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Piggybacking on Mirah’s response, I remember a Molly Ivins essay long ago about the eternal frustrations of being a left-wing journalist in Texas, coupled with the amazing, energizing fellowship and pleasure she’d found among her kindred spirits. She also talked about going with a friend to sit at the deathbed of an elderly activist — a miner, a Wobbly, an old-fashioned rabble rouser who had won some vital and improbable battles but lost many more than he’d won. But as he was fading, he smiled to see them arrive, and he took each of them by the hand and said, “Oh, children, it was FUN.”

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