Struggle: The Path to Power - стр. 7
At this Ranierov grinned: "Shall we win?! Ha! You're all fantasists here! You like to think about your feats. That's maximalism…"
There was neither strength nor sense in speaking further – Misha switched off his hearing and moved on. He kept shouting something, but it didn't matter: he'd had enough. Somewhere in the middle there was a pinch and an ache. It was the pain of resentment; it lodged somewhere in my stomach and pressed deep down. It's unclear where that depth is, and where it's allowed to press, but it's getting stronger and stronger, and it's not going to go away.
"Why did I talk to that man again. It's the same thing every time. And each time it gets harder. We say, 'We're dreamers.' We dream? "Maximalism." This stupid psychoanalytics; they invented words to explain unknown things and unknown why, and now they use it… We're trying our best, and they wipe their feet on us. If only they had found a place where it was still clean, they would have dirty the whole place… Doesn't someone like him have no one who died in the war, doesn't he want to continue and finish what whole generations laid down their heads for? Does he like to confuse others instead of doing what life obliges him to do? That's what we're all doing here – learning. To love, to fight, to overcome… well, we have to fight, so what if we can't cope? We have to cope. We must win!" – this was going through his brain in waves, and despite all his convictions, the pain did not subside.
Grisha, one of his subordinates, sat on a bench near his porch and ate bread. It was stale and withered, but still real bread.
Seeing the commander, he jumped up and saluted in a military manner over his cap:
"Greetings, Comrade Captain."
"Sit down already, what's up," Misha didn't like all these honors, even though he understood perfectly well how important all these formalities were. But he especially hated formation training. When it came to the elementary techniques of formation step, he had no questions about the expediency of practicing them, but he had once read that the ancients gave it a certain delicate importance: they created special units that dealt only with this, organized special performances. What kind of nonsense is that? It's an army. Let them learn to shoot and hide. And to lie still with their eyes wide open. It will save their lives… They won't defeat the enemy with their antics with prehistoric rifles.
"Grish, tell me, what are we doing here?" – Misha asked, sitting down next to him on the steps.