po'. Nello stesso tempo, ciò occupa e arricchisce i fabbricanti e i mercanti di uniformi e di armi e gli autori di esortazioni all'ecatombe, uno dei quali scriveva recentemente: "Un giovane che non è ucciso nel fiore dell'età, non è più un giovane, ma un futuro vecchio". (151)"

"It was at that moment that I called in a few of the top Fidgeters who, under my directions, set about organizing the destruction of the young. The method is quite straightforward; the children are taken at the time when their intelligence is not yet fully developed, and their passions respond to the slightest stimulation; they are made to live in companies, dressed and armed uniformly, and by means of magic speeches and collective physical exercises, whose secret is ours alone, we give them what we call "the cult of the common ideal"; this is an absolute devotion to a loud-mouthed, authoritarian person, or to a particular form of dress, or to some catch phrase, or to a certain grouping of colors, or whatever. All we need then is to have here two opposing groups of young people (or more than two, but an even number is preferable) who have been kept at a high level of emotional tension; the sole precaution to take is to leave no time for their brains to function, but that's easy enough. Then (are you with me?) when they have reached just the right pitch, they are let loose on one another...and afterwards, we can breathe easy for a while. This, at the same time, occupies and enriches the manufacturers and sellers of uniforms and armaments, and the authors of tracts which recommend the uses of carnage, one of whom wrote recently: "The young man who is not killed in the flower of youth is not a young man, he is the old man of tomorrow.

I broke in, suggesting he should have a drink first so as to avoid the risk — to him — of having his tongue roll up into a ball and — to me — of having my lug-holes hammered at without doing my brains any good whatsoever.
He agreed with a gesture which consisted of holding up a small cask of Tokay at arm’s length above his head and my head respectively, the unimpeded flow from the open bung-hole sloshing into our stomachs in accordance with the method known as “never letting it touch the sides.”
Then he took up his story rather more clearly:
“The Kaffir, who tended the garden and looked after the chickens, in Cracow, used to sleep in the pigeon loft. He said it was ‘very good for the breath.’ One night, I had this terrifying dream. A huge corkscrew, which was the earth, was spinning round, turning on its axis and twisting in its own spiral, just like the signs outside American barbershops, and I could see myself, no bigger than a bug but not hanging on so well, slither and stumble over the helix, and with my thoughts sent whirling down moving staircases made of a priori shapes. Suddenly, the fatal moment, there is a loud crack, my neck snaps, I fall flat on my face and I emerge in a splash of sparks before the Kaffir who had come to wake me. He says: ‘Did you have an attack of the nasties, then? Come and look at this.’ And he leads me to the pigeon loft and gets me to peep through a hole in the wall. I put my eye to it. I see a terrifying sight: a huge corkscrew, which was the Earth, was spinning round, turning on its axis and twisting in its own spiral, just like the signs outside American barbershops, and I could see myself, no bigger than a bug, but not hanging on so well. …”
Eyes popping, the bumps on his forehead lit up, his moustache bristling, little Sidonius began the story again, which slotted into itself endlessly like the popular refrains everybody knows. He spoke feverishly, mangling his words. I listened, paralyzed with horror, at least ten times to his