Socialism

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A VOICE
OF REASON,
POWER AND HUMANITY
Michael Harrington is America's leading socialist.
He was head of the American Socialist Party from
1968 to 1972 and led the American delegation to
the Socialist International.
The Other America, his bestselling first book, had

a far-reaching influence on two Presidents (Ken-
nedy and Johnson) and was responsible for many
policies and programs of the sixties. A noted au-
thor, lecturer and syndicated columnist, Harring-
ton has written three other books: The Accidental
Century, The Retail Clerks, and Toward a Demo-
cratic Left.
Of his new book, SOCIALISM, critics and schol-

ars have this to say: "An American prophet . . .
As we march through history,our direction so

much influenced by the past, our time and energy
consumed by the demands of the present, there
always seem to be, thank God, a few visionaries
around."
—The New Republic
"Harrington's honesty, his iron resistance to fanati-
cism, his relentless attention to the concrete de-
velopments of our time will inspire those . . . who
will treat themselves to a close reading of this, his
finest book."
—Commonweal
"Harrington is a good and honest man. His book
deserves, and will get, the most serious attention."
—Business Week
"There is something heroic about a man who can
keep alive a self-critical vision of socialism in
America . [He] cuts away from the sterility of
. .
so much academic sociology and political science

... He has issued a series of brilliant and important
books, of which this is the most brilliant and im-
portant."
—Gary Wills,
The New York Times Book Review
"Achieves a rare mastery of theory, history and
contemporary social problems."
—Theodore Draper
"A wide-ranging and creative analysis of the chang-

ing world. The most important book of the gen-
eration on socialism."
—Library Journal
"His main purpose is to apply [Marx's and Engels']

wisdom, and the world's experience since their
death, to the future of the United States and the
world. Whatever Mr. Harrington says — whether he
is arguing or hoping —his decency is radiant."
— The New Yorker
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SOCIALISM
Michael Harrington
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SOCIALISM
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Saturday Review Press
PRINTING HISTORY
Saturday Review edition published January 1972
2nd printing June 1972
3rd printing October 1972
Bantam edition published September 1973
A portion of this book first appeared in dissent magazine, May,

1970, Volume XVII, Number 3.
Cover photo of the author by Fred McDarrah

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To the memory of Norman Thomas
And the future of his ideals
I owe this book to Norman Thomas and to all
the other comrades of the socialist movement, the

living and the dead, who were, and are, both my
inspiration and my postgraduate university.
In particular want to acknowledge the con-
I
tributions of two socialists. Even though I have
some serious disagreements with him on issues of
socialist strategy, I am permanently and deeply
indebted to Max Shachtman, who first introduced
me to the vision of democratic Marxism and whose
theory of bureaucratic collectivism is so impor-
tant to my analysis. In the course of writing the last
chapters on the future of socialism I received the
most generous, and brilliant, political and literary
help of my friend Irving Howe. As the editor of
Dissent he has accomplished Herculean labors;
he is certainly one of the most important men of the
Left in his generation.
Finally, Stephanie Gervis Harrington played a
critical role in the intellectual and literary genesis
of this book. Her editorial judgment made a de-
cisive contribution to my work.
1
Contents
I The Future of the Past 1
II The Preconditions of the Dream 1
in The Democratic Essence 41

rv The Unknown Karl Marx 65
v Das Kapital 91
vi The American Exception 131
vii Socialism Discovers the World 163
viii Revolution from Above 187
DC Socialist Capitalism 227
x The Substitute Proletariats 263
xi The Invisible Mass Movement 305
xii Beyond the Welfare State 331
xiii Beyond the World Market 377
xiv Socialism 421
Notes 457
Index 493
The Future of the Past
Socialism has known increments of success, basic

failure and massive betrayal. Yet it is more relevant to
the humane construction of the twenty-first century
than any other idea.
This book is about the future of the socialist past.
It is not a narrative or a chronology, but a search for
a living tradition, and it will therefore dwell on what
has been only insofar as it touches on what might be.
That, however, does not mean that I approach history
like a fundamentalist preacher rummaging through
scripture to find authority for his own favorite apoca-
lypse. Such a moralistic account of socialism would not
in the least help in changing the world. So it is in the
interest of my intense partisanship to be as ruthlessly
honest as possible: my subjectivity forces me to be as
objective as I can.
I begin, like every student of the past and future,
with a conviction about the present. Man has socialized
everything except himself. He has rationalized his work
and nature and the very planet in every respect save
one: with regard to their underlying purpose. And, just
as the socialists predicted more than a century ago, he
is in conflict with an environment that he himself has
brilliantly, and thoughtlessly, created. His genius threat-

ens to overwhelm him.
Under capitalism, an intricate system of antagonistic
cooperation makes a single individual more productive
than a thousand once were. Science, the community of
human knowledge, is casually employed for private
purposes with revolutionary public consequences. This
1
2 SOCIALISM
creates the highest living standard ever known, rots the
great cities, befouls the air and water, and embitters
classes, generations and races. Under Communism,
these contradictions are collectivized, not resolved. The
state owns the means of production, and a bureaucratic
elite owns the state. Its interests, which are every bit as
egotistic as those of corporations, are imposed upon
the system by totalitarian command. The anti-social is
thus consciously planned rather than being dictated by
the "will" of the market.
Unfortunately, most of the people of the world do
not even have the luxury of suffering from such sophis-
ticated ironies. In the age of space exploration they
struggle to satisfy primordial needs for food and shel-
ter. More often than not the unification of mankind
has made them more miserable. Trade more effectively
than ever exacts a tribute from the poor nations to the
rich, both capitalist and Communist; medicine saves a
baby from an ancient plague only to deliver him up
to a new kind of hunger; a miraculous seed threatens
rural unemployment and even starvation because only
elite farmers can use it.
The ultimate in these contradictions is both unprec-

edented and obvious to the point of banality. Nuclear
science has penetrated the innermost secrets of our
world and discovered there the possibility of annihilat-
ing it. It is as if the human race had persevered through
the millennia only to reenact the drama of Adam and
Eve. In the goodness of the fruit of the tree of knowl-
edge there is the taste of evil.
These things need not be. Even the most superficial
critic of society now realizes that it is not our knowl-
edge, but the way in which it is organized, that menaces
us. But beyond that humanist cliche there must be the
specifics of a tough-minded, socialist solution: ex actly
how are we going to socialize the already social means
ofproduction? For one need not any longer ask whether
the future is going to be collective —
if we do not blow
ourselves to smithereens, that issue has already been

settled by a technology of such complex interdepen-
The Future of the Past 3
dence that it demands conscious regulation and control.

The question is: What form will twenty-first century
collectivism take? Will it be a totalitarian, a bureau-
cratic or a democratic collectivism?
Socialism answers: Our technology could indeed be
the instrument of enslavement; or it could, for the first
time ever, provide the material base for a genuine hu-
man community that would democratize economic and
social as well as political power. That socialist possi-
bility, which will be detailed in the last three chapters,
is not the insight of some radical prophets. It is, as the
next chapter will show, either an observable tendency
of social reality or it is a delusion. The history of so-
cialism, then, is not simply the accumulation of a cer-
tain wisdom; it is the process whereby men and women
have themselves defined what socialism is in the course
of struggle. The past I am concerned with here is, in
short, alive.
Indeed, I have often been struck by the way in which
the theorists of some of the most daring and vanguard
ideas of the contemporary Left are only faint and un-
witting echoes of some long-dead socialist giant. Among
the college-educated and upper-middle-class American
activists of the sixties and early seventies, I have
glimpsed the wraith of that most proletarian of French
revolutionaries, Auguste Blanqui. He, too, thought that
the working class had been so stupefied by the capitalist
system that it would have to be saved from itself by an
elite conspiracy which could only permit democratic
freedoms once the people had been properly reeducated.
Or, to take an even more remarkable anticipation, in
the debates of Gracchus Babeuf and his Conspiracy of
Equals in the 1790s, one glimpses Stalin and Mao wait-
ing in the wings.
So the early socialists asked the questions that still
bedevil us, and that is one of the many reasons they
deserve our attention. But I do not propose to people
this book with a race of prophetic supermen. On the
contrary. It is important to root out every bit of mes-
sianism from the socialist vision, to reject the notion
4 SOCIALISM
of a secular redemption that, like the incarnation of
Christ, claims to make all things new. Every time men
have acted upon that kind of chiliastic definition, the
result has been totalitarian. Therefore the rich histor^
of socialist tragedy and error is as important as the rec-
ord of its profundity. Marx and Engels, to cite a single,
spectacular instance, mistook the rise of capitalism for
its decline. Only if socialists learn a chastened empiri-
cism from such facts is there any hope for the plans
and projects outlined in the last chapters of this book.
More generally, the demystification of Marx and
Engels will be a central theme in this analysis. Their
words are now used to justify theories and practices
they would abominate. They are seen by most people
as the fathers of totalitarianism and as materialistic
simpletons who taught that economic interests neatly
determine the entire course of society. As long as that
falsification of the socialist past prevails —
and it is a
state religion in Russia, China and other Communist
countries — the graven images of Marx and Engels are
among the greatest obstacles to the socialist future.
There also are socialist classics that must be recov-
ered if to be decently created. In
the next century is
1914 Lenin wrote that, since they had not studied
Hegel's Logic, for almost half a century "none of the
Marxists understood Marx."* My
attitude is almost as
extreme and arrogant. I believe, as Chapter V
will doc-
ument, that Das Kapital has been barbarously treated
by its contemporary academic critics, like Paul Samuel-
son, and even unfairly handled by sympathetic thinkers,
like Joan Robinson. As a result, there is much in that
magnificent book that, despite the fact that it was
published more than one hundred years ago, is new. I
* In order not to clutter up the text, the references to notes

for each section of a chapter will be grouped under a single
numeral at the end of that section. Since this introduction is
so brief, all of its references will be found in note 1. In the
lengthier chapters, there will be a note for each substantial
section. The notes themselves will be found at the back of the
book.
propose to rescue it from the distortions of the pro-

fessors and the keepers of holy writ.
rigidities of the
For could help us, not simply to understand the
it
world, but to change it.

An overview of socialist history also illuminates an
idea that is crucial for understanding what is happening
today under Communism, in the Third World and with-
in the welfare state. This is the concept of anti-socialist
"socialism."
Bismarck was,as will be seen later on in greater de-
tail, the of the anti-socialist "socialists." In 1878 he
first
outlawed any organization that even advocated social-
ism. By 1882 he was telling the Reichstag, "Many of
the measures that we have adopted for the welfare of
the land are socialistic and we need more socialism in
our state. ." Clearly, the Junker leader had not under-
. .
gone a sudden conversion between 1878 and 1882,

moving from the Right to the Left. He had shrewdly
understood that the socialists had mass appeal, and he
was determined to use socialist slogans in order to fight
socialism.
Even before Bismarck attempted
to co-opt the social-
ist appeal, Marx had understood the potential of anti-
socialist "socialism." In the 1850s he analyzed the
Credit Mobilier under Napoleon III in France as
"Bonapartist" or "imperial" "socialism." And in an at-
tack on Proudhon he used an even more telling phrase.
"Communism," Marx wrote, "must free itself from all
the 'false brothers' " of the fashionable socialisms of
the time. He did not realize that in the twentieth century
the "false brothers" were to become world powers, and
worse, that they would call themselves Marxist.
Early on, then, a sophisticated conservative under-
stood that socialism had accurately anticipated two of
the most important tendencies of the modern age. Tech-
nology was indeed making economic, social and politi-
cal life more collective, even when it operated under the
auspices of laissez-faire; and millions dreamed that this
process could be made the instrument of their emanci-
pation from poverty and servility. The collectivizing
6 SOCIALISM
trend meant that the state would have to take a role in
directing the economy. The socialist aspirations among
the people could be used to provide popular support
for such policies —even when they were in the service
of some new, or more efficient, form of exploitation.
Thus from Bismarck to the present moment, dicta-
tors and charlatans as well as democratic socialists have
fought for the possession of the word "socialism." Jo-
seph Stalin invoked it to justify psychopathic purges
and the totalitarian accumulation of capital; Clement
Attlee used it to help build a democratic welfare state
in Britain after World War II. But the most monstrous
single definition of the term was unquestionably the
"National Socialism" of the Nazis. Gregor Strasser, the
"Left-wing" Nazi, said that Hilter was responding to the
"anti-capitalist yearnings" of the masses.
If, then, socialism is to have any meaning
present or future — —past,

a way must be found to distinguish
between the various, and often murderously hostile,
claimants to its name. And this is particularly impor-
tant in the 1970s when one is confronted by Russian,
Chinese, Yugoslavian, Israeli, African, Cuban, Chilean,
Indian, Arab and other "socialisms." In the Tower of
Babel that is the Left, is there any empirical test that
can establish the difference between the authentic and
the spurious socialisms?
It was one of the many accomplishments of Karl
Marx and Friedrich Engels to demonstrate how this can
be done. One must, they said, go behind the socialist
rhetoric of a given movement and discover who is mak-
ing the decisions and what interests are being served.
Using those criteria, they realized as young men in the
1840s that the times were giving birth to two new move-
ments: to socialism and to "socialist" anti-socialism. In
The Communist Manifesto they pointed out that there
were reactionary and conservative "socialisms." They
told of aristocrats who hated capitalism because it was
anti-feudal and wanted to march back to medievalism
in the name of "socialism." And there were small
businessmen who wanted the capitalist giants who
threatened them to be controlled; intellectuals with blue-

printed panaceas; and even Utopians among the bour-
geoisie itself who dreamed of a harmonious capitalism
free of conflict. They all called themselves "socialists."
The hallmark of these "socialisms" was that they
were the creations of self-seeking minorities, ruses
whereby feudalists or shopkeepers or businessmen
sought to cloak their special interests in soaring uni-
versal. But capitalism, Marx and Engels said — and
they were, as will be seen, both right and wrong was—
creating a new and vast majority which owned no
means of production and whose common good required
nothing more than the democratization of the economy
and society. A genuine socialist movement was one that
led the struggles and articulated the needs of these peo-
ple.
Marx died in 1883 and thus did not have the op-
portunity to see how Bismarck would turn the anti-
socialist "socialism" described in the Manifesto into a
state policy. But Engels lived long enough to see
through this trick and his disciple, Karl Kautsky, the
famous "pope" of Marxism before the First World War,
even gave it a new name. He called it "state socialism,"
a strategy of government intervention into the economy,
including the nationalization of certain enterprises, for
the purpose of shoring up capitalism.
These distinctions from the socialist past must be
carefully explored for they are crucial to the present
and future. In 1917 a socialist revolution triumphed in
a Russia that lacked the preconditions for socialism.
Eventually, most of the revolutionists were murdered
in the name of the Revolution and a new form of class
society, anti-capitalist and anti-socialist, came into be-
ing. Variants of this bureaucratic collectivism have now
appeared in Eastern Europe, China and, in new and
unexpected mutations, throughout the Third World. Do
these cases then prove that the socialist vision of the
people emancipating themselves is a hoax?
The welfare state poses a similar problem in a radi-
cally different context. The reform of capitalism was
8 SOCIALISM
achieved largely because of the presence of a mass so-
cialist movement (or, in the United States, of the
unions) and over the outraged protests of businessmen,
who gained enormously from the change. The advances
that were thus made are quite real and the result of a
democratic struggle. They are the very opposite of those
"revolutions from above" carried out by a Bismarck
or a Stalin. But the danger is that the welfare state is
then equated with socialism itself. In their daily battle
to make capitalism more tolerable, socialists could lose
their vision of a fundamental transformation of social
relationships. The classes would remain and the domi-
nation of private, minority priorites would take on
much more sophisticated forms. With the unwitting co-
operation of the socialists themselves, their dream
would become the new facade of an old order.
So it is possible that, in quite different but parallel
ways, the socialist ideal will be expropriated under
Communism and the welfare state and in the Third
World. That would mark the corruption of the future.
Class societies have, of course, always justified them-
selves in the name of the highest values of religion or
honor or freedom. But if socialism were to be effectively
turned into a rationale for new modes of exploitation,
then there would be no hope of a just order of things.
That has not yet happened, for despite the monstrous
crimes committed in its name, the socialist vision still
speaks to the majority of mankind. In the Communist
sphere, for instance, every movement of opposition and
protest —
the East German general strike of 1953, the
Polish and Hungarian uprisings of October, 1956, the
Czechoslovakian spring of 1968 and the Polish strikes
in the winter of 1970-1971 —
was trying to create the
"human face of socialism," not to return to capitalism.
Paradoxically, as Zbigniew Brzezinski has noted, in
Eastern Europe, "socialism has wide popular support
whereas Communism as an institutionalized belief has
not." Thus the distinction between the socialist ideal
and its manipulation, first formulated by Marx and
Engels, has enormous practical significance for the

present and future.
But if the people were to accept the anti-socialist
"socialisms" as genuine, then one of the most crucial
elements of the socialist possibility —
a conscious mass
—
movement would disappear. The millions would have
internalized the definition of dictators or bureaucrats
that the people cannot rule and must passively accept
orders from on high. That would be the death of so-
cialism. And that is why I will take such pains in this
book to understand anti-socialist ''socialism."
Finally, this book describes the necessity of socialism,
not its inevitability.
I am not at sure that there will be a socialist
all
alternative to Communism and the welfare state. It is
certainly quite possible that the twenty-first century will
belong to bureaucratic collectivism and that the dream
of human self-emancipation will turn out to have been
mankind's noblest deception. But I am sure that if men
are to muster their own genius —
if the fantastically pro-
ductive and destructive and interdependent technolog-

ical societywe have blundered into is to be our home-
land and not our prison —
then they must socialize
themselves along with everything else. So after so many
failures and betrayals the socialism defined here does
not pretend to be the wave of the future. It is simply
our only hope. 1
II
The Preconditions of
the Dream
Utopia was a fantastic voyage into the present,

which was disguised as the future, and sometimes even
an idealization of the past. Its details were almost al-
ways reactionary, and yet its effect was enormously
progressive. For as it changed and developed within
history, the people increasingly listened not to its au-
thoritarianism, but to its central premise that men can
consciously shape their future. In this mood they made
brilliantmisreadings of the classic Utopian texts which
helped them change reality.
Utopia began in the theology of the Hebrews in the
desert and the speculation of the Greeks in their cities.
After the fall of the Roman Empire, it disappeared for
about seven centuries and suddenly emerged during the
breakdown of feudalism as a movement of militant holi-
ness. And then after four hundred years of defeats, it
finally became a political force on the Left wing of the
capitalist revolution. At every point in this process, it
was the child of the present, not the father of the fu-
ture. For the ideal, even as pure theory, cannot escape
the limitations of its own age.
So even mankind's dreams of justice had their his-
toric preconditions. And that applies with even greater
force to the attempt to actually realize them. It is one
of the most basic of contemporary socialist truths that
the good society only becomes possible when there is a
technology of abundance and a mass movement capa-
ble of mastering it.
11
12 SOCIALISM
Indeed, muchof the tragedy of this century derives
from massive fundamental proposi-
efforts to ignore this
tion. From the Russian Revolution of 1917 through
the Great Leap in the China of the fifties to the Cuban
sugar harvest of 1970, men have tried to force their
way into the future with an iron fist. They often suc-
ceeded in transforming the conditions of social life, yet
they did not, and could not, create socialism in the
absence of its preconditions. So, ultimately, the leaders
of these movements were armed Platonists, totalitarian
Utopians who tried to impose a millennium upon the
people.
However, I do not want to discuss the preconditions
of socialism solely in terms of the Communist experi-
ence. This idea is, after all, not an afterthought designed
to explain away some recent and current dictators, but
a matter of the socialist essence. I will go back to the
beginning and show how socialism, even as dream,
could never be very much better than the actual, his-
toric possibilities of human life, and how, in the nine-
teenth century, those possibilities for the first time be-
came Utopian.
Karl Marx was the first socialist thinker to become
conscious of these things and to formulate them system-
atically. He did so in the midst of a philosophic debate
about the meaning of meaning.
The abstractions of Western man, like his Utopias,
are suffused with the reality of their time and place
whether the men who think them know it or not. By
the seventeenth century, capitalism was not simply de-
stroying the medieval social structure in the advanced
countries of Europe, it was shattering a world view as
well. All the hierarchies — the animal, vegetable and
mineral, the political, economic and social — had been
links in a great chain of being which departed from,
and returned to, God. But once man began to create
reality in his own image, he could no longer pretend
that it was a reflection of divinity and ruled by a provi-
dence. Norms and values were deprived of their heaven-
ly foundation. Science could prove itself in practice,
The Preconditions of the Dream 13
but what basis was there now for ethics and philosophic
truth?
There was, the nineteen-year-old Karl Marx wrote to
his father, a basic contradiction in German philosophy
between "what is and what should be." It could not be
resolved, he came to realize, in the mind of some
thinker, for he would be locked within the limitations
of his own consciousness. But there was, Marx eventu-
ally said, a social class that was forced by the condi-
tions of its daily life to fight for a self-interest which
was also the common interest of mankind. Therefore,
that which should be — Utopia, socialism, the highest
values of the West — was no longer the construct of a
professor's imagination. Rather it was a living, breath-
ing tendency of social reality itself, incarnated in the
struggle of the proletariat. Thus there were temporal
preconditions to the eternal truth about what man
should be, and now they were actually being fulfilled.
The importance of this insight to socialism past,
present or future — cannot be exaggerated. Marx's own
—
hope that the working class would rapidly turn the
values of German classical philosophy into social real-
ity has, of course, been long since disappointed. Never-
theless, there is either a trend toward socialism among
the people as they are — not the people as they should
—
be or else socialism is a fraud and a delusion. In this
chapter I will probe these preconditions as they ap-
peared historically in dreams and abstractions, in Utopia
and philosophy. Then, in the final chapter, I will show
that they still may be fulfilled in reality, even though
in ways not imagined in the philosophy of Karl Marx. 1
The hope of a truly just society has been universal. It

can be located in Buddha's ascetic communism which
appealed to the masses as against the Brahmins (al-
though, like another revolutionary creed, Christianity,
it, too, became a bulwark of the status quo). There
"
14 SOCIALISM
were Chinese Utopias in the first years of the Christian
era, and in eleventh-century China there was even a
brief experiment with the welfare state under the Em-
peror Shen Tsung.
But the Western Utopian tradition that was the pro-
found influence upon European socialism begins with
the Hebrews and the Greeks. It was simultaneously
revolutionary and conservative, basically other-worldly,
and yet perceived one of the most crucial aspects of
socialism —
the relationship between abundance and the
new society.
A nomadic people who lived in between the two
highly developed cultures of Egypt and Babylon, the
Israelites made an extraordinary intellectual leap to
monotheism, in part because they were so backward.
Their life in the desert was, as Max Weber has pointed
out, so primitive that they did not even have the tools
and the artistic tradition to make an icon of their deity.
So when they came into contact with the learning and
sophistication of their neighbors, their God was able to
skip over the stage of polytheism precisely because he
was imageless. Then when the tribes settled down, they
acquired a parasitic court, a new business class and an
impoverished peasantry and proletariat.
So in the crisis of the eighth century B.C. the prophets
emerged to summon the people back to the simpler
virtues of the desert faith, denouncing the capitulation
to riches and privileges that had estranged Israel from
its God. "Woe to those who decree unrighteous de-
crees," Isaiah thundered, "and the recorders who make

mischievous records, to thrust aside the needy from
their rights and to rob my poor ones of justice." Out
of this essentially conservative desire to recall Israel to
the old ways there came a magnificent messianic — and
—
Utopian vision of the future: "Then the wolf will lodge
with the lamb, and the leopard will lie down with the
kid; the calf and the young lion will graze together.
Thus the idealized past became the future, the simplic-
ity of the nomadic years in the wilderness inspired the
description of the golden age to come. After the time
of the prophets there was a long silence, yet the Utopian

spirit they had articulated lived on, particularly among
the manual laborers and the backwoodsmen, inspiring
radical sects like the Essenes and the Men of the Land.
And that was the aspect of the Jewish tradition that
prepared the way for Christ.
The revolutionary creed of the Christians, as Ernst
Bloch has said, looked toward a "new heaven and a
new earth," and, of all the texts of the Old Testament,
it based itself most of all upon Isaiah. They, too, be-
lieved that their saviour would see to it that the lowly

would inherit the earth. And yet there was still a deeply
conservative element in this break with Judaism. Saint
Peter was so convinced that he was a reformer of the
old law rather than the leader of a new church that,
according to the Acts of the Apostles, it took a special
visitation from God to persuade him to speak to the
Gentiles. When he did, his appeal went far beyond the
messianism of the Jews and spoke to all the dispos-
sessed of the Mediterranean world.
That most convinced of atheists, Friedrich Engels,
put it this way: "The history of early Christianity offers
noteworthy points of similarity with the modern labor
movement. Like it, Christianity was in the beginning a
movement of the oppressed. It appears first as a religion
of slave and freedman, of the poor without rights and
of peoples dominated or dispersed by the Romans." But
this Utopian appeal could not, of course, survive the
political triumph of the Christians. When Catholicism
became imperial under Constantine it turned into a re-
ligion of the rulers rather than of the ruled. Similarly,
there are those, to pursue Engels' analogy, who argue
that the workers were corrupted by their reformist vic-
tories and therefore abandoned the revolution, but I dis-
agree with this interpretation, as Chapter XIV will
show.
And yet, a crucial theological event with enormous
implications for the socialist future had taken place. For
the Greeks and the Eastern religions, time was usually
an endless cycle and prophecy was the foretelling of
16 SOCIALISM
inevitable facts, as in the tragic theater. For the He-
brews, the world was moving toward a Messiah, and
the prophet, even as he looked back toward the ideal-
ized nomadic past, called upon the people to act dif-
ferently so as to persuade God to make a righteous fu-
ture. The
Christian version of the eternal was even more
humanistic: their God had become man.
The ambiguity in all of this can best be seen in
Saint Augustine's City of God. On the one hand, it is
a deeply pessimistic book, reflecting the imminent
breakdown of the Roman Empire. The faithful are
summoned to turn their back upon all the secular cities
— Cain, Augustine recalls, was a builder of cities — and
to look only to God for salvation. And yet, the faithful
—
were themselves a city the city of God. Once that idea
was introduced into history, there was a religious basis
for trying to build that heavenly community on earth.
What was important about these Judeo-Christian
images of the messianic age was not their explicit con-
tent —
which was often a conservative plea to turn one's
—
back on the world and trust only to the Lord and in-
deed, these religions often functioned to rationalize in-
justice, or at least to make it tolerable. Rather their
importance lay in creating powerful metaphors and
—
symbols that could be read or even misread as —
promises of an earthly paradise. And it is therefore
their connotations, that, as will be seen, were to seize
the imaginations of generations that were to come cen-
turies later. 2
This
is obviously even truer of Plato's Republic than
it isof the scripture. His version of the ideal common-
wealth is frankly conservative, a ruling-class Utopia con-
ceived by a partisan of the party of order at a time of
great social change. It is, Marx quite rightly said, "an
Athenian idealization of the Egyptian class system." But
then, elitism and authoritarianism are a recurring motif
in Utopias precisely because those visions are elaborated
when the material and human preconditions for social-
ism are utterly lacking. The people were engaged in an
often bitter struggle for scarce goods and, in the case of
Plato's Athens, most of them were enslaved. Under such

circumstances, harmony does not come voluntarily,
even in an imaginary state; it has to be forced, partic-
ularly if the injustices of class domination are to be
maintained.
—
But Plato's aristocratic Utopia and the Rightist po-
litical ideas of Lycurgus, the founder of Sparta, or of
Pythagoras, another member of the conservative move-
—
ment in Greece was not the only expression of the
Utopian impulse in those times. There was also Iam-
bulos' Island of the Sun, which was based upon a crucial
socialist insight: that abundance makes new men.
The Island of the Sun (some say it is based on Mada-
gascar, others on Indonesia) is temperate and there is
enough food, little work and much leisure. It is not
democratic in the modern sense of the word, since each
organ of power is presided over by a hegemon who
rules for life. But neither is it caste-ridden or a slave
society. Its description does not have, of course, the
philosophic depth of Plato's commonwealth, and yet it
was considered an important enough document during
the Renaissance and may well have influenced Thomas
More. But the most important thing about it is that it
asserts how abundance might change human nature,
making man more peaceful and cooperative. Twenty-
three centuries later, the notion is quite pertinent.
—
The idea of Cockaigne a paradise in which there
are "rivers of soup, jets of wine, cheese cakes falling
down from red skies, self-frying fish and roast thrushes
flying ready made into one's mouth" —dates back at
least to the fourth century before the Christian era,
when the Old Attic comedy was already making paro-
dies of it. But by the third century, when Iambulos
wrote, it had become more serious. The conquests of
Alexander the Great and the discoveries of his admirals
had lifted men's eyes from the city to the world. The
future could now be conceived of as a distant mar-
velous island at the end of a fantastic voyage. And in
Iambulos' version of it, which was much more realistic
than those that preceded his, there was a crucial point:
18 SOCIALISM
that a surfeit of goods would make the division of labor
progressively less oppressive and permit free time to be-
come the normal condition of human life.
Sothe Greek Utopia was not simply authoritarian,
like Plato's Republic, even though there were major his-
torical forces driving it in that direction. And there
were those, like Iambulos, who understood how abun-
dance could revolutionize human existence. But even
Plato, for all his elitism, was to have an honorable place
in the pantheon of the militant utopianism to come. The
Middle Ages, as Ernst Bloch remarked, had a "produc-
tive misunderstanding" of him, and he, like the Hebrew
prophets and Christ, was turned into a forerunner of
the Left. Thus in Germany in the sixteenth century, the
Anabaptists invoked the name of this champion of law
and order to justify a rebellion. 8
But before those highly selective readings of Plato
and the scripture could be made, Utopia disappeared
from the consciousness of ordinary men and women for
some centuries. From Saint Augustine to the twelfth
century there were no major manifestations of its spirit
in Europe. The monastic movement had, to be sure,
provided a refuge for the ideal of the community and
reformers periodically tried to recapture its original
commitment. But the monks were threatened by their
own success. The cloisters, almost alone in the Middle
Ages, enjoyed the economies of large-scale production
and therefore, as the most efficient economic units, came
to dominate their areas. As Karl Kautsky said of them,
"they went from producers' cooperatives to exploitation
cooperatives."
But in the twelfth century Utopia revived. Ironical-
ly, the reason was the burgeoning of capitalism. Feudal-
ism had begun to crumble but the capitalists were not
yet triumphant. The old order was losing its hold upon
the people, but it was not at all clear what the new order
would be. Under such circumstances, people began once
again to dream of the good society. Now, however, that
reverie was less an impossibility than it had been in
the desert of the Hebrews or the cities of the Greeks.

And men actually took up arms for the dream.
There is a strange factor in this development, one
that will be encountered quite often in the history of
socialism: that good times make people rebellious. For
the areas in which the most militant movements
—
emerged northern Italy, southern France, Flanders,
—
Brabant and England were also the places where the
greatest economic advances had been made and, more
often than not, the living standards of the people had
risen. In fimile Durkheim's classic study of suicide
there is an insight that helps explain how prosperity can
radicalize people: "In obliging us to exercise a constant
discipline, poverty prepares us to accept the collective
discipline docilely, while wealth, in exalting the indi-
vidual, always runs the risk of waking that spirit of
rebellionwhich is the source of immorality." So it was
that between the twelfth and the sixteenth centuries,
Utopia made its first contact with the most important of
its material preconditions: capitalism.
Moreoften that not, this new utopianism took a re-
ligious form. On the one hand, it was directed against
a crucial institution of the down-going order, the
Church, and proposals for ecclesiastical reform usually
cloaked seditious demands to make a new future for
the entire society. On the other hand, this opposition to
the established clergy took a religious form and Utopia
was imagined as the Kingdom of God upon the earth.
Francis of Assisi, with his passionate dedication to early
Christian poverty, was one expression of this new un-
rest, but the papacy disarmed his movement by assimi-
lating its conservative elements and excommunicating
its But with Joachim de Floris in the late
radicals.
twelfth century the mood became explicitly political.
His prophecies were to inspire the holy militants
throughout the next three centuries. There were,
Joachim said, three ages of human history: the age of
the Father, of discipline and law, represented by the
Old Testament; the age of the Son, of love, but of love
20 SOCIALISM
institutionalized in theChurch; and the age of the H0I5
Spirit, which was to come, the age of consecrated an-
archy.
This vision reverberated throughout Europe for
least the next threehundred years. If one did not kno\
better, it would almost seem as if there were a gigantic
conspiracy. Just below the surface of the Middle Ages,
Michael Freund writes, there was "a mystic-heretical
movement of sects which grew out of the ancient
heresies and which was almost as foreign to Protes-
tantism as to Catholicism. . . ." This was the tradition
Martin Luther and the other Protestant
that leads not to
reformers who made their peace with the princes, but
to Thomas Miinzer, the communist prophet and leader
of the German peasantrevolution in the sixteenth cen-
tury. Consider just a few of
its interconnections.
In the twelfth century in southern France the Poor

Men of Lyons followed Pierre Wald, a merchant who
had given away all of his wealth to the poor (his fol-
lowers were sometimes called Waldensians). They
preached their Christian communism with such vigor
that their doctrine spread to northern France and into
Germany and Bohemia. The Waldensians, and a simi-
lar group, the Albigensians, were
exterminated
finally
by a bloody papal crusade in the early decades of the
thirteenth century. But the spirit had taken root in
northern Europe, in France and the Lowlands, and it
grew. The Brothers and Sisters of the Free Spirit at-
tacked both private property and the traditional fam-
ily structure, and they spoke of the coming of a
Joachim-like Kingdom of the Holy Ghost.
In the fourteenth century the radical theology spread
from Holland to England where the reform theolo-
gian, John Wycliffe, took up the attack against Rome
and the property of the Church. His ideas inspired the
Lollard movement, which arose in 1381 under Wat
Tyler. It was defeated —
Richard II tricked Tyler into
letting himself be taken by promising the abolition of
—
feudalism but the news of Wycliffe's ideas had by
then traveled to Prague where Jan Hus took up the
cause. Hus, like Wycliffe, had the support of some

powerful interests in his country, including Queen So-
phia and Emperor Wenceslaus, but his teachings were
so subversive that he was eventually executed as a here-
tic.
There were two wings of the movement that fol-

lowed Hus. The more conservative contented itself
with demanding a national church and the seculariza-
tion of the episcopal lands. But even that tendency had
its social aspect, for it demanded that communion be
given to the faithful as both bread and wine. This was a

democratic point, for it attacked the ritual dominance
of the clergy over the laity (the latter took communion
only under the form of bread). But the revolutionary
wing, the Taborites (named after the south Bohemian
city of Tabor, the center of their strength), were for
the abolition of the entire feudal order. When Tabor
was taken, their agitation subsided, but it had already
had its effect throughout all of Europe.
"We are all Hussites," Martin Luther was to say in
the sixteenth century. But the Hussites, as we have just
seen, were split in two, and Luther clearly identified
with their conservative wing. It was Thomas Miinzer,
the leader of the German peasant uprising, who con-
tinued the radical vision of the Taborites. He was, Karl
Kautsky was to remark, one of the two men who stand
at the beginning of the modern socialistic movement
(the other was Thomas More). Luther, Miinzer
charged, had given a "Bohemian gift" of the cloisters to
the nobility. This attack found responsive listeners
among the peasants who, after having made some
gains when commerce first developed, now saw their
living standard decline.
Miinzer preached a sort of atheistic humanism in
the guise of prophetic religiosity. He said the Bible was
not the final authority, for the Holy Ghost was still alive
among the people. (The echo of Joachim is no acci-
dent; he was one of the official patrons of Mlinzer's
movement.) So men must make themselves godly in
the here and now by building the Kingdom of Heaven
22 SOCIALISM
upon earth in which all property would be held in
common; they must not think of Hell, which was a
doctrine designed to divert them from their worldly
tasks.These ideas, the Utopian patrimony of all the
medieval movements going back to Joachim, could not,
however, inspire an effective political movement. In
1525 Munzer established himself in Miihlhausen and
attempted to institute a communist regime, but within
a few years the entire rebellion had been crushed and
thousands, including Munzer, had been executed.
In the period of the emergence of capitalism, then,
the breakdown of the feudal order gave rise to a re-
markable Utopian spirit which swept through almost all
of Europe. It could not possibly create a new socialist
society, for, as Munzer, the most militant of the proph-
ets, discovered, what the peasantry essentially wanted
was private property in the form of land for each man.
There was a prophetic pathos to his failure, which
Friedrich Engels caught in a brilliant insight. It ob-
viously applies to Munzer in the sixteenth century, but
it also might have been written of V. I. Lenin during
the last year of his life, or of some of the Third World

leaders today.
"The worst thing that the leader of an extreme party
can experience," Engels wrote, "is being forced to take
power when the moment is not yet ripe for the rule of
the class he represents and for the carrying out of those
measures that the rule of that class requires. What he
can do does not depend upon his will but upon how far
the conflict of classes has been driven and how highly
developed those relations of production and exchange
are which provide the basis of the class struggle. But
what he should do ... is bound up with his previous
doctrines and demands. . What he can do contra-
. .
dicts all of his previous principles and positions and the

immediate interest of his party; and what he should
do is impossible. He is, in a word, forced to represent
not his own party and class, but that class for whose
rule the movement is really ripe."
So the great peasant movements that accompanied

the end of feudalism, including those, like Munzer's,
with communist aims, served the cause of the capitalism
they despised, for socialism was not yet possible. And
this fact, which can be seen so vividly in the history
of reawakened utopianism between the twelfth and six-
teenth centuries, obviously applies to the Communist,
and other, attempts to build socialism in the impover-
ished lands of the twentieth century. For the dream
still had its preconditions. 4
The rise of capitalism in the late Middle Ages had

reawakened Utopia. The capitalist triumph turned it
into a realistic possibility.

Between the sixteenth and nineteenth centuries the
Utopian impulse emerged as the Left wing of the cap-
italist revolution which was to create the basis for so-
cialism: a technology of abundance and a working-class
movement driven to democratize it. So the Utopias of
this period develop within mighty political parties in
England and France and pose modern problems that
persist to this very day: whether wealth shall be di-
vided or shared, whether it is possible for a new bu-
reaucratic ruling class to take over from the bourgeoisie,
and so on. There are also the first glimpses of anti-
socialist "socialism" in action as French bankers seize
upon the ideal for their own purposes.
In what follows, then, the dream makes contact with
reality, the cry of the Hebrews in the wilderness be-
comes relevant in the industrial cities of Europe.
In the English Revolution of the seventeenth cen-
tury politics and theology were inextricably mingled.
The Royalists believed in bishops; the more conserva-
tive anti-Royalists, the Presbyterians, in a church ruled
by elders; and among the Independents were people
who stood for congregational control of religion as well
24 SOCIALISM
as the sects on the Left. There was a distinct link with
that religious communism of the previous four cen-
turies. For it is possible that three of Cromwell's gen-
erals and seven of his colonels were Anabaptists, fol-
lowers of that revolutionary doctrine that had inspired
Miinzer and his men. Thus there was a continuity on
the Left wing of the movement which goes back as least
as far as Joachim de Horis.
It was small wonder that such teachings took root in
England. In the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries the
peasantry had done fairly well, but in the sixteenth
century there was a tremendous commercialization of
agriculture. Thomas More expressed it vividly: sheep
—
were eating men. In the first part of Utopia which is
a critique of the England of More's time that is hardly
disguised at all — Raphael (More's alter ego) says,
"Those placid creatures which used to require so little
food have now apparently developed a raging appetite
and turned into man-eaters. Fields, houses, towns, ev-
erything goes down their throats." This was, of course,
a direct result of the importance of wool to the grow-
ing English commerce. As a consequence, Raphael
continues, "Each greedy individual preys on his native
land like a malignant growth, absorbing field after field,
and enclosing thousands of acres with a single fence."
"Sir Thomas More's bitter joke about sheep eating
men turned out to be truer than he knew," Christopher
Hill wrote recently. "For in the sixteenth century, whilst
the living standards of men and women of the lower
classes fell catastrophically, the living standards of
sheep improved remarkably."
The German peasants who followed Miinzer had
many of the same griefs and believed in the same
theology, and yet they did not have the impact of the
English revolutionaries. The reason is that economic
development in seventeenth-century England had
reached a much higher level than in sixteenth-century
Germany. Therefore the discontents of the people at
the bottom converged with the need for radical change
that was being felt in the middle reaches of the society.
The Presbyterians, Congregationalists and Anabaptists

were united in the common cause of doing away with
the old order. So Utopia, paradoxically, benefited from
the enormous energy generated by capitalism. It may
even be, as Michael Walzer has argued, that the new
and educated middle class was a driving force in this
development.
But that meant that the moment of victory for such
a revolutionary movement signaled conflicts within the
triumphant, but quite diverse, coalition. "Communist
parties," Marx wrote, "first appear inside the bourgeois
revolution when the constitutional monarchy is done
away with. The most single-minded republicans in —
England, the Levelers, in France, Babeuf, Buonarrotti,
—
etc. are the first who proclaimed the 'social ques-
tion.' " In Marx's analysis, it is only after the kings
were pushed aside that the people could confront the
limits of the emerging bourgeois system itself. As long
as feudalism prevailed, men thought that all evils, all
oppression, would vanish with it. Now they were forced
to recognize the profound antagonisms within the revo-
lution itself.
The tendency which thus appeared in the
socialist
English Revolution defined itself in terms of a ques-
tion that was to divide the Left throughout its history
and which is still on the agenda in the Third World
today. Will the good society be based upon a division
of the wealth taken over from the old order or upon the
common ownership of it? That issue is quite important
today in the developing nations, which must choose
between a land reform creating a class of individual
proprietors and collective farming (it will be analyzed
in that context in Chapter XIII). It was first debated
by the Levelers, who were often thought to have been
radical egalitarians to a man.
In fact, as more recent research has demonstrated,
many of the Levelers were small property owners who
tenaciously defended their plots against the wealthy but
actually proposed to exclude servants and beggars from
the vote. The socialists were the Diggers. Under their
26 SOCIALISM
!
magnificent leader, Gerrard Winstanley, they held that

there must be the right of access to common land, not a
division of it. In The New Law of Righteousness (it
has been called "a Communist Manifesto written in the
dialect of its day") Winstanley proclaimed his basic
principles, which came to him by a direct revelation
from God:
"Work together; eat bread together; declare this all
abroad,
"Israel shall never take hire, nor give hire.
"Whosoever labours the earth for any person or per-
sons, that are lifted up to rule over others, and doth not
look upon themselves as equal to others in the creation:
the hand of the Lord shall be upon that labourer: I
the Lord have spoken it and I will do it." 5
Significantly, the debate between the Levelers and
the Diggers also took place on the left wing of the
French Revolution, but in more secular terms. In sev-
enteenth-century England the Utopian spirit had taken
its first step into modernity but it still had strong ties
to medieval communism. Therefore political radicalism

was still masked in religious rhetoric and a Winstanley
presented his excellent position as emanating from God.
But in the French Revolution generally, and on this is-
sue in particular, the discussion was straightforward and
secular. As the dream came closer and closer to reality,
it lost its fantastic trappings and based itself upon rea-
son rather than revelation.

In the course of the Revolution, poor peasants and
their allies had demanded the passage of an "agrarian
law" that would effectively parcel out the land. But, said
Gracchus Babeuf, the leader of the socialist Left wing
of the Revolution, "the day after the establishment of
the agrarian law, inequality will begin again." In the
society of the future, the "association" (Babeuf s term
for the socialist ruling body, a word that was to have a
fateful history, as will be seen) "will always know what
each one does, so that he will not produce too much,
or too little, but the right thing. It will determine how
many citizens will be employed in each speciality and
how many young people will take up each speciality.

Everything will be appropriated and proportioned in
terms of present and predicted needs and according to
the probable growth, and ability, of the community."
So the Manifesto of the Equals, published by Ba-
beuf's group, stated, "We demand the communal en-
joyments of the fruits of the earth: the fruits are for
all." Thus, with Babeuf and Winstanley, Utopia began
to face the concrete problems of the social organization
of the future and developed the idea of not simply
dividing up wealth or protecting small peasant prop-
erty, but of creating a society based on new principles
of communal cooperation.
On another question Babeuf s movement was even
more prescient: the role of democracy. In the France
of the Revolution there was not yet a developed work-
ing class but rather a plebian mass of artisans and poor
in the cities and land-hungry peasants in the country-
side. Since there was not —
and could not be a co- —
hesive socialist and labor movement, Babeuf and his
comrades turned to conspiracy. Buonarrotti, whose ac-
count of their activity was one of the most influential
radical books in the nineteenth century, described one
of their debates which anticipated anti-socialist "social-
ism" of the twentieth century.
"A very delicate point was carefully discussed in the
insurrectionary committee," Buonarrotti wrote. "It was
a question of determining what part its members would
play in exercising the new authority. One considered
that the conversion of the insurrectionary initiative into
a permanent power, which would necessarily be quite
extensive, would make the people suspect that the mem-
bers of the committee were ambitious and self-seeking.
Such accusations would be easily spread and found
credible since nothing would impede them, and they
could keep the committee from doing what it pro-
posed. . . .
"Onthe other hand, the insurrectionary committee

did not see many men in whom the purity of principles
was joined to the courage and firmness and intelligence
28 SOCIALISM
required to put proposals into practice. They knew
its
how dangerous was if they did not give the job of

it
carrying out the program to those who had the strength

to begin it. And they feared the duplicity of certain
persons with whom they found themselves in competi-

tion. After having hesitated for a long time, our con-
spirators were about to decide to ask the people for a
decree which would exclusively confide the initiative
and execution of the laws to them."
But that, the conspirators realized, posed the danger
that there would be "a class which is exclusively con-
cerned with the principles of the social art, with laws
and administration, which would find in the superiority
of its own spirit, and above all, in the ignorance of its
compatriots, the source for creating distinctions and
privileges. Exaggerating the importance of its services,
it would easily come to think of itself as the necessary
protector of the nation. And clothing its own audacious
enterprises in the public good, it would still speak of
liberty and equality to its unperceptive fellow citizens,
who would be subjected to a servitude all the more
harsh because it seemed legal and voluntary."
This was a stunning presentiment of Joseph Stalin
and the new ruling class he was to bring to power. The
Babouvists had decided to chance that danger, but they
were arrested before they could carry out a coup.
Their conspiratorial tradition, as will be seen, traveled
east to Petrograd where it reappeared in 1917. And in
a few short years in Russia the worst of Babeuf s fears
of what would happen if the insurrectionary committee
substituted itself for the masses were confirmed.
There was one other count on which Babeuf s con-
spirators were shrewdly prophetic. "The French Revo-
lution," Sylvan Marechal wrote in the Manifesto of
the Equals, "is only the forerunner of another revolu-
tion which will be much greater and more profound.
It will be the last revolution." There were a number
of reasons why Marechal accurately foretold a new
revolution even before the old one had ended. The
French Revolution had almost promised Utopia. The
Enlightenment was to be rationally enacted into law;

Liberty, Equality and Fraternity were promised for all.
Moreover, in its more radical period the government
had intervened actively into the economy, dividing up
supplies, regulating prices, and thus turning the idea of
an activist, socially concerned state into reality. The
gap between the Utopian dream and practical politics
seemed to be closing before the very eyes of the con-
spirators. But, they realized, the ideals of the Revolu-
tion could not possibly be fulfilled within the framework
of a bourgeois society.
It was, in short, disillusionment with the capitalist
revolution that was to be the immediate prelude to the
mass movement for a socialist revolution. Thus man
consciously arrived at the point of transition between
Utopia and reality, a moment that has been widely mis-
understood due to a simplistic reading of Karl Marx.
It is therefore worth examining in brief detail.
By 1800 it was clear that the extravagant predic-
tions of liberty, fraternity and equality really signaled
the triumph of capitalism over the entire society. But
that does not mean that the French Revolution was a
deception staged by capitalists in order to achieve their
selfish aims. In the popular, mechanistic notion of
Marxism something like this simple determinism is
usually asserted. Even a distinguished economic his-
torian like Alexander Gershenkron erects this straw
man as a description of Marx's analysis. There was,
Gershenkron argues as against his imagined Marx, no
revolution "directed against feudalism and carried out
by the bourgeoisie in the interests of the bourgeoisie to
further the development of capitalism." Of course not.
If history were so straightforward and dominated by
conscious economic interests, it would hardly require a
Marx to decipher it.
For Marx, the French Revolution was led by petty-
bourgeois democrats who believed sincerely and pas-
sionately in the values they proclaimed and were the
unwitting agents of a social order many of them de-
spised. They, like Thomas Miinzer, suffered from a con-
30 SOCIALISM
tradiction between what they honestly wanted to do anc
what they actually could do. It was for this reason
Marx was, as Shlomo Avineri has rightly pointed out
so critical of the Jacobin terror. Robespierre, Mar
wrote, "sees in great poverty and great richness only a
stumbling-block to pure democracy. He wants there-
fore to establish a universal Spartan frugality. Accord-
ing to him, will is the principle of politics. The more
one-sided and hence the more accomplished is the po-
litical reason, the more does it believe in the omnipo-
tence of the will, the more blind it is to the natural and
spiritual limits of the will, and thus is incapable of
discovering the roots of social evil." (The passage might
stand as Lenin's epitaph; on that, more later.) But will,
however ferocious, cannot escape the preconditions of
the dream.
The radicals of the French Revolution, Marx wrote
in 1848, did not know that "each time they opposed
the bourgeoisie, as during 1793-94 in France, they ac-
tually fought for the implementation of the interests of
the bourgeoisie, even if not in the manner of the bour-
geoisie. The whole of French terrorism was nothing

else than a plebian manner to put an end to the ene-
mies of the bourgeoisie." Thus, for Marx, terrorism was
a kind of bloody utopianism, an attempt to substitute
will for historic process. Therefore he was profoundly
anti-terrorist, for the very need to go to such extremes
was an indication that the revolution could not possibly
fulfill its announced aims. 6
It was not too long after the French Revolution that

more and more Europeans began to understand these
limitations upon it. So the Utopian tradition culminated
in the first decade of the nineteenth century in a reac-
tion to that disappointment. Two of the most important
figures of that moment were Claude Henri de Saint-
Simon and Robert Owen. Their ideas were significant
in and of themselves, but the reason that they changed
history was that a new social force heard, and distinc-
tively interpreted, them: the working class. Capitalism
had not only created the economic preconditions of
socialism, but also as a result, that class which was its
human precondition.
Saint-Simon was a planner and a technocrat. He
objected to capitalism because it allowed parasitic cou-
pon-clippers to share in the wealth of the actual
producers and he proposed a rational allocation of in-
vestment funds through a central bank. Given this em-
phasis, Saint-Simon was not particularly concerned
about democratic participation or a mass movement.
He himself tried to win both Napoleon and Louis
XVIII to his ideas, and after his death in 1825 his dis-
ciples attempted to convert Louis Philippe when he
came to power in 1830. In this elitist aspect Saint-
Simon's ideas became the ideology of the most promi-
nent bankers and entrepreneurs around Napoleon III.
One of them, the banker Isaac Pereire, has been de-
scribed by Alexander Gershenkron as having "con-
tributed so much, perhaps more to the spread of the
modern capitalist system in France" than anyone else,
and yet he remained "an ardent admirer of the Saint-
Simonian doctrine" until his death.
This vignette is more than a curiosity for it illu-
strates an important tendency in socialist history. In
many of the original definitions of socialism certain-—
ly in Saint-Simon's and even in Marx's —
there was an
analysis of the inefficiency and waste of capitalist so-
ciety and an insistence upon how much more produc-
tive socialism would be. It was quite possible for a
French banker —
or a Russian or a Chinese dictator to —
abstract this element and turn it into the definition of
socialism. So what becomes crucial, in regard to Saint-
Simon and to socialism in general, is not simply the
abstract socialist scheme, but who reads it, and for what
purpose.
The French working class read Saint-Simon in a com-
pletely differentway than the bankers. It seized upon
his use of the word "association," the notion that the
producers themselves would run the enterprise, and
took up his hatred of the unearned income of passive
capitalists. So an essentially technocratic theory was
32 SOCIALISM
converted by the workers into an authentic socialist
perspective. Like the German Anabaptists with their
revolutionary Plato, they had made an extremely per-
ceptive misreading of Saint-Simon's ideas. They ig-
nored his elitism and emphasis upon efficiency; they
embraced his hatred of parasites who did not work but
received profits; and they translated his vision of an
"association" under the tutelage of bankers and plan-
ners into an argument for ownership of the means of
production by the direct producers. In the process they
turned a humane technocrat into a quasianarchist.
The fate of Robert Owen, the great British Utopian,
was similar to Saint-Simon's. He was a most effective
businessman who by providing various benefits for the
workers in his factory at New Lanark made a profit
of £160,000 in four years. Owen taught that a bad
—
environment like that found in all the plants in the
—
England of his day resulted in bad character. He
wanted to have cooperation in model factories, rather
than the competition of the existing system. Since he
himself had proved that such a course was not only
moral but good business, he sought to interest capital-
ists, bishops and politicans in his ideas, with some
early success.
It was a strange accident that forced Owen to turn
to the working class. He made the mistake of speaking
openly of his skeptical views on religion. Polite society,
which could tolerate talk of a profitable cooperation
between workers and management, would not permit
godlessness. At that point, the only audience open to
him was at the bottom of society, and so this essentially
conservative man became the founding father of Brit-
ish trade unionism and socialism. In part, that hap-
pened because he changed his point of view; in part,
because the workers changed it for him in the reading
they made of his views.
Thus in The Report to the County of Lanark in
1821 Owen described how
the productivity of capital-
ist society was advancing more rapidly than the work-
ers' means of subsistence. The producers, he said, draw-
ing upon found in the great

the labor theory of value
classical economist, David Ricardo, were the source of
wealth in the society and it was therefore necessary to
have a new system of exchange. Labor seized upon
these notions and adapted them to its own needs in the
bitter class struggle of the time. And Owen, who de-
tested class war and always stressed harmony, became
the presiding spirit of the Grand National Trade Union.
And he never really did outgrow his conserva-
yet,
tive views. He
exalted the old days when the landed
proprietor was seen as having a mutual interest with
"even the lowest peasant" and the latter considered
himself as being "somewhat of a member of a re-
spectable family." Under such circumstances, he ar-
gued, the "lower orders" were content and it was one
of capitalism's greatest crimes that it had disturbed
this equilibrium. The workers, however, picked and
chose from among the parts of Owen's theory, ignoring
his romantic version of the past, taking up the cry that
labor, as the source of wealth, deserved the full product
of its toil.
So the decisive moment for Utopia occurred when
the masses saw in it a program for the transformation
of their daily lives. In the process they had to creative-
ly misread both Saint-Simon and Owen. But not Karl
Marx, for he was the first thinker to realize what was
happening and to make it explicit; he was the con-
sciousness of the dream, the moment when it awoke to
7
itself.
ffl
All previous revolutions, Marx said, had "taken over

limited instruments of production and thus broke
through only to new limitations." But now the "two
practical preconditions" of socialism were at hand. The
powers of production were becoming so developed that
they made abundance for all a real possibility. That,
Marx insisted, was an "absolutely necessary practical
34 SOCIALISM
precondition, for without it one can only generalize
want, and with such pressing needs the struggle for
necessities would begin again and all the old crap would
come back again." That is the bitter truth that still
haunts the Third World: that the socialization of pov-
erty is only a new form of poverty.
The second precondition came about because the
very development of those means of production "had
made the mass of mankind 'propertyless,' " and since
the might of its own social productivity loomed over it
like an alien power, revolutionary.
The details of this analysis, particularly as they con-
cerned the rapidity with which the workers would be-
come conscious of their plight and transform it, have to
be drastically revised. (Marx himself, as will be seen,
did exactly that to these formulations of 1845-1846.)
But the essential point remains valid to this day. If
socialism is ever to become a reality, it will not be
because some prophet has a vision in his mind's eye or
because there is some providence unfolding in history.
It is a possibility based upon the unprecedented de-
velopment of technology and it can become an ac-
tuality only when there is a conscious majority that
masters that productivity and puts it to the service of
human need.
Marx became aware of these things as a philosopher.
At first glance, that is a surprising way for such emi-
nently practical and political truths to emerge. But just
as Utopia developed in the midst of actual events, the
abstractions of Western man were worldly, too. The
turmoil of the capitalist revolution invaded the farthest
reaches of metaphysics and that was —
if one speaks
very carefully, since theories are never a mere "re-

flection" of reality —
a precondition of Marx's discov-
ery. Intellectual history had to evolve and, as it were,
prepare the way for the insights of that profound and
unique individual, Karl Marx. In outlining that pro-
cess a basic contradiction of social thought based upon
capitalist assumptions becomes apparent. It has been
transformed somewhat in the more than a century since
Marx identified it, but it still remains. Capitalism can

rationalize the departments of production and their
all
related sciences. It is just its own totality that it can-

not understand.
John Donne had posed the issue in vivid poetic
imagery in the early seventeenth century:
And new philosophy calls all in doubt

Tis all in pieces, all coherence gone . . .
And philosophy one hears that same anguished cry

in
in the writings of acontemporary of Donne's, the En-
glish philosopher Thomas Hobbes. In the Hobbesian
world there is a constant war of each against all, for
man is predatory, egotistic and competitive. Where,
under such conditions, Hobbes asked, was the basis
for the loyalty of the citizen to some superior author-
ity? Each member of society, he answered, had a self-
interest in limiting the unbridled egotism of his neigh-
bors. Therefore one accepted political community for
the most anti-communitarian of reasons: it was the
only way to protect the individual from an anarchy
that would be the ruin of all.
But the human nature that Hobbes thus described
was not eternal but a product of the new capitalist or-
der. As C. B. Macpherson points out in his brilliant
reinterpretation of the Hobbesian analysis, in traditional
societies, like feudalism, most people are content with
the social rank to which they are born, and com-
petition is usually confined to the nobles and the clerics.
So Hobbes was really speaking about the "new man"
being created by capitalism in the seventeenth century.
Moreover, for all his Realpolitik, Hobbes evaded a
crucial issue. That political authority which ruled over
society as a sort of referee was seen in his theory as
impartial, a neutral in the war of each against all. In
fact, of course, it was dominated by an elite and served
as its weapon against the majority.
However, it was not just the medieval theory of so-
ciety that had broken down. For as science advanced,
36 SOCIALISM
it threatened all of metaphysics. It brought with it the
assumption that only those propositions that can be
verified empirically are true. This assumption workec
brilliantly with physics and chemistry, but it was ut-
terly subversive of traditional ethics and epistemology.
So the eighteenth century when David Hume
in
rigorously applied this scientific criterion to the tradi-
tional categories of thought, he undermined some of the
most perennial ideas, like the law of cause and effect.
One could, he said, describe how one event followed
another, but that did not prove that there was any link
between them. As Leszek Kolakowski described the
event, "Intended to provide science with unshakable
foundations, Hume's analysis deprived it of any pos-
sible foundation."
Where, then, was a principle of coherence? Political
man and economic man in the Hobbesian vision were
engaged in a permanent conflict with each other; and
philosophic man was, in Hume's analysis, utterly be-
reft of his old truths. Then, by one of those. leaps that
do not fit into neat, determinist accounts of history,
these intellectual preoccupations of the most advanced
of European societies, Britain, suddenly came to obsess
one of the most backward, Germany. David Hume, Im-
manuel Kant wrote, "interrupted my dogmatic slum-
ber."
Kant asked of metaphysics, "If it is a science, how
does it come about that it cannot establish itself, like
other sciences, in universal and lasting esteem? It seems
almost ridiculous, while every other science makes
ceaseless progress, to be constantly turning around on
the same spot without moving a step forward in the
one that claims to be wisdom itself and whose every
oracle everyone consults."
Kant never did discover an objective basis so that
philosophy, in the words of the title to his Prolegomena
to Any Future Metaphysics, "will be able to present
itself AS A SCIENCE." Mathematics, as the pure in-
tuition of space and time, could make remarkable prog-
ress, but men could only know the appearance of the
external world. There was a place in this scheme for

science and industry since they dealt with tangible ex-
perience and their results could be checked. But there
was no longer any basis for the philosopher's boast
that he had understood the very essence of reality, the
thing-in-itself. For as soon as thought "goes beyond
the boundary of experience and becomes transcen-
dent, [it] brings forth nothing but illusion."
So Kant, even though he was an Idealist, was aware
of the historic circumstances that had led to the crisis
of philosophy. But the problem was not simply located
in the contrast between scientific success and philosoph-
ic uncertainty; it also had roots in the structure of the
capitalist system itself. On the one hand, as George
Lukacs pointed out in his brilliant Marxian analysis,
History and Class Consciousness, capitalism was the
most rational society that had ever existed, quantify-
ing every aspect of life in order to produce more. On
the other hand, the capitalist economy, by its own
proud admission, had no conscious directing principle.
Rather it put its trust in the invisible hand of the mar-
ket, which was supposed to vector all private greeds
into a common good.
Capitalist intellectual life, then, was particularly
schizophrenic. The system was increasingly scientific as
to details, but irrational as a totality, and each trium-
phant period of production was crowned by an inexpli-
cable crisis. Moreover, capitalism idealized its own
atomization, asserting that the division of society into
isolated, competing individuals was its master stroke.
And since, as we will see in a moment, the most ab-
struse theorems often have a remarkable resemblance
to the political and social conditions under which they
were defined, it was difficult for a thinker who ac-
cepted the premises of such a society to discover any
principle of coherence.
Hegel sought a way out of this impasse and his writ-
ings vividly illustrate how social and metaphysical
thought can be intimately related to each other. In
politics, he rejected that "unsocial society" of Kant and
38 SOCIALISM
Hobbes in which men are limits upon one another's
freedom and an individual's rights are circumscribed
by those of his neighbor. Similarly, in logic he attacked
the Kantian counterposition of the forms of thought
and an ultimately unknowable world. In each case, his
grievance was the same: that atomistic citizens without
organic relationship to a community, or atomistic ideas
without a necessary relationship to reality, were the
product of a mechanistic way of thinking. In politics
and in logic he insisted that there be living connections.
Hegel, the great system-maker, was also an existential-
ist.
As a young man he saw

the French Revolution as a
great victory: "At a new ideas and concepts of
stroke,
right proved their validity and the old framework of in-
justice was powerless to resist. . . . Now man has real-
ized that ideas must rule spiritual reality. This was a
magnificent sunrise. All thinking beings celebrated the
epoch. An exalted emotion ruled the world, the en-
thusiasm of the spirit was everywhere as the recon-
ciliation of God and the world now took place for the
first time." By 1794 the Terror had turned Hegel
against the Revolution; then, by applying the very same
principles that had once made him its enthusiastic ad-
vocate, he switched his allegiance to the Prussian mon-
archy. For he saw the monarchy as the force that
would forge a unity out of the dispersed German states:
it, too, was the historic agency of community.
Any philosophic system that could thus successively

defend the French Revolution and the Prussian royal
house had to be profoundly ambiguous. On the one
hand, Hegel's thought is suffused with the motion of
change, and new times coming: "It is not difficult," he
wrote in the Phenomenology of Spirit, "to understand
that ours is a time of birth and transition to a new
period." It was this consciousness that made him cele-
brate the living interconnections of ideas and reality
and of men with one another. But on the other hand,
even in his youthful radicalism, he perceived the French
Revolution as the triumph of its Idea rather than of its
—
revolutionaries. And as he grew older and more con-

servative, this thesis became all the more pronounced.
There is a "running of reason" within history that uses
the passions of men and women to work out a design

thatis unknown to them. This Absolute, which has its
way with history, can only be known when it has com-

pleted its mission, and the role of the philosopher there-
fore is to look back upon events, not to change the
world.
So even though Hegel fought against the atomization
of so much of the life and thought of the capitalist era,
he, too, ultimately believed in an invisible hand. In-
deed, it may even be that he quite literally took the
notion of the "cunning of reason" from Adam Smith's
vision of the miraculous harmony of capitalist compe-
tition. It is this issue that separates him from Karl
Marx.
Marx, of course, owed a great debt to his conserva-
tive precursor. In contrast to the Utopians, this first
completely modern socialist did not project his ideas
upon reality and then try to persuade God, or vari-
ous and assorted princes, churchmen and bankers, to
put them into practice. In the Hegelian tradition, he
insisted that socialism must be an observable and ac-
tual tendency of social development if it is to be taken
seriously. But he differed most profoundly from Hegel
—and this difference is of infinitely greater moment
than the contrast between the materialism of the one and
the idealism of the other —
in that he held "it is man
actual, living man —who and
acts, possesses, struggles —
not 'history' which needs men as a means
accom- to
plish its end —
as if it were a separate person." To be
sure, Marx agreed with Hegel that the historic actors
regularly served ends other than the ones they in-
tended. But he did not glory in the fact, as Hegel did;
he proposed to change it, to help men to become, for
the first time, truly conscious and thereby the masters

of their own destiny.
In the process, Marx claimed to have solved that
contradiction between "what is and what should be"
40 SOCIALISM
which he had first confronted as a young philosophy
student. —
The question of justice, of ethics of Utopia, if
—
you will was no longer a matter of theory for scholars
to discuss. It had become a tendency within reality and
men now, for the first time in history, had the oppor-
tunity, and the obligation, freely to determine the con-
tent of theirown human nature. The truth was not to
be discovered in a Hegelian retrospect upon the past;
it was to be created by means of a social revolution
which would make the future.

So it was that in a philosophic debate that rever-
berated with the sounds of revolution Marx came to
understand not only the preconditions of the dream,
but also the necessity to act upon them. He thus de-
fined a possibility, not an inevitability (even though he
— —
and much more, Engels sometimes talked as if the
latter were the case). For him, it was not ordained that
history be socialist, but men could now struggle to make
it so.
The possibility Marx more than
defined had been
two thousand years making. And in understand-
in the
ing how Utopia journeyed through the centuries from
the deserts of Palestine to the industrial cities of Europe,
a basic criterion of the socialist future emerges. The
good society cannot be willed into being by prophets
or holy men or philosophers, but requires a certain
level of economic development and, above all, the con-
scious activity of the millions before it can come true. 8
Ill
The Democratic Essence
It is almost ninety years since the death of Karl

Marx. In that period his memory has become one of
the principal obstacles to socialism.
Right-wing anti-Communists have supported the
orthodox Communist interpretation of Marx. Joseph
Stalin and J. Edgar Hoover have both argued that he
was the father of totalitarianism and taught that the
ideal society could only be achieved through a brutal
dictatorship. In this Communist-Rightist reading of
him, Marx is against all civil liberties and has no use for
bourgeois sentimentalities about truth and justice be-
cause he holds that material, and particularly economic,
self-interest is the secret of all ideals. Since he is thus
supposed to have founded a science of society, a dic-
tator acting in his name can claim to serve the objec-
tive interests of the masses over their dead bodies.
The orthodox Communists interpreted Marx in this
way so that he could provide a rationalization for their
totalitarian practices. The reactionary anti-Communists
gleefully accepted these theories because they rightly
thought that such a vision of socialism would discredit
it and also permit them to defend the status quo, even
when it was fascist, in the name of anti-Communist

freedom. And in recent years there have been authori-
tarian militarists in the Third World who, having heard
the good news that Marxian socialism resembles a bar-
racks organized to promote economic development,
have suddenly discovered that they are men of the Left.
So a return to the original Karl Marx is not simply a
matter of scholarship. It is a contemporary political act,
41
42 SOCIALISM
an attempt to restore his genuine memory to the fu-
ture.
This chapter, and the two that follow it, will try to
do that by way of a Marxist analysis of Karl Marx. He
will be sketched at the intersection of his freedom and
necessity as the child of one age and the father of an-
other, transforming the historical conditions that helped
form him. Above all, he will be seen as a man who
changed his mind, or had it changed for him, since he
himself regarded the process by which men and events
move one another as central to his theory. The god of
the various Marxist churches is almost never seen in the
fullness of his errors, which obscures the humanity and
depth of many of his truths.
And yet there is a constant in the life of Karl Marx.
As a political tactician, a philosopher and an economist,
he regarded democracy as the essence of socialism.
This was not a pretty moral tacked on to his system.
It was, as these chapters will show, the rigorous con-
clusion of a realistic analysis of economic and social
power. And it is a more urgent truth today than when
Marx first uttered it.
The young Karl Marx, and that lesser giant, Friedrich

Engels, were distinguished from all the other radical
theorists of their time precisely by their insistence upon
the democratic character of socialism. This fact is well
over a hundred years old and quite new. Those seeking
freedom under Communism in recent years have redis-
covered this historic reality and made it an incitement
to change within a system claiming to be Marxist. So
the guardians of the Communist status quo must dis-
miss the democratic passions of Marx and Engels as
the youthful indiscretions of men who were to become
sincere totalitarians. That, as the next chapter will show,
is simply not true; but for now the focus is upon
their political beginnings.
The Democratic Essence 43
In his monumental History of Socialist Thought,

G. D. H. Cole defined an important aspect of the life
of the young Marx and Engels: "It needs to be borne
in mind that, in the controversies of the 1840s which
preceded the publication of the Communist Manifesto,
Marx and Engels had the appearance of moderates,
setting themselves in opposition to socialists who were
taking a more extremist line." On their Left were the
Blanquists, who advocated that a revolutionary elite
take power in the name of the people; the Utopians,
who wanted to withdraw from a corrupt system;
totally
and the millenarians, like Weitling, who saw the lum-
penproletariat, including criminals, as an important
force for the good society. On their Right were the
Tory socialists, who wanted to go back to an imaginary,
egalitarian feudalism; the Christian socialists and the
simple cooperators, who counted on the good will of
the powerful; and the state socialists, like Louis Blanc,
who thought that the bourgeois government could be
the instrument of revolutionary construction.
What distinguished Marx and Engels from all of
these thinkers was their insistence that socialism could
only develop through a democratic mass movement.
This can be seen most vividly in their opposition to
the French revolutionary Auguste Blanqui.
Blanqui was one of the most courageous, and even
appealing, men in the history of socialism. But with
an indomitable spirit and the best will in the world, he
nevertheless inspired an authoritarian Leftism that still
survives. He became a conspirator in 1824 at the age
of nineteen and was arrested for the first time in 1828
after a street fight with the police. When he was again
brought before a court in 1832 (he spent much of his
adult life in jail), he was asked his occupation and
replied proudly: Proletarian. And yet, for all the suf-
fering and commitment of a militant lifetime, Blanqui
could never go beyond a conspiratorial version of so-
cialism. This man whose compassion for the prole-
tariat is beyond question did not, however, think
that the proletarians could emancipate themselves.
44 SOCIALISM
"The poor," Blanqui wrote in 1834, "do not know
the source of their miseries. Ignorance, the daughter of
bondage, makes them a docile instrument of the privi-
leged. . Alas! Humanity marches with a bandage
. .
over its eyes and rarely rises up to gain a confused

view of its path." Given this analysis, it was quite logi-
cal that Blanqui would denounce universal suffrage as
a "betrayal." "To ask the vote for these subject popu-
lations," he said in his critique of the Revolution of
1848, "is to demand it for their masters." Therefore,
in the name of a most genuine commitment to the work-
ing class, Blanqui could not trust the workers.
In a sense, his position was quite understandable.
The workers of the first half of the nineteenth century
had been subjected to indescribable brutalities. In his
Situation of the Working Classes in England Engels
himself had given a vivid picture of the hunger, child
labor, slums and moral degradation that were the lot
of the proletariat. There have been recent scholarly at-
tempts to challenge his descriptions, but, as E. J. Hobs-
bawm argues quite convincingly, the mills of those
times in England were indeed dark and satanic and
the standard of living of the masses fell as capitalism
triumphed. It was Marx's and Engels' genius to see that
within this dehumanized mass there was neverthe-
less the potential for men and women to master their
society.
So Marx and Engels never gave in to that revolu-
tionary indignation that drove Blanqui to despair that
the workers could emancipate themselves. They there-
fore rejected the conspiratorial proposals to save man-
kind in secret. As Marx wrote in 1850, "It goes with-
out saying that the conspirators never bestir themselves
to organize the proletariat in general. Rather their func-
tion is to anticipate the revolution, to speed up the
crisis by artificial means, to make a revolution on the
spur of the moment when the conditions for it do not
exist." And Engels said some time later, "Blanqui is
essentially a political revolutionist, an emotional social-
ist who sympathizes with the suffering of the people, but
he has neither a theory nor specific socialist

socialist
proposals for solutions social problems. In his
to
political activity, he was essentially a 'man of the deed'
who believed that a small, well-organized minority
which made a revolutionary coup at the right moment
could, by some initial successes, bring the popular
masses along and make a victorious revolution."
Marx and Engels, then, rejected Blanqui's conspiracy,
as well as the feudalists, shopkeepers and other minori-
ties on the Right who attempted to use socialist rhetoric
to cover their own purposes. In each case they counter-
posed the idea of a democratic movement to proposals
that would make some elite the salvation of the people.
This attitude was not simply based upon political con-
siderations. It was also the core of Marx's philosophy.
He defined the issue quite explicitly as early as 1845,
and even though the crucial passage is extremely com-
pressed, it is very much worth examining in detail.
In his Theses on Feuerbach Marx commented on
"the materialistic doctrine of the changing of circum-
stances and upbringing," that is, the theory that if the
conditions of men's lives and their schooling are trans-
formed, then their character will be altered too. Marx
argues that this view "forgets that the circumstances
must be changed by men and that the educator must
himself be educated. So it must split the society into
two parts, the one rising above the other." In such a
materialist philosophy, as in Blanqui's politics, the great
masses of the people are inert, the object of forces
beyond their control. Their conditions are changed for
them by educators, or conspirators, who somehow have
escaped the determinations that afflict ordinary mor-
tals and are therefore able to alter institutions from
on high.
Marx own view to this vulgar ma-
contrasts his
terialism (which is now widely called "Marxism"):
"The convergence of the changing of the circumstances
and human activity, or self-changing, can only be
conceived and rationally understood as revolutionary
praxis." Men transform the circumstances that form
46 SOCIALISM
them; socialism cannot be decreed for the masses, it
must be won by them. It is a matter of people changing
both themselves and their environment.* Given this
basic analysis, Marx posed the role of his own ideas in
a completely democratic way. As he wrote in 1843,
"material power can only be overthrown by material
power, and theory becomes a material power only when
it takes hold of the masses. Theory is capable of taking
hold of the masses as soon as it proves itself to men,

and it can prove itself when it is radical. To be radical
is to grasp the matter at the root. But for man, the root
is man himself." This did not simply mean that the
people would, having been inspired by Marx's ideas,
win their own freedom. It also meant that they would
become different kinds of human beings in the process.
"When the Communist artisans come together," he
wrote in the Economic-Philosophic Manuscripts of
1844, "the original purpose is to forward education,
propaganda, etc. But at the same time, a new need ap-
pears, the need for society, and what begins as a means
becomes an end." The socialist movement is itself the
embryo of socialism.
Therefore the aim of communism could not be de-
fined as the mere abolition of private property. That
could only lead to a "raw communism" where "com-
munity is only the community of work and the equal-
ity of salaries that the common capital, the community
as general capitalist, pays." The point of communism
*The Theses were written by Marx in 1845 but were not

published until after his death, in 1888. Engels* version of
them was slightly revised and in general easier to understand
than Marx's. But in his editing of Thesis 3, which is quoted
above, Engels dropped the reference to self-change (Selbstver-
anderung). This did not change the meaning of Marx's com-
ment, but I have translated the original text because it puts
an even greater emphasis on that democratic vision that was
at the heart of his philosophy. The original can be found in
MEW, III, pp. 5ff. Engel's revised text is printed in the same
;
volume, p. 533; and n. 1, p. 547, gives a summary of the his-

tory of the text.
—
Was much more radical than that. Under all previous

systems men had produced "only under the domination
o^ immediate physical needs." As a result, the producer
had only felt free when he was most like an animal:
in eating, drinking and sex. The specifically human
—
free, conscious activity was denied him, and even his
sensuality was degraded. "The formation of the five
senses," the young Marx wrote in one of his most lyri-
cal passages, "is the work of all previous history. The
senses that were confined to raw, practical needs were
limited. The human form of food did not exist for the
hungry man, only its abstract character as food." So
man can only become man when his very senses also
become human and these various alienations are abol-
ished. "The richness of human need," Marx concluded,
"is aprecondition of socialism."
Such an analysis, it is obvious, is quite subversive of
the gray Communist societies of today with their pri-
ority on heavy industry and their stern limits on indi-
vidual consumption. Therefore the orthodox Commu-
nists must dismiss, or ignore, the young Marx. Thus
Louis Althusser, perhaps the leading theorist of the
more Stalinist wing of French Communism, builds a
Chinese wall between the theories of the 1840s and
Das Kapital. The latter, Althusser says, has nothing to
do with the "idealistic aspirations" of the early writing.
For Althusser, Marxism is a science, and just as in
mathematics, once the basic postulates are established,
their logical implications can be worked out without
reference to the world outside the window. This "Marx-
ism" has little to do with Marx's insights in the 1840s
and much to do with justifying a dictatorship that ful-
fills the "objective" needs of its passive subjects.
Sadly enough, some of Marx's democratic critics

have, for different reasons, agreed with the orthodox
Communist interpretation on this question. In a sense,
what they have in common with the totalitarians whom
they oppose is that they, too, would be embarrassed by
the democratic Marx because he undermines neocapi-
talism as well as neo-Stalinism. Consequently, Daniel
48 SOCIALISM
Bell, who is in political sympathy with the anti-Stalin-
ist movement in Eastern Europe, nevertheless essen-
tially agrees with the scholarship of their armed
opponents. Bell writes that "in the last few years in
Europe, a whole school of neo-Marxists . have gone
. .
back to the early doctrines of alienation in order to

find the basis for a new, humanistic interpretation of
Marx. To the extent that this is an effort to find a new,
radical critique of society, the effort is an encouraging
one. But to the extent — and this seems as much to be
the case —that it is a form of new myth-making in order
to cling to the symbol of Marx, it is wrong. For while
it is the early Marx, it is not the historical Marx. The
historical Marx had in effect repudiated the idea of

alienation."
That, as I will demonstrate in some detail in Chap-
ter V, is not true. There is, to be sure, no question that
Marx changed many of his ideas between the 1840s
and Das KapitaL In the early years, as will be seen in a
moment, Marx and Engels were unquestionably much
too enthusiastic in their anticipation of the imminence
of socialist revolution. As a result, their emphasis is
upon revolutionary politics, will and subjectivity. The

latter writings, Das Kapital above all, are the work of
a philosopher-revolutionary who is also a profound
economist. The prophetic spirit is still very much pres-
ent —
the idea of alienation is utterly central to Das
—
Kapital but now it speaks from within a complicated
world of statistics and analysis. So one can say with
Karl Korsch that between the Manifesto and Kapital
there is a shift of accent from "the subjective rebellion
of the workers to the objective rebellion of the forces of
production." But, as this book will show, even in de-
scribing this momentous transition, the commitment to
democracy and the self-emancipation of the working
class is central to all of Marx's writings, both youth-
ful and mature.
In the 1840s, then, Marx and Engels became so-
cialists and what set them off from all other radicals
of the time was their insistence upon the democratic
character of the coming revolution. This fact is some-

times conceded by the Communist inventors of the
totalitarian Marx, but it is explained away as a youth-
ful exuberance and naivete. That is not true.
The commitment to democracy dominates Marx's
whole can be found in The Communist Mani-
life; it
festo and, above all, in Das Kapital, and not just in the
early writings. 1
n
Between 1848 and 1850 Marx and Engels changed
their minds about their basic political orientation no
less than three times. The Communist Manifesto was a
great, and contradictory, document which advocated
an alliance with the very bourgeoisie whose death sen-
tence it pronounced. When the course of action de-
rived from this ambiguous analysis proved a failure,
Marx became a disillusioned and bitter ultra-Leftist.
But then in 1850 reality forced itself upon him and he
once more turned to the work of elaborating a tactic
for the mass movement.
The two years between 1848 and 1850 were the
period of Marx's anti-democratic temptation, and the
dictatorial Marxists have celebrated them ever since.
In fact, he never did become a partisan of revolution
from above, even in his angriest hours, and by late
1850 he had begun deepen his democratic strategy
to
for socialist revolution. So if Marx's memory is to be
saved from the totalitarians and restored to the future,

these developments must be seen in detail.
The opening sentence of the preface of the Mani-
festo
— "A spectre is haunting Europe, the spectre of
—
Communism" was wrong.
England, the most industrialized nation of the time,
had a mass working-class movement in Chartism, but
this movement did not go beyond the struggle for
democratic freedoms. In France there were indeed so-
cialist political groupings, but the country was over-
50 SOCIALISM
whelmingly peasant and those rural millions were
applaud the bloody suppression of the proletariat
June, 1848.
In Germany the bourgeois revolution had not eve
taken place and the bourgeoisie itself was already gi\
ing signs of the timidity it was to show in the coming
upheavals. On the rest of the continent conditions were
politically and economically, even more backward thai
in these three countries.
—
In one mood but not in all their moods, for they
contradicted themselves on this count — Marx and Eng-
els pictured reality as much more radical than it was.
"Democracy is today Communism/' Engels proclaimed
at a London meeting in 1845. "Democracy has become
the proletarian principle, the principle of the masses.
The masses may be more or less clear about the unique
and true significance of democracy, but there is still
a feeling that the basis of social equality is in democ-
racy. . . With insignificant exceptions, all European
.
democrats in 1846 are more or less clear Communists."

This is in the all-or-nothing spirit of Marx's view in
1843 that the bourgeoisie no longer had a role to play
and that the proletariat and the philosophers would
soon jointly realize the millennium.
But in another mood Marx and Engels knew the
truth: that in most of the countries of Europe it was
only the conquest of bourgeois freedoms, not social-
ism, that was on the agenda. In 1847 Marx wrote with
considerable realism, ". . .the aristocracy can only be
overthrown when the bourgeoisie and the people join
together. To advocate the rule of the people in a land
in which the aristocracy and the bourgeoisie are still
allies is sheer madness." And in the same year Engels
took much the same line: "The Communists are far
from starting useless fights with the democrats under
present circumstances. Moreover, in all practical party
questions the Communists appear as democrats. . . .
So long as the democracy has not yet conquered, so

long do the Communists and democrats struggle to-
gether, so long are the interests of the democrats also

those of the Communists."
This contradiction between a sense of imminent pro-
letarian revolution on the one hand, and the sober
knowledge that the coming battle would seek only
democratic freedoms on the other, can be found within
the Manifesto itself.
The first two sections are a magnificent sweeping

summary of a history that culminated in the struggle
of the bourgeoisie and the proletariat. Socialism, be-
fore Marx and Engels defined it, was a nebulous idea.
It meant, G. D. H. Cole writes, "collective regulation
of men's affairs on a cooperative basis with the happi-
ness and welfare of all as the end in view and with the
emphasis, not on 'politics' but on the production and
distribution of wealth and the strengthening of 'so-
cializing' influences in the life-long education of the
citizens in cooperative, as against competitive, patterns
of behaviour and social attitudes and beliefs."
Some workers had been attracted to the movement
for conservative reasons. In England, for example, it
was not the poor who were first attracted to the so-
cialist ideal, but the labor elite of the artisans. They
were the ones who felt themselves directly threatened
by the growth of a system that would degrade them to
the level of "ordinary" workers. There were others who
responded to this new word not because it summoned
them to a struggle against capitalism, but because they
defined it as a means of fighting the emerging time-
clock rationality of industrial society. This was to be the
source of important confusions. For if socialism were
opposed to economic calculation rather than to capital-
ism itself, then the good society would be unable to
plan or to create wealth with modern methods and
lay the material basis for a system of genuine equality.
It was in these years when "socialism" appealed to
philanthropic businessmen, conservative artisans fear-
ful of industrial progress, opponents of industrialism it-
self, feudal aristocrats, bankers, preachers, revolution-
52 SOCIALISM
ary conspirators and gentle cooperators that Marx and
Engels made the idea precise. They located socialism
in the future, not in the idealized medieval past; they
based it upon the unprecedented productivity of means
of production centralized by the bourgeoisie rather than
upon Utopian colonies; they therefore insisted that the
revolution would not divvy up the social wealth but
rather subject it to democratic ownership and put it to
social use. And they saw that this transformation would
come about not through the charity and reasonable-
ness of the rulers, but as a result of the class struggles
of the vast majority.
These things are brilliantly defined in the first two
sections of the Manifesto. The third section described
the various anti-socialist "socialisms." Then the final
section— which is only eleven paragraphs long, but
deals with the critical problem of tactics— advocates a
united front with the very bourgeoisie whose funeral
has just been announced. In England, Marx says, the
Communists will ally with the Chartists, a working-
class movement seeking a more perfect bourgeois de-
mocracy. In the United States they are to back the
agrarian reformers whose key demand was free land,
i.e., private property, in the West. In France the Com-
munists are to march with the petty-bourgeois radicals,

and in Germany with the bourgeoisie itself. At no
point are they to form their own completely indepen-
dent movement for socialist revolution.
Thus Jean Jaures was too harsh, but basically right,
when he held that "what the Manifesto proposes is not
the revolutionary method of a class sure of itself; it is
the expedient revolution of a weak, impatient class that
seeks to speed up events by trickery." The trick that
Jaures alleges is a tactic of promoting Communism by
means of an alliance with the bourgeoisie. G. D. H.
Cole takes somewhat the same view. The revolution-
aries of the period, he wrote, "found it difficult to
reconcile Marx's ferocious denunciations of the bour-
geoisie with his insistence upon helping them to power."
Therefore, says Cole, Marx adopted a radical phrase-
ology in the Manifesto to "win the ears of the revo-

lutionary groundlings."
The Machiavellian explanations of Jaures and Cole
go too far. In this period Marx and Engels changed
their minds and tactics so often that they were anything
but wily strategists. Indeed, their chief fault was the
ad hoc way which they responded to changing po-
in
litical circumstances. But if they were not engaged in
trickery, one of their central assumptions about the
—
period that proletarian revolution was on the agenda
—was simply not true.Engels himself admitted as
much 1893 preface to an Italian
retrospectively. In an
edition of the Manifesto he wrote, "Though the workers
of Paris had become conscious of the inevitable an-
tagonism between their class and the bourgeoisie, nei-
ther the economic development of the country nor the
spiritual development of the French laboring masses
had reached the point which would have made the
transition to socialism possible. In the other countries,
in Italy, Germany and Austria, the workers from the
very first only acted so as to bring the bourgeoisie to
power."
This false evaluation of the strength of the working
class in the Manifesto was linked to another, more sur-
prising, error: the overestimation of capitalism itself.
The Manifesto is, of course, lavish in its praise of
the capitalist past, and even present —
too lavish. It as-
serts that "in a hundred years of class
scarcely
domination, the bourgeoisie has created greater, more
colossal forces of production than all the preceding gen-
erations put together. Mastering the powers of nature
and of machinery, applying chemistry to industry and
agriculture, with steamships, railroads, electric tele-
graphs cultivating the entire world. ." But that was
. .
much too positive an assessment of the capitalism of

the period. As Franz Mehring, the German Marxist his-
torian, wrote during World War I, "When they drew up
the Communist Manifesto, they regarded capitalism as
having reached a level which it has hardly reached in
our day."
54 SOCIALISM
Simultaneous with this excessive admiration for caj
italist accomplishments, the Manifesto overstates capi-
talist tendencies toward misery. For the Manifesto
was written at the end of the "Hungry Forties," that
time of mass malnutrition in England when the theory
that wages would, at best, provide only "for the mainte-
nance of the worker and the continuation of his race"
seemed quite true. If, however, it had been drafted in
1857, the perception of social reality would have been
quite different. But an even more serious error was the
Manifesto's assumption that "the previously existing
middle classes, the small industrialists, merchants and
rentiers, the artisans and peasants" were becoming pro-
letarian. Within ten years of 1848, the numbers of the
petty bourgeoisie were to increase and Marx was to
recognize and analyze that fact.
Thus the Manifesto is a schizophrenic statement. Its
dialectical and historical method, its definition of so-
cialism and identification of the historic tendencies of
capitalism, represented an incomparable advance for a
confused socialist movement. Its overestimation of both
capitalism and Communism and its assertion that so-
ciety was rapidly polarizing into two, and only two,
significant classes were misleading. And, as it turned
out, its tactics were much too soft on bourgeois de-
mocracy. This last, rather bizarre, fact is worth examin-
ing for two reasons: it emphasizes that Marx and Eng-
els' democratic commitment was so serious that, far
from being crypto-totalitarians, they were too uncritical
of the bourgeois democrats; and it helps us to under-
stand the bitterness of their disillusionment which came
at the end of this tumultuous period.
Perhaps the most telling summary of their partici-
pation in these events was made by David Riazanov, a
great Communist scholar who was purged by Stalin.
In 1848, Riazanov points out, Marx and Engels refused
to organize a separate proletarian party. Basing himself
upon the experience of the French Revolution with its
long, drawn-out movement to the Left, Marx wanted
the workers to fight as a part of the bourgeois demo-
cratic forces. Indeed, when Stephen Born, a member of

the Communist League, actually organized the workers
in Berlin on a class basis during that period, Marx and
Engels turned on him bitterly.
So it is incredible, but true, that Karl Marx's Neue
Rheinische Zeitung was attacked during the Revolution
of 1848 for not paying enough attention to economics
and to the working class. Marx admitted the charge:
"From all sides people reproach us that we have not
described the economic relations that form the basis of
the current class and national struggles. We purposely
only touched on those relations when they actually in-
truded immediately into the political battle." But by
March-April, 1848, Marx continued, the bourgeoisie
had triumphed in France and feudalism was victorious
everywhere in Europe. In a sharp volte face he drew a
conclusion diametrically opposed to the theory he had
been acting upon for several years: "any social reform
remains a Utopia until the proletarian revolution and
the feudal counterrevolution take each other's measure
in a world war."
These events are important for both scholarly and
political reasons. In the last, tactical section of the
Manifesto, even as Marx advocated an alliance with the
bourgeois democrats, he warned the workers of their
basic hostility to the capitalists alongside of whom they
were to fight. In Germany, he comments, "the bour-
geois revolution can only be the immediate prelude to
a proletarian revolution." So E. H. Carr can argue that
the Manifesto had "announced the prospect in Ger-
many of an immediate transition from bourgeois revo-
lution to proletarian revolution without the intervening
period of bourgeois rule." But if that is indeed the case,
then the Manifesto also anticipated, and legitimated, the
Marxism of both V. I. Lenin and Joseph Stalin, for
that exactly the kind of revolution they claimed to
is
make in Russia (the details of their theory and practice

will be treated in Chapter VIII). Carr's reading of a
seemingly abstruse point of history and doctrine has the
very political result "that the Russian Revolution can
56 SOCIALISM
claim to be a legitimate child of The Communist Mc
festo." And that is an important step in making Ma
the father of totalitarianism.
Carr is wrong. Insofar as the Manifesto was in-
terpreted by Marx and Engels themselves, they read
itas committing them to a long-term alliance with bour-
geois democracy, not as urging a Bolshevik-like leap
from an unripe capitalism to a revolutionary socialism.
This is clearly the premise of their actions in 1848. It
was only when Marx turned his back on the strategy of
the Manifesto in late 1848 that there is even a hint of
the view that Carr ascribes to the Manifesto itself. For
two bitter disillusioned years after that turning point,
Marx was indeed in a sullen, ultra-Leftist mood, and
this period is a classic source for the Bolshevik, and
then the Stalinist, version of Marxism. Even then, how-
ever, Marx never became dictatorial, much less to-
talitarian. But in any case, the crucial moment in that
period was his decisive rejection of anti-democratic
politics.
Marx had known even before the revolutionary
events that theGerman bourgeoisie was hardly radi-
cal.That fact was explained by the uneven develop-
ment of the country: the capitalists "find themselves al-
ready in a conflict with the proletariat before they have
even constituted themselves as a class." If their coun-
try's backwardness had been, in part, an advantage for
the German socialists by making their political con-
sciousness more revolutionary than the society itself,
it had made the bourgeoisie more reactionary. They
could not possibly envision a revolution in the French
manner, for the armed masses might refuse to stop at
the overthrow of feudalism and go on to attack private
property itself.
By late 1848 the treachery of the bourgeoisie had ex-
ceeded even Marx's anticipation of it. He wrote of that
class, "Its light is like the light of a star which first
appears to people on earth after the body which is its

source has been dead for 100,000 years. The March
Revolution in Prussia was such a star for Europe. Its

light was the light of a long-rotting social corpse."
This new analysis required a new strategy. By March
of 1850 Marx and Engels, who had refused to build a
workers' party only two years before, were calling upon
the proletarians to set up their own fiercely indepen-
dent organizations. When it was necessary, they were to
march together with the petty-bourgeois democrats, but
in any case, they must form secret, armed groups. And
then, in a passage that prefigures some of the tactics of
the Russian Revolution of 1917, Marx and Engels
wrote, "The workers must set up their own revolution-
ary proletarian regime alongside the new official gov-
ernment, whether in the form of local boards, councils,
clubs, or committees of workers. . . .
"From the very first moment of the victory, the

workers must distrust not only the defeated reaction-
ary party, but its former comrades as well, and fight
that party which will try to exploit the common victory
—
on its own." And the conclusion which clearly echoed
in the mind of Leon Trotsky in the Petrograd Soviet
of 1917: "The battle cry must be: Permanent Revolu-
tion." (Die Revolution in Permanent)
This mood lasted for about two years, from the fall
of 1848 to the middle of 1850. It brought Marx as
close to anti-democracy as he ever came. 2
ni
It was during this ultra-Leftist period that Marx used

the fateful phrase "dictatorship of
the proletariat."
It is, alas, of little political moment that it can be
demonstrated that whenMarx wrote this phrase, he did
notmean "dictatorship," at least as the word is now
commonly employed. Nor does it matter to posterity
that the phrase used only a few times in the writings
is
of Marx and Engels and at one point describes an-

archist libertarianism rather than violent suppression.
58 SOCIALISM
Nevertheless, the phrase provided a certain semantic
legitimacy for the anti-socialist totalitarians who were
inscribe the slogan on their banners. But even if tt
truth is not a political defense against history, it is ir
portant to anyone who would understand the socialis
movement and what Marx and Engels really meant.
It was in April of 1850 that Marx and Engels me
with some Blanquists and Left-wing Chartists in Lor
don. There they signed the statutes of the World
ciety of Revolutionary Communists. Article I declared:
"The aim of the associationis the overthrow of all priv-
ileged classes, their subjugation by the dictatorship of

the proletariat which will maintain the revolution in
permanence until communism, the last organizational
form of the human family, will be constructed." The
organization was stillborn. The Blanquists sided with
the anti-Marxist minority within the Communist League
and Marx and Engels (and the Chartist Harney) de-
nounced the statutes in October, 1850. But the phrase
"dictatorship of the proletariat" had now been iden-
tified with Karl Marx and his ideas.
The problem is Marx did not mean dictatorship
when he said dictatorship. Even in his Class Struggles
in France which was written during the bitter months
in early 1850, the term is used so as to be compatible,
even identified, with democracy. "The constitutional re-
public," Marx wrote of the peasants, "is the dictator-
ship of their united exploiters; the social democratic
red republic is the dictatorship of their allies." In each
case, it is possible to have a republic, and in the latter
instance, a social democratic republic, which is also a
dictatorship.
Such a paradoxical definition makes no sense in con-
temporary vocabulary. It makes, however, a good deal
of sense when it is understood within the framework of
Marx's thought. Sidney Hook brilliantly clarified this
point in Towards the Understanding of Karl Marx. In
Marx, Hook writes, "wherever we find a state we find
a dictatorship." In the Marxian analysis, the state is
necessary only in a class society of inequality where
the struggle over scarce resources is organized by —

force, if necessary —
to favor the ruling class. There-
fore the most libertarian of bourgeois democracies is a
dictatorship in the sense that the economic wealth and
power of the rich contradicts the theoretical political
equality of all citizens. For economic power is political
power, and under capitalism, the means of production
are always concentrating and falling under the control
of an ever smaller elite. "Dictatorship" then defined the
class basis of a society, not its political forms, and it
did not necessarily imply the repression of civil lib-
erties.
Thus it was that Engels, who also proclaimed his be-
lief in was against
the dictatorship of the proletariat,
any form of minority rule. In 1874 he analyzed the
French ultra-Leftists: "Given Blanqui's conception of
the revolution as the work of a small, revolutionary
minority, it followed necessarily that there would be a
dictatorship after the revolution; not, to be sure, the
dictatorship of the entire class of the proletariat, but
of that smallnumber who made the surprise attack and
who are themselves organized under the dictatorship
of one individual or of a few members of a small
group." (Emphasis added.)
But it was in Marx's and Engels' description of the
Paris Commune as a dictatorship that the uniqueness
of their definition most apparent. As Engels put it,
is
"In opposition to the changes that had taken place

under all previous forms of the state, where the ser-
vants of the society master, the Commune
become its
had two weapons. every position, be it

First of all,
administrative, judicial or educational, was filled by

universal suffrage of the people and was subject to im-
mediate recall by the same people. And secondly, all
official jobs, high or low, were paid at the same wages
as the workers received." Thus "dictatorship" equals
universal suffrage, immediate recallability of all officials
and a working-class wage for the bureaucracy. What is
"dictatorial" about the situation is that the property
forms of the society now systematically favor the work-
60 SOCIALISM
ers as they —
once even in democratic republics dis- —
criminated on behalf of the bourgeoisie.
So "dictatorship" does not mean dictatorship but the
fulfillment of democracy. The tragic problem is that
the scholar can follow the subtlety of the Marxian
analysis, but the activist in the street —
and the dictator
—
occupying the seat of power tend to take the word at
its most obvious, and brutal, meaning. It is in this way
that Marxism has become identified with anti-democrat-

ic repression.
But then, what is involved is not a scholarly gloss
on some canonical text. For Marx and Engels,
as these
chapters show, define socialism in its very essence as a
movement of the overwhelming majority which would
smash a "democratic" state apparatus that had been
designed to exclude the people from participation. It
is not just that the creation of dictatorships in their
name rests upon a misreading of their specific ideas

on the subject of political freedom. It subverts their
entire conception of socialism as well. 3
IV
It was in the fall of 1 850 that events forced Marx and

Engels to reverse themselves once again. They aban-
doned that ultra-Leftist intransigence that had led them
to their with Blanqui's conspiratorial
brief flirtation
ideas. But even more important, they had made a de-
cisive turn toward deepening their democratic vision of
socialism.
The Revolution of 1848, Marx argued, had been
created by the depression of 1837-1842, the specula-
tive crisis of 1 846 and the failure of the potato harvest
and the consequent hunger in Ireland. Prosperity had
returned to England in 1848, and in 1849 there was a
great spurt in the cotton industry. This helped the Ger-
mans and the French as well as the English, and the
discovery of gold in California gave even more en-
couragement to the system. Marx concluded, "Given
—
this general prosperity in which the productive power

of bourgeois society develops itself as much as it can
within the framework of bourgeois relations, there can
be no talk of revolution."
The Communist League split over Marx's new analy-
sis. Two
leaders of the organization, Willich and Schap-
per, continued to defend the old position. Marx
charged, "In the place of critical analysis, the minority
is dogmatic. It is idealist, not materialist. Instead of
making living relationships the driving force of the
revolution, they appeal to pure will While we say to
the workers, 'You have fifteen, twenty, or fifty years of
civilwar and popular struggle to carry out, not only to
change the relationships but to change yourself and
enable yourself to rule politically,' they say, 'We must
"
either come to power or we might as well go to sleep.'
In March, 1850, Marx had called for insurrection
and "permanent revolution." Six months later he stoi-
cally contemplated the possibility that it would take
half a century of struggle before socialism would tri-
umph and insisted, in profound contrast to the Blan-
quists and other conspirators, that the workers had to
change not only political and economic relationships,
but themselves as well. Antonio Gramsci, one of the
founders of the Italian Communist Party, brilliantly
understood the profundity of the moment, even though
he did not see all its implications.*
In a polemic against Trotsky, who had applied the
theory of the "permanent revolution" to Russia, Gram-
sci wrote,"The political concept of the so-called per-
manent revolution first emerges in 1848 as the scientifi-
cally elaborated expression of the Jacobin experience
from 1789 to Thermidor. The formula applies in a
historic period in which there do not exist large mass
* Most Communist writers, particularly in the Stalinist era,

wrote vulgar political apologetics for totalitarianism annotated
with the obligatory citations from Marx. But a few of them
—
Gramsci, Lukacs, some of the English historians did serious
work.
62 SOCIALISM
political parties and unions, when society was therefore
in a more fluid state. The countryside was backward
and a few cities monopoly of
exercised an almost total
was concen-
political-state efficiency, or else the latter
trated in a single city (Paris for France). The state
apparatus is relatively undeveloped and there is con-
siderable autonomy for the national economy in rela-
tionship to the world economy.
"In the period after 1870, with the colonial expan-
sion of Europe, all these elements change. The internal
and international relations of the state become more
organized and complex, and the '48 formula of 'perma-
nent revolution' is replaced in political science by the
formula'civil hegemony.' There occurs in the political
which occurs in the military art: the war of
art that
movement becomes increasingly a war of position."
Gramsci's insight is basic. In the years leading up to
1850 Marx was a democrat in the Jacobin sense. He
saw the coming revolution as a gigantic popular explo-
sion from below, as a democratic insurrection. But in
the 1850s and 1860s he had to revise his most basic
strategic notions. The working-class movement was
changing, it was organizing itself into unions, and there
were possibilities of political action that could not have
been even imagined earlier. At that point, Marx's per-
spective became even more democratic in the modern
sense of the term: it increasingly envisioned the non-
violentand electoral conquest of power. It is that mo-

mentous change that is the subject of the next chapter.
But even before that transition took place, at the
very outset when he first became a socialist, Karl Marx
had understood that democracy was of the socialist
essence. That knowledge pervaded his economic, philo-
sophic and political analysis of the 1840s, and in
The Communist Manifesto its application even led him
to be too uncritical of the bourgeois democrats. He re-
coiled bitterlyfrom that error and committed a rhe-
torical sin which history has not forgiven and which
many a totalitarian has celebrated: he used the word
"dictatorship" to describe democracy. He recovered
from months and it

that tragic error within a matter of
cannot be allowed to obscure the depth of his demo-
cratic commitment.
Most important of all, in the 1850s Marx became
the first Marxian revisionist. He analyzed the prevailing
situation,developed a new strategy and in the process
prepared the way for one of the most decisive events
in the history of socialism: its identification with the
labor movement. 4
IV
The Unknown Karl Marx
This chapter is about the unknown Karl Marx.

There are, to be sure, a few scholars who know who
he was. But as far as most of the literate public is con-
cerned, the Karl Marx who lived between 1850 and
1883 did not exist. That unknown Karl Marx is so at
variance with the totalitarian, or the insurrectionary or
the intransigent Marx of popular myth that the mean-
ing of his mature years has either been ignored or
distorted. He was, for instance, certainly revolutionary,
but also a moderate, and that dialectical combination
baffles most of the accepted readings of him. In what
follows, I will try to bring that Marxian unity of con-
traries back in all of its complexity, for the future
already demands the same quality: a very thoughtful
audacity.
After the defeats and disillusionments of 1848, Marx
worked out a new strategy. In the most crucial single
turning point in socialist history he succeeded in identi-
fying his ideal with the aspirations of the nascent
labor movement, and this identification marked the rise
of democratic socialism.
It had been, as the last chapter showed, a tremendous
moral and intellectual accomplishment to see the bru-
talized urban masses of the new capitalism as the
agency of their own emancipation. Now Marx made
another daring leap. He realized that the un- and even
anti-revolutionary unions that had been built in the
1850s and in the early 1860s were the cells of the
revolution-to-come. He was, of course, bitterly attacked
from the ultra-Left because of this view, most notably
65
—
66 SOCIALISM
by Bakunin. But he rejected the latter's apocalyptic vi-
sion of creative destruction and insisted upon the role
of a conscious working class. As a result, the democrat-
ic character of this final goal became even more pre-
cise and profound.
As Marx'stactic began to succeed, it attracted the
attention of sophisticated conservatives. Napoleon III
was the forerunner, trying to manipulate the labor
movement for his own purposes, but it was the Junker
Bismarck who came up with the truly bold scheme:
he proposed to co-opt socialism itself. This was the
first appearance of a phenomenon which is still quite
contemporary: anti-socialist "socialism." Marx fought
it on democratic grounds, rejecting the idea of a "revo-
lution from above" in terms of his basic theory and his

immediate tactics.
Paradoxically, Bismarck's plan promoted the for-
tunes of the socialists it was supposed to undercut and
was a crucial factor in winning German social demo-
crats to Marxism. Thus between Marx's death in 1883
and the outbreak of World War I in 1914 a mighty
labor and socialist movement emerged, and it seemed
that the Marxian prediction of working-class revolution
was being inexorably fulfilled. Then, in the supreme
hour of trial in August, 1914, the socialists betrayed
their most fundamental principles, as the workers of
Europe, who had solemnly pledged to oppose any
bourgeois war, joined their various national armies to
slaughter one another. European socialism has not yet
recovered from that moment and it may never do so,
for it raises the most basic questions about the revolu-
tionary potential of the proletariat.
These three aspects of the rise of democratic so-
cialism —the link with the trade unions, the struggle
against anti-socialist "socialism" and the partial tri-
umphs that culminated in the basic failure of 1914
are all fascinating in and of themselves. But, like the
rest of the history in this book, they are also part of a
past that illuminates the future. The question of which
The Unknown Karl Marx 67
class, or classes, will lead in the creation of the good

society very much on the agenda; there are anti-
is still
socialist "socialisms" all over the globe, with the new

variants literally developing almost every year; and
European social democracy has not yet solved the prob-
lems that led it to betray Marxist principles more than
half a century ago. The unknown Karl Marx has some-
thing to contribute to each of these questions.
It could be plausibly argued that the Karl Marx who is

described in these pages is a backward, and wishful,
projection of this writer's present politics. Since there
is indeed a remarkable convergence between my cur-
rent attitudes and my version of history, let me cite an
authority who cannot be impeached on such grounds.
When it suited his purposes, and only but unmistak-
ably then, V. I. Lenin understood the momentousness
of the change that took place in the 1850s and led to
the emergence of Marx the social democrat.
In 1905 the Russian socialists were debating wheth-
er they should take the lead in the coming revolution
and whether, if the movement triumphed, they should
participate in a Provisional Revolutionary Government
that would be based upon the peasantry as well as the
working class. Plekhanov, the father of Russian Marx-
ism, was against such a tactic; Lenin was for it (Chap-
ter VIII will treat these matters in greater detail). In
the course of their dispute Plekhanov turned back to
Marx and Engels' bitter address to the Communist
League in 1850. That was the period when they warned
against making any concessions to the petty-bourgeois
democrats and argued that the workers must arm them-
selves, form secret societies and even build counter-
institutions which would exist alongside of, but op-
posed to, the official institutions. This precedent was
invoked to prove that the Russian revolutionaries
68 SOCIALISM
should not join with the petty-bourgeois democrats of
their — —
day the radical peasants but should take a
much more intransigent stand.
Lenin countered Plekhanov with a brilliant analysis
of the decisive change that took place in the 1850s.
When they wrote that address in March, 1850, he said,
"Marx believed that capitalism was in a state of senile
decay and the socialist revolution seemed to him 'quite
near.' Shortly afterward Marx corrected this mistake.
. .The proletariat might still have to face fifteen,
.
twenty or fifty years of civil war and international con-

flicts 'not only to change the conditions, but to change
yourselves [the proletarians] and to render yourselves
"
fit for political rule.'
Then Lenin describes the history that followed upon
Marx's change in mind. Twenty-five years after they
had wrongly dismissed the issue, he continues, Marx
and Engels were still fighting for democratic freedoms
in Germany. And in 1885 Engels hoped that a Ger-
man revolution, would bring power to those very petty-
bourgeois democrats he had once written off as being
too treacherous. So there was, as Lenin quite rightly
emphasizes, a basic change in Marx's and Engels* orien-
tation which took place after 1850 and dominated their
actions for the rest of their lives. They realized that in
their anger over the betrayals of 1848, they had under-
estimated the potential of democracy for social change.
It is in this context that one must understand their
enormous contribution, and commitment, to the crea-
tion of a social democratic movement by means of an
alliance with essentially reformist trade unionists. In
the perspective of The Communist Manifesto, and even
more so in terms of the ultra-Left analysis of 1850,
such a tactic would be a betrayal. For the mature
Marx, it was the path to a socialist mass movement.
Lenin is, of course, the sponsor of another Marx
who stands in dramatic contrast to the man and the
politics he thus described in 1905. In 1917 the issue
was not one of sharing power with peasants but of
seizing it in the name of the proletariat. Therefore
—
Lenin focused upon the Manifesto, Marx's defense of

the Paris Commune, and his critique of the obsessive
legalism of the German socialists (if one learns the
particular texts a Marxist uses, it is usually easy to pre-
dict the political conclusions). But if Marx's writings
are granted the courtesy of a Marxist interpretation
if they are seen in their actual relationship to their time
and place and not treated as a scripture to be ran-
—
sacked for holy precedents it is clear that the demo-
cratic Marx described by Lenin in 1905 was the ma-
ture Marx who existed in reality.
So V. I. Lenin is at least the partial authority for
Karl Marx, the democratic socialist, who is described
here.
In the years after Marx's dramatic change of mind
in 1850, a trade-union movement had emerged inEu-
rope. That was the critical precondition for democratic
socialism then; it remains so now. In England the eco-
nomic expansion that began in 1849 was to last for
almost a decade and eliminate the hunger that had
given rise to Chartism. At first the new conditions did
not radicalize the workers at all. Two million of the
most vigorous and independent among them left for
the United States, and those who stayed behind found
it relatively easy to find jobs. But then there was a
crash in 1857-1858 and labor responded by militant

protest. In 1859 there was a mass strike that involved
sections of industry that had never before been orga-
nized. It was in the course of this struggle that the
leadership of it declared they were engaged in a con-
flict between the political economy of labor and the
politicaleconomy of capital.
Meanwhile the French labor movement was also
growing, but under the most ironic of auspices. After
the economic downturn in the late fifties, Napoleon
III attempted to win support among the workers by al-
lowing them a certain freedom of union organization.
The followers of Proudhon took advantage of this im-
perial concession (and were promptly denounced by the
Blanquists for selling out). Then in 1862 Armand
70 SOCIALISM
Levy, a journalist on the Right wing of the labor move
ment, asked the "Red Prince," Jerome Bonaparte, for
financial aid to send a French workers' delegation to
the Exposition being held that year in London. The
Blanquists once again denounced this contact with
the ruling class, but many Proudhonists went along.
The resultant meetings between the French and British
trade unionists were a major factor in the establish-
ment of the International Workingmen's Association
(IWMA), the "First International," in 1864.
was this most un-Marxian united front of British
It
labor, which was politically oriented toward the bour-
geois radicals, and French followers of Proudhon, who
traveled with aid from the Bonapartes and were for
state aid to decentralized associations of producers,
that Marx made the focus of his politics for the next
several years. This tactic, which outraged all the purists
at the time, laid the basis for the historic identification
of socialism and trade unionism that persists in Europe
to this day. Marx formulated it most brilliantly and
explicitly in the "Inaugural Address" to the in IWMA
1864.
One section of that document gives a particularly
vivid measure of how far he had traveled from the
bitter days of defeat in 1849 and 1850, but more than
that it gives to a perennial problem for
Marx's answer
radicals: What
the relationship between immediate
is
reform and ultimate revolution?

After describing how all those on the Left had been
hounded into silence or exile after 1848, Marx cites
two exceptions in the decade of gloom that followed
upon the failure of the revolution. One was the rise of
a cooperative movement, which proved that wage la-
bor was not necessary and could be, and would be, re-
placed by "associated work which is performed by will-
ing hands, hearty spirits and happy hearts." But his
second example of victory in the time of reaction is
even more revealing. Marx hailed the struggle in En-
gland for the legal restriction of the working day to ten
hours as "a conflict between the blind rule of the law
of supply and demand, which forms the political econ-

omy of the middle class, and the control of social
production through insight and foresight, which is the
political economy of the working class. So the Ten
Hours was not simply a great practical accom-
Bill
plishment: it was also a triumph of principle. For the
first time in the full light of day the political economy
of the middle class gave way to the political economy

of the working class." And in showering his contempt
upon the middle class, Marx denounced the economist
Nassau Senior, who had fought the shortening of the
working day on the grounds that it "would sound the
death knell of English industry."
Yet Marx and Engels had themselves come perilous-
ly close to adopting Senior's position in the name of
radicalism some years before. In March of 1850, when
both were in their ultra-Left mood, Engels wrote about
the Ten Hours Law for a Chartist publication. It was,
he said, "a false step, an unpolitical and even reac-
tionary measure. ." Capitalism as capitalism re-
. .
quired profits, and that meant lengthening the working

day. Limiting the working day, he argued, did not
challenge the system in any basic way, but only made
it less efficient.
To Engels did not go the whole route and
his credit,
oppose the his critique of it was quite in keep-
bill. But
ing with his attitude, and Marx's, in 1850. If one be-
lieves that revolution is imminent, then reforms, which
ameliorate the contradictions of the system rather than
driving them to the outside limit, impede the coming
upheaval. But by 1864 both Marx and Engels under-
stood that an insurrection of the type of 1848 was no
longer feasible. They therefore devoted their lives to
linking the socialist ideal to the struggles of a labor
movement that was gradualist, and thus the Ten Hours
Bill was no longer a "false step," but now "a triumph
of the political economy of the working class." The
all-or-nothing radicalism had vanished; the potential of
democracy and the value of reform had taken its place. 1
There are those, however, who argue that Marx's
72 SOCIALISM
formulation in the "Inaugural" and other document
of the period were only tactical in character. These
statements, Robert C. Tucker holds, "seemed to sanc-
tion gradualism, an electoral orientation and a belief ir
a peaceful path of socialist revolution." Later on, Tuck-
er says, they were used by social democrats "to paper
over the discrepancy between theoretical revolutionisr
and practical reforms" and that was "part of the gen-
eral process of the deradicalization of the social demo-
cratic Marxist movement." So powerful is the image of
—
Marx the "radical" in the extremist, apocalyptic and
anti-moderate sense of the word —
that even though
more than half of his adult life does not conform to
it, his actual behavior is dismissed as "seeming" to be
what it is not.
In the true radicalism of Marx in this period,
fact,
as in the 840s, was that he was courageous enough to
1
be outrageously moderate when that was what the

times required. And his attitude on the Ten Hour Law
was hardly an afterthought or a rhetorical strategy de-
signed to hold together a coalition of non- and anti-
socialist trade unionists. In Marx's masterpiece, Das
Kapital, an entire historical section is devoted to the
progressive historical significance of that struggle over
the length of the working day. It is, to be sure, quite
true that he returned to some of the revolutionary for-
mulations of The Communist Manifesto in the period
when he felt obliged to defend the Paris Commune
against the near-universal condemnation of it in all of
Europe. Yet once the immediate political need of de-
fending the sacrifice of the Communards was past, he
became quite blunt and unromantic about the event.
In 1881 he wrote of it, "apart from the fact that this
was only an insurrection of city workers under excep-
tional circumstances, the majority of the commune
was not at all socialist nor could it be. With a modi-
cum of common sense, it could, however, have achieved
a compromise with Versailles [the seat of the reaction-
aries who drowned the Commune in blood] which
would have been useful to the whole people which—
was all that could have been achieved. The appropria-

tion of the Bank of France would have put a rapid end
to the blustering of Versailles."
Indeed a romantic simplification of Marx's attitude
on the Commune is crucial to many a contemporary
Leftist myth. Lenin had made that event a decisive
precedent for his taking power in 1917; it proved that
the Marxian revolutionary would, given the chance,
"smash" the state apparatus and thus make a single,
giant leap from the old order to the new. But before
the Commune, Marx was apprehensive, highly critical
of his followers in Paris and their Jacobin bombast, con-
cerned because the followers of Proudhon and Blanqui
were in control of the working-class movement. But
when the rising took place and he was attacked from
the Right by the bourgeois — —
and trade-union critics
of its violence and from the Left by Bakunin, who
pointed out how decentralist and un-Marxian the revo-
lution in Paris was, Marx rallied rather uncritically to
its defense. These are the polemical and propagandist
writings which Lenin, and those who follow in his
tradition, have elevated to the status of Marx's final
word on the subject. They thus ignore his considered
opinion, as expressed in that 1881 letter and other com-
ments: that the Commune was a botched, and badly
led, act of proletarian heroism.
When it was not a question of establishing a prece-
dent for his own Lenin himself was
seizure of power,
perfectly aware that Marx saw the Commune as an
inevitable failure. But just as he conveniently forgot
the democratic Marx he had once known when the in-
surrection became imminent, so did he also forget what
he knew of the Commune.
But perhaps the best way to understand the sea
change in Marx's views is to see it in the context of his
debate with Bakunin within the First International.
That exchange counterposed proletarian and lumpen-
proletarian socialism, and even more important, con-
cerned the ultimate vision of socialism. Indeed, the dis-
cussion is still going on.
74 SOCIALISM
Bakunin championed the revolutionary potential of
the lumpenproletariat. This was not the disciplined
working-class movement created by the necessities of
struggle against capitalism. It embraced, in his defini-
tion, "the millions of the uncivilized, the disinherited,
the miserable and the illiterate, this great popular ca-
naille which, being almost totally virgin to all bour-
geois civilization, contains within itself, in its passions
and instincts, in all of the necessities and miseries of
its germs of the socialism of
collective position, all the
the future. . .was "the proletariat in rags, the
." It
wretched." It has been celebrated more recently by
Frantz Fanon, who wrote, "So the pimps, the hooligans,
the unemployed and the petty criminals, urged on from
behind, throw themselves into the struggle for liberation
like stout working men. . . . The prostitutes, too, and
the maids who are paid two pounds a month,
the all
hopeless dregs of humanity, who
turn in circles be-
all
tween suicide and madness, will recover their balance
and march proudly in the great procession of the awak-
ened nation." And Herbert Marcuse, though he speaks
as a Marxist, has the same Bakuninist hopes for "the
substratum of the outcasts and outsiders, the exploited
and persecuted of other races and other colors, the un-
employed and the unemployable."
Marx had great compassion for the lumpenproletariat
— and great suspicion of its political predispositions. In
his most systematic analysis of it in the first volume of
Das Kapital, he saw it as a result of the "overpopula-
tion" and social turmoil that capitalism had created by
destroying the old order. It was, he said, the "Lazarus
stratum" of the working class, composed of "vagabonds,
criminals and prostitutes," of the jobless, the children
of poverty and the unemployable. Precisely because
the conditions of lumpenproletarian life were so pre-
carious and fluid, its activists tended toward a Bo-
hemian personal life and a politics of conspiracy and
insurrection. Therefore, Marx argued in his analysis
of the victory of Napoleon III, these adventurists could
be mobilized by reaction to serve its purposes. The in-
—
sight was shrewd: in the 1930s the Nazis in Germany

had just such a wing in their movement and one writer
even called them the "armed Bohemians."
Therefore Marx rejected Bakunin's faith in the eman-
cipating power of lumpenproletarian destructiveness
and the "spontaneous organization" of the people's lib-
erty. Under his leadership, the London Conference of
the IWMA 1871 voted in favor of a tactic that held
in
that "constituting the working class as a political party
is essential for the triumph of the social revolution and
its It was pre-
ultimate aim, the abolition of classes."
cisely this upon democratic and political
insistence
struggle that marked him off from Bakunin, Blanqui
and Proudhon in the International. Democracy was,
once again, the distinctive and defining element in his
position.
But then, what was involved in thisdebate was much
more than a mere question of concerned the
tactics. It
very essence of socialism itself. In Bakunin's romantic
theory (and in practice, the arch-libertarian was a man
of conspiracy, fantasy and authoritarianism), there was
no need for a disciplined and political self-consciousness
on the part The
revolution was to be an
of the masses.
elemental event, an act of tempestuous human nature,
and it was necessary to worry about construction only
after the work of ruin had been accomplished. In
Marx's perspective, it was the democratic self-organiza-
tion of the proletariat that was the truly radical act
even if it initially took reformist forms. The aim re-
mained utterly revolutionary: "the abolition of classes."
The strategy was now social democratic.
This does not in the least mean that Marx had be-
come a socialist on the model of the German social
democrats World War I, that is, believing
just before
one-way evolution to the new order. For
in a legalistic,
it must be remembered that in 1871 the demand for
democracy was quite subversive of the status quo in

Europe. In France the generals and the National As-
sembly were in control and the Left had been shat-
tered; in Germany the vote was explicitly weighted in
76 SOCIALISM
favor of the propertied classes, and the Reichstag, in
any case, had no real power; in Austro-Hungary the
Hapsburgs ruled; and so on. Therefore when Marx in-
sisted on fighting for thoroughgoing democracy, he
was, even as he proposed an alliance with the bour-
geois liberals, advocating an extremely radical course
of action.
If Marx had any
fault in this area it was that he had
illusionsabout what democracy, in and of itself, could
accomplish. In 1852 he had even argued that "the
carrying of Universal Suffrage in England would there-
fore be a far more socialistic measure than anything
which has been honoured with that name on the Con-
tinent. Its inevitable result here [in England] is the po-
litical supremacy of the working class. " As it turned
out, of course, universal suffrage did not have that ef-
fect in England and Marx's hopes were disappointed
(for reasons that will be examined shortly).
In any case, if Marx never became a legalistic evolu-
tionary, as some of his disciples did, he emphasized the
self-conscious emancipation of the proletariat at all
times and he saw the struggle of workers' parties for
democratic freedoms as a crucial element in this pro-
cess. Indeed, the unknown Karl Marx might be re-
proached for having been somewhat too naive about
the potential of universal suffrage. 2
II
In the 1860s and 1870s Marx's tactic was applied in

Germany with increasing success. As a result, Bismarck
adopted a fateful plan: he would defeat the new move-
ment by taking over its slogans, and even part of its
program, and making them serve his own anti-socialist
purposes. This was the first appearance of anti-socialist
"socialism" as a major political force, but certainly not
the last. An analysis of it should therefore provide in-
sights into a phenomenon that is likely to continue well
into the twenty-first century.
What follows, then, is a brief survey of a distant past

which is by no means finished: the origins of anti-
socialist "socialism."
In the early 1860s the German liberals had helped
create workers' education societies in order to win the
proletariat to their reformist cause. One of the architects
of this policy, Schulze-Delitzsch, advocated self-help
through consumers' cooperatives and credit associations.
In 1863 Ferdinand Lassalle was invited by the Berlin
and Leipzig workers' societies to address them. He at-
tacked Schulze-Delitzsch and came out for producers'
cooperatives which would receive state aid. Lassalle's
speech had enormous impact, and on May 23, 1863,
the General German Workers' Association (Allgemein-
er Deutscher Arbeitsverein) was founded on the basis
of his program and with a grant of almost dictatorial
authority to him.
Lassalle was an extraordinary man —
a swashbuckler
who died in a duel, a romantic with an aristocratic life-
style. Marx thought his downfall came when he fell in
with "military adventurers and revolutionaries in kid
gloves." There had been bad blood between the two
leaders, partly based on politics, partly the result of the
fact that Lassalle had once refused to lend Marx some
money. It was this hostility that kept Marx from recog-
nizing that Lassalle had brilliant gifts as an organizer,
and for all his weakness as a theorist, was therefore
one of the founders of the German social democratic
movement.
In 1863, when Lassalle succeeded in organizing the
General German Workers' Association Marx and Engels
greeted the truly historic event with sectarian sullen-
ness. Engels was outraged that Lassalle was building
his organization "on the basis of our earlier work," and
Marx said that his writings "abound in historic and
theoretical blunders." Some years later, in 1868 after —
Lassalle was dead —
Marx's assessment was more gen-
erous and more accurate: "After it had slumbered for
fifteen years, Lassalle —
and this remains his undying
service- -woke up the German working class."
78 SOCIALISM
Indeed, as Franz Mehring has pointed out, some of
the theoretical errors committed by Lassalle and ex-
coriated by Marx had their origin in The Communist
Manifesto. If Lassalle believed that there was an "iron
law" holding wages to subsistence levels, he could cer-
tainly cite that document as his authority (Engels him-
self admitted in 1885 that the Manifesto was the source
of Lassalle's heresy, noting that Marx had changed his
mind on this rather crucial point). And the Manifesto
had called for centralized state credit, another Las-
sallean plank. The mature Marx, to be sure, went far
beyond the Marx of 1848, but if personal factors were
not at work, it is hard to see why he was so harsh on an
associate whose greatest fault was to have learned too

many lessons from the young Karl Marx.
And yet there was one difference between them
which was of tremendous importance. It concerned de-
mocracy and anti-socialist "socialism."
By the time he organized the Association in 1863
Lassalle had turned sharply against the liberal demo-
crats with whom he, and the German workers, had
previously worked. More than that, he looked toward
Bismarck and the Prussian royal house as possible allies
in the socialist struggle. The Junkers and the throne
were, of course, steeped in feudal tradition, and if they
felt compelled to make the transition to a modern econ-
omy, they were still contemptuous of the bourgeoisie.
So there was a historic basis for urging the conver-
gence of the German Right and Left, both of which
were anti-bourgeois, against the liberals in the middle.
When Lassalle led a deputation of workers to see
the king, he reported back to his followers that the
monarch was on their side and that the logic of his po-
sition would require him to support universal suffrage.
This attempt at revolution from above was in keeping
with Lassalle's general outlook. He emphasized the rec-
onciliation of "freedom and authority" and spoke of
the "dictatorship of intelligence," attacking the bour-
geois liberals for their individualism. The state, he em-
phasized, must be "the unity of individuals in an ethical

whole."
Marx and Engels fought Lassalle's Bismarckian strat-
egy in the name of democracy, and argued for a united
front with the capitalists against the feudalists. As Eng-
els wrote in 1856, "It is in the interest of the workers
to support the bourgeoisie in its battle against reac-
tionary elements, so long as the bourgeoisie remains
true toitself. Every victory that the bourgeoisie achieves
over reaction is, under this condition, good for the
workers. The German workers have instinctively recog-
nized this. They have, quite rightly, voted in all the
German states for the most radical candidates they could
find."
After Lassalle's death, Marx was even more explicit.
In a letter to Lassalle's successor, Johann Baptist von
Schweitzer, he criticized the emphasis on unity and au-
thority: "Here, where the workers have been bureau-
cratically disciplined from the cradle on and believe
in established authority, it is necessary above all to
teach them to be independent." As
turned out, Las-
it
salle's practical political intuition was

better than
Marx's: German unification did come about through
the Prussian throne and Bismarck, not by way of a
bourgeois democratic upheaval. However, Marx was
not only right, but prophetic, on the principled issue.
The absence of a German revolution from below, as
Barrington Moore has persuasively demonstrated, pre-
pared the cultural and political way for Adolf Hitler. 3
More immediately, Lassalle's tactics were the politi-
cal prelude to the emergence of anti-socialist "social-
ism." Bismarck had learned that there were gains to be
made by appealing to the workers' anti-capitalism from
the Right. And the labor movement itself had shown
that it contained some who could not distinguish be-
tween a democratic and an authoritarian collectivism.
As time went on, the difference between these two trends
was, as we will see, to take on enormous, even critical
proportions. In the 1880s confusion over it allowed
80 SOCIALISM
Bismarck to carry out his own version of Lassalle's
strategy.
In the election of 1874 two German workers' par-
ties — —
one following Marx, the other Lassalle shared
only 3 percent of the vote, but after they united at the
Gotha Congress of 1875, their strength increased to 9
percent in the campaign of 1877. This electoral success
was followed in May and June of 1878 by two attacks
upon the life of the Kaiser. Using these assassination
attempts as a pretext, Bismarck effectively outlawed the
institutions of German socialism with an Anti-Socialist
law. Paradoxically, this policy strengthened the social-
ists, for it proved to the people that their agitation
had been quite effective and it also had the result of

forcing the underground leadership into a radical mood
and ultimately to Marxism itself.
So Bismarck could not rely upon the stick alone
against the German socialists and their movement; he
also employed the carrot. In 1881 he initiated wide-
ranging health and accident insurance programs which
were designed to draw the workers away from the so-
cial democrats. But the people understood that the gov-
ernment had become benevolent primarily because of
the socialist mass threat. So they kept on voting for the
Marxists, in part precisely because of Bismarck's at-
tempt to co-opt their program. Yet, Bismarck's welfare
programs and nationalizations were at such obvious
variance with the laissez-faire model of capitalism that
the social democrats had to define this new develop-
ment. They called it "state socialism."
It had long been understood that government owner-
ship of the means of production could be the basis of a
new form of oppression. That, of course, had been a
crucial point for anarchists like Bakunin and the mu-
tualists (advocates of producers' cooperatives with
aid from state subsidies) who followed Proudhon. Even
Louis Blanc, who is usually identified as the father of
the statist tradition of socialism, was aware of the prob-
lem. The socialist ateliers which he proposed to set up
with government aid were to be regulated, but not run,
by the state. Central control of the economy, Blanc

said in 1848, could lead to tyranny and the forma-
tion of a new social class.
Karl Marx himself was particularly concerned with
this problem. As a German, he came from a nation and
culture with a long bureaucratic tradition and an au-
thoritarianism that, as he indicated in his letter to Jo-
hann Baptist von Schweitzer, pervaded even the work-
ing-class milieu. In one of those crucial documents
of his own first formulation of Marxism written in
1843, he wrote that "bureaucracy has taken over the
state itself, the spiritual essence of the state, as its
private property/' So state property was not necessarily
socialist; it could be the private possession of the bu-
reaucrats who run the state.
In Anti-Duhring, which was first published in 1878,
Engels had been more precise. As the capitalist eco-
nomic system became more complex and interdepen-
dent, the bourgeois state would have to take over the
direction of the economy, precisely in order to main-
tain capitalist exploitation. This, he continued, would
require the nationalization of some industries, and first
of all, the means of communication and transporta-
tion: the post office, telegraph and railroads. Bismarck
soon confirmed this prediction, and in a footnote to a
later edition of the book Engels warned that the Jun-
ker's nationalizations had given rise to "a certain false
socialism . . . that seesany statification, even Bis-
marck's, as socialistic."
It was Karl Kautsky who defined this phenomenon
as "state socialism," i.e., a statified, anti-socialist ver-
sion of capitalism. And Engels commented on Kaut-
sky's theorizing in a letter to Eduard Bernstein in 1881:
"It is a purely self-interested falsification of the Man-
chester bourgeois to see every interference of the state
with free competition as 'socialism. .' We should
. .
criticize that, not believe in it. This so-called socialism

is, on the one hand, nothing more than feudal reaction,
and on the other, an excuse for printing money, with

the secondary aim of turning as many proletarians as
82 SOCIALISM
possible into state functionaries. They want to organize
a labor army alongside the disciplined ranks of the
and bureaucratic armies. So choices will be im-
military
posed by state authorities instead of by factory fore-
men. What a beautiful socialism! That is where one
comes out if one believes in the bourgeois who pre-
tends, but does not really think, the state is equal to
socialism."
In another letter, this time to Bebel, Engels remarked
that these false views of socialism had developed out of
a "one-sided and overriding struggle against the Man-
chester school." In confronting that pure model of mar-
ket-economy capitalism, it would seem that any act of
state intervention was anti-capitalist; in confronting the
real world, that was simply not the case, for the state
was regularly used as a tool by the capitalists. This
critique of state socialism was to become a common-
place in the Marxist movement at the turn of the cen-
tury. It was popularized in the United States by Louis
Boudin and William English Walling (the latter wrote
an entire book, Socialism As It Is, about it) and de-
veloped by Hilferding, Lenin and Bukharin. Thus Ga-
briel Kolko, writing from the ultra-Left, is quite wrong
to account for the failures of twentieth-century social-
ism on the grounds that "nothing in socialist theory,
much less in laissez-faire and marginal economic the-
ory, prepared socialists for the possibility that a class-
oriented integration of the state and economy in many
key areas would rationalize and strengthen capital-
."
ism. . .
certainly true that the popular equation of so-

It is
cialism with statification did enormous damage to the
movement in this century. It gave a "socialist" legiti-
macy to Communist totalitarianism, just as it once had
to Bismarck's bureaucratic capitalism. And it also
helped to justify the confusion of the welfare state with
socialism. But this happened in spite of socialist theory,
not because of it. And the source of this perversion is
not to be found in intellectual analyses the Marxists —
—
were quite perceptive on that count but in the emer-
gence of anti-socialist "socialist" movements that sub-

verted the definition for very practical and political
purposes.
So the socialism defined by the unknown Marx be-
tween 1850 and his death in 1883 was political and
democratic, refusing the chiliastic vision of Bakunin
and the conspiracies of Blanqui. It was reformist with
a revolutionary purpose, in that it saw an alliance
with trade-union gradualism as a step toward the aboli-
tion of classes. It advocated the democratic ownership
and control of large-scale means of production, not the
distribution of wealth or decentralized production. But
it was fearful that bureaucracy would usurp demo-
cratic power, and therefore fought tenaciously against
the equation of socialism with state ownership pure
and simple. As a corollary to that proposition, Marx
repudiated any political coalition of the Left and the
Right against bourgeois liberalism and advocated in-
stead a united front with the liberal capitalists against
the feudalists in the name of democracy. And Marxian
socialism based itself not upon the good will of capital-
istsnor upon the destructive rage of the lumpenprole-
tariat,but upon the democratic self-consciousness of
the workers.
On every point history has confirmed the judgment
of Marx as against that of his rivals. Yet a little more
than a quarter of a century after his death the move-
ment he had inspired turned its back on his principles.
—
He had obviously been very right and just as ob-
viously, very wrong. The consequences of his errors per-
sist to this day as much as those of his truth. So it
is important to understand his failure as

at least as it is
to appreciate his accomplishment. 4
m
The German Social Democracy survived Bismarck's
"socialism" and flourished. By the 1912 elections they
had won a third of the seats in the Reichstag, made a
84 SOCIALISM
de facto alliance with the Liberals, and in effect create
a Grossblock, an electoral united front of the working
class and bourgeois Left. The unions, which had onlj
300,000 members in 1 892, enrolled two and a hal:
million workers in 1913. The party organization and
press were the wonder of the socialist world and the
Germans were the dominant factor in the Second In-
ternational. It seemed that history was providing a mag-
nificent confirmation of the Marxian perspective.
Yet when the decisive test came in August, 1914, the
German socialists, along with most of their comrades
around the globe, betrayed their solemn and repeated
anti-war promises. The proletarians turned out to be as
patriotic as the bourgeoisie and some of the most funda-
mental assumptions of Marx and Engels were thus re-
futed in historic practice. The reasons for this shift are
so complex that an entire library could be devoted to
analyzing them. What is particularly relevant here is an
outline of those factors involved in this fateful mo-
ment that throw light on the future of socialism itself.
First of all, the capitalist economies of the second
half of the nineteenth century were not as crisis-ridden
as Marx and Engels initially thought they would be.
The period in which Marx and Engels became in-
—
volved in politics the second quarter of the century
—was marked by particularly violent economic crises.
And there was tremendous social dislocation as a result
of the migration from rural areas and the destruction
of handicraft industry. This was the reality that was
imperfectly recorded in the Manifesto. Yet during the
time when Marxist influence spread, in the last quarter
of the century, real wages were going up and there
was tremendous industrial expansion. So, as Fritz Stern-
berg formulates the paradox, "in the same period in
which Marxism became of primary importance for the
European working classes, their conditions of life and,
above all, the general trend of development, was not
in the least in accordance with the laws of capitalism
as analyzed by Marx."
At the very end of his life Engels was quite aware
that life was not conforming to theory. "The acute form

of periodic processes which previously had a ten-year
cycle," he wrote in a brilliant note to the 1894 edition
of the third volume of Das Kapital, "seems to have be-
come more drawn out. .Possibly it is a matter of an
. .
extension of the duration of the cycle. In the child-

hood of the world market one can trace cycles [in the
first edition: "crises"] of approximately five years;
from 1847 to 1867 the cycle is definitely ten years; do
we now find ourselves in the preparatory period of a
new world crash of unheard-of intensity? That seems
to explain a lot.
"Since the general crisis of 1 867," Engels continued,
"great changes have taken place. The colossal expan-
sion of the means of commerce —
ocean-going steam-
ships, railroad, the electric telegraph, the Suez Canal
—has for the time really created a world market.
first
The previous monopoly position of England in indus-
try has been broken by a number of competing indus-
trial lands. The investment of excess European capital
has spread endlessly throughout the globe and opened
up new areas, so that capital is now more widely
dispersed and can overcome crises due to local specula-
tion more easily."
Then Engels noted the structural changes that had
taken place in capitalism: "Through all these develop-
ments all of the old crisis tendencies and the occasions
for the buildup of a crisis have been greatly weakened
or done away with. Competition yields in the domestic
market in the face of cartels and trusts and is limited on
the external market by protective tariffs with which all
the great powers, except England, surround themselves.
But these protective tariffs are only weapons for the
final campaign, which will decide the domination of
the world market. So each element that works against
the repetition of the old crisis conceals within itself the
seeds of a much more widespread and powerful crisis
in the future."
This amounted to an extraordinarily perceptive and
the Marxian perspective by way of
realistic revision of
86 SOCIALISM
a Marxian analysis. The intimations of new, and eve
greater, breakdowns were corroborated by World War I
and the Great Depression of 1929. But the confirma-
tion did not come until after the horrors of 1914 had
begun. That meant that the new Marxist mass move-
ment, for all its commitment to the rhetoric of revolu-
tion, developed under conditions of relative capitalist
prosperity, and gains for the working class. Indeed, this
fact was understood by socialists quite early: in 1901
the Austrian social democrats, among the most sophisti-
cated Marxists in the world, revised their party pro-
gram to strike out the references to the immiserization
of the proletariat.
This is not to picture a secure and happy working
class in those days. In Germany, for instance, real
wages did go up between 1890 and 1900 when prices
were stable. But with the new military expenditures
after the turn of the century there was a rapid rise in
the cost of living and wages fell far behind profits. Still,,
the workers had been given some reason to think that
their destiny depended not on socialist revolution, but
on capitalist success.
Even if the economy had failed and the workers had
been held to subsistence wages, this would not have
guaranteed that the socialist movement would have
been militant and revolutionary. In general, times of
severe privation are fearful and conservative, not radi-
cal. Indeed, the very growth of the socialist movement
was, in some measure, a result of working-class opti-
mism in a society in which the masses were making
some real gains. At the same time, these conditions
provided the economic basis for a politics that was in-
creasingly gradualist and incremental. So when World
War Ibroke out and revolutionary tactics against the
government itself were required if the anti-war prom-
ises were to be redeemed, the movement was utterly
unprepared to take to the streets.
On this count, Bismarck prevailed, not Marx. The
proletariat had been given a sufficient stake in the so-
ciety, so that when war came, it felt it had much more
to lose than chains. After the socialists in the parlia-

its
ment had voted for the military budget, the president of

the State Insurance Office said, 'The approval of the
war credit by the Social Democratic Party represents
the most beautiful success of German social reform."
But then, it was not just the politics of the social de-
mocracy that was affected by these events. Its phi-
losophy was transformed, too, and sad to relate, Fried-
rich Engels played a significant role in the process. 5
The first Marxism —
that is to say, Karl Marx's ideas
as a system, a doctrine —
was elaborated between
Marx's death in 1883 and Engels' death in 1895. As
George Lichtheim has pointed out, it was the work of
Engels, Bernstein, Kautsky and Plekhanov, with the
assistance of the historians Mehring and Riazanov
and the political leaders Liebknecht and Bebel (Ger-
many), Guesde (France) and Victor Adler (Austria).
Engels proclaimed its basic tenet at Marx's funeral: "As
Darwin discovered the law of development of organic
nature," he said, "so Marx discovered the developmen-
tal law of human history."
But Marx himself had made no such claim. Indeed,
in an analysis of Russian history and possibilities of
socialist revolution there, which will be analyzed at
length in Chapter VIII, he specifically rejected such a
notion. Engels, however, had always been concerned
to stress the analogy between the natural and social
sciences, the political and the biological processes.
Marx, to be sure, approved the text of Anti-Duhring,
which contained more than a little of the Darwinist
interpretation of his method, but that book was re-
garded by him as a popularization, not a work of
theoretical precision. In their division of labor at the
time, Engels commented, his own work was more
polemical, Marx's scientific.
But Engels' scientistic version of Marxism could not
have had such enormous impact if history had not been
waiting for it. It coincided perfectly with the inexorable
progress of the social democracy within a relatively
prosperous capitalism in which change was evolution-
88 SOCIALISM
ary. The masses, as Antonio Gramsci was to point
out wanted a simple philosophy with the "aroma"
later,
of inevitability about it. It gave them a substitute for
the religious faith that many of them had lost. At this
point, there emerges, from a Marxist point of view, one
of the most significant failures of Marxism: that it
never became the consciousness of the working class
except in its most vulgarized form.
Thus reality had qualified Marx's own enormous
confidence in the self-emancipatory potential of the
workers. In the years before World War I his principal
heirs in the German Social Democracy became aware
of this momentous development.
Karl Kautsky wrote to Victor Adler in 1901, "So-
cialist tendencies or instincts or dispositions or what-
ever will be naturally created in the masses by their
class situation. But when one speaks of consciousness,
i.e., of scientific knowledge, that comes to the masses
from without. The class situation of the proletariat cre-

ates a socialist will, but not a socialist knowledge."
Kautsky was quite making this distinction, yet
right in
it laid the basis for a Marxian rationalization of anti-
socialism. If the workers themselves were no longer
the ultimate judge of their own class interest, if a so-
cialist science had to be brought to them "from outside,"
what was to keep those socialist "scientists" from exer-
cisingpower over the workers?
In his famous study What Is To Be Done, Lenin
had followed the Kautskyan analysis: "... . the working
class exclusively by its own develop
effort is able to
only trade-union consciousness. The theory of so-
. . .
cialism, however, grew out of the philosophical, his-

torical and economic theories elaborated by educated
representatives of the propertied classes, by intellec-
tuals." This was a fact of enormous significance and —
sad to say, it was a fact. There were those, like Rosa
Luxemburg, who tried to insist upon the old verities of
working-class consciousness, but history did not bear
them out, either in her lifetime or after.
The fact that working-class consciousness did not de-
velop as Marx thought it would had enormous conse-

quences for socialist organization.
If the working class itself had been a vast, conscious
movement, then control would have remained in the
hands of the rank and file. But the admission that in-
tellectuals and professionals had to be the agents of the
class provided the basis for a bureaucracy which could
develop its own interests and policies. That indeed hap-
pened and, strange to relate, the most perceptive of the
socialists understood that it was taking place, but felt
themselves helpless to do anything about it. This was
not only true of a brilliant Left critic of the leadership
like Rosa Luxemburg, but of some of those whom she
attacked as well.
Thus Kautsky wrote to Victor Adler in 1909, "In
Germany, however, the masses have been drilled to al-
ways wait for the command from above. The people
above are so absorbed in the administrative business of
the enormous apparatus that they have lost all wider
vision, all interest in anything outside the movement.
We saw this first in the unions, and now, since the po-
litical organization has grown so, in it, too." And Au-
gust Bebel wrote to Adler, "One cannot see anything
of the old willingness to sacrifice; today every job must
—
be paid for and well paid."
But perhaps the most devastating and prophetic cri-
tique of the German socialists came from a Frenchman,
Jean Jaures. In a dramatic confrontation at theCon-
gress of the Socialist International in Amsterdam in
1904, Jaures told the Germans, "Between your appar-
ent political power, as it is measured from year to year
in the growing number of your votes and mandates,
between this apparent strength and the real strength of
influence and action, there is a contrast that appears all
the more while your electoral strength grows. Oh yes!
On the morrow of the elections in June in which you
received three million votes our eyes were opened up.
You have an admirable strength in propaganda, re-
cruitment and enrolling members, but neither your tra-
dition nor your proletariat nor the mechanisms of your
90 SOCIALISM
constitution permit you to throw this apparently
colossal force into real, effective action."
Then, in a cutting and shrewd observation, Jaures
told hisGerman comrades, "You have disguised your
impotence for action in the intransigence of your theo-
retical formulas."
Was this development, then, inevitable? That was the
thesis of a famous study of the social democracy by
Robert Michels. There is, Michels argued, an "iron law
of oligarchy." Democratic movements therefore inex-
orably give rise to anti-democratic bureaucracies. But
then, Michels went on to say, there would be another
wave of democracy from within the movement and the
usurpers would be challenged. This difficult, frustrat-
ing process would go on and the cause would not pro-
gress in a straight line, but by fits and starts, by way of
victories and defeats.
This question, and all the other issues posed by the
failure of European socialism in 1914, is still unre-
solved. Now, after the Keynesian "revolution" follow-
ing World War II, the integrative and assimilative pow-
er of capitalism is even greater than it was in 1914. The
social democratic movements themselves have lost much
of the elan and the bureaucracies are therefore even
more powerful. It is quite possible that these events an-
nounce the doom of the socialist hope; but it is not
necessarily so. This chapter has outlined the problems
as they were first raised; the rest of the book will try
to give some answers to them. 6
Strangely enough, the secret of the unknown Marx is
that he was too optimistic about, too trusting in, de-
mocracy. But if he erred in degree in this regard, his
achievement is still remarkable: he saw in the ragged
proletariat of the mid-nineteenth century the men and
women of the good society; he recognized in reformist
trade unions the cells of social revolution. If the more
extravagant of his hopes have been disappointed, the
basic social forces to which he looked have done much
to change the world. And, as will be seen, they have
the power to change it even more in the future.
V
Das Kapital
It is men who create wealth. In doing so, at a certain

historical point they become so productive that they
must create a just society, for the old orders of domina-
tion are no longer capable of containing their ingenuity.
These simple profundities are at the center of Karl
Marx's work as a political economist. In Das Kapital,
they inspired a structure of such complexity and sweep
that it is presumptuous to even think of outlining a few
of its leading themes within the limits of a single chap-
ter. But I have undertaken this risky enterprise for a
number of reasons. First, Marx's analysis of capitalism,
even though it is clearly dated in many respects and
wrong in others, remains a magnificent summary state-
ment, not simply of the economics of socialism, but of
its politics and philosophy as well. Its central truth is
huge, obvious and systematically ignored by most schol-

ars to this very moment: that it is not capital or the
market or abstention from consumption that produces
wealth; it is man. Unless that fact is mastered in all of
its ramifications, it will be impossible to build a hu-
mane social order.
Secondly, this work of explication requires that one
realize how shabby and downright incompetent so many
of the contemporary academic treatments of Marx are.
There are, to be sure, scholars who have recognized
his greatness. Wassily Leontiev cites Marx's predictions
of the increasing concentration of wealth, the elimina-
tion of small and medium-sized enterprise, technologi-
cal change, the growth of fixed capital and the business
cycle, and comments that they constituted "an unsur-
91
92 SOCIALISM
passed series of prognostications fulfilled, against whic
modern economic theory, with all of its refinement
has little to show indeed."
But Paul Samuelson's performance is, alas, mor
typical of theacademic critics of Marx. In 1957 Sam-
uelson wrote an article that concluded, "A minor
post-Ricardian, Marx was an autodidact cut off in his
lifetime from competent criticism and stimulus." This
contemptuous tone pervades his discussion. For in-
stance, Marx is reproached for having ignored the
"patent fact that natural resources are productive." Had
he understood this obvious point, Samuelson remarks
disdainfully, he would have been in a better position
"to explain why some people are very rich indeed and
why some countries are more prosperous than others."
To say this, Samuelson must ignore one of the most
famous of Marx's programmatic statements, the Cri-
tique of the Gotha Program, where the fact that nature
is a source of use value, and therefore of wealth, is de-
scribed as a truism to be found in children's primers.
What confuses Samuelson is that while Marx in-
sisted on the "patent fact" that natural resources are
an element of wealth, he also said that they did not, in
his very precise definition of the term, create exchange
values. In failing to explore what Marx meant (or
in ignoring it), the Nobel laureate followed an inter-
pretive principle that is often encountered in academic
essays on the subject: that the proper reading of any
given passage by Marx is the one that demonstrates he
was a blockhead.
A few years later, a colleague challenged Samuelson,
pointing out that his "Marxian economic models" were
not at all Marxist. Samuelson casually replied that per-
haps Marx did not assert the idea he, Samuelson, had
earlier defined as Marx's most basic and distinctive er-
ror, and added, "I claim no competence or interest in
such doctrinal history." The "doctrinal history" re-
ferred to is nothing more, nor less, than what Marx
said on such subjects of present-day relevance as eco-
—
Das Kapital 93
nomic crises and the impact of technology upon so-

ciety.
These pages should also demonstrate that Louis Al-
thusser, Daniel Bell and all the others who counterpose
the youthful and the mature Marx are quite wrong. In
1843 Marx had concluded that the "essence of all forms
of state power" ( das Wesen alter Staatsverjassung) was
"socialized man" (der sozialisierte Mensch). And, he
said, "only when man has recognized and organized
his own powers as social powers will human eman-
. . .
cipation be complete." Das Kapital is nothing other than

a magnificent analysis of "socialized and, in par- man"
ticular, how
productivity grows enormously through the
application of science to a cooperative, interdependent
process of production. And its conclusion is, of course,
that man must recognize, and organize, these powers of
his as social powers.
The central contradiction that keeps humanity from
taking that step is more acute today than when it was
described in Das Kapital The economy is infinitely
more "social" than it was in the nineteenth century
every branch of production has been rationalized a hun-
—
dred times over since then but its control and direc-
tion, even if corporate and bureaucratic, are still
private. There has been, in Max Adler's phrase, so-
cialization without solidarity. The basic paradox of Das
Kapital is therefore still very much in force: that it has
become a practical necessity, a matter of urgent self-
interest, to create a society of social justice. For unless
that unprecedented ability to create wealth is conscious-
ly directed toward the fulfillment of human needs, we
will choke to death on our own unprecedented afflu-
ence, while millions in the ex-colonies starve in the an-
cient way. 1
When Karl Marx used the word "economics" he did

not mean the same thing as the academics of his own
94 SOCIALISM
time or of today. Many, perhaps most, of the critique
of his work ignore this crucial fact and therefore ei
coriate him for having given the wrong answer to ques
tions he never asked. So this brief survey of Das Kapha
will first try to establish its subject matter. For the def
nition of terms is in this case a political as well as
scholarly act and it even predetermines at the very out
set many of the conclusions that appear to be reachec
through careful impartial study.*
Perhaps the best way to begin is to take up Marx's
summary of his method in the third volume of Da
Kapital.
It begins sotto voce with an analysis of how profit
are made from land. The simplest form of ground rent
Marx writes, is labor rent, "where the immediate pre
ducer spends a part of the week cultivating his land
. and the other days of the week labors for the lane
. .
lord without compensation." In that case, the exploita-

tive relationship is vividly apparent on the very surface
of the social reality. The serf —
for this is a feudal ar-
—
rangement creates his own means of subsistence by
working for himself. Then he delivers up a surplus, in
the form of unpaid labor time, to the lord, who has
control of the conditions of production.
From this deceptively simple example Marx passes
to a fundamental generalization "The specific econom-
:
ic formwhich the unpaid surplus labor is pumped

in
out of the actual producer determines the relationships
of domination and servitude. ... It is here that the
entire organization of the economic society that arises
out of these production relations is based, as well as the
* be so many references to Das Kapital in this

There will
chapter that have included the citations in the text. In the
I
Marx-Engels Werke the first, second and third volumes of Das
Kapital are found in Volumes XXIII, XXIV and XXV. However,
to help readers who may
be using another edition or a transla-
tion, I them, respectively, as Volumes I, II and III
will refer to
of Das Kapital and will include chapter identifications to
further facilitate the location of my references. The page num-
bers will, however, refer to the three volumes of the Werke.
Das Kapital 95
specific politicalform of society. It is in every case the

immediate relationship of the owner of the conditions of
—
production to the immediate producer a relationship
that in every case always corresponds to a given de-
velopmental stage of the art and mode of labor and
thereby to its social power of production —
wherein we
find the innermost secret, the hidden basis of the whole
social construction and of the political forms of the
relationships of sovereignty and dependence. In short,
here is where we find, in every case, the basis of the
specific state form. The same economic base, however,
can exhibit endless variations and deviations in its
appearance as a result of countless empirical circum-
stances —
natural conditions, race relations, outside his-
toric influences,
etc. —
and these must be carefully
analyzed in terms of the empirically given circum-
stances." (Emphasis added.) (Ill, Chapter 47, Pt. 2,
pp. 798-799)
This passage has an enormous number of ramifica-
tions —
one of them, Professor Samuelson might note, is
that "natural conditions" account for economic differ-
ences between nations —
but only a few of them can be
stressed here.
First of all, there is the concept of the surplus. All
societies save the most primitive, Marx argues, create a
surplus over what is required to sustain the work force
and to reproduce the conditions of production. The
secret of the social, political and economic order of —
the society as a totality in which these three orders in-
terpenetrate one another —
is exactly how the dominant
powers extract this surplus from the direct producers.
This can be done by force, as under slavery; by tradi-
tional relationships of lordship and serfdom, as under
feudalism; by tax-gathering, as in various ancient Asiat-
ic societies where the state held title to the land and
collected its rent in this form.
This analytic apparatus was developed, of course, to
facilitate Marx's analysis of capitalism. It can, however,
be quite usefully applied to situations that did not exist
during his lifetime. In the thirties in the Soviet Union,
96 SOCIALISM
as Chapter VIII will detail, the collective farms were
required to sell their grain at a fixed price even if this
price did not cover the cost of production. In this case,
the specific mode of extracting the surplus was the em-
ployment of totalitarian force, and it was indeed the
"innermost secret" of Communist society, the key to
its class system. This Marxian criterion is also particu-
larly valuable in posing the problem that confronts
every nation in the Third World today: whether a sur-
plus can be accumulated for investment in industrializa-
tion without the brutalities of early capitalism or of
Stalinism.
Secondly, the Marxian analysis of surplus shows
that in each form of society the direct producers work
an unpaid portion of the working day for those who
own, or control, the means of production. This can be
clearly seen, as Marx indicated, in the feudal system
of labor rent where the serf's time is quite literally
divided between work for himself and compulsory work
for the lord. And, to take a more recent American
example, something like this relationship was quite visi-
ble in the sharecropping system in the South.
But capitalism not as straightforward as feudalism.
is
It is, Marx wrote in the Theories of Surplus Value,

"different from all previous systems in that the capital-
ist does not rule the worker through his personal quali-
." The slave,
ties,but only insofar as he is 'capital.' . .
the serf, the member of the Asiatic community, were all

forced to surrender their surplus through extraeconom-
ic means, like force, tradition or taxation. For them,
political and economic domination were one and the
same. But in the world of Manchester economics, ex-
ploitation is much more subtle. The worker is "free"
to refuse the wage bargain with the employer, and if
he accepts it, he is paid at a market wage. How, then,
could there be unpaid labor time and the extraction of a
surplus under this system?
This is one of the central issues explored in Das Kapi-
tal Marx sought to demonstrate that in the transac-
tion between employee and employer, the latter was,
Das Kapital 97
just as much as a feudal lord, able to appropriate un-

paid labor.
Thirdly, in the quoted passage one can see how
Marx the economist was also a political scientist and a
sociologist. The relationship between owners and pro-
ducers, which corresponds to a certain stage of tech-
nology, is the secret of economics, social structure and
political forms. And one of the greatest single sources
of confusion about Marx's writing arises when aca-
demics attempt to reduce his multifaceted ideas to the
single dimension of their particular discipline. To stress
this crucial idea,it is well worth while to probe a most
basic point: that Marx's definition of economics is not

at all what contemporary scholars understand by the
term.
The labor theory of value had emerged in the seven-
teenth century as a weapon of the rising capitalist class
against aristocratic landlords. In the version of it pro-
pounded by William Petty and John Locke, it legiti-
mated the private property of entrepreneurs and cele-
brated the "labor" of a new producing class which was
doing battle with parasites. In the late eighteenth and
early nineteenth century the notion was sometimes put
to conservative use as an argument that workers should
not be paid anything more than their cost of produc-
tion, i.e., a subsistence wage.
For Marx, this new mode of thinking corresponded
to enormous changes in society and the economy. The
peasant family producing for its own needs would not
see their corn and cows as commodities to be sold on a
market; their work would appear, not as an abstraction
to be measured in labor time, but as a family function.
As social reality changed, so did social conscious-
ness. The Physiocrats responded intellectually to a so-
ciety that was becoming more commercial but in which
agriculture was still dominant by making land the
source of value. Adam Smith, from the vantage point
of a still more developed economy, saw labor as the
measure of equivalence that allowed one to equate a
ton of iron and two ounces of gold as being "worth" the
98 SOCIALISM
same value (he later elaborated a cost of
production
theory, but that not relevant here).
is
This Smithian idea of a generalized labor underlying,

and equating, various commodities, Marx said, "cor-
responds to a society in which individuals pass with
ease from one kind of work to another, which makes
it immaterial to them what particular kind of work may
fall to their lot. Labor has become here, not only in

categories but in reality, a means of creating wealth in
general and is no longer bound up with an individual
in a specific setting." (I, p. 63) In C.B. Macpherson's
excellent formulation, under feudalism there is an "au-
thoritative allocation of work or rewards" which is
based on custom and status; in capitalism man's labor
and skill "are regarded not as integral parts of his per-
sonality, but as possessions, the use and disposal of
which he is free to hand over to others for a price."
It was, in Marx's view, the great merit of Smith and
Ricardo that they analyzed this new historic situation.
In a society of increasingly complex production and ex-
change, there had to be some form of equivalency to
facilitate the movement of commodities. Under such
conditions, the myriad buyers and sellers of the most
variegated goods could hardly mill around until they
bumped into someone with whom they could barter.
There had to be some way to equate twenty yards of
linen and a pair of boots so that each could be sold
independently of each other, but yet at a price that ac-
curately measured their relative worth. That equivalent,
the classics said, was labor. What the linen and the
boots had in common was that their production had
required an expenditure of labor time and their value
could therefore be determined by the amount of labor
time invested in each. And to make matters easy, all
of these various relationships could be expressed in
terms of the "general equivalent," money. (I, Chapter
l,Pt. 3, pp. 83ff.)
For Marx, this analysis was both revealing and ob-
scurantist. It was absolutely true that in an economy
that was increasingly —
social in the sense that it re-
—
Das Kapital 99
quired an intricate national, and even international, di-

vision of labor— but where the producers operated as
independent, private units, there had to be equivalents
to facilitate exchange. It therefore made good practical
sense to say that a coat was "worth" so many boots or
so many dollars. But in precisely that vocabulary all
the other things that coats and boots had in common
in particular, that they were produced and exchanged
within a gigantic framework of human cooperation and
that they satisfied human needs — were obscured. They
were "worth" the money they would fetch.
So the classical economists, Marx argued, explained
how coats and boots related to each other in terms of
the universal equivalent of labor time as expressed in
money, but they never asked why usefulness had to be
put in such terms. (I, Chapter 1, Pt. 4, p. 95) As long
as one focuses upon the question of how the coats and
boots relate to each other, then the traditional aca-
demic concerns about prices, wages and supply and
demand are obviously paramount. That, however, as-
sumes that the context in which these factors operate
is somehow "natural," that it is a given and therefore
not even worthy of investigation.

In point of fact, Marx notes, there had already ex-
isted economic systems in which capitalist forms of
calculation were not at all dominant. Under feudalism,
social relationships of personal dependence were much
more important than the cash nexus. And, looking
toward the future, in "a union of free men working
with common means of production and exercising their
individual labor powers in a self-conscious way as so-
cial labor power" (I, Chapter 1, Pt. 4, p. 93), the
categories of capitalism would not apply either. There-
fore, for Marx, the crucial question was why, and how,
men had eternalized economic terms that had devel-
oped out of the specific conditions of capitalist produc-
tion. The reason why was that this mode of thought
gave a transitory system the appearance, and legiti-
macy, of natural law. This was done by prescinding
from underlying class relationships and the decisive
100 SOCIALISM
role of men in creating wealth. So Marx proposed to
go behind these abstractions and investigate the reality
they both revealed and concealed.
Marx, then, did not regard the behavior of prices
or the schedules of supply and demand as unimportant.
And he was quite appreciative of the efforts of classical
economists in trying to understand the workings of
these categories. But he saw them as dependent vari-
ables in a system in which class structure and changes
in the productivity of labor were much more basic
—
and decisive. Therefore and the confusion caused by
this fact has reigned for more than a century —
Karl
Marx's subject matter was different from what was, and
what still is, commonly called "economics."
Even as sympathetic and perceptive a critic of Marx
as Robert Heilbroner misses the fullness of this point.
He writes, "The labor theory of value . . may be
.
immensely useful in elucidating the mode of transfer

of surplus as an historic problem, but it is scarcely use-
ful when it comes to the analysis of the operational
problems of a modern state, capitalist or socialist." Of
course! At no point did Marx focus his attention upon
the "operational" problems of either capitalism or so-
cialism, because he thought that such an emphasis dis-
tracted attention from something much more basic.
Therefore he developed a macroeconomic analysis of
those tendencies of capitalist society that create the
framework, the fundamental limits, in which the opera-
tions take place. He did not think that microeconom-
ic questions were unimportant. Considerable space is,
after all, devoted to the questions of supply and de-
mand and prices under capitalism in the third volume
of Das Kapital. Marx's historic contribution was not,
however, in working out the details of those processes
but in describing the factors that determined the very
context in which they occur.
These differences between Marx and the academy
over the very definition of economics are related to the
actual development of capitalist society. In its early
phase, economic theory was a weapon of bourgeois
Das Kapital 101
enlightenment against feudal obfuscation; and the disci-

pline insisted upon taking on the big issues, like identi-
fying the sources of wealth within a society. The Physio-
crats criticized the Mercantilists, Smith the Physiocrats,
Ricardo, Smith. Marx is the culmination of this tradi-
tion and turning point. For once capitalism became
its
established, too much candor and inquisitiveness on

the part of economists could only play into the hands
of the new anti-capitalist movement.
Ben Seligman defined this change quite well: "Ortho-
dox economists have evolved through the years some
from which, as Joan
fairly elegant analytical structures
Robinson has has been possible to derive with
said, it
great accuracy the value of a cup of tea. This, how-

ever, was a little question, not a big one. Marx, al-
though possessing much cruder tools, exhibited a far
deeper sense of the meaningful. ." Moreover the way
. .
in which this split developed made it possible for the

academics to depict themselves as scientists while dis-
missing Marx as a man of political prejudice. For the
new orthodoxy concentrated its attention on marginal
changes in prices, supply, demand and the like, and
that analysis of increments could be concisely expressed
in the equations of calculus.
So it was that Alfred Marshall, the giant of the
post-Marxian mainstream, inscribed his Principles with
the motto "Natura non jacit salt us" (Nature does not
make leaps). That phrase, Alexander Gershenkron has
remarked, "did triple duty by referring to Marshall's
effective use of calculus as a methodological device,
to his belief in the general fundamental gradualness of
economic structures and processes of social change, and
to his rejection of certain economic policies that seemed
to involve an unduly high rate of change. Inevitably
in the minds of readers, the first reference was called
upon to lend spiritual support to the other two." (Em-
phasis added.)
In short, Marshall's political prejudices were every
bit asimportant as Marx's, only he could cloak them
with a seeming mathematical objectivity. Similarly to-
102 SOCIALISM
day with econometrics. The academicians who are so
busy feeding data into machines predetermine much of
the result by the way in which they write up their com-
puter programs. But if the little questions can thus be
ingeniously quantified, that will still not make the big
questions go away. They provided the basis of Marx's
definition of economics; they persist to this very day.
So Marx's subject matter is not the play of economic
forces within a system which is assumed as given, but
the dynamic factors that change the system and all the
dependent variables that operate within it. The element
he found most crucial, and contradictory, in this pro-
cess was the growing productivity of labor as it was
socialized in the interest of private profit. The resultant
"socialized man" was thus not simply an ethical ideal,
but an emergent economic trend of decisive importance
as well. This is the definition of his discipline that dis-
tinguished Marx from the bourgeois economists. They
sought to formulate the impersonal laws, inexorable as
a mathematical equation, that ruled over the economy.
But for Marx, those laws are themselves transitory,
the creation of men and women who, once the precon-
ditions of mastering them have been fulfilled, can
change them. 2
n
Das Kapital begins its study of the existential reality
behind capitalisteconomic categories with dry-as-dust
definitions and a tightly argued and abstruse analysis
of the "fetishism of commodities." This is because the
book proceeds from the abstract to the concrete.
On the face of it, that is a preposterous order to fol-
low, since it is obvious that thinking always moves from
the concrete to the abstract. But there is a method in
Marx's apparent madness and he described it carefully
in an introduction to the Critique of Political Economy
(which was not actually published until 1903, after his
death). He wrote, "It seems to be the correct procedure
Das Kapitai 103
to commence with the real and concrete aspects of con-

ditions as they are; in the case of political economy to
commence with population, which is the basis and
subject of the entire act of social production. However,
this proves to be false when it is examined more close-
ly. Population is an abstraction if we leave out the
classes of which it consists. These classes, again, are

but an empty word unless we know the elements on
which they are based, such as wage-labor, capital, etc.
These imply, in turn, exchange, division of labor, prices,
etc. Capital, e.g., is nothing without wage-labor, value,
money, price, etc. So if I were to start with population,
I would begin with a chaotic whole. Then on closer
examination I would proceed to increasingly simpler
ideas. From the immediate concrete I would move by
way of finer and finer abstractions to the very simplest
determinations. From there I would start on the return
journey until I would eventually return to population,
but this time not as the chaotic presence of the whole,
but as a rich totality of many conceptions and re-
lationships."
Therefore the reader must be warned that the open-
ing pages of —
Das Kapitai or, for that matter, the en-
tire first —
volume contain conscious simplifications.
Marx, like everyone else, actually began with the "cha-
otic whole" of immediate experience, but in his master-
piece he follows a logical rather than an experiential
order. So in understanding any part of the Marxian
analysis one must carefully ask: Under what simplify-
ing assumptions is it subsumed? Thus even in Joan
Robinson's generous reading of Marx, she mistakenly
thinks that he first asserts a "purely dogmatic" theory
of subsistence wages which he then abandons. Actually
that is only one of the many conscious simplifications
with which the first volume abounds (it deals with an
isolated capitalist economy which is not part of the
world market, contains only two classes and is en-
gaged only in perpetuating itself through simple pro-
duction and reproduction). As Das Kapitai proceeds
from its opening abstractions back toward reality,
L
104 SOCIALISM
these simplifying assumptions are progressively dropped
once they have helped in the understanding of the so-
cial whole as "a rich totality of many conceptions and
relationships."
Marx's method is of interest on its own terms but it
is stressed here for a special reason. This interpretation
of Das Kapital begin with the conclusion of Vol-
will
ume the chapter on the "Historic Tend-
I. It is there, in
ency of Capitalist Accumulation"
—
"a magnificent his-
torical generalization," Gershenkron calls it — that one
finds a statement of the reality that the earlier abstrac-
tions explicate. And since there is so much confusion
about Marx's meaning in the opening pages, particu-
larly about the definition of that confusing term "value,"
it is legitimate to begin with the more realistic, and
accessible, statement of what he is describing.

Capitalism, Marx writes, begins with an expropria-
tion. The private property of the artisans and the peas-
ants must be destroyed so that they can be turned into
wage workers. For as small-scale production develops,
so do cooperation and the division of labor and the
other elements of Marx's most crucial variable, the so-
cial productivity of labor. At a certain point in history,
the technical basis is thus laid for large-scale produc-
tion. So the new capitalist system must destroy the petty
producers, turning them into wage workers, in order to
take advantage of the gains in social productivity.
Marx continues, "As soon as this upheaval is deep
and massive enough to break up the old society; as
soon as the worker is turned into a proletarian and the
conditions of his labor have become capital; as soon as
the capitalist mode of production stands on its own
feet, then the wider socialization of labor [Vergesell-
schaftung der Arbeit] —
the further transformation of
the earth and of the other means of production into so-
cially exploited means of production that are thus
worked in common [in gesellschajtlich ausgebeutete,
also gemeinschajtliche Produktionsmittel] takes on a—
new form. What is now to be expropriated is no longer
)
Das Kapital 105
the individual worker, but the capitalist who exploits

many workers.
"This expropriation completes itselfthrough the play
of the imminent law of capitalist production itself,
through the centralization of capital. One capitalist kills
many capitalists. Hand in hand with this centralization,
or the expropriation of many capitalists by the few, the
cooperative form of the labor process develops itself
on an ever-increasing scale. There is the conscious,
technical use of science, the planned exploitation of
the earth, the transformation of the means of work into
means that can only be used in common, the economiz-
ing of all the means of production by using them as
means of production for combined, social labor, the
bringing of all people into the net of the world market
and through it the international character of the capital-
ist regimes." (I, Chapter 24, Pt. 7, pp. 790-791
The labor theory of value is an accurate and fantastic

description of this process, a way of thinking that arises
because the socialization of labor under capitalism is
carried out under private auspices.
If such an essentially social economy were conscious-
ly planned, then its participants would be aware of
one another as cooperators in the gigantic enterprise
of satisfying human needs. Indeed, something like that
feeling does emerge when the one form of planned
social production under capitalism, the creation of the
means of destruction, becomes dominant in the midst
of a major war. The planners do not ask how much
the weapons cost, but attempt to determine the relative
urgency of the need for them. The workers still labor
for a wage, but every effort is made to appeal to their
patriotism and to give them a sense of being part of a
common effort. The system is, to be sure, still capitalist,
as profiteering and the black market demonstrate. But
in the name of survival it is forced to appeal to so-
cialist emotions and to engage in a kind of production
for use.
Such "military socialism" (which dates only from
106 SOCIALISM
World War I) is tolerable in periods of emergency. But
over the long run it is obvious that its definition of the
—
economic process as deriving its productivity from the
social organization of work and satisfying consciously
—
chosen human needs is subversive. It threatens an
economy that rewards money so lavishly on the grounds
that private capital is the real source of wealth. And
the classical economists did not have the opportunity to
observe the economic effects of a twentieth-century
war in any case. How, then, could a society whose dy-
namic was the increasing social productivity of labor
— the emergence of "socialized man" —
become con-
scious of itself in a way that would not threaten
private ownership of the means of production?
The question was not, of course, posed in such an
obviously biased way. The bourgeois economists at-
tempted, honestly and straightforwardly, to explain how
the economy worked. But they made the assumption
that the capitalism they confronted was an expression
of human nature rather than a transitory system. So
they were blind to all the issues that became visible
when one recognized non- and anti-capitalist alterna-
tives to the existing order. They were thus sincere,
and even profound, apologists who could not become
conscious of their own limitations. Their science was
"bourgeois," not in the sense of having sold itself to
capitalistbidders, but because its basic assumption
would not permit it to see beyond the bourgeois order.
The basic, and unique, economy
cell of the capitalist
these men studied was, Marx commodity (we
said, the
are returning now to the opening section of Das Kapi-
tal). The commodity is not simply a useful article, al-
though it must also be that. Its historically unprece-

dented feature is that it is a useful article which is
made to be sold on the market. Such products had
existed long before capitalism but they had never domi-
nated the economic activity of an entire society. Now,
for the first time ever, men were mainly engaged in
creating use values in order to exchange them. The com-
Das Kapital 107
modity, in short, was both a use value and an exchange

value.(I, Chapter 1, Pt. 4, pp. 94ff.)
These commodities, Marx showed, were produced in
the kind of social labor process described in the chap-
ter on the "Historic Tendency of Capitalist Accumu-
lation." Men worked together in a highly rationalized
division of labor in order to satisfy one another's needs,
but this was done within a system of seemingly inde-
pendent producers: "Objects of use become commodi-
ties only when they are the product of private labors
carried on independently of one another. The complex
of these private labors forms the totality of social la-
bor. Here the producers first come into social contact
with one another through the exchange of the products
of their labor, and thus the specifically social char-
acter of their private labors first appears within these
exchanges." (I, Chapter 1, Pt. 4, pp. 85-87)
Translated into contemporary terms: An auto work-
er buys a television set; an electrician buys a car.
These two commodities are the result of an intricately
organized production process in which coal, steel and
other materials are fed into a scientifically based tech-
nology and the finished goods are then sold through an
international network of distribution. The quality and
price of the car and the television set will be affected
by innovations within this complex division of labor.
And yet, the auto worker and the electrician are prob-
ably not even aware of the role their own department
plays in the work of their factory. Each one's labor
satisfies part of the other's needs, but that is not why
they work. They make commodities in order to get
paid and to be able to buy someone else's commodi-
ties. They do not see each other as members of a social
process; they "meet" only when they buy each other's

commodities. "The social character of man's own la-
bor is reflected as an objective characteristic of the
product of labor itself." The auto worker is "worth" a
certain percentage of the cost per hour of the television
set; the electrician is "worth" a fraction of the cost per
hour of the car. This is their "relationship."
108 SOCIALISM
So the membership card in the capitalist economj
is money. The human cooperation and planning anc
science that are its foundation cannot be given theii
proper importance, for that would deprive capital of it
excuse for taking the surplus. Instead, society ab-
stracts from the human and technical variety of the
labor process and reduces everything to the universal
equivalent of money. This procedure facilitates the cen-
tral illusion of the system: that it is capital which is
productive. For it ascribes to products and dollar bills
that creativity which is really exercised by men. It is,
Marx says, like the fetishism of the primitives. In the
misty world of religion people invested the products of
their mind with supernatural powers: their fears and
hopes became gods. Now, in the age of scientific tech-
nology, the products of men's hands take on a similarly
mysterious life: money "creates" value, the stock mar-
ket is a "bull" or a "bear," the economy "heats up" or
"cools down."
One of Marx's current academic critics, Ralf Dah-
rendorf, gives a perfect example of how the capitalist
vocabulary cannot call things by their own names. He
tells how industrial sociologists have come to suspect,
under conditions of relative affluence, "that in many
disputes wages have an indirect and symbolic rather
than an immediate function. Money is the lingua franca
of the economy; in it one expresses less what one wants
than that one wants something; thus workers translate
all their wishes and complaints into the vernacular of
financial demands." This is not so much new sociology,
as Dahrendorf thinks. It is classic Marxism.
The fetishism of the commodity developed historical-
ly. The Mercantilists, Marx wrote, saw gold and silver
as the source of wealth, the Physiocrats, land, the clas-
Each theory corresponded to a given stage
sics, capital.
in the economy when, respectively, trade, agriculture
and industry were dominant. All of them ignored the
fact that it is men in society who create value. Gold,
silver, land and capital are constituents and symbols of

Das Kapital 109
value, but the underlying fact, the true creator, is the

social productivity of labor. (I, Chapter 1, Pt. 4, p. 97)
At this point one reaches a distinctive, often misun-
derstood moment in Marx's analysis. Capital, Marx
says, is not productive.
But isn't it perfectly obvious that machines play an

enormous part in making labor productive and there-
fore are a source of value? In an early, and rather sym-
pathetic, reading of Marx, Joan Robinson reproached
him for oversimplifying this issue. "Whether we choose
to say that capital is productive," she wrote, "or that
capital is necessary to make labor productive is not a
matter of much importance. What is important is to say
that owning capital is not a productive activity. The
academic economists, in treating capital as productive,
used to insinuate the suggestion that capitalists de-
served well by society and are perfectly justified in
drawing incomes from their property."
Marx, Mrs. Robinson argues, obscured his own ex-
cellent insight about ownership by insisting on too
much, i.e., that capital itself is not productive. "It is
more cogent to say that capital, and the application of
science to industry, are immensely productive, and that
institutions of private property, developing into monop-
oly, are deleterious precisely because they prevent us
from having as much capital, and the kind of capital,
as we need. This view is inherent in Marx's analysis.
He foresaw the time when the monopoly of capital be-
comes a fetter upon the mode of production which
has sprung up and flourished along with, and under
it. Centralization of the means of production and so-
cialization of labor at last reach the point where they

become incompatible with the capitalist integument.
The substance of Marx's argument is far from being
irrelevant to the modern situation, but the argument
has become incompatible with its verbal integument."
This is sympathetically put, yet I think Mrs. Robin-
son misstates Marx's view somewhat and therefore fails
to understand why he insisted with such vehemence
110 SOCIALISM
that capital is not productive. What is involved is not a
terminological nicety but, once again, the central
role of "socialized man" in the Marxian analysis.
When Marx spoke of capital, he did not mean the
actual plant and machines. "Capital is not the sum of
the material and producing means of production. Capi-
tal is the means of production transformed into capital.
In themselves, these means of production are as little
9
capital as gold and silver are in themselves money.'
(Emphasis added.) (Ill, Chapter 44, Pt. 1, p. 823) In
other words, it is precisely the relationship of owner-
ship of the means of production which gives title to a
profit that Marx defines as capital. He is quite willing
to grant that a functioning entrepreneur should be paid.
But his money, Marx notes, comes to him "indepen-
dent of property in capital and much more as a result
of his function as a nonowner, as —
a worker." (Ill,
Chapter 23, p. 393)
In making this distinction, Marx anticipated a schol-
arly discovery of Cambridge economists, including Mrs.
Robinson, in the 1960s which has been the spearhead of
a radical attack upon current orthodoxy. The two mean-
ings of capital are confused: "finance controlled by
capitalists which earns profits is identified with the
physical equipment and stocks which assist labor to
produce output." When that erroneous equation is
made, then one can argue that as the output of the
machines increases, so does the "productivity" of the
stock certificate. For both are lumped together as "capi-
tal." Marx, however, never made this error. He always
clearly distinguished between the actual plant and the
relationship of ownership which turned it into "capi-
tal."
But Mrs. Robinson's basic question still remains. If
Marx understood that science and technology are a cru-
cial element in the labor process, why should he deny
that capital, in the concrete and physical sense of the
term, is productive? The answer to this question is fun-
damental to Marxian economics for it shows how rig-
Das Kapital 111
orous Marx was in rejecting the fetishistic method of

ascribing spiritual qualities to things. "Living labor," he
remarked in the Theories of Surplus Value, ". .. is in-
corporated in capital and appears as an activity be-
longing to it. ..." A
machine can only "produce"
wealth because of the ingenuity and sweat that men
put into it. Capitalism, however, could not tolerate
such a truth. In its characteristic mode of thought, the
productivity with which men endow machines is first
imputed to the machine itself, and then transferred to
the dollars that bought it or the share of stock that
identifies its owner.
Unfortunately one of the most explicit analyses that

Marx ever made of this point is found in a somewhat
obscure text: a draft of a chapter of Das Kapital which
was not included in the published work and which did
not appear in print until 1933. This "sixth chapter" of
Volume I of Das Kapital treats of the process of the
production of capital and insists upon the distinction
between the material means of production, which are
not capital, and the economic relations of production,
which are crucial for Marx in determining the system.
Marx writes, "Science, the general intellectual product
of the development of society, also appears directly in-
corporated into capital, and its application to the ma-
terial of the individual worker. The general development
of society is exploited by capital through labor and re-
acts upon labor as if it were the productive power of
capital and thus seems to be a result of the develop-
ment of capital itself. . .
."
So within the conceptual world of capitalism the

superstitiousproposition that capital or money or
"waiting" (abstention from present consumption) is
productive seems quite logical. Therefore in the next
step of his argument Marx traces the historic process
that led men sophisticated primitivism which
to this
invests machines and markets with wills of their own.
His analysis is complicated but its basic thrust can
be summed up in a few propositions. In the first econ-
112 SOCIALISM
omies men bartered goods and products exchanged
against one another. Let C
stand for commodity and
this process could be described by the simple formula:*
C-C.
As economic life becomes more complex, money (M)

intervenes to facilitate this transaction. A man sells his
commodity for money and then buys someone else's
commodity with the funds he has received:
C-M-C.
When such exchanges become general, there is a mer-

cantile economy. But even under such conditions of rel-
ative development, the idea that money itself is creative
seems absurd. During the Middle Ages, for instance,
— —
usury making money from money was defined by
the Catholic Church as a sin.
Money only turns into capital when it becomes the
starting point of the entire process. A man has money
and wants to make a profit. He invests it produc-
in the
tion of no matter what article, for he is not concerned
with the use value to be created but only with the profit
to be realized. Now the transaction could be described
as:
M-C-M'.
It is precisely this developed capitalist system that can

give rise to the illusion that it is the capital rather than
the social process of production that is the source of
value. (I, Chapter 4, pp. 161ff.)
Now that seemingly innocuous definition of the com-
* To be precise in Marxian terms, in barter, products, not

commodities, were exchanged, and "commodity" is reserved to
describe only goods privately produced for a market. The sym-
bolic notation is simplified here by ignoring this distinction
which, in other contexts, is quite crucial.
—
Das Kapital 113
modity as a product with both use and exchange values

becomes a key to the understanding of the entire eco-
nomic system. Its essential characteristic which dif- —
ferentiates it from the goods of all previous systems is —
that the producer of commodities aims, above all, at
the realization of exchange value. For him, a ware-
house of exquisitely fashioned, but unsellable, use val-
ues is, quite literally, worthless. They must at least
seem useful to be sold, but the crucial thing is that they
be sold, for only then do they have a "value." And
given that basic bias, capitalism will, as its history so
abundantly shows, produce the disastrous and profit-
able, e.g., the polluting internal combustion engine, and
ignore the socially urgent, e.g., housing for the poor,
because the latter will not yield a high enough return.
Moreover, these equations have raised the basic issue
of the surplus. For in the capitalist formula
M-C-M'
M' is greater than M. Somewhere in the process of

distribution and exchange, a surplus value has been
created over and above the cost of production. Indeed,
it is precisely in order to appropriate that surplus that
the capitalist makes his investment in the first place.

But where does it come from? (I, Chapter 4, p. 165)
In the era of merchant capital, when traders tried to
sell dear and buy cheap, they tried to explain it as a
reward for shrewdness or even sharp practices. Marx
quotes Ben Franklin in this mood: "War is plunder,
business is swindling." (I, Chapter 4, p. 178) But
in the developed capitalist economy, where exchange is
rationalized, it is impossible to equate profits and chi-

canery.
It is at this point in the analysis that Marx presents
his famous thesis that labor power is the source of the
surplus. (I, Chapter 4, pp. 18 Iff.) What Marx calls
the "constant capital" — the machines, raw material
and the like that are used in the production process
imparts a value to the final commodity which is fully
—
114 SOCIALISM
paid for as a cost of production. It therefore cannot be
the source of an increment in value. But labor power-
including the labor power of working entrepreneurs
has a unique characteristic: it is paid according to its
costs of production, at value, yet it produces more
value than its cost of production. Like the serf, the
worker labors part of the day for himself, i.e., to get
the wage that permits him to live (it is not, as will be
seen, a subsistence wage), and part of the day for the
capitalist who, by virtue of owning capital, is able to ex-
tract the worker's surplus.
Now it might be argued that this whole analysis is
simply a matter of definition. Ben Seligman summarized
this view with regard to Marx, Marshall and Keynes:
"All three agreed that revenue minus wages, material
cost and depreciation yielded profit. However, they did
not agree on the definition of the elements to be de-
ducted from revenue. As to the remainder, they sim-
ply had different names for what the reasonable person
called profit. Marshall considered this a great driving
force, Marx scorned it, and Keynes was indifferent,
believing it fine so long as it did not impede the proper
functioning of the economic system."
One could say that there is no empirical way of
determining which of these thinkers is right, that their
differences are simply a matter of different prejudices.
Yet there are objective data that support Marx's analy-
sis as against Marshall's and evidence that it was
precisely his way of understanding labor power that
permitted him to make one of his most brilliant, and
corroborated, prophecies: that capitalism was a system
of periodic crisis.
In the actual historical development of capitalism to
the present, the elements that were so important to
—
Marshall and the orthodox academics risk-taking, ab-
stinence from consumption and the other factors said
to make capital "productive" — have become less and
less important. Investment is more and more a function
of retained profits, i.e., of the surplus produced within a
corporation by the workers, or else it has been col-
Das Kapital 115
lectivized in huge institutions like insurance companies.

Even invention and innovation have been rationalized
as scientists and engineers are subjected to a division
of labor resembling that in the plant. In all of these
aspects, the economy has behaved in a Marxist, rather
than a Marshallian, way.
Secondly, it was Marx's insight into the role of labor
in the production process that enabled him to under-
stand the tendencies toward crisis within the capitalist
system. The orthodox academics created more and more
sophisticated models of economic equilibrium in which
every increase in supply automatically generated a
matching increase in demand. The cyclical breakdowns
that took place in reality were then accounted for in a
number of ingenious ways, including the assertion that
their periodicity was attuned to that of sun spots.
Marx was scornful of this idyll. "Nothing is more ab-
surd," he wrote, "than the dogma that commodity circu-
lation determines a necessary equilibrium of buyers and
sellers since every seller is a buyer, and vice versa."
(I, Chapter 3, Pt. 2, p. 127) One of the many reasons
that Marx saw through this theory was his awareness
that labor power created — —
and increasingly more val-
ue than it received in wages: "The ultimate cause of all
actual crises always remains the poverty and limited
consumption of the masses in contrast to the drive of
capitalist production to develop the forces of produc-
tion as if the absolute consumption capacity of the so-
ciety were their only limit." (Ill, Chapter 30, p. 501)
It is remarkable that Clark Kerr so systematically
underestimates the importance of this Marxian insight
in a recent comparison of Marx and Marshall. Kerr
ascribes to Marx a position which the latter systemati-
cally attacked — that there are "iron laws" in the econ-
omy. But even more to the point, he freely admits the
remarkable limits of the orthodox economic faith. Al-
fred Marshall, Kerr notes, "neglected depressions and
mass unemployment, and had faith that equilibrium at
full employment was the natural tendency of capital-
ism." But those were nothing less than the crucial de-
116 SOCIALISM
terminants of the quality of human existence in capital-
and Marx, for all of his errors, understood
ist society,
the truth about them because his vision was always
focused upon working men and working women rather
than upon the differential calculus.
Since this section has dealt with so many definitions,
it would be well to put them into perspective before
turning to the very heart of Das Kapital, the analysis of
the "laws of motion" of capitalism.
For Marx, capitalism is an increasingly social pro-
cess of production — using science and centralization to
rationalize the globe itself— which is carried on by pri-
vate producers. It cannot, therefore, become conscious
of the essentially social origins of its growing produc-
tivity without casting doubt on the legitimacy of its
dominant institutions. So it reduces all the interconnec-
tions of cooperation to market relationships: the auto
worker and electrician "meet" only in the scale of their
products, wages become a "lingua franca" for other
emotions. Since men are thus defined in terms of mon-
ey, money appears to be human, and productive. It is
turned into capital and invested primarily to yield a
profit, incidentally to turn out something useful. In the
process, those who own the means of production are
able to appropriate a surplus generated by a unique
—
commodity labor. For the power of labor creates
much more value than it is paid in wages. Yet this mar-
velous quality, from the point of view of the capitalist, is
also a menace, for it contains within it the inherent pos-
sibility of overproduction.
At every point in this extraordinarily complex analy-
sis the animating insight is the same: that men create
wealth. 3
in
Given these basic definitions, Marx sought to describe

the "law of motion" of capitalist society. Only when he
had dealt with this big question could he turn to the
Das Kapital 117
dependent variables, the little questions, like the effect

of supply and demand and the determination of prices.
The dynamic of the system, he argued, drove the cap-
progressively to socialize labor in his struggle to
italist
extract more of a surplus from the direct producers.
Historically, the method that capitalism first used to
pump more of a surplus out of the working class was
straightforward and brutal: by actually extending the
working day and thereby the volume of unpaid labor
that the employee contributed to the profits. Marx
called this "absolute surplus value." (I, Chapter 15,
pp. 192ff.)
Western man has by now become so accustomed to
the qualitative change in the conditions of life that
capitalism thus brought about that he has quite for-
gotten that only a few centuries ago it was not
thought "natural" to spend most of one's waking hours
at work. In 1530, Christopher Hill has pointed out, a
man could earn his yearly bread in fourteen or fifteen
—
weeks of labor and two and a half centuries later he
had to toil fifty-two weeks a year. In a richly docu-
mented treatment in Chapter 8 of Volume I, Marx
describes how the emergent capitalist order fought
mightily to lengthen the working day and to force
women and children into the labor force. But there
was a limit to this process. The day has only twenty-
four hours and the body can stand only so much.
At this point, the system became much more in-
genious. Instead of simply expanding the hours of la-
bor, the capitalist increased the productivity of labor.
Thus, although a man still worked the same period of
time, his output increased enormously and so did the
surplus value appropriated by the owner of the means of
production. Marx called this "relative surplus value"
and the search for it is a crucial aspect of the capitalist
dynamic. As this process is described in Das Kapital
in a wealth of historic detail, the machine, the concen-
tration and centralization of capital, the application of
science to technology, all tend to make the economy
more and more social and productive, but the deci-
—
118 SOCIALISM
sion-making and the limits of consumption are still pri-
vately determined.
This new technology, Marx writes, could have pro-
vided a way to free the factory hand from the deg-
radation of the division of labor, lifting him above
the productive process and making him its master. (I,
Chapter 13, Pt. 4, p. 442) But when machines are
—
used for capitalist purposes when they are capital
the point is not to make the labor process more toler-
able, or even creative, but to increase profits. So, as
Marx analyzed the development of mass production, it
destroys skills and turns the workers into semi-skilled
tenders of machines. Thus as work becomes more so-
cial, it paradoxically becomes even more alienating
routine, impersonal, without initiative. (I, Chapter 13,
442-444)
Pt. 4, pp.
Das Kapital is quiteexplicit on this point, but the
Grundrisse der Politischen Oekonomie, Marx's notes
from 1857-1858 which essentially constitute a first
draft of his masterpiece (they fill a book of more than a
thousand pages), are even more precise. The title of a
section in that volume is, in a sense, a marvelously
compact summary of the Marxian indictment of cap-
italism: "Contradiction between the basis of bourgeois
production (the value measure) and its very develop-
ment. Machines, etc."
As Marx describes the technological basis of this
contradiction, the development of big industry so in-
creases the productivity of the individual worker that
output does not depend on how much he works but
rather "upon the general state of science and the
progress of technology, or the application of science to
production. ... In this transformation, it is neither the
immediate labor that man himself performs, nor the
time during which he works, but the appropriation of
his common
productivity ... in a word, the develop-
ment of the socialized individual, that appears as the
basic source of richness and production. . The sur-
. .
plus labor of the masses has ceased to be the precondi-

tion of the development of the common wealth, and
—
Das Kapital 119
the leisure of the few is no longer the precondition for

the development of the common power of the human
intellect"
In the course of this description Marx clearly recog-
nizes the trends toward automation: "Labor no longer
appears as incorporated within the production process,
but rather men become the overseers and regulators of
that process [Wachter und Regulator]" All this dem-
onstrates the degree to which "social knowledge"
that development of science which is itself increasingly
the work of a community of scientists —
becomes "the
immediate power of production."
But this magnificent accomplishment, Marx argues,
is intolerable within a capitalist system. On the one
hand, the capitalists do everything in their power to
make production independent of labor time; "on the
other hand, the colossal powers of production thus cre-
ated are measured in labor time." Capitalism's capacity
— —
and drive to expand production are boundless; but
the consumption capacity of a society that constantly
seeks to economize on labor time is not. As Marx put
the point in outline form in Volume II of Das Kapital,
"Contradiction of the capitalist mode of production:
the workers, as buyers, are important for the market
—
But as sellers of their own commodity labor power
the capitalist society has the tendency to keep them to a
minimum price." (II, Chapter 16, Pt 3, p. 318)
This disparity between production and consumption,
Marx insists, is not to be explained by saying that the
worker receives too little of the product of his own
labor. In his analysis wages are determined by the
same economic laws that constrain the capitalist. They
may rise over time, and particularly during the boom
that almost always precedes a crash, but as a cost of
production they must be kept to a minimum. If some
conscientious employer would pay his men more, that
would require him to raise his prices or lower his
profits. In the first case, he would soon drive himself
out of the market; in the second, he would be less able
to compete with his wealthier antagonists. Moreover,
120 SOCIALISM
it isa historical fact that depressions occur at moments
of high working-class consumption. The problem, then,
is not that the workers have too little, but that the
system has overproduced.
Thus the capitalist crisis, as Marx analyzes it, is un-
precedented. In all previous social systems economic
breakdown did indeed take place where people did not
have enough, when a poor harvest or a natural ca-
lamity made foods and goods scarce. But now the prob-
lem was one of "too much," of glut. There were "too
many" shoes, and therefore the shoe workers, whose
wages had reached new heights precisely because they
were turning out shoes in enormous quantities, had
to be laid off, which further reduced the market for
everything else. It was, in short, capitalism's neces-
sary obsession with expanding production through so-
cializing labor that, within the confines of the system,
turned out to be catastrophic.
Some students of Marx think that this contradiction
between production and consumption within capitalist
society is only one of a number of Marxist theories of
crisis. That, for example, is the thesis of Paul Sweezy's
quite lucid exposition of Das Kapital in The Theory of
Capitalist Development. I disagree. Marx's various
analyses of breakdown all present the same basic con-
tradiction —between socialized labor and the private
uses of it — only from different points of view. It can
be seen in terms of the antagonism between production
and consumption. It also can be located within the
production process itself as an unplanned and inevi-
table disproportion between the development of capi-
tal-goods and consumer-goods industries. (Ill, Chap-
267)
ter 15, Pt. 3, p.
But the most controversial single statement of the
crisis tendency inherent in capitalism
is the theory of
the falling rate of profit.
The falling rate of profit, a theme Marx inherited
from the classical economists, is an obvious deduction
from his own analysis. If labor is the source of value
and, in their struggle for more and more surplus, the
—
Das Kapital 121
capitalists force one another to increase constant capital

(investment in machines) as compared to variable cap-
ital (wages), then the element in the production process
that is uniquely creative is in relative decline. Then, all
other things being equal which, for Marx, they never
are, except as a simplifying assumption — the profit-
ability of capitalism, its ability to produce surplus value,
will fall precisely as its productivity increases. And this
is a most dramatic illustration of the contradition be-
tween social and private purposes, for it makes the capi-
talists the unwitting agents of their own destruction.
As far as one can tell, the rate of profit has not de-
clined. Therefore, some academics would say, there is
no point in following the intricacies of a theory that
cannot even describe the real world. Yet Marx himself
was quite aware of this difficulty: "If one looks at the
enormous development of the productive powers of so-
cial labor," he wrote in Volume III of Das Kapital, "then
in place of what economics had previously described,
namely, the explanation of the fall in the rate of profit,
one must tell why, on the contrary, this fall has not
been greater and more precipitous than it has." (Ill,
Chapter 14, Pt. 1, p. 242) That, he commented, could
only be accounted for on the basis of countertendencies
offsetting the trends he had described
Indeed, Marx comments that "the same causes that
create the tendency for the rate of profit to fall also
are the source of these countertendencies." (Ill, Chap-
ter 14, Pt. 4, p. 246) The most important single case
in point, and one that has tremendous ramifications for
the entire Marxian analysis, is found, as one might ex-
pect, in the growth of productivity. Early on, in Volume
I, Marx distinguishes between the organic and the tech-
nical composition of capital. The organic composition

is the ratio of constant to variable capital, i.e., it ex-
presses the tendency for machines to grow relative to
the wage bill. The technical composition measures in-
vestment per worker and the consequent change in out-
put this brings about. (I, Chapter 23, Pt. 1, p. 640)
So constant capital increases and variable capital de-
122 SOCIALISM
clines which would make the rate of profit fall; but at
the very same time, and for the very same reason, the
productivity of socialized labor increases so much that
even if the surplus labor in each unit of production is
less, the sum total of units is so great that the mass
of surplus, and the mass of profits, rises. (I, Chapter
23, Pt. 2, p. 651) As Marx puts the paradox, there is
"on the one hand a tendency to a progressive fall in
the rate of profit and on the other hand a progressive
increase in the absolute mass of the appropriated sur-
plus value, or profit; so that on the whole a relative
decrease in variable capital and profits is accompanied
by an absolute increase in both. The twofold effect can
express itself only in the growth of the total capital at
a rate more rapid than that expressed by the fall in the
rate of profit." (Ill, Chapter 13, p. 233)
Thus Marx sees the growing productivity of labor as
a crisis factor — it threatens overproduction —
and as a
means of overcoming crisis —
investments that save on
capital or enormously increase output per worker can
cheapen goods and therefore create new markets. Paul
Samuelson cannot tolerate such indeterminacy. He mea-
sures Marx by a non-Marxist standard and finds him
wanting: "This does not mean that for him a postulated
secular econometric law meant that literally what it
prophesized would indeed happen; for, like Malthus
and others, he often spoke of 'tendencies,' and in such
a way that we hardly know how to decide when he
—
was wrong and hence when he was right!" Samuelson,
in short, wants those mathematical certitudes that an-
ticipate the price of a cup of tea; Marx is concerned
with analyzing the historic destiny of the system and
therefore must take alternate possibilities into account.
And the latter is "right," not because Das Kapital con-
tained a prophecy of the crash of 1929, but because it
offers a method that allows one to understand such an
event and to change the system so that it need never
happen again.
Even Mrs. Robinson fails to perceive the dialectical
complexity of Marx's analysis. She writes of him that
Das Kapital 123
"the argument of Capital did not lead him to expect

any appreciable upward trend in the level of real wages
under capitalism. ." Marx, she says, assumed that
. .
the rate of exploitation is constant. But that, she con-

tinues, would mean that real wages would go up along
with productivity. She concludes, "This drastic incon-
sistency he seems to have overlooked, for when he is
discussing the falling tendency of profits he makes no
reference to the rising tendency of wages which it en-
tails."
This is be sure, passages in
inaccurate. There are, to
Das Kapital toward an immiserization theory
that veer
in which wages must fall. Marx remarks at one point
that under capitalism "the great majority is always poor
and must remain poor," (II, Chapter 16, Pt. 3, p. 318,
n. 32) which could be taken to mean that wages will
never go up. But the main Marxian analysis points
clearly to a rise in real wages accompanying the decline
dn the rate of profit.
Marx, as was noted saw the period immedi-
earlier,
ately before a depression as characterized by a boom
and rising wages. (II, Chapter 20, Pt. 4, p. 409) In-
deed, there is an entire chapter in Volume I devoted
to showing how wages increase under certain condi-
tions in capitalist society. (I, Chapter 23, p. 640ff.)
But perhaps the clearest statement is found in Volume
III: "The compensation of the falling rate of profits
through their rising mass is only valid for the total capi-
tal of the society and for the big, well-prepared capi-
talists. The new, independently functioning and rising
capitalists [Zusatzkapital] find no such conditions of
compensation and must create them. Thus the fall of
the rate of profit intensifies the competition of the capi-
talists, not the other way around. This competition is
accompanied by a temporary increase in wages and a
resultant and further temporary decline in the profit
rate." (Ill, Chapter 15, Pt. 3, p. 267)
Marx was not able to develop
this point, but his fol-
lowers did. As far back as 1899 Kautsky commented
that "the living conditions of the proletariat are today
124 SOCIALISM
higher than they were fifteen years ago." He distin-
guished between absolute poverty, which was not
growing but declining in capitalist countries, and "so-
cial poverty," the failure of the workers to increase
their living standard in proportion to their contribution
to the social product. Lenin endorsed Kautsky's thesis,
and at their 1901 Congress the Austrian socialists,
among the most brilliant theorists of the European
movement, took references to immiserization out of the
party program. In 1929 Henryk Grossman demon-
strated at book length that the idea of rising wages was
central to the Marxian analysis and more recently
Jiirgen Habermas has documented the same point.
So in the complexities of the Marxian analysis, the
"law of motion" of capitalist society is discovered
through an analysis of the changes in the social labor
process. In the search for relative surplus value the
capitalist increases investment per worker and thereby
enormously expands social productivity. But this tri-
umph is contradictory for he has at the same moment
prepared the way for a crisis of overproduction. Ttie
basic cause of this breakdown is to be found in the
antagonism between social labor and private decision-
making and appropriation. Seen in terms of production
and consumption, this antagonism is visible in the glut
that appears in a booming capitalist economy at a time
of high wages; seen within the production process itself,
it is the private planlessness of an essentially social sys-
tem that leads to disproportions between capital and

consumer-goods industries; and seen from the vantage
point of profits and surplus, it is expressed in the
tendency of the rate of profits to fall and for the mass
of profits and rate of wages to rise, prior to the crisis.
—
Thus "socialized man" the individual who can pro-
duce as much as a thousand, or ten thousand, workers
once did because of the advances of science and the
cooperative organization of production —
emerges, but
within the framework of a private and anti-social sys-
tem. Once Marx had made this profound analysis of
the fundamental trends and alternatives of capitalism,
Das Kapital 125
he could then turn to the issue of prices, which so ob-

sessed academic economics. 4
First of all, it is made quite clear in Das Kapital
that the value of a commodity —the socially necessary
labor time it contains — does not determine its price:
"This is no defect, but on the contrary admirably adapts
the price form to a mode of production whose inherent
laws impose themselves as the mean of apparently law-
less irregularities that compensate one another." (I,
Chapter 3, Pt. 1, p. 117) That, you might say, is Marx's
own, and characteristic, statement of Adam Smith's
theory of the invisible hand. And in a letter to Kugel-
mann, Marx developed the same point: ". . daily ex-
.
change relations and the value quantities cannot be im-

mediately identical. The character of bourgeois society
precisely arises out of the fact that there is no con-
scious social regulation of production. Reason and nat-
ural necessity assert themselves only as a blind aver-
age."
The theory of value is, in other words, macroeco-
nomic. By examining the changes in the social process
of production — the evolution of socially necessary labor
time—one understands the basic tendencies of the
economy, which in turn set the context for the micro-
economic transactions of supply and demand.
For Marx, the demand for goods is a dependent vari-
able, not a given. It is determined "by the relationship
of the different classes to one another and by their re-
spective positions, namely, and first, through the rela-
tionship of total surplus value to wages, and secondly,
through the relationship of the different parts into
which the surplus value is divided (profit, interest, rent,
taxes, etc.); and so here again it is shown that nothing
can be explained on the basis of supply and demand
until the basis which that relationship itself reflects is
made clear." Chapter 10, p. 191)
(Ill,
In dealing with the supply of goods the crucial point
is not, as so many academic economists believe, to pose
hypothetical prices and then calculate the supply that
will be offered under those conditions. That suggests a
126 SOCIALISM
rationality about business decisions that even the pr
ponents of this view admit does not exist in the res
world. Most executives figure out their cost of produc
tion, add a markup and thereby set the price. If thej
were somehow ruled by an exact knowledge of demand
— which is itself, as Marx emphasized, dependent on a
—
number of factors then there would never be a crisis
of overproduction. But that, of course, is simply not
the case.
Marx, as on almost every issue, focuses his attention
with regard to supply on the production process itself.
As Rudolf Hilferding cogently summarized his ap-
proach, under capitalism the capitalist "must be able to
set the commodity at a price which is equal to cost price
plus average profit." This Marxian description, it will
be noted, more accurately depicts the real world of
business than the theories of supply and demand. "If
he is unable to realize this price ... the process of re-
production is arrested, and the supply is reduced to a
point at which the relationship between supply and
demand makes it possible to realize this price. Thus the
relationship between supply and demand ceases to be a
mere matter of chance: we perceive that it is regulated
by the price of production, which constitutes the center
around which market price fluctuates in directions
which are perpetually opposed, so that the fluctuations
compensate one another in the long run. ... In the long
run therefore the relationship between supply and de-
mand must be of such a kind that the price of produc-
tion (brought about independently of this relationship)
may be attained which shall yield the capitalist the cost
price plus the profit for the sake of which he has under-
taken the production. Then we speak of the equilibrium
of supply and demand."
In other words, a careful analysis of the process of
production as it affects the social classes and their share
of output, and as it changes the costs and character of
business, must be made prior to the observation of the
relationship between supply and demand. For the lat-
ter are the function of the former. At any given mo-
Das Kapital 127
ment it is quite possible —

and often very useful for ac- —
ademics to take a snapshot of the economy and to
analyze the relations of supply and demand that equili-
brate cost of production plus profit and price. But
Marx was more interested in describing the macro-
movements and dynamic trends of the system itself. In
the process he made his share of errors and that series
of incomparable predictions that Wassily Leontiev
enumerated.
This, then, Das Kapital in briefest outline. Its sub-
is
ject matter not the short-run interaction of supply,

is
demand, prices, wages and other elements. It is, rather,

a description of how structural changes in the capitalist
system brought about the socialization of labor. In a
brilliant historical analysis Marx shows how emergent
capitalism expropriates the petty producers and turns
them into proletarians working for a wage with private-
ly owned, but socially organized, means of production.
As process proceeds apace, the big capitalists take
this
over the smaller capitalists and the system tends toward
increasing centralization and monopoly.
In this entire process, Marx continues, it is not own-
ers virtuously abstaining from consumption who
create wealth. It is not even the increasingly complex
machines, for they are only as productive as the work-
ers (and in his broadest usage, Marx would include
scientists and even functional entrepreneurs in the
term) make them. Rather it is men and women who
create wealth, and that is an intolerable truth for capi-
talism since the obvious corollary is that those who
create wealth should also enjoy it. And
they do not:
the surplus extracted from the direct producers is not
consumed by them. The market-determined wage they
receive is less than the value their labor imparts to the
output. They, like the feudal serf, therefore work a por-
tion of the day to earn their keep —
and a portion of the
day to supply the owner of the means of production
with a surplus.
Indeed, the dynamic principle of this system its —
—
law of motion is precisely the capitalist's effort to in-
128 SOCIALISM
crease that surplus. This is first done through lengthen
ing the working day, but that brutal process reache
the limits of human endurance. So the struggle for mor
surplus now goes forward by means of a never-ending
socialization of labor which raises output per man-hour
at an unprecedented (in terms of all previous econom-
ic systems) rate. This feat is, however, most contra-
dictory. On the one hand, it threatens a glut, since pro-
duction advances in giant strides but consumption is
restricted by the class structure of the system; and it
has the potential of reducing the rate of profit, since
the unique source of the surplus, labor power, is di-
minishing in relation to the investment in machines.
But these crisis trends do not operate unchecked. For
on the other hand, the mass of labor power may be
declining relatively, but the rising productivity increases
its worth absolutely. And capital-saving innovation and
lower unit-labor costs may make it possible to cut
prices and expand markets.
Das Kapital does not contain econometric prophecies
as to how these various, and sometimes compensating,
tendencies will work out. But it does propose a method
of analysis and focus upon key variables that are valid
to this very day. It took the Great Depression to drag
the academic economists into the real world and teach
them that it is in society's urgent interest to vastly in-
crease the consumption of the masses. And even in the
post-Keynesian economics of the 1970s, as Chapters
XII and XIV will show, our unheard-of productivity
remains the greatest threat to our happiness because it
is still under private domination.
—
In short, Marx's central theme the changes in pro-
ductivity brought about by the socialization of labor
and its consequent effect on the rest of the system is—
more relevant today than when he wrote Das Kapital.
Those neat mathematical equations with which aca-
demicians described perfect equilibrium served an intel-
lectual purpose, but they are now ready for the muse-
um. Marx's categories, on the other hand, can be used
to analyze automation, which he anticipated, economic
Das Kapital 129
development in the Third World, the crisis of the en-

vironment and so on. Indeed, much of the rest of this
book willdocument how his magnificent insight into the
conflict between social means of production, i.e., mod-
ern technology, and a private mode of production, i.e.,
capitalism, is one of the most usable truths of the
twentieth, and the twenty-first, century.
The conclusion of Marx's analysis is also utterly
germane to the present situation. It is, indeed, a mat-
ter of economic necessity to create the good society. For
as long as the fantastic creator of wealth, socialized
man, istrapped within private and anti-social institu-
tions, his cooperatively developed but antagonistically
organized genius will threaten him. And the point of
socialism, if one can sum up the three volumes of Das
Kapital in a phrase, is that man, having socialized al-
most everything else, must now socialize himself.
VI
The American Exception
Most of the people in the world today call the name

dream "socialism." The word, to be sure, has
of their
many, and even contradictory, definitions. Yet its tre-
mendous resonance obviously tells of a deep yearning
for fundamental change among hundreds of millions of
people.
America is the great exception.
The American worker, unlike his counterpart in all
the other advanced nations, thinks and speaks well of
capitalism. Even in the 1930s, when the system was in
even more of a shambles here than in Europe, there
was still no socialist outburst. And though many stu-
dents and intellectuals in the sixties and early seventies
have begun to subject the society to an explicitly radical
critique, there is certainly no mass movement in that
direction. The United States is thus almost the only
country on the face of the globe where "socialism" is a
bad word.
Scholars have been explaining this situation for more
than a half a century. As early as 1906, when the So-
cialistParty of Eugene Victor Debs was still in its as-
cendancy, Werner Sombart developed what was to be-
come the most popular theory to account for it. In the
United States, Sombart said, "all the socialist Utopias,
have foundered upon roast beef and apple pie." Som-
bart himself thought that this phenomenon was tempo-
rary and that the moment would eventually come when
socialism would be a force among the millions. But
those who restated his basic insight usually made it ab-
solute: Because of its enormous wealth, America was
131
—
132 SOCIALISM
in the past, is in the present, and will be in the future,
immune to socialism.
In recent years this thesis has been internationalized
While Europeans were debating Marxian subtleties, one
is told, Americans were revolutionizing social existence.
As a result of the unprecedented affluence of this coun-
try the class struggle and its militant myths have be-
gun to disappear and arguments over the division of
the social product have become pragmatic and non-
violent. As the countries of the Old World join this
wave of the future, their political movements will be
Americanized along with everything else. Then there
will be, some prestigious intellectuals said, an "end to
—
ideology" which was a polite way of saying an end to
socialism. Thus Sombart's roast beef and apple pie were
turning into a global force.
That is bad history and bad sociology. In fact, Amer-
ica was never as well fed as this argument assumes
and isn't even today. And, paradoxically, to the limited
degree that this country has enjoyed some material ad-
vantages as compared to Europe, it has been an incite-
ment to riot. Indeed, it is quite possible that in the com-
ing period a maldistributed and anti-social affluence
will radicalize more people than hunger ever did.
This chapter is primarily about the bad history un-
derlying the complacent vision of an unradical Ameri-
ca. In reality, socialism in America suffered not from
the conservatism of the nation, but from its irrepres-
sible utopianism. Secondly, there were laboristic tenden-
cies of the kind that led to a mass socialist movement
in England even in the heyday of that arch anti-so-
cialist, Samuel Gompers. And thirdly, the American liv-
ing standard, and the politics that it inspired, were
—
and are much more complex than Sombart's metaphor
of shoals of roast beef and apple pie suggests.
I do not go into these things simply to set the his-
torical record straight but because they prepare the
way for understanding the most bizarre fact of all: that
there is a mass social democratic movement in America
today in a pro-capitalist, anti-socialist disguise. Chapter
The American Exception 133
X will describe it; this chapter will outline some of the

circumstances that led to it. For there were precursors
to this strange phenomenon and Karl Marx and Fried-
rich Engels confronted them.
None of this is to deny that American capitalism is
exceptional. Of course it is, which is one of the main
reasons that the socialist impulse in this country ex-

pressed itself in a bourgeois rhetoric. And the com-
ponents of that exceptionalism are fairly easy to outline.
Phillip Taft, a sympathetic biographer of Gompers,
writes about "the absence of feudalism in America, the
greater class mobility, the higher standards of living, the
right to vote for all male citizens as well as the greater
social democracy." That is about the same as Lenin's
view of the "long-standing political liberty and the ex-
ceptionally favorable conditions, in comparison with
other countries, for the deep-going and widespread de-
velopment of capitalism" in the United States.
The exceptional aspects of the American experience
are, in short, so obvious that political foes can agree
upon them. These unique elements will be acknowl-
edged here, but the emphasis will be upon that which
is new in the American past: that this country has a
social democratic tradition that, for good historical rea-
sons, never learned to pronounce its own name. With
that understood, we can then turn, later on, in Chapter
X, to our invisible mass movement — the American so-
cial democracy. 1
America was too socialistic for socialism. That was

the original problem.
In 1824 Robert Owen, the British socialist, came to
the United States. He had already become something
of a pariah in the polite society of his homeland be-
cause of his irreverent views about religion. But on his
journey to Harmony, Indiana, the town he had just
bought from Father George Rapp for $135,000 for an
134 SOCIALISM
Owenite community, he received an enthusiastic wel->
come at every step. On February 25, 1825, Owen spoke
in the House of Representatives in Washington before
an audience that included the outgoing President, James
Monroe, the President-elect, John Quincy Adams (who
took time out from working on his inaugural address
to attend), many members of the House and Senate,
Justices of the Supreme Court and Cabinet officers.
In the course of his remarks, Owen told this distin-
guished assemblage that it was necessary to build a
new society in the United States. In the American fu-
ture that he evoked "the degrading and pernicious prac-
tices in which we are now trained, of buying cheap and
selling dear, will be rendered wholly unnecessary: for
so long as this principle shall govern the transaction
of men nothing really great or noble can be expected
from mankind.
"The whole trading system," Owen continued, "is
one of deception: one by which one engaged in it is
necessarily trained to endeavor to obtain advantages
over others, and in which the interest of all is opposed
to each, and in consequence, no one can attain the ad-
vantages that, under another and better system, might
be, with far less labor, and without risk, secured in per-
petuity to all.
"The consequence of this inferior trading system is

to give a very injurious surplus of wealth and power
to the few, and to inflict poverty and subjection on the
many."
In the 1820s there was no other nation on the face
of the earth where capitalism could be thus denounced,
and socialism extolled, in a meeting convened by the
political elite. There were many reasons for the remark-
able event: the United States was born of revolution,
possessed of vast lands where a nation had to be
created, and from the Great Awakening of 1734 had
been periodically inspired by a religious spirit which
sought to build the Kingdom of God upon the North
American earth. In such a society it was not at all
strange that a British Utopian with a scheme for re-
making the world should present it to the President

and the Congress.
But Owenism in the United States did not survive
the 1820s, and in the early 1830s a trade-union move-
ment emerged as the channel for social idealism. So it
was that the first workers' parties anywhere in the world
were formed in New York and Philadelphia in 1829
and 1830. At a time when none of the working peo-
ple of Europe had the right to vote, labor elected the
president of the Carpenters' Union in New York to the
state Assembly. The "free gift" of the ballot in the
United States made it possible for the nascent prole-
tariat —
actually, its members were artisans because the
factory workers at that time were mainly women and
therefore voteless — to assert itself very early.
The rhetoric of this development, particularly that of
the middle-class reformers like Frances Wright, Robert
Dale Owen (Robert Owen's son) and George Henry
Evans, often had a strikingly Marxist sound. In No-
vember, 1830, Frances Wright wrote, "What distin-
guishes the present from every other struggle in which
the human race has been engaged is that the present is
evidently, openly and acknowledgedly, a war of class
and this war is universal; it is the ridden people of the
earth who are struggling to throw from their backs the
'booted and spurred' riders whose legitimate title to
starve as well as to work them to death will no longer
pass current; it is labor rising up against idleness, in-
dustry against money."
It was small wonder that Marx looked upon this
movement with enthusiasm and wrote in 1845 that the
Americans "have had their own socialist democratic
school since 1829." But paradoxically, it was the very
favorable situation, which gave rise to the political, and
even socialist, working-class movements of the 1820s
and 1830s, that made the organization of the American
Left so difficult. In Europe it was precisely the outcast
status of the worker, his formal exclusion from the po-
litical process, that forced him to that solidarity that
expressed itself in socialism. In America, by way of
136 SOCIALISM
contrast, was the existence of universal male suffrage
it
that made the non-working-class parties try to co-opt

and absorb the workers' demands at a very early mo-
ment in the nation's history.
And yet, so pervasive was the Utopian spirit that
when the crisis of 1837 destroyed the labor organiza-
tions, there was a revival of communitarian socialism.
The ideas of Owen and Fourier won a new generation
of American disciples, among them Horace Greeley, the
editor of the New York Tribune, who was later to hire
Marx as a European correspondent. This was the period
when Marx and Engels were themselves moving toward
their first definition of socialism, and they reacted to
the American events with a giddy joy. The New World,
they concluded, offered exceptionally favorable con-
ditions for the growth of a socialist movement.
As Engels saw it in 1845, settlements like New
Harmony, Indiana, and Zoar, Ohio, proved that social-
ism could work because "people who live in community
live better and work less, have more reason to improve
their minds, and ... are better and more moral than
their neighbors who still have private property." And
in 1847 Marx anticipated the argument that the lack
of feudalism was central to the American experience
but used it to argue that the country would therefore
be more socialist, not less: "The question of private
property, which is world-historical in our age, has
meaning only in a modern, bourgeois society. The more
developed such a society, the more the bourgeois domi-
nates the nation and its state power, the more harsh
the social question becomes, harsher in France than
in Germany, in England than in France, in the consti-
tutional monarchy than in the absolute monarchy, in
the Republic than in the constitutional monarchy. So,
e.g., the collusion over the credit system and specula-
tion is nowhere more acute than in North America. No-
where is social inequality more severe as in the Eastern
states of North America, since it is not in the least con-
cealed by political inequality."
Indeed, throughout their lifetimes Marx and Engels
could never decide whether the exceptional characteris-

tics of American society boded good or evil for the so-
cialist movement. During the Civil War, when they en-
thusiastically supported the North, their partisanship
clearly got the better of their judgment. In contratulat-
ing Lincoln on his reelection in 1864, they rightly ob-
served that many European workers had sided with
him. But they then went on to say that the workers
"were the true bearers of political power in the North"
and to describe Lincoln himself as a "single-minded,
steely son of the working class." Those propositions are
political romance.
However, there were moments during the Civil War
when Marx and Engels were much more realistic than
in the letter to Lincoln. In 1862 Marx wrote to Engels,
"the way in which the North conducts the war is ex-
actly what one would expect from a bourgeois republic
where fraud is enthroned." In the 1880s in his corre-
spondence with Sorge, Engels often emphasized how
untheoretical the Americans were and even held that
"the Manifesto, like all the shorter works of Marx and
myself, is far too difficult for Americans at the present
time."
But however much Marx and Engels vacillated on
the question of whether America would be particular-
ly receptive or particularly hostile to socialism, they
came quite early to a stunning conclusion: that the Left
in the United States would first develop as a pro-capi-
talist movement.
Marx arrived at this most dialectical thesis in 1846.
A German socialist, Hermann Kriege, was the editor of
a New York paper, Der Volks-Tribun. In a short time
he had caught the infectious utopianism of his new
homeland and was writing that "the Holy Spirit of com-
munity must develop itself out of the hearts of love."
When he became more explicit, he championed the
panacea of free land: "Every poor man will be trans-
formed into a useful member of human society as soon
as one provides them with the opportunity to be pro-
ductively active. That is guaranteed as soon as the so-
138 SOCIALISM
ciety gives him a piece of land upon which he can
provide for his family. If the enormous land surface
(the 1400 million acres of American state property)
will be taken away from business and provided, in
limited quantities, to labor, that will in a single blow
put an end to poverty in America. . . ."
Marx and Engels ridiculed the economic theory be-
hind this proposal. By making the land grant inalien-
able, they said, Kriege was trying to forbid industrial
progress and concentration by fiat and ignored the fact
that the farmers with the most productive soil would
soon be masters and all the rest serfs. And even if the
scheme went into effect, they said, in a matter of forty
years population increases would exhaust the land re-
serve and poverty would start up all over again. Then
came the shrewd, and completely anti-sectarian, con-
clusion: "If Kriege had understood the free-land move-
ment as the first form of the proletarian movement
made necessary under certain specific conditions, as a
movement based upon the living conditions of a class
which necessarily must become communist, then we
would have no disagreement with him. If he had dem-
onstrated how communist tendencies in America must
originally appear in this seemingly anti-communist,
agrarian form [in dieser scheinbar allem Kommunismus
widersprechenden agrarischen Form], there would be
no argument."
In the United States socialism would first appear as
anti-socialism, and this was a necessity rooted in Ameri-
can conditions! In pointing out that Marx and Engels
identified this strange trend, I do not mean to suggest
that they prophesied the anti-socialist social democracy
that will be described in Chapter X. Both of them clear-
ly expected that in the not-too-long run the exigencies
of capitalist production would bring forth a socialist
movement in the United States just as in Europe. Yet
they were aware that a confused pro-capitalist radical-
ism was not only possible and progressive in the United
States, but inevitable as well. Given the great land mass
.
of America, the workers necessarily would look toward

the agrarian West for their salvation.
There they would envisage not a collective system of
production, but every man as an independent farmer.
As economics, the scheme was preposterous; as poli-
tics, itwas a vital expression of mass hostility to indus-
trial capitalism. This was the dream that led to the
Homestead Act of 1862, and it still gripped the imagi-
nation of the masses in 1886 when Henry George ran
for mayor of New York on a platform of nationalizing
the land (more on that event in the next section)
It did indeed turn out, as Marx expected, that the
hope of escaping from the class struggle to free land
was a myth. In the 1860s it took $1,000 to make a go
of a farm, and the cost increased later in the century. So
for every industrial worker who became a farmer,
twenty farmers became city dwellers. And for every free
farm acquired by a farmer, nine were purchased by
railroads, speculators or by the Government itself.
And yet, if free land did not actually fulfill its mythic
function, the people did not give up the dream that it
would. Instead, of abandoning their panacea and turn-
ing to socialism, the workers remained under the spell
of agrarian radicalism. The farmers "stood in the fore-
front of the battle against the control of the society by
business" and as Greenbackers and Populists they
sought to use Federal power to fight the railroads and
the bankers and to provide the economic basis for a
society of small producers. And more often than not,
itwas the militancy of the wheat farmers on the plains,
of the metal miners in the West and of poor whites
and blacks in the South that dominated the urban move-
ment. Thus, in Richard Hofstadter's brilliant phrase, it
was "entrepreneurial radicalism" that held sway in
American protest politics from the Jacksonians to the
Populists.
As a result of this situation, the American unions
could only develop in opposition to middle-class Uto-
pians seeking salvation in the fields. As far back as 1829
140 SOCIALISM
Frances Wright's insistence on advocating that children
be taken away from their parents so that they could
get a properly egalitarian education unquestionably
hastened the collapse of the Workingmen's Party. From
that time on, the visionaries attempted to divert the
unions from the actual job of fighting for wages and
hours and other mundane gains and to orient them to-
wards this or that panacea. In the National Labor Union
after the Civil War the reformers were so effective in
driving the workers out of the organization that the
First International would not even send a delegate to
its convention.
Marx and Engels themselves had a personal con-
frontation with the exuberance of American reform. In
the 1870s Victoria Woodhull and Tennessee Claflin
took over a section of the First International in the
United States and preached, among a wide variety of
doctrines, free love. The movement, Engels wrote, had
been "invaded by bourgeois swindlers, free-love advo-
cates, spiritual enthusiasts, Shakers, etc." And, in an
outraged mood, he reported that the Woodhull forces
held a meeting in New York in May, 1872: "They
united all the male and female cranks in America. . . .
And Mrs. Victoria Woodhull was nominated for the

Presidency of the United States, and in the name of
the International!"
This encounter with the feminist free-lovers could be
seen as a moment of comic relief in the history of so-
cialism if it did not so clearly illustrate the difficulty of
building a socialist movement in a country in which so
many people were so enthusiastic, but vague, about
creating the future. And in the labor movement this
meant, ironically, that the Marxists had to line up with
those who were to become the most effective "pure and
simple" trade unionists —
and the most effective anti-
Marxists.
At the same time, Marx's American followers had to
fight against socialist, as well as agrarian, sectarianism.
The German-American followers of Lassalle were, like
their master, for state aid to cooperatives as the main
solution to the social question. So in the name of so-

cialism they fought the unions, which they regarded as
a diversion from the real struggle. During the great
strike wave of 1877, for instance, they told the workers
of the "futility of planless revolts." The Marxists, on
the other hand, fought against premature efforts to es-
tablish labor and socialist parties in the 1870s and put
their emphasis on building trade unions. The North
American Central Committee of the First International
reported to Marx and his associates in 1872, "Reform
Societies do not understand the labor question, and yet
these societies are continually growing and working men
are being led astray by them."
With the rise of the American Federation of Labor
(AFL) in the 1880s, the Marxist perspective was ful-
filled. The Knights of Labor were the last big organiza-
tion that, in the name of labor, mixed workers and
middle-class reformers together in a humanist freema-
sonry. When it was defeated and the genuine trade
unionists prevailed, the Marxists, who had sided with
the latter, were promptly classified among the crackpots
whom they had helped to vanquish. The unions had
moved, in Selig Perlman's analysis, from the political
struggle against monopoly characteristic of the reform-
ers to a "stable and job-conscious trade unionism."
In the conventional view the anti-ideological union-
ism thus defined in the 1880s and 1890s with Marxist
support has persisted to this very day. That, as much
of this chapter and Chapter X will show, is not the case.
But what is particularly relevant at this point in the
analysis is that it was not the anti-socialism of the Amer-
ican experience, but rather its amorphous, uncritical
utopianism that was a major factor making the organi-
zation of a modern socialist movement so difficult
Therefore, even as brilliant a thinker as Joseph Schum-
peter must be counted as wrong when he said, ". . that
.
great sociologist, the man in the street, has been right

once more. He said that socialism and socialists were
un-American." In some ways the problem was exactly
opposite to the one Schumpeter defined: in the nine-
142 SOCIALISM
teenth century America was too socialistic to become
socialist.
There is a related aspect to this paradox of an Amer-
ica too radical for socialism. As Leon Samson formu-
lated it, Americanism, the official ideology of the so-
ciety, became a kind of "substitutive socialism." The
European ruling classes, which derived from, or aped,
the aristocracy, were open in their contempt for the
proletariat. But in the United States equality, and even
classlessness, the creation of wealth for all and political
liberty were extolled in the public schools. It is, of
course, true that this was sincere verbiage which con-
cealed an ugly reality, but nonetheless it had a pro-
found impact upon the national consciousness. "The
idea that everyone can be a capitalist," Samson wrote
in a perceptive insight, "is an American concept of cap-
italism. It is a socialist concept of capitalism." And
that, Marx had understood in his quarrel with Kriege in
1846, was why socialism would first appear in this
country in a capitalist guise. What he could not possi-
bly anticipate was that this dialectical irony would still
be in force over a hundred years later.
So it was America's receptivity to Utopia, not its hos-
tility, that was a major factor inhibiting the development
of a socialist movement. The free gift of the ballot and

the early emergence of working-class parties were por-
tents of assimilation, not revolution. The ubiquity of
panaceas within the reform movement tended to dis-
credit serious proposals for the future and even forced
the Marxists to ally themselves within the early labor
movement with the "pure and simple" trade unionists.
Finally, the country's image of itself contained so many
socialist elements that one did not have to go to a sepa-
rate movement opposed to the status quo in order to
give vent to socialist emotions. 2
II
In the last two decades of the nineteenth century the

brutal triumph of industrial capitalism and the trusts
began to force America out of its agrarian reveries.
In the conventional interpretation of this turning
point, an organized labor movement emerged under
Samuel Gompers and wisely and decisively rejected so-
cialism in the 1890s. The Socialist Party had a brief
moment of Debsian glory between 1901 and 1912,
when it reached its electoral high point, and then en-
tered into a process of steady, irreversible decline. The
Progressives, who were eclectic and nonideological as
befits a genuinely American group, were the real victors
as job orientation prevailed over class consciousness,
pragmatism over socialism, and Woodrow Wilson pre-
pared the way for Franklin D. Roosevelt.
I read those years differently. The AFL did indeed
reject socialism in the nineties and take its stand for
"pure and simple" unionism and a "voluntarist" oppo-
sition to state intervention. But history would not al-
low it to act upon that choice, for events pushed labor
more and more toward politics and the acceptance
of Federal action. By the end of World War I the
trade unionists were moving toward acceptance of the
socialist immediate program which they had rejected in
the 1890s, and in 1922 they took the unprecedented
step of formally allying with the Socialist Party in the
Conference for Progressive Political Action. In 1924
labor supported the La Follette candidacy, an action
that anticipated the political involvements of the De-
pression years.
Thus the social democratic impulse in American life
did not, as the Debsians had thought it would, lead to
the growth of a mass socialist movement on the German
model, where the party predated and dominated the
union. Rather it worked along the same lines as in
England, politicalizing the unions, a fact that some of
144 SOCIALISM
the perceptive socialists had noted by the end of the
First World War. In the course of these developments
the class struggle in America was more fierce than in
any European country. That is one reason, among
many, to reject the thesis that the high standards of
living in this country — Sombart's roast beef and apple
—
pie were what kept it from moving Left. For the really
unique factor in this period was not the anti-socialist
wealth of the society but the immigrant character of its
working class.
American history, in short, moved between 1877 and
1937 toward the emergence of a labor and social demo-
cratic movement. Because of the special quality of the
national experience, it did so in a crabbed, tortured and
shamefaced fashion and, just as in the case of the work-
ers fighting for free land, refused to utter the name of
socialism even as it lurched to the Left.
It was in 1877 that the "cyclonic force" of the rail-
road strike appeared as an omen of the turmoil to
come. It began after several years of unemployment
and centered on the issue of arbitrary wage cuts. Start-
ing in Martinsburg, West Virginia, it immediately
caused the authorities to call in Federal troops to re-
store order. Even so, the movement spread to Balti-
more, where the railroad depot was burned down, and
then throughout the East. By midsummer, 100,000 men
—
were idle. There was constant violence thirteen were
killed and forty-three wounded in Reading, Pennsyl-
vania, nineteen were killed and more than a hundred
—
wounded in Chicago and eventually two thirds of the
nation's rail mileage was affected.
The nation's capitalist innocence was being de-
stroyed. Between 1877 and 1940 the "United States
has the bloodiest and most violent history of any in-
dustrial nation in the world." There were Homestead,
the great Pullman strike of the nineties, the "Colorado
Labor War" of the first decade of the century, the Seat-
tle General Strike of 1919, the Little Steel Massacre of
1937. And in each one of these explosive encounters
workers were pitted against the police and soldiers in

pitched battle.
There is one important aspect of the pervasive vio-
lence of the American class struggle that bears upon the
theory that it was the high standard of living in the
United States that kept the workers relatively contented.

It also subverts the happy expectation of the end-of-
ideologists that the rest of this century, and the next,
will be unradical because the workers are affluent. In
point of fact, to the degree that America was better fed
and freer than Europe before World War I and the —
figures, as will be seen shortly, are ambiguous on this
—
count it was a provocation to insurgency. In Europe,
as Seymour Martin Lipset has noted, the rigid class
structure and relative poverty had the effect of keeping
the workers in their "place" over considerable periods
of time. In this country the egalitarian ideology and the
lack of clearly defined limits to social mobility made for
greater individual discontent among the workers.
The unrest exploded in 1877 and the years up to the
turn of the century were to be particularly turbulent.
After 1877 businessmen became enthusiastic about the
National Guard, which they saw as an anti-strike and
anti-revolutionary force. And in August, 1882, M. A.
Hardacker wrote in the Atlantic Monthly, "Our era of
prosperity and happy immunity from those social dis-
eases which are the danger and humiliation of Europe
is passing away. Optimistic as we are, we cannot fail to
know that the increasing proportion of the incapable
among us is repeating here the problem of the Old
World . every year brings the conditions of Ameri-
. .
can labor into closer likeness to those of the Old World.

An American species of socialism is inevitable."
But when the moment of upsurge came, it was like
the free-land movement forty years before: the turn to
the Left was made in the name of a bourgeois, not a so-
cialist, Utopia.
In 1886 the trade unions went through the year of
the "Great Upheaval." The membership of the Knights
146 SOCIALISM
of Labor jumped to one million, the AFL grew rapidly
and seventy-three labor parties were formed in twenty-
six states. The spearhead of this development was in
New York where Henry George, running as a labor
candidate, was almost elected mayor. George's principal
plank was the "single tax," a proposal to nationalize all
land rent and thereby solve the problems of society.
That, as Marx had written to Sorge in 1881, was a
radical capitalist demand. "It is," he said (quoting an
earlier polemic against Proudhon), "a frank expression
of the hatred felt by the industrial capitalist against the
landlord, who appears to him useless and functionless
within the totality of bourgeois production." Under such
a scheme, Marx argued, big business would not have
to pay taxes, the means of production would remain in
private hands and capitalism would be strengthened,
not attacked.
So in 1886 the American urban workers were still
obsessed with the notion that their emancipation was
tied to the land and they backed a candidate who stood
for a more efficient capitalism, not socialism. Even
though Engels shared Marx's critique of George's the-
ories and therefore of his party's program, he sup-
ported the campaign enthusiastically. The crucial fact,
he wrote Sorge, "is always the constituting of the work-
ers as an independent party. That the first program of
this party is still confused and explicitly defective, that
Henry George carries its banner, is an unavoidable in-
convenience, but also only temporary." Thus Engels
lashed out at the German-American socialists who re-
fused to support the George movement simply because
it had an anti-Marxist program.
As it turned out, the independent labor parties faded

almost as rapidly as they appeared and Engels' en-
thusiasm, as so often was the case, was disappointed.
But there are two very important facts about this inci-
dent that bear upon the central themes of this chapter.
First, as late as 1886 Engels understood that the pro-
cess he and Marx had identified in 1846 —
a tendency
—
toward socialism with capitalist slogans was still domi-
nant. And secondly, a decisive moment had arrived in

American working-class history. After 1886 the Knights
of Labor, a sort of Masonic order for workers and
middle-class reformers that often opposed strikes, lost
their influence and Samuel Gompers came to the fore.
He had, as we have seen, the support of the Marxists
in his struggle against the Utopians. One of the main
reasons he turned on his old allies was that they, unlike
Engels, were unwilling to tolerate the dialectical com-
plexities of the American Left.
The great and abiding sin of American socialism has
been sectarianism: the tendency to counterpose the so-
cialist vision of a complete transformation to the partial
demands and ideological imprecisions of men and wom-
en engaged in a struggle for their daily bread. In the
early years in particular, this sectarian attitude was a
reflection of the actual living experience of the socialists.
Between 1850 and 1890 almost all of the socialists in
—
America and they rarely numbered more than a few
—
thousand were German. They "lived in the penumbra
of society, confined in their own neighborhoods in the
cities,spoke their own language, published their own
newspapers, organized their own parties and carried on
their own disputes — all quite remote from the concerns
of native Americans."
Those among them who followed Lassalle had no use
for pure and simple trade unionism, disparaged strikes
and dogmatically insisted that the political movement
was the only one that counted. Even the Marxists, who
had a sound position in theory, often tended to look
contemptuously upon the untheoretical Americans. As
Engels wrote in a bitter letter to Sorge in 1890, "The
anti-Socialist laws [Bismarck's illegalization of the Ger-
man social democracy which forced many of its ac-
tivists to flee to the United States] were a misfortune,
not for Germany but for America, to which the last of
the louts were consigned."
These German socialists were "louts" [Knoteri] to
Engels because of their rigidity, their mechanical ap-
plication of Marxian principles to American society.
148 SOCIALISM
JThey did not understand, he said, that America was
"without a feudal past and therefore proud of bourgeois
organization and will escape from the old, traditional
categories of thought only through praxis." Americans
would not, as the German emigres thought, be won to
socialism ideologically; they would come to it as a
practical necessity. They thus sometimes moved toward
socialism with capitalist banners.
A little before Engels wrote to Sorge an event oc-
curred which clearly had a role in turning Gompers
against the socialists. In 1888 a dispute arose as to
whether the Socialist Labor Party could be affiliated to
an AFL body. Gompers, who had gone through so
much agony establishing the principle that labor organi-
zations were unions, understandably opposed the idea.
But the SLPers were as obdurate as Engels pictured
them and forced a day-and-a-half debate of the ques-
tion at the next convention of the AFL. "The conflict
was an important one," Henry Pelling writes, "partly
because it threw Gompers, who was as yet by no means
an anti-Socialist, into a defensive attitude against the
Socialist movement; but also because, owing to the un-
compromising tactics of their leaders it alienated a sub-
from the
stantial section of the Socialists altogether AF
of L." Gompers was so upset by the incident that he
wrote Engels a very respectful letter in which he de-
scribed himself as a "student of your writings and those
of Marx," and told Sorge that he would abide by Eng-
els' judgment in the matter. Engels, unfortunately,
never answered him.
It wasin this context of doctrinaire, sectarian so-
cialistsquarreling with an AFL leader who had good
reason to be suspicious of reformers within the labor
movement that one must understand the fateful de-
bates that took place in 1893 and 1894. At the 1893
Convention of the Federation, Thomas J. Morgan, a so-
cialist delegate from the Machinists in Chicago, intro-
duced a "Political Programme" based on the eleven
planks of the Independent Labour Party in England.
The American movement was particularly susceptible
to British examples since the AFL

had modeled itself
on the Trades Union Congress in that country. The
tenth of the eleven points endorsed "the collective own-
ership by all the people of all the means of production
and consumption." (The other demands included com-
pulsory education, the eight-hour day, the nationali-
zation of the telegraphs, telephones, railroads and
mines.) The Convention refused to recommend the pro-
gram "favorably" for membership discussion by a —
vote of 1,253 to 1,182 —
but did propose that the trade
unionists discuss it in anticipation of a vote at the 1894
convention.
In 1894 all the planks other than the tenth were
easily endorsed, and there are scholars who feel that
the workers in the AFL were for the entire program,
including collective ownership. But the Gompers lead-
ership maneuvered a defeat for Plank Ten and then
argued that the whole program had been defeated.
Typically, Gompers attacked the collective ownership
proposition, not on its merits, but on the grounds that
its adoption would drive workers away from, and even
out of, the AFL. But whatever his motives, the event
signified a major defeat for the socialists in the orga-
nized labor movement.
The effect of this setback was then compounded by
Daniel De Leon. A
brilliant, utterly intransigent Marx-
ist, De Leon had joined the Socialist Labor Party in
1890 and rapidly become its leading spokesman. After

the 1894 rejection of the political program, De Leon
led his followers in the establishment of a Socialist
Trades and Labor Alliance, a dual union competitive
with the AFL. Had he become an employer and chained
his workers to the machine, he could have done nothing
to more effectively outrage the leaders of the AFL. From
that time on, Gompers became increasingly hostile to
socialism.
So the sectarianism of the American socialists had
more than a little to do with their own early failure.
Yet, is it then true, as Howard Quint has suggested,
that had they "triumphed over Gompers in 1894, con-
150 SOCIALISM
ceivably the whole course of American labor and
political history might have been altered?" I think not
For the faults of the socialists were not simply individual
and psychological. They were the almost inevitable
consequence of an attempt to apply European cate-
gories to a country in which, for more than half a cen-
tury, the effective anti-capitalist mass movement had
defined its goals in capitalist terms. But even more to
the point, the AFL reversed its 1894 decision over the
next thirty years, only it never mentioned that some-
what embarrassing fact publicly. The needs of the
American workers forced them to organize politically
as a class, and that, as Engels had so well understood,
was the decisive criterion marking a move to the Left. 8
That transformation did not occur quickly. When
Gompers turned against the socialists in 1894, he went
to the opposite extreme, advocating a laborite version
of the pure laissez-faire ideology. His philosophy was
"voluntarist": hostile to all social legislation on the part
of government; friendly toward the more sophisticated
employers who would give some kind of acceptance
to trade unionism. It is this phase in the history of the
American labor movement that the scholars think of
when they stress the enormous qualitative difference be-
tween the European and American experience. Unfor-
tunately, most of them do not notice that it didn't last
very long.
Gompers' voluntarism contained curious elements of
Marxism and syndicalism. One of the few propositions
the AFL president retained from his socialistic youth
was the thesis that the capitalist state was necessarily
an instrument of the bourgeoisie. Therefore and on—
this count he agreed with the ultra-Leftists in the Debs-
ian Socialist Party who fought against the endorsement
of any immediate demands upon the existing order — j
it was dangerous for the workers to rely on the govern-
ment for social legislation. It was from this point of

view that the AFL opposed health and unemployment
insurance as well as old-age pensions. Indeed, Gompers
once went out to three Pacific coast states and helped

defeat referenda in favor of the eight-hour day.
But this opposition to social legislation was not sim-
ply based on Gompers' youthful memories of the Marx-
ian theory of the state. In part, it represented a pro-
foundly, and understandably, American distrust of a
government that had so often been used to break strikes.
And in part, it was a shrewd organizer's policy not to
divert the workers' attention from collective bargain-
ing, where the AFL was their representative, toward
Therefore when laws were proposed
political action.
that did not compete with the union, i.e., dealt with
matters beyond the reach of collective bargaining, the
AFL was for them: legislation for women limiting
hours of work, child labor laws, the eight-hour day for
Government workers, and so on.
And yet, however explicable it is in retrospect, it
wasof considerable consequence that the chief spokes-
man for organized labor in the United States was for a
period of time a champion of laissez-faire economics
and, in the National Civic Federation, the co-worker
of shrewd corporate leaders like Mark Hanna, J. P.
Morgan and August Belmont. But this voluntarism and
class collaboration could not prevail very long because
the problems confronting the AFL membership would
simply not allow it. The Federation had already begun
to move tentatively toward the Democratic Party in
1908, and in 1912, when Woodrow Wilson was elected,
the unions involved themselves in mainstream politics
and worked for a labor reform program. Wilson signed
the Clayton Act which officially said that labor was
not a commodity (and therefore, the AFL leaders
wrongly thought, protected unions from anti-trust
prosecutions); he appointed a union man Secretary of
Labor; and he gave the AFL the feeling that it had a
friend in the White House. So by the election of 1916,
the voluntarist philosophy notwithstanding, the unions
were becoming much more deeply involved in politics.
And in 1917, as Thomas Brooks has noted, Wilson be-
152 SOCIALISM
came the first American President to ever address a
labor convention when he appeared before the AFL.
After World War I the politicalization of the Ameri-
can workers proceeded at an even faster pace. A ma-
jority of the rank and file, Phillip Taft has written,
had come to reject the classic Gompers position and
favor much more forthright political and legislative ac-
tion. The railroad unions became the focus of an oppo-
sition to Gompers which extended far beyond his tradi-
tional socialist rivals. It was a sign of the power of this
movement that the Federation overrode Gompers' op-
position and came out in favor of the nationalization
of the railroads after the end of the war.
In 1919 there was a vast strike wave followed by a
vigorous open-shop campaign on the part of American
business under the euphemistic title of the "American
Plan." But as unemployment rose to five million in
1921, and there were wage cuts throughout the nation,
labor found it difficult to fight back. When a boom be-
gan in 1922 the unions were combative, particularly be-
cause the Harding Administration had so often used the
injunction against workers. It was during this period
that the Mineworkers came out in favor of public own-
ership of the mines. The Federation itself responded in
1920 by adopting a reconstruction program that put it
on record as favoring "industrial democracy'' and a
fairly wide-ranging number of legislative reforms.
During these years there was also growing sentiment
for a new party. The Chicago Federation of Labor
started an Independent Labor Party in 1918, New York
followed suit in 1919 and a National Labor Party
was formed in November of that year. The Socialist
Party was generally hostile to these developments it —
regarded itself as the only center of authentic working-
class independence — but there were some members who
were sympathetic to it. The Labor Party vote in 1920
—
was disappointing about a fourth of Debs' total yet —
the movement continued to grow.
Hence in 1922 the AFL unions joined in the Con-
ference on Progressive Political Action and allowed the
This was, as
Socialist Party to affiliate formally with it.
Taft has recognized, a ''major change" in AFL strategy.
One might even argue that it amounted to a repeal of
the 1894 decision against independent labor political
action. And, in fact, the CPPA led to the La Follette
campaign of 1924, again with the socialists as a public-
ly acknowledged component of the coalition.
The significance of this development has been ob-
scured by a number of factors. The unions were dis-
appointed by their 1924 venture in political indepen-
dence; the Socialist Party was split over the Russian
Revolution; and employers became more subtle in
their anti-unionism in the twenties. So from 1924 to
the Great Depression the AFL reverted back to Gom-
pers' voluntarism. But as the subsequent history of the
movement was to show, this was only an episode. The
main trend, which emerged so strongly in the thirties,
was toward labor political action.
Thus American workers had to organize unions on a
class basis in order to defend their' economic interests,
for agrarian Utopias provided no real solution to their
problems. Then, even though Samuel Gompers labored
valiantly that it might be otherwise, they were forced
to involve themselves in politics on that same class ba-
sis. In the process, they were not at all like German
unions, which were founded by socialists and were po-

litical from the outset, but rather followed the English
pattern in which pragmatic anti-socialists were dragged
toward socialism by the press of events.
So the basic drive of working people in this country
was the same as in Europe: capitalism did not satisfy
their fundamental needs and they had to struggle as a
class, both economically and politically, against the sys-
tem. What was exceptional was that this essentially
social democratic development was carried out in the
name of capitalist, rather than of socialist, Utopias, a
fact with roots in the American past and, as will be
seen in a moment, in the immigrant character of the
working class before World War I. For several genera-
tions now scholars — —
and not a few socialists have
154 SOCIALISM
been mesmerized by the bourgeois surface of -these
events and did not notice their socialist core. That is
one of the main reasons why the mass American social
democracy, which will be described in Chapter X, is
still invisible. 4
m
But what, then, of those shoals of apple pie and roast
beef?
One answer is that they did not exist, at least not to
the extent that Sombart and his devotees believed. This
point is worth emphasizing in some detail because it
relates to a crucial contempory misunderstanding: that
the America of the 1970s has given an adequate stan-
dard of living to the majority of its people. That, as
Chapter X
will show, is simply not the case: and, as this
section will demonstrate, it never was. Secondly, to the
extent that the United States did enjoy some material
advantages as against Europe, it is psychologically sim-
plistic to assume that this would automatically make the
citizen here more content. This is an important reality
to examine historically since it is so relevant to all the
end-of-ideology theories which claim that affluence is
now rendering both the class struggle and socialism
obsolete.
Finally, there are two key factors that do account
for what is unquestionably exceptional in American
socialist history. Friedrich Engels was one of the first to
state them, simply but cogently: "There are two cir-
cumstances that have, for many years, kept the full
consequences of the capitalist system in America from
coming to the light of day. These are the easy avail-
ability of cheap land and the huge immigrations." The
first of these has already been analyzed, the second will
figure prominently in what follows.
To begin with a fundamental fact: The typical Amer-
ican never did gorge himself on roast beef and apple
pie. He still doesn't.
John R. Commons, the great labor historian, was the

author of the theory that the American worker was job-
oriented rather than class-conscious like his European
counterpart. Yet in Volume I of the History of Labor in
the United States, which Commons edited, Don D. Les-
cohier commented, "Undergoing the vicissitudes of re-
peated periods of unemployment, experiencing in many
occupations a less rapid rise of wages than of living
costs, they [the wage workers] could see that while
some groups, like the building mechanics, had made
distinct progress, other groups, like the iron and steel
workers, employees in meat packing plants, cotton
mills, saw mills, tobacco and clothing factories, had
not held their own against the rapidly rising cost of liv-
ing."
Suggesting that life in those days was lived on a
treadmill, Lescohier writes, "From 1899 to 1915,
gains in real wages were slight, the gains of good years
being about canceled out by the losses of bad years."
—
There were advances during the war the railroad
unions thrived when the government took over the in-
dustry, which was one reason why they favored na-
tionalization after the Armistice — but then came the
post-war recession and the employer offensive. In com-
parative terms, the average American factory hand in
1909 worked a little less than his British similar, re-
ceived 2.3 times the wages, but paid out 2.08 times the
rent. America was, in short, not that much better sit-
uated than the country that was witnessing the simul-
taneous rise of Liberal radicalism and Labour Party-
ism.
But in one important respect being a worker was
much more difficult in the United States than in Europe
during much of this period. In the absence of social
legislation, "conditions of work were allowed in the
United States that would not have been tolerated in
other industrial countries. This was because the work-
ers who suffered most were usually immigrants who
could make little protest and rarely possessed the vote."
In 1893 one out of every ten operating employees on
156 SOCIALISM
the railroads was injured in some way, and one out of
every 115 was killed. Conditions improved somewhat
in the years before the war, but the United States was
still well behind European countries in safety and so-
cial legislation.
So the first problem with the abundance interpreta-
tion of American labor history —
and the supposed con-
tentment that made the workers impervious to socialist
—
appeals is that the facts do not support it, or do so
only when is so qualified as to be almost use-
the theory
less for explaining anything. Secondly, even to the
limited extent that wages in the United States were bet-
ter than in Europe —
mainly for the relatively small
minority of skilled, organized workers — there is no rea-
son to believe that a higher standard of living neces-
sarily makes for docile workers.
Under feudalism and in the early days of capitalism
economic crisis took a brutally obvious form: recession
and starvation went together. In the Hungry Forties of
the nineteenth century in England Chartist protest in-
creased in bad times and all but disappeared when
prosperity returned in 1850. In those days a depression
usually began in the agricultural sector as a result of a
poor harvest. That made food in short supply, and by
contracting the domestic market, threw men in the cities
out of work at the same time. But after the 1850s, ex-
treme hunger and economic crisis no longer necessarily
went together since the industrial sector was becoming
dominant and high unemployment was sometimes even
accompanied by a fall in the cost of living. At this point
the modern, specifically capitalist kind of radicalization
began to appear: the insurgency took place after the
dark days, not during them, for "the long-term de-
pression factors . .helped to accumulate inflammable
.
material rather than to set it alight."

Indeed, the only evidence in recent times that it is
low living standards that make people rebellious de-
rives from a very special case: when a rising standard
of living is interrupted by a sudden downturn. And
even in this situation it is the good times that are the
breeding grounds of radicalism, not the bad. In short,

a sense of relative deprivation, of not getting a fair
share of society's wealth, is much more provocative
than straightforward misery: American industrial
unions were organized in 1936 and 1937 when there
was hope, not in the pit of the Depression in 1932,
when there was despair.
So the data contradict the simplistic assumption that
high living standards, where they did in fact exist, made
America less Leftist than Europe. Indeed, the rise of
the German Social Democratic Party took place under
conditions that were relatively better than those in the
United States (they were documented in Chapter IV).
In Germany the nineties saw a rise in real wages, while
these were bad times in the United States. And from the
turn of the century until World War I conditions in the
two countries were quite similar as workers raced on
a treadmill to keep pace with inflation. It is this latter
reality of uneven, insecure good times that helps ex-
plain why the AFL in that period broke with Gompers-
ism, but not with Gompers.
There was, however, one mitigating factor in the
American experience, and it, rather than the abundance
of the society, was responsible for the slow, exceptional
development of a social democracy. That was the im-
pact of immigration upon the politics and social struc-
ture of the nation.
Around the mid-nineteenth century the immigrants
were mainly poor Irish, who spoke English, and fairly
skilled and sophisticated Germans and Scandinavians,
who adapted rapidly to American life. But toward the
end of the century the newcomers were South and East
Europeans, who generally came from backward econ-
omies and peasant cultures, did not speak English and
lacked urban skills. The Italians are a particularly rich
example of what this meant. The first emigrants from
Italy came from the more advanced areas of Rome
and the north and went to South America where,
in the developing areas of Brazil, Argentina and Uru-
guay, they played an important role as traders and
158 SOCIALISM
merchants. But around 1900 those who came to the
United States were from the poverty-stricken south and
from Sicily.
Having left a pre-modern culture, they huddled to-
gether in the American cities where they reestablished
the old village loyalties. So the Italian workers in the
construction industry were hired as crews and were un-
der the control of padroni. Their ethnic consciousness
thus made it extremely difficult to identify, much less
resist, their exploiters, since the middleman with whom
they dealt was one of their own countrymen. It was
this pattern, repeated in different ways among the East
Europeans, that made it so difficult for the AFL or—
—
even the Industrial Workers of the World to unionize
the mass production hands. And the Socialist Party,
as Morris Hillquit wrote in 1909, was "compelled to
address the workers of this country in more than twenty
different languages."
For Selig Perlman, the immigrant character of the
American working class was one of the main reasons
for the failure of socialism: "American labor remains
one of the most heterogeneous laboring classes in exis-
tence—ethnically, linguistically, religiously and cultur-
ally. With a working class of such composition, to make
socialism or communism the official 'ism' of the move-
ment, would mean, even if other conditions permitted
it, deliberately driving the Catholics, who are perhaps
a majority in the American Federation of Labor, out

of the labor movement, since with them an irreconcil-
able opposition to socialism is a matter of religious
principle. Consequently, the only acceptable 'con-
sciousness' for American labor as a whole is a 'job
consciousness' with a 'limited' objective of *wage and
."
job control.'. .
Perlman's deductions are, if the previous analysis is

correct, much too sweeping since, even in the Gompers
period, American labor went far beyond mere job con-
sciousness. Yet the religious aspect of the immigrant
phenomenon did play a significant role. It was not so
much the conscious, organized anti-socialism of the
Catholic Church which was important —

the Militia of
Christ, the main Catholic anti-socialist group in the la-
bor movement before World War I, never had more
than seven hundred members and only a few func-
tioning chapters —but the fact that the working class in
this country was not alienated from religion, as in Italy
and France, and belonged to a church that lacked the
socialistic tradition of British dissenting Protestantism.
And this was, of course, particularly true of the Irish,
one of the most important nationalities in the AFL.
It was not just socialism that suffered from this situa-
tion. The AFL itself never reached out to the great
mass of industrial workers, most of them participants
in the later immigrations. In the 1910 census, for in-
stance, the skilled workers numbered four million, the
semi-skilled and the laborers almost seventeen million.
The IWW made valiant attempts to organize the latter
groups but they never achieved more than sporadic,
episodic victories.
It is only when the Sombart thesis about American
wealth subverting socialism is placed in this immigrant
context, where the crucial factor is foreign birth rather
than abundance, that it makes any sense. For it is true
that many of the immigrants, even though living under
objectively degrading conditions, saw their lot as im-
proved compared to the old country. They thus had an
impression of relative betterment, not relative depriva-
tion. Indeed, this pattern can be observed in nine-
teenth-century Europe, where in the formative period of
the working class the labor force was recruited from
the rural areas and the "new recruits were often at-
tracted by the prospect of better earnings, and other in-
centives, and consequently, for a time, were better con-
tented." So in America, where between 1880 and 1920
the workers hailed from the countryside of the world,
this effect was pronounced.
Finally, ethnic differences turned worker against
worker. Isaac Hourwich made a shrewd assessment of
this hostility at the time: "Though the introduction of
machinery has had the tendency to reduce the relative
160 SOCIALISM
number of skilled mechanics, yet the rapid pace of in-
dustrial expansion has increased the number of skilled
and supervisory positions so fast that the English-speak-
ing employees have had the opportunity to rise on the
scale of occupations. This opportunity, however, was
conditioned upon a corresponding increase of the total
work force. It is only because the new immigrants had
furnished the class of unskilled laborers that native
workmen and older immigrants have risen to the place
of an aristocracy of labor.
"The primary cause which has determined the move-
ment of wages in the United States during the past
thirty years has been the introduction of labor-saving
machinery. The effect of the substitution of mechanical
devices for human skill is the displacement of the
skilled mechanic by the unskilled laborer." Therefore
"the fact that most of these unskilled workers were im-
migrants disguised the substance of the change —the
—
substitution of unskilled for skilled labor and made it
appear as the displacement of highly paid by cheap im-
migrant labor."
Thus in both the AFL and the Socialist Party there
was hostility to the immigrants based on the mistaken
impression that they were the cause of those displace-
ments which, in fact, capitalism had created. Given this
deep split in the working class and the fact that the
mainly immigrant industrial workers stood outside of
the organized movement, it is not at all surprising
that the American social democracy developed one gen-
eration later than the European and in a unique way.
Indeed, what is surprising in American history is the
degree to which, despite the enormous difference be-
tween this country and the Continent, a class and
political consciousness did emerge, even in the time of
Gompers. Our past testifies not to the feebleness of the
impulse to resist capitalism through economic and po-
litical organization, but to its extraordinary strength
under the most adverse conditions.
In short, American history was exceptional, but that
fact has been exaggerated out of all proportion by
most students of our history. It does, indeed, account

for why movement in this country
the social democratic
could not call itself by its proper name. That happened
in part because the ubiquitous American utopianism,
based on a vision of egalitarian and homesteading capi-
talism, tended to discredit the serious socialist attack
upon the centers of modern industrial power. It also
was a result of an immigrant working class which, for
ethnic and religious reasons, could not unite behind a
socialist banner, or even in trade unions. And paradox-
ically, to the extent that the vaunted wealth of the
society did provide higher living standards for the mi-
nority in the AFL, it created the basis for a class po-
litical movement even under Gompers. The roast beef
and apple pie were a radical factor in our past.
And all of these complexities were precursors of that
present reality which will be analyzed in Chapter X: of
a mass social democracy in the United States which is
invisible because, in typically American fashion, its
socialistic aims are phrased in capitalistic rhetoric. 5
—
VII
Socialism Discovers the World
One of the richest chapters in the history of the

Left, which is by no means finished, began when so-
cialism discovered the world.
The Utopian dream can be found in almost every
culture. —
Yet the preconditions for acting on it a tech-
nology of abundance and a conscious mass movement
first appeared in Europe and the lands of European set-
tlement as a result of the capitalist revolution. What,
then, was to be the attitude of socialists toward that
majority of mankind who had not yet even reached the
capitalist stage and the possibility of the good society?
Were the non-Europeans destined to go through the
same brutal process of capital accumulation that af-
flictedEurope and America—or were they to cram
those miseries into an even more intense period of in-
dustrialization?
In trying to answer such questions the socialists took
up themes so basic that they remain at the center of
political discussion today. Marx first thought that capi-
talism was the wave of the future in the colonies, an
idea that animated the liberal hopes of the Alliance for
Progress a century later. He then changed his mind and
suggested the possibility that those countries might skip
the capitalist stage altogether, and that notion inspired
Lenin, Stalin and Mao and motivates most of the lead-
ers of the Third World at the present time.
After Marx's death the socialists won electoral bat-
tles and faced these questions as practical political prob-
lems. In the process they confronted a dilemma which
has yet to be resolved: How do socialists act when they
163
164 SOCIALISM
have enough power to influence, but not to basically
change, capitalism? Must they either righteously, and
ineffectively, abstain from exerting this influence, or
should they use it and thus strengthen the system they
hate by making its exploitation more rational and tol-
erable? V. I. Lenin did not even recognize that this was
an issue, for he was in the underground, not in the
parliamentary opposition. But his contribution to the
debate over colonialism in which these questions were
posed was momentous. In a theory that is now widely
accepted throughout Asia, Africa and Latin America he
said that capitalism in its advanced stage is necessarily
imperialist and that socialists should therefore not con-
cern themselves with making it more livable, but only
with overthrowing it.
This chapter, then, is about a distant history which
will probably not be finished until well into the twenty-
first century.
One of the most important questions in the Third World

today is whether capitalism offers a way out of economic
backwardness. Karl Marx was one of the first thinkers
to face up to the issue and he erred by being much too
pro-capitalist.
In The Communist Manifesto Marx had described a
Ancient society pro-
tidy, inevitable historical progress.
duced feudalism, feudalism produced capitalism, and
capitalism was in the process of producing socialism.
The internal development and class struggles of each
system were seen as preparing the way for its successor
until socialism would put an end to classes altogether.
Applying this schema to the colonies, they would not
be ready for a socialist revolution until they had first
gone through a capitalist stage.
"The difficult question," Marx wrote to Engels in
1858, "is this: On the Continent the revolution is im-
minent and will immediately take on a socialist charac-
Socialism Discovers the World 165
ter. But will not necessarily be crushed in this little

it
comer, since in amuch greater area the bourgeois so-

ciety is still ascendant?" Thus socialism was still a
possibility only for the European minority; the rest of
the world was heading toward capitalism. And some-
thing like that view seems to be implied in a much-
quoted remark from Marx's 1867 introduction to Das
Kapital, that "the industrially developed lands show the
less developed an image of their future." That comment
is usually taken out of context and used to prove that
Marx thought that Asia, Africa and Latin America

would follow in the very footsteps of Europe and Amer-
ica. Actually, the "less developed" country to which
Marx referred in this passage was Germany, not India,
and when he wrote it he had completely abandoned
the simple progressions of The Communist Manifesto.
But even though the 1867 remark has been carelessly
misread, there are authentic pages in the earlier Marx
that lay on a linear version of history. These are the
statements that allow Paul Samuelson to say that Marx
saw history as "a one-way evolution" and E. H. Can-
to write, "Marx believed that bourgeois capitalism, once
established, would everywhere run its full course and
that, when it began to decay through its own inherent
contradictions, then and only then would it be over-
thrown by socialist revolution." Gunnar Myrdal even
thinks that it was Marx who convinced both capitalist
and Communist economists that the developing nations
are simply at a different "stage" of the same process
which the advanced economies passed through earlier.
On the economic level this youthful Marxian theory
of a capitalist road for colonial development can be
dealt with rather easily, since its major predictions ob-
viously did not come true. But on a political and moral
level Marx's analysis must be approached with great
respect for its tensions and nuances, since it poses one
of the most critical questions in the modern world: To
what extent is violence "progressive" if it clears the way
for economic advance and a higher form of society? A
careless reading of Marx on this point can be, and has
166 SOCIALISM
been, used to justify the crimes of both British im-
perialism and Joseph Stalin. In fact, it is only the
— —
younger more schematic Marx who offers any war-
rant for such a view, and what has been ascribed to him
as a central insight was really a youthful error. As
his research progressed, as we shall see, what struck him
was the way in which the non-European nations de-
viated from the pattern he described in the Mani-
festo. He therefore searched for alternatives to capitalist
modernization in the economically backward countries
and considered the possibility that entire historical
stages might be skipped. Among other things, that al-
lowed him to reject the rather bizarre conclusion that
followed quite logically from his earlier theories. For if
history had ordained that the colonies must go through
a capitalist phase, then in them the Marxist must first
look to the businessman, not the worker, as his hero.
That, as the next chapter will show, is precisely what
some of Marx's disciples, who had not understood their
master's change of mind, decided. Consequently, An-
tonio Gramsci, writing against such an interpretation
in 1917-1918, could argue that in Russia and Italy,
Das Kapital "is the book of the bourgeoisie, not the
proletariat."
In a series of articles in the New York Daily Tribune
in 1853 Marx analyzed British rule in India. The En-
glish, he wrote, have "dissolved these semi-barbarian,
semi-civilized communities, by blowing up their com-
mercial basis, and thus produced the greatest, and to
speak the truth, the only social revolution ever heard
of in Asia. Now sickening as it must be to human feeling
to witness these myriads of industrious patriarchal and
inoffensive social organizations disorganized, and dis-
solved into their units, thrown into a sea of woes, and
their individual members losing at the same time their
ancient form of civilization and their hereditary means
of subsistence, we must not forget that these idyllic
village communities, inoffensive though they may ap-
pear, had always been the solid foundation of Oriental
despotism, . . . The question is, can mankind fulfill
its destiny without a fundamental revolution in the so-

cial state ofAsia? If not, whatever had been the crimes
of England, she was the unconscious tool of history in
bringing about the revolution."
Does this mean, then, that Marx supports the British
in their unwittingly progressive enterprise? On the con-
trary, Marx regards these events as unveiling "the
inherent barbarism of bourgeois civilization" and he is
obviously concerned with defeating colonialism as rap-
idly as possible: "The Indians will not reap the fruits of
the new elements of society scattered among them by
the British bourgeoisie, till in Great Britain the new
ruling classes shall have been supplanted by the in-
dustrial proletariat, or till the Hindoos themselves shall
have grown strong enough to throw off the English yoke
altogether." For "the devastating effects of English in-
dustry are only the organic results of that whole system
of production as it is now constituted."
Those on the Left who came after Marx and de-
fended British imperialism or Stalin's terror on the
grounds that they carried out a progressive economic
task ignored the fact that Marx detested the revolution
from above which he described and was seeking an
alternative to it, by means of a democratic revolution
from below, even as he was recording its devastations.
"When a great social revolution shall have mastered the
results of the bourgeois epoch," he wrote, ". . and
.
subjected them to the common control of the most ad-

vanced peoples, only then will human progress cease to
resemble that hideous pagan idol who would not drink
nectar but from the skulls of the slain." There were,
alas, those who attempted to worship that idol in the
name of Marx, and they will be heard from later on.
In short, when Marx held that history was advanc-
ing by monstrous means, he did not become a critical
supporter of that wave of the future, but rather sought
a revolutionary alternative to it. If I may anticipate, he
would not have supported the totalitarian accumulation
of capital by the Stalinists or Maoists on the grounds
that it prepared the industrial preconditions for so-
168 SOCIALISM
cialism any more than he would have backed Japanese
capitalism, Spanish fascism or South African racism, all
of which experienced considerable economic growth af-
ter World War II. To him, as he wrote in his polemic
against Proudhon, "of all the means of production, the
most productive power is the revolutionary class itself.'*
To suppress that class in the name of an "objective"
progress measured in tons of steel or kilowatt hours
was therefore profoundly anti-socialist. And that is why
Marx strove to organize the British and Indian masses
against British colonialism even though it was, by his
definition, an unwitting agent of progress.
But Marx did not simply define a complex attitude
toward what the British were doing in India; he also
made predictions on the basis of his analysis. In under-
standing why he was wrong, one must focus on a cru-
cial aspect of the problems of the developing countries
in the modern world. Marx held that "modern industry,
resulting from the railway system, will dissolve the
hereditary divisions of labour, upon which rest the In-
dian castes." The colonialists would, he said, bring po-
litical unity, the telegraph, the free press and that "great
desideratum of Asiatic society," "private property in
the land." There would be, in other words, vast eco-
nomic "spread effects" (I use a contemporary phrase)
from the colonialist crimes.
In fact, the great mass of Indian society was not af-
fected as Marx thought —and even after formal inde-
pendence much of the old system prevailed. As Gunnar
Myrdal puts it, Marx "exaggerated the effectiveness of
railroads in bringing about industrialization in India,
and also the power of spurts of industrialization to in-
duce changes in attitudes and institutions." For capital-
ist investment in colonial lands (aside from those
colonies settled by Europeans, i.e., the United States,
Canada, Australia and New Zealand) have, from
Marx's day to the present, created enclaves of mo-
dernity within backward societies rather than trans-
forming the entire society.
So capitalism did not live up to Marx's high expec-

tations for it. In part, as will be seen, this was because
the world market was structured so as to make it dif-
ficult for any non-European nation to become capital-
ist. But there was another factor that helped to falsify
his predictions, one which he himself began to perceive

in the late 1850s: that the colonial societies had gone
through a completely different evolution (or lack of
evolution) from the European. This not only suggested
that capitalism was not an internal necessity in those
lands; it also opened up the possibility that, under very
specific conditions, they might skip the stage of cap-
italism altogether. 1
Thus one turns from the Marx who was too optimis-
tic about capitalism to the Marx who was too optimistic
about socialism.
His theories, Marx came to understand, generalized
the experience of the European minority of the globe
and did not even begin to account for the conditions of
life for that majority which never got beyond the very
first stage in the Manifesto's progression. Whether the
ancient societies of Asia and Africa would have to re-
peat the European pattern in the course of moderniza-
tion was a question he could not answer but, if so-
cialism were victorious in Europe, there was a very
good chance, he thought, that some of them could skip
the capitalist stage altogether.
In a note to the 1888 English edition of The Com-
munist Manifesto Engels hinted at a powerful criticism
of that famous document. At the time of the Manifesto,
he said, scholars had not yet discovered "that common
ownership of the land by the village commune which
was the original form of society from India to
Ireland." But, as he and Marx were to learn after
writing the Manifesto, most of mankind never pro-
gressed beyond the very first stage of the supposedly
universal evolution they had described. Indeed, even in
the nineteenth century tens of millions in India and
China (and perhaps Russia) were living under condi-
170 SOCIALISM
tions that were neither Roman, feudal, capitalist nor
socialist, the four types of society in the Manifesto's
schema.
It was during the 1 850s that Marx realized that most
of the world did not fit into the framework of the
Manifesto. He did so in the course of analyzing what
he called the Asiatic (or Oriental) mode of production.
His comments about it hardly add up to a rounded
theory, yet they do completely subvert the notion that
he stuck to the simplifications of his youth all his life.
In large areas of Asia and the Middle East, Marx came
to understand, the absence of private property in land
was a crucial component of stagnant, despotic societies.
—
Sometimes Marx and Engels almost always stressed —
the importance of the public irrigation works the state
maintains in those countries; sometimes he emphasized
the parochialism of isolated communes with primitive
manufacture and land owned in common.
In either case, the result was a form of social life
without internal movement: "Indian society has no his-
tory at all," Marx wrote in 1853, "at least no known
history. What we call its history is but the history of suc-
cessive intruders who founded their empire on the pas-
sive basis of that unresisting and unchanging society."
And Engels wrote to Marx in 1853 that "the key to
the whole Orient is the absence of private property in
land."
There were two consequences to this intellectual dis-
covery. The Manifesto's schema was shattered; and so
was the notion that the colonies must pass through a
capitalist stage on the way to socialism. For if most of
the people of the world lived under a system that had
never gone beyond the first stage of social evolution,
and lacked any internal source of change, they clearly
could not repeat the European pattern in which capital-
ism developed out of the contradictions of feudalism.
This point is not only crucial for an understanding of
Marx; it also is basic to any contemporary analysis of
the problems of economic development. As George
Lichtheim put it, "What occurred in the Western world
between the middle of the eighteenth and the middle of

the nineteenth century was unique and unprecedented."
—
But if this is the case if the European evolution was a
deviation from the rule that holds for most of mankind
— then modernization becomes all the more proble-
matic. For then the colonies of Marx's day and the ex-
colonies of the present do not simply lack the economic
preconditions for industrialization, but the historical and
cultural preconditions as well. Marx himself was aware
of this complexity.
In a letter that he prepared in 1 877 for the editors of
a Russian journal, Otetschestwennyje Sapiski, Marx
wrote, "The chapter on primitive accumulation [in Das
Kapital] does not pretend to do more than trace the
path by which, in Western Europe, the capitalist or-
der of economy emerged from the womb of the feudal
order of economy." He then accused his critic, N. K.
Michailowski, one of the editors of the periodical, of
turning "my historical sketch of the genesis of capitalism
in Western Europe into an historic-philosophic theory
of the general path every people is fated to tread, what-
ever the historic circumstances. .
." That, Marx said,
•
was not his point at all. He had merely wanted to say

that if Russia took the capitalist path, then a good part
of its peasantry would be turned into proletarians. But
actually, he concluded, if there were a victorious so-
cialist revolution in Western Europe, it could provide its
Russian comrades with many of the material precondi-
tions of the good society and therefore they might be
able to skip the miseries of capitalism altogether.
This most emphatically does not mean that Marx
had been converted to peasant socialism. That was the
theory that developed as the socialist idea traveled east
to countries where the oppressed masses were rural, not
proletarian. In Russia, as early as 1850, Alexander
Herzen, the spiritual father of the populist Narodniks,
had argued that the survival of common peasant prop-
erty in the land provided the point of departure for a
new, higher order of society. Thus Russia would pro-
ceed from feudalism to socialism by way of peasant
172 SOCIALISM
communes and without passing through capitalism.
Marx's great opponent Bakunin took up this vision and
advocated a great transformation based in the Slavic
countryside.
That idea was, Marx said with characteristic vehe-
mence, "Schoolboy's asininity! Aradical social revolu-
tion is bound up with historic conditions; the latter are
its preconditions. It is thus only possible where there is
capitalist production and the proletariat has at least an
important role. . . ." Thus Russia could not leap over
the capitalist stage on the basis of its own meager re-
sources, but only if it had massive aid from a trium-
phant European socialist revolution which had taken
place in a country where the preconditions had been
fulfilled. Marx was, I hope to show, quite right on this
count. That is why the leaders who have tried to base
socialism on the peasantry — from Lenin in the last
years of his life to Mao — have indeed changed history,
but not in the way they intended. Yet if this strategy
has not worked, still it has inspired mass movements
and great revolutions in Russia and China. And so in
mid-nineteenth-century Russia there appeared a solu-
tion to the problem of backwardness that endures to
this moment: that the impoverished nation, perhaps be-
cause it is poor, can leap into the future and avoid the
corruptions of an advanced economy.
Even though Marx was vigorously opposed to the
champions of peasant socialism in Russia, he took them
quite seriously. Between 1868 and 1870 his letters
show him learning Russian so that he can pursue his re-
search in greater depth. And this line of investigation
raised the question of Asiatic despotism in a new con-
text. For the very communes that the Narodniks
idealized, Engels wrote in a polemic in 1875, were so
isolated that they created "the very opposite of a com-
mon interest" and were "the material basis of Oriental
despotism/' In this, he said, Russia resembled India.
But there was an outside hope: the commune "could
make the transition to the higher form of society with-
out the Russian peasant passing through the intermedi-
ate stage of bourgeois land division. This, however, can

happen only before the destruction of the commune,
if,
a proletarian revolution is victorious in Western Europe

and provides the Russian peasant with the precondi-
."
tions for such a transition. . .
Throughout the 1870s Marx and Engels repeated this

idea, and in an eerie anticipation of the events of 1917
speculated that the European socialist revolution might
well begin in the most backward of capitalist nations, in
Russia. They did not for a moment believe, as Stalin
was to claim, that a peasant nation could create so-
cialism on its own. But they did think it quite possible,
as they wrote in 1882, that "the Russian Revolution
would give the signal to a proletarian revolution in the
West." If that were the case, and the Russian and West-
ern European revolutions could complement each other,
"then the present Russian common property in the land
could serve as the point of departure for a communist
development."
There are those—Eduard Bernstein and H. CarrE.
among them —who Marx and Engels put
think that
forth this analysis simply to improve their relations with
the Russian radicals. Yet it is hard to believe that two
such serious thinkers would have stated and restated a
perspective on the European socialist revolution just to
curry favor with a handful of Russian intellectuals. Eng-
els was certainly aware of the growth of capitalism in
Russia in the 1890s and was therefore somewhat less
sanguine about the commune making a transition to
socialist agriculture. But he reiterated the possibility
that Russia would initiate the European socialist revo-
lution the year before he died, in 1 894.
For a few years between 1917 and 1921 it seemed
that Marx and Engels' audacious scenario was coming
to pass. There was a socialist conquest of power in
Russia and the German working class seemed to be on
the verge of revolution. If those two events had indeed
converged, then German socialism could have, just as
Marx suggested, provided the fraternal aid that might
have saved the Bolsheviks from the consequences of
174 SOCIALISM
their country's economic backwardness. History was
not, however, so obliging: theGerman revolution failed,
the Russian Revolution was fatally isolated. And yet, as
Chapter XIII will show, the basic theory in Marx's
speculations about Russia is still quite relevant. For if
socialists in the advanced countries could really trans-
form their societies, that would make it possible for
them to give the kind of help that would allow Third
World nations to skip many of the miseries of capital
accumulation.
But even if were to succeed in creating such
socialists
an economic development in the ex-colonies
alternative,
would still not be simple. Engels was quite blunt about
the complexities involved. In a letter to Karl Kautsky
in 1882 he hypothesized that socialists had triumphed
in Europe, set the colonies free and started to help
them in their quest for socialism. Even under these cir-
cumstances, however, what would happen was not at all
clear: "But what social and political phases those coun-
tries will pass through before they come to socialist
organization, on that I believe that we can today pose
only muddling, speculative theories. Only one thing is
sure: the victorious proletariat cannot force its blessings
upon any foreign people."
So the mature Marx and Engels had not only aban-
doned the schematic analysis of historic stages in The
Communist Manifesto, but also saw much that was in-
determinate and even ambiguous in their analysis of
colonialism. The capitalist road to modernity which
they had first predicted did not turn out to be as ef-
fective as they had thought it would be. But that did
not mean that the colonies could, on their own, simply
skip capitalism and proceed to socialism, for they
lacked the material and cultural preconditions for such
a gigantic advance. There was, they said, one best hope:
If socialism won in the advanced countries, it could
•
then provide the material basis for a difficult and as yet
unchartered leap from the past into the future. And
that is still the best hope. 2
n
In 1896, the year after Engels died, these issues moved
from theory to politics. The London Congress of the
SocialistInternational —
the "Second International,"
which claimed direct descent from Marx's International
—
Workingmen's Association took a straightforward po-
sition on favored the "full right of self-
colonialism. It
determination for all nations" and held that "whatever
manner of religious or civilizing pretext colonial policy
might have, it is always only in the interest of the
capitalists." That was the last time the issue was ever
to seem so uncomplicated.
Between 1896 and World War I socialists appeared
as enthusiastic champions, and bitter opponents, of cap-
italist imperialism. There were those who declared so-
cialism had no place in the colonies; those who, in the
name of the Left, supported imperialism; and those
who were revolutionary and intransigent foes of co-
lonialism. Yet no one had any solution to the basic
problem: how to find a democratic and humane way to
industrialize economically backward countries. Even so,
every one of the positions the socialists took was to
have an influence on history, and most of them still
inspire millions today.
One approach to colonialism was simplicity itself: it
held that socialism has nothing to say to the majority
of mankind.
It was in 1909 that Enrico Ferri, the Italian crim-
inologist and a member of the Italian Socialist Party,
went to Argentina. He lost little time in telling his
comrades there that they had no business being social-
ists. Socialism, he said, was a European importation in
Argentina, not an indigenous phenomenon. Only when

"machines and steam" created a working class could
such a movement have a right to develop. Juan B. Justo,
the father of Argentinian socialism who had translated
Das Kapital into Spanish, replied on behalf of his coun-
176 SOCIALISM
trymen. The ruling class in Argentina, Justo argued,,
faced the problem of how to create a proletariat in a
country with vast areas of free land. It had consciously
sought to form a rural proletariat and it had filled the
towns with a population of half-starving people. So
there was a mass basis for socialism, even though it
did not resemble the European model.
Justo's argument in some ways prefigured themes
that were be taken up by men like Mao, Fidel Castro
to -
and Frantz Fanon. But Ferri, despite the quietism of;

his mechanistic reading of the young Marx, was also a \
precursor. Within a few years the theory of history as a

succession of ordered and inevitable stages was, as the j
next chapter will detail, to become a major factor in the

politics of the Russian Left. For like Ferri, most of the;
Russian socialists were to place their faith in the tri-
umph of capitalism.
Another socialist attitude was defined in 1899 when
the Boer War broke out. It was urged in the name of
a most reformist socialism; it was blatantly pro-im-
perialist; and if its essentials are understood, it was a.
polite British anticipation of Joseph Stalin.
Britain's Independent Labour Party and Social.
Democratic Federation stood by the principles of the
Socialist International and opposed the war. But the
Fabians and George Bernard Shaw were in favor of
annexing the Boer Republic. Their argument in favor
of this colonialist policy was based on humanitarianism.
The Boers, Shaw quite rightly observed, would enslave
the natives in South Africa if they won. Therefore the
British had to take over that country in the name of;
its defenseless majority. Ideally, he said, South Africa
and its gold should be internationalized and owned by
a federated world state. But ". . .until the Federation
of the World becomes an accomplished fact, we must
accept the most responsible Imperial Federation avail-
able as a substitute for it. . .
." And for Shaw, "the
most responsible Imperial Federation" was, of course,

the British Empire.
Shaw's conclusions were, as usual, outrageous, yet
his points cannot be dismissed out of hand. The fate

of the natives in South Africa during the past three
quarters of a century has been a matter of some mo-
ment and Shaw's worst fears have certainly been borne
out. But to pose the question in terms of this single
issue is to miss the historical importance of what Shaw
and the Fabians were doing. They were in all matters
technocratic, proposing to save society and institute so-
cialism from the top down by "permeating" the Liberal
and/or Labour Party with their ideas. It was this con-
sistentsupport for revolution from above that led Shaw
to be sympathetic to both Mussolini and Stalin and
turned Beatrice and Sidney Webb into admirers of the
Russian Revolution only when it entered its Stalinist
phase.
There was, as we have seen, a certain authority for
this view if Marx's writings on British colonialism were
misread. He had, after all, argued that the imperialists
would make an unwitting contribution to the future of
the Indian people. But he did not — and the distinction
is as important now as it was then — praise history for
operating with such cruel cunning and therefore give
his political support to the unconscious and bloody
agents of social change. In fact, he excoriated British
colonialism as showing the "inherent barbarism" of cap-
italist society and sought alternatives to it, both among
the British and the Indian masses. Social democrats
like Shaw or Eduard Bernstein, who supported Ger-
man expansionism because "high culture has a higher
right," had utterly distorted Marx. In this manner the
socialist argument for revolution from above entered
the movement by way of its colonialist Right wing. In
rather short order, as the next chapter will detail, it
was to become the central rationale for the totalitarian
pseudo-Left of Joseph Stalin.
It was at the Stuttgart Congress of the Socialist In-
ternational in 1907 that the issue came out into the
open. Two of the questions debated there are still being
asked: Has the revolutionary spirit of the working class
been corrupted by a living standard based on colonial
178 SOCIALISM
exploitation? How do anti-capitalists use their political
power within capitalist society?
At the Amsterdam Congress of the International in
1904 Van Kol of Holland said that "in a socialist state
there would also be colonies but the socialist party will
stop the exploitation and torture of the natives and
will protect them against the hypocritical action of
various religions." But he and his co-thinkers did not
really push their political point of view. Then in 1906
political developments in Germany made them decide
to take the offensive. The social democrats had voted
in that year against credit for carrying out a colonialist
war in Southwest Africa. For its own reasons the Cen-
ter joined with them, and the government's defeat led
to the dissolution of the Reichstag. In the campaign
that followed — that which came to be known as the
—
Hottentot Election the socialists suffered their first set-
back since 1884, losing one half of their seats and drop-
ping from 32.6 to 29.5 percent of the vote. Meanwhile
in Belgium the issue of what to do with the Congo
had become a major political question. What was now
at stake was not an exercise in Marxian theory but the
question of how socialist parties would relate to a colo-
nialism that seemed to have considerable popular back-
ing.
At the Stuttgart Congress a majority of the Colonial
Commission voted out a resolution by Van Kol that
said, "The Congress . does not condemn all colonial
. .
policy on principle and for all times, because under a

socialist regime, it could have a civilizing effect. .
." .
Van Kol was supported by Bernstein and David from

the German party but bitterly opposed by Karl Kautsky.
In a passage that might have been written to corroborate
Lenin's bitter, scornful judgment against the "sham
socialists" who held such views, Bernstein said, "The
modern working class is not a remnant of the feudal
'Third Estate' which is detached from society and
which one can counterpose to it as an isolated body.
The working class is, in its economic situation, tightly
bound to society and has an interest in its development;
it is false to pretend that the possession of colonies runs

counter to the interests of the proletariat, except when
it acts as a fetter on economic development."
It was Karl Kautsky who took the lead in attacking

Bernstein and Van Kol at Stuttgart. Colonial policy, he
argued, was not beneficial to the natives or the workers,
but an instrument of monopoly expansion. Moreover,
he said, foreign rule is no way to raise the culture of a
subject people. They must fight for their independence
and socialists must support them.
At Stuttgart Kautsky's position carried by a vote of
128 to 108. But, as Lenin noted at the time, this victory
occurred only because the delegates from countries
without colonies voted in favor of the anti-colonial po-
sition. Therefore, Lenin was forced to conclude (and
in this he seconds Bernstein), ". as a result of the
. .
extensive colonial policy, the European proletarian part-

ly finds himself in a position where it is not his labor
but the labor of the practically enslaved natives in the
colonies that maintains the whole of society." But, he
reassured himself, ". . . this may be only a temporary
phenomenon."
Thus Lenin introduced an idea that was to become
basic to his analysis of the world: that imperialism had
created a labor aristocracy in the West, a small mi-
nority of privileged workers who sometimes corrupted
their entire class through opportunistic accommodations
to capitalism. But was it indeed true —
as Bernstein de-
clared enthusiastically from the Right and Lenin ad-
mitted ruefully on the Left —
that the living standard of
the European working class was artificially high because
of superprofits made in the colonies? And was this a
major factor in dampening the revolutionary ardor of
the proletariat in the early years of this century?
The kernel of Lenin's theory was not new. As early
as the 1850s Marx had argued that it was Britain's
foreign trade that created vast new markets and thereby
offset the natural tendency of the capitalist system to
overproduction. And in. 1858 Engels wrote to Marx
that "the English proletariat is fast becoming more and
180 SOCIALISM
more bourgeois. The most bourgeois of all nations seems
to have finally reached a point where it has a bourgeois
aristocracy and a bourgeois proletariat alongside the
bourgeoisie. In a nation which exploits the whole world
that is, to certain degree, understandable."
In 1885 Engels saw this colonial fact as the decisive
explanation for the failure of the Left in Britain. He
wrote, "The truth is this. So long as England's indus-
trial monopoly lasted, the English working class to a
certain degree participated in the profits of this monop-
oly. These profits were divided up most unequally; the
privileged minority took the largest part, but the great
mass itself now and then got a share of some overlooked
portion. And that is why, since the death of Owenism,
there has been no socialism in England. With the
breakdown of this monopoly the English working class
will lose its privileged position. All the workers — the
privileged, leading minority not excluded — will see
themselves reduced to the same level as the foreign
workers. And that is why there will once again be so-
cialism in England."
Lenin's argument was much more pessimistic than
Engels', though it, too, was based on the effect of
colonialism upon the metropolitan proletariat. Where
Engels saw the end of the British trade monopoly as a
signal for the immiserization, and radicalization, of the
workers in that country, Lenin held that the same event
had "Anglicized" labor in all of the advanced capitalist
economies. Now the Germans and the Americans were
to enjoy the corruptions of colonial exploitation, too.
Thus the enormous profits of imperialism defined a new
epoch of capitalism. Strangely, we are not sure that
those imperial superprofits really existed. Colonialism,
as Marx realized in the 1850s, is a costly affair: it re-
quires large military and administrative expenditures. If
these are seen as debits, then colonialism was a subsidy
to those industries involved directly in it, which did
not have to pay the costs of the colonial infrastructure
that allowed them to make profits. In this context, it
would seem that the objective basis of Lenin's theory

is probably inaccurate.
But there is another, and more sophisticated, way of
drawing up this balance sheet, which was suggested by
a Dutch socialist named Wiedijk in 1904. All the expen-
ditures for the colonies, he pointed out, went to the im-
perial bourgeoisie: they were the ones who built the
ships, uniformed the troops and in general profiteered
on the "loss" side of the state budget. In this argument,
however, the crucial factor in colonialism is not so
much superexploitation as it is the fact that it provided
the political rationale for a kind of pre-Keynesian pump
p rimin g. The distinction is an important one. For if
Lenin (and Engels, who anticipated him in this line
of reasoning) was right, then the disappearance of the
colonial markets would be a mortal blow for capitalism.
But if the side effects of colonial intervention were more
important than the trade itself, then capitalism could
evade crisis even when colonial expansion was no long-
er possible so long as it found some new form of gov-
ernment spending to take up the slack. The latter ex-
planation is, as Chapter XIII will discuss, the more
persuasive of the two.
The second element Lenin's analysis
in —
that im-
perialist living standards made
for labor reformism is —
also dubious. It was before the end of empire, in the
years right before World War I, that the English work-
ing class carried out some of its most militant actions
and even developed a syndicalist movement, which was
about as revolutionary as English politics ever got (this
was also the period of extreme feminist activism, which
employed nonviolent revolutionary tactics). And in-
deed, as Lenin himself realized at one point, the labor
aristocrats of Europe and Russia were precisely the
ones most open to, and convinced by, socialist ideas.
The poorest, and least "corrupted," workers were po-
litically debilitated and sometimes conservative (or,
later on, fascist).
It was not, then, simply colonialism that dulled the
.
182 SOCIALISM
ardor of the European workers. It was, rather, the un-
foreseen and complex development of capitalism itself,
a process in which colonialism played a role, but not
necessarily a decisive one (all the ramifications of this
analysis will not become apparent until later chapters
dealing with the Third World)
The second issue the socialists confronted in this de-
bate arose out of a discussion of the Belgian Congo. It
involved nothing less than defining a political stance
for which there was no precedent in Marxian thought
or any other socialist theory. Today, almost three quar-
ters of a century later, social democrats are still strug-
gling with the problem.
In the classic Marxist scenario the socialists were to
move quickly from powerlessness to power. The
wretched of the earth would win the final conflict and
abruptly transform the entire social order, from bottom
to top. As time went on, Marx and Engels moved
away from this insurrectionary vision and considered
the possibility of a peaceful democratic road to social-
ism in England, the United States, France and Hol-
land. But they never analyzed what their followers
should do when they won not power, but an increment
of power within a system that still remained capitalist
This, as Chapter XI will document, was to be the cen-
tral problem for the social democrats when they tried
to deal with the Great Depression of the thirties, and
it plagued the Wilson Government in the England of
the sixties. The question of what the Belgian socialists

should do about the Congo was the first time it was put
as a practical political issue.
In 1885 Leopold II received the Congo as his pri-
vate property, not as a colony of the Belgian state, from
an international conference in Berlin. By the 1890s he
was losing so much money in the enterprise that he had
to turn to the government for financial aid.
The Belgian socialists opposed this financial aid on
the grounds that the funds being spent to help Leopold
would be much better used in dealing with social prob-
lems at home. It was, they said, time to treat the blacks
as equals with the whites —

and to stop treating whites in
Belgium like blacks. So the Belgian Workers' Party and
most of the public were against annexation of the Con-
go because they viewed it as a drain on the budget.
When Leopold's fortunes in Africa improved a bit and
the Parliament voted him a loan, the socialist deputies
left the chamber because they did not want to even be
present for such a scandalous vote.
Between 1 899 and 1 903 Leopold put down tribal in-
surrections with bloody violence and an international
anti-colonial campaign was launched against him. In
Belgium itself it was the socialist £mile Vandervelde
who courageously took up this cause even though his
comrades did not believe that it was politic. It was,
Vandervelde remembered later on, his "Dreyfus Af-
fair." By 1906 the agitation against Leopold was so ef-
fective that the Parliament took up the question of the
status of the Congo.
The problem posed for the socialists did not look
anything like the situation Engels had imagined in that
famous letter to Kautsky. It was not a socialist Belgium
that had to decide on the form of its fraternal aid to a
Congo it was leading to independence. Rather, socialist
parliamentarians had a voice in deciding how a capital-
ist Belgium would, in the midst of the capitalist world,
deal with a country that had been suffering for years as
the "private property" of Leopold II.
The options were all unacceptable. There was no
possibility of establishing an international regime in the
Congo for, as Vandervelde pointed out, that would
simply set up a multinational form of capitalist ex-
ploitation which would not be responsible to any elected
parliament. There was no nationalist movement within
the Congo to take over the direction of the country,
and there was a very good possibility that if the Congo
were given independence, the Arabs, who were better
organized than the blacks, might reintroduce slavery.
But if the socialists were to favor Belgium taking over
the Congo, it would mean voting in favor of turning
their own country into an imperialist power.
184 SOCIALISM
Vandervelde came to the reluctant conclusion that
from the point of view of his long-time and courageous
defense of the blacks in the Congo, the least evil course
was for Belgium to annex the country. But within his
own party he was in the minority, attacked by advo-
cates of "socialist" colonialism on the one side and by
intransigent opponents of annexation (who had no so-
lution to the problem) on the other. Eventually, the
Belgian socialists were to patch up a unity of sorts. In
1908 the party campaigned against the actual annexa-
tion proposal before the Parliament (Vandervelde him-
self opposed its terms) but their hostility was based on
the domestic social consequences of the policy rather
than on opposition to colonialism itself. When the issue
came before Parliament, the socialist deputies once
again left the chamber, this time because they did not
want to reopen the crisis in their party by debating the
matter publicly. By 1920, however, all these doubts
and hesitations had been forgotten. The Belgian so-
cialists campaigned by talking of "our fine Congo
colony."
Lenin, needless to say, was extremely sharp with any
socialist who made the slightest concession to colonial-
ism. But, it must be emphasized, he was able to take
this position primarily because he did not face the di-
lemmas that confronted Vandervelde and the Belgian
socialists. In 1916, for instance, Lenin was attacked
for his insistence on socialist support for the right of
national self-determination. His critics, who were at-
tacking from the Left, pointed out that as long as
capitalism existed, it was impossible for the colonies to
be given their freedom.
Under the imperialist system, Lenin replied, the colo-
nies "cannot be extricated from dependence on Euro-
pean finance capital. From the military standpoint as
well as from the standpoint of expansion, the separa-
tion of the colonies is practicable, as a general rule,
only under socialism; under capitalism it is practicable
only by way of exception or at the cost of a series of
revolts both in the colonies and the metropolitan coun-
tries." But only means, he argued, that "these de-

this
mands must be formulated and put through in a revo-
lutionary and not a reformist manner. ." So Lenin
. .
himself knew that there were no socialist alternatives

to imperialism within capitalism. The reason he could
be so pure about the question was that czarist despotism
never asked him, as Belgian capitalism demanded of
Vandervelde, to choose from among impossible options.
In other words, Lenin remained true to The Com-
munist Manifesto scenario, which projects a sharp break
in continuity, a rising of the powerless to seize power.
Under the conditions of czarist autocracy, which re-
sembled mid-nineteenth-century Europe more than
early twentieth, that was understandable. But the im-
possible demand raised by a leader of a semi-legal
movement looking forward to an insurrection could
hardly guide a socialist deputy who, as a result of an
unexpected historical evolution, found himself com-
pelled to take a position on a specific colonial issue
within a capitalist parliament. And in this contrast be-
tween Lenin and Vandervelde is symbolized the split
that was to take place in the socialist movement: the
Western Europeans on the one side, trying to cope
with the political and moral complexities of life within
capitalist society; the Eastern Europeans, and later the
Asians and the Africans, on the other, for whom capi-
talism was not really a possibility, and revolution was
the only alternative.
So socialists had discovered the world. They re-
sponded to the experience in contradictory and am-
biguous ways, and the problems they found there have
yet to be solved.
The hopes young Marx that capitalism, by ut-
of the
terly transforming the colonies,would lay the basis for a
socialist revolution were never fulfilled. The spread ef-
fects of imperialism were much more modest than he
had expected: the railroads did not subvert immemorial
and anti-modern cultures, but turned out to be only
slivers of modernity. But Marx's dream of advanced
socialist powers saving the developing countries from
186 SOCIALISM
the agonies of industrialization by massive fraternal aid
was more realistic, and even though this has not yet
happened, it is central to the perspective of present-
day socialism. The
first attempt to act on this possibility,
however, the Russian Revolution of 1917, led to the
skipping of a stage in a way never dreamed of by Marx:
Russia jumped from feudalism to anti-socialist "social-
ism."
Finally, in the debates among the socialists of over
fifty years ago basic themes were defined which must
run like a red thread through any analysis of the
Third World in the closing years of the twentieth cen-
tury. Is there a capitalist road to modernization? Is it
possible for a nation to skip the stage of capitalism al-
together and build a just order on the basis of a peasant
mass movement? For decades now there have been in-
tensely practical, and bloody, disputes over these theo-
retical issues posed at the Second International, before
World War I.
3
VIII
Revolution from Above
In October, 1917, the Bolsheviks seized power in

Russia and sought to blaze that humane path out of
backwardness that had eluded the social democrats be-
fore World War I. They failed. They — or more precise-
ly, their executioners — did, indeed, carry out a brutal
modernization; however, it led not to the classless
society, but to an anti-socialist "socialism" which be-
came the prototype for a system that now rules one
third of the globe.
So the Communist claim to be socialist must be chal-
lenged in the same spirit that prompted Marx to refuse
the bourgeoisie the right to appropriate ideals like lib-
erty, justice and equality for its own class purposes. In
making a similar analysis of the contradictions between
—
word and deed under Communism of the real ends
that the noble phrases rationalize — issues are defined
which are relevant to two of the most important move-
ments in the world today. These matters profoundly
concern those people seeking freedom within the Com-
munist world, men and women whose courageous cri-
tique of the official rhetoric is an attempt to transform
the reality it conceals. And they relate to the masses
of the Third World who are so often summoned to suf-
fer in the name of emancipation only to be subjected
to the new forms of oppression that were pioneered in
Russia.
And, most important of all from the special stand-
point of this book, Communism corrupted the very ideal
of socialism itself by equating it with a totalitarian de-
nial of freedom. In this context, the Russian experience
187
188 SOCIALISM
has been one of the profoundly conservative events of
the century: it subordinated the actions of some of the
most revolutionary spirits of the Western working class
to Moscow and thereby weakened the movement for
radical change within the advanced capitalist countries;
it "proved" the conservative myth of Burke and Dos-
toevsky, the theory that any attempt to alter the es-

tablished order of injustice would lead to a ne\
tyranny. It is a central thesis of this chapter that the
fate of the Russian Revolution does not in the least
demonstrate that men must passively accept an inhu-
man society as if it were decreed by God. What it does
show is that under the very specific conditions of eco-
nomic backwardness and capitalist failure, there is a ba-
sis for an anti-socialist "socialist" society.
These conditions now characterize the situation in
most of the ex-colonial nations. That is why it is pre-
posterous to see an international conspiracy as the main
reason why a third of the globe is now ruled by Com-
munists. There are, to be sure, Communist agents and
spies, but that is a mere detail compared with the eco-
nomic and social reality that makes the totalitarian ac-
— —
cumulation of capital Communism often seem to be
the only way out of an economic backwardness fostered
by capitalism. That is why Communism, even though
it is totalitarian, has so often won volunteers to its ban-
ner, while capitalism, even when it is relatively demo-

cratic, usually relies upon dictators and despots. In this
chapter, then, I am not simply writing about Russia
but also about the emergence of a new form of class
society, bureaucratic collectivism, which claims to be a
model of emancipation for the majority of mankind.
In doing so, I will outline an ironic process. The
Bolsheviks, those bitter, principled foes of the imperial
socialists who wanted to tutor the natives in the ways
of civilization, unwittingly prepared the way for just
such a revolution from above, only on a scale and at
a cost that no colonialist social democrat would ever
have dared to suggest.
Revolution from Above 189
I • Lenin
At the beginning of the twentieth century Russia was

the last major nation that could have had a capitalist
revolution (I do not count Mexico, which well might be
an exception to this statement, among the major
powers).
Russia had, as Fritz Sternberg has written, "co-or-
dinated industrial development, a development of both
heavy industry and the manufacturing industries. There
was nothing of the sort in colonial countries. Their in-
dustries developed without any co-ordination and, in
particular, the production of raw materials bore no re-
lation to their own requirements but was determined
solely by the trading needs of the metropolitan centres.
In this period, Russia enjoyed a growing volume of
trade with a number of other countries, whereas colonial
countries usually traded only with the country which
controlled them as part of its empire, or with countries
which required raw materials."
In other words, Russia had not been locked into that
colonial division of labor that made indigenous capital-
ism impossible in almost all of the non-European world.
So capitalism was on the agenda, and Lenin agreed with
Stolypin, the Czar's minister and most effective anti-
revolutionist, on how it might come. As Lenin put it,
"the old landlord economy, bound as it is by thou-
sands of threads to serfdom, is retained and turns slow-
ly into a purely capitalist 'Junker' economy." Germany,
in short, was the model: the feudal elements, instead of
being swept away by a plebian revolution, would mod-
ernize themselves, and the society, from the top down.
That, essentially, is what Stolypin was trying to do be-
fore he was assassinated by an agent provocateur in
1911. By allowing peasants to contract out of the com-
munes, he hoped to create a class of landowners who
would be loyal to the autocracy.
It was not just the assassin's bullet that put an end
190 SOCIALISM
to this capitalist trend in Russia. For if some of the
auguries were quite favorable to a capitalist develop-
ment, others were semi-colonial in character. Russia was
a backward land whose economy on the eve of World
War I was probably below the levels of most South
American countries today. Its industry was, to be sure,
extremely concentrated and advanced, but for precise-
ly that reason represented only enclaves of modernity
which did not disturb the vast reaches of the peasant
society. The bourgeoisie in Russia was controlled from
abroad.
It was these semi-colonial characteristics of pre-Rev-
olutionary Russia that provided the Communists with
the argument that they had found a new path for the
impoverished majority of mankind. As Varga, the fa-
mous Soviet economist, put the claim, "Russia inaugu-
rated with its revolution a new type of national develop-
ment, a way of moving to socialism which does not pass
through capitalism and gives a historical example to the
other colonial, and even semi-colonial, countries, not
only in the Orient and Asia, but in the other continents
as well." 1
The unprecedented character of the Russian Revolu-
tion did not come as a surprise. The shrewder Marxists
had anticipated it some years before the event.
Marx had glimpsed the paradoxical essence of the
problem in 1 867 in his introduction to the German edi-
tion of Das He
wrote of his native land, "we
Kapital.
suffer, like the rest of continental West Europe, not
from the development of capitalist production, but from
its lack of development." This socialist complaint that
capitalism had not sufficiently triumphed was based, of
course, on the knowledge that its victory was a crucial
precondition opening up the struggle for the just society.
In the absence of such a capitalist development, "old
growths, obsolete modes of production outlived so-
. . .
cial and political relations" persisted. With Bismarck's

revolution from above, Germany made the leap to in-
dustrialization, yet Marx's insight still applied to any
backward capitalist economy. In 1894 Engels reminded
the Italian socialists of what Marx had said on this

count. In Italy even more than in Germany the bour-
geoisie was weak and the forces of the old order were
strong. And in Russia that was even truer than in Italy.
There were, to be sure, socialists who tried to im-
pose the Western European stages of economic growth
on the Russian reality. In that perspective, capitalism
was on the agenda and the coming bourgeois revolu-
tion would be made by the bourgeoisie. But other
Marxists understood that history was not going to re-
peat itself mechanistically and that the uneven develop-
ment of Russian society had opened up the way for pos-
sibilities not to be found in the holy texts of Marxism.
In 1888 the original manifesto of the Russian Social
Democratic Workers' Party anticipated the uniqueness
of the coming transformation: "The further East one
goes in Europe, the weaker, meaner and more coward-
ly in the political sense becomes the bourgeoisie, and
the greater the cultural and political tasks which fall
to the lot of the proletariat."
Then, in the aftermath of the 1905 Revolution, three
Marxists —Kautsky, Lenin —
and Trotsky became even
more specific about the unprecedented nature of the
transformation that was going to take place in Russia.
In the process they confronted a problem that is basic
for Asia, Africa and Latin America at this very mo-
ment: What happens to the bourgeois revolution when
there is no bourgeoisie effective enough to carry it out?
If capitalist modernization is not an alternative, is non-
or anti-capitalist modernization possible?
In 1906 Karl Kautsky, the dean of pre-war Marxism,
delivered himself of a sweeping judgment: "The age of
the bourgeois revolution, i.e., the revolution whose driv-
—
ing force is the bourgeoisie, is over in Russia, too. For
there the proletariat is no longer a dependent instru-
ment of the bourgeoisie, as was the case in the bour-
geois revolution, but an independent class with inde-
pendent goals. Where, however, the proletariat emerges
in this way, the bourgeoisie ceases to be a revolutionary
class. The Russian bourgeoisie, insofar as it has inde-
—
192 SOCIALISM
pendent class politics and is liberal, hates absolutism,
but hates the revolution more, and hates absolutism
above all because it sees in it the basic cause of the
revolution. To the degree that the bourgeoisie seeks po-
litical freedom, it does so because it sees in it the only
way it can find to put on end to the revolution."
But, Kautsky went on, if "one cannot call this a
bourgeois revolution," neither can one immediately
conclude then that "it is a socialist revolution. In no
case can it bring the proletariat to sole power, to dic-
tatorship. The Russian proletariat is too weak and un-
derdeveloped for such a role. Yet it is quite possible
that in the progress of the revolution, victory will come
to the social democratic party and the social democrats
would do well to encourage a spirit of victory in its fol-
lowers since one cannot effectively struggle if victory is
precluded at the outset."
He concluded that the Russian Revolution must be
thought of "neither as a bourgeois revolution in the
usual sense, not as a socialist revolution, but as a
complicated, unique process which is situated on the
borderline between bourgeois and socialist society, de-
manding the end of one and preparing the coming of
the other. .
." It was, we know with hindsight, quite
.
prescient of Kautsky to glimpse the coming of a revolu-

tion which was neither bourgeois nor socialist, but
what he could not possibly grasp at that time was that
it would create a completely new kind of class society.
Lenin, who was, of course, quite familiar with Marx's

and Engels' speculation on the possibility of the Euro-
pean revolution beginning in Russia, agreed with Kaut-
sky and cited him enthusiastically (he was later to brand
him a "renegade" from the proletarian revolution).
The coming upheaval, he wrote in 1908, would be a
bourgeois revolution, but the bourgeoisie would not
—
could not lead it. Either the landlords would transform
themselves into capitalists, as the Germans had done,
and take the liberals and rich peasants along with them,
or else the alliance of workers and peasants would force
through a radical democratic transformation, sweep-
ing away the czarist superstructure and creating an

"American" kind of agriculture with widespread farm
ownership.
Trotsky was more audacious than either Kautsky or
Lenin. Like them, he held that the Russian bourgeoisie
was too weak and timid to play a decisive role in the
revolution; like them, he recognized that the workers
would, given the peculiarities of Russian development
which concentrated them in great numbers at key points
in the society, have an importance out of proportion
to their numbers. But unlike Kautsky and Lenin, Trot-
sky believed that the workers would have to exercise
sole power, to create their own dictatorship. The peas-
ants, he said, could not possibly share the government
with the workers for they are too dispersed and iso-
lated to rule. And the workers, once in power, could
hardly limit themselves to a bourgeois revolution "only
to step aside when the democratic programme is put
into operation, to leave the completed building at the
disposal of the bourgeois parties and then to open an
era of parliamentary politics where social democracy
forms only a party of opposition. .
." For "once master
.
of the situation, the working class would be compelled

by the very logic of its situation to organize national
economy under the management of the state.*1
It is, of course, impossible to summarize an epochal
event like the Russian Revolution in a paragraph, but
something like the scenario predicted by Trotsky did
come to pass. E. H. Carr notes in his history of the
Revolution: Lenin in April, 1917, essentially adopted
the tactic put forward by Trotsky in 1906. The Bol-
sheviks took complete control of state power in the
name of the workers (the alliance with the Left So-
cial Revolutionaries, a peasant party, did not last long,
and in any case, it was dominated by the Bolsheviks)
and established their own exclusive dictatorship. 2
But how, then, could the Bolsheviks create a social-
ist society in a backward peasant country which clearly
lacked the preconditions that Marx had defined for so-
cialism?
194 SOCIALISM
Lenin, Trotsky and their comrades were not only
aware of Marx's position on this question, but utterly
persuaded by it. On the eve of leaving his Swiss exile
for. Russia in 1917, Lenin wrote a farewell letter to the
Swiss workers: "Russia is a peasant country, one of the
most backward of European countries. Socialism can-
not triumph there directly and immediately. But the
peasant character of the country, the vast reserves in the
hands of the nobility, may, to judge from the experi-
ence of 1905, give tremendous sweep to the bourgeois
democratic revolution in Russia and may make our
revolution the prologue to the world socialist revolu-
tion, a step toward it." This situation would "create the
most favorable conditions for a socialist revolution and
would, in a sense, start it."
—
But the key for Lenin in 1917 as for Trotsky in
1906 —was that the world revolution would rescue the
Russian Revolution from its own backwardness. His let-
ter to the Swiss workers concluded, "The German prole-
tariat is the most trustworthy, the most reliable ally of
9
the Russian and the world proletarian revolution. For '
Lenin understood, as Trotsky had said earlier, that

"left to its own resources the Russian working class
must necessarily be crushed the moment it loses the
aid of the peasants." In 1919 he bluntly said, "The real
test to which our revolution is being subjected is that
we, in a backward country, succeeded in capturing pow-
er before the others. Shall we be able to hold on at
least until the masses in the other countries make a
move?" He answered his own question: ". . we shall
.
soon see the birth of a World Soviet Republic."

Yet Lenin did not simply wait for the Western Euro-
peans to revolt. He had overthrown the Kerensky gov-
ernment, which traced its legitimacy back to the Febru-
ary Revolution, and he had dissolved the Constituent
Assembly, which had been elected in a free vote. To
prepare for, and then to defend, these actions and to
justify the dictatorship of a workers' party in an over-
whelmingly peasant country he had to show that such
policies were honorable and explicable in Marxist
Revolution from Above 1 95
terms. However, he did not content himself with argu-

ing that such tactics were proper in a backward Russia
which was racked by civil war and threatened by for-
eign intervention. Instead, he universalized a strategy
that had emerged out of the conditions in his own
country and proposed it as the road to socialism every-
where. In the process, he laid the ideological basis for a
totalitarian regime which, I suspect, he would have
abominated.
Lenin's method in defending himself was bizarre:
he took the most Utopian and near-anarchist element
in all of Marxism, the theory of the "withering away"
of the state, and cited it as an excuse for his own minor-
ity dictatorship. He acted as if his policies in Russia
derived from a talmudic reading of Marx and Engels,
as if the secret of ruling in Moscow and Petrograd
in 1917 had been discovered by Marx in the Paris of
1871. There were, I think, two reasons for this scholas-
tic rationalization of his own power politics.
On the one hand, Lenin in this period lived in the
euphoric anticipation of the European socialist revolu-
tion. That event was not only going to save Russia from
its backwardness, it was also going to prove that Marx
and Engels had truly been the scientists of revolution
and that their perspective, which seemed to have been
shattered when the Second International collapsed in
1914, was once again confirmed. It was this chiliastic
mood, the Soviet economist Varga has commented,
that led him to his "excessive confidence" in the writ-
ings of Marx on the Commune and Engels on the state.
But on the other hand, Vladimir Uyich Lenin was
never so mesmerized by a text that he forgot about poli-
tics. In his scholarly writings of this period, and par-
ticularly in State and Revolution, the Marxism he evokes
is utterly one-sided and tendentious and always points
to the same conclusion: that Marx would have over-

thrown Kerensky too. Lenin had demonstrated in his
earlier writings that he was quite conscious of the am-
biguities in the Marxist formula "dictatorship of the pro-
letariat." He understood that costly, unfortunate para-
196 SOCIALISM
dox, that Marx had used "dictatorship" in this case to
describe the most democratic system possible. So, for
instance, in 1905 he had said that the dictatorship of
the proletariat signified "defense against the counter-
revolution and the actual elimination of everything that
contradicted the sovereignty of the people."
Lenin also knew that Marx's comments on dictator-
ship right after the revolutionary defeats of 1848 had
been revised. He had, as Chapter IV documented, in-
sisted on the fact in a brilliant series of articles in 1905.
—
But in 1917 all that was forgotten or more precisely,
deliberately pushed aside. In State and Revolution he
now argued that "a Marxist is solely someone who ex-
tends the recognition of the class struggle to the recogni-
tion of the dictatorship of the proletariat." And by
"dictatorship" he did not mean anything subtle or
dialectical, but rather the armed minority rule of his
own party.
Thus the texts from Marx and Engels that Lenin
chose predetermined his conclusions (in fact, of course,
the conclusions dictated the choice of texts). He cited
writings from the period of disillusionment with democ-
racy after 1848, from the time of the Commune and
the criticisms by Marx and Engels of the obsessive legal-
ism of the German social democrats. The crucial point
these quotations were supposed to prove was that it
was necessary to "smash" the bureaucratic military ma-
chine of the state. In the actual Russian circumstances
that meant overthrowing Kerensky, but Lenin did not
confine himself to this one instance. If Marx had once
suggested that Britain and the United States might make
a peaceful transition to socialism, that was no longer
the case: they had become as bureaucratic and militarist
as Germany.
So intent was Lenin on proving
his point that he even
picked isolated passages out of classic Marxist docu-
ments that on the whole contradicted him. He made
much of the fact that Engels had written to Kautsky
criticizing the original draft of what was to become
the Erfurt Program of the German Social Democracy.
—
In that letter, as Lenin points out, Engels had re-

proached the Germans for not even mentioning the de-
mand for a democratic republic out of fear of new anti-
socialist laws and for seeming to suggest that all of
their aims could necessarily be fulfilled through peace-
ful methods.
But then Lenin omits to emphasize that in the very
same letter Engels had remarked that not only Britain
—
and the United States, but France that very France
which had drowned the Commune in blood only twenty
years before — might also make such a peaceful transi-
tion. And, to move to an even more portentous irony,
the quotations from Marx's account of the civil war in
France in 1871 are used to make a regime of liber-
tarian democracy — universal suffrage, immediate recall
of officials, no official paid more than a worker, etc.
the precedent for the creation of a minority dictator-
ship in Russia.
By 1919 Lenin, who was a man of considerable
candor, could no longer justify his regime in anything
like the classic Marxian fashion. The dictatorship was
no longer the means of defending the rights of the over-
whelming majority against a counterrevolutionary mi-
nority. Now, "state power in the hands of one class,
the proletariat, can and must be an instrument of win-
ning to the side of the proletariat the non-proletarian
working masses, an instrument for winning those masses
away from the bourgeois and petty-bourgeois parties."
For, Lenin argued, capitalism beat the masses "to a
downtrodden, crushed and terrified state of existence,"
and gives the bourgeoisie the possibility of perpetrating
"falsehood and deception to hoodwink the masses of
workers and peasants, to stultify their minds."
There was a classic in Marxist literature for this tactic
of using a minority dictatorship to reeducate the ma-
jority and to clear their minds of the corruptions of
capitalism: Blanquism. Indeed, in State and Revolution
Lenin had quoted Engels' 1891 Preface to Marx's Civil
War in France as "the last word" of Marxism on the
subject of the state, but he did not note that it contained
198 SOCIALISM
a short summary of the Marxian critique of the fol-
lowers of Auguste Blanqui. By 1919 he could not have
read Engels' comment with any comfort, for it defined
his own position: "Brought up in the school of con-
spiracy, bound together by the resultant strict discipline,
their point of departure is the idea that a relatively
small number of decisive, well-organized men can, in a
given, favorable moment, not only seize the helm of
state, but through their great and ruthless energy drag
the masses into the revolution and group them around
their small band." Something like this tactic was im-
plied in Lenin's determination to use the dictatorship
not to express the will of the majority, but to create it.
Already in 1921-1922 Martov, a Left Internationalist
Menshevik whom Lenin had sought as an ally in 1917,
compared the reality of Russian life to those promises
based upon the workings of the Paris Commune. He
wrote, "The 'Soviet state' has not established in any in-
stance electiveness and recall of public officials and the
commanding staff. It has not suppressed the profession-
al police. It has not assimilated the courts in direct
jurisdiction by the masses. It has not done away with
social hierarchy in production. It has not lessened the
total subjection of the localcommunity to the power of
the state. On the contrary, in proportion to its evolu-
tion, the Soviet state shows a tendency in the opposite
direction."
But is one then to conclude that Lenin was some kind
of moral monster who duped the masses with a dema-
gogic offer to create total freedom in 1917 and then
used the deceitful power he had won to enslave the
people? That is to miss the extraordinary pathos of the
man. In 1917, as Martov among others understood, he
truly and sincerely believed that the final conflict was at
hand and that the creative energy of working men and
women could be substituted for all the old hierarchies
and administrations. But day by day the backwardness
of Russia and the impossibility of socialism subverted,
and eventually overpowered, his iron will. It was exact-
ly as Marx had said it would be: the attempt to reach
—
justice through the socialization of poverty had led to

the return of the "old crap" of class society. 3
One of the most basic reasons that inexorable
this
triumph of Russian poverty over Lenin's took place
will
was that there was no proletarian revolution in the
West.
Lenin had a ready explanation for the failure of the
European workers to rise up against capitalism. Europe
was indeed ripe for a socialist revolt, he told a Moscow
conference in 1920, but the treacherous social demo-
crats "worked to save the bourgeoisie at the last mo-
ment." This analysis was, of course, an extension of the
theory that the European socialist leaders based them-
selves on a labor aristocracy which was comfortable
enough under capitalism and did not want any great
upheaval. But Lenin was wrong; the reason that the pro-
letariat did not seize power in Germany or France was
much more profound than he imagined.
As E. H. Carr put it, "The majority of Russian work-
ers in 1917 had nothing to lose but their chains;
standing at a level of subsistence not far removed from
starvation, and maddened by the meaningless sacrifices
of the war, they had neither hope nor belief in existing
institutions, and were desperate enough to accept with
alacrity the revolutionary leadership of a small group
of determined men bent on overthrowing them. The ma-
jority of the workers of Western Europe —
and not mere-
ly a privileged minority as the Bolsheviks believed
had a standard of living which, poor as it may often
have been, was still worth defending. At any rate they
were unwilling to sacrifice it lightly in pursuit of the
prospective benefits of revolution; no propaganda dam-
aged the Bolshevik revolution in Western Europe as
much as that which fastened on it the low standards of
living of the Russian people and the privations of the
civil war."
Antonio Gramsci gave these facts a brilliant theo-
retical dimension. The Russia of 1917, he said, was still
in a stage of development like Europe before 1848:
".. .the state was all and the civil society was gelati-
—
200 SOCIALISM
nous and primordial." Topple the czarist bureaucracy
and there was nothing to replace it with; there was a
void. But in Western Europe, on the contrary, "in the
tremors of the state one suddenly perceived the robust
structure of civil society. The state was only the for-
ward trench, behind which stand the networks of forts."
So the most crucial single justification for making a
socialist revolution in a peasant country—the immi-
nence of proletarian revolution in Western Europe
was a delusion. Lenin responded to the resulting im-
passe during the last years of his life in two different
ways: he audaciously sponsored the revival of capi-
talism in Russia; and, in poignant, or perhaps tragic,
moments he acknowledged the failure of his policies
and desperately turned back to the dreams of peasant
socialism which he had scorned during all of his life.
By 1920 Russia was in a shambles. Three years of
foreign intervention and civil war had taken an enor-
mous toll and many of the most militant and dedicated
Communists had been killed. The peasants, who had
followed the Bolsheviks because they promised them
land and an end to the war, were suddenly refusing to
deliver their surplus grain to a government that appro-
priated it by force. At this point, Lenin acted with
characteristic boldness by proposing to end "war Com-
munism," that egalitarian and managed response to
military problems, to denationalize a part of the econ-
omy and to allow for the planned growth of a capital-
ist sector in the countryside.
In arguing for this volte face, Lenin now said that
there were two preconditions for the success of a so-
cialistrevolution in a backward country: "First, if it is
given timely support by one or several advanced coun-
tries. . The second condition is agreement between
. .
the proletariat, which is exercising the dictatorship, that

is, holding state power, and the majority of the peasant
population." And countering the reluctance of some of

the Bolsheviks to adopt such a seemingly pro-bourgeois
policy, he warned that the rising at Kronstadt in 1921
—
was an expression of peasant discontent which the old

policies of seizing grain had caused.
The New Economic Policy did indeed revive the
economy through its capitalist methods, but was a far
it
cry from the socialist revolution proclaimed in October,

1917. Moreover, by 1921 Lenin, who only a few years
before had looked to the rapid coming of the World So-
viet Republic, was saying that "it would be madness on
our part to assume that help will shortly arrive from
Europe in the shape of a strong proletarian revolution."
So what, then, was left of the dream? A
lesser man
would not have dared to confront his failure, especially
when it concrned the fate of nations and the very pros-
pect of socialism itself. Lenin, however, contemplated
the abyss.
The essays of 1923 On Coopreation, Our Revolu-
tion, How We Should Reorganize the Workers' and
Peasants' Inspection and Better Fewer, But Better —
were written during a period of his life that was as per-
sonally trying as it was politically difficult. He was sick
and dying, cut off from the normal routine and isolated
from the political life of the state he had created. His
wife, Krupskaya, was even insulted by Stalin, and this
was one more proof of the latter's insensitivity and ar-
rogance, qualities that were to leave a bloody mark on
the history of the times. Vainly, Lenin tried to struggle
against the current, to begin anew. He sought an alliance
with Trotsky as a way of fighting the bureaucratic and
dictatorial trends that were overwhelming the Revolu-
tion. But he died before he could finish his new be-
ginning.
The workers, Lenin said in Better Fewer, But Bet-
ter, "would apparatus for us [state
like to build a better
and Soviet apparatus] but they do not know how. They
cannot build one. They have not yet developed the cul-
ture required for this; and it is culture that is required."
Thus the Lenin who in 1917 believed that the Soviets
had found a way to involve the entire people in the ad-
ministration of government. In On Cooperation he said
202 SOCIALISM
of the Soviet state machinery that "we took [it] over
in its entirety from the preceding epoch." And in his
letter of December, 1922, he was even more specific:

"In effect we took over the old machinery of state from
the Tsar and the bourgeoisie. .
." Thus the Lenin who
.
wanted to smash the bourgeois state altogether.

Then, in a sort of dialogue with the Marxist theore-
ticians of the Second International in Our Revolution,
comes an extraordinary admission: " The develop-
ment of the productive forces of Russia has not attained
the level that makes socialism possible.' . They [the
. .
Second Internationalists] keep harping on this incon-

trovertible proposition in a thousand different keys, and
think that it is the decisive criterion of our revolution."
(Emphasis added.) And in a most remarkable descrip-
tion of the revolution he had led —
it would not have
been even comprehensible to the Lenin of 1917 he —

says of his opponents in the Second International, "It
does not occur to any of them to ask: but what about a
people that found itself in a revolutionary situation
such as that created during the first imperialist war?
Might it not, influenced by the hopelessness of its situa-
a struggle that would offer it at
tion, fling itself into
leastsome chance of securing conditions for the future
development of civilization that were somewhat un-
usual." (Emphasis added.)
But how, then, did Lenin propose to get out of the
— —
impasse that he had poignantly, almost, it seems to
me defined? He gave two answers. First, in On Co-
operation he confessed that "there has been a radical
modification of our whole outlook on socialism. The
radical modification is this: formerly we placed and had
to place, the main emphasis on political struggle, on
revolution, on the winning of political power, etc. Now
the emphasis is changing and shifting to peaceful, or-
ganizational, 'cultural' work." So now, there are two
main tasks: to reorganize the machinery of state and to
carry out educational work among the peasants (the
workers, those classic heroes of the Marxian vision, have
vanished). "This cultural revolution," Lenin concludes,
"would now suffice to make our country a completely

socialist country. . .
."
How does this differ from the Utopian socialism, and

particularly the Russian populism, that Lenin had criti-
cized all his life? His answer was that the Utopians
did not see the necessity for a determined struggle for
power, but that once the working class wins the state,
those very same ideas about cooperation and the peas-
antry become revolutionary. Yet for all his disclaimers,
the fact is that the Lenin of 1923 had adopted views
much closer to the Russian Populism of Chernyshevsky
than to Marx. The workers were now seen as lacking
the culture to build socialism; peasants, improving
themselves through nonviolent cooperation, were to
take their place.
His second answer to his dilemma was equally un-
Marxist. In Better Fewer, But Better, he wrote, "In the
last analysis, the outcome of the struggle will be deter-
mined by the fact that Russia, India, China, etc., ac-
count for the overwhelming majority of the population
of the globe. And during the past few years it is this
majority that has been drawn into the struggle for
emancipation with extraordinary rapidity, so that in this
respect there cannot be the slightest doubt what the
final outcome of the world struggle will be. In this sense,
the complete victory of socialism is fully and absolutely
assured."
Yet this is no solution of the problem but an aggra-
vation of it. For if the great barrier to socialism in
Russia was the backwardness of the country it had con-
quered, how would that be alleviated by joining it to
economies, such as the Chinese and the Indian, that
were even more backward? That these three nations
form a numerical majority of mankind is not crucial
either. For in the Marxian analysis it is the economic
and social weight of peoples, not their numbers, that
isultimately decisive. A
relatively small minority of Eu-
ropeans have, after all, dominated the world for some
centuries precisely because of their technological and —
in Lenin's sense of the term, cultural — superiority.
204 SOCIALISM
The issue cannot be blustered away, as in Roger
Garaudy's comment that "Marx could only conceive of
one model of socialism: that of a social system follow-
ing immediately after a capitalism which is fully de-
veloped to the point of decadence. A
half-century later,
Lenin confronted a new problem: the possibility of
passing directly from feudal societies (in Asia, for ex-
ample) to socialism." For one thing, Lenin never really
outlined such a transition, but in the last desperate years
of his life, yearned for one; for another, if there is any
one proposition of Marx's that has stood the test of
time, it is his insight that "rights can never be higher
than the economic level of society and the cultural de-
velopment, which the economic level determines." It is
true, however, that one must now add a second pos-
sible form of transition to socialism: not simply from
capitalism to socialism, but from the anti-socialist sys-
tem that calls itself socialist to a genuine socialism (this
latter possibility, which, at various times, received mass
support in Poland, Hungary, East Germany and Czecho-
slovakia, will be discussed later on). 4
These last writings of Lenin were, as even the Russian
edition of his works recognizes, the "equivalent of an
outline program." For all the contradictions and am-
biguities they contained, they were clearly inspired by
a passion to create a socialist order even under impos-
sible conditions. And they marked the audacious failure
of the Marxian revolution in Russia, for once the West-
ern proletariat failed to rise up, Lenin's hopes were
doomed. To that question, which still confronts the
—
Third World today who will make the equivalent of
the bourgeois revolution where there is no bourgeoisie
—
capable of carrying it through? Lenin had originally
answered: the workers and peasants in an alliance.
Then, under the force of circumstances in 1917, he
adopted Trotsky's solution to the problem: the Russian
workers will make the revolution in conjunction with
the victorious workers of Western Europe. And finally,
just before he died, Lenin veered quite close to the old
Russian Populism: the peasants will, through a cultural

revolution, make the good society.
None of these answers worked. None of them do to-
day, even though each still has passionate adherents.
But Joseph Stalin abandoned all the niceties and carried
out a brutal revolution from above. He had found an
effective substitute for the bourgeoisie: not the workers
or the peasants or the European proletariat, but the
Communist Party.
II • Stalin
Joseph Stalin was the architect of a new form of class

societywhich I shall call ''bureaucratic collectivism."
Under it, the state owns the means of production, and
the elite Party bureaucracy owns the state.

By totalitarian means it is able to extract a surplus
from the direct producers and to invest it in industrial
modernization and its own class privileges. does these It
things in the name
of "socialism," and yet it is based
on the continuing expropriation of the political power
of the workers and the peasants.
Such a society, it must be emphasized, does not re-
quire Russian sponsorship. It can be run by Maoists
who detest Moscow, or even by nationalists who jail
Communist leaders (these variants of it will be exam-
ined in Chapter XI). It is, in other words, a structural
tendency of modern life, a possibility in all of those
countries forced to search for non- and anti-capitalist
modes of modernization (and even in developed capi-
talist economies). If, in what follows, I go into some
detail with regard to what happened in Russia, it is be-
cause these events were so profoundly prototypical.
The historical conditions that gave rise to Stalinism
are clear enough. After Lenin's death in 1924 it be-
came more and more obvious that the European revo-
lution was not going to save Russia from the conse-
quences of its backwardness. The encouragement of
206 SOCIALISM
capitalism in the countryside also threatened to subvert
the anti-capitalist principles of the regime and, in any
case, did not provide sufficient funds for accumulation
and. industrialization. Socialism was impossible and the
regime was opposed to a capitalist restoration. Where,
then, could it go? Stalin's answer was "socialism in one
country."
In the first edition of The Foundations of Leninism
in 1924 had adhered to the Leninist orthodoxy:
Stalin
"To overthrow the bourgeoisie the efforts of one country
are sufficient; that is proved by the history of our rev-
olution. For the final victory of socialism, for the or-
ganization of socialist production, the efforts of one
country, particularly of a peasant country like Russia,
are insufficient; for that, the efforts of several advanced
countries are required." Two years later he made a mo-
mentous amendment to his formula. Now it was pos-
victory, but for final victory

—
sible to build socialism in one country and to achieve
"the full guarantee
against attempts at intervention" —
the workers had to
prevail in several countries. "Socialist production" was
proclaimed as a possibility in a single, poor land.
v
In his writings of this period Stalin could only find
—
one quotation from Lenin and given the Lenin cult
which he had sponsored, a citation from the holy writ
was now as necessary as the appeal to the authority of
—
Marx and Engels had once been that even seemed to
justify his position. In 1915 Lenin had remarked, "Un-
even development and political development is an ab-
solute law of capitalism. Hence the victory of socialism
is possible first in several, or even in one, capitalist
country." There is, however, every reason to believe

that this cryptic reference was not intended to apply
to Russia at all. For just a year later Lenin wrote that
"Socialism will be achieved by the united action of the
proletarians, not of all, but of a minority of countries,
those that have reached the advanced capitalist stage of
development. The undeveloped countries," he con-
. . .
tinued, "are a different matter. They embrace the whole

of Eastern Europe. ." As Carr notes, Lenin's 1915
. .
statement was an attempt to convince French or Ger-

man workers that they did not have to wait for each
other's revolutions but could seize power on their own.
Between Lenin's death in 1924 and Trotsky's defeat
in 1928, "socialism in one country" meant a policy of
encouraging peasant capitalism. The Trotskyist opposi-
tion was accused of being anti-peasant on the grounds
that its plans for industrialization would exploit the
countryside. But with his triumph over the Trotskyists,
Stalin turned upon his old factional ally Bukharin, the
theorist of socialism "at a snail's pace" who had advo-
cated a long, gradual evolution into the new order. In
that struggle between Stalin and Bukharin, Trotsky's in-
ability to conceive of an alternative to either capitalism
or socialism led him to make a disastrous error.
For Trotsky, Russia could either go forward to so-
cialism or backward to capitalism. And since Bukharin
was the strongest defender of private peasant property
in the Party, that made him the chief danger, the repre-
sentative of the tendency to revert to capitalism. There-
fore for all of Trotsky's bitter opposition to Stalin, he
could not bring himself to form a bloc with Bukharin
against him —and even envisioned joining with Stalin
against Bukharin. To the day of his assassination, Trot-
sky remained locked in his either/or of capitalism or
socialism for Russia. Meanwhile, Stalin went on to make
an anti-capitalist, anti-socialist revolution. He was even
almost candid about the unprecedented nature of his
undertaking.
In 1929 Stalin began to "eliminate" the kulaks as a
class. Later, in a history of the Bolshevik Party which
he personally supervised (and which, of course, paid
great homage to his genius), he spoke of the event in
this way: "This was a profound revolution, a leap from
an old qualitative state of society to a new qualitative
state, equivalent in its consequences to the revolution
of October, 1917." (Emphasis added.) This is, I be-
lieve, a quite accurate description but also rather indis-
creet. For if the October Revolution transferred power
from the bourgeoisie to the workers, what, then, was
208 SOCIALISM
the qualitative leap of 1929? Stalin would respond that
it was a giant step forward in laying the foundations of
"socialism in one country," but I would take his Marxist

language more literally: the event was, indeed, "qualita-
tive," for it marked an important moment in the expro-
priation of whatever political power remained to the
workers and peasants and a turning toward a new form
of class society.
But then, in the very next sentence, Stalin commits
still another indiscretion: "The distinguishing feature of
this revolution is that it was accomplished from above,

on the initiative of the state, and directly supported from
below by the millions of peasants who were fighting to
throw off Kulak bonds and to live in freedom on the
collective farms." Now the second part of this sentence
— that the peasants were trying to force their way into
collective farms— was, as will be seen shortly, sheer fan-
tasy. But even more remarkable is that Stalin himself
characterizes the process as being "accomplished from
above, on the initiative of the state" For there is in
Marxist literature a very precise meaning to "revolution
from above": it describes how Bismarck, in the absence
of a vigorous bourgeoisie, carried out the moderni-
zation and unification of Germany in a counterrevolu-
tionary fashion which, on occasion, used demagogic
measures that were called "socialist," including the na-
tionalization of certain industries. And Lenin himself
had used the phrase in just that sense.
One can only speculate now as to why Stalin used
such a suggestive phrase to describe his triumph. But
there is no question that it offers an illuminating, if un-
witting, insight into how profoundly he had not simply
revised, but utterly taken leave of Marxism. At differ-
ent points in his life, as earlier chapters have noted,
Marx had variously assessed the imminence of revolu-
tion and the degree to which the working class had de-
veloped a truly revolutionary consciousness. Yet at no
moment in his entire life did he ever lose faith in that
principle which he inscribed in the statutes of the In-
ternational Workingmen's Association: "The emancipa-
tion of the working class must be conquered by the

working class itself."
Lenin had, as we have seen, moved toward a Blan-
quist version of the dictatorship of the proletariat in
which the state did not express the majority but created
it. then, he always made it clear that this defini-
Even
tion of the phrase was exceptional, a product of those
— —
unique perhaps impossible Russian conditions. But
Stalin seized upon precedent and utilized it to root
this
out every single shred of popular sovereignty. Already
in 1926 he proclaimed that the party "cannot share"
its leadership with other parties, and therefore could not
tolerate factions within its own ranks, since these would

only reflect the differences that were denied voice out-
side it. This led to the truly incredible theory of self-
criticism, which he spelled out in 1928: "Since our
country is a country with a dictatorship of the pro-
letariat, and since the dictatorship is directed by one
party, the Communist Party, which does not, and can-
not, share power with other parties, is it not clear that
to make headway we ourselves must disclose and cor-
rect our errors — is it not clear that there is no one else
to disclose and correct them for us?" The notion that
an elite, minority dictatorship would voluntarily police
itself not only flies in the face of everything Marx wrote
about the brute and self-interested realities of power;
it outrages the most untutored common sense as well.
So it was that when Stalin initiated his revolution

from above, there was no protest and no self-criticism.
Or rather, the protest and criticism took forms that
were to be disastrous for the Soviet state to the present
moment.
In that brutal process of collectivization and purges,
at least six and a half million lives were lost, a figure
that Zbigniew Brzezinski takes to be a low estimate.
Robert Conquest has argued that in the period 1936
to 1938 alone there were a million executions and two
million died in the camps. Conquest puts the human
cost of forced collectivization at three million deaths.
Moreover, the peasants, who according to Stalin's myth
210 SOCIALISM
were fighting to gain admission to the collectives, re-
sponded in helpless outrage by destroying their farm
animals. Between 1928 and 1933 the number of
horses in the Soviet Union fell from 33.4 million to 14.9
million, the cattle from 70.4 million to 33.7 million,
and sheep and goats from 145.9 million to 41.8 mil-
lion.
This human and agricultural catastrophe was pro-
voked by a savage war against the peasantry which
had no rationale in all of Marxist literature. Engels had
insisted that cooperative production on the land would
develop under socialism "not by means of force, but by
example and by offering social help toward this end."
— —
He and Marx had even considered compensating the
large landowners and industrialists for their property:
— —
"Marx had many times expressed his view to me that
we would find it cheaper to buy out the whole gang."
And Lenin in the last years of his life had seen an al-
liance between the Communists and the peasants as
one of the two preconditions of the survival of the Revo-
5
lution itself.
But then, Stalin was making a different revolution
from the one Lenin had sought, and there was great
method in the madness of his brutality. Under capital-
ism, the accumulation of capital, industrialization and
centralization resulted from the competition of private
entrepreneurs (often with generous state aid) and
tended toward monopoly. In Russia, as has been seen,
that bourgeois modernization process did not take place
and there was no economic basis for socialism either.
So its totalitarian power, was able to
the party, using
rig the market to its advantage, extract an enormous
surplus from the workers and invest part of that gain in
the privileges of the bureaucracy and part of it in the
creation of an industrial society.
In the twenties in Russia, when genuine intellectual
discussion was still possible within the Communist
Party, E. Preobrazhensky, a leading economic theo-
rist for the Trotskyist opposition, was candid about
what he called "primitive socialist accumulation." This
involved "restriction of individual demand" and it

"subordinates the growth of wages to the function of
accumulation, limits the growth in the quality of social
relationships and maintains a gap between the wage
level and the value of labor power." (Emphasis
added.) Preobrazhensky and the Trotskyists could be
this frank about the appropriation of the surplus in the
Soviet Union because they did not believe it possible
to build socialism— which they understood as a matter
of the "quality of social relationships" and not simply
as economic growth —in a single, and relatively back-
ward, country.
Under such circumstances, it is not surprising that
Stalin made a principled defense of inequality. The
scripture cited for this position was Marx's Critique of
the Got ha Program, in which the two stages of the so-
cialist transformation were described. In the first phase
of Communism, Marx had said, people would not be
paid according to their needs but rather in some pro-
portion to the quantity and quality of their work. This,
he argued, was an unfortunate necessity given the fact
that socialism matured within a capitalist society in
which such bourgeois conceptions of rights prevailed.
It was only in the higher phase that society would in-
scribe upon its banner "from each according to his abil-
ities, to each according to his needs." But since both
Marx and Engels believed that the length of this transi-
tion period would depend upon the degree of develop-
ment of the forces of production, they shortened their
estimate of it as time went on. In 1891 Engels thought
it would be "short, meager but morally useful." Stalin,
on the other hand, celebrated inequality with enthusi-

asm and projected it over an entire epoch. "Equalitari-
anism," he told Emil Ludwig, "has nothing in common
with Marxian socialism."
But even the principle of "from each according to
his ability, to each according to his work," which Stalin
made a central rule of his regime, was, according to
the insider's testimony of Varga, perverted. "The labor
of ordinary citizens was badly paid even if they demon-
212 SOCIALISM
strated capacities which were above the average and
performed their tasks well. On the other hand, the labor
of the privileged of the nomenclatura [a czarist term
for a list of, people to be given special treatment by
the state, a practice that Varga says Stalin adopted]
was very well paid, sometimes exorbitantly so, even if
they did not show any special capacity."
The existence of such an elite suggests that one is
in the presence of a class society. And indeed, there
is now enough evidence to begin to generalize the Sta-
linist reality in terms of the Marxian definition of the
"innermost secret" of a social order: how the surplus
is pumped out of the direct producers. When this is
done, the preposterous and utterly un-Marxist explana-
tions of Stalin made by the Communist leaders — that
he committed "mistakes," that an entire generation of
bloody history is to be accounted for by a "cult of per-
sonality" — are torn to shreds.
In Russia the decision of how to divide up the sur-
plus is made by the bureaucracy and enforced through
totalitarian controls. For decades now output has in-
creased enormously, but consumption has not risen as
fast as production. Instead, there have been massive
investments in heavy industry and in the privileges of
the ruling class. So the unpaid portion of the working
day has been growing and the living standards of the
people have gone up slowly. In the precise, Marxist
usage of the term, then, the Soviet Union is an exploita-
tive society. Indeed, Friedrich Engels described a quite
similar phenomenon in 1884. He was writing to August
Bebel about "state socialism," i.e., Bismarck's statist
capitalism. "If you want to study a model of state so-
cialism then: Java. There the Dutch government has
organized all of production on the basis of the old com-
munist village community so socialistically and taken
over the sale of all the products so handsomely that,
outside of 100 million marks for administrators and the
."
army, a pure profit of about 70 million a year . .
Under system in Russia, the party leaders do

this
not receive their cars, villas and foreign trips because
they ownstock certificates, but rather as a privilege of

their position within the bureaucratic hier-
political
archy. These class privileges of the bureaucracy, it must
be emphasized, are not simply unfair in some abstract,
ethical sense. They work to determine the very shape
and fabric of the society. In the late 1950s, for in-
stance, 75 percent of the students in Moscow Univer-
sity were the children of officials, 20 percent of work-
ers, 5 percent of farmers, yet the officials constituted
only 20 percent of the population, workers 48 percent
and farmers 3 1 percent.
Given this structure, totalitarianism was not the re-
sult of Stalin's malevolence but a crucial and functional
element in the system. Since the state apparatus and
the new ruling class are one, the former had to be utter-
ly pervasive. Under capitalism, a strike against an indi-
vidual company is not an act of treason. To be sure,
the government often intervenes in the name of "law
and order" on the side of the business a practice that —
was particularly vicious and widespread in early Ameri-
—
can labor history but it does not have to regard every
outbreak of the class struggle as revolutionary. But un-
der the Soviet model, the economic and political direc-
tion are identical. If the government were to permit a
strike, a genuine trade union or any kind of autono-
mous activity within the economy, it would be tolerat-
ing an alternate source of political power. And since
political power in this system is the means of establish-
ing economic and social power, that would amount to
sanctioning revolution.
In his Notes on Machiavelli, Antonio Gramsci un-
derstood this point quite brilliantly, though his own at-
titude toward it was ambiguous. Gramsci wrote, "To-
talitarian politics tend, precisely, (1) to work so that
members of the given party find in this one party alone
allthe satisfactions which they previously found in oth-
er organizations and thus break all their ties with alien
cultural organisms; (2) to destroy all other organiza-
tions and to incorporate them in a system in which the
party alone is the regulator. . . . This happens," Gram-
214 SOCIALISM
sci continues, "(1) when the given party is the bearer
of a new culture and it is a progressive development;
(2) when the party wants to hold back another force,
the bearer of a new culture, from becoming totalitarian
in this way and it is an objectively reactionary, regres-
sive development if reaction (as always) does not ad-
mit its identity and attempts to be the bearer of a new
culture."
This is a remarkable statement on the part of the
founder of the Italian Communist Party for it admits
that the methods of Communism and fascism (and he
is clearly thinking of Mussolini, not Hitler) are the
same and that the two phenomena are to be distin-
guished only in their "objective" impact upon history.
But since that "new culture" which Gramsci saw in the
Soviet Union and which gave it the right to use the
same methods as the fascists in the name of process
never existed, his analysis is an implicit condemnation
of contemporary Communist practice.
But then, this totalitarian structure is not simply a
matter of economics or politics. Like all other class sys-
tems, it invades the spheres of the mind and spirit as
well. In Chapter IV it was shown how the pre-World
War experience of the European social democracy
I
with its continuous increments of electoral success gave
rise to a mechanistic, Darwinist reading of Marx and
Engels. Totalitarianism was even more extreme on this
count. Stalin, as Iring Fetscher has pointed out, was
at great pains to deny the Hegelian origins of Marxism,
i.e., the subjective component in Marx's thinking, with
its stress on the self-emancipation of the proletariat. In-

stead, he based himself upon Engels' most dubious
speculations on the dialectic and turned Marxism into
a universal key to all knowledge.
This ideological development served several func-
tions. If the Party, as the living incarnation of Marx-
ism, knew "objectively" what was good for the working
class, could emancipate the workers without
then it
their participation or even over their violent objections.

Ironically, as Fetscher notes, Stalin's anti-Hegelianism
in theory gave way to profound Hegelianism in prac-

tice: the Russian dictator represented the Idea working
itself out in history independently of the will of the peo-
ple. Secondly, this rewriting of Marxism helped to es-
tablish justify Stalin's own position in the Soviet
and
system. the leader of the party was the most pro-
If
found scientist of them all, if he most brilliantly per-
ceived the "laws" of history according to which society
was being created, then his deification was rational.
Thus, I cannot agree with the economist Charles
Wilber that "there is no inherent reason why the Soviet
model must be operated by a dogmatic totalitarian
Communist Party. A halfway democratic socialist re-
gime could probably supply whatever compulsion was
necessary to implement the model." Now it is certainly
true that one need not be a Communist to follow in
Stalin's footsteps, as Chapter XI will document. But
it is not true that the system can be operated democrat-
ically, and particularly not halfway democratically.

Under Communism, it is precisely the totalitarian mo-
nopoly of political power that allows the bureaucracy
to extract the surplus from the direct producers and
use it for its own ends. If the producers were allowed
to participate in those decisions, it would signal a revo-
lutionary shift of control from the top to the bottom.
For then the bureaucracy could retain its position in
society only if the masses voluntarily voted to tax them-
selves in order to build even more steel mills and better
apartments for the party hierarchy and to finance the
secret police. That hope, one suspects, would be a
rather thin reed for Stalin's successors to lean on.
I do not mean, however, to suggest that there is no
internal resistance or dynamic possible within such a
society (that was an underlying theme of Hannah
Arendt's Origins of Totalitarianism). There have al-
ready been enormous changes within the totalitarian
framework. After the period of capital accumulation,
productivity in the modern sector went up, the influx
of the rural masses into the cities tapered off and it
became necessary to rely more upon material incentives
216 SOCIALISM
than upon brute force. Slave laborers can dig a canal
with picks and shovels but they cannot be lashed into
doing scientific work.
Indeed, Stalin's monstrous success may well have
created a basic contradiction for present-day Soviet so-
ciety. The whip and the purge did successfully extract
a considerable surplus out of the people and lay the
foundations for industrialization. But modern industrial
society cannot be efficiently run at gunpoint, even by
a de-Stalinized guard. It needs a certain openness and
access to information, in its elite sectors, at the very
least.Thus Stalin's bureaucratic centralization, which
had helped to carry out the bloody mobilization of
a backward economy, became a fetter on further
growth once a sophisticated technological structure had
been built. The Soviet mode of the production, totali-
tarian bureaucratic collectivism, is thus in conflict with
the means of production, a sophisticated technology.
It is this fact that accounts for the lackluster and aim-
less Russian economy of the sixties —
and for the de-
mands on the part of some of the shrewder bureaucrats
for a limited autonomy.
But this hardly means that the bureaucracy in Russia
is going to abdicate power. Paradoxically, one can see
the severe limits on reform within this system precisely
in the process of de-Stalinization initiated in 1956. The
dictator was criticized for his "excesses," above all, for
sending police to arrest bureaucrats and party members
in the middle of the night. But the Communists could
not allow a genuine Marxian analysis of how their
dead, and mad, leader had managed to dominate an
entire nation for a generation and to build there a new
form of society. That would raise fundamental and rev-
olutionary questions about the very basis of the society.
The bureaucracy, as Max Shachtman has remarked, ad-
mired Stalin in that he raised it above the masses, but
hated him in that he raised himself above it. It could
afford to criticize him on the second count; it had to
revere him on the first.
Therefore from the very first Nikita Khrushchev
carefully delimited his attack on his former comrade.

Stalin,he said, played a progressive role up to the Sev-
enteenth Congress of the Party in 1934, i.e., the revolu-
tion from above initiated in 1929 and the consequent
human destruction and exploitation were a good thing.
It was at the Seventeenth Congress that Stalin turned
so brutally against the old Bolsheviks, including many
who had supported him, and at that point his "mis-
takes" began. Yet even this very modest critique
turned out to be too much for the bureaucracy. Khru-
shchev was overthrown in 1964 and re-Stalinization was
the order of the day.
A seemingly obscure doctrinal point illuminates
these developments. In Khrushchev's 1961 Party Pro-
gram Russia was said to be entering the phase of Com-
munism. In 1966 at the Twenty-third Congress, it was
only making the "transition to Communism." The dan-
ger in Khrushchev's exuberant boast is obvious: if
the Communist stage of society has been reached, ac-
cording to the catechisms of Soviet Russia, the rule of
"to each according to his needs" is supposed to prevail.
But that rule is not at all compatible with the hard,
disciplined labor the Soviet leaders exact from their
people; it contradicts Stalin's maxim of "To each ac-
cording to his work." So it was necessary to project the
stage of Communism into the vague future and to insist
in the here and now on the inequalities that are char-
acteristic of "building socialism."
In the fallof 1970 K. S. Karol, a veteran of the Red
Army and a man of impeccable Leftist credentials, re-
ported on the situation in Russia fourteen years after de-
Stalinization. Members of the collective farms, he said,
are not even given the internal passports that would per-
mit them to move freely within the country. They work
as little as possible on the common plot — in the
Ukraine, according to the official statistics, only 180
days a year, in Georgia, 135 — and spend the rest of
their time farming their private plots. Even though the
industrial system is planned, there is little cooperation
between enterprises: of one hundred big Soviet facto-
218 SOCIALISM
ries, seventy-one make their own pig iron. As a measure
of manpower control, the state has decreed that a work-
er cannot leave a plant for three years after he is hired.
But then hardly necessary to depend upon trav-
it is
elers in the Soviet Union for a sense of what is happen-

ing there. There is also persuasive testimony from in-
siders.
In his Testament, as I noted earlier, Varga compared
the privileges of the Soviet bureaucracy to the nomen-
clatura under the czar. As he describes their rewards,
they include "high salaries, 'envelopes' passing from
hand to hand, being able to get goods which can-
not be found on the regular market, private canteens,
large apartments sometimes luxuriously furnished, as
well as dachas with gardens, tennis courts, swimming
pools, personal cars and chauffeurs and first-class re-
treats."
The Chinese Communists generalize their indictment
of such privileges (I find the Chinese criticisms of the
Russians, and the Russian criticism of the Chinese,
quite persuasive). "The members of this privileged stra-
tum," the editorial departments of Red Flag and the
People Daily wrote in 1964, "have converted the
function of serving the masses into the privilege of
dominating them. They are abusing their powers over
the means of livelihood for the private benefit of their
small clique. The members of this privileged stratum
appropriate the fruits of the Soviet people's labour and
pocket incomes that are dozens or even a hundred times
those of the average Soviet worker and peasant. They
not only secure high incomes in the form of salaries,
high awards, high royalties and a great variety of per-
sonal subsidies, but also use their privileged position to
appropriate public property by graft and bribery."
And in one of the most significant statements on this
question made from within the Soviet Union, academi-
cian Andrei D. Sakharov wrote, "It is sometimes sug-
gested in the literature that the political manifestations
of Stalinism represented a sort of superstructure over the
economic bases of an anti-Leninist pseudosocialism that
)
led to the formation in the Soviet Union of a distinct

class — a bureaucratic elite. ... I cannot deny that there
is some (but not the whole) truth in such an interpre-
"
tation
is an independent member of the Russian
Sakharov
establishment who usually makes his criticism from with-
in the system. Yet even he will speculate on the possi-
Communism is a new form of class society.
bility that
But there are others within the Communist world who
have not simply discussed this as a possibility, but have
tried to transform it in reality. 6
some cases, the freedom movement under Com-
In
munism begins with the students and intelligentsia. In
Poland in 1956 the publication Po Prostu was the orig-
inal center of the resistance, in Hungary in 1956 the
and in Czechoslovakia in
Pet6fi Circle played that role,
1967 and 1968 a good deal of the anti-Stalinist impetus
came from journalists and writers. The reasons for this
development are obvious enough: intellectual freedom
is —
an immediate necessity a trade-union question, as it
—
were for such people, and they therefore feel the im-
pact of totalitarianism in a most direct way. However,
these movements only became effective when they linked
up with the working class.
In Poland and Hungary in 1956 Soviets that is, —
councils of workers —
appeared for the first time in Eu-
ropean history since they were destroyed in Russia by
the Stalinist revolution from above. In Czechoslovakia
in 1968 the factories were centers of the movement and
the cooperation of the entire working class made it pos-
sible to hold a clandestine congress of the Communist
Party. In East Germany in 1953 and in Poland in 1970
the uprising began first of all among the workers. And
as Le Monde reported in 1971, the Polish events saw
the proletariat move from bread and butter issues to
the demand for free elections within the unions and
workers' councils. (At this writing, that historic strug-
gle is far from over.
The emergence of Soviets as a form of struggle against
a Communist ruling class was almost a predictable iro-
220 SOCIALISM
ny. For just as in Western capitalist society people be-
come anti-capitalist by taking the official values of
democracy and equality seriously, so, too, in Commu-
nist society the governmental ideology has a subversive
potential. Indeed, the Communist rhetoric is even more
potent than the bourgeois democratic since it uses the
language of the most revolutionary ideal ever proclaimed
— the classless society — to facilitate class oppression.
Therefore the moment that people take the propaganda
seriously, they become possible recruits for a movement
of opposition.
And Communist slanders to the contrary notwith-
standing, these upheavals within Communism in East
Germany, Poland, Hungary, Czechoslovakia and among
the intelligentsia in the Soviet Union itself have never
advocated a return to capitalism, much less the fascism
with which they are sometimes charged. They have al-
ways proposed what the Czechs call "the human face of
socialism." As early as 1956 Edda Werfel, the Polish
philosopher, paraphrased The Communist Manifesto:
"A spectre is abroad in Eastern Europe, the spectre of
human socialism, and it terrifies not only the capitalists
but the Stalinists as well."
The proponents of freedom within the Communist
societies are quite aware that the very meaning of so-
cialism is at stake. "To explain what socialism really
is," wrote Karel Kosik, the Czech Marxist philosopher,
"one must distinguish between real and alleged social-
ism." And Svetozar Stojanovic, a Yugoslav Marxist
scholar, has argued that in the Soviet Union "expropri-
ated feudal and bourgeois property became the basis of
statist [etatist] property," and "the broad masses were
transformed into an object of exploitation by a new rul-
ing class." The crucial question, Stojanovic concluded,
is not so much the choice between capitalism or so-
cialism but between "statism and socialism."
Stojanovic's remarks are quite apropos of a brief sum-
mary of the analysis of this chapter. Bureaucratic col-
lectivism developed in Russia for the very specific
historical reasons that I have outlined. But the event also
had global implications. That is quite obvious in the

case of the Third World peoples who, like the Russians,
want to modernize but cannot do so in the capitalist
way. It may also even be relevant to the Western wel-
fare states where an intensification of the present inte-
gration of corporate and governmental power (a trend
that is treated in Chapter XII) could end up in a "liber-
al" bureaucratic collectivism.
So Stojanovic is quite right to say (he uses the term
"statism" where I would write "bureaucratic collectiv-
ism"), "Historic experience after Marx has shown
that two possibilities and tendencies are inherent in
capitalism —
the statist and the socialist —
and not only
one, as Marx supposed. The epochal dilemma, capital-
ism or socialism, is progressively being pushed into the
background and the epochal dilemma, statism or so-
cialism, is coming to the fore."
So Communism does indeed represent one of the
historic alternatives in the present era. But ironically,
this self-proclaimed Marxist society has blazed the way
to the anti-socialist variant of the future. I propose
to explore a few aspects of this fact in the closing p
of this chapter for a political reason. Communism is
unquestionably anti-capitalist and therefore there are
those on the Left in the Western countries who regard
any criticism of it as playing into the hands of their
own ruling class and thus a betrayal of radicalism. More
often than not, these people argue that somehow the
basic direction of Communist society —
above all, the
nationalization of the means of production is —
right
and that perfidious bureaucrats have only temporarily
usurped popular power.
I believe that Communism could well be the model
of the inhuman quo of the twenty-first century.
status
It is for this reason, and not because I want to accom-
modate myself to capitalism (which receives its due

later on), that I must evaluate it so carefully.
Since 1956 the number of people who take Soviet
descriptions of Russian society at face value has been
declining throughout the world. But there is a sjophis-
222 SOCIALISM
ticated attitude that defends Stalin's action in the name
of socialist values: of course, Russia is not classless;
of course, totalitarian force was used; but that was his-
torically necessary. One of the most brilliant repre-
sentatives of this way of thinking is Isaac Deutscher.
The Bolsheviks, Deutscher wrote, "could not achieve
socialism; for that presupposed economic abundance,
high popular standards of living, of education and of
general civilization, the disappearance of striking social
contrasts, the cessation of domination of man by man
and a spiritual climate corresponding to this general
transformation of society. But to the Marxist the
nationalized economy was the essential prerequisite of
socialism, the genuine foundation. It was quite con-
ceivable that even on that foundation the edifice of so-
cialism might not rise; but it was unthinkable without
it."
Later on Deutscher summarized his position: "Yet
however 'illegitimate' from the classical Marxist view-
point, Stalin's revolution from above effected a lasting
and as to scale unprecedented change in property rela-
tions and ultimately in the nation's way of life." As
time went on, Deutscher continued, the industrial
foundations that Stalin laid became more advanced and
therefore contradicted the Stalinist superstructure.
"Thus, by an irony of history Stalin's epigones began
the liquidation of Stalinism and thereby carried out,
malgre eux-memes, part of Trotsky's political testa-
ment."
This analysis, which was first formulated in its essen-
tials by Trotsky in The Revolution Betrayed, is more
sophisticated than the theory that the sheer fact of So-
viet industrialization justifies the crimes of Stalinism.
Of course, Russia is now economically advanced as
compared to the czarist period and socialism one day
may build upon that heritage which was purchased at
such a frightful human cost. But then, Japanese capital-
ism and South African racism have accomplished their
own prodigies since World War II. The role of the so-
cialist in Japan, South Africa and Russia or in any—

nation which is advancing by cruel and exploitative
—
means is to seek alternatives, not to celebrate produc-
tion statistics. Deutscher, a man of considerable Marx-
ist culture, was aware of this fundamental distinction.
So he is saying something much more complex than

the simpleminded admirers of steel mills —
or of Musso-
lini's trains running on time— could ever imagine.
Following Trotsky, Deutscher holds that nationalized
property is, in and of itself, superior to private property
from a socialist point of view. Since the Soviet state
is indeed a defender of such public ownership of the
means of production, he therefore gives it critical sup-
port even though it is totalitarian. The sad political
consequence of this attitude was that in the fifties
Deutscher regarded the general strike in East Ger-
many and the rebellions in Hungary and Poland as
attempts at "bourgeois restoration" because they chal-
lenged a Communist bureaucracy which, in spite of it-
self, was doing the virtuous work of history. It was as
if Marx had come out for the British troops and against
the Indian masses.

The fundamental error in all this — and it is particu-
larly fecund for the misunderstanding of the trends
leading to the next century —
is that gigantic assumption
that nationalization inherently progressive. Marx had

is
understood as a youth that it was possible that "the

bureaucracy possesses the state as its own private prop-
erty." When that happens, he said in an anticipatory
epitaph for the Communist bureaucracy, "Authority is
therefore the principle of its knowledge, and the deifi-
cation of authority is its basic credo." (Emphasis in
the original.)
In a remarkable essay written in 1916 when he was
a leader of the Left wing of the Bolshevik Party,
Nikolai Bukharin updated that Marxian insight. He was
analyzing German "war socialism" —
the planned mobi-
lization of the economy by the bourgeoisie in order to
further its own reactionary interests. "The regulation
224 SOCIALISM
of production by itself does not mean socialism at all,"
Bukharin wrote; "it exists in any sort of economy, in
any slave-owning group with a natural economy."
In the first stage of capitalism, Bukharin said, the
state was the instrument of the dominant class. Then
other capitalist organizations develop and the state be-
comes one institution among many. "Finally the third
stage arrives, when the state absorbs these organiza-
tions and again becomes the only over-all organization
of the dominant class, with a technical division of labor
inside it; the formerly independent organizational
groupings are transformed into divisions of a gigantic
state mechanism which descends with crushing force
upon the obvious and internal enemy. Thus arises the
final type of the contemporary imperialist bandit state,
the iron organization which with its grasping, prehensile
paws seizes the living body of society."
In the twenties some of the opposition groups within
the Bolshevik Party applied the theory of "state social-
— —
ism" that is, of anti-socialist "socialism" to the
Russian Revolution itself. The Workers' Truth group,
for instance, charged that the Soviet state had become
the instrument of a new bourgeoisie. But Christian
Rakovsky, one of the oldest and most respected of the
Bolsheviks, was even more prescient. He quoted Marx
on how the state could become the private property of
a bureaucracy and then wrote of Stalin's policies (the
essay dates from 1930) "Before our eyes a great class
:
of rulers has been taking shape and is continuing to

develop. . . The unifying factor of this unique class
.
is that unique form of private property, governmental
power." More recently, Charles Bettelheim, a French

Marxist of Maoist sympathies, has written, "if the
workers do not dominate the state apparatus, if it is
dominated by a corps of functionaries and administra-
tors and escapes the control and direction of the work-
ing masses, it is this corps of functionaries and adminis-
trators which effectively becomes the owner (in the
sense of a relationship of production) of the means of
production."
I would generalize. Where the state owns themeans

of production, the crucial question is, Who owns the
state? The people can own the state in only one way:
through the fullest and freest right to change its poli-
cies and personnel. Therefore in a nationalized econ-
omy exclusion from political power is not something
unfortunate that happens in a "superstructure"; it de-
termines the social and economic base of the system
itself, it secures class power to those who "own" the
state, which owns the means of production. In Russia
in the first half of the twentieth century the bourgeoisie
was not modernize and the Party-state
in fact able to
carried out that function and developed into just such a
bureaucratic collectivist power. In China and other
nations of the Third World there were similar develop-
ments after World War II. And in the advanced West-
ern countries it is possible that there will be a
transition not from capitalism to socialism, but from
capitalism to bureaucratic collectivism.
Yet there is hope. From the East German general
strike of 1953 to the Polish strikes of 1970-1971,
there is abundant evidence that the quest for freedom
persists among the people under Communism and that
they quite rightly call the name of their dream "so-
cialism." Those Russian intellectuals in jail, those Czech
workers seeking the human face of socialism, those
millions in the various freedom movements we have
already seen, have understood out of the wisdom of
their daily lives a fact that has eluded some of the so-
phisticated theorists: that Communist totalitarianism is
not socialism; indeed, that it makes socialism all the
more an urgent necessity. 7
IX
Socialist Capitalism
After World War I socialists in Europe first faced

up to the dilemmas of running capitalism, which per-
sists to this hour.
The social democrats, as Joseph Schumpeter put it
with wry accuracy, took office but not power, and
there was no precedent for the anomalies that followed
in any of their theories. In the early Marxian fomula-
tions of The Communist Manifesto the workers were
to quite literally seize power by means of armed force
and the change from the old order to the new would
be violent, insurrectionary and quick. But when Marx
and Engels abandoned much of that perspective and
began to think and act in terms of a more gradual and
democratic revolution, they did not work out the de-
tails of the transition period —
specifically, how the so-
cialists should act when they had only reformist power
within a capitalist system they were committed to trans-
form basically.
This problem, as Chapter VII documented, was an-
ticipated in the debates over colonialism. But in that
case, the choices, although all of them were intolerable,
could at least be evaded. The Belgian socialists who had
to choose among impossible options with regard to the
fate of the Congo were only a minority in the parlia-
ment. They could, and did, walk out on the vote when
the moment of decision came. So in this period the so-
cial democratic parties could still insist that at some
apocalyptic moment in the future capitalism and so-
cialism would confront each other in that "final
conflict" of which the "Internationale" sings. In the
227
—
228 SOCIALISM
meantime, they viewed their parliamentary activity as
providing a forum for propaganda and education and
as a means for defending the immediate interests of the
workers, but not as an instrument for running the so-
ciety. In those innocent days it seemed obvious that in a
bourgeois system it was the bourgeoisie, not the so-
cialists, who would rule.
In 1904 Guesde, the rather mechanistic Marxist who
led one of the main wings of French socialism, sum-
marized this attitude in a motion at the Congress of the
Socialist International in Amsterdam. "The Party," his
text read, "disclaims responsibility for political and eco-
nomic circumstances based on the capitalist mode of
production, and it therefore refuses to support any
measure calculated to help the ruling class in power."
But after World War I it became impossible for the
socialists to "disclaim responsibility." Capitalism in Eu-
rope had been so shaken by that senseless carnage
particularly in defeated Germany and Austria-Hungary
— that the bourgeoisie could not rule in the old way.
But the masses, as will be seen, were in no mood for a
sudden, and total, revolution. The political situation
had thus moved far enough to the Left to bring the
socialists into office — most notably in England and Ger-
—
many and a little later in France but not far enough
Left to give them decisive, system-changing power. And
this is as far Left as it has gone to this day.
But if the truth be told, if the social democrats had
had revolutionary power thrust upon them, they prob-
ably would not have known what to do with it. In all
their pre- World War I versions of the socialist future
it was precisely the moment of victory that was
shrouded in vagueness. Marx and Engels had refused
to draw up any blueprints of the good society out of
the fear that they would produce nothing more than a
professorial panacea and out of the conviction that the
living movement would have to define the revolution
in the course of making it. So the socialists were as
uncertain about creating the far future as they were
Socialist Capitalism 229
about administering the complicated, and quite bour-

geois, present.
These problems have yet to be resolved. The social
democrats have, to be sure, learned much since the
confusions of the years just after World War I. In
France under Leon Blum in the thirties and in England
under Clement Attlee after World War II they pio-
neered in some of the most important social innova-
tions of the century. And in the 1970s they constitute
the democratic movement of the European Left. Yet,
it is one thing to make capitalism more rational, more
—
humane and therefore more stable as they have—
done, and another thing to create socialism. The ultra-
Leftists of various persuasions have a simple way out
of this difficulty they propose to make a revolution on
:
the model of The Communist Manifesto and thus avoid

all the bothersome details of transition. Only the great
mass of the people in the advanced countries, including
the majority of the working class, will have nothing to
do with such a bloody romance. So the problems faced
by socialists within capitalism are likely to be on the
agenda for the foreseeable future; and, if they are ever
to be solved, it is necessary to become much more pre-
cise about the design of the good society in the far
distance.
This chapter will deal with the dilemmas of socialist
partial power as they exist here and now; Chapters XII,
XIII and XIV will attempt a redefinition of the so-
cialist vision itself. In the more immediate analysis I
make no pretense of even outlining the history of
European socialism from 1918 to the present. I have
abstracted from most of the political intricacies of the
period and passed over entire areas, like foreign policy.
My focus is on the question of how socialists admin-
ister capitalism —
or, more precisely, how they might
—
run it not in order to shore it up, but to transform
it. That issue, I believe, underlies all the others.
Finally, these problems can best be summarized in

terms of a paradoxical concept: socialist capitalism. On
230 SOCIALISM
the one hand, that phrase is an accurate description of
the contradictory situation in which the Left found it-
self administering the system it was sworn to abolish.
On the other hand, it also states the new program of
the European social democracy in the sixties and sev-
enties in which a controlled and managed capitalist
growth is seen as a means to socialist ends. This idea,
I hope to show, is a sincere and well-meant illusion
held by men who are trying to respond honestly, and
even radically, to circumstances not dreamed of in the
writings of Marx and Engels. The fact is that as long as
capitalism is capitalism it vitiates or subverts most of
the efforts of socialists. If, then, the ideal of a new so-
ciety has certainly become much more complex than
ever before, it still must, for very practical reasons, de-
mand a socialist socialism.
There were two periods in recent history when if a

revolution of the type envisioned in The Communist
Manifesto were possible, it should have occurred: at
the end of World War I in the defeated nations and dur-
ing the Great Depression of the thirties. In both cases,
the status quo was in a shambles, yet in neither case did
the masses respond to an insurrectionary appeal. In
post- World War I Germany the men and women who
had been talking of a basic socialist transformation for
years did not even carry out the thorough democratiza-
tion of capitalism. And in the thirties there were many
social democrats who with a rigorous if mad logic were
championing conservative bourgeois economics at a mo-
ment when bourgeois society was coming apart at the
seams.
It was not fantasy on the part of Lenin and Trotsky to
argue that the German Revolution was imminent in
1917-1918. The years of horrible warfare had embit-
tered millions and there were anti-war strikes and dem-
onstrations within the military. After the defeat there
were various councils of workers and soldiers based on

the Soviet model, the prestige of the army had been
shattered and the Marxist Left was able to organize a
Communist Party of half a million members in a mat-
ter of three years. So from 1917 to 1921 it was quite
logical to await the "German October," the point at
which the radicalized masses would tear down the old
structure and begin to build the new.
October never came. Some of the reasons for its fail-
ure to take place were noted in the last chapter. As
Gramsci and Can* pointed out, even in the ruins of
military defeat the German working class had more of a
stake in their society than the Russian masses (most of
whom were, in any case, peasants), and the society
itself had a much more stable infrastructure than czarist
Russia. But there are those, usually on the ultra-Left,
who ignore such objective factors. The revolution did
not fail, they say; rather it was betrayed from within
by Right-wing social democrats. I take up their charge
in brief detail because for two generations now it has
provided the half-truth that has allowed many radicals
to ignore the complicated, and very Marxist, whole
truth: that the conservatism of some of the socialist
leaders was an effect as well as a cause of massive
trends within capitalist society which are by no means
finished.
During the First World War there were three major
tendencies in the German Social Democracy. The Ma-
jority socialists, led by Friedrich Ebert and Philipp
Scheidemann, backed the war effort; the Independents
— with both of the antagonists in the debates on revi-
sionism, Karl Kautsky and Eduard Bernstein, among
—
them opposed the war on a radical democratic basis;
and the revolutionaries, like Rosa Luxemburg and Karl
Liebknecht, fought against the war on Marxist grounds
and were to create the Spartakusbund and then the
Communist Party of Germany.
When the war ended and there was an apparent revo-
lutionary situation, Ebert and Scheidemann and the
other Majority socialists saw their most urgent respon-
—
232 SOCIALISM
sibility inthe restoration of order. So they invoked the
mechanical Marxist theory of stages, that rationale of so
many anti-Marxist policies: first, they said, there must
be democracy; then the situation will ripen for social-
ism. So the old imperial bureaucracy was allowed to
remain in place, with the socialists only overseeing it,
and the fear of Bolshevism drove the social democrats
to cooperate with reactionary para-military formations.
All this would seem to be the clearest proof of the thesis
thatit was the treason of the conservative Social De-
mocracy that thwarted the German revolution.

And yet, there was no revolutionary outcry against
On the contrary, at the National Congress
this betrayal.
of Councils —
the German "Soviets" —in December of
1918 the followers of Ebert and Scheidemann carried
the day. In the elections of January, 1919, they won
39 percent of the vote as compared to 5 percent for the
Independents (the Communists boycotted). When Rosa
Luxemburg, by then the leader of the German Com-
munist Party, tried to analyze Ebert's victory at the
Congress of Councils, she could only cry foul and insist
that the people would repudiate the leaders who had
sold them out. And just before her assassination she
wrote that the real issue was "how one converts the
achievements and inner ripeness of the revolution into
facts and power relationships."
Rosa Luxemburg was wrong. That could be seen
three years later when one of her Communist comrades,
Paul Levi, wrote to Lenin. The Communist Interna-
tional had decided that the Germans must make a
revolutionary offensive in 1921. Levi asked Lenin to
intervene against this perspective, warning him that
even though the Communist Party now had half a mil-
lion members, the masses had not yet recovered from
their post-war apathy, resignation and pro-Western
orientation.An insurrection, he said, would have to be
led against the proletariat; it could not be made in its
name. Events proved Levi to be quite right Com- —
munist militance in 1921 provoked a costly fiasco
but he was expelled from the party for his prescience
anyway. Ironically, in 1923, when the French and

Belgian occupation of the Ruhr provoked widespread
protest and the preconditions for an uprising were much
more in evidence, the chastened Communists were pur-
suing a cautious line and did not act. But then, their
power was partly offset by the armed Right in the
Black Reichswehr and the Freikorps. The moment
passed and in the elections later in the year there was a
significant shift of proletarian votes from both the so-
cialists and the Communists to the Right.
In other words, there is no question that Ebert,
Scheidemann and the Majority socialists acted as a
brake upon the revolution and kept it not simply from
socialism, but from even a thorough-going democratiza-
tion of capitalism. But a Marxist cannot explain why
no revolution took place simply on the basis of their al-
leged treason. For the question then arises as to why
the masses, even in a period of military defeat and so-
cial breakdown, placed their confidence in these very
men. And the answer is, as Gramsci in particular un-
derstood, that society had become so much more dense
in its social relationships than in the days of The Com-
munist Manifesto, that the workers had so many more
ties to it, that many of them shared Ebert's and Scheide-
mann's passion for "order."
But even if the Majority socialists had not been so
obsessed with the preservation of order, they had no
idea of how to proceed to socialism in any case —
and
no one else on the Left did either. The Communists
had their panacea of "All Power to the Soviets," but the
Councils in 1918 had perversely voted for the German
Kerensky, not the German Lenin. The Majority so-
were against nationalization on the grounds that
cialists
the economic situation was too chaotic and that the
Allied governments would respond to such an action
with a blockade. The Independents were for workers'
control of industry, but they never got near enough to
power to test their ideas. As G. D. H. Cole summarized
the situation, "The German Socialists were indeed
wholly unready to tackle the socialization which they
234 SOCIALISM
had always pushed out of the discussion as something
that would happen 'after the Revolution' and that
needed no consideration until the Revolution had oc-
curred."
There was, however, one Majority socialist who had
something like a precise idea of what should be done.
Rudolf Wissell wanted to create councils which, as Carl
Landauer describes them, "closely resembled compul-
sory cartels, except that representatives of workers and
consumers were supposed to participate." Landauer
continues, "The strong point in Wissell's theory was the
recognition that mere nationalization could not funda-
mentally improve the standard of living of the masses
and might actually reduce it temporarily. The share of
the rich in the social product is not large enough to
make it possible to increase substantially the share of
the underprivileged by mere redistribution. . Conse-
. .
quently, the raising of the lower stratum of society de-

pends on the enlargement of the social product."
Wissell lost support among his comrades when he
voted against the nationalization of the coal industry in
the Socialization Commission set up by the Weimar
Republic. But his proposal of a planned capitalism
which would respond to social needs through an in-
crease in national product was something of an antici-
pation of the theory of the "social market economy"
which the German socialists were to adopt in 1959. He
was thus a precursor of the idea of a socialist capitalism.
The Germans were not alone in their confusion. In
1924, when the first Labour government took office, the
Independent Labour Party (an affiliated section of the
Labour Party itself) was in favor of Ramsay MacDon-
ald putting forth a program which would certainly be
— —
defeated his was a minority government but which
would educate the masses and help create a genuine
socialist majority. The Prime Minister, not unexpected-
ly, was for proving Labour's right to rule by making
gradual reforms in alliance with the Liberals.
So both the German and the British social democrats
had, by the mid-twenties, reluctantly accepted the role
of socialist administrators of capitalism. There is not

the least question that the German leaders in particular
must bear a burden of historical blame for not having
acted much more radically than they did. If there is no
evidence that the masses were ready for an abrupt
transition to a completely new order, they certainly
would have rallied to a program of thoroughgoing de-
mocratization of the bureaucracy and the military. But
that does not prove the ultra-Leftist contention that it
was social democratic treachery that aborted the Ger-
man Revolution. The fact of the matter is that every
time the working class was consulted during this pe-
riod— in the Congress of Councils, in the elections, in
the relative membership strength of the parties appeal-
ing to socialist consciousness — they gave their support
to the conservative wing of the movement. For a Marx-
ist, such a striking fact can hardly be explained by the
trickery of a few individuals. That a revolution along

the lines of The Communist Manifesto did not take
place in a ruined, defeated and demoralized Germany
is persuasive testimony to the fact that history had sim-
ply not developed as the young Marx thought it would.

Capitalism had indeed turned out to be as destructive
and crisis-prone as the Manifesto suggested, and that
was one reason why the system could no longer be run
capitalistically. But it had also demonstrated a greater
resilience and appeal than Marx and Engels had imag-
ined in their early analysis of it. The working class was
discontented enough to rally to a socialist party, but not
so discontented as to make a socialist revolution. Un-
der these circumstances, an aggressive leadership could
have moved much further to the Left than the German
Majority socialists, but it still could not make the leap
to a completely new society. So the post-World War I
collapse of the established order only led to a socialist
version of capitalism. 1
In the mid-twenties in Germany the Majority and
Independent socialists had reunited and the party at-
tempted to put a Marxist facade on its change in tac-
tics. In the process Rudolf Hilferding developed an
'
236 SOCIALISM
extremely optimistic theory of the transition to social-
ism, one that owed much to a theme Engels had em-
phasized regularly toward the end of his life: that the
trustification of capitalism and the separation of owner-
ship and control in the corporation were halfway houses
to socialism. As it became more and more obvious that
ownership played no functional part in the system but
was simply an irrational title to its surplus, Engels
had said, the masses would reject the established order.
In Hilferding's rewriting of this analysis "organized
capitalism" replaced the "competitive struggle of the
entrepreneurs." This planned capitalism would be rela-
tively easy to take over: "seizing the ownership of the
six biggest banks would amount to taking over the
most important spheres of industry."
By 1928 this moderate policy had won the socialists
some support among white-collar workers, but the vic-
tory was short-lived. Capitalism, which had not become
as rational and conflict-free as the socialists thought,
broke down. And now the social democrats were faced
with an even more agonizing version of their basic di-
lemma of how to run the system socialistically. The
question was no longer one of how socialists should
administer capitalism, but how, or whether, they should
put it back together again.
At this point, the either/or thinking that had domi-
nated the movement before World War I reasserted it-
self with a vengeance. Either one must take the decisive
step forward to socialism —which was still rather vague-
ly defined — or one must obey all of the rules of the
capitalist order itself. As one of Hilferding's associates at
the time, W. S. Woytinsky, summarized this attitude,
"Depressions result from the anarchy of the capitalist
system. Either they come to an end or they must lead
to the collapse of the system." In this analysis there was
no room in between capitalism and socialism for tran-
sitional reforms. That was an illusion of petty-bourgeois
reformists. The choice was either capitalism or so-
cialism. This seemingly radical and Marxist thesis was
to become the justification for Adam Smithian policies.
Thus a leading socialist theorist, Fritz Naphtali, put

forward arguments that would have warmed the heart
of a classical economist: ". the crisis with all its
. .
destruction of the value of capital, with its changes and

shifts of purchasing power, is a means of correction
which must necessarily be accepted. Afterwards, on the
basis of large-scale capital destruction, a better propor-
tion will emerge between production and consumer's
purchasing power which is the condition of a new up-
swing. I believe therefore that we must stick to this
tenet: if we tend towards a policy of controlling the
business cycle in its various forms, corrective measures
may not be taken at the time of crisis but during the
period of prosperity."
In England the Labour Party adopted a position
similar to that of the German socialists. Philip Snow-
den, who had responsibility in this area, was against
spending money during a depression, and in 1931 Ar-
thur Henderson, speaking on behalf of Labour, ac-
cepted the principle of a balanced budget in a House of
Commons debate. Harold Macmillan, who was then a
"Left-wing" Tory advocate of national economic plan-
ning and was later to become Prime Minister, re-
marked sarcastically that in the early thirties the British
were "obedient devotees of the classical creed."
socialists
This an oversimplification that contains an unfor-
is
tunate element of truth. As leaders of a working-class

movement, the socialists could hardly confine them-
selves to reciting the truisms —
almost all of them false
— of the prevailing bourgeois economics. So they em-
braced a contradiction. On the one hand, they stuck
to classical orthodoxy on the question of a balanced
budget. On the other hand, the Labor and Socialist
International rightlysaw that the crisis represented a
"disproportion between productive capacity and con-
sumption" and proposed public works, state expendi-
tures to increase consumption, the forty-hour week,
workers' holidays and unemployment compensation.
There was only one socialist party that really fought
its way out of this contradiction: the Swedish. When
238 SOCIALISM
they took office in 1933, they initiated the first program
of consciously planned deficits in history. But most of
the European socialists, like that reluctant Keynesian
Franklin Roosevelt, were fiscal conservatives at heart.
Ironically, in Britain the Labourite who championed
Keynesian reform was Oswald Mosley, who broke with
the party on the issue and then became the leader of
British fascism.
As Robert Skidelsky described the Labour Party dur-
ing the Depression — and the judgment would apply to
almost all the European social democracies at that
time
— "It thought in terms of a total solution to the
problem of poverty when what it was offered was the
limited opportunity to cure unemployment." Fritz Tar-
now, a trade-union leader in the German movement,
put the same point more poignantly and dramatically
at a socialist congress in 1931: "Are we sitting at the
sickbed of capitalism, not only as doctors who want to
cure the patient, but as prospective heirs who cannot
wait for the end and would like to hasten it by admin-
istering poison? We are condemned, I think, to be
doctors who seriously wish to cure, and yet we have to
maintain the feeling that we are heirs who wish to re-
ceive the entire legacy of the capitalist system today
rather than tomorrow. This double role, doctor and
heir, is a damned difficult task." 2
In France the dilemma of being doctor and heir so
weighed upon Leon Blum, the leader of the socialists
between the wars, that he boasted that for fifteen years
he had done everything he could to keep his own party
out of power. "The political position of socialist parties
during the pre-revolutionary period," Blum wrote, "is
always, in one way or another, a false position." So
Blum tried to school his comrades in the difference be-
tween the "conquest" and the "exercise" of power.
"Conquest" described that condition of blessedness of
which socialists had been dreaming since the days of
Marx: the magic day when history would leap from
capitalism to socialism. "Exercise" was a way of talking
about the reality that had confronted socialists ever
since they became a political force: what to do in order

to make capitalism more tolerable when that is the
limit of one's political mandate.
Finally, in 1936, capitalist collapse and working-class
militance forced Blum to accept the exercise of power.
In a legislative whirlwind — twelve laws were voted in
ten days — the Popular Front established paid holidays
for the workers (the French working-class vacation is,
to this day, lengthier than that of their similars in the
other advanced capitalist economies), the forty-hour
week, the reform of the Bank of France, the extension
of compulsory education from thirteen to fourteen years
of age, the nationalization of war industries, social se-
curity, the organization of state markets and much
more. All this was an enormous gain. Andre Philip, a
participant and observer, writes, "Those who lived
through that period will never forget the emotion of
old workers going on vacation, discovering the sea and
the mountains which they had never known."
But the Popular Front also established a limit. These
reforms, as Philip remarked, were as far as "distributive
socialism" could go. Now, it was a question of trans-
forming the actual structure of society. Some of the
French socialists simply repeated the traditional belief
in a sudden day of revolutionary change. As Paul Faure
put it in 1934, "It is a mad chimera to seek partial and
progressive realizations of socialism . within a capi-
. .
talist system which is still maintained in order." But

there were others who tried to revise the socialist doc-
trine to bring it into line with the new reality.
As a result of this rethinking, a concept that was to
become a key to socialist programs after World War II
came to the fore: economic planning. It was also an
important moment in the development of the theory of
socialist capitalism.
The most prominent figure in this redefinition of
socialism was a Belgian, Henri de Man. His reputation
is still under a cloud because, believing that Hitler had
won an irreversible victory, he did not join the Resist-

ance in his homeland. And since his theories in the
240 SOCIALISM
thirties were designed to appeal to that same petty-
bourgeois strata which helped the Nazis to power, it
has been charged that his very analysis, as well as his
conduct, was profascist. Moreover, in France a so-
cialist leader who had similar ideas, Marcel Deat, did
actually go over to the extreme Right. So Carl Lan-
dauer has denounced De Man's Plan du Travail as "at
least semi-fascist." I agree more with G. D. H. Cole:
the proposal was a "major contribution" to socialist
thinking however one judges its author.
As De Man described his Plan, "... in place of the
class struggle between capitalists and workers, a com-
mon front of all the productive strata against the power
of parasitic money." In this way, the socialists would
be able to reach out beyond the working class and
even to attract that desperate petty bourgeoisie which
had finally backed Hitler. There would be more abun-
dant money, cheaper credit and state regulation but —
not nationalization. All this would be a mixed economy
with private and public sectors coexisting side by side.
Whatever De Man's personal politics, his ideas were
prophetic, anticipating the social democratic practice
after World War II. They pointed toward a program of
socialist capitalism: that the Left would plan, and orient
the uses of, capitalist economic growth. They did in-
deed offer a way out of the sterile counterposition of
Karl Marx and Adam Smith, with no space for inno-
vation in between them. But they did not, as we shall
see, solve the basic socialist dilemma. They only raised
it to the level of a principle.
why Adolf
—That
"Labor was
is Sturmthal's epitaph for the thirties
strong enough seriously to interfere with
the smooth working of the existing institutions of so-
ciety, but it was neither sufficiently strong nor sufficient-
ly constructive to rebuild society" —
still applies in the
seventies. For it is true on the one hand that, as Ralph

Miliband, a Left of the social democracy,
critic admits,
"it is no doubt mistaken to suggest a picture of popular
revolutionary fervor as the basis of support for left
wing parties." But, on the other hand, even though
—
the theory and practice of socialist capitalism thus

emerged as an honest response to a tortuous history,
and even though it was a tremendous advance over
vague theorizing about the withering away of the
state, it is by no means adequate to the demands of the
times. The socialist experience with the nationalization
of industry is a case in point. 3
In the period immediately after World War II what

most people consider the essential socialist proposal
the nationalization of private industry —
was carried out
on a wide scale in Western Europe. In the long run
the most dramatic beneficiary was capitalism.
These nationalizations were sometimes instituted by
socialists, as under the Labour Government in En-
gland, or carried out by nonsocialists, like De Gaulle,
who responded to mass pressure. The fact that a signif-
icant section of the Continental bourgeoisie had col-
laborated with, or in the cases of Germany and Italy
joined, the fascists had weakened the hold of capitalist
ideology upon the people. In the Resistance movements
and the armies there was a pervasive feeling that a re-
turn to the miseries of the thirties could not be allowed.
In Britain coal, gas, electricity, railways, air trans-
port and the Bank of England had been taken over by
1948 (steel was nationalized, denationalized and rena-
tionalized later on). In France the nationalizations par-
alleled those in England and added insurance and a
large part of commercial banking. In Austria coal, steel
and the banks were statified, and in Italy the ENI, a
giant state enterprise in the fuel and power sector, was
established in 1953. Then there were the nationaliza-
tions of collaborationist or fascist enterprises: Renault
and Gnome-Rhone in France, Volkswagen in Germany,
major chemical, vehicle- and machine-building and
electrical-engineering units in Austria, and the IRI (In-
stitute for Industrial Recovery), which accounts for be-
242 SOCIALISM
tween 10 and 15 percent of industrial output in Italy.
The paradox that these extensive structural changes
in the economy actually would aid capitalism had been
foreseen by socialists for at least half a century. More
to the point of this chapter, this experience also reveals
a central flaw in the notion of socialist capitalism. As
long as the system is dominated by private corporations
and wealth, that fact will tend in the long run to make
all collectivist measures discriminate in favor of the
status quo. So there is yet another dilemma for the social
democrats: if state property within a capitalist system is
run on a social rather than a profit-making calculus, it
will usually subsidize the private sector; if state prop-
erty operates according to the profit calculus, it then
behaves like, and often in concert with, the capitalists.
The German socialists, as Chapter IV documented,
had long ago understood that nationalization was not
per se socialist. "When
the contemporary state national-
izes certain industries and functions," Kautsky had writ-
ten in his popularization of the Erfurt Program of the
German Social Democracy in the 1890s, "it does so
not in order to limit capitalist exploitation but to expand
and strengthen it. ." Nationalization, as Kautsky and
. .
Engels and the other theorists of the Bismarckian pe-

riod were forced to realize, could easily be an instru-
ment of capitalist policy.
Moreover, the pre-World War I socialists were acute-
ly aware of the danger that state property would become
the basis of a new form of tyranny and exploitation.
Jaures put the fear eloquently: "Delivering men to the
state, conferring upon the government the effective di-
rection of the nation's work, giving it the right to direct
all the functions of labor, would be to give a few men a
power compared to which that of the Asiatic despots
is nothing, since their power stops at the surface of the
society and does not regulate economic life."
was in this mood that the French socialists voted
It
for a resolution in 1910 which said, "It is not by a
single stroke nor even by the force of the majority that
we shall bring the new order into being. The morning
after the insurrection, the capitalist order will still exist,

and the seemingly victorious, will be im-
proletariat,
potent to organize its own victory if it is not already
prepared to take charge of it by the development of
institutions of every kind, of unions and cooperatives,
and if it has not gradually begun, through them, an
apprenticeship in social control."
Indeed, it was in 1894 that Jaures made a proposal
which was to be typical of the serious socialist's image
of social property. In his outline of a plan to nationalize
the mines he provided for a central council with one
third of the members elected by the workers (including
the engineers), one third from workers' and peasants'
unions in other areas of the economy, and one third
named by the Government. For him, and for almost
all the social democratic thinkers, the forms of na-
tionalization were even more important than the fact of

it, for they would determine who would actually control
the "state" property.

The Austrians, who had developed an extremely so-
phisticated school of Marxism, had the same attitude as
Jaures. "Who shall administer the socialized industry?"
Otto Bauer asked. "The state? Not at all! If the state
rules over all would become much
the factories, then it
too powerful as against the people and their represent-

atives. Such an increase in the power of the regime
would be dangerous for democracy. And at the same
time the state would badly administer the socialized in-
No one administers industries as badly as the
dustry.
Therefore we social democrats have never de-
state.
manded the statification, but rather the socialization,
of industry."
So after World War I the British Miners' Union
called for nationalization of their industry under an ad-
ministration of a council with one half of the members
elected by the men in the pits and the other half named
by the Government. The Independent socialists, as was
seen in the last section, urged workers' control rather
than state ownership in their proposals for nationaliza-
tion in Germany. And the Geneva Conference of Euro-
244 SOCIALISM
pean 1920 came out for the administration
Socialists in
of national property by institutions completely inde-
pendent of the political organs that would control it,
and provided for worker and consumer membership
on the governing boards of industry.
Strangely enough, it was the Fabians, certainly the
most gradualist and seemingly the most democratic of
the socialists, who were most statist. Sidney Webb
viewed every extension of governmental power in- —
cluding the licensing of dancing rooms and dogs as —
a step toward the revolution. Of the individualists, he
wrote, "Such is the irresistible sweep of social tend-
encies that in their every act they worked to bring
about the very Socialism they despised. ." Thus, as
. .
elitistswho looked for a "permeation" of socialism from

the top of society down to the bottom, they did not
share the concern of Jaures and the other socialists for
a democratization of the work place itself.
"Here in London," Engels wrote in a bitter letter to
Sorge in 1893, "the Fabians are a band of pushers who
are smart enough to understand the inevitability of a
social transformation but find it impossible to trust the
work of this change to the raw workers and so are ac-
customed to place themselves in the lead: anguish be-
fore revolution is their basic principle..
." But even
.
so, when Webb came to write the famous "Clause

—
Four" of the Labour Party principles it was printed
on the back of the membership cards and became, as
shall be seen shortly, a matter of great debate in the
—
late fifties he specified that the nationalized industry
should be operated under "the best obtainable system
of popular administration and control of each industry
and service."
So the socialist conception of nationalized property
was, and is, more complicated than many socialists, and
most nonsocialists, realize. And after World War II so-
cialists in a number of countries tried to design the
public property which they introduced so that it was
not simply a state-owned mimicry of the private
corporation. In Germany the social democrats cham-
pioned the principle of "co-determination." Under this

system, there is worker representation on the board of
directors in certain basic industries. The results have
been somewhat ambiguous, but even a critic of the idea
like Ralf Dahrendorf has to admit that it is enthusiasti-
cally supported by the workers themselves. In 1970
the socialists made the extension of co-determination a
major electoral plank in the political campaign, but the
narrowness of their victory and the fact that they had to
form a coalition with the Free Democrats made that
pledge difficult, if not impossible, to fulfill.
But it is in France where the profound difficulties of
carrying out a genuinely socialist nationalization with-
in a capitalist economy are most evident. As Andre
Philip describes what happened, "One dreamed right
after the Liberation [when the Nazis were driven out in
1944-1945] that we would build the nationalized in-
dustries as autonomous enterprises whose direction
would be tripartite: controlled by the representatives of
the state, of the workers and of the consumers. In fact,
worker representation has been progressively reduced;
individuals have been introduced into the direction on
the grounds of 'technical competence'; the consumers,
far from representing the users, have defended special
interests which, wanting to buy the goods or services
of the nationalized industry cheaply, ended up by im-
posing a financial deficit upon it."
The problem is, as Philip clearly recognized, that it is
extremely difficult, perhaps impossible, to create an is-
land of socialist cooperation within a sea of capitalism.
In the France of the fifties and sixties, as I showed in
The Accidental Century, the workers were not able to
effectively occupy the seats legally provided for them
on the state planning bodies. The corporations would
send members of their well-paid technical staffs who
were able to make profitable use of the official and—
publicly subsidized—data on economic trends. The
trade unionists simply did not have the trained man-
power to compete with the businessmen in this process.
As a result, planning in the "common good" was biased
246 SOCIALISM
profoundly in favor of the wealthiest and most power-
ful forces in the society.
In England in 1945 when Labour came into office,
it did not simply provide social insurance coverage
frdm "womb to tomb" and create the welfare state
(that phrase dates only from 1947). It nationalized, as
has been seen, a significant portion of British industry.
One immediate result was to rescue some of the most
by socializing their
inefficient capitalists in the society
losses.That was true for both the railroads and the
coal mines. And even though the compensation stock
paid only a bit over 3 percent, compared to 4 percent
for ordinary shares in the period, there was no great
redistribution of wealth but rather a transfer of private
funds from areas of capitalist failure into more remu-
nerative investments.
More recently, when the Wilson Government rena-
tionalized steel in the 1960s, it not only paid £450
million in compensation, but far from seeking a "popu-
lar administration" of the industry, left many of the
previous managers in control of the public enterprise.
After the war when the Attlee Government had first
nationalized steel, it became a major Tory project td
denationalize it. But by the sixties business understood
that the state can undertake investments and rationaliza-
tions that are beyond the power of private enterprise.
The London Economist reported the attitude of steel
executives in January, 1970: "The British Steel Cor-
poration would like Labour to start rationalizing the
industry before the elections — and the Tories not to
de-nationalize it afterward."
Indeed, in the twenties and thirties sophisticated
Conservatives like Harold Macmillan were enthusiasti-
cally in favor of the nationalization of losing industries
(much as the American railroads in the seventies are
seeking to socialize their deficits in passenger service
but to retain their profits from freight hauling). In 1945
the Westminster Conservative Association republished
Macmillan's earlier analysis to prove that Attlee's so-
cialist program had been stolen from the Conserva-

tives.
But nationalization did not simply serve the negative
function of socializing the losses of capitalist incompe-
tence. It also operated as a subsidy to the private sector.
As Douglas Jay, a British socialist theorist, has ob-
served, "State monopolies in Britain, and indeed many
other countries, tend . . not to appropriate capital
.
gains, but to destroy them as a result of undercharging

for the product." In part, this is because the business-
men who share in the direction of the public property
are, as Andre Philip described the situation in France,
able to impose uneconomic decisions on those enter-
prises which maximize gains in the private sector. In
part, it is because socialists believed that a nationalized
industry should be more responsible, more socially con-
scious and less greedy than a capitalist firm.
It would seem simple enough to avoid this problem
by having the public enterprise charge market prices.
In September, 1968, a Fortune article on "Creeping
Capitalism in Government Corporations" gleefully re-
ported that such was the European trend. Nationalized
industries, it said, are emphasizing "profitability as a
yardstick, and efficiency as a guide for the allocation
of resources." If this is true, what is the socialist argu-
ment for nationalizing an enterprise if it is then going
to behave as capitalistically as possible?
Part of the problem, which is obscured by emo-
tional reactions to the very word itself, is that many
of the arguments in favor of nationalization have noth-
ing to do with socialism. It has been argued that public
utilities should be socially owned because of the es-
sential services they provide; that monopolies should
be taken over so that they cannot exact high profits in
return for an inefficient allocation of resources; that
basic industries crucial to the entire economy should
be run by the government; and so on. In 1971 the
Tory Prime Minister of England, a champion of rather
fundamentalist bourgeois economics, was forced to pro-
248 SOCIALISM
pose the semi-nationalization of Rolls-Royce when that
venerable British firm went bankrupt. Such an act of
statification obviously need not be in the least socialist.
So in the post-World War II experience with na-
tionalization one sees what happens to public owner-
ship within a basically capitalist context: it functions
more as the servant of the rich than of the poor. In re-
deeming their pledges of social property, the socialists
unwittingly turned out to be among the best doctors
that capitalism could find. They modernized, rational-
ized and helped plan capitalist economies. In the pro-
cess they succeeded in their immediate goal of provid-
ing an infinitely more decent and humane life for the
great mass of people. But public property seemed des-
tined either to subsidize, or to imitate, private property,
and that was not what socialists had intended at all. For
socialist capitalism was, and is, a variant of capitalism:
more human and infinitely preferable to the sweatshop
version of the system, but capitalism nevertheless.4
m
It was in the late fifties and early sixties that the Euro-
pean socialists faced up to the contradictions of their
experience. In a series of programmatic revisions in
Britain, Germany, Sweden, Austria and other coun-
tries, there was an attempt to bring theory into some
minimal relationship with practice.
Basically, as my analysis will indicate in this chapter
and inChapter XII, the revisions went too far: they
made socialism indistinguishable from intelligent Amer-
ican liberalism, a program for the humanization, but
not the transformation, of capitalism. That modest goal
is something very much worth fighting for, and those
commentators who saw no difference between Labour
and the Tories in the 1970 British elections were made
to look rather silly when the Tories celebrated their
victory by an attack upon social services. But valuable
as the social democratic reforms are, they do not add
up to a vision of a new society. And it is from the

point of view that such a vision is still relevant or—
rather, more relevant than ever —
that I evaluate the
new definitions of socialism.
I am not saying that the "Left" critics of the social
democratic revisions were right. On the contrary. The
"Left" in these debates generally represented a conser-
vative and traditional sentimentality which wanted to
pretend that all the unprecedented shocks and sur-
prises of the past half-century had not happened. The
"Right" — for instance, Anthony Crosland in England
—was much more radical, for it was willing to face
difficult and unpleasant facts that did not square with

received doctrine.
Thus, Wolfgang Abendroth, one of the leading op-
ponents of the German socialist revisions of the Godes-
berg Program of 1959, argued, "In a time in which 80
percent of the economically active population are work-
ers [Arbeitnehmer], the Social Democrats no longer
proclaim themselves a workers' party but a people's
party." But that is to ignore the crucially important
political distinctions among the various strata of people
—
who work for someone else between blue-collar work-
ers and white-collar, the poor and the highly educated,
etc. — and to maintain a rather simplified Marxist or-
thodoxy (for Marx became quite aware of the growing
importance of the intermediate strata, as his Theories
of Surplus Value show) by a sleight of hand. The Ger-
man social democrats in the early sixties received 87
percent of their votes from the working class fairly nar-
rowly defined. In order to achieve a majority, they
obviously had to appeal to groups that would respond
to the rhetoric of the "people's party."
In France Andre Gorz, a Left socialist who scorn-
fully rejects the Harold Wilson- Willy Brandt politics as
a form, of neo-capitalism that helps the big bourgeoisie
against the less efficient capitalists, was quite candid
about the limitations of his revolutionary perspective
in May, 1968. He wrote, "The transition to socialism
suddenly became a question of immediate actuality; but
250 SOCIALISM
there was no organized force capable of making precise
the nature of the transitional society, its distribution of
power, institutions, economic, cultural and international
policy, etc. Capitalism suddenly revealed that one could
go beyond it, but no one knew how to make the leap."
And in England the May Day Manifesto of the Left
critics of the Labour Party made a number of trenchant
points (and some vague and inaccurate ones as well),
but could only conclude its scathing analysis with a call
for a "break and development in consciousness. . . ."
For intellectuals, that is a possible, perhaps a necessary,
program; for a government or a mass party, it is clearly
not.
In short, everything that has gone before in this book
demonstrates that the definition of socialism must be
revised, yet the traditional Left has been conservative
and romantic rather than precise. My quarrel with the
European social democrats is not that they were im-
pious to abandon obsolete formulas, but that the way
in which they did so was wrong. In what remains of
this chapter I will outline their new program of so-
cialist capitalism and make some preliminary criticisms
of it. In Chapter XII I will try to suggest an alternative
to it.
The new social democratic definition of socialism is

based on an analysis of economic trends that sees pri-
vate property as much less important than it was in the
period of the rise of the socialist movement.
Given the separation of ownership and control, An-
thony Crosland asserted in the fifties, the modern busi-
nessman is no longer interested in maximizing profit
in order to get high personal income or consumption.
He is much more sensitive to popular attitudes and cer-
tainly doesn't want an economic crisis. Moreover, the
changes in income distribution have now altered the
context in which the profit motive functions. "Now it is
quite true," Crosland wrote, "that production for profit,
conducted within a framework of very unequal in-
comes, must give a distribution of resources highly
distasteful to socialists, because it takes no account of
needs, however urgent, but only of monetary demand.

It is further true that the means chosen (state owner-
ship) could in principle fulfill the objective of a different
and more equitable distribution of resources.
"But," Crosland continued, "the objective can be
achieved by other means and has been largely so
achieved today. The statement that production for prof-
it gives a bad distribution of resources (caviar for the
rich before milk for the poor) is only a shorthand.

What is meant is that production is undertaken for
profit; that the distribution of incomes determines what
is profitable; and that if this is very unequal, then the
wants of the rich will be met before the wants of the

poor. But if purchasing power is distributed more equal-
ly, it becomes more produce necessities
profitable to
and produce luxuries. Today the re-
less profitable to
distribution of incomes, and the rise in working-class
purchasing power, have banished the worst effects of
production for profit by calling forth a quite different
pattern of output."
In this analysis, if there is economic growth and
increasing income equality, the socialist goals will be
fulfilled without requiring widespread, and question-
able, tinkering with the very mechanism of the econ-
omy. But high savings for investment can only be
achieved through high profits. So, "The problem of
profit is thus the central economic dilemma facing con-
temporary social democracy." The problem is re-
solved by combining high profits with low-profit in-
comes, i.e., by seeing to it that there are ample funds
which working entrepreneurs can utilize for internal
investment, but discouraging dividends to passive ren-
tiers at the same time. "Post-war experience," Crosland
concluded in the early sixties, "demonstrates conclu-
sively that governments now have sufficient weapons to
enforce their will (provided they have one) on private
industry."
In France in 1969 Jean- Jacques Servan-Schreiber
put much of this theory in summary form: ". the . .
fundamental truth of our epoch is that social justice is

252 SOCIALISM
not only a moral objective but
the condition of indus-
trial growth. If that is
what it meansto be socialist, we
should be socialist. But if, according
to the dogmas and
catechisms, proceeding toward the
abolition of compe-
tition, authoritarian
planification and the collectivist
society are socialist, then we are
not."
The key to the new definition of socialism,
then, is
economic growth. With ownership no
longer decisive
in me private sector and
sophisticated private managers
in control, the socialist party
will stimulate economic
growth. Its tax policies and other
measures will favor
mcomes derived from work and penalize
mere rentiers
and thus the market economy will
be made to respond
to social priorities. As befits the party that is the lineal
descendant of Karl Marx, the German social democrats
made the most ranging, and explicit,
W J?p
Special
V1
7An their
Party Congress in November,
statement of this
new Basic Pr °g ram ad °Pted
1 959.
The aim of social democratic economic
at a
policy," the
program proclaims, "is ever-increasing
prosperity and a
just division of the fruits
of the people's economy, a fife
m freedom without demeaning dependence and without
exploration." Th,s aim is
endangered by the concen-
tration of economic power
in capitalist society in which
jroge organizations dispose
of millions and command
tens of thousands of workers.
But the objection to this
T£LV V n hat
lthiaiK
d be made
?^l
Where
an °y anti-monopoly
the bi g enterprises predomi-
£?f\
nate there is no free competition."
Moreoever, "through
cartels and combines, the big enterprises
still more in-
i T
P ST and the cor Porate leaders win an
ZfhZ over the state and politics
influence
which is compatible
with democratic principles.
They usurp the state power.
Economic power becomes political P
power."
Dt the trad itional
thpri ™ \F°u '? socialist program
S?!r^ d h3Ve been
tl0n ° f S
a demand ^
the widespread
h enterP™es. The Godesberg Pro-
S£?T T
h?W VCr ° fferS a different a roach to
S * ?
gle against
' PP
concentrated economic power.
the strug-
"Private
property in the means of
production has a right and
titleto be defended so long as does not hinder the

it
creation of a just social order. Efficient middle and

small enterprises should be strengthened so that they
can stand the competition with the big enterprises."
Private property, particularly where it is competitive,
is to be the rule, social property the exception.
Another way to encourage competition, the program
holds, is through public corporations which can influ-
ence prices and innovation. "Public property [literally,
common property, Gemeineigentwri] is a legitimate
means of public control which no modern state can sur-
render. It serves the preservation of freedom against
the superpower of huge economic units. In the econ-
omy, the decision-making power has more and more
been taken over by managers serving anonymous in-
terests. Thus private ownership of the means of produc-
tion has largely lost its decision-making power. The
central problem today is economic power. Where other
means guarantee a sound system of economic power
relationships, public property is useful and necessary."
So the German social democrats had defined a new
situation. The worker, their new program said, was no
longer the "defenseless proletarian without rights who
must drive himself through a sixteen-hour day in order
to get a starvation wage." Through struggle, the work-
ing class had achieved certain basic guarantees and
had improved the lot of the entire society and therefore
"the Social Democratic Party has ceased to be a party
of the working class and has become a party of the
people."
In the floor debate Heinrich Deist defended the pro-
posed program and on some points was even more
specific in his revisions than the document itself. The
right of free initiative, he emphasized, must be at least
as great in the public as in the private enterprise. Pub-
lic property therefore must be free from daily inter-
ference on the part of the authorities. It was precisely
this kind of assertion which was to lead John Kenneth
Galbraith to argue in The New Industrial State that so-
cialism, in the sense of the political control of the enter-
254 SOCIALISM
prise, had become technologically impossible. In a
nationalized industry, Galbraith said, parliamentary re-
sponsibility had to be excluded if the enterprise were to
be able to "act responsibly and promptly on decisions
requiring specialized information." If Galbraith is right
— and he certainly has identified a trend, but not, I
think, a necessity (the point will be taken up in greater
detail in Chapter XII) —
then this would be the techni-
cal explanation of why the socialists failed to live up to
their pre-World War II promises of a real democratiza-
tion of industry.
Deist also made much of the dangers of concentra-
tion of in state hands. He quoted Hilferding on
power
this count but, as has been seen, he could have cited
Jaures,Bauer or many other leading socalist thinkers.
But he took this insight further than they had. He now
endorsed the basically conservative thesis that "there is
a relationship between the room for freedom in the
economy and the freedom of the entire society." It is
true, he said, that private managers can exercise po-
litical power—but no less true that public managers can
have the same effect.
Clearly the program, and Deist's interpretation of it,
placed an unprecedented socialist emphasis on the vir-
tues of the free market. Where Engels had seen capital-
ist planning and trustification as harbingers of socialism
which were to be applauded, Deist now pictured them
as intolerable deviations from the competitive model
which the party would use all of its power to
socialist
restore. In the years that followed the adoption of the
Godesberg Program—which saw the social democrats
enter into the "Great Coalition" with the Christian Dem-
ocrats and then win the Chancellorship under Willy
—
Brandt the practical conclusions drawn from it were
more and more Keynesian in character. In 1959 the
Left wing had opposed the adoption of the Godesberg
Program in the name of traditional socialist values. At
the SPD Congress in 1970 it based its critique of the
party leadership in part on their failure to fulfill the
promises made at Godesberg.
Sonalist Capitalism 255
As Der Spiegel commented SPD Con-

right after the
gress in 1970 about one of most prominent and
the
politically popular members of the Brandt Cabinet, "A
year and a half after the formation of the Great Coali-
tion, 47 percent of the West Germans thought that the
Minister for Economics, Karl Schiller, was a member of
the Christian Democrats. Only when the SPD Execu-
tive allowed Schiller to say before television and news-
reel cameras, 'We Social Democrats' did the citizens
realize that the professor was a comrade." 5
In late 1970, the Young Socialists —
the organization
of members of the SPD under thirty-five years of age,
—
nicknamed the Jusos posed a number of questions
about the evolution of the German social democracy.
At their Congress in Bremen in December, 1970, they
came out for "reforms which would change the system"
("an einer systemuberwindenden Perspective"} which
included demands for a vast expansion of free social
services in health, transportation, and education, for
planned social investment and co-determination in in-
dustry as a step toward new, and communal, forms of
property. The party leadership replied that "we Social
Democrats strive for a step-by-step ('schrittweise')
change in social structure."
At first it seemed that this debate put the generations
on a collision course. Karl Schiller responded to the
Jusos by emphasizing his belief in "entrepreneurial ini-
tiative" and stressing the more conservative aspects of
the Godesberg Program, and a poll showed that two
thirds of the Germans were hostile to the radical de-
mands. The Burgermeistcr of Munich, Hans-Jochen
Vogel, angered because the Jusos had with some suc-
cess become a factional force in the party itself, an-
nounced that he would not be a candidate for re-
election. But in the late spring at a Juso conference on
municipal politics, the remarkable development was
the degree to which Vogel and the young theorists
agreed. Vogel, for instance, was sympathetic to the de-
mand for free medical and educational services. At this
256 SOCIALISM
writing, the debate within the German social democracy
is continuing.
So one must ask, did the Godesberg Program, and
the similar rewritings of the definitions of socialism in
Western Europe, mean the end of the socialist dream?
Has the vision of mankind leaping from the Kingdom
of Necessity into the Kingdom of Freedom culminated
in the pragmatic contradiction of socialist capitalism?
In part, these revisions were absolutely necessary. It
would have been senseless after the half-century of ex-
perience with nationalization simply to repeat that pub-
lic ownership was the sovereign remedy for all social
ills. The old Marxian pretense in which the party was a
secular church, with a Weltanschauung and interior

world of its own, had similarly become obsolete. There-
fore it made good sense to formally disavow any de-
sire to have a party position on religious or philo-
sophical matters (that had long since been dropped in
practice, but the enemies of the social democrats still
try to depict them as revolutionary godless Bolsheviks).
And the narrow notion of a class party was well for-
gotten. Once he got over the simplifications of The
Communist Manifesto, Marx himself never believed
that society was polarizing into two, and only two, class-
es, and he and every serious socialist tactician who
came after him were aware of the need to reach out
beyond the proletariat.
And the post-war changes in European economic
structure made it particularly imperative that the broad-
ness of the social democracy be emphasized. In Britain,
for instance, the proportion of white-collar workers in
the economy is increasing three times as fast as be-
tween 1911 and 1931, and a third faster than the 1931-
1951 rate. Therefore the socialist parties, if they
wanted to win a majority, had to emphasize their con-
cern and appeal to these new and growing strata.
But even though much of this modernization of doc-
trine is overdue, it went too far. The Godesberg Pro-
gram and the theory of the "social market economy"
do not go beyond American liberalism. They stay well
within the bounds of capitalist society and, as so often

has happened in the past, show how socialists can be
much too optimistic about capitalism.
First of all, the redistribution of income within cap-
italist society is not taking place at all, or at least not
in the way that the revisionist social democrats suggest.
In England —
and to be fair to Crosland, much of the
statistical work for these assertions was published after
his major contribution to the debate —
economists like
Thomas Balogh and Richard Titmus have documented
the persistence of severe income inequality. In that
country, and in almost every nation in Europe (includ-
ing Sweden, where the facts were given wide publicity
by Olof Palme's Social Democratic government in
1970), there is a poverty which persists despite the
general post-war prosperity.
More to the point, Balogh and Titmus and others
have pointed out that a good part of this intractable
poverty has been caused by the dislocations of eco-
nomic growth. There are, Titmus has said, a welfare
state and a dis-welfare state, and the former is often
only an inadequate attempt at "partial compensation
for social costs and social insecurity which are the
products of a rapidly changing industrial-urban so-
ciety." In the 1970 British elections even intellectuals
who supported Labour had to admit that poverty had
far from vanished. Moreover, the private market, even
when it operates within a context established by a so-
cialistgovernment, has a powerful and inherent tend-
ency to maximize profits without regard to public con-
sequences. That means, as Chapter XII will detail, that
much more social investment and planning than are
dreamed of in these social democratic programs will
be required just to reach their modest goals.
But perhaps most important of all is the basic as-
sumption of the new European socialism that the state
can relatively easily impose its socialist will upon the
private sector. In fact, capital fights back; it does not
meekly accept the programming of social democratic
ministers. That was apparent enough in 1936, when
258 SOCIALISM
in the month between the election that assured him the
leadership of the nation and Leon Blum's actual taking
of office, $4 billion in gold francs went abroad. For,
as the Godesberg Program notes, but does not ade-
quately stress, economic power is political power, and
as long as the basic relationships of the private econ-
omy are left intact, they provide a base for the sub-
version of the democratic will.
Harold Wilson's experience in the sixties is an ex-
cellent case in point. In 1963 Wilson did what Hugh
Gaitskell had failed to do: he won his party to a new
orientation. As an old Bevanite, he had support on the
Labour Left; as a shrewd tactician, he .avoided any
head-on confrontations over socialist doctrine; and he
redefined socialism more dramatically than any of the
revisionists. The socialists, he said, would modernize
Britain, expand the economy through planning and give
social direction to the technological revolution. "If there
had never been a case for socialism before," Wilson
told a cheering Labour conference, "automation would
have created it."
Wilson became Prime Minister in 1964 and in the
elections of 1965 won a substantial majority. Planning
was placed under George Brown, which meant that it
had a powerful advocate in the Cabinet. Yet, the whole
scheme did not really survive the first plan, which,
in any case, was never put into effect. Instead of care-
fully managed expansion, the Government alternately
encouraged affluence and austerity in a "stop-go" pat-
tern not unlike that of the Tories. And after three years
of defending the pound tenaciously, Wilson devalued
in order to get out of the straitjacket which, seemingly,
he himself had insisted upon wearing. Why?
Wilson "defended" the pound, and followed a num-
ber of other policies, because bankers in Britain and
elsewhere made it quite clear that they would only sup-
ply money if the Government promised not to engage in
social experiments. When, for instance, increased pen-
sions were announced in 1964, the immediate reaction
of the financial community was to sell £10 million
on the world market. The governor of the nationalized

Bank of England attacked Wilson, his democratically
chosen superior, and demanded conservative policies,
including a wage freeze. When the Tories returned to
power in 1970, they made the governor an ambassador.
As Titmus described the situation, ". to many of
. .
our creditors and currency colleagues in West Germany,

France and the United States, the 'Welfare State' is
equated with national irresponsibility and decadence.
These opinions, moreover, do not differ markedly from
those expressed in public statements on welfare during
the past fifteen yearsby bankers, insurance directors,
financiers and others London." So great
in the City of
was this pressure during the first eighteen months of
Wilson's Administration that Andrew Schonfield, an
extremely shrewd observer of the British economy, con-
cluded that the Government's insistence on an incomes
policy was "a declamatory device to impress foreign
bankers."
There was a radical way to get out of the sterling
impasse. The Government could, as James Dickens of
the Labour Left proposed, have nationalized the pri-
vately held dollar securities of British citizens. The
owners would have been compensated in pounds and
the nation would have had enough dollars to put its
currency on a firm non-speculative basis. But, as George
Lichtheim noted at the time, Britain depends on foreign
banking for its livelihood and the international reprisals
against such a cavalier attitude toward private prop-
erty would have been swift. On such a question, for-
eign and native bankers and businessmen have more
votes than British citizens.
But the financiers were not the only problem. The
industrialists also attended to their private priorities
rather than to the common good. As Michael Shanks,
who was Co-ordinator of Industrial Policy in the early
Wilson years, put it, "By and large exports are very
unprofitable compared to home sales even in today's
not exactly buoyant market. The result is that, despite
every inducement, a large proportion of firms are not
—
260 SOCIALISM
exporting at all and in too many others, exporting is re-
garded as a chore."
However, the most devastating effect of private pow-
er on public policy is not to be found in Labour's fail-
ures but in its successes. When an economy expands,
there is, as Wilson himself aptly noted in 1960, a
"law of increasing returns to the rich." In the absence
of rather drastic countermeasures, the benefits of a
governmentally planned prosperity will be distributed
according to the existing inequities in the society, i.e.,
the rich will get the most, the poor the least. And, as
John Hughes of Ruskin College, Oxford, computed
the figures in 1968, income from property increased
more than earnings in the Wilson years.
So the socialist program of giving political direction
to an economy still privately controlled —whether by
—
owners or managers does not really matter was ham-
strung by the ability of wealth to limit, and even veto,
public policy. It is, after all, not only in America that
regulatory agencies become the creatures of those they
are supposed to regulate. In bad times a socialist gov-
ernment will have to pay a ransom to get the good will
of the corporations; in good times the boom its policies
induce will tend to favor its enemies more than its con-
stituents. And that will be the case until there are more
basic structural changes in capitalism than have been
proposed in the various revised socialist programs.
But if socialist capitalism as proposed by the Euro-
pean social democrats is thus inadequate to the times,
that does not in the least mean that these parties are
irrelevant.
By and large the socialist parties of Europe have
been from the end of the First World War to the present
the leaven in their various societies. Their accomplish-
ments in the creation of the welfare state —for instance
in that incredible victory described by Andre Philip
where it took a near-revolution to win the effective
right of a worker to see the ocean —are of the first
magnitude. So even if the worst fears expressed in this
book — that the socialist vision has been abandoned
were to be confirmed, these parties would still command

my loyalty. But, in fact, the fate of socialism is by no
means settled. With the issue still is an
in doubt, it
unpardonable sectarianism to say, as Daniel Singer does

in his Prelude to Revolution, that "social democracy no
longer has any connection with socialism." For if there
is any hope for the renewal of the socialist ideal advo-
cated in the later chapters of this book, in Europe it is
located in the mass socialist parties, which did not as
we have just seen, embrace the contradictions of so-
cialist capitalism out of choice. And if a new and real
alternative were to appear on the Left —
not some vague
rehearsal of Marxian pieties about ending alienation,
but a program starting where the masses are now and
making it possible for them to move forward the so- —
cial democrats of the Continent and England are the
ones who will have to put it into effect. 6
The Substitute Proletariats
After World War II "socialisms" appeared every-

where. There were Chinese, Cuban, Arab, Israeli,
African, Indian, Yugoslavian, Chilean and other "so-
cialisms," each claiming to represent a unique point of
departure for the future and often denouncing all the
rest as frauds or even fascism in disguise.
Yet however different, and even violently hostile,
these various systems, almost all of them (the Israelis
are a special case) have one thing in common: they
have collectivized a poverty qualitatively more pro-
found than that found in the Russia of 1917. The
classic path of capitalist industrialization, in which en-
terprises within a market economy play the decisive
role and the and subsidizes them, is no longer
state aids
possible in such countries. But then, neither is that
socialism envisioned by Marx, for it can only be built
by an educated working class on the basis of a modern
technology, and both these preconditions are absent in
most of Asia, Africa and Latin America.
In the Third World, then, one confronts a revolu-
tionary development so unprecedented that there is not
a hint of it in the writings of Karl Marx.* There is,
* I use the term "Third World" to describe the developing

societies of Asia, Africa and Latin America. But I do not for a
moment hold that there is a natural solidarity among some
"nonwhite," or non-European and non-American, majority.
There are antagonisms within the Third World which are quite
murderous, as the civil wars in Nigeria and the Sudan or the
various struggles between China, India and Pakistan demon-
strate. Moreover, there are profound economic differences
263
264 SOCIALISM
of course, an obvious relationship to the Russian de-
velopment described in Chapter VII. In each of these
"socialisms," as in the soviet Union, the state is sub-
stituted for the bourgeoisie as an agency of moderniza-
tion. But the differences are very real. Since the Third
World begins at even lower economic levels than the
Russia of 1917, the contradictions inherent in the
socialization of poverty are even more acute there than
in the first Communist state.
These "socialisms" are also distinguished by another
crucial characteristic: they are in search of a new
proletariat. The Russian Revolution was begun by a
working-class rebellion, and even though Stalin was to
expropriate every vestige of workers' power, it con-
tinued to speak in the name of the proletariat even
after it became bureaucratic collectivism But in the
Third World such a pretense is much more difficult
to maintain. So peasants, the urban poor, military of-
ficers and educated elites have at different times been
assigned the role Marx had designated for the organized
working people.
The emergence of these substitute proletariats is of
among these countries. Latin America, for instance, has a real

purchasing power which is twice as great as all the other de-
veloping areas and four times that of India and Pakistan.
('The Alliance for Progress and Peaceful Revolution" by Paul
N. Rosenstein-Rodan, in Latin American Radicalism, Irving
Horowitz, Josue de Castro and John Gerassi, eds. New York,
Vintage Books, 1969, p. 53.) John Kenneth Galbraith has quite
usefully distinguished three types of economic underdevelop-
ment: the Sub-Saharan, in which a minimum cultural base for
modernization is lacking; the Latin American, in which social
structure inhibits change; and the South Asian, in which pop-
ulation growth is a crucial problem. (Economics, Peace and
Laughter. Boston, Houghton Mifflin, 1971, pp. 228ff.) The
element they all have in common, and which provides the
objective basis for grouping them together for the purpose of
an analysis that also must take into account the differences
between them, is that they are all seeking ways to industrialize
in a period in which the "bourgeois revolution" is no longer
a possibility.
—
The Substitute Proletariats 265
the most profound significance. Marx did not nominate

the workers as agents of the socialist revolution out
of sentimentality. They were, he said, becoming the
majority of society and therefore stood to gain by the
most thoroughgoing democratization; they were con-
centrated in large numbers and forced by the conditions
of their daily life to organize for economic self-defense
and thus to learn how to act collectively; they were
disciplined and schooled in the ways of that modern
technology that made socialism possible. Above all,
Marx argued that the socialization of the means of
production, which was in the common interest of man-
kind, was in the self-interest of the propertyless wage
earner. The working class was thus the first, and last,
class whose egotism was objectively idealistic.
Marx was both right and wrong. His ultimate revolu-
tionary hopes for the Western proletariat have certain-
ly been disappointed; yet he was prophetic when he
saw in the ragged, degraded factory hands of the mid-
nineteenth century a new and progressive force her
social change. But what is important here is that his
thesis described empirical links between the conditions
of life of the proletariat and the political role he
thought it would play. I propose to make a similar
analysis of the substitute proletariats of the Third
World, the peasants and the urban poor in particular.
It will show why they cannot build a socialist society,
or as Che Guevara and the Cubans hoped, create new
and selfless men. In the process I hope to go beyond an
idealization of the dispossessed and to explore the pre-
cise possibilities of resistance that a normally cruel his-
tory affords them.
In saying this I do not for a moment want to denigrate
the agony of people, often threatened by starvation,
trying to claw their way forward to the material possi-
bility of minimal decency. Their plight is in large
measure the result of an international division of labor
imposed upon them by the capitalist West and it de-
serves the compassion —
and active political solidarity
of any concerned person. But one should not therefore
266 SOCIALISM
respond as some on the Left did to the heroic struggle
of the Algerians against French colonialism. They not
only sided with the national liberation movement against
the French, but uncritically accepted its claim to be
the carrier of a new, and socialist, order as well. Vic- j
tory produced a bureaucratic and Islamic dictatorship, <
not the good society. Similarly, in the case of Vietnam, j
people in the American peace movement who quite

lightly fought their own Government's disastrous in-
tervention wrongly took everything the Vietcong and
North Vietnamese said at face value. They ignored, for
instance, the fact that Ho
Chi Minh had by his own
admission carried out a bloody collectivization in the
North over the dead bodies of some tens of thousands
of "his" peasants.
It is precisely because these peoples of the Third
World are striving for a genuine emancipation under
conditions that must thwart their efforts that it is neces-
sary to separate out and analyze the ideological ele-
ments in these "socialisms." There will be a future in
which their dreams become possible, and the tactics
of the present must not be allowed to corrupt it in
advance. It is, in short, in the name of socialism in the
Third World that I write this critique of its "socialisms."
For most of the countries of Asia, Africa and Latin

America, capitalist modernization is now impossible.
It has been the hope of American planners in the
post-war period that there is a progressive capitalist
alternative to Communist industrialization. John Ken-
neth Galbraith put this aspiration in the language of the
democratic Left: "The revolution that is required here,
we should remind ourselves, is less the Russian Revo-
lution than the French Revolution." It was this propo-
sition that was the central justification for the Alliance
for Progress in its early, idealistic period. It is, I think,
wrong.
— —
That bourgeois or "French" revolution which
Galbraith seeks cannot possibly take place in most of
the Third World. Under special circumstances, as in
Iran, it is conceivable that oil revenues can be used
to sponsor industrialization coupled with land reform,
—
but even that produces a highly statified in this case,
—
monarchical variant of capitalism. In general, how-
ever, there are massive historic reasons that preclude
a capitalist development with or without American aid
(more precisely, as Chapter XII will show, American
trade and aid policy has been a barrier to moderniza-
tion in the poor lands).
But then, couldn't these countries settle for a slow
rate of growth? Raul Prebisch of the United Nations'
Conference on Trade and Development (UNCTAD)
posed and dealt with that question at a New Delhi
meeting. He asked, "Could they not be content with a
relatively moderate pace, like that of the industrial
centres during their historic development?" And
answered, "The historic experience of these countries
can never be repeated, either as concerns the pace of
development or in any other respect. Perhaps it would
be possible to repeat it if we could revert to the produc-
tion techniques of a century ago, if we could prevent
news of the new forms or private consumption and so-
cial well-being from spreading continuously —
a devel-
opment which is the natural outcome of communication
techniques —and if we could turn back the clock and
erase the progress which the masses of the people have
achieved in their political and social development."
What Prebisch was describing is one of the cruelest
facts of contemporary life: that the preconditions for
modernization are becoming progressively more and
more expensive. Russia in 1913 was probably below
the level of development of most South American coun-
tries today, yet the prospects for industrialization there
were much more propitious. The necessary investments
in technology have become much more massive since
1913; political movements are more demanding; and,
above all, there is a highly developed global division
268 SOCIALISM
of labor which is hostile to the industrialization of
poor lands. When the Western European countries, the
United States, Australia and Japan emerged as capitalist
powers, the world was not already dominated by an-
other group of even stronger nations. Capital, Barbara
Ward has estimated, is sixty times more costly to the
developing countries of the twentieth century than it
was to the new capitalisms of the nineteenth.
Gunnar Myrdal reports that in Southeast Asia, "in-
stead of a rising demand for exports aiding the early
stages of industrialization as in most Western coun-
tries,exports must be pushed by systematic government
action." Indeed, the subordinate position of these na-
tions on the world market accounts for much of their
economic structure and partly explains the absence of
a strong, indigenous bourgeoisie. For, as we have seen
in Chapter VI, to the degree that the original capitalist
powers invested in the colonies and semi-colonies, they
created enclaves of modernity. Therefore the local
capitalist was more often than not a collaborator with
foreign money rather than an innovating entrepreneur
on his own.
Russia had undergone the beginnings of a capitalist
development prior to the October Revolution in 1917.
Its industry was, to be sure, heavily under the in-
fluence of foreign capital and had some of the
characteristics of an enclave, yet it was not basically
subordinated to some metropolitan economy as in the
case of the colonies and semi-colonies. In this setting
the scarce entrepreneurial talents could be united in
very large industrial units, as Alexander Gershenkron
has documented. Russia had, in short, arrived quite
late on the capitalist scene, yet it still might have de-
veloped in the authoritarian, German-Japanese variant
of that mode. It was located midway between Oriental
despotism and Western capitalism.
But in the Third World nations that became formal-
ly independent after World War II, or as with the Latin
Republics, began to search for economic independence
at that point, the circumstances were not so positive.
Not only were the material economic preconditions of

modernization lacking: the cultural and spiritual
prerequisites were missing too. For in an influential
tradition descending from Max Weber, "it has been
argued that these countries not only lack the economic
prerequisites for growth but that many of them pre-
serve values which foster behavior antithetical to the
systematic accumulation of capital."
For example, the Latin emphasis on family loyalty
keeps many South American companies from hiring
talented outsiders, and pre-capitalist traditions in that
area orient businessmen toward quick profits and with-
drawal from commerce altogether rather than toward
reinvestment and long-range industrial planning. These
attitudes are not, of course, individual psychic pecu-
liarities but are grounded in the economic structure,
particularly in its backward sectors: the material and
the spiritual conditions act and react with each other.
As Gunnar Myrdal described this interworking, "Some
of the characteristics commonly ascribed to South
—
Asians their bent to contemplation and their ap-
preciation of leisure, etc., sometimes on a more intel-
lectualized level reflected in religious doctrine, philoso-
phy or belief in specific 'values' of a country or of all
Asia —may, in fact, be due to deficiencies in nutrition
and health."
The experience of Israel is particularly revealing in
The land the original Zionists settled was
this context.
poor, yet within several generations they and their
descendants have created a modern, democratic and
socially oriented society. One of the main reasons for
this accomplishment —
apart from the devotion and
idealism of the movement itself —
was that Israel was,
in a sense, the last country created by Europe. Like
the United States, Canada, Australia and New Zealand,
it began with a crucial resource: a modern population
which had already been schooled in industrial ratio-

nality. This suggests that of the two Marxian pre-
conditions for socialism —
a productive economy and a
conscious working class —
the latter may well be the
270 SOCIALISM
more important. It is precisely these modern attitudes
that are lacking in every other country of the Third
World.
From this perspective, one understands how unique
was the process described in Das Kapital. For, as Marx
realized but never was able to develop at great length,
the majority of mankind was not evolving toward the
preconditions for capitalism. Now that same majority
wants not capitalism, which is impossible in any case,
but an even higher form of society. And the brute
question first raised in the Russian Revolution is posed
even more forcefully: What social force will play the
role fulfilled by the entrepreneur in the West?
On the rhetorical surface the answer of Third World
"socialism" to this question is preposterous. The peas-
ants or the urban poor, it is said, can simultaneously
be substituted for both the bourgeoisie and the prole-
tariat. This means that the same class must exploit itself
by working harder for less in order to provide surplus
for investment (a surplus that the bourgeoisie once ex-
tracted) and at the same time abolish exploitation (the
proletarian role). Such a contradiction could not be
resolved in Russia, where the workers were supposed
to be enthusiastically increasing the unpaid portion of
their labor time, and it is even more ridiculous to
think that peasants or the lumpenproletariat of the
cities, lacking the cohesion and discipline that daily life
imposes on the working class, have organized their
own totalitarian subjugation as a means to freedom.
Actually, the peasants and the urban poor are sub-
stitute proletariats only in the heaven of theory. In
reality, the party-state, which is a new ruling class, sub-
stitutes itself for the proletariat, the bourgeoisie and
everyone else. 1
n
Peasants were the mass basis of the Chinese Revolu-
tion —
but it was not a peasant revolution for which they
fought and died. Rather, they were the unwitting agents

of a revolution from above which made them its victims.
The stage was set by the failure of capitalism.
The most dramatic proof of capitalist ineptitude in
China was the fact that a Communist eventually rallied
some businessmen to his banner. For all his twists and
turns, Mao had generally followed the line he put for-
ward in 1940: China is going through a "bourgeois
democratic revolution in a semi-colonial country"
which would be "protracted." Therefore he had regu-
larly attempted to win over elements in the bour-
geoisie. Just before the Communist seizure of power
Chiang's weakness was so glaring that a leading busi-
ness weekly in Hong Kong reported, "The remaining
foreigners in Shanghai are looking for an improvement
when the Communist-appointed administration will as-
sume control; as it has been for the last three and a
half years, life appeared to many as intolerable in
chaotic Shanghai."
So Chiang's efforts to build a modern capitalist
state in China were in such a shambles by 1949 that
businessmen, both foreign and native, turned to the
Communists, who were emphasizing the gradualist as-
pects of their "new democratic" program. There had
been, to be sure, some Nationalist progress between
the destruction of urban Communism in 1928 and the
Japanese invasion in 1937. But when the Japanese
came, Chiang was driven out of the cities and sep-
arated from whatever liberal and dynamic elements were
to be found in the bourgeois camp. His party, the
Kuomintang, had always been an uneasy alliance be-
tween industrialists and agrarian conservatives, and
the war tipped the balance in favor of the latter and
ruled out the capitalist path to modernity. Just before
the Communist victory Nationalist mismanagement of
the economy was so spectacular that prices had risen
11,600 percent as compared to 1936-1937. Under the
circumstances, it is not surprising that some business-
men preferred Communist order to capitalist anarchy.
272 SOCIALISM
But what force did the victorious Communists rep-
present?
The Maoists themselves would reply that they were
a proletarian party playing the leading role in a
multiclass democratic movement of workers, peasants,
the urban petty bourgeoisie and the national bour-
geoisie (and sometimes they would even add "the
enlightened gentry"). In fact, the Communists were
a new ruling class and, for a number of reasons,
this can be seen more clearly in China than in any
other bureaucratic collectivist country.
One of the profound differences between the
Chinese and Russian revolutions is that the former
emerged out of a genuine working-class insurrection
whose conquests then had to be destroyed to make
way for the power of the new class while in the
latter the party established itself as a decisive force,
independent of all the classes in the nation, before
it took control. In part, this was because the Chinese
Communists had listened to Stalin. In the 1920s the

Russian leader had given them the catastrophic advice
that they should trust the revolutionary bona fides
of Chiang, a policy that led to the near-extermination
of the party by its supposed allies. From that time
until the late 1940s, as Benjamin Schwartz has
shown, the party lost all systematic contact with
the urban workers.
Thus when Mao designated the proletariat as "the
basic motive force of the Chinese Revolution" (em-
phasis added), he was speaking metaphorically, since
most of the working class did not participate in the
movement at all. What the "proletariat" means in this
context is the Communist Party substituting itself for
the workers. But when Mao at the same time acknowl-
edged that the peasantry is "the main force in the
Chinese Revolution," he was being more objective. The
problem is, as Engels had understood long ago, that it
is not necessarily the class that does most of the
dying that determines the class content of a revolu-
tion. "In all of the three great bourgeois revolutions
[England, France and Germany]," he wrote, "the

peasantry provided the army with striking power and
the peasants were the class that after the victory was
won most surely was ruined by the economic con-
sequences of this triumph." In China the peasants
died, just as they had under Cromwell, to raise a
new class above them.
Indeed, traditional Marxism had always argued that
the peasantry was, by virtue of its conditions of life,
incapable of truly independent action on its own be-
half. "The peasants with small plots," Marx wrote in
The Eighteenth Brumaire, "constitute an enormous
mass whose members live in the same situation
but without entering into a variety of relationships
with one another. Their mode of production isolates
them from one another rather than bringing them
together in reciprocal relations. Their field pro-
. . .
duction, the plot, does not allow any division of

labor, any application of science, and thus provides
no variety of development, no differentiation of talent,
no richness of social relationships. ... So the great
mass of the French nation is formed by the simple
addition of similar quantities, like potatoes make up a
potato sack. .The peasants are therefore incapable
. .
of defending their class interests in their own name,

either in a parliament or in a constituent assembly."
It was precisely because Lenin and Trotsky remained
faithful to this Marxist insight that they believed that
the workers would have to play a decisive role in the
Russian Revolution even though they were a minority
and the peasants a majority. Even so, they agreed
with Karl Kautsky that the position of the peasant
had changed somewhat since Marx's day. As the vil-
lages became part of the world market, their isolation
was shattered; and as the peasants were drafted, they
were brought into contact with city life and ideas.
This last point was particularly prophetic, for it was the
presence of so many peasants in uniform that made
them a major force in the Russian events of 1917.
But as the euphoria of the October Revolution began
274 SOCIALISM
to abate and the Communists realized that they were.
not going to be quickly saved from their backward-
ness by the victory of the German workers, they began
a profound revision of Marxist theory which pointed
toward Mao's adaptation. At the Second Congress
of the Communist International in 1920, a manifesto
proclaimed, "What we now mean by the word 'mass,'
is not what we used to mean by it a few years ago.
That which was the mass in the epoch of parliamentar-
ianism and trade unionism has become the elite in our
days. Millions and tens of millions who have lived
up to now outside of all politics are in the process
of transforming themselves into a revolutionary mass."
"The pariahs," the International said, "are rising."
And a few years later an almost despairing Lenin
was, as we have seen, to take solace in the fact that
the non-Europeans constituted a majority in the world
and thus guaranteed a victory to socialism. Yet the
— —
Russians still insisted in theory on the primacy of
the working class in the transition to a new order.
(In fact, the workers were being deprived of all the
rights they had won in the Revolution.) In the early
1920s a Tatar Communist leader was too blunt
about what was really happening. Sultan-Galiev pro-
posed "the establishment of the dictatorship of the
colonies and semi-colonies" over the industrial me-
tropolis and the creation of a Colonial International.
Stalin, whose protege he was, had him purged for
being so candid about the real import of Lenin's last
theories. This was probably the first time that Lin
Piao's thesis of the countryside of the world con-
quering the cities of the world was stated in Marxist
language, and the Russians labeled it heresy.
So Mao was making a departure from Stalinist, as
well as Marxist, theory when he openly turned toward
the peasants after the urban Communists had drowned
in their own blood in 1927. Yet — and the point is
crucial —
he did not thereby make himself into a peasant
leader. As Harold Isaacs brilliantly summarized the
Communist experience on the road to power, "During
the decade following 1927, the Communist Party had

become a party of deurbanized intellectuals and peas-
ant leaders whose main strength lay in the military
force which they created and with which they ultimate-
ly won power. Apart from its broadly agrarian
character and pre-occupation, this party and this mili-
tary force had no consistent class base through the
years ... it shifted from one section of the peasantry
to another, now seeking the support of the lower
strata, now of the upper strata, at times adapting itself
without difficulty even to the landlords. It came as a
force from the outside, bringing its program with it."
Mao's troops were indeed peasant, but his program
and cadre were not. And this is nowhere more clear
than in the way the Chinese Communists vacilated,
as it suited their own purposes, on life-and-death issues
for the peasantry. In 1928, for instance, Mao was
leading movements against the "landlords, the landed
gentry and the bourgeoisie," but in 1935 the national
bourgeoisie was welcomed into the anti-Japanese
struggle. In 1937 he proclaimed that the "confiscation
of the land of the landlords shall be discontinued,"
but by 1939 (the period of the Hitler-Stalin pact
when the Communists of the world were turning
sharply "Left") he was saying that "the landlords,
as a class, are a target and not a motive force of the
revolution." Then, after the Germans invaded Russia,
Mao reminded the party that "the whole set of
measures taken during the Agrarian Revolution are
inapplicable under present circumstances." A
leader
who was genuinely rooted in, and expressing the
aspirations of, the peasant masses would hardly shift
his position at the behest of Moscow in this way. But
a Mao could. His final tactic, the one that carried
him to power, was to minimize his hostility to the
rural wealthy. "As to the rich peasants," he wrote in
the very important programmatic statement of 1945,
On Coalition Government, "we have encouraged them
to develop production."
Thus the Chinese Communists were not a party of
276 SOCIALISM
workers, or even of peasants, even though at various
times they led significant elements of both those
groups. They had been forced out of an organic
relationship with any of the classes of the society,
which is why they themselves can be seen so clearly
as an embryonic class. They reentered the cities, in
Isaac's phrase, as "a force from the outside." As
Trotsky understood in a brilliant anticipation of the
Chinese reality, "The absence of a strong revolu-
tionary party and of mass organizations of the
proletariat renders control over the commanding
stratum impossible. The commanders and the com-
missars appear in the guise of absolute masters of the
situation and upon occupying the cities will be apt to
look down from above upon the workers." 2
Mao's myth represents him as a leader responding
to spontaneous currents of feeling among the masses.
Yet before his victory he clearly manipulated his
peasant followers, now befriending landlords, now
fighting them. And after the conquest of power, the
particularly deracinated government he led was capable
of the most abrupt changes in line because it did not
feel itself limited by the organizations of the people.
On occasion, the millions saw a crack in the mono-
lithic state, or after being pushed too far and too fast
were able to force a retreat upon the revolutionaries-
from-above. But they never won the right to decide
their own destiny. It is this reality that makes of the
history of the Commmunists in government such a
dizzying succession of zigs and zags.
In the first period of Mao's rule, from 1949 to
1955, it seemed that he was going to redeem his old
promise of "the land to the tiller." There was a wide
distribution of plots to the peasants. In 1952 less than
1.5 percent of the peasant households were in coopera-
tives,and the official target was to raise this number
to 20 percent by the end of 1957. In February of
1953 the Central Committee of the Party proclaimed,
"On the basis of present economic conditions, the
individual economic system of the peasants will neces-
and expand for a long time to

sarily continue to exist
come. It is even necessary to permit the continued
development of the economic system of the wealthy
peasant. Moreover the Common Program states that
the peasant's ownership of land will be safeguarded
wherever the agrarian reform is carried on."
But the voluntary collectivization the Chinese
Communists hoped for simply did not materialize
(and in the years to follow, the Chinese peasants
were to act much like their Russian counterparts,
trying to get private plots, farm animals and the like).
Then in 1954 flood damage reduced the harvest and
in 1954-1955 the peasants hoarded their short sup-
plies. (There had been tentative moves toward col-
lectivization in 1953 and 1954.) This was apparently
a major motive for the sudden turn into cooperatives
in a matter of months. (It should be obvious that
under such circumstances the term "cooperative" has
little to do with the ideal of people voluntarily and
enthusiastically working together.) In July, 1955, 14.2

percent of the peasants were in co-ops; in May, 1966,
the figure was 91.2 percent.
The political control of the peasantry was not the
only reason for this sudden new departure in policy.
As Mao himself emphasized in his speech on collectivi-
zation on July 31, 1955, "socialist industrialization
cannot be separated from the development of agricul-
tural cooperatives, cannot be undertaken by itself.
For one thing, everyone knows that in our country
the production of marketable grain and of raw
materials for industry is at present at a very low level
while the country's needs in this respect are increasing
every year." In other words, Mao was collectivizing
for much the same reason that Stalin had: the better
to extract a surplus from the peasantry which could
be devoted to industrialization.
This admission runs counter to an extremely sim-
plified theory that has been popular on the pro-Com-
munist wing of the American Left. As Paul Baran
put it, ". .contrary to the commonly held view that
.
278 SOCIALISM
receives a great deal of emphasis in Western writing
on under-developed countries, the principal obstacle is
not shortage of capital. What is short is what we have
termed actual economic surplus invested in the ex-
pansion of productive facilities. The potential economic
surplus that could be made available for such invest-
ment is large in all of them." For Baran, the old
ruling class had either wasted the surplus in luxuries,
or else had not even tapped the full sources of the
nation's wealth. A determined socialist government,
then, can find sufficient funds for industrialization by
squeezing the living standards, "primarily, if not sole-
ly [of] the ruling class whose excess consumption,
squandering of resources, and capital flight, had to
be 'sacrificed' to economic development."
But Mao's speech indicates, if in veiled language,
that Baran's optimistic theories do not apply, at least
in China, and that the peasants are going to be a
primary source of the surplus which will then be
used for modernization. Indeed, the Chinese leader
even admitted that there was considerable opposition
to his policy within the party, which anticipated a
massive flight of peasants from the countryside to the
city in response to the collectivization decreed from
on high.
was in this setting of reaction to considerable
It
peasant discontent within his own country that Mao
dealt with the revelations about Stalin at the Twentieth
Party Congress of the Russian Communists and the
uprising that took place shortly afterward in Poland
and Hungary. His first tactic, announced in February,
1957, was liberal: a "hundred flowers" were to bloom
and criticism of the regime was to be legitimated.
But so many people vigorously availed themselves
of this moment of freedom that within three months
Mao turned upon the "rightists" who had revealed
themselves in China. It was no longer allowed for peo-
ple to say, as two faculty members had at the Teacher's
Training College at Shenyang during the "Hundred
Flowers" period, that "the Communist Party having
—
set itself up as a privileged class, we find worthless

Communists in all the important posts." Mao amended
his February 27, 1957, address with the proviso that
free speech could only be exercised if it united the
nationalities, was beneficial to socialist transformation,
helped consolidate democratic centralism, strengthened
the leadership of the Communist Party and was
beneficial to "international socialist solidarity." Free
speech, in short, was permitted if it agreed on every
count with the line of the regime.
It was this sharp turn to the "Left" —
that is, to a
—
more vigorous totalitarian policy that led to the cre-
ation of huge peasant communes in 1958. As Roger
Garaudy wrote (when he was still a member of
the Central Committee of the Communist Party of
France), "five hundred million were called to funda-
mentally change their mode of existence within several
weeks but without the intervention of any new
technical means. Already in 1955 Mao had criticized
those who thought it necessary to have tractors and
modern tools so that a system of agricultural coopera-
tives would correspond to objective reality."
The Russian Communists had always been careful
with the exception of Khrushchev's ideological indis-
cretion in 1960, which was soon corrected to —
specify that they were still building socialism, for if
they said that they were actually entering the higher
stage of Communism, then their official writ pro-
claimed that the state should start withering away and
people should be paid according to their needs rather
than according to the amount of work they did. But
in the euphoria of August, 1958, the Central Com-
mittee of the Chinese Communist Party proclaimed
that their land, which was much more backward than
Russia and subject to a population pressure as well,
was in sight of the promised day: "the realization of
Communism in our country is not an event which
belongs in the distant future. We must work to use the
form of the popular communes as a means of ex-
ploring a concrete passage to Communism."
280 SOCIALISM
Within one short year the Central Committee ad-
mitted that this was fantasy. The statistics demonstrat-
ing the enormous achievements of the communes
had been exaggerated; the vast investment of man-
power in the harvest had been made in such a way
as to be wasteful. And later on, in 1962, the Central
Committee admitted that the commune policies and —
the Great Leap's experimentation with backyard iron
furnaces — had provoked mass discontent.
What led Mao to make such a spectacular miscalcu-
lation? It was, once again, his character as a revolu-
tionary-from-above. Shortly before the commune ad-
venture he had made an extraordinarily candid speech
on April 15, 1958: "Apart from their other character-
istics, the outstanding thing about China's 600 million
people is that they are 'poor and blank.' This may
seem a bad thing but in reality it is a good thing.
Poverty gives rise to the desire for change, the desire
for action and the desire for revolution. On a blank
sheet of paper free from any marks, the freshest and
most beautiful characters can be written, the freshest
and most beautiful pictures can be painted." The com-
munes and the Great Leap were an attempt on the
part of the leader to write beautiful characters on
the blankness of his people. A sharper contradiction
of the Marxian ideal of the self-emancipation of the
working class is hard to imagine.
It turned out that Mao's elitist estimation of the
character of the Chinese people was wrong. At the
Lushan meeting of the Communist Party Central Com-
mittee ~in mid- 1959, he was attacked sharply by De-
fense Minister P'eng Teh-huai and in effect demoted
from the active day-to-day leadership of the party.
The critique made of Mao from within his party was
particularly revealing in terms of the peasantry. For
in trying to cope with the setbacks his policy had
visited upon the economy, the technocrats made con-
cessions to the peasants who, in turn, seemed to have
the very same aspirations as the Russian (or any other
kind of) peasants: to farm their own plot.
This point must be stressed, for it subverts the

notion of the peasantry as a substitute proletariat.
Prior to Stalin it had been axiomatic among Marxists
that the peasant was a petty bourgeois who wanted
nothing more than his own private piece of land,
however small it might be. Then the Russian dictator
terrorized millions of peasants into collective farms at
the unconscionable human and economic cost that has
already been described. Now Mao came along and
asserted that the Chinese peasants were an even more
remarkable exception to the Marxist rule than the
Russian peasants were once supposed to be. They were,
it was said, fighting to surrender their private plots to
the collectivity. But when that fantasy led to the same

loss of production it had provoked in Russia, the
ruling class was forced to act in terms of reality:
they appealed to that immemorial peasant psychology,
so deeply rooted in the conditions of life, which Mao
had tried to ignore. Thus, in a study lyrically favorable
to Mao, Joan Robinson describes how the encourage-
ment of private household trade and an increase in
consumer goods was the antidote to the Great Leap
forward.* 3
But Mao did not take all this backsliding passively,
and in 1966 succeeded in launching the "Cultural
Revolution." Here again, there is a sudden, and
astounding, turn, explicable only if one understands
the degree to which the warring factions of Chinese
Communism stand above the people they theoret-
ically represent. The revolution was directed, as the
Central Committee resolution of August, 1966, put
it, against those who "after having infiltrated them-
* Mrs. Robinson, as Chapter V made clear, is a brilliant

economic theorist. It is therefore quite sad that, on the basis of
what seems to have been casual contact, she presumes to report
Maoist myth as fact. But then, the line changed after her book
was finished and she had to include a postscript taking account
of the fact that Mao and his comrades had turned from spon-
taneity to discipline without consulting the people or even
their admirers, like herself.
282 SOCIALISM
selves into the Party, achieved leading posts but fol-
lowed the capitalist way." This vast "proletarian" up-
heaval had as its "courageous pioneers" —
schoolboys.
At times this led to bizarre events. In Shanghai in
December, 1966, and January, 1967, the Maoists bit-
terly attacked the official party leadership for seeking
"to sap the will of the workers through material
incentives." But in the course of stirring up the rank
and file, Mao's wife discovered that they went out
on strike not against those seeking to reintroduce
capitalism, but precisely for higher wages. The pro-
letariat was, in short, following the "evil road of
economism." Then on January 8, 1967, students were
used as strikebreakers to open up the port of Shanghai.
"It seems difficult to admit," Roger Garaudy has re-
marked, "that the utilization of students as strike-
breakers is a means of 'taking over the leadership
in order to return it to the proletarian revolution-
"
aries.'
It was after this debacle that the People's Liberation
Army was called in to take over the Cultural Revolu-
tion.This was the process that brought Lin Piao to the
fore as Mao's successor. It also led to that remarkable
change in the personality of the regime's sym-
official
bolic arch-rival, Liu Shao-ch'i. In the heyday of the
Cultural Revolution the President of the People's Re-
public of China was accused of being the main "capi-
talist roader" in the society and the Red Guards were
called upon to challenge him and all of his treacherous
(Communist) friends for their Rightism. But when
that movement became too economically costly, Liu
was charged with the Left deviation of anarchism. In
March of 1968 a Chinese Communist press statement
denounced "China's Khrushchev [Liu]" because he
said "with ulterior motives: 'Do as the masses want'
and 'mainly depend on the spontaneity of the mass
movement.' " But that, of course, was what Mao had
been saying only shortly before. One way of interpret-
ing this dramatic volte face would be to see it as a
change of heart. Another, and much more accurate, in-
terpretation would understand that the masses in the

Cultural Revolution had been allowed freedom only in-
sofar as it suited Mao, and that once his purposes had
been served or their cost had proved too high, he sim-
ply turned off the people's "spontaneity." When that
was done, the hapless Liu was simply shifted from
"Right" to "Left" deviationism.
But how does this reading square with Mao's on-
slaught against the bureaucracy? To answer this ques-
tion one must return to the complexities of ideology in
the Marxian sense of the word: as a sincerely held
false consciousness of reality. Mao most certainly does
not say to himself, "I am a revolutionary from above, a
bureaucratic collectivist who uses the vocabulary of
Marx and Engels to legitimate the rule of a Communist
elite over the great mass of workers and peasants." For
it is a crucial aspect of any subtle theory of historic ac-
tion— particularly one deriving from Marx —

to see that
man can truly believe in what he is doing and yet
achieve purposes he does not intend.
Thus the development of a privileged bureaucracy is
an objective inevitability given Mao's policy of extract-
ing a surplus from workers and peasants and investing
it in industrialization. The people do not surrender
their surpluses voluntarily, and the Chinese peasants
have acted like peasants everywhere in trying to maxi-
mize their private plot of land; and investments are not
made, as in the case of bourgeois modernization, ac-
cording to the "automatic" calculus of the market. Un-
der such circumstances, to attempt to fulfill Mao's plans
will not, and cannot, lead to socialism, but it will cer-
tainly produce totalitarianism (since all associations
that might make a claim on scarce resources must be
interdicted) and a technocratic stratum (since the revo-
lution takes place "from above").
These are bitter truths which Mao resists. So in the
name of the Utopian elements in his ideology, he orga-
nizes a new revolution from above (the Cultural Revo-
lution hardly occurred spontaneously and wound up
with the army in command) in order to fight the evil
284 SOCIALISM
trends he sees in the original revolution from above.
But eventually reality overwhelms even the most re-
lentless of wills, and in the "New Trend" trials and exe-
cutions of 1970, Mao was forced to repress the very
disrespect for authority he himself had promoted. That
was when Liu underwent the remarkable transformation
from "capitalist roading" to anarchism.
So in the exercise of power, as in the struggle to win
it, Mao acted above the heads of the people. The peas-
antry was not a substitute proletariat in the sense of

being predisposed toward collectivism: its yearnings
were classically petty bourgeois. Neither was it a pro-
letariat like the Polish, Hungarian and Czechoslovakian
workers, a force capable of organized resistance to a
totalitarian regime. Rather, like the Russian peasantry in
the thirties, it responded by fighting for private plots and
cutting back on production when the pressure from
above became So there were fits and starts
intolerable.
in the policy of theCommunists because, except when
they occasionally had to give in to mass opposition,
the intra-party debates took place in a political vacu-
um undisturbed by workers or peasants.
"Mao's Thought," then, is indeed an original ac-
complishment, but not in the terms in which he de-
fined it. It was the adaptation of anti-socialist "social-
ism" to a society even poorer and less proletarian than
Russia. 4
m
There is another class that has been nominated by some
theorists as a substitute proletariat in the socialist revo-
lution: the urban poor.
The poor, it must be remembered, are not at all
equivalent to the working class. The workers are usual-
ly subjected to the discipline of modern methods of
production and have a natural tendency, arising out of
their conditions of labor, to organize themselves into
collective associations. The poor are unemployed or
—
underemployed, and when they find a job usually do

so in the most backward sectors of industry. Their
miseries are therefore both greater and more amorphous
that those of the workers. And this is particularly true
of the new class which is being formed in the cities of
the Third World.
In the nineteenth century most European cities de-
veloped along with the capitalist system (Italy, where
fairly big urban centers predated capitalism, was an
exception). As a result, the peasants who were forced
off the land found work —
miserable, inhumane and in-
credibly exploitative work, but work nevertheless
waiting for them. In those vicious times, as Barbara
Ward has pointed out, cholera acted as a murderous
equilibrating forcewhich kept a balance between avail-
able employment and the size of the working popula-
tion. But in the period after World War II, in Africa,
Asia and Latin America masses flooded into the cities
where their labor was not needed. One reason for this
has already been noted: the enclaves of modern indus-
trial technology in developing countries are capital-
intensive and simply do not require the huge working
class that tended the machines in the nineteenth cen-
tury in Europe and the United States.
So a new
class emerged in the bidonvilles and /a-
vellas of theThird World. It was urban and impover-
ished, but not a part of the working class. And in the
United States itself the vast migration of blacks from
the rural South into the cities was somewhat similar.
Marx, as Chapter III related, had identified a similar
stratum long ago, calling it the lumpenproletariat. It
had even more profound grievances against the estab-
lished order than the workers, yet it lacked any principle
of organization and genuine solidarity. It was, there-
fore, susceptible tomanipulation by charismatic dema-
gogues and inclined toward violence.
There was, as we have seen, one major theorist who
was diametrically opposed to Marx on this count: Mi-
khail Bakunin.
"What predominates in Italy," Bakunin wrote in
—
286 SOCIALISM
Statehood and Anarchy, is that "lumpenproletariat of
which Marx and Engels, and with them the entire Ger-
man socialist-democratic school, speak with such pro-
found and unmatched contempt. It is only with this
proletariat, and not with the bourgeoisified layer of the
working masses, that there resides the spirit and force
of the future social revolution." Historically, Marx's
perspective was vindicated, for the peasants of South-
ern and Eastern Europe did not make the libertarian
revolution of which Bakunin dreamed, but the work-
ers did effect democratic changes in the bourgeois or-
der.
The new lumpenproletariat of the Third World is
not, of course,composed of the Bohemians and other
social types Marx found in nineteenth-century Paris.
Yet its is strikingly similar to those
position in society
earlier lumpenproletarians: urban, but not working
class, and poor to the point of reckless desperation.
—
And so a number of theorists Frantz Fanon, Herbert
Marcuse, Eldridge Cleaver-Demerged who based their
strategy on just this class. They are modern Bakunin-
ists, even though they sometimes speak in Marxian
terms. And they are as wrong as their unacknowledged
master.
It may well be that this stratum will indeed play a
historic role which Marx could not have imagined
but it not be a socialist role. In Algeria the urban
will
poor were a factor in the defeat of the French. And it
could be in Brazil, and other Latin nations, that Glaucio
Ary Dillon Soares is right to say that "the future main
political conflicts will not derive from the opposition be-
tween the interests of the owners of the means of pro-
duction and the proletariat; rather the main sources of
would be the conflicting interests of the
political conflict
growing middle class and the growing unemployed and
underemployed sectors of the working class."
Still, even though such a class can let loose an ele-
mental force in the society, it cannot be the basis for a

socialist structure. For, like the peasantry, it lacks the
cohesion, the organization and tradition that are re-
quired a class is to dominate a modern nation. Al-

if
geria a case in point. After the revolution it did not

is
become the Fanonist Utopia "where the branch meeting

and the committee meeting are liturgical acts." Instead,
as one of Fanon's admirers, Peter Worsley, admits,
there "Boumedienne's Islamic, chauvinistic, authori-
is
tarian, military regime." There has been a tremendous

proliferation of bureaucracy so that, as Samir Amin,
the Egyptian economist and expert on the Third World,
wrote of the entire Maghreb (Algeria, Tunisia and
Morocco), "Compared with 1955, the number of
executives and civil servants (who earn relatively high
salaries) had multiplied six times by 1965, whereas the
number of manual and white-collar workers and arti-
sans had only risen by 30 percent."
Amin then made this extraordinary deduction from
the facts: "From this it may be unhesitatingly con-
cluded that the departure of the Europeans has so far
been to the exclusive benefit of the former group [exec-
utives and civil servants]. The direct consequence of
independence and the subsequent European exodus has
been the establishment of new and relatively privileged
classes; for the broad mass of the population, neither
the level of employment nor real income per head had
improved; indeed quite the reverse. Thus Muslim so-
ciety today exhibits much greater class distinctions than
in 1955 when the choicest positions were all occupied
by Europeans."
I wish that Fanon's romantic predictions had come
true. I sympathize with those opponents of French
colonialism —
particularly those in France itself who
courageously risked much in the struggle who were —
swept up in the enthusiasm of the moment and misun-
derstood the actual direction of the revolution. But the
Left can in such fantasies when so
no longer indulge
many facts are in. And
unfortunately many of the
same doomed hopes are now being projected, for simi-
lar reasons, for Southeast Asia.
The peasants and the urban poor are not a substitute
for the proletariat; the economy of a backward na-
288 SOCIALISM
tion does not provide the material basis for socialism.
The best and most enthusiastic will in the world can-
not transcend these cruel limitations, as the Cubans
learned when they tried to create a "new man" where
the conditions for him did not exist. Socialist faith, as
the next section will show, is not a substitute for the
proletariat. 5
IV
In the classic texts Marx and Engels had always as-

sumed that socialism was only possible where there was
such abundance that invidious competition and self-
seeking were not necessary. Where there is poverty, they
wrote in The German Ideology, there is a struggle for
necessities and consequently the "old crap" of class so-
ciety. They attacked the "religion" of an associate who
had said, "We don't have anything to do any more with
taking care of our shabby selves, we belong to man-
kind." Marx and Engels thundered, "With this infa-
mous, loathsome servility with regard to a 'Mankind'
separated and differentiated from the 'self,' which is a
metaphysical and even a religious fiction, with this ex-
treme 'shabby' and slavish humiliation, this religion
ends like all the others. Such a doctrine, which preaches
the pleasures of fawning and self-sacrifice, is perfect for
courageous monks, but not for energetic men in an
epoch of struggle."
But the "socialisms" of the Third World, lacking the
material preconditions for a just society, regularly ap-
pealed to just such a monastic self-denial. That, cer-
tainly, was the tone of the Maoist exhortation, and in
Cuba it became, as will be seen in a moment, a source
of economic disaster for the regime of Fidel Castro.
One consequence was that even such sympathetic com-
mentators on socialist theory as Wassily Leontiev and
Robert Heilbroner concluded that socialism had not yet
solved the problem of motivation. They did not realize
that this question is impossible of resolution under the
i
impoverished conditions in which it has been posed in

countries like China or Russia of the twenties and
thirties. (Socialism is, however, quite possible in the
Russia of the seventies if the totalitarian state were
to be democratized from below.)
In Cuba this problem can be seen quite clearly. The
example is particularly compelling since it can be com-
pletely documented by the reports of sympathizers, and
even members, of the regime, including Castro himself.
In of the countries of bureaucratic collectivism
all
there a tendency to emphasize nonmaterial incentives.
is
Stalin had his Stakhanovites whose furious pace of

work made them official heroes of the society. China
had its Cultural Revolution in which the mobilization
of the enthusiasm of the masses was supposed to permit
the nation not only to skip the capitalist stage and
proceed directly to the building of socialism, but also to
enter the promised land of Communism in fairly short
order. In Cuba a number of factors made the emphasis
on voluntarism particularly strong. The Fidelistas had
themselves accomplished the impossible overthrowing—
a dictator on the basis of a nucleus of youthful revolu-
tionaries. They were culturally Latin, undogmatic and
genuinely popular with the people.
The most passionate exponent of the theme of revo-
lutionary will was Che Guevara. He asked, "How can
we produce the transition to socialism in a country
colonized by imperialism, without any development of
its basic industries, in a situation of monopoly produc-
tion and dependent on a single market?" And an-

swered, "Within the great framework of the worldwide
capitalist system, struggling against socialism, one of its
weak links can be broken. In this particular case we
mean Cuba. Taking advantage of unusual historical cir-
cumstances and following the skillful leadership of their
vanguard, the revolutionary forces take over at a par-
ticular moment. Then, assuming that the necessary ob-
jective conditions already exist for the socialization of
labor, they skip stages, declare the socialist nature of the
revolution and begin to build socialism." (Emphasis
290 SOCIALISM
added.) And in another context he wrote, "We main-
tain that in a relatively short time the development of
conscience does more for the development of produc-
tion than most incentives do."
But in Guevara's letter to his family, written before
the fateful last period of his life, he rightly identified
himself as a Don
Quixote: "Once again I feel Rosinan-
te's bony beneath my legs. Again I begin my jour-
ribs
ney carrying my shield." Such idealism is enormously
appealing (I spent an evening with Guevara once, and
for all my political disagreements with him could not
help but be attracted by his charismatic grace), but it
can lead to debacles in a modern society.
The year 1970 was supposed to mark a triumph for
the revolution. As Edward Boorstein, an economist and
Fidelista, wrote in late 1966 or early 1967, "But by
the end of this decade, the full benefits of socialism will
begin to show themselves in Cuba. . Increased output
. .
of milk and meat, chickens and eggs, pork and other

agricultural products will have produced a big improve-
ment in diet. The output of shoes and clothing will be
greatly increased. With a large expansion of the cement
and construction industries, the building of houses will
be under way on a grand scale." Yet on July 26, 1970,
Fidel told 150,000 people in Havana that the economy
was in a deep crisis. The Economist of London re-
ported that the milk supply was down 25 percent, ce-
ment production down 23 percent and that some of the
workers in the fields were without shoes. Why?
Rene Dumont, the French agricultural expert who
served as Castro's personal advisor on a number of oc-
casions, answers that the mobilization enthusiasm with-
out careful planning leads either to waste or to the mili-
tarization of the entire society. Already in 1963, he
reports, the harvest was down by 25 percent but the
amount of work days invested in it had increased: "If
unemployment thus disappeared, it was not to the profit
of production." Moreover, during such harvests the
volunteers, who are hardly productive at all, retain
their urban salaries, which are higher than those of farm
workers. In 1970 The Economist reported that there

were shoeless cane cutters because too many workers
from the shoe factories were in the fields!
One solution to these problems has been the militari-
zation of work. For by a cruel irony, a society that
sought to base itself on voluntarism has become more
and more like an army. But, Dumont reports, the agri-
cultural brigades are no more efficient than the volun-
teers. Their conception of work is based on a kind of
guerrilla romanticism, but the "storming" of an eco-
nomic problem can have a profoundly counterproduc-
tive effect, e.g., when soil and vegetation is burned
along with trees when a field is being cleared with
brutal dispatch.
Even more disturbing from the point of view of the
professed values of Castro's Cuba is Dumont's com-
ment, "If the military society that we observed at the
Isle of Youth and in the Column of the Centenary of
Camaguey prefigures Communism, as I was told, then
this Communism is perilously close to an army." The
result approaches "Stalinism with a human face." The

regime, Dumont says, has no right to demand great
sacrifices of the people if it does not allow them to
participate in the decisions —
and if, in the old Hispano-
American tradition, it relies upon a caudillo capable of
grievous economic errors.
Not long after Dumont's book was published there
was a kind of official corroboration of his theory of the
militarization of Cuban life. In March, 1971, Castro's
government passed a law aimed at 400,000 "parasites"
in the country. It provided penalties ranging from six
months to two years of forced labor in "rehabilitation
centers" for those convicted of vagrancy, malingering or
habitual absenteeism from work or school. Once again,
in the absence of the preconditions of genuine voluntary
cooperation, the pretense of "socialist man" can only
be maintained through drastic compulsion. It was in
thisperiod of the further Stalinization of Cuba that
European intellectuals who had staunchly defended
Castro for years attacked his treatment of the poet
—
292 SOCIALISM
Huberto Padilla. After Fidel jailed him, Padilla, a mav-
erick poet, recanted in a self-criticism reminiscent of
Russia in the thirties.
Two other recent observers of the Cuban scene
—
both devoted to Fidel and his revolution confirm Du-
mont's judgment. The late Leo Huberman and Paul
Sweezy told of finding widespread discontent and eco-
nomic shortages (housing, far from being plentiful, as
Boorstein suggested, is not keeping pace with popula-
tion growth). And, they note, "Power is concentrated
in the Communist Party, within the Party in the Central
Committee, and within the Central Committee in the
Maximum Leader." So "Cuba's governing system is
clearly one of bureaucratic rule." Since Huberman and
Sweezy still believed in a rather simplified theory of
historic stages, they could see only two alternatives for
Castro's Cuba: either forward to socialism or backward
to capitalism. They did not understand that the very
society they described —
one that is bureaucratic and
collectivist— is capable of enduring for a considerable
period of time, viz., in Russia, for more than half a

century.
But perhaps the most candid critique from within the
Fidelistacamp came from K. S. Karol. Karol visited
Cuba a number of times in the sixties and engaged in
long and probing conversations with Fidel himself. In
describing the argument over material and nonmaterial
incentives, he writes, "Neither Che nor his opponents
had come to grips with the problem of political power
in, and the political organization of, all those societies
where centralized or reformist experiments in planning
and economic management were taking place. The 'clas-
sics,' which both sides so assiduously quoted, had never
equated socialism with mere economic efficiency, i.e.,
with economic control by a small group deciding, in
the name of the people, on the best way of organizing
work and leisure. One can look in vain to Marx for
this concept of permanently delegated political and
economic authority."
In a conversation with Fidel, Karol raised some of
these basic questions. "The people," Castro said,

"wanted a revolution because they hoped for higher
wages, more consumer goods, abundance for all im-
mediately, and so on." But the economic level of the
country would not permit such gains. Karol then asked
one of the most fateful questions of the twentieth cen-
tury: "How, with whom, and for whose sake must revo-
lutionaries run a socialist self-management?" Karol
paraphrased Fidel's answer: "The revolutionary leader-
ship, he said, must fulfill two parallel tasks: it must
create a material basis for socialism and it must foster
the political consciousness of the masses."
At this point, Karol became diplomatic. A Pole who
had been educated in the Soviet Union and fought in
the Red Army during World War II, his mind turned to
Russian analogies, but "there was nothing Fidel liked
less than comparisons between the Russia of yesterday
and the Cuba of today. He would certainly blow up
at me if I told him that his thesis bore a suspicious re-
semblance to Soviet theory at the time of the great in-
dustrialization campaign. In the U.S.S.R., too, they
had said: Let us first create the material foundations
and build up a socialist mentality; the rest will follow
by itself. . The Cuban leaders failed to appreciate
. .
that the U.S.S.R., too, had once had a revolutionary

vanguard, composed of devoted and dynamic men who
were not simply tools of the Stalinist terror. ... If,
despite all that, the U.S.S.R. has failed to become a pro-
letarian democracy, it is doubtless because the economic
effort of a vanguard commanded from on high cannot
inspire a whole country, let alone lead it forward to so-
cialism."
In Yugoslavia, on the other hand, there was an at-
tempt to involve the people in decision-making, but once
again, the context of poverty prevailed over the
schemes for self-administration. The regime remained a
one-party state (and even the Yugoslavian theorist Sve-
tozar Stojanovic, who is particularly sensitive to the dan-
gers of "statism," defended this policy), but it decreed
that there would be plant and communal councils.
294 SOCIALISM
Yet, given the economic and cultural level of the so-
ciety, the workers were not prepared to take part in
long-range planning and used their voice to speak on
only the most immediate of issues. There was "partici-
pation without the power to decide." And when the
regime opened up a private sector, there was a tre-
mendous growth of competition, a drive for individual
rather than cooperative enrichment. In each case, one
cannot demand more nobility from the people than the
conditions of their life permit. When there is scarcity,
that fact is more important than the finest of constitu-
tions or the most benevolent of authoritarianisms.
In the Yugoslavian case (and in the Third World
generally) these problems are aggravated by the
animus of the capitalist world market against both eco-
nomic development and social justice. In his study of
workers' control, "Daniel Chauvey" (the name is a
pseudonym) defined this aspect of the situation quite
brilliantly: "... in a nation as poor as Yugoslavia the
idea of 'socialism in a single coutry' has even less sense
than elsewhere. It is necessary, no matter what the cost,
to export the nation's goods on the world market in re-
turn for those imports which are indispensable to the
survival and political independence of the country. But
Yugoslavia cannot plan to sell at a loss forever in order
to pay for its imports and it does not possess enough
gold mines to make up for the permanent deficit of its
balance of payments.
"It was necessary," Chauvey continues, "to orient
the economy in such a way as to give priority to the
production of those products which could be competi-
tively exported. The Yugoslavian leaders thus found
themselves faced with a new problem. It was not enough
to free the enterprise from all paralysing state controls,
to give up the worked out by governmental
rigid plans
specialists. One does not direct an enterprise whose ob-
jective is to succeed on a capitalist market as if it were
a question of responding to the priority needs of a
societywhich have been democratically determined by
the society itself. It was urgently necessary, then, to
create a new social-professional category capable of con-

ducting the Yugoslavian enterprises to victory on the
capitalist market."
In other words, the problem of underdevelopment is
not something which is defined once and for all. The
world capitalist market is working night and day to im-
pose its disciplines, its needs, its priorities upon the
poor countries and to make it even more difficult for
them to listen to their own people. Without the presence
of a single soldier Western capitalism thus makes itself
a senior, and often dominant, advisor to the Yugo-
slavian government.
The problem is that the issue of incentives and of —
—
socialism itself has thus been posed in countries lack-
ing a material basis for their democratic —
and socialist
— resolution. In saying this, my purpose is not to deni-
grate the idea of nonmaterial incentives. On the con-
trary, it is to defend them. Romantic dictatorships nuay
pretend that impoverished people are aching to volun-
teer for sacrifices and to forget their own individual
needs, but that not so. And if such governments per-
is
sist in their own myths, they will have to introduce

some form of nonmarket compulsion and "socialism"
comes to resemble a barracks. Moreover, as Cuba's ex-
perience demonstrates —
and the Great Leap of the Chi-
nese Communists as well —
these voluntary abnegations
decreed from on high lead to the most wasteful ex-
travagance.
A poor country, as Rene Dumont observed in one of
his books on Africa, cannot afford a "socialistic rheto-
ric" (un verbalisme socialisant) which keeps it from
identifying actual problems. And which, I would add,
corrupts the future for those countries that are —
or, like
developing countries, will be —
economically ripe for the
generous motivations of an authentic socialism. 6
296 SOCIALISM
So neither peasants nor the urban poor nor sheer will

power can substitute for the proletariat in the socialist
revolution. But anti-Communists, or non-Communists,
can take the place of the Communist Party in the bu-
reaucratic revolution. Indeed, one of the most revealing
commentaries on what has happened in Russia and
China is that something quite similar to it has been
carried out by army officers in countries like Egypt, the
Sudan and Peru. As Communism came to resemble a
barracks, there were colonels and generals who sudden-
ly discovered that they were not Rightists but "so-
cialists."
The Egyptians are a case in point. When Nasser and
the young army officers in Egypt originally seized pow-
er in 1952, they were pro-capitalist, their land reform
program favored the better-off peasants, and the Na-
tional Union, the regime's political party, was directly
dominated by the Misr Bank and the National Bank of
Egypt. In 1959, when the Iraqi revolution seemed
heading toward Communism, Nasser was outraged:
"The Communists had their plan to dominate Syria;
but, upon failure, found consolation in the revolution of
Iraq. The Communists emigrated to Baghdad in order
to turn Iraq into a Communist state from which Com-
munism will spread to the rest of the Arab countries,
thereby creating a Communist fertile crescent."
Then in 1960 the very same Nasser nationalized the
banks, and heavy and medium industry were statified in
1961. So in 1962 the National Union was turned from a
creature of the banks into the Arab Socialist Union.
And in the wake of the Six Day War, Nasser told his
countrymen that the Russians were their best friend,
supplying arms in the struggle against imperialism but
never trying "to dictate conditions to us or to ask any-
thing of us." The Government had moved from Right
to Left in theory, without changing its personnel.
Such developments created problems for the Russian

theorists.What, precisely, was the character of the re-
gimes in Egypt, Syria, Ghana (under Nkrumah), Indo-
nesia (under Sukarno), Algeria and other Third World
nations which proclaimed themselves "socialist" but
—
which were not Communist and sometimes jailed
Communists? By 1964 some of the more daring Com-
munist ideologues were inventing a new historic cate-
gory: "If the conditions for proletarian leadership have
not yet matured, the historic mission of breaking with
capitalism can be carried out by elements close to the
working class. Nature does not suffer a vacuum." These
elements were the young officers, the students and the
lower ranks of the bureaucracy.
All of this was, needless to say, infuriating to the
Arab Communists, particularly those languishing in jail
under governments officially labeled as "progressive" by
Moscow. Some of them, like the Syrian Khalid Bak-
dash, were blunt in their criticism of the Russians. Arab
socialism, he said, is "a mere conglomeration of scien-
tific and Utopian socialism, petty bourgeois ideas, nar-
row nationalism, religious prejudices and subjective

idealism." But it was the Sudanese Communists who
suffered these ironies most cruelly. They had helped the
officers around General Gafar El Nemiery into power.
Then, however, the military decided that it was "so-
cialist" and, to the consternation of the Communists, na-
tionalized industry and thus robbed the party of its
most Not long after, Nemiery jailed
distinctive slogan.
the leading Communists and began to negotiate, with
Russian backing, for a federation with the Egyptians
and Libyans. While the Russians encouraged this pol-
icy, their followers in the Sudan attacked it on the
grounds that it was simply bringing bureaucratic state
regimes together. Thus the Soviets saw Arab socialism
as part of the wave of the future and the Arab Com-
munists saw it as reactionary. So it was that the Rus-
sians signed a treaty with Sadat in 1971 right after the
Egyptian president had purged the pro-Communists
from his cabinet, and in the Sudan in the summer of
298 SOCIALISM •A
1971, Nemiery, the beneficiary of so much Russian
aid,proceeded to hunt and kill his one-time Communist
allies.
Communists could not possibly solve the theoretical
problem of "Arab socialism" (or of Third World "so-
cialism" in general) because the answer would be much
too embarrassing. As long as socialism is defined as a
movement of self-emancipation of the people that uses
democracy to make the economic system as classless as
possible, it has little or nothing in common with the
military mentality. But once "socialism" connotes a sys-
tem of totalitarian discipline, class privileges and the
extraction of economic surpluses in order to expand the
power of the state, there is no reason why a patriotic
officer should not embrace it. For now socialism is the
idealization of the barracks.
There are, to be sure, differences between the na-
tionalist versions of "socialism" and Communism. The
nationalists, as Richard Lowenthal has pointed out, do
not necessarily nationalize all industry, but rather con-
centrate on foreign capital; and lacking an ideology of
any substance, they are more prone to corruption. Le
Monde commented in a survey of African development,
"The constant reference of some chiefs of state to so-
cialism does not do a very good job of concealing the
absence of ideology in their regimes. . Under the
. .
pretext of collectivization the imposing bureaucratic ma-

chine was built [in Mali] and, as in many of the neigh-
boring states, an administrative bourgeoisie actually
governed to the profit of its caste interests." Rene Du-
mont, in a similar analysis of Nasserism, talks of the
"state bourgeoisie" in Egypt. And Ghana under Nkru-
mah is a classic example of "socialism" becoming the
private property of an elite leadership.
Finally, the most recent, and fascinating, cases of
military "socialism" are to be found in Latin America.
In both Peru and Bolivia officers have followed this
course. In the latter country there was even an ex-
traordinary symbolism: the general who led the suc-
cessful hunt for Che Guevara is the one who tried to
—
carry out this "Leftist" program and who

freed Gue-
vara's associate, Regis Debray, from Indeed, Vic-
jail.
tor Alba reports that young Latin officers study Che

—
and Mao and Giap but avoid Marx. They are con-
cerned with the guerrilla and Third World aspects of
"socialism," i.e., those elements in it that can be adapted
to the armed forces, but not with the basic vision of a
classless society.
In Chile, one is much closer to the classic Marxian
model. The mass base of President Allende's power in
that country is the working class that was organized in
the —
Communist and Socialist parties but, significantly,
that provided him with only a minority victory over his
two rivals in the election of 1970. Allende, in contrast
to the Spartan collectivism of China and Cuba, has
tried to stimulate economic expansion by expanding
the consumption of the people. Yet he is perilously
dependent upon the world economy, there has been a
strike of capital within his country, and the totalitarians
and insurrectionists within his own ruling coalition
could pressure him to move in an anti-democratic di-
rection. It is much too early to attempt even a prelimi-
nary assessment of this phenomenon, but it does seem
to be somewhat atypical in Latin America because of
Chile's level of economic development and democratic
consciousness.
So there are non-Communist versions of that bu-
reaucratic collectivism pioneered by the Russian Com-
munists. And the fact that military officers have played
such an important role in these regimes should not
come as a surprise. For as "socialism" was militarized
by the Communists, it became a convenient ideology
for any modernizing authoritarian and it even began to
speak to some of the prejudices of the traditional mili-
tary. Generals and colonels could substitute themselves
for the bourgeoisie and the proletariat just as well as
Communists. 7
300 SOCIALISM
VI
Finally, this critique of totalitarian and authoritarian

"socialism" in the Third World should not be taken to
imply that there is a simple democratic alternative to it.
India, which has tried to modernize in freedom, shows
that a democratic socialist elite faces many of the prob-
lems that bedevil the Communists. Its efforts have pro-
duced all the contradictions of that socialist capitalism
discovered by the European social democrats, but with-
in a context of excruciating poverty.
Fortunately, the extraordinary scholarship of Gun-
—
nar Myrdal the three volumes of Asian Drama: An
Inquiry into the Poverty of Nations and the policy-
oriented summary The Challenge of World Poverty —
provides an overview of this complex experience by
one of the most distinguished social democratic intel-
lectuals of the century. In basing this brief glance at the
Indian model on his work, I will purposely quote him
somewhat out of context. In this section I will concen-
trate primarily on the problems of democratic collecti-
vization in the Third World, citing Myrdal's negative
analysis. In Chapter XII I will turn to the solutions.
The crucial problem in India is more complicated
than Myrdal once thought and is depressingly similar to
the one described by Marx more than a hundred years
ago. Originally, Myrdal believed that the economic ef-
fects of democracy were the great difficulty in such a
country. In his Economic Theory of Underdeveloped
Regions (published in 1957), he had quoted Aneurin
Bevan, the leader of the British Labour Left, approving-
ly: "It is highly doubtful whether the achievements of
the Industrial Revolution would have been permitted if
the franchise had been universal." So in the Third
World, he argued, free institutions might menace the
accumulation of an investment surplus by diverting
funds to immediate consumption. But in his later work
Myrdal came to believe that, in India at least, there is
no "revolution of rising expectations" which might try

to use democracy in order to press the claims of the
masses.
In this later mood he wrote, "Because of the narrow
social base of the elite and the absence of any pressure
from the masses, the leaders were under no compulsion
to govern vigorously and disinterestedly." Nehru and
Gandhi had assumed, somewhat like Bevan, that if
there were universal suffrage, the people would not per-
mit a minority to monopolize the nation's wealth. That
was not the case, for the majority of the Indian people
remained apathetic, hostile to planning and develop-
ment and satisfied with their static society. That vast
immobilism of Indian life, which Marx thought Brit-
ish imperialism would destroy, resisted even the
achievement of national independence.
So it was that the attempt to create "socialism" took
place within a context still dominated by many of the
traditions of the Indian past. Land was either divided
into small plots or else held by absentee landlords and
labor was still considered to be a demeaning pursuit.
"Socialism," Myrdal reports, "is merely a vague term
for the modernization ideology with an inherent stress
on equality as a primary planning objective." Indeed,
when the Congress Party in 1955 declared itself in
favor of a "socialist pattern of society," newspapers
owned and operated by big business criticized it for its
lack of definiteness.
But then, business in India has little reason to be dis-
satisfied with the "socialist" measures that have been
taken so far. Myrdal writes, ". .the investment and
.
pricing policies pursued by public enterprises are usual-

ly such that, by holding down prices, they swell the
profits of the private sector. Thus, when put into prac-
tice, the vaguely socialist notion that public enterprise
must render services at low prices in fact boosts con-
siderably the returns on private capital. Instead of being
used to supplement government revenue and help to
mop up purchasing power, the public sector functions to
inflate private profit." In other words, the contradic-
302 SOCIALISM
tions of socialist capitalism are at work in India as well
as Europe, only in the former case they afflict a people
menaced by starvation.
This problem, however, isnot confined to the in-
widespread inequal-
dustrial sector, for the existence of
ity has meant that all the public expenditures for com-
munity democracy and local services have tended to
strengthen the position of the upper strata in the vil-
lages. They are the ones who are best able to take ad-
vantage of a government program and therefore they
benefit disproportionately from funds that are theoreti-
cally spent for the public good. Thus all the schemes
for proceeding slowly into the modern world by em-
phasizing the values of the traditional institutions fail
because these institutions are both anti-modern and
anti-egalitarian.
This trend, Myrdal suggests in The Challenge of
World Poverty, can be seen most dramatically in the
"green revolution" which is taking place through the
introduction of new strains of grain developed through
research financed by Western foundations. To many in
the United States this development was to be India's
salvation from hunger; Myrdal believes it may even in-
crease starvation. Given the passivity of the masses and
the patterns of absentee ownership and sharecropping,
the overwhelming majority of the people will not be
able to use the new seeds. However, the entrepreneurial
minority in the countryside will be able to take advan-
tage of them. If they are then able to use the available
state aid for labor-saving investments, the whole process
will increase the size of farms and destroy the employ-
ment of many who eke out an existence as agricultural
laborers today. As a result, a vast increase in India's
capacity to produce food might well, because of the
social and economic setting in which it takes place,
lead to the immiserization of millions of people, to hun-
ger and even to starvation.
Here, then, is the other side of the coin from the
totalitarian and authoritarian "socialisms" of the Third
World. In the countries where there is a coercive forced
—
march toward the the people are brutalized,

future,
enormous sacrifices are forced and the lack of any real
popular participation makes spectacular waste and/
or corruption possible. But in a country like India,
where the government supports democratic freedoms,
the masses are dormant and the state does not take the
tough measures that are necessary —
and which would
disturb the elite class from which the planners them-
selves come.
It is possible that the breakup of the old Congress
—
Party which was quite literally socialist capitalist in
character, uniting industrialists and Marxists will of- —
fer some new hope. Certainly the huge mandate given
Indira Gandhi in 1971 might be a sign of an awakening
among the people. But even if that is the case, the
attempt to create a democratic socialist society under
conditions of poverty will hardly be easy. For if the
millions have indeed stirred, then it is possible, as Bevan
and the earlier Myrdal thought, that they will use their
freedom to maximize immediate consumption and re-
tard those investments which, in the long run, offer
them the only way out of their misery.
I wish it were not necessary to write in such a gloomy
mode. I would infinitely prefer it if everything in this
chapter were false. It is hardly a joyous labor for a so-
cialist to carefully detailthe tenacity of injustice and
the difficulty of overcoming it. And when the writer is a
citizen of the relatively affluent West describing how
Third World peoples must endure yet more misery,
even under the best of circumstances, the task is even
more onerous. I wish that Mao's fantasies, and Fanon's
and Che's and Mahatma Gandhi's, were true. But they
are not, and it would be patronizing
to pretend otherwise.
—
and chauvinist
There is no force on earth that can simultaneously

substitute itself for the bourgeoisie and the proletariat,
increasing the surplus taken from the people and eman-
cipating them at the same time. A new ruling class in-
carnated in the party-state can indeed take the place of
the bourgeoisie, but it does so by turning against the
I
304 SOCIALISM
proletariat, the peasantry and everyone else. There are,
to be sure, alternatives that lie in between capitalist and
bureaucratic collectivist accumulation and offer more of
a hope than either capitalism or Communism. They will
be discussed in Chapter XII. But for now, the truth is
sad. Peasants, the urban poor, military officers and even
democratic socialist elites cannot force their way into
the promised land by following Stalin or Gandhi or
anyone else. The facts are inhumane, but recognizing
them is the prerequisite for an effective humanism. For
only then can one act to repeal these ancient, but man-
made, injustices. 8
XI
The Invisible Mass Movement
There is a social democracy in the United States,

but most scholars have not noticed it. It is our invisible
mass movement.
America, as Chapter VI documented, was indeed an
exceptional capitalist society. Its Utopian tradition was
deeper than that of any European country, which made
the practical work of transforming the existing order all
the more difficult. Its workers were split along national
lines, and that inhibited the development of a unified
class consciousness. Its standard of living in the first
three decades of this century was not as princely as
some historians suggest, yet in comparison with the
Eastern European conditions the later immigrants had
left, it was high. These are among the reasons why a
great socialist movement did not spring to life in the

New World.
But America was not as exceptional as is often
thought. The triumph of capitalism in this country pro-
voked more bitter class violence than in Europe and
forced workers into unions and unions into politics. To
the degree that the nation was more affluent and egali-
tarian than the Old World, these factors often acted
as an incitement to rebellion, since labor did not know
its "place." At the same time, the unevenness of pros-
perity and the primitiveness of industrial legislation,

which lagged far behind Europe, provided more
straightforward reasons for militancy.
By the early 1920s the elements in American work-
ing-class life that were similar to those in Europe had
driven the trade unionists far away from the laissez-
305
306 SOCIALISM
faire"voluntarism" of Samuel Gompers. In 1924 labor
backed the independent candidacy of La Follette and
even made a formal alliance with the Socialist Party in
the process. But the failure of that campaign, and the
general paralysis of the American Federation of Labor
during the rest of the decade, seemed to put an end to
democratic impulse. In the conventional in-
this social
terpretation,when the workers turned massively to
Franklin Roosevelt in 1932, that sealed the fate of
American socialism and proved the utterly exceptional
character of this country's history.
In fact, the turn to Roosevelt during the Depression
marked the beginning of the appearance of a mass so-
cial democratic movement in the United States.
I say "social democratic" rather than "socialist" for a
number of reasons. The most obvious is that American
unions are formally pro-capitalist and ambiguously anti-
socialist (the ambiguity will be detailed later in this
chapter). There is, however, a historical warrant for
calling such a movement social democratic when it is
not socialist. For Marx and Engels, the social demo-
crats, as contrasted to the socialists, were first of all the
radical democrats in the French and German revolu-
tions of 1848. The term disappeared from the vocabu-
lary of the Left in 1850 and then reappeared in the
1860s to describe the followers of Lassalle. For this
reasonMarx and Engels did not like to use it. It often
applied, Engels reminisced in 1893, to people who "in
no way inscribed on their banner that society should
completely take over the means of production."
But then, "social democrat" came to be synonymous
with "socialist," and Engels accepted the fact: "The
names of living political parties are never completely
satisfactory; parties develop; names remain the same."
I do not now propose to go back to his 1893 distinction
between "socialist" and "social democrat" as an act of
piety, but rather because it helps to define a complex
reality. There is in the United States today a class po-
litical movement of workers which seeks to democratize
many of the specific economic powers of capital but
The Invisible Mass Movement 307
does not denounce capitalism itself. It champions, to

use the language of the First International, the political
economy of the working class —
but not socialism. And
its impact upon the society is roughly analogous to that
of the social democratic parties of Europe. That is why

I call it the American social democracy.
In understanding this strange development it is first
necessary to see why the Socialist Party of Eugene Vic-
tor Debs did not become the institutional expression of
the social democratic impulse in American life. Then
the beginnings of the social democracy in the twenties
and thirties will be described. And finally, the formali-
zation of this trend will be analyzed, as well as the
reasons why almost all American intellectuals failed to
notice the momentous event. A
new political party ap-
peared, but with an old and nonpolitical name, and they
did not look beneath the label. The result was, and is,
an invisible mass movement.
In the traditional reading of American history the So-

which was dramatically successful between
cialist Party,
its foundation in 1901 and its electoral high point in
1912, vanished somewhere around 1920 without really

leaving a trace. If one looks simply at the institution,
there is some plausibility to that view, for the party
never became a serious electoral force after the Debsian
era. But if one examines the historic forces involved in
the rise of Debsian socialism, it becomes obvious that
they did not suddenly disappear but rather took on
new forms.
In 1912 the party had 118,000 members spread out
over every section of the United States. The Appeal to
Reason, a socialist weekly published in Girard, Kansas,
had a circulation of 761,747, and there were 323 En-
glish and foreign-language socialist newspapers whose
total circulation was probably more than two million.
In 1912 Debs received 6 percent of the Presidential
308 SOCIALISM
vote and there were 1,200 socialist office-holders in 340
cities, 79 mayors in 24 states among them. Historians
then argue that in a certain year — 1912, when the Left
wing was expelled, and 1919, when the Communist
split occurred, are two of the favored dates — this for-
midable movement went into a quick and irreversible
decline. There was, to be sure, the imposing figure of
Norman Thomas, who dominated the party from the
late twenties until his death in 1968, but the organiza-
tion itself never even approximated the strength and in-
fluence it had won in the days of Debs.
Some, like Daniel Bell, say that the socialists were
"too much a Marxist party," that it was "in the world
in, that it proposed specific reforms of society; but it
was not of society, in that it refused to accept re-

sponsibility for the actions of government itself." Oth-
ers, like Ira Kipnis, hold the exact contrary: "The
Socialist Party had been organized to combat the insti-
tutions, practices and values of monopoly capitalism.
Instead it had been corrupted by them. Like other
movements sworn to change the American economy, it
had proved too willing to settle for a few favors and
promises from the dreaded enemy."
On the whole, Bell has the better of the argument: it
was the sectarianism of American socialism, not its ex-
pediency, that vitiated so much of its organizational
effort. But this fact is not to be explained as a simple
subjective failure of the socialists themselves or even as
a uniquely American phenomenon, as Bell suggests.
The problem of proposing reforms but not accepting
governmental responsibility plagued the socialist move-
ment all over the world prior to World War I, as Chap-
ter IX showed. And the individual psychologies of the
American socialists were, in considerable measure, a
historic product.
The isolation of the German-American socialists and
their obsession with doctrine had helped establish a sec-
tarian tradition; so had the native American utopian-
ism, with its periodic call for total withdrawal from
the evil society. The heterogeneity of the working class
had prevented the American Federation of Labor from

reaching out beyond the aristocracy of labor, and that,
in turn, had caused an overreaction on the American
Left. Gompers and his associates were assigned exclu-
sive blame for a situation which was, in some measure,
a result of objective conditions. It was then assumed
that an act of radical will could overcome the difficulties
America posed to its trade-union and socialist move-
ments. As a result, many of the most militant socialists
divorced themselves from the AFL and thus forfeited
the chance to win it to their point of view.
Debs, who was an early sympathizer of the Indus-
trial Workers of the World (the IWW, or "Wobblies")
but later became disenchanted with them, expressed a
common attitude: working in the AFL was as "wasteful
of time as to spray a cesspool with attar of roses." The
Wobblies did have brief successes in organizing the
Western metal miners, migrant farmers and lumber-
jacks, and they led in some historic Eastern strikes, like
Lawrence. Yet their tactics were only capable of reach-
ing out to workers on the move. They refused to ne-
gotiate a contract, to check off dues, to maintain a strike
—
fund or even to have a sick and death benefits pro-
gram, which, they believed, would dim the ardor of the
class struggle. Above all, they could never decide wheth-
er they were a union or a revolutionary party, and
therefore did not succeed in being either.
Up until 1912 the Wobblies had support in the "im-
possibilist" wing of the party and their leader, "Big
Bill" Haywood, was elected to the National Executive.
But then, when the party came out against sabotage and
effectively drove out the ultra-Leftists, that did not put
an end to the sectarianism of the movement. When
America entered World War I the Oklahoma socialists
— who had achieved the highest-percentage socialist
vote of any state in the nation —
armed themselves in
the Green Corn Rebellion in order to overthrow the
militaristgovernment.
And yet, even with all of these eccentricities, the Debs-
ian socialists did reach out to masses of people. There
310 SOCIALISM
were the Jewish workers in the needle trades in New
York; a near labor party under socialist auspices in
Pennsylvania where James Hudson Maurer, a leading
party member, was the president of the State Federa-
tion of Labor; a significant socialist tendency in Chi-
cago's union movement which played a major role in
the campaign for a labor party in the early twenties;
in Milwaukee under Victor Berger the party and the
AFL were united; in Oklahoma, Kansas, Arkansas,
Texas and Missouri the socialists spoke for agrarian
radicalism; in the Rocky Mountains and on the Coast
there were miners, loggers and middle-class reformers
around the party.
All these different groupings— skilled workers, indus-
trial workers, middle-class reformists, agrarian radicals
— felt that liberalism was not enough, that it was neces-
sary to restructure society as a whole. Did that growing
socialist sentiment cease to exist in 1912 when the party
moved against its Left wing, or in 1917 when "it op-
posed the war, or in 1919 when the Communists split?
In his study The Decline of Socialism in America James
Weinstein provides the beginning of the answer: up un-
til 1924 socialist convictions continued to affect the
United States, but largely outside the Socialist Party.

That, I will argue, is a trend that has continued to this
very day.
One reason why so many scholars have overlooked
our invisible mass movement is that they have identified
the fate of social democracy in America with the orga-
nizational structure of the Socialist Party. In the process
they have, unwittingly for the most part, adopted the
prejudices of the socialist Left wing and failed to see
how the movement in this country followed the En-
glish, not the German, pattern.
The Debsians, like most socialists around the world
in that period, had looked to the German Social
Democracy as their inspiration. They rejected the idea
of a labor party, which they regarded as inexcusably
reformist, and argued that the American workers
would steadily increase in class consciousness and
make the party a contender for political power under

its own banner. It, and not the conservative, craft-
dominated AFL, would be the central organization of
the working class. In those days when A. M. Simons
wrote to William English Walling and suggested the
"English policy" of working toward a new party which
would be based on the unions, Walling was outraged.
If the Socialist Party merged with the AFL, he said,
they would together only be able to elect twenty or
thirty Congressmen. Therefore the party must refuse
such a policy and grow among " 'brainworkers,' farm-
ers and unorganized labor." Then, having become a
power in its own right, it might discuss merger or
common work with the AFL. In retrospect, Walling's
attitude seems incredibly sectarian, yet it must be re-
membered that the socialists had built their member-
ship from 10,000 to 118,000 in eleven years and that
the AFL only reached a minority of the labor force.
Walling was quite wrong, but he was not preposterous.
After World War I, when there were so many labor
party stirrings around the nation, most socialists, of
both the Right and Left wings, were opposed to that
perspective. And even when the Socialist Party affiliated
with the Conference on Progressive Political Action in
1922 and supported La Follette in 1924, the ranks were
uneasy and wanted recognition as a specifically socialist
faction of the new movement. Their intransigence did
not prevail in American life, but it did win over the
American historians. They, like the Debsians, assume
that the criterion of socialist success in this country is
established by the German model, in which the party
grows with its own name and program. They therefore
have not recognized the belated fulfillment of the "En-
glish policy" in the emergence of a de facto social
democratic party based upon the unions and operating
within the Democratic Party.
So the exceptional conditions of American life and
the sectarianism to which they gave rise overwhelmed
the Socialist Party but not the social democracy. 1
312 SOCIALISM
II
It was in the 1920s that a historic change took place

in America: the majority became urban. Paradoxical-
ly, the first effect of this change was to be conservative,
yet ultimately the shift was an important factor in the
rise of the American social democracy during the
Great Depression.
After the First World War immigration was drasti-
cally reduced. At the time, the American farmer,
same
who had been moving to the city for decades, left the
land in greater and greater numbers. During the ten
years from 1920 to 1929, 19,436,000 made the trek,
and in every year except 1920 and 1921 more than two
million people came from the countryside to the me-
tropolis. As Irving Bernstein assesses the effect of this
great internal migration, "This large labor supply, in-
ured to the low level of farm income, relieved an up-
ward pressure on wage rates that might have occurred.
Workers drawn from a rural background were accus-
tomed to intermittency and so did not insist on regular-
ity of employment. Although they adapted readily to
machinery, they were without skills in the industrial
sense. The fact that the price of skilled labor was high
and of unskilled low induced management to substitute
machines for craftsmen. The displaced farmers . . .
brought with them . the conservative outlook and

. .
individualistic accent of the rural mind."

This was one of the main reasons why the labor
movement, in contrast to the normal pattern, declined
during the relative prosperity of the twenties. The high
levels of employment had brought men and women
into the working class who, given their agricultural
background, were suspicious of union organization. It
was only when the economic and political upheavals of
the thirties took place that they were galvanized into
motion along with their foreign-born fellow workers.
But there was a very important intimation of the
changes that were to come: the Al Smith campaign of

1928.
When the twenties began, the Democratic Party was
predominantly Anglo-Saxon, Protestant and rural. But
during that decade the city masses, the immigrants and
the ex-farmers became restive, and the party acquired a
new constituency. In 1928 that faction triumphed by
nominating Smith for President. Their man lost badly
but the emergence of a new political alignment had
been signaled: in many of the big cities of the nation
the Democratic vote had doubled. So under seeming
conditions of "normalcy" in the twenties, momentous
transformations had been taking place but, more often
than not, had been ignored. The working class had
become Americanized and prole tarianized; the cities
were turning into a political force.
Then came the Depression. Despite all the boasting
of American business during the twenties about how
well the worker was being paid, wages lagged behind
productivity. In classic Marxian fashion, the capitalist
genius for production was on a collision course with
the capitalist limits on consumption. In 1929 the
crash took place.
The immediate impact of the catastrophe in the
labor movement was not radical. When various unions
responded to it by demanding in 1930 that the AFL
abandon its voluntarist opposition to state-supported
unemployment insurance, Matthew Woll, one of
Gompers' spiritual heirs, fought bitterly against the
move. It took an internal struggle which lasted for
two years before the Federation finally endorsed the
proposal in November, 1932. Even then, there were
still some powerful leaders, like William L. Hutcheson
of the Teamsters, who were opposed to a minimum

wage. It is quite likely that Senator Hugo Black re-
frained from putting a minimum-wage clause in his
thirty-hour-week bill out of fear of union opposition.
For a brief moment it seemed that the disastrous
collapse of American capitalism would revive the So-
cialist Party. In the campaign of 1932 Norman
314 SOCIALISM
Thomas received almost a million votes and in Novem-
ber of that year 1,600 locals had been chartered. In
1934 the party had almost 21,000 members on its
rolls, the highest total since the Communist split in
1919, but less than a fifth of the top Debsian enrollment.
And yet, even though the free enterprise system was
coming apart at the seams and a quarter of the labor
force was walking the streets, the thirties saw the ef-
fective collapse of the Socialist Party as an electoral
alternative.
The Socialists, to be sure, contributed to their own
downfall. The Convention of 1934 saw a
Detroit
heated debate over whether the party would require an
absolute majority before taking power or whether,
when power was in the streets, it would seize it though
only a powerful, massive minority. It was this quarrel
—
over a hypothetical situation which was an exercise
in fantasy —
that led to a split in 1936. In that year the
pro-Roosevelt socialists quit, the membership dropped
to 6,500 and never rose above that level in the rest of
the decade. But it was not just the sectarianism of the
socialists that thwarted them at the moment of
capitalist collapse, it was also the reformism of
Franklin Roosevelt.
For history was following a devious version of the
"English policy." And just as the English working class
woke from a thirty years' sleep (the phrase is Engels')
in the 1890s when the New Unionism brought un-
skilled workers into the ranks, so the emergence of the
Congress of Industrial Organizations (CIO) was a de-
cisive turning point in the United States. In a way,
John L. Lewis, the leader of the industrial union drive,
is a perfect symbol of the change that had taken place.
For even though Lewis had run against Gompers for
the presidency of the Federation in 1921, he was any-
thing but a radical. In the twenties he had fought the
Leftists in his Mine Workers union with all the re-
sources at his command, including violence and the
accusation that his opponents were Communists. And
he held to the voluntarist philosophy so deeply that he

backed Herbert Hoover in 1932.
Lewis' mind was changed by events. Starting with
the simple and fundamental trade-union desire to
organize more workers, he had fought to get a pro-
labor provision included in the National Industrial Re-
lations Act, the law that established the NRA. In Sec-
tion 7(a), Congress did give formal approval to union
rights, but in most cases employers ignored that part of
the legislation. Lewis, however, aggressively used 7(a)
as a potent organizing weapon. As a leaflet of the Ken-
tucky Federation of Labor put it, "the United States
Government has said LABOR MUSTORGANIZE.
. . Forget about injunctions, yellow dog contracts,
.
black lists and the fear of dismissal. The employers

cannot and will not go to the Government for privileges
if it can be shown that they have denied the right of
organization to their employees. ALL WORKERS

ARE FULLY PROTECTED IF THEY DESIRE TO
JOIN A UNION."
In fact, the workers did not have such guarantees.
But Lewis, by persuading them that they did and iden-
tifying the moral authority of the President of the
United States with his campaign, turned the empty Con-
gressional promise into a reality. In the process there
were bitter strikes and company guards gunned down
union men, but the membership quadrupled in one
year. This success was stunning, so much so that it was
to split the labor movement.
As Arthur Schlesinger, Jr., summarizes the moment
in his brilliant history of the Roosevelt years, "Most
old-line AF of L leaders . . . could hardly get over the
fact that the depression had driven them to the point of
accepting such statist ideas as unemployment insurance
and the NRA: the conception of the government as a
partner in an organizing drive was too much. More-
over, where Lewis, as the head of an industrial union,
thought instinctively in terms of a single drive for each
great industry, most of the Federation, committed to
316 SOCIALISM
the craft idea, thought of organization, not by in-
dustry, but by skill."
The internal struggle lasted until October, 1935,
—
when Lewis now, significantly, in the company of his
former rebel opponent in the Mine Workers, John
—
Brophy launched the CIO. In a matter of four years
the dreams of the Wobblies and socialists were fulfilled
and that vast mass of unskilled and semi-skilled workers
finally entered theAmerican labor movement.
The political impact of this working-class insurgency
was profound. In 1932 Franklin Roosevelt had not
even bothered to make a major labor speech and there
was no sign that the workers had made a distinctive
contribution to his victory. In the spring of 1934 when
Senator Robert Wagner introduced his bill to provide
a Federal structure for collective bargaining, the White
House had been suspicious of the proposal. It was only
when the NRA was declared unconstitutional that
FDR began a belated campaign for the Wagner Act.
Thus even if Roosevelt's first term had been indecisive,
it ended with his moving toward the organized
workers.
So it was that in April, 1936, Lewis, Sidney
Hillman and George L. Berry announced the forma-
tion of Labor's Non-Partisan League. It was at this
point that David Dubinsky of the Garment Workers
and Emil Reive of the Hosiery Workers resigned from
the Socialist Party to join in the campaign for Roose-
velt, an act rich in symbolism. For the moment that
the unions politicalized themselves, the idea of the in-
dependent electoral growth of the Socialist Party on
the model of the German Social Democracy lost what-
ever residual relevance it had. Labor, it was then clear,
would move Left only in terms of the "English policy."
And that is what began to happen in 1936
precisely
when, with business contributions to Roosevelt falling
off,the unions contributed three quarters of a million
dollars toward his reelection and became an inde-
pendent political force in American life.
Among historians, Richard Hof stadter has been one
of the few who understood this momentous event:

"The demands of a large and powerful labor move-
ment, coupled with the institutions of the unemployed,
gave the New Deal a social democratic tinge that had
never before been present in American reform move-
ments." (Emphasis added.) In 1936 it was only a
"tinge"; in a generation it was to be much more than
that.
But there is one group of contemporary theorists
who regard Hofstadter's view — —
and mine as quite
wrong. Significantly, they speak as the Leftist critics of
American historiography. William Appleman Williams,
the dean of this school, holds that the New Deal "rep-
resented an operating consensus among the most astute
members of the national corporation class and the re-
formers (or corporation socialists)." And James Wein-
stein argues that the Roosevelt Administration was the
ideological heir of the National Civic Federation, that
united front of Samuel Gompers and sophisticated busi-
nessmen.
The motivation of these attacks on the New Deal in
the thirties relates, I believe, to the politics of the late
sixties and early seventies. The white, middle-class and
young Left in America in these years became bitterly
anti-liberal. Some Leftist historians then projected this
attitude back into history and thus became sensitive
only to what was conservative and timid in liberalism.
There is no question that the shrewder corporate in-
terests —represented, say, by a financier like Bernard
Baruch or, for that matter, by that most brilliant of
anti-socialists, John Maynard Keynes —
conceded re-
forms in order to stave off more radical transformations.
But from the point of view of American workers, a de-
cisive turn had been made and the basic relationship of
political forces had been altered. Moreover, the very
conditions of life at the point of production had been
changed. 2
Significantly, the one American organization appeal-
ing to radical sentiment that treated the New Deal coali-
tion as incipiently social democratic, the Communist
318 SOCIALISM
Party, was the only successful group on the Left in this
period. While the Socialist Party, which counterposed
itself as an alternative to Roosevelt, was losing mem-
bers, the Communists, during their "Popular Front"
period in the thirties, were making impressive gains.
It is certainly true that in this the American Commu-
nists were the beneficiaries of a historic accident: the
exigencies of Russian foreign policy which determined
all Communist policy in this country required them,
from 1935 to 1939 and again during World War II, to
turn toward Roosevelt. Ironically, their political sub-
servience to a foreign power helped them relate to their
own country with much greater skill and subtlety than
the socialists.
The original Communist movement of 1919 had
been based on two elements: a great many
distinct
foreign-born radicals from Russia and Eastern Europe,
who had been recruited because of the Russian Revolu-
tion; and a smaller grouping of native-born Leftists
from the Socialist Party. The young party was im-
mediately beset by intense factional struggles and by a
great deal of ultra-revolutionism.
In 1923 the Comintern in Moscow forced the Amer-
ican Communists to take a more sane, less apocalyptic
attitude. Yet even though the substance of the policy
dictated from afar was quite rational, a fateful prece-
dent had been set: that decisions about the United
States were to be made in Russia. As Theodore Draper
has written, "something crucially important did happen
to this movement in its infancy. It was transformed
from a new expression of American radicalism to the
American appendage of Russian revolutionary power.
Nothing else so important ever happened to it again."
At the Seventh Congress of the Communist Inter-
national in 1935 Moscow ordered a change in line.
Since the late twenties Communists around the world
had been ultra-militant, attacking the social democrats
as "social fascists." In Germany this policy contributed
to the rise of Hitler; in the United States it led Com-
munists to launch a physical attack against a socialist
meeting in solidarity with the anti-fascist Austrian

workers. In 1935, however, the Russians decided that
alliances with the Western capitalist democracies were
necessary to protect them against Hitler. A
Franco-
Russian pact was thus signed that year, and Commu-
nists were told to make a rapprochement with the very
liberals and socialists who had so recently been de-
scribed as disguised fascists.
It was this change in the International Communist
line that oriented the American Communists toward
the New Deal. Once they received their orders, they
carried them out with imagination and devotion. The
Communists, their leader Earl Browder said, did not
share "any of the illusions about the efficacy of Roose-
velt's policies to fundamentally solve the political and
economic problems of the country." But, very
in the
next breath, "the Communist Party recognizes unquali-
fiedly that in this battle the forces of reaction, fascism
and war are concentrated more and more in the camp
opposing Roosevelt's plan, while the forces of popular
democracy, and first of all the labor movement, are
rallied in its support. In such a line-up there is but one
possible place for the Communists, on the side of
democracy."
It was tragic that this line was imposed by Moscow
and carried out by people who, for the most part, sin-
cerely believed that they were struggling for socialism
rather than, as was the case, acting as the pawns of
Russian foreign policy. Later, when some of those in-
volved were to realize how they had been deceived,
they were to become bitter, and for many Americans
the Communists were proof that all radicalism was
alien to this country and conspiratorial. But in the
thirties the Communist line decreed in Moscow for
reasons of Russian self-interest worked better in the
United States than the socialist policy, which had been
democratically determined.
One socialist, Arthur McDowell, put the situation ac-
curately in 1938. He wrote, "The extreme opportunistic
swing of the CP to support Roosevelt in 1936 enabled
320 SOCIALISM
the Communists CIO with greater
to operate in the
freedom than the Socialists who
stubbornly adhered to
their principles of independent labor political action in
face of the labor stampede to Roosevelt." McDowell
was certainly right about the opportunism of the Com-
munists, though it was related to Russian, not Ameri-
can, considerations. But he, and many of his fellow
socialists, did not ask themselves why labor was
"stampeding" to FDR. They insisted on the traditional
model of the Socialist Party as an electoral alternative
and thus missed participating in the most important
political development in the history of the American
working class.
Norman Thomas realized what was happening to the
party. In 1938, having witnessed the steady decline
that followed upon the upsurge in 1932, Thomas
argued that the party should stop running candidates
and take part in the larger political movements of the
day. His policy was not accepted, and with the war
issue becoming more and more central to American
life, became difficult, and finally impossible, for a
it
principled anti-warrior to seek a rapprochement with

Roosevelt. Had the party followed Thomas' lead in
1938, it might have been able to maintain some kind
of serious base in the unions. But it did not, and
socialists likeWalter Reuther, when confronted with the
choice between the party's political tactic and that of
the labor movement itself, unhesitatingly chose the
latter. The tragedy was that the two were counterposed.
On the other hand, by 1939 "the Communist Party
had become an important, if not yet a major force in
American political life . . . [it] had taken some major
steps toward becoming a 'mass organization.' ... It
was now a powerful force in the CIO, the youth move-
ment, the intellectual world and in a few large cities."
So the one Leftist success after Debs occurred when the
Communists were obliged by Moscow to recognize the
social democratic aspects of the New Deal.
The thirties, however, were only a first step toward
the American social democracy. Labor had entered into
—
politicswith a distinctive program and had organized

on a But it had not yet given this new reality
class basis.
an institutional form. That was to take place during
World War II, and then in the fifties and sixties. 3
ni
The New Deal itself had been incomplete and am-

When,
biguous. Doctor Win-the-
in Roosevelt's phrase,
War took over from Doctor New Deal, the crucial prob-
lem of the Depression, unemployment, was not solved.
There were still millions out of work in 1939 and full
employment came only with the vast growth of the war
industries. Indeed, Keynes himself wondered if any
peacetime government was prepared to intervene as
massively as his theories required. In this context,
Arthur M. Schlesinger, Jr.'s analysis of FDR is much
too positive. "Rejecting theplatonic distinction be-
tween 'capitalism' and 'socialism,' " Schlesinger writes
of Roosevelt, "he led the way toward a new society
which took elements from each and rendered both
obsolescent." In fact, it was precisely this pragmatism,
and particularly the refusal to apply Keynesian princi-
ples in any systematic fashion, that led the President to
reduce his social programs in late 1936 and early 1937
and to thereby trigger a new recession. Roosevelt was
clearly to be preferred to his Republican opponents,
many of whom were still mumbling laissez-faire incan-
tations in the midst of a capitalist collapse. But his
brilliant, charismatic leadership hardly achieved the
synthesis that Schlesinger describes. Moreover, as Chap-
ter XII demonstrates in some detail, the American
—
economy remained quite capitalist and problematic
long after Roosevelt reformed it.
It was only after World War II that the liberal-labor
forces developed a more comprehensive approach to
the society (there had been a pro-planning wing of the
New Deal in the early days, led by men like Tugwell and
Berle, but they had lost out by 1935). Roosevelt had
322 SOCIALISM
given impetus to this development in the campaign of
1944 when he advocated a legally guaranteed right to
work (an idea which probably began with the French
socialist Louis Blanc in the 1840s). But a conservative
Congress had taken that excellent idea and reduced it
to the generalities and pious wishes of the Employment
Act of 1946, a statute so broad that Eisenhower was to
use it to rationalize deflationary policies that led to
chronic unemployment and recession.
It was not until the Administration of John F.
Kennedy that the government employed Keynesian state
intervention in a carefully planned way. Significantly,
there was a debate over how this was to be done.
Kennedy, with a hostile Congress and a razor-thin
Presidential mandate, opted for a tax cut. Within his
official family, John Kenneth Galbraith was one of the
few who spoke up for social spending as a better
stimulus. Outside the White House, the labor move-
ment and economists friendly to it, like Leon Keyser-
ling, championed this social Keynesianism. The goal of
the Roosevelt Administration had been to use Federal
power as a means of restoring the health of the private
economy. Now the unions, and some of their intellec-
tual and civil-rights allies, were profoundly modifying
this formula by insisting that state intervention also
reorder the basic economic priorities of the society and
favor the social rather than the free-enterprise sector.
It was as a result of these experiences that the AFL-
CIO in 1963 initiated a programmatic redefinition that
had much more in common with the defeated socialist
proposals of 1894 than with the voluntarism of
Gompers. The 1963 Convention voted that "experi-
ence has shown that we cannot rely upon the blind
forces of the marketplace for full employment, full
production and effective use of our resources to meet
our urgent national needs. Other advanced, free and
democratic nations have found that they can achieve
their economic and social objectives only through a
rational national economic planning process involving
the democratic participation of all segments of their
populations together with government. We urge the

creation in the United States of a National Planning
Agency, which through similar democratic mechanisms
will evaluate our resources and our needs and establish
priorities in the application of resources to the meeting
of needs."
At the 1965 Convention the Federation again called
for a national planning agency and endorsed a 50 per-
cent increase in Social Security, a massive program to
rebuild the cities, a national health-care program, a
peacetime "GI Bill" and a resources conservation pol-
icy. In 1967 George Meany told the delegates, "In-
creasingly the problems of our members —
which they
share with everyone else —
are not so much the prob-
lems of the work place itself, but problems of environ-
ment and problems of living and raising a family in
today's complex, crowded urbanized and suburbanized
society." In a sense, this was turning Gompers upside-
down: instead of concentrating exclusively on collec-
tive bargaining and being suspicious of all government
action, the AFL-CIO was now making overall econom-
ic planning central to its concerns.
The United Automobile Workers under the leader-
ship of Walter Reuther participated, of course, in these
AFL-CIO decisions. Reuther, as a former socialist, was
the most consciously ideological of all the top trade-
union leaders. In 1970, after the UAW
had broken
with the Federation and formed the Alliance for Labor
Action with the Teamsters and other unions, it passed
one of the most radical resolutions ever adopted by a
labor convention. "Actions taken by corporate manage-
ments," it said, "self-perpetuating or chosen by and
responsible to a few large stockholders, can have more
impact on the lives of Americans than decisions by
democratically elected government officials responsible
to the people as a whole. Such awesome power cannot
be permitted to be exercised without effective means to
assure that it will be used responsibly. The 'corporate
conscience,' it should by now be evident, does not pro-
vide the needed safeguards."
324 SOCIALISM
The union went on to champion reforms that in-
cluded a new law setting official, and enforceable,
standards of corporate responsibility and a requirement
that all corporations with annual sales of $250 million
or more create independent review bodies "which
would be given free access to all corporate files, which
would have the responsibility of recommending to the
corporation's board of directors changes in practices
injurious to the public interest and the duty to report
to the public when such recommendations were re-
jected." These proposals, and the analysis that pre-
ceded them, were at least as Left as the practical policies
of the European social democrats.
Given his personal background, people expected
such politics from Reuther. So in a sense, the fact that
George Meany and the AFL-CIO itself moved in this
direction was even more significant, for it signaled the
liquidation of Gompers' voluntarism by his own heirs.
And Meany as well as Reuther was responsible for the
political commitment that made national health in-
surance a serious issue in the 1970s.
The unions were doing much more than just passing
resolutions. During these years they were building a
political apparatus which is a party in everything but
name.
In 1943 the CIO had taken the first step to perma-
nently institutionalize its political efforts with the
establishment of the Political Action Committee. That
was in keeping with the activist and political origins
of industrial unionism. But it was perhaps even more
significant, given the venerable tradition that was being
shattered, that the AFL founded Labor's League for
Political Education in 1947. It had been prompted by
the conservative Congress elected in 1946 and the
Taft-Hartley Law, which it wrote. Initially, then, the
Federation was sjmply trying to protect itself, but once
was created, it took on a life of its own.
this institution
Then, with the merger of the AFL and the CIO in 1955
and the establishment of the Committee on Political
Education, labor's political involvement became even

broader and more systematic.
Throughout the Kennedy and Johnson administra-
tions in the sixties the union political organizations and
lobbies were the strongest single force for progressive
social legislation in Washington. In terms of actual
political pressure on issues like poverty, racism and
Social Security, the labor contingent did infinitely more
than the middle-class intellectuals and churchmen
who so often dismissed the unions with contempt (the
reasons for this will be examined shortly). Then, in the
elections of 1968, special circumstances revealed the ex-
tent to which the unionists had become a political party
in their own right.
The Democratic Party was split that year, with the
middle-class reformers and minorities mainly backing
the primary campaigns of Robert Kennedy and Eugene
McCarthy, and the AFL-CIO joining the regular
Democrats in defending President Johnson and then
Vice President Humphrey. Humphrey was nominated in
Chicago by a coalition that included the pro-Johnson
Southerners, like Governor Connally of Texas, the
machine pols, like Mayor Daley of Chicago, and the
unions. But almost as soon as he became the candidate,
the Daley and Connally forces deserted him.
As a result, the unions were the decisive element in
the Humphrey campaign in a way that had not been
true in the Kennedy and Johnson races of 1960 and
1964. Theodore White, who had all but ignored labor in
his accounts of those earlier elections, wrote in awed
terms of what that labor support meant. The AFL-CIO
registered 4.6 million voters, printed 55 million leaflets
and pamphlets in Washington and another 60 million
in the localities. It supplied 72,225 canvassers, and on
election day, 94,457 volunteers. And these figures, it
must be remembered, do not take into account the very
substantial contributions of unions like the Auto
Workers that were outside of the Federation. Hum-
phrey, nominated under the very worst of conditions,
just missed becoming President.
a
326 SOCIALISM
One might try to explain this phenomenon in tradi-
tional— non-class —American terms by saying that the
unions were simply acting as an interest group. How-
ever, interest groups do not identify with a single party
but try to put pressure on both the Republicans and
Democrats (they often have a prominent vice president
belonging to each of the major parties). They empha-
size their specific demands, not their long-term support.
But labor had clearly made an on-going, class-based
political commitment and constituted a tendency —
labor party of sorts —
within the Democratic Party.
The way in which this development transcended the
interest-group approach can be seen clearly in some of
the back-room politicking over the reapportionment of
the state legislatures. Everett McKinley Dirksen, the
Republican leader in the Senate, was very anxious to
repeal the Supreme Court's one-man/one-vote ruling as
applied to the state houses. So he offered to go along
with the unions in promoting their most self-interested
goal, the repeal of the Federal authorization for state
"right to work" laws, if labor would moderate its sup-
port for reapportionment. If the unions had been act-
ing as an interest group, they would have snapped up
Dirksen's offer, since it would have guaranteed passage
of a law that was explicitly in their favor. But they
chose to maximize a much more long-term perspective
and to stick to their support for reapportionment.
Labor's orientation toward playing a role in the
center of American politics, where one-man/one-vote
was so important, had prevailed over narrow organi-
zational concerns. The unions, in short, had created a
social democratic party, with its own apparatus and
program, within the Democratic Party. But how, then,
can it be explained that this mass movement has re-
mained invisible for so many intellectuals?
Part of the answer is semantic. The unions changed
their philosophy and their actions, but kept most of
the old labels. Yet, as soon as one probes a bit, it be-
comes evident that the laborites were using, in Leon
Samson's perceptive insight, socialist definitions of
capitalism. When George Meany reaffirmed his faith in

the traditional values, he asserted that "the distinguish-
ing feature of the American system is its emphasis on
people, on free institutions and the opportunity for
betterment." Agood many observers heard only the
ritual salute to the old order and did not even realize
that it was being used to justify significant democratic
structural changes in the status quo.
An exchange in 1959 between Meany and Congress-
man Alger of Texas should help to underscore this
point. Alger had just congratulated Meany on his anti-
Communism and then said, "The only thing that trou-
bles me deeply is this —
when I analyze the legislative
program of the AFL ... I cannot determine in my
thinking the difference between your program and
what is honest-to-goodness socialism." In part of his
reply Meany commented, "I still do not know what
socialism is, despite the things that I have read. But
if socialism means that under a democratic system, this
republican form of government that we have, there

are people who desire to secure for the great mass of
the people, the workers, the wage earners, the farmers,
and others, a better share of whatever wealth the econ-
omy produces, and that by providing that better share
we provide a broad base of purchasing power to keep
the economy moving forward —
if that is socialism, then
I guess I am a Socialist and have been a Socialist all my

life. I do not figure that, but if that is what socialism
means, that is the sort of thing I am interested in."

Meany's will be noted> more
definition of socialism, it
or less coincides with that of the revisionist social

democrats described in Chapter IX. That, as I explained
there, is too limited a program for the creation of a new
society. But what is relevant here is that the president
of the AFL-CIO has the same general outlook as the
European social democracy. He speaks in American
accents and his nation's history does not require him,
or even allow him, to present himself as an anti-capi-
talist. The political content of his remarks, however, is
quite analogous to that of mainstream European social-
—
328 SOCIALISM
ists. Too many
scholars in the United States have heard
only the rhetoric of the present labor movement
which is formally, even ritualistically, pro-capitalist
and have not bothered to examine either its programs
or its political organization.
Secondly, the emergence of the American social
democracy was not dramatic, and that guaranteed that
many intellectuals, with a theatrical taste for history
and politics, would overlook it. The institutionalization
of the political impulse of the thirties even seemed to
some a retreat. A
party, with a staff and day-to-day
tasks, is a much less exhilarating affair than a march
of the unemployed and the hungry. But a party is also
more effective in actually changing the balance of
power within a society.
Thirdly, the formalization of the social democratic
trend in American labor took place in the 1960s. And
it was during that decade that the unions supported
the war in Vietnam, while the middle-class liberals and

radicals were, for the most part, passionately opposed
to it. The estrangement over the war was deep and
emotional on both sides, and one of its by-products
was that academics and journalists were much less able
to see the profound change in labor's social programs
and political In a similar vein, people
organization.
rightly sympathetic with the demands of blacks for de-
cent jobs confused a fairly small minority of old-line
locals in the building trades with the entire labor move-
ment and did not even know that the industrial unions,
which are the dominant form of labor organization in
America, had done more to raise minority living stan-
dards than any other institution in the country.
So, in the words of one of the few writers who
noticed the historic fact, "in their support of the Demo-
crats as a mass, pro-welfare state party, American
trade unions have forged a political coalition with im-
portant —
although hardly complete —
structural and be-
havioural similarities to the Socialist Party-trade union
alliances of Western Europe." In a unique, devious
way, with all the wrong symbols and phrases to
bewilder people, American capitalism drove working

people into unions, then into political struggle, and fi-
nally to the organization of an independent, class-based
political movement with a ranging program for the
democratization of the economy and the society.
That is the American social democracy, our invisible
mass movement. 4
'
XII
Beyond the Welfare State
After all the false starts, failed plans and out-

right betrayals, is there any meaning left to socialism?
basic socialist indictment of capitalism is more
The
true today than it was in the nineteenth century. The
corporations have progressively "socialized" the econ-
omy, basing production on science and the most intri-
cate web of human cooperation. Yet, for all the changes
in capitalist attitudes, decision-making and appropria-
tion have remained private even when they are exer-
cised by corporate managers rather than owners. And
so, as Marx and the early socialists predicted, the con-
tradiction between unprecedented social productivity
and the private institutions that direct it has become
more and more intolerable, and made us progressively
fearful of our own ingenuity. We purchase progress at
the expense of the poor, the minorities, the old; we are
even more threatened by our affluence than by our
poverty.
The socialist solution remains utterly relevant: the
social means of production must be socialized and
made subject to democratic control. The crisis of so-
cialism, then, does not concern what to do about the
epoch, but rather what to do about tomorrow morning.
The problems of transition, of applying the analysis of
the century to a specificmoment in time, have proved
to be infinitely more complex than socialists ever
imagined. Marx was vague on this count, and for good
reasons: his age suffered from a surfeit of overly ex-
plicit useless panaceas. But now that the movement
he inspired has become a major factor in world poli-
331
332 SOCIALISM
tics,now that late-twentieth-century man is too little
visionary rather than too much, the details of the
dream have become crucial.
The welfare state, Communist totalitarianism and
the world market must all be basically transformed.
These chapters will concentrate on the fundamental
changes necessary within advanced capitalism using —
America's admittedly ramshackle welfare state as the
—
prime example and in the Third World. Under Com-
munism, as the previous analysis should have made
abundantly clear, democratization of economic power
is also most urgent, since the irrational, private priori-
ties of the bureaucratic class are imposed on the society
by means of a totalitarian plan. But I do not make
that case central to my discussion because of limitations
of space and knowledge —and, above all, because there
is a socialist freedom movement in existence in the
Communist countries, which even now is elaborating
its new definitions of socialism despite the secret po-
lice. One day it will tell us, in practice as well as in
theory, what socialism means in those lands.
I will begin with an eye on the middle distance and
proceed toward the far future. We must be specific
about the year 2000 and what socialism could mean at
that point; but the concrete reforms must be animated
by nothing less than a vision of the potential of the
twenty-first century.
There are three basic reasons why the reform of the

welfare state will not solve our most urgent problems:
the class structure of capitalist society vitiates, or sub-
verts, almost every such effort toward social justice;
private corporate power cannot tolerate the compre-
hensive and democratic planning we desperately need;
and even if these first two obstacles to providing every
citizen with a decent house, income and job were over-
—
Beyond the Welfare State 333
come, the system still has an inherent tendency to make

affluence self-destructive.
In thus documenting the limits of the welfare state
it might seem that I am contemptuous of past reforms
and present liberals who do not share my conviction
that there must be fundamental, structural change.
Nothing could be further from the truth. The welfare
state was an enormous advance over the cruelty and in-
difference to human suffering that characterized early
capitalism. Itwas achieved through great sacrifice
—
sometimes of life itself on the part of "ordinary" peo-
ple, who, even though they had usually been denied an
adequate education, tutored the wealthy in some of the
fundamentals of social decency. And to the extent that
there is a mass "Left wing" in the United States, it is
—
composed of precisely those groups trade unionists,
minorities, middle-class idealists —
who fought these
great battles and are determined to resist any reac-
tionary attempt to undo their accomplishments.
This point is not simply a matter of keeping the his-
torical record straight; it has profound political impli-
cations for the future. It is important that socialists
demonstrate the inherent inability of the welfare
state, based on a capitalist economy and social struc-
ture, to deal with problems that demand anti-capitalist
allocations of resources. But this does not mean, as
some young Leftists in recent times have thought, that
the welfare state is then to be dismissed as a fraud that
prevents the people from coming to truly radical con-
clusions.For if millions of Americans do become social-
ists,they will do so because in the course of struggling
to make that welfare state respond to their immediate
needs, they will have discovered that they must go far
beyond it. If those people who are now socialist ar-
rogantly dismiss these battles as irrelevant, they will
play no role when masses of their fellow citizens do turn
Left.
Socialists, then,must be in the forefront of every
fight to defend, and extend, the welfare state even as
—
334 SOCIALISM
they criticize its inability to solve fundamental prob-
lems and propose alternatives to it. In this context, the
following analysis of the severe limits capitalism im-
poses on the welfare state is not designed to prove
that liberals of the mass Left are foolish and deluded,
but rather that their liberal values can only really be
completely achieved on the basis of a socialist program.
First of all, the welfare state, for all the value of its
institutions, tends to provide benefits in inverse relation-
ship to human needs. And not — the point is crucial
because of a conspiracy by the affluent, but as a
"natural" consequence of a society divided into unequal
social classes.
It is possible to offset this inherent tendency within
capitalist society to distribute public benefits accord-
ing to the inequalities of private wealth, but only if
there are vigorous radical reforms. What is more, any
movement that attempts to carry out such reforms will
be going against the grain of the system itself. This has
not kept socialists from participating in every one of
these struggles, nor will it in the future. But if the gains
are to be permanent, if they are not to be reversed
when a period of innovation is followed by a swing
back to capitalist normality, then there must be basic,
structural changes. Instead of episodic victories within
an anti-social environment, there must be a concerted
effort to create a new environment.
One way to put this is to say, with Andre Gorz, a
leading theorist of European Left socialism, that there
must be structural reforms. These are incremental in
character, yet they have a revolutionary import since
they involve actual shifts in the make-up and institu-
tions of power itself. Thus, I will propose to vastly in-
crease the proportion of resources allocated by demo-
cratic decision-making and to redistribute income so as
to change the relationship between, and reality of, so-
cial classes. It is extremely important to transcend the
sterile old debate of reform versus revolution in this
way. Yet I think Gorz errs in a number of important
points with regard to his own excellent idea. He cannot
quite rid himself of that old Jacobin —

or more exact-
ly, Bebouvist —
notion that there will be a "day" of revo-
lution when all the reforms culminate and history turns
a corner. Given the complexity of modern society, this
is not going to take place.
More to the point politically, Gorz dismisses almost
all social democrats (and the French and Italian Com-
munists as well) as agents of neo-capitalism. If it is
indeed true that the objective results of their innova-
tion have led, over the vigorous protests of most capi-
talists, to a more stable capitalism as well as to higher
living standards, it is wrong to see this as intentional. It
is one more unanticipated consequence of the diffi-
just
culty of making a transition between social orders.
And the social democrats, leaders as well as followers,
are precisely the ones who are going to first challenge
the profound limitations which even the most sophisti-
cated capitalism places on reform.
The class divisions of welfare capitalism, which are
the root cause of this problem within neo-capitalism,
are not, it must be stressed at the outset, simply unfair
in some abstract sense. Were that the case, a sophisti-
cated conservative argument might be persuasive: since
to some extent the growth of the economy benefits
everyone, even those who are worst off, there is no
point in endangering these gains on behalf of some ul-
timate egalitarianism. What really concerns the poor,
this theory continues, is not the rise or fall of their
relative share of affluence but the steady increase in
their absolute standard of living. Actually, inequality
does not merely mean that there are sharply unequal
proportions of goods distributed among the various so-
cial sectors of the population. It signifies a socio-eco-
nomic process, at once dynamic and destructive, which
determines that public and private resources shall be
spent in an increasingly anti-social way and thereby
threatens the well-being of the entire society.
Housing is an excellent case in point. The Govern-
ment, even under liberal administrations, has been
much more solicitous about the comfort of the rich
—
336 SOCIALISM
than the shelter of the poor. This policy is not only
morally outrageous, it has had disastrous social con-
sequences as well. Yet it must be emphasized that in
thereby investing billions in the creation of public prob-
lems, Washington did not act maliciously but only fol-
lowed —unconsciously, automatically, "naturally"
the priorities that are structured into America's class
divisions. Thus:
in 1962 the value of a single tax deduction to the
20 percent of Americans with the highest incomes
was worth twice as much as all the monies spent on
public housing for the one fifth who were poorest; and
this figure does not even take into account Government
support of below-market rates of interest to build sub-
urbia;
In 1969, the Wall Street Journal reported, the $2.5
billion for urban freeways was a far greater subsidy to
car owners who daily fled the central city than was
the $175 million provided for mass transit to city
dwellers; and Richard Nixon's 1970 budget continued
this perverse allocation of resources by providing public
transportation with only 6 percent of the funds assigned
to highways;
and, as the National Commission on Civil Disorders
(the "Riot Commission" of 1968) computed the figures,
during roughly the same thirty-year period, the Gov-
ernment helped to construct over ten million housing
units for home builders, i.e., for the middle class and
the rich, but provided only 650,000 units of low-cost
housing for the poor.
But it would be a mistake to think that Washington
discriminates only against the poor. For, as a White
House Conference told President Johnson in 1966, the
entire lower half of the American population is ex-
cluded from the market for new housing, a market
that could not exist without massive Federal support
This point needs special emphasis, if only because
many people, with the best of intentions, concluded
from the rediscovery of poverty in America in the
sixties that the bulk of the nation was affluent while
only a minority were poor. But the statistics, far from

describing a simple division between the rich and the
poverty-striken, show that we have in this country a
majority, composed of the poor, the near-poor, more
than half the workers and the lower middle class, which
does not even have a "moderate standard of living" as
defined by the Government itself.
So when Washington used its powers to improve
conditions for a wealthy elite, the poor suffered most
because they had the most urgent claim on the funds
thus squandered on the upper class, but a majority of
the people, including tens of millions who were not
poor, were also deprived of benefits that should have
rightfully been theirs. Worse, in carrying out these dis-
criminatory policies, the Federal programs did positive
harm to those most in need. As an American Presi-
dential Commission recently reported, ". . over the
.
last decades, Government action, through urban re-

newal, highway programs, demolitions on public hous-
ing sites, code enforcement, and other programs, has
destroyed more housing for the poor than government
at all levels has built for them." But then, this is a
familiar injustice: "Fifty years ago," wrote Alvin
Schorr in 1968, "a British Royal Commission for in-
quiry into the Housing of the Working Classes ob-
served, with dismay, that poor people rarely benefited
when land was cleared and model houses erected."
In the America of the seventies these fantastically
skewed priorities have momentous social consequences.
For Washington has, in effect, been aggravating the
very social problems to which it would then point with
alarm. By financing the flight of the middle class from
the metropolis and helping industry locate in the sub-
urbs, the central city was allowed to rot —
with Federal
encouragement. As a result, such related evils as vio-
lence, bitter old age, intensified racism and the decay
of the traditional centers of culture all grew worse. A
study commissioned by the Government itself and
chaired by Milton Eisenhower gave the darkest view of
these trends. The National Commission on the
338 SOCIALISM
Causes and Prevention of Violence said that "lacking
effective public action," the centers of the great Ameri-
can cities would be safe only in the daytime when
crowds gave the individual security and that they would
be dangerous and empty at night. The big downtown
apartment buildings would become "fortified cells for
upper-middle and high-income populations living at
prime locations in the city." The ghettos would become
"places of terror with widespread crime, perhaps en-
tirely out of police control during nighttime hours."
And the suburbs would be ringed by freeways patroled
by lightly armored cars. 1
So the Government's discriminatory social policies
have done much more than exacerbate inequality; they
have helped to promote a fantastic anti-design for liv-
ing. How, then, can we explain why sincere and dedi-
cated men — as those who presided over these disas-
trous programs usually were* —would lavish public
funds to thus aggravate social problems? The answer
is to be found in the class character of American so-
ciety and the commercial logic which both derives from
it and pervades governmental decisions.
The 1969 report of the Council of Economic Advisors

provides candid documentation of this pattern. "Invest-
* Fromthe Housing Act of 1949 until the present, liberal

democrats in the White House and the Congress tried to chan-
nel resources into the housing of the poor. But under Truman,
Kennedy and Johnson, they were unable to overcome the con-
servative coalition of Southern Democrats and Republicans on
Capitol Hill. Under Eisenhower, the Republicans in both the
executive and legislative branches refused to carry out the
stated aims of the 1949 law even though it had been co-
authored by one of their own conservative leaders, Senator
Robert A. Taft. In November of 1964 there was a liberal
Congressional majority and a President with a far-ranging re-
form program. But before any major innovations could be
funded, the war in Vietnam was escalated in the spring of 1965
and caused a general retreat from all social investments. As a
result, the bold rhetoric of the Model Cities Program even-
tually became a facade for a pathetically ineffective and
conventional effort.
ing in new housing for low income families
—
ly in big cities
—particular-
," the Council said, "is usually a losing
proposition. Indeed the most profitable investment is

often one that demolishes homes of low-income fami-
lies to make room for business and higher income
families. (Emphasis added.) Now, it is obvious that
the criterion of profitability to which the Council re-
fers is private, since, as the gloomy projections of the
Violence Commission demonstrate, the social cost of
the present system is bankrupting the society. Yet this
private calculus is precisely the one the Government
follows. As the Urban Problems Commission put it,
". . renewal was and is too often looked upon as a
.
federally financed gimmick to provide relatively cheap

land for a miscellany of profitable or prestigious enter-
prises."
For in a society based on class inequality and suf-
fused with commercial values, it just doesn't "make
sense" to waste resources on social uses or beauty or
anything that cannot be quantified in dollars and cents.
Our legislators, drawn almost exclusively from the
middle and upper classes, cannot bring themselves to
forget those principles, which are sacred to the private
economy. To them it seems logical to invest the Federal
dollar in those undertakings that run the lowest risk
and will show the highest and most immediate return.
Housing is only one example of how the welfare
state observes the priorities of maldistributed wealth
even when it attempts to serve the common good. Other
cases in point can be found in literally every depart-
ment of government. The American welfare system in
the sixties reached only a third of the poor and pro-
vided them, on a national average, with one half of
what they needed. Meanwhile, in 1969 the richest
one sixth among the farmers (individuals and corpora-
tions) received two thirds of the agricultural subsidies,
or about $2.5 billion. Given the relation of social
commitment to promote
classes in the fields, America's
"agriculture" is also a commitment to help the rich at
the expense of the poor. And if one considers the vari-
340 SOCIALISM
ous deductions in the tax codes as an indirect form of
—
government expense by not collecting money from
an individual, Washington increases his income as
—
surely as if it sent him a check -they total up to $50
billion, with the bulk of that sum going to oil men,
home builders, stock-market speculators and others at
the top of the economic pyramid.
The railroads are another example of how Washing-
ton follows private criteria even in making public deci-
sions. By 1970 inept management and unplanned
Federal subsidies to competitors, like $80 billion for
the highways, had brought the industry to the verge of
bankruptcy. Business and government then proposed
a classic neo-capitalist solution: the losses would be
socialized (passengers), the profits would remain pri-
vate (freight). But when the Government did intervene
through Amtrak, it determined the routes it would sub-
sidize on the basis of a profit-and-loss calculus and de-
prived a good number of citizens of service on the
grounds that they were not worth the trouble. What
was required was a national transportation policy in
which the planners would dispose of profits as well as
of losses and could treat the problem in a systematic
fashion, taking environmental costs into account in the
process. That, however, would have placed the common
good above various corporate interests; it demanded
encroachment on private rights and the primacy of use-
fulness rather than of profitability.
But it is in education that the effect of systematic
inequality is most damaging. America is becoming a
"knowledge economy" in which higher and higher edu-
cational credentials are required (sometimes unneces-
sarily) in order to get a good job. This is one of the
most important areas of socialized effort in the society
since, through either public schools or aid to private
education, the state supplies the modern economy, in
Galbraith's phrase, with "its decisive factor of produc-
tion, which is trained manpower." But even though
public spending for education in the sixties increased at
a faster rate than the Gross National Product, those
Americans in the most desperate straits were not

reached.
In the sixties a rather optimistic study of social mo-
bility in the United States found that there is an "over-
supply" of youth at the bottom of the economic struc-
ture; the 1969 Manpower Report of the President said
that the unprecedented recent boom had clearly re-
vealed that "economic expansion alone was insufficient
to employ many people who had been bypassed in the
general advance because of inexperience, lack of skills
and cultural deprivation." Now, it is bad enough that
such a group should exist, but what is truly intolerable
is the extent to which social class structure denies it
effective access to tax-supported education and works

to make deprivation both self-perpetuating and heredi-
tary.
For if, as Christopher Jencks and David Riesman
document in The Academic Revolution, society is di-
vided into blue- and white-collar groups, high school
seniors from a white-collar background are four times
as likely to have academic scores in the top rather than
the bottom 10 percent, while blue-collar students are
twice as likely to be at the bottom rather than at the
top. One way of coping with such depressing statistics is
to argue that they reflect the "middle-class bias" of the
tests used to evaluate students. There have been de-
mands to do away with IQ tests and standard grading,
to assign each racial and ethnic group a quota of ad-
missions in state-supported colleges (the top 10 percent
of Negroes, Puerto Ricans, Mexican-Americans and
other minorities would have places reserved for them,
so there would be competition within these communi-
ties but not among them or with the nonethnics).
To those who charge that the tests are unfair to the

poor, Riesman and Jencks cogently reply, "Life is un-
fair to the poor. Tests are merely the results. Urban
middle-class life and professional work in
in general
particular seem to nourish potential academic skills and
interests in parents, while lower-class life does the oppo-
342 SOCIALISM
site." The conclusions they come to are actually much
more radical than those offered by people who simply
denounce educational racism — or even propose sepa-
rate but inferior college faculties for the children of the
poor and the minorities. Riesman and Jencks write,
"So long as the distribution of power and privilege re-
mains radically unequal, so long as some children are
raised by adults at the bottom while others are raised
by adults at the top, the children will more often than
not turn out unequal. . We suspect that these differ-
. .
ences account for more of the class variation in college

chances than all other differences combined."
Jencks and Riesman then go ahead to raise a basic
psychological point. Suppose that by an act of political
will the schools could be transformed so as to favor the
minorities while the fundamental social inequalities
were left intact. That, they hold, "could be a formula
for misery. A mobile, fluid society in which men move
up and down is simultaneously a competitive, insecure
and invidious society. . . What America needs," they
.
conclude, "is not more mobility but more equality. So

long as American life is premised on dramatic inequali-
ties of wealth and power, no system for allocating so-
cial roles will be very satisfactory."
So in education, housing, agriculture, welfare and
every other area of social life it is necessary to attack
the systematic concentration of economic power in
order to achieve serious reform. The fulfillment of
liberal values, in short, requires structural changes in
our class relationships, changes that transcend the
capitalist limits of today's welfare state. And, to turn
now to the second major reason why American society
on its current basis cannot deal with its crises, there
must also be national economic and social planning on
a scale that our present institutional arrangements will
not tolerate. 2
There is no question but that the seventies will see
planning in the United States. The really crucial ques-
tions are: What kind of planning? Planning for whom?
The problems of welfare capitalist society are becom-
ing so obvious and overwhelming that conservatives

and even reactionaries have understood the need for
state intervention— if only to maintain as much of the
old order as possible.

In 1969 Spiro Agnew wrote an enthusiastic introduc-
tion to the report of the National Committee on Urban
Growth Policy which concluded that the nation should
spend public funds to build ten new cities for one
million people each and ten new towns for 100,000
citizens each. But if it was surprising to find a conserv-
ative Republican Vice President endorsing such an
idea, it was even more remarkable that Richard Nixon
proceeded to attack it from "the Left." In his Population
Message of July, 1969, Mr. Nixon noted that the num-
ber of Americans was going to increase to 300 million
by the year 2000 and that this growth would be pre-
dominantly urban. "Are our cities prepared for such
an influx? The chaotic history of urban growth sug-
gests they are not and that many problems will be
severely aggravated by a dramatic increase in num-
bers."
Nixon then turned to the "radical" proposal for new
towns and cities which Agnew had approved. He criti-
cized its inadequacy because "the total number of peo-
ple who would be accommodated if even this bold plan
—
were implemented is only twenty million a mere one
fifth of the expected thirty-year increase. If we were to
accommodate the full 100 million persons in new com-
munities we would have to build a new city of 250,000
persons each month from now to the end of the cen-
tury." (Emphasis added.) Then, in rephrasing what
would once have been regarded as the classic Marxian
critique of capitalism, the Republican President defined
the fundamental problem: "Perhaps the most dangerous
element in the present situation is that so few people
are examining the questions from the viewpoint of the
whole society."
Mr. Nixon is the representative of precisely those
special interests, concentrated in the Republican Party,
that were able to enlist a good part of the welfare state
344 SOCIALISM
And although he
in behalf of their private purposes.
uses a patch or two of Marxist-sounding rhetoric, he
could hardly afford to acknowledge the basis of
Marx's insight: that an economy dominated by self-
seeking units is, precisely because of that fact, inca-
pable of seeking the common good of the "whole so-
ciety." So when Mr. Nixon talks in this way, there is no
real question of innovations that would threaten the
power and privilege of his most important supporters.
But he, and other conservatives, are sophisticated
enough to understand that the "chaotic" growth of
modern society is no longer tolerable and that, in order
to hold back the future, a modicum of planning and
discipline must be imposed on the corporations. This
realization has penetrated to all of the advanced socie-
ties in the West so that Andrew Schonfield can point out
that planning is "the most characteristic expression of
the new capitalism."
Marx and Engels, as also some of their more per-
ceptive followers, had understood that capitalism might
try to regulate the "anarchy of production" but they
felt that this attempt would only be a brief moment of
transition before the advent of socialism. But what we
must now confront is an entire historical period in
which it is of the capitalist essence to plan. In the ab-
sence of a vigorous mass movement capable of democ-
ratizing this trend toward collectivism —
in the absence,
in other words, of a socialist alternative —
planning will
be conservative, manipulative and in the service of
social and economic privilege. That is why it is so im-
portant to define the limits of neo-capitalist planning
and to contrast it sharply with the socialist proposals in
the same area.
The first distinction between capitalist and socialist
planning has to do with money. Meeting the social
problems just described will require an investment of
billions of public dollars. In 1967 Senator Abraham
Ribicoff noted that the various existing programs
don't even reach people with incomes of $8,000 a year.
In December, 1969, three years of inflation later, For-
tune reported that "the shortage of acceptable shelter

that has been afflicting the poor and the black is reach-
ing to the white middle class and even to quite affluent
families." And in mid- 1970, George Romney, the Secre-
tary of Housing and Urban Development, estimated
that 80 percent of U.S. families could not afford the
average cost of a new house. To deal with a crisis of
this magnitude will clearly require a shift of massive
resources from the private to the public sector, since
the market is not even reaching a majority of the peo-
ple. But while Mr. Nixon criticizes the new towns and
cities proposal as being inadequate, it is obvious that
he and his conservative colleagues are not about to
propose such a basic revision in the uses of the national
wealth. They are, after all, principled pinch-pennies
with regard to Federal spending, i.e., they sincerely be-
lieve that the common good is maximized by keeping
the allocation of resources as private as possible.
Given this basic, and capitalist, limit to their thinking,
any planning measures they urge are going to be in-
adequately funded.
It is significant, for example, that in all the Nixon
Administration's talk about new cities and towns one of
the key conclusions of the Urban Growth Policy report
is ignored: "the development of new communities by
solely private means will occur in those rare circum-
stances where the dynamics of growth in particular
areas will afford a timely and reasonable return on pri-
vate investment." The infrastructure for a metropolis
of one million is, of course, extremely costly, and even
though such undertakings have paid for themselves in
Europe, the time period before there is any return is
quite long. And yet in February of 1970 when Maurice
Stans, Nixon's Secretary of Commerce, made the most
authoritative and detailed Administration statement on
the new-city proposal, he only advocated some tax and
other government subsidies to the private sector. But
if, Stans and Nixon himself have insisted, it will need a
new city of 250,000 every month between 1970 and

2000 just to house the increase in population, their
346 SOCIALISM
timid program is already doomed to failure. In Feb-
ruary of 1970, David Rockefeller, president of the Chase
Manhattan Bank, defined the kind of measures which
would be necessary just to cover the "start-up" costs of
a modest federal effort: $10 billion in Federal support
and the systematic use of eminent domain by a quasi-
public corporation.
A second basic distinction between capitalist and
socialist planning has to do with comprehensiveness.
When President Eisenhower proposed in May, 1958,
that there be new, integrated communities with jobs,
schools and parks and high-speed transportation links
to the old cities, he was unwittingly committing himself
to radical innovation. Assembling an integrated popu-
lation and providing its members with decent work,
education and transportation is not something to be ac-
complished by Adam Smith's "invisible hand." It re-
quires long-range projections and a conscious coordi-
nation of Government policies. It could not be done, to
take but one crucial example, if land were left to pri-
vate speculation. For in order to assemble the huge
areas needed for such extensive projects at a remotely
reasonable cost, the public authority would have to use
its power of eminent domain and establish land banks.
So conservatives may be forced to recognize the mag-

nitude of the urban crisis but they cannot solve it
within their own economic calculus. What Eisenhower,
Nixon and Stans really were talking about in their
advocacy of new cities is a version of the old schemes
to provide Federal subsidies to private interests, which
are then supposed to fulfill a social purpose. But even
supposing that such a tactic could provide the necessary
billions in money (it cannot), the housing industry
hardly has the resources, the overview or the legal right
to engage in national, regional and metropolitan
planning.
And yet, if it is easy enough to demonstrate that
planning within a capitalist context is, at best, utterly
and necessarily inadequate, this does not mean that
socialistplanning is without problems. These problems

have to be faced candidly.
The principle of socialist planning is clear: the peo-
ple rather than the corporations with Government sub-
sidies should decide priorities. In practice, it is not that
simple. Is it true, as John Kenneth Galbraith optimisti-
cally assumed in The
Affluent Society, that the masses
have basically decent values which are perverted by the
manipulators who dominate the communications
system? Galbraith contends that the fundamental rea-
son why so many people regard the public sector as a
place of compulsion and the private market as an area
of free choice is that they have been programmed to do
so by the media. If that is so, then the radical reform of
the advertising industry would allow the electorate to
get the truth and to vote for that social spending which
is in its objective and long-term interest.
Amore ominous possibility has been suggested by

two Labour members of Parliament on the basis of the
experience of the Wilson Government in England. After
1965, David Marquand wrote, social expenditures
—
under the socialists went up but the voters did not like
it. "In a democracy," he argued, "Socialist Govern-
ments can only succeed if the absolute total of private
consumption continues to rise while its share of the
national income is falling." David Fletcher was even
more pessimistic: "Gone, in fact, is the delusion that we
Socialists represent the 'real' interests of the People,
and that the People would see it if only they were
not blinkered by the 'capitalist press.' Aspirations
. . .
that once had to be expressed in social terms (that is,

in the organized demand for more schools, more wel-
fare and more public control of other people's lucrative
activities) are now personal or family ambitions (that
is, an individual's desire for a good job, an enhanced
status, a good education for Johnny) as a passport to a
good job and a bigger car to carry the family farther."
These gloomy conclusions are obviously based on
the bitter experience of men who wish they were not
348 SOCIALISM
true. Yet I suspect that they overstate the case. For it
will become more and more obvious in the rest of this
century that the greatest threat to living standards in the
advanced countries is, indeed, social in character, i.e.,
itcomes from the congestion, pollution and ecological
mayhem resulting from an unplanned technological
revolution. Nevertheless, Marquand's point introduces
an important caveat for any movement attempting
—
democratic planning, and his rule of thumb that the
absolute total of private consumption rises while its
share of the national income falls because more re-
sources are allocated to social purposes —
is a good one.
panacea;
Socialist planning, in short, is not a total
neither, for that matter, is democracy. The people are
quite capable of making the wrong decision after hav-
ing been given all the facts. But the only possibility of
making a humane choice is if the institutions of demo-
cratic planning relentlessly encroach on the private
sector in such areas of decisive importance as housing,
transportation and education. Neo-capitalist planning
with its commercial priorities is inherently limited and
unable to solve the crises it recognizes. With socialist
planning that is massive, comprehensive and demo-
cratic, there is at least the possibility that man will be
able to master the environment he himself has
created. 3
The third major reason why capitalist society must
be basically transformed is this: Let us assume that the
system proves to be much more ingenious than the
preceding analysis suggests. Suppose it constructs a
welfare state that really does respond to the needs of
the poor and that, without fundamental changes in
structure, it manages to accommodate itself to demo-
cratic planning. Even then —
and I admit this possibility
for the purpose of argument only —
even then, it would
be necessary to go beyond capitalism to socialism. For
if this society somehow found a way to deal with
poverty, racism, inequality and unmet social needs, it
would still be incapable of dealing with its own
prosperity.
This problem is not a consequence of wrong-headed
choices on the part of muddled executives; it is a trend
within the system and cannot be corrected without
sweeping changes. The economic theory of "external
economies" and "external diseconomies" helps to ex-
plain why.
An external economy occurs when an act of con-
sumption creates a collective good, e.g., when the deci-
sion of a high school student to remain in school raises
his skill level and makes him a more productive
worker rather than a candidate for welfare. External
economies usually derive from public investments in
schools, hospitals and the like. External diseconomies
are a result of an opposite phenomenon: acts of con-
sumption that create a collective evil, e.g., the air pollu-
tion visited upon society by a private automobile. These
are particularly associated with giant industries and, as
one moderate economist put it, "seem to be far more
prevalent than external economies."
So the fundamental tendencies of late capitalist
economies toward bigness and concentration will pro-
duce goods whose social costs often exceed their social
benefits. This, it must be emphasized, is an inherent
pattern in a society where huge investments are private-
ly made. To offset this trend, such decisions would have
to be made with major consideration of the social costs
— a kind of calculus (as will be seen shortly) that is at
odds with the very character of the capitalist economy.
There follows an extraordinary paradox: The richer
capitalism becomes, the more self-destructive it is,
(This is a sort of economic analogue to Freud's psycho-
logical insight that the more sophisticated society be-
comes, the more repressive it is, since instinctual
energy must be disciplined in order to make large-
scale organization possible.)
In traditional Marxist theory economic crisis was the
result of overproduction within a society of systemati-
cally limited consumption. Many contemporary econo-
mists now argue that the cyclical breakdown of capital-
ism, which turned relative abundance into immediate
350 SOCIALISM
want, has been mastered. That, as will be seen shortly,
is much too optimistic an analysis, since the contradic-
tions of capitalism bedevil Keynesians as well as anti-
Keynesian conservatives. But even if we do assume for a
moment that the cyclical crisis of capitalism is under
control, it has been succeeded by an even more bi-
zarre problem: that affluence itself is becoming in-
creasingly counterproductive.
— —
So to cite one striking example as the seventies be-
gan, the President of the United States told the nation
in his Message on the Environment, "Based on present
trends it is quite possible that by 1980 the increase in
the sheer number of cars in densely populated areas
will begin outrunning the technological limits of our
capacity to reduce pollution from the internal combus-
tion engine." One would think that such an apocalyptic
presentiment would have been the prelude to decisive
action. Yet only one week before he thus warned that
the society was destroying the very air it breathes,
Nixon proposed a budget in which mass transportation
(which would cut down "the sheer number of cars" as
well as serve a number of other social purposes) re-
ceived 6 percent of the money assigned to building
highways, i.e., to making sure that the sheer number of
cars would indeed increase.
But the automobile is only one case in point. As
Jerome C. Pickard of the Urban Land Institute has com-
mented, "the concentrated character of future urban
regional development will place a great strain on
regional resources: on water supply, air and the land
itself. The pollutants generated in such large scale ur-
ban and industrial concentration may threaten a large
segment of the environment inhabited by a majority
of the United States population."
By the seventies the menacing consequences of un-
controlled and maldistributed affluence had become so
obvious that even the thoughtful business press had be-
gun to doubt whether the market could on its own
maximize welfare. One of Marx's fundamental
theories was thus being vindicated in a way he himself
would never have imagined. The forces of production,

Marx held, come mode of
into contradiction with the
capitalist production, the revolutionary technology
i.e.,
cannot be contained within the social and economic

system. In Marx's view, the evidence of this clash was
to be found in depressions. Today, however, it is pre-
cisely because capitalism has moderated the tendency
toward periodic crises that it throws up a new form of
the Marxian contradiction. For private decision-making
is no longer capable of regulating a technology whose
social consequences become more and more de-
structive.
Lyndon Johnson stated the problem well enough in
his 1967 message on "Protecting Our National Heri-
tage," but, like his successor, he could not bring him-
self to urge the radical measures that are necessary to
deal with it. "We must realize," Johnson said, "that in
dealing with fuels for motor vehicles we are dealing
with matters of enormous importance to every section
of the nation and to many economic units. America's
technology and natural resources development are in-
timately involved in any program that effects fuels and
their uses." And then Mr. Johnson proceeded to the
wish that corporate polluters would realize that "out of
personal interest, as out of public duty, industry has a
stake in making the air fit to breathe."
The day that Mr. Johnson made that statement, the
president of Ford Motor Company attacked the dangers
of government overregulation, and the Wall Street
Journal observed that business was mobilizing to fight
Johnson's modest reforms. When he signed the Air
Quality Act of 1967, President Johnson pretended that
he had been given "new power to stop pollution before
it chokes our children and strangles our elderly —
before
it drives us indoors or into the hospital." The Wall
Street Journal was more realistic: "This was a major

victory for such industrial groups as the coal producers,
who vigorously opposed toughening Federal standards."
In his 1970 Message on the Environment, Richard
Nixon confirmed that the Wall Street Journal had been
352 SOCIALISM
right and Johnson wrong. There were, he said, "insuffi-
cient Federal enforcement powers" to fight air pollution.
But Nixon could not, of course, hint at why this was so:
that the corporations, which had become conscience-
stricken about pollution at the precise moment there
was a public outcry and the possibility of punitive
legislation, had themselves subverted previous efforts
to clean up the atmosphere. For the President the crisis
was only an "inadvertence." And even though Mr.
Nixon's anti-pollution proposals were much less bold
than his generalities, the Wall Street Journal editorial-
ly cautioned him about too sweeping an attack on the
internal combustion engine. That, it said, might lead to
"severe disruption of many of the nation's largest in-
dustries."
There, in the example of the automobile, is the
essence of the problem: it is foolish to think that giant
industries will voluntarily desist from the profitable
spoliation of the environment; and it is impossible for
a government committed to maximizing the autonomy
of those corporations to take the drastic action that is
required.
In the not so distant past such a conflict between
corporate interest and common good was thought of as
exceptional. As Gardner Ackley, a leading New Econ-
omist of the sixties, put it concisely a few years ago, "If
one were to examine all of the thousands of decisions
made daily by the managers of the modern corpora-
tion, I think he would be struck by the relatively small
number in which significant questions of conflict be-
tween public and private interests arise." Ayear later
Karl Kaysen, another distinguished liberal economist,
challenged Ackley's faith in devastating fashion.
Kaysen wrote, "The inter-related set of questions in-
volving urban renewal, urban planning and transpor-
tation planning raises questions that go right to the
heart of the usual value assumptions of the economist
The whole field isdominated by the existence of exter-
no simple meaning-
nalities, i.e., it is clear that there is
ful sense in which the range of decisions can be left to
market forces. It is methods

further clear that our past
for dealing with themajor externalities are increasingly
inadequate, if they ever were adequate. Zoning by a
fragmented set of competing jurisdictions, highway
planning uncoordinated with land-use planning or
without comprehensive urban-suburban transportation
planning simply fail to meet the issues. What alternate
decision-mechanisms are available?
"The natural bias of economists," Kaysen continued,
"is toward believing that consumers 'ought' to get what
they want in some ethical sense of the word. Economists
accordingly tend to resist, as a matter of fundamental
principle, changes in decision-making processes that
substitute planner's choices for consumer's choices.
Yet in the face of what consumer's choices are leading
to, some such substitution appears inevitable. At the
very least, planners will determine, much more narrow-
ly than present processes do, the range of alternatives
from which consumers may choose. The key question
becomes, 'By what political mechanism are planner's
choices reviewed and controlled?' "
This is a remarkable admission. Yet as much as I
agree with Kaysen's perspective on the future, I think
he is too easy on the capitalist past. He contrasts the
market choices, which supposedly pampered the con-
sumer, with planner's choices, which are said to be
more restrictive. Yet a great many of the consumer's
desires are in fact engineered, and even when that is
not the case, his freedom is circumscribed by the possi-
bilities open to him. Many people in the middle class
"freely chose" single-unit suburban homes because de-
cent, reasonably priced housing in the city was not
available. The citizen faced with shoddy public trans-
portation or the private automobile was hardly exercis-
ing an exhilarating discretion when he chose the latter.
In other words, planning could and should broaden
the range of choice for the majority.
Nor was this consciousness of the inadequacy of the
classic capitalist model confined to economists. In
September, 1969, the Yankelovich polling organization
354 SOCIALISM
surveyed a representative sample of the chief executives
of the five hundred largest corporations and fifty
largest banks. It concluded that there was a "coming
conflict in business discipline" because of the contra-
diction between social need and private investment.
"We predict," the article in Fortune said, "that nothing
that has happened since the 1930s will inject more
confusion, sow more dissension and conflict and
threaten more chaos than the effect of these pressures
[for meeting social needs] as they mount in the early
years of the 1970s."
Finally, if neo-capitalism has ameliorated the more
traditional forms of economic crisis, it has far from
solved them. And here again, the private priorities of
the corporation invade governmental policy.
When John F. Kennedy was elected President in
1960, the debate among his economic advisors had as
much to do with the class struggle as it did with aca-
demic theory. The economists from the AFL-CIO and
individuals like John Kenneth Galbraith and Leon
Keyserling wanted Kennedy to adopt a social variant of
Keynesianism and to eliminate the unemployment he
inherited from Eisenhower by expanding consumption
and making investments in public projects. Other advi-
sors wanted a much more cautious —and business-
oriented — policy. In 1962 there was a 7 percent tax
credit for business investment and accelerated deprecia-
tion allowances for plant and equipment. These
amounted to a multibillion-dollar increase in the cash
flow of the giant corporations. These measures were
then followed by a tax cut which, since it sought to
increase private consumption spending and was based
on the inequities of the tax code, assigned the largest
benefits to the richest people.
This demonstrated in Toward a Demo-
tactic, as I
erotic Left,promotes the values of Adam Smith with
the techniques of John Maynard Keynes. It is the "nat-
ural" way for a capitalist society to fight crisis. For
Kennedy could only have followed his more socially-
oriented advisors if he had had a massive majority in
the Congress to offset the political-economic power of

the corporations. Under normal conditions, it was, and
will be, the wisdom of capitalist reform to favor busi-
ness in order to win its support. Thus, the full power
of the Federal Government will be used to exacer-
bate the disparities of income in the society.
But then, such a policy also reproduces and intensi-
fies the contradictions of the capitalist structure itself.
As Nat Goldfinger, the director of research for the AFL-
CIO, has pointed out, the tax credit and accelerated
depreciation allowance had the effect of setting off a
capital-goods boom. And that, of course, was the point
of Richard Nixon's similar policy measures in 1971.
However, by stimulating the economy in such a way,
Washington is using its considerable power to maxi-
mize productivity but not the power to consume. In
the short run, the capital-goods boom will generate em-
ployment and buying power, as the experience of the
sixties shows. But in the absence of vigorous measures
to raise the effective demand of the millions, these pol-
icies also lay the basis for a crisis of "overproduction"
in which productivity outstrips consumption. By con-
centrating so many resources in the capital-goods sec-
tor, they also have an inflationary impact. Hence the
simultaneous inflation-recession of the late sixties and
early seventies was at least partly caused by Federal
action.
And finally on this count, that state of equilibrium
so dear to the classical economists still evades the
Keynesians. For, as Chapter V
suggested, when employ-
ment is high enough to approach a socially desirable
level, unit labor costs for industry go up, profits go
down and there are tendencies toward recession. And
when unemployment is high enough to lower labor
costs, there is an intolerable waste of human beings.
But under a policy of structural reform, where work-
ing men and women would be shifted into extremely
valuable social pursuits that would increase their
productivity even as they provided needed goods and
services in education, health care, environmental pro-
356 SOCIALISM !
tection and the like, it would be possible to have full

employment and price stability. That, however, would
mean going beyond the basic principles of the capital-
ist use of human beings, for it would assign more and
more workers to the "nonprofit" sector. Nonprofitable,
that is, from the point of view of business, but enor-
mously profitable for society.
So contemporary capitalism is not only heir to
many of the traditional evils of the system, even if
sometimes in ameliorated ways, it also cannot deal
adequately, no matter how sophisticated it has become
with either poverty or affluence. Left to itself, the system
creates a welfare state that provides some benefits for
all,yet favors the rich and discriminates against the
desperate; it generates problems, like those of the ur-
ban environment, that demand comprehensive plan-
ning;and even when it functions to produce the highest
standard of living the world has known, the social con-
sequences of that achievement are so appalling as to
vitiate much of it.
We socialists support every struggle for the partial and
liberal reform of inadequate structure. Yet we insist
this
—and has docu-
I believe that the previous analysis
—
mented the point that the fundamental solution of
these problems requires measures that go beyond the
limits of the capitalist economy. 4
n
Neo-capitalism, for all its sophistication, cannot make
desperately needed social investments, plan compre-
hensively and massively or cope with either poverty
or affluence. Socialism can. This section will seek to ex-
plain how.
In the process, I will use a dangerous distinction. One
begins with the specific problems that have just been
identified and seeks a solution to them which, while
structurally altering the capitalist society, will take
place within some of the limitations that society im-
poses on political action. Then it is possible to define an

ultimate vision of socialism based on the very un-
capitalist assumption that the basic material needs of
the people have been satisfied and that productivity
has grown to such an extent that man can free himself
from the psychology and economics of scarcity. That
theme will be the subject of Chapter XIV.
In distinguishing between the immediate transition to
socialism and the final goal, I am using a necessary, but
quite risky, idea. Marx had insisted that the new society
would be conceived within the womb of the old and
therefore would be born with the heritage of the past
as well as the hopes of the future. It was only when
men had learned to live cooperatively through a long
experience and when abundance was an economic fact
that the old bourgeois limits could be transcended and
society inscribe on its banner "From each according to
his ability, to each according to his needs." But this
theory of the two stages of socialism was used by
Joseph Stalin to justify murder and totalitarianism. For
whenever the injustices and oppressions of Soviet so-
ciety were attacked, Stalin could reply that this was,
after all, only the first and imperfect phase of the
transition to the millennium. Yet long after Stalin died,

and more than half a century after the Bolshevik
Revolution, the "temporary" institutions of anti-freedom
are still basic to that society.
In other words, if it is indeed impossible to take a
single giant stride into Utopia, one still cannot, as
Stalin taught, arrive at a society of community and
brotherhood by way of gradual terror and coercion.
So if the changes in capitalist structure that are pro-
posed in what follows are only transitional, they must
also move in the direction of the ultimate vision of
socialism. They cannot, as under Communism, be
antithetical to it.
First of all —and

this is practical politics within
urgent
the present confines of capitalism as well as a step to-
ward socialism —investment must be
socialized.
There are, as has just been seen, huge decisive areas
358 SOCIALISM
of economic life inwhich private capital will not invest
because there is no prospect of sufficient profitability
(or, what amounts to the same thing, where anti-social
allocations are more profitable than social allocations
would be). This is true of the fundamental determinants
of the urban environment, like housing and transpor-
tation. Therefore the society must shift resources from
the privately profitable sector of the economy to the
socially necessary. This is a decision that only the Gov-
ernment has the power to make and which must be
taken as a result of a democratic process. And it can
only be accomplished on a national scale and within
the framework of planning.
This does not mean that the housing design or the
exact mix of public and private transport will be settled
by a ukase issued in Washington. A qualitative increase
in the rate of social spending can be channeled through
the most diverse kinds of organizations: through de-
partments of national, regional and local government,
public corporations, cooperatives, private nonprofit in-
stitutions, neighborhood associations and so on. But a
progressive income tax nationally administered is the
only source of funds for such a gigantic appropriation,
—
and the various regional and local choices where to
—
build a new city, for instance have to be integrated into
a national plan.
John Strachey, the late British socialist theorist,
thought that such a process of transforming "the social
form taken by accumulation into a consciously set-aside
,,
fund" was the "essence of the transition to socialism.
That is, as will be seen, an overly optimistic assessment
of this development, since more than investment must
be socialized. Yet it does emphasize the fact that
Federal planning and Congressional appropriation
could be one way of directing production for use rather
than for profit.
In areas like housing and transportation this program
obviously requires much more than simply spending
money. For even conservatives have come to realize
that government programs have to be coordinated: the
Nixon Administration talks of a national urban policy.

And the National Commission on Urban Problems
(chaired by an outstanding liberal economist, and
former Senator, Paul Douglas) recommended that
"the President and his Economic Advisors, the Feder-
al Reserve Board, the Treasury Department and other
major agencies of government be required to state what
effect any major change in economic policy (e.g., in-
terest rate changes, tax reductions or increases, balance
of payments proposals) would have on the successful
building of the number of housing units set by the
President in his annual housing construction goal mes-
sage."
But all of these suggestions, the liberal as well as
the conservative, assume the continuation of the pres-
ent structure of the housing "industry" —
if such a
modern word can be used to describe such a backward
sector. Yet the Government will fail in its commitments
unless it creates a new industry. New cities cannot be
built by a myriad of private developers, each making
his own decisions about a small parcel of real estate.
And the present procedure of clearing areas that are al-
ready urban and then turning them over to profit-
seekers has already had the disastrous effect of sub-
tracting from the housing supply, increasing the rent
on existing, inadequate dwellings, and in general mak-
ing life more miserable for the poor and minorities. So
there must be a social land bank, a new technology, an
industry created to modern scale and national and
regional plans. And that will take more ingenuity than
just writing a Federal check.
This one case could be duplicated in every other area
of social need and it points up the second socialist
proposal for changing our institutional structure: that
decisive investments must be democratically planned
as well as financially socialized.
There should be an Office of the Future in the White
House. Each year the President should make a Report
—
on the Future with projections ranging five, ten or even
twenty years ahead—which would be submitted to a
360 SOCIALISM
Joint Congressional Committee where it would be de-
bated, amended and then presented to the entire Con-
gress for decision. This process should establish the
broad priorities of the society and annually monitor the
result of past efforts. It would be, for instance, the
proper forum for establishing the broad concept of re-
gional planning; but it would not engage in the actual
planning of individual projects.
At this point, a candid admission is in order. The
changes outlined in the previous paragraph could be
welcomed by social engineers and technocrats deter-
mined to impose their values on the people. They
could be used by sophisticated corporate leaders to
make the status quo more rational and stable. And
they might create an entrenched bureaucracy with a
self-interest of its own. The critics of socialism who cite
such dangers ignore, or conceal, the fact that they are
the consequence of the complexity of all forms of
modern technological society and that socialism is the
only movement that seeks to make a structural and
democratic challenge to the trend. But even more im-
portant, it must be understood that there is no institu-
tional reform that, in and of itself, can guarantee
genuine popular participation in this process. Only a
vibrant movement of the people can do that. That is
why socialists do not foresee an ultimate stage of human
existence in which all questions are answered and all
conflicts resolved. Even in the very best of societies the
democratic majority must be on the alert.
There is, however, one important area where plan-
ning is made more simple because of tendencies within
the economy itself. The dominant trend of this century
is to move economic activity away from primary
pursuits, like agriculture, and even away from in-
dustry, into areas like service and education. This is one
of the reasons why college expeditures have increased
faster than the GNP since 1950 and that schoolteaching
has been one of the fastest-growing professions.
A
great many of the areas thereby expanded have
been traditionally public or private nonprofit: schools,
hospitals, social services and the like. A 1970 analysis

in Fortune has even suggested that impossible for
it is
the nation to achieve its health goals unless there is

an even greater increase in the employment of para-
professionals. When there was a renewal of social con-
sciousness in the sixties, the corporations began to move
into these new markets and designed various human-
care programs according to the logic of profit. Yet edu-
cation, health and personal problems are obviously
antagonistic to commercialism, for these are spheres in
which one should never stint in order to cut costs and
increase the return. The only humane criterion is that
of need, and these growth "industries" are therefore
natural candidates for social investment. 5
But even if society would thus socialize more and
more investment, consciously planning the allocation
of resources of cities, transportation and human care,
that in itself would not change the prevailing order. For
the control of the means of production and of wealth
is not simply economic power; it is political power as
well. So if private ownership of huge corporations were

to co-exist over a long period of time with planned
social investments, the corporate rich, be they managers
or owners, would come to dominate the new, sup-
posedly democratic institutions. That is one of the main
reasons why socialists cannot abandon their insistence
upon social ownership.
It might seem quixotic to raise such a point just as the
socialist parties of Europe have abandoned it. The
Continental social democrats, as Chapter IX docu-
mented, have almost all adopted the idea of a "social
market economy" in which the state controls, but does
not own, the crucial means of production. Given this
decision on the part of the mass democratic socialist
movements, is it not mere nostalgia, or worse, dog-
matism, to bring up this discredited panacea of the
Left?
Paradoxically, I will base my case for social owner-
ship on the same economic trend —
the separation of
ownership and control under contemporary capitalism
362 SOCIALISM
— that was cited by many socialists in the sixties as a
reason for giving up the traditional position on the
nationalization of industry. Moreover, I think there is a
strategy for achieving social ownership that does not
involve a sudden, apocalyptic leap from private to
public property (which is, in any case, impossible
under democratic conditions), but rather employs
structural reforms.
First, there is the trend toward the separation of
ownership and control and its bearing on social owner-
ship.
For the Continental socialists who revised their
basic programs in the late fifties and early sixties, this
development made the classic case for nationalization
irrelevant. Now that rational, plan-oriented managers
have taken over from individualistic capitalists, they
argued, it is no longer necessary to change the title to
property. For the socialists in control of the govern-
ment will follow full-employment policies which will
yield a growing fund for social spending and, in any
case, the corporate executives will see that it is to their
interest to observe the broad priorities established by
the state.
I would argue that this very same trend separating
ownership and control increasingly demonstrates the
functionless character of the legal title to property and
suggests a very practical, unapocalyptic method of do-
ing away with it.
Marx, as I noted earlier, had understood that the

joint stock company —the first institutional expression
of the separation of ownership from control contained —
an anti-capitalist premise insofar as it made economic
functions independent of capital itself. That, he felt, was
one more sign of the transition to socialism. The Fabi-
ans with their penchant for basing the socialist case on
neoclassical economics, emphasized this development.
A third of the English corporations, Sidney Webb wrote
in the original Fabian Essays, are joint stock companies
"whose stockholders could be expropriated by the com-
munity with no more dislocation of the industries carried
on by them than is caused by the daily purchase of

shares on the Stock Exchange."
In the 1920s John Maynard Keynes, a principled
anti-socialist, was describing the self-socializing tend-
encies of capitalism as the "euthanasia of the rentiers."
More recently, John Kenneth Galbraith has suggested
that the "functionless stockholder" is becoming an
anachronism, and A. A. Berle, a pioneer in the
empirical studies of the ownership-control pattern,
echoed Sidney Webb: "Transition from private collec-
tivism to state collectivism is the easiest thing in the
world where [as in the case under the corporate
system] collectivism is already well organized for pro-
duction." And Robin Marris, in his critique of the con-
temporary corporation, has pointed out that "once the
classic idealization of capitalism is thus destroyed
[when, that is, it is seen that the managers are not
working 'for' the stockholders], there is no economic
case for its superiority over socialism."
It was a distinguished conservative, however, who
most clearly drew the socialist conclusions from this
economic tendency. Frederick A. Hayek wrote, "So
long as the management is supposed to serve the in-
terests of the stockholders it is reasonable to leave the
control of its actions to the stockholders. But if the
management is supposed to serve wider public interest,
it becomes a logical consequence of this conception
that the appointed representatives of the public interests

should control the management."
There are two reasons why I believe that Hayek's
straightforward proposal of socialization is to be pre-
ferred to the European socialist notion of the state pro-
gramming a market economy with social goals. First,
as we have seen, the recent experience of the Continen-
tal social democrats confirms the tendency of the cor-
porations to try to dominate, rather than obey, the gov-
ernment that is supposed to be controlling them. And
second, it is now possible to have a relatively painless
transition to social ownership if socialists will only
learn how to encourage the "euthanasia of the rentiers."
364 SOCIALISM
The Swedish social democrats have an ingenious con-
make in this area. They propose to socialize
tribution to
the functions of property while leaving the title to it
temporarily undisturbed. In this way, socialization will
be part of historic process rather than a sudden and
drastic leap into the future.
We tend to reify private property into something in-
divisible so that one either owns or does not own. But
in the case of the means of production (and they, not
personal property, are what concern socialists), one can
think of private property as conferring a series of func-
tional, and divisible, rights. In the classic theory of
laissez-faire, ownership allowed a man to utilize exist-
ing fixed capital resources; to determine investment
policy; to deploy the labor force; to set wage levels; to
distribute profits; to retain profits; and so on. This
model has, of course, already been modified, i.e., wage
levels are fixed through collective bargaining agreements
overseen, and encouraged, by the state; tax policies
can provide incentives for internal financing or for dis-
tributing profits; etc. What is required now is a much
more profound, and conscious, socialization of more
of the functions of property. Taking property as, in
A. A. Berle's phrase, a "packet of permissions," what
is proposed is not a sudden, wholesale takeover by the
state but a process progressively abolishing all these
private permissions and substituting democratic deci-
sions for them.
For example, private investment decisions must be
socialized. The right to locate, or relocate, a plant in a
given area can no longer be conceded to be a private
matter. For in order to engage in regional planning and
to aid in the construction of new cities and towns, the
geography of employment has to be publicly deter-
mined. A strict system of licensing the permission to
build a factory could work toward this end. The Attlee
Government initiated some measures of this type, and
various Italian governments have tried to use such tech-
niques to promote the development of the south. There
were even reports in 1970 that the Nixon Administra-
—
tion would have a similar policy for the location of

power plants.
Technology has to be monitored too. The decision
to build a supersonic transport has so many conse-
quences (noise, air traffic congestion, airport construc-
tion) that even if it were not a Government-subsidized
project, the public interest should be asserted. There is a
need, as a National Academy of Science panel pointed
out, for "technological forecasting." One cannot trust
these matters, as the Wall Street Journal put it in a tell-
ing anti-capitalist phrase, to the "mindless market."
The National Academy panel made another impor-
tant point about technological forecasting: that it must
be carried out by an independent agency and not by
an interested bureaucracy. For "the Bureau of Public
Roads has hardly been noted for its devotion to the
natural beauty of the countryside." More generally, as
has been seen, it is quite possible for a publicly-owned
enterprise to behave in the same aggressive, self-in-
terested way as a private corporation. Here again, the
crucial issue is not so much the legal form of owner-
ship as the kind of economic calculus it follows.
Profit is still another function of property that must
be subjected to social control. In 1967 the Council of
—
Economic Advisors hardly an anti-capitalist agency
noted that Government direction of the economy had
smoothed out the cycle of boom and bust and there-
fore removed a great deal of the risk in the market-
place. Under such conditions, it argued, business should
be prepared to take a lower rate of return. But in point
of fact, American corporations chafed under the volun-
tary controls of the Kennedy and Johnson administra-
tions, even though their profits rose by 78.7 percent be-
tween 1960 and 1970 and their cash flow (profits plus
depreciation) was up by 85 percent in the same pe-
riod. When Richard Nixon came into office, he aban-
doned to persuade industry and labor to obey
all efforts
guidelines in price and wage policy. Whereupon, the
London Economist reported, the steel industry increased
its prices in twelve months by 7 percent —
as contrasted
—
366 SOCIALISM
to a 6 percent rise in the previous ten years. And in
1971 a major price increase by Bethlehem Steel finally
forced even the conservative Mr. Nixon to proclaim a
contrary public interest.
So government cannot leave profit policy up to the
good conscience of the corporation, but it can use an
array of techniques to socialize this important area of
economic life: selective price and wage controls in an
inflationary period; a requirement that big companies
open up their books and justify any increase in prices
before an independent board; the use of vigorous tax
policy (more on this shortly). But however it is done,
the fundamental purpose of this reform is clear
enough. The society cannot afford to leave to private
decision how the prices of basic goods are to be set
or how the huge annual increments in wealth are to be
distributed.
There are other structural changes that could so-
cialize some of the functions of property. The voting
rights of all speculative, short-term shareholders could
be abolished (which would make it clear that many of
the transactions on the stock market are nothing but a
socially approved form of gambling —
and an enormous
waste of resources and energy in a parasitic operation
without real economic function). Or it has been pro-
posed that the Government give itself the right to act
as if it were the majority stockholder in all major in-
dustries, but without taking legal title. In this scheme,
the corporation would be left to its own devices as long
as it conformed to the national plan and did not ir-
responsibly impose social costs upon the country. But
when its private egotism led to anti-social behavior, the
Government would intervene the same way major share-
holders do when confronted with poor management.
The state would not assume permanent control, but only
see to it that the direction of corporate policy was
changed so as to observe the proper social priorities.
The consumerist movement which emeregd under the
leadership of Ralph Nader in the late sixties and early
seventies moved — —
and is moving in precisely this di-
rection and has received mass support in the process.
In France in 1970 the Radical Party at the urging of
Jean-Jacques Servan-Schreiber adopted a policy "to
abolish the hereditary transmission of property in the
means of production." In effect, Servan-Schreiber ad-
vocated a confiscatory tax on the stock holdings of very
wealthy individuals. There have been debates on how
effective the measures proposed would be, yet the prin-
ciple is both clear and excellent. A quite similar idea
was proposed by Douglas Jay of the British Labour
Party who urged that a government investment bank
be made the recipient of the stock paid as death duty
and also of the savings of the workers.
Taken individually, none of these changes would ba-
sically transform the power relations of the capitalist
society. But if they were part of a comprehensive policy
which sought to progressively limit the rights of prop-
erty in the means of production, they could encourage
and direct the euthanasia of the rentiers. The gradualism
of this strategy is derived not from any abstract princi-
ple, but from the actual experience of socialist govern-
—
ments over half a century as well as from a sense of
what might be acceptable to the American people. In
the United States (in all of the advanced capitalist
countries, for that matter) there is neither political sup-
port nor administrative feasibility for the sudden de-
cisive nationalization of an entire economy. In any
case, a socialist movement could take the opportunity
such a process would afford to promote as much di-
versity and variety as possible within the forms of social
property. 6
For the question of exactly how ownership is to be
socialized is another area of confusion in the socialist
tradition. It is quite clear that vague metaphors —
the
state will "seize" or "take over" the means of produc-
tion— provide no guide for political action in a com-
plex technological economy.
The nineteenth-century socialists, as earlier chapters
documented, were deeply confused about the status of
ownership in the society they sought. There was one
368 SOCIALISM
tradition, with origins in Saint-Simon, that emphasized!
state action, planning and socialized investment; there
was another, represented by Fourier and Proudhon, that
envisioned communes and free associations carrying on
production; and Marx, to complicate matters, borrowed
from both lines of thought. As time went on, it became
clear that the very complexity of a modern economy
required that social property function within a context
controlled by the state. But this, as Chapter IX showed,
does not mean that socialists equate social property with
enterprises run by the central government. There is a
quite successful model in the United States for what a
public corporation can accomplish: the Tennessee Val-
ley Authority. It is, like a private corporation, able to
accumulate capital for future investment out of present
income, yet it is under the broad supervision of the
Federal Government in Washington (and under con-
stant attack by the private power industry which can-
not tolerate this demonstration of how a governmentally
chartered enterprise can be more efficient, and produce
cheaper power, than the private sector). Moreover, in
1969 the TVA proposed to innovate in an important
area of social need by coming forth with plans for an
integrated new town and pointing out how its compre-
hensive structure made it much easier for it to plan,
and finance, such a project than a private developer.
This initiative touches upon one of the most impor-
tant aspects of corporate organization. As Robin Marris
has noted, "the most fundamental difference between
business firms and government departments lies in the
former's capacity for autonomous growth." Indeed, one
can argue, as Marris has, that the essence of the most
sophisticated stage of corporate capitalism is not the
famous separation of ownership and control but the fact
that an organization is financially independent, i.e., that
it can use retained profits to fund growth and is there-
fore not subject to the constraints of the money mar-

ket.
This point became a political issue in England in
1971. The Heath government, much more traditional-
istand Tory than the Conservatives had been under

Harold Macmillan, moved to force the nationalized
coal industry out of all operations not directly related to
the mines. For the Coal Board, under the chairmanship
of Alf Robens, had innovated and undertaken projects
on its own, like chemicals and gas explorations. From a
neo-capitalist point of view, that was intolerable, for
it meant a public enterprise was moving into areas where
private corporations could profit. And, as have been

seen, conservatives are primarily willing to socialize
losses. So Heath moved to limit the Coal Board and
Robens resigned. Sir John Eden, the conservative Min-
ister of Industry, was frank about the rationale for the
move: "By and large the public sector should be con-
cerned primarily with those activities which cannot sen-
sibly be done by the private sector." "Sensibly" means
profitably.
If the conservatives had carefully sought a way to
discredit public ownership, they could not have come
up with a better plan. The national enterprises are to
be confined to the sectors that capitalism has so fouled
up that they are no longer profitable, like coal in En-
gland and passenger rail service in the United States.
Once given this thankless job, social property is then
hobbled with restrictions that do not apply to the pri-
vate sector. Such enterprises will then be doubtless at-
tacked by conservatives as a burden, unprofitable and
unimaginative, i.e., for being all the things the conserva-
tives had made them.
This is clearly intolerable. Socialists are not in busi-
ness to socialize the mistakes of capitalists but to create
a new social order. Therefore they must insist upon the
rights of public property in profitable areas and de-
mand that the of social enterprises have
managements
at least as much
of a right to innovate as private
decision-makers. In other words, in giant industries, the
TVA type of public corporation rather than the Post
Office should serve as a model. There are, to be sure,
obvious risks to this approach. It is precisely the auton-
omy of a socially-owned enterprise like the Port of
.
370 SOCIALISM
New York Authority, its independence from democrat
control, that has allowed it to use its resources fc
creative anti-social purposes like increasing pollution
This point is central in John Kenneth Galbraith's cri-
tique of socialism in The New Industrial State. In the

last century, according to Galbraith, firms were run bj
entrepreneurs, and the state, or the collective of work-
ers, could take over from them without too much trou-
ble. Now, however, there is the corporation with it
intricate "technostructure" of scientists and administra-
tors. If the socialist state tries to exercise too close
control over such an organization, it almost guarantees
waste and incompetence; but if it grants the socialized
industry the right to independent action, the latter
probably follow its own purposes rather than those of
the national plan. "The technical complexity and plan-
ning and associated scale of operation," Galbrait
concludes, "that took power from the capitalist entr
preneur and lodged it with the technostructure, re
moved it also from the reach of socialist control.'
Galbraith correctly notes that this was one of the
problems that caused the socialists in Europe to retreat
from the commitment to public property after World
—
War II. But then, ironically for he writes as an Ameri-
ican liberal who is critical of a socialist dogma he —
takes an ambiguous position somewhere to the Left of
many of the revisionist social democrats. "It is pos-
sible that there is, in fact, more to the case for the
autonomous public corporation than the modern so-
cialist now sees. The problem of the technostructure . .
is whether it can be accommodated to social goals or
whether society will have to be accommodated in-

stead to its needs. The nature of the legal ownership
has an undoubted bearing on the amenability of the
,y
technostructure to social goals. (Emphasis added.) The
ambiguity in Galbraith's position is that he never really
follows up this insight except in fairly vague reference
to the gradual withering away of the "functionless stock-
holder."
I propose to be more specific. Granting that Galbraith
—
has identified a serious problem the Scylla represented
by the Post Office, the Charybdis represented by the
—
Port Authority it is impossible for society to carry out
liberal reform, to plan and to allocate social costs prop-
erly, unless it asserts a decisive interest over the huge
corporations. That means that there will indeed be an
ever-present danger of inefficiency, dullness, poor ser-
vice and all the rest. But that risk is to be infinitely pre-
ferred to the one incurred by leaving the corporate
structure in its present, irresponsible form. There are,
in short, no "perfect" solutions to these enormous prob-
lems, and any intelligent person can foresee difficulties
in any proposal. Nevertheless, the public corporation
with both the right to internal financing and the re-
sponsibility to democratically elected representatives of
the people is, with all the problems admitted, a right
step in the best direction.
Moreover, there are many instanceswhere coopera-
and neighborhood forms of ownership are relevant.
tive
The problems that have just been discussed arise pri-
marily in the giant decisive enterprises that are so
large-scaleand basic to national planning that the state
must assert a major interest in them. But there are a
great many less complicated economic functions which
—
can be carried out by to use the phrase Marx bor-
—
rowed from the Proudhonist tradition the "associated
producers." In the United States, for instance, the New
Deal promoted rural electrification by providing relative-
ly cheap credit to local cooperatives, and in this way
electricitywas brought to the rural areas (the notion
of central-state financial aid to such small units is one
that can be found throughout nineteenth-century social-
ism: in Proudhon, Louis Blanc, Lassalle and the Bel-
gian socialists among others).
In this context, the idea of functional socialization is
not simply a political necessity; it is also an opportunity
for innovation. In the old apocalyptic proposals for the
sudden and decisive nationalization of all basic industry
there was little room for promoting diversity and a va-
riety of institutional forms. But in proceeding to so-
372 SOCIALISM
property over a period
cialize the specific functions of
of time there is much more of a chance for originality
and imagination.
With the rise of pollution as an issue, the Govern-
ment has been pushed into monitoring the levels of
mercury in food and into banning the use of cyclamates
and other additives. There is even evidence in the
United States, for all its explicit anti-socialism, that a
campaign that would thus assert public control over the
corporation might be politically popular. As I noted
earlier, Ralph Nader and his colleagues have organized
extremely effective campaigns to limit the sovereign
power of the big companies and forced safety reforms
in the automobile industry. In the Nader campaign to
gain public representation on the General Motors board
there has been a growing realization, among the young
in particular, that "private" choices with public conse-
quences must be socialized. Indeed, it seems to me that
Nader, who is a reformer acting empirically, has in
many ways raised more radical questions, and possibili-
ties, than the European social democrats. His lead
should be carefully followed. 7
There is still another avenue of socialist action, and
it, like the Nader campaign, may also be quite popu-
lar. The vigorous use of tax policy as a means of achiev-

ing a more egalitarian society is relevant to the im-
mediate neo-capitalist present.
To a considerable extent, the Left has ignored the
enormous potential of tax reform in forwarding the
transition to a decent society. If, as Chapter IX dem-
onstrated, there is a tendency under capitalism for re-
forms, and even structural changes like nationalization,
to benefit the wealthy rather than the poor, then taxes
provide a most important corrective. It is not simply a
question of seeing to it that the wealth generated by
the intervention of the state serves the society on a
democratic basis, but also of the possibility of trans-
forming the very organization of inequality itself.
In most cases the discussion of maldistribution fo-
cuses upon income, for that is an area of abundant
government statistics. But if one begins instead by ex-
—
amining the shares of wealth "the sum total of equity
in a home or business, liquid assets, investment assets,
the value of automobiles owned, and miscellaneous as-
sets, such as assets held in trust, loans to individuals, oil
royalties, etc."— the disproportions are even more
shocking. One quarter of the consumer units in the
United States have no wealth at alfVor "negative"
wealth, i.e<, more debrthan assets;>f jl jpercent of the
co nsumer /uiuts own (l^ Jpercent drtB^^ealth while a
.
little ovgf 2 nercent of the total have (/^percen t. I]
deed a 4iiajmity of the wealth in the iTnited States-

—
57 percent, to be exact is held by just a bit ove*(6
percent of the consumer units. It is this permaliei:
structure of inequality which underlies, and is rein-
forced by, the annual inequities in income.
Thus, there has been no significant change in the
distribution of income since 1944. Moreover, the ef-
fective rate of taxation on the rich and the upper middle
class (the top 15 percent of the society as measured by
incomes) declined in the years between 1952 and
—
1967. Many of the taxes in this country for Social
Security and Unemployment Insurance, to take Federal
examples, and on consumption in the case of state
levies — are regressive. All of these tax rates are based
on reported rather than actual income and do not take
into account the command over resources in expense
accounts, pensions and other perquisites which are ram-
pant in the upper reaches of the economy. The same
trends can be observed in England despite the achieve-
ments of the Attlee and Wilson governments.
So the American and other advanced capitalist tax
systems are a labyrinth designed to favor the wealthy
who can afford lawyers and accountants. "Income," as
defined by the Internal Revenue Service in the United
States, is not income at all: it excludes a good portion
of capital gains, worth $7 billion a year; it does not tax
the rent a middle-class family saves by owning a house,
an item worth $8 billion a year; it exempts various state
and local bonds; and so on. In this setting, the simple
—
SOCIALISM
374
equitable act of making income equal income for pur-
poses of tax computation would be a major contribu-
i
tion to social justice.
But even such a modest reform is intolerable on the
basis of the capitalist ideology. In the summer of 1969
—
when the Congress considered and promptly forgot
the idea of limiting some of the privileges of stock
speculators by changing the favored status of capital
gains somewhat, the Wall Street Journal responded in
an angry editorial. By requiring these people to pay a
little more in the direction of a fair share, the Govern-
ment would "punish the nation's most productive citi-
zens." And this disincentive to the stockholder could
actually lead to a decrease in economic activity and
Federal revenues: "Obviously enough the tax reformer's
chief aim is not more money for Uncle Sam but more
'justice' as among individual taxpayers."
Among the many problems with this analysis is the
fact that it is based on an obsolete model of capitalist
society. If the stock market had as its prime function
bringing together risk capitalists and industrial innova-
tors, it is indeed possible that an increase in justice
would lower the rate of return on such money and slow
down economic change. But in reality, American cor-
porations more and more accumulate their own invest-
ment funds internally or else turn to institutional in-
vestors. In 1964, for instance, after paying taxes and
dividends the corporations retained $59 billion to fi-
nance their future plans. And a good many of the peo-
ple in the Market, far from being the "nation's most
productive citizens," are functionless parasites. As Joan
Robinson put it, "The shareholders and rentiers, in-
deed, make a great negative contribution to industry,
for much of the best talent of every generation is en-
gaged, one way or another, in the lucrative business of
swapping securities around amongst them and so is kept
from constructive activities. The notion that the Stock
Exchange, with all its ancillary apparatus, is the most
efficacious means of supplying finance to industry, com-
pared with other available methods, is a fig leaf which

it wears to preserve its self respect."
Effective inheritance taxes would be another impor-

tant source of social funds and an opportunity for work-
ing toward greater equality. In the United States they
are quite low — or quite avoidable, which amounts to
the same thing. In classic capitalist theory a man must
be able to leave his fortune to his children if he is to
have an incentive to work hard all his life. That motive
could be easily protected by providing for relatively low
death duties on the first transfer from father to son,
which would encourage the father, and very high rates
on the second transfer, from son to grandson, which
would give the son a reason to strive as hard as his
father. This is something like that ingenious Saint-
Simonian notion of abolishing inheritance over three
generations and counting on the greed of the first gen-
eration to make if indifferent to what happens to its
grandchildren.
In all these reforms, in short, the point would not be
to penalize hard work or actual risk-taking but to se-
verely limit, and eventually eliminate, the tribute so-
ciety pays to passive wealth or to stock gamblers. For
as the process of accumulation becomes much more so-
cial with industry generating its own investment funds
or getting them from institutions, it becomes absurd to
pay generations of functionless coupon-clippers on the
grounds that their distant ancestors made a signal con-
tribution to the society. So it is property income that
would be the target, and it is easy enough to dis-
tinguish between it and the reward for present accom-
plishment. One would also seek to get the enormous
increase in land values which take place without any ef-
fort on the part of the owner. This was $25 billion a
year in the United States between 1956 and 1966.
Moreover, of all the reforms proposed here, the use
of taxes as a means of increasing justice and equality
should be the most politically promising, for it attacks
the wealth of a functionless minority and would provide
1
376 SOCIALISM
benefits for a huge majority. If all the artful outlived
rationales for favoring the rich can be shown to be
what they are, masses would support their abolition.
So there are three main areas of transitional pro-
grams moving in the direction of a socialist democrati-
zation of economic power: the socialization of invest-
ment; the progressive socialization of the functions of
corporate porperty, and then that of property itself;
the employment of tax policy as an instrument for social
justice. Each one of these structural reforms corre-
sponds to a need in the society which can be docu-
mented and more to the political
in the official reports,
point, several of them could become quite popular with
the majority of the people.
There is, then, still very much meaning to the idea
of socialism as it relates to the middle distance. After
examining how we must go beyond the world market
as well as the welfare state, i.e., socialism's relevance
to the Third World, I will turn to the far future. For if
socialists no longer imagine an existing society of total
perfection, they must hold fast to a vision of a new
order which can animate all the approximations of it. 8
XIII
Beyond the World Market
Of all the laws of history enunciated by Marx, one

of the most brutal unfortunately proved to be true:
that the socialization of poverty will lead not to classless
and more humane relationships among people, but to
new forms of poverty and class rule, new modes of the
struggle for necessities. That has been borne out in
Russia, China, Cuba, Egypt and every other country
that has sought salvation through the collectivization of
want. There were, to be sure, sincere and dedicated
idealists involved in each case. They were either over-
whelmed or corrupted by conditions beyond their con-
trol. The best of them went into opposition, the worst
into domination.
Socialist rhetoric has a very real role to play under
these circumstances where socialism itself is impossible.
It fulfills precisely those functions Marx assigned to re-
ligion: it articulates the deepest aspirations of the peo-
ple in such a way as to take their minds off present
misery by concentrating on future beatitude. In thus
acting as an ideology — as a functional false conscious-
ness— it can facilitate totalitarian accumulation and the
creation of a new class society, as under Communism,

or elitist corruption as in some of the African "so-
cialisms."
So a bitter truth is the beginning of socialist wisdom
with regard to the Third World: that in vast areas of
the globe the technical and human preconditions for
socialism do not exist. This does not mean that so-
cialists have nothing to say to the majority of mankind.
In the long run, it is only through the frank recogni-
377
378 SOCIALISM
tion of this fact that the socialist ideal will survive until
these nations finally do succeed in their economic de-
velopment. And in the short run, socialists in both the
Third World and the advanced countries have a dis-
tinctive contribution to make. They cannot provide a
magic and painless transition from backwardness to
modernity, but they can show how that transformation
can be carried out as humanely and democratically as
possible, and at least orient it in the direction of so-
cialism.
So I am not suggesting apocalypse but probing a con-
fused, difficult process in which honesty is, among other
things, the best policy. But before the specifics can be
detailed, a major objection which derives from a rich
socialist tradition has to be confronted. Short of a revo-
lutionary transformation, it is said, the advanced cap-
italist nations must behave malevolently toward the
Third World for they are economically fated to be im-
perialist. Therefore a perspective such as the one pre-
sented in this book —
that the transition to a new so-
ciety will be longer and infinitely more complex than the
—
founders of modern socialism thought rules out any
decency in the foreseeable future which will not be
completely socialist.
Here again, the slogans must be rejected and the
complexities recognized. If the hungry people of this
globe must wait until there are successful revolutions in
Europe and North America that abruptly and decisively
reverse all the old social relationships, they might well
wait forever. Of if they must make their own revolu-
tions in a world dominated by conservative superpow-
ers (Communist as well as capitalist) which continue
to subvert their efforts, they will either fail or be driven
to such extremes of totalitarian force that it will amount
to the same thing.
These intolerable alternatives are not fated. If one
looks up from the historic inexorabilities, one can see
possibilities for relatively humane change in the Third
World. This chapter will define them by first countering
the quietist "radical" theories that nothing good can be
Beyond the World Market 379
done short of socialist revolution, and then by outlining

just a few of the concrete steps that might be taken
within both the advanced and the developing economies.
It will propose difficult new departures, not miracles.
The basic socialist insight underlying this analysis can
be put simply enough, even if the details are often diffi-
cult to describe. The capitalist world market is funda-
mentally hostile to the modernization of the poor
countries and works to keep them in the same relative
position of inferiority to which they were forcibly as-
signed in the nineteenth century. There is, therefore, an
urgent need for world economic planning which would
consciously allocate resources on the basis of interna-
tional usefulness rather than the profit of advanced cap-
italisms. And within the developing nations themselves
it isalso necessary to go beyond market criteria which
intensify rather than solve their problems.
Capitalism, in short, is an irrelevance for the ma-
jority of mankind, or worse, a means of perpetuating
ancient wrongs and economic backwardness. Commu-
nism is perhaps relevant, but certainly totalitarian. But
there the possibility that socialists, in the Third World
is
as well as the affluent economies, can carry out struc-

tural reforms that will begin to transform the interna-
tional system of economic injustice itself.
There has never been any question among socialists

whether the capitalist powers in fact exploit Africa,
Asia and Latin America. Of course they have, and still
do. The only issue, and it is quite relevant in the con-
temporary debate over economic development, is
whether this wrongdoing is a matter of life and death
for them.
As early as 1848 Engels had observed that it was
expanding trade on the world market that permitted
Britain to keep pace with the rising productivity of its
manufacture and thereby avoid a crisis of overproduc-
380 SOCIALISM
tion. And in the thirdvolume of Das Kapital Marx
made capitalism's global drive so important —
and his
analysis is often ignored —
that it is worth quoting him
at length. He wrote that "there is no doubt that in the
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries the great revolutions
which took place in trade, along with the geographic
discoveries, rapidly increased the development of mer-
chant capital, and constituted a crucial moment in fur-
thering the transition from the feudal to the capitalist
mode of production. The sudden expansion of the world
market, the multiplication of the circulating commodi-
ties, the competition among the European nations to get
hold of the products of Asia and the treasures of Amer-
ica, the colonial system, all contributed tremendously
to the destruction of the feudal fetter of production.
In its first phase, the modern mode of production only
developed in those places where the preconditions for it
had evolved within the feudal system. ... In contrast,
when in the sixteenth and part of the seventeenth cen-
tury the sudden expansion of trade and the creation of
a new world market had a decisive influence on the de-
cline of the old and the rise of the new capitalist mode
of production, that took place on the basis of the al-
ready created capitalist mode of production. The world
market itself was the basis of the mode of production.
"On the one hand," Marx continued, "the imminent
necessity to produce on an ever-increasing scale forced
a ceaseless expansion of the world market and thus
trade did not revolutionize industry but industry trade.
So predominance in trade is now linked to the greater
or lesser preponderance of the conditions for big in-
dustry. One compares, e.g., England and Holland. The
history of the decline of the merchant preeminence of
Holland is the history of the subordination of trade to
industrial capital." (Emphasis added.)
All of this has a modern, almost a Leninist, ring to it.
The capitalist drive on the world market arises out of the
inner necessity of a mode
of production that must con-
stantly expand Indeed, in this perspective, the
itself.
very rise of the system itself and the victory over feu-
dalism was linked with the conquest of markets and

spheres of influence in the non-European world. But
this process, Marx and Engels always thought, must
eventually reach its limits and the moment would signal
nothing less than the end of capitalism.
In his 1848 analysis Engels wrote that "notwith-
standing California and Australia, notwithstanding the
immense and unprecedented emigration, there must
ever, without any particular accident, in due time ar-
rive a moment when the extension of markets is unable
to keep pace with the extension of British manufacture,
and this disproportion must bring about a new crisis
with the certainty it has done in the past." But this pre-
diction did not work out. Thus at the end of his life
Engels was forced to recognize that the business cycle
of boom and bust within the capitalist economy seemed
to be slowing down and becoming more moderate. With
characteristic optimism he saw this trend as the pre-
cursor of an even greater crisis than ever before; he
argued that capitalism's drive for global hegemony had
only postponed its downfall.
"The colossal expansion of the means of commerce,"
Engels wrote, " — ocean-going steamships, railroads, the
electric telegraph, the Suez Canal — has for the first time
really created a world market. The previous monopoly
position of England in industry has been broken by a
number of competing lands; the investment of surplus
European capital in all parts of the world has become
infinitely greater and opened up entire new areas so
that the system is much more broadly diversified and
can overcome local overspeculation more easily.
Through all these developments, all the old crisis drives
. . have been greatly weakened, or done away with.
.
Moreover, competition yields in the domestic market

before cartels and trusts, and is limited on the external
market by protective tariffs with which all the great
powers, except England, surround themselves."
And then Engels, having so candidly described how
his expectations were unfulfilled and capitalism had
proved to be so much more resilient than he and Marx
—
382 SOCIALISM
had thought, moves to his dialectical conclusion: "But
these protective tariffs are only armaments for the final,
general campaign which will decide the domination of
the world market. So each element that works against
the repetition of the old crises conceals within itself
the seeds of a much more widespread and powerful
crisis in the future."
In other words, Lenin's extraordinarily influential
study Imperialism was not a unique insight on his part
or even, as is widely thought, a steal from the Liberal
economist Hobson. It was grounded in Marx's own
analysis,and particularly in Engels' later comment upon
it, and had been spelled out in considerable, though
contradictory, detail by Karl Kautsky and Rosa Luxem-

burg. But where Lenin staked out his own special
ground was in his insistence that imperialism was the
only possible policy for capitalism; indeed, that it con-
stituted its final, and inevitable, stage. He was filled
with contempt for Kautsky's notion that the giant cap-
italist powers could somehow agree to a peaceful "ultra-
imperialist" exploitation of the world that would avoid
war. The bourgeoisie, Kautsky had said, might inter-
nationalize itself under the slogan "Capitalists of the
world, unite!" That, Lenin answered, was pernicious
nonsense.
The details of that debate are best left to specialists
in the history of Marxism, but its central point is quite
contemporary. For if there are alternatives to imperial-
ism that are at least possible under capitalism, then so-
cialists can, in carrying out their arduous transformation
of the system, pursue policies that are relevant to the
Third World even though the old order has not yet
been utterly revolutionized. The reason that this is in-
deed the case has little to do with Kautsky's analysis
the Left at the end of the twentieth century is hardly
going to champion "ultra-imperialism" as an alternative
to war —but it does build on his basic intuition: that
imperialism is a policy of capitalism, not the policy. 1
In Lenin's famous definition there were five major de-
terminants of the imperialist inevitability in the last
phase of capitalism: "The concentration of production

and capital developed to such a high stage that it has
created monopolies which play a decisive role in eco-
nomic life; the merging of bank capital with industrial
capital, and the creation, on the basis of this 'finance
export of capital,
capital,' of a 'financial oligarchy'; the
which has become extremely important, as distinguished
from the export of commodities; the formation of in-
ternational capitalist monopolies which share the world
among themselves; the territorial division of the whole
world among the greatest capitalist powers is com-
pleted."
A key to this insatiable capitalist drive for global
expansion is the fact that "an enormous 'superabun-
dance of capital' has accumulated in the advanced
countries." These funds, Lenin argues, cannot be used
to raise the consumption of the masses, and that is why
—
they must be sent overseas. For —
and this is a crucial
point "surplus capital will never be utilized for the
purpose of raising the standard of living of the masses
in a given capitalist country, for this would mean a
decline in profits for the capitalists. ."
. .
In fact, as I pointed out at considerable length in

Toward a Democratic Left, Western capitalism, through
no fault of its own, escaped this Leninist impasse. It
was indeed true, as Lenin said, that economic rivalries
were one of the main factors leading to the First World
War. But what he did not notice was that the entire
working class and not just a labor aristocracy benefited
from the process. As Fritz Sternberg has demonstrated,
real wages were up between 1850 and 1914 in all in-
dustrial countries; in France and Great Britain they
almost doubled during that period. In and of itself this
does not refute Lenin's analysis, since profits, and the
surplus, were rising at the same time. But it does point
to a crucial change which Lenin did not anticipate:
the enormous growth in the consumption of the masses
within the advanced nations and the consequent expan-
sion of the internal and intra-advanced capitalist mar-
ket
384 SOCIALISM
That rising living standard was, to put it quite mildly,
precarious until after the Second World War. Indeed,
the Great Depression of the thirties was caused in part
by precisely the kind of factors Lenin had described.
Income inequality, as John Kenneth Galbraith has dem-
onstrated, was a major cause of the crash in 1929 since
output per worker went up by 43 percent during the
decade, while wages were stable. Thus "the economy
was dependent on a high level of investment or a high
level of luxury consumer spending or both. The rich
cannot buy great quantities of bread."
But after World War II capitalism did change. In
large measure this was the result of the political activity
of the democratic Left — of socialists in Europe and lib-
eral-laborites in the United States — who effectively
championed countercyclical economic policies and an
extension of the welfare state. This, as Chapter XII
documented, did not bring about justice, for the shares
of wealth were still maldistributed and poverty per-
sisted for a sizable minority of the people. But even so,
there was a basis for new markets — and new outlets for
capital —within the advanced capitalist system. The
state, even under conservative governments, had com-
mitted itself to maintaining purchasing power at a
certain minimal level and that was undreamed of in the
Leninist philosophy.
This was the point of departure for the major de-
velopment on the world market after World War II: the
decline in the importance of the Third World and the
growth in intracapitalist investments. This pattern, it
must be stressed, was not new, but now it intensified.
As far back as 1913 Henryk Grossman pointed out in
his famous study of capitalist economic crisis, 52.2
percent of Germany's foreign trade went to Western
Europe and only 5.4 percent to Asia. "The three small,
but highly developed, capitalist lands," Grossman wrote,
"the Netherlands, Belgium and Switzerland, with a total
population of only about 20 million consume as much
[of Germany's goods] as such Asian states as British
India, China, the Dutch Indies, Persia, Turkey, Pales-
tine, etc." The same, he commented, held true for the

English.
But then after World War II intracapitalist invest-
ment in affluence became even more lucrative than the
previous "normal" exploitation of colonial poverty. Be-
tween 1950 and 1966 the share of the developing world
in international trade declined from 31.2 to 19.1 per-
cent; if the oil industry is excluded, the drop is from
24.4 to 14 percent.
The historic viciousness involved in this process
should be emphasized. The Third World was made de-
pendent upon its exports because the advanced capital-
ist powers in the nineteenth century could make prof-
itable use of them and were able to enforce their own
world division of labor. But then, when it became pos-
sible to make more money through investing in luxury
rather than by speculating on hunger, Europe and the
United States turned their backs upon the peoples they
had used so brutally, developed import substitutes,
traded among themselves and condemned their former
suppliers to backwardness.
A French Marxist has caught the unconscionable
irony in this. The copper and tin of the Third World,
A. Emmanuel writes, "are no more primary than the
coal which was only yesterday one of the principal ex-
ports of England; sugar is almost as 'manufactured' as
soap or margarine and is certainly more 'manufactured'
than Scotch whiskey or the great wines of France. . . .
But the prices of the one group go up, and of the other,
down, and the only characteristic that is common to the
prices is that they are respectively those of rich and
those of poor countries."
In the late sixties and early seventies there seemed to
be a countertrend, a shift back toward investment in
the Third World. To the extent that it took place, it was
one more example of advanced capitalism manipulating
poor countries in order to maximize the profits of the
rich. Multinational corporations began to set up plants
in places like Singapore, Taiwan, Mexico and Korea,
where labor is much cheaper than in Europe and the
386 SOCIALISM
United States. They then used these installations as
bases for exports, sometimes to the affluent market it-
self. In this way they are able to flee the relatively high
wages which the workers have won in the metropolitan
centers.
Once again, these investments are made according to
the same principles that guided the imperial expansion
of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries: to fit
the convenience and increase the profits of the already
rich nations. Thus, the industries chosen to get capital
in such undertakings must be labor-intensive and not
depend on economies of scale, i.e., must be backward
in comparison with the plants that are built in the home
country. The emphasis is on textiles, clothing, furniture
and other wood products, lathes and other simple ma-
chine tools. This can indeed promote the Gross National
—
Product of a developing nation as it has rather dra-
matically in Taiwan and South Korea — but it mis-
shapes the economy and makes it the adjunct of a
foreign power rather than an entity moving toward
autonomous self-induced growth. And although it may
well have beneficial side effects, the process is one more
example of the exploitation of poverty.
In other words, in every period of Western capitalist
involvement with the Third World the overriding con-
sideration has been the wealth of the advanced nation,
not the health of the poverty-stricken. First, the colonial
lands were assigned the role of producers of raw ma-
terials and agricultural products; after World War II
(or even somewhat earlier), when that no longer suited
the needs of the big powers, their exports were allowed
to languish; and in the late sixties and early seventies,
when investment in cheap labor in Asia and Latin
America was seen as a way of escaping union wages
back home, the corporations seemed again prepared to
export some capital, not to help with economic devel-
opment, but in many cases to distort it by subordinat-
ing the needs of impoverished people to those of the
rich.
So the details can be debated but the main trend is
clear: in the post-World War II period Western capi-

talism has been less and less dependent upon the poor
countries than before. There is, however, one major ex-
ception to this generalization: oil.
Of all the major commodities in international trade,
the one with the greatest gap between the average cost
of production and price is crude oil. This is not a quirk
of nature but the result of a carefully designed inter-
national system which works to make the prices arti-
ficially high. More to the point, petroleum investments
account for 42.2 percent of U.S. funds in the develop-
ing countries and generate 71 percent of the profits from
those areas. If one looks at American capital abroad,
but excludes oil, then the money in the Third World
is only one sixth of foreign investment, and the profits
only one seventh. In other words, oil is an extremely
important, and quite imperial, element in the American
economy, but if its political power can be overcome,
then the dollars that have been sent to Asia, Africa

or Latin America are not in the least a matter of life
or death for the society. The advanced capitalisms, then,
are not as crucially dependent on neo-colonial invest-
ment as the classic Leninist analysis would suggest. This,
to be sure, is true not because the rich nations became
conscience-stricken, but only because they found more
profit in other areas. 2
There have been some recent attempts to defend
Lenin's interpretation against these facts, but they are
just not convincing. Harry Magdoff, for instance, argues
that Lenin had taken note of the capitalist interest in in-
vesting in the metropolitan powers and therefore that
the new trends are not a departure from his basic
analysis. Ernest Mandel, the leading theorist of the
Trotskyist Fourth International, takes a similar tack. He
admits that "capital is no longer, or even primarily,
flowing toward the colonial or semi-colonial 'under-
developed' countries" but holds that the fact that the
"major part of American capital exports has been in-
vested in other imperialist countries" does not contra-
dict the classic Marxian analysis. It is certainly true that
"
388 SOCIALISM
Lenin noted that imperial nations coveted each other's
industrial areas. But three of the five major charac- ;
teristics of imperialism as he defined it are concerned

with getting control over investments and raw materials
in the colonial world and that was clearly his central
point.
In the orthodox Marxist view every one of the ad-
vanced countries would tend to produce a surplus of
capital and therefore one of them could not solve its
internal problems by investing in another of them for
it would be torn by the very same contradictions. That
was why Lenin could argue that the big capitalist powers
had to expand into the colonial world. And once one
admits, as Mandel and Magdoff do, that this is no longer
the dominant trend, then the Leninist analysis falls and
it is no longer bourgeois sentimentality to suggest that a
capitalist system under the political control of demo-

cratic socialists could behave with a modicum of de-
cency within the international economy. For it is no
longer fated to do evil.
Even more surprising than the Magdoff-Mandel ap-
proach is Gabriel Kolko's use of the "domino theory,"
a standard rationale for the American intervention in
Vietnam, to back up Lenin. "The accuracy of the
'domino' theory," Kolko writes, "with its projection of
the eventual loss of whole regions to American direc-
tion and access, explains the direct continuity between
the larger United States global strategy and Vietnam.
But how, then, explain the fact that the loss of the most
classic of all imperialist regions —the 700 million peo-
ple in the Chinese market —has had little effect upon
American prosperity? As Varga, the Soviet economist,
pointed out toward the end of his life, the failure of the
standard Leninist scenario in that regard is rather strik-
ing.
Or there is Gunnar Myrdal's grim, but quite accu-
rate, comment: "... if the whole of the Indian sub-
continent . should sink into the ocean tomorrow,
. .
this would cause only minor disturbances to the curves

of international trade."
This point cannot be glossed over on the grounds

that though American dependence upon the Third
World is no longer massive, it remains strategic, i.e.,
that this nation must have access to certain crucial raw

materials. For even as Kolko makes this point with re-
gard to bauxite, he is forced to recognize that "in re-
cent years technical innovations have increased the util-
ity of domestic ores." For the fact of the matter is that
if the American economy were really threatened with
regard to some crucial raw material, it would quickly

develop a substitute for it.
Thus Lenin's theory of the essential and inevitable
role of imperialism in Asia, Africa, and Latin America
no longer holds. The Third World is less important to
the advanced capitalist powers than at any time in their
history; and their prosperity is much more dependent
on the maintenance of high mass consumption within
their own borders —
and within the other wealthy coun-
tries —
than upon the exploitation of the world's hun-
gry. 3
n
But if capitalism, and particularly a capitalism being
transformed by structural reform, is not inevitably fated

to global wrongdoing, that does not mean that it has
become benign. On the contrary. Subordinating the
needs of the ex-colonial masses to the priorities of big
corporations may not be absolutely essential for the de-
veloped countries, but it is certainly profitable and con-
venient, the "natural" course of action for a society
that reveres the market mechanism. So if it is not nec-
essary to revolutionize these economies totally in order
to permit them to foster economic development, there
must be a most determined political struggle that will
work basic, and socialist-tending, changes in them.
Specific proposals toward this goal will be made in a
moment. But first it is necessary to understand how
capitalism since World War II has, for all its generosity
—
390 SOCIALISM
and concern, acted to perpetuate poverty and economic
backwardness in the Third World. By doing this one
gets a better idea of precisely which systematic injus-
tices must be dismantled by a positive program. One
also begins to deprive Americans of their excessive in-
ternational innocence. Because this nation has only
rarely been colonialist, i.e., sent troops in to control
foreigners, the man on the street is usually blissfully
unaware of the degree to which it has been imperialist,
i.e., used economic power to dominate other countries.
Indeed, our aid and trade policies, which the average

citizen probably thinks have been much too altruistical-
ly devoted to serving Asia, Africa and Latin America,
have actually been money-makers.*
Even when it was sincerely trying to be decent in its
provisions for foreign aid, the United States Govern-
—
ment was sometimes unwittingly, but not always
shoring up the capitalist system and guaranteeing the
profits of rich corporations. The Marshall Plan and oth-
er funds for Europe were outright grants; the monies
for the hungry lands have increasingly been loans. The
aid was assigned according to military and political
priorities rather than on the basis of economic need,
so that the principal beneficiaries were Chiang's Tai-
wan, South Korea and Vietnam. Until the Chinese in-
vasion of 1962, India, the largest democratic country
in the world, received a pittance compared to various
anti-Communist dictators. Moreover, much of the
money provided by Washington was "tied" the recipi- —
ent nation was obliged to spend it in the American
market, even if the goods it needed were more expen-
sive there —
and thus was more of a subsidy to Ameri-
can business than genuine aid to the people of the Third
World.
In almost every case it was also an explicit aim of
* In what follows I will summarize an analysis that was

documented in Toward a Democratic Left and then explore
some of the more recent evidence to show that it remains very
much in force.
American aid to promote a favorable atmosphere for

private American investment. Sometimes this was bla-
tant; India was threatened with a cutoff of aid because
it would not agree to terms proposed by American oil
corporations setting up a fertilizer industry; in Peru (be-

fore the generals took over, and perhaps as an incite-
ment to that coup) the funds for a domestic peace corps
were actually held up because it would not be sufficient-
ly pliable in oil negotiations.
American trade was organized on a similar anti-de-
velopmental basis. In the official theory, the optimum
use of the globe's resources would be achieved if all
equal nations did business with one another without any
restrictions. So the United States, the most powerful
economy in the history of mankind, demanded reci-
procity from countries struggling to cope with starvation
and backwardness. When the American corporations
did go into those lands, they tended to create enclaves
of modernity, or else to exploit cheap labor. In either
case, their activity Was usually inimical to balanced
economic development. Through the repatriation of
profits— or, where that was legally difficult, through
bookkeeping tricks in which the parent company in the
United States charged inflated prices to its overseas sub-
sidiaries—the companies took enormous sums out of
these areas.
But the American Government did not passively en-
joy the economic trends which reward the rich nations
and penalize the poor; it encouraged these evils. Thus
tariffs in the United States (as in most industrial coun-
tries) discriminate against processed materials, i.e., pro-
vide disincentives for industrialization, through high
tariffs, and low-tariff incentives for those countries
which will* passively accept their role as a raw materials
producer. Before the "Kennedy Round" of tariff nego-
tiations, officials, including President Kennedy himself,
expressed the fear that these talks would only serve to
create a "rich man's club." That is what happened, for
almost all the proposals of the poor countries were either
turned down or ignored
—
392 SOCIALISM
Most of these barriers to development erected by the
advanced capitalist powers— and by the fat Commu-
nists, too, for as Che Guevara pointed out bitterly, they
charge their allies world market prices for their help
aire unknown to the average citizen. They involve the
intricacies of a global market mechanism that prices the
sweat of poor people cheap and the work of sophisti-
cated machines dear, or else complicated international
agreements comprehensible mainly to experts. All the
man in the street knows is that his government is giving
money away to foreigners and that the recipients are
ungrateful. Indeed, his resentment is one of the reasons
why capital outflows to the poor countries from the ad-
vanced capitalist powers declined during the sixties (it
fell, for instance, from .87 percent of GNP in 1965 to
.72 percent in 1966).
Yet the sophisticated reality is that both aid and trade
are money-makers and have the effect of shifting funds
from the hungry to the affluent. In June of 1969 Gabriel
Valdes, the Foreign Minister of Chile and spokesman
for a Latin-American conference on development, told
Richard Nixon, "The present interests of development
policy in Latin America are not identical with those
of the United States. These interests are even progres-
sively becoming contradictory. Popular belief thinks
that our continent gets real financial aid. The reality
of the figures shows the contrary. We can say that Latin
America contributes more to the financing of the United
States and the other industrial countries. . . . The sums
of money taken out of our countries are much larger
than the sums invested." (Emphasis added.)
Mr. Nixon responded to this plea by emphasizing
the role of American private investment in Latin Ameri-
ca, i.e., by proposing to intensify those policies that
had led to the evil defined by Valdes. It was, one diplo-
mat said, "a dialogue of the deaf."
As Charles K. Wilber computed some of the figures,
between 1950 and 1964 United States investments of
all kinds in the developing countries was a little more
than $6 billion. During the same period the outflow
of income from the developing countries to the United

States amounted to $21.5 billion —
a deficit of $15.3 bil-
lion. Meanwhile, the developed economies were treated
much better. During the same period they took in $14.3
billion in investment and sent out only $11.5 billion in
return, thus showing a positive balance of $2.7 billion.
And this pattern is typical of the entire post-war period
in both aid and trade: money was sent to the rich, trib-
ute was extracted from the poor.
—
Two recent cases in point copper and coffee illu- —
minate the brutal power relationships that stand just be-
hind these statistics.
In the summer of 1969 Kenneth Kaunda of Zambia
announced that he was going to nationalize his country's
copper industry. At first there was something of a panic
reaction in the advanced nations, and The New York
Times reported that it was "a prevalent opinion among
copper industry analysts" that Kaunda's move would
drive the technicians out of Zambia. But the Times re-
ported, there were those who felt that the technicians
would stay "if the price were right." Within a very
short time Kaunda had to respond to the threats of a
boycott. In August, 1969, he told Congressman Ogden
Reid that the nationalization would be carried out with
"fairness and equity."
As the Times reported, "Mr. Reid said Mr. Kaunda
had also left him with a clear impression of his wish to
maintain an investment climate in Zambia. The Presi-
dent had also said that he intended to conduct both the
negotiations and the subsequent operations on the basis
of sound business principles." In cash terms that meant
that Kaunda was retreating from his original position
that the owners would be compensated on the basis of
the "book value" of their investment. Now, he told Reid,
they would receive payment for the "true value" of
their holdings.
Under these circumstances nationalization would
profit the private owners. As The Economist put it,
"The shrewdest businessmen in that part of the world

have argued for some time that a 49% share in a busi-
—
394 SOCIALISM
ness whose success underwritten by government par-
is
ticipation may be more valuable than 100% of a con-
cern exposed to all the political winds that blow."
In the course of these events no foreign troops were
dispatched to Zambia and the country's sovereignty re-
mained completely intact. Yet the realities of the eco-
nomic market were more powerful in limiting Kaunda's
scope of action than an expeditionary force. His small
nation was, in effect, less sovereign within its own bor-
ders than the copper companies and their allies. Had
he proceeded on a radical, anti-capitalist basis, he would
have learned that his mines were all but worthless, just
as Mossadegh found out that Iranian oil lost its value
the moment he challenged the Anglo-Iranian oil com-
pany in the early fifties.
Coffee is example as copper. After
as instructive an
oil it is thesecond most valuable commodity in world
trade: forty-two underdeveloped countries generate
$2.3 billion of coffee business which directly involves
twenty million people in bringing in the crop. In the
sixties an International Coffee Agreement was set up
to stabilize prices —
in theory, to help the developing na-
tions involved —
but over a seven-year period it pegged
prices far below those of the preceding seven years.
When the Agreement came up for renewal, American
interests became quite aggressive. Brazil had, with
American help, set up instant coffee plants. As long as
the product was sold only to Brazilians, and Americans
received a portion of the profit for their troubles, that
was fine. But when Brazil entered the American market
with a cheap instant coffee it was a completely differ-
ent matter.
In order to appease the American firms Brazil an-
nounced that it would impose a thirteen-cent tax on its
own instant coffee exports, i.e., a developing nation
would voluntarily make one of its major products less
competitive so as to guarantee the returns of corpora-
tions in an affluent country. But that was not enough
the American firms held out for a seventeen-cent tax.
And they threatened to opt out of the International
Coffee Agreement if the Brazilians refused to go along

with their proposal.
—
Here again, sovereignty was left undisturbed the re-
pressive Brazilian government had, after all, been taken
—
over from Leftists, to the delight of Washington even
as it was subverted.
And in August, 1971, when Richard Nixon unilat-
erally subverted the international monetary system, he
imposed an extra tariff on manufactured goods without
any reference to what that policy would cost the Third
World. The outcry from Japan, France, Germany and
the other big powers was also confined to indignation
over what America's new protectionism would mean to
the advanced and relatively affluent economies. But, as
the Latin American countries in the UN
regional eco-
nomic grouping told the world, the real victims of the
Nixon approach would be the poor of the world. Once
again, all the rhetoric about a commitment to economic
development to the contrary notwithstanding, Europe
and America had acted as a rich man's club.
So the exploitation of the ex-colonial world is a de-
clining component of advanced capitalist prosperity and
not, as in the Leninist analysis, an absolute necessity,
yet there are powerful forces that profit from it. There-
fore a socialist political movement could reverse these
trends without first revolutionizing the very basis of so-
ciety, but only through effecting the most profound
structural changes. 4
m
In order to aid in economic development the advanced
countries must reject the priorities of the world market
that have guided their aid and trade policies. Socialists
in these countries, therefore, must take the lead in at-
tacking and fundamentally modifying the global calcu-
lus of profit that now misallocates international re-
sources.
Here again, it would be much more exhilarating to
396 SOCIALISM
propose to do away with the capitalist system, national-
ly and internationally, and proceed to constitute the
Parliament of Man. That, to put it mildly, is not on the
political agenda in the West, and even if it were, the
details of that grand vision are even more vague than
the principles the Left has had so much difficulty in ap-
plying within capitalist society. So if socialists content
themselves with incantations of a coming world apoca-
lypse, that is a way of turning one's back on the
hungry.
What is minimally required and politically possible is
a restructuring of the world market itself. Such a reform
would be the international equivalent to the New Deal
or the changes wrought by the British Labour Party
after World War II. The internationaleconomy, like
domestic America and Britain in the under
thirties, is
the rule of laissez-faire. Now there must be a welfare
world instead.
In order to advance in that direction it is necessary
to confront, and basically modify, one of the contradic-
tions of capitalism. As a producer, the businessman
buys labor power and it is therefore very much in his
interest to keep wages down, to destroy unions, to limit
or oppose taxes and government spending, and so on.
As a seller, however, the very same businessman wants
as large a market as possible. If he pays low wages him-
self, he still wishes, so to speak, that other businessmen
will be lavish with their employees so that they will be
able to buy his product. Historically, business's unques-
tioned dominance of Western capitalism was based on
cutting costs and keeping wages low. It was the labor
and socialist movements in Europe and the liberals in
the United States who finally demonstrated, in theory
and in practice, that high mass consumption was in the
interests of the rich as well as the poor. The conserva-
tives were, to be sure, only partly convinced: their
Keynesianism is reactionary and seeks to stimulate the
economy by providing tax windfalls to wealthy individ-
uals and corporations rather than by social spending. Yet
everyone but the neanderthals now understands the
connection between full employment and general pros-

perity within an advanced economy.
On the world market, however, most theory and all
practice are still in the grip of assumptions that have
been discredited within the sophisticated neo-capital-
isms. In vigorously using aid and trade policy to keep
the Third World underdeveloped, Western capitalism
only sees the poor countries under the guise of cost
and competition. There are, to be sure, occasional exec-
utives or business journalists who glimpse the advan-
ages for the advanced countries of global economic
development. Thus Sanford Rose writes in Fortune, "If
the developed countries let in more labor-intensive
agricultural and industrial products from the under-
developed world, they will be able to shift part of their
work force into higher technology industries. Such a
shift can only lead to higher average productivity and
augmented income levels of the developed countries."
Rose's point has the virtue of understanding that
tariff protection for low-wage backward sectors of the
economy is bad for the metropolitan powers as well as
for the ex-colonies. Yet even he still assumes that Asia,

Africa and Latin America will primarily supply "back-
ward" goods. In fact, the modernization of the Third
World is in the interests of the entire world, even the
capitalists. But the latter are, by virtue of an institu-
tional defect in their vision, incapable of seeing how
social justice would promote their own selfishness. The
Left must tutor them on this point once again, all the
while seeking new ways to limit the tribute paid to prof-
it within the welfare world as well as in the welfare
state.
But if capital, then, is not going to push for the in-
dustrialization of the world, what about labor? The an-
swer to this question is not an easy one. It is quite pos-
sible to write a scenario in which the organized workers
join with business in order to perpetuate the privileges
of the affluent economies in the global division of labor.
And it is also quite possible that those same workers,
acting out of a much more sophisticated and humane

398 SOCIALISM
self-interest, will fight for the structural reform of the
international market.
The bleaker prospect is more easily put. As A. Em-
manuel wrote in a French Marxist study of the problem,
"it is not the conservatism of the leaders that has reined
in the revolutionary elan of the masses, as one believes
in the Marxist-Leninist camp; it is the slow but constant
growing awareness of the masses that they belong to
privileged, exploiting nations that constrained their
leaders to revise their ideology so as not to lose their
clientele." That, of course, is a key element in all the
Maoist and Third World versions of Marxism.
In the United States in 1970 and 1971 it might have
seemed that the trade unions were following that predic-
tion. The AFL-CIO, long a major political force for
free trade, took a protectionist position on a number of
crucial questions in those years. And yet, if one exam-
ines the reasons for that move, it is possible to see the
basis of a much more positive attitude, one which does
not retreat from free trade but actually seeks to go be-
yond it. As a district president of the International
Union of Electrical Workers (IUE) explained labor's
change of mind, it had been occasioned by the recent
trend of American business to export jobs to Taiwan,
Hong Kong, Mexico and other low-wage areas. These
corporations — and they include giants like IBM and
RCA— had once been protectionist, i.e., for protecting
their profits against foreign profiteers. But now that the
internationalization of the corporation permitted them
to take advantage of sweatshop conditions, they sudden-
ly declared themselves free traders.
One labor response to this situation is protectionism;
another would be to internationalize the struggle against
capital. That did not happen according to the Marxian
prediction in the early stages of capitalism. But, as the
IUE official's article makes clear, it could conceivably
become a necessity in the epoch of the global corpora-
tion. Here again, the analogy to the New Deal is apro-
pos. For decades the American Federation of Labor
was an organization of the skilled elite, hardly touch-
ing the lives of the immigrant masses. But then, in the

1930s, John L. Lewis of the United Mine Workers be-
came the dynamic leader in a great campaign to union-
ize the unorganized industrial workers. Lewis, as Chap-
ter XI showed, did not begin as a radical, had opposed
the rebel forces within his own union and had voted
for Herbert Hoover in 1932. However, his practical de-
sire to protect his own membership in the coal industry
forced him to take on the steel corporations that were in
effective control of the mines; and a campaign to union-
ize steel could only be effective as part of a national
battle to bring all the industrial workers into the labor
movement.
Today, if the various labor movements of the ad-
vanced capitalist economies are seen as an elite, then
those masses in the Third World might be analogous to
the industrial workers in the United States. And it
would then be as necessary for the Electrical Workers
in the American Northwest to concern themselves about
wages and working conditions in Taiwan and Mexico
as it was for Lewis to turn from coal to steel, to the
mass of the unorganized. The unions could fight to ban
imports from countries that sweat their workers — or
they could try to raise the wages of the world and,
through planning, shift manpower in the metropolitan
centers into socially useful jobs. 5
This last scenario might seem far-fetched. Yet at the
1969 Congress of the Socialist International in England,
almost all of the delegates agreed that it was necessary
to move in just this way toward a welfare world. The
men and women at the Congress were not dreamers, but
the leaders of successful and powerful political move-
ments rooted in the working class of their various coun-
tries. Moreover, the discussion was candid. Jan Tin-
bergen, who delivered a report to the Congress and was
to become the first laureate of the new Nobel Prize in
economics, remarked somewhat sadly that "there is not
much left of that common internationalism we socialists
once had." But then he added, "in questions of eco-
nomic development we can have that spirit once again."
1
400 SOCIALISM
Within a year there was a fairly vivid, practical dem-
onstration of what the point raised at Eastbourne
might mean. During a fight between British auto work-
ers and the Ford company's operation in that country,
4
the leaders of the International Metal Workers Federa-
tion met with Prime Minister Edward Heath. So it was
that Leonard Woodcock, the president of the American
United Automobile Workers, joined with Hugh Scanlon
of the British engineering unions and Jack Jones of the
transport workers. This international delegation was try-
ing to counter a Ford threat to move his factory out of
England if wages went up. At a conference of the In-
ternational Metal Workers Secretariat of the Interna-
tional Confederation of Free Trade Unions (ICFTU)
shortly before the encounter with Heath, Victor Feath-
er,the general secretary of Britain's Trades Union Con-
gress,had declared that if governments did not control
the giant multinational companies, the companies will
soon control them.
The Economist, Britain's sophisticated, pro-business
weekly, summarized these trends in 1971: "The de-
velopment of international union strength," it said,
"should now probably be a steady process. In some
ways, the multinational companies will be their own
worst enemies. Just as the international consumer is en-
couraged to identify with products from specific mul-
tinationals, so are workers increasingly identifying
themselves as, say, 'Ford' workers, irrespective of what
national subsidiary of Ford they work in. Thus in-
creasingly the demand for parity of work conditions
and reward between the international branches of the
same multinational will become a spontaneous one." If
this assessment turns out to be accurate, then the mul-
tinational corporation may make an enormous contri-
bution to the internationalist consciousness of the work-
ers of the world.
So it is possible within a society transitional between
capitalism and socialism to make structural reforms that
—
could enormously benefit the Third World and pos-
sible that socialist mass movements could make such
programs practical and political. In outlining a few of

them, it is, of course, impossible to be detailed or pre-
cise. The Third World itself is an extraordinarily heter-
ogenous collection of nations, some of them still
trying to overcome tribalism, others on the verge of mo-
dernity. But even within these limits one can evoke the
kinds of changes within the affluent economies which so-
cialists might achieve in order to reach out to the ma-
jority of mankind.
First of must be a profound change in tariff
all, there
policies. The and outrageous, reality was de-
present,
scribed by the Pearson Commission of the World Bank:
after the Kennedy Round, the tariffs on the manufac-
tured goods of the developing nations were greater than
those charged against the developed ones. Such a situa-
tion makes a mockery of the pretense of the major
capitalist powers that they are interested in the eco-
nomic well-being of the people of Asia, Africa and
Latin America. But even more to the point, this kind
of discrimination against the impoverished countries is
unnecessary, for the number of jobs that would be af-
fected if textiles and other products of the Third World
gained free entry to the advanced capitalist market is
relatively small. If the 1965 rate of textile imports from
developing areas were tripled, there are responsible
economists who argue that only 11,400 jobs would be
displaced in the United States.
Even assuming that estimate is wildly optimistic,
this
the way to deal with the problem is not to continue
our present policy of subsidizing a low-wage American
industry through protectionist tariffs and thereby de-
priving the developing countries of a chance to get dol-
lars in one of the few areas where they are competitive.
In this context, a United States policy to shift the work-
ers endangered by such imports would not simply make
sense in terms of the country's manpower needs, it
would be a component of a democratic foreign policy
as well.
A cessation of evil-doing in tariff policy is not
enough. There must be positive measures, too. The gov-
402 SOCIALISM
ernments of the advanced nations should discourage
Third World products like coffee,
substitutes for crucial
tea and cocoa, and they should favor commodities like
rubber and jute which are threatened by competition
from synthetics. And with crops that can be grown in
both the rich and poor lands, like beet sugar, the latter
should be given the opportunity to supply the market.
In all of these cases where agricultural goods are in-
volved, the problems are even fewer than in the case
of textiles. For in Europe and the United States there
have been public programs for controlling farm output
for some time. What is required is to orient these efforts,
in part at least,toward encouraging economic develop-
ment in the ex-colonies. The machinery is already there.
In line with these steps the big powers should also
adopt the very modest suggestion made by the Groups
of 77 in the Charter of Algiers: that the advanced econ-
omies give a share to imports in the increment of their
consumption. This does not demand restitution for past
wrongs; it does not even require the expenditure of any
great amount of money. It only calls for planning a role
for the developing nations as affluence increases. In this
way, the growing wealth of the developed nations can
be used to decrease the gap between the rich and poor
of the globe. The
recent trends, of course, all point to*
an unconscionable increase in that disparity.
Another crucial area for innovation is research.
The developing countries are all in desperate need
of the kind of research that will apply scientific knowl-
edge to their problems. Yet none of them have the kind
of educational and corporate infrastructure that can turn
out this kind of applied science. The "green revolution"
is an example of how the advanced nations can make
an enormous contribution by a relatively small expendi-
ture of funds. One need not fall into that "technological
euphoria" which sees such a research advance as a mi-
raculous solution for all ills. As Chapter X pointed out
in summarizing Gunnar Myrdal's critique of this no-
tion, there must be basic political and economic changes
if these new seeds are truly to benefit all the people
of the hungry countries. But having emphasized this fact,

there is no doubt that the agricultural discoveries fi-
nanced by the Ford and Rockefeller foundations can be

part of an extremely important advance in the food pro-
duction of nations faced with the specter of starvation.
There is another avenue of research that has an ex-
tremely great potential: population control. In the pe-
riod 1960-1967, the Third World increased its Gross
Domestic Product by 4.6 percent annually, a growth
figure that compares quite favorably with European and
American rates at comparable moments in their devel-
opment. But because of the pressure of population, the
per capita increase was only 2 percent (2.2 percent in
Asia, 1.5 percent in Africa and 1.8 percent in Latin
America). If science in the advanced countries could
find some way for effective mass birth control in a
developing nation —and the Pearson Commission argues
that many, many leads have not been investigated
— that could make a major contribution to ending
global poverty.
But a caveat is in order here, one which enormously,
but necessarily, complicates the research task. If the
contraceptive techniques that are discovered in the
course of such an undertaking are only for use in the
developing countries, they will encounter nationalistic
resistance. For it might then seem that the wealthy
economies were promoting a cheap way out of the prob-
lem of world poverty: by attacking the right of non-
whites to decide on how to limit their families. But if
the population controls were of such a nature that they
can be applied in advanced as well as in developing
countries, there would be no impression of imposing a
policy. Instead, the rich lands would simply be sharing
scientific knowledge they themselves use.
Finally, in terms of orienting world trade toward eco-
nomic development one must confront that institution,
the multinational corporation, head-on.
In a projection made by the National Industrial Con-
ference Board, American corporations will have 25 per-
cent of the "free world" Gross National Product of $1
404 SOCIALISM
trillion by 1975 present trends continue. And Sanford
if
Rose writes of the global companies: "The extent of

their involvement is such that, to some degree, these
companies now regard the world rather than the na-
tion state as their natural and logical operating area. . . .
Carrying multi-nationalism to the logical extreme, a cor-

poration will concentrate its production in the area
where the costs are lowest, and build up its sales where
the market is most lucrative."
Actually, one does not have to speculate about the
future power of such entities. In 1967 the corporate
product of General Motors was worth $20.2 billion,
which made it the eighteenth largest industrial power
in the world, ranking just behind the Netherlands, but
ahead of Argentina and Belgium. The Ford Motor
Company was twenty-third in the world standings, Stan-
dard Oil of New Jersey was twenty-fourth, Royal Dutch
Shell thirty-second, General Electric thirty-fourth.
It is not just the size of these businesses that is so
awesome; it is the fact that their multinational character
allows them to evade the control of various govern-
ments. When, for example, the Rumanians wanted to
buy a paper mill on credit from an American firm, the
transaction was against the law in the United States.
So the company simply had the matter handled by its
English subsidiary. Or, in those developing nations with
foreign exchange difficulties that forbid profits being
used for dividends beyond a certain limit, "a multi-
national corporation could simply 'take out' its divi-
dends by raising prices on intra-corporate sales propor-
tionately."
These problems, as one might imagine, have already
been examined from a sophisticated corporate point of
view. George W. Ball, a leading member of the eco-
nomic and political establishments in the United States,
has proposed an International Companies Law to be ad-
ministered by a supranational body which would place
"limitations, for example, on the restrictions that a na-
tion state might be permitted on companies established
under its sanction." From Ball's point of view, the
problem is to get more freedom for the corporations.

Similarly, Jean-Jacques Servan-Schreiber's call for the
Europeanization of business is designed to maximize
corporate priorities —
in this case, to get industrial units
big enough to compete with American companies.
But there could be an International Companies Law
written from a standpoint quite different from Ball's:
to bring the multinational corporations under control.
Rather than limiting what the various impoverished na-
tions could do in order to contain the giant enterprises
from the advanced economies, it would make it im-
possible for the corporations to siphon out cash through
pricing policies, or to invest only in areas of high prof-
itability without any regard for social consequences. It
could, through taxing or licensing the global giants, pro-
vide a source of revenue for international economic
planning. Plainly the details of such a world statute are
well beyond the limits of this book; but the idea of it
is not.
Indeed, this issue may well open up an entire new
chapter in socialist theory and practice. In the nine-
teenth century the Left saw capital as nationalist and
the workers as internationalist. In the late twentieth cen-
tury the terms have been reversed somewhat: capital
is international, workers are often fiercely nationalist.
But, as has been seen, if the labor movements of the
advanced countries are to deal with this situation, they
will have to become internationalist once again, out of
the necessities of daily struggle.
And so, as time goes on, the socialist plank of na-
tionalization must give way to the idea of internationali-
zation. If, as is quite possible, supranational institutions
emerge out of the drive for European unification, the
socialists of the Old World will unquestionably form a
Continental caucus (as they do in the Parliament of
Europe). Their program will seek to subject the Eu-
rope-wide institutions to democratic control, and to es-
tablish common, and high, standards of wages in the
social services. That, however, is only a first step, for
eventually there must be international planning, inter-
406 SOCIALISM
national democratization, and at that point the socialists
will either recover their original internationalism or else
become irrelevant. 6
IV
What is required, then, is world and regional economic
planning.
The international corporations have been engaged in
just such global calculations for some time now. There
is no reason that the techniques that have been em-
ployed in the private sector in the service of profit can-

not be used in a world public sector. The economists
at the United Nations have already done work on an
econometric model, and that could well provide a point
of departure for a qualitative increase in multilateral
foreign aid which is distributed not according to the
priorities of diplomats and the military, but on the basis
of need and the ability to use funds.
For, as I documented in Toward a Democratic Left,
one of the reasons that American economic aid pro-
grams have not been much more effective is that foster-
ing development in the Third World has been their last
purpose. At the very height of the Marshall Plan the
United States contributed more than 2 percent of its
GNP for the reconstruction of capitalism in Europe and
even went so far as to plan trade discrimination against
its own corporations, i.e., it would not let American oil
companies follow policies inimical to European develop-
ment. If thiscountry could even approximate that sin-
gleness of purpose with regard to Asia, Africa and Latin
America, the destiny of the planet would be different.
Basically, it is not racism that makes American pol-
icy-makers differentiate so sharply between Europe and
the predominantly nonwhite Third World. There were
cultural, religious and political ties to the Old World,
but even more to the point, the investment in the re-
construction of European capitalism paid off handsome-
ly. In saying this I do not for a moment want to stoop
to the vulgar theory that the United States acted out of

a shrewd desire to earn a few more dollars. The anti-
Communism of the liberals in that period was un-
questionably genuine and related to a concern for
democracy, not for private property (reactionary anti-
Communism is another, and cruder, matter). But when
this complexity of motivation is granted, it still is true
that this country found it "natural" to put European
capitalism back together, and that it is, among other
things, angered by the socialist rhetoric of so many of
the new states, and by their (from a capitalist point of
view) cavalier attitude toward corporate property.
When the American aid effort turned to the Third
World, the commitment was phrased in the idealistic
language of Harry Truman's Point Four, but the reality
was that reactionary anti-Communists got most of the
money and that the investment decisions were made
from the point of view of political and military strategy.
Similarly, Soviet aid followed the same course and was
even channeled to Middle Eastern governments that
kept Communists in jail when that served the purposes
of Realpolitik. The French concentrated their efforts on
former colonies which were integrated into the metro-
politan economy and remained a source of profit after
independence as well as before. And the British pro-
moted their own sterling zone for similar reasons.
This is why the internationalization of aid is so cru-
cial: to remove these funds from the domain of the
political-military tacticians and make them an instru-
ment of planned world development.
This does not mean, as Richard Nixon proposed in
1970, that new international organizations should be set
up which are subject to the control of the big powers.
In the World Bank and the International Monetary
Fund, for instance, voting rights are weighted on the
basis of how much each country subscribes, and the
developing nations only have a 35 percent voice. This,
one suspects, is the basis of the Bank's decision in
1956-1957 that a $600 million loan to India would
be conditioned upon a reduction of the public sector.
408 SOCIALISM
The World Bank also has a policy of discouraging oil
investments on the part of recipient countries on the
ground that this area should be left to the major oil
companies. And Thomas Balogh, economic advisor to
the Wilson Labour Government in the sixties, rightly
commented that the "International Monetary Fund ful-
the role of the colonial administration of enforcing
fills
the rules of the game" in its international transactions.

At the 1970 meeting of the World Bank in Copen-
hagen the poor countries were quite explicit about the
way in which that institution followed big-power com-
mercial priorities. Loans, they said, were strictly super-
vised and evaluated on a profit criterion, but money for
broad developmental programs was not available. And,
the representative of the Third World pointed out, their
foreign debt had increased to $55 billion and the ser-
vice charges on it were growing twice as fast as their
export earnings. At the Lima meeting of the Inter-
American Development Bank in May, 1971, the
charges were even more political. President Juan Ve-
lasco of Peru pointed out —
with support from Chile,
Bolivia, Ecuador, and Uruguay —
that after his country's
dispute with the International Petroleum Company and
its guardian, the United States of America, Peru had
been cold-shouldered by the World Bank.

But even when such obvious political interests are
not involved, it is of the very nature of the banker's
approach to economic development that he favor con-
servative economic policies which will minimize his risk
rather than encourage social innovation. "Loan offi-
cials," Jerome Levinson and Juan de Onis write of the
Alliance for Progress, "have consistently required that
countries seeking financial assistance undertake mone-
tary stabilization programs; they have not required pro-
grams of social reform."
All of this is not to suggest that the agents of inter-
national capital at the World Bank, the Monetary Fund,
or in the Alliance are fiendishly conniving to foster spe-
cial interests in the guise of aiding economic develop-
ment (although that most vulgar Marxist scenario does
sometimes apply). These institutions, and the men who

run them, are often committed to a sophisticated and
sincere intervention on behalf of the hungry. The prob-
lem is not that they are dishonest, but that they operate
on a capitalist calculus even when they try to be chari-
table. Such a way of reckoning is inimical to the strug-
gles of the Third World and so there must be global
economic planning with a new system of values.
Indeed in April of 1971, Richard M. Nixon offered
a persuasive program of exactly what should not be
done. By inverting it, so to speak, the Left can make
good use of the President's conservative perspective.
Mr. Nixon wants a United States International Devel-
opment Institute which, as the White House summarized
the program, would set conditions upon the recipient
country, concentrate on a few key areas, be managed
by a board "composed of individuals from both govern-
ment and the private sector," and be managed "on a
businesslike basis." It would "carry out its projects
largely through private institutions and contractors. ." . .
It is difficult to say whether the politics of the Nixon

scheme, whose interventionism would be a target for
every nationalist, Left, Right, and Center, in the Third
World, is more foolish than its economics, which relies
on a business calculus which is the problem, not the
solution, for the ex-colonies.
What is actually needed is international planning and
spending administered on an economic and social cal-
culus.
The United Nations has done brilliant work in eco-
nomic research in this area, particularly through its
various regional commissions. It would not be too ex-
pensive or difficult to concentrate enormous scientific
resources in that effort and to use its structure for the
kind of research-and-development emphasis outlined
previously. But once the economic models are set up,
once there are clearer indications of how monies must
be used for development, there must be a major trans-
fer of funds from the rich to the poor nations.
The recent trends have been in the wrong direction.
410 SOCIALISM
An America which made an average contribution of .89
percent of its GNP through the Marshall Plan, and once
reached a rate of 2 percent of GNP, in 1968 was spend-
ing only .38 percent of GNP
on foreign aid. And that
figure is somewhat inflated, since it includes a food pro-
gram that is only tangentially related to economic de-
velopment (and is directly related to American farm
politics). Moreover, aid in the United States is subject
to annual appropriations and is thus quite uncertain.
An immediate socialist program within the advanced
nations would seek to reverse these trends and to in-
stitutionalize long-term, automatic, multinational aid.
One way of doing this would be to get all developed
countries to commit themselves to devote 1 percent of
their GNP, in the form of private and public capital, to
Third World development. The Pearson Commission of
the World Bank specified that 70 percent of that
amount should be in the form of government aid,
and only 30 percent in private monies. A
more radical
— —
approach and a better one is the idea that the ad-
vanced economies pass a tax on themselves which would
be used to fund international development on a regular,
and multilateral, basis. In Rosenstein-Rodan's version
of the idea, it would function as a progressive "income
tax" on the national incomes of the advanced countries.
The UN's Committee for Development Planning has
come up with another variant of this idea: a develop-
ment aid tax which is charged only against the specifi-
cally "affluent" goods in the big economies (cars, re-
frigerators, TV sets, etc.).
The details are, in a sense, quite unimportant. What
is crucial —and central to the socialist commitment to
—
a welfare world is that there must be a regular source
of funds, not raised through annual political battles and
spent by the military and the diplomats, that will supply
the material basis for implementing indicative world
planning and supplementing it by foreign aid. Just
as the socialist battle within the advanced countries is
to limit the power of private wealth by placing more
and more resources at the disposal of democratically
—
determined public priorities, the same struggle must

now take place on a world scale. 7
Even if socialists and their allies were to win the ad-
vanced nations to the most sweeping reforms of trade

and aid policy, that would not end the agony of the
Third World. The developing countries desperately
need capital from without, for, as Gunnar Myrdal has
noted, even the money available from the World Bank,
which is supported by government guarantees, effective-
ly has an interest rate more than double that paid by
the developed nations in their early stages. But they also
require enormous political, social and economic changes
from within if they are to be able to utilize these re-
sources and their own domestic potential.
At this point a crucial issue is posed: Can this de-
velopmental process be carried out with a minimum of
coercion and a maximum of consent so as to make
economic growth move in the direction of democracy
and eventually of socialism itself?
Zbigniew Brzezinski was a member of the State De-
partment Policy Planning Agency and an advisor to Hu-
bert Humphrey in the 1968 Presidential campaign. As
such he was associated with political leaders who were
officially optimistic about the possibilities of freedom
in the ex-colonial lands. Yet he writes, ". it is diffi-
. .
cult to conceive howdemocratic institutions (derived

largely from Western experience but typical only of
the more stable and wealthy Western nations) will en-
—
dure in a country like India or how they will develop
elsewhere."
That, I believe, is too sweeping a judgment, even
though it does contain elements of a hard truth. In say-
ing this, I am not suggesting that the details of Western
—
democracy the parliamentary system as in Europe, the
tripartite division of powers as in the United States
can, or should, be exported to Asia, Africa and Latin
412 SOCIALISM
America. As Gunnar Myrdal remarks, "it is not pos-
sible to predict the type of government any single un-
derdeveloped country will have five years from now."
What is being asserted is that the totalitarian denial of
rights is not a necessary precondition — or even a goad
— to economic development, that it might be possible
to find paths to modernity which recognize the freedom
of the individual to nonviolently affect the policies and
personnel of his society.
In developing this theme it would be preposterous
to think that a few pages of analysis could suggest pol-
icies that would solve the problems of the entire, and
most heterogeneous, Third World. There is no one
strategy that applies in Chad, Venezuela and India. But
there are common problems that bedevil all these lands
and it is thus possible to give, in broadest outline, a
hint of how they might be dealt with short of totali-
tarianism.
The basic task can be defined simply enough; it is
the question of how to accomplish it that has led to
profound, and often murderous, differences. The de-
veloping nations must extract a surplus from their econ-
omy (and from foreign aid) not to be consumed, but
invested. However, all the existing institutions and ar-
rangements inherited from the age of direct Western
dominance are designed to thwart that undertaking.
They channel the surplus not to productive use, but to
the profits of the metropolitan powers and the luxuries
of the indigenous elite.
When a country in this position challenges foreign
control over its resources, it is met by stern resistance
on the world market and can be forced to back down,
as the examples of copper and coffee showed. But even
if, following the assumption of this section, that policy
could be reversed in the advanced lands, there is still

the problem of systematic domestic misuse of the poor
nation's wealth. This is not confined to the obvious and
outrageous expenditures of native feudalists allied with
Western imperialism. It might include, in India, the
small uneconomic plots of land owned by individual
peasants unable to scratch out anything but a mere

subsistence, or the absentee ownership of the soil by
dedicated civil servants.
In order to challenge these entrenched patterns there
must be a determined, effective central government. That
is the first, and perhaps most crucial, aspect of a so-
cialist development policy.

The developing states, including some that call them-
selves socialist, tend to be either "soft" or totalitarian.
In the former case, there are deficiencies in legislation
and particularly in law observance and enforcement,
corruption, the collusion of officials and powerful in-
terests. In the latter, there is a terroristic accumulation
of capital. The point is to find a governmental form
between these extremes: one which is forceful, but not
dedicated to the destruction of all opposition and dis-
sent. By far and large, American policy has frustrated
this effort throughout the entire post-World War II pe-
riod.
The United States, even in its most generous mo-
ments, as in the early days of the Alliance for Progress,
has stood for a free-enterprise solution to the problems
of development. And yet, as Celso Furtado wrote of
Latin America, "development cannot be the simple re-
sult of forces acting within the market. Only a con-
scious deliberate policy of the central organs of govern-
ment can really lead to such development. Since
. . .
the present ruling classes don't understand this prob-

lem and obstinately maintain the status quo, those in
Latin America who fight effectively for development
play, whether they know it or not, a revolutionary role."
This insight challenges the sincere liberal wisdom of the
Kennedy Alliance and it is totally counterposed to the
American insistence on the dominance of the private
sector in the countries that are to receive its aid.
Ironically, a country that is often cited as one of the
very best examples of the effectiveness of American aid
proves this "un-American" point. On Taiwan in 1970
investments in state enterprises were 70 percent of pri-
vate investments and the government runs a number of
414 SOCIALISM
large, and profitable, businesses. Indeed, the four larg-
est —
companies on the island China Petroleum, Taiwan
—
Power, Taiwan Sugar and Taiwan Fertilizer are na-
tionalized. This trend toward public ownership on
Taiwan became particularly marked in the late sixties
and was justified by officials as "just a matter of prac-
tical requirements." For the fact of the matter is that
there is neither sufficient capital nor capitalists in such
a country to facilitate modernization and the state must
act in their place. This is true even when the govern-
ment is controlled by an aging dictator like Chiang, who
professes to be a champion of free enterprise.
But if there is a strong government, that does not
make industrialization an easy matter. There are Marx-
ists who have suggested a much too optimistic read-
ing of this problem, implying that there is a preexisting
economic surplus sufficient to finance modernization
which only has to be mobilized by a determined revo-
lutionary force. For instance, Ernest Mandel, the Bel-
gian Trotskyist, quite rightly points to the luxury con-
sumption of the old ruling class as a potential source
of development funds. But he then goes on to argue
that the vast unemployment and underemployment of
human beings can be rather quickly turned into an as-
set by the planners.
This notion is based on the assumption, roughly true
in the West, that those not in the labor market, or
marginal to it, are like those who are in it. But in a
country like India, as Myrdal has pointed out, the un-
employed and underemployed suffer from malnutri-
tion, they are deeply inculcated with anti-development-
al attitudes and they cannot be quickly shifted into
productive work. For that to happen there has to be a
profound change in both their material and cultural
situations. Since this point is one of the most important
ones made in MyrdaPs monumental study of South Asia
— and since it is basic to the strategy being proposed
here — it is worth examining in some detail.
Projecting their Western experiences on the map of

the Third World, many economists in the advanced
countries have argued that economic growth can only

proceed by way of greater inequality. Consumption,
which is a cost to the society, must be limited so that
investment can be maximized. Myrdal argues that the
truth is quite the contrary. The only way to create the
material basis for awakening the millions from their
cultural sleep, to make them capable of creating a mod-
ern society, is to provide them with more, not less.
And the cost of doing this should not be computed as
an expenditure, but as an interest-yielding investment
in which the payoff is increased productivity.
This, of course, is directly counterposed to the Com-
munist model in either the Russian or Chinese variants.
In both of these societies the totalitarian state substi-
tutes itself for the bourgeoisie and uses its enormous
coercive powers to extract the surplus from the people
and invest it in those projects favored by the bureau-
cratic class. This approach "worked" in Russia, i.e., it
did induce development, but at an unconscionable hu-
man cost and with the by-product of creating a new
form of class society. But beyond these two profound-
ly negative aspects of this model, it is not at all certain
that this strategy will pay off in the Third World. These
nations start at levels far behind those of the Russians,
with a population pressure never faced by Stalin, and
with people who need the kind of consumption incen-
tives that Myrdal described. It must be emphasized
again that the lack of popular participation in China
(or in Cuba) has been a factor making for enormous
economic waste, and that even twenty years of totali-
tarianism under Mao have not succeeded in curbing the
appetite of the Chinese peasant for his own individual
plot of land.
In other words, the brutal Realpolitik of totalitarian
economics in which consumption and genuine freedom
are seen as inhibiting development may well be a Uto-
pian terrorism. In countries starting at levels well below
that of Russia in 1917 an increase in social disci-
pline is necessary, but so is greater equality and greater
genuine participation of the people. The latter cannot
416 SOCIALISM
be turned on and off from on high, as in the case of'
the various "spontaneous" movements sponsored by?
Mao, for the masses are quite capable of distinguishing
the fraudulent from the real in this area. That, among,
other things, is why the Chinese peasants have appar-i
ently used every moment of "socialist" upheaval in their 1
society in order to extend their own private ownership.

But supposing that there must be more equality, con-
sumption and participation in the course of develop-
ment, not less, how are they going to be financed? In
most countries of the Third World the answer will have
to be found in the agricultural sector. Industry is, of
course, the key to modernization, but in the majority
of these nations the rural population is still overwhelm-
ingly dominant. In India, for instance, industrial prog-
ress between 1950 and 1967 has been quite rapid:
while GNP went up by 1-1.5 percent a year and ex-
ports by 2 percent, the production of industry was
climbing at a rate of 7 percent. This, however, means
that the productivity of the modern sector is on the
rise, i.e., that the advance not only does not create new
jobs but might even be a source of unemployment.
Therefore, as Myrdal and Prebisch among others have
insisted, there must be a great effort to create a labor-
intensive agricultural sector.
Myrdal's proposal as to how this should be done is
fascinating in two particular aspects. First of all, it is
a non-Marxist's scheme which comes fairly close to the
perspective Lenin had for Russia before 1905; and sec-
ondly, in it a social democrat concludes that controlled
capitalism is the answer in the next phase of Third
World development. Myrdal wants to encourage the
growth of commercial agriculture: to promote a class
of progressive, innovating farm owners, and more wage
work in the field. In order to blunt the social conse-
quences of such a structural shift he is also for provid-
ing a small plot for the members of the landless under-
class —as private, not village-shared, property. But the
essence of his plan is the destruction of all the feudal
(or despotic) encumbrances on the soil by govern-

mental encouragement of commerce in the fields.
Consequently, this social democratic scholar writes
that he is in favor of a "deliberate political choice" to
promote "capitalist farming by allowing and encourag-
ing the progressive entrepreneurs among the group of
peasant landlords and privileged tenants to reap the full
rewards of their strivings. " This is something like Len-
in's vision, described in Chapter VIII, of a "revolution-
ary dictatorship of the proletariat and peasantry" in
Russia sweeping away feudalism in the most radical
manner and installing a Left-wing capitalism in its
place.
The difference is that in MyrdaPs plan the govern-
ment could well be social democratic and would utilize
the increase in tax revenues that would result from the
increased agricultural productivity for industrial devel-
opment and the campaign for greater equality. In other
areas, like Latin America, Myrdal believes that a more
traditional land reform —
dividing up the big farms of
absentee owners into equal plots —
would encourage
growth. But the crucial, and compelling, point that he
makes is that seemingly socialistic measures, like gov-
ernment support for cooperatives or village commu-
nity control of economic functions, bolster inequality so
long as the traditional economic and social relations are
allowed to stand. A
genuine development policy must,
above all, overturn those inherited structures. Then it
can turn to the question of exactly how agriculture
modernization is to be accomplished in an empirical,
unideological way.
In 1971 a study of poverty in India prepared by the
Indian School of Political Economy advocated policies
similar to those urged by Myrdal. It opposed a land
reform that would vastly proliferate the number of
small, and non-viable, plots and accepted the desirabil-
ity of increasing the number of profitable farms. It also
proposed guaranteed employment at a minimum wage
for those who are willing to work and computed the
418 SOCIALISM
cost of such a program at $450 million. The money,
the report said, could be raised by a 15 percent cut in
the consumer expenditure of the richest 5 percent and
a 7.5 percent drop in the spending of the next 5 per-
cent. Such an approach would obviously entail political
difficulties but it is neither impossible nor does it re- i
quire totalitarianism.
In this very brief survey, then, the most important
conclusion is that an alternative to both capitalist and
totalitarian modernization is not only necessary, but
perhaps even possible. The capitalist road to the Third
World future leads backward, for it reproduces and
strengthens the very economic relationships that are the
cause of underdevelopment. The Communist road, out-
side of Russia, may well be impractical as well as un-
conscionably terroristic, for poverty-stricken societies
may not have the energy to respond even to coercion.
So it is quite possible that socialist values, like equality
and democratic participation, have a special relevance
in Asia, Africa and Latin America. Contrary to what so
many in the West have thought for so long, a radical
concern for the individual may be an economic im-
perative in these areas of the world.
VI
Socialism, then, hasno miraculous scheme for the Third

World; but it may have relevant proposals.
There is no way that these impoverished lands can
quickly and easily leap the centuries into modernity.
There is a socialist analysis of neo-colonialism that
show how, even though the Leninist model no longer
applies, the economic power of the advanced nations
is used, wittingly and unwittingly, to perpetuate the
bondage of the majority of the peoples of the world.

And there is a socialist description of the various "so-
cialisms" of the Third World, the Communist and non-
Communist, which sees them building new forms of
class society in the process of a bureaucratic and to-

talitarian accumulation of capital.
There a socialist program for the advanced nations
is
that is and precise: to transform trade and aid

clear
policy so as to make it an instrument of, rather than
a barrier to, economic development. There is a socialist
approach for the developing countries themselves, but
it is less explicit because it is confronting utterly new
problems and must have a major component of experi-

mentalism and empiricism. However, it does see that
the central state must play a decisive role in attacking
outmoded institutions and channeling an economic sur-
plus into modernization. Unlike Communism, it seeks
to do these things by stressing greater equality, more
consumption, genuine participation. The "production-
ist" ideology of Maoism in which all institutions
trade unions, cooperatives, etc. — — party,
function to make peo-
ple work harder and consume less may well be coun-
terproductive as well as elitist and totalitarian.
Finally, those questions first posed by Western so-
cialism in the 1890s have not yet been answered. There
are possibilities, new departures, opportunities, but that
is all. Ultimately the answer waits upon the creation of
a world of equality. 8
XIV
Socialism
Finally, there is the vision of socialism itself.

This is not an immediate program, constrained by
what is politically possible, or even the projection of a
middle distance in which structural changes might take
place. It is the idea of an utterly new society in which
some of the fundamental limitations of human existence
have been transcended. Its most basic premise is that
man's battle with nature has been completely won and
there is therefore more than enough of material goods
for everyone. As a result of this unprecedented change
in the environment, a psychic mutation takes place: in-
vidious competition is no longer programmed into life
by the necessity of a struggle for scarce resources; co-
operation, fraternity and equality become natural. In
such a world man's social productivity will reach such
heights that compulsory work will no longer be nec-
essary. And as more and more things are provided free,
money, that universal equivalent by means of which
necessities are rationed, will disappear.
That, in very brief outline, is what socialism ultimate-
ly is. It will never come to pass in its ideal form, yet
it is important to detail the dream in order to better
design each approximation of it.

There is a good reason for thus beginning the evoca-
tion of the far future sotto voce, by insisting upon the
finite character of socialism. It was first pointed out by
that great anti-socialist Feodor Dostoevsky, and it has
gained in relevance since. Messianic socialism, Dostoev-
sky argued, that pretense of a total earthly salvation
analogous to the Christian redemption, would lead to
421
422 SOCIALISM
totalitarianism. For man, he said, cannot be completely
refashioned, and those who claim to do so will, in the
name of nonviolence and brotherhood, be driven to
force and dictatorship in their attempt at the impossible.
Dostoevsky did not understand his own prejudices when
—
he made this analysis he equated peasant, czarist and
—
Orthodox Russia with human nature but the alarm he
sounded was quite real.
So it is important to insist upon the limitations of so-
cialism as a prelude to describing how it seeks to break
through so many of our present limits. It proposes a
solution not to all human ills, but only to those based
on the economic, social and political conditions of life.
It may well be, in contrast to what Marx thought, that
once man stops dying from famines and poverty and
starts to die only from death, there will be a resur-
gence of the religious spirit, not an end to it. "Under
Communism," Sidney Hook once wrote, "man ceases
to suffer as an animal and suffers as a human. He
therefore moves from the plane of the pitiful to the
plane of the tragic."
To grant that socialism is not the final beatitude
should not paralyze the imagination. For instance, I
think that Stanley Moore overreacted in his legitimate
hostility to the demands of some of the youthful Leftists
in America for "Gemeinschaft Now!" "It is not
enough," he wrote, "for the proletarian revolution to
abolish the division of labor between wage workers and
capitalists. Why does Marx suggest in the German
Ideology that communism eliminate all division of la-
bor?" But there are present tendencies, and certainly a
future socialist potential, toward redefining work just as
radically as Marx suggested.
In what follows, then, there will be a dialectical ten-
sion. On the one hand, I want to avoid that absolut-
ist view of socialism that makes it so transcendent that
true believers are driven to a totalitarian rage in the
effort to create a perfect order; on the other hand, I
want to suggest the truly unprecedented possibilities for
Socialism 423
human change that exist today. For now society should

move toward the abolition of both work and money,
even if it never reaches this ideal. In making this vision
specific, I will first analyze the two most serious chal-
lenges to it: that global abundance is impossible; that
there is no class of men, or group of classes, impelled
to seek such basic transformations of the social struc-
ture. I find these objections quite substantial, and even
disturbing, but not persuasive. So after having dealt
with them, I will restate a socialist ideal which is pro-
foundly relevant to the twenty-first century. 1
From very beginnings the socialist movement had

its
based its on the idea that technology could create

vision
enough for everyone if only it could be freed from its
capitalist limitations. But in the late 1960s and early
1970s the new concern with the environment and ecol-
ogy has led some quite serious and humane men— —
to doubt this fundamental premise.
In 1818 Robert Owen was already speculating that
"New scientific power will soon render human labour
of little avail in the creation of wealth." Marx, as Chap-
ter V discussed in detail, made the potential bound-
lessness of social productivity the central theme of his
masterpiece, Das Kapital, and the foundation of his so-
cialist convictions. Strangely enough, John Maynard
Keynes, a principled anti-socialist, shared in this basic
assumption. "For the Western world," he said in 1931,
"already has the techniques, if we would create an or-
ganization to use them, of reducing the Economic
Problem, which now absorbs our moral and material
energies, to a position of secondary importance. Thus
the author of these essays, for all his croakings, still
believes that the day is not far off when the Economic
Problem will take the back seat where it belongs and
that the arena of the heart and head will be occupied,
424 SOCIALISM
or reoccupied, by our real problems —the problems of
lifeand human relations, of creation and behaviour and
religion."
There were, even before the ecological preoccupa-
tions of the late sixties, thosewho questioned this the-
ory from within the socialist camp. Anthony Crosland
wrote in The Future of Socialism that a "saturation
point where further growth would be superfluous" is
"never likely to be fulfilled." But the recent and most
powerful arguments have come from men like Kenneth
Boulding and Robert Heilbroner. Part of their case has
even been adopted by Richard Nixon.
The change that is now taking place, Boulding holds,
is not from poverty to abundance, but from the "open
society . .with an 'input' of material from mines
.
and ores and fossil fuels, and with pollutable reservoirs

as recipients of 'outputs'— to a closed society in which
there are no longer any mines or pollutable reservoirs
and in which, therefore, all materials have to be re-
cycled. This is what I have called the 'space ship
earth.' " In his message to Congress on the environment
in 1970 President Nixon subscribed to a version of
Boulding's thesis: "As we look toward the long-range
future — to 1980, 2000 and beyond — recycling of ma-
terials will be come increasingly necessary not only for
waste disposal but also to conserve resources."
Robert Heilbroner, a very thoughtful and sympa-
thetic critic of socialist ideas, has understood how this
analysis of limited resources subverts the old dream of
the Left and many other aspirations as well. On the
Third World, for instance, he writes: ". . . the under-
developed countries can never hope to achieve parity
with the developed countries. Given our present and
prospective technology, there are simply not enough re-
sources to permit a 'Western' rate of industrial exploi-
tation to be expanded to a population of four billion
— —
much less eight billion persons." And a little later
Heilbroner remarks, "Socialists must also come to
terms with the abandonment of the goal of industrial
superabundance on which their vision of a trans-
Socialism 425
formed society rests. The stationary equilibrium im-

posed by the constraints of ecology requires at the very
least a reformulation of the kind of economic society
toward which socialism sets its course."
In that last comment Heilbroner is not sufficiently
rigorous. For abundance is not possible, then neither
if
is socialism, and there is no reformulation that can
evade that fact. In a society of scarcity, socialists have

always and rightly argued, there will be an inevitable
competition among the people for those limited re-
sources.The very experience of daily life will therefore
prepare the way for competitiveness or for a draconian
system of rationing, but not for fraternity and classless-
ness. And, as this book has documented in so many
instances, that rather harsh insight has been completely
corroborated by the events of the past century and a
half.
In a spaceship society socialist values would indeed
be quite relevant in trying to work out the fairest way
to share the available resources, but the socialist eman-
cipation of the personality would not be possible. It
might even seem to superficial observers that such an
order would be forced to become more socialist: it
would, for instance, obviously have to engage in wide-
spread planning, in political decisions as to how to
make investments, and so on. Only, the socialist soul,
the socialist essence, would not be there.
I am not, however, convinced by Boulding's and Heil-
broner's projection of what the facts will be. Three im-
portant trends, each of which can be speeded up
through political struggle, could contradict their pessi-
mism: technological innovation, population control and
a change in consumption attitudes.
In the early seventies there was a discussion of the
possibility that the earth would reach an "energy ceil-
ing." The production of energy results in heat. If its
increase continues in the United States at the current
rate, by the year 2070 the temperature of the earth will
have risen by the equivalent of one seventh of the
power of the sun's rays. Such an eventuality would have
426 SOCIALISM
intolerable consequences, e.g., it would lead to the flood-
ing of the coastal cities. In that case, the basic concept
urged by Heilbroner and Boulding would clearly be
persuasive.
And yet, all of these figures make the essentially
conservative assumption that our power-generating
technology will remain what it is today. If before the
advent of the internal-combustion machine, one had
—
made a similar assumption that animal power would
continue to do the hard work —
one would have pre-
dicted that the United States would not be able to
sustain its present population. Those multitudes of
horses and mules would require so much land for pas-
ture and so much fodder for food that there would be
no room for people or cities. But the motor inter-
vened, and the whole situation changed drastically. So
it is necessary to take into account the possible, and
dramatic, changes that technical innovation can bring.

There are, for instance, four quite imaginable pos-
sibilities in the field of power production alone. The
Atomic Energy Commission believes that a breeder-
reactor system could solve many of these problems. And
the potential of tidal, solar and geothermal (from the
depths of the earth) power have hardly been tapped.
It would be an obvious socialist policy to give a high
priority to the exploration of such new recources. And
in terms of the long-range difficulties raised by Heil-
broner, it is certainly conceivable that technological ad-
vances will allow the creation of that abundance which
is essential to socialism.
In a prose poem published in 1971, Buckminster
Fuller focused upon one of these alternative sources of
energy. The tides in Maine's Bay of Fundy, Fuller said,
could provide "more economically harvestable,/ Foot-
pounds of energy daily/ Than ever will be needed by
all humanity." And he concluded: "I pray you will
make your stand/ Swiftly and unambiguously clear/
As being against any further incursions/ Of petroleum
into Maine/ Or of pipelines in Alaska./ I pray that you
—
Socialism 427
will concurrently/ Initiateresumption of Passamaquod-

dy/ Together with Of such
initiation of a plurality/
Fundy tidal energy convertors/ With combined capac-
ities/ Sufficient for celestial-energy support/ Of all
human life aboard our Planet/ To be maintained suc-
cessfully/ Until Earth-based humanity/ Has successful-
ly migrated/ Into larger cosmic neighborhood function-
ing."
Moreover, there are the unimagined possibilities in
Fuller's "cosmic neighborhood." One of the reasons that
I did not join in the general Leftist condemnation of
the American lunar program relates to this point. There
is no way of knowing what we will discover in space
not only about resources, but about ourselves. It is

wrong to demand an immediate and obvious payoff for
such undertakings, for they are an exercise, on inter-
stellar scale, in serendipity. Their very existence means
that the limits imagined by Boulding and Heilbroner
are not to be taken as fixed and immutable. 2
It would be wrong, however, merely to assert a so-
cialist trust in the benign potential of technology. For
one thing, every technical advance poses political prob-
lems, as the example of the "green revolution" so clear-
ly demonstrates. If, for example, some kind of mineral
wealth or energy source is discovered in space, to whom
will it belong? To nations or individuals, to capitalists
or Communists? Secondly, there are other workable

policies that can avoid a new and sophisticated form
of scarcity.
Population is an obvious case in point. It is already
quite clear that a limitation on the birth rate is essential
in the Third World, which is why the last chapter gave
a major emphasis to research in this area. But beyond
that immediate and palpable necessity, which is a ques-
tion of life and death for masses in the ex-colonies,
this issue has to be posed in terms of the questions
raised by Heilbroner. Even assuming unexpected tech-
nological innovation and corresponding political and
social changes, one cannot foresee a socialism capable
428 SOCIALISM |!
of meeting the needs of a world which increases its num-

bers by the billions in the course of a single genera-
tion.
Therefore the limitation of population is not simply
a socialist response to underdevelopment, but a basic
principle for the humane creation of the far future. This
should be done, of course, on a voluntary basis, and
there is reason to hope that such an approach will
work. Demography is anything but an exact science,
but there are significant indications that an educated
populace will respond to rational persuasion on this
count, particularly if birth-control research makes the
individual decision even easier, and more safe, than it
is currently.
Finally, there is the possibility of a massive change
in attitude with regard to consumption. In Heilbroner's
projections, he assumes an "American" standard of liv-
ing when calculating the limitations on the world's re-
sources. But in a socialist system, much of the waste,
reduplication and pseudo-needs that are so important
to capitalism would no longer be necessary, simply be-
cause the economy would be more socially rational.
But there is an even deeper change that can be hoped
for —and promoted.
The consumption needs of people are not eternal but,
once the necessities of life are taken care of, historical
and social. Adam Smith, Marx remarked, regarded law-
yers, priests, state officials and soldiers as living parasiti-
cally upon production and he therefore proposed to
keep their cost to a minimum. But, Marx continued, as
capitalism grew more prosperous, the bourgeois lost his
puritanical, abstemious attitudes and became positively
feudal in the support he provided for servants and other
retainers. At the same time, there was, Marx noted, an
increase in unproductive work —
advertising, credit, in-
surance —within the capitalist system itself.
It was this phenomenon that both Max Weber and
Thorstein Veblen studied when they wrote of how the
children of successful capitalists often turned their backs
on money-making as a vulgar occupation. More recent-
Socialism 429
ly, in the United States and Western Europe some of

the children of the growing middle class have turned
their backs on the commercial society in an even more
radical fashion, experimenting with communal forms of
living (this point willbe examined at length in the next
section). If these changes can be observed within capi-
talism, it seems quite probable that a socialist society,
which would be seeking to end invidious competition
altogether, might well be one in which people freely
and voluntarily choose less opulent and gadget-ridden
lives.
So the suggestion that scarcity, not abundance, will
be the outcome of our technological genius is a disturb-
ing one, but far from compelling. If Heilbroner and
Boulding are indeed right, then there will be a place in
the spaceship society for socialist values democratic—
planning, fairness in rationing, and so forth but not —
for socialism. The possibility of a truly new social order
of brotherhood demands as a material precondition that
there be enough for everyone. Paradoxically, it is only
such an unprecedented plenty which could make greed
totally nonfunctional. But there are immediate and
positive programs that can make abundance a real pos-
sibility: through technological innovation, population
limitation and a change in consumer tastes it is still
possible to work toward a world so collectively wealthy
that it can provide a decent life for every man, woman
and child on the planet. 3
II
A second challenge to the socialist vision is even more

serious. It said that there is no longer any group
is
concerned with creating the good society.

It was a central insight of Marx that the working class
was compelled by the conditions of its existence to strug-
gle for socialism. Socialism, he said, was no longer a
hope or a dream or an intellectual's plan; it had be-
come a mighty tendency within social reality itself. In
430 SOCIALISM
his early formulations of this perspective, like The Com-
i
munist Manifesto, Marx wrongly thought that the bour-
geois order was rapidly "simplifying" its class structure
and. thus counterposing an enormous working class
against a tiny bourgeoisie. But as time went on, Marx
himself realized that he had erred.
There is, he wrote in the Theories of Surplus Value,
"a constant increase in the middle class which stands be-
tween the workmen on one side and the capitalist and
landlord on the other, which becomes larger and larger
and is fed from revenues that weigh as a burden on
the working people beneath them and increase the so-
cial security and might of the upper ten thousand."
However, Marx was never able to make all the changes
in his theory this discovery obviously required. But in
the great debates at the turn of the century his heirs
all recognized that the class structure was not evolving
according to the happy scheme of the Manifesto.
So, for instance, Kautsky wrote in 1895 of a "new,
much more numerous and ever-increasing middle stra-
tum which is developing . . . even as the entire middle
class is in decline as a result of the fall in small busi-
ness." The state functionaries and professionals, Kaut-
sky said, essentially took on the point of view of the
bourgeoisie. But the intelligentsia, a class based on "the
privilege of education," was another matter. It was be-
coming more and more like the working class and one
day would discover "its proletarian heart."
That turned out to be too simple and optimistic an
analysis, for when the middle class was indeed prole-
tarianized in Germany in the late twenties and early
thirties, significant sections of it turned toward the Nazis
to save them from the workers. Thus by the end of
World War II the most distinctive single doctrine of
Marxian socialism, the theory that social development
was inexorably creating a revolutionary class, was no
longer tenable. It was at that moment that a profound
ideological crisis developed within all wings of the so-
cialist movement.
The German social democrats who basically revised
Socialism 431
their program at Bad Godesbergin 1959 would be

universally considered on the Right of the socialist
movement; Herbert Marcuse, who had such influence
on the new radical generation in America and Europe
during the 1960s, would be placed on the Left. Yet so
profound is the socialist crisis that Marcuse and the
social democrats talk about the very same reality. The
Godesberg Program noted that "the defenseless prole-
tarian without rightswho used to drive himself through
a sixteen-hour day to get a starvation wage has won
the eight-hour day, job security, protection against un-
employment, sickness, chronic illness and provisions for
retirement." And Marcuse writes, " 'the people,' previ-
ously the ferment of social change, have 'moved up' to
become the ferment of social cohesion." The social
democrats and Marcuse, of course, draw quite different
conclusions from their common analysis: the former, as
we have seen, abandoned the idea of a "class" political
party and appealed to all Germans; the latter seeks a
new proletariat from among the poor and the excluded,
shifting his allegiance from the Marxian proletarians
to the Bakuninist lumpenproletarians.
My perspective differs from both the Godesberg
Program and Marcuse (though in the dispute between
them my sympathies and political support are clearly
with the social democrats). There is no question that
the classic Marxist theory has been subverted, in part
at least because of the social gains that Marx inspired
the workers to win. But even in the richest nation on
the earth, the United States, the "old" working class
still has a basic, and vested, interest in the democrati-
zation of power. Moreover, there is a "new" working

class coming into being on the basis of advanced
technology which could rejuvenate the socialist move-
ment. And there is yet another stratum, extremely
hard to define precisely, which is also a potential ally
for social change.
In analyzing these three forces which could con-
verge in the fight for a socialist society, I am not sug-
gesting that their victory is historically necessary.
432 SOCIALISM
After all the unpredicated changes and defeats of the
last century a socialist would be foolish to try to revive
the consolations of iron laws of history which have
been bent into unrecognizable shapes. But there is a
possibility of creating the bloc I am about to describe,
and whether it becomes reality depends, in some
measure, on whether socialists are persuaded to recog-
nize 4
it.
First, there is the "old" working class of blue-collar

labor.
In the late and early sixties a group of intellec-
fifties
—Raymond Aron
tuals and Daniel Bell prominent
among them —declared an "end of ideology." They
argued that the militant antagonisms of capital and
labor were ended, or largely muted, and that social
change had become a question of how experts would
divide up an ever-increasing Gross National Product.
In The Accidental Century, which was published in
1965, I challenged this thesis and contended that revo-
lutionary changes taking place in technology and eco-
nomic structure could well radicalize masses of people
again.
I believe that the second half of the sixties bore out
my analysis more than that of the end-of-ideologists.
In every advanced nation there was unprecedented
student and youth unrest, and in the United States
there were also explosions of black anger and a new
militancy among Spanish-speaking Americans. But
more to the point of this section, in France, Italy, Ger-
many and Spain the working class engaged in the most
determined struggles since the 1930s. In the United
States labor's battles were not as dramatic as in
Europe, yet there was a series of major strikes in which
the rank-and-file refused the contracts negotiated by
their leaders as too moderate. This hardly accords with
the widespread theory that the American working class
is totally integrated into the system and, in any case,
disappearing because of technology.

What many, many observers failed to understand
was that if the percentage of blue-collar workers is de-
Socialism 433
clining, the absolute numbers are on the increase, and

that if their living conditions are much better than they
once were, they are by no means adequate. In 1965,
37 percent of the Americans in the labor market were
craftsmen, foremen, operatives and laborers. As the
Department of Labor projected the 1980 figures in
1970, manufacturing, transportation, construction and
mining would employ more than thirty-three million,
and government (state and local) and the service in-
dustries,both of which have a growing proportion of
trade unionists, would account for about thirty-five
million.
class is by no means "disappearing"
So the working
as some academics have thought. And even as scholars
were explaining how the proletariat had ceased to be a
historical actor, there were tens of millions of workers
who faced many of the old problems of working-class
life. For, as the Bureau of Labor Statistics computed
the figures, in late 1966 it took about $9,200 to sup-

port an urban family of four in the United States at a
"moderate standard of living" (the definition allowed,
for example, the purchase of a new suit and a two-year-
old used car every four years). With the rampant infla-
tion of the late sixties, it is clear that this figure would
have to be revised to somewhat more than $11,000 for
1970.
To achieve that 1966 level required a weekly pay-
check of $177. The average for industrial workers was
actually $114. Indeed, a majority of the American peo-
ple lacked the resources of this "moderate" budget. In
addition to the poor, there were tens of millions of
working Americans who, if not hungry, had to
struggle and scrape to make ends meet. And many of
these citizens were concentrated in factory jobs that
were physically grueling. So the "old" issues of wages
and working conditions were still very much a factor
in the experience of the majority of people. And in
Europe, where per capita wealth is inferior to the
United States, these trends are even more pronounced.
Though working-class discontent in America did
434 SOCIALISM
not take the turbulent, near-revolutionary forms that it
did in France and Italy in 1968 and 1969, it was still a
powerful political force. In the elections of 1968 the
supposedly decrepit trade unions were, as we have
seen, clearly the most important single element in the
coalition that, despite the most difficult odds, almost
elected Humphrey President. In the 1970 Congressional
elections a similar effort frustrated Nixon's plans to
make big Republican gains.
Moreover, the political potential of social classes
cannot be determined by a simple head count. There
are nations in which the overwhelming majority is peas-
ant and yet the society is run from the cities. For
peasants are dispersed, parochial and pre-modern.
They can flare into a jacquerie or even provide the
troops for a Mao or a Ho Chi Minh. But the decisive
technology of the contemporary economy is industrial,
and the center of power is therefore urban. Workers,
on the other hand, are concentrated in very large num-
bers, subjected to a common discipline in the work
process, and forced, in the defense of their most im-
mediate interests, to build collective institutions. They
therefore have a cohesion, a social weight, in excess of
their numbers.
I stress aspect of working-class life since the
this
and issue-oriented people who
affluent, college-educated
must coalesce with the unionists so often ignore it. The
new constituency that is emerging as a result of mass
higher education is, as I will document in a moment,
extremely important. But it does not have a solidarity
imposed upon it by the very conditions of life and
work, as the labor movement does. Therefore even if
the percentage of blue-collar workers is declining, and
that of "professional, technical and kindred workers" is
on the increase, it is the working people with their own
stable institutions who must be the decisive component
of a socialist majority.
Paradoxically, affluence may provoke the workers to
political struggle as much as poverty did. Marx had
recognized the possibility that capitalist success would
i
Socialism 435
make labor rebel in 1849. "The rapid growth of pro-

ductive capital," he wrote, "brings about an equally
rapid growth of wealth, luxury, social wants, social em-
ployments. Thus, although the enjoyments of the
worker have risen, the social satisfactions they give
him fall in comparison with the increased enjoyments
of the capitalists, which are inaccessible to the worker,
and in comparison with the state of development of
society in general. Our desires and pleasures spring
from society; we measure them, therefore, by so-
"
ciety
Something like that mood of rising enjoyments and
declining satisfactions among the workers was reported
by a number of observers in the United States in the
early seventies. In his first State of the Union message
Richard Nixon himself remarked that "never has a na-
tion seemed to have had more and enjoyed it less." And
in a report to Nixon, Assistant Secretary of Labor Je-
rome M. Rossow told of the discontents of blue-collar
affluence: the workers can't send their children to
college —
which is now becoming as essential as a high-
school education was a generation ago — without great
financial strain; their jobs have lost status; and they
feel threatened by the militancy of the blacks. In 1971
some of these emotions even caused the striking New
York City police to imitate the confrontation tactics of
the New Leftists whom they abominate.
In England one can be even more precise about
prosperity and the labor movement because of an ex-
cellent empirical and theoretical study, The Affluent
Worker in the Class Structure. The well-paid workers,
it reported, had not become bourgeois: "A factory
worker can double his living standards and still remain
a man who sells his labour to an employer in return
for wages; he can work at a control panel rather than
on an assembly line without changing his subordinate
position in the organization of production; he can live
in his own house in a 'middle-class' estate or suburb
and still remain little involved in the white-collar social
world."
—
436 SOCIALISM
But if this English study does not bear out the theory
that the affluent workers have become middle class
they are still overwhelmingly for the Labour Party, for
instance — it does raise a disturbing question. The old
labor solidarity, it reports, has disappeared from much

of daily life and even from the plant floor. The workers'
new prosperity has made the home and private con-
sumption the focus of their activity, and the formal
and informal class institutions, like clubs and pubs,
have gone into decline. They remain collectivism for
the conditions of their lives force them into unions and
concerted political action. But, the English investi-
gators concluded, their collectivism tends to be "in-
strumental" —
not a way of life or a cell of the new
society, but simply a technique for protecting fairly
narrow economic interests.
Certainly something like this has happened in
America. The elan, the marching and singing that ac-
companied the rise of the CIO, has largely disap-
peared. So has much of the intense political life that
characterized the unions in those days. The movement
has remained dedicated to better wages and working
conditions and to political action, but the sense of
brotherhood seems to have departed. If this were the
only trend, then the unions could become parochial
interest groups, reverting to the traditions of the AFL
before World War I. And however much they might do
for their members in that case, it would be absurd to
think that they have a place in the fight to create a new
social order.
Australia might be a precedent. Labor there became
political as far back as the turn of the century and has
had its own party for just as long. And yet, although
the Australian Labour Party (and its largely Roman
Catholic and bitterly anti-Communist offshoot, the
Democratic Labour Party) is class-based and dedi-
cated to a full-employment program, it has never de-
clared itself for a socialist reorganization of society. In
America, too, laborism could be a vehicle of such an
Socialism 437
"instrumental collectivism," maximizing a limited self-

interest rather than any larger vision.
I think that objective conditions are not favorable
to this privatization of both the working class and its
institutions. For increasingly the social component ofi
the standard of living is more and more important.
Clean air, good schools, vibrant neighborhoods, public
safety and a sense of identity cannot be purchased at the
supermarket. Indeed, as Chapter XII demonstrated, if
the priorities of the market prevail within the society,
these crucial goods are going to deteriorate further.
Therefore, whether the workers like it or not, they will
be forced to public action in order to fulfill their pri-
vate desires.
A 1971 study by the University of Michigan Re-
search Center indicates that the workers themselves
may well be conscious of this situation. Through depth
interviews with a national cross-section of workers the
Michigan scholars discovered that the prime concern of
the sample was fringe benefits —
medical insurance, sick
leave, and retirement programs. Next came health and
safety hazards and transportation problems, then un-
pleasant physical conditions on the job and inconve-
nient or excessive hours. Low pay rated sixth among
nineteen complaints. What is revealing about these atti-
tudes is that the first five complaints can be dealt with
only through collective, and in most cases govern-
mental, action. The classically "private" drive for more
income was subordinated to these other, much more
social, values.
In a remarkable revision
more precise word —of his
—perhaps
rejection is a
own "end
of ideology" thesis
written in 1971, Daniel Bell described a major trend:
"It seems clear to me that, today, we in America are
moving away from a society based on a private-enter-
prise market system toward one in which the most im-
portant economic decisions will be made at the politi-
cal level, in terms of consciously-defined 'goals' and
'priorities.' " In August, 1971, Richard Nixon dramati-
438 SOCIALISM
cally corroborated Bell's belated realization of the deep-
lying collectivist trends of the age. Turning his back on
the laissez-faire economics which had guided the first
two years of his Presidency, Nixon declared a wage-
price freeze and proposed $9 billion of encourage-
ment for the corporations, $2.5 billion for the con-
sumer and an IOU for the income floor he had urged
for the poor.
Predictably the AFL-CIO responded indignantly to
the priorities contained in the Nixon policy. Its execu-
tive council said: "Instead of extending the helping hand
of the Federal government to the poor, the unem-
ployed, the financially strapped states and cities and to
the inflation-plagued consumer, the President decided
to further enrich big corporations and banks. .. Mr. .
Nixon's program is based on the infamous 'trickle

down' theory. It would give huge sums of money be-
longing to the people of the United States to big cor-
porations. He would do this at the expense of the poor,
the state and local governments and their employees
and wage and salary earners."
The radical aspect of this confrontation is that it con-
cerns the very maldistribution of wealth within the
system itself. The AFL-CIO is here challenging that
most basic trend of neo-capitalist society whereby the
state acts to reinforce inequality even as it claims to
promote the common good. And if, as Bell rightly
argues, basic decisions of the future are going to be
made politically, then there is reason to hope that the
trade unions will confront not simply questions of
wages and hours, but basic issues of social and econom-
ic structure as well.
In his reflections on the socialist future after the de-
feat of the Wilson Government in which he was a
minister, Anthony Crosland writes that the only alter-
native to periodic bouts of inflation and recession is an
incomes policy. Indeed, Crosland urges the Labour
Party to make just such an approach a central plank in
its program for the seventies. President Nixon's adop-
tion of a reactionary incomes policy in 1971 is proof

)
Socialism 439
that this trend exists on the Right as well as the Left.

And the AFL-CIO's insistence that non-wage income,
like profits, rents and dividends, be controlled could
well be the portent of a basic new direction in labor
politics, one which acting out of
will see the unions,
considerations of practical self-interest, become the po-
litical champions of increasing equality in American
society as a whole.
So the "old" working class has not disappeared and
neither has its very immediate interest in the de-
mocratization of economic power. It is clearly going to
be the largest and most decisive element in any liberal
immediate future; it has a potential to
coalition in the
play a most important role in a socialist coalition of
the future. 5
Then there is the "new" working class.
As neo-capitalism plans and rationalizes more and
more, it produces an increasingly large stratum of en-
gineers, technicians and highly skilled workers. In those
Department of Labor projections for 1980, for in-
stance, the occupation with the greatest growth during
the seventies is that of "professional and technical
workers," which will increase by 50 percent, while
operatives (assemblers, truck drivers, bus drivers) will
grow by only 10 percent. As a result, in 1980 it is esti-
mated that there will be slightly more professionals
than operatives (15.5 million as compared to 15.4
million). The former will be middle class in their edu-
cational attainments and life-style, but their conditions
of work and the problems of unemployment will con-
front them with problems long familiar to the working
class. (The English study of the affluent workers also
noted this tendency toward "proletarianization" in that
country.
In the discussions in the socialist movement before
World War I Kautsky, as we have seen, put consider-
able emphasis on the possibility that the intelligentsia
would become more proletarian. But it was Thorstein
Veblen who was really the first to make this insight
more precise and to apply it, in effect, to the profes-
440 SOCIALISM
sional and technical workers. Veblen wrote of a "corps
of technological production specialists, into whose
keeping the due functioning of the industrial system
has now drifted by force of circumstances. ." And. .
then, in a passage anticipating the discovery of new

social types by John Kenneth Galbraith, Daniel Bell
and others, Veblen wrote, "These expert men, tech-
nologists, engineers, or whatever name may best suit
them, make up the indispensable General Staff of the
industrial system; and without their immediate guid-
ance and connection the industrial system will not
work."
Veblen thought that the engineers were becoming
both class-conscious and anti-commercial, and that they
would be able to run the society of the future. That
hardly turned out to be true. For this analysis and —
Bell's and Galbraith's — forgets that so long as the tech-
nologists are acting within capitalist institutions, how-
ever fine their personal values may be they will be
overwhelmed by the structures they serve. But they do
indeed provide an extremely important new political
constituency and even a source for trade unionism.
In France, this possibility was highlighted during the
tumultuous events of May, 1968. As Serge Mallet and
Alain Touraine have reported, the most militant trade
unionists in the great strike wave were not the coal
miners, a classic source of proletarian intransigence, but
the workers in electronics, chemicals, communications
and education. Moreover, these highly educated work-
ers made demands having to do with the democratiza-
tion of the work place itself. They were simply not
willing to accept the hierarchies inherited from the in-
dustrial capitalism of the nineteenth century.
The union federation in France that has been most
successful among this "new" working class is the
Democratic Federation of Labor (CFDT), formerly the
Catholic labor movement (as the Christian Federation,
CFTC). In 1952, when Eugene Descamps cited Blum
and Jaures at a CFTC meeting, he was called to order
by Gaston Tessier who said, "Here one does not talk
Socialism 441
of socialism." By 1970 Descamps was the secretary

general of the Federation and it had officially declared
itself in favor of a socialist society. This is not to suggest
that there is some automatic tendency toward socialism
in this new stratum of industrial society. The English
study of the affluent workers, for instance, did not dis-
cover such a trend. But the development does at least
open up new possibilities for socialists, as the French
case shows.
Even in theUnited States one can observe some of
these very same tendencies. One of the fastest growing
unions in the sixties was the American Federation of
Teachers. If, as is possible, it were to merge with the
National Educational Association (which, despite its
claim to professionalism, has acted more and more like
a union), the combined organization would be the
second largest union in America (only the Teamsters
would have more members). And there were similar
trends toward collective bargaining among priests,
nuns, nurses, professional athletes and other non-blue-
collar categories.
John Kenneth Galbraith described another aspect
of this development inThe New Industrial State. The
corporation has become so huge and makes its multi-
million-dollarinvestments over such long periods
of time that a corps of industrial planners has now
become necessary. This marks, Galbraith suggests, a
major new source of power, since society always pays a
particular deference to its most scarce resource. Once
that was land, then it was capital, now it is organized
intelligence. And
Daniel Bell has said that the "new
men" in the emergent order are "the scientists, the
mathematicians, the economists and the engineers of the
new complex technology. The leadership of the new so-
ciety will rest, not with the businessmen or corporations
as we have known them . but with the research
. .
corporation, the industrial laboratories, the experimen-

tal stations and the universities." Both of these descrip-
tions are too Veblenesque, too optimistic about the
power and humane values of technicians. But they do
442 SOCIALISM
provide insights into an important, and new, social
reality.
So the evolution of capitalist society is bringing forth
a new working-class stratum with a considerable so-
cialist potential. It is middle class in its education and
income, but often subjected to a production discipline
like that of the workers. It is disposed by its intellectual
formation to long-range planning and it has no great
vested interest in private corporate property (for all the
publicity about the widespread stock ownership in
America, the overwhelming majority of stockholders
rely on their job, not their holdings, for the bulk of
their income; for them, speculation is an avocation, and
as the bear market of 1969 and 1970 showed, often
a dangerous one). So long as it remains encapsulated
within neo-capitalist institutions, this stratum cannot
act on its own, contrary to what Veblen, Galbraith and
Bell think. But when it creates its own groups —unions,
political clubs, even professional associations — it can
affect the society and conceivably move it in a socialist

direction.
It would be wrong to become euphoric about this
change in class structure, for it has its ambiguities. In
Sweden in 1971 civil servants went out on strike. These
educated workers in the public sector were disturbed
about the egalitarian policies of Premier Olof Palme's
government and felt, the German socialist correspon-
dent in Stockholm reported, that it was wrong to reduce
the differentials between the educated and the unedu-
cated worker. So it is possible that this new skilled
stratum could engage in a conservative status politics
designed to maintain the traditional capitalist inequi-
ties. But there is hope even in this setback, for Palme
did win his party to undertake a redistribution of in-
come and wealth in the society in favor of the poor and
the disadvantaged. In time it may well turn out that the
Swedish social democrats, the first movement in the
world to engage in planned deficit financing as a way of
promoting full employment, may have once again
playfed the role of pioneering innovators. 6
— —
Socialism 443
The third possible component of a new socialist ma-

jority is the most difficult to define. It is made up pri-
marily of young people with college educations (or in
college) who are not technologists or professionals.
In a Fortune survey in 1968 which showed 40 per-
cent of college youth to be fundamentally dissatisfied
with the values of American society, the majority of
this group Fortune dubbed them the "forerunners"
were students in the arts and humanities. The voca-
tional choice that attracted the largest single group
among them (39 percent) was teaching. That would,
of course, make them part of the "professional" cate-
gory as defined by the statisticians in Washington. But
it would certainly not qualify them as part of Gal-
braith's "technostructure" (since most of them are

oriented toward primary- or secondary-school teaching
and would never participate in either the research in-
stitutions or the corporations).
These nontechnicians are the most visible represent-
atives of the "generation gap" that has been so widely
discussed in Europe and America. They incarnate not
merely a new definition of the meaning of age, but the
consequences of changes in class structure as well.
Adolescence, as Kenneth Kenniston points out, was
an invention of industrial society. Before the rise of
urban industrialism children entered adult society as
soon as they were physically able (and in the early days
of capitalism, even before then). But with the growth
of wealth and the middle class, the children of the
well-off were granted a "moratorium" (to use Erik
Erikson's idea) in their teens during which they were
not quite children nor adults. Now, as society has grown
even more affluent, it has created still another period
of human life, one that "intervenes between adoles-
cence and adulthood."
This new phase, Kenniston argues, has been the
basis of New Left currents in the advanced nations in
the sixties. For the radicals, Kenniston discovered, are
overwhelmingly the children of the middle, and even
upper-middle, class; they come from liberal homes; and
—
444 SOCIALISM
their bitterness about the existing order is partly a
result of having been given the leisure time and edu-
cational opportunity to take a "disinterested" critical
view of it. But their anti-establishmentarianism may
also reflect a certain self-interest, as Bruno Bettelheim
has suggested. For many of these young people under-
stand that they, together with their liberal education,
are obsolete in a technological economy. Trained as
"gentlemen" in an age that needs technicians, they be-
come, in Walter Lippmann's phrase, "derelicts from
progress."
Yet it would be quite wrong to think that the vast
increase in the collegiate population is primarily a
middle- or upper-middle-class phenomenon. In Octo-
ber, 1969, there were 7.4 million students enrolled in
higher education —and 61 percent of the whites and
71 percent of the blacks came from homes whose head
had not attended college. To be sure, the class bias
of the American system was still very much at work
66 percent of the children from families with incomes
of $15,000 a year and over were receiving advanced
education compared to only 16.4 percent of those
from income backgrounds of $3,000 a year or less.
And yet, the students from families with less than
$15,000 a year were twice as numerous as those whose
parents made more than that figure. Thus it is clear that
we are dealing with a massive structural mutation in
the society as a whole which touches every class, and a
good portion of the Fortune "forerunners" must have
come from working-class and lower-middle-class
homes. Their better-off classmates can express their
convictions more visibly and dramatically, but they
do not tell the whole story.
This new development is going to have enormous
political ramifications. In 1910, when he was attacking
Max Adler's theory that intellectuals have a natural
penchant for socialism, Leon Trotsky conceded that
students did represent a special case and defined their
position in terms that now apply to millions in the ad-
vanced economies: "The student, in contrast both to
—
Socialism 445
the young worker and his own father, fulfills no social

function, does not feel direct dependence on capital or
the state, not bound by any responsibilities and
is at —
least objectively,if not subjectively —
is free in his
judgement of right and wrong. At this period every-
thing within him is fermenting, his class prejudices are
as formless as his ideological interests, questions of
conscience matter very strongly to him, his mind is
opening for the first time to great scientific generaliza-
tions, the extraordinary is almost a psychological need
for him. If collectivism is at all capable of mastering
his mind now is the moment, and it will indeed do it
through the nobly scientific character of its basis and
the comprehensive cultural content of its aims, not as a
prosaic 'knife and fork' question."
A mass constituency with at least some of these
characteristics is now being produced in American so-
ciety. And ironically, one of the main reasons that
capitalism has thus subsidized so many potential sub-
versives is that it was trying to evade a most pressing
problem: automation. When that issue was first ur-
gently posed in the sixties there were some writers
—
myself included who responded to the phenomenon
with an excessive literal-mindedness and lack of imagi-
nation. We assumed that it would have the obvious
effect of producing chronic, and even mass, unemploy-
ment. We did not realize the various disguises this
trend could adopt. One of them was the war in Viet-
nam, which carried out a policy many of us had pro-
—
posed the direct governmental creation of 1,700,000
jobs— but in a tragic, murderous fashion. Another dis-
guise was this protracted postponement of entry into
the labor market on the part of the liberally educated
children of the affluent.
For those who were actually preparing for and
wanted careers in the "knowledge economy," this delay
was functional. But for others, who sought enlighten-
ment or who were simply after the "credential" of a
college degree, the experience was bewildering. They
were saved from unemployment, true. But they also
446 SOCIALISM
found themselves in new mass institutions of higher
learning which could give them no convincing reason
as to why they were there. So they rebelled in a thou-
sand ways against the irrationality of their life. And in
the recession of 1970-1971, they discovered how pre-
carious their position was when the unplanned expan-
sion of higher education and an unplanned labor
market worked to create collegiate, and even doctoral,
unemployment.
In France after the turbulence of May, 1968, the
authorities adopted a version of the foregoing analysis
and acted upon it. Le Monde reported in 1969, "The
students in the various faculties are also upset for an-
other reason: the uncertainty of the job market. Almost
half the liberal arts graduates no longer find posts in
teaching and are not prepared for any other activity.
The situation is rapidly going to be just as upsetting
for graduates in economics, natural science and even
physics, for they cannot all find a place in teaching or
research." And, in another one of those paradoxical
results of the May, 1968, student uprising, the techno-
crats are responding to this situation by opening up a
new school to teach management techniques and in-
troducing the study of technology in the science facul-
ties so that the students will be prepared to work in
industry.
But another response, coming from some of the
young themselves, is to drop out of the work-oriented
society altogether. This is, of course, an option taken by
a relatively tiny minority, yet there is a remarkable
resonance to the hippie style among those who have
not disaffiliated completely yet share the dissatisfac-
tions of those who have. Theodore Roszak argues that
this phenomenon is so serious that it marks the ap-
pearance of a "counterculture" and a radical departure
from the mainstream assumptions of the West since the
Scientific Revolution of the seventeenth century. It in-
tegrates Oriental mysticism, psychedelic drugs and com-
munitarian impulses; it is profoundly hostile to tech-
nological rationality.
Socialism 447
In its extreme form the political logic of this attitude

leads to a dangerous utopianism in the worst sense of
that word. Roszak asks, ". .how ready are the
.
workers to disband whole sectors of the industrial ap-

paratus where this proves necessary in order to achieve
ends other than efficient productivity and high con-
sumption? How willing are they to set aside techno-
cratic priorities in favor of a new simplicity of life, a
decelerating social pace, a vital leisure?" And this vision
culminates in the proclamation of "a new heaven and
a new earth so vast, so marvelous that the inordinate
claims of technical expertise must of necessity with-
draw in the presence of such splendor to a subordinate
and marginal status in the lives of men."
I take this view seriously even though it expresses
the attitude of only a small number of young people
on the disaffiliated margin of the new educated stratum.
—
For portions of this ideology and for that matter,
hippie styles in clothing —
are to be found among a
very large number of the growing college-educated
constituency. And what Roszak is articulating is the
self-righteous call for such people to withdraw into their
own universe, and in the name of ultra-radicalism ac-
tually reduce the opportunities for basic change.
Politically it is simply impossible to persuade the
majority of the people of the advanced countries to be-
come voluntary ascetics. They, unlike the inhabi-
tants of the counterculture who usually come from
affluent homes and live off the wealth of the society,
still have material needs that are unsatisfied. Even more
important, dealing with the agony of the poor in the

—
advanced countries and of the hundreds of millions
in the Third World who are much more desperate re- —
quires that contemporary technology be used for the
creation of food, housing and clothing. It was, for in-
stance, technological rationality —
in this case, applied
scientific research — that resulted in the "green revolu-
tion" of new strains of wheat and rice, making it
possible to generate huge increases in the agricultural
production of India. To carry out the program of the
448 SOCIALISM
counterculture would literally threaten millions withll
starvation. The poetic demand to do away with ma-
chines, so compelling to young people who have never
run them or realized their dependence on them, comes
to seem extremely reactionary.
This is not to say that the hippie view is completely
without substance. It is quite right to argue that pro-
duction is not an end in itself, as the capitalist ideology
of eternally increasing consumption holds. And it is
right to say that once the basic needs of all the people
of the earth are satisfied, man should turn to other pur-
suits. Marx, in his most profound definition of so-
cialism itself, asserted that the "Kingdom of Freedom"
would not emerge until compulsory work had ended.
And he understood that if one dispensed with the disci-
pline of the labor market, there would be a mutation
in the psychic character of man — there would be
"new" men.
But Roszak and those to whom he speaks want to
pass immediately into the Kingdom of Freedom, even
if by doing so, they desert that vast majority of man-
kind which is still forced to live in the Kingdom of

Necessity. Yet it would be wrong to assess the signifi-
cance of these yearnings in terms of their most extreme
formulation. There are, the Fortune survey indicates,
some millions of young people who have taken the best
of these values, but who are still concerned about the
actual struggle to change the society as contrasted to
dropping out from it. They are the ones who followed
Senators McCarthy and Kennedy in 1968 and who or-
ganized that national celebration of peace in October,
1969. And they could well respond to a socialist pro-
gram for the humanization of technology, not by way
of the disaffiliation of a sensitive, irresponsible minority,
but through the conscious creativity of the majority.
So there are trends altering the class structure of neo-
capitalist society in such a way as might make it possi-
ble to build a new coalition not simply for this or that
reform, but for the good society. The grandchildren of
the prisoners of starvation, the technicians and the
Socialism 449
liberallyeducated children of affluence could come to-

gether in an alliance to transform both the quantities
and the qualities of life. 7
m
The socialist vision, then, could be made relevant to
the twenty-first century. That would mean that masses
of men and women would seek to construct a society
in which compulsory work and money would both tend
to disappear. These ultimates are important in that
they define a goal to be approximated — and also be-
cause they concern the political choices that must be
made tomorrow. If, for example, one is very clear about
the need to make more and more goods and commodi-
ties free, then that will affect how one designs a health
insurance program.
In 1971, for instance, Richard Nixon's medical pro-
posals were designed to leave existing structures intact
by contracting out the society's responsibility to private
insurance companies (although it should be noted that
ten years earlier Nixon would have probably de-
nounced his own plan as "socialized medicine"). The
bill proposed by Senator Kennedy and supported by
the unions, on the other hand, actually aimed at chang-
ing medical practices and relied on general government
revenues for financing. The Kennedy proposal was not,
to be sure, socialist, but an understanding of the social-
ist ideal helps greatly in making people realize that
it is the infinitely preferable of the two liberal options.
So in what follows I speak of a far future which

must inspire the immediate present.
In one of his most extended discussions of what so-
cialism would be, Karl Marx was clear that it involved
the abolition of compulsory work. I quote him at length
not out of veneration, but because his words remain an
extraordinarily accurate perception of the most desir-
able possibility for social change. "The Kingdom of
Freedom," Marx wrote, "begins first with the fact that
450 SOCIALISM
work ceases to be determined by need and external
expediency; so in the nature of things it will be located
beyond the sphere of material production in the proper
sense of the word. As the savage must wrestle with
nature to satisfy his needs and to maintain and repro-
duce his life, so must civilized man do the same thing
under all forms and possible modes of produc-
social
tion. With development, man expands the xealm
his
of material necessity and his own needs; but at the
same time, he expands the productive forces that satis-
fy them. In this sphere, freedom can only emerge if
socialized man [vergesellschafte Mensck], the asso-
ciated producers [assozierte Produzenteri] regulate
their relation to nature rationally and bring it under
communal [gemeinschaftliche] control rather than
being ruled by it as by a blind power; and if this is ac-
complished with the least expenditure of effort and
under conditions worthy and adequate to human na-
ture. But this remains always as the Kingdom of Neces-
sity. Beyond that there exists the true Kingdom of Free-
dom where the development of man's powers becomes

an end in itself, a realm which can only bloom on the
basis of the realm of necessity. The shortening of the
working day is its fundamental premise."
Essentially, Marx is saying that in the fullness of so-
cialism, all men will work like artists, out of an inner
need and satisfaction, and not because they are forced
to earn their daily bread. In arguing that even in the
planned, socially controlled society work is still unfree
as long as it is compulsory, Marx was anticipating that
passionate anti-socialist, Friedrich Nietzsche, who
wrote, "Phew! To speak as if an increase in the imper-
sonality inside a mechanized plant will make a new
society and turn the scandal of slavery into a virtue."
By now we have become so accustomed to the regi-
men of compulsory (in an economic sense) labor that
we have lost even the memory of the precapitalist
period when leisure was more common. For as Marx
documented in his brilliant history of the bourgeois
struggle to lengthen the working day and week, the
Socialism 451
limitMassachusetts law set on the labor of children in

the nineteenth century defined the normal working day
for an adult in the seventeenth century. In the Middle
Ages the working year was only 150 to 200 days. So
Nietzsche's insight reflected, if from a reactionary point
of view, an instinctive understanding of working people
whose lives had been subjected to the calculation of
clocks and the division of labor. A hundred or so years
later we have "progressed" to the point where we have
how natural it is not to work.
forgotten
What Marx understood and Nietzsche did not was
that the application of science to technology would
— —
make it possible even necessary to change the very
nature of work. Social productivity, he understood a
hundred years before the actual advent of automation,
was increasing so enormously that it was coming into
conflict with the very structure of capitalist society itself.
An economy whose productive system expanded geo-
metrically paid wages in arithmetic increments, and
that fact contains within it the potential for crisis. Neo-
capitalism, as has been seen, "solves" this difficulty by
creating a number of new phenomena: the poverty of
affluence, the government-generated jobs in the war
sector, the liberal arts as a dumping ground for the
children of the middle class. Precisely because this
system follows commercial priorities even when it acts
governmentally, it cannot cope with its own genius and
even the hint of abundance threatens its most cherished
values because it brings unemployment, ecological ruin,
aimless universities and many other crises.
This is the key to that paradox presented by the Na-
tional Commission on the Causes and Prevention of
Violence: that after the most prosperous decade in
American history, this country is in danger of building
a hate-ridden, strife-torn anti-utopia.
But socialism would be free of exactly those con-
straints that make it structurally impossible for capital-
ism to make a truly social use of its own productivity.
In the immediate future a democratically socialized so-
ciety could use its enormous economic power to meet
452 SOCIALISM
its own needs and to aid in the industrialization of
the world. There is so much work that needs to be
done within America and internationally that the next
several generations at least must put the "socialized in-
dividual" to work to meet basic needs. Yet in the more
distant future it is not only possible but necessary for
society to enter the Kingdom of Freedom. Once the
basic needs of all of mankind are provided for, and
productivitystill grows, men may be forced to live
without compulsory work. The sentence decreed in the

Garden of Eden will have been served.
I would not suggest that a psychic transition of this
character will be easy. It is a familiar phenomenon that
some people are crushed by retirement, bewildered
when the compulsion of work is removed from their
lives. At a conference sponsored by Dissent in 1969
Meyer Schapiro, a brilliant art critic and socialist, placed
this kind of crisis in a thoughtful context. The ideal of
the artist, of freely chosen and loving work, Schapiro
said, is problematic even for the artists themselves and
would be infinitely more difficult to apply in the lives
of the masses of people. For every successful painter or
sculptor there are many others whose hopes are disap-
pointed. And even those who do succeed often require
tremendous sacrifices from their family and friends in
order to develop their genius.
I suspect that Schapiro has touched upon one of the
fundamental social-psychological issues of the twenty-
first century: whether, in an economy of abundance,
men can find within themselves and their relations with
one another, rather than in external necessity, a reason
for living. Strangely enough, the problem with this as-
pect of the ultimate socialist projection arises because
Marx's vision was so thoroughly aristocratic. He hoped
for nothing less than that every citizen become a re-
naissance man. "In a Communist society," he and Eng-
els wrote, "there will be no painters but only highly
developed men who, among other things, paint."
But among the great Marxists it was Trotsky whose
optimism was the most audacious: "Man will become
Socialism 453
immeasurably stronger, wiser and subtler; his move-

ments more rhythmic, his voice more musical. The
forms of life will become dynamically dramatic. The
average human type will rise to the heights of an
Aristotle, a Goethe, a Marx. And above this ridge, new
peaks will arise."
This soaring vision is, in part at least, an expres-
sion of that dangerous messianic socialism I described
earlier. Yet if one understands it as the statement of a
limit toward which mankind strives but perhaps will
never reach, it serves to free the mind from the narrow-
ness of the present. The human body has been changing
under capitalism: in the United States Selective Service
exams show that height is increasing in the twentieth
century; and, of course, athletic records, and presum-
ably biological prowess, have been dramatically ex-
tended. A higher living standard, with good diet and
medical care, certainly can make people more beauti-
ful, as the rich discovered a long time ago. In the realm
of the intelligence there are no comparative statistics,
but the qualitative growth in the number of scientists,
and educated people generally, must mean that some
of man's genetic potential has been saved from the
savage fate scarcity and starvation used to visit upon
it.
It is we are on the eve of psychic muta-

certain that
tions, that our unprecedented man-made environments
are going to produce new kinds of people. The question
is not whether this will happen, but how it will take
place: under commercial priorities (Marcuse's pessimis-

tic vision); under totalitarian control (Orwell's fear);
or consciously chosen and shaped by a free political
and social movement. 8
The end of compulsory labor is one socialist ulti-
mate; the abolition of money is another.
As many economists have recognized, money is the
basis of a system of "rationing by the purse." In a so-
ciety of maldistributed incomes it is obviously unjust
that an elite should enjoy luxuries while the masses are
denied necessities. Long before the socialist movement
454 SOCIALISM
will even be in sight ofits final aims it can ameliorate
this outrage by the redistribution of income, for then

the rations will at least be more justly shared. But that
is a reform that might even be assimilated into an
Adam Smithian model of the economy. As Paul

Samuelson remarks, Smith would now agree that dollar
wealth has to be distributed "in an 'ethically optimal*
—
manner and kept so by non-distorting, non-market
intervention" in order to get the most efficient produc-
tion and "to give people what they really deem is best
for them."
Socialists should propose to go well beyond such a
change and eventually to challenge the principle of
money itself. In a discussion of property that produces
unearned income John Strachey argued that given such
a phenomenon, "a moral poison is bound to permeate
the society." And Ernest Mandel has rightly remarked
that as long as access to goods and pleasures is rationed
according to the possession of money, there is a per-
vasive venality, an invitation to miserliness and hostil-
ity to one's neighbor. Particularly in the area of necessi-
tiesno one should be required to choose between needs
or the sacrifice of them in order to get luxuries and —
that choice is what money makes inevitable.
Socialism should therefore work toward making
more and more goods and services free: medicine, hous-
ing, transportation, a healthy diet, etc. The standard
response of many economiststo such a proposition is
that cliche of Economics I: there is nothing that is
really free. All commodities cost something to produce
and if the individual does not pay for them directly,
someone does indirectly. But this is to miss the enor-
mous social gain that would occur if society were to
decide to pay for all the collective fundamentals of
life. The change in moral atmosphere such a new
mode of distribution would portend would be pro-
found.
The other standard criticism of free goods is the
charge that they invite waste. People, one is told, will
lavishly misuse their new rights and a socialist society
Socialism 455
will therefore be the least efficient in human history.

That prediction is partly based on the parochial as-
sumption that man will act in a radically new environ-
ment exactly as he did in the old, that the greed and
acquisitiveness of several hundred years of capitalism
are of the human essence. It is not even necessary to
become particularly visionary in responding to this
proposition for the theory and practice of recent years
has provided a basis for the socialist hope as many of
the most intelligent of the affluent young have turned
against consumption for consumption's sake.
In his famous essay on the economics of socialism
Oskar Lange argued that those goods and services for
which demand is relatively inelastic can be made free
without running the risk of wastefulness. Salt is a classic

example. The amount of it consumed in good times or
in bad is relatively invariable. If it were made free it is
doubtful that individuals would suddenly vastly in-
crease their use of it. The situation would be different
in the case of transportation within a city. If that were
made free there would unquestionably be a large in-
crease in the use of transit facilities since people would
be much more likely to visit one another, to go on
outings, etc. Yet who can say that such an increase in
sociability and recreation is "wasteful"? And who could
care to ride a subway simply because it is free?
There is some experience to go by. In California there
is a private medical plan run by the Kaiser Company. It
has succeeded in sharply reducing the cost of care while

improving the service. According to the thesis about
the inherent greediness of men, the people who sub-
scribe should use their rights more than the citizen
who pays a higher cost. In fact, the Kaiser patients go
to the doctor less than the patients of the expensive
fee-for-service system. As an article in Fortune put it,
"Kaiser's experience refutes the widely held belief that
ifmedical services are 'free,' or virtually free, the pub-
he will stampede to them." 9
Socialism, then, is not simply a program for socializ-
ing investments, ownership and redistributing wealth,
456 SOCIALISM
important as all those goals are. It retains the notion of |
a truly new order of things and it asserts this through j
the vision of seeking in the distant but conceivable fu-

ture to abolish compulsory work and the rationings
system of money as far as is humanly possible. And]
perhaps I can sum up this vision by retelling a famous
socialist parable.
—
In desert societies including the American South-
—
west water is so precious that it is money. People i
connive and fight and die over it; governments covet]

it; marriages are even made and broken because of it. i
If one were to talk to a person who has known only

J
that desert and tell him that in the city there are public
water fountains and that children are even sometimes-
allowed to turn on the fire hydrants in the summer and
to frolic in the water, he would be sure one wer^ crazy.
For he knows, with an existential certitude, that it is
human nature to fight over water.
Mankind has lived now for several millennia in the
desert. Our minds and emotions are conditioned by
that bitter experience; we do not dare to think that
things could be otherwise. Yet there are signs that we
are, without really having planned it that way, march-
ing out of the desert. There are some who loathe to
leave behind the consolation of familiar brutalities;
there are others who in one way or another would like
to impose the law of the desert upon the Promised
Land. It may even be possible that mankind cannot bear
too much happiness.
It is also possible that we will seize this opportunity
and make of the earth a homeland rather than an exile.
That is the socialist project. It does not promise, or
even seek, to abolish the human condition, for that is
impossible. It does propose to end that invidious com-
petition and venality which, because scarcity allowed
no other alternatives, we have come to think are in-
separable from our humanity.
Under socialism, there will be no end to history—
but there may be a new history.
Notes
Chapter I
1. Lenin: Collected Works (Moscow: Foreign Language

Publishing House, 1963), Vol. XXVIII, p. 180
(hereafter cited as Lenin: CW). Bismarck in 1882:
Hans Muller, Ursprung und Geschichte des Wortes
"Sozialismus" (Hannover: Dietz Verlag, 1967), p.
137. Credit Mobilier: Marx-Engels Werke (Berlin:
Dietz Verlag, I960-), Vol. XII, pp. 24 and 33.
(Hereafter all quotations from Marx and Engels
will be taken from this edition and cited as MEW,
with roman numerals for the volume numbers and
arabic for the pages. However, in those cases in
which a signicant and/ or lengthy passage is quoted
from a work originally written in French or En-
glish, that text will be noted rather than the
German translation of the MEW,) "False Broth-
ers": MEW f XXIX,
p. 573. The Communist Mani-
festo: MEW, IV, pp. 482 ff. Karl Kautsky on state
socialism: Die Neue Zeit, Vol. 10, No. 49 (1891-
1892), pp. 705 ff. Zbigniew Brzezinski, Between
Two Ages: America's Role in the Technetronic Era
(New York: The Viking 1970), p. 112.
Press,
Barrington Moore, Social Origins of Dictatorship
and Democracy (Boston: Beacon Press, 1966), p.
410.
Chapter II
1. Marx to his father: MEW, Erganzungsband, Pt. I, pp.

4-5.
457
458 SOCIALISM
2. Utopia in India, Persia, and China: Iring Fetscher in
Sozialismus: Vom Klassenkampf zum Wohlfahrt-
staat, Iring Fetscher, Helga Grebing, and Gunter
Dill, eds. (Munich: Verlag Kurt Desch, 1968),
pp. 13 ff. Max Weber, Ancient Judaism (New
York: The Free Press of Glencoe, 1952), p. 156.
Eighth-century crisis: John A. Wilson, The Intellec-
tual Adventure of Ancient Man (Chicago: The
University of Chicago Press, 1946), pp. 337-338.
Isaiah: The Complete Bible, J. M. Powis Smith and
Edgar Goodspeed, trans. (Chicago: The University
of Chicago Press, 1948), pp. 635 and 637. Ernst
Bloch, Das Prinzip Hoffnung (Frankfurt: Suhr-
kamp Verlag, 1959), Vol. I, p. 582.
3. Marx on Plato: MEW, XXIII, p. 388. On Plato's times:
A. B. Winspear, The Genesis of Plato's Thought
(New York: S. A. Russell, 1956), passim. Iam-
bulos: Ernst Bloch, op. cit., pp. 566 ff.; David
Winston, lambulos: A Literary Study in Greek
Utopianism, Ph.D. Dissertation (Columbia Univer-
sity: 1956; microfilm). Cockaigne: Winston, op. cit.
Stoic Utopias: Bloch, op. cit., pp. 569-572. "Pro-
ductive misunderstanding": Bloch, op. cit., p. 566.
Plato and Anabaptists: Ernst Bloch, Thomas Miin-
zer (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp Verlag, 1962), p. 69.
4. Kautsky: quoted, Fetscher et al., op. cit., p. 25. Emile
Durkheim, Le Suicide, Nouvelle Edition (Paris:
Librairie Felix Alean, 1930), p. 282. Joachim and
Francis: Fetscher et al., op. cit., p. 26. Michael
Freund, Propheten der Revolution (Bremen:
Schunemann's Universitats Verlage, 1970), p. 44.
Heretical movements of the twelfth to the sixteenth
century: Fetscher et al., op. cit., pp. 26 ff.;
Friedrich Engels, The German Peasant War: MEW,
VII, pp. 327 ff.; Michael Freund, op. cit.; Ernst
Bloch, Das Prinzip Hoffnung und Thomas Miinzer.
Kautsky on Miinzer and More: Thomas More und
seine Utopie (Stuttgart-Berlin: Dietz Verlag, 1922),
p. 1. Engels on Munzer: MEW, VII, pp. 400-401.
5. Anabaptists: H. N. Brailsford, The Levelers and the
English Revolution (Stanford: Stanford University
Press, 1961), p. 31. Sheep eat men: Thomas More,
Notes 459
Utopia (New York: Penguin Books, 1965), pp.
46-47. Christopher Hill, The Reformation to the
Industrial Revolution (New York: Pantheon Books,
1967), p. 51. Michael Walzer, The Revolution of
the Saints (New York: Atheneum, 1969), pp.
20 ff. Marx on Communist parties: MEW, IV, p.
341. Levelers and Diggers: C. B. Macpherson, The
Political Theory of Possessive Individualism (New
York: Oxford University Press, 1962), Sect. Ill;
Christopher Hill, op. cit., p. 101; Brailsford, op. cit.,
pp. 656 ff.; Eduard Bernstein, Sozialismus und
Demokratie (Stuttgart: Dietz Verlag, 1919). New
Law as Communist Manifesto: Brailsford, op. cit.,
p. 659. Three principles: Ibid., p. 660.

6. Babeuf: Textes Choisis, Claude Mazauric, ed., (Paris
Editions Sociales, 1965), p. 209. Babeufs plan:
ibid., p. 193. Manifesto of the Equals: Buonarrotti,
Conspiration pour Vegalite dite de Babeuf (Paris:
Editions Sociales, 1957), Vol. II, p. 95. Alexander
Gershenkron, Continuity in History and Other Es-
says (Cambridge: Belknap, 1968), p. 274. Marx and
Terrorism: Schlomo Avineri, The Social and
Thought of Karl Marx (Cambridge: Cam-
Political
bridge University Press), Chap. VII; MEW, I, p.
402; MEW, VI, p. 107.
7. Saint-Simon, Doctrine de Saint-Simon, Exposition,
Premiere Annee, 1829 (Paris: Marcel Riviere,
1924), C. Bouglie and E. Halevy, eds., passim;
G. D. H. Cole, History of Socialist Thought (Lon-
don: Macmillan and Co., 1953-1965), Vol. I, p.
41; Alexander Gershenkron, Economic Backward-
ness in Historic Perspective (Cambridge: Belknap-
Harvard, 1966), pp. 23-24. On Saint-Simon's use
of the word association: Bouglie and Halevy, op.
203, n. 201. George Lichtheim, The
cit., p. Origins
of Socialism (New York: Praeger, 1969), p. 43.
Owen: V. A. C. Gatrell, "Introduction" to Report
to the County of Lanark, by Robert Owen (Balti-
more: Penguin Books, 1970); G. D. H. Cole, op.
cit., pp. 90 ff.
8. Marx on preconditions: III MEW,

(The German
Ideology), pp. 24-35 and 68. C. B. Macpherson,
460 SOCIALISM
op. Sect. II. Leszek Kolakowski, The Aliena-
cit.,
tion of Reason (New York: Doubleday and Com-

pany, 1968), pp. 34 ff. Kant, Prolegomena to Any
Future Metaphysics (Manchester: Manchester Uni-
versity Press, 1953). Hegel on the French Revolu-
tion: quoted in MEW, XX, p. 605. Geschichte und
Klassenbewusstsein (Berlin: Der Malik Verlag,
1923), p. 134. Phenomenologie des Geistes (Ham-
burg: Felix Meiner, 1952), p. 15. Cunning of
Reason: Hegel, Recht, Staat, Geschichte (Stuttgart:
Alfred Kroner Verlag, 1955), p. 432. On Hegel
and Adam Smith: Georg Lukacs, Der junge Hegel
(Berlin: Aufbau Verlag, 1954); Jean Hypolite,
Etudes sur Marx et Hegel (Paris: Marcel Riviere,
1955), p. 89. Marx on history: MEW, II, p. 98.
Chapter HI
1. G. D. H. Cole, History of Socialist Thought, Vol. I,

p. 245. On Weitling: George Lichtheim, The
Origins of Socialism (New York: Praeger, 1969),
pp. 170-171. Blanqui, Textes Choisis (Paris: Edi-
tions Sociales, 1955), pp. 71, 101, and 166. Engels
on British working class: MEW, II, pp. 225 ff.
E. Hobsbawm, Labouring Men (New York: Basic

J.
Books, 1964), Chaps. 5-7. Marx on conspiracy:

MEW, VII, p. 273. Engels on Blanqui: MEW,
XVIII, p. 529. Marx on Feuerbach: MEW, III,
pp. 5-6. Marx in 1843 (Zur Kritik der Hegelschen
Rechtsphilosophic): MEW, I, p. 385. Economic-
Philosophic Manuscripts: MEW, Erganzungsband,
Pt. 1, pp. 535, 517, 514. Althusser, Lire le Capital
(Paris: Maspero, 1968), Vol. I, p. 79; and Pour
Marx (Paris: Maspero, 1968), passim. Daniel Bell,
The End of Ideology, rev. ed. (New York: Collier
Books, 1961), p. 365. Karl Korsch, Karl Marx
(Frankfurt am Main: Europaische Verlagsanstalt,
1967), p. 181.
2. All quotations from The Communist Manifesto: MEW,
IV, p. 459. Engels in 1845: MEW, II, p. 613. Marx
in 1847: MEW, IV, p. 202. Engels in 1847: ibid.,
Notes 461
p. 317. Cole on definition of socialism: op. cit.,

Vol. I, pp. 4-5. English Artisans: George Licht-
heim, A Short History of Socialism (New York:
Praeger, 1970), p. 35. Working-class opposition to
industrial rationality: Carl Landauer, European
Socialism (Los Angeles and Berkeley: University
of California Press, 1959), Vol. II, p. 1657. Jean
Jaures, L' Esprit du Socialisme (Paris: Editions
Gonthier, n.d.), p. 35. Cole, op. cit., Vol. I, p. 246.
Engels in 1893: MEW,
IV, p. 589. Franz Mehring,
Karl Marx (London: Allen and Unwin Ltd., 1936),
p. 148. Riazanov, Marx et Engels (Paris: Editions
Sociales Internationales, n.d.), pp. 88 ff. Marx on
economics and politics in 1848: MEW, VI, p. 397.
E. H. Carr, Studies in Revolution (New York:
Grosset and Dunlap, 1964), pp. 22 ff. and p. 36.
Marx on proletariat and bourgeoisie in Germany:
MEW, IV, p. 397. Marx in December, 1848:
MEW, VI, p. 108. Marx and Engels in March,
1850: MEW, VII, pp. 421 ff., p. 440.
3. On Marx and Engels' use of "dictatorship of the prole-
tariat": Hal Draper, "Marx and the Dictatorship
of the Proletariat," New Politics (Vol. I, 1962), p.
73. The World Society: MEW, VII, p. 553. Marx
and Engels' denunciation of the World Society:
ibid., p. 45. Class Struggles in France: MEW, VII,
pp. 33 and Hook, Towards the Under-
84. Sidney
standing of Karl Marx (New York: The John Day
Company, 1933), pp. 300 ff. Engels in 1874:
MEW, XVIII, p. 529. Engels on the Paris Com-
mune: MEW, XVII, p. 624.
4. Marx and Engels on the ultra-Left in the Communist
League: MEW, VIII, pp. 412-413, 575, 589-90.
Antonio Gramsci, Quaderni del Carcere, IV, Note
sul Machiavelli, sulla Politica e sullo Stato Moderno
(Milan: Einaudi, 1966), p. 84.
Chapter IV
1. Lenin on Plekhanov: CW, VIII, pp. 467 ff. General

trends in 1860s: Arthur Rosenberg, Democracy
462 SOCIALISM
and Socialism (New York: Alfred A. Knopf,
1939), pp. 154 ff.; British Socialism: G. D. H. Cole, j
History of Socialist Thought, Vol. II, p. 379; David
Riazanov, Marx et Engels (Paris: Editions Sociales^
Internationales, n.d. [originally 1923]), pp. 110 ff. ,
French and English workers in 1850s: Cole, op. cit.,

pp. 133 ff. Marx and the British trade unionists:
George Lichtheim, A Short History of Socialism
(New York: Praeger, 1970), p. 167. Marx's "In-
augural Address": MEW, XVI, pp. 10 ff. Engels
in 1850 on the Ten Hours Law: MEW, VII, pp.
226 ff.
2. Robert C. Tucker, The Marxian Revolutionary Idea
(New York: W. W. Norton, 1969), pp. 194-196.
Marx on the Paris Commune: MEW, XXXV, p.
160; see also Michael Harrington, "The Misfortune
of 'Great Memories,'" Dissent (October, 1971).
Lenin on Commune: CW, VIII, pp. 207 ff.; Frits
Kool in Die Linke gegen die Parteiherrschaft, Frits
Kool, ed. (Olten: Walter Verlag, 1970), pp. 42-43.
Bakunin, Archives Bakouniennes (Leiden: E. J.
Brill, 1957), Vol. II, p. xxix; Vol. Ill, pp. 177-178
and 352; MEW, XVIII, p. 401. Frantz Fanon, The
Wretched of the Earth (New York: Grove Press,
1963), p. 104. Herbert Marcuse, One Dimensional
Man (Boston: Beacon Press, 1964), p. 256. Marx
on the lumpenproletariat: MEW, XXIII (Day
Kapital), pp. 670 ff.; MEW, VII (conspiracy), pp.
272 ff.; MEW,
VIII (18th Brumaire), p. 161. 1871
IWMA MEW, XVII, p. 422. Marx on
resolution:
universal suffrage (1852): Marx and Engels, On
Britain (Moscow: Foreign Language Publishing
House, 1962), p. 362.
3. Germany in 1850s and 1860s: Carl A. Landauer,
European Socialism (Berkeley and Los Angeles:
University of California Press, 1959), Vol. I, p.
222; Gustave Mayer, Radikalismus, Sozialismus
und biirgerliche Demokratie (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp
Verlag, 1969), pp. 108 ff. Marx on Lassalle: MEW,
XXX, p. 432. Schulze-Delitzsch: Landauer, op. cit,
pp. 237-238. Lassalle: Ferdinand Lassalles gesam-
melte Reden und Schriften (New York: Wolf and
Notes 463
Hoehne, pp. 263, 322-323; Vol. II,
n.d.), Vol. I,
pp. 227, 223 ff. Marx and Engels on Lassalle in

1863: MEW, XXX, pp. 345 and 356; Franz Mehr-
ing, Karl Marx (London: Allen and Unwin,
1936), pp. 309-310. Engels in 1885 on Lassalle:
MEW, fv, p. 83 n. Lassalle and Bismarck: Arthur
Rosenberg, op. cit, pp. 159 ff.; MEW, XVI, p. 76.
Marx to Schweitzer: MEW,
XXXII, p. 570. Bar-
rington Moore, Origins of Dictatorship and De-
mocracy (Boston: Beacon Press, 1966).
German Socialism in the 1870s and 1880s: Wolfgang
Abendroth, Sozialgeschichte der Europaischen
Arbeiterbewegung (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp Verlag,
1965), pp. 51 ff. Louis Blanc, U
Organisation du
Travail, 5th ed. (Paris: Societe de Tlndustrie
Fraternelle, 1848), pp. 103, 149, 161. Karl Marx
on bureaucracy owning the state: MEW, I, p. 249.
Anti-Dilhring: MEW, XX, p. 259 and n. Karl
Kautsky on state socialism: Die Neue Zeit, Vol.
10, No. 49 (1891-1892), pp. 705 ff. Engels to
Bernstein: MEW, XXXV, p. 170. Engels to Bebel:
ibid., p. 323. Kolko, "The Decline of
Gabriel
Radicalism in the Twentieth Century," in For a
New America, ed. James Weinstein and David W.
Eakin (New York: Vintage Books, 1970), p. 203.
German socialist progress: Landauer, op. cit., pp. 365-
366; Abendroth, op. cit., pp. 52-53. Nineteenth-
century economic trends: Fritz Sternberg, Capital-
ism and Socialism on Trial (New York: Green-
wood Press, 1968), pp. 56 ff.; p. 97. Engels on
crisis: MEW, XXV, p. 506 n. Austrians in 1901:
Norbert Leser, Zwischen Reformismus und Bol-
schewismus: Der Austro-Marxismus als Theorie
und Praxis (Vienna: Europa Verlag, 1968), pp.
224-225. German real wages: Abendroth, op. cit.,
pp. 68-69. President of State Insurance: quoted in
Sidney Hook, Towards an Understanding of Karl
Marx (New York: The John Day Company,
1933), p. 19.
Lichtheim on "Marxism": Marxism: An Historical and
Critical Study (New York: Praeger, 1961), p. 235.
Engels at Marx's funeral: MEW
XIX, p. 335.
t
464 SOCIALISM
Engels on his division of labor with Marx: MEW,
XXI, p. 328. Antonio Gramsci: Quaderni del
Carcere, II Materialismo Storico, Vol. I (Milan:
Einaudi, 1966), pp. 12-14. Kautsky to Adler:
Friedrich Adler, ed., Victor Adler s Briefwechsel mit
Karl Kautsky (Vienna: Verlag der Wiener Volks-
buchhandlung, 1954), p. 375. Lenin: CW, V, p.
375. Kautsky to Adler: Adler, op. cit, p. 501.
Bebel: ibid., p. 531. Jean Jaures: Sixieme Congres
Socialiste International, Amsterdam, 14-20 Aout
(Brussels: 1904), pp. 578 and 58. Robert Michels,
Political Parties (New York: Hearst International
Library, 1915), passim and p. 408.
Chapter V
1. Wassily Leontiev, 'The Significance of Marxian Eco-
nomics for Present-Day Economic Theory," in
Marx and Modern Economics, ed. David Hor-
rowitz (New York: Monthly Review Press, 1968),
p. 94. Paul Samuelson, "Wages and Interest: A
Modern Dissection of Marxian Economic Models,"
American Economic Review (December, 1957,
Vol.XLVII, No. 6), pp. 884 ff.; Marx as minor:
ibid., p. 911; natural resources: ibid., p. 894. Gotha
Program: MEW, XIX, p. 15 (see also MEW, XIII,
p. 618, and Das Kapital, MEW, XXIII, p. 218).
Critique of Samuelson: Fred M. Gottheil, Ameri-
can Economic Review (September, 1960); reply by
Samuelson: ibid. Marx in 1843: MEW, I, pp. 231
and 370. Max Adler, Die Solidarische Gesellschaft
(Vienna: Europa Verlag, 1964), p. 12.
2. Theories of Surplus Value: MEW, XXVI, Pt. 1, pp. 12
ff.; p. 366. Labor theory of value as pro-capitalist:
George Lichtheim, A Short History of Socialism, p.

40. C. B. Macpherson, The Political Theory of Pos-
sessive Individualism (London-New York, Oxford
University Press, 1962), p. 48. Robert L. Heil-
broner, Between Capitalism and Socialism (New
York: Vintage Books, 1970), p. 140. Ben Seligman,
Notes 465
Main Currents in Modern Economics (New York:
The Free Press of Glencoe, 1963), p. 48. Alexan-
der Gershenkron, Continuity in History and Other
Essays (Cambridge: Belknap Press, 1968), p. 20.
3. Marx on method: MEW, XIII, pp. 631-632. Joan
Robinson, An Essay on Marxian Economics (Lon-
don: Macmillan and Co., 1949), pp. 18-19. Ralf
Dahrendorf, Society and Democracy in Germany
(New York: Anchor Books, 1969), p. 162. On
definition of capital: Joan Robinson, "The Rel-
evance of Economic Theory," Monthly Review,
Vol. XXII, No. 8 (January, 1971), pp. 29 ff.; see
also Pierro Sroffa, Production of Commodities by
Means of Commodities (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1960). Marx on living labor in
capital: MEW, XXVI, Pt. I, p. 365. The "sixth
chapter" of Das Kapital: Roger Dangeville, ed., Un
Chapitre inedit du "Capital" (Paris: 10/18, 1971),
p. 249. Ben Seligman: op. cit., p. 49. Clark Kerr,
Marshall, Marx and Modern Times (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1969), pp. 64 ff.
4. Christopher Hill, Reformation to Industrial Revolution
(Baltimore: Penguin Books, 1969), p. 15 (note:
this reference does not occur in the hard-cover
edition published by Pantheon). Grundrisse der
Politischen Oekonomie (Berlin: Dietz Verlag,
1953), pp. 592 ff. Paul Sweezy, The Theory of
Capitalist Development (New York: Monthly Re-
view Press, 1968), pp. 142 ff. Samuelson: op. cit.
Joan Robinson, An Essay on Marxian Economics,
pp. 32 and 36. Karl Kautsky, Bernstein und das
Sozialdemokratische Programm (Stuttgart: Dietz
Verlag, 1899), pp. 115-125. Lenin: CW, IV, p.
201. Henryk Grossman, Das Akkumulations- und
Zusammenbruchgesetz des kapitalistischen Systems
(Frankfurt: Verlag Neue Kritik, 1967), pp. 580 ff.;
Jiirgen Habermas, Theorie und Praxis (Neuwied:
Luchterhand, 1967), pp. 190 ff., see also Thomas
Sowell, "Marx's Increasing Misery Doctrine,"
American Economic Review (March, 1960), pp.
112 ff. Rudolf Hilferding, Karl Marx and the Close
466 SOCIALISM
of His System, by Eugen Von Boehm Bawerk and
Boehm Bawerk's Criticism of Marx (New York:
Augustus Kelley, 1949), pp. 193-195.
Chapter VI
1. Werner Sombart, Warum gibt es in den Vereinigten

Staaten keinen
Sozialismus? (Tubingen: Mohr,
1906); Werner Sombart, Socialism and the Social
Movement (London: J. M. Dent, 1909), p. 276.
The AF of L
Phillip Taft, in the Time of Gompers
(New York: Harper and Brothers, 1957), p. vii.
Lenin, Lenin on the United States (New York:

In-
ternational Publishers, 1970), p. 57.
2. Robert Owen speech: Albert Fried, ed., Socialism in
America: A Documentary History (Garden City,
N.Y.: Doubleday and Company, 1970), pp. 105-
106. Stow Persons, "Christian Communitarianism
in America," in Socialism in American Life, ed.
Donald Drew Egbert and Stow Persons (Princeton,
N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1952), Vol. I,
pp. 127-129. Frances Wright: quoted in Phillip
Foner, History of the Labor Movement in the
United States (New York: International Publishers,
1947), Vol. I, p. 102. Marx and Engels on the
United States: MEW, II, pp. 534-535; MEW, IV,
pp. 10 and 341; MEW, XXX, p. 287; MEW,
XXXVI, p. 624. Marx and Kriege: MEW, IV, pp.
3 ff. On the failure of the Homestead Act: Stephen
Threnstrom, "Urbanization, Migration and Social
Mobility," in Towards a New Past, ed. Barton J.
Bernstein (New York: Vintage Books, 1969), p.
160; Richard Hofstadter, The Age of Reform (New
York: Vintage Books, n.d. [originally 1955]), p.
54. Agrarian militancy: Seymour Martin Lipset,
Agrarian Socialism (New York: Anchor Books,
1968), p. 17. On Claflin and Woodhull: MEW,
XVIII, pp. 99 and 102; The General Council of the
First International, 1871-1872, Minutes (Moscow:
Progress Publishers, n.d. [1964?]), p. 206. On the
Marxists in the labor movement: Ira Kipnis, The
Notes 467
American Socialist Movement, 1871-1912 (New
York: Columbia University Press, 1952), pp. 8 ff.
Selig Perlman, Theory of the Labor Movement
(New York: Augustus Kelley, 1949 [originally
1928]). Joseph Schumpeter, Capitalism, Socialism
and Democracy (New York: Harper and Row,
Publishers, 1950), p. 336. Leon Samson, Toward a
United Front for American Workers (New York:
Farrar and Rinehart, 1933), p. 21.
3. Phillip Taft and Phillip Ross, "American Labor Vi-
olence: Its Causes, Character and Comparative
Perspectives," in Violence in America: Historical
and Comparative Perspectives, ed. Graham and
Gurr (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Of-
fice, 1969), Vol. I, pp. 226 ff. Hardacker: quoted
in Gerald N. Grob, Workers and Utopia (Chicago:
Quadrangle, 1969), p. 36. Lipset, The First New
Nation (New York: Doubleday and Company,
Anchor Edition, 1967), p. 205. Great upheaval
figures: Foner, op. cit., Vol. II, p. 54; Grob, op.
cit., p. 87. Marx on Henry George: MEW, XXXV,
pp. 198 ff. Engels on George: MEW, XXXV, pp.

579, 588, and 589. Howard Quint, The Forging of
American Socialism (Columbia: University of
South Carolina Press, 1953), p. 71. German-Ameri-
can socialists: Fried, ed., Socialism in America, p.
180. Engels in 1890: MEW, XXXVII, p. 353.
Henry Pelling,American Labor (Chicago: Uni-
versity of Chicago Press, 1960), p. 89. 1893-1894
debates: Taft, op. cit., pp. 71 Iff.; Quint, op. cit,
p. 71.
4. Voluntarism: Marc Karson, American Labor Unions
and Politics (Boston: Beacon Press, 1965), p. 135;
J. David Greenstone, Labor in American Politics
(New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1969), p. 26 and n.;

William Appleman Williams, The Contours of
American History (Chicago: Quadrangle, 1966),
pp. 360 ff. Gompers and Wilson: Bernard Mandel,
Samuel Gompers (Yellow Springs: Antioch Press,
1963), pp. 297 ff.; Thomas Brooks, Toil and
Trouble (New York: Delacorte Press, 1971), p.
133. AFL after World War I: Taft, op. cit, pp.
468 SOCIALISM
xix and 369; Irving Howe and Lewis Coser, The
American Communist Party: A Critical History
(Boston: Beacon Press, 1967), pp. 109 ff.; James
Weinstein, The Decline of Socialism in America
(New York and London: Monthly Review Press,
1967), p. x.
5. Engels on Two Factors: MEW, XXI, p. 253. John R.
Commons, ed., History of Labor in the United
States,1896-1932 (New York: The Macmillan
Company, 1935), Vol. II, p. 60. On capitalist crisis
and "the long-term factors": E. J. Hobsbawm,
Labouring Men (New York: Basic Books, 1964),
pp. 128 ff. On violence: Jerome C.
Davis, "The J
Curve of Rising and Declining Satisfaction as a
Cause of Some Great Revolutions and a Contained
Rebellion," in Violence in America, Vol. II. Im-
migration: Oscar Handlin, Immigration as a Factor
in American History (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.:
Prentice-Hall, 1959); Nathan Glazer and Daniel
Patrick Moynihan, Beyond the Melting Pot (Cam-
bridge: Massachusetts Institute of Technology and
Harvard University Press, 1963), pp. 181 ff. Selig
Perlman, op. cit., pp. 168-169. Catholics: Karson,
op. cit., p. 255. 1910 Census: W. S. Woytinsky,
Labor in the United States (Washington, D.C.: So-
cial Science Research Council, 1938), p. 237. "New
recruits"; Hobsbawm, op. cit.,p. 142. Hourwich
quotation: Handlin, op. cit., pp. 58-59.
Chapter VH
1. Marx to Engels, October 8, 1858: MEW, XXIX. Das
Kapital, Vol. 1867 Introduction: MEW, XXIII,
I,
p. 12. Paul Samuelson, Economics, 7th ed. (New

York: McGraw-Hill, 1967), p. 700. E. H. Carr,
The Bolshevik Revolution (Baltimore: Penguin
Books, 1969), p. 55. Gunnar Myrdal, The Chal-
lenge of World Poverty (New York: Pantheon
Books, 1970), pp. 43 and 517, n. 28. Antonio
Gramsci on Das Kapital: quoted in John M. Cam-
met, Antonio Gramsci and the Origins of Italian
Notes 469
Communism (Stanford: Stanford University Press,
1967), p. 61. Marx on English colonialism (orig-
inally written in English): Shlomo Avineri, ed.,
Karl Marx on Modernization (New York: Double-
day, Anchor Books, 1969), pp. 94, 133, 137, and
139. Marx on the Revolutionary Class: Philosophie
de la Misere (Paris: 10/18, 1964), p. 491. Myrdal
on spread effects: An Inquiry into the Poverty of
Nations (New York, Pantheon Books, 1970), Vol.
I, p. 189; The Challenge of World Poverty, p. 28.
2. Friedrich Engels, Note to the 1888 edition of The Com-

munist Manifesto: MEW, IV, p. 462 n. Marx on the
Asiatic mode of production: Avineri, op. cit., p.
132. Engels on the Asiatic mode: MEW, XXVIII,
p. 259. Marx's letter to Otetschestwennyje Sapiski:
MEW, XIX, pp. 107 ff. George Lichtheim, The
Origins of Socialism (New York: Praeger, 1969),
p. 216. Russian populism: Karl Landauer, Europe-
an Socialism (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University
of California Press, 1959), Vol. I, p. 399; E. H.
Carr, Studies in Revolution (New York: Grosset
and Dunlap, 1964), p. 69. Marx on Bakunin:
MEW, XVIII, p. 633. For the development of
Marx's interest in Russia: MEW, XXXII, pp. 42,
197, 649, 659. Engels on Russia: MEW, XVIII, p.
563. Marx and Engels: Preface to the Russian edi-
tion of The Communist Manifesto, MEW, IV, p.
576. On Bernstein and the Russian scenario. Leon-
ard Schapiro, The Communist Party of the Soviet
Union (New York: Random House, 1959), p. 10,
n. 2; E. H. Carr, The Bolshevik Revolution, Vol.
II, pp. 384 and 387. For Engels' late views. Engels
to N. F. Danielson, October 17, 1893, MEW,

XXIX, pp. 148 Engels to G. W. Plekhanov,
ff.;
ibid., pp. 416 Nachwort zu "Soziales aus

ff.;
Russland," MEW, XXII, pp. 421 ff. Engels to

Kautsky: MEW, XXXV, pp. 357-358.
3. London Congress resolution: J. Braunthal, Geschichte
der Internationale (Hannover: Dietz Verlag, 1961),
Vol. I, p. 311; for a general history, Braunthal,
ibid., and Haupt and Reberioux, eds., La Deuxieme
Internationale et V Orient (Paris: Editions Cujas,
470 SOCIALISM
1967). E. Ferri and J. B. Justo, El Partido So-
cialista en la Republica Argentina (Buenos Aires:
Partido Socialista, 1909); see also G. D. H. Cole,
History of Socialist Thought, Vol. Ill, Pt. 2, p. 830.
Shaw: Braunthal, op. cit., pp. 311-312; Cole, op.
cit, Pt. 1, p. 191. Bernstein on colonies: Braunthal,
op. cit., p. 313. Van Kol in 1904: Sixieme Congres
Socialiste International, 1904 (Brussels: Interna-
tionale Socialists 1904), p. 44. Van Kol Stuttgart
resolution: Haupt and Reberioux, op. cit., p. 94.
Bernstein speech: ibid., p. 97. Kautsky on colonies:
"Sozialistische Kolonialpolitik," Die Neue Zeit,
Vol. 27, Bd. II (1909), pp. 33 ff. Lenin: CW, XIII,
"The International Socialist Congress at Stuttgart,"
p. 77. Marx and Engels on colonies: Avineri, op.
cit., p. 71; MEW, XXIX, p. 358; MEW, XXI, p.
197. Congo: Braunthal, op. cit., pp. 321 ff.;Haupt
and Reberioux, op. ck., pp. 105 ff.; Cole, History
of Socialist Thought, Vol. Ill, Pt. 2, pp. 641 ff.
Vandervelde: Haupt and Reberioux, op. cit., p.

107. Lenin, CW, XXIII, pp. 338 and 145.
Chapter VIII
1. Fritz Sternberg,Capitalism and Socialism on Trial,

trans. Fitzgerald (New York: Greenwood
Edward
Press, 1968 [originally 1951]), p. 120. Lenin:
1908 Introduction to The Development of Capital-
ism in Russia, CW, III, p. 33. On Stolypin: Alexan-
der Gershenkron, Continuity in History and Other
Essays (Cambridge: Belknap, 1968), p. 240. On
Russian economic development before World War
I: Charles K. Wilber, The Soviet Model and Un-
derdeveloped Countries (Chapel Hill: University
of North Carolina Press, 1969); Gershenkron, op.
cit., pp. 127-147; G. D. H. Cole, History of So-
cialist Thought, Vol. Ill, Pt. 1, p. 411. Y. Varga,

Le Testament de Varga, ed. Roger Garaudy (Paris:
Grasset, 1970), p. 36.
2. Marx in 1867: MEW, XXIII, pp. 14-15. Engels on
Italy: MEW, XXII, p. 439. 1898 Program: E. H.
Notes 471
Carr, The Bolshevik Revolution, 1917-1923 (Balti-

more, Penguin Books, 1969), Vol. I, p. 15. Karl
Kautsky, 'Triebkrafte der Russischen Revolution,"
Die Neue Zeit, Vol. 25, Bd. I, No. 10 (1906), pp.
331-333. Lenin on Engels: CW, II, p. 25. Lenin
on the Russian Revolution: 1908 Introduction to
The Development of Capitalism in Russia, CW,
III, pp. 32-33; for the American model, see "The
Agrarian Program of the Liberals, " CW, VIII, p.
319. 1905: L. D. Trotsky, Results and Perspectives,
trans. M. J. Olgin (Ceylon: Lanka Samasamaja
Publishers, 1954 [originally 1906]). Carr on
Trotsky's scenario: The Bolshevik Revolution, p.
71.
3. Lenin, "Farewell Letter to Swiss Workers," CW, XXIII,
pp. 271-273. Trotsky in 1905: Trotsky, Results
and Perspectives. Lenin in 1919: "Achievements
and CW, XXIX, pp. 68 and 87.
Difficulties,"
Varga, op. pp. 47-48. Lenin on the dictator-
cit.,
ship of the proletariat in 1905: CW, IX, p. 133.

1905 articles: CW, VIII, pp. 468 ff., 472. State and
Revolution: CW, XXV, pp. 412, 415, 416. Encels
to Kautsky. June 29, 1891: MEW, XXII, p. 234.
Lenin in 1919: CW, XXX, pp. 262 and 267.
State and Revolution, CW, XXV, p. 449. Julian
Martov, "Dictatorship of the Minority" in Irving
Howe, ed.. Essential Works of Socialism (New
York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1970), p. 125.
4. Lenin 1920 speech: CW, XXX, p. 418. E. H. Carr on
1917 and Europe: The Bolshevik Revolution, Vol.
Ill, p. 224. Antonio Gramsci: Quaderni del
Carcere, Vol. IV, p. 68. Lenin on the conditions:
CW, XXXII, p. 215. On Kronstadt. CW, XXXII,
p. 358. Lenin in 1921 on the European revolution:
CW, XXXII, p. 180. For Lenin in 1923, see Moshe
Lewin, Lenin's Last Struggle (New York: Vintage
Books, 1970), passim. "Better Fewer, But Better":
CW, XXXII, p. 488. "On Cooperation": ibid., p.
474. Lenin's letter to the Communist Party: CW,
XXXVI, p. 597. "Our Revolution": CW, XXXII,
p. 478. "On Cooperation": ibid., pp. 474-475.
"Better Fewer, But Better": ibid., p. 500. Roger
472 SOCIALISM
Garaudy, Pour un Modele Frangais du Socialisme
(Paris: Gallimard, 1968), p. 303. Marx on rights:
"Kritik des Gothaer Programms," MEW, XIX, p.
21. Editorial note: CW, XXXVI, n. 653, p. 712.
5. Stalin, 1924: CW, VIII, p. 65; 1926: ibid., pp. 67-
68. Lenin in 1915: CW, XXI, p. 342; 1916: CW,
XXIII, p. 59. E. H. Carr, Socialism in One Country
(Baltimore: Penguin Books, 1970), Vol. II, p. 50,
n. 2. For Trotsky and Bukharin: Isaac Deutscher,
The Prophet Unarmed (New York: Vintage Books,
1965), passim. The History of the CPSU (B) (New
York: International Publishers, 1939), p. 305. On
the revolution from above: c/., En gels, "Die 'Krisis'
in Preussen," MEW, XVIII, pp. 290 ff.; Herrn Eugen
Duhrings Umwdlzung der Wissenschaft: MEW,
XX, p. 259 and n., Nachwort zu "Soziales aus
Russland," MEW, XXII, p. 433. Lenin, Preface
to the Russian translation of Marx's letters to
Kugelmann (1907), CW, XII, p. 107. IWMA
Statutes: MEW, XVI, p. 14. Stalin, "Once More
on the Social Democratic Deviation in Our Party,"
CW, IX, p. 33; on self-criticism: CW, XI, p. 32.
Deaths in the thirties: Zbigniew Brzezinski, Be-
tween Two Ages (New York: Viking, 1970), p.
126 and n. Poland in 1970-1971: dispatch by K. S.
Karol, Le Monde (February 20, 1971). Livestock
destruction: Charles K. Wilber, op. cit., p. 48.
Engels on agriculture: "Die Bauernfrage in Frank-
reich und Deutschland," MEW, XXII, pp. 499-
504.
6. E. Preobrazhensky, The New Economics, trans. Brian
Pearce (Oxford: The Clarendon Press, 1965), pp.
72 and 73. Marx on Gotha Program: MEW, XIX,
p. 21. Engels in 1891: MEW, XXII, 209. Engels
p.
to Bebel: MEW, XXXVI, p. 88. Stalin's interview
with Ludwig: CW, XIII, p. 121. Varga, op. cit.,
p. 71. Social class and Soviet education: Brzezin-
ski, op. cit., p. 163 n. Gramsci: Quaderni del
Carcere, op. cit., Vol. Ill, p. 134. Iring Fetscher,
Karl Marx und der Marxismus (Munich: R. Piper
and Co., 1967), pp. 17 and 89. Wilber, op. cit., p.
233. Khrushchev and de-Stalinization: Wolfgang
Notes 473
Leonhard, Die Dreispaltung des Marxismus (Dus-
seldorf:Weign, 1970), pp. 200 ff. K. S. Karol on
Russia: Le Monde Hebdomadaire (September 17-
23, 1970). Varga, op. cit., p. 65. Sakharov: The
New York Times (July 22, 1968).
7. Edda Werfel: Leonhard, op. cit., p. 360; Kosik, op. cit,
p. 450; Stojanovic, op. cit., p. 448. Stojanovic,
Kritik und Zukunft des Sozialismus (Munich:
Hanser Verlag, 1970), p. 62. Deutscher, The
Prophet Unarmed, pp. 130-131; The Prophet Out-
cast, p. 32. Marx on state as private property:
MEW, I, p. 249. Bukharin: A Documentary His-
tory of Communism, Robert V. Daniels (New
ed.
York: Vintage Books, 1960), Vol. I, p. 85. Work-
ers' Truth: Robert V. Daniels, The Conscience of
the Revolution (New York: Simon and Schuster,
1969), p. 161. Rakovsky, Essential Works of So-
cialism, ed. Irving Howe (New York: Holt, Rine-
hart and Winston, 1970), p. 371. Charles Bettel-
heim, Calcul Economique et Formes de Propriete
(Paris: Maspero, 1970), p. 87. Deutscher on
"bourgeois restoration": The Prophet Unarmed, p.
462.
Chapter IX
1. Guesde: quoted in James Joll, The Second Interna-

tional,1889-1914 (New York: Harper Colophon
Books, 1966), p. 101. Germany after World War
I: Cole, History of Socialist Thought, Vol. IV, Pt.
I, pp. 136 ff.; Helga Grebing, "Der Sozialismus in
Deutschland," in Sozialismus, ed. Iring Fetscher

(Munich: Kurt Desch, 1968), pp. 168 ff. Rosa
Luxemburg, Ausgewahlte Reden und Schriften
(Berlin: Dietz Verlag, 1951), pp. 645 ff.; p. 694.
Paul Levi, Zwischen Spartakus und Sozial-Dem-
okratie (Frankfurt: Europaische Verlagsanstalt,
1969), pp. 37 ff. On German socialism: Cole,
op. cit., pp. 136 ff.; pp. 635 ff. Wissell: Carl
Landauer, European Socialism (Berkeley and Los
Angeles: University of California Press, 1958),
474 SOCIALISM
Vol. I, p. 843. Independent Labour Party in 1924:
Adolph Sturmthal, The Tragedy of European

Labour (London: Gollancz, 1944), p. 88.
2. Hiferding in the twenties: Fetscher, op. cit., p. 173.
Hilferding on banks: quoted in Henryk Grossman,
Das Akkumulations- und Zusammenbruchgesetz
des kapitalistischen Systems (Frankfurt: Neue
Kritik, 1967 [originally 1926]), p. 57. Hilferding
on the depression: W. S. Woytinsky, Stormy Pas-
sage (New York: The Vanguard Press, 1961), p.
471. Naphtali: quoted in Sturmthal, op. cit., p. 74.
Snowden and Henderson: David Marquand, "The
Politics of Deprivation," Encounter XXXII, No. 4
(April, 1969), pp. 37 ff. Harold Macmillan, Winds
of Change (New York: Harper and Row, 1966),
p. 253. Labor and Socialist InternationalProgram:
Sturmthal, op. cit., p. 76. Mosley: Marquand, op.
cit. Skidelsky: ibid. Tarnow: Sturmthal, op. cit.,
p. 71.
3. Blum: VOeuvre de Leon Blum, 1945-1947 (Paris:
fiditions Albin Michel, 1968), pp. 284 and 273.
Andre Philip, Les Socialistes (Paris: Seuil, 1967),
p. 90. Faure: quoted, ibid., p. 76. Cole on De
Man: History of Socialist Thought, Vol. V, p.
189; Landauer, op. cit., p. 1405. Henri de Man,
Cavalier Seul (Geneva: Editions du Cheval Aile,
1948), pp. 163 ff. Deat and Marquet: Philip, op.
cit., p.74. Lichtheim on Deat: Marxism in Modern
France, 2nd edition (New York: Columbia Uni-
versity Press, 1968), p. 41, n. 12. Epitaph:
Sturmthal, op. cit., p. 5. Ralph Miliband, The
State in Capitalist Society (London: Weidenfeld
and Nicolson, 1969), p. 99.
4. Nationalizations after World War II: Michael Kidron,
Western Capitalism Since the War (Baltimore:
Penguin Books, 1970), pp. 24 ff. Kautsky, Das
Erfurt er Programm (Stuttgart: Dietz Verlag,
1892). Jaures on state: quoted in Philip, op. cit.,
p. 45. 1910 resolution: ibid., pp. 36-37. Jaures
and nationalization, 1894: Jaures et le Socialisme
des Intellectuels (Paris: Georges Lefranc Aubier,
1968), p. 31. Otto Bauer, quoted in Norbert Leser,
Notes 475
Zwischen Reformismus und Bolshewismus (Vien-
na: Europa Verlag, 1968), p. 147. British mines:
Cole, History of Socialist Thought, Vol. IV, Pt. I,
p. 416. Geneva Conference: ibid., p. 328. Sidney
Webb, Fabian Essays in Socialism (Gloucester,
Mass.: Peter Smith, 1967 [originally 1889]), pp.
68-69. Engels on Fabians: MEW, XXIX, p. 8.
Clause Four: quoted: Paul Foot, The Politics of
Harold Wilson (London: Penguin Books, 1968), p.
123. Ralf Dahrendorf, Society and Democracy in
Germany (New York: Doubleday and Company,
1963), p. 167. Andre Philip, La Gauche, Mythes
et Realites (Paris: Georges Lefranc Aubier, 1964),
p. The Accidental Century (New York: The
71.
Macmillan Company, 1965), Chap. III. Post-1945
British nationalization: C. A. R. Crosland, The
Future of Socialism (London: Jonathan Cape,
1956), p. 484. Steel ^nationalization: Paul Foot,
op. cit., p. 189; The Economist (January 31,
1970). Macmillan and nationalization: Macmillan,
op. cit., p. 232; Foot, op. cit., p. 341, n. 1. Douglas
Jay, Socialism in the New Society (New York: St.

Martin's Press, 1963), p. 278.
5. Wolfgang Abendroth, Sozialgeschichte der Europaischen
Arbeiterbewegung (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp Verlag,
1965), p. 182. SPD working-class percentage:
Kidron, op. cit., p. 119. Andre Gorz, Reforme et
Revolution (Paris: Seuil, 1969), p. 34. Raymond
Williams, ed.. May Day Manifesto (London:
Penguin Books, 1968), p. 183. Crosland, op. cit.,
pp. 35 ff.; pp. 92, 417, 439. Crosland in early
sixties: The Conservative Enemy (New York:
Schocken Books, 1962), p. 139. Jean-Jacques Ser-
van-Schreiber, "Entre Pompidou et Poher,"
L'Express (May 12-19, 1969). Protokoll Aus-
serordentlicher Parteitag, Bad Godesberg, 13-15
November, 1959 (Bonn: Vorstand der SPD, n.d.),
pp. 17 ff. Heinrich Deist, ibid., p. 183. John Ken-
neth Galbraith, The New Industrial State (Boston:
Houghton Mifflin Company, 1967), p. 99. Deist:
Protokoll, op. cit., pp. 213 ff: SPD 1970 Con-
gress: Der Spiegel (May 11, 1970). Young So-
476 SOCIALISM
cialists: Bremen Congress: Vorwarts (Bonn:
March 18, 1971); Party reply: ibid.; Schiller: Der
Spiegel (March 1971); Poll: Der Spiegel
22,
(March 1, 1971); Vogel: Der Spiegel (May 3,
1971). British white-collar percentage: Kidron, op.
cit., p. 122.
6. Thomas Balogh, Planning for Progress, Fabian Tract
346 (London, 1963); Richard Titmus, Commit- 1
ment to Welfare (New York: Pantheon Books, i
1968), passim and p. 133. Harold Wilson, Purpose 1
in Politics (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, I
1964), p. 18. Titmus, op. cit., p. 125. Andrew
j
Schonfield, "Stop-Go Dilemma," Encounter, XXVI \
No. 6 (June, 1966), p. 7. George Lichtheim, "De-
valuation," Commentary (February, 1968). Mi-
chael Shanks: quoted, ibid. John Hughes, "The
Increase in Inequality," The New Statesman, Vol.
76 (November 8, 1968), p. 620. British poverty,
1970: The Economist (December 19, 1970). Dan-
iel Singer: Prelude to Revolution; France in May,
1968 (New York: Hill and Wang, 1970), p. 277.
Chapter X
1. John Galbraith, Economic Development,
Kenneth
Sentry ed. (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company,
1964), p. 4. Iran: see Walter Z. Laquer, The
Struggle for the Middle East (New York: The
Macmillan Company, 1969), pp. 31 ff. Raul Pre-
bisch, UNCTAD, Second Session, New Delhi, 1968
(New York: United Nations, 1968), p. 417; see
also Fernando H. Cardoso, "The Industrial Elite,"
in Elites in Latin America, ed. Seymour Martin
Lipset and Aldo Solari (New York: Oxford Uni-
versity Press, 1967), p. 95. Russia in 1913: Charles
K. Wilber, The Soviet Model and Underdeveloped
Countries (Chapel Hill: University of North
Carolina Press, 1969), p. 14 and Table 1-2, p.
15. Gunnar Myrdal: Asian Drama: An Inquiry in-
to the Poverty of Nations (New York: Pantheon
Books, 1968), Vol. II, p. 717. Alexander Ger-
Notes 477
shenkron, Continuity in History and Other Essays
(Cambridge: Belknap, 1968), p. 137. On Weber:
Seymour Martin Lipset, "Values, Education and
Entrepreneurship," in Lipset and Solari, op. cit.,
p. 4. Gunnar Myrdal, The Challenge of World
Poverty (New York: Pantheon Books, 1970), p.
83.
2. Mao Tse-tung, Selected Works (hereafter cited as SW)
(London: Lawrence and Wishart, 1954), Vol. Ill,
p. 215. Hong Kong Weekly quoted in Ygael
Gluckstein, Mao's China (London: Allen and Un-
win, 1957), p. 193. On the 1928-1937 period and
the Kuomintang, cf. Barrington Moore, The Social
Origins of Dictatorship and Democracy (Boston:
Beacon Press, 1966), pp. 187 ff.; and Michael
Harrington, Communist China: A Socialist Analy-
sis (New York: Young People's Socialist League,
1962 [mimeo]). On inflation in China in 1949:
Gluckstein, op. cit., p. 103; Chang Kia-ngau, The
Inflationary Spiral (New York: John Wiley, 1958),
passim. Mao on classes in the Chinese Revolution:
SW, III, p. 220. On China in the 1920s, see Harold
Isaacs, The Tragedy of the Chinese Revolution,
rev.
ed. (Stanford: Stanford University Press,
1951). Communists and workers: Benjamin
Schwartz, Chinese Communism and the Rise of
Mao (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press,
1952), p. 97. Mao on peasantry and proletariat
(1939): SW, III, pp. 87 ff. Engels on the peasants
(1892): MEW, XIX, p. 58. Marx, The Eighteenth
Brumaire: MEW, VIII, p. 198. Karl Kautsky,
"Triebkrafte der Russischen Revolution," Die Neue
Zeit, Vol. 25, Bd. 1, No. 10 (1906), p. 330.
Manifestes, Theses et Resolutions des Quatres
Premiers Congres Mondiaux (Paris: Bibliotheque
Communiste, 1934 [reprinted, Paris: Maspero,
1969]), pp. 78-79. Sultan-Galiev: Leonard
Schapiro, The Communist Party of the Soviet
Union (New York: Random House, 1960), p.
348. Harold Isaacs, op. cit., p. 312. Roger Garaudy,
Le Probleme Chinois (Paris: 10/18, n.d.), p. 86.
Mao (1928): SW, I, p. 66; 1935: ibid., p. 156;
478 SOCIALISM
1937: ibid., p. 265. 1939: ibid., Ill, pp. 88 and
220. "On Coalition Government": SW, IV, p.
294. On Tientsin, see M. Y. Wang, "The Stalinis
State in China," New International Vol. XVII, No.
2 (March-April, 1951), p. 101. Leon Trotsky,
"Peasant War in China," translation in Bulletin of
Marxist Studies (New York: Socialist Worker
Party, 1957), p. 15.
3. On cooperatives in 1952: Richard Lowenthal, "De
velopment versus Utopia in Communist policy,* 1
Survey (Winter-Spring, 1970), p. 13. For a gen-

eral account of the 1953-1955 period, see "Col-
in Retrospect: The 'Socialist High
lectivization
Tide* of Winter-Autumn, 1955," by Kenneth A.
Walker, China Quarterly (April-June, 1966).
Central Committee in 1953: quoted in Michael
Harrington, "Despotism's Fortress in Asia," New
International Vol. XXIV, Nos. 2-3 (Spring-
Summer, 1958), p. 92. Mao's July 31 speech:
ibid. Paul A. Baran, The Political Economy of
Growth, 2nd ed. (New York: Monthly Review
Press, 1968), pp. 226-227 and 255. Shenyang
teachers quoted in Saturn (Paris: December,
1957), p. 87. Garaudy, op. cit., p. 133. Text of
the Central Committee Resolution of August 29,
1958, ibid., p. 288. 1962 Central Committee: ibid.,
p. 136. Mao's April 15, 1958, speech quoted,
Charles Johnson, "The Two Chinese Revolutions,"
China Quarterly No. 39 (July-September, 1969),
y
pp. 22-23. On the 1959 reorientation of party

policy, cf. PhilipBridgham, "Mao's 'Cultural Revo-
lution': Originsand Development," China Quarter-
ly, No. 30 (January-March, 1967) and Dwight
H. Perkins, "Economic Growth in China and the
Cultural Revolution," ibid. Joan Robinson: The
Cultural Revolution in China (Baltimore: Penguin
Books, 1969), p. 35. Richard Hughes, "Mao Makes
the Trials Run on Time," The New York Times
Magazine (August 23, 1970), p. 67.
4. Central Committee text of August 8, 1966, in Garaudy,
op. cit., pp. 289 ff. On Shanghai, 1966-1967: ibid.,
pp. 164-165; and Philip Bridgham, "Mao's Cul-
Notes 479
tural Revolution in 1967: The Struggle to Seize
Power," China Quarterly, No. 35 (April-June,
1968), pp. 8-9. On Liu: Robinson, op. cit., p. 148.
Anibal Quijano Obregon, "Contemporary Peasant
Movements," in Lipset and Solari, op. cit. Russian
Communists on Maoism: Wolfgang Leonhard, Die
Dreispaltung des Marxismus (Dusseldorf-Wien:
Econ Verlag, 1970), pp. 329 ff. A. Gramsci in
Franco De Felice and Valentino Parlato, eds., La
Question Meridionale (Rome: Editori Reuniti,
1969), pp. 64-65. 1926 article: ibid., p. 127. Lin
Piao, "Long Live the Victory of People's War!"
(Peking: Foreign Language Press, 1965).
5. Gramsci on cities: Quuderni del Career e (Milan:
Einaudi, 1966), Vol. Ill, // Risorgimento, p. 95.
Barbara Ward, "The Poor World's Cities," The
Economist (December 6, 1969). Marx on the
lumpenproletariat: Eighteenth Brumaire, MEW,
VIII, p. 161. Bakunin: quoted in George Licht-
heim, "Imperialism," Commentary (April, 1970),
p. 72. Peter Worsley, "Revolutionary Theories,"
Monthly Review (May, 1969), p. 36. Glaucio Ary
Dillon Soares, "Industrialization: The Brazilian
PoliticalSystem," in Latin America, Reform or
Revolution, p. 196, n. 12. Samir Amin: The
Maghreb in the Modern World (Baltimore:
Penguin Books, 1971), p. 222.
6. The German Ideology: MEW, III, pp. 34-35. Marx
and Engels on "self": MEW, IV, p. 15. Robert
Heilbroner, "Socialism and the Future," Com-
mentary (December, 1969). Venceremos! The
Speeches and Writings of Che Guevara, ed. John
A. Gerassi (New York: The Macmillan Company,
1968), pp. 403-404. Ibid., p. 301. Guevara letter:
ibid., p. 412. Edward Boorstein, quoted in Leo
Huberman and Paul Sweezy, Socialism in Cuba
(New York: Monthly Review Press, 1969), p,
199. The Economist (August 1, 1970). Rene Du
mont, Cuba, est-il socialist e? (Paris: Seuil, 1970)
p. 40. Ibid., p. 96. The Economist (August 1
1970). Agricultural brigades: Dumont, op. cit., p

144. Democracy: ibid., pp. 101, 178, and 191
480 SOCIALISM
"Parasites" Law: Associated Press dispatch (March
18, 1971). Huberman and Sweezy, op. cit., pp.
200 and 219. K. S. Karol, Guerillas in Power
(New York: Hill and Wang, 1970), pp. 328, 478,
481, 482. Yugoslavia: Stojanovic, op. cit., pp. 93-
94; Dominique Rouvre and Jean Morin, Esprit
(February, 1970); Albert Meister, Esprit (Septem-
ber, 1970); Roger Priouret, UExpress (January
18, 1971); Robert A. Dahl, After the Revolution
(New Haven: Yale University Press, 1970), p.
130; Daniel Chauvey [pseud.], Autogestion (Paris:
Seuil, 1970), pp. 59-60.
7. Mexican Socialism: Rene Dumont, UAfrique Noire est
mal partie p. 209; Irving Louis Horrowitz in Lipset
y
and Solari, Elites in Latin America, p. 167. Peru:

dispatch by Malcolm W. Browne, The New York
Times (June 29, 1969). Dumont: Cuba, esUil
socialiste? p. 228. Gunnar Myrdal, The Challenge
of World Poverty, pp. 485-487. Victor Alba, "New
Alignments in Latin America," Dissent (July-Au-
gust, 1970). Egypt: Iring Fetscher, ed., So-
zialismus, vom Klassenkampf zum Wohlfahrtstaat
(Munich: Verlag Kurt Desch, 1968). Bassam Tibi,
"Der Arabische Sozialismus"; Laquer, The Strug-
gle for the Middle East, pp. 229 ff.; Rene Dumont
and Marcel Mazoyer, Developpement et Socia-
lismes (Paris: Seuil, 1969), pp. 179 ff. 1964 Rus-
sian analysis: The Struggle for the Middle East,
pp. 175-176. Bakadash: ibid., pp. 177 and 304 ff.
Sudan: Dispatch by Eric Rouleau, Le Monde
Hebdomadaire (August 13-19, 1970). Vorwarts
on Sudan: Dispatch by Walter Osten, February 25,
1971. Richard Lowenthal, "Development versus
Utopia in Communist Policy," Survey (Winter-
Spring, 1970), pp. 9-11. Le Monde Hebdomadaire
(July 9-15, 1970). Dumont and Mazoyer, op. cit.,
p. 193. Samir Amin quoted, Dumont, UAfrique
Noire est mal partie, p. 215.
8. Bevan quoted, Gunnar Myrdal, Economic Theory of
Underdeveloped Regions (London: Ducksworth,
1957), p. 48. Elites: Asian Drama, Vol. I, p. 275.
Nehru and Gandhi: ibid., Vol. II, pp. 788 and 852.
Notes 481
"Socialism": ibid., Vol.
p. 808. Congress in
II,
1955: ibid., Vol. 800 and n. 3. Public

II, p.
enterprises: ibid., Vol. II, p. 819. "Green Revolu-
tion": Myrdal, The Challenge of World Poverty,
pp. 125 ff. and pp. 401 ff.
Chapter XI
1. Engels on socialist and social democrat: MEW, XXII,

pp. 417 ff. Socialist Party statistics: James Wein-
stein, The Decline of Socialism in America (New
York and London: Monthly Review Press, 1967),
pp. 27, 84-85, 93, 103, 115. Daniel Bell, Marxian
Socialism in the United States (Princeton, N.J.:
Princeton University Press, 1967), pp. vii and x.
Ira Kipnis, The American Socialist Movement,
1897-1912 (New York: Columbia University
Press, 1952), p. 429. Debs quote: Marc Karson,
American Labor Unions and Politics (Boston:
Beacon Press, 1965), p. 160. IWW policies: Foner,
History of the Labor Movement in the United
States (New York: International Publishers,
—
1947 ), Vol. IV, p. 77. Groups Socialist Party
appealed to: David A. Shannon, The Socialist Party
of America: A History (New York: The Mac-
millan Company, 1955), pp. 68 ff. Weinstein: op.
cit., passim. Socialists and the labor party: Foner,
op. cit., Vol. Ill, p. 377; on Walling position:

Shannon, op. cit., pp. 64-65; the twenties: Wein-
stein, op. cit., pp. 76 and 325.
2. Urbanization: Irving Bernstein, The Lean Years (Balti-
more: Penguin Books, 1966), p. 49. Matthew Woll
and Depression: Arthur Schlesinger, Jr., The Com-
ing of the New Deal (Boston: Houghton Mifflin
Company, 1958), p. 90. Socialist Party in the
thirties: Shannon, op. cit.,pp. 224 ff. Kentucky
leaflet: The
Schlesinger, Coming of the New Deal,
p. 139."Most old-line AF of L leaders .": ibid., . .
p. 140. 1936 FDR campaign: Arthur M. Schles-

inger, Jr., The Politics of Upheaval (Boston:
Houghton Mifflin Company, 1960), p. 292. Hof-
482 SOCIALISM
stadter, The Age of Reform (New York: Vintag
Books, n.d. [originally 1955]), p. 308. Leftist his
torians: William Appleman Williams, The Grec
Evasion (Chicago: Quadrangle Books, 1968), p.
153; James Weinstein and David W. Eakins, eds.,
For a New America (New York: Vintage Books,
1970).
3. Original Communist movement: Max Shachtman, "A
Re-Examination of the Party," New International
(Fall, 1957); Max Shachtman and Theodore
Draper, "An Exchange of Views," New Interna-
tional (Winter, 1958). Theodore Draper, The
Roots of American Communism (New York: The
Viking Press, 1963), p. 395. Earl Browder, The
People's Front (New York: International Pub-
lishers, 1938), p. 232. Arthur McDowell: Socialist
Review Vol. 7 (July-August, 1938), p. 3. Norman
,
Thomas in 1938: Bernard J. Johnpoll, Pacifist's

Progress (Chicago: Quadrangle Books, 1970), p.
203. Communist Party in 1939: Irving Howe and
Lewis Coser, The American Communist Party: A
Critical History (Boston: Beacon Press, 1967), pp.
385-386.
4. Schlesinger on New Deal: The Politics of Upheaval,
p. 651. Employment Act of 1946: Stephen Kemp
Bailey, Congress Makes a Law (New York: Vin-
tage Books ed., 1964). Kennedy tax cut: Arthur
M. Schlesinger, Jr., A Thousand Days (Boston:
Houghton Mifflin Company, 1965), pp. 648-649.
AFL-CIO Conventions: Gus Tyler, The Labor
Revolution (New York: The Viking Press, 1967),
p. Ill; The Federationist (January, 1966, and
January, 1968). UAW Convention: Washington
Report, Vol. 10 (May 4, 1970). Theodore H.
White, The Making of the President, 1968 (New
York: Atheneum Publishers, 1969), p. 365. On
interest groups: J. David Greenstone, Labor in
American Politics (New York: Alfred A. Knopf,
1969), pp. 16 and 351. George Meany on social-
ism: Hearings on Unemployment Compensation
(Washington, D.C.: House Ways and Means Com-
mittee, 1959), pp. 458 ff. American labor and
Notes 483
European social democracy: Greenstone, op. cit.,
p. 7.
Chapter XII
1. Andre Gorz, Reforme et Revolution (Paris: Seuil,

1969). Alvin Schorr, Explorations in Social Policy
(New York: Basic Books, 1968), p. 275. Dispatch
by Allan Otten, The Wall Street Journal (February
25, 1969). Report of the National Commission on
Civil Disorders (Washington, D.C.: Government
Printing Office, 1968), p. 28. Report and Recom-
mendations of the Council, White House Con-
ference on Civil Rights (Washington, D.C.: Gov-
ernment Printing Office, 1966), p. 67. Rudolph
Oswald, "The City Worker's Budget," in The
Federationist (February, 1969). Building the
American City: Report of the National Commission
on Urban Problems (Washington, D.C.: Govern-
ment Printing Office, 1968), p. 67. Violence Com-
mission: The New York Times (November 24,
1969).
2. Economic Report of the President (Washington, D.C.:
Government Printing Office, 1969), p. 175. Build-
ing the American City, p. 153. Report of the Na-
tional Commission on Civil Disorders, pp. 140 and
458. Charles Schultz, "Budget Alternatives after
Vietnam," in Agenda for the Nation, ed. Kermit
Gordon (Washington, D.C.: Brookings Institution,
1968), p. 44. John Kenneth Galbraith, The New
Industrial State (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Com-
pany, 1967), p. 245. Christopher Jencks and David
Reisman, The Academic Revolution (New York:
Doubleday Anchor Books, 1969), p. 111. Peter
M. Blair and Otis Dudley Duncan, The American
Occupational Structure (New York: John Wiley
and Sons, 1967), p. 79. Manpower Report of the
President, 1969 (Washington, D.C.: Government
Printing Office, 1969), p. 26. Jencks and Riesman,
op. cit., pp. 175, 125, 147, 148, 150.
3. National Committee on Urban Growth Problems, The
484 SOCIALISM
New City (New York:
Praeger, 1969), pp. 3 ff.
Andrew Schonfield, Modern
Capitalism: The
Changing Balance of Public and Private Power
(London: Oxford, 1965), p. 115. Abraham Ribi-
coff, "The Competent City," address, Congressional
Record, Vol. 113, No. 8 (January 23, 1967).
Lawrence A. Mayer, "The Housing Shortage Goes
Critical," Fortune (December, 1969). Romney
quoted: The National Urban Coalition, Counter-
budget (New York: Praeger, 1971), p. 149. David
Marquand, "May Day Illusions," Encounter (Au-
gust, 1968), p. 56. Raymond Fletcher, "Where
Did It All Go Wrong?" Encounter (November,
1969), p. 9.
4. Robert Dorfman in Measuring the Benefits of Gov-
ernment Investment, ed. Robert Dorfman (Wash-
ington, D.C.: The Brookings Institution, 1965),
pp. 4-5. Robert Dorfman, The Price System
(Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1964), p.
140. Gardner Ackley, The Wall Street Journal
(May 1, 1967). Karl Kaysen, "Model Makers and
Decision Makers" in Economic Means and Social
Ends, ed. Robert Heilbroner (Englewood Cliffs,
N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1969), p. 149. Yankelovich
poll:Fortune (September, 1969), p. 95. Nat Gold-
finger, "A Trade Union View of Anti-Inflation
Policies in the 1960s" (mimeo) (Washington, D.C.:
AFL-CIO, October 21, 1971).
5. "From each according to his ability .": MEW, XIX,
. .
pp. 20 ff. Stalin on equality: "New Conditions,

New Tasks in Economic Construction," Works
(Moscow: Foreign Language Publishing House,
1955), Vol. XIII, p. 59. John Strachey, Con-
temporary Capitalism (New York: Random House,
1965), p. 243. Paul Douglas: Building the Ameri-
can^ City, p. 182. Anthony Downs, "Moving To-
ward Realistic Housing Goals," in Agenda for the
Nation, p. 175. The Academic Revolution, p. 111.
Dan Cordtz, "Change Begins in the Doctor's Of-
fice," Fortune (January, 1970).
6. Fabian Essays in Socialism, p. 67. Keynes quoted:
Strachey, Contemporary Capitalism, p. 56. A. A.
Notes 485
Berle,Power (New York: Harcourt, Brace and
World, 1969), pp. 258-259. Robin Marris, "The
Truth about Corporations," The Public Interest,
No. 11 (Spring, 1968), p. 45. Hayek, in Melvin
Anshen and George Bach, eds., Management and
Corporations, 1985 (New York: McGraw-Hill,
1960), p. 107. Swedish social democrats: Gunnar
Adler-Karlson, Functional Socialism (Stockholm:
Bokforlaget Prismen, 1969). Arlen J. Large,
"Technology in the Mindless Market," The Wall
Street Journal (October 17, 1969) (contains report
on the National Academy of Science panel).
Economic Report of the President, 1967 (Washing-
ton, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1967), p.
133. "Corporate Profits and the Wage Gap," The
Federationist (July, 1968). On corporate reforms:
Andrew Schonfield, "Business in the Twenty-First
Century," Daedalus (Winter, 1969), p. 202;
C. A. R. Crosland, The Conservative Enemy (New
York: Schocken Books, 1962), p. 48; Douglas Jay,
Socialism in the New Society (New York: St. Mar-
tin's Press, 1963), 281-282.
pp.
7. TVA: Annual Report of the TV A
(Washington, D.C.:
Government Printing Office, 1968); Tellicoe New-
town, "Draft Study," TVA mimeo (June, 1969).
Robin Marris, The Economic Theory of "Man-
ageriaF' Capitalism (New York: Free Press, 1964),
p. 101. Sir John Eden: The Economist (January 9,
1971). The New Industrial State, pp. 103-104.
Berle: Power, pp. 211 and 213.
8. Wealth: Herman Miller, Rich Man, Poor Man, rev. ed.
(New York: Crowell, 1971), pp. 156-157. Tax
policy: The Wall Street Journal (July 23, 1969).
Retained profits: Berle, Power, p. 203. Joan Robin-
,,
son, "Socialist Affluence, in C. H. Feinstein, ed.,
Socialism, Capitalism and Economic Growth
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1967),
p. 177. Joseph Pechman, "The Rich, the Poor, the
Taxes They Pay," The Public Interest (Fall, 1969),
passim.
486 SOCIALISM
Chapter XIII
1. Das Kapital, Vol. Ill: MEW, XXV, pp. 345-346.

Engels in 1848: Karl Marx on Modernization, ed.
Shlomo Avineri (New York: Doubleday Anchor,
1969), p. 69. Engels in 1894: Das Kapital, MEW,
XXV, p. 506, n. 8. Karl Kautsky, Sozialismus und
Kolonialpolitik (Berlin: Verlag Buchhandlung Vor-
warts, 1907); Rosa Luxemburg, The Accumulation
of Capital, trans. Agnes Schwarzchild (New Haven,
Conn.: Yale University Press, 1951). Kautsky on
"ultra-imperialism": "Der Imperialismus," Neue
Zeit, Vol. 32, Bd. 2, No. 21 (September 11, 1914).
Lenin, Imperialism: The Highest Stage of Capital-
ism, CW, XXII.
2. Lenin (Chap. VII), CW, XXII, p. 266. Imperialist
super-profits: ibid., p. Toward a Democratic
241.
Left (New York: The Macmillan Company, 1968).
Fritz Sternberg, Capitalism and Socialism on Trial,
trans. Edward Fitzgerald (New York: Greenwood
Press, 1968 [originally 1951]), p. 27. John Kenneth
Galbraith, The Great Crash (Boston: Houghton
Mifflin, Sentry ed., 1961), pp. 180 ff. Henryk
Grossman: Das Akkumulations- und Zusammen-
bruchgesetz des kapitalistischen Systems (Frank-
furt: Neue Kritik, 1967), pp. 444-446. Trade
figures: UN Conference on Trade and Develop-
ment, Second Session, New Delhi (1968) (New
York: United Nations, 1968), Vol. I, p. 8. On the
new trend in the sixties and seventies: Sanford
Rose, "The Poor Countries Turn from Buy-Less to
Sell-More," Fortune (April, 1970). Oil cost-price
gap: Michael Tanzer, The Political Economy of
International Oil and the Underdeveloped Countries
(Boston: Beacon Press, 1969), p. 6. Oil in world
trade: S.M. Miller, Ray Bennett, and Cyril Alapatt,
Working Paper of the Center of International
Studies of New York University (February 11,
1970). A. Emmanuel, L'tchange Inegal (Paris:
Francis Maspero, 1969), pp. 49-50.
Notes 487
3. Harry Magdoff, The Age of Imperialism (New York:
Monthly Review Press, 1969), pp. 16 and 38.
Ernest Mandel: Inter-Continental Press (May 17,
1971), pp. 450 ff. Gabriel Kolko, The Roots of
American Foreign Policy (Boston: Beacon Press,
1969), p. 89. Y. Varga, Political Economic Prob-
lems of Capitalism (Moscow: Progress Publishers,
1968), p. 167. Gunnar Myrdal, The Challenge of
World Poverty, p. 406. Kolko, op. cit., p. 49; Miller
et al., op. cit.
4. Toward a Democratic Left, Chaps. VII-IX. Capital
outflows, 1965-1966: UN Conference on Trade
and Development, Second Session, p. 9. Gabriel
Valdes: Le Monde (June 13, 1969). Charles K.
Wilber, The Soviet Model and Underdeveloped
Countries, Table IV-1, p. 56. Zambia: Robert A.
Wright, The New York Times (August 17, 1969);
The New York Times (August 26, 1969); "A
Stake in Zambia," The Economist (August 23,
1969). Mossadegh: Tanzer, The Political Economy
of Oil, pp. 321 ff. Brazil: The Economist (August
15, 1970); The Wall Street Journal (August 20,
1970).
5. Marx on compensation: quoted by Engels, MEW,
XXII, pp. 503-504. Sanford Rose, 'The Poor
Countries Turn from Buy-Less to Sell-More,"
Fortune (April, 1970), p. 93. Emmanuel, op. cit.,
p. 209. William Bywater, President, District 3, TUE
(AFL-CIO), "Why Free Trade is Unfair to U.S.
Workers," The New York Times, January 3, 1971.
International unionism: Christian Science Monitor
(March 27 and April 12, 1971).
6. The Economist: The Growth and Spread of Multi-
national Companies (London: The Economist In-
telligence Unit, 1971), p. 28. Lester B. Pearson,
Chairman, Partners in Development: Report of the
Commission on International Development (New
York: Praeger Books, 1969), p. 88. Job displace-
ment: Rose, "The Poor Countries," op. cit., p. 170.
Charter of Algiers: UN Trade and Development
Conference, Second Session, p. 421. Gross domestic
product figures for the Third World: Towards
J
'
*** SOCIALISM
Accelerated Development: Report of the Commit- 1
tee for Development Planning (New York:
United]
Nations, 1970), p. 1. Birth control research: Part-
ners in Development, p. 199. NICB estimate:
San- J
ford Rose, "The Rewarding Strategies of
Multi- \
Nationalism," Fortune (September 15, 1958). Ibid.,
p. 101. World GNPs: War Peace Report (October, 1
1968), p. 5. Rumanian transaction and the "take-
]
out" tactic: "The Rewarding Strategies," 101. p.
Ambassador George W. Ball, "Making World I
Corporations into World Citizens," War Peace Re-
\
port (October, 1968), p. 10. Jean-Jacques
Servan-
Schreiber, The American Challenge, trans. Ronald 1
Steel (New York: Atheneum, 1968).
7. Toward a Democratic Left, Chapter IX. Marshall Plan!
and oil: Gunnar Myrdal, Challenge to World
\
Poverty, p. 337. World Bank, 1956-1957: May I
Day Manifesto, pp. 78-79. Lima meeting: The 1
Economist (May 22, 1971), p. 92. Nixon aid mes- 1
sage: The New York Times (April 22, 1971). I
Jerome Levinson and Juan de Onis, The Alliance I
that Lost Its Way (Chicago: Quadrangle Books, I
1970), p. 159. World Bank and oil: Tanzer, The 1
Political Economy of Oil, p. 27. Thomas Balogh, I
The Economics of Poverty (London: Macmillan, 1
1966), p. 29. Copenhagen Meeting: The Wall
\
Street Journal (September 28, 1970). Aid per- I

centages: Partners in Development, pp. 145-148.
Paul Rosenstein-Rodan, in Disarmament and Eco-
nomic Development, Vol. 4 of Strategy and World
Order (4 vols.), ed. Richard A. Falk and Saul H.
Mendlovitz (New York: World Law Fund, 1966
pp. 520-521.
8. World Bank interest rate: The Challenge of Won„
Poverty, p. 39. Brzezinski, Between Two Ages:
America's Role in the Technetronic Era (New
York: Viking Press, 1970), p. 51. Celso Furtado,
"Les USA et L'Amerique Latine," Esprit (Juillet-
Aout, 1966), p. 47. Taiwan: "State Enterprises
Pace Taiwan's Growth," The New York Times
(January 18, 1971). Ernest Mandel, Traite
d'Economie Marxiste (Paris: Julliard, 1962), Vol
Notes 489
II, pp. 293-294. Asian Drama, Vol. II, p. 1000.
Indian statistics: Patterns in Development, p. 286.

Labor-intensive agriculture: Challenge of World
Poverty, pp. 96-97; UNCTAD
II, p. 418. Capitalist
farming: Challenge of World Poverty, p. 109. Land
reform: ibid., p. 113. Indian School of Political
Economy: The Economist (March 27, 1971).
Chapter XIV
1. Sidney Hook, Towards the Understanding of Karl Marx
(New York: The John Day Company, 1933), p.
14. Stanley Moore, "Utopian Themes in Marx and
Mao," Monthly Review (June, 1969).
2. Owen: G. D. H. Cole, History of Socialist Thought,
Vol. I, p. 94. Keynes, Essays in Persuasion (New
York: W. W. Norton and Company, 1963), p. vii.
Crosland, The Future of Socialism (London: Jona-
than Cape, 1956), p. 417. Kenneth Boulding, "Is
Scarcity Dead?" The Public Interest (Fall, 1966).
Richard Nixon, "Message on the Environment,"
The New York Times (February 11, 1970). Robert
Heilbroner, Between Capitalism and Socialism, pp.
280 and 284, n. 1. John J. Wells, "Will the Earth
Reach an Energy Ceiling?" The Wall Street Journal
(January 6, 1971). Fuller, The New York Times
(March 27, 1971).
3. Marx on consumption under capitalism: MEW, XXVI,
Pt. 1 (Theorien iiber den Mehrwert, I) pp. 145-
146; MEW, XXV(Das Kapital III), p. 310. Weber
and Veblen: S. M. Lipset, Revolution and Counter-
Revolution (New York: Anchor Books, 1970),
p. 171.
4. Marx on the middle class: MEW, XXVI, Pt. 2, p. 576.
Kautsky, Bernstein und das sozialdemokratische
Programm (Stuttgart: Dietz Verlag, 1899), pp.
129 ff. Bad Godesberg Congress: Protokoll (Bonn:
SPD, n.d. [1959]), p. 29. Herbert Marcuse, One
Dimensional Man (Boston: Beacon Press, 1964),
p. 256.
5. 1965 work force: Manpower Report of the President,
490 SOCIALISM
7969 (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing
Office, 1969), Table E-8, p.235. Department of
Labor, U.S. Manpower in the 1970s (Washington,
D.C.: Government Printing Office, n.d. [1970]).
"Moderate Standard": Rudolph Oswald, The
Federationist (February, 1969). Labor and 1968
elections: Theodore H. White, The Making of the
President, 1968, p. 365. Marx on affluence: MEW,
VI, p. 402. Rossow Report: Michael Harrington,
"Don't Form a Fourth Party," The New York
Times Magazine (September 13, 1970). John H.
Goldthorpe, David Lockwood, Frank Bechhofer,
and Jennifer Piatt, The Affluent Worker in the Class
Structure (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1969), passim and pp. 162, 190. Australia: G. D. H.
Cole, History of Socialist Thought, Vol. Ill, Pt.
2, Chap. XXIII, and Vol. IV, Pt. 2, Chap. XXVIII.
Michigan survey: Washington Report (April 12,
1971). Daniel Bell, "The Corporation and Society
in the 1970s," The Public Interest (Summer, 1971),
p. 31. AFL-CIO: Executive Council statement
(August 17, 1971, mimeo). C. A. R. Crosland,
"A Social Democratic Britain," Fabian Tract 404,
London, 1971, p. 8.
6. 1980 Labor market: United States Manpower Report
Thorstein Veblen, The Engineers and the Price
System (New York: The Viking Press, 1933), pp.
28 and 69. Serge Mallet, La Nouvelle Classe
Ouvriere (Paris: Seuil, 1969), pp. 16-17. Alain
Touraine, he Mouvemente de Mai ou le Com"
munisme Utopique (Paris: Seuil, 1968), pp. 162-
168. CFDT: Le Monde (May 10-11, 1970);
UExpress (May 18-24, 1970). John Kenneth
Galbraith, The New Industrial State (Boston:
Houghton Mifflin, 1967). Daniel Bell, "Notes on
Post-Industrial Society," The Public Interest (Win-
ter, 1967), p. 27. Sweden: Vorwarts (Bonn)
(February 25, 1971).
7. Kenneth Kenniston, Young Radicals: Notes on Con-
temporary Youth, pp. 263-264. Bruno Bettelheim,
"Obsolete Youth," Encounter (September, 1969).
"A Talk with Walter Lippmann," The New York
Notes 491
Times Magazine (September 14, 1969). College

statistics for theUnited States: U.S. Bureau of the
Census, Current Population Reports, Ser. P-23,
No. 34, "Characteristics of American Youth, 1970"
(Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office,
1971). Trotsky, "The Intelligentsia and Socialism,"
Fourth International (London) (Autumn-Winter,
1964), p. 109. Girod de L'Ain, Le Monde Heb-
domadaire (October 30-November 5, 1969). Theo-
dore Roszak, The Making of a Counter-Culture
(New York: Doubleday and Company, 1969), pp.
xii, 68, and 240.
I 8. Realm of freedom: MEW, XXV, p. 826. Friedrich

Nietzsche: Morgenrote, Werke (Salzburg: Berg-
land, 1956), Vol. II, p. 475. Working day: MEW,
XXIII, p. 287: Ernest Mandel, Introduction to
Marxist Economic Theory (New York: Young
Socialist Alliance, 1967), p. 13. Engels on Com-
munist society: MEW, III, p. 378. Trotsky, Liter-
ature and Revolution (New York: Russell and
Russell, 1957), p. 256.
. Paul Samuelson: Economics. 7th ed., pp. 610-611.
John Strachey, Contemporary Capitalism, p. 140.
Kaiser Plan: Edmund K. Faltermayer, "Better
Care at Less Cost without Miracles," Fortune
(January. 1970). "National Health Insurance,
What It Is, What It Isn't," Federationist (January,
1970).
Index
I Abendroth, Wolfgang, 249 See also names of coun-

I Absolute poverty, 124 tries; Third World
I Absolute surplus value, 117 Agnew, Spiro T., 343
I Academic Revolution, The Agrarian radicalism, 139, 310
(Jencks and Riesman), 341— Agriculture
342 England, 24, 60
Accident insurance programs, Russia, 208-210, 217,
80 280-281
Accidental Century, The Third World, 12, 290-
(Harrington), 245, 432 291, 393-395, 400-
Ackley, Gardner, 352 403, 415—417, 447-448
Adams, John Quincy, 134 U.S., 96, 339-340, 342,
Adler, Max, 93, 444 360
Adler. Victor, 87, 88, 89 Air pollution, 349-352
Affluence Air Quality Act of 1967, 351
England, 435-436, 439, Albigensians, 20
441 Alexander the Great, 17
Marx on, 434-435 Alger, Bruce, 327
U.S., 132. 154. 350, 434- Algeria, 266, 297
435, 445, 449 urban poor, 286-287
Affluent Society, The (Gal- See also Third World
braith), 347 402
Algiers, Charter of,
Affluent Worker in the Class AHende, Salvador, 299
Structure, The, 435 Alliance for Labor Action,
Africa, 6. 164, 165, 169, 176, 323
177, 222, 223, 263, 285, Alliance for Progress, 163,
298 266, 408, 413
democracy, 411 "Alliance for Progress and
exploitation of, 379 Peaceful Revolution, The"
investment in, 387 (Rosenstein-Rodan), 264
modernization of, 266, Althusser, Louis, 47, 93
397 on Marxism, 47
population control, 403 American Civil War, 137
tariffs and, 401 American Federation of La-
urban poor, 285 bor (AFL), 141, 146, 148-
493
,
494 Index
AFL (continued) modernization of, 266j
153, 157, 158, 159, 161, 397
306, 309-311, 313, 315, population control, 403
J
324, 325, 436 tariffs, and, 401
to immigrants,
hostility urban poor, 285
160 wages, 386
Labor's League for Polit- See also names of coun-l
ical Education, 324 tries; Third World
American Federation of La- Asian Drama: An Inquiry into
bor-Congress of Industrial the Poverty of Nations]
Organizations ( AFL-CIO ) (Myrdal), 300
322-327, 354, 355, 438- Asiatic mode of production,]
439 170
protectionist position of, Atlantic Monthly, 145
398 Atomic Energy Commission,!
American Federation of 426
Teachers, 441 Attlee, Clement, 6, 229, 246,^
American United Automobile 373
Workers, 400 Augustine, Saint, 16
Amin, Samir, 287 Australia, 168, 268, 269, 436
j
Amsterdam Congress, 178, Australian Labour Party, 436 i|
228 Austria
Anabaptists, 18, 24, 25, 32 bourgeoisie, 53
Anarchists, 80 Marxism, 243
Antt-DUhring (Engels), 81, 87 nationalizations, 241, 243 I
Anti-socialist socialism, 5, 23, socialism, 243, 248
52 Austria-Hungary, 76, 228
Bismarck, 5, 7, 66, 76, Austrian social democrats, 86;
78-83 Automation, 445
origins of, 77-83 Marx on, 119
Russia, 186, 187 Avineri, Shlomo, 30
Appeal to Reason, 307
Arab Communism, 296-298 Babeuf, Gracchus, 3, 25, 26-
Arab socialism, 296-298 27, 28
Arab Socialist Union, 296 Babouvists, 26-27, 28
Arabs, 6, 183 Bakdash, Khalid, 297
Arendt, Hannah, 215 Bakunin, Mikhail, 66, 73-74,
Argentina, 175-176, 404 75, 80, 83, 172, 285-286
See also Latin America; debate with Marx, 73, 75
Third World lumpenproletarian social-
Aristocratic utopianism, 16- ism and, 73
17 Ball, George W., 404-405
Aron, Raymond, 432 Balogh, Thomas, 257, 408
Ascetic communism, 13 Bank of England, 241, 259
Asia, 164, 165, 166, 167, 170, Baran, Paul, 277-278
263-264, 268, 269, 285 Bartering, 112
democracy, 411-412 Baruch, Bernard, 317
exploitation of, 379-380 Bauer, Otto, 243, 254
investment in, 386-387 Bebel, August, 82, 87, 89, 212
Index 495
Belcian Congo, 178, 182-184, Bolivia, 408
227 See also Latin America;
Belgian Workers' Party, 183 Third World
Belgium. 178, 227, 233, 404 Bolshevik Party, 207, 223,
colonialism, 178, 182-184 224
imports. 384 Bolsheviks, 187, 188, 193, 199,
Bell, Daniel, 47-48, 93, 308, 200, 207, 217, 222-224
437-442 Bonaparte, Jerome, 70
Belmont. August, 151 Boorstein, Edward, 290
Berger, Victor, 310 Born, Stephen, 55
Berle, A. A., 321, 364 Boudin, Louis, 82
Bernstein, Eduard, 81-82, 87, Boulding. Kenneth, 424-426,
173, 177-179, 231 427. 429
Bernstein, Irving, 312 Bourgeois democracy, 54-55,
Berry, George L., 316 56
Bethlehem Steel Corporation, Borgeoisie, 29-30, 52, 53, 228
366 Austria, 53
Bettelheim, Bruno, 444 China, 271, 275
Bettelheim. Charles. 224 Engels on, 79, 430
Better Fewer, But Better (Le- England, 52, 54, 179-180
nin), 201, 203 France, 54—55
Bevan, Aneurin, 300, 301. 303 Germany, 55, 56-57, 68,
Bismarck, Otto von, 86, 147, 78-79, 191
190, 208, 212 Italv, 53, 191
as an anti-socialist social- Marx on, 56-57, 430
ist, 5, 7. 66, 76, 78-83 Russia, 190-193, 206,
bureaucratic capitalism, 224-225
82 Brabant, 19
welfare programs, 80 Brahmins, 13
Black, Hugo. 313 Brandt, Willy, 249, 254-255
Blacks, 183-184 coffee,394-395
education, 444 exports, 394-395
unrest of, 432. 435 urban poor, 286
Blanc, Louis. 43, 80. 322. 371 See also Latin America;
Blanqui, Auguste, 3, 43-45, Third World
59, 60, 73, 75, 83. 198 British India. 384
Engels on, 44-45 British Miners' Union, 243
on proletarians, 43—44 British Steel Corporation, 246
on suffrage. 44 Brooks, Thomas, 151-152
Blanquists, 43, 58, 61, 69, 70, Brophy, John, 316
197, 209 Brothers and Sisters of the
Bloch. Ernst, 15, 18 Free Spirit, 20
Blue-collar labor, 432-433, Browder, Earl, 319
435 Brown, George, 258
Blum, Leon, 229, 238-239, Brzezinski, Zbigniew, 8, 209,
258, 440 411
Boer Republic, 176 Buddha, 13
Boer War, 176 Bukharin, Nikolai, 82, 207,
Bohemia, 20, 21 223-224
496 Index
Buonarrotti, Filippo Michele, inefficiency and assimila-
25, 27-28 tive power of, 90
Bureaucratic capitalism, 79- intellectual life and, 37
82 as an irrelevance for man-
Bureaucratic collectivism, 7, 9, kind, 379
188, 205, 209-216, 220- labor under, 98
225, 277, 377 length of working day
Burke, Edmund, 188 and, 71
Lenin on, 164, 184-185,
206
Canada, 168, 269
Capital
Marx on, 7, 53-54, 91-
129, 163-166, 167-169,
centralization of, 105
174,185,190-191,206,
constant, 113-114
208,211,235,344,381-
export of, 383, 386, 387
382, 428
finance, 383
law of motion of, 116-
organic composition of,
129
121
nationalizations and, 240-
ownership of, 114
248
production of, 110-112
neo-, 47, 335-356, 439,
surplus, 383, 388
451
as a symbol of value,
overestimation of, 53
108-109
planning under, 344—348
technical composition of,
reform of, 7-8
121
rise of, 23
two meanings of, 110
Russia, 189-190, 205-
as unproductive, 109-112
207
Capitalism, 1-4, 12, 18, 131-
socialist, 227-261
161
structural changes in, 85
atomization, 37, 39
as a transitory system,
automation and, 445
106
bureaucratic, 79-82
U.S., 305, 313, 321, 333-
change after World War
376
II, 384
utopianism and, 19
China, 271
waste of, 31
commodities and, 106-
the welfare state and,
116
331-376
early, characteristics of,
the world market and,
333
332, 377-419
emergence of, 22, 23
as the basis of produc-
Engels on, 7, 53-54, 85,
tion, 380
91-129, 154, 164-165,
Engels on, 379-380,
174, 179-181, 190- 381-382
191 ?n< ^-236,254, intracapitalist invest-
344, 381-382 ment, 384-386
England, 246-248 major development
France, 30-31, 239, 245 after World War n,
Germany, 234-236 384
imperialism and, 382-383 Marx on, 380
Index 497
Capitalism (continued) landlords,275
neo-colonial invest- ownership, 416
ment, 387 peasants.273-281, 415,
in perpetuating eco- 416, 434
nomic backwardness, surplus and, 278
389-395 People's Liberation Army,
in perpetuating pover- 282
389-395
ty, poverty, 280, 377
planning, 406-411 the proletariat, 272
restructuring of, 396- Red Guards, 282
406 strikes, 282
World War and, 228
I totalitarianism, 279, 283,
Carpenters* Union, 135 415
Carr, E. H., 55-56, 165, 173, Utopias, 14
193, 199, 206, 231 welfare state, 14
Castro, Fidel, 176, 288-293 Chinese Revolution, 270-272
Chad, 412 compared to Russian
See also Africa; Third Revolution, 272-273
World Christian democrats, 254, 255
Challenge of World Poverty, Christian Federation of Labor,
The (Myrdal), 300, 302 440
Charter of Algiers, 402 Christianity, 13-14
Chartism, 49, 52, 58, 69, 71 En^k on. 1 5
Chauvey, Daniel (pseudonym), revolutionary creed, 15
294-295 See also Protestantism;
Chernyshevsky, Nikolai Gav- Roman Catholic Church
rilovich, 203 CUy of God (Saint Augustine),
Chiang Kai-shek, 271, 272, 16
390, 414 Civil War in France (Marx),
Chicago Federation of Labor, 197
152 Claflin, Tennessee, 140
Chile, 6, 408 Class Struggles in France
See also Latin America; (Marx), 58
Third World Clayton Act, 151
China, 4, 6, 14, 169. 172, 203, Cleaver, Eldridge, 286
225,263,270-272,299,384, Co-determination principle,
388 245
bourgeoisie, 271, 275 Coffee, 394-395
capitalism, 271 Cole, G. D. H., 43, 51, 52-
collectivization, 277-278, 53, 233-234, 240
377 Collectivization
Communism, 218, 271- China, 277-278, 377
284, 415 Cuba, 377
Cultural Revolution, 281- Egypt, 377
283, 289 future of, 2-3
Great Leap, 12, 280, 281, Russia, 7, 9, 188, 205,
295 209-216,220-225,277,
Japanese invasion (1937), 377
271 U.S., 436-437
498 Index
Colonialism, 163-186, 227, Italy. 61, 214. 315
380 Marx on, 41, 49, 50, 52,
Belgium, 178, 182-184 211, 452
cost of, 180-181 Peru, 296
Engels on, 174, 179-181 Russia, 187-190, 200,
England, 167, 168, 180, 205-225, 274, 279, 415
301 socialism corrupted by,
France, 266, 286-287 187-188
Germany, 180 Sudan, 296, 297-298
Lenin on, 164, 179, 180- Syria, 296, 297
181, 184-185 Third World, 219, 272-
Marx on, 167, 168, 174, 284, 291-298, 414-419
179, 180, 301 totalitarianism and, 82,
U.S., 180, 390 195,205,210-216,332,
Colorado Labor War, 144 379
Commodities U.S., 308, 310, 314, 317-
capitalism and, 106-116 320
cost of, 454 Communist International, 274,
demand for, 125-127 318, 319
Engels on, 106-116 Communist League, 55, 58,
as an exchange value, 61, 67
106-107, 112-113 Communist Manifesto, The
free, 454-^55 (Marx and Engels), 43, 48,
labor as,116 49, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55-56,
Marx on, 106-116, 125- 62, 68, 69, 72, 84, 169-170,
127 185, 220, 227, 229,230,256
production of, 106-116 on the bourgeoisie, 430
supply of, 125-127 on capitalism, 53-54, 164
as a use value, 106-107, on centralized state credit,
112-113 78
Commons, John R., 155 four types of society in,
Communism, 2, 4, 5, 8, 9, 20- 169-170
22, 422 Lassalle and, 78-79
aim of, 46—47 on wages, 78
Arab, 296-298 Communist Party (China),
ascetic, 13 271-272, 284
China, 218, 271-284,415 Communist Party (Germany),
compared to fascism, 214 231-233
Cuba, 291-293 Communist Party (Italy), 61,
Egypt, 296, 297 214
Engels on, 49, 50-51,452 Communist Party (Russia), 217
England, 52, 58 Communist Party (U.S.), 317-
France, 47, 52, 335 320
freedom movement Communitarian socialism, 136
under, 219-221 Conference for Progressive
Germany, 52, 55, 230- Political Action, 143, 152-
234 153, 311
Iraq, 296 Congregationalists, 25
Index 499
Congress of Industrial Organi- See also Latin America;
zations (CIO), 314, 316, Third World
320, 324-325, 436 Cultural Revolution, 281-283,
Political Action Commit- 289
tee, 324 Czechoslovakia, 8, 204, 219-
Congress of the Socialist In- 220, 284
ternational, 89, 399
Connally, John, 325
Dahrendorf, Ralf, 108, 245
Conquest, Robert, 209
Daley, Richard, 325
Constant capital, 113-114
Darwin, Charles, 87
Constantine, Emperor, 15
Das Kapital (Marx and Engels),
Consumers' cooperatives, 77
47, 48, 49, 72, 74, 85, 91-
Consumption
129, 166, 270
abstinence from, 114
alienation idea in, 48
attitudes under socialism,
basic paradox of, 93
425-^26, 428, 454-456
on capitalism, 91-129,
depressions and, 119-120
165, 190
disparity between pro-
on commodities, 106-116
duction and, 119-120,
contemporary critics of,
124
4-5
Cooperatives
consumers', 77
on global abundance,
producers', 77, 80
423^24
simplifications in, 103
Council of Economic Advi-
on socialized man, 91-
sors, 338-339, 365
129
Credit, centralized state, 78
structure of,102-104
Credit associations, 77
on wealth, 91, 93, 129
Credit Mobilier, 5
on the world market, 380
Critique of the Gotha Program
David, 178
(Marx), 92, 211
Critique of Political Economy De Castro, Josue, 264
(Marx), 102
De Gaulle, Charles, 241
Cromwell, Oliver, 24, 273
De Leon, Daniel, 149
Crosland, Anthony, 249, 250-
De Man, Henri, 239-240
Deat, Marcel, 240
251, 257, 424, 438
<7< Debray, Regis, 299
Cuk'i. fs
265, 288-293,
Debs, Eugene Victor, 131, 152,
295, 299, 415
307-311, 320
agriculture,290-291
12,
Debsian socialism, 143, 150,
377
collectivization,
307-311, 314
Communism, 291-293
Debsian Socialist Party, 150
housing, 292
Decline of Socialism in Amer*
militarization of work,
ica The (Weinstein), 310
f
291
Deist, Heinrich, 253, 254
poverty, 377
Russia compared to, 292- Democracy
293 anti-democratic bureau-
socialism, 288-290 cracies and, 90
sugar harvest (1970), 12 bourgeois, 54-55, 56
unemployment, 290-291 as the essence of social-
500 Index
Democracy (continued) Ebert, Friedrich, 231-232, 233

ism, 42-46, 48-49, 56, Ecology
60-63 Nixon on, 350, 424
Marx's commitment to, socialism and, 423-424
42-46, 48-49, 56, 60- See also Pollution
63, 83, 90 Economic backwardness, cap-
Third World, 411-418 italism in perpetuating, 389-
See also Social democracy 395
Democratic Federation of Economic-Philosophic Manu*
Labor, 440 scripts (Marx), 46
Democratic Labour Party, 436 "Economics," use of the word,
Democratic Party, 151, 311- 93-94, 97, 100
313, 325-328 Economics, Peace and Laugh*
Depressions, 156, 236-237 ter (Galbraith), 264
consumption and, 119- Economic Theory of Under*
120 developed Regions (Myr-
of 1837-1842, 60 dal), 300
the Great, 86, 128, 157, Economist, The, 393-394, 400
182,230,306,312-321, Ecuador, 408
384 See also Latin America;
Descamps, Eugene, 440—441 Third World
Determinism, 36 Eden, Sir John, 369
Deutscher, Isaac, 222-223 Education
Dickens, James, 259 blacks, 444
Dictatorships France, 446
Engels on, 59-60 Russia, 213
Lenin on, 195-198, 208- student unrest, 432, 445-
209 446
Marx on, 195-196, 197- U.S., 340-342, 355-556,
198 360, 361, 435, 441,
of the proletariat, 57- 443-446, 449
60 Egypt, 296, 297, 298
Diggers, the, 26 collectivization, 377
Dillon Soares, Glaucio Ary, Communism, 296, 297
286 nationalization, 296
Dirksen, Everett McKinley, peasants, 296
poverty, 377
326
Dissent, 452
See also Third World
Eighteenth Brumaire, The
Domino theory, 388
(Marx), 273
Donne, John, 35
demystiflcation, 4
Dostoevsky, Feodor, 188,
on dictatorships, 59-60
421-422 on the Fabians, 244
Douglas, Paul, 359 on feminist free-lovers,
Draper, Theodore, 318 140
Dubinsky, David, 316 on free-land movement,
Dumont, Rene, 290-292, 295 138-139
Durkheim, Emile, 19 on George, Henry, 146
Dutch Indies, 384 on global abundance, 423
Index 501
Eighteenth Brumaire, The on poverty, 288
(continued) on the proletariat, 44
on importance of public on revolutions, 57, 59,
irrigation works, 170 172-173, 272-273
on inequality, 211 Riazanov on, 54-55
on Kriege, 138 on Russia, 172-173
Lassalle and, 77-79 on social democracy, 136,
Lenin and, 67-69, 195- 306
197 on socialism, 50-52, 59-
on the lumpenproletariat, 60
285 on socialized man, 91-
on Miinzer, 22 129
on nationalization, 81- on surplus, 212
82, 242 on Ten Hours Bill, 71
on the Paris Commune, version of Theses on
59 Feuerbach, 46
on peasants. 273 on wages, 78
period of initial political on wealth, 91, 93, 129
involvement, 84 on the world market,
on periodic processes. 85 379-380, 381-382
Eisenhower. Dwight D., 322, England, 136, 143, 148-149,
338, 346, 354 155, 156, 159,197,196,
Eisenhower, Milton, 337 311, 364,373, 380, 381, 385
Emmanuel, A., 385, 398 affluence, 435-436, 439,
Employment Act of 1946, 322 441
Energy, 425-427 agriculture, 24, 60
Energy ceiling, 425 bourgeoisie, 52, 54, 179-
Engels, Friedrich, 6, 9. 40, 180
133, 170, 210, 22". capitalism, 246-248
on the American Civil Chartism, 49, 52, 58, 69,
War, 136-137 71
on basic tenet of Marx- colonialism, 167, 168,
ism, 87 180, 301
on Blanqui, 44—45 Communism, 52, 58
on bourgeoisie, 79. 430 cotton industry, 60
on capitalism, 7, 53-54, devaluation of the pound,
85, 91-129, 154, 164- 258
165, 174, 179-181, English Revolution, 23-
190-191, 206, 235- 26
236, 254, 344, 381-382 exports, 384-385
on Christianity, 15 Fabians, 176-177, 244,
Cole on, 43 362
on colonialism, 174, 179- fascism, 238
181 foreign aid, 407
on commodities, 106-116 housing, 337
on Communism, 49, 50- income inequality, 256-
51, 452 257
political beginnings of, Independent Labour Par-
42-63 ty, 148, 176, 234
502 Index
England (continued) Exports
industrial monopoly of, Brazil, 394-395
85, 180 of capital, 383, 386, 387
Labour Party, 234, 237- England, 384-385
238, 244-246, 248, 250, France, 385
257-260,347,367,436, Germany, 384
438 Third World, 385
Levelers, 25, 26 U.S., 387
Lollard movement, 20- of jobs, 399
21 External diseconomies, 349
May Day Manifesto, 250 External economies, 349
militant movements, 19
nationalizations, 241, Fabian Essays, 362
243-248, 368-369 Fabians, 176-177, 244, 362
overproduction, 379-380 Fanon, Frantz, 74, 176, 286,
peasants, 24, 272-273 287, 303
poverty, 257 Fascism, 168, 181
the proletariat, 32, 33, 44, compared to Commu-
49, 180, 435-436 nism, 213-214
social insurance, 246
England, 238
socialism, 51, 228-
132,
Faure, Paul, 239
229,234-235,237-238,
Feather, Victor, 400
241,243-250,257-261,
Feminist free-lovers, 140
347
Ferri, Enrico, 175, 176
strikes,69
suffrage,76 Fetscher, Iring, 214-215
syndicalist movement, Feudalism, 25, 35, 55, 95-96
181 end of, 18,22,25
Ten Hours Bill, 70-71 Germany, 56
Tories, 43, 246, 247, 248, labor under, 98
258, 259 lack of, in the U.S., 133,
unions, 32-33, 69-70, 136
243, 400 Russia, 416-417
utopianism, 23-26, 32 99
social relationships,
wages, 155, 383, 400 Finance capital, 383
welfare state, 6, 246, 259 First International, 73-75,
white-collar workers, 256 140, 141, 307
English Revolution, 23-26 Flanders, 19
Enlightenment, 29 Fletcher, David, 347
Entrepreneurial radicalism, Ford Foundation, 403
139 Ford Motor Company, 351,
Environment, see Ecology; 404
Pollution Fortune, 247, 344-345, 354,
Erfurt Program, 196, 242 361, 397, 443, 444, 448, 455
Erikson, Erik, 443 Foundations of Leninism, The
Essenes, the, 15 (Stalin), 206
Evans, George Henry, 135 Fourier, Charles, 136, 368
Exchange value, 107, 113 Fourth International, 387
Index 503
France, 49, 59, 60, 69, 70, 75, Gaitskell, Hugh, 258
136, 159, 182, 197,207,233, Galbraith, John Kenneth, 253-
259, 306, 395 254, 266-267, 322, 340,
bourgeoisie, 54-55 347, 354, 363, 370, 440^43
capitalism, 30-31, 239, on income inequality, 384
245 on nationalization, 254
colonialism, 266, 286- Gandhi, Indira, 303
287 Gandhi, Mahatma, 301, 303,
Communism, 47, 52, 335 304
education, 446 Garaudy, Roger, 204, 279,
exports, 385 282
foreign aid, 407 General Electric Corporation,
French Revolution, 26- 404
30 General German Workers' As-
Hegel on, 38-39 sociation, 77
Marx on, 29-30 General Motors Corporation,
length of working day, 372, 404
239 Generation gap, 443
Marxism, 224 Geneva Conference of Euro-
nationalizations, 241, 243, pean Socialists,243-244
245, 247 George, Henry, 139, 146
peasants, 26-27, 273 Gerassi, John, 264
Popular Front, 239 German Ideology, The (Marx
the proletariat, 30. 31-32, and Engels), 288, 422
53, 199, 239, 432, 433, German social democrats, 75,
440 83-84, 87, 88, 157, 196,
Radical Party, 367 231-236, 242-245, 249,
socialism, 22 *38- 252-255, 310, 316,430-431
240, 242-243, 245, Germany. 18-22, 50, 60, 76-
249-250 90, 136, 143, 147-148, 165,
strikes, 440 173-174, 177, 178, 189, 192,
student unrest, 446 196, 197, 204, 207, 219,
unions, 440 220, 239-242, 268, 306,
utopianism, 23, 26-31 318-319, 384, 395,430-431
accident insurance pro-
wages, 383
Francis of Assisi, Saint, 19 gram, 80
bourgeoisie, 55, 56-57,
Franklin, Benjamin, 113
68, 78-79, 191
Free Democrats, 245
capitalism, 234-236
Free-land movement, 137-139
Christian democrats, 254,
French Revolution, 26-30
255
Hegel on, 38-39 co-determination princi-
Marx 29-30
on, ple, 244-245
Freud, Sigmund, 349 colonialism, 180
Freund, Michael, 20 Communism, 52, 55, 230-
Fuller, Buckminster, 426-427 234
Furtado, Celso, 413 consumers' cooperatives,
Future of Socialism, The 77
(Crosland), 424 credit associations, 77
504 Index
Germany (continued) Ghana, 297, 298
exports, 384 See also Africa; Third
feudalism, 56 World
Free Democrats, 245 Global abundance, 423-429
Godesberg Program, 249, Godesberg Program, 249,
252-256, 258,431 252-256, 258, 431
health insurance program, Gold
80 discovered in California,
Independents, 23 1-232, 60
233, 235, 243 as a symbol of value,
Lenin on, 194, 230 108-110
liberals, 77, 78 Goldfinger, Nat, 355
Majority socialists, 231, Gompers, Samuel, 132, 133,
233-234, 235 143, 147, 148, 149-150, 152,
Marxism, 66, 80, 232 157,160,161,313,314,317,
National Congress of 323
Councils, 232 voluntarism, 150-151,
nationalizations, 241, 305-306, 322, 324
242, 243-245 Gorz, Andre\ 249-250, 334-
Nazis, 6, 75, 240, 430 335
peasants, 21-22, 24, 273 Gotha Congress of 1875, 80
philosophy of, 13 Gradualism, 71-72, 83
post-World War I, 230, Gramsci, Antonio, 61-62, 166,
234-235 199-200, 213-214, 231,
producers' cooperatives, 233
77 Great Depression, 86, 128,
the proletariat, 194, 199, 157, 182, 230, 306, 312-
432 321, 384
social democrats, 75, 83- Great Leap, 12, 280, 281, 295
84, 87, 88, 157, 196, Greece, utopianism, 11, 14,
*,
231-236,242-245,249, 15-16, 17-18
252-255, 310, 316, Greeley, Horace, 136
430-431 Green Corn Rebellion, 309
socialism, 56, 69, 79-80, Greenbackers, 139
228, 230-236, 242-245, Grossman, Henryk, 124, 384
248-249, 252-257 Ground rent, 94
Spartakusbund, 231 Grundrisse der Politische Oe-
konomie (Marx), 118
strikes, 8,223, 225
Guesde, Jules, 87, 228
suffrage, 75-76
Guevara, Che, 265, 289-290,
Trotsky on, 230
292, 298-299, 303, 392
unification of, 79, 208
wages, 86, 157
Habermas, Jiirgen, 124
workers' education soci- Handicraft industry, 84
eties, 77
Hanna, Mark, 151
Young Socialists (Jusos), Hardacker, M. A., 145
255 Harney, 58
Gershenkron, Alexander, 29, Hayek, Frederick A., 363
31, 101, 104, 268 Haywood, "Big Bill," 309
Index 505
Health care Hosiery Workers, 316
Germany, 80 Hottentot Election, 178
U.S., 355, 361, 449, 455 Hourwich, Isaac, 159-160
Heath, Edward, 368-369, 400 Housing
Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Frie- England, 337
drich, 4 Third World, 292
compared to Marx, 39- U.S., 335-339, 342, 345-
40 346, 353, 358-359
on the French Revolu- Housing Act of 1949, 338
tion, 38-39 How We Should Reorganize
philosophy of, 37-40, the Workers' and Peasants'
214-215 Inspection (Lenin), 201
Heilbroner, Robert, 100, 288- Huberman, Leo, 292
289, 424-426, 427 Hughes, John, 260
Henderson, Arthur, 237 Hume, David, 36
Herzen, Alexander, 171 Humphrey, Hubert, 325, 411,
Hilferding, Rudolf, 82, 126, 434
235-236, 254 Hungary, 204, 219-220, 223,
Hill, Christopher, 24, 117 278, 284
Hillman, Sidney, 316 uprising, (1956), 8
Hillquit, Morris, 158 Hus, Jan, 20-21
Hindoos, 167 Hutcheson, William L., 313
Hippies, 446-448
History and Class Conscious- Iambulos, 17, 18
ness (Lukacs), 37 Imperialism
History of Labor in the United alternatives to, 382-383
States (ed. Commons), 155 capitalism and, 382-383
History of Socialist Thought England, 166, 176-177
(Cole), 43 five major determinants
Hitler, Adolf, 6, 79, 239, 240, of, 382-383
275, 318, 319 Lenin on, 382-383, 389
Ho Chi Minh, 266, 434 production and, 383
Hobbes, Thomas, 35, 36, 38 U.S., 390-395
Hobsbawm, E. 44J., Imperialism (Lenin), 382
Hobson, John Atkinson, 382 Imports
Hofstadter, Richard, 139, Belgium, 384
316-317 Holland, 384
Holland, 182, 404 Switzerland, 384
decline of merchant pre- U.S., 385, 389, 394-395,
eminence, 380 401
imports, 384 Independent Labor Party, 152
Homestead Act of 1862, 139 Independent Labour Party,
Hong Kong, 398 148, 176, 234
See also Asia; Third India, 6, 169, 172, 177, 203,
World 267, 300-304, 412-416
Hook, Sidney, 58, 422 agriculture, 447
Hoover, Herbert, 315, 399 British rule in,166-167,
Hoover, J. Edgar, 41 168
Horowitz, Irving Louis, 264 land reform, 417
506 Index
India (continued) Internationalizations, 405-406

Marx on the society of, of foreign aid, 407
170 Intracapitalist investment, 383-
poverty, 417-418 386
U.S. aid to, 390-391 Investments, 384-393, 404-
See also Asia; Third 407
World 383-386
intracapitalist,
Indian School of Political Lenin on, 387-388
Economy, 417 neo-colonial, 387-388
Indonesia, 17, 297 in oil, 387, 391, 394, 408
See also Asia; Third Third World, 384-394,
World 404-407
Industrial Revolution, 300 Iran, 267
Workers of the
Industrial See also Asia; Third
World (IWW), 158, 159, World
309 Iraq, 296
Inheritance taxes, 375 See also Asia; Third
Institute for Industrial Recov- World
ery, 241-242 Ireland, 60
Inter- American Development Irrigation works, 170
Bank, 408 Isaacs, Harold, 274-276
International Brotherhood of Israel, 6, 14, 269
Teamsters, 313, 323 Italy, 19, 158, 159, 166, 191,
International Business Ma- 285, 364
chines Corporation, 398 bourgeoisie, 53, 191
International Coffee Agree- Communism, 61, 214, 335
ment, 394-395 nationalizations, 241-242
International Companies Law, the proletariat, 432, 433-
404, 405 434
International Confederation socialism, 175
of Free Trade Unions (ICF-
TU), 400 Jacksonians, 139
International Metal Workers Jacobins, 73
Secretariat, 400 Japan, 168, 222-223, 268, 275,
International Monetary Fund, 395
407-408 invasion of China (1937),
International Petroleum Com- 271
pany, 408 Jaures, Jean, 52-53, 89-90,
International Union of Elec- 254, 440
trical Workers (IUE), 398, nationalization, 242-
on
399 243
International Workingmen's Java, 212
Association (IWMA), 175, See also Asia; Third
208 World
establishment of, 70 Jay, Douglas, 247, 367
London Conference Jencks, Christopher, 341-342
(1871), 75 Jews
Marx's Inaugural Ad- religion, 11, 14-15, 18, 19
dress to, 70-71 U.S., 310
Index 507
Jews (continued) Kolakowski, Leszek, 36
utopianism, 1 1-15 Kolko, Gabriel, 82, 388, 389
Joachim de Floris, 19, 21, 22, Korea, 385
24 See also Asia, Third World
Johnson, Lyndon B., 325, 336, Korsch, Karl, 48
338, 365 Kosik, Karel, 220
on pollution, 351-352 Kriege, Hermann, 137-138,
Jones, Jack, 400 142
Judaism, 11, 14-15, 18, 19 Kugelmann, 125
Junkers, 78, 81 Kuomintang, the, 271
Justo, Juan B., 175-176
La Follette, Robert Marion,
Kaiser Company, 455 143, 306, 311
Kant, Immanuel, 36-38 Labor, 65-73
Karol, K. S., 217, 292-293 abolitionof, 421, 422-
Kaunda, Kenneth, 393-394 423, 449^456
Kautsky, Karl, 7, 18, 21, 81, absolute surplus value,
87-89, 123-124, 174, 179, 117
196, 231, 382, 430, 439 blue-collar, 432-433,435
Lenin on, 192-193 as a commodity, 116
on nationalization, 242 gradualist movement, 71-
on peasants, 273 72, 83
on revolutions, 191-193 increased productivity of,
Kaysen, Karl, 352-353 117, 121-123, 127-128
Kennedy, Edward, 449 as an increment in value,
Kennedy, John F., 322, 325, 114
338, 354, 365 Marx on, 422
on tariffs, 391 abolition of, 449-450
Kennedy, Robert F., 325, 448 compulsory, 449-450
Kennedy Alliance, 413 wage, as unnecessary,
Kennedy Round, 391, 401 70-71
Kenniston, Kenneth, 443-444 as the measure of equiv-
Kentucky Federation of Labor, alence, 97-99
315 militarization of, 291
Kerensky, Aleksandr Feodo- protectionism of, 398-399
rovich, 195, 196, 233 relative surplus value, 1 17,
Kerr, Clark, 115 124
Keynes, John Maynard, 317, science as an element in
321, 354, 363, 423 the process of, 110-111
compared to Marx, 114 social character of, 107-
Keynesianism, 322, 350, 354, 108
355 socialization of, 104
Keyserling, Leon, 322, 354 technology and, 110-111,
Khrushchev, Nikita, 216-217, 433, 451
279 theory of value, 98-99,
on Stalin, 216-217 100, 105
Kipnis, Ira, 308 under capitalism, 98
Knights of Labor, 141, 145- under feudalism, 98
146, 147 unpaid surplus, 94-97
508 Index
Labor (continued) on colonialism, 164, 179
wage, as unnecessary, 70- 180-181, 184-185
71 on dictatorships, 195— IS
white-collar, 256 208-209
world industrialization Engels and, 67-69, 195
and, 397-400 197
See also Unions; names on Germany, 194, 230
of unions on imperialism, 382-383,
Labor rent, 94 389
Labor's League for Political on investments, 387-388
Education, 324 on Kautsky, 192-193
Labour Party, 234, 237-238, Marx and, 67-69, 73J
244-246, 248, 250, 257-260, 195-197
300, 347, 436, 438 Marxism of, 55, 195-197
Land pollution, 350 Paris Commune and, 73 J
Landauer, Carl, 234, 240 on peasants, 273
Lange, Oskar, 455 Populism and, 203, 204-1
Lassalle, Ferdinand, 77-80, 205
140, 147, 306, 371 on the proletariat, 194—
The Communist Manifes- 195
to and, 78 on revolutions, 194-205
Engels and, 77-79 on Russia, 194-195
Marx and, 77-80 on socialism, 202-204,
Latin America, 164, 165,263- 206
264, 269, 285, 298, 299 Leontiev, Wassily, 91-92, 127,
democracy, 411-412 288
exploitation of, 379 Leopold II, King, 182-183
family loyalty in, 269 Lescohier, Don D., 155
investment in, 386, 387 Levelers, the, 25, 26
land reform, 417 Levi, Paul, 232
modernization of, 266, Levinson, Jerome, 408
397 Levy, Armand, 69-70
population control, 403 Lewis, John L., 399
socialism, 298-299 Libya, 297
tariffs and, 401 See also Africa; Third
urban poor, 285, 286 World
wages, 386 Lichtheim, George, 87, 170-
171, 259
See also names of coun-
Liebknecht, Karl, 87, 231
tries; Third World
Lin Piao, 274, 282
Latin American Radicalism
Lincoln, Abraham, 137
(eds. Horowitz, de Castro,
Lippmann, Walter, 444
and Gerassi), 264 Lipset, Seymour Martin, 145
'
Lenin, Krupskaya, 201 Little Steel Massacre of 1937,

Lenin, V. I., 4, 22, 30, 88, 144
133, 163, 172, 178, 179, Liu Shao-ch'i, 282-283, 284
189-205, 232,233,416,417 Locke, John, 97
on capitalism, 164, 184— Logic (Hegel), 4
185, 206 Lollard movement, 20-21
Index 509
London Economist, 246, 290, Marris, Robin, 363, 368
Marshall, Alfred, 101
Louis XVIII, King, 31 compared to Marx, 114—
Louis Philippe, King, 31 115
Lowenthal. Richard, 298 Marshall Plan, 390, 406. 410
Ludwig. Emil, 21 1 Martov, Juliy Osipovich, 198
Lukacs, George, 37, 61 Marx, Karl, 8, 12-13, 39-
Lumpenproletarian socialism, 40, 133, 209, 210, 224, 227,
73-75 228, 240, 249, 256, 270,
Bakunin and, 73 331-332, 344, 368
Engels on. 286 on affluence, 434-435
Marx on, 73-75,285-286 on American Civil War,
overpopulation and, 74 137
Third World, 285-288 anti-democratic tempta-
Lunar program, 427 tion of, 49, 57
Luther. Martin, 20. 21 on the aristocracy, 50
Luxemburg, Rosa, 88,89,231, on Asiatic mode of pro-
232. 382 duction, 170
Lycurgus, 17 on authority, 223
on automation, 1 19
on the bourgeoisie, 56-
rthy. Eugene. 448
57, 430
MacDonald, Ramsay, 234
on bureaucracy, 81
McDowell. Arthur.
on capital,
Macmillan, Harold. 237, 246,
organic composition of,
369
121
Macpherson. C B 35, 98 ..
technical composition
Madagascar, 17
of, 121
:doff. Harry. 387, 388
unproductive, 109-
as
Mali, 298
112
See also Africa; Third
on capitalism, 7, 53-54,
World
91-129, 163-166, 167-
Mallet. Serge, 440
169, 174, 185, 190-
Malthus, Thomas Robert, 122
191, 206, 208, 211,
Mandel, Ernest .414,
235, 344, 381-382,428
454
law of motion of, 116—
Manifesto of the Equals. 27, 28
129
Mao Tse-tune. 3. 163. 172,
Cole on, 43
176.271-272. 303.415-416,
on colonialism, 167, 168,
434
174, 179, 180, 301
Cultural Revolution, 281-
commitment to democra-
284 42-46, 48^9, 56,
cv,
on peasants, 272, 280- 60-63, 83. 90
281 on commodities, 106-116,
on the proletariat. 272 125-127
Marcuse. Herbert, 74, 286, on Communism, 41, 49,
431, 453 50, 52, 211, 452
Marechal, Sylvan, 28 complexity of, 65-90
Marquand, David, 347, 348 death of, 7
510 Index
Marx (continued) on Napoleon III, 74
debate with Bakunin, 73, on nationalization, 81
75 on natural resources, 92,
on demand for goods, 94-95
• 125-127 orthodox Communist in-
demystification, 4 terpretation of, 41
on dictatorships, 195-196, on overproduction, 179
197-198 on the Paris Commune
of the proletariat, 57- 59-60, 69, 72-73
60 on peasants, 273
on disparity between pro- period of initial politic*!
duction and consump- involvement, 84
tion, 119-120, 124 as a philosopher, 34
on falling rate of profit, on Plato's Republic, 16
120-122, 123-124 political beginnings of,
as the father of totalitari- 42-63
anism, 56 as a political economist,
on free-land movement, 91-129
138-139 on poverty, 288, 377
on the French Revolution, on prices, 124-127
29-30 on production, 265, 351
on George, Henry, 146 on the proletariat, 44
on global abundance, 423 radicalism of, 72
Hegel compared to, 39- on religion, 377
40 on revolutions, 33-34, 56-
on importance of public 57, 70-71, 166-168,
•irrigation works, 170 173, 208
Inaugural Address to the Riazanov on, 54-55
IWMA, 70-71 on rights, 204
on Indian society, 170 on Russia, 87, 171-174
on inequality, 211 on science, 111
on joint stock companies, self-change concept, 45-
362 46
Keynes compared to, 114 on the senses, 47
on Kriege, 138, 142 on social democracy, 135—
on labor, 422 137, 306
abolition of, 449-450 on socialism, 51-52, 6ft-
compulsory, 449-450 63,211,429-^30,448-
wage, as unnecessary, 450
70-71 on socialized man, 91-129
Lassalle and, 77-80 on suffrage, 76
Lenin and, 67-69, 73, on taxes, 146
195-197 on technology, 117-119
on lumpenproletarian soon Ten Hours Bill, 71
cialism, 73-75, 285-286 use of the word "eco-
Marshall compared to, nomics," 93-94, 97, 100
114-115 on wages, 78
Marxist analysis of, 42- on wealth, 91-93, 127,
129 129
Index 511
Marx (continued) Monde, Le, 219, 298, 446
on the world market, 380- Money, 98-99, 108-116
381 abolition
of, 421, 423,
Marxism, 7,45, 191, 235 449, 453-456
Althusser on, 47 Monotheism, 14
analysis of Marx, 42-129 Monroe, James, 134
Austria, 243 Moore, Banington, 79
basic tenet of, 87 Moore, Stanley, 422
deradicalization of, 72 More, Thomas, 17, 21, 24
Engels on basic tenet of, Morgan, J. P., 151
87 Morgan, Thomas J., 148
elaboration
first of, 87 Morocco, 287
France, 224 See also Third World
Germany, 66, 80, 235 Moscow University, 213
of Lenin, 55, 195-197 Mosley, Oswald, 238
mechanistic notion of, 29 Mossadegh, Mohammed, 394
most significant failure Multinational corporations,
of, 88 403^05, 406
Russia, 56, 67-68, 195- Miinzer, Thomas, 24, 29
197,273-274 preaching of, 21-23
of Stalin, 55-56 Muslims, 287
state socialism and, 82- Mussolini, Benito, 177, 214
83 Mutualists, 80
Third World, 398 Myrdal, Gunnar, 165, 168,
U.S., 140-141, 146-151, 268, 269, 300-303, 388, 402,
308 411,412,414-415,416,417
Mathematics, 36
Maurer, James Hudson, 310 Nader, Ralph, 366, 372
May Day Manifesto, 250 Naphtali, Fritz, 237
Meany, George, 323, 324, Napoleon I, Emperor, 31
327-328 Napoleon III, Emperor, 5, 31,
Mehring, Franz, 53, 78, 87 66, 69
Men of the Land, 15 Marx on, 74
Mensheviks, 198 Narodniks, 171, 172
Mercantilists, 101, 108 Nasser, Gamal Abdel, 296
Messianic socialism, 421—422, National Academy of Science,
453 365
Metaphysics, 34, 36 National Civic Federation,
Mexico, 189, 398, 399 151, 317
investment in, 385 National Commission on the
See also Latin America; Causes and Prevention of
Third World Violence, 337-338, 451
Michailowski, N. K., 171 National Commission on Civil
Michels, Robert, 90 Disorders, 336
Migration, 84, 312 National Commission on Ur-
Miliband, Ralph, 240 ban Problems, 359
Military socialism, 105-106 National Committee on Ur-
Millenarians, 43 ban Growth Policy, 343,
Model Cities Program, 338 345
512 Index
National Congress of Coun- New Industrial State, The

cils, 232 (Galbraith), 253, 370, 441
National Educational Asso- New Law of Righteousness,
ciation, 441 The (Winstanley), 26
National Industrial Confer- New York Times, The, 393
ence Board, 403-404 New York Tribune, 136
National Industrial Relations New Zealand, 168, 269
Act, 315 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 450, 451
National Labor Party, 152 Nigeria, 263
National Labor Union, 140 See also Africa; Third
National Recovery Admini- World
stration (NRA), 315, 316 Nixon, Richard M., 336, 343-
Nationalization, 80-83, 405 344, 345, 346, 355, 359,
Austria, 241, 243 365-366, 392-395,407-409,
capitalism and, 240-248 435
Egypt, 296 on ecology, 350, 424
Engcls on, 81-82, 242 medical proposals, 449
England, 241, 243-248, Population Message, 343
368 wage-price freeze, 438
France, 241, 243, 245, Nkrumah, Kwame, 297, 298
247 North American Central Com-
Galbraith on, 254 mittee, 141
Germany, 241, 242, 243- North Vietnam, 266
245 Vfachiavelli (Grams-
Italy,241-242 ci), 213
Juares on, 242-243
Kautsky on, 242 Oil, 387, 391, 394, 408
Marx on, SI profits from, 387
socialism and, 241-248 On Coalition Government
Taiwan, 413-414 (Mao), 275
Third World, 296, 393- On Cooperation (Lenin), 201,
394, 413-414 202
U.S., 367 Onis, Juan de, 408
Zambia, 393-394 Origins of Totalitarianism
Natural resources, Marx on, (Arendt), 215
92, 94-95 Orwell, George, 453
Nazis, 6, 75, 240, 430 Otetschestwennyje Sapiski, 111
Nehru, Jawaharlal, 301 Our Revolution (Lenin), 201-
Nemiery, Gafar El, 297-298 202
Neo-capitalism, 47, 335-356, Owen, Robert, 30, 133-135,
439, 451 423
Neo-colonial investments, 387- interpretation of, 32-33
388 Owen, Robert Dale, 135
Neue Rheinische Zeitung Owenism, 134-135
(Marx), 55 Ownership, 109-110, 363-
New Deal, 317, 319, 320, 321, 371, 376, 416
371, 398 absentee, 413
New Harmony, Indiana, 133, of capital, 114
136 separation of, 361-363
Index 513
Padilla, Huberto, 292 See also Latin America;
Pakistan. 263-264 Third World
See also Asia; Third Petty, William, 97
World Phenomenology of Spirit
Palestine, 384-385 (Hegel), 38
See also Asia; Third Philip, Andre, 239, 245, 247,
World 260
Palme, Olof, 257, 442 Physiocrats. 97. 101. 108
Paris Commune, 69, 72-73, Pickard, Jerome C, 350
196, 197, 198 Plan du Travail (De Man),
Engels on, 59 240
Lenin and, 73 Planning
Marx on, 59-60, 69, 72- capitalism and, 344-348
73 socialism and, 344-348
Pearson Commission, 401, 403, Third World, 406-411
410 world market, 406-411
Peasants, 434 Plato, 16-18, 32
China, 273-281,415,416, Plekhanov, Georgiy Valenti-
434 novich, 67-68, 87
surplus and. 278 Po Prostu, 219
Egypt, 296 Poland, 204, 219-220, 223,
Encels on. 272 273 278, 284
Encland. 24. 272-273 strikes, 8, 225
France. 26-27. 273 uprising (1956), 8
Germany, 21-22. 24. 273 Pollution, 372
Kautsky on, 273 air, 349-352
Lenin on. 273 Johnson on, 351-352
Mao on, 272. 280-281 land, 350
Marx on. Nixon on. 350, 424
Russia, 67-68, 171-173, water, 350
189-190. 192-193, Polytheism, 14
200-201.20^ 210.217, Poor Men of Lyons, 20
231. 2S0-2S1 Popular Front, 239
Third World, 270. 272- Population control, 403
281. 296. 415-416, 434 socialism and, 425, 427-
Trotsky on. 273 428
Populists, 139
Pelling, Henry. 14S
Lenin and. 203, 204-205
P eng Teh-huai. 280
People's Daily, 218
Port of New York Authority,
369-371
People's Liberation Army, 282
Poverty, 384-385, 447-448
Pereire. Isaac, 31
absolute, 124
Perlman. Selig, 141, 158 capitalism in perpetuat-
Persia, 384 389-395
ing,
See also Asia; Third China, 280, 377
World Cuba, 377
Peru, 296. 408 Egypt, 377
Communism, 296 Engels on, 288
U.S. aid to, 391 England, 257
514 Index
Poverty (continued) Prolegomena to Any Future
India, 417-418 Metaphysics (Kant), 36
Marx on, 288, 377 Proletariat, the, 88, 199, 434,
Russia, 377 439
social, 124 Blanqui on, 43-44
socialization of, 34 China, 272
Sweden, 257 dictatorship of, 57-60
Third World, 280, 377, Engels on, 44
389-395, 418 England, 32, 33, 44, 49,
U.S., 325, 336-342, 433, 180, 435-436
438 France, 30, 31-32, 53,
Pragmatism, 143 199,239,432,433,440
Prebisch, Raul, 267 Germany, 194, 199, 432
Preobrazhensky, E., 210-211 immiserization of, 86
Presbyterians, 23, 25 Italy, 432, 433-434
Price controls, 366 Lenin on, 194-195
Prices, 98-100, 101 Mao on, 272
Marx on, 124-127 Marx on, 44
Producers* cooperatives, 77, Russia, 191-192, 196,
80 197, 209
Production Spain, 432
Asiatic mode of, 170 U.S., 432-440
of capital, 10-1 12
1 Protestantism, 20, 159
of commodities, 106-116 Proudhon, Pierre Joseph, 5,
disparity between con- 69, 70, 73, 75, 80, 146, 168,
sumption and, 1 19— 368, 371
120, 124 Prussia, 57
imperialism and, 383 Pythagoras, 17
Marx on, 265, 351
powers of, 33-34 Quint, Howard, 149-150
socially exploited means
of, 104 Racism, 168, 222, 325, 337,
supply and demand in, 341, 406, 432
99, 100, 101, 115, 125- Radical Party, 367
127 Radicalism
agrarian, 139, 310
surplus concept, 94-96
all-or-nothing, 71
world market as the basis
entrepreneurial, 139
of, 380
of Marx, 72
Profits, 250-251
Radio Corporation of Ameri-
control of, 365
ca, 398
falling rate of, 120-122,
Rakovsky, Christian, 224
123-124 Rapp, Father George, 133
from land, 94 Recession of 1970-1971, 446
length of working day Red Flag, 218
and, 117, 127-128 Reid, Ogden, 393
from oil, 387 Reive, Emil, 316
retained, surplus as, 114— Relative surplus value, 117,
115 124
Index 515
Relieion, 19-22, 178, 421- Rosenstein-Rodan, Paul N.,
422 264, 410
Enelish Revolution, 23- Rosso w, Jerome M., 435
26 Roszak, Theodore, 446-447,
Marx on, 377 448
monotheism, 14 Royal Dutch Shell Company,
polytheism, 14 404
See also names of religions Royalists, 23
Rent, 94 Rumania, 404
ground, 94 Russia, 4, 6, 7, 61, 166, 169,
labor, 94 181,187-225,267,268,292,
Report to the County of Lan- 293, 416, 417, 422,
ark, The (Owen), 32 agriculture, 208-210, 217,
Republic (Plato), 16 280-281
Republican Party. 343 animal population (1928-
Research needs. 402-403 1933), 210
Reuther, Walter, 320. 323, 324 anti-socialist socialism,
Revolution Betrayed, The 186, 187
(Trotsky), 222 Arab Communism and,
Revolutions 296-298
Engels on, 57, 59, 172- backwardness of, 205
173,272-273 Bolsheviks, 187, 188, 193,
Kautsky on. 191-193 199, 200, 207, 217,
Lenin on, 194-205 222-224
Marx on. 56-57, bourgeoisie, 190-193,
70-71, 166-168, 173, 206, 224-225
208 bureaucratic collectivism,
unions and. 65-66 7,9,188,205,209-216,
Riazanov, David, 54. 87 220-225, 277, 377
on Engels, 54-55 capitalism, 189-190,205-
on Marx, 54 207
RibicorT,Abraham, 344 collective farms, 208-210,
Ricardo. David. 33, 98. 101 217, 281
Riesman, David. 341-342 collectivization, 7, 9, 188,
Risk-taking, 114 205,209-216,220-225,
Robens, Alf. 369 277, 377
Robespierre. Maximilien, 30 Communism, 187-190,
Robinson, Joan, 101, 103, 200, 205-255, 274, 279,
109-110, 122-123, 281, 415
374-375 Cuba compared to, 292-
Rockefeller, David, 346 293
Rockefeller Foundation, 403 education, 213
Roman Catholic Church, 15, Engels on, 172-173
20. 158, 159, 436 feudalism, 416-417
on usury, 1 12 foreign aid, 407
Romney, George, 345 industry, 189-190, 267-
Roosevelt, Franklin D., 143, 268
238, 306, 314-322 Lenin on, 194-195
Rose, Sanford, 397, 404 Marx on, 87, 171-174
1
516 Index
Russia (continued) Schapper, 61
Marxism, 56, 67-68, 195- Scheidemann, Philipp, 231,
197, 273-274 232, 233
Mensheviks, 198 Schiller, Karl, 255
New Economic Policy, Schlesinger, Arthur M., Jr,
201 315-316, 321
peasants, 67-68, 171-173, Schonfield, Andrew, 259, 3
189-190, 192-193, Schorr, Alvin, 337
200-201,207-210,217, Schulze-Delitzsch, Heim
231, 280-281 77
personal privileges in, Schumpeter, Joseph, 141—
212-213, 218-219 227
poverty, 377 Schwartz, Benjamin, 272
the proletariat, 191-192, Schweitzer, Johann Baptist
196, 197, 209 von, 79, 81
purges, 209, 216 Science, 1-2, 35-37
the rising at Kronstadt, as an element in the la-
200-201 bor process, 111

socialism, 68-69, 202- Marx on, 1 1
204, 206, 207, 208, Seattle General Strike of,

279, 289 1919, 144
strikes, 213 Second International, 84, 175,
surplus, 96, 212, 216 186, 195, 202
totalitarianism, 195, 205, Seligman, Ben, 101
210-219, 222-225 Senior, Nassau, 71
Stalin,209-216 Servan-Schreiber, Jean
210-211
Trotskyists, 207, Jacques, 251-252, 405
wages, 218 Shachtman, Max, 216
Russian Revolution of 1905, Shanks, Michael, 259
194 Sharecropping system, 96
Russian Revolution of 1917, Shaw, George Bernard, 176-
7, 12, 55-56, 57, 173-174, 177
177, 186, 187-188, 192, Shen Tsung, Emperor, 14
193-203, 224, 264, 270, Silver as a symbol of value,
273-274, 318 108-110
compared to Chinese Simons, A. M., 311
Revolution, 272-273 Singapore, 385
Stalin on, 207-208 See also Asia; Third
Russian Social Democratic World
Workers' Party, 191 Singer, Daniel, 261
Situation of the Working
Saint-Simon, Claude Henri de, Classes in England (En-
30-32, 368, 375 44
gels),
Sakharov, Andrei D., 218-219 Six Day War, 296
Samson, Leon, 142, 326 Skidelsky, Robert, 238
Samuelson, Paul, 4, 92, 95, Slavery, 95, 96, 183
122, 165, 454 Smith. Adam, 97-98, 101,
Scanlon, Hugh, 400 125, 240. 346, 354, 428, 454
Schapiro, Meyer, 452 Smith, Al, 313
Index 517
Snowden, Philip, 237 Germany, 56, 69, 79-80,
Social democracy, 133, 135— 228, 230-236, 242-
138, 143-144, 157, 160- 245, 248-249, 252-257
161, 178, 228-229, 305-329 global abundance and,
Engels on, 136, 306 423-429
Marx on, 135-137, 306 ideal form of, 421
rise of, 65-67 Italy,175
Social Democratic Federation, Latin America, 298-299
176 Lenin on, 202-204, 206
Social Democratic Party, 253 limitations of, 422
Social poverty, 124 lumpenproletarian, 73-75
Social Security, 323, 325 Bakunin and, 73
Socialism, 421-456 Engels on, 286
abolition of labor, 421, Marx on, 73-75, 285-
422-423, 449-^56 286
abolition of money, 421, overpopulation and, 74
423, 449, 453-456 Third World, 285-288
absolutist view of, 422 Marx on, 51-52, 60-63,
anti-socialist, 5, 23, 52 211, 429-430, 448-450
Bismarck, 5, 7, 66, 76, messianic, 421^422,-453
78-83 military, 105-106
origins of, 77-83 most basic premise of,
Russia, 186, 187 421
Arab, 296-298 nationalization and, 241-
Austria, 243, 248 248
communitarian, 136 new definition of, 250-
consumption attitudes, 252
425-426, 428, 454-456 planning under, 344-348
corrupted by Commu- population control, 425,
nism, 187-188 427^*28
Cuba, 288-290 precondition of, 47
Debsian, 143, 150, 307- Russia, 68-69, 202-204,
311, 314 206, 207, 208, 279, 289
democracy as the essence Stalin on,206
of, 42-46, 48^9, 56, state, 43,80-82
60-63 Sweden, 237-238, 248
ecology and, 423-424 technology and, 423-427,
economic growth and, 429, 431-432
251-253
Third World, 269-270,
Engels on, 50-52, 59-60
288-290, 298-299,
England, 51, 132, 228-
418-419
229, 234-235, 237-
lumpenproletarian,
238, 241, 243-250,
285-288
257-261, 347
preconditions for, 377-
finite character of, 421-
422 379
France, 228, 229, 238- U.S., 131-161, 305-321,
240, 242-243, 245, 326-327,328,333,344-
249-250 348
518 Index
Socialism (continued) on Revolution of 1917,
attitude toward, 131- 207-208
132 on socialism, 206
the welfare state and, totalitarianism, 209-216
331-376 Standard Oil of New Jersey.
World War Iand, 66 404
Socialism As It Is (Walling), Stans, Maurice, 345-346
82 State and Revolution (Lenin),
Socialist capitalism, 227-261 195, 196, 197
Socialist International, 177, State socialism, 43, 80-82
178, 237 Statehood and Anarchy (Bi
Amsterdam Congress, kunin), 286
178, 228 Sternberg, Fritz, 84, 189, 38_
Stuttgart Congress, 177- Stockholders, 362-363, 366,
179 374-375, 442
Socialist Labor Party, 148, Stojanovic, Svetozar, 220-221,
149 293
Socialist Party (Italy), 175 Stolypin, Petr Arkadyevich,
Socialist Party (U.S.), 152- 189
153, 158-160, 306-311, Strachey, John, 358-454
313-320, 328 er, Gregor, 6
Socialist Trades and Labor Strikes
Alliance, 149 China, 282
Socialized man, 91-129 England, 69
Sombart, Werner, 131-132, nee, 440
144, 159 Germany, X, 223, 225
Sorge, 137, 146, 147, 148, Poland, X, 225
244 Russia, 213
South Korea Sweden, 442
Gross National Product, U.S., 141, 144-145, 147,
386 152, 309, 315, 432
U.S. aid to, 390 Student unrest, 432
St e also Asia; Third France, 446
World Students, Trotsky on, 444-445
Spain Sturmthal, Adolf, 240
ism, 168 Stuttgart Congress, 177-179
the proletariat, 432 Subsistence wages, 97
Spartakusbund, 231 Sudan, 263, 296
Spiegel, Der, 255 Communism, 297-
296,
Stalin, Joseph, 3, 6, 28, 41, 298
54, 163, 166, 167, 173, 176, See also Third World
177,201,205-225,264,272, Suffrage
274, 275, 277, 278, 289, Blanqui on, 44
357, 415 England, 76
anti-Hegelianism of, 214- Germany, 75-76
215 Marx on, 76
defense of inequality, 211 U.S., 155
Khrushchev on, 216-217 Sukarno, Achmed, 297
Marxism of, 55-56 Sultan-Galiev, 274
Index 519
Supply of commodities, 125— Tarnow, Fritz, 238
127 Taxes, 95, 96, 410
Supply and demand, 99, 100, inheritance, 375
101. 115, 125-127 Marx on, 146
Surplus, 278 U.S.,146, 336, 339-340,
capital, 383, 388 350, 372-376
Chinese peasants and, 278 Technocrats, 31
concept of, 94-96 Technology, 5, 163, 267-268,
Engels on, 212 348, 440
relative value, 117, 124 control of, 365
retained profits as, 114 future of, 2-3
Russia, 96. 212, 216 labor and, 110-111, 433,
Third World, 96, 277- 451
278. 412 Marx on, 117-119
totalitarian extraction of, socialism and, 423-427,
96 429, 431-432
unpaid labor, 94-98 Third World, 424-425
Surplus value. 1 1 3 U.S., 159-160
absolute, 1 17 Ten Hours Bill, 70-71
Sweden, 364 Tennessee Valley Authority,
income inequality. 257 368, 369
poverty, 257 or, Gaston, 440^41
socialism 248 Testament (Varga), 218
strikes. 442 Theories of Surplus Value
Sweezy, Paul, 120, 292 (Marx), 96, 111, 249, 430
Switzerland, 384 Theory of Capitalist Develop-
Syria 'it, The (Sweezy), 120
Communism. (
2 >6, 297 Theses <>n Feuerbach (Marx),
See also Asia; Third 45-46
World Third World, 5, 7, 8, 22, 25,
34, 41. 129, 163-187, 204,
225, 263-304, 332
Taborites. 21
agriculture, 12, 290-91,
Taft-Hartley Law, 324
393-395, 400-403,
Taft, Phillip. 133, 152, 153
415-417, 447-448
Taft. Robert A., 338
collectivization, 277-278,
Taiwan, 398.
377
Gross National Product,
Communism, 219, 272-
386
284, 291-298, 414-419
investment in, 385
democracy, 411-418
nationalizations. 413-414
economic levels, 264
U.S. aid to. 390
exports, 385
See also Asia; Third foreign aid, 390-393, 406,
World 410, 413
Tariffs. 85, 397, 401 housing, 292
Kennedy on, 391 investments in, 384-395,
Third World and, 397, 403-408
401 Marxism, 398
U.S., 391, 395, 401 modernization of, 397
520 Index
Third World (continued) on peasants, 273
nationalizations, 296, on students, 444-443
393-394, 413-414 Trotskyists, 207,
210-211
peasants, 270, 272-281, Truman, Harry 407S, 338,
296, 415-416, 434 Tucker, Robert C. 72
planning, 406-411 Tugwell, Rexford G., 321
population control, 403, Tunisia, 287
427-428 See also Third World
poverty, 280, 377, 389- Turkey, 384
395, 418 Twentieth Party Congress
research needs, 402-^03 278
socialism, 269-270, 288- Tyler, Wat, 20
290, 298-299, 418-419
lumpen proletarian, Unemployment
285-288 automation, 445
preconditions for, 377- Cuba, 290-291
378 U.S., 152, 155, 321, 354
surplus, 96, 277-278, 412 355
tariffsand, 397, 401 Unions, 69-73
technology, 424-425 England, 32-33, 69-7C
urban poor, 270, 284-288 243, 400
wealth, 412-413 France, 440
Thomas, Norman, 308, 313- gradualism movement, 83
314, 320 revolution and, 65-66
Tinbergen, Jan, 399 U.S., 8, 135, 139-14C
Titmus, Richard, 257, 259 141, 143, 145-159,
Totalitarian utopianism, 12 305-329, 398-399,
Totalitarianism, 4, 41, 47, 49, 432-441
61 world industrializatioi
China, 279, 283, 415 and, 397-400
of Communism, 82, 195, See also Labor; names
205, 210-216, 332, 379 unions
Marx as the father of, 56 United Automobile Worker
Russia, 195, 205, 210- 323, 325
219, 222-225 United Mine Workers, 399
Stalin, 209-216 United Nations, 406, 409
surplus extraction, 96 Committee for Develop
Touraine, Alain, 440 ment Planning, 410
Toward a Democratic Left United Nations' Conferenc
(Harrington), 354, 383, 390, on Trade and Development
406 (UNCTAD), 267
Towards the Understanding of United States of America, 69,
Karl Marx (Hook), 58 82, 131-161, 168, 182, 196,
Trades Union Congress, 149, 197, 259, 268, 269, 277,
400 306-307, 312-321, 365
Trotsky, Leon, 57, 61, 191, affluence, 131-132, 154,
193-194, 201, 204, 207, 350, 435, 445, 449
222, 223, 276, 452-453 agriculture, 96, 339-340,
on Germany, 230 342, 360
Index 521
U.S.A. (continued) land pollution, 350
air pollution,350-352 liberalism, 248, 256, 310
automobiles, 350-352 lunar program, 427
capitalism, 305, 313, 321, Marxism, 140-141, 146-
333-376 151, 308
the Civil War, 137 migration in, 312
collectivism, 436—437 National Guard, 145
colonialism, 180, 390 nationalizations, 367
communal living in, 429 neo-capitalism, 335-356,
Communism, 308, 310— 439, 451
314, 317-320 New Deal, 317, 319, 320,
Conference on Progres- 321, 371, 398
sive Political Action, ownership, 363-371, 376
311 in perpetuating economic
Democratic Party, 151, backwardness, 389-
311-313, 325-328 395
democratization of power in perpetuating poverty,
in, 431 389-395
education, 340-342, 355- poverty, 325, 336-342,
356,360-361,435,441, 433, 438
443_446, 449 the proletariat, 432-^440
exports, 387 racism, 325, 337, 341,
of jobs. 398 406, 432
foreign aid, 390-393, 406, railroads, 340
410, 413 recession of 1970-1971,
free-land movement, 446
137-139 Republican Party, 343
gold discovered in Cali- sectarianism, 140, 147-
fornia. 60 150, 308
Green Corn Rebellion, sharecropping system, 96
309 social democracy in, 133,
healthcare, 355, 361,449, 135-138, 143-144, 157,
455 160-161, 178,228-229,
housing. 335-339, 342, 305-329
345-346, 353, 358-359 Engels on, 136, 306
immigrants, 147-148, Marx on, 135-137, 306
155-161, 308-309, rise of, 65-67
312-313 social mobility, 341
AFL's hostility to, 160 Social Security, 323, 325
imperialism, 390-395 socialism, 131-161, 305-
imports, 385, 389, 394- 321,326-327,328,333,
395, 401 344-348
income in, 373-374 attitude toward, 131-
inflation, 433 132
investments, 387, 390- standard of living in, 154-
391, 392-393, 403-407 158, 159, 428, 453
Jews, 310 strikes, 141, 144-145,
lack of feudalism in, 133, 147, 152, 309,315,432
136 suffrage, 155
522 Index
U.S.A. (continued) U.S., 285
tariffs,391, 395, 401 Urban Problems Commission,
taxes, 146, 336, 339-340, 339
350, 372-376 Use value, 106-107, 113
technology, 159-160 Usury, 112
trade policies, 390-395 Utopia (More), 24
transportation, 340, 350- Utopianism, 11-40, 43, 163,
352, 358-359 447
unemployment, 152, 155, aristocratic, 16-17
321, 354, 355 beginning 11 of,
unions, 8, 135, 139-140, capitalism and, 19
141, 143, 145-159, China, 14
305-329, 398-399, England, 23-26, 32
432-441 France, 23, 26-31
urban poor, 285 Greece, 11, 14, 15-16,
utopianism, 132-142, 17-18
145, 305, 308 Jews, 11-15
Vietnam War, 266, 328, 16th-19th century, 23-33
338, 388, 445 12
totalitarian,
violence in, 144-145, 12th-16th century, 18-23
337-339, 451 U.S., 132-142, 145, 305,
voluntarism, 150-151, 308
306, 322, 324
wage-price freeze, 438 Valdes, Gabriel, 392
wages, 155-156, 160,437, Value
438^*39 capital as a symbol of,
water pollution, 350 108-109
wealth, 372-373, 438 commodity exchange,
welfare state, 332-376 106-107, 112-113
welfare system, 339 gold as a symbol of, 108-
working day, 450-451 110
World War I, 309 labor as an increment in,
World War H, 318, 321 114
youth discontent, 432, 443 labor theory of, 98-99,
U.S. Bureau of Labor Statis- 100, 105
tics, 433 land as a symbol of, 108-
U.S. Department of Labor, 109
433, 439 of natural resources, 92
U.S. Internal Revenue Service, silver as a symbo! of,
373 108-110
U.S. Develop-
International surplus, 113
ment Institute, 409 absolute, 117
U.S. Post Office, 369, 371 relative, 117, 124
University of Michigan Re- use, 106-107, 113
search Center, 437 Van Kol, 178-179
Urban Land Institute, 350 Vandervelde, fimile, 183, 184,
Urban poor, 270, 284-288 185
Third World, 270, 284- Varga, Yevgeny Samoylovich,
288 190, 195,211-212,218,388
Index 523
Veblen, Thorstein, 428, 439- Third World, 412-413

442 U.S., 372-373, 438
Velasco, Juan, 408 Webb, Beatrice, 177
Venezuela, 412 Webb, Sidney, 177, 244, 362-
See also Latin America; 363
Third World Weber, Max, 14, 269, 428
Vietcong, 266 Weinstein, James, 310, 317
Vietnam, U.S. aid to, 390 Weitling, Wilhelm, 43
Vietnam War, 266, 328, 338, Welfare state, 5, 7-8, 9, 260,
388, 445 331-376, 384
Vogel, Hans-Jochen, 255-256 capitalism and, 331-376
Volks Tribun, Der, 137 China, 14
Voluntarism, 150-151, 305- England, 6, 246, 259
306, 322, 324 limits of, 332
socialism and, 331-376
Wage controls, 366 U.S., 332-376
Wage-price freeze, 438 Wenceslaus, Emperor, 21
Wages, 84, 96, 119, 396 Werfel, Edda, 220
Asia, 386 Westminster Conservative As-
Engels on, 78 sociation, 246
England, 155, 383, 400 What Is To Be Done (Lenin),
France, 383 88
Germany, 86, 157 White, Theodore, 325
Latin America, 386 White-collar labor, 256
Marx on, 78 Wiedjik, 181
real, 383 Wilber, Charles K 215, 392
,
rising.123-124 Wilhelm II. Kaiser, 80

Russia, 218 Williams, William Appleman,
subsistence, 97 317
U.S., 155-156, 160, 437, Willich, 61
438-439 Wilson, Harold, 182,246,249,
Wagner Act, 316 258-260, 373, 408, 438
Wagner, Robert, 316 devalues the pound, 258-
Wald, Pierre, 20 259
Waldensians, 20 Wilson, Woodrow, 143, 151-
Wall Street Journal, 336, 351- 152
352, 365, 374
Wissell, Rudolf, 234
Walling, William English, 82,
Wobblies, see Industrial Work-
311
ers of the World
Walzer, Michael, 25
Woll, Matthew, 313
Ward, Barbara, 268, 285
Water pollution, 350 Woodcock, Leonard, 400
Wealth, 384 Woodhull, Victoria, 140
creation of, 91, 127, 129 Working day, length of, 70-
increase in the disparity 71, 72
of, 402 capitalism and, 71
Marx on, 91-93, 127, 129 France, 239
natural resources as a profit and, 117, 127-128
source of, 92 U.S., 450-451
524 Index
World Bank, 401, 407-408, World War I, 66, 86, 230-231

410, 411 capitalism and, 228—229
World market, 332, 377^19 socialism and, 66
as the basis of produc- U.S., 309
380
tion, World War II, 318, 321
Engels on, 379-380, 381- Worsley, Peter, 287
382 Woytinsky, W. S., 236
intracapitalist investment, Wright, Frances, 135
384-386 Wycliffe, John, 20-21
major development after
World War II, 384
Marx on, 380-381 Yankelovich polling organi
neo-colonial investment, tion, 353
387-388 Young Socialists (Jusos), 25!
in perpetuating economic Youth unrest, 432, 443
backwardness, 389-395 Yugoslavia, 6, 293-295
in perpetuating poverty,
389-395
planning, 406-411 Zambia, 393-394
restructuring of, 397-406 See also Africa; Third
World Society of Revolution- World
ary Communists, 58 Zoar, Ohio, 136
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michael Harrington has been a leader in the socialist
movement for years and has headed the American dele-
gation to the Socialist International. Born in St. Louis,
Missouri, he was educated at Holy Cross College (B.A.),
the University of Chicago (M.A.), and Yale Law School.
He has served on the boards and executive committees
for the League for IndustrialDemocracy, A. Phillip Ran-
dolph Institute, American Civil Liberties Union, Workers
Defense League, Twentieth Century Fund, S.A.N.E., New
Democratic Coalition, and many other organizations. He
has participated in a number of task forces on poverty
and was a member of the American Delegation to the
International Conference on Bangla Desh in New Delhi,
in 1971.
A noted author, lecturer, and syndicated columnist, he
has been the recipient of several awards and honorary de-
grees. His first book. The Other America, not only was a
bestseller but is credited with sparking the Kennedy-John-
son War on Poverty. He is published regularly in all the
major journals and has written three other books: The
Retail Clerks, The Accidental Century, and Toward a
Democratic Left.
Married and the father of two young sons, Mr. Har-
rington makes his home in New York.
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AMER CA'S FOREMOST SOCIALIST, SORVEYS,
CHRONICLES AND EXPLAINS THE MOVEMENT!
From pre- 19th-century visions of Utopia to the humane and
realistic construction of a program for man's future.
Iffl
"Mr. Harrington has produced a climactic work... He has.,
made our politics seem viable once more, and our collective
future like something worth living for."
—Christopher Lehmann-Haupt, The New York Time
"A most powerful, sophisticated and comprehensive treatment
... A persuasive contemporary restatement of some old truths."
—Saturday Reviet
"Everyone owes himself a week with Socialism. It is informed
and well written and invites interest as well as belief/'
—John Kenneth Galbraiii
1
i I

Socialism

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What is the book discussed in the passages?

What is the book discussed in the passages?

What are some of the reviews and comments about the book?

What are some of the reviews and comments about the book?

B7698 * $2.

25 * BANTAM POLITICAL SCIENCE

The Other America, his bestselling first book, had

Of his new book, SOCIALISM, critics and schol-

As we march through history,our direction so

so much academic sociology and political science

"A wide-ranging and creative analysis of the chang-

"His main purpose is to apply [Marx's and Engels']

THE HISTORY OF VIOLENCE IN AMERICA by

VLM 12 (VLR 12-12+)

A portion of this book first appeared in dissent magazine, May,

Cover photo of the author by Fred McDarrah

Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, Inc., a National

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

I owe this book to Norman Thomas and to all

the other comrades of the socialist movement, the

I The Future of the Past 1

II The Preconditions of the Dream 1

in The Democratic Essence 41

Socialism has known increments of success, basic

brilliantly, and thoughtlessly, created. His genius threat-

The ultimate in these contradictions is both unprec-

ourselves to smithereens, that issue has already been

dence that it demands conscious regulation and control.

* In order not to clutter up the text, the references to notes

propose to rescue it from the distortions of the pro-

world, but to change it.

gone a sudden conversion between 1878 and 1882,

present or future — —past,

threatened them to be controlled; intellectuals with blue-

Engels, has enormous practical significance for the

ductive and destructive and interdependent technolog-

Utopia was a fantastic voyage into the present,

The hope of a truly just society has been universal. It

crees," Isaiah thundered, "and the recorders who make

of the prophets there was a long silence, yet the Utopian

lieved that their saviour would see to it that the lowly

Plato's Athens, most of them were enslaved. Under such

the desert of the Hebrews or the cities of the Greeks.

In the twelfth century in southern France the Poor

cause. Hus, like Wycliffe, had the support of some

There were two wings of the movement that fol-

given to the faithful as both bread and wine. This was a

the last year of his life, or of some of the Third World

dicts all of his previous principles and positions and the

So the great peasant movements that accompanied

The rise of capitalism in the late Middle Ages had

into a realistic possibility.

The Presbyterians, Congregationalists and Anabaptists

magnificent leader, Gerrard Winstanley, they held that

to medieval communism. Therefore political radicalism

son rather than revelation.

how many young people will take up each speciality.

"Onthe other hand, the insurrectionary committee

how dangerous was if they did not give the job of