I-it wasn't real communism!

Reminder that more people died because of (((capitalism))) than were killed by communists.

t. Arthoe
You'll do nothing

>America kills people = good
>Anyone else kills people = bad
Why are burgers like this?

>kill most of if not all the actually productive and innovative people even if you don’t think what they’re doing is work
Now what

America > Anyone Else
Very basic patriotism
>system that most of the world had for much longer than communism
>ignoring that communist systems directly killed way more through incompetent control of food supply, forced industrialization, collectivization, gulags, purges, and others

first, The "satisfaction of human needs" is not the goal of the capitalist or of the worker engaged in production, nor is it a result of the process. The worker sells his labor in order to get a wage. The specific content of the labor is indifferent to him. He does not alienate his labor to a capitalist who does not give him a wage in exchange for it, no matter how many human needs this capitalist's products may satisfy. The capitalist buys labor and engages it in production in order to emerge with commodities which can be sold. He is indifferent to the specific properties of the product, just as he is indifferent to people's needs. All that interests him about the product is how much it will sell for, and all that interests him about people's needs is how much they "need" to buy and how they can be coerced, through propaganda and psychological conditioning, to "need" more. The capitalist's goal is to satisfy his need to reproduce and enlarge Capital, and the result of the process is the expanded reproduction of wage labor and Capital (which are not "human needs").

second, progress kills the world

In 1837 the new nation's insatiable lust for land finally produced a financial panic that spread back from the western frontier to the population centers of the East. The previous year had been the biggest yet in land sales, and an extent of territory the size of New England had passed into the control of the speculators. Now there was a crash that revealed not merely the enormous economic inflation of the times but their spiritual bankruptcy as well. Yet, surveying this scene, Horace Greeley could produce a remarkably characteristic solution: Move On: Go West. And those who could go did so, leaving those who could not stranded on their farms and in their little towns with outsized grid plans that would remain unrealized. Succeeding generations in this region would reap the crop of bitterness, frustration, and xenophobia that lurks there still -people, as the Midwesterner Glenway Wescott observed, born where they do not like to live.

The others went on. They bridged the great river and entered the grasslands that stretched all the way to the big mountains: tall grass prairies to the east, short grass plains westward, and beyond that the tough bunch grasses of the semidesert. This was the territory that had been described by Major Stephen Long as an uninhabitable desert. But closer experience revealed that the same blue-stem sod grass that grew in the rich lands of Illinois was to be found stretching west across the Mississippi. Henry Nash Smith has charted with clarity and grace the course of American thinking about this transMississippi region, and what is most striking is the evidence of the sudden realization that there were no limits to what could be done to America: that the advancing, driven people need not put up with any permanent barriers to their civilization or remain forever uneasy about the specter of the trackless West with its wild people. All of this too could be claimed for civilization. Within a very few years of the appearance on the charts of the "Great American Desert," men were planning the penetration of it by railroads.

Sometimes the rumors of western wealth seemed substantiated, as happened with the California gold strike at the end of the 1840s. These rumors quickened to fantastic life the old golden dream of the New World. As they ebbed, they left the West littered with haunted, stubble-cheeked prospectors, "eternals" seeking out lost lodes, rumors of Moctezuma's treasure, fabulous veins overlooked in earlier rushes, or caches of stolen jewels taken from explorers and settlers by marauding Indians. Pathetic scavengers, these, moping through a gigantic, glittering landscape and seeing nothing of it except the next horizon.

Attached: 26157039_411351569300414_5127349051934638080_n.jpg (1080x1350, 163K)

Not literature. Fuck off.

Most often, the rumors arose out of nothing more substantial than those recondite forces that drove the whites to fill up the continent's spaces with their presence. The ghastly story of the Donner Party should be understood as a parable of this, for here was a group like thousands of similar groups, traveling across barely charted spaces toward the vaguest rumors of More. According to their historian, C. F. McGlashan, many of them had been solid citizens of Ohio, Tennessee, Illinois, and Missouri, and yet here they were, crawling across the Great Plains, across a desert, and on into the high Sierras with scarcely a notion of their destination. McGlashan, interviewing the survivors, records that many had joined the procession without even knowing that it was going to California, only that it was going somewhere. Winter caught them in the mountains, imprisoning them in their miserable hovels until, perishing one after another, the survivors ate the frozen and emaciated corpses of the dead. Two Indian guides were revolted at such hunger until they themselves were shot and consumed as the desperate stragglers went over the pass and down into rescue.

Facing east from California's shores, as now we can, we have a clear view of this gigantic process, especially the portion of it that occurred west of the Mississippi. For out there the camera caught what we are pleased to call the "Winning of the West." Here are the track crews, shadowfaced, slouch-hatted men with their mules, laying track at two miles a day. Lonely figures are posed on bark-covered ties that stretch off into blank horizons. Rail tickets scream like circus posters, advertising transportation to "ALL POINTS IN THE MINING DISTRICTS." "Ho! for the GOLD MINES!" "1865! 1865!"

Here are the mining towns blasted out of the mountains with their tin roofs glinting in bleak contrast to the new wood of their walls and to the muddy streets and cluttered creeks. A jungle of advertising shingles hangs above the porches of the stores - Dentist, Wholesale Liquor Dealer, Bank - and beneath slouch the miners, shaggy, unkempt, hopeful. One sits on a crate in a Black Hills camp, a rifle across his knees to guard his claim. The names of the towns are Deadwood, Gold Hill, Montezuma's Works, Sugar Loaf.

big based

Here are the timber miners who came out with the railroads after cutting as much as four million board-feet a year in the North Woods. Shattered hulks move along the skid roads and bull teams slog along while skid greasers pour from their rancid cans; locomotives three and four abreast haul redwood sections. Dwarfish figures are posed astride the ruins of primeval trees or beside heaps of slaughtered game or atop mountain crags that offer perspectives almost none of them could grasp.

Here are the silenced, solemn faces of the "hostiles" who vainly opposed all this: Sitting Bull, Satanta in his soldier's uniform with epaulets, Lone Wolf and Dull Knife in a photographer's studio.

Here are the soldiers, white and black, who fought the tribes for the possession of Indian territory: overstuffed generals in beards, buttons, and braid; lounging officers at Fort Ellis, Montana Territory, their coats open, their trousers saggy and boots dirty, the obligatory hound at the bottom of the steps of their quarters.

And here are the hostiles and soldiers together under the wide flaps of the treaty tent at Fort Laramie in 1868, the Indians in blankets and buffalo robes, their braids wrapped in weasel fur; the soldiers on their camp stools with William Tecumseh Sherman in their midst, his burning eyes fixed on those he had determined to destroy, treaty or no.

Here is a photograph that appears to epitomize the whole process, for it is of a literal land race: high noon, April 22, 1889, and the blurred forms of 10,000 whites racing off the starting line and into another section of "permanent Indian territory." This is Oklahoma, the devastated soil of which would in a mere three decades be visible on the East Coast in dense red dust clouds that rolled out into the Atlantic.

Here near the end of the westward rush is a photograph of a little man in a yard, surrounded by what appears to be chips and flakes of an indeterminate nature; they are actually buffalo bones, and the wellknown and much-lamented destruction of this animal is as concise a way of understanding what was done to America as we are likely to find, for the dates and numbers of this destruction are at once finite and suggestive.

I´ll tell you the number: 329 599 370

Seething commie.

Attached: 1566854587247.jpg (583x640, 90K)

Any day now larper