A person's fate # 70782
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The Fate of Man. A novel by André Malraux. Translated by Thor Vilhjálmsson.
Five minutes, Tseng said. The men in his group waited. They were all workers from the textile factories, dressed in blue canvas clothes. All of them were shaved, all of them skinny, - all of them stout. Death had chosen its own from the team before Tseng. Two had a rifle under their arm, the barrel pointed at the ground. Seven had pistols from Shan-Tong; one had a single grenade; several hid them in their pockets. Only thirty had knives, clubs, bayonets; eight or ten unarmed people crouched by piles of rags, gasoline cans, and coils of wire. A young man was examining large, broad-headed nails that he pulled out of a bag as if they were seeds: "certainly longer than through a horse's hooves..." A kind of Court des Miracles, but here everything was united under the banner of hatred and harmony.
Five minutes, Tseng said. The men in his group waited. They were all workers from the textile factories, dressed in blue canvas clothes. All of them were shaved, all of them skinny, - all of them stout. Death had chosen its own from the team before Tseng. Two had a rifle under their arm, the barrel pointed at the ground. Seven had pistols from Shan-Tong; one had a single grenade; several hid them in their pockets. Only thirty had knives, clubs, bayonets; eight or ten unarmed people crouched by piles of rags, gasoline cans, and coils of wire. A young man was examining large, broad-headed nails that he pulled out of a bag as if they were seeds: "certainly longer than through a horse's hooves..." A kind of Court des Miracles, but here everything was united under the banner of hatred and harmony.