I know that there are no limits to which the powers of privilege will not go to keep the workers in slavery

Injustice boils in men's hearts as does steel in its cauldron, ready to pour forth, white hot, in the fullness of time.

Men's hearts are cold. They are indifferent.

Today the white child is sold for two dollars a week to the manufacturers.

I live in the United States, but I do not know exactly where. My address is wherever there is a fight against oppression.

I nursed men back to sanity who were driven to despair. I solicited clothes for the ragged children, for the desperate mothers. I laid out the dead, the martyrs of the strike.

I went West and took part in the strike of the machinists - the Southern Pacific Railroad, the corporation that swung California by its golden tail, that controlled its legislature, its farmers, its preachers, its workers.