Review: The 18th Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte by Karl Marx

The 18th Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte cuts through the headlines and drama to understand how the French Second Republic fell to Bonaparte III in 1852 after just four years of existence. This is Marx applying class analysis to his present day, de-tangling the conflicts between peasantry and landed bourgeoisie, proletariat and industrial bourgeoisie, and between the various factions of the bourgeoisie. The value of the work is in understanding how Marx saw class conflict, and in Marx’s vivid writing; this work contains many of Marx’s best known lines, but many unsung passages are similarly poetic. Marx’s understanding of history is one of individual actors acting according to their interests (his Hegelian roots are evident), without seeing all of history as just the whims and wills of great individuals. He shows how relationships to the means of production shape individual decision-making without deterministically dooming history to unfold a certain way. 

Marx writes for an audience that would have been intimately familiar with the events of the day. His work seeks to make sense of the causes, so that readers might apply these hard-earned lessons to future conflicts. It makes for a challenging read for the 21st century reader. Marx refers to the “June Days” with the familiarity a millennial author might refer to the “George Floyd Protests” in a dissection of the COVID pandemic era. (I, a millennial author, shall leave this comment with little further explanation. Like Marx, I assume my reader already knows the details and infers my meaning.) My annotated version (Leopard Books) provided some useful context but I still found myself needing to look up historical details.

For understanding the phenomenon of Bonapartism and how it relates to the problems of governance of today, I preferred Losurdo’s Democracy or Bonapartism. Losurdo writes with the advantage of over a century of Bonapartist leaders since the one that gave the term its name. Tracing the pattern across countries and historical contexts makes it easier to identify the commonalities and causes. Losurdo’s book is also a great introduction to Marx's: the problem of universal suffrage, the charismatic leader pushing aside inter-party strife to unite the nation, the attacks on the means of theoretical production, the child-like multitude, the externalization of threat — all these characteristics Losurdo draws out are there in Marx, if sometimes under-emphasized.

I’m glad to have read this work cover-to-cover, to have familiarized myself with the shape of its contents. It is a major work, often cited. There are so many interesting threads to pull at. For example, towards the end, Marx discusses the centralization of state power as something that “modern society requires” — how should we interpret this line with respect to Marx’s vision for the role of the state in socialism? In other passages, Marx appears to have a strong appreciation for soft power and democratic norms; he often chides the liberal Party of Order for trampling on liberties, absconding from responsibility, or disrespecting institutions, showing how these actions impeded their ability to maneuver politically and resulted in their own demise. In his analysis of the peasantry, Marx refers to the isolated nature of their work and the lack of scientific thinking in their work as reasons for their combining together like potatoes in a potato sack, rather than in the transformative way the proletariat unites. In our modern age of swathes of isolated workers, do we have classes that resemble the peasantry more than the tools of their trade might suggest? It is a rich text, and I am sure I will return to it often.

Review: The Triple Helix by Richard Lewontin

The Dialectical Biologist (1985) is a tour de force, compellingly arguing simultaneously for the need to overthrow the capitalist system as well as the need to overthrow dated scientific approaches. That book has rightly earned its place as one of the key texts on the relationship between science and Marxism. However, despite its name, biology plays more of a supporting role, with the collected essays centering on philosophy, society, and the history of biology. The examples of dialectics in nature are discussed at a high level, primarily drawing from evolutionary biology. The book, being a collection of articles and book chapters published elsewhere, lacks some cohesion, and the arguments repeat.

The Triple Helix (2002) addresses both these weaknesses. The book presents the dialectics of living things as a three stranded system: genes, organism, environment. The argument is well structured, examining first the gene-organism relationship, then the organism-environment relationship, then drawing all three together with a critique of reductionist approaches in science that try to view things in isolation. The work finally concludes with a section putting forward a positive plan for how biologists should conduct their research to avoid such pitfalls. After all, 

It is easy to be a critic. All one needs to do is to think very hard about any complex aspect of the world and it quickly becomes apparent why this or that approach to its study is defective in some way. It is rather more difficult to suggest how we can, in practice, do better.

Lewontin fills in these arguments with a variety of well-chosen examples (the 17 years between this work and the earlier effort were important ones for biology, and although already decades old, the discussion of molecular biology feels considerably more current). His narrative unfolds satisfyingly, flowing from one problem to the next, teaching the controversies and their resolutions. It is a wonderful work of science communication.

Despite the skilled writing on display here, I found it to be a less impactful read than his earlier book. Though the argument was delivered more sharply, the main ideas of The Triple Helix will be familiar to any reader of The Dialectical Biologist. Furthermore, while the author gestures towards the societal implications of the dialectical world view, the lines are never as explicitly drawn, and I missed some of the political fire of The Dialectical Biologist (a favourite example: “But whether the cause of tuberculosis is said to be a bacillus or the capitalist exploitation of workers, whether the death rate from cancer is best reduced by studying oncogenes or by seizing control of factories—these questions can be decided objectively only within the framework of certain sociopolitical assumptions”). 

I’d recommend The Triple Helix for any young scientist, or for any reader interested in the big ideas of biology. I’d recommend The Dialectical Biologist for scientists with an interest in political philosophy.

Review: Authority by Andrea Long Chu

I picked this book up nearly by accident. I had been looking for Authority, Jeff VanderMeer's sci-fi novel, but the name Andrea Long Chu caught my eye. She was one of those writers to which I attach vaguely positive associations, although without a clear picture of their ideas or style. I decided to fill in these blanks (anthologies are great for getting a sense of a writer’s forest rather than just their trees) and I’m really glad I did. As a reader and writer with a background in the applied sciences rather than the humanities, I had been thinking about the respective roles of the novel and the critic in society. ALC addresses these two topics in the two new essays written for this collection (“Criticism in a Crisis” and “Authority”) by historicizing the relationships between critic, art, and the public, giving me a better understanding of the tradition of literary criticism. These topics are also implicit in the 22 republished essays, which serve as examples of the theory she presents in these two newer essays.

Reading this book helped me test some of my own ideas about criticism, art and society. That is, I found a productive mix of inspiration and interesting ideas, as well as places where the author and I diverge, helping me to solidify my understanding. At times, she can be a little floaty, bending away just before landing a broader political point to strike more narrowly on a specific artist. She can also be turned inwards and towards pessimism; I enjoyed re-reading a critique of her On Liking Women that I’d read long ago, with my newfound familiarity in my pocket.

Below, I’ve included some highlights that I found thought-provoking.

• This is the supreme task of the critic: to restore the work of art to its original worldliness. The artist creates by removing something from the world; the critic’s job is to put it back.
• That’s it: as close as Sittenfeld ever comes to laying bare her heroine’s deepest desires. In an airport memoir, this would be mere pablum; in a novel, it amounts to dereliction of duty.
• What I’m saying is not that the desire for a universal is politically defensible but, more simply, that the desire for a universal is synonymous with having a politics at all.
• It strikes me today as a vicious piece, but not a very cruel one. Viciousness is the attack dog who has not eaten in three days; cruelty is the person calmly holding the leash. These days I aim for cruelty.
• When Arnold had made a virtue of disinterestedness, he had pictured the critic turning away from himself and toward the social whole, whereas Wilde’s critic was so disinterested that he answered to no authority but his own personality.
• But we will have to reckon with our longing for authority: our nostalgia, which is the opposite of historical sense; and our idealism, which is the opposite of the future. Nothing may be more dangerous, in criticism or in politics, than the revanchist desire to restore a form of authority that, if we are being honest, never existed in the first place. The great enemy is not the king of France, whose bloody head has been rolling through the streets for as long as anyone can remember. The enemy, my friends, is Napoleon.
• But the kind of freedom that John Dutton III truly admires, the kind that Beth Dutton embodies, is not the freedom to make decisions—that is, ethical freedom—but rather the freedom to act as if one’s decisions have all been made in advance. 
• Indeed, it is precisely because we feel that characters in novels are real that we can politically object to the way a writer treats them.
• The midcentury literary critic F. R. Leavis once wrote, in his very serious book The Great Tradition, that Austen’s genius was to take “certain problems that life compelled on her as personal ones” and impersonalize them, tracing carefully out of herself and back into the world. What Leavis admired was not that Austen had stayed in her lane; it was that she’d had the good sense to ask where it led. This is a splendid notion. It suggests that, for any novelist, there exists a small number of historical problems that, for reasons of luck and temperament, she naturally grasps as the stuff of life. The genius lies in knowing which ones they are.
• The humanist’s mistake is to suppose that politics is just lots and lots of ethics. Ethics asks us to recognize that the other has a soul; politics asks us to reject the soul as a precondition for moral interest. In this sense, fiction has always been an exercise in political consciousness. It asks me to care about people I do not know and will never meet, people who might as well not exist as far as my own life is concerned but whose destinies are nonetheless obscurely intertwined with mine.
• This was the game’s masterstroke. Form erupts into content, the player’s ludic relationship to Joel at last given narrative flesh in the person of Ellie, whose bitter determination to keep Joel alive leads to a horrific loss of innocence from which—as players of The Last of Us Part II already know—she may never recover. Here, we may rightly speak of interactivity: One may care about a character on television, but one must care for a character in a video game. In fact, The Last of Us suggested that care, by definition, means choosing to have no choice, holding on to another person so tightly their survival becomes an inescapable necessity. Of course, a TV show may treat these themes too, and the adaptation acquits itself admirably; the point is not that a video game, like other art forms, can show us something about love, but that love, at its most monstrous, can have the unyielding structure of a video game. This only a video game can teach.

Review: Riot. Strike. Riot. by Joshua Clover

The introduction of this book was promising — and is worth reading on its own — but the rest of the book failed to deliver. Clover sets out to investigate why social resistance movements to oppressor classes shifted from riots (pre-17th century), to strikes (until the 1960s or so), and then to riots once again.

His most important contribution is to clearly show that mainstream definitions of strikes and riots are woefully inadequate. Rather than strikes representing organized and peaceful protest while riots use violence to channel inchoate anger, Clover demonstrates that strikes also often turned to violence to make their demands met. Rather, Clover delineates them based on who participates and where. In Clover’s telling, riots are made up of citizens acting at the site of consumption (originally typically the market or port, now usually the public square) while strikes are made up of workers acting in their capacity as producers at the site of production.

Unfortunately, his framing of history as "Riot-Strike-Riot-prime" (an allusion to Marx’s M-C-M’) is overly cute, and restricts analysis rather than aiding it. Facts are thrown together when convenient, rather than building a convincing, scientific argument. Evidence for his thesis is sometimes drawn from history, sometimes from literature, and there is very little in the way of social survey of economic trends and social unrest, which I would want to see as proof of his thesis. Clover neatly sidesteps questions of generalizability to real social relationships between economic mode of development and social mode of conflict by stating he restricts his focus to the west. If riots are the mode of social conflict of pre-industrial production, strikes are the mode of conflict of industrial production, and strike-prime is the mode of conflict of off-shored post-industrial production, we should see these modes shift both across geography and across time. Clover resists testing his thesis, preferring to enjoy the vibes. (The vibes are indeed enjoyable. His writing is a pleasure to read; there are many fun turns of phrases, reminding me of Christian Thorne.)

The final section of my copy had an Afterword, in which the author reflected on how well his work stood up to criticism and time. It is easy to get nothing wrong if you don’t say all that much in the end.

Review: Canada in the World by Tyler Shipley

Canada crafts a narrative about itself as peace-keeping nation, beloved around the world as a friendly force for good. Sure, Canada will reluctantly acknowledge a few stains on its reputation — activism around the residential school system and genocide of the First Nations has grown too loud to ignore. But these historical beats are seen as blemishes, unconnected to Canada’s broader national identity.

In Canada In The World, Tyler Shipley corrects this narrative, starting first with early settler relationships with First Nations to show the through-line between Canada’s settler colonial origins and its continued colonial exploitation domestically and abroad. Shipley emphasizes large structural forces like capitalism, industrialization, and material geopolitical interests, over individual personalities and cultural clashes. With this method, he builds a cohesive narrative that covers several centuries of history in just 500-odd pages. Shipley often takes explicit aim at Canada’s nation-building mainstays like Canada Heritage Minutes and grade 10 history texts, and weaves in familiar media and contemporary history and the occasional personal anecdote. He draws from a vast set of secondary and tertiary texts, summarizing their theses and contextualizing them into his overarching narrative. The result is a compelling, approachable text that should be, for now, the definitive introductory leftist text on Canadian international political history, with a bibliography that lends itself well to further study.

The book is strongest in its first half, which covers Canada’s settler colonial origins up through its tepid opposition to fascism in the mid-twentieth century. The latter half drags somewhat: Canada has been very active in the world during the so-called Cold War and the periods that followed it, supporting oppressive dictators (e.g. Chile) and overthrowing democratic socialist governments (e.g. Ecuador) with the goal of furthering its mining interests and aiding US imperialism. Shipley does an admirable job at trying to summarize the requisite history of dozens of nations to understand Canada’s role in these conflicts and connect them to the unifying theme of his book, but the goal of a comprehensive survey of such activities inevitably results in episodic vignettes packed with names and dates. Still the book compares favorably with Yves Engler’s Canada’s Long Fight Against Democracy (one wonders why Engler bothered at all; he draws from Shipley’s book as a source to create a fully inferior and redundant work), and would pair well with books like Vijay Prashad’s Washington Bullets and Vincent Bevins’ Jakarta Method, which provide more structure into the mechanisms of western foreign intervention.

It is too early to say how well the book will hold up since it was published in 2020. However, the relationship between Israel and Palestine has sharpened in the intervening years and Shipley staked out a position that would have been quite bold just five years ago, but has increasingly been adopted since. His analysis of China will likely age more poorly: he has nothing positive to say about modern day China, despite its lifting of a billion people from poverty and its emphasis on mass education, while praising similar poverty alleviation efforts when they occur in Latin America. Still, it is a fantastic corrective to the mythology of Canada.

Review: The Death and Life of Great American Cities by Jane Jacobs

Jacobs is a fascinating writer. She’s passionate about making cities vibrant, and deeply curious. Together with her training as a journalist, these characteristics turn what could be a dry tome or trend-driven screed into something that is both very readable and still relevant to today’s urban planning debates.

Jacobs takes aim at the predominant school of urban planning at the time, which sought to enable isolated aristocratic lifestyles at high density or escape the city altogether. Instead, Jacobs sees the beauty in the diversity, variety and community of cities, evocatively referring to their rhythm and coordination as a “ballet,” where others may see only bustle. What particularly sets her apart from her adversaries in this book, and what has leant the work staying power, is her view of cities as dynamic and interconnected, like living organisms. She directly makes this comparison in Chapter 22, where she philosophizes on “The kind of problem a city is”:

Cities happen to be problems in organized complexity, like the life sciences. They present “situations in which a half-dozen or even several dozen quantities are all varying simultaneously and in subtly interconnected ways.” Cities, again like the life sciences, do not exhibit one problem in organized complexity, which if understood explains all. They can be analyzed into many such problems or segments which, as in the case of the life sciences, are also related with one another. The variables are many, but they are not helter-skelter; they are “interrelated into an organic whole.”

Jacobs sees how issues like mixed-use neighbourhoods, foot traffic, building age, density, and road and park structure are all related questions. Failures for an urban region to thrive arise from these material factors, and often result in feedback loops. One example I found particularly compelling was her analysis of a hot restaurant scene falling victim to its own success. By chance, a mixed-use area became known for its handful of restaurants. Because the area was seen as a good bet for investors, it attracted other restaurant entrepreneurs. The area became busy during the dinner hours of 5-9pm, but there was little foot traffic outside of these times. The empty streets during the day and late night made the area feel dead and unsafe. As a result, the restaurant traffic died off too, as diners moved to livelier locations they discovered during their walks around the city.

Her solutions to the problems she identified are limited. For example, as an alternative to the decaying restaurant scene, she uplifts a wise landlord who carefully selected tenants with varying business models, rather than optimizing for who could pay the highest rents. Hoping thoughtful individual capitalists will forgo profits is a naive and unsustainable model for creating thriving cities. Jacobs believes strongly in the power of the markets to solve problems, disapproving of public housing and strong central governments. She values self-determination and democracy, pointing to various neighborhood councils as models for creating communities that respond to the needs of their members. However, it is unclear how these models of democracy should interface with the “wise landlord” to produce the desired mixed use neighborhoods.

It is this intersection of private property and democracy that challenges social organization at all levels: the cities Jacobs studies, as well as nations and larger structures. Jacobs avoids interrogating this question directly, keeping her writing carefully nonpartisan (beyond its general commitment to western capitalism — she was of course writing at the height of the “Cold War”). Her incisive critiques but vague politics have earned her fans as diverse as socialists and neoliberal Hayekians. Her continued relevance to the urban planning questions of today is part condemnation of her approach: despite inspiring generations of urban planners, we have still not cracked the nut for how to balance private property and social wellbeing, and our cities bear the scars of our continued commitment to individual freedoms over communal good.

Review: Mammoths at the Gates by Nghi Vo

This little novella is the sixth work I’ve read by Nghi Vo, making Vo the fiction author I’ve returned to most frequently over the last four or five years since her 2020 debut. What I appreciate about Vo is how each of her books explores the same theme, which I previously summarized as “the relationship between reality and the stories we tell, and how this relationship is modified by who tells the story.” I also enjoy her ability to linger in a strange world, letting its foreign logic wash over you without explaining it.

Mammoths at the Gates is the fourth instalment in her Singing Hills Cycle series, which each feature the monk Chi travelling through the land to collect stories to be stored in their monastery. Unlike in The Empress of Salt and Fortune (Book 1) and When the Tiger Came Down The Mountain (Book 2), the monk Chi is our protagonist, rather than the characters featured in the stories Chi collects. This fourth book therefore carries on in the vein of Into the Riverlands (Book 3), which was the first to bring Chi to the forefront, although story-telling remained a core aspect of the narrative. In contrast, in this novella most of the emotional moments and thematic exploration occurs within the “frame” story; story-telling makes up just brief passages mostly towards the end of the novella.

The book packs in a lot of world building, but rather than adding to the development of the themes or characters, it felt like rote exposition. We learn more about the long-memoried bird companions, the operational logistics of the monastery, and the monastery’s relationship with local politics. I wondered if this lore dumping was in response to fan questions. Myself, I preferred swimming in the more mysterious world of the previous volumes.

Without the distinctive features I enjoy about Vo’s work, the rest of the story was just fine. It’s a cozy setting: Chi returns home to their monastery after years of traveling. The plot is relatively simple and low stakes: the abbot has passed away and both the monastery and his granddaughters lay claim to his remains, a dispute that must be solved while everyone mourns his passing. The ideas explored revolve around homecoming and grief. Whether you leave or stay, the world moves on; it is never possible to go back to the same home you knew, but you can reconnect. You can grieve someone who was never in your life to begin with, like the abbot’s granddaughters, who only ever heard of him in stories. The loss of someone close to you can be transformative. This last theme underpinned the emotional climax of the novella, but having just read the heart-wrenching Ti Amo, which explored the same theme but more intensely introspectively, it felt a bit limited and plain.