Nietzsche on his Balcony by Carlos Fuentes

Civic duty. Unanimity. And violence. These, more than any others, were the words that triggered Basilicato, soldiers, workers. Saul on his balcony, haranguing, held back by María-Águila (who, in addition, was a nun) so he wouldn't topple into the street, though if he fell, he would be fine: people at the front of the crowd waited for him with an outstretched blanket so that Saul could launch himself of his own free will, or fall by accident, and would not die, would never die, welcomed by the liberated masses that had already killed President Solibor and paraded his severed head through the streets, not chanting "How much more longer? " but now, "Forever and ever!"

There was Basilicato joining the marches, feeling alive for the first time, no longer a lonely shoemaker who masturbated in front of the mirror before falling asleep like a sack of potatoes, sleeping without dreams, or sleeping with just one ridiculous nightmare in which he was exposed, naked, without muscles, just as he was, a lonely and weak man, flabby and poor, not anymore, now he was part of the crowd that gathered, neighborhood after neighborhood, street after street, the great frustrations of the multitudes that made themselves known. All it took was one man, just one man, soldier or worker or critic, to start the great march, to find himself followed like a guide, like Saul Mendes.