Review of The Conquest of Bread

I just finished reading anarcho-communist Peter Kropotkin’s The Conquest of Bread, and it was like stepping out of the haze of despair and into a blueprint for a different world, a world that doesn’t just rage against capitalism but offers a vision for what should replace it. Kropotkin didn’t just theorize revolution, he laid out the bones of a society built on mutual aid, voluntary cooperation, and the abolition of property as power. For someone like me–driven by a mix of anti-capitalism, misanthropic fire, and a stubborn belief that another world has to be possible–this book hit hard.

Kropotkin’s critique of capitalism goes beyond the surface-level arguments I was used to. He attacked not just the exploitation of labor, but the entire premise that anyone should hoard the means of survival while others suffer. He makes a moral argument without falling into moralism. It’s pragmatic and humane all at once. What stood out to me most was his insistence that revolution must not merely destroy but create. Bread first. Housing next. Then libraries, education, beauty. He reminds us that revolution must be immediate and sustaining.

Before reading the book, I knew I was an anti-capitalist, but I didn’t yet know how to articulate much of a vision. I leaned toward libertarian socialism, distrusted hierarchy, and wanted action, not just analysis. Kropotkin didn’t just validate those instincts; he gave them clarity. He fused my longing for direct action with a plan that doesn’t rely on state power. He made me think bigger: not just about resisting capitalism, but building the scaffolding of its replacement in our daily lives.

The book also sharpened my skepticism of so-called progressive compromises. Kropotkin pulls no punches in calling out the failure of reformism and electoralism. He gave me permission to imagine what happens after the collapse; how to build networks, systems, and support structures that don’t mirror the oppressive systems we fight.

Reading the book didn’t convert me; it confirmed me. It hardened my resolve to fight for socialism in a way that isn’t just about changing who’s in charge but about ending the very idea of bosses altogether. It reminded me that the chaos I crave isn’t destruction for its own sake. It’s the fertile ground where something better can grow.

Mandatory Breeding Thesis

In the year 2084 birth was no longer a right; it was a privilege earned through argument. The Global Rebalancing Accord had made it law: before anyone could conceive a child, they had to defend the decision before a council of judges. A Procreation Thesis was required–minimum fifty pages, peer-reviewed, complete with ethical citations and projected environmental impact report.

They called it The Great Pause. The birth rate dopped so sharply that entire industries collapsed overnight: toy companies, children’s television, suburban housing developments. People had to ask themselves a question that had never been asked before, not seriously: Why bring another life into this world?

Julia had spent six months writing her thesis. It was called “Replenishing Wonder: A Case for Ethical Renewal Through Parenthood.” She cited studies on human empathy, argued that carefully planned upbringing could forge more compassionate generations. Her bibliography spanned philosophy, biology, environmental science, and obscure treatises on the metaphysics of suffering. She even included a footnote quoting Albert Camus: “Blessed are the hearts that can bend; they shall never be broken.”

Her defense was scheduled for a Tuesday afternoon in a pale marble building called the Bureau of Intent.

The judges–three gray-suited scholars and one AI adjudicator–read her thesis in silence. Occasionally, the AI blinked its cold blue eyes as it processed her arguments. Finally, they asked her to stand.

“Ms. Lewis,” said one of the human judges. “You argue persuasively for the ethical upbringing of a future generation. You demonstrate awareness of resource limitations, existential risks, and psychological burdens. However, you fail to address one critical point: what gives you the right to gamble with another being’s non-consensual existence?”

Julia’s mouth went dry. She’d prepared for this.

She quoted her thesis: “Because existence, while a risk, is a canvas. It is not the guarantee of suffering or joy but the possibility of either. To deny that possibility altogether is to deny hope.”

The AI processed her words for several long seconds, then it spoke in its chilling neutral voice: “Hope is not permission.”

Thousands failed every year. Those who passed were granted a Parenthood License, good for one child. If they wanted another, they had to write a new thesis, and it had to be better than the first.

Julia failed.

She walked out of the Bureau under a blackening sky. Couples clutched each other on the steps, some sobbing, some enraged, some simply silent. In the plaza, a massive bronze statue depicted and ancient figure: a faceless mother offering a tiny child up to the stars, as if pleading. At the base of the statue were engraved the words:

“To create life is to stand trial before the future.”

Julie went home to her small apartment. She poured herself a glass of wine and opened a new document.

Title:

“The Ethics of Refusing to Create: A Defense of Non-Parenthood in an Age of Crisis.”

She smiled for the first time all day. Maybe she hadn’t failed after all.

I got the idea for this post from one of my dear friends, Scarlett (not sure how she feels using her real name online.) Go check out her blog:
https://mammonelleblog.wordpress.com/

What I Learned from Malcolm X

I’ve just finished The Autobiography of Malcolm X today. It took me a week to read it and I loved every page. We weren’t taught much about Malcolm X in school, more about people like Rosa Parks and MLK. So I was interested in reading about him for myself, but I also wondered, “What can I, a white, Southern person learn from a black man from Harlem?” The answer is quite a bit.

The book is a deep exploration of power, transformation, and systemic oppression. As a white person, here are some of my takeaways:

Malcolm X detailed how racism is woven into American institutions, from schools to the legal system. Seeing it from his perspective exposed blind spots I never noticed before. These issues are still going on today and the Civil Rights movement ended decades ago.

The book makes it clear that racism isn’t just about personal prejudice but a system that shapes people’s lives from birth. Malcolm X’s experiences with teachers, the criminal justice system, and media narratives all reinforce this. The criminal justice system is still, in 2025 wrought with prejudice against those of color and the poor.

I always just thought Malcolm X was a racist who hated white people, but I’ve learned he was so much more than that. His rage at white America wasn’t irrational–it was a response to generations of oppression. His story forced me to confront the reasons behind that anger instead of dismissing it.

His transformation from a hustler to a political leader showed me the power of self-education. As I become more politically involved and lean more into libertarian socialism, I’m learning more and more about the power of self-education. It shows that there’s a lesson in there that people can change, including how we perceive race and privilege and politics.

Malcolm X’s views evolved over time, just as mine have. He went from being against white America until his pilgrimage to Mecca. He started with a hard separatist perspective but later saw the potential for solidarity across racial lines. That evolution is crucial–realizing that no single perspective is fixed.

Lastly, while Malcolm X was skeptical of white allies, he also acknowledged that some could play a role in dismantling white supremacy. His challenge to white people was to do the work among other white people rather than expecting praise from black activists.

Ultimately, the book isn’t just about race. It’s about seeing the world as it really is, questioning power, and committing to real change. I think if you read it with an open mind as I did, it can be a transformative experience.

Revisiting Blood Meridian

I’m currently re-reading Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy, which is one of my top five favorite books of all time. It’s a brutal, hypnotic, and unrelentingly bleak book. McCarthy takes the myth of the American West and rips it apart, exposing it as a landscape of pure, amoral violence. He makes the violence seem surreal and inevitable.

The character of Judge Holden in particular is one of the most haunting literary figures. He’s part philosopher, part warlord, part devil. He embodies a vision of history and human nature that is completely devoid of redemption.

The book doesn’t offer easy conclusions of moral lessons; it just drags you through an endless nightmare and dares you to find meaning in it.

It’s one of those books that leaves you stunned when you finish it. Either you’ll be in awe of it, or you’ll never want to touch it again. Maybe both.

Blood Meridian reshapes how you see literature and maybe even history itself. It’s not just a Western, it’s a cosmic horror novel disguised as a Western. The sheer indifference of the universe in it is chilling, and Judge Holden is the embodiment of that.

Blood Meridian doesn’t just flirt with nihilism, it drags you into the abyss and makes you sit with it. There’s no redemption, no justice, no meaning beyond the endless cycle of violence. Even the protagonist, who seems like he might have a shred of humanity, is ultimately powerless against the chaos of the world. And Judge Holden? He’s basically an immortal force of destruction, dancing through history, laughing at anyone who thinks there’s order or morality. It’s the kind of book that leaves a scar.

There are some lessons in it though:

Violence is inherent to civilization.

McCarthy shows that violence isn’t just a byproduct of civilization but a fundamental part of it. The Glanton Gang’s violence is just business as usual in the American frontier. Human history is driven by war, conquest, and destruction, and making any romanticized view of the past naive.

Manifest Destiny was a Bloodbath.

The novel dismantles the myth of Manifest Destiny as a heroic expansion. The Glanton Gang which were hired to hunt Apaches turns into a lawless death squad, killing indiscriminately for profit. The Westward Expansion wasn’t just about pioneering and opportunity–it was also about genocide, greed, and chaos.

War is God.

Judge Holden represents a kind of cosmic nihilism. He believes that war is the only true human activity, the ultimate law of existence. If he’s right, then morality is just an illusion, and history is nothing but and endless cycle of domination and slaughter.

Fate vs Free Will.

The protagonist seems to have moments where he could choose a different path, but does he really have free will? The Judge suggests that all men are bound to the game of war, whether they admit it or not. The novel leaves open the question of whether the protagonist’s attempts at redemption matter or if he was doomed from the start.

At its core, Blood Meridian is a rejection of comfortable narratives about human nature, history, and morality. It doesn’t tell you what to think; it forces you to look into the abyss and decide for yourself what it means.