“Thirty years have passed since the death of the “apostle of anarchy” - Bakunin. For thirty years, a line of officials in black frock coats tried to shield from our eyes the pyre on which he himself burned his life. The fire was made of damp logs that had floated along the high-water Russian rivers; the logs crackled and wept, and the smoke came like a beam; Finally, the fire rose, and the officials themselves began to cry, began to dance and writhe: there was nothing to warm, only skin and bones remained, and they were afraid of burning. Officials spit and writhe, and we read Bakunin and listen to the whistle of fire...”