Left Bank Books republishing Letters of Insurgents

Left Bank Books is republishing Fredy Perlman's classic novel Letters of Insurgents. Originally published by Black and Red in 1976, and out of print for several years, this epistolary novel tells the story of two individuals living on distant continents resume contact through correspondence. They describe meaningful events and relationships in their lives during the twenty years since their youthful liaison, comparing the choices each took. Yarostan lives in a "workers' republic"; Sophia in a "Western democracy." They both make efforts to lead meaningful lives. Along the way, they encounter bureaucrats, idealists, racists, flaunters of social convention, labor militants, professors, jailors, hucksters and more. In important respects, Sophia's biography parallels that of Fredy Perlman.

Copies can be pre-ordered from leftbankbooks.bigcartel.com, copies should be ready by the end of March.

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Comments

woooooo, yea, this book is baller

Oh yay, this is one of my favorite books. Thank you!

Please, Russia, wipe out North America with any weaponry you've got. There is no hope for anarchy here, only more and more despotism, boredom and Anews going to hell.

Don't hate, these kind of projects give us more to read in prison

LMAO

I get the bad joke... twisted laughs but it doesn't solve the problem with this site.

I think the best way to solve the problems with this site is to do other shit that makes you not care about this site so much. Then anews becomes rather relaxing, at least for me. But what do you want this site to be? What bothers you so much about it currently?

(For the record, I'm actually being sincere here.)

Admin(s) holding back legit articles or even comments, in the favor of philosophical garbage of questionable relevance to real-life struggles.

Like that article on the current workers uprising in Bosnia, that's been actually heavily redacted -when even reported- by Western media:

http://balkanist.net/protests-across-bosnia-a-collective-nervous-breakdown/

The protests in Bosnia are actually very much related to the content in "Letters of Insurgents".

It wasn't exactly a reference to the article above. I guess Worker prefers to focus more on stuff happening in North America, which is good.

Still the content ain't as bad as Infoshop usually is...

Huh, I didn't realize admins were doing that. That is shitty.

so does this mean my old version of Letters of Insurgents is worth money on ebay now?

Only if it's from the numbered first pressing.

only if you j/o'd during the incest orgy scene

get ready to be bored out of your skull all over again

i was wondering who was going to republish this book first, hopefully it will be nice.

you can also find the book online at:

http://theanarchistlibrary.org/library/sophia-nachalo-and-yarostan-voche...

audio: http://www.audioanarchy.org/letters.html

yeah, having sex with your wife and daughter at the same time. what a book!

so what? it sounded fun. only way it could have been better was if it were his son.

It'll be daughter, son and family dog;) The inner Bonobo will be unleashed.

The moral of the story is don't be so like moralistic, man, it's leftist.

So, this seems like an apropos thread to ask--can anyone recommend some anarchist fiction? Preferably in English, Spanish works too.

I've enjoyed Atlanta's Burning amd many of the report backs on atlanta.indymedia.org

While not all of these are written by or are explicitly anarchist, I would say all contain libertory under- or ovetones, messages or warnings. Many also contain really fucked up scenes or dynamics, some intentional, some a reflection of the author's bigotry. I've also included a few memoirs, because, well, we know they're embellishing a little:

Amadeus
Bastard Out of Carolina
The Baron in the Trees
City of Darkness, City of Light
Equus
The Family
From Hell
Germinal
Good News
The Handmaid's Tale
The Hunger Games (just the first one, they get shittier and shittier after that)
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
Ishamel
Momo: Or, the strange story of the time-thieves and the child who brought the stolen time back to the people
Papillion
Q: The Dance of Death
The Strait
Swamp Thing Vol. 1-6
The Thief's Jounral
Une Semaine De Bonte: A Surrealistic Novel in Collage
V For Vendetta
And say what you will about George Orwell, but it's a damn fine book: 1984

authors you may like:

Margaret Atwood
Italo Calvino
Umberto Eco
Ursula K Le Guin (too prolific to name titles above)
Frans Masareel (hard to pick a particular book, but did wordless, woodcut [proto-comic book] novels)
Marge Piercy
B. Traven

I know my comment is ripe for trolling and hating on (and I'm missing a lot), but it would be nice if this could actually be a thread about subversive and libertory fiction.

friendly critiques welcome.

many of the above titles are available from the MessingAround distro:

messingaround[at]riseup[dot]net

Ishmael, is that the story about the guy who gets mind-fucked by a gorilla?

do you even know half the books on that list?

Yep and more AND I bet I've read more books than you! The author is not dead but subliminally projecting their opinions upon us! Ishmael and Quinn are the same boring persons as fictional character and boring writer/creator! Fuck Barthes!

wikipedia page on anarchist science fiction and anarchist children's books:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anarchist_science_fiction
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_anarchist_children%27s_literature

both lists are lacking. and does anyone know a link to the "Orc" pamphlet pdf?

Thank you! I kind of mockery for even asking, so this is both really helpful and a pleasant surprise. I have read basically nothing on this list except 1984, so I have reading material for months, yay.

*expected mockery

it's sad though that you want to know recommendations for good anarchist fiction, i want to tell you some and hear other people's recommendations, and we all have to risk being ridiculed = the dumbest shit that ever happen to anarchists.

I really wish I could downvote this comment. The person asked for anarchist fiction, not asshole fiction.

asshole fiction? as in fiction by assholes or for assholes? okay then

my response to that is this:

"i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which I will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh...And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you quite so new "

I call your cummings and raise you the dirtiest Auden poem (which I actually discovered after we read his "Lay your sleeping head, my love" in high school, a consequence I am sure my teacher did not intend):

"The Platonic Blow"

It was a spring day, a day for a lay, when the air
Smelled like a locker-room, a day to blow or get blown;
Returning from lunch I turned my corner and there
On a near-by stoop I saw him standing alone.

I glanced as I advanced. The clean white T-shirt outlined
A forceful torso, the light-blue denims divulged
Much. I observed the snug curves where they hugged the behind,
I watched the crotch where the cloth intriguingly bulged.

Our eyes met. I felt sick. My knees turned weak.
I couldn't move. I didn't know what to say.
In a blur I heard words, myself like a stranger speak
"Will you come to my room?" Then a husky voice, "O.K."

I produced some beer and we talked. Like a little boy
He told me his story. Present address: next door.
Half Polish, half Irish. The youngest. From Illinois.
Profession: mechanic. Name: Bud. Age: twenty-four.

He put down his glass and stretched his bare arms along
The back of my sofa. The afternoon sunlight struck
The blond hairs on the wrist near my head. His chin was strong.
His mouth sucky. I could hardly believe my luck.

And here he was sitting beside me, legs apart.
I could bear it no longer. I touched the inside of his thigh.
His reply was to move closer. I trembled, my heart
Thumped and jumped as my fingers went to his fly.

I opened a gap in the flap. I went in there.
I sought for a slit in the gripper shorts that had charge
Of the basket I asked for. I came to warm flesh then to hair.
I went on. I found what I hoped. I groped. It was large.

He responded to my fondling in a charming, disarming way:
Without a word he unbuckled his belt while I felt.
And lolled back, stretching his legs. His pants fell away.
Carefully drawing it out, I beheld what I held.

The circumcised head was a work of mastercraft
With perfectly beveled rim of unusual weight
And the friendliest red. Even relaxed, the shaft
Was of noble dimensions with the wrinkles that indicate

Singular powers of extension. For a second or two,
It lay there inert, then suddenly stirred in my hand,
Then paused as if frightened or doubtful of what to do.
And then with a violent jerk began to expand.

By soundless bounds it extended and distended, by quick
Great leaps it rose, it flushed, it rushed to its full size.
Nearly nine inches long and three inches thick,
A royal column, ineffably solemn and wise.

I tested its length and strength with a manual squeeze.
I bunched my fingers and twirled them about the knob.
I stroked it from top to bottom. I got on my knees.
I lowered my head. I opened my mouth for the job.

But he pushed me gently away. He bent down. He unlaced
His shoes. He removed his socks. Stood up. Shed
His pants altogether. Muscles in arms and waist
Rippled as he whipped his T-shirt over his head.

I scanned his tan, enjoyed the contrast of brown
Trunk against white shorts taut around small
Hips. With a dig and a wriggle he peeled them down.
I tore off my clothes. He faced me, smiling. I saw all.

The gorgeous organ stood stiffly and straightly out
With a slight flare upwards. At each beat of his heart it threw
An odd little nod my way. From the slot of the spout
Exuded a drop of transparent viscous goo.

The lair of hair was fair, the grove of a young man,
A tangle of curls and whorls, luxuriant but couth.
Except for a spur of golden hairs that fan
To the neat navel, the rest of the belly was smooth.

Well hung, slung from the fork of the muscular legs,
The firm vase of his sperm, like a bulging pear,
Cradling its handsome glands, two herculean eggs,
Swung as he came towards me, shameless, bare.

We aligned mouths. We entwined. All act was clutch,
All fact contact, the attack and the interlock
Of tongues, the charms of arms. I shook at the touch
Of his fresh flesh, I rocked at the shock of his cock.

Straddling my legs a little I inserted his divine
Person between and closed on it tight as I could.
The upright warmth of his belly lay all along mine.
Nude, glued together for a minute, we stood.

I stroked the lobes of his ears, the back of his head
And the broad shoulders. I took bold hold of the compact
Globes of his bottom. We tottered. He fell on the bed.
Lips parted, eyes closed, he lay there, ripe for the act.

Mad to be had, to be felt and smelled. My lips
Explored the adorable masculine tits. My eyes
Assessed the chest. I caressed the athletic hips
And the slim limbs. I approved the grooves of the thighs.

I hugged, I snuggled into an armpit. I sniffed
The subtle whiff of its tuft. I lapped up the taste
Of its hot hollow. My fingers began to drift
On a trek of inspection, a leisurely tour of the waist.

Downward in narrowing circles they playfully strayed.
Encroached on his privates like poachers, approached the prick,
But teasingly swerved, retreated from meeting. It betrayed
Its pleading need by a pretty imploring kick.

"Shall I rim you?" I whispered. He shifted his limbs in assent.
Turned on his side and opened his legs, let me pass
To the dark parts behind. I kissed as I went
The great thick cord that ran back from his balls to his arse.

Prying the buttocks aside, I nosed my way in
Down the shaggy slopes. I came to the puckered goal.
It was quick to my licking. He pressed his crotch to my chin.
His thighs squirmed as my tongue wormed in his hole.

His sensations yearned for consummation. He untucked
His legs and lay panting, hot as a teen-age boy.
Naked, enlarged, charged, aching to get sucked,
Clawing the sheet, all his pores open to joy.

I inspected his erection. I surveyed his parts with a stare
From scrotum level. Sighting along the underside
Of his cock, I looked through the forest of pubic hair
To the range of the chest beyond rising lofty and wide.

I admired the texture, the delicate wrinkles and the neat
Sutures of the capacious bag. I adored the grace
Of the male genitalia. I raised the delicious meat
Up to my mouth, brought the face of its hard-on to my face.

Slipping my lips round the Byzantine dome of the head,
With the tip of my tongue I caressed the sensitive groove.
He thrilled to the trill. "That's lovely!" he hoarsely said.
"Go on! Go on!" Very slowly I started to move.

Gently, intently, I slid to the massive base
Of his tower of power, paused there a moment down
In the warm moist thicket, then began to retrace
Inch by inch the smooth way to the throbbing crown.

Indwelling excitements swelled at delights to come
As I descended and ascended those thick distended walls.
I grasped his root between left forefinger and thumb
And with my right hand tickled his heavy voluminous balls.

I plunged with a rhythmical lunge steady and slow,
And at every stroke made a corkscrew roll with my tongue.
His soul reeled in the feeling. He whimpered "Oh!"
As I tongued and squeezed and rolled and tickled and swung.

Then I pressed on the spot where the groin is joined to the cock,
Slipped a finger into his arse and massaged him from inside.
The secret sluices of his juices began to unlock.
He melted into what he felt. "O Jesus!" he cried.

Waves of immeasurable pleasures mounted his member in quick
Spasms. I lay still in the notch of his crotch inhaling his sweat.
His ring convulsed round my finger. Into me, rich and thick,
His hot spunk spouted in gouts, spurted in jet after jet.

By and about; fiction is for anyone, assholes included.

you can always look over the anarchist library fiction tag, which currently contains 37 different titles.

http://theanarchistlibrary.org/topics/fiction

I didn't even know that tag existed, thanks!

Not explicitly anarchist but certainly anarchic and horribly underappreciated is ancient lights by Davis Grubb. It's like a sex crazed, individualist update of all the old gnostic heresies into a future (well, 1992) owned equally by totalitarian liberalism and religious piety about the fight to make people listen to themselves instead of prophets. And there's incest too?

on some sites i read that the book was published in 2002 (amazon, goodreads...): so i wonder how many times the book was reprinted?

Black and Red did two printings, the first in 1976, and the second I would bet was in 2002. I've seen rumour of a "bootleg" European version as well.

also octavia butler has some legit sci-fi and fantasy that's super great

The first letter in print ready PDF pamphlet form: https://archive.org/details/LettersofinsurgentsIntro

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