By the lamp sat the activist at his mental labor: he was drawing graphs for the record in which he wished to enter all the data concerning the welfare of the poor and middle peasantry, so there would be a permanent, formal picture and experience, as a basis.
‘Write down my goods, too!’ said Voshchev, unpacking his sack.
He had gathered in the village all the poor, rejected objects, all the small unknown and forgotten things—to be avenged by socialism. Those patient, shabby rags had once touched the flesh of the laboreres, and these things were marked forever by the burden of bowed life, expended without conscious meaning and lost without glory somewhere under the straw of the earth. Without full understanding, Voshchev had collected like a miser a sackful of material remnants of lost people, who had lived like him without truth and who had died before the victorious conclusion. Now he was presenting those liquidated toilers before the face of the government and the future, so that those who lay quietly in the depth of the earth could be avenged through the organization of the eternal meaning of man.
Andrei Platonov. The Foundation Pit