But while I pondered all these things, and how men fight and lose the battle, and the thing that they fought for comes about in spite of their defeat, and when it comes turns out not to be what they meant, and other men have to fight for what they meant under another name.
I was reminded of it when reading this passage from The Eighteenth Brumaire last week:
Bourgeois revolutions, like those of the eighteenth century, storm swiftly from success to success. Their dramatic effects outdo each other; men and things seem set in sparkling diamonds; ecstasy is the order of the day. But they are short-lived; soon they have reached their zenith, and a long hangover takes hold of society before it learns to soberly assimilate the results of its period of storm and stress. Proletarian revolutions, on the other hand, like those of the nineteenth century, constantly criticize themselves, constantly interrupt themselves in their own cours, and return to the apparently accomplished, in order to begin anew. They deride with cruel thoroughness the half-measures, weaknesses, and paltriness of their first attempts; they seem to throw down their opponents only so the latter may draw new strength from the earth and rise before them again more gigantic than ever. They recoil constantly from the indefinite colossalness of their own goals – until a situation is created which makes all turning back impossible, and the conditions themselves call out: “Hic Rhodus, hic salta! Here is the rose, dance here.”