In every one of those little stucco boxes there's some poor bastard who's never free except when he's fast asleep and dreaming that he's got the boss down the bottom of a well and is bunging lumps of coal at him.
That's what being in the working class is all about — how to get out of it.
The history of all countries shows that the working class exclusively by its own effort is able to develop only trade-union consciousness.
The same people who are murdered slowly in the mechanized slaughterhouses of work are also arguing, singing, drinking, dancing, making love, holding the streets, picking up weapons and inventing a new poetry.
The working-class is now issuing from its hiding-place to assert an Englishman's heaven-born privilege of doing as he likes, and is beginning to perplex us by marching where it likes, meeting where it likes, bawling what it likes, breaking what it likes.
The worst fault of the working classes is telling their children they're not going to succeed, saying: ''There is life, but it's not for you.''