A Review of Left-Wing Melancholia: Marxism, History, and Memory by Enzo Traverso

Joseph Fronczak

Department of History, Princeton University

joseph.fronczak@princeton.edu

Abstract

Taking up Walter Benjamin’s idea of ‘left-wing melancholy’, yet investing the concept with redemptive qualities, Enzo Traverso argues that melancholy offers the left a resource for mobilising a return to revolutionary politics. Melancholy, Traverso suggests, was always a hidden dimension of the left’s consciousness, a dimension that surfaced after the political defeats at the twentieth century’s end. With great insight, Traverso interprets how the traumas of 1989 produced a fundamental transformation of the left’s state of consciousness, altering even such basic perceptions as the left’s sense of time – as the left traded future-imaginative hope for past-nostalgic memory. This post-1989 memorial gaze, Traverso suggests, continues to define the left’s sense of the present. This article interrogates Traverso’s central argument regarding melancholy’s possibilities as a revolutionary resource, challenges his conceptualisation of a post-1989 ‘present’, and argues that in Traverso’s analysis melancholy operates more directly as a protective stance after the eclipse of utopias than as a potent resource for revolutionary revival. Nonetheless, Traverso’s attention to the left’s ways of living in time illuminates the emancipatory aspects of its temporal imagination.

Keywords

Traverso – left – twentieth century – neoliberalism – melancholy – memory – history – defeat – Benjamin – Brown – Pontecorvo – time

Enzo Traverso, (2016) Left-Wing Melancholia: Marxism, History, and Memory, New York: Columbia University Press.

A year into the German depression and a little more than a year away from Hitler’s accession to power and the Weimar Republic’s demise, Walter Benjamin captured the mood of the German intelligentsia with his 1931 essay ‘Left-Wing Melancholy’. Written with fierce class animus, it castigated bourgeois intellectuals who imitated the radical language, tenor, and imagery of the Weimar left. Benjamin accused them of creating commodities posing as political art for self-absorbed, materialistic consumers. In particular, Benjamin took aim at one of Berlin’s most prominent poets, Erich Kästner, who wrote ‘for people in the higher income bracket, those mournful, melancholy dummies who trample anything or anyone in their path’. Kästner’s poetry, Benjamin charged, was banal noise, ‘like a city café after the stock exchange closes’. Benjamin’s political and aesthetic criticism launched into an ethical critique of Kästner’s work: that it fed parasitically on the true ‘political lyricism’ of giants like Bertolt Brecht. Whereas Brecht’s art unsettled its readers, provoking them to new ‘consciousness and deed’, Kästner’s exploitation of Brechtian art produced only ‘complacency and fatalism’ by encouraging crass and well-fed readers to ‘reconcile’ themselves to their political quietism. Benjamin then concluded his essay with a vulgar analogy comparing bourgeois sentiment passing itself off as left-wing radicalism to physiological flatulence, evidence of creative, and political, constipation. And, Benjamin suggested, ‘Constipation and melancholy have always gone together.’[1]

Enzo Traverso, then, would seem to have his work cut out for him in his 2016 book of critical theory, Left-Wing Melancholia, in which he argues, intelligently and elegantly, that melancholy can offer the left quite the contrary: a resource for the politically vanquished to mobilise anew. This Traverso describes as ‘a fruitful melancholia’, capable of capturing what philosopher Judith Butler has called the ‘transformative effect of loss’ (p. 20). It is an intrepid argument that depends on an idiosyncratic reading of Benjamin. It depends in particular on the antinomy that, while Benjamin spat upon the melancholic poses of ‘the middle stratum’ in ‘Left-Wing Melancholy’, he nonetheless elsewhere suggested the ideologically productive power of brooding for the earnestly radical intellectual. As the political theorist Wendy Brown has pointed out, Benjamin’s essays on Baudelaire approached melancholy ‘as something of a creative wellspring’.[2] Traverso, then, has focused his argument on a slightly different facet of political melancholy than that which provoked Benjamin in ‘Left-Wing Melancholy’. What Benjamin called left-wing melancholy was left-wing only in a cynical way; it was the temper appropriated by the fraudulent mimic who has co-opted leftist aesthetics as revolutionary chic. Traverso, rather, is interested in the condition of the committed and faithful leftist intellectual made melancholic by mounting political defeat: Brecht in mourning.

Defeat without Defeatism

Or perhaps more precisely, Bensaïd in mourning. If Left-Wing Melancholia begins with Walter Benjamin, it ends with Daniel Bensaïd, whom Traverso reveres as the unbowed organic intellectual who remained, politically speaking, heroically militant even after communism fell and who remained, intellectually speaking, heroically productive even in personal illness and decline. As such, though Traverso attends to the leather-jacketed Leninist’s glorious ‘street-fighting years’ surrounding May ’68, he emphasises instead the books the ever-engagé philosopher wrote from 1989 onward, beginning with his broadside against that year’s bicentennial commemorations of the French Revolution,Moi, la Révolution. The works that followed were sketches jotted by a master painter in a hurry to put something of his ideas down on paper: shortly after the ideological loss of 1989, Bensaïd received his diagnosis ofaids. The layering of personal and political sorrows made these late works densely melancholy.

Nineteen Eighty-Nine marks Traverso’s great caesura, when communism in its twentieth-century form collapsed and the left was left to find new ground to stand on. Though Traverso suggests that the left has always had ‘a hidden dimension’ of melancholy – consider, he suggests, the annual ritual of secular requiem at the Communards’ Wall (le mur des Fédérés) or the ‘authentic popular emotion’ of mourners at Palmiro Togliatti’s 1964 funeral (p. 48) – his point of emphasis is that ‘it came to the surface only at the end of the twentieth century, with the failure of communism’ (p. 38). To a degree, Traverso’s argument about the increase of melancholy’s importance is relative, regarding what remains when much is lost. As the revolutionary tide ebbed, he seems to suggest, melancholic reefs remained, visible now but there all along, previously submerged beneath the left’s surface-consciousness of utopia, revolution, heroic action, and faith.

There is a difference between faith and fidelity. Traverso recognises considerable dignity in the fidelity of the Marxist intellectuals who, amid the neoliberal onslaught at century’s end, held on to that which was redemptive in the left’s emancipatory causes of the past. For Traverso, Bensaïd epitomised this pained persistence. And for Traverso, it was not simply in spite of defeat that Bensaïd endured. The provocative surprise of his argument is that defeat itself provided a dialectical fuel for those willing to stomach its frustrations. Traverso calls this the ‘metabolism of defeat – melancholic but not demotivating or demobilizing, exhausting but not dark’ (p. 51). He suggests that he takes even this insight from Bensaïd, but that is not quite right. He refers to one of those late mournful writings of Bensaïd, Le pari mélancolique (1997) – ‘the melancholy wager’. But there what Bensaïd bet on actually was revolution. He did so melancholically, yes, because, at the twentieth century’s end, revolution looked like a long bet. He bet nonetheless because the stakes were so high, because the alternative was to fold and accept barbarism. Traverso’s bet is subtly but significantly different. Traverso is betting on melancholy itself, in the hope of winning revolution.

That is, Traverso’s melancholy is not only descriptive, it is prescriptive. He argues that melancholy not only defines the extant left since the collapse of the Soviet Union, it suits the left as well and promises to spark resurrection. This contrasts with Brown’s depiction of melancholy made at roughly the same time that Bensaïd made his wager. In an essay that appeared in 2003, Brown gazed upon on the ruins of twentieth-century socialism and concluded that left-wing melancholy ought to be resisted. ‘It signifies ...’, she argued, ‘a certain narcissism with regard to one’s past political attachments and identity that exceeds any contemporary investment in political mobilization, alliance, or transformation’.[3] More than that, Brown insisted, a dimension of melancholy that weighed particularly heavily on the left since the ascent of neoliberalism was the intellectual alienation from the creative possibilities of the radical present – what Benjamin called Jetzt-Zeit, ‘now-time’ – by clinging, as she put it, to ‘formulations of another epoch’. Conceptual analysis caught in twentieth-century pasts, Brown suggested, ‘not only misreads the present but also installs traditionalism in the very heart of its praxis, in the place where commitment to risk and upheaval belongs’.[4]

          Against Brown, Traverso wants to tell a story with memory of defeat and melancholy on page one, culminating in a future of revolution and utopia. But his own authorial melancholy, his own elegiac mood, keeps pulling him into memorial, historical, and mythical pasts, and the story he does tell begins with revolutions past and ends in melancholies present. This, again, is not the story he wants to tell. Traverso’s argument is that melancholy is a valuable resource for the left to mobilise toward revolution. The example he provides, in his introduction, is Act Up, the militant, radically democratic group organised in New York during the Reagan years to demand access to affordableaids drugs. Act Up was, Traverso concludes, ‘the product of a fruitful, political melancholia’. He offers activist-intellectual Douglas Crimp’s words as capturing ‘the spirit of this book’ when Crimp said, ‘Militancy, of course, but mourning too: mourningand militancy.’ (p. 21.)

          But after its mention in the introduction, Act Up disappears from Left-Wing Melancholia. Douglas Crimp as well. Crimp would fit in well among Traverso’s constellation of brilliant twentieth-century intellectuals who experienced loss and yet endured. Traverso quotes Crimp from a 1989October article, ‘Mourning and Militancy’. Crimp went on to say more on the relationship of mourning and militancy – and indeed cautioned against what he called the ‘spectacle of mourning’ in his 2002 book reflecting onaids resistance and queer politics, titledMelancholia and Moralism.[5] Act Up’s disappearing act has a fascinating effect on Left-Wing Melancholia: though he holds up Crimp’s formula as the essence of his own book, Traverso offers no sustained examples of melancholy-as-mobilisation. It is his central claim, but the introduction’s gesture toward Act Up is the book’s only historical example of effective mass mobilisation rooted in melancholy.

It is an odd evasion, though not ultimately a failing. It creates an intriguing void at the centre of the book, an absence akin, actually, to melancholy, in particular the sort of melancholy that moves Traverso: the sorrow not for things lost but for hopes snuffed out still unfulfilled. Nonetheless, Traverso’s unwillingness to execute his argument appears to be something of a counter-example to his claim: he does seem rather stuck in melancholy, not entirely immobilised perhaps but certainly more caught up in the past than the present. Which was precisely what Brown warned against.

In Traverso’s mind, 1989 marks a break even more profound than the ideological chasm created by communism’s collapse. For Traverso, 1989 marks the temporal divide between past and present. As a result, the present is portrayed in the book as quite flattened out, and it is this flattened present – quite different in its ramifications from ‘now-time’ – that makes Left-Wing Melancholia an unsettling read. The aftermath of the Cold War, where Francis Fukuyama has announced ‘the end of history’ and ‘memory studies’ is sweeping the academy, and François Furet has just writtenThe Passing of an Illusion, is where one still finds much of Traverso’s mind. The present from which Traverso writes, in other words, is a point in time he has stretched out across years and, more to the point, it never quite sticks to the twenty-first century. As if his subconsciousness were trying to expose his reluctance to enter this century that is no longer so new, when he comments that it ‘is born as a time shaped by a general eclipse of utopias’, his wording for it is ‘the twentieth-first century’ (p. 5). When he similarly refers to ‘the early twentieth-first century’, the reader even begins to wonder whether this ‘twentieth-first’ were an intentional play on words, but it becomes evident that it is simply a revealing, poignant, slip of the mind (p. 18). It is, then, unsettling to realise how dramatically Traverso’s mind is caught in the twentieth century, but it does not at all read like the narcissism that Brown describes; indeed, the temporal traumas betrayed inLeft-Wing Melancholia evoke in the reader a deeply felt sympathy with Traverso. Nonetheless, his present always trails behind the reader, still visible on the horizon but seen in the reflection of a rear-view mirror. Traverso proposes an urgent utopian politics of tomorrow rooted in mourning for what was lost by 1989. He spars with those who would consign the twentieth-century history of leftist causes to oblivion; yet he has portrayed a present with nothing to say about the left’s causes and concerns of the twenty-first century present. This, again, was precisely what Brown warned against.

          Once one gets past the explicit argument into the flow of the book, melancholy actually operates more as a personal virtue of the vanquished than as the resource for collective revival Traverso initially proposed it to be. It serves as a stance by which one can survive the harsh climate of neoliberalism without being co-opted by its forces. This does not necessarily make for an effective revolutionary strategy. In his influential intellectual history, The Last Utopia (2010), Samuel Moyn traces a parallel path away from the revolutionary dreams of utopia that had animated the left for much of the twentieth century toward the human-rights defences adopted late in the century. Moyn recognises in human rights an ideological programme that largely became appealing during the rise of neoliberalismbecause it was ‘a minimalist, hardy utopia that could survive in a harsh climate’, the neoliberal climate that had desiccated ‘more maximal plans for transformation – especially revolutions’.[6]

But Moyn’s deeper point is that ‘the human-rights revolution’, whatever its tactical utility, was a strategic trap: however it might be able to withstand the elements, it nonetheless lacks the elements needed for ‘more maximal plans’ (read: socialism). Moyn warns that, ultimately, the human-rights project did not have the wherewithal for mobilising positively to escape the present. Traverso argues that melancholy offers both stiff armour for surviving assault and an arsenal for a counterattack, but he puts forth little in the way of evidence, far from sufficient to dissuade a reader of Wendy Brown’s warning that melancholy is likely toimmobilise, likely enough that one ought to seek out other, more promising mobilisational resources. Or, in the words attributed to the fine dialectician Joe Hill, ‘Don’t mourn, organise!’ 

Mourning Revolution

In ‘Melancholy Images’, an original chapter apparently written for this book, Traverso reads the twentieth-century left’s films ‘as barometers of left consciousness’ (p. 87). It is the book’s most captivating chapter and also the one that captures the most of Traverso’s complex argument. It is also where Traverso’s narrative trajectory most directly runs counter to his premise of melancholy leading to revolution. The Marxist filmography he presents moves in the other direction and ends trapped in melancholy. It is worth addressing, then, at some length.

Traverso examines, among other films, Luchino Visconti’s The Earth Trembles (1948), Gillo Pontecorvo’s anticolonialist tragediesThe Battle of Algiers (1966) andBurn! (1969), and Ken Loach’sLand and Freedom (1995). The chapter pursues two arguments critical to the broader question of left-wing melancholy. First, Traverso offers a general conceptual claim suggesting that the problem of defeat has consistently served as a central, even defining concern of leftist cinema. Moreover, he insists, leftist filmmakers’ treatment of defeat offers a key to unlocking these filmmakers’, and also the broader twentieth-century left’s, temporal imagination. The other argument offers a claim of historical change suggesting that 1989 marked a schism in leftist cinema that, because it was especially pronounced, lets one see with especial clarity Traverso’s general 1989 line of division. In film as elsewhere, he suggests a shift in the left’s focus from themes of revolution, anticipation, and utopia to those of defeat, resignation, and nostalgia. Moreover, from the particular vantage point of leftist cinema, Traverso sees particularly vividly how this shift produced a fundamental transformation of the left’s very state of consciousness, altering even such basic perceptions as the left’s sense of past, present and future. Traverso writes, ‘From Eisenstein to Pontecorvo, fromBattleship Potemkin toBurn!, left movies described struggles and announced victories’. In contrast, films of the neoliberal 1990s described suffering and recited memories, ‘assuming defeat as the starting point of their retrospective inquiry’ (p. 117).

Part of why the chapter is so illuminating is that it is in art such as cinema that the hopes lying on the horizons of any historical moment can be glimpsed. This is of great importance to Traverso, whose mourning for the twentieth century concentrates on its emancipatory future-visions rather than on its accomplished facts. He notes Slavoj Žižek’s aperçu that melancholy actually emanates from lack rather than from loss: Traverso explains that he mourns for ‘communism as it was dreamed and expected, not as it was realized (state socialism)’ (p. 52).[7] The fall of communism, then, reconfigured the left’s temporal consciousness, away from Ernst Bloch’s notion of dreaming of that which is ‘not yet’ (noch nicht) to remembering ‘a no-longer-existing place, a destroyed utopia that is the object of melancholy art’ (p. 119). This is luminous critical theory; it also accepts melancholy as a coda to the denouement of defeat rather than a mobilisational prelude to a new story of utopian dreaming and revolution, thus causing considerable trouble for Traverso’s primary argument.

          Even so, along the way, Traverso shares compelling interpretations of defeat’s place in the leftist imagination. To begin, he lyrically expresses his belief that the ‘most impressive filmic representation of a left defeat is probably Luchino Visconti’s La terra trema (The Earth Trembles)’ (p. 87). InThe Earth Trembles, not only do historical, memorial, and mythical threads of time interweave, different moments in time converge and cross. Visconti’s neorealist tragedy derives from a beautiful old dialect-laden novel, Giovanni Verga’s 1881 family epicThe House by the Medlar-Tree, about the life of fisherfolk in the Sicilian commune north of Catania, Aci Trezza.[8] Many of the actors in The Earth Trembles were not professionals; they were villagers who spoke (and on screen speak) dialect, ‘the language of poor people’, as the film explains. Traverso situatesThe Earth Trembles within the postwar neorealist impulse to show ‘society and human beings as they were’, but sees as well a neoclassical current cutting across it that elevates the fisherfolk into a time-transcendent mythological realm, giving their plight an allegorical grandeur absent in Verga’s historicist novel. Like the novel, the film offers a decidedly local story, but it concentrates the local so sharply and refracts it through such a mythologising lens that the story takes on a miraculous, fabulous universality: Aci Trezza a Sicilian Macondo.

The film also tells a more emphatically modern tale. In the novel, debt slowly, intractably strangles the family, which reacts philosophically by relying on the folk wisdom of ancestral proverbs. In the film, the merchant class – mercilessly and overtly practising class politics – swiftly strikes the family down after young 'Ntoni attempts to bypass the local wholesalers and sell his catch directly to the market at Catania. (The fish market in Catania remains today a sight to behold, staging real-life dramas of class, labour, capital, and carcass-commodity five days per week.) Unlike the fatalistic novel, the Brechtian film projects an insistence on defying social injustice even though, as Visconti himself once commented, such defiance ‘almost always results in catastrophe’ (p. 90). Such long-odds risk-taking is Bensaïd’s wager.

The tragedy perhaps could speak even more directly to Traverso’s theme of melancholy: class struggle does not fail in The Earth Trembles; rather, it fails even to materialise –lack disguised asloss. This, indeed, is the tragedy: 'Ntoni, like Brecht’s tailor of Ulm, acquires a socialist vision of collective mobilisation – he sees vividly how to defeat the merchant class that daily feeds off the fishermen’s labours – but he is alone, followed by no one. Alone, he is crushed and forced to beg for work from the merchants who have, by the film’s end, become Fascists. 'Ntoni suffers defeat because he was bornahead of his time. Socialism appears only ephemerally at the film’s end, a fugitive ghost-of-the-future haunting a cement wall in the form of graffiti, a hammer and sickle.

Visconti’s promise of future glory, even in defeat, is imperative to Traverso, and the same sort of promise looms even more imposingly over Pontecorvo’s films. For Traverso, Pontecorvo is outright ‘[t]he filmmaker of glorious defeats’ (p. 92). The Battle of Algiers shows not the 1962 triumph of Algerian independence but rather the preliminary mid-1950s near annihilation of the National Liberation Front (fln). Liberation is only briefly, obliquely, foreshadowed in an Eisenstein montage of the masses at the film’s end.

          Traverso usefully allows more screen time for Burn!, by far the lesser known of Pontecorvo’s two masterpieces of Marxist cinema. Set in Queimada, a fictional Caribbean colony of the Portuguese empire, the film not only portrays revolutionary anticolonial insurgency but embeds it within an intrigue-laden world of inter-imperial espionage and provocation. William Walker, the white protagonist of the film, is a British agent seeking to sabotage rival Portugal by sowing discontent among the colonial subjects of Queimada. Engineered by anagent provocateur, the revolution nonetheless becomes real, overtaking even Walker. By reaching past the near-contemporary French Algeria ofBattle of Algiers to the nineteenth-century colonial Caribbean ofBurn!, Traverso expands the time-and-space scope of his own interrogation, pulling in Latin American revolutionary praxis of the past and also alluding to the struggle of Vietnamese revolutionaries against US empire of the film’s present (more explicitly even thanBattle of Algiers,Burn! is a political allegory of Vietnam). While other parts ofLeft-Wing Melancholia can feel cramped by discussion of familiar European intellectuals, here Traverso’s vision of the twentieth-century left opens up to vast geographical and social worlds.

They are worlds of imagination more than of fact. When Edward Said later asked Pontecorvo what books had influenced his rendering of Caribbean history, the question ‘drew a blank from him’.[9] The film is interested in history, but in mobilising it rather than following, or even remembering, it. The name of the British agent provocateur inBurn! – William Walker – Pontecorvo took from the Slave Power filibuster war criminal from the antebellum US South who made himself president of Nicaragua. The hero of the film is José Dolores, whose name is taken from the black colonel, José Dolores Estrada, who led a Nicaraguan army to victory against Walker’s forces in the 1856 Battle of San Jacinto, after the filibuster had legalised slavery. The Dolores ofBurn! was performed with a rare charismatic intensity by Evaristo Márquez, a black Colombian man who had never acted before and spoke only a Spanish-African Creole, not the English his role called for.[10] Márquez’s Dolores heroically does not run from defeat, does not fear death, and before he is executed taunts Walker that white colonial rule only owns the moment, adding, ‘till when’ (p. 95)? ‘Till when’ is the future-pregnant question that both The Battle of Algiers andBurn! mobilise history to pose.

Pontecorvo’s liberty with narrow facts speaks to a methodological argument that Traverso makes later in his book, following Benjamin, critical of historicism. For Traverso, as for Benjamin, historicism ‘accepts as ineluctable the victory of the rulers’ (Traverso’s words) leading to a certain ‘empathy with the victors’ (Benjamin’s) (p. 222). Traverso is interested in countering both the sense of ineluctability and the perspective of victors. Pontecorvo, however, was probably only interested in contesting the latter: his films imply a certain fatalism of conflict, and a certainty of future liberation; the embittered critique is that powerful empires put off the inevitable and make the ordeal of reaching the necessary conclusion bloodier and more brutish than it need be. Such inevitability is not Bensaïd’s wager – it is actually akin to the historicism that Traverso, like Bensaïd and Benjamin, attempts to subvert.

Goodbye, Lenin!

Pontecorvo’s absence after Burn! eats at Traverso, as it has at many of the director’s admirers. However, by withdrawing after his 1960s glories, the director personified Traverso’s theme of leftist retreat with melancholic dignity. Said and Tariq Ali’s 1992 documentaryPontecorvo: The Dictatorship of Truth took the director to task for the unproductivity of his later years, even going so far as to cruelly play a couple of the commercials for Italian television that Pontecorvo directed as an older man to make ends meet. When Ken Loach met Pontecorvo, Loach has said, he ‘chided him for not making more films’.[11] Pontecorvo lived into the twenty-first century without producing another major political film. During the 1980s, he had considered a tale of Óscar Romero’s assassination, which he hoped would star Gene Hackman.

The Romero (as directed by John Duigan) that did emerge, in Traverso’s terrible 1989, exemplified the transformation of leftist consciousness that Traverso charts. Coincident with the left’s turn from ‘not yet’ to ‘no longer’ was a depoliticisation of politics. That is, not only did the left abandon dreams of the future for memories of the past, it also turned to remembering, even memorialising, the past in terms of suffering instead of struggle. With the 1980s–’90s ascent of memory studies, Traverso (who has written extensively on Holocaust memory) observes, ‘A previously discreet and modest figure bursts on [to] the center of the stage: thevictim’ (p. 10).[12] Romero made such an appealing figure in 1989 because he was a martyr, and also because he had shied away from ideological struggle. He was a reasonable man, a moderate man, shot down even though he sought to avoid the extremes of his century. Borrowing a fine line from one of his earlier books, Traverso laments the neoliberal era’s deadening of the ideological past:

The memory of the Gulag erased that of revolutions, the memory of the Holocaust replaced that of antifascism, and the memory of slavery eclipsed that of anticolonialism: the remembrance of the victims seems unable to coexist with the recollection of their hopes, of their struggles, of their conquests and their defeats (p. 10).[13]

More than Pontecorvo’s absence, Traverso implies, it was the films that were made that abandoned the left’s hopeful vision.

Traverso views Theo Angelopoulos’s Ulysses’ Gaze (1995) as a memorialisation of socialism-past that, typical of the 1990s, portrays revolution as reliquary. For Traverso, Angelopoulos presides over a funeral for communism that is poignant but bereft of the sublimatory militancy mobilised at Togliatti’s funeral. Traverso describes the film’s most famous scene, of a ‘melancholic broken statue of Lenin’ floating along the Danube, as a funeral procession (p. 99). Traverso sees in the ceremony ‘an astonishing reverse of Eisenstein’sOctober’, in which it is a statue of Alexander III that is toppled (p. 79). It is the most painful of symbolic reversals: Lenin’s desacralisation mirroring the Tsar’s. Traverso could easily have seen here as well a visual quotation of Roberto Rossellini’sPaisan (1946): the scene that opens the sixth episode, the partisan’s corpse floating down the Po River, murdered by German fascists, observed by riparian crowds of women and children, silent like those on the banks of the Danube inUlysses’ Gaze. The melancholy of Angelopoulos’s funeral scene demobilises – revolution ‘leaving the stage of history’ (p. 79). The melancholy of Rossellini’s scene mobilises: it is clear that the gathered crowds will now sympathise with the resistance; indeed, a nearby partisan and an American intelligence agent promptly risk their lives to rescue the corpse for a proper burial. Young Gillo Pontecorvo, an antifascist active in the wartime Italian Resistance, was in the theatre watchingPaisan in 1946 when he decided he wanted to make movies.

Traverso finds an exception to the neoliberal nineties’ immobilisational memorialisation in Loach’s Land and Freedom, released the same year asUlysses’ Gaze. Traverso finds that ‘Loach’s melancholic gaze is quite the reverse of resignation’ (p. 106). Loach establishes the memorial mood for his Spanish Civil War tragedy with a framing story set in the present-day 1990s after the death of an old Liverpudlian Communist who had volunteered to fight fascism in Catalonia. The film ends with a funeral scene of its own. The antifascist’s granddaughter, Kim, who upon his death has immersed herself in his old leftist memorabilia, stands over his grave, her fist raised in an antifascist salute as she clenches his red neckerchief. The act of mourning has made a militant of her, and her mourning is inextricable from her engagement with the past.

As compelling as Traverso’s interpretation of leftist cinema’s shift from the future-promises of 1969’s revolutionaries to the past-memorialisations of 1989’s martyrs – José Dolores to Óscar Romero – might be, it is still jarring that Traverso takes 1989’s aftermath to represent the present. Indeed, his selection of films is indicative of how haunted Traverso’s mind remains by that moment of twentieth-century communism’s death. Consider the contrasting moods of Loach’s films on the Spanish Civil War and the Irish Civil War. Loach releasedLand and Freedom in 1995;The Wind that Shakes the Barley came out in the twenty-first century, well into the Iraq War (2006). They are very different films even though they both romanticise the same style of popular revolution, endorse similar social-revolutionary impulses within civil wars, contain stunning parallel scenes of egalitarian assembly and free speech, and portray similarly tragic defeats. They differ, radically, in how they develop Traverso’s key themes of melancholy and militancy and temporality and memory. WhereasLand and Freedom finds common ground with Traverso’s mood,The Wind that Shakes the Barley resurrects Pontecorvo’s revolutionism. WhereasLand and Freedom mourns militants past,The Wind that Shakes the Barley offers unflinching militancy now and forever. InLand and Freedom, Kim, in the 1990s, remembers the Spanish Civil War; inThe Wind that Shakes the Barley, the film’s present-day occupation of Iraqis the British occupation of Ireland. The two occupations become, to borrow Traverso’s phrase, ‘synchronic times’ (pp. 204–34). The bluntness and ferocity of imperial violence as well as the left’s strident anti-imperialism and raw class anger all palpably hit the screen inThe Wind that Shakes the Barley. And the film derives its power from the reality that its impressions belong to the film’s twenty-first century present. UnlikeLand and Freedom, it is not a pedagogical film, instructing its audience to relearn revolution from the past. It is a representation – a barometric reading, as Traverso would have it – of its ‘now-time’, all the more effective because of its analogical surface ostensibly set in the past. InLeft-Wing Melancholia, Traverso interpretsLand of Freedom at length, but does not mentionThe Wind that Shakes the Barley. Traverso’s feel for the present still scratches at the nostalgic midnight of the 1990s.

Paradigm of the Melancholy Man

Time plays tricks in Left-Wing Melancholia and this is nowhere more sublimely revelatory than the moments where it becomes apparent that Traverso remains in some ways psychically trapped in that midnight moment. Deeply learned in the European historiography of time, historicity, and temporality, Traverso movingly depicts time as a live, unpredictable, traumatising, and refractory force.[14] All the more affective, then, that he cannot quite anchor himself amid its currents. Much of what Traverso depicts as the present has slipped away and, indeed, been pushed away by a twenty-first century left he doesn’t much recognise here. A sense of how decidedly Traverso’s present is no longer present can be gained by considering that Left-Wing Melancholia’s preface is dated December 2015, more than a quarter century since his signal moment of defeat. The question is no longer whether – Traverso vs. Brown – the left can mobilise melancholy, it ishow could the left mobilise melancholy over loss that, for so many of us, was before our time?

None of which is to say that Traverso should have written a different, more programmatic book for present concerns. It is to say, rather, that he has given his readers an elusive work of art, and readers ought to take it as their own task to decide what is to be done with such a book. The way Traverso’s unmoored mind floats across the surface of time might make him an unreliable strategist-theoretician of contemporary mobilisation, but it gives the book a rare, quite moving, pathos. Part of this quality is undoubtedly because of the past-involved nature of the subject, melancholy, and part of it is undoubtedly because Traverso has, here and now, clipped together material written in several other moments written for several other argumentative purposes, from as far back as 2002. The result is a palimpsestic multiplicity of texts about a multiplicity of temporal vectors. Indeed, the material reality of Traverso’s text begins to melt into the very form of his theoretical insights – in sync with those of Benjamin and Bensaïd – about non-contiguous, skipping, criss-crossing, looping temporalities. Time-related concepts – pasts, presents, and futures; ‘not yet’, ‘now-time’, and ‘no-longer’; memory-time and historical time; times of politics and times of strategy; messianic time and dialectical time – all dance here in syncopated spins and swings that allow the reader to make sense of their rhythms.

There is much intellectual beauty and much insightful surprise in Traverso’s uncommon book, so, again, my point is not to wish he had written firmly in the present for the present, but rather to observe that the path Traverso has taken has led him and his readers somewhere else in the realm of time, a location where the view has horizons quite different from our own in the here and now. And, to a certain extent, my point is to observe that Brown’s critique of left-wing melancholy – written in the thick of the neoliberal age – does seem to apply to this book, which does seem inhibited by its melancholic attention to past political attachments from investing in any contemporary political question. Traverso’s loyalties to twentieth-century European socialism, and his pain at its demise, do indeed appear to hijack his attempts to arrive in the present, let alone to drive into the future. In spite of Traverso’s imaginative intellectual concoctions, melancholy still seems at the book’s end to go more smoothly with immobilisation than with mobilisation. Benjamin, after all, called indecisive, haunted Hamlet ‘the paradigm of the melancholy man’ (p. 47).

And yet – what to make of it that even a reader unpersuaded by the book’s main thesis finds in Left-Wing Melancholia a rare power? It is not a particularly long book, but it is labyrinthine, filled with coils, turnbacks, track-switches, and retracings. It reads like an old book, and it is alarming to recall that it was published as recently as 2016. If it doesn’t feel particularly attuned to the present, it is a book built to last, and its proper review will always be the next one. It will certainly remain a contentious, defiantly antinomic, demanding, imposing, frustrating, and inspiring text after many reads, each one different from the last.

It is a pastward-looking book nostalgic for future-gazing. It is a melancholy book the argument of which melancholically gets stuck insisting that melancholy can mobilise. Left-wing melancholy is not only Traverso’s subject, it is his method. He writes elegiacally, with an intensity that betrays the depth of his own left-wing melancholy, an emotional pit of suffering and pain and loss and voids. The writing at certain moments has a colt-like quality, not quite tamed, not entirely under even the author’s control. This disturbs the argument of the book, but the reward of such bolts of imagination is for the reader to witness Traverso’s mind happening upon unexpected and startling vistas. Moreover, here, as in all of his work, Traverso gives us a world where there are no inevitabilities. States here do not wither away; classes do not dig their own graves; and history does not march, forward or elsewhere, lockstep or elsewise. Rather he offers an enchanted yet fallen world where time leaps, dodges, and gets away to return another day, and where those who have fallen, vanquished, can return too. It seems a hopeful belief, but Traverso is uncertain.

References

Benjamin, Walter 1999, ‘Left-Wing Melancholy’, in Selected Writings. Volume 2, Part 2: 1931–1934, edited by Michael W. Jennings, Howard Eiland and Gary Smith, Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press.

Bensaïd, Daniel 1989, Moi, la Révolution. Remembrances d’une bicentenaire indigne, Paris: Éditions Gallimard.

Bensaïd, Daniel 1997, Le pari mélancolique. Métamorphoses de la politique, politique des métamorphoses, Paris: Éditions Fayard.

Brown, Wendy 2003, ‘Resisting Left Melancholia’, in Loss: The Politics of Mourning, edited by David L. Eng and David Kazanjian, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.

Crimp, Douglas 2002, Melancholia and Moralism: Essays on aids and Queer Politics, Cambridge, MA: The mit Press.

Davis, Natalie Zemon 2000, Slaves on Screen: Film and Historical Vision, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Evans, Martin 2013, ‘In Short: Ken Loach on The Battle of Algiers’,openDemocracy, 8 January, available at: <https://www.opendemocracy.net/en/in-short-ken-loach-on-battle-of-algiers/>.

Koselleck, Reinhart 2004, Futures Past: On the Semantics of Historical Time, translated by Keith Tribe, New York, NY: Columbia University Press.

Moyn, Samuel 2010, The Last Utopia: Human Rights in History, Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press.

Said, Edward 2000, Reflections on Exile and Other Literary and Cultural Essays, London: Granta Books.

Traverso, Enzo 1995, The Jews & Germany: From the ‘Judeo-German Symbiosis’ to the Memory of Auschwitz, translated by Daniel Weissbort, Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press.

Traverso, Enzo 1997, L’histoire déchirée. Essaie sur Auschwitz et les intellectuels, Paris: Éditions du Cerf.

Traverso, Enzo 2010, L’histoire comme champs de bataille. Interpréter les violences du XX^e siècle, Paris: Éditions La Découverte.

Traverso, Enzo 2016, Fire and Blood: The European Civil War, 1914–1945, translated by David Fernbach, London: Verso.

Verga, Giovanni 1995, I malavoglia, Turin: Giulio Einaudi Editore.

Žižek, Slavoj 2000, ‘Melancholy and the Act’, Critical Inquiry, 26, 4: 657–81.

[1] Benjamin 1999, pp. 425–6.

[2] Brown 2003, p. 458.

[3] Brown 2003, p. 459.

[4] Brown 2003, p. 463.

[5] Crimp 2002, p. 198.

[6] Moyn 2010, p. 121.

[7]Žižek 2000.

[8] Extensive footnotes bring to life the Sicilian dialect of Verga’s Risorgimento era in the Einaudi edition: Verga 1995.

[9] Said 2000, p. 285.

[10] Davis 2000, p. 47.

[11] Evans 2013.

[12] See, for example, Traverso 1995; Traverso 1997.

[13] The line is taken from Traverso 2010, p. 265. For Traverso’s stirring reclamation of ‘the age of catastrophe’, 1914–45, as antifascist history, see Traverso 2016.

[14] See, for example, Koselleck 2004.

A Review of Marx’s ‘Capital’, Method and Revolutionary Subjectivity by Guido Starosta

Kaveh Boveiri

Department of Philosophy, Université de Montréal, Montréal

kaveh.boveiri@gmail.com

Abstract

This review essay examines Marx’s ‘Capital’, Method and Revolutionary Subjectivity by Guido Starosta, published as Volume 112 of theHistorical Materialism Book Series. The thesis proposed here is that, notwithstanding the claim proposed in the book, according to which a genuine theory of revolutionary subjectivity has to be practical transformative criticism rather than philosophical, such a theory is doomed to remain at a high level of abstraction (as the author himself admits), thus necessitating further, specifically-philosophical engagement. It will be shown that owing to the insufficiency of such an engagement, principally in the content–form relationship based on a Marxian interpretation, the thesis that Starosta puts forward in this book is not adequate as a response to competing accounts of revolutionary subjectivity.

Keywords

Guido Starosta – method – form – content – revolutionary subjectivity – Capital

Guido Starosta, (2016) Marx’s ‘Capital’, Method and Revolutionary Subjectivity,Historical Materialism Book Series, Leiden: Brill.

A post-Capital Revolutionary Subjectivity

Is the working class alienated? Is it (nonetheless) the revolutionary subject? A positive response to the first question makes a positive response to the second question challenging. This challenge is rigorously taken up by Guido Starosta, professor of the history of economic thought at the National University of Quilmes in Argentina and adjunct investigator at the Council for Scientific and Technical Research, in Marx’s ‘Capital’, Method and Revolutionary Subjectivity (hereafterMCMRS). Although Starosta has written many articles on different topics in Marxian critique and political economy, this is his first book-length work, which is based on his PhD dissertation defended in 2005 in the Department of Sociology at the University of Warwick. Earlier versions of Chapters 3, 4, and 8 were also published previously. Notwithstanding a highly technical theme, stylistically the book is well written, with clear and smooth transitions from chapter to chapter and section to section. It is written in a language that steers clear of pedantry, and the author regularly signals the progress of the overall argument, making the book more accessible than it might otherwise be to the reader not well-versed in the rich content that the book addresses. This makes it accessible both to specialists in the field and general readers, though admittedly in different ways.

The topic of the book is announced as ‘emancipatory subjectivity. More precisely, it is a scientific inquiry into social determinations of the revolutionary subjectivity of the working class’ (p. 1). In focusing on the revolutionary subjectivity of the working class, in contrast to the approach that questions the Marxian postulate of the revolutionary character of proletariat,[1] the book represents a major contribution to reviving Marxist theory in current discussions, and is hence heartily recommended. It has also the merit of familiarising us with the works of Juan Iñigo Carrera,[2] a significant but little-known Argentinian Marxist, as they are contextualised and developed by Starosta.

While the young Marx would have told us that genuine criticism transforms its subject matter, Starosta would reformulate this under the slogan of ‘practical criticism’ (p. 4), the science that the working class must be armed with (p. 287), where the subject of practice is the proletariat that becomes scientifically self-conscious in its struggles. This practical criticism does not forget that the impetus of history is not criticism but revolution,[3] and hence only such a criticism can be taken as an inherent, inseparable component of revolutionary change. Through this, Starosta aims at proving his point ‘about the revolutionary nature and contemporary relevance of the Marxian critique of political economy’ (p. 5). The critique of political economy is also introduced as ‘the dialectical critique of the capital form’ (p. 6).

Starosta’s account in the first part of the book shows how the author of the Paris Manuscripts goes from underscoring the materiality of human productive activity to the need to abolish philosophy as uncritical and alienated thought. Thereafter, he draws a distinction between dialectical logic and the dialectical method. Whereas the former applies a formalistic methodology to each particular case and content, including those of political economy, the latter ‘follows in thought thespecific necessity immanent in social forms themselves’ (p. 7). This is also shown to go beyond merely methodological implications and to be intertwined with ‘the determinations of the political action of the working class’ (p. 7). While Feuerbach succeeded in naturalising philosophy, and even in seeing the role of humanity, he could not incorporate the concrete socialisation of man, which in Marx also entailed the transcendence of philosophy. In this way Marx replaces this philosophy with ‘practical criticism’ as the ‘emancipating conscious practice’ (p. 180). Feuerbach’s materialism is superseded by Marxian social materialism and its simultaneously inherent scientific characteristic. The need to elaborate on such a development and connection led Marx to writeCapital; this is where the second part of Starosta’s volume begins.

The first part thus lays the ground for the second part, which is rather a dialogue between Volume I of Capital and theGrundrisse. According to Starosta, this dialogue is needed to fill in the account inCapital, which he considers unsatisfactory, forin the three volumes of Capital‘Marx no longer advances, in any systematic manner, in the unfolding of the material and social determinations of the revolutionary subject’ (pp. 270–1), whereas the Grundrisse ‘unfolds the content of the social necessity for the abolition of the capitalist mode of productionwithout specifying itsform’ (p. 287).

Chapters 4, 5, and 6 discuss different aspects of ‘commodity’, as the starting point of Marx’s exposition in Capital, and its relationship with revolutionary subjectivity. Chapter 4 deals with the commodity-form in Marx’s investigation in the critique of political economy. It is later shown that the comprehension of revolutionary subjectivity is possible only if a mediated and complex unity of the analytic movement of going from the concrete to the abstract is taken along with the returning synthetic movement from the abstract to the concrete. The latter entails the mental reconstruction of the concrete. In other words, it is the movement from the analytical apprehension of all social forms to their synthetic reproduction. This leads to the ‘constitution of the political action of wage labourers as the form taken by the revolutionary transformation of the historical mode of the human life process’ (p. 194).

Chapter 5 highlights the fetishistic characteristic of the commodity. This fetishistic characteristic goes hand in hand with the fact that the commodity is ‘the formal subject of the process of human metabolism, [that] realises its own determinations’ (p. 159). Through the socialisation of these determinations, the commodity fetishism is linked to the fetishism of capital. This is further developed in Chapter 6, where commodity fetishism is shown to be related to the subjective alienation of the producers of the commodity. At stake here is to show the subjectively alienated aspect of the commodity-form. This, according to Starosta, is to be sought by practical criticism, as the dialectical social science that penetrates into the action. Here he finds the well-known passage from The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte ‘unfortunate’. We read in that passage:

Men make their own history, but they do not make it just as they please; they do not make it under circumstances chosen by themselves, but under circumstances directly encountered, given and transmitted from the past.[4]

A Review of Speaking of Flowers: Student Movements and the Making and Remembering of 1968 in Military Brazil by Victoria Langland

Carlos Eduardo Rebello de Mendonça

Institute of Social Sciences, Rio de Janeiro State University

carloseduardorebellodemendonca@gmail.com

Abstract

An historical account of the founding and subsequent political role of the Brazilian National Students’ Organisation (UNE) prompts a discussion concerning how an organisation intended as an authoritarian corporatist authority for management of university students’ interests came to play an important role in the Brazilian version of the Global 1968, therefore suggesting an analysis of the causes of post-1960s middle-class radicalism and identity politics.    

Keywords

Brazil – university politics – military dictatorship, 1964–85 – 1968 student activism – middle-class radicalism

Victoria Langland, (2013) Speaking of Flowers: Student Movements and the Making and Remembering of 1968 in Military Brazil, Durham, NC: Duke University Press.

The bourgeoisie, while utilizing the support of the petty bourgeoisie, distrusts the latter, for it very correctly fears its tendency to break down the barriers set up for it from above.

—— Trotsky[1]

 ‘Speaking of flowers’: We enter the work threading upon an all-too familiar trope of history-writing in a postmodern setting – the divide between the historical fact and its remembrance, the manner in which the subject of memoryremembers a particular past event (whose paramount relevancy is assumed) in order to ascertain its meaning, said meaning being then consigned to public consciousness; in the metaphor used by Jan Stern in a book about Pinochet’s 1973 coup in Chile, this remembrance of the event acts as a ‘nervous knot’ interrupting day-to-day workings and surfacing as ascream of the social body.[2] Remembrance therefore is produced by the event’s concrete happening; nevertheless, remembrance is at the same time a distorting mirror, which transmits and at the same time transforms the consciousness of the event into something that does not necessarily exist ‘by itself’.

The book starts by telling us how, already well past mid-1968 in Brazil, a protest song by the singer and songwriter Geraldo Vandré became enormously popular as the unofficial hymn of the ongoing mass-manifestations against the military dictatorship – ‘our Marseillaise, born amid the struggle, sung, spontaneously and emotionally, by an ever greater number’, according to the belated comment of satirist Millôr Fernandes.[3]

Something, then, which poses the issue of the relationship between the Marseillaise in itself (one of the many patriotic songs from the French Revolution) and theMarseillaise as aparticular set of memoriesabout the French Revolution, not onlyof it. Just as theMarseillaise had to face competition, was banned, accepted grudgingly – until it eventually became the hallmark of a patriotic and conservative bourgeois consensus – and was eventually superseded byThe Internationale as a revolutionary song –, in the same way, Vandré’s song eventually (and in untimely fashion) became the quintessentialmemory of the Brazilian 1968 mass protest, standing, however, in a problematic relationship with the 1968 events taken in themselves. Just as Eric Hobsbawm titled his work on the historiography of the French Revolution ‘Echoes of the Marseillaise’,[4] so could Professor Langland have titled hers ‘Echoes of Speaking of Flowers’.

Professor Langland’s task, however, was far more difficult than Hobsbawm’s, who wrote a work on the eve of the Great Revolution’s bicentennial and in the shadow of its world-accepted relevance. Professor Langland had to write, at the same time – writing in English and for an anglophone public – a history of the Brazilian students’ movement and its role in the opposition to the 1964 coup and the ensuing military dictatorship, as well as a history of thememories that developed out of and around the same movement.

Any of these single tasks would be difficult to tackle in the space of a single book; as it is, she had to achieve both. If Professor Langland were writing in Portuguese and for a Brazilian audience, she could have been much more direct in dealing with what is her book’s most interesting subject, the interplay between actual happenings, their remembrance, telling and writing; as it is, she has to deal, Ranke-like, with the eigentlich gewesen – the ‘making’, as her title goes– before she proceeds to the ‘remembering’ – the latter being far more original and intriguing than the former, and sometimes crowded out by details of the bare facts. 

As Professor Langland begins in her Introduction, Speaking of Flowers is as important, in both music and lyrics, for what it tells about the protests in 1968 Brazil as for what it choosesnot to tell. It rejects militarism and the military, who ‘live without reason’, but at the same time conveys an alternative vision of ‘conqueringmasculinity’ (p. 4) of its putative singers – with ‘flowers on the ground and history in [our] hands’– that turns one back towards the gender-charged nature of much of contemporary protesting: the challenging of traditional conceptions of appropriate gender behaviour by the increasing participation of female students in political organisation, acts of violence– and premarital sex – as if general militancy still ‘rested on masculinist and heteronormative assumptions’ (p. 4), something underscored by the ‘steady marching rhythm’ of the song itself (p. 2). 

This is something that is more implied than stated in Langland’s text: that Vandré’s song, as much as it intends tocelebrate the ongoing event, at the same time standsin contradiction to it: by speaking in its lyrics of the revolutionary scenery as ‘schools, streets, fields and building-sites’ (a progression ending in the all-too-familiar peasant–worker pair) it depicts an image of the mass upsurge according to the at-the-time all too familiar line of a 1950s Soviet poster: the standard militant as a male representative of a particular class collective. However, as Langland elaborates in the following first chapter, one of the hallmarks of the development of the Brazilian students’ movement that attained self-sustaining momentum during the 1960s was precisely the transition from the ‘student’ as simply the junior member and younger replacement of the (ruling and/or middle) class, towards the student as a subject unto herself – the transition from conventional class politics to identity politics, with all the consequent changes in political discourse. 

As Langland explains at the start of Chapter 1, even if university-level education had existed in Brazil since the early 1800s, following the flight of the Portuguese Court from the Napoleonic army and the temporary (1808–21) transfer of its seat to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil failed to develop a proper university as an institution; what was created instead were professional programmes – cátedras – attached to lifelong, tenured professors,catedráticos, teaching a particular discipline. What developed in Brazil from the early-nineteenth to the early twentieth century– in sharp contrast to Spanish-speaking Latin America– was not the university ascorporate institution, but as a network of isolated faculties, with the students in the role of individual pupils to a prominent figure teaching a particular profession. In this mechanism of co-optation, agency remained firmly in the hands of the senior party, with the juniors as dependent subordinates. Hence the fact that students were not supposed, well into the Vargas era, even when politically active – as many undoubtedly were – to represent views and stances other than those representative of the ruling class as a whole: ‘student politics’, as distinguished from a sample of the ruling class’ politics, did not exist. Hence the fact that the pioneering early-twentieth-century students’ organisationCasa do Estudante do Brasil, founded in 1929 by feminist poet (and high-society lady) Ana Amélia Carneiro de Mendonça, functioned merely as a charitable and cultural venue concerned with cheap lodgings and meals, amateur theatrics, and other similar activities. Casa do Estudante, however, attained membership of the international, Brussels-based organisation, the CIE (Confédération Internationale des Étudiants), and as such was acknowledged asthe national organisation of Brazilian students as a whole, something that enabled it to act as parent organisation to the later, Vargas-era corporate organisation the UNE (União Nacional dos Estudantes).

The creation of UNE followed the late-1937 coup that created Vargas’s personal dictatorship, which abolished electoral politics, thus rendering ‘corporatist and other forms of political pressure ever more critical’ (p. 36). As Vargas’s interest from 1937 on was in creating something approaching what might be called, in Dahl’s terminology, an Inclusive Hegemony, i.e., a network of corporatist organisations providing the dictatorship with a grassroots support-base, he felt it necessary to institute, in December 1938, a national political students’ organisation superseding all previously existing organisations, and thereby enjoying a legal monopoly in the representation of students’ interests. Since Vargas wanted to wrestle the students’ body away from the influence of the fascistoid Integralist Movement, his granting of the monopoly of representation to the UNE dovetailed with the interest of the organised Left in forming a grassroots base of support for popular-front, antifascist politics – as much as Vargas also opposed fascism for the sake of his Bonapartist, populist political project. In this way the UNE quickly became the commonly-acknowledged representative body of Brazilian university students.

As Langland writes, this acknowledgement came at a price: as much as the UNE granted students a separate political identity from their mentors, that identity was, according to Langland, a purely ‘gendered culture of male camaraderie and homosocial [i.e., male-centred] political networks’ (p. 39). As the UNE quickly came to outshine Casa do Estudante and Ms Mendonça’s leadership, women students lost their sole space for discussion of their needs, as they were excluded from the new organisation’s agenda. However, it could be remarked that, as Casa do Estudante was mostly a charitable venue, Ms Mendonça’s position within it was mainly that of someone exerting a role somewhere between a chaperone and a duenna, thus partaking of the entirely subordinate role assigned to students, irrespective of their gender. As much as the Vargas-era UNE leadership worked within a framework of ‘intra-elite male networks of […] friends and family’ (p. 42) – as was wont to happen in the context of a personal dictatorship where political participation was closely managed and under the dictator’s thumb – the UNE quickly developed into something different during the post-dictatorship period. 

One of the issues with Langland’s book is that although she – like most American Brazil scholars – has complete mastery over the sources and archival evidence, that is,history itself, she dialogues little with Brazilianhistoriography in terms of its particular concerns: when Vargas, in 1942, turned the confiscated stately Rio mansion that housed a German club into the UNE headquarters – at the same time rewarding the organisation for backing Vargas’s diplomatic turn against the Axis and offering it formal recognition as the representative of the entire body of university students nation-wide – he fostered with his endowment a gentlemanly, thoroughly homosocial ethos that imbued much of the UNE’s activities. However, Vargas’s acknowledgment of the UNE also did much to make the organisation thoroughlypolitical.

In late 1948, when the leadership of the American USNSA wrote to the UNE urging it to break its ties with the successor organisation to the CIE, the IUS (which was Prague-based, and therefore deemed unreliable in the context of the burgeoning Cold War), the Americans presented the Brazilians with the argument that the IUS was a partisan organisation, ‘more concerned with political considerations than with constructive student activities, such as travel and exchange’ (p. 51). As Langland puts it, this all had to do with the fact that the UNE leadership was from the start far more politicised than the Americans were willing to concede, ‘that it never considered student interests to be limited to travel and exchange’ (p. 51); that the Union, therefore, was acting as part of what Brazilian Marxist historian Nelson Werneck Sodré called ‘The Brazilian Revolution’,[5] i.e., a belatedly bourgeois-democratic revolutionary process, one of whose traits was the emergence of a politically active middle class acting politically in its own right, instead of entering the political game in a capacity ancillary to the elite power-brokers – mostly thorough the state apparatuses (Sodré, a member of an older generation, came to play a part in contemporary political struggles solely in his capacity as a senior military officer). What the UNE offered to the younger, politically active members of Brazil’s contemporary emerging middle-class was an opportunity for independent political agency, thus facilitating the switch from a game of pure class politics into identity politics – something that would eventually include gender issues – in a far more inclusive manner than could have been expected from leaving the management of a national student organisation to a female philanthropist.

It is undeniable that Werneck Sodré’s notion of ‘Brazilian Revolution’ was altogether questionable, smacking of a stage-ist conception of Marxism that set an agenda for backward capitalist societies in which a largely mythical bourgeois revolution mandatorily precedes a socialist revolution set in the unforeseeable future. That notwithstanding, the emergence of the UNE did much to trigger a process of middle-class political radicalisation that would reach its zenith during the 1960s; such a process having to do with the fact that the emergence of a national student organisation like the UNE as an independent, open-ended organisation, not tied to a particular concrete purpose – be it a functionary of the national state-bureaucratic apparatus, or a private charitable pursuit – turned the organisation into a loose cannon.

One cannot assign a function to a student organisation in the same way one might a trade union: the UNE’s functions were so general and ill-defined that, even if its original aim was to allow students to participate in intra-elite political networks, the organisation eventually developed a moral authority of its own that allowed it to become a hotbed of partisan activity, something that prompted its critics to dispute the ‘students’ authority to participate politically at all’ (p. 59). Already during the 1950s, the UNE had become a vector of that Brazilian conservatives’ nemesis, political radicalism with no strings attached, a notion that could be conveyed by the choicest word of abuse hurled by the 1960s military dictatorship at the students’ movement and other opponents: baderna, for ‘mayhem’,stasis – a Brazilian idiom rolling together the notion of uncompromising political radicalism with gender and race politics, as ‘baderna’ was originally the family name of a nineteenth-century Italian female dancer reviled both for her ‘dissolute’ ways and for incorporating African refrains into music-hall performances.[6]  

I agree with Professor Langland that the UNE all-too-often played the respectability card by struggling to appear – in memory if not in actual fact – as respectable by conforming to the accepted norms of social behaviour, excluding all that did not conform to an aura of gentlemanly camaraderie and feats of arms. However, from its very inception the organisation favoured political voluntarism on the part of the younger members of the petite bourgeoisie – and with, it the re-emergence of all kinds of political activism, even those that the UNE itself wanted to downplay, such as gender politics. By fostering voluntarism, the UNE potentiated a subjective activist mood that favoured repressed groups, the assertion of whose interests – even when based on actual issues and plights – otherwise proved difficult in the context of the elitism and corporatism of existing institutions. The UNE, at least, exhibited the hallmark of a new kind of subjective socio-political mood in 1960s Brazil, when, in the words of a female historian (taken from Freirean pedagogy), ‘the entire country was creating its consciousness [se conscientizava]’ (p. 72).

At this point we are already well into the second chapter of the work, which deals with the period leading up to the 1964 military coup and its immediate aftermath up to late 1967. The chapter begins by describing one of the innumerable minor scuffles of the time, namely the 1961 confrontation between a reactionary dean and the student body of the University of Pernambuco over granting a venue for Che Guevara’s mother Celia to perform a speaking engagement (together with peasant leader Francisco Julião) which had to be delivered by candlelight (the dean ordered power lines to the conference room to be cut) and the ensuing students’ strike, that was repressed by force by the military. The ruckus attracted not only the attention of Brazilian media, but also of Time magazine, whose writer fulminated against a ‘Marxist Typhoid Mary, spreading violence wherever she goes’. In Professor Langland’s apt summing-up, the powers that be in both Brazil and the US found this ‘combination of peasants, university students and Communists potentially catastrophic’ (p. 63, emphasis mine). The fact that state-owned Brazilian universities suffered at the time from a glut of middle-class candidates with passing grades as against the limited positions available, who had to wait in line as ‘surplus [excedentes]’, that curricula were mostly outdated, devised as they were by a small number of lifetime chair-holding professors – all these factors, combined, made much for ‘spearheading a large rush of student political involvement’ (p. 73), such involvement having to do mostly with university issues, but then also with the surrounding radicalised political environment.

At this particular point, Professor Langland’s American perspective is very helpful, as she quotes the remarks of one American USNSA representative – who attended a 1961 UNE congress as part of an attempt, again, at wooing the Brazilian organisation away from the IUS – about ‘the fashionable dress of the [women] delegates […] and the drab attire of most women at the NSA Congress’ (p. 78). One could say that the quote hits the nail on the head in capturing one of the chief traits of radical politics in 1960s Brazil: the festive, partying, even sexually-charged atmosphere – something conveyed by a contemporary idiom hurled at middle-class activists:esquerda festiva, ‘festive Left’ – something that might be anglicised as Tom Wolfe’s ‘radical chic’, were it not that Wolfe’s expression deals with radicalism as agrand bourgeois fad, as the ultimate means of high-class snobbery, whilefestiva speaks of radicalisation as a means for, above all, middle-class self-expression and political agency in disregard of the existing hierarchies.

As culture scholar Roberto Schwarz noted in one of his essays on the period, it was this educated middle-class radicalisation that made 1960s Brazil seemingly so progressive on the cultural and political levels; in an ironic aside, Schwarz describes the mood of the time by saying that ‘’twas a time when even some congressmen made speeches that were actually intriguing’.[7] That notwithstanding, behind this progressive façade, what eventually prevailed was the unnerving reactionary mediocrity of ruling-class discourse and of its middle-class adherents. Hence the fact that the grand opening of the 1 April 1964 coup – ‘the smouldering aftermath of the Day of Lies’, as Langland aptly puts it (p. 87) – would be marked by the torching of the UNE Rio building by a crowd of coup supporters. That Langland chose to make the ‘lynching’ of the UNE building the focal point for her subsequent account of the early dictatorship points to what would become a defining trait of the period up until today: the struggles around thememories of present and past events.

Instead of simply banning the UNE outright, the new regime instituted in its place a shadowy Students’ National Directorate (DNE) whose functions remained indistinct and which was rejected outright even by the USNSA (p. 94). For as long as university students were recognised as political actors in their own right, they might stage a discursive backlash, and the view that was to ultimately prevail among the dictatorship’s top brass was expressed at the time by financial czar Roberto Campos: that to allow students any kind of political activity was to defer ‘to the pretension of setting directions without previous experience’ (p. 96). By 1967, the dictatorship had already instituted new rulings that simply precluded the existence of students’ organisations on the national and state level, with remaining organisations being supposed to deal only with specific student concerns. Hence the fact that the student movement assumed a clandestine quality – quite apart from its individual members’ participation in the clandestine Left organisations that began to form at the time. Hence also the fact that, when mass action burst forth in early 1968, it would from the very start assume a performance-like quality, that of an ‘acting out’, in the Lacanian sense, i.e. a demand forrecognition.

Chapter 3 of Langland’s work deals with the 1968 chain of events as she describes how, in late March 1968 (i.e., at the beginning of the working school-year after the Southern summer vacation), during a banal police-brutality episode, the student Edson Luis was shot dead outside the downtown Rio Calabouço student restaurant. She then proceeds to stress the fact that the killing spurred an immediate – and, in hindsight, seemingly disproportional – response in a surge of massive street demonstrations, beginning with the public wake, funeral procession and a seventh-day mass. The conclusion drawn by Langland underlines that what was at stake from the start was the massive quality of the demonstrations as an end in itself, as the actual fact of their multitudinous quality broke down the façade erected by the dictatorship of a – to use a contemporary expression – supportive ‘silent majority’ among the students’ body politic. The fact that Edson’s death was haphazard, an ‘unfortunate incident’, also helped to bring home the discursive truth – repeated as the motto, ‘podia ser seu filho [It could have been your son!]’ – that the killed student could have been, in fact,anyone. The manifestations were planned and organised ‘for the record’, as acts of memory and as a claim for independent political agency. Notwithstanding the fact underlined by Langland that these memories tended to conform to a sexist, male-only discursive pattern, the truth was that the 1968 mass demonstrations’ ambience allowed considerable space for political agency irrespective of gender. Of course, much of what passed for progressive at the time had a faked, staged quality. However, the fact remains that, in the ensuing memory-wars surrounding the actual happenings of that year, ‘1968’ quickly became 666: to Brazilian reactionaries, a signifier for anything ‘destined to destroy society and subvert customs’ (p. 141), from mass mobilisation to venereal disease and illegitimate birth– in the words of one of the most unnerving military mediocrities of the time (p. 177).

It is therefore only natural that, even after the late-1968 military backlash that established an overtly military dictatorship and inaugurated Brazil’s bleierne Zeit, when the organised students’ movement was repressed out of existence – even then underground Left activists looked back to 1968 as thefons et origo for the legitimacy of their politics.

If I have chosen here Hölderlin’s original German for what became commonly known in Brazil as the Years of Lead, os anos de chumbo, what I mean by this is to stress the fact that 1968 was less a concrete programme than a mood– in fact, it stood for the notion of unconditional, independent political agency – something like Hölderlin’s uncompromising political romanticism. For the military and their ruling-class allies, who intended a society without room for any kind of ‘unauthorised’ action, anytime, anywhere, anyhow– no matter how trite the action actually was – ‘1968’ came to stand as the supreme abomination.

In Chapter 4 of her work, which deals with the realities of the Years of Lead (1968–78), Langland describes an episode taken from archival evidence from the repressive organs’ own files: during late 1973, a group of high-school teenage students paraded briefly through downtown Rio indulging in a parody of a political march, under a banner asking ‘for a love song’ and to the tune of a mildly obscene ditty (pp. 192, 193) – an antic that threw the reporting officer for the police into abject panic, classifying the incident as preparation for fully-fledged guerrilla activity…. Actually (and given the fact that I myself remember having participated in similar activities at the same time) one can be fairly certain that the students in question risked imprisonment and torture – even death, provided the report reached the ‘right’ quarters. Given the vicious fear of the officer, Langland wonders if this strange incident was not a façade for something ‘bigger’ – i.e., some kind of actual political manifestation, as she ponders whether the ‘long song’ banner was or wasn’t a mock-erudite reference to an antifascist 1940s poem by Drummond de Andrade (p. 201). Speaking out of my personal – and avowedly anecdotic – experience, I beg to differ: it was probably nothing other than teenagers, out of bravado, mimicking some forbidden grown-up thing; something that renders the episode even more creepy and scary, when one considers that these boys and girls unwittingly jeopardised their lives by so doing.

But then Langland begins Chapter 5 – with discussion concerning the memory ties between ‘1968’ and a rebuilt, post-dictatorship students’ movement – by speaking of Honestino Guimarães, whose 1973 arrest and ‘disappearance’ was mostly due to his previous UNE activism and to the fact that he was one of the clandestine vice-presidents to the then-illegal organisation. The UNE memory of mass mobilisation remained central to the late dictatorship and post-dictatorship period, even when the students’ movement had to rebuild itself almost from scratch: hence the fact that most of this final chapter tells of the 1980 confrontation that opposed the waning military dictatorship, as against the fledgling students’ movement over the fate of the old UNE HQ Rio building, which was torn down by the federal government and turned into a parking lot – but even then only after a long, protracted process of court measures and counter-measures, that even included a gunpoint confrontation between the police and a federal judge, something that preserved UNE memory for the younger generations.

In the Epilogue that closes the work, Professor Langland takes us only as far as 2011 – that is, to the close of Lula’s second term – in order to inform us, by way of a conclusion, that ‘1968 lives on in Brazilian national memory’ and that subsequent political and cultural events are ‘read through the lens of this earlier period’ (p. 248). This, however, in the near-decade between the completion of the work and today, has acquired an entirely new layer of meaning – as Langland herself expected. If her concluding 2011 remark meant that memory of 1968 mass-mobilisations and student radicalism is the bottom line over which a common acceptance of mass politics and a democratic consensus was built during the post-dictatorship years, one cannot but accept her conclusion, but also to add that the centrality of the ‘1968’ signifier is proved not only by its acceptance but also by its refusal, as the rightist backlash that developed during Dilma Roussef’s administration, and eventually led to her deposal through a parliamentary coup, has taken every available opportunity to contest and vilify those same 1968 memories – something expressed by the sexist and misogynist smears directed against Dilma. Nevertheless, episodes such as the 2013 wave of street manifestations and the 2015 São Paulo public high-schools occupations prove that memories of 1968 with a positive slant are also still very much with us.

Now, to something by way of a final conclusion: as far as can be gathered by the reviewer, Langland’s work is conceived as history, not sociology or political science – hence the fact that theoretical remarks are kept to a minimum. That notwithstanding, the work tells a lot to the theoretically-minded scholar. As the author herself admits, the Brazilian 1960s history of mass mobilisation is part of a history of the global 1960s – something that was admitted even at the time, when the Brazilian student movement’s activity took note of the ongoing French May and similar contemporary developments, while the military dictatorship and its supporters feared foreign contagion. This global wave of contestation, as much as it developed in the context of a global Cold War ambience and nourished itself on a previously existing Left political culture, at the same time broke with it, in that it conformed, not to the ‘class vs. class’ framework that prevailed until the late 1950s, but contrariwise fed itself mostly on a middle-class radicalism that inaugurated the era of identity politics.

This turn from class and towards identity politics is something that became one of the chief themes of the Marxist historiography of the period, viz. Hobsbawm’s Age of Extremes.[8] That developed into the post-Marxist notion of, say, a Žižek, according to whose nostrum radical politics has to move away from objective sociology towards emancipatory subjectivity, from the concrete working class towards the proletariat as the (symbolic) embodiment of ‘social negativity’.[9]

To a Marxist who wants to maintain coherence with his theoretical notions, such ‘negativity’ is in itself a slippery commodity, large-scale social change being of necessity based on the objective interests of class – which, in the case of the global capitalist economy, means the working class. The working class, however, no matter how blurred in terms of its limits, is never an absolute majority. Therefore, no revolutionary change is possible without a political basis of support in the petite bourgeoisie – or the middle class, the class that ‘doesn’t exist’ in Lacanian terms, as its identity is defined by what it is not, by its being ‘in the middle’. The political agency of the middle class resides, objectively, in its possibility of choosing sides – a decision, to a certain extent, taken subjectively.In this sense, the Brazilian ‘1968’ – and a whole host of similar 1968s – is still very much with us, in memory and in actual fact. And it is in drawing our attention to this that resides the chief merit of Professor Langland’s work.

References

Hobsbawm, Eric 1990, Echoes of the Marseillaise: Two Centuries Look Back on the French Revolution, London: Verso.

Hobsbawm, Eric 2000, The Age of Extremes: A History of the World, 1914–1991, Gloucester, MA: Peter Smith Publisher, Inc.

Langland, Victoria 2013, Speaking of Flowers: Student Movements and the Making and Remembering of 1968 in Military Brazil, Durham, NC: Duke University Press.

Ridenti, Marcelo 1993, O fantasma da revolução brasileira, São Paulo: UNESP.

Schwarz, Roberto 1978, O pai de família e outros ensaios, Rio de Janeiro: Paz e Terra.

Sodré, Nelson Werneck 1973, Introdução à revolução brasileira, São Paulo: Ciências Humanas.

Teles, Maria Amélia de Almeida 1993, Breve história do feminismo no Brasil, São Paulo: Brasiliense.

Trotsky, Leon 1977, The Struggle against Fascism in Germany, New York: Pathfinder.

Žižek, Slavoj 2002, Revolution at the Gates: Selected Writings of Lenin from 1917, London: Verso.

[1] Trotsky 1977.

[2]Apud Langland 2013, p. 212.

[3] Quoted in Ridenti 1993.

[4] Hobsbawm 1990.

[5] Sodré 1973.

[6] Teles 1993.

[7] Schwarz 1978.

[8] Hobsbawm 2000.

[9] Žižek 2002.

A Review of Lu Xun and Trotsky: ‘Literature and Revolution’ in China by Nagahori Yūzō

Gregor Benton

School of History, Archaeology and Religion, Cardiff University

Benton@cardiff.ac.uk

Abstract

Lu Xun was a giant of modern Chinese literature and a fellow-traveller of the Chinese Communists, to whom he saw no alternative at a time of rampant fascism and the threat of war. However, he was also an admirer of Trotsky, although this fact has been expertly hidden from sight for decades by the Chinese state. Nagahori Yūzō tells the story of Lu Xun’s thoughts about Trotsky, in a book translated into Chinese and published in Taiwan. This article is a review of Nagahori’s book.

Keywords

Lu Xun – Trotsky – Mao Zedong – Literature and Revolution – Chinese Trotskyism

Nagahori Yūzō {長堀祐造}, (2011) Ro Jin to Torotsukī: Chūgoku ni okeru ‘Bungaku to kakumei’ {魯迅とトロツキー: 中国における‘文学と革命’} [Lu Xun and Trotsky: Literature and Revolution in China], Tokyo: Heibon sha,

Nagahori Yūzō {長堀祐造}, (2015) Lu Xun yu Tuoluociji: ‘Wenxue yu geming’ zai Zhongguo {鲁迅與托洛茨基：‘文學與革命’在中國} [Lu Xun and Trotsky: Literature and Revolution in China], translated by Wang Junwen {王俊文}, Taibei: Renjian chuban she.

Lu Xun (1881–1936) was the pen name of Zhou Shuren {周树人}, a giant of early twentieth-century Chinese literature and popular culture, and, in the 1920s and the 1930s, a leader of China’s radical intellectuals.^[1] He was a novelist, translator, literary critic, essayist, poet, and editor, and in 1930 he became titular head of the League of Left-Wing Writers. Ōe Kenzaburō {大江健三郎}, the Japanese Nobel Laureate in literature, called him ‘the greatest writer Asia produced in the twentieth century’, but his work is barely known outside East Asia.

          Lu Xun was a political and intellectual maverick who came to see himself as a fellow-traveller of the Chinese Communist Party (CCP), though he had little time for its hacks and dogmatists. Mao Zedong issued him a Party card after his death, supposedly in posthumous recognition of his contribution to the May Fourth Movement of 1919 and the radical New Culture Movement of 1915–21. But that he would have accepted it, given the choice, is doubtful.

Nagahori Yūzō, one of many Japanese experts on Lu Xun, but the only one among them to have sympathised with China’s defeated Trotskyists, has written an excellent study (now available in Taiwan in Chinese translation) on Lu Xun and Leon Trotsky, looking in particular at the reception in China of Trotsky’s Literature and Revolution. Japan was, for many years, the main centre outside China of Lu Xun studies, and the site, in 1937, of the first publication of Lu Xun’s collected works in Japanese translation,[2] a year before their first appearance in Chinese (larger editions followed).[3] Lu Xun’s popularity in Japan ensured him a large readership in Taiwan and Korea, under Japanese rule until 1945, where his books, read in Japanese or Chinese, spread a spirit of resistance and internationalism.

For decades, many Japanese and other non-Chinese Lu Xun scholars went along with the Chinese view of him, with minimal reservations. In China, he was portrayed as an ‘incarnation of history’ and a figure ‘between Sun Wen [the Republic’s founding president Sun Yat-sen] and Mao Zedong’. Subservience to the Chinese approach to Lu Xun lasted in Japan until the start of the post-Mao reforms in China and the gradual emergence in the 1980s of a more nuanced interpretation of the writer’s work – even today, some members of the old school of Lu Xun studies outside China have yet to break completely from the Beijing line. So Nagahori, in seeking to draw a different picture of Lu Xun, principally by highlighting the role played in his literary thought by Trotsky, has ploughed a rather lonely furrow.

          Nagahori’s book has come out in Chinese at a time of surging academic interest in Lu Xun in China and abroad. Wang Hui {汪暉}and other thinkers associated with the Chinese ‘New Left’ (a label they themselves reject) have been engaged since the 1990s in a passionate debate about the future of Chinese modernity in which they draw inspiration from Lu Xun, championed as an emblem of ‘perpetual revolution’ and of the possibility of breaking the seemingly endless chain of Chinese history. Wang Hui’s attachment to Lu Xun’s critical spirit has led him to resurrect the work of one of Japan’s earliest Lu Xun experts, the cultural critic and Sinologist Takeuchi Yoshimi {竹内好} (1910–77). Wang Hui was especially attracted by Takeuchi’s criticism of Western concepts of modernity, his idealisation of China, and his promotion of China as a model of Asian resistance to the West, incarnated primarily in Lu Xun. Some Japanesefind this Chinese rediscovery of Takeuchi’s work on Lu Xun nearly seventy years after its first appearance (in Takeuchi’s wartime work) surprising, for in Japan Takeuchi’s Lu Xun study has long been seen as out-of-date and severely limited by the materials available to him at the time of its writing. Nagahori argues (in a letter to me) that the interest in Takeuchi in China, South Korea, and the US is due more to his contribution to modern Japanese thought and his work on Japanese and Chinese nationalism than to his Lu Xun scholarship. The desire to rethink Chinese modernity along Chinese lines and to reimagine the Chinese past in patriotic terms can also be said to drive Wang Hui’s interest in Lu Xun and Takeuchi. Nagahori’s study is of a quite different sort: a rigorous and closely-focused empirical exploration, based on textual and biographical evidence, of an important source of Lu Xun’s literary inspiration, free of the ideological intent that animates much of the new Lu Xun scholarship in China.

Nagahori’s main sources in writing his book included memoirs, in particular by the scholar Masuda Wataru {增田涉} (1903–77), one of Lu Xun’s many Japanese students, friends, and collaborators; and writings on the literary politics of the 1920s and the 1930s by Lu Xun’s Chinese contemporaries, including the Trotskyist Wang Fanxi {王凡西}. Nagahori explains how in August 1925 Lu Xun, having already established himself as a leading literary figure in China, bought a Japanese translation, by Shigemori Tadashi {茂森唯士}, of Trotsky’s Literature and Revolution.[4] From it, Lu Xun borrowed ideas that he cherished for the rest of his life. These included Trotsky’s concept of the ‘revolutionary person’, his belief in the impossibility of proletarian literature (‘new culture will be culture all the more to the extent that the proletariat has ceased to be a proletariat’), his insistence on the necessary autonomy of literary production even under the Communists, and his notion of the literary ‘fellow-traveller [попутчик]’ of the revolution, author of a transitional art that is neither bourgeois nor ‘of the Revolution’ but nevertheless ‘organically connected with the Revolution’. In his book, compiled from articles written by him between 1987 and 2009, Nagahori knits these and other topics into a tightly-edited narrative account of Lu Xun’s self-identification as a fellow-traveller, his rejection of Stalinist literary policy, his attitude towards the Communists, and the fate in China of those who sympathised with Trotsky’s idea of ‘permanent revolution’.

Literature and Revolution had a big impact not just on Lu Xun but on many other writers and scholars in China interested in literary theory. The first full Chinese translation, by Wei Suyuan {韦素园}and Li Jiye {李霽野}, appeared in Beijing in February 1928 under the auspices of Weiming she, a publishing house set up by young Beijing writers with Lu Xun’s help, and it was frequently republished. Quite a few partial translations also appeared, starting in 1926. Among Trotsky’s Chinese admirers were the anarchist writer Ba Jin {巴金}, who translated his essay on Tolstoy; the writer and poet Yu Dafu {郁達夫}, who wrote essays brimming with his influence; and, of course, Lu Xun’s followers Feng Xuefeng {冯雪峰}and Hu Feng {胡风}.

Even before reading Literature and Revolution, Lu Xun was able to acquaint himself with developments on the Soviet literary scene through other channels, including the lectures and writings of Vasily Eroshenko, the blind Soviet poet and Esperantist who turned up at Peking University in the 1920s.[5] (Eroshenko’s role is noted by Shi Shu {施淑}, in her Preface to the Chinese translation of Nagahori’s book) [pp. v–xvi]. Lu Xun spent much of his time in the mid-to-late 1920s translating Soviet and Japanese writings on literary theory. However, he refused to settle on a single political authority and embraced revolution ‘in his own way’, in the manner of Trotsky’s Soviet ‘fellow travellers’. In 1930, when he joined others in founding the League of Left-Wing Writers, controlled by the CCP and thus, ultimately, by the Comintern in Moscow, he did so not out of commitment to ‘proletarian revolutionary culture’ and Communism but because in ‘dark China’ under Chiang Kai-shek he saw the literary movement of the proletarian revolution as the sole ‘bud in the wilderness’.

In 1932, the reins on literature tightened in the Soviet Union, with the disbanding of the wide range of writers’ and artists’ organisations that had flourished in the days of Proletkultand their replacement by the monopolistic Union of Soviet Writers. In 1934, the newly promulgated theory of Socialist Realism required art to serve the proletariat, denounced experimentalism as degenerate, and consigned literary ‘fellow travellers’ to history’s dustbin. Inevitably, the CCP took the same view. In those years, Lu Xun generally went along with the Stalinist line on proletarian literature and the CCP’s idea of ‘mass culture’, associated above all with Qu Qiubai. He praised the ‘revival’ of Soviet literature in the wake of Stalin’s First Five-Year Plan (1928–32), and seemed resigned to the idea of Party guidance over creative writing. It was not until 1935, shortly before his death, that he began to take an openly-independent political line.

Mao Zedong and Lu Xun

Mao never met Lu Xun, although both men were in Beijing at the same time in the May Fourth days. Mao first read Lu Xun’s writings in 1935, in Yan’an, at the end of the Long March. After that, he kept Lu Xun’s works constantly by his side, even on his death bed. He seems to have read Lu Xun at every critical juncture, including in his Moscow hotel in 1949, while waiting to see Stalin. He praised Lu Xun for his clarity, candour, modesty, and courage – and, in a world where some of Mao’s rivals in the Party leadership had, unlike him, been to university, he noted with satisfaction that Lu Xun had never graduated.

          The glorification of Lu Xun began in 1933, when the Communist Qu Qiubai {瞿秋白} described him as ‘a true friend, and even a warrior, of the proletariat and the toiling masses’. Lu Xun’s apotheosis came in 1937, when Mao appointed him as ‘new China’s saint’ (just as Confucius had been the ‘saint of feudal China’) and ‘commander-in-chief of China’s cultural revolution [in the 1910s]’. It climaxed in Mao’s Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution of 1966–76, when the dead Lu Xun was raised to his greatest height.

          So close did the association between Lu Xun and the Communist establishment become that, at one stage, Chinese angry with the Party took to venting their feelings on Lu Xun, as its supposed surrogate. What they forgot is that Mao’s acceptance of Lu Xun was laughably selective: he could beatify Lu Xun only by ignoring the greater part of his output, which opposed despotism and championed humanism and freedom of expression. Moreover, Lu Xun’s satirical and ironic style of writing and his caustic social commentary flew in the very face of Mao’s idea of literature. More recently, pro-liberal Chinese netizens have returned the focus to Lu Xun’s attacks on past social maladies, which they borrow to criticise unpopular practices of the present regime. There have been massive online protests against the removal, from the latest editions of school literature textbooks,of essays by Lu Xun criticised by Party apologists as ‘too deep’ and requiring excessive ‘reflection and critical thinking’.[6]

          Mao’s placing of the dead Lu Xun on a literary pedestal started as a Chinese copy of Stalin’s Maxim Gorki cult. The canonisation was designed to wrap Stalin, and then Mao, in the respective writer’s reputation for independence and integrity, and to imply good writers’ inevitable progression towards supporting Communism. Mao’s second goal in raising up Lu Xun, first noted by the Chinese Trotskyists, was to use him to hide the embarrassing fact that the New Culture Movement of the 1910s was led by undesirables: Chen Duxiu {陈独秀}(founder of the CCP in 1921 and of its Left Opposition in 1931) and the liberal philosopher Hu Shi {胡适}. Chen Duxiu was, for a long time, universally acknowledged on the left as the leading light in the May Fourth Movement, which called for democracy and science. However, Chen Duxiu’s expulsion from the CCP as a Trotskyist made it difficult for the Party to say anything good about him, so in the late 1930s they began to claim leadership of the May Fourth Movement for Lu Xun, who had in fact played only a minor part in it. In an interview with the American journalist and ‘friend of China’ Edgar Snow, published in Red Star over China in 1936, Mao conceded that Chen Duxiu ‘had influenced me more than anyone else’ in the May Fourth years, but this statement was omitted from the Chinese translation of the interview.[7]

But while the Communists suppressed much of Lu Xun’s legacy and purged his followers, it is also true that Mao and his comrades admired and revered him as modern China’s greatest writer and a ‘champion of common humanity’. He worked in many different genres and idioms, including the classic, the archaic, and the colloquial. His style was typically dense, complex, experimental, and intense. However, he fiercely defended vernacular writing against writing of the elite, and strove to create a literature and art of the people that could be used to criticise the ruling class and tackle social ills. His value as a resource for critical thought and his fearlessness and backbone were the main positive reasons Mao proposed him as a literary model.

Although Mao initiated a cult of Lu Xun during the Sino-Japanese War, he took pains to ensure that Lu Xun’s critical spirit was not imported to Yan’an, his wartime capital. The urban intellectuals who slipped away into the countryside to serve in the anti-Japanese resistance under Mao included many of Lu Xun’s loyal followers, who abandoned their families and careers to join the Communists. In the cities, before migrating to Yan’an, they had aimed Lu Xun-style zawen (brief topical and polemical reflections on social and political injustice) at Chiang Kai-shek and his regime. In 1942, Wang Shiwei {王实味}and other Lu Xun-ites began, bravely but unwisely, to employ the same zawen as daggers to stab at the heart of bureaucracy and iniquity under the Communists. They were denounced at rallies, and Wang Shiwei, the least ready among them to eat humble pie, was gaoled and later murdered. Mao made the writers a target of his famous Yan’an Talks on Art and Literature, discussed below.

Lu Xun and Literature and Revolution [pp. 14–129, pp. 3–125]

Lu Xun’s acquaintance with Trotsky’s literary theories began in the summer of 1925, when he translated the chapter in Literature and Revolution on the Russian lyrical poet Alexander Blok. Lu Xun’s translation, and his postscript to it, had a big impact on Chinese writers at the time. Decades later, after his release from gaol under Mao, the dissident writer Hu Feng said that it had ‘further freed him from a vulgar sociological [understanding] of the creative process’, and had taught him that frustration at the suppression of human vitality is the foundation of literature and art.[8]

          After Trotsky’s expulsion from the Soviet Communist Party in 1927, praise for Literature and Revolution in the Soviet Union turned to bitter denunciation. In China, following years of silence, the book was eventually criticised by Mao, in his Yan’an Talks, where he summarised it as ‘politics, Marxist; art, bourgeois’. Lu Xun’s attachment to Trotsky was troubling for the CCP’s literary establishment, led by Zhou Yang {周扬}, which tried for decades to conceal it. Although Lu Xun’s admiration for Literature and Revolution was open and transparent between 1925 and late 1932, his references to it were minimalised or deleted by Chinese editors of his work after his declaration as a Party saint, and they were omitted from the 10-volumeCollected Works published in 1956–8.

          In Japan, too, Trotsky’s influence on Lu Xun was marginalised and discounted, but to a less extreme degree, for the same taboos could not be observed by China scholars on the Japanese left as by Lu Xun scholars in China, where they were de rigueur. All the same, Lu Xun experts in Japan consciously or unconsciously played down his Trotsky connection, until Nagahori started to confront the issue, in 1987, in his article on the concept of the ‘revolutionary person’ inLiterature and Revolution.

Following Trotsky, Lu Xun argued in his work on literary theory that only a revolutionary person can write revolutionary literature, and that ‘whatever a revolutionary person writes is revolutionary literature’. But revolutionary literature of this sort could only appear after the passing of the revolutionary storm and the emergence of the ‘new revolutionary human being’.

Trotsky wrote Literature and Revolution in 1922–3 and published it in 1923–4. Its first part, which is what most people (including Lu Xun) mean when they refer to it, looked mainly at literary trends and movements in the years between 1905 and 1917 and the revolutionary period between 1917 and 1923. Trotsky thought there could only be a real revolutionary literature after the revolution. In times of revolution, most of the talent capable of producing revolutionary literature would be at the front, making actual revolution. As for Lu Xun, he thought (unlike the Russian and Chinese Stalinists) that there was no revolutionary situation in China in the late 1920s and that China, too, lacked the conditions for a revolutionary literature. He thought, like Trotsky, that real revolutionary art and literature would appear only after the revolution. Young Chinese leftist writers claimed in 1927–8 that China had to have a revolutionary literature and attacked Lu Xun, whom they saw as hostile to proletarian literature. This was in line with official policy in the USSR (promoted by Stalin and others).

Trotsky’s distinction between revolutionary and non-revolutionary literature is illustrated by his treatment of Alexander Blok. Trotsky noted that ‘Blok belonged to pre-October literature, but he overcame his past and entered into the sphere of October when he wrote his poem The Twelve’, which Trotsky called ‘the swan song of the individualistic art that went over to the Revolution’. ‘To be sure,’ he concluded, ‘Blok is not one of ours, but he reached towards us.’ Lu Xun not only translated the chapter on Blok fromLiterature and Revolution but embraced its tenets. Nagahori reminds us that the biographies of Blok and Lu Xun have much in common. They were born within months of one another, into literary families; both were ‘people of the old era’ (Lu Xun’s self-description) who reached out towards the revolution; and both knew the value, but also the limits, of the intelligentsia as a ‘class’.

Lu Xun’s relationship with Trotsky was at the heart of his thinking on literature, but it has rarely been subjected to frontal scrutiny, except in little-known publications of the Chinese Trotskyists.[9] It was almost wholly ignored in mainstream studies on Lu Xun in Japan before Nagahori began publishing on the subject. The resemblances between Lu Xun’s and Trotsky’s ideas were viewed as at most a coincidence.

To overthrow this view, Nagahori set out to trace the provenance of Lu Xun’s thinking about the ‘literature of a revolutionary period’, starting with his speech given under that title at the Huangpu Military Academy in Guangzhou on 8 April 1927, on the eve of Chiang Kai-shek’s bloody coup against his Communist allies. Nagahori establishes the relationship between Lu Xun’s and Trotsky’s views on literature mainly by means of a comparative textual study of Lu Xun’s writing in Chinese and Trotsky’s in Japanese translation.

The first tenet of Lu Xun’s 1927 speech was that literature is of no use, for ‘only the weakest, most useless people talked about [it, while those] who are strong do not talk, they kill’. His experience in Beijing (a reference to a massacre on 18 March 1926) had taught him that ‘[a] poem could not have frightened away [the warlord] Sun Chuanfang, but a cannon-shell scared him off.’ Nagahori derives this idea from Trotsky’s Introduction to Literature and Revolution, where he explains that art cannot match the role of warfare: ‘The place of art can be determined by the following general argument. If the victorious Russian proletariat had not created its own army, the Workers’ State would have been dead long ago, and we would not be thinking now about economic problems, and much less about intellectual and cultural ones.’

Lu Xun’s second tenet was that revolutionary literature ‘lacks vigour’. Although writers liked to claim that ‘literature plays a big part in revolution and can be used, for instance, to propagandise, encourage, spur on, speed up and accomplish revolution’, in Lu Xun’s view

writing of this kind lacks vigour, for few good works of literature have been written to order; instead, they flow naturally from the heart with no regard for the possible consequences. To write on some set subject is like writing a [stilted and stereotyped] bagu essay, which is worthless as literature and quite incapable of moving the reader.

A Review of Secret Reports on Nazi Germany: The Frankfurt School Contribution to the War Effort, edited by Raffaele Laudani

Mike Makin-Waite

Independent Researcher

mike@processnorth.co.uk

Abstract

The following is a review of a book which surveys the work of Herbert Marcuse and other members of the Frankfurt School when they were employed by the United States government during and immediately after the Second World War. It locates their reports for the Office of Strategic Services within broader trajectories of Frankfurt School thinking, and notes how Marcuse’s work in the 1940s anticipated themes that would be central to his 1960s writings, when he became a radical icon. The book under review shows how Frankfurt School methodologies and theories combined with immediate analysis of concrete developments to generate valuable insights into the complex interactions between capital, technology, militarism, politics, culture, and anti-Semitism in Hitler’s ‘Third Reich’. On this basis, Marcuse and his colleagues set out proposals for effective struggle against German fascism.

Keywords

Frankfurt School – Herbert Marcuse – Max Horkheimer – Franz Neumann - Second World War – Office of Strategic Services – Cold War

Franz Neumann, Herbert Marcuse and Otto Kirchheimer, (2013) Secret Reports on Nazi Germany: The Frankfurt School Contribution to the War Effort, edited by Raffaele Laudani, Princeton: Princeton University Press.

‘New Left Guru’ with a ‘Scandalous’ Past?

In the late 1960s, Herbert Marcuse was widely seen as a ‘guru’ of the New Left and counterculture, and as the ‘father of the student movement’. Unlike other key thinkers in the Frankfurt School tradition, he explicitly endorsed and encouraged spontaneous and anti-authoritarian struggles. Here was a well-known left-wing theoretician whose books Eros and Civilisation (1955, reissued with a ‘political preface’ in 1966) andOne Dimensional Man (1964) had anticipated many of the causes and hopes which were now animating young radicals: sexual freedom; emancipatory culture; the need to link personal, social and political liberation; broad demands for ‘total change’; and the need for a ‘great refusal’ of all systems of repression and domination.

But, ‘although he was revered by many, for others he was a “revisionist”, “idealist philosopher” [and an] “elitist”’. And, in the fast-moving ferment of 1960s radicalism, a few critics even identified Marcuse as ‘a CIA agent’.[1]

Claims about Marcuse working for the Central Intelligence Agency were first promoted in the US by the Maoist organisation, the Progressive Labor Party, and then picked up in Europe. Rumours spread that Marcuse had worked for the US secret services until the 1950s, and possibly into the 1960s. When Marcuse tried to give a lecture in Rome in June 1969, he was repeatedly interrupted and goaded by Daniel Cohn-Bendit, famous since May the previous year as a figurehead of the Paris ‘events’. Cohn-Bendit demanded that Marcuse admit his role as an agent of the American state: ‘Marcuse, why have you come to the theatre of the bourgeoisie? Herbert, tell us why the CIA pays you?’[2]

Marcuse was angry about the false accusation of having been employed by the CIA. He was in fact a constant critic of the CIA, and the foreign-policy objectives which it served. His radical politics meant that he had been under covert FBI surveillance from the early 1950s, and this had become more intense and intrusive since the mid-1960s.

At the same time, the truth of his having been employed by the United States government during the Second World War was not something he wished to hide. On the contrary, Marcuse was proud of his record as a political analyst in the Office of Strategic Services (OSS). Amongst other tasks he carried out there, Marcuse had in summer 1944 written an early draft of the proclamation of the dissolution of the Nazi party which formed the basis of the actual proclamation issued in May 1945 (pp. 262–3). The fact that such service was being conflated with being ‘a CIA agent’ betrayed sloppiness in polemic, and a lack of interest in key shifts and changes which took place in American state structures during the 1940s.

In Marcuse’s eyes, as for the vast majority of people on the left at the time, the US involvement in the war against Hitler had meant that working for the state was a means of fighting fascism. But the end of the war saw the marginalisation and then, in October 1945, the closure of the OSS. Nearly two years later, in late 1947, the CIA was established as part of the promotion and pursuit of the Cold War: Marcuse had never worked for the Agency. But in June 1969, such subtleties and distinctions were lost on the red-haired heckler in the packed Eliseo Theatre, shouting out his demand that Marcuse own up to his scandalous past.

A Place to Fight Fascism

To understand Marcuse’s actual war record, context is important. This review therefore details the formation and character of the anti-fascist intelligence agencies created by the United States from 1942. It then considers some of the work carried out as part of the American war effort by Marcuse and his fellow ‘Frankfurters’. This was shaped by and positioned within significant debates within the Frankfurt School, which are sketched here: these have been described as producing ‘a strange assortment of views on the correct interpretation of Nazism, and a peculiar dispute about … “state capitalism”’.[3] The review then tracks the shift into the Cold War period, when the types of contribution to official policy which the Frankfurt School members had made were no longer ‘needed’ – or welcome.

Marcuse had not been the first German-Jewish exile associated with the Frankfurt School to take up a job with the OSS. Franz Neumann had been the legal advisor to a range of trade unions, a party activist, and the most prominent lawyer acting on behalf of the Sozialdemokratische Partei Deutschlands (SPD) before Hitler’s seizure of power. He had then fled to London and studied at the LSE, beginning his association with the Institute for Social Research on Harold Laski’s recommendation. He moved to New York in 1936, and had been recruited to the OSS as it was being set up in spring 1942.

Early in 1943, the new intelligence agency’s Research and Analysis Branch (R&A) was established. It grew quickly, employing over 1,200 people, around two-thirds of whom worked in the USA, and the rest overseas, including in battlefield situations. These officers were chosen on the basis of their evident skills and abilities, and issues of political commitment do not appear to have blocked recruitment – though prospects for significant promotion were affected by judgements about ideological orthodoxy, and by ‘ethnic’ prejudice, i.e. anti-Semitism. Among the leftists who worked in R&A were Paul Sweezy, already recognised as a Marxist, and later to become a founding editor ofMonthly Review; his collaborator in Marxist economics, Paul A. Baran; and Arno J. Mayer, later a ‘left dissident Marxist’ and major historian, whose works include the important 1988 account of the Judeocide,Why Did the Heavens Not Darken? The ‘Final Solution’ in History.

In this context, Neumann soon became Deputy Chief of the R&A’s Central European Section, which employed over forty people. Marcuse joined this team in March 1943, and he quickly became ‘the leading analyst on Germany’.

The fact that Frankfurt School figures were taking up full-time government jobs was helpful in managing financial challenges facing the school’s organisational basis, the Institute for Social Research. Since 1937, this had been hosted by Columbia University on Morningside Heights, New York. Its director Max Horkheimer had pushed Neumann to take up the OSS role on the basis that the Institute could no longer afford him; and the same ‘push’ would be given to the Institute’s part-time associate Otto Kirchheimer in 1943.

          Marcuse left the Institute much more reluctantly, and with some emotion: alongside Theodor Adorno and Horkheimer himself, Marcuse had been one of its central members, and even with government job-offers in his hand, and with his wife urging him to finally move on from his dependency on the Institute, he had begged Horkheimer to keep him on. The power dynamic in this interaction reflected ‘the patriarchal and confidential’ – and self-interested – way that Horkheimer managed Institute resources. Since the late 1930s, when the endowment capital on which the Institute depended began to shrink, ‘Horkheimer’s main concern became to reserve a large enough share of the assets … to secure his own scholarly work on a long-term basis’.[4]

Whilst Horkheimer and Adorno applied themselves to the ‘philosophical fragments’ which would later be published as Dialectic of Enlightenment, working in R&A provided the opportunity for Neumann, Marcuse and Kirchheimer to apply the critical theory they had developed through the Institute for Social Research in the urgent struggle against the Nazis. The book under review collects and annotates nearly thirty reports and policy papers which they wrote for their governmental and military colleagues between 1943 and 1945, and which were declassified in the mid-1970s. R&A material was circulated without attribution, but using internal evidence, other archival material, and the reported recollections of the authors themselves, the volume’s diligent editor Raffaele Laudani has identified each item here as written wholly or mainly by one of ‘the Frankfurters’.

The resulting collection is an important addition to literature about the Frankfurt School. It adds depth and nuance to those parts of Stuart Jeffries’s accessible overview of the tradition which deal with the Second World War;[5] complements Thomas Wheatland’s work on the Frankfurt School’s influence on American academic and political life, which particularly focuses on the postwar period, and the ways Marcuse inspired the New Left;[6] and provides evidence to support Tim B. Müller’s assertion of the considerable continuity between the work carried out by the Frankfurters for the OSS, and their subsequent interpretations of the postwar political landscape.[7] Müller also traces how the wartime research, particularly that of Marcuse, fed directly into the radical critique of Western modernity which was so influential in the 1960s, and which many consider to have relevance for contemporary social movements, ecological politics, and other radical initiatives.[8]

Who Makes the Nazis?

In order to produce their briefings and policy papers for OSS directors and operatives, R&A analysts had access to a wide range of material: well-stocked libraries, including newspapers and other publications quickly sourced from within ‘the Third Reich’; tapes of Nazi radio broadcasts; classified intelligence documents; reports from front-line military units; transcripts of intercepted telephone calls; and notes from Prisoner of War interrogations.

The resulting reports cover many issues. There are assessments of periodic changes in Reich government composition, and the elevation of particular figures such as the technocrat Albert Speer and the SS leader Heinrich Himmler; analyses of ‘social stratification’; surveys of civilian morale at such moments as the Nazi army’s defeat in Tunisia; insights into the psychological effects of air raids on German cities; and a prompt explanation of the factors behind the attempted assassination of Hitler by Claus von Stauffenberg and others in July 1944. There are also substantial accounts of the parties, organisations and networks which maintained some clandestine opposition to the Nazis inside Germany, as well as from their bases in exile – in particular, the SPD and the Communist Party.

The Frankfurt School members toned down their established practice of foregrounding ‘philosophical and theoretical categories for an analysis that was apparently more descriptive’ (pp. 7–8). The varied pieces in Secret Reports on Nazi Germany do, of course, include a great many factual details that will interest those studying the period.[9] Nevertheless, Neumann, Marcuse and Kirchheimer always shaped and organised their ‘empirical’ material on the basis of critical understandings. Their analytical skills, coherence and preparedness to follow and adapt to the OSS’s procedural requirements meant that they were able to shape the work programme of the entire Central European Section in line with their broad approach. Whilst incorporating theoretical perspectives drawn from the Hegelian-inflected critical Marxism of the Institute, their reports met managers’ expectations by displaying immediate practical intent, and almost always pointed to particular steps for the military and US agencies to take. Some of these fitted with the overall established policies of the US government. Others did not, and these proposals sometimes provoked ‘veritable “political” battles inside the administration’ – battles which Marcuse and his colleagues almost always lost (pp. 7–8).

One of these ‘battles’ concerned the extent to which prominent businessmen (sic) within Reich systems of governance should be considered as key members of the regime, and therefore as ‘economic war criminals’ to be brought to justice once the Nazis were defeated. As it became clear that there would be an Allied victory, the Frankfurt group urged

a radical policy of denazification that [should extend] beyond merely purging the Nazi political and military leadership [but] should also undermine Nazism’s ‘economic base’, which had been promoted and sustained by elements external to the party. (p. 14.)

On this basis, Marcuse drew together a list naming 1,800 businessmen, industrialists and bankers who belonged to apparently ‘independent’ organisations and companies, but who in fact played a crucial role in the rise and maintenance of Nazism. Since they were exerting considerable direct control over the Reich economy, the analysts of the Central European Section argued that these figures needed to be added to the approximately 220,000 ‘active Nazis’ whom the American military was already planning to capture and put into custody, if found alive at the time of Nazism’s defeat. Marcuse and his colleagues urged that dealing with these chiefs of industry and finance was far more important than finding those old men responsible for the culture of ‘Prussian militarism’ which Roosevelt and Churchill had declared they aimed to annihilate.[10]

Their focus on the importance of modernising economic agents expressed the Frankfurt group’s understanding of the Nazi system – and the ways that their understanding differed from that of their old colleagues back on Morningside Heights. All Frankfurt School members held that Nazism was but one expression of an emerging ‘single paradigm of domination’ in the world, which also included Soviet Communism and liberal democracy. They did not believe that there was an absolutely distinct and unique German path to modernity: such a perspective would have been a mirror-image of the exceptionalist claims promoted by Nazi ideologists. But Horkheimer, Adorno and Friedrich Pollock saw Nazism’s driving forces in the increasingly autonomous dynamics of politics and technological developments, to which the economy was subordinated.

Though a range of nuances and differing emphases distinguished their individual positions, these three thinkers all saw Hitler’s regime as a form of ‘state capitalism’, characterised by a tendency to eliminate market autonomy, with the profit motive increasingly replaced as the economy’s motor by the ‘motivation of power’. In this way, ‘state capitalism’ was a new phase, succeeding monopoly capitalism. It could take a liberal, democratic form, as in the emerging ‘managerial capitalism’ in the USA: one of the areas of debate between these Frankfurt School members was about the extent to which the liberal or fascist form would prove the more effective in atomising and integrating the working class. Horkheimer and Adorno’s analyses also drew from the work of Ernst Bloch, Erich Fromm and Wilhelm Reich, who had in various ways highlighted the complex psychological dynamics informing the appeal and effectiveness of fascism. This cultural level of analysis drew upon the Frankfurt School’s prewar Studies on Authority and the Family, and would inform the major postwar project carried out in the USA,Studies in Prejudice, which generated the volumeThe Authoritarian Personality.

For Marcuse, Neumann and Kirchheimer, however, the driving force and key explanatory factors of Nazism were primarily economic – and wholly capitalist. As Alberto Toscano has stated, this was at one with wider Marxist theory, which focused on

the interface of the political and the economic, seeking to adjudicate the functionality of the fascist abrogation of liberal parliamentary democracy to the intensified reproduction of the conditions for capitalist accumulation. This entailed identifying fascism as a ruling-class solution to the organic crisis of a regime of accumulation confronted by the threat of organised class struggle amid the vacillations of an imperialist order.[11]

Frankfurt School theorists like Pollock and Neumann also recognised and emphasised ‘the contradictions between the autonomy or primacy of the political brutally asserted by fascist movements and the possibility of a reproduction of the capitalist mode of production’.[12]

Neumann had developed his analysis along these lines before joining the OSS. His 1942 book Behemoth: The Structure and Practice of National Socialism had emphasised the ways that ruling groups in Nazi Germany controlled the population through bureaucratic systems and the promotion of racist ideology, but also showed how Hitler’s regime maintained and developed capitalist social relations, through encouraging ‘monopolistic concentration, reinforcing the power of industrial potentates and weakening the position of the middle and working classes’ (p. 5).

The Nazi economic system was a particular instance of monopoly capitalism, which benefited large companies and cartels. It sought to integrate workers, having smashed their collectivist class organisations, by providing ‘full employment’, and promoting a racist, ambitious mass culture through which individual ‘Germans’ could identify with each other through their shared relationship to the state. Nazi rule was a means to adapt society to the requirements of large-scale industry, through which monopolies and state-orchestrated cartels continued to accrue great profits: German people were organised to serve these ends through becoming subject to an all-embracing apparatus of domination.

On some other important issues which were key to understanding Nazism, disagreements and differences of emphasis between Frankfurt School figures took a different pattern. In 1943, Neumann had succeeded in getting the OSS to accept his views on the function and workings of the Nazis’ anti-Semitism. He defined it as the ‘spearhead’ of the terroristic approach that Nazis were planning to apply to ever larger circles of intended enemies:

The persecution of the Jews ... is only the prologue of more horrible things to come. The expropriation of the Jews … is followed by that of the Poles, Czechs, Dutchmen, Frenchmen, anti-Nazi Germans, and middle classes. Not only Jews are put in concentration camps, but pacifists, conservatives, socialists, Catholics, Protestants, Free Thinkers and members of the occupied peoples. Not only Jews fall under the executioner’s axe, but countless others of many races, nationalities, beliefs and religions … the extermination of the Jews is only the means to the attainment of the ultimate objective, namely, the destruction of free institutions, beliefs and groups. (pp. 27–8.)

Neumann’s analysis touched directly on issues which were already beginning to be controversial by the last years of the fight against the Nazis, and which have not become less so: the importance of positioning the murderous horrors suffered specifically by Jewish people in the Judeocide; the extent to which these are to be highlighted as exemplifying Nazi barbarism; and the political problems and divisions that can result from emphasising these in contradistinction to the millions of deaths of other people during the Second World War.

As Neumann was establishing his perspectives as government policy, Leo Lowenthal was working back at the Institute with Horkheimer and Adorno on the ‘Elements of Anti-Semitism’ chapter for Dialectic of Enlightenment. He wrote to Marcuse, and persuaded him that there were major problems with Neumann’s ‘spearhead’ theory. Lowenthal instead favoured the ‘scapegoat’ theory, which positioned Nazi anti-Semitism as a diversionary strategy, enabling the regime to blame all manner of problems on Jews, and to channel popular hatreds, anxieties and fears.

Victory – and Marginalisation

Marcuse, Neumann and their colleagues maintained an ‘internal debate’ on the nature and roles of Nazi anti-Semitism until the end of the war. But they converged around the understanding that, as the war developed, anti-Semitism increasingly ‘served the purpose of forcing all Germans either to identify themselves with Nazism or pay the price of dissent’ (p. 97). Their continuing differences of emphasis did not get in the way of the important work of assembling material which evidenced specific crimes against Jewish people, and the overall scale of the Judeocide. Their files and reports informed and underpinned the prosecution of war criminals at the Nuremburg Trials.

More generally, the ‘Frankfurt’ R&A analysts helped inform the US government’s thinking about what to do once Hitler had fallen. They prepared several reports anticipating ‘possible patterns of German collapse’, and directly intervened in policy debates over whether and how to promote postwar reconstruction. Marcuse argued that the Allied approach should not involve the economic destruction of Germany, or any repeat of the steps taken by the US, Britain and France after Germany’s defeat in the First World War: plans to agrarianise the vanquished ‘Fatherland’, which Churchill sometimes appeared to favour, would be entirely counter-productive.

In promoting his perspectives, Marcuse could be bluntly explicit in his criticisms of US policy and practice. In a 1943 piece he pinpointed

the gravest mistake of our [psychological warfare] against Germany, namely the failure to show the German people a way of terminating the war and overthrowing the Nazi regime without surrendering its national independence to a foreign conqueror. (p. 150.)

Confirming that the Frankfurt tradition was by no means pro-Soviet, such arguments were sometimes linked to warnings that the Soviets might succeed in engaging effective opponents of the Nazis, where the US might fail. Marcuse counselled that not acting on the perspectives of R&A’s Central European Section could lead to the unintended result of Stalin controlling and influencing postwar Germany, rather than the US.[13]

If some of their arguments were accepted, to some degree, many of their more important points were not. As already stated, the Frankfurt group had argued that denazification procedures – and war crimes trials – should not focus too exclusively on high-profile members of the Nazi party and the military, while allowing equally, if less directly, responsible businessmen and other economic agents to escape justice. But their arguments on this matter did not shape policy. Nor was the legal system cleared out of those who had promoted and enforced Nazi laws – partly because of the effective cultures of solidarity between top lawyers and legal professionals during the years after the war, but largely because denazification of judges was not a priority for the US and Britain.

There was no attempt to hide the political choices being made on such matters. On several occasions, Justice Robert H. Jackson, the American Chief Prosecutor on the International Military Tribunal, simply ignored the well-evidenced recommendations of the top R&A analysts over such matters as selecting defendants to bring to trial. In reaction to such decisions, for which no explanation was ever given, Neumann resigned as the head of the research team on war crimes a few days into the main Nuremburg trial. He headed for academic jobs in New York and Berlin, whilst many of the people he had helped identify as ‘economic war criminals’ resumed positions of significant responsibility in the postwar German economy.

Meanwhile, the OSS was being marginalised, and would be closed down by October 1945. Marcuse and Kirchheimer were transferred to the State Department’s Research and Intelligence Division which, by spring 1946, was itself the focus of ongoing suspicion and frequent attack for alleged ‘Communist tendencies’. As the Cold War developed, however, they held onto their jobs for some years: Marcuse’s personal situation, and in particular the terminal cancer of his wife Sophie, meant that he did not feel he had the option to leave Washington. But his government work seemed less and less useful, both to him and to his employers, and it certainly did not influence policy. In the summer of 1949 he collated a long report on ‘The Potentials of World Communism’. The Introduction to this report, which closes this volume, argued that there was no ‘Communist threat’ of the kind that the US Cold Warriors were inventing and inflating to justify their foreign-policy objectives and military ambitions.

In 1951, Sophie died. Horkheimer, Adorno and Pollock returned to West Germany to re-establish the Institute for Social Research in Frankfurt, Horkheimer having more-or-less made clear that Marcuse would not be a paid member of the school ‘back home’. In these circumstances, Marcuse was pleased to secure a scholarship which enabled him to take up the first of a series of posts in American universities.

Frankfurt Questions

Beyond the intrinsic value of the ‘secret reports’, how does the work gathered in this volume illuminate wider issues about the Frankfurt School: its concerns, debates, illuminations and evasions? Neumann, Marcuse and Kirchheimer distinguished the ‘ideological’ levels and performances of Nazism from the regime’s real social and economic logic. Many passages in this book demonstrate that beneath its ‘Wagnerian’ posturing, and its indulgence of obscurantist medievalism, Nazism was a thoroughly modern movement, attacking and dispensing with tradition in a relentless drive to achieve technical efficiency, realise infrastructural projects, build its war machine, and promote highly integrated economic structures in order to serve the regime’s objectives.

The reports are more specifically marked by their authors’ connections to the Institute for Social Research through repeated and more-or-less explicit returns to typically Frankfurt School considerations: what forms is modern society taking? How should radicals understand and engage with these social forms and dynamics? What are the cultural and psychological impulses which are interacting with social, economic and political trends to shape the specific conjuncture being considered?

Secret Reports on Nazi Germany provides a rich case study in how to analyse the shifting relationships between different sites of social power, and the modalities of decision-making across networks of technocrats, industrialists, factory managers, business owners, and those holding state power. The book details a particular instance of connections between capitalism, technology, forms of cultural domination, oppressive politics and the trends which the primary authors saw across the modern world towards ‘total socialisation’.

There is an important piece by Marcuse on these themes which is not collected here, as it pre-dates his government employment, but is worth consulting as a complement to this book.[14] As Douglas Kellner has stated, ‘“Some Social Implications of Modern Technology” … contains Marcuse’s first sketch of the role of technology in modern industrial societies and anticipates his later analysis in One Dimensional Man’: it even points towards his pioneering advocacy of ecological politics in the 1970s. The article, which was published in the Institute journal, sets out theoretical assumptions that shape most of the arguments in the ‘secret reports’. Marcuse’s 1941 argument was that the development of modern industry and technological rationality led to individuals becoming subject to increasing domination by the ‘technical-social apparatus’.[15] The result was the closing-down of space for ‘critical rationality’. On the basis of this understanding, Marcuse ‘presents National Socialism as an example in which technology and a rationalised society and economy can serve as instruments of totalitarian domination, describing the Third Reich as a form of “technocracy”’.[16]

At a time when such labels as ‘fascism’ and ‘extremism’ are being used to try and characterise phenomena from the Trump presidency to ethno-nationalist and racist movements and parties in various European countries, it is useful to be reminded of the need to combine urgency with thoughtfulness in applying critical concepts to achieve materialist analysis which has real explanatory power, and the potential to inform progressive and effective political action. Secret Reports on Nazi Germany, and the tradition of work it forms part of, stands as such a reminder.

About the Reviewer

Mike Makin-Waite is the author of Communism and Democracy: History, Debates and Potentials (Lawrence and Wishart, 2017). He is a member of the editorial board of Socialist History and has written for Soundings, Radical Philosophy, New Humanist and Twentieth Century Communism.

References

Abromeit, John 2013, Max Horkheimer and the Foundations of the Frankfurt School, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Biro, Andrew (ed.) 2011, Critical Ecologies: The Frankfurt School and Contemporary Environmental Crises, Toronto: University of Toronto Press.

Jeffries, Stuart 2016, Grand Hotel Abyss: The Lives of the Frankfurt School, London: Verso.

Kellner, Douglas 1998, ‘Introduction’, in Kellner (ed.) 1998.

Kellner, Douglas 2004, ‘Introduction’, in Kellner (ed.) 2004.

Kellner, Douglas (ed.) 1998, Collected Papers of Herbert Marcuse, Volume I:Technology, War and Fascism, London: Routledge.

Kellner, Douglas (ed.) 2004, Collected Papers of Herbert Marcuse, Volume III:The New Left and the 1960s, London: Routledge.

Lamas, Andrew T., Todd Wolfson and Peter N. Funke (eds.) 2017, The Great Refusal: Herbert Marcuse and Contemporary Social Movements, Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press.

Leslie, Esther 1999, ‘Introduction to Adorno/Marcuse Correspondence on the German Student Movement’, New Left Review, I, 233: 123–36.

Marcuse, Herbert 1998 [1941], ‘Some Social Implications of Modern Technology’, in Kellner (ed.) 1998.

Müller, Tim B. 2010, Krieger und Gelehrte: Herbert Marcuse und die Denksysteme im Kalten Krieg [Warriors and Scholars: Herbert Marcuse and Cold War Culture], Hamburg: Hamburg Institute for Social Research.

Neumann, Franz, Herbert Marcuse and Otto Kirchheimer 2013, Secret Reports on Nazi Germany: The Frankfurt School Contribution to the War Effort, edited by Raffaele Laudani, Princeton: Princeton University Press.

Toscano, Alberto 2017, ‘Notes on Late Fascism’, HistoricalMaterialism.org, 2 April, available at: <http://www.historicalmaterialism.org/blog/notes-late-fascism>.

Wheatland, Thomas 2009, The Frankfurt School in Exile, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

Wiggershaus, Rolf 1995, The Frankfurt School: Its History, Theories and Political Significance, translated by Michael Robertson, Cambridge: Polity Press.

[1] Kellner 2004, p. 22.

[2]In later years, Cohn-Bendit denied he had raised the question of the CIA, and sought to make peace with Marcuse. See Leslie 1999.

[3] Wiggershaus 1995, p. 280.

[4]Wiggershaus 1995, p. 261. For a major contribution to Horkheimer’s intellectual biography, see Abromeit 2013.

[5] Jeffries 2016.

[6] Wheatland 2009.

[7] Müller 2010.

[8] Biro (ed.) 2011, and Lamas, Wolfson and Funke (eds.) 2017.

[9] Alongside information on the Nazis and the war, there is much useful material on aspects of German left history. For example, a report by Neumann includes a concise summary of successive ‘National Bolshevist’ initiatives between 1923 and 1932, in which communists attempted to directly connect with and re-articulate the agendas and hopes of Nazi supporters (Neumann, Marcuse and Kirchheimer 2013, pp. 153–9). Such episodes are often quickly and simplistically condemned as the result of self-defeating opportunism by German communists, or as a baleful consequence of the Comintern seeking ‘national roads to socialism’. Neumann’s account has the merit of explaining the contexts in which this tendency developed.

[10]A short report by Marcuse and the non-Frankfurter Felix Gilbert (Neumann, Marcuse and Kirchheimer 2013, pp. 61–70) convincingly explains how the ‘problem’ of Prussian culture was not in fact a real issue, and that the Nazis had actually dismantled the Junkers’ power bases and marginalised their traditions. The sources of Nazi aggression were to be found in the policies of the resurgent ‘industrial bourgeoisie’ – not amongst the hierarchical trappings of nineteenth-century Prussian culture.

[11] Toscano 2017.

[12] Ibid.

[13] This point about Frankfurt School politics is not contradicted by the fact that Franz Neumann was – for a short while and during his OSS service – a KGB informant, providing his contacts with highly classified US material which he accessed through his R&A job. Even more remarkably, it is possible and even likely that the American secret services knew of Neumann’s activities, ‘without any accusations of treason or conspiracy against him having arisen’ (Neumann, Marcuse and Kirchheimer 2013, p. 7).

[14] Marcuse 1998, pp. 41–65.

[15] Kellner 1998, p. 4.

[16] Kellner 1998, p. 6.

A Review of India, Modernity and the Great Divergence by Kaveh Yazdani

Shami Ghosh

Centre for Medieval Studies/Department of History, University of Toronto

shami.ghosh@utoronto.ca

Abstract

In India, Modernity and the Great Divergence, Kaveh Yazdani presents a compelling argument that with regard to certain technologies, agricultural productivity, financial systems and the rise of a merchant class, and even aspects of scientific culture, two regions of pre-colonial South Asia – Mysore and Gujarat – experienced what Yazdani terms ‘middle modernity’ (fourteenth to eighteenth century) in a manner comparable to other Eurasian regions. However, because certain specific aspects of modernity were less highly evolved than in Europe, and because of colonial intervention, there was a divergence between (parts of) Europe and these South Asian regions. While lauding Yazdani’s achievement, I argue that crucial aspects of the transition to capitalism as well as the Great Divergence are lacking in his, as in most studies: the significance of a capitalist ideology and the rise of consumerism.

Keywords

modernity – early modernity – middle modernity – Great Divergence – India – transition to capitalism – capitalist ideology – consumerism

Kaveh Yazdani, (2017) India, Modernity and the Great Divergence: Mysore and Gujarat (17th to 19th C.), Leiden: Brill.

Since the publication two decades ago of Kenneth Pomeranz’s now classic The Great Divergence, the debate on what caused the origins of modern economic growth in Europe rather than Asia – as well as how precisely to measure both this divergence and when it began – has been possibly the most fertile and active field in economic history.[1] Every year, we encounter at least one new monograph that aims to answer the question as to ‘why Europe (or parts thereof) grew rich and Asia (or parts thereof) did not’. Kaveh Yazdani thankfully makes no such grand claims in his new monograph.

South Asia has, perhaps surprisingly, played a relatively minor role in the conversation.[2] Yazdani focuses on two regions – Mysore and Gujarat – that have long been acknowledged to have had relatively high levels of economic development, and tracks the progress not solely of economic growth and divergence, but of a much more encompassing (and nebulous) concept: modernity. Unlike most prior work addressing the question of divergence that has tended to focus on one issue (for example: living standards; material resources; technology; scientific progress; military power), Yazdani examines almost everything: his massive central chapters on these two regions consider what appear to be almost all possible angles of the debate, in order to understand what sort of modernity the regions experienced, and where they might have been going.

This review-essay begins with an overview of Yazdani’s theoretical approach and his chapter on technical, scientific, and intellectual developments in South Asia; I then survey the main substantive portion of Yazdani’s book, his two chapters on Mysore and Gujarat and the state of their development in terms of economy, society, education, politics, and (aspects of) culture. I follow this with a more detailed critique of his main theoretical contribution, namely his approach to the concept of modernity; and, in response to some key factors I believe are insufficiently addressed in this – as in all – works on both the divergence question and the question of transition to capitalism, I conclude by setting out some suggestions regarding how we may approach the twin problems of the origins of capitalism and its relation to modernity.

I         Multiple Modernities and the Importance of Culture

Sensibly (if somewhat unmanageably), Yazdani argues that looking for only one set of indicators to understand the course of history would be misleading, and therefore he uses a ‘six-dimensional approach’ comprising exo- and endogenous, long- and short-term, and continuous and contingent factors as a means of comprehending the historical processes at work (p. 15). Yazdani argues correctly that the emergence of a capitalist modernity ‘has universalized a particular form of modernity and eliminated “lost” or possible alternative modernities’ (p. 29), and thus that it is crucial to understand various other aspects of what it might have meant to be modern beyond simply economics in order both to gauge what those alternative modernities might have been, and the better to understand the causes of divergence. In doing so, although deeply influenced by a Marxian perspective – indeed, Marx is his most significant theoretical interlocutor, closely followed by various more or less Marxist scholars –, he eschews a narrowly materialist approach, and places a great deal of weight on various aspects of historical development that might be broadly grouped under the heading of ‘culture’. In this he is quite different from most (though not all) of his predecessors entering into the divergence debate.[3]

Unlike some prior scholars, Yazdani refrains from pronouncing on which mode of production was predominant in the regions and periods he studies, preferring instead to argue that the regions in question ‘were in a transitory phase where different modes of production coexisted with each other’ (p. 20).[4] His main theoretical contribution has to do with his characterisation of different phases of modernity, and the important point that aspects of various modernities were in evidence, albeit in different forms and with somewhat different chronologies, in a number of world regions: the modernity of Europe was not the only one. Yazdani proposes that after a global ‘saddle period’ between 1770 and 1830, we witness a transition to a completely new epoch that he calls ‘late modernity’. ‘Early modernity’ is, for him, the period many historians of Europe would call ‘medieval’ (tenth to fifteenth centuries), and is characterised, across core regions of the world, by a number of new developments that include increasing cross-cultural interaction, rises in agricultural productivity and a growth of manufacturing and urbanisation, increasingly sophisticated systems of taxation and finance, increasing monetisation, the invention of new technologies, new modes of historical, religious, philosophical, and scientific inquiry, and even innovation in the fields of art and culture. Early modernity is followed by ‘middle modernity’, and his study focuses on the very last phases of this period; middle modernity is characterised by increasing, and increasingly rapid, convergence of development in many of the fields mentioned above, as well as a massive increase in global interconnectedness, which in turn fuels convergence of development. Crucially (though not uniquely), Yazdani stresses the fact that in this period, European developments and progress towards late modernity were not isolated, but rather were deeply influenced by factors from across the world. It is over the course of this period also, however, that we witness not just convergence, but also divergence, and it is over the course of middle modernity that Europe ultimately evolved in a manner that led to its hegemony over the world.

While specialists of each field and region will doubtless find many reasons to object to this periodisation, I would agree – and other historians, perhaps most notably Victor Lieberman, have also argued – that whatever terms we use, it does indeed make sense to look at the roughly one thousand years between c.800 andc.1800 as a single period, and Yazdani’s arguments are a compelling addition to this strand of historical scholarship.[5] It is certainly important to re-assert the fact that many if not most elements of what we think of as modernity c.1800 can be found to have roots in many parts of the world outside Europe – though whether all forms of ‘middle modernity’ could or would have led to the development of capitalist modernity is a different matter, and Yazdani believes not.[6]

Yazdani’s chapter (based mainly on secondary sources) on the history of science, technology, culture, and ideas in South Asia presents a fascinating survey, which demonstrates how vibrant the region was in these fields, admonishes us at the outset that we know far too little because the sources have remained unstudied for too long, and shows in how many respects South Asia was comparable to Europe in both early and middle modernity. In both regions new forms of critical inquiry in philosophy and the natural sciences developed, and there was a quickening of questioning – in the vernacular – of traditional forms of knowledge produced in an elite language (Latin, Sanskrit, and Persian). There was also a vibrant tradition of writing world history, which included a lively curiosity about Europe, an appreciation of many aspects of European development (including systems of law and nascent parliamentary democracy), and an ability to use observation of these to reflect critically on one’s own culture. There was even, in late Mughal India, the emergence of a ‘public sphere’ comparable to what can be found in Europe. Technological innovation and ability were also present, including in the crucial fields of ship-building and weapons manufacture, and, as Yazdani shows in greater detail in his chapters on Mysore and Gujarat, contemporary European observers found Indian weapons and ships to be the equal of, or better than, their European counterparts.

Yet Yazdani finds that there were fewer innovations in technology than in Europe, and little theorising regarding agricultural productivity and how to increase it, whereas eighteenth-century Europe did in fact innovate significantly in both respects; there appears also to have been less development in terms of education. Here I cannot help wondering what sort of education, and why it matters: the jury is still out on the extent to which literacy and scientific education contributed to the industrialisation of parts of Europe, so the fact that there was a greater diffusion of scientific knowledge there need not mean anything with regard to the causes of divergence – if indeed there was such a greater diffusion: Yazdani himself reminds us that we as yet know too little about the situation in South Asia. Similarly, with regard to agriculture, we need to consider the motivation for innovation and increasing production: in England, this was not done because of any altruistic desire to improve nutritional standards (which remained abysmally low until well into the nineteenth century), but rather out of a desire for profit. This was also the motivation behind, if not technological innovation, then at least its diffusion and use. As I shall suggest below, it is that desire for profit that is crucial: why should anyone in South Asia have innovated to raise productivity if it was felt to be sufficient?

These two initial chapters are highly stimulating, and much-needed reminders of the kinds of convergence that took place in the millennium before c.1800, and of how important it is to learn more about non-European regions in all their diversity – not just with regard to technological progress, standards of living, or even science, but in terms of their varying modernities altogether. Only such a more-holistic picture can really provide a means of comparison, and Yazdani’s work is significant in what it achieves in this respect.

II        Middle Modernity in Mysore and Gujarat

The two central chapters of this book, roughly 200 pages each in length, examine in turn two core regions, Mysore (in southern South Asia covering much of the present Indian states of Andhra Pradesh, Karnataka, and parts of Tamil Nadu) and Gujarat (roughly though not precisely equivalent to the present western state of the same name), with a detailed survey in each case of economic life (agriculture, standards of living, commerce, manufacturing and technology, and property rights); administration, infrastructure, and the state; the military establishment (for Mysore only); education, religion, and social structures; and finally, political structures and interactions with and resistance to European incursion. His sources are, for the most part, the accounts of European travellers to these regions; it is extremely unfortunate that his laptop and notes regarding archival material he examined on his visits to India were stolen while he was there, since as he himself notes, these archives are as-yet rich, untapped mines of material, the use of which would doubtless have greatly enriched his study. He is perhaps not always sufficiently reflective regarding just how much we can trust the kinds of sources he uses; but I must stress that they are nevertheless worth using, and also a counter to claims regarding the backwardness of Asian economies in general: countless examples provided by Yazdani show that contemporary European observers, many of whom had professional reasons to know what they were talking about, ranked what they saw in terms of weapons production, shipbuilding, and even agriculture, on a par with England.

Little is known about social stratification in either region, and statistics regarding agricultural productivity are sparse, though not completely absent. What evidence exists suggests that in the eighteenth century agricultural productivity was certainly adequate for a comfortable standard of living, and might even in some sub-regions have been comparable to parts of England. Both regions show high levels of commercialisation in agriculture, with the cultivation of cash crops and (in Gujarat in particular) the import of some food crops being common in the eighteenth century. In some districts, up to 20 per cent of the rural population comprised wage labourers; rural manufacturing was widely dispersed and common, and often organised in a manner that Yazdani believes was analogous to the putting-out system of Europe; in both regions there were numerous cities with populations in the tens of thousands (and in Gujarat, Surat had a population of several hundred thousand); there was growing occupational diversity in both towns and countryside; and it seems fair to state (though precise statistics are still impossible to arrive at) that in both regions by the middle of the eighteenth century probably at least a quarter of the population overall, possibly as much as half, was not involved in production for direct subsistence consumption by the producing household. Both regions were to a certain extent also dependent on imports of either food crops or raw materials for manufacturing, attesting to the great importance of inter-regional trade for the economies of South Asia in this period. While overland transport infrastructure was far from ideal, it clearly functioned well enough to allow for high volumes of trade in both luxury and primary commodities, within and across regional boundaries. With respect to living standards, Yazdani sensibly does not try to intervene in the debate in any conclusive way, but suggests – correctly, I think – that there is no reason to believe there was any significant divergence in living standards between these two regions and northwestern Europe around the middle of the eighteenth century. In both regions too, there appears to have been a growing urban ‘middle class’, which also consumed increasing amounts of everyday luxury items of various kinds, many of which were also imported.

Both regions seem to have had reasonably secure property rights, including over agricultural land, though in both regions the transition between Mughal and later regimes caused something of a breakdown in legal systems that arguably disrupted the security of such rights. Nevertheless, apart from periods of conflict, both seem to have had reasonably well-functioning legal regimes, and Mysore in particular over the course of the eighteenth century developed an increasingly centralised and bureaucratised government. Mysore – especially under Tipu Sultan (who reigned in the years 1782–99) – also developed a highly trained and very well-equipped military that contemporary European observers were impressed by. Here there were also innovations in manufacturing, often inspired by European models, that led to products (textiles, weapons, and iron) of a quality comparable to or better than what obtained in Europe. Gujarat, meanwhile, was a global centre of cotton textile production, exporting huge volumes of the stuff every year; often these exports travelled on locally-made ships, which were also frequently procured by the European trading companies because of their high quality.

Over the course of the eighteenth century, economic life does not seem to have been disrupted in any sustained manner by the considerable political turmoil caused by the collapse of the Mughals, the wars with the Marathas, and the incursions of the British: there is no reason to assume any significant contraction of production or productivity, or decline in living standards, until after 1800, and indeed there is sufficient evidence to suggest increasingly diversifying patterns of consumption and a growing middle class. Although he expresses himself less conclusively than he might have, Yazdani eventually comes down on the side of those who argue that economic decline actually followed, rather than preceded, the advent of British rule, and was caused not least by the imposition of terms favourable to British production to the detriment of South Asian manufacturing, as well as the extraction of resources and wealth by the East India Company.

It is in the realm of culture that Yazdani finds greater divergences that to him signal a more developed move to modernity in Europe – though one crucial aspect of culture seems to be ignored, as I shall argue below. How relevant these divergences are is not, to my mind, very clear, since there is very little – and no compelling – argument from cause to effect; and in any case, it is not entirely clear just how real these divergences were. Religious discrimination, corporal punishment, the lack of democratic, secular values and modern conceptions of human rights can surely have little to do with holding back Mysore or Gujarat from industrialisation, and it is not apparent to me that any part of Europe was so much more advanced in these respects, at least before c.1750. The industrialisation and wealth of England and the capitalist prosperity of the USA in the later eighteenth and the early nineteenth century were based on a complete disregard of any concept of human rights in respect of the peoples of Africa or the Indigenous peoples of North America! Corporal punishment survived in British private schools until the second half of the twentieth century; universal male suffrage only came into effect in the second half of the nineteenth century; the conditions of labourers in factories in the first period of industrialisation were uniformly abysmal, and manufacturers extracted labour at grievous cost to health and life; religious discrimination survived well into the nineteenth, and even the twentieth century, in many ‘modern’ countries of the West (where indeed it might be returning as I write).[7] Yazdani correctly points out that under the Mughals, women had legal personhood, and thus greater legal rights than their European counterparts; but this ‘did not reflect a modern understanding of gender relations’ (p. 557). In England, unmarried women ‘in all likelihood had more sexual liberties’ (ibid.); true, but also something that was almost certainly the case as far back as the twelfth century and probably earlier, and not necessarily reflective of a ‘modern understanding of gender relations’: in the eighteenth century as in the twelfth, the sexual interactions of unmarried women were subject to severe censure. At our present moment we have reason to be all the more aware that what Yazdani might hope is a ‘modern understanding of gender relations’ is in fact woefully absent from much of the ‘modern’ and indubitably capitalist world. Given that anything approaching gender equity postdated the establishment of socio-economic formations that were indisputably both capitalist and modern (unless one wishes to argue that the USA or the UK in the first half of the twentieth century were neither), Yazdani’s views on the significance of gender relations for diagnosing a transition to capitalist modernity are, I would suggest, tenuous.

These sorts of cultural factors are not only not necessarily reflective of greater or lesser achievements of modernity; they are also, to my mind, more or less irrelevant in terms of understanding the question of divergence – though I grant that they are certainly of relevance for comprehending different kinds of modernities in the making. Overall, though, Yazdani’s work on Mysore and Gujarat, while inconclusive in many respects, nevertheless certainly demonstrates how commensurable these regions were with advanced regions of contemporary Europe. While Yazdani is rather hesitant about coming to a conclusion regarding the causes of divergence, he nevertheless believes it has to do with lower levels of development of some aspects of modernity. I am not entirely convinced by this, however, partly because I feel that a crucial aspect has been left out of consideration – on which more below – and partly because the chain of cause and effect between his chosen aspects of modernity and divergence is never made clear.

III       Modernity, Divergence, and the ‘Spirit’ of Capitalism

Kaveh Yazdani has written a book that is rich in information and bursting with fascinating detail, methodologically and theoretically innovative, and greatly stimulating. As an attempt to understand the nature of some form of pre-modern modernity in South Asia – and ‘middle modernity’ is a term I can work with, though personally I also find the proliferation of terms of periodisation not as helpful as Yazdani would like them to be – Yazdani’s book, despite elements in it that are frustrating, certainly demonstrates his point: these two regions, at least, were on many indicators comparable to many parts of Europe.[8] It is in the nature of such projects that their first fruits are inevitably in need of refinement, but my criticisms and suggestions should by no means detract from Yazdani’s achievement, principally one of stimulating thought, questions, and (hopefully) debate. This is a book that is not afraid to ask big questions and propose bold ways of answering them. In a debate that has now become somewhat stuck within a few well-defined pathways, Yazdani forces his readers to think about other avenues towards modernities that might have contributed to the rise of capitalism – and, equally, though he is not explicit about this, provided alternatives to it. For this, he is to be lauded.

Nevertheless, while Yazdani’s achievement in examining the trajectories of multiple modernities is certainly significant, it seems to me that the constitutive aspect of modernity as we experience it now is that it is capitalist modernity; and thus in order to understand divergence – and the origins of our world – we need to be more specific and identify precisely what features of modernity are capitalist, and where they came into being.[9] Thus Yazdani’s conclusion – that it was a combination of a lack of development on some indicators of modernity, combined with European colonial intervention, that led to a lack of industrialisation – while completely sound, still, to my mind, misses an important point.

Modernity is a difficult term, and it is not entirely clear to me that looking for the origins of modernity in a manner as inclusive as Yazdani’s is in fact the most helpful means of understanding the path to the specific forms of modernity that we experience in our present. I agree entirely that modernity could have had a multitude of components, but I feel simultaneously that including everything within the scope of analysis can make any sort of historical understanding of the processes of change towards the specific forms of modernity we live in now, and their causes, too entangled in contradictory details to be able to make much sense (as Yazdani indeed seems to acknowledge: p. 30 with n. 76). Some things can safely be discarded in any historical attempt to account for the emergence of capitalist modernity: equal rights for women (or gay or transgender or non-white people or any other minority); secularism; liberal democracies. Capitalism can and does exist and flourish without these things: even a passing acquaintance with the history of England and the USA in the first half of the nineteenth century makes that evident. Unless one is willing to accept that democracy is something other than the right of representation of all adults, regardless of sex, race, class, and property-ownership, it is hard to call (for example) industrialising England in the first half of the nineteenth century, or the Southern states of the antebellum USA, democratic; they were both surely capitalist. The imperial project of nineteenth-century Britain was, equally, deeply undemocratic; but once again, Britain was certainly capitalist. The phenomenon of Donald Trump is one that is hard to dissociate from both capitalism and modernity, but Trump and what he represents are hardly shining beacons of the positive aspects of modernity mentioned above. We could just label Trump ‘medieval’ and be done with it; and we could equally well argue that Queen Victoria’s Britain was not ‘modern’. Such an approach to defining modernity seems to me, however, a rather too convenient solution when those aspects of modernity that we cherish seem to be abandoned in what is otherwise a very modern environment. There is no reason to believe that those positive aspects of modernity that we could perhaps conveniently bring under the label of ‘greater equality for all’ are necessarily constitutive of capitalist modernity, nor indeed that they might not have evolved discretely from capitalism, and might have been – and indeed might in the future still be – part of what constitute alternative modernities. So what, then, could the defining features of a specifically capitalist modernity be?

I would argue that these are (i) the commodification – and thus the raising of the market to the primary determinant – of all materialand social relations; (ii) the fetishisation of profit-based growth as something approaching an absolute – if ostensibly (although not genuinely) ethically neutral – imperative; and (iii) the transformation (without which profit-based growth would ultimately cease) of ourselves into, above all, a species for whom the primary motivating factor for our agency is consumption of some form mediated by the market.[10] I must stress that none of these features of capitalist modernity – that, to my mind fundamentally define it as capitalist modernity – are purely economic in a materialist sense: economicsis culture and ideology. Various other aspects of modernity either serve these three fundamentally interlinked key features (for example, scientific or technical education serves profit-maximisation: Silicon Valley is an outstanding case in point), or can be easily jettisoned without, in my view, turning the society into a less capitalist one (the rule of law, bureaucratisation and centralisation, democracy and the rights of citizens, are some of the features of modernity identified by Yazdani that I would put into this category). Indeed, many aspects of modernity that Yazdani identifies were indeed probably associated with his ‘middle modernity’ across the world, but are by no means necessary components of our own capitalist modernity now.

To my mind, therefore, an approach as all-encompassing as Yazdani’s, while contributing much to our knowledge of and ability to compare South Asia with Europe at a particular stage of historical development, nevertheless misses a crucial point with regard to the causes of divergence. Even if in South Asia there had been a scientific culture and technological progress, and a centralised bureaucracy, comparable to what obtained in, say, England;even if education, or military prowess, had advanced in a manner parallel to developments in England – and Yazdani is convincing in showing that this was indeed the case in some, though not all respects: this does not mean that any of this would necessarily have been harnessed for the sake of profit-maximisation, leading to capitalist modernity in some form.[11] If Yazdani does not quite fall into the trap of productive-forces determinism, he, like all other students of the subject I can think of, nevertheless seems to believe that there was something inevitable, given the right conditions, about the rise of a profit-maximising society.

If we are willing to grant that divergence was also a matter of the rise of capitalism, it should be apparent that, for example, scientific education, centralised bureaucracies, and the rise of sophisticated financial systems did not create divergence or capitalism in and of themselves; they did so because they allowed those who controlled the productive forces and institutions to dominate those who did not, thus enabling the dominant class’s pursuit of power – and, crucially, of profit. Power, we must recall, however, has been exercised by minorities over majorities throughout history; the domination of one class by another is not what is unique about capitalism, and the means of domination are thus necessarily less fundamental in understanding a transition to capitalism – and thus the origins of divergence – than the ends. What is new and particularly harmful in capitalist relations of power is that the goal is not domination per se, but unrestrained profit-maximisation and growth; and all material and social relations –even the relations of class domination – are subordinate to these ends.[12] For that reason, feudalism is not compatible with democratic institutions, whereas capitalism is: it is fundamental to the feudal lord that he is legally privileged in a manner that the serf is not; it is not fundamental to the capitalist that he is legally privileged in a manner that the proletarian worker is not, but rather only that he is able to exploit the proletariat for the greater God of profit, which is entirely compatible with equal status before the law.[13]

Studies both of the origins of capitalism, and of divergence, generally seem to assume that given the opportunity, people will do whatever they can to maximise profit. There is now, however, sufficient scholarship (on pre-modern Europe at least) to show that even at the level of the classes that we might have expected to have embodied capitalist tendencies – medieval bankers and merchants – there existed a moral check against unconstrained profit, and this moral restraint was, in medieval Europe at least – and in sharp contrast to the more-or-less global capitalist present – enshrined in the consensus of economic thought of the time.[14] The fact that this check may not have operated well enough to prevent the pursuit of profit is irrelevant. It is crucial that we do not understand this restraint in terms of an anti-profit or anti-market mentality: the point is not that profit-making was necessarily perceived to be bad in and of itself, but that profit-maximisation was,if it came at the cost of justice; and there was a notion of a justice that trumped the needs of even profit-making. The existence of this ethical framework that provided amoral (or ideological) rather than productive-forces based constraint on both the unrestrained pursuit of profit, and unrestrained consumption, and its later dismantling, demonstrates a change in what humans believe they should be doing. It is symptomatic of the rise to dominance of the ideology ofHomo economicus.[15] And it is a prerequisite for the emergence and flourishing of capitalist modernity.

There is also a sufficient body of scholarship to demonstrate that even as the ideology of productivity became dominant among what became the capitalist class, it was met with resistance both among intellectuals and by the not-yet-proletarianised labouring masses.[16] Did any of these developments occur in South Asia (or elsewhere) as well? What non-economic forms of self-interest existed there, and how did they come into conflict – if did they come into conflict – with any emerging ideology of profit? What sort of ethical thinking existed regarding economic behaviour, and how, if at all, did it change? Did a form of Homo economicus, driven primarily by economic self-interest and the need for acquisition, emerge in South Asia as well? On the evidence Yazdani presents – including evidence for the existence of capitalists, who invested their profits in order to make more profits – it certainly seems possible that these developments were not confined to England; but that seems to be all we can say at the present state of research.

The task, then, is to try and identify both alternative modernities – and let us not forget that socialism of any form has to be viewed as ‘modern’, even if it is modern in ways that are different from capitalism – that we might be able to work towards in dismantling capitalist modernity; and from the perspective of the historian, to use the existence of such alternatives in the past as a remedy against a teleological fatalistic acceptance of the capitalist present.[17] In a less Utopian mode, the task for historians is to identify those specific features that are diagnostic of the rise of capitalist modernity, of which a crucial – I would argue, the crucial – element is indeed our evolution (if that is the right word) fromHomo sapiens toHomo economicus. And here I wish to stress the importance of an appeal to both Marxand Weber. The ‘spirit’ of capitalism is perhaps too mystical a way of defining it, and Weber was undoubtedly wrong in many of his details regarding the connections between Protestantism and capitalism: but it must be said that the pursuit of growth is something that has achieved the status of religion; indeed the replacement (in north-western Europe at any rate) of the moral constraints of religion by this new creed was arguably fundamental to the rise of capitalism; and this development cannot be explained solely by materialist arguments.[18]

The other side of the coin of the holy grail of growth, however, is our dependence on constant consumption. Understanding the rise of the ideology of growth is useless unless we can also understand how, when, and why we became a race of consumers. And here I would argue that an examination of the mode of production (in any narrowly defined manner as a matter of the social relations of production) is insufficient: we need to understand the origins of the capitalist mode of production in conjunction with the origins both of the capitalist ideology (or ‘spirit’; or even religion) of growth, and of what I would term the aspirational mode of consumption, with which capitalism is inextricably linked.[19]

Modernity, in this sense of the term specific to capitalist modernity as we experience it now, is inextricably linked with a desire to be modern, a desire for ‘progress’ – and that desire in turn, at the level of everyday life and ordinary people, is typically married to consumption of some sort. The persistence of the creed of profit depends on this fact: the capitalist cannot maximise profit unless there is a market for the results of the increasing productivity by which the capitalist hopes to maximise profit, since it is only by means of selling that product that profit is maximised. This is therefore arguably the most insidious aspect of capitalism: that we choose – more or less freely – to perpetuate it, by engaging in a constant cycle of consumerism.[20] And just as there is sufficient historical research to show definitively that there existed, at least in some past societies, a moral check against constant growth, and that the ideology of productivity and profit was not a constant in human (or at least European) history, there is also more than ample evidence to demonstrate that the preference for things other than consumer power has been prominent among the labouring classes as well.[21] How and why this changed is crucial to any understanding of the transition to capitalism, and the great divergence.

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Osella, Caroline and Filippo Osella 2006, ‘Once Upon a Time in the West? Stories of Migration and Modernity from Kerala, South India’, Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 12, 3: 569–88.

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Pomeranz, Kenneth 2000, The Great Divergence: Europe, China, and the Making of the Modern World Economy, Princeton: Princeton University Press.

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Sheker, Manini 2014, ‘Culture, Development and Freedom on the Banks of the Ganges’, unpublished MPhil thesis, University of Oxford.

Studer, Roman 2015, The Great Divergence Reconsidered: Europe, India, and the Rise to Global Economic Power, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Yazdani, Kaveh 2017, India, Modernity and the Great Divergence: Mysore and Gujarat (17th to 19th C.), Leiden: Brill.

[1] Pomeranz 2000. Major landmarks include Findlay and O’Rourke 2007; Allen 2009; Parthasarathi 2011; Rosenthal and Wong 2011; Vries 2013; Hoffman 2015; Vries 2015; and Mokyr 2016. For recent surveys of the debate, see Ghosh 2015a and Vries 2016.

[2] Only two monographs of note have thus far addressed the question of divergence and South Asia: Parthasarathi 2011 and Studer 2015. For an overview of the other relevant literature on South Asia, see Ghosh 2015b, p. 1607 et passim. Note that Yazdani uses the term ‘India’, though he acknowledges that this is anachronistic without providing further explanation.

[3] For the most significant recent works looking at factors that are not primarily economic, see Davids 2012 and Mokyr 2016.

[4] I cannot help wondering whether, if a period of transition that did not conform to any mode of production as defined so far in Marxist theory could last several centuries, we need to conceive of the possibility that, instead of viewing the period as a ‘transitory phase’, we may need to conceptualise a wholly different mode of production to characterise the socio-economic formation in question. At any rate, it is surely crucial that we understand the period on its own terms without the teleology of ‘transition’ between one thing and another, which would risk missing what might be defining about this period in and of itself. For an empirically grounded elaboration of this argument, see Ghosh 2016.

[5] Lieberman 2003; Lieberman 2009.

[6] He seems himself not to be completely immune to the tendency to see modernity as more ‘Western’ than Asian, as for example in his statement that a drive towards ‘semi-modernization’ in Mysore took place ‘despite Tipu’s [the ruler of Mysore’s] roots in South Asian, Indo-Persian and Islamic context and traditions’ (Yazdani 2017, p. 351; my emphasis). Were these traditions not also partaking of forms of modernity themselves?

[7] The beaches of Toronto displayed signs saying ‘No Jews or dogs allowed’ in the 1930s: it was not just Nazi Germany that discriminated. In any case: was Nazi Germany not ‘modern’?

[8] Despite its many achievements, it should be noted that this book’s quick transformation from dissertation to monograph is very apparent. There is often far too much discursive matter in the footnotes; too much secondary scholarship is cited at very great length, and often with little or no commentary; there seems to have been an effort to obtain and satisfy too many diverging critical opinions, with the result that, far too often, differing views are simply juxtaposed, with no evidence allowing us to choose between one or the other scholar’s opinion, and no judgement on Yazdani’s part, so that the reader is left wondering what the argument actually is.

[9] Although Yazdani is well aware that it is the specifically capitalist modernity that has displaced other potential alternative modernities, he nevertheless argues that the ‘rule of law, democratic institutions, civil society, secularization’ are characteristics that ‘need to be at work to deserve the label of a modern society’ (Yazdani 2017, p. 30). As I argue below, these are not constitutive of or even prerequisites for capitalist modernity.

[10] These points are well established in Marxist theory; for some prominent examples, see e.g. Marx 1976, pp. 738–43, et passim; Lukács 1971, pp. 83–111; Cohen 1978, pp. 302–20; Harvey 2014, pp. 92, 192–4, 197, 232, 273–7.

[11] We must accept also that capitalist modernity itself exists in different forms, and while profit-maximisation and growth, and consumerism, seem to be crucial in all its forms, they are less critical in some manifestations than others. One of the complications in a globalised environment is posed by the capitalist welfare state that might minimise exploitation and cushion the effects of profit-maximisation at home, while exporting its ill effects, and being mercilessly exploitative abroad.

[12] That profit-maximisation is one of the key defining features of a capitalist socio-economic formation is well established in the Marxist scholarship; in addition to Marx, Cohen, and Harvey cited above at n. 10, see e.g. the historical perspective provided by Wood 2002 (with the caveats expressed in Ghosh 2016).

[13] On freedom and equality under capitalism, see e.g. Harvey 2014, pp. 43, 64; Weber 2002, pp. 363, 364. Feudal legal privilege was important not solely for economic reasons, of course; but it is precisely such privilege that legally allowed for the extra-economic coercion that characterises the feudal system in most Marxist definitions. That the actual existence of such a system adhering to all the characteristics of any such definition was in fact a very limited historical phenomenon does nothing to detract from the characterisation of a basic difference between the feudal and capitalist systems given here. On the feudal system, see e.g. the succinct characterisation in Hilton 1990, pp. 2–6; for some caveats regarding its empirical application, see Ghosh 2016.

[14] For this point and the rest of this paragraph, see Davis 2012, and Armstrong 2016, especially pp. 12, 25–8, with further references.

[15] I must stress that I do not here argue that self-interest is not at the core of human activity (I do not make a claim either way in this regard); rather, the point is that self-interest need not be solely or primarily economic. There is no lack of historical evidence of cultures in which other forms of self-interest were more prominent. Even in current capitalist conditions, it is certainly not the case that all or most of us are motivatedsolely or even primarily by the ‘rational’ desire to maximise utility. Nevertheless, it is certainly the case that the principle ofHomo economicus is the most prominent one in modern economic theory (as it was not in medieval European economic theory, for example; we need to know more about equivalent economic theories from elsewhere). It is this principle of rationalising self-interest for the purpose of maximising utility defined as greater powers of consumption and profit that tends to motivate most economic thought and action in capitalist societies (on this point see, in addition to Harvey 2014, the more sustained critique of this approach in Cohen 2008). It is also the case that, wittingly or not, most of us tend to move into a position in which consumption is one of our principal goals, thus unintentionally reifying many forms of social and material relations with a view to enhancing our consumption capacity.

[16] See Ghosh 2016, pp. 282ff., and the references contained therein.

[17] Given that all current theories of socialism derive ultimately from the works of thinkers of the later eighteenth and (principally) the nineteenth centuries, themselves largely developed in reaction to the great social, economic, and political transformations of that era, it should not be controversial to assert that socialism – both in any theoretical version, and insofar as it has ever actually existed – is a modern phenomenon. Perhaps for this reason, looking for indicators of modernity has never featured greatly in most of the Marxist debates on transition; for all the problems I have raised with Yazdani’s arguments, his work does serve nevertheless to point up the fact that there were diverging forms of modernity, which could help us – though in his presentation this does not really happen – to turn away from the telos of a particular form of modernity that has plagued much historical and theoretical reflection of all political flavours.

[18] I am not here making an anti-capitalist argument in favour of religion as such, merely pointing out that at least in medieval Europe, it did provide an ethical framework to economic life in which other considerations could and often demonstrably did overshadow material gain. Might it be possible to envisage a societynot founded on theology in which, however, there is similarly an ethical framework that trumps the logic of profit and consumption? As a historian, I essay no attempt at developing a theory of what such a society might be or how it might work in practice, but it is worth noting both the historian Lawrin Armstrong’s recent forceful argument that there is something to be learnt from history in this regard (Armstrong 2016, pp. 28–31; for the similarities between Marx’s own formulations and those of medieval thinkers, see pp. 26–7); and that, for example, G.A. Cohen (a philosopher) and Amartya Sen (an economist) both place some sort of ethical framework, however defined and designated, at the fundament of their conceptions of what society should or could look like. Cohen’s view of a socialist society is founded on an egalitarian ethic – which is not based on profit or consumption, nor on theology, but is nevertheless clearly an ethical framework; Sen’s approach to development economics is founded on a belief that people often have reason to value things that are unrelated to profit and consumption, but are related to their conceptions of what is in some manner ‘good’, and development practice must be based on these conceptions. See e.g. Cohen 2008; Cohen 2009; Sen 1999. Cohen’s views explicitly draw on Marx’s own preoccupations with adumbrating an ethical framework for a socialist society: see Cohen 2008, pp. 1–2.

[19] I have sketched out – briefly, but in more detail than is possible here – the importance of ideology and the rise of an aspirational mode of consumption elsewhere: Ghosh 2016, pp. 274, 281–3. A fuller version of the theory adumbrated in those pages is still a work in progress. On modes of consumption and their relation to modes of production, see the preliminary reflections in Ghosh 2017.

[20] On the interdependence of capitalist production, and therefore growth, and consumption, see Marx 1973, pp. 90–4; Harvey 2014, pp. 274–6.

[21] The conflict between this kind of modernity and a leisure preference is illustrated in Thompson’s classic study of England: Thompson 1967. For an argument that people chose to be more ‘industrious’ in order to increase their consumption power, see de Vries 2008; for an argument that ‘industriousness’ can be caused by the creation of new ‘needs’ in a manner that is in itself coercive, see Mintz 1985; and see further the discussion and the references in Ghosh 2016, pp. 281–3; Ghosh 2015a, pp. 33–7; and specifically on South Asia, Ghosh 2015b, pp. 1642–4. In the context of modern South Asia, the conflict between a leisure preference and the choice to be ‘modern’ through the pursuit of money – and what is more, the awareness of this conflict – is illustrated in a recent ethnographic case study: Sheker 2014, pp. 75–82; on the connection between modernity and consumption, see also Osella and Osella 1999; Osella and Osella 2006. Historical scholarship on these issues for non-European regions is lacking and an urgent desideratum

As the Lebanese revolutionary uprising enters its third month, the ancien regime has already unleashed counterrevolutionary practices in all its forms. Fear-mongering of pre-October 17 sectarian tensions alongside blaming the impending economic collapse on the continuous protests and reviving the specter of the civil war is rife on Lebanese TV channels as members of the Lebanese ruling class battle to hold on to a sinking structure. Although the momentum is not as prominent as it used to be during the first weeks of the revolution, slogans, chants, and demands are witnessing a sharp politicization that opens endless possibilities for class conscious struggles as the anger of the masses are directed at the main perpetrator of the economic crisis, local banks. Accordingly, state repression has also increased in the last couple of days as 61 protesters directing their anger on local banks in the Hamra neighborhood of Beirut on the 90th day of the revolution were arrested and detained overnight. Mattia Gallo, from Global Project, interviews Elia El Khazen on the recent developments and the “Nationalize the banks” campaign that he is a member of.  Elia El Khazen is a member of the Lebanese based Marxist organization the Socialist Forum and the campaign to nationalize the private banks in Lebanon تأميم المصارف. He is on the editorial board of المنشور and the Historical Materialism journal. His work has appeared on Salvage, Jacobin, and other journals.

How are the social conditions in Lebanon that are leading people to protest in Lebanon? Can you tell us what happened in the last few weeks on the streets of Beirut? What are the images that struck you most in this street protest?

Before I answer this question, allow me to give you a brief overview of the political economy of Lebanon.

Since its post-independence era, Lebanon has historically been one of the favored sites for consecutive laissez-faire and neoliberal experimentation. The erection of a robust banking sector that transcended national capital alongside the formation of the state has been one of the hallmarks of state and class formation in Lebanon. Fleeing the formation of the Zionist state, Palestinian capital in the late 1940s onwards, Egyptian, Syrian and Iraqi capital escaping nationalization back home in the early 1960s and surplus capital from the Gulf from the 1970s onwards has precipitated the solidification of a deregulated banking sector that has, since its inception, embodied one of the most unfettered forms of laissez-faire capitalism. Since the banking sector in Lebanon has been transnational in nature since its inception and since it is the preferred site for local intra-crony capitalist alliances, it comes as no surprise that this sector is responsible for most of the economic collapse that we are now witnessing.

The Lebanese revolutionary uprising that started on 17 October 2019 is the direct result of the accumulation of almost 30 years of austerity measures that have exponentially accelerated in the last couple of months mostly manifesting in the instability of the local currency that has precipitated bread and gasoline shortages all over Lebanon.

The Lebanese Central Bank has been subjecting the country to countless speculative measures in order to stabilize the Lebanese Lira rigidly tying it to dollar solvency. As mentioned earlier, Lebanese’s economy has always revolved around the banking sector, more so since the end of the civil war. This has resulted in a non-productive economy where the import/export deficit is, in part, responsible for the disappearing dollar liquidity but this ratio does not tell the whole story. Most of the Central Bank’s monetary and financial measures have also been contingent upon the liquidity of the dollar currency, i.e. either a constant flow of foreign direct investments, huge state loans or remittances.

Given the increasing shortages in these three forms of dollar flows in the country, due in no small part to the catastrophic public debt that sucks a large part of the dollar deposits and channels them to debtors and local banks, currency instability has become the norm. The crisis started to become clearer last year when local banks (who own most of the public debt) stopped providing housing loans. The housing loans had been frozen between March and September of last year, following the depletion of the support package provided by the Central Bank. In late January, the Central Bank launched a new “stimulus package” worth over $1 billion, the eighth package it had launched since 2012. Against a backdrop of persistently low economic growth and high-interest rates, such packages aim to support the construction and real estate sectors through subsidized loans granted through local banks. These packages are nothing more than a reallocation of wealth that aims to continuously postpone an imminent economic and financial crisis while ensuring that the realization of capital is reproduced within local banks-real-estate-construction trifecta, a financial trilogy that has been benefiting most from the capital reproduction model installed under the Hariri era.

By allocating nearly half of each year’s package to housing loans, the Central Bank and the Lebanese government act as an intermediary that ensures the viability of the banking sector’s capital reproduction which stands at an estimated at $4billion per year.  The manufactured shoring up of housing demand prevents the ultimate collapse of prices and keeps the real-estate bubble afloat. This year, the instability in the currency manifested itself in early October in the form of blocked cash withdrawals and currency conversions by local banks that claimed to be suffering from dollar shortages.

This, in turn, forced bakeries and petrol stations to shut their doors, as they import most of their commodities in dollars and are increasingly obliged to earn profits in a devalued local currency. Even though this financial crisis was temporarily postponed, a series of wildfires that ravaged the country in mid-October exposed the consequences of austerity measures on the state’s ability to respond to catastrophes. The straw that broke the camel’s back came in the form of the last cabinet meeting before Hariri’s resignation that discussed and approved a new round of austerity measures to be deployed to conform with the IMF and the World Bank’s conditions agreed upon during the last CEDRE conference.

The CEDRE conference, an international conference in support of Lebanon’s “development and reforms”, hosted in April 2018, was set to help Lebanon secure soft loans that provided around $10.2 billion and grants amounting to around $800 million but were conditioned by harsher austerity measures to be applied within a year of the conference. The four pillars of the conference include: increasing the level of public and private investment; ensuring economic and financial stability through fiscal adjustment; undertaking essential sectoral and cross-sectoral reforms, fighting corruption and the modernization of the public sector and public finance management and developing a strategy for the “reinforcement and diversification of Lebanon’s productive sectors and the realization of its export potential”. These pillars, if properly discursively deconstructed, constitute a clear imposition of privatization of most of the revenue making sectors of the Lebanese state (mainly telecommunications, which is still profitable due to the fact that it is one of the most expensive services in the world) and an attempt to replace the Lebanese state’s infrastructure budget with FDIs (Foreign Direct Investment which has dramatically dropped from 16% in 2003 to a meager 0.8% this year).

The IMF and the World Bank’s enthusiasm for filling in the FDI gaps left by Gulf capital in Lebanon is only matched by its eagerness to impose privatization as the main form of capital extraction. Under the guise of “fighting corruption” and diversifying the Lebanese economy, the message at the CEDRE conference was clear: If the Lebanese government is unable to increase austerity measures by increasing taxes, it will then ensure the sale of public property, i.e. large sections of the Beirut Port, the Middle East Airlines, Airport Services, the Beirut Stock Exchange, the Regie Libanaise, the national Casino, future Oil Installations, and others. One of CEDRE’s main conditions also implied that the government would refrain from spending on infrastructure projects, i.e. stopping all projects related to infrastructure that stimulates growth and job creation. In essence, then, the CEDRE conference aims to monetize the deepening of the economic crisis by imposing privatization and FDIs as the only viable alternative to what is perceived as the “corruption of the public sector”. The Lebanese ruling class’ continuous destruction of the public sector was set to bear its fruits in yet another internationally sponsored conference that would further inject misery upon misery on the Lebanese populace.

A message that has been clearly adopted by Hariri’s last before his resignation in response to increasing pressure from the streets where he had vowed to further privatize several public sectors and gave a go-ahead to LINOR and ELISSAR real-estate projects. These huge real estate projects are nothing more than an attempt by Hariri to franchise the Solidere project in the periphery of Beirut and the Metn district. Under pressure from the streets, Hariri also declared that the government would not impose any new direct or indirect taxes, during the year 2020 without giving assurances about later years. These series of reforms were just meant to deflate the momentum and divert the anger away from Hariri, as he claimed that these reforms were part of his initial plan but we derailed due to interferences from other sections in the ruling class.

People responded in kind by flooding the streets where they live, regrouping in its biggest squares and demanding the fall of the regime. “We do not trust the government nor do we trust Hariri” was the word of the day on the night of Hariri’s speech as it was reported that more than 2.5 million people roamed the streets of Lebanon across more than 30 cities.

Since Rafic Hariri came to power in the early 1990s, the economy has been completely reliant on foreign investment due to its ties to the dollar currency that is linked to the stabilization of the Lebanese Lira. Furthermore, the monetary system guarantees a fixed exchange rate while adopting a high-interest rate on the differential between the Lebanese pound and the dollar, which allows banks and large depositors to make significant profits by taking on debt. The equation becomes straightforward, large depositors and local banks provide dollars at an interest rate of 5, 6 or 7% in exchange for treasury bonds, when these loans are paid back by the state, these large sums are placed in Lebanese pounds at an interest rate of 25, 30, 35%.

The crisis of over-reliance on foreign investment and dollar solvency reared its head in 2011 as the effect of the economic crisis hit the flow of remittances of Lebanese expatriates combined with a dip in Gulf capital in the Lebanese economy since 2014 (because of low gas and fuel prices) and an increase in economic sanctions since 2016 when Trump came to power. As a result, SMEs (small and medium enterprises), which constitute the majority of the Lebanese economy, have opted to physically displace this insolvency on the Lebanese working class by opting to hyper-exploit migrant labor from the large pool of labor reserve army within the refugee community. This has further exasperated the formation of the local economy that is reliant on dollar solvency remaining within its borders and not leaving it through counter-remittances or remittances leaving the countries. This, in turn, explains the rise in racist discourse within the Lebanese society that blames Syrian and Palestinian refugees for rising unemployment rather than economic engineering and manipulation by the Lebanese Central Bank and the Lebanese financial sector. Additionally, the import/export balance in Lebanon is a largely negative one that favors import and accentuates the problem by adding $15 billion of expenses every year which is also affecting the Lebanese Central Bank’s dollar reserves (since all import expenditures are done in dollars). If the dollar reserves of the Central Bank stood at $35 billion in 2015, it is important to note that the very same Central Bank owed local banks more than $62 billion in local debt, a deficit of $27 billion. The fact that most of our public debt is owned by a handful of the local banks is a huge impediment to the formation of a productive economy. This predicament, however, is also a blessing in disguise for the agents of neoliberalism. Even though Hariri’s economic reforms were overwhelmingly rejected by protesters, which led to his ultimate resignation, the CEDRE conference sponsored by the IMF and the World Bank marked a clear tactical shift from austerity politics to privatization. This marks a dangerous turn in the logic of financialization and late capitalism that highlights the major crisis that neoliberalism is going through especially in its modalities and processes. The current neoliberal order is, however, able to monetize its own failure as political unrest and a crumbling monetary and economic system can however constitute opportunities for neoliberalism in crisis for the further privatization of key economic resources comes for cheap. This is why Hariri’s resignation and burying the CEDRE conference were a turning point in the Lebanese revolution.

What is the importance of this protest in the history of Lebanon?

This is truly a historical revolutionary moment in Lebanon’s history, as we have finally caught up with the revolutionary wave that has swept the region and is being continuously reignited in places like Algeria, Sudan, Jordan, and Iraq. But, as I mentioned earlier, although the revolutionary wave is indeed a continuation of the Arab uprising it also has its discrete material conditions. Without falling into methodological nationalism, we can safely assume that there is a certain specificity to what I’d like to call (borrowing from Mark Fisher) sectarian realism, the idea that it is impossible to conceive a Lebanese subjectivity, a Lebanese economy and a Lebanese superstructure outside of any sectarian affiliation and sectarian structural dependency, to borrow from Mehdi Amel, that has been foundational to the formation of capitalism in Lebanon since the 1860s. This specificity can somehow explain why Lebanon’s revolution came this late within the waves of the Lebanese revolution as sectarian affiliation within a neoliberal era combines individualism with competing sects in the market for limited resources. But sectarian realism is only a viable form of capitalism as long as crony capitalism and its clientelist network are able to provide the services they promise. The financial and economic crisis detailed earlier precipitated the delinking of people from the sectarian market due in large part to the fact that this system was not able to fulfill its promise on a much larger scale that now included all sects. This is why Lebanon benefitted from what Trotsky calls “the privilege of historic backwardness”. Ideologically and from a class perspective Lebanon was not primed for a revolution as the form of financialization described earlier rendered most of its Lebanese working class (now mostly in the service sector) powerless, unorganized and constantly pegged against a migrant working class which is continuously hyper-exploited. As I mentioned earlier, the Lebanese economy has, since the early 1990s, centralized the reproduction of surplus capital around the financial and real estate sectors which in turn continually denies the formation of proletarianized labor outside the service sector. But this privilege has manifested itself clearly with the giant leaps that the masses were able to achieve and was characterized by the chants and slogans and novel forms of organizing that was adopted.

The efficacy of grassroots organizing, combined with the failure of the neoliberal sectarian state to fulfill the false promise of competitive prosperity, generalized a sense of class-for-itself specifically in rural areas. If sectarian neoliberalism's original raison d’être lies in the premise that sectarian divide is not only inevitable but crucial for communal prosperity, what a new round of austerity measures has proven in less than a week’s time is that these premises were conditioned on sectarian competition continually bearing fruit.

The spread of the revolution was instant as it set about to settle long overdue scores with its detached ruling class refuting in its way years and years of empty analysis by most political scientists, who had long buried any revolutionary potential under the rubble of what they’ve collectively agreed to call “the conviviality between the oppressed and the oppressor” and the “overwhelming sectarian nature of Lebanese people and institutions”.

An observation they claimed was now a reality that should be accepted. In the face of these liberal acolytes’ deep and undying faith in institutional progress and stageists strategies of “dual power”, the class struggle has prevailed in the streets, as roadblocks were erected across most working-class neighborhoods within hours.

In this context, decentralized roadblocks are not just temporary alternatives to a call for a general strike by a centralized trade union but aimed at flipping the central and peripheral paradigm on its head. Beirut is no longer the center that is relied upon to inject revolutionary fervor, as the beating heart of this revolution moves from one rural area to the other following the state’s coercion of roadblocks. Roadblocks become then a monument that celebrates the very refusal of participating in the labor market through the sectarian subject formation.

The deepening of class consciousness through a reconfiguration of the Lebanese subjectivity in peripheral rural areas such as Nabatieh, Sour, Tripoli, Jal el Dib constitute, following from Dan La Botz, rural laboratories searching for the cure for capitalism where peripheral working-class scientists mostly serving in the service, financial and educational sectors experiment on the streets in an attempt to revive hollowed trade unions waiting to be born again.

These rural areas do not constitute anymore impenetrable sectarian cantons that are religiously homogenized, essentialized and atomized as competing for sectarian strongholds in the Lebanese psyche but direct battlegrounds of confrontations with the state and its complementary sectarian militias that continuously reaffirm the centrality of the class struggle. The more violent, repressive and humiliating sectarian militias are, the more they reaffirm their role as agents of the ruling class. By insisting on taking down the sectarian system through generalized roadblocks across Lebanon, protesters have actually dismissed the logic of the market, the logic that continually reaffirms that there is no alternative to sectarian competition that vertically binds the atomized individual with his/her sect, and, by association, the sectarian ruling class.

What are the main slogans and claims of this protest? Are there connections with the 2015 street protests?

Since day one, the masses have chanted “The people want the fall of the regime”, a slogan that has been inspirational in the Arab uprising since 2011. A more popular slogan that is almost a decade old in Lebanon but was popularised by the 2015 protests was "All of them means all of them" and a lesser chanted one, but equally poignant, “If Syria and Sudan have one dictator we have 100” - which is a reference to the fact that the neoliberal sectarianism in Lebanon conjoins all members of the ruling class who have dominated the power for decades. “We are the revolution of the people, you are the civil war!” is another more recent chant that refers to the ruling class’ imbrication in the civil war and its role in destroying the very social fabric that is being knitted again by the protesters on the streets. Another important chant comes from the university and school students who took it upon themselves to reignite the revolution as participation was dipping during the second week. Their participation was as crucial as their chants were also on point: “We are not here to study history, we are here to write it”, as students rewrote the history of the revolution and gave it another lifeline.

The beautiful images of cross-border solidarity with other revolutionary comrades across the Arab world in Sudan, Syria, Iraq, Egypt and other countries should however not keep us from asking about the lack of participation of migrant labor in the revolution. Our revolution will not be one that is marred with methodological nationalism that forgoes our Syrian, Palestinian, Egyptian, Sri Lankan, and Ethiopian comrades in the name of homogeneity and finding a “common denominator”. Our comrades have been sidelined, over-exploited and alienated from politicization and organizing for far too long. Their upcoming revolution should be the base on which we build the second and third waves of revolutionary momentum.

What will be the prospect of this protest? Do you think the government will increase repression?

Contrary to Iran, Iraq, Chile and other countries that are witnessing historical revolutions, the Lebanese government has not yet unleashed the full power of its repression on the protesters. Although the number of dead now stands at 7 martyrs, the Lebanese government has opted to use its security apparatus for crowd control purposes opting to outsource violence against protesters to the complementary sectarian militias. Although state repression has seen a sharp rise in the last couple of days, especially with the deepening of the political discourse and actions aimed at the banking sector, the state has not unleashed the full might of its oppressive apparatus. Targeting the banks however has shown the real oppressive depth that the state is willing to let loose to defend a sector that has defined its role since the inception of Lebanon.

This form of state violence is complemented by organized racketeering by sectarian militias belonging to the parties of the ancien regime. It serves two purposes, it first pegs working-class constituents against each other and momentarily relieves the state from its repressive duties. Racketeering, as Charles Tilly reminds us, is not exclusive to para-state organizations that challenge the state but is the original modus operandi of the state that is frequently later outsourced to sectarian militias in order to defend order, legitimacy and the original act of dispossession. Tilly helps us cast doubt over the “failed state notion” that is often paraded in political circles when describing states in the Global South as sectarian militias’ role during the Lebanese civil war reified and vyed for the Lebanese state rather than compromised its authority. The incremental incorporation of belligerent militia groups into the state’s security apparatus only proves that their motivation behind their racketeering during the civil war was nothing more than a continuation of politics rather than an absence of it. It is this incorporation that paved the way for the organic and yet violent passage from unfettered laissez-faire capitalism to savage neoliberalism headed by Rafic Hariri. The sectarian militia’s role in hollowing out and colonizing of state structures went hand in hand with Hariri’s financialization of the Lebanese economy. The Syrian regime’s occupation of Lebanon intensified its grip on Lebanon during the Hariri era in the 90s and ruled with an iron fist that intermittently deployed its satellites to quash trade unions, unorganized workers and activists. One of its most prominent satellites at the time, Hezbollah, stands now as the major pole of counterrevolution in Lebanon and the region.

Hezbollah stands as a major poll of counterrevolutionary repression and organized racketeering. Hezbollah has taken up the primary role of the counter-revolutions as a continuation to its role in Syria, as the so-called resistance bloc had nothing to offer the protesters but conspiracy theories about embassy funding and physical coercion in Beirut and the south of Lebanon. In his infamous second speech, 9 days after the revolution began, Nasrallah questioned the very legitimacy and the spontaneity of the people on the streets deploying conspiratorial narratives around ‘embassy funding’, reviving civil war tropes, humiliating the protesters for being leaderless and confused in their demands and reminding his followers and protesters alike that the Syrian civil war could be a likely scenario if the protests continue. By doing so, Hezbollah, through Nasrallah’s speech, embodied the historical role of petty-bourgeois politics,  increasingly reflecting the backbone of its constituency.

Hezbollah has historically played the role of the intermediary that carefully resolves tensions between sections of the working class and the ruling class and further abstracts the class struggle by constantly projecting it into an unknown, unresolvable future while national liberation remains a constant priority.

As Joseph Daher has shown in his book on Hezbollah, the party continues to receive support from people from different classes, but the party's priorities are increasingly oriented towards the higher classes. This has created friction within the Shia community and specifically within Hezbollah supporters, where lower-class supporters have realized that they are not Hezbollah’s priority, but constituted the recruiting base for Hezbollah’s war on the Syrian people, a war that is bound to benefit to higher classes of Hezbollah’s cadres and their entourage that are increasingly constituted from the upper-middle classes and the Shia bourgeoisie. Nasrallah’s latest speech in early January following Suleimani’s death invited the poor to share the burden of the impending economic collapse alongside the rich as “it is only fair that this catastrophe is shared amongst all classes”

This is why Hezbollah has opted to channel the class friction that has plagued the community it claims to hold away from within its community and reignite a sectarian tension by pushing lower-class Shia supporters against the 17 October revolutionaries. By doing so, Hezbollah not only momentarily solves the growing class tension within the Shia community by redirecting and physically displacing the class contradiction towards a sectarian struggle and dissipating the anger of its working-class towards a sectarian standoff. By doing so, Hezbollah is also able to push against any talk of a technocratic government that is being branded by Hariri and others (backed by the US) in order to guarantee a more politicized government that insures its right to bear arms. By pushing components of its lower-class supporters to clash directly with October 17 protesters, Hezbollah aims to redeploy and magnify the sectarian tactic that was lost on October 17, a tactic that claims that the general public is still entrenched in its sectarian allegiances and is still not ready for a technocratic government. Reifying sectarianism as a counterrevolutionary tactic serves then Hezbollah on two fronts, both internally and externally and helps salvage its alliance with the President’s front that secures the status quo.

The Lebanese army, rarely mentioned as the other major component of the counterrevolution in Lebanon, has also historically played both a passive and an active role complementing the role of militias. Since the ascension of Fouad Chehab to power in 1958, a move orchestrated as a compromise between Nasserist and US hegemony, the Lebanese Army has been a major component of counterrevolutionary practice that has tactically stood on the fence until it was able to take power. Although it is now shackled by its funders (the US and Saudi Arabia), the ruling class is still able to rely on some generals within its ranks that are able to maneuver political frictions in order to repress some areas (Jal el Dib, Zouk, and others) or ignite sectarian tensions within others (Tripoli).

Can you tell us more about the campaign you’re working on?

At the time of writing, Riad Salameh, the governor of the Lebanese Central Bank, had requested from the Minister of Finance, that he be given special status that would allow him to supersede the council of ministers. The measures that local banks are currently taking in terms of their dealings with small depositors, i.e. the complete control over their access to their deposits and salaries in the dollar currency have aggravated dramatically the relationship between banks and the general populace to a point where people started to organize in groups to pressure the banks to cough up their own money.

There is one slogan that I have failed to mention earlier which has to do with what the general public is calling “reclaiming the stolen capital” and what they’re referring to is, in small part, corruption by the crony capitalist ruling class but, in large part, the ever-growing public debt that is eating up more than 40% of the government’s yearly budget to cover the compound interest rate of this debt. The majority of the public/private debt, i.e. more than $50 billion of this debt (out of approximately $85 billion) is owned by local private banks. For this reason, we decided, as a group of leftists, to organize around the issue of nationalizing the banks, which is, given the historical prominence of the banking sector mentioned earlier, not only novel but would have been usually frowned upon pre-October 17 revolution.

We also felt that the socio-economic demands that were part and parcel that drove the masses to protest the first two days were getting drowned out by more populist and liberal demands around corruption and the application of the constitution that did nothing but salvage the ruling class from its self-made crisis. The demand for the nationalization of banks, in an era of the neoliberal crisis caused by public debt (sponsored by CEDRE, the World Bank and the IMF) not only signifies the transfer of ownership of private banks to the public sector - meaning banks to become a public domain, the property of the people, without compensation to their owners - but also reverses years of privatization and austerity measures. Private banks (where crony capitalism is rife) have loaned the state tens of billions of dollars with high and compounded interest rates using state-sponsored treasury bonds. Our campaign has camped in front of most of the bank branches distributing leaflets on the necessity of nationalizing the banks, free food and opened discussions on the economy. We have also recently formed groups in most of Lebanon’s districts to pressure banks in releasing small depositor’s dollars and joined these depositors in groups in order to organize collectively against banks. People’s reaction to the campaign has been largely positive and encouraging as the repressive measures private banks have taken in the last couple of weeks to pressure both the masses and the government have increased the animosity of people towards the banks. We are tapping into this specific anger that comes out of the interaction with the bank to politicize it and direct it towards the center of capital reproduction and dispossession in Lebanon.

As a final and important point, our focus on the banks, alongside a myriad of other leftists organizations and groups such as the youth sector of the Lebanese Communist Party and a newly formed group called شباب المصرف (Youth against the bank) and others have also helped in recruiting working-class Shia to the cause and has helped in reigniting the revolutionary fervor and set the record straight that this struggle is a class struggle and not a sectarian one.

A Review of Karl Marx: Greatness and Illusion by Gareth Stedman Jones

William Clare Roberts

Department of Political Science, McGill University

william.roberts3@mcgill.ca

Abstract

Despite the stated aim of this new biography to restore Marx to his original condition, Stedman Jones repeatedly misreads Marx’s arguments. He misidentifies or misconstrues the context relevant for many of Marx’s key texts. In general, Stedman Jones reads Marx through a screen of twentieth-century and contemporary concerns – the politics of recognition and the language of identity – while ignoring historical scholarship that would be awkward for the story he wishes to tell. This review-essay substantiates these criticisms by examining in some detail two major themes of Stedman Jones’s account: (1) Marx’s relation to modern representative democracy, and (2) the role of abstraction in Marx’s critique of political economy.

Keywords

Karl Marx – Gareth Stedman Jones – representative democracy – political economy – socialism

Gareth Stedman Jones, (2016) Karl Marx: Greatness and Illusion, London: Allen Lane.

Why does this book exist? As Gareth Stedman Jones admits on the first page of his new biography, Marx’s second century has seen numerous treatments of Marx’s life, from Franz Mehring’s to Mary Gabriel’s and Jonathan Sperber’s.[1] Stedman Jones cites a dozen, give or take. What could justify another 700-page entry in this crowded field?

Stedman Jones must have asked himself this same question. His apology is that previous biographies have offered only ‘descriptive accounts of Marx’s theoretical writings’ (p. xv). By contrast, Stedman Jones sets out to give Marx’s writings their theoretical and political due by treating them ‘as the interventions of an author within particular political and philosophical contexts that the historian must carefully reconstruct’ (p. xv). If Stedman Jones has paid ‘as much attention to Marx’s thought as to his life’, he has also ‘paid as much attention to the utterances and reactions of contemporaries as to Marx’s own words’ (p. xv). The aim, therefore, is to reconstruct the context of Marx’s writings, and to ‘restore’ these writings thereby to their ‘original condition’, stripping away any ‘retouching and alteration’ that has befallen them since Marx’s death.

This is an admirable aim. Innocent, with a whiff of positivism about it, but admirable. Judged according to this stated aspiration, however, Greatness and Illusion is not a success. Despite some bright spots – in particular, the reconstruction of the context and process of writing and publishingCapital – the overwhelming tendency of the book is to misidentify or misconstrue the political and philosophical contexts of Marx’s interventions. The result is a map of Marx’s life that theEconomist can extol – ‘no better guide to Marx’, it declares on the cover of the paperback – but which misleads and confuses the reader truly interested in discovering Marx’s thought, writings, and context.

Despite his stated design, Stedman Jones shows no real concern for figuring out the how and why of Marx’s interventions. He repeatedly misreads Marx’s arguments. He takes Marx’s interlocutors at their word, religiously, even as he claims to know, for instance, when Marx only ‘affected to believe’ something (p. 296). He misidentifies or misconstrues the context relevant for many of Marx’s key texts. In general, Stedman Jones reads Marx through a screen of twentieth-century and contemporary concerns – the politics of recognition and the language of identity – while ignoring historical scholarship that would be awkward for the story he wishes to tell. This may seem a harsh indictment of a book that has been, on the whole, well-received, written by scholar with a long and distinguished career. In what follows, I will substantiate these charges by examining in some detail two major themes of Stedman Jones’s account: (1) Marx’s relation to modern representative democracy, and (2) the role of abstraction in Marx’s critique of political economy. This should make it clear that Stedman Jones’s real project is quite different from his stated one.

1. Representation and Universal Suffrage

A Review of Begegnungen mit Don Quijote. Ausgewählte Schriften by Karl Schmückle

Kaan Kangal

Department of Philosophy, Nanjing University, China

kaankangal@gmail.com

Abstract

This is a review-essay on Werner Röhr’s 2014 edition of fourteen essays by Karl Schmückle in a volume entitled Begegnungen mit Don Quijote [Encounters with Don Quichotte]. Schmückle was one of the MEGA¹ scholars who emigrated from Germany to the Soviet Union in the 1920s. Under the directorship of David Riazanov at the Marx–Engels Institute in Moscow, Schmückle worked as co-editor of Marx’s and Engels’s early works such as the pre-1844 writings,The Holy Family andThe German Ideology, until the institute was shut down by the Soviet authorities in 1931. In this essay I will introduce Schmückle’s intellectual journeys in Germany and the Soviet Union, and focus on his scholarly writings on the young Marx. Schmückle’s writings document his intellectual ambitions in and scholarly contributions to early Marxian research. He also represents the tragic end of a creative generation of German Marxists in the former Soviet Union.

Keywords

Karl Schmückle – MEGA – David Riazanov – Soviet Union – utopia – historical materialism

Karl Schmückle, (2014) Begegnungen mit Don Quijote. Ausgewählte Schriften, edited by Werner Röhr, Berlin: Argument Verlag/InkriT.

The book under review, Begegnungen mit Don Quijote [Encounters with Don Quichotte], is the most comprehensive collection of essays by the philosopher, Marx scholar, and literary critic Karl Schmückle (1898–1938).[1] It contains six philosophical essays from 1923 to 1933 (Logical-Historical Elements of Utopia;A. Deborin: Lenin, the Fighting Materialist;On the History of Political Theories;The First Volume of the Marx–Engels Complete Works;On the Critique of German Historicism; andThe Young Marx and the Bourgeois Society), and eight writings on literature from 1934 to 1936 (Of Freedom and its Chimaera;Praise of the Art of the Explorer;Heroic Reality: On Anna Segher’s New Novel;‘The Way Through February’;History of the Golden Book: A Utopian Reportage;Thomas Mann Against Fascism;The Contemporary Don Quichotte; and Encounters with Don Quichotte).

          The editor, Werner Röhr, gives in his Introduction an extensive overview of previous Schmückle receptions, Schmückle’s political and intellectual biography, summaries of his essays, and the institutional history that forms the backdrop to Schmückle’s academic and literary activities. Schmückle has not enjoyed much scholarly attention besides two studies on his entire work, one by Hans Schleier[2] in his 1982 analysis of Schmückle’s critique of German historicism (first published in the Soviet journal Under the Banner of Marxism back in 1929),[3] and the other by Reinhard Müller,[4] who investigated Schmückle’s 1931‒6 period in the KGB archives in Moscow. Here Müller discovered all the trial documents related to Schmückle’s case (pp. i–ii). With respect to both Schleier and Müller, Röhr draws a broader picture of Schmückle’s intellectual career.

Schmückle in Historiographic Context

Karl Schmückle is one of the forgotten intellectual figures in Western Marxist circles whose political and philosophical formation was shaped by the First World War and the aftermath of the Russian Revolution. Like many others of his generation, Schmückle was first radicalised, and then emerged as a Marxist, at the beginning of the 1920s. His biographical and geographical background has much in common with what is nowadays called ‘Western Marxism’. Biographically, he was a student of Karl Korsch in Jena, an acquaintance and, later, co-worker of Georg Lukács, and one of the first international correspondents of the Frankfurt Institute for Social Research and the Marx–Engels Institute in Moscow. Over a decade younger than both Lukács and Korsch, but of the same age as Marcuse, Schmückle was, like Marcuse, drafted into the German Army in the War, and subsequently became a member of a soldiers’ council. Geographically, he was, like Adorno and Horkheimer, native to South-West Germany (Enzklösterle-Gompelscheuer, close to Karlsruhe), where Lukács and Marcuse were trained (p. iii). Berlin and Jena, where Schmückle studied, were well-known political and intellectual centres of the German Left. His doctoral dissertation on utopia, which was printed in the same year (1923) as Lukács’s History and Class Consciousness and Korsch’s Marxism and Philosophy, documents Schmückle’s expertise in French socialism, Hegelian philosophy and Marx’s political economy. It was also one of the first, if notthe first, historical-materialist studies on utopia in the postwar period. Schmückle, like Lukács, participated in the preparation of the MEGA¹ edition of Marx’s and Engels’s early manuscripts at the Marx–Engels Institute in Moscow, and, like Korsch and Marcuse, made extensive contributions to a modern understanding of the young Marx and Engels.

          If what Perry Anderson asserts is true, that Lukács and Korsch were ‘the real originators’ of ‘Western Marxism’, then Schmückle clearly belongs to the same lineage.[5] But if Schmückle truly ‘formed [a] nodal point of juncture at which “Western” and “Eastern” currents met within Marxism in the twenties’,[6] then it would be rather dubious to claim that ‘philosophical’ Marxism ‘begins with Lukács’ alone.[7] Žižek rightfully asserts that Lukács’s 1923 book is ‘one of the few authentic events in the history of Marxism’.[8] One might easily add Korsch and Gramsci’s names next to Lukács’s, as Anderson does. But what about Schmückle?

          In contrast to the familiar figures of ‘Western Marxism’, Schmückle’s case consists in the fact that he did not ‘finish on top’, ‘write the histories’ and ‘hand out the medals’. Rather, he belongs to the ‘silenced’ or ‘defeated’ side of Marxism that is reclaimed today by a ‘revisionist’ historiography.[9] Schmückle’s life and works register a constellation of motives and the fate of a politically engaged movement that did not resign the theoretical tradition but nonetheless ended with the 1930s Purges in the Soviet Union. Russell Jacoby would probably call this a ‘success of Soviet Marxism’ that coincides with ‘the defeat of other Marxisms’.[10]

          The present review-essay does not attempt to redefine the concept of ‘Western Marxism’ but gives a few reasons to reconsider the origins and legacies of Marxism, even if they are partially lost or forgotten. Of course, much of what is said for Lukács or Korsch and how they ‘enabled’ the next generations ‘to produce an extremely rich theoretical tradition’ cannot be said for someone like Schmückle, who did not have any comparable impact on the theoretical tradition.[11] So the question is whether he can promise any fruitful potential for the theory and its history today. I will leave that judgement to the reader.

Schmückle’s Pre-Moscow Period

There are two stages to be mentioned that shaped Schmückle’s early political aims. The first is when he was seriously injured in Flanders/Ypern in the First World War, and sent to Dresden. This was when Schmückle first became familiar with the communist worldview. Following his recovery, he was transferred to Ulm, which at that time was, after Potsdam, the second largest garrison city in Germany. Schmückle participated in the November Revolution in a soldiers’ council and as a member of the Red Soldiers’ League. After his discharge from the military in 1919, he went to Tübingen to study philosophy and theology. With Felix Weil, who later founded the Frankfurt Institute for Social Research in 1923, and Heinrich Süßkind, the editor-in-chief of the Rote Fahne, Schmückle co-founded the Free Union of Socialist Students. The union invited speakers such as Clara Zetkin, Willi Münzenberg, and Edwin Hoernle (p. iv). Participation in student organisations, in addition to lectures on political philosophy, made up the second crucial stage in Schmückle’s political-ideological development.

          On Clara Zetkin’s advice, Schmückle went to Berlin to study Marxist political economy, and sat in on the lectures of Social-Democratic professors such as Heinrich Cunow, Ignaz Jastrow, Paul Lensch, Emil VerHees, and Werner Sombart (p. v). Schmückle also took one seminar by Gustav Mayer, one of the first historians of German labour history, on the early works of Marx and Engels. In 1921, Schmückle switched to the University of Jena, once famously known for German Idealism, then subsequently for mathematical logic, where he attended lectures on socialism and communism by Gerhard Kesler and Karl Korsch (p. vi).[12] In 1923, Schmückle participated in the First Marxist Study Week [Erste Marxistische Arbeitswoche] financed by Felix Weil and organised by Richard Sorge. The following were also present: Bela Fogarasi, Hede and Julian Gumperz, Margarete Lissauer, Georg Lukács, Heide and Paul Massing, Friedrich Pollock, Karl August and Rose Wittfogel, Konstantin Zetkin, Hedda and Karl Korsch, Christiane Sorge, Käthe Weil, Ludwig and Gertrud Alexander, and Kuzuki Fukumoto.[13] Contemporary questions of crisis, questions of methodology, the problems concerning the organisation of Marxian research, and Karl Korsch’s then-unpublished manuscript Marxism and Philosophy were discussed (p. vii). Expectations for a second meeting of the same study group came to naught when a more ambitious alternative, the Frankfurt Institute for Social Research, took its place. Under the direction of Carl Grünberg, the Institute started working closely with the Marx–Engels Institute in Moscow.

Logical-Historical Elements of Utopia

Schmückle finished his doctoral dissertation in 1923, and had been attending courses by Franz Gutmann, Gerhard Kessler, and Otto Koellreuther on national economy, finance, the monetary system, and political theory (p. ix). Considering the subjects Schmückle had covered in his final exams, he picked quite a radical topic for his dissertation: Logical-Historical Elements of Utopia. Schmückle investigated here two generations of utopians, one from the seventeenth century (More, Campanella, Mably, Morelly, and Meslier), the other from the nineteenth century (Saint-Simon and Charles Fourier).

          ‘The first appearance-form of utopia’, Schmückle writes, ‘is the utopian state’ (p. 28). Thomas More defines the social order as a matter of organisation of things by and within the state, while Campanella personifies the idea of utopia with an enlightened prince, a wise ruler, or the ‘god of sun’.[14] For Campanella, the privileges and state monopoles naturally transform into governing organs of the utopian republic. They serve to keep the metabolic exchange between nature and man in harmonic balance (p. 29). The second appearance-form of utopia is words in action, or the practical unity of nations against tyrants and despots. ‘Infinity of miseries’, as Meslier the atheist and rebel once put it, is manifested in the paradise of the property, enjoyment, and lust of the wealthy, on the one hand, and in the trouble, pain, and worry of the poor, on the other (p. 31). Morelly, like Campanella, ascribes to society a mechanistic concept of automatism, whereby the individual substances of the social automaton function as the organs of a greater whole. The crucial point Morelly stresses is that the natural harmony is to be balanced by the social machine (p. 34). The harmony that these early social utopians had drafted was precisely the opposite of contemporary society in their times. Schmückle points out that this characteristic distinguishes them from the ‘religion of daily life’ of the late bourgeois apostles of social harmony (p. 35).

          Schmückle stresses that, in contrast to early utopians, some sort of social empiricism, holistic understanding of society, and a weaker reference to state affairs were all significant for the late utopians (p. 38). Saint-Simon recognises industrial development as the main basis for the ideal future society because it already provides the material preconditions for eliminating idleness and poverty. Labour as the basic substance of all human capacities ensures the overcoming of the present society as such. Fourier, by contrast, focuses on repressive moralities, and the contradiction between pain and happiness. The driving force of society is to be found contained, for Fourier, in human passions, affections, and natural desires. The antagonistic relations of society are, in last instance, a matter of individual antagonisms (p. 40). Fourier’s notion of ‘harmonic, natural contradiction’ embeds into a ‘real contradiction’ as a ‘mere negation of negation’ of his time (p. 48).

          The more intensely the new modes of economic production face inherited factors and relations of production, and the more they penetrate wider spaces and masses of production, the more clear becomes the bigger picture of social reality, and how it might be conceptualised otherwise (p. 32). The historical process of the relations between producers and means of production determines the material ground for all the utopian ideas concerning how to interpret and change the world. For Schmückle, it is significant for the early utopians that they represent the social disharmonies of the real world in their utopian counter-images (p. 35). Although he does not directly refer to Marx, Schmückle obviously has in mind a passage from The Class Struggles in France, where Marx differentiates utopians from doctrinaire socialists:

... utopia ... subordinates the whole movement to one of its elements, ... puts the cerebrations of the individual pedant in place of common, social production and, above all, wishes away the necessities of the revolutionary class struggles by petty tricks or great sentimental rhetoric ...[15]

Schmückle at the Marx–Engels Institute

Schmückle’s doctoral study remained relevant for his entire career due to his later work on state and social theories from Machiavelli to Hegel, and on the early worldview of the young Marx. His essay on Hobbes’s theory of state was published by the Marx–Engels–Archive in Russian in 1930, while he was working on a project for the Frankfurt Institute about the historical development of bourgeois state theories. He wrote one of his late essays (History of the Golden Book) for the 400th birth-anniversary of Thomas More, based on an imaginary interview with More who travels to Moscow and makes observations on Soviet daily life. Schmückle’s late work on the young Marx and bourgeois society was also dedicated to uncovering Marx’s utopian roots from the perspective of the later Marx.

          After his graduation, between 1923 and 1925 Schmückle worked as editor and writer at various Communist papers, such as Freiheit,Bergische Volksstimme,Arbeiter-Zeitung,Rote Fahne andDie Internationale (p. xii). In 1925, at David Riazanov’s prompting and on the formal advice of the Frankfurt Institute, the KPD leadership agreed to send Schmückle to work at the Marx–Engels Institute in Moscow. Schmückle arrived in the Soviet Union in 1925, and became a member of the Communist Party (Bolshevik) the following year (p. xxi).[16]

          Due to his previous studies on the utopians, and Marx’s early writings, Schmückle possessed considerable expertise regarding what was of great need for the Marx–Engels Institute. Under the directorship of David Riazanov, the Institute had planned to publish Marx’s and Engels’s complete works starting from their earliest periods. Schmückle was a perfect match for this project.

          The complete works of Marx and Engels (MEGA¹) were designed to be published in 42 volumes, unedited and in their original languages. Thanks to its financial resources, and Riazanov’s international contacts, the institute established a group of prominent Marx scholars such as G.E. Czóbel, A. Deborin, G. Lukács, I. Luppol, W. Rohr, I. Rubin, F. Schiller, A. Thalheimer, P. Weller and, of course, K. Schmückle.[17]

          Under Riazanov’s supervision, the institute published three volumes from the first section (volumes I/1.1 (1927), I/1.2 (1929), and I/2 (1930) on Marx’s works and writings up to the beginning of 1844, including letters and documents), and three volumes from the third section (volumes III/1 (1929), III/2 (1930), and III/3 (1930) on Marx–Engels correspondence between 1844 and 1853, 1854 and 1860, and 1861 and 1867). The institute also prepared four volumes from the first section (The German Ideology in I/5 (1932), Marx’s and Engels’s works from May 1846 until March 1848 in I/6 (1932), Engels’s works from 1844 until July 1846 (1932),The Holy Family and Marx’s writings from 1844–5 in I/3 (1932)), and one volume from the third section (Marx–Engels correspondence between 1868 and 1883 in III/4 (1931)), which were published after Riazanov’s removal from the institute, and his replacement by V. Adoratskii (pp. xx–xi). Schmückle was named editor or contributor in volumes I/1.1, I/1.2, and III/3. Although his name was not mentioned, he had also contributed to volumes I/3, I/5, and III/4. Besides his editorship in MEGA¹, Schmückle translated Plekhanov’sFundamental Questions of Marxism [Osnovnye Voprosy Marksizma] (1929), and the eighteenth volume of the first German edition of Lenin’s complete works (p. 325). In addition, Schmückle wrote essays on Marx’s early philosophical understanding, and on the utopian state theories and political philosophies of More, Machiavelli, and Hobbes. 

The Young Marx and Engels in MEGA¹

Volume I/1.1 contained Marx’s dissertation on early Greek philosophy, his poems from 1841, twenty-eight articles Marx had published in the Rheinische Zeitung between 1842 and 1843 (includingProceedings of the Sixth Rhine Province Assembly,The Leading Article in no. 179 of the Kölnische Zeitung, andJustification of the Correspondent from the Mosel), the letters and articles fromDeutsch–Französische Jahrbücher (includingOn the Jewish Question andContribution to the Critique of Hegel’s Philosophy of Right), and some other materials.[18]

          Unlike Franz Mehring’s four-volume edition, MEGA¹ focused on presenting everything either published or left unpublished by the young Marx and Engels, completely and accurately (p. 127). For example, the seven notebooks of Marx’s doctoral dissertation, and the preparatory manuscripts of theContribution to the Critique of Hegel’s Philosophy of Right were published in MEGA¹, while they were missing in Mehring’s edition. In his foreword in the first volume of MEGA¹, Riazanov highlighted Mehring’s arbitrary selections and editorial corrections. Mehring did not include, for example, the chapter on Saint Max when he had published the materials fromThe German Ideology, because he did not find it ‘significant’. Riazanov argued that this kind of textual manipulation obscured particular moments of Marx’s and Engels’s development, from Feuerbachian humanism to scientific socialism.[19]

          In a review-essay on the first volume of MEGA¹ written for theRote Fahne in 1927, as well as in the articleThe Young Marx and the Bourgeois Society published byInternationale Literatur in 1933, Schmückle pointed out that the accuracy of the MEGA¹ material served not only to provide a better understanding of Marx’s and Engels’s transition towards scientific materialism, but also countered the distortions and falsifications of contemporary anti-Marxist criticism coming from the bourgeois front (p. 150). For Schmückle, the MEGA¹ project had stymied all attempts to exploit the early Hegelianism and Feuerbachian humanism of the young Marx and Engels for bourgeois anti-Communist purposes. As a matter of fact, the first volumes of MEGA¹ were dedicated to documenting the scientific development of Marx and Engels. Hence, the question as to how their shift to a more mature position had taken place did require further scholarly studies. This was what Schmückle tried to clarify in his article on the young Marx and bourgeois society.

The Young Marx and the Bourgeois Society

In Schmückle’s understanding, there are two ways to look at the early Marx: we can either detect the main problems that concerned Marx’s early studies on philosophy and economics, and try to comprehend how the young Marx conceptualised society, revolution, and political worldviews, or we can read the early Marx backwards, namely from the point of view of the later Marx. The first reading concentrates on Marx’s transition from idealist dialectics to dialectical materialism, from his critique of religion to the critique of the bourgeois state and society, and from democratic-revolutionary emancipation to radical proletarian-communist revolution (p. 163). The second reading tracks the path that leads back from Marx’s later theory of economics to his early sources. Schmückle believed that these two readings do not alternate but rather supplement each other. Marx’s theory of fetishism in Capital, for example, is a product of his late economic studies that go back to his early views on bourgeois society under the influence of the Young Hegelians and French utopian socialists (p. 155).

          Marx states in his dissertation notebooks that every philosophical system is to be expounded from the point of view of its historical existence. All the objective determinations need to be distinguished from the ‘phenomenological consciousness of the subject’ in order to grasp the true unity of the subject and object.[20] According to Schmückle, the Ancient Greek concept of atomism officiated as the most abstract concept at encompassing all the objective determinations of the world, from which Marx had deduced his principle of subjectivity. Substances are, for the early Marx, social forces that build up the ideal or spiritual reality, and the state is the central organ that organises all the social agents surrounding it (p. 167). The crucial point Marx highlights, according to Schmückle, is not simply that a philosophical system is objectively related to the historical world, but that it is about ‘the modality of the relation of philosophy, as subjective consciousness, towards reality’.[21]

          Marx’s early attempt at an inversion of Hegelian dialectics gained a political character in his articles in the Rheinische Zeitung. Marx was defending in this period a radical-democratic view of people as substances and active subjects of the state that must fight for the right form of the state, make the law become ‘the conscious expression of the people’s will’, and transform the people from an object of suppression of the feudal-absolutist state into an emancipated subject of social history (p. 173). Schmückle points out that, for the early Marx, the questions regarding the concrete subject of this transformation, and the internal mechanisms of the alleged antagonisms and struggles in the present society, remained unclear (p. 179). Later on in his Paris period in 1844, Marx was would ultimately conclude that the political economy of bourgeois society provides the key to understanding the historical development of human societies, and that its reflection forms in ideological superstructures such as politics, law, and philosophy (p. 192). This was when Marx’s theory had obtained its first insights concerning the fundamental character of the economic structure that preconditions all the existential and motional laws, and the superstructures of bourgeois society (p. 151).  

          For Schmückle, the critical potential and the systematic approach of Marx’s political economy gained their mature content in Capital for several reasons. Marx consciously expressed the main subject-matter, and the ultimate goal of his critique of political economy inCapital: bourgeois society and its concrete forms of appearance. The purpose of the Marxist critique of political economy is, accordingly, to demystify the economic laws of motion of bourgeois society. To discover the rational kernel of the fundamental laws of capitalist society, and to separate it from the mystical shells of ideological distortions, Marx had to investigate all the structures, interconnections, reciprocal relations, and causal chains in the economic life of capitalist society (pp. 161–2).

          The ‘enchanted, perverted, topsy-turvy world’, as it had once been described and criticised by the late utopian socialists, in which ‘Monsieur le Capital and Madame la Terre do their ghost-walking as social characters’, was recognised by the late Marx as an inverted camera obscura image of the real world that needed to be placed back on its feet.[22]Capital was dedicated to unravelling the ideological distortions and uncritical reflections of economic relations of production, commodity fetishism, developing subject–object inversions, and reification genetically from the very logic of the capitalist production and accumulation processes (p. 106).

The Marx–Engels Institute in 1931, and Afterwards

In February 1931, the Joint State Political Directorate [OGPU] raided the Marx–Engels Institute. It shut down the institute for over a week, searched all the rooms, archives, libraries, manuscripts, and print materials, and interrogated institute co-workers. OGPU officials were looking for a collection of documents on Mensheviks handed to David Riazanov by one of the institute members, a well-known Marx scholar, and former Jewish Bund supporter and Menshevik, Isaak Iljič Rubin. In December 1930, Rubin was accused of being a member of a Menshevik counter-revolutionary organisation, and sent to prison in March 1931.[23] Under interrogation, Rubin had implicated Riazanov in the Menshevik conspiracy. With the splitting of the institute, Riazanov was dismissed from the directorship, and deported to Saratov.[24] Riazanov denied all the allegations, and stated at his trial that he had not committed any crime, whatsoever.[25]

          After Riazanov’s replacement by Adoratskii in February 1931, the Party Central Committee organised a commission to reform the institute (p. xxxix). The members of the commission were assigned to evaluate and write reports on the previous 243 members of the institute and voted for the disposal of 109 non-Party, and 22 Party members. In one of these reports, Schmückle had been described as ‘useful, provided that there is strong leadership at the institute’. Georg Lukács, to give another example, had been characterised as an ‘honest and loyal co-worker’. Based on his ‘philosophical views, [Lukács] is not a Marxist’. Schmückle’s wife, Anne Bernfeld-Schmückle, was not considered as reliable. Since almost all of the prominent scholars were removed in the purge, one commission member was asked to prepare a new list for scholar candidates (pp. xl–xli). The institute as well as the MEGA¹ project did survive, until a second wave of purges in the late 1930s associated with the famous Moscow Trials.

          Immediately after his removal from the institute in 1931, Schmückle started working for different political and literary papers, including the daily Deutsche Zentral-Zeitung between 1931 and 1934, and the bimonthlyInternationale Literatur between 1934 and 1938 (p. xlv). Schmückle’s essay on the early Marx and bourgeois society was published by Internationale Literatur for the fiftieth death-anniversary of Karl Marx. Schmückle also became a member of the German division of the International Union of Revolutionary Writers [IVRS] in 1932, participated as editor in joint projects between the IVRS and Moscow-based publishing houses, and published works of Rosa Luxemburg, Karl Liebknecht and Clara Zetkin (p. xlviii).

          Internationale Literatur published two remarkable essays by Schmückle on Cervantes’s Don Quichotte in 1936. Schmückle had been familiar with the novel for a long time, but Cervantes became politically important especially after Don Quichotte was attacked by the Spanish fascist poet Ernesto Jiménez Caballero in 1932. Caballero had claimed that Cervantes’s novel contains elements closely tied to the ideas of the early Enlightenment and Bolshevism. After Franco’s coup in 1936, an immense campaign to defame Cervantes had arisen. Schmückle considered Don Quichotte important, not simply because it reflected the historical and literal background of the contemporary class antagonisms in Spain, or because it was used by fascists against Bolshevism, but also because Schmückle had found therein hidden ties between the humorous dialectic of fantasy and reality, and the inversions of bourgeois society that were criticised by the social utopians, and Marx (p. 281).

The Party Tribunal against Schmückle in 1936

The so-called ‘Trotskyist-Zinovievist Counterrevolutionary Bloc’ that was accused of planning to assassinate Stalin, and other Soviet leaders, including Kirov back in 1934, was alleged to have been an active threat to the Soviet leadership since the beginning of 1930s. The pretrial depositions and confessions of Zinoviev and Kamenev portrayed an inner-Party opposition that had been ongoing since 1932.[26] The bulk of the arrests that were allegedly linked to the Trotskyist conspiracy were of leading cadres. Since the military conspiracy of Tukhachevskii had been uncovered in 1937, the Party leadership acted swiftly against anything that involved the Trotskyist bloc, and the interrelationship among the anti-Soviet conspiracies. The previously-convicted former members of the Marx–Engels Institute had been interrogated, and their identities, personal and professional relationships, and ideological views were investigated. Karl Schmückle was one of them.

          As a by-product of the massive media campaigns against the anti-Soviet conspiracies, the Literaturnaia Gazeta on 27 August 1936, and then, two days later, theDeutsche Zentral-Zeitung, had denounced Schmückle as a Trotskyist betrayer. Under the chairmanship of the Hungarian writer Alexander Barta, eighteen writers and three Party officials (including Hans Günther, Hugo Huppert, Alfred Kurella and Georg Lukács)[27] were asked to participate in a closed Party session (4‒9 September 1936) to investigate the inner-Party enemies, Trotskyists, and deviationists within Soviet scientific, philosophical and literary circles (p. lxxi).

          Some complained that they felt threatened and challenged by Schmückle. Others praised him, and his valuable work. Georg Lukács, on the other hand, claimed that Schmückle was a ‘party enemy’ and a ‘counter-revolutionary’, who had hid himself behind the ‘mask of a man loyal to the Party’. Lukács voted for Schmückle’s liquidation, and suggested investigating his personal contacts. According to Günther, Schmückle was an opportunist and a hidden enemy, and a close friend of Heinrich Süßkind, who had recently (9 August 1936) been arrested by the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs [NKVD]. Lastly, Huppert made allegations concerning Schmückle’s hostility towards the Party (pp. lxxiii–lxxv). Schmückle was included in the so-called German operation of the NKVD, arrested in 30 November 1937 for espionage, and was executed on 14 March 1938 (p. lxxii).

The Legacy of Karl Schmückle

Karl Schmückle, like many others, was rehabilitated in the late 1950s by the Moscow Military Tribunal. He was one of the victims of the Soviet purges in 1930s, and he shared the same fate as that of many creative intellectuals in the former Soviet Union. Schmückle’s essay collection documents not only Schmückle’s work, but it also represents the early international collaboration in Marxian scholarship between Germany and the Soviet Union, and provides a very useful source for and highly valuable contribution to our contemporary understanding of the history of Marxism.

          Schmückle’s greatest contribution was, perhaps, his original conception of the utopia phenomenon. The Marxist tradition in the twentieth century had been for the most part strongly antipathetic to utopianism, as Ruth Levitas remarks. Utopia was usually associated with a ‘construction of blueprints of a future society that are incapable of realisation’.[28] But the same utopianism was attached to Marxism by its opponents, as well. Certainly, there were notable exceptions such as Alexandr A. Bogdanov, Walter Benjamin or Ernst Bloch. However, only a minority view shared the idea that utopian conceptions can be valuable for Marxist thinking. Schmückle did not aim to deploy the concept of utopia to justify anything that crudely rejects bourgeois society, or merely to speculate about a future society. He rather found a critical and fruitful potential in the utopian narrative.

          Utopias are valuable not because they stand apart from concrete time and place, or historical facts and the real subjects of society, but because they express symptoms of social disintegration, represent anticipatory structures of the past, and signal transformative impulses within present-day society. Schmückle does not – like Caballero – fear, but rather embraces what Cervantes’s Don Quichotte makes us experience, namely, an intelligent mockery of our own incapacity to dominate social contradictions between now and then, real and imaginary, or essential and illusionary. Utopia suspends for a while what something is, and in so doing, it enables us, at least intuitively, to sense how it might be otherwise. I shall leave the last word to the young Marx to articulate the function of utopia:

... nothing prevents us from making criticisms of politics, participation in politics, and therefore real struggles, the starting point of our criticism, and from identifying our criticism with them. In that case we do not confront the world in a doctrinaire way with a new principle: Here is the truth, kneel down before it! We develop new principles for the world out of the world’s own principles. ... We merely show the world what it has really been fighting for, and consciousness is something that ithas to acquire, even if it does not want to. The reform of consciousness consistsonly in making the world aware of its own consciousness, in awakening it out of its dream about itself, inexplaining to it the meaning of its own actions. ... It will then become evident that the world has long dreamed of possessing something of which it has only to be conscious in order to possess it in reality.[29]

References

Anderson, Perry 1989 [1976], Considerations on Western Marxism, London: Verso.

Burkhard, Bud 1985, ‘D.B. Rjazanov and the Marx–Engels Institute: Notes toward Further Research’, Studies in Soviet Thought, 30, 1: 39–54.

Fracchia, Joseph 2013, ‘The Philosophical Leninism and Eastern “Western Marxism” of Georg Lukács’, Historical Materialism, 21, 1: 69–93.

Getty, J. Arch 1987, Origins of the Great Purges: The Soviet Communist Party Reconsidered, 1933–1938, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Hecker, Rolf 1994, ‘Hans Stein – wissenschaftlicher Mitarbeiter und Korrespondent des Moskauer Marx–Engels–Instituts (1925–1929). Teil II: Die Entdeckung von unbekannten Marx-Dokumenten’, in Vollgraf, Sperl and Hecker (eds.) 1994.

Hoff, Jan 2009, Marx global. Zur Entwicklung des internationalen Marx-Diskurses seit 1965, Berlin: Akademie Verlag.

Jacoby, Russell 2001 [1981], Dialectic of Defeat: Contours of Western Marxism, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Jay, Martin 1973, The Dialectical Imagination: A History of the Frankfurt School and the Institute of Social Research, 1923–1950, London: Heinemann.

Langkau, Götz 1983, ‘Marx-Gesamtausgabe — Dringendes Parteiinteresse oder dekorativer Zweck?: Ein Wiener Editionsplan zum 30. Todestag, Briefe und Briefauszüge’, International Review of Social History, 28, 1: 105–42.

Levitas, Ruth 2010, The Concept of Utopia, Oxford: Peter Lang.

Litvin, Aleksej L’vovich 1999, Menshevistskii Protsess 1931 Goda. Sbornik Dokumentov. Kn. 2, Moscow: Rosspen.

Lukács, Georg 2000, A Defence of ‘History and Class Consciousness’: Tailism and the Dialectic, translated by Esther Leslie, London: Verso.

Manuel, Frank E. and Fritzie P. Manuel 1997, Utopian Thought in the Western World, Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press.

Marx, Karl 1960 [1850], Die Klassenkämpfe in Frankreich 1848 bis 1850, inMarx‒Engels–Werke, Volume 7, Berlin: Dietz Verlag.

Marx, Karl 1968, Hefte zur epikureischen, stoischen und skeptischen Philosophie, inMarx‒Engels–Werke, Volume 40, Berlin: Dietz Verlag.

Marx, Karl 1975a, ‘[Karl] M[arx] to [Arnold] R[uge]. Kreuznach, September 1843’, in Marx/Engels Collected Works, Volume 3, Moscow: Progress Publishers.

Marx, Karl 1975b, Notebooks on Epicurean Philosophy, inMarx/Engels Collected Works, Volume 1, Moscow: Progress Publishers.

Marx, Karl 1978 [1850], The Class Struggles in France, 1848 to 1850, in Marx/Engels Collected Works, Volume 10, Moscow: Progress Publishers.

Marx, Karl 1982, ‘[Karl] M[arx] an [Arnold] R[uge], Kreuznach, im September 1843’, in Marx–Engels–Gesamtausgabe, Volume I/2.1, Berlin: Dietz.

Marx, Karl 1998 [1894], Capital: A Critique of Political Economy. Volume III, inMarx/Engels Collected Works, Volume 37, Moscow: Progress Publishers.

Marx, Karl 2004 [1894], Das Kapital. Kritik der politischen Ökonomie. Dritter Band. Hamburg 1894, inMarx–Engels–Gesamtausgabe, Volume II/15.1, Berlin: Akademie Verlag.

Mehring, Franz 1923, ‘Vorwort des Herausgebers’, inAus dem literarischen Nachlass von Karl Marx und Friedrich Engels. 1841 bis 1850. Erster Band. Von März 1841 bis März 1844, edited by Franz Mehring, Berlin: Dietz Verlag.

Müller, Reinhard 1991, Die Säuberung. Moskau 1936. Stenogramm einer geschlossenen Parteiversammlung, Hamburg: Taschenbuch.

Müller, Reinhard 2005, ‘Don Quijote im Moskauer Exil. Cervantes, Thomas Mann und Karl Schmückle’, Mittelweg, 36, 2: 72–6.

Riazanov, David B. 1995, ‘Moe pokazenie. Nr. 1. 18 Fevralia 1932’, in G.D. Golovina and J.G. Rokitanskii, ‘«Ya ne sovershalni kakogo prestuplenia». Dve saratovskie rukopisi akademika D.B. Riazanova. 1932–1934 gg.’, Istoricheskii Arkhiv, 2: 201–21.

Rjasanow, David Borisowitsch 2007, ‘Vorwort zur MEGA 1927’, UTOPIE kreativ, 206: 1095–1111.

Schleier, Hans 1982, ‘Karl Schmückles Auseinandersetzung mit dem bürgerlichen deutschen Historismus’,  Jahrbuch für Geschichte, 25: 305–40.

Schmückle, Karl 1929, ‘Zur Kritik des deutschen Historismus’, Unter dem Banner des Marxismus, 3, 2: 281–97.

Shmyukle, K. 1929, ‘K kritikenemeckogoistorizma. Ranke I princip legitimizma’, Pod Znameniem Marksizma, 10–11: 44–56.

Vasina, Ljudmilla 1994, ‘I.I. Rubin – Marxforscher und Politökonom’, in Vollgraf, Sperl and Hecker (eds.) 1994.

Vollgraf, Carl-Erich, Richard Sperl and Rolf Hecker (eds.) 1994, Beiträge zur Marx–Engels–Forschung. Neue Folge 1994. Quellen und Grenzen von Marx’ Wissenschaftsverständnis, Hamburg: Argument Verlag.

Zhao, Yulan 2014, ‘The Historical Birth of the First Historical-Critical          Edition of Marx–Engels–Gesamtausgabe. Part 3’, Critique, 42, 1: 11–24.

Žižek, Slavoj 2000, ‘Postface: Georg Lukács as the Philosopher of Leninism’, in Lukács 2000.

[1] I would like to thank to Chris O’Kane for his proof-reading, and the anonymous referee for encouraging remarks and suggestions on a previous version of this paper.

[2] Schleier 1982.

[3] Schmückle 1929; Shmyukle 1929.

[4] Müller 1991, pp. 76–9; Müller 2005. See also Litvin 1999, p. 217.

[5] Anderson 1989, p. 29.

[6] Anderson 1989, p. 32.

[7] Anderson 1989, p. 29. Schmückle’s social origins, political orientation, the reason for his geographical displacement, and the reason for his death were also different from those of other ‘Western Marxists’. Unlike Lukács et al., his father was lumberjack. At the beginning of 1920s he became an active KPD member and emigrated to the Soviet Union. There he became a Bolshevik Party member and remained loyal to his parties until he was accused of being a spy. Ironically, one of the names that reinforced the claim that Schmückle was a ‘hidden enemy’ of the Soviet people was Lukács himself. In contrast to Schmückle, Lukács did not face any death sentence, and could return to his native country after the Second World War. Considering many Western Marxists escaped from fascist danger to the Soviet Union, Schmückle’s case is far from being ‘unique’ or a mere ‘exception’.

[8]Žižek 2000, p. 151.

[9] Jacoby 2001, p. 2.

[10] Jacoby 2001, p. 4.

[11] Fracchia 2013, p. 89.

[12] Perry Anderson’s claim that the first generation of so-called ‘Western Marxism’‘had never been integrated into the university system’ is simply wrong. When Schmückle was attending Korsch’s lectures in Jena, Korsch was already a lecturer at the department of law, and became a full professor in 1923. See Anderson 1989, p. 49.

[13] Here Röhr’s mention of the Japanese scholar might be a typo. However, Fukumoto Kazuo (1894–1983), the famous theoretician of the Japanese Communist Party, who went to Germany to study, joined the Communist Party of Germany (KPD) and then left for Japan in 1924, seems the person more likely to have participated in the meeting. Beside this wild guess, it is worth mentioning that Martin Jay’s list does not include Fukumoto at all. See Jay 1973, p. 5. Jan Hoff, on the contrary, assures us that the name of this scholar was Fukumoto Kazuo. See Hoff 2009, pp. 19, 78, 97, 98.

[14] In their compendium of utopia, Frank and Fritzie Manuel mention that Maksim Gorkii had read Campanella’s The City of the Sun when he was in Italy, had talked about it to Lunacharksii and Lenin, and that Campanella’s depiction of science became an inspiration for the official discourse of Socialist Realism. See Manuel and Manuel 1997, p. 272.

[15] Marx 1978, pp. 126–7; Marx 1960, p. 89.

[16] The claim, as asserted by Röhr, that Schmückle became a member of CPSU, is erroneous. When Schmückle arrived in the Soviet Union, the name of the Party was the ‘All-Union Communist Party of Bolsheviks ‒ VKP(B)’. The party changed its name to the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (KPSS) only in 1952.

[17] Hecker 1994, p. 150.

[18] Zhao 2014, p. 19; also see Mehring 1923, pp. vii–ix; Langkau 1983, p. 120.

[19] See Rjasanow 2007, pp. 1100–1.

[20] Marx 1975b, p. 506; Marx 1968, p. 246.

[21] Marx 1975b, p. 492; Marx 1968, p. 218.

[22] Marx 1998, p. 817; Marx 2004, p. 804.

[23] Vasina 1994, p. 149.

[24] Burkhard 1985, p. 46.

[25] Riazanov 1995. 

[26] Getty 1987, p. 122.

[27] Lukács’s involvement in Schmückle’s case disproves Perry Anderson’s claim that ‘[f]rom 1929 onwards, Lukács ceased to be a political militant, confining himself to literary criticism and philosophy in his intellectual work’. See Anderson 1989, p. 31.

[28] Levitas 2010, p. 41.

[29] Marx 1975a, p. 144; Marx 1982, p. 488.

A Review of Time in Marx by Stavros Tombazos, Time, Capitalism and Alienation by Jonathan Martineau, and Marx After Marx by Harry Harootunian

George Tomlinson

Brunel University

gstomlins@gmail.com

Abstract

Three recently published books, by Stavros Tombazos, Jonathan Martineau, and Harry Harootunian, join a now established body of literature that highlights the temporal aspects of Marx’s work. Their differences notwithstanding, these books are united by the conviction that, at its core, capitalism is an immense and complex organisation of time, and thus that the importance of Marx’s work is realised by its singular contribution to our understanding of this. Each book is centrally concerned with the historically specific character of capital’s temporal order, such that each presents a new reading of the relationship between capitalism and historical time.

Keywords

Marx – time – history

Stavros Tombazos, (2014) Time in Marx: The Categories of Time in Marx’s ‘Capital’, with a Preface by Georges Labica and Postface by Daniel Bensaïd,Historical Materialism Book Series, Leiden: Brill,

Jonathan Martineau, (2015) Time, Capitalism and Alienation: A Socio-Historical Inquiry into the Making of Modern Time,Historical Materialism Book Series, Leiden: Brill,

Harry Harootunian, (2015) Marx After Marx: History and Time in the Expansion of Capitalism, New York: Columbia University Press.

What does Marx’s work tell us about the relationship between time and history? The best answer to this question seems to be, simultaneously, quite little and a significant amount. Quite little, because nowhere in his oeuvre is there an explicit examination of this relationship; a significant amount, because a now theoretically robust literature[1] demonstrates that this oeuvre constitutes one of the greatest resources with which to explore this relationship. A number of Marxists after Marx have, of course, taken up this question (Walter Benjamin, Louis Althusser, Jean-Paul Sartre, and Ernst Bloch are the prominent examples), but what the ongoing output of books and articles on this relationship indicates is that our understanding of Marx’s contribution to it is far from exhausted. As a result (apart from the shared conviction that Marx’s work releases us from the straitjacket of historicism, the suffocating confines of Benjamin’s well-known ‘homogenous empty time’),[2] there is little, currently, that might be identified as a ‘majority opinion’ within the relevant literature. Whatever the reason – it is too early, the scope and complexity of this relationship renders consensus impossible, etc. – this is not a problem, but indeed a creative opening that lends itself to theoretical ‘play’,[3] as Kostas Axelos might say. Accordingly three of the latest books, by Stavros Tombazos,[4] Jonathan Martineau, and Harry Harootunian, to enter this arena not only possess different tones, tenors, and styles, but represent distinct – and quite distinctive – interventions into the capitalism–time–history nexus.

Tombazos’s Time in Marx is best read as a contribution to what in the Marxian literature has come to be known, variously, as the ‘New Hegelian Marxism’, the ‘New Dialectics’, and ‘Systematic Dialectics’. This is a unique contribution, for three reasons. First, it not only predates the well-known Anglo-American works in Systematic Dialectics over the last twenty years,[5] it prefigures them, which is to say that it anticipates the kinds of arguments and methodologies that guide these later works. It is, in other words, a pioneering articulation of the Hegel/Marx confrontation that overtly emphasises the influence of the late Hegel on the late Marx: the place of the Logic withinCapital, as opposed to theContribution to the Critique of Hegel’s Philosophy of Right. Second,Time in Marx ‘out-systematises’ its successors: the ambition and scope of what comes in its wake largely pales in comparison. Whereas much of the later literature in Systematic Dialectics takes a cautious approach, stressing what it sees as Marx’s selective and changing use of Hegel’sLogic andEncyclopaedia, hence limiting itself to particular sections of the three volumes ofCapital (the first six chapters of Volume One being the most common),Time in Marx noticeably differs and stages the Hegel/Marx confrontation across all three volumes. There is in these pages a steadfast conviction in the structural integrity ofCapital as a whole, the consequence being a fidelity to Marx that is both philosophically creative and restrictive. Third and finally,Time in Marx stands apart in its singular focus on the complex temporal character of Marx’s work. There is (to my knowledge) no other work in Systematic Dialectics that does the same, no other work in this literature that contends that the overriding framework through which Marx’s critique of political economy must be grasped is, necessarily, a temporal one. Tombazos’s choice of time as ‘the guiding thread’ of his analysis is not arbitrary; on the contrary, ‘capital is, precisely, aconceptual organisation of time’.[6]

Predictably, Time in Marx is divided into three parts which correspond, in order, to the three volumes ofCapital. The first part is structured by what Tombazos calls ‘The Time of Production’, which he characterises as ‘a linear and abstract temporality, homogeneous, a time that is supposed to be calculable, measurable’.[7] The predominant subject of this section is labour-time, understood as both a transhistorical economic law[8] and – his primary concern – a ‘regulatory principle’ specific to capitalism. Accordingly, this is where three (wholly intertwined) forms of capitalist labour-time take centre stage: socially necessary labour-time, abstract labour-time, and surplus labour-time. This is also where several of the most precise and sophisticated formulations of Time in Marx make their appearance. Some highlight the social basis of capitalist labour-time: socially necessary labour-time is notoriginally a quantity but a social relation, a regulatory link that ‘can only be quantified through the effect of a difference that manifests itself in it’,[9] and abstract labour-time is the condition of the individuation of the act of labour, such that it ‘introduces a division within itself that is usually called the “division of labour”’.[10] For its part, surplus labour-time constitutes what Tombazos calls ‘the hidden time of the commodity’, because it emerges from the difference between the labour-time necessary for the production of a commodity and the labour-time necessary for the reproduction of the labour-power whose use produces this commodity.[11]

Other passages in Part One are revealing as much for their actual content as for what they potentially enable. Consider the following on the value/use-value, thus abstract/concrete labour, relation:

In the usual way of reading Capital, the commodity divides itself into abstract and concrete labour, into value and use-value, without being able to be value if it is not also use-value, and vice versa. This is correct but insufficient. Abstract labour divides itself, within itself, into abstract labour (universality) and abstract/concrete labour (particularity). Use-value is not only an aspect of the commodity, but also an aspect of value, a particularisation of it. … Use-values can only have a meaning as particularisations of value … . It seems to us more correct to say that the commodity is divided into value and value/use-value in order to highlight the non-independent (and neutral) character of use-values under capitalism. Thus, abstract labour appears in two forms: as a simple unity with itself (value, universality) and as a ‘composed’ unity (value/use-value, abstract/concrete labour, particularity).[12]

This is an important passage, because it reminds us that use-value, hence concrete labour, only exists consequent to the commodification of labour-power, which is to say that abstract labour produces, within itself, concrete labour as its dialectical exterior, and thus that living labour is only ‘external’ to capitalwithin the production-process.[13] Yet there is also an opportunity here (which Tombazos misses) to investigate the problem of ‘concrete labour-time’, such that, on the one hand, this social individual form of time is already always subsumed by a purely social form of time (concrete labour-time is only actual in its dialectical subordination to abstract labour-time), and, on the other hand, it must, on some level, be understood as different than abstract labour-time (there is, after all, a dialectic at work here). The extent of what Tombazos offers (this is representative of the secondary literature more generally) is that ‘individual time has a particular content … that is experienced subjectively’,[14] but this tells us little about what a concept of concrete labour-time might resemble.

Hegel’s Logic undeniably makes its mark on Part One. Tombazos gives considerable attention, in summary, to the relevance of ‘measure’ to the exchange relation, to the ways in which ‘essence’ bears on Marx’s exposition of value, and to how Marx’s illustration of the movement from simple circulation to the circulation of money-capital is indebted to the transition from ‘chemism’ to ‘teleology’.[15] Yet it is Part Two of Time in Marx, ‘The Time of Circulation’, wherein the Hegel/Marx confrontation is at its most productive. Departing from the premise that ‘the second volume ofCapital has been almost completely forgotten’,[16] Tombazos goes to great lengths to demonstrate that this volume not only constitutes the ‘key’[17] for understanding Capital as a whole, but also that the source of this is nothing other than Hegel’s system. The place of Hegel in the early chapters ofCapital Volume Two (above all Chapter 4, ‘The Three Figures of the Circuit’) not only lends these chapters a systematicity equal to the systematic development of the value-form in the early chapters ofCapital Volume One, it endows them with a power that their counterpart in Volume One does not have: the ability to present the various forms of capital itself,subsequent to the establishment of capital as self-expanding value.

The section of the Logic upon which Part Two ofTime in Marx hinges is ‘The Syllogism’ (Chapter Three of ‘The Doctrine of the Concept’). Drawing on the figures of this syllogism, Tombazos shows the extent to which Marx’s presentation of the different positions and relations between money, the commodity, and production inCapital Volume Two can be grasped as a critical appropriation of theLogic which nevertheless corresponds to the different positions and relations between, respectively, universality, particularity, and singularity within this syllogism. This is, as Tombazos describes it, ‘the syllogistic structure of capital’,[18] and after the Logic, it correlates to the sense in which, as the ‘Idea’, capital is a processual ‘living being’ – a teleological ‘living organism’ – that divides itself, within itself, into three processes:[19] the ‘living individual’, or ‘shape’ (the circuit of productive capital); the ‘life-process’, or ‘assimilation’ (the circuit of commodity capital); and finally the ‘genus-process’ (the circuit of money capital). The details of this homology between Hegel and Marx (which, to my knowledge, the rest of Systematic Dialectics does not address) cannot be taken any further here.[20] It must suffice to state that, for Tombazos, the circuits of money, productive, and commodity capital make up, in turn, the ‘valorisation, conservation and auto-critique/self-control of value’,[21] such that as a ‘triple autonomous movement’,[22] and hence as a ‘rich and complex organisation of rhythms’,[23] ‘social capital’[24] – the subject of Capital Volume Two – is Marx’s most complete expression of the life of capital.

Two points follow from this. First, Time in Marx constitutes a useful, if underdeveloped, account of the discourse of ‘life’ in Marx’s critique of political economy more generally. There is a consistent appeal to ‘life’ (Leben) in this critique – there is a consistent use of life-related terms – but there is no theoretical discourse on the ‘life of capital’ (indeed, the same can be said of ‘the life of the worker’, ‘living labour’, human beings’ ‘means of life’, etc., insofar as ‘life’ here only functions ontologically around the concepts with which it is joined). Given its emphasis on the ‘life-processes’ and ‘life-circuits’ of social capital,Time in Marx makes a step towards addressing this absence. Second, Tombazos’s analysis of the syllogistic structure of capital establishes a basis upon which ‘The Time of Circulation’ is philosophically secured as a ‘cyclical’ temporality. While ‘The Time of Production’ is for Tombazos an abstract linear time, ‘The Time of Circulation’ is a cyclical temporality, but – and this is crucial – this temporality has no meaning beyond the ‘ordinary’ or ‘vulgar’ conception of time (to use a Heideggerian expression) unless it is grounded, as it is here, in Hegel’s dialectical exposition of the syllogism. In this way, the times that form Tombazos’s ‘The Time of Circulation’ (and Marx’sCapital Volume Two) – particularly ‘turnover time’ (Umschlagszeit) as the sum of production time and circulation time[25] – are not reducible to quantity alone.

Part Three of Time in Marx touches on the central categories and topics ofCapital Volume Three: cost, price, and profit, as well as the derivations of industrial capital and ground rent, leading to the well-known ‘Trinity Formula’. Yet it is Tombazos’s exploration of capitalist crises, coming out of the ‘Law of the Tendential Fall in the Rate of Profit’, which offers the most promise. Inasmuch as social capital is ‘a rich and complex organisation of rhythms’, it is, because of this, equally the permanent tendency towards crisis, such that its rhythmic unity contains the permanent possibility of ‘a kind of “arrhythmia” … a momentary disturbance of the system’s coherence’.[26] This point, made in passing in Part Two, comes to the fore in the closing chapters of Time in Marx, and opens the door to a rare critique ofCapital: whereas Marx investigates the ‘periodical crises linked to the industrial cycle, which are therefore “normal”, necessary and inevitable moments of capitalist production’, he leaves unanalysed ‘the structural crises that are abnormal or extraordinary in that they cannot be overcome by the spontaneous or endogenous mechanisms of the system’.[27] This critique is important in its own right, but for the purposes of this review it carries additional weight, because it frames Tombazos’s articulation of the relationship between capital and historical time. He states:

Far from acting in a social environment that it only conquers, capital produces its objective contents that are this environment. It produces its own history. Each particular stage of capitalism, each recovery from a structural crisis, is the peace that capital concludes with itself. … This correspondence between ‘subjectivity’ and ‘objectivity’ is not that of the conceptual totality of capital with an external empirical reality, with a neutral historical time. Rather, it is the relative correspondence of the former with the objective determinations it produces. … Capital as an ‘Idea’ is the correspondence of a logical order of time – obeying its own immanent criteria – with historical time. This correspondence is a permanent relation of tension and conflict, a relation of sometimes hidden and sometimes evident contradiction. Crises, particularly structural crises, are violent moments of confrontation between antagonistic forces. They open up various possibilities, among which is that of a new ‘peace’ between the ‘subjective side’ and ‘objective side’ of capital. This is why capitalism is a coherent system of determinations, at the same time completed and open, dynamic and in movement.[28]

This passage is noteworthy, because it demonstrates another point of difference between Time in Marx and the rest of so-called ‘Systematic Dialectics’: it rejects the notion that the systematicity of Hegel’s and Marx’s systematic dialectic is defined by its separation from – indeed opposition to – a ‘historical dialectic’. This is a tenet of much of the literature in Systematic Dialectics: history and historical time must be excluded from the domain of the systematic.[29] Tombazos obviously contests this. Yet the question that must be posed here is whether or not he goes far enough. That is, do history and historical time merely form the ‘objective side’ of the dialectic of capital, the ‘empirical world’ that is dialectically tied to the ‘subjective side’ – the ‘thought’ or ‘universal reason’ – of capital, such that a ‘mutual fertilisation’ and ‘contradictory unity’ between the universal logic and particular history of capital exists?[30] Or are history and historical time manifestations of the dialectic of capital itself, from both the standpoint of its objectivity and subjectivity, such that it makes no sense to relegate history and historical time to capital’s ‘empirical world’? Tombazos repeatedly states that there is ‘no relation of separation’[31] between the logic and history of capital,[32] but why speak of ‘logic’ and ‘history’ as discrete entities in the first place? What is the point of insisting upon their inseparability if they are (from the standpoint of the process that is capital) indistinguishable in the first place? Is the subjective side of capital, its ‘logical order of time’, not already always historical? Thus the question is not one of ‘coincidence’, ‘correspondence’, or ‘confrontation’, but identity (which contains conflict and crisis within it). The logic and history of capital are not the subjective and objective sides of the dialectic, respectively, but two different expressions of one and the same thing.[33]

These questions cast a critical lens on other aspects of Time in Marx, from lapses into positions consistent with Systematic Dialectics[34] to, of much greater consequence, its most comprehensive concept: the ‘organic time of capital’. In short, this concept (which, incidentally, Martineau does not question and Harootunian approvingly cites)[35] denotes the unity of ‘The Time of Production’ and ‘The Time of Circulation’. It is Tombazos’s culminating formulation of ‘the time of capital’ (assuming that it is possible to speak of such a thing). Yet the fact is that this unity is better understood as ‘the historical time of capital’, a time whose abstract contours are introduced in the second volume of Capital, and subsequently concretised in the third volume. Amongst other things, this reformulation casts light on the need to actually construct a concept of a ‘structural crisis’ of capital (which Tombazos does not do), a necessary step towards thinking social and historical time after capitalism. As it stands, Tombazos leaves the relationship between crises and historical time within the terms of capital’s attempt to resolve every crisis, particularly structural ones: the mediation of linear, progressive time.

          If Time in Marx is on the whole faithful to Marx, Martineau’sTime, Capitalism and Alienation takes a more ‘heretical’ approach. Yet the peculiar thing about this book is that, like Moishe Postone’sTime, Labor, and Social Domination,[36] its heresy seems to be unconscious, by which I mean that Martineau does not acknowledge, let alone address, the extent to which he has transformed several of the most basic categories of Capital. The heart of this is an analogical extension (straight out of Postone) of abstract labour-time and concrete labour-time into ‘abstract time’ and ‘concrete time’, which, when presumed to be consistent with Marx, leads to other interpretive problems and thereby obscures some essential dimensions of Marx’s work (specifically its deeply dialectical character).Time, Capitalism and Alienation is therefore liable to accusations of a ‘misreading’ of Marx, and while there certainly are formulations and passages that I consider misguided, reducing this book to this vein not only risks complicity in a kind of Marxological arrogance, it neglects the actual contributions made by Martineau’s ‘points of heresy’.[37] This book raises new and complex questions that we cannot ignore.

In contrast to the vast scope of Time in Marx, the focus ofTime, Capitalism and Alienation is more directed (its subtitle, ‘A Socio-Historical Inquiry into the Making of Modern Time’, does not reflect the fact that its overriding concern is the relationship between capitalism and the clock). And whereas Tombazos gives us a Marx with few interlocutors (essentially Hegel), Martineau – much to his credit – synchronises a more diverse range of material and accordingly produces a more synthetic book. The purpose of this study is consequently quite ambitious:

[I]t seeks to delineate some of the characteristics of capitalism’s mode of social time and to examine how processes of capitalist value formation and appropriation affect and/or construct a historically specific relationship between an ‘abstract’ time-form (known as clock-time) and ‘concrete’ times … . [T]o provide an analysis of social time in a way that emphasises the commodification of time … and also [treat] the commodification of time not as a once-and-for-all event, but as a conflictual process implying a tendency by capitalism to create and reproduce an abstract time framework which alienates, subsumes, reduces and abstracts from concrete social times,while being contested and resisted by women and men as embodied historical agents thriving for the reappropriation of their concrete times, bodies and lives.[38]

There are multiple things to attend to here, the course of which will take us through the book.

The first is Martineau’s conception of ‘social time’, or more specifically ‘social time relations’. A guiding premise of this book is that ‘time is a social phenomenon’,[39] and Martineau dedicates the first chapter to the theoretical and methodological implications of this insight. This begins with a ‘conceptual mapping’ of alienation and reification, which unfortunately omits some important facets of Marx’s theorisation,[40] and is arguably misplaced within the overall structure of the book, insofar as its link to social time is only established in the final chapter. This is followed by some remarks about the relationship between ideas and contexts more generally, highlighting the works of Neal Wood, Ellen Meiksins Wood, and István Mészáros. However, the better part of the first chapter is concerned with constructing a concept of social time out of the modern social sciences, for it is this avenue, Martineau contends, that offers a potential ‘resolution of what Paul Ricœur has called time’s fundamental aporia betweencosmological andexperiential conceptions’.[41] In short, it is sociology[42] that directs us towards an overcoming of time’s objective–subjective divide.

Martineau thus casts his lens on two leading figures in sociological ‘time studies’: Norbert Elias and Barbara Adam. In Elias’s Time: An Essay (1992), we have a conception of social time borne from a rejection of the dualisms between ‘nature’ and ‘society’, and ‘individual’ and ‘group’, one that yields a distinction between (natural) ‘time’ and (social) ‘timing’. This is not a new dualism on a different plane, but rather entails a relation between a means of orientation, such as a clock or calendar (time), and the synthesising power of human social activity (timing). While this is a historically and culturally changing relation, what is common to all societies is time’s ongoing derivation from and dependence on timing. Added to this is Adam’s ‘timescape’, a concept which ‘provides a space for understanding the threading of different time forms in coexistence as a process of hierarchisation’.[43] Adam’s emphasis on multiple temporalities is important, but what truly interests Martineau is the question of hierarchy, because it enables him to locate social-property relations, and thus the logics of power and struggle, at the heart of his concept of ‘social time relations’ (the absence of this in Elias’s account is, rightly, taken to task). The stage is now set for a return to the book’s defining argument: ‘social time relations in capitalist societies are dominated by clock-time: capitalist clock-time occupies a hegemonic position in the hierarchy of temporalities that form capitalist social time relations, alienating, subordinating, colonising, absorbing and/or marginalising other conceptions and practices of time and concrete temporalities’.[44]

However, Martineau first takes a historical detour (a fairly long one: Chapter 2), beginning with the emergence of the mechanical clock in European urban centres in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, and culminating in clock-time’s ‘development into a social time infrastructure’[45] during the transition from feudalism to capitalism. Topically, this chapter covers a massive amount of territory: the relation between technology and the social, historiographical controversies surrounding the invention of the mechanical clock, the place of work bells in medieval life, the relations between ‘the time of the Church’ and ‘the time of merchants’ (Martineau’s critique of Jacques Le Goff here is particularly strong), pre-capitalist concrete times in light of Mikhail Bakhtin’s ‘grotesque realism’, the transition from feudalism to capitalism more generally (led by Robert Brenner’s account), and finally Isaac Newton’s ‘absolute time’ as a theoretical manifestation of the temporal infrastructure of clock-time. Despite this enormous range of subjects and source material, Martineau’s message is admirably consistent. It has two components: first, clock-time is increasingly constitutive of pre-capitalist social time relations, but it cannot be understood as ‘hegemonic’ within these relations; second, the time of pre-capitalist social practices – above all labour – is in many respects ‘dominated’ by clock-time, but it is not alienated by this time, because clock-time does not penetrate the very fabric of the practices themselves.[46] However, this consistency is not without its costs. Some of it hinges on an uncritical presentation of the sources that cultivate it, a notable example being Martineau’s wholesale endorsement of Brenner’s work, leading to declarations such as ‘England’s capitalist development is endogenous’.[47] This flies in the face of Marx’s analysis of ‘originary accumulation’ (ursprüngliche Akkumulation, on which Martineau remains silent), and thereby shuts the door on the problems that capitalism creates for the concept of ‘origin’ more generally.[48]

Chapter 2 clearly functions as a counterpoint to the third and final chapter, where the focus is on the inextricable fusion between clock-time and capitalist social relations. Clock-time historically precedes (and will presumably exist after) capitalism, but capitalism constitutes a historically unprecedented mode of production wherein clock-time is the hegemonic form of social time. At the heart of this is the valorisation process. Value formation and appropriation ‘take hold of clock-time’s infrastructure’[49] in such a way that concrete times (which cannot, crucially, be reduced to ‘the-concrete-time-of-labour’)[50] are subsumed and thus alienated by ‘abstract time’: an ‘independent’ time which, after Postone, comprises a form of ‘abstract domination’ that structures general social experience.[51] Consequently, there is an ‘intricate relationship between abstract clock-time and value’;[52] ‘abstract time is a fundamental part of the whole edifice of capitalist value formation’.[53] This interpretive framework guides the whole of Chapter 3, including a detailed analysis of World Standard Time, the return to the question of the alienation/reification of time (‘put simply, time is alienated because of its commodification. It is bought and sold on the market’),[54] and finally an account of concrete times as struggles against abstract time (the two examples given are women’s control over pregnancy and childbirth, and the resistance of Australian Aborigines to British colonialism). Given the scope of Martineau’s concept of ‘concrete time’[55] (it far exceeds that of Postone’s, which is ‘limited’ to the production of material wealth), it is not surprising that these struggles are animated by countless concrete times that ‘form an inextinguishable substratum of natural, social, bodily and human processes, which can never be subsumed, even as abstract time strives to alienate them and bring them under the logic of value formation’.[56]

Martineau is clearly aware that his ‘concrete time’ represents a distinct extension of the scope of Marx’s ‘concrete labour-time’, but it is less clear (because it remains unanalysed, indeed unasked) what effects Martineau understands this to have on the intelligibility of Marx’s system more generally (e.g. the difference and relation between the production and circulation processes, the difference and relation between labour-time and free/leisure time).[57] This points to a related but more fundamental issue, one that constitutes the defining difference between Martineau and Marx, and one that, since it is passed over with no commentary, constitutes what I consider to be the defining limitation of Time, Capitalism and Alienation. This is the presumed consistency, and hence conflation, of Marx’s ‘abstract labour-time’ and Martineau’s ‘abstract time’/‘clock-time’.[58] The problem here is one of manifestation (Erscheinung) and thus measure. Whereas for Martineau ‘different concrete times of different concrete labours are abstracted, reduced to abstract time, and made commensurable through their expression in clock-time units’,[59] for Marx it is not the clock but money which renders equivalent different concrete labour-times. To put this another way, abstract labour (-time)[60] ontologically depends upon the clock – its homogeneity, quantifiability, and divisibility is predicated on clock-time – but it is not equivalent to it. Abstract labour controls the clock (most directly by its measure of concrete labour), such that, in capitalism, the clock is subservient to money as a temporal form. Thus money, in both its function as a commodity and as capital – as the ‘materialisation of universal labour-time’[61] and as value made formally independent – is the real manifestation of ‘abstract time’. For Marx, money, not clock-time, is the hegemonic capitalist social time relation.

Perhaps the most apparent corollary of this difference is Martineau’s continual reference to ‘the commodification of time’ (and the corresponding political call for the ‘decommodification’ of time). From Marx’s perspective, this is mistaken: time itself is not commodified. Rather, it is labour-power that is commodified, producing the abstract labour – the socially necessary labour-time – that is both the presupposition and result of commodification more generally. It is the use of labour-power that yields a form of time without which commodification cannot (re)occur. This dovetails with Marx’s contention that ‘we should not say that one man’s hour is worth another man’s hour, but rather that one man during an hour is worth as much as another man during an hour’.[62] This is crucial, because it avoids the disaggregation of the unity of the concept of ‘labour-time’ (Arbeitszeit), a unity, at least from Marx’s standpoint, that risks being jettisoned by concepts such as ‘abstract time’. The hyphen within ‘labour-time’ is important: it registers the ontological unity ofArbeitszeit.

For all this, it is impossible to deny that Time, Capitalism and Alienation raises questions that Marx’s work either does not ask or inadequately tackles. What is the relationship between value and the clock? Between the innumerable concrete times of human life and capitalism more generally? And how do we imagine, let alone practise, a politics of time which potentially unseats value as the self-mediating ground of the social? Again, the problem is not the construction of concepts such as ‘abstract time’ and ‘concrete time’ to help us answer these vital questions, but an unacknowledged departure from the source in whose name they are constructed. There is nothing wrong with departing from Marx to answer these questions – indeed, we must – but this would have been a more persuasive book had Martineau recognised, and engaged, the extent to which Marx is being transformed. As it stands, it reproduces many of the problems of Postone’sTime, Labor, and Social Domination. However, and unlike Postone, Martineau does not flirt with what Antonio Negri calls ‘the complete realisation of the law of value’:[63] he rejects a conception of subsumption wherein ‘a complete absorption or eradication of concrete times by abstract time’[64] occurs, for this would signal the death of capitalism.[65]

On this count, Martineau is squarely in line with the most consequential US historian of Japan to date. In a career that now spans over fifty years, Harry Harootunian’s oeuvre includes pioneering books on Tokugawa nativism (Things Seen and Unseen, 1988), the Meiji Revolution (Toward Restoration, 1970), intellectuals’ deliberations on capitalist modernity (Overcome by Modernity, 2000), and the question of everyday life (History’s Disquiet, 2000). SinceHistory’s Disquiet, a signature move of his work has been to pit the indissociable histories of capitalism and colonialism against the culturalisms of area studies (particularly ‘Asian Studies’) and postcolonial studies alike. At the heart of this is the conviction that unlike the provincialisms of area and postcolonial studies, the history of capitalism – whose ‘area’ is the world as such – bears witness to the fundamental unevenness reproduced by labour processes, and therefore cannot be grasped by a linear, progressive conception of historical time (historicism). Historical capitalism, indeed history itself, is better comprehended as stratified layers of multiple and discordant temporalities, where past temporal forms are synchronised, but never always or fully, by the imperatives of the present.[66] The present is the prime mover of historical time, but its hegemony is continually liable to disruption by its received pasts. For this reason, as Harootunian asserts, ‘each present … supplies a multiplicity of possible lines of development’.[67]

This is the outlook of Marx After Marx, but it now comes with a twist: the object of critique is no longer area and postcolonial studies, but ‘Western Marxism’, a name that for Harootunian signifies a clear prioritisation of circulation over production, and a concomitant ‘distancing from the economic for the cultural … which contributed to valorising a specific (and provincial) cultural endowment as unique, superior, and universal’.[68] The accused include Lukács’s History and Class Consciousness (for its reliance on Max Weber’s instrumental rationality, to be precise), the early Frankfurt School (‘with its insistence on the commodification of life at the level of mass consumption and culture’),[69] and finally Negri and his followers, ‘who have presumed the final completion of the commodity relation everywhere’.[70] In turn, Harootunian has been accused of creating a ‘simplified image’, and thus a ‘fantasy construct’,[71] of Western Marxism, first by neglecting vital differences between its purported agents, and then by declaring that it ‘[made] a provincial culture serve as a universal standard for the rest of the world to follow … [promoted] a unique cultural configuration as a model of imitation’[72] (there is very little, if any, evidence for this). In the end, however, what matters is the reading of Marx and the Marxists (who are not Lukács, Adorno or Negri) which animates this book. ‘Western Marxism’ is overstated in Marx After Marx, but it does not overdetermineMarx After Marx. Rather, it is a symptom of a particular, and particularly unique, interpretation of Marx and some of his most significant (largely non-European) interlocutors. We turn, then, to the concept which singlehandedly inspires this book: subsumption.

Marx After Marx lives up to its title. There is a genuinely new Marx being presented here, because Harootunian has armed Marx’s concept of subsumption with the capacity to express the relationship between capitalism and history itself. More specifically, he has granted Marx’s concept of ‘formal’, as opposed to ‘real’, subsumption the exclusive rights to this relationship. As a result, the difference he establishes between these two kinds of subsumption (chiefly in Chapter One, ‘Marx, Time, History’) is remarkable. To begin, the real subsumption at work in these pages is not the usual account guided by Capital Volume One (the production of relative surplus-value underpinned by transformations of the labour-process itself, e.g. cooperation, the division of labour, the use of machinery), but rather a notion that indicates the ‘untroubled completion’ of capitalism, a concept that Marx needed ‘in order to present capitalism as a completed totality’.[73] ‘Real subsumption’ imagines capitalism released from its ‘disturbing subsidiary circumstances’ (Marx’s words), such that it is effectively ‘a model … a proto-ideal type, which envisions the possible realisation and completion of the commodity relation in an as yet unrealised future, in a last instance that never comes’.[74] In short, one might say, the only thing that is ‘real’ about real subsumption is its methodological purpose and function, driven by Marx’s ‘analytic desire to totalise capitalism’.[75] In this sense, an overriding problem of Western Marxism is its presumption that real subsumption has actually been achieved, announcing the end of unevenness and thus ‘the final completion of capitalism’s domination of everyday life’.[76]

This depiction of real subsumption (which simultaneously seems to disavow Negri and turn Marx into a late Negrian) paves the way for the enthusiastic inquiry, bordering on enshrinement, of formal subsumption. On the whole, the relation between formal and real subsumption in Marx After Marx is not a mutually constitutive one, an interplay or continual crossing-over from one kind to another, or what Tomba elsewhere describes as the ‘reciprocal co-penetration between absolute surplus-value and relative surplus-value’.[77] Harootunian’s relation is instead one of diametric opposition: while real subsumption invokes a mystical world where valorisation is finalised everywhere, ‘whereby value has trumped history’,[78] formal subsumption demands the sober confrontation with the messy reality of history, and thereby with the radical openness and incompleteness of capitalism. As the ‘principal logic of capitalist development’[79] and ‘general rule of all capitalist development’[80] (phrases that recur across Marx After Marx, and modifications of a single sentence in ‘Results of the Immediate Production-Process’),[81] formal subsumption is a temporalising form that ‘through its protean capacity to appropriate from the past what it found useful to capitalism, constantly introduced practices that embodied past times in every present’.[82] Therefore, ‘we must recognise in it the form of history itself’;[83] it entails ‘the categorical logic delegated to express the sensible materiality of historical change’.[84] So strong is Harootunian’s investment in formal subsumption that it might be taken as a challenge to Marx’s claim that communism is the riddle of history solved.

This commitment to formal subsumption comes down to the idea that it is the binding agent, the ‘connecting hinge’, between history and capital’s abstract logic (like Martineau, and after Postone, ‘capital’ in this work is essentially synonymous with ‘abstract logic’), and thus between the old and new more broadly, generating a ‘constantly changing historical landscape’ whose repository is the untimely and uneven temporalities of everyday life.[85] This argument directs the entire book, but it does not shoehorn it, as each of the chosen interlocutors reframes, qualifies and extends its contours. Indeed, a brilliant dimension of Marx After Marx is the fact that the evolution of its argument reflects the protean capacity of formal subsumption itself. A shared feature of Lenin’sThe Development of Capitalism in Russia (1899) and Rosa Luxemburg’sThe Accumulation of Capital (1913) is the insistence that originary accumulation is ‘always immanent’[86] to the logic of formal subsumption, be it through the wage-form yoking itself to existing forms of exploitation in the agricultural countryside, or the colonial violence that underpins the dependence of capitalism on ‘noncapitalism’ more generally. The concept of ‘passive revolution’ in Antonio Gramsci’s The Southern Question (1926) is the ‘equivalent political form’[87] of formal subsumption, because it transferred the encounter between the economic ‘new’ and ‘old’ to a tactic which recruited and mobilised ‘what was near at hand’: the fluid and uneven mix of ‘different classes and political ambitions that constituted the “revolution”’.[88] José Carlos Mariátegui’s appeal to surviving traces of archaic Incan communal orders is in no way a romantic desire for the recovery of an ‘Inca utopianism’,[89] but rather a hedge on an unheralded Peruvian socialism, made possible by formal subsumption and its ‘coexisting different contemporaneities … constant collision of pasts in presents that are never completed but always left open’.[90] The sustained attention to ‘feudal remnants’ in China (Wang Yanan) and Japan (Yamada Moritarō and Uno Kōzō) inevitably runs into formal subsumption as the optic through which the historical ‘lateness’ of these nation-states can be theorised, without resorting to historicist – and racist – claims of ‘backwardness’.

The overriding image/metaphor that Harootunian employs to bring Marx and these interlocutors together is the palimpsest, as it evokes the ‘stratigraphic history’[91] – the vertical layering – that formal subsumption produces. Conversely, the methodological ‘fiction’ (Luxemburg’s word)[92] of real subsumption, which ‘[misrecognises] a model for real existence’,[93] regards the residues of older economic and political forms as wholly removed by later arrivals, and therefore relegates history to a ‘homogeneous, unitary, and linear trajectory of time’.[94] But is the concept of real subsumption really guilty of these charges? Does it, ultimately, ‘literally imagine’ capitalism as a ‘completed totality’?[95] The connection of real subsumption to the discourse of ‘completion’ is so deeply entrenched in Marx After Marx that to answer these questions in anything but the affirmative risks destabilising, if not dismantling, the theoretical edifice upon which this book is built. Yet if one believes (as I do) that real subsumption (in tandem, of course, with formal and hybrid subsumption) is squarely at the heart of the unevenness and necessary incompletion of capitalism and history alike, then this edifice cannot stand. Of critical importance here are the conceptions of ‘totality’ and ‘totalisation’ at work inMarx After Marx. After Sartre,[96] totalisation in Marx is not, as it is often understood to be, an ‘adding up’ of innumerable multiplicities into a single, ‘completed totality’. It is, on the contrary, the creation of difference, a unification whose unity is the process of its disintegration. In this sense, capitalism is a totalityprecisely because it cannot and never will be completed.

This opposing vision, between Harootunian and Marx, of the relationship between capitalism and totalisation is the gateway to a new relationship between subsumption and history, one that unsettles Marx After Marx but nonetheless maintains its commitment to ‘deprovincialising Marx’ and hence to world history. This begins with removing real subsumption from the misty realm of the ‘ideal model’ and returning it to where Marx clearly locates it: within the production-process of capital, which is to say within the actuality of the historical present of capitalist labour-processes. If real subsumption ‘is logically implicit in the concept of capital’,[97] so too are the material coexistence and interplay between formal and real subsumption. This does not preclude the possibility of stretches of chronological time, across various places in the world (particularly colonised societies), where formal subsumption is the predominant or even exclusive mode of capitalist appropriation, whereby there are no changes in the labour-processes themselves, and ‘nothing … has changed but [the worker’s] soul’.[98] But it is one thing to accept this possibility, as Marx does,[99] and another to turn formal subsumption into the law of world-historical capitalism, the ‘general rule of all capitalist development’. Harootunian puts such a heavy burden on formal subsumption that, on Marx’s terms, he denies ‘capitalist’ status to the world he brings into focus. After Marx, real subsumption constitutes the ‘specifically capitalist mode of production’; it defines a capitalist society as ‘capitalist’, such that it enables capitalist production to ‘[establish] itself as a mode of productionsui generis’.[100] To insist on the presence of real subsumption in the non-European world does not erase the traces of older modes of production, nor does it put a fully-fledged industrial capitalism – complete with factories and machines – where it does not belong, but simply suggests the need to recognise some transformation of labour-processes themselves, in the vast majority of places where capital arrives on the scene.

As it stands, this distinct priority afforded to formal subsumption has two peculiar consequences. The first is that it reproduces the premise of many Western Marxists that the scope of subsumption extends beyond the production-process of capital to society as a whole. Against Marx (who explicitly limits subsumption to the production-process), Harootunian’s interpretation of Lenin as ‘[extending] the scope of formal subsumption to include areas outside the economic domain’,[101] of Gramsci as ‘[transferring] … formal subsumption from the economic to the political register and beyond’,[102] and of formal subsumption as ‘defining the social totality’[103] of Italy and Peru, ironically aligns with Jacques Camatte’s declaration of ‘the total subsumption of labour under capital’,[104] Fredric Jameson’s pronouncement that ‘everything has been subsumed under capitalism’,[105] and Negri’s claim that we have entered ‘the phase of the total subsumption of society’.[106] There is of course a palpable difference of content here, between Harootunian and the others, but the formal relationship between subsumption and totalisation is the same: subsumption, whether formal or real, stretches to all facets of social life. This is reinforced by the fact that Harootunian accepts the Western Marxist notion that real subsumption corresponds to ‘capitalism as a completed totality’ (his only point of contention is the presumption of realisation).

The second consequence of formal subsumption as ‘the general rule of all capitalist development’ is a one-sided, and therefore problematic, understanding of the relationship between capitalism and ‘noncapitalism’, which is to say between capitalism and ‘prior’ or ‘older’ practices. This, in turn, simplifies the historical-temporal relationship between the ‘new’ and ‘old’ more generally. As one might expect, Harootunian’s formal subsumption offers scarce acknowledgement of capital’s incessant reproduction of existing practices as ‘past’, and thus presents far too neat a separation between ‘capitalist production’ and ‘prior practices that are at hand’. This reproduction is only mentioned in passing,[107] presumably to mitigate the presence of real subsumption and the new ‘olds’ it creates. There is in Marx After Marx no consideration of the inescapable equivocation that marks the capitalist ‘old’ from the start, no analysis of the conjoined but contradictory olds put into service by formal and real subsumption. The result is that the standard (chronological) conception of the ‘old’ guides this work, despite the ‘coexisting different contemporaneities’ showcased by its stratigraphic history. When real subsumption is denied, so too is capital’s ongoing designation of existing capitalist labour-processes as either ‘insufficiently capitalist’ or as outright ‘noncapitalist’ (this is part and parcel of its totalising process). This is important, because it is the basis of the argument – central toMarx After Marx – of the permanence of originary accumulation.[108] More broadly, it is the basis of the ‘constantly changing historical landscape’ that Harootunian attributes to formal subsumption alone. Capitalism constantly revolutionises itself, and thus generates the historically new within itself, because of formal and real subsumption. When given the exclusive rights to the relation between capitalism and history, formal subsumption actually diminishes the dynamism of the historical present.[109]

It is suggestive that Marx After Marx never broaches the conceptual history of subsumption itself, specifically the manner in which Marx’s work decisively modifies, but is nonetheless indebted to, the emergence of subsumption as a modern, critical concept in Kant, and the introduction of new social and historical dimensions to subsumption in Hegel.[110] Whatever the reasons for this absence, it reinforces a well-known standpoint on the relationship between Marx and philosophy as such: the position, after Louis Althusser and Georges Labica, that Marx eventually ‘breaks’ with philosophy. For Harootunian, once Marx ‘liberated history from philosophy, time or temporality is left to temporalise itself in the present’,[111] in accordance with ‘real history’ as ‘the actual empirical existence of men’.[112] The problem here is larger than the endorsement of empiricism as the anti-philosophical meaning of history, and with it a certain faith in the self-sufficiency of history (which is not an adequate solution to the faith in the self-sufficiency of philosophy). At a more basic level, the problem is the lack of a sustained consideration of Marx’s deeply ambivalent, but thereby productive, relationship with philosophy. The Grundrisse andCapital do not break with philosophy, but enhance it; to paraphrase Balibar, philosophy has been kicked out the front door, only to sneak back in, enriched, through the window.[113] Harootunian undeniably deepens our understanding of the relationship between capitalism, time, and history. However – and this point extends to Martineau and Tombazos as well – one is left wondering in what ways, precisely, Marx’s work problematises, and is problematised by, the philosophy of time and history more generally. Despite – in fact, precisely because of – Marx’s vexed relationship to this philosophy, this is, I believe, the most important question surrounding the concept of historical time.

Sartre famously declared that ‘far from being exhausted, Marxism is still very young, almost in its infancy; it has scarcely begun to develop’.[114] It is, for this reason, the unsurpassable philosophy of our time: ‘we cannot go beyond it because we have not gone beyond the circumstances which engendered it’.[115] Nearly fifty years on, this rings true for these three books, if not the body of work on capitalism, time, and history more broadly. What these books reveal is that the theoretical and political potential of Marxism is not only not exhausted, but that such exhaustion is impossible: Marxism is as incomplete as the capitalism and history to which it is joined. In this regard, the particular limits of these books – of every book that confronts the capitalism–time–history nexus – introduce future lines of enquiry which, in turn, will introduce others.[116]

References

Arthur, Christopher J. 2004, The New Dialectic and Marx’s ‘Capital’,Historical Materialism Book Series, Leiden: Brill.

Axelos, Kostas 2015 [1966], Introduction to a Future Way of Thought: On Marx and Heidegger, translated by Kenneth Mills, edited and introduced by Stuart Elden, Lüneburg: Meson Press.

Balibar, Étienne 1995, The Philosophy of Marx, translated by Gregory Elliott and Chris Turner, London: Verso.

Balibar, Étienne 2015, ‘Foucault’s Point of Heresy: “Quasi-Transcendentals” and the Transdisciplinary Function of the Episteme’, Theory, Culture & Society, 32, 5–6: 45–77.

Bensaïd, Daniel 2002, Marx for Our Times: Adventures and Misadventures of a Critique, translated by Gregory Elliott, London: Verso.

Bonefeld, Werner 2010, ‘Abstract Labour: Against its Nature and On its Time’, Capital & Class, 34, 2: 257–76.

Camatte, Jacques 1988 [1976], Capital and Community, translated by David Brown, London: Unpopular Books.

Harootunian, Harry 2007, ‘Remembering the Historical Present’, Critical Inquiry, 33: 471–94.

Harootunian, Harry 2010, ‘Who Needs Postcoloniality? A Reply to Linder’, Radical Philosophy, 164: 38–44.

Harootunian, Harry 2015, Marx After Marx: History and Time in the Expansion of Capitalism, New York: Columbia University Press.

Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich 1969 [1812], The Science of Logic, translated by A.V. Miller, London: George Allen & Unwin Ltd.

Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich 1991 [1817], The Encyclopaedia Logic (Part I of the Encyclopaedia of Philosophical Sciences, with the Zusätze), translated by T.F. Geraets, W.A. Suchting and H.S. Harris, Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company.

Jameson, Fredric 2011, Representing Capital: A Reading of Volume One, London: Verso.

Martineau, Jonathan 2015, Time, Capitalism and Alienation: A Socio-Historical Inquiry into the Making of Modern Time,Historical Materialism Book Series, Leiden: Brill.

Marx, Karl 1963 [1847], The Poverty of Philosophy, New York: International Publishers.

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Marx, Karl 1978 [1885], Capital: A Critique of Political Economy. Volume Two, translated by David Fernbach, Harmondsworth: Penguin.

Marx, Karl 1993 [1939], Grundrisse: Foundations of the Critique of Political Economy (Rough Draft), translated by Martin Nicolaus, Harmondsworth: Penguin.

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Moseley, Fred and Tony Smith (eds.) 2014, Marx’s ‘Capital’ and Hegel’s ‘Logic’: A Reexamination,Historical Materialism Book Series, Leiden: Brill.

Negri, Antonio 1996, ‘Twenty Theses on Marx: Interpretation of the Class Situation Today’, in Marxism Beyond Marxism, edited by Saree Makdisi, Cesare Casarino and Rebecca E. Karl, New York: Routledge.

Negri, Antonio 2013 [1981], Time for Revolution, translated by Matteo Mandarini, London: Bloomsbury Academic.

Osborne, Peter 2008, ‘Marx and the Philosophy of Time’, Radical Philosophy, 147: 15–22.

Osborne, Peter 2010, ‘A Sudden Topicality: Marx, Nietzsche and the Politics of Crisis’, Radical Philosophy, 160: 19–26.

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Osborne, Peter 2016, ‘Marx after Marx after Marx after Marx’, Radical Philosophy, 200: 47–51.

Postone, Moishe 1993, Time, Labor, and Social Domination: A Reinterpretation of Marx’s Critical Theory, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Sáenz de Sicilia, Andrés 2016, The Problem of Subsumption in Kant, Hegel and Marx, PhD Thesis, Kingston University.

Sartre, Jean-Paul 1963 [1960], Search for a Method, translated by Hazel E. Barnes, New York: Alfred A. Knopf.

Sartre, Jean-Paul 2004 [1960], Critique of Dialectical Reason, Volume One: Theory of Practical Ensembles, translated by Alan Sheridan-Smith, London: Verso.

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Tomba, Massimiliano 2013, Marx’s Temporalities,Historical Materialism Book Series, Chicago: Haymarket Books.

Tombazos, Stavros 2014, Time in Marx: The Categories of Time in Marx’s ‘Capital’, with a Preface by Georges Labica and Postface by Daniel Bensaïd,Historical Materialism Book Series, Leiden: Brill.

[1] In addition to the three books reviewed here, see in particular Postone 1993, Bensaïd 2002, Tomba 2013, Osborne 2008, and Bonefeld 2010.

[2] One is hard pressed today to find anyone who advocates a historicist reading of Marx, so much so that the novelty of the anti-historicist position is quickly fading, if not already gone. A corollary of this is the frequent presupposing of precisely what needs to be explained: capitalism as the condition of homogenous empty time. As Peter Osborne suggests, ‘critical reference to historicism as a falsely linear and homogeneous conception of historical time has become a familiar trope of left-academic discourse over the last two decades, largely as a result of the still-growing influence of Benjamin’s writings. However, it often has a citational or positional function, rather than an analytical or theoretical one’. Osborne 2016, p. 51.

[3] See Axelos 2015. Axelos’s concept of ‘play/the game’ (le jeu) is difficult to pin down, but it is undeniably motivated by the place of ‘das Spiel’ in Heidegger. Broadly speaking, it signifies the sense in which the world deploys itself as a play of time, and is thereby the basis of the creative openness of what Axelos calls ‘planetary thought’.

[4] Tombazos’s Time in Marx was actually published in France in 1994, but was relatively unknown (at least by Anglo-American readers) until it was translated and republished a few years back.

[5] The paradigmatic example here is Arthur 2004. See also Moseley and Smith (eds.) 2014.

[6]Tombazos 2014, pp. 3, 5. ‘Conceptual’ in the active sense of ‘The Doctrine of the Concept’ in Hegel’sLogic.

[7]Tombazos 2014, p. 3.

[8] ‘Economy of time, to this all economy ultimately reduces itself’. Marx 1993, p. 173.

[9]Tombazos 2014, p. 4.

[10]Tombazos 2014, p. 29.

[11]Tombazos 2014, p. 85.

[12]Tombazos 2014, pp. 29–30. The problem with this passage is not that use-values are dependent on value, but that they are ‘neutral’ (the use-value of labour-power is by no means neutral).

[13] The point here is to emphasise the highly asymmetric dimension of the dialectical relationship between abstract and concrete labour, and thus value and use-value. Concrete labour and use-value are not only dialectically tied to abstract labour and value, but also only exist within abstract labour and value, as, to use Sartrean language, ‘exteriorised interiors’ of abstract labour and value. This unsettles the transhistorical validity of the categories of concrete labour and use-value, and suggests – against Marx – that they are only intelligible as economic categories specific to capitalism. Thus if the commodification of labour-power is historically specific to capitalism, and if it is a condition of the production of abstract labour and value, then concrete labour and use-value only exist consequent to this commodification.

[14]Tombazos 2014, p. 18.

[15] Unlike the chemical process (simple circulation), the teleological process (capital) not only presupposes but posits the moments of its self-renewal.

[16]Tombazos 2014, p. 119.

[17]Tombazos 2014, pp. 2, 120.