John O'Neill

I am a sociologist, God help me. Better say I am one of the people, born without difference, dying now of rage, of beauty, of love, of pain, but for work and its hopes and passions that tie me to my fellowmen. What is the word that will touch them? Too many words, certainly, or the wrong words, will only separate me from them. I am a Marxist without a revolution, though my mother and my father still work. My mother's hands. My father's hands. How shall I separate what is cruel from what is beautiful in the story of their lives? The rest of my family I do not know: they are workers.