by Tony Judt
Overlapping with both sets of fashions were the gypsy-like drapes of the hippies. In contrast to the ‘Carnaby Street’ and ‘Street-fighting Man’ looks, which were indigenously European in origin, the hippie look—obscurely ‘utopian’ in its non-western, ‘counter-cultural’, asexual ethic of conspicuous under-consumption—was an American import. Its commercial utility was obvious, and many of the outlets that had sprung up to service the demand for skin-tight, sharply cut fashions in the mid-sixties were soon working hard to adapt their stock accordingly. They even tried, briefly, to market the ‘Mao look’. A shapeless jacket with a sharply tailored collar, paired with the ubiquitous ‘proletarian’ cap, the Mao look neatly combined aspects of all three styles, particularly when ‘accessorized’ by the Chinese dictator’s Little Red Book of revolutionary insights. But despite Godard’s 1967 film La Chinoise , in which a group of French students dutifully study Mao and try to follow his example, the ‘Mao look’ remained a minority taste—even among ‘Maoists’.
Counter-cultural politics and their symbols took on a harder edge after 1967, by association with romanticized accounts of ‘Third World’ guerrilla insurgents. But even so, they never fully caught on in Europe. We should not be misled by Che Guevara’s remarkable after-life as the martyred, Christ-like poster-boy for disaffected Western adolescents: the European Sixties were always Eurocentric. Even the ‘hippy revolution’ never quite crossed the Atlantic. At most it washed up on the shores of Great Britain and Holland, leaving behind some sedimentary evidence in the form of a more developed drug culture than elsewhere—and one spectacularly original long-playing record.
The frivolous side of the Sixties—fashion, pop culture, sex—should not be dismissed as mere froth and show. It was a new generation’s way of breaking with the age of the grandpas—the gerontocracy (Adenauer, De Gaulle, Macmillan—and Khrushchev) still running the continent’s affairs. To be sure, the attention-catching, poseur aspects of the Sixties—the narcissistic self-indulgence that will forever be associated with the era—ring false when taken all at once. But in their day, and to their constituency, they seemed new and fresh. Even the cold, harsh sheen of contemporary art, or the cynical films of the later Sixties, appeared refreshing and authentic after the cozy bourgeois artifice of the recent past. The solipsistic conceit of the age—that the young would change the world by ‘doing their own thing’, ‘letting it all hang out’ and ‘making love, not war’—was always an illusion, and it has not worn well. But it was not the only illusion of the time, and by no means the most foolish.
The 1960s were the great age of Theory. It is important to be clear what this means: it certainly does not refer to the truly path-breaking work then being undertaken in biochemistry, astrophysics or genetics, since this was largely ignored by non-specialists. Nor does it describe a renaissance in European social thought: the mid-twentieth century produced no social theorists comparable to Hegel, Comte, Marx, Mill, Weber or Durkheim. ‘Theory’ did not mean philosophy, either: the best-known western European philosophers of the time—Bertrand Russell, Karl Jaspers, Martin Heidegger, Benedetto Croce, Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Jean-Paul Sartre—were either dead, old or otherwise engaged, and the leading thinkers of eastern Europe—Jan Patočka or Leszek Kołakowski—were still mostly unknown outside their own countries. As for the sparkling cohort of economists, philosophers and social theorists who had flourished in Central Europe before 1934: most of the survivors had gone into permanent exile in the US, Great Britain or the Antipodes, where they formed the intellectual core of modern ‘Anglo-Saxon’ scholarship in their fields.
In its newly fashionable usage, ‘Theory’ meant something quite different. It was largely taken up with ‘interrogating’ (a contemporary term of art) the method and objectives of academic disciplines: above all the social sciences—history, sociology, anthropology—but also the humanities and even, in later years, the laboratory sciences themselves. In an age of vastly expanded universities, with periodicals, journals and lecturers urgently seeking ‘copy’, there emerged a market for ‘theories’ of every kind—fuelled not by improved intellectual supply but rather by insatiable consumer demand.
At the forefront of the theory revolution were the academic disciplines of History and the softer social sciences. The renewal of historical study in Europe had begun a generation before: the Economic History Review and Annales: Économies, Sociétés, Civilizations were both founded in 1929, their revisionist projects implicit in their titles. In the 1950s had come the Historians’ Group of the Communist Party of Great Britain and the influential social history journal Past & Present; the Cultural Studies unit at England’s Birmingham University, inspired by the work of Richard Hoggart and Raymond Williams; and, a little later, the Social History school centered around Hans-Ulrich Wehler at Bielefeld University in West Germany.
The scholarship produced by the men and women associated with these groups and institutions was not necessarily iconoclastic; indeed, though usually of very high quality, it was often quite methodologically conventional. But it was self-consciously interpretive, typically from a non-dogmatic but unmistakably left-leaning position. Here was history informed by social theory, and by an insistence upon the importance of class, particularly the lower classes. The point was not just to narrate or even explain a given historical moment; the point was to reveal its deeper meaning. Historical writing in this vein seemed to bridge the gap between past and present, between scholarly speculation and contemporary engagement, and a new generation of students read (and, not infrequently, mis-read) it in this light.
But for all its political applications, History is a discipline peculiarly impervious to high theoretical speculation: the more Theory intrudes, the farther History recedes. Although one or two of the leading historians of the Sixties went on to achieve iconic status in old age none of them—however subversive his scholarship—quite emerged as a cultural guru. Other disciplines fared better—or worse, depending on one’s point of view. Borrowing from an earlier vein of speculation in the field of linguistics, cultural anthropologists—led by Claude Lévi-Strauss—proposed a comprehensive new explanation for variations and differences across societies. What counted was not surface social practices or cultural symptoms but the inner essences, the deep structures of human affairs.
‘Structuralism’, as it came to be called, was intensely seductive. As a way of sorting human experience it bore a family resemblance to the Annales school of history—whose best-known contemporary exponent, Fernand Braudel, had built his reputation on the study of the longue durée, a bird’s-eye view of history describing slowly shifting geographical and social structures across long periods—and thus fitted comfortably into the academic style of the time. But of greater relevance was structuralism’s immediate accessibility to intellectuals and non-specialists. As explicated by Lévi-Strauss’s admirers in cognate disciplines, structuralism was not even a representational theory: the social codes, or ‘signs’, that it described related not to any particular people or places or events but merely to other signs, in a closed system. It was thus not subject to empirical testing or disproof—there was no sense in which structuralism could ever be demonstrated to be wrong—and the iconoclastic ambition of its assertions, allied to this impermeability to contradiction, guaranteed it a wide audience. Anything and everything could be explained as a combination of ‘structures’: as Pierre Boulez noted when labeling one of his compositions Structures, ‘it is the key word of our time.’
In the course of the 1960s there emerged a plethora of applied structuralisms: in anthropology, history, sociology, psychology, political science and of course literature. The best-known practitioners—usually those who combined in the right doses scholarly audacity with a natural talent for self-promotion—became international celebrities, having had the good fortune to enter the intellectual limelight just as television was becoming a mass medium. In an earlier age Michel Foucault might have been a drawing-room favourite, a star of the Pari
sian lecture circuit, like Henri Bergson fifty years earlier. But when Les Mots et les Choses sold 20,000 copies in just four months after it appeared in 1966 he acquired celebrity status almost overnight.
Foucault himself foreswore the label ‘structuralist, much as Albert Camus always insisted he had never been an ‘existentialist’ and didn’t really know what that was.159 But as Foucault at least would have been constrained to concede, it didn’t really matter what he thought. ‘Structuralism’ was now shorthand for any ostensibly subversive account of past or present, in which conventional linear explanations and categories were shaken up and their assumptions questioned. More importantly, ‘structuralists’ were people who minimized or even denied the role of individuals and individual initiative in human affairs.160
But for all its protean applications, the idea that everything is ‘structured’ left something vital unexplained. For Fernand Braudel, or Claude Lévi-Strauss, or even Michel Foucault, the goal was to uncover the deep workings of a cultural system. This might or might not be a subversive scholarly impulse—it certainly was not in Braudel’s case—but it does gloss over or minimize change and transition. Decisive political events in particular proved resistant to this approach: you could explain why things had to change at a given stage, but it wasn’t clear just how they did so, or why individual social actors opted to facilitate the process. As an interpretation of human experience, any theory dependent on an arrangement of structures from which human choice had been eliminated was thus hobbled by its own assumptions. Intellectually subversive, structuralism was politically passive.
The youthful impulse of the Sixties was not about understanding the world; in the words of Karl Marx’s Eleventh Thesis on Feuerbach, written when Marx himself was just 26 years old and much cited in these years: ‘The philosophers have only interpreted the world, in various ways; the point, however, is to change it.’ When it came to changing the world there was still only one grand theory purporting to relate an interpretation of the world to an all-embracing project of change; only one Master Narrative offering to make sense of everything while leaving open a place for human initiative: the political project of Marxism itself.
The intellectual affinities and political obsessions of the Sixties in Europe only make sense in the light of this continuing fascination with Marx and Marxism. As Jean-Paul Sartre put it in 1960, in his Critique of Dialectical Reason: ‘I consider Marxism to be the unsurpassable philosophy of our time.’ Sartre’s unshaken faith was not universally shared, but there was general agreement across the political spectrum that anyone wishing to understand the world must take Marxism and its political legacy very seriously. Raymond Aron—Sartre’s contemporary, erstwhile friend and intellectual nemesis—was a lifelong anti-Communist. But he, too, freely acknowledged (with a mixture of regret and fascination) that Marxism was the dominant idea of the age: the secular religion of its epoch.
Between 1956 and 1968 Marxism in Europe lived—and, as it were, thrived—in a state of suspended animation. Stalinist Communism was in disgrace, thanks to the revelations and events of 1956. The Communist parties of the West were either politically irrelevant (in Scandinavia, Britain, West Germany and the Low Countries); in slow but unmistakable decline (France); or else, as in the Italian case, striving to distance themselves from their Muscovite inheritance. Official Marxism, as incarnated in the history and teachings of Leninist parties, was largely discredited—especially in the territories over which it continued to rule. Even those in the West who chose to vote Communist evinced little interest in the subject.
At the same time there was widespread intellectual and academic interest in those parts of the Marxist inheritance that could be distinguished from the Soviet version and salvaged from its moral shipwreck. Ever since the Founder’s death, there had always been Marxist and marxisant sects and splinter groups—well before 1914 there were already tiny political parties claiming the True Inheritance. A handful of these, like the Socialist Party of Great Britain (SPGB), were still in existence: vaunting their political virginity and asserting their uniquely correct interpretation of the original Marxist texts.161 But most late-nineteenth-century Socialist movements,circles, clubs and societies had been absorbed into the general-purpose Socialist and Labour parties that coalesced in the years 1900-1910. Modern Marxist disputes have their roots in the Leninist schism that was to follow.
It was the factional struggles of the early Soviet years that gave rise to the most enduring Marxist ‘heresy’, that of Trotsky and his followers. A quarter century after Trotsky’s death in Mexico at the hands of a Stalinist assassin (and in no small measure because of it), Trotskyist parties could be found in every European state that did not explicitly ban them. They were typically small and led, in the image of their eponymous founder, by a charismatic, authoritarian chief who dictated doctrine and tactics. Their characteristic strategy was ‘entryism’: working inside larger left-wing organizations (parties, trade unions, academic societies) to colonize them or nudge their policies and political alliances in directions dictated by Trotskyist theory.
To the outsider, Trotskyist parties—and the evanescent Fourth (Workers’) International to which they were affiliated—appeared curiously indistinguishable from Communists, sharing a similar allegiance to Lenin and separated only by the bloody history of the power struggle between Trotsky and Stalin. There was a crucial distinguishing point of dogma—Trotskyists continued to speak of ‘permanent revolution’ and to accuse official Communists of having aborted the workers’ revolution by confining it to a single country—but in other respects the only obvious difference was that Stalinism had been a political success, whereas the Trotskyist record was one of unblemished failure.
It was that very failure, of course, which Trotsky’s latter-day followers found so appealing. The past might look grim, but their analysis of what had gone wrong—the Soviet revolution had been hi-jacked by a bureaucratic reaction analogous to the Thermidorian coup that put paid to the Jacobins in 1794—would, they felt, assure them success in the years ahead. Yet even Trotsky carried the whiff of power—he had, after all, played a crucial role in the first years of the Soviet regime and bore some responsibility for its deviations. To a new and politically innocent generation, the truly appealing failures were European Communism’s lost leaders, the men and women who never had a chance to exercise any political responsibilities at all.
Thus the 1960s saw the rediscovery of Rosa Luxemburg, the Polish-Jewish Socialist assassinated by German Frei Korps soldiers in the doomed Berlin revolution of January 1919; György Lukacs, the Hungarian Communist thinker whose political writings of the 1920s briefly suggested an alternative to official Communist interpretations of history and literature before he was forced publicly to abjure them; and above all Antonio Gramsci, co-founder of the Italian Communist Party and author of a cycle of brilliant, unpublished papers on revolutionary politics and Italian history, most of them written in the Fascist prisons where he languished from 1926 until his death, at the age of 46, in April 1937.
In the course of the 1960s all three were copiously re-published, or published for the first time, in many languages. They had little in common, and most of what they did share was negative: none had exercised power (except in Lukacs’s case as the Commissar for Culture in Béla Kun’s brief Communist dictatorship in Budapest, from March to August 1919); all of them had at one time disagreed with Leninist practices (in Luxemburg’s case even before the Bolsheviks took power); and all three, like so many others, had fallen into long neglect under the shadow of official Communist theory and practice.
The exhumation of the writings of Luxemburg, Lukacs, Gramsci and other forgotten early-twentieth century Marxists162 was accompanied by the rediscovery of Marx himself. Indeed, the unearthing of a new and ostensibly very different Marx was crucial to the attraction of Marxism in these years. The ‘old’ Marx was the Marx of Lenin and Stalin: the Victorian social scientist whose neo-positivist writings anticipated and autho
rized democratic centralism and proletarian dictatorship. Even if this Marx could not be held directly responsible for the uses to which his mature writings had been put, he was irrevocably associated with them. Whether in the service of Communism or Social Democracy, they were of the old Left.
The new Left, as it was starting to call itself by 1965, sought out new texts—and found them in the writings of the young Karl Marx, in the metaphysical essays and notes written in the early 1840s when Marx was barely out of his teens, a young German philosopher steeped in Hegelian historicism and the Romantic dream of ultimate Freedom. Marx himself had chosen not to publish some of these writings; indeed, in the aftermath of the failed revolutions of 1848 he had turned decisively away from them and towards the study of political economy and contemporary politics with which he was henceforth to be associated.
Accordingly, many of the writings of the early Marx were not widely known even to scholars. When they were first published in full, under the auspices of the Marx-Engels Institute in Moscow in 1932, they attracted little attention. The revival of interest in them—notably the Economic and Philosophical Manuscripts and The German Ideology—came thirty years later. Suddenly it was possible to be a Marxist while jettisoning the heavy, soiled baggage of the traditional Western Left. The Young Marx was seemingly preoccupied with strikingly modern problems: how to transform ‘alienated’ consciousness and liberate human beings from ignorance of their true condition and capacities; how to reverse the order of priorities in capitalist society and place human beings at the center of their own existence; in short, how to change the world.