Platypus Review 38 | August 2011
One of the plenary sessions held at the third annual Platypus Affiliated Society international convention, hosted by the School of the Art Institute of Chicago between April 29–May 1, 2011, set about exploring the legacy of Trotsky’s Marxism. Speakers Mike Macnair of the Communist Party of Great Britain, Bryan Palmer of Trent University, Richard Rubin of Platypus, and Jason Wright of the International Bolshevik Tendency were asked to consider: “What is the relevance of Trotskyism for the Left today? On the one hand, there is a simple answer: The mantle of Trotskyism is claimed by many of today’s most prominent and numerous leftist parties in America and Europe (and beyond). The International Socialist Organization in America, the Socialist Workers Party in Britain, and the Nouveau Parti Anticapitaliste in France all have their origins in Trotskyism. Evidently, the collapse of Stalinism in 1989 left Trotskyism’s bona fides, as anti-Stalinist Marxism, intact. On the other hand, Trotskyism has been infamously associated on the Left with sectarianism. Certainly, the ISO, SWP and NPA long ago made their peace in crucial ways with the politics of the post-Marxist New Left — a revisionism that their sectarian brethren (for instance, Trotskyism’s bête noire, the Spartacist League) have proudly and doggedly opposed. However, despite their differences, all varieties of Trotskyism today evince the conditions of the New Left’s ‘return to Marxism’ in the 1970s, for which the legacy of Trotsky provided one significant vehicle (the other being Maoism). For instance Trotsky’s biographer, Isaac Deutscher, strongly influenced the journal New Left Review. And yet there is something peculiar about this legacy. As one Platypus writer has suggested, Trotsky is as out of place in the post-World War II world as Voltaire or Rousseau would have been in the world after the French Revolution. Trotsky, unlike Trotskyism, exemplifies the classical Marxism of the early 20th century, and that tradition certainly died with him. Thus, before we can understand how Trotskyism’s legacy has influenced the Marxism of our time, we must first answer the question: What has Trotskyism made of Trotsky’s Marxism?” A full audio recording of the event is available by clicking the above link..
Bryan Palmer: “A specter is haunting Europe,” wrote Marx and Engels in 1848, “the specter of Communism.” We live in a different epoch. Communism haunts little in our world. Platypus captures something of our dilemma with its proclamation, “The Left is dead; Long live the Left.” I take this to mean that the defeats of the Left in the 20th century have resulted in the demise of the forces of the revolutionary left, inhibiting our ability to recognize possibility. To transcend this limitation, which threatens to preclude the self-realization of humanity, the Left must live again. “Long live the Left,” then, is not merely a hope. Rather, it is a necessity, and not only for those who advocate this, but for all people.
The specter of communism, the specter of the Left, does not haunt today’s powers. Our specters are different: the capitalist crisis, on the one hand, and Stalinism, on the other. One threatens intensified exploitation, deteriorating standards of life, increased oppression, greater environmental despoliation, and imperialist war and carnage, while the other has soured peoples’ understanding of socialism. These dual specters have produced the dialectical dilemma of our times. Never has socialism been more necessary, more obviously the solution to capitalism’s quickening pace of crisis, and yet never has socialism, since its inception in the aftermath of the bourgeois revolutions of the late 18th century, seemed so unattainable. The Left seems dead, even as it holds the key to humanity’s emancipation and survival.
It is against this backdrop, at once pessimistic and optimistic, that the legacy of Trotsky’s Marxism must be assessed. Platypus presumes that the legacy of Trotsky’s Marxism can best be evaluated by exchanging the much-cherished memory of Trotsky as the anti-Stalinist martyr for the more painful image of Trotsky as the last man standing among the ruins of revolutionary Marxism. I cherish nothing about martyrdom, but view Trotsky’s assassination in light of Stalinism’s legacy: the degeneration of the fundamental revolutionary program of proletarian internationalism into the politics of “socialism in one country”, a profound shift that turned revolutionary possibility into its opposite and signaled the defeat of the world-historical accomplishment of 1917 while obliterating all protagonists of that original revolutionary victory.
The history of socialism in one country has been a profound failure regardless of the form it takes (Maoism, Guevarism, etc.). Thus I reject the notion of Trotsky as the last man, alone among the ruins of revolutionary Marxism. Revolutionary Marxism is not in ruins. It remains a profoundly rich legacy of insight and guidance, a way of thinking and acting in the world that is capable of explaining not only the rise and fall of capitalism, but also the rise and fall of what we have come to know as “actually existing 20th century socialism.” Revolutionary Marxism, far from being in ruins, is reaffirmed in its understanding of capitalist crisis, which unfolds on a daily basis. It is a considerable irony that even as bourgeois economists and organs of the bourgeois media confirmed Marxist insight at the height of the 2007–2008 mortgage meltdown, there were and are ostensible leftists proclaiming Marxism’s death.
The crises, in short, will continue as long as capitalism does. Marxism tells us this, and Trotsky’s legacy builds on Marxism’s historical development. More than an analysis of capitalism, Marxism pledges a way out of the recurring crises of capitalism. Trotsky, standing on the shoulders of Marx, Engels, and Lenin, theorized “the Revolution betrayed” and built an alternative to the Stalinist Communist International. Like his predecessors, Trotsky is alive, pregnant with possibility, and is the best guide revolutionaries have regarding what is to be done in an age overripe with capitalist decay and burdened by Stalinist degeneration. To the question of whether or not Trotsky’s Marxism continues to matter and whether revolutionary consciousness is possible in the current conjuncture, my answer is a resounding “Yes!”
One decisive component of Trotsky’s contribution, an extension of the thought and practice of Marx, Engels, and Lenin, is the importance of the subjective component within the objective circumstances. As a revolutionary Marxist response to Stalinism, Trotsky is the continuity, in different conditions, of the accumulated gains of Marxism-Leninism in the era of revolutionary degeneration. Trotskyism necessarily underscores that in a period when capitalism is overripe for revolutionary overthrow, the crisis of humanity is indeed the crisis of revolutionary leadership. This simple maxim, so curtly dismissed by all of those ostensible Marxists for whom now is never the time to struggle, never the time to build a disciplined, revolutionary working class party, never the time to call for capital’s defeat, is central to grasping what the revolutionary left has failed to do in the current hour of need.
James P. Cannon, founder of American Trotskyism, is one of the most significant figures in the history of the United States labor and left milieus. Cannon was forced to take principled stands, often against his personal inclinations, that left him marginalized, isolated, seemingly a “last man” among the ruins of revolutionary Marxism. Yet his history shows that, like Trotsky, he never was the last man standing; his worldview, his continuity with revolutionary Marxism, cannot be described as ruins. However marginal Cannon and his small army of Trotskyists were in the United States of 1929, 1934, or 1943, their capacity to chart a path mattered. From no more than five or six steeled proletarian Trotskyists in the coal yards of Minneapolis in 1932, for instance, emerged organizing drives among Teamsters that culminated in 7,000 truckers, helpers, warehousemen, and others flocking to the union banner in 1934. This, in turn, led to the Minneapolis General Strike, which saw workers refuse to be beaten into submission by the police and the vigilante forces of capitalism, and which turned Minneapolis into a union town, overturning more than a decade of the dominance of the open shop, scabs, stool pigeons, and the politics of subordination. Finally, it was this General Strike, among other such developments across the country, that spearheaded the drive to industrial unionism leading to the CIO breakthroughs of the Flint sit-downs and the great post-World War II strikes that brought black workers and immigrants into American trade unions in unprecedented numbers in the 1940s.
Our situation today is objectively better than the circumstances in which revolutionaries in the United States commenced their efforts to form a Communist Party in 1919. Our situation is objectively better, too, than the circumstances in which Cannon and his allies struggled to form a Trotskyist Left Opposition against both capitalist ascendance and a Stalinist stranglehold over the Left in 1929, or in which Vincent Dunne and Carl Skoglund, the two key Trotskyists in the Minneapolis trucking sector, started their organizing in 1931.
Yet we are subjectively impoverished. It is not a problem of the will to fight, evident in so many ways in the recent sporadic upheavals in the United States and Canada, and epitomized by the grass-roots rebellion in Wisconsin. Rather, the problem is a lack of leadership. The failure of the so-called Wisconsin idea to resist established power does not lie merely in the fact that objective conditions are arrayed against it. Indeed, perhaps the most critical component of the failure lay in the illusions leftists held about the Democratic Party and the barriers erected in the movement’s path by an ossified labor bureaucracy.
What led to this crisis of leadership? The answer is complex, just as the failure of the intellectuals in our time is legion. They have proclaimed themselves progressives, even revolutionaries, while they embrace every atavistic and puerile pseudo-intellectual turn imaginable, so long as their fresh and new ideas repudiate the fundamentals of Marxism and Trotskyism, the inevitability of capitalism’s decay and the necessity of hastening its demise with alternative structures of working-class power. At the very point that capitalism was extending its reach into global dominance, progressive intellectuals reached for theoretical refinements that denied the salience of economic relations, class struggle, and all explanations that could allow one to see the crisis of capitalism and its resolution in its wholeness, its totality. Instead, many progressive intellectuals became submerged in the postmodern moment, out of which they have yet to rear their befuddled heads. Meanwhile, their befuddlement has weakened a generation of potentially revolutionary thinkers.
Such a trend, itself embedded in Stalinism and the contradictions of capitalism’s late 20th century developments, has broken revolutionary continuity, the only guide in the midst of disjuncture and change. Those who advocate aestheticizing Marxism reify innovation and endlessly fetishize revisionism in order to be clever. There is a sense that the past must always be dead and buried, and if it is not disposed of, something must be done decisively to dispense with this past. I sense a little of this in the rather assured notion of Platypus that Trotsky is as out of place in the post-World War II world as Voltaire or Rousseau would have been in the world after the French Revolution. Traditions die, of course, and things change: 2011 is not 1917, which was not 1848. That said, there are important, venerable truths that need to be recognized, addressed, and acted upon.
As the irrationalist kernel of postmodernism bloomed into a thousand weeds of obfuscation, Marxists had to return to the claims of reason associated with Voltaire, Rousseau, and the Enlightenment. These thinkers were not dispensed with, because they are the best of the class forces they spoke for. Diderot’s statement that humanity will never be free until the last monarch is strangled with the entrails of the last priest is as true today as when it was uttered on the eve of the French Revolution. Marxism assimilates the best thought of the highest stages of cultures that may not be entirely in support of working class revolution and proletarian internationalism. It does not forget the accomplishments of the past civilizations it struggles constantly to transcend. This is one way in which it differs profoundly from so much of the current intellectual pretense.
We know this because we know the specters that haunt us now: capitalist crises and Stalinism. Confronting these specters necessitates addressing the specter of communism that, at one and the same time, has, in recent history, been in retreat, but which nevertheless poses the only decisive alternative to both of these components of our contemporary malaise. The specter of communism, first identified as such by Marx and Engels in 1848 and sustained through periodic uprisings of the insurgent working class in 1871 and 1917, can only be reborn in our time through recourse to the legacy of Leon Trotsky, who speaks for Marxism’s rebirth in the era of Stalinist degeneration. Trotskyism is the historical continuity of Marxism and Leninism. This legacy, of course, harbors some miscues, some faltering steps, and many pretenders who have abused its venerable truths. But this legacy lives in the necessities of our time. The question, “What has Trotskyism made of Trotsky’s Marxism?” can only be answered decisively when Trotsky’s Marxism is actually built into what it was always advocating: a revolutionary party of proletarian internationalism, capable of not only challenging capitalism, but defeating it.
Jason Wright: Looking back on the early years of the Communist Party, James P. Cannon, the “Old Man” of American Trotskyism, observed:
On the basis of a long historical experience, it can be written down as a law that revolutionary cadres, who revolt against their social environment and organize parties to lead a revolution, can—if the revolution is too long delayed—themselves degenerate…. But the same historical experience also shows that there are exceptions to this law too. The exceptions are the Marxists who remain Marxists, the revolutionists who remain faithful to the banner…. The ideas of Marxism, which create revolutionary parties, are stronger than the parties they create, and never fail to survive the fall. They never fail to find representatives in the old organizations to lead the work of reconstruction.
These are the continuators of the tradition, the defenders of the orthodox doctrine.
Trotskyism continued and developed Leninism through political combat with Stalinist revisionism, just as Leninism preserved the revolutionary core of Marxism in struggle against the social-imperialist lackeys of the Second International. In a poem written in 1935, Victor Serge described the heroic figures of the past as a “Constellation of Dead Brothers,” stars in the sky at the midnight of the century, by which revolutionaries could steer a “course…set on hope.”
The Second International’s conception of a “party of the whole class” produced Eduard Bernstein’s passive incrementalism and, ultimately, the shameful vote for war credits on August 4, 1914. Lenin’s break with these social imperialists marked the rebirth of genuine Marxism on the international level, just as the Left Opposition’s critique of “socialism in one country” kept the flame of revolutionary socialism burning after the Communist International was destroyed by Stalinism in the late 1920s. This produced a cadre that eventually came to view “unity” with the Democratic Party of racism and imperialist war as their main aspiration. Even the reformists of the Second International circa 1914 condemned electoral support of “progressive” capitalist politicians. Today “unity” is common practice for almost all Stalinist and ex-Stalinist formations, including Comrade Macnair’s CPGB, which prides itself on putting “tactical flexibility” above socialist principle.
In the 1950s, one of the leading figures of the international Trotskyist movement, Michel Pablo, following the lead of Isaac Deutscher, abandoned the struggle to forge independent Leninist parties on the grounds that a “New World Reality” had imparted a “revolutionary dynamic” to historical developments. “Pabloism” is a form of objectivism, assigning the tasks of revolutionaries to a disembodied “unfolding historical process.” What social-democratic reformism, Stalinism, and Pabloism all have in common is a tendency to negate the importance of the subjective factor in history and deny the indispensable and central role of a politically conscious and active working class in socialist revolutionary transformation.
American Trotskyism began in 1928 when the degenerating Communist Party expelled those cadres who refused to denounce Lenin’s partner—Trotsky—in the October Revolution of 1917. Cannon characterized his group’s first five years as the “dog days” of the movement. But in 1934 the tiny Communist League of America led one of the three successful general strikes that launched a gigantic wave of class struggle that ultimately established industrial unionism across North America. Each of these mass strikes was led by “reds”—the Communist Party in San Francisco, A.J. Muste’s American Workers Party in Toledo, and the Trotskyists in Minneapolis.
After fusing with Muste’s group the Trotskyists managed their way into the Socialist Party that brought hundreds of new recruits to their movement. On New Years Day in 1938 the Socialist Workers Party (SWP) was launched in anticipation of the founding of the Fourth International later that year. The main document of the Fourth International—the Transitional Program—is among the most important, least appreciated, and least understood documents in the history of the Marxist movement. It distills the lessons of October 1917—the only successful workers’ revolution in history. It outlines the struggle to mobilize the proletariat for the seizure of state power from fights for minimal reforms up to the creation of armed workers’ defense guards and the expropriation of the bourgeoisie.
In 1998, the International Bolshevik Tendency (IBT) produced an annotated version of the Transitional Program to mark the 60th anniversary of its original publication. In our introduction we observed, “The centrality of the subjective factor in the struggle for socialism (i.e., a disciplined political vanguard of the proletariat) lies at the heart of Trotskyism.” Much has changed since 1938, but one thing that has not changed is that the future of humanity hinges on the creation of an internationalist revolutionary leadership for the working class and oppressed. In recent months events in both Egypt and Wisconsin have provided negative confirmation of this proposition. In both cases the skillful intervention of revolutionary parties rooted in the working class could have had immense impact on the consciousness of the newly politicized layers of the population and pushed the struggle far beyond what was achieved.
The decline of the ostensibly revolutionary left in the U.S. in the face of the rabidly anti-communist capitalist ideological offensive of the 1950s was to an extent offset by the rise of the New Left and the various movements of the oppressed, namely black struggles for social equality, the women’s movement, and the gay rights movement. The failure of the “Old Left”— the Communist Party and the degenerated SWP—to exert much influence on the New Left does not reflect the irrelevance of Marxism, but rather the distance that separates these revisionists from the revolutionary Marxism they professed.
Enormous social pressure and the political isolation of American leftists in the 1950s had sapped the revolutionary capacity of the SWP’s aging cadres. By the early 1960s, Cannon’s party succumbed to the same revisionist objectivism they had previously criticized Pablo for, as they hailed both Castro’s petty-bourgeois guerrillaism and the liberal pacifism of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
If all those who identified with the Fourth International had embraced positions like the SWP, it would indeed have meant the movement Trotsky created was dead. But within the SWP, revolutionary elements organized themselves as the Revolutionary Tendency (RT) and declared war on the revisionist rot eating away at the SWP. A 1963 RT document entitled “For Black Trotskyism” identified the connection between tailing the Castroites and political adaptation to the bourgeois liberal leadership of the Civil Rights movement:
In their 1961 Cuban question documents, the Majority made it clear that for them the Cuban Revolution and, by implication, in the Colonial Revolution as well, the revolutionary working class party is, prior to the revolution, a dispensable convenience…. By their extension of this line to include the Negro question in the U.S., the SWP Majority has made the most serious overt denial yet of a revolutionary perspective. What they have done is to a priori exclude themselves from struggling for the leadership of a most crucial section of the American working class.
The RT put forth a program of “revolutionary integrationism” first developed by Richard Fraser, an SWP cadre who pointed out that American blacks do not constitute a separate nation, but rather a specially oppressed color caste forcibly segregated at the bottom of the working class.
In November 1963, a few months after expelling the Revolutionary Tendency, the SWP leadership sent groveling condolences to Jacqueline Kennedy on the occasion of the assassination of the chieftain of U.S. imperialism. This act spoke volumes about the distance that then separated the SWP from its Trotskyist past.
The core cadre of the RT went on to found the Spartacist League (SL), which has since degenerated. But in the 1960s and 1970s the SL not only defended the authentic political legacy of Leon Trotsky, but also made important extensions to it, including identifying Cuba as a deformed workers’ state qualitatively similar to Mao’s China or Tito’s Yugoslavia. The revolutionary SL also argued for a class struggle perspective for black and women’s liberation in opposition to the cross-class ideologies of Black Nationalism and feminism then popular in the New Left. The SL was also known for upholding the rights of lesbians, gays, and other sexual minorities, and explaining the connection between coercive state regulation of consensual sexual activity and the bourgeoisie’s reliance on the nuclear family.
The SL was also distinguished by its refusal to give any electoral support to bourgeois or petty-bourgeois formations—including popular fronts like Salvador Allende’s Unidad Popular in Chile. The Spartacists’ forthright defense of the Soviet Union, China, and the other deformed workers’ states against both imperialism and internal counterrevolution contrasted with that of the SWP and most of the rest of the self-proclaimed “Trotskyists” who embraced both Lech Walesa’s counterrevolutionary Solidarnosc, and the CIA-funded Afghan Mujahideen, forefather of today’s Taliban and al Qaeda.
One of the most important contributions of the Spartacist League was the creation of trade-union caucuses based on the Transitional Program as vehicles for developing revolutionary consciousness within the working class. SL supporters in the unions rejected the apolitical “rank and file” economism common to most of their competitors and instead waged a political struggle to win the most advanced workers to a revolutionary program. In a few important unions, such as the Communications Workers of America, National Maritime Union, and the International Longshore and Warehouse Union, SL-supported caucuses gradually won recognition as the leading opposition to the union bureaucracy.
This work was abandoned by the SL as it degenerated in the 1980s, but the work continued in the ILWU by friends and supporters of the International Bolshevik Tendency. In 1984 an International Bolshevik Tendency (IBT) supporter Howard Keylor initiated an 11-day boycott of a ship in San Francisco carrying South African cargo. This “illegal” action, the first political strike by American workers in decades, established a precedent for a series of similar labor actions, including one-day shutdowns of all West Coast ports in April 1999 in solidarity with Mumia Abu-Jamal, and a similar coast-wide action on May Day, 2008, to oppose the war in Iraq. These exemplary actions, which offer a glimpse of the power of a class-conscious workers’ movement in the future, also demonstrate the potential for revolutionary work in the unions.
Steadfast opposition to the imperialist predations of one’s “own” rulers, and the defense of any indigenous resistance to such attacks, offer a litmus test for Marxists. This policy, elaborated by Trotsky in response to Mussolini’s invasion of Ethiopia in 1935, is part of the living legacy of Bolshevism. A critical moment in the SL’s degeneration came in 1983 when it responded to the bombing of a U.S. Marine barracks in Lebanon with a call for saving the survivors. To the SL’s social-patriotic demand, “Marines Out of Lebanon, Now, Alive!” we counterposed, “Imperialists Out of Lebanon—By Any Means Necessary!”
The SL’s position on Lebanon in 1983, and its celebration of U.S. military intervention in Haiti last year (which was shamefacedly repudiated after a few months) contrasts sharply with its denunciation of Platypus founder Chris Cutrone’s 2004 assertion that “the position of military support for any ‘resistance,’ despite the political nature of such military opposition, against imperialist power…is not applicable to the present situation in Iraq.” The SL correctly responded: “Insofar as the forces on the ground in Iraq aim their fire against the imperialist occupiers and their lackeys, we call for their military defense against U.S. imperialism. Every blow struck against the imperialist occupiers is a blow struck against the enemy of workers and the oppressed all over the world.” However, apparently in the interest of maintaining the prestige of their leadership, the Robertsonian SL chose not to apply the same criterion to Lebanon.
Most of the key programmatic questions confronting Marxists today have been addressed in one form or another by revolutionaries in the past and their experience can provide valuable guidance. As regards Iraq, those who reject Trotsky’s policy in favor of one of social-democratic neutrality, on the grounds that the Islamists are just too reactionary, in effect align themselves with the “critical” apologists for American imperialism. Not a good place for revolutionaries to be.
There is no question that the influence of revolutionary ideas in the American workers’ movement is today at a low ebb. But the only way to change this is by taking up the weapons available in the arsenal of Marxism. There is no halfway house between reform and revolution, and no possibility of the victory of socialist revolution without first forging a revolutionary leadership in and of the working class. To do so, in our view, it is necessary to learn from and critically evaluate the best revolutionary traditions of those who preceded us—not to set about reinventing the wheel. This is why we named our journal 1917.
In 1937 Trotsky observed:
Reactionary epochs like ours not only disintegrate and weaken the working class and isolate its vanguard but also lower the general ideological level of the movement and throw political thinking back to stages long since passed through. In these conditions the task of the vanguard is, above all, not to let itself be carried along by the backward flow: it must swim against the current. If an unfavorable relation of forces prevents it from holding political positions it has won, it must at least retain its ideological positions, because in them is expressed the dearly paid experience of the past. Fools will consider this policy “sectarian.” Actually it is the only means of preparing for a new tremendous surge forward with the coming historical tide.
Mike Macnair: I will also talk about continuity, though in a slightly different way. Inevitably, one has to interrogate the question one is given. I will start with a couple of trivia. I don’t think there is anything wrong with martyrdom, in the sense that it goes with the territory. If you actually fight, there are going to be martyrs. Even in trade union struggles, as often as not, a scab will run down some poor picketer. Trotsky is that on a large scale. Second, it is quite wrong to suppose that the Spartacist League was unaffected by the New Left. In reality, the SL was far closer to the New Left in its party conception than the SWP, until Barnes took over and the SWP became a sort of Guevarist organization.
Now, the more fundamental points. First, what is Trotskyism? Trotskyism is the name we give to an organized movement that is founded on a certain explicit political platform. This platform consists of the theses, resolutions, and manifestos of the first four congresses of the Comintern, and the theses, resolutions, and manifestos of the International Left Opposition in 1931–1933, of the International Communist League in 1934–1938, and of the Fourth International as founded in 1938, as well at its emergency congress in 1940. After that, of course, people can still call themselves Trotskyists and reject everything which came afterwards in terms of the history of that organized movement. Ted Grant, for instance, said that the re-formation of the Fourth International in 1946 was fraudulent. Lutte Ouvrière in France have essentially the same line. On the other hand, then, there are many tendencies that take their history from groups which split to form a coalition of nationalists—the International Committee of the Fourth International in 1953. And there is a whole history of splintering since then.
I have said before there are 57 varieties of the far left. Certainly, Trotskyism has an inordinate history of splitting—splitting in an unprincipled manner, splitting prematurely, splitting in a pre-congress situation in order to deny legitimacy to the congress, and so on. So Trotskyism, however splintered, is an actual, existing, live political movement. It is not some hypothetical reconstruction of the political implications of Trotsky’s theoretical work.
In the introduction to this panel, Trotsky was said to be the last survivor of “classical Marxism.” In my opinion, the concept of “classical Marxism” is severely problematic. I am almost willing to say that “classical Marxism” is an amalgam in the same fashion as the “Bukharinite-Trotskyite-fascist counterrevolutionary front.” The concept of classical Marxism takes a set of Marxists who had opposed political positions on a whole range of questions and forms them into this entity, “classical Marxism.” I don’t know where it came from; I think it was the Socialist Workers Party of the U.K., for whom it provided a cover for their eclectic adoption of Marx, but not Engels, plus Lenin, Luxemburg, Trotsky, the early Lukács, and Gramsci—but only the Gramsci of L’Ordine Nuovo, or at best Quintin Hoare’s extraordinarily contorted interpretations of Gramsci’s already contorted Prison Notebooks.
On the other hand, the Northite author Emanuele Saccarelli has quite correctly demonstrated that Gramsci was on the Stalin side of the Stalin-Trotsky divide in the Comintern in the late 1920s. To say that Trotsky is the last survivor of “classical Marxism,” or that he stands amid the ruins of “classical Marxism,” is to say that he stands in the ruins of something that never existed, that he stands in the ruins of a castle in the clouds.
In order to understand these various authors it is necessary to interrogate the Marxisms of the Second International, and the Marxisms which in that period were outside the Second International, like Georges Sorel’s version of Marxism, and the Marxisms of the Russian revolutionary movement—not just Bolshevism, but also Vperyodism and Bogdanovism, with its influence on military opposition, and on Stalinism. It is also necessary to pay serious attention to Ryazanov’s politics and not just his stature as a famous historian, and to take Parvus seriously in spite of the fact that he turned into a class traitor.
It is also necessary to actually read Kautsky. People represent me as wanting to revive Kautsky—I do not want to revive Kautsky, but a part of Kautsky, namely the serious, long-term attention he paid to the idea that before you get to the point of being able to pose the question of power, you have to build up a movement in non-revolutionary times. I do not in the least wish to revive Kautsky’s idiot anglophilia, his belief that Britain was not an imperialist country, his belief that imperialism was simply a product of the ascendancy of the aristocracy and bureaucracy in Germany and France. I do not wish to revive Kautsky’s belief in the separation of powers as a normal feature of modern society that has to be maintained, or that the society of the future will be divided into nation-states. Nonetheless, it is impossible to understand Lenin without understanding Kautsky. It is also impossible to understand anything that Trotsky wrote after 1917 without understanding what Lenin had to say about the party.
These are preliminary points; my substantive points are three. First, there is not as large a gap between Trotsky’s writings during the high period of the Comintern and post-war Trotskyism as is commonly believed. It really is the case that the movement which Trotsky set out to build was the movement which attempted to reconstruct itself, with weaknesses and problems, after World War II.
My second point follows from this: It is necessary to critique Trotskyism. What we have is this wilderness of competing sects, none of which can speak to the masses, for whom the state of division on the revolutionary left looks a bit like the Monty Python joke in Life of Brian about the “Judean People’s Front” and the “People’s Front of Judea.” Moreover, the critique of Trotskyism has to be based not in theory but in concrete, voted-on, programmatic, organizational positions. On that basis, if we actually asked where sectarianism comes from, it is clearly not something that is peculiar to Trotskyism. The particular form of sectarianism that characterizes Trotskyism also characterizes anti-revisionist communism, including all forms of Maoism and Stalinist politics. I believe the Stalin Society in England, for instance, has broken into three divergent groups.
This fissile character of the revolutionary left has its roots, it seems to me, in the Comintern, and specifically in the Comintern’s formal decisions. First, there is the Comintern’s justification of the split in the Second International, that it had to happen because by splitting they would purify the movement. But this had already been disproved when Stalin and Kamenev entered into negotiations with the Mensheviks in the spring of 1917 and when Zinoviev and Kamenev denounced the October Revolution in the bourgeois press in October 1917. The bourgeoisie will find people to do its work even in the most acutely split revolutionary organizations.
Then there is the Comintern’s Theses on the Role of the Communist Party 1920–1921, which suggests that the Party will avoid the opportunism that paralyzed the Second International through a system of bureaucratic control. It preserves the central committee members’ right of veto by a system of purging the organization of accidental and non-proletarian members. The Communist parties under this Bolshevized regime descended into corruption and control by the bourgeoisie far more rapidly than Social Democracy under the democratic, loose regime given to it by Marx, Engels, and Wilhelm Liebknecht. After these decisions of the Comintern, the space no longer existed to do what Lenin did in the spring of 1917 and fight against the central committee through the public press. The form of bureaucratic centralism that won out in the Comintern is more appropriate to corruption by the bourgeoisie than the forms of organization that existed before 1918.
Of course, these speculations assume a mass party. Today, the method of bureaucratic centralism, when applied to a small group, means that any serious difference inevitably leads to a split, irrespective of the depth or permanence of the difference. Thus, every Trotskyist organization is necessarily violently fissile.
In spite of what I have just said, it is important in terms of reconstructing the Left today that we understand there is not a Trotskyist “original sin” that somehow invalidates the experience of Trotskyism since World War II. There are things that a small revolutionary movement can learn from its experiences. Admittedly, most of these are negative lessons. They deserve recognition and study, nonetheless.
Richard Rubin: To address the question of the legacy of Trotskyism at a Platypus convention, one must steer between Scylla and Charybdis. Two opposed dangers confront one: to reduce Trotskyism and its history to merely the further elaboration of the history of “the dead Left,” or to collapse Platypus itself into a continuation of Trotskyism, as a sort of “neo-Trotskyism.” Both tendencies clearly exist within Platypus. The description of this panel, which asks what “Trotskyism [has] made of Trotsky’s Marxism,” exhibits the first tendency. The implication is, unfortunately, that Trotskyism is merely a caricature of Trotsky, who is assumed to be a great Marxist, “the last man standing of the Second International radicals.” The Trotskyists tend to be dismissed as mere epigones, a view that one must admit is sometimes implicit in the self-conception of Trotskyists themselves. This esteem for Trotsky but dismissal of Trotsky-ism is, I will argue, erroneous.
The question I wish to raise is how one can take seriously the history of Trotskyism, even assert its centrality to the history of the 20th century Left, without being a Trotskyist. To understand this possibility, which in fact lies at the heart of the Platypus project, I must raise an important distinction between “revolutionary continuity” and “historical memory.” Platypus, unlike actual Trotskyists, does not believe that “revolutionary continuity” is possible now. On the contrary, it is premised as a project on the notion of a fundamental dis-continuity in politics, “the death of the Left.” We understand ourselves as the result of this profound revolutionary discontinuity and see our main task as the understanding and amplification of that discontinuity, in the hope of making it recognizable as a problem.
For this task, the history of Trotskyism, or rather its failure, is not a marginal subplot, as might appear to be the case given the ineffectiveness of Trotskyism as actual politics, but lies at the center of the story. It is what did not happen, and why, that matters to us. Trotskyism is the most important thing that “did not happen” for most of the 20th century. It is the ghost of that ever-deferred revolution that haunts us. (Zizek refers somewhere to Trotskyists as the Hölderlins of the Left.)
This view of Trotskyism is, of course, in direct contradiction with Trotskyism’s view of itself. Thus in an article by Jason Wright, published in Platypus Review 35, the assertion is made that “Trotsky’s policy was always to put program first.” While this is an accurate description of a political tradition for which I have deep respect, it is one from which Platypus represents a fundamental break. I shall not, therefore, be addressing the question, “What is to be done?” but rather, “How did we get here?” Ultimately, indeed, the point is to change the world, and in this Platypus completely agrees with a classical Marxist tradition, but for us the intellectual tools to change the world no longer lie as immediately at hand as they once did for our predecessors.
“Trotskyism” as a political tradition no doubt has an indefinite shelf life. A generation from now, “Trotskyists” may still be insisting on the “centrality of a program”—but a generation from now, the British monarchy may well exist, too. Just as the British monarchy no longer means what it once did, “Trotskyism,” despite outward continuity, has also undergone an essential transformation. It is not at all clear that “the defense of the North Korean deformed workers state” in 2011 means the same thing as defense of the Soviet Union did in 1939—or even the defense of North Korea in 1950—even though the logic that led to one might seem to be the same as the logic that leads to the other. To continue the analogy: The abolition of the British monarchy in the 21st century would no longer have the significance that its abolition in the 17th century did. These questions within the political tradition of Trotskyism are difficult to pose. Indeed, from a classical Trotskyist perspective, what Platypus most esteems in Trotskyism is perverse—not its self-proclaimed, unyielding, revolutionary militance, but rather its role as critic of the Left, from the left.
Trotskyism was born as a response to a twofold historical catastrophe, Stalinism and Nazism. The heroic—one might say the deeply ethical—character of Trotskyism stems from its refusal to accept the necessity of accommodation to defeat. If many a mid-century intellectual responded to Auschwitz, Hiroshima, and the Gulag with Petronius Arbiter’s reflection, “si recte calculum ponas, ubique naufragium est [if you rightly cast the reckoning, shipwreck is everywhere],” Trotskyism presented itself as a raft. Still imbued with a rational 19th century optimism and an Enlightenment faith in humanity and the working class, it insisted on the accidental character of the 20th century. An emphasis on the accidental character of an entire historical epoch, though, sits uneasily with Marxist materialism. It raises difficult questions about the role of ideas and intellectuals in history, particularly the role of Marxist intellectuals in the development of Marxism. As such, a reflection on Trotskyism is also necessarily a broader reflection on both the necessity and limitations of Marxism as an approach to history.
For a representative of an avowedly Marxist organization, to emphasize the limitations of Marxism may seem odd, but Platypus is not interested in promoting a sterile orthodoxy. I, for one, would not be offended if someone were to apply to me or to Platypus the label Worker’s Vanguard once applied to Joseph Hansen: “honest revisionist.” Marxism is necessary for us, because in the last two hundred years no better way of thinking about human beings and the alienated social world they have made has been developed. To give up on Marxism is to give up on making sense of history. Marxism may not, however, be fully adequate to the task. It may be merely an approximation. In particular, Marxism may not be able to give a fully adequate account of its own history. Thus, for example, the notion that Marxism is simply the intellectual expression of the class struggle generated by capitalism or that political struggles within the Marxist movement are the reflections of class struggles within the party is, I think, a completely inadequate notion. While I would, for example, agree with the position of Cannon and Trotsky against Shachtman, I do not think that the positions of the latter were a manifestation of some “petty bourgeois” character. This is bad sociology and even worse intellectual history. The 20th century has been a confusing time to be a socialist. Often fundamental values such as socialism and democracy have seemed to be—and, indeed, perhaps have been—counterposed. We need to acknowledge this openly and understand the fractured and tragic history of Marxism as resulting from fractures within Marxism, and not simply as deviations from Marxism. In this view the split, for example, between Shachtman and Cannon is not merely the falling off from Marxism of the former but an expression of the disintegration of Marxism itself. Such disintegration may force choices on us, and though some of those choices may be better than others, the fact of the necessity of a choice remains tragic.
I mentioned earlier that Trotskyism was born of defeat, specifically the triumph of Stalinism and Nazism. Trotsky saw these two catastrophes as intertwined, since Stalinist misleadership certainly paved the way for the German catastrophe, but also because both Stalinism and Nazism were the result of the failed German revolution. Hitler and Stalin were the product of a world in which Luxemburg, Liebknecht, Lenin, and ultimately Trotsky himself failed. But this raises a deeper problem, for there are two distinct types of “failure” here. One might call one the “German question” and the other the “Russian question.” The first question is how it is that the strongest Marxist party in the world could betray its own revolution. The second is how a revolution based on profoundly democratic and emancipatory impulses could lead to a totalitarian nightmare.
The 20th century has provided us with several examples, beginning with the Bolshevik revolution, of the successful abolition of capitalist social relations in significant chunks of the planet, but none of them has come up even to the standards of bourgeois democracy in terms of political freedom, and the human price of the successful abolition of capitalist social relations has often been horrific—in some cases, such as the Khmer Rouge or North Korea, so much so that it is hard to see any progressive value at all in it. On the other hand, quite the opposite of what Marx envisioned, there has never been a successful revolution abolishing capitalist social relations in any advanced capitalist country. Indeed, it is precisely in those countries where the working class wields the greatest potential power that the prospect seems most distant, although since this certainly cannot be a result of objective conditions, one must attribute it to the power of that mysterious force, bourgeois ideology.
Trotsky, Trotskyists, and non-Trotskyist Marxists have certainly tried to grapple with these problems. But instead of recapitulating their answers, let me rather outline what I see as the history of the Left in the 20th century, from a Platypus perspective, and the role of Trotskyism in this story—not because Trotskyism provides the answers, but rather because it directs us to the most difficult and essential questions. Although the heroic period of the Left is certainly the early 20th century, particularly the late teens and early 1920s, I will focus on a later period. The central period in this narrative is the mid 20th century, from 1933 to 1968. Two further periods, one from 1968 to 1989 and one from 1989 to the present might also be distinguished, but I will address these later.
If World War I marked a fundamental divide in the history of the Left, World War II did also, but in quite a different way. The First World War led to a radicalization that profoundly threatened the capitalist world order, while the Second World War had much more ambiguous effects. On the one hand, fascism, the most brutal form of bourgeois class rule, was defeated, but on the other, both bourgeois democracy and Stalinism emerged strengthened. As such, the Allied victory in the Second World War was both a victory for the Enlightenment, of which both bourgeois democracy and Stalinism were ambivalent and degenerate representatives, and at the same time a defeat of revolutionary possibility. The Second World War did not, as Trotsky had anticipated, throw both the advanced capitalist world and Stalinism into profound crisis. Instead, it led into a new era in which the former was stabilized and the latter expanded. Both of these threw Trotskyism into a series of theoretical crises, or in some cases a simple denial of reality to mask a sense of theoretical inadequacy.
If the post-war world has witnessed massively attenuated inter-imperialist competition, marked by the hegemony of a single imperialist power—the United States—which took upon itself the role of organizer of global capitalism, it has also witnessed decolonization. The end of formal European empires triggered no radical upheavals in the metropoles and, while radical nationalist verbiage was common, in retrospect it must be admitted that the effect of decolonization has been conservative over the last half century. Free of direct colonial rule, capitalist exploitation of what is now called the Third World with the assistance of local brown- and black-skinned elites is more rampant than ever. At the beginning of the process, however, it seemed quite different to many people, and Trotskyists as much as Maoists would turn out to be prone to illusions about Third World nationalism, so that a political tradition originally based on socialist internationalism and the rejection of “socialism in one country” prostituted itself before any number of nationalisms.
Furthermore, by the late 1950s and early 1960s, developments in both the advanced capitalist world where Trotskyism was concentrated and also in the Stalinist world would prove confusing. After the initial dramatic expansion of Stalinism in the aftermath of the Second World War, Stalinism would after 1956 begin to liberalize somewhat and become multi-polar. Stalinism was no longer a single, exceptional historical experience growing out of the tragic degeneration of a world-historical revolution, but seemed rather a family of political types. In the advanced capitalist world, when the Left began to revive in the late 1950s and early 1960s, it did so via a “New Left” that wanted to bypass the supposedly sterile political debates of the 1930s. As the Sixties heated up, the Great Dionysian moment of 1968 seemed to promise, to many otherwise sane leftists, a Revolution by Pure Ecstasy, a notion that, despite decades of disabuse by Freud’s Reality Principle, is still with us.
By 1968 Trotskyism had for the most part simply become a variety of New Leftism with Trotskyist characteristics. In many cases whether someone became a Trotskyist or a Maoist was probably a matter of accident. What had disappeared, though, was Trotskyism’s role as critic of the Left. To the extent that this role was maintained, and I am thinking particularly of the honorable exception of the Spartacist League, it led almost necessarily to a political style that seemed hyper-sectarian. Furthermore, as the period following 1968 saw a steady decline of the Left on a worldwide scale and, a couple of decades later, witnessed the peaceful disintegration of Stalinism, even the sense of belonging to a potentially revolutionary moment was lost. Nowadays, to all but the cognoscenti, the differences between, say, the ISO and the WWP as descendants of “Trotskyism,” and the RCP as a descendant of Stalinism, must seem rather arcane. The proliferation of “parties” therefore appears as merely a psychological pathology of the Left, rather than a reflection of a significant history that has become multiply obscured.
Finally, let me say something about 1989. I was a young college student in the period 1989–1991, which proved to be an illuminating moment for me: It was, in fact, the moment I became convinced that Trotsky’s analysis of Stalinism was fundamentally correct. I am still astonished that so few other people recognized this. This period was, however, a negative illumination, for if it justified Trotsky via a somewhat long historical detour, it was self-evidently a defeat. Nowhere did the working class rise to the defense of collectivized property and, in one country, Poland, a mass movement with a working class base was mobilized against the Stalinist bureaucracy. The ambivalent aspect of this restoration of capitalism is, of course, that in most cases it was accompanied by an expansion of political liberties, which, ironically, actually makes possible the advocacy of Trotskyist politics that was impossible for decades under Stalinism. The disappearance of Stalinism as an active political movement has had a paradoxical effect on Trotskyism, since one can no longer distinguish oneself by anti-Stalinism, which is all but universal on the Left, even among former Stalinists. But at the same time, Stalinist attitudes persist on the Left, even in an “anti-Stalinist” guise.
What then remains of Trotskyism, if not as a possible political practice, at least as a core historical memory? The short answer, I think, goes directly to the possibility of saving the memory of the Bolshevik revolution. Only Trotskyism provides an intellectually honest tradition on the Left through which one can redeem the Bolshevik revolution from both Stalinism and Social Democracy. The alternative is to dismiss the Bolshevik revolution as a gigantic mistake. As the Bolshevik revolution recedes and its hegemony over discourse on the Left disappears, the tendency is indeed to dismiss its continuing relevance.
The issue is no longer one of defending the Soviet Union, but rather of understanding its memory. The Bolshevik revolution is the great trauma of Marxism. On the one hand, it is the moment at which Marxism became a world-historical force and the hitherto merely theoretical possibility of the abolition of capitalism was raised to the level of actual possibility. But in another sense, it also represented a loss of innocence for Marxism, as Marxists for the first time were confronted with the reality of wielding state power. Of all the various Marxist traditions that have grappled with that experience, Trotskyism represents most fully—even if still inadequately—the consciousness of the ambivalence of that memory as both an emancipatory moment and subsequent defeat.
This is why Trotskyism matters to Platypus.
BP: Mike Macnair presented Trotskyism in terms of sectarianism, but his formulation seems extreme considering how, in Marxism, splits have always been inevitable among revolutionaries, and they have been handled in quite different ways. In Stalinist organizations splits were handled by terror—hardly preferable to Trotskyist sectarianism. In Social Democracy, from the moment that it abandoned the revolutionary project but continued its claim to be part of the Left, splits have been handled with acute repression. In this regard, the Labour Party in the U.K. and the New Democratic Party come to mind.
Trotskyism has distinguished itself in this respect. I would cite Cannon and the SWP in the 1940 split with Shachtman, during which Trotsky urged Cannon to use this as a vehicle for education, for development of cadres. Cannon’s personal inclination was for a full split, but he decided to debate Shachtman thoroughly, even though he felt he was crawling through the mud in doing so. I think the question of splits has to be posed in a more holistic manner than simply seeing it as a “Trotskyist problem.” The problem can be traced all the way back to Marx in the 19th century.
Richard, you said you were not interested in the question of what is to be done, but the question, “How did we get here?” To me, those questions seem inextricably linked; I’m not convinced they can be asked separately.
MM: The historical record strongly suggests that it is possible to get from grouplets to large parties by way of unification. Now, if the result is based on wholly unprincipled politics, then it will explode. The Rifondazione Communista in Italy, for instance, after an anti-revisionist split from the CPI (Communist Party of Italy), opened its doors to the Trotskyists and Maoists. It rapidly grew from small groups to a party of 100,000 with significant electoral representation and a real dynamic of creating a movement. Then, of course, it blows up over—God help us—the same bloody question of “defeatism” and “imperialism,” the 1940 question. Another classic example of failed unification is the Scottish Socialist Party, a fusion of microscopic Trotskyist groups that became a relatively large organization. It blew apart over bureaucratic centralism, albeit in a particular way: They were hiding the fact that their leader Tommy Sheridan was going to sex clubs, because it was inconsistent with their sex-negative, anti-prostitution line. It blew up in their faces as soon as the Murdoch press got to know about it, which turned into a complete catastrophe.
Nonetheless, the Gotha fusion enabled the mass Social-Democratic Party, and the fusion of 1903 enabled the RSDLP (Russian Social Democratic Labor Party). In spite of the fact that they split into public factions at that very conference, the continued common identification with a single party enabled that party to grow to mass support in 1912–1914. And so on.
RR: It is true that there are Trotskyist parties that seemed to acquire a semi-mass character. You have the example of the Lanka Sama Samaja Party, the Nouveau Parti Anticapitaliste, etc. But in all those cases the problem is that what you actually have are parties that, whatever their label, function as social-democratic parties.
I believe that, given the present low state of the Left, in a debate between a neo-Kautskyan perspective and a Trotskyist perspective, both are doomed to be “sectarian.” But, if there were a revival of the Left on a significant scale, I actually think the predominate conception, given the history we have been through, would be some sort of neo-Kautskyan position, and this would not necessarily be good, because it would essentially recapitulate a failed history. If you are saying that the most one can expect under present conditions is left social democracy, that may be true, but then one should put it that way, rather than saying that left social democracy would be some sort of revolutionary movement.
MM: As far as the current, practical political line of the bulk of Trotskyists—and I honorably exempt the Spartacists and the IBT—Bernstein looks massively to their left. Today, Bernstein would be to the left of the British SWP, judged by their current line.
JW: Comrade Macnair has been making me dizzy today. I heard that Trotsky came over to Lenin’s position on the party question in 1917, and I agree, but I don’t know how that reconciles with the idea that the Bolshevik-Menshevik split of 1903 is a product of Stalinist falsification.
MM: No, I argued that the claim that it was more than a factional split is a product of the Stalin school of falsification.
JW: But you also argued that incremental electoralism, Bernsteinism, the idea of the “party of the whole class,” was not susceptible to bourgeois influences. What do you think Lenin meant when he spoke of the “labor lieutenants of capital?”
MM: I did not claim that the German Social Democratic Party, or the Second International in general, was impervious to bourgeois influences. My point was that Stalinism proved more susceptible to bourgeois influences than the earlier form of organization.
JW: I simply don’t think that’s true. The degeneration of the Soviet Union happened under incredible international pressures, due to the isolation of an incredibly backward agricultural economy and the incredibly low level of the peasantry. Then there is the Civil War, the imperialists attacking and trying to strangle the Revolution—these conditions ultimately allow Stalinism to conquer, even though it does not conquer unopposed.
Speaking of sectarianism, Rosa Luxemburg was often dismissed as a “sectarian,” as well. But the tragedy of Luxemburg, what made her “sectarian” in a certain sense, is that she was not convinced of Lenin’s position earlier than she was. There were objective conditions against her as well, but the fact that she came over so late to Lenin’s conception was the root of her tragedy.
I also want to address Platypus. The history of Marxism is a tragedy. The whole history of the Left is a tragedy in some sense. It is a huge tragedy that Babeuf’s Conspiracy of Equals fails. It’s a tragedy that the Paris Commune is drowned in blood. It’s a tragedy that we end up with the Stalin turn. I agree with Bryan: You cannot separate the question, “How did we get here?” from the question, “What is to be done?” We have to remember that the reason that there are people dying in Afghanistan, Iraq, and Syria right now is because of the class society that we live in—because of capitalism. There are people starving all around the world. Workers are dying in factories. I think that’s where you start. Once you philosophically divorce Marxism it from the practical, programmatic aspect, I think you lose sight of that. What was consistent about Cannon, and one of the things I admire him for, is that revolution remained on the agenda for him in 1953. And if you are not starting from the point that revolution is on the agenda, then what is the fucking point?
RR: I want to make two points. I’m not trying to sidestep “what is to be done?” as a problem—of course I recognize that it is an essential question. I don’t really know what is to be done, whereas I have a better sense of how we got here. There are people who know exactly what is to be done; if they are convinced that joining the International Bolshevik Tendency is the answer, they join the IBT.
Second, there was something I wanted to clear up. I was the person in Platypus who said Trotsky was out of place in the post-war world, but I feel the use of that statement in the introduction and description of this panel to be misleading. I said this originally in the context of a talk at the Left Forum about Trotsky and Walter Benjamin, in which I drew the analogy about Voltaire and Rousseau and the French Revolution. Voltaire and Rousseau both died in 1778, 11 years before the French Revolution, yet clearly the French Revolution is, in a profound way, the heir of both their ideas, and this would have been obvious at the time. I wasn’t attempting to claim that Trotsky is somehow irrelevant to the post-war world. Rather, I meant to say that when one thinks of Trotsky and his political experience, it is embedded in that interwar period, the period from the 1920s to his assassination in 1940.
Q & A
There is a lineage of the modern right, specifically neoconservatism, that has its roots in Trotskyism. What is it about Trotskyism and the sort of questions it poses that its ex-followers end up as central figures in both the far left and the far right? Is there something about Trotskyism that made that phenomenon possible?
RR: At one point in the 1990s I was working as a cameraman for a friend who was a founding member of the Socialist Workers Party, and of the Communist League of America, David Weiss. David was making a movie about Trotsky’s life, and he interviewed Al Glotzer, who had been Trotsky’s bodyguard. Glotzer spoke quite glowingly about Trotsky, yet Glotzer had become, along with Shachtman, basically a neoconservative in his politics. At some point the Cannon-Shachtman split came up in the interview and, suddenly, it was as though it were 1939 all over again. So this is an interesting question, as it points to or suggests something like a latent character of Trotskyism.
There’s a movie called Arguing the World about four Jewish ex-Trotskyists, the most right-wing of whom was Irving Kristol, the most left-wing was Irving Howe. The movie shows the arc of their rightward trajectory. One of the things they talk about is how there were two bays at City College: one for Stalinists and one for Trotskyists. What you clearly sense is that the Trotskyist bay is characterized by a culture of freedom of discussion.
One thing that’s always fascinated me is that Maoists, when they abandon Maoism, almost always seem to become plain-old liberals. Trotskyists are more likely to become cranky neoconservatives. I rather respect that about Trotskyists. While I don’t want to defend neoconservatism, I think this tendency represents the disgust with the dishonesty and philistinism of much of the Left. I think you can see that in someone like Christopher Hitchens. One thing about Trotskyism that I did not specifically emphasize, because it is not directly political, is the “non-philistine” character of Trotskyism, compared to what I would call a Stalinist tradition of philistinism. That’s something people on the Left also have to think about: the culture of intellectual debate, and what kind of social milieu is being generated by a certain style of politics. Even though the neoconservatives don’t actually represent a continuation of Trotskyism in a political sense, there is a way in which they do represent a continuation of a certain style of involved debate and culture.
MM: I think this tendency you have pointed to is simply a peculiarity of American politics. I don’t know what caused it, but it isn’t what happens to ex-Trots in Europe. Overwhelmingly, they either become Stalinists, or they become social democrats. Some of this depends on which is the mass party. If the Communist Party is large they tend to gravitate toward Stalinists. The people who have tended to become rightists are ex-Eurocommunists. So, to me, this Trotskyist-turned-neocon thing just seems to be something about the dynamics of American politics that does not apply outside North America.
In 1976, Argentina suffered a devastating military coup that killed 30,000 people and forced hundreds of thousands into exile, but by 1982, the working class organized a general strike against the dictatorship. When the dictatorship invaded the Falkland Islands, much of the Left sided with the dictatorship when the British military subsequently attacked. Are you saying that just because the military action against a dictator is imperialist, revolutionary morality charges the Left with siding with a dictatorship?
JW: We were dual defeatist!
MM: I agree that dual defeatism was the right response to the South Atlantic War, although at the time I was persuaded by the position that Comrade Wright introduced in his principled speech, that the question was one of fighting on the colonized country as opposed to the imperialist country. Supporting the military victory of the colonized country was a touchstone of revolutionary morality. I don’t actually think that anymore.
There is a clear example that Trotsky gave. In the case of Ethiopia, the Trotskyists in Britain initially came to the right answer, which was that Haile Selassie was a British client, and that it was an inter-imperialist proxy war between Britain and Italy, and therefore dual defeatism was the correct position. Trotsky said, no, the victory for Haile Selassie would be an advance for the revolution. I think that was a mistake.
Jason, how does a blow to U.S. imperialism today lead to more possibilities for revolution in the U.S. and abroad? In what sense, in the history of Trotskyism, have you seen a blow to U.S. imperialism leading to more revolutionary possibilities?
JW: Vietnam—the U.S. defeat in Vietnam had reverberations that propelled the New Left: strikes, activity in the workers’ movement, and radicalization. This was energized by the Civil Rights Movement too, of course, but also by the fact that the U.S. was losing the Vietnam War. Maoism, for example, started to look sexy when the Viet Cong were fighting the U.S. to a standstill.
MM: I am a little skeptical of that, for two reasons. There’s an overlap between the rise of Civil Rights and the rise of wildcat strikes in the states in the early 1960s—but it wasn’t obvious that the U.S. was losing the Vietnam War until at least the Tet Offensive in 1968, and probably not until later. So it seems to me that the war provided an opportunity for the Left to reach out to wider, extra-Left forces because of the political illegitimacy of the war. It posed an opportunity to undermine and attack the coherence of the American armed forces. But if you think about when Vietnam was actually won and the tanks rolled into Saigon in 1975, that’s actually the trigger for the break-up of the New Communist Movement, the moment at which the New Left loses its élan.
RR: I also think there are two separate questions that are being conflated. First, there is the question of the empirical probability of a defeated U.S. imperialism leading directly to a revolutionary situation, which I think is highly unlikely. Second, there is the sense that it is one’s revolutionary duty to advocate for the defeat of U.S. imperialism no matter what. I think that these two questions are separate, because there might be a difference between “revolutionary morality” and one’s self-perception as a revolutionary. I think that positions advocating the defeat of U.S. imperialism are more about maintaining people’s own sense of themselves as revolutionaries than the likelihood of an actual empirical prediction. I don’t think that they actually believe that the defeat of U.S. imperialism is on the agenda simply because the latest war venture is not going well.
The possibility of revolution is immanent in capitalist society, in the sense that the objective conditions for socialism are more than overripe in a place like the United States. So, really, the obstacles are in people’s heads, and the question of whether those obstacles can ever be overcome is a very difficult one to answer. But the obstacles to revolution don’t have to do with the development of the productive forces. The tragedy of the absence of left politics in the U.S., or Europe—and, really, the decay of left politics worldwide over the past thirty or forty years—is completely different from the problem posed by Babeuf’s Conspiracy of Equals in France in the 1790s, when, really, I do not think the objective conditions existed.
BP: I tend to agree more with Jason on the question of U.S. imperialism. But how is revolution on the agenda? I agree with quite a bit of what Richard said, but I’d extend it. If you look around America, and around the world, it would be very hard for anybody on the Left to claim that revolution is not actually necessary. Is revolution on the agenda? Absolutely. It is overripe, and in that rottenness of the situation resides a great deal of the problem. But to the statement that there’s no possibility for a revolutionary organization, as a historian, I would ask, “When has it been a good time to form a revolutionary organization?” If you want to go back centuries you will see that there were always incredible barriers. Now, circumstances are a little worse internationally, much worse domestically, but the fundamental question is the “distance from” and “degeneration of” 1917. But it has never been, and it never will be, an ideal time to form a revolutionary organization. If you keep waiting for the precipitous moment, history will pass you by.
JW: I want to clarify what I said about Vietnam, because I think it came across as a little mechanical. I believe it was significant that, where there had been and continues to be a strong strain of isolationism and pacifism in the U.S.—for instance, in response to World War I—in the 1960s and 1970s you actually had a split in the anti-war movement between the “Get out now,” “Bring the boys home,” “Save our troops” socialists and people like Maoists and the comrades of the Spartacist League at the time, who were actually calling for the defeat of U.S. imperialism. That is a significant development in terms of subjective consciousness, in terms of where the revolutionary will lay. What is needed is the will to advance subjective consciousness and to build a revolutionary party in the face of what are many and continuous opportunities that have presented themselves.
There is a difference between saying that there is a necessity for revolution and saying that revolution is a practical prospect, or even saying that forming an organization of people committed to revolution is a prospect. I think we would have to disentangle these different notions from this ambiguous idea of revolution “being on the agenda.” Platypus as a project is about the possibility of putting revolution back on the agenda, but the issue is how to get there from here. Commitment to revolution and the recognition of its necessity is one thing, but the question of how we make it an actual, practical prospect is quite different. If we agree that the objective conditions are ripe, or even overripe, but subjective conditions are nowhere near ready, that seems to immediately raise the question concerning programmatic continuity. If the subjective conditions are so underdeveloped, how can one take for granted that the program of the Communist Manifesto or of the Transitional Program is still applicable in the immediate sense, in that they provide the proper political platform for us today, and therefore all we need to do is organize around an already established program?
MM: Whether, and in what way, revolution is on the agenda is the fundamental question. There is a difference between saying revolution is on the agenda in a historical sense, because it is immanent to capitalism, and saying revolution is on the agenda in the “medium-term” sense or the immediate sense. In the mid-term, the workers’ movement was certainly on the rise between the 1870s and the 1970s, and in the immediate sense, Lenin gave us a wonderful test: “The ruling class cannot go on in the old way, and the masses will not go on in the old way.” We’ve actually just seen, in North Africa, what it means for revolution to be on the agenda: The ruling class cannot go on in the old way and the masses will not go in the old way.
How do we know Trotskyism is not a dead tradition? How would we know if it really were dead?
JW: I think Trotskyism is still relevant, and I think that we revolutionaries should still identify with the movement Trotsky built, because I think the fundamental questions that he was addressing, the fundamental questions that the living continuity of Marxism addresses, are the questions that the world still poses to us today. We are still in an imperialist epoch and these are the best answers, the best solutions, that have been discovered so far. To dismiss them because of historical pessimism throws out the baby with the bathwater.
MM: In terms of what’s going on in North Africa, the most probable outcome is defeat, because there is no revolutionary leadership. But the error of the Trotskyists (not necessarily Trotsky’s error) is to disregard what led to February, 1917, which enabled the Bolshevik party to provide revolutionary leadership.
We have seen Trotskyists in revolutionary crises: The Partido de los Trabajadores Socialistas of Moreno failed the test of revolutionary crisis in Argentina in 1976. The POR Combate in the early 1970s failed the test in Bolivia. The Trotskyist Left in Portugal failed in 1974–1976. But if we ask why they failed those tests, it is not primarily a matter of their political errors. They simply did not have enough forces. They imagined that Bolshevism was microscopic in February, 1917, just like the little groups we have now. But the Bolshevik party numbered 17,000 in February, 1917, at which time it was completely illegal. That’s not a small organization; under illegal conditions, that’s a mass party.
I hope that revolution is not on the immediate agenda in the United States, or in Europe, because if it is, the outcome will certainly be a very serious defeat for the working class. It does not matter how pure and militant each individual group is, nor how much personal will each has. As long as we have small individual groups and not parties of hundreds of thousands, any revolution that comes will be defeated.
We have time, perhaps, to set out on the road of building those parties which could meet the tasks of revolution when the ruling class cannot go on in the old way, and the masses will not go on in the old way.
BP: Revolutionary organizations form in non-revolutionary situations. Yes, if revolution were declared now it would be a massive defeat for the working class and for the Left. But what revolutionary organizations do in that situation is not simply proclaim that they are there to lead the revolution, but carry out the work that brings a new set of circumstances onto the horizon.
So is Trotskyism dead? How would we know?
There are traditions that die, and then there are traditions that should die. My sense is that Stalinism is a dead tradition. It had a long death march but I think it has been buried. That doesn’t mean that it’s been vanquished as a political force in every locale. But Trotskyism is not of that order at all. Its explanations, its historical record, its theoretical insights, and its programmatic articulations, strike me as the living continuity of Marxism and Leninism in a particular epoch. And we are still in that epoch of capitalist decay, living in the shadow of what Stalinism has done to the revolutionary left, to its promise and possibility.
RR: I don’t think that Trotskyism is a dead tradition. I think it’s one that unfortunately has become opaque, but that is a different problem.
I think that if Trotskyism were in fact a dead tradition, that would mean that Marxism is a dead tradition. I would say the same thing about Marxism as about Trotskyism—it has become opaque. Trotskyism is more opaque than Marxism because it’s more specific to, and symptomatic of, the 20th century. Thus it is tied up fundamentally with the question of the Bolshevik revolution and Stalinism.
We only know if a tradition is dead in a negative sense, that is, as things get more barbaric and qualitatively worse. A tradition can be hopelessly obscured, buried so to speak. Its validity is not gone, yet it is inaccessible to people. An obscure, buried tradition is different than a dead one. The question is about accessibility to the meaning of Trotskyism and Marxism and how we disinter what is buried but not yet dead. |P
Transcribed by Ryan Hardy
. James P. Cannon, “The Degeneration of the Communist Party and the New Beginning,” in The First Ten Years of American Communism (New York: Pathfinder Press, 1973), 29-30. Originally published in 1954. Available online at <http://marxists.org/archive/cannon/works/1954/fych01.htm>.
. Victor Serge, Resistance (San Francisco: City Light Books, 1989), 35.
. Leon Trotsky, The Transitional Program: The Death Agony of Capitalism and the Tasks of the Fourth International (London: Bolshevik Publications, 1998), 7. Available online at <http://www.bolshevik.org/tp/IBT_TP_0_Preface.html>.
. James Roberston and Shirley Stoute, “For Black Trotskyism,” (originally published in SWP Discussion Bulletin Vol. 24, No. 30, July 1963), reprinted in Marxist Bulletin 5 (Revised) (New York: Spartacist Publishing Company, 1994), 19. Available online at <http://www.bolshevik.org/history/ICL/For%20Black%20Trotskyism.html>.
. Workers Vanguard No. 847, 29 April 2005. Available online at <http://www.icl-fi.org/english/wv/archives/oldsite/2005/IraqResistance-847.htm>.
. Leon Trotsky, “Stalinism or Bolshevism,” in The Writings of Leon Trotsky (1936-37) (New York: Pathfinder Press, Second Edition: 1978), 416. Available online at <http://www.marxists.org/archive/trotsky/1937/08/stalinism.htm>.
. "Theses on the Role of the Communist Party in the Proletarian Revolution," in Second Congress of the Communist International: Minutes of the Proceedings, 2 vols., trans. Bob Archer(London: New Park Publications, 1977 . Available online at <http://www.marxists.org/history/international/comintern/2nd-congress/ch03a.htm>.
. Jason Wright, “Trotsky’s Marxism: ‘The Point, however, is to Change It’,” Platypus Review 35 (May 2011). Available online at </2011/05/05/trotsky’s-marxism-“the-point-however-is-to-change-it”>.
Platypus Review 38 | August 2011
On November 23, 2010, Sunit Singh conducted an interview with psychoanalyst Juliet Mitchell at Jesus College in Cambridge. Although Professor Mitchell’s rehabilitation of Freud is well chronicled, the attempt in “Women: The Longest Revolution” (1966) to rescue the core content of the Marxist tradition—its emphasis on emancipation—remains unexplored. What follows is an edited version of the interview.
Sunit Singh: The sociologist C. Wright Mills, in an open letter to the editors of New Left Review in 1960, exhorted the still inchoate “New Left” to reclaim an ideological space for socialism over the chorus of liberal commentators proclaiming “the end of ideology”—the idea that there are no more antagonistic contradictions within capitalist society. Post-Marxist rhetoric, as Mills identified, was expressive of the disillusionment with the Old Left, which was itself weakest on the historical agencies of structural change or the so-called subjective factor. Yet, if the Old Left was wedded to a Victorian labor metaphysic, Mills forewarned, the New Left threatened to forsake the “utopianism” of the Left in its search for a new revolutionary subject.] How sensitive were later members of the editorial board of the New Left Review, after Perry Anderson took over from Stuart Hall in 1962, to such injunctions? And to what extent was the project of socialism implicit in “Women: The Longest Revolution” (hereafter referred to as WLR)? Five decades on, where does that project presently stand? What happened to “socialism”?
Juliet Mitchell: I came into direct contact with the New Left Review earlier than the mid-60s, partly through other work I was involved in. I was also a student in Oxford, where we were the originating group of the New Left. Perry [Anderson] and I married in 1962 and lived in London, although I worked in Leeds. The north of England, with Dorothy and Edward Thompson in nearby Halifax, was a centre for the older New Left.
Back then I was planning to write a book, which never saw the light of day, on women in England. It was a historical sociological treatment of the subject. We were driving to meet up with friends and colleagues who ran Lelio Basso’s new journal in Rome when the manuscript was stolen with everything else from our car. I had a bit of a break before I returned to “women.” WLR came in the mid-60s. The timing of the gap and the reluctance to re-do what I had done led to a considerable change in the way I looked at the issue. This relates to your question about C. Wright Mills and ideology. I think when we took over from Stuart Hall the distinction of what separated us from the preceding group was the conviction of the importance of theory over or out of empiricism.
So was I aware that in my use of “ideology” in WLR I was also picking up on C. Wright Mills’s sense of utopianism? Well, “yes and no” would be my answer. For C. Wright Mills, “ideology” read “theory.” However, it was exactly this shift that opened up the importance of ideology. But while reading and admiring C. Wright Mills, our quest led us directly to Althusser’s work. We were in what Thompson later criticized as Sartrean “treetopism” We met with the equipe of Les Temps Modernes in the early 60s. De Beauvoir, with her brilliant depiction and analysis of the oppression of women, at that stage saw any politics of feminism as a trap. Instead she took the classical Marx/Engels line that the condition of women depends on the future of labor in the world. Together with Gérard Horst, who wrote under the name André Gorz, we had a cultural project in London, which, in addition to the magazine, we hoped to share with them. We didn’t want to be imitative, but nevertheless wanted to be engaged with particularly French New Left struggles. The Algerian War was, of course, terribly important. We were urgent for an end to the British isolationism with which the anti-theoretical stance was associated. Then in 1962 some of us went to the celebrations for Ben Bella in Algiers. With Gisele Halimi and Djamila Boupacha this was a background to the left women’s movement that was shortly to emerge. There was also the issue of our relationship to the Chinese Cultural Revolution. That is the background to WLR. And, “no,” in the sense that when I use Althusser, as I do in WLR, it may seem as though I am also picking up on C. Wright Mills’s assertion of the importance of ideology, but really the stress on ideology had more to do with the search for a new theoretical direction that was linked to contemporary French thought. What Althusser offered me through his re-definition of the nature and place of ideology is the overwhelming and now obvious point that sexual difference is lived in the head.
I have never been a member of a party or a church or sect, growing up as I had in an anarchist environment, but I worked actively within the New Left, and then in the women’s movement, before training and practicing as a psychoanalyst. I have had to be pretty “utopian,” as an underpinning to my “optimism of the will,” first about class antagonism, then about women, then about Marxism as dialectical and historical materialism and, ironically, nowadays with the new versions of empiricism, about the theory of psychoanalysis.
SS: Your answer hints at the ways in which the New Left saw itself as new, as against the Maoists, other feminists, and presumably also in relation to the Trotskyists. You were critical of these other tendencies. A pithy passage from Women’s Estate reads, feminist consciousness is “the equivalent of national chauvinism among Third World nations or economism among working-class organizations,” that on its own it “will not naturally develop into socialism nor should it.” Furthermore: “The gray timelessness of Trotskyism is only to be matched by the eternal chameleonism of Western Maoism.” From there the text went on to say that what was needed was to deepen the Marxist method even if it meant rejecting some of the statements made by Marx and Marxists. Was that the task in WLR? Does the same challenge remain today for the Left? How did the ways in which the New Left understood and dealt with this methodological challenge affect the situation for a future Left?
JM: I reread WLR, which I haven’t done for years, because you were coming. I was quite impressed by the shift that it represents from the book that never was, but I was also slightly unmoved by it. It does reflect that overall moment in the entire shift of the New Left from historical research into theory, so what we need to ask is, what happened to ideology? I think, getting back to utopia, that the conception of utopianism melded into the women’s movement. The questions of the longest revolution were: What is the hope? Where is the utopianism? For Engels, there was the utopianism of the end of class antagonism, but what were we to do with that? This might come as a shock, but I never actually stopped thinking of myself as a Marxist, even after other friends on the New Left had stopped identifying themselves as such.
For us, in the 1960s, Marxism was not out there as “Marxism.” One was also self-critical by then, the whole relationship to China had to be re-examined rather as earlier Marxists had to take stock of their relationship to Stalin. What everybody seems to forget is that socialism was foundational for the women’s movement and those of us who were and still are on the Left understood where we had to expand it intellectually, so that is where I took it in WLR. I think of Marx much as I might think of Darwin or Freud in some senses. I think that when you use them, it’s not that you stick within the terms that they set (after all, you are in a different historical epoch, you are in a different social context, and you are posing different questions). Giant theorists such as these impinge on us with their method, not in the narrow sense of methodology, but in their way of approaching the question.
Lately, I keep encountering this belief that where other radicalism was over after 1968, women’s liberation arose out of it. This is not so and is poor history. Women’s liberationists, now called feminists, were active as such in creating ‘68. Feminism continued gaining strength thereafter. Raymond Williams considered the women’s movement the most important one of the last century. The student movement ended, the worker’s movement ended—I am not playing them down—the black movement also ended. The women’s movement was what happened to 1968—it went on. For me, what matters about the women’s movement is the Left; it’s not that it is attached to the Left, it is the Left. Of course at a time when the Left is not very active, conservative dimensions of feminism will flourish and feminism will be misused. It is not the first political movement to suffer these collapses!
SS: I suppose my question, then, is: What happened to the women’s movement?
JM: What happened to it?…Well, I think that when the conditions of existence, the relationship between women and men, achieve a new degree of equality, one comes up against a certain limit. Where first wave demands were dominated by the vote, I suppose we were dominated by the demand for equal work, pay, and conditions. Here our head hit a ceiling, and not a glass ceiling, a concrete one. Feminism from that moment has headed off to the hills to rethink what needs to be done politically. It is, as Adorno says, like putting messages in a bottle. I will remain in the hills until the streets, where there is still radical work going on, welcome me back. That is where I would like to be. But now is not the moment for that; we are plateauing. The fight against women’s oppression as women is, after all, without a doubt, the longest revolution.
Photograph by Jerry Bauer of Juliet Mitchell on the cover of Women’s Estate (1971).
SS: A central claim of WLR, that the call for complete equality between the sexes remains completely within the framework of capital rather than in opposition to it, implies that the relationship between men and women, like the class distinction between capitalist and worker, itself derives from the contradictions of capitalism. The conditions that allow for and motivate the reproduction of “patriarchy” as well as other kinds of oppression, in other words, also form the essential conditions of possibility for the demands for equality. You presciently noted in WLR, applying the thesis of repressive desublimation, that the wave of sexual liberalization unleashed in the 1960s could lead to more freedom for women, but “equally it could presage new forms of oppression.” Does our historical remove from the 1960s allow us to judge one way or another?
JM: I think, first of all, that in the 1960s I thought or felt that a measure of equality might be attained within the dominant socioeconomic class. I am now unsure that it will even be attained there. So it may be the ideology of capitalism has been hoisted on its own petard; in other words, caught and stuck within its own contradictions. The bourgeois husband needs a bourgeois wife. What we hadn’t foreseen sufficiently was the return of the servant class if this wife was also to work. We were not surprised that there is no pay parity, nor had we failed to realize that, although there are some women who will climb the ladder, this is not going to affect the wretched of the earth, or where it does so it may do so negatively. Women can now vote, but now there are certain, increasingly disproportionate, sectors such as illegal migrants, who don’t enjoy the equalities that those in liberal capitalist societies should. More importantly, can we really call the old democracies democratic when it is money not the vote that rules? Any struggle is always one step up the well and two steps down, or the two steps up and one step down, its never simply a matter of progress under capitalism, nor is it a matter of this ghastly government over another. There are liberal aspects of capitalism and for heaven’s sake let’s have them. All the egalitarian bits of capitalism must be pressed for if only to find out two things: one, that going the whole way towards equality is impossible under capitalism, and two, that going beyond these forms of equality is essential anyway.
I also think it is important that I wasn’t prescient about the massive entry of women into the workforce, I wasn’t prescient in WLR in seeing that education was going to expand as much as it did, and I think that I wasn’t prescient about changes in production (I later addressed these issues elsewhere) or reproduction. Shulamith Firestone foresaw the “reproduction revolution” in some ways, but then again she was writing in the 1970s, not the mid-sixties; there was a women’s movement by the time she wrote. With sexuality things are a little more complicated. I think there are always social classes, there are therefore different effects for the wretched of the earth than there are for the rich, so the degree to which I was prescient I don’t know whether the measure of sexual liberation that effective contraception offered us middle-class “first-worlders” has created more oppression of women sexually worldwide—I don’t think so. What I think it has done is definitely exposed the differences more.
SS: WLR raises the issue of revolutionary strategy: the role of limited ameliorative reforms versus proposing maximalist demands. It treats as salutary the remark Lenin made to Clara Zetkin about developing a strategy commensurate with a socio-theoretical analysis of capitalism within the party to adequately address the “women’s question.” More recently, at a talk at Birkbeck in 1999, you ventured to wonder aloud, albeit with an understandable sense of nervousness, whether, in an era otherwise marked by acute depoliticiziation, the uptick of interest in psychoanalysis, sexuality, and the “women’s question” might mean that Lenin was possibly right that such concerns are the noxious fruits growing out of the soiled earth of capitalist society. Has the naturalization of feminism in the present-day obscured the issue of strategy?
JM: I do still believe in crude old things like “to each according to his needs.” People do need different things and that is beyond equality in a sense. This is where history comes in. Society is still trying to think that we all ought to be equal, but we haven’t yet the kind of society that adequately attends to our needs.
The extreme of reformism versus voluntarism is not where we are at the moment. I think these are the concerns that come out of “the soiled earth of capitalist society,” but again my answer would be rather like my answer about equality, that this doesn’t invalidate these concerns. These are perfectly legitimate demands that are not confined by the conditions in which they come into existence. For example, if one looks at what happened to sexuality or reproduction in the Soviet Union, it would have been much better to follow the earlier tide in which sexual freedoms were seen as a condition of the revolution. That is, when Alexandra Kollontai wrote on free sexuality, that wasn’t only a bourgeois demand, nor was it in 1968. A revolutionary situation is a discreet situation that transforms what could be thought within capitalism about sexuality, but it is not identical with capitalism; revolutions create the possibility of change, revolutions change the object. Though we are not in a revolutionary situation, that doesn’t mean it is not around the corner.
The Old Left thought of capitalism as en route to communism. On the withering away of the state, there was a voluntarist injunction to abolish the family and then the opposite, producing a very interesting contradiction that cannot be chalked up to the fact that Stalin was a foul man. It may be that you can’t wither away the family, or can’t wither away the state, but the question is why? If, as Marx himself says, the call by utopian socialists to abolish the family would be tantamount to generalizing the prostitution of women, then what is the solution or next stage? This is why WLR examines the structures within the family. Marx was against the voluntarism of the abolition of the family. But then what measures escape reformism? There may be changes to the things that a family does that will lead to its diversification in such a way that is more revolutionary than what existed thus far under socialism or capitalism. Maybe there is something there to be thought about as new demands that are beyond socialism as well as beyond capitalism.
SS: The program from the memorial service for Fred Halliday on the bookshelf reminds me of an anecdote that is recounted in an interview with Danny Postel. He dreamt of appearing with Tariq Ali before Allah who says that one will veer to the Right, the other to the Left, without specifying who would head in which direction. I think we in Platypus often return to that story as a salient metaphor for the fragmentation of the New Left and the opacity of the present-day. He was planning to do a couple of events with Platypus on an upcoming visit to the US that were alas never realized.
JM: His death is indeed tragic, but I like this story about Tariq and Fred; I think it is important to take up arguments with those who share the same space politically, if only to disagree. I disagree with feminists who dismiss Freud; both of us probably think we are going towards the Left, but we might both be going Right.
SS: For me, getting back on track, I should confess there is an intractable dilemma at the heart of WLR. On the one hand, there are passages gesturing toward a dialectical conception of capitalism—as both repressive as well as potentially emancipatory—while, on the other hand, the Althusserian notion of “overdetermination” that structures the argument emphasizes the role of contingency as the motor of historical change. As Althusser himself acknowledged, the idea of “overdetermination” was indebted to the anti-humanistic reinterpretation of Freud by Lacan. Can one accommodate the denial of the subject as an illusion of the ego in the Lacanian “return” to Freud with the Freudian emphasis on psychoanalysis as an ego-psychology therapy intended to strengthen the self-awareness and freedom of the individual subject as an ego?
JM: No, I never had any time for ego-psychology, but that isn’t the same as the question about overdetermination. Some of the observations of Anna Freud are remarkable, but I don’t see the whole concept of strengthening the ego as a way forward for psychoanalysis, although I suppose there is a context in which it could help if someone were completely fragmented; then there are stages, but it should only be a stage on the way to something else. For me it wasn’t a shift from Lacan to Freud as such. I had met R. D. Laing in 1961. The Divided Self had came out shortly before, in 1959, so I was involved with anti-psychiatry in the same span of time as I was involved with the New Left Review.
On overdetermination as Althusser takes it from Freud: Overdetermination in Freud is not an anti-humanist concept, in Lacan maybe it is, but in Freud it is neither/nor. What it means is that there will always be one factor that is the key factor. And in Freud that is not socioeconomic. What I liked about Althusser was the definition of ideology as at times overdetermining. Ideology, in the Althusserian sense, interpellates individuals as subjects. Now, what Althusser offered me intellectually, so to speak, was that revolutionary change in any one of the superstructural or ideological state apparatuses can attain a certain autonomy, can occur even when it doesn’t elsewhere. Yet, in the last instance, the economy is determinate.
SS: This raises a number of issues about the relationship of Althusser to Marx and that of Lacan to Freud. Does the Althusserian concept of ideology adequately address the ways in which we are forced to deal with our own alienated freedom in capital through reified forms of appearance and consciousness? Did the limitations of the Althusserian-Lacanian framework in WLR motivate the reconsideration of Freud?
JM: You might change sexuality or reproduction or sexualization, but if production remains unchanged, these will remain changes within those specific fields. This claim struck me as valid for the situation of women. I could use this insight to organize the structures that apply to women, which was the family. I broke down the family, each aspect of which I treated as superstructural, but that was in the final analysis determined by production, which was outside it. There I was puzzling over the fact that women are marginal but that, as in the Chinese revolutionary saying, “women hold up half the sky.” How does one think that? The only way I could think it was to break it up into these structures: production, reproduction, sexuality, and the socialization of children. Apart from what I quote—Engels, Bebel, Lenin, Simone De Beauvoir, and Betty Friedan—there was no category “woman” until feminism resuscitated it in the second half of the sixties.
Now, retrospectively, I would say that the intransigence of the oppression of women, as Engels had identified, also entails that it is the longest revolution. In turn the idea of the longest revolution as I wrote WLR made me think about what was absent in earlier analyses but also within Marxist thought. How do we view ourselves in the world? This is what took me to Freud; it took me first to the unconscious rather than sexuality. I thought, at least I thought then, that the unconscious was close to what Althusser had to say about ideology. The return to Freud was “overdetermined”—there were multiple directions for my getting to Freud.
SS: Given your own trajectory, what do you make of the reflorescence of a strain of Althusserian-Lacanian “Marxism” today in the form of Balibar, Rancière, and Badiou?
JM: I suppose this is getting me back to when I wrote WLR. I found Althusser extremely useful, but there was always a humanist in me. I think that remains true, despite all the shake-ups of postmodernity or whatever. I always wanted both perspectives, it was never a matter of either/or. I think we need to rethink our humanity in order to revalidate the universal—neo-universalism—which was interestingly debunked by postmodernism.
SS: Does the contemporary emphasis on performativity or gendering obscure the humanist motivations that led radical anti-feminists to psychoanalysis?
JM: It certainly changes it, it redirects it in a different direction, or it might be, as Judith Butler always tells me, that I haven’t understood performativity properly. I think where I was going with psychoanalysis was more towards kinship, towards what is still fundamental in kinship structures in families, what effects does it have in creating sexual difference. When we talk about interpellation from Althusser, the primary one is “it’s a girl” or “it’s a boy.” I am still trying to work this out in a way, which relates to my work on siblings. Everybody seems to be muddling up gender and sexual difference to me. And it stretches back to the old confusion between sexuality and reproduction. Gender, which can be looked at psychoanalytically, is an earlier formation than sexual difference and fantasies of reproduction are parthenogenic—imaginatively boys and girls equally give birth. Sexual difference takes up heterosexual reproduction. Gender can be made into a category of analysis whereas women can be the object but cannot be a category, which is why one can ask such questions as: Why is hysteria gendered? Why is mathematics gendered? Why is everything gendered?
SS: There was a classic Marxist prejudice against Freudian psychoanalysis. Lukács, as one example, considered Freud an “irrationalist”—as a “symptom.” For Marxist radicals, Freud characterized the limits of “individual” subjectivity with which the revolutionaries had to contend in order to make their revolution. Wilhelm Reich was one of the first Marxists to critically appropriate Freudian categories to describe the social-historical condition of life under capital by perceptively identifying our fear of freedom. Do you think that the shift toward psychoanalysis by radical Marxists from the 1930s on, through the feminist embrace of psychoanalysis to address a felt deficit in the 1960s, registers the internalization of the defeat or is somehow apolitical?
JM: From where Lukács stood, feminism and psychoanalysis looked terribly pessimistic. I think it is the longest revolution. One needs, as Gramsci says, the conjuncture of the optimism of the will and pessimism of the intellect to realize the difficulties. These difficulties can be taken to psychoanalysis usefully, but from where Lukács was standing you couldn’t. He was asking a different question of a different object. When I took up Laing, Reich, and the feminists in Psychoanalysis and Feminism, I never believed one could use psychoanalysis to be on the Left, rather it was what can one use psychoanalysis for to answer the question about the oppression of women, which is an abiding question for the Left.
What I am saying is that psychoanalysis would be different in a revolutionary context than in the fascist context in Berlin in which Reich wrote. I am critical of Reich, but there was an important liberal aspect within psychoanalysis, so that all of the work that Marxists within psychoanalysis were able to do in the polyclinics of Berlin before they were stamped out or forced into emigration by the Nazis, was radical, precipitating a revolution within psychoanalysis as well as within Marxism. Bourgeois concepts start to take on radical implications in the context of a revolution, as with the Marxists of the Second International in the 1920s. The context of the Bolshevik Revolution changed the significance of what Bebel had written on women for Lenin.
SS: The New Left icon Herbert Marcuse sought to outline what a socialist society would look like in Eros and Civilization. The alienation of labor in capital, Marcuse argues, means that the satisfaction from work can only ever be an ersatz form of libidinal release. In a nonrepressive socialist order, on the other hand, work would be recathected, and transformed into play. He also asserts that Freud had hypostatized the existence of the death drive, when in fact it is applicable only to the aggression that attends capitalist society. “WLR” concludes with a critique of such attempts to prefiguratively sketch out what an emancipated society might look like, posing starkly the danger of trying to measure the concrete character of an emancipated future. What are the challenges that confront the Left of the future in preserving the indeterminacy of the concept of socialism?
JM: On the first half of the question about the absence of play and the relationship of the death drive to capitalism: the death drive is a huge question, but why it should be limited to capitalism, not to slave or feudal society is beyond me. Maybe there will be a beyond, but maybe there will simply be ways in which we can work with the death drive or diffuse the id, since it isn’t only violence, it is the return to stasis. It is a hypothesis. I don’t agree with Marcuse; today there are new forms which it takes.
Why aren’t we even where we were in the 60s anymore? I already told you we hit a ceiling, but there are new spaces opening up for the Left. Class will feature in the whole dilemma of illegal migrants, as in Mike Davis’s Planet of Slums. The Left needs to start to think from Planet of Slums, which is a different location from that of the industrial working class of Marx or even the consumer capitalist class of late capitalism of Althusser or of Marcuse. Planet of Slums forecasts a different world, but there will always be a women’s question, as there will be a race question, or a class question.
SS: Apart from the French tradition, the Frankfurt School, especially the work of Adorno, represents another important attempt to appropriate descriptive Freudian categories into a critical Marxist theory. Against Marcuse, Adorno held that it was a necessary symptom of capitalist society, which was characterized by a growing narcissism that weakened the defenses of the ego against the super-ego, that both psychological (ego psychology) and sociological (Parsonian sociology) approaches to social totality had to remain aporetic. The function of the ego, in other words, does not remain unscathed by the irrational reality of capitalist society with its endless means-ends reversals. What role do you think psychoanalysis can play in helping us cope with the normative psychosis of our sociopolitical world? Or, putting it in a more open-ended manner, what kind of emancipatory possibility might there be in the narcissistic character—what Adorno referred to as authoritarianism—of subjects of late capitalism?
JM: Quite correctly Reich had asked the question of the authoritarian personality that was then taken up by the Frankfurt School. I still think their work on the authoritarian personality is a marvelous use of psychoanalysis. Their use of psychoanalysis allowed them to ask questions about the role the authoritarian personality would play in collusion with or in the self-replication of fascism. The Frankfurt School took to psychoanalysis. Lukács thought you couldn’t, approaching it differently from within communism or within socialism trying to call itself communism. I never wanted to psychoanalyze society. I am uninterested in saying that society is narcissistic, depressive, or anything like that, but we are all still of the Left. Hopefully, Allah would say we will all go to the Left, even though we use psychoanalysis for different objects. Freud himself was saying we can change society, in discussions about “Why War?” with Einstein, what can we do to stop war. He then relied on theories of psychoanalysis to try to find some sort of answer—interestingly it turned out to be about the role of aesthetics. He thought from within the clinic as well as from elsewhere. I don’t know what Adorno says in full, but just as a quick last note, in pursuing emancipation in the heart of darkness we also need to let light into the heart of darkness. |P
Transcribed by Atiya Khan
. Juliet Mitchell, “Women: The Longest Revolution,” New Left Review, I/40 (November-December 1966): 11-37.
. C. Wright Mills, “Letter to the New Left,” New Left Review, I/5 (September-October 1960): 18-23.
. Juliet Mitchell, Women’s Estate (New York: Pantheon Books, 1971), 58.
. Ibid., 71.
. “Who is Responsible?: An interview with Fred Halliday,” interview by Danny Postel, Salmagundi, 151-152 (Spring-Summer 2006), http://cms.skidmore.edu/salmagundi/backissues/150-151/halliday.cfm.
Platypus Review 38 | August 2011
At the Marxist Literary Group’s Institute on Culture and Society 2011, held on June 20–24, 2011 at the Institute for the Humanities, University of Illinois at Chicago, Platypus members Chris Cutrone, Greg Gabrellas, and Ian Morrison organized a panel on "The Marxism of Second International Radicalism: Lenin, Luxemburg, and Trotsky." The original description of the event reads: "The legacy of revolution 1917-19 in Russia, Germany, Hungary and Italy is concentrated above all in the historical figures Vladimir Lenin, Rosa Luxemburg and Leon Trotsky, leaders of the Left in the Second International (1889-1914) — what they called 'revolutionary social democracy' — in the period preceding the crisis of war, revolution, counterrevolution and civil war in World War I and its aftermath. In 1920, Georg Lukács summed up this experience as follows: '[T]he crisis [of capital] remains permanent, it goes back to its starting-point, repeats the cycle until after infinite sufferings and terrible detours the school of history completes the education of the proletariat and confers upon it the leadership of mankind. . . . Of course this uncertainty and lack of clarity are themselves the symptoms of the crisis in bourgeois society. As the product of capitalism the proletariat must necessarily be subject to the modes of existence of its creator. . . . inhumanity and reification.' Nonetheless, these Marxists understood their politics as being 'on the basis of capitalism' itself (Lenin). How were the 2nd Intl. radicals, importantly, critics, and not merely advocates, of their own political movement? What is the legacy of these figures today, after the 20th century — as Walter Benjamin said in his 1940 'Theses on the Philosophy of History,' 'against the grain' of their time, reaching beyond it? How did Lenin, Luxemburg, and Trotsky contribute to the potential advancement and transformation of Marxism, in and through the crisis of Marxism in the early 20th century? How can we return to these figures productively, today, to learn the lessons of their history?" An audio recording of the event can be found at the above link. What follows is an edited version of Greg Gabrellas's opening remarks.
DESPITE THE CONTRARY ASSERTIONS of conservatives, Marxism as a body of thought is widely known and disseminated among activists, academics, and political intellectuals. They take Marxism to mean a theory of what is wrong in the world, and how it can be practically changed—essentially a normative political philosophy with a radical disposition. Marxism takes its seat next to feminism, queer theory and critical race studies as a philosophy of liberation. But this view is insufficient, and would have been unthinkable to the radicals of the Second International. Moreover, Marxism today is not only practically ineffectual. It stands in the way of future developments within Marxism, and with it the possibility of socialism.
This judgment might seem surprising, perhaps even shocking, to the activists, academics and intellectuals who consider themselves Marxists or at least sympathizers. There exist Marxist political organizations, journals, reading groups and conferences. Activist projects continue to arise, countering imperialist war and punitive sanctions against the poor and working class, and Marxists play a definitive role in all forms of contemporary activism. But the historical optimism implicit in activism for its own sake, manifest by the slogan “the struggle continues,” condemns itself to impotence. Marxism is different from radical political theory only insofar as it is an active recognition of possibility amidst social disintegration and calamity. Marxists have forgotten that self-critical politics is the form in which progressive developments within Marxist theory take place.
At first this inward orientation might seem misplaced. But just as modern painting recovers and transforms the aesthetic conventions of previous generations, so the radicals of the Second International understood socialism to be exclusively possible through the self-criticism and advancement of the actually-existing-history of the movement. Understandably, the splotches on a Jackson Pollock painting, or the overlapping figures of a de Kooning, might confuse first-time visitors to any museum of modern art. With its historical link severed, Marxism too risks becoming unintelligible amid the chatter of contemporary theory.
For example, in The Crisis of German Social Democracy, written under the pseudonym Junius while imprisoned for her opposition to world war in 1914, Rosa Luxemburg wrote,
Unsparing self-criticism is not merely an essential for its existence but the working class’s supreme duty. On our ship we have the most valuable treasures of mankind, and the proletariat is their ordained guardian! And while bourgeois society, shamed and dishonored by the bloody orgy, rushes headlong toward its doom, the international proletariat must and will gather up the golden treasure that, in a moment of weakness and confusion in the chaos of the world war, it has allowed to sink to the ground.
The “most valuable treasures of mankind” to which Luxemburg refers may be necessarily cryptic, but her phrase illuminates objective social sensibilities that have since vanished. Socialism was seen by the radical masses of workers and intellectuals alike as the fulfillment of humanity’s highest social and cultural achievements. Marxism was itself a historical achievement rendered possible by the organized politics of the working class. The task of Marxist theory was the criticism of socialist politics as a means of developing Marxism itself, and with it the possibility for new social freedoms. For Luxemburg, the project of political Marxism was not simply a matter of ideology or a political program that could be right or wrong. Socialism was, as she put it in the same pamphlet, “the first popular movement in world history that has set itself the goal of bringing human consciousness, and thereby free will, into play in the social actions of mankind.” In the wake of this movement’s crisis and ultimate collapse in the twentieth century, we must struggle to discern why and how this nearly forgotten generation of workers, intellectuals and students came closest to achieving a real utopia.
If the intervening history has rendered this historical optimism suspect, then it is to Luxemburg’s lasting credit that she passed judgment on the failure of the Left before barbarism itself had the last word. By declaring Social Democracy a “stinking corpse” in 1915, with its resignation in the face of national chauvinism and a looming world war, Luxemburg purposefully cast “the last forty-five year period [1870-1915] in the development of the modern labor movement…in doubt.” Luxemburg’s readers must have found this judgment shocking, since it corresponded to the rise of mass democratic parties and trade unions—historically new institutions, but ones that seemed to many socialists to ensure their political victory. That a disciplined leader of the revolutionary movement could criticize the foundation of the modern labor movement itself illustrates the keen historical integrity of Luxemburg’s Marxism. Fortified by her theoretical will to “self-criticism, remorseless, cruel,” she politically challenged and tried to demolish the regressive political and ideological tendencies within her own movement. She saw these as symptoms of the bourgeois social order in decline. Unable to contain the contradiction between the immense capacity to generate wealth and the intensifying fragmentation and attenuation of individual freedom, bourgeois society became repetitive, caught in the mythological repeat of the failure of revolution. This posed both a problem and an opportunity for the revolutionary left, which participated in mass institutions but only as a means to furthering human freedom by reconstructing society on a wholly new basis.
But the “crisis of German Social Democracy” revealed the extent to which the Left had become its own worst enemy. Rosa Luxemburg sought to crystallize this trauma, rendering it available to theoretical diagnosis and intervention. Her criticism was a necessary political attempt at achieving the historical consciousness required for the realization of socialism. For example, in her final political work she understood herself and her comrades on the Left to be returning, under changed conditions, to a moment of revolutionary potential occupied much earlier by the authors of The Communist Manifesto. She observed in 1918, at the founding congress of the German Communist Party (KPD), “the course of the historical dialectic has led us back to the point at which Marx and Engels stood in 1848 when they first unfurled the banner of international socialism. We stand where they stood, but with the advantage that seventy additional years of capitalist development lie behind us.” Luxemburg argued that the Left had lived for many years in the dark shadow cast by the failure of revolution in 1848. While industrial development spurred the development of wealth-generating machines on an ever-expanding scale, the working class organized itself on an increasingly collectivist basis that threatened to compromise the emancipatory impulse behind Marx’s politics. Henceforth, “Marxist” politics was defined by its attempt to overcome the dead hand of this history.
Marxism, for Rosa Luxemburg, was not simply an insight into the ‘objective’ laws of capitalist development; rather, it was a kind of immanent knowledge, itself bound up in that very development. Her life’s work might be described as an ongoing attempt at “revolutionary cognition,” in which her politics were inextricable from her most inspired theoretical contributions. In this work she was continuing the project of Marx and Engels, for whom the proletariat does not enter the historical arena preformed, but develops in a form suitable to revolutionary consciousness. According to The Communist Manifesto, the workers of the early period of bourgeois society do not recognize themselves as a class, but with the emergence of the factory system and large-scale industry, and after the labor process is thoroughly transformed by machinery, “the collisions between individual workmen and individual bourgeois take more and more the character of collisions between two classes.” In other words, class struggle is not the default of bourgeois society, but its achievement.
This achievement marks the turning point in history, for although the bourgeoisie protects its own interests, it nevertheless comes into conflict with itself as a class. It finds itself in a “constant battle,” surrounded on all sides by global competition with other producers. Hence it “sees itself compelled to appeal to the proletariat, to ask for its help, and thus, to drag it into the political arena. The bourgeoisie itself, therefore, supplies the proletariat with its own elements of political and general education.” The proletariat, in turn, gradually rises above its own divisions of a class through political agitation for social reform: “It compels legislative recognition of particular interests of the workers, by taking advantage of the divisions of the bourgeoisie itself.” This movement is complemented by the bourgeoisie’s own disintegration as a class, in which “a portion of the bourgeois ideologists, who have raised themselves to the level of comprehending theoretically the historical movement as a whole,” break away and join the proletariat, “the class that holds the future in its hands.” It is this process of social disintegration and re-formation through class struggle that Marx and Engels suggested socialism would be achieved. They described it as, “the self-conscious, independent movement of the immense majority, in the interest of the immense majority.”
If social disintegration continued well after the failed revolutions of 1848, for which Marx and Engels wrote the Manifesto, so too did the growth of class-conscious political organization that transformed the modern world. Marxist theorists sought to understand the new possibilities opened up by parliamentary Social Democracy, and hoped to push the natural tendency forward. It seemed that history was on the side of socialism. This was the context of historical optimism in which the German Social-Democratic Party was formed in 1875. Luxemburg intervened in the so-called “revisionist controversy” with her pamphlet Social Reform or Revolution? in order to clarify the real historical stakes of this confusion. Since the foundation of the Second International, political policy, which was more often than not informed by Marxian theory, came up against the immediate interests of the trade union leadership, which viewed its own immediate struggles as taking priority over the “political” decisions made by the congresses. Although the modern Social-Democratic parties were united within the Socialist International, organized constituencies within the parties—notably the parliamentary delegations and the trade union leadership—could create friction and block implementation of socialist strategy. An early instance of this was the protest of German trade union leaders against the International’s decision to call a workers’ holiday on May Day in 1890, shortly after the Haymarket massacre. This political tendency found an unlikely supporter in Eduard Bernstein, a longstanding member of German Social Democracy and one of its foremost Marxist theorists.
Bernstein argued that the very success of the social-democratic Left made Marx’s “revolutionary” predictions, and his politics, obsolete. The development of credit and cartels had stabilized capitalist crises; the trade unions had begun to increase wages; and universal democracy could gradually be brought into being by legislative reforms. Luxemburg criticized Bernstein’s one-sided approach to historical reality. By abandoning Marx’s own approach of viewing society as a whole, Bernstein preferred to view certain social phenomena, like credit, as disjecta membra, dislocated fragments. He failed to consider working-class politics integral to the reproduction of capitalist society, which logically led him to political fatalism and unwarranted historical optimism. Although some of her arguments are sharp criticisms of Bernstein’s interpretations of facts, Luxemburg’s central critiques strike at the heart of the issue: how the conditions of immediate struggle in bourgeois society point beyond themselves to a socialist future.
In her pamphlet Social Reform or Revolution?, Luxemburg took aim at the notion that immediate gains that lead to forms of “social control,” such as labor legislation, are in themselves the content of socialism. Why insist on some fantastical ideal when we can make progressive changes to improve working conditions in the here and now? But Luxemburg was not satisfied: such struggles are, she insisted, a “labor of Sisyphus”—necessary as defensive measures, but inadequate to eliminate exploitation in the social system predicated on the compulsion of wage earners to sell their labor. She struggled against the political and ideological tendency, internal to the socialist movement itself, of pushing up and defending bourgeois society, but from the perspective of the immediate interests of the working class, voiced by the trade unions. Luxemburg was not against workers’ self-organization as such. But she called on Marxists to recognize that the new forms of organization were potentially straitjackets on bourgeois society in decline and not the dawning of socialism.
Rosa Luxemburg’s role in the revisionist dispute reinforced the saliency of Marxism within the Marxist movement. In place of revolutionary consciousness, Marxist theory became increasingly absorbed by a regressive immediacy of working class politics. The result was not simply a struggle of Marxists against trade-union leaders, but a struggle within Marxism itself. Luxemburg and her allies, including Lenin in the Russian Social-Democratic Labor Party, took their “orthodoxy” to demand constant attention to the historical whole of humanity, not individual parts. Her work clearly underscores the political significance of theoretical matters. She herself insisted, “No coarser insult, no baser defamation, can be thrown against the workers than the remark ‘Theoretical controversies are only for intellectuals.’” The betrayal of revolutionary politics, indicated by acquiescence to inter-imperial war, vindicated Luxemburg’s bitter struggle to overcome the emerging ideology which opposed the revolutionary change sought by the Left wing of the Second International.
By the time of the German Revolution in 1918, in which sailors’ mutinies resulted in the formation of Councils of Workers and Soldiers’ Deputies led by reluctant Socialists who had just recently inherited state power, Luxemburg identified a distinct need to transfer the masses of workers from their membership in the German Social Democracy to the revolution. What for us appears as a philosophy of history was, for her, the development of a Marxist politics worthy of the name. She wrote, “The first illusion of the workers and soldiers who made the revolution was: the illusion of unity under the banner of so-called socialism.” By raising broader theoretical problems that inevitably influenced the nature of capitalist society and the revolutionary process itself, Luxemburg was not merely an organizer—she gave conscious form to the previously latent crisis in bourgeois society, providing political leadership in the struggle to construct a new social world.
Peer into a high-powered telescope, and you can witness the auratic glow of an archaic cosmic explosion—the origins—racing away from us at light speed. A similarly spectral shockwave marks the horizon of modern political experience, and it is also cataclysmic, though it goes largely unnoticed. The trauma includes the unnecessary suffering and death wrought by the miscarried socialist revolutions of the twentieth century, the failure of which made possible the unprecedented mass slaughter in Nazi death camps—humanity’s self-immolation; it is the past that weighs heavier than ever like a nightmare on our brains. The Left in its various political manifestations is not exempt: the accumulating catastrophe is everything we say, do, and think. We can try to escape from this nightmare, and move on, we can try to discard Marxism, even ideology itself. But we cannot forget what we do not fully remember. And yet that smudge of light we see in our telescopes, nearly invisible to the naked eye, is about as hazy and irrelevant to our contemporary concerns as Marxism. How is it possible that this now discarded relic can help illuminate our present?
The Ancients once used the stars in constellation to find the proper place of humanity in the cosmos. Looking back to the moment of Luxemburg’s murder, we survey the ruins of a historical accomplishment unprecedented in the history of humanity. If we capture a glimpse of the Marxism of Rosa Luxemburg, it is antiquity to our own. Nonetheless, perhaps it is an important part of the constellation we need. Christopher Lasch once wrote that radicals after the New Left could only relate to the past through either blind rejection or complete identification with exemplary predecessors. Both tendencies are pathological. Lasch likens this to a personality disorder in psychoanalytic theory, in which a fraught relationship to one’s childhood, the lack of a Golden Age of youth, leads either to mania or depression, or perhaps both. Considering the problems confronting Marxism today, there are no easily drawn conclusions to be made, but rather ways of questioning the world that elucidate and advance historical tendencies now forgotten.
The Renaissance painters and philosophers looked to the ruins of Greek and Roman civilization to nourish their burgeoning self-consciousness and cultural achievements, heralding the dawn of a new age while rediscovering and transforming the value of the old. So we might still recognize in our times the wreckage of humanity’s highest hopes, crystallized in the failure of the Marxist project in general, and of Rosa Luxemburg’s Marxism in particular. But to do so we must see in ourselves—in every protest, every demonstration, and every factory takeover—the obstacle, insofar as it occludes historical consciousness and ensnares us in the immediacy of our present. We are not at the verge of a new beginning, but the tail end of an epoch-making project that once sought to change the world. Since the historical continuity is broken, this project can be taken up again only if we can somehow bring forgotten historical tendencies to consciousness—to render the faint memory of revolutionary socialism intelligible through self-criticism. While our own capacity to pose theoretical problems in the present is confounded, we might instead allow the past to ask questions of the present. Looking backwards is now the only way to move forwards. |P
. Rosa Luxemburg, “The Crisis of German Social Democracy (The Junius Pamphlet)”, 1915, available online at <www.marxists.org/archive/luxemburg/1915/junius/>.
. Rosa Luxemburg, “Our Program and the Political Situation,” in The Rosa Luxemburg Reader, eds. Peter Hudis and Kevin B. Anderson (New York: Monthly Review Press, 2004), 363.
. J.P. Nettl, Rosa Luxemburg (London: Oxford University Press, 1966), 336.
. Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, “Manifesto of the Communist Party,” in The Marx-Engels Reader, ed. Robert C. Tucker (New York: W.W. Norton and Company, 1978), 481.
. Ibid., 481.
. Ibid., 482.
. Rosa Luxemburg, “Social Reform or Revolution,” in The Rosa Luxemburg Reader, eds. Peter Hudis and Kevin B. Anderson (New York: Monthly Review Press, 2004), 130.
. Luxemburg, “Our Program,” 367.
Platypus Review 38 | August 2011
At the Marxist Literary Group’s Institute on Culture and Society 2011, held on June 20–24, 2011 at the Institute for the Humanities, University of Illinois at Chicago, Platypus members Spencer Leonard, Pamela Nogales, and Jeremy Cohan organized a panel on “Marxism and the Bourgeois Revolution.” The original description of the event reads: “The ‘bourgeois revolutions’ from the 16th through the 19th centuries—extending into the 20th—conformed humanity to modern city life, ending traditional, pastoral, religious custom in favor of social relations of the exchange of labor. Abbé Sieyès wrote in 1789 that, in contradistinction to the clerical First Estate who ‘prayed’ and the aristocratic Second Estate who ‘fought,’ the commoner Third Estate ‘worked:’ ‘What has the Third Estate been? Nothing.' 'What is it? Everything.' Kant warned that universal bourgeois society would be the mere midpoint in humanity’s achievement of freedom. After the last bourgeois revolutions in Europe of 1848 failed, Marx wrote of the ‘constitution of capital,’ the ambivalent, indeed self-contradictory character of ‘free wage labor.’ In the late 20th century, the majority of humanity abandoned agriculture in favor of urban life—however in ‘slum cities.’ How does the bourgeois revolution appear from a Marxian point of view? How did what Marx called the ‘proletarianization’ of society circa 1848 signal not only the crisis and supersession, but the need to fulfill and ‘complete’ the bourgeois revolution, whose task now fell to the politics of ‘proletarian’ socialism, expressed by the workers’ call for ‘social democracy?’ How did this express the attempt, as Lenin put it, to overcome bourgeois society ‘on the basis of capitalism’ itself? How did subsequent Marxism lose sight of Marx on this, and how might Marx’s perspective on the crisis of the bourgeois revolution in the 19th century still resonate today?” An audio recording of the event is available at the above link. What follows is an edited version of Jeremy’s Cohan’s opening remarks.
IN HIS “Idea for a Universal History from a Cosmopolitan Point of View,” Immanuel Kant sets forth to tell the story of humanity as if it were one of progress. This is not easy, says Kant,
Since men in their endeavors behave, on the whole, not just instinctively, like the brutes, nor yet like rational citizens of the world according to some agreed-on plan, no history of man conceived according to a plan seems to be possible…One cannot suppress a certain indignation when one sees men’s actions on the great world-stage and finds, beside the wisdom that appears here and there among individuals, everything in the large woven together from folly, childish vanity, even from childish malice and destructiveness.
For Kant, rationality in human history depends on the future. By completing the seeds of freedom and development implicit in the present, we might illuminate and make meaningful the sound, fury, and idiocy thus far characteristic of world-history. The stakes are high:
Until this last step…is taken, which is the halfway mark in the development of mankind, human nature must suffer the cruelest hardships under the guise of external well-being; and Rousseau was not far wrong in preferring the state of savages, so long, that is, as the last stage to which the human race must climb is not attained.
Georg Lukács sought to revive a Marx that, like Kant, strove to bring the crisis-character of the present to self-consciousness, but under changed conditions. This Marx understood the problem of his—and our—epoch as the unfinished bourgeois revolution, whose gains would be meaningful only from the standpoint of redemption—what Lukács called the standpoint of the proletariat. The “orthodox” Marx Lukács found in the politics of the radicals of the Second International, Rosa Luxemburg and Vladimir Lenin, stood at the edge of an historical abyss.
As Nietzsche’s Zarathustra puts it: “Man is a rope tied between beast and overman—a rope over an abyss. A dangerous across, a dangerous on-the-way, a dangerous looking back, a dangerous shuddering and stopping.” On the other side of the rope, the completion of the human freedom whose possibility the “bourgeois epoch” had begun. Beneath, the whoring subservience of bourgeois thought and socialism both, to a status quo with ever dwindling possibilities for human freedom.
This is a very different Lukács than the one who has gained some academic respectability of late. A sector of the academic left thinks we ought to take up many of the analytical tools Lukács has given us to become more “reflexive” critics of capitalism, paying attention to our “standpoint” of critique to get past objective and subjective dichotomies that plague debate in the social sciences, and to talk about ideology as “socially necessary illusion” rather than mere will o’ the wisp. Sure, we have to ditch the politics—the crypto-messianic or proto-Stalinist (whichever you prefer) “proletariat as the identical subject-object of history.” But Lukács can help us become keener, more critical academics.
I want to resist this assimilation of Lukács into the barbarism of academic reason.
As Lukács put it in his “What is Orthodox Marxism?”: “Materialist dialectic is a revolutionary dialectic.” Lukács is not the mere “analyst” of reification, on the model of his cultural studies epigones. He sought to demonstrate that Marxism was, from beginning to end, only possible as a practical self-clarification of the ongoing crisis of society triggered by the unfinished bourgeois revolution. Recent attempts to rescue the “academic” Lukács are an exercise in contradiction. It is precisely when he stopped being an academic that he could move forward with his philosophical problems, because they were being addressed politically by the revolutionary Marxism of his day.
But the attempt to recover the political Lukács may be just as futile. For Lukács’s moment is not ours; the crisis and possibility of the early 20th century is far from what we face. So any “recovery” of Lukács must operate on two levels: one, by asking seriously whether we have overcome the crisis that Lukács attempted to formulate theoretically, and two, by recognizing that, if we have not, we cannot simply take up where he left off.
The problem of epistemology, morals, aesthetics “Reification” essay is reason at odds with itself; reason that ends in mythology, suffering, and unfreedom.
We return to Kant, this time offering the battle cry of the Enlightenment: “Ours is the genuine age of criticism, to which everything must submit.” Not just ideas, but social institutions and forms of life too, must justify themselves by appealing to reason, rather than through claims of tradition or dogma. The philosophical Enlightenment and the political revolutions that fought under its banner—the American, the French, the Haitian, and those of 1848—looked forward to the realization of reason, freedom, and human self-development in the world, in our social institutions and in ourselves. This would be emancipation—humanity’s “maturity” as Kant puts it.
But bourgeois society has been unable to fulfill its promise. We all-too reasonable moderns seem consigned to contemplate a ready-made world. Lukács shows this reason—a more powerful and mythical dominating force than nature ever was—at odds with itself, and in play in all forms in society: from the factory machine to the bureaucratic state, from jurisprudence to journalism. He peoples his essay with characters from the great social scientists of his day, Max Weber and Georg Simmel—the bureaucrats, the abstract calculative individuals—to describe a society whose “reason” is a soulless restrictive rationalization shaping humanity in its narrow image. He might, like Weber, have also turned to Nietzsche’s “last man”—the shrunken, all-too reasonable, modern toady. Happy; unable to give birth to a star.
Nor does academia help us out of this crisis of modern reason. Disciplinary fragmentation is the rule, wherein the more we seem to know, the more reasonable each science becomes, the less it has to say about the nature of our society as a whole. Weber puts it like so in his “Science as a Vocation,” “Natural science gives us an answer to the question of what we wish to do to master life technically. It leaves quite aside…whether we should and do wish to master life technically and whether it ultimately makes sense to do so.” We once thought we could go to reason with our deep questions; we now know better, says Weber.
And, importantly, Marxism has been on the whole no better—it has been only a more advanced form of this domination-reconstituting reason. The target of most of History and Class Consciousness is, after all, Marxism itself, a “vulgar” Marxism that loses the capacity to affect the course of events. This Marxism had signed on to national war efforts in WWI; this Marxism was responsible for the tightening and spread of state control over everyday life. We will return to this point: Marxism, for Lukács, faced a crisis in which it would either have to transform itself or would become one more apologia for the status quo.
This betrayal of emancipation by reason—this formalization, fragmentation, and tyrannous indifference to the particular—is what Lukács calls reification. None of this, let me emphasize, can be solved by interdisciplinary programs. This is a problem, Lukács asserts, that arises in our textbooks, because it is real, it has a basis in our form of life. Capitalist totality really does proceed fragmentarily, unconsciously, relegating humans into mere things. Reification is a Gegenstandlichkeitsform, a “form of objectivity.” It cannot be overcome except through consciousness, but it cannot be overcome through consciousness alone.
We might read the entirety of the second part of the “Reification” essay, “The Antinomies of Bourgeois Thought,” as demonstrating, again and again, that reification cannot be overcome in thought alone. But Lukács is not setting up philosophy for a fall. Instead, Lukács gives an account of “Idealist” philosophy struggling to express the problems and potentials of freedom in its moment—that philosophy’s ambition, and the limits it reached, are characteristic of the “high” moment of bourgeois politics. Bourgeois philosophy, says Lukács, is the self-consciousness of a contradictory age, whose further transformations and developments necessitated its (self-)overcoming. This attempt to realize a freedom not “imposed upon” but immanent in social reality is passed on to Marxism. Marxism, in turn, is undergoing its own deep split, its own crisis, taking up in transmuted form the earlier crisis of thought and action.
Marxism, for Lukács, is the direct inheritor of a bourgeois practical philosophy of freedom. This definitively separates Marxism from many other varieties of anti-modern discontent (of which postmodernism is the most recent variety). Philosophy seeks to express, and through expression to become midwife to, the birth of the freedom implicit in our social relations. And while this task is more opaque in Lukács’s moment, Lukács refuses to sadly shrug his shoulders at the coming barbarism; he calls us to risk achieving the Enlightenment’s promise. Kant, Fichte, Schelling, Schiller, and Hegel would not cede the attempt to combine reason, freedom, and human development, even as they conscientiously recognized that these could not be reconciled in a bourgeois world. They express that bourgeois society has not yet given up on itself.
Bourgeois philosophy stuck with its ambition: “…the idea that the object…can be known by us for the reason that, and to the degree in which, it has been created by ourselves.” But through epistemology, morals, aesthetics (the subjects of Kant’s three critiques) and even Hegel’s invocation of history, this philosophy kept finding itself left with, on the one side, an incomplete formal reason, on the other side an inert and irrational object; on the one side a free, self-determining subject, on the other the brute facts and “laws” of the world. Reason simply reproduces a subject denuded of its capacity to shape the world and itself, reconciled at the expense of unfreedom.
Classical philosophy’s honest focus on its limits was one of the things Lukács admired most about it. But even more importantly, that philosophical lineage attempted to probe and overcome its difficulties through developing a certain form of knowledge: the “identical subject-object,” “its own age comprehended in thought,” or practical self-consciousness. Classical idealist philosophy shows that freedom is possible only through a transformative self-consciousness, where “knowing” and “practical transformation” are mutually constitutive—where knowledge is immanent, rather than abstract.
Reason is not an abstract form to be imposed on a hostile reality—it is realizing something implicit in an object, an object which is actually us. A neurotic symptom appears to be a horrible hostile entity to be conquered, but it is rather a development of self to be understood and practically overcome. By knowing myself, I change myself. I am, but am not, the same self I was. Self-knowledge allows me, as Nietzsche puts it, to “become myself.”
Marxism is the attempt to realize the form of practical self-knowledge which offers the only hope of achieving freedom, reason, and development. But Marxism has inherited not only the tasks, but also the problems and crises, of the practical philosophy of freedom. Neo-Kantian, scientistic Marxism, connected with varieties of reformism, becomes the farcical repetition of Kant’s achievement: it fails to radicalize the Kant–Hegel–Marx lineage. Much like what Freud would call regression—the use of outdated psychic tools to cope with new problems and changed conditions—Marxism threatened to become “stuck,” thus failing to justify the leap the bourgeois revolutions had initiated. Marxism needed to learn to grow up. Or, more specifically, it needed to learn to stop thinking that it had already grown up.
Lukács insists that revolutionary Marxism is able to concretely pose the problem of emancipation, because its politics seeks to practically achieve the self-consciousness of capitalist society in its crisis. And capitalist society’s crisis, in its most acute form, is the historical development and consciousness of the proletariat. As Lukács puts it, “the proletariat is nothing but the contradictions of history become conscious” (71). But why?
Firstly, because the rise of the proletariat meant, historically, the decline of bourgeois radicalism. The proletariat’s incipient demand that they become the subjects promised by bourgeois society—free, creative, and equal—led the bourgeoisie to become “vulgar,” to give up on the radical implications of the Enlightenment and to call for “law and order.” Capital’s tragedy is that it is always also the proletariat. The bourgeoisie’s tragedy is that it must, by necessity, be always one step behind capital.
Second, because the proletariat is a commodity, and thus the ultimate object, she sells herself on the market, is enslaved by the machine, and is thrown about by economic crises over which she has not a whit of control. But bourgeois society also promises that each human being might become a self-determining subject. For Lukács, “the worker can only become conscious of his existence in society when he becomes aware of himself as a commodity.” Or “[the proletariat’s] consciousness is the self-consciousness of the commodity” (168). The commodity, this irrational reason, can itself make demands for its emancipation because the typical commodity is the proletariat. The inverse is also true: the proletariat is the quintessential “abstract” bourgeois subject, whose struggles to appropriate society for its purposes demand that the object—the product of the history of social labour—be infused with subjective purpose.
We are used to thinking of the natural constituency of the Left as those who are “marginal” to society. Lukács develops the daring claim of revolutionary Marxism that capitalism must overcome itself, not through the intervention of those outside, but by the action of those at its very center. “[The proletariat’s] fate is typical of the society as a whole,” says Lukács (92). The only advantage the worker might have is that her reification is often experienced as a form of powerlessness and therefore might be mediated politically into a transformative practice. Marxism is not the resistance to capitalism or reification or bourgeois subjectivity—it is their self-conscious realization and self-overcoming.
As proletarians seek to really become “bourgeois subjects,” their demands for subjectivity begin to strain against the limits of what is possible in bourgeois society. But the proletariat’s social position does not at all guarantee that it will radically push forward the demands of emancipation, only that it might. Politics is the attempt to realize this potential.
Lukács saw in the crisis of Marxism precipitated by World War I, but already presaged in the “revisionist debate,” a re-enactment at a new level of the crisis of bourgeois philosophy. Here self-consciousness could advance the new tasks posed, or thinking would become little more than an apologia for domination. In the radicals of Second International Marxism, especially Luxemburg and Lenin, Lukács saw the attempt to meet the tasks of the present, to formulate the politics that could realize bourgeois society’s—and Marxism’s—potential self-overcoming.
The essence of Lenin and Luxemburg’s Marxist politics was that socialism, in order to achieve emancipation, would have to be a conscious human act, immanent in present realities; it could not be deduced from social being nor a fervent wish from beyond. If one could “stumble into socialism,” as if socialism were fated from time immemorial by inexorable laws, then it would be one more form of unfreedom, of fake subjectivity. Human consciousness would be an integral part of “objective” development, or nothing at all.
This was exemplified in their focus on the “non-automatic” character of the transition to socialism. They criticized both inevitabilism and the reduction of the proletariat as just another sectional interest, seeking its “cut of the pie.” This was not Marxism, the politics of freedom, at all. Passages like the following from Rosa Luxemburg’s Reform or Revolution, were key for Lukács:
So that if we do not consider momentarily the immediate amelioration of the workers’ condition – an objective common to our party program as well as to revisionism – the difference between the two outlooks is…[a]ccording to the present conception of the party [Luxemburg’s position], trade-union and parliamentary activity are important for the socialist movement because such activity prepares the proletariat, that is to say, creates the subjective factor of the socialist transformation, for the task of realising socialism…we say that as a result of its trade union and parliamentary struggles, the proletariat becomes convinced, of the impossibility of accomplishing a fundamental social change through such activity and arrives at the understanding that the conquest of power is unavoidable.
Luxemburg sought, then, to struggle with the proletariat in its halting attempts to achieve bourgeois subjectivity in order to constantly push against the limits of how much subjectivity capitalism could grant the workers—all so that the proletariat might someday demand the end of their being an object tout court. Furthermore political education and action around these limits would be designed to call workers to learning about how they came to be what they are—i.e. to understand historically their being as an expression of the crisis of capital—and thus be faced with the gravity of the task ahead for achieving freedom.
The revolutionary Marxism of Luxemburg and Lenin, then, was for Lukács the attempt to realize the promises and possibilities of bourgeois society by consistently pressing forward the demand for subjectivity contained in the commodity itself: the proletariat. This politics, in extremely telescoped form, insists on:
- the leading role of the proletariat as the most typical element and crisis-point of capitalism
- an emphasis on the subjective development of the proletariat in any struggles it undergoes
- a fight against the reduction of Marxism into sectional interest, seeking its “cut of the pie”
- the importance of emphasizing not victories, but limits in any given interest-pursued action by the proletariat
- the concomitant value of self-criticism and self-transformation
- the centrality of self-transformative political practice
- an organization—or party—dedicated (as Lukács quotes Marx in the Communist Manifesto) to clarifying the international and historical significance of any given action.
This self-conscious capitalist politics elucidated, for Lukács, what the practical philosophy of freedom would have to look like in order to overcome the present and to realize the endangered, fragile past, soon to become only the miserable precursor to an even more miserable sequel.
This struggle with the proletariat to achieve its own possibility was for Lukács the other side of the struggle of bourgeois society to achieve its potential, an historical open question that would be decided only by self-conscious self-action. The crisis of modern society is the crisis of the bourgeois revolution—which at a new, more deadly level, is the crisis of Marxism.
If this politics is unsuccessful, there will certainly be plenty of movements and resistance. But unless capital, the dynamo of modernity, is overcome from within, rather than by a deus ex machina from without, you won’t get the self-overcoming of capitalist society at its highest point and the realization of the potential freedom implicit in modernity. Instead resistance becomes the cry accompanying a resigned acceptance to the unfreedom of the whole.
Lukács’s History and Class Consciousness might be summed up in Freud’s description of the goal of psychoanalysis: Wo Es war, soll Ich werden; where it was, I shall be. Self-consciousness changes us, but we are still somehow “us”; we have realized something about ourselves. Nor is self-consciousness merely in the brain. To be really self-conscious we need to change our whole way of being. Lukács’s Marxism is trying to recognize that Marxism poses the question to bourgeois society and to modernity as a whole whether or not it can achieve this kind of transformative self-consciousness. The prospects do not look bright.
But why return to Lukács? Especially if I insist that he was attempting to make sense of his practical moment, to raise the moment of world-historical danger and possibility of roughly 1917-1923 to self-consciousness, what relevance does he have in a moment whose practical possibilities are so different, and so diminished? Psychoanalysis again, perhaps, provides a useful metaphor. We do not revisit our childhoods to relive them—only to recognize how we have yet to integrate them by overcoming them. Lukács helps us see that we haven’t grown up.
This means that perhaps Lukács’s “identical subject-object” seems so “messianic” to us not because we have surpassed Lukács and his silly metaphysical speculations, but because we find ourselves no longer able to imagine this kind of freedom. We no longer believe that we can overcome capitalism for the better, realizing the reason, freedom, and human development it promises. Capitalism is a brute, inert, foreign entity, dominating us and our capacities. All we can do is look to the marginal, the suffering, and the pained, and offer sympathy and solidarity with their struggles: struggles that are part of the natural laws of history. There will be power, there will be resistance. Our politics take something like the form of Niezsche’s eternal return. As “critical” as we are, we can only imagine freedom swooping in from beyond and bringing its liberation into our miserable lives. And we are right—for we are surely in the age of second childhood, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
Was Lukács a fool for wagering on the possibility of freedom by becoming, politically, a Marxist? Lukács would insist on Luxemburg’s call—socialism or barbarism. Either the immanent overcoming of capitalism and its irrational rationality, or resignation to ever-new, ever-horrifying, forms of “reasonable” barbarism.
To end, I offer two quotes. The first from Lukács:
When the moment of transition to the ‘realm of freedom’ arrives this will become apparent just because the blind forces really will hurtle blindly towards the abyss, and only the conscious will of the proletariat will be able to save mankind from the impending catastrophe. In other words, when the final economic crisis of capitalism develops, the fate of the revolution (and with it the fate of mankind) will depend on the ideological maturity of the proletariat, i.e. on its class consciousness (69).
The second from Rilke in the first of his Duino Elegies:
Yes—the springtimes needed you. Often a star
was waiting for you to notice it. A wave rolled toward you
out of the distant past, or as you walked
under an open window, a violin
yielded itself to your hearing. All this was mission.
But could you accomplish it?
Without Lukács’s Pascalian wager on freedom, it is not clear to me that Lukács is worth much of anything at all. The demon that drove him from philosophy to the politics of revolutionary Marxism is what should call out to us today, not the analytical tools we can dig up from the grave of his practical philosophy of freedom. Or maybe he is just a dead dog. |P
. Immanuel Kant, “Idea for a Universal History from a Cosmopolitan Point of View,” in Kant on History, trans. Lewis White Beck (Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1963), 12.
. Ibid., 21.
. Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, trans. Walter Kaufmann (New York: Penguin Books, 1978), 126.
. Georg Lukács, “What is Orthodox Marxism,” in History and Class Consciousness: Studies in Marxist Dialectics, trans. Rodney Livingstone (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 1971 ), 2.
. Immanuel Kant, Critique of Pure Reason, trans. Paul Guyer and Allen W. Wood (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998 ), 100-101.
. Max Weber. “Science as a Vocation” in From Max Weber: Essays in Sociology, eds. Hans Gerth and C. Wright Mills (New York: Oxford University Press, 1958 ), 144.
. Georg Lukács, “Reification and the Consciousness of the Proletariat,” in History and Class Consciousness: Studies in Marxist Dialectics, trans. Rodney Livingstone (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 1971 ), 112. Hereafter referred to parenthetically with the appropriate page number(s).
. Rosa Luxemburg, Social Reform or Revolution, in Rosa Luxemburg Speaks, ed. Mary-Alice Waters (New York: Pathfinder Press, 1979), 84-5.
. Rainer Maria Rilke. Duino Elegies in The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke, ed. and trans. Stephen Mitchell (NY: Random House, 1982), 151.