Review: Socialism Betrayed by Roger Keeran and Thomas Kenny

Why did the USSR collapse? The question is of major political importance. If the problem is inherent to socialism, socialism cannot be the solution to the ills of capitalism. If the cause lies somewhere else, it must be understood and avoided if a socialist project is to succeed. The book’s authors, who are Marxists, argue that although the USSR was in need of reforms, these were far from fatal flaws; instead, its demise was due to right-deviation policies adopted by Gorbachev in 1986.

Philosophically, the authors trace two threads of Soviet thinking. The first thread, to which the authors are most sympathetic, connects Lenin, Stalin, and Andropov. This strain placed the proletarian class at the forefront while hoping to eliminate class devisions through the building of socialism. Had Andropov’s reforms continued past his untimely death, the USSR would likely have continued (the authors point to remaining socialist states as illustrative proof). The second strain is represented by Bukharin, Khrushchev and Gorbachev, and reflects petite bourgeois ideology that favours compromise with capitalism and downplays the importance of the proletariate in favour of a unified mass.

The strengths of the book are the authors' familiarity with socialist debates and their ability to situate policy decisions in this context, as well as their detailed presentation of the problems facing the Soviet Union by the 1980s. The discussion of the “second economy” — extralegal or illicit trade outside the planned economy — was particularly thorough and convincing as a contributing factor. The authors also provide clear, compelling rebuttals of several typical alternative explanations for the USSR’s collapse. The work is well-organized and strikes a good balance between historical detail and general themes such that their arguments are generally well-supported without getting lost in minutiae. 

The weakness of the book is that it remains unclear how the USSR should have navigated their difficulties. Although the second economy is elevated as one of the most important points of failure, I am not convinced that the relatively small and measured reforms the authors advocate would have solved this problem. Closer comparison with China, Vietnam and Cuba’s economic policies would have done much to strengthen their case. In particular, to what extent can capitalist relations be re-introduced into a socialist system to address certain economic problems without causing instability or unwanted excesses and crises? However, I did appreciate the authors' point that the goal is not only to develop the productive forces but also to "perfect the relations of production." The authors overly lean on the word "revisionism" to build their case for Gorbachev’s missteps, and I think scrubbing their argument of this bit of Marxist jargon would have led to a sharper critique. Additionally, the question of national identity remains murky. Although the authors show how national differences led to fracturing and although they emphasize the importance of understanding nationalism, it remains unclear what specific actions could have ameliorated the situation, or why it arose when and where it did. The solution appears to be to simply not allow nationalism to develop — but this is easier said than done. Quelling nationalism is not so dissimilar to chauvinistic oppression, and oppression can provoke its own destructive reaction. Similarly, self-determination and democracy are closely related, and a socialism that does not also strive to perfect democracy—rule by the people—is just as bad as one that does not strive to perfect the relations of production. Finally, while the authors engage with Western scholarship on the USSR's collapse, there was little treatment of Eastern — particularly Chinese —scholarship, possibly due to a language barrier.

Overall, this is an essential read, if not quite complete. The definitive study on this crucial question remains to be written.

Review: The Iliad by Homer

The experience of reading an ancient text is one of discovering something both new and familiar at the same time. Familiar, because these characters and stories and motifs are woven through so much of our culture. New, because to read the original work is different from seeing the ripples it casts.

The Iliad tells the story about the Trojan War, but only a brief slice of it in the middle. The story of Paris and Helen, whose face launched a thousand ships, is referenced only briefly. The poem ends before Achilles is taken down by an arrow to his vulnerable heel. There are no men sneaking through fortifications via wooden horses; in fact, the walls of Troy still stand at the end of it all. The audience would likely have been familiar with all these stories, but they are not the story The Iliad wants to tell.

The Iliad opens with the scene of a quarrel between Agamemnon and Achilles. Agamemnon has taken for himself Briseis, a slave woman Achilles captured in a raid in their war against Troy. There are clear parallels with Paris taking Helen from Agamemnon’s brother, Menelaus, kicking off the war between the Greeks and the Trojans. As a result of this quarrel over Briseis, Achilles sulks by the seaside for most of the rest of the book, and in his absence, the Trojans press their advantage to the devastation of the Greek forces. These battles occupy the bulk of the poem.

In a dire moment, Achilles’ beloved comrade, Patroclus, offers to put on Achilles’ armour and scare off the Trojans, but divine trickery leads him to overextend, and he dies at Hector's hands. Achilles is swept into a vengeful rage, and enters the battle. The tides turn, and the Greeks chase the Trojans back to the wall. Achilles isolates Hector, who finds himself at a disadvantage, having also been deceived by the gods. Hector begs Achilles to return his body to Troy and treat it with respect, but Achilles refuses, promising instead to desecrate his body. He kills Hector, then drags around his body in violent disrespect of the dead.

The next book — the penultimate book — comes as a surprising change of pace: to honour Patroclus’ death, Achilles throws an athletic competition. It is, at first blush, an odd interlude. We go from life-or-death nailbiting threats, to friendly competition. But I think this chapter is the key to understanding the story The Iliad wants to tell: for each of these athletic challenges, the winner is determined not only as a matter of skill, but also based on negotiation where parties disagree on who wins, or where skill fails to produce a clear winner. As translator Emily Wilson writes in a footnote:

The funeral games as a whole show the Greeks working towards a political model in which several powerful men who share no ties of kinship might be able to share power amicably together, using models of collective decision-making that need not result in violence or incandescent rage—as in nascent oligarchic and democratic Greek city states.

In the final book, with encouragement from his mother, Achilles ends his rage. He meets with Hector’s father, and negotiates to return Hector’s body. Under the cover of a ceasefire, Hector is given a proper funeral and the poem ends.

So the poem starts with a mismanaged quarrel, two men refusing to find a way to cooperate and respect each other’s honour, and ends with two men reasoning out a solution that grants them both honour, without force or violence. This dynamic plays out in the intrigue between the gods too, who also eventually negotiate solutions to which of the Greeks should live or die, and whether Troy should fall or not. In contrast, the devastation of war is never far from mind when reading the battle scenes. With very few exceptions, each man who falls is named, and linked to a family or a place, sketched out as a particular person — even the most minor of characters. 

The Iliad is therefore a political work: an argument for the form of democracy of the elite that Ancient Greece became known for. Had it began with the story of Helen and Paris, it could not have made this argument: the natural climax would be the fall of Troy, which happens via military force, not political negotiation. Had it included the wooden horse, the lesson would be one of cleverness and trickery, not one of levelheaded politics saving the day. And so this ancient text — familiar and unfamiliar — tells just a small section of the story of the Trojan War.

Review: Acceptance by Jeff Vandermeer

A quirk of reading a book digitally is that the ending can really sneak up on you. At one point, I checked the progress bar and was shocked to discover barely 5% of the book remained. Well, I guess that was the climax, I thought to myself. That moment encapsulates the lacklustre experience of reading this novel.

The story is told through five pairs of eyes. We already know how two of these tales end; the fates of the Psychologist and the Lighthouse Keeper are revealed at the end of Book 1. Although their ends are fated, the unfolding of their journeys is not without merit. Both characters grapple with questions of belonging and identity and purpose, and the relationship between the gay ex-Priest and the half-indigenous child brimming with curiosity was sweet.

Through the other characters we follow three paths of responding to the alien world of Area X: to leave and seek a full life beyond, or to accept the strangeness of it all, either through a slow Understanding and ultimate relinquishing of the self, or through a bright burst of faith and acceptance. These journeys clash with my own epistemology; the characters discover scientific knowledge is fallible, that what matters and is knowable comes from Being. I’m not opposed to reading works that challenge me philosophically and emotionally, but I didn’t find Vandermeer’s case to be convincing. Setting a story in a fantastical setting means the world can work according to any logic — or lack of logic — you want it to. Some of the other Goodreads reviews complain about the dearth of answers to the mysteries of the world Vandermeer introduces in the trilogy, and I think this is really the root that these other readers are grasping at: Vandermeer rejects the material world and the human ability to conceptualize it. If you approach the world scientifically (as his characters start out doing), it is a nihilistic and unsettling worldview, for all that the novel ends with what appears to be hope, peace, and acceptance.

I am curious to what extent the author has really found a sense of acceptance for the philosophy he develops in Acceptance. My hunch is that the nihilism of it troubles him too. First, this third instalment, having set up the New Frontier in book 1 and having burned down the legitimacy of the Old World in book 2, meanders without clear aim. The three characters from the later timeline find themselves in Area X but without clear goals, and just wander about until it eventually ends. Second, these first three books were published in quick succession all in 2014, with a surprise fourth book coming out only in 2024. As disappointed as I am with this trilogy, I have queued up the fourth one out of curiosity for how the author revisits or revises these themes after the turmoil of the late 2010s and early 2020s.

Review: Thomas Piketty’s 'Capital in the Twenty First Century' by Stephan Kaufmann

This being a review of a book that is itself a review, I'll keep it short lest it fall prey to the Law of Diminishing Fleas. 

Kaufman's extended essay starts by sketching the context in which Piketty wrote his opus — the wake of the ’08 financial crisis, Occupy Wall Street, and other symptoms arising from several decades of neoliberalism — before presenting a sympathetic summary of Piketty’s argument. That is, the return on capital outstrips the rate of growth, as demonstrated by several centuries of carefully curated tax records (these being too historical for prior economists to have parsed, and too economic for prior historians to have parsed), and so inequality inevitably increases.

Subsequent chapters ask why this book garnered the hype it did (the concept of increasing inequality under capitalism is hardly new), and what we should make of Piketty’s argument. The author examines several critiques of Piketty. The financial interests of many of his critics place them squarely at odds with his prescription (a wealth tax). These libertarian or neoliberal critiques miss their mark: Piketty’s data largely hold up to scrutiny, and his argument is ultimately in defense of capitalism and markets.

Piketty’s warning against inequality can be reduced to a single objection: if the belief in a society that justly rewards performance with legitimate differences in income disappears, then people will start to doubt whether everything is as it should be in capitalism and whether differences between poor and rich are ultimately just. Piketty argues like a crafty technician of power who exhibits concern about the subservience  and motivation of the propertyless masses.

That is, we must tax wealth not because poverty is gruelling and lethal and this wealth can be put to better use, but for the continued stability of capitalism and markets.

Review: Arab Marxism and National Liberation by Mahdi Amel

Mahdi Amel was a philosophy professor at the Lebanese University, who wrote on questions of anti-imperialism and national liberation from a Marxist perspective during the Lebanese Civil War before his assassination in 1987. This collection of essays brings his writing to the Anglosphere for the first time.

The first pair of essays by Amel present his theory of the Colonial Mode of Production. Amel takes an Althusserian/structuralist approach, but hides it up his sleeve, instead buttressing his argument with a close reading of several passages from Marx. In brief, Amel views the Colonial Mode of Production (which is not necessarily shrugged off when countries achieve nominal liberation from their colonizers) as one where capitalism is imposed from without, but not allowed to truly develop due to surplus being captured by the colonizing country, keeping the colonized country producing agricultural cash crops, extracting natural resources, and offering services — all under the supervision of a stunted petty-bourgeoisie (what other anti-colonial Marxists might call the national bourgeoisie).

The strength of this section was its recognition of class struggle as not merely breaking along the lines of worker-versus-capitalist, but also integrating questions of national liberation. He illustrates this multiplicity with the example of the European Algerian neighbourhood of Bab El Oued. This spot had been a popular base of the communist party before the revolution kicked off, when it transformed into “a haven of European racism as well as the home-base and centre of fascist European terror against the revolution.” I also appreciated his development on the dangers of applying “preformed thoughts” rather than conducting an analysis of a given time and place to see if the class relationships of, say, 19th century England, do in fact apply there. Altogether, Amel's close fidelity to Marx and his analysis of the political economy of colonized countries results in a defense against charges of eurocentrism in Marxism.

That said, I had several reservations with his argument. The author uses “Hegelian” as a synonym for simple, static, and overall undialectical; there were also several claims I found to be unfounded and too eager to make their point (e.g., “Only Marxist thought captures the complex nature of the contradiction at the heart of historical reality, because the Marxist contradiction — unlike the Hegelian contradiction — is in its very nature complex.” or “Colonisation is what introduced into our countries the contradiction without which there is no history.” There was, of course, history before colonization.). His structuralist argument falls into many of the same traps of Althusser’s: his structural model is not a philosophy of change but instead makes these structures themselves seem almost eternal; it is a philosophy that dissolves the individual, transforming relationships between individuals into ones between things.

The remaining four chapters included an interesting critique of Edward Said (who he argues insufficiently understood Marx and thus fell into his own form of orientalism), a Marxist assessment of sectarianism (it’s all class struggle; Islam adopts different forms depending on the material conditions of its practitioners, including the bourgeois state), and a study of ideology in national liberation (cultural heritage is always viewed from the present through class ideology, a critique of colonialism as "civilizing"). These essays were an interesting peek into a part of the world I knew very little about. However, most of Amel's answers to these questions were particular to his time and place, making for a challenging read. Broadly, Amel takes a line that does not reject the coupling of Islam with national liberation movements, recognizing that the conflict between religious sects is a (sometimes mystifying) way class struggle manifests, and that this class struggle itself shapes Islam into the various expressions we see today.

The first two chapters are written by the collection’s editors and attempt to contextualize Amel’s writing in the broader tradition of anti-colonial thought and Arabic Marxism in particular. I would have been more satisfied with just a brief biography of Amel, plus a more heavy-handed editorial voice throughout the work. For example, I would have appreciated a preamble for each essay explaining why they were selected, the audience Amel likely had in mind, the political situation at the time of writing, etc. Additional footnotes providing a brief description of some of the political actors or historical events referenced would also have helped me get more out of the text. There was also extensive use of square brackets and excerpting, which made me wonder what was changed or skipped in translation and why. Overall, the presentation seems like a missed opportunity for a collection aiming to popularize Amel’s writing for a Western audience, although the essays themselves provide insight into 20th century West Asian national liberation struggles.

Review: Perdido Street Station by China Mieville

Mieville's curse is that he thinks deeply about how the world shapes the trajectories of our lives and how we relate to each other, is aware of all the ways the world falls short of fostering human flourishing, and then is too scared to say anything political about it. The world of New Crobuzon is rich: the city feels like a living and breathing organism that developed over centuries, the non-human races are both distinctly non-human but also not caricatures of aspects of human souls. The resolution is bleak: the world is not really changeable, no matter how hard you try. 

The City and the City , published nearly a decade later, suffered from a similar problem. Both had a fascinating premise for a city and a mystery, explored through the eyes of someone who has to navigate their world both legally and illicitly, who sacrifices much and in the end goes unthanked, the system chugging on unchanged. 

Mieville’s later book is well-paced, for all I found the ending disappointing. Perdido Street Station needs an editor. The first third of the novel sets up themes of the limits of justice and liberty and community, and of how these values shift across cultural lines. The last tenth of the novel resolves these questions beautifully — even heart-breakingly. The book was ahead of its time in dealing with questions of consent and sexual abusers; I’m surprised I didn’t hear its name come up more frequently in conversations about #MeToo. The middle of the book is a tiresome Kill The Dragon romp with what little momentum it manages to build continuously dashed by inconsequential world-building.

The shelf of literary yet political fantasy is unfortunately slim. Mieville’s fun prose and thoughtful world-building justify his inclusion on that shelf. I’ll probably return to his novels again, but perhaps to some of his more mature works.

Review: Normal People by Sally Rooney

Normal People follows the friendship and romance between two youths from small-town Ireland, Connell and Marianne. The characters are both somewhat extraordinary — smart, attractive, and, in their own ways and social contexts, popular. At the same time they each, in their own ways, struggle to relate with people and fit into their broader social environments. The title is rather ironic; at varying points, Marianne and Connell long to be “like normal people” while deriving confidence and a sense of self from what makes them each stand out. Like “normal people,” they also struggle with the confusion and intensity of juvenile love and self-discovery.

Marianne grows up in a wealthy family, but an abusive one. Her father dies when she is young, but her mother remains scarred and unattached, permitting Marianne’s brother to abuse Marianne. Perhaps in self protection, she retreats into herself in high school, making no friends and caring not at all what others think of her. It is not until she leaves for university and is able to leave behind her family and reinvent herself (and surround herself with others of her class) that she forms friendships. While not preoccupied with how her peers regard her, she desperately wants to be loved, and in her darkest moments, considers herself to be unlovable. Because of this tension, she lets her romantic partners and friends mistreat her, and, sometimes, even invites them to mistreat her in hopes they will love her more for it. Like many young women who struggle with control over their lives, she develops an eating disorder. She surrounds herself with unpleasant people because they accept her into their circle and sometimes treat her lovingly. She is also lively, cultured, socially graceful, and politically conscious — she attends protests for Palestinian liberation and criticizes capitalism.

Connell grows up in poverty. His mother, who was from a “bad family”, had him as a teenager; his father is unnamed. In contrast to Marianne’s, his home life is loving and accepting; his mother, who works as a cleaner for Marianne’s mother, also serves as a parental figure for Marianne. Perhaps because of the circumstances of his birth, Connell is very conscious of the social dynamics and hierarchies of the high school social scene, and worries how others see him. Although he is bookish and sensitive, he navigates the toxic masculinity, low brow humour, and gossipy inclinations of this milieu and is popular (“Everyone likes you,” Marianne tells him, and the words flutter in his heart for days afterwards). Transitioning to university, he finds himself socially isolated; his lower class rural accent marks him as an outsider, and his quiet nature is read as stupid instead of thoughtful. Because of his family’s wealth, academic success is not just a matter of pride and ambition for him, but of his ability to eat.

The epigraph for Normal People is taken from the famous novelist George Eliot: “It is one of the secrets in that change of mental poise which has been fitly named conversion, that to many among us neither heaven nor earth has any revelation till some personality touches theirs with a peculiar influence, subduing them into receptiveness.” I thought it was a great choice: our narrative begins as a romance buds between Marianne and Connell, and revolves around their on-again-off-again relationship and the way they shape each other. Other characters play essentially bit parts, which some reviewers have criticized; I enjoyed this authorial decision since it brings to the foreground the intensity and importance of the relationship between them, and reflects their own self-centeredness that challenges their relationships with others.

Despite how important they are to each other, their romance proceeds in fits and starts. They are limited by their own abilities to be vulnerable and to depend on each other. Negative reviews have complained about their frustrating inability to communicate, but in each heart-breaking instance, I found each of them to be very understandable (“People are a lot more knowable than they think they are,” Connell reflects). In fact, I think that’s something that makes this book special: it finds a way to take the uncertainty and turmoil and rapid change of late adolescence and early adulthood and detangles it, making it feel much clearer than it was to live it.

For example, Connell and Marianne break up after their first year in university because Connell can’t afford to stay in the city, but finds it too difficult to ask Marianne if he can live with her. Marianne, with her economic privilege, never thinks about affordability as something that might shape one’s decision-making, despite her familiarity with socialist literature. Instead, she takes Connell’s announcement that he is ending his lease as a break-up. In her desire to protect herself and in her assumption that she is probably unlovable, she coolly and maturely accepts his apparent request to end things, puzzling endlessly over it on her own afterwards. Reading this story arc, one might insist (as some negative reviewers imply), “how ridiculous, I would never end a rewarding relationship out of something so silly as not speaking openly about my feelings for fear of being at my most vulnerable” but I think that is how normal people operate, at least when they are young.

The book ends with them apart again, but this time it is a mutually accepted separation, with them expecting to unite again after Connell’s graduate school program (and with long emails in the meantime). They’ve defeated some of their demons, but not all; they are after all, only in their early twenties. They have many challenges yet to face as they reach adulthood.

I appreciate the author’s weaving of politics throughout the novel. Marianne and Connell come from different classes, and this shapes the trajectory of their relationship and their lives. They are politically engaged, and embedded in our real world; they discuss Edward Snowden, media bias, and other topical events of the 2010s. Perhaps because the author is a Marxist, she recognizes the interplay between the personal and the political, despite this being a novel closely focused on just one interpersonal relationship.

Rooney shines in creating emotionally rich scenes focused on mundane slices of life, like writing a long email to a friend, or meeting up with someone for coffee (Gabrielle Zevin's story never of a winding romance-friendship wishes it could do this, but falls back on melodramatic plot points for heightened intensity). Her dialogue reads so naturally, her prose is sparse and yet so emotionally affecting. I devoured the book in just a few days, and highlighted several passages that really spoke to me. I’m looking forward to reading some of her other books.