Proletariat Term Analysis

Whoo-oo-oo-oo-hooh-hoo-oo! Oh, look at me, I am perishing in this gateway. The blizzard roars a prayer for the dying, and I howl with it. I am finished, finished. That bastard, in the dirty cap—the cook of the Normal Diet Cafeteria for employees of the People’s Central Economic Soviet—threw boiling water at me and scalded my left side. The scum, and he calls himself a proletarian! Lord, oh lord, how it hurts! My side is cooked to the bone. And now I howl and howl, but what’s the good of howling?
What harm did I do him? Would the People’s Economic Soviet get any poorer if I rooted in the garbage heap? The greedy brute!

“You are a hater of the proletariat!” the woman declared proudly.
“You are right, I do not like the proletariat,” Philip Philippovich agreed sadly and pressed a button. A bell rang somewhere within, and the door into the corridor swung open.

“One fine day in March of 1917, all the galoshes disappeared, including two pair of mine. Also three canes, a coat, and the porter’s samovar. And from that day on the stand for galoshes ceased to exist. […] I ask you why, when this whole business started, did everyone begin to go up the marble staircase in muddy galoshes and felt boots? […] Why was the rug removed from the front stairway? Does Karl Marx forbid rugs on the stairs? Does he say anywhere in his writings that the second entrance of the Kalabukhov house on Prechistenka must be boarded up, and people must go around the house and enter through the backyard? Who needs this? Why can’t the proletarian leave his galoshes downstairs instead of tracking up the marble?”