Tuesday, January 31, 2012

The crooks are the rich who defend themselves with murder

The anger and ethics of Manuel Vázquez Montalbán

Mike Eaude

Manuel Vázquez Montalbán (1939-2003) was one of the last of the engagé writers of Southern Europe, left wing intellectuals produced by the large Communist parties of the 1960s and 1970s. Prolific journalist, essayist and novelist, he was an outstanding interpreter of Spain in its transformation from the sad, frightened country of the Franco dictatorship to its limited, but vibrant, bourgeois democracy today.

Occupied city

Montalbán, born in the year of Franco's Spanish Civil War victory, grew up in the slums of Barcelona during the grimmest years of the dictatorship. Many men were absent—dead, exiled or in jail. Montalbán met his father for the first time when, aged five, he passed a strange man on the stairs. A few streets down from Montalbán's home on the Calle Botella, the biggest brothel district in Europe thrived. Working class women in these post-war years often had to choose between prostitution and their children's starvation. Mass prostitution, which the anarchists had sought to abolish during the Spanish Revolution of 1936 by closing brothels and encouraging women to take up arms against fascism, prospered under the rule of Franco and the church.

1940s Barcelona was treated by Franco and a vengeful Catalan bourgeoisie as an occupied city. For the regime, Catalans were guilty of three cardinal sins—Communism, atheism and separatism. Franco set out to extirpate all signs of Catalan and working class culture.

In the Raval, the part of Barcelona's Old City where Montalbán grew up, particularly punished by the bombs of the Italian air force based on Mallorca during the civil war and a traditional stronghold of anarchism, 99 percent of the population was anti-Franco. Montalbán remembered women with children begging for scraps at their door, even though his mother had no income apart from what she earned by sewing. He remembered their fear of 'fascist commandos with their heads shaved to the scalp who forced people to drink castor oil' just for speaking Catalan. In a memorable phrase in The Pianist, a character says, 'I know the neighbours, almost all of them have lost the war and they carry the post-war round on their backs like a dead body.' Just to survive, the defeated and impoverished population needed basic solidarity with each other. This background, both an open wound and an ethical touchstone, pervades all Montalbán's writing.

Montalbán was one of the few who escaped from the Raval to the university, another world only a 15-minute walk from his home. At university he became involved in opposition politics, was arrested in 1961, beaten up personally by the notorious torturer Inspector Vicente Creix and sent to Lleida jail. This was, Montalbán said, his second university. He joined the PSUC, the Catalan Communist Party, a commitment he maintained throughout his life.1 Despite his international renown as a prize-winning essayist and novelist, he remained loyal to the solidarity of his childhood right up to his fatal heart attack in October 2003.

Released from jail in 1963, in an amnesty occasioned by Pope John XXIII's death, Vázquez Montalbán embarked on a career as a journalist. His early fame came from his skilful political analysis and acid, sarcastic turn of phrase, especially in the PCE-sponsored Triunfo. A more lasting claim to fame and the motive for this article is that, between 1977 and 1990, he wrote half a dozen novels that stand among the best in modern Spanish literature. The Pianist (1985),2 discussed below, is his masterpiece. Galíndez (1990) runs it a close second: it is a fictionalised account of the 1956 kidnapping in New York of an exiled Basque Nationalist leader and his torture and murder in the Dominican Republic by the dictator Trujillo.

Montalbán became best known, though, for crime novels, featuring his detective,
Pepe Carvalho. Of these, The Angst-Ridden Executive (1977), Southern Seas (1979) and The Rose of Alexandria (1984) fall into the half-dozen mentioned above.3 In Montalbán's crime novels, the crooks are revealed as the rich who defend their privilege with murder. This was not new. Raymond Chandler, king of the modern 'hard-boiled' crime novel, explained in the 1950s:

'The realist in murder writes of a world in which gangsters can rule nations and almost rule cities, in which hotels and apartment houses and celebrated restaurants are owned by men who made their money out of brothels…where the mayor of your town may have condoned murder as an instrument of money-making.'


Chandler carries on in this vein, and doubtless readers of this journal need little convincing. However, Chandler was not a man of the left. Rather, like many writers of his period, he hated the gangstercapitalists who he blamed for destroying the lives of middle class people like himself in the 1930s Depression.

Like Chandler in Los Angeles, Vázquez Montalbán tears the mask of democracy off a city—Barcelona, in his case—run by crooks, but the context is very different.
The Angst-Ridden Executive and Southern Seas were written at the time of Spain's 1970s transition from dictatorship to bourgeois democracy. The background is not the defeat of the left in 1940s Los Angeles, but the mass struggle against the Franco dictatorship. Montalbán was not (as Chandler was) a former oil company executive, but an activist in that struggle. In his 1970s and 1980s novels, Montalbán is explaining how the change in 1970s Spain was not a 'rupture' with the dictatorship, but a controlled 'transition' to parliamentary democracy. He shows how 'the same dogs with different collars' continued to exercise power in the new Spain. The political structures changed, but economic power remained in the hands of not just the same class, but the same individuals.

Sceptic or cynic?

Montalbán's experience as a campaigning journalist had taught him that, with an increasingly sophisticated mass media assimilating opposition, it was not enough for a left wing journalist just to denounce injustice. He was ambitious to reach out to an audience even wider than the big readership of his articles in Triunfo. With crime novels, Montalbán found a popular genre with down to earth language, in which he could include the songs, memories, smells and tastes common to his own and millions of others' youth.

Montalbán conceived the Carvalho novels as a chronicle of contemporary Spanish and Catalan society, explaining events to his readers very soon after they had occurred:

'In each book I look at different questions: in The Angst-Ridden Executive the illusions of the transition from dictatorship to parliamentary democracy, in Murder in the Central Committee the crisis in the Communist Party, in Offside sport and the fleeting nature of media fame, in An Olympic Death entrepreneurs whose athleticism consisted in lining their own pockets as quickly as possible.'


In The Angst-Ridden Executive, for instance, Carvalho investigates the murder of Antonio Jauma, found dead with a pair of women's knickers in his pocket. The police quickly conclude that Jauma was the victim of a sex intrigue. Unconvinced,
Carvalho finds that Jauma was killed not because he was a womaniser—though he was—but because he was honest. Jauma was silenced because he had discovered a financial hole in the multinational company he worked for. The multinational had helped finance the 1973 coup in Chile, and now money is being illegally siphoned off to fund fascist groups during Spain's transition. As one of the characters explains, '[Fascist groups] probably won't be necessary, but the ruling class likes to cover all contingencies.'

In his investigation Carvalho visits six of Jauma's friends from their time together in the underground struggle at university 15 years before. Montalbán uses the investigation to look back into history, to note how each character has evolved, to examine who has betrayed their youthful beliefs and who has not.

He gives his narrative historical depth in another way too, throughout the Carvalho novels. The detective's office is at the seedy end of the Ramblas and he often wanders through the Raval, where streets, bars, shops and people he meets all spark off memories. In this constant inventory of the past, Montalbán is writing an alternative working class history, a history of those excluded from official history. The detective has a sort of 'family'—his call-girl girlfriend Charo, his 'secretary' and ex car thief Biscuter, and the ex-fascist boot-black Bromide. All three have their own carefully documented histories. Bromide, for example, was a volunteer with the Spanish Blue Division fighting for Hitler in 1941 against the Soviet Union. Living at the bottom of society, Bromide is a reminder that Franco didn't even look after his own.
The detective, clearly not to be identified with the author but nevertheless sharing much of his past and his point of view, is vital to making the novels work. Carvalho loves good food, wine, sex and long rambling conversations. Quite consciously, Montalbán challenged a certain puritanism on the left by creating a hedonist detective. Given the world's a mess, Carvalho ruminates, he has to look after himself, because no one else is likely to. For this reason, he has often been called a cynic. As if to reinforce this, the detective growls, 'I believe only in my stomach,' early in The Angst-Ridden Executive. But at the climax of the novel, when the murderer offers Carvalho a Nuits St George, Carvalho does not act cynically. Magnificently, he pours the exquisite wine onto the priceless carpet. He is a sceptic, as you have to be when listening to the lies of the powerful, but no cynic. He will not drink with a killer. Like Chandler's detective Marlowe, Carvalho is the moral man on the mean streets.

The revolutionary Marxist Ernest Mandel had a related criticism in his social history of the crime novel, Delightful Murder:

'In general all Montalban's books are soaked in an atmosphere of spleen, scepticism and fin-de-siècle ennui, very significant as the background of a whole layer of intellectual Eurocommunists. It is a break with Stalinist dogmatism and hypocrisy, but hardly a step towards greater lucidity of what this society and this world are all about'.4


There is some truth in Mandel's comment, for Montalbán's tone is often one of rather bitter sarcasm. This is rooted in his appreciation of the defeat the working class suffered in the transition, and his and its subsequent disenchantment with the new 'democratic' Spain. Mandel, however, fails to pick up the contradictions in Montalbán. As a Communist Party member, Montalbán supported all the nefarious deals made by the PCE with the ruling class to hold back working class struggle. However, as a novelist, where he lets his imagination rip, he shows a reality which does not excuse this CP-led defeat of the working class. Similarly, in his 1990s fiction he was an outspoken critic of Barcelona's Olympic Games and the building speculation, corruption and destruction of historic memory they brought, yet the party to which he belonged supported the games.

Mandel's remarks also make one ask, what would a revolutionary detective novel be like? How would it be different from Southern Seas, in which the detective reveals the lies of the powerful, gives voice to the working class, expresses and practises solidarity with the poor, explains the history of the people and places he describes, shows the ruling class as imbeciles or cynics, deliberately avoids handing over criminals who are criminals because of their social oppression to the police who are portrayed as the enemy, and recognises explicitly that a detective—one person— cannot change the world, however much he wants to?

No escape

Southern Seas' title announces its theme—the yearning to run away. Carlos Pedrell, a capitalist with artistic leanings who is terrified of ageing, wants to follow in the steps of Gauguin. But a year after leaving, supposedly for a South Pacific island, he is found dead. His exotic destination was much closer to home—the cheap estate whose construction he himself had financed in the suburbs of Barcelona. Montalbán, good materialist that he is, always explains where people's money (or lack of it) comes from. In the 1950s Pedrell had made his fortune building blocks of flats, 'vertical shanty-towns', for workers who migrated from southern Spain. These were thrown up without basic services or transport on the outskirts of industrial cities like Barcelona.

The central character of Southern Seas is Ana Briongos, a Communist and car factory worker who lives on the estate built by Pedrell. Unlike the other characters, she knows there is no escape to a fantasy world, which is why she fights in union and party for a better world here and now. It is Ana who explains to Carvalho the Moncloa accords of late 1977, the pact that rounded off the transition. The Communist Party, which had already accepted the monarchy in return for its legalisation, now signed with government and bosses an agreement to restrict wage rises to a maximum 22 percent when inflation was running at 29 percent. Ana, the rank and file fighter, explains:

'No one swallowed the Moncloa pacts, but we had to defend them with all the good faith we could muster…that in the long run they would favour the working class. In short, we spouted what they'd told us to say. Soon everyone saw it was a sell-out, like all the rest.'


With the character of Ana, Montalbán breaks with traditional 'hard-boiled' novels by introducing the organised working class. He also breaks with their characteristic sexism—Ana speaks with her own voice.

The defeated within the defeated

The Pianist is a non-Carvalho novel that takes the two high points in Spain's 20th century class struggle, the revolution of pares them. The choral novel is divided into three parts. In the first, a group of anti-Franco ex-university friends, on a night out in 1983, go to a fashionable club in the Raval, with transvestite singers and an elderly pianist. Javier Solana, the new Socialist minister of culture, is holding court at one of the tables. Not even Montalbán, so politically prescient, could have realised how suitable a representative of Spain's new rulers Solana was. This affable, smiling cultural mandarin would become NATO general secretary, and be responsible for the bombing of Belgrade in 1999 on behalf of the main imperialist powers.

Half the group of friends, now building their professional or business careers, look back on the transition as 'a confused period', and the other half are disoriented by how little was gained in the transition. At the end of the night Montalbán leaves the group of friends and follows the old pianist, who walks home to his dingy flat where a bedridden old woman awaits him. Lovingly, the old man talks to the invalid and washes her.

The middle part of The Pianist moves back to 1946 in the same Raval. This intense heart of the novel draws on Montalbán's childhood memories and is one of the most deeply felt and beautiful passages in his 80-odd books. A group of young people are on the flat rooftops, the only place where they can talk freely and escape the ubiquitous spies and cops of the dictatorship. They are fascinated with stories of history, unlike the group in the first section who want to escape from their recent history. A new tenant arrives, just released from prison. It transpires that he is the old pianist of 1983. Again unlike the group in the first section, this 1946 group show solidarity with Albert, as he is called, and help him find Teresa, the invalid of the first and the third section will tell us just who he is.

This third part takes place in Paris in mid-July 1936. The pianist Albert has newly arrived on a music scholarship and goes to see a well known Catalan musician, Doria, and his girlfriend, Teresa. His career loosely based on the painter Salvador Dalí's, Doria had appeared in the first section as a grand old glory of Spanish music, revered by Solana; in the second as someone praised by the dictatorship's press; and in the third as an iconoclastic revolutionary. To Doria's shock, when Franco's uprising comes on 18 July, just four days after the massive Popular Front demonstration in Paris on Bastille Day, Teresa sees through his revolutionary posing. 'Bla, bla, bla,' is her reply to Doria's empty aesthetic verbiage. She leaves him and accompanies Albert, who has decided to give up his music career and return to Barcelona to defend the revolution by fighting with the POUM.

When asked in an interview why he, a PSUC militant, made Albert a POUM member, Montlbán replied: 'Because those of the POUM were the defeated within the defeated.' The reply reflects the novelist's post-transition pessimism, but also his understanding that the POUM, crushed by Stalinism, represented the defeat of the revolutionaries within the general defeat of the Republic. This recognition led Montalbán in the 1980s, alongside other PSUC militants, to insist that the PSUC should correct the murderous calumny of 1937 that Andreu Nin and the POUM were fascists. It did.

When The Pianist came out in Spain in 1985, it was widely acclaimed. It was later voted book of the 1980s in an El País readers' poll. Almost everywhere, it was reviewed as an elegiac novel looking back to the glorious, irrecoverable time of the civil war and lamenting the sad fate of Teresa and Albert, the defeated of the defeated. Times had changed, and revolution was no longer desirable or possible.

Despite their praise, though, the critics misread the novel. In fact, they reflected the point of view of the group of friends in the first section. They overlooked the critique of the friends' 'aesthetic' or 'individualist' abandonment of class struggle, which is implicit in the novel's backward-moving structure, in which the 1983 present can only be understood through the 1936 and 1946 pasts. Doria and Solana represent, in their different ways, the continuity of opportunism.
Nothing can be expected of them. But the 1983 friends' lack of interest in history and in Albert, the POUMist, underlines the failure of the anti-Franco left in the transition. Albert is left alone, with nothing but his love for Teresa and his unbroken integrity. If the lessons of solidarity and history are forgotten, Montalbán is telling us, then the tragedy of losing the civil war is repeated in the tragedy of losing the transition.

The Pianist is a stunning political novel. It is written with the sarcastic anger or 'spleen' of Vázquez Montalbán at his best. And it contains, too, the melancholy undercurrent of understanding that, in both civil war and transition, capitalism won out. It is true that Montalbán the Eurocommunist fails to make a balance sheet of Stalinism and thus offers no political perspective that will help us win next time. Political analysis, though, is not the function of fiction. In the novels mentioned, he creates imaginative worlds with historical depth, and insists that no change is possible without understanding of our history.

NOTES
1: The PSUC, though autonomous to some degree, was part of the PCE, the Spanish Communist Party. The PSUC disintegrated in the 1980s and Montalbán ended up supporting one of its descendants, Iniciativa per Catalunya, a rather right wing 'eco-socialist' ex Communist Party.
2: Published in translation by Quartet in 1989, but now out of print.
3: Six of Montalbán's 20 Carvalho novels are available in English, published by Serpent's Tail, including The Angst-Ridden Executive and Southern Seas.
4: Out of print now, Delightful Murder was published by Pluto in 1984.

Monday, January 30, 2012

Obama Selects Bush As Running Mate


via Dissident Voice
http://dissidentvoice.org/2012/01/obama-selects-bush-as-running-mate/


Obama Selects Bush As Running Mate

Return of “The Decider” Stuns Washington; GOP Presidential Debates Thrown Into Chaos

by Michael K. Smith / January 30th, 2012

Related Headlines

Bush Pick Hailed as “Pragmatic Master Stroke”

Outraged Biden Joins Tea Party, Threatens To Sue

Obama Lauds Bush Vow To “Follow the Cheney Tradition” as VP

Washington, January 27 — Barack Obama today named George W. Bush of Crawford, Texas as his running mate, the first ex-president selected to run for Vice President on a major party ticket. The president announced his historic step before an ebullient crowd of Blackwater mercenaries on the White House lawn. ”There’s an electricity in the air, an excitement, a sense of new possibilities and of pride,” Obama told a section of cheering snipers moments after disclosing the stunning development.

Calling for an end to partisan bitterness, Obama introduced Bush as “an exciting choice” and “clearly the best” for healing a divided nation. Bush thanked the president for continuing the family dynasty, and offered to formally adopt him into the Bush clan if he thought it would “help carry the South.”

Obama said the decision to choose the former president was a ”difficult” one, but explained: ”GW has excelled in being bailed out, and this country certainly needs more of that!” He added that GW’s political return was ”really the fulfillment of a classic American tradition: to fail continually at everything and emerge triumphant anyway.”

Harvard Lawyer Obama Cites Constitution

”History speaks to us today,” Obama told the Blackwater throng. ”Our founders said in the Constitution, ‘We the people’ – not just the identity politics focus groups, but all of us.”

”Our message,” the president went on, ”is that America is a country of diversity where the spirit of conciliation overcomes all philosophical differences. As President Bush has said many times: ‘ politics stops at the water’s edge.’”

Bush, who was anointed president in 2000, has received the endorsements for the Vice Presidency of numerous Democratic Party organizations, including, On Our Knees, Inertia Unlimited, and Strength Through Servility.

Increase in Pragmatic Energy Seen

”He loves Israel, he’s charismatic, he believes in God,” enthused one adviser to Obama. ”We have broken the barrier. He will energize, not just southerners, but a lot of Republicans, which will make the Democratic Party more inclusive.”

Another adviser to Obama said that although Bush had engendered “unfortunate” bad publicity around foreign policy issues, he nevertheless would bring “new chemistry, new passion, and new understanding” to the ticket, especially of an often overlooked minority group: the rich. “People never seem to realize that as wealth concentrates in fewer and fewer hands, the wealthy become a smaller and smaller minority group,” said Obama campaign manager Marshall Cash.

In the last three weeks Obama interviewed seven prospective candidates and made it plain that he was seriously considering a break in precedent and selecting a candidate who “reflects our values,” rather than just another identity politics token.

Ranking aides to Obama indicated last week that Bush had outdistanced Biden in his personal interview with Obama, as well as in his press comments afterward. Some aides said Biden had proved somewhat disappointing, a comment that angered the outgoing vice-president, who is threatening to sue.

Factors in Choice Listed

What apparently swayed Obama, Democratic officials said, was Bush’s experience in ramming through deeply unpopular policies, his considerable support among Blue Dog Democrats, and perhaps most important, his appeal to blue-collar superpatriots, coupled with his traditional “tough love” views, which seem to coincide with the president’s.

Bush had emerged in recent weeks as the strong favorite among pragmatic liberals, typified by the vastly influential NAACR, the National Association for the Advancement of Crackpot Realism. But Democratic advisers to Obama said the decision in favor of Bush was based heavily on the notion that his political strength would enhance Obama’s support among the super-rich and religious fanatics. “They vote,” explained Obama at the announcement ceremony.

At the conclusion of the day’s historic event, Obama and Bush clasped hands high overhead in the classic victory stance and called for world peace through the obliteration of Iran

Marxist thinking on the state

After spending the week making notes on the article The 1980 Elections: Reaffirming the Marxist Theory of the State which I posted earlier this week, I thought the Miliband article below would be a useful compliment:

State Power and Class Interests

Ralph Miliband

Work done in the last fifteen years or so by people writing within a broad Marxist perspective on the subject of the state in capitalist society now fills a great many bookshelves; and however critical one may be of one or other article, book or trend, it is undoubtedly very useful that this work should be available. There is, however, a very large gap in the literature, in so far as very little of it is specifically concerned with the question of the autonomy of the state. [1] How great a degree of autonomy does the state have in capitalist society? What purpose is its autonomy intended to serve? And what purposes does it actually serve? These and many other such questions are clearly of the greatest theoretical and practical importance, given the scope and actual or potential impact of state action upon the society over which the state presides, and often beyond. Yet, the issue has remained poorly explored and ‘theorized’ in the Marxist perspective. [2] The present article is intended as a modest contribution to the work that needs to be done on it. [3]

In the first volume of Karl Marx’s Theory of Revolution, Hal Draper very usefully sets out what Marx and Engels said on the subject of the autonomy of the state, and shows how large a place it occupied in their political thinking and writings. [4] It was also this that I was trying to suggest in an article on ‘Marx and the State’ published in 1965, where I noted, in a formulation which I do not find very satisfactory, that there was a ‘secondary’ view of the state in Marx (the first one being of the state as the ‘instrument’ of a ruling class so designated by virtue of its ownership or control—or both—of the main means of economic activity). This ‘secondary’ view was of the state ‘as independent from and superior to all social classes, as being the dominant force in society rather than the instrument of a dominant class’, with Bonapartism as ‘the extreme manifestation of the state’s independent role’ in Marx’s own lifetime. [5] On the other hand, I also noted then that, for Marx, the Bonapartist state, ‘however independent it may have been politically from any given class, remains, and cannot in a class society but remain, the protector of an economically and socially dominant class’. [6] Some years later, in the course of a review of Political Power and Social Classes by the late and greatly-missed Nicos Poulantzas, I reformulated the point by suggesting that a distinction had to be made between the state autonomously acting on behalf of the ruling class, and its acting at the behest of that class, the latter notion being, I said, ‘a vulgar deformation of the thought of Marx and Engels’. [7] What I was rejecting there was the crude view of the state as a mere ‘instrument’ of the ruling class obediently acting at its dictation.

The Debate over State ‘Autonomy’

However, it is undoubtedly to Poulantzas that belongs the credit for the most thorough exploration of the concept of the autonomy of the state; and it was he who coined the formulation which has remained the basis for most subsequent discussion of the subject, namely the ‘relative autonomy of the state’. In essence, the view that this formulation encapsulated was that the state might indeed have a substantial degree of autonomy, but that, nevertheless, it remained for all practical purposes the state of the ruling class.

There has been considerable discussion among Marxists and others about the nature of the constraints and pressures which cause the state to serve the needs of capital—notably whether these constraints and pressures were ‘structural’ and impersonal, or produced by a ruling class armed with an arsenal of formidable weapons and resources. But beyond the differences that were expressed in these discussions, there was also a fundamental measure of agreement that the state was decisively constrained by forces external to it, and that the constraints originated in the national and international capitalist context in which it operated. The state might be constrained by the imperative requirement of capital for its reproduction and accumulation; or by the pressure from lobbies and organizations and agencies at the service of capital or one or other of its ‘fractions’; or by the combined impact of these and international forces such as other capitalist states or the World Bank or the International Monetary Fund. But these at any rate were the kind of factors which had to be taken into account to explain the actions of the state. As has occasionally been noted in this connection, this Marxist view of the state as impelled by forces external to it shares its ‘problematic’ with the liberal or ‘democratic pluralist’ view of the state, notwithstanding the other profound differences between them: whereas the Marxist view attributes the main constraints upon the state to capital or capitalists or both, the ‘democractic pluralist’ one attributes them to the various pressures exercised upon a basically democratic state by a plurality of competing groups, interests and parties in society. In both perspectives, the state does not originate action but responds to external forces: it may appear to be the ‘historical subject’, but is in fact the object of processes and forces at work in society.

It is this whole perspective which has come under challenge in recent years, not only from the right, which has long insisted on the primacy of the state, but from people strongly influenced by Marxism. Two notable examples of this challenge are Ellen Kay Trimberger’s Revolution from Above: Military Bureaucrats and Development in Japan, Turkey, Egypt and Peru, [8] and more explicitly Theda Skocpol’s much-acclaimed States and Social Revolution, [9] which is, however, not concerned with the contemporary state but with the state in relation to the French, Russian and Chinese Revolutions. [10]

In the Marxist tradition, Skocpol writes, ‘whatever the variations of its historical forms, the state as such is seen as a feature of all class-divided modes of production; and, invariably, the one necessary and inescapable function of the state—by definition—is to contain class conflict and to undertake other policies in support of the dominance of the surplus-appropriating and property-owning class.’ This, she argues, fails to treat the state ‘as an autonomous structure—a structure with a logic and interests of its own not necessarily equivalent to, or fused with, the interests of the dominant class in society or the full set of member groups in the polity.’ [11]

This seems to me to be a valid criticism: the Marxist tradition does tend to under-emphasize or simply to ignore the fact that the state does have interests of its own or, to put it rather more appropriately, that the people who run it believe it has and do themselves have interests of their own. The failure to make due allowance for this naturally inhibits or prevents the exploration of the ways in which class interests and state interests are related and reconciled.

For her part, Skocpol goes much further than merely stating that the state has interests of its own or that those who run it do have such interests. For she goes on to argue that the Marxist perspective makes it ‘virtually impossible even to raise the possibility that fundamental conflicts of interest might arise between the existing dominant class or set of groups, on the one hand, and the state rulers on the other’. [12] But contrary to what she appears to believe, this second argument does not follow from the first, and in fact raises an entirely different question, of great interest, but which should not be confused with the first one. That first proposition refers to the interests which the state may have of its own, and leaves open the question of how these may be reconciled with other interests in society. The second proposition, on the other hand, assumes that the state may have interests ‘fundamentally’ opposed to those of all forces and interests in society. This is a much stronger version of the autonomy of the state, and needs to be discussed separately from the other, and much weaker, one.

The Scope of State Action

Perhaps the first thing to note in this discussion is how very large is the sphere of action which the state in capitalist societies does have in all areas of life. It is deeply and pervasively involved in every aspect of economic life. It is a permanent and active presence in class conflict and in every other kind of conflict. It plays a great and growing role in the manipulation of opinion and in the ‘engineering of consent’. It has, in Max Weber’s famous phrase, a ‘monopoly of the legitimate use of physical force’. It is alone responsible for international affairs and for deciding what the level and character of the country’s armaments should be.

To speak of ‘the state’ in this manner is of course to use a shorthand which can be misleading. The reference is to certain people who are in charge of the executive power of the state—presidents, prime ministers, their cabinets and their top civilian and military advisers. But this assumes a unity of views and interests which may not exist: great divisions between the people concerned are in fact very common, with ministers at odds with their colleagues, and civilian and military advisers at odds with their political superiors. If these divisions are so deep as to make a workable compromise impossible and as to paralyse the executive power, some kind of reconstruction of the decision-making apparatus has to occur. In the end, decisions do have to be made; and it is the executive power which makes them, ‘on its own’.

No doubt, there are many powerful influences and constraints, from outside the state, international as well as indigenous, which affect the nature of the decisions taken; and these may well be very strong and compelling. But it is ultimately a very small group of people in the state—often a single person—who decide what is to be done or not done; and it is only in very exceptional cases that those who make the decisions are left with no range of choice at all. Much more often, there is some degree of choice: even where governments are subjected to the imperative will of other governments, they are usually left with some freedom of decision in relation to matters which directly and greatly affect the lives of those whom they govern. Perhaps the best way to highlight the meaning of the autonomy of the state is to note that if nuclear war should occur, either between the ‘superpowers’ or between lesser powers armed with the capacity to wage such a war, it will occur because governments will have so decided, without reference to anybody else. There is no democractic procedure for starting a nuclear war.

The degree of autonomy which the state enjoys for most purposes in relation to social forces in capitalist society depends above all on the extent to which class struggle and pressure from below challenge the hegemony of the class which is dominant in such a society. Where a dominant class is truly hegemonic in economic, social, political and cultural terms, and therefore free from any major and effective challenge from below, the chances are that the state itself will also be subject to its hegemony, and that it will be greatly constrained by the various forms of class power which the dominant class has at its disposal. Where, on the other hand, the hegemony of a dominant class is persistently and strongly challenged, the autonomy of the state is likely to be substantial, to the point where, in conditions of intense class struggle and political instability, it may assume ‘Bonapartist’ and authoritarian forms, and emancipate itself from constraining constitutional checks and controls.

It is worth noting that the capitalist class has very seldom enjoyed anything like full hegemony in economic, social, political and cultural terms. One major capitalist country where it has come nearest to such hegemony is the United States—the prime example in the capitalist world of a society where business has not had to share power with an entrenched aristocracy, and where it has also been able to avoid the emergence of a serious political challenge by organized labour. Everywhere else, business has had to reach an accomodation with previously established social forces, and meet the challenge of labour. Moreover, it has also had to deal with state structures of ancient provenance and encrusted power that were strongly resistant to change. Capitalist hegemony has therefore been much more contested and partial in the rest of the ‘late’ capitalist world than in the United States; and even in the United States, economic and social contradictions and pressure from below, particularly since the Great Depression, have strengthened the state and given it greater autonomy than it enjoyed between, say, the Civil War and the Great Depression.

The idea that class struggle is of decisive importance in determining the nature and form of the state is a familiar part of classical Marxism; [13] and so too is the view that the purpose of the state’s autonomy is the better to protect and serve the existing social order and the dominant class which is the main beneficiary of that social order. As I noted earlier, it is this latter proposition which is under challenge; and rightly so. For the question: ‘What is the state’s autonomy for?’ cannot simply be answered in these familiar terms: the point is not that these terms are wrong; but rather that they are inadequate to explain the dynamic of state action and cannot provide a satisfactory ‘model’ of the state in relation to society in a capitalist context. The dynamic of state action is explained by Marxism in terms of the imperative requirements of capital or the inexorable pressure of capitalists; and these are indeed of very great importance. But to focus exclusively on them is to leave out of account other very powerful impulses to state action generated from within the state by the people who are in charge of the decision-making power. These impulses undoubtedly exist; and they cannot be taken to be synonymous with the purposes of dominant classes.

The Impulses of Executive Power

The two main impulses which are generated by the executive power of the state are self-interest on the one hand, and a conception of the ‘national interest’ on the other.

People in power wish for the most part to retain it. It is a spurious kind of worldy wisdom which affirms that all ‘politicians’ and people in power are moved by nothing but self-interest and are only concerned to serve themselves by acquiring and clinging to office. But it is naive to think that, whatever else moves such people, they are not also moved by self-interest, meaning above all the wish to obtain and retain power. Of one man of power, the late Lyndon Johnson, President of the United States, it has been said that he exhibited from early days ‘the desire to dominate, the need to dominate, to bend others to his will . . . the overbearingness with subordinates that was as striking as the obsequiousness with superiors . . . the viciousness and cruelty, the joy in breaking backs and keeping them broken, the urge not just to defeat but to destroy . . . above all, the ambition, the all-encompassing personal ambition that made issues impediments and scruples superfluous. And present also was the fear—the loneliness, the terrors, the insecurities—that underlay, and made savage, the aggressiveness, the energy and the ambition.’ [14]

No doubt, Lyndon Johnson was a very repulsive politician. But the sentiments and motives ascribed to him are hardly unique; and the different terms that may be used to describe the drives of other men and women in power do not affect the point: this is that there are many people for whom the exercise of great power is an exceedingly satisfying experience, for whose sake acts of extraordinary cruelty have been committed throughout history. The point would hardly be worth making if it was not so imperfectly integrated into the Marxist view of the state.

The reason for this, or at least one reason for it, has already been touched on, and lies in Marxism’s emphasis on economic and social processes as determinants of political action. The emphasis is perfectly legitimate but is easily deformed into an under-estimation of the weight which political processes themselves do have. The tendency to one form or another of ‘economic reductionism’ has had a marked influence on the Marxist discussion of politics and the state, even when the deformation has been acknowledged and pledges made to correct it.

The state is not the only institution which makes the exercise of great power possible; but it is by far the most important one. Nor does it only make possible the exercise of power as such, crucial though that is: it is also the source of high salaries, status, privilege and access to well-paid and otherwise desirable positions outside the state. [15] Nor is this only relevant for those people who are at the very center of the decision-making process. Thousands of people in the upper reaches of the state are involved, whom the state provides with high salaries and all that goes with state service at this level, not only in government departments, but also in innumerable boards, commissions, councils and other public bodies. Such people constitute a ‘state bourgeoisie’, linked to but separate from those who are in charge of corporate capitalist enterprise. Their first concern is naturally with their jobs and careers. Capitalist interests are in no danger of being overlooked; but they are not the sole or primary concern of these office holders.

Those who seek state power find it easy to persuade themselves that their achievement of it, and their continued hold on it, are synonymous with the ‘national interest’, whose service, they proclaim, is their paramount and overriding consideration. Here too, it would be short-sighted to treat these proclamations as mere sham, and as elicited purely by the wish to obtain and retain state power. It is much more reasonable to think that people in power are moved by what they conceive to be the ‘national interest’, in addition to being deeply concerned with their own jobs. This is all the more likely to be the case in that the ‘national interest’ is woven into a larger and very powerful sentiment, namely nationalism. There was in classical Marxism the hope and belief that a different sentiment, namely proletarian or revolutionary internationalism, would move not only the working class but its leaders, in opposition but also in power. The collapse of internationalism in 1914 dealt a shattering blow to this hope; and so, in different ways, did the fact that the Soviet regime alone survived the revolutionary convulsions which followed the First World War. Even if manifestations of revolutionary internationalism may occasionally be read into the actions of people in power (Cuba in Africa?), it is nationalism and what is taken to be the ‘national interest’ which everywhere form the main and even the exclusive frame of reference for state action today; and this is easily compatible with the pursuit of the self-interest of those who control state power.

If it is agreed that self-interest and a conception of the ‘national interest’ have been and are powerful influences in shaping the policies and actions of the people in control of state power, the question which immediately arises is how this relates to the interests of the dominant class—in other words, what is the relationship of state power to class interests?

The answer is that, throughout the history of capitalism, that relationship has on the whole been very good. The people in charge of the state have generally been strongly imbued with the belief that the ‘national interest’ was bound up with the well-being of capitalist enterprise, or at least that no conceivable alternative arrangement, least of all socialism, could possibly be more advantageous to the ‘national interest’; and they have therefore been particularly attentive to the interests of capitalist enterprise, whatever view they might take of capitalists. However, being attentive to these interests might well mean refusing to pay heed to capitalist wishes: very often, it was precisely because they wanted to ensure the best conditions for capitalism that they did things which ran counter to the wishes of capitalists.

A certain tension between state power and class interests is in fact inevitable, however good their relationship may fundamentally be. The dynamic of capitalism is the reproduction and accumulation of capital, and the maximization of long-term profit for each individual firm. This is the paramount aim, the all but exclusive concern of those who are in charge of the private sector of economic life: all else passes through this and must be subordinate to it. But this cannot be the dynamic of state power. For those who control that power, the ‘national interest’ in essence requires the defence of the existing social order against any internal challenge to it, and also the best defence they believe they can mount against commercial, military and ideological competition from other states. Of course, this may also include, and often has included, offensive action abroad. These twin concerns encompass, or at least seek to encompass, capitalist class interests: but this is not at all the same as saying that state action and these class interests precisely coincide. In fact, there is always likely to be some unhingement between what the state does, however much those who control it may be devoted to capitalist interests, and these interests. The state, for instance, needs revenue; and it cannot obtain all the revenue it needs from the subordinate classes. It must levy taxes upon capital and capitalists, and thereby drain off some of the surplus which accrues to them: hence the constant lamentations of businessmen, large and small, about the state’s taxation policies, and their complaints that the state, in its blind bureaucratic and greedy bungling, is forever undermining private enterprise. Similarly with reform and regulation: the containment of pressure from below, and indeed the maintenance of a viable and efficient labour force, demand that the state should undertake some measures of reform and regulation, which capital finds disagreeable and constraining, and which it certainly would not undertake on its own.

State and Class: a Partnership?

In short, an accurate and realistic ‘model’ of the relationship between the dominant class in advanced capitalist societies and the state is one of partnership between two different, separate forces, linked to each other by many threads, yet each having its own separate sphere of concerns. The terms of that partnership are not fixed but constantly shifting, and affected by many different circumstances, and notably by the state of class struggle. It is not at any rate a partnership in which the state may be taken necessarily to be the junior partner. On the contrary, the contradictions and shortcomings of capitalism, and the class pressures and social tensions this produces, require the state to assume an ever more pronounced role in the defence of the social order. The end of that process is one form or another of ‘Bonapartism’. Meanwhile, it makes for a steady inflation of state power within the framework of a capitalist-democratic order whose democratic features are under permanent threat from the partnership of state and capital.

This ‘model’ of partnership seeks to give due importance to the independent and ‘self-regarding’ role of the state, and to make full allowance for what might be called the Machiavellian dimension of state action, which Marxism’s ‘class-reductionist’ tendencies have obscured. [16] This is not a question of the ‘primacy of politics’: that formulation goes rather too far the other way, and suffers from a ‘state-reductionist’ bias.

By speaking of partnership between the state and the dominant class, I seek to avoid both forms of ‘reductionism’: the notion makes allowance for all the space which political and state action obviously has in practice; but it also acknowledges a capitalist context which profoundly affects everything the state does, particularly in economic matters where capitalist interests are directly involved. The idea of the ‘primacy of politics’ tends to abstract from the hard reality of this capitalist context: but no government can be indifferent to it. So long as a government works within it, so long does the partnership hold. If it seeks to pose a fundamental threat to capitalist interests, or a threat which capitalist interests judge to be fundamental, the partnership is dissolved and replaced by the determination of these interests to see the government destroyed. Nor in such a case is that determination likely to be confined to capitalist interests: it would be shared to the full by many other forces in society, and by people located in the state itself—military people, top civil servants, and many others.

The notion of partnership is scarcely contradicted by the experience of the governments of the left which have come to power (or to office) in capitalist countries in this century. For all practical purposes, the partnership has endured between such governments and capital, perhaps with more tensions and disagreements than when governments of the right have been in office, but not so as to bring about a complete break in relations. Great antagonism to the government might be expressed by members of the dominant class, business interests and their many agencies; but there was always a clear understanding on the part of these class forces that, even though the government might be doing some reprehensible things, it was also seeking to maintain the existing social order, to help business, to discipline and subdue labour, and to defend, in international and defence matters (and in colonial ones in an earlier day), what dominant class interests and the government both agreed to be the ‘national interest’. In any case, capital also knew that it was only a small part of the state that was now in alien hands: the top reaches of the civil service, the police, the military, the judiciary remained more or less intact, and vigilantly concerned to limit the damage which the government might do. Moreover, the hegemony exercised by the dominant class in civil society was never much affected by the arrival in office of a government of the left. All the ‘earthworks’ which that dominant class occupied remained under its control. On the other hand, governments of the left have always sought to contain the activism of their own supporters and to bid them wait patiently and obediently for socialist ministers to get on with their tasks. The one case where the partnership between a government of the left and dominant class interests was broken was that of Salvador Allende’s government in Chile. Given that break, the government’s only hope of obviating the dangers which it faced was to forge a new partnership between itself and the subordinate classes. It was unable to achieve this, or did not sufficiently strive to achieve it. Its autonomy was also its death warrant.

This proposed model of partnership stands in opposition to Theda Skocpol’s model of the ‘state for itself’ referred to earlier. According to that model, it will be recalled, ‘fundamental conflicts of interest might arise between the existing dominant class or set of groups, on the one hand, and the state rulers on the other’. In this view, the state would be no one’s partner or ally: it would be ‘for itself’ and against all classes and groups in society. In relation to countries with a solid class structure and a well-entrenched dominant class, such a model does not seem appropriate. For it is surely very difficult to see, in such countries, what the interests of ‘state rulers’ would be which would also place these rulers in fundamental conflict with all classes or groups in society. I have already noted that there are things which the state wants and does, and which are very irksome to the dominant class: but this is a very different matter from there being a fundamental conflict between them. Moreover, if such a conflict between them did occur, the state would in all likelihood be acting in ways that would favour some other class or classes. In other words, a new partnership would have been created; or the state would be acting, for whatever reason, in favour of a class or classes without any such partnership having been established. In neither case would the state be ‘neutral’, or acting solely ‘for itself’.

Of course, state rulers, in pursuing what they conceive to be their interest, and the ‘national interest’, may use the autonomy they have to adopt policies and take actions which turn out to be disadvantageous or disastrous for everybody (quite possibly including those who took the decisions). History is full of such failures of statecraft; and recent examples abound. Thus, it may be argued that the American decision to wage war in Vietnam was very disadvantageous to all classes in the United States, not to speak of the disaster it represented for the people of Vietnam. But it can hardly be claimed that the decision to wage war in Vietnam was taken in the interests of state rulers in fundamental opposition to the interests of the capitalist class in the United States. On the contrary, there was a perfectly good ‘fit’ between the two, as witness the support which most capitalist interests there gave to the war until its very end. Another instance is that of Hitler’s expansionist ventures, including his decision to take Germany into war. This turned out badly for everybody concerned: but there was no fundamental opposition between business interests in Germany and the Nazi leaders; and here again, there was ample support from business for Nazi policies. In this case, however, it is possible to argue that the Nazi regime provides an example of the interests of those in charge of the state being fundamentally opposed to the interests of everybody else: the war was clearly lost by 1943, and the only people whose interest it was not to bring it to an end were the Nazi leaders. Other instances of this sort could no doubt be adduced. But they do not provide a firm basis for a ‘model’ of the state as being ‘for itself’ and against everybody else.

State Power under Socialism

It seems to me that the ‘model’ of partnership advanced here can be useful in defining the relationship of the state to the working class in a socialist society. In the classical Marxist perspective, this relationship is defined in terms of the dictatorship of the proletariat. As may be deduced from Marx’s Civil War in France, and as it is presented in Lenin’s The State and Revolution, this means in effect the virtual dissolution of state power into class power. The state is not abolished but its functions and powers become largely residual and subordinate. Göran Therborn is well within this tradition in saying that ‘a strategy for socialism or for a transitional stage of “advanced democracy” must dismantle the government, administration, judicial and repressive apparatus of the existing bourgeois state’, and in urging ‘a political programme of changes in the organization of the state that will bring about a popular democracy’. [17]

For their part, both social democratic and Communist parties have adopted perspectives and strategies of a very different kind, according to which class power is strictly subordinated to state power. For social democracy, class power has always tended to mean the deployment of electoral strength by the working class and the election of a social democratic or labour government. Once this is achieved, the task of the ‘voters’ is done, save for the routine activities of the party or parties which support the government. Indeed, any manifestation of class power (for instance strike action) is frowned upon, disowned and opposed.

Communist parties place a greater emphasis in their pronouncements and programmes on grassroots activism, but the focus tends to be on the achievement of legislative and ministerial power in what is in effect the old state with a partially renewed personnel. Whatever might happen to the hegemony of the dominant class, it is not on this basis likely to be inherited by the hitherto subordinate classes. Partnership between state power and class power in a socialist context means something rather different. It requires the achievement of real power by organs of popular representation in all spheres of life, from the workplace to local government; and it also involves the thorough democratization of the state system and the strengthening of democratic control upon every aspect of it. But it nevertheless also means that state power endures and that the state does not, in any strong sense, ‘wither away’. It must, in fact, long continue to remain in being and carry out many functions which it alone can fulfil. Indeed, it requires some degree of autonomy to carry them out. For the working class is not a homogeneous bloc, with one clear interest and one voice; and the state alone is capable of acting as a mediator between the ‘fractions’ which constitute the newly hegemonic majority. Furthermore, it is also upon the state that falls a large part of the responsibility for safeguarding the personal, civic and political freedoms which are intrinsic to the notion of socialist citizenship. In this sense, and with proper controls, state power in a post-capitalist society is not in conflict with class power, but its essential complement.




[1] For an interesting survey of the bulk of this literature, see Bob Jessop, The Capitalist State: Marxist Theories and Methods, London 1982. The autonomy of the state, however, is not accorded any particular attention in this book and does not appear in the index.

[2] For a recent discussion of the subject by a ‘mainstream’ political scientist, which shows well how limited is an approach that takes no serious account of the state’s capitalist context, see E. Nordlinger, On the Autonomy of the Democratic State, New York 1981. Actual case studies are discussed in S. D. Krasner, Defending the National Interest: Raw Materials Investments and US Foreign Policy, New York 1978.

[3] This article is exclusively concerned with ‘late’ capitalist societies. The question presents itself rather differently in countries in the capitalist world which are poorly developed, and very differently indeed in Soviet-type regimes. Here again serious theoretical work has only commenced.

[4] Volume One: State and Bureaucracy, New York 1977, Chs 14–23.

[5] See my ‘Marx and the State’, in The Socialist Register 1965, London 1965, p. 283.

[6] Ibid, p. 285.

[7] See my ‘Poulantzas and the Capitalist State’, in NLR 82 (November–December 1973), p. 85, footnote 4.

[8] New York 1977.

[9] Cambridge 1979.

[10] See also Fred Block, ‘The Ruling Class Does Not Rule’, Socialist Revolution 33, (May–June 1977); and ‘Beyond Relative Autonomy’, in The Socialist Register 1980, London 1980, where he speaks of the ‘relative autonomy thesis’ as a ‘cosmetic modification of Marxism’s tendency to reduce state power to class power’. (p. 229).

[11] Skocpol, p. 27.

[12] Ibid.

[13] See Marx’s famous description of the Second Empire as ‘the only form of government possible at a time when the bourgeoisie had already lost, and the working class had not yet acquired, the faculty of ruling the nation’ (The Civil War in France, in Selected Works (1950), I, p. 470). Also Engels’s equally well-known remark: ‘By way of exception, however, periods occur in which the warring classes balance each other so nearly that the state power, as ostensible mediator, acquires, for the moment, a certain degree of independence of both’ (The Origin of the Family, Property and the State, ibid., II, p. 290). For many other such examples, see Draper, op. cit.

[14] The quotation appears in Murray Kempton, ‘The Great Lobbyist’, in New York Review of Books, 17 February 1983; and is drawn from R. A. Caro, The Years of Lyndon Johnson: The Path to Power, New York 1982.

[15] A recent example is provided by Sir David McNee, who retired in 1982 as Metropolitan Police Commissioner, and who was appointed non-executive chairman of the Scottish Express Newspapers: ‘Sir David, who left last September on an index-linked pension of £22,000, will be paid between £5,000 and £10,000 for the job. He recently sold his memoirs to the Sunday Mirror for £120,000, joined Clydesdale Bank for £5,000 a year as non-executive director, and in November the British Airways Board for £10,000 a year. In December he was nominated president of the National Bible Society of Scotland’ (The Guardian, 27 January 1983).

[16] Thus, Göran Therborn dissolves state power into class power when he asserts that ‘state power is a relation between social class forces expressed in the content of state policies’ (What Does the Ruling Class Do When It Rules?, nlb. London 1978, p. 34). Note also Jessop’s characterization of Poulantzas’s view of the state: ‘The state reflects and condenses all the contradictions in a class-divided social formation . . . political practices are always class practices . . . state power is always the power of a definite class to whose interests the state corresponds’ (op. cit., p. 159).

[17] Therborn, p. 25.

Thursday, January 19, 2012

All Eyes On Longview: An Injury To One Is An Injury To All

from Товарищ Х

[The following is an open letter from Insurgent Notes.]

All Eyes On Longview: An Injury To One Is An Injury To All
http://insurgentnotes.com/2012/01/all-eyes-on-longview-an-injury-to-one-is-an-injury-to-all/

January 14, 2012

Dear friend(s) and comrade(s):

We are writing to inform you about a very serious class confrontation developing on the northwest coast of the United States, in Longview (Washington state).

In that small city, an international grain company, EGT, owned jointly by three firms (US-based Bunge North America, Japan-based Itochu and Korea-based STX Pan Ocean), spent $200 million constructing a new state-of-the-art grain terminal.

While the construction was underway, EGT indicated that it would continue to employ the 225 members of ILWU Local 21 in Longview, in keeping with the solid unionization of west coast American ports since the 1930s by the ILWU (International Longshore Workers Union).

Instead, when the construction was completed, EGT turned to a “rogue” union, General Construction and Operating Engineers Local 701, with the intention of displacing the ILWU with a “sweetheart” contract saving the company (according to its estimates) $1 million a year in labor costs.

The breaking of Local 21 will undoubtedly be a prelude to further attacks on the ILWU up and down the west coast, with automation another battering ram. Clearly, the bosses and the state are out to pit ILWU workers against Occupy militants in order to isolate and weaken both. They recognize and fear the demonstrated power of joint Occupy/ILWU action.

In spite of that threat, the ILWU International called for confining the protest to EGT and Longview and for not shutting down other ports. They will tell the longshoremen to cross Occupy picket lines everywhere except Longview. On January 6, ILWU thugs attacked a meeting of Occupy Seattle that was planning solidarity actions with Longview.

Local 10 oppositionists, including former officers and rank-and-filers, declare that they will shut the Port of Oakland down if the ship attempts to land. In fact, the thugs who attacked the January 6 Occupy Seattle meeting did so just when retired Oakland longshoreman and Local 10 opposition leader, Jack Heyman, told the meeting that the ILWU rank-and-file in Oakland, Portland and Seattle had voted with their feet to honor the Occupy picket lines and close those ports on December 12, Occupy’s West Coast port shutdown, and would do so again when the grain ship docks at Longview. Whether or not this will happen, against the intense pressure being brought by the state and the bosses, with the complicity of the ILWU International and several Local presidents, remains to be seen.

After months of standoff, on September 7 of last year, riot police escorted a train to the EGT terminal, arresting 19 people. On the morning of September 8, hundreds of longshoremen entered the terminal and destroyed the grain delivery. Later that day, longshoremen in five neighboring ports, including Seattle (Washington) and Portland (Oregon) wildcatted in solidarity with Longview.

Since that confrontation in early September, 220 of the 225 members of Local 21 have been arrested. The local president has been arrested six times and his arm broken by police. Both private thugs and police have created an atmosphere in Longview reminiscent of the 1920’s coalfield wars. The thugs are jumping longshoremen on the street and the police are dragging union members from their homes in the middle of the night.

A new ship is due to arrive in Longview to load a grain shipment some time in the next two weeks. It will be escorted by ships of the United States Coast Guard as well as helicopters; further police and private goon forces will be present to militarize the town. Under the new national security law signed by President Obama on New Year’s eve, the National Defense Authorization Act (NDAA) anyone committing a “belligerent act” against the United States can be imprisoned indefinitely without charges or trial on the orders of the president. US ports are already semi-militarized by “Homeland Security”, with longshoremen required to show no less than three electronic “smart card” IDs to enter their workplace every day, and are subject to background security checks. It hardly requires a leap of the imagination to envision the possibility of linking militant labor action to “terrorism.”

It is essential that this attack on workers on the west coast of the United States receive maximum international attention and active solidarity. While the date of the arrival of the ship is still a secret, Occupy forces in the San Francisco Bay Area, Portland and Seattle are organizing caravans for a convergence on Longview when the date becomes known. Elsewhere in the United States, Occupy is planning demonstrations at Coast Guard offices and at the offices of the three corporations which jointly own EGT.

International support, starting with longshore workers in Europe, Asia, Africa and South America, is also essential. In 2001, five black longshoremen in Charleston (South Carolina) were facing years of prison on trumped-up charges after police charged their picket line. Once dock workers in Europe announced that they would not handle ships going to or from Charleston, all charges against the “Charleston 5” were dropped.

Something similar, on an even grander scale, is necessary today.

Insurgent Notes urges everyone receiving this to join the struggle, either by preparing to join the convergence in Longview, or participating in the actions closer to them against the United States Coast Guard or Bunge, Itochu and STX Pan Ocean.

The Longview confrontation will be the latest, and hardest test to date of the ability of the forces which shut down west coast ports on November 2 and December 12 to continue to mobilize mass support. Key to its success will be a serious, class-wide alliance of rank-and-file dock workers, the much larger numbers of unorganized truckers in the ports, and the casualized mass which forms the radical wing of Occupy. Turn this defensive struggle into an offensive one now!



Wednesday, January 18, 2012

Scandal


title


Communiqué of the Freudian Field, January 16, 2012

E. Roudinesco and "Seuil" convicted of defamation


Elisabeth Roudinesco and Seuil were convicted of libel by the 17th chamber of the High Court of Paris, in their respective capacities of author and publisher of the book, 'Lacan, against all odds'.
 

This book alleged that in fact the last will of Lacan concerning his funeral was not met: "Although he (Lacan) expressed the wish to end his days in Italy, in Rome or in Venice and would have wished for a Catholic funeral, he was buried without ceremony and in the privacy of the cemetery of Guitrancourt." As a result, Judith Miller, daughter of Jacques Lacan, who took care of his funeral, considered herself defamed.
 

In his judgment, delivered on the 11th of January, the judge admitted the defamatory character of the remarks and rejected the defendants' explanations:
 

"By its lapidary formulation, its construction and the words used, the sentence: "While (…) he would have wished for a Catholic funeral, he was buried without ceremony and in the privacy of the cemetery Guitrancourt", cannot in any way be interpreted as an expression of "a point of view", or a "hypothesis", even if "reasonable", for showing up a "paradox", a mere "wish attributed to Lacan (…)", a "dream" of "great Catholic funerals" that Jacques Lacan "one day" uttered "with bravado". "This phrase" by its brevity, its composition and the opposition on which it is built between the wish expressed by Jacques Lacan, presented as a certain and objective fact, and the opposing reality of the funeral", meaning that "a wish of Jacques Lacan was not respected by those in charge of organising the funeral."
 


The court then considered whether the author of the incriminating words could take advantage of her good faith. He has found that in 1993, E. Roudinesco had raised the same question in the following terms: "Lacan was an atheist, though, out of bravado, he had once dreamed of great Catholic funerals". This formulation, said the court, "should not in any way be confused with the statement, as concise and as conclusive, that is subject to these proceedings". Considering the fact that the author "did not have a serious piece of information to support her" on her remarks, the court concluded that "the benefit of good faith cannot be granted to E. Roudinesco".
 

The author and editor were sentenced to pay one euro in damages to Judith Miller, and 6000 euros for legal costs.





Tuesday, January 17, 2012

Defending Lenin from E.P. Thompson

Lenin as Philosopher

By Peter Fryer

Since the time of its publication in the British Trotskyist journal Labour Review (September-October 1957), Peter Fryer’s “Lenin as Philosopher” has been barely available to English-speaking students of Marxism and, to our knowledge, was never translated into another language. The International Communist League has long used Fryer’s article as an educational tool for our own party and youth comrades, and we are pleased to now make this cogent explanation of dialectical materialism available to a broader audience.

As Fryer makes clear at the outset, his article is a polemical defense of Bolshevik leader V. I. Lenin’s writings on dialectical materialism against an attack by the historian E. P. Thompson, who later wrote the renowned book, The Making of the English Working Class (1963). In defending Lenin against Thompson’s depiction of him as a crude economic determinist, Fryer relied heavily on Lenin’s Philosophical Notebooks, largely compiled during an intensive period of study, following the onset of World War I, of the German philosopher of the dialectic, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel (1770-1831).

In August 1914, the contradictions generated by four decades of capitalist-imperialist development erupted in the horrific carnage of the first interimperialist world war. The Second International, pledged to oppose the war but rotted out by a quarter of a century of relatively peaceful capitalist development, collapsed in ignominy. Forced to take refuge in neutral Switzerland, Lenin undertook his study of Hegel to better understand and intervene into a world marked by cataclysmic change. Lenin wrote of Hegel:

“As the most comprehensive and profound doctrine of development, and the richest in content, Hegelian dialectics was considered by Marx and Engels the greatest achievement of classical German philosophy. They thought that any other formulation of the principle of development, of evolution, was one-sided and poor in content, and could only distort and mutilate the actual course of development (which often proceeds by leaps, and via catastrophes and revolutions) in Nature and in society.”

—“Karl Marx,” July-November 1914

In the notebooks based on his studies, published in Volume 38 of the Collected Works, Lenin declared, paraphrasing Engels, that he was trying to read the idealist philosopher “materialistically: Hegel is materialism which has been stood on its head” (“Conspectus of Hegel’s Book The Science of Logic,” September-December 1914, Philosophical Notebooks).

In those tumultuous war years, Lenin made a number of theoretical and programmatic advances that were indispensable to the success of the October Revolution in 1917 (e.g., whether the revolution in Russia should be proletarian or bourgeois!). In describing this period of theoretical rearming, Lenin’s wife and close collaborator, Nadezhda Krupskaya, wrote in her 1930 memoir: “Struggle and studies, study and research with Ilyich were always strongly linked together” (Reminiscences of Lenin [Moscow: Foreign Languages Publishing House, 1959]).

Some four decades later, Fryer’s study of Lenin’s Philosophical Notebooks, too, took place against a backdrop of political turmoil. In 1956, Stalinist Communist parties around the world were shaken by two events: Soviet premier Nikita Khrushchev’s “secret speech” about Stalin’s terror, followed by the Soviet military suppression of a workers political revolution in Hungary. In Britain, over 7,000 members walked out of the Communist Party (CP), including Thompson and fellow historian Christopher Hill. Fryer was then the correspondent in Hungary for the CP’s Daily Worker. His truthful dispatches, contradicting Stalinist lies that the uprising was counterrevolutionary, led to his expulsion from the CP. He then turned them into the best single account of the Hungarian Revolution, Hungarian Tragedy, published in late 1956 (see “Chronicler of Hungarian Revolution: Peter Fryer, 1927-2006,” Workers Vanguard No. 883, 5 January 2007).

The Hungarian uprising decisively refuted the notion of the Stalinist bureaucracy as a new ruling class, powerfully confirming the program and analysis explicated in Trotsky’s The Revolution Betrayed (1936). A brittle caste resting parasitically atop proletarian property forms, the bureaucracy split vertically, with 80 percent of the Hungarian ruling party going over to the side of the revolution. Fryer led the way for some 200 former British CP militants and intellectuals, including Brian Pearce, Cliff Slaughter and Tom Kemp—as well as a layer of industrial workers led by Brian Behan—to be won to Trotskyism and the group led by Gerry Healy.

E. P. Thompson chose another path. After leaving the CP, Thompson launched the magazine New Reasoner, whose first issue (Summer 1957) contained his manifesto, “Socialist Humanism: An Epistle to the Philistines.” Thompson aimed most of his fire at Lenin’s Materialism and Empirio-Criticism (1908). The late 19th century had seen a wholesale assault on materialism associated with the German philosopher Richard Avenarius, who coined the term empirio-criticism, and the Austrian physicist Ernst Mach. They denied the existence of material reality independent of sensory experience or observation. In his thoroughgoing defense of materialism (and science!), Lenin pointed out that Machian idealism denied objective criteria to judge scientific truth, or the means to distinguish between science and religion or quackery. Indeed, empirio-criticism, popular even among some Bolsheviks in the dark days of tsarist reaction after the defeat of the 1905 Revolution, took the form of “socialist” spiritualism or “god building.”

Taking out Thompson for his attack on Lenin’s philosophical writings, Fryer stressed that dialectical materialism “is above all else a tool in the hands of the working class for use in refashioning society, and whoever blunts the keen edge of this tool, no matter how slightly, is doing a disservice to the working-class movement.” As Fryer indicates, he had to make use of the 1955 French edition of Lenin’s Philosophical Notebooks (a section of which first appeared in French in Cahiers de Lénine sur la dialectique de Hegel [Paris: Gallimard, 1938]), which had not yet been translated into English. Therefore, it was Fryer who introduced this seminal work to the English-speaking world. The complete edition of the Notebooks (Volume 38) came out in English only in 1961, prompting a series of three articles by Cliff Slaughter in Labour Review (Spring 1962, Summer 1962 and Winter 1962-63). Slaughter’s articles, which later appeared as a pamphlet titled “Lenin on Dialectics,” are inferior to Fryer’s earlier polemic. By then, Fryer was persona non grata. He had quit the Healy group in 1959 when it launched the Socialist Labour League (SLL), disgusted by the bullying of members and the lack of political debate.

The founding cadres of the Spartacist tendency were impressed from a distance by the SLL’s nominal orthodoxy, represented by its 1961 document The World Prospect for Socialism, but were unaware of Healy’s methods and his history of adaptation to the Labour Party “lefts.” And the orthodoxy of the SLL, which later declared itself the Workers Revolutionary Party (WRP), was increasingly belied by opportunist practice. By 1967, the Healyites had come out for Mao’s intra-bureaucratic “Cultural Revolution” in China and for a classless “Arab Revolution.” The Healyites’ political banditry would find full flower in their conciliation of oil-rich Arab despots, their grotesque hailing of the 1979 execution of 21 Iraqi Communists by the Ba’athist regime and their anti-Soviet provocations against British miners’ leader Arthur Scargill on the eve of the miners’ heroic 1984-85 strike. All this was overseen by a brutal internal regime, leading to the spectacular implosion of the WRP in 1985 (see “Healyism Implodes,” Spartacist [English edition] No. 36-37, Winter 1985-86).

In addition to his literary contributions to Marxism, Peter Fryer left behind a rich and varied legacy of other writings, including books such as Mrs Grundy: Studies in English Prudery (New York: London House & Maxwell, 1964) and Staying Power: The History of Black People in Britain (London: Pluto Press, 1984). We reprint “Lenin as Philosopher” as it first appeared in Labour Review, with only minor stylistic changes. As a result the passages cited by Fryer from the works of Marx, Engels or Lenin may differ slightly from the versions published in the Marx/Engels Collected Works and the Lenin Collected Works, which Spartacist normally cites.


In the first issue of The New Reasoner there is a discussion article by E. P. Thompson called “Socialist Humanism: An Epistle to the Philistines.” One section of this article, entitled “Questions of Theory,”[1] includes a reference to Lenin’s philosophical work Materialism and Empirio-Criticism. The author seeks to show that several of the features of Stalinist ideology have their roots in Lenin’s contribution to Marxist philosophy—that they can be traced to “ambiguities in the thought of Marx and, even more, to mechanistic fallacies in Lenin’s writings,” these “fallacies” being due to “his concern with the first premise of materialism.” Lenin is accused in particular of holding a “passive,” “automatic” theory of knowledge, of losing the concept of human agency in a “grotesque” “determinism,” of transforming the Marxist view of the relationship of freedom and necessity into a theory whereby man’s “‘freedom’ becomes slavery to ‘necessity’,” and of being so “absorbed in philosophical nuances” that he “removed the cause of social change from the agency of man to the agency of economic necessity.” Thompson’s attack is summarized in these words: “Lenin’s inspired political genius was not matched by an equal genius in the field of philosophy.”

In my opinion Thompson is here waging, under the cloak of correcting Lenin’s “mechanistic fallacies,” an all-out assault on the philosophy of dialectical materialism. It is an assault on the dialectical materialist theory of knowledge, on historical materialism, on the Marxist conception of human freedom and how it is won, and, not least, on the dialectical method. Many such assaults have been made in the past, and one of the first duties of Marxists is to meet them. This is not an academic question of preserving the purity of an immutable doctrine, but a class duty, for dialectical materialism is above all else a tool in the hands of the working class for use in refashioning society, and whoever blunts the keen edge of this tool, no matter how slightly, is doing a disservice to the working-class movement. The working class needs a consistently materialist world outlook because only such an outlook can show it what its historical tasks are and how it can perform them. The entire history of the fight for materialism against idealism demonstrates that the slightest concession to idealism, under whatever fashionable and novel guise it presents itself—positivism, pragmatism, empirio-criticism, or even socialist humanism—has its own fatal and compelling logic, which leads inevitably into the swamp of subjectivism and solipsism. Between the various shadings of idealism there are no impassable logical barriers: the only barrier is that between dialectical materialism and all other philosophical trends and schools, which in the last analysis serve the interests of exploiting classes by helping to justify, disguise and perpetuate their rule.

To E. P. Thompson, who has been waging a sturdy and admirable battle against Stalinism, these may sound “hard” and dogmatic things to say. But when we are discussing materialism and idealism and their irreconcilability, we are in the realm of basic principles, where the requirements of the class struggle impose the need for complete clarity, firmness, consistency and partisanship. It would be in the highest degree improper to transfer eclectically methods which often have an important place in the political struggle—concessions, detours, alliances—to the philosophical field, for fear of being accused of “dogmatism.” This would help neither the fight against Stalinism nor the fight against capitalism, both of which require the utmost firmness on principles and the utmost flexibility on other matters.

Besides that concern with the first and other premises of materialism which should animate every Marxist one further consideration has prompted the writing of this article. Not only must Marxist philosophy be defended from its revisers, but Lenin’s immense and extraordinary contribution to it must be defended and fully appreciated, for Lenin the man of action cannot be properly understood in separation from Lenin the philosopher. How far some of Thompson’s remarks spring from the fact that there is as yet no English edition of Lenin’s remarkable Philosophical Notebooks I do not know, but it is hard to see how he would have written in the way he did if he had been at all familiar with this fundamental work.

I. The Theory of Reflection

According to Thompson, the first fallacy in Lenin’s Materialism and Empirio-Criticism is “the repeated lumping together of ideas, consciousness, thought and sensations as ‘reflections’ of material reality.” He adds in parentheses: “But a sense-impression, which animals share with men, is not the same thing as an idea, which is the product of exceedingly complex cultural processes peculiar to men.”

It is important to understand that Thompson is here attacking not merely Lenin’s views, but those of Marx and Engels too. This, of course, does not in itself make Lenin right and Thompson wrong, but it must be made clear that Lenin’s theory of knowledge is no different from that of Marx and Engels, and that when Lenin writes that “mind is secondary, a function of the brain, a reflection of the external world,”[2] he is not adopting some new terminology.[3]

Levels of Consciousness

Now Thompson, in the very act of accusing Lenin of “lumping together” ideas, consciousness, thought and sensations as reflections of material reality, himself loosely “lumps together” four disparate categories. Consciousness is a generic term for the relationship of animals (including men) with the external world that is brought about by the activity of the brain; it includes sensations, the elementary form of consciousness, perceptions (which Thompson unaccountably omits)—the fitting together of sensations into a complex but concrete representation of the complex relationships of complex objects—and ideas, which reproduce the properties and relations of things in abstraction, and which are, as Thompson says, specifically human.[4] Thought is the name we give to this higher form of consciousness, where ideas are produced and manipulated.

Thompson’s description of ideas as “the product of exceedingly complicated cultural processes” is over-simplified and misleading. In comparison with the activity of animals many specifically human processes are undoubtedly complex. But there are manifold levels of complexity in human cultural (and other) processes, and corresponding to these there are a great many levels of abstraction in ideas (and hence in language), from elementary ideas (and words) that directly reflect the relationship of the thinker with other men and with objects and that relate to concrete activities and things directly perceptible by the senses, through concepts of varying degrees of abstraction, reflecting activities and things not directly perceptible by the senses, and their properties and relations, right up to such highly abstract and often far-fetched, illusory, mystifying, fantastic and inverted reflections of men’s social relations as religious, philosophical and political concepts and their elaboration in ideologies. But neither the abstract nature of ideas nor the apparent remoteness from reality and “false consciousness” of ideological illusions make them any less reflections of material reality.

That ideas as well as sensations and perceptions are reflections of material reality is not a materialist dogma; though science has still much to find out about the brain all that it has found out so far serves to confirm the materialist theory of knowledge; and fresh proof is always being added. Anyone who wishes to show that ideas, as distinct from more elementary forms of consciousness, are not reflections of the objective universe, is not merely abandoning the materialist view of the relationship between object and subject; he is abandoning science. He is free to do so—but it is surely incumbent on him to explain in what sense ideas are not reflections of the objective world, how such ideas arise and what function they perform.

The Contradictory Nature of Concepts

Thompson’s confusion on the question of the relationship between the more advanced and the more elementary levels of consciousness tends in particular to blur one important aspect of their relationship, an aspect seemingly paradoxical but of great importance in understanding the nature of concepts and the genesis of philosophical idealism. At one and the same time concepts are closer to the objective reality they reflect and more remote from it than are sensations and perceptions. They are closer to objective reality because they reflect, with of course only approximate accuracy, the essential, internal relationships of phenomena, their laws of motion. Yet they are more remote because between nature and the abstract thought which reflects it there operates a series of mediations—language, technique, etc.—which, far from rendering concepts any less a reflection of reality, are indispensable for this reflection. These mediations express both the power of social practice and also its limitations, its relative lack of power at each given stage of social development. From this flows the dual, contradictory character of conceptual consciousness, in which are intermingled the true and the illusory, the scientific and the mystical, the known and the unknown (or rather yet to be known, and therefore guessed at, dreamed about), that which is tested and proved a million times a day and that which is fantastic and chimerical. Men’s power to change their world progressively crystallizes out and perfects the scientific element in their concepts; their relative helplessness on the other hand gives rise to the tendency of abstract ideas to fly away from reality and weave themselves into marvellous, internally consistent systems of myth and illusion, from which the real world and real relationships of men to nature and men to men are then deduced. This mediation of human consciousness implies that the subject can never fully embrace the object, that concepts can never give a full, total, direct reflection of reality, can never contain the whole richness of the properties, qualities, relations and contradictions of the objective world. Theory need never be exactly “grey”; but the most exact, splendid and exciting theory can never glow with the warmth, colour and immediacy of sensations and perceptions, whose content is the appearance, the phenomenon, not, as with concepts, the “calm reflection”[5]of the phenomenon in its essence, in its laws.

The contradiction within concepts themselves between the element of knowledge and the element of fantasy and illusion runs through the history of human thinking, and will do as long as class or caste preconceptions require the maintenance of systematic deception and self-deception of people. It is a contradiction which is continually being reinforced by the gap between the subjective reflection of reality in concepts and the objective reality they reflect. If concepts were anything other than reflections of reality then this seed of the conflict between materialism and idealism that has dominated and shaped the entire history of philosophy could neither have existed nor germinated.

Consciousness as Creator

The dialectical materialist view of the origin of ideas would indeed be mechanistic if it vouchsafed to ideas no active role in life. But dialectical materialism sharply opposes the view that ideas are a mere epiphenomenon, a useless froth on the surface of human activity, playing no more part in the direction of human affairs than the steam plays once it comes out of the locomotive funnel. When Thompson uses the words “passive” and “automatic”—“passive mirror-reflection of social reality,” “passive ‘reflection’,” “automatic ‘reflection’”—he is doing a grave injustice to the Leninist theory of knowledge, which places enormous stress on the active part played by ideas.[6]

Many quotations could be given to show that Lenin saw the process of the reflection of reality in the human brain, not as something “passive” and “automatic,” but as a complex, contradictory, zigzag, dynamic process, in which a capital part is played by human practice; in which the mind passes from the reflection of the appearance of things to the reflection of their essence, their inner laws of motion; and in which knowledge tested and corrected in practice becomes more accurate and more profound. I will confine myself to five quotations.

“Knowledge is the process by which thought endlessly and eternally draws nearer to the object. The reflection of nature in human thought must be understood, not in a ‘dead,’ ‘abstract’ fashion, not without movement, WITHOUT CONTRADICTIONS, but in the eternal PROCESS of movement, of the birth and resolution of contradictions.”[7]

In other words, consciousness is not a stereotype or mirror-image, but the dynamic reflection of a dynamic universe, which, if it were not reflected, would not be knowable. The dialectic of knowledge is

“an endless process of the deepening of men’s knowledge of things, phenomena, processes, etc., proceeding from appearance to essence and from essence less profound to essence more profound.[8]

“When the (human) intelligence grapples with a particular thing, draws from it an image (= a concept), that is not a simple, direct, dead act, it is not a reflection in a mirror, but a complex, twofold, zigzag act....[9]

“Knowledge is the reflection of nature by man. But it is not a simple, direct, total reflection; this process consists of a whole series of abstractions, formulations, formations of concepts, of laws, etc.—and these concepts, laws, etc....embrace relatively, approximately, the universal laws of an eternally moving and developing nature. Here there are really, objectively, three terms: (1) nature; (2) man’s knowledge=man’s brain (as the highest product of nature) and (3) the form in which nature is reflected in human knowledge; this form is the concepts, laws, categories, etc. Man cannot seize=reflect=reproduce nature in its entirety, in its ‘direct totality’: all he can do is eternally draw closer to it by creating abstractions, concepts, laws, a scientific picture of the universe, etc., etc.”[10]

And lastly—and least “mechanistic,” “passive” and “automatic” of all!—“Human consciousness not only reflects the objective world but also creates it.”[11] From Lenin the author of “mechanistic fallacies” this may sound startling; but from the point of view of dialectical materialism it is as little an “idealist fallacy” as Lenin’s insistence on the secondary and derivative nature of ideas is a “mechanistic fallacy.” There is no contradiction here. Lenin is calling attention to the part played by human practice in the development of knowledge—and by knowledge in the development of human practice.

Practice and Knowledge

Social practice—production, experiment, industry, class struggle—is both the source and the criterion of knowledge. There is, according to Marxists, a sequence something like this. On the basis of their social practice, their immediate, direct experience in changing parts of material reality (and so changing themselves) men elaborate ideas, partly a true and accurate reflection of reality, partly a false and inaccurate or distorted reflection of it. On the basis of these ideas men then improve their practical activity, so testing and correcting their ideas, and sifting out truth from error, knowledge from illusion. This improved practice gives rise to further ideas, which approximate more closely to objective reality, to the essence of things—which are, in a word, more scientific. This is a never-ending process, in which consciousness develops through acting on the universe which gave rise to it, hence through changing the universe, hence in a sense through creating the universe.

It is social practice which enables men to pass from sensations and perceptions to ideas, since only our activity in changing material reality makes it possible for us to gain knowledge of it, to dig below the superficial aspect of things to their essence. It is ideas, thought, knowledge, which permit men so to shape and organize their practical activities as to change material reality more successfully and more fruitfully.

The word “reflection,” as used by Lenin of human consciousness, signifies active reflection, penetrating through social practice deeper and deeper into the inexhaustible vastness and richness of reality, and offering to thinking men the possibility of bringing reality more and more (but never completely) under their conscious control.

It might be asked why such a theory is called by Marxists the “theory of reflection,” since this terminology gives critics the opportunity to talk about “passive” and “automatic” “mirror-images,” about “the passive connotation sometimes attached by [Marx and Engels] to the concept of ‘reflection’.”

First, the word “reflection” is the proper word because it draws attention to the most essential aspect of consciousness. Without an object to reflect there could be no reflection. Without a material universe there could be no consciousness.

Secondly, understood dialectically, the word “reflection” as applied to consciousness signifies the specific form that the universal interaction and mutual dependence and determination of phenomena take in the case of organisms with a nervous system. Marxists mean by reflection in general not merely a subjective process in human consciousness, but first of all the unity and interdependence of every aspect of the infinite universe with every other aspect, the reciprocal interaction of everything with everything else. Every particle of matter is connected with the rest of the universe in manifold ways, at different levels of organization of matter, and reflects by its different forms of motion—mechanical, physical, chemical, etc.—and by its obedience to the laws of these different forms the whole of the universe which environs, conditions and determines it. With the transition to living matter, this property of “reflection” takes qualitatively new forms, connected with the relationship of the living organism with its surroundings: new forms, which nevertheless continue on a higher plane, on the plane of consciousness, this universal interaction and interdependence. Where Lenin uses the word reflection he is using it in its deeper, dialectical sense.

II. Social Being and Social Consciousness

Thompson finds that “Lenin slipped over from Marx’s observation ‘social being determines social consciousness’ to the quite different (and untrue) statement that ‘social consciousness reflects social being’.” The use of the term “reflection” as an “observation upon the way in which men’s ideas have been determined by their ‘social being’ in their history” does not, he says, “follow from the first premise”—i.e., that “sense-impressions ‘reflect’ external material reality which exists independently of human consciousness.” “Because a sense-impression may be described (metaphorically) as a ‘reflection’ of material reality, it by no means follows that human culture is a passive mirror-reflection of social reality.”[12] Thompson suggests that Marx and Engels “tended...to enquire very little into the problem of how men’s ideas were formed, and wherein lay their field of agency.”[13]

This is rather confused. To begin with, Thompson seems far from sure whether he is criticizing Marx or attempting to play off “partially true” Marx against “untrue” Lenin. It must be said that the latter is not a very fruitful undertaking. The suggestion that Lenin “slipped over” from an observation of Marx’s—“social being determines social consciousness” (the actual quotation is: “It is not the consciousness of men that determines their being, but, on the contrary, their social being that determines their consciousness”[14])—to the “quite different” and “untrue” observation of his own, that “social consciousness reflects social being” is demolished instantly when we pick up the book from which Marx’s observation is taken and read a little further. Soon we find Marx writing about the “ideological forms in which men become conscious of [the] conflict [between forces of production and relations of production] and fight it out.” We cannot, Marx adds, judge of a period of social transformation by its own consciousness; “on the contrary, this consciousness must be explained rather from the contradictions of material life.”[15]

Again, because Marx and Engels held the same opinion, and employed the same method of studying history, as Lenin, does not imply that they and Lenin were necessarily right and Thompson is necessarily wrong—but that Lenin “slipped over” in good company.

Marxism and Culture

While historical materialism views social consciousness as the reflection of social being, it should be pointed out that no Marxist has ever suggested that human culture is “a passive mirror-reflection of social reality.” This is a caricature of Marxism. It is perfectly true that in a letter to Mehring in 1893 Engels made clear that he and Marx had been bound to lay the main emphasis on the derivation of ideology from basic economic facts and that in doing so “we neglected the formal side—the way in which these notions come about—for the sake of the content.”[16] But this is something quite different from their having suggested that art and literature passively mirrored social reality. On the contrary, Marx went out of his way to stress “the unequal relation between the development of material production and art”:

“It is well known that certain periods of highest development of art stand in no direct connexion with the general development of society, nor with the material basis and the skeleton structure of its organization.”[17]

Marx, Engels and Lenin did indeed see human culture as a reflection of material reality, but as a reflection in the dialectical sense, not as a direct, immediate, mechanical, automatic, passive reflection. Certainly Lenin wrote an article called “Leo Tolstoy as a Mirror of the Russian Revolution”—but almost every line is a refutation of the “mechanical” and “passive” view of artistic reflection and a striking affirmation of its profoundly contradictory nature.

“Can you use the term mirror of something which obviously does not reflect phenomena correctly?... If it is a really great artist we have before us, his works are bound to have reflected at least some of the essential aspects of the revolution.... The contradictions in Tolstoy’s works, views, teachings and school are glaring indeed.... On the one hand we have the brilliant artist who has produced not only incomparable pictures of Russian life but also first-class works of world literature. On the other hand we have a country squire acting the fool in Christ.... On the one hand we have a ruthless criticism of capitalist exploitation...on the other hand we have the fanatical preaching of ‘non-resistance to evil’.... The contradictions in Tolstoy’s views are really the mirror of those contradictory conditions in which the historical activity of the peasantry was placed in our revolution.”[18]

To Marxists there is in fact a constant and complex interaction among all the elements of the ideological superstructure, and, not least important, a constant and often extremely powerful reaction of men’s ideas on the social and economic causes which give rise to them. The suggestion that because Marxists deny any independent historical development to ideological spheres they therefore deny them any effect on history was described by Engels as “fatuous.”[19] He attributed this idea to a lack of understanding of dialectics, to a metaphysical conception of cause and effect as rigidly opposite poles, to a “total disregarding of interaction.” It is equally fatuous to suggest that Marxists believe that works of art are no more than a reflection of economic needs and processes. If so they would surely have a higher regard—to take one obvious example—for Zola, the Left-wing writer, who believed that a good novel could be written by the methods of a journalist, who consciously carried realism to the point of naturalism, to the point of “the direct, mechanical mirroring of the humdrum reality of capitalism,”[20] than for Balzac, the royalist, the legitimist, the reactionary. And Lenin would surely have had a higher regard, say, for Mayakovsky than for Pushkin. Marxism would indeed be an impoverished and sterile dogma if it had no more understanding of the process of artistic creation than Thompson gives it credit for.

The Illusions of the Epoch

Thompson’s denial that social consciousness reflects social being prompts immediately the questions: what does social consciousness reflect if it does not reflect social being? What is the content of social consciousness, whence is it derived, what part does it play in life, if it is not essentially the expression in ideas of the social practice carried on by men in a given set of social relations? Or has the mind of the ideologist, the philosopher, theologian, legal theorist or artist, some special spring from which flow rich and wonderful ideas that do not reflect some real aspect of the objective world? Are ideologies spun out of ideologists’ heads? If so, how? And how is their peculiar character to be explained?

Thompson makes no attempt to answer these questions. Yet he does not hesitate to bring grist to the mill of all the many opponents of Marx and Lenin who oversimplify or vulgarize their views when he suggests that Lenin deduced the reflection of social being in social consciousness from the physiological fact that consciousness reflects being. Marxists have in fact made this generalization—the only consistently materialist generalization about the origin of ideologies—from a detailed, concrete study of social consciousness as it has evolved at widely different periods of history. If Marx’s and Lenin’s own writings are studied it will be seen that there are no “ambiguities” in the thought of the one, or “mechanical fallacies” in that of the other, on this question.

An examination of the history of human thinking shows that social practice, as determined by each specific set of social relations, is reflected in ideologies, not consciously, deliberately and accurately but spontaneously and often in an inverted fashion. Spontaneously, because ideological illusions constantly and irresistibly well up in men’s minds out of the soil of their social relations. The ideologist seems to himself to be operating with “pure” concepts; very often (and this is the more frequent, the more remote a particular ideological sphere is from the economic structure of society) the thought material with which he works contains little that is new, but is largely traditional material taken over from his predecessors; it is because its connexion with the real relationships in his own or earlier societies is unknown to the thinker that we speak of his “false consciousness.” We do not thereby reproach him. He does not, generally speaking, set out to build a system of false ideas with which to deceive the exploited masses—or where he does he himself is just as profoundly deluded by fundamental preconceptions of whose real roots he has no inkling. Each generation of thinkers finds in existence a set of production relations without which society could not exist, which are independent of the will of the men who make up that society and of the ideas in the minds of the thinkers. These relations appear, not as historically determined and transitory, but as eternal and immutable. And again and again they colour the thought of the philosopher or artist, however original and brilliant he may be, stamp his work indelibly with the peculiar flavour of an epoch, seep into the remotest and most fantastic channels of thought. The characteristic illusions of each epoch[21] are at bottom the refraction of the social relations of that epoch through the prism of the ideologist’s mind.

In this process of refraction reality is inverted. Men fancy that they have created their social relations in the image of their abstract ideas, and that their actions, institutions and conflicts are the practical expression of these abstract ideas. Social being seems to be the reflection of social consciousness. The harsh facts of class exploitation and class domination are disguised and sweetened by a vast body of illusory ideas which portray the existing state of affairs as just, heaven-decreed and permanent.

If it is “untrue” that social consciousness reflects social being, then a long series of the most dramatic instances of correspondence between the development of ideology and the development of social relations is crying out for interpretation, explanation and analysis. To work, Comrade Thompson! Let us have your explanation of the philosophy of Heracleitus of Ephesus if it is not in essence the ideological reflection of new-born commodity production. Let us have your interpretation of the divine hierarchy of Thomas Aquinas, if it is not ultimately the reflection of the feudal hierarchy of his time. What is the mechanical materialist view of the world as a collection of discrete material particles interacting according to the laws of mechanics if it is not essentially a reflection of the need of the rising bourgeoisie for the smashing of feudal ties and the development of a free market? How are the materialism and humanism of Spinoza to be understood if not as the most logical and most profound expression of the interests of the revolutionary bourgeoisie of Europe’s most advanced capitalist country in its struggle against feudal superstition and obscurantism—so logical and profound that the class for whom he spoke repudiated him? What was the basic content of Puritanism if not a reflection of a conflict in contemporary society in the minds of the revolutionary bourgeoisie of England?

Did Lenin Neglect Human Agency?

But historical materialism does not stop there. It seeks to show, in each specific case, how these ideological reflections are functionally involved in the further development of the social structure which gave rise to them, often determining to a very great extent the form of a particular social transformation and the speed with which it takes place.

Thompson accuses Marx and Engels of tending to neglect the problem of the field of agency of men’s ideas, and he implies that Lenin neglected it still more. This is a truly amazing charge. What on earth is What Is To Be Done? about if it is not a polemic against those who bowed to the spontaneity of the Labour movement and belittled the role of socialist ideas? Lenin took up arms precisely against those who said that the spontaneous movement of the workers gives rise to socialist ideology. On the contrary, he said, socialist consciousness must be brought to the working class from outside. “Without a revolutionary theory there can be no revolutionary movement.”[22] If Lenin “lost” the concept of human agency and underestimated the role of human consciousness why did he spend his entire life building and educating a revolutionary party instead of sitting back and letting the revolution make itself? Perhaps Thompson is referring to some other Lenin: perhaps the Lenin he attacks for “slipping” into the “fallacy” that “a passive ‘reflection’ [can] initiate, plan, make revolutions” was a harmless fellow “absorbed in philosophical nuances” and no relation to the man who spent thirty eventful years disproving in practice his namesake’s alleged “fallacies.”

A Case of Quotation-Carving

In order to make some semblance of a case against Lenin, Thompson is not always careful in his use of quotations. In one passage in particular he not only quotes from Lenin’s summary of an argument of Engels without making clear that the thought is Engels’; he follows this by carving up a quotation from Materialism and Empirio-Criticism in such a way as to omit words which specifically take into account and answer the very objection which Thompson raises! Here is the passage from Thompson in full (a) in order to be fair to Thompson and (b) in order to demonstrate his technique of quotation-carving:

“(4) From this [i.e., from the statement that ‘social consciousness reflects social being’], he slipped over to the grotesque conclusion that ‘social being is independent of the social consciousness of humanity.’ (How can conscious human beings, whose consciousness is employed in every act of labour, exist independently of their consciousness?) (5) From this it was a small step to envisaging consciousness as a clumsy process of adaptation to independently-existing ‘social being.’ ‘The necessity of nature is primary, and human will and mind secondary. The latter must necessarily and inevitably adapt themselves to the former.’ (S.W.11, p. 248). ‘The highest task of humanity is to comprehend the objective logic of economic evolution...so that it may be possible to adapt to it one’s social consciousness...in as definite, clear and critical a fashion as possible’.” (p. 376)

Two quotations, two examples of carving. The first quotation (S.W.11, p. 248) is from a passage in Materialism and Empirio-Criticism where Lenin is summarizing an argument in Anti-Dühring and explaining its epistemological premises, and doing so quite fairly. The words immediately following the quotation chosen by Thompson are: “Engels regards this as so obvious that he does not waste words explaining his view.”[23] Here is one of the “grotesque,” “mechanical,” “clumsy,” “emotive” fallacies that Lenin “slipped over” into—yet we find that, after all, it is only a paraphrase of something that Engels regarded as a commonplace of the materialist world outlook.

The second quotation, which Thompson splits into two without making clear he is doing so, leads him to ask a question, which I have emphasized above. Now here is the full passage from Lenin, with the words omitted by Thompson restored and emphasized:

Every individual producer in the world economic system realizes that he is introducing a certain change into the technique of production; every owner realizes that he exchanges certain products for others; but these producers and these owners do not realize that in doing so they are thereby changing social being. The sum-total of these changes in all their ramifications in the capitalist world economy could not be grasped even by seventy Marxes. The paramount thing is that the laws of these changes have been discovered, that the objective logic of these changes and their historical development have at bottom and in the main been disclosed—objective, not in the sense that a society of conscious beings, men, could exist and develop independently of the existence of conscious beings (and it is only such trifles that Bogdanov stresses by his ‘theory’) but in the sense that social being is independent of the social consciousness of men. The fact that you live and conduct business, beget children, produce products and exchange them, gives rise to an objectively necessary chain of events, a chain of development, which is independent of your social consciousness, and is never grasped by the latter completely. The highest task of humanity is to comprehend this objective logic of economic evolution (the evolution of social life) in its general and fundamental features, so that it may be possible to adapt to it one’s social consciousness and the consciousness of the advanced classes of all capitalist countries in as definite, clear and critical a fashion as possible.”[24]

Note how Thompson’s question is answered in the words he himself omits. Note how Lenin makes it absolutely clear that he is not talking about the crude idea, the “trifle,” that “a society of conscious beings, men, could exist and develop independently of the existence of conscious beings,” that “conscious human beings, whose consciousness is employed in every act of labour [could] exist independently of their consciousness”—which is the way Thompson picks up and brandishes this “trifle,” for all the world as if Lenin had never mentioned it.

If Lenin’s philosophical writings have to be mutilated and tampered with in this way before his lack of philosophical genius and his “fallacies” can be demonstrated, may this not indicate that the “fallacies” exist only in the imagination of the critic? No one would wish to suggest that Thompson has deliberately falsified what Lenin wrote—but he seems to have reread a difficult text in haste in order to find confirmation in isolated sentences of his impression that this text contains the seeds of Stalinism. This impression has no real foundation, as Thompson himself would, one hopes, admit if he were to read Materialism and Empirio-Criticism and the Philosophical Notebooks with the care they deserve.

The example Lenin gives here is one of great interest and dialectical beauty. Of course, he is saying, the men who produce and exchange are conscious. No one but a fool (or a “trifler”) would carry on the argument at that level. But they are conscious only of the appearance of the activities they are engaged in. The essence, the objective laws which govern the ultimate results of their productive and commercial efforts are hidden from them (precisely because human consciousness does not give an immediate mirror-reflection of reality!) and can only be brought to light through scientific research. It was this scientific research which Marx carried out in Capital. Here, through the “force of abstraction,” the essential laws of capitalist economy are revealed, the transition from appearance to essence, from phenomenon to law, is accomplished, and human consciousness is deepened, enriched and made more scientific as a result. No one but a fool or a “trifler” would suggest that men are anything but conscious of the appearance of their economic activities; no one but a fool or a “trifler” would suggest that, before science has probed below the surface, they are anything but unconscious—or at best conscious in the most rudimentary and sketchy way—of the essential “social being” (value, surplus value, etc.) which exists independently of this limited consciousness. Whoever has not grasped the importance of this transition “from appearance to essence and from essence less profound to essence more profound”[25] has not begun to appreciate the richness, complexity and scientific value of dialectical methodology—and is destined to be misled again and again by impressionism.

III. Necessity and Freedom

The core of Thompson’s attack on dialectical materialism is his attack on the Marxist conception of human freedom and how it is won. Once again, there is the attempt to separate Lenin’s views from those of Marx and Engels. Marx is talking “common sense”; Lenin “slips” into “mystique”:

“Marx’s common-sense view that man’s freedom is enlarged by each enlargement of knowledge (‘Freedom...consists in the control over ourselves and over external nature which is founded on knowledge of natural necessity.’ Engels) is transformed into the mystique of man’s freedom consisting in his recognizing and serving ‘the objective logic of economic evolution’: his ‘freedom’ becomes slavery to ‘necessity’.”

One or two preliminary points. First, we have already shown that one of the quotations from Lenin on which Thompson relies is in fact a paraphrase of Engels. But Engels “slipped” a good deal, it seems. For, secondly, here is a bit more of the quotation from Anti-Dühring, only the concluding sentence of which is given in parentheses by Thompson:

“Freedom does not consist in the dream of independence from natural laws, but in the knowledge of these laws, and in the possibility this gives of systematically making them work towards definite ends. This holds good in relation both to the laws of external nature and to those which govern the bodily and mental existence of men themselves—two classes of laws which we can separate from each other at most only in thought but not in reality. Freedom of the will therefore means nothing but the capacity to make decisions with knowledge of the subject. Therefore the freer a man’s judgment is in relation to a definite question, the greater is the necessity with which the content of this judgment will be determined.”[26]

Ponder that last sentence, Comrade Thompson. Here is “common-sense” Engels calling us “slaves to necessity”!

And thirdly, in the phrase “his ‘freedom’ becomes slavery to ‘necessity’,” Thompson himself “slips,” alas, into the most blatant anthropomorphic superstition. His choice of words betrays the image in his mind: of human beings “enslaved” to natural laws as if to laws of governments, and pining to be “free” of them. To Thompson the path to freedom, it would appear, lies through ending this “slavery”: to Marxists the path to freedom lies through acknowledging the existence of objective laws, getting to know as much as possible about them, and adapting social practice accordingly. No amount of...“emotive” talk about “slavery” can alter Comrade Thompson’s own dependence on, and the determination of his activities by, a range of objective laws: mechanical, physical, chemical, biological, physiological, social, etc. In practice he is bound by these laws twenty-four hours a day; he calls this “slavery.” Well, let us be frank: Marxism does not admit the possibility of leaping outside the sphere of action of objective laws, of violating them or becoming “free” from them. To Marxists such “freedom” is neither possible nor has it meaning. Yet Marxism alone shows the way to the achievement of real human freedom. Let us try to see why.

Necessity

The category of necessity is closely bound up with those of essence and law. “Law,” says Lenin, “is the reflection of the essential in the movement of the universe.”[27] The law of a process of natural or social development states approximately the objective regularities, essential relationships and necessary connexions in that process. Scientific laws sum up more or less precisely the causal processes operating in events, tell us what characteristics a particular phenomenon is bound to manifest by its very nature and express the inevitability of its development in a particular way under particular conditions. The materialist recognition of the objectivity of being and its laws is, not yet freedom, but the requisite for all real freedom.

It is of course perfectly true that men act with conscious aims and intentions. But no attempt to explain human history in terms of the conscious aims and intentions, wills and desires of men will advance our understanding very far. Man’s aims clash, and something happens which no one had intended, desired or foreseen. Therefore any scientific understanding of social development has to start from the “inner general laws”[28] which ultimately govern both the development of human society and the aims and intentions, ideas and theories, in people’s heads.

“People make their own history. But what determines the motives of people, of the mass of people, that is: what gives rise to the clash of conflicting ideas and strivings; what is the sum-total of all these clashes of the whole mass of human societies, what are the objective conditions of production of material life that form the basis of all historical activity of man; what is the law of development of these conditions—to all this Marx drew attention and pointed out the way to a scientific study of history as a uniform and law-governed process in all its immense variety and contradictoriness.”[29]

To be free is not to violate the laws of nature and society, which is not possible. Men are no more the miracle-workers that idealists make them out to be (when they hold that freedom is really independence of the human will in relation to the laws of nature and society, or when they deny that there are any objective laws) than they are the puppets or robots that the mechanistic materialists take them for (when they hold that necessity is quite outside the reach of social practice, that human consciousness cannot take account of it and utilize it, that man is in effect a prisoner of objective laws).

To be free, according to dialectical materialism, is to act in accordance with objective laws. Every step forward in the knowledge of these laws is potentially a step forward in the conquest of freedom. Just as men enlarge their freedom in proportion to their knowledge of, and therefore their power over, nature, so men also enlarge their freedom in proportion to their knowledge of, and therefore their power over, their social life, as they foresee more and more precisely the effects of their social activity instead of being at the mercy of laws which, “blind” and unreckoned with, lead to economic crises. To the extent that men plan their actions with knowledge of the factors involved, they are in a position to win real freedom.

The supreme example is the working-class struggle for socialism. Is the working class helped by ignorance of economic laws? Is it not rather by acquiring knowledge of its real situation that it becomes capable of revolutionizing society and so winning freedom, since by its very class position it is in itself objectively the dissolution of capitalist society?[30] Is it, in other words, such a terrible thing to tell the working class that its highest responsibility is to adapt its consciousness to the objective realities of economic development “in as definite, clear and critical fashion as possible”?[31]—to equip itself, that is to say, with knowledge of the history and workings of the capitalist system and its own tasks in the struggle for that system’s overthrow? A strange kind of humanism which, at the same time as it stresses the importance of human consciousness, turns its back on this fundamental requirement of any successful working class struggle: that it should be consciously based on knowledge of the realities of society, on the laws of social change. A strange kind of humanism which would disarm the working class by advising it not to acquire such knowledge.

Lenin points to the road to freedom for the workers. Enrich your consciousness, he says, with as accurate knowledge as possible of the laws of social development. Don’t listen to him, cries Comrade Thompson; he wants you to adapt yourselves clumsily to “economic stimuli”; he is absorbed in philosophical nuances....

Lenin knows full well that the level of consciousness of the working class does not depend automatically on its class position. He knows that the ideological superstructure of bourgeois society fosters all kinds of illusions to sap the workers’ confidence in their strength, to make them think they cannot do very much to improve things, to make them support the capitalist system. He knows that socialist theory depends on knowledge of the essence of capitalism, not its appearance, and that this profound knowledge can only be brought to the working class from outside, by Marxists. Therefore he calls on communists to seek to “adapt” the “consciousness of the advanced classes” to the facts of historical development, i.e., to teach them, to educate them, to persuade them to “adapt” their consciousness to...the truth. “Such a pattern might be built within an electronic brain,” complains Comrade Thompson, professing, in the best tradition of English empiricism, his outrage at such a grotesque, mechanical fallacy, at such absorption in philosophical nuances....

Freedom

To gain knowledge about things it is not enough to sit and contemplate them. We have to put them in the service of man, submit them to his needs and aims, work on them, change them. We get to know the laws of nature and society, not by divine inspiration, but by acting on them. And our knowledge of necessity, derived from our practical activity, applied, tested and made more accurate in further practical activity, is the indispensable premise and pre-condition of human freedom.

Of itself, knowledge of necessity is not enough automatically to confer freedom on us, as Thompson at one point seems to think (“Marx’s common-sense view that man’s freedom is enlarged by each enlargement of knowledge”). It is as yet only the theoretical expression of our relationship to necessity. When, however, we enter into practical relationships with necessity, when we utilize our knowledge in human practical activity, we win freedom thereby.

“Until we know a law of nature, it, existing and acting independently and outside our mind, makes us slaves of ‘blind necessity.’ But once we come to know this law, which acts (as Marx pointed out a thousand times) independently of our will and our mind, we become the masters of nature. The mastery of nature manifested in human practice is a result of an objectively correct reflection within the human head of the phenomena and processes of nature, and is proof of the fact that this reflection (within the limits of what is revealed by practice) is objective, absolute and eternal truth.”[32]

Freedom is thus men’s power to satisfy their needs and achieve their aims, based on knowledge of what their needs and aims are and how they can be satisfied and achieved. Men are unfree to the extent that they are ignorant of and therefore unable to control the factors which affect the satisfaction of their needs and the fulfilment of their aims. They are free to the extent that they know what these factors are and therefore in practice consciously control them.

Freedom is a specifically human attribute, which is won by men as social beings. In primitive times men faced natural forces blindly, and were therefore at the mercy of nature. They achieved freedom gradually in struggle, winning knowledge of necessity scrap by scrap and applying that knowledge in further struggle to win more knowledge, freedom and material progress.

Throughout class society men have faced their social relations rather as early man faced natural forces. For the most part social forces have appeared to be completely outside human control, and great social events, wars and revolutions and the collapse of empires, have presented themselves as catastrophes no less terrible and uncontrollable than natural calamities. Despite the tremendous increase in knowledge of natural laws in the past hundred years, bourgeois science has now for the most part despaired of foreseeing, explaining or controlling the wars and crises which periodically shake capitalist society to its foundations.

Again, men’s progressive mastery over nature has been of only limited benefit to the masses of the people, because of their lack of social freedom. As long as society is dominated by successive exploiting classes it is possible neither to put forward in its full complexity nor to solve the problem of men’s relationship with nature. An obsolete social system is hampering the proper application of human scientific and technical knowledge, utilizing advanced productive forces for profit and destruction and standing in the way of progress. The road to freedom lies through the overthrow of this system. It is the historical task of the working class, armed with the scientific knowledge of its real situation and tasks which is provided by Marxism, to end the social relations of capitalism which are acting as a fetter on the free development of the productive forces and as a barrier to their utilization for the free satisfaction of human needs. By carrying through the socialist revolution, establishing the dictatorship of the proletariat, building a socialist society and going forward to communism the working class wins social freedom—men’s complete mastery over their own social organization—and makes possible gigantic strides forward in their conscious mastery over nature.

Thus, far from eliminating man and his activity, dialectical materialism shows how human society is necessarily developing; why men act as they do and think as they do; how freedom can be won; and which is the social force which, properly organized, equipped ideologically and led, can win it, so advancing the whole of humanity “from the kingdom of necessity to the kingdom of freedom.”[33]

IV. The Dialectical Method

In his reference to Lenin Thompson does not employ the word “dialectic.” (Elsewhere he puts it in inverted commas, in a context where the meaning is equivocal, but where he seems to be equating dialectics with “soul.”) His attack on the dialectical method is never made explicit: but it is implicit in his whole attack on Lenin as philosopher. The theory of knowledge he opposes is a dialectical theory. The theory of ideologies he opposes is a dialectical theory. The theory of freedom he opposes is a dialectical theory. And since Lenin’s outstanding contribution to philosophy was in the field of the dialectical method, Thompson’s disparaging reference to “philosophical nuances” can scarcely be interpreted as anything but a reproach to Lenin for his “absorption” in dialectics. To Lenin, dialectics was “the valuable fruit of the idealist systems...that pearl which those farmyard cocks, the Buchners, the Dührings and Co. (as well as Leclair, Mach, Avenarius and so forth), could not pick out from the dungheap of absolute idealism.”[34] Comrade Thompson, alas, does not recognize pearls when he sees them. But Lenin regarded dialectics as indispensable for the working-class movement if it was to understand and make use of the contradictions of capitalist society. It is not accidental that Lenin’s central philosophical study was a long, almost page-by-page commentary on Hegel’s Science of Logic, in which the method which Hegel enveloped in idealism is set right side up, worked through and digested from a materialist standpoint and revealed in all its intricacy, suppleness and above all precision, as the only method by which human thinking can fathom the complexity and many-sidedness of the eternal process of becoming.

It is not accidental that Lenin plunged into this study of Hegel in the autumn of 1914, at the very moment when the contradictions of capitalist society had come suddenly and explosively to the surface (and when the Second International had collapsed in opportunism and betrayal). Almost isolated in his opposition to the imperialist war, Lenin sought in the “philosophical nuances” of Hegel the method by which events could be judged, not from their superficial aspects, but from their essential contradictions, leaps in development, revolutions, negations, transitions beyond the limit, transformations into the opposite. Lenin found in Hegel, understood materialistically, adequate philosophical justification for his judgment, to be so strikingly confirmed three years later, that the conditions for proletarian revolution had matured.

These notes on Hegel reveal, in a way that none other of Lenin’s works reveals, the innermost workings of his mind as he chews over the thought of a profound and difficult thinker and extracts the vital juices.

The compass of the present article will not allow more than a sketchy and inadequate reference to the heart of the Philosophical Notebooks: the concept of contradiction. In the fight against Stalinism this concept, as elaborated by Lenin, has threefold importance. Stalin’s well-known booklet Dialectical and Historical Materialism has more fundamental, and more serious, philosophical flaws than those Thompson discusses in his article (since Thompson concentrates on the section on historical materialism) and it needs, strangely enough, an acquaintance with Lenin’s “philosophical nuances” to understand and expose them. First, the section on the dialectical method stresses the struggle of opposites, but ignores their identity. This is of particular importance in considering the categories of dialectical logic which, despite their basic epistemological importance, are ignored by Stalin: this is the booklet’s second flaw.[35] And thirdly, there is no mention in it of the negation of negation, possibly because it might have been felt in 1938 to have awkward political implications (Zhdanov even invented in 1947 a new dialectical law, presumably to replace it—the “law” of criticism and self-criticism).[36] The conception of contradiction set forth in the Philosophical Notebooks shows how essential to a proper understanding of the dialectical method are these three aspects of that method neglected by Stalin.

Identity of Opposites

To Lenin dialectics was “the theory which shows how opposites can be and habitually are (and become) identical—under what conditions they transform themselves into each other and become identical—why the human mind should not take these opposites as dead and rigid, but as living, conditional, mobile, changing into each other.”[37] Applied subjectively, this suppleness, flexibility, elasticity of dialectical thinking became eclecticism and sophistry; applied objectively, i.e., reflecting the universality and unity of the material process of becoming, it was the precise, dialectical reflection of the eternal development of the universe.[38] The identity of opposites was “the recognition (discovery) of the contradictory, mutually exclusive, opposite tendencies in all phenomena and processes of nature (including mind and society).”[39] This side of dialectics, Lenin pointed out, usually received inadequate attention: the identity of opposites was not a sum-total of examples but a law of knowledge and of the objective world.[40]

The identity of opposites is of course an abstraction, and an abstraction of an exceedingly high level: one of the most general laws of universal becoming. The word “identity” is here used not in the ordinary sense, but in a special, philosophical sense, which includes the notions of unity (or inseparability) in a single process, mutual penetration, mutual dependence, transformation of each into the other. The identity of opposites implies that the existence and development of each opposite is the condition for the existence and development of the other; that under certain conditions every property or aspect turns into its opposite; and that in the case of the categories both contradictory aspects are interwoven throughout the universe at every level of motion of matter. Lenin saw the identity of opposites as conditional, transitory and relative, the struggle of opposites as absolute, in the sense that development and motion were absolute. Development was the struggle of opposites; this conception of development furnished the key to the self-movement of everything in existence, to the leaps, breaks in continuity and transformations into the opposite, to the destruction of the old and emergence of the new.

The Categories of Dialectical Logic

“There is before man a network of natural phenomena. The savage does not separate himself from nature. Conscious man does separate himself from it, and the categories are the degrees of this separation, i.e., of man’s knowledge of the universe. They are nodal points in the network, which enable him to know it and assimilate it.”[41]

Thus does Lenin show that these most abstract of concepts, the categories of dialectical logic (i.e., of the dialectical materialist theory of knowledge) are derived from and linked with the whole of the concrete, material universe. Shamefully neglected by Stalinism, ostensibly because of their “difficulty” but in reality because they expose the wooden schematism of Stalin’s famous exegesis, the categories are indispensable for any genuine dialectical thought, investigation and research. We cannot think properly and precisely, we cannot grapple with changing reality, without them. And it was Lenin who more than any other Marxist developed this fundamental aspect of the dialectical method, and who left us indications drawn from his own experience as a student on the method of studying it in a way that discloses the elements of all the dialectical categories already present in any proposition or phenomenon.

“To begin with the simplest, most ordinary, common, etc., with any proposition: the leaves of a tree are green; John is a man; Fido is a dog, etc. Here already we have dialectics...the particular is the general.... Consequently, the opposites (the particular as opposed to the general) are identical: the particular exists only in the connexion that leads to the general. The general exists only in the particular and through the particular. Every particular is (in one way or another) a general. Every general is (a fragment, or a side, or the essence of) a particular. Every general only approximately comprises all the particular objects. Every particular enters into the general incompletely, etc., etc. Every particular is connected by thousands of transitions with other kinds of particulars (things, phenomena, processes), etc. Here already we have the elements, the germs, the concepts of necessity, of objective connexion in nature, etc. Here already we have the contingent and the necessary, the appearance and the essence; for when we say: John is a man, Fido is a dog, this is a leaf of a tree, etc., we disregard a number of attributes as CONTINGENT; we separate the essence from the appearance, and juxtapose the one to the other.

“Thus in any given proposition we can (and must) disclose as in a ‘nucleus’ (‘cell’) the germs of all the elements of dialectics, and thereby show that dialectics is a property of all human knowledge in general.”[42]

Of all the categories Lenin seems to have considered as most important, richest and most fruitful those of appearance and essence (with which are closely connected those of phenomenon and law). The identity and struggle of appearance and essence as two aspects (or “moments”) of material reality takes us at once right to the heart of the dialectical method, as a method of thinking about processes in a way that will give us more, and more precise, knowledge of their inner relationships and laws. The appearance at one and the same time hides the essence and reveals it, for “the appearance is the essence in one of its determinations, in one of its aspects, in one of its moments.”[43]

This thought is clear when we ponder over it a little. In analyzing any phenomenon we pass from superficial, perceptual knowledge, knowledge of its appearance, to knowledge of its essence; this in turn becomes for us an appearance which both hides and reveals a still deeper essence. Often the solution of a political or organizational problem—e.g., the analysis of a situation, the elaboration of a policy, the concentration of forces, etc.—turns on discovering concretely how and why at a given stage the essence of a particular process is manifested through certain events and masked by others. When we gain knowledge of the essence we can understand the appearance in a new light. Lenin gives an example: “the movement of a river—the foam on top and the profound currents below. But the foam also is an expression of the essence.”[44] Each essence, each law, each necessity he discovers is for man a degree in the infinite process of acquiring more and more knowledge of the universal process of becoming in its unity, interconnexion and interdependence.

It would be wrong to suppose that Lenin merely picked out from Hegel what was useful without developing his thought in a materialist fashion. The dialectic of appearance and essence, for instance, is more concrete and more dynamic, and hence more dialectical, in Lenin’s hands than in Hegel’s. To Hegel appearance and essence were in a state of logical coexistence. To Lenin they were in continuous dynamic interaction. At times the essential contradictions suddenly find expression—dramatically and explosively—in the appearance, as, for instance, when capitalist society is shaken by wars and revolutions. At other times the appearance is the arena of slow and gradual changes behind which the essence remains latent. Lack of understanding of this dialectical interaction is at the heart of much of the present confusion about events in the USSR in the minds of commentators and interpreters who see only the appearance of things, who misunderstand it, and who are therefore frequently thrown off balance by some new and unexpected turn of events.

The Negation of Negation

The law of negation of negation (“A development that seemingly repeats the stages already passed, but repeats them otherwise, on a higher basis...a development, so to speak, in spirals, not in a straight line”[45]) is fundamental to a correct understanding of the profoundly contradictory nature of development through stages, of the emergence of the new contradiction from the old, and of the subsumption, the transcendence, the “overcoming and at the same time preservation”[46] of the old in the new. “Abolished” by Stalin, this law obstinately continues to operate in nature and society, even in the Soviet Union.

Lenin saw negation as the most important element in dialectics:

“Neither barren negation, nor purposeless negation, nor sceptical negation, nor vacillation, nor doubt are characteristic or essential in dialectics—which of course contains, as its most important element even, the element of negation—no, negation as a moment of interconnexion, as a moment of development which preserves the positive, i.e., without any vacillations, without any eclecticism.”[47]

Understood dialectically, negation is not mere empty negativity, the annihilation or destruction of something, but “is equally positive...is something definite, possesses a determined content whose internal contradictions lead to the replacement of the old content by a new, higher content.”[48] The old is surpassed when it has produced the conditions for the new, when its internal contradictions have pushed it beyond itself, as it were, have driven it to its “negation”; its own development leads to its negation; however the advance that has been made in the old stage is not destroyed but subsumed, “transcended,” overcome and preserved in the new.

The concept of negation is, so to say, the point where the dialectical laws of the identity and struggle of opposites and of the transformation of quantity into quality intersect. A process is said to be negated when the struggle of opposites within it drives it beyond its qualitative limit. It is often said that “everything contains the seeds of that which will destroy it.” It is more accurate to say “of that which will negate it”—and probably more accurate still to say “everything contains its own negation.” For the negation is the new that grows within the womb of the old and finally supplants it.

But this is a never-ending process. Every new stage becomes in time an old stage; every negation is itself the arena of new contradictions, the soil of a new negation that leads inexorably forward to a new qualitative leap, to a still higher stage of development, carrying forward the advances made in the previous stages, often seeming to repeat—on a higher level, enriched by the intervening development—a stage already passed.

The negation of negation is thus a further “transcendence,” a further overcoming and preservation in the new of the stages already passed through. Frequently there is a return on a higher level to the original starting-point.

Too often the negation of negation has been presented as the “sum-total of examples”—and often hackneyed examples at that. Examples have to be given, but the law is an abstraction, and its content is neither exhausted nor fully clarified by examples, for it is a universal law of nature, society and human knowledge.

The appearance of classes and the eventual destruction of the whole fabric of “primitive” communist society was a negation of that society. Communism will be in many respects a return on a world scale to the human relationships and attitudes of “primitive” society, enriched by all the scientific, technological and cultural discoveries and achievements of five thousand years of class society: in other words, the negation of class society, the negation of negation.

Old knowledge is continually being replaced—negated, not destroyed—by new knowledge. Hegel described the process rather well. “Cognition,” he wrote, “rolls forward from content to content.” The concept “raises to each next stage of determination the whole mass of its antecedent content, and by its dialectical progress not only loses nothing and leaves nothing behind, but carries with it all that it has acquired.”[49] “This fragment,” commented Lenin, “sums up dialectics rather well in its own way.”[50] But what Hegel saw as the self-development of the Idea, Lenin saw as the reflection in eternally deepening human knowledge of the development of material reality.

In every process of nature, society and thought we find in one form or another this “repetition in the higher stage of certain features, properties, etc., of the lower and apparent return to the old.”[51]

Method

Lenin’s “absorption in philosophical nuances” twice led him to set forth tentatively, but highly suggestively, the elements of the dialectical method. In Once Again on the Trade Unions, the Present Situation and the Mistakes of Comrades Trotsky and Bukharin (1921) the requirements of dialectical logic are set forth under four headings. First, “in order really to know an object we must embrace, study, all its sides, all connections and ‘mediations’.” Secondly, we should “take an object in its development, its ‘self-movement’...in its changes.” Thirdly, “the whole of human experience should enter the full ‘definition’ of an object as a criterion of the truth and as a practical index of the object’s connexion with what man requires.” Fourthly, “dialectical logic teaches that ‘there is no abstract truth, truth is always concrete’.”[52]

In the Philosophical Notebooks the dialectical method is summarized from a different standpoint in sixteen points, which, though terse and unexemplified, constitute a highly dialectical presentation of this method:

(1) Objectivity of investigation (not examples, not digressions, but the thing itself);

(2) The totality of the manifold relations of each thing with others;

(3) The development of the thing (or phenomenon), its own movement, its own life;

(4) The internal contradictory tendencies (and aspects) in the thing;

(5) The thing (phenomenon, etc.) as the sum and unity of opposites;

(6) The struggle or unfolding of these opposites, the contradiction of the trends, etc.

(7) The unity of analysis and synthesis—the analysis into separate elements and the totality, the sum, of these elements.

(8) The relations of each thing (phenomenon, etc.) are not only manifold, but universal. Every thing (phenomenon, process, etc.) is connected with everything else.

(9) Not only the unity of opposites, but the transition of EACH determination, quality, feature, aspect, property, into every other (into its opposite?);

(10) An infinite process of the discovery of new aspects, relationships;

(11) An infinite process of the deepening of human knowledge of things, phenomena, processes, etc., proceeding from appearance to essence and from essence less profound to essence more profound;

(12) From coexistence to causality and from one form of connexion and interdependence to another, deeper and more universal;

(13) The repetition in the higher stage of certain features, properties, etc. of the lower; and

(14) The apparent return to the old (negation of negation);

(15) Struggle of content with form and vice versa. Throwing off of the form, rearrangement of the content.

(16) Transition from quantity to quality and vice versa.

((15) and (16) are examples of (9))[53]

Those to whom these sixteen “philosophical nuances” appear too sententious will find practical examples of their concrete application throughout the whole of Lenin’s political writings. “Dialectics,” he wrote, “can be briefly defined as the theory of the unity of opposites. The core of dialectics is thereby grasped, but explanation and development are needed.”[54] That explanation and development—materialist dialectics in action—are seen at their most concrete in the building of the Bolshevik Party, the carrying through of the October Revolution, the leadership of the Soviet State, and even in the campaign against bureaucracy which Lenin waged from his sick-bed until death silenced him. Those who study Lenin’s approach to the problems which confronted him in the course of three decades of political activity are studying the masterly application of the dialectical method in the “concrete analysis of concrete conditions.”

*   *   *

This article has merely touched the fringe of Lenin’s creative work as a Marxist philosopher. Fields of great interest and topicality, such as his views on objectivity and partisanship and his theory of social-economic formations, have necessarily been omitted, since this is primarily a polemical and not an expository article. Conversely, only a very small part of “Socialist Humanism” has been discussed: a mere couple of pages out of thirty-eight. There are many thought-provoking things (and many excellent things) in the other thirty-six. But the passage commented on here raises issues that are fundamental to Marxism, and “a spoonful of tar spoils a barrel of honey.” Or, as somebody once remarked, “to leave error unrefuted is to encourage intellectual immorality.”


Notes

1. The New Reasoner, Vol. 1, No. 1, pp. 132-5, Summer 1957. Back

2. Materialism and Empirio-Criticism (1952 edition), p. 85. Back

3. See, e.g., Capital, Vol. 1 (1946 edition), p. xxx; Dialectics of Nature (1954 edition), p. 271; Anti-Dühring (1954 edition), pp. 34, 467; Marx and Engels, Selected Works, Vol. 2, p. 328. Back

4. Nevertheless the “uniqueness” of human thinking should not be exaggerated. At its more elementary levels of abstraction it is different only in degree from the mental processes of the higher animals. Back

5. Lenin, Cahiers philosophiques (Editions Sociales, 1955), p. 125. Back

6. Thompson here—though he may not be aware of this—is not breaking new ground; his attack on the Marxist-Leninist theory of reflection was anticipated two years ago by M. Merleau-Ponty, professor at the Collège de France, in a book called Les Aventures de la Dialectique, in which he called this theory a “return to naïve realism.” Back

7. Cahiers philosophiques, p. 161. Back

8. Ibid. p. 182. Back

9. Ibid. p. 289. Back

10. Ibid. pp. 150-1. Back

11. Ibid. p. 174. This and the dozens of similar quotations one could take from the Philosophical Notebooks seem to me to dispose of the second “fallacy” Thompson finds: “the repeated statement, in an emotive manner, that material reality is ‘primary’ and ‘consciousness, thought, sensation’ is ‘secondary,’ ‘derivative’.” Thompson comments: “Partially true; but we must guard against the emotional undertones that therefore thought is less important than material reality.” These are the words of a “partial” materialist. The statement that consciousness is secondary and derivative implies nothing about its importance, but only says something about its origin. Back

12. Here again Thompson is following in the footsteps of...M. Merleau-Ponty, who caricatures historical materialism by writing of “economic determinism,” of the “deduction of the whole of culture from the economy,” of alleged Marxist demands that the history of culture must always be strictly “parallel to political history” and that art must be judged by “immediate political criteria” and by “the political conformity of the author.” Back

13. Even though “the interaction between social environment and conscious agency...was central to their thought” and though Marx himself saw “the neglect of agency” as “the weakness of mechanical materialism.” This apparent paradox Thompson makes no attempt to explain. Back

14. Marx and Engels, Selected Works, Vol. 1, p. 329. Back

15. Ibid. Cf. Capital, Vol. 1, p. 51; The German Ideology, pp. 14, 39; T.B. Bottomore and Maximilien Rubel, Karl Marx: Selected Writings in Sociology and Social Philosophy (1956), p. 77; Marx and Engels, Selected Correspondence (1943 edition), p. 475; Marx and Engels, Selected Works, Vol. 2, p. 105, etc., etc. Back

16. Marx and Engels, Selected Correspondence, pp. 510-11. Cf. also p. 477: “Marx and I are ourselves partly to blame for the fact that younger writers sometimes lay more stress on the economic side than is due to it. We had to emphasize this main principle in opposition to our adversaries, who denied it, and we had not always the time, the place or the opportunity to allow the other elements involved in the interaction to come into their rights.” Back

17. A Contribution to the Critique of Political Economy, p. 309. Back

18. Selected Works (twelve-volume edition), Vol. 11, pp. 681-3. Back

19. Marx and Engels, Selected Correspondence, p. 512. Back

20. George Lukács, Studies in European Realism (1950), p. 93. Back

21. Cf. Marx and Engels, The German Ideology, p. 30. Back

22. Lenin, Selected Works (twelve-volume edition), Vol. 2, p. 47. Back

23. Materialism and Empirio-Criticism, p. 191. Back

24. Ibid. pp. 338-9. Back

25. Cahiers philosophiques, p. 182. Back

26. Anti-Dühring, p. 158. Back

27. Cahiers philosophiques, p. 126. Back

28. Marx and Engels, Selected Works, Vol. 2, p. 354. Back

29. Lenin, Marx, Engels, Marxism (1951 edition), p. 28. Back

30. “When the proletariat announces the dissolution of the existing social order, it only declares the secret of its own existence, for it constitutes the effective dissolution of this order”—Marx, quoted Bottomore and Rubel, op. cit. pp. 182-3. Cf. also The Poverty of Philosophy (1956 edition), p. 140: “In the measure that history moves forward, and with it the struggle of the proletariat assumes clearer outlines...[the communists] have only to take note of what is happening before their eyes and to become its mouthpiece.” Back

31. Materialism and Empirio-Criticism, p. 339. Back

32. Ibid. pp. 192-3. Back

33. Anti-Dühring, p. 393. Back

34. Materialism and Empirio-Criticism, p. 250. Back

35. After Stalin’s death a certain “rehabilitation” of the dialectical categories took place in Soviet philosophical writing. See, e.g., G. Gak, “The Categories of Materialist Dialectics,” Kommunist, 1954, No. 13, translated into French in Recherches Sovietiques, No. 1, pp. 35-57, 1956. Back

36. These three flaws do not exhaust those to be found in the section on dialectics. For instance, the four so-called “principal features of the Marxist dialectical method” are set forth schematically as if they were of equal methodological importance, and the question of the qualitative leap is put crudely and confusingly. For fifteen years this booklet gave millions of people their first—and often their only—account of Marxist philosophy, which is a great pity. Materialist dialectics is much more dialectical than Stalin’s refurbishing of a series of newspaper articles written in 1906 makes it out to be. Back

37. Cahiers philosophiques, p. 90. Back

38. Ibid. p. 91. Back

39. Marx, Engels, Marxism, pp. 332-3. Back

40. Ibid. p. 332. Back

41. Cahiers philosophiques, p. 76. Back

42. Marx, Engels, Marxism, pp. 334-5. Back

43. Cahiers philosophiques, p. 110. A “moment” is an active determining factor in a process. Back

44. Ibid. p. 108. Back

45. Marx, Engels, Marxism, p. 25. Back

46. Cahiers philosophiques, p. 89. “To transcend (aufheben) has this double meaning, that it signifies to keep or to preserve and also to make to cease, to finish.”—Hegel, Science of Logic, Vol. 1, p. 119. Back

47. Cahiers philosophiques, p. 185. Back

48. Ibid. p. 79. Back

49. Hegel, op. cit. Vol. 2, pp. 482-3. Back

50. Cahiers philosophiques, p. 189. Back

51. Ibid. p. 185. Back

52. Selected Works (twelve-volume edition), Vol. 9, p. 66. Back

53. Cahiers philosophiques, pp. 181-2. English translations of these sixteen points appeared in the March 1932 Labour Monthly, in H. Levy, etc., Aspects of Dialectical Materialism (1934), pp. 14-16, and in David Guest, A Text Book of Dialectical Materialism (1939), pp. 47-9. Back

54. Cahiers philosophiques, p. 182. Back