This review has been peer-reviewed by the b2o editorial board.

Review of Alex Zamalin, Black Utopia: The History of an Idea from Black Nationalism to Afrofuturism (New York: Columbia University Press, 2018)

by Linette Park

Split between the injuries of the past and the possibilities of the future, black political thought has always emerged from inequalities of power that avow a property of suffering. Whether this suffering is conceived in relation to the systematic and repressive forces of the nation-state that fortify structural inequality, or in relation to the limits of the reason and laws of the state, the split between the terms of the past and the contours of the future has led black political thought to scrutinize the ineffable conditions that allow black suffering in the name of the political. The notion of the political has held up well, presenting a mirage of politics that hinges on a structure of anti-blackness. This structure of anti-blackness is most sharply indexed by the unprecedented intensification of black murder at the hands of law enforcement and the growing carceral archipelago in the United States and globally.

On this score, the property and conditions of black suffering in the United States in relation to Western political thought have rightly, in the words of Saidiya Hartman and Frank B. Wilderson III, remained fundamentally unthought.[i] Black suffering, in other words, remains absent in the theorization of the political in spite of the monumental history of racial slavery’s violence, which gives rise to the political, social, and economic orders of modernity in the Americas and the relations that conceive them. More simply put, such an absence constitutes and sustains the relation between political thought and possibility. In the face of deep-seated insecurities (and an even deeper and axiomatic incommensurability of anti-blackness in Western political thought), Black Studies, to this ever unfolding (and enfolding) split, has engaged with questions of the imagination, freedom and rights, sovereignty, and matter(ing) of black life. In this broadest sense, black political thought—whether it be formulated via Afro-pessimism, Black optimism, or Afro-futurism or by taking up their internal theoretical differentiations—is necessarily critical of the political and the conditioning of thought that avers the plural and intersubjective character of political formations all whilst excluding the question of blackness. Positing these varying movements of thought just now is not to say that they are all one and the same. For, indeed, the debates at the fore of Black Studies—the political movements and praxes of black thought—are contiguous in their critiques and take form on different sides of this constellation.[ii] The intellectual history of black political thought binds invention to the ontological question of blackness, which is dispositioned as a disinheritance from civil society.[iii] For slavery always preceded (and inadvertently enabled) “the empty space of power” in which people could lay claim to the possibility and property of the commons.[iv] Within this history, the turn to hope has been figured as probability, object of critique, and course of action with utopia as its horizon.[v]

Alex Zamalin’s Black Utopia: The History of an Idea from Black Nationalism to Afrofuturism is in high pursuit of utopia as a horizon for political thought, with fantasies of its possibilities as its engine. In the book, Zamalin, author and scholar of several books on political thought and African American freedom struggle in the US, confronts the split between past injuries and future possibilities. At the outset of the book, he writes:

Utopia’s landscapes are unfamiliar because they bring into life familiar fantasies. Utopia is like religion not because of the dogmatic theology or secular truths it postulates, but because it conjures powerful, irrepressible, sometimes ecstatic feelings: of salvation, of being at home in the world, and of reconciliation with strife. For this reason, utopia is as fruitful a site from which to test the value of our extant political formulations as it is a horizon toward which we might look to improve our lives (6).

Zamalin premises Black Utopia on this feeling of hope driven by the familiarity of fantasy through which, accordingly, a transcendent culture and politics emerge in spite of the subjugation of black life in the long and present history of enslavement and imprisonment. Alluding to the iconography of Frederick Douglass, Sojourner Truth, and Martin Luther King Jr., Zamalin is the first to point out that such a trajectory of hope and utopia has been evident in African American political thought, yet nonetheless he puts forth the concept of utopia as the neglected site in the American cultural and political imagination. For Zamalin, something is lost in contemporary American political thought—and utopia, as conceived in Black Utopia, is able to retrieve this loss while also advancing its way forward in the African American political and literary tradition and its praxis. In this schema, however, one might argue that black utopia can only spring from a recuperative gesture which has been internal and external to, which is also to say that it does not depart different from, the liberal repressive mechanisms of the nation-state that perpetuate the structural and systematic exclusion of black life in civil society and politics in the US. Zamalin submits that the methodological approach to the book is not “analytical” but “more concerned with politics” in its excavation of black utopia as an untheorized site for political thought (17). He writes, “Black Utopia’s intellectual ambition is to texture and restore its proper place a neglected site of the black American political and cultural imagination; and it is to offer a critical interpretation of the idea of utopia” (18). Further, Zamalin claims that the goal of the book is “as much to understand the boundaries of the black political and cultural imagination as it is to see what lessons it has for contemporary political life. It is to assess which elements of black utopian and antiutopian thought ought to be reclaimed or abandoned” (18, emphasis added).

Zamalin’s invitation to center the black American political and cultural thought to the center is admirable and reflects his own sustained commitment to the multiplicity within African American literary and political traditions over the years. Yet, because Zamalin separates the “analytical” from “the political”—the structural from the theoretical field and the terms within it which mark an absence and assume the demand to be reclaimed or abandoned—utopia, too, becomes both an ambiguous yet ostensibly malleable concept for Zamalin that allows for a recuperative reading of and for politics. With this, both black utopic and dystopic thought—which appear interchangeable at times in the book—and the boundaries of their imagination, gesture to a politics and ethics that have yet to be realized in the political present but, nonetheless, can be retrieved from black utopic thought. Hope becomes the operative tour de force to acquiesce an (un)imagined and unattained politics that has yet to arrive. But what remains unclear: if “utopia” is as fungible as it is imagined to be restorative for politics, why black utopic and dystopic thought? Why not simply black thought as a meditation on the movement of thinking and imagination that remains veiled in the common political and theoretical fields and in what is proper to politics?

To posit the landscapes of utopia as “unfamiliar,” given their capacity to “bring into life familiar fantasies,” Zamalin designates a particular model of politics and an intrusive mode of enjoyment (disguised as fantasy) as the decisive representations of hope. I would argue, however, that the question as concerns black political thought—what and how it may throw light on contemporary political life—lies not in the exceptional space of fantasy, but rather in the exceptional place in fantasy where the most burdened and buried components of the imaginary reside and are illicit from the conditions of hope. To centralize the space of fantasy as the possible site of liberation for and of black politics sets up a mechanism through which a politics can be reclaimed over and over again while eliding the ethical and structural problematic of how blackness occupies a position in the American psyche and has yet to be truly liberated. This reclaiming is neither politics nor political, but is an insistence on a method of finding a representative of black political thought that represses the originality of a resistance within that which is unnamable in the symbolic practices and politics of culture.[vi] What underlies Zamalin’s book is a structural problematic: how is the imagination of the free black in a post-emancipation context conceived and re-inscribed through language at the level of imagination and collective fantasy? In other words, whose fantasy of utopia is this and whom is it for? The reinscription of the black imagination as a politics—full stop—and the reading of that imagination as reducible to fantasy would seem to disavow the privilege in reading and rewriting the other’s dreams of freedom as an emancipatory world. This might be evident in Zamalin’s use of the phrase “utopia in black” as interchangeable with “black utopia” throughout the book.[vii] Indeed, the book never articulates this important distinction between whose fantasy it is and who is subject to it. Such a distinction would not only provide a reorientation that gives view to a horizon of utopia undercut and projected by an imagined “we,” but it also would signal more explicitly how the configurations of fantasy at the expense of blackness authorize the subjects of political thought—utopic or otherwise.

Zamalin’s Black Utopia ambitiously draws an intellectual and literary history of utopia and dystopia in African American cultural production, focusing on particular works by Martin Delany, W.E.B. Du Bois, George Schuyler, Richard Wright, Sun Ra, Samuel Delaney, Octavia Butler, and others. Reading this set of texts symptomatically as a restaging of the drama of and for hope, Zamalin attempts to substantiate his claim that the utopic image of hope offers a vision of “untapped possibilities already embedded within society—unconditional freedom, equality, interracial intimacy, solidarity, and social democracy” (10). These symptomatic readings  perform a structure of “affirming the affirmation…of utopia,”[viii] and in doing so, they bypass the question of how these very terms—freedom, equality, interracial intimacy, solidarity, democracy—scaffold the illusions of political promise without interrogating the grammar of the political itself or the radical site of difference in which black aesthetics has been constituted. In this sense, Zamalin’s discussion throughout the book of the sight of black cultural production as an interventional force relies on utopia as a primary conceptual device to marshal the explanatory power of black inequality in the history of politics and the societal makeup of anti-blackness. Utopia is a placeholder; conceptually, as Zamalin figures it, it functions to suspend the struggle that calls it forth as a space.

Zamalin traces the utopic characteristics of the “black radical imagination”—a concept he positions in conversation with major African American scholars, notably Robin D.G. Kelley, author of Freedom Dreams: The Black Radical Imagination, and Cedric Robinson, author of Black Marxism: The Making of the Black Radical Tradition—through a selection of African American texts. While he acknowledges in his footnotes the contributions made by scholars such as Kelley and Robinson to the history of black radicalism, he ultimately claims that his exploration departs from this history, in which Kelley and Robinson “consider the links between class and race.” Instead, Black Utopia intends to focus on a “vision of utopia within black communities” that is “left open-ended and not specified” in the vein of Marx (148). Following this view, Zamalin’s “utopia in black” might be better understood as appropriating utopia with and within representations of blackness and as pursuing a selective reading of German idealism and French philosophy. This gesture contains a contradiction that undergirds Zamalin’s desire for visions of black utopic thought “on its own terms” that could also be productive for Western political thought. While for Zamalin the ostensibly utopic (and dystopic) ruptures signal a teleology for theorizing the political, black political thinkers and black feminists have long asked about the very viability of a teleological turn which, in turn, has reflected on the conditions and terms that a black radical tradition may signify.[ix]

Let us turn to his reading of Martin Robison Delany, which commences the book. For Zamalin, Delany, an African American abolitionist and emigrationist, is emblematic of “[extending] to black citizens a vision missing from the nineteenth-century utopian communitarian energy being spread throughout the United States” (21). Accordingly, Zamalin writes about Delany: “his work imagined what history couldn’t: black liberation on black terms” allowing for “Black escape to a new world was the first idea of black utopia” (21). Centralizing Delany’s fictional work, Blake; or the Huts of America (1859), rather than his previous substantive work, The Condition, Elevation, Emigration, and Destiny of the Colored People of the United States (1852), Zamalin takes great interest in the ways in which Delany offers “a story” about race, interracial intimacy, black citizenship, and sovereignty at the height of the long nineteenth century. With Delany’s fiction, “race became a story that required a beginning, middle, and end” (31). While, as Zamalin makes clear, the often contradictory views on race and politics staged by Delany set up an uneven gender politics, Zamalin distinguishes Delany as “nonetheless [providing] the very architecture for how to articulate a radical black imagination beyond the possible and to defend black utopia” (33). Even across contradictions, Zamalin maintains that Delany’s politics were utopic, turning “blackness into a force for resistance against arbitrary power” (25). As Zamalin writes, “Delany found equality, dignity, and freedom in black lives. He said no to white supremacy, exposed the drama of political contingency, and told of power’s vulnerability. This was the vision Delany modeled to inspire resistance to reach black utopia abroad. But it wasn’t extended to a defense of gender equality, popular rule, and economic freedom” (33). The utopic imperative here rests on the disavowal of a racialized gendered politics in several aspects: escape (into an imagined and pure homeland), what Zamalin describes as sovereign mind, and interracial desire—all read through the genre of fiction or story. These aspects are not fully interrogated yet are industrialized under and for the banner of utopia and this raises the question: can or is a politics, (or aesthetics) of utopia be compromised in relation to other registers of difference? This question returns us implicitly to our previous one: who is this fantasy for and who is authorizing this fantasy? If the above  are the objects of politics—escape to a pure homeland of Africa, sovereignty, interracial intimacy—why have these dimensions been legislated as prohibitions in the first instance and cast off as forbidden pleasures of freedom? This question echoes the problem of the relation between law and the renunciation of black desire theorized by David Marriott: “It is because [blackness] is deprived of being and forced to renounce desire that the black experiences the whiteness of the law in terms of what both allows and commands his rebellious servility.”[x] The inextricable relation between the whiteness of law and the renunciation of black desire that Marriott identifies raises questions about how to consider black self-governance in a utopia that has yet to come.  For Zamalin, the illusion of utopia that has yet to arrive requires politics to have a narrative arc that assumes racial self-governance as its vitalization or at the very least a form of agency. That said, a story of race that requires a teleology and an order to politics underscores precisely how black agency and desire are veiled and subordinated by the whiteness of law and its vision of race. Put otherwise, the story of race—the one “with a beginning, middle, and end”— reproduces the prohibition of black desire that Zamalin believes to be unveiled through utopia. The separation of issues of gender and sexuality from race, and the idea that they can be compromised in and for a utopic vision underscores the negation of black desire in this schema.

In my reading of Zamalin, interracial relationships return as an object of politics and thus are the consolation of a pure politics of desire and a pure desire of politics—a perverse representation of how desire has been desexualized and deracialized in its articulation.[xi] In the third chapter, “W.E.B. Du Bois’s World of Utopian Intimacy,” Zamalin pursues the idea of interracial relationships further in his idea of a harmonious society of relationships. Following an attempt to recuperate a black feminist politics in the previous chapter, Zamalin finds promise in the respective visions of “an unknown postracist community” in Du Bois’s “The Comet,” Darkwater, and Dark Princess (53). According to Zamalin, Du Bois’s depictions of a postracist society stem from his ability to reverse practices such as dominant forms of knowledge production, namely that which finds value in scientific notions of racial hierarchy. However, Zamalin does not consider here the ways in which Du Bois explicitly questions race as a teleological concept in the making of the modern subject. In construing Du Bois’s own narrativization as a “postracist ethics,” Zamalin misses the nuance of Du Bois’s reformulation of narrative, which, as Nahum Chandler argues, provides a necessary and critical “desedimentation” of a “privileged orientation toward the very texts and historiographical subjects that are themselves the products of social hegemony.”[xii]  Instead, Zamalin finds a “postracist ethics” in Du Bois’s fictionalization of another world wherein there is a future of possibility outside of normative constructions that deem interracial intimacy as socially and morally objectionable. After attempting to translate Du Bois to critics who characterized his work as racial essentialism, Zamalin peculiarly endeavors to advance his claims of a “postracist ethics” by describing Du Bois’s approach to “[dismantling] knowledge based on utopian scientific rationality, that everything could be measured, known, tested, fully understood.” He writes about Du Bois: “Values instead came from the failure to fully recognize social meaning and, instead, a sensitivity to human expressiveness—the different gestures, tones of voice, and textures of speech—that provides cues for responding to an engaging with the person who appears before them” (53). Zamalin’s project of finding value in human expressiveness rather than questioning the signs of race that culture and politics prescribe, sets up in Du Bois’s work a utopian intimacy wherein “the suffering, pain, violence, and marginalization associated with ‘darkness’ are as apparent as the light—the reflection of beauty and resilience in the ocean of a reimagined blackness” (61, emphasis added). And yet, within this reflection, Zamalin cannot see how he mirrors a necessary reimagining of race that reinscribes the very problem at the heart of Du Bois’s work, the “problem of the color-line,” organized “around an axis of denial… with regard to the ensemble of practices and concept-metaphors organized around the sign of race.”[xiii] Chandler stresses this in his rigorous theoretical and archival account of Du Bois’s oeuvre, that “from the turn to the twentieth century Du Bois had already offered a narrativization of the formation of a new organization of hierarchy, a new global order, as ‘the problem’ of that century.”[xiv] The distinction between the concept of race and what organizes that concept is critical to understanding the remaining problem of the color-line.

For the achievement of utopian intimacy and postracial ethics then, one must shed both sexuality and race from the very nature of difference—an onto-political rupture in and of itself. To be clear, this exfoliation engenders a postracial politics premised on barring the intermingling of sexuality and race. Zamalin’s suspension of the ontological via this separation allows for the reimagining not only of a harmonious society but of blackness as something other than one’s own being. Zamalin does not explore these ontological distinctions, or the debates raised within Black Studies about the status of blackness and being. Rather, he moves away from the problematization of what constitutes racial distinction at a crucial point in his argument in order to imagine the parameters of a new ethics. In this move, he elides the issues of deracination and the tendency of blackness to be exploited by politics and the political. And while Zamalin’s objectives may not concern the current debates around ontology and blackness, Black Utopia’s endeavors to conceptualize the current status and state of the field of black political thought would benefit from these discussions that emphasize that blackness can neither be reduced to identity nor politics. That is to say, these critical discussions signal that blackness is more than identity and politics and elicits an inhabitation for political thought in its multiplicity and without term.[xv]

In Black Utopia, the most utopic form of intimacy is imagined to coalesce around an antagonism between race and sexuality rather than to seek out the incommensurable conflict between anti-blackness and civil society, which projects a necessary segregation between differences (of race, gender, and sexuality). Zamalin reimagines blackness in the light of the “darkness,” failing to see the violence that accompanies segregating a miscegenation of desire. In doing so, he unwittingly allows for the disposability of blackness itself, along with the queering of gender and sexuality, and stages (white) desire in an even more particular (hetero)normative way. Utopic intimacy performs a transgression against the myth of interracial desire: it makes representable the becoming and intermingling of race and sexuality, but only in principle by emptying the radical difference of blackness and sexuality from their uncertainty rather than by addressing their existing entwinement in identity, culture, and society.  As Jared Sexton writes, “racism is not an obstacle to interracial intimacy but its condition of possibility.”[xvi] Following Sexton’s argument, we can then also assume that the post- in postracial inhabits a curious and cruel arrangement of temporality and historicity wherein utopia must necessarily bracket blackness as something other than being. Utopia is therefore forced to follow an identity politics of multiracialism, imprisoning itself within the language and signs produced synonymously with a utopic politics.

It is not surprising that Zamalin cannot see this dialectical imprisonment between blackness and the signs of culture in his reading of Richard Wright’s formidable work, Black Power. In this chapter, Zamalin makes utopia interchangeable with dystopia while leveraging the utopic/dystopic as a way of reading the possibilities for black social and political life. The irony to this approach is strikingly clear in his misuse of the word “unconscious” to describe Wright’s engagement with Ghanaian citizens, culture, and political life during his visit to Africa. Zamalin writes, “Wright lost sight of the way Black Power was itself an unconscious catalogue. It was something of a waking daydream, of how to accomplish this differently in a way that created a postcolonial society unmoored from the political theory of Western colonialism” (83, emphasis added). He goes on: “Dreams, for (Wright), were the apolitical ream of fantasy, immaturity, and unconscious desire. Reality, in contrast, was that of strategy, rule and government. But this very opposition was betrayed by Wright’s unconscious investment in psychoanalysis” (84, emphasis added). Throughout the chapter, Zamalin positions Wright as if without the self-awareness to realize his “American” views eclipsed the ways in which traditional political art was celebrated in the Gold Coast’s revolutionary movement for independence. As a result, Zamalin argues that Wright “mistakenly denigrat[ed] the nonrational elements of traditional culture” and therefore “couldn’t appreciate the way its symbolism contained a philosophy that challenged the orthodoxy of Western systems that promoted inequality” (92). Ultimately, this is what leads Wright, according to Zamalin, to develop his anti-utopian critique in Black Power. But who is performing their unconscious? Could it be that the unconscious cataloguing that Zamalin reads in Wright’s own meditation—which one might also call a conscious study of the way in which censorship, political desire, and blackness intersect—is his own racial anxiety and guilt for a more African black than a black African American? Could this be why Zamalin finds that Wright cannot supposedly see the utopic transcendence in traditional Ghanaian song and dance? Is it this idea of blackness that Zamalin refers to in the introduction when he writes utopia in black?

Nearly twenty years before Zamalin’s reflections on Wright’s Black Power, David Marriott wrote about the importance of Wright’s meditations on the Gold Coast in his path-breaking book, On Black Men, a reference that is surprisingly absent given Zamalin’s assessment that Black Power has been left more or less unexplored.[xvii] Marriott’s elaborations on Wright’s Black Power are, in fact, short, but serve as a compelling and incisive provocation to questions of political thought, dreams, and blackness, implicitly returning us to the function of the unconscious in the projection of utopia or hope. Marriott begins with a scene in which Wright reflects on a projection of blackness that is always already thrown in an alienating crisis of one’s identity and psychic life in public: the cinema. Explaining a scene in which Wright attends a movie house in northwestern Africa, Marriott writes:

… for Wright the spectacle of African spectators reacting to cinematic images, advertisements and stories throws him into disarray. It is as if Africans are not credulous enough, unable to surrender to the fascination of dream and illusion which cinema (and storytelling) represents. They cannot dream because they cannot project themselves into that trance of relinquishment which true dreaming and true spectatorship warrant. In fact, throughout Black Power, Africa and Africans remain, for Wright, an underdeveloped film negative, a censored dream: ‘Though the African’s whole life was a kind of religious dream, the African scorned the word ‘dream’…. The African takes his religion, which is really a waking dream, for reality, and all other dreams are barred, are taboo.’[xviii]

Marriott importantly highlights Wright’s critical investment and investigation into the world of collective fantasy and takes seriously Wright’s own question about what it means to have one’s (black) dreams barred. In contrast to Zamalin, who perceives Wright to be writing as if in “a waking daydream” (83), Marriott points to how signs of culture produce substitutive images as “waking dreams for reality” for one’s black existence.[xix] The difference is crucial: Zamalin portrays white fantasies of how blacks dream, whereas Marriott  underscores Wright’s ongoing observation about how dreams are necessarily always already blackened out of existence—leaving one’s unconscious “to live with hatred as our most intimate possession [to become], then, the truly difficult task of our dreams.”[xx] While Zamalin disavows the projection of his own desires for identification leaving unquestioned how such identifications are not separate from, and in fact work with, the fantasies of culture to typecast how blackness should be, Marriott addresses the relations of  culture, image, fantasy, and projection (as it were) structurally untenable. Ultimately, these are the structural political and ethical questions that go unattended in Black Utopia.

Zamalin’s explicit engagements with the notion of Afrofuturism in the remainder of the book do little other than reproduce a teleological narrative of redemption upon which Black Utopia relies heavily. Although Zamalin makes efforts to move away from this point—for example, on Samuel Delany he writes that “the science fiction writer brings into a relief a future that is not driven by the demands of the present, but explodes its commons sense” (112)—an  Afrofuturistic utopia remains an eschatological concept, a final destination for black liberation. Zamalin finds this emancipatory politics in the utopic/dystopic depiction of social transformation in the works of Sun Ra, Samuel Delaney, and Octavia Butler. Afrofuturism in these works is linked with postracialism, destabilizing gender binaries, and “taking seriously radical hope in the face of the unknown without messianic deliverance” (140).[xxi] Throughout the book, utopia has been the end point of a destination that has yet to be reached and the future, a vision “from which to rethink the present” (108). In the futures imagined by Ra, Delany, and Butler, “subjecting power to immanent critique would forget a society in which freedom became more of a reality for most. And it would create a world where what seemed fixed became overturned” (113). Here, Zamalin alludes to the structural inequalities coextensive with settler-colonialism, housing crises, as well as trans-, gender, and racial violence addressed by the authors. But assuredly for Zamalin, “Black utopian and antiutopian work chastens contemporary American faith in postracialism—that good intentions and better laws could solve the problem of racism, as if it can be remedied through better civic education or harsher penalties for bad deeds” (140). This faith in postracialism or a postracial moment can only be further secured by “better” law, though there is little reference to the profane system of belief and commandment that composes America’s existing juridical order and cannot be separated from anti-blackness. It is the moralistic undertone and the peculiar (and perverse) pairing of political reform and black futurity with which Black Utopia ends that may leave some readers dissatisfied with the book’s promise to provide serious engagement with black political thought. But if this is the case, it is not because something like Afrofuturism or current questions of black futurity do not engage with the political. Rather, it is because Black Utopia oddly partitions off a vast constellation of black political thought that engages with such questions in its intellectual history and in the very present. In her own brilliant explorations of Sun Ra and Octavia Butler’s work, Kara Keeling elucidates the difficult formulation and double bind from which these works labor to imagine a world outside of the preconditions of anti-blackness. Keeling writes on Sun Ra’s Space Is the Place:

Sun Ra’s solution in Space Is the Place to the violence and humiliation of US race relations is to give Black folks a world they can own. Sun Ra seems unconcerned about the specter of African American and Black complicity in a settler colonial project when he advocates for a spatio-temporal rupture in Black consciousness sparked by his musical vibrations and profound enough to transport Black people to another planet. Afrofuturist narratives that advocate for colonizing another planet raise (and less often consider, and/or offer, speculative strategies and solutions to) the ethico-political issues that have attended anti-Black settler colonial societies.[xxii]

Keeling’s attention to how black world-making opposes the act of (white heteronormative) reproduction can be extended to include its opposition to the specters of anti-blackness that qualify an understanding of the ethical and political conditions that structure the modern world. It is worth concluding that hope for a black future is never simply utopic nor dystopic. An aesthetic of black futurity, of what has yet to be from the world as one knows it, cannot be retrieved simply by way of revolutionary instruction. It is in this way that blackness (re-)invents thought, which, in spite of its uncertainty, its contested meaning, or non-meaning, is political. To conclude with Keeling then: “From within the logics of existing possible worlds and the range of possible trajectories into the future that they currently make perceptible, a Black future looks like no future at all.”[xxiii] Otherwise put, the end is not the beginning.

Linette Park is the Thurgood Marshall Postdoctoral Fellow in the African and African American Studies Program at Dartmouth College. She is currently preparing her first book monograph, At the Edge of Abolition: Violence and Imagination in the History of California Lynch Law, which examines the present day “lynching arrests” by interrogating the historical, political, and psychosocial formations of violence that inextricably bind these arrests to the afterlife of racial slavery, lynching, and segregation in the United States. She has published in Theory and Event, Haunt: Journal of Art, and has forthcoming work in the peer-reviewed journals: Black Scholar: Journal of Black Studies and Research, Souls: A Critical Journal of Black Politics, Culture, and Society, and Political Theology.

[i] See Saidiya Hartman and Frank B. Wilderson III, “The Position of the Unthought.” Qui Parle, vol. 13, no. 2, Spring/ Summer 2003, pp. 183-201.

[ii] At the time of writing this, Black Studies celebrates its fiftieth anniversary. The first Black Studies program was established at San Francisco State University in 1970 due to the relentless labor of students who went on strike and fought for the program and for the formation of Ethnic Studies (1968). This historical fact is important because the set of literary and historical references in the study of hope and utopia (and the study of that study) in Black Utopia is somewhat peculiar and problematic given that utopia has been an object of extensive exploration and critique in Black Studies. See forthcoming special issues in the journals on the fiftieth anniversary of Black Studies, “Inheriting Black Studies” with Souls: A Critical Journal of Black Politics, Culture and Society and “What Was Black Studies?” in Black Scholar: Journal of Black Studies and Research (2020).

[iii] Most notably, perhaps, Frantz Fanon has written on the notion of invention in Black Skin, White Masks, translated by Charles Lam Markmann, London, Pluto Press, 1952. The notion of “invention” has also been powerfully taken up in contemporary scholarship by David Marriott in his book, Whither Fanon?: Studies in the Blackness of Being, Stanford University Press, 2018. I take up the notion of disinheritance and anti-blackness as a structural condition of political life in “Whence Disinheritance Holds: On Ida B. Wells and America’s ‘Unwritten Law,” Souls, forthcoming, 2020.

[iv] See Claude Lefort, Democracy and Political Theory, translated by David Macey, Polity, 1991.

[v] For a compelling critique on the politics of hope, humanism, and the political in relation to blackness, see Calvin Warren’s “Black Nihilism and the Politics of Hope.” CR: The New Centennial Review, vol. 15, no. 1, Spring 2015, pp. 215-248.

[vi] Frank Wilderson, Red, White, and Black: Cinema and the Structure of U.S. Antagonisms, Duke University Press, 2010, p. 57.

[vii] For example, he writes: “Utopia in black became much more critical and infused by a sense of tragedy. It became defined by unfinished conversations, unresolved debates, critical problematics which resisted easy resolution.” He writes immediately thereafter: “In black utopia, a sense of committed struggle in the face of the unknown was coupled with a realistic sense of subversion and collapse” (12).

[viii] See David Marriott’s critique of José Muñoz’s Cruising Utopia: The Then and There of Queer Futurity, “Black Cultural Studies.” This Year’s Work in Critical and Cultural Theory, vol. 19, 2011.

[ix] There are several thinkers on this topic that are explored chiefly in the works of Afro-pessimism. See Frantz Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks; Zakiyyah Iman Jackson, “Losing Manhood: Animality and Plasticity in the (Neo)Slave Narrative.” Qui Parle: Critical Humanities and Social Sciences, vol. 25, no. 1-2, 1 Dec. 2016, pp. 95-136; Jared Sexton, “People-of-Color Blindness: Notes on the Afterlife of Slavery.” Social Text, vol. 28, no. 2, summer 2010; Christina Sharpe, In the Wake: On Blackness and Being. Duke University Press, 2016; Frank Wilderson. Red, White, and Black: Cinema and the Structure of U.S. Antagonism; and Sylvia Wynter, “Unsettling the Coloniality of Being/ Power/ Truth/ Freedom: Towards the Human, After Man, Its Overrepresentation—An Argument,” CR: The New Centennial Review, vol. 3, no. 3, 2003), pp. 257-337. David Scott directly contends with the question of the political and a black radical tradition. He writes: “Similarly, radical is an idea no less complex, no less ambiguous (“radical” as opposed to what?), if also no less important to the story of the modern black subject. But in the constrained aftermaths of the various black nationalisms, black Marxism, the Cold War, and so on, what idea of politics does radical signify or organize? It is not easy to say with any certainty. And finally, what idea of a “tradition” does the idea of a black radical tradition depend upon? Tradition is a term with a complex and contested genealogy. Indeed, some would argue that the tradition does not belong in the same semantic universe as radical, appearing as it does to be the very reverse of subversion or transgression. What relation between past, present, and future does a tradition comprehend?… And yet, curiously, however contested, there seems a persisting demand for some notion of a tradition that is black and radical (implicit or explicit, marginal or central) in organizing the strategies of criticism within the discursive area of black intellectual life, some stubborn grain against which to position our dissent, a recognition perhaps that even in our attempts to disengage from the claims of tradition we are nevertheless oriented by it” (2). See David Scott, “On the Very Idea of a Black Radical Tradition.” Small Axe, vol. 17, no. 1, 2013, pp. 1-6.

[x] David Marriott, Haunted Life: Visual Culture and Black Modernity. Rutgers University Press, 2007, p. 102.

[xi] See Jared Sexton. Amalgamation Schemes: Antiblackness and the Critique of Multiculturalism. University of Minnesota Press, 2008.

[xii] Nahum Chandler. X—The Problem of the Negro as a Problem for Thought. Fordham University Press, 2014, p. 137.

[xiii] Chandler, p. 73.

[xiv] Chandler, p. 133.

[xv] See Jared Sexton. “The Social Life of Social Death: On Afro-Pessimism and Black Optimism.” InTensions Journal, Issue 5, Fall/ Winter 2011, pp. 1-47.

[xvi] Sexton, Amalgamation Schemes, p. 175.

[xvii] On this note, it is also worth exploring Dorothy Stringer’s essay, “Psychology and Black Liberation in Richard Wright’s Black Power (1953),” which explains Wright’s attention to the quotidian violence and economic control of post-colonial rule. Stringer also offers an eloquent assessment on Wright’s use of classical psychoanalytic concepts while also departing from Freudian thought to revise his own notion of black identity. Dorothy Stringer, “Psychology and Black Liberation in Richard Wright’s Black Power (1954).” Journal of Modern Literature. vol. 32, no. 4, Summer 2009, pp. 105-124.

[xviii] David Marriott, On Black Men. Columbia University Press, 2000. p. x.

[xix] Marriott, On Black Men, p. xiii.

[xx] Marriott, On Black Men, p. xv.

[xxi] In contradistinction to Zamalin’s use of the messianic here, Marriott, following Fanon, incisively points out that  any liberatory possibility of the future is one that is “radically unwriteable” and that “the revolution, insofar as it always timely in its untimeliness and not just the teleological outcome of what went before, brings neither redemption, nor erasure, but the messianic promise of a new écriture.” See Whither Fanon? p. 25. With this, one could argue that a transformation in the way in which one imagines a black future (or Afrofuturism) is political not because a postracial moment that has yet to arrive delivers a reconciliation with the profound injuries of anti-black racism, but because such a transformation of and from the future presents a “historical awareness of the present as necessarily self-interrupting” unto one’s black being as a radical difference (29).

[xxii] Kara Keeling, Queer Times, Black Futures. New York University Press, 2018, p. 67.

[xxiii] Keeling, p. 67.

Review of Leah Feldman, On the Threshold of Eurasia: Revolutionary Poetics in the Caucasus (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2018)

By Ali Behdad

Edward Said’s 1978 Orientalism has been one of the most influential works in modern literary studies. As a political critique of European representations of the “Orient,” this pioneering text galvanized into existence the vital fields of postcolonial theory and criticism in the United States academy. Orientalism not only riveted the attention of the intellectual establishment on the issue of colonial power by rigorously interrogating the ideological underpinnings of familiar scientific and artistic representations of “otherness” in modern European thought, but it also played a pivotal role in shifting the focus of literary, aesthetic, and cultural criticism from a concern with apolitical formalism to political history. To be sure, from the very moment of its publication, Said’s groundbreaking work attracted more than its fair share of critics. While reactionary commentators such as Bernard Lewis and Robert Irvine[1] attacked Said for misrepresenting the project of Orientalism, the more intellectually rigorous scholars like Ajaz Ahmad and James Clifford challenged Orientalism’s “high humanism,” while taking issue with its use of Foucault’s theory of knowledge-power and indicting its omission of German and Russian Orientalisms.[2]

Despite this barrage of criticism, Said’s almost singularly generative text inspired a whole new generation of scholars who have developed his critique by exploring its implications in novel, and sometimes unexpected, arenas. Scholarly engagements with Orientalism initially were marked by critical revisionism. Lisa Lowe and I, for example, built on Said’s critique of the complicity of European knowledge about the Middle East in the history of Western colonialism by elaborating the complexities of power relations between French and British Orientalists and their objects of representation.[3] Rejecting the monolithic account of Orientalism as a reductive and one-directional discourse of power, we independently argued that difference, ambivalence, and heterogeneity are the fundamental attributes of Orientalist discourse that have ensured its cultural hegemony and political longevity to this day. Meanwhile other scholars set out to rectify Said’s neglect of German and Russian Orientalisms. For example, while Suzanne Marchand has traced the origins of German Orientalism to Renaissance philology and early modern biblical exegesis to address its development in the context of debates about religion and classical schooling during the nineteenth century,[4] David Schimmelpenninck van der Oye and Michael Kemper have explored Russian and Soviet Orientalisms as ambivalent, and at times anti-imperialist, modes of representation.[5]

In recent years, scholarly engagement with Said’s Orientalism has been conspicuously marked by methodological and ideological orthodoxy. As Aamir Mufti laments, “At the present moment, at least in literary studies, attention to Orientalism seems to have reverted more or less exclusively to the form of cataloguing representations of this or that social collective in this or that body of Western literature.”[6] Such an approach, Mufti further observes, is partly the consequence of the dominance of an anglophone form of “world literature” in the Euro-American academy that perpetuates the hegemony of English as the language of critique and literary studies. “If Orientalism, despite its wide reputation, remains still a strangely misunderstood and underexplored book,” he explains, “this is possibly because readers in the literary-critical disciplines are generally still not trained to be at ease in at least some of ‘Orientalist’ archives with which it engages, and those readers who are professionally assigned the mastery of those archives in the division of labor in the humanities sometimes respond defensively to its relentless (and occasionally overreaching) criticism of their disciplinary methods and procedures” (28). Considering this predicament, Mufti cogently argues that “the critique of Orientalism must ultimately lead us to the Orientalized spaces themselves” (24).

Leah Feldman’s On the Threshold of Eurasia[7] offers a compelling example of what the exploration of an “Orientalized space” by a scholar “trained to be at ease” in a non-Western Orientalist archive can productively yield. The book is chronologically organized in two parts. The first “recounts the story of Russian and Muslim cultural interactions” during the revolutionary transition and the second “chronicles the gradual disappearance of heterological networks that connected the Russian, Persian, and Ottoman empires with the creation of new forms of Bolshevik national consciousness” (25, 33-34). At first glance, Feldman’s book appears to be a narrowly focused study of a marginalized, if not marginal, body of literary works by Turkic Muslim writers positioned on the periphery of Russian Empire and Soviet Union, during the revolutionary period from 1905 to 1929 when an alternative or avant-garde Azari literary aesthetic emerged. But the book also offers a nuanced account of an unexamined interplay between Russian Orientalism and anticolonial Marxism. The book provides not only a rich portray of Eurasian literary modernity but “an opportunity to critically assess and develop postcolonial theory to accommodate a world literary scope” (26). In these ways, On the Threshold of Eurasia makes important contributions to recent debates in the field of comparative literature concerning translation studies and world literature.

If, as Emily Apter urges us to do, one were to “imagine a program for a new comparative literature using translation as a fulcrum,”[8] On the Threshold of Eurasia would provide a perfect example of what such a program would look like. Like Apter, Feldman views translation studies and comparative literature as commensurable in that both challenge monolingualism to engage in transnational literary and cultural exchanges. In first part of the book, Feldman addresses the reception and translations of canonical Russian writers such as Nikolai Gogol and Alexander Pushkin by Azeri writers Celil Memmedquluzade and Mirze Feteli Axundov. In the opening chapter, Feldman adopts Said’s comparative methodology to read Gogol’s parodic prose contrapuntally alongside Memmedquluzade’s free translations to “illustrate the role of Russian imperial literature more broadly in forging cultural connections and anticipating ruptures between the Muslim South Caucasus, the Russian imperial metropole, and the transnational Turkic Muslim world” (41). In 1909, the Azari writer and critic introduced the figure of “Qoqol,” a transliteration of the Russian realist writer’s name, in the satirical, eight-page Azerbaijani periodical, Molla Nesreddin, which he edited. Memmedquluzade’s stories pivot around the figure of Molla Nesreddin, the infamous Sufi wise man-cum-fool, to create at once a parody of the imperial literature and a new literary language that fuses Turkic, Persian, and Russian references. Far from merely reproducing Gogol’s text, or even borrowing his plotlines, Feldman convincingly argues that Memmedquluzade’s translations of the Russian writer’s works constitute a political form of literary appropriation which “reframed Gogol’s critique of tsarist bureaucracy through the colonial context and reinvisioned the imperial canon through this Turkic translation of Russian prose” (45). The story “Qurbaneli Bey,” for example, which is a translation, or more accurately an adaptation, of Gogol’s 1836 short story “The Carriage,” is set in the South Caucasus and draws on Gogol’s formal devices such as sound repetitions and metonymy to satirize the class pretentions of landowning Russified Azari elite. In so doing, the story draws attention to the ways class and imperial power are imbricated in Russia’s periphery. As Feldman demonstrates, Memmedquluzade’s appropriation of Gogol’s “narrative about the Russian provinces in the context of the imperial Caucasus [thus] undermines the authority of the Russian imperial bureaucracy, while it offers a metacommentary on the unequal processes of linguistic and literary exchange that occur in translation” (60).

In the second chapter, Feldman explores the literary relation of Azeri poets such as Axundov and Abbas Sehhet with Russian Romantic writers like Pushkin and Mikhail Lermontov. If the parodic works of Gogol provided Memmedqulzade with a model of social critique, the works of Russian romantics furnished Azeri poets with a “counterpoint” they used  both to imagine “a new civic identity and modern subjectivity” and to negotiate “the intertwining influences of Russian, Ottoman, and Persian poetics into an ethos of empathy, staged in a sublime Caucasus imaginary on the threshold of revolution” (83, 82). The process of translating the works of Russian romantics in this case entailed a multilingual form of textuality that “blended revolutionary politics with classical forms of mystical poetry” (86). Drawing on Paul Ricoeur’s theory of translation and Mikhail Bakhtin’s notion of chronotope, Feldman discusses Axundov’s and Sehhet’s intertextual dialogues with Russian Orientalists, an engagement that generated “a new type of cultural identity based in part on Russian romantic poetics but oriented toward pan-Turkic and pan-Islamic forms of cultural and civic identity” (86). Sehhet’s 1912 translations of European and Russian classics, for example, appropriated Orientalist representations of Caucuses to “render the figure of the Muslim Other with dignity and heroism in his native tongue” (102). As a scholar equipped with knowledge of several languages, including Russian, Persian, and Azeri Turkish, as well as being trained to work in non-Western archives, Feldman is able to insightfully identify Sehhet’s translations as the site of a multi-lingual exchange that draws on Persian and Ottoman literary forms such as ghazal and qaṣīda to “provide a vision of poetic intuition, which reinscribes the search for esoteric knowledge onto the sublime poetic topography of the Russian orientalist canon” (104). Feldman’s reframing of “Azeri literary modernity through spaces of critical dialogue” can serve as a model for a new comparative literature that avoids encoding the kind of neocolonial geopolitics that Anglo-centric or Franco-centric studies of world literature often do, however inadvertently (110). Complicating the postcolonialist binaries of center/periphery and power/resistance, Feldman’s discussion of the dialogical nature of modern Azeri poetry thoughtfully attends to “the interlingual, intercultural, and intersubjective experience of being in the world of the text exposed at the threshold sites of intertextual dialogue” (119).

In the second part of On the Threshold of Eurasia, Feldman demonstrates the broader reach of her argument about the heterodoxy of Azeri poetry in the context of the Soviet annexation of its eastern frontier after the October revolution of 1917. Scholars of early Soviet Russia like Michael Kemper and Boris Groys[9] have demonstrated the continuity between Soviet “red Orientalism” and classical Russian Orientalism on the one hand, and pre- and post-revolutionary Russophone aesthetics on the other. Following their lead, Feldman examines the revolutionary vision of literary modernity of Russian and Russophone Azeri writers in Baku where avant-garde Russian poets immigrated during its annexation from 1919-1920 to avoid censorship, and where Azeri poets fashioned a new Turkic poetry marked by a fusion of Marxist-Leninist aesthetics and Arabo-Persian and Ottoman poetic traditions. In chapter 3, Feldman complicates our understanding of Soviet Orientalism which, like its Russian precursor, relied on the work of literary artists, linguists, and social scientists for its discursive power. Drawing on Jacques Rancière’s critical genealogy of avant-garde art and politics in the Politics of Aesthetics, and mining a wide range of Soviet writers and intellectuals, including Sergei Gorodetsky, Velimir Khlebnikov, Viacheslav Ivanov, Tatiana Vechorka, and Grigory Zinoviev, Feldman elucidates the contours of the Janus-faced project of Soviet Orientalism. While much of the scholarship on Soviet Orientalism focuses either on its opposition to the bourgeois Russian tradition of Oriental scholarship or its support for the liberation of East from Euro-American imperialism, Feldman offers a more nuanced understanding of it as a paradoxical discourse that simultaneously celebrates and rejects the past. She shows that much of the Soviet avant-garde poetry produced between 1919 and 1920 relied on a Russian romantic Orientalist imaginary of the Caucasus while simultaneously aiming to create a Muslim communist subjectivity to free the “brave” Caucasian from the shackles of Euro-American imperialism. As Feldman puts it, “while the image of the Caucasus as the center of the new Soviet Orient formally denounced the imperial imaginary, it simultaneously drew on its discursive power to instrumentalize Muslim support for the Bolshevik revolution, mapping imperial Eurasian geopolitics onto a Marxist-Leninist anti imperial ideological platform” (127).

In the concluding chapter, Feldman engages the formal and ideological ambivalences of post-revolutionary poetry produced by the Azari Writers’ group Red Pens, created by the Soviet Council of Propaganda in 1925. Borrowing Fredric Jameson’s model of narrative as a socially symbolic act, presented in his 1981 The Political Unconscious, Feldman considers a series of works, including Huseyn Cavid’s play Ibis, Nazim Hikmet’s Song of the Sun Drinkers, and Süleyman Rüstam’s From Sadness to Happiness, to trace their role in the formation of a “national Bolshevik political unconscious” and to invent a new Turkic poetics (207). Like their pre-revolutionary counterparts, these poets retained “ties to the romantic symbolism of the Arabo-Persian-Ottoman lyric tradition” (178). Yet, Feldman argues, what distinguishes the works of these writers from those of Memmedqulzade, Axundov and Sehhet is the instrumentality of their art as they repurposed the pan-Turkic oral cultural tradition for propagandist revolutionary purposes. Culturally influenced, if not politically pressured, by the aesthetic materialism of Leon Trotsky and Vladimir Mayakovsky, who considered art a “hammer with which to shape society,”[10] Rüstam and his Red Pen colleagues saw their work as a vehicle to move the supranational Pan-Turkic community towards a Muslim communist future. Both Rüstam and Hikmet, for example, deployed the genre of the Turkic folk ballad to “excite and organize the Muslim worker-reader as central to the creation of postrevolutionary Azeri poetry under the first years of Soviet control” (177).

In “Traveling Theory,” Said warned us that a theoretical or methodological “breakthrough can become a trap, if it is used uncritically, repetitively, limitlessly,” reiterating Raymond Williams’ prescient observation that “once an idea gains currency because it is clearly effective and powerful, there is every likelihood that during its peregrinations it will be reduced, codified, and institutionalized.”[11] It is ironic, but hardly surprising, that this predicament characterizes much of scholarship that has engaged with Said’s Orientalism. Against this background, reading On the Threshold of Eurasia feels like a breath of fresh air, both intellectually and politically. What is refreshing about Feldman’s book is that it avoids the trap of Saidian orthodoxy which would have resulted in an application of Orientalism to the Eurasian context. Instead, Feldman broadens Said’s theoretical insights by attending to the complex “imbrications of imperial and anti-imperial discourses that animate literary representations across the empire and their role in the formation of Russian and Soviet literary modernity” (26). Reading together the poetic representations of the Caucasus by Azeri and Russian/Soviet writers, Feldman thus provides readers with an intricate understanding of not only the “orientalist vision of Eurasia and its attendant Bolshevik Eastern International but also the ways in which these discourses informed the creation of a modern Turkic literary subjectivity” (215).

Ali Behdad is John Charles Hillis Professor of Literature, Professor of English and Comparative Literature, and the Director of the Center for Near Eastern Studies at UCLA. He is the author of Belated Travelers: Orientalism in the Age of Colonial Dissolution (Duke University Press, 1994), A Forgetful Nation: On Immigration and Cultural Identity in the United States (Duke University Press, 2005), Camera Orientalis: Reflections on photography of the Middle East (University of Chicago Press, 2016), and the co-editor of A Companion to Comparative Literature (Blackwell, 2011) and Photography’s Orientalism: New Essays on Colonial Representation (Getty Research Institute, 2013).

[1] Bernard Lewis, “the Question of Orientalism,” Islam and the West, (Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press, 1993), pp. 99-118; Robert Irwin, For Lust of Knowing: The Orientalists and their Enemies, (London: Allen Lane, 2006).

[2] Ajaz Ahmad, In Theory: Classes, Nations, Literatures (London: Verso, 1992); James Clifford, “On Orientalism,” in Predicaments of Culture (Harvard University Press, 1988), 225–76.

[3] Lisa Lowe, Critical terrains: French and British Orientalisms (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1991); Ali Behdad, Belated Travelers: Orientalism in the Age of Colonial Dissolution (Durham: Duke University Press, 1994).

[4] Susan Marchand, German Orientalism in the Age of Empire: religion, Race and Scholarship (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009).

[5] David Schimmelpenninck van der Oye, Russian Orientalism: Asia in the Russian Mind from Peter the Great to the Emigration (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2010); Michael Kemper, “Red Orientalism: Mikhail Pavlovich and Marxist Oriental Studies in Early Soviet Russia,” Die Welt des Islams 50 (2010): 435-476; Michael Kemper, “The Soviet Discourse on the Origin and Class character of Islam, 1923-1933,” Die Welt des Islams 49 (2009): 1-48.

[6] Aamir Mufti, Forget English! Orientalisms and World Literature (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2016), 23.

[7] Leah Feldman, On the Threshold of Eurasia: Revolutionary Poetics in the Caucasus (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2018).

[8] Emily Apter, The Translation Zone: A New Comparative Literature (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006), 243.

[9] Michael Kemper, “Red Orientalism: Mikhail Pavlovich and Marxist Oriental Studies in Early Soviet Russia,” Die Welt des Islams 50 (2010): 435-476; Boris Groys, The Total Art of Stalinism, Trans. Charles Rougle, (London: Verso, 2011).

[10] As Feldman notes, this statement has been attributed to both Bertolt Brecht and Vladimir Mayakovsky, and further elaborated by Leon Trotsky in his 1924 treatise Literature and Revolution, 179. The Azeri post-revolutionary poets, Feldman further observes, were also inspired by the Marxist spiritualism of the Polish polymath Alexander Bogdanov who in his 1918 essay “The Proletariat and Art” theorized the function of art as the “weapon or tool of the social organization of people” (183).

[11] Edward Said, The World, the Text, and the Critic (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1983), 239.

by Conall Cash 

This article has been peer-reviewed by the b2o editorial board.

Review of Martin Hägglund, This Life: Secular Faith and Spiritual Freedom (New York: Pantheon, 2019)

I.

Capitalism and religion: incontrovertible opponents, or strange bedfellows? If we understand religion as a perspective which defines mortal, temporal existence in negative relation to an eternal order of meaning, capitalism’s devotion to endless growth, and its ceaseless effort to commodify all features of the natural world and of our individual selves may seem to thwart the eternal stasis that religious life calls us towards. For a critic of modernity such as Max Weber, this conflict produces the essentially tragic nature of the modern “disenchantment of the world,” brought about by capitalism as a process which erodes the traditions that had given individuals a sense of their place in a universal, perpetual order. The loss of eternity then appears as a loss of all experience of fundamental meaning and a retreat into the throes of relativism, leaving us to live the uniquely mundane existences of those who can no longer access a realm of meaning once available to our forebears. Capitalism and modernity are from this perspective indeed defined as atheistic, and the atheism which they offer is the negative experience of losing a vision of eternity which could make us bear our mortal and limited existence.

For Martin Hägglund, in his important new book, This Life: Secular Faith and Spiritual Freedom, the perspective represented by Weber drastically fails to grasp the questions posed by modernity and secularism. Most significantly, its tragic anti-modernism fails to grasp the ways in which capitalism in fact continues to reinforce the premises which enable religion to hold traction in society and to negate the value of life itself. For Hägglund, even in our supposedly secular age we need to take seriously Karl Marx’s claim that “the critique of religion is the premise of all critique,” and to understand why Marx’s critique of capitalism “is intertwined with his critique of religion,” and why we “cannot understand one without the other.”[1] This entails a sharply distinct conception of atheism from Weber’s, which Hägglund considers in fact to be a tacitly “religious” atheism (17).

For Hägglund, capitalism and religion have one essential feature in common: they both devalue the finite time of our lives. Grasping the full meaning of this claim is the key to unlocking the profound moral and political inspiration of this far-reaching book, which moves across its 400 pages from a defence of “secular faith” as an alternative to religious faith, to a defence of “democratic socialism” as the necessary form of economic organisation in which the value of our finite lives can be respected. Rather than condemning either religion or capitalism on the abstract grounds of moral utopianism – or the abstract rationalism of the ‘new atheism’ – Hägglund carries out what he calls an immanent critique of both, working from an analysis of what they themselves claim to value, so as to show that they require upholding contradictory beliefs and are incapable of providing us with the things we profess to care about.

The religious devaluing of our finite lives demands a deeper critique than the one made by traditional atheism. As we have just seen with Weber, such atheism considers the absence of God as something realistic which we must have the “courage” to accept (17), but remains a devastating loss, damaging our sense of ourselves and the meaning of our lives. Already in his 2008 book, Radical Atheism: Derrida and the Time of Life, Hägglund proposed an alternative philosophical understanding of the premises of atheism. While traditional atheism has “limited itself to denying the existence of God and immortality,” thus conceiving of mortality as “a lack of being that we desire to transcend,” what Hägglund calls radical atheism involves showing that such immortality, such fullness of being, is not only inexistent, but undesirable.[2] It is undesirable because there could be no experience of life, or care for anything at all, for an immortal being. To want to keep on living is to want to remain in the mortal condition of someone who cares about what they do with their time, not to be relieved of this condition in immortality.

As Hägglund remarks by way of Derrida, it is not that “God is dead,” but rather, “God is death”: the idea of a being that lives without the ineradicable danger of its own destruction undermines itself from within, since such a life would have no reason to desire, strive, or care for anything, and would thus be indistinguishable from death.[3] The desire to “live on” after one’s death is inconceivable as a desire to escape mortal finitude, since nothing that could ever belong to life could ever be experienced by a non-temporal, non-mortal being. For example, as Hägglund explores in the first chapter of This Life, the lover who mourns their dead beloved and dreams of being together with them again after death is dreaming not of immortality, but of a prolongation of mortal existence. Love comes into being, and is sustained, insofar as I care about my life, what I do with it, and who I spend it with – a care that would be meaningless if life were without end. The desire I express in wanting to be reunited with my beloved is not a desire for eternity, but a desire to prolong our finite time together, to keep this fragile thing, our love, together for a while longer, in the mortal condition that is the only one which could ever give it any sense or any life.

This Life expands upon the idea of radical atheism by developing an alternative foundation for ethics on the basis of our recognition of the fragility of mortal survival. Hägglund calls this “secular faith,” a practice of keeping faith with the finite and fragile things we value as ends in themselves, rather than seeing finitude as something which limits them. Once we recognise that immortality is a non-category — because God, or any immortal force however defined, doesn’t just not exist, but is a concept in complete contradiction with that of existence — we can start to recognise what we are truly doing when we engage in ethical reflection and action. Ethics is in fact always about striving to preserve the things we value within the mortal realm of finitude, and implicitly recognises that these things are fragile and that their survival is not guaranteed. For this reason, ethics as such contains an implicit critique of religion, and secular faith would make this critique explicit.

Religious faith fails to do justice to ethics by devaluing mortal life, positing immortality as the realm wherein everything lost will be redeemed, and purporting to save us from the fragility and uncertainty of mortal commitments. In doing so, it makes ethics in principle impossible, by undermining any reason to care about the things and people of this world as ends in themselves. As Hägglund argues, the deepest level of religion’s undermining of the true basis for ethical life is its effort to transcend the temporal basis of existence, instead of recognising that existence, and ethics, are incoherent without such a temporal condition. For it is only by being subject to time that I can care about pursuing things; only by being subject to mortality that I am free to choose what I value and what I am prepared to give up my time for and even risk my life for; only by being subject to a fragility without guarantees of salvation that I can care about anything or make a commitment. Hägglund’s approach to ethics in terms of a secular faith which recognises the absolute absence of guarantees calls to mind, amongst others, the thought of Maurice Merleau-Ponty, who writes of the experience of commitment that “History makes irresolute opponents possible because it is itself ambiguous.”[4]

Secular faith recognises that, in trying to act ethically, what we are doing is keeping the values we believe in alive, for they have no existence except that which is given to them by finite individuals. Thus, secular faith not only restores the value of our own ethical activity by making it an end in itself rather than a means to the end of serving God; it also restores the extreme importance and fragility of this activity. If I do not act to keep the things I believe in alive, they may cease to exist forever. As Hägglund remarks, this puts the lie to the famous declaration from Dostoevsky’s Brothers Karamazov, that if God does not exist, everything is permitted. In fact, “the truth is the other way around” (169): if God exists, everything is permitted, because everything will ultimately be redeemed and the good will never be lost. The non-existence of God means that nothing but our own efforts will stop the things we believe in from disappearing from the world, forever (and even our efforts will never provide any permanent guarantee), and thus it demands of us that we only choose actions we consider justifiable. The absence of God is thus the foundation for ethical responsibility.

Atheism is now a banal enough perspective that it may be easy to miss the significance of Hägglund’s argument. What is at stake in the dismantling of the idea of immortality, not just as empirically unjustifiable but as logically contradictory, is more than the sober recognition that I will cease utterly to be when I die. Rather, both radical atheism and secular faith require us to recognise that everything is fragile and at ineradicable risk of extinction, insofar as it must exist in time in order to exist at all. What the idea of secular faith demands is that we recognise that, since to exist is to exist temporally, it is also to exist in a state of fragility and in constant relation to disappearance. All concepts of the eternal and the permanent, even seemingly non-religious ones, therefore have to be dispensed with.

It is possible, after all, to accept one’s own mortality without this changing the fundamentals of how one thinks about the meaning of one’s life: I can believe, for example, in the necessity of progress which will go on beyond my death, making it an iron rule equivalent to that of God. Or I may believe in the opposite, in the inevitability of destruction, in nature taking its revenge on all human projects. Hägglund’s point is that even this attitude has not decisively broken with religious faith, since it continues to deny the irreducible importance of our finite existence by appealing to something necessary, immutable, and beyond control. For much the same reason, Hägglund clearly distinguishes his own position from that of the most famous of anti-religious thinkers, Friedrich Nietzsche. Nietzsche seeks to resolve the problem posed by mortal finitude and the fragility of life by means of “amor fati,” a love of fate or embrace of necessity, where one would accept one’s incapacity to control what happens and embrace the inevitability of death. As Hägglund points out, paradoxically, Nietzsche’s amor fati is a way of protecting oneself against suffering, because this love of fate is for Nietzsche a form of “strength” which saves one from experiencing suffering as suffering, loss as loss. “Fate” becomes another concept of the eternal, and embracing death becomes another way of denying the value of finite life, just as religion does. Secular faith, by contrast, demands that we “remain vulnerable to a pain that no strength can finally master” (49). To live according to the insight of radical atheism, that immortality is undesirable and at odds with any and every conception of life, requires taking the fragility of ourselves and of everything that we value seriously, by doing our best to preserve and extend the things we value into the finite future. It means refusing anything that dampens our experience of the fragile character of temporally bound existence, including the abandonment of freedom and risk implied by the “strength” of amor fati.

Hägglund’s distinction between ethical life as a care for our finite time and a religious thought which denies its value emerges most strongly through his analysis of Søren Kierkegaard’s Fear and Trembling, where the Danish philosopher affirms the faith shown by Abraham in accepting to sacrifice his son, Isaac, at God’s command. The story of Isaac is the extreme consequence of the contradiction between religious faith and responsibility to finite life. God’s command that Abraham kill his son demonstrates that the perspective of immortality “has nothing to teach you about moral responsibility,” for an immortal being would be incapable of understanding any moral question (170). To be bound to morality is to be bound to the knowledge that time, and thus our actions, are irreversible, that the risk is always there that everything may be lost, and that the lives we care for are precious because they are irreplaceable. Abraham could not love Isaac without the knowledge of Isaac’s absolute singularity and the preciousness of his unique life. In accepting God’s command, in pledging faith to one whom he believes, against all evidence and all care, must be right, Abraham renounces the entire matrix in which moral decisions can be made or conceived.

While extreme, the story of Isaac brings out a logic at work in all religious faith and all ideas of eternity: they negate the value of a life that is precious because it is finite. It is beside the point to criticise this argument by indicating, as does James G. Chappel in a review of This Life in Boston Review, that many people experience their religious faith as an enhancement of their commitment to the world we live in. Hägglund’s point is that as soon as we conceive of an eternal force such as God as a presence in our lives who helps us care for finite things as ends in themselves, as soon as we speak of God’s virtue as one which allows us to do good in this world, we are implicitly acceding to secular faith, and the idea of God or eternity does not have anything to offer our moral vision. Hägglund’s aim is to show that the best of who we are and what we do never requires the idea of eternal life, salvation, or bliss, for when we act ethically towards others as ends in themselves – rather than because we believe it will please God, or that it will help us become worthy of Him – we act according to an implicit recognition that finite life matters absolutely, because the time in which it takes place is irreversible and untranscendable, and cannot be held in any permanence even in the mind of God, since this permanence would be sheer annihilation and death.

The idea of the eternal is inimical to every form of care, responsibility, and moral action, inimical to the very conditions in which these things are even comprehensible. For this reason it is misplaced to criticise Hägglund’s approach to religion as purely pertaining to Western monotheism, as Chappel also does. Hägglund’s engagement with the idea of nirvana via the Buddhist theologian Steven Collins makes additionally clear that what is at stake is not a particular way of defining the eternal, but the idea that finite life is a lack which the notion of eternity can allow us to cope with, which is equally alive in a religion without a God such as Buddhism. If a genuine counter-argument were to be made to Hägglund’s account of religious faith, it would have to respond to this general definition of the eternal and its making of finite, embodied life into a means rather than an end in itself; and it would have to respond to Hägglund’s argument that religious believers themselves misrecognise the value of their own ethical behaviour when they appeal to a transcendent force as its inspiration and justification.

It is true that Hägglund’s perspective is philosophical rather than sociological, and in a world in which persecution on religious grounds continues apace (including explicitly ‘atheistic’ oppression of religious groups, such as the oppression of the Uyghur in China), it would be immensely irresponsible to use his argument to condemn religious believers themselves, or to flatten the cultural and historical distinctions that inform the life of particular religious communities. But to do so would be to misunderstand the nature of his argument, which aims at an immanent critique showing that a secular perspective can allow us to consciously own our own care, our own ethical commitments, and calls upon religious believers to reflect on whether their faith truly allows them to affirm these commitments. When religious believers see God as virtuous because He enables them to do good in this world, they are taking this world as an end in itself and are therefore acting on secular rather than religious faith – just as, if you say that God would never command the killing of Isaac, “you profess faith in a standard of value independent of God, since you believe that it is wrong to sacrifice Isaac regardless of what God commands” (170).

II.

Hägglund’s perspective is thus diametrically opposed to that of Weber which I sketched above. For Weber, the decline of religious faith in modernity is a tragic loss of what made a meaningful life possible. What Hägglund argues by contrast is that the overcoming of religion does not leave us with a lack, but with a tremendous gain: through it, we have gained the capacity to find meaning in our lives ourselves, through the very same finite condition that threatens us with the potential loss of all meaning. Secular faith makes it possible for us to fully recognise what religion has distanced us from, namely, “the value of our finite time.”

For Weber, as Hägglund points out in his Introduction, it is precisely this experience of temporal finitude that sunders all meaning. In his lecture “Science as a Vocation,” Weber particularly emphasises that death ceases to be “a meaningful phenomenon” in modernity, because modernity’s commitment to progress means that we can no longer die “fulfilled by life,” as could the subjects of pre-modern societies who saw themselves as part of an “organic cycle” (15). Instead, once we affirm the secular project of progress, death can only be experienced as a meaningless interruption that cuts us off from access to everything we value, and whose finality renders a life devoted to this secular progress meaningless, since death will interrupt it once and for all and prevent us from ever experiencing the “end” of progress. Secular progress entails the acceptance that time is a mundane, unidirectional phenomenon in which every present passes away. It refuses the idea of organic cycles of life, instead judging each life on the basis of its contribution to something that ceaselessly outstrips the individual and is fundamentally indifferent to any individual’s intrinsic qualities.

The critique of the notion of historical progress has a strong lineage on the left. It is easy to see why: progress is a central feature of the Enlightenment conception of a gradual emancipation from irrationality, and has often been put in the service of an ideology of ceaseless development, fitting all too easily with the capitalist (and Stalinist) doctrine of perpetual growth. As Walter Benjamin pointed out in his theses “On The Concept of History,” the acceptance of such a notion of progress by social democratic parties involved a drastic depoliticisation of the workers’ movement, and an acceptance of the basic ideological features of capitalism within the oppositional movement itself.

But everything depends here on how we conceive of this progress. Progress as a necessary development implies that it will go on independently of our interference, just as Hägglund has shown that for religious faith, nothing we do impacts the object of our faith in itself. If, instead, we identify progress as a project of secular faith, we are not defending a necessary movement whose goals are pre-defined and transcendent, but our own commitment to the mortal survival and improvement of the things we believe in, to a progress towards our own chosen ends whose realisation depends on us, and which can never be guaranteed. This likewise allows us to see that the evanescence of the present is not a loss that makes fidelity to the past or to the suffering of the downtrodden impossible. It simply demands that we take seriously the weight of our own effort to keep faith with a past that is gone, aware that in keeping it alive we are also changing it, fitting it to our own context, since we are keeping it alive for us. This is not a tragedy, but a condition of relating to anything at all.

Perhaps the greatest challenge Hägglund sets himself is to rescue Marxism for what he identifies as the secular project of temporal finitude and the erasure of the eternal. This same text of Benjamin’s might be seen as a canonical expression of the view within Marxism that Hägglund’s project opposes, a view according to which Marxism needs a non-secular (what Benjamin would call theological) conception of time in order to sustain itself. Benjamin proposes here that the idea of progress entails a conception of “homogenous, empty time” which must be “filled” with a “mass of data.” He opposes to this the “now-time” or “messianic time” he associates with revolutions, an experience of time not as an empty container that is “filled” with various contents, but as an absolute present or “standstill,” qualitatively distinct from the linearity of homogenous, empty time. Benjamin argues that such a conception of time as a heterogenous field punctuated by qualitatively different moments can allow us to repoliticise the past, as the fullness of these moments or “monads” can be reawakened in the present.[5]

Concepts like “messianic time” counter capitalism’s quantifying logic with appeals to something irreducibly qualitative. But as Hägglund argues, we can affirm qualities – the things that we value – only by freely choosing them, against the backdrop of the ceaseless falling away of the present, which is what makes choosing possible in the first place, since complete self-presence would cancel out any need to choose. In other words, a genuinely qualitative experience of time does not refuse, but accepts and affirms that time entails succession without consummation, without the salvation of eternity or a fully present “now”. The “emptiness” and non-consummation of time, the fact that it makes impossible any total self-presence, any final unity of the self or of the world, because we are always falling away from and redefining ourselves, is the most basic condition of possibility for freedom. The dull feeling that sometimes hits us when we are confronted with the emptiness of a time that we no longer know how to fill with meaningful activity is a perennial risk of living a free life, the risk that we will commit ourselves to something that will fail and leave us unfulfilled, something that we will cease to find meaningful. We have to understand this risk and this challenge when we decide what to commit ourselves to, rather than imagining that this temporal condition could ever be transcended, or that we would want it to be. It is because time offers no salvation that it matters what values we choose, what qualities we affirm as our own. On a societal level, it is the way that different forms of economic organisation do, or do not, make it possible for individuals to experience themselves as free beings possessed of time of their own, which should be at the core of how we evaluate these economic systems ethically.

III.

For Hägglund, the question of capitalism’s achievements, its limitations, and the possibility of founding a post-capitalist society on the basis of an alternative conception of value, hinge directly on the question of free time. Capitalism’s lasting achievement is that it has made the experience of what it is to have free time possible on a general scale. Wage labour establishes the principle that a certain amount of my time is given over to an employer to do what they ask of me, while the rest of my time is, formally speaking, my own, to do what I like with. I as an individual am not fundamentally defined by my assigned social role, in the way that a serf or a slave is, and this allows for the experience of free time. Such an experience of time is an essential condition for individuals to be able to understand themselves as free, to be able to call into question their behaviours and their norms, and to change these norms and pursue new, self-chosen ideals. Any romantic hearkening back to a time of “enchantment” in which individuals may have experienced time “qualitatively,” in the sense that they felt themselves fully in sync with the temporal rhythms of natural cycles or the collective meaning of social rituals, is fundamentally reactionary, because such concepts of enchantment and quality depend on the unfreedom of individuals to choose these experiences or to reflect upon them. The eradication of such forms of unfreedom is the great historical virtue of capitalism, in which “all that is solid melts into air.”

But capitalism never realises the promise it offers of freeing up time to be used for pursuing self-directed ends. We know this experientially, by the fact that our dependence upon wage labour is not decreasing, that however exponential society’s technological growth, working hours do not decrease; or when they do, they produce the crisis of unemployment rather than the opportunity of increased freedom. Hägglund reconstructs Marx’s analysis of the internal dynamic of capital with admirable clarity, showing that this failure of capitalism to fulfil the promise of free time is not a contingent or historically particular limitation, but a necessary feature of it as an economic mode of production.

Under capitalism, the measure of value is the socially necessary labour time of the production of commodities. As Hägglund argues, the labour theory of value, as Marx uses it, does not involve claiming that labour is a metaphysical or transhistorical essence that creates a mystical thing called value, as if this process were a natural phenomenon outside the domain of our control. The labour theory of value explains how we value things under capitalism; but it is entirely possible that we could value things in a different way, and the possibility of democratic socialism depends above all on such a “revaluation of value”. Just as his immanent critique of religion showed that the things we affirm in religious faith can only ever be truly valued and cared for by means of secular faith, Hägglund will likewise show in his immanent critique of capitalism that capital, even while being unable to value our finite time, implicitly recognises it as what we value most fundamentally whenever we participate in economic life. This is what is at stake in the difference between the capitalist measure of value as “socially necessary labour time,” and the measure of value Hägglund argues can be the basis for democratic socialism, which he calls “socially available free time.”

Capitalism cannot value our free time, because it can only recognise human labour as a source of value, and so is compelled to exploit it and ceaselessly reduce our free time. The clarity of Hägglund’s approach allows him to provide definitive critiques of the economic theories which have claimed to overcome Marx, most notably the marginalist theory of neoclassical economics, as well as the contemporary work of Thomas Piketty. What all such theories have in common is a lack of concern for production, reducing the sphere of economy to the distribution of goods, while seeing production as something natural that cannot be questioned or changed. While theories of supply and demand like that of neoclassicism may explain the spatial dynamic of how goods circulate within an economy, they can say nothing of the temporal dynamic of how the economy grows, how at the end of the process of production and circulation there is more wealth in the whole system than there was before, enabling the increased investment of capital.

This is where the labour theory of value, provided that it is understood as a description of the internal dynamic of the capitalist process of valorisation rather than as a metaphysical and transhistorical vital force, remains valid and unsurpassed. Human labour is not innately more valuable than machine production, for example. It is simply that because under capitalism the only way to sustain the economy and keep society functioning is to increase the profit of capitalists – since these are the only people who can employ workers and thereby spread wealth under this system – the measure of value has to be a measure of growth, and this growth has to come at a cost. There is one factor in the capitalist process of production and circulation that is an absolute cost: the lifetime of those living beings who do productive work.

An economic system organised around profit and growth – not because of the individual selfishness of capitalists, but because this is the only way capitalism can sustain itself as an economic form, and the only way human society can sustain itself as long as it accepts capitalism – can only ever measure value in terms of cost, and for this reason the sustaining of capitalism will always and necessarily involve the eating up of the lifetime of workers, not for a purpose that is chosen by us as a society, but for the undemocratic purposes of an economy that rules over society itself. This is why capitalism is organised around human labour as an absolute source of value, and why no matter how much growth it produces, it will never be able to stop demanding more labour time and devouring the time of our lives. By starting from the point of view of our finite time as our most precious resource, Hägglund has reconstructed Marx’s critique of political economy with the utmost clarity, shearing it of the metaphysical trappings of so many readings.

IV.

Yet even as capitalism measures value only in terms of the cost, the loss of our finite time through socially necessary labour time, the very fact that it counts this time as a cost recognises implicitly that this finite time is what we truly value. Socially necessary labour wouldn’t be valuable if it were not defined in opposition to something positive, beyond necessity, namely the time that belongs to us to use in the “realm of freedom”: time which is valuable as an end in itself rather than as a means to the end of gaining something else. Capitalism “treats the negative measure of value as though it were the positive measure of value and thereby treats the means of economic life as though they were the end of economic life” (257). The crucial question for Hägglund’s vision of democratic socialism is, can we turn this positive value – the value of our finite time as living beings – into the economic measure of value? And if so, what would this look like?

The immanent critique of capitalism in Marx, rearticulated through Hägglund’s understanding of the finitude of lived time as the measure of all value, leads to an alternative conception of value based in exactly that which capitalism sees only as a cost: ‘socially available free time’. Democratic socialism is the name Hägglund gives to an economic form that would make socially available free time its measure of value, fulfilling the promise that capitalism presents by implicitly grasping that the time of finite life is the measure of all value, while failing to realise it. “We are already committed to the value of free time,” Hägglund writes; what we need is to realise this commitment as a society, in the way that we socially recognise what is valuable. Socially available free time is free because in it we are able to pursue ends which we choose ourselves; it is nonetheless socially available, since it is our social bonds that make this time available to us and give it meaning.

If I didn’t live in society and didn’t require recognition from others for fulfilment, free time would have no intrinsic value for me; I might use it to engage in play or rest, but I could not grasp it as my own time, to devote to commitments that I choose for myself. Such a limited experience of freedom is proper to what Hägglund calls the domain of “natural freedom” shared by all living beings, to the extent that they have a surplus of time beyond that which they have to devote to staying alive, time which can be used to freely engage in purposive activities in which they respond actively to their environment, making decisions based on their experience. However, while beings that live solely within the realm of natural freedom can question the means by which they pursue their aims (for example, by choosing to hunt in one area rather than another, on the basis of experience of their environment), they cannot question and redefine these aims themselves.

Socially available free time, by contrast, is premised on a positive conception of freedom, which Hägglund articulates as the “spiritual freedom” that human beings show themselves to be capable of. Spiritual freedom involves the capacity to bring one’s own received norms into question and to choose to pursue others of one’s own choosing. As a form of “practical self-relation” in which we are capable not just of changing our behaviour to reach our goal, but of changing what counts for us as a goal at all, spiritual freedom is only presently observable in human beings, but it does not refer to an essence. Just as with the early Marx’s notion of species being, the only “nature” implied by spiritual freedom is that “there is no natural way for us to be and no species requirements that can exhaustively determine the principles in light of which we act” (177). This definition of spiritual freedom is not necessarily limited to human beings, since it is defined as a practical form of self-relation and not as a biological or anthropological essence. If another animal, or a form of life created technologically, were to exhibit such practical self-relation, they would be included in the domain of spiritually free beings.

Spiritual freedom is directly tied to temporal finitude and the fragility of embodied life, as these are necessary conditions for our capacity to reflect on our norms and choose new ones. Human beings are spiritually free because we possess not only a surplus of time beyond that required for physical survival, but also the ability to choose what ends we will devote our finite time to pursuing. The complexity of an economy is always a reflection of spiritual freedom, as the most basic defining condition of an economy is the fact that we have a finite time of life and an interest in using that time for the pursuit of self-directed ends. Democratic socialism, then, as well as realising the implicit promise of capitalism to value our free time, will realise that which is implicit in economic life as such, namely the fact that we possess the capacity to choose what we care about and to live according to this end. The democratic part is essential because spiritual freedom can be realised only through making production subject to democratic decision, through collective ownership which organises production around the things that society collectively decides are needed, rather than what a capitalist can make profitable. Nobody can realise their capacity to choose their own ends, to own their own life in its finitude, if their choices about what to do and who to be are limited to the range of occupations that can provide profit to a capitalist. Under capitalism, even if I get to pursue a career I care about, the degree of my freedom is sustained only by the overall wealth in society, which can only be produced through exploitative wage labour in which people have to work for the purpose of capitalist profits.

Spiritual freedom makes a concrete and essential task of the popular assertion that no one is free until all of us are free, by showing that my freedom quite literally depends on the freedom of other people to recognise it. If I create an artwork and show it to you, this work cannot be recognised as the creative act of a spiritually free individual unless the viewer is free to decide for themselves whether they find it a good or interesting work. If I am your employer, and you have reason to believe that expressing a low opinion of my artwork will lead me to fire you, then I myself have lost the socially recognised freedom to be valued for who I am, rather than for the power I can wield to limit your freedom: “For any one of us to be recognized as free, others must have their own free time to confirm or challenge our self-conception” (322).

This is what is at stake in making socially available free time our measure of value: in recognising the ownership of our finite time as a democratic right, we in turn recognise this free time as something that society makes possible, and individuals are able to see their own ends, their own cares, present in the objective form of social institutions. Now that production is no longer organised on the basis of profit, social institutions see their purpose as both to free up time and to provide settings for its meaningful use through democratically chosen ends that individuals can relate to in their freely chosen ways. Once socially available free time is recognised as a social value rather than merely an individual care which we can pursue during the time that an employer doesn’t demand that we give up to them, freedom can be conceived of not only negatively but positively. “To lead a free life it is not sufficient that we are exempt from direct coercion and allowed to make choices. To lead a free life we must be able to recognize ourselves in what we do, to see our practical activities as expressions of our own commitments” (299).

The transition from socially necessary labour time to socially available free time as our measure of value is thus a new way of articulating the idea of alienation, and its overcoming. No concept in Marxism is more debated than this one, and one of the great virtues of This Life is that it helps reframe our understanding of it, by defending the need for a critique of alienation while removing it from the metaphysical and even religious framing in which both Marxists and anti-Marxists have often placed it. A certain Marxist tradition has turned human labour into a metaphysical essence, declaring that capitalism has alienated this essence by removing labourers’ control and ownership of their products, turning our creative labour into abstract, homogenous work carried out for the end of profit. This analysis, which claims (falsely, as Hägglund demonstrates) an allegiance to the young Marx’s 1844 “Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts,” then affirms that communism or socialism will reclaim that lost essence and allow us to relate immediately to our own innate creative capacities, our own needs and desires. On the other hand, many Marxists have been understandably skeptical about the metaphysical essentialism involved in such an analysis, and jetissoned the idea of alienation altogether. Most famously, Louis Althusser proposed that a definitive “epistemological break” took place between the early, “humanist” Marx concerned with alienation, and the mature Marx who embarked on a radically new, “scientific” project of the critique of capital. The great limitation of this position, however, was and remains its incapacity to provide any moral vision of why socialism would be a good thing. The allergic response to the theory of alienation resulted in a theory that could be highly astute in its approach to political strategy, but almost entirely empty of the emancipatory vision that could make such politics meaningful to large numbers of people, or make it even in principle democratic.

Hägglund of course refuses the traditional Marxist view of labour as a creative human essence that has to be returned to us so that we can be our true selves again, perhaps in the way that people were during the time of “primitive communism”. The concept of spiritual freedom shows that we have no true self except that which we make through a continual process of revaluing our own values, deciding for ourselves what we are through the way we live, against the backdrop of our finite limits. Likewise, the notions of radical atheism and secular faith demonstrate that the idea of a living being bearing a permanent essence is logically incoherent, for to exist and to relate to oneself and others is necessarily to be exposed to fragility and change by virtue of existing in time. But he nonetheless affirms that capitalism is an alienating form of economic life, and that democratic socialism will overcome this alienation. Capitalism is not alienating because of any particular content to what it valorises, and the particular needs or desires we experience within capitalism are not simply ‘false,’ since – as Marx already shows with the notion of species being – our needs and desires are historical through and through. Rather, capitalism is alienating because it is formally incapable of valorising our ends – whatever their specific content – as ends in themselves, but instead valorises the means of sustaining life – profit – as though it were an end in itself, while our lives appear as the means to the end of creating profit. This means that under capitalism, “we are all in practice committed to a purpose in which we cannot recognize ourselves, which inevitably leads to alienated forms of social life” (300). We do not need to make any normative claims in advance about which particular practices of contemporary society are “human” and which ones are not – an absurd and dogmatic approach that would fix post-capitalist society in our own image – in order to recognise that our life is alienated under capitalism, because by definition it does not recognise this life as valuable.

By contrast, the unalienated labour of democratic socialism is to be carried out on the basis of aneignen, Marx’s term which Hägglund translates as “making something your own.” Such a society makes it possible “to make your life your own by putting yourself at stake in what you do” (319). This is why true democracy is only possible once production is organised democratically. Otherwise, our democratic participation in public life cannot ever open up the question of what ends we as a society wish to pursue, and we cannot fully live according to our spiritual freedom. This radically new form of democracy will not get rid of socially necessary work, since our finite and embodied life will always require some amount of effort on our part to maintain it. But the work we carry out under democratic socialism will be free, since it will be valued as an end in itself, rather than as a mere means to the accumulation of profit. Even when I participate in forms of socially necessary labour that I don’t personally find fulfilling, I understand this work as contributing to the increase of socially available free time. What matters is that in such a society, “we can make sense of why we are doing what we are doing,” in a way that capitalism constitutively refuses us (308). By grasping free labour in terms of our freedom to commit to the labour we perform on the basis of who we take ourselves to be, rather than the compulsion to carry out labour as a means to the end of profit, Hägglund restores the vital importance of Marx’s critique of alienation, away from the static essentialism and normative dogmatism that both supporters and critics of this concept have ascribed to it.

Capitalism and religion, then, both produce alienated forms of life, where we are compelled to treat our own lives as a means rather than as an end in themselves. Yet they both bear the seeds of their own overcoming, if we pay attention to what those subject to religious values or capitalist imperatives actually say and do. Nothing we could ever value could ever matter to an eternal being, and what we truly desire in keeping faith is not eternity but mortal survival through the extension of our finite time. Likewise, capitalism’s own internal dynamic shows that profit is not something that living beings value in itself, but attains the form of value by virtue of how it exploits the cost that we put into it, which is the cost of our finite time that is sacrificed to wage labour. It is this finite time and our freedom to use it that is at the root of all value, and both secular faith and democratic socialism provide the normative framework for living in a way which recognises explicitly this value that hitherto existing economic and spiritual forms have only implicitly grasped.

V.

Hägglund makes clear that his concern in This Life is not to offer a political program for how we will transition from capitalism to democratic socialism, but rather to outline its possibility and its desirability, by showing how the values of democratic socialism are trapped in inverted form in the dynamic of capital itself. Nonetheless, we can consider what some political implications of his analysis may be, and where it may be worth pushing his perspective in the direction of specifically political approaches to the transition beyond capitalism. This also involves considering his perspective’s relation to those thinkers within the history of Marxism who have attempted to theorise this transition.

Specifically, his critique of many forms of “traditional Marxism” bears a certain relation to the thought of Moishe Postone, whom Hägglund references with some admiration, but also criticises significantly. What Hägglund and Postone share is that, in identifying human labour-power as the source of value within capitalism only, rather than as the transhistorical source of all value, they both sharply criticise the idea of ‘emancipated’ proletarian labour as the source of value within a post-capitalist society, often entailed in ideas of socialist society as a “workers’ state”. In Hägglund’s case this allows for an extremely clear-sighted critique of all twentieth century forms of actually existing socialism as the antithesis of Marx’s vision of the overcoming of capitalism, writing that, “Under Stalinism, the state effectively becomes one giant capitalist that wields its power over the citizens by forcing them to do proletarian labor in order to survive” (273). This is because the ceaseless compulsion to increase proletarian labour and its exploitation is intrinsic to a mode of production which sees human labour-power as the source of value, and no redistribution of this wealth via a universal state which has overtaken the role of private capital will change this basic condition. For Postone, the conclusion to draw from the fact that the valorisation of proletarian labour is not the source of emancipation from capitalism, but of our subjection to it, is that “the working class is integral to capitalism rather than the embodiment of its negation,” and that struggles for proletarian emancipation are not even in principle a tool for capitalism’s overcoming.[6]

It seems unlikely that Hägglund would agree with this final claim. In his critique of Postone, Hägglund recognises that Postone’s perspective, which sees the dead labour of technology as “the key to emancipation,” is insufficient, because it does not grasp that the transition to socialism “requires a transformation of our normative understanding” of what we as a society produce things for (276). In Postone’s account, “historical agents do not have the power to change anything,” whereas Hägglund emphasises that it is up to us to transform our concrete understanding of our own ends if we are to overcome the capitalist valorisation of labour-power: no level of accumulation of technological dead labour will do it for us, since dead labour has no normative ends in itself.

Hägglund nonetheless agrees with Postone that the aim of a post-capitalist society “is not to glorify proletarian labor but to overcome it” (276), and his arguments to this effect are convincing, for reasons already outlined. This does however provoke the question of who specifically is to see their own interest in carrying out the overthrow of capitalism and the transition to socially available free time as the measure of value. As Hägglund shows only too clearly, within capitalism the proletariat is as dependent on the system of wage exploitation as employers are, since avoiding economic collapse requires that the purchasing power of the overall population is sufficient to pay for the commodities sold on the market, so as to generate capital for further investment in the form of the employment of labour-power. Redistributive mechanisms such as a Universal Basic Income do nothing to counteract this dependency, because “only wage labor in the service of profit can generate the wealth that is distributed in the form of a UBI” (287). For this reason, “it does not make sense to argue that the problem is capitalism and at the same time argue that the solution is the redistribution of capital wealth” (383). Under such a system, time not spent producing profit for a capitalist is still considered wasted time, even if the amount of this waste is distributed somewhat more evenly; but the compulsion to economic growth through wage exploitation as the only means of generating wealth under capitalism means that systemic pressures will continue to undermine even this degree of redistribution, which can never be won definitively within a capitalist system.

Thus the objective interest of workers overall within capitalism is to continue working for a wage. To the extent that democratic socialism would get rid of the means of fulfilling this objective interest, it is unclear how the majority of actually existing workers are to see it concretely as the fulfilment of their own freedom. Hägglund does state, in This Life’s moving conclusion on the thought and political practice of Martin Luther King, that the general strike is a vital political tool which, “more than any other form of collective action, … makes explicit the social division of labor that sustains our lives” (378). One cannot imagine Postone making such a statement, and this difference reflects Hägglund’s far greater grasp of politics as the sphere in which the transition to democratic socialism must be fought out. Still, the “making explicit” proposed here as the major import of the general strike seems to imply that this political work is done for a viewer, who will be made to see what the nature of our economic system is, compelling them to act in order to change it. While this viewer may include individual workers themselves, in the way Hägglund articulates it there is not a privileged role for the working class in this process of political change, since the general strike in and of itself doesn’t change things but only makes explicit what is already there, and since within a capitalist framework it appears simply as an effective tool for the improvement of wages and conditions, rather than the overthrow of capitalism and of labour-power as the measure of value.

Hägglund certainly does not reduce workers to the status of objects, and grants an important place to their struggles. But he does not here articulate the general strike in terms of the power of those who strike, the power to shut down capitalist self-reproduction which results from their power to make this process function in the first place, and which they themselves attain greater consciousness of through striking. If looked at in this light, the working class can be understood as the concrete subject of human emancipation from capitalism: but this requires granting that this class will retain its value-producing role during a transitional period where some form of workers’ self-organisation will take charge of production, since there would otherwise be no compelling social basis for them to transition away from proletarian labour, towards an economic form that would rid them of their specific power as a class – a power that is of course tied to their exploitation. Hägglund does not want to argue this, because it appears to be an example of the ‘traditional Marxism’ criticised by Postone, which turns proletarian labour from the means of our subjection to capital into the means of our emancipation from it, a perspective whose ultimate consequence is seen in the Stalinist regimes, where an oppressive state compelled an intensification of proletarian labour, completely abandoning Marx’s vision of democracy through collective ownership and decision-making about the production process itself. But it is unclear how his agreement with Postone on the question of emancipation from proletarian labour is to accord with his political assertion, in disagreement with Postone, that concrete human subjects living within capitalist societies will bring about the transition to socialism through a transformative practice that they see is in their own interest.

To be clear, I believe that these two propositions can be brought into accord, and that the way to do so is to grant a transitional role to the proletariat as proletariat, meaning that their labour-power will continue to be valorised during such a period, during which the proletariat’s attainment of political power will allow it to direct its own production. Hägglund may disagree with this, but whatever his answer may be, an important question left open by This Life is to articulate which concrete subjects will carry out the transition to socialism, and how their interest in doing so is to be understood. Hägglund should hardly be faulted for not providing such an articulation in This Life, for his book’s universal moral force, showing that capitalist society as a whole is self-contradictory and prevents the social realisation of freedom (which would also be the basis for its individual realisation), does not itself require a more specifically political account of how particular social groups are to recognise the transition to democratic socialism as their own task to be carried out in their own interest. But the perspective opened up by Hägglund ultimately requires a further interrogation of these questions.

A second and related political question emerges with regard to Hägglund’s conception of the state. Hägglund argues, with Hegel and against many of Marx’s statements, that a free society will not eradicate the state, but will be one in which this state will persist while being subordinated to society, made to serve our interests, such that “the laws of the state… are seen as contestable and transformable by us” (232). Hägglund thus defines the state in the most general sense as “some kind of collective self-legislation” (267). Given that who we are only ever makes sense in light of our spiritual freedom as social beings, in which we make our own commitments the object of questioning, rather than subordinating ourselves to them as to an iron law, our freedom cannot entail taking leave of any “collective self-legislation,” as this would be to return to a level of merely negative liberty as the absence of coercion, without any positive institutional context for us to seek recognition of ourselves as social actors. In this regard, some form of state in a post-capitalist and truly democratic society is both possible and necessary, since it is only through the “reinvention” rather than the abolition of the state that such a society can attain “any determinate form” (267).

A question emerges, though: where are the borders of this state to be drawn? Hägglund writes that, “since capitalism is global, the overcoming of capitalism ultimately requires a global alliance of democratic socialist states” (268). Yet we may ask, what would be the political function of such a division between states (even if “allied”), if these states are not each organised around the control of territory for the purpose of the control of profits? If one state possesses the technological means to reduce socially necessary labour time and thereby increase socially available free time in a particular sphere which other states don’t possess, will this not be experienced as an advantage for the citizens of that state? If this technological means is enabled by a particular natural resource within the borders of this state, will its administrators not see reason to protect that resource as their own property, and will other states not see reason to infiltrate it in order to gain access to it, and ultimately to take some form of control over that state’s territory? It is hard to imagine a reason for the existence of a global system of states except as a reflection of competition for territory and resources as inputs for the accumulation of profit.

What of the alternative, of a single, global, democratic socialist state? Insofar as a society in which spiritual freedom is recognised will require “some kind of collective self-legislation” so that we can recognise ourselves in our institutions and democratically enact their evolution, such a form of state seems to make sense. But what remains unclear is how such a state would be administered and how it would be made democratic. Collective ownership of the means of production will not cancel out the existence of institutional forms in which we participate, such as an institution of laws or of justice; and the familiar Marxist response which brushes off these particulars by saying that the community will resolve such questions organically is crude and unacceptable, exemplifying the ‘religious’ version of the theory of alienation and the myth of “primitive communism” as the basis of what we will ‘return’ to. But collective ownership will surely cancel out the need for a distinct social layer of state administrators. Certain individuals may be assigned the role of organising different institutional functions, but these assignments would be democratically shared, and a limited part of any individual’s practical identity, thus not allowing administrators to form into a group whose control of the mechanisms of the state leads them to think of it as their own instrument, and to wield it to their own ends, or to the end of private profit.

The question is whether the idea of the state remains coherent if there is no longer a particular social group, with particular privileges and particular powers, that administers it. Inasmuch as the spiritually free individuals living under global democratic socialism have a democratically shared power over the institutions in which their free projects can be recognised and debated, what need could there be for any overarching social apparatus to organise these democratic institutions? I would suggest that a state in this sense only has a social basis as a mechanism for maintaining the power of a ruling social group, while complementarily increasing the privilege and influence of this state apparatus itself and its functionaries. A democratic socialist society founded on the basis of democratic control of the economy would thus not require a state, and this overcoming of the state is thinkable without lapsing into the fantasies of immediacy and final reconciliation of the community with itself, which Hägglund is rightly opposed to because of their fundamental basis in unfreedom.

This may seem a semantic concern, but I believe it has relevance to the question raised earlier, that of the political process of transition away from capitalism. A way in which this process was articulated in the Marxism of figures such as Lenin was with the idea that a socialist “workers’ state” would intrinsically give way to communism as the “withering away of the state.” This argument may be debated, but its advantage is that it grasps the seizure of the state as the political act of particular social groups who recognise their own power to seize it and their own interest in doing so, and then tries to argue that genuine democracy will emerge (leading the state to wither away) after the exploitative class has been defeated politically through the expropriation of the power that it has held through the state. In other words, it provides a logic for how the specific and limited class interests of groups within capitalist society can transition to a democracy of collective ownership, otherwise known as a “society without classes,” and it does so by positioning the state as an object of political struggle for the power of mutually hostile social groups over each other, and hence as something that will have no function in a society of the kind Hägglund describes as democratic socialist. The danger of this approach to the state as an instrument of potentially impartial, democratic administration, rather than as intrinsically an instrument of rule, is that it can lead to envisioning that society as a whole is to be the subject of the transition to socialism, as though “we” (a word which, in keeping with the compelling and electrifying moral call to arms of This Life, appears often in its pages) as a society would decide to redefine our measure of value, and thereby pass from a capitalist to a democratic socialist state.

To be clear, Hägglund does not harbour any illusions that this transition will not involve painful struggle and hostile reaction, or that capitalists will simply give up their social position through appeals to their spiritual freedom. But his approach does not always show the theoretical tools required to overcome politically the perspective which would see actually existing society as a whole as the subject of transformation. The limitations of his accounts of the state and of the transition to democratic socialism are related, in that both show a limitation in his conception of who, as really existing actors within capitalist society, will see this transition as something they both can carry out and desire to carry out. The ultimate question – which no one has yet been able to answer adequately, but which the history of Marxism has posed and can still help us to think through – is how to square the recognition that a democratic society must be one that is emancipated from human labour as our source of social value, with the equal recognition that the achievement of such a society is impossible without the political activity of the proletariat as proletariat, in forms such as the general strike, whose political efficacy is a result of that group’s social power and their threat to capitalist rule. Responding to this requires developing a theory of transition, a theory which could add to what, already in Hägglund’s work so far, stands as one of the most morally and politically compelling intellectual projects of our time.

Conall Cash is a PhD candidate in French at Cornell University, with a research attachment to the Laboratoire Sophiapol at the University of Paris – Nanterre. He is writing a dissertation about Merleau-Ponty and French Marxism.

[1] Martin Hägglund, This Life: Secular Faith and Spiritual Freedom (New York: Pantheon Books, 2019), p. 329. Subsequent citations given in text.

[2] Hägglund, Radical Atheism: Derrida and the Time of Life (Stanford University Press, 2008), p. 1.

[3] Hägglund, Radical Atheism, p. 8.

[4] Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Humanism and Terror: An Essay on the Communist Problem (Beacon Press, 1969), p. 78.

[5] Walter Benjamin, “Theses on the Concept of History.” Selected Writings Volume IV (Harvard University Press, 2006), pp. 389-400.

[6] Moishe Postone, Time, Labor, and Social Domination (Cambridge University Press, 1993), p. 17.

by Tyler M. Williams

Review of Brenna Bhandar and Jonathan Goldberg-Hiller, Plastic Materialities: Politics, Legality, and Metamorphosis in the Work of Catherine Malabou (Durham: Duke UP, 2015)

Catherine Malabou’s pioneering philosophical conceptualization of plasticity has attracted a recent surge of critical attention, yet she rejects any suggestion that plasticity is her own, signature idea.[1] Malabou instead argues that plasticity, unattached to the singular identity of an author, circulates dynamically within the history of philosophy and gains its conceptual shape from the rich heritage that has unwittingly played host to it. Plasticity, Malabou says, is “trapped within the movement of contemporary philosophy itself” (Malabou and Williams 2012: 4). Although the vast majority of Malabou’s work since the publication of her first book, The Future of Hegel, highlights the debt that key philosophical periods and figures owe to plasticity’s power (a quiet tradition that spans from antiquity through poststructuralism and into the current vogue of new materialism), she consistently adds that plasticity also exceeds any strict disciplinary circumscription. Indebted as much to biology as to philosophy, and then onward to psychoanalysis, gender studies, literature, and anthropology, to name a few, plasticity by Malabou’s account always pushes at philosophy’s limit as philosophy’s unassimilated, supple remainder. Equally at home inside and outside philosophy, giving philosophy its shape while simultaneously exposing it to adaptation and change, plasticity challenges the very possibility of a rigid distinction between conventional notions of “inside” and “outside.”

Derived etymologically from the Greek plassein, meaning both “to give” and “to receive” form, plasticity expresses the malleable condition of anything subjected to changes in form. Critics have often misconstrued Malabou’s understanding of plasticity’s transformability by treating it as a nihilistic ceaselessness or “perpetual change” that never stays in one place long enough to stand for anything.[2] This misreading reduces plasticity to an infinite production of the new by synonymizing plasticity and elasticity, two terms Malabou repeatedly distinguishes from each other—particularly in What Should We Do With Our Brain? but also in Plasticity at the Dusk of Writing and Ontology of the Accident, to say nothing of her many essays and interviews. Although elasticity and plasticity both give and receive form, elasticity retains the ability to return to a form prior to its transformation. Elasticity’s polymorphism thus amounts to a state of infinite variability and ceaseless change, but plasticity “cannot return to its initial form after undergoing deformation” (Malabou 2008: 15). Plasticity envelops the capacity for transformation and the rigid solidity of “a certain determination of form” (15).

Almost paradoxically, then, plasticity’s resistance to elasticity comprises its most dynamic aspect. As much as plasticity changes form, it also preserves a shape, marks a point of resistant stability, and concretizes itself while retaining the mobility that threatens the concrete with destruction, which is why Malabou describes plasticity as terroristic in Ontology of the Accident (5). Taken as a whole, Malabou’s work shows that the philosophical tradition operates according to this dialectic. When she writes in Plasticity at the Dusk of Writing that plasticity’s “range of meanings” continues “to evolve with and in language” so much that “the very significance of plasticity itself appears to be plastic,” Malabou suggests that plasticity is doubly responsible for solidifying tradition and for maintaining that tradition’s suppleness (2010: 67). Its “significance” forms and reforms itself into the future like a type of auto-inheritance that shapes and preserves the legacy through the dynamic processes of heredity itself. The “significance” of plasticity therefore cannot be confined to the specific domains of Malabou’s study. Similar to Derrida’s insistence that deconstruction is “at work in the work” (1986: 124), plasticity for Malabou names a general logic that remains irreducible to any particular discourse, which is why she rejects a proprietary claim on the concept.

The practical question of what to “do” with plasticity is thus both urgent and irresolvable. Urgent because, in addition to mobilizing innovations within neurobiology and epigenetics, plasticity’s dialectic of change and resistance constitutes, according to Malabou, the most adequate model for democratic opposition to hegemonic structures of global power. Irresolvable because plasticity is not an abstract transcendental concept, so the “doing” of plasticity will always be a matter of plastic materialities—of the brain (What Should We Do with Our Brain?), of gender (Changing Difference), of the subject (Self and Emotional Life), of trauma (The New Wounded), and so on. Yet, when following Malabou, a major interpretive error is to mistake the forest for the trees, as it were, and to restrict plasticity’s general movement to the specific contexts via which Malabou happens to articulate it. Plasticity is itself plastic and thus constitutes a generalizable “motor scheme,” a “metamorphic structure,” rather than a given technique, tool, or circumscribed topic (2010: 12, 27). As an interdisciplinary project, Malabou’s work demands a disciplinary responsibility to the intractably philosophical “motor” of plasticity’s “structure.”[3]

Highlighting plasticity’s transformational role at the heart of the philosophical tradition, but paying particular attention to the interdisciplinarity Malabou draws from philosophy’s mutability and variability, Brenna Bhandar and Jonathan Goldberg-Hiller present Plastic Materialities: Politics, Legality, and Metamorphosis in the Work of Catherine Malabou, the first book of collected essays to be devoted entirely to Malabou’s growing oeuvre.[4] The volume includes three previously unpublished or thoroughly revised essays by Malabou herself, a brief interview conducted with her by Bhandar and Goldberg-Hiller, and nine critical essays that address Malabou’s work from a variety of disciplines including psychoanalysis, postcolonial studies, aesthetics, epigenetics, Marxism, biopolitics, critical race theory, entomology, and war studies.

Plastic Materialities commendably demonstrates the vast applicability of Malabou’s thought. Unsurprisingly, the distinction between the volume’s stronger and weaker essays falls along lines of interdisciplinary responsibility. Chapters that remain attentive to the disciplined stakes of Malabou’s interdisciplinarity are most at home in a book of this sort, since they avoid the aforementioned trap of essentializing the scientific contexts in which Malabou articulates plasticity’s general “scheme.” Weaker chapters commit this essentialist error by ignoring the philosophical discipline of Malabou’s project, treating it instead as an easily transplantable index of interdisciplinary terms.[5] Rather than catalogue these merits and shortcomings in each chapter, what follows is a general account of how this distinction relates this volume to Malabou’s project as a whole.

As the editors remark in their introduction, Plastic Materialities wants to identify how plasticity shapes a political itinerary (15). The volume thus addresses directly a debate that has trailed Malabou at least since the arrival of What Should We Do with Our Brain? in English translation in 2008: whether her account of plasticity necessarily entails the inherent political resistance she identifies with it. Much of Malabou’s short book argues for this necessity by calling for a shift in our “neuronal consciousness,” a shift that amounts to recognizing the brain as plastically adaptable to environmental input rather than conventionally programmatic and mechanical. She argues that a major consequence of this shift from neural preformationism to adaptability includes the abandonment of corporate, imperial, social, economic, and biopolitical structures of sovereignty predicated on neuronal ideologies of a rigidly centralized brain. Moreover, if many structures of power today already appear to work plastically, then, like its biological counterpart, this plasticity logically includes within it a foundational and unassailable resistance. Precisely what this resistance entails remains mostly unclear in Malabou’s work. The task of this volume therefore seeks to clarify the stakes of this resistance. In light of global neoliberalism’s wholesale reliance on corporate-capitalist models of flexibility and elasticity, for example, the editors, following Malabou both to the letter and toward new horizons, target the implications of plasticity’s “use” to “disrupt these structures” (2).

At least two major considerations follow from the project Plastic Materialities sets for itself. The first, which Alberto Toscano most directly articulates in his chapter, concerns this fundamental question about the adequacy of plasticity with politics. Toscano argues that Malabou’s use of plasticity to “rethink the dialectical character of contemporary social forms,” particularly the “neoliberal formatting of change under the imperatives of flexibility, adaptability, and employability,” remains too philosophical (91, 97). He claims that Malabou’s philosophical recourse to neurobiology preserves the traditional image of philosophy as a discipline responsible for “providing a conceptual synthesis for other disciplines and practices” (93). As a result, this traditionalism only enables Malabou to link neuroplasticity and political resistance analogically: the brain is like the social, biological resistance to neural order is like political resistance to hegemony, plastic matter works like philosophical critique, and so on. Yet, Toscano concludes, “To think the social is like the brain is no more enlightening today than to think that the economy was like a large organism in the nineteenth century or like a hydraulic machine in the twentieth” (105). Unlike some essays in Plastic Materialities that uncritically accept and then reapply Malabou’s politics elsewhere (those by Carotenuto, Shapiro, Grove, Bhandar and Goldberg-Hiller all trend in this direction), Toscano’s essay remains skeptical of whether Malabou’s politicization of plasticity is sufficiently—or even necessarily—political.

The second consideration concerns the volume’s isolation of “destructive plasticity” as a privileged concept. According to Malabou, “destructive plasticity” coincides with the productive work of “positive” plasticity. For example, in a synthesis of production and destruction, the brain abandons unused synaptic connections to build ones that are more efficacious. The priority Plastic Materialities places on “destructive plasticity” removes it from the broader context of Malabou’s work, thereby reducing it to a simple synonym for “resistance” and thus to some sort of tool or “resource” that can be “used” in the process of realizing some sort of intentional outcome (2, 20). However, as she makes clear in her own contributions to this volume, Malabou expressly rejects this teleology. Characterizing “destructive plasticity” as an apparatus that can be applied to whatever disciplinary field skews the dialectical symmetry of Malabou’s work and overlooks the contexts in metaphysics and ontology in which Malabou first formulates this concept. Moreover, insofar as Malabou’s later work radicalizes destructive plasticity beyond the productive/destructive binary, the very possibility of destructive negativity remains for her an ongoing question.

In the paragraph that opens the final chapter to Ontology of the Accident, her “essay on destructive plasticity,” Malabou is still asking if “destructive plasticity is possible” (2012c: 73). Although the untitled preface to this short book clearly asserts that, yes, destructive plasticity is indeed possible and this possibility is evident biologically, the type of destruction that interests neurobiologists is ultimately productive. This productive destruction works as a “sculptural power that produces form though the annihilation of form” (Malabou 2012b: 49). (To reuse the example provided earlier, a process of “cellular annihilation” destroys certain components of an organism to enable that organism to grow, develop, and survive.)[6] However, although current biological discourses recognize the productive work of destructive negativity, Malabou’s interest in the possibility of a more radical destructibility in Ontology of the Accident and The New Wounded goes beyond this productive, positive function. Malabou wants to think the possibility of a negativity that remains exclusively or absolutely negative. A negativity unadorned, as it were, with a complimentary, positive, or redeeming teleological function.

Of course, one could suggest (as Malabou does) that this questioning of possibility already assumes a position of affirmation, since possibility “designates what one is capable of” or “what may come into being” (2012c: 73). To question the possibility of anything asks for the affirmation of that thing’s production. In this sense, questioning the possibility of destructive plasticity’s negativity finds itself wrapped tightly in contradiction; the premise of the question compromises the possibility of a non-productive negativity from the start. From the metaphysical tradition that positively binds possibility to actuality, the possibility of an unproductive negativity would seem logically impossible. Malabou therefore demands a new understanding of possibility as such, an ontology that could account for a possible negativity that is not already affirmative. In other words, unlike Hegel’s dialectically productive negativity, Malabou seeks a possibility that would not be possible, a no that refuses a silent yes, a possibility that would not be tethered to the affirmation of a creativity. The most destructive force in Malabou’s renegotiation of possibility is its impossible demand, or rather its demand for impossibility. The “ontology of the accident” thus names the impossible possibility of the absolutely impossible.

Malabou’s own contributions to Plastic Materialities address these two considerations together—as if the two are actually one. Across her three essays, Malabou argues that attention to the ontology of plasticity demands a specific politics. Her contributions to this volume investigate the chance of this onto-political relation and the (im)possibility of its future shape. Plastic Materialities makes an impactful contribution to the growing field of interest in Malabou’s work precisely because Malabou here provides perhaps her most thorough account of the relationship between plasticity’s ontological critique and its political import.

In “From the Overman to the Posthuman: How Many Ends?” Malabou revisits the conclusion Derrida reaches in his famous essay “The Ends of Man.” There, Derrida remarks that the history of nonhumanist philosophy—including Hegel, Husserl, and Heidegger—ultimately reconstitutes an essentialist concept of the human. Derrida argues that a grand repetition is at stake, since early attempts outside humanism retain and repeat the premises of that same humanism. The “end” (closure) of humanism carries an essentialist “end” (telos) of the human. And yet, at the end of Derrida’s text, which Malabou argues is a sort of beginning, a passing reference to Nietzsche leaves open an opportunity to rethink repetition and, thus, to renew a thinking of the possibilities and impossibilities of humanism. Is there a chance for nonhumanist thought, Malabou asks, that does not fall victim to this essentialist repetition?

Malabou points out that Nietzsche’s sense of repetition is related directly to revenge, since “revenge” names the memory (what Nietzsche calls the “inability to forget”) essential both to the human and to the structure of temporal succession. Redemption from the repetitions of humanism would thus be tantamount to a redemption from revenge, a yes-saying that can embrace repetition without relying on the retention of a pre-constituted essence. To account for this refined sense of repetition, Malabou turns to recent biological research into reparative stem-cells, which can renew (i.e. repeat) themselves and thus forge new bodies or parts of bodies without recourse to a structure of “revenge.” A repetition that does not simply fulfil a program but produces itself from out of itself. The possibility of the non-human, or of “the non-humanist tradition,” for Malabou amounts to thinking repetition beyond the vicissitudes of this essentialist revenge. Here and in her other two contributions to Plastic Materialities, Malabou argues that these innovations in biological research create new philosophical horizons—not simply within the applicative domains of “philosophy of science” or “bio-philosophy” but, more specifically and significantly, within the traditions of metaphysics and humanism writ large.

By thinking plasticity as both a thing and a process, that is, as an object of scientific research and as the transformation of philosophical concepts of essence, life, being, the human, etc., Malabou identifies an impasse at the heart of biopolitical and poststructuralist confrontations with “science.” In her essay, “Will Sovereignty Ever Be Deconstructed?” she specifically targets the tendency for thinkers like Derrida, Foucault, and Agamben to regard science as a rigidly mechanical counterpart to the critical dynamism of the humanities.[7] (Here, one might think of Heidegger’s famous statement that science does not think, although Malabou does not include Heidegger in her list of interlocutors in this particular essay.) Philosophy’s rigid characterization of science, Malabou argues, commits biopolitics to an unwitting preservation of the very structure of sovereignty it claims to deconstruct.

Malabou analyzes previous attempts to deconstruct sovereignty’s relation to biology by claiming that for Foucault, Agamben, and Derrida, “even in different ways, biology is always presented as intimately linked with sovereignty in its traditional figure” (38). That is, even Foucault’s famous theorization of “biopower” beyond or outside the specter of monarchical structures of state sovereignty, preserves a rigidified notion of biology as a “regulatory law” that operates teleologically within an organism. From this perspective, the organism will have always retained “the form of a micro-Leviathan” and will thus never be distinguishable from more traditionally minded and monarchically guised structures of power. Unsurprisingly, for Malabou, Foucault typically regards biology as “the ally of sovereignty” (42) and biopolitics generally treats the biological as that which legitimizes the transformation of the “floating signifier” into a fixed, rigid, and centralized motif (e.g. “blood and sex”). Lastly, Malabou claims, “biology always appears, for philosophers, as an instrument of power, never as an emancipatory field or tool” because the biological is always treated as a “secondary phenomenon” to the primacy of “the symbolic” (38, 42).

In short, Malabou’s critique is that these thinkers too often treat biology as a rigid mechanism that simply services the whims of biopower. Not only does this mechanization preserve traditional models of centralized authority and sovereignty, it also denies any “biological resistance” to this mechanization. Ultimately, Malabou wants to argue that plasticity constitutes this biological resistance from within the confines of sovereign mechanization. Put otherwise, plasticity transgresses restrictive understandings of “biology” as a “political force” (40). The motor behind this plastic capacity is epigenetics, which accounts for either the activation or inhibition of certain genetic factors in an individual’s biological makeup. This process is significant for Malabou because it describes a transformability that is itself non-genetic. For example, within the genetic determination of the brain, the synaptic formation of neural connections depend upon a constellation of non-genetic—yet nonetheless determinative, that is, epigenetic—influences such as experience, learning, and environment:

Plasticity is in a way genetically programmed to develop and operate without program, plan, determinism, schedule, design, or preschematization. Neural plasticity allows the shaping, repairing, and remodeling of connections and in consequence a certain amount of self-transformation of the living being. (Malabou 2015: 43-44)

This epigenetic structure signals for Malabou the “becoming obsolete of the notion of program in biology,” an obsolescence that “opens new conditions of experience, new thresholds of rationality, as well as new philosophical and theoretical paradigms” (44). For example, according to Malabou, epigenetics allow us to think “history” and “biology” as a “dialectical couple within biological life itself,” which allows us in turn to abandon the classic desire to “survey the biological from an overarching structural point of view” (44). Plasticity would thus name the role that “the symbolic” (the empty signifier devoid of meaning and thus capable of renegotiating its meaning ad infinitum) traditionally plays, except now this “symbolic” resides within the plastic formation of the biological itself: the ability of life to transform itself “without separating itself from itself” (45).

Malabou concludes that any discourse founded upon this reliance on the “symbolic”—as a “surplus or excess over the real”—ought to be renegotiated via this plastic transformation of the empirical/transcendental relation that epigenetics calls into question.[8] Entirely opposed to transcendental structures of meaning, Malabou claims that it is now no longer the case that a “gap between the structural and the material” is required to “render the material meaningful” (45).

Both Alain Pottage and Fred Moten offer captivating challenges to Malabou’s conclusions. Pottage claims that the role “environment” plays in biological discourses highlights the “autoplastic” process of a structure that structures itself, a “system that is its own product,” a self that produces itself by fashioning the equipment that mobilizes itself (89). Recognizing that this auto-generative capability is central to Malabou’s own thinking of plasticity, Pottage also notes that this process is exactly what Foucault describes as “ethopoiesis.” Foucault is actually a thinker of plasticity, Pottage argues, despite Malabou’s dismissal of him. Similarly, Moten takes issue with Malabou’s insistent need to “deconstruct biopolitical deconstruction,” a gesture that, he argues, ultimately reconstitutes very thing it claims to deconstruct. Doesn’t locating sovereignty within the materiality of the brain just relocate in tact what had previously been confined to symbolic life? And doesn’t this relocation ultimately just make the brain a new version of the old sovereignty (283)? Contrary to Pottage’s reliance on the autopoiesis of an internally self-transformative and auto-corrective system, Moten wants to preserve the possibility of a rupture from outside, a rupture that might critique sovereignty beyond a simple relocation.

Although Pottage and Moten both contest the impetus for Malabou’s investigation into plasticity’s politics, they do not challenge the ontological foundation for her investment in this materialism or the currency this ontology has within the sciences (not just neurosciences). This relation between ontology, politics, and science comes into full focus in Malabou’s essay, “Whither Materialism? Althusser/Darwin.” Here, Malabou argues for an intractably political understanding of how Darwinism collapses transcendence into a strict materialism.

If “materialism” is understood simply as the “name for the nontranscendental status of form,” where “matter” is understood as a self-formation that produces “the conditions of possibility of this formation itself,” then any materialism worthy of the name cannot legitimately be considered transcendental, since “transcendental” indicates “a position of exteriority in relation to that which it organizes” (48). As a result, following Althusser, Malabou claims that the history of philosophy has described this relationship between materialism and transcendence in two main ways.

The first is “dialectical teleology,” which describes an internal tension toward a telos governs “the formation of forms.” Althusser and Malabou both reject this form of materialism because it ultimately abides a fundamentally transcendental structure. In this configuration, an anterior structure of meaning precedes form and governs its formation.

The second is “materialism of the encounter,” which regards form as being governed by “the non-anteriority of Meaning.” According to this configuration, form is “form” only as the result of an “encounter.” As Malabou puts it: “forms are encounters that have taken form” (49). According to Althusser, this “materialism of the encounter” entails a rethinking of “necessity.” For him, necessity ought to be thought “as the becoming-necessary of the encounter of contingencies” (qtd. by Malabou 2015: 49). One cannot conceive “necessity” as a rigid, transcendental priority if meaning is not anterior to the formation of forms and if form is the result of an encounter. “Necessity” would be a formation itself, a “becoming-necessity” formed by the encounter between contingencies whose meaning is constituted ex post facto rather than being transcendentally anterior to it. For Althusser, this formation works biologically just as much as it does historically and politically: a species, a people, or a historical movement “gels at certain felicitous moments” and means what it means because of this gelling.

Malabou’s essay calls into question the legitimacy of Althusser’s homogenization of the political, historical, and biological into a single, unifying process of plastic formation. She asks, “Can we transpose what happens at the level of nature to that of the political and of history?” Is the “encounter” of natural selection in biology comparable to socio-political encounters? To address these questions, Malabou uses Darwin as a route back to Althusser by noting that plasticity “constitutes one of the central motifs of Darwin’s thought” and situates itself “effectively at the heart of the theory of evolution” (50). As Malabou sees it, Darwin describes the evolutionary idea of natural selection precisely as “plastic,” specifically in terms of the relationship between the “variability of individuals within the same species and the natural selection between these same individuals” (50).

As a thinker of the formation of form, Darwin notes that, to use Althusserian language, variability comprises the “void” or “nothing” from out of which form forms. The possibility of variation is nothing other than the potential within a species for transformation: “the quasi-infinite possibility of changes of structure authorized by the living structure itself” (50). More specifically, this variability is “quasi-infinite,” Malabou claims, again in Althusserian language, because the possibility of variability does not depend on the rigidity of a predetermined, “anterior” criteria or “meaning.” Instead, form is formed “when variability encounters natural selection,” when selection renders the contingency of variability into a necessity. As such, Malabou concludes, “the materialism of the encounter thus pertains to a natural process that assures the permanent selection and crystallization of variations” (51). In this sense, the structure of the encounter Althusser describes has a clear biological component to it since the process of Darwinian natural selection occurs ateleologically, without intention, as a promise, to-come.

It would therefore be misleading to think of “evolution” as a linear sense of progress and perfectibility. Even though Darwin would use language of “improvement” and “betterment” to describe the adaptability of a species via the processes of natural selection, Malabou cautions that one should not mistake this sense of perfectibility as a teleological “finalism” (52). Instead, thinking natural selection as plastic highlights that the “survival of the fittest” is not a simple elimination of the quantitatively weak in favor of the endurable strong. It is instead a dynamic process of openness to possibility, to adaptability, to complexification, a horizon of potential devoid of predetermination, intent, criteria, and linearity.

Since “social selection” appears to be precisely the opposite of this unintentional (or non-intentional) structure of natural selection, it would seem as though social and natural selection have no significant overlap. One works automatically, absent of predefined criteria, while the other is a social decision intentionally made according to precise, predefined criteria. Furthermore, given the devastating history of ascribing social functions to natural selection in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries (under the guise of so-called “Social Darwinism”), Malabou notes the sensitive need to proceed with caution when claiming that natural processes might possibly undergird social processes. However, she also notes that the ateleological plasticity of natural selection undermines Social Darwinism’s conflation of natural selection with social selection from the start. Precisely because natural selection is not a rigid sorting of weak versus strong traits according to an intentional and decisive rubric, the racist and supremacist taxonomies of Social Darwinism have no justifiable basis in biology whatsoever. The biological dynamism of natural selection—and of plasticity more generally—demonstrates from all sides the restrictive and repressive outcomes inherent in any attempt to assert “Social Darwinism” as the “social destiny” of biology.[9]

Yet, the possibility of locating a more authentic connection between natural and social selection, between the biological and the political, will require that the same “void” that constitutes the ateleological structure of biological formation also operates politically. Malabou locates this social plasticity in Althusser’s reading of Machiavelli, who describes the Prince’s virtue according to “his ability to select the best possibilities fortune [contingency] offers, yet a selection made with no intention to do so” (53). How could something like this work, and what could possibly account for the “void” from out of which the encounter forms? “There seems to be no void in our societies,” Malabou states, since, everywhere around us, processes of social selection of aptitudes ultimately select according to a candidate’s conformity to the selective criteria rather than exceptional distinction/difference from them, thus “ensuring the perpetuation and renewability of the identical […], never the emergence of singularities out of nothing” (54).

From a Marxist perspective, this emphasis on the functionary’s conformity and obedience seems to account for the closure of the possibility of a plastic social selection. From a Bourdieusian perspective, this same degree of acquiescence to the norm precludes the dynamism of plasticity’s social selection—except this time in the name of “privilege,” which, Malabou notes, is “the most predetermined selective criterion ever” (55). The outcome is the same from either perspective: “social selection has the goal of reproducing order, privilege, or the dominant ideology.” It praises conformity, obedience, compliance, and acquiescence to the dominance of the selective criteria. “Who has never had the feeling,” Malabou asks, “that social selection was, in effect, a program and never a promise and that the morphological transformations of society were, deep down, only agents of conservation” (55)?

Does this mark a limit of social selection? Since social selection always seems to retain this intentional sense of sorting desirable traits, will social selection always lack plasticity? Will “the materialism of the encounter always [be] doomed to be repressed by that of teleology, anteriority of meaning, presuppositions, predeterminations” (52)? Will social selection always be the rigidity that undermines the plasticity of natural selection? Can there be a formative plasticity of social selection? In short, Malabou wants to know if social selection can “join in any way the natural plastic condition,” understood specifically as “the promise of unexpected forms” (55).

The only way to account for this encounter between the social and the biological would be to recover a “plastic” condition in which both regimes operate according to “criteria that do not preexist selection itself” (56). Here, Malabou is not too far from her earlier desire to uncover a repetition without revenge in her reading of Nietzsche, or her general project of thinking “possibility” beyond the positivity of a preconstituted affirmation. Such a thinking must avoid insisting too soon on difference, since “selection in the order is always an act that confers value and therefore creates hierarchies and norms” (56). Malabou here describes an anarchic ontology, a structure of difference that forms itself and its meaning from an encounter that itself has no predetermined, anterior “meaning.” In Deleuzian language, Malabou summarizes this anarchy as a “selection that produces its own criteria as it operates” (56).

The void from out of which selection and its criteria form themselves constitutes the possibility of the promise. It is from out of this void (which Malabou also calls an “anonymity”) that “new forms can emerge” as “singular, unpredictable, unseen, regenerating” (57). In a slightly different language, Malabou calls this void “the originary deprivation of ontological wealth” (59). This elegant description highlights the core political thrust of how Malabou envisions plasticity’s radicalism, contrary to Toscano’s earlier accusation that Malabou’s politicization of plasticity proceeds only analogically. To think this “void” emptied of teleological determination and constriction, to uphold a commitment to the “non-anteriority” of its meaning from out of which the formation of form emerges via the materiality of the encounter, is “the most urgent ethical and political task” for a “global world” in which “every place is assigned,” regulated, owned, accounted for (58). This commitment would amount to a renewed call to the subversion of capitalist ideology and to the promise of politics.

Tyler M. Williams is Assistant Professor of Humanities at Midwestern State University.

References

Boever, Arne De. 2016. Plastic Sovereignties: Agamben and the Politics of Aesthetics. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press.

Burdman, Javier. 2016. “Necessity, Contingency, and the Future of Kant.” Diacritics 44, no. 1: 6-25.

Derrida, Jacques. 1986. Memoires: For Paul de Man. Translated by Cecile Lindsay, Jonathan Culler, and Eduardo Cadava. New York: Columbia University Press.

Galloway, Alexander. 2010. “Catherine Malabou, or The Commerce in Being.” French Theory Today: An Introduction to Possible Futures Pamphlet 1. New York: TSPY/Erudio Editions.

Malabou, Catherine. 2008. What Should We Do With Our Brain? Translated by Sebastian Rand. New York: Fordham University Press.

— — —. 2010. Plasticity at the Dusk of Writing. Translated by Carolyn Shread. New York: Columbia University Press.

— — —. 2012a. “Following Generation.” Trans. Simon Porzak. Qui Parle 20, no. 2: 19-33.

— — —. 2012b. The New Wounded: From Neurosis to Brain Damage. Trans. Steven Miller. New York: Fordham University Press.

— — —. 2012c. Ontology of the Accident: An Essay on Destructive Plasticity. Translated by Carolyn Shread. Malden, MA: Polity.

Malabou, Catherine and Tyler M. Williams. 2012. “How Are You Yourself? Answering to Derrida, Heidegger, and the Real.” theory@buffalo 16: 1-22.

Schwartz, Jeffrey and Sharon Begley. 2002. The Mind and the Brain: Neuroplasticity and the Power of Mental Force. New York: Harper Perennial.

Williams, Tyler M. 2013. “Plasticity, in Retrospect: Changing the Future of the Humanities.” Diacritics 41, no. 1: 6-25.

Notes

[1] In his preface to Malabou’s Plasticity at the Dusk of Writing, Clayton Crockett suggests that “the concept of plasticity” comprises Malabou’s “original, signature idea” (2010, xi). Malabou disputes this claim in an interview by suggesting that plasticity does not belong to her as some sort of proprietary concept; it exists within the circuitry of philosophy’s relation to itself and to others (Malabou and Williams 2012, 4).

[2] For an example of this misrepresentation of Malabou’s plasticity, particularly its misconstruction as a type of elastic flexibility, see Galloway 2010, 15.

[3] For more on the relationship between disciplinary rigor and interdisciplinary range in Malabou’s work, particularly regarding the long history of exchange and dissociation between the humanities and the sciences, see Williams 2013, 10-13.

[4] The second book, published just this past year, is Thinking Catherine Malabou: Passionate Detachments, ed. Thomas Wormald and Isabell Dahms (London: Rowman & Littlefield, 2018).

[5] In similar terms, though admittedly in an entirely different context, Michael Clune has recently characterized this distinction as “good” versus “bad interdisciplinarity.” See Clune 2018.

[6] Two examples of this positive role that destruction plays biologically ought to suffice. First, Malabou cites Jean Claude Ameisen: “the sculpting of the self assumes cellular annihilation or apoptosis, the phenomena of programmed cellular suicide: in order for fingers to form, a separation between the fingers must also form. It is apoptosis that produces the interstitial void that enables fingers to detach themselves from one another” (2012c, 4-5). A second example, given by Jeffrey Schwartz, explains how the brain modifies itself in response to either the lack or the abundance of external stimuli, particularly regarding the loss of synaptic efficacy that allows unused neural functions to ‘make room’ for the growth of highly used functions. In this example, the unused visual cortex of a blind person’s brain is recruited for tasks typically resigned solely to the somatosensory cortex. Schwartz describes how the visual cortex of blind patients’ brains activates while reading Braille, to suggest that the visual cortex, receiving no visual stimuli, destroys its previous function to adopt a new one (2002, 198).

[7] For more on this distinction and Malabou’s critique of it, particularly with regard to the role the sciences play within the humanities, see Williams 2013. Additionally, for a thorough discussion of Malabou’s relation to the tradition of what she calls “biopolitical deconstruction,” particularly at the intersection of aesthetics and politics, see De Boever (2016).

[8] For a thorough reading of Malabou’s treatment of transcendence and materialism, particularly in her readings of Kant and her engagement with Meillassoux, see Burdman (2016).

[9] “Social destiny” is a phrase Malabou uses in an earlier version of this essay, which was published in theory@buffalo in 2012 as “Darwin and the Social Destiny of Natural Selection.” In fact, pages 50-56 of Plastic Materialities previously appeared as pages 144-147, 149-151, and 151-153 of theory@buffalo vol. 16 (2012), having been translated from the original French by Lena Taub and Tyler M. Williams.

a review of Gilbert Simondon, On the Mode of Existence of Technical Objects (University of Minnesota Press, 2016)

by Justin Raden

In a recently translated interview, Bernard Stiegler makes a strong appeal for an unlikely partnership between technical knowledges and philosophy. Stiegler chides and ventriloquizes “academic philosophy” for its proud negligence when it comes to technical knowledge. “As if,” he says, “we could ever feel proud of not understanding how a system functions.” He continues: “How can we claim to understand anything about Hegel if we do not feel capable of understanding the functioning of a diode? Hegel, who himself wrote on electricity, would have undoubtedly found this ludicrous.”^[i] Such an appeal is typical of Stiegler, whose opus, the three-volume Technics and Time, begins by claiming that the history of philosophy is the history of the suppression of technics. But what do diodes have to offer philosophy or any discipline outside of electrical engineering? How is it, exactly, that no reading of Hegel can reasonably avoid a prerequisite course of study in circuit diagrams?

Stiegler’s polemic points in two directions: at a misrecognition in the contemporary discourse about our own technological landscape, and at an inability to discover in the history of philosophy precursors to this discourse. In the 1990s, when Stiegler’s work first appeared, critical and social theory in the Anglo-American scene was little interested in emerging frameworks for conceiving of changes in the social fabric. Mark Poster complained that in spite of “alternative rubrics” like “postindustrial society, information society, the third wave, the atomic or nuclear or electronic age” we continued to rely on the perceived power of old explanatory models.^[ii] In the meantime, the intellectual scene Poster bemoaned has been replaced with a fervor of interdisciplinary activity in which a number of fields in the humanities have rushed to upgrade the critical apparatus by adopting epistemological and methodological frameworks from elsewhere. The most notable in the field of literary studies are the appropriations of aspects of Latourian “science studies” and the computational and media theory that has coalesced into the ambiguously circumscribed discipline of digital humanities. And yet Stiegler’s early work, while it might appear as a radical innovation in philosophical thought, is partly premised on a return to a lesser known French thinker whose work problematizes both of these disciplinary orientations: Gilbert Simondon. Indeed, Simondon (and Stiegler in turn) troubles the logics which partition and predicate the newness of the new and the oldness of the old.

The long overdue English translation of Simondon’s Du mode d’existence des objets techniques (On the Mode of Existence of Technical Objects), originally published in 1958, provides an opportunity to reflect on the protean terrain of the human sciences as they struggle to account for ever more rapid technological change and its relation to ecological, economic, and political crises. Simondon’s interventions are manifold and the consequences of these are only just beginning to be appreciated and interrogated for their contemporary relevance. His principal objective is the reintegration of the philosophy of technology with philosophy in general, or more exactly with culture in general. This as yet unrealized ambition produced, for Simondon, a social imaginary of technology that, if anything, is more entrenched today: the mythologizing of robotics, the errant belief that automatism signals the highest level of technical development, the experience of alienation as non-knowledge of the machine.

Tracing the disaggregation of techne or technics (or sometimes “the mechanical arts”) from what he calls “noble thought” or “the noble arts” back to ancient Greece, Simondon describes the consequences of this division through the twentieth century. Doing so allows him to provide a corrective to a mode of thought that cannot think the intervention of the technical object “as mediator between man and the world” (183) in the sense that it directs or determines the form of the detachment from the prior unity into nature and culture. The division of thought as Simondon describes it originally occurs because of a devaluation of technics––especially technics that employed tools––due to its association with slavery. This process is then periodically reduplicated: “there is, in each epoch, a part of the technical world that is recognized by culture, while other parts of the technical world are rejected” (104). As a result of this series of expurgations, we become, beginning especially in the nineteenth century, alienated from the world of machinery such that by the mid-twentieth-century we experience a “disjunction of the conditions for the intellection of progress and for the experience of the internal rhythms of work” (132).

Despite the affective registration of this disjunction––psychological alienation from the technical world––the lesson has continued to evade Western thought. Looking back on Simondon’s legacy in 1997, Régis Debray lamented that “Those who did develop an attentive, informed criticism of technological filiations and breaks, from Bertrand Gille to George [sic.] Simondon, were confined to a good deal of intellectual isolation [… As a consequence of] the denegation of material mediations we are paying for a long ancestral heritage of neglect.”[iii] It’s unclear whether things have improved much on this front.

One site of this problem’s legibility has been the reaction in media-technical oriented literary criticism against the work of Friedrich Kittler. Technological determination is out, we are told. This position seems similarly premised on a misunderstanding, or worse: on the kind of deliberate disinterest in understanding described by Stiegler. In a sense, Kittler’s work traces media-aesthetic histories that appear as a function of the suppression of technics within culture as described by Simondon. The aphoristic opening shot of Kittler’s Gramophone, Film, Typewriter––“Media determine our situation”[iv]––gestures toward the realization of Simondon’s ambition to combine philosophical and technical thought. His work provocatively traces the media-technical bases of discursive production in the spirit, if not the letter, of Simondon’s own project. Technological or media determination refers to the conditions of the appearance of these media-aesthetic histories, not to some revived naturalism. In this way, Kittler’s work is tracing an insight of Simondon’s that appears threatening to scholarly fields that remain essentially Schillerian in their promotion of aesthetic education. The ultimate goal of philosophical thought, as described by Simondon in On the Mode of Existence of Technical Objects (hereafter Mode)––a philosophical thought which does not elide technics––surpasses aesthetic thought which is, pace Schiller, “a reminder of the rupture of unity… as well as a reminder of the search for its future unity” (173).

But this does not invalidate aesthetics for Simondon. In a letter to Jacques Derrida, he proposes a “techno-aesthetics” which, as the neologism suggests, he conceives as an imbrication of technics and aesthetics: “It’s technical and aesthetic at the same time: aesthetic because it’s technical, and technical because it’s aesthetic. There is intercategorial fusion.”[v] Techno-aesthetics is not reducible to an ideology of “form follows function” but instead proposes that aesthèsis––as the production of culturally shared “fundamental perceptive intuition”––is subtended by a technical mediation of sensation equally operant, in some of the examples Simondon provides, in the successful loosening of a bolt with a well made wrench as in the “perceptive-motoric” action of painting. Aesthetics as techno-aesthetics must consider mediation by technical objects in its contemplation of both the aesthetics of nature (as the medium or media of its perceptibility) and the “illusory” aesthetics, to borrow Adorno’s characterization, of art.

Such a project necessarily relies on taxonomies generated as much out of engineering and mechanics as out of philosophy,^[vi] and this leads to some difficulty in navigating Mode. “Essence,” to take a familiar example from philosophy and one which is implicated in Simondon’s techno-aesthetics is just as as much in dialogue here with the phenomenological understanding of a genesis of scientific concepts as it is with the history of the development of the already-mentioned diode. Simondon asks whether the diode can be considered the “absolute origin” of its subsequent elaborations in the triode, tetrode, and pentode. As it turns out, two technical conditions precede the diode and, according to Simondon, constitute its essence, an “absolute beginning, residing in the association of this condition of irreversibility of the electrodes and of this phenomenon of transfer of electric charges through a vacuum; it is a technical essence that is created. The diode is an asymmetrical conductance” (44-45, original emphasis). Beyond merely helping us to better understand the diode, and thereby escaping Stiegler’s scorn, Simondon is applying a complex and original ontology equally to the histories of technical objects and of concepts: an ontology consisting of morphological evolution, which starts with a process Simondon calls “individuation.” Mode applies this ontology, which is more fully explicated in Simondon’s primary doctoral thesis, L’Individuation à la lumière des notions de forme et de l’information^[vii] (Mode is his secondary thesis). Elizabeth Grosz has nicely summed up the crucial concept of individuation:

Simondon is interested in understanding how pre-individual forces, the forces that constitute the condition for both natural and technological existence, not yet individuated, produce individuals of various kinds… This process for the elaboration and emergence of individuality or being from becoming or the pre-individual is an ontogenesis: that is, “the becoming of the being insofar as it doubles itself and falls out of step with itself in the process of individuating.”^[viii]

It is the shared participation in this ontology by both organic material (e.g. man) and inorganic material (e.g. technical objects) that constitutes the relation that Simondon is exploring.^[ix]

Simondon’s work is concerned with the appearance of technological novelty, with what makes a technology present itself as new and under what conditions we can experience the progress of technical development. Written before the advent of the internet and at the dawn of the computer, cybernetics, and information theory, his two doctoral theses provide a completely different framework for thinking the effects that would follow from these events than the ones provided by their own founding figures. From the beginning of M​ode​, Simondon is working to countermand the machine idolatry of modernism. His understanding of the relationship between humans and machines is an even more complex version of the thesis advanced by his dissertation advisor, Georges Canguilhem, wherein the development of machinery advanced according to a biological principle, namely the prosthetic extension of organs. From this vantage point, the process of advocating for the inclusion of technics in culture (an exclusion which Stiegler radicalizes by prioritizing technics over culture in claiming that technical prosthesis is the condition of possibility of the human as such), requires the development of a “general organology” as a kind of study of the relation between these machinic prostheses and the normative understanding of the organs they extend.

Until the present decade, Simondon’s work was relatively unknown to Anglophone readers. An unofficial, partial translation by Ninian Mellamphy of Part 1 of Mode had been in circulation since 1980, but it’s unclear what kind of audience it would have reached until a revised portion appeared in 2011 in Deleuze Studies, two years after the online, open-access journal of critical philosophy Parrhesia devoted a special issue to Simondon. In the intervening years, a number of Simondon’s books and essays have been translated and his direct influence has appeared in fields as diverse as political science, psychology, literary studies, and philosophy. To be sure, in France theorists like Gilles Deleuze, Jean-Luc Nancy, Francois Lyotard, and Bernard Stiegler have continued the legacy of Simondon’s work, attempting to reintegrate technical thought into philosophy proper. The first volume of Stiegler’s Technics and Time trilogy contains lengthy readings of Simondon’s work. But Technics and Time vol. 1 was translated in 1998, and it doesn’t seem to have been broadly taken up until the publication of Mark Hansen’s influential essay, “The Time of Affect,” in 2004.

Reading Simondon is a difficult endeavor. This is not least because of his mesmeric pendulations between technical descriptions of engine types and articulations more recognizably philosophical. That is, of course, the point: in addition to describing the relationship between technical objects and man, and tracing the history of that relationship’s mystification, Simondon is performatively integrating two formerly separate modes of thinking to show how an ontology emerges from the genetic imperatives of technical objects. Mode demands of its reader not just that she apprises herself of its taxonomies, its rhythm and structure, which makes progress through the text slow (and summary impossible). It also demands that she do the thing it claims is demanded of thought; to (re)integrate technical/technological thought with philosophy and culture.

____________

Justin Raden is a graduate student at the University of Illinois at Chicago.

Notes

[i] Bernard Stiegler, Philosophizing by Accident: Interviews with Élie During. Ed. and trans. Benoît Dillet. Edinburgh University Press, 2017. 32

[ii] Mark Poster, The Mode of Information, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990. 21.

[iii] Transmitting Culture. Trans. Eric Rauth. New York, Columbia University Press, 2000. 212.

[iv] Gramophone, Film Typewriter. Trans. Geoffrey Winthrop-Young and Michael Wutz. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999. xxxix.

[v] “On Techno-Aesthetics.” Trans. Arne De Boever. Parrhesia, no. 14, 2012. 2.

^[vi] Many of Simondon’s most important terms have been elucidated by Jean-Hugues Barthélémy. See his “Fifty Key Terms in the Works of Gilbert Simondon”, trans. Arne De Boever. In: Boever, Arne De, Alex Murray, Jon Roffe, and Ashley Woodward, eds. Gilbert Simondon: Being and Technology. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2012. 203-231.

^[vii] The second part of his primary thesis, L’Individuation psychique et collective, is forthcoming from University of Minnesota Press as Psychic and Collective Individuation. No official translation exists of the first part, L’Individu et sa genèse physico-biologique, but Taylor Adkins has published an unofficial translation on the blog “Fractal Ontology” — https://fractalontology.wordpress.com/2007/10/03/translation-simondon-and-the-physico-biological-genesis-of-the-individual/.

^[viii] Elizabeth Grosz, “Identity and Individuation: Some Feminist Reflections.” In: Boever, Gilbert Simondon, 38-40.

^[ix] One can also glimpse here an important influence on Gilles Deleuze’s own attempts to think the relation between being and becoming in Difference and Repetition and The Logic of Sense; it is largely Deleuze’s own work that has generated interest in Simondon in the U.S.

a review of Houria Bouteldja, Whites, Jews and Us: Toward a Politics of Revolutionary Love (The MIT Press, 2017)

Revolutionary Love in Dark Times[1]

By Joëlle Marelli

Translated by Jim Cohen

« What counts, when one wants to read a book, is to read the book. »

Rabbi Itzhak Sagmal

1/ In April 2018, the French singer Jacques Higelin passed away. A whole generation of fans has been in mourning. In 1969, he sang, with Areski Belkacem:

J’aurais bien voulu t’écrire / I’d have liked to write you

Une chanson d’amour / A love song

Mais par les temps qui courent / But these days

Ce n’est pas chose commode / It’s not the most convenient thing

It wasn’t convenient in 1969 and it would possibly be even less so today. It may be a love song that speaks to the impossibility of a love song, but above all it’s a quatrain that contains in a single phrase the song and its absence : an enigmatic reference to the era and to the idea that at the present time – or in the time that remains–it’s not possible to write a love song, or that the time might perhaps be better used for something else. However, in 1969, could there have been anything better to do if one was a young singer and poet who would soon become the « crazy singing man » of France’s  thirty « Glorious Years » of economic growth, than writing love letters? True, Higelin had already written many love letters a few years earlier,[2] and maybe it was time to move on to other things. Maybe he felt the urge to write for a broader public than the very limited one to which love letters are usually addressed. In any case, beneath the light irony of those lines, a theme appears which places in tension the private temporality of passionate love and the « universal »   of belonging to a world that transcends the community of lovers. It seems things were different for Mahmoud Darwish, a poet of the same generation, for whom « writing a poem of love under occupation was both a form of resistance »[3] and something prohibited to him; a form of resistance, thus, to be conquered. In any case, what is fascinating in Higelin’s lines is that they take the form of a trivial excuse (« I would have brought flowers, but the shop was closed », or some other admission of a lover’s inevitable shortcomings), while at the same time pointing to the abysmal inadequacy of the division of labor between private and public.

Since Whites, Jews and Us was published in France (2016), the book and its author, Houria Bouteldja, have been the target of attacks that have often been vicious, sometimes trying to be fair, too often failing in these efforts for being mired in the felt need to attend to prejudices entertained and nourished by mainstream media against what the Indigènes de la République, the political party Bouteldja co-founded, stand for. Any attempt to show that equality doesn’t exist in France causes malicious backlash. Any endeavour to think about race, religion, and gender in terms that vary from the prescribed institutional frameworks (unquestioned brands of universalism and secularism, as well as intrumentalized versions of feminism or opposition to antisemitism ; and an antiracism that is opposed to any input from racialized people, indeed more and more refusing the very category of « racialized people » – « personnes racisées ») is an opportunity for abuse. Most readings – however critical – have failed to make an actual effort to take what the book has to offer. In the best cases, we have seen a recurring theme: « I do not agree with everything she says » – that certain way of conveying an air of sound judgment before expressing a measured agreement. One might ask when one is ever in agreement with « everything » an author writes?  The problem is having to provide guarantees of propriety, for Bouteldja as for anyone.  The questions will then be : what is a demanding text?  What kinds of demands can texts pose for readers? And is it acceptable for subalterns to make demands?[4]

Indeed, it seems to me that Houria Bouteldja could, today, recite or sing, with just as much melancholy and irony as Higelin, or even more : « I would have liked to write you a love song, but these days it’s not the most convenient thing. » The meaning of the words would be somewhat different but no less poignant.

2/ In the most beautiful dialogues of Partage de midi, a play where the dreadful Paul Claudel relates the love and death of white people in the colonies, the severe Mesa asks the indolent Ysé : « What’s that book you’re reading there, which is worn out like a book of love ? » Ysé replies : « A book of love. »[5] Does a lovely scene and some beautiful dialogue, and the author’s rhythmic flair and the fact that the play was written « long ago » (originally in 1906) pardon the abjection of a life’s work shot through, almost completely, with the worst passions of the most bourgeois and reactionary Christianity (moralism, racism, sexism and antisemitism)?  This of course did not prevent Claudel’s works from being incorporated without discussion into the French canon and being regularly produced by the most prestigious directors. In any case these lines, too, continue to trot around in our heads each time learned people claim to tell us the meaning of a book written by an indigène[6]. Like Claudel and like any true Christian, even a lapsed one, Mesa is, in principle, a specialist of true love, which is of course not not that of the flesh, as « poor Ysé » believes, leading him to follow her to doom. But he promptly confuses the word and the thing, a book and that of which it speaks (love), and condemns Ysé’s « worn-out » book without having read it. For there are those who know what love is and those who don’t, just as there are those who know what a song (or poem, or book) of love is, and those who don’t.  There are those who don’t need to read a book to understand that it needs to be burned and its author denounced – as racist, antisemitic, sexist and homophobic (no less!). And finally there are those who claim to read the book better than the others – « between the lines » – and who tell us what is not in the text and what we were in danger of not seeing. Missing from this list are those who would do for this book what they know how to do for others: give it an actual reading, such that what is transformed is less the book than the reader (« split open the wall of the human heart » – Claudel). They take the risk of being « read » and transformed by the book. We do this with certain books. What are the criteria that cause us to decide not to do it with others?

3/ In 1962, just a few short years before Higelin and Areski sang of the impossibility of writing a love song, Hannah Arendt wrote a few lines to James Baldwin in reponse to his article in the New Yorker entitled « Letter from a Region of My Mind », a text from from which Bouteldja quotes several passages and which ends as follows:

If we—and now I mean the relatively conscious whites and the relatively conscious blacks, who must, like lovers, insist on, or create, the consciousness of the others—do not falter in our duty now, we may be able, handful that we are, to end the racial nightmare, and achieve our country, and change the history of the world. If we do not now dare everything, the fulfillment of that prophecy, re-created from the Bible in song by a slave, is upon us: God gave Noah the rainbow sign, No more water, the fire next time! [7] 

Even as Hannah Arendt expresses her overall admiration for Baldwin’s text, she returns – showing her slightly stubborn side that causes us not to « agree with everything she says » – to what she considers to be a mistake: according such an important place to love in the realm of politics:

What frightened me in your essay was the gospel of love which you begin to preach at the end.  In politics, love is a stranger, and when it intrudes upon it nothing is being achieved except hypocrisy.  All the characteristics you stress in the Negro people: their beauty, their capacity for joy, their warmth, and their humanity, are well-known characteristics of all oppressed people.  They grow out of suffering and they are the proudest possession of all pariahs.  Unfortunately, they have never survived the hour of liberation by even five minutes.  Hatred and love belong together, and they are both destructive;  you can afford them only in the private and, as a people, only so long as you are not free.[8]

Something frightened Arendt, although she had seen plenty of other frightful things in her life: the « gospel of love » that Baldwin  preaches  at the end of his text. Let us reestablish some balance, she seems to say: « Love is foreign to politics. » The positive qualities that Baldwin finds in black people (beauty, aptitude for joy, warmth, humanity) are not only defining traits of oppressed people – or, as Arendt calls them, pariahs – but they are the result of situations of oppression. Freedom (or, better still, emancipation, justice, equality) causes these qualities to disappear; they do not survive for even five minutes. Arendt adopts here the same terms she used in 1959 in her acceptance speech for the Lessing prize in Hamburg,[9] developing a recurring position of hers.[10] Behind the cliché of love being just as destructive as hate, from which is it indissociable (in the work of an author who finds nothing more repugnant than clichés), there is the idea that affects, which pertain to the domain of the particular, cannot be incorporated into the universal sphere of politics. Love and hate are luxuries that  « you can afford (…) only in the private and, as a people, only so long as you are not free. » If we shed light on this question from The Origins of Totalitarianism, this disabused attitude constitutes a more elaborate formulation of a theme that is proliferating in its most trivial forms today in France[11] under the effects of an intense preoccupation – more or less subterranean, that is, both conscious and unconconscious – over the past two centuries or more with the inexhaustible question of what makes a group fit or unfit for universalism, that is, for its disappearance as a group:

Since the Greeks, we have known that highly developed political life breeds a deep-rooted suspicion of this private sphere, a deep resentment against the disturbing miracle contained in the fact that each of us is made as he is – single, unique, unchangeable. This whole sphere of the merely given, relegated to private life in civilized society, is a permanent threat to the public sphere, because the public sphere is based on the law of universal difference and differentiation. […] The great danger arising from the existence of people forced to live outside the common world is that they are thrown back, in the midst of civilization, on their natural givenness, on their mere differentiation. They lack the tremendous equalizing of differences which comes from being citizens of some commonwealth and yet, since they are no longer allowed to partake in the human artifice, they begin to belong to the human race in much the same way as animals belong to a specific animal species[12].

It is this singularity, according to Arendt, which calls for love and which is addressed by what she calls love; a singularity which has nothing to do with politics. Worse still:

The danger in the existence of such people [i.e. the « pariahs », those who live outside the « commonwealth »] is twofold : first and more obviously, their ever-increasing numbers threaten our political life, our human artifice, the world which is the result of our common and co-ordinated effort in much the same, perhaps even more terrifying, way as the wild elements of nature once threatened the existence of man-made cities and countrysides.[13]

The conclusion drawn in these passages, as well as other comments by Arendt on the notion of pariah, do not allow us simply to classify her arguments within the historical current which holds that the separation of the spheres is a criterion for sorting out barbarians from civilized peoples:

The danger is that a global, universally interrelated civilization may produce barbarians from its own midst by forcing millions of people into conditions which, despite all appearances, are the conditions of savages.[14]

Though I won’t cease repeating that « I don’t agree with everything she says », clearly here Arendt comes close to playing the role of a seer or prophet in describing our contemporary reality and thus converging with Houria Bouteldja and a few others when they tie the history of postcolonial immigration to France, and the treatment of immigrants and their descendants, to the recent eruptions of delirious ideologies accompanied by upsurges in violent behaviors. In Bouteldja’s words:

We have realized the white prophecy: to become non-beings or barbarians. Our complexities and our nuances have evaporated. We have been diluted, confiscated from ourselves, emptied out of all historical substance. We claim to be what we have been but are nothing but fantasmatic, disarticulated caricatures of ourselves. We cobble together disparate scraps of identity, held in place with bad glue. Our own parents look at us, perplexed. They think, “Who are you ?”[15]

We’ll need to return to this « we » which valiantly refuses to repeat the operation of sorting-out, instead obstinately politicizing, over and against the paradoxical imperative that the pariah extract herself from her condition. This is not the romanticism of an outcast subject, but rather an assuming of the risk and of the Arendtian imperative: every member of a pariah group must choose between being a rebel and being « partly responsible for his own position. »[16]  Let us posit for the moment that this « we », fundamentally impure and thus fundamentally political, is in constant construction, and that its corresponding « you » is no less polymorphous and unstable.[17]

The position taken by Hannah Arendt in her letter to Baldwin is in accord with what she famously replied a few months later, on June 23, 1963, to Gershom Scholem, who, after the publication of her Eichmann in Jerusalem, had accused her of lacking « love for the Jewish people » (« ahavat Israel »). Indeed, she retorted, she believed she must reserve the sentiment of love for those close to her, and more precisely for her friends, rather than for ethnic, national, or political groups, or « anything of that sort »: « I indeed love ‘only’ my friends and the only kind of love I know of and believe in is the love of persons. »[18]  Such robust common sense is proferred in this context in useful opposition to Scholem’s nationalist and ethnocentric mystique, which in this period, as Amnon Raz-Krakotzkin has shown,[19] represented an abandonment of the lucid and disillusioned analyses of the early years of his residence in Palestine under the British mandate, when, with the Brit Shalom movement, he advocated a form of Zionism compatible with the binational idea. In 1931 he had criticized the alliance Zionism had made with « the manifest force, the aggressor » that is imperialism, forgetting to « link up with the hidden force, the oppressed, which [would] rise and be revealed soon after », by which he was referring to « the revolution of the awakening Orient », a revolution which then seemed imminent and which in his view would force Zionism to choose its camp. This choice could owe nothing to cowardice or opportunism because the danger was equally real, according to Scholem, on both sides of the divide between the imperialist West and the revolutionizing East. Zionism would either be « washed away along with the waters of imperialism » to which it had allied itself at the moment of the Balfour Declaration, « or it [would] be burned in the fire of the revolution of the awakening Orient. »  « Mortal dangers beset her on either side, and, nevertheless, the Zionist movement cannot avoid a decision », he continued, only to end on this apocalyptic note:

If it is still possible for an entire movement to change its ways and attempt to join up with the powers that will determine the shape of the coming generation, this I do not know. But I do know that, but for this attempt, it has no other way […] Better that the movement again become small but confident in its ways and pregnant with possibility, than that it remain in its state of disintegration and falsehood and die with the reactionary forces that it followed as a result of the original sin: false victory. And if we do not win once again, and the fire of revolution consumes us, at least we will be among those standing on the right side of the barricades.[20]

By 1963, however – that is, after the catastrophe, as Raz-Krakotzkin points out – Scholem had long abandoned his initial commitment to binationalism and had moved progressively toward the most irresponsible versions of Zionism.[21] Arendt’s reply (« I love only my friends »), which is tantamount to « love has nothing to do with politics », cannot have the same meaning when addressed to Scholem, who claims to justify the censorship of the criticisms of the Judenräte by « love of the Jewish people», as when it is addressed to Baldwin, who calls for whites and blacks to think of each other, together, « as lovers ».

When addressed to the old and reactionary Scholem, Arendt’s reply attests to her freedom and her obstinacy in critical thinking, but when it is delivered to Baldwin, who speaks of « changing the history of the world » (a formula to which she should have been sensitive), her opinion as a specialist of the impossible relationship between private affect and worldly engagement resembles the skeptical frown of a fussy old professor. She does not see that when Baldwin speaks of love and politics, it is in the idiom of another  « tradition of the oppressed» – one which has reinterpreted the imperative of love in a manner that could be called Spinozian, that is, turning it into a configuration capable of overpowering the profoundly destructive negativity of affect produced in oppressed subjects by situations of oppression. In The Fire Next Time, Baldwin writes: « I use the word “love” here not merely in the personal sense but as a state of being, or a state of grace – not in the infantile American sense of being made happy but in the tough and universal sense of quest and daring and growth. »[22] » It is not – or is not simply – « Christian » love or « love of one’s neighbor », much less love for one’s enemies.[23] Nor is it about a « demand for love ». As Baldwin further writes: « […] I do not know many Negroes who are eager to be “accepted” by white people, still less to be loved by them; they, the blacks, simply don’t wish to be beaten over the head by the whites every instant of our brief passage on this planet. » [24] The dizzying passage in this sentence from a descriptive « they » to a subjectivizing « we » opens a path for us to understand what he means by « love ». In Just Above My Head Baldwin gives an implacable and terrifying description of the destructiveness of exposure to racism:

It’s a dreadful place to be. I’ve been there a few times since – hope never to go there again. There is a blood-red thunder all around you, a blinding light flashes from time to time, voices roar and cease, roar and cease, you are in the grip of an unknowable agony, it is in your shoulders, your arms, your hands, your breath, an intolerable labor – and, no, it is not at all like approaching an orgasm, an orgasm implying relief, even, sometimes, however desperately, implying the hope of love. Love and death are connected, but not in the place I was that day.[25]

It is to this kind of negativity, which the oppressor seeks to turn into the distinctive sign of the oppressed, and to which the history of oppression seeks to condemn them, that Baldwin accuses Richard Wright of binding black Americans:

To present Bigger as a warning is simply to reinforce the American guilt and fear concerning him, it is most forcefully to limit him to that previously mentioned social arena in which he has no human validity, it is simply to condemn him to death. [26]

Oppression inevitably produces Bigger Thomases,[27] and when they are judged,

It is useless to say to the courtroom in which this heathen sits on trial that he is their responsibility, their creation, and his crimes are theirs ; and that they ought, therefore, to allow him to live, to make articulate to himself behind the walls of prison the meaning of his existence. The meaning of his existence has already been most adequately expressed […] Moreover, the courtroom, judge, jury, witnesses and spectators, recognize immediately that Bigger is their creation and they recognize this not only with hatred and fear and guilt and the resulting fury of self-righteousness but also with that morbid fullness of pride mixed with horror with which one regards the extent and power of one’s wickedness.[28]

But in the time preceding these little ends of the world, these apocalypses within the dimension of a human life, and which prefigure others of greater magnitude, in the time that remains, as we have seen, Baldwin invites « relatively conscious » blacks and whites « to act like lovers », that is, to try to produce more conscience in each other and to persevere in this pursuit without faltering in order to « change the history of the world », failing which the apocalpytic post-Biblical prophecy of the slaves will come to pass: « God gave Noah the rainbow sign, No more water, the fire next time ! »

While the choice posed by Baldwin cannot be understood by the – in this case – stubborn common sense of Hannah Arendt, there is good reason to believe that it would have been heard by Walter Benjamin[29] and no doubt as well, by the Gerschom Scholem of 1931. If one accepts these parallels, then the political love called for by Baldwin is perhaps something like Benjamin’s « real state of exception ». We can call it friendship if we wish, or philia; we may ask to what extent Baldwin’s formulation of revolutionary love would escape Jacques Derrida’s dubious diagnosis in The Politics of Friendship, and wonder how he, Baldwin, would resolve the question – a central one, as Gil Anidjar has shown[30] – about  numbers: May I ever embrace, in my friendship or my love, more than a handful of individuals who resemble me? Can these affects, without losing everything that gives them their sensible character, be anything else but elective? One could also consider that the love Baldwin speaks of is a bit like the « proposition » made by C.L.R. James, whom Bouteldja recognizes as a « partisan of revolutionary love » : « These are my ancestors, these are my people. They are yours too if you want them. »[31]. And it must be admitted that there is more love there, without a doubt, but also – to borrow a phrase that has its obscure side and its luminous side – an « offer » that is considerably more « generous » than what is conveyed in apparently symmetrical manner in Nicolas Sarkozy’s phrasing of the « imperative of assimilation »: « As soon as you become French, your ancestors are Gauls. ‘I love France, I learn French history, I live like a French person’ is what each person who becomes French must tell himself/herself »[32]. In Baldwin’s « proposition », and in that of James, and those of Bouteldja[33] there is the proposal for a paradigm change – what Rancière might call a new distribution of the sensible, which presupposes a transformation of the gaze[34] and affective alliances based on new representations of « self », « same », « others » « alike », « neighbour » etc. – that is, a new political subjectification,[35] of a type that immediately creates the conditions for peace[36]. In an article written in 1995, Jacques Rancière relates his reflection on « political subjectification » – and it’s certainly no accident – to his pondering over the impact of the Algerian War on his generation and on the effect it could (should?) have had regarding « the difference internal to citizenship that is the mark of politics » if the forgetting of « internal alterity » had not taken place instead. [37] But these moments and narratives, and the conceptualizations to which they give rise, provide orientation to the living compass that we are, collectively, to ourselves.

Without wishing to speak for Houria Bouteldja, it seems to me that she could say (or could she sing it?) that she would have liked to write a book of love, but that in these times it’s not a convenient thing.  It is to « us » that this book appears to be addressed[38] –  to us whites, us Jews, us indigenous women, us indigènes – since by the end of the book the reader’s labor of disidentification and (re)subjectification has necessarily begun, that is, if it hadn’t already begun before. It may be to avoid this labor that so many people have brutalized the book and its author. (« What are you reading there, and dissecting  – which is not the same as reading – with as much malevolence as a book of love would be dissected by an Inquisition, if the book is about revolutionary rather than « Christian » love (whatever that might be)? « A book of love – revolutionary love. ») Bouteldja aptly quotes Baldwin:

The Negro came to the white man for a roof or for five dollars or for a letter to the judge; the white man came to the Negro for love. But he was not often able to give what he came seeking. The price was too high; he had too much to lose. And the Negro knew this, too. When one knows this about a man, it is impossible for one to hate him, but unless he becomes a man – becomes equal – it is also impossible for one to love him.[39]

Revolutionary love, I hope to have shown, is not the demand for love, nor is it « Christian love », nor loving one’s neighbor nor one’s enemy. It is a disidentifying transformation, a political subjectification that operates at the moment where equality is affirmed. Rancière reminds us that equality is not something that one pursues or obtains but a postulate that becomes actualized through operations made necessary (and are created) for its verification[40]. The performative effect of this postulate and the constant process of its verification on the « supposedly natural logic of domination » is to produce politics. « That means that there is not always politics. It is indeed present quite little and rarely.»[41] That is very different from saying, as Arendt does, that the human group (the Jews in this case–but today it would be the inhabitants of popular districts, or a given category of workers (animal laborans[42])–are « worldless » (weltlos), a privation (Weltlosigkeit, worldlessness) synonymous with a lack of aptitude for politics, of which love, beauty and « anything of that sort », perceived as collective qualities and not reserved to the « private » domain, are the clearest signs. This Weltlosigkeit whose conditions of humanization (or rehumanization?) are the stakes of a tight negotiation with Martin Heidegger, would be known in the French idiom of today, and more trivially, as « communautarisme », that is, the supposed inability or unwillingness of immigrant groups, including generations of their offspring, to assimilate because of their preference for group attachment over universal values and identification with the broader community of citizens. This in turn is why multiculturalism is such a vilified notion in France.

It seems to me that the notion of revolutionary love, as mobilized by Bouteldja (who in turn says she borrowed it, without truly thematizing it, from Chela Sandoval[43]), is one of the possible procedures for the pratical verification of equality. To use Rancière’s terms, it is a « method of equality ».[44] In this process, as it plays out here, equality is verified by a demanding kind of generosity : The Whites, Jews and Us is both a demanding and a generous book. Since when do the subaltern formulate demands? Ever since they have made generous offers, but while also, each time, tirelessly verifying the equality of the relationship; they give the oppressor a chance to dis-identify with the oppressive identity, thus producing a new political subjectification.

One might say – and I will not hesitate to say it, because it’s no doubt the book’s most precious lesson – borrowing and modifying an insight by Hannah Arendt, that every member of a pariah group must not only choose between being a rebel and being « responsible for his/her own oppression »,[45] but must also find the means to escape from the affective negativity engendered by his/her condition. To that end there are only two possible paths: revolutionary violence or revolutionary love. Baldwin reproached Wright for binding African Americans to an imposed negativity. But he also knew, and said so directly, that when the oppressor refuses the generous proposal made by the oppressed (and when has that ever not happened?), it’s the fire next time. Scholem understood that faced with the « fire of revolution », (even when that fire is destined to devour us), one must choose « the right side of the barricades », and not just to save our lives – Scholem was pessimistic in those years but he was clearly not a coward – but in order that, in a way that brings us closer to Kafka, and where we find common ground with Arendt, something other than shame may survive us.[46]

Notes

[1] A short version of this was published on The Immanent Frame, July 12, 2018, under the title « Love in Dark Times », https://tif.ssrc.org/2018/07/12/love-in-dark-times/

[2] Cf. Lettres d’amour d’un soldat de vingt ans (Love letters of a 20 year-old soldier), Grasset, 1987.

[3] Mahmoud Darwish, « Je suis malade d’espoir » (I am sick with hope), interview with Gilles Anquetil, Le Nouvel Observateur n° 2154, August 11, 2008.

[4] Careful observation of what has taken place in France around the book shows that most, if not all the critiques have tended to be rooted not in sound analysis but in what their authors thought they already knew about Bouteldja’s stances, as well as their dismissal of the Parti des Indigènes de la République (PIR : actually a group that started in 2004, with an appeal for the recognition of the colonial roots of the systemic discriminations that affect offsprings of immigrants from former French colonies ; it became a « party » in 2010 – albeit one that never ran for any election).. Much of the literature and thought that have sustained Bouteldja’s thinking, as well as that of other racialized representants of political, as opposed to moral, antiracism (that is, an antiracism that is more interested in pointing to systemic discriminations than in denouncing individual shortcomings) are largely unknown in France : mostly untranslated, but when translated, unread and untaught. This is why and how Bouteldja, the PIR, and other groups and individuals representing racialized minorities, are often attacked for what is interpreted as their subtext, rather than their text.This is also why I have tried to think with the book here, to use it as a toolbox for thinking. I have wondered why no actual conversation has been possible, in France, about it. I have tried to address the book itself (or some aspects of it), rather than the aura of scandalousness around Bouteldja. I have, in short, tried to actually read the book, while leaving aside what I thought I knew about her or about the Indigènes de la République (and I should specify, here, that I was one of the first signatories of the Indigènes’ appeal ; but that I am not part of the PIR).  I have to read the book  as seriously as I would any other book. This has meant letting the book be inscribed in a network of other writings–one among many possible networks, to be sure. Since that network is made of writings I value, it is a subjective network. Still, it is one that, in my view, is deeply relevant to Bouteldja’s book. As some have shown (Roland Barthes most famously), this subjective networking is what we call reading.

[5] Paul Claudel, Partage de midi, Paris, Gallimard, 1949, coll. Folio, p. 38.

[6] The term indigène (rendered by Bouteldja’s translator as « indigenous ») was used for the first time in the recent French history of postcolonial struggles in a manifesto published in January 2005 under the title « Nous sommes les indigènes de la République » (« We are the indigenous of the Republic »). It refers critically to the status of « natives’ » within the colonial-era French legal system. See Houria Bouteldja, Whites, Jews, and Us. Toward a Politics of Revolutionary Love, translated by Rachel Valinsky, with a foreword by Cornel West, Semiotext(e) intervention series n°22, MIT Press, Cambridge, Mass. and London, England, 2017.

[7] James Baldwin, « Down at the Cross. Letter from a Region in my Mind », in Collected Essays, Literary Classics of the United States, New York, N.Y., 1998, p. 346-7.

[8] http://www.hannaharendt.net/index.php/han/article/view/95/156,

[9] « The humanity of the insulted and injured has never yet survived the hour of liberation by so much as a minute. This does not mean that it is insignificant, for in fact it makes insult and injury endurable; but it does mean that in political terms it is absolutely irrelevant. » Hannah Arendt, “On Humanity in Dark Times: Thoughts about Lessing,” trans. Clara and Richard Winston, Men in Dark Times by Hannah Arendt (New York: Harcourt Brace, 1993) 3-31.

[10] This position can be traced back to the first theoretical elaborations in her biography of Rahel Varnhagen, or even to her thesis on the concept of love in Augustine, and which can be found in different forms in The Jew as Pariah: A Hidden Tradition (1944) and in the first section of The Origins of Totalitaritarianism.

[11] Also in Germany and elsewhere, but nowhere with such candid bonne conscience as in France.

[12] Hannah Arendt, The Origins of Totalitarianism, Harvest Book, Orlando, Austin, New York, San Diego, London, 1976, p. 301-2.

[13] Ibid. 302.

[14] Ibid.

[15] Bouteldja, op. cit., p. 103.

[16] H. Arendt, « The Jew as Pariah : A Hidden Tradition », Jewish Social Studies, vol. 6, No 2 (Apr. 1944), pp 109. The German edition of this essay has « Unterdrückung » (oppression) instead of « position ». Die verborgene Tradition, Suhrkamp Verlag, Frankfurt am Main, 1976, p. 57.

[17] On the central question of dialogue in Houria Bouteldja’s book and elsewhere, and on the manner in which it necessarily causes identity to vacillate, see Gil Anidjar, « Jackals and Arabs (Once More: the German-Jewish Dialogue) », forthcoming.

[18] “Eichmann in Jerusalem: An Exchange of Letters between Gershom Scholem and Hannah Arendt,” Encounter 22, No. 1. January 1964; reprinted in Arendt Hannah, The Jew as Pariah: Jewish Identity and Politics in the Modern Age (Ron. H. Feldman, ed.), New York: Grove Press, 1978, p 246.

[19] Exil et souveraineté. Judaïsme, sionisme et pensée binationale, translated from Hebrew into French by Catherine Neuve-Eglise, Paris, La Fabrique, 2007, p. 170-183; see also « Exile and Binationalism – From Gershom Scholem and Hannah Arendt to Edward Said and Mahmoud Darwish »,  Carl Heinrich Becker Lecture, Fritz Thyssen Stiftung, 2011 (http://www.eume-berlin.de/en/events/carl-heinrich-becker-lecture/2011-amnon-raz-krakotzkin.html) and « “On the Right Side of the Barricades”, Walter Benjamin, Gershom Scholem, and Zionism », in Comparative Literature 65 :3, University of Oregon, 2013 (https://read.dukeupress.edu/comparative-literature/article-abstract/65/3/363/7798).

[20]  Scholem, “Bemai Ka’Mipalgi.” Od Davar. Tel Aviv, Am Oved, 1987. 57–59. Quoted by Amnon Raz-Krakotzkin, in « On the Right Side of the Barricades », art. cit., p. 375-6. I used the French translation of Scholem’s article : « Qui sont les diviseurs ? (1931) », in Le prix d’Israël. Ecrits politiques, Paris, éditions de l’Eclat, 2003. My emphasis.

[21] Amnon Raz-Krakotzkin, art. cit.

[22]  Baldwin, « Down at the Cross », op. cit., p. 341.

[23]  See Gil Anidjar, The Jew, the Arab, a History of the Enemy, Stanford University Press, 2003.

[24] Baldwin, ibid, p. 299.

[25] James Baldwin, Just Above My Head, Random House, 1979, p. 81.

[26] Baldwin, « Notes of a Native Son », in Collected Essays, op. cit., p. 33.

[27] Main character of the novel by Richard Wright, Native Son (1940), HarperCollins Publishers, NY, 1993.

[28] « Notes of a Native Son », op. cit., p. 33..

[29] « There is no document of culture which is not at the same time a document of barbarism. […]The tradition of the oppressed teaches us that the “state of emergency” in which we live is not the exception but the rule. We must attain to a conception of history that accords with this insight. Then we will clearly see that it is our task to bring about a real state of emergency… » Walter Benjamin, « On the Concept of History », Selected Writings, Volume 4, 1938-1940, Harvard University Press, 2006, p. 392.

[30] Anidjar, The Jew, the Arab, op. cit.

[31] C.L.R. James, The Making of the Caribbean People, » in Spheres of Existence : Selected Writings (London : Allison and Busby, 1980), p. 187 ; quoted by Bouteldja, op. cit., p. 50. In a somewhat different formulation, but not so far removed, see Mahmoud Darwich : « My problem resides in what the Other has decided to see in my identity. Yet I tell him: here is my identity, share it with me, it is broad enough to welcome you. » Mahmoud Darwich, La Palestine comme métaphore, Arles, Actes Sud, 2003, p. 36.

[32] http://www.lefigaro.fr/flash-actu/2016/09/19/97001-20160919FILWWW00356-des-que-l-on-devient-francais-nos-ancetres-sont-gaulois-sarkozy.php

[33] To « whites » : « If things were as they should be, the most conscious among you would be tasked with making us a proposition to avoid the worst. But things are not as they should be. It is incumbent on us to fulfill this task. […] What would be convincing enough to make you give up on defending the racial interests that comfort you out of your downgrading and thanks to which you have the satisfaction of dominating (us)? Other than peace, I don’t know what it would be. By peace, I mean the opposite of « war », of « blood », of « hatred ». I mean: living all together peacefully. » (49) To « the Jews »: « You are still in the ghetto. Why don’t we go out of there together? » (72)

[34] « The distribution of the sensible reveals who can have a share in what is common to the community based on what they do and on the time and space in which this activity is performed. Having a particular ‘occupation’ thereby determines the ability or inability to take charge of what is common to the community; it defines what is visible or not in a common space, endowed with a common language, etc. » Jacques Rancière, The Politics of Aesthetics: The Distribution of the Sensible. Translated with an introduction by Gabriel Rockhill, Continuum International Publishing Group, 2004, p. 12-13. Even while relying on Rancière himself, we may argue that « occupation » is not the only factor determining who has or doesn’t have a share in the community (see « The Cause of the Other », art. cit.). Indeed, so do skin-color, religion, colonial history, etc.

[35] Jacques Rancière, Disagreement. Politics and Philosphy, translated by Julie Rose, University of Minnesota Press, Minneapolis, London, 1999. « Politics is a matter of subjects or, rather, modes of subjectification. By subjectification I mean the production through a series of actions of a body and a capacity for enunciation not previously identifiable within a given field of experience, whose identification is thus part of the reconfiguration of the field of experience. » (35). « Any subjectification is a disidentification, removal from the naturalness of a place, the opening up of a subject space where any­one can be counted since it is the space where those of no account are counted, where a connection is made between having a part and having no part. » (36)

[36] In his Love Letters of a 20 Year-Old Soldier, Higelin tells how, the day Algerian independence was proclaimed, he left the barracks, went out into the streets filled with joy and was immediately recognized as an ally by the Algerians he met: « A teenage boy came toward us, with transfigured traits, incapable of saying a word, overwhelmed with emotion. He shook our hands with passion. He slapped me on the back. […] His look told me : ‘You understand, you came to share, it’s so great!’ »[36] However, it would be pointless to give in to political sentimentalism. In what follows in his correspondence, the young soldier Higelin in Algeria returns quickly to his story of passionate love, not without its narcissistic side, to the detriment of his historical testimony.

[37] Jacques Rancière, « The Cause of the Other » (1998), Parallax 4 :2, p. 32.

[38] Cf. Gil Anidjar, « Jackals and Arabs », forthcoming.

[39] Baldwin, « Letter from a Region of My Mind », op. cit., p. 345. Quoted by Bouteldja, op. cit., p. 51-52.

[40] Rancière, The Ignorant Schoolmaster. Five Lessons in Intellectual Emancipation, translated with an introduction by Kristin Ross, Stanford University Press, 1991, p. 137.

[41] The Disagreement, op. cit., p. 17. The phrase « supposedly natural logic of domination » was not translated from the French in the English language edition of Rancière’s La Mésentente.

[42] H. Arendt, Condition de l’homme moderne, Paris, Calmann-Lévy, 1961 et 1983, p. 147-156.

[43] Chela Sandoval, Methodology of the Oppressed, University of Minnesota Press, 2000.

[44] Rancière, La Méthode de l’égalité. Entretiens avec Laurent Jeanpierre et Dork Zabunyan, Paris, Bayard, 2012.

[45] The Jew as Pariah, op. cit.

[46] See Arendt’s beautiful reading of The Trial: « It has been characteristic of our history-conscious century that its  worst crimes have been committed in the name of some kind of necessity  or in the name — and this amounts to the same thing — of the “wave of  the future.” For people who submit to this, who renounce their freedom  and their right of action, even though they may pay the price of death  for their delusion, anything more charitable can hardly be said than the  words with which Kafka concludes The Trial: “It was as if he meant  the shame of it to outlive him. » in « Franz Kafka, a Revaluation », in Essays in Understanding, 1930-1954. Formation, Exile, and Totalitarianism, Jerome Kohn (ed.), Harcourt Brace & Co., 1994, p. 71.