Aesthetics and Politics 4: Adorno on Lukács (and Sartre) and Brecht

This academic book about Marxist criticism brings together texts from five major figures in Western Marxism, namely:

  • Theodor Adorno
  • Ernst Bloch
  • Bertolt Brecht
  • Walter Benjamin
  • György Lukács

and arranges them as dialogues or debates. Thus Presentation 1 displayed entertaining article and letters containing the argument about Expressionism between Bloch and Lukács. Presentation 2 contains four short pieces Brecht wrote criticising Lukács’s position (noting the threatening tone of the professional apparatchik).

This fourth section dates from after the calamitous Second World War, when the five big figures had all returned to Europe (apart from Benjamin, who had tragically committed suicide in 1940). It consists of two essays by Adorno – now solidly entrenched as head of the Frankfurt Institute for Social Research – criticising 1) Lukács and 2) (after a preliminary swipe at Sartre) Brecht.

1. Adorno against Lukács

Brief biography of György Lukács

From the 1920s to the 1960s György Lukács was one of the leading Marxist philosophers and literary critics in Europe.

Born in Budapest, Hungary, in 1885, the son of a very affluent Jewish banker, he benefited from a superb education and was a leading intellectual at Budapest university, combining interests in literature and (Neo-Kantian) philosophy, and founded a salon which featured leading Hungarian writers and composers during the Great War.

The experience of the war (although he was himself exempted from military service) radicalised Lukács and he joined the Hungarian Communist Party in 1918. His cultural eminence led to him being appointed People’s Commissar for Education and Culture in the short-lived Hungarian Soviet Republic which lasted from 21 March to 1 August 1919 and took its orders directly from Lenin. Lukács was an enthusiastic exponent of Lenin’s theory of Red Terror.

When the Republic was overthrown by army generals who instituted the right-wing dictatorship which was to run Hungary for the rest of the interwar period, Lukács fled to Vienna where he spent the 1920s developing a philosophical basis for the Leninist version of Marxism.

In 1930 he was ‘summoned’ to Moscow to work at the Institute of Philosophy of the Russian Academy of Sciences, although he soon got caught up in Stalin’s purges and was sent into exile in Tashkent. But Lukács was fortunate enough to survive – unlike the estimated 80% of Hungarian exiles in Russia who perished.

At the end of the Second World War Lukács was sent back to Hungary to take part in the new Hungarian communist government, where he was directly responsible for written attacks on non-communist intellectuals, and took part in the removal of independent and non-communist intellectuals from their jobs, many being forced to take jobs as manual labourers (for a description of this kind of persecution, albeit in Czechoslovakia, see The Joke by Milan Kundera).

Lickspittle apparatchik though that makes him sound, Lukács in fact trod a careful line which managed to be critical of Stalinism, albeit in coded and often abstruse philosophical phraseology, and this brought him criticism from hard-liners.

Due to his experience and seniority, Lukács was made a minister in the government of Imry Nagy which in 1956 tried to break away from Russia’s control. The Soviet suppression of the government triggered the so-called Hungarian Uprising in October 1956 which was put down with characteristic Russian brutality. Lukács along with the rest of the Nagy government was exiled to Romania. Nagy himself was executed and Lukács only just escaped that fate. Yet again Lukács had experienced at first hand the brutal and repressive force of Soviet tyranny.

He was allowed back to Budapest in 1957 on the condition that he abandoned his former criticisms of the Soviet Union, engaged in public self-criticism, and on this basis was allowed to keep his academic posts, to continue writing and publishing his theoretical and critical works, up to his death in 1971.

In the year before the Uprising Lukács had completed a book of critical theory, The Meaning of Contemporary Realism, comprising studies of contemporary European authors such as Thomas Mann, Robert Musil, Franz Kafka, Eugene O’Neill, Samuel Beckett, William Faulkner and Mikhail Sholokhov. In the year following he completed the introduction and had it sent to be published in West Germany in 1958 (it couldn’t be published in the Soviet bloc).

The Meaning of Contemporary Realism summary

Lukács argued that true art must reflect the social totality and human life as a dynamic, historical process. He critiques modernist literature for its static, pessimistic focus on alienation and fragmentation, arguing that it reduces reality to a subjective, ahistorical experience.

Lukács rejected Modernism (e.g. Joyce, Kafka) for focusing on the subjective psyche rather than objective reality. He considers modernist techniques like stream-of-consciousness as ideological expressions that break down reality, resulting in an ‘allegory of nothingness’.

By contrast, Lukács championed critical realism (e.g. Thomas Mann) for its ability to portray socially typical characters engaged in historical struggle.

Realism, for Lukács, is not a simple mirror reflection of the world but a comprehensive understanding that uncovers deeper social laws, portraying characters as integrated into the objective world and able to change it, rather than isolated, passive victims. Realism is a dynamic rather than passive mode of art.

Adorno’s critique of Lukács

Adorno is witheringly, hilariously insulting of Lukács: accusing him of:

  • kowtowing to Soviet diktats aka ‘the unrelieved sterility of Soviet claptrap’, ‘the dictatorial mantle of socialist realism’,
  • betraying his own early intellectual brilliance in a bankrupt cause
  • becoming a cultural commissar, an ‘officially licensed dialectician’
  • worse than any ‘bearded Privy Councillor’,
  • a ‘dogmatic professor’
  • ‘an inquisitor’
  • writing in ‘the condescending tones of a provincial Wilhelminian school inspector’
  • reintroducing ‘the most threadbare clichés’ of the bourgeois social conformism he pretends to attack
  • a spouter of ‘seedy truisms’ so cliched, in a ‘stylistic amalgam of pedantry and irresponsibility’ so dire, that Adorno wonders whether he even has any right to even pontificate about literature.

He is a man dedicated to writing works which:

bolster up the naive Soviet verdict on modern art i.e. on any literature which shocks the naively realistic normal mind, by providing it with a philosophical good conscience. (p.157)

devoted to defending the products of ‘socialist realism’ which merely serve up:

the crumbling and insipid residues of bourgeois art-forms. (p.164)

Good knockabout stuff, all very entertaining.

Lukács’s aversion to modernism coincides with the classic bourgeois philistine aversion. Adorno is appalled at the ignorance of Lukács’s sweeping condemnation of everything which doesn’t conform with his narrow definitions of Socialist Realism as ‘decadent’, in tones which make Adorno shiver with the overtones they bring of Stalinist persecution and extermination. It was the Nazis who staged an exhibition of ‘decadent art’ and Lukács is putting himself in the same camp (an accusation he repeats at page 170).

Adorno’s central criticism is that Lukács fails to account for the formal aspects of the work of art – his defence of reflection theory, that a work ought to naively reflect the society it hales from, ignores the formal strategies of artworks through the ages, how these have changed and evolved, and are evolving still in the new techniques associated with modernism.

What looks like formalism to him really means the restructuring of the elements of a work in accordance with laws appropriate to them. (p.153)

Or:

In literature the point of the subject matter can only be made effective by the use of techniques. (p.162)

The work of art creates meaning through the combination of its formal aspects, as opposed to the Lukácsian model of having meaning imposed from outside by the commissar.

In their way the fractured images of, say, The Waste Land, are as ‘realistic’ of the society they come from as the supposedly holistic descriptions from Lukács’s great example of realism, Honoré de Balzac.

Lukács writes as if art and (social) science are the same kind of discourse, as if art is just another way of reporting on the objective reality of the world. He completely fails to acknowledge that art is a discursive category of its own, creating completely different kinds of discourse according to its own rules, which themselves continually change in line with changes in the technologies and productive relations of the society which hosts them.

The work of art never focuses directly on reality, it never makes the sort of statement found elsewhere in the realm of knowledge… Its logic is not that of subject and predicate but of internal harmony.

For Adorno, the artist never simply ‘reflects’ their society but always appropriates imagery and ideas in line with the formal requirements of the genre and styles of the day. In doing do, a work of art is never merely a passive reflection but always stands in a critical relationship with the world of its time: in a deep sense, a work of art is always a criticism of its society.

A successful work of art is not one which objective contradictions in a spurious harmony, but one which expresses the idea of harmony negatively by embodying the contradictions

of its life and times.

In their fragmented form, modernist works are not only more accurate depictions of contemporary life in the West, but are more critical of it – and therefore more fertile at creating revolutionary space and mentality – than Socialist Realism could ever be.

It is the crudest possible mistake, the mistake of the commissars, to judge a work solely on a ‘content analysis’ i.e. extracting out its plot and checking whether that conforms with conventional morality (e.g. how Shostakovitch fell foul of the commissars with the brutal realism of ‘Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk’.) On the contrary, the ‘meaning’ of a work of art is the totality of all its techniques and strategies, complex multi-levelled interactions.

Adorno really hammers away at the iniquity of the Soviet bloc, ‘contemporary Russian society is oppressed and exploited’, at the enfeebling stultification of the intellect associated with socialist realism, and concludes damningly:

It is impossible to rid oneself of the feeling that here is a man who is desperately tugging at his chains, imagining all the while that their clanking heralds the onward march of the world-spirit. (p.175)

2. Adorno against Brecht

In 1962 Jean-Paul Sartre’s long essay ‘What Is Literature?’ was published in German. Adorno reviewed it in an essay titled simply ‘Commitment’ but after a few pages on Sartre, this turns into an extended critique of Brecht (who had died in 1956).

Sartre argues that literature, specifically prose, is a form of ‘committed’ action (littérature engagée) designed to reveal the world in order to change it. Rejecting all variations of art for art’s sake and aestheticism, Sartre insists that a writer must engage with their era and take a stand. But the reader has a role to play, too. A book is a ‘joint effort’ between author and reader; literature only exists when it is read, allowing the reader’s freedom to ‘realize’ the work’s meaning, and so the writer‘s engagement forces readers to take their share of responsibility, through a ‘conjoint effort’ of writer and reader.

Adorno on Sartre

Adorno’s critique of Sartre is based on his pessimistic notion that contemporary capitalist society has created an all-encompassing ‘administered universe’, a realm purged of contradiction and therefore of meaningful choice of freedom of action. Even as the editors summarise this, they point out that Adorno’s critical theory has aged far less well than Sartre’s libertarian existentialism. The latter still has something to teach us whereas Adorno’s theory seems so self-contradictory as to barely make sense. (If all thought is controlled how come Adorno’s thought is somehow, magically, the sole survivor?)

Adorno claims that Sartre’s notion of ‘commitment’ is based on the premise of an extractable meaning from a work of art, and this is why Sartre writes about literature, and not art or music, because words have meanings. Adorno easily picks this apart by pointing out that as soon as words are used in a work of literature they cease, everso subtly, to have the same meaning they have outside. They enter a forcefield which compels new meanings and connotations. I think he calls Sartre a ‘publicist’, meaning that he extracts ‘meaning’ at the simplest possible level without any regard for the complex dialectics which characterise any work of literature worthy of the name.

He makes the useful distinction between plays which deal with issues – such as George Bernard Shaw’s highly schematic plays – and Sartre’s position, which rises above specific issues to address the whole notion of freedom and choice. You must make a choice he insists, only by making a choice do you exercise the uniquely human faculty for freedom and so become fully human.

However, Adorno thinks there’s a contradiction between the abstract nature of Sartre’s call and the highly specific settings of his plays.

Sartre’s theatre of ideas sabotages the aims of his categories. (p.180)

I think this is because the idea of a choice doesn’t indicate which choice. A decision there must be, in the style going back to Kierkegaard, a human must take a leap of faith but the paradox is that, which way you leap is less important: ‘as soon as committed works of art do instigate decisions… the decisions themselves become interchangeable’. He says much the same kind of urgent urging to action can be found in Nazi and Fascist propaganda.

Deep down, Adorno thinks Sartre’s philosophy is a variant of German Idealism with its roots in a profound subjectivism, an appeal to subjects to copy Sartre’s own intense subjectivity (dramatised in the novel Nausea).

This subjectivism allows more or less anyone to identify with his stance and this explains why he became (against his will) so popular, interviewed in all the papers, and allowed many of his plays to be turned into successful films. Also because he denied all the lures of modernism and formalism to make his novels and especially plays masterpieces of conventionality, with easily-extractable messages.

Towards the end, he says that the writings of Kafka or Beckett make Sartre’s playing with his toy concept of ‘commitment’ look like a panto.

Kafka and Beckett arouse the fear which existentialism merely talks about. (p.191)

Their works compel the change of heart which Sartre’s call to commitment merely asks for.

This leads Adorno onto a recurring theme (which cropped up at least twice in the Lukács essay) of invoking the Nazis, those fierce critics of formalism in art and literature, which they tirelessly accused of ‘cultural bolshevism’, a slur which could lead to its target being hauled off to a concentration camp just as Soviet artists accused of ‘formalism’ found themselves sent off to the gulag. And this brings him to Brecht.

Adorno on Brecht

On dodgy ground with Sartre, Adorno writes much better about Brecht because he engages with the details of Brecht’s works, often throwing up useful insights. He gives detailed reasons why he thinks ‘Saint Joan’ or ‘The Resistible Rise of Arturo Ui’ fail (they are trivial and cartoon-like, failing to penetrate to the deeper engines of capitalism and fascism which ‘are rooted in society itself’).

The picture-book technique which Brecht needs to spell out his thesis prevents him from proving it. (p.186)

Apparently Sartre wondered whether Picasso’s painting ‘Guernica’ attracted a single supporter to the Spanish cause, and in the same vein Adorno accuses Brecht’s plays of ‘preaching to the converted’. It’s doubtful if any investment bankers or right-wing politicians was inspired to pack in their jobs and join the ranks of the proletariat.

But the central problem of Brecht’s work is that he was defending a wretched cause. He committed himself more and more completely to a Soviet communism which was bankrupt. His works were:

  • ‘poisoned by the untruth of his politics’
  • in defence of ‘a coercive domination in which blindly irrational social forces returned to work once again’
  • writing vehement plays to drown out ‘the noise of the disaster which has overtaken his cause’
  • so that even his best work is ‘infected with the deceptions of his commitment’

For Adorno, this explains why Brecht retreated from social analysis – which requires the language of the intellectual – into a fake folk wisdom. Rather nauseatingly he tried to mimic the voice of the victim, cobbling together folk wisdom and dialect forms. The style he cultivated became as fake as the cause he was faking commitment to.

His whole oeuvre is a Sisyphean labour to reconcile his highly cultivated and subtle tastes with the crudely heteronomous demands which he desperately imposed on himself. (p.188)

I must admit, when I read this the scales fell from my eyes and I realised the entire diction of Brecht’s poems, which I love in translation, may be fake. This doesn’t invalidate the aesthetic experience of reading them because you now regard them to be as stylised and formalised as Icelandic skaldic metres or medieval flyting; but it tends to hole the political content below the waterline.

The editors defend Brecht

The editors explain why both Adorno and Lukács had such a problem with Brecht. It’s because they were philosophers who, in their different ways, were working within the German Idealist tradition with its contested notions of reality and the real. Their notions of Marxist art were (in different ways) based on long traditions of existing aesthetic theory (or ‘ideologies of art’). As such they spent a lot of time arguing about the precise meaning of ‘reality’ and ‘realism’.

By contrast Brecht, untrained as a philosopher, was wonderfully free and easy: for him Reality referred to the current situation in contemporary capitalist society and Realism could use any tools that came to hand to depict it: these could be ‘modernist’ techniques of the kind Lukács hated such as placards, actors swapping roles or stopping the play to lecture the audience, sirens and sound effects, film projections, and all the rest of it; or very old-fashioned types of continuous narrative, fairy or folk tale, which orthodox Marxists decried as bourgeois throwbacks. Didn’t matter to Brecht as long as they helped get the job done. And the job was?

His constant effort was not to dispense truths to a passive audience in the manner of George Bernard Shaw, but to provide structured possibilities for reflection on the nature of capitalist (and socialist) relations and the place of the spectator within them. (p.148)

As we’ve seen, Adorno goes on to deprecate, indeed mock this ambition, accusing Brecht of almost childish simplicity. Still, as the editors go on to point out, given a choice between Adorno’s sterile and grossly pessimistic Kulturkritik, or Brecht’s boisterous invention of new approaches and techniques, we know which one was to have the lasting impact on theatre and drama, even to this day.

Thoughts

Notes from a lost world

All a long time ago, wasn’t it? I know we still live in a capitalist system, that commodity capitalism has been rampant for decades, and digital technology has pushed the reification of individual consciousness – or our divisions into homogenised groups or herds with little or no space for individual thought – deeper than ever before.

But when Adorno writes that one must take sides in the Great Battle between capitalism and communism (‘no-one is any longer exempt from the conflict between the two great power blocs’), and that the decisions one makes are all made under the imminent threat of nuclear apocalypse – well, that worldview and its fraught intensity, its urgency and terror, have vanished into history.

Whenever I try to explain to my kids what it was like to grow up in a world divided into a capitalist bloc and a communist bloc, in which a lot of people were terrified a nuclear apocalypse was going to occur at any moment, they look at me like I’m mad.

Pleasure

It is an intellectual pleasure to read these debates from a lost world. Some aspects of them suddenly flare up and you realise they are as applicable to today, 2026, as to the world of the 1930s or ’50s. But large chunks of the discourse generated by very educated Germans arguing about the precise meaning of terms derived from Hegel via Marx’s multitudinous writings, and then distorted by Soviet propaganda, and then given additional meaning by utterance during the dark days of the Cold War – it’s like reading medieval theologians debating whether Arminius or Arius had the correct definition of the trinity.

And this indicates why it is hard to understand all these guys say. They come not only from another time, but another tradition, the tradition of German philosophy and German literature which next to none of us Anglophones understand. Particularly for the English, characterising themselves as bumbling fools, all Jeeves and Wooster and Dad’s Army, it’s almost impossible to imagine a culture which is so unremittingly serious and grimly humourless, which was in a state of permanent crisis from 1914 until well after the Second World War, maybe until the fall of the wall in 1990. Everything is on a tragic knife edge all the time. It’s thrilling to enter this nightmare world of endless Angst for a while but an extraordinary relief to put the book down and walk out into the sunshine.

Last thought

I am well aware that I am an amateur in these subjects. I can see large passages in all these essays which I only partially understand or don’t ‘get’ at all. I can grasp distinctions and thrusts of argument but not the whole, because I lack a really deep grounding in the basic German philosophical worldview, and would need specific coaching in the key ideas from Hegel onwards, which Adorno in particularly throws around so confidently.

So these ‘summaries’ aren’t really summaries of the essays but of what is, for me with my severe limitations, summarisable. Many aspects escape me altogether, others I feel but are too fugitive for me to write out in my plain man’s English.

But, paradoxically, this is one of the things that make them productive and addictive. Every time I reread these essays and books I get something new, see something from a new angle. I wonder whether contemporary readers of these essays felt like this. Did they, also, struggle with understanding the whole thing? Were they, also, struck by one dazzling sentence alone which they took away to hoard and ponder over?

They’re old, they come from a lost world, many of their attitudes seem incomprehensible or laughable to us now – and yet the power of many of their ideas about art and literature and culture, distorted and refracted by the shimmering currents of time, still bite, still illuminate, still inspire. Despite never understanding everything they’re saying, despite only following maybe less than half the argument sometimes, I’m an addict. I love them.

Just that idea towards the end, that Kafka and Beckett do to the imagination what Sartre, in a much more rational and superficial ways, is politely asking literature to do, is a dazzling thought.

And the Commitment essays ends with another dazzler when Adorno himself draws a distinction between German philosophy and French philosophy. In France, virtually all aesthetics has a tinge of art for art’s sake, of advanced aestheticism. Adorno doesn’t say so, but France is the country of fashion and cuisine, everything is done with a flourish. Therefore, when Sartre called for an aesthetics of serious political commitment it amounted to a genuine revolt against the national tradition of wit and style.

By complete contrast, German aesthetics have always been dogged by high moral seriousness; it is a tradition of killjoys, ascetics and moralists. Therefore 1) to a German, Sartre’s Frenchified call for ‘commitment’ was preaching to the choir, was pushing at an open door, in fact prompted critics like Adorno himself to dwell mostly on the superficiality of Sartre’s position. And by the same token, 2) Brecht can be regarded as simply a direct continuation of the German tradition i.e. hectoring everyone with his (often extremely simplistic) moral lectures.

This opens up the question of national characteristics, the differences between French and German thought which have been touched on in these essays, but are explored in more detail in Eugene Lunn’s book, my review of which will be published next week.


Credit

All these texts had been previously published, some going back to the 1930s. English translations were made in the 1960s and ’70s. This assembly of English translations, with the title ‘Aesthetics and Politics’, was first published by New Left Books in 1977. Page references are to the 1980 Verso Books paperback edition. All quotations are for the purposes of criticism and review.

Related reviews

Western Marxism

Communism reviews

Aesthetics and Politics 3: Adorno and Benjamin

You know that the subject of ‘the liquidation of art’ has for many years underlain my aesthetic studies.
(Adorno to Benjamin, 18 March 1936)

The third ‘presentation’ in the 1977 collection, ‘Aesthetics and Politics’, concerns a dialogue between the Marxist philosopher and critic Theodor Adorno (born 1903) and the critic and essayist Walter Benjamin (born 1892).

After Hitler came to power in Germany (in March 1933) Benjamin (a Jew) fled to Paris. For a while Adorno (a Gentile, not a political activist) was allowed free passage in and out of Germany, but in 1938 he left permanently to settle, along with the Institute for Social Research of which he was a leading figure, in New York.

This presentation consists of four letters, three from Adorno to Benjamin, one from Benjamin back to Adorno. The crucial point is that, as the 1930s wore on, Benjamin became increasingly and then solely reliant on a stipend from the Institute, and so Adorno’s criticisms of his work, and the conditions he set on publishing it, had a more than theoretical importance.

Timeline

The pair first met in 1923. After an initial attraction to Judaism and Zionism, Benjamin became attracted to Marxism and visited the Soviet Union in 1926 to ’27. In 1928 Benjamin began work on what would become his monster work about Paris at the time of the lyric poet Charles Baudelaire (1821 to 1867). In 1929 Benjamin met and became close friends with Bertolt Brecht. In 1935 Adorno wrote a detailed critique of the first version of Benjamin’s Baudelaire work. In 1936 Adorno wrote critiquing Benjamin’s famous essay, ‘The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction’. At the end of 1937 the two men met in Italy to discuss Benjamin’s works in progress. In March 1938 Adorno left for New York. Later that year he disliked a draft of the middle section of the Baudelaire piece so much that he refused to publish it in the Institute’s journal, forcing Benjamin to radically rework it, resulting in ‘On some motifs in Baudelaire’, which the Institute did publish in 1939 (and which is included in the ‘Illuminations’ collection). The only important work Benjamin wrote after this was the Theses on The Philosophy of History, completed only a few months before his suicide in September 1940.

Benjamin had been early attracted to Judaism and mysticism but in the late 1920s gravitated towards communism. Adorno was 11 years younger and brooked no mystical nonsense. His field was modern German music and he had studied under Schoenberg, no less. The two men had a shared veneration of Kafka but other tastes differed. Benjamin had a taste for Paris (as the obsession with Baudelaire indicates) and a sympathy with surrealism. Adorno had spent time in Vienna and had a much better appreciation of Freud than Benjamin did. Adorno (and Benjamin’s friend Gershom Scholem, born 1897) lamented Benjamin’s friendship with Brecht, who they both thought was a bad influence on him. They thought Brecht was pulling Benjamin away from his naturally subtle insights towards more blunt agitprop.

The discourse these guys conducted themselves in, deriving from the windy generalisations of German philosophy and Marxist discourse in particular, is often hard to understand:

Adorno pointed out that Benjamin’s use of Marx’s category of commodity fetishism unwarrantably subjectivised it, by converting it from an objective structure of exchange-value into a delusion of individual consciousness. (p.102)

Adorno detected lots of religious mystical structures and suppositions lurking beneath even Benjamin’s most overtly Marxist rhetoric.

At the same time, implicit valorization of myth could lead both to romantic nostalgia for a primal unity with nature as the realm of lost social innocence, or to its obverse, utopian visions of classlessness that were more ‘classless’ (in a bad sense) than utopian. (p.103)

Adorno’s basic criticism of Benjamin’s Arcades project was that, although it was packed with historical details (even trivia) about mid-nineteenth century Paris, many of the details were wrong as were the historical conclusions Benjamin drew from them.

For example, the premise of the work was that commodity capitalism was something utterly new which resulted in a new kind of consciousness which was reflected in the novelty of Baudelaire’s poetry. Adorno simply pointed out that ‘commodities’ had in fact been part of European economic systems going back to the Middle Ages.

He pointed out that ‘the snob’ was not at all the same thing as ‘the dandy’ (p.119), that Wagner’s Gesamtkunstwerk was not at all the same thing as art for art’s sake (p.119), that bricks had preceded not followed steel as a building material (p.115), and so on. The editors give more examples of the way Adorno told Benjamin to go back to the drawing board (much to Benjamin’s demoralisation).

Benjamin reworked his massive Arcades project into a shorter work made up of three pieces: 1) a study of Baudelaire as allegorist; 2) a study of the social world he wrote in; 3) a study of the commodity as poetic object, which would bring together evidence from parts 1 and 2. It was the middle piece he posted to Adorno in New York who, once again, came back with objections. Adorno objected that it was just ‘an artless catalogue of facts’ with little or no theory or, as the editors put it:

Specific contents of Baudelaire’s poetry were reduced to economic peripetaia of the time, whereas a global account of the social structure as a whole could alone mediate a genuinely Marxist decipherment of his literary achievement. (p.104)

Benjamin wrote back clarifying that the Marxist interpretation was precisely what he was holding back for part 2. But the editors are sympathetic to Adorno’s basic insight into Benjamin’s weakness for the mystical power of words, for accumulations of facts for their own sake, to incantations, to what in other reviews we’ve noticed as his passion for quotes and fragments, to the fundamentally religious turn of Benjamin’s mind.

Hence the rewriting of some of the Paris material into ‘On some motifs in Baudelaire’ which Adorno’s Institute did, finally, publish in 1939. The editors think it was a loss. The presence of Kagel and Jung in the original version had been erased and replaced by Freud, on the recommendation of Adorno, but the Freud of the weaker, later, metapsychological works. In addition, Benjamin had opened the original piece with an extended summary of Marx’s opinion of other revolutionary writers of the 1840s, and closed with a hymn to the revolutionary writer, Blanqui, but all this was quietly cut from the New York version.

Same with the version of The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction published by the Institute. Benjamin’s original opens with a very political call to revolution which the Institute simply cut, watering down other references to communism or revolution into euphemisms.

In this essay, Benjamin proposed the rather ludicrous notion that the visual and aural shocks delivered by modern cinema paralleled the shocks the masses experience in their evermore alienated lives and so have the potential to shock them out of their passive slumber and into revolutionary consciousness.

Adorno criticises this, but from a particular perspective. Pupil of Schoenberg, Adorno was an unwavering advocate of the sternest avant-garde and, as such, a withering critic of everything to do with popular or commercial art forms, chief of which was, of course, cinema, which he roundly despised as ‘mimetic and infantilist’. The American film industry, in particular, was a vehicle of bourgeois ideology, nothing more. No surprise that Benjamin’s idea that the expertise generated in the regular moviegoer could somehow be the basis of revolutionary understanding, is dismissed by Adorno.

Politically, it forgot Lenin’s critique of spontaneism, which Adorno interpreted as precluding any merely optimistic attribution to the working class of an immediate capacity to master the progressive potential or latent meaning of new forms of art, without the assimilation of theoretical knowledge. (p.107)

The editors agree that Benjamin was too influenced by Brecht’s tendency to ‘hypostatize techniques in abstraction from relations of production’; they support Adorno’s insistence on traditional forms of concentration in the face of aesthetic objects.

On the other hand, Adorno made some major and embarrassing mistakes of his own, his famous dismissal of jazz being ‘notoriously myopic and rearguard’ (p.107). Some Marxists supported jazz as a) the art form of the subjugated Black race and b) an example of modern collectivism. Adorno dismissed this by focusing just on the mechanical riffing of the big bands of the 1930s, failing to understand that jazz was a form with a past and a quickly evolving and responsive future.

But anyway – both, deep down, were cultural conservatives, lamenting the loss of the high culture of their bourgeois childhoods, Benjamin lamenting the advent of sound in the movies and Adorno lamenting pretty much everything about the modern world.

In fact you could argue that neither of these geniuses knew what they were talking about. Benjamin had little grasp of the actual production of films, or of the economics of it as an industry, or gave any detail of film’s impact on popular culture, in terms of people copying film actors’ behaviour, gestures and catchphrases. While Adorno’s contemptuous dismissal of jazz also overlooks its place as 1) the first art form entirely invented by America and 2) entirely created by Blacks, the huge impact it had on popular music across the western world, and 3) the speed at which it evolved into new forms and styles.

Both men became tangled in messy controversies about ‘high’ art while remaining ignorant of the explosion of new forms and technologies to which they are very poor guides.

The editors snappily summarise the basic binary, the two poles of high and low culture ‘under capitalism’ is caught between, as the ‘autistically advanced or collusively popular’ (p.109). None of them were to know the 1980s the whole landscape was to be transformed by the revolution of postmodernism which undermined old notions of ‘high’ and elite art, which I take to mean: ‘Stop worrying; it’s all good.’

Lolz

I couldn’t help laughing when I came across this sentence in one of Adorno’s letters chastising Benjamin:

Let me express myself in as simple and Hegelian a manner as possible. (p.128)

Yes. What could be simpler and clearer than Hegelian philosophy?


Credit

All the texts had been previously published, some going back to the 1930s. English translations were made in the 1960s and 70s. This assembly of texts with the title ‘Aesthetics and Politics’ was first published by New Left Books in 1977. Page references are to the 1980 Verso Books paperback edition. All quotations are for the purposes of criticism and review.

Related reviews

Western Marxism

Communism reviews

Aesthetics and Politics 2: Brecht against Lukács (1938)

‘Aesthetics and Politics’

In ‘Aesthetics and Politics’, published in 1977, the editors arrange texts by the godfathers of Western Marxism (Ernst Bloch, Gyorgi Lukács, Bertolt Brecht, Walter Benjamin and Theodor Adorno) into four ‘presentations’ or sets of texts in dialogue with each other. Each ‘presentation’ has a brief introduction by the editors and the whole volume is tied up with a pink ribbon (afterword) by the eminent American Marxist academic, Frederick Jameson (1934 to 2024).

(All translations are by Stuart Hood)

Presentation 2: Brecht against Lukács

In 1937 Bertolt Brecht became caught up in the controversy about Expressionism raging in the pages of the expatriate Marxist magazine Das Wort (described in some detail in Presentation 1) not least because he was nominally on the editorial board, although since the offices were in Moscow and Brecht was in exile in faraway Denmark, he had little practical say.

The controversy stemmed from a sustained attack by Hungarian Marxist critic György Lukács on the literary and artistic movement of Expressionism, very influential in German culture before, during and after the Great War.

Outraged by Lukács’s article, Brecht wrote four short replies. In the event they weren’t published during his lifetime. No one knows why but the most likely reason is that by 1938, when Brecht wrote them, Lukács’s position in Moscow had become very strong (the editors of the book go to some trouble to explain that Lukács had independently arrived at the Socialist Realism position before it became official doctrine during 1934). Lukács was mostly interested in literary theory, but his position was echoed by doctrinal attacks on ‘left’ intellectuals which began to be emitted by all mouthpieces of the Soviet state. Brecht felt threatened and rightly so.

Brecht against Lukács

Brecht’s four short pieces attack Lukács’s position at its weakest point. This is the idea that realism in the novel, which reached its peak in the bourgeois society of the nineteenth century, with its particular arrangements of technology and social classes, could possibly be appropriate to the utterly transformed situation of the early twentieth century, awash with completely new technologies and under the star of the rising proletariat. Why should nineteenth century bourgeois authors be held up as models for twentieth century progressive writers?

Society itself no longer produced character types like the ones that fill Balzac and Tolstoy. For a start, the liberation of women rendered most nineteenth century fiction completely inappropriate to the modern world.

Brecht writes that Lukács accused everyone else of ‘formalism’ but he was the one who had fallen into the formalism of deducing norms for writers based on timeless, unchanging nineteenth century models, ignoring the basic Marxist tenet that society changes and evolves, as must the arts which reflect it.

Reality changes; in order to represent it, modes of representation must also change. (p.82)

True realism isn’t defined by ‘forms’ at all but is an approach, a mindset, a political and philosophical vision of the world and the political struggles which divide it.

Realistic means: discovering the causal complexes of society / unmasking the prevailing view of things as the view of those who are in power / writing from the standpoint of the class which offers the broadest solutions for the pressing difficulties in which human society is caught up / emphasising the element of development / making possible the concrete and making possible abstraction from it. (p.82)

Brecht pointed out the extremely narrow evidence base of Lukács’s aesthetic, based as it is on just one genre, The Novel, from just one era, the nineteenth century, ignoring all other genres, media and forms from history – an extremely narrow plank to build a worldview on, to legislate and insist all writers follow as Holy Writ.

By contrast Brecht insisted on the right of any artists to experiment and fail, or only partially succeed. Only then can artistic response to the changing nature of the world, even the Marxist artist’s response, stand a chance of being adequate and appropriate to ever-changing social and political conditions.

Interior monologue and montage (the two modernist techniques Lukács regularly singled out for criticism) and lots of other new techniques are entirely justified because they seek to reflect new, changed realities of the society we live in.

Literature cannot be forbidden to employ skills newly acquired by contemporary man, such as the capacity for simultaneous registration, bold abstraction or swift combination. (p.75)

On the question of accessibility to the masses, Brecht reminds Lukács that many working class people might struggle with the very long, often very boring novels of Balzac or Tolstoy; whereas he, Brecht, knew from experience, that his fast-moving plays made up of snappy scenes and featuring projections and placards, were extremely popular with workers who ‘got’ the techniques straightaway (described at length on pages 82 to 84).

In the third essay he makes an interesting point. He describes the nature of characters in Lukács’s beloved Balzac and explains how they are often monsters, creatures of dark and light, colourful and vivid because they lived in the first flush of capitalism, when it was exploding in all directions. A hundred years later, in the Soviet Union, a new kind of character is emerging, formed not by the patriarchal family but by communal rearing and equality. Maybe the nature of individuality itself is different in the 1930s and quite simply cannot be captured by a model created in a different time, place and stage of development of capitalism. Literature has to change because the nature of subjectivity has changed.

In his diary of staying for a while with Brecht in Denmark in 1938, Walter Benjamin recorded that Brecht was worried by the rise of Lukács and his henchmen in Moscow. Brecht characterised them to Benjamin:

‘They are, to put it bluntly, enemies of production. Production makes them uncomfortable. You never know where you are with production; production is the unforeseeable. You never know what’s going to come out. And they themselves don’t want to produce. They want to play the apparatchik and exercise control over other people. Every one of their criticisms contains a threat.’

In defence of Lukács

These four short responses were never published in Brecht’s lifetime and only came to light in the 1960s. Since then Brecht’s arguments have found sympathetic ears, in fact they have come to appear axiomatic. Of course, we agree, the artist must be allowed to experiment and fail; of course art must find ever new channels and forms, we all agree. All Brecht’s points seem like common sense, which is why it’s so interesting reading them among the other documents from the time – to realise just how embattled many of the attitudes we nowadays take for granted were back in those troubled times.

But despite our sympathy for his arguments, these four little pieces are quite fragmented and anecdotal. Although he tries to copy the pseudo-Hegelian jargon of ‘the subject’ and, of course, invokes communist rhetoric about ‘the revolution’, ‘the masses’, ‘the struggle’ and so on, you can tell Brecht completely lacked the philosophical depth, rigour or thoroughness to take Lukács on on his home ground. Because, as the book’s editors put it:

For all its narrowness and rigidity, Lukács’s work represented a real attempt to construct a systematic Marxist account of the historical development of European literature from the Enlightenment onwards. The precepts for twentieth century art with which it concluded were often nostalgic or retrograde; but analytically it was far more serious in its attention to the past, as the precondition of the present, than anything Brecht was to assay. (p.64)

And this is very much the impression you always get from reading Lukács – no matter how wrong-headed his conclusions might seem, they are based on an impressively well worked-out, thorough and complete philosophical-aesthetic position. I always find myself agreeing with the logic even while deploring the outcome. Or, as the editors put it:

Brecht’s precepts were far more emancipated than those of Lukács, but his theoretical reach was much shallower.

In fact, Brecht’s aesthetics was often little more than notes to whatever he was writing at the time, an accompaniment to his production notes. As such they’re of interest to Brecht scholars or fans of the plays; they shed all kinds of anecdotal light on his working methods, especially how he researched and thought about subjects. And his thoughts feel right, again and again. But they lack what the experts call ‘academic rigour’.

One of my basic mental models is the difference between Ludwig Wittgenstein‘s first and second philosophical systems. In the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus of 1922 Wittgenstein set out to write a complete and definitive explanation of language philosophy by defining the logical structure of language. Everything worth knowing was included within his framework of definitions; everything outside it was not proper knowledge.

Then, 30 years later, after the Second World War, came the notes which make up his second philosophy, the ‘Philosophical Investigations’, in which Wittgenstein abandoned the attempt to systematise human knowledge as impossible. Instead he falls back on the notion that knowledge consists of an infinite number of interlocking language games. Rules of this or that game can be explicated but no one set of rules could possibly capture the entire system.

Wittgenstein’s two theories can humorously be characterised as ‘Complete But Wrong’ and ‘Right But Hopelessly Fragmented’ – and these joke categories apply very well to the Brecht-Lukács controversy. Lukács’s system (in its limited area, the nineteenth century novel and his dismissal of all modernism) is impressively thorough and coherent and insightful – yet somehow misses everything that is vital and interesting and new about 20th century literature. Brecht’s position lacked the philosophical completeness of Lukács and yet bristled with ideas and suggestions which command our modern sympathies.

Presentation 2b: Conversations with Brecht

Ten pages of diary entries by Walter Benjamin recording conversations with Brecht, at sporadic dates from 1934 to 1938. Fascinating, insightful and sometimes moving.

On 24 July 1934, Benjamin noted: ‘On a beam which supports the ceiling of Brecht’s study are painted the words: ‘Truth is concrete.’ On a window-sill stands a small wooden donkey which can nod its head. Brecht has hung a little sign round its neck on which he has written: ‘Even I must understand it.’

I’ve spent most of my adult life feeling like that donkey.


Credit

All the texts had been previously published, some going back to the 1930s. English translations were made in the 1960s and 70s. This assembly of texts with the title ‘Aesthetics and Politics’ was first published by New Left Books in 1977. Page references are to the 1980 Verso Books paperback edition. All quotations are for the purposes of criticism and review.

Related reviews

Western Marxism

Communism reviews

Aesthetics and Politics 1: Bloch and Lukács (1937)

‘Aesthetics and Politics’

In ‘Aesthetics and Politics’, published in 1977, the editors arrange texts by the godfathers of Western Marxism (Ernst Bloch, Gyorgi Lukács, Bertolt Brecht, Walter Benjamin and Theodor Adorno) into four ‘presentations’ or sets of texts in dialogue with each other. Each ‘presentation’ has a brief introduction by the editors and the whole volume is tied up with a pink ribbon (afterword) by the eminent American Marxist academic, Frederick Jameson (1934 to 2024).

Presentation 1: Bloch and Lukács

(All translations by Rodney Livingstone)

Ernst Bloch (1885 to 1977) and György Lukács (1885 to 1971) were friends in pre-war Germany who encouraged each other’s studies and talked about collaborating on a book about aesthetics. They diverged at the war, Lukács enlisting in the Hungarian Army, Bloch going to Switzerland as a pacifist. After the war Bloch published ‘Geist der Utopie’ (1918) (‘The Spirit of Utopia’) ‘a peculiar amalgam of biblical, Marxist, and Expressionist’ thoughts. In 1923 Lukács published his pioneering collection of essays ‘History and Class Consciousness’ which is widely seen as starting the current of thought that came to be known as ‘Western Marxism’. Bloch, while a sort of Marxist, was truer to his romantic visions of utopia. Much more hard-headed Lukács served in the 1919 communist regime in Hungary before it was overthrown, at which he fled west although he ended up in the Soviet Union in the late 1920s, where he defended the policy of Socialist Realism, after its promulgation in 1934.

In 1935 the Comintern adopted the Popular Front Against Fascism strategy and set up a German-language cultural magazine, Das Wort. In 1937 this published a long article critical of the German art and literature movement of Expressionism from the first decade of the century, accusing it of being symptomatic of the trends in German society which would lead to Nazism. There was a flood of protests and essays against the article, the most notable one being a prolonged defence of Expressionism by Bloch. This in turn triggered a reply and renewed attack by Lukács. The Bloch letter and the Lukács defence are the two texts which make up this presentation.

1. György Lukács’s view

The late-nineteenth century in Germany was characterised by escapist ideologies which conjured away the link between ideology and economics or politics. The Expressionist writers were a literary equivalent of this. They pursued an essence through stylisation and abstraction. They claimed to be searching for a deeper ‘reality’ but in fact only expressed their inner subjectivity.

They are part of the late-19th century mystification of imperialism, concealing politico-economic realities behind artistic ‘innovations’.

Lukács hammers all forms of modernism for their elitism: it was very consciously an art for The Few, for an elite circle who could appreciate its formal innovations (and, in its written form, its obscurity), so he unrelentingly criticises:

formalist modernism, bereft of content, cut off from the mainstream of society. (p.49)

3. Ernst Bloch’s view

Bloch attacks Lukács’s entire approach, starting with the way he focuses on Expressionist texts and doesn’t even consider Expressionist art, which was arguably the most vital aspect of Expressionism: nowhere in his essay does he mention a single painter.

Instead Lukács 1) focuses solely on the written word of the Expressionist poets and writers, but 2) even worse, cites mainly secondary pieces, prefaces and introductions and articles, rather than the texts themselves. Out of these he constructs a straw man, a kind of overall ideology which he attributes to all the Expressionists, and then proceeds to demolish them all for their obfuscation of social realities, their subjectivism, and their irrationalism… which he sees, with deliberate simplification, leading to Nazism. Is such a superficial summary going to help? No.

Abstract methods of thought which seek to skim over recent decades of our cultural history, ignoring everything which is not purely proletarian, are hardly likely to provide these solutions. (p.27)

In Marxist terminology, Bloch defends the Expressionists for aptly expressing the disintegration of the old bourgeois modes of expression while those of the proletariat were as yet unformed i.e. they reflected the times in appropriate artistic form.

Contrary to the charge of ‘elitism’, the Expressionists revived interest in traditional forms of folk art, specifically the folk tradition of painting on glass, which they discovered round the Bavarian town of Murnau where they settled before the war (pages 24 and 26). (Some of this was covered in the Tate exhibition about the Blue Rider and Expressionism.)

Bloch makes the simple point that, if the Expressionists were in some way forebears of Nazi irrationalism, how come that at the same time Lukács was writing his attack (summer 1937), Hitler himself opened an exhibition of ‘degenerate art’ which featured many Expressionist painters? In attacking Expressionism, Lukács puts himself on the same side as Hitler (pages 17, 23 and 25). Embarrassing…

Bloch says Lukács makes a ridiculous move which is to accuse the Expressionists of supporting imperialism because they didn’t explicitly oppose it. If you follow that logic, then any art or literature produced in the so-called imperialist era, even if it questions or critiques its society, will be lumped together with the ruling class. In a sense, no-one can escape Lukács’s accusation (which was, of course, very much the vibe of Stalinism).

Bloch criticises Lukács’s use of Stalinist abuse

Bloch points out something which is more obvious to us today, which is Lukács’s use of abuse. Ninety years later this often reads as comic but it is the kind of livid vituperation which Stalin’s lickspittles launched from podiums and journals and which could ruin people’s lives, sending them to the gulags or to their execution, so it’s also quite spine-chilling.

Lukács starts off mildly, criticising the ‘ideology of escapism’ before moving on to criticise the Expressionist poets for their ‘pretentious showiness’ and ‘tinny monumentality’, demonstrating ‘the forlorn perplexity of the petit-bourgeois caught up in the wheels of capitalism’.

Bloch points out several times that the Expressionists (in their bourgeois spiritual way) opposed the Great War. Yes, says Lukács, but it was the wrong kind of pacifism, it was ‘a pseudo-critical, misleadingly abstract, mythicizing form of imperialist pseudo-opposition’ (p.19).

And I smiled at Lukács’s dismissal of montage, so important in modernist film (Eisenstein etc) and to Walter Benjamin, but dismissed by Lukács as ‘junk clumsily glued together’ (p.23).

Even when he’s not sneering, it’s difficult to tell where Lukács’s critique ends and plain abuse begins. Thus Bloch is awed by the way Lukács doesn’t stop with the Expressionists but goes back to the Impressionists. All of these ‘modern’ painters come under Lukács’s withering criticism and are accused of being visual symptoms of the decline of the West and the collapse of perception into random subjectivity due to ‘the widespread alienation of the subject’ which he thinks characterises bourgeois society, leading to:

a vacuity of content… which manifests itself artistically in the accumulation of insubstantial, merely subjectively significant surface details.

And any sign of ‘subjectivity’, in artists or writers, is damned by Lukács.

Bloch on Socialist Realism

And Bloch has his own words of criticism for the new doctrine of Socialist Realism which Lukács made himself such a supporter of, which are worth singling out and quoting:

A third-hand classicism which calls itself ‘socialist realism’ and is administered as such. Superimposed on architecture, painting and writing of the Revolution, it is stifling them. (p.25)

3. Lukács’s response

Lukács’s response to Bloch’s letter is five times as long. Like so many philosophers and polemicists, Lukács doesn’t address the issues Bloch raised so much as move the goalposts to new ground which suits him better, and starts by stating the basis of his position.

Lukács’s whole position is premised on the notion of totality. He defines the core issue under debate in philosophical terms, the question being:

Does the ‘closed integration’, the ‘totality’ of the capitalist system, of bourgeois society, with its unity of economics and ideology, really form an objective whole, independent of consciousness? (p.31)

The answer is yes. Lukács cites first Marx and then Lenin on the importance for philosophy, dialectic etc of grasping the totality of a society, from its economic and technological roots, through the relations of production and distribution, up to the ideological superstructure which justified it.

Starting from this premise, you can see why Lukács promotes social realism because he sees this as the only school which makes the effort (and he repeats the idea that it’s hard work to dig below the surface of bourgeois reality) to place their characters and fictions in the broadest, deepest context of society as it actually is.

The best art, in Lukács’s view, must faithfully depict society as a whole. This is the basis of Lukács’s rejection of all modernisms, and promotion of the novels of Honoré de Balzac, the great French realist, as the model for good communist literature in the 1930s.

Bloch had accused him of promoting a shallow neo-classicism but Lukács refutes this by naming Thomas and Heinrich Mann and Rolland Romain as writers at the peak of their powers who are writing in the realist mode.

And so, logically enough, you can see why Lukács is able to dismiss a good deal of modernism as an obstinate insistence on staying on the surface of things. Hence his rejection of surrealism (splicing together random everyday objects with no attempt at a totalising vision of society) or James Joyce’s stream of consciousness (similar reason, a flow of trivia from the unmediated surface of the mind).

Thus it is that Lukács can reject Bloch’s claim that the Expressionists reflected the fragmentation of bourgeois society, insisting, on the contrary, that capitalism forms a unitary whole and that therefore, in their subjectivism and fragmented approach, the Expressionists were rejecting reality.

Expressionism repudiated any connection with reality and declared a subjectivist war on reality and all its works. (p.40)

Lukács promoted organic and coherent work from which all heterogeneous material, especially conceptual material i.e. the work of art thinking about itself, commenting on its own form etc, as so much modernist art does – has been excluded.

[N.B. this debate took place at precisely the moment when the Soviet authorities promulgated the doctrine of Socialist Realism, first mentioned at the First Congress of Soviet Writers in 1934. So Lukács was not only falling into line with, but being seen to fall into line with, the very latest thinking in Soviet propaganda. Hence the confidence of his abuse. If they had had the misfortune to live in the USSR, you get the impression Lukács would have approved all the modernists writers and artists being rounded up and shipped off to Siberia.]

As to Bloch’s claim that the Expressionists championed ‘popular’ art, Lukács dismisses this as just their idiosyncratic fads. But, being very clever, Lukács makes his dismissal persuasive. He summarises Bloch’s praise of the Expressionists for reviving an interest in folk art, the drawings of children and prisoners, the works of the mentally ill and primitive art, but:

Such a view of popular art succeeds in confusing all the issues. Popular art does not imply an ideologically indiscriminate, ‘arty’ appreciation of ‘primitive’ products by connoisseurs. Truly popular art has nothing in common with any of that for if it did, any swank who collects stained glass or negro sculpture, any snob who celebrates insanity as the emancipation of mankind from the fetters of the mechanistic mind, could claim to be a champion of popular art. (p.53)

Mass appeal is not the same as ‘popular’. Truly popular art affirms 1) the most optimistic attitude of the people and 2) in a mode most understandable by the widest number i.e. traditional art shows The People in heroic postures i.e. Socialist Realism i.e. Soviet propaganda.

Lukács goes on to make a clever move. Bloch had accused him of making the existence of any avant-garde in late capitalism impossible. But Lukács cleverly redefines the whole notion of avant-garde. Dismissing the entire line which leads from the impressionists, through post-impressionists, Symbolism, Expressionists, Dada to Surrealism as one-dimensional, subjective and arbitrary, he asserts that it is the ongoing realist authors (who he supports) who are the true avant-garde. This is because, due to their immersion in social reality in its full complexity, they generate characters who were later to be proved by history. Thus the realist novels of Gorky created characters who were prophetic of conditions now, in the USSR; some of the characters in Heinrich Mann’s novels anticipate the rise of the vengeful petty bourgeoisie which underpins Nazism; the novels of Arnold Zweig anticipate the conditions of the new capitalist war about to break out in the 1930s, and so on.

Really great realism delves so deep into social relations that it anticipates future developments of society.

To discern and give shape to such underground trends is the great historical mission of the true avant-garde… only the major realists are capable of forming a genuine avant-garde. (p.48)

Stylish move. Five out of five from the judges.

Lukács’s insights

Once you see things from Lukács’s point of view, it’s enjoyable to savour the insights which follow from it. He has a good half page characterising the strengths and weaknesses of photomontage (at first exciting, ultimately boring) and is perceptive about the failure of Symbolism, because the link between the sensuous symbol and its meaning was so often subjective and idiosyncratic…

In contrast to all those other movements, his model of realism reflects the totality of a society, grasps the complexity of all its relationship, detects social trends of the future. Modernism is one-dimensional, obsessed with surfaces and fragments, all too often tied to the artist’s personal subjectivity, i.e. actively against the holistic analysis of total society which realism offers.

Literature and the Popular Front

Lukács concludes by tying this argument about the nature of Expressionism to the political context of 1937, namely the new policy announced by the Communist International of forging a Popular Front with progressive parties outside the communist orbit, to create broad coalitions against Fascism.

The Popular Front strategy required recruiting as many people as possible to the cause. And Lukács ends with a sustained and impassioned plea that doing this requires building an appropriate literature, one that is 1) as open and welcoming as possible i.e. readers can access it from many different angles and 2) that is inspiring and optimistic, given the difficulty of the struggle. This is achieved by the kind of socialist realism he is promoting and is very much not the applicable to the modernisms such as Expressionism, which 1) are elite, difficult to understand, hard to get into, require higher education, and 2) are consistently negative and pessimistic.

Commentary

Entertaining

The dialogue offers the same kind of pleasure as reading about the early Christian heretics: you can enjoy the cut and thrust of very clever men coming to blows about the precise nature of the trinity or Christ’s personhood, without needing to believe in any of it. Or watching a fencing match, the cut and thrust, watching them work out the detail of their argument from completely different premises. Fascinating.

Bloch correctly nails Lukács’s notorious blindspot, his lack of a flexible response to individual art works. Instead, Lukács conflated works into a class, by ‘movement’, then judged the entire block he’d created for its ideological appropriateness. This led to crudity and, often, sheer falseness.

On the other hand, Lukács’s criticism has an intellectual coherence which is often thrilling, and his historical accounts of the interaction between ideology and form, specifically in his history of The Novel, are full of insights.

Lukács is creepy but his intellectual approach is more thorough, comprehensive and consistent than Bloch’s, so there’s a purely intellectual pleasure in learning about his theory and understanding why it bore down his critics.

Marxism as a form of late-Victorian mysticism

As I read Lukács for the fourth or fifth time describing what hard work it was for the realist novel and the Marxist dialectician to delve below the surfaces of bourgeois society, to discover what’s really going on, to unearth the secrets of history, to expose the hidden workings of capitalist society etc etc – I suddenly realised how Marxism is a kind of mysticism.

If you joined a social democratic party you signed up to persuade people to vote for their manifesto. If you joined a communist party you joined a cult which promised a secret wisdom, a special knowledge, a privileged understanding of the hidden wellsprings of society, the deep laws of social change, the real meaning of life in an alienated capitalist society. It was much more than a political movement, it was a cult which offered 1) access to the deepest secrets of the world and 2) the promise that you were suddenly in the vanguard of social change, riding the express train of history.

You can compare it with the many other mystical cults which spread across European culture at just the same period – with theosophy, Rosicrucians, the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, the widespread appeal of clairvoyance and seances and psychic research, not to mention the many flavours of Catholic and Protestant Christianity with all their cults and flavours. Sometimes you wonder whether there was anybody who wasn’t part of a cult or group or movement or new religion in the 1920s and ’30s?

Supporters of tyranny

To step back a bit, at bottom we have two Marxist intellectuals squabbling over the failure of the revolutionary movement they both support and squabbling about who’s to blame for the rise of Nazism. They proffer an impressive range of scapegoats, singling out the German Socialist Party, the main left opposition in the German parliament (which is also singled out for criticism in Benjamin’s Theses on The Philosophy of History.) But as I read Lukács’s detailed blaming of other parties of the Lef,t a simple thought came to mind:

Why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?

The Weimar Republic was undermined from both ends of the political spectrum, by extremists who despised and undermined the democratic centrist parties. The communists were as keen to overthrow parliamentary democrcy as the Nazis, only the Nazis turned out to be better at the game of seizing power.

Obviously these Marxists (and we also) see the Nazi rise to power as a historical catastrophe. But the communists helped pave the way for it by systematically undermining ‘democratic norms’. Addicted to dialectical models as they were, none of them noticed that the two extremes of communists and fascists had a dialectical relationship with each other. Put more simply, the Fascists in Italy and the Nazis in Germany both came to power by playing on widespread fears that a Communist or Bolshevik revolution might happen in their respective countries. The communists with their declared intention to overthrow capitalism, confiscate all business and abolish private property, did more to scare the middle classes into the arms of the Fascists than any other historical force. Fascism is the logical consequence of the widespread fear caused by communism.

Contempt for the individual leads to tyranny

And a very notable aspect of their squabbling is the way neither Bloch nor Lukács talk about any of the poets or painters as individuals, but purely as symptoms or exemplars of their sweeping Hegelian-Marxist interpretations of history, considered in the light of an imaginary revolution. Individual names are mentioned but only as counters or pawns in sweeping generalisations about ‘bourgeois’ society or, at the end of the Lukács section, the Popular Front.

Both demonstrate a noticeable disregard for the individual artist or writer, in fact periodically signal an active contempt for individual writers or artists for cluttering up the purity of their sweeping generalisations about ‘society’ and ‘reality’. And whenever I noticed this I thought: ‘it’s this scanting of the individual, which both authors indulge in – this dismissal of individuality which is the doorway to oppression and tyranny’.

Fascinating though the cut and thrust of the debate is in its own terms, stepping back you can see how both Bloch and Lukács epitomised the intellectual disease for which they claimed to be the cure. 1) While they squabbled over which kind of poems should be published or paintings painted, the Nazis strolled to power and banned them all. But 2) reading Lukács in particular, you realise that, even if he had come to power again (after his brief spell in the Hungarian communist government of 1919) he also would have banned it all, just as quickly.

Bloch’s point, repeated three times, that Lukács, in criticising the Expressionists’ degeneracy is on the same side as Hitler, strikes me as being – from the perspective of 2026 – the most significant part of the text. By the mid-1930s Lukács was well entrenched in Stalin’s cultural totalitarianism. During the 1930s countless Russian artists, writers, composers would be arrested and sent to prison camps on the basis of the policies he elucidated so slickly. As you savour the impressive consistency and range of his theory, you also shiver, because its ‘objective’ impact was evil.

The documents impress you with how extraordinarily clever and intellectual to their fingertips these men were. And at the exact same time, just how sick German intellectual life was between the wars.

Lukács was quick to abuse the German imperialism of the Expressionist era but was a rock solid supporter of Soviet imperialism when it reached out to conquer and oppress all of Eastern Europe after the war, crushing workers’ risings in 1953, 1956, 1968. (If you think this is unfair, read the streams of abuse Adorno unleashes at Lukács’s dictatorial mindset in section 4 of this series, which I’ll publish on Friday.)

These texts are difficult and challenging (because of their sustained use of Hegelian and Marxist terminology). They yield many intellectual pleasures as you come to understand the premises and arguments they deploy against each other. But at bottom they are a kind of horror show. And make me thank God that I was born in England.


Credit

All these texts had been previously published, some going back to the 1930s. English translations were made in the 1960s and 70s. This assembly of English translations, with the title ‘Aesthetics and Politics’, was first published by New Left Books in 1977. Page references are to the 1980 Verso Books paperback edition. All quotations are for the purposes of criticism and review.

Related reviews

Western Marxism

Communism reviews

Hannah Arendt’s introduction to ‘Illuminations’ by Walter Benjamin (1968)

Illuminations by Walter Benjamin (1892 to 1940) was published in German by Suhrkamp Verlag in 1955. The (wonderfully clear) English translation by Harry Zohn was published in 1968 by Harcourt, Brace and World Inc. It was published in hardback in Britain by Jonathan Cape in 1970, and as a Fontana paperback in 1973.

The Fontana edition includes an Introduction by Hannah Arendt (1906 to 1975), herself a German-Jewish historian and philosopher, famous for her writings about totalitarianism and her account of the trial of Nazi war criminal Adolf Eichmann.

Summary of Arendt’s Introduction

Arendt’s Introduction is divided into three parts which are named after what Arendt considers central and recurring images or motifs in Benjamin’s thought, rather than coherent doctrines or ideas. Although she can pull rank about German philosophy when she feels like it, her fundamental approach is deeply biographical and impressionistic. This explains why you can work carefully through the 50 pages of text, as I did, frequently entertained and distracted, and yet emerge with not many useful takeaways.

1. The hunchback [Benjamin’s bad luck]

Hannah says Benjamin was, like Kafka, sui generis (one of a kind). He was a jack-of-all-trades and master of none, so she starts off by saying what he was not:

His erudition was great, but he was no scholar; his subject matter comprised texts and their interpretation, but he was no philologist; he was greatly attracted not by religion but by theology and the theological type of interpretation for which the text itself is sacred, but he was no theologian and he was not particularly interested in the Bible; he was a born writer, but his greatest ambition was to produce a work consisting entirely of quotations; he was the first German to translate Proust (together with Franz Hessel) and St.-John Perse, and before that he had translated Baudelaire’s Tableaux Parisiens, but he was no translator; he reviewed books and wrote a number of essays on living and dead writers, but he was no literary critic; he wrote a book about the German baroque and left behind a huge unfinished study of the French nineteenth century, but he was no historian, literary or otherwise; I shall try to show that he thought poetically, but he was neither a poet nor a philosopher.

This section focuses on the figure of the hunchback, which occurs in a German collection of folk stories and which Benjamin mentions in his memoir. Apparently German mothers blamed the legendary hunchback whenever there were childhood accidents or spills and so Arendt suggests that Benjamin lived under the sign of the hunchback. His was certainly a life marked by mistakes and miscalculations (an ‘inextricable net woven of merit, great gifts, clumsiness, and misfortune’) all leading up to his panic-stricken suicide on the Franco-Spanish border trying to flee from the Nazis in 1940. (Later, she gives the most detailed account I’ve read of the precise circumstances of his death, which makes it sound tragically unlucky.)

The hunchback presided over Benjamin’s bad luck at not getting a university career, failing to get the PhD required to become a Pirvatdozent (so that he would be allowed to teach), embarking on the career of a freelance writer but finding it impossible to get most of his writings published.

Benjamin was a loner, not part of any group, without supporters. Even his key supporter in the second half of the 1930s, Theodor Adorno, was bitingly critical of Benjamin for lacking Marxist rigour, measurably undermining his confidence and forcing him to rewrite his long study of Baudelaire. But despite Adorno’s scolding, Benjamin went his own way, using Marxist categories in unorthodox ways.

Above all, Benjamin was interested in fragments, historical detritus, out-of-the-way snippets, and so his vast work about the Paris of the poet Charles Baudelaire (i.e. the 1840s and 50s) is packed to overflowing with all kinds of trivia. Except that, as Arendt explains, for Benjamin nothing was trivia: every detail was redolent and secretly connected to everything else.

This interest in strange juxtapositions is obviously connected to André Breton’s surrealism, and through that back to Freud and his dream interpretation where the oddest details turns out to be the most revealing. But also, off in a different direction, to Jewish mysticism, in which tiny details of life hint at religious apocalypse.

The flaneur

Hannah talks about the central figure of the Parisian avant-garde of the 1850s, the flâneur, the over-dressed dandy walking his pet lobster to advertise his difference from the rushing bustling business men around him, the figure which crops up in so much writing about Baudelaire and Benjamin.

Hannah analyses the ninth of Benjamin’s 18 Theses on the Philosophy of History – by far the most accessible and therefore popular and quoted one – the one about the angel of history being blown by some great primal disaster backwards into the future, pointing out that the angel of history which is described in the thesis can be seen as the culminating evolution of the flâneur from the Paris studies. Neat idea.

Hannah differentiates between allegory (a puzzle with a key) and metaphor (description of something by something else) and asserts that Benjamin thought in metaphorical terms and so, was a kind of poet.

Like a lot in Arendt’s introduction, this describes a Benjamin who isn’t the same as the one represented in the selection of essays in this book. It is, maybe, the Benjamin of the long essay on Goethe, the early study of German tragedy, and the big book about Baudelaire, but isn’t really true of the Benjamin of the short essays collected in Illuminations.

Benjamin and Brecht

Benjamin’s friendship with playwright and poet Bertolt Brecht represented the greatest German critic befriending the greatest German writer of their day (the 1930s). However, all his friends deplored it. On the Marxist wing, Adorno (whose financial support via the Institute of Social Research in New York Benjamin relied on) thought Brecht’s lack of philosophical knowledge influenced Benjamin to make his thought cruder, more agitprop (certainly true of the prologue and epilogue of The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction). From another direction, Benjamin’s friend, the great Jewish scholar Gershom Scholem, thought Brecht drew Benjamin away from the subtlety of his own mystical thought and placed the subtle Benjamin into the middle of crude political fights (see the most political theses among the ‘Theses on the Philosophy of History’).

After more examples of bad luck (publishers and magazines promising freelance work then going bankrupt before they could pay him) Arendt goes into some detail about Benjamin’s suicide on the Franco-Spanish border, failing to get the right paperwork in time to cross, so terrified he’d be handed over to the approaching Nazis that he preferred to take his own life (p.17).

2. The dark times [the plight of mid-European Jewry]

Benjamin in exile in Paris from 1933, completely failed to network with French writers. Arendt gives an impressionistic hymn he wrote to Paris, the best European city for just strolling around (really?). She quotes Benjamin’s acquaintances describing his peculiar walk and goes on, again, about le flâneur (a figure which doesn’t crop up that much in the actual essays in this selection).

She describes Benjamin’s elegantly useless library (see the essay about it) and his ambition to become the foremost German literary critic, despite the (surprising) fact that (as he and Arendt both testify) literary criticism was looked down on in Germany.

In a passage of biography, Arendt confirms that Benjamin never had a plan for a career but lived like a rentier, continuing to live like a well-to-do beneficiary of a private income whereas, in the inflationary hard times of the Weimar Republic, his family couldn’t support him and he screwed up his attempts to get a university position. His father gave him an allowance which was barely enough to live on and so he was eventually forced to move back in with his parents. Humiliating.

Very casually, Arendt mentions that Benjamin was by this time (about 1930) married with a son. This is her one and only mention of them. Maybe they don’t matter very much and Benjamin’s complete failure to provide for his young family is beneath the notice of the philosophical classes. What happened to his wife and son? We are never told.

Arendt (herself Jewish) makes various generalisations about German-Jewish culture. She says it possessed an ancient veneration for those who choose learning (originally of the Torah) and whose dedication to God places them above mere earning a living. This tradition lived on in the generations of secular Jews at the end of the nineteenth century, whose sons were convinced they were geniuses or joined the Communist Party with a view to saving humanity. In either case, they continued to demand money (and respect) from fathers who were (understandably) often reluctant to give it. She brackets Benjamin with other difficult Jewish sons like Kafka (who had a notoriously difficult relationship with his overbearing father) and Freud (inventor of the Oedipus Complex).

This leads into a passage about the French figure of the homme de lettres, who unlike the intellectual, was bookish, surrounded himself with books, but was not expected to actually write anything.

Unlike the class of the intellectuals, who offer their services either to the state as experts, specialists, and officials, or to society for diversion and instruction, the hommes de lettres always strove to keep aloof from both the state and society. Their material existence was based on income without work, and their intellectual attitude rested upon their resolute refusal to be integrated politically or socially. (p.28)

Being Jewish herself, Arendt can give quite a damning picture of the Jewish bourgeois childhood, which both Benjamin and Kafka felt strangled by. She continues in the same vein with a description of what came to be called, in the 1870s and 1880s, ‘the Jewish question’, which had an important place in the intellectual discourse of German-speaking Central Europe.

She quotes from an article, ‘German-Jewish Mt. Parnassus’, published in 1912 by Moritz Goldstein, which bitterly summarised the impossible plight of Jews who wanted to assimilate into a society which hated them, who wanted to become respected members of gentile society but at the same time not deny their Jewishness.

‘We Jews administer the intellectual property of a people which denies us the right and the ability to do so.’ (quoted page 30)

This and some of the other quotes she gives rang bells with articles I read now, in 2026, about the alarming rise in antisemitic rhetoric and discourse in contemporary Britain – all of which reinforces my belief that, no matter how we march and campaign against them, some social problems or attitudes seem to be ineradicable, are always with us, are somehow built into our societies.

This section turns out to be heavily weighted towards Kafka. When she describes the self-hating Jewishness of Kafka (for several pages) I felt myself descending into the wilderness of mirrors familiar from lots of Jewish writing, the endless angst about their religion, their cultural heritage, their place in the host society, how much to compromise their heritage and religion and so on and so on. These and similar questions were, Arendt asserts, central to writers like Kafka, Benjamin, Karl Kraus and many other German-Jewish writers.

For Jewish intellectuals of that period, Arendt tells us, the two ways out of a life of bourgeois lies and fake assimilation were Zionism or communism, and Benjamin was fairly unique in keeping both options open throughout his adult life. The hypersensitivity Arendt describes in sensitive writers like Kafka and Benjamin makes the modern reader tremble because we know what came next. But partly it came about precisely because the issue had become such a nest of double-crossing rhetoric, with the most self-conscious Jews being the most self-hating or self-critical:

They [Jewish intellectuals] fought against Jewish society because it would not permit them to live in the world as it happened to be, without illusions…[Arendt]

Or despaired of ever normalising the relationship between Germans and Jews. This is Benjamin:

Jews today ruin even the best German cause which they publicly champion, because their public statement is necessarily venal (in a deeper sense) and cannot adduce proof of its authenticity…

Quite apart from the dire historical outcome, this level of Jewish self-consciousness about the plight of being Jewish, and the endlessly circular arguments its proponents got lost in, sound exhausting.

Arendt’s description of this complex Jewish self-criticism, and then criticising yourself for criticising yourself, etc etc, goes on for some pages. Benjamin strung his friend Scholem along, promising to go out to Palestine where Scholem had emigrated, but he never did. He was irresolute. But also, in Arendt’s view, knew that making such a decisive decision was in some way selling out. The plight of the central European Jew was precisely that he had to experience the plight of the central European Jew to its fullest.

(Eugene Lunn in his 1982 study of Benjamin also devotes some pages to the conflicts and anxieties of this generation of German-Jewish intellectuals who fond themselves in revolt against their parents’ bourgeois assimilationism, ‘Modernism and Marxism’, pages 177 to 179.)

Like so many intellectuals of his generation Benjamin thought the world was coming to an end, that civilisation already lay in ruins. The British reader is tempted to retort that no, it was German civilisation that lay in ruins. Their intellectual tradition had ended in complete moral bankruptcy and their blonde beasts were soon to go out and spread that bankruptcy to every corner of Continental Europe. But just because their culture collapsed doesn’t mean other people’s did.

The German Intellectual Mistake, from Hegel to Adorno, was equating the sickness of their particular culture with the entire Western world.

Eugene Lunn supports this interpretation when he writes that Benjamin commonly suggested that:

it was the World War and its social aftermath which had shattered any sense of an organically unified, continuously transmitted culture or body of experience; and the shadow of that war lay across the Weimar and early Nazi years. (Lunn, p182)

3. The pearl diver

Arendt asserts that there was a great break in tradition and authenticity and truth and so on, during Benjamin’s lifetime – but was there? Not in the England of Vaughan Williams and the Georgian poets. If you study English literature you are taught that 1922 was the year of The Waste Land and James Joyce’s Ulysses but the whole point is that they represented something shockingly new and untypical. Most English literature wasn’t like that at all: P.G. Wodehouse and Somerset Maugham were still bestsellers, Agatha Christie was inaugurating the Golden Age of detective novels, Aldous Huxley was the bright new kid on the block, Noel Coward was breaking taboos in the West End.

No, the apocalyptic break Benjamin describes, and Arendt agrees with, was widely written about and discussed in the Weimar Republic and what caused it? The First World War, which the Germans started, which destroyed half of Europe, ended four major empires, and which they lost. Yes, their catastrophic defeat, humiliation and impoverishment may well have devastated German cultural traditions and undermined German concepts of ‘authenticity’ but it is a mistake, I think, to project the German collapse on to everyone else. It was their own special sickness, the reward of their own war.

In addition, stepping back from the Benjamin-Adorno generation, German intellectuals have always had a tendency to go about the collapse of civilisation and the end of all values:

  • Marx did (from his particular the-revolution-is-just-round-the-corner perspective) in the 1850s and ’60s
  • Friedrich Nietzsche did in the 1870s and 80s
  • Max Nordau published his Western-culture-is-finished classic ‘Degeneration’ in 1893
  • Oswald Spengler did the same in ‘The Decline of the West’ (1922)

Thinking you were living through a decisive, once-for-all rupture in history and culture was a well-established German tradition. Funny how the rest of the world carried on, though.

If you buy into this melodramatic idea, then you might persuade yourself of Benjamin’s claims that 1) civilisation desperately needed to be rescued (German civilisation, that is) and 2) could only be rescued by fragments since any attempt to write continuous rational discourse, as in the past, was now impossible in their ruined culture etc.

And if you buy into all this, then you might go on to praise Benjamin’s addiction to quotes (or, as he pretentiously put it, ‘thought fragments’) as not the obsessive-compulsive behaviour of a literary trainspotter but a heroic attempt to single-handedly rescue a culture from oblivion.

Arendt points out that the belief of his generation that straightforward rational discourse was no longer even possible explains the strategy of Benjamin’s friend Scholem, the great Jewish scholar, who approached the Jewish heritage not in the obvious form of the Torah and so on, but by the backdoor, crabwise, obliquely, via an interest in the Jewish Kabbala which he went on to become the world expert in.

Scholem is acknowledged as the single most significant figure in the recovery, collection, annotation, and registration into rigorous Jewish scholarship of the Kabbalah… an esoteric method, discipline and school of thought in Jewish mysticism.

Scholem encouraged Benjamin to study Hebrew and the Kabbalah, which he did half-heartedly. Arendt describes all this in a style which drops clarity and rationality to mimic the poetic obfuscations of her subject, combining eschatological melodrama, philosophical obscurantism and academic prissiness:

Nothing showed more clearly – so one is inclined to say today – that there was no such thing as a ‘return’ either to the German or the European or the Jewish tradition than the choice of these fields of study. It was an implicit admission that the past spoke directly only through things that had not been handed down, whose seeming closeness to the present was thus due precisely to their exotic character, which ruled out all claims to a binding authority. Obligative truths were replaced by what was in some sense significant or interesting, and this of course meant – as no one knew better than Benjamin – that the ‘consistence of truth… has been lost.’ (p.41)

(Whenever anyone from the European intellectual tradition uses the word ‘precisely’, that’s when you know they’re being at their most imprecise. It is a revealing tic, as when a politician in an interview says ‘to be frank’ which is when you know they’re just about to tell a lie.)

In this worldview, everything has been lost, everything is destroyed, everything is soaked in a tone of self-pitying miserabilism (‘A tendency to take a miserable or pessimistic view on life; a consistently miserable outlook, negativity.’)

In the essays in ‘Illuminations’ Benjamin asserts, among other grim conclusions, that in his time: storytelling was dying out; lyric poetry was impossible; the aura of works of art was being destroyed; authenticity in literature was finished; politics was in unprecedented crisis; and culture was doomed. Apart from that he was a cheery fellow.

This discovery of the modern function of quotations, according to Benjamin, who exemplified it by Karl Kraus, was born out of despair – not the despair of a past that refuses ‘to throw its light on the future’ and lets the human mind ‘wander in darkness’ as in Tocqueville, but out of the despair of the present and the desire to destroy it; hence their power is ‘not the strength to preserve but to cleanse, to tear out of context, to destroy.’

Just as the Christian doctrine of the Atonement only makes sense if you fully buy into the idea of the Fall of Mankind (only if we have fallen can Christ’s sacrifice ‘redeem’ us), in the same way, only if you buy into the melodramatic discourse about the complete collapse of society evinced by all these German Marxists, do all their desperate strategies – like struggling to preserve the ‘consistence of truth’ by collecting ‘fragments of thought’ – make any sense.

Arendt cites Benjamin as imagining visitors from the far future who will find his quotations and fragments among the ruins (p.38), which has a nice H.G. Wells and apocalyptic flavour about it until you focus on what actually happened. Because the visitors who found his fragments came not from some far future. They would be American GIs in five short years’ time, who came poking among the ruins of the desolation Germans had made out of their own country – particularly impressed by the concentration camps, which really did negate two-and-a-half thousand years of human civilisation. An achievement unique in world history! Germany’s eternal shame.

It is hard sometimes to put up with Arendt’s ongoing assumption of German cultural and philosophical superiority to ‘the decadent West’, when you know what it brought them to.

The religious basis

Back in Arendt’s Introduction, the long passage about the plight of the central European Jewish intellectual leads into the final section which picks out Benjamin’s early and enduring interest in theology. This explains the barrage of religious allusions sprinkled throughout his texts – about the Last Days, about the Apocalypse, about the power of redemption, the notion that ‘that truth concerned a secret and that the revelation of this secret had authority’.

Truth, so Benjamin said shortly before he became fully aware of the irreparable break in tradition and the loss of authority, is not ‘an unveiling which destroys the secret, but the revelation which does it justice’…

When Arendt says that the many quotes in his texts have the power of Bible quotations in the works of medieval exegetes, you think Exactly. This is not a rational worldview. The ‘consistence of truth’ had indeed been lost, but only if you consciously turned to irrationalism.

This was the thrust of Adorno’s criticisms of Benjamin in the letters he wrote him about the Baudelaire project in 1938 (and quoted in the 1977 volume ‘Aesthetics and Politics‘). Adorno criticised the ‘traces of religious superstition’ and ‘theological reverence’ and ‘esoteric mysticism’ which he found everywhere in the Baudelaire piece. In other words, Benjamin’s fundamental irrationalism and his crude misuse of Marxist categories to explore it, were recognised and criticised at the time.

Arendt cites but effectively ignores these criticisms, and in effect celebrates Benjamin’s miserabilism and religious mystification, writing as if in his voice, giving sympathetic summaries of his strategies and beliefs:

Collecting is the redemption of things which is to complement the redemption of man.

Arendt says the passion for collecting which Benjamin described in the first essay in the collection, involves strolling through ‘the treasure of the past’, his collection ‘establishes himself in the past, so as to achieve, undisturbed by the present’, it offers ‘a renewal of the old world.’ His ‘passion for the past’ was ‘born of his contempt for the present’.

Note the backward posture of all these phrases: The old world. Passion for the past. Treasure of the past. In Arendt’s summary, it’s hard to avoid the feeling that Benjamin found scores of ways of expressing the same bourgeois nostalgia for the glory days of high culture before the cataclysmic war they started.

Arendt dates Benjamin’s ‘break in tradition’ to the beginning of this century i.e. when Benjamin was a boy, as is indeed described in his autobiographical essay, ‘Berlin Childhood around 1900’. There is something bathetically inevitable, obvious and pathetic about this: when I was a boy the world was innocent and pure but then a worldwide cataclysmic rupture in history took place about the time, er, I hit puberty, and everything’s been rubbish ever since – this would be embarrassing if a mate shared this with you down the pub; but for it to be taken as the height of wisdom from one of Germany’s greatest critics, and reinforced by one of Germany’s most eminent post-war intellectuals (Arendt), is pathetic.

In my view the heroes of thought are the ones who resist this cliché. The admirable people are those who don’t even know such a childish worldview exists. After the war Germany’s ruined economy wasn’t rebuilt by its doom-laden poets and critics; they (Adorno and Horkheimer) sat in their ivory towers moaning about the death of subjectivity while it was the despised, cultureless Americans who rebuilt their economy for them, gave them vast loans and showed them how to create a democracy, all leading to the economic miracle which by the 1960s had given their fellow citizens an unprecedentedly high standard of living, radios, TV, fridges, cars.

But in the Benjamin-Arendt worldview, what did any of their newly affluent compatriots understand about the Break-in-being and the ‘thought fragments’ and humanity’s need for redemption?

In the light of the history which Benjamin himself fetishised, his writings appear compromised by their lurid melodrama and by the Marxist tradition he somewhat reluctantly nailed his colours to but which ended up going nowhere.

Privilege

Illuminations opens with an entertaining piece about being a book collector which reeks of middle-class privilege:

Just strolling through the treasures of the past is the inheritor’s luxurious privilege…

Arendt echoes the impression you get from reading the essays, of a shy, inept, well-educated, middle-class boy from a comfortably-off family, most at home in the company of the precious books he painstakingly collects but, in the hurly-burly of a not-very-successful freelance career, feeling pressurised by the mood of the times to write screeds about the historical role of the proletariat and the necessity of The Revolution.

Benjamin’s crudest communist propaganda occurs in the first and last sections of the famous Mechanical Reproduction essay and reads like the distortion of his subtly teasing ideas into crude rallying cries.

The concepts which are introduced into the theory of art in what follows differ from the more familiar terms in that they are completely useless for the purposes of Fascism. They are, on the other hand, useful for the formulation of revolutionary demands in the politics of art.

In the event, the ideas he develops in the essay (reproduction strips art works of their ‘aura’ of authenticity; the constant shock effect of film, with its continual cuts, has destroyed the old aesthetic idea of civilised contemplation) have precious little practical application for any kind of politics.

Heidegger

Arendt had an affair with her supervisor at university, the great German philosopher Martin Heidegger, so it is maybe no accident when she says Benjamin had more in common with her tutor-lover than most people think. In other words, she tries to claim this slippery ambiguous thinker (Benjamin) for her own views – just like everyone else did.

Without realizing it, Benjamin actually had more in common with Heidegger’s remarkable sense for living eyes and living bones that had sea-changed into pearls and coral, and as such could be saved and lifted into the present only by doing violence to their context in interpreting them with ‘the deadly impact’ of new thoughts, than he did with the dialectical subtleties of his Marxist friends.

Also, see how her prose style is poetic and metaphorical: you’d be hard-pressed to know what Heidegger was about, or in fact what Benjamin was trying to do, from purple patches like this.

Thoughts

The Introduction is long (50 pages), very capable, very learned, full of useful biographical information, particularly the extended section about the Jewish background, with many sensitive perceptions about Benjamin (and Kafka)… and yet, somehow, it ultimately feels boring, often deliberately obtuse, fundamentally irrational, full of sympathy for his religious mysticism without really justifying it, full of pathos for the poor, clumsy, misunderstood critique maudit. In the end, it has very little tangible to take away.

I’ve recently read two really good introductions, Ian Small’s to the Collected Short Fiction of Oscar Wilde, and Peter Ackroyd’s introduction to The Picture of Dorian Gray. Both are a) short and b) full of useful insights stated in a clear, helpful way. Neither of them felt the need to namedrop big cultural icons as Arendt feels compelled to do throughout her essay (Hoe, Plato, Dante). Neither of them needed to make up new phrases to explain doubtful new concepts such as ‘obligative truths’ or ‘consistence of truth’. Neither of them radiate the vibe that they themselves are creative writers, struggling with the same issues as the authors they’re introducing.

There’s something unattractive about the look-at-me grandstanding of this kind of European ‘philosophy’, in which every single essay has to make up new words and new terms to describe problems within a deeply problematic tradition, without ever arriving at any useful conclusions.

Small and Ackroyd are modest in their scope, and therefore effective. Reading Arendt makes you wonder whether European intellectuals even know what the word ‘modest’ means. Every sentence shudders with the weight of the world-historical crisis and end-of-the-tradition Angst.

And Small and Ackroyd are funny, in that modest, ironic English way – whereas none of these Western Marxists or their commentators has a scintilla of humour. Brecht is the only one capable of making jokes and they are usually clumping peasant banter (Erst fressen, den der Moral). The note of suave, understated irony, the droll self-deprecating humour which I am so used to in the English writing tradition (Wilde, Wells, Huxley, Waugh, Auden) is utterly absent from all these texts. They had impenetrable Big Ideas, we had self-mocking humour. They had Kuhle Wampe, we had George Formby. They had Hitler and the Holocaust. We had Churchill and D-Day. We won.

But it didn’t stop them carrying on after the war, thinking in exactly the same kind of obscurantist, tortuous, irrational and impenetrable ways which had brought them to such terrible grief – as this long, grandstanding, clever, informative, and wilful introduction amply demonstrates.

Anti-German?

If this all seems very anti-German a) it is, but b) I’m influenced by having just read Adorno’s essays in Aesthetics and Politics 4: Adorno on Lukács and Brecht, which are surprisingly vituperative and anti-German. In them Adorno himself contrasts the heavy earnestness of the German philosophical tradition with the witty stylishness of the French (from Voltaire to Cocteau).

Adorno’s problem was that even when he vitriolically attacks the German intellectual tradition, he can only do it from within the very same tradition, condemned to using the concepts of Kant or Hegel to criticise Kant or Hegel. It’s like watching a fly stuck in honey, the more he struggles, the more enmeshed he becomes in the trap. He cannot escape the contradictions of the German tradition he is embedded in, which claimed to be about reason and culture but led to the Nazis’ utter destruction of reason and culture. He, just like Arendt, can’t escape being German.


Credit

Illuminations by Walter Benjamin was published in German by Suhrkamp Verlag in 1955. The English translation by Harry Zohn was published in 1968 by Harcourt, Brace and World Inc. It was published in Britain by Jonathan Cape in 1970. It was published in Fontana paperbacks in 1973. Page references are to the 1982 Fontana paperback edition. Quotations are used for the purposes of criticism and review.

Related links

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Illuminations by Walter Benjamin (1968)

Walter Benjamin was the most romantic of all the Western Marxists.
(Western Marxism by J.G. Merquior, page 117)

Brief biography

Walter Benjamin was born in 1892 to an affluent Jewish family in Berlin. In the late 1920s he developed a reputation as a literary critic and by the early 1930s as a Marxist critic of not just literature, poetry, theatre and film, but of modern society.

He became friends with the famous communist playwright Bertolt Brecht, and their friendly correspondence and mutual criticism has become famous among literary types.

When Hitler came to power in 1933, Benjamin fled Germany for France and, when Nazi Germany invaded France in the summer of 1940, he fled south hoping to escape to Spain. When paperwork screwups prevented him from crossing the border into Spain he took his own life on 26 September 1940 at the age of 48.

‘Illuminations’ made him well known

Known to the literati in Germany, for a long time Benjamin was unknown in the English-speaking world. This began to change with the publication of this selection of short-ish essays, in German in 1955 and then translated into English in 1968. The book contains the following essays:

  1. Unpacking my Library: A Talk about Book Collecting
  2. The Task of the Translator: An Introduction to the Translation of Baudelaire’s Tableaux Parisiens
  3. The Storyteller: Reflections on the Works of Nikolai Leskov
  4. Franz Kafka: On the Tenth Anniversary of His Death (see separate review)
  5. Max Brod’s Book on Kafka: and Some of my Own Reflections (see separate review)
  6. What is Epic Theatre?
  7. On Some Motifs in Baudelaire
  8. The Image of Proust
  9. The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction (see separate review)
  10. Theses on The Philosophy of History (see separate review)

The volume is introduced by the German-American historian and philosopher Hannah Arendt (1906 to 1975). (I summarise her introduction in a separate review.).

The collection was first published as a Fontana paperback in 1970 and I bought a copy of the 1983 edition when I was a student. Throughout the 1980s more of Benjamin’s works were translated, including his book-length study of Baudelaire, his autobiography and so on – and by the 1990s he’d become a staple of courses of literary criticism, appearing in the ‘Marxist criticism’ sections of introductions to literary criticism, having ‘Short introductions to…’ and pocket summaries devoted to him, being repackaged and summarised for easy consumption in student lectures and seminars. Although great, he has also become something of a cliché.

Benjamin’s line

Benjamin was an eccentric. His take on literature, society and history was distinctive and original. Although he was very sympathetic to Marxist thought, he never joined the Communist Party and was criticised by the high priests of Western Marxist criticism, Theodor Adorno and Max Horkheimer who set up the influential Frankfurt Institute of Social Research in the 1920s, which survived the war and went on to define Marxist culture criticism in the post-war decades. For them, Benjamin lacked both political commitment and philosophical rigour.

One aspect of this was that, alongside his Marxist worldview Benjamin was very interested in theology, especially Jewish theology and the Jewish mystical tradition of Kabbalah, although he was never a practicing believer.

Thus his works, at moments, present an attractive combination of Marxist terminology underpinned by a more theological and even mystical worldview. It’s this mix of influences and insights which stopped him from being a dry and boring ideologue (cf Adorno and Horkheimer) and therefore easier to consume (hence his popularity with students and lecturers). But he still strains for a kind of philosophical transcendence which is sometimes hard to follow, and he wrote in German, a notoriously heavy and dense language.

Which is why, although many of his ideas are attractive when you can make them out, often entire stretches of his essays go by without you getting a clear understanding of what he’s on about. He has moments of great lucidity and insight but be aware that he has whole pages where it’s hard to make out his meaning.

1. Unpacking my Library: A Talk about Book Collecting (1931)

O bliss of the collector, bliss of the man of leisure!

The collection starts with an easy one, a very approachable chatty talk about the joy of opening his packing cases of books after two years in storage which develops into

Every passion borders on the chaotic but the collector’s passion borders on the chaos of memory. (p.60)

For the book collector reviewing his collection brings a chaos of memories.

Books can be treasured as objects, but also as the scenes for their stories – not only the obvious stories they contain, but the stories of how the collector came by them. Collected books are like a ‘magical encyclopedia’ of these stories.

When a collector handles his objects, he looks as if he’s seeing through them into a remote past as though inspired.

Books have their destinies but so do the individual copies of books, and the most important moment in a book’s fate is its encounter with the collector.

Children love collecting things, all kinds of random objects. Thus each time a collector acquires a book he reawakens the wellsprings of childish joy.

The mode of acquisition for a collector is to borrow a book and never return it.

Also important is the idea of never actually reading the book. Most book collectors with large collections have read only a fraction of the collection. That is good.

Buying books from catalogues can lead to disappointment or happiness; the excitement is in the gamble. (I experience the same thing buying second hand books off ebay: sometimes they arrive in surprisingly pristine condition, sometimes so bent and stained and full of hair or sand that I pass them onto the charity shop or even, in really grim cases, throw them away.)

Buying a book is a way of setting it free from the doldrums of a shop or warehouse.

To a book collector the true freedom of all books is somewhere on his shelves. (p.64)

There is no living library that doesn’t contain a number of items from fringe areas such as stick-in albums, or typescripts.

The soundest way of acquiring a collection is via inheritance. The collector has the responsibility of an heir, and ‘the most distinguished trait of a collection will always be its transmissibility’.

The phenomenon of collecting loses its meaning as it loses its personal owner. Although a public collection is more socially useful, only in a private collection do the objects ‘get their due’.

Books don’t come alive in the collector; it is the collector who comes alive in his books.

Commentary

Reeks of belle-lettreism and bourgeois nostalgia. It is unusual for Benjamin in being almost entirely comprehensible.

2. The Task of the Translator: An Introduction to the Translation of Baudelaire’s Tableaux Parisiens (1923)

Like a lot of Benjamin, this is a strange mixture of the incomprehensible and the disconcertingly obvious. When he asks ‘Is a translation meant for readers who do not understand the original?’ surely the answer is…er…yes.

When he implies that translation can translate the meaning but often that’s the least part of a literary work, which is about style and presence and rhythm (‘the unfathomable, the mysterious, the poetic’) and so on… that also is surely very obvious.

Ditto when he says that a translation comes after the writing of the original. Or when he says that the task of translation is distinct and different from the task of the poet. Or when he says the work of the poet is primary, that of the translator, secondary. All pretty obvious…

But then he goes from the apparently banal to the difficult-to-understand. He calls translation a ‘mode’ and then spends a page considering the quality of ‘translatability’ which leads up to:

If translation is a mode, translatability must be an essential feature of certain works. (p.71)

Pages go by made up of statements like: ‘The philosopher’s task consists in comprehending all of natural life through the more encompassing life of history’, and it’s difficult to tell whether this is a casual aside or a central part of the argument, let alone whether it has any truth to it. I struggled to understand these passages:

To grasp the genuine relationship between an original and a translation requires an investigation analogous to the argumentation by which a critique of cognition would have to prove the impossibility of an image theory. (p.73)

He says the kinship of languages lies not in their historical connections but in their shared intentions, which you can half understand, if you sidestep the more obvious point that anyone saying anything has an intention of some kind. When he says that ‘Translation is only a somewhat provisional way of coming to terms with the foreignness of languages’, this sounds profound but if he means that translations are always imperfect and unsatisfactory, is sort of well known.

We know we are in an impractical world of mysticism when he writes that translation’s goal is:

undeniably a final, conclusive, decisive stage of all linguistic creation. In translation the original rises into a higher and purer linguistic air… It cannot live there permanently… yet, in a singularly impressive manner, at least it points the way to this region: the predestined, hitherto inaccessible realm of reconciliation and fulfilment of languages. (p.75)

He seems to be saying that the act of translation gestures towards a kind of ultimate language, the language of Truth which lies hidden behind the actual languages of the world. You can see how this is a mystical or poetic thought.

He makes the obvious point that translators are faced with a spectrum of operation, from fidelity to license, with extreme pedantic literalism at one end, and the attempt to recreate the effect of the original, even it means using words with different meanings altogether, at the other.

He seems to come to the extremely banal conclusion that the best translation is the one which transparently recreates the effect of the original, although its hard to tell from his obscuring language:

A real translation is transparent; it does not cover the original, it does not block its light, but allows the pure language, as though reinforced by its own medium, to shine upon the original all the more fully.

The essay seems to be haunted by the notion of the ultimate Pure Language, which hovers behind all actual languages, clearly a mystical or gnostic or Kabbalistic notion. Which explains sentences like this, which are interesting as a certain type of rhetoric but can’t, you feel, have very much practical use for actual translators or, indeed, for anyone who doesn’t believe in the notion of a pure language hovering behind all the actual languages in the world.

It is the task of the translator to release in his own language that pure language which is under the spell of another, to liberate the language imprisoned in a work in his recreation of that work. (p.80)

3. The Storyteller: Reflections on the Works of Nikolai Leskov (1936)

A prime exercise in Kulturpessimismus – Benjamin pessimistically claims that the art of storytelling is dying out among us, the communicability of experience is decreasing, oh alas and alack! He associates this with ‘the great silence’ of those who returned from the Great War.

He references the German proverb that someone who has gone a journey has a story to tell. This is profoundly true of so much fiction, which describes journeys, quests and odysseys.

There are maybe two archetypal storytellers, the man who stays put and tills the soil and knows all the local folk tales; and the sailor who goes to sea and beings back stories of exotic lands.

Who was Nikolai Leskov?

Nikolai Semyonovich Leskov (1831 to 1895) was a Russian novelist, short-story writer, playwright and journalist who also wrote under the pseudonym M. Stebnitsky. Praised for his unique writing style and innovative experiments in form, and held in high esteem by Leo Tolstoy, Anton Chekhov and Maxim Gorky among others, Leskov is credited with creating a comprehensive picture of contemporary Russian society using mostly short literary forms.

Leskov came to writing late, at the age of 29. Previously he had worked as a travelling salesman for a British company which gave him an overview of Russian society.

Thoughts on The Novel The novel could only come about after the invention of printing. Previously people told stories, communicated life learnings which could be repackaged orally. A communal activity. The novelist sets himself apart by sitting in a room conceiving a thousand and one details to make his narrative artistic. Benjamin gives us typically challenging apothegms:

To write a novel means to carry the incommensurable to extremes in the representation of human life. (p.87)

But now both folk telling and the novel are being destroyed by the press, the vehicle of the bourgeoisie under capitalism.

He makes the distinction between intelligence and information. As you might expect, storytelling expresses intelligence (close to wisdom) while the press conveys information. Information can be quickly verified, which only emphasises its usefulness. But teaching us to focus only on the useful and communicable, the press destroys our ability to share experiences.

This made me stop and reflect that we live in an age (2026) overwhelmed and flooded with information but displaying pitifully little intelligence and no wisdom.

No event already comes to us without being shot through with explanation. In other words, by now almost nothing that happens benefits storytelling; almost everything benefits information. (p.89)

Information and commentary destroy storytelling. The best storytelling leaves things out, forcing or letting the reader join the dots and draw their own conclusions, ‘and thus the narrative achieves an amplitude which information lacks’ (p.89).

The value of information does not survive the moment in which it was new. It lives only at that moment; it has to surrender to it completely and explain itself to it without losing any time.

Storytelling is characterised by moment; it has to surrender to it completely and explain itself to it without losing any time.

A story is different. It does not expend itself. It preserves and concentrates its strength and is capable of releasing it even after a long time.

[Benjamin cites a story from Herodotus but this made me think of the Bible, the whole point of the Bible stories being that they are so elliptical and allusive that they still spill new meanings two and a half thousand years after being written down.]

The less psychological analysis a story has, the more it benefits from a ‘chaste compactness’.

To assimilate a story you need to be mentally relaxed. A symptom of this mental relax is boredom, the mind is empty. This allows it to receive the story and let its implications percolate through an undistracted consciousness.

And this, of course, is why in Benjamin’s opinion storytelling is dying out, it’s because we are all too distracted and saturated by shallow, profoundly unsatisfying ‘information’. [It occurs to me the information is like junk food, quick and sensational. Everyone now knows that social media feeds are dopamine hits and junk food stimuli for minds which now are never at rest, which never stare out the window and wander, achieving the state of openness which Benjamin is describing.]

Storytelling is characterised by retelling and each retelling adds a layer or patina over the story, adding to its depth and richness.

Death used to be commonly experienced, in the Middle Ages for example, and stories are validated by death.

Death is the sanction of everything that the storyteller can tell. He has borrowed his authority from death.

This is the kind of teasing thought which makes Benjamin a pleasure. The essay on translation is, I think, bad, strains too much, is pretentious, and he never makes clear enough the notion of the Pure Language which underpins it. Here, by contrast, this meditation on the nature of storytelling in the modern age is full of directly useful insights (for example the basic difference between wisdom and information), and then of what you could call teasing or secondary insights, phrases you know have meaning even if you don’t immediately understand them.

The relationship between the storyteller and the chronicler, especially the early medieval chroniclers with their super-brief entries and their belief in Christian eschatology i.e. the end of the world.

Epic poetry is written under the aegis of Mnemosyne, the muse of memory. The narrator starts his narrative by invoking memory and memory plays a part in the structuring of the story, the in the many memories of the storyteller who assembles it, and in the folk memories of the audience who listen to them.

A story is told in companionship. A novel is written, and then consumed, in private. It is the most intimate of the art forms and profoundly anti-social.

The first true storyteller is the teller of fairy tales. Benjamin cites Ernst Bloch (as he cited György Lukács a little earlier.) This is raised because Leskov’s stories are often close to fairy tale.

Benjamin talks about the righteous man as he appears in some of Leskov’s stories and this sound like a religious figure and idea, maybe a distinctively Jewish idea (?). Christians talk about a holy man, a saint.

Storytellers have a traditional sympathy for ‘rascals and crooks’. So many stories are about cunning types who defeat rules and laws. Think of the cunning slave in every ancient comedy. My favourite fictional character is Falstaff. Charlie Chaplin’s tramp permanently at odds with the police and the po-faced.

He throws off a powerful apothegm:

A proverb, one might say, is a ruin which stands on the site of an old story and in which a moral twines about a happening like ivy around a wall.

And ends with a portentous punchline:

The storyteller is the figure in which the righteous man encounters himself.

Like a lot of Benjamin, this sounds great but I’m not sure what it means or how long it lasts.

4. Franz Kafka: On the Tenth Anniversary of His Death (1934)

See separate review.

5. Max Brod’s Book on Kafka: and Some of my Own Reflections (1938)

See separate review.

6. What is Epic Theatre? (1939)

Introduction

Benjamin was personal friends with the famous Marxist playwright Bertolt Brecht (1898 to 1956). When Brecht fled Nazi Germany to Denmark, he invited Benjamin to join him, though Benjamin decided to go to Paris.

Brecht pioneered a dramatically new approach to theatre which he called epic theatre and really caught on in the West after the Second World War. Firstly, it is highly political, with an anti-bourgeois and communist leaning. Second, it not only dispenses with but deliberately breaks all kinds of rules: for example, there’s minimum staging and often scenes and settings are conveyed by big placards reading COUNTRYSIDE or OFFICE. Similarly, actors often swap roles. In the same spirit most of the action is non-naturalistic and punctuated by speeches or songs.

The general idea was that bourgeois theatre lulled its audience into believing in the story it’s telling and thus conceals the power basis, exploitation and oppression inherent in bourgeois capitalism. Epic theatre, by contrast, set out to disrupt and subvert all the conventions of theatre and, by doing so, force the audience to think about social and political realities. As with revolutionaries going back at least as far as Percy Shelley in 1818, the basic idea is that people are asleep regarding the many oppressions of capitalist society and need to be woken from their slumber. The use of the word ‘woke’ in recent discourse is just the latest variation on a very old idea: we know the Truth; you need to wake up to it. In the first part Benjamin writes:

Epic theatre appeals to an interest group who ‘do not think without reason’. Brecht does not lose sight of the masses, whose limited practice of thinking is probably described by this phrase.

The masses’ limited practice of thinking. There, in a nutshell, you have what could be called communist condescension or progressive pompousness.

Benjamin’s essay

In this short essay Benjamin set out to explain Brecht’s aims in epic theatre which was, in the 1930s, still known to relatively few people.

Relaxed audience Unexpectedly, Benjamin starts by saying it requires an audience which is relaxed and so can pay attention to the issues raised in the play. The aim of epic theatre is to avoid sensation and people losing themselves in the spectacle. Instead, they are to be kept at a distance.

Avoiding sensation One way to avoid sensation is to use well-known plots or stories. Hence Brecht’s most recent play, about the well-known life of the astronomer Galileo (written in 1938). Benjamin casually mentions the placards and posters which are held up to convey the change of scene or passage of time.

The sage He digresses on the role of ‘the wise man’ in Brecht’s plays, asserting that the sage appears throughout Western drama, but the figure of the wise man is of a special kind in Brecht. He is a representative of the contradictions found in modern society, he is a walking embodiment of the famous dialectic.

Avoiding Aristotle Aristotle’s analysis of Greek tragedy started a 2,000-year-old tradition, the kernel of his theory being the idea that tragedy purges individuals and the community of pent-up or suppressed emotion by witnessing terrible suffering enacted on stage, a process Aristotle called catharsis. Well, Brecht comes from a different place altogether. He isn’t a rival to Aristotle, he exists in a parallel universe. And here we hit some paydirt quotes:

The special character of the relaxed interest of the audience for which the performances of the epic theatre are intended is the fact that hardly any appeal is made to the empathy of the spectators. Instead, the art of the epic theatre consists in producing astonishment rather than empathy.

To put it succinctly: instead of identifying with the characters, the audience should be educated to be astonished at the circumstances under which they function.

The task of the epic theatre, according to Brecht, is not so much the development of actions as the representation of conditions. This presentation does not mean reproduction as the theoreticians of Naturalism understood it. Rather, the truly important thing is to discover the conditions of life.

(One might say just as well: to alienate [verfremden] them.)

This discovery (alienation) of conditions takes place through the interruption of happenings

And this is the famous alienation technique of Verfremdungseffekt. We are meant to be continually detached or distanced from what’s going on onstage; instead of being gripped and enthralled, as you’re usually meant to be at the theatre, instead we’re meant to be astonished at the abuses of power we see dramatised, and forced to think about power relationships in our own lives and society.

Gestures Epic theatre tends to have actors perform gestures and then perform them again, until the artifice of gesture itself becomes clear.

Theatrical excitement wears off after a few hours. Brecht wanted the audience to be permanently enlightened as to the inequities of their society.

Pauses The action of epic theatre is punctuated by pauses for the audience to react critically i.e. to take in what they’ve just seen. The actors take part in this pause, stepping out of character for the duration.

The actor must be as relaxed as the audience i.e. not get up in the usual histrionics of acting. Detachment.

For centuries there has been an orchestra pit between the raised stage and the audience. Epic theatre fills in the pit. The play, the drama, the actors and the ideas are all rendered approachable.

7. On Some Motifs in Baudelaire (1939)

At 40 pages this is the longest essay in the book, with 6 pages of Benjamin’s own notes.

Some of the premises of the essay are invalidated because he is speaking very precisely to the situation in 1938 when he says that lyric poetry (like storytelling, like everything) is declining and falling – ‘the climate for lyric poetry has become increasingly inhospitable’ etc. Eighty or so years later all these generalisations are historical, now.

Maybe it’s because the nature of experience has changed. He says the philosophers of the first part of the twentieth century have been trying to cut through to what real experience is and summarises a few, including Henri Bergson.

This in turn digresses into a reprise of the Leskov essay’s distinction between storytelling based on knowledge and the news media which pump out depthless information. Then another digression:

In seeking a more substantial definition of what appears in Proust’s memoire de l’intelligence as a by-product of Bergson’s theory, it is well to go back to Freud.

So he gives us a summary of Freud’s post-war essay, Beyond The Pleasure Principle (1920) and quite a technical passage on the nature of memory, before skipping off to quote the French poet Paul Valéry (1871 to 1945) on the subject of memory.

The gist of the Freud passage is Freud’s later theory that the chief purpose of the ‘mind’ is to control the incessant stimuli the human organism is bombarded with. If experiences do get through the defences they are often forgotten or repressed. Anxiety dreams indicate places where psychic traumas are trying to return.

Benjamin associates these ideas of trying to protect yourself from trauma with Baudelaire’s nervy poems about trying to survive in the swarming streets of mid-nineteenth century Paris, with its risk of shocks and startling sights around every corner. Remember the poem about the blind. And the lost swan.

Which brings Benjamin on to Friedrich Engels and a passage in his classic book ‘The Condition of the Working Class in England’ describing the incredible crowds in contemporary London, the largest, most congested city in Europe. Engels describes what these people have lost in terms of contact with nature and natural feelings.

So by now the essay has settled down to being about the central importance of the crowd, the mass, la foule, in Baudelaire’s poetry, whose impress is everywhere obvious and yet which he rarely if ever directly describes.

Then Benjamin gives a long quote from a story by Edgar Allen Poe describing the London crowds. See what I mean by his essays progressing by digressing, one thing leading to another? And the use of long quotes for this leads onto a long quote from a short story by E.T.A. Hoffman. ‘The Cousin’s Corner Window’, about the city crowds. Then an anecdote about the German poet Heinrich Heine’s horror at walking along a boulevard.

Some stuff about newish technology such as the match, later the camera, later still the film camera, all of which, in different ways, trigger and record shocks which (you realise) are turning out to be the central concept of the essay.

Benjamin then quotes a passage from Marx about the way the ultimate experience of alienation for a worker is working on a production line, and compares production line behaviour to the automaton-like behaviour of masses in a crowd, as described by Poe.

Benjamin makes a rather strained comparison between the addiction of the gambler and the experience of the worker at the production line, based on the dubious notion that gambling itself becomes a compulsively repeated activity.

The aura of a work of art

Towards the end of the essay he introduces the idea of an aura which surrounds an original work of art, and which has (like everything, alas) declined in the age of the camera. So what is this ‘aura’?

If we designate as aura the associations which, at home in the memoire involontaire, tend to cluster around the object of a perception, then its analogue in the case of a utilitarian object is the experience which has left traces of the practiced hand.

So the ‘aura’ is the psychological traces, prompted by involuntary memory, comparable to the traces left on the pot by the potter’s hand. This is a reasonably understandable idea but hard to really believe in…

Also, note that the whole concept of the aura appears solely so that Benjamin can point out that it is, because of the modern world, in decline. Just like lyric poetry is in decline and the art of storytelling is in terminal decline. Benjamin is an arch pessimist. It’s not an accident but really fundamental to his entire world view that the modern industrial world with its technological innovations, industrial production, newspapers and films, is killing off the old traditional arts.

His entire position is one of lamenting and repining and mourning and regretting. In other words, for all that he drops in occasional references to Marx, deep down he comes across as a bourgeois conservative who likes things the old way. The contrast between his gloomy pessimism and the dynamism of the Russian constructivism of the first decade after the revolution – an approach which thrilled to the overthrow of all the old modes and the invention of whole new ways of thinking, writing and broadcasting – couldn’t be greater.

The subject of the essay Only in the last sentences does he reveal what the essay has really been about: namely, finding evidence in Baudelaire’s writings for ‘the disintegration of the aura in the experience of shock‘ (p.196).

Filled though it is with interesting ideas, I don’t think the essay has persuaded me that either shocks, in particular, and certainly not the fuzzy notion of the aura, are central to Baudelaire’s poetry. Nowhere in the whole essay does Benjamin even mention Baudelaire’s descriptions of lofty, sensual pleasure which are what appealed to me as a schoolboy.

The notion of the ‘aura’ will go on to be central in his most famous essay, ‘The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction’ which is included in this selection but which I review in a separate blog post.

8. The Image of Proust (1929)

We have already met Proust as a star player in the essay on Baudelaire, now he has an essay of his own. Marcel Proust (1871 to 1922) was the author of the monumental, multi-volume novel, ‘Remembrance of Things Past’ which is also translated as ‘In Search of Lost Time.’ It is what it says on the tin, an extremely long, subtle, lyrical evocation of the memories of its aristocratic characters.

So Benjamin’s essay kicks off by focusing on memory and the distinction made in the Baudelaire essay by voluntary and involuntary memory, the first a conscious effort to remember something, the second triggered by an unexpected source such as a sound or scent or flavour.

And distinguishes between the event itself, the thing we experience, which is finite in the continual flux of our experience; and the way that, later on, we remember it, which is potentially infinite.

For an experienced event is finite – at any rate, confined to one sphere of experience; a remembered event is infinite, because it is only a key to everything that happened before it and after it.

The handful of events which we choose to remember out of the tens of thousands which have occurred to us are infinite because they have a numberless amount of connections to everything else in our lives. And because they form the scaffold of our self, which is bottomless.

Benjamin remarks that the text is like a tapestry woven from these two types of memory.

It partakes of the dreamworld in that there is a huge amount of repetition, in fact the stories told in the book are very samey.

Benjamin suggests that there are two types of memory, the hymnic and the elegiac. One celebrates heights of bliss and happiness, the other mourns their loss. [Obviously, the second is more common in literature: it is the weaker, sentimental option. In a sense Benjamin’s entire oeuvre is sentimentally elegiac for the lost certainties of his bourgeois childhood.]

Benjamin detects in Proust the twin poles of flattery (to the aristocrats he moved among and adulated) and curiosity about every aspect of their lives (which had the subtle effect of undermining them).

As a snob, Proust mercilessly dissected the world of snobs. For Benjamin the distinguishing feature of this class is the steely gaze with which they ignore the entire world of production i.e. how all the goods they consume are made and manufactured.

It excludes from its world everything that has a part in production, or at least demands that this part be gracefully and bashfully concealed behind the kind of manner that is sported by the polished professionals of consumption. (p.211)

[The same, in a different mode, could be said of all Oscar Wilde’s characters. In their unremitting focus on the ‘top 10,000’ in society, maybe Proust and Wilde are parallel cases.]

He is filled with the insight that none of us has time to live the true dramas of the life that we are destined for. This is what ages us… (p.213)

9. The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction (1936)

See separate review.

10. Theses on The Philosophy of History (1940)

See separate review.


Credit

Illuminations by Walter Benjamin was published in German by Suhrkamp Verlag in 1955. The English translation by Harry Zohn was published in 1968 by Harcourt, Brace and World Inc. It was first published in Britain by Jonathan Cape in 1970 and published in Fontana paperbacks in 1973. Page references are to the 1982 Fontana paperback edition. All quotations are for the purposes of criticism and review.

Related links

Related reviews

Western Marxism

Communism reviews

Western Marxism by J.G. Merquior (1986)

This is not the easy-to-read primer I was hoping for but instead a challenging and sophisticated analysis which chews through the tradition of Western Marxism from its origins in Hegel right up to the time of publication (1986) in highly technical and sometimes incomprehensible jargon. Also, it is spikey and opinionated, so much so that you begin to realise that other scholars might drastically disagree with his conclusions. And it is often so witheringly dismissive of the Great Thinkers it discusses, that it is laugh-out-loud funny.

The state capitalism thesis adopted by the Frankfurt School stood almost as a pretext for a posture of Kulturpessimismus so emphatically asserted that it made previous prophets of cultural doom, like Burckhardt or Spengler seem, by contrast, positively cheery. (p.115)

Well, it made me laugh.

José Guilherme Merquior

José Guilherme Merquior (1941 to 1991) was a Brazilian diplomat, academic, writer, literary critic and philosopher. He was a prolific writer with about 22 books to his name, including studies of Foucault (1985) and structuralism (1987). He had a doctorate in sociology from the London School of Economics, which was directed by Ernest Gellner, and also studied under Claude Lévi-Strauss (whose ideas he largely rejected).

‘Western Marxism’ was part of the Paladin Movements and Ideas series. Merquior was a foreigner and it shows. What I mean is he had a non-Brit’s feel for a very wide range of European philosophy which is rare in the Anglo-Saxon world. Even when British and American academics know the names and the theories of European philosophers, they tend to present them in an Anglo context, which is all pragmatism and common sense, and so makes them look a bit silly.

Merquior, by contrast, is not only extraordinarily familiar with a very wide range of Continental philosophers going back as far as Leibnitz (and at times, to Plato and Aristotle), but conveys a real feel for the way the tradition they come from – especially the huge system of philosophical idealism created by George Hegel (1770 to 1831) – and how everyone who came after him reacted to his vast legacy (what he calls ‘Hegel and Marx country’, p.11).

This is good because you feel like you really are entering an alien world but, then again, bad, because it means substantial chunks of the book are incomprehensible. Partly this is because he tosses around names and references to philosophy which, for me at any rate, require a lot more explanation than he gives.

Adler tried to ground Marxist social science on Kantian epistemology, just as Bernstein had tried to base socialism on Kantian ethics. (p.9)

Where I’d have benefited from even a passing sentence explaining what Kantian epistemology or Kantian ethics actually are…

But mostly it’s because every sentence, every paragraph, assumes a degree-level knowledge of German philosophy and beyond. Here he is describing the different types of theology which were popular at the University of Tübingen when Hegel was a student there, namely the God of negative theology and the God of Gnosis:

In both cases the strength of objective reality stems from the same source: it derives from a ‘labour of negation’ operating within an objectivity subjectively grounded, since it bears at each step the imprint of the Absolute-as-subject, acting as a historical process, or at the very least the mark of man’s consciousness, striving to restore the divine amid the evil of the world. (p.16)

Or:

The nodal point in this connection is the problem of the ontological status of the present. (p.18)

Or:

The autotelic state is the actuality of the moral idea ‘clear to itself’ in its capacity as a ‘will thinking and knowing itself’. (p.28)

The first chapter is all written like this as Merquior goes about explaining the origins, evolution and implications of Hegel’s philosophy, for only if you have a good grasp of Hegel can you begin to understand 1) what Marx did to Hegel’s vision and terminology and 2) how subsequent critics of Marx returned to Hegel to revive aspects of his thought implicit in traditional Marxism but which they felt had been smothered by materialist and positivist currents.

There are 11 or so chapters. The first two cover Hegel and Marx, the others move on to consider individual thinkers of WM. They each have the same structure: the first part of the chapter gives a brisk explanation of the thought of the thinker in question, the second part gives an assessment.

The assessments are often even harder to follow than the summaries. This is for at least 2 reasons:

  1. Because he rushes pretty quickly through a gallery of critics of the thinker he’s just summarised, so you need to have a working knowledge of the position and approach of a large number of modern scholars and commentators, some of whom are mentioned only for a sentence i.e. you don’t really get to understand where they’re coming from.
  2. This blizzard of perspectives is simply too much to process – while you’re still reeling from trying to understand Hegel’s view on half a dozen philosophical topics, you’re then bombarded by ten or 15 critiques which come from all sides of the spectrum, which redefine Hegel in a bewildering variety of ways, from a prophet of arch-conservatism to a defender of real philosophical freedom, and every possible position in between.

See what I mean when I say it is emphatically not a handy little primer? The opposite – it’s a very hard read indeed. Nonetheless, some key points emerge which can be translated into normalspeak. I’ll summarise what we learn about Western Marxism as a whole and then give notes on what I picked up, or understood, about the individual thinkers Merquior profiles.

1. Key aspects of Western Marxism

Western Marxism (WM) rebels against, or is distinct from, the tradition of Marxist thought enshrined in the Soviet tradition and associated with Lenin and the most noted early exponent of Soviet-style Marxist-Leninism, Nikolai Bukharin.

It’s difficult defining WM by beliefs since there’s a lot of diversity, but it’s easy to point to who the main exponents of Western Marxism were:

  • György Lukács (1885 to 1971)
  • Ernst Bloch (1885 to 1977)
  • Karl Korsch (1886 to 1961)
  • Antonio Gramsci (1891 to 1937)
  • the Frankfurt School — Max Horkheimer (1895 to 1973), Theodor Adorno (1903 to 1969)
  • Jean-Paul Sartre (1905 to 1980)
  • second generation Frankfurt – Jurgen Habermas (b.1929)
  • structuralist Marxism – Louis Althusser (1918 to 1990)

Agency over determinism

Lenin and Bukharin, following the previous generation of Engels (d.1895) and Georgi Plekhanov (d.1918), promoted a deterministic historical materialism, believing that objective economic laws were the driving force of all human history. Accordingly, they believed that human consciousness is essentially a reflection of nature and social reality, and that historical change operates through masses and classes. This orthodox view is enshrined in works such as Bukharin’s ‘Historical Materialism’ (1921) and Kautsky’s ‘The Materialist Historical Constitution of the State and the Development of Mankind’ (1927).

By contrast Western Marxists give much more importance to the individual, to individual will, and assign consciousness a role in creating reality, both individual and social reality, not just passively reflecting it.

Back to libertarian Marx

This is linked to another overarching theme, which is that Western Marxists tend to dissociate themselves from the brutality of the Stalinist regime which developed out of Leninism, in order to assert a more liberal or libertarian form of Marxism. This explains why they tend to prioritise Marx’s early writings over the later ones, because they claim these are more humanitarian than the later prophet of crushing historical materialism.

The centrality of Kulturkritik

The clearest difference from Soviet / Marxist-Leninist orthodoxy is in subject matter: Orthodox Marxism is preoccupied with economic history and the politics of class struggle; Western Marxism is interested in culture.

Instead of analysing processes of capital accumulation or the mechanics of crisis and the reproduction of social relations, most major Western Marxists have written extensively on the problems of alienation and reification within capitalist society.

WM grew as a set of philosophical writings seldom engaging in sociological, let alone economic, issues. (p.44)

To put it simply, orthodox Marxist-Leninism is concerned with the substructure, the infrastructure, the economic base of society – whereas Western Marxism is interested in the superstructure, in culture, consumption and psychology.

The Marxist-Leninist orthodoxy

Merquior lists the leading figures of Marxist-Leninist orthodoxy:

  • Marx and Engels, the founders of Marxism
  • Bernstein, the leading revisionist
  • Kautsky, the high priest of orthodoxy at the time of the Second International (1889 to 1916)
  • Lenin, leader of the first Marxist revolution
  • Bukharin, leading theorist of the Bolshevik regime

Is Marxism a sociology, a science or a critique?

Those traditional Marxist-Leninists all saw Marxism as a social science, explaining all aspects of society. They thought Marx was seeking a fully scientific explanation of history which would incorporate and subsume all theories of economic, social and political change. It was a total system.

By contrast, Western Marxists think of Marxism not as a social science but a method of critique. Marxism provides the tools for a more humanistic analysis of the plight of the individual and the nature of culture in capitalist societies. Hence the German term widely associated with Western Marxism, Kulturkritik. Western Marxism deploys the tools and insights generated by classical Marxism to examine the plight of culture and the individual in the ongoing capitalist societies of the West. But, as Merquior acidly points out, as time went by i.e. after the Second World War, they slowly abandoned any idea of actually changing anything, and Western Marxism devolved into a form of superior sniping from the sidelines.

The tone of crisis

Western Marxism is dominated by the notion of crisis. Born in the aftermath of the Bolshevik Revolution and amid the economic and political crises of the 1920s and 1930s, it carries the stigmata of its period – it talks about the crisis of the West, the crisis of capitalism, the crisis of the individual.

It developed into a passionate critique of all aspects of West European capitalism which chuntered on in academic circles in the boring 1950s, trying to dodge the implications of the Soviet suppression of the Hungarian uprising – but then flared into life during the political outbursts of the late 1960s.

Since then it has been present in humanities courses across the Western world, which teach students how to use its tools to critique capitalist society, capitalist culture, movies and news media, advertising and consumerism, with zero impact on actual society.

Eclecticism

In the hands of Soviet bureaucrats, of course the Leninist tradition ossified and any deviation from the sacred texts became heresy. The first generation of WM, Lukács and Gramsci, remained wedded to the Leninist achievement, Lukács in particular escaping into exile in Russia where he was forced to kowtow to the growing conformism under Stalin. But the next generation, especially the Frankfurt School, absorbed a wide variety of influences, from Weberian sociology to Freudian psychoanalysis, Sartrean existentialism, and then the successive waves of structuralist thinking, so much so that in the end Merquior wonders whether they were Marxists at all.

2. Hegel

Hegel started off by studying theology. In his student days, forms of negative theology were popular. This is the notion that God made the world but then withdrew or concealed himself so that God can only be revealed through man’s activity. Man has to, in a mystical sense, rescue or save God. The negative of God’s absence triggers the positive of man’s theological endeavour.

When Hegel moved over into pure philosophy (epistemology, ontology etc) he brought many of these ideas with him. The role of God was taken by something Hegel called Spirit, or World Spirit. The idea is that this World Spirit changes and evolves as a result of man’s labour or activity.

And here is Hegel’s key contribution: Hegel historicises philosophy. Human beings, human activity, human perception and all the categories philosophy studies do not exist in a timeless state but are radically mediated by historical change, by changing historical societies.

Stated like that it sounds like a truism, that different historical periods produce different types of politics, culture, humans are constrained by the times they live in. So far, so obvious. Hegel’s claim is that the procession of human societies embody the evolution of the World Spirit progressively perfecting itself.

An obvious objection is, How do you explain historical change? By the process Hegel named the dialectic. As you might expect in a sophisticated account like this, Merquior spends some time wrestling with the different definitions of dialectic which Hegel gave in different works, and which various commentators have wrangled over for the 200 years since.

But the basic idea is that a particular society triumphs but at the expense of values or human potentials which act as a negative force, which are its internal contradictions. Thus the Roman Empire triumphed for a very long time but was based on mass slavery which was, in the long term, unsustainable. All societies tend to contain negative or contradictory elements like this, which create a tension and, at some point, lead to their overthrow and the rise of a new type of society. Every society contains the seeds of its own supercession. Hegel called these elements of alienation which he saw as a positive thing, triggering the triumph of new societies. In the hands of his followers this word, alienation, would acquire the purely negative meaning it has for us today.

Hegel was a student during the heady days of the French Revolution and then the rise of Napoleon so he felt he had witnessed the way one long-lasting regime (the absolute monarchy of the Bourbon kings) eventually generated so many contradictory forces within itself, that it was violently overthrown.

But the thing to bear in mind is that Hegel wasn’t in any way a revolutionary himself and when he wrote about these things it wasn’t in political or sociological terms – it was in terms of a supremely high-level abstract philosophy which talked about the way the World Spirit moved through these successive historical eras in pursuit of greater self-awareness, striving to achieve full consciousness.

Human history is the process whereby human reason moves forward towards a state of perfection. Merquior later, frequently refers to Hegel’s central contribution being his theory of process.

This is a necessitarian theory of history in that it claims the present is in some sense a fulfilment of all which has gone before. But it isn’t narrowly determinist because Hegel sees the parade of history as a steady increase in human self-awareness and it is this steady growth in self-consciousness – rather than more literal ideas about the state or contract theory or individual liberty – which Hegel means when he talks about Freedom. All his ideas are about big abstracts with capital letters. Humanity wins Freedom as the World Spirit unfurls itself through History.

3. Marx

Even before he was dead (1831) Hegel’s works were being contested by what was quickly named the Hegelian Left (1835 to 1843). These included Ludwig Feuerbach whose book ‘The Essence of Christianity’ (1841) caused a scandal by taking a purely anthropological approach to religion. He said there is no God and organised religion merely reflects man’s alienation from his own nature.

Moses Hess in ‘The European Triarchy’ (1841) adapted Hegel’s vision to a revolutionary mindset but claimed each revolution represented a step forward in humanity’s ability to love, leading to the final revolution where Christian love and charity would become universal. He it was who took Feuerbach’s idea of religious or psychological alienation and transferred it to society as a whole in a vision of economic alienation.

Karl Marx had attended Hegel’s lectures and shared the restiveness of the younger generation. His first works were soaked in the German Idealist tradition:

  • ‘The Difference Between the Democritean and Epicurean Philosophy of Nature’ (doctoral thesis, 1841)
  • ‘The Philosophical Manifesto of the Historical School of Law’ (1842)
  • ‘Critique of Hegel’s Philosophy of Right’ (1843)

Marx absorbed Feuerbach’s anthropological critique and Hess’s necessity of revolution but lacked a motivating force in his theory. This came when his friend Friedrich Engels suggested economics as the key engine for historical change.

Merquior gives a fascinating summary of Marx’s impact on communism and socialism, explaining the difference between the two.

Until Marx, communism was economically illiterate. (p.44)

The idea of everyone sharing goods in common is very old, going back to the ancient world if not before, cropping up as a Christian variant and in various utopias. What it didn’t have was any methodology, any ideas about how to attain this material equality.

Meanwhile, socialism is a much more recent invention, dating from and a response to industrialisation. Critics objected to ‘the anarchy of production’ in early industrial capitalism, and theorised that it should be brought under state control, supervised, planned and directed (Owen in Britain, Saint Simon in France).

Thus, while communisms were political movements, revolutionary and distributivist, socialisms were economic creeds, reformist and productivist. What Marx did was both to economicize communism and politicize socialism. (p.44)

He taught communism to speak the language of economics and socialism to adopt the idea of revolutionary social transformation, from communism.

Hess had written about economic alienation as a sad thing. Marx made it into a dynamic engine of change. Eventually so many workers will be alienated from their work, workplaces and society, that they will be forced to bring about radical social change.

But all this took place in the arena, within the conceptual space, mapped out by Hegel. Marx took Hegel’s idea of a World Spirit moving forward through different societies and turned it into humanity moving forward through different stages of economic development. Writing in Hegelian terms, Marx thinks the advent of a communist society will be the end of history because the World Spirit/Humanity will finally come to know itself completely, overcome all self-alienation, the triumph of Reason. This partly explains why the polymathic and prolific Marx never got round to giving any description or guidelines as to what his communist utopia would look like – leaving dictators like Lenin and Stalin, not to mention umpteen Third World revolutionaries (Castro, Pol Pot) to make it up.

Marx adopted Hegel’s teleology wholesale. Communism isn’t something which has to be imposed on any society, anywhere. It is the necessary, logical outcome of human development. It is an unstoppable force. Ferdinand Lassalle told Marx that he was a ‘Hegel turned communist’ (as opposed to Hegel’s political support for the bourgeois Prussian state of his day).

A fundamental premise of all this, or ‘discovery’, is the theory of historical materialism, best expressed in the Preface to Marx’s ‘Contribution to the Critique of Political Economy’ (1859). The relevant paragraph reads:

In the social production of their existence, men inevitably enter into definite relations, which are independent of their will, namely relations of production appropriate to a given stage in the development of their material forces of production.

The totality of these relations of production constitutes the economic structure of society, the real foundation, on which arises a legal and political superstructure and to which correspond definite forms of social consciousness. The mode of production of material life conditions the general process of social, political and intellectual life.

It is not the consciousness of men that determines their existence, but their social existence that determines their consciousness.

Things change when:

At a certain stage of development, the material productive forces of society come into conflict with the existing relations of production or – this merely expresses the same thing in legal terms – with the property relations within the framework of which they have operated hitherto. From forms of development of the productive forces these relations turn into their fetters. Then begins an era of social revolution. The changes in the economic foundation lead sooner or later to the transformation of the whole immense superstructure.

For Marx, this economic explanation isn’t just passive, it doesn’t just produce interesting intellectual analyses of various societies. It is dynamic, it explains how societies have and must change the future.

In ‘The Communist Manifesto’ (1848) Marx and Engels mapped out their analysis and predictions about capitalist society:

All political struggles are struggles between classes

Classes represent elements in the means of production.

In industrial capitalism only two classes matter, the capitalists or industrial bourgeoisie, and the workers or industrial proletariat.

Capitalism works rapaciously to accumulate capital through profit i.e. the rich become richer.

Capitalism tends towards monopoly so a slowly dwindling number of capitalists will become super-rich.

Meaning that the rest of society will become poorer, immiserated, proletarianised.

Eventually the proletariat, probably prodded by Marxist intellectuals, will realise that it is no longer a class like other classes but has come to represent Humanity, Marx’s version of the World Spirit.

When it realises it has the numbers and represents humanity, the proletariat will embark on its great revolution which will overthrow the capitalist class, abolish private ownership, take control of the means of production and distribution and, since these will be held and managed in common, everyone will be equal.

History will have ended in the communist utopia or, as Hegel would have put it, the World Spirit coming to complete self-consciousness.

Critique of Marx

Marx and Engels spent the rest of their lives feverishly expecting the great collapse but, of course, it never came. Economic crises, yes. Political revolutions, especially in unstable France, yes. Even the establishment of a Commune in Paris in 1871. But the radical transformation of a capitalist country into a communist one, no.

Instead, Marxism turned out to be the ideological vehicle under which backward, undeveloped peasant economies industrialised themselves, in Russia, then China, then across the first world. This is directly opposite to what Marx’s system predicted.

In the industrialised, developed world, contrary to everything he predicted, things improved. The misery and political turbulence of the Hungry Forties receded and the 1850s and 60s were a golden age for capitalism with a tremendous boost to the standard of living of the middle classes and upper working classes.

Merquior moves onto a subtler question: most romantic thinkers have hated modernity i.e. the world they lived in. Hegel was an exception, commending 1830s Prussia as the climax of the evolution of the World Spirit. What of Marx? Well, he was conflicted. He thought capitalism was evil for exploiting the workers, but he was also in awe of how it was transforming the world, genuine awe which comes over very clearly in the pages of The Communist Manifesto.

But at the same time he was ferociously against the deformations of the capitalist system. Merquior describes the rather challenging idea that it was ‘the commodity form’ which Marx most consistently wrote about, the mere idea of making something, anything, a commodity by giving it a value and allowing its exchange for money.

As to political forms, although Marx described himself as a democrat, at the same time he wrote again and again of bourgeois liberal democracy being the superstructure concomitant of capitalist exploitation and therefore having to be overthrown.

This was reinforced by his concept of ‘freedom’. Being a German philosopher and good Hegelian, Marx thought of freedom in terms of self-realisation, ‘the self-actualisation of human essence’, of the overcoming of the alienation of being compelled by capitalist production. Therefore he didn’t trouble too much about the John Stuart Mill-type ideas about the laws necessary to guarantee freedoms under the state, freedom of speech, travel, association, and so on.

For the German Idealist the legitimation of a society came from the windy idea that it represented the actualisation of history rather than representing the will of the people. Despising and downgrading this kind of bourgeois liberalism was to give permission to all the Marxist dictators of the twentieth century to do the same. Marx’s German Idealist mindset had a catastrophic impact on hundreds of millions of people in the 20th century and to the murder of tens of millions in the attempt to mould messy reality to the paradigms of German Idealist philosophy.

As to his economics, the lynchpin was long ago demolished. This was the notion of ‘surplus value’, the difference between the amount of labour put into a product, and what it’s sold for. Roughly speaking, capitalism cheats the worker of the difference. Put another way, the profit of the capitalist really belongs to the worker. From this insight comes the notion that the entire capitalist system is a form of organised theft, that the theft is enforced by all aspects of the system including the entire legal system, the courts and, if you protest against it, the police.

Merquior quotes later economists who roundly conclude that the labour theory of value is not accurate – many other factors contribute to a product’s value – and is also not, in the end, necessary for the theory of exploitation, Fundamentally, this or that price is irrelevant, it’s the notion that the worker is powerless because somebody else owns the means of production and uses it against him, which is the crux of the Marxist complaint.

Lastly, Merquior says the Marxist vision is based on the idea that each social system contains the seeds of the class which will overthrow it. This was certainly true of the bourgeoisie who overthrew feudalism, and the theory says that bourgeois capitalism will in turn harbour the proletariat which will grow and size and power till it overthrows the system. But Merquior says this is wrong because the proletariat is a different thing. It is by definition a weak and exploited mass, whereas the bourgeoisie who triumphed at the end of the medieval period were a highly educated elite who were able to radically restructure laws and customs, technology, trade routes and so on to suit their interests. The proletariat can’t do that at all.

In reality ‘the proletariat’ was a myth Marx created to carry the burden of his Hegelian view of social change. A large number of poor people working in factories definitely existed and yet, as Marx himself knew, there were more domestic servants than factory workers in Victorian society where he lived. His political vision was always a philosopher’s fiction.

Merquior cites Raymond Aron saying the most revealing thing about the entire Marxist worldview is how he (and Lenin, and Gramsci) all said that in practice you needed a small, focused, motivated political party to ‘raise the consciousness’ of the masses enough to trigger the revolution. In pure Hegelian Marx this shouldn’t be necessary, because communism isn’t something imposed from outside, it is an unstoppable force of history. Aron shrewdly points out that Marx and most of his followers lacked the courage of their convictions and so were forced to add the necessary role of the vanguard party which became, in every country where a communist revolution took place, the party of oppression, tyranny, famine, mass murder and then institutional corruption.

In reality, as the industrial proletariat Marx and Engels so valorised actually grew in size as a percentage of the population, as it continued to do throughout the 19th century, western societies became less revolutionary. Sure there were still marches to reduce the working day and week and riots which trashed the rich parts of cities, but the proletariat turned out, in Western Europe, to be a counter-revolutionary force.

So Marxism as a ‘system’ had three legacies:

  1. It turned out to be the ideology under which Third World nations undertook (generally very violent and repressive) industrialisation. In this way it took the role played by the Protestant work ethic or whatever else you think was responsible for the industrial revolution in western Europe.
  2. Because this happened first in Bolshevik Russia, chance had it that the Russian form, streamlined by Lenin, would be the form of Marxist thought broadcast all around the world along with traditional Russian brutality, so that anyone who disagreed with it within a communist country, or even within a communist movement in a capitalist country, was liable to be arrested or murdered by the Soviet police state or its countless copies.
  3. Meanwhile, in Western Europe, Marxism went on to become a powerful form of critique and resistance to the most advanced forms of capitalism. Which is what this book is about.

4. György Lukács

Very clever man, raised in the Jewish household of a wealthy self-made business man and, like so many spoiled and pampered sons, rejected his parents. As a student just before the Great War, Lukács studied German philosophy and applied it to his natural gift for literary criticism. Whatever he wrote is interesting because he was a clever, insightful man. Merquior’s prose is demanding, as usual:

Lukács’s Kierkegaardian ethicism articulated two conceptual axes. (p.63)

There are some very dense pages explaining the development of Lukács’s early aesthetic theory and its preoccupation with artistic ‘form’ as a kind of utopian escape from the contingency of the world, larded with references to his intellectual influences and peers in Edwardian Hungary, and which sounds like this:

One might say that Lukács translated Popper’s celebration of form into a Laskian form-content of a value-sphere, art, utterly divorced from worldly reality: a dualist metaphysics of neo-Kantian origin allows him to go on contrasting ‘soul and form’ with inauthentic ‘life’. (p.66)

After having written essays about art and fiction for some 15 years and becoming a leading light of Budapest’s intellectual world, in 1923 Lukács published the single book which is arguably the founding text of Western Marxism, ‘History and Class Consciousness’. Comprising eight essays, it attempts a philosophical justification of Bolshevism (p.80). It does this in a number of ways, one of them being a revival of the Hegelian element in Marxism.

Lukács describes the distinction between actual class consciousness of the proletariat and the ‘ascribed’ class consciousness it would have if it understood its role in history.

The book is most famous for its emphasis on the psychological or cultural impact of capitalism, specifically the twin concepts of alienation and reification.

Lukács also argues that Marxism is superior to Hegel’s system, or any other philosophical system, for its focus on the totality of human history and of the human situation in the present.

Above all Lukács claims that even if all the claims of Marxism could be disproved, it would still be superior to all other philosophies due to its method, of dialectical materialism, ‘the scientific conviction that dialectical materialism is the road to truth and that its methods can be developed, expanded and deepened only along the lines laid down by its founders.’

In the end, Merquior cynically concludes that the book’s achievement was to ‘concoct a version of Leninism highly palatable to the humanist mind’ (p.87). If Milton set out to justify the ways of God to men, Lukács set out to justify the ways of Lenin to European intellectuals.

Critique

Merquior’s critique is complex but has several elements. On the narrowly Hegelian front, Lukács claims to be reviving the Hegelian substrate of Marx’s thought but falls down on at least two Hegelian principles, subject theory and process theory, which Merquior explains in detail.

As Merquior pointed out in his introduction, a quality of the entire tradition of Western Marxism is its obsession with culture critique to the almost complete exclusion of economics or practical politics and Merquior highlights how ‘History and Class Consciousness’ Lukács inaugurates this.

He goes further to claim that, deep down, Lukács’s Marxism is utopian and follows a fundamentally Christian teleology: in his book, man’s alienation from the products of his labour and, by extension, from the entire capitalist world which enslaves him, plays the role of the Christian Fall from Grace. The communist revolution, which will be spearheaded by the proletariat conceived as representative of all humanity, is a modern secular form of the Christian notion of the Atonement or Restoration of fallen humanity, restoring humanity to completeness, full self-awareness, full autonomy.

Beneath all the Hegelian terminology and discussion of reification and alienation, lies a fundamentally Christian telos.

Merquior notes that Lukács later dismissed ‘History and Class Consciousness’ because it rejected not just capitalist social relations but the entirety of industrial civilisation, modern technology and the division of labour. It was profoundly anti-industrialisation and it is this profound alienation from the industrialised nature of the modern world, which Western Marxism was based on.

But this type of industrialisation was precisely what was to be wholeheartedly promoted by Stalinist communism with its emphasis on the forced industrialisation of backward Russia. And so Lukács – stuck in Moscow and having to curry favour with the Soviet camp – had to back down and rethink his opposition to industrialisation. He also withdrew from his earlier radicalism in other ways, lining up with the Stalinist attack on modernism and the avant-garde, writing sophisticated justifications of Stalin’s insistence during the 1930s on the new mode of Socialist Realism. It is harsh, and also simplistic in the context of Merquior’s sophisticated philosophical analysis, but I have seen the later Lukács described as a toady and lickspittle hireling of Stalinist ideology.

Anyway, as part of his adapting to changing Soviet ideology, Lukács later dismissed his most important book and the foundational text of the entire Western Marxist movement, as ‘romantic anti-capitalism‘ – and Merquior waspishly comments that you can maybe use this dismissive phrase (with what he calls its overtone of ‘humanist pathos’) to describe the entire Western Marxism project.

5. Ernst Bloch

Bloch’s syncretist system proposed utopia as a blend of cosmogenesis cum social eschaton within an apocalyptic anthropolatry. (p.85)

What I think Merquior means by this is that although Bloch became a Marxist during the Great War and a leading Marxist intellectual between the wars and on into 1940s and 50s, he never actually joined the Communist Party. Instead he steered his own eccentric path, becoming notorious for his visionary writings about utopia.

Bloch’s system is syncretist (meaning ‘combining different forms of belief or practice’) because it combined a cosmic vision of origins with a vision of ends, with an eschaton (‘the final event in the divine plan’), and all in the context of with an apocalyptic worldview which, in the Hegelian manner, places humanity at its heart, ‘an ecstatic exaltation of man’ – to such an extent that it is almost idolatrous of human capabilities, which is why Merquior calls it an ‘anthropolatry’.

Bloch’s most influential book was ‘The Spirit of Utopia’ (1918), an amalgam of biblical, Marxist and Expressionist thought which set out to interpret Europe’s cultural legacy in the light of an eccentric Marxist faith, rethinking the history of Western civilizations as a process of revolutionary disruptions and to reread the artworks, religions, and philosophies of this tradition as incentives to continue disrupting.

His magnum opus was ‘The Principle of Hope’, published in three volumes in 1954, 1955, and 1959, which explores changing notions of utopia throughout history, studying the depictions of changing utopias in art, literature, religion and other forms of cultural expression. It has hope in the title because, like so many of the writers in this tradition, it looks forward to some Great Event which will usher in a society of Complete Perfection.

Merquior dismisses Bloch as more of a lay theologian than a Marxist philosopher which explains why, in the long run, Bloch has attracted more theologians than Marxists (p.90).

6. Antonio Gramsci

The biographical facts can be found in my review of James Joll’s study of Gramsci. The son of a poor Sardinian family. Scholarship to Turin, then the most industrialised and so socialist city in Italy. 1912 writing articles. 1919 to 1920 closely involved in organising two years of strikes and setting up factory councils. In Moscow for communist training when the Fascists took power. 1924 appointed head of the Italian Communist Party. 1926 arrested and sentenced to 20 years in prison. Sickly and ill, he wrote his famous ‘Prison Notebooks’ until too weak to write in 1935, and died in 1937.

The most important thing about Gramsci is that he wasn’t a trained philosopher, which sets him apart from all the other Western Marxists. And he was not only involved in practical politics, but at the highest level i.e. head of a national Communist Party. Which explains why his notebooks are full of meditations on the practical realities of achieving a communist revolution.

Unlike all the philosophers, whose evidence base was the writings of Marx and Hegel and so, on the basis of their teleological theories of history alone thought that the revolution was just around the corner, Gramsci had practical experience of trying to organise workers just into councils and soviets and knew how difficult it was. After the Fascist victory in 1924 he began to realise the communist millennium might be a long way off.

And so turned his thinking to mulling over how a party achieves cultural and political hegemony over other classes in a society, with much pondering on the experience of the unification of Italy in the 1850s, 60s and 70s. Or, as Merquior puts it:

Gramsci’s own analyses in ‘The Prison Notebooks’ can be deemed a valiant attempt to marxify the ethico-political by correlating it to class-ridden socio-economic infrastructures. (p.98)

The term hegemony existed within Russian theorising but referred to the pre-eminence of the proletariat over other revolutionary classes i.e. the peasants. Gramsci expanded the term 1) to mean the way one class achieves dominance over others and 2) applied it historically, particularly to the specifically Italian history of the unification and 3) extended it into the cultural realm, the realm of superstructure.

In Russia there was little or no civil society (as there still isn’t, as there never will be) so that Lenin could confront the apparatus of the state (army, police, law courts) head on and simply overthrow them. He likened this to a ‘war of movement’. But the countries of Western Europe are thronged with the vehicles of civil society and so the revolution is going to have to be more mediated, as the revolutionary forces seek hegemony by infiltrating the channels of power and discourse. This is a ‘war of position’, preparing the way for the final assault/ Hence the centrality of culture in Gramsci’s theory, and hence the importance of intellectuals who are the people who will infiltrate bourgeois society on behalf of the party / proletariat.

Critique

Gramsci is the one Western Marxist who wasn’t a trained philosopher and didn’t make big attempts to go back to Hegel or to revive the Hegelian roots of Marx. And he is uniformly considered the most accessible and the most intellectually liberating of all the Western Marxists. Could the two facts possibly be connected? In my opinion Gramsci’s uniqueness suggests that Hegel’s entire influence and legacy was baleful and poisonous.

7. The Frankfurt School

Founded in 1924 as the Institute for Social Research, most of the small faculty were Marxists, most of them Jewish and so were forced to flee Germany when Hitler came to power. They settled in New York where they flourished for the next 15 years, slagging off capitalist culture in the heartland of capitalist culture.

This is the easiest section to read because Merquior mocks the Frankfurters from the word go and his mockery is refreshingly easy to grasp. He mocks the way the Frankfurters didn’t even pretend to be interested in revolution or the working classes except as concepts in their complex philosophies. They paid the whole notion of ‘revolution’ the most superficial lip service. He mocks the way they instead focused almost entirely on Kulturkritik. He mocks the way most of them came from upper-middle-class Jewish backgrounds where they had received the best schooling in the high bourgeois arts and therefore looked down on popular American culture in particular, with fear and loathing. Merquior mocks what developed into unabashed elitist contempt for the consumer culture they ended up living among.

The Frankfurters’ claim was that chaotic nineteenth century bourgeois capitalism had given way by the 1930s to forms of ‘state capitalism’ which used technological advances to enslave the masses with products of consumer capitalism and the culture industry (p.114). Repressive state power is exercised everywhere all the time. Progress is impossible. Thus Kultukritik gave way to profound Kultupessimismus.

The central plank of the Enlightenment, Reason, they came to see as doomed to enslave humanity by devising ever-new sciences which only create new technologies to oppress us. Doom.

8. Walter Benjamin

The living master of critical cultural microscopies. (p.117)

Benjamin has emerged as the most popular of the Western Marxists for a number of reasons. The most obvious is the quality of his writing. Although dense and sometimes difficult to follow, it is packed with critical insights.

He didn’t just write about the revolution, the process of history and the proletariat but covered a wide range of subjects, most of them literary.

And it helps that most of these subjects weren’t obscure Hegelian philosophers or little-known German poets but well known superstars of European literature. Thus he wrote insightful essays on Kafka and Proust and numerous pieces about Baudelaire, all super-obvious undergraduate favourites.

And he was good friends with Bertolt Brecht, the left-wing student’s favourite playwright, who he exchanged letters with and wrote essays about.

He also wrote about the social impact of photography and early cinema, essays which have gone straight into the reading list of all modern media studies courses.

Again it helps that he didn’t write massive weighty tomes of continuous argumentation working through heavy philosophical themes. The opposite. He was attracted to the notion of fragments: he fantasised about writing a book which would consist of nothing but choice quotations from the work under review; other essays amount to fragmentary theses or aphorisms. All his essays are sub-divided into sections, many of them very short (a page or two). This makes him a lot easier to process.

And in a number of places (‘The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction’ and the ‘Theses on the Philosophy of History’) he came up with pithy aphorisms which have been recycled in millions of undergraduate essays, are on t-shirts, fridge magnets etc:

There is no document of civilization which is not at the same time a document of barbarism.

Handy to impress your tutor or examiner by chucking a few choice Benjamin quotes into your essays.

In addition to all this, Benjamin was also very aware of and attracted by his Jewish heritage. In stark contrast with someone like Lukács, who was also Jewish but always wrote about the entire Western Christian tradition from a position squarely in it, Benjamin was fascinated by, attracted to, and influenced by Jewish mysticism.

He was good friends with the Jewish writer and Kabbalah scholar Gershom Scholem. Scholem tried very hard to convert Benjamin to Zionism (which, in the 1920s and 30s simply meant to campaign to create a Jewish homeland in Palestine). They had many exchanges about Jewish mysticism and much of this spills over into Benjamin’s worldview and essays, particularly the mysterious idea of ‘redemption’ through history, which comes to prominence in the ‘Theses on the Philosophy of History’. He uses the Christian term of redemption but in a puzzling but beguilingly mystical way. He was, in Merquior’s words, ‘a unique combination of Marxist rhetoric over Jewish mystical thought’.

Thus some of his essays have a strange, visionary, haunting quality, quite unlike the regimented literary insights of Lukács or the worryings about class hegemony and organic intellectuals of a Gramsci, let alone the long, turgid works of earnest dialecticians like Adorno and Horkheimer. As Merquior puts it, the best of Benjamin’s essays work through a series of epiphanies, quite unlike the ‘continuum of philosophical disquisition and Hegelian historical process’ found in the other Frankfurters.

As to specific ideas, Merquior spends some time explaining what Benjamin took from his studies of the Romantics (fragments, and the notion of redemption) and more importantly from Jewish philosophy. Benjamin came to distinguish between Christian redemption, which is worked out in time, through history, with Jewish mysticism which experiences redemption as a kind of ‘messianic vigil’, a critical paying attention to epiphanic moments. (Merquior p.121).

Merquior says Benjamin was deeply influenced by the enlightened Judaism of Hermann Cohen.

Cohen’s ethical Judaism lent a new light to that ‘redemptive criticism’ Benjamin learned from the Romantics. Messianic pathos in Benjamin always points to glowing instants, never to the unfolding of a cumulative temporality. (Merquior p.121)

Following Freud, Benjamin thought that meaning is buried under layers of repression. The alert critic digs down to find these slivers and fragments. Merquior flags Benjamin’s concept of the allegory: ‘Allegories are amidst ideas what ruins are amidst things.’ (p.123) Allegories thrive on the dark distance between meaning and intention.

His notion of historical redemption is that the present can, in some mystical way, redeem the suffering and exploitation of the past.

In his essay ‘The Storyteller’ Benjamin claims the true storyteller leaves the imprint of his personality on the story as a potter leaves his thumbprints on a pot. He adds to it a personal layer of testimony and authority. By contrast, we live in a society increasingly buried under a tsunami of information, which is instantly verifiable, trivial, transient, and contains no knowledge or wisdom at all.

This leads onto his other key concept, the aura. The precursors of ‘works of art’ had a cult, magic or ritualistic purpose. This aura lingers in the uniqueness of a hand-made or painted work of art, its uniqueness a testament to its authenticity. The mass reproduction of works of art in photos, in magazines and newspapers 1) destroys the work’s uniqueness 2) destroys the distance which used to prompt cult adulation. Now anyone can hold (a copy of) the Mona Lisa in their hand.

The essay this appeared in, ‘The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction’, also contains a series of passages about the alienating effect of film. In front of a play the audience see a real person perform in real time and react to the audience reaction. In film there are no persons but just camera angles assembled by the director, cameraman and editor. In front of a work of art you can pay attention, take a break, take your time. Film subjects you to an unrelenting sensory bombardment from which you cannot escape.

Merquior surprised me by claiming this essay ends up claiming these new technologies for the revolution, saying that the shock effect of film opened up new worlds of aesthetic appreciation. I’ve just battled my way through ‘The Work of Art…’ and didn’t get that at all. In every direction Benjamin the old bourgeois seems to lament the abolition of the art forms of his youth and the tidal wave of mass entertainment which has drowned them.

He wrote an essay praising surrealism for its revolutionary nihilism, for putting everyday objects in such incongruous settings that they gained a new life, just as the dialectical materialist needed to strip bourgeois mystification away to reveal the exploitation inherent in the system.

His life’s work was the Passagenwerk, an encyclopedic collection of information about the new commercial arcades built in Paris in the 1850s and the setting of many of Baudelaire’s poems. It is interesting to learn that the Theses on History were intended to be the preface to the final Passagenwerk (which was never completed or published).

Also that Merquior disapproves of the famous Theses. He thinks the talk about redemption, about Messianism and so on mark a regrettable surrender to irrationalism, to literature. And this, of course, is why they are among the most popular of his works with non-Marxist humanists…

9. Theodor Adorno

The virtuoso of abstruse dialectics as a language of thwarted redemption. (p.116)

Kulturkritik invariably speaks with the voice of assertion rather than argument. (p.135)

Merquior really dislikes Adorno and attacks him in a number of ways, beginning with dismissing him as a chubby little man. Adorno was the driving force in converting the post-war Frankfurt School into what Lukács sneeringly (and very funnily) called The Grand Hotel Abyss (p.137).

In 1935 to 1938, Benjamin in exile in France was entirely financially dependent on the School, now based in New York. He and Adorno corresponded and Adorno counselled against the technological collectivism of Brechtian aesthetics i.e. the positive use of photos and film and sound for revolutionary effect in Brecht’s epic theatre. Adorno reasoned that all technology belonged to The Enemy, so that supporting these new technologies was supporting Fascism. This is typical of the sweeping exorbitancy of his thought.

In the ‘Dialectic of Reason’ (1947) Adorno and Horkheimer identified the great product and centrepiece of the Enlightenment, Human Reason, as the source of all modern oppression. Science and technology, as the products of that Reason, were central, not in liberating mankind (à la H.G. Wells) but enslaving it.

Merquior approaches Adorno through his insistence on individualism (which he learned from his philosophy teacher, Hans Cornelius). This meant Adorno saw all forms of (in social terms) the masses, (in political terms) collectivism, and in (economic terms) science and technology, as enemies of ‘the subject’. Saving the subject is his cultural-philosophical aim.

It was for this reason that Adorno was against symbolism and surrealism – for the objectivity of their poetics. Instead Adorno identified with the angst-ridden individualism of German Expressionism and the angsty-sounding individualism of Schoenberg (and Berg and Webern)’s atonal music.

It was because mass society had been suffused with the mass technologies, particularly the movies but mass consumerism more widely, that Adorno came to believe that society had, in effect, been taken ransom by consumer culture and none of us can escape. That’s why the sub-title to ‘Minima Moralia’ (written in the later 1940s) is ‘Reflections from Damaged Life’.

Adorno spent from 1933 to 1945 in exile in New York (along with Horkheimer and other Frankfurters) and the experience of being dumped amid a thriving happy bubblegum consumer culture traumatised him for the rest of his life. Although he expressed this trauma in terminology taken from the German philosophical tradition, it is transparently clear that he was appalled at the energy and vibrancy of American popular culture and saw it as a mortal threat to the staid and solitary high German culture he was brought up in, especially regarding German classical music which Adorno was an expert in (hence ‘Philosophy of Western Music’, 1949).

By this stage in his book, Merquior is showing signs of impatience and exasperation at the entire tradition of Western Marxism he’s been describing, with its ‘vapid psychological generalities’ and Adorno, in a sense, represents its logical conclusion, and so becomes the butt of a lot of Merquior’s increasingly exasperated criticism.

Adorno’s ‘Negative Dialectics’ (1966) argues that the Enlightenment’s emphasis on reason and progress has led to the (baleful) domination of nature and the suppression of human individuality. Whereas the dialectical method of a) Hegel and b) the Marxists was positive and dynamic, an engine driving towards a better future, Adorno sees no better future and so proposes an entirely negative dialectic. This doesn’t move forwards, doesn’t point to a final synthesis or reconciliation, but instead makes a static analysis of the discordant elements in society and leaves it at that.

By doing so Merquior claims that Adorno has stopped operating in the Hegelian tradition and is really operating in the shadow of Nietzsche, ‘the master of misology’ i.e. profound distrust of logic and reason.

The result was that Adorno deprived himself of a viable concept of historical change or social structure and so his critique radiates stasis and blockage and, quite frequently, despair.

Adorno’s texts are characterised by an alternation between microscopic analyses of cultural artefacts (as in Minima Moralia and the music book) which then leap to condemnations of society which are so sweeping as to be caricatures. His analyses of the masters of German music are brilliant but he ruins them with ‘fanciful and far-fetched’ generalisations about society which are so sweeping as to be eerie (p.134) when he’s not making ‘foolish comparisons’, aligning the paganism of Stravinsky’s music (which he loathed) with the Nazis, that kind of thing (p.135).

Merquior cites Kracauer who says that, lacking any theory of process or social change, Adorno’s discourse is, fundamentally, empty, so empty of process and history that Merquior says it’s almost like an abstract painting.

Taking the gloves off, Merquior says Adorno’s discourse was often reduced to ‘stubborn even stupid accusations’ levelled against a society he hated, ‘the arrogant use of assertion’ which concealed ‘a poverty of thought’.

Adorno’s big book, ‘Aesthetic Theory’ (1970), summarised all his usual themes, breaking with German classicism and insisting that the only modern art worth the name was hermetic and negative. The hero of his book is Samuel Beckett.

A verdict of sterility seems unavoidable. In Adorno’s hands, dialectics turns despite itself into a formal game yielding few analytical gains…One of the most rebarbative of contemporary thinkers, Adorno left a philosophical jargon which, in the blank resilience of its acrobatics, reminds one of deconstructionism. (p.136)

The Frankfurt School claimed to be devoting its energies to investigating social theory yet, Merquior points out, social theory requires a theory of historical change – how do societies change and why? Whatever you think of them, Hegel and Marx provided such a theory but the Frankfurt School abandoned it because it came to think social change is, in fact, impossible.

The more one plunges into Kulturkritik the less able one is to retrieve a decent theory of the historical process. (p.138)

Commentary

Merquior paints a picture of a man who is completely dissatisfied with the philosophical legacy he has inherited and devoted an enormous book to proving that the dynamic, forward-moving element of Hegel and Marx is defunct. We are all stuck forever as damaged slaves of state capitalism and consumerism.

Oddly, Merquior doesn’t mention the importance of the Holocaust for Adorno. The use of modern technology to identify, round up, transport and murder Jews in a kind of production line process was such a traumatic event for Adorno that he thought it marked a total breach with all previous philosophies. Neither Hegel, Marx nor anyone else could account for it. In his view, this was where the Enlightenment cult of Reason and Science and Technology leads you to: the gas chambers.

Well, there are about three replies to all this. One is, if you think the Hegelian / German philosophy tradition is bunk, then leave it. Walk away. Become an Anglo-Saxon pragmatist. When you’re in a hole, stop digging.

Two, it seems to me a really obvious error to attribute what the Germans did to the whole European Enlightenment, to blame the entire European intellectual tradition for what the Germans did. David Hume had very little to do with the Holocaust. Adorno’s stance is, paradoxically, a form of Holocaust denial. He doesn’t deny the Holocaust happened, the opposite, he’s obsessed with it. But he denies that Germany was uniquely responsible for it. Instead it is an abstract historical category called The Enlightenment. It is a form of avoiding the very specific guilt of German leaders and the German people.

To put it another way, Adorno tries to pass the buck to The Enlightenment, rather than facing the uncomfortable fact that maybe the entire German intellectual tradition, back to Hegel and beyond, was to blame, with its huge abstractions and windy talk about Folk and Spirit and History and Destiny – maybe these huge and windy categories paved the way for Nazi rhetoric about Das Volk, Das Reich and so on. Maybe it’s your fault, Teddy. Maybe you should fess up.

In defence of Adorno

Throughout his book Merquior treats philosophy as philosophy and avoids extraneous aspects of his thinker’s work in order to focus just on their philosophical contribution. He doesn’t take account of the extent to which philosophy is a kind of creating writing which is as rhetorical and literary in intention as poetry or fiction. He doesn’t take account of the cultural or artistic aspect of philosophical writing.

I think this is why he omits the impact of the Holocaust from his account of Adorno, because it’s irrelevant to the question of whether Adorno did or did not contribute to the philosophy of history. So he misses the way Adorno and Horkheimer’s writings caught the spirit of the times.

European culture was traumatised by the horrors of the Second World War, of which the Holocaust was one of the main ones, although the dropping of the atom bombs on Japan run it a close second. In the aftermath of these events there was a widespread feeling of despair across European intellectuals and artists. Alberto Giacometti, Samuel Beckett, Francis Bacon all spring to mind.

Therefore, for all the manifold failings which Merquior points out, in his defence you would say that Adorno was the philosophical wing of this movement of devastation and despair about the future of humanity. This is why the extreme negativity of ‘Minima Moralia’ and ‘Negative Dialectics’ struck a chord. Not because they contributed to the Hegelian analysis of social change, but because they expressed in philosophical language the horror that many people felt at what humanity had turned out to be. How could you dream of moving towards a happy-clappy future with the ruins of Belsen or Hiroshima still smouldering?

Similarly, as American popular culture flooded the West with its happy movies, rock’n’roll, blue jeans and fridges, many people knew this glut of superficial produce had nothing to offer the deeper appetites for meaning and imagination. Many thoughtful people reacted against consumer culture (as they do to this day).

Therefore Adorno and Horkheimer’s book ‘The Culture Industry: Enlightenment as Mass Deception’ (1944) struck a real chord which lasted through the 1960s and 70s, the sense that Western society had been taken over by big capitalism which flooded the market with shiny tat and kept the masses doped with a glut of TV and spectacular movies.

So in their horror at what was revealed about humanity in the Second World War, and then their contempt for the products of mass consumerism, Adorno and Horkheimer may have lacked the ‘process theory’ Merquior is focusing on, but they did speak to the spirit of the age and addressed issues which are, in fact, still with us.

My critique of Western Marxism

Attractiveness and inapplicability

From the radical 1960s onwards this accounts for the appeal of this tradition to radical students and lecturers, because they feel novel, alien, different, because they shed drastic new light on everything we take for granted. As a lecturer and student they force you to think in a completely new way about philosophy, existence, history, psychology, society, politics and the arts. That’s the positive thing about them.

The negative aspect is that none of these ideas transfer into real life, ordinary life, outside of a university humanities department. The gulf between the 500-year-old tradition of no-nonsense Anglo-Saxon pragmatism (Hobbes, Locke, Hume, Bertrand Russell, logical positivism) and the wild fantasies of the continental, especially German, philosophical tradition, is too vast for any number of enthusiastic literature or media studies students to bridge.

The tradition of Western Marxism is an entire world of fascinating figures who developed amazing and mind-altering ideas based on world-shattering visions of human history, and span off from them a universe of insights about art, literature and film, which have almost no practical application in the real world.

The wrongness of the Continental philosophical tradition

All of this, this entire universe of thought, stems from the German idealist tradition, which claims that humans have Reason and that human life is about optimising this Reason – vide Hegel’s fundamental idea that all human history consists of the slow acquisition of self-awareness by the great World Spirit which is cognate with human Reason. This is a beautiful, bewitching fantasy which clearly has no relevance to the real world.

So many of these books are hard to read because they come from within a tradition, and cite authors and ideas which are completely alien to everything we in the Anglo-Saxon world know and believe. To sound a bit xenophobic, in my view it was this worldview composed of huge, sweeping generalisations about History and the Masses or the People, it was this kind of rhetoric which enabled the totalitarian tyrannies of the Bolsheviks and, in direct response to them, of the Nazis. No such beliefs could take off in Britain because we don’t have that kind of intellectual tradition, it just doesn’t exist. Racists and fascists there have been, and still are, but they have never gained much purchase in Britain because they can’t tap into a wider, deeper intellectual discourse of sweeping class-based change – because it just doesn’t exist in Britain. And where it has existed (Russia, Germany, France) it has been very clever, intellectually thrilling, and brought social collapse and tyranny.

Humans are irrational

Philosophical idealism is defined as ‘the set of metaphysical perspectives asserting that reality is equivalent to mind, spirit, or consciousness; that reality is entirely a mental construct; or that ideas are the highest type of reality or have the greatest claim to being considered ‘real’.

And this rests, deep down, on the centrality of human reason, the mind, in creating reality. But this is obviously and demonstrably wrong. Freud devoted to a career to undermining the notion that humans are reasonable, that there is anything like ‘human reason’, and the twentieth century demonstrated where the search for a completely Rational Society ends up, namely totalitarian tyranny.

For a much more modest demolition of the entire notion of human reason, a modern summary of the many forms of ineradicable human irrationality, see:

The unreason of idealism is made clear every time any of these guys put pen to paper. They all agree on the primacy of Human Reason and yet all of them disagree with all the others about what human reason actually is, how it works, how it works in history, what the categories of thought are, whether there is a historical spirit or how societies change – every subject you can imagine in this area is fiercely contested and denied.

Professionals working in this field take it as a sign of its scientific spirit of investigation and experiment and debate. To any non-involved outsider it looks like a chaos of over-educated popinjays all claiming that their model of the human mind, of Reason, of class and history and so on, is the only one. It would be laughable if its consequences hadn’t turned out to be so catastrophically tragic.

All teleologies are false

The Hegel-Marx worldview is underpinned by some form of teleology i.e. the belief that history, and human society, is heading towards some predestined end. This obviously derives from a fundamentally religious worldview and is completely false. All teleologies i.e. notions that human history is heading for some specific, and generally glorious, end point are obviously childish wish-fulfilments. Human affairs will obviously carry on blundering from one unexpected disaster to another. Certain patterns may be discernible, certain behaviours may repeat themselves, but there is, quite obviously, no underlying meaning and certainly no purpose or definable end point. It is difficult to credit that such a parade of incredibly educated, ferociously clever men could base their life’s works on such a deluded idea!

Human time versus geological time

Another aspect of the general ridiculousness of this entire tradition is the way it deals with ludicrously brief periods of time. Many of these authors write as if human history began with the ancient Greeks about 500 BC and was about to end in…1848 or 1871 or 1917 or 1933 or 1973 or…hang on, I’ll get back to you.

But human history obviously began long, long, long before then – the first hominins appeared some 6 million years ago, the first modern humans evolved between 200,000 and 300,000 years ago, and developed a capacity for language about 50,000 years ago.

And, quite obviously, human history isn’t about to ‘end’, in a proletarian revolution or any other pitifully small and local event, any time soon. The earth is predicted to survive for another billion years, until the sun expands to swallow it up. Humans have survived ice ages, epidemics, meteorite detonations and volcanic explosions which darkened the skies for years. Chances are we will survive in some form or another for a very, very long time to come.

Therefore the notion that history is about to ‘end’ in one particular writer’s lifetime (whether Marx or Lukács or Francis Fukuyama’s) is obviously the product of childish narcissism, the childish conviction that my life is so important that it is going to be marked by the end of everything. It’s a flattering notion but completely false. Nobody’s life is particularly important, nobody’s times are particularly important. or, conversely, everyone’s lives are important and everyone’s times are important. But as the tired office cliché puts it, if everything’s a priority, then nothing’s a priority. Same here. Even if we start a nuclear war, some humans will survive and blunder on. Human beings are going to stumble and blunder on indefinitely. Sorry.

From this geological or evolutionary perspective, the notion of ‘history’ proposed by Hegel or Marx or Engels or Lenin or Bukharin or Gramsci or Lukács or all the rest of them is pitifully inadequate. The ‘history’ they operate with – 2,500 out of 50,000 years, around 1% of the existence of our species – is so small and self-obsessed as to be laughable.

Darwin and time

I am a Darwinian materialist. What enabled Darwin’s theory of evolution was the discovery (when he was a student) of Deep Time i.e. early 19th century geologists discovered that the earth was not only older than silly old religious views held (6,000 years or so) but vastly, inconceivably older, certainly hundreds of millions of years old. Darwin saw how dog and pigeon fanciers could breed new sizes and shapes of animals during the course of just one human lifetime. What might not have happened over a hundred million times as long? And that is the seed and context for his theory of evolution through natural selection.

This, for me, is not only the correct perspective on the origin and evolution of life on earth, on the origin of human beings and the deep explanation of human nature – it is also a liberating perspective because it says that I am part of a vast continuum of life forms stretching back in time billions and billions of years, and extending now, in the space around me, to every one of the trillions of organisms now alive on the planet.

This, to me, is a vastly more inspiring way of looking at the world than the squabbles among German philosophers which led, only a generation or two later, to psychopaths in darkened rooms deciding who needed to be shot or sent to the gulag in order to bring about the Perfect Society predicted by Hegel or Marx.

Eurocentric

It goes without saying that all these elephantine theories were utterly trapped within the tiny cell of European history. I’ve commented how again and again these great thinkers deal with All Human History as if it began in ancient Greece, chuntered through ancient Rome, the Dark Ages, the Middle Ages, end of feudalism, early modern, industrial revolution, the nineteenth century explosion of capitalism repelled by dandies walking lobsters in Paris, the Great War, the rise of Nazism, the Americans winning the Second World War and flooding the world with junk culture – as if that is All World History.

But not only is this selection only about 1% of the history of our species, but even if you zero in on just human history since the last ice age – about 12,000 years ago – this is still a pitifully inadequate model of human history because it so obviously misses out the histories of all the other cultures of the world outside of Europe. The Eurocentrism of the entire tradition of Hegelian Idealism or Western Marxism is off-the-scale local and parochial.

So its complete failure to take into account 1) the true length of human history and 2) the variety and number of other societies all round the world, over millennia, goes a long way to explaining why all forms of applied Marxism have been such miserable tyrannical failures.

But to keep on the Euro perspective a moment longer, stepping back, you can easily mount the case that Soviet communism was in fact just another form of Western imperialism. Certainly liberation movements all around the Third World adopted it and claimed it would liberate their countries and their peoples from capitalist imperialism, and many clever non-western theorists have adapted it for use in their local political struggles. But at root Marxism is a western idea, based in western philosophy, and reeking of western imperial arrogance, reeking of the notion that concepts worked out in lecture halls and libraries of Heidelberg or Bonn can be applied to explain and then run the lives of people living in a myriad of non-western societies from Latin America to Indonesia.

You could argue that the Cold War consisted of the battle between two rival clans or groups of western theorists and the tragedy of decolonisation was that so many, many developing nations were forced to choose between one or other of these warring alternatives and never got to find their own ways of developing and industrialising which suited their local peoples and traditions.

The history of Western Marxism is hugely entertaining, mind-stretching and informative – and a world-historical scandal.


Credit

‘Western Marxism’ by J.G. Merquior was published as a Paladin paperback in 1986. All quotations are for the purposes of criticism and review.

Related link

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Ludwig Wittgenstein: The Duty of Genius by Ray Monk (1991)

‘I often feel miserable.’
(Heroic understatement from 30-year-old Ludwig Wittgenstein, who in fact often felt stupid, futile, wretched, ashamed and suicidal)

This is a huge book (580 pages of text, 70 of notes and index etc, making 654 pages in all) and a hugely enjoyable biography of Ludwig Wittgenstein, the man many take to be the greatest philosopher of the twentieth century (‘By 1939 he was recognised as the foremost philosophical genius of his time,’ p.415).

Executive summary

The Austrian Ludwig Wittgenstein (1889 to 1951) is widely considered among the greatest philosophers of the twentieth century for many reasons. The easiest one to grasp is that he produced not one but two entirely distinct systems of thought, the first expressed in the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, completed by 1918 but only published in 1922; and the second expressed in a series of notebooks, sketches, remarks and mental exercises on various subjects published posthumously, the closest thing to a finished work being the Philosophical Investigations (1953) – and that both these philosophies were hugely influential, but in different ways.

1. Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus

The Tractatus is notorious because:

  1. It’s relatively short and consists of just 7 numbered propositions, numbers 2 to 6 going on to have sub-propositions (2.1), sub-sub-propositions (2.1.1) and so on. There’s a nifty visual summary online.
  2. Following on from the work of his mentor, Bertrand Russell, Wittgenstein set out to establish a watertight logical basis for mathematical philosophy. With the completion of the work and convinced that he had achieved his goal, Wittgenstein quit philosophy for most of the 1920s and went off to do other things.
  3. In the Tractatus Wittgenstein doesn’t show his working-out, he doesn’t take us through the stages of his reasoning as academic philosophers are supposed to; instead the propositions are assertions which the tone demands you assent to, exemplified in the hieratic opening, proposition 1. ‘The world is everything that is the case’. This creates a quasi-religious effect.
  4. This effect is reinforced by the preface which claims that only those who see the world his way, will understand what he’s on about i.e. the book is for an intellectual elite. And proposition 6.54:

‘My propositions serve as elucidations in the following way: anyone who understands me eventually recognises them as nonsensical, when he has used them — as steps — to climb beyond them. (He must, so to speak, throw away the ladder after he has climbed up it.) He must transcend these propositions, and then he will see the world aright.

  1. His aim was to define completely what may, and may not, be meaningfully stated. If propositions could be analysed using his system, they meant something. Everything else – morality, metaphysics and so on – people will obviously continue to talk about but has no logical meaning in his system. This is the meaning of the famous last sentence, proposition 7. ‘Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.’ Of course absolutely nobody has followed this injunction and the world is more full of meaningless chatter than ever before but you understand what he was getting at.

2. Philosophical Investigations

For a decade or so after the Tractatus‘s publication, Wittgenstein thought he had solved philosophy – but then, from the early 1930s until about 1948, Wittgenstein slowly developed a new philosophy which is, unlike his first one, very much not a theory or a system.

In fact he came to think that the very attempt to create a unified system for assessing the meaning of propositions (as he had done in the Tractatus) was, literally, nonsense. He came to hold a completely different view, namely that meaning inheres not in analysable units but in language games, which are played according to specific rules, which arise in specific contexts and specific cultures.

The term ‘language-game‘ is meant to bring into prominence the fact that the speaking of language is part of an activity or of a ‘form of life’. (PI, Part I, section 23)

The world of discourse consists of so many overlapping language games that it would be impossible to produce a total, encyclopedic overview of them all – all Wittgenstein could hope to do was produce ‘remarks’ and exercises, observations on aspects of the types of ‘games’ or subjects which took his fancy, or develop some of the implications of this way of thinking.

(A digression on ‘remarks’: Monk refers to the type of writing which make up the Philosophical Investigations and notebooks as ‘remarks’, and the editors of his posthumous works titled many of them ‘Remarks on…’ yet when you actually read the Investigations, many of these so-called remarks actually take the form of 1) highly pedagogic instructions for mental exercises:

  • Think of the recognition of facial instructions
  • Look at a stone and imagine it having sensations
  • Examine the following description…
  • Look at the sky and…
  • Imagine someone saying…
  • Imagine the following case…

Or 2) rhetorical questions:

  • Why can’t a dog simulate pain?
  • What is the natural expression of an intention?

The more I read, the more it felt like these things are closer to the kind of exercises you might find in a school or student textbook, designed to make the student, stop, think and work through particular problems. I’ll go along with Monk’s general term ‘remarks’, but bear in mind that I actually think of them more as exercises.)

The subjects of these remarks and exercises are potentially limitless in number and so the second half of Monk’s biography shows Wittgenstein first pouring out reams of these remarks/insights/exercises on subjects such as mathematics, logic, language, aesthetics, psychology as his interests changed and evolved, in different times and settings – and then struggling for years to gather these thoughts into some kind of coherent order for the purpose of publication – a struggle made all the more difficult because Wittgenstein was now expressly against the concept of one totalising system.

So no surprise that he failed and that, at his death in 1951, Wittgenstein left behind a large number of notebooks, typescripts, notes taken by his students in lectures and seminars, which have, in the decades since, been edited and published in multiple volumes, creating quite a clutter of incomplete and difficult texts to work through. The main one, the one he got closest to considering ‘finished’, was the Philosophical Investigations, tidied up and published in 1953, but Monk gives a convincing explanation of why even this is far from ideal in both structure and content.

The second aspect of Wittgenstein’s later thought was an even greater emphasis on the notion of ‘seeing it his way’. He thought most philosophical problems arose from incorrect uses of languages but not in a trivial way, like correcting bad grammar or spelling. He thought most philosophical problems were misunderstandings of the way language worked; this is why so many philosophical questions can in fact never be solved because they aren’t really ‘questions’ in the first place. They can never be answered but they can be dissolved by what he called a change of aspect or perspective or view.

What this change was can’t be explained in a few sentences, it required what – at his most grandiose – he described as a change of being in his readers, a complete change of mentality. And that’s why the Investigations and subsequent publications consist of ad hoc ‘remarks’ and meditations and exercises – because they’re more like the fables or parables told by a holy man aiming to bring you to a whole new way of thinking about life, than like an academic philosopher laying out yet another theory.

All of which explains why, following the Second World War, a new generation of philosophy students at Cambridge (where Wittgenstein had a lectureship and then a professorship) came not just to admire but almost to venerate him as the prophet of an entirely new way of thinking – prompting mirth and mockery among rival philosophers and outside commentators of this ‘cult’. But it was these disciples who preserved and edited the long sequence of publications which followed his death, and continue up to the present day.

Key learnings

‘I have continually thought of taking my own life.’ (p.184)

1. Suicide

Wittgenstein was incredibly highly strung. He was so self-critical and self-hating that he was on the verge of committing suicide for much of his adult life. It didn’t help that no fewer than three of his brothers committed suicide (p.221). For a while I noted the references to him considering suicide, on pages 115, 154, 158, 173, 180, 184, 185, 186, 187, 188, before I gave up.

When not pondering suicide, Wittgenstein was morbidly convinced that he would die young, before he could finish his work. The slightest setback plunged him into days if not weeks and months of gloom and despair. His letters are full of descriptions of his wretchedness, misery, depression and sense of futility.

Far from being anyone’s idea of sanity, logic and reason, Wittgenstein was pitifully unhappy, over-emotional and almost unhinged, for a lot of the time.

2. Religion

And he was far, far, far more religious than I had realised. He was converted to Christianity like a thunderbolt from the blue during his service in the Austrian army in the First World War, and never resiled from a profound though (of course) eccentric form of Christian faith.

In fact Wittgenstein emerges here as a religious mystic, a deeply deeply Christian believer, and unless you realise the depth of his attachment to the religious view of life and self – the decisive importance of ‘the spiritual and moral attitudes that underpinned Wittgenstein’s life and work’ (p.265) – you won’t really ‘get’ his philosophy.

Wittgenstein is famous for producing two completely different systems but both the ‘first’ philosophy, expressed in the ‘Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus’ (1922) and the ‘second’ philosophy, expressed in the ‘Philosophical Investigations’, both were based on the idea that his work on the logic of propositions was almost ludicrously beside the point. When he concluded the Tractatus by declaring ‘Whereof we cannot speak, thereof we must be silent’, he wasn’t saying metaphysics was trivial twaddle, he was saying questions of religious faith and ethics are too important to be discussed in the kinds of relatively simplistic propositions he has been defining. And then his later philosophy moved beyond the focus on propositions altogether.

The key to Wittgenstein’s personality

Monk builds his model of Wittgenstein’s personality on a book the great man read when still a teenager, ‘Sex and Character’ by Otto Weininger, published in 1903.

Like lots of German ‘philosophy’, this is a highly subjective, irrationalist rant masquerading as knowledge, in Weininger’s case a fantastically antisemitic and misogynist screed. Weininger claims, for example, that women are incapable of thought, reason, ethics or morality, are barely people at all, that their life is utterly consumed by their sexual function, either as mothers or prostitutes – and much more in the same spirit.

So far, so bonkers. The bit that Monk thinks Wittgenstein took very much to heart, was Weininger’s passages about men. Men, Weininger claims, have a duty to strive to become a genius. A man must do anything it takes to reach excellence, forgoing love or sex, relationships and normal social standards.

Weininger’s book was at first badly reviewed and made little impression until the 23-year-old author shot himself in the house in Vienna where Beethoven had lived, leaving a note saying that, knowing he could never live up to the impossible standards for men set in his creed, it was the only honourable thing to do. He knew he wasn’t a great genius of the kind he portrayed in his book and so regarded his existence as nugatory, de trop, unnecessary, so took the necessary steps to end it.

This made author and book into a succès de scandale – suddenly everyone wanted to read the book which made the young man kill himself. It inspired several imitation suicides and received a glowing review from the full-time misogynist and part-time playwright, August Strindberg.

Back to Wittgenstein, Monk thinks Weininger’s passages about the moral duty of the gifted man to ignore all social values, ignore morality, ignore everything, in order to achieve complete mastery in his chosen field, was central to Wittgenstein’s conception of himself.

Monk shows how, during his later teens and student years and then first job (studying to be an aeronautics engineer in the Manchester), Wittgenstein worried incessantly that he had no special gift and so was, as a result, on the Weininger model, redundant, unnecessary, and fit only to kill himself. And then, when he didn’t kill himself, he underwent a kind of squaring of the original anxiety, seeing himself as not only an intellectual failure but a moral coward to boot, for not doing ‘the decent thing’ and not taking the Weininger way out of this mental cul-de-sac.

Sounds unlikely but on page after page after page Monk quotes from Wittgenstein’s own letters, other people’s letters, diaries and memoirs, proving that he never lost an intense, hyper-neurotic anxiety, a lifelong readiness to fall into the deepest despair at his failure to reach the highest heights of genius achievement.

All this, according to Monk, explains the most important moment in Wittgenstein’s life. This was when he travelled to Cambridge, on 18 October 1911, to meet the philosopher of mathematics, Bertrand Russell, and present to him certain solutions he’d come up with to the problems about the basic logic of mathematics with which Russell had ended his and Alfred Whitehead’s great work on the subject, the Principia Mathematica (1910 to 1913) (p.38).

Russell was impressed by the young man’s solutions and intense earnestness and, over the coming weeks, as they met and discussed the logical foundations of mathematics in more detail, came to realise that Wittgenstein was on an altogether different level from any of his other students of the same age, and likely to do great things.

So it was Russell’s endorsement and faith and belief in him, which at last gave Wittgenstein a sense of purpose and validity. In Monk’s view it literally saved his life. After nine years of teenage and student despair he finally felt he had a métier and a purpose.

Wittgenstein later told David Pinsent that Russell’s encouragement had ended nine years of loneliness and suffering, during which he had continually thought of suicide. (p.41 cf p.50 and many others)

In a sense, once you’ve grasped this, you’ve grasped the man. A fiendishly well-educated but harrowingly self-obsessed intellectual who, if he wasn’t forging ahead with his philosophical theories, was likely to be plunged into absolute despair, overcome with Angst, barely capable of eating or drinking, convinced he was going to die young before he achieved anything, often talking about suicide, his friends worried that if he didn’t show up for a few days he might have topped himself.

‘Deep inside me there’s a perpetual seething, like the bottom of a geyser… Every day I was tormented by a frightful Angst and by depression… It’s terrifying beyond description the kinds of mental torment there can be.. I never knew what it felt to be one step away from madness…’ (p.98)

For someone so passionately logical and unforgiving, socialising was murder and small-talk a torture with the result that he struggled with English Edwardian society and his plain-speaking frequently insulted people. As one of the few Englishmen he got close to, David Pinsent, remarked:

‘He dislikes half measures of all sorts and disapproves of everything not in deadly earnest.’ (p.73)

Pinsent went on several holidays with Wittgenstein and found it impossible to related to his moodiness, his neurotic self-centredness and his self-hatred. Wittgenstein was given to hour-long speeches, pacing up and down the room, detailing what a failure he was, how unforgivably stupid, how disgusted he was with himself. Pinsent, his best friend at the time, often though Wittgenstein was ‘mad’.

Although he went on to devise not one but two major philosophical theories, Wittgenstein was never happy with himself. All his life he looked for ways to turn into another person. Above all, his lifelong struggle to be anständig, to achieve Anständigheit meaning ‘decency’ which, right till the end, he thought he’d failed to achieve.

Self-hatred, despair and madness

‘I am cowardly beyond measure.’ (p.372)

‘Think only of myself, that my life is wretched.’ (p.374)

‘I cannot see how I can ever in my life be freed from this guilt (p.428 and p.534)

‘I no longer feel any hope for the future of my life…It is as though I had before me nothing more than a long stretch of living death.’

‘I cannot see how I can bear this life.’

‘My unhappiness is so complex that it is difficult to describe.’ (p.442)

‘I am sad, very often sad. I feel as if my life is now coming to an end.’ (p.491)

‘I feel that my mental health is hanging on a thin thread.’ (p.492)

‘I often feel that I am on the straight road to insanity.’ (p.523)

‘Often it is as though my soul were dead.’ (p.540)

And so on and on for page after page for his entire life. Although not many of us are this neurotic and this driven, most of us can relate to feelings of failure and depression. On the other hand, hardly any of us understand the language of logic or advanced maths with which these passages of self-pity alternate.

Philosophy

Monk covers all aspects of Wittgenstein’s philosophy with marvellous ease and clarity, going back to explain antecedents to this though in the mathematical logic of Russell or Gottlob Frege, or, later, back to the organic philosophy of Goethe, or explaining the philosophical approach of Oswald Spengler.

Some central points come over. Wittgenstein version 1 thought metaphysics (‘the branch of philosophy that deals with the first principles of things, including abstract concepts such as being, knowing, identity, time, and space’) was impossible as there were no data to work with. He thought epistemology (‘the theory of knowledge, especially with regard to its methods, validity, and scope, and the distinction between justified belief and opinion’) was a form of psychology. Morality was completely out of consideration, being a purely personal matter. For him all that counted as philosophy was logic. Everything else, along with most socialising, friends, family, was ‘muck’, ‘swamp’, filth he had to escape from in order to be free, clear-headed and produce new work.

(Monk associates this puritanical zeal with the feeling widespread among educated young people in turn-of-the-century Vienna, that its once great cultural legacy (Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert) had decayed and, in the last decades of the nineteenth century, become a sham of bourgeois conventions and facades. Hence the enthusiasm of Viennese artists, writers and architects to revolt against heaviness, ornamentation, luxury Biedermeyer furniture; their wish to strip away ornament and get to the heart of the thing. Hence Adolf Loos stripping away ornament in architecture, George Trakl stripping it away in his poetry, Freud unmasking bourgeois psychology, Egon Schiele’s drawings stripping the human figure of all comfort and softness. Ludwig was at one with his generation’s impatience to reduce things to their basics.)

(Compare with Wittgenstein’s fanatical attention to detail and insistence on a minimalist, stripped-down appearance and interior, when he got involved with the architect designing a new house for his sister Gretl in Kundmanngasse, p.236.)

In 1911 Wittgenstein drafted some Notes on Logic. Monk breaks the short preface up into bullet points which, he says, underpinned the rest of his thinking.

In philosophy there are no deductions; philosophy is purely descriptive.

The word ‘philosophy’ ought always to designate something over or under, but not beside, the natural sciences.

Philosophy gives no pictures of reality, and can neither confirm nor confute scientific investigations.

Philosophy consists of logic and metaphysics, the former its basis.

Epistemology is the philosophy of psychology.

Distrust of grammar is the first requisite for philosophising.

Philosophy is the doctrine of the logical form of scientific propositions (not primitive propositions only).

A correct explanation of the logical propositions must give them a unique position as against all other propositions.

He said that physics, like the natural sciences, was concerned with deciding what was true or false. He wasn’t interested in that; he was only concerned with ‘distinguishing sense from nonsense’ (p.286).

The First World War

Once Wittgenstein reaches young manhood, Monk gives a detailed chronological account, scraped together from sources such as Wittgenstein’s own diary, the diaries of all who knew and met him, and all surviving letters to, from or about him. Monk’s book amounts to a giant jigsaw assembled from these sources. His account of Ludwig in the First World War is no exception.

The key points are that: 1) Wittgenstein volunteered to join the Austrian Army. Like most soldiers he underwent extended training and boring hanging-round in domestic barracks, before being posted to a warship patrolling rivers far behind the front line. It was a full two years before he was sent to the (Eastern) front, in March 1916. When he managed to get ill at the crucial moment and was told he might be left behind, he responded with characteristic extremity, writing in his diary that if that happened, he would kill himself (p.138).

But the second key point is that 2) Wittgenstein was champing at the bit to be placed in the maximum danger. He thought that confronting death would help him be transformed, to see the light, to become a new man etc etc.

And 3) the third point is the surprising fact that during the war Wittgenstein became a passionate Christian. This was triggered by picking up a copy of Tolstoy’s ‘The Gospel in Brief’ (1892) in a bookshop. It hit him like a train. Like everything else in his life, Wittgenstein principally saw Christianity as a means of escaping from himself and it did, for a few years, have a transformative effect. His wartime diaries are drenched in vehement belief and prayers. So when his dream of facing death finally came true and he was placed in an advanced observation post his diary reads:

Was shot at. Thought of God. Thy will be done. God be with me. (29 April 1916)

And:

Perhaps the nearness of death will bring me the light of life. May God enlighten me. I am a worm but through God I am a man. (4 May 1916)

Monk says that Wittgenstein had the main text of the ‘Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus’ ready by about 1916. What his wartime experiences added to it was the mystical religious topics which appear at the end. Like almost everything else he wrote privately, his notebooks from the entire period have now been published, and contain a number of meditations which combine a kind of probing of the basis of philosophical thinking, with a surprisingly Christian flavour:

What do I know about God and the purpose of life?
I know that this world exists.
That I am placed in it like my eye in its visual field.
That something about it is problematic, which we call its meaning.
This meaning does not lie in it but outside of it.
That life is the world.
That my will penetrates the world.
That my will is good or evil.
Therefore that good and evil are somehow connected with the meaning of the world. The meaning of life, i.e. the meaning of the world, we can call God.
And connect with this the comparison of God to a father. (p.140)

Difficult not to be disappointed and disillusioned by this, as by any serious thinker who gives up the struggle to analyse life as it is and instead reverts to a two thousand year-old tradition; gives themselves up to the embrace of their ideal Daddy, and then wastes time wondering how much Daddy loves them.

Saying and showing, in logic and religion

Monk early on raises the distinction in Wittgenstein’s thought between showing and telling. His idea was that a logical proposition doesn’t describe but embodies or shows the logical connections it makes (pages 156, 164).

In a comparable way, ethics or morality cannot be talked about but can only be shown by living them. There are ethical and aesthetic (and religious) truths but they can’t be uttered; they can only be shown.

The ‘early Wittgenstein’ was concerned with the logical relationship between propositions and the world, and he believed that by providing an account of the logic underlying this relationship, he had solved all philosophical problems.

What the Theory of Types attempts to say can be shown only by a correct symbolism and what one wants to say about ethics can be shown only by contemplating the world sub specie aeternitatis. Thus: ‘There is indeed the inexpressible. It shows itself it is the mystical.’ (p.156)

This explains why, when Wittgenstein finally finished compiling and structuring the Tractatus, he realised the relative unimportance of what he’d done.

…The truth of the thoughts communicated here seems to me unassailable and definitive. I am, therefore, of the opinion that the problems have in essentials been finally solved. And if I am not mistaken in this, then the value of this work secondly consists in the fact that it shows how little has been done when these problems have been solved.

This was because the Tractatus attained its goal of stating the logical bases of mathematics – and yet (deliberately) didn’t address any of the religious and mystical ideas which had come to dominate his life during the war.

The Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus

So many people have tried to summarise and interpret it feels pointless me adding my uninformed granule to the pile. Try this video:

Ways to understand

For me there are two really important learnings about how to handle the Tractatus:

1. The numbers The first is that I was always misled by the numbering of the propositions, from 1 to 7, to think that they progress in a logical order. It was a revelation in Monk’s book, and also various criticism I’ve read around it, to realise that the numbers do not necessarily follow. In other words, that Wittgenstein addressed a number of philosophical problems in the book and that these overspill the (apparently neat) numbering framework. In other words, the numbered headings could be dropped and the text relabelled with headings such as ‘Logical Atomism’ or ‘The Picture Theory of Language’, as in a normal textbook. If it was reconfigured like this, by clearly stated topics, it would be much more approachable, not least because you could take it one topic at a time.

But when Frege – who Wittgenstein consulted – suggested breaking it up into essays like this, with headings to clarify which philosophical problem he was seeking to solve, Wittgenstein refused. He insisted on not only the content but the form he had created. This is to some extent because, as Monk points out, the book has a consciously artistic or literary side. Wittgenstein himself said:

‘The work is strictly philosophical and at the same time literary…’ (p.177)

But mostly because Wittgenstein needed the numbered sections to structure his thoughts.

The numbers are necessary because it would be an incomprehensible jumble without them. (p.180)

But many people from that day to this have considered the numbering to clutter and obscure the thinking, unnecessarily.

2. Disagreements It was really reassuring to learn that even the people most closely connected to the subject, the people best qualified in the world to understand it – namely Wittgenstein’s sometime mentor Russell and his German forebear Frege – understood the Tractatus but disagreed with it. In Monk’s account, Frege wrote to say he had so many objections to the phraseology of the first proposition that he didn’t get past the first page.

For his part, when Russell read a copy – sent to him while Wittgenstein was still in an Italian prisoner of war camp after the war (where he remained until August 1919) – he wrote to say he understood the central distinction between saying and showing but just thought it ‘obscure and unnecessary’. It could be dispensed with, on his (Russell’s) approach to logic, by introducing a higher-level language (a meta-language) to say the things that could not be said using the original symbolic language (p.165). Russell didn’t ‘get it’ because he didn’t feel Wittgenstein’s fundamentally religious motivation. As Monk puts it:

It is no coincidence that Russell’s insistence of the application of meta-languages abolishes the sphere of the mystical, while Wittgenstein’s insistence on the impossibility of saying what can only be shown, preserves it. (p.166)

When Russell finally met Wittgenstein after the war (in The Hague) he was astonished at how mystical he had become.

3. Short cut Wittgenstein wrote a revealing letter to the German magazine editor Ludwig von Ficker, in which he explains the Tractatus in ordinary language, so revealing it’s worth quoting at length:

‘The point of the book is ethical…My work consists of two parts: the one which is here and everything which I have not written. And precisely this second part is the important one. For the Ethical is delimited from within, as it were, by my book; and I’m convinced that, strictly speaking, it can ONLY be delimited in this way. In brief, I think: all of that which many are babbling today, I have defined in my book by remaining silent about it. Therefore the book will, unless I’m quite wrong, have much to say which you want to say yourself. For the time being, I’d recommend that you read the foreword and the conclusion since these address the point most directly,’ (quoted p.178)

Go read the preface and the conclusion for yourself.

After the war

In total Wittgenstein spent five years in the army – four full years of active service and one entire year in captivity in Italy. His efficiency but also his bravery under fire (when he finally made it to the front) meant he was promoted to lieutenant. He wore his uniform for years afterwards. But in the end, the country he fought for ceased to exist. The Austro-Hungarian Empire he’d risked his life for split up into ten or so new nation states, leaving a much shrunken, poorer, smaller state of Austria with a population of just 6 million.

Wittgenstein returned from the war to discover he was one of the richest men in Austria due to his father having invested the family fortune in US bonds which, of course, survived the collapse of the empire. But, in the kind of earnest gesture which was later to fuel the Wittgenstein legend, within a month he had given it all away.

Teaching at Trattenbach and elsewhere

Part of the mystique around Wittgenstein is the legend that, having solved the problems of philosophy (or the very narrow definition of philosophy which he worked on), he packed in academia and went off to teach at remote schools in the Alps. He secured jobs at infant schools in the villages of Trattenbach, then Otterthal, then Puchberg (p.212). Like everything else, Monk gives a full, factual and riveting account, from which several things emerge.

One is that, as usual, this apparently altruistic decision was, in fact, about what was best for Wittgenstein’s moral development. It was one more way to try and assuage the sense of unworthiness and impurity which dogged him all his life. Like Tolstoy, Wittgenstein thought that if he abandoned all the perquisites of his class and went and lived among ‘the people’, then it would be a spiritually cleansing experience. Of course it was nothing of the sort and Wittgenstein soon encountered a) dislike from his teaching colleagues, which was nothing compared to b) the outright animosity of the villagers he lived among.

These peasants needed their children to help around the house and on their farms. When Ludwig started to give the brightest of them extra tuition, keeping them after school for hours to cram them for exams for good secondary schools, the parents complained, sometimes very vehemently and to his face. After a few months he became disillusioned. After a year, Monk quotes a succession of letters in which Ludwig describes the villagers as ‘loathsome worms’ (p.212), hopeless and barely human (p.228). So much for living among ‘the people’, which was always going to be an asinine upper-class fantasy.

But the second learning is that Wittgenstein beat the children, really badly. He became notorious for his corporal punishment, beating, punching and cuffing small children round the head. One time he pulled a girl’s hair so hard a lot of it came out when she later combed it. He hit a girl so hard she bled behind her ears.

And the final straw came when he hit a boy, Josef Haidbauer, so hard that he collapsed, at which Wittgenstein panicked. The father of the girl he’d hit was fetched by some of the children, confronted Wittgenstein in the corridor and called him all the names under the sun. Then he instigated an official hearing into his conduct. Here, in court and under oath, Wittgenstein directly lied about the extent of his beating (p.370). He was cleared and the headmaster wanted him to stay on but he’d had enough. It was April 1926 (p.232).

Apparently the sense of moral failure triggered by this episode haunted Wittgenstein for a decade but it wasn’t hurting the children he remembered; for years afterwards he remembered that he had lied under oath, that’s what galled him. In fact ten years later, when he felt the overwhelming need to confess his sins to (deeply embarrassed) friends and colleagues, this lying was the centrepiece of the Grand Confession he made them listen to (p.370). That is how self-centred he was.

Hardly an Alpine idyll, then, and a passage of his life which went a long way to turning me against Wittgenstein as a person.

Revising the first system

The attempt at teaching was a failure. Lots of his fantasies from the 1920a of doing other types of work to escape himself, to reform himself, to change his life, came to nothing. He worked for a while as a gardener. He worked in a monastery.

A classic example was the fantasy he developed in the mid-1930s of going to Soviet Russia to become a labourer. He actually travelled to Russia in 1935 but discovered – surprise surprise – that the Soviet authorities would welcome him as a philosophy tutor or teacher but not as an unskilled labourer. Unskilled labour was the one thing Soviet Russia had no shortage of.

Monk’s chronological approach describes in fascinating detail how a range of interactions with the philosophical world, with other thinkers, students, reading books, intense discussions with friends, all led him to reconsider the conclusions of the Tractatus almost from the moment it was published (after many frustrating delays) in 1922.

Chief among these were his interactions with the so-called Vienna Circle led by Rudolf Carnap, the leader of what came to be known as logical positivism. These guys were surprised and dismayed when they finally met Wittgenstein in person to discover that he didn’t share their promotion of the scientific approach, that he didn’t take such an astringent view of the unsayable in the Tractatus because he thought metaphysics and mysticism were nonsense but, precisely the opposite, because he thought it was too important to put into writing.

At his worst, in meetings with the Vienna Circle of logical positivists 1927 to 1928, he sometimes turned his back on the entire group and read poetry (the mystical poetry of Rabindranath Tagore) (p.243).

So, despite all his intentions to find meaningful work somewhere else, in the end, in 1929, Wittgenstein was lured back to Cambridge, where Russell and, in particular, John Maynard Keynes persuaded the authorities of Trinity College to fund a research and teaching post for him, a five-year fellowship starting Michaelmas term 1930.

Through the 1930s Wittgenstein was contracted to give lectures but they differed from conventional lectures. It was more a question of a select few being invited to a college room to watch Wittgenstein think. He would pace up and down the room muttering, sit down and stare into space, occasionally be overcome with a thought which he would stand up and deliver with oracular finality.

A philosophical dictator?

I’m afraid I couldn’t help relating some of this behaviour to the totalitarian regimes which arose between the wars, and finding it off-puttingly Germanic. For two reasons or angles. 1) Wittgenstein was a big fan of Oswald Spengler’s famous work ‘The Decline of the West’, published in 1918 and 1922 (pages 299 to 303).

I knew Spengler suggested that human cultures and civilizations are like biological organisms which have a limited, predictable and determined lifespan. I knew he predicted that Western civilization was entering a pre‑death crisis which, he thought, would lead to 200 years of Caesarism (Hitler, Mussolini) before Western civilisation finally collapsed. What I hadn’t realised, until Monk summarised it, was that Spengler’s work had a complicated philosophical aspect to it, that he, for example, distinguished between the Principle of Form and the Principle of Law, that he saw the historian’s role as seeking not to establish facts (since when did German theorists care about facts?) but instead seeking the morphological or ‘physiognomic’ relations between historical events.

He was, in other words, another German irrationalist. What Wittgenstein took from him (according to Monk) was the idea of not seeking any kind of profound Truth or foundation about history, but the technique of comparing the morphology or shape or function of different historical events. Wittgenstein saw in Spengler’s comparative historicism an approach which he sought to replicate in his approach to language philosophy.

The importance of illuminating comparisons not only lies at the heart of Wittgenstein’s central notion of ‘the understanding which consists in seeing connections’, but was also regarded by Wittgenstein as characterising his whole contribution to philosophy… Wittgenstein imparted a way of thinking and understanding, not by saying what was distinctive about it, but by showing how it can be used to clarify one’s ideas. (p.451)

2) Wittgenstein never showed his working out. The Tractatus is famous for being a series of assertions. He never provided any explanatory material, either at the time or later. He ducked any responsibility for clarifying his thought in lectures or essays, with the excuse that you either got his thought or you didn’t, that you had either had these thoughts before – and so had the pleasure of recognising them in his books, or – you hadn’t, and no amount of explaining would convey them to you.

Initially I found this attitude sort of cool and attractive but by half-way through the book I began to find it high-handed and dictatorial. Time and again he refused to write articles or a conventional book with chapters explaining his theory, partly because he claimed he wasn’t dealing in ‘theory’; theories were what other people dabbled in; he, Wittgenstein, dealt in insights and intuitions which rendered theories unnecessary. Here he is explaining his thinking to Friedrich Waismann, a member of the Vienna Circle, in 1931:

As long as there is a possibility of having different opinions and disputing about a question, this indicates that things have not yet been expressed clearly enough. Once a perfectly clear formulation – ultimate clarity – has been reached, there can be no second thoughts or reluctance any more… (p.320)

Ultimate clarity = the end of debate, the end of all discussion. The end. You can see how profoundly totalitarian this is in ambition…

It was when Monk described the way that, during his ‘lectures’ i.e. students-watching-Wittgenstein-think sessions, he would sometimes not only contradict stuff he’d written some years before (by the 1930s he had dismissed most of the Tractatus) but of what he said last week, or even what he’d said five minutes ago, all the time insisting that whatever he said, now, right now, was the New Truth which, again, he refused to explain, just demanded his students accept it – it was when I read passages like these that my opinion began to change, and I began to see him as a kind of dictator.

Like Il Duce or Der Führer, Wittgenstein gave no explanations, brooked no interruption, delivered his diktats in an exalted state of inspiration, claimed to speak The Truth, even when The Truth changed from week to week, sometimes from minute to minute. (Compare and contrast Waismann despairing of ever completing the book he’d been commissioned to write with Wittgenstein because every time they returned to the manuscript, Wittgenstein rewrote something, rethought something else, changed the order, continually, every time, p.340).

Maybe my own comparison is too extreme. A less extreme way of looking at it would be to point out that Ludwig was the youngest son of eight siblings, in a very well-off, upper middle-class household. Surely his rage against himself when anything was less than perfect, and his seigneurial refusal to explain or account for himself, surely these are just symptoms of the spoilt youngest child, the baby of the family, who’s allowed to get away with anything.

Monk’s book gives countless examples of how not only all his friends and everyone who ever tried to work with him but his own family found him extraordinarily difficult to handle, to be with, to talk to. His friends at Cambridge found it hard to put up with ‘his domineering, argumentative style’ (p.257). As his sister Hermine put it:

It is not easy having a saint for a brother (p.198)

If you like, you can regard his asocial behaviour as the prerogative of a Great Genius. But if you’re a parent like me, you can also see it as the fantastically self-centred behaviour of a spoilt child, who grows up to become something very like a bully.

There’s a thread that links his physical abuse of little children placed in his care with his domineering attitude towards the closest of his students (or ‘disciples’ as they and their enemies saw them) at Cambridge. The best of these, the ones who fell under his sway, he did everything he could to persuade to abandon academic philosophy and go and do something more useful and practical instead. Many of them actually did this, with mixed results, disappointing their families and often ending up miserably unhappy. Notable examples are his student Maurice Drury who he persuaded to become a doctor and carved a successful career as a psychiatrist; and Francis Skinner, who Wittgenstein had a gay love affair with and who he persuaded to drop his academic studies and go and work in an engineering works, much to the horror of his ambitious family and Skinner’s profound unhappiness.

Monk quotes from the letters by John Maynard Keynes – who at one stage was very close to Wittgenstein and remained supportive of his career at Cambridge even after their friendship cooled – in which he wonders whether he has the energy to face the great man coming to stay for a week or so, knowing how Wittgenstein’s unrelenting self-centredness will exhaust him.

Or the diary of 14-year-old Anthony Ryle when his father, the physician John Ryle, brought Wittgenstein to stay in the family home for a few days:

We spent the afternoon arguing – he’s an impossible person every time you say anything he says, ‘No no that’s not the point.’ It probably isn’t the point but it’s ours. A tiring person to listen to.’ (quoted p.434)

Wittgenstein’s books

Wittgenstein published only one book (‘Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus’) and one article (‘Some Remarks on Logical Form’, 1929) in his entire career. What we have of his second or later system derives from the publication of fragments, drafts and notes, some of which he worked up and revised but none of which he approved, for the simple reason that he kept changing his views and, after the war, endlessly cutting and pasting and rearranging the remarks and meditations into ever new combinations.

Monk explains the origins of a whole series of texts which were later published, situating them in the changing flux of Ludwig’s beliefs and biography (the cities and hotels where he drafted them in Newcastle, Swansea, Dublin, Norway), explaining how they came about, how much he worked on them, why they were unfinished (p.319):

  • Philosophical Remarks (p.292)
  • Philosophical Grammar (based on ‘the Big Typescript’, p.325)
  • Blue Book – lecture notes 1933 to 1934, introduced into philosophical discourse the notion of language games (p.336)
  • Brown Book – lecture notes 1934 to 1935, 72 numbered language games, never intended for publication (pages 344 to 346)
  • Philosophical Investigations, working notes, published posthumously
  • Remarks on the Foundations of Mathematics (p.438)
  • Lectures and Conversations on Aesthetics, Psychology and Religious Belief (p.403)
  • Culture and Value (pages 531 and 568)
  • Remarks on the Philosophy of Psychology (pages 518 and 535)
  • Last Writings on the Philosophy of Psychology (p.536)
  • On Certainty (pages 558, 563, 569)
  • Remarks on Colour (pages 561 and 566)

Comparing Wittgenstein I and Wittgenstein II

Obviously tens of thousands of scholars have written about the difference between Wittgenstein I and Wittgenstein II. The differences I understood are:

The Tractatus was an attempt at making a definitive statement about ‘the general form of propositions (PI, I, 65). The later model relinquishes all attempts at system and instead covers a wide variety of topics using the concepts of language games, rules, forms of life and so on.

In the later model he abandons the position of the Tractatus that atomic propositions are logically independent of each other. He now says that one can influence another i.e. all propositions are enmeshed in networks of meaning, none stand alone.

This is part of the move towards what Monk calls a more anthropological point of view, taking into account what you and I would call the context of any speech act or proposition.

The ‘later Wittgenstein’…rejected many of the assumptions of the Tractatus, arguing that the meaning of words is best understood as their use within a given language game.

Cleansing language

In lectures and notes Wittgenstein repeated the insistence that we wasn’t interested in arriving at any ‘truth’; he simply wanted to cleanse philosophy of ambiguity, obscurity and wrong thinking; to cleanse it of a certain kind of conceptual puzzlement and linguistic bewitchedness; to clear away the fog (p.306).

Instead of teaching doctrines and developing theories, Wittgenstein came to think, a philosopher should demonstrate a technique, a method of achieving clarity. (Monk, p.297)

Philosophy cannot be transformed into a science because it has nothing to find out. Its puzzles are the consequence of a misuse, a misunderstanding, of grammar, and require not a solution but a dissolution. (Monk, p.298)

‘What we find out in philosophy is trivial; it does not teach us new facts, only science does that.’ (Wittgenstein, p.298)

‘All that philosophy can do is destroy idols.’ (Wittgenstein, p.325)

‘I conceive of philosophy as an activity of cleaning up thought.’ (p.330)

He conceived of philosophy as ‘a task of clarification that has no end’ (p.326).

No foundations

Wittgenstein had been attracted to philosophy in 1911 by Russell’s challenge to provide a self-consistent logical underpinning for mathematics and thought he had attained it in the Tractatus. By the later 1920s the entire project seemed pointless. He came to believe that if somebody creates a meta-mathematics (as suggested by Russell to clear up Wittgenstein’s logical anomalies) or a new set of founding principles, they haven’t explained anything, they have just created a new mathematics to go alongside the existing ones.

There is no need for theory; a new theory is just one more entity to lay alongside whatever it was hoping to explain. There is no depth. There is no bottom. There is no foundation. If you can play a game, you understand enough of the rules as you need and don’t need a theory of rules. Playing is enough. We know that we understand something when we use it. No underlying theory is required.

The later Wittgenstein is famous for its use of the term ‘language games’, which picks up and extends this idea of language and meaning in action:

The connection between a word and its meaning is to be found, not in theory, but in practice, in the use of the word. (Monk, p.308)

The technique [of language games] is a kind of therapy, the purpose of which is to free ourselves from the philosophical confusions that result from considering language in isolation from its place in the ‘stream of life’. (Monk, p.330)

For the rest of his life, in the 1920s, ’30s, ’40s, Russell continued to believe that it was vital to generate a theory which would underpin logic and mathematics to give them a coherent foundation. He thought Wittgenstein’s abandonment of the quest signified that he had stopped being serious. But Wittgenstein had moved to an entirely new plane where there is no such thing as a single, unifying, underlying theory. Wittgenstein’s aim was to undermine the notion that mathematics even needs foundations (p.327). Wittgenstein’s thinking took elements of Goethe and Spengler (as Monk lucidly explains) to explain why we must not look for depths and foundations, but, as it were horizontally, to look for connections and similarities (p.308).

So:

Philosophy is not aiming to create new theories, discover new facts or produce general conclusions.

Philosophy is a practice, a technique which, through strategies like language games, attempts to clear away the fog of misunderstandings which have surrounded the subject.

Philosophy sets out to create no ‘foundations’ to any of the natural sciences; it is solely concerned with finding family resemblances between linguistic forms and structures.

Wittgenstein isn’t about making theories or coming up with theoretical foundations. He wants to release people from their confusions and perplexities by making them see the ‘problem’ in a new way, from a different perspective. There are no solutions. But if you see problems from the right angle, they cease to be problems any more and so the lack of solutions, also, ceases to cause you anxiety and worry. Philosophy is the therapy which cures anxiety about philosophical problems.

Apparently Wittgenstein was fond of quoting the physicist Heinrich Herz who struggled with the problems in mechanical theory bequeathed by Isaac Newton’s notion of ‘force’. But in his book The Principles of Mechanics, Herz explained that if you dumped the notion of force altogether and simply observed the wide variety of events which used to be corraled together to create the definition – if you actually just looked at what was in front of your eyes – then all the ‘problems’ raised by hanging onto Newton’s out-dated notion simply disappeared.

When these painful contradictions are removed, the question as to the nature of force will not have been answered; but our minds, no longer vexed, will cease to ask illegitimate questions. (p.446)

Wittgenstein was delighted by this passage because it exactly epitomised his own approach to the so-called ‘problems’ of philosophy.

The Brown Book

In 1938 Wittgenstein took the Brown Book to his retreat in Norway and reworked it. The first part became the basis for paragraphs 1 to 118 of Philosophical Investigations and was the only part of his later work he appeared happy with i.e. expressed no wish to revise or junk.

Monk sums up, not so much the content but how we should approach the Philosophical Investigations thus:

Philosophical Investigations – more, perhaps, than any other philosophical classic – makes demands, not just on the reader’s intelligence but on his involvement. Other great philosophical works – Schopenhauer’s World and Representation, say – can be read with interest and entertainment by someone who ‘wants to know what Schopenhauer said’. But if Philosophical Investigations is read in this spirit it will very quickly become boring and a chore to read, not because it is intellectually difficult, but because it will be practically impossible to gather what Wittgenstein is ‘saying’. For, in truth, he is not saying anything; he is presenting a technique for the unravelling of confusions. Unless these are your confusions, the book will be of very little interest. (p.366)

The Anschluss, Jewishness and Wittgenstein’s family

The Anschluss was the annexation of the Federal State of Austria into the German Reich on 13 March 1938. At a stroke Austria ceased to exist as a state and all its citizens became German, including Wittgenstein, his family, everyone he knew back in Vienna.

Monk gives a fascinating account of the implications. Legal contacts advised him not to go back to Vienna with an Austrian passport because he wouldn’t be allowed to leave the country without a German passport and the authorities might put obstacles in the way of getting one, maybe indefinitely. As a result, Wittgenstein was advised to apply for British citizenship. After some delay he acquired it on 2 June 1939, helped by the fact that on 11 February he had been elected Professor of Philosophy at Cambridge, and he had taken the post because – he was told – having a job in England would also help him to travel to and from Austria (to see his family).

I was worried that Wittgenstein’s brothers and sisters, because of their Jewish ancestry (which Monk explains very clearly, going back to the various grandparents and great-grandparents, at the start of the book) would be wiped out in the Holocaust. But his brother Paul (the one-armed pianist) escaped early to Switzerland then on to New York, one sister Gretl was already an American citizen by marriage and the remaining two, Hermine and Helene, after lengthy negotiations with the Nazi authorities, handed over a large part of the Wittgenstein family fortunes in order to win legal recognition as Aryans and so, mercifully, survived the war and all its horrors (p.400).

Second World War

During the Second World War Wittgenstein volunteered to work as a porter at Guy’s hospital. It was a repeat of his wish to submerge his ever-restless mind in physical labour, the gardening, the fantasy about going to be a labourer in the Soviet Union. Monk drily describes how his sponsor at the hospital kept it hushed up that the new porter was in fact a Cambridge professor.

But while at Guy’s he became interested in research being done into victims of shock being carried out by members of the Medical Research Council’s Clinical Research Unit, led by a Dr Grant. Discussions over dinner turned into an offer to help them with their work and writing up the resulting paper. Wittgenstein particularly warmed to their idea that the concept of ‘shock’ had been inherited from the First World War, was widely used in the literature and yet was nowhere precisely defined. In fact it had so many varying definitions that the word and concept got in the way of observing what was actually happening in patients. The researchers, Dr Grant and Dr Reeve, therefore dropped the traditional concept of ‘shock’ and instead recorded the different types of patient they were seeing, in real life and in the scientific papers they published.

This was right up Wittgenstein’s street because it was exactly what he was trying to do in philosophy – get rid of shibboleths surrounding ‘the logical foundations of mathematics’ and the numerous other concepts which had dogged philosophy for millennia. He thought philosophers had made a profound mistake when they observed people talking about the ‘good’ life or a ‘good’ person or a ‘good’ meal and decided there must be a thing called Goodness, and then set about trying to find and define this thing, Goodness. In this hopeless quest they encountered all kinds of conceptual difficulties, starting with Plato who concluded that the ‘ideal form’ of these abstract nouns must exist in some other world, in the mind of God or some such. This process is known as hypostatisation:

Hypostatisation is a noun that means treating an abstract idea or concept as a physical thing or reality. It is also known as reification, concretism, or the fallacy of misplaced concreteness. (Internet)

In Wittgenstein’s view succeeding generations of philosophers had treated these adjectives-turned-into-nouns as if they really are things – Goodness, Virtue, Beauty and so on – a fundamental misconception which had led moral and aesthetic philosophers into all kinds of delusions and quagmires, ‘problems’ and misapprehensions.

This is what Wittgenstein wanted to attack, cleanse and demolish – the centuries of gunk which had led to the vast discourse of academic ‘Philosophy’, which was so often based on a wrong way of thinking. Instead he wanted to collect multiple examples of the actual language games people play i.e. how people actually use these terms in everyday language.

The exercises in Philosophical Investigations are designed to re-orientate a reader used to dealing with the textbook philosophical ‘problems’ away from them, to help the reader see them from Wittgenstein’s perspective and to grasp that, seen from this point of view, the problems do not have ‘solutions’, they simply cease to be problems at all. They evaporate.

When Grant’s unit was moved to the Royal Victoria Infirmary Newcastle to study industrial accidents, Wittgenstein asked, and was granted permission, to join them, moving to the city in November 1942. He liked the people and turned out to be an invaluable assistant, not only engaging in useful conversations about their studies but – thanks to his early career in engineering – helping to improve the apparatus they used to measure things like blood pressure and flow in wounded patients.

Eventually, towards the end of 1943, Dr Grant’s unit was shipped to Italy in order to observe more severe battlefield wounds. Grant wrote a testimonial to the head of the MRC recommending Wittgenstein to their replacement, pointing out how punctilious he was in his duties, how stimulating it was discussing results with him, but observing, ‘He is not an easy man to deal with’ (p.456).

In the event Wittgenstein didn’t get on with Grant’s replacement and, in February 1944, left Newcastle and returned to Cambridge. However, he’d developed such an aversion to the university town as a dead, sterile place that, in March 1944, he left for Swansea where a former student of his arranged boarding rooms with a series of families.

Over the next six months Wittgenstein rearranged the mathematical parts of his draft book but, according to Monk, having done so, abandoned mathematical philosophy altogether. For the rest of his life, from 1944 to 1951, he devoted his time to ‘arranging, rearranging and revising his thoughts on the philosophy of psychology’ (p.467).

Philosophical Investigations

‘The philosopher’s treatment of a question is like the treatment of an illness.’
(Philosophical Investigations part 1, section 255)

‘Philosophy is a battle against the bewitchment of our intelligence by language.’
(Philosophical Investigations part 1, section 109)

Monk says (p.469) that during the summer of 1944 Wittgenstein doubled the length of part one of the Philosophical Investigations to form what are ‘now considered to be the central parts of the book’, the sections on:

  1. rule following (paragraphs 189 to 242)
  2. the private language argument (paragraphs 243 to 421)

The Investigations isn’t a set of consecutive reasoned arguments with proofs and conclusions. It’s more like an ‘album’ of meditations (Wittgenstein himself uses the world ‘album’, p.484).

The meaning of words is how they’re used. Don’t ask for the meaning, ask for the use.

The meaning of a word is its use in the language. (PI, I, 43)

One cannot guess how a word functions. One has to look at its use and function. (PI, I, 340)

Rules on how to use words derive from agreements that come from our social life.

Language games only make sense in this social life.

There cannot be a private language. One individual can’t play a one-person language game. Language is always a joint enterprise.

‘Forms of life’, not abstruse theories, are the bottom point of any investigation. At some point you have to stop digging for meaning and accept that meanings are based on what we do and how we behave.

To really understand this, you have to come to see the world – and the world of philosophy – from his point of view.

Again and again Monk reformulates, or quotes Wittgenstein reformulating, the same basic idea: problems of philosophy (and to some extent psychology) are only problems because of our point of view, because of our quest for totalising theories or definitions of concepts which we ourselves have invented by hypostasising nouns like good, beauty, meaning, and so on.

If we could only change our perspective, our angle of view, to think of these words as they’re actually used in a myriad of language games, embedded in our complex social life, then we would see that they are just part of our human behaviour and require no special explanations.

It could be said of his philosophical method that its aim is to change the aspect under which certain things are seen – for example, to see a mathematical proof not as a sequence of propositions but as a picture, to see a mathematical formula not as a proposition but as a rule, to see first-person reports of psychological states (‘I am in pain’ etc) not as descriptions but as expressions, and so on. The ‘understanding that consists in seeing connections’, one might say, is the understanding that results from a change of aspect. (p.508)

Later, for a while Wittgenstein pondered music, what it means to ‘have a musical ear’, to ‘be’ musical and so on. Monk draws the conclusion that Wittgenstein thought people needed to ‘get’ his point of view, his unusual angle on philosophy, in the same way they ‘get’ a joke or ‘get’ a piece of music. You have to come from the right background, have the right education or from a particular culture, from a particular ‘form of life’, to understand its jokes and music. Same with the perspective he was trying to explain (p.531-2).

This change in perspective – Wittgenstein’s repeated incitements to see the entire field from a completely different point of view – was accompanied in his notebooks, diaries and letters, by the notion of a change of heart. It was wrapped up with his sense, since his religious conversion during the First World War, that not the world but the person needs to change.

So you can see how – along with his charismatic presence, his histrionic performances in lectures where he put his head in his hands or sat staring into space for minutes on end, along with the sense that they were being taught to see the entire history of philosophy from a new and unique point of view, this sense that they weren’t just studying an academic subject but were being inducted into an entirely new way of seeing the world – you can see how this created a special sense of devotion among Wittgenstein’s students, the sense of being part of an elect few, which outsiders described as a cult.

Cultural pessimism

I was really disappointed to read Monk’s description of how Wittgenstein, after the war, gave in to that most suburban and clichéd of beliefs, that the world is going to hell. Like Marx, like Nietzsche, like Spengler, like Benjamin, like Adorno, he thought the Western world of his time was uniquely rotten and corrupt. As a German, he was particularly horrified to read about the final passages of the war when the Allies bombed Hamburg and Dresden and, of course, like everyone, horrified by the advent of the atom bomb.

All of this confirmed his really deep hatred of ‘science’ and what he saw as the slavish worship of science which had brought civilisation to this ruinous pass.

In my opinion, like Benjamin and Adorno’s pessimism, this is utterly, transparently autobiographical. Raised in a household of extraordinary high culture (Gustav Klimt painted a portrait of his sister, Brahms performed at the Wittgenstein family home) Wittgenstein revered high art, music and culture with an intensity the philistine English can’t really understand. So it is depressingly inevitable that he attributed the dire situation of the world in 1945 not to the fact that Germany had twice declared war on the rest of the Europe – that thought is never mentioned or countenanced – but that it was all due to the calamitous collapse in reverence for the things he was brought up to love – high art, music and culture. And just as predictable that this clever man would think the only way to ‘save’ the world was to restore widespread reverence for the precious things of his boyhood – high art, music and culture (pages 516, 533). In effect, ‘if only we could all go back to my childhood’… Same with Benjamin, same with Adorno. Can’t help finding this childish-nostalgia-dressed-as-cultural-critique pathetic.

And then it made me quite angry that Wittgenstein came to hate England – the country that gave him refuge during the 1930s and Second World War, that granted him citizenship, a job, the contacts to make a career and name for himself, the country that stood alone against the Nazis who deriving from his country and his cultural tradition (Hitler was Austrian), the country which bankrupted itself to defeat this embodiment of evil – and that he repeatedly described England as ‘disintegrating and putrefying’ (p.488 and p.516), ‘a country whose politics alternates between an evil purpose and no purpose’ (p.516).

This was at exactly the time that the Attlee government (which Wittgenstein voted for) was struggling to set about a massive housebuilding programme, was establishing the welfare state and the National Health Service, was trying to carry out, despite the country’s ruinous bankruptcy, a social revolution. That Wittgenstein described this country struggling to pick itself up from bankruptcy and war as ‘disintegrating and putrefying’ is pretty insulting and also, just plain stupid.

(Talking of Adorno, there’s a comparison to be drawn between the two books of these super-refined, highly educated and grimly pessimistic Teutons: between the fragmentary meditations of Minima Moralia, written during the war and published as as a series of numbered meditations in 1951, and Philosophical Investigations, also written during the war and also published as a series of numbered sections in 1953. And between the lofty cultural pessimism of both authors.)

Last years

‘Explanations come to an end somewhere. (PI. I, 1)

He was diagnosed with prostate cancer. He was treated with hormones which stopped the growth but didn’t halt it. He went to stay in the old family home in Vienna for a while. He went to stay in Ireland near Maurice Drury who’d become a successful psychiatrist. He ended up back in Cambridge where he died in the home of a Dr Bevan, recommended by Drury, who treated him as an out-patient and then very kindly took him into his own home to be cared for in his last weeks.

I was tickled to learn that Bevan’s wife, initially intimidated by this intense stickler for routine, slowly came to like him, and in his last month, weak though able to get about, the pair went to the local pub every evening at 6pm and ordered two ports, one which she drank and the other which Wittgenstein, with a schoolboy grin, enjoyed pouring into one of the pub’s aspidistra plants. He lost consciousness on 28 April 1951 and passed away in his sleep the next day.

The thrust of Wittgenstein’s remarks is to focus the attention of philosophers away from words, from sentences, and on to the occasions in which we use them, the contexts which give them their sense:

‘Am I not getting closer and closer to saying that in the end logic cannot be described? You must look at the practice of language, then you will set it.’ (p.578,)

Haunting question

‘What is the point of studying philosophy if all that it does for you is to talk with plausibility about some abstruse questions of logic etc, and if it does not improve your thinking about the important questions of everyday life?’ (p.424)

And:

‘What good does all my talent do me if, at heart, I am unhappy? What help is it to me to solve philosophical problems if I cannot settle the chief, the most important thing?’ (p.507)

What indeed?

Comments

1. For most philosophers (Plato, Hume) it’s recommended that you go back to the primary texts and study them closely. Obviously you can also do this with Wittgenstein, spend a couple of weeks working through the Tractatus with study aids to hand, then the Philosophical Investigations ditto. But there’s a good case for saying that, instead, you should read this biography for at least two reasons:

One is that Wittgenstein himself went out of his way to emphasise that all the really important subjects are not covered in his philosophy – metaphysics, morality, ontology, epistemology, all the classic subjects are excluded in favour of his relentless focus on language. And yet, as Monk’s biography makes abundantly clear, you can only really understand the change in perspective, and in life, which he hoped his works would effect in his readers, if you understand the depth and sincerity of his religious convictions. Even the form of his works, short, pithy aphorisms, are more like the cryptic teachings of a religious guru than the step-by-step reasoning of a traditional philosopher and there, more than for those kinds of thinkers, Wittgenstein’s works benefit from a sensitive explanation of their wider context in the man’s personality and beliefs. And this Monk supplies brilliantly and convincingly.

2. While reading the second half of Monk I flicked through my copy of the Philosophical Investigations, which are really a string of remarks or meditations (693 in total), dipping in and out, reading sequences which interested me, as Monk more or less recommends.

And the one major thought which almost all of them prompted is that he was inventing his own thoughts in the disciplines of pedagogy and linguistics. All the sections I read deal with how children learn language, how they use language, how adult use of language based on how we learned it as children, the language games we inherit, the culture (root of life’) we operate in and so on.

But all this was written in the 1940s, 80 years ago. If you want to really understand how children actually learn language (probably in lots of different ways) and how adults use language, shouldn’t you start with the most up-to-date scientific knowledge, based on hundreds of thousands of studies and research, rather than the enigmatic diary jottings of an eccentric Viennese?

The shocking quality of the Vintage paperback edition

Although they charge full price, this Vintage paperback is a cheap edition on very cheap paper. It’s tolerable to read (although the paper is so cheap and thin that the pages start to ripple and bend on contact with the moisture in the air) but the photo reproductions are catastrophically bad. All of them are riddled with black and grey squares, like a chessboard, and many of them are so dark as to be indecipherable. This is especially disappointing since the photos of the later Wittgenstein are uniquely charismatic and striking. Not here, they aren’t; they are shockingly poor quality and Vintage should be ashamed to publish this scandalously poor quality book. Do not buy this book new, look for older editions which were printed on decent paper.


Credit

Ludwig Wittgenstein: The Duty of Genius by Ray Monk was published by Jonathan Cape in 1990. Page references are to the 1991 Vintage paperback edition. All quotations are for the purposes of criticism and review.

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Reflections on The Age of Empire: 1875 to 1914 by Eric Hobsbawm (1987)

Critique of Hobsbawm’s Marxisant approach

In the third of his mighty trilogy of histories of the long nineteenth century, The Age of Empire: 1875 to 1914, as in its two predecessors, Hobsbawm makes no attempt to hide his strongly Marxist point of view. Every page shouts his contempt for the era’s ‘bourgeois’ men of business, its ‘capitalists’ and bankers, the despicable ‘liberal’ thinkers of the period and so on. From time to time his contempt for the bourgeoisie rises to the level of actual abuse.

The most that can be said of American capitalists is that some of them earned money so fast and in such astronomic quantities that they were forcibly brought up against the fact that mere accumulation in itself is not an adequate aim in life for human beings, even bourgeois ones. (p.186)

Replace that final phrase with ‘even Jewish ones’ or ‘even Muslim ones’ or ‘even black ones’ to get the full sense of how deliberately insulting it is intended to be and how unacceptable his invective would be if applied to any other group of people.

Hobsbawm loses no opportunity to quote Marx (who died in 1883, saddened by the failure of his communist millennium to arrive) or Lenin’s views on late capitalism and imperialism (Lenin published his first political work in 1893), and he loses absolutely no opportunity to say ‘bourgeoisie bourgeoisie bourgeoisie’ scores of times on every page till the reader is sick of the sight of the word.

Hobsbawm’s highly partisan and politicised approach has strengths and weaknesses.

Hobsbawm’s strengths

On the up side, using very simplistic binary oppositions like ‘the developed world’ and ‘the undeveloped world’, the ‘bourgeoisie’ and the ‘proletariat’, helps him to make great sweeping generalisations which give you the impression you are gaining secret access to the engine room of history. If you ignore the complexity of the histories and very different cultures of individual nations such as America, Britain, France and Germany, and lump them altogether as ‘the West’, then you can bring out the broad-brush historical and economic developments of the era, grouping together all the developments in science, chemistry, physics, technology, industry and consumer products into great blocks, into titanic trends and developments.

This gives the reader a tremendously powerful sense of bestriding the world, taking part in global trends and huge international developments. Just as in The Age of Capitalism, the first half or so of the book is thrilling. It makes you feel like you understand for the first time the titanic historical forces directing world history, and it’s this combination of factual (there are lots of facts and figures about industrial production) and imaginative excitement which garnered the trilogy so many positive reviews.

Hobsbawm’s obsession with capitalism’s contradictions

Hobsbawm makes obeisance to the Marxist convention that ‘bourgeois’ ideology was riddled with ‘contradictions’. The most obvious one was the contradiction between the wish of national politicians to define and delimit their nations and the desire of ‘bourgeois’ businessmen to ignore all boundaries and trade and invest wherever they wanted around the globe (p.40).

Another ‘contradiction’ was the way the spread of ‘Western ideology’ i.e. education and values, to developing countries, or at least to the elites within European colonies, often led to the creation of the very Western-educated elites who then helped to overthrow it (he gives the London-trained lawyer Gandhi as the classic example, p.77, though he could as easily have mentioned Jawaharlal Nehru, educated at Cambridge, trained at London’s Inner Temple as a barrister).

Another ‘contradiction’ was the between the way the mid-century ‘bourgeois’ industrial and economic triumph rested on a mechanical view of the universe, the mechanical laws of physics and heat and chemistry underpinning the great technological advances of the later nineteenth century. Hobsbawm then delights in the way that, at the end of the century, this entire mechanistic worldview was overturned in a welter of discoveries, including Einstein’s theory of relativity, the problematic nature of the sub-atomic world which gave rise to quantum physics, and deep discoveries about the bewildering non-rational basis of mathematics.

These are just some of the developments Hobsbawm defines as ‘contradictions’ with the aim of proving that Marx’s predictions that capitalism contained within itself deep structural contradictions which would undermine it and lead inevitably to its downfall.

Why Hobsbawm was wrong

Except that Marx was wrong and Hobsbawm is wrong. His continual mentioning Marx, quoting Lenin, harking back to the high hopes of the revolutionaries of 1848, invoking the memory of the Commune (redefined, in good Marxist style, as a heroic rising of the downtrodden working classes, rather than the internecine bloodbath that it actually was), his continual harking forward to the Bolshevik revolution as somehow the climax of all the trends he describes, his insistence that we, he and his readers, all now (in the mid-1980s when he wrote this book) still live in the forbidding shadow of the Russian revolution, still haunted by the spectre of communist revolution — every aspect of his attitude and approach now seems dated and irrelevant.

Now, in 2021, it is 30 years since the collapse of the Soviet Union and its satellites revealed:

  1. Their complete failure to build an economic and social system which could be a serious alternative to ‘capitalism’.
  2. The extraordinary extent to which communist regimes had to surveil, monitor and police every aspect of their populations’ behaviour, speech and thoughts, in order to prevent them relapsing into the ways of human nature – the prison camps, the psychiatric wards, the secret police. Look at China today, with its censorship of the internet and its hounding of dissidents, its suppression of Falun Gong and the Muslim Uighurs of Xinjiang.

Seen from our contemporary perspective, Hobsbawm tendentious habit of naming every clash in policies, every development in cultural thinking as some kind of seismic ‘contradiction’ which will bring global capitalism tumbling down, looks like what it is, a biased obeisance to Marxist ideas which have long ago proved to be untrue.

The misleading use of terms like ‘bourgeois’

To some extent his attitude is based on one particular logical or rhetorical trick which can be proved to be false.

In the later chapters of the book, about the arts, the hard and social sciences, Hobsbawm repeatedly claims that this or that aspect of ‘bourgeois ideology’ of the mid-nineteenth century came under strain, suffered insoluble contradictions, underwent a crisis, and collapsed.

I think this is the crux of the massive mistake he makes. It consists of several steps:

  1. identifying every element of mid-nineteenth century political and cultural theory as some universal thing called ‘bourgeois’
  2. identifying this ‘bourgeoisie’ as the central and necessary figure of the capitalist system
  3. and then claiming that, because in the last few decades of the nineteenth century this ‘bourgeois’ ideology came under strain and in many ways collapsed, that therefore this shows that capitalism itself, as a system, must come under strain caused by its internal contradictions and therefore must collapse

Surely anyone can see the logical error here. All you have to do is stop insistently repeating that mid-nineteenth century ideology was identical with some timeless ‘bourgeois’ ideology which necessarily and uniquely underpins all capitalism, and simply relabel it ‘mid-nineteenth century ideology’, and then all your sentences stop being so apocalyptic.

Instead of saying ‘bourgeois ideology was stricken by crisis’ as if The Great Revolution is at hand, all you need say is ‘mid-nineteenth century political and social beliefs underwent a period of rapid change at the end of the century’ and the portentous sense of impending doom hovering over the entire system vanishes in a puff of smoke – and you are left just describing a fairly banal historical process, namely that society’s ideas and beliefs change over time, sometimes in abrupt reversals resulting from new discoveries, sometimes as slow evolutionary adaptations to changing social circumstances.

Put another way, Hobsbawm identifies mid-nineteenth century liberal ideology as if it is the one and only shape capitalist thinking can possibly take and so excitedly proclaims that, by the end of the century, because mid-nineteenth century ‘bourgeois’ beliefs were quite visibly fraying and collapsing, therefore capitalism would collapse too.

But quite obviously the ‘capitalist system’ has survived all the ‘contradictions’ and ‘crises’ Hobsbawm attributes to it and many more. It is still going strong, very strong, well over a century after the period which Hobsbawm is describing and when, he implies, it was all but on its last knees.

In fact the basic idea of manufacturing products cheap and selling them for as much profit as you can, screwing the workers who make them and keeping the profits to a) enjoy yourself or b) invest in other business ventures, is probably more widespread than ever before in human history, seeing how it’s been taken up so enthusiastically in post-communist Russia but especially across hyper-modernising China.

In other words, Hobsbawm’s use of Marxist terms like ‘bourgeois’ and ‘proletarian’ may have a certain explanatory power for the era he’s describing, but after a certain point they are too simplistic and don’t describe or analyse the actual complexity of even one of the societies he describes, let alone the entire world.

At some point (which you can almost measure in Hobsbawm’s texts) they cease to be explanatory and become obfuscatory, hiding the differences which separate America, Britain and Germany much more than unite them. Use of the terms simply indicate that you have entered a certain worldview.

Imagine a Christian historian identifying mid-nineteenth century ideology as the one and only expression of ‘Christian’ ideology, an ideology which divided the population into ‘believers’ and ‘unbelievers’, into the ‘saved’ and the ‘damned’. Imagine this historian went on to describe how the widespread ‘crisis’ in Christian belief at the end of the century indicated that the entire world was passing out of the phase of Christian belief and into infidel unbelief.

If you read something like that you would immediately know you are inside the particular worldview of an author, something which clearly means a lot to them, might shed light on some aspects of the period – for example trends in religious belief – but which in no way is the interpretation of world history.

a) Plenty of other interpretations are available, and b) despite the widespread laments that Christianity was dying out in the later nineteenth century, contrary to all their pessimism, Christianity now has more adherents worldwide than ever before in human history. And ditto capitalism.

The dominance of the key terms Hobsbawm deploys with such monotonous obsessiveness (capitalism, bourgeoisie, proletariat, liberal ideology) don’t prove anything except that you have entered the worldview of a particular author.

The system with the real contradictions, contradictions between a) its utopian claims for equality and the reality of a hierarchical society which privileged party membership, b) between its promises to outproduce the West and the reality of permanent shortages of consumer goods and even food, c) between its rhetoric of ‘freedom’ and the reality of the harsh repression of any kind of political or artistic unorthodoxy – was communism, whose last pitiful remnants lie rusting in a thousand statue parks across Russia and Eastern Europe.

The fundamental sleight of hand in Hobsbawm’s argument

Because Hobsbawm identifies the mid-nineteenth century worldview with the ‘bourgeoisie’ and the ‘bourgeoisie’ as the indispensable foundation of ‘capitalism’, he tries to pull off the conjuring trick of claiming that, since the mid-nineteenth century worldview drastically changed in all kinds of ways in the last decade of the century, these change invalidate the ‘bourgeoisie’, and that this, in turn, invalidates ‘capitalism’. Proves it is wrong and doomed to collapse.

You can see how this is just a three-card trick which moves vague and indefinable words around on the table at speed to bamboozle the impressionable. For despite the trials and tribulations of the century of extremes which followed, ‘capitalism’ in various forms appears to have triumphed around almost the entire world, and the materialistic, conventional, liberal ‘bourgeoisie’ which Hobsbawm so despises… appears still to be very much with us, despite all Hobsbawm’s protestations about its terminal crises and death throes and contradictions and collapse.

Victimology tends to tyranny

To anyone familiar with the history of communist Russia, communist China and communist Eastern Europe, there is something unnerving and, eventually, worrying about Hobsbawm’s very broad-brush division of the entire world into victims and oppressors.

The first half of the twentieth century was the era of totalitarian governments seeking to gain total control over every aspect of their populations and mould them into better humans in a better society. The first thing all these regimes did was establish goodies and baddies, and rouse the population to be on perpetual guard against the enemy in whatever guise – ‘the bourgeoisie’, the ‘kulaks’, ‘capitalist roaders’, ‘reactionary elements’, ‘the Jews’, and so on.

Dividing the entire huge world and eight billion people into simple binaries like ‘oppressors’ and ‘victims’, ‘bourgeoisie’ and ‘workers’, ‘exploiters’ and ‘exploited’, ‘white’ masters and ‘black’ victims, is worryingly reminiscent of the simplistic, binary thinking which the twentieth century showed leads to genocides and mass killing.

Hobsbawm criticises the nationalist parties of the late-nineteenth century for dividing up populations into citizens and outsiders, members of the Volk or aliens, a process of which the Jews were notable victims. And yet he enacts the very same binary oppositioning, the same outsidering of a (large) group of society, by objectifying and insulting the ‘bourgeoisie’ at every opportunity.

It’s the same old mental slum: if only we could get rid of the gypsies / homos / lefties / commies / bourgeoisie / capitalists / Catholics / Protestants / Armenians / Jews / Croats / Serbs / Tutsis / Hutus / men / whites / blacks / immigrants / refugees, then society would be alright. I call it ‘If-only-ism’.

If capitalism and imperialism were inevitable, how can anyone be guilty?

In Age of Capital Hobsbawm describes how the industrial revolution amounted to a lucky fluke, a coming together of half a dozen circumstances (of which the most important was, in his view, Britain’s command of the waves and extensive trading network between colonies) and this helps you realise that some people were able to seize the opportunity and exploit it and become masters of small firms and then of factories etc. Clever, quick, resourceful or well-placed men leapt to take advantage of new opportunities. Any history of the industrial revolution names them and gives biographies of individuals central to the series of inventions or who then set up successful firms to exploit them.

However, the tendency of Hobsbawm’s very high-level Marxist approach, his sweeping surveys which pull together evidence from Austria, or France, from north Italy or New York, is, paradoxically, to remove all sense of agency from the humans involved. Hobsbawm makes it seem almost inevitable that the first industrial revolution (textiles) would give rise to a second (iron and coal) which in turn would give rise to a third (steel, organic chemistry, electrics, oil).

And he makes it seem inevitable that, once the world was fully mapped and explored, then the other ‘western powers’ which by 1890 had more or less caught up with Britain in terms of industrialisation, would join the competition to seize territories which contained valuable minerals or exotic produce (tea, coffee, bananas). That an acceleration of imperial rivalry was inevitable.

But if it had to pan out this way, how can you blame anyone? If, viewed from this lofty godlike perspective, it was inevitable that industrialisation broke out somewhere, that it would spread to all similar regions and states, that the now numerous industrial nations would find themselves in competition for the basic resources (food) and more arcane resources (rubber, oil, rare metals) required to drive the next stage of industrial development – can you blame them?

You could call it Hobsbawm’s paradox, or Hobsbawm’s Choice. The more inevitable you make the entire process sound, the less reason you have to be so cross at the ‘bourgeoisie’.

The reality is that you can, of course, hold the western nations accountable for their actions, but only if you descend to a lower level of historical discourse than Hobsbawm’s. Only if you begin to look at specific actions of specific governments and specific men in specific times and places an you begin to make assessments and apportion praise or blame.

Responsibility and guilt can’t really exist at the level Hobsbawm is operating on because he goes out of his way to avoid mentioning individuals (with only a few exceptions; Bismarck’s name crops up more than any other politician of the period) and instead emphasises that it all unfolded according to almost unavoidable historical laws, implicit in the logic of industrial development.

If humans couldn’t avoid it, then they can’t very well be blamed for it.

In light of Hobsbawm’s theory, is equality possible?

The same set of facts give rise to a parallel thought, which dogged me throughout reading this book, which is — if what Hobsbawm says is true, if industrial and technological developments tend to be restricted to just a handful of certain nations which have acquired the technology and capital resources to acquire ‘liftoff’ to industrialisation, and if, within those nations, the benefits of industrialisation accrue overwhelming to a small proportion of the population; and if this process is so stereotyped and inevitable and unstoppable — then, well… is it even possible to be fair? Is it possible to achieve anything like ‘equality’? Surely the entire trend of the history Hobsbawm describes with so much verve suggests not.

Putting aside the issue of fairness in one nation aside in order to adopt Hobsbawm’s global perspective, he often repeats the formula that countries in the ‘undeveloped’ or ‘developing’ or ‘Third World’ (whatever you want to call it) were forced by the demands of consumer capitalism or The Market to turn themselves into providers of raw materials or a handful of saleable commodities – after all, this was era which saw the birth of the banana republic. But, I thought as I ploughed through the book… what was the alternative?

Could undeveloped nations have turned their backs on ‘international capitalism’ and continued as agrarian peasant nations, or resisted the western imperative to become ‘nations’ at all and remained general territories ruled by congeries of local sheikhs or tribal elders or whatever?

At what stage would it have been possible to divert the general trend of colonial takeover of the developing world? How would it have happened? Which British leader would have stood up and said, ‘This is wrong; we renounce all our colonies and grant them independence today?’ in the1870s or 1880s or 1890s? What would have happened to the sub-continent or all those bits of Africa which Britain administered if Britain had simply packed up and left them in 1885?

As to all the wealth accumulating in Britain, among its sizeable cohort of ship-owners, traders, factory owners, bankers, stockbrokers and what not. On what basis would you have taken their wealth away, and how much? Half? All of it and shot them, as in Bolshevik Russia?

Having seized the wealth of the entire ‘bourgeoisie’, how would you then have redistributed it to the bedouin in the desert or the native peoples of Australia or the Amazon, to the workers on the rubber plantations, in the tin and gold mines, in the sugar fields, to squabbling tribes in central Africa? How could that have been done without a vast centralised redistribution system? Without, in fact, precisely the centralising, bureaucratic tendencies of the very capitalist system Hobsbawm was criticising?

And who would administer such a thing? Having worked in the civil service for over a decade I can tell you it would take hordes of consultants, program managers, project managers and so on, who would probably be recruited from the host country and make a packet out of the process?

And when was all this meant to happen? When, would you say, the awareness of the wrongs of the empire, or the wrongs done to the ‘undeveloped world’ became widespread enough to allow such policies to be enacted in a democracy where the government has to persuade the majority of the people to go along with its policies? In the 1860s, 70s, 80s?

Live Aid was held in 1985, just as Hobsbawm was writing this book, and which I imagine brought the issue of Third World poverty and famine to the attention of even the dimmest members of the population. But did that global event abolish poverty, did it end inequality and injustice in in the Third World? No, otherwise there would have been no need for the Live 8 concerts and related charity efforts 30 years later, in 2005. Or the ongoing efforts of all the industrialised nations to send hundreds of millions of dollars of support to the Third World every year (hence the furore surrounding the UK government cutting back on its foreign aid budget this year.) Not to mention the continuous work of thousands of charities all across the ‘developing world’.

When you look at the scale of activity and the amounts of money which have been sent to developing countries since the Second World War, it makes you wonder how much would be enough? Should every citizen of every industrialised nation give, say, half their annual earnings to people in the Third World? To which people? In which countries? To India, which has invested tens of billions in a space program? To China, which is carrying out semi-genocidal policy of incarceration and mass sterilisation in its Xinjiang province? Do we need to take money from the British public to give it to Narendra Modi or Xi Jinping? Who would manage that redistribution program, for whatever civil servants and consultants you hired to make it work would earn much, much more than the recipients of the aid.

Student excitement, adult disillusion with Hobsbawm

When I was a student, reading this trilogy educated me about the broad industrial, economic and social forces which created and drove forward the industrial revolution in the Western world throughout the nineteenth century, doing so in thrilling style, and for that I am very grateful. Hobsbawm’s books highlighted the way that, through the 1850s and 1860s, capitalism created an ever-richer class of ‘owners’ set against a rapidly growing number of impoverished workers; how the industrial and financial techniques pioneered in Britain spread to other Western nations; how the industrial system evolved in the 1880s and 1890s into a) a booming consumer society in the West and b) the consolidation of a system of colonial exploitation around the world.

I had never had the broad trends of history explained so clearly and powerfully and excitingly. It was a memorable experience.

But rereading the books 40 years later, I am now painfully aware that the simplistic Marxist concepts Hobsbawm uses to analyse his period may certainly help to elucidate it, but at the same time highlight their own ineffectiveness.

The confidence that a mass working class movement which will rise up to overthrow the inequalities of the West and liberate the developing world, that this great liberation is just around the corner – which is implicit in his numerous references to 1848 and Marx and the Commune and Lenin – and that all it needs is a few more books and pamphlets to spark it off….goes beyond boring to become sad. Although the historical facts he describes remain as relevant as ever, the entire ideology the books are drenched in feels terribly out of date.

Democracy not the blessing it is cracked up to be

In chapter 4 Hobsbawm discusses the politics of democracy. Throughout he takes it for granted that extending the franchise to all adults would result in the revolutionary change he supports. He starts his discussion by referencing the powerful German Social Democratic Party (founded back in 1863) and the British Labour Party (founded in 1900) and their campaigns for universal suffrage, as if giving the vote to ‘the working class’ would immediately lead to a social revolution, the end of inequality and exploitation.

Only in the chapters that follow does he slowly concede that new mass electorates also helped to create new mass, populist parties and that many of these catered not to the left at all, but to right-wing nationalist ideas of blood and Volk. For example, the notorious Karl Luger, mayor of Vienna from 1897 to 1910, whose Christian Social Party espoused populist and antisemitic politics which are sometimes viewed as a model for Adolf Hitler’s Nazism.

In fact it had already been shown that universal male suffrage not only didn’t lead to socialist revolution but the exact opposite, when, in the aftermath of the 1848 revolution which overthrew the French monarchy, the French granted universal male suffrage and held a presidential election in which the opera bouffe candidate, Louis-Napoléon Bonaparte, promptly won with 74% of the entire male adult vote, and then went on to win the plebiscite held after his 1851 anti-leftist coup with 76%.

So any educated person knew in the 1850s that extending the franchise did not, in and of itself, lead to red revolution. Often the opposite. (This is a point picked up in Richard Shannon’s book The Crisis of Imperialism 1865 to 1915 which quotes umpteen later Victorian politicians and commentators arguing against extending the franchise precisely because they’d seen what it led to in France, namely the election of a repressive, right wing autocrat.)

Hobsbawm’s excited description of the way the ‘scary’ working class were ‘threatening’ bourgeois hegemony, were on the brink of ‘seizing power’ and righting the world’s wrongs, underplays the extent to which universal suffrage led:

  1. directly to the rise of populist nationalist anti-left wing governments
  2. and to the fragmentation of the left into ‘reformists’, prepared to compromise their radical principles and ally with liberal parties in order to get into parliament, and the die-hards who held out for radical social change

In other words, extending the franchise led to the exact opposite of what Hobsbawm hopes. Something borne out after the Great War, when the franchise was drastically extended to almost all adults in most European countries and the majority of European governments promptly became either right-wing or out-and-out dictatorships. Mussolini won the 1924 Italian general election; Hitler won the largest share of the vote in the Weimar Republic’s last election. Or Hungary:

In January 1920, Hungarian men and women cast the first secret ballots in the country’s political history and elected a large counterrevolutionary and agrarian majority to a unicameral parliament. (Wikipedia)

Switching from Hobsbawm altogether to the present day, 2021, any reader of the English left-liberal English press must be struck how, since the Brexit vote, it has stopped being a taboo subject to suggest that quite possibly a large proportion of the British electorate is thick and uneducated (terms you frequently meet in the Guardian newspaper). You can nowadays read plenty of ‘progressive’ commentators pointing out that the great British electorate was persuaded, in voting for Brexit (2016) and Boris (2019), to vote for populist right-wing demagoguery and against their own best interests as working people. I have read so many commentators pointing out that it is the very conservative working class communities who voted for Brexit who are most likely going to suffer the prolonged consequences of economic dislocation and decline.

In other words, right now in 2021, you can read representatives of the left openly stating that universal franchise, one person one vote, not only doesn’t lead to the socialist paradise Hobsbawm implies it will, but the opposite – rule by right-wing populists.

As far as I can remember, thoughts like this would have been utterly taboo in the 1980s, or have immediately identified you as a right-wing conservative. But now I read comments like this every day in the Guardian or New Statesman.

So – this is the recent experience and current political discourse I bring to reading Hobsbawm’s chapter about democracy and which makes me think his assumption, his faith, his Marxist belief, that simply expanding the franchise to all adults would of itself bring about social revolution and justice and equality is too simplistic.

  • It doesn’t correlate with the historical fact that, as soon as the franchises of most European nations had been radically expanded (after the Great War), lots of them became very right-wing.
  • It doesn’t speak to our present situation where, it’s true that no-one is openly suggesting restricting the franchise, but many progressives are questioning whether the universal franchise produces the optimum results for a nation and its working class. Trump. Brexit.

The world is not as we would like it to be.

My opposition to Hobsbawm’s teleology

I am a Darwinian materialist. I believe there is no God and therefore no purpose or direction to human lives or events. There is no plan, divine or otherwise. Shit happens, people try to cope. Obviously shit happens within a complex web of frameworks and structures which we have inherited, it takes a lot of effort to disentangle and understand what is going on, or what we think is going on, and sometimes it may happen in ways some of which we can broadly predict. But ‘events, dear boy, events’ are the determining feature in human affairs. Take Afghanistan this past week. Who knew? Who expected such a sudden collapse?

This isn’t a very profound analysis but my aim is to contrast my preference for a theory of the unpredictable and chaotic nature of human affairs with Hobsbawm’s profound belief in Marxist teleology, meaning the very nineteenth century, rationalist, scientistic belief that there are laws of history and that human societies obey them and that they can be predicted and harnessed.

Teleology: the doctrine of design and purpose in the material world.

Teleology is the belief that if you shave away all the unfortunate details of history, and the peculiarities of culture, and the impact of charismatic individuals, in fact if you pare away enough of what makes people people and societies societies, you can drill down to Fundamental Laws of History. And that Karl Marx discovered them. And that these laws predict the coming collapse of capitalism and its replacement by a wonderful classless society. And that you, too, can be part of this future by joining the communist party today for the very reasonable online registration fee of just £12!

Anyway, the teleology (‘sense of direction, meaning or purpose’) which is a vital component of Marxism, the confidence in an inevitable advent of a future of justice and equality, which underpins every word Hobsbawm wrote, evaporated in 1991 and nothing has taken its place.

There will be no Revolution. The ‘capitalist system’ will not be overthrown. At most there will be pointless local revolts like the Arab Spring, revolts which, more than likely, end up with regimes more repressive or anarchic than the ones they overthrew (Syria, Libya, Egypt).

This sort of thing will occur repeatedly in countries which did not enjoy the early or middle benefits of the technological revolutions Hobsbawm describes, countries of the permanently developing world, which will always have largely peasant populations, which will always depend on the export of raw materials (oil being the obvious one), which will always have unstable political systems, liable to periodic upheavals.

The environmental perspective

If there is One Big Thing we do know about the future, it is something which isn’t mentioned anywhere in Hobsbawm’s book, which is that humanity is destroying the environments which support us.

My son is studying biology at university. He says it amounts to having world-leading experts explain the beauty and intricacy of various eco-systems in beautiful places around the planet – and then describing how we are destroying them.

As a result, my son thinks that human civilisation, in its present form, is doomed. Not because of global warming. But because we are killing the oceans, exterminating all the fish, destroying species diversity, wrecking agricultural land, using up all the fresh water, relying more on more on fragile monocultures, and generally devastating the complex web of ecosystems which make human existence possible.

Viewed from this perspective, human activity is, overall, fantastically destructive. And the massive ideological divide Hobsbawm makes between the tradition of the nineteenth century ‘bourgeoisie’, on the one hand, and the revolutionaries, Communards, Bolsheviks and communists he adulates, on the other, fades into insignificance.

We now know that polluting activity and environmental destruction were as bad or worse under communist regimes as they were under capitalist ones. It was the Soviet system which gave us Chernobyl and its extended cover-up. Capitalist ones are at least capable of reform in a way communist regimes turned out not to be. Green political movements are a feature of advanced ‘capitalist’ countries but were suppressed, along with every other form of deviance, under communist governments.

But then again, it really doesn’t matter from a global perspective. Looked at from the planet’s point of view, all human activity is destructive.

So this is why, looking at them from a really high-level perspective, as of aliens visiting earth and reviewing the last couple of centuries, these books no longer make me angry at the wicked ‘capitalist’ exploitation of its workers and entire colonial nations and the ‘heroic’ resistance of the proletariat and the exploited peoples of the colonial nations.

I just see a swarm of humans ruining their habitat and leading, inevitably, to their own downfall.

Hobsbawm’s style

Hobsbawm is very repetitive. He mentions bicycles and cars and so on representing new technologies at least three times. I swear he points out that imperialism was the result of increasing competition between the industrial nations at least half a dozen times. He tells us that a number of Germany’s most eminent revolutionaries came from Russia, namely Rosa Luxemburg, at least four times. He repeats President Porfirio Diaz’s famous lament, ‘Poor Mexico! So far from God, so close to the United States’ twice. He tells us twice that western governments were keen to invest in medical research into tropical fevers solely because the results promised to help their officers and administrators survive longer in colonial outposts several times. He repeatedly tells us that Bismarck was the master of maintaining peace between the powers (pp.312 and 318).

The impression this gives is of rambling, repetitive and circular arguments instead of linear, logical ones.

Hobsbawm’s discussions are often very gaseous in the sense that they go on at length, use lots of highbrow terminology, but at the end it’s hard to make out or remember what he’s said. The discussion of nationalism in Age of Capital was long and serious-sounding but I emerged at the end of it none the wiser. The long discussion of sociology in chapter 11 of this book left me none the wiser about sociology except for Hobsbawm’s weird suggestion that, as a social science, it was founded and encouraged in order to protect society against Marxism and revolution. Really?

In a similar spirit, although he uses the word ‘bourgeoisie’ intensively throughout both books, I emerged with no clearer sense of what ‘bourgeoisie’ really means than I went in with. He himself admits it to be a notoriously difficult word to define and then more or less fails to define it.

On a more serious level I didn’t understand his discussion of nationalism in Age of Capital or his discussion of the increasing democratisation in the 1890s in this volume, because they were vague and waffly. It seemed to me that as soon as he left his home turf of economic development, his ideas become foggy and repetitive.

And sometimes he comes over as a hilariously out of touch old buffer:

By 1914 the more unshackled youth in the western big cities and resorts was already familiar with sexually provocative rhythmic dances of dubious but exotic origin (the Argentinian tango, the syncopated steps of American blacks). (p.204)

‘The syncopated steps of American blacks’. No wonder American capitalism was doomed to collapse.

Overall conclusion

Hobsbawm’s books are thrilling because of their scope and range and the way he pulls together heterogenous material from around the world, presenting pages of awe-inspiring stats and facts, to paint a vivid, thrilling picture of a world moving through successive phases of industrialisation.

But he is eerily bereft of ideas. This comes over in the later chapters of both books in which he feels obligated, like so many historians before him, to write a chapter about The Arts. This is not his natural territory and the reader has to struggle through turgid pages of Hobsbawm dishing up absolutely conventional judgements (Van Gogh was an unrecognised genius; the arts and crafts movement was very influential), which are so lame and anodyne they are embarrassing.

I had noticed his penchant for commenting on everything using numbered points (‘The bourgeois century destabilised its periphery in two main ways…’; ‘Three major forces of resistance existed in China…’, ‘Three developments turned the alliance system into a time bomb…’, and many others). Eventually it dawned on me that he produces these nifty little sets of issues or causes or effects instead of having ideas. Lists beat insights.

Considering how fertile Marxist literary and art criticism has been in the twentieth century (cf György Lukács, Walter Benjamin, Theodor Adorno, Frederick Jameson) it is very disappointing how flat and untheoretical and banal Hobsbawm’s comments about the arts in both books are. In these later sections of each book it is amazing how much he can write without really saying anything. He is a good example of someone who knows all the names and terminology and dates and styles and has absolutely nothing interesting to say about them.


Credit

The Age of Empire: 1875 to 1914 by Eric Hobsbawm was published in 1975 by Weidenfeld and Nicholson. All references are to the 1985 Abacus paperback.

Hobsbawm reviews

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Communism in Poland

  • Warsaw 1920 by Adam Zamoyski (2008) How the Polish army stopped the Red Army’s advance into Poland in 1920 preventing them pushing on to support revolution in Germany.
  • The Captive Mind by Czesław Miłosz (1953) A devastating indictment of the initial appeal and then appalling consequences of communism in Poland: ‘Mass purges in which so many good communists died, the lowering of the living standard of the citizens, the reduction of artists and scholars to the status of yes-men, the extermination of entire national groups…’

Communism in Czechoslovakia

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  • The Battle for Spain by Antony Beevor (2006) Comprehensive account of the Spanish civil war with much detail on how the Stalin-backed communist party put more energy into eliminating its opponents on the Left than fighting the fascists, with the result that Franco won.
  • Homage to Catalonia by George Orwell (1938) Orwell’s eye-witness account of how the Stalin-backed communist party turned on its left-wing allies, specifically the Workers’ Party of Marxist Unification which Orwell was fighting with, and how he only just managed to escape arrest, interrogation and probable execution during the communist purges.

Communism in England

The New Objectivity: Modern German Art in the Weimar Republic 1918-33 edited by Stephanie Barron and Sabine Eckmann (2015)

This awesomely big, heavy hardback book is the catalogue published to accompany a major exhibition of Weimar Art held at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art in 2015.

It contains some 150 glossy, mostly colour reproductions of a huge variety of works (mostly paintings and drawings, but also quite a few stunning art photos from the period) by nearly 50 artists associated with the Neue Sachlichkeit or New Objectivity movement. The main text is followed by 28 pages of potted biographies of all the main artists and photographers of the time. All very useful.

Die Begegnung by Anton Räderscheidt

Die Begegnung by Anton Räderscheidt

I had only gleaned hints and guesses about many of these artists from the two books on the Weimar Culture by John Willetts which I read recently, and this book is exactly what I wanted – it goes to town with a really comprehensive overview of the different types of Neue Sachlichkeit and then – crucially – gives you plenty of examples so you can understand their common themes but diverse styles for yourself.

As I’d begun to figure out for myself in my post about New Objectivity, the phrase Neue Sachlichkeit was never a movement in the way Impressionism, Fauvism, Futurism or Dada were, never a self-conscious tag used by a cohort of allied artists. As so often, it was an attempt by critics to make sense of what was going on, in this case in post-war German art.

Weimar art came in a lot of varieties but what they all had in common was a rejection of the strident emotionalism and deliberately expressive style of German Expressionism, and a return to figurative painting, generally done to a meticulous and painterly finish. A rejection of utopian spiritualism, or apocalyptic fantasies, or the deep existential angst of the artist – and a sober, matter-of-fact depiction of the actual modern world in front of them.

Self-portrait with Ophthalmological Models by Herbert Ploberger 91928)

Self-portrait with Ophthalmological Models by Herbert Ploberger (1928)

The term Neue Sachlichkeit (as we are told in virtually every one of the book’s 14 essays, pp.6, 17-18, 105, 126, 203) was coined by Gustav Friedrich Hartlaub, the director of the Kunsthalle in Mannheim. He used it as the title for a 1925 exhibition which for the first time brought many of the new artists working in the Weimar Republic bringing together in the same exhibition space. (The introduction explains that the new trend had already been spotted by, among others, critic Paul Westheim who labelled it Verism in 1919 and tried again with New Naturalism in 1922, by Paul Schmidt who suggested Sachlichkeit in 1920, and by the critic Franz Roh whose 1925 book, Post-Expressionism: Magic Realism (which was sold to accompany Hartlaub’s exhibition when it went on tour of German galleries) presented two possible terms.)

Roh included in his book a table with two columns, in one an Expressionist characteristic, next to it its post-Expressionist equivalent. There were 22 qualities in all. According to Roh Magical Realist paintings were notable for their: accurate detail, smooth photographic clarity, painterly finish, and portrayal of the ‘magical’ nature of the rational world. They reflect the uncanniness of people and our modern technological environment. In all these ways Roh’s phrase is arguably a better descriptor for the majority of the hyper-accurate but subtly distorted and unnerving paintings of the period. But Neue Sachlichkeit stuck.

Self-portrait by Christian Schad (1927)

Self-portrait by Christian Schad (1927)

In fact this book makes clear that the terminology has gone on being debated, refined, rejected and refreshed right down to the present day. Maybe a word cloud or, more precisely, a phrase cloud summarise some of the ways various writers have sought to characterise it. According to various writers, New Objective paintings display:

an alienated relationship to the real… a disenchanted experiential world…detached alienated people…anti-human… treating humans like objects… lack of empathy…. excessively German objectification… a cold passion for the exactness of clichés… an aesthetics of the ugly… [according to Roh] abstraction instead of empathy… [according to critic Wilhelm Michel] the rediscovery of the ‘thing’ after the crisis of the ‘I’…

The nine essays

Of the book’s 14 essays, nine on specific academic subjects, while the last five are about the five themes which the exhibition was divided into. The nine essays are:

1. New Objectivity – by Stephanie Barron introducing us to the timeframe, the basic ideas, the origins of the term and so on.

2. A Lack of Empathy by Sabine Eckmann – looking back at 19th century Realism to conclude that the New Realism turned it inside out, concentrating on surfaces but deliberately lacking old-style empathy for the subjects.

3. Hartlaub and Roh by Christian Fuhrmeister – a dry, scholarly examination of the working relationship between the museum director Hartlaub who organised the famous 1925 show and the art critic Roh, who wrote the book which introduced Magical Realism.

4. New Women, New Men, New Objectivity by Maria Makela – Makela describes the prominence of gay and lesbian people in many Weimar portrait

Portrait of the journalist Sylvia von Harden by Otto Dix (1926)

Portrait of the journalist Sylvia von Harden by Otto Dix (1926)

I enjoyed this article hugely for the sheer unimaginative repetitiveness of its ‘ideas’. Here are choice snippets:

a mannish lesbian who cares little for the traditional codes of femininity… images of women who blurred clear-cut gender boundaries…women’s participation in sport undermined traditional gender roles… the 1920s independent young woman who undermined traditional gender roles… the prevalence of caricatures about New Women in the illustrated mass media considerable anxiety about the breakdown of traditional gender roles… the transgression of traditional gender codes was more threatening in Germany than elsewhere… clear-cut gender boundaries were being eroded in all industrialised countries… the horrible physical and psychic maladies [caused by the war] were intolerable for many German men whose gender identity was in tatters… sex, sexual alterity and gender ambiguity… an era of gender confusion… multiple and mobile gender positionalities…

5. The Politics of New Objectivity by James A. van Dyke. Van Dyke examines this potentially huge subject via the rather small example of the 1927 exhibition of 140 New Objective art works put on by the Berlin art dealer Karl Nierendorf for which the ubiquitous art critic, Franz Roh, wrote the programme. What comes over is that as early as 1927 both left-wing and right-wing critics had begun to turn against the style, accusing it of shallowness, fashionableness and petit-bourgeois crowd-pleasing.

6. New Objectivity and ‘Totalitarianism’ by Olaf Peters – A look at how the artists and idioms of New Objectivity lived on into Hitler’s Reich and then into the East German communist dictatorship. The left-wing artists fled Hitler immediately – Grosz most famously of all, managing to flee the country only weeks before the Leader’s accession. But plenty stayed behind and Peters shows how some of the blander ‘classicists’ managed to sustain careers, some even garnering commissions from powerful Nazi figures. Politicians and some artists for a while cooked up a new movement called New German Romanticism…

The situation in post-war East Germany was even more complex, as artists attempted either to deny their Objectivist pasts or to rehabilitate Objectivism as a precursor of the state-favoured style of Socialist Realism. Peters shows artists, critics, historians and scholars bending over backwards to try and rehabilitate some of the more extreme Objectivist works with the narrow Party line. In practice this seems to have been done by examining the artists’ origins: if he was the son of working class parents his art must be proletariat, and so on. It occurred to me that one reason why Weimar is such a popular period to write about is because it was the last time German writers and artists didn’t have to lie and feel compromised about their political beliefs. It was (briefly) a vibrantly open society. Post-war both East and West Germany were more crippled and constrained by their historical legacies.

7. Painting abroad and its nationalist baggage by Keith Holz looks at the way New Objective art was perceived abroad, by the neighbouring Czechs, by the French, but mostly by the Americans.

8. Middle-class montage by Matthew S. Wittkovsky – Wittowksy suggests that montage, among many other things, can be a way of allowing the real world back into a medium torn up by modernist experiments. In other words, a cubist effect is created but with elements which are hyper-realistic (photographs).

Metropolis by Paul Citroen (1923)

Metropolis by Paul Citroen (1923)

Wittowksy points out that both Christian Schad and Otto Dix made collages during their Dada years and tries to show that the collage mentality – conceiving the painting as an assemblage of disparate elements – underpins their oil paintings. He uses Schad’s self portrait (shown above) to suggest that 1. the two human figures are disconnected. 2. They are separated from the Paris skyline by some kind of gauze. 3. Even the body of the main figure is distanced by the odd translucent chemise he’s wearing. He pushes the idea of layers into history, suggesting that  there is a collage-like superimposition between Schad’s painterly finish, derived from Northern Renaissance painters, and the 20th century subject matter.

9. Writing photography by Andreas Huyssen – This essay is not at all about Weimar photography but about the conflicted opinions about photography of a couple of Weimar-era writers and critics, namely the super-famous (if you’ve studied critical theory) Walter Benjamin, his colleague Siegfried Kracauer, the right-wing warrior and writer Ernst Jünger, and the Austrian philosophical novelist, Robert Musil. It’s always good to be reminded how culturally right-wing even Marxist sociologists and theorists are: thus both Kracauer and Benjamin thought that photography was just one of the mass media, or instruments of distraction, which were undermining older human skills and values. Huyssen is concerned with the fact that all these writers wrote collection of short pieces, short feuilletons, prose pieces and fragments, which they published in various collections, to try to convey the Modernist notion of the fragmented quality of life in the ‘modern’ city. (Wonder what any of them would make of life in Tokyo 2018.)

Like Benjamin’s buddy, Theodor Adorno, their brand of Marxism amounted to a continual lament for the good old values which were being overthrown by the triviality and vulgarity of the ‘entertainment industry’ promulgated by the hated capitalist system.

And yet…. when Hitler rose to power they all emigrated to the heart of capitalism, America, where they spent the war in exile happily slagging off the vulgarity of American culture while 300,000 American boys died in combat to liberate their culturally superior Europe.

Once Europe had been made safe again for Marxist philosophers they went back to Germany and set up the Frankfurt School for Social research where they spent the rest of their careers criticising the economic and legal system which made their cushy, professorial lives possible.

Criticisms

1. I have tried to make these essays sound interesting, and they certainly address interesting topics, but in every case the authors are more interested in the work of curators, critics, gallery owners, art dealers and so on than in the art. This means you have to wade through quite a lot of stuff about particular critics and how their views changed and evolved. Thus the art scholar Keith Holz gives us his interpretation of the German curator Fritz Schmalenbach’s essay on the changing ways in which the German curator Gustav Hartlaub used the expression Neueu Sachlichkeit. Which is of, well, pretty specialist interest shall we say.

The essay on how New Objectivism was perceived abroad, maybe inevitably, is more about galleries and curators and critics than about the work or ideas or style of particular artists.

The essay about New Objectivity in Eastern Germany is mainly about the efforts of various critics and theorists to incorporate it into narratives of German art which would be acceptable in a communist regime.

After a while you begin to wish you could read something about the artworks themselves.

The Dreamer by Heinrich Maria Davringhausen ( 1919)

The Dreamer by Heinrich Maria Davringhausen ( 1919)

2. You get the strong sense most of the essays are not written for a general public, for us who know little or nothing about the twists and turns of abstruse debates among art historians for the past forty years. They are not written in a spirit of introducing and explicating the art or the artists, or of giving a history of the reception of Weimar paintings abroad to the likes of you or me. No, the dominant feeling is that the essays are overwhelmingly written by art historians and scholars for other art historians and scholars.

3. Therefore all of the essays are written in the kind of semi-sociological jargon which is uniform among art scholars and historians these days, a prose style which rejoices in ‘projects’ and ‘negotiations’ and ‘situating’ debates and ‘transgressing gender norms’, the tired critical theory style which makes them not exactly incomprehensible, but simply boring.

The prose often sounds like the annual reports of company accountants, like the kind of corporate brochures I helped to write and distribute when I worked in the civil service. Here’s a sliver from Olaf Peters describing how difficult East German art historians found it to include New Objectivity in their orthodox Marxist narratives of German art.

The fear of the so-called bourgeois formalist tradition in art history indeed made it impossible for art historians in East Germany to appropriately analyse the artistic potential of New Objectivity. The GDR was hardly prepared aesthetically or theoretically to reflect adequately on the phenomenon of New Objectivity as an all-encompassing presence in the interwar period. (p.86)

Maybe that’s not long enough to give you the taste of crumbling concrete which so many of these essays leave behind on the palate. Here’s a slice of Keith Holz.

The comparative manoeuvres that art historians are enticed to make between New Objectivity and its apparent variations (or influences) outside Germany are not new, nor are they likely to subside. A more comprehensive approach might ask what is at stake in such comparisons by noting similarities between, say, American, Czech, French or Italian paintings of the 1920s and early 1930s and paintings associated with German New Objectivity. On the German-American front, this ground is well traversed, nowhere more critically or richly than in recent work by Andrew Hemingway. Based on substantial original research, Hemingway has recently reconstructed the careers of Stefan Hirsch, George Ault, and Louis Lozowick in relation to German art of the 1920s. Relating the German-born Hirsch to the public face of Precisionism, Hemingway stations the artist’s incipient career within a history of the promotion and reception of New Objectivity in the United States. For Hemingway, the link between these Precisionist-allied artists and German New Objectivity is the representational function of their artworks within international capitalism, particularly the reification of people and objects within this system. (p.93)

You will be thrilled to learn that Hemingway’s ‘trenchant interventions’ represent a ‘methodological paradigm shift’ in historical research. Phew.

My point is – I can read and understand the words, and I understand that these essays are (disappointingly) snippets and excerpts from long and specialised scholarly conversations about the historical interpretation of Weimar art among scholars and historians, living and dead, but — hardly any of it takes me one millimetre closer to the actual works of art.

Quite the opposite, fairly often as I waded through this prose I had to remind myself that the authors were talking about art at all, and not production figures for concrete pipes.

The Parents by Otto Dix (1921)

The Parents by Otto Dix (1921)

4. Repetition. Lots of short essays means lots of generalising introductions and lots of vapid conclusions. This helps to explain why they feel very repetitive. For example, the passage here the curator Hartlaub distinguished between left or verist painters (who use harsh satire, fierce colours and ugly caricature to make a political point) and right or classical artists (who take a more cool and detached view of the world) is explained in detail at least five times (pp.17, 29, 42, 126, 263). The idea that the Weimar era was one of political and economic turmoil is repeated in some form in most of the essays. The idea that capitalism is nasty and exploitative is repeated in almost all of them. The following quote from Walter Benjamin, about Albert Renger-Patzsch’s photo album, The World is Beautiful, is repeated three times:

In it is unmasked the posture of a photography that can endow any soup can with cosmic significance but cannot grasp a single one of the human connections in which it exists. (p.213)

In one long text like Walter Laqueur’s account of Weimar culture (which reads like a masterpiece of calm authority next to many of these works) basic ideas and events need only be mentioned once. In these dozen or more essays you find the same basic ideas (1920s city life was faster and more disorientating than ever before, women had more rights than before the war) being stated again and again and again.

In the wake of the war and in light of the rapid modernisation of working life, increased gender equality and sexual emancipation, and ongoing political uncertainty, artists sought to redefine their role in society. (p.260)

I wonder which decade from the last hundred and fifty years that hasn’t been true of.

Conclusions are hard enough to write at the best of times: it’s difficult to sum up the content of an essay without repeating it. It’s bad enough reading the conclusion of a single book, but reading 15 essays means reading 15 conclusions which, by their nature, tend to be very generalised: again and again they say that ‘more work’ needs to be done to properly understand or fully explore or adequately decode the multiple streams of art of the time. Just like any other time, then.

5. The fourth really irritating aspect about the essays is how many of these scholars appear to live in the 1970s as far as ‘capitalism’ is concerned. They all breezily refer to the evil affects of ‘capitalism’ as if we’re all a bit silly for not choosing one of the countless other economic systems we could be using, like… like, er… And quite a few deploy the word ‘bourgeois’ as if it still means anything. Witkovsky in particular is lavish with the expression:

  • The new realism could continue the avant-garde attack on bourgeois subjectivity while simultaneously addressing the incipient subjugation of all subjectivity by the seductions of capital and by political dictatorship. (p.106)
  • [Schad’s subjects] belong to a decadent social space removed from the normative bourgois economy of labour and domestic comforts. (p.106)
  • [Schad’s paintings] are montages of different social spaces. They mask the materiality of that conflict [between the different social spaces] which the photograms laid bare, but they also suggest its social dimension more directly, through the illusions of figuration. This scrambling of the separations effected by bourgeois society makes the paintings discomfiting. (p.108)
  • Sander, like the artists of the New Objectivity, fully inhabited the bourgeoisie. His chosen portrait locations likewise emanate a degree of comfort and intimacy typically associated with the private home, the single most vaunted bourgeois setting. (p.112)
  • [The photographer August Sander embarked on a project to photograph all possible job types in 1920s Germany, a project he never completed.] In the necessary incompleteness of Sander’s project lies, perversely, its greatest promise of enlightenment – a realisation that modern society is grounded in accumulation without end. Infinitude may be implicit in the foundational bourgeois idea of capital accumulation, but to put such an idea on display – and to depict it, moreover, through portraiture of the citizenry – forces a rupture with the equally bourgeois ideals of closure, separation and control. (p.113)

In short, if you like your Marxism shorn of any connection with an actual political party or programme i.e. any risk of ever being put into practice, but you still want to enjoy feeling smugly superior to ‘bourgeois’ society with its vulgar ideas of ‘capital accumulation’ and its ghastly ‘gender stereotyping’, then being a white, middle-class art historian in a state-funded university is the job for you. Your sense of irony or self-awareness will be surgically removed upon entry.

It’s not just that this anti-bourgeois, anti-capitalist view seems so rife among these art scholars now, in 2018, thirty years after the collapse of communism – it’s that they’re all based in America. America. The centre of global capitalism for the past century. Do they not own private property, cars and houses and mobile phones? Are the art galleries and colleges they work for not funded and supported by big banks and finance houses (as most exhibitions are). If they’re so disgusted by capitalism and the revolting bourgeoisie why don’t they go to a country where neither exist. North Korea is lovely this time of year. The people there are wonderfully free of the reification and alienation and objectification which make life in Southern California so unbearable.


The five thematic essays

The second part of the book consists of five thematic essays, each of which is nine or ten pages long and followed by 40 or so full colour, full page reproductions. This, then, is the visual core of the book. I hoped the essays would be a bit more general and informative. Alas no.

1. Life in the Democracy and the Aftermath of War by Graham Bader. Bader invokes the usual suspects among contemporary Marxist thinkers (György Lukács, Walter Benjamin, Siegfried Kracauer) to declare that the art of the period reflected a new level of capitalism (‘this process of capitalist rationalisation appeared to have triumphed in the interwar period’ it was ‘rationalisation run amok’, p.125). Capitalism depersonalised people, reducing them to objects with no centre, to collections of surfaces. Bodies were ‘colonised and deformed’. Lukács lamented:

capitalist rationalisation’s penetration and capture of the human body, its dismissal of the ‘qualitative essences’ of the individual subject in the process of transforming human beings into abstractions, mere numbers for a general’s war plans or a pimp’s balance sheet. (p.131, 182, 228)

Like Lukács, Kracauer:

understood industrial capitalism’s ‘murky reason’ – its faith in a totalising abstractness that has ‘abandoned the truth in which it participates… and does not encompass man‘ – as having come to colonise rather than liberate the subjects it ostensibly served.

Among all this regurgitation of 100-year-old communist rhetoric Bader makes a simple point. The war and the crushing post-war poverty left highly visible marks on people’s bodies. The streets were full of maimed soldiers and the impoverished unemployed, and also a flood of women driven by poverty to prostitution. Hence the huge number of sketches, drawings and paintings of prostitutes and war cripples among Neue Sachlichkeit artists.

Two victims of capitalism by Otto Dix (1923)

Two victims of capitalism by Otto Dix (1923) According to Bader, ‘the paradigmatic couple of the age’ (p.130)

It doesn’t occur to Bader, any more than it occurred to any of the Weimar artists, that this situation wasn’t brought about by capitalism; it was the result of Germany losing the war. Their idiotic military leaders decided to take advantage of the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand to implement their long-cherished plan to knock out France in a few weeks and then grab loads of lebensraum off Russia. That resulted in a social and economic cataclysm. If lots of men were war cripples it was because they fought in a stupid war. If lots of women became prostitutes that is because Germany’s economy was brought to its knees by its leaders’ stupidity, by the fact that they were undergoing a military blockade because they lost the war.

If capitalism was always and everywhere so utterly exploitative and destructive how do you account for the experience of the 1920s in the world’s most capitalist country, America – the decade they called ‘the Roaring Twenties’, a decade of unparalleled economic growth and a huge expansion in consumer products and liberated lifestyles?

In fact the Weimar Republic experienced its golden years (1924 to 1929) precisely when it was at its most capitalistic, when it received huge loans from capitalist America and its capitalist factory owners were able to employ millions of people.

Art historians cherry pick the evidence (using a handful of paintings to represent a nation of 60 million people), quote only from a self-reinforcing clique of Marxist writers (Benjamin, Kracauer, Lukács, over and over again) and ignore the wider historical context in way which would get any decent historian sacked.

2. The City and the Nature of Landscape by Daniela Fabricius. Fabricius quotes the Marxist philosopher Ernst Bloch who pointed out the fairly obvious idea that different groups of people live in different ‘nows’ i.e. city dwellers live in a more technologically and culturally advanced ‘now’ than isolated country dwellers. This leads her into a consideration of different types of ‘space’, inparticular the new suburbs which sprang up outside German cities, generally of modernist architecture, which lent themselves to stylish modern photography by the likes of Arthur Köster, Werner Mantz and Albert Renger-Patzsch.

St Georgs-Garten Housing Settlement 1926 by Arthur Köster

St Georgs-Garten Housing Settlement, 1926 by Arthur Köster

Albert Renger-Patzsch published a photo album called the World is Beautiful which the egregious Walter Benjamin disliked for showing the world as beautiful and therefore not ‘problematising’ it, not subjecting it to the kind of dialectical analysis which would have shown that in fact the World Needs a Communist Revolution. Renger-Patzsch stayed in Germany during the Nazi years and was commissioned to do idealised studies of the German regions by the Nazis.

Fabricius ends her essay with a rare piece of useful information about a specific artist rather than an analysis of other art historians – by telling us a little about George Schrimpf, a self-taught painter who spent his early years bumming round south Germany, eventually getting involved with artistic and anarchist circles in Munich. All this is completely absent from his naive paintings of women in interiors with views of perfect landscapes or outside among the perfect landscapes.

On the Balcony by Georg Schrimpf (1929)

On the Balcony by Georg Schrimpf (1929)

3. Man and Machine by Pepper Stetler. Stetler explores the way the word Sachlichkeit was used as early as 1902 (by architect Hermann Muthesius) to describe a no-frills, functionalist aesthetic derived from the way machines are designed, built and work. The architecture critic Adolf Behne in the 1920s tried to shift the term to refer not to a visual style but to a way of working with machines, a way for humans to interact via machines. These were just some of the people debating this word when Hartlaub used it as the title for his famous 1925 exhibition. As well as Muthesius, Hartlaub and Behne, we are also introduced to the art historian Carl Georg Heise, the art critic Wilhelm Lot, the art critic Kurt Wilhelm-Kästner, the art critic Justus Bier, the critic Walter Benjamin and the Marxist philosopher, György Lukács. Again. Maybe the editors stipulated that Benjamin, Kracauer and Lukacs had to be referenced in every essay.

Stetler doesn’t mention it but the Dadaists had already conceived all kinds of man-machine combinations, and Dix and Grosz produced some grotesque caricatures of maimed war veterans who were more false limbs, artificial eyes, springs and contraptions, than men.

But the main thrust of this piece is to introduce a selection of wonderful paintings and photos of machinery. They demonstrate the way the machinery is 1. painted in punctiliously accurate engineering detail. 2. Is often depicted isolated, clean, often seen from below, as if it is an art work placed on a plinth for aesthetic enjoyment. 3. No people, no workers, no mess. Frozen in time. The star of the machine artists is Carl Grossberg, who trained as an architect and draftsman.

The paper machine by Carl Grossberg (1934)

The paper machine by Carl Grossberg (1934)

It is interesting to  learn how systematic and methodical these German artists were: Albert Renger-Patzsch’s project was to take 100 photographs of the modern germany for The World Is Beautiful. August Sandler’s Face of our Time (1929) contains a selection of 60 portraits from the larger project, People of the 20th Century which he intended to include 600 portrait photographs. Grossberg set out to do a series of twenty-five monster paintings which would provide a survey of Germany’s most important industries (p.209). Grosz published his drawings in themed portfolios.

4. Still Lifes and Commodities by Megan R. Luke. Luke scores full marks for mentioning Walter Benjamin early on in her essay about the New Objectivity’s use of still lives, and for slipping in a steady stream of Marxist terminology: in Weimar ‘the commodity reigned supreme’; there was a ‘general cultural anxiety’. She quotes the historian Herbert Molderings who, if not a Marxist, is happy to use Marxist terminology, on the still life photos of Neue Sachlichkeit:

‘They are the modern still lifes of the twentieth century: the expression of exchange value incarnate, the detached form of the fetish character of commodities.’ (quoted p.231)

She also takes the time to explain that photographs in adverts are designed to make us want to buy the products.

Advertising seeks not to show products of our labour or need but rather to excite and choreograph a desire that has the power to overwhelm us. (p.231)

Where would we be without art scholars to guide us through the confusing modern world?

This is the third essay in a row to tell us that the photographer Albert Renger-Patzsch’s produced a photo album titled The World is Beautiful (p.236).

The only useful idea I found was that objects were somehow cleansed of all significance, hollowed out, and subjected to ‘suffocating scrutiny’. Now wonder the Walter Benjamins of this world were so deeply ambivalent about photography: it revealed the complexity of the world in a way the human eye isn’t designed to (something pointed out by Moholy-Nagy in his book on photography) and yet this new type of image runs the risk of claiming to capture or depict reality and thus – as Benjamin and Brecht emphasised – completely erasing the web of human relationships it appears amid.

If Expressionist paintings screamingly overflowed with the artist’s distraught emotions, Sachlichkeit still lives seem to have been magically drained of all passion or emotion. It is this erasure of human presence, of human touch and context, which makes so much of the photography and painting of buildings and machinery both powerfully evocative, charged with mystery and yet bereft: all at the same time.

Insulated High Tension Wires from Die Welt Ist Schon by Albert Renger-Patzsch (1928)

Insulated High Tension Wires from Die Welt Ist Schon by Albert Renger-Patzsch (1928)

5. New Identities: Type and Portraiture by Lynette Roth. Amid the politically correct commonplaces (Dix’s portrait of Sylvia von Harden ’embodies the masculinised woman whose appearance challenged norms of sexual difference’), Roth brings out how a notable aspect of Neue Sachlichkeit was the interest in types. August Sander’s project to photograph 600 ‘types’ of profession and trade is the locus classicus, but the painters Grosz or Dix also offered combinations of the same ‘types’ over and again (war cripples and prostitutes throng their works).

She suggests the use of types and sterotypes was a way of addressing, sorting out, the post-war chaos. Thin ice, because the Nazis also were keen on types, notably the good Aryan and the bad Jew. And Roth definitely doesn’t mention this, but one of the easiest stereotypes in the world is the bad capitalist and the poor innocent proletarian ‘alienated’ from his work.

I am astonished how from start to finish all the art historians and scholars in this book make extensive and unquestioning use of Marxist terminology based on a fundamentally anti-capitalist worldview. On the last page she is quoting a fellow ‘scholar’ who suggests that some of Sanders’s photographs ‘challenge hegemonic bourgeois structures’.

Quite breath-taking.


Painterly finish

In 1921 Max Doerner published a popular handbook The Materials of the Artist and Their Use in Painting which provided information and guidance for artists wishing to use the techniques of the Old Masters, info about oil, tempera, fresco and other methods of artists like Jan van Eyck, Holbein, Rembrandt and Rubens.

Doerner’s book helped artists who were committed to painting works with hyper-realistic attention to detail and smooth invisible finish (compared to the deliberately obvious brush strokes of the impassioned Expressionists). The emphasis on portraiture of so many works of this era recall the portraits of Northern Renaissance painting.

It can be summed up in one word – painterliness – what Roth lists as ‘careful finish, attention to detail and smooth finish’ (p.263).

The current Van Eyck show at the National Gallery is focused round his wondrous use of a concave mirror, showing how this motif was picked up by later painters. I wonder if Herbert Ploberger is deliberately referencing it in the convex reflection in the powder case, middle left, in this painting.

Dressing Table by Herbert Ploberger (1926)

Dressing Table by Herbert Ploberger (1926)

Kanoldt and O’Keeffe

Doesn’t Alexander Kanoldt’s Olveano II from 1925…

… look like Georgia O’Keeffe’s Black Mesa Landscape (1930)?

The spirit of the age. A parallel tendency towards cartoon simplification, of both landscape and colour.

Last words

While both an aesthetics of the ugly and modernist innovation dovetail with nineteenth-century Realism, interestingly enough it is the specific German mentality and political context that is seen as necessitating a new form of realism characterised by unconditional attack, excessive exposure, and radical critique transgressing the paradigm of empathy. (Sabine Eckmann, p.35)


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