The emptiness of imperialist political manifestos (2)

I was asked a direct question about my comment to Mary's blog on political manifestos
http://timesonline.typepad.com/dons_life/2010/04/and-the-prize-for-the-worst-manifesto-goes-to-.html#

Tim W said.:  ...give us a crib to that last line, would you?
I replied: Hi Tim. Now you ask, I see that I expected four words to do more work than they should ;-)
It's a mini-quote from Pushkin, Eugene Onegin, Book I, stanza 1:
"Мой дядя самых честных правил,
Когда не в шутку занемог,
Он уважать себя заставил
И лучше выдумать не мог.
Его пример другим наука;
Но, *боже мой, какая скука*
С больным сидеть и день и ночь,
Не отходя ни шагу прочь!
Какое низкое коварство
Полу-живого забавлять,
Ему подушки поправлять,
Печально подносить лекарство,
Вздыхать и думать про себя:
Когда же чорт возьмет тебя!"
"Christ, what a terrible drag" .. literally "My God, what a bore"
Eugene's going to inherit an uncle so he's got to go to the country and look after him until he dies... take him food and be nice, etc...
A recent English translation (G R Ledger for the internet http://www.pushkins-poems.com/) is:
"My uncle, a most worthy gentleman,
When he fell seriously ill,
By snuffing it made us all respect him,
Couldn't have done better if he tried.
His behaviour was a lesson to us all.
But, God above, what crushing boredom
To sit with the malingerer night and day
Not moving even one footstep away.
What demeaning hypocrisy
To amuse the half-dead codger,
To fluff up his pillows, and then,
Mournfully to bring him his medicine;
To think to oneself, and to sigh:
When the devil will the old rascal die?"
The relevance is that we have to look after this decrepit old society, with its wealthy, murderous  politicians and their lying manifestos till it dies and we can inherit what's good in it. There's an ironic twist to the quote - Eugene is a callous arsehole, cos his uncle is an exemplary gentleman. Our uncle is a vicious vampire condemning us to Life-in-Death - and yet we mollycoddle him by taking part in his cynical rituals and letting him claim we're behind him.
If we fail to put a stake through his heart, we end up broken zombies:
"Two ginscented tears trickled down the sides of his nose. But it was
all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished.
He had won the victory over himself. He loved Big Brother."