carried it around in dog-eared paperback,

reading it alongside Albert Camus the Rebel,

his famous essay on rebellion.

Her recovery of the spontaneous council looked uncannily

like their own talk of participatory democracy.

Activists organizing in Brooklyn neighborhoods

pointed to her pages as the inspiration for their grassroots projects.

In 1967, after years of cross-country commuting between teaching posts in Chicago and California,

with all the worry that distance brought as Heinrich's health faltered, she at last accepted

a permanent position at the graduate faculty of the

new school for social research in New York, a short subway ride from Riverside Drive.

The exhausting travel ended.

Her first seminar there was called Political Experience in the 20th century, and it traced the life

of an imagined person born at the turn of the century walking through its darkest years.

That settling into a New York classroom would prove a brief shelter.

The arguments she had set out on the page about rebellion,

about councils, about the difference between power and violence, were about to walk in off

the streets. Her students were already underlining the same passages they would soon shout from

occupied buildings. Draft boards were being raided. The Vietnam War was deepening,

and the Republic itself was sliding toward a crisis that would force her to think, in public and at

speed, about what citizens owed to one another when the state itself had begun to bleed.

Chapter 12, the 60s.

...