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The Paris Commune Is Still a Beacon for Radical Change

On this day in 1871, the working class of Paris seized control of the capital and established the Commune. Though it ruled for just two months, the world’s first workers’ government still stands as a vivid example of the kind of society workers themselves can create, according to their own vision of freedom and equality.
The bourgeois of France had always come away with everything. Since the revolution of 1789, they had been the only ones to grow rich in periods of prosperity, while the working class had regularly borne the brunt of crises. But the proclamation of the Third Republic would open new horizons and offer an opportunity for a change of course. Napoleon III, having been defeated in battle at Sedan, was taken prisoner by the Prussians on September 4, 1870. In the following January, after a four-month siege of Paris, Otto von Bismarck obtained a French surrender and was able to impose harsh terms in the ensuing armistice.

National elections were held and Adolphe Thiers installed at the head of the executive power, with the support of a large Legitimist and Orleanist majority. In the capital, however, where the popular discontent was greater than elsewhere, radical republican and socialist forces swept the board. The prospect of a right-wing government that would leave social injustices intact, heaping the burden of the war on the least well off and seeking to disarm the city, triggered a new revolution on March 18. Thiers and his army had little choice but to decamp to Versailles.

Struggle and Government

To secure democratic legitimacy, the insurgents decided to hold free elections at once. On March 26, an overwhelming majority of Parisians (190,000 votes against 40,000) voted for candidates who supported the revolt, and seventy of the eighty-five elected representatives declared their support for the revolution. The fifteen moderate representatives of the parti des maires, a group comprising the former heads of certain arrondissements, immediately resigned and did not participate in the council of the Commune; they were joined shortly afterward by four Radicals.
The remaining sixty-six members — not always easy to distinguish because of dual political affiliations — represented a wide range of positions. Among them were twenty or so neo¬Jacobin republicans (including the renowned Charles Delescluze and Felix Pyat), a dozen followers of Auguste Blanqui, seventeen members of the International Working Men’s Association (both mutualist partisans of Pierre-Joseph Proudhon and collectivists linked to Karl Marx, often at odds with one another), and a couple of independents.
Most leaders of the Commune were workers or recognized representatives of the working class, and fourteen hailed from the National Guard. In fact, it was the central committee of the latter that invested power in the hands of the Commune — the prelude, as it turned out, to a long series of disagreements and conflicts between the two bodies.
“Although it would survive for no more than seventy-two days, it was the most important political event in the history of the nineteenth-century workers’ movement, rekindling hope among a population exhausted by months of hardship.”

On March 28 a large number of citizens gathered in the vicinity of the Hotel de Ville for festivities celebrating the new assembly, which now officially took the name of the Paris Commune. Although it would survive for no more than seventy-two days, it was the most important political event in the history of the nineteenth-century workers’ movement, rekindling hope among a population exhausted by months of hardship. Committees and groups sprang up in the popular quarters to lend support to the Commune, and every corner of the metropolis hosted initiatives to express solidarity and to plan the construction of a new world. Montmartre was baptized the “citadel of liberty.”
One of the most widespread sentiments was a desire to share with others. Militants like Louise Michel exemplified the spirit of self-abnegation; Victor Hugo wrote of her that she “did what the great wild souls do. […] She glorified the crushed and downtrodden.” But it was not the impetus of a leader or a handful of charismatic figures that gave life to the Commune; its hallmark was its clearly collective dimension. Women and men came together voluntarily to pursue a common project of liberation. Self-government was not seen as a utopia. Self¬emancipation was thought of as the essential task.

The Transformation of Political Power

Two of the first emergency decrees to stem the rampant poverty were a freeze on rent payments (it was said that “property should make its fair share of sacrifices”) and the selling of items valued below twenty francs in pawn shops. Nine collegial commissions were also supposed to replace the ministries for war, finance, general security, education, subsistence, labor and trade, foreign relations, and public service. A little later, a delegate was appointed to head each of these departments.
“Women and men came together voluntarily to pursue a common project of liberation. Self-government was not seen as a utopia. Self-emancipation was thought of as the
essential task.”
On April 19, three days after further elections to fill thirty-one seats that became almost immediately vacant, the Commune adopted a Declaration to the French People that contained an “absolute guarantee of individual liberty, freedom of conscience and freedom of labor” as well as “the permanent intervention of citizens in communal affairs.” The conflict between Paris and Versailles, it affirmed, “cannot be ended through illusory compromises”; the people had a right and “obligation to fight and to win!”
Even more significant than this text — a somewhat ambiguous synthesis to avoid tensions among the various political tendencies — were the concrete actions through which the Communards fought for a total transformation of political power. A set of reforms addressed not only the modalities but the very nature of political administration.
The Commune provided for the recall of elected representatives and for control over their actions by means of binding mandates (though this was by no means enough to settle the complex issue of political representation). Magistracies and other public offices, also subject to permanent control and possible recall, were not to be arbitrarily assigned, as in the past, but to be decided following an open contest or elections.
The clear aim was to prevent the public sphere from becoming the domain of professional politicians. Policy decisions were not relegated to small groups of functionaries, but had to be taken by the people. Armies and police forces would no longer be institutions set apart from the body of society. The separation between state and church was also a sine qua non.

But the vision of political change went even deeper. The transfer of power into the hands of the people was needed to drastically reduce bureaucracy. The social sphere should take precedence over the political — as Henri de Saint-Simon had already maintained — so that politics would no longer be a specialized function but become progressively integrated into the activity of civil society. The social body would thus take back functions that had been transferred to the state.
“To overthrow the existing system of class rule was not sufficient; there had to be an end to class rule as such.”
To overthrow the existing system of class rule was not sufficient; there had to be an end to class rule as such. All this would have fulfilled the Commune’s vision of the republic as a union of free, truly democratic associations promoting the emancipation of all its components. It would have added up to self-government of the producers.

Prioritizing Social Reforms

The Commune held that social reform was even more crucial than political change. It was the reason for the Commune’s existence, the barometer of its loyalty to its founding principles, and the key element differentiating it from the previous revolutions in 1789 and 1848. The Commune passed more than one measure with clear class connotations.
Deadlines for debt repayments were postponed by three years, without any additional interest charges. Evictions for nonpayment of rent were suspended, and a decree allowed vacant accommodation to be requisitioned for people without a roof over their heads. There were plans to shorten the working day (from the initial ten hours to the eight hours envisaged for the future), the widespread practice of imposing specious fines on workers simply as a wage-cutting measure was outlawed on pain of sanctions, and minimum wages were set at a respectable level.
As much as possible was done to increase food supplies and to lower prices. Night work at bakeries was banned, and a number of municipal meat stores were opened. Social assistance of various kinds was extended to weaker sections of the population — for example, food banks for abandoned women and children — and discussions were held on how to end the discrimination between legitimate and illegitimate children.
All the Communards sincerely believed that education was an essential factor for individual emancipation and any serious social and political change. School attendance was to become free and compulsory for girls and boys alike, with religiously inspired instruction giving way to secular teaching along rational, scientific lines. Specially appointed commissions and the pages of the press featured many compelling arguments for investment in female education. To become a genuine “public service,” education had to offer equal opportunities to “children of both sexes.”

Moreover, “distinctions on grounds of race, nationality, religion or social position” should be prohibited. Early practical initiatives accompanied such advances in theory, and in more than one arrondissement thousands of working-class children entered school buildings for the first time and received classroom material free of charge.
“Since the Commune had no means of coercion at its disposal, many of its decrees were not applied uniformly in the vast area of the city. Yet they displayed a remarkable drive to reshape society and pointed the way to possible change.”
The Commune also adopted measures of a socialist character. It decreed that workshops abandoned by employers who had fled the city, with guarantees of compensation on their return, should be handed over to cooperative associations of workers. Theaters and museums — open for all without charge — were collectivized and placed under the management of the F ederation of Artists, which was presided over by the painter and tireless militant Gustave Courbet. Some three hundred sculptors, architects, lithographers, and painters (among them Edouard Manet) participated in this body — an example taken up in the founding of an “Artists’ Federation” bringing together actors and people from the operatic world.
All these actions and provisions were introduced in the space of just fifty-four days, in a city still reeling from the effects of the Franco-Prussian War. The Commune was able to do its work only between March 29 and May 21, in the midst of heroic resistance to attacks by the Versaillais that also required a great expenditure of human energy and financial resources. Since the Commune had no means of coercion at its disposal, many of its decrees were not applied uniformly in the vast area of the city. Yet they displayed a remarkable drive to reshape society and pointed the way to possible change.

Collective and Feminist Struggle

The Commune was much more than the actions approved by its legislative assembly. It even aspired to redraw urban space. Such ambition was demonstrated by the decision to demolish the Vendome Column, considered a monument to barbarism and a reprehensible symbol of war, and to secularize certain places of worship by handing them over for use by the community.
It was thanks to an extraordinary level of mass participation and a solid spirit of mutual assistance that the Commune persisted for as long as it did. Revolutionary clubs that sprang up in nearly every arrondissement played a noteworthy role. There were at least twenty-eight of them, representing one of the most eloquent examples of spontaneous mobilization.
Open every evening, they offered citizens the opportunity to meet after work to freely discuss the social and political situation, to check what their representatives had achieved, and to suggest alternative ways of solving day-to-day problems. They were horizontal associations, which favored the formation and expression of popular sovereignty as well as the creation of genuine spaces of sisterhood and fraternity, where everyone could breathe the intoxicating air of control over their own destiny.
This emancipatory trajectory had no place for national discrimination. Citizenship of the Commune extended to all who strove for its development, and foreigners enjoyed the same social rights as French people. The principle of equality was evident in the prominent role played by the three thousand foreigners active in the Commune. Leo Frankel, a Hungarian member of the International Working Men’s Association, was not only elected to the council of the Commune but served as its “minister” of labor — one of its key positions. Similarly, the Poles Jaroslaw D^browski and Walery Wroblewski were distinguished generals at the head of the National Guard.
“When the military situation worsened in mid-May, with the Versaillais at the gates of Paris, women took up arms and formed a battalion of their own. Many would breathe their last on the barricades.”

Women, though still without the right to vote or to sit on the Council of the Commune, played an essential role in the critique of the social order. In many cases, they transgressed the norms of bourgeois society and asserted a new identity in opposition to the values of the patriarchal family, moving beyond domestic privacy to engage with the public sphere.
The Women’s Union for the Defense of Paris and Care for the Wounded, whose origin owed a great deal to the tireless activity of the First International member Elisabeth Dmitrieff, was centrally involved in identifying strategic social battles. Women achieved the closure of licensed brothels, won parity for female and male teachers, coined the slogan “equal pay for equal work,” demanded equal rights within marriage and the recognition of free unions, and promoted exclusively female chambers in labor unions.
When the military situation worsened in mid-May, with the Versaillais at the gates of Paris, women took up arms and formed a battalion of their own. Many would breathe their last on the barricades. Bourgeois propaganda subjected them to the most vicious attacks, dubbing them les petroleuses and accusing them of having set the city ablaze during the street battles.

To Centralize or Decentralize?

The genuine democracy that the Communards sought to establish was an ambitious and difficult project. Popular sovereignty required the participation of the greatest possible number of citizens. From late March on, Paris witnessed the mushrooming of central commissions, local subcommittees, revolutionary clubs and soldiers’ battalions, which flanked the already complex duopoly of the Council of the Commune and the central committee of the National Guard.
The latter had retained military control, often acting as a veritable counterpower to the council. Although direct involvement of the population was a vital guarantee of democracy, the multiple authorities in play made the decision-making process particularly difficult and meant that the implementation of decrees was a tortuous affair.
The problem of the relationship between central authority and local bodies led to quite a few chaotic, at times paralyzing, situations. The delicate balance broke down altogether when, faced with the war emergency, indiscipline within the National Guard, and the growing inefficacy of government, Jules Miot proposed the creation of a five-person Committee of Public Safety, along the lines of Maximilien Robespierre’s dictatorial model in 1793.
The measure was approved on the First of May, by a majority of forty-five to twenty-three. It proved to be a dramatic error, which marked the beginning of the end for a novel political experiment and split the Commune into two opposing blocs.
The first of these, made up of neo-Jacobins and Blanquists, leaned toward the concentration of power and, in the end, to the primacy of the political over the social dimension. The second, including a majority of members of the International Working Men’s Association, regarded the social sphere as more significant than the political. They thought that a separation of powers was necessary and insisted that the republic must never call political freedoms into question.
Coordinated by the indefatigable Eugene Varlin, this latter bloc sharply rejected the authoritarian drift and did not take part in the elections of the Committee of Public Safety. In its view, the centralization of powers in the hands of a few individuals would flatly contradict the founding postulates of the Commune, since its elected representatives did not possess sovereignty — that belonged to the people — and had no right to cede it to a particular body.
On May 21, when the minority again took part in a session of the Council of the Commune, a new attempt was made to weave unity in its ranks. But it was already too late.

The Commune as Synonym of Revolution

The Paris Commune was brutally crushed by the armies of Versailles. During the semaine sanglante, the week of blood-letting between May 21 and 28, a total of seventeen thousand to twenty-five thousand citizens were slaughtered. The last hostilities took place along the walls of Pere Lachaise Cemetery. A young Arthur Rimbaud described the French capital as “a mournful, almost dead city.” It was the bloodiest massacre in the history of France.
Only six thousand managed to escape into exile in England, Belgium, and Switzerland. The number of prisoners taken was 43,522. A hundred of these received death sentences, following summary trials before courts martial, and another 13,500 were sent to prison or forced labor, or deported to remote areas such as New Caledonia. Some who went there solidarized with and shared the fate of the Algerian leaders of the anti-colonial Mokrani revolt, which had broken out at the same time as the Commune and also been drowned in blood by French troops.
“The Commune embodied the idea of social-political change and its practical application. It became synonymous with the very concept of revolution, with an ontological experience of the working class.”

The spectre of the Commune intensified the anti-socialist repression all over Europe. Passing over the unprecedented violence of the Thiers state, the conservative and liberal press accused the Communards of the worst crimes and expressed great relief at the restoration of the “natural order” and bourgeois legality, as well as satisfaction with the triumph of “civilization” over anarchy.
Those who had dared to violate the authority and attack the privileges of the ruling class were punished in exemplary fashion. Women were once again treated as inferior beings, and workers, with dirty, calloused hands who had brazenly presumed to govern, were driven back into positions for which they were deemed more suitable.
And yet, the insurrection in Paris gave strength to workers’ struggles and pushed them in more radical directions. On the morrow of its defeat, Eugene Pottier wrote what was destined to become the most celebrated anthem of the workers’ movement: “Let us group together and tomorrow / The Internationale / Will be the human race!”
Paris had shown that the aim had to be one of building a society radically different from capitalism. Henceforth, even if “the time of cherries” [le temps des cerises] (to quote the title of the communard Jean-Baptiste Clement’s famous verse), never returned for its protagonists, the Commune embodied the idea of social-political change and its practical application. It became synonymous with the very concept of revolution, with an ontological experience of the working class. In The Civil War in France, Karl Marx stated that this “vanguard of the modern proletariat” had succeeded in “attaching the workers of the world to France.”
The Paris Commune changed the consciousness of workers and their collective perception. At a distance of a hundred fifty years, its red flag continues to flutter and to remind us that an alternative is always possible. Vive la Commune!

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Interviews

On His Birthday, Let’s Celebrate the Old Man Karl Marx

Karl Marx’s work during his final years of life, between 1881 and 1883, is one of the least developed areas in Marx studies. This neglect is partially due to the fact that Marx’s infirmities in his final years kept him from sustaining his regular writing activity — there are virtually no published works from the period.

Absent the milestones that marked Marx’s earlier work, from his early philosophical writings to his later studies of political economy, Marx’s biographers have long regarded his final years as a minor chapter marked by declining health and dwindling intellectual capacities.

However, there is a growing body of research that suggests this is not the full story, and that Marx’s final years might actually be a gold mine filled with new insights into his thought. Largely contained in letters, notebooks, and other “marginalia,” Marx’s late writings portray a man who, far from the received stories of decline, continued to wrestle with his own ideas about capitalism as a global mode of production. As suggested by his late research into so-called “primitive societies,” the nineteenth-century Russian agrarian commune, and the “national question” in European colonies, Marx’s writings from the period actually reveal a mind turning over the real-world implications and complexities of his own thought, particularly as they concerned the expansion of capitalism beyond European borders.

Marx’s late thought is the subject of Marcello Musto’s recently published The Last Years of Karl Marx. There, Musto masterfully weaves together rich biographical detail and a sophisticated engagement with Marx’s mature, oftentimes self-questioning writing.

Jacobin contributing editor Nicolas Allen spoke with Musto about the complexities of studying Marx’s final years of life, and about why some of Marx’s late doubts and misgivings are in fact more useful for us today than some of his more confident early assertions.

 

Nicolas Allen: The “late Marx” that you write about, roughly covering the final three years of his life in the 1880s, is often treated as an afterthought for Marxists and Marx scholars. Apart from the fact that Marx didn’t publish any major works in his final years, why do you think the period has received considerably less attention?

Marcello Musto: All the intellectual biographies of Marx published to this day have paid very little attention to the last decade of his life, usually devoting no more than a few pages to his activity after the winding up of the International Working Men’s Association in 1872. Not by chance, these scholars nearly always use the generic title “the last decade” for these (very short) parts of their books. While this limited interest is understandable for scholars like Franz Mehring (1846–1919), Karl Vorländer (1860–1928), and David Riazanov (1870–1938), who wrote their biographies of Marx between two world wars and could only focus on a limited number of unpublished manuscripts, for those who came after that turbulent age, the matter is more complex.

Two of Marx’s best-known writings — the Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844 and The German Ideology (1845–46), both very far from being completed — were published in 1932 and started to circulate only in the second half of the 1940s. As World War II gave way to a sense of profound anguish resulting from the barbarities of Nazism, in a climate where philosophies like existentialism gained popularity, the theme of the condition of the individual in society acquired great prominence and created perfect conditions for a growing interest in Marx’s philosophical ideas, such as alienation and species-being. The biographies of Marx published in this period, just like most of the scholarly volumes that came out from academia, reflected this zeitgeist and gave undue weight to his youthful writings. Many of the books that claimed to introduce the readers to Marx’s thought as a whole, in the 1960s and in the 1970s, were mostly focused on the period 1843–48, when Marx, at the time of the publication of the Manifesto of the Communist Party (1848), was only thirty years old.

In this context, it was not only that the last decade of Marx’s life was treated as an afterthought, but Capital itself was relegated to a secondary position. The liberal sociologist Raymond Aron perfectly described this attitude in the book D’une Sainte Famille à l’autre: Essais sur les marxismes imaginaires (1969), where he mocked the Parisian Marxists who passed cursorily over Capital, his masterpiece and the fruit of many years’ work, published in 1867, and remained captivated by the obscurity and incompleteness of the Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844.

We can say that the myth of the “Young Marx” — fed also by Louis Althusser and by those who argued that Marx’s youth could not be considered part of Marxism — has been one of the main misunderstandings in the history of Marx studies. Marx did not publish any works that he would consider “major” in the first half of the 1840s. For example, one must read Marx’s addresses and resolutions for the International Working Men’s Association if we want to understand his political thought, not the journal articles of 1844 that appeared in the German-French Yearbook. And even if we analyze his incomplete manuscripts, the Grundrisse (1857–58) or the Theories of Surplus-Value (1862–63), these were much more significant for him than the critique of neo-Hegelianism in Germany, “abandoned to the gnawing criticism of the mice” in 1846. The trend of overemphasizing his early writings has not changed much since the fall of the Berlin Wall. The more recent biographies — despite the publication of new manuscripts in the Marx-Engels-Gesamtausgabe (MEGA), the historical-critical edition of the complete works of Marx and Friedrich Engels (1820–1895) — overlook this period just like before.

Another reason for this neglect is the high complexity of most of the studies conducted by Marx in the final phase of his life. To write about the young student of the Hegelian Left is much easier than trying to get on top of the intricate tangle of multilingual manuscripts and intellectual interests of the early 1880s, and this may have hindered a more rigorous understanding of the important gains achieved by Marx. Wrongly thinking that he had given up the idea of continuing his work and representing the last ten years of his life as “a slow agony,” too many biographers and scholars of Marx have failed to look more deeply into what he actually did during that period.

In the recent film Miss Marx, there’s a scene immediately after Marx’s funeral that shows Friedrich Engels and Eleanor, Marx’s youngest daughter, sifting through papers and manuscripts in Marx’s study. Engels inspects one paper and makes a remark about Marx’s late interest in differential equations and mathematics. The Last Years of Karl Marx seems to give the impression that, in his final years, Marx’s range of interests was particularly broad. Was there any guiding thread holding together this preoccupation with such diverse topics as anthropology, mathematics, ancient history, and gender?

Shortly before his death, Marx asked his daughter Eleanor to remind Engels to “do something” with his unfinished manuscripts. As it is well known, for the twelve years that he survived Marx, Engels undertook the herculean task of sending to print the volumes II and III of Capital on which his friend had worked continuously from the mid-1860s to 1881 but had failed to complete. Other texts written by Engels himself after Marx passed away in 1883 were indirectly fulfilling his will and were strictly related to the investigations he had conducted during the last years of his life. For example, the Origins of the Family, Private Property and the State (1884) was called by its author “the execution of a bequest” and was inspired by Marx’s research in anthropology, in particular by the passages that he copied, in 1881, from Lewis Henry Morgan’s Ancient Society (1877) and by the comments he added to the summaries of this book.

There is not just one guiding thread in Marx’s final years of research. Some of his studies simply arose from recent scientific discoveries on which he wished to remain up to date, or from political events that he considered significant. Marx had already learned before that the general level of emancipation in a society depended on the level of women’s emancipation, but the anthropological studies conducted in the 1880s gave him the opportunity to analyze gender oppression in greater depth. Marx spent much less time on ecological issues than in the previous two decades, but on the other hand, he once again immersed himself in historical themes. Between autumn 1879 and summer 1880, he filled a notebook entitled Notes on Indian History (664–1858), and between autumn 1881 and winter 1882, he worked intensively on the so-called Chronological Extracts, an annotated year-by-year timeline of 550 pages written in an even smaller handwriting than usual. These included summaries of world events, from the first century BC to the Thirty Years’ War in 1648, summarizing their causes and salient features.

It is possible that Marx wanted to test whether his conceptions were well founded in the light of major political, military, economic, and technological developments in the past. In any case, one must keep in mind that, when Marx undertook this work, he was well aware that his frail state of health prevented him from making a final attempt to complete Volume II of Capital. His hope was to make all the necessary corrections to prepare a third German revised edition of Volume I, but in the end, he did not even have the strength to do that.

I would not say that the research he conducted in his final years was wider than usual, however. Perhaps the breadth of his investigations is more evident in this period because they were not conducted in parallel to the writing of any books or significant preparatory manuscripts. But the several thousands of pages of excerpts made by Marx in eight languages, since he was a university student, from works of philosophy, art, history, religion, politics, law, literature, history, political economy, international relations, technology, mathematics, physiology, geology, mineralogy, agronomy, anthropology, chemistry, and physics, testify to his perpetual hunger for knowledge in a very large variety of disciplines. What may be surprising is that Marx was unable to give up this habit even when his physical strength waned considerably. His intellectual curiosity, along with his self-critical spirit, won out over a more focused and “judicious” management of his work.

But these ideas about “what Marx should have done” are usually the fruit of the twisted wish of those who would have liked him to be an individual who did nothing but write Capital — not even to defend himself from the political controversies in which he was embroiled. Even if he once defined himself as “a machine, condemned to devour books and then throw them, in a changed form, on the dunghill of history,” Marx was a human being. His interest in mathematics and differential calculus, for example, started as an intellectual stimulus in his search for a method of social analysis, but became a ludic space, a refuge at moments of great personal difficulty, “an occupation to maintain the quietness of mind,” as he used to say to Engels.

To the extent that there have been studies of Marx’s late writings, they tend to focus on his research into non-European societies. By recognizing as he does that there are paths to development besides the “Western model,” is it fair to say, as some claim, that this was Marx turning over a new leaf, i.e., a “non-Eurocentric” Marx? Or is it more accurate to say that this was Marx’s admission that his work was never intended to be applied without first attending to the concrete reality of different historical societies?

The first and preeminent key to understand the wider variety of geographical interests in Marx’s research, during the last decade of his life, lies in his plan to provide a more ample account of the dynamics of the capitalist mode of production on a global scale. England had been the main field of observation of Capital, Volume I; after its publication, he wanted to expand the socioeconomic investigations for the two volumes of Capital that remained to be written. It was for this reason that he decided to learn Russian in 1870 and was then constantly demanding books and statistics on Russia and the United States. He believed that the analysis of the economic transformations of these countries would have been very useful for an understanding of the possible forms in which capitalism may develop in different periods and contexts. This crucial element is underestimated in the secondary literature on the nowadays trendy subject of “Marx and Eurocentrism.”

Another key question for Marx’s research into non-European societies was whether capitalism was a necessary prerequisite for the birth of communist society and at which level it had to develop internationally. The more pronounced multilinear conception that Marx assumed in his final years led him to look more attentively at the historical specificities and unevenness of economic and political development in different countries and social contexts. Marx became highly skeptical about the transfer of interpretive categories between completely different historical and geographical contexts and, as he wrote, also realized that “events of striking similarity, taking place in different historical contexts, lead to totally disparate results.” This approach certainly increased the difficulties he faced in the already bumpy course of completing the unfinished volumes of Capital and contributed to the slow acceptance that his major work would remain incomplete. But it certainly opened up new revolutionary hopes.

Contrary to what some authors naively believe, Marx did not suddenly discover that he had been Eurocentric and devote his attention to new subjects of study because he felt the need to correct his political views. He had always been a “citizen of the world,” as he used to call himself, and had constantly tried to analyze economic and social changes in their global implications. As it has been already argued, like any other thinker of his level, Marx was aware of the superiority of modern Europe over the other continents of the world, in terms of industrial production and social organization, but he never considered this contingent fact a necessary or permanent factor. And, of course, he was always a fiery enemy of colonialism. These considerations are all too obvious to anyone who has read Marx.

One of the central chapters of The Last Years of Karl Marx deals with Marx’s relationship with Russia. As you show, Marx engaged in a very intense dialogue with different parts of the Russian left, specifically around their reception of the first volume of Capital. What were the main points of those debates?

For many years, Marx had identified Russia as one of the main obstacles to working-class emancipation. He emphasized several times that its sluggish economic development and its despotic political regime helped to make the tsarist empire the advance post of counterrevolution. But in his final years, he began to look rather differently at Russia. He recognized some possible conditions for a major social transformation after the abolition of serfdom in 1861. Russia seemed to Marx more likely to produce a revolution than Britain, where capitalism had created the proportionately largest number of factory workers in the world, but where the labor movement, enjoying better living conditions partly based on colonial exploitation, had grown weaker and undergone the negative influence of trade union reformism.

The dialogues engaged by Marx with Russian revolutionaries were both intellectual and political. In the first half of the 1870s, he acquired familiarity with the principal critical literature on Russian society and devoted special attention to the work of the socialist philosopher Nikolai Chernyshevsky (1828–1889). He believed that a given social phenomenon that had reached a high level of development in the most advanced nations could spread very swiftly among other peoples and rise from a lower level straight to a higher one, passing over the intermediate moments. This gave Marx much food for thought in reconsidering his materialistic conception of history. For a long time, he had been aware that the schema of linear progression through the Asiatic, ancient, feudal, and modern bourgeois modes of production, which he had drawn in the preface to A Contribution to the Critique of Political Economy (1859), was completely inadequate for an understanding of the movement of history, and that it was indeed advisable to steer clear of any philosophy of history. He could no longer conceive the succession of modes of production in the course of history as a fixed sequence of predefined stages.

Marx also took the opportunity to discuss with militants of various revolutionary tendencies in Russia. He highly regarded the down-to-earth character of the political activity of Russian populism — which at the time was a left-wing, anti-capitalist movement — particularly because it did not resort to senseless ultrarevolutionary flourishes or to counterproductive generalizations. Marx assessed the relevance of the socialist organizations existing in Russia by their pragmatic character, not by declaration of loyalty to his own theories. In fact, he observed that it was often those who claimed to be “Marxists” who were the most doctrinaire. His exposure to the theories and the political activity of Russian Populists — as with the Paris Communards a decade earlier — helped him to be more flexible in analyzing the irruption of revolutionary events and the subjective forces that shaped them. It brought him closer to a true internationalism on a global scale.

The central theme of the dialogues and exchanges that Marx had with many figures of the Russian left was the very complex issue of the development of capitalism, which had crucial political and theoretical implications. The difficulty of this discussion is also evidenced by Marx’s final choice not to send an insightful letter in which he had criticized some misinterpretations of Capital to the journal Otechestvennye Zapiski, or to respond to Vera Zasulich’s “life and death question” about the future of the rural commune (the obshchina) with only a short, cautious missive, and not with a lengthier text that he had passionately written and rewritten through three preparatory drafts.

Marx’s correspondence with Russian socialist Vera Zasulich is the subject of a lot of interest today. There, Marx suggested that the Russian rural commune could potentially appropriate the latest advances of capitalist society — technology, particularly — without having to undergo the social upheavals that were so destructive for the Western European peasantry. Can you explain in a little more detail the thinking that informed Marx’s conclusions?

By a fortuitous coincidence, Zasulich’s letter reached Marx just as his interest in archaic forms of community, already deepened in 1879 through the study of the work of the sociologist Maksim Kovalevsky, was leading him to pay closer attention to the most recent discoveries made by anthropologists of his time. Theory and practice led him to the same place. Drawing on ideas suggested by the anthropologist Morgan, he wrote that capitalism could be replaced by a higher form of the archaic collective production.

This ambiguous statement requires at least two clarifications. First, thanks to what he had learned from Chernyshevsky, Marx argued that Russia could not slavishly repeat all the historical stages of England and other West European countries. In principle, the socialist transformation of the obshchina could happen without a necessary passage through capitalism. But this does not mean that Marx changed his critical judgment of the rural commune in Russia, or that he believed that countries where capitalism was still underdeveloped were closer to revolution than others with a more advanced productive development. He did not suddenly become convinced that the archaic rural communes were a more advanced locus of emancipation for the individual than the social relations existing under capitalism.

Second, his analysis of the possible progressive transformation of the obshchina was not meant to be elevated into a more general model. It was a specific analysis of a particular collective production at a precise historical moment. In other words, Marx revealed the theoretical flexibility and lack of schematism that many Marxists after him failed to demonstrate. At the end of his life, Marx revealed an ever greater theoretical openness, which enabled him to consider other possible roads to socialism that he had never before taken seriously or had previously regarded as unattainable.

Marx’s doubting was replaced by a conviction that capitalism was an inescapable stage for economic development in every country and historical condition. The new interest that reemerges today for the considerations that Marx never sent to Zasulich, and for other similar ideas expressed more clearly in his final years, lies in a conception of postcapitalist society that is poles apart from the equation of socialism with the productive forces — a conception involving nationalist overtones and sympathy with colonialism, which asserted itself within the Second International and social democratic parties. Marx’s ideas also differ profoundly from the supposedly “scientific method” of social analysis preponderant in the Soviet Union and its satellites.

Even though Marx’s health struggles are well known, it’s still painful to read the final chapter of The Last Years of Karl Marx, where you chronicle his deteriorating condition. Intellectual biographies of Marx rightly point out that a full appreciation of Marx needs to connect his life and political activities with his body of thought; but what about this later period, when Marx was largely inactive due to infirmities? As someone writing an intellectual biography, how do you approach that period?

One of the best scholars of Marx ever, Maximilien Rubel (1905–1996), author of the book Karl Marx: essai de biographie intellectuelle (1957), argued that, to be able to write about Marx, one must be a bit of a philosopher, a bit of a historian, a bit of an economist, and a bit of a sociologist at the same time. I would add that, by writing the biography of Marx, one learns a lot about medicine, too. Marx dealt during his entire mature life with a number of health issues. The longest of them was a nasty infection of the skin that accompanied him during the entire writing of Capital and manifested itself in abscesses and serious, debilitating boils on various parts of the body. It was for this reason that, when Marx finished his magnum opus, he wrote: “I hope the bourgeoisie will remember my carbuncles until their dying day!”

The last two years of his life were particularly hard. Marx suffered a terrible grief for the loss of his wife and eldest daughter, and he had a chronic bronchitis that developed often into a severe pleurisy. He struggled, in vain, to find the climate that would provide the best conditions for him to get better, and he traveled, all alone, in England, France, and even Algeria, where he embarked on a lengthy period of complicated treatment. The most interesting aspect of this part of Marx’s biography is the sagacity, always accompanied by self-irony, that he demonstrated to deal with the frailty of his body. The letters that he wrote to his daughters and to Engels, when he felt that it was close to the end of the road, make more evident his most intimate side. They reveal the importance of what he called “the microscopic world,” starting with the vital passion that he had for his grandchildren. They include the considerations of a man who has gone through a long and intense existence and has come to evaluate all aspects of it.

Biographers must recount the sufferings of the private sphere, especially when they are relevant to better understand the difficulties underlying the writing of a book, or the reasons why a manuscript remained unfinished. But they must also know where to stop, and must avoid taking an indiscreet look into exclusively private affairs.

So much of Marx’s late thought is contained in letters and notebooks. Should we accord these writings the same status as his more accomplished writings? When you argue that Marx’s writing is “essentially incomplete,” do you have something like this in mind?

Capital remained unfinished because of the grinding poverty in which Marx lived for two decades and because of his constant ill health connected to daily worries. Needless to say, the task he had set himself — to understand the capitalist mode of production in its ideal average and to describe its general tendencies of development — was extraordinarily difficult to achieve. But Capital was not the only project that remained incomplete. Marx’s merciless self-criticism increased the difficulties of more than one of his undertakings, and the large amount of time that he spent on many projects he wanted to publish was due to the extreme rigor to which he subjected all his thinking.

When Marx was young, he was known among his university friends for his meticulousness. There are stories that depict him as somebody who refused to write a sentence if he was unable to prove it in ten different ways. This is why the most prolific young scholar in the Hegelian Left still published less than many of the others. Marx’s belief that his information was insufficient, and his judgments immature, prevented him from publishing writings that remained in the form of outlines or fragments. But this is also why his notes are extremely useful and should be considered an integral part of his oeuvre. Many of his ceaseless labors had extraordinary theoretical consequences for the future.

This does not mean that his incomplete texts can be given the same weight of those that were published. I would distinguish five types of writings: published works, their preparatory manuscripts, journalistic articles, letters, and notebooks of excerpts. But distinctions must also be made within these categories. Some of Marx’s published texts should not be regarded as his final word on the issues at hand. For example, the Manifesto of the Communist Party was considered by Engels and Marx as a historical document from their youth and not as the definitive text in which their main political conceptions were stated. Or it must be kept in mind that political propaganda writings and scientific writings are often not combinable.

Unfortunately, these kinds of errors are very frequent in the secondary literature on Marx. Not to mention the absence of the chronological dimension in many reconstructions of his thought. The texts from the 1840s cannot be quoted indiscriminately alongside those from the 1860s and 1870s, since they do not carry equal weight of scientific knowledge and political experience. Some manuscripts were written by Marx only for himself, while others were actual preparatory materials for books to be published. Some were revised and often updated by Marx, while others were abandoned by him without the possibility of updating them (in this category, there is Volume III of Capital). Some journalistic articles contain considerations that can be considered as a completion of Marx’s works. Others, however, were written quickly in order to raise money to pay the rent. Some letters include Marx’s authentic views on the issues discussed. Others contain only a softened version, because they were addressed to people outside Marx’s circle, with whom it was sometimes necessary to express himself diplomatically.

For all these reasons, it is clear that a good knowledge of Marx’s life is indispensable for a correct understanding of his ideas. Finally, there are the more than two hundred notebooks containing summaries (and sometimes commentaries) of all the most important books read by Marx during the long time span from 1838 to 1882. They are essential for an understanding of the genesis of his theory and of those elements he was unable to develop as he would have wished.

The ideas conceived by Marx during the last years of his life were collected mainly within these notebooks. They are certainly very difficult to read, but they give us access to a very precious treasure: not only the research Marx completed before his death, but also the questions he asked himself. Some of his doubts may be more useful to us today than some of his certainties.

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Journalism

Marxist Without Dogma

In August 1893, when the chair called on her to speak at a session of the Zurich Congress of the Second International, Rosa Luxemburg made her way without hesitation through the crowd of delegates and activists packed into the hall. She was one of the few women present, still in the flush of youth, slight of build, and with a hip deformity that had forced her to limp since the age of five. The first impression she gave to those who saw her was of a frail creature indeed. But then, standing on a chair to make herself better heard, she soon captivated the whole audience with the skill of her reasoning and the originality of her positions. In her view, the central demand of the Polish workers’ movement should not be an independent Polish state, as everyone before her had maintained. Poland was still under tripartite rule, divided between the German, Austro-Hungarian and Russian empires; its reunification was proving difficult to achieve, and the workers should set their sights on objectives that would generate practical struggles in the name of particular needs.

In a line of argument that she would develop in the years to come, she attacked those who concentrated on national issues and warned of the danger that the rhetoric of patriotism would be used to play down the class struggle and to push the social question into the background. There was no need to add “subjection to Polish nationality” to all the forms of oppression suffered by the proletariat. To avoid this trap, she aimed for the development of local self-government and the strengthening of cultural autonomy, which, once a socialist mode of production had been established, would serve as a bulwark against any resurgence of chauvinism and new forms of discrimination. The thrust of all these reflections was to distinguish between the national question and the issue of the nationstate. The intervention at the Zurich Congress symbolized the whole intellectual biography of a woman who should be considered among the most significant exponents of twentieth-century socialism. Born 150 years ago, on 5 March 1871, at Zamosc in Tsarist-occupied Poland, Rosa Luxemburg lived her whole life on the margins, grappling with multiple adversities and always swimming against the current. Of Jewish origin, suffering from a lifelong physical handicap, she moved to Germany at the age of 27 and managed to obtain citizenship there through a marriage of convenience. Being resolutely pacifist at the outbreak of the First World War, she was imprisoned several times for her ideas. She was a passionate enemy of imperialism during a new and violent period of colonial expansion. She fought against the death penalty in the midst of barbarism. And ~ a central dimension ~ she was a woman who lived in worlds inhabited almost exclusively by men. She was often the only female presence, both at Zurich University and in the leadership of German Social Democracy, where was appointed as the first woman to teach at its central cadre school.

These difficulties were supplemented by her independent spirit and her autonomy. Displaying a lively intelligence, she had the capacity to develop new ideas and to defend them, without awe and indeed with a disarming candour, before such figures as August Bebel and Karl Kautsky (who had had the formative privilege of direct contact with Engels). Her aim in this was not to repeat Marx’s words over again, but to interpret them historically and, when necessary, to build further on them.

Luxemburg successfully overcame the many obstacles facing her, and in the fierce debate following Eduard Bernstein’s reformist turn she became a wellknown figure in the foremost organization of the European workers’ movement.

Whereas, in his famous text The Preconditions of Socialism and The Tasks of Social Democracy, Bernstein had called on the party to burn its bridges with the past and to turn itself into a merely gradualist force, Luxemburg insisted in Social Reform or Revolution? that during every historical period “work for reforms is carried on only in the direction given it by the impetus of the last revolution”. Those who sought to achieve in the “chicken coop of bourgeois parliamentarism” the changes that the revolutionary conquest of political power would make possible were not choosing “a more tranquil, surer and slower road to the same goal”, but rather “a different goal”.

The point was not to improve the existing social order, but to build a completely different one. The role of the labour unions and the Russian Revolution of 1905 prompted some thoughts on the possible subjects and actions that might bring about a radical transformation of society. In the book Mass Strike, Party and Trade Unions, which analysed the main events in vast areas of the Russian Empire, Luxemburg highlighted the key role of the broadest, mostly unorganized, layers of the proletariat. In her eyes, the masses were the true protagonists of history.

On the question of organizational forms and, more specifically, the role of the party, Luxemburg was involved in another heated dispute during those years, this time with Lenin. In Organizational Questions of Russian Social Democracy, Luxemburg argued that an extremely centralized party set up a very dangerous dynamic of “blind obedience to the central authority”. The party should not stifle but develop the involvement of society, in order to achieve “the correct historical evaluation of forms of struggle”. Marx once wrote that “every step of the real movement is more important than dozens of programmes”. And Luxemburg extended this into the claim that “errors made by a truly revolutionary labour movement are historically infinitely more fruitful and more valuable than the infallibility of the best of all possible central committees”.

This clash acquired greater importance after the Soviet revolution of 1917, to which she offered her unconditional support. Worried by the events unfolding in Russia (beginning with the ways of tackling land reform), she was the first in the communist camp to observe that “a prolonged state of emergency” would have a “degrading influence on society”.

In the posthumous text The Russian Revolution, she emphasized that the historical mission of the proletariat, in conquering political power, was “to create a socialist democracy to replace bourgeois democracy ~ not to eliminate democracy altogether”. Communism meant “the most active, unlimited participation of the mass of the people, unlimited democracy”, which did not look to infallible leaders to guide it. Though making opposite political choices, both Social Democrats and Bolsheviks wrongly conceived of democracy and revolution as two alternative processes. For Luxemburg, on the contrary, the core of her political theory was an indissoluble unity of the two.

The other pivotal point of Luxemburg’s political convictions and activism was her twin opposition to war and agitation against militarism. Here she proved capable of updating the theoretical approach of the Left and winning support for clearsighted resolutions at congresses of the Second International, which, though disregarded, were a thorn in the side of supporters of the First World War.

In her analysis, the function of armies, the non-stop rearmament and the repeated outbreak of wars were not to be understood only in the classical terms of nineteenth-century political thinking. Rather, they were bound up with forces seeking to repress workers’ struggles and served as useful tools for reactionary interests to divide the working class. They also corresponded to a precise economic objective of the age. Capitalism needed imperialism and war, even in peacetime, in order to increase production, as well as to capture new markets as soon as they presented themselves in the colonial periphery outside Europe.

This picture was a long way from optimistic reformist scenarios, and to sum it up Luxemburg used a formula that would resonate widely in the twentieth century: “socialism or barbarism”. She explained that the second term could be avoided only through self-aware mass struggle and, since anti-militarism required a high level of political consciousness, she was one of the greatest champions of a general strike against war ~ a weapon that many others, including Marx, underestimated.

A cosmopolitan citizen of “what is to come”, Luxemburg said she felt at home “all over the world, wherever there are clouds and birds and human tears”. For the co-founder of the Spartacist League, the class struggle was not just a question of wage increases.

She did not wish to be a mere epigone and her socialism was never economistic. Immersed in the dramas of her time, she sought to modernize Marxism without calling its foundations into question. Her efforts in this direction are a constant warning to the Left that it should not limit its political activity to bland palliatives and give up trying to change the existing state of things. The way in which she lived, her success in wedding theoretical elaboration with social agitation, offer an extraordinary lesson across time to the new generation of activists who have chosen to take up the many battles she waged.

The writer is Professor of Sociology at York University, Toronto

Categories
Journalism

Happy 150th Birthday, Rosa Luxemburg

One hundred and fifty years ago today, the Polish Marxist thinker and organizer Rosa Luxemburg was born. She is, without question, one of the towering figures in the entire history of the socialist movement.

In August 1893, when the chair called on her to speak at a session of the Zurich Congress of the Second International, Rosa Luxemburg made her way without hesitation through the crowd of delegates and activists packed into the hall. She was one of the few women present, still in the flush of youth, slight of build, and with a hip deformity that had forced her to limp since the age of five. The first impression she gave to those who saw her was of a frail creature indeed. But then, standing on a chair to make herself better heard, she soon captivated the whole audience with the skill of her reasoning and the originality of her positions.

In her view, the central demand of the Polish workers’ movement should not be an independent Polish state, as many had maintained. Poland was still under tripartite rule, divided between the German, Austro-Hungarian, and Russian empires; its reunification was proving difficult to achieve, and the workers should set their sights on objectives that would generate practical struggles in the name of particular needs.

In a line of argument that she would develop in the years to come, she attacked those who concentrated on national issues and warned that the rhetoric of patriotism would be used to play down class struggle and to push the social question into the background. There was no need to add “subjection to Polish nationality” to all the forms of oppression suffered by the proletariat, she argued.

Against the Current
The intervention at the Zurich Congress symbolized the whole intellectual biography of a woman who should be considered among the most significant exponents of twentieth-century socialism. Born a hundred fifty years ago, on March 5, 1871, in Zamość in Tsarist-occupied Poland, Rosa Luxemburg lived her whole life on the margins, grappling with multiple adversities and always swimming against the current. Of Jewish origin, suffering from a lifelong physical handicap, she moved to Germany at the age of twenty-seven and managed to obtain citizenship there through a marriage of convenience.

Being resolutely pacifist at the outbreak of the First World War, she was imprisoned several times for her ideas. She was a passionate enemy of imperialism during a new and violent period of colonial expansion. She fought against the death penalty in the midst of barbarism. And – a central dimension – she was a woman who lived in worlds inhabited almost exclusively by men.

She was often the only female presence, both at Zurich University, where she obtained a doctorate in 1897 with a thesis entitled The Industrial Development of Poland, and in the leadership of German Social Democracy. The party appointed her as the first woman to teach at its central cadre school — a task she performed in the years between 1907 and 1914, during which she published The Accumulation of Capitalism (1913) and worked on the uncompleted project Introduction to Political Economy (1925).

These difficulties were supplemented by her independent spirit and her autonomy — a virtue that often leads to trouble in left-wing parties too. Displaying a lively intelligence, she had the capacity to develop new ideas and to defend them, without awe and indeed with a disarming candor, before such figures as August Bebel and Karl Kautsky (who had had the formative privilege of direct contact with Engels).

Her aim was not to repeat Marx’s words over again, but to interpret them historically and, when necessary, to build further on them. To voice her own opinion freely and to express critical positions within the party was for her an inalienable right. The party had to be a space where different views could coexist, so long as those who joined it shared its fundamental principles.

Party, Strike, Revolution
Luxemburg successfully overcame the many obstacles facing her, and in the fierce debate following Eduard Bernstein’s reformist turn she became a well-known figure in the foremost organization of the European workers’ movement. Whereas, in his famous text The Preconditions of Socialism and the Tasks of Social Democracy (1897–99), Bernstein had called on the party to burn its bridges with the past and to turn itself into a merely gradualist force, Luxemburg insisted in Social Reform or Revolution? (1898–99) that during every historical period “work for reforms is carried on only in the direction given it by the impetus of the last revolution.”

Those who sought to achieve in the “chicken coop of bourgeois parliamentarism” the changes that the revolutionary conquest of political power would make possible were not choosing “a more tranquil, surer and slower road to the same goal,” but rather “a different goal.” They had accepted the bourgeois world and its ideology.

The point was not to improve the existing social order, but to build a completely different one. The role of the labor unions — which could wrest from the bosses only more favorable conditions within the capitalist mode of production — and the Russian Revolution of 1905 prompted some thoughts on the possible subjects and actions that might bring about a radical transformation of society.

In the book The Mass Strike, the Political Party and the Trade Union (1906), which analyzed the main events in vast areas of the Russian Empire, Luxemburg highlighted the key role of the broadest, mostly unorganized, layers of the proletariat. In her eyes, the masses were the true protagonists of history. In Russia the “element of spontaneity” — a concept that led some to accuse her of overestimating the class consciousness of the masses — had been important, and consequently the role of the party should not be to prepare the mass strike but to place itself “at the helm of the movement as a whole.”

For Luxemburg, the mass strike was “the living pulse-beat of the revolution” and, at the same time, “its most powerful driving wheel.” It was the true “mode of movement of the proletarian mass, the phenomenal form of the proletarian struggle in the revolution.” It was not a single isolated action but the summation of a long period of class struggle.

Moreover, it could not be overlooked that “in the storm of the revolutionary period,” the proletariat was transformed in such a way that “even the highest good, life — not to speak of material well-being — ha[d] little value in comparison with the ideals of the struggle.” The workers gained in consciousness and maturity. The mass strikes in Russia had shown how, in such a period, the “ceaseless reciprocal action of the political and economic struggles” was such that the one could pass immediately into the other.

Communism Means Freedom and Democracy
On the question of organizational forms and, more specifically, the role of the party, Luxemburg was involved in another heated dispute during those years, this time with Lenin. In One Step Forward, Two Steps Back (1904), the Bolshevik leader defended the positions adopted at the Second Congress of the Russian Social Democratic Labour Party, putting forward a conception of the party as a compact nucleus of professional revolutionaries, a vanguard whose task it was to lead the masses.

Luxemburg, by contrast, in Organizational Questions of the Russian Social Democracy (1904), argued that an extremely centralized party set up a very dangerous dynamic of “blind obedience to the central authority.” The party should not stifle but develop the involvement of society, in order to achieve “the correct historical evaluation of forms of struggle.” Marx once wrote that “every step of the real movement is more important than dozens of programs.” And Luxemburg extended this into the claim that “errors made by a truly revolutionary labor movement are historically infinitely more fruitful and more valuable than the infallibility of the best of all possible central committees.”

This clash acquired still greater importance after the Soviet revolution of 1917, to which she offered her unconditional support. Worried by the events unfolding in Russia (beginning with the ways of tackling the land reform), she was the first in the communist camp to observe that “a prolonged state of emergency” would have a “degrading influence on society.”

In the posthumous text The Russian Revolution (1922 [1918]), she emphasized that the historical mission of the proletariat, in conquering political power, was “to create a socialist democracy to replace bourgeois democracy — not to eliminate democracy altogether.” Communism meant “the most active, unlimited participation of the mass of the people, unlimited democracy,” which did not look to infallible leaders to guide it. A truly different political and social horizon would be reached only through a complex process of this kind, and not if the exercise of freedom was reserved “only for supporters of the government, only for the members of one party.”

Luxemburg was firmly convinced that “socialism, by its nature, cannot be bestowed from above”; it has to expand democracy, not diminish it. She wrote that “the negative, the tearing down, can be decreed; the positive, the building up, cannot.” That was “new territory,” and only “experience” would be “capable of correcting and opening new ways.” The Spartacist League, founded in 1914 after a break with the SPD and later to become the Communist Party of Germany (KPD), explicitly stated that it would never take over governmental power “except in response to the clear, unambiguous will of the great majority of the proletarian mass of all of Germany.”

Though making opposite political choices, both Social Democrats and Bolsheviks wrongly conceived of democracy and revolution as two alternative processes. For Rosa Luxemburg, on the contrary, the core of her political theory was an indissoluble unity of the two. Her legacy has been squeezed on both sides: Social Democrats, complicit in her brutal murder at the age of forty-seven at the hands of right-wing paramilitaries, fought her over the years, with no holds barred for the revolutionary accents of her thought, while Stalinists steered clear of making her ideas better known because of their critical, free-spirited character.

Against Militarism, War, and Imperialism
The other pivotal point of Luxemburg’s political convictions and activism was her twin opposition to war and agitation against militarism. Here she proved capable of updating the theoretical approach of the Left and winning support for clear-sighted resolutions at congresses of the Second International, which, though disregarded, were a thorn in the side of supporters of the First World War.

In her analysis, the function of armies, the nonstop rearmament and the repeated outbreak of wars were not to be understood only in the classical terms of nineteenth-century political thinking. Rather, they were bound up with forces seeking to repress workers’ struggles and served as useful tools for reactionary interests to divide the working class. They also corresponded to a precise economic objective of the age.

Capitalism needed imperialism and war, even in peacetime, in order to increase production, as well as to capture new markets as soon as they presented themselves in the colonial periphery outside Europe. As she wrote in The Accumulation of Capital, “political violence is nothing but a vehicle for the economic process” — a judgment that she followed up with one of the most controversial theses in the book, that rearmament was indispensable to the productive expansion of capitalism.

This picture was a long way from optimistic reformist scenarios, and to sum it up Luxemburg used a formula that would resonate widely in the twentieth century: “socialism or barbarism.” She explained that the second term could be avoided only through self-aware mass struggle and, since anti-militarism required a high level of political consciousness, she was one of the greatest champions of a general strike against war — a weapon that many others, including Marx, underestimated.

She argued that the theme of national defense should be used against new war scenarios and that the “War on War!” slogan should become “the cornerstone of working-class politics.” As she wrote in The Crisis of Social Democracy (1916), also known as The Junius Pamphlet, the Second International had imploded because it failed “to achieve a common tactic and action by the proletariat in all countries.” From then on, the “main goal” of the proletariat should therefore be “fighting imperialism and preventing wars, in peace as in war.”

Without Losing Her Tenderness
Acosmopolitan citizen of “what is to come,” Rosa Luxemburg said she felt at home “all over the world, wherever there are clouds and birds and human tears.” She was passionate about botany and loved animals, and we can see from her letters that she was a woman of great sensitivity, who remained at one with herself despite the bitter experiences that life held for her.

For the cofounder of the Spartacist League, the class struggle was not just a question of wage increases. She did not wish to be a mere epigone and her socialism was never economistic. Immersed in the dramas of her time, she sought to modernize Marxism without calling its foundations into question. Her efforts in this direction are a constant warning to the Left that it should not limit its political activity to bland palliatives and give up trying to change the existing state of things.

The way in which she lived, and her success in wedding theoretical elaboration with social agitation, still stands as a beacon to the new generation of militants who have chosen to take up the many battles she waged.

Categories
Reviews

M. J. Wert, CHOICE. Current Reviews for Academic Libraries

This edited volume on the concepts and interpretations of Karl Marx is a timely collection that appeals to at least three overlapping audiences. The first are those who have a working knowledge of Marx’s concepts and can benefit from a collection of essays that put his many writings into conversation with each other. The second audience includes those who need an introduction to Marx’s ideas beyond how people typically read Marx—brief snippets from The Communist Manifesto (1848). The chapters are not summaries, however, as the authors state their own position in Marxian debates, for instance regarding the extent to which Marx theorized the state. A third audience includes those interested in reading about how broad topics such as democracy or ecology can be usefully understood from a leftist and Marxian perspective. Some topics, like education, would typically require reading across Marx’s many letters and newspaper articles. The chapters are well written, even exciting; Musto’s chapter on communism, for example, is written as though he has much to say and is running out of time—a nice reflection of the global recession of 2008 and the current pandemic economy.

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Reviews

Sean Sheehan, Scottish Left Review

The focus of this book is announced in the title, The Marx Revival: Key Concepts and New Interpretations, and its essays by 22 contributors are symptomatic of renewed interest in a thinker who can no longer be shackled with responsibility for abusive state power. Chapter headings are to the point – Communism, Class Struggle, State, Ecology, Migration, Colonialism and so on – and the prose mostly keeps to an equally no-nonsense approach. This makes the edited collection a Marx for our times.

The first essay kicks off with neat exposition of some basics: capitalism’s drive to create surplus value through commodity production; money as means and motive for creating capital and the consequent distorting of human relations; the system as a structure (capitalists die like everyone else but the system carries on) that is incredibly versatile but inherently unstable and, ultimately, its own gravedigger. Traditional readings emphasise economic crises and increasing immiseration as capitalism’s gravedigger but climate change calls for a rethink and an appreciation of Marx’s importance as an ecological thinker. Nature, seen as a ‘free gift to capital’ (the quote is from Capital) and not part of the system’s value algorithm, can be destroyed in the drive to accumulate profits. The ‘Ecology’ chapter makes clear Marx’s insight into what he called the ‘social metabolism’ between man and nature and the chapter goes on to relate this to climate scientists’ warnings about a planetary disaster.

There is no chapter on ideology, not even an index entry, but Marx was presciently aware of what he described as ‘the bewitched, distorted and upside-down world haunted by Monsieur le Capital’. Contemporary examples would be the marketing of zero-hour working and creeping privatisation of the NHS as a new freedom of choice. Not surprisingly, aspects of everyday life under corporate control can come to be experienced as a kind of alien rule. How easily people can be controlled into accepting this – as depicted in the superb Captive State movie – needs also to be examined through the lens of Marx; something that writers like China Mieville, Žižek, Terry Eagleton or Paul Mason could tackle with fluency but who are missing from this collection of articles. But this remains an important book, asking and offering some answers to the question of what kind of Marxism is emerging in the world we now inhabit and what it can mean to call oneself a communist.

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TV

Revisiting Marx’s Ideas on Alienation (Talk)

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Reviews

Paula Rauhala, Socialism and Democracy

The “late Marx” has recently received increasing attention in research literature.

Marcello Musto reproaches the existing biographies for portraying Marx as a person whose energies had been drained by the 1870s and who was no longer fit for writing during his last years.
The present book challenges this view. Musto draws on Marx’s published and unpublished manuscripts, notes, and letters from 1881–1883, presenting a vital sequel to his earlier work, Another Marx: Early Manuscripts to the International (Bloomsbury, 2018).
Musto insists on the relevance of Marx’s biography to his intellectual development. As in Another Marx, Musto intertwines his account of Marx’s intellectual work with the story of his life, which in this later period revolves around his declining health.
It was not only his extensive readings that shaped Marx as a thinker. Most importantly, Marx learned, in correspondence with activists, from the struggles of working-class movements in various countries. The emphasis on political praxis, and its influence on Marx’s thought is a recurring theme for Musto.
Musto seeks to correct the balance between the young and the old Marx. While Marx’s last years have often been neglected, some scholars have put an “excessive weight” on “Marx’s early writings” (131) – Marx between the years 1818 and 1844 “when he published only two journal articles and had just initiated the study of political economy” (132). Musto shows that even if it is true that Marx did not publish during his last years, he read and took notes on a wide range of disciplines such as agricultural chemistry, physiology, physics, and mathematics, resulting in his Mathematical Manuscripts. He also studied anthropology – and left behind his important Ethnological Notebooks. Finally, he read ancient history, the history of banking, and world history, compiling his Chronological Extracts, “an annotated year-by-year timeline of world events from the first century BC on, summarizing their causes and salient features” (99).
In addition to the fury of taking notes that Maximilien Rubel has called Marx’s “literary bulimia” which, “yielded nearly 3,000 pages of microscopic writing” during his last ten years, Marx acquainted himself with “‘tons’ of statistical material” (132), learned the Russian language, travelled, and very importantly, corresponded with the workers’ organizations of various countries. All this he accomplished while being seriously ill himself and having terminally ill family members around him.
Musto emphasizes that Marx in the 1880s not only continued his studies but also expanded their scope – most importantly to encompass the past and present of such countries as the United States, Russia, Egypt, and Algeria.
The first chapter of The Last Years, “New Research Horizons,” discusses, in addition to Marx’s important anthropological studies, the 101-point questionnaire that he prepared in 1880 for the Federation of Socialist Workers of France, to be published in La Revue socialiste and “distributed in 25,000 copies ‘all over France’” (46). In his introduction to the questionnaire, Marx expressed his conviction that the workers “alone can describe with full knowledge the misfortunes from which they suffer, and that only they, not saviours sent by Providence, can energetically apply the healing remedies for the social ills to which they are a prey” (MECW 24: 636). As in Another Marx, Musto emphasizes that Marx was not only a critic of political economy; he learned from concrete political struggles.
Chapter 2, “Controversy over the Development of Capitalism in Russia,” discusses the famous question that Vera Zasulich (1849–1919) addressed to Marx: should the Russian revolutionaries focus on developing the traditional village commune, the obshchina, or should they concentrate their energies on organizing the – at the time small – industrial proletariat in the cities? Like other scholars before him, Musto shows how seriously Marx took this question. If Marx had had a general historico-philosophical theory of the development of societies – as often assumed – why would he have devoted so much time to studying the economic and social conditions in Russia? The answer is that “Russia seemed more likely to produce a revolution than Britain, …where the workers’ movement, enjoying better living conditions partly based on colonial exploitation, had grown weaker and undergone the negative conditioning of trade union reformism” (49).
Musto underlines Marx’s observation in a draft letter to another Russian populist, Nicholai Mikhailovsky (1842–1904), that “events of striking similarity, taking place in different historical contexts” often lead to totally “disparate results” (MEW 19: 112). As the unfinished manuscripts and study notes published recently in MEGA2 show, Marx “oriented himself to empirical research and historical analysis. In contrast to what many previous interpreters have maintained, these new materials definitively refute the idea that he was mainly driven by a new philosophy of history, or that he had obsessive recourse to the dialectical method” (151).
Moreover, Musto reminds us that although Marx named “[s]team, electricity, and the self-acting mule” as “revolutionists of a rather more dangerous character than even citizens Barbès, Raspail and Blanqui,” he believed that the development of any society was dependent not solely on economic and technical progress, but also on the organizational talent of political groups (MECW 14: 655). As in his other writings (and especially in those dealing with Marx’s activities in the International Workingmen’s Association), Musto highlights how skilled a political organizer Marx was. He was “troubled” by what he called “ultra-revolutionary turns of phrase” which he regarded as “hot air. MECW 14: 655” In 1881, Marx wrote to his daughter Jenny, “Shouting and doing are irreconcilable opposites” (MECW 46: 83).
Musto argues that Marx’s correspondence with the Russian populists helped to widen the scope of his internationalism from the European context to the global scale. The attention Marx paid to non-European societies during his last years led him to a “more pronounced multilinear conception” of political and economic development (76).
The third chapter, “The Travails of ‘Old Nick’,” deals with the early dissemination of Capital in Europe and Marx’s struggle with the initially unsatisfactory translation of Capital into French. Musto asks “why could Marx not complete Capital” and hints that as Marx “deepened his knowledge of economic developments in Russia and the United States” (87), completing the second and the third volumes became even more complicated. In other words, Marx became more and more interested in “the forms in which the capitalist mode of production developed in different contexts and periods” (88).
The fourth and final chapter, “The Moor’s Last Journey,” tells the story of Marx’s visit to Algeria, where, “because of the sun,” he got rid of his “prophet’s beard” and had himself “photographed before offering up” his “hair on the altar of an Algerian barber” (MECW 46: 249). The story of Marx’s stay in Algiers is the story of the beginning of the final deterioration of his health.
Musto’s book presents an overview of Marx’s studies, debates, correspondence, affectionate relationships, diseases, sorrows, and journeys during the last years of his life. Pages cataloguing Marx’s readings are very useful and informative but can be tedious to read because many topics are not discussed substantially but merely mentioned. Such pages are, however, followed by stories of Marx’s family life, correspondence regarding politics, and Marx’s personal relations with his comrades. This rhythm of the prose leads the reader through the pages of this book, which is packed with detailed information as the number and the length of the endnotes indicates.
Readers wishing to deepen their understanding of particular themes of this book may refer to Musto’s original sources in MEGA2, MEW, or MECW – if not the papers in the International Institute of Social History (IISH) in Amsterdam, or the Russian State Archive of Socio-Political History (RGASPI) in Moscow, or the secondary literature found in Musto’s bibliography, consisting of sources in English, French, German, Spanish, Italian, and Portuguese.

Categories
Reviews

Eren Kozluca, Socialism and Democracy

Marx’s Capital After 150 Years: Critique and Alternative to Capitalism contains the proceedings of an international conference held at York University in 2017.

It is the latest addition to the series of compilations that encompass the theoretical and political nature, stakes and implications of Karl Marx’s major work. 1 With 17 contributors of diverse political affiliations, theoretical standpoints, and immediate concerns within the contested terrain of Marxism and Marxian scholarship, the relatively peaceful coexistence of these interventions, at the very least, confirms that the breakthroughs realized in the last few decades in the study of Capital proved to be lasting. In other words, we now have a qualitatively new, shared understanding regarding Capital that both distances it from the presuppositions of classical political economy and opposes the interpretative (and editorial) ambitions to present its theorems and conclusions as closed totalities. Cautiously discerning the multiplicity of layers of Capital, an on-going task that is irreducible to the standard notion of interdisciplinary compartmentalization and dialogue, shall serve to mobilize it as an indispensable tool for any kind of initiative to critically recast the social sciences.
In very general terms, then, how is Capital to be approached in the aftermath of the 150th anniversary of the publication of its first volume? As Marcello Musto’s introduction to the composition of Marx’s critique of political economy attests, all three volumes of Capital should be viewed as crucial yet intermediary moments of an ever-moving and immensely self-critical scientific project. This is a project best described as “unfinished” (1): Marx’s critique of political economy displays a sequence of different versions, each with their peculiar internal organization, emphases, and degrees of conceptual rigour. Be it Marx’s constant revision of his categories/concepts in response to obstacles and the need for clarity in light of new material and evidence, his deteriorating health, financial problems, or time-consuming political duties, the critique of political economy was hampered by many interruptions. Its initial plans or ambitions do not match its hectic yet meticulous production. Perhaps, neither do Marx’s own attempts to explicitly formulate the distinguishing aspects of his own work.
The contemporary portrayal of Capital, manifested to differing degrees in this compilation, encourages one to revisit Marx’s work with an eye on its determinate contradictions as well as what Etienne Balibar calls its “bundle of strategic possibilities” (50) or tendencies inherent in the way in which Marx appropriates his object. Embracing the finitude of Marx’s enterprise reinforces a perspective that can acknowledge Marx’s specific theoretical object of investigation in Capital, the capitalist mode of production dominating different social formations. This approach also appreciates the limited character of this object and assesses the functioning of apparently divergent chapters trying to circumscribe its mechanisms and laws. Accordingly, one is allowed to “extend” (as the name of Part 2 of this compilation suggests), reconstruct, elaborate and resituate the levels of analyses that concern capitalism’s historically contingent presuppositions including its articulations with processes that remain at the frontier of Marx’s primary focus. In the following, I will briefly comment on the five contributions that make up the first part of the book as they exemplify some of the most crucial philosophical orientations in further working through the insights of Capital.
Balibar’s paper disentangles three possible readings – permanent revolutionist, biblical, and reformist – of Capital’s paradoxically displaced political conclusion, namely, the expropriation of the expropriators. Whereas the first two lead analysis into blind alleys and teleological closures resulting in an institution-less, amorphous politics exposed to the temptations of redemptive violence, the third reading anticipates a not-yet-construed historical force that shall make use of contemporary financial tools in conjunction with cooperative initiatives. From here, he goes on to define, and rightly so, another, much refined conception of historical tendencies and counter tendencies that ultimately structures Capital’s ‘political viewpoint’. The latter articulates “contradiction(s)” embedded in the self-assertion of capital with the contingent course of “antagonism” within conflicts and balance of forces (47). However – in a characteristically Balibarian move reflecting his extreme caution towards anything reminiscent of his old notion of a “new, [proletarian] practice of politics” 2 – he tends to privilege the radical expansion and deepening of rights, hence the regulated struggle of the working class through State legislations, as the sole feasible revolutionary trajectory that Capital might offer (48). Balibar’s conclusions rest on his argument that Marx’s concept of “real subsumption” of labour under capital, found in Volume 1’s unpublished 6th chapter, introduces a theoretically and politically dangerous possibility that paints a nihilistic/totalitarian picture of society where a “complete incorporation of the labour power in its own reproduction process” (49) takes place. To my mind, this interpretation fails to assess that the concept of “real subsumption” designates a provisional and therefore a contested historical tendency. Thereby, it downplays the analytical possibilities that “real subsumption” opens up in pointing out the revolutionary potentials of dissymmetric political forms, practices and ideologies rooted in the resistance to the prevailing capitalist organization and control of the labour processes. 3
Bob Jessop’s contribution discusses the way in which Marx draws on cell biology to begin Capital’s exposition with the commodity and its value form. That is, the form of generalized exchange, under which labour, operating as the substance of value, assumes an ex post social, and hence, abstract character, one posited by the very exploitation of labour power in the productive process. 4 This is assigned to be and treated as the “economic cell-form” of the capital relation. As such, Jessop proposes his own solution to the tricky question of an adequate starting point in Marx’s methodology. Jessop correctly underlines the possible risks of such borrowings by recalling Marx’s caution against any juxtaposition of his specific object with that of the natural sciences. Overall, Jessop presents the form-determined life of capital relations as inseparable from the conflict-ridden terrain of production. Nevertheless, his failure to specify his exact position regarding the question of Marx’s affinity to Hegel in Capital’s recourse to a dialectical method of presentation is likely to generate confusion. For, Jessop’s defence of the importance of the cell analogy for Capital’s argument could benefit from a more precise take on how Marx takes into account the limits of his own use of Hegelian dialectics.
Leo Panitch’s intervention starts by questioning the premise treating capitalism as a “mere passing stage” that has shaped various theories of crisis in the history of Marxism. He convincingly argues that the counter tendencies preventing capitalism’s much anticipated collapse are far from being accidental and that they cannot be divorced from the singular conditions and forms of class struggle. To Panitch, Marx’s underdeveloped “historical materialist theory of the capitalist State” (89) shall put in perspective the State’s mode of functioning in reproducing and regulating capitalist relations of domination, together with its capacity to display – at certain junctures in history – an “openness to democratic pressures and shifts in the balance of class forces” (87). Insisting on the term “capitalist State” may arguably engender more problems than it solves. However, this does not change the fact that it is a remarkable text for rethinking the necessarily manifold, democratic and strategic direction of a possible Marxian politics.
Moishe Postone insists on Marx’s continuing relevance in making sense of the historically new and specifically impersonal form of domination that the logic of valorisation entails. For Postone, the hold of socially necessary (abstract) time of labour traps productive activity into a “treadmill dynamic” (101) where no increase in the rate of productivity suffices to produce and extract the surplus value required to run the system. As he puts it, “the historical dynamic of capitalism, then, increasingly points beyond the necessity of proletarian labour while reconstituting that very necessity” (104). The problem remains, however, of incorporating into this framework the problem of democracy/political control of the process of production so as to give the emancipatory possibility of another social organization beyond value, and thus, the “self-abolition” (103) of the proletariat a satisfactory content.
Richard Wolff’s paper seems to be a good antidote to the shortcomings of Postone’s reading on this last point. Wolff claims the novelty of Capital’s understanding of class in terms of “class qua surplus” – rather than the widely used conceptions of “class qua property” and “class qua power” – which is primarily based on the relations of organization of the production, appropriation and distribution of the surplus output. Thanks to this relatively sound and accessible formulation, Wolff is able to offer multiple possibilities of tackling concrete class analyses of conjunctures with clear and explicit reference to class.
Above all, Marx’s way of specifying and explaining the dynamics of capitalism via the critique of political economy required him to proceed “from the critical use of the political economy to its categorical criticism”. 5 This highly significant but often misinterpreted turn: (1) displaces the meaning of what is classically understood as (political) economy by putting political domination and politics back at its centre; (2) builds a positive macroeconomic analysis of the laws of the development of its object from this new basis; and (3) accounts for the real causes of the mystifying forms of appearance of economic phenomena under capitalism responsible for the cognitive blockages of previous theorists. Notably, Jessop tends to operate with a clear understanding of Marx’s move into categorical criticism, when he claims that:
… the value form of the commodity as the economic cell-form of the capital relation is historically specific and its laws and tendencies are doubly tendential, in the sense that, they exist only to the extent that the contradiction-rife and crisis-prone capital relation is reproduced in and through social practices that are historically contingent and contested. (74–5)
To emphasize, I believe that the usefulness of further insights into the text of Capital in studying the current modifications of capitalism depend on our ability to articulate these three dimensions with each other. Notwithstanding the uneven distribution of emphasis on certain issues, almost inevitable in such broad compilations, the wide range of pressing topics covered by key authors makes this compilation a very valuable read.
Notes
1 Another example is Judith Dellheim and Frieder Otto Wolf, eds., The Unfinished System of Karl Marx: Critically Reading Capital as a Challenge for Our Times, 1st edition (New York, NY: Springer Berlin Heidelberg, 2018).
2 Balibar, Etienne. Cinq Études Du Matérialisme Historique. Paris: F. Maspero, 1974.
3 Jean Robelin, “Marx: Le Communisme et L’Analyse de La Classe Ouvrière,” in Étudier Marx, ed. Georges Labica (Paris: C.N.R.S. Editions, 1985), 101–38.

Categories
Book chapter

Alienation Redux

I. The origin of the concept
Alienation was one of the most important and widely debated themes of the 20th century, and Marx’s theorization played a key role in the discussions. Yet, contrary to what one might imagine, the concept itself did not develop in a linear manner, and the publication of previously unknown texts containing Marx’s reflections on alienation defined significant moments in the transformation and dissemination of the theory.

The meaning of the term changed several times over the centuries. In theological discourse it referred to the distance between man and God; in social contract theories, to loss of the individual’s original liberty; and in English political economy, to the transfer of property ownership. The first systematic philosophical account of alienation was in the work of G.W.F. Hegel (1770–1831), who in The Phenomenology of Spirit (1807) adopted the terms Entäusserung (literally self-externalization or renunciation) and Entfremdung (estrangement) to denote spirit’s becoming other than itself in the realm of objectivity. The whole question still featured prominently in the writings of the Hegelian Left, and Ludwig Feuerbach’s (1804–1872) theory of religious alienation – that is, of man’s projection of his own essence onto an imaginary deity – elaborated in the book The Essence of Christianity (1841), contributed significantly to the development of the concept.

Alienation subsequently disappeared from philosophical reflection, and none of the major thinkers of the second half of the 19th century paid it any great attention. Even Marx rarely used the term in the works published during his lifetime, and it was entirely absent from the Marxism of the Second International (1889–1914).

During this period, however, several thinkers developed concepts that were later associated with alienation. In his Division of Labour (1893) and Suicide (1897), Émile Durkheim (1858–1917) introduced the term ‘anomie’ to indicate a set of phenomena whereby the norms guaranteeing social cohesion enter into crisis following a major extension of the division of labour. Social trends concomitant with huge changes in the production process also lay at the basis of the thinking of German sociologists: Georg Simmel (1858–1918), in The Philosophy of Money (1900), paid great attention to the dominance of social institutions over individuals and to the growing impersonality of human relations; while Max Weber (1864–1920), in Economy and Society (1922), dwelled on the phenomena of ‘bureaucratization’ in society and ‘rational calculation’ in human relations, considering them to be the essence of capitalism. But these authors thought they were describing unstoppable tendencies, and their reflections were often guided by a wish to improve the existing social and political order – certainly not to replace it with a different one.

II. The rediscovery of alienation
The rediscovery of the theory of alienation occurred thanks to György Lukács (1885–1971), who in History and Class Consciousness (1923) referred to certain passages in Marx’s Capital (1867) – especially the section on ‘commodity fetishism’ [Der Fetischcharakter der Ware] – and introduced the term ‘reification’ [Verdinglichung, Versachlichung] to describe the phenomenon whereby labour activity confronts human beings as something objective and independent, dominating them through external autonomous laws. In essence, however, Lukács’s theory was still similar to Hegel’s, since he conceived of reification as an ‘central structural problem’. Much later, after the appearance of a French translation by Kostas Axelos (1924–2010) and Jacqueline Bois (?) had given this work a wide resonance among students and left-wing activists, Lukács decided to republish it together with a long self-critical preface (1967), in which he explained that ‘History and Class Consciousness follows Hegel in that it too equates alienation with objectification’.

Another author who focused on this theme in the 1920s was Isaak Rubin (1886–1937), whose Essays on Marx’s Theory of Value (1928) argued that the theory of commodity fetishism was ‘the basis of Marx’s entire economic system, and in particular of his theory of value’. In the view of this Russian author, the reification of social relations was ‘a real fact of the commodity-capitalist economy.’ It involved ‘‘materialization’ of production relations and not only ‘mystification’ or illusion. This is one of the characteristics of the economic structure of contemporary society. […] Fetishism is not only a phenomenon of social consciousness, but of social being.’ Despite these insights – prescient if we consider the period in which they were written – Rubin’s work did not promote a greater familiarity with the theory of alienation. Its reception in the West began only with its translation into English in 1972 and then from English into other languages.

The decisive event that finally revolutionized the diffusion of the concept of alienation was the appearance in 1932 of the Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844, a previously unpublished text from Marx’s youth. It rapidly became one of the most widely translated, circulated and discussed philosophical writings of the 20th century, revealing the central role that Marx had given to the theory of alienation during an important period for the formation of his economic thought: the discovery of political economy. For, with his category of alienated labour [entfremdete Arbeit], Marx not only widened the problem of alienation from the philosophical, religious and political sphere to the economic sphere of material production; he also showed that the economic sphere was essential to understanding and overcoming alienation in the other spheres. In the Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844, alienation is presented as the phenomenon through which the labour product confronts labour ‘as something alien, as a power independent of the producer’. For Marx,

the alienation [Entäusserung] of the worker in his product means not only that his labor becomes an object, an external existence, but that it exists outside him, independently, as something alien to him, and that it becomes a power on its own confronting him; it means that the life which he has conferred on the object confronts him as something hostile and alien.

Alongside this general definition, Marx listed four ways in which the worker is alienated in bourgeois society: 1) from the product of his labour, which becomes ‘an alien object that has power over him’; 2) in his working activity, which he perceives as ‘directed against himself’, as if it ‘does not belong to him’; 3) from ‘man’s species-being’, which is transformed into ‘a being alien to him’; and 4) from other human beings, and in relation to ‘the other man’s labour and object of labour.’

For Marx, in contrast to Hegel, alienation was not coterminous with objectification as such, but rather with a particular phenomenon within a precise form of economy: that is, wage labour and the transformation of labour products into objects standing opposed to producers. The political difference between these two positions is enormous. Whereas Hegel presented alienation as an ontological manifestation of labour, Marx conceived it as characteristic of a particular, capitalist, epoch of production, and thought it would be possible to overcome it through ‘the emancipation of society from private property’. He would make similar points in the notebooks containing extracts from James Mill’s (1773–1836) Elements of Political Economy (1821):

My work would be a free manifestation of life, hence an enjoyment of life. Presupposing private property, my work is an alienation of life, for I work in order to live, in order to obtain for myself the means of life. My work is not my life. Secondly, the specific nature of my individuality, therefore, would be affirmed in my labour, since the latter would be an affirmation of my individual life. Labour therefore would be true, active property. Presupposing private property, my individuality is alienated to such a degree that this activity is instead hateful to me, a torment, and rather the semblance of an activity. Hence, too, it is only a forced activity and one imposed on me only through an external fortuitous need, not through an inner, essential one.

So, even in these fragmentary and sometimes hesitant early writings, Marx always discussed alienation from a historical, not a natural, point of view.

III. The other conceptions of alienation
Much time would elapse, however, before a historical, non-ontological, conception of alienation could take hold. In the early 20th century, most authors who addressed the phenomenon considered it a universal aspect of human existence. In Being and Time (1927), for instance, Martin Heidegger (1889–1976) approached it in purely philosophical terms. The category he used for his phenomenology of alienation was ‘fallenness’ [Verfallen], that is the tendency of Being-There [Dasein] – which in Heidegger’s philosophy indicates the ontologically constituted human existence – to lose itself in the inauthenticity and conformism of the surrounding world.

For Heidegger, ‘fallenness into the world means an absorption in Being-with-one-another, in so far as the latter is guided by idle talk, curiosity, and ambiguity’ – something truly quite different from the condition of the factory worker, which was at the centre of Marx’s theoretical preoccupations. Moreover, Heidegger did not regard this ‘fallenness’ as a ‘bad and deplorable ontical property of which, perhaps, more advanced stages of human culture might be able to rid themselves’, but rather as an ontological characteristic, ‘an existential mode of Being-in-the-world’.

Herbert Marcuse (1898–1979), who, unlike Heidegger, knew Marx’s work well, identified alienation with objectification as such, not with its manifestation in capitalist relations of production. In an essay he published in 1933, he argued that ‘the burdensome character of labor’ could not be attributed merely to ‘specific conditions in the performance of labor, to the social-technical structuring of labor’, but should be considered as one of its fundamental traits:

in laboring, the laborer is always ‘with the thing’: whether one stands by a machine, draws technical plans, is concerned with organizational measures, researches scientific problems, instructs people, etc. In his activity he allows himself to be directed by the thing, subjects himself and obeys its laws, even when he dominates his object. […] In each case he is not ‘with himself’ […] he is with an ‘Other than himself’ – even when this doing fulfils his own freely assumed life. This externalization and alienation of human existence […] is ineliminable in principle.

For Marcuse, there was a ‘primordial negativity of laboring activity’ that belonged to the ‘very essence of human existence’. The critique of alienation therefore became a critique of technology and labour in general, and its supersession was considered possible only in the moment of play, when people could attain a freedom denied them in productive activity: ‘In a single toss of a ball, the player achieves an infinitely greater triumph of human freedom over objectification than in the most powerful accomplishment of technical labor.’

In Eros and Civilization (1955), Marcuse took an equally clear distance from Marx’s conception, arguing that human emancipation could be achieved only through the abolition of labour and the affirmation of the libido and play in social relations. He discarded any possibility that a society based on common ownership of the means of production might overcome alienation, on the grounds that labour in general, not only wage labour, was

work for an apparatus which they [the vast majority of the population] do not control, which operates as an independent power to which individuals must submit if they want to live. And it becomes the more alien the more specialized the division of labor becomes. […] They work […] in alienation [… in the] absence of gratification [and in] negation of the pleasure principle.

The cardinal norm against which people should rebel was the ‘performance principle’ imposed by society. For, in Marcuse’s eyes:

the conflict between sexuality and civilization unfolds with this development of domination. Under the rule of the performance principle, body and mind are made into instruments of alienated labor; they can function as such instruments only if they renounce the freedom of the libidinal subject-object which the human organism primarily is and desires. […] Man exists […] as an instrument of alienated performance.

Hence, even if material production is organized equitably and rationally, ‘it can never be a realm of freedom and gratification […] It is the sphere outside labor which defines freedom and fulfilment.’ Marcuse’s alternative was to abandon the Promethean myth so dear to Marx and to draw closer to a Dionysian perspective: the ‘liberation of eros’. In contrast to Sigmund Freud (1856–1939), who had maintained in Civilization and Its Discontents (1929) that a non-repressive organization of society would entail a dangerous regression from the level of civilization attained in human relations, Marcuse was convinced that, if the liberation of the instincts took place in a technologically advanced ‘free society’ in the service of humanity, it would not only favour the march of progress but create ‘new and durable work relations’.

In this evolution of his thinking, a significant influence was exerted by the ideas of Charles Fourier (1772–1837) who, in his Theory of the Four Movements (1808), opposed advocates of the ‘commercial system’, to whom he used in a derogatory way the epithet of ‘civilized people’, and maintained that society would be free only when all its components had returned to expressing their passions. These were far more important to him than reason, ‘in the name of which were perpetrated all the massacres that history remembers’. According to Fourier, the main error of the political regime of his age was the repression of human nature. ‘Harmony’ would only be possible only if the individuals could have unleashed, as when they were in their natural state, all their instincts.

As for Marcuse, and his belief to oppose the technological domain in general, his indications about how the new society might come about were rather vague and utopian. He ended up opposing technological domination in general, so that his critique of alienation was no longer directed against capitalist relations of production, and his reflections on social change were so pessimistic as to include the working class among the subjects that operated in defence of the system.

The two leading figures in the Frankfurt School, Max Horkheimer (1895–1973) and Theodor Adorno (1903–1965), also developed a theory of generalized estrangement resulting from invasive social control and the manipulation of needs by the mass media. In Dialectic of Enlightenment (1944) they argued that ‘a technological rationale is the rationale of domination itself. It is the coercive nature of society alienated from itself.’ This meant that, in contemporary capitalism, even the sphere of leisure time – free and outside of work – was absorbed into the mechanisms reproducing consensus.

After World War II, the concept of alienation also found its way into psychoanalysis. Those who took it up started from Freud’s theory that man is forced to choose between nature and culture, and that, to enjoy the securities of civilization, he must necessarily renounce his impulses. Some psychologists linked alienation with the psychoses that appeared in certain individuals as a result of this conflict-ridden choice, thereby reducing the whole vast problematic of alienation to a merely subjective phenomenon.

The author who dealt most with alienation from within psychoanalysis was Erich Fromm (1900–1980). Unlike most of his colleagues, he never separated its manifestations from the capitalist historical context; indeed, his books The Sane Society (1955) and Marx’s Concept of Man (1961) used the concept to try to build a bridge between psychoanalysis and Marxism. Yet Fromm likewise always put the main emphasis on subjectivity, and his concept of alienation, which he summarized as ‘a mode of experience in which the individual experiences himself as alien’, remained too narrowly focused on the individual. Moreover, his account of Marx’s concept based itself only on the Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844 and showed a deep lack of understanding of the specificity and centrality of alienated labour in Marx’s thought. This lacuna prevented Fromm from giving due weight to objective alienation (that of the worker in the labour process and in relation to the labour product) and led him to advance positions that appear disingenuous in their neglect of the underlying structural relations.

Marx believed that the working class was the most alienated class. [… He] did not foresee the extent to which alienation was to become the fate of the vast majority of people. […] If anything, the clerk, the salesman, the executive, are even more alienated today than the skilled manual worker. The latter’s functioning still depends on the expression of certain personal qualities like skill, reliability, etc., and he is not forced to sell his ‘personality’, his smile, his opinions in the bargain.

One of the principal non-Marxist theories of alienation is that associated with Jean-Paul Sartre (1905–1980) and the French existentialists. Indeed, in the 1940s, marked by the horrors of war and the ensuing crise de conscience, the phenomenon of alienation – partly under the influence of Alexandre Kojève’s (1902–1968) neo-Hegelianism – became a recurrent reference both in philosophy and in narrative literature. Once again, however, the concept is much more generic than in Marx’s thought, becoming identified with a diffuse discontent of man in society, a split between human individuality and the world of experience, and an insurmountable condition humaine. The existentialist philosophers did not propose a social origin for alienation, but saw it as inevitably bound up with all ‘facticity’ (no doubt the failure of the Soviet experience favoured such a view) and human otherness. In 1955, Jean Hippolyte (1907–1968) set out this position in one of the most significant works in this tendency:

[alienation] does not seem to be reducible solely to the concept of the alienation of man under capitalism, as Marx understands it. The latter is only a particular case of a more universal problem of human self-consciousness which, being unable to conceive itself as an isolated cogito, can only recognize itself in a word which it constructs, in the other selves which it recognizes and by whom it is occasionally disowned. But this manner of self-discovery through the Other, this objectification, is always more or less an alienation, a loss of self and a simultaneous self-discovery. Thus, objectification and alienation are inseparable, and their union is simply the expression of a dialectical tension observed in the very movement of history.

Marx helped to develop a critique of human subjugation, basing himself on opposition to capitalist relations of production. The existentialists followed an opposite trajectory, trying to absorb those parts of Marx’s work that they thought useful for their own approach, in a merely philosophical discussion devoid of a specific historical critique.

IV. The debate on the conception of alienation in Marx’s early writings
The alienation debate that developed in France frequently drew upon Marx’s theories. As the Second World War gave way to a sense of profound anguish resulting from the barbarities of Nazism and fascism, the theme of the condition and destiny of the individual in society acquired great prominence. A growing philosophical interest in Marx was apparent everywhere in Europe. Often, however, it referred only to the Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844; not even the sections of Capital that Lukács had used to construct his theory of reification were taken into consideration. Moreover, some sentences from the Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844 were taken out of context and transformed into sensational quotes supposedly proving the existence of a radically different ‘new Marx’, saturated with philosophy and free of the economic determinism that critics attributed to Capital – often without having read it. Again on the basis of the 1844 texts, the French existentialists laid by far the greatest emphasis on the concept of self-alienation [Selbstentfremdung], that is, the alienation of the worker from the human species and from others like himself – a phenomenon that Marx did discuss in his early writings, but always in connection with objective alienation.

The same error appears in a leading figure of post-war political theory, Hannah Arendt (1906–1975). In her The Human Condition (1958), she built her account of Marx’s concept of alienation around the Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844, even then isolating out only one of the types mentioned there by Marx: subjective alienation. This allowed her to claim:

expropriation and world alienation coincide, and the modern age, very much against the intentions of all the actors in the play, began by alienating certain strata of the population from the world. […] World alienation, and not self-alienation as Marx thought, has been the hallmark of the modern age.

Evidence of her scant familiarity with Marx’s mature work is the fact that, in conceding that Marx ‘was not altogether unaware of the implications of world alienation in capitalist economy’, she referred only to a few lines in his very early journalistic piece, ‘The Debates on the Wood Theft Laws’ (1842), not to the dozens of much more important pages in Capital and the preparatory manuscripts leading up to it. Her surprising conclusion was: ‘such occasional considerations play[ed] a minor role in his work, which remained firmly rooted in the modern age’s extreme subjectivism’. Where and how Marx prioritized ‘self-alienation’ in his analysis of capitalist society remains a mystery that Arendt never elucidated in her writings.

In the 1960s, the theory of alienation in the Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844 became the major bone of contention in the wider interpretation of Marx’s work. It was argued that a sharp distinction should be drawn between an ‘early Marx’ and a ‘mature Marx’ – an arbitrary and artificial opposition favoured both by those who preferred the early philosophical work and those for whom the only real Marx was the Marx of Capital (among them Louis Althusser (1918–1980) and the Russian scholars). Whereas the former considered the theory of alienation in the Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844 to be the most significant part of Marx’s social critique, the latter often exhibited a veritable ‘phobia of alienation’ and tried at first to downplay its relevance; or, when this strategy was no longer possible, the whole theme of alienation was written off as ‘a youthful peccadillo, a residue of Hegelianism’ that Marx later abandoned. Scholars in the first camp retorted that the 1844 manuscripts were written by a man of twenty-six just embarking on his major studies; but those in the second camp still refused to accept the importance of Marx’s theory of alienation, even when the publication of new texts made it clear that he never lost interest in it and that it occupied an important position in the main stages of his life’s work.

With the passage of time, successive supporters of the two positions engaged in lively debate, offering different answers concerning the ‘continuity’ of his thought. Were there in fact two distinct thinkers: an early Marx and a mature Marx? Or was there only one Marx, whose convictions remained substantially the same over the decades?

The opposition between these two views became ever sharper. The first, uniting Marxist-Leninist orthodoxy with those in Western Europe and elsewhere who shared its theoretical and political tenets, downplayed or dismissed altogether the importance of Marx’s early writings; they presented them as completely superficial in comparison with his later works and, in so doing, advanced a decidedly anti-humanist conception of his thought. The second view, advocated by a more heterogeneous group of authors, had as its common denominator a rejection of the dogmatism of official Communism and the correlation that its exponents sought to establish between Marx’s thought and the politics of the Soviet Union.

A couple of quotations from two major protagonists in the 1960s will do more than any possible commentary to elucidate the terms of the debate. For Althusser:

first of all, any discussion of Marx’s Early Works is a political discussion. Need we be reminded that Marx’s Early Works […] were exhumed by Social-Democrats and exploited by them to the detriment of Marxism-Leninism? […] This is the location of the discussion: the Young Marx. Really at stake in it: Marxism. The terms of the discussion: whether the Young Marx was already and wholly Marx.

Iring Fetscher (1922–2014), on the other hand, wrote that

the early writings of Marx centre so strongly on the liberation of man from every form of exploitation, domination and alienation, that a Soviet reader must have understood these comments as a criticism of his own situation under Stalinist domination. For this reason then, the early writings of Marx were never published in large, cheap editions in Russian. They were considered to be relatively insignificant works by the young Hegelian Marx who had not yet developed Marxism.

To argue, as so many did, that the theory of alienation in the Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844 was the central theme of Marx’s thought was so obviously wrong that it demonstrated no more than ignorance of his work. On the other hand, when Marx again became the most frequently discussed and quoted author in world philosophical literature because of his newly published pages on alienation, the silence from the Soviet Union on this whole topic, and on the controversies associated with it, provided a striking example of the instrumental use made of his writings in that country. For the existence of alienation in the Soviet Union and its satellites was dismissed out of hand, and any texts relating to the question were treated with suspicion. As Henri Lefebvre (1901–1991) put it, ‘in Soviet society, alienation could and must no longer be an issue. By order from above, for reasons of State, the concept had to disappear.’ Therefore, until the 1970s, very few authors in the ‘socialist camp’ paid any attention to the works in question.

A number of well-known Western authors also played down the complexity of the phenomenon. Lucien Goldmann (1913–1970), for instance, thought it possible to overcome alienation in the social-economic conditions of the time, and in his Dialectical Research (1959) argued that it would disappear, or recede, under the mere impact of planning. ‘Reification,’ he wrote, ‘is in fact a phenomenon closely bound up with the absence of planning and with production for the market’; Soviet socialism in the East and Keynesian policies in the West were resulting ‘in the first case in the elimination of reification, and in the second case in its progressive weakening’. History has demonstrated the faultiness of his predictions.

Whatever their academic discipline or political affiliation, interpreters of the Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844 may be divided into three groups. The first consists of all those who, in counterposing the Paris manuscripts to Capital, stress the theoretical pre-eminence of the former work. A second group attaches little significance in general to the manuscripts, while a third tends toward the thesis that there is a theoretical continuum between them and Capital.

Those who assumed a split between the ‘young’ and the ‘mature’ Marx, argued for the greater theoretical richness of the former, presented the Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844 as his most valuable text and sharply differentiated it from his later works. In particular, they tended to marginalize Capital often without studying it in any depth – a book altogether more demanding than the twenty odd pages on alienated labour in the Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844, about which almost all advanced various philosophical cogitations. In casting Marx’s thought as an ethical-humanist doctrine, these authors pursued the political objective of opposing the rigid orthodoxy of 1930s Soviet Marxism and contesting its hegemony within the workers’ movement. This theoretical offensive resulted in something very different, tending to enlarge the potential field of Marxist theory. Though the formulations were often hazy and generic, Marxism was no longer considered merely as an economic determinist theory and began to exert a greater attraction for large numbers of intellectuals and young people.

This approach began to make headway soon after the publication in 1932 of the Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844 and continued to win converts until the late 1950s, partly thanks to the explosive effect of a new text so unlike the dominant canon of Marxism. Its main sponsors were a motley group of heterodox Marxists, progressive Christians and existentialist philosophers, who interpreted Marx’s economic writings as a step back from what they saw as the centrality of the human person in his early theories.

The second group of interpreters, who regarded the Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844 as a transitional text of no special significance in the development of Marx’s thought. This was the most widely read account in the Soviet Union and its later satellite countries. The failure of the manuscripts to mention the ‘dictatorship of the proletariat’, together with the presence of themes such as human alienation and the exploitation of labour that highlighted some of the most glaring contradictions of ‘actually existing socialism’, led to their ostracization at the top of the ruling Communist parties. Not by chance were they excluded from editions of the works of Marx and Engels in various countries of the ‘socialist bloc’. Moreover, many of the authors in question wholly endorsed Vladimir Lenin’s (1870–1924) definition of the stages in the development of Marx’s thought – an approach later canonized by Marxism-Leninism, which, apart from being in many respects theoretically and politically questionable, made it impossible to account for Marx’s important work newly published for the first time eight years after the death of the Bolshevik leader.

As the influence of the Althusserian school grew in the 1960s, this reading also became popular in France and elsewhere in Western Europe. But, although its basic tenets are generally attributed to Althusser alone, the seeds were already there in Pierre Naville (1903–1993). He believed that Marxism was a science and that Marx’s early works, still imbued with the language and preoccupations of Left Hegelianism, marked a stage prior to the birth of a ‘new science’ in Capital. For Althusser, as we have seen, the Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844 represented the Marx most distant from Marxism.

A philologically unfounded contraposition of Marx’s early writings to the critique of political economy is shared by dissident or ‘revisionist’ Marxists eager to prioritize the former and by orthodox Communists focused on the ‘mature Marx’. Between them, they contributed to one of the principal misunderstandings in the history of Marxism: the myth of the ‘Young Marx’. This antagonism also gave rise to conflicts about the terminology and fundamental concepts of Marxian theory – for example, historical materialism versus historicism, or exploitation versus alienation.

The third and last group of interpreters of the Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844 consists of those who, from different political and theoretical standpoints, identified a substantive continuity in Marx’s work. The idea of an essential Marxian continuum, as opposed to a sharp theoretical break that completely discarded all that came before, was the inspiration for some of the best interpretations of the concept of alienation in the Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844. Even then, however, there were a number of errors of interpretation – most notably, in certain authors, an underestimation of Marx’s huge advances of the 1850s and 1860s in the field of political economy. This went together with a diffuse tendency to reconstruct Marx’s thought through collections of quotations, without taking any account of the different periods in which the source texts had been written. All too often, the result was an author assembled out of pieces corresponding to the interpreter’s particular vision, passing backwards and forwards from Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844 to Capital, as if Marx’s work were a single timeless and undifferentiated text.

To underline the importance of the concept of alienation in the Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844 for a better understanding of Marx’s development cannot involve drawing a veil of silence over the huge limits of this youthful text. Its author had scarcely begun to assimilate the basic concepts of political economy, and his conception of communism was no more than a confused synthesis of the philosophical studies he had undertaken until then. Captivating as they are, especially in the way they combine philosophical ideas of Hegel and Feuerbach with a critique of classical economic theory and a denunciation of working-class alienation, the Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844 are only a very first approximation, as is evident from their vagueness and eclecticism. They shed major light on the course Marx took, but an enormous distance still separates them from the themes and argument not only of the finished 1867 edition of Capital, Volume I, but also of the preparatory manuscripts for Capital, one of them published, that he drafted from the late 1850s on.

In contrast to analyses that either play up a distinctive ‘Young Marx’ or try to force a theoretical break in his work, the most incisive readings of the concept of alienation in the Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844 have known how to treat them as an interesting, but only initial, stage in Marx’s critical trajectory. Had he not continued his research but remained with the concepts of the Paris manuscripts, he would probably have been demoted to a place alongside Bruno Bauer (1809–1882) and Feuerbach in the sections of philosophy manuals devoted to the Hegelian Left.

V. The irresistible fascination of the theory of alienation
In the 1960s a real vogue began for theories of alienation, and hundreds of books and articles were published on it around the world. It was the age of alienation tout court. Authors from various political backgrounds and academic disciplines identified its causes as commodification, overspecialization, anomie, bureaucratization, conformism, consumerism, loss of a sense of self amid new technologies, even personal isolation, apathy, social or ethnic marginalization, and environmental pollution.

The concept of alienation seemed to express the spirit of the age to perfection, and indeed, in its critique of capitalist society, it became a meeting ground for anti-Soviet philosophical Marxism and the most democratic and progressive currents in the Catholic world. However, the popularity of the concept, and its indiscriminate application, created a profound terminological ambiguity. Within the space of a few years, alienation thus became an empty formula ranging right across the spectrum of human unhappiness – so all-encompassing that it generated the belief that it could never be modified.

With Guy Debord’s (1931–1994) book The Society of the Spectacle (1967), which became soon after its publication a veritable manifesto for the generation of students in revolt against the system, alienation theory linked up with the critique of immaterial production. Building on the theses of Horkheimer and Adorno, according to which the manufacturing of consent to the social order had spread to the leisure industry, Debord argued that the sphere of non-labour could no longer be considered separate from productive activity:

Whereas during the primitive stage of capitalist accumulation ‘political economy considers the proletarian only as a worker’, who only needs to be allotted the indispensable minimum for maintaining his labour power, and never considers him ‘in his leisure and humanity’, this ruling-class perspective is revised as soon as commodity abundance reaches a level that requires an additional collaboration from him. Once his workday is over, the worker is suddenly redeemed from the total contempt toward him that is so clearly implied by every aspect of the organization and surveillance of production, and finds himself seemingly treated like a grownup, with a great show of politeness, in his new role as a consumer. At this point the humanism of the commodity takes charge of the worker’s ‘leisure and humanity’ simply because political economy now can and must dominate those spheres.

For Debord, then, whereas the domination of the economy over social life initially took the form of a ‘degradation of being into having’, in the ‘present stage’ there had been a ‘general shift from having to appearing’. This idea led him to place the world of spectacle at the centre of his analysis: ‘The spectacle’s social function is the concrete manufacture of alienation’, the phenomenon through which ‘the fetishism of the commodity […] attains its ultimate fulfilment’. In these circumstances, alienation asserted itself to such a degree that it actually became an exciting experience for individuals, a new opium of the people that led them to consume and ‘identify with the dominant images’, taking them ever further from their own desires and real existence:

the spectacle is the stage at which the commodity has succeeded in totally colonizing social life. […] Modern economic production extends its dictatorship both extensively and intensively. […] With the ‘second industrial revolution’, alienated consumption has become just as much a duty for the masses as alienated production.

In the wake of Debord, Jean Baudrillard (1929–2007) has also used the concept of alienation to interpret critically the social changes that have appeared with mature capitalism. In The Consumer Society (1970), distancing himself from the Marxist focus on the centrality of production, he identified consumption as the primary factor in modern society. The ‘age of consumption’, in which advertising and opinion polls create spurious needs and mass consensus, was also ‘the age of radical alienation’.

Commodity logic has become generalized and today governs not only labour processes and material products, but the whole of culture, sexuality, and human relations, including even fantasies and individual drives. […] Everything is spectacularized or, in other words, evoked, provoked and orchestrated into images, signs, consumable models.

Baudrillard’s political conclusions, however, were rather confused and pessimistic. Faced with social ferment on a mass scale, he thought ‘the rebels of May 1968’ had fallen into the trap of ‘reifying objects and consumption excessively by according them diabolic value’; and he criticized ‘all the disquisitions on ‘alienation’, and all the derisive force of pop and anti-art’ as a mere ‘indictment [that] is part of the game: it is the critical mirage, the anti-fable which rounds off the fable’. Now a long way from Marxism, for which the working class is the social reference point for changing the world, he ended his book with a messianic appeal, as generic as it was ephemeral: ‘We shall await the violent irruptions and sudden disintegrations which will come, just as unforeseeably and as certainly as May 1968, to wreck this white Mass.’

VI. Alienation theory in North American sociology
In the 1950s, the concept of alienation also entered the vocabulary of North American sociology, but the approach to the subject there was quite different from the one prevailing in Europe at the time. Mainstream sociology treated alienation as a problem of the individual human being, not of social relations, and the search for solutions centred on the capacity of individuals to adjust to the existing order, not on collective practices to change society.

Here, too, there was a long period of uncertainty before a clear and shared definition took shape. Some authors considered alienation to be a positive phenomenon, a means of expressing creativity, which was inherent in the human condition in general. Another common view was that it sprang from the fissure between individual and society; Seymour Melman (1917–2004), for instance, traced alienation to the split between the formulation and execution of decisions, and considered that it affected workers and managers alike. In ‘A Measure of Alienation’ (1957), which inaugurated a debate on the concept in the American Sociological Review, Gwynn Nettler (1913–2007) used an opinion survey as a way of trying to establish a definition. But, in sharp contrast to the rigorous labour-movement tradition of investigations into working conditions, his questionnaire seemed to draw its inspiration more from the McCarthyite canons of the time than from those of scientific research. For in effect he identified alienation with a rejection of the conservative principles of American society: ‘consistent maintenance of unpopular and averse attitudes toward familism, the mass media and mass taste, current events, popular education, conventional religion and the telic view of life, nationalism, and the voting process’.

The conceptual narrowness of the American sociological panorama changed after the publication of Melvin Seeman’s (1918–2020) short article ‘On the Meaning of Alienation’ (1959), which soon became an obligatory reference for all scholars in the field. His list of the five main types of alienation – powerlessness, meaninglessness (that is, the inability to understand the events in which one is inserted), normlessness, isolation and self-estrangement – showed that he too approached the phenomenon in a primarily subjective perspective. Robert Blauner (1929–2016), in his book Alienation and Freedom (1964), similarly defined alienation as ‘a quality of personal experience which results from specific kinds of social arrangements’, even if his copious research led him to trace its causes to ‘employment in the large-scale organizations and impersonal bureaucracies that pervade all industrial societies’.

American sociology, then, generally saw alienation as a problem linked to the system of industrial production, whether capitalist or socialist, and mainly affecting human consciousness. This major shift of approach ultimately downgraded, or even excluded, analysis of the historical-social factors that determine alienation, producing a kind of hyper-psychologization that treated it not as a social problem but as a pathological symptom of individuals, curable at the individual level. Whereas in the Marxist tradition the concept of alienation had contributed to some of the sharpest criticisms of the capitalist mode of production, its institutionalization in the realm of sociology reduced it to a phenomenon of individual maladjustment to social norms. In the same way, the critical dimension that the concept had had in philosophy (even for authors who thought it a horizon that could never be transcended) now gave way to an illusory neutrality.

Another effect of this metamorphosis was the theoretical impoverishment of the concept. From a complex phenomenon related to man’s work activity and social and intellectual existence, alienation became a partial category divided up in accordance with academic research specializations. American sociologists argued that this methodological choice enabled them to free the study of alienation from any political connotations and to confer on it scientific objectivity. But, in reality, this a-political ‘turn’ had evident ideological implications, since support for the dominant values and social order lay hidden behind the banner of de-ideologization and value-neutrality.

So, the difference between Marxist and American sociological conceptions of alienation was not that the former were political and the latter scientific. Rather, Marxist theorists were bearers of values opposed to the hegemonic ones in American society, whereas the US sociologists upheld the values of the existing social order, skillfully dressed up as eternal values of the human species. In the American academic context, the concept of alienation underwent a veritable distortion and ended up being used by defenders of the very social classes against which it had for so long been directed.

VII. The concept of alienation in Capital and its preparatory manuscripts
Marx’s own writings played an important role for those seeking to counter this situation. The initial focus on the Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844 tended to shift after the publication of new texts and with them it was possible to reconstruct the path of his elaboration from the early writings to Capital.

In the second half of the 1840s, Marx no longer made frequent use of the term ‘alienation’. The main exceptions were The Holy Family (1845), The German Ideology (1845-46) and the Manifesto of the Communist Party (1848) all jointly authored with Engels.

In Wage-Labour and Capital (1849), a collection of articles based on lectures he gave to the German Workers’ League in Brussels in 1847, Marx returned to the theory of alienation. But the term itself did not appear in these texts, because it would have had too abstract a ring for his intended audience. He wrote that wage labour does not enter into the worker’s ‘own life activity’ but represents a ‘sacrifice of his life’. Labour-power is a commodity that the worker is forced to sell ‘in order to live’, and ‘the product of his activity, therefore, is not the aim of his activity’:

And the labourer who for twelve hours long, weaves, spins, bores, turns, builds, shovels, breaks stone, carries hods, and so on-is this twelve hours’ weaving, spinning, boring, turning, building, shovelling, stone-breaking, regarded by him as a manifestation of life, as life? Quite the contrary. Life for him begins where this activity ceases, at the table, at the tavern seat, in bed. The twelve hours’ work, on the other hand, has no meaning for him as weaving, spinning, boring, and so on, but only as earnings, which enable him to sit down at a table, to take his seat in the tavern, and to lie down in a bed. If the silk-warm’s object in spinning were to prolong its existence as caterpillar, it would be a perfect example of a wage-worker.

Until the late 1850s there were no more references to the theory of alienation in Marx’s work. Following the defeat of the 1848 revolutions, he was forced to go into exile in London; once there, he concentrated all his energies on the study of political economy and, apart from a few short works with a historical theme, did not publish another book. When he began to write about economics again, however, in the Foundations of the Critique of Political Economy (1857–58), better known as the Grundrisse, he more than once used the term ‘alienation’. This text recalled in many respects the analyses of the Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844, although nearly a decade of studies in the British Library had allowed him to make them considerably more profound:

The social character of activity, as well as the social form of the product, and the share of individuals in production here appear as something alien and objective, confronting the individuals, not as their relation to one another, but as their subordination to relations which subsist independently of them and which arise out of collisions between mutually indifferent individuals. The general exchange of activities and products, which has become a vital condition for each individual – their mutual interconnection – here appears as something alien to them, autonomous, as a thing. In exchange value, the social connection between persons is transformed into a social relation between things; personal capacity into objective wealth.

The account of alienation in the Grundrisse, then, is enriched by a greater understanding of economic categories and by more rigorous social analysis. The link it establishes between alienation and exchange-value is an important aspect of this. And, in one of the most dazzling passages on this phenomenon of modern society, Marx links alienation to the opposition between capital and ‘living labour-power’:

The objective conditions of living labour appear as separated, independent values opposite living labour capacity as subjective being. […] The objective conditions of living labour capacity are presupposed as having an existence independent of it, as the objectivity of a subject distinct from living labour capacity and standing independently over against it; the reproduction and realization, i.e. the expansion of these objective conditions, is therefore at the same time their own reproduction and new production as the wealth of an alien subject indifferently and independently standing over against labour capacity. What is reproduced and produced anew is not only the presence of these objective conditions of living labour, but also their presence as independent values, i.e. values belonging to an alien subject, confronting this living labour capacity. The objective conditions of labour attain a subjective existence vis-à-vis living labour capacity – capital turns into capitalist.

The Grundrisse was not the only text of Marx’s maturity to feature an account of alienation. Five years after it was composed, the ‘Results of the Immediate Process of Production’ – also known as ‘Capital, Volume I: Book 1, Chapter VI, unpublished’ (1863–64) – brought the economic and political analyses of alienation more closely together. ‘The rule of the capitalist over the worker,’ Marx wrote, ‘is the rule of things over man, of dead labour over the living, of the product over the producer.’ In capitalist society, by virtue of ‘the transposition of the social productivity of labour into the material attributes of capital’, there is a veritable ‘personification of things and reification of persons’, creating the appearance that ‘the material conditions of labour are not subject to the worker, but he to them’. In reality, he argued:

Capital is not a thing, any more than money is a thing. In capital, as in money, certain specific social relations of production between people appear as relations of things to people, or else certain social relations appear as the natural properties of things in society. Without a class dependent on wages, the moment individuals confront each other as free persons, there can be no production of surplus-value; without the production of surplus-value there can be no capitalist production, and hence no capital and no capitalist! Capital and wage-labour (it is thus we designate the labour of the worker who sells his own labour-power) only express two aspects of the self-same relationship. Money cannot become capital unless it is exchanged for labour-power, a commodity sold by the worker himself. Conversely, work can only be wage-labour when its own material conditions confront it as autonomous powers, alien property, value existing for itself and maintaining itself, in short as capital. If capital in its material aspects, i.e. in the use-values in which it has its being, must depend for its existence on the material conditions of labour, these material conditions must equally, on the formal side, confront labour as alien, autonomous powers, as value – objectified labour – which treats living labour as a mere means whereby to maintain and increase itself.

In the capitalist mode of production, human labour becomes an instrument of the valorization process of capital, which, ‘by incorporating living labour-power into the material constituents of capital, […] becomes an animated monster and […] starts to act as if consumed by love.’ This mechanism keeps expanding in scale, until co-operation in the production process, scientific discoveries and the deployment of machinery – all of them social processes belonging to the collective – become forces of capital that appear as its natural properties, confronting the workers in the shape of the capitalist order:

The productive forces […] developed [by] social labour […] appear as the productive forces of capitalism. […] Collective unity in co-operation, combination in the division of labour, the use of the forces of nature and the sciences, of the products of labour, as machinery – all these confront the individual workers as something alien, objective, ready-made, existing without their intervention, and frequently even hostile to them. They all appear quite simply as the prevailing forms of the instruments of labour. As objects they are independent of the workers whom they dominate. Though the workshop is to a degree the product of the workers’ combination, its entire intelligence and will seem to be incorporated in the capitalist or his understrappers, and the workers find themselves confronted by the functions of the capital that lives in the capitalist.

Through this process capital becomes something ‘highly mysterious’. ‘The conditions of labour pile up in front of the worker as social forces, and they assume a capitalized form.’

Beginning in the 1960s, the diffusion of ‘Capital, Volume I: Book 1, Chapter VI, unpublished’ and, above all, of the Grundrisse paved the way for a conception of alienation different from the one then hegemonic in sociology and psychology. It was a conception geared to the overcoming of alienation in practice – to the political action of social movements, parties and trade unions to change the working and living conditions of the working class. The publication of what, after the Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844 in the 1930s, may be thought of as the ‘second generation’ of Marx’s writings on alienation therefore provided not only a coherent theoretical basis for new studies of alienation, but above all an anti-capitalist ideological platform for the extraordinary political and social movement that exploded in the world during those years. Alienation left the books of philosophers and the lecture halls of universities, took to the streets and the space of workers’ struggles, and became a critique of bourgeois society in general.

VIII. Commodity fetishism
One of Marx’s best accounts of alienation is contained in the famous section of Capital on ‘The Fetishism of the Commodity and Its Secret’, where he shows that, in capitalist society, people are dominated by the products they have created . Here, the relations among them appear not ‘as direct social relations between persons […], but rather as material relations between persons and social relations between things’. As he famously wrote:

The mysterious character of the commodity-form consists […] in the fact that the commodity reflects the social characteristics of men’s own labour as objective characteristics of the products of labour themselves, as the socio-natural properties of these things. Hence it also reflects the social relation of the producers to the sum total of labour as a social relation between objects, a relation which exists apart from and outside the producers. Through this substitution, the products of labour become commodities, sensuous things which are at the same time supra-sensible or social. […] It is nothing but the definite social relation between men themselves which assumes here, for them, the fantastic form of a relation between things. In order, therefore, to find an analogy we must take flight into the misty realm of religion. There the products of the human brain appear as autonomous figures endowed with a life of their own, which enter into relations both with each other and with the human race. So, it is in the world of commodities with the products of men’s hands. I call this the fetishism which attaches itself to the products of labour as soon as they are produced as commodities, and is therefore inseparable from the production of commodities.

Two elements in this definition mark a clear dividing line between Marx’s conception of alienation and the one held by most of the other authors we have been discussing. First, Marx conceives of fetishism not as an individual problem but as a social phenomenon, not as an affair of the mind but as a real power, a particular form of domination, which establishes itself in market economy as a result of the transformation of objects into subjects. For this reason, his analysis of alienation does not confine itself to the disquiet of individual women and men, but extends to the social processes and productive activities underlying it. Second, for Marx fetishism manifests itself in a precise historical reality of production, the reality of wage labour; it is not part of the relation between people and things as such, but rather of the relation between man and a particular kind of objectivity: the commodity form.

As a consequence of this peculiarity of capitalism, individuals had value only as producers, and ‘human existence’ was subjugated to the act of the ‘production of commodities’. Hence ‘the process of production’ had ‘mastery over man, instead of being controlled by him’. Capital ‘care[d] nothing for the length of life of labour power’ and attached no importance to improvements in the living conditions of the proletariat. Capital ‘attains this objective by shortening the life of labour-power.’

In bourgeois society, human qualities and relations turn into qualities and relations among things. This theory of what Lukács would call reification illustrated alienation from the point of view of human relations, while the concept of fetishism treated it in relation to commodities. Pace those who deny that a theory of alienation is present in Marx’s mature work, we should stress that commodity fetishism did not replace alienation but was only one aspect of it.

The theoretical advance from the Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844 to Capital and its related materials does not, however, consist only in the greater precision of his account of alienation. There is also a reformulation of the measures that Marx considers necessary for it to be overcome. Whereas in 1844 he had argued that human beings would eliminate alienation by abolishing private production and the division of labour, the path to a society free of alienation was much more complicated in Capital and its preparatory manuscripts.

Marx held that capitalism was a system in which the workers were subject to capital and the conditions it imposed. Nevertheless, it had created the foundations for a more advanced society, and by generalizing its benefits humanity would be able to progress along the faster road of social development that it had opened up. One of Marx’s most analytic accounts of the positive effects of capitalist production is to be found towards the end of Capital, Volume I, in the section entitled ‘Historical Tendency of Capitalist Accumulation’. In the passage in question, he summarizes the six conditions generated by capitalism – particularly by its centralization – that constitute the basic prerequisites for the birth of communist society. These are: 1) the cooperative labour process; 2) the scientific-technological contribution to production; 3) appropriation of the forces of nature by production; 4) creation of machinery that workers can only operate in common; 5) the economizing of all means of production; and 6) the tendency to the creation of the world market. For Marx:

Hand in hand with this centralization, or this expropriation of many capitalists by a few, other developments take place on an ever-increasing scale, such as the growth of the co-operative form of the labour process, the conscious technical application of science, the planned exploitation of the soil, the transformation of the means of labour into forms in which they can only be used in common, the economizing of all means of production by their use as the means of production of combined, socialized labour, the entanglement of all peoples in the net of the world market, and, with this, the growth of the international character of the capitalist regime.

Marx well knew that the concentration of production in the hands of a small number of bosses increased ‘the mass of misery, oppression, slavery, degradation and exploitation’ for the working class, but he was also aware that ‘the co-operation of wage-labourers is entirely brought about by the capital that employs them.’ He was convinced that the extraordinary growth of the productive forces under capitalism, greater and faster than in all previously existing modes of production, had created the conditions to overcome the social-economic relations that capitalism had itself brought about – and therefore to achieve the transition to socialist society.

9. Communism, emancipation and freedom
According to Marx, a system that produced an enormous accumulation of wealth for the few and deprivation and exploitation for the general mass of workers must be replaced with an ‘association of free men, working with the means of production held in common, and expending their many different forms of labour-power in full self-awareness as one single social labour force.’ In Capital, Volume I, Marx explained that the ‘ruling principle’ of this ‘higher form of society’ would be ‘the full and free development of every individual’. In the Grundrisse he wrote that in communist society production would be ‘directly social’, ‘the offspring of association, which distributes labour internally’. It would be managed by individuals as their ‘common wealth’. The ‘social character of production’ [gesellschaftliche Charakter der Produktion] would ‘make the product into a communal, general product from the outset’; its associative character would be ‘presupposed’ and ‘the labour of the individual […] from the outset taken as social labour’. As Marx stressed in the Critique of the Gotha Programme (1875), in postcapitalist society ‘individual labour no longer exists in an indirect fashion but directly as a component part of the total labour.’ In addition, the workers would be able to create the conditions for the eventual disappearance of ‘the enslaving subordination of the individual to the division of labour’.

In Capital, Volume I, Marx highlighted that in communism, the conditions would be created for a form of ‘planned cooperation’ through which the worker ‘strips off the fetters of his individuality and develops the capabilities of his species’. In Capital, Volume II (1885), Marx pointed out that society would then be in a position to ‘reckon in advance how much labour, means of production and means of subsistence it can spend, without dislocation’, unlike in capitalism ‘where any kind of social rationality asserts itself only post festum’ and ‘major disturbances can and must occur constantly’.

This type of production would differ from wage labour because it would place its determining factors under collective governance, take on an immediately general character and convert labour into a truly social activity. This was a conception of society at the opposite pole from Thomas Hobbes’s (1588–1679) ‘war of all against all’. In referring to so-called free competition, or the seemingly equal positions of workers and capitalists on the market in bourgeois society, Marx stated that the reality was totally different from the human freedom exalted by apologists of capitalism. The system posed a huge obstacle to democracy, and he showed better than anyone else that the workers did not receive an equivalent for what they produced. In the Grundrisse, he explained that what was presented as an ‘exchange of equivalents’ was, in fact, appropriation of the workers’ ‘labour time without exchange’; the relationship of exchange ‘dropped away entirely, or it became a ‘mere semblance’. Relations between persons were ‘actuated only by self-interest’.

This ‘clash of individuals’ had been passed off as the ‘the absolute form of existence of free individuality in the sphere of production and exchange’. But for Marx ‘nothing could be further from the truth’, since ‘it is not individuals who are set free by free competition; it is, rather, capital which is set free’. In the Economic Manuscripts of 1863-67, he denounced the fact that ‘surplus labour is initially pocketed, in the name of society, by the capitalist’ – the surplus labour that is ‘the basis of society’s free time’ and, by virtue of this, the ‘material basis of its whole development and of civilization in general’. And in Capital, Volume I, he showed that the wealth of the bourgeoisie was possible only by ‘turning the whole lifetime of the worker and his family into labour-time’.

In the Grundrisse, Marx observed that in capitalism ‘individuals are subsumed under social production’, which ‘exists outside them as their fate’. This happens only through the attribution of exchange-value conferred on the products, whose buying and selling takes place post festum. Furthermore, ‘all social powers of production’ – including scientific discoveries, which appear as alien and external to the worker, are posited by capital. The very association of the workers, at the places and in the act of production, is ‘operated by capital’ and is therefore ‘only formal’. Use of the goods created by the workers ‘is not mediated by exchange between mutually independent labours or products of labour’, but rather ‘the social conditions of production within which the individual is active.’ Marx explained how productive activity in the factory ‘concerns only the product of labour, not labour itself’, since it ‘will occur initially only in a common location, under overseers, regimentation, greater discipline, regularity and the posited dependence in production itself on capital’.

In order to change these conditions, contrary to the view of many of Marx’s socialist contemporaries, a redistribution of consumption goods was not sufficient to reverse this state of affairs. A root-and-branch change in the productive assets of society was necessary. Thus, in the Grundrisse Marx noted that ‘the demand that wage labour be continued but capital suspended is self-contradictory, self-dissolving’. What was required was ‘dissolution of the mode of production and form of society based upon exchange value’. In the address published under the title Value, Price and Profit (1865), he called on workers to ‘inscribe on their banner’ not ‘the conservative motto: ‘A fair day’s wage for a fair day’s work!’ [but] the revolutionary watchword: ‘Abolition of the wages system!’’

Furthermore, the Critique of the Gotha Programme made the point that in the capitalist mode of production ‘the material conditions of production are in the hands of non-workers in the form of capital and land ownership, while the masses are only owners of the personal condition of production, of labour power’. Therefore, it was essential to overturn the property relations at the base of the bourgeois mode of production. In the Grundrisse, Marx recalled that ‘the laws of private property – liberty, equality, property – property in one’s own labour, and free disposition over it – tum into the worker’s propertylessness, and the dispossession of his labour, i.e. the fact that he relates to it as alien property and vice versa.’ And in 1869, in a report of the General Council of the International Working Men’s Association, he asserted that ‘private property in the means of production’ served to give the bourgeois class ‘the power to live without labour upon other people’s labour’. He repeated this point in another short political text, the Preamble to the Programme of the French Workers’ Party (1880), adding that ‘the producers cannot be free unless they are in possession of the means of production’ and that the goal of the proletarian struggle must be ‘the return of all the means of production to collective ownership’.

In Capital, Volume III (1894), Marx observed that when the workers had established a communist mode of production ‘private property of the earth by single individuals [would] appear just as absurd as private property of one human being by another’. He directed his most radical critique against the destructive possession inherent in capitalism, insisting that ‘even an entire society, a nation, or even all simultaneously existing societies taken together, are not the owners of the earth’. For Marx, human beings were ‘simply its possessors, its beneficiaries, and have to bequeath it in an improved state to succeeding generations, as good heads of the household [boni patres familias]’.

A different kind of ownership of the means of production would also radically change the life-time of society. In Capital, Volume I, Marx unfolded with complete clarity the reasons why in capitalism ‘the shortening of the working day is […] by no means what is aimed at in capitalist production, when labour is economized by increasing its productivity’. The time that the progress of science and technology makes available for individuals is in reality immediately converted into surplus value. The only aim of the dominant class is the ‘shortening of the labour-time necessary for the production of a definite quantity of commodities’. Its only purpose in developing the productive forces is the ‘shortening of that part of the working day in which the worker must work for himself, and the lengthening […] the other part […] in which he is free to work for nothing for the capitalist’. This system differs from slavery or the corvées due to the feudal lord, since ‘surplus labour and necessary labour are mingled together’ and make the reality of exploitation harder to perceive.

In the Grundrisse, Marx showed that ‘free time for a few’ is possible only because of this surplus labour time of the many. The bourgeoisie secures growth of its material and cultural capabilities only thanks to the limitation of those of the proletariat. The same happens in the most advanced capitalist countries, to the detriment of those on the periphery of the system. In the Economic Manuscript of 1861-63, Marx emphasized that the ‘free development’ of the dominant class is ‘based on the restriction of development’ among the working class’; ‘the surplus labour of the workers’ is the ‘natural basis of the social development of the other section’. The surplus labour time of the workers is not only the pillar supporting the ‘material conditions of life’ for the bourgeoisie; it also creates the conditions for its ‘free time, the sphere of [its] development’. Marx could not have put it better: ‘the free time of one section corresponds to the time in thrall to labour of the other section.’

For Marx communist society, by contrast, would be characterized by a general reduction in labour time. In the ‘Instructions for the Delegates of the Provisional General Council’, composed in August 1866 for the International Working Men’s Association , Marx wrote in forthright terms: ‘a preliminary condition, without which all further attempts at improvement and emancipation must prove abortive, is the limitation of the working day.’ It was needed not only ‘to restore the health and physical energies of the working class’ but also ‘to secure them the possibility of intellectual development, sociable intercourse, social and political action’.

Similarly, in Capital, Volume I, while noting that workers’ ‘time for education, for intellectual development, for the fulfilling of social functions, for social intercourse, for the free play of the vital forces of his body and his mind’ counted as pure ‘foolishness’ in the eyes of the capitalist class, Marx implied that these would be the basic elements of the new society. As he put it in the Grundrisse, a reduction in the hours devoted to labour – and not only labour to create surplus value for the capitalist class – would favour ‘the artistic, scientific etc. development of the individuals in the time set free, and with the means created, for all of them’.

On the basis of these convictions, Marx identified the ‘economy of time, along with the planned distribution of labour time among the various branches of production’ as ‘first economic law on the basis of communal production’. In Theories of Surplus Value (1862–63) he made it even clearer that ‘real wealth’ was nothing other than ‘disposable time’. In communist society, workers’ self-management would ensure that ‘a greater quantity of time’ was ‘not absorbed in direct productive labour but […] available for enjoyment, for leisure, thus giving scope for free activity and development’. In this text, so too in the Grundrisse, Marx quoted a short anonymous pamphlet entitled The Source and Remedy of the National Difficulties, Deduced from Principles of Political Economy, in a Letter to Lord John Russell (1821), whose definition of well-being he fully shared: that is, ‘truly wealthy a nation, if there is no interest or if the working day is 6 hours rather than 12’.

Wealth is not command over surplus labour time – the real wealth – ‘but disposable time, in addition to that employed in immediate production, for every individual and for the whole society.’ Elsewhere in the Grundrisse he asked rhetorically: ‘what is wealth other than the universality of individual needs, capacities, pleasures, productive forces […] the absolute working out of his creative potentialities?’ It is evident, then, that the socialist model in Marx’s mind did not involve a state of generalized poverty, but rather the attainment of greater collective wealth.

For Marx, living in a non-alienated society meant building a social organization in which a fundamental value was given to individual freedom. He attached a fundamental value to individual freedom, and his communism was radically different from the levelling of classes envisaged by his various predecessors or pursued by many of his epigones. In the Grundrisse however, he pointed to the ‘foolishness of those socialists (namely the French, who want to depict socialism as the realization of the ideals of bourgeois society articulated by the French revolution) who demonstrate that exchange and exchange value etc. are originally […] a system of universal freedom and equality, but that they have been perverted by money, capital’.

He labelled it an ‘absurdity’ to regard ‘free competition is the ultimate development of human freedom’; it was tantamount to a belief that ‘the rule of the bourgeoisie is the terminal point of world history’, which he mockingly described as ‘middle-class rule is the culmination of world history – certainly an agreeable thought for the parvenus of the day before yesterday’. In the same way, Marx contested the liberal ideology according to which ‘the negation of free competition [was] equivalent to the negation of individual freedom and of social production based upon individual freedom’. In bourgeois society, the only possible ‘free development’ was ‘on the limited basis of the domination of capital’. But that ‘type of individual freedom’ was, at the same time, ‘the most sweeping abolition of all individual freedom and the complete subjugation of individuality to social conditions which assume the form of objective powers, indeed of overpowering objects […] independent of the individuals relating to one another.’ As he wrote in Capital, Volume III:

The realm of freedom really begins only where labour determined by necessity and external expediency ends; it lies by its very nature beyond the sphere of material production proper. Just as the savage must wrestle with nature to satisfy his needs, to maintain and reproduce his life, so must civilized man, and he must do so in all forms of society and under all possible modes of production. This realm of natural necessity expands with his development, because his needs do too; but the productive forces to satisfy these expand at the same time.

Freedom, in this sphere, can consist only in this, that socialized man, the associated producers, govern the human metabolism with nature in a rational way, bringing it under their collective control instead of being dominated by it as a blind power; accomplishing it with the least expenditure of energy and in conditions most worthy and appropriate for their human nature. But this always remains a realm of necessity. The true realm of freedom, the development of human powers as an end in itself, begins beyond it, though it can only flourish with this realm of necessity as its basis. The reduction of the working day is the basic prerequisite.

This post-capitalist system of production, together with scientific-technological progress and a consequent reduction of the working day, creates the possibility for a new social formation in which the coercive, alienated labour imposed by capital and subject to its laws is gradually replaced with conscious, creative activity beyond the yoke of necessity, and in which complete social relations take the place of random, undifferentiated exchange dictated by the laws of commodities and money . It is no longer the realm of freedom for capital but the realm of genuine human freedom.

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Journalism

Global Right has no narrative for future

Born in Cochabamba in 1962, Álvaro García Linera was very young when he first drew close to Marxism and the struggles of the Aymara people. Moving to Mexico, where he graduated in mathematics in the early 1980s, he was influenced by the Guatemalan guerrilla movements fighting for the cause of indigenous population. After his return to Bolivia, he became one of the founders of the Túpac Katari Guerrilla Army, a political organization that combined Marxist class struggle with Katarist principles promoting indigenous emancipation. Held in a maximum-security prison between 1992 and 1997, he went on to teach sociology and to become an influential intellectual. Later joining Evo Morales’s Movement for Socialism (MAS), Linera has been since 2006 vicepresident of the Plurinational State of Bolivia. He is one of the most original voices in the Latin American Left, whose works include Value Form and Community Form (1995) and Plebeain Power (2008). In this conversation with MARCELLO MUSTO, Associate Professor of Sociological Theory at York University, Toronto, Linera speaks about the situation of progressive forces in this and other parts of the world.

Q: Your political commitment is marked by an awareness that most Latin American communist organizations were incapable of speaking to the popular classes as a whole and occupied little more than a function of observers. In Bolivia, for example, their reliance on the most schematic and economistic MarxismLeninism prevented them from recognizing the specificity of the indigenous question and placing it at the centre of their political activity. They saw native peoples as an indistinct “petty-bourgeois” peasant mass with no revolutionary potential. How did you come to realize that it was necessary to build something radically different from the Left that existed at the time?

Á: In Bolivia, food was produced by indigenous farmers, buildings and houses were built by indigenous workers, streets were cleaned by indigenous people, and the elite and the middle classes entrusted the care of their children to them. Yet the traditional Left seemed blind to this and occupied itself only with workers in large-scale industry, paying no attention to their ethnic identity. Though certainly important for work in the mines, they were a minority in comparison with indigenous workers, who were discriminated against and even more harshly exploited. From the late 1970s on, the Aymara population organized large mobilizations against the dictatorship as well as the democratic governments that arose after its fall. It did so proudly with its own language and symbols, operating through federated communities of campesinos and furthering the birth of a nation under indigenous leadership. It was a moment of social discovery.

Q: How did you respond to this?

A: I was a school student at the time, and this Indian insurgency made a great impression on me. It seemed clear that the discourse of social struggle in the classical Left, centered only on workers and bourgeois, was onesided and unsustainable. It had to incorporate indigenous themes and to reflect on the agrarian community, or collective ownership of the land, as the basis for social organization. Moreover, to understand the women and men who made up the majority of the country and were demanding a different history and place in the world, it was necessary to go more deeply into the ethnic-national aspect of the problem of oppressed peoples. And for this, the schematism of Marxist textbooks seemed to me completely inadequate. It sent me in search of other references, from the store of Indianist ideas to the Marx whose writings on anticolonial struggles and the agrarian commune in Russia had enriched his analysis of oppressed nations.

Q: With the passing of time, the complexity of the subject of social transformation – which was so important in your political thinking and activity – has become an essential question for all progressive forces. As the vision of the proletariat as the only force capable of overthrowing capitalism has waned, and as the myth of the revolutionary vanguard has dissolved, what should be the new starting point for the Left?

A: The problem for the traditional Left is that it confused the concept of “the proletarian condition” with a specific historical form of wage labour. The former has spread everywhere and become a worldwide material condition. It is not true that the world of labour is disappearing – there have never been as many workers in the world, in every country. But this huge growth of the global workforce has happened at a time when all the existing trade union and political structures have been breaking up. More than at any time since the early nineteenth century, the working-class condition is once again a condition of and for capital. But now in such a way that the world of workers has become more complex, hybridized, nomadic and deterritorialized. Paradoxically, in an age when every aspect of human life has been commodified, everything seems to happen as if there were no longer any workers.

Q: What is the character of social struggles today? Are the difficulties that political and trade-union organizations face in organizing migrant, insecure and unskilled workers very different from those that existed in the time of twentieth century Fordist production?

A: The new working class is not unified mainly around labour issues. It does not yet have the strength to do this, and perhaps it will not have it for a long time to come. Social mobilizations no longer take place through classical forms of centralized working-class action, but rather through mixes of different trades, cross-sector issues, and flexible, fluid and changeable forms. We are talking of new forms of collective action thrown up by the workers, even if, in many cases, what emerges is less a labour identity than other, complementary features such as territorial conglomerates or groups demanding the right to healthcare, education or public transport. Instead of reproving these struggles because their forms differ from those of the past, the Left should pay attention to this social hybridity or heterogeneity – first of all, to understand the existing struggles and to articulate them with others at a local, national and international level. The subject of change is still “living labour”: workers who sell their labour power in multiple ways. But the organizational forms, discourses and identities are very different from the ones we knew in the twentieth century.

Q: Amid the social complexity of our times, do you think it is necessary to think anew about the concept of class?

A: Classes, identities, mobilized collectives are not abstractions: they are forms of collective experience of the world that are constructed on a wide scale. Just as they took contingent forms a hundred years ago, they are doing so again through unforeseen and often surprising routes and causes that are very different from those of the past. We should not confuse the concept of social class – a way of statistically classifying people on the basis of their property, resources, access to wealth, etc. – with the actual ways in which they group together on the basis of elective affinities, places of residence, shared problems and cultural characteristics. This is the real movement of the mobilized construction of classes, which only exceptionally coincides with the convergences exhibited in statistical data.

Q: From what you say, it is obvious that the way in which you relate to Marx – who you know very well and about whom you have written a great deal – is very different from that of Soviet Marxism. Do you think that a turn to the Marx of questions and doubts, found in the unfinished manuscripts of his later years, may today be more fruitful than the assertions contained in his published pamphlets and books?

A: Textbook Marxism always seemed inadequate to me. So, I took the initiative of also delving into authors inspired by indigenist ideology, as well as other Marxists and another Marx who spoke to me of hybrid social identities. In this way, I discovered a Marx who taught me about colonial struggles, who spoke about agrarian communities, who kept trying to place the theme of oppressed nations on a solid foundation – a Marx on the margins, more plural and more abounding with questions than with answers. It was these questions that enabled me, over the years, to read differently the Grundrisse, the Manuscripts of 1861- 1863 and Capital and to find there elements of the genetic logic of capitalism that other authors, before and after Marx, failed to understand.

Q: In the last four years, almost everywhere in Latin America, governments have come to power that take their cue from reactionary ideologies and seek to reimpose a neoliberal economic agenda. The election of Jair Bolsonaro in Brazil is the most striking case in point. Is this sharp right turn likely to last a long time?

A: I think the big problem for the global Right is that it has no narrative for the future. The states that preached a free-market liturgy are now building walls against immigrants and goods, as if their presidents were latter-day feudal lords. Those who called for privatizations are now appealing to the very state they used to vilify, in the hope that it will save them from the burden of debts. And those who once favoured globalization and spoke of a world that would finally be one now clutch at the pretext of “continental security”. We are living in a state of planetary chaos, where it is difficult to foresee what the new Latin American Rights will look like in the future. Will they opt for globalization or protectionism? Will they follow policies of privatization or state intervention? They themselves do not know the answers to these questions, since they are sailing in a sea of confusion and can only express short-term views. These forces of the Right do not represent a future to which Latin American society can entrust its long-term expectations. On the contrary: they are bringing about a rise in injustices and inequalities. The only tangible future they can offer to new generations is one of anxiety and uncertainty.

Q: In many parts of the world, the sharp decline of traditional political parties has gone together with the rise of new political forces that, in their different ways, are challenging neoliberal globalization and the existing order.The “free market” is no longer seen as synonymous with development and democracy, as it mistakenly was after the fall of the Berlin Wall, and the debate about alternatives to capitalism is once again arousing considerable interest. What should the Latin American Left be doing to turn things around and to open a new cycle of political involvement and emancipation?

A: The conditions exist for the development of a new progressive stage that will go beyond what was achieved in the last decade. In this context of great uncertainty, there is space for alternative proposals and a collective orientation to new horizons, based on the real involvement of people and the (ecologically sustainable) overcoming of social injustices. The great task for the Left, in overcoming the limits and errors of twentieth-century socialism, is to chart a new horizon that offers solutions to the actual questions that cause suffering to people. It would serve a new “principle of hope” – whatever name we give to it – which promulgates equality, social freedom, and universal rights and capacities as the basis for collective self-determination.

Translated by Patrick Camiller

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Journalism

Engels Revisited

Friedrich Engels understood even earlier than Karl Marx the centrality of the critique of political economy.

When the two first got to know each other, he had published many more articles – although it was his friend who was destined to become world-famous in this domain. Born in Germany 200 years ago, in Barmen (today suburb of Wuppertal), he was a very promising young man, whose father, a textile industrialist, had denied a chance to study at university and directed into his own firm. Engels had therefore taught himself, with a voracious appetite for knowledge, and he signed his pieces with a pseudonym to avoid conflict with his conservative, strongly religious family. He became an atheist, and the two years he spent in England – where he was sent at the age of twenty-two to work in Manchester, at the offices of the Ermen & Engels cotton mill – were decisive for the maturing of his political convictions. It was then that he personally observed the effects of privatization, capitalist exploitation of the proletariat and competition between individuals. He made contact with the Chartist movement and fell in love with an Irish working woman, Mary Burns, who played a key role in his development. A brilliant journalist, he published accounts in Germany of English social struggles and wrote for the English-speaking press about the social advances underway on the Continent.

In 1845 Engels published in German his first book, The Condition of the Working Class in England. The subtitle emphasized that it was based “on direct observation and genuine sources”, and he wrote in the preface that real knowledge of proletarian working and living conditions was “absolutely necessary to be able to provide solid ground for socialist theories”. It would have a sequel in many later surveys. An introductory dedication, “To the Working Class of England” further pointed out that his work “in the field” had given him direct, not abstract, “knowledge of the workers’ real lives”. He had never been discriminated against or “treated by them as a foreigner”, and he was happy to see that they were free of the “terrible curse of national narrowness and national arrogance”. In the same year, after the publication of The Holy Family (his first joint book with Marx), Engels went to England with his friend and was able to show him what he had earlier seen and understood there. Marx finally gave up the critique of post-Hegelian philosophy and began the long journey that led, twenty years later, to the first volume of Capital. Then the two friends wrote the Manifesto of the Communist Party (1848) and participated to the revolutions of 1848-1849, that ended with the success of the reaction.

In 1849 Engels returned to England and, like Marx, would remain there until his death. He became the “second violin”, as he put it, and in order to support himself and to help his friend (who was often without an income) he agreed to manage his father’s factory in Manchester, until 1870. Even during those twenty years, however, he never ceased to write. In 1850 he published The Peasant War in Germany, a history of the revolts in 1524-25, which sought to show how similar the middle-class behaviour at the time was to that of the petty bourgeoisie during the revolution of 1848-49, and how responsible it had been for the defeats incurred. He also wrote nearly a half of the five hundred articles that Marx contributed to the New-York Tribune between 1851 and 1862, in which he reported to the American public on the succession of wars in Europe. Not seldom he proved able to foresee developments and to anticipate the military strategies used on various fronts, earning for himself the sobriquet by which he was known to all his comrades: “the General”. His journalistic activity continued for a long time, and in 1870-71 he published his Notes on the Franco-Prussian War, a series of sixty articles for the English daily Pall Mall Gazette that analysed the military events preceding the Paris Commune. These received much appreciation and testified to his perspicacity on such matters.

Over the next fifteen years, Engels made his principal theoretical contributions in a series of occasional writings that opposed the positions of political opponents in the workers’ movement and sought to clarify controversial issues. The Anti-Dühring (1878), which he described as “a more or less connected exposition of the dialectical method and the communist world outlook”, became a crucial reference for the formation of Marxist doctrine. Although we need to distinguish between Engels’s works of popularization, in open polemic against the simplistic shortcuts of the time, and the vulgarization performed by the later generation of German Social Democracy, his recourse to the natural sciences opened the way to an evolutionary conception of social phenomena that diminished Marx’s more nuanced analyses. Socialism: Utopian and Scientific, a reworking of three chapters of Anti-Dühring for educational purposes, had an even greater impact than the original text. But despite its merits and the fact that it circulated almost as widely as the Manifesto of the Communist Party, Engels’s definitions of “science” and “scientific socialism” may be seen as an example of epistemological authoritarianism, subsequently used by the Marxist-Leninist vulgate to preclude any critical discussion of the theses of the “founders of communism”. The Dialectic of Nature, fragments of a project on which Engels worked with many interruptions between 1873 and 1883, has been the object of huge controversy. For some it was the cornerstone of Marxism, for others the main culprit in the birth of Soviet dogmatism. Today it should be read as an incomplete work, one that shows the limitations of Engels, but also the potential contained in his ecological critique. While his use of dialectics certainly reduced the theoretical and methodological complexity of Marx’s thought, it is not correct – as some have meanly and superficially done in the past – to hold it responsible for everything they do not like in Marx’s writings and to blame Engels alone for the theoretical errors or even practical defeats.

In 1884 Engels published Origins of the Family, Private Property and the State, an analysis of the anthropological studies conducted by the American Lewis Morgan, who had discovered that matriarchal relations historically preceded patriarchal relations. For Engels, this was as important a revelation concerning the origins of humanity as “Darwin’s theory [was] for biology and Marx’s theory of surplus-value for political economy”. The family already contained the antagonisms that would later be developed in society and the state. The first class oppression to appear in human history “coincided with the oppression of the female sex by the male”. With regard to gender equality, as well as to anticolonial struggles, he never hesitated to uphold – and to expound with conviction – the cause of emancipation.

During the twelve years by which Engels survived Marx, he devoted himself to his friend’s literary bequest and to the leadership of the international workers’ movement. Not only did he succeed in preparing and publishing Volumes 2 and 3 of Capital; he also oversaw new editions of previously published works. In a new introduction to Class Struggles in France, composed a few months before his death, he elaborated a theory of revolution that tried to adapt to the new political scene in Europe. The proletariat had become the majority, he argued, and the prospect of taking power by electoral means, though universal suffrage, made it possible to defend revolution and legality at the same time. This did not mean, however – as the German Social Democrats suggested by manipulating his text in a legalistic, reformist sense – that the “fight on the streets” no longer had any function. It meant that the revolution could not be conceived without the active participation of the masses and that this required “long and patient work”. A reading of Engels today, with the slide of contemporary capitalism before our eyes, fuels a wish to strike out again by following that path.

Categories
TV

Last Years of Karl Marx (Book Launch)