Society Is A Sort Of

All Freed, Fast-frozen Relations, With Their Train Of Ancient And Venerable Prejudices And Opinions, Are Swept Away, All New-formed Ones Become Antiquated Before They Can Ossify. All That Is Solid Melts Into Air, All That Is Holy Is Profaned, And Man Is At Last Compelled To Face With Sober Senses, His Real Conditions Of Life, And His Relations With His Kind.

Men Can See Nothing Around Them That Is Not Their Own Image; Everything Speaks To Them Of Themselves. Their Very Landscape Is Alive.

In Bourgeois Society Capital Is Independent And Has Individuality, While The Living Person Is Dependent And Has No Individuality.

History Does Nothing; It Does Not Possess Immense Riches, It Does Not Fight Battles. It Is Men, Real, Living, Who Do All This.

As A Beast Of Toil An Ox Is Fixed Capital. If He Is Eaten, He No Longer Functions As An Instrument Of Labour, Nor As Fixed Capital Either.