The punishment is certainly cruel and unusual in Prison Memoirs. The guards arbitrarily beat, torture, and starve the inmates, including Alexander Berkman—one of the marquee names of early twentieth-century American anarchism. Okay, I take that back. There was only one marquee name of American anarchism, and that was Emma Goldman, but Berkman was (fortunately enough) fucking her so he basked in her white-hot afterglow. Berkman is sent to a Pennsylvania penitentiary for a ridiculously botched attempt on the life of Henry Clay Frick, one of Andrew Carnegie's designated henchmen who violently brought down a labor strike with the aid of some Pinkertons. (The very same Frick—i.e., one of the most ruthless and immoral businessmen in history—is the the benefactor responsible for the Frick Collection in New York City.) At the outset, when Berkman first arrives in prison, with his pie-in-the-sky idealism still intact, he is an unbearable prig. He rambles on in the bloated, grandiose, and condescending manner of doctrinaire radicals. You know the drill. Individualism is a naughty bourgeois predilection; ergo, Berkman is resigned to being an instrumental atom in the organism of organized labor. Gee, that sounds like fun, doesn't it? You know what bugs me about this worldview (in common with the extreme left)? Well, I'll tell you. Even though these people are atheist, they are quite willing to neutralize themselves and tender their lives for some distant, theoretical posterity. My rebuttal is this: (1) Life will always suck. Always. There has been and will be no golden age when people cooperate and love one another and work for a common good. This is antithetical to the nature of humanity. Human beings are rotten lowlifes who want to dominate and oppress each other. Anyone who believes otherwise, at least in a broad sociopolitical sense, is embarrassingly naive. (2) What are these people surrendering their lives for exactly? Is it for future generations of people who then must surrender their lives for some ever-receding ideal? At the beginning of Prison Memoirs, Berkman is a pompous blowhard who disdains disruptive emotional connections with other human beings; he prefers some ascetic, boring, fully intellectualized idealism. It's not even idealism informed by (truly felt) compassion! It's just ideas. Thoughts. Words on paper. Isn't this a parallel dehumanizing force (to that of 'wage slavery')? For fuck's sake, if I have to live on this shitty planet, I want to have some fun while I'm here. I'm not chucking my life in the metaphysical recycling bin for an ideal that is religious in every sense but in advocating a God. Piss off, radicals. Maybe that makes me horribly bourgeois, but if this is all there is, I'm gonna try to live a good life, sure, but I'm also going to try to enjoy it—not as a cog in the machinery, but as an individual. Anyway. I'll abandon my soapbox now and get back to the book. As I was saying, Berkman is a real stiff at the beginning of the book, and I was duly worried. This book had 'painful slog' written all over it. For the first three hundred pages, it was three stars. Occasionally fascinating (when it dealt with day-to-day life in 1890s-1900s penitentiaries), but just as often, windy and preachy (when Berkman talks about the Cause). But somewhere around the last two hundred pages, the book got unputdownable. (My spellcheck didn't underline unputdownable. Is that a real word??) Berkman becomes affected by the prisoners around them. He starts to feel for them, as individuals and not as theoretical social units. There are some really, really, really sad stories in that prison—most of them involving teenage boys who are abused, get sick, and die agonizing deaths. Berkman becomes a comforter and friend to these people that society has forgotten, and he gradually starts to reappraise his youthful, abstract understanding of political activism. (Berkman spent thirteen years in the prison, and one year in the workhouse.) When he is released—and we the readers feel as though we've been through absolute hell with him—he is unable to readjust to the outside world. The freedom that seemed so desirable becomes oppressive, and Berkman is forced to engage with this reality as a living, feeling individual rather than merely as a some white-gloved intellectual in a pince-nez. So what I'm saying is, yeah, the first 300 pages are just okay, but the last 200 pages make it better and worthwhile.