Enzensberger Hans Magnus Critical Essays

Hans Magnus Enzensberger
CRITICAL ESSAYS
The German Library : Volume 98

Volkmar Sander, General Editor
E D IT O R IA L BOARD
Peter Demetz (Yale University)

Reinhold Grimm (University of Wisconsin)
Jost Hermand (University of Wisconsin)
Walter Hinderer (Princeton University)
Victor Lange (Princeton University)
Frank Ryder (University of Virginia)
Volkmar Sander (New York University)
Egon Schwarz (Washington University)
Peter Wapnewski (Institute for Advanced Study, Berlin)
A. Leslie Willson (University of Texas)
Hans Magnus Enzensberger
CRITICAL ESSAYS
Edited by
Reinhold Grimm and
Bruce Armstrong
Foreword by John Simon
CON TIN U U M N EW Y O R K
The Continuum Publishing Com pany

575 Lexington Avenue, New York, N Y 10022
Copyright 1982 by The C ontinuum Publishing Company
Foreword 1982 by John Simon
Introduction 1982 by Reinhold Grim m
All rights reserved. N o part of this book may be reproduced, stored
in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means,
electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without
the written permission o f The C ontinuum Publishing Company.
Printed in the United States of America
Library o f Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Enzensberger, Hans Magnus.
Critical essays.
(The German library; v. 98)
Includes bibliographical references.
I. G rim m , Reinhold. II. Title.
PT2609.N9A24
834'.914
81-19612
ISBN 0-8264-0258-5
AACR2
ISBN 0-8264-0268-2 pbk
For acknowledgments o f previously published material, see

page 250, which constitutes an extension of the copyright page.
Contents
Foreword: John Simon vii

Introduction: Reinhold Grimm xi
Part One : Literature and the Media 1
1. The Industrialization of the M ind 3
Translated by the author
2. Poetry and Politics 15
Translated by Michael Roloff
3. Commonplaces on the Newest Literature 35
4. Constituents of a Theory of the Media 46
Translated by Stuart Hood
Part Two : Politics and History 77
1. Toward a Theory of Treason 79
2. Reflections before a Glass Cage 94
3. Las Casas, or A Look Back into the Future
4. Berlin Commonplaces 138
Part Three : Sociology and Ecology 157
1. Tourists of the Revolution 159
2. A Critique of Political Ecology 186
116
vi Contents
3. On the Inevitability of thie Middle Classes:
A Sociological Caprice 224
Translated by Judith Ryan
4. Two Notes on the End of the World 233
Translated by David Fernbach
Notes
243
Foreword
enaissance men (or women) are in short supply these days.

Rare indeed is the writer who can hold his own as poet,
translator, critic, playwright, polemist, anthologist, and editor of
two remarkable and very different periodicals. But Hans M ag
nus Enzensberger is all of those things (and probably a few others
I forgot to mention), and manages them with a wit and polish that
belie their profundity. Yet what makes him so extraordinary is
that even within each individual field he is a bit of a Renaissance
man.
Thus there is no end to the themes and forms that Enzensbergers poetry, for example, has espoused; yet from volume to vol
ume, and even from poem to poem, it is able to be as various as
verse can get, without losing, however, the feel and scent of its
authors unmistakable identity. There seem to be, as when a ball
of mercury is rolled across a smooth surface, a great number of
glittering little Enzensbergers that in the end coalesce all the same
into one dazzling mind and sensibility.
We are presented here with a selection of Enzensbergers essays
that, of necessity, cannot encompass the full range of the man.
Even so, they do give a generous inkling of his diversity, and attest
to the benefits of a complex literary sensibilitys latching on to
political matters, and, conversely, of a historically and politically
astute minds addressing itself to our arts and culture. As Reinhold
Grimm points out in his Introduction, Anglo-American reference
books and, presumably, the English and American readership
vii
viii Foreword
seem to consider this sort of searching, far-ranging, well-informed,
intellectually and morally challenging essay the monopoly of French
literature and blithely ignore the contribution of such distin
guished German essayists of all periods as Professor Grimm ad
duces. But much as I deplore the other omissions, the absence of
Enzensberger from Anglo-American awareness seems to me partic
ularly unfortunate.
The reason is plain enough. In fact, it is plainness itself. For
Enzensberger knows how to deal with complicated ideas and fine
discriminations in a style that, though anything but inelegant, is
nevertheless stunningly straightforward and plain. We live in an
age need I remind you of this melancholy truth? when plain
statement in any field, but particularly in the critical, cultural, or
political essay, is extremely hard to come by. For this, the French
and their Anglo-American emulators are especially to blame. Not
so Enzensberger. He may have begun as an adherent of Marxism,
but by now even that -ism at least in its doctrinaire form has
been left behind. With the more modish and obscurantist ones he
never had any truck. The only -ism that persists in his work is
humanism. There are no hobby horses; only horse sense.
What Enzensberger can do with the essay, you will find out as
you turn the pages. Here, however, I should like to quote a poem
of his; partly in order to remind you of a very important other
aspect of his talent, but even more so as to give you a sense of the
essential Enzensberger expressed most tersely, yet with those per
sistently, understatedly reverberating ironies that I urge you to no
tice in the prose as well. The poem is called Remembrance.
Well now, as concerns the seventies
I can express myself with brevity.
Directory assistance was always busy.
The miraculous multiplication of loaves
was restricted to Diisseldorf and vicinity.
The dread news came over the ticker tape,
was taken cognizance of and duly filed.
Unresisting, by and large,
they swallowed themselves,
the seventies,
Foreword ix
without guarantee for latecomers,
Turkish guest workers and the unemployed.
That anyone should think of them with leniency
would be asking too much.
The tone, mutatis mutandis, is very much the one of Enzensbergers best essays: the chiseled mockery of a civilized man who has
not given up the fight, but who chooses his weapons fastidiously:
the implication-drenched detail, hearty irony, incitement to thought.
This is in the best tradition of the German essay. Besides the
authors with whom Professor Grimm brackets Enzensberger, we
should also invoke Heine and Kleist, Karl Kraus and Frank We
dekind. Their mode, except for Heines, may be harsher than that
of Enzensberger, but they are ironists all, and quite as much his
ancestors or mentors. And here it behooves us to recognize how
few of our English and American essayists had this kind of sar
donic acumen to apply equally to culture and politics: George O r
well, of course, and Edmund Wilson, and doubtless a few others.
But they are precious few, and Hans Magnus Enzensberger, in
good English translations, readily assumes a place beside them as
their equal. For what gives him the finishing touch of the Renais
sance man is his internationalism. However much we might wish,
defensively, to relegate him to otherness to being German, Euro
pean, Continental, or whatever it wont wash. He stands right
beside us, whoever we are. He is one of us.
J o h n Sim
on
Introduction
t happened nearly two decades ago, yet I can recall it as vividly

as if it had occurred yesterday. The scene: Frankfurt University;
the year: 1964. A slender, fair-haired, almost boyish-looking man
of thirty-five was mounting the rostrum. He was greeted with a
veritable uproar of applause. His first public address as the newly
appointed poet-in-residence had been the talk of the town; in
fact, town and gown both students and scholars, critics and fel
low writers, the representatives of the big publishing firms and of
the mighty media, as well as the citys dignitaries all were in at
tendance. Not even the largest lecture hall could hold this crowd:
the event had to be broadcast by short-circuit to an adjacent hall.
The late Theodor W. Adorno, editor of Walter Benjamin and West
Germanys leading philosopher, sociologist, and aesthetician, had
volunteered to present the speaker. Adorno declared, to cheers:
All we have in German literary criticism, nay, in criticism as such,
is Hans Magnus Enzensberger . . . and a few scattered attempts
(Wir haben ihn und Ansatze). This is precisely what the great
scholar Ernst Robert Curtius had once stated in regard to the sem
inal critic and essayist Friedrich Schlegel, and what Schlegel him
self had said of Gotthold Ephraim Lessing, founder of a compa
rable literary criticism.
When Enzensberger was hailed in the mid-sixties as a latter-day
Lessing or Schlegel by his friend and mentor, only two volumes
(albeit weighty and sizable ones) of his critical and essayistic out
put had appeared, but he had already brought out three volumes
xi
xii Introduction
of poetry, containing some of the finest post-war verse written in
German. His lyrical breakthrough in 1957 had been likened to the
meteoric rise and lasting fame of Heinrich Heme, and in 1963 he
had been awarded the prestigious Buchner Prize which commem
orates Heines contemporary, Georg Buchner. More achievements
were to follow: a documentary play and a documentary novel, a
pair of libretti, an epic, another three volumes of poetry, and two
more volumes of essays and criticism. Enzensberger was also ac
tive as a prolific and conscientious editor who enjoyed that rarest
of editorial gifts: serendipity. W ith his two journals alone, Kursbuch (timetable or railroad guide a title abounding in ambigui
ties and allusions) and Transatlantik, founded in 1965 and 1980
respectively, he might safely boast of having ensconced himself as
the most innovative and stimulating literary promoter and critical
mediator of his generation.
Born at Kaufbeuren, a small town in the Bavarian Allgau re
gion, in 1929, Enzensberger grew up in Nuremberg, the atmo
sphere of which, during the thirties and early forties, was a strange
and often stifling mixture of provincial remoteness and drowsiness
touched with faint recollections of a magnificent past, and the
deafening din and foaming bombast of Hitlers party rallies and
bloody warmongering. Enzensberger lived through the musty idyll
and the pandemonium, as well as the devastating air raids that
soon began to sweep the city. Toward the end of the war, he was
drafted by the Nazis desperate conscription of shaky old men and
underfed teenagers, the Volkssturm. Later he dabbled awhile in
the black market and tried his hand at the theater; he also finished
high school. Having attended various German universities, as well
as the Sorbonne, where he studied literature, languages, and phi
losophy, he earned his degree at Erlangen near Nuremberg. Enzensbergers dissertation analyzed the techniques of the Romantic
poet Clemens Brentano. It was eventually published. He graduated
with honors, receiving his doctorate summa cum laude at the age
of twenty-six.
Enzensberger could easily have entered an academic career, but
his aims were different. Immediately after finishing his studies, he
joined the Stuttgart Radio and was assigned to the section dealing
with essays; later, he served as a reader for the Suhrkamp Verlag,
which became his publisher. In between, he was a visiting lecturer.
Introduction xiii
Since 1961 Enzensberger has lived and worked as a freelance writer
and has gained spectacular success and great stature. In 1970 he
founded a publishing house of his own.
Enzensberger traveled a great deal and, in fact, sojourned for
long periods abroad. As a student he toured Europe, emerging in
Spain and Greece, in Finland and Italy wherever the torn and
ravaged continent was accessible then. Subsequently, he took a
good look at North and South America, at Australia, China, and
the Soviet Union. There is hardly a country of importance that he
has not inspected. ( Fieldwork is a favorite term of his, applica
ble in both a literal and a figurative sense, if we think of docu
mentary works like Der kurze Sommer der Anarchic: Buenaven
tura Durrutis Leben und Tod [The Short Summer of Anarchy:
Life and Death of Buenaventura Durruti], 1972, his novel on
Spanish anarchism; Das Verhor von Habana [Hearings from H a
vana], 1970, his play on the abortive Bay of Pigs invasion; or even
poetic works like his monumental epic Der Untergang der Titanic:
Eine Komodie [The Sinking of the Titanic: A Comedy], 1978; and
his equally momentous collection Mausoleum: Siebenunddreissig
Balladen aus der Geschichte des Fortschritts [Mausoleum: ThirtySeven Ballads from the History of Progress], 1975, about the
progress of barbarism.)
Enzensberger has also lived in Southern Norway, at times re
treating to a tiny island in the Oslo Fjord, and in the insular yet
cosmopolitan city of West Berlin, a place of strangely extraterri
torial climate and yet somehow also a hub of things. In 1980 he
moved to Munich, probably because of responsibilities arising from
his new editorship. Before 1980, Enzensberger spent at least a year
at Lanuvio near Rome and nearly a year a crucial, searching,
and disappointing one in Castros Cuba. He appears regularly in
New York and the Eastern U.S., although in 1968 he gave up his
fellowship at the Center for Advanced Studies at Wesleyan Uni
versity and left the United States in open protest against the war
in Viet Nam. The letter in which he explained his decision, a
scathing piece of criticism published jointly by the New York Times
and the West German weekly Die Zeit, is still held against him by
a number of people.
But controversies are inevitable for Enzensberger, since he is not
only a widely traveled and highly intellectual, but also a deeply
xiv Introduction
committed and boldly experimental author. His childhood night
mares and adult forebodings, as well as his spontaneous outbursts,
whether romantic, revolutionary, or both, constitute a pattern, a
pattern of life and personality, of work and opinions, issuing in
his achievements and reputation as a critic and essayist.
Enzensbergers very concept of art and literature and their func
tion is reflected in this pattern of steady development and restless
change. Since his first publications in the mid-fifties, he has ex
panded his horizons, but he also became absorbed in nearly insol
uble problems he has proceeded from local and national to global
and international and therefore ever graver concerns. His earliest
collection of essays, Einzelheiten [Odds and Ends; Details], first
published in 1962, was soon after brought out as a two-volume
paperback comprising Bewusstseins-lndustrie (The Consciousness
Industry) and Poesie und Politik (Poetry and Politics). The collec
tion featured an acid polemic against the Frankfurter Allgemeine
Zeitung, the foremost West German newspaper, and an unmask
ing of Der Spiegel, West Germanys equivalent of Time Magazine,
and its jargon. On the other hand, his last such collection to date,
Palaver: Politische Uberlegungen [Palaver: Political Considera
tions], which appeared in 1974, contained a broad and strongly
self-critical satire on the leftist intelligentsia of all countries and
their cherished tourism of the revolution. It analyzes their trav
eling and fellow-traveling to socialist paradises and tellingly cul
minates with the penetrating Critique of Political Ecology, which
is scarcely Marxist in any orthodox sense, but is certainly Marx
ian. The two earlier collections of 1964 and 1967 reveal in their
choice of titles, Politik und Verbrechen (Politics and Crime) and
Deutschland, Deutschland unter anderm [Germany, Germany
Among Other Things], that duality of centrifugal expansion and
centripetal absorption, entanglement though never total engulfment, which distinguishes Enzensbergers manifold and seismographic oeuvre. As controversies are unavoidable, so are contra
dictions. Enzensbergers widening gyre reveals itself as a deepening
vortex as well.
Yet precisely this complexity makes him exemplary for our pres
ent age; it elevates his writings with their unceasing dialectic of
past and future, closeness and distance, commitment and resigna
tion, hope and despair, even utopia and apocalypse to an out
Introduction xv
standing contribution to world literature and modern life. His es
says can perhaps be best summed up by drawing on their authors
own binary formula: they treat, basically, either poetic or po
litical issues, just as his creative work at large consists, for the
most part, of either poetry or critical prose. The texts assembled
here represent the scope and topicality of Enzensbergers approach
to questions of art, literature, culture, to history, sociology, ecol
ogy. His volumes of poetry can only be listed: they are Verteidigung der Wolfe [In Defense of the Wolves], 1957; Landessprache
[Vernacular], 1960; Blindenschrift [Braille], 1964; and Die Furie
des Verschwindens [The Fury of Disappearance], 1980; also a 1971
selection from the first three volumes entitled Gedichte 19551970
[Poems 19551970], as well as a bilingual anthology Poems for
People Who D ont Read Poems, 1968.
Enzensberger is also a sovereign and versatile translator. Envi
ably gifted in languages and exceptionally well read, he is both a
polyglot writer and a poeta doctus. By 1970 he had completed
and published, as separate works or whole books, translations from
the French, English, Italian, Spanish, Swedish, and Russian; he had
also translated and edited a volume of selected poems by William
Carlos Williams, the American poet whose work had been an im
portant influence on him. There exist as well virtually dozens of
prefaces, commentaries, and the like, all of which appeared during
the same relatively short span of time. W ith equal fervor and skill,
he combats both poetic provincialism and political illiteracy, as
amply illustrated by his famous anthology Museum der modernen
Poesie [A Museum o f Modern Poetry], 1960, on the one hand,
and by his provocative collection Freispriiche: Revolutionare vor
Gericht [Acquittals: Revolutionaries on Trial], 1970, on the other.
Poetry and politics, to be sure.
For the structure and style of his essays, however, a convenient
formula is harder to find. But is not the essay, as indicated by its
very name, the experimental and, as a consequence, open and elu
sive genre par excellence? The reference book 1 consulted does not
list even one German title or author under the heading Essay.
Do not Lessing and Schlegel deserve mention, not to speak of
Goethe, Schiller, Heine, Nietzsche? And what about such widely
divergent modern classics as Thomas Mann, Gottfried Benn, and
Bertolt Brecht? What about Brechts friend Walter Benjamin and,
xvi Introduction
in his train, Adorno? The German tradition offers a wealth, not
only of genuine essays worth reading, but also of pertinent in
sights well worth pondering. For example, Schlegels aphorism has
it that it is as detrimental to a writer to have a solid system as to
have no system at all; he must sustain a dialectical unity, if not
balance, of contradictions. This definition illuminates both the
content and structure of Enzensbergers work in the genre as well
as that of many other writers.
It is to be hoped that the essays of Hans Magnus Enzensberger
will succeed in redressing the general state of neglect and igno
rance of German achievements in the essay form from the time of
Lessing and Schlegel. These essays preserve and enliven a rich tra
dition. In form and essence, and for all the tentativeness and sub
jectivity peculiar to their kind, they partake of much of Lessings
humanistic verve and straightforwardness, much of Schlegels lit
erary urbanity and wit to mention again two of Enzensbergers
earliest ancestors. Steadfastly, Enzensberger continues to take up
and face, more than any other essayist I know of, the burning
issues of our time.
All texts are complete and unabridged, except for sections 28

through 38 of Berlin Commonplaces, which have proved too
specialized for the American reader. Also, apart from a minimum
of explanation, mostly in the form of footnotes, nothing has been
added. All translations, including the authors own, have been
carefully checked and, wherever appropriate, revised to make them
conform as much as possible to the German original. The texts in
the present selection are arranged in chronological order.
R.G.
Part One
LITERATURE
AND
THE MEDIA
The Industrialization
of the Mind
ll of us, no matter how irresolute we are, like to think that
we reign supreme in our own consciousness, that we are
masters of what our minds accept or reject. Since the Soul is not
much mentioned any more, except by priests, poets, and pop mu
sicians, the last refuge a man can take from the catastrophic world
at large seems to be his own mind. Where else can he expect to
withstand the daily siege, if not within himself? Even under the
conditions of totalitarian rule, where no one can fancy anymore
that his home is his castle, the mind of the individual is considered
a kind of last citadel and hotly defended, though this imaginary
fortress may have been long since taken over by an ingenious
enemy.1
No illusion is more stubbornly upheld than the sovereignty of
the mind. It is a good example of the impact of philosophy on
people who ignore it; for the idea that men can make up their
minds individually and by themselves is essentially derived from
the tenets of bourgeois philosophy: secondhand Descartes, run
down Husserl, armchair idealism; and all it amounts to is a sort
of metaphysical do-it-yourself.
We might do worse, I think, than dust off the admirably laconic
statement that one of our classics made more than a century ago:
What is going on in our minds has always been, and will always
be, a product of society. 2 This is a comparatively recent insight.
4 Hans Magnus Enzensberger

Though it is valid for all human history ever since the division of
labor came into being, it could not be formulated before the time
of Karl Marx. In a society where communication was largely oral,
the dependence of the pupil on the teacher, the disciple on the
master, the flock on the priest was taken for granted. That the few
thought and judged and decided for the many was a matter of
course and not a matter for investigation. Medieval man was
probably other-directed to an extent that our sociology would be
at a loss to fathom. His mind was, to an enormous degree, fash
ioned and processed from without. But the business of teaching
and of indoctrination was perfectly straightforward and transpar
ent so transparent indeed that it became invisible as a problem.
Only when the processes that shape our minds became opaque,
enigmatic, inscrutable for the common man, only with the advent
of industrialization, did the question of how our minds are shaped
arise in earnest.
The mind-making industry is really a product of the last hundred
years. It has developed at such a pace, and assumed such varied
forms, that it has outgrown our understanding and our control.
Our current discussion of the media seems to suffer from severe
theoretical limitations. Newsprint, films, television, public rela
tions tend to be evaluated separately, in terms of their specific
technologies, conditions, and possibilities. Every new branch of
the industry starts off a new crop of theories.3 Hardly anyone seems
to be aware of the phenomenon as a whole: the industrialization
of the human mind. This is a process that cannot be understood
by a mere examination of its machinery.
Equally inadequate is the term cultural industry, which has be
come common usage in Europe since World War II. It reflects,
more than the scope of the phenomenon itself, the social status of
those who have tried to analyze it: university professors and aca
demic writers, people whom the power elite has relegated to the
narrow confines of what passes as cultural life and who conse
quently have resigned themselves to bear the unfortunate label cul
tural critics. In other words, they are certified as harmless; they
are supposed to think in terms of Kultur and not in terms of power.
Yet the vague and insufficient label cultural industry serves to
remind us of a paradox inherent in all media work. Conscious
ness, however false, can be induced and reproduced by industrial
The Industrialization of the Mind 5

means, but it cannot be industrially produced. It is a social prod
uct made up by people: its origin is the dialogue. No industrial
process can replace the persons who generate it. And it is precisely
this truism of which the archaic term culture tries, however vainly,
to remind us. The mind industry is monstrous and difficult to un
derstand because it does not, strictly speaking, produce anything.
It is an intermediary, engaged only in productions secondary and
tertiary derivatives, in transmission and infiltration, in the fungible
aspect of what it multiplies and delivers to the customer.
The mind industry can take on anything, digest it, reproduce it,
and pour it out. Whatever our minds can conceive of is grist to its
mill; nothing will leave it unadulterated: it is capable of turning
any idea into a slogan and any work of the imagination into a hit.
This is its overwhelming power; yet it is also its most vulnerable
spot: it thrives on a stuff it cannot manufacture by itself. It de
pends on the very substance it must fear most, and must suppress
what it feeds on: the creative productivity of people. Hence the
ambiguity of the term cultural industry, which takes at face value
the claims of culture, in the ancient sense of the word, and the
claims of an industrial process that has all but eaten it up. To
insist on these claims would be naive; to criticize the industry from
the vantage point of a liberal education and to raise comfort
able outcries against its vulgarity will neither change it nor revive
the dead souls of culture: it will merely help to fortify the ghettoes
of educational programs and to fill the backward, highbrow sec
tion of the Sunday papers. At the same time, the indictment of the
mind industry on purely esthetic grounds will tend to obscure its
larger social and political meaning.
On the other extreme we find the ideological critics of the mind
industry. Their attention is usually limited to its role as an instru
ment of straightforward or hidden political propaganda, and from
the messages reproduced by it they try to distill the political con
tent. More often than not, the underlying understanding of poli
tics is extremely narrow, as if it were just a matter of taking sides
in everyday contests of power. Just as in the case of the cultural
critic, this attitude cannot hope to catch up with the far-reaching
effects of the industrialization of the mind, since it is a process
that will abolish the distinction between private and public con
sciousness.

Thus, while radio, cinema, television, recording, advertising, and
public relations, new techniques of manipulation and propaganda,
are being keenly discussed, each on its own terms, the mind in
dustry, taken as a whole, is disregarded. Newspaper and book
publishing, its oldest and in many respects still its most interesting
branch, hardly comes up for serious comment any longer, presum
ably because it lacks the appeal of technological novelty. Yet much
of the analysis provided in Balzacs Illusions Perdues is as perti
nent today as it was a hundred years ago, as any copywriter from
Hollywood who happens to be familiar with the book will testify.
Other, more recent branches of industry still remain largely unex
plored: fashion and industrial design, the propagation of estab
lished religions and of esoteric cults, opinion polls, simulation and,
last but not least, tourism, which can be considered a mass me
dium in its own right.
Above all, however, we are not sufficiently aware of the fact
that the full deployment of the mind industry still lies ahead. Up
to now it has not managed to seize control of its most essential
sphere, education. The industrialization of instruction, on all lev
els, has barely begun. While we still indulge in controversies over
curricula, school systems, college and university reforms, and
shortages in the teaching professions, technological systems are
being perfected which will make nonsense of all the adjustments
we are now considering. The language laboratory and the closedcircuit TV are only the forerunners of a fully industrialized edu
cational system that will make use of increasingly centralized pro
gramming and of recent advances in the study of learning. In that
process, education will become a mass medium, the most powerful
of all, and a billion-dollar business.
Whether we realize it or not, the mind industry is growing faster
than any other, not excluding armament. It has become the key
industry of the twentieth century. Those who are concerned with
the power game of today political leaders, intelligence men, and
revolutionaries have very well grasped this crucial fact. When
ever an industrially developed country is occupied or liberated to
day, whenever there is a coup detat, a revolution, or a counter
revolution, the crack police units, the paratroopers, the guerrilla
fighters no longer descend on the main squares of the city or seize
the centers of heavy industry, as in the nineteenth century, or sym
The Industrialization of the M ind 7

bolic sites such as the royal palace; instead, the new regime will
take over, first of all, the radio and television stations, the tele
phone and telex exchanges, and the printing presses. And after
having entrenched itself, it will, by and large, leave alone those
who manage the public services and the manufacturing industries,
at least in the beginning, while all the functionaries who run the
mind industry will be immediately replaced. In such extreme situ
ations the industrys key position becomes quite clear.
There are four conditions which are necessary to its existence;
briefly, they are as follows:
1. Enlightenment, in the broadest sense, is the philosophical
prerequisite of the industrialization of the mind. It cannot get un
der way until the rule of theocracy, and with it peoples faith in
revelation and inspiration, in the Holy Book or the Holy Ghost as
taught by the priesthood, is broken. The mind industry presup
poses independent minds, even when it is out to deprive them of
their independence; this is another of its paradoxes. The last the
ocracy to vanish was Tibets; ever since, the philosophical condi
tion has been met with throughout the world.
2. Politically, the industrialization of the mind presupposes the
proclamation of human rights, of equality and liberty in particu
lar. In Europe, this threshold was passed by the French Revolu
tion; in the Communist world, by the October Revolution; and in
America, Asia, and Africa, by the wars of liberation from colonial
rule. Obviously, the industry does not depend on the realization
of these rights; for most people, they have never been more than
a pretense or, at best, a distant promise. On the contrary, it is just
the margin between fiction and reality that provides the mind in
dustry with its theater of operations. Consciousness, both individ
ual and social, has become a political issue only from the moment
when the comiction arose in peoples minds that everyone should
have a say in his own destiny as well as in that of society at large.
From the same moment any authority had to justify itself in the
eyes of those it would govern, coercion alone would no longer do
the trick; he who rules must persuade, lay claim to peoples minds
and change them, in an industrial age, by every industrial means
at hand.
3. Economically, the mind industry cannot come of age unless
a measure of primary accumulation has been achieved. A society

that cannot provide the necessary surplus capital neither needs it
nor can afford it. During the first half of the nineteenth century in
Western Europe, and under similar conditions in other parts of
the world, which prevailed until fairly recently, peasants and
workers lived at a level of bare subsistence. During this stage of
economic development the fiction that the working class is able to
determine the conditions of its own existence is meaningless; the
proletariat is subjected by physical constraint and undisguised force.
Archaic methods of manipulation, as used by the school and by
the church, the law and the army, together with old customs and
conventions, are quite sufficient for the ruling minority to main
tain its position during the earlier stages of industrial develop
ment. As soon as the basic industries have been firmly established
and the mass production of consumer goods is beginning to reach
out to the majority of the population, the ruling classes will face
a dilemma. More sophisticated methods of production demand a
constantly rising standard of education, not only for the privileged
but also for the masses. The immediate compulsion that kept the
working class in its place will slowly decrease. Working hours
are reduced, and the standard of living rises. Inevitably, people
will become aware of their own situation; they can now afford the
luxury of having a mind of their own. For the first time, they
become conscious of themselves in more than the most primitive
and hazy sense of the word. In this process, enormous human
energies are released, energies that inevitably threaten the estab
lished political and economic order. Today this revolutionary pro
cess can be seen at work in a great number of emergent nations,
where it has long been artificially retarded by imperialist powers;
in these countries the political, if not the economic, conditions for
the development of mind industries can be realized overnight.4
4.
Given a certain level of economic development, industriali
zation brings with it the last condition for the rise of a mind in
dustry: the technology on which it depends. The first industrial
uses of electricity were concerned with power and not with com
munications: the dynamo and the electrical motor preceded the
amplifying valve and the film camera. There are economic reasons
for this time lag: the foundations of radio, film, recording, tele
vision, and computer technologies could not be laid before the
advent of the mass production of commodities and the general
availability of electrical power.

In our time the technological conditions for the industrialization
of the mind exist anywhere on the planet. The same cannot he
said for the political and economic prerequisites; however, it is
only a matter of, time until they will be met. The process is irre
versible. Therefore, all criticism of the mind industry that is abo
litionist in its essence is inept and beside the point, since the idea
of arresting and liquidating industrialization itself (which such
criticism implies) is suicidal. There is a macabre irony to any such
proposal, for it is indeed no longer a technical problem for our
civilization to abolish itself. However, this is hardly what conser
vative critics have in mind when they complain about the loss of
values, the depravity of mass civilization, and the degeneration
of traditional culture by the media. The idea is, rather, to do away
with all these nasty things and to survive, as an elite of happy
pundits, amidst the nicer comforts offered by a country house.
Nonetheless, the workings of the mind industry have been ana
lyzed, in part, over and over again, sometimes with great ingenuity
and insight. So far as the capitalist countries are concerned, the
critics have leveled their attacks mainly against the newer media
and commercial advertising. Conservatives and Marxists alike have
been all too ready to deplore their venal side. It is an objection
that hardly touches the heart of the matter. Apart from the fact
that it is perhaps no more immoral to profit from the mass pro
duction of news or symphonies than from that of soap and tires,
objections of this kind overlook the very characteristics of the mind
industry. Its more advanced sectors have long since ceased to sell
any goods at all. With increasing technological maturity, the ma
terial substrata, paper or plastic or celluloid, tend to vanish. Only
in the more old-fashioned offshoots of the business, as for exam
ple in the book trade, does the commodity aspect of the product
play an important economic role. In this respect, a radio station
has nothing in common with a match factory. With the disappear
ance of the material substratum the product becomes more and
more abstract, and the industry depends less and less on selling it
to its customers. If you buy a book, you pay for it in terms of its
real cost of production; if you pick up a magazine, you pay only
a fraction thereof; if you tune in on a radio or television program,
you get it virtually free; direct advertising and political propaganda
is something nobody buys. On the contrary, it is crammed down
our throats. The products of the mind industry can no longer be

understood in terms of a sellers and buyers market, or in terms
of production costs: they are, as it were, priceless. The capitalist
exploitation of the media is accidental and not intrinsic; to con
centrate on their commercialization is to miss the point and to
overlook the specific service the mind industry performs for mod
ern societies. This service is essentially the same all over the world,
no matter how the industry is operated: under state, public, or
private management, within a capitalist or a socialist economy, on
a profit or nonprofit basis. The mind industrys main business and
concern is not to sell its product; it is to sell the existing order,
to perpetuate the prevailing pattern of mans domination by man,
no matter who runs the society and no matter by what means. Its
main task is to expand and train our consciousness in order to
exploit it.
Since immaterial exploitation is not a familiar concept, it might
be well to explain its meaning. Classical Marxism has defined very
clearly the material exploitation to which the working classes have
been subjected ever since the industrial revolution. In its crudest
form, it is a characteristic of the period of the primary accumula
tion of capital. This holds true even for socialist countries, as is
evident from the example of Stalinist Russia and the early stages
of the development of Red China. As soon as the bases of indus
trialization are laid, however, it becomes clear that material ex
ploitation alone is insufficient to guarantee the continuity of the
system. When the production of goods expands beyond the most
immediate needs, the old proclamations of human rights, however
watered down by the rhetoric of the establishment and however
eclipsed by decades of hardship, famine, crises, forced labor, and
political terror, will now unfold their potential strength. It is in
their very nature that, once proclaimed, they cannot be revoked.
Again and again, people will try to take them at their face value
and, eventually, to fight for their realization. Thus, ever since the
great declarations of the eighteenth century, every rule of the few
over the many, however organized, has faced the threat of revo
lution. Real democracy, as opposed to the formal facades of par
liamentary democracy, does not exist anywhere in the world, but
its ghost haunts every existing regime. Consequently, all the exist
ing power structures must seek to obtain the consent, however
passive, of their subjects. Even regimes that depend on the force
The Industrialization of the M ind 11

of arms for their survival feel the need to justify themselves in the
eyes of the world. Control of capital, of the means of production,
and of the armed forces is therefore no longer enough. The self
appointed elites who run modern societies must try to control peo
ples minds. What each of us accepts or rejects, what we think and
decide is now, here as well as in Vietnam, a matter of prime polit
ical concern: it would be too dangerous to leave these matters to
ourselves. Material exploitation must camouflage itself in order to
survive; immaterial exploitation has become its necessary corol
lary. The few cannot go on accumulating wealth unless they ac
cumulate the power to manipulate the minds of the many. To ex
propriate manpower they have to expropriate the brain. What is
being abolished in todays affluent societies, from Moscow to Los
Angeles, is not exploitation, but our awareness of it.
It takes quite a lot of effort to maintain this state of affairs.
There are alternatives to it. But since all of them would inevitably
overthrow the prevailing powers, an entire industry is engaged in
doing away with them, eliminating possible futures and reinforc
ing the present pattern of domination. There are several ways to
achieve this end: on the one hand we find downright censorship,
bans, and a state monopoly on all the means of production of the
mind industry; on the other hand, economic pressures, systematic
distribution of punishment and reward, and human engineering
can do the job just as well and much more smoothly. The material
pauperization of the last century is followed and replaced by the
immaterial pauperization of today. Its most obvious manifestation
is the decline in political options available to the citizen of the
most advanced nations: a mass of political nobodies, over whose
heads even collective suicide can be decreed, is opposed by an everdecreasing number of political moguls. That this state of affairs is
readily accepted and voluntarily endured by the majority is the
greatest achievement of the mind industry.
To describe its effects on present-day society is not, however, to
describe its essence. The emergence of the textile industry has
ruined the craftsman of India and caused widespread child labor
in England; but these consequences do not necessarily follow from
the existence of the mechanical loom. There is no more reason to
suppose that the industrialization of the human mind must pro
duce immaterial exploitation. It would even be fair to say that it

*
will eventually, by its own logic, do away with the very results it
has today. For this is the most fundamental of all its contradic
tions: in order to obtain consent, you have to grant a choice, no
matter how marginal and deceptive; in order to harness the facul
ties of the human mind, you have to develop them, no matter how
narrowly and how deformed. It may be a measure of the over
whelming power of the mind industry that none of us can escape
its influence. Whether we like it or not, it enlists our participation
in the system as a whole. But this participation may very well veer,
one day, from the passive to the active and turn out to threaten
the very order it was supposed to uphold. The mind industry has
a dynamic of its own that it cannot arrest, and it is not by chance
but by necessity that in this movement there are currents that run
contrary to its present mission of stabilizing the status quo. A cor
ollary of its dialectical progress is that the mind industry, however
closely supervised in its individual operations, is never completely
controllable as a whole. There are always leaks in it, cracks in the
armor; no administration will ever trust it all the way.5
In order to exploit peoples intellectual, moral, and political
faculties, you have got to develop them first. This is, as we have
seen, the basic dilemma faced by todays media. When we turn
our attention from the industrys consumers to its producers, the
intellectuals, we find this dilemma aggravated and intensified. In
terms of power, of course, there can be no question as to who
runs the business. Certainly it is not the intellectuals who control
the industrial establishment, but the establishment that controls
them. There is precious little chance for the people who are pro
ductive to take over their means of production: this is just what
the present structure is designed to prevent. However, even under
present circumstances, the relationship is not without a certain
ambiguity, since there is no way of running the mind industry
without enlisting the services of at least a minority of men who
can create somthing. To exclude them would be self-defeating. O f
course, it is perfectly possible to use the whole stock of accumu
lated original work and have it adapted, diluted, and processed
for media use; and it may be well to remember that much of what
purports to be new is in fact derivative. If we examine the har
monic and melodic structure of any popular song, it will most
likely turn out to employ inventions of serious composers of cen

turies ago. The same is true of the dramaturgical cliches of medi
ocre screenplays: watered down beyond recognition, they repeat
traditional patterns taken from the drama and the novel of the
past. In the long run, however, the parasitic use of inherited work
is not sufficient to nourish the industry. However large a stock,
you cannot sell out forever without replenishment; hence the need
to make it new, the medias dependence on men capable of in
novation, in other words, on potential troublemakers. It is inher
ent in the process of creation that there is no way to predict its
results. Consequently, intellectuals are, from the point of view of
any power structure bent on its own perpetuation, a security risk.
It takes consummate skill to handle them and to neutralize their
subversive influence. All sorts of techniques, from the crudest to
the most sophisticated, have been developed to this end: physical
threat, blacklisting, moral and economic pressure on the one hand,
overexposure, cooptation into star cult or power elite on the other,
are the extremes of a whole gamut of manipulation. It would be
worthwhile to write a manual analyzing these techniques. They
have one thing in common: they offer short-term, tactical answers
to a problem that, in principle, cannot be resolved. This is an in
dustry that has to rely, as its primary source, on the very minori
ties with whose elimination it is entrusted: those whose aim it is
to invent and produce alternatives. Unless it succeeds in exploiting
and manipulating its producers, the mind industry cannot hope to
exploit and manipulate its consumers. On the level of production,
even more than on the level of consumption, it has to deal with
partners who are potential enemies. Engaged in the proliferation
of human consciousness, the media proliferate their own contra
dictions.
Criticism of the mind industry that fails to recognize its central
ambiguities is either idle or dangerous. It is a measure of their
limitations that many media critics never seem to reflect on their
own position, just as if their work were not itself a part of what
it criticizes. The truth is that, nowadays, no one can express any
opinion at all without making use of the industry, or rather, with
out being used by it .6
Anyone incapable of dialectical thinking is doomed as soon as
he starts grappling with this subject. He will be trapped to a point
where even retreat is no longer possible. There are many who feel

revolted at the thought of entering a studio or negotiating with
the slick executives who run the networks. They detest, or profess
to detest, the very machinery of the industry and would like to
withdraw into some abode of refinement. O f course, no such ref
uge really exists. The seemingly exclusive is just another, slightly
more expensive style within the same giant industrial combine.
Let us rather try to draw the line between intellectual integrity
and defeatism. To opt out of the mind industry, to refuse any
dealings with it, may well turn out to be a reactionary course.
There is no hermitage left for those whose job is to speak out and
to seek innovation. Retreat from the media will not even save the
intellectuals precious soul from corruption. It might be a better
idea to enter the dangerous game, to take and calculate our risks.
Instead of innocence, we need determination. We must know very
precisely the monster we are dealing with, and we must be contin
ually on our guard to resist the overt or subtle pressures that are
brought to bear on us.
The rapid development of the mind industry, its rise to a key
position in modern society, has profoundly changed the role of
the intellectual. He finds himself confronted with new threats and
new opportun ties. Whether he knows it or not, whether he likes
it or not, he has become the accomplice of a huge industrial com
plex that depends for its survival on him, as he depends on it for
his own. He must try, at any cost, to use it for his own purposes,
which are incompatible with the purposes of the mind machine.
What it upholds he must subvert. He may play it crooked or
straight, he may win or lose the game; but he would do well to
remember that there is more at stake than his own future.
Translated by the author
2
Poetry and Politics
he state decides what poets may or may not write that is a
nightmare as old as the Occident. Decency and good behav
ior must be observed. The gods are always good. Statesmen and
officials may not be disparaged in public. Praise be to heroes, no
matter what. The crimes of our rulers are not fit subjects for po
etry but for committee meetings behind closed doors. Protect our
youth! Therefore, there must be no portrayal of unbridled passion
unless it is authorized by the state. Irony is forbidden. There must
be no effeminacy. Poets, being born liars, are to be assigned to the
public-relations detail. The control commission not only assigns
topics; it also decrees what forms are admissible and what tone of
voice is desired. The demand is for harmony at all costs; this means
good language and good harmony and grace and good rhythm
in a word, affirmation. Nuisances will be exiled or eliminated, their
works banned, censored, and mutilated.
These familiar maxims, formulated in a small Balkan state more
than two thousand years ago, can be found at the root of all Eu
ropean discussion of poetry and politics.1 They have since spread
across the entire world. Dully, monotonously, brutally, they clang
through history with the terrible regularity of a steam hammer.
They do not question what poetry is, but treat it simply as an
instrument to influence those held in subjugation, as something to
be used at will in the interests of authority. Hence the tenacious
life of these maxims, for they are tools of power the selfsame
15

thing into which they are trying to turn poetry. For this reason
they are passed from hand to hand through history, like blud
geons, fungible, easily detachable from the philosophy from which
they were hewn. Not only do they serve Platonism as cudgels
against Aeschylus and Homer, but they serve every political ad
ministration. Christianity, feudalism, absolute monarchy, capital
ism, fascism, and communism have all adapted Platos doctrine;
even in our own day and in the freest countries not a month goes
by in which poetry is not put on trial, according to the Platonic
prescription, for blasphemy, licentiousness, or as a danger to the
state. In fact, this trial has lasted since Platos day, and the variety
of works incriminated proves that the trial was initiated not against
this or that individual poem, but against poetry as a whole. It
continues to drag on from case to case, from court to court, and
there is no sign that it is approaching its end. The same old speeches
are exchanged between prosecution and defense, and the trial is
still heard before incompetent tribunals and commissions. Self-de
fense prompts us to intervene in these proceedings, as a sad neces
sity. It is utterly tedious to refute for the thousandth time the Pla
tonic theses that have long since fallen into decay and sunk to the
level of third-rate editorials. Poetry and politics always has been
and still is, especially in Germany, a disagreeable and sometimes
bloody theme, clouded by resentment and servility, suspicion and
bad conscience.
This gives us even less excuse to leave the matter where it is.
Indeed, the time seems to have come when we can filter the poi
soned ideas and guide the old questions into new channels. Self
defense is not enough. Refuting the bailiffs with their writs still
does not explain the relationship between poetry and politics. It
may be more to the point to question not only poetrys prosecu
tors and defenders, but poetry itself, which is likely to be more
articulate than either. The more obscure the theme, the more
transparent should be the methods of investigation. For the mo
ment, therefore, let us content ourselves with what is simplest by
looking at the surface of the matter and discussing the most ob
vious example: the political poem. We must first seek guidance
where poetry does not immediately reject the Platonic and all sub
sequent simplifications, where it manifests its political nature.
Poetry and Politics 17

Poetry, no less than political administrations, claims to be of
divine origin. Both have roots in mythology. The earliest poems
immortalize gods and heroes, the notion of whose immortality
comes from the obscurity of the death cult. Poetry alone can pro
cure their salvation by casting on them the light of fame, a fame
invented by the Greeks. The Romans first made political profit
from poetrys unique ability to immortalize what is transient. With
Virgil and Horace the history of poetry as political affirmation
starts in earnest; henceforth rulers seek to ensure posthumous fame
for themselves so that their subjects continue to toe the line. And
to this end the poet has to be subservient to them. As a result there
emerges a specific genre of poetry, the so-called eulogy of the ruler,
a literary institution that has persisted to our day. Strangely, though
perhaps not by accident, no one has ever undertaken a thorough
investigation of this phenomenon. Here we have space only for a
few hints about its history. Ancient literary theory, as we know,
derived from rhetoric; after the Hellenistic period the eulogy oc
cupied a central place in it. In accordance with the practice of
professional rhetoricians, the eulogy can be traced back not to
mythological origins, or to the old art of the hymn, but to the
public utterances of the Sophists that is, in essence, to funeral
orations and speeches in court. It acquired political importance
at the time of the Emperors. Latin and Greek eulogies of those in
power were one of the sophists main tasks. The eulogy of the
ruler (/3aaL\LKb<
? X0709) was introduced as a separate genre at
that time. 2
This had certain consequences for poetry. By the second century
a . d . Hermogenes of Tarsus, one of the most important of the di
dactic rhetoricians, could define the genre straightforwardly as a
panegyric. The technique of the eulogy of the ruler was built into
a scholastic system of recurring figures of speech that, as we shall
see, can be traced right into the twentieth century. The rule books
of rhetoric passed on to the Middle Ages the tradition of the eul
ogy of the ruler. The genre spread throughout Europe, became
interwoven with feudal ideas, and endured at court almost until
today. The office of poet laureate still exists in England and Swe
den.
In what relation does poetry stand to politics? It is obvious that

anyone asking this question will find it instructive to look at the
history of the eulogy of the ruler (and at its much rarer opposite,
censure of the ruler), for of all the forms this relationship may
take, it is in the eulogy that it appears most explicit, concrete, and
undisguised.
The maxims of Walther von der Vogelweide, the earliest politi
cal poems in the German language, are a classic example of this.
In the course of barely twenty years the author served three em
perors: first the Hohenstaufer Philipp, then the Guelph Otto, and
finally the Hohenstaufer Friedrich II. The double switch in politi
cal loyalty seems to have caused Walther little concern: without
visible strain on his conscience he is ever ready to sing the praises
of the victorious prince. He never hides the fact that his homage
is opportunistic; on the contrary, he openly declares the fact.
Wie solt ich den geminnen der mir iibele tuot?
mir muoz der iemer lieber sin der mir ist guot,
he writes in the service of Friedrich3: How shall I pay court
to him who treats me ill? I cannot help preferring him who treats
me well. Or in plain English, I shall praise the one who knows
how to reward me suitably. Such frankness must not be mistaken
for naivete; tactically it is very shrewd. Wildvon dir miltecliche!
(Scatter thy bounty freely!); even the crudest poetic beggary is not
adequately explained by the poets economic dependence on the
ruler whose praises he sings.4 The shamelessness of such lines, their
lack of restraint, the easy conscience with which they are uttered,
all the qualities in fact that we find painful or incomprehensible in
them, are characteristic. Not only do they express very clearly a
fundamental relationship of feudal society that between the lord
and his vassal, a mutual dependence based on give and take but
the threatening, not to say extortionary, undertone of certain verses
tells us still more: the poet, despite his economic dependence, was
by no means politically powerless. The prince had a fief to bestow,
but the poet had fame or the disgrace of slander, which was not
to be borne lightly. The lord was quite simply dependent on the
poets praise, not out of vanity, but on political grounds, as if his
overlordship needed the confirmation of poetry. However incon

testable the proverb that art goes a-begging, it is inadequate to
explain the age-old custom of patronage, which rulers have as
sumed and traditionally maintained toward the fine arts, and to
ward poetry in particular. This patronage certainly does not owe
its existence to any special liking for poets on the part of the rul
ers. The Maecenas-like gesture always has about it something of
the pious fraud when exercised ex officio, since the reason for it
is not the overlords appreciation of art, or his generosity, but the
fact that in the last resort it protects the protector from the pro
tege, from the threat to his rule inherent in poetry itself. Feudal
society never lost its awareness of this, as can be seen in even the
most vapid eulogistic routine, and trashiest and most servile dedi
catory verses. This awareness reaches its apotheosis in a great say
ing, coined at the end of the feudal era. Writing to his principal,
a certain Friedrich Wilhelm, who had returned some memorial
verses with the comment that they were as good as poetry, Count
von Gneisenau said, The security of the thrones is founded on
poetry.
The day of this security was soon to pass. The writer of the
sentence was as unaware of its historic irony as was the man to
whom it was addressed; it lay in the fact that when the sentence
was written it was already too late. Henceforth poetry disclosed
the reverse side of that power to found and secure that it had been
demonstrating since the days of Virgil that reverse side that its
patrons had always mistrusted and secretly feared: instead of the
power to found, the power to shatter and overthrow; instead of
affirmation, criticism. This turning point manifests itself in the cri
sis of the eulogy of the ruler.
Goethe did not entirely abstain from writing traditional court
poetry. He undertook it as an exercise. The smooth, cold, humble
verses he addressed to ruling princes (to the emperor and empress
of Austria, for instance) betray no emotion, unless it be secret con
tempt; he did not include one of them in the definitive edition of
his works, the Ausgabe letzter Hand. They were the result of an
arrangement that exempted him from all public or political obli
gation and were intended to insulate his own private existence
from feudal society. Insofar as it was not motivated by his friend

ship with the young Carl August, Goethes eulogy of the ruler is
an altogether nebulous production, in which we can already sense
the sovereign reservations of the posthumous works:
Leider lasst sich noch kaum was Rechtes denken und sagen
Das nicht grimmig den Staat, Gotter und Sitten verletzt.5
(Unfortunately theres scarcely a damn thing worth saying or
thinking that doesnt in some way violate the state, the gods,
or morality.)
In Germany the last poetically legitimate verses composed as

eulogies of the ruler were written at the same time that Count von
Gneisenau sought to draw the attention of his ruling prince to the
political importance of poetry to the ancien regime. They are by
Heinrich von Kleist. In his poem An Franz den Ersten, Kaiser
von Osterreich, written in 1809, we find joined once more, and
for the last time, the purest forces of the genre, which the poem
transcends:
O Herr, du trittst, der Welt ein Retter,
Dem Mordgeist in die Bahn;
Und wie der Sohn der duftgen Erde
Nur sank, damit er starker werde,
Fallst du von neum ihn an!
Das kommt aus keines Menschen Busen
Auch aus dem deinen nicht;
Das hat dem ewgen Licht entsprossen,
Ein Gott dir in die Brust gegossen,
Den unsre Not besticht.
O sei getrost; in Kliiften irgend
Wachst dir ein Marmelstein;
Und miisstest du im Kampf auch enden,
So wirds ein anderer vollenden,
Und dein der Lorbeer sein! 6

(Sire, by taking a stand against the spirit of evil, you have
become the savior of the world; and, like the son of this fra
grant earth of ours who fell hut to grow in strength, you
strike the murderer anew!
Your actions dont originate in any human breast, not even
your own; they spring from eternal light, and it is a god who,
moved by our need, has instilled it in your breast.
Be of good courage! Somewhere in some rocky cleft a block
of marble bears your name; and even if it is your lot to fall
in the fight, another will take your place and bring us vic
tory and the laurel crown will still be yours!)
The poet makes use in various ways of the aids and artifices
that the rhetoric of the eulogy of the ruler has at hand: he names
marble and laurel as the insignia of fame, he does not shun the
obligatory mythological comparison (in this case with Antaeus),
and he proclaims the prince, whom he addresses as a Messiah on
whose appearance depends the salvation, not of a few petty Eu
ropean states, but of the whole world itself. To all appearances
Kleist incorporates yet another figure of speech in the poem: ov
erlordship, like poetry, owes its existence to inspiration; both have
the same origin, namely God's grace. But the God Kleist refers to
has nothing in common with the ancient gods. He is not named,
but he is none other than the God of history. The ruler no longer
appears in person at all; not one of the verses alludes to his ances
tors, his life, or his personality. Who Franz I is, the poet neither
knows nor cares. The ruler is no longer Caesar, whose secret re
sides in his person; he is simply the viceroy of history, the execu
tor of the Zeitgeist. When he goes, wirds ein anderer vollenden
(another will take your place), no matter what his name or his
dynasty. Kleists poem is a finale; it both consummates and de
stroys the eulogy of the ruler. Twenty-five years later Georg Buch
ner wrote in Der Hessische Landbote, The Prince is the head of
the leech that crawls over you.
This is the end of the eulogy of the ruler in German literature.
The remainder of the genre, which is considerable, is either farci
cal or obnoxious. The countless numbers who have tried to con
tinue it during the last 150 years have done so at the expense of
their authorship. Since Kleist, every poem written in homage to
those in power has backfired and exposed its author to derision

or contempt. One of the many victims, and probably the most
naive, was Fontane who, shortly before the turn of the century,
wrote his Wo Bismarck liegen soil :
Nicht in Dom oder Fiirstengruft,
Er m b in Gottes freier Luft
Draussen auf Berg und Halde,
Noch besser: tief im Walde;
Widukind ladt ihn zu sich ein:
Ein Sachse war er, drum ist er mein,
Im Sachsenwald soil er begraben sein
Der Leib zerfallt, der Stein zerfallt,
Aber der Sachsenwald, der halt;
Und kommen nach dreitausend Jahren
Fremde hier des Weges gefahren
Und sehen, geborgen vorm Licht der Sonnen,
Den Waldgrund im Efeu tief eingesponnen
Und staunen der Schonheit und jauchzen froh,
So gebietet einer: Larmet nicht so!
Hier unten liegt Bismarck irgendwo. 7
(No cathedral, no royal vault, shall be his resting place; he
shall rest in Gods fresh air, in the open on a mountain, on
some hillside, or better still, deep in the forest. W idukind
claims him for his own: He was a Saxon, therefore he is
mine, let him be buried in the Saxon forest.
The body decays, stone decays, but the Saxon forest lives
on; and if in three thousand years strangers passing this way
shall see the forest glade, sheltered from the sunlight and
embedded deep in ivy, and shout for joy, astonished by its
beauty, a voice will command them: Do not shout so!
somewhere beneath this spot lies Bismarck. )
The unintended humor of these verses, particularly of the ir

gendwo (somewhere) of the last line, is proof of the disastrous
impossibility of the task that Fontane, in all good faith, set him
self: the task of writing a modern eulogy of his ruler. Later at
tempts to revivify the genre have been less ingenuous. In face of
these, irony is powerless; they are dreadful, and not only because

they obliterate their authors as thinking people. There is no lack
of examples. The following specimen earns an immediate place
alongside the Hitler hymns of Gaiser, Seidel, and Carossa:
Als es geschah an jenem zweiten Mdrz,
Dass leiser, immer ferner schlug sein Herz,
Da war ein Schweigen wieder und ein Weinen,
Um Stalins Leben bangten all die Seinen.
Und a Is verhaucht sein letzter Atemzug,
Da hielt die Taube ein auf ihrem Flug
Und legte einen goldnen Olzweig nieder.
Die Volker sangen stille Lieder.
Den Namen Stalin tragt die neue Zeit.
Lenin, Stalin sind Glucksunendlichkeit.
Begleitet Stalin vor die Rote Mauer!
Erhebt Euch in der Grosse Eurer Trauer!
Seht! Uber Stalins Grab die Taube kreist,
Denn Stalin: Freiheit, Stalin: Frieden heisst.
Und aller Ruhm der Welt wird Stalin heissen.
Lasst uns den Ewig-Lebenden lobpreisen.8
(When, on that second of March, Stalins heartbeats grew
fainter and more distant, a silence fell and there was weeping
as all his people waited anxiously.
And when he had breathed his last, a passing dove, stop
ping in its flight, set down a golden olive branch. Meanwhile
the people all sang hymns of praise to the departed.
The new era bears the name of Stalin. Lenin and Stalin
stand for boundless happiness. Follow Stalin to the Red W all!
Arise in the extremity of your grief!
Look! The dove is circling Stalins grave, for Stalin is the
name of freedom, Stalin is the name for peace. And Stalin
shall be the name tor glory throughout the world. Let us ex
tol him who lives eternally.)
These lines are not quoted for the disgust they are likely to arouse;
for our purposes, even the author, a man named Becher, is irrele

vant. The lines are of interest only as a symptom. They follow
Platos precepts exactly:
And again, even if the deeds of Cronus, and his sons treat
ment of him, were authentic facts, it would not have been
right, I should have thought, to relate them without the least
reserve to young and thoughtless persons: on the contrary, it
would be best to suppress them altogether. . . . Then let us
not believe, any longer, or allow it to be said, that Theseus
the son of Poseidon, and Peirithous the son of Zeus, went
forth to commit so dire a rape; nor that any other god-sprung
hero could have ventured to perpetuate such dreadful impie
ties as at the present day are falsely ascribed to them: rather
let us oblige our poets to admit, either that the deeds in ques
tion were not their deeds, or else that they were not children
of gods. . . . You must not forget that, with the single ex
ception of hymns to the gods and panegyrics on the good, no
poetry ought to be admitted into a state.9
In the second place, Bechers lines obey, and in no less zealous and
absurdly precise a way, the old rhetorical precepts for the pane
gyric poem; the cliches of which it consists have one and all been
played out in the course of two thousand years usage: the olive
branch, the dove, eternal life, die Volker alle. An enhancement
of the virtues of the person to be extolled is achieved (and has
been since the early Middle Ages) by announcing that everyone
joins in the admiration, joy, grief. . . . One is tempted to assert
that all peoples, lands, and epochs sing X s praise. The formula
the whole world praises him became established usage. The
Carolingian poets often applied it to Karl.10 The copybook care
with which Becher, presumably unawares, has transcribed thirdrate hagiographers and grammarians of the Latin middle ages is
bewildering. But it cannot explain the scandal that Bechers work
even exists. This scandal has nothing to do with craftsmanship;
the text cannot be saved by any trick or artifice, by eliminating
the stupid comparisons and falsely inflated metaphors, for in
stance, or by syntactical assistance. It is not the blunders that are
offensive; what offends us is the actual existence of these lines.
Why? This is a question that must be thoroughly gone into,
because it is fundamental. Moreover, it is a question that hitherto
has never been seriously asked or answered, probably because no

critical effort is required to dispose of effusions that express this
all-too-familiar fawning. They are self-condemned. One is tempted
to leave it at that and save oneself the trouble of seeking a reason
for this verdict. Even those who make the effort seldom go far
enough. The root of the scandal does not lie where it is usually
sought: it lies neither in the person of him who is praised nor him
who praises.
A phenomenon such as the end of the eulogy of the ruler cannot
be explained by analyzing the opinions and motives of the author,
which is the method adopted everywhere during recent decades
when the relationship of poetry to politics has been discussed. This
method itself needs explanation. In view of the experience we have
had with our literature, it is understandable that we have grown
accustomed to questioning the political reliability or even the
respectability of a writer; but the very terminology of such
questioning shows that it threatens to infect criticism with the to
talitarian stuff of its mortal enemies.
To point to the party badges, loyal addresses, and public posi
tions of certain authors can provide data for criticism, but nothing
more; it doesnt enable us to form a judgment of their work. No
poem by Benn, not a single Heidegger sentence, can be refuted in
this manner which statement doesnt excuse the slightest act of
barbarity. We have not made it to exonerate from criticism H it
lers and Stalins spokesmen. On the contrary, our intention is first
and foremost to subject them to a criticism that does not take its
task too lightly. We have only to question the motives that
prompted Becher, for instance, to write his hymn to Stalin to for
get all claim to critical acumen. Whether he wrote it out of stupid
ity or opportunism, voluntarily or under duress, is Completely be
side the point. The same applies to the sentiments in Bechers heart:
pious conviction or cynical winking, laborious self-deception or
augurlike humbug it is of equally small importance. Eulogy of
the ruler and poetry are incompatible: this proposition is as true
of Fontane as it is of Becher, and it is independent of the person
of the author who violates it, whatever his motives or sentiments.
It is also independent of the subject of eulogy. Any explanation
that concentrates on the person praised is also inadequate. Bechers
lines are not disqualified by Stalins crimes: it is enough that they
are addressed to a ruler at all. Comparison with Fontanes harm

less and labored production is instructive also in this respect. Po
etry can no longer be addressed to any statesman, no matter what
our opinion of him. Poetry addressed to Adenauer is equally un
imaginable, as much a contradiction in terms as if it were ad
dressed to Hitler, Kennedy, or de Gaulle. The phenomenon in
question cannot be grasped in ideological or moral terms. It is not
merely the fact that no writer of any importance has made such
an attempt of his own free will that supports this conclusion. The
argument can be demonstrated ex contrario: with the possibility
of eulogizing the ruler has also gone the possibility of defaming
him. Heine realized this.11 No legitimate poetic work exists in
which Hitlers name has been preserved. Even Brecht came to grief
in his attempt to defame him in verse, as he also did in his poem
Die Erziehung der Hirse, in which Stalin is mentioned, and in
Kantate zu Lenins Todestag. 12
This failure is first and last of a political nature. It is not because
of a general compulsion toward abstraction, for instance, that true
poetry resists both eulogy and defamation of the ruler. Nor is it
the fact that they are mentioned by name, which renders worthless
all the poems on Hitler and Stalin; poetry does not reject names
in general, but only the names of those exercising authority. Poems
addressed to anyone else are as possible today as ever poems to
a wife, a friend, a taxi driver, a greengrocer. Many modern poems
are addressed to people: Lorca lamented the bullfighter Ignacio
Sanchez Mejias in an oratorio, Supervielle wrote an ode to Lautreamont, and Auden a memorial to Yeats. None of these names
is rejected by the language of poetry; they are all incorporated in
the text without breaking it up .13
What have we accomplished with these reflections? The end of
the eulogy of the ruler, that is, of an extreme political element in
poetry, defies all political, psychological, or sociological explana
tions. We are concerned with an objective fact: the language of
poetry refuses its services to anyone who uses it to immortalize
the names of those exercising power. The reason for this refusal
lies in poetry itself, not outside it. With this conclusion we have
reached a decisive stage in our discussion and we can now drop
the example of the eulogy of the ruler, which we have used to pry
open the surface beneath which lies the secret of what binds po
etry to politics and what divorces it from it.

Our example teaches us that the political aspect of poetry must
be immanent in poetry itself and cannot be derived from outside
it. This completely condemns Marxist literary doctrine as it has
conceived of itself up to this point. That doctrines attempts to
isolate the political content of a poetic work resemble sieges. The
poem is encircled from without; the stronger the poem, the more
difficult it is to force it to surrender. What are the authors class
origins? How has he voted? What marks do his ideological utter
ances earn? W ho has paid him? What public has he written for?
Has he spent his life in castles or hovels? Were his friends million
aires or stevedores? What has he supported, what has he opposed?
Justifiable questions, highly interesting questions, frequently ne
glected questions, instructive, useful questions only they do not
touch the heart of the matter, dont even want to. The literary
critic who writes from the standpoint of literary sociology is blind
to his subject and sees only what lies at the surface, and he betrays
his opinion of the quality of the works he criticizes at once with
the choice of his categories. Hence his predilection for the classics;
this enables him to avoid the vexing question of the status of the
work into which he is inquiring. From its beginnings, Marxist crit
icism has unhesitatingly accepted the judgments of the bourgeois
literary canon, contenting itself with using them for its own pur
pose. The reverse of this cultivation of our heritage is disastrous
uncertainty in the face of contemporary production. Marx ex
pressed a considered opinion on only one novel of his day, a fairly
trivial work by Eugene Sue called The Secrets of Paris. 14 The the
ory of realism developed by Engels starts with a discussion of a
long-forgotten English penny dreadful.15
Only in connection with Ferdinand Lassalles play Franz von
Sickingen do Marx and Engels have anything to say on the subject
of tragedy; they make no mention of Buchners work, which ap
peared during the same decade.16 A hundred years later Georg
Lukacs was to treat the literary output of his day with the same
lack of discrimination: on the chessboard of his theory of realism
he valiantly compares Romain Rolland and Theodore Dreiser to
Proust, Joyce, Kafka, and Faulkner, without even suspecting that
such a match of pawns against kings might expose the promoter
to ridicule.17 Fortunately, neither Marx nor Lukacs has expressed
his opinion on poetry, and we can only guess what the world has
been spared. For, while orthodox literary sociology can at least

enter halfway into the heart of a novel or play by way of the pons
asinorum of its plot, poetry excludes such an approach from the
outset. The only approach to poetry is via language, and this is
why Lukacs ignores poetry.
Such obtuseness plays into the hands of the bourgeois esthetic
that would like to deny poetry any social aspect. Too often the
champions of inwardness and sensibility are reactionaries. They
consider politics a special subject best left to professionals and
wish to detach it completely from all other human activity. They
advise poetry to stick to such models as they have devised for it,
in other words, to high aspirations and eternal values. The prom
ised reward for this continence is timeless validity. Behind these
high-sounding proclamations lurks a contempt for poetry no less
profound than that of vulgar Marxism. For a political quarantine
placed on poetry in the name of eternal values itself serves politi
cal ends. Poetry is to be made surreptitiously serviceable to these
ends precisely where its social relevance is denied, as decoration,
as window dressing, as a stage set representing eternity. Both sides,
both Weidle and Lukacs for example, agree that poetry in essence,
and especially modern poetry, is disturbing and that it does not fit
into the plans of either of them because it is no ones handmaiden.
The confusion of ideas is general and almost total. In the search
for enemies or allies, the diaries and letters, opinions and lives of
the poets are gone over with a fine-tooth comb, and the fact that
they have also been engaged in writing poetry becomes practically
superfluous. The following are examples of this hopeless confu
sion.
Insofar as it is possible to speak of progressive literary criticism
in our country, those practicing it have always regarded German
romanticism as a purely reactionary movement.18 These critics have
heard that the romantics counted landed gentry and anti-Semites
among them, but they remain unaware that Novalis and Brentano,
those politically irresponsible sons of the German middle class,
gave birth to a poetic revolution that was the beginning of mo
dernity, a revolution without which the writings of Trakl, Brecht,
Heym, and Stadler, Benn, Arp, Apollinaire, Eluard, Lorca, Ne
ruda, Esenin, Mandelstam, Eliot, and Thomas cannot be imag
ined. These critics have been content to interrogate romanticism
ideologically, to denounce it as a counterrevolutionary movement,

and thus to deliver an indispensable and powerful element of
modern tradition to nationalism and subsequently to fascism. On
the other hand, they have given high progressive marks to Herwegh, Freiligrath, and Weerth, to men, that is, whose poetry was
mediocre and epigonous. The results can still be seen in the hand
somely bound, allegedly revolutionary lyric writing practiced in
Dresden and Leipzig today.
Or take the opposite case of a German right-wing critic who
mistakes for a general world condition the sluggish intellectual cli
mate of the Federal Republic (he calls it postrevolutionary,
thereby indicating that his notion of revolution is limited to Hit
lerism); in 1961 this bourgeois critic tried to claim Baudelaire and
Eliot as good conservatives for his dwindling company by playing
off the reactionary views of these writers against their revolution
ary works. It is true that in his diary Baudelaire wrote the horri
fying phrase, Belle conspiration a organiser pour Vextermination
de la Race J u i v e 19 but does this turn Les Fleurs du Mai into a
collection of SS sermons? T.S. Eliot acknowledged the monarchy
and the Anglican Church; does The Waste Land thereby become
an edifying plea for a literature of the day before yesterday? Can
a confining political viewpoint of the author cast the poetic revolt
of these verses into chains? Since Platos day, of course, the self
appointed ideological watchdogs have always considered view
points more important than the objective social content of poetry.
This content can be found only in the language of poetry, the
discovery of which presupposes an ear.
Under such auspices the expression political poem becomes
suspect to the point where it is no longer of any use. Everyone
imagines he knows what it means, but on closer examination we
find that it is applied almost exclusively to writings serving the
ends either of agitation or of the establishment. But what we have
learned from the example of the eulogy of the ruler holds true in
this instance too. The results can be classified under battle songs
and marching songs, poster rhymes and hymns, propaganda chants
and manifestoes in verse irrespective of whose or what interests
they are intended to promote. Either they are useless for the pur
poses of those who commission them or they have nothing to do
with poetry. No national anthem written in the twentieth century
is a legitimate poem; it is impossible to write such an anthem. The

attempt is punishable by ridicule. If we are unwilling to admit this,
we have only to compare two such attempts from the recent Ger
man past:
Auferstanden aus Ruinen
Und der Zukunft zugewandt,
Lass uns dir zum Guten dienen
Deutschland, einig Vaterland.20
(Risen from ruins, turned toward the future, let us serve your
welfare, Germany, common Fatherland.)
This is a verse from the East German national anthem, composed

by Johannes R. Becher in 1950. For the Federal Republic, on the
other hand, Rudolf Alexander Schroder proposed the following
lines, although in fact they were rejected by the authorities in fa
vor of the proven and ever-topical words of Fallersleben:
Land der Liebe, Vaterland,
Heilger Grund, auf den sich griindet,
Was in Lieb und Leid verbundet
Herz mit Herzen, Hand mit Hand:
Frei ivie wir dir angehoren,
Schling um uns dein Friedensband,
Land der Liebe, Vaterland!21
(Land of love, Fatherland! Sacred ground on which every
thing is founded that unites us in love and sorrow, heart to
heart, hand to hand: Free as we belong to you and pledge
ourselves to you, wrap your band of peace around us, land
of love, Fatherland!)
Despite the ideological differences that separate the two authors,

their works are interchangeable. Phrasing, prosody, and vocabu
lary are identical. In neither case can one really speak of a political
poem, since these anthems bear no more relation to poetry than
does an advertising slogan for margarine. They fulfill their politi
cal mission by lies. Contrast with them a poem by Brecht, Der
Radivechsel (Changing the Wheel):

Ich sitze am Strassenhang.
Der Fahrer wechselt das Rad.
Ich bin nicht gem, wo ich herkomme.
Ich bin nicht gem, wo ich hinfahre.
Warum sehe ich den Radwechsel
M it Ungeduld?22
(I sit by the roadside. The driver changes the wheel. I dont
like where I came from. I dont like where Im going. Why
am I impatient as I watch him change the wheel?)
A political poem? The mere question shows how little is to be

gained by the use of that category. A wheel is beingchanged six
lines in which neither the Fatherland nor any other regime is men
tioned, six lines before which the zeal of the ideological carpers
falters. They too regard Der Radwechsel with impatience, be
cause they cannot use the poem for their purposes. It says nothing
to them, because it says too much. It was written in the summer
of 1953. A political poem or not? This is a verbal quibble. If pol
itics means taking part in the social conditions that men create for
themselves in history, then Der Radwechsel, like every poem
worthy of the name, is political in essence. If politics means the
use of power for the purposes of those who wield it, then Brechts
lines, in common with poetry of any kind, have nothing to do
with it. The poem expresses in an exemplary way the fact that it
is not at the disposal of politics: this is its political content.
Which proves what? That we cannot exhaust this turbid theme
by resorting to clear-cut linear theses. Looking at the subject of
poetry and politics as a whole, and not from the view of an indi
vidual poem, we do not have much to go on that is simple. It is
necessary to insist on what there is, not because it is new but
because, being well known, it is constantly being forgotten: poetry
and politics are not specialized fields but historic processes, one
in the medium of speech, the other in the medium of power. Both
are integral parts of history. As sociology, literary criticism cannot
see that language constitutes the social character of poetry, and
not its entanglement in the political battle. Bourgeois literary es
thetics is blind to, or else conceals, the fact that poetry is essen
tially social. The answers offered by the two doctrines to the ques
tion of the relationship of the poetic to the political process are

correspondingly clumsy and useless: complete dependence in one
case, complete independence in the other. On the one hand is the
party calendar, on the other timelessness. The real question at is
sue remains unexamined and indeed unasked; for what remains to
be said we are forced to rely on conjectures and postulates; we
have no scholarship to help us.
Owing to inclement weather the German revolution occurred
in music. 23 This bitterly sarcastic remark of Tucholskys, ur
gently recommended as a motto for our political historians, re
veals more than is apparent at first sight more perhaps than its
author intended. It is not only in politics that revolutions take
place.
The overseers of the state must hold fast to . . . the prin
ciple . . . which forbids any innovation, in either gymnastics
or music, upon the established order, requiring it, on the con
trary, to be most strictly maintained. . . . For the introduc
tion of a new kind of music must be shunned as imperilling
the whole state; since styles of music are never disturbed
without affecting the most important political institu
tions. . .
Then to all appearances, I continued, it is here in music
that our guardians should erect their guardhouse.
At any rate, said he, it is here that lawlessness easily
creeps in unawares.
Yes, in the guise of amusement, and professing to do no
mischief.
No, and it does none, except that gradually gaining a
lodgement, it quietly insinuates itself into manners and cus
toms; and from these it issues in greater force, and makes its
way into mutual compacts; and from compacts it goes on to
attack laws and constitutions, displaying the utmost impud
ence, Socrates, until it ends by overturning everything, both
in public and in private. 24
No enemy of poetry has described its effects with greater insight

than Plato: unpredictable effects, calculable by no one, not even
by the poet, like those of a trace element or a shower of tiny
spores. Platos warnings are more perceptive than any literary
scholarship to date; they relate not to manifest political opinions
and content, but to the heart of the poetic process, which threat
ens to elude the guardians control; its political consequences are
never more dangerous than where they dont even try to serve as
a guideline for poetic conduct.
Poetty and Politics 33

Despite their barbaric ignorance, Platos totalitarian followers
have displayed a surer instinct for this connection than have the
professional estheticians; their official bodies have forbidden, as a
danger to the state, not only tendencies and contents but, to use
Platos language, styles and modes, that is, deviations in po
etic language itself. Only a few years ago, the politburo of a small
Central European state rendered a poet the macabre homage of
forcing him to alter the punctuation he had chosen for his writ
ings; he was enjoined, for reasons of state, to put back the full
stops and commas he had left out. We are ill-advised to laugh at
this. The incident, however unimportant it may seem, brings to
our attention something that, while literally true, often remains
unnoticed, although it is talked about at every cultural street cor
ner: there are conservative and revisionist, revolutionary and re
actionary impulses in poetry itself. What do these words mean
when applied to the poetic process? If we wish to wrest them from
idle talk and instill a little precision in them, we must turn not to
ideological reactions but to works, not to viewpoint but to lan
guage. Many a country squire loyal to the crown will then appear
as a revolutionary, many a political Jacobin as a poetic obscur
antist. It seems reasonable to suppose that the revolutionary pro
cess of poetry develops in quiet, anonymous homes rather than at
congresses where booming bards announce world revolutions in
the language of the poetastering birdwatcher.
If we want to gain a deeper insight into what binds poetry to
politics and what divorces the two from each other, we cannot
hope for proof, nor can we proceed without risk; in other words,
we are dependent on speculations. In conclusion, we submit three
theses concerning the development of the poetic process in history
and the relationship between it and the political process:
1.
Poetry must be more incorrupt than ever in insisting on its
birthright against all domination. What distinguishes the poetic
from the political process has been growing clearer over the last
hundred years. The greater the pressure to which poetry is sub
jected, the clearer this difference becomes. Its political mission is
to refuse any political mission and to continue to speak for every
one about things of which no one speaks a tree, a stone, that
which does not exist. This is the most difficult of missions. None
is easier to forget. There is no one to demand an accounting; on
the contrary, the man who betrays his mission to the interests of

those in authority is rewarded. But in poetry there are no exten
uating circumstances. A poem that offers itself for sale, whether
in error or from baseness, is condemned to death; there is no re
prieve.
2. Authority, stripped of its mythical cloak, can no longer be
reconciled with poetry. What used to be called inspiration is now
called criticism, which becomes the productive restlessness of the
poetic process. In the eyes of authority, which can recognize no
ctPXy other than itself, poetry is anarchistic, intolerable because
not at authoritys disposal, subversive in its very existence. Its mere
presence is an indictment of government announcements and the
scream of propaganda, of manifestos and banners. Its critical
function is simply that of the child in the fairy tale. No political
engagement is necessary to see that the emperor is wearing no
clothes. It is enough that a single verse breaks the speechless howl
of applause.
3. Poetry transmits the future. In the face of what is currently
established, it speaks what is obvious and unrealized. Francis Ponge
has said that he writes his poems as if he were writing on the day
following a successful revolution. This is true of all poetry. Poetry
is anticipating, even when it takes the form of doubt, rejection, or
negation. It is not that it speaks of the future, but that it speaks
as if a future were possible, as if free speech were possible among
people not free, as if there were no alienation, no inarticulateness
(since inarticulateness cannot express itself and alienation cannot
communicate itself). Were it not at the same time criticism, such
an anticipation would prove poetry a lie; were it not in the same
breath anticipation, such criticism would be impotent. The path
of poetry is narrow and menaced with dangers, its chance of suc
cess modest no less modest, even if more distinct, than our own.
3
Commonplaces on
the Newest Literature
Josephine asserts herself, a mere nothing in voice, a mere
nothing in execution, she asserts herself and gets across to us;
it does us good to think of that. A really trained singer, if
ever such a one should be found among us, we could cer
tainly not endure at such a time and we should unanimously
turn away from the senselessness of any such performance.
May Josephine be spared from perceiving that the mere fact
of our listening to her is proof that she is not a singer. . . .
Josephines road, however, must go downhill. The time will
soon come when her last squeak sounds and dies into silence.
She is a small episode in the eternal history of our people,
and the people will get over the loss of her.
Franz Kafka, Josephine the Singer ,
o r the Mouse Folk.
1.
Pompes funebres. So now we can hear it tolling again, the
little death knell for literature. They are carefully binding tiny tin
wreaths for it. We are snowed under by invitations to the burial.
The funeral banquets, so we hear, are exceedingly well attended:
they are a hit at the book fair. The mourners dont appear overly
downcast. Rather, a manic exuberance seems to be taking hold, a
slightly heady fury. The few oddballs off in the corner dont seri
ously disturb the festivities. They are making their trip on their
own, perhaps with a little tea in their pipe.
The funeral procession leaves behind a dust cloud of theories,
35

little of which is new. The literati are celebrating the end of liter
ature. The poets prove to themselves and others the impossibility
of making poetry. The critics extol the definitive demise of criti
cism. The sculptors produce plastic coffins for their plastics. The
event as a whole takes for itself the appellation cultural revolu
tion, but it has more the look of a country fair.
2.
Period of deliberation. Almost everyone longs for certainty,

even if it were the certainty that it is all over and done with for
writing. That, too, evidently would be some kind of solace. But
the relief of one group is as premature as the glee and panic of the
others. Old habits die hard; inveterate poets can scarcely be re
formed through vociferous cold-turkey treatments; the loudness of
the saw conceals how thick the branch is on which literature sits.
Also worth contemplating: the death of literature itself is a
literary metaphor, and scarcely of recent vintage. For at least a
hundred years, say since the days of Lautreamont, the victim who
has been pronounced dead has in fact found itself in a permanent
state of agony, and like bourgeois society itself has known how to
make its own crisis the basis of its existence. Its interment is an
event without a foreseeable end, during which the deceased keeps
popping up with ominous freshness in better fettle each time and
more highly rouged.
The mourners stay in each others company that is, in the mi
nority. As regards the masses, they have other worries. They take
about as much notice of the death of literature, which has never
gotten as far as the newsstand, as they did of its life. Not even the
book business needs be concerned; because at seven in the morn
ing when the deceased is having her beauty rest, the world is back
in kilter.
Nonetheless, despite the dumb theses, the broken-winded inter
mezzi, and the monotonous bleating that accompany them, a mere
shrug of the shoulder by the rest of us would be too little in face
of the obsequies. For the mood on which they are based and that
they cannot articulate runs deep. The symptoms of the illness can
not be simply dismissed. Not only is contemporary production hit
by it, making self-doubt the dominant feature of its esthetic; but
discomfort, impatience, and disgust have seized writers and read
Commonplaces on the Newest Literature 37

ers to a degree that at least for the Second German Republic is
new and unheard-of. Both suddenly understand what has always
been the case: that literature, perhaps even more than other prod
ucts, is at the mercy of the laws of the marketplace. However,
since production of literature is much less easily controlled through
a monopolistic administration than is the production of marga
rine, such an insight puts the whole enterprise into question. De
liver, consume; deliver, consume: that is the imperative of the
market; when writers and readers notice that those who deliver
are swallowed and those who swallow are delivered up, this leads
to blockages.
It is this very elitist character of our literature that makes it
susceptible to such seizures. It can only operate undisturbed as
long as it is unaware of its own situation. Since literature is made
by the few for the few, it takes little to disturb this equilibrium.
When the brightest heads between twenty and thirty are more in
terested in an agitation model than an experimental text ; when
they prefer to use factographs over picaresque novels; when they
sneer at literature, both its production and consumption these
are indeed promising signs. But they must be understood.
3.
Local paper. Someone from whose lips the word epoch slips
a little too easily and who wants to pronounce statements about
literature qua literature may get his tongue caught in the process.
Premature globalization usually conceals the specifics of a situa
tion, and these are what should be clarified. A few provisional
pieces of information may perhaps be gained by localizing the
problem.
Since World War II, West German society has assigned a pecul
iar role to cultural life and to literature in particular. A leading
journal of the postwar period was called Die Wandlung [Trans
formation ]. The mandate of German literature after 1945 has
been to demonstrate to the Germans, and even more to the outside
world, such a transformation. The less thought was given to real
social change, to the rearrangement of power and ownership con
ditions, the more indispensable became for West German society
an alibi in the superstructure. Very different motives came to
gether here in unprecedented amalgamation:

the wish to compensate, at least intellectually, for the complete
bankruptcy of the German Reich;
the evidently urgent need, regardless of the great collective crime,
to once again be regarded as a cultured people ;
the hunger of a state, devoid of such, for prestige of any kind;
the sufficiently well-known idealism that wanted to assuage
its bad conscience in the face of rising mass consumption with
atavistic antipathies to civilization;
a form of anti-fascism, that satisfies itself with having better
taste than the Nazis and that manifested its democratic mentality
by buying what the former called degenerate : pictures on which
nothing can be recognized and poems with nothing in them;
the need to be at least esthetically with it in the world, the
wish to be classy enough to make it in world cultural circles this
objective was recently achieved with The Tin Drum.
Theres one point these factors have in common: they have
heaped exonerating and surrogate functions on a literature that of
course was unequipped to cope with them. Literature was sup
posed to take the place of a void in the Federal Republic the
absence of a genuine political life. Thus, the restoration was op
posed as though it were a literary phenomenon, that is with literary
means; opposition could be repressed into the book reviews; rev
olutions in poetry were the substitute for the nonoccurrence of
revolutions in the social structure; artistic avant-garde was to con
ceal political regression. And the more West German society sta
bilized itself, the more urgently it asked for social criticism in lit
erature; the fewer results the writers engagement produced, the
louder the clamor for it. This mechanism secured literature an un
contested place in society; but it also led to self-deceptions that
seem grotesque today.
The rise of this literature was bought with an optimism that was
blind to theory, with a naive presumptuousness and an increasing
incompatibility of political demand with political practice. And so
there was no avoiding the inevitable hangover. When the totality
of imperialism became evident, when social contradictions could
no longer be covered up, when politics took to the street, the cracks
began to show through the cultural facade. What had engaged
itself for twenty years now saw itself confronted by alternatives

that no longer bore the initials of the parties in Bonn. Freshly
baked writers of classics who had become accustomed to read
ing their position papers in front of the TV cameras with the
aplomb of ministers of health suddenly found themselves stupe
fied and peeved confronted by a public that rewarded their ser
mons with salvos of laughter. However, if what succumbed to its
own fictions was literature, it has indeed long since ceased to suf
fer.
4.
The old questions, the old answers. However, the dilemma
in which literature, like all the arts, finds itself is deeper and older
than our local obsessions. In any event, at the latest by 1968, it
was realized that the dilemma cannot be solved with phrases.
Kafkas story of the singer Josephine dates from 1924. Six years
later Andre Breton wrote: In the area about whose specific ex
pressive possibilities you are enquiring (namely the artistic and lit
erary production) my thinking can only oscillate between the
awareness of its complete autonomy and that of its strict depen
dence. And he develops this contradiction with the demand for a
literature that is simultaneously conditional and unconditional,
utopian and realistic, which sees its purpose only in itself and wants
nothing but to serve.
The surrealists made the squaring of the circle into a program.
They committed themselves unreservedly to the cause of the Com
munist world revolution and simultaneously maintained their in
tellectual sovereignty, the autonomy of their literary criteria. As
the foundation of this attitude, Breton invoked the laws of po
etic determinism, laws that he felt to be as inescapable as those
of dialectical materialism. In todays discussion, the same matter
bears a different tag. There is talk about the objective state of
the genre and of artistic compulsion categories that bear sus
picious resemblance to the material compulsion to which the
administrators of the status quo hold fast.
The surrealists attempt to establish themselves in their dilemma
as though it were a citadel had something stubbornly heroic about
it; the same cannot be said of their successors, the dispersed troops
of the neo-avant-garde. The declarations of revolutionary posi
tions that one can hear from some authors of the Tel-quel group
in Paris, the Gruppo 63 in Italy, and the Noigandres-Circle in Bra

zil have sacrificed every connection with their literary production,
which shows no structural differences from the work of other au
thors who avoid any form of political engagement or are openly
reactionary. Evidently the material compulsion to which this lit
erature feels obligated succeeds in asserting itself, despite the sub
jective insights, as a kind of literary meta-ideology from which there
is no escaping for these authors.
This ideology avoids any social content. It is technocratic. Its
concept of progress aims at means of production, not at produc
tion relationships, which is why their products remain ambiguous;
and it is scarcely accidental that concepts like indeterminacy, ac
cident, and gratuitousness play such a central role in their esthetic.
The manufacturers of such a literature may be subjectively honest
when they mouth the word revolution, but of necessity they move
into the proximity of industrial technocrats like Servan-Schreiber.
A literature that thinks of itself as a mere instrument of agita
tion is antithetical to the technocratic avant-garde. Regis Debray,
in a letter from Bolivia, pleaded with great decisiveness, if also in
the tone of traditional poetic noblesse, for such a literature:
For the fight that is being fought before our eyes and within
each of us, the fight between prehistory and the wish to live
in accordance with our idea of what it means to be a human
being, we need works that give testimony of that: we need
fragments and screams, we need the sum of all actions of
which such works give us news. Only when we have them,
indispensable and simple reports, songs for the march, cries
for help and watchwords of the day, only then do we have
the right to take pleasure in beautiful literary products.
A literature that corresponds to such demands does not exist, at

least not in Europe. All attempts so far to break out of the ghetto
of cultural life and to reach the masses, for example, by means
of agitprop songs and street theater, have been defeated. They
proved literarily irrelevant and politically ineffective. O f course this
is not a question of talent. Those who are addressed, even if they
cannot give articulate account of why, see effortlessly through the
bad immediacy, the helpless mental short-circuiting, the self-de
ception of such attempts, and sense it as a form of ingratiation.
On this subject too, Breton said the necessary thing forty years
ago: I dont believe in the present possibility of a literary art that

can express the endeavors of the working class. I have good rea
son to refuse to consider something of that kind possible. For in a
prerevolutionary epoch the writers or artists are necessarily rooted
in the bourgeoisie and, if only for that reason, are incapable of
finding the language to express the needs of the proletariat.
5.
Omnivorous. This, half a century after the October Revo
lution, needs a few additions. The Soviet Union so far lacks a
revolutionary literature, too. (Mayakovsky remained an excep
tion; the literary avant-garde of the Russian twenties primarily
propagated and radicalized bourgeois poetics; the spread of the
cultural heritage that is now indeed available to a large majority
of Soviet citizens may be regarded as a socialist accomplishment,
however it rests on an exclusively quantitative conception of cul
ture that derives from old social democratic traditions and on an
entirely retrospective interpretation of the slogan art for the peo
ple. A revolutionary culture cannot be founded on such premises,
as the present condition of Soviet literature shows only too clearly.)
To this day the products of the bourgeois epoch in world liter
ature set the tone, determine the operative criteria, the existing
possibilities, the usual conflicts, and the increasing contradictions.
Bourgeois in origin are socialist realism and abstract poetry, liter
ature as affirmation and literature of protest, absurd and docu
mentary theater. Culture is the sole area in which the bourgeoisie
rules uncontested, and the end of this rule is not in sight.
On the other hand, the importance of literature in the class
struggle has diminished since the nineteenth century. Although it
was impossible to separate them neatly, it was always possible to
distinguish between two elements from the very beginning. As the
ruling literature was, on the one hand, also the literature of the
ruling class, it had to serve the consolidation of class rule and its
camouflaging. On the other hand, it is a product of a revolution
and, inasmuch as it has remained loyal to this origin, it has
transgressed the limits of its mandate. Its function in the class
struggle therefore was a double one from the beginning: it served
mystification but also enlightenment. These functions, however,
on which a criticism of literature could also orient itself decisively,
have obviously been atrophying, at least since the end of World
War 1. Since that time imperialism has developed such mighty in

struments for the industrial manipulation of consciousness that it
is no longer dependent on literature. Vice versa, literatures critical
function has also kept shrinking. Already in the thirties Walter
Benjamin could ascertain that the bourgeois production and pub
lication apparatus can assimilate, even propagate, an astonishing
mass of revolutionary themes without putting its own existence
into serious doubt. Since then the capacity of the capitalist soci
ety to reabsorb, suck up, swallow cultural goods of widely
varying digestibility has enormously increased. Today the political
harmlessness of all literary, indeed, all artistic products, is clearly
evident: the very fact that they can be defined as such neutralizes
them. Their claim to be enlightening, their utopian surplus, their
critical potential has shriveled to mere appearance.
Precisely analogous to this wasting away of the social content is
the assimilation of their formal inventions by late capitalist soci
ety. Even the most extreme esthetic contraventions no longer meet
with serious resistance. A percentage of the season ticket holders
of course are against them. But sooner or later, and usually sooner,
by way of detours via advertising, design, and styling the inven
tions become part and parcel of the consumer sphere. This means
the end of an equivocation that has ruled progressive literature for
fifty years: the parallelism or even equation of formal and social
innovation.
A critical rhetoric that transposes the concept of revolution to
esthetic categories was only possible at a time when breaking with
the conventions of writing (painting, composing, etc.) could still
be regarded as a challenge. This time is now over. Proclamations
and manifestos announcing revolts, revolutions of language,
syntax, metaphor, sound hollow today. It is not by accident that
they meet with well-meaning understanding from the ruling insti
tutions and are correspondingly remunerated.
W hat does it take to be a . . . revolutionary ? From our
experience with thousands of applicants we know that not
everyone is suited to be an independent salesman. But we also
know that there are thousands of able men who dont have
the opportunity to develop themselves because of the limita
tions of their present income.
The world-renowned Chase Group, one of whose by no
means insignificant subsidiaries is the Securities Management

Corporation, was founded in Boston in 1932. It offers a solid,
even conservative, solution for long-term investments to small
as well as large investors. Scientific analysts of the first rank
insure a sensible aggressiveness of capital growth.
If you are revolutionary enough to work exclusively on a
commission basis and work particularly hard the first few
months you will create for yourself a winning existence with
a winners income.
job offer in a German daily,
summer 1968
6.
Not responsible for personal property. I summarize: a rev
olutionary literature does not exist unless it be in a completely
vapid sense of the word. There are objective reasons for this that
writers are in no position to alter. Literary works cannot be ac
corded an essential social function under present conditions. From
this follows that one also cannot find usable criteria for judging
them. Hence, a literary criticism that could more than belch forth
its personal preferences and regulate the market is not possible.
These findings appear lapidary. Therefore, one should not for
get that one cannot base a wholesale judgment of contemporary
literature on them. The statement that one cannot attribute a co
gent social function to literature, regarded logically, makes no new
certainties available to us. It denies that there are such certainties.
And if that is indeed the case, it points to a risk that from now on
is part of the composing of poems, stories, and dramas: the risk
that such works are useless and futile, regardless of their artistic
success or failure. Whoever makes literature as art isnt discredited
by this; but he cannot feel justified either.
If I am right, if no verdict is possible on writing, all the revolu
tionary haranguing, which looks for relief from its own impotence
in the liquidation of literature, wont accomplish anything either.
A political movement that, instead of attacking the power of the
state, tangles with aging belletrists would only manifest its own
cowardice in this manner. If we have a literature that exists merely
on the basis of a wild guess, if basically there is no making out
whether writing still contains an element, if only the slightest, of
the future, that is, if irrelevance constitutes the social essence of
this kind of work, then a cultural revolution can neither be made
with nor against it. Instead of shouting Hands up! to the produc

ers of slim volumes, the militant groups should attack the cultural
apparatuses whose social function in contrast to that of poetry
and prose is only too clearly recognizable and without whose
rule ruling has become inconceivable. However, these apparatuses
arent impotent opponents against whom the Left can turn its fear,
its puritanism, and its philistinism into aggression without actually
risking something.
7.
Writing and reading, oyez. For writers who cannot become
accustomed to their irrelevance (and how many is that?) I only
have modest, even paltry, suggestions. What is evidently the most
difficult job, an appropriate estimate of our significance, would
presumably be to our advantage. Nothing is won if we let our
selves be consumed by doubt and intimidated by the protesters
rhythmic chants and substitute for the traditional air of impor
tance a newly practiced gesture of humility. In a society where
political illiteracy celebrates triumphs, it should not be all that
difficult for people who can read and write to find limited but
useful occupations. That is certainly not a new task. Borne began
to work at it 150 years ago in Germany, and Rosa Luxemburg
has been dead for fifty years already. What we have today, mea
sured against these models, makes a modest impression: for ex
ample, Gunther W allraffs reports from German factories, Bahman Nirumands book on Persia, Ulrike Meinhoffs columns,
Georg Alsheimers Vietnam report. I consider the usefulness of such
works uncontestable. The discrepancy between the task they set
themselves and the results they have achieved cannot be reduced
to a question of talent. It is to be traced back to the production
relationship of the mind industry, which the inculcators of literacy
have been incapable of outplaying to date. The authors hold fast
to the traditional means: the book, individual authorship, the dis
tribution limits of the market, the separation of theoretical and
practical work. A counter example is the work of Fritz Teufel.1
Other possibilities that are less personality-bound have to be
thought up and tested.
The effort to render Germany politically literate is an immense
project. Like any such undertaking, it of course must begin with the
achievement of literacy by the would-be inculcators of literacy.
This itself is a protracted and tortuous process. Furthermore, every

such enterprise depends on the principle of mutuality. Only those
are suited for it who continually learn from those who learn from
them. That, incidentally, is one of the most pleasant aspects of this
project. The writer who lets himself get involved in this suddenly
feels critical reciprocity, a feedback between reader and writer of
which he could not have dreamed as a belletrist. Instead of mo
ronic reviews that certify that he has developed promisingly from
his second to third book but that his fourth has been a bitter dis
appointment, he now finds corrections, resistance, curses, count
erproofin a word, consequences. What he says and what is said
to him is usable, can become practice, even mutual practice. These
consequences are fragmentary and temporary. They are isolated.
But there is no real reason for their remaining so. Perhaps the
inculcator of literacy will one day achieve what was denied him
while he sought to make art: that the utilitarian value of his work
outgrows its market value.
8.
Almanac saying. There are no worms in the door hinges.

4
Constituents of a
Theory of the Media
If you should think this is Utopian, then I would ask you
to consider why it is Utopian.
Brecht, Theory o f Radio
ith the development of the electronic media, the industry

that shapes consciousness has become the pacesetter for
the social and economic development of societies in the late in
trial age. It infiltrates into all other sectors of production, takes
over more and more directional and control functions, and deter
mines the standard of the prevailing technology.
In lieu of normative definitions, here is an incomplete list of
new developments that have emerged in the last twenty years:
news satellites, color television, cable-relay television, cas
settes, videotape, videotape recorders, videophones, stereo
phony, laser techniques, electrostatic reproduction processes,
electronic high-speed printing, composing and learning ma
chines, microfiches with electronic access, printing by radio,
time-sharing computers, data banks. All these new forms of
media are constantly forming new connections both with each
other and with older media such as printing, radio, film, tele
vision, telephone, teletype, radar, and so on. They are clearly
coming together to form a universal system.
1.
The general contradiction between productive forces and
productive relationships emerges most sharply, however, when they
46
Constituents of a Theory of the Media 47

are most advanced. By contrast, protracted structural crises, as in
coal mining, can be solved merely by updating and modernizing,
that is to say, essentially they can be solved within the terms of
their own system, and a revolutionary strategy that relied on them
would be shortsighted.
Monopoly capitalism develops the consciousness-shaping indus
try more quickly and more extensively than other sectors of pro
duction; it must at the same time fetter it. A socialist media theory
has to work at thus contradiction, demonstrate that it cannot be
solved within the given productive relationships rapidly increas
ing discrepancies, potential explosive forces. Certain demands of
a prognostic nature must be made of any such theory (Benjamin).
A critical inventory of the status quo is not enough. There
is danger of underestimating the growing conflicts in the me
dia field, of neutralizing them, of interpreting them merely in
terms of trade unionism or liberalism, on the lines of tradi
tional labor struggles or as the clash of special interests (pro
gram heads/executive producers, publishers/authors, mono
polies/medium sized businesses, public corporations/private
companies, etc.). An appreciation of this kind does not go far
enough and remains bogged down in tactical arguments.
So far there is no Marxist theory of the media. There is there

fore no strategy one can apply in this area. Uncertainty, alterna
tions between fear and surrender, mark the attitude of the socialist
Left to the new productive forces of the media industry. The am
bivalence of this attitude merely mirrors the ambivalence of the
media themselves without mastering it. It could only be overcome
by releasing the emancipatory potential that is inherent in the new
productive forces a potential that capitalism must sabotage just
as surely as Soviet revisionism, because it would endanger the rule
of both systems.
2.
The open secret of the electronic media, the decisive politi
cal factor, which has been waiting, suppressed or crippled, for its
moment to come, is their mobilizing power.
When I say mobilize I mean mobilize. In a country that has
had direct experience of fascism (and Stalinism), it is perhaps
still necessary to explain, or to explain again, what that

means namely, to make men more mobile than they are. As
free as dancers, as aware as football players, as surprising as
guerrillas. Anyone who thinks of the masses only as the ob
ject of politics cannot mobilize them. He wants to push them
around. A parcel is not mobile; it can only be pushed to and
fro. Marches, columns, parades, immobilize people. Propa
ganda, which does not release self-reliance but limits it, fits
into the same pattern. It leads to depoliticization.
For the first time in history, the media are making possible mass
participation in a social and socialized productive process, the
practical means of which are in the hands of the masses them
selves. Such a use of them would bring the communications me
dia, which up to now have not deserved the name, into their own.
In its present form, equipment like television or film does not serve
communication but prevents it. It allows no reciprocal action be
tween transmitter and receiver; technically speaking, it reduces
feedback to the lowest point compatible with the system.
This state of affairs, however, cannot be justified technically.
On the contrary. Electronic techniques recognize no contradiction
in principle between transmitter and receiver. Every transistor ra
dio is, by the nature of its construction, at the same time a poten
tial transmitter; it can interact with other receivers by circuit re
versal. The development from a mere distribution medium to a
communications medium is technically not a problem. It is con
sciously prevented for understandable political reasons. The tech
nical distinction between receivers and transmitters reflects the so
cial division of labor into producers and consumers, which in the
consciousness industry becomes of particular political importance.
It is based, in the last analysis, on the basic contradiction between
the ruling class and the ruled class that is to say, between mo
nopoly capital or monopolistic bureaucracy on the one hand and
the dependent masses on the other.
This structural analogy can be worked out in detail. To the
programs offered by the broadcasting cartels there corre
spond the politics offered by a power cartel consisting of par
ties constituted along authoritarian lines. In both cases mar
ginal differences in their platforms reflect a competitive
relationship that, on essential questions, is nonexistent. M in
imal independent activity on the part of the voter/viewer is
Constituents of a Theory o f the Media 49

desired. As is the case with parliamentary elections under the
two-party system, the feedback is reduced to indices. Train
ing in decision making is reduced to the response to a single,
three-point switching process: Program 1; Program 2; Switch
off (abstention).
Radio must be changed from a means of distribution to a means

of communication. Radio would be the most wonderful means of
communication imaginable in public life, a huge linked system
that is to say, it would be such if it were capable not only of
transmitting but of receiving, of allowing the listener not only to
hear but to speak, and did not isolate him but brought him into
contact. Unrealizable in this social system, realizable in another,
these proposals, which are, after all, only the natural consequences
of technical development, help towards the propagation and shap
ing of that other system. 1
3.
George Orwells bogey of a monolithic consciousness indus
try derives from a view of the media that is undialectical and ob
solete. The possibility of total control of such a system at a central
point belongs not to the future but to the past. With the aid of
systems theory, a discipline that is part of bourgeois science us
ing, that is to say, categories that are immanent in the system it
can be demonstrated that a linked series of communications or, to
use the technical term, a switchable network, to the degree that it
exceeds a certain critical size, can no longer be centrally controlled
but only dealt with statistically. This basic leakiness of stochas
tic systems admittedly allows the calculation of probabilities based
on sampling and extrapolations; but blanket supervision would
demand a monitor bigger than the system itself. The monitoring
of all telephone conversations, for instance, postulates an appa
ratus that would need to be n times more extensive and more
complicated than that of the present telephone system. A censors
office, which carried out its work extensively, would of necessity
become the largest branch of industry in its society.
But supervision on the basis of approximation can only offer
inadequate instruments for the self-regulation of the whole system
in accordance with the concepts of those who govern it. It postu
lates a high degree of internal stability. If this precarious balance
is upset, then crisis measures based on statistical methods of con

trol are useless. Interference can penetrate the leaky nexus of the
media, spreading and multiplying there with the utmost speed, by
resonance. The regime so threatened will in such cases, insofar as
it is still capable of action, use force and adopt police or military
methods.
A state of emergency is therefore the only alternative to leakage
in the consciousness industry; but it cannot be maintained in the
long run. Societies in the late industrial age rely on the free ex
change of information; the objective pressures to which their
controllers constantly appeal are thus turned against them. Every
attempt to suppress the random factors, each diminution of the
average flow and each distortion of the information structure must,
in the long run, lead to an embolism.
The electronic media have not only built up the information
network intensively, they have also spread it extensively. The ra
dio wars of the fifties demonstrated that, in the realm of commu
nications, national sovereignty is condemned to wither away. The
further development of satellites will deal it the coup de grace.
Quarantine regulations for information, such as were promulgated
by fascism and Stalinism, are only possible today at the cost of
deliberate industrial regression.
Example. The Soviet bureaucracy, that is to say the most
widespread and complicated bureaucracy in the world, has to
deny itself almost entirely an elementary piece of organiza
tional equipment, the duplicating machine, because this in
strument potentially makes everyone a printer. The political
risk involved, the possibility of a leakage in the information
network, is accepted only at the highest levels, at exposed
switchpoints in political, military, and scientific areas. It is
clear that Soviet society has to pay an immense price for the
suppression of its own productive resources clumsy proce
dures, misinformation, faux frais. The phenomenon inciden
tally has its analogue in the capitalist West, if in a diluted
form. The technically most advanced electrostatic copying
machine, which operates with ordinary paper which can
not, that is to say, be supervised and is independent of sup
pliers is the property of a monopoly (Xerox), on principle
it is not sold but rented. The rates themselves ensure that it
does not get into the wrong hands. The equipment crops up
as if by magic where economic and political power are con
centrated. Political control of the equipment goes hand in hand

with maximization of profits for the manufacturer. Admit
tedly, this control, as opposed to Soviet methods, is by no
means watertight for the reasons indicated.
The problem of censorship thus enters a new historical stage.

The struggle for the freedom of the press and freedom of ideas
has, up till now, been mainly an argument within the bourgeoisie
itself; for the masses, freedom to express opinions was a fiction
since they were, from the beginning, barred from the means of
production above all from the press and thus were unable to
join in freedom of expression from the start. Today censorship is
threatened by the productive forces of the consciousness industry
which are already, to some extent, gaining the upper hand over
the prevailing relations of production. Long before the latter are
overthrown, the contradiction between what is possible and what
actually exists will become acute.
4.
The New Left of the sixties has reduced the development of
the media to a single concept that of manipulation. This concept
was originally extremely useful for heuristic purposes and has made
possible a great many individual analytical investigations; but it
now threatens to degenerate into a mere slogan that conceals more
rhan it is able to illuminate, and therefore itself requires analysis.
The current theory of manipulation on the Left is essentially
defensive; its effects can lead the movement into defeatism. Sub
jectively speaking, behind the tendency to go on the defensive lies
a sense of impotence. Objectively, it corresponds to the absolutely
correct view that the decisive means of production are in enemy
hands. But to react to this state of affairs with moral indignation is
naive. There is in general an undertone of lamentation when peo
ple speak of manipulation that points to idealistic expectations
as if the class enemy had ever stuck to the promises of fair play it
occasionally utters. The liberal superstition that in political and
social questions there is such a thing as pure, unmanipulated truth
seems to enjoy remarkable currency among the socialist Left. It is
the unspoken basic premise of the manipulation thesis.
This thesis provides no incentive to push ahead. A socialist per
spective that does not go beyond attacking existing property rela
tionships is limited. The expropriation of Springer is a desirable

goal, but it would be good to know to whom the media should
be handed over. The party? To judge by all experience of that
solution, it is not a possible alternative. It is perhaps no accident
that the Left has not yet produced an analysis of the pattern of
manipulation in countries with socialist regimes.
The manipulation thesis also serves to exculpate oneself. To cast
the enemy in the role of the devil is to conceal the weakness and
lack of perspective in ones own agitation. If the latter leads to
self-isolation instead of a mobilization of the masses, then its fail
ure is attributed holus-bolus to the overwhelming power of the
media.
The theory of repressive tolerance has also permeated discussion
of the media by the Left. This concept, which was formulated by
its author with the utmost care, has also, when whittled away in
an undialectical manner, become a vehicle for resignation. Admit
tedly, when an office-equipment firm can attempt to recruit sales
staff with the picture of Che Guevara and the slogan We would
have hired him, the temptation to withdraw is great. But fear of
handling shit is a luxury a sewerman cannot necessarily afford.
The electronic media do away with cleanliness; they are by their
nature dirty. That is part of their productive power. In terms of
structure, they are antisectarian a further reason why the Left,
insofar as it is not prepared to reexamine its traditions, has little
idea what to do with them. The desire for a cleanly defined line
and for the suppression of deviations is anachronistic and now
serves only ones own need for security. It weakens ones own
position by irrational purges, exclusions, and fragmentation, in
stead of strengthening it by rational discussion.
These resistances and fears are strengthened by a series of cul
tural factors that, for the most part, operate unconsciously, and
that are to be explained by the social history of the participants in
todays leftist movement namely their bourgeois class back
ground. It often seems as if it were precisely because of their pro
gressive potential that the media are felt to be an immense threat
ening power; because for the first time they present a basic
challenge to bourgeois culture and thereby to the privileges of the
bourgeois intelligentsia a challenge far more radical than any self
doubt this social group can display. In the New Lefts opposition
to the media, old bourgeois fears such as the fear of the masses

seem to be reappearing along with equally old bourgeois longings
for preindustrial times dressed up in progressive clothing.
At the very beginning of the student revolt, during the Free
Speech Movement at Berkeley, the computer was a favorite
target for aggression. Interest in the Third W orld is not al
ways free from motives based on antagonism toward civili
zation which has its source in conservative culture critique.
During the May events in Paris the reversion to archaic forms
of production was particularly characteristic. Instead of car
rying out agitation among the workers with a modern offset
press, the students printed their posters on the hand presses
of the Ecole des Beaux Arts. The political slogans were handpainted; stencils would certainly have made it possible to
produce them en masse, but it would have offended the cre
ative imagination of the authors. The ability to make proper
strategic use of the most advanced media was lacking. It was
not the radio headquarters that were seized by the rebels, but
the Odeon Theatre, steeped in tradition.
The obverse of this fear of contact with the media is the fasci
nation they exert on left-wing movements in the great cities. On
the one hand, the comrades take refuge in outdated forms of com
munication and esoteric arts and crafts instead of occupying them
selves with the contradiction between the present constitution of
the media and their revolutionary potential; on the other hand,
they cannot escape from the consciousness industrys program or
from its esthetic. This leads, subjectively, to a split between a pu
ritanical view of political action and the area of private leisure ;
objectively, it leads to a split between politically active groups and
subcultural groups.
In Western Europe the socialist movement mainly addresses it
self to a public of converts through newspapers and journals that
are exclusive in terms of language, content, and form. These news
sheets presuppose a structure of party members and sympathizers
and a situation, where the media are concerned, that roughly cor
responds to the historical situation in 1900; they are obviously
fixated on the Iskra model. Presumably, the people who produce
them listen to the Rolling Stones, watch occupations and strikes
on television, and go to the cinema to see a Western or a Godard
movie; only in their capacity as producers do they make an excep
tion, and, in their analyses, the whole media sector is reduced to

the slogan of manipulation. Every foray into this territory is
regarded from the start with suspicion as a step toward integra
tion. This suspicion is not unjustified; it can, however, also mark
ones own ambivalence and insecurity. Fear of being swallowed
up by the system is a sign of weakness; it presupposes that capi
talism could overcome any contradiction a conviction that can
easily be refuted historically and is theoretically untenable.
If the socialist movement writes off the new productive forces
of the consciousness industry and relegates work on the media to
a subculture, then we have a vicious circle. For the underground
may be increasingly aware of the technical and esthetic possibili
ties of the disc, of videotape, of the electronic camera, and so on,
and systematically exploring the terrain; but it has no political
viewpoint of its own and therefore mostly falls a helpless victim
to commercialism. The politically active groups then point to such
cases with smug maliciousness. A process of unlearning is the re
sult and both sides are the losers. Capitalism alone benefits from
the Lefts antagonism to the media, as it does from the depolitici
zation of the counterculture.
5.
Manipulation etymologically, handling means techni
cal treatment of a given material with a particular goal in mind.
When the technical intervention is of immediate social relevance,
then manipulation is a political act. In the case of the media in
dustry, that is by definition the case.
Thus, every use of the media presupposes manipulation. The
most elementary processes in media production, from the choice
of the medium itself to shooting, cutting, synchronization, dub
bing, right up to distribution, are all operations carried out on the
raw material. There is no such thing as unmanipulated writing,
filming, or broadcasting. The question is therefore not whether the
media are manipulated, but who manipulates them. A revolution
ary plan should not require the manipulators to disappear; on the
contrary, it must make everyone a manipulator.
All technical manipulations are potentially dangerous; the ma
nipulation of the media cannot be countered, however, by old or
new forms of censorship, but only by direct social control, that is
to say, by the mass of the people, who will have become produc
tive. To this end, the elimination of capitalistic property relation

ships is a necessary but by no means sufficient condition. There
have been no historical examples up until now of the mass, self
regulating learning process that is made possible by the electronic
media. The Communists fear of releasing this potential, of the
mobilizing capabilities of the media, of the interaction of free pro
ducers, is one of the main reasons why even in the socialist coun
tries the old bourgeois culture, greatly disguised and distorted but
structurally intact, continues to hold sway.
As a historical explanation, it may be pointed out that the
consciousness industry in Russia at the time of the October
Revolution was extraordinarily backward; their productive
capacity has grown enormously since then, but the produc
tive relationships have been artificially preserved, often by
force. Then, as now, a primitively edited press, books, and
theater were the key media in the Soviet Union. The devel
opment of radio, film, and television is politically arrested.
Foreign stations like the BBC, the Voice of America, and the
Deutsche Welle, therefore, not only find listeners, but are re
ceived with almost boundless faith. Archaic media like the
handwritten pamphlet and poems orally transmitted play an
important role.
6. The new media are egalitarian in structure. Anyone can take

part in them by a simple switching process. The programs them
selves are not material things and can be reproduced at will. In
this sense the electronic media are entirely different from the older
media like the book or easel painting, the exclusive class character
of which is obvious. Television programs for privileged groups are
certainly technically conceivable closed-circuit television but run
counter to the structure. Potentially, the new media do away with
all educational privileges and thereby with the cultural monopoly
of the bourgeois intelligentsia. This is one of the reasons for the
intelligentsias resentment against the new industry. As for the
spirit that they are endeavoring to defend against depersonal
ization and mass culture, the sooner they abandon it the bet
ter.
7. The new media are oriented toward action, not contempla
tion; toward the present, not tradition. Their attitude toward time
is completely opposed to that of bourgeois culture, which aspires

to possession, that is to extension in time, best of all, to eternity.
The media produce no objects that can be hoarded and auctioned.
They do away completely with intellectual property and liqui
date the heritage, that is to say, the class-specific handing-on of
nonmaterial capital.
That does not mean to say that they have no history or that
they contribute to the loss of historical consciousness. On the con
trary, they make it possible for the first time to record historical
material so that it can be reproduced at will. By making this ma
terial available for present-day purposes, they make it obvious to
anyone using it that the writing of history is always manipulation.
But the memory they hold in readiness is not the preserve of a
scholarly caste. It is social. The banked information is accessible
to anyone, and this accessibility is as instantaneous as its record
ing. It suffices to compare the model of a private library with that
of a socialized data bank to recognize the structural difference be
tween the two systems.
8.
It is wrong to regard media equipment as mere means of
consumption. It is always, in principle, also means of production
and, indeed, since it is in the hands of the masses, socialized means
of production. The contradiction between producers and con
sumers is not inherent in the electronic media; on the contrary, it
has to be artificially reinforced by economic and administrative
measures.
An early example of this is provided by the difference be
tween telegraph and telephone. Whereas the former, to this
day, has remained in the hands of a bureaucratic institution
that can scan and file every text transmitted, the telephone is
directly accessible to all users. With the aid of conference cir
cuits, it can even make possible collective intervention in a
discussion by physically remote groups.
On the other hand, those auditory and visual means of
communication that rely on wireless are still subject to state
control (legislation on wireless installations). In the face of
technical developments, which long ago made local and in
ternational radio-telephony possible, and which constantly
opened up new wave bands for television in the U H F band
alone, the dissemination of numerous programs in one local
ity is possible without interference, not to mention the pos

sibilities offered by wired and satellite television the pre
vailing laws for control of the air are anachronistic. They
recall the time when the operation of a printing press was
dependent on an imperial license. The socialist movements
will take up the struggle for their own wavelengths and must,
within the foreseeable future, build their own transmitters and
relay stations.
9.
One immediate consequence of the structural nature of the
new media is that none of the regimes at present in power can
release their potential. Only a free socialist society will be able to
make them fully productive. A further characteristic of the most
advanced media probably the decisive one confirms this thesis:
their collective structure.
For the prospect that in the future, with the aid of the media,
anyone can become a producer, would remain apolitical and lim
ited were this productive effort to find an outlet in individual tink
ering. Work on the media is possible for an individual only insofar
as it remains socially and therefore esthetically irrelevant. The col
lection of transparencies from the last holiday trip provides a model
of this.
That is naturally what the prevailing market mechanisms have
aimed at. It has long been clear from apparatus like miniature and
8-mm. movie cameras, as well as the tape recorder, which are in
actual fact already in the hands of the masses, that the individual,
so long as he remains isolated, can become with their help at best
an amateur but not a producer. Even so potent a means of pro
duction as the shortwave transmitter has been tamed in this way
and reduced to a harmless and inconsequential hobby in the hands
of scattered radio hams. The programs that the isolated amateur
mounts are always only bad, outdated copies of what he in any
case receives.
Private production for the media is no more than licensed
cottage industry. Even when it is made public it remains pure
compromise. To this end, the men who own the media have
developed special programs that are usually called Demo
cratic Forum or something of the kind. There, tucked away
in the corner, the reader (listener, viewer) has his say, which
can naturally be cut short at any time. As in the case of public-opinion polling, he is only asked questions so that he may

have a chance to confirm his own dependence. It is a control
circuit where what is fed in has already made complete al
lowance for the feedback.
The concept of a license can also be used in another sense
in an economic one: the system attempts to make each par
ticipant into a concessionaire of the monopoly that develops
his films or plays back his cassettes. The aim is to nip in the
bud in this way that independence that video equipment, for
instance, makes possible. Naturally, such tendencies go against
the grain of the structure, and the new productive forces not
only permit but indeed demand their reversal.
The poor, feeble, and frequently humiliating results of this li

censed activity are often referred to with contempt by the profes
sional media producers. On top of the damage suffered by the
masses comes triumphant mockery because they clearly do not
know how to use the media properly. The sort of thing that goes
on in certain popular television shows is taken as proof that they
are completely incapable of articulating on their own.
Not only does this run countcr to the results of the latest psy
chological and pedagogical research, but it can easily be seen to
be a reactionary protective formulation; the gifted people are
quite simply defending their territories. Here we have a cultural
analogue to the familiar political judgments concerning a working
class that is presumed to be stultified and incapable of any kind
of self-determination. Curiously, one may hear the view that the
masses could never govern themselves out of the mouths of people
who consider themselves socialists. In the best of cases, these are
economists who cannot conceive of socialism as anything other
than nationalization.
10.
Any socialist strategy for the media must, on the contrary,
strive to end the isolation of the individual participants from the
social learning and production process. This is impossible unless
those concerned organize themselves. This is the political core of
the question of the media. It is over this point that socialist con
cepts part company with the neoliberal and technocratic ones.
Anyone who expects to be emancipated by technological hard
ware, or by a system of hardware however structured, is the vic
tim of an obscure belief in progress. Anyone who imagines that
freedom for the media will be established if only everyone is busy
transmitting and receiving is the dupe of a liberalism that, decked

out in contemporary colors, merely peddles the faded concepts of
a preordained harmony of social interests.
In the face of such illusions, what must be firmly held on to is
that the proper use of the media demands organization and makes
it possible. Every production that deals with the interests of the
producers postulates a collective method of production. It is itself
already a form of self-organization of social needs. Tape re
corders, ordinary cameras, and movie cameras are already exten
sively owned by wage earners. The question is why these means
of production do not turn up at factories, in schools, in the offices
of the bureaucracy, in short, everywhere where there is social con
flict. By producing aggressive forms of publicity that were their
own, the masses could secure evidence of their daily experiences
and draw effective lessons from them.
Naturally, bourgeois society defends itself against such pros
pects with a battery of legal measures. It bases itself on the law of
trespass, on commercial and official secrecy. While its secret ser
vices penetrate everywhere and plug in to the most intimate con
versations, it pleads a touching concern for confidentiality and
makes a sensitive display of worrying about the question of pri
vacy when all that is private is the interest of the exploiters. Only
a collective, organized effort can tear down these paper walls.
Communication networks that are constructed for such pur
poses can, over and above their primary function, provide politi
cally interesting organizational models. In the socialist movements
the dialectic of discipline and spontaneity, centralism and decen
tralization, authoritarian leadership and antiauthoritari an disinte
gration has long ago reached deadlock. Networklike communica
tions models built on the principle of reversibility of circuits might
give indications of how to overcome this situation: a mass news
paper, written and distributed by its readers, a video network of
politically active groups.
More radically than any good intention, more lastingly than ex
istential flight from ones own class, the media, once they have
come into their own, destroy the private production methods of
bourgeois intellectuals. Only in productive work and learning pro
cesses can their individualism be broken down in such a way that
it is transformed from morally based (that is to say, as individual
as ever) self-sacrifice to a new kind of political self-understanding
and behavior.

11.
An all-too-widely-disseminated thesis maintains that
present-day capitalism lives by the exploitation of unreal needs.
That is at best a half-truth. The results obtained by popular
American sociologists such as Vance Packard are not unuseful but
limited. What they have to say about the stimulation of needs
through advertising and artificial obsolescence can in any case not
be adequately explained by the hypnotic pull exerted on the wage
earners by mass consumption. The hypothesis of consumer ter
ror corresponds to the prejudices of a middle class, which consid
ers itself politically enlightened, against the allegedly integrated
proletariat, which has become petty bourgeois and corrupt. The
attractive power of mass consumption is based not on the dictates
of false needs, but on the falsification and exploitation of quite
real and legitimate ones without which the parasitic process of
advertising would be ineffective. A socialist movement ought not
to denounce these needs, but take them seriously, investigate them,
and make them politically productive.
That is also valid for the consciousness industry. The electronic
media do not owe their irresistible power to any sleight-of-hand
but to the elemental power of deep social needs that come through
even in the present depraved form of these media.
Precisely because no one bothers about them, the interests of
the masses have remained a relatively unknown field, at least in
sofar as they are historically new. They certainly extend far be
yond those goals that the traditional working class movement rep
resented. Just as in the field of production, the industry that
produces goods and the consciousness industry merge more and
more, so too, subjectively, where needs are concerned, material
and nonmaterial factors are closely interwoven. In the process old
psychosocial themes are firmly embedded social prestige, identi
fication patterns but powerful new themes emerge that are uto
pian in nature. From a materialistic point of view, neither the one
nor the other must be suppressed.
Henri Lefebvre has proposed the concept of the spectacle the
exhibition, the show to fit the present form of mass consump
tion. Goods and shop windows, traffic and advertisements, stores
and the world of communications, news and packaging, architec
ture and media production come together to form a totality, a
permanent theater, which dominates not only the public city cen

ters but also private interiors. The expression beautiful living
makes the most commonplace objects of general use into props
for this universal festival, in which the fetishistic nature of the
commodities triumphs completely over their use value. The swin
dle these festivals perpetrate is, and remains, a swindle within the
present social structure. But it is the harbinger of something else.
Consumption as spectacle contains the promise that want will dis
appear. The deceptive, brutal, and obscene features of this festival
derive from the fact that there can be no question of a real fulfill
ment of its promise. But so long as scarcity holds sway, use value
remains a decisive category that can only be abolished by trickery.
Yet trickery on such a scale is only conceivable if it is based on
mass need. This need it is a utopian one is there. It is the desire
for a new ecology, for a breaking down of environmental barriers,
for an esthetic not limited to the sphere of the artistic. These
desires are not or are not primarily internalized rules of the
game as played by the capitalist system. They have physiological
roots and can no longer be suppressed. Consumption as spectacle
is in parody form the anticipation of a utopian situation.
The promises of the media demonstrate the same ambivalence.
They are an answer to the mass need for nonmaterial variety and
mobility which at present finds its material realization in privatecar ownership and tourism and they exploit it. Other collective
wishes, which capitalism often recognizes more quickly and eval
uates more correctly than its opponents, but naturally only so as
to trap them and rob them of their explosive force, are just as
powerful, just as unequivocally emancipatory: the need to take
part in the social process on a local, national, and international
scale; the need for new forms of interaction, for release from ig
norance and tutelage; the need for self-determination. Be every
where! is one of the most successful slogans of the media indus
try. The readers parliament of Bild-Zeitung * was direct democracy
used against the interests of the demos. Open spaces and free
time are concepts that corral and neutralize the urgent wishes of
the masses.
There is corresponding acceptance by the media of utopian
stories: e.g., the story of the young Italo-American who hi*The Springer Verlag tabloid.

jacked a passenger plane to get home from California to Rome
was taken up without protest even by the reactionary mass
press and undoubtedly correctly understood by its readers.
The identification is based on what has become a general need.
Nobody can understand why such journeys should be re
served for politicians, functionaries, and businessmen. The role
of the pop star could be analyzed from a similar angle; in it
the authoritarian and emancipatory factors are mingled in an
extraordinary way. It is perhaps not unimportant that beat
music offers groups, not individuals, as identification models.
In the productions of the Rolling Stones (and in the manner
of their production) the utopian content is apparent. Events
like the Woodstock Festival, the concerts in Hyde Park, on
the Isle of Wight, and at Altamont, California, develop a mo
bilizing power that the political Left can only envy.
It is absolutely clear that, within the present social forms, the

consciousness industry can satisfy none of the needs on which it
lives and which it must fan, except in the illusory form of games.
The point, however, is not to demolish its promises but to take
them literally and to show that they can be met only through a
cultural revolution. Socialists and socialist regimes which multiply
the frustration of the masses by declaring their needs to be false,
become the accomplices of the system they have undertaken to
fight.
12. Summary.
Repressive use o f media
Emancipatory use o f media
Centrally controlled program

One transmitter, many receivers
Decentralized program
Each receiver a potential
transmitter
Mobilization of the masses
Immobilization of isolated
individuals
Passive consumer behavior
Depoliticization
Production by specialists
Control by property owners or
bureaucracy
Interaction of those involved,

feedback
A political learning process
Collective production
Social control by self-organization
13. As far as the objectively subversive potentialities of the

electronic media are concerned, both sides in the international class

struggle except for the fatalistic adherents of the thesis of manip
ulation in the metropoles are of one mind. Frantz Fanon was the
first to draw attention to the fact that the transistor receiver was
one of the most important weapons in the Third W orlds fight for
freedom. Albert Hertzog, ex-Minister of the South African Repub
lic and the mouthpiece of the right wing of the ruling party, is of
the opinion that television will lead to the ruin of the white man
in South Africa. 2 American imperialism has recognized the situ
ation. It attempts to meet the revolution of rising expectations
in Latin America that is what its ideologues call it by scattering
its own transmitters all over the continent and into the remotest
regions of the Amazon basin, and by distributing single-frequency
transistors to the native population. The attacks of the Nixon ad
ministration on the capitalist media in the United States reveal its
understanding that their reporting, however one-sided and dis
torted, had become a decisive factor in mobilizing people against
the war in Vietnam. Whereas only twenty-five years ago the French
massacres in Madagascar, with almost one hundred thousand dead,
became known only to the readers of Le Monde under the heading
of Other News and therefore remained unnoticed and without
follow-up in the capital city, today the media drag colonial wars
into the centers of imperialism.
The direct mobilizing potentialities of the media become still
clearer when they are consciously used for subversive ends. Their
presence is a factor that immensely increases the demonstrative
nature of any political act. The student movements in the United
States, in Japan, and in Western Europe soon recognized this and,
to begin with, achieved considerable momentary success with the
aid of the media. These effects have worn off. Naive trust in the
magical power of reproduction cannot replace organizational work;
only active and coherent groups can force the media to comply
with the logic of their actions. That can be demonstrated from the
example of the Tupamaros in Uruguay, whose revolutionary prac
tice has implicit in it publicity for their actions. Thus the actors
become authors. The abduction of the American ambassador in
Rio de Janeiro was planned with a view to its impact on the me
dia. It was a television production. The Arab guerrillas proceed in
the same way. The first to experiment with these techniques inter
nationally were the Cubans. Fidel appreciated the revolutionary

potential of the media correctly from the first (Moncada, 1953).
Today, illegal political action demands at one and the same time
maximum secrecy and maximum publicity.
14.
Revolutionary situations always bring with them discon
tinuous, spontaneous changes brought about by the masses in the
existing aggregate of the media. How far the changes thus brought
about take root and how permanent they are demonstrates the
extent to which a cultural revolution is successful. The situation
in the media is the most accurate and sensitive barometer for the
rise of bureaucratic or Bonapartist anticyclones. So long as the
cultural revolution has the initiative, the social imagination of the
masses overcomes even technical backwardness and transforms the
function of the old media so that their structures are exploded.
W ith our work the Revolution has achieved a colossal labor
of propaganda and enlightenment. We ripped up the tradi
tional book into single pages, magnified these a hundred times,
printed them in color and stuck them up as posters in the
streets. . . . Our lack of printing equipment and the necessity
for speed meant that, though the best work was hand-printed,
the most rewarding was standardized, lapidary and adapted
to the simplest mechanical form of reproduction. Thus State
Decrees were printed as rolled-up illustrated leaflets, and Army
Orders as illustrated pamphlets.3
In the twenties, the Russian film reached a standard that was

far in advance of the available productive forces. Pudovkins Kinoglas and Dziga Vertovs Kinopravda were no newsreels but
political television-magazine programs avant Iecran. The cam
paign against illiteracy in Cuba broke through the linear, exclu
sive, and isolating structure of the medium of the book. In the
China of the Cultural Revolution, wall newspapers functioned like
an electronic mass medium at least in the big towns. The resis
tance of the Czechoslovak population to the Soviet invasion gave
rise to spontaneous productivity on the part of the masses, who
ignored the institutional barriers of the media. (To be developed
in detail.) Such situations are exceptional. It is precisely their uto
pian nature, which reaches out beyond the existing productive
forces (it follows that the productive relationships are not to be

permanently overthrown), that makes them precarious, leads to
reversals and defeats. They demonstrate all the more clearly what
enormous political and cultural energies are hidden in the en
chained masses and with what imagination they are able, at the
moment of liberation, to realize all the opportunities offered by
the new media.
15.
That the Marxist Left should argue theoretically and act
practically from the standpoint of the most advanced productive
forces in their society, that they should develop in depth all the
liberating factors immanent in these forces and use them strategi
cally, is no academic expectation but a political necessity. How
ever, with a single great exception, that of Walter Benjamin (and
in his footsteps, Brecht), Marxists have not understood the con
sciousness industry and have been aware only of its bourgeoiscapitalist dark side and not of its socialist possibilities. An author
such as Georg Lukacs is a perfect example of this theoretical and
practical backwardness. Nor are the works of Horkheimer and
Adorno free of a nostalgia that clings to early bourgeois media.
Their view of the cultural industry cannot be discussed here.
Much more typical of Marxism between the two wars is the
position of Lukacs, which can be seen very clearly from an
early essay on Old Culture and New Culture. 4 Anything
that culture produces can, according to Lukacs, have real
cultural value only i f it is in itself valuable, if the creation of
each individual product is from the standpoint of its maker a
single, finite process. It must, moreover, be a process condi
tioned by the human potentialities and capabilities of the cre
ator. The most typical example of such a process is the work
of art, where the entire genesis of the work is exclusively the
result of the artists labor and each detail of the work that
emerges is determined by the individual qualities of the artist.
In highly developed mechanical industry, on the other hand,
any connection between the product and the creator is abol
ished. The human being serves the machine, he adapts to it.
Production becomes completely independent of the human
potentialities and capabilities of the worker. These forces
which destroy culture impair the works truth to the ma
terial, its level, and deal the final blow to the work as
an end in itself. There is no more question of the organic
unity of the products of culture, its harmonious, joy-giving
being. Capitalist culture must lack the simple and natural

harmony and beauty of the old culture culture in the true,
literal sense of the word. Fortunately things need not remain
so. The culture of proletarian society, although in the
context of such scientific research as is possible at this time
nothing more can be said about it, will certainly remedy these
ills. Lukacs asks himself which are the cultural values which,
in accordance with the nature of this context, can be taken
over from the old society by the new and further developed.
Answer: Not the inhuman machines but the idea of man
kind as an end in itself, the basic idea of the new culture,
for it is "the inheritance of the classical idealism of the nine
teenth century. Quite right. This is where the philistine
concept of art turns up with all its deadly obtuseness an
idea to which all technical considerations are foreign and
which feels that with the provocative appearance of the new
technology its end has come. 5
These nostalgic backward glances at the landscape of the
last century, these reactionary ideals, are already the forerun
ners of socialist realism, which mercilessly galvanized and then
buried those very cultural values that Lukacs rode out to
rescue. Unfortunately, in the process, the Soviet cultural rev
olution was thrown to the wolves; but this esthete can in any
case hardly have thought any more highly of it than did J. V.
Stalin.
The inadequate understanding Marxists have shown of the me

dia and the questionable use they have made of them has pro
duced a vacuum in Western industrialized countries into which a
stream of non-Marxist hypotheses and practices has consequently
flowed. From the Cabaret Voltaire of the Dadaists to Andy War
hols Factory, from the silent film comedians to the Beatles, from
the first comic-strip artists to the present managers of the under
ground, the apolitical have made much more radical progress in
dealing with the media than any grouping of the Left (exception:
Miinzenberg). Innocents have put themselves in the forefront of
the new productive forces on the basis of mere intuitions with
which communism to its detriment has not wished to concern
itself. Today this apolitical avant-garde has found its ventriloquist
and prophet in Marshall McLuhan, an author who admittedly lacks
any analytical categories for the understanding of social processes,
but whose confused books serve as a quarry of undigested obser
vations for the media industry. Certainly his little finger has ex
perienced more of the productive power of the new media than all

the ideological commissions of the CPSU and their endless reso
lutions and directives put together.
Incapable of any theoretical construction, McLuhan does not
present his material as a concept but as the common denominator
of a reactionary doctrine of salvation. He admittedly did not in
vent but was the first to formulate explicitly a mystique of the
media that dissolves all political problems in smoke the same
smoke that gets in the eyes of his followers. It promises the sal
vation of man through the technology of television and indeed of
television as it is practiced today. Now McLuhans attempt to stand
Marx on his head is not exactly new. He shares with his numerous
predecessors the determination to suppress all problems of the
economic base, their idealistic tendencies, and their belittling of the
class struggle in the naive terms of a vague humanism. A new
Rousseau like all copies, only a pale version of the old he
preaches the gospel of the new primitive man who, naturally on a
higher level, must return to prehistoric tribal existence in the
global village.
It is scarcely worthwhile to deal with such concepts. This char
latans most famous saying the medium is the message per
haps deserves more attention. In spite of its provocative idiocy, it
betrays more than its author knows. It reveals in the most accu
rate way the tautological nature of the mystique of the media. The
one remarkable thing about the television set, according to him, is
that it moves a thesis that in view of the nature of American
programs has, admittedly, something attractive about it.
The complementary mistake consists in the widespread illu
sion that media are neutral instruments by which any mes
sages one pleases can be transmitted without regard for their
structure or for the structure of the medium. In the East Eu
ropean countries the television newsreaders read fifteenminute-long conference communiques and Central Commit
tee resolutions that are not even suitable for printing in a
newspaper, clearly under the delusion that they might fasci
nate a public of millions.
The sentence the medium is the message transmits yet an

other message, however, and a much more important one. It tells
us that the bourgeoisie does indeed have all possible means at its

disposal to communicate something to us, but that it has nothing
more to say. It is ideologically sterile. Its intention to hold on to
the control of the means of production at any price, while being
incapable of making the socially necessary use of them, is here
expressed with complete frankness in the superstructure. It wants
the media as such and to no purpose.
This wish has been shared for decades and given symbolic
expression by an artistic avant-garde whose program logically ad
mits only the alternative of negative signals and amorphous noise.
Example: the already outdated literature of silence, Warhols
films in which everything can happen at once or nothing at all,
and John Cages forty-five-minute-long Lecture on Nothing (1959).
16.
The revolution in the conditions of production in the
superstructure has made the traditional esthetic theory unusable,
completely unhinging its fundamental categories and destroying its
standards. The theory of knowledge on which it was based is
outmoded. In the electronic media, a radically altered relationship
between subject and object emerges with which the old critical
concepts cannot deal. The idea of the self-sufficient work of art
collapsed long ago. The long-drawn discussion over the death of
art proceeds in a circle so long as it does not examine critically
the esthetic concept on which it is based, so long as it employs
criteria that no longer correspond to the state of the productive
forces. When constructing an esthetic adapted to the changed sit
uation, one must take as a starting point the work of the only
Marxist theoretician who recognized the liberating potential of the
new media. Thirty-five years ago, that is to say, at a time when
the consciousness industry was relatively undeveloped, Walter
Benjamin subjected this phenomenon to a penetrating dialecticalmaterialist analysis. His approach has not been matched by any
theory since then, much less further developed.
One might generalize by saying: the technique of reproduc
tion detaches the reproduced object from the domain of tra
dition. By making many reproductions it substitutes a plural
ity of copies for a unique existence and in permitting the
reproduction to meet the beholder or listener in his own par
ticular situation, it reactivates the object reproduced. These
two processes lead to a tremendous shattering of tradition

which is the obverse of the contemporary crisis and renewal
of mankind. Both processes are intimately connected with the
contemporary mass movements. Their most powerful agent
is the film. Its social significance, particularly in its most pos
itive form, is inconceivable without its destructive, cathartic
aspect, that is, the liquidation of the traditional value of the
cultural heritage.
For the first time in world history, mechanical reproduc
tion emancipates the work of art from its parasitical depen
dence on ritual. To an ever greater degree the work of art
reproduced becomes the work of art designed for reproduci
bility. . . . But the instant the criterion of authenticity ceases
to be applicable to artistic production, the total function of
art is reversed. Instead of being based on ritual, it begins to
be based on another practice politics. . . . Today, by the
absolute emphasis on its exhibition value, the work of art
becomes a creation with entirely new functions, among which
the one we are conscious of, the artistic function, later may
be recognized as incidental.6
The trends that Benjamin recognized in his day in the film, and
the true import of which he grasped theoretically, have become
patent today with the rapid development of the consciousness in
dustry. What used to be called art has now, in the strict Hegelian
sense, been dialectically surpassed by and in the media. The quar
rel about the end of art is otiose so long as this end is not under
stood dialectically. Artistic productivity reveals itself to be the ex
treme marginal case of a much more widespread productivity, and
it is socially important only insofar as it surrenders all pretensions
to autonomy and recognizes itself to be a marginal case. Wherever
the professional producers make a virtue out of the necessity of
their specialist skills and even derive a privileged status from them,
their experience and knowledge have become useless. This means
that as far as an esthetic theory is concerned, a radical change in
perspectives is needed. Instead of looking at the productions of
the new media from the point of view of the older modes of pro
duction we must, on the contrary, analyze the products of the
traditional artistic media from the standpoint of modern con
ditions of production.
Earlier much futile thought had been devoted to the question
of whether photography is an art. The primary question

whether the very invention of photography had not trans
formed the entire nature of art was not raised. Soon the film
theoreticians asked the same ill-considered question with re
gard to the film. But the difficulties which photography caused
traditional esthetics were mere childs play as compared to
those raised by the film.7
The panic aroused by such a shift in perspectives is understand

able. The process not only changes the old, carefully guarded craft
secrets in the superstructure into white elephants, it also conceals
a genuinely destructive element. It is, in a word, risky. But the
only chance for the esthetic tradition lies in its dialectical super
session. In the same way, classical physics has survived as a mar
ginal special case within the framework of a much more compre
hensive theory.
This state of affairs can be identified in individual cases in all
the traditional artistic disciplines. Their present-day developments
remain incomprehensible so long as one attempts to deduce them
from their own prehistory. On the other hand, their usefulness or
uselessness can be judged as soon as one regards them as special
cases in a general esthetic of the media. Some indications of the
possible critical approaches that stem from this will be made be
low, taking literature as an example.
17.
Written literature has, historically speaking, played a dom
inant role for only a few centuries. Even today, the predominance
of the book has an episodic air. An incomparably longer time pre
ceded it in which literature was oral. Now it is being succeeded
by the age of the electronic media, which tend once more to make
people speak. At its period of fullest development, the book to
some extent usurped the place of the more primitive but generally
more accessible methods of production of the past; on the other
hand, it was a stand-in for future methods that make it possible
for everyone to become a producer.
The revolutionary role of the printed book has been described
often enough and it would be absurd to deny it. From the point
of view of its structure as a medium, written literature, like the
bourgeoisie who produced it and whom it served, was progressive
(see the Communist Manifesto). On the analogy of the economic
development of capitalism, which was indispensable for the devel

opment of the industrial revolution, the nonmaterial productive
forces could not have developed without their own capital accu
mulation. (We also owe the accumulation of Das Kapital and its
teachings to the medium of the book.)
Nevertheless, almost everybody speaks better than he writes.
(This also applies to authors.) Writing is a highly formalized tech
nique that, in purely physiological terms, demands a peculiarly
rigid bodily posture. To this there corresponds the high degree of
social specialization that it demands. Professional writers have al
ways tended to think in caste terms. The class character of their
work is unquestionable, even in the age of universal compulsory
education. The whole process is extraordinarily beset with taboos.
Spelling mistakes, which are completely immaterial in terms of
communication, are punished by the social disqualification of the
writer. The rules that govern this technique have a normative power
attributed to them for which there is no rational basis. Intimida
tion through the written word has remained a widespread and
class-specific phenomenon even in advanced industrial societies.
These alienating factors cannot be eradicated from written lit
erature. They are reinforced by the methods by which society
transmits its writing techniques. While people learn to speak very
early, and mostly in psychologically favorable conditions, learning
to write forms an important part of authoritarian socialization by
the school (good writing as a kind of breaking-in). This sets its
stamp forever on written communication on its tone, its syntax,
and its whole style. (This also applies to the text on this page.)
The formalization of written language permits and encourages
the repression of opposition. In speech, unresolved contradictions
betray themselves by pauses, hesitations, slips of the tongue, rep
etitions, anacoluthons, quite apart from phrasing, mimicry, gestic
ulation, pace, and volume. The esthetic of written literature scorns
such involuntary factors as mistakes. It demands, explicitly or
implicitly, the smoothing out of contradictions, rationalization,
regularization of the spoken form irrespective of content. Even as
a child, the writer is urged to hide his unsolved problems behind
a protective screen of correctness.
Structurally, the printed book is a medium that operates as a
monologue, isolating producer and reader. Feedback and interac
tion are extremely limited, demand elaborate procedures, and only

in the rarest cases lead to corrections. Once an edition has been
printed it cannot be corrected; at best it can be pulped. The con
trol circuit in the case of literary criticism is extremely cumber
some and elitist. It excludes the public on principle.
None of the characteristics that distinguish written and printed
literature apply to the electronic media. Microphone and camera
abolish the class character of the mode of production (not of the
production itself). The normative rules become unimportant. Oral
interviews, arguments, demonstrations, neither demand nor allow
orthography or good writing. The television screen exposes the
esthetic smoothing-out of contradictions as camouflage. Admit
tedly, swarms of liars appear on it; but anyone can see from a
long way off that they are peddling something. As at present con
stituted, radio, film, and television are burdened to excess with
authoritarian characteristics, the characteristics of the monologue,
which they have inherited from older methods of production and
that is no accident. These outworn elements in todays media es
thetics are demanded by the social relations. They do not follow
from the structure of the media. On the contrary, they go against
it, for the structure demands interaction.
It is extremely improbable, however, that writing as a special
technique will disappear in the foreseeable future. That goes for
the book as well, the practical advantages of which for many pur
poses remain obvious. It is admittedly less handy and takes up
more room than other storage systems, but up to now it offers
simpler methods of access than, for example, the microfilm or the
tape bank. It ought to be integrated into the system as a marginal
case and thereby forfeit its aura of cult and ritual.
This can be deduced from technological developments. Elec
tronics are noticeably taking over writing: teleprinters, read
ing machines, high-speed transmissions, automatic photo
graphic and electronic composition, automatic writing devices,
typesetters, electrostatic processes, ampex libraries, cassette
encyclopedias, photocopiers and magnetic copiers, speedprinters.
The outstanding Russian media expert El Lissitsky, inci
dentally, demanded an electro-library as far back as 1923
a request that, given the technical conditions of the time, must
have seemed ridiculous or at least incomprehensible. This is
how far this mans imagination reached into the future:

I draw the following analogy:
Inventions in the Field

o f Verbal Traffic
Articulated language
Writing
Gutenbergsprinting press
?
?
Inventions in the Field

o f General Traffic
Upright gait
The wheel
Carts drawn by animal
power
The automobile
The airplane
1 have produced this analogy to prove that so long as the

book remains a palpable object, i.e. so long as it is not re
placed by auto-vocalizing and kino-vocalizing representa
tions, we must look to the field of the manufacture of books
for basic innovations in the near future.
There are signs at hand suggesting that this basic inno
vation is likely to come from the neighborhood of the collo
type. 8
Today, writing has in many cases already become a sec
ondary technique, a means of transcribing orally recorded
speech: tape-recorded proceedings, attempts at speech-pattern recognition, and the conversion of speech into writing.
18.
The ineffectiveness of literary criticism when faced with
so-called documentary literature is an indication of how far the
critics thinking has lagged behind the stage of the productive
forces. It stems from the fact that the media have eliminated one
of the most fundamental categories of esthetics up to now fic
tion. The fiction/nonfiction argument has been laid to rest just as
was the nineteenth centurys favorite dialectic of art and life.
In his day, Benjamin demonstrated that the apparatus* (the con
cept of the medium was not yet available to him) abolishes au
thenticity. In the productions of the consciousness industry, the
difference between the genuine original and the reproduction
disappears that aspect of reality which is not dependent on the
apparatus has now become its most artificial aspect. The process
of reproduction reacts on the object reproduced and alters it fun
damentally. The effects of this have not yet been adequately ex
plained epistemologically. The categorical uncertainties to which
it gives rise also affect the concept of the documentary. Strictly
speaking, it has shrunk to its legal dimensions. A document is

something the forging i.e., the reproduction of which is pun
ishable by imprisonment. This definition naturally has no theoret
ical meaning. The reason is that a reproduction, to the extent that
its technical quality is good enough, cannot be distinguished in
any way from the original, irrespective of whether it is a painting,
a passport, or a bank note. The legal concept of the documentary
record is only pragmatically useful; it serves only to protect eco
nomic interests.
The productions of the electronic media, by their nature, evade
such distinctions as those between documentary and feature films.
They are in every case explicitly determined by the given situation.
The producer can never pretend, like the traditional novelist, to
stand above things. He is therefore partisan from the start. This
fact finds formal expression in his techniques. Cutting, editing,
dubbing these are techniques for conscious manipulation with
out which the use of the new media is inconceivable. It is precisely
in these work processes that their productive power reveals it
self and here it is completely immaterial whether one is dealing
with the production of a reportage or a play. The material, whether
documentary or fiction, is in each case only a prototype, a
half-finished article, and the more closely one examines its origins,
the more blurred the difference becomes. (Develop more precisely.
The reality in which a camera turns up is always posed, e.g.,
the moon landing.)
19.
The media also do away with the old category of works
of art that can only be considered as separate objects, not as in
dependent of their material infrastructure. The media do not pro
duce such objects. They create programs. Their production is in
the nature of a process. That does not mean only (or not primar
ily) that there is no foreseeable end to the program a fact that,
in view of what we are now presented with, admittedly makes a
certain hostility to the media understandable. It means, above all,
that the media program is open to its own consequences without
structural limitations. (This is not an empirical description but a
demand, a demand that admittedly is not made of the medium
from without; it is a consequence of its nature, from which the
much-vaunted open form can be derived and not as a modifica

tion of it from an old esthetic.) The programs of the conscious
ness industry must subsume into themselves their own results, the
reactions and the corrections that they call forth, otherwise they
are already out-of-date. They are therefore to be thought of not
as means of consumption but as means of their own production.
20.
It is characteristic of artistic avant-gardes that they have,
so to speak, a presentiment of the potentiality of media that still
lie in the future.
It has always been one of the most important tasks of art to
give rise to a demand, the time for the complete satisfaction
of which has not yet come. The history of every art form has
critical periods when that form strives towards effects which
can only be easily achieved if the technical norm is changed,
that is to say, in a new art form. The artistic extravagances
and crudities which arise in this way, for instance in the socalled decadent period, really stem from arts richest histori
cal source of power. Dadaism in the end teemed with such
barbarisms. We can only now recognize the nature of its
striving. Dadaism was attempting to achieve those effects
which the public today seeks in film with the means of paint
ing (or of literature).9
This is where the prognostic value of otherwise inessential pro

ductions, such as happenings, flux, and mixed-media shows, is to
be found. There are writers who in their work show an awareness
of the fact that media with the characteristics of the monologue
today have only a residual use value. Many of them admittedly
draw fairly shortsighted conclusions from this glimpse of the truth.
For example, they offer the user the opportunity to arrange the
material provided by arbitrary permutations. Every reader, as it
were, should write his own book. When carried to extremes, such
attempts to produce interaction, even when it goes against the
structure of the medium employed, are nothing more than invita
tions to freewheel. Mere noise permits of no articulated interac
tions. Short cuts, of the kind that Concept Art peddles, are based
on the banal and false conclusion that the development of the pro
ductive forces renders all work superfluous. With the same justifi
cation, one could leave a computer to its own devices on the as

sumption that a random generator will organize material
production by itself. Fortunately, cybernetics experts are not given
to such childish games.
21. For the old-fashioned artist let us call him the au
thor it follows from these reflections that he must see it as his
goal to make himself redundant as a specialist in much the same
way as a teacher of literacy only fulfills his task when he is no
longer necessary. Like every learning process, this process, too, is
reciprocal. The specialist will learn as much or more from the
nonspecialists as the other way round. Only then can he contrive
to make himself dispensable.
Meanwhile, his social usefulness can best be measured by the
degree to which he is capable of using the liberating factors in the
media and bringing them to fruition. The tactical contradictions
in which he must become involved in the process can neither be
denied nor covered up in any way. But strategically his role is
clear. The author has to work as the agent of the masses. He can
lose himself in them only when they themselves become authors,
the authors of history.
22. Pessimism of the intelligence, optimism of the will (An
tonio Gramsci).
Part Two
POLITICS
AND
HISTORY
1
Toward a Theory
of Treason
Our laws are not widely known. They are the secret of the
small group of nobles that rules us. . . . It is a tradition that
the laws exist and are entrusted to the nobility as a secret,
but it is no more and cannot be more than an ancient tradi
tion which has become credible through its very age, for the
character of these laws also requires that their content be kept
secret.
Franz Kafka,
On the Question o f the L aw
1. Traitors those are the others. No one wants to be consid

ered a traitor. No matter who their legislator is, no matter under
what social arrangements they live, most everyone is firmly con
vinced that he does not deserve that label but just as firmly con
vinced, however, that there are traitors and that they should be
punished as harshly as possible, preferably by the death penalty,
but in any case with the strongest penalty the law knows.
2. Everyone as traitor. These convictions are puzzling to the
point of stupefaction. They evidently stand in stark contrast to the
historical experiences everyone could, and can still, have during
his lifetime. If, for the time being, one places in abeyance the ques
tion of what actually constitutes treason scarcely one of those
who believe in it can give a definition that is, if one orients one79

self for the present by the legal systems that have been in effect
for the past thirty years, at least on the European continent, then
there is no doubt whatever that almost every inhabitant of this
continent has been at some point in his life a traitor in the eyes of
the state. However, not all these treasonable acts were discovered,
prosecuted, and punished; that would only have been possible at
the price of the depopulation of our part of the earth.
3. Inevitability of treason. It seems superfluous to offer proof
of a fact that is so well known. However, to establish the fact that
everyone can become a traitor is insufficient. To argue the point
decisively it must be shown that under certain historical condi
tions everyone must become a traitor. For example, the entire
populations of Norway, Holland, France, Greece, and Yugoslavia
consisted of traitors (always in the technical-legal sense of the word)
during the German occupation of these countries. No matter which
government each individual considered to be his, there existed al
ways another in whose eyes he was committing treason. Similar
mirrorlike compulsory situations come about in all partitioned
countries, such as, for example, Germany since 1948.
4. Dialectic of treason. Each radical change in sovereignty turns
millions of people into traitors vis-a-vis the valid laws, and this
event is as simple as the flip of a coin. Those who werent, previ
ously, become potential traitors now, and vice versa. The only
thing that can protect one from this reversal is the immediate re
linquishment of the previously maintained position and lightningquick adaptation to the new principles that now obtain. Whoever
doesnt want to be considered a traitor has to betray without de
lay what he was previously attached to.
On March 8, 1943, the seventy-five-year-old pensioner Wilhelm
Lehmann was condemned to death in Berlin for instigating high
treason because he had written on the wall of a public toilet: Hit
ler, you mass murderer, must be murdered. 1 Ten years later it
would have approximated a treasonable act to express the oppo
site view. A reversal in the other direction has taken place in Spain.
Margaret Boveri reports that the word loyalist described the re
publicans between 1936 and 1945, whereas today, in the United
States, it is generally used to designate the followers of Franco.2
Toward a Theory of Treason 81

The concept of treason of course undergoes a corresponding re
versal. One can produce any number of analogous examples. The
different phases of the Algerian conflict made every Frenchman
between 1954 and 1962 into a traitor at one point or another.
The same holds true for the inhabitants of all African and Asian
countries who liberated themselves by force from colonialism, not
to speak of the history of the Soviet Union under Stalinism.
5. Antiquatedness. Under these circumstances it is a wonder that
treason has been able to maintain itself at all as a consistent con
cept in legal practice. What it means scarcely anyone knows, least
of all those who defend themselves most vehemently against it or
most eagerly call for its persecution. Even professional jurists arent
capable of rational clarification of the matter. They confine them
selves to a purely formal interpretation of whatever legal text hap
pens to fit. In striking contrast to this general puzzlement stands
the consistent outrage over the traitor and the general agreement
to use the sharpest sanctions against him. The conception of trea
son is so firm that no historical experience can shake it and so
irrational that it seems above and beyond every scrutiny, every
doubt, both of which point to its old age, its antiquity. In fact, the
oldest European code of law, the Roman twelve-table law, already
names a crime of treason (perduellio), and the oldest permanent
court of law of Roman history was a special court that only acted
in cases of treason (the duumvire perduellionis).
6. Treason as Laesa Maiestas. The archaic kernel of the crime
is obscured in the twelve-table law, as under all republican, not to
speak of democratic, constitutions. In Roman law it steps out of
its obscurity again at the time of the emperors. Treason from now
on is called crimen maiestatis or laesa maiestas, a term that has
survived through the history of European law. The English Trea
son Act of 1351, which is still valid today, designates as high trea
son to compass or imagine the death of the king, the queen, or
their eldest son and heir. The law books of all European mon
archies begin with similar definitions; for example, paragraphs
eighty and eighty-one of the first German penal code, which in
vokes the death penalty for murder or attempted murder of the
emperor or head of the country. The laesa maiestas lives on in

nineteenth-century laws in the form of prohibiting insult to majes
ties. In contemporary republican legislation the murder of the head
of state has apparently been edged to the periphery of the concept
of treason; but not a single law book is without it. It is not pos
sible to omit it, because it points to the secret, basic thought be
hind treason. The German word verraten, to betray, etvmologically has the root meaning to reach a decision to undo someone.
This someone is no other than the one who holds power.
7.
The ruler taboo and its double meaning. The archaic and
irrational kernel of treason is a magic prohibition whose source
has to be sought beyond all written laws in the ruler taboo. The
violation of this taboo finds very clear expression in the Roman
word for treason: laesa.3
Taboo is, as we know, a prohibition against touching. The per
son to whom it is attached may not be touched and is therefore
protected against all aggression. The actual accomplishment of the
taboo, however, lies in its double meaning. The ruler taboo not
only protects the ruler from the ruled, but also the ruled from the
ruler. He must not only be guarded, he must also be guarded
against. 4 This twin purpose is achieved by means of a highly
complicated system of rules. What is admirable in these limita
tions is their complete symmetry and mutuality.
This taboo constitutes the prerequisite of the possibility of rul
ing per se, which is proved by the extreme sanctions that go with
it. They alone guarantee the security of the ruler, as well as of his
subjects, and neutralize the deadly threat in their fear of each other.
The rulers mana, a magic charge that is the raison detre for
the taboo and supposedly makes touching dangerous, is to be re
garded as the actual substance of his power. This mana, like an
electric potential, allows of gradations and therefore of interme
diaries between the ruler and the ruled. Thus a subchief or lesser
adviser with lesser mana can touch the ruler without danger to
himself and can himself afford to be touched by underlings. This
conception allows the creation of hierarchies. One characteristic
of a taboo is its transferability: it is, so to speak, infectious. What
the ruler has touched becomes itself taboo. What counts is the
principle of contiguity, something that, in any case, is a primary
trait of magical thought. Freud has pointed out its close resem
blance to association. This has remained the determining principle

of treason to this day. We encounter it in the principle of guilt by
association and invariably in the laws that deal with treason.
8. Treason as sacrilege. The relationship between the ruler and
his subjects changes with the birth of the high religions. There
exists a particular relationship between gods and kings of which
the ruled do not partake. Mana is replaced by consecration; might
becomes sacred; violating it verges on sacrilege. In Roman impe
rial law treason and sacrilege were already two aspects of one and
the same phenomenon; they are called laesa maiestas and laesa
maiestas divina. The automatic sanction accompanying the taboo,
which revenges its violation, is replaced by persecution through
the worldly organs. The identification of sovereignty with divinity,
which goes far and beyond the by Gods grace of absolutism,
leads to the point where treason and blasphemy become one and
the same thing: in classic Roman law the profession of faith in
Christianity was regarded as crimen maiestatis, that is, as treason.
In other words, the wrong opinion is enough to violate the rul
ing majesty. The importance of this development is self-evident.
Simultaneously, the religious consecration of power endangers the
greatest achievement of the ruler taboo, which lies in its double
meaning. A remnant of it is retained in the concept of loyalty, still
deemed to be a reciprocal relationship. Institutionally, it finds
expression in the oath that only makes sense as long as it is kept
by both parties. The double sense of the taboo is maintained un
der conditions as they obtained for a long time in the feudal sys
tem: the feudal lord was just as capable of treason as his vassal,
and if he broke the oath he was, in principle, threatened with the
same sanctions as his vassal. However, the more the sacredness of
a sacred rule is consolidated, the less reciprocity appears neces
sary. Its erosion becomes progressively greater, a process that can
be observed down to the smallest detail in the laws. The subjects
of treason now are the people, its object the ruler. A reversal of
this relationship has become almost legally unthinkable; it can only
be theoretically imagined. The archaic taboo that imbues treason
has turned into a pure implement of sovereign rule.
9. Uncertainty and infection. A government only needs to leave
uncertain what treason is and it becomes despotic. 5 If one takes
this Montesquieu observation at its word, one will scarcely find a

government devoid of despotic traits. The concept of treason con
tained the tendency toward rank proliferation from its very begin
ning, that is, in its very taboo character that constituted the effec
tiveness of the prohibition. Simultaneously, it allows the arbitrary
spread of the indicated crime through transference and infection.
Its indeterminacy is not accidental. Rather, it represents the trea
son taboos usefulness in the hands of rulers. Roman law already
contains its core the prohibition against killing the ruler which
is overgrown to such an extent by secondary and tertiary consid
erations that it has become nearly invisible. At the time of Justi
nian treason not only included all acts against the honor and se
curity of the Roman people, but also desertion, criticism of the
succession, the occupation of public places, the freeing of pris
oners, the falsification of public documents, and the acceptance of
illegal oaths. Intention was sufficient for a guilty verdict; traitors
were beheaded. The oilspotlike spreading of the definition of trea
son finally led jurists to codify what did not constitute treason.
Someone was not a traitor who restored an emperors weather
beaten statue, who melted down an unconsecrated metal statue,
who unintentionally tossed a stone at such a statue.
Holding reasonable convictions was an even graver crime. It
spread over all of Europe and led to monstrous results in the late
Middle Ages and in the Renaissance. Henry VIII of England, for
example, had two daughters who had claims to the throne. Eng
lishmen became guilty of high treason, according to the law of
1534, by doubting Marys claim or considering Elizabeths justi
fied; according to a law of 1536, to support either of these claims
was treason; and finally, according to the law of 1543, to doubt
either one of these claims.
The treason taboo is treated m a completely modern manner in
the above instance: the ruler defines arbitrarily and one-sidedly who
is to be considered a traitor. This method corresponds precisely to
the procedure of our present-day rulers, who just as arbitrarily
determine what deviations from official doctrine are to be re
garded as treasonable. Treason is, as it were, imposed on the trai
tor without any act on his part; the victim becomes an objective
opponent, in the language of Stalinism.6 The circle of these ob
jective traitors can not only be immeasurably enlarged by means
of new definitions of the crime; it also enlarges itself of its own
accord through the taboo principle of infection. Not only relatives

and acquaintances of the traitor are considered inadmissible,
security risks, potential traitors, but also everyone who has
knowledge of the treasonable crime or suspects it or fails to de
nounce the culprit. The magic, infectious character of the crime
becomes clearly apparent in the term contact person. The advan
tage of the taboo as an instrument for ruling, and not just as an
avoidable side effect or symptom of degeneration, consists of its
capacity to make everyone a potential traitor and every action po
tentially traitorous.
10.
Paranoid structure. The indiscriminate growth of treason
crimes and the bestial sanctions from disembowelment of living
persons and drawing and quartering customary during the Chris
tian Middle Ages to the special treatment in modern concentra
tion camps indicate the degree to which rulers regard their do
main as threatened. As the reciprocity of the old taboo falls into
disuse, so does their sense of security become undermined. Be
cause every act of their subjects seems a threat, they reply with a
counterthreat to punish each act, no matter what, and every pos
sible belief as treason. Loyalty cannot be presumed among his sub
jects when it is alien to the ruler himself. The ruler considers him
self constantly pursued, which lends him the justification to pursue
all others at all times: the consequence is a vicious circle.
This pattern of treason and the war against it manifests a con
formation we recognize from psychiatry, the structure of para
noia. A classic example of this structure is provided by the report
of the Arab scholar Ibn Batuta from his stay at the court of the
sultan of Dehli, Mohammed Tughlak. He recounts the following
arguments by the ruler:
Today there are far more evil and unruly people than there
used to he. I punish them as soon as I have the slightest sus
picion or presumption of their rebellious and traitorous in
tention, and the slightest act of disobedience I punish by death.
I will continue to do this until the people start to behave
decently and give up rebellion and disobedience. . . . I pun
ish the people because they all suddenly became my enemies
and opponents.7
By the logic of paranoia no one is innocent; there are only those

who havent yet been convicted of treason that is, masked trai

tors. Paranoia senses conspiracies everywhere: it becomes only a
question of exposing them, of tearing the masks off their faces.
That is the language of Hitlers Volkiscber Beobachter, of todays
Chinese press, and the language of fanatic anticommunism.
What is required to fight the world conspiracies of the para
noid delusionary system are counterconspiracies. Wherever the
treason taboo is employed as a means for ruling, an organized
system of informers makes its appearance. The profession of the
informer, the delator, came into existence in Rome at the time of
Tiberius. The corresponding modern version is the secret police,
which becomes the central political organ as the number of trea
sonable acts and therefore the number of potential traitors in
creases.
11.
Projection. Such an interpretation of treason meets with the
objection that it neglects the role of the enemy. Indeed, the enemy
appears very early, in the legal codes that refer to treason, as the
interested third party who benefits from the crime; yes, one can
say that the reference to the outside enemy is indispensable for
these laws. Moreover, the term is ascribed without regard for what
is probable: thus, in the Union of South Africa every act directed
against the governments apartheid policy is considered high trea
son; this interdiction is justified by reference to the Soviet Union,
for whose benefit yes, in whose service this treasonable act is
being committed. On the other hand, Stalins regime interpreted
every oppositional act as treason for the benefit and in the service
of the capitalist powers. The German stab in the back legend
after World War I, which was the psychological prerequisite for
many treason trials during the Weimar Republic, had a similar
function. O f course, there is nothing easier to find than some third
party to cheer any internal criticism and each opposition move,
and therefore every country always has a plethora of enemies
from all sorts of other countries. That is the logic of paranoia.
The psyche mechanism at work here is called projection. The
unresolved conflict between the ruler and his subject is shifted to
the outside opponent; the threat to the rule from inside is trans
posed outside. The role that projection plays during the start of
wars is well known, and without projection the treason taboo
would collapse. As soon as one has seen through this projection,
Toward a Theory o f Treason 87

it turns out that the enemy whom it conjures up is none other
than the internal one. The only thing that is feared and called
treason is the threat to the rule that emanates from the subjects
themselves. High treason is nothing but the juristic name for rev
olution.
12. Revolution and treason. The magic, infectious power of the
treason taboo also extends to those who break it. Everywhere the
history of revolutionary conspiracy shows the traces of this infec
tion. The oath by means of which the ruler seeks to protect him
self against treason corresponds to the oath the conspirators swear.
The revolutionaries fight a traitor in their own ranks more relent
lessly than their actual enemy. Thus, the paranoid structure of the
old order is transposed onto the new one even before it has been
erected. The conspiracies of Netchajev and the Fighting Organi
zation of the Social Revolutionaries offer an excellent illustration
of this. Their structural similarities to their opponent, the secret
police, are striking; they are what makes possible a double game
like that of Asev, who remained unrecognized as a traitor for the
very reason that the habits of revolutionary activity resembled those
of the counterrevolution to the point where both became practi
cally indistinguishable from one another.
13. New treason taboos. After the revolution is victorious its
achievements are secured against the ancien regime in the same
manner as the ancien regime initially secured itself against the
revolution. The treason taboo thus is not removed, but only re
versed, a process during which, however, the central figure to
whom one could be traitorous vanishes. The mana of the sover
eign ruler is transferred to abstract values, goods, doctrines
and their administrators, the anonymous state apparatus. The re
sult is an enormous extension of potential treason crimes. Aspects
of the taboo that were of secondary importance until now move
into the foreground: the sovereignty and the territorial integrity of
the national state, for example. Completely new touch prohibi
tions are added. The private ownership of the means of produc
tion, the party line, the socialist achievement, the interests of a
race or a class are now considered untouchable. The treason
taboo serves in each instance whatever rule has been established.

Bourgeois democracy, with its rules about betraying the consti
tution, made an attempt to reestablish the original reciprocity of
the treason taboo. These regulations (paragraph eighty-nine of the
penal code of the Federal Republic of Germany) count on the pos
sibility that a state apparatus itself can become traitorous and place
a taboo on certain constitutional guarantees against intrusion by
the rulers themselves. Meanwhile, scarcely half a dozen of the more
than 150,000 investigations launched by the public prosecutor of
the Federal Republic for crimes against the state and treasonable
acts have been against government politicians.8 For a guilty ver
dict of high treason, it suffices if a worker distributes Communist
leaflets; but when an office-holding minister of the interior de
clares before parliament that the government is moving outside
the bounds of legality, that does not constitute sufficient grounds.
Someone who asks Bundeswehr soldiers to refuse to service atomic
weapons can be prosecuted for treasonable subversion of the
constitution. Four Adenauer government ministers, on the other
hand, became trustees of an organization (the Occidental Acad
emy) that openly supported the removal of parliamentary democ
racy; no one took them to task. The reciprocity of the taboo there
fore remains fictitious, at least in West Germany. In fact, the
interdiction of treason continues to serve as the one-sided instru
ment of the rulers.
14.
The state secret. The prohibition against delivering secrets
to a foreign power is not part of the old core of the law against
treason. This very aspect, which stands official propaganda in such
useful stead, is completely peripheral and is based on a much later
extension of the concept of treason. It plays no role in the older
laws. In Anglo-Saxon law the betrayal of state secrets isnt called
treason at all; the crime does not fall under the Treason Act but
under the Official Secrets Act of 1889. State secret and espionage,
as legal concepts, are inventions of the late nineteenth century.
They were born out of the spirit of imperialism. Their victorious
march begins in 1894 with the Dreyfus affair.
Since that time the state secret has been raised to an instrument
for ruling of the first rank. Its productivity is nearly unlimited. Its
success and its arbitrariness derive from the fact that the magic
conceptions that have always been part and parcel of the treason

taboo are joined in a single complex. The old mana of the chiefs
and priest-kings objectifies itself once more in the state secret
palpable and immaterial at the same time; this is the secret of
power per se. Its presence evokes shudders of respect, its exposure
hysterical outrage. No longer is there need of aggression for vio
lation of the taboo; a question suffices. That is a degree of re
moteness the likes of which no ruler has ever enjoyed before. The
mana of the state secret communicates itself to its bearers and
immunizes them, each according to the degree of his initiation,
against the question; therefore, they are free not to answer and, in
the real sense of the word, are irresponsible. How many state se
crets someone knows becomes the measure of his rank and his
privilege in a finely articulated hierarchy. The mass of the gov
erned is without secrets; that is, it has no right to partake of power,
to criticize it and watch over it.
15.
Uncertainty and infectiousness of the secret taboo. Part of
the state secrets magic character is that it allows of no definition.
This uncertainty, indeterminability, which was always peculiar to
the treason taboo, is not merely an external feature; it constitutes
its essence. At first, a simple rubber stamp will do to declare some
thing secret. But even this is not absolutely necessary and by no
means binding. German law, for example, is being quite consistent
in assuming that the official designation does not completely guar
antee the character of the secret; something that lacks it can at
any time, even retroactively, be made secret by means of a simple
and unilateral government act. Nor is the taboo limited to state
organs such as the government apparatus or the military: accord
ing to German law, a partys foreign-policy program can also be
considered secret, even its mood. According to the so-called
mosaic theory, such a secret can, moreover, be created in a certain
sense through spontaneous generation by means of the simple
compilation of information, none of which is secret by itself.
The infectiousness of the secret taboo is unlimited. It is trans
ferred onto each and every thing that comes into contact with it.
The one who betrays the secret infects his contact persons with
it. The court action against him itself becomes secret in turn. Or
ganizations that protect secret matters go underground them
selves. Someone who carries secrets can be considered secret, as

can someone who doesnt. But what is primarily secret is what is
a secret and what isnt; that is perhaps the actual state secret. In
German law it is guarded by means of a particular protective rule
that one may regard as the culmination of the entire system. It
threatens to penalize whoever intentionally publicizes as true or
genuine or lets get into unauthorized hands facts, objects, or news
about them that are false, falsified, or untrue but that if they were
genuine and true would be state secrets.
In other words, what is liable to be punished here is the betrayal
of state secrets that are nothing of the kind; it suffices that they
might be. The taboo infects its negation. With this step the system
is letter-perfect. If something (p) is the case, not only is giving out
information about it treason (q), but also giving out its negation
(q) is treason. If something isnt the case (p), the situation is the
same: (q) as well as (q) are considered treason. With the logical
precision of the calculus of propositions, every imaginable utter
ance about arbitrarily determined cases is prohibited.
16.
Projection, once again. The logic of paranoia is manifested
with clinical purity in the delusionary system that is developed out
of the secret taboo. The tapping of thoughts, the aura of secre
tiveness by which the patient feels surrounded, the feeling of being
watched and overheard, are classic features of the physiognomy
of this illness. Therefore, the state secret is more useful than any
personal taboo as a crystallizing agent for a delusionary system.
This system owes its enormous success to a mechanism with which
we have already become familiar, namely projection.
In every instance the secret taboo is based on and justified by
the existence of an external enemy. This enemy is portrayed as
boundlessly ignorant and craving for knowledge; he is opposed by
an appeal to national solidarity. The model situation that lies in
back of this is war. Only in the military secret does the state secret
come into full flower. Since war is posited a priori as a permanent
and total condition, any matter at all may be subsumed under
military categories: vis-a-vis the enemy, everything has to be con
sidered secret and every citizen a potential traitor.
What this principle accomplishes in internal politics is obvious:
it renders taboo the military as an instrument of the rulers and
removes it from control by the subjects. Since modern war reaches

into every aspect of life and can no longer be isolated from social
existence, all imaginable secrets also have military character, no
matter whether it is a question of weapons or food supplies, the
economic conditions or the civilian populations frame of mind.
Those who establish the secret and treason taboos doubtless do
so with a clear conscience and the best of intentions. Not only
those for whom it is intended, but its authors too, fall victim to
the delusionary system. What constitutes the achievement of the
system is that those who employ this form of projection cannot
see through it. One cannot expect an administrator to have greater
insight into the delusionary aspect of the taboo than a paranoid
into his illness. Each attempt to enlighten him must fail for this
very reason; no insight, no matter how lucid, into the unreality of
their convictions can convince them. The perception that the se
cret taboo is by no means meant for the external but invariably
for the internal population can therefore expect to meet with vio
lent objections. For this there is no lack of evidence.
First of all, informing the public is usually made commensurate
with betrayal to the external enemy. In any event, according to
German law it is irrelevant whether the secret was known to the
enemy at time of publication or not. Yes, even the highest court
of the Weimar Republic punished the reprinting of foreign news
paper comments about internal German conditions. And with that
it merely expressed the actual sense of the taboo: the keeping se
cret of political matters not from the external but from the inter
nal enemy, namely the public. The trials of Dreyfus, Ebert, and
Ossietzky, as well as the espionage trials in Stalinist Russia and
the treason trials of the German resistance in the Third Reich,
were exclusively directed against internal political enemies.
17.
The mythology of espionage. During World War II Goebbels began a propaganda campaign in Germany that stood under
the motto: Watch out! The enemy is listening! On all walls and
wherever else one could post bills there appeared a black man on
a yellow background. This figure is the phantom of espionage.
Like other taboo-protected phantoms, such as sovereignty, the less
reality it possesses, the more zealously is it conjured up. In not a
single modern war has espionage or the betrayal of secrets played
a decisive role of any kind. Hitlers defeat is not due to ransacked

wastepaper baskets or notes written with invisible ink. Mata Hari
and the secret courier on the Orient Express belong to the realm
of political yellow journalism. The traditional spy legends flesh
out the delusions of the official taboo, popularize them, and make
them acceptable.
Espionage, in this sense, has an exclusively mythological func
tion: it helps preserve the internal political taboo of the state se
cret. If it ever contained a trace of reality, it has long since become
an anachronism. It has nothing whatever in common with the kind
of work the information services of the superpowers are capable
of. This work is part of regular military routine, is so to speak a
fourth branch of the service. Significantly, it is handled in an at
mosphere of extreme sobriety. The opponents maintain certain rules
of the game, so that one can almost speak of teamwork between
the warring services, which of course maintain constant contact
with each other. For example, if one takes a prisoner, one ex
changes him at the first opportune moment. Hysterical and para
noid features are entirely absent. Men who perform this kind of
work have perfectly normal, respected jobs. The leading heads of
these information, defense, and planning staffs are usually firmly
convinced that their mutual efforts serve solely the keeping of the
peace.
The primary data that these services process derive almost ex
clusively from two sources: first, from the normal internal flow of
information of a modern, industrial society that cannot be sup
pressed without doing grave harm to the society itself; and sec
ond, as a result of technological observation of the opponent by
means of airplanes and satellites. Compared to this, bedtime se
crets and hidden microphones no longer provide much worthwhile
information. Coinciding with this is the appearance of the expert,
who has replaced the spy with dark glasses: they are mostly math
ematicians, statisticians, game theorists, and other data-processing
experts. The concept of the secret has no room in their methodical
work; each side not only knows precisely what the other side is
doing, it also knows that this knowledge is based on reciprocity.
Besides, the strategy of deterrence that applies undisputed
throughout the world today leads to a situation where the newest
state of armament (that is, the military secret par excellence) has
to be ostentatiously demonstrated to the opponent so as to be

effective. In this respect this strategy finds itself in complete agree
ment with extreme pacifist theories: their effectiveness is based on
the elimination of the secret.
18.
Treason as circumstantial evidence. One can therefore draw
two opposite conclusions from the threat of total war: either that
everything is a state secret or that state secrets no longer exist. In
a certain sense both sentences mean the same thing; the first
changes into the second, but with the following result: the be
trayal of such secrets is prosecuted ever more ruthlessly the more
eagerly statesmen proclaim them. The absurdity of this situation
is apparent; but the very delusionary character of the taboo pre
vents its dissolution. It cannot be combined with genuine democ
racy. Politics has to be conducted out in the open. If the political
freedoms as they are guaranteed in the constitutions have any
meaning, that meaning lies here.
The projections the great taboo invokes implode before every
ones eyes. The kind of treatment accorded those who dare touch
it becomes a telling verdict on the internal conditions of the re
spective country. The more state secrets a government guards, the
more it has to hide from those it pretends to represent. The more
treason taboos it erects, the more it despises and fears the citizens
of its own country, and the more it stinks.
2
Reflections
before a Glass Cage
1.
Definitions. We know what a crime is, and yet we dont. The
Encyclopedia Britannica defines it in the following way:
(lat. crimen, accusation), the general term for offences against
the criminal law (q.v.). Crime has been defined as a failure
or refusal to live up to the standard of conduct deemed bind
ing by the rest of the community. Sir James Stephen de
scribed it as some act of omission in respect of which legal
punishment may be inflicted on the person who is in default
whether by acting or omitting to act. 1
Thomas Hobbes wrote in a similar vein three hundred years

ago: A crime is a sin, consisting in the committing, by deed or
word, of that which the law forbiddeth, or the omission of what
it has commanded. 2
The tautological structure of these sentences is manifest, and
like all tautologies they are reversible: what is punished is a crime,
what is a crime is punished; everything deserving of punishment
is punishable and vice versa. The linguistic model of such defini
tions can be found in the biblical sentence I am the one I am.
Such sentences place the legislator above reason and above argu
ment, and the codified law acquires this syntactical attitude for
itself. The German penal code simply says: An act threatened
with imprisonment of five or more years is a crime.
Defining concepts in such a way as to eliminate all discussion
94
Reflections before a Glass Cage 95

has definite advantages, because it relieves legal practice once and
for all of the problem of what constitutes a crime, relegating it
forthwith to the realm of theory as an amusement for particularly
esoteric minds. A good deal of thought has been given, in semi
nars, to the material concept of crime, but little of any validity
has been discovered. No wonder then that the penal codes arent
a consistent system but at best a heterogeneous, frequently bizarre
assemblage of historically deposited orders to protect the most
varied kinds of legal prerogatives and interests, codified concepts
of taboos and morality, and rules of the game that are value-free
only from a purely pragmatic viewpoint.
Besides, legal scholars find themselves in a perfectly common
bind: the more general and more fundamental something is, the
less distinct its concept tends to be. No one (or everyone) can say
what a nation is (but everyone in his way). Everyone knows what
money is, and some people know how to handle it; the econo
mists, however, cant agree on what it is. What is health? Medi
cine makes educated guesses. What is death? Biologists are full of
suggestions.
In confusing cases such as these, it is perhaps best to go on the
street and ask the first ten persons what they think. The most
frequent reply will not be a definition but an example that, more
over, is strikingly often the same: A crime, for example, is a mur
der. The frequency of this reply bears no relationship to criminal
statistics, where entirely different infractions play the chief role.
Although comparatively rare, murder plays a key role in the gen
eral public consciousness. It is due to the power of its example
that one begins to understand the very nature of crime.
Crime novel and crime film, as reflections of this general con
sciousness, confirm that murder occupies a central role in it yes,
becomes synonymous with crime as such.
From its punishment, according to the lex talionis, one also
gathers that murder is the actual and the oldest capital crime per
se: certainly, the oldest and most severe penalty and until deep
into the Middle Ages also the chief penalty is the death penalty,
which reflects what it wants to revenge, and that is murder.
2.
Natural history of crime. We have no certain knowledge of
the ethnological origin of crime. Even the most primitive societies

that are open to observation have lawbreakers, even, that is,
when they lack codified rules. Murder plays a significant role in
the oldest documents of human society. Since the primordial con
dition of society is nowhere ascertainable, every attempt to dis
cover its natural history must remain hypothetical. However, we
have a number of aids available: biological behavior studies (which,
however, only allow limited inferences for human behavior), eth
nology, the study of myths, as well as psychoanalysis.
Sigmund Freud provides us with the classical description of the
original crime. It begins with Darwins primal horde : a vi
olent, jealous father who keeps all women for himself and drives
out the growing sons. The crime itself is described in the follow
ing way:
One day the brothers who had been driven out banded to
gether, killed and devoured the father, and thus put an end
to the horde. United they dared and accomplished what had
been impossible for them alone. . . . The violent original fa
ther had certainly been the envied and feared model of each
member of the tribe of brothers. Their act of devouring com
pleted their identification with him; each of them acquired a
piece of his strength. The totem meal, perhaps humanitys
first feast, would be the repetition and the memorial celebra
tion of this memorable criminal act which was the beginning
of so many things: the social organizations, the ethical limi
tations, and religion.3
This description is met with the facile objection that one cant
speak of a crime where there is no law; but such a consideration
is legalistic, not philosophical, and misses the point. Such a pseudo
objection resembles the question: Which came first, the chicken
or the egg? Law can only be defined by injustice, at its limit, to
be recognized as law; the ethical limitations can only be taught
as a reply to a challenge. And in that sense the original crime is
undoubtedly a creative act. (Walter Benjamin treats its legislative
power in Zur Kritik der Geivalt.)
This hypothesis, which Freud established in his essay The In
fantile Return to Totemism, is both famous and unknown and
for a good reason. Freud had few illusions about the resistance
that would meet his attempt to trace back our cultural heritage,
of which we are justly proud, to a horrible crime that is an insult

to all our feelings. Aside from a number of specialists, people did
not so much oppose his scientific myth as simply ignore it.4 It
is no longer the sexual taboos that block reception of Freuds
theses, as in the thirties, but their social and political conse
quences. The more manifest these become in history, the more
thoroughly they are repressed.
3. Politics and murder. If we are to give credence to Freud, the
original political act thus coincides with the original crime. An
ancient, intimate, and dark connection exists between murder and
politics, and it is retained in the basic structure of all sovereignty
to date. For power is exercised by those who can have their un
derlings killed. The ruler is the survivor. This definition is Flias
Canettis, who has provided us with an excellent phenomenology
of sovereignty.5
To this day the language of politics reflects the criminal act of
its origin. Even in the most harmless and civilized election cam
paign, one candidate beats the other (which actually means beats
him to death); a government is toppled (which means to fall
down and die); a minister is shot down. The action that such
expressions symbolically retain unfolds and realizes itself in ex
treme social situations. No revolution can do without killing the
previous ruler. It has to break the taboo that forbids the under
lings to touch him; for only someone who has proved capable of
transgressing such a prohibition has acquired the character of the
forbidden. 6 The mana of the killed ruler is transferred to his
murderers. All revolutions to date have infected themselves with
the prerevolutionary conditions and have inherited the basic struc
ture against which they fought.
4. Contradiction. Even the more progressive, civilized con
stitutions allow for the killing of people, and permit it but only
in extreme cases, such as war or revolutionary situations. In
other respects the basic structure of the government remains con
cealed. Any command is still a suspended death sentence, now
as then (Canetti). But this verdict is expressed only as an infinitely
mediated threat; it only exists virtually;7 and throughout history
we find this limitation institutionally anchored in the body of laws.
Every philosophy of law to date has sought to resolve the con-

tradiction at the root of this law, which is that this law, like every
social order, is based on the original crime; that it was created by
means of injustice. For every body of laws to date simultaneously
protects against the ruler and is his instrument. Perhaps the entire
history of law can be interpreted as its removal from the political
sphere. This immense process can only be unraveled by someone
with the calling for it; yet it seems as though it has been unable
to resolve the inner contradictions at its root. The separation of
the executive from the legislative and judiciary powers, the inde
pendence and permanence of the judge, the separation of the public
prosecutors office from the court and its institutionalization as a
party, the multifarious procedural safeguards during a trial all
of these mediations are invaluable, but nonetheless the ruler al
ways remains the supreme judge; and the judge, the impartial ar
bitrator, always stands in the service of the state.
The ambiguous nature of the legal order is most clearly discern
ible from the problematic nature of punishment. If every com
mand is a suspended death sentence, then punishment consti
tutes its execution, no matter in how attenuated a form. Death is
the oldest, most powerful, the actual punishment. If the death pen
alty is taken away, the duty and right of the state to mete out
punishment moves from the magic darkness of religious concep
tions into the field of rational reflection. Once the death penalty is
questioned, punishment as such becomes questionable; and that is
why opinions and constitutions diverge at this point, and this alone
explains the passion with which the question of the death penalty
is argued. What nourishes this quarrel is neither the possibility of
a miscarriage of justice nor simple pity for the condemned, not to
mention the intention to protect society from the criminal. No
matter what the argument of those who call for the death penalty,
a hysterical undertone gives evidence of their longing for an all
powerful authority with which they can identify. What is forbid
den to the individual that is, to kill is permitted to him as a
member of the collective, through the execution. Therefore its
characteristic mystique: that of a ritual. It is completely consistent
with this mystique that the death penalty used to be performed in
public: killing in the name of everyone can only occur in public,
because then everyone partakes in it; the hangman is only our
deputy.

If thought through to its ultimate consequence, the removal of
the death penalty would change the nature of the state; it would
be the anticipation of a social order from which we are far re
moved, because it deprives the state of the permission to decide
the death or life of the individual. This power, however, consti
tutes the actual heart of sovereignty.
5.
Sovereignty. Sovereignty in the judicial sense, wrote the
German historian Heinrich von Treitschke, the complete inde
pendence of the state from any other power on earth, constitutes
the states nature to such an extent that one can say that it repre
sents the very criterion of the state. 8 The power of this concept
remains unbroken, although it is obvious that sovereignty of this
kind has never existed. It follows from this conception of the state
that it is above and beyond any legal order, and anyone who
maintains this idea can never believe in the existence of interna
tional law. National sovereignty and international law are mu
tually exclusive.
A reference work published in 1959 maintains quite appropri
ately that it is very doubtful whether such a thing as interna
tional law actually exists . . . the so-called international law1 has
limited itself to date essentially to the development of diplomatic
rules for the exchange of declarations and rules for the eventuality
of war. . . . There exists no binding social norm between states
as yet. 9
The purest way in which a state expresses its sovereignty, as
Treitschke understands this word, is in its internal politics, in the
intercourse with its individual antagonist, by means of the death
penalty; in foreign politics, in its relationship with other states,
this sovereignty is expressed by means of war. If the state, as the
overlord of the legal order, is permitted to kill one individual, it is
also permitted to kill many or if necessary everyone, in its and its
peoples name, and to make the execution of this sovereign act a
duty to its citizens.
Sigmund Freud wrote of World War I:
In this war the individual member of a state can notice with
horror what had perhaps occurred to him already in peace
time: that the state has forbidden all acts of injustice to him
not because it wants to eliminate injustice but because it wants

to monopolize it like salt and tobacco. The war-making state
allows itself every injustice, every act of violence which would
dishonor the individual. . . . One should not interject that
the state cannot do without committing injustice because this
would put it at a disadvantage. The obedience to ethical norms
and the relinquishment of the use of brute power is usually
very disadvantageous to the individual too.10
What surprises us even more than the violence the states un

leashed during World War I is the astonishment of the bourgeois
world in face of its accomplishments and its catastrophe. The sim
plest reflection shows that private murder throughout history has
never been comparable to public murder. All individual acts of
violence, from Cain to Landru, do not add up to the injustice
caused by the Wars of Succession in eighteenth-century Europe
alone or the sovereign actions of a colonial power during a single
decade.
Such reflections, of course, are considered amateurish. At least,
influential statesmen and influential jurists have never paid partic
ular attention to them, and this reluctance is understandable.
However, the connection between crime and politics has never been
entirely forgotten. The nineteenth century, too, retained a sense of
it. Pushed to the edge of consciousness, and therefore to the edge
of society, the problem became the domain of outsiders. Anyone
who, like Freud, paid attention to it found himself in motley com
pany, among the disadvantaged and exploited, among iconoclasts
and oddballs, among peculiar holy men and sectarians of every
ilk. The more self-confident a society feels of its foundations, the
more it allows these outsiders to call them into question. The
bourgeois nineteenth century throttled every armed attack on its
form of society, but it allowed the most radical examination of its
basic structure . . . as a pastime for world-improvers. It is not for
nothing that, to this day, it is regarded as the ultimate folly to
want to improve the world, whereas the contrary effort can al
ways depend on meeting with a certain respect. Anyone who wants
to take the lessons of World War II seriously is met with especial
ridicule, which serves as repression: however, ridicule no longer
kills, not by itself, as the rubber truncheons and police files, which
are meant to assist it, go to prove.

6.
Epoch. Anyone wanting to know in what age he lives only
needs to open the nearest newspaper. There he will find out that
he lives in the age of synthetic fiber, tourism, professional sports,
or the theater of the absurd. The information industry has also
reduced to this level the knowledge that we live in the age of H i
roshima and Auschwitz. Twenty years after our baptism with this
phrase, it already sounds like a cliche. Valid sentences today be
come threadbare before they have had an opportunity to take full
effect and are treated like consumer articles that can be discarded
at will and replaced by newer models. Everything that is said ap
pears to be at the mercy of an artificial aging process; people be
lieve they are done with a sentence once it has been scrapped. But
it is easier to get rid of a consumer article than of a truth.
What happened in the 1940s does not age; instead of becoming
more remote, it inches up on us and forces us to revise all human
forms of thinking and of relating to each other; only at the price
of continual mortal danger to us and all future generations can we
maintain our conceptions of justice and injustice, of crime and of
state.
Although it is scarcely a recent discovery that the modern na
tion state and its adherents are capable of everything the spokes
men of imperialism already announced this proudly in the nine
teenth century we now know that it is also technically capable
of everything. The age-old connection between crime and politics,
the internal contradictions of law, the delusionary conceptions of
sovereignty must as a consequence become more and more prom
inent and become, literally, explosive.
Nothing can remain as it was and is. However, the revision that,
as everyone knows, we are forced to make if we are to avoid sui
cide has, as everyone knows, hardly begun and already is about
to be choked off by the highly specialized propaganda about
overcoming guilt. The reality of the name Auschwitz is to be
exorcised as though it belonged only to the past, and even an ex
clusively national one at that not a collective present and future.
What assists in this development is a complicated ritual of incon
sequential self-accusation, which wants to have done with an event
that laid bare the roots of all politics to date (and that finally
means: wants to forget) without drawing the consequences to

which it forces the participants (and there are no nonparticipants).
It is obvious that such an overcoming must remain sterile, that
it cannot even heed the most superficial and most proximate con
sequences; not to speak of being able to eliminate the prerequisites
that made the event possible in the first place.
The compulsive notion of sovereignty has undergone practically
no revision at all. The nature of the state continues to consist
of its inability to endure a power higher than itself (Treitschke);
now as then, sovereignty of this kind continues to be the crite
rion for the existence of the state, except that, fifteen years after
the German defeat and the destruction of Hiroshima the criterion
for this criterion has become in the eyes of leading German pol
iticians and military men the power to dispose over nuclear
weapons.
But this implement is the present and future of Auschwitz. How
can one condemn the genocide of yesterday, or even try to over
come it, while carfefully preparing with all scientific and indus
trial means at ones command the genocide of tomorrow? Every
rationalization with which the parties have armed themselves from
the arsenal of their respective ideologies is struck out of its mas
ters (servants) hands by the implement. It cannot serve as the
defense of freedom and rights; rather, the very existence of the
implement suspends all human rights from the right to go for a
walk, the right to found parties, to the right to work or eat. They
all exist under its protection that is, under its threat; exist only
upon recall and become a mere exercise in mercy that can be re
voked at any moment. Simultaneously the implement rescinds all
political freedoms and only permits democracy under a proviso
that steadily erodes it. As the Cuban missile crisis demonstrated
to the blindest, the bomb withdraws the genuine decisions once
and for all from parliament and places it in the hands of a few
individuals, each of whom is more powerful and is able and is
forced to make lonelier and more irrevocable decisions than any
despot in history.
Every invocation of the strategy of deterrence is impotent. The
Nazis, too, had their analogy. (Hannah Arendt, among others, has
described it with all imaginable precision.) No less paranoid than
the delusionary notion of the Jewish world conspiracy is the
principle of an armaments race whose objective is too well known

for anyone even to bother to inquire after it. The implement is not
a weapon in class warfare; it is neither a capitalist nor a Com
munist weapon; it is no weapon at all, just as little as the gas
chamber.
Someone who wants to legislate or adjudicate finds himself in
an odd position under conditions as they have prevailed for the
past twenty years. This situation can be easily illustrated. There is
no lack of examples.
7.
First example: animal protection. Statute about the killing
and keeping of live fish and other cold-blooded animals, of Janu
ary 14, 1936:
# 2(1) Crabs, lobsters, and other crustaceans whose meat is
designed for human consumption are to be killed, if possible,
by being tossed singly into strongly boiling water. It is pro
hibited to put the animals into cold or lukewarm water and
bring the water to a boil afterwards.
Telex Berlin Nr. 234 404 of November 9, 1938, to all Gestapo

offices and headquarters:
1. V E RY
SHORTLY
A C T IO N S
A G A IN ST
S Y N A G O G U E S , W IL L
A G A IN ST
OCCUR
JE W S ,
IN
P A R T IC U L A R L Y
ALL OF
GERM ANY.
THESE A C T IO N S A RE N O T T O BE IN T E R F E R E D W IT H .
. . .
3.
PREPA RA T IO N S A RE TO BE M A D E F O R THE ARREST O F R O U G H L Y
20
TO
30
THOUSAND
JE W S
IN
THE
R E IC H .
P A R T IC U L A R L Y
W E A LT H Y JE W S A RE T O BE SELECT ED. F U R T H E R IN S T R U C T IO N S
W IL L F O L L O W T H IS N IG H T .
. . .
GESTAPO I I . S IG N E D : M U L L E R 11
Statute for the protection of wild plants and nonhuntable ani

mals, of March 18, 1936:
# 16. (1) Property owners, those permitted the use of prop
erty, or their representatives are permitted to catch cats and
take them into custody during the period of March 15 to
August 15 and as long as snow covers the ground if the cats
are found in gardens, orchards, cemeteries, parks and similar
grounds. Cats taken into custody are to be properly cared
for. . . .

Telex Warsaw Nr. 663/43 of May 24, 1943, to the SS and Po
lice Chief/East:
RE N U M B E R
7000
1.
O F THE
56,065
JE W S S E IZ E D SO FA R, R O U G H L Y
H A V E BEEN D E S T R O Y E D IN W A KE O F T H E A C T IO N IN THE
F O R M E R J E W IS H Q U A R T E R .
6929
JE W S W E R E D E S T R O Y E D BY
M EAN S O F T R A N S P O R T T O T. I I , SO THAT A T OTAL O F
13,929
JE W S H AV E BEEN D E S T R O Y E D . A B O V E A N D B E Y O N D T H E F IG
URE O F
56,065,
R O U G H L Y FIV E T O SIX T H O U S A N D JE W S W E RE
D E S T R O Y E D T H R O U G H D E T O N A T IO N A N D F IR E .
. . .
THE SS A N D P O L IC E C H IE F IN T H E W A R S A W D IS T R IC T . S IG N E D :
S T R O O P .12
From Heinrich Himmlers conversation with his masseur:

Herr Kersten, how can you possibly shoot from an ambush
at the poor animals which are grazing so innocently, defense
lessly and unawares at the edge of the woods? If you take the
right view of your action, it is murder pure and simple. N a
ture is very beautiful, and after all, every animal has a right
to live. It is this point of view which I admire so much in our
ancestors. Respect for animals is something you find in all
Indo-Germanic people. It interested me terribly to hear the
other day that Buddhist monks still wear little bells when
they walk through the forest, so that the animals on whom
they might step have a chance to get out of the way. But here
everyone steps on worms and snails without giving it a sec
ond thought. 13
Speech by Heinrich Himmler to the SS Group Leaders in Posen,

on October 3, 1943:
. . . most of you will know what it means when you see
one hundred corpses lying in one spot, three hundred, or a
thousand. To have seen this through to the end and aside
from exceptions of human weakness to have remained de
cent, that is what has made us hard. This is an unwritten and
never to be written page of honor in the annals of our his
tory. 14
Statute for the protection of wild plants and nonhuntable ani

mals:
No. 23 (I) For the protection of the remaining nonhuntable
animals it is prohibited:
1.
To catch them en masse without a reasonable or justi
fied purpose or to kill them en masse.

8.
Second example: game plan. In April, 1961, the trial of the
former Obersturmbannfiihrer A. Eichmann opened at a court in
Jerusalem. The indictment did not say that the accused had per
sonally operated the gas chambers, but that Eichmann conscien
tiously and in detail planned the murder of six million people.
Also in the year 1961, in Princeton, New Jersey, there appeared
a work by the mathematician, physicist, and military theoretician
Herman Kahn, O n Thermonuclear War. This work contains the
following table:
Tragic but distinguishable postwar statistics.
DEAD:
E C O N O M IC R E C U P E R A T IO N
2,000,000
5,000,000
10,000,000
20,000,000
40,000,000
80,000,000
160,000,000
1 year
2 years
5 years
10 years
20 years
50 years
100 years
the survivors envy the dead?15

Objective investigations show that the sum of human trag
edy (sic) would rise considerably in the postwar period, but
this rise would not exclude the possibility of a normal happy
existence for the majority of survivors and their progeny.16
But will the survivors be in a position to lead the kind of
life Americans are used to living? That is with cars, country
homes, iceboxes, etc.? N o one can say for sure, but I believe
that even if we make no preparation for our recovery dis
regarding the acquisition of radiation detection equipment,
the distribution of handbooks and the practice of certain
counter measures the country would get back on its feet
fairly quickly.
[The death of embryos] is of limited significance. . . . Pre
sumably there will be five million such cases during the first
generation, and 100 million in the course of subsequent gen
erations. I regard the last-named figure as not all that serious,
disregarding that minority of cases of obvious abortions or
stillbirths. However that may be, humanity is so fertile that a
slight decrease of this fertility does not need to be taken that
seriously, not even by the individuals affected.
[What price] should the Russians be made to pay as pun
ishment for their aggression? I have discussed this question
with many Americans, and after talking for about a quarter

of an hour they usually arrive at an acceptable price of be
tween ten and sixty million. Usually one agrees on a figure
somewhat closer to the higher of the two figures. . . . The
ways and means how the upper limit seems to be reached is
rather interesting. Namely, one mentions a third of the total
population of a country, in other words something less than
half.
A. Eichmann was condemned to death in December, 1961, and

was hanged.
H.
Kahn is advisory member of the Scientific Advisory Commit
tee of the U.S. Air Force, of the technical committee of the Atomic
Energy Commission, evaluator for the office of Civil Defense, and
head of the Hudson Institute in White Plains, New York, which
provides expert opinions for U.S. military planning. Kahn is mar
ried, has two children, and is known as a gourmet.
A question: can one compare K. and E.? Is there such a thing
as the objective investigation of the sum of human tragedy ?
What moral cogency has a language that can call sixty million
killed an acceptable price ? Can genocide be the object of im
partial observation and calculation ? Where lies the difference be
tween observation and planning, between calculation and prepa
ration? Do such differences exist? Can one prevent genocide by
planning it? Can prevention and planning be entrusted to ex
perts ? To whom do these experts offer their services? Does their
advice have any consequences? Do their predispositions play a role?
Who gave them their orders, who judges them?
9.
Third example: understandable excitement. How many peo
ple' are prepared to obey, unconditionally and of their own accord,
even when they know that the execution of an order will put an
other person to considerable pain?
Setup for an experiment: two rooms, with a control panel in
one and an electric chair in the other. It is explained to subject A
that an experiment is being conducted to find out to what degree
an adults capacity to memorize can be increased by administering
corporal punishment. A is asked to take over the role of the tester
while someone else assumes the role of the learner. The leader of
the experiment places a memory test in front of B and fastens him

onto the electric chair in front of As eyes. A goes to the adjacent
room with the switchboard, where he turns a lever whenever B
makes a mistake. The shocks are graded according to a scale at
tached to the implement administering the punishment. The chas
tisement begins with a 15-volt shock and is increased with each
memorization mistake that B makes. At the twentieth shock, which
has a power of 300 volts, B drums against the wall. At 375 volts
a warning lights up on the switchboard: Danger. Heavy shocks.
The last lever, for 435 and 450 volts, merely has the designation
X X X . The arrangement of the experiment is fictitious. There is no
connection between the switchboard and the electric chair; the
electrodes are not activated. The person in the chair only simulates
his reactions, something the person administering the test cannot
know: he finds himself in the role of a genuine torturer.
A series of experiments of this kind were conducted in 1963 at
Yale University under the guidance of the psychologist Dr. Stanley
Milgram. The subjects were volunteers, all of them citizens in good
standing; 65 percent of the guinea pigs performed all the orders
the leader of the experiment gave them and worked all levers ac
cording to instructions.17
In 1964 in Kempten in the Allgau (Bavaria) the former Feldwebel L. Scherer was put on trial. He was accused of having captured
fifteen men, women, and children whom he encountered while
searching a forest in the Brjansk region during World War II,
locking them in a wooden shed, setting fire to the shed, and
throwing hand grenades into it. Professor Maurach of the Univer
sity of Munich presented the court with expert testimony to the
effect that the verdict would have to take into account the defen
dants boiling excitement while he committed these acts. M au
rach did not regard the killing of fifteen men, women, and children
illegal. The court delivered a not-guilty verdict; the accused, it
said, had been placed in an acute state of distress by his orders.
At the same time, however, the German legal code still punished
people
who drive a sled in the cities without a firm shaft or with
out a bell or ringing mechanism (#366, section 4);
whoever tears off public notices, orders or advertisements
posted by officials or official bodies (#134);

whoever intentionally and illegally damages objects which
serve the beautification of public thoroughfares (#304, sec
tion I);
whoever advertises means for birth control or for the pre
vention of venereal diseases in a manner injurious to public
mores and good behavior (#184, section 3a);
whoever defaces officially affixed signs of the sovereignty
of the Federal Republic of Germany (#96, section 2).
10.
Artificial figure. The criminal in the traditional sense of the
word, as one still finds him at court trials, belongs to the myth
ological substratum of the present age. He has long since assumed
the traits of an artistic creation, for he claims a place in our imag
ination incommensurable with his real significance, his deeds, and
the actuality of his existence. It remains extraordinary and puz
zling how much passionate interest we bring to bear on him and
what an enormous apparatus we keep up to fight him off. He
enjoys an irrational publicity. It can be gleaned from our headlines
that a simple murder interests us more than a war that is taking
place far enough away and much more than a war that hasnt
started yet but is just being prepared. One is tempted to think the
reason for this zealousness has something to do with the tenacity
of our legal institutions. Undoubtedly, justice holds on more te
naciously than any other social institution not excepting
churches to old ideas and forms, even when they no longer cor
respond to anything in reality (the worse for reality). Even the
newest reasons for the so-called reform of the penal code reflect
the cultural lag that dominates the whole legal sphere. The lan
guage of our law books is rife with turns of phrase so old-fash
ioned it requires recourse to philosophy to understand them. Breach
of peace, ringleader, workhouse, torts, armed rabble, and the like
are linguistic fossils that preserve historical conditions long since
passed. In a certain sense it is almost admirable how the legal code
has maintained itself unchanged in an alien world.
The role of the criminal in our world, however, is not to be
explained solely by means of institutions. Taking a closer look,
one finds that an entire system of roles that makes him indispens
able and raises him to the rank of a mythological figure has been
entrusted to him.

11. Palliative. The primary function of the ordinary criminal"
is to pacify. Although his appearance in society evokes fear, this
fear is of an extraordinarily harmless kind. Moreover, in contrast
ro the far more real political and military threats to society, it is
readily identifiable. The perpetrator of the cause for this fear ap
pears on Wanted posters on every wall. His behavior, in contrast
to that of the ruling powers, is comprehensible and overseeable.
His act can be morally categorized without the slightest difficulty.
The law books tell us what we are to think of the act. The mur
derers fate makes it apparent to us that there are still judges,
and to his figure there is attached the wished-for illusion that kill
ing is indeed prohibited. By punishing the criminal, society sup
ports its conviction that its legal order is intact. All of this has a
pacifying effect.
12. Scapegoat. For the individual, each condemnation of an
other and the criminal is regarded as the Other, per se consti
tutes an acquittal of himself. Whoever is guilty is punished; there
fore, anyone who is not punished isnt guilty. It is instructive to
observe the glee with which the collective citizenry participates in
the pursuit of an escaped convict. The vocabulary from the hunt
ing world is employed at once: the criminal is fair game and is
1 allowed to be shot down. The police practice of shooting at
criminals, which is appalling in any event, can be encouraged at
any given moment by means of a referendum. The demand for the
death penalty also enjoys extreme popularity; especially after the
discovery of so-called sex crimes, which always enjoy incredible
publicity, does this call break out in hysterical waves. The role of
the criminal as scapegoat for society is age-old; however, it is be
coming particularly distinct under present conditions.
13. Deputy. The criminal not only receives his punishment in

everyones stead he also acts in everyones name, if not on their
instruction. For he only does what everyone would like to do, and
he does it on his own without a concession from the state. The
outrage over the fact that he takes upon himself to do what every
one else forbids himself as long as it is prohibited and not or
dered this outrage expresses itself by demanding an eye for an

eye and by revisiting the criminals act upon himself. However,
this repetition occurs at the hands of the state, therefore is again
performed through deputies. What the individual foregoes, in real
ity he partakes of twice symbolically, through vicarious participa
tion in the criminals act and through participation in his punish
ment. Murderer and hangman relieve us of what we wish and yet
dont wish to do, thus providing us not only with moral alibis, but
also with a sense of moral superiority. Perhaps this helps explain
that undercurrent of gratitude the public occasionally manifests
toward some criminal, particularly toward the successes in their
field. They are respected, as experts. Evil is their specialty, and the
criminal practices it; thus, the society that practices division of
labor delegates this area to him.
14.
Competition. The criminal is not only the deputy for the
individual, but for society as a whole, which he confronts by as
suming its prerogatives: that is, he regards himself, in the words
of Paule Ackermann, the lumberjack from Alaska, as a man who
has permission to permit himself everything. With this claim he
puts himself in the same position as, and consequently against, the
state, and becomes its competitor; he questions the states monop
oly on violence. This is an old role, too. The robbers and pirates
of times past have given the purest performances of it, and every
rebel assumes their features, if not of his own accord then by de
fault; they are attributed to him by the world either through its
disgust or admiration.18
Although the states superior power vis-a-vis the criminal is never
in doubt, although the criminals means of exercising force stands
in no relationship whatsoever to the states capacity, the latter
considers itself directly threatened by the individuals or the gangs
actions. The state loves to claim that its foundations are endan
gered. And it does not take a holdup murder to shake them
the simple picking of a pocket or the writing of an article can be
quite sufficient. However, what seems to irritate modern legisla- '
tors more than anything else is resistance to the power of the
state. Wherever this crime is mentioned, the text gladly abandons
its anachronistic equanimity. Foam begins to form at the guardi
ans mouths, harmless hubbub becomes a dangerous mob, the
passerby, a criminal. The fury with which his crime is punished
Reflections before a Glass Cage
111
shows the other side of the coin of overwhelming power: the in

security of our public order. Not even a diamond or oil monopoly
will appear so strong yet so susceptible, so hypersensitive yet so
brutal; and scarcely a one of them will go to battle against an
outsider with such resounding righteousness.
15.
Parody. As soon as criminals organize themselves they tend
to form a state within the state, and the structure of such criminal
societies gives a fairly faithful reflection of the rules of government
employed by their rivals and competitors. The robber bands of the
late Middle Ages imitated the feudal constitution, and a form of
vassalage has been maintained by gangs to this day. The forms of
military organizations were frequently copied, too. The Carbonari
of the nineteenth century counted royalist bandits among them.
Other secret societies, such as the Camorra, had something of a
republican organization; but Salvatore Giuliano considered him
self the liberator of Sicily by the grace of God. The Sicilian Mafia
imitated the structure of the patriarchal government down to its
smallest detail and actually replaced the government in large areas
of the country: it possessed an intricate administration, collected
duties and taxes, and had its own court system.
Similar symmetries can be observed between the secret police of
Czarist Russia, the Ochrana, and the conspiratorial groups it had
been designed to combat. Rival organizations always tend to re- .
semble each other. It is difficult to distinguish between the physi
cal behavior and physiognomy of the bodyguards of gangsters and
the guards of statesmen.
Specific capitalist organizational forms have found their crimi
nal correspondence, too. Modern American gangster organiza
tions are called crime syndicates or Murder, Inc. They are
constructed on the pattern of the large corporations, have their
own tax advisers, accounting and legal departments, and they af
ford their employees the same social benefits as a legal company.
Fascism as a racket from Peachums middle class center for
harboring criminals to the Cauliflower Trust has been described
by Brecht. Thus the criminal societies appear as parodies of the
general social and political arrangements, and vice versa. How
ever, the criminals usually lag behind the development of the
country as a whole, and that lends them a romantic aura. Fascism

soon surpassed Brechts description of it, which was perhaps ac
curate of a traditional basher-of-heads such as Rohm, even Goring
possibly, but looks quite anachronistic when confronted with fig
ures such as Heydrich, Bormann, or Hoss, who manifest a far
more abstract structure of the social order.
The criminals already lagged far behind fascism. Today, when
fascism itself is superannuated, since the nuclear implement makes
even the accomplishments of an Eichmann look paltry by compar
ison, the most advanced criminal gang looks like an heirloom of
former times, and it is unjust when the scholasticists of atomic
strategy, authors such as Morgenstern, Brodie, Kahn, and their
Soviet counterparts, speak of a two-gangster situation during
their dry runs: their calculations far exceed the imagination of a
criminal. After all, the ambition of two antagonistic gangsters is
to kill each other off, whereas the above-mentioned scholars have
their eye trained on the millions who are left out of their dry runs.
16.
Phraseology. The delinquent in our world therefore cuts a
comparatively harmless, almost sympathetic and humane figure.
His motives are comprehensible. As a victim and accomplice of
the now-illusory moral division of labor, he is fitted out by society
in a mythological costume. The gangster has been unable to fol
low the inexorable progress of society; the technological develop
ment liquidated his artisans methods of liquidation and replaced
them by industrial methods. Even figures like Trujillo and many
benefactors of his kind, who are still holding power in dozens
of countries, testify no matter how actual their rule to the his
torical lag of the countries they govern rather than to the future
of their metier. The old-time gangster, as well as the criminal trai
tor, is superannuated.
This explains the semantic difficulties one encounters as soon as
one tries to apply traditional legal concepts to the misdeeds of the
middle of the twentieth century. Instigator, culprit, aiding and
abetting, accomplice, accessory to the crime useful terms all when
used to describe a robbery have become vague and senseless. As
it says in the Jerusalem verdict:
With a huge and complicated crime of the kind with which
we are dealing here, a crime in which many people partici
pated on many different levels and through different acts as

planners, as organizers and as executors, depending on their
individual rank with a crime such as this the normal con
cepts of instigation and conspiracy make little sense. For these
crimes were committed massively, not only with respect to
the number of victims but also with respect to the number of
perpetrators; and the remove of a particular perpetrator from
the one who actually killed the victim, or his proximity to
him, is not a significant yardstick of his responsibility. Quite
on the contrary, this responsibility generally increases the fur
ther we get away from the one who actually wielded the
deadly instrument with his own hands.
But it is not only the concept of justice and its classifications,

but even the concept of crime itself, which becomes self-defeating
when applied to figures such as those who stand before our courts
today or who man the planning staffs for the crimes of tomorrow.
Whoever calls Hitler a common criminal belittles him and trans
figures him into the realm of the comprehensible. (Brechts Arturo
Ui is nothing but understatement: the playwright vainly seeks to
make the figure commensurable with the gangster.) Similarly, all
the talk about war criminals amounts to prettification, as un
intentional as that may be as though modern war could be given
the same denominator as petty crime. Crime, having become total,
explodes its concept.
This too is just one more example of the impotence of our hab
its of mind and speech in the face of the atomic situation. It was
a well-intentioned but absurd attempt that some American citizens
made some years ago when they brought suit against the contin
uation of atomic tests to the Supreme Court. The Court declared
itself incompetent. Our concepts, too, have become incompetent.
Gunter Anders was the one who showed most clearly that our
military implementation can no longer be understood as a weapon.
A political decision that would eliminate all further political deci
sions no longer deserves that label. There can be no responsibil
ity in the traditional sense of that word for an act that would
not leave anyone to ask any questions.
17. Final solution.
I can build a device I think I know how to do it today, I
doubt that it would take me ten years to do and I doubt that
it would cost me 10 billion dollars and this device which I

could bury, say, 2000 feet underground and, if detonated, it
would destroy everybody in the world at least all unpro
tected life. It can be done, I believe. In fact, I know it can be
done . Herman Kahn at the Centenary Celebration o f
M.I.T., 1961 .19
With quantum mechanics, mathematics has brought forth a dis

cipline that permits the scientist to calculate with the modification
of the infinitely small and infinitely large. A moral quantum me
chanics does not exist. Whoever seeks to make distinctions within
the unspeakably evil is not just dealing with semantic difficulties.
The failure of language only manifests the failure of our moral
capacities in the face of our own capabilities.
Legal casuistry is as incapable of handling the situation as polit
ical practice has been to date. Posterity attempts to judge those
responsible for Hitlers Final Solution even while busying itself
with the preparation of its own. This is its inconsistency. This
inconsistency is our only hope a tiny one. No future misdeed can
be equal to those of the past; misdeeds do not allow of subtraction,
only of summation. (Doubtlessly there exists a form of moral im
potence that believes Auschwitz can be diminished. It is particu
larly prevalent in Germany, where some persons seriously use the
word Wiedergutmachung indemnification even in official doc
uments.) Final Solutions cannot be made good again and
weighed, not even on the scale of justice. That is one further rea
son why the world must hold court over them; and one further
reason why this court does not suffice.
There are differences between the Final Solution of yesterday
and the Final Solution of tomorrow that is, between two uni
maginable acts:
1. The Final Solution of yesterday was accomplished. The Fi
nal Solution of tomorrow is only being prepared. But it is a fea
ture of the unconcept of this act that it can only be judged as long
as it has not been accomplished, for it will leave no judges, no
defendants, and no witnesses behind.
2. The Final Solution of yesterday was not prevented. The Fi
nal Solution of tomorrow can be prevented, although society seeks
to delegate its prevention, as well as its preparation, usually to one
and the same specialist. The prevention of the Final Solution can
be delegated no more than the Solution itself can be delegated.

Neither one nor the other will be the work of a single individual,
but the work of everyone; or it will not be at all. The mighty are
impotent without the impotent ones.
3. The Final Solution of yesterday was the work of a single
nation, the German one. Four nations have possession of the im
plement for the Final Solution of tomorrow. The governments of
many other nations are trying to obtain the implement. Some are
not.
4. The planning and realization of the Final Solution of yester
day was accomplished in secret. The planning of the Final Solu
tion of tomorrow occurs in public. In 1943 there lived persons
who were not accessories to the act. In 1964 there are only acces
sories.
5. The perpetrators of the Final Solution of yesterday were
recognizable. They wore uniforms; their victims wore a star. The
perpetrators of the Final Solution of tomorrow can no longer be
distinguished from their victims.
The Israeli psychiatrist who examined Eichmann called him a
completely normal man: he seems more normal to me than I do
to myself after having examined him. Another expert considered
him an exemplary family man and father. Eichmann busied him
self primarily with statistics, traffic schedules, and paperwork; still,
he saw his victims with his own eyes. The planner of the final
world war will be spared this sight.
For example, is Edward Teller guilty? Is the journalist guilty
who writes an article supporting the demand of German politi
cians to have the implement? Is the unknown mechanic from
Oklahoma or Magnitogorsk guilty? Is Mao Zedong guilty? Are
those guilty who believe in the chimera of the relaxation of ten
sion while candidates like Franz Josef Strauss and Barry Goldwater can campaign for the power over life and death? Is the con
struction firm owner guilty who builds a control bunker? Are there
still guilty parties in the future? Are there still innocent ones? Or
are there only family men and fathers, nature lovers, normal per
sons? The glass cage in Jerusalem stands empty.
3
Las Casas,
or A Look Back
into the Future
I
he Indies [that is: the West Indian Islands and the coasts of
Central and South America] were discovered in the year one
thousand four hundred and ninety-two. In the following year a
great many Spaniards went there with the intention of settling the
land. Thus, forty-nine years have passed since the first settlers pen
etrated the land, the first so-claimed being the large and most happy
isle called Flispaniola, which is six hundred leagues in circumfer
ence. Around it in all directions are many other islands, some very
big, others very small, and all of them were, as we saw with our
own eyes, densely populated with native peoples called Indians.
This large island was perhaps the most densely populated place in
the world. . . . And all the land so far discovered is a beehive of
people; it is as though God had crowded into these lands the great
majority of mankind.
And of all the infinite universe of humanity, these people are
the most guileless, the most devoid of wickedness and duplicity,
the most obedient and faithful to their native masters and to the
Spanish Christians whom they serve. They are by nature the most
humble, patient, and peaceable, holding no grudges, free from em
broilments, neither excitable nor quarrelsome. These people are
116
Las Casas, or A Look Back into the Future 117

the most devoid of rancors, hatreds, or desire for vengeance of
any people in the world. And because they are so weak and com
plaisant, they are less able to endure heavy labor and soon die of
no matter what malady. . . .
Yet into this sheepfold, into this land of meek outcasts there
came some Spaniards who immediately behaved like ravening
beasts, wolves, tigers or lions that had been starved for many days.
And Spaniards have behaved in no other way during the past forty
years, down to the present time, for they are still acting like rav
ening beasts, killing, terrorizing, afflicting, torturing, and destroy
ing the native peoples, doing all this with the strangest and most
varied new methods of cruelty, never seen or heard of be
fore. . . .
We can estimate very surely and truthfully that in the forty
years that have passed, with the infernal actions of the Christians,
there have been unjustly slain more than twelve million men,
women and children. In truth, I believe without trying to deceive
myself that the number of the slain is more like fifteen mil
lion. . . .
Their reason for killing and destroying such an infinite number
of souls is that the Christians have an ultimate aim, which is to
acquire gold, and to swell themselves with riches in a very brief
time and thus rise to a high estate disproportionate to their merits.
It should be kept in mind that their insatiable greed and ambition,
the greatest ever seen in the world, is the cause of their villainies.
And also, those lands are so rich and felicitous, the native peoples
so meek and patient, so easy to subject, and that our Spaniards
have no more consideration for them than beasts. And I say this
from my own knowledge of the acts I witnessed. But I should not
say than beasts for, thanks be to God, they have treated beasts
with some respect; I should say instead like excrement on the pub
lic squares.
So begins the Brief Account o f the Devastation of the Indies,
which Fray Bartolome de Las Casas wrote in 1542.
II
Whether what this book says is true, whether its author should
be believed this question has produced a quarrel that has been

smoldering, burning, and flaming up for four hundred years. This
quarrel has been waged by scholars, and their tracts and disserta
tions, their investigations and commentaries could fill an entire
library. Even in our day a generation of specialists in Spain, Mex
ico, South America, and the United States is poring over the faded
prints, letters, and manuscripts from the pen of the Dominican
monk from Seville. Yet the quarrel about Las Casas is not an ac
ademic one: what is under dispute is genocide, committed on
twenty million people.
Since such a state of affairs does not sit well with the preferred
contemplative stance of historical writing without anger and prej
udice, it is scarcely surprising that the colleagues from the monks
fraternity, the theologians, historians, and legal scholars have
dropped all niceties in their choice of weapons. Where they lacked
arguments they reached for rusty knives. They are, as we shall see,
in use even today. The Brief Account had scarcely been published
when the Court historian of Charles V, the famous Dr. Juan Gines
de Sepulveda, produced a pamphlet Against the premature, scan
dalous and heretical assertions which Fray Bartolome de las Casas
has made in his book about the conquest of the Indies, which he
has had printed without permission of the authorities. The very
title heavy-handedly alludes to the censor and the Inquisition. Later
Las Casas was called a traitor and a Lutheran. In 1562 the Coun
cil of the City of Mexico petitioned the King that Las Casass writ
ings had caused such an uproar that they had had to convene a
commission of legal scholars and theologians to draw up an ex
pert opinion against this impudent frater and his teachings ; the
king ought to reprimand Las Casas publically and prohibit his
books. A few years later the viceroy of Peru wrote: The books
of this fanatic and malicious bishop endanger the Spanish rule in
America. He too demanded a royal prohibition; he too commis
sioned a refutation: for the official historians the fight against
Las Casas turned into a flourishing business. The assessor, a man
by the name of Pedro Sarmiento de Gamboa, had the following to
say: The devil has made a cunning chess move by making this
deluded churchman his tool. In 1659 the censor of the Inquisi
tion office in Aragon ruled that this book reports of very horri
fying and cruel actions, incomparable in the history of other na
tions, and ascribes them to Spanish soldiers and colonizers whom
the Spanish King sent forth. In my opinion such reports are an

insult to Spain. They must therefore be suppressed. Thereupon
the Holy Tribunal of Saragossa finally issued a prohibition of the
book in 1660. Yet new editions kept appearing: in 1748 the Se
ville chamber of commerce had a Latin translation confiscated,
and even in 1784 the Spanish ambassador to France demanded a
confiscation of a reprint.
Since the seventeenth century Las Casass opponents have de
veloped an even more elegant method to extirpate him. The his
torian Juan Melendez, a Dominican, simply declared at that time
that the Brief Account was a forgery; noted authorities, whom
he asked, had informed him that the book was written by a
Frenchman and had been translated into Spanish with a forged
title, something which should surprise no one: as the Spanish en
joyed the greatest fame as proclaimers of truth, the forgers had no
choice but to camouflage their lies in this manner. Even in 1910 a
Spanish historian seriously maintained that the Brief Account, to
the best of human judgment, was not by Las Casas.
The reputation of the accused was not notably improved by this
astonishing acquittal. Recent historians who write in Spanish have
characterized him in the following words: mentally ill (1927);
a pig-headed anarchist (1930); a preacher of Marxism (1937);
a dangerous demagogue (1944); a leveler possessed by the
devil (1946); delusionary in his conceptions, boundless and in
opportune in his expression (1947); and the most respected
Spanish historian of the twentieth century, Ramon Menendez Pidal, in 1963 in Madrid, at age ninety-three, published an extensive
book, in which he sought to exorcise the spirit of Las Casas once
and for all. An American, Lewis Hanke, who has devoted his life
to the study of the Conquista, remarks about this work of exor
cism:
Don Ramon passionately denies that Las Casas was an hon
orable man. He calls him a megalomaniac paranoid. In his
retrospective look at the conquista Don Ramon scarcely de
tects a single dead Indian through his colored glasses: instead
he sees a scene of well-being and of cultural progress for which
America has to thank the Spaniards.
Only the unparalleled success that the Brief Account has had makes
these tenacious and furious polemics comprehensible. Las Casas
wrote a great deal: large-scale chronicles, theological and legal dis

putations, petitions and tractates. To this day there is no complete
edition of his works. The ones with the greatest scholarly signifi
cance were first published in 1877 and 1909. There are obvious
reasons for their long submersion in darkness. The Brief Account,
true to its title, is nothing but a concise synopsis of the investiga
tions and experiences that Las Casas elaborates in greater detail
elsewhere. It was meant for a single reader: his Catholic Majesty,
Charles I of Spain, as Charles V, Emperor of the Holy Roman
Empire. Yet the Brief Account's appearance in book form, at a
time when printing was just beginning to flourish, acquainted all
of Europe with it. Its original publication in 1552 in Seville was
followed by translations into all the important languages of the
time: Paris (1579), London (1583), Amsterdam (1607), and Ven
ice (1630) were the first foreign places of publication, followed by
Barcelona, Brussels, Lyon, Frankfort, and later by Philadelphia,
New York, Havana, Buenos Aires, Lima, Sao Paula, Mexico, and
Santiago de Chile.
The books sensational effect provides an early example of the
power of the press. The Brief Account reached one of its climaxes
during the rivalry between Spain and England at the turn of the
sixteenth century. A second wave of translations was brought on
by the French Enlightenment. The third flood of reprints oc
curred between 18 10 and 1830 in Latin America; at that time the
Brief Account won direct influence on the leaders of the wars of
independence against the Spanish colonial power. Simon Bolivar
valued Las Casas, and the fact that he himself was a descendant
of the conquistadors did not prevent him from making the book
serve his revolutionary intentions. Las Casas had to serve as the
chief witness against the Spanish even during the Spanish Ameri
can War in 1899, which secured control over the Caribbean area
and rule over the Philippines for the United States.
The Brief Account was not spared by the tumult of power-po
litical interests. Time and again Spains opponents used Las Casas,
often in a pharisaical manner, and so it is not surprising that the
Hispanic world to this day discusses the book from a perspective
that seems foolish to us: namely, whether or not it sullies the
honor of Spain. Las Casas has become the exponent of the socalled Black Legend, leyenda negra, as the Spanish historians with
a terminological trick call every conception of the conquest of South
Las Casas, or A Look Back into the Future
121
America that does not sing the official song of praise: as though
what disparages the honor of Spain had been seized, willy-nilly,
out of the blue.
This whole polemic is antiquated and superfluous. Spains honor
does not interest us. The French enlightener Jean Francois Marmontel, in his work on the destruction of the Inca empire, refer
ring to Las Casas, already stated in 1777 what there is to be said
on this subject: All nations have their robbers and fanatics, their
times of barbarousness, their attacks of rabies. The question of
national character is not on the agenda. The extermination of the
European Jews by the Germans, the Stalinist purges, the destruc
tion of Dresden and Nagasaki, the French terror in Algeria, the
Americans in Southeast Asia have demonstrated even to the most
obtuse that all peoples are capable of everything; and as the Brief
Account of the Devastation of the Indies is published once more,
in a new English translation, the last of the Indians in Brazil are
being inexorably exterminated.
The historians of the nineteenth century tried tenaciously, at
times desperately, to invalidate Las Casas, and not only out of
chauvinism or cowardice, but because the events he describes would
have destroyed their historical picture. They believed in the mis
sion of Christianity or in the values of European civilization,
and what transpired during their own time in the Congo, in In
donesia, in India and China they would have considered as impos
sible as the genocide Las Casas described.
We have no such doubts. The news we receive on TV each day
would suffice to disabuse us of them. The actuality of the book is
monstrous, has a penetratingly contemporaneous smell to it. O f
course our way of reading it is not devoid of an element of decep
tion. Every historical analogy is ambiguous: for whoever rejects
this analogy, history becomes a pile of meaningless facts; for
whoever accepts it at face value, leveling the specific differences, it
becomes aimless repetition, and he draws the false conclusion that
it has always been this way and the tacit consequence that, there
fore, it will always remain so too. No, Las Casas was not our
contemporary. His report treats colonialism in its earliest stage;
that is, the stage of robbery pure and simple, of unconcealed plun
dering. The complicated system of exploitation of international
raw materials was as yet unknown at his time. Trade relations did

not play a role during the Spanish Conquista, nor the spread of a
superior material civilization; no development policy of what
ever kind served it as justification only a veneer of Christianity
that proposed to convert the heathen, inasmuch as they survived
the Christians arrival. In its primal state colonialism could do
without the fiction of partnership, of bilateral trade. It did not
offer anything; it took what it found: slaves, gold, anything it
pleased. Its investments were confined to the indispensable essen
tials of every colonial exploitation: to armed power, administra
tion, and the fleet. For these reasons the Spanish conquerors could
also ignore the dialectic of enslavement that Sartre describes in a
few sentences:
That is what is so annoying about slavery: if you tame a
member of our species, you diminish his or her profitability;
and as little as you provide him or her with, a human being
as a workhorse is always going to cost more than he or she
earns. That is why the colonial masters are forced to stop
their breaking-in process halfway. The result: neither human
being nor animal, but native. . . . Poor colonial masters: that
constitutes his dilemma. He should really kill those whom he
robs. But that is just what he cannot do, because he also has
to exploit them. He cannot transform the massacre into gen
ocide or the enslavement to the point of brutalization, and
that is why he must necessarily lose control.
Such a dilemma only occurs when the colonialists set themselves

long-term objectives, when they begin to calculate the profitability
of their venture. Such a rational procedure of exploitation was
unknown in the sixteenth century. The conquistadors did not know
double-entry bookkeeping, not even the tally of the simplest sta
tistics; the continents depopulation did not trouble them.
Las Casass opponents did not hesitate to make him responsible,
as it were, for the irrationality of the genocide. There is no trust
ing his figures, it was and still is said; they betray a medieval re
lationship to arithmetic. South and Central America never held
twelve, fifteen or twenty million inhabitants during the time of the
conquest; as in the reports of the crusaders the word million sim
ply means many people. Such an approach has something repul
sive about it from the very outset. It would like to prove Las Casas
a liar but let the murderers go scot-free because they only killed

eight, five or three million Indians instead of twenty million. That
is the way the National Zeitung protects the German fascists,
claiming that not six million Jews were killed but at most five.
Aside from the moral insanity manifested by such sophistry, it
is also factually wrong. Two American scholars who have inves
tigated the demographic conditions in old Mexico in recent years
reached the conclusion that in the thirty years between Cortezs
landing and the writing of the Brief Account the population of
Central Mexico dwindled from twenty-five to roughly six million.
That means that the Conquista must have had nineteen million
victims in Mexico alone; Las Casas names only four. Even if one
takes into account viral illnesses, malaria, famine, and forced la
bor that is, the indirect causes of the depopulation one reaches
the conclusion that Las Casas was probably rather too careful with
| his figures.
Let us leave these arithmetic examples aside. Las Casas spent
more than forty years in the American colonies. What he reports
are, in large part, observations and firsthand experiences. The wit
nesss life testifies to their authenticity. Where his observations
contradict the reports of other witnesses the historical investigator
must engage in lengthy comparisons. We are not engaged in any
thing of the kind. What is decisive for todays reader of the Brief
Account are two criteria that academic investigators usually ig
nore; that is, first of all, the inner cohesiveness of the book, its eye
for detail, its care in sketching the episode. Las Casas rarely spends
much time with abstract theses, and he not only decribes the most
horrible cruelties, but also shows the grinding everyday life; he
shows us, if the abbreviation be permitted, not only the torture
instrument, but also the fight for the daily crust of bread.
A second, external criterion of Las Casass credibility is the pre
cision of his view of the structure of colonial rule. Since these
structures still exist today his statements are verifiable. For this,
one does not need to be a Hispanic scholar; a visit to South Africa
will suffice.
If one tests the Brief Account from this perspective one notices,
first of all, its authors economic acuity. The cleric Las Casas did
not confine himself to theological observations; he analyzed the
basic structure and exposed the technique of colonial exploitation,

whose first step is the recruitment of forced labor. For this pur
pose there existed the so-called encomienda system. Encomienda
means as much as recommendation. A random number of Indians
were distributed by the local commanders to the individual Span
ish landowners and recommended to them for the reason that
they required this protection for their prompt conversion. In real
ity, the status of these proteges was that of serfs: they were totally
at the mercy of their new masters and received no wages or up
keep for the work that their protector (encomendero) asked them
to do.
The economy of the colonializers concentrated on two forms of
business that dominate the economy of many South American na
tions to this day: mining and plantations. But whereas the North
America concerns now extract tin, copper, lead, and vanadium,
the conquistadors were interested in one metal only: gold.
Contact with the motherland during the time of the Conquista
was expensive, time-consuming, and dangerous; exploitation of the
overseas possessions thus had to confine itself to the most valuable
commodities. That explains a further specialty of the colonializers:
the pearl fishing in the Caribbean of which Las Casas provides an
unforgettable description:
The pearl fishers dive into the sea at a depth of five fathoms,
and do this from sunrise to sunset, and remain for many min
utes without breathing, tearing the oysters out of their rocky
beds where the pearls are formed. . . . It is impossible to
continue for long diving into the cold water and holding the
breath for minutes at a time, repeating this hour after hour,
day after day; the continual cold penetrates them, constricts
the chest, and they die spitting blood, or weakened by diar
rhea. The hair of these pearl divers, naturally black, is as if
burnished by the saltpeter in the water, and hangs down their
back making them look like sea wolves or monsters of an
other species.
That is not a hearsay report; only someone who has seen the
burnished hair and the encrusted shoulders with his own eyes
speaks like that. This description by Las Casas led, incidentally,
to a royal prohibition of pearl fishing one of the few, albeit short
lived, victories that fell the valiant bishops way.
Another enterprise that Las Casas deals with could only develop

when one region after the other had been depopulated: the slave
trade. After the Indians had been cut down by the millions and
tormented to death, the colonializers noted with astonishment and
even with a certain regret that they were running out of labor
power. At this moment the savage became a commodity and the
deportations became a profitable business in which the military
and officials, who formed primitive corporations, engaged on their
own account.
The colonized world is a divided world. The dividing line,
the border is marked by barracks and police stations. The
rightful and institutional interlocutor of the colonized, the
spokesman of the colonial masters and the repressive regime
is the cop or the soldier. . . . The agent of power employs
the language of pure power. He does not conceal his sover
eignty, he exhibits it. . . . The colonial master is an exhibi
tionist. His need for security makes him remind the colo
nized, with a loud voice: I am master.
These sentences are from a modern phenomenology of colonial

rule. Frantz Fanon developed it in the first chapter of his book
The Wretched of the Earth (1961). Las Casass observations, made
four hundred years earlier, agree with them exactly. Even the
manifestly senseless cruelties, even the conquistadors terroristic
arbitrariness had its psychological function in that it demonstra
tively cut the New World in two. Proof of the fact that the Indians
were not human beings was provided by the Spaniards anew every
day when they acted as if they were not dealing with human beings:
But I should not say than beasts for, thanks be to God, they
have treated beasts with some respect; I should say instead like
excrement on the public squares.
(Referring to the concentration camps of the twentieth century,
Hannah Arendt has written that, if one appealed to the healthy
human understanding of those in power by pointing out to them
the superfluousness of the gigantic apparatus of terror, directed
against completely pliable human beings, they might answer if they
wanted to state the truth: this apparatus only seems superfluous
to you because it serves to make human beings superfluous.)
But the blind terror with which the colonial masters demon
strate who they are and that the colonized are nothing leads to a

new dilemma. It assures the colonizers of their identity while si
multaneously endangering their ideology. Once they become afraid
of the colonized their terror robs them of their justification, which
they would not like to relinquish. For the colonial master not only
wants to have power, he also wants to be in the right: he keeps
asserting ad nauseam that he has a mission, that he serves God
and the King, that he is spreading the Christian teachings and the
values of civilization in a word, that he basically has something
higher in mind. He cannot do so without a good conscience. But
this means that he must hide the terror that he practices so osten
tatiously and must deny his own demonstration. Something pecu
liarly schizophrenic, an insane formalism, thus is attached to all
colonial undertakings. O f this, too, the Brief Account provides an
excellent example:
And because of the pernicious blindness that has always
afflicted those who have ruled in the Indies, nothing was done
to incline the Indians to embrace the one true Faith, they
were rounded up and in large numbers forced to do so. In
asmuch as the conversion of the Indians to Christianity was
stated to be the principal aim of the Spanish conquerors, they
have dissimulated the fact that only with blood and fire have
the Indians been brought to embrace the Faith and to swear
obedience to the kings of Castile or by threats of being slain
or taken into captivity. As if the Son of God who died for
each one of them would have countenanced such a thing!-For
He commanded His Apostles: Go ye to all the people
(.Euntes docete omnes gentes). Christ Jesus would have made
no such demands of these peaceable infidels who cultivate the
soil of their native lands. Yet they are told they must embrace
the Christian Faith immediately, without hearing any sermon
preached and without any indoctrination. They are told to
subject themselves to a King they have never heard of nor
seen and are told this by the Kings messengers who are such
despicable and cruel tyrants that deprive them of their liberty,
their possessions, their wives and children. This is not only
absurd but worthy of scorn.
This wretch of a Governor thus gave such instructions in
order to justify his and their presence in the Indies, they
themselves being absurd, irrational, and unjust when he sent
the thieves under his command to attack and rob a settlement
of Indians where he had heard there was a store of gold,
telling them to go at night when the inhabitants were securely
in their houses and that, when half a league away from the

settlement, they should read in a loud voice his order: Ca
ciques and Indians of this land, hark ye! We notify you that
there is but one God and one Pope and one King of Castile
who is the lord of these lands. Give heed and show obedi
ence! Etc., etc. And if not, be warned that we will wage
war against you and will slay you or take you into captivity.
Etc., etc.
The sentence that not the murderer but the victim is guilty be
comes the dominant maxim under colonial rule. The native is
the potential criminal per se who must be held in check, a traitor
who threatens the order of the state: Those who did not rush
forth at once, Las Casas says, to entrust themselves into the
hands of such ruthless, gruesome and beastial men were called
rebels and insurgents who wanted to escape the service of His
Majesty.
But this guilty verdict is the very thing that helps the colonized
to perceive their situation. For it leads to its own fulfillment: fic
tion becomes reality, the raped resort to violence. Las Casas de, scribes several instances where it came to armed actions of resis1 tance, even to small guerrilla wars. He calls the Indian attacks,
where a considerable number of Christians lost their lives, a
just and holy war whose justifiable causes will be acknowl
edged by every man who loves justice and reason. Without hesi
tating, in three sweeping sentences that have been left unscarred
by the centuries, Las Casas thinks his thoughts to their conclusion:
And those wretches, those Spaniards, blinded by greed, think
they have the God-given right to perpetrate all these cruelties
and cannot see that the Indians have cause, have abundant
causes, to attack them and by force of arms if they had weap
ons, to throw them out of their lands, this under all the laws,
natural, human, and divine. And they cannot see the injustice
of their acts, the iniquity of the injuries and inexpiable sins
they have committed against the Indians, and they renew their
wars, thinking and saying that the victories they have had
against the Indians, laying waste the lands, have all been ap
proved by God and they praise Him , like the thieves of whom
the prophet Zechariah speaks: Feed the flock of the slaugh
ter; whose possessors slay them, and hold themselves not
guilty: and they that sell them say, Blessed be the Lord; for I
am rich.

The book that Las Casas left behind is a scandal. In its original
sense the word scandal means trap. The scholars who warn us
of him have entangled themselves in that old skandalon. They do
not sense that their quarrel is only a distant echo of a huge conflict.
The tempest in the teapot of their profession points to other tem
pests. The ruffle in the historical consciousness indicates enormous
tremors in historical reality. The process that began with the Conquista is not yet over. It continues in South America, Africa, and
Asia. It does not behoove us to speak the verdict about the monk
from Seville. Perhaps he has spoken ours.
in
Don Bartolome de Las Casas was born in 1474 as the son of an
aristocrat. The family came from the Limousin region and achieved
respected and prosperous status in Andalusia. In 1492, when Co
lumbus was venturing on his first trip to the West, Las Casas was
taking up theological and legal studies at the University of Sala
manca. His father, Don Francisco, was one of the tirst Europeans
to see the new continent. The name Las Casas appears in the reg
ister of the Santa Maria. But we have little information about the
fathers activities. Not even his arrival in America is certain; some
historians even claim that he only took part in Columbus second
journey. In any event, Don Francisco had already returned to Se
ville in 1497. He left no permanent traces in the history of the
Conquista. His son must have followed him in the last years of
the fifteenth century. His presence in Hispaniola is confirmed as
of 1502. In 1511 he was elected to the priesthood in Santo Do
mingo. Evidently Don Bartolome began to take interest in the Indian
culture almost at once. There is testimony that he was a muchsought-after interpreter. During his life he learned more than a
dozen Indian dialects. Besides, for fifteen years he behaved no dif
ferently than the other colonizers. He made the acquaintance of
the leading people of the Conquista: Cortez, Pizarro, Alvarado,
Pedrarias, and Columbus the Younger. In 1512 he went with Diego
Velasquez and Panfilo de Narvaez to Cuba. The intention of this
expedition was to pacify, that is to subjugate, the island com
pletely. As Las Casas himself reports in his History of the Indies,

he cared more about his possessions and his mines than about
the Christian teachings; for he was just as blind as the secular
settlers.
It is possible to give the precise date on which he began his lifework. At Pentecost 1514, aged forty, Las Casas was to give a
sermon at the newly founded Ciudad de Espfritu Santo.
While preparing for this sermon I began to think about sev
eral principles of Holy Scripture. 1 came upon a place in the
book Sirach, chapter 34, where it says: TTie poor man has
nothing but a little bread; whoever deprives him of it is a
murderer. Whoever does not give the worker his wages is a
bloodhound. . . . I thought about the misery and slavery in
which the native people are living here. . . . And the more I
thought about it the more convinced I was that everything
we had done to the Indians so far was nothing but tyranny
and barbarism. . . . And as much as I studied in every book
I read, no matter whether it was in Spanish or in Latin, I
came on more and new reasons and authentic teachings which
spoke for the right of those Indian people and against the
robberies, misdeeds and injustices we had committed.
i
. This discovery, the second discovery of the New World, a world

that has not been surveyed to this day, occupied Las Casas to the
end of his life. This has nothing to do with religious enlighten
ment. Las Casas carefully insisted that this insight was accessible
1 to everyone; he insisted on its rationality and with shining intelli
gence drew from it all theoretical and practical consequences.
First of all he renounced all the possessions and slaves that had
been assigned to him and proceeded to interfere in the administra
tive practice of the Conquista. The first objective of his attack was
the terrorist methods of its justice. Soon occurred the first conflict
between the frater and the commanders of the pacification of
Cuba. Las Casas intervened with the Governor, appealed for mercy
and wrote petitions, frequently in vain. The conflict developed a
i logic of its own. The monk reached the conclusion that the exe
cutions could not be fought separately from the system as a whole,
which depends on the executions to maintain itself. In spring 1515
he therefore looked up the royal general repartidor for the Indian
lands, the person who represented the system of forced labor, and
revealed to him that his activity was derisive of all Godly and

human laws. Simultaneously, Las Casas turned with petitions,
assessments, and complaints to the Spanish court.
The official is supposed to have listened to the unknown cleric
without moving a muscle in his face; yet with this audience there
began the unpleasantness that was to accompany Las Casas for
the rest of his life. His letters got lost, his income did not arrive,
and his attempts to get ships passage met with the greatest diffi
culties. For Las Casas had decided to go to Madrid, to reach the
King and effect the enactment of laws that would eliminate the
whole system of slavery. This project is characteristic of Las Casas.
His contemporaries thought him mad. Yet the mixture of boldness
and naivete with which he went to work was perhaps one of his
greatest assets. Time and again it protected Las Casas and took
his opponents by surprise. Besides, his strategy was entirely consis
tent. There was no authority in the colonies on whose support he
could count: clerics and laymen, officials and private persons all
were participants in that firm whose earnings were threatened by
Don Bartolomes ideas.
In the summer of 1515 Las Casas began the first of fourteen
journeys he undertook to protect the inhabitants of the West In
dies from being exterminated. He reached King Ferdinand V, via
his confessor, and before him made a thorough report of the con
ditions in America. There is no account of this audience, but the
King was apparently sufficiently moved to convene a commission
to investigate the Indian question. Las Casas was asked to ap
pear in Seville; his testimony made the commission recommend to
the King that he should settle the matter legally. It is questionable
whether Don Bartolome at that time already knew the rules of the
game that he had entered and that, always with new subterfuges,
was to be protracted over a period of fifty years. He presumably
did not know that the members, two bishops and one official, had
a material interest in the exploitation of the West Indies: they re
ceived considerable income from that source. When the King died
a few months after the audience, the commission dissolved itself.
There was no further mention of the new laws. An intervention
with the new monarch looked hopeless Charles V, who was six
teen at the time, did not live in Spain. Las Casas now turned to
the Grand Inquisitor, who was the Kings representative. Ximenes

made the Dominican Defensor universal de los Indios, the ad
viser to all royal authorities on the Indian question and reporter
to a new commission that was to accompany him to the Indies.
There were new maneuvers, bribery attempts, denunciations, and
intrigues; new trips, subpoenas, reports, delays, obstacles, open
and concealed sabotage. In 1520 Las Casas finally achieved an
audience with Charles V.
There occurred a lively interchange about which we are in
formed in detail. In the conversation, which formally resembled
the hearing of our days, there participated the chancellor of the
Spanish crown, several members of the Indian council, a represen
tative of the commission of 1516, as well as the general notary of
the Indian territories, a certain Conchillos, who represented the
interests of the slave trade. The vehement dispute ended with the
general notary offering his resignation to the King, which was ac
cepted. Las Casas left with the title of court chaplain. The King
reached the following decision: the procedure of the conquistadors
in the Indian lands had been illegal; the Indian council should
work out a plan by which the American possessions could be gov
erned without the force of weapons.
The man who accomplished all this at the imperial court was
no longer a newcomer but an experienced politician familiar with
the way in which those who governed thought. Las Casas had not
lost his uninhibitedness and he was less than ever prepared for
compromises; yet surprisingly quickly he had developed into a tac:ician of great style. A few places in the Brief Account allow us to
reconstruct his line of argument toward the King. He proceeded in
every respect from the assumption that the King knew nothing of
the crimes being committed in his name.
Your Majesty will find out that there are no Christians in
these lands; instead, there are demons. There are neither ser
vants of God nor of the King. Because, in truth, the great ob
stacle to my being able to bring the Indians from war-making
to a peaceful way of life, and to bringing the knowledge of
God to those Indians who are peaceful is the harsh and cruel
treatment of these Indians by the Spanish Christians. For
which scabrous and bitter reason no word can be more hate
ful to those Indians than the word Christian which they ren
der in their language as Yares, meaning Demons. And with
out a doubt they are right, because the actions of these

Governors are neither Christian nor humane but are actions
of the devil.
Such sentences acquit the King of all complicity; but they are
that much more dangerous for his representatives. Their ambigu
ity appears as soon as Las Casas turns to the question of how the
booty is to be divided.
Our King and Master has been deceived by certain highly
pernicious and deceitful machinations; just as there have been
continual efforts to hide the truth from Him that the Span
iards in the Indies are transgressing in the most terrible man
ner against God and M an and against His Majestys royal
honor.
O f course Las Casas was completely aware that the Spanish

crown was totally dependent on the income from the colonies.
One year before the audience the Augsburg business firm Welser
had financed the election of Charles V, and his dependency on the
banks was notorious everywhere in Europe. Las Casas also turned
this situation to his advantage. He charged that the conquistadors
violent behavior had cost the King hundreds of thousands of crowns
year after year; their conduct deprived the state treasury and only
enriched the local governors. This line of argument finally amounts
to a demand for centralization and refinement of colonial exploi- i
tation, yet it certainly must have made more of an impression on
Charles V than all the theological and legal arguments that Las
Casas brought to bear.
Besides, Las Casas himself fell victim to the tactical ingenuity
that he manifested in his 1520 audience. At that time he is sup
posed to have pointed out the delicate constitution of the Indians
and have said that the inhabitants of Africa were far better suited
for the toil of the mine and plantation work. This suggestion was ,
taken up, and in the course of the following 350 years between
fifteen and twenty million people were dragged off and sold as
slaves to America. The slave trade, one of the biggest business
deals in the history of the world, invoked the words Las Casas
had uttered in 1520 and called him its patron. He did not de- i
fend himself, but in his Historia general de las Indias one finds the
lapidary sentence:

The priest Las Casas was the first to suggest that one should
introduce Africans to the West Indies. He did not know what
he was doing. When he heard that the Portuguese were catch
ing people in Africa against all laws and made them into slaves
he bitterly regretted his words . . . the right of the Blacks is
the same as that of the Indians.
Las Casas had found the support of the King. But the King
was remote. The laws got stuck. Little changed in the practice of
American colonialization. In 1523 Don Bartolome entered a Do
minican monastery in Hispaniola where he remained for nearly
ten years. During this time he laid the theoretical foundation for
his future actions. His major scholarly works were begun and con
ceived at that time: first the Apologetic Fiistory of the Indies, then
the source book, the Historia general de las Indias. Though they
may find some fault with Las Casass methods, these works are
invaluable for the modern historian of the Conquista. Their au
thor was gifted with the instinct and sagacity of the true historian.
He systematically collected manuscripts, letters, and official docu
ments that referred to the conquest of America. The world is in
debted to him, for example, for the knowledge of Columbuss ships
diaries a transcript in his archives preserved them. However, Las
Casas did not confine himself to the role of a chronicler. His un
derstanding of the Indian cultures helped him to gain anthropo
logical insights that were completely alien to his contemporaries.
He supported the opinion that the American cultures could not be
measured by European standards, one should understand them out
of their own prerequisites. He was probably the first to compare
the Mayan temples in Yucatan to the pyramids. He felt that the
Spanish had no reason whatsoever to feel superior to the Indians;
I he preferred them in many respects to his own countrymen. Such
insights announce, two hundred years before Vico, the dawning
of a historical consciousness. Las Casas understood human culture
as an evolutionary process and he understood that civilization is
not a singular but a plural: he discovered the discontemporaneity
of historical developments and the relativity of the European po
sition. With such a historical understanding he stands, as far as I
can tell, quite alone in the sixteenth century. To the governments
of the West, judging by their actions, such an understanding has
remained alien to this day.

In the 1530s Las Casas resumed the political fight. He first vis
ited Venezuela, Peru, New Granada, Darien, and Guatemala. There
was another fracas in Nicaragua in 1539. One of the Dominicans
sermons provoked the soldiers of a Spanish expeditionary corps
to desert. The expedition ended with a defeat of the depleted troops
whose commander denounced Las Casas in Madrid for treason.
Again he had to make the trip to Spain, which at that time took
from eight to sixteen weeks, so as to defend himself. It was at this
time that he wrote the Brief Account, had himself consecrated
bishop, and finally effected a comprehensive legal regulation of
the Indian question. The new laws Las Nuevas Leyes de las Indias were announced in Seville in 1542. They prohibited the
viceroys and governors, all royal officials and soldiers, the clerics
and monasteries, and all public institutions from taking Indians
into their service by way of the encomienda. All Indians who were
subject to this law or those who had been recommended with
out royal decree were considered free. The law awarded every na
tive worker an appropriate wage. Pearl fishing was prohibited. The
new laws end with the sentence: The inhabitants of the Indian
Lands are to be treated in every respect as free subjects of the
crown of Castile: for there exists no difference between the latter
and the former.
The new laws immediately encountered bitter and organized re
sistance in the Spanish colonies in America. The entrepreneurs
openly declared that they were dependent on the slave economy.
The judges for the most part sided with the local interests; but
even when they were not bribed it proved impossible for them to
assert the new laws against the will of the military and civil ad
ministration. After four years the attempt by the protector of all
the Indians to secure their rights legislatively broke down once
and for all. Under pressure from the American interests, Charles
V revoked the laws on November 20, 1545.
Las Casas, already an old man, must have realized that his fight
could not be won politically. However, he did not think of resign
ing. He withdrew to a terrain where the pressure group of plan
tation owners could not attack him. This was the area of everyday
theological practice. As bishop of Chiapas in Mexico, he issued a
text with the following title: Confessional: that is, Aid to all con
fessors who have to give the sacrament to the Spanish gentlemen
in the Indian lands. This penitential sets forth the condition under
which a conquistador, a plantation or mine owner, a slave or
weapon dealer can receive absolution. Las Casas demanded as
} prerequisite a notarized protocol in which the penitent had to ob
ligate himself to complete indemnification in legally binding form.
Since such documents were usually drawn up at the deathbed, this
amounted to a creation of testaments in favor of the Indians. The
Aid determined down to the smallest detail how the dying per1 sons possessions were to be disposed of and how the inheritance
1 was to be legally handled. The effect of the text was sensational.
Las Casas had found a stronger ally than the King: the Spaniards
fear of hell. The advice he gave to the confessors meant that every
one who refused to fulfill the conditions would be excommuni
cated. O f course Las Casass penitential was effective in only a
few dioceses. After a few years the horror of the faithful subsided
and the penitential fell into disuse. Still, it earned its author a new
denunciation for high treason and insult to the crown; the peni
tential could have the effect, so the accusation claimed, of under
mining royal sovereignty in the West Indies. Once again Las Casas
had to follow a subpoena to Madrid. He left America in the sum
mer of 1547, never to return.
Las Casas was almost eighty years old. The proceeding against
him petered out. He had himself divested of his bishops office. In
the decade left in his life he continued his anthropological and
legal research and published the first edition of his works. Every
thing he thought and wrote focused on the problem of colonial
ism. He was to have one last great public appearance before the
political and academic world in 1550. This was the famous dis
putation of Valladolid. The man whom Las Casas confronted there
was the leading ideologist of the Conquista: Juan Gines de Sepul
veda. The conflict was conducted very sharply by both sides. There
exists a record of this conversation, whose florid title points to the
heart of the dispute: Disputation or controversy between the bishop
Fray Don Bartolome de Las Casas, formerly head pastor of the
' royal city of Chiapas, which lies in the Indies and belongs to New
i Spain; and Dr. Gines de Sepulveda, the court chronicler of our
imperial majesty; about whether, as the Doctor claims, the con
; quest of the Indian lands and the war against the Indians is justi
fied; or whether, as the Bishop counters and proclaims, the war is

tyrannical, unjust and illegal; which question was probed in the
presence of many theological and legal scholars at an assembly
which was convened by the wish and will of his majesty in Valla
dolid in 1550.
The disputation ended with a complete defeat for Sepulveda,
who withdrew from his courtly office and whose book About the
Just War Against the Indians fell victim to the Inquisition. Like all
of Las Casass victories, this, too, was a Pyrrhic one. The theory
of the Conquista had been heavily damaged, but nothing changed
in the condition of the Indians.
Las Casas died in the summer of 1566 in Madrid. On his desk
was found his last manuscript: About the Sixteen Remedies against
the Plague which has Exterminated the Indians. The death can
dle in his hand, it says in a contemporary report, and prepared
to depart this world, he begged his friends to continue the defense
of the Indians. He was sad that he had been able to achieve so
little for them, yet was convinced that in everything he had done
he had done right.
There is no monument in Spain to remind you of Las Casas,
and no one knows where he is buried.
Bartolome de las Casas was not a radical. He did not preach
revolution. His loyalty to the church and to the crown are undis
puted. He fought for the equal rights of the Indians as subjects of
an authority he acknowledged. A radical transformation of the
social order was as unthinkable for him as for his contemporaries;
he wanted to bring the one that existed to the point where it would
live up to its own ideology. Every social order contains a utopia
with which it decorates itself and that it simultaneously distorts.
Las Casas did not guess that this promise, which was also con
trary to the idea of the state of his time, can only be fulfilled at
the price of revolution, partially, occasionally, as long and insofar
as a new form of domination does not encapsulate and negate it
again.
Yet utopian thoughts were not alien to Las Casas. He was the
contemporary of Thomas More and of Machiavelli, of Rabelais
and of Giovanni Botero. In 1521 he tried nothing less than the
founding of his own Nova Atlantis. The undertaking shows the

unity of theory and practice that characterizes all his work. It ended
catastrophically.
At his audience with Charles V, Las Casas suggested to the Em
peror, as proof that his principles withstood the test of practice,
to found a model colony of the plough and the word. The Em
peror decreed the district of Cumana in Venezuela to him with the
proviso that no Spanish subject may enter this territory with
arms. Las Casas recruited a group of farmers, outfitted an un
armed expedition, and started to build his colony. Attacks by
Spanish soldiers and by slave dealers on the peaceful territory, up
risings by embittered Indians, whiskey smuggling, and acts of vio
lence destroyed the colony in a short time. None of the defeats he
suffered hurt Las Casas more deeply than this loss.
The proof of the experiment has not been exhausted to this day.
There is no peaceful colonialism. Colonial rule cannot be founded
on the plough and the word, but only on the sword and the fire.
Every alliance for progress needs its gorillas, every peaceful
penetration is dependent on its bomber commando, and every
reasonable reformer such as General Lansdale finds his Marshal
Ky.
Bartolome de Las Casas was not a reformer. The new colonial
ism that today rules the poor world cannot invoke his name. In
the decisive question of force, Las Casas never wavered; the sub
jugated people lead, in his words, a just struggle, the lawful basis
of which will be acknowledged by every reasonable and justiceloving man. The regime of the wealthy over the poor, which Las
Casas was the first to describe, has not ended. The Brief Account
is a look back into our own future.
Berlin Commonplaces
1.
Revenant. A ghost is haunting Europe: the ghost of the rev
olution. The returnee is greeted like its great predecessor: with
scorn and panic, skepticism and hysteria, and it also encounters
only in smaller doses pacification and suppression. The doomsayers are at work; the manslaughterers are waiting for their turn.
What is being mentioned is only a shadow now. The revolution
in Europe is not a material force. It gives a disembodied effect
because it lacks a strong class basis. Many consider it a fad, the
cause of the minority of a minority, that is the intellectuals. It is
true: the ruling class tn the metropolises has succeeded in melting
down the political consciousness of the majority, in liquidating it.
It is a sign of the suppression that rules our societies that political
awareness has become the privilege of a minority and that only
the minority of a minority makes use of this privilege.
But theres no shadow without a body, no ghost without a
corpse. The shadow of the revolution is the shadow of another,
greater one, of the hungering, plundered, and bomb-torn world.
Their dead are coming to haunt us. The revolution in Europe until
today is only the shadow of that revolution that Europe has tried
vainly to beat down. Today Europe leaves this work out of
weakness, not out of insight to the United States. Each victory
and each defeat in this struggle edge us a little deeper into the
shadow of the revolution. What is returning there, what disturbs
the peace and refuses to be turned away is the future inasmuch
as the word still has a meaning, in Europe.
Berlin Commonplaces 139

2. Lip reading. You cant be serious. That word already! Rev
olution: an expression that only the advertising world still uses.
Revolution in the detergent market, revolution in the investment
business. What goes beyond this is sick. Phantasts. Amok-runners.
Troublemakers. Juvenile delinquents. Bleeding-hearts. Safety valve.
Moth-eaten dusty slogans. Ironic shoulder shrugging on the sur
face, finger to the temple at the first scratch, and when the lacquer
starts to flake off: fear and trembling, crying fit, wheres the
truncheon, its getting serious. Slow motion: the camera seizes the
passerby behind the barricade, who stops, turns around, shows
surprise, slowly opens his mouth, there is no sound; zoom lens
fetches the head, mouth is wide open now. The uninitiated are re
minded of a soccer match and hear the word score, others who
can read lips hear the cry for the gas chamber.
3. Foreign word [in Germany]. The revolution. A total change
in the course or the connection of things. Thus one calls unusually
large floods, earthquakes that alter large stretches of land, revo
lutions in nature, the Reformation a revolution in human under
standing. Particularly the complete change in the constitution of a
state, say when a monarchy becomes a republic, the succession is
violently altered. The English, the French Revolution. In recent
times one has tried to substitute a German word for this foreign
word. The unhappiest choices one could probably make were Umwalzung and Staatsumwalzung because they dont express the
concept of the matter and contain a harsh trope that is alien to
our language.
Adelung 1807
4. Judgment J>y default. Everywhere, even in the U.S.A., the
word revolution reminds people of their nations best possibilities.
In Germany it has remained a foreign word. The only victorious
revolution we can call our own was imported by force of arms.
The Germans did not make it, only administered it or suffered it
to be administered on them. That has left its scars on this revolu
tion, and there is nothing to indicate that the scars will disappear.
Otherwise, the foreign word designates a long chain of historical
omissions. At the latest, since 1789, travelers who have ventured

to central Europe can report of a country whose political condi
tions testify to chronic underdevelopment.
Is it so difficult to recognize that the German nation has not
a life history but only a case history so far? (H ebbel)
5. Foreign product. I dont understand you. (My friend Z is

thirty-nine; a lawyer at one time, he is now a professor, and as
far as I can make out, shows agricultural workers how to man
age a large farm. It would be called business administration over
here; over there it most certainly is called something else. Z is a
Cuban.)
All I have to do is say where I come from and I elicit immediate
reflex movements as though I were running around with an un
sheathed knife. What are you so afraid of? O f yourselves? Or do
you really have so much to lose?
The revolution, you think, will deprive you of your shoehorns
and your stewardesses, will close the discotheques and cut
novels of Gunter Grass. It rapes nuns, hangs pictures of tractors
on the wall, and prohibits the NPD (Nationalistische Partei
Deutschlands West Germanys fascist party) In one word: it is
the terror, pure and simple. Something like that might be okay for
Cuba, but for Germany, God forbid. So you are on the side of
humanity; everyone knows that. The revolution is the other per
se, is infiltration, subversion, undermining, conspiracy, stab in the
back. Something so furtive can only come from outside or from
below, either from the East or the lower instincts.
And what if I tell you that it was made by human beings, the
revolution, made in broad daylight, and that it is you who sit in
the dark? Yes, someone replied to me in Kassel or Giessen, but we
have a democracy. He also mentioned the past, which he wanted
to overcome, so he said. Without a revolution? Well, just you try
and show me how!
6. Ye olde Germany. In 1945, instead of doing the only thing
that might have saved it, the revolution, Western Germany de
cided to convert. Moral transformation instead of political revo
lution, turnabout instead of coup detat, stabilization of the social
condition from above instead of revolution from below. Overcom

ing of the past instead of class warfare for the future. Reconstruc
tion of the old reality, a new beginning as rhetoric.
The reasons are ascertainable. However, the historical moment
was unique: the opportunity for an unbloody revolution, present
at that time, will not return. The ruling class was discredited, the
old state apparatus destroyed, the military defeated. However,
Germany was exhausted. There was no workers movement ca
pable of concerted action. The masses were politically paralyzed
by twelve years of dictatorship. The best that the country had to
offer had fallen victim to the regime or had emigrated, and of
those who returned, the politically more aware chose the eastern
part of the country.
In the years after the war the Germans were blind to interna
tional class warfare. The international perspective was defined by
events in their own country and by conflicts between the victo
rious powers. The colonial wars took place outside Germanys field
of vision. China was an unknown quantity. The world had shrunk
to a horizon of ruins: anyone who wanted to get farther than
three miles from his home town needed a pass from the military
authorities. The events in Africa, Asia, and Latin America were
neither perceived nor could they be imagined. Banished into the
overwhelming reality of their defeat, history seemed to stand still
to the Germans.
7.
Blood money. In the meantime the counterrevolution had al
ready won its game. The currency reform, which the masses cor
rectly understood as the decisive step, was the historical turning
point. (That is the reason for the postwar periods fashion of not
dating events before or after the defeat but before or after the
currency.) The economic consequences of this operation were
clear; the political decisions implicit in it were not understood.
The cold war brought the return of West Germany into world
politics, that is, on the side of the counterrevolution. The Stalinism
of the Soviet Union, the Prague coup, the Berlin blockade, the
politics of the SED (Sozialistische Einheitspartei Deutschlands)
paralyzed all revolutionary alternatives. The total suspicion of ide
ology became a total ideology itself: monopoly power pretended
to be social-market economy, mass consumption the embodiment
of freedom, the reconstruction, which the working class paid for,

a miracle that had to justify the sanctification of private property.
Only one time was there real opposition: against the rearmament
that in the long run was directed as much against the external as
the internal enemy, that is, also against those masses whom it
promised security. Yet the protest against the rearmament of the
Federal Republic did not see this logic. Its motivation was pro
foundly unpolitical, consisting of emotional antipathy and moral
scruples.
At the end of this development the intellectuals of the opposi
tion asked themselves in all seriousness: Is there still a proletariat?
Is there still a ruling class? Whereas they would have been more
justified in asking: Is there still an intellectual opposition?
8.
Contrast program. The ruling class is the only one that sur
vived, unscathed, the German disaster for which it is responsible.
Its heart is intact: financial and industrial capitalism, ministerial
and legal bureaucracy, church and military infrastructure have se
cured the continuity of their personnel and resumed their old po
sitions of power. (For purely geographical reasons, the old estate
owners from the East sustained larger losses.) The ruling class was
not weakened but strengthened by coopting a handful of man
agers who rose during the confusion of the postwar period and
the addition of leading functionaries of the SPD (Sozialdemokratiscbe Partei Deutschlands) and the union bureaucracy. Its class
consciousness remains totally unfazed.
The price the ruling class had to pay for its survival was the
Basic Law (Grundgesetz). Under duress of the Allies, German cap
italism had to accept the rules of the game of formal democracy.
Internally, it has never made its peace with this condition. Whoever
listens, surprised, to the announcements of the industrial combines
and the verbalizations of the high ministerial bureaucracy has
missed the point that the ruling class in Germany always regarded
the constitution as nothing more than a provisional annoyance. Its
sudden conversion to democracy was never meant seriously. Only
the dependent classes and the intelligentsia took it at face value,
and their forebearance, unlimited naivete, and blind trust has
scarcely its equal in history.
The victory of the counterrevolution in West Germany did not
occur by accident. A ruling class capable of ruining a nation with

out being taken to task for it and able to continue to govern while
running into practically no opposition deserves to be taken seri
ously; it deserves the admiration of all cynics.
For its success it can thank: its decisiveness, its coherence, its
farsightedness, its superior strategy, its worldwide outlook, its co
operation with international capitalism, its self-confidence, and its
lack of scruples.
Its opponents can attribute their defeat to: their lack of daring,
their fragmentation, their shortsightedness, their pathetic tactics,
their provincial outlook, their isolation from the revolutionary
movements around the world, their resignation and their idealism.
9.
Closed due to inventory. After twenty years of opposition
and of the opposition, of social criticism and of social criti
cism it is time to take stock. A large percentage of West German
intellectuals greeted with deceptive hopes the attempts by the Al
lies to create a functioning parliamentary democracy in this part
of Germany. Those whom the Right called Leftists and they were
well-intentioned, peaceable, and patient tried to take the consti
tution at its word and to reform the society of the Federal Repub
lic through rational suggestions and by means of moral assent.
They wanted to bring the ruling class to reason; they hoped that
the Leviathan of late capitalism would be reasonable if only suf
ficiently enlightened.
The Great Coalition * has put an end to this illusion. Since that
time parliamentary democracy has been nothing but a sham in
Germany. An organized opposition no longer exists. The consti
tutional sovereign, the people, is no longer in a position to remove
the governing cartel. The Bundestag votes merely ratify the deci
sions of the cartel. Debates have become superfluous. The perse
cution of the extraparliamentary opposition has begun. Changes
in the constitution, manipulation of the right to vote, and stateof-emergency laws serve the consolidation of this condition. The
acid test of a government without the people and against the peo
ple has already been made: from the Fallex-Bunker1 the commis
sion of the ruling class has practiced lording it over the Basic Law.
The civil war maneuvers of the Bundeswehr (armed forces) repre

sent the high point of the arming against the internal enemy, at
least so far.
These facts show that the political system of the Federal Re
public is no longer repairable. One has either to consent to it or
replace it by a new system. A third possibility is not in sight.
10. City tour. This alternative was not posited and developed
in all its ramifications by the intellectuals of the opposition. On
the contrary, for twenty years they sought to avoid it. The State
with its show of force made the question of revolution the order
of the day, and it was not the established writers, scientists, and
publicists who accepted this challenge; it was the students. The
first kernel of an opposition with a revolutionary orientation
formed during the Berlin police pogroms this summer. The signif
icance of this new opposition cannot be estimated right now. Its
strategy is uncertain, its program vague, its numbers hardly over
whelming. Its chances for the future uncertain. But even now it
has shown everyone who cares to look what this community is
based on: on forcible repression; they have demonstrated that the
state apparatus reaches for the truncheon and the pistol as soon
as the sovereign begins to exercise his rights. And after twenty
years of Gruppe 47, manifestos, anthologies, and election booths
they have forced the oppositional intelligence to make its first au
dit.
11. Paupers oath. The cash register was empty. The leftist in
tellectuals had been literarily assiduous and productive, yet politi
cally profoundly uncreative. They consisted chiefly of once-burnt
children, old social democrats, neoliberals, and late-Jacobins. The
only theoretical basis uniting them was a vague negation, namely
antifascism. These intellectuals remained bound to the historical
trauma of 1945, fixated on specifically German complexes and
events such as collective guilt and the Wall, incapable of in
ternationalism of any but the most superficial kind. Morality was
more important to them than politics. The socialism to which they
adhered remained nebulous if only for lack of detailed knowledge;
its sociological education was minimal; its conflict with commu
nism neurotic and obvious. Pacifism and philo-Semitism were
dominant tendencies; they paid only belated attention to scientific,

technological, and economic questions. In matters political they
tended to react rather than act. Only in one area did they achieve
any success whatsoever, and that not by accident either: in the
defense of the freedom of the expression of opinion, that is, in
representing their own interest and asserting their own privi
leges certainly a legitimate, though scarcely a sufficient, political
activity.
Decent, modest, and sentimental, always intent on preventing
the worst or at least in delaying it, these star pupils of reformism
for twenty years offered suggestions for improvement that were
inherent in the system but no radical counterproposals. Perhaps
they should have given less credence to the appellation their op
ponents lent them; for with the Left of other European countries
the leftist intellectuals of Germany had sorrowfully little in
common until recently; indeed, they could not even provide for
the necessary exchange of international information and experi
ences. Nor did they produce a political theory worthy of the name.
The defeat of the reformist intellectuals in Germany is complete.
The Great Coalition of 1966 sealed it, the Berlin summer of 1967 *
demonstrated it for everyone to see. It is all over with the fools
paradise; the time of the beautiful self-delusions has come to an
end.
12.
Not to be reproduced in any form. Is there such a thing as
; a revolutionary future for a technically highly developed industrial
society? History cannot answer this question. The proletarian rev
olutions of the Old World, their victories and defeats, belong to
the early phases of industrialization. They were carried out by an
impoverished working class, led by a tightly organized class party.
A centrally steered mass agitation, the formation of conspiratorial
cadres, and the classic military tactic of the barricade and the street
1 fight decided the outcome of the struggle. This model has not been
employed a single time in a fully developed industrial society. Ex
ceptions such as Czechoslovakia and East Germany dont count:
what was victorious there was a revolution imported by force,
stamped from a foreign model down to the last detail and depen1 dent on an early stage of industrialization. A scheme that brought
* The beginning of the student revolt in West Germany.

rapid progress to countries such as Bulgaria and Rumania led to
long-lasting economic stagnation, political repression, and cultural
regression where the productive forces were more highly devel
oped.
For the Western metropolises the old prerequisites are no longer
valid; the old strategies of the revolution have become unusable.
If these metropolises are to have a revolutionary future, the future
will scarcely find models in the past: In Europe, the United States,
and Japan the chief concern is no longer the liberation from social
want but the liberation of social wealth that is already available.
The ruling system has come to grips with the dearth in the me
tropolises, but not with the wealth. It explodes and disappears in
waste, destruction, and repression.
13. Peacetime products. A revolution in Germany that would
be nothing but a German revolution is not only improbable but
unthinkable. A handful of guerrillas who operate in the highland
of Bolivia are a phenomenon that matters to the whole world to
day. The strategists of the counterrevolution have made sure that
the thesis of socialism in one country has been ruined once and
for all. All political actions now stand and fall in the context of
the international revolutionary movement, from the smallest dem
onstration to the great decisions that face the American people.
That is why, and not for humanitarian reasons, the Vietnam war
became the political event of the decade.
It is foreseeable that violence on the international scale will in
crease. Peace is a fiction in the metropolises under the prevailing
social conditions. In reality we live in a permanent state of war,
and the repercussions on our political situation will become more
and more apparent every year. The forceful counterrevolutions in
Asia, Africa, and Latin America will rebound to the wealthy lands.
Whoever balances his account with huge catastrophes over there
and a peaceful life over here, with genocide in foreign reaches and
tolerance at home, with blind force to the outside and democratic
conditions on the inside that person is a fool.
14. Germany firsters. Each act of identification with the libera
tion movements of the Third World that conveniently forgets to
check its own historical situation is premature and unfruitful. The

rich countries have no farmers whose right to live as human beings
is embodied in the fight for a handful of rice. Solidarity among
intellectuals, too, remains pure rhetoric as long as it does not man
ifest itself in political actions whose usefulness can be proved.
The short-term interests of the working class in the United States
and Europe are opposed to the interests of the guerrillas. The
counterrevolution has made the working class participate, how
ever miserably, in the earnings from its operations, and it leaves
no doubts as to its methods: Dont forget one thing: we are just
two hundred million. There are three billion of them who are op
posed to us. They want what we have. But they wont get it not
from us! (Lyndon Johnson, 1967, to the American soldiers at
Camp Stanley, South Korea; quoted from the New York Review
of Books, February 23, 1967.) Every time an armament plant or
military base is closed in the United States there are union protests
and spontaneous strikes. While ten thousand students demon
strated in November 1967 against the presence on the campuses
of recruiters from the Dow Chemical Company, the workers of
this firm, which produced napalm for the Vietnam war, went on
strike demanding better working conditions.
The conflict of interests that becomes evident here cannot be
covered up with solidarity slogans. It shows the extent of the pre
vailing manipulation. Anyone who does not see that succumbs to
a dangerous deception. The working class observes the utterances
of intellectuals with a mistrust that is historically justified. Enlight
enment is necessary but insufficient. The mind industry is in firm
hands. The dependent classes will only begin to see through their
enmeshment and recognize their long-term interests when condi
tions in the interior of the metropolises come to a head. Among
those who are already able and who are therefore obligated to
entertain such insights we find a romanticization of the Third
World, which is useless and silly. Whoever ignores the experience
of the guerrillas is a reactionary; whoever would like to imitate
them uncritically is an illusionist. The sober mediation between
the liberation movements in the Third World and the political ac
tion in the metropolis is a task whose difficulties have been scarcely
recognized, not to mention solved, to date.
15.
Bodyguards of reality. The stability of our social system is
evidently threatened from the outside; regarded from the inside it

seems limitless. As long as its technical productivity increases and
as long as part of this growth spills over in the form of a growing
standard of living the total concensus seems secure; the depoliti
cization of the masses continues; revolutionary opposition seems
a quirk in an atmosphere of general affirmation. A highly paid
corps of reality teachers meets it with crushing reminders of real
ity, that is of the movens quo, of which everyone is presumed
to know the parameters. This concept of reality derives from the
fiction that the historical process is foreseeable and controllable
in principle. What also corresponds to this is a quasi-scientific
planning for the future (with premises inherent in the system) so
as to guarantee an undisturbed course of history; that is, finally,
the elimination of history altogether.
How little the strategies of the system believe in their own fic
tions can be garnered from their flow charts. The central function
of their scenarios are surveillance, manipulation, and repression.
The means the system employs to make itself unassailable dem
onstrate its susceptibility.
16.
Physics lesson. Crisis management. A juggler is successful
to the extent that he can maintain control over the force of gravity
and the laws of mechanics. He is handling an extremely unstable,
variable system of balls. His art consists of making the system
appear stable. Training and skill enable him to do this. An ambi
tious juggler has the tendency to work with ever larger and more
complicated systems. The number of balls and their weight in
creases; disks, rings, irregular shapes, unwieldy, huge, and tiny
objects are added to the game. The public is intoxicated by the
jugglers success; he is the greatest of them all, a manipulator
without peer. Gravity seems eliminated, the stability of the system
seems assured. However, one slip and the system collapses. The
juggler is ruined.
Oscillatory circle. Twenty persons step on a suspension bridge
that can hold two thousand persons; they manage to walk in such
a way as to step in rhythm with the resonance frequency of the
bridge, compared to whose mechanical strength they are practi
cally impotent. Yet the oscillations that they impart to the bridge
structure are augmented by regenerative feedback coupling; one
can foresee the point when the bridge will collapse.

Reactor. A neutron produces further neutrons at each step along
a chain reaction and in such a way that the average multiplier K
is larger than one; a certain number of neutrons escape or are lost,
which diminishes the K factor. To even out these losses a critical
minimum is required to make up these losses; if K exceeds the
value one, the number of reactions increases exponentially. There
fore control rods are affixed at certain places in the reactor to
absorb the excess neutrons, keeping the K factor under control.
Whoever knows these places and has access to them has control
over the stability of the system. Whoever attacks the reactor with
a sledgehammer produces superficial damage at most.
17. Green stamps. The social system of the metropolises has a
limited capacity for integrating its internal and external oppo
nents.
The conflicts with the poor external world are manifest and
murderous. All attempts at integration by means of so-called de
velopment aid, the Point Four Program or the Alliance for Prog
ress, have failed.
The systems internal latitude for operating without the use of
force is diminishing too. Ironically enough, it is the ruling classs
admirable ability to learn that makes for the constant shrinkage
of its scope of operation. Planned capitalism can only survive if it
succeeds in preventing profound economic and internal political
crises, something that is solely possible by means of ever greater
material and immaterial concessions to the dependent masses. These
concessions, however, are irreversible. They cant be taken back
without it coming to violent conflicts in the metropolises. In this
manner, irrational progress liberates constantly increasing risks.
18. Snake at the breast. Such a risk, for example, lies in the
increasing intellectualization of the industrial work process. This
development, too, is irreversible and leads to an educational policy
that for years on end liberates a growing percentage of the popu
lation under thirty from the production process. This growing
population must be privileged on the one hand and kept under
control on the other. The difficulties are self-evident. More and
more, these privileged ones, the students and intellectuals, attack
the system directly, an irony that planned capitalism had not in

tended and that therefore provokes its special fury. The logic of
this process, however, is easy to see. The more the repression is
refined and interiorized, the more self-censorship and self-piloting
replace coercion and direct indoctrination, the more the sup
pressed accept their own suppression, yes, defend it; in the same
degree does opposition to the system itself become a privilege, a
cause that only those can afford who still have the opportunity to
develop a consciousness that is not totally shackled to the com
pulsion to consume and the models of mass manipulation. The
danger of being infected is foreseeable no matter which strategy is
employed. One can try to crush this opposition, which consists
primarily of the young and privileged. This method leads to inter
nal political crises; besides, like decreasing the student population,
it injures the technological process and with that, in the long run,
economic growth. If, on the other hand, one lets these groups take
the initiative, the possibility that at some point they will begin to
create resonance oscillations cannot be ruled out.
19.
Peripheral phenomena. O f course neither the students nor
the intellectuals are the revolutionary subject. As in earlier rev
olutions, the decision, in the final analysis, will be made by the
dependent masses. However, history teaches just as clearly that it
is invariably a minority that sets off the revolutionary process.
Whoever lets himself be sent out on a search for this subject
succumbs to mystification. This singular form makes no sense un
der present conditions. Rather, the ruling class sees itself con
fronted by a conglomeration of real and potential enemies that no
longer allows of an unequivocal definition. These groups on the
periphery are so disparate it seems grotesque: pupils, deserters, the
unemployed, philosophers, hippies, students, Negroes, automation
pensioners, old-time Communists, guest workers, dissatisfied
women, miners, Eastertime marchers a list that can be increased
or diminished at will depending on local circumstances. However,
it is clear that the class basis of this opposition to the system is
weak and not unified. The system does not see itself confronted
by a growing, homogeneous, firmly entrenched organization com
manding a clear strategy. Rather, it finds itself in the position of
the juggler who has to juggle an increasing number of disparate
balls. The weakness of such an opposition is only too apparent;

on the other hand it is difficult to control just because it is so
decentralized. Self-sufficiency, sudden fluctuations, great spon
taneity, incalculable threats and pullbacks, changes in concentra
tion and dispersion make its suppression difficult. The possibility
of chain reactions cannot be excluded.
Under conditions of increasing external instability one can
imagine a situation when these peripheral groups recognize that it
is the system itself that is fighting with its back to the wall at the
periphery of the world. If a situation like that should arise, the
masses and their passivity, which the system has cultivated, can
become fateful for it. Then the question will be reversed: the rul
ing class will look vainly for a counterrevolutionary subject that it
might mobilize for its purposes.
20.
A friend in need. Theory sans practice means to adopt a
wait-and-see attitude. Any halfway analytically schooled mind is
in a position to produce an infinite number of reasons that suggest
waiting, that say that it is either too early or too late. If only for
that, every theory not covered, corrected, and propelled by actions
is worthless. One must also mistrust every analysis that purports
to provide precise information about the possibilities presently ob
taining. A theory capable of making such predictions does not ex
ist, and one is justified in asking whether it is even imaginable.
Under our circumstances the most insignificant political action
can lead to new recognitions. In recent times even seemingly am
biguous, blind, yes nonsensical, acts by the smallest groups have
provoked occurrences that had the effect of a bugle call.
No abstract insight into the repressive character of the system
can replace the physical experience of repression. Police, legal and
secret-service systems are the most important friends and assis
tants of the opposition to the system. The systems mortal fear can
only be understood in terms of ones own personal fear. Destruc
tion of bourgeois respectability, economic pressure, surveillance,
financial penalties, arrests, prison, immediate physical threat:
through these means the coercive state apparatus has already
formed a hard core of oppositionists. Thousands will graduate from
this academy of the revolution in the coming years. With that the
system will make itself enemies for the rest of its life. The experi
ences being gathered in police stations, courts, and prisons today

are the only genuine citizenship lessons that the republic has to
offer.
21. Living lie. Liberals of every persuasion pretend to defend
the constitution, yet the sacredness they would like to ascribe to it
is that of a sacred cow. What the liberals protect is the right of
the constitution to die, untrammeled, of hunger.
What is to be said against the liberals is this: the constitution is
the living lie of the system. There exists a gaping disparity between
the guarantees of the constitution and the interests of the ruling
class, which can no longer be covered up. The Basic Law (Grundgesetz) guarantees the inviolability of the individual, the right
to form coalitions, the right to free expression of opinions, the
right to strike, and the right to resist. These provisions threaten
the very existence of the system. The constitution is itself a danger
to the state.
That is why the committee that governs in Bonn has undertaken
fifteen changes in the Basic Law within eighteen years, why lead
ing members of the committee had already publicly expressed their
scorn for the constitution back in the fifties. That is why this com
mittee has made laws that are unconstitutional. That is why this
committee has already made a dry run of how one governs with
out the Basic Law. That is why this committee has decided to
disenfranchise the Basic Law by means of the State of Emergency
Law (Notstandsgesetz).
The constitution is a pledge that the ruling class neither wants
nor is in a position to keep. Only the revolution can redeem it.
22. All rights reserved. Every argument, whether the opposition
to the system should employ indirect, legal or illegal, violent or
nonviolent methods, is superfluous. The opposition is lost as soon
as it commits itself in advance to one or the other and acknowl
edges the limits that its opponents stake out. Its tactic must consist
of putting these very rules into question, of fitting its means to the
situation, of always finding fresh means, of testing, dropping,
picking up again. It must keep the initiative and utilize the element
of surprise. It must operate at the limits of legality and constantly
transgress the limits in both directions. Regarding the use of force:
it does not emanate from the people but is employed by the state

apparatus. It has always been there. One can avoid it, one can
outfox it, but one cannot eliminate it for moral reasons. It is a
moral problem for the revolution in only one respect: all revolu
tions to date have let themselves be infected by the inhumanity of
their opponents. The problem is serious; but it can only be solved
by those who make the revolution. The revolutionaries are not
going to let themselves be advised by their opponents.
23. Sylvan solitude. Radicalism is a dirty word in Germany. We
have, so the brooks warble in the liberals forest retreat, under
standing for your problems; but you are isolating yourselves, you
are going too far, you are forfeiting your sympathies. However,
first of all, think of the Fascists. You must always think of the
Fascists. Youre helping them, youre driving the people into their
arms. Thats why we advise you: stop your nonsense, why not join
us, no one sees you here, here you find understanding, here you
dont produce a backlash, here you dont do any harm, our forest
still has plenty of room.
It is too bad that Fascism wont listen to this reasoning either;
or does anyone seriously believe that Hitler and his patrons would
have resigned if the Communist party had voluntarily dissolved
itself in 1929? Was Tucholsky the reason for Goebbels? Would
history have stopped cold in its tracks had he kept his mouth shut?
That is what the argument comes down to: to the longing for
complete stasis, the general moratorium. A little consideration for
the liberals and Ho Chi Minh will embrace General Westmoreland
instead of forfeiting their potential sympathy.
24. Party insignia. The weakest point of the opposition to the
system is its inability to develop new organizational forms. It is
quite apparent that the old form of the cadre party is no longer
useful. The Communist parties in the Western metropolises degen
erated Stalinistically; they have no internal democracy and no use
ful external program. Their unity has been dearly bought at the
price of opportunism. They offer no revolutionary perspective.
Since the opposition to the system lacks a strong class basis in
the metropolises, the founding of a party is unthinkable. At any
event, the parliamentary way to socialism is, as the Greek example
demonstrated, a chimera. But the old models no longer suffice

also for internal reasons. Real democracy, decentralization of the
decisions, cooperation instead of subordination these elementary
demands that the opposition makes of any future society it must
first try to realize in the forms of its own organization.
25.
Checkback. There is no revolutionary science for the pre
sent and the future of the metropolises. We have the classics from
the last century, Lenin and Trotsky, news from the Far East and
Latin America. From California we imported Marcuse. Our own
resources provide us with interpretations of Becketts Endgame,
dissertations on the psychology of National Socialism, commen
taries on Hegel and other arrangements for piano.
We need investigations that develop revolutionary alternatives
for the solution of all important political and social questions; a
science that knows our requirements and takes our wishes seri
ously, whose imagination liberates itself from the ostensible models,
which has the courage for a new concrete utopia.
Therefore, the earlier we clarify three obvious misunderstand
ings, so much the better.
We are not entertaining that favorite question: whether we are
being genuinely constructive. In this country that question is
always raised as though one must answer it within the terms of
the system; asking it, one is supposed to be able to ascertain the
negative or positive aspects of a proposition and not its con
crete capacity for threatening the system. Used in this manner, the
question about the constructive nature of this or that point is
transparently fraudulent. Still, it also contains an element of truth.
Whoever refuses to have his conceptions made more precise by
comparison with another society, be it for reasons of methodolog
ical scruples, be it with the argument that only once it is victorious
can the revolution provide information about its own future, not
only forfeits all ability to convince with anything he says: he also
admits his own unfruitfulness.
Nor are we practicing the fashionable art of prognostication,
which worships facts and which invariably ends up postulating a
prolongation of the current state of affairs; and it is neither a
question of joining the prevailing cult of experts that maintains
that, say, lacking a detailed knowledge of milk production in

Schleswig-Holstein, one has no right to discuss economics, or that
one should not discuss politics without having spent a month
studying the Vietnam hearings transcripts and without having in
formed oneself with on-the-spot helicopter investigations: that kind
of argument is a positivistic con game. In matters revolutionary
every man is an expert who refuses to let himself be intimidated
by the material pressure of a repressive social system that has
long since become invalid.
However, the options available to any man in the future must
first be exposed and explored. That is not happening. Ignorance
and dilettantism dominate the field.
What possibilities of self-government exist in a technically highly
developed industrial society? To what extent and how can one
decentralize large and complicated production and distribution
systems? How can one technically and institutionally secure the
participation of everyone in the political and economic decisions
that concern them? How can the social work be divided with a
minimum of regimentation? How can the technological process be
kept under such control as to create the opportunity for reestab
lishing psychologically and biologically bearable living conditions?
Which possibilities for the regulation of social conflict can be de
veloped? Which parts of the old state apparatus can be dissolved
at once and which have to be revamped? How can schools and
institutions of higher learning be absorbed in society, so that the
work process becomes a learning process? We dont know.
26.
Horror film. The specter of the revolution imparts unnec
essary dread into millions of our fellow citizens. The revolution
that is the bloody hand, censorship, the GPU, the camp, barbed
wire, the ration card, confiscation. It is not the fascism whose every
aspect we have experienced that produces this dread, but the rev
olution that failed to occur. As long as the opposition to the sys
tem is solely interested in demonstrating its own protest but not
the social possibilities; as long as it does not understand how to
arouse the deepest wishes and desires of the masses; as long as it
abandons the masses to that dread that the mind industry suggests
to it fresh each day, and that is the dread of its own wishes and
desires, the revolution in Germany will remain an apparition.

11. Refresher course for advanced students. Imperialism and
reactionaries are paper tigers: that is their nature. That is the basis
of our strategic considerations. On the other hand, they are also
living tigers, steel tigers, real tigers: they eat men. That is the basis
of our tactical considerations.
Short-term hopes are futile. Long-term resignation is suicidal.
Postscript: These notes are called commonplaces because
they dont belong to any one individual; Berlin common
places because they have been demonstrated in the streets of
this city. I note them down in the hope that they will become
German commonplaces. Inasmuch as they are critical, they
are meant as much for myself as for others.
Part
Three
SOCIOLOGY
AND
ECOLOGY
1
Tourists of
the Revolution
he European Left manifests an arbitrary and ideological re

lationship to the socialistically governed countries with its
discussions about revisionism and antirevisionism, accomplish
ments and deformations ; and anyone who pays close attention
to these discussions often finds it difficult to localize the voices he
hears as though the speakers were ventriloquists from whom is
sued something like a socialist Weltgeist. When such a dislocation
occurs, the fabric of the conversation is deprived of something
that requires foremost consideration: the role of the observer that
devolves on the Western Left with respect to those countries where
socialism has found if not its realization at least serious at
tempts in that direction.
No matter what attitude or position one takes toward these
countries and they run the gamut from blind identification to
vitriolic dislike the verdicts are invariably reached from the out
side. No one who returns from a sojourn in socialism is a genuine
part of the process he tries to describe. Neither voluntary commit
ment nor the degree of solidarity with which one behaves, no
propaganda action, no walk through the cane fields and schools,
factories and mines, not to mention a few moments at the lectern
or a quick handshake with the leader of the revolution, can de
ceive about the fact.
The less the traveler understands this and the less he questions
159

his own position, the greater and more justified will be the ani
mosity that the voyager into socialism encounters from the very
onset from both sides. Such as in these lines:
THE TRAVELERS
They come in the clothes of the affluent society,
a thorn in whose side they are, whose unreliable elements,
fitted out with academic titles,
writing books for the departments of sociology
of the best universities
(which underwrite the cost).
They get their visas in a jiffy,
are informed about antiwar campaigns,
about protests against the Vietnam war, in short:
they are treading the righteous path of history.
While they lounge in the shiny seats
of the international airports,
each flight they take an illegal act,
they feel pleasantly subversive,
their conscience is clean.
They are the comfortable travelers of the wave of the future,
with Rolleiflex cameras, perfectly suited
for the tropical light,
for underdevelopment;
with information charts for objective interviews,
if, however (of course), something less than impartial,
for they love the struggle,
the guerrillas,
the zafras,
the hardships of life,
the vulgar Spanish of the natives.
After two or three weeks
(thats the maximum)
they write books about guerrillas
or the Cuban national character,
about the hardships of life or
the vulgar Spanish of the natives.
Tourists of the Revolution 161

Provided with systems, with methods,
they are obviously frustrated
by the missing sexual freedom in Cuba,
by the unfortunate puritanism of the revolution,
and they define that state of affairs
with honest melancholy
as the abyss between theory and practice.
In private (not in their book or at the round table)
they admit that they cut more cane
than the best machetero (that guy took a siesta all day).
These fourteen-day heroes declare
that the people in the inns want to dance,
that the intellectuals (completely depoliticized)
are still able to write poetry;
the night before their flight back, lying next to their women,
they believe
they have developed supernatural muscles.
They go at it like blacks, as though they were depraved.
The girls, pregnant every five years,
are delirious with these unaccustomed husbands,
now insatiable.
At home they look at slides
that show the family hero
surrounded by natives, fraternally embraced (. . .)
Heberto P adilla1
The travelers whom Padilla describes bear the distinctive fea
tures of the sixties; and perhaps the only ones who can judge how
accurate and appropriate his observations and arguments are are
those whom they are aimed at. But the mistrust that manifests
itself in his text is not of todays vintage, nor of yesterdays. It
exists since the existence of two established social systems and it
is encountered by anyone who moves more or less freely between
the two. This mistrust has hardened in the course of the last fifty
years. It contains layers upon layers of past experiences, the rec
ollection of misjudgments that have long since become a tradition
with the Left in the capitalist societies.
However, the phenomenon cannot be gotten rid of by rhetoric
alone. (Padillas text, too, contains its hidden ambivalence.) What

makes a more precise investigation necessary are the objective ef
fects that these journeys into socialism have had over the years.
These effects, of course, have nothing to do with the significance
of the individual travelers who were not up to the role they were
asked to play, nor with the import of their (mostly superficial)
observations and their (frequently threadbare) arguments. What
lends these reports significance and why they continue to play a
certain, though diminishing, role has to do with the isolation of
the socialist countries from the outside world. This exclusion is
one element in international class warfare and, depending on how
that conflict has gone since 1917, it has assumed the forms of
blockade, ostracism, military cordon sanitaire, iron curtain, the
Wall, and so on. This condition finds its administrative equivalent
in travel restrictions, different forms of censorship, anti-emigration
edicts, and complicated permission procedures of all kinds. The
extent to which these measures were made necessary by socialist
transformations, how far they have become bureaucratically insti
tutionalized and are politically superfluous are questions that can
not be investigated here; nor can they be resolved in principle or
once and for all time.
In any event, the consequences are serious. The flow of com
munication between the socialistically governed countries and the
outside world is disrupted. Socialism becomes an internal and se
cretive affair, only accessible to those who have the opportunity
to peek behind the mystifying facade. Ignorance and manipulation
become the rule. These consequences dont necessarily devolve pri
marily to the disadvantage of the class enemy. On the contrary:
the governments and monopolies of the capitalist world have news
and spy services that are in a position to make up the information
deficit. On the other hand, the Left is thrown back on anachronis
tic forms of communication if it is dissatisfied with the informa
tion and deformation provided by the bourgeois media. Among
these surrogates the trip, the visit, the eyewitness report play an
important role. The sources of error of this kind of information
nexus are self-evident, and we shall try to name them. Considered
as a whole, it is paradoxical that the social-socialist movements in
the West have been generally dependent on individual views when
it came to finding out something about collective life and produc
tion procedures; that is, for information about huge industrializa-

tion processes they have had to rely on a preindustrial messenger
service. No wonder the wanderers frequently cut a ridiculous fig
ure. The puny flow of information is scarcely their fault. It has
objective causes.
Now that the old difficulties have not disappeared but have be come surpassable, and every one of us can travel to the USSR
almost at will, to Bulgaria, the G DR, and Czechoslovakia, the crit
icism of the travelers also turns against those who stay at home,
i A lack of curiosity is spreading among the West European Left
that, at first glance, is astonishing and that requires an explana
tion. Year after year, many of the comrades go to Sardinia, to
Greece, or to Amsterdam; however, they assiduously shun contact
with the Hungarian or Ukrainian reality. These avoidance strate
gies, too, have their prehistory. Even during the thirties and forties
many Communists preferred, if possible, to avoid the USSR, which
they praised in their writings as the true home of the working
class even when this country was open to them at all times. For
this, however, they had more concrete reasons than present trav
elers. Brecht, for example, stayed only a few weeks in the USSR
during his trip from Finland to California, avoiding contact with
Soviet reality as much as possible evidently so as not to endanger
himself. Today many comrades fear contact for other reasons. And
sheer disinterest on the part of the politically active is probably
not one of them. What those who remain behind are afraid of,
rather, are their own ill bodings. They dont even let it get as far
as contact with the reality of the socialist countries so as not to
endanger their own fragile convictions. That is not to say that the
others leave their fears behind when they journey into socialism.
On the contrary: the same concern that keeps some at home oth
ers drag around with them. It's part of their moral hand baggage.
The inquisitive ones, too, have developed their defense mecha
nisms in the last fifty years to soften the shock when a purely
imagined reality encounters a historical one. The first to charac: terize this operation was Lev Trotsky:
Today the book market of all civilized countries overflows
with books on the Soviet Union. . . . The literature dictated
by blind hatred assumes an increasingly smaller proportion;
a considerable portion of the new works on the Soviet Union

on the other hand, are acquiring an increasingly benign if not
enchanted air. . . . The publications of the Friends of the
Soviet Union fall into three main categories. Dilettantistic
journalism of a descriptive genre, more or less leftist reports,
constitute the great majority of articles and books. Then we
find publications of humanitarian, pacifistic, and lyrical com
munism that, if anything, are even more pretentious. In third
place stands the economic schematization in the spirit of the
old German lectern socialism. . . .
W hat unites these three categories despite their differences
is their obeisance to the fait accompli and their preference for
soporific generalizations. They are incapable of rebelling
against their own capitalism and are therefore that much more
eager to support themselves with a revolution that is already
subsiding. Before the October Revolution not one of these
people or their spiritual ancestors seriously asked themselves
in what manner or form socialism would realize itself. There
fore, it becomes that much easier for them to acknowledge
what they find in the USSR as socialism. This not only pro
vides them with a progressive appearance, but also with a
certain moral fiber, which, however, does not commit them
to anything. This kind of contemplative, optimistic, anythingbut-destructive literature, which presumes that all troubles are
over, has a very calming effect on the readers nerves and
therefore is readily accepted. In this way an international
school, which might be called Bolshevism for the enlightened
bourgeoisie, or in a strict sense socialism for radical tourists,
is imperceptively coming into existence.2
Trotskys analysis, however, leaves untouched one centrally im

portant aspect of the matter: the institutional side without which
the Tourism of the Revolution remains incomprehensible.
Whoever overlooks this side sooner or later arrives at a moralizing
attitude that fixes on the character of a single individual. All one
finds out this way is that X is naive, Y corrupt, and Z a hypocrite.
But this explains nothing and nothing is won by it.
The institutional basis of radical or revolutionary tourism
is the delegacija system. Delegacija actually means nothing but
delegation, but the word has acquired a special meaning in Rus
sian and designates official travelers of all kinds, even if they ap
pear by themselves or in small groups; and it is by no means nec
essary for these people to have been delegated by anyone.
The following elements inasmuch as they affect travelers from
outside the country are what make up the system:

1. The delegate is not undertaking the trip on his own ac
count. He is invited. Normally he does not pay his own expenses.
He is the guest and is therefore under the aegis of the unwritten
laws of hospitality. From a material viewpoint this arrangement
can lead to corruption; from a moral viewpoint to a defusing of
criticism.
2. The delegate has to deal with hosts who occupy a monop
olistic position. Paid-for trips also exist in capitalist countries;
governments, organizations, and firms particularly like to invite
journalists, a procedure considered a normal aspect of public re
lations. But usually the traveler is not dependent on such invita
tions; he can also travel without them. In contrast, the invitation
as a delegate was (in every) and is (in some) countries the only
possibility of acquiring a visa, the local currency, a room, and
transportation.
3. Compared to the general population, the delegate is in every
respect a privileged person. When there is a shortage he enjoys
precedence over the natives; hotel rooms, seats in public transpor
tation, cars and chauffeurs are reserved for him; during longer
stays he is permitted to buy at special shops; admission to special
events normally off limits to others and considerable sums of
money are often made available to him.
4. The delegate is always cared for by an organization. He
isnt supposed to no, he isnt allowed to worry about anything.
Usually he receives a personal guide who functions as translator,
nanny, and watchdog. Almost all contact with the host country is
mediated through this companion, which makes distinct the dele
gates segregation from the social reality surrounding him. The
companion is responsible for the travelers program. There is no
traveling without a program. The guest may express his wishes in
this respect; however, he remains dependent on the organization
that invited him. In this respect he is treated as though he were
still under age. The combination of being spoiled and impotent is
reminiscent of infantile situations. Such visitors lack of self-suffi
ciency can reach utter helplessness; it seems as though this state
of affairs meets with the approval of the responsible organiza
tions. The socialist countries have institutions that specialize in
this kind of work; they are usually called Society for the Friend
ship with the People or something on that order. But all other
organizations from state apparatus and party apparatus to the

womens organizations have sections that take care of official
guests.
The delegacija system is a Russian invention. It has its begin
nings in the early twenties, and one cant assume that it was the
intention from the start to pull the wool over the foreigners eyes
and to put them in a position that would lead to an inevitable loss
of contact with reality. Anyone who assumes this kind of conspir
acy demonizes a complicated relationship by inventing a theory
that doesnt even completely apply today, when it has become dif
ficult to distinguish between cynicism and experience. For even
now a delegate who, say, goes to Hungary, Cuba, or the Georgian
Republic, will encounter completely genuine expressions of hos
pitality, and the trouble people take on his behalf not only serves
to shield him from reality but also to protect him from situations
that he might be unable to handle by himself. This was even more
the case during the Russian civil war; that is, during the periods
when the system was being created and when it was nearly impos
sible for a foreigner to travel to Russia without running the danger
of dying from hunger, freezing to death, or being shot.
But that is just one side of the coin. Also, one should not forget
that no cheaper or more effective means for influencing the out
side world has ever been devised than the delegacija system. That
is certainly one reason why it has spread from Russia over half
the world. A few early examples give proof of its effectiveness.
The first report is from Victor Serge and refers to the year 1920.
The II. Congress of the Communist International continued
its work in Moscow. Foreign colleagues and delegates lived
in a hotel in the center of the city, the Djelovoi Dvor, which
is situated at the end of a long boulevard whose one side
consists of the white battlement-crowned wall of the KitaiGorod. Medieval portals beneath one nearby old tower lead
to the Warvarka, where the legendary house of the Roma
novs stands. From there we went to the Kremlin, a city within
the city, all of whose entrances have guards that control the
passes. The twin power of the revolution, the Soviet govern
ment and the International, were meeting there in the palaces
of the autocracy, amidst the Byzantine churches. The only
city that the foreign delegates did not get to know and their
lack of interest in this respect confused me was the living
Moscow with its hunger rations, its arrests, its filthy prison
stories, its black-market facades. Luxuriously fed amidst the

general misery (although, in fact, one served them too many
rotten eggs), led through museums to exemplary kindergar
tens, the delegates of world socialism gave the impression of
being on vacation or traveling as tourists through our wasted,
besieged republic. I discovered a new form of unawareness,
Marxist unawareness. A German party leader, athletic and
full of optimism, said to me quite simply that the internal
contradictions of the Russian revolution contain nothing sur
prising for a Marxist, and in that he was undoubtedly right;
but he used that general truth as an umbrella to avoid the
immediate appearance of reality which has its importance
despite everything. The majority of the Bolshevized-Left
Marxists assumed this complacent attitude. For them the
words dictatorship o f the proletariat magically explained
everything without their ever thinking of asking where the
dictatorial proletariat was and what it was thinking, feeling,
and doing. . .
All in all, the foreign delegates were actually a disappoint
ing crowd that delighted in valuable privileges in a famished
country; they were quick to be enthusiastic but mentally lazy.
One saw among them few workers and many politicians.
How happy they are, Jacques Mesnil said to me, that they
can finally watch parades from the official rostrum . 3
The following observations of Franz Jung fall into the same

riod:
Hunger also left its mark at the headquarters of the Interna
tional, the Hotel Lux. Almost the entire intellectual and po
litical elite of Europe and the world that stood close to so
cialism was presented to the Kremlin via the Hotel Lux
invited guests of honor of the government, sympathizers who
had been advised to make the trip to Moscow, and leading
members of various Communist parties who had been or
dered to Moscow.
In May 1920, the food supply system of Hotel Lux had
broken down. The distinguished hotel guests sat at long ta
bles in the spacious dining room but could get nothing except
tea with which everyone could provide himself from the sam
ovars, which stood about everywhere. Several times a day, at
irregular intervals, large bowls of caviar were placed on the
tables together with plates of lox, but no bread and no kasha.
Anyone who took the time to wait with his tea was bound to
get caviar and lox at some point during the day.
The prominent guests were very indignant at that time, most
of them because they had upset stomachs due to the caviar

and lox. They mentioned among themselves that it they were
at the head of the government of the victorious revolution
the food supply would be better organized, especially in the
quarters of the government guests such as the Hotel Lux
they would see to that. They talked about this from early in
the morning till late at night, at tea before the steaming sam
ovar, while waitiiig for the next bowls full of caviar and plates
with lox .4
Seven years later the contradictions within Soviet society had

become even more acute and the blindness of certain visitors as
sumed grotesque proportions:
All opponents of 1927 went to the end of their terrible road,
each in his own way no matter whether they let themselves
be constantly humiliated out of loyalty to the party or put up
constant resistance out of loyalty for socialism. . . .
W hat a crass contrast to these men were the foreigners,
famous writers, Communist delegates, liberal guests of high
rank who celebrated the tenth anniversary of the revolution
in Moscow at that time! And they gave us lectures on how
to be clever! Paul M arion (the future undersecretary of state
in Petains government), member of the central committee of
the Communist party of France, was scattering boulevard bon
mots about Moscow, knew how to appreciate the young
Russian women, and tried to explain to me that we were
utopian; he himself saw the mistakes of the Communist
movement very clearly, but continued to support it because
despite everything, it was the only force. . . . He was just
an average Frenchman without intelligence who was pri
marily interested in always coming out smelling like a rose.
All in all: buyable. . . .
I met Barbusse, with whom I was corresponding, in the
Hotel Metropole, guarded by an interpreter-secretary (from
the GPU) and supported by a very pretty secretary doll. . . .
I was coming from the overcrowded rooms of the suburbs,
from which comrades disappeared every night. I saw their
women, whose eyes were much too red and clouded with fear
for me to feel very indulgent toward the great official foreign
guests who were coming on tour; besides, I knew who had
been chased from the hotel to accommodate the great writer.
. . . Barbusse had a large emaciated and supple body topped
by a small, waxen, hollow-cheeked face with suffering lips.
Right away I had a very different impression of him, primar
ily concerned not to be pinned down to anything, not to see

anything that might have pinned him down against his will,
concerned to conceal thoughts that he wasnt allowed to ex
press, evading every direct question, always elusive, with un
certain glances, describing curves in the air with his slim hands
while uttering words such as depths, breadth, augmentation,
and all this so as to make himself in fact the accomplice of
the stronger side. But since one didnt know yet whether the
struggle had really been decided, he had just dedicated one of
his books to Trotzky, but didnt dare visit him so as not to
compromise himself. When I mentioned the repression, he
acted as though he had a headache, as though he didnt un
derstand, as though he were rising to wondrous heights of
thought: Tragic fate of the revolution, breadth, depths, yes
yes . . . oh my friend! W ith a kind of cramp in my jaw I
noticed that I was facing the human incarnation of hypoc
risy (Victor Serge).5
Examples such as these would probably enable one to develop

a comparative psychology of such Friends of the Soviet Union
and other countries, as well as of their trusting listeners at home;
however, so as to become politically relevant, such an analysis
would have to go beyond individual idiosyncrasies and search out
the historically determined elements of the wishful thinking and
their blindness to reality and their corruption. The point is not to
discover that man is evil, but why professed socialists let them
selves be politically blackmailed, morally bribed, and theoretically
blinded, and not just a few individuals, but in droves. Such a reck
oning of course cannot confine itself to an investigation of the
Tourism of the Revolutionaries ; this phenomenon, after all, is
only one of the symptoms.
Let us return to the objective, institutional side of the delegacija
business. The last example contains a suggestion on how the sys
tem developed between 1920 and 1927; that is, from its crude
beginnings to a far-flung, highly differentiated apparatus. Henri
Barbusse, after all, was not a comrade; no central committee ever
sent him to Moscow to the Comintern. Although he scarcely rep
resented more than himself, he was received as a state guest. Yes,
it is questionable in what sense, if any, he even belonged to the
Left; his social position, his habits, his actions, and his thinking
characterize him rather as a typical bourgeois intellectual. And this
was what constituted his political usefulness to the Soviet leader
ship at that time. The greater the precision with which the socialist

bureaucracies learned to calculate such tactical victories, the more
far-reaching their attempts to utilize the Tourism of the Revolu
tionaries as part of their political purposes. Under such circum
stances it was inevitable that the delegacija system became differ
entiated. Varying categories of visitors, running the gamut from
reactionary journalists to deserving party members and ultraleftist
sectarians, were assigned to different organizations, fitted out with
carefully graded privileges and then sluiced through the country.
A renegade who is an expert in these matters describes how the
system functions in practice:
A free-lance writer ranked somewhere near the bottom of the
hierarchy. However, 1 was not a simple free-lance; I had an
organisation the M O R P which, being affiliated to the
Comintern, was situated somewhere in the middle range of
the pyramid. Moreover, I was a Party member, which im
proved my grading; but only a member of the German, not
the Russian Party, which lowered it. I also carried on me a
letter from Agitprop E kki (Department of Agitation and Pro
paganda of the Executive Committee of the Communist In
ternational) which again considerably improved my grading.
Such to whom it may concern letters serve as a kind of
passport in the Soviet Union. It is on their strength that the
citizen obtains his permits, his accommodation, ration card,
and so on. Accordingly, these letters are very carefully worded
and graded, to convey the exact degree of priority to which
the bearer is entitled. Mine was a strong letter, signed by
the head of Agitprop Ekki, Comrade Gopner, in person. It
said that I was a delegate of the Revolutionary Writers League
of Germany, and that I was travelling under the sponsorship
of the Comintern.
On the other hand, I was also a bourgeois foreign corre
spondent, working for several important newspapers, and duly
accredited as such with the Press department of Narkomindyel, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. This placed me in one
of the top grades on another side of the pyramid, as it were.
It entitled me to accommodation in Intourist Hotels where
such existed; to travel in the soft class on trains; and to
buy my food at Insnab, the co-operative stores reserved for
the diplomatic corps, the foreign Press and foreign technical
advisers. I disliked availing myself of these bourgeois privi
leges, but as I was travelling alone through remote and fam
ine-stricken regions of the country, it was often the only way
of obtaining food and shelter.

I was careful never to show my bourgeois, Narkomindyel,
documentation at the Party offices and factories that I visited,
nor to travelling companions, for the immediate result would
have been to arouse distrust and suspicion. On the other hand,
I never showed my Comintern letter to hotel managers, rail
way officials and co-operative store managers it would have
deprived me of the preferential treatment for bourgeois tour
ists who have to be humoured for reasons of propaganda.
Such double existence was not regarded as dishonourable. On
the contrary, it reflected the basic dualism of Narkom indyel
line and Comintern line the two aspects of the Soviet
Union as a respectable international power, and as a clandes
tine centre of the world revolution. To bear this duality con
stantly in mind was one of the first lessons taught to every
Party member.
Thus I traveled symbolically in two different guises, and
literally with one set of documents in my right-hand pocket,
another in my left-hand pocket. 1 never mixed them up, thanks
to the simple memorising device that the Comintern was on
the left.
Even so, it would have been impossible for me to travel
alone without falling back on the help of the only organisa
tion that functioned efficiently everywhere throughout the
country: the GPU. In every railway station in the Soviet Union
there was a GPU Commissariat which maintained a mini
mum of order in the chaos. The function of the Station GPU
was not political surveillance, but to act as railway officials,
travel agents and information centres for official travellers.
When I got out of the train in a new town, I went straight to
the Station GPU, presented my papers, and was provided, as
a matter of routine, with those basic necessities which no in
dividual traveller can obtain without the organisation be
hind him: a room or bed, ration-card, means of transporta
tion. M y sponsors were the Comintern and the Foreign
Ministry, neither of which had branch offices in small places;
so the Station GPU took me under its wing until it was able
to hand me over to the care of the slow-moving local Party
Committee or Government Guest House. In short, the Station
GPU had none of the sinister associations of that notorious
body, of which it formed a kind of administrative publicservice branch. It was, as I have said, the only efficient insti
tution throughout the country, the steel framework which held
the pyramid together . . .6
Between 1925 and 1939 a great number of European intellec

tuals went, like Koestler, on a search for the coming time. The

enormous dissemination that the literature produced by these
Friends of the Soviet Union enjoyed was due to a massive need
for concrete utopias which the Soviet Union seemed to embody
at that time. These books were by no means solely designed for
the proletariat inasmuch as it was organized within the Commu
nist parties, but also, and even primarily, for the petit bourgeois
intellectuals and the new middle class of employees who felt
that capitalism endangered their existence. What secured a broad
public for the Tourism of the Revolution, therefore, was its
bourgeois traits. The more euphoric, the more welcome this liter
ature was: its illusions, which seem defects to us, were perhaps the
basis of its success.
O f course, this literature never dominated the field. Since we are
dealing with the Left or leftist tourism, we will disregard the
flood of anti-Soviet hate literature that the West produced after
the October Revolution. It goes almost without saying that the
wars of intervention and the economic and political pressures found
their ideological complement in the press, in books, and in films;
that capitalism did not forego a propagandistic counteroffensive.
Yet the Left, too, produced documents of disillusion and vehement
criticism of Soviet conditions alongside the literature of illusion.
Such testimony begins to appear occasionally as early as the twen
ties. Particularly the anarchists published early reports of their ex
periences that shed a critical light on developments in the USSR.
Examples of this are the books by Rudolf Rocker (My Disillusion
ment in Russia, New York, 1923), Alexander Berkman (The Bol
shevik Myth. Diary 192024, New York, 1925), and Emma Gold
man (Living My Life, New York, 1934). O f course, these reports
were written at a time when the delegacija system was still un
known, and only a small minority of people took any notice of
them.
The French-Romanian writer Panait Istrati was presumably the
first apostate among the radical tourists. As honorary president
of the Society of Friends of the USSR, he had been invited to at
tend the tenth anniversary of the October Revolution in Moscow
and had been received like a State guest. He aired his disappoint
ment in a report Apres seize mois en URSS, which was published
in 1929 in Paris. This report manifests the radical turnabout from
one extreme to the other that is characteristic of the anti-Com

munist utterances of many former pilgrims. Not a single argument
muddies the flow of Istratis confessions; the newly found disgust
is only the reverse of the former blind belief. It is just as helplessly
emotional and politically ignorant: History, Istrati states very
calmly, confronts the workers with the question not whether they
want socialism in fifteen years but whether they want their free
dom at once. 7
Istratis piece, however, was only a bumbling predecessor of an
entire wave of critical reports and analyses that began to appear
in the thirties against the idolization of Stalinist USSR. The most
sensational of these nay-sayings was by Andre Gide.
This famous man joined the Communist party at the age of sixtythree and then participated actively in the fight that helped the
United Front to a short-lived victory in 1936. That same year he
traveled to Moscow as guest of the Soviet Writers Union and from
there through large parts of the Union. The two books, which he
published after his return, Retour de IURSS and Retouches a mon
retour de IURSS (both Paris, 1936 and 1937 respectively), had a
bomblike effect. Within one year more than a hundred thousand
copies were sold and there were translations into fifteen languages.
What happened to Andre Gide in Russia? Nothing but the same
treatment that his predecessors had enjoyed and taken little notice
of; except that Gide was not Barbusse on the contrary; for the
first time the delegacija system revenged itself on its inventors.
And indeed what disturbed me most when I got there, was
not so much to find imperfections, as to meet once again with
the advantages I had wanted to escape from, the privileges I
had hoped were abolished. Certainly I thought it natural that
a guest should be received as well as possible and everywhere
shown the best. But what astonished me was that there was
such a gap between this best and the common lot; such ex
cessive privilege beside so mediocre or so bad an ordi
nary. . . .
And of course I see that without any actual attempt at cor
ruption it may very well be advantageous for the Soviet gov
ernment to make the way smooth for artists and writers and
for all who will sing its praises; but I also see only too well
how advantageous it may be for the writer to approve a gov
ernment and a constitution that favor him to such an extent.
This at once puts me on my guard. I am afraid of letting

myself be seduced. The excessive advantages I am offered over
there frighten me. I did not go to the USSR to meet with
privileges over again. Those that awaited me were flagrant.
And why should I not say so?
I had learnt from the Moscow newspapers that in a few
months more than four hundred thousand copies of my books
had been sold. I leave you to calculate the percentage of au
thor's rights. And the articles so richly paid for! If I had writ
ten dithyrambs on the USSR and Stalin, what a fortune! . . .
These considerations would not have restrained my praise;
neither will they prevent my criticisms. But I confess that the
extraordinarily privileged position (more so than in any other
country in Europe) granted to anyone who holds a pen
provided he writes in the proper spirit contributed not a
little to open my eyes. O f all the workers and artisans in the
USSR writers are much the most favored. Two of my travel
ing companions (each of them had the translation of one of
his books in the press) searched the shops for antiques, curi
osities, bric-a-brac something on which to spend the thou
sands or so rubles they had cashed and knew they would
not be able to take away with them. As for me, I could hardly
make any impression on an enormous balance, for everything
was offered me gratis. Yes, everything; from the journey itself
to my packets of cigarettes. And every time I took out my
billfold to settle a hotel or restaurant bill, to pay an account,
to buy stamps or a newspaper, the delightful smile and au
thoritative gesture of our guide stopped me. Y oure jol:ing!
You are our guest, and your five companions too.
No, I had nothing to complain of during the whole course
of my tour in the USSR, and of all the spiteful explanations
that have been invented to invalidate my criticisms, that which
tried to put them down to the score of personal dissatisfac
tion is certainly the most absurd. I had never before traveled
in such sumptuous style. In special railway carriages or the
best cars, always the best rooms in the best hotels, the most
abundant and the choicest food. And what a welcome! W hat
attentions! W hat solicitude! Everywhere acclaimed, flattered,
made much of, feasted. Nothing seemed too good, too ex
quisite to offer me. I should have been ungracious indeed to
repulse such advances; I could not do so; and I keep a mar
velous remembrance of it all, the liveliest gratitude. But these
very favors constantly brought to mind privileges, differences
where I had hoped to find equality.
When, after escaping with great difficulty from official re
ceptions and official supervision, I managed to get into con
tact with laborers whose wages were only four or five rubles
a day, what could I think of the banquet in my honor that I
Tourists o f the Revolution 175

could not avoid attending? An almost daily banquet at which
the abundance of the hors doeuvre alone was such that one
had already eaten three times too much before beginning the
actual meal; a feast of six courses which used to last two
hours and left you completely stupefied. The expense! Never
having seen a bill, I cannot exactly estimate it, but one of my
companions who was well up in the prices of things calcu
lates that each banquet, with wines and liqueurs, must have
come to more than three hundred rubles a head. N ow there
were six of us seven with our guide; and often as many
hosts as guests, sometimes many more.8
Gides criticism of Soviet society is based in many respects on

thoroughly bourgeois premises, most distinctly where he laments
the countrys uniformity and its inhabitants lack of the per
sonal touch. For example, when he notices that Soviet citizens
own little private property and when this outrages him he strikes
an involuntary comic note. Brecht made some comments on this
subject at the time, comments that should give radical tourism
something to think about above and beyond the case of Gide:
The French writer Andre Gide has enriched the great book
of his confessions with a further chapter. A tireless Odysseus,
he has provided us with the report of a new venture, however
without being able to divulge on board which ship this report
was composed and where this ship is traveling to.
Everyone who watched what he was writing at the time
when he was preparing his last mistake had to look forward
with considerable apprehension to his departure for the new
continent. He greeted it as an individualist, primarily as an
individualist.
He set out like someone who is looking for a new country,
tired of the old one, doubtlessly eager to hear his own yelp
of joy, but what he was really looking for was his new coun
try, not an unknown but a known country, not one that oth
ers but one that he himself had built, and in his head at that.
He did not find this country. It apparently does not exist on
this planet.
He set out far too unprepared. But he did not travel un
touched. He did not only bring the dust on his shoes. Now
he is disappointed, not about the fact that the country does
not exist but about the fact that this is not his country. One
must understand this: after his trip he was in a position to
say this land is like so and so, its people do this and that, I
dont quite understand. He expected a verdict of himself; he

was one of the crowd that looked expectantly at him. He
probably lacked the intention from the very beginning to
communicate what this land is like, but rather intended to
convey what he is like, and that didnt take much time, this
booklet was written quickly. He sat down and wrote . . .
Everyones happiness evidently consists only in depersonal
ization. The happiness of everyone is only achieved at the
price of the individual. To be happy you must be uniform.
Here he broaches the question about the well-being of the
people, and he is right: there probably never was a regime
that so calmly admitted as the criterion of its effect the ques
tion whether the people are happy, and that means the many.
Gide recognizes their happiness, he describes it in many places
in his book, but immediately doubts whether what looks like
happiness to him is happiness; that is, what he himself always
calls happiness. He saw happy persons, in great numbers, but
they were depersonalized. They were happy, but they were
uniform. They lacked nothing to be happy, but Gide lacked
something. Thus he reaches no new insight about happiness
except perhaps that it is a scarce commodity. The reality he
saw did not warp his measuring rod, which he brought and
took back with him. He did not come back happy, but as a
personality. Also, what he called personality he will go on
calling personality; he saw one country that lacked it: one
sixth of the earth.
He is skeptical toward other classes. Toward the concept of
personality, toward his own, thoroughly bourgeois, concept
of personality he is not skeptical. Here people are living un
der completely new, unheard-of conditions; for the first time
the masses are in control of the means of production, making
it impossible for individuals to use their talents to exploit
others. Perhaps those personalities decay that were formed
under other conditions and new kinds of personalities begin
to form, that are meant for other kinds of social work, with
other differentiations? Such personalities he would not call
personalities.9
Brechts critique of Gide is marked by rationality and equa

nimity, something one cannot claim for the reaction of the Com
munist parties. From now until the end of his life they were to call
Gide a hyena, a perverse purveyor of filth, and a mixer of poisons.
Rereading his books today one must admit, however reluctantly,
that they have outlasted much of what his Marxist opponents put
on paper at that time. Probably only the crassest fanatic would
disagree with some of his observations about bureaucracy and

repression, official mendacity, and the privilege business. Gide was
certainly wrong in considering himself a Communist; certainly he
was unschooled in theory and politically naive and his taking sides
was sentimental. Still, his idealism did not keep him from publish
ing the following table in which the approved representatives of
the Diamat simply couldnt develop any interest at all:
m in im u m
&
M A X IM U M IN C O M E
U SU A L I N C O M E
Workers
Small employees
Domestics
from 70-400 rubles

80250 rubles
50-60 rubles
(of course including
room and board)
125200 rubles
130-180 rubles
Middle-rank officials
and technicians, spe
cialists, and those in
very responsible po
sitions
300800 rubles
High officials, certain

professors,
artists,
and writers
150010,000 rubles
and more; some, it is
indicated, receive be
tween
20,000 to
30,000 rubles per
month .10
There is a very simple reason why Gides yellowed critique is

not only acceptable but still readable today: it is his complete sol
idarity. This solidarity with the Russian workers and farmers is
colored by Protestant moralism and is not devoid of idealistic mist;
yes, at times it is so simple as to be awkward. Still, it provides the
decisive criterion. It is this solidarity that distinguishes Gides re
port from the tirades of the other disillusioned ones, that separates
him once and for all from the anti-Communist filth of the cold
war, as well as from the arrogant know-it-all attitude and the ma
licious gleefulness that survives in some writers of the Left to this
day.
O f course, one cannot compare todays attitude quite that sim
ply with those of yesterday. Much has changed since Gides days

also with respect to traveling in countries such as the Soviet Union.
The infrastructure has improved, tourism has become a firmly es
tablished social institution above and beyond caring for state
guests of the revolution. The Intourist Bureau, the football club,
the Ministry of Foreign Trade, the Writers Union every organi
zation today has its specialists who take care of the delegacija un
obtrusively and routinely. The GPU no longer exists and to men
tion its successor is considered bad form as much on the part of
the hosts as the guests.
The USSR also is no longer the favorite travel objective of rad
ical or revolutionary tourists. The interest of this peculiar and
ambiguous group has fallen on younger revolutions, on the nonEuropean transitional societies.
The goals have changed, but the objective as well as subjective
mechanism has remained the same. What Gide wrote before his
trip to the Soviet Union is still valid:
The stupidity and insidiousness of the attacks on the USSR is
largely responsible for our conducting its defense with a cer
tain willfulness. These yapping dogs will begin to praise the
way things are going in Russia at the very moment when we
will stop doing so, because their praise will only be for the
compromises and slander, for the deviations from the original
objective, which abet the gleeful exclamation: There, you
see! 11
The objections which are meant to prevent any criticism of the

socialist transitional societies have scarcely changed since Gide
enumerated them in 1937:
( 1 ) that the malpractices I have pointed out are exceptions
to the rule from which one shouldnt draw any conclusions
(because one cannot deny them);
(2 ) that in order to admire the present state of affairs one
needs only to compare it to the previous one, the condition
before the conquest (mean to say: before the revolution)
(3) that everything I complain about has profound onto
logical reasons that I have been unable to fathom: passing
temporary evils in view of an imminent and that much greater
state of well-being.12
The sterile debate between the admirers and defenders is being

continued at any price, even at that of solidarity with the peoples

who are being discussed, inasmuch as there is any room left for
them between arrogance and loss of a sense of reality. Trotzkys
dictum is still valid: What really hides behind the official friends
animosity to criticism is not so much concern for the fragility of
socialism as the fragility of their own sympathy for socialism.
Here, then, a recent example of this state of affairs:
China after the Cultural Revolution is what Maria Antonietta
Macciocchi calls her report; a more fitting title would be
Marie Antoinette in Wonderland. For this book by an Italian
Communist party delegate tells us less about China (where
the author traveled together with her husband, the foreign
political editor of Unita) than it does about the petit-bour
geois mentality characteristic of so many party intellectuals.
Her blindness toward the situation at the workplace, her in
comprehension of production relationships and of human and
social costs entailed by them, and her typical admiration of
the colorful and sensuous aspect of goods becomes evident
from the description the author gives of a silk-weaving plant
in Hangchow that produces fifteen color M ao pictures in
large series: The thousand machines are spinning briskly al
ways in the same rhythm, and from the looms pour the great
beards of Marx and Engels, the pointed goatee of Lenin, the
face of M ao with his forage cap. Then the gobelins showing
historical events: M ao at the proclamation of the 20th of May;
Mao in a bathrobe before the famous crossing of the Yangtze.
. . . The poems of M ao, too, are printed in black and white.
. . . The factory has 1700 workers who work three shifts,
day and night, to satisfy the demand.
We too have visited this factory. But we didnt only see the
glowing colors of the large and small Mao pictures. T he
workers are standing in dark places where one ruins ones
eyes and are exposed to incredible noise. The day shift lasts
8 V2 hours, the night shift 6 V2 hours. Seven days of vacation
per year. Fifty-six days maternity leave including delivery time.
Staggered wages, premiums as work incentives, preferential
treatment for the drafting teams as compared with the pro
ducers. The Communist delegate has heard and seen nothing
of this. She doesnt lose a word over it. When we met her
recently and asked her about this discrepancy she said vehe
mently: Perhaps you dont know Italian factories? O f
course, we replied, we know them as well as American and
Soviet factories; but it never occurred to us to claim that It
aly, the USA or the USSR are socialist countries.
For Macciocchi, on the other hand, China is an ideal so
cialist country which manifests an entirely new model of

industrialization. This is due to the fact that she spent less
time in the factories than in the company of functionaries
who took her to the best restaurants in Peking.14
It is no accident but the political consequence of such an atti

tude that the great majority of radical tourists assiduously ig
nore the true situation of the working class in the socialistically
governed countries. This striking disinterest is only barely con
cealed by means of declamatory slogans. The usual visits to fac
tories and kolkhozes tend to meet the indifference of these visitors
at least halfway. They cannot and are not set up to break through
the social segregation of the guests, whose contact is limited to
designated individuals from the functionary class and to foreigners
who live in the same hotels. This umbrella is so effective that most
of the political tourists dont have the slightest idea of the working
conditions even after weeks or months in the host country. Ask
them about wages and working hours, protection against unlawful
dismissal, housing assignments, the number of shifts worked and
the premium system, living standards and rationalization, and
usually they have no answer. (In Havana I kept meeting Commu
nists in the hotels for foreigners who had no idea that the energy
and water supply in the working quarters had broken down dur
ing the afternoon, that bread was rationed, and that the popula
tion had to stand two hours in line for a slice of pizza; meanwhile
the tourists in their hotel rooms were arguing about Lukacs.)
In any event, there are indications that the Western travelers
awareness of problems is increasing. More and more reporters try
to dispense with the ideological veil their status foists on them. O f
course, one is more easily blinded when it is a question of ones
own privileges. Even where the political intent of these privileges
goes undetected one senses them more and more as a moral scan
dal, and they become problematical at least in this respect, as in
the following reflections by Susan Sontag, who visited Hanoi in
spring 1968:
. . . Hence, the store to which we were taken the third day
to get tire sandals and have us each fitted for a pair of Viet
namese trousers. Hieu and Phan told us, with an almost pro
prietary pride, that this was a special store, reserved for for-

eigners (diplomatic personnel, guests) and important
government people. I thought they should recognize that the
existence of such facilities is un-Communist. But maybe
Im showing here how American I am.
Im troubled, too, by the meals at the Thong Nhat. While
every lunch and dinner consists of several delicious meat and
fish courses (were eating only Vietnamese food) and when
ever we eat everything in one of the large serving bowls a
waitress instantly appears to put another one on our table,
ninety-nine percent of the Vietnamese will have rice and bean
curd for dinner tonight and are lucky to eat meat or fish once
a month. O f course I havent said anything. Theyd probably
be mystified, even insulted, if I suggested that we shouldnt
be eating so much more than the average citizens rations. Its
well known that lavish and (what would be to us) self-sacri
ficing hospitality to guests is a staple of Oriental culture. Do
I really expect them to violate their own sense of decorum?
Still, it bothers me. . . . It also exasperates me that were
driven even very short distances; the Peace Committee has
rented two cars, in fact Volgas that wait with their drivers
in front of the hotel whenever were due to go anywhere. The
office of the NLF delegation in Hanoi, which we visited the
other day, was all of two blocks from the hotel. And some of
our other destinations proved to be no more than fifteen or
twenty blocks away. W hy dont they let us walk, as Bob,
Andy, and I have agreed among ourselves wed feel more
comfortable doing? Do they have a rule: only the best for the
guests? But that kind of politeness, it seems to me, could well
be abolished in a Communist society. Or must, we go by car
because they think were weak, effete foreigners (Westerners?
Americans?) who also need to be reminded to get out of the
sun? It disquiets me to think the Vietnamese might regard
walking as beneath our dignity (as official guests, celebrities,
or something). Whatever their reason, theres no budging them
on this. We roll through the crowded streets in our big ugly
black cars the chauffeurs blasting away on their horns to
make people on foot and on bicycles watch out, give way.
. . . Best, of course, would be if they would lend us, or let
us rent, bicycles. But though weve dropped hints to Oanh
more than once, its clear they dont or w ont take the request
seriously. When we broach it, are they at least amused? Or
do they just think were being silly or impolite or dum b ? 15
The only traveler I know who has thought the problem of rad
ical tourism through to the end is the Swede Jan Myrdal. With a
conscientiousness that makes a veritably puritanical impression

compared to the usual sloppiness in these matters, he gave an ac
count (in his book Report from a Chinese Village, written in 1962
and published the following year) of the circumstances of his trip
and his own situation. His reflections, therefore, and their exem
plary character justify a longer quote.
We financed our journey to China and our travels in China
with our own resources. We probably could have become
invitees ; the Chinese suggested this to us on several occa
sions, when we spoke of reducing our expenses, and that we
did not do so was less because we thought that we would be
corrupted I have never believed myself to be easily corrupt
ible and I dont think that I change my opinions because of
small economic gains but I intensely dislike the interna
tional junkets, the pleasure trips at public expense. The big
powers, the Soviet Union, the United States, China, France,
Great Britain, are all subjecting the writers of small countries
like Sweden (and of each other) to well-intentioned economic
pressure through different forms of free travel with all ex
penses paid. Even if I dont think I would be corrupted, Im
against the whole tendency. It has a perverting influence on
the intellectual morals of the writer, it runs counter to the
free expression of ideas. I cant stop this tendency, but I can
at least say no for myself. I distrust free-loaders whether they
are capitalists, communists, liberals, conservatives, anar
chists or just plain sellers of words. I have never liked being
grateful to anybody. And I cant understand how the pub
lic that after all pays for it can put up with this spectacle
of politicians, writers and sundry public figures banqueting
their way around the world on a spree of phrases.
But as my funds were by no means unlimited and as there
were, and are, few facilities in China today for the tourist
with a slim pocketbook, this led to certain conflicts. . . . Im
not criticizing the Chinese; in every country in which I have
lived I have had to take up a discussion with the bureaucracy
in order to be left in peace to do my work. The Chinese of
ficials were reasonable and it took rather less time to con
vince them than it has taken in many other countries; also
there was no question of corruption. They followed their reg
ulations and I wanted to have these regulations changed.
One of the prerequisite conditions for traveling in China
today is that you accept interpreters and guides. We were
given ours by the Chinese Peoples Association for Cultural
Relations with Foreign Countries. I will come back to the
question of interpreters, but I just want to point out that you
either accept this condition or you dont travel outside Pe
king, Canton, Shanghai and more often than not, not even

there. I dont like this. But it is a tendency that is spreading
from country to country. Even in Sweden we are starting to
take in invitees, give them guides and see to it that they
keep looking at what we want to show them. I'm disturbed
by this tendency. It gives strength to my fears that we, all
over the world, are moving towards a more supervised form
of existence. But in this case I could not just say no, find a
third way out or shift the emphasis. Either I have my travel
supervised or I stay at home, quite probably supervised in
one way or another even there. However much I dislike it, I
have to accept this condition. . . .
Our chief interpreter was Pei Kwang-li. She had come with
us from Peking. She was the most flexible, the best linguist
and the most hard-working of the interpreters I had come
across in China. I had tried several interpreters before getting
hold of her, and we had been working together for about two
weeks when we arrived at the village. She was supposed to
go back to Peking from Yenan and it was only after some
quite hard discussion that I managed to take her with me to
Liu Ling. She was of great help to me in the village. She was
friendly and cheerful and interested in the work. I gathered
that she was afterwards criticized for her work with me. When
we came back to Peking, she went away on vacation and
after that she was not so friendly, natural and relaxed as she
had been during the month in Liu Ling. She later on when
the book was finished interpreted for us during our trip to
Yunnan and during that trip she was cold, formal, dogmatic
and even (which in China says much) quarrelled violently with
us on the grounds that we showed anti-Chinese opinions.
As our anti-Chineseness was our opinions about toil and
sweat and peasant hunger that she had understood so well in
Liu Ling, I cannot explain this change in her behaviour oth
erwise than that she had through criticism and self-criti
cism come to evaluate us and our work in a different way
and change her opinions about our way of working. Because
of this I got rather less information in Yunnan than I had
hoped for.
The authorities in Yenan were very eager that we should
not sleep in the village. They promised to arrange for us to
be ferried there and back every day. We wanted, of course,
to live in the village, we even demanded to be allowed to do
so. The O ld Secretary of the village strongly supported us.
To him it was a point of honour. After some discussion the
Yenan authorities were (with some reluctance) convinced of
our point of view. (The reluctance can be interpreted in many
ways, one of them is that the Yenan authorities wanted us to
be as comfortable as possible. They probably wanted to be
kind. It is not their fault that their kindness would have made

this book impossible.) We then lived in a stone cave (nor
mally the party secretarys office) and I worked in another
(the brigades conference-room). Since we lived in a cave in a
village of caves and ate the village food and the whole time
associated with the villagers, it would be easy to say that we
lived as one of the people. But that would be a romantic and
thus mendacious description of reality. We were the first for
eigners to have lived in the village, and the village honour
required that our cave should be whitewashed and that we
should eat well. We lived considerably better than the vil
lagers. . . . As a guest in a village you eat well, you also eat
with a certain reverence, because you know that you are eat
ing the fruits of the toil and sweat of the people around you.
But you never say so to your hosts. There is pride in toil.
There is nothing objective about food in a poor peasant
village. It does not come out of a tin, neither is it something
you carry with you from the city. But I was not one of the
villagers. And I was not living like a Chinese peasant. . . .
The decision to have an upper limit to the interviews, i.e.,
not to continue far up in the bureaucratic structure above the
village, was contained in the idea of the book itself. But first
I had thought of including at least some representative from
Yenan, who could give the slightly larger picture of the vil
lage in its setting. I even tried to make that interview and
spent one morning in Yenan interviewing the local party sec
retary, a young man. Unfortunately he was too dogmatic, too
official to be of any value. (And this is a typical problem all
over Asia: the middle echelon of bureaucracy is mostly young
and dogmatic and narrow-mindedly inexperienced. The old
experienced peasants are illiterate, the bright young adminis
trators are already high up and the old intellectual generation
of revolutionaries or national figures are slowly fading
away.) I dont blame the young bureaucrat from Yenan. He
ran true to type, but when he flatly stated: We have here in
our part never had any difficulty, never committed a mistake,
never made a fault and we have no problems today, I broke
off the interview with a few nice, pleasant phrases, and de
cided that he was not to be included in the book and that I
had better go back to the village and talk with the peasants.16
Despite the careful thoughts Myrdal has addressed to the prob

lems that the observation of a transitional society creates, and
as convincing as his report seems, he cannot provide us with a
general solution to these difficulties. Such a solution not only pre
sumes a different attitude on the travelers part but also a change

in the objective conditions. The delegacija system will not disap
pear until the isolation of the socialistically governed countries is
overcome and until the foreigners as well as the indigenous
workers freedom of movement has been guaranteed. When every
one is free to choose his own companion or decide to dispense
with him; when the infrastructure is sufficiently developed to in
sure lodging, transportation, and food for everyone who is under
way, when the total dependence on guides and controlling insti
tutions has vanished then the delegacija business will not neces
sarily cease of its own accord, but dependency, bribery, segrega
tion from the working population, reality loss, and uncritical
ingratiation, as well as the privileges that are its material substra
tum, will become straitjackets that everyone who does not feel
comfortable can discard.
Such a development is foreseeable, that is, as an unplanned and
perhaps unwished-for but necessary complement of a policy of
global coexistence whose questionable sides, incidentally, are no
secret. But to ascertain its positive aspects does not mean to capit
ulate to the two-dimensional theories of convergence so much in
favor with bourgeois observers. However, it is conceivable that
the Left in the West will not use the opportunities that are becom
ing manifest here. Little speaks for the fact that those who adhere
to socialism in the West will take up the confrontation with the
attempt to realize it. Now that the objective difficulties are de
creasing and it is becoming less and less a question, in many coun
tries, of endangering anyone by talking with them, now that trav
eling is ceasing to be an individual privilege, it should be possible
to launch a massive attack on this overdue task that no one has
performed as yet: the analysis of socialist societies or those that
go by that name. Individual messengers cannot undertake such an
investigation. We have tried to detect the reason for their failure.
But whoever curses the radical tourism of the last fifty years in
order to conceal his own disinterest will find it difficult to reply to
the question that is put to him when he is having his beer, or at
street-corner meetings or at demonstrations, the question: Why
dont you go live in the East?
2
A Critique of
Political Ecology
Ecology as Science
s a scientific discipline, ecology is almost exactly a hundred
years old. The concept emerged for the first time in 1868
when the German biologist Ernst Haeckel, in his Natural History
o f Creation, proposed giving this name to a subdiscipline of zool
ogy one that would investigate the totality of relationships be
tween an animal species and its inorganic and organic environ
ment. Compared with the present state of ecology, such a proposal
suggests a comparatively modest program. Yet none of the restric
tions contained in it proved to be tenable: neither the preference
given to animal species over plant species, nor to macro- as op
posed to micro-organisms. With the discovery of whole ecosys
tems, the perspective Haeckel had had in mind became untenable.
Instead, there emerged the concept of mutual dependence and of
a balance between all the inhabitants of an ecosystem, and in the
course of this development the range and complexity of the new
discipline have grown rapidly. Ecology became as controversial as
it is today only when it was decided to include a very particular
species of animal in its researches man. While this step brought
ecology unheard-of publicity, it also precipitated it into a crisis
about its validity and methodology, the end of which is not yet in
sight.
Human ecology is, first of all, a hybrid discipline. In it cate-
186
A Critique of Political Ecology 187

gories and methods drawn from the natural and social sciences
have to be used together without this in any way theoretically
resolving the resulting complications. Human ecology tends to suck
in more and more new disciplines and to subsume them under its
own research aims. This tendency is justified not on scientific
grounds, but because of the urgency of ecologys aims. Under the
pressure of public debate ecologys statements in recent years be
came more and more markedly prognostic. This futurological de
formation was totally alien to ecology so long as it considered
itself to be merely a particular area of biology. It must be clearly
understood that this science has now come to lay claim to a total
validity a claim it cannot make good. The more far-reaching its
conclusions, the less reliable it is. Since no one can vouch for the
accuracy of the enormous volume of material from every conceiv
able science on which its hypotheses are constructed, it must
precisely to the degree that it wishes to make global statements
confine itself to working syntheses. One of the best known ecolog
ical handbooksPopulation, Resources, Environment by Paul and
Anne Ehrlich deploys evidence from the following branches of
sciences either implicitly or explicitly: statistics, systems theory,
cybernetics, games theory and prediction theory; thermodynamics,
biochemistry, biology, oceanography, mineralogy, meteorology, ge
netics; physiology, medicine, epidemology, toxicology; agricul
tural science, urban studies, demography; technologies of all kinds;
theories of society, sociology, and economics (the latter admittedly
in a most elementary form). The list is not complete. It is hard to
describe the methodological confusion that results from the at
tempt at a synthesis of this sort. If one starts from this theoretical
position there can, obviously, be no question of producing a group
of people competent to deal with it. Henceforth, when push comes
to shove, we are all ecologists; and this, incidentally, is what makes
the statements in this article possible.
The Central Hypothesis
What till recently was a marginal science has within a few years
become the center of bitter controversies. This cannot be ex
plained merely by the snowballing effect of the mass media. It is
connected with the central statement made by human ecology a
statement that refers to the future and is therefore at one and the

same time prognostic and hypothetical. On the one hand, every
one is affected by the statement, since it relates to the existence of
the species; on the other, no one can form a clear and final judg
ment on it because, in the last resort, it can only be verified or
proved wrong in the future. This hypothesis can be formulated as
follows: the industrial societies of this earth are producing ecolog
ical contradictions, which must in the foreseeable future lead to
their collapse.
In contradistinction to other earlier theories of catastrophe this
prognosis does not rest on linear, monocausal arguments. On the
contrary, it introduces several synergetic factors. A very simplified
list of the different strains of causality would look something like
this:
1. Industrialization leads to an uncontrolled growth in world
population. Simultaneously, the material needs of that population
increase. Even given an enormous expansion in industrial produc
tion, the chances of satisfying human needs deteriorate per capita.
2. The industrial process has up to now been nourished from
sources of energy which are not in the main self-renewing; among
these are fossil fuels as well as supplies of fissile material such as
uranium. In a determinable space of time these supplies will be
exhausted; their replacement through what are basically new
sources of energy (such as atomic fusion) is theoretically conceiv
able, but not yet practically realizable.
3. The industrial process is also dependent on the employment
of mineral raw materials above all of metals which are not selfrenewing either; their exploitation is advancing so rapidly that the
exhaustion of deposits can be foreseen.
4. The water requirements of the industrial process have reached
a point where they can no longer be satisfied by the natural cir
culation of water. As a result, the reserves of water in the ground
are being attacked; this must lead to disturbances in the present
cycle of evaporation and precipitation and to climatic changes.
The only possible solution is the desalination of sea-water; but
this is so energy-intensive that it would accelerate the process de
scribed in number 2 above.
5. A further limiting factor is the production of foodstuffs. Nei
ther the area of land suitable for cultivation nor the yield per acre

can be arbitrarily increased. Attempts to increase the productivity
of farming lead, beyond a certain point, to new ecological imbal
ances, e.g. erosion, pollution through poisonous substances, re
ductions in genetic variability. The production of food from the
sea comes up against ecological limits of another kind.
6. A further factor but only one factor among a number of
others is the notorious pollution of the earth. This category is
misleading insofar as it presupposes a clean world. This has
naturally never existed and is moreover ecologically neither con
ceivable nor desirable. What is actually meant are disequilibriums
and dysfunctionings of all kinds in the metabolism between nature
and human society occurring as the unintentional side effects of
the industrial process. The polycausal linking of these effects
is of unimaginable complexity. Poisoning caused by harmful sub
stances physiological damage from pesticides, radioactive iso
topes, detergents, pharmaceutical preparations, food additives, ar
tificial manures, trace quantities of lead and mercury, fluoride,
carcinogens, gene mutants, and a vast quantity of other substances
are only one facet of the problem. The problem of irreversible
waste is only another facet of the same question. The changes in
the atmosphere and in the resources of land and water traceable
to metabolic causes such as production of smog, changes in cli
mate, irreversible changes in rivers and lakes, oceanographic
changes must also be taken into account.
7. Scientific research into yet another factor does not appear to
have got beyond the preliminary stages. There are no established
critical quantifications of what is called psychic pollution. Un
der this heading come: increasing exposure to excessive noise and
other irritants, the psychical effects of overpopulation, as well as
other stress factors which are difficult to isolate.
8. A final critical limit is presented by thermal pollution. The
laws of thermodynamics show that, even in principle, this limit
cannot be crossed. Heat is emitted by all processes involving the
conversion of energy. The consequences for the global supply of
heat have not been made sufficiently clear.
A basic difficulty in the construction or refutation of ecolog
ical hypotheses is that the processes invoked do not take place
serially but in close interdependence. That is also true of all at

tempts to find solutions to ecological crises. It often, if not always,
emerges that measures to control one critical factor lead to an
other getting out of control. One is dealing with a series of closed
circuits, or rather of interference circuits, which are in many ways
linked. Any discussion that attempted to deal with the alleged
causes piecemeal and to disprove them singly would miss the
core of the ecological debate and would fall below the level the
debate has reached in the meantime.1
Yet even if there exists a certain, but by no means complete,
consensus that the present process of industrialization must lead
ceteris paribus to a breakdown, three important questions con
nected with the prognosis are still open to debate. The first con
cerns the time scale involved. Estimations of the point in time at
which a galloping deterioration of the ecological situation may be
expected differ by a factor of several centuries. They range from
the end of the 1980s to the twenty-second century. In view of the
innumerable variables involved in the calculations, such divergen
cies are not to be wondered at. (For example, the critics of the
M IT report The Limits o f Growth have objected to its conclusions
on the grounds that the mathematical model on which it is based
is much too simple and the number of variables too limited.) A
second controversial point is closely related to the first: namely
that the relative weighcing to be given to the individual factors
blamed for the catastrophe is not made clear. This is a point at
issue, for example, in the debate between Barry Commoner and
Paul Ehrlich. While the latter considers population growth to be
the critical factor, the former believes that the decisive factor is
modern industrial technology. An exact analysis of the factors in
volved comes up against immense methodological difficulties. The
scientific debate between the two schools therefore remains unde
cided.
Thirdly, it is obviously not clear what qualifies as an environ
mental catastrophe. In this connection one can distinguish a num
ber of different perspectives dictated by expectation or fear. There
are ecologists who concern themselves only with mounting dan
gers and the corresponding physiological, climatic, social, and po
litical disturbances ; others, like the Swedish ecologist Gosta Eh
rensvard, contemplate the end of social structures based on
industrialization; some prognoses go further those of what in the

United States are called doomsters talk of the dying out of the
human species or the disappearance from the planet of a whole
series of species: primates, mammals, and vertebrates. The tone in
which the respective ecological hypotheses are presented ranges
correspondingly from the mildest reformist warnings to deepest
resignation. What is decisive for the differences between them is
naturally the question of how far the process of ecological destruc
tion and uncontrolled exploitation is to be regarded as irrevers
ible. In the literature, the answer to this question is made to de
pend on the one hand on an analysis of the factors involved and
on the other on temporal parameters. The uncertainty which is
admitted to prevail on these two points means that there is no
prospect of a firm answer. Authors like Ehrensvard, who start from
the premise that the end of industrial societies is at hand, and are
already busy with preparations for a post-industrial society one
which, it should be added, contains a number of idyllic traits are
still in the minority. Most ecologists imply that they consider that
the damage done so far is reversible, if only by tacking on to their
analyses proposals to avert the catastrophe of which they are the
prophets. These proposals will need to be critically examined.
The Ecological Movement
Ecologys hypotheses about the future of industrialization have
been disseminated, at least in industrialized capitalist countries,
through the mass media. The debate on the subject has itself to
some extent acquired a mass character, particularly in the AngloSaxon and Scandinavian countries. It has led to the rise of a wide,
although loosely organized, movement whose political potential is
hard to estimate. At the same time the problem under discussion
is peculiarly ill-defined. Even the statements of the ecologists
themselves alternate between the construction of theories and broad
statements of Weltanschauung, between precise research and to
talizing theories linked to a philosophy of history. The thinking
of the ecological groups therefore gives the impression of being at
once obscure and confused. The very fact that it is disseminated
by the mass media means that the debate generally loses a great
deal of its stringency and content. Subordinate questions such as
that of recycling refuse or pollution are treated in isolation; hy
potheses are presented as unequivocal truths; spectacular cases of

poisoning are sensationally exploited; isolated results of research
are given absolute validity and so on. Processing through the sew
age system of industrialized publicity has therefore, to some ex
tent, led to further pollution of a cluster of problems that, from
the start, cannot be presented in a pure way. This lack of clarity
is propagated in the groups that are at present actively occupied
with the subject of ecology, or rather with its disjecta membra,
with what is left of it. The most powerful of these groups is that
of the technocrats who, at all levels of the state apparatus and
also of industry, are busy finding the speediest solutions to partic
ular problems quick technological fixes and implementing
them. This they do whenever there is a considerable potential for
economic or political conflict and only then. These people con
sider themselves entirely pragmatic that is to say, they are ser
vants of the ruling class now in power and cannot be assumed
to have a proper awareness of the problem. They can be included
in the ecological movement only insofar as they belong as will
be demonstrated to its manipulators and insofar as they benefit
from it. The political motives and interests in these cases are either
obvious as with the Club of Rome, a consortium of top man
agers and bureaucrats or can easily and unequivocally be estab
lished.
What is less unequivocal is the political character of a second
form of ecological awareness and the practice that corresponds to
it. Here it is a matter of smaller groups of concerned and respon
sible citizens, as they say in the United States. The expression
points, as does its German parallel, citizens initiative, to the
class background of those involved in it. They are overwhelmingly
members of the middle class and of the new petty bourgeoisie.
Their activities have generally modest goals. They are concerned
with preserving open spaces or trees. Classes of schoolchildren are
encouraged to clean up litter on beaches or recreation grounds. A
boycott of nonbiodegradable packaging is organized, etc. The
harmless impression made by projects of this kind can easily blind
us to the reserves of militancy they conceal. There only needs to
be a tiny alteration in the definition of goals and these groups
spontaneously begin to increase in size and power. They are then
able to prevent the carrying through of large-scale projects, such
as the siting of an airport or an oil refinery, to force high-tension

cables to be laid underground or a highway to be diverted. But
even achievements of this magnitude only represent the limits of
their effectiveness for a time. If the hypotheses of the ecologists
should come even partially true, the ecological action groups will
become a force of the first order in domestic politics and one that
can no longer be ignored. On the one hand, they express powerful
and legitimate needs of those who engage in these activities; on
the other hand, they set their sights on immediate targets, which
are not understood politically, and they incline to indulge in social
illusion. This makes them ideal fodder for demagogues and inter
ested third parties. But the limited nature of their initiatives should
not conceal the fact that there lies within them the seed of a pos
sible mass movement.
Finally, there is that part of the ecological movement that con
siders itself to be its hard core but that, in fact, plays a rather
marginal role. These are the eco-freaks. These groups, which
have mostly split off from the American protest movement, are
engaged in a kind of systematic flight from the cities and from
civilization. They live in rural communes, grow their own food,
and seek a natural way of life, which may be regarded as the
simulation of pre- or postindustrial conditions. They look for sal
vation in detailed, precisely stipulated dietary habits eating earth
food and agricultural methods. Their class background corre
sponds to that of the hippies of the 1960s of reduced middleclass origin, enriched by elements from peripheral groups. Ideolog
ically, they incline toward obscurantism and sectarianism.
On the whole one can say that in the ecological movement or
perhaps one should say movements the scientific aspects, which
derive predominantly from biology, have merged in an extremely
confused alliance with a whole series of political motivations and
interests, which are partly manifest, partly concealed. At a deeper
level one can identify a great number of sociopsychological needs,
which are usually aroused without those concerned being able to
see through them. These include: hopes of conversions and re
demption, delight in the collapse of things, feelings of guilt and
resignation, escapism, and hostility to civilization.
In these circumstances it is not surprising that the European Left
holds aloof from the ecological movement. It is true that it has
incorporated certain topics from the environmental debate in the

repertory of its anticapitalist agitation; but it maintains a skeptical
attitude to the basic hypothesis underlying ecology and avoids en
tering into alliances with groups that are entirely oriented toward
ecological questions. The Left has instead seen its task to be to
face the problem in terms of an ideological critique. It therefore
functions chiefly as an instrument of clarification, as a tribunal
that atrempts to dispel the innumerable mystifications that domi
nate ecological thinking and have encouraged it. The most impor
tant elements in this process of clarification, which is absolutely
necessary, are listed and discussed below.
The Class Character of the
Current Ecological Debate
The social neutrality to which the ecological debate lays claim,
having recourse as it does so to strategies derived from the evi
dence of the natural sciences, is a fiction. A simple piece of histor
ical reflection shows just how far this class neutrality goes. Indus
trialization made whole towns and areas of the countryside
uninhabitable as long as 150 years ago. The environmental con
ditions at places of work, that is to say in the English factories
and pits, were as innumerable documents demonstrate danger
ous to life. There was an infernal noise; the air people breathed
was polluted with explosive and poisonous gases as well as with
carcinogenous matter and particles that were highly contaminated
with bacteria. The smell was unimaginable. In the labor process
contagious poisons of all kinds were used. The diet was bad. Food
was adulterated. Safety measure were nonexistent or were ig
nored. The overcrowding in the working-class quarters was noto
rious. The situation regarding drinking water and drainage was
terrifying. There was in general no organized method for dispos
ing of refuse.
. . . When cholera prevailed in that district [Tranent, in
Scotland] some of the patients suffered very much indeed from
want of water, and so great was the privation, that on that
calamitous occasion people went into the ploughed fields and
gathered rain water which collected in depressions in the
ground, and actually in the prints made by horses feet. Tra
nent was formerly well-supplied with water of excellent qual
ity by a spring above the village, which flows through a sand-

bed. The water flows into Tranent at its head . . . and is
received into about ten wells, distributed throughout the vil
lage. The people supply themselves at these wells when they
contain water. When the supply is small, the water pours in
a very small stream only. . . . I have seen women fighting
for water. The wells are sometimes frequented throughout
the whole night. It was generally believed by the population
that this stoppage of the water was owing to its stream being
diverted into a coal-pit which was sunk in the sand-bed above
Tranent.2
These conditions, which are substantiated by innumerable other

sources from the nineteenth century, would undoubtedly have pre
sented a neutral observer with food for ecological reflection.
But there were no such observers. It occurred to no one to draw
pessimistic conclusions from these facts about the future of indus
trialization. The ecological movement has only come into being
since the districts the bourgeoisie inhabit and their living condi
tions have been exposed to those environmental burdens that in
dustrialization brings with it. What fills their prophets with terror
is not so much ecological decline, which has been present since
time immemorial, as its universalization. To isolate oneself from
this process becomes increasingly difficult. It deploys a dialectic
that in the last resort turns against its own beneficiaries. Pleasure
trips and expensive packaging, for example, are by no means phe
nomena that have emerged only in the last decades; they are part
of the traditional consumption of the ruling classes. They have
become problematic, however, in the shape of tourism and the
litter of consumerism; that is, only since the laboring masses have
shared them. Quantitative increase tips over into a new quality
that of destruction. What was previously privilege now appears as
nightmare and capitalist industry proceeds to take tardy, if still
comparatively mild, revenge on those who up to now had only
derived benefit from it. The real capitalist class, which is decreas
ing in numbers, can admittedly still avoid these consequences. It
can buy its own private beaches and employ lackeys of all kinds.
But for both the old and the new and the petty bourgeoisie such
expenditure is unthinkable. The cost of a private environment
that makes it possible to escape to some extent from the conse
quences of industrialization is already astronomical and will rise
more sharply in the future.

It is after all easy to understand that the working class cares
little about general environmental problems and is only prepared
to take part m campaigns where it is a question of directly im
proving their working and living conditions. Insofar as it can be
considered a source of ideology, ecology is a matter that concerns
the middle class. If avowed representatives of monopoly capital
ism have recently become its spokesmen as in the Club of Rome
that is because of reasons that have little to do with the living
conditions of the ruling class. These reasons require analysis.
The Interests of the
Eco-industrial Complex
That the capitalist mode of production has catastrophic conse
quences is a commonplace of Marxism, which also not infre
quently crops up in the arguments of the ecological movement.
Certainly the fight for a clean environment always contains an
ticapitalist elements. Nevertheless, fascism in Germany and Italy
have demonstrated how easily such elements can be turned round
and become tools in the service of the interests of capital.3 It is
therefore not surprising that ecological protest, at least in Western
Europe, almost always ends up with an appeal to the state. Under
present political conditions this means that it appeals to reformism
and to technocratic rationality. This appeal is then answered by
government programs that promise an improvement in the qual
ity of life, without of course indicating whose life is going to be
made more beautiful, in what way, and at whose expense. The
state only goes into action when the earning powers of the entre
preneur are threatened. Today the environmental crisis presents a
massive threat to these interests. On the one hand it threatens the
material basis of production air, earth, and water while on the
other hand it threatens man, the productive factor, whose useful
ness is being reduced by frequent physical and mental illnesses. 4
To these have to be added the danger of uncontrollable riots over ,
ecological questions as the conditions in the environment progres
sively deteriorate.
On the question of state intervention and environmental pro
tection from above, the Lefts ideological critique displays a re
markable lack of historical reflection. Here too it is certainly not
a question of new phenomena. The negative effects of environ

mental damage on the earning power of industry, the struggle over
the off-loading of liability, over laws relating to the environment
and over the range of state control can be traced back without
much difficulty to the early period of English industrialization; a
remarkable lack of variation in the attitude of the interests in
volved emerges from such a study. The previously quoted report
on the water supply and the drainage problems in a Scottish min
ing village is taken from an official report of the year 1842 a
report that incidentally was also quoted by Engels in his book The
Condition o f the English Working Class. The chairman of the
commission of inquiry was a certain Sir Edwin Chadwick, a typi
cal predecessor of the modern ecological technocrats. Chadwick
was a follower of the utilitarian political philosopher and lawyer
Jeremy Bentham, of whom Marx said: If I had the courage of
my friend H. Heine, I would call Mr. Jeremiah a genius at bour
geois stupidity. 5 James Ridgeway, one of the few American ecol
ogists capable of intervening in the present environmental discus
sion with political arguments, has dealt thoroughly with
Chadwicks role.6 Then as now the rhetoric of the ecological re
formers served to cloak quite concrete connections between a va
riety of interests. The technological means with which this re
form from above operates have also altered less than one might
think.7
But a historical perspective fails in its object if it is used to re
duce modern problems to the level of past ones. Ridgeway does
not always avoid this danger: he tends to restrict himself to tra
ditional ecological questions such as water pollution and the sup
ply of energy. Without meaning to do so he thereby reduces the
extent of the threatened catastrophe. It is true that there were en
vironmental crises before this and that the mechanisms of reform
ist managements set up to deal with the crises can look back on a
long history. What has to be kept in mind, however, is that the
ecological risks have not only increased quantitatively, but have
taken on a new quality.
In line with the changes that have taken place in the economic
basis, this also holds true for environmental pollution and state
intervention. In its present form monopoly capitalism is inclined,
as is well known, to solve its demand problems by extravagant
expenditure at the cost of the public exchequer. The most obvious

examples of this are unproductive investments in armaments and
in space exploration. Industrial protection of the environment
emerges as a new growth area, the costs of which can either be
off-loaded on to prices or are directly made a social charge through
the budget in the form of subsidies, tax concessions, and direct
measures by the public authorities, while the profits accrue to the
monopolies. According to the calculations of the American
Council of Environmental Quality at least a million dollars is
pocketed in the course of the elimination of three million dollars
worth of damage to the environment. 8
Thus, the recognition of the problems attendant on industrial
growth serves to promote a new growth industry. The rapidly ex
panding eco-industrial complex makes profits in two ways: on the
straightforward market, where consumer goods for private con
sumption are produced with increasing pollution, and in another
where that same pollution has to be contained by control tech
niques financed by the public. This process at the same time in
creases the concentration of capital in the hands of a few interna
tional concerns, since the smaller industrial plants are not in the
position to provide their own finance for the development of sys
tems designed to protect the environment.
For these reasons the monopolies attempt to acquire influence
over the ecological movement. The MIT study commissioned by
the Club of Rome is by no means the only initiative of this kind.
The monopolies are also represented in all state and private com
missions on the protection of the environment. Their influence on
legislation is decisive, and there are numerous indications that even
apparently spontaneous ecological campaigns have been promoted
by large firms and government departments. There emerges a pol
icy of alliances from above, whose demagogic motives are ob
vious.9
By no means all ecological movements based on private initia
tive put themselves at the service of the interests of capital with
such servility. That is demonstrated by the fact that their emer
gence has often led to confrontations with the police. The danger
of being used is, however, always present. It must also be remem
bered that the interests of capital contain their own contradic
tions. Ecological controversies often mirror the clash of interests
of different groups of entrepreneurs without their initiators always

being clear as to the stakes involved in the campaigns. A long
process of clarification will be necessary before the ecological
movement has reached that minimum degree of political con
sciousness that it would require finally to understand who its en
emy is and whose interests it has to defend.10
Demography and Imperialism
Warnings about the consequences of uncontrolled population
growth the so-called population explosion also contain ideo
logical motives and behind the demands to contain it are con
cealed political interests that do not reveal themselves openly. The
neo-Malthusian arguments that authors such as Ehrlich and Tay
lor have been at pains to popularize found expression at a partic
ular moment in time and in a quite particular political context.
They originate almost exclusively from the North American sources
and can be dated to the late 1950s and early 1960s a time, that
is to say, when the liberation movements in the Third World be
gan to become a central problem for the leading imperialist power.
(On the other hand the rate of increase in population had begun
to rise much earlier, in the 1930s and 1940s.)
That this is no mere coincidence was first recognized and ex
pressed by the Cubans.
At that time (1962) the Population Council in New York,
supported by the Population Reference Bureau, Inc. in Wash
ington, launched an extensive publicity campaign for neoMalthusianism with massive financial help from the Ford and
Rockefeller foundations, which contributed millions of dol
lars. The campaign pursued a double goal, which may even
be attained: the ruling classes of Latin America were to be
persuaded by means of skillful propaganda based on the find
ings of the FAO and work done by numerous, even progres
sive scientists, that a demographic increase of 2.5 per cent in
Latin America would lead to a catastrophe of incalculable
dimensions. The following excerpts from the report of the
Rockefeller Foundation for 1965 are typical of this literature
made in the U SA ; the pessimistic prediction that humanity
is soon likely to be stifled by its own growth increasingly
confronts all attempts to bring about an improvement in liv
ing standards. . . . It is clear that mankind will double in
numbers in the lifetime of two generations unless the present
growth tendency is brought under control. The results will be

catastrophic for innumerable millions of individuals. The
Population Reference Bureau expresses itself even more un
equivocally: The future of the world will be decided in the
Larin American continent, in Asia and Africa, because in these
developing territories the highest demographic rates of growth
have been registered. Either the birth rates must be lowered
or the death rate must rise again if the growth is to be brought
under control. . . . The biologists, sociologists, and econo
mists of the Bureau have forecast the moment when Malthus theory will return like a ghost and haunt the nations
of the earth (P.R.B. press statement of October 1966).
The Cuban report also quotes Lyndon B. Johnsons remark to the

effect that five dollars put into birth control is more useful in
Latin America than a hundred dollars invested in economic
growth. 11 It adds, A comment on this cynical statement seems
to us to be superfluous.
Indeed, not much intelligence is needed to discover behind the
benevolent pose of the Americans both strong political motivation
and the irrational fears that are responsible for the massive at
tempt by official and private groups in the United States to export
birth control to the countries of the Third World. The imperialist
nations see the time coming when they will be only a small mi
nority when compared to the rest of the world, and their govern
ments fear that population pressures will become a source of po
litical and, in the last analysis, military power. Admittedly, fears
of another kind can be detected underneath the rational calcula
tions: symptoms of a certain panic, the precursors of which are
easily recognizable in history. One has only to think of the hyster
ical slogans of the heyday of imperialism The Yellow Peril
and of the period of German fascism the Red Hordes. The
politics of population have never been free of irrational and
racist traits; they always contain demagogic elements and are al
ways prone to arouse atavistic feelings. This is admittedly true not
only for the imperialist side. Even the Cuban source does not stop
at the extremely enlightening comment that has been quoted but
continues as follows:
Fidel Castro has spoken on the question many times. We re
call his words now: In certain countries they are saying that
only birth control provides a solution to the problem. Only

capitalists, the exploiters, can speak like that; for no one who
is conscious of what man can achieve with the help of tech
nology and science will wish to set a limit to the number of
human beings who can live on the earth. . . . That is the
deep conviction of all revolutionaries. W hat characterized
Malthus in his time and the neo-Malthusians in our time is
their pessimism, their lack of trust in the future destiny of
man. That alone is the reason why revolutionaries can never
be Malthusians. We shall never be too numerous, however
many of us there are, if only we all together place our efforts
and our intelligence at the service of mankind, a mankind
which will be freed from the exploitation of man by m an . 12
In such phrases not only does the well-known tendency of the

Cuban revolution to voluntarism find expression together with a
rhetoric of affirmation; but there is also the tendency to answer
the irrational fears of the imperialist oppressor with equally irra
tional hopes. A materialist analysis of concrete needs, possibilities,
and limits cannot be replaced by figures of speech. The Chinese
leadership recognized that long ago and has therefore repeatedly
modified its earlier population policy, which was very similar to
the Cuban one in its premises. As far as the neo-Malthusians in
the United States are concerned, a violent conflict has been raging
for several years over their theses and their motivation.
The Problem of Global Projection
A central ideological theme of the ecological debate as it is at
present conducted it is perhaps at its very heart is the metaphor
of spaceship earth. This concept belongs above all to the rep
ertory of the American ecological movement. Scientific debates tend
to sound more sober, but their content comes to the same thing:
they consider the planet a closed and global eco-system.
The degree of false consciousness contained in these concepts
is obvious. It links up with platitudes, which are considered
idealistic but to which even that word is misapplied: The good
of the community takes precedence over the good of the individ
ual, We are all in the same boat, and so on. The ideological
purpose of such hasty global projections is clear. The aim is to
deny once and for all that little difference between first class and
steerage, between the bridge and the engine room. One of the old
est ways of giving legitimacy to class domination and exploitation

is resurrected in the new garb of ecology. Forrester and Meadows,
the authors of the M IT report, for instance, by planning their lines
of development from the start on a world scale, and always refer
ring to the spaceship earth and who would not be taken in by
such global brotherliness? avoid the need to analyze the distri
bution of costs and profits, to define their structural limitations
and with them the wide variation between the chances of bringing
human misery to an end. For while some can afford to plan for
growth and still draw profits from the elimination and prevention
of the damage they do, others certainly cannot. Thus, under ac
celerated state capitalism, the industrial countries of the northern
territories of the world can maintain capital accumulation by di
verting it to antipollution measures, to the recycling of basic raw
materials, to processes involving intensive instead of extensive
growth. This is denied to the developing countries, which are com
pelled to exploit to the utmost their sources of raw materials and,
because of their structural dependence, are urged to continue in
tensive exploitation of their own resources. (It is worth quoting in
this connection the remark of a Brazilian Minister of Economics
to the effect that his country could not have enough pollution of
the environment if that was the cost of giving its population suf
ficient work and bread.)13
The contradictions that the ecological ideologies attempt to sup
press in their global rhetoric emerge all the more sharply the more
one takes their prognoses and demands at face value. What would
be the concrete effect, for instance, of a limitation of the consump
tion of energy over the whole of spaceship earth such as is de
manded in almost all ecological programs?
Stabilization of the use of energy certainly, but at what level?
If the average per-capita consumption of a United States cit
izen is to serve as a measure, then a future world society
stabilized at this level would make an annual demand on the
available reserves of energy of roughly 350 x 1012 kilowatt
hours. The world production of energy would then be almost
seven times as great as at present and the thermal, atmos
pheric, and radioactive pollution would increase to such a
degree that the consequences would be unforeseeable; at the
same time the available reserves of fossil fuel would disap
pear. If one chooses the present world average instead of the
energy standard of the United States today as a measure of a

future stable control of energy, then the exploitation of the
available source of energy and the thermal, chemical, and ra
dioactive effects in the environment would settle at a level
only slightly higher than at present and one that would per
haps be sustainable well into the future. The real question
would then be, however, how the available energy should be
distributed globally. In arithmetical terms the solution would
look something like this: the developing countries would have
to have three times as much energy at their disposal as they
do today; the socialist countries could by and large maintain
their present level of consumption; but the highly industrial
ized countries of Europe and the United States would have to
reduce their consumption enormously and enter upon a pe
riod of contraction.14
It must be clear that redistributions of such magnitude could be

put through only by force: this is bound to hold good not only in
international but also in national terms. Admittedly, the captains
of industry, gathered together in the Club of Rome, appear to
have another view of conditions on board the ship in which we
are supposed to be sitting. They are clearly not plagued by doubts
as to their own competence and qualities of leadership. On the
contrary, they assert: Very few people are thinking about the
future from a global point of view. 15 This minority leaves no
doubt that they are determined to adjust their view of the world
to suit their own interests. The scarcer the resources, the more one
has to take this view in distributing them; but the more one adopts
this view of the world, the fewer people can be considered for this
high office.
An ecologist who finds himself confronted by objections of this
kind will generally attempt to counter them by changing the terms
of the argument. He will explain that his immediate task is to deal
with a condition that exists in fact; this is a task that takes prec
edence over future distribution problems that it is not his task to
solve. On a factual level, however, it is impossible not to treat the
problem on a global scale; indeed it is inevitable. The pollution of
the oceans or of the atmosphere, the spread of radioactive iso
topes, the consequences of man-made changes in climate all these
are actually, and not merely in an ideological sense, worldwide
and global phenomena and can be understood only as such.
While that is true, it does not help much. So long as ecology

considered itself to be a branch of biology it was always conscious
of the dialectical connection between the whole and the part; far
from wishing merely to investigate life on earth, it saw itself as
a science of interdependence and attempted to investigate the re
lations between individual species, the ecological subsystem in
which they live, and the larger systems. With the expansion of its
research aims, its claims to hegemony, and the consequent meth
odological syncretism, human ecology has forfeited that ability to
differentiate that characterized its founders. Its tendency to hasty
global projection is in the last analysis a surrender in the face of
the size and complexity of the problem it has thrown open. The
reason for this failure is not difficult to determine. An ecologist
researching the conditions of life in a lake has solid methodologi
cal ground to stand on; ecological arguments begin to become
shaky only when the ecologist involves his own species in them.
Escape into global projection is then the simplest way out. For, in
the case of man, the mediation between the whole and the part,
between subsystem and global system, cannot be explained by the
tools of biology. This mediation is social, and its explication re
quires an elaborated social theory and at the very least some basic
assumptions about the historical process. Neither the one nor the
other is available to present-day ecologists. That is why their hy
potheses, in spite of their factual core, so easily fall victim to ide
ology.
Environmental Apocalypse
as an Ideological Pawn
The concept of a critique of ideology is not clearly defined nor
is the object it studies. It is not only that false consciousness
proliferates in extraordinary and exotic luxuriance given the pres
ent conditions under which opinions arc manufactured, but it also
possesses the suppleness of a jellyfish and is capable of protean
feats of adaptability. So far we have examined the most widely
diffused components of environmental ideology chiefly with re
gard to the interests that they at once conceal and promote. This
would have to be distinguished from an evaluation in terms of an
ideological critique that sees the ecological debate as a symptom
that yields conclusions about the state of the society that produces
it. So that nothing may be omitted, interpretations of this kind
A Critique o f Political Ecology 205

will now be briefly surveyed, although it is doubtful whether that
will bring to light any new perspectives.
From this point of view, the preoccupation with ecological crisis
appears as a phenomenon belonging entirely to the superstruc
ture namely an expression of the decadence of bourgeois society.
The bourgeoisie can conceive of its own imminent collapse only
as the end of the world. Insofar as it sees any salvation at all, it
sees it only in the past. Anything of that past that still exists must
be preserved, must be conserved. In earlier phases of bourgeois
society this longing for earlier cultural conditions was concen
trated on values that either did obtain previously or were be
lieved to have done so. With the progressive liquidation of this
inheritance, e.g. religion, the search for the roots of things, which
is now thought to reside in what is left of nature, becomes rad
icalized. In its period of decadence the bourgeoisie therefore pro
claims itself to be the protector of something it itself destroyed. It
flees from the world that, so long as it was a revolutionary class,
it created in its own image, and wishes to conserve something that
no longer exists. Like the sorcerers apprentice, it would like to get
rid of the industrialization to which it owes its own power. But
since the journey into the past is not possible, it is projected into
the future: a return to barbarism, which is depicted as a preindus
trial idyll. The imminent catastrophe is conjured up with a mix
ture of trembling and pleasure and awaited with both terror and
longing. Just as, in German society between the world wars, Klages
and Spengler sounded the apocalyptic note, so in the Anglo-Saxon
lands today the ecological Cassandras find a role as preachers call
ing a class that no longer believes in its own future to repentance.
Only the scale of the prophecies has changed. While Klages and
Spengler contemplated the decline of Europe, today the whole
planet must pay for our hubris. Whereas in those days a barbarian
civilization was to win terrible victories over a precious culture,
today civilization is both victim and executioner. What will re
main, according to the prophecies, is not an inner but a physical
desert. And so on. However illuminating such excesses may occa
sionally sound, they cannot advance beyond a point of view that
is little more than that of the history of ideas. Besides, they do not
carry much conviction in view of the fact that the dominant mo
nopolies of the capitalist world show no signs of becoming aware

of their presumed decadence. Just as German industry in the 1920s
did not allow itself to be diverted from its expansion, so IBM and
General Motors show little inclination to take the M IT report se
riously. Theories of decline are a poor substitute for materialist
analyses. If one explores their historical roots it usually emerges,
as in the case of Lukacs, that they are nourished by that very
idealism they claim to criticize.
The Critique of Ideology
as an Ideology
The attempt to summarize the Lefts arguments has shown that
its main intervention in the environmental controversy has been
through the critique of ideology. This kind of approach is not
completely pointless, and there is no position other than Marxism
from which such a critical examination of the material would be
possible. But an ideological critique is only useful when it remains
conscious of its own limitations: it is in no position to handle the
object of its researches by itself. As such it remains merely the
interpretation of an interpretation of real conditions and is there
fore unable to reach the heart of the problem. Its characteristic
gesture of unmasking can turn into a smug ritual, if attention
remains fixed on the mask instead of on what is revealed beneath
it. The fact that we name the interests that lie behind current de
mographic theories will not conjure the needs of a rapidly growing
population out of existence. An examination of the advertising
campaigns of the enterprises involved does not increase the energy
reserves of the earth by a single ton. And the amount of foreign
matter in the air is not in any way reduced if we draw attention
to the earlier history of pollution in the working-class quarters of
Victorian England. A critique of ideology that is tempted to go
beyond its effective limits itself becomes an ideology.
The Left in West Germany has so far been scarcely conscious of
this danger, or at least has not thought about it adequately, al
though it is by no means new in historical terms. Even Marxist
thinking is not immune to ideological deformations, and Marxist
theory too can become a false consciousness if, instead of being
used for the methodical investigation of reality through theory and
practice, it is misused as a defense against that very reality. Marx
ism as a defensive mechanism, as a talisman against the demands

of reality, as collection of exorcisms these are tendencies that we
all have reason to take note of and to combat. The issue of ecol
ogy offers but one example. Those who wish to deprive Marxism
of its critical, subversive power and turn it into an affirmative doc
trine generally dig in behind a series of stereotyped statements that,
in their abstraction, are as irrefutable as they are devoid of results.
One example is the claim that is proclaimed in the pages of every
other picture magazine, irrespective of whether it is discussing
syphilis, an earthquake, or a plague of locusts Capitalism is to
blame!
It is naturally splendid that anticapitalist sentiments are so
widespread that even glossy magazines cannot avoid them alto
gether. But it is quite another question how far an analysis that a
priori attributes every conceivable problem to capitalism deserves
to be called Marxist, and what the political effect of this is. Its
commonplace nature renders it harmless. Capitalism, so fre
quently denounced, becomes a kind of social ether, omnipresent
and intangible, a quasi-natural cause of ruin and destruction, the
conuring up of which can have a positively neutralizing effect.
Since the concrete problem at hand psychosis, lack of nursery
schools, dying rivers, air crashes can, without precise analysis of
the exact causes, be referred to the total situation, the impression
is given that any specific intervention here and now is pointless.
In the same way, reference to the need for revolution has become
an empty formula, the ideological husk of passivity.
The same holds true for the thesis that ecological catastrophe is
unavoidable within the capitalist system. The prerequisite for all
solutions to the environmental crisis is then the introduction of
socialism. No particular skill is involved in deducing this answer
from the premises of Marxist theory. The question, however, is
whether it adds up to more than an abstract statement that has
nothing to do with political praxis and that allows whoever utters
it to neglect the examination of his concrete situation.
The ideological packaging of such statements is dispelled at once,
however, if one asks what exactly they mean. The mere question
of what is meant by capitalism brings to light the crassest con
tradictions. The comfortable structure of the commonplace falls
apart. What is left is a heap of unresolved problems. If one under
stands by capitalism a system characterized by private ownership

of the means of production, then it follows that the ecological
problem, like all the other evils of which capitalism is guilty,
will be solved by nationalization of the means of production. It
follows that in the Soviet Union there can be no environmental
problems. Anyone who asserts the contrary must be prepared to
be insulted if he produces a bundle of quotations from Pravda and
Izvestia about the polluted air of the Don Basin or the filthy Volga
as evidence. Such a comparison of systems is forbidden at least
by Marxists like Gerhard Kade:
For all those who are embarrassed by the question of the
relationship between bourgeois capitalist methods of produc
tion and the destruction of the environment, a well-proven
argument can be produced from that box of tricks where di
versionary social and political tactics are kept. Scientists talk
of comparing the two systems: standard commonplace minds
immediately think of the filthy Volga, the polluted air of the
Don Basin, or of that around Leuna. A whole tradition lies
behind this. There is no social or political issue, from party
conferences to reports on the state of the nation, where the
diversionary effectiveness of such comparisons between sys
tems has not already proved its worth. Whatever emerges from
the increasing number of inquiries into environmental pollu
tion in the socialist countries is dressed up scientifically and
becomes a useful weapon in a situation where demands for
replacement of the system begin to threaten those who have
an interest in upholding present conditions. Go to East Ger
many if you dont like it here or Throw Dutschke over the
W all are the socially aggressive forms adopted by that di
versionary maneuver.16
Critique of ideology as ideology: the position that lays the blame

on capitalism is defended here at the cost of its credibility.
Moreover, the fact that in the socialist countries destruction of the
environment has also reached perilous proportions is not even dis
puted, merely ignored. Anyone who is not prepared to go along
with this type of scientific thinking is guilty of drawing analogies
between the systems and is denounced as an anticommunist, a sort
of ecological Springer. The danger that such a denatured form of
Marxism will establish a hold on the masses is admittedly slight.
The relationship of the German working class to its own reality is

not so remote as to exclude the possibility of a comparative ex
amination. In the face of such narrowness, one must
bear in mind that capitalism as a historical form and as a
system of production cannot be identified with the existence
of a class of owners. It is an all-embracing social mode of
production arising from a particular type of accumulation and
reproduction that has produced a network of relationships
between human beings more complicated than any in the his
tory of man. This system of production cannot simply be done
away with by dispossessing private capitalists, even when this
expropriation makes it possible in practice to render that part
of surplus value available for other purposes that is not used
for accumulation. The socialist revolution cannot be under
stood merely as a transfer of ownership leading to a more
just distribution of wealth, while other relationships remain
alienated and reified. O n the contrary, it must lead to totally
revolutionized relationships between men and between men
and things that is to say, it must revolutionize the whole
social production of their lives. It will either aim to transcend
the proletariats situation, of alienation, of the division be
tween work and its profit, the end of commodity fetishism or
it will not be the socialist revolution.17
Only such a view of capitalism, i.e., as a mode of production

and not as a mere property relationship, allows the ecological
problem to be dealt with in Marxist terms. In this connection the
categories of use value and exchange value are of decisive impor
tance. The disturbance of the material interchange between man
and nature is then revealed as the strict consequence of capitalist
commodity production.18 This is a conclusion that makes the ide
ological ban on thought unnecessary and explains why ecological
problems survive in the socialist countries too. After all, the con
tradiction between use value and exchange value is not superseded
any more than wage labor and commodity production. Socialist
society has remained a transitional society in a very precise mean
ing of the word a social form in which the capitalist mode of
production, compounded with new elements, continues to exist
and exercises a decisive pressure on the political sphere, on rela
tions between human beings and on the relationship between rul
ers and ruled. 19 No less decisive is the pressure that the persis

tence of the capitalist mode of production exercises on the
relationship between man and nature a pressure that, on very
similar lines to industrial production in the West, also leads to the
destruction of the environment in the countries where the capital
ist class has been expropriated.
The consequences of this position are extremely grave. It is true
that it is possible in this manner to derive the catastrophic ecolog
ical situation from the capitalist mode of production; but the more
fundamental the categories, the more universal the result. The ar
gument is irrefutable in an abstract sense, but it remains politically
impotent. The statement capitalism is to blame is correct in
principle, but threatens to dwindle into an abstract negation of
the existing order of things. Marxism is not a theory that exists in
order to produce eternal verities; it is no good Marxists being right
in principle, when that means the end of the world.
Perhaps one has to remember that Marx represented historical
materialism. From that it follows that the time factor cannot be
eliminated from his theories. The delay in the coming of revolu
tion in the overdeveloped capitalist lands is therefore not a matter
of theoretical indifference. But that it was delayed does not in any
way falsify the theory; for Marx certainly regarded the proletarian
revolution as a necessary but not an automatic and inevitable con
sequence of capitalist development. He always maintained that
there are alternatives in history, and the alternatives facing the
highly industrialized societies were long ago expressed in the for
mula: socialism or barbarism. In the face of the emerging ecolog
ical catastrophe this statement takes on a new meaning. The fight
against the capitalist mode of production has become a race with
time, which mankind is in danger of losing. The tenacity with
which that mode of production still asserts itself fifty years after
the expropriation of the capitalist class in the Soviet Union indi
cates the kind of time dimensions we are discussing. It is an open
question how far the destruction it has wrought here on earth and
continues to wreak is still reversible.
In this situation one must be relentless in critically examining
certain elements in the Marxist tradition. First of all, one must
examine to what extent one is dealing with original elements of
Marxist thought or with later deformations of theory. Compared
with the range of such questions the preservation of the classics

seems a trifling matter. Catastrophes cannot be combated by quo
tations.
To begin with, one must examine critically the concept of ma
terial progress that plays a decisive part in the Marxist tradition.
It appears in any case to be obsolete in that it is linked to the
technical optimism of the nineteenth century. The revolutions of
the twentieth century have throughout led to victory in industri
ally underdeveloped countries and thereby disproved the idea that
the socialist revolution was tied to a certain degree of ripeness
and to the development of the productive forces, or was ac
tually the outcome of a kind of natural necessity. On the contrary,
it has been demonstrated that the development of the productive
forces is not a linear process to which political hopes can be
attached.
'
Until a few years ago most Marxists accepted the tradi
tional view that the development of the productive forces was
by its nature positive. They were persuaded that capitalism,
in the course of its development, would provide a material
base that would be taken over by a socialist society one on
which socialism could be constructed. The view was widely
diffused that socialism would be more easily developed the
higher the development of the productive forces. Productive
forces such as technology, science, human capabilities and
knowledge, and a surplus of reified labor would considerably
facilitate the transition to socialism.
These ideas were somewhat mechanistically based on the
Marxist thesis of the sharpening of the contradictions be
tween the productive forces on the one hand and the relation
ships of production on the other. But one can no longer as
sume that the productive forces are largely independent of the
relationship of production and spontaneously clash with them.
O n the contrary, the developments of the last two decades
lead one to the conclusion that the productive forces were
formed by the capitalist productive relationships and so deeply
stamped by them that any attempt to alter the productive
relationships must fail if the nature of the productive forces
and not merely the way they are used is not changed.20
Beyond a certain point, therefore, these productive forces reveal

another aspect that till now was always concealed and reveal
themselves to be destructive forces, not only in the particular sense
of arms manufacture and in-built obsolescence, but in a far wider

sense. The industrial process, insofar as it depends on these de
formed productive forces, threatens its very existence and the ex
istence of human society. This development is damaging not only
to the present but the future as well, and with it, at least as far as
our Western societies are concerned, to the utopian side of com
munism. If nature has been damaged to a certain, admittedly not
easily determinable, degree and that damage is irreversible, then
the idea of a free society begins to lose its meaning. It seems com
pletely absurd to speak in a short-term perspective, as Marcuse
has done, of a society of superabundance or of the abolition of
want. The wealth of the overdeveloped consumer societies of
the West, insofar as it is not a mere mirage for the bulk of the
population, is the result of a wave of plunder and pillage unpar
alleled in history; its victims are, on the one hand, the peoples of
the Third World and, on the other, the men and women of the
future. It is therefore a kind of wealth that produces unimaginable
want.
The social and political thinking of the ecologists is marred by
blindness and naivete. If such a statement needs to be proven, the
review of their thinking that follows will do so. Yet they have one
advantage over the utopian thinking of the Left in the West, namely
the realization that any possible future belongs to the realm of
necessity not that of freedom and that every political theory and
practice including that of socialists is confronted not with the
problem of abundance, but with that of survival.
W hat Ecology Proposes
Most scientists who handle environmental problems are not vis
ible to the general public. They are highly specialized experts, ex
clusively concerned with their carefully defined research fields. Their
influence is usually that of advisers. When doing basic research
they tend to be paid from public funds; those who have a closer
relationship with industry are predominantly experts whose re
sults have immediate application. Most nonspecialists, however,
aim to achieve direct influence on the public. It is they who write
alarmist articles that are published in magazines such as Scientific
American or Science. They appear on television, organize con
gresses, and write the bestsellers that form the picture of ecologi
cal destruction that most of us have. Their ideas as to what should

be done are reflected in the reforms promised by parties and gov
ernments. They are in this sense representative of something. What
they say in public cannot decide how valid their utterances are as
scientific statements; yet it is worthwhile analyzing their propos
als, for they indicate where the lines of scientific extrapolation and
dominant bourgeois ideology intersect.
The Americans Paul and Anne Ehrlich are among the founders
of human ecology and are still among its most influential spokes
men. In their handbook on ecology they summarize their propos
als under the heading A Positive Program, excerpts from which
are extremely revealing.
2. Political pressure must be applied immediately to induce
the United States government to assume its responsibility to
halt the growth of the American population. Once growth is
halted, the government should undertake to regulate the
birthrate so that the population is reduced to an optimum
size and maintained there. It is essential that a grass-roots
political movement be generated to convince our legislators
and the executive branch of the government that they must
act rapidly. The programme should be based on what politi
cians understand best votes. Presidents, Congressmen, Sen
ators, and other elected officials who do not deal effectively
with the crisis must be defeated at the polls and more intel
ligent and responsible candidates elected.
3. A massive campaign must be launched to restore a quality
environment in North America and to de-develop the United
States. De-development means bringing our economic system
(especially patterns of consumption) into line with the reali
ties of ecology and the world resource situation. . . . M arx
ists claim that capitalism is intrinsically expansionist and
wasteful, and that it automatically produces a monied ruling
class. Can our economists prove them wrong? . . .
5. It is unfortunate that at the time of the greatest crisis the
United States and the world has ever faced, many Americans,
especially the young, have given up hope that the government
can be modernized and changed in direction through the
functioning of the elective process. Their despair may have
some foundation, but a partial attempt to institute a new
politics very nearly succeeded in 1968. In addition many
members of Congress and other government leaders, both
Democrats and Republicans, are very much aware of the

problems outlined in this book and are determined to do
something about them. Others are joining their ranks as the
dangers before us daily become more apparent. These people
need public support in order to be effective. The world can
not, in its present critical state, be saved by merely tearing
down old institutions, even if rational plans existed for con
structing better ones from the ruins. We simply do not have
the time. Either we will succeed by bending old institutions
or we will succumb to disaster. Considering the potential re
wards and consequences we see no choice but to make an
effort to modernize the system. It may be necessary to orga
nize a new political party with an ecological outlook and na
tional and international orientation to provide an alternative
to the present parties with their local and parochial interests.
The environmental issue may well provide the basis for this.
6. Perhaps the major necessary ingredient that has been

missing from a solution to the problems of both the United
States and the rest of the world is a goal, a vision of the kind
of Spaceship Earth that ought to be and the kind of crew that
should man her. . . .21
This is not the only case of a serious scientist presenting the

public with a program of this kind. On the contrary. Page upon
page could be used to document similar ideas. They can be seen
as a consensus of what modern ecology has to offer in the way of
suggestions for social action. A collection of similar statements
would only repeat itself; and we will therefore confine ourselves
to one further piece of evidence. The following quotation is from
a book by the Swede Gosta Ehrensvard, a leading biochemist, in
which he attempts a comprehensive diagnosis of the ecological sit
uation. His therapeutic ideas are summarized as follows.
We are not compelled to pursue population growth, the
consumption of energy, and unlimited exploitation of re
sources to the point where famine and worldwide suffering
will be the results. We are not compelled to watch develop
ments and do nothing and to pursue our activities shortsight
edly without developing a long-term view. The catastrophe
can be avoided, he says, if we take certain measures notv on
a global scale. These measures could stabilize the situation
for the next few centuries and allow us to bring about, with
as little friction as possible, the transition from todays hec
tically growing industrialized economy to the agricultural

economy of the future. The following components of a crash
program are intended to gain time for the necessary global
restructuring of society on this earth.
1. Immediate introduction of worldwide rationing of all
fossil fuels, above all of fluid resources of energy. Limitation
of energy production to the 1970 level. Drastic restrictions
on all traffic, insofar as it is propelled by fluid fuels and is
not needed for farming, forestry, and the long-distance trans
port of raw materials.
2. Immediate total rationing of electricity.
3. Immediate cessation of the production of purely luxury
goods and other products not essential for survival, including
every kind of armament.
4. Immediate food rationing in all industrial countries.
Limitation of all food imports from the developing countries
to a minimum. The main effort in terms of development pol
icies throughout the world to be directed toward agriculture
and forestry.
5. Immediate imposition of the duty to collect and recycle
all discarded metal objects, and in particular to collect all
scrap.
6. Top priority to be given to research on the development
of energy from atomic fusion as well as to biological research
in the fields of genetics, applied ecology, and wood chemistry.
7. Creation of an international center to supervise and carry
through action around the six points listed above. This center
to have the duty to keep the inhabitants of this earth con
stantly informed through the mass media of the level of en
ergy and mineral reserves, the progress of research, and the
demographic situation. 22
A Critique of the
Ecological Crash Program
In their appeals to a world whose imminent decline they pro
phesy, the spokesmen of human ecology have developed a mis
sionary style. They often employ the most dramatic strokes to paint
a future so black that after reading their works one wonders how
people can persist in giving birth to children, or in drawing up

pension schemes. Yet at the conclusion of their sermons, in which
the inevitability of the End of industrialization, of civilization, of
man, of life on this planet is convincingly described if not proved,
another way forward is presented. The ecologists end up by ap
pealing to the rationality of their readers; if everyone would grasp
what is at stake, then apparently everything would not be lost.
These sudden turnabouts smack of conversion rhetoric. The hor
ror of the predicted catastrophe contrasts sharply with the mild
ness of the admonition with which we are allowed to escape. This
contrast is so obvious and so central that both sides of the argu
ment undermine each other. At least one of them fails to convince:
either the final exhortation, which addresses us in mild terms, or
the analysis, which is intended to alarm us. It is impossible not to
feel that those warnings and threats, which present us with the
consequences of our actions, are intended precisely to soften us up
for the conversion that the anxious preacher wishes to obtain from
us in the end; conversely, the confident final resolution should pre
vent us from taking too literally the dark picture he has painted
and from sinking into resignation. Every parish priest is aware of
this noble form of verbal excess; and everyone listening can easily
see through it. The result is (at best) a pleasurable frisson. Herein
may lie the total inefficacy of widely distributed publications
maintaining that the hour will soon come not only for man him
self, but for his whole species. They are as ineffective as a Sunday
sermon.
In its closest details, both the form and content of the Ehrlichs
argument are marked by the consciousness (or rather the uncon
sciousness) of the WASP, the white, Protestant, middle-class North
American. This is especially obvious in the authors social and po
litical ideas: they are just as unwilling to consider any radical in
terference with the political system of the United States as they are
willing to contemplate the other immense changes they spell out.
The U.S. system is introduced into their calculations as a constant
factor: it is introduced not as it is, but as it appears to the white
member of the middle class, that is to say in a form that has been
transformed out of recognition by ideology. Class contradictions
and class interests are completely denied: the parliamentary mech
anism of the vote is unquestionably considered to be an effective
method, by means of which all conceivable conflicts can be re

solved. It is merely a question of finding the right candidate and
conducting the right campaigns, of writing letters and launching a
few modest citizens activities. At the most extreme, a new parlia
ment will have to be set up. Imperialism does not exist. World
peace will be reached through disarmament. The political process
is posed in highly personalized terms: politics is the business of
the politicians who are expected to carry the responsibility.
Similarly, economics is the business of the economists, whose task
is to draw up a suitable economic system this, at least, one
has the right to ask of them. Marxism appears only once, as a
scarecrow to drive recalcitrant readers into the authors arms. All
that this crude picture of political idiocy lacks are lofty ideas: the
authors are not averse to making good the lack. What is needed
is a vision, since only relatively idealistic programs still offer
the possibility of salvation. Since the need is so great, there will be
no lack of offers, and the academic advertising agency promptly
comes up with the cliche Spaceship Earth, in which the arma
ments industry and public relations join hands. The depoliticiza
tion of the ecological question is now complete. Its social compo
nents and consequences have been entirely eliminated.
Concrete demands can now cheerfully be made. There is no
danger that they may be implemented with disagreeable conse
quences. A brake on population increase, de-development of the
economy, draconian rationing can now be presented as measures
that, since they are offered in a spirit of enlightened, moral com
mon sense, and are carried out in a peaceful, liberal manner, harm
no interests or privileges and demand no changes in the social and
economic system. Ehrensvard presents the same demands in more
trenchant, apparently radical terms those of the coolly calculat
ing scientist. Like the Ehrlichs, his arguments are so unpolitical as
to be grotesque. Yet his sense of reality is strong enough for him
to demand privileges for himself and his work that is to say, the
highest priority for the undisturbed continuation of his research.
One particular social interest, if a very restricted one, thereby finds
expression: his own.
Many of the suggestions, say the Ehrlichs, will seem un
realistic, and indeed this is how we view them. 23 The fact that
not even the authors take their own crash program seriously at
least makes it clear that we are not dealing with madmen. The

reason they seek refuge in absurdity is that their competence as
scientists is limited precisely to the theoretical radius of the old
ecology, that is to say, to a subordinate discipline of biology. They
have extended their researches to human society, but they have
not increased their knowledge in any way. It has escaped them
that human existence remains incomprehensible if one totally dis
regards its social determinants; that this lack is damaging to all
scientific utterances on our present and future; and that the range
of these utterances is reduced whenever these scientists abandon
the methodology of their particular discipline. It is restricted to
the narrow horizons of their own class. The latter, which they
erroneously regard as the silent majority, is in fact a privileged and
very vocal minority.
Conclusions:
Hypotheses Concerning a Hypothesis
There is a great temptation to leave matters there and to inter
pret the forecast of a great ecological crisis as a maneuver in
tended to divert people from acute political controversy. There are
even said to be parts of the Left that consider it a luxury to trou
ble themselves with problems of the future. To do that would be
a declaration of bankruptcy; socialist thinking has from the begin
ning been oriented not toward the past, but toward the future.
Herein lay one of its real chances of success. For, while the
bourgeoisie is intent on the short-term interests of the accumula
tion of capital, there is no reason for the Left to exclude long-term
aims and perspectives. As far as the competence of the ecologists
is concerned, it would be a mistake to conclude that, because of
their boundless ignorance on social matters, their statements are
absolutely unfounded. Their methodological ineptitude certainly
decreases the validity of their overall prognoses; but individual
lines of argument, which they found predominantly on the caus
ality of the natural sciences, are still usable. To demonstrate that
they have not been thought through in the area of social causes
and effects is not to refute them.
The ideologies of the ruling class do not reproduce mere fal
sifications. Even in their instrumental form they still contain
experiences that are real insofar as they are never optimistic.
They promise the twilight of the gods, global catastrophe,
and a last judgment; but these announcements are not seen

to be connected with the identification and short-term satis
factions that form part of their content.24
All this applies admirably to the central ecological hypothesis

according to which if the present process of industrialization con
tinues naturally it will in the foreseeable future have catastrophic
results. The central core of this hypothesis can neither be proved
nor refuted by political discussion. What it says is of such impor
tance, however, that what one is faced with is a calculation like
Pascals wager. So long as the hypothesis is not unequivocally re
futed, it will be heuristically necessary to base any thinking about
the future on what it has to say. Only if one behaves as if the
ecological hypothesis were valid, can one test its social validity a
task that has scarcely been attempted up to now and of which
ecology itself is clearly incapable. The following reflections are
merely some first steps along this path. They are, in other words,
hypotheses based on other hypotheses.
A general social definition of the ecological problem would have
to start from the mode of production. Everywhere where the cap
italistic mode of production obtains totally or predominantly
that is to say, where the products of human labor take the form
of commodities increasing social want is created alongside in
creasing social wealth. This want assumes different forms in the
course of historical development. In the phase of primitive accu
mulation it expresses itself in direct impoverishment caused by ex
tensive exploitation, extension of working hours, lowering of real
wages. In the cyclical crises, the wealth that has been produced by
labor is simply destroyed grain is thrown into the sea and so on.
With the growth of the productive powers the destructive energies
of the system also increase. Further want is generated by world
wars and armaments production. In a later phase of capitalistic
development this destructive potential acquires a new quality. It
threatens all the natural bases of human life. This has the result
that want appears to be a socially produced natural force. This
return of general shortages forms the core of the ecological cri
sis. It is not, however, a relapse into conditions and circum
stances from the historical past, because the want does not in any
sense abolish the prevailing wealth. Both are present at one and
the same time; the contradiction between them becomes ever
sharper and takes on increasingly insane forms.

So long as the capitalist mode of production obtains that is to
say not merely the capitalist property relationships the trend can
at best be reversed in detail but not in its totality. The crisis will
naturally set in motion many processes of adaptation and learn
ing. Technological attempts to level out its symptoms in the sense
of achieving a homeostasis have already gone beyond the experi
mental stage. The more critical the situation becomes, the more
desperate will be the attempts undertaken in this direction. They
will include: abolition of the car, construction of means of mass
transport, erection of plants for the filtration and desalinization of
seawater, the opening up of new sources of energy, synthetic pro
duction of raw materials, the development of more intensive agri
cultural techniques, and so on. But each of these steps will cause
new critical problems; these are stopgap techniques, which do not
touch the roots of the problem. The political consequences are
clear enough. The costs of living accommodations and space for
recreation, of clean air and water, of energy and raw materials
will increase explosively as will the cost of recycling scarce re
sources. The invisible social costs of capitalist commodity pro
duction are rising immeasurably and are being passed on in prices
and taxes to the dependent masses to such a degree that any
equalization through controlling wages is no longer possible. There
is no question, needless to say, of a just distribution of short
ages within the framework of Western class society: the rationing
of want is carried out through prices, if necessary through gray or
black markets, by means of corruption and the sale of privileges.
The subjective value of privileged class positions increases enor
mously. The physiological and psychic consequences of the envi
ronmental crisis, the lowered expectation of life, the direct threat
from local catastrophes can lead to a situation where class can
determine the life or death of an individual by deciding such fac
tors as the availabdity of means of escape, second houses, or ad
vanced medical treatment.
The speed with which these possibilities will enter the con
sciousness of the masses cannot be predicted. It will depend on the
point in time at which the creeping nature of the ecological crisis
becomes apparent in spectacular individual cases. Even dramatic
phenomena such as have principally appeared in Japan the ra
dioactive poisoning of fishermen, illnesses caused by mercury and

cadmium have not yet led to a more powerful mobilization of
the masses because the consequences of the contamination have
become apparent only months or years later. But once, at any point
in the chain of events, many people are killed, the indifference
with which the prognoses of the ecologists are met today will turn
into panic reaction and even into ecological rebellions.
There will of course be organizational initiatives and political
consequences at an even earlier stage. The ecological movement in
the United States, with its tendency to flee from the towns and
industry, is an indication of what will come, as are the citizens
campaigns that are spreading apace. The limitations that beset most
of these groups are not fortuitous; their activity is usually aimed
at removing a particular problem. There is no other alternative,
for they can only crystallize round particular interests. A typical
campaign will, for example, attempt to prevent the siting of an oil
refinery in a particular district. That does not lead, if the agitation
is successful, to the project being canceled or to a revision of the
policy on energy; the refinery is merely built where the resistance
of those affected is less strongly expressed. In no case does the
campaign lead to a reduction of energy consumption. An appeal
on these grounds would make no sense. It would fall back on the
abstract, empty formulas that make up the crash programs of
the ecologists.
The knot of the ecological crisis cannot be cut with a paperknife. The crisis is inseparable from the conditions of existence
systematically determined by the mode of production. That is why
moral appeals to the people of the rich lands to lower their
standard of living are totally absurd. They are not only useless but
cynical. To ask the individual wage earner to differentiate between
his real and his artificial needs is to mistake his real situation.
Both are so closely connected that they constitute a relationship
that is subjectively and objectively indivisible. Hunger for com
modities, in all its blindness, is a product of the production of
commodities, which could only be suppressed by force. We must
reckon with the likelihood that bourgeois policy will systemati
cally exploit the resulting mystifications increasingly so, as the
ecological crisis takes on more threatening forms. To achieve this,
it only needs demagogically to take up the proposals of the ecol
ogists and give them political circulation. The appeal to the com

mon good, which demands sacrifice and obedience, will be taken
up by these movements together with a reactionary populism, de
termined to defend capitalism with anticapitalist phrases.
In reality, capitalisms policy on the environment, raw mate
rials, energy, and population will put an end to the last liberal
illusions. That policy cannot even be conceived without increasing
repression and regimentation. Fascism has already demonstrated
its capabilities as a savior in extreme crisis situations and as the
administrator of poverty. In an atmosphere of panic and uncon
trollable emotions that is to say, in the event of an ecological
catastrophe that is directly perceptible on a mass scale the ruling
class will not hesitate to have recourse to such solutions. The abil
ity of the masses to see the connection between the mode of pro
duction and the crisis in such a situation and to react offensively
cannot be assumed. It depends on the degree of politicization and
organization achieved by then. But it would be facile to count on
such a development. It is more probable that what has been called
internal imperialism will increase. What Negt and Kluge have
observed in another connection is also relevant to the contradic
tion between social wealth and social poverty, which is apparent
in the ecological crisis: Colonialization of the consciousness or
civil war are the extreme forms in which these contradictions find
public expression. What precedes this collision, or is a conse
quence of it, is the division of individuals or of social groups into
qualities that are organized against each other. 25
In this situation, external imperialism will also regress to histor
ically earlier forms but with an enormously increased destructive
potential. If the peaceful methods of modern exploitation fail,
and the formula for coexistence under pressure of scarcity snaps,
then presumably there will be new predations, competitive wars,
wars over raw materials. The strategic importance of the Third
World, above all of those lands that export oil and nonferrous
metals, will increase and with it their consciousness that the met
ropolitan lands depend on them. The siege of the metropolises
by the village a concept that appeared premature in the 1950s
will acquire quite new topicality. It has already been unmistakably
heralded by the policy of a number of oil-producing countries.
Imperialism will do everything to incite the population of the in
dustrialized countries against such apparent external enemies whose

policy will be presented as a direct threat to their standard of liv
ing, and to their very survival, in order to win their assent to mil
itary operations.
Talk in global terms about Spaceship Earth tells us almost
nothing about real perspectives and the chances of survival. There
are certainly ecological factors whose effect is global; among these
are macroclimatic changes, pollution by radioactive elements, and
poisons in the atmosphere and oceans. As the example of China
shows, it is not these overall factors that are decisive, but the so
cial variables. The destruction of mankind cannot be considered a
purely natural process. But it will not be averted by the preachings
of scientists, who only reveal their own helplessness and blindness
the moment they overstep the narrow limits of their own special
areas of competence.' The human essence of nature first exists
only for social man; for only here does nature exist as the foun
dation of his own human existence. Only here has what is to him
his natural existence become his human existence, and nature be
come man for him. Thus society is the unity of being of man with
nature the true resurrection of nature the naturalism of man
and the humanism of nature both brought to fulfilment. 26
If ecologys hypotheses are valid, then capitalist societies have
probably thrown away the chance of realizing Marxs project for
the reconciliation of man and nature. The productive forces that
bourgeois society has unleashed have been caught up with and
overtaken by the destructive powers released at the same time.
The highly industrialized countries of the West will not be alone
in paying the price for the revolution that never happened. The
fight against want is an inheritance they leave to all mankind, even
in those areas where mankind survives the catastrophe. Socialism,
which was once a promise of liberation, has become a question of
survival. If the ecological equilibrium is broken, then the realm of
Freedom will be further off than ever.
3
On the Inevitability
of the Middle Classes:
A Sociological Caprice
hat you who are reading this are reading it is almost proof in
itself: proof that you belong. Please forgive, dear reader, this
direct address. (Proof is perhaps an exaggeration.) I grant you tha
in the following remarks I will be claiming more than I ca
prove for example, that there is such a thing as the middle class.
Without batting an eye. After all, middle class is a phrase like any
other, even if it sounds old-fashioned (like dear reader), and the
fact that it is mostly said in a tone of annoyance, of disgust even,
is not my fault. That has always been the case at least since Lud
wig Borne, himself a member of the middle classes, introduced the
term into the German political vocabulary around 1830.
Without any scruples, without having ploughed through the
literature, i.e., a few tens of thousands of pages on the concept
of class in M ., E., and X., I would further claim that the class
referred to here can only be defined in terms of what it is not, in
other words as the class that is neither nor/'
Permit me not out of curiosity, but simply in the hope of mak
ing myself understood to ask some questions of you.
* \1.M arx, E.-Engels
224
O n the Inevitability of the Middle Classes 225

Do you live, or could you live, from the income of capital in
vested in production?
No? You see, I suspected as much.
But does that mean that you live exclusively from selling your
work by the hour to a capitalist who makes a profit from it?
Yes? Are you sure?
No scholarships, then? No bank interest? Honoraria? Subsidies?
Expense accounts? Profit margins? Royalties? Rents? Commis
sions?
No educational trust fund; no extra cash from home? No tenured
job? Home of your own? Reimbursement for financial outlays?
No private means of production, not even a home library? In a
word, no income derived from surplus value created by others?
Once again I beg your pardon for these pedantic and insistent
questions.
Perhaps it is not the thing that bothers you, but the term. It
sounds pathetic: middle class. If it embarrasses you, you arent
alone. This is the reason why the people I am referring to and
amongst whose number I count myself have thought up any num
ber of other names for what I am talking about. Just check below
the ones that appeal to you:
Old, new upper, lower, middle, cultivated middle classes;
Artisans, tradesmen (small), petty bourgeoisie;
White-collar workers (secretaries, administrative assistants, etc.);
Civil servants, state employees, bureaucrats;
Managers, specialists, technocrats, technological intelligentsia;
Self-employed, independent professionals;
Academics, intellectuals (creative, scientific, etc.).
You see, I dont want to tread on anyones toes. Im just inviting
you to see this, if at all possible, as referring to you, and asking
you, for simplicitys sake, to permit me to use the inclusive firstperson plural. Thank you.
We belong to a class, then, that neither controls nor possesses
what really matters the famous means of production and that
doesnt create what also matters the famous surplus value (or
only indirectly or tangentially, a point that may be avidly debated
in college seminars but is by no means as vexed as people try to
make out). This is exactly how inexact the whole thing is. The

middle class is not one of the principal parties in the (famous)
antagonism; it is neither the ruling nor the exploited class, but the
class in between, the class left over, the floating remainder.
A most burdensome remainder, especially for those who like to
have a neat, clear-cut view of things. For the floating class is al
ways the disturbing class. Its existence is constantly upsetting the
ory and practice. For a number of other reasons that will perhaps
concern us later, there has been no lack of attempts in the course
of the last hundred years to get rid of this scandal, to liquidate the
middle classes. To a certain extent, it was said, one could leave
this job to the (iron) laws of history. It was and still is said here
and there that one part of our class, the smaller one, would all by
itself lump itself with the goats, rise to the upper classes, and in
consequence vanish along with that doomed group; the other part,
by far the larger of course, would find itself on the side of the
sheep and there would reap the fruits of socialism: these deserving
ones would by virtue of the (famous) laws of capitalism become
proletarianized, though not necessarily quite of their own free will.
The increasingly small group of undeserving ones would then just
have to be made to disappear. Our ancestors, insofar as they be
longed to the class described here, doubtless heard this message
and believed passionately in this prophecy, with fear and trem
bling.
It did not come to pass. Whatever may have happened to the
middle class, its apocalypse has not taken place. Neither progres
sive concentration of capital nor chronic inflation, neither scien
tific and technological progress nor wars and crises have finished
it off. Not even the introduction of a kind of socialism has been
able to remove the unstable class in the Soviet Union, Eastern Eu
rope, or the Third World. On the contrary, it has produced mid
dle-class citizens of a new type, the middle-class offspring of the
victorious revolution, big bosses, cadres, functionaries: strange
mutations, unheard-of manifestations of a new class suspi
ciously like the old.
But even in capitalist societies the good old, bad old middle
class has not remained unchanged. The Victorian image of the
small tradesman, the shop owner, the would-be cultured, the dig
nitary no longer plays a major role as it did in the past. (Though
one look at the German parliament reveals that this type has by
O n the Inevitability of the Middle Classes 227

no means died out.) But effortlessly, it seems, the middle class has
made good all these losses; indeed it has quantitatively expanded,
as persistently and unnoticeably as crabgrass. With every struc
tural change in society its roots have, so to speak, sent out new
runners. The scientific take-over of production, the growth of the
tertiary and quaternary sectors of the economy, the expansion of
private and public administration, the growth of the consciousness
industry, of pedagogical and medical institutions the middle class
has been a part of it all. And after every political revolution it has
installed itself immediately in the new state and party apparatus
and has not only defended its social status and possessions, but
expanded them.
There seems to be at present no theory that could explain the
survival, the staying-power, the historical success of this class. We
need to explain, for a start, the mere fact that the middle class has
been plainly and persistently underestimated, and this for at least
150 years. No one has contributed more to this denigration than
the middle class itself. This doubtless has to do with its own pe
culiar class consciousness. Ambivalent from the outset, it can be
described today, if at all, only as a lack of consciousness pure and
simple. For just as the class can be defined analytically only ex
negative, so it understands itself ex negativo. The middle-class cit
izen claims to be anything but middle class. He seeks to estab
lish his identity not by siding with his class, but by distinguishing
himself from it, by denying it. He disclaims precisely what binds
him to his peers. Only the difference is allowed to stand: a mid
dle-class person is always someone else. This strange self-hatred
is like a magic cloak. W ith jts help the class as a whole has almost
made itself invisible. For it there can be no question of solidarity
or collective action: it will never develop a consciousness of itself
as a class. The result of this repressive strategy is, subjectively, that
the middle class is not taken seriously in social terms; objectively,
this prevents the development of clearly defined, encompassing,
political class structures. The social image of the middle class is
rather like a chameleon. And the more the class increases, the less
recognizable it becomes.
Perhaps there never was such a divided, splintered class. The
extreme objective and subjective fragmentation of the middle class
is no mystery. It is the result of its economic position and of its

prehistory. Its relation to the means of production is always ex
tremely derivative and indirect. One result of this is that the class
is crippled by an inability actually to take over politically. This
class can and will not become the ruling class, and even this very
impotence has been strangely internalized. The middle-class citizen
both rejects and worships power; but this just means that he del
egates it and perceives it only in its delegated form by adminis
tering it, justifying it, and questioning it. But the smaller the actual
ruling class becomes, the more it needs the middle class to expand
and transmit its dominance. Were this not the case, the working
class would long since have ceased to be kept in check. Thus the
political influence of the middle classes must be defined ex negativo, as a kind of unarticulated veto power. This explains their
interest in the formal aspects of politics, procedures, regulations,
legalistic rules, and modes of intercourse.
The middle classs inability to unify and act concertedly has,
however, another side to it. Its manifold nature, its thousandfold
categorization according to status, profession, and possessions is
also the cause of its persistence, its energy and aggressiveness. This
is an advantage in social evolution, a factor of self-preservation.
In biological systems the principle obtains that a species is the less
destructible the greater its variability, its genetic pool. An analo
gous rule of thumb also holds for society. A social monolith can
survive changes in historical conditions less readily than an as
sorted and manifold group. Ability to adjust to prevailing condi
tions ideologically despised and energetically denigrated pre
cisely by the middle classes as lack of character and opportunism
increases without a doubt the survival chances of a social class.
No one possesses these qualities to a greater degree than the mid
dle class. No social niche is too small, too peripheral, too exposed
for it. To grasp every opportunity and never to be definitively
pinned down: that is the only thing that this class has learned
from its ever-changing history.
It has long since taken leave of its former social character, the
comfortable, stick-in-the-mud, placidly philistine ways of its first
golden age. (Though it is a question in how far this preference for
self-satisfied stasis is actually historically founded, even the old
petty bourgeoisie of the nineteenth century was a nervous, highstrung class easily provoked and outraged, prone to turn sporad
On the Inevitability of the Middle Classes 229

ically radical, to get suddenly worked up, critical out of resent
ment and courageous out of anxiety. It was the petty bourgeoisie
that created the cliche of the philistine, and it was from the petty
bourgeoisie that the bohemian class, whose specialty was horrify
ing other petits bourgeois, largely recruited itself.)
Today this class is teeming with believers in progress, and no
one is more anxious to take advantage of the newest trend. It is
always up to date. No one can change his ideologies, his clothes,
his modes of behavior more rapidly than the middle-class citizen.
He is the new Proteus, ever eager to learn something new even
to the point of losing his identity. Always fleeing the old-fash
ioned, he is constantly hastening to catch up with himself.
Political defeats may shatter the class consciousness of the
worker; but it is impossible to deprive him of the complacent con
viction of his own necessity. The upper class, too, thinks of itself
as indispensable. The middle class, on the other hand, constantly
has to struggle with a sense of its own superfluity. Cynicism is the
privilege of the ruling class. But the self-suppressing class is con
cerned with justification; it is constantly seeking its own meaning.
It is as ingenious as it is amoral, though ever in need of morality.
In rationalization and self-doubt it has attained a state of solitary
mastery. But its self-criticism and self-rejection are of limited ex
tent. A class cannot get rid of itself. Thus the doubts, the exhaus
tion of the middle-class function, in the last analysis, as a stimulus
and a pleasure. To shake its complacency is childs play. But to
turn it from itself is an impossibility. The middle class is con
stantly questioning itself: it is the experimental class par excel
lence. But this self-critical process serves only to sustain and ex
pand its own sphere. There is a method to its self-undermining:
purposefully, it is put to the service of a strategy that in fact clings
to the illusion of security.
How can we explain the central position the middle class main
tains in all highly industrialized societies of today? Our class has
neither capital nor direct access to the means of production; it is
as far removed as ever from political and economic power. Does
it not know wherein its strength lies? Or is it just afraid of letting
the cat out of the bag? The answer is too pat, too simple, too
obvious: it is the middle class that has the cultural hegemony to
day in all highly industrialized societies. It has become the model

class, the only one to mass-produce the forms of everyday living
and make them binding upon others. It is the one that takes care
of innovation. It decides what is thought beautiful and desirable;
it decides what is thought. (The dominant thoughts are no longer
those of the dominant class, but those of the middle class.) It in
vents ideologies, sciences, technologies. It decides what goes in
what we call our private lives. It is the only class that produces
art and fashion, philosophy and architecture, criticism and design.
Mass consumption as a whole has been decisively shaped by
concepts developed by the middle class. Brand-name products and
advertising are projections of its consciousness. All the social char
acteristics of the middle class can be found in generalized form in
consumer society: energy and isolation, progress as a kind of panic
reaction, formalism and ceaseless innovation, superfluity and the
need to define oneself. We need only look at the two consumer
products that are prototypical of our civilization: the television set
and the private automobile. Only the middle classes could have
dreamed up these remarkable objects.
Equally impressive are middle-class achievements in the sphere
of nonmaterial production. The apparatus of the superstructure is
occupied on all sides by members of our class, and almost all
fashions, trends, and movements that occur in highly in
dustrialized societies have been inspired, supported, and incul
cated by the middle classes: from tourism to do-it-yourself, from
avant-garde art to urban studies, from the student movement to
ecology, from cybernetics to feminism, from competitive sports to
the sexual revolution, and so on and so forth. Every alternative
movement in our culture has been promptly disarmed and ab
sorbed by the middle classes we need only think, for example, of
rock music, originally (like its predecessor, jazz, fifty years before)
an autonomous expression of proletarian youth. Even ideologies
such as anarchism or Marxism that were originally quite subver
sive today have been largely coopted by the middle classes.
Just how the experimental class has arrived at its cultural
hegemony could only be explained by a thorough, materialistic
analysis. A high degree of industrialization is certainly a necessary,
though perhaps not sufficient, condition. The middle-class cultural
model presupposes a certain social wealth. Not until production
has become highly organized can the social sphere of distribution,
On the Inevitability of the Middle Classes 231

circulation, and administration extend in such a way as to give
rise to a broad middle class. By the same token, it is only with
increasing concentration and centralization of capital that the rul
ing class shrinks sufficiently for it to lose its cultural dominance.
The frenetic productivity and innovative potential of the middle
class can be explained, however, simply by the fact that it has no
other choice. It is intelligent, talented, innovative because
its survival depends on it. Those in power dont need all this: they
get others to do their inventing for them; they buy intelligence
and develop talent. By contrast, any attempt at autonomous
productivity is systematically eradicated from the proletariat. Its
not your job to think! was the cry hurled at production workers
by F. W. Taylor, an early member of the middle class and the
father of rationalization; and naturally it has stayed this way, not
just in the West. Thus the fabulous talent of the middle classes,
like most of their other qualities, is to be explained ex negativo.
A quite different question, however, is what makes the cultural
hegemony of the middle class so irresistible. How could it become
a universal model, emulated by millions? What distinguishes this
model? What are the qualities that have enabled it to eliminate,
on both the national and international levels, virtually all alterna
tive models?
It is a commonplace to say that the European proletariat bears
the mark of middle-class culture in its way of life and aspirations.
But even the former upper-class way of life has been completely
liquidated by middle-class culture: its former luxuries have been
reduced to the format of the glossies; its exclusive standard is
merely that of a middle-class person who can afford a more ex
pensive brand. On the other hand, it is just a question of time
before the electric toothbrush takes over the slums. And even now
there is no Oriental bazaar, no Malayan or Caribbean market that
has not long since been infiltrated by the relics of middle-class
culture. The economic basis of this general invasion is well known;
the middle classes did not create it. But what any purely economic
perspective fails to take into account is the cultural dimension of
this development. (Pier Paolo Pasolini has given a model explana
tion of this for Italy.)
So the question remains: What is so unique, so seductive about
the automatic cigarette lighter, the taste of Pepsodent, concrete

poetry, the home workshop, Sesame Street, concentrated lemon
juice, behaviorism, Emanuela, deodorants, sensitivity training, Po
laroid cameras, shop-window displays, parapsychology, Peanuts,
metallic paint, nylon shirts, science fiction, skyjacking, and digital
watches that no one, no nation and no class from Kamchatka to
Tierra del Fuego, is immune to it? Is there no antidote to the in
genious ideas of our class? W ill no one, not even the Congolese,
be saved the trouble of equipping themselves with underpants de
signed by a French couturier? Must even the Vietnamese take val
ium? Is there no escape from behavior modification, the Con
corde, Masters and Johnson, bedroom communities, and curricular
reform? And the living-room set in stain-resistant imitation leather
( it breathes ) with loose polyurethane cushions, attached but
tons, quality foam-rubber suspension and cotton padding, deco
rative buckles, modular sections, easy-glide chrome-plated casters,
this fabulously beautiful, reasonably priced piece that persistently
dogs me and is constantly lying in wait for me, always there first,
like the tortoise in the fable at birthday parties, on television, in
the two-room apartment of a Turkish worker in a Berlin suburb,
in Der Spiegel, at the dentists, on my safari vacation, in party
pamphlets, in department-store specials, on the beautiful blue
Danube, in the White House, and at the town dump is there no
help, will it roll on inevitably, this incarnation of all the rosy
dreams of our class, until it has reached the bazaars of Damascus
and the airport in Shanghai? Perhaps it has arrived there long since.
Translated by Judith Ryan
4
Two Notes on
the End of the World
I
he apocalypse is part of our ideological baggage. It is an aph

rodisiac. It is a nightmare. It is a commodity like any other.
You can call it a metaphor for the collapse of capitalism, which
as we all know has been imminent for more than a century. We
come up against it in the most varied shapes and guises: as warn
ing finger and scientific forecast, as collective fiction and sectarian
rallying cry, as product of the leisure industry, as superstition, as
vulgar mythology, as a riddle, a kick, a joke, a projection. It is
ever present, but never actual : a second reality, an image that
we construct for ourselves, an incessant product of our fantasy,
the catastrophe in the mind.
All this it is and more, as one of the oldest ideas of the human
species. Thick volumes could have been written on its origins, and
of course such volumes actually have been written. We know like
wise all manner of things about its checkered history, about its
periodic ebb and flow, and the way these fluctuations connect with
the material process of history. The idea of the apocalypse has
accompanied utopian thought since its first beginnings, pursuing
it like a shadow, like a reverse side that cannot be left behind:
without catastrophe no millennium, without apocalypse no para
dise. The idea of the end of the world is simply a negative utopia.
233

But even the end of the world is no longer what it used to be.
The film playing in our heads, and still more uninhibitedly in our
unconscious, is distinct in many respects from the dreams of old.
In its traditional coinings, the apocalypse was a venerable, indeed
a sacred, idea. But the catastrophe we are so concerned with (or
rather haunted by) is an entirely secularized phenomenon. We read
its signs on the walls of buildings, where they appear overnight,
clumsily sprayed; we read them on the printouts spewed forth by
the computer. Our seven-headed monster answers to many names:
police state, paranoia, bureaucracy, terror, economic crisis, arms
race, destruction of the environment. Its four riders look like the
heroes of Westerns and sell cigarettes, while the trumpets that pro
claim the end of the world serve as theme music for a commercial
break. Once people saw in the apocalypse the unknowable aveng
ing hand of God. Today it appears as the methodically calculated
product of our own actions, and the spirits whom we hold respon
sible for its approach we call reds, oil sheikhs, terrorists, multina
tionals; the gnomes of Zurich and the Frankensteins of the biology
labs; UFOs and neutron bombs; demons from the Kremlin or the
Pentagon: an underworld of unimaginable conspiracies and mach
inations, whose strings are pulled by the all-powerful cretins of
the secret police.
The apocalypse was also once a singular event, to be expected
unannounced as a bolt from the blue: an unthinkable moment
that only seers and prophets could anticipate and, of course, no
one wanted to listen to their warnings and predictions. Our end
of the world, on the other hand, is sung from the rooftops even
by the sparrows; the element of surprise is missing; it seems only
to be a question of time. The doom we picture for ourselves is
insidious and torturingly slow in its approach, the apocalypse in
slow motion. It is reminiscent of that hoary avant-garde classic of
the silent cinema, in which we see a gigantic factory chimney crack
up and collapse noiselessly on the screen, for a full twenty min
utes, while the spectators, in a kind of indolent comfort, lean back
in their threadbare velvet seats and nibble their popcorn and pea
nuts. After the performance, the futurologist mounts the stage. He
looks like a poor imitation of Dr. Strangelove, the mad scientist,
only he is repulsively fat. Quite calmly he informs us that the at
mospheric ozone belt will have disappeared in twenty years time,
Two Notes on the End o f the World 235

so that we shall surely be toasted by cosmic radiation if we are
lucky enough to survive until then; unknown substances in our
milk are driving us to psychosis; and with the rate at which world
population is growing, there will soon be standing room only on
our planet. All this with Havana cigar in hand, in a well-com
posed speech of impeccable logic. The audience suppresses a yawn,
even though, according to the Professor, the disaster looms immi
nently ahead. But its not going to come this afternoon. This after
noon, everything will go on just as before, perhaps a little bit worse
than last week, but not so that anyone would notice. If one or
another of us should be a little depressed this afternoon, which
cannot of course be ruled out, then the thought might strike him,
irrespective of whether he works in the Pentagon or the under
ground, irons shirts or welds sheet metal, that it would really be
simpler if we were rid of the problem once and for all; if the
catastrophe really did come. However, this is out of the question.
Finality, which was formerly one of the major attributes of the
apocalypse, and one of the reasons for its power of attraction, is
no longer vouchsafed us.
We have also lost another traditional aspect of the end of the
world. Previously, it was generally agreed that the event would
affect everyone simultaneously and without exception: the neversatisfied demand for equality and justice found in this conception
its last refuge. But as we see it today, doom is no longer a leveler;
quite the opposite. It differs from country to country, from class
to class, from place to place. While it is already overtaking some,
others can watch it on television. Bunkers are built, ghettos walled
in, fortresses erected, bodyguards hired, on a large scale as well as
a small. Corresponding to the country house with burglar alarms
and electric fences, we have whole countries, on the international
scale, that fence themselves in while others go to ruin. The night
mare of the end of the world does not end this temporal disparity;
it simply radicalizes it. Its African and Indian versions are over
looked with a shrug of the shoulders by those not directly af
fected including the African and Indian governments. At this
point, finally, the joke comes to an end.
II
Berlin, Spring 1978
Dear Balthasar,
When I wrote my comment on the apocalypse a work that I
confess was not particularly thorough or serious I was still un
aware that you were also concerned with the future. You com
plained to me on the telephone that you were not really getting
anywhere. That sounded almost like an appeal for help. I know
you well enough to understand your dilemma. Today it is only the
technocrats who are advancing toward the year two thousand full
of optimism, with the unerring instinct of lemmings, and you are
not one of their number. On the contrary, you are a faithful soul,
always ready to assemble under the banner of utopia. You want
as much as ever to hold fast to the principle of hope, for you wish
us well: i.e., not only you and me, but humanity as a whole.
Please dont be angry if this sounds ironic. That isnt my fault.
You would have liked to see me come rushing to your aid. My
letter will be disappointing for you, and perhaps you even feel that
I am attacking you from behind. That isnt my intention. All I
would like to suggest is that we consider things with the cuffs off.
The strength of left-wing theory of whatever stamp, from Babeuf through to Ernst Bloch, i.e., for more than a century and a
half, lay in the fact that it based itself on a positive utopia that
had no peer in the existing world. Socialists, Communists, and
anarchists all shared the conviction that their struggle would in
troduce the realm of freedom in a foreseeable period of time. They
knew just where they wanted to go and just what, with the help
of history, strategy and effort, they ought or needed to do to get
there. Now, they no longer do. I read these lapidary words re
cently in an article by the English historian Eric Hobsbawm. But
this old Communist does not forget to add that In this respect,
they do not stand alone. Capitalists are just as much at a loss as
socialists to understand their future, and just as puzzled by the
failure of their theorists and prophets.
Hobsbawm is quite correct. The ideological deficit exists on both
sides. Yet the loss of certainty about the future does not balance
out. It is harder to bear for the Left than for those who never had
Two Notes on the End of the World 237

any other intention but to hang on at any price to some snippet
of their own power and privileges. This is why the Left, including
you, dear Balthasar, go in for grumbling and complaining.
No one is ready any more, you say, or in a position either, to
put forward a positive idea that goes beyond the horizon of the
existing state of affairs. Instead of this, false consciousness is ram
pant; the stage is dominated by apostasy and confusion. I remem
ber our last conversation about the new irrationalism, your la
menting over the resignation that you sense on all sides, and your
tirades against the flippant doomsters, shameless pessimists, and
apostles of defeatism. I shall be careful not to contradict you here.
But I wonder whether one thing has not escaped you in all this:
the fact that in these expressions and moods there is precisely what
you were looking for an idea that goes beyond the limits of our
present existence. For, in the last analysis, the world has certainly
not come to an end (or else we could not talk about it); and so
far no conclusive proof has reached me that an event of this kind
is going to take place at any clearly ascertainable point in time.
The conclusion I draw from this is that we are dealing here with
a utopia, even if a negative one; and I further maintain that, for
the historical reasons I mentioned, left-wing theory is not partic
ularly well-equipped to deal with this kind of utopia.
Your reactions are only further evidence for my assumption.
The first stanza of your song, in which you bewail the prevailing
intellectual situation, is promptly followed by the second, in which
you enumerate the scapegoats. For such an old hand at theory as
yourself, it is not difficult to lay hands on the guilty parties: the
ideological opponent, the agents of anticommunism, the manipu
lation of the mass media. Your arguments are in no way new to
me. They remind me of an essay that came to my attention a few
years back. The author, an American Marxist by the name of H. C.
Greisman, came to the conclusion that the images of decline of
which the media are so fond are designed to hypnotize and stupefy
the masses in such a way that they come to see any hope of revo
lution as meaningless.
What is striking in this proposition is above all its essential de
fensiveness. For a hundred years or so, as long as it was sure of
its ground, classical Marxist theory argued the very opposite. It
did not see the images of catastrophe and visions of doom of the

time simply as lies concocted by some secret seducers and spread
among the people, but sought rather to explain them in social
terms, as symbolic depictions of a thoroughly real process. In the
1920s, to take just one example, the Left saw the attraction that
Spenglers historical metaphysics had for the bourgeois intelligent
sia in precisely this way: The Decline of the West was in reality
nothing more than the imminent collapse of capitalism.
Today, on the other hand, someone like yourself no longer feels
his views confirmed by the apocalyptic fantasy, but instead feels
threatened, reacting with last-ditch slogans and defensive gestures.
To be quite frank, dear Balthasar, it seems to me that the result
of these obeisances is rather wretched. I dont mean by this that it
is simply false. You do not, of course, fail to resort to the welltried path of ideological criticism. And it is childs play to show
that the rise and fall of utopian and apocalyptic moods in history
correspond to the political, social, and economic conditions of the
time. It is also uncontestable that they are exploited politically,
just like any other fantasy that exists on a mass scale. You need
not imagine you have to teach me the ABCs. I know as well as
you that the fantasy of doom always suggests the desire for mirac
ulous salvation; and it is clear to me, too, that the Bonapartist
savior is always waiting in the wings, in the form of military dic
tatorship and right-wing putsch. When it is a question of survival,
there have always been people all too ready to place their trust in
a strong man. Nor do I find it surprising that those who have
called for one more or less expressly, in the last few years, should
include both a liberal and a Stalinist: the American sociologist
Hellbroner and the German philosopher Harich. It is also beyond
doubt that the apocalyptic metaphor promises relief from analyti
cal thought, as it tends to throw everything together in the same
pot. From the Middle East conflict to a postal strike, from punk
style to a nuclear-reactor disaster, anything and everything is con
ceived as a hidden sign of an imaginary totality: catastrophe in
general. The tendency to hasty generalization damages that resid
ual power of clear thought that we still have left. In this sense, the
feeling of doom does in fact lead only to mystification. It goes
without saying that the new irrationalism that so troubles you can
in no way solve the real problems. On the contrary, it makes them
appear insoluble.
Two Notes on the End o f the World 239

This is all very easy to say, but it does not help matters all that
much. You try and fight the fantasies of destruction with quota
tions from the classics. But these rhetorical victories, dear Bal
thasar, remind me of the heroic feats of Baron von Miinchhausen.
Like him, you want to reach your goal alone and unafraid; and to
avoid departing from the correct straight line, you too are ready
in case of need to leap onto a cannonball.
But the future is not a sports ground for hussars, nor is ideolog
ical criticism a cannonball. You should leave it to the futurologists
to imitate the boastings of an old tin soldier. The future that you
have in mind is in no way an object of science. It is something
that exists only in the medium of social fantasy, and the organ by
which it is chiefly experienced is the unconscious. Hence the power
of these images that we all produce, day and night: not only with
the head, but with the whole body. Our collective dreams of fear
and desire weigh at least as heavy, probably heavier, than our
theories and analyses.
The really threadbare character of customary ideological criti
cism is that it ignores all this and wants to know nothing of it.
Has it not struck you that it has long ceased to explain things that
do not fit our schemas, and started to taboo them instead? W ith
out our having properly noticed, it has taken on the role of watch
dog. Alongside the state censorship of the law-and-order people
there are now ranged the mental-hospital orderlies of the Left in
the social and human sciences, who would like to pacify us with
their tranquilizers. Their maxims are: 1. Never concede anything.
2. Reduce the unfamiliar to the familiar. 3. Always think only
with the head. 4. The unconscious must do what it is told.
The arrogance of these academic exorcists is surpassed only by
their impotence. They fail to understand that myths cannot be re
futed by seminar papers, and that their bans on ideas have a very
short reach. What help is it to them, for example, and what use
to us, if for the hundredth time they declare any comparison be
tween natural and social processes inadmissible and reactionary?
The elementary power of fantasy teaches millions of people to
break this ban constantly. Our ideologists only raise a smile when
they attempt to obliterate such ineffaceable images as flood and
fire, earthquake and hurricane. Moreover, there are people in the
ranks of natural scientists who are in a position to elaborate fan

tasies of this kind in their own fashion and make them productive
instead of banning them: mathematicians drafting a topographical
theory of catastrophe, or biochemists who have ideas about cer
tain analogies between biological and social evolution. We are still
waiting in, vain for the sociologist who will understand that, in a
sense that is still to be decoded, there is no longer any such thing
as a purely natural catastrophe.
Instead of this, our theorists, chained to the philosophical tra
ditions of German idealism, refuse to admit even today what every
bystander has long since grasped: that there is no world spirit;
that we do not know the laws of history; that even the class strug
gle is an indigenous process, which no vanguard can con
sciously plan and lead; that social evolution, like natural evolu
tion, has no subject and is therefore unpredictable; that
consequently, when we act politically, we never manage to achieve
what we had in mind, but rather something quite different, which
at one time we could not even have imagined; and that the crisis
of all positive utopias has its basis precisely in this fact. The proj
ects of the nineteenth century have been discredited completely
and without exception by the history of the twentieth century. In
the essay I already mentioned, Eric Hobsbawm recalls a congress
held by the Spanish anarchists in 1898. They sketched a glorious
picture of life after the victory of the revolution: a world of tall
shining buildings with elevators that would save climbing stairs,
electric light for all, garbage disposers, and marvelous household
gadgets. . . . This vision of humanity, presented with messianic
pathos, now looks strikingly familiar: in many parts of our cities
it has already become reality. There are victories that are hard to
distinguish from defeats. No one feels comfortable in recalling the
promise of the October revolution sixty years ago: once the capi
talists were driven out of Russia, a bright future without exploi
tation and oppression would dawn for the workers and peas
ants. . . .
Are you still with me, Balthasar? Are you still listening? I am
nearing the end of my letter. Forgive me if it has gotten rather
long, and if my sentences have taken on a mocking undertone. Its
not me who injected this; its a kind of objective, historic mock
ery, and the laugh, for better or worse, is always on the losing
side. We all have to bear it together.
Two Notes on the End of the World 241

Optimism and pessimism, my dear friend, are so much sticking
plaster for fortune-tellers and the writers of leading articles. The
pictures of the future that humanity draws for itself, both positive
and negative utopias, have never been unambiguous. The idea of
the millennium, the City of the Sun, was not the pallid dream of
a land of milk and honey; it always had its elements of fear, panic,
terror, and destruction. And the apocalyptic fantasy, conversely,
produces more than just pictures of decadence and despair; it also
contains, inescapably bound up with the terror, the demand for
vengeance, for justice, impulses of relief and hope.
The pharisees, those who always know best, want to convince
us that the world would be all right again if the progressive
forces took a strong line with peoples fantasies; if they them
selves were only sitting on the Central Committee, and pictures of
doom could be prohibited by decree of the party. They refuse to
understand that it is we ourselves who produce these pictures, and
that we hold on to them because they correspond to our experi
ences, desires, and fears: on the motorway between Frankfurt and
Bonn, in front of the TV screen that shows we are at war, beneath
helicopters, in the corridors of clinics, employment offices, and
prisons because, in a single word, they are in this sense realistic.
I scarcely need reassure you, dear Balthasar, that I know as little
of the future as you do yourself. I am writing to you because I do
not count you among the pigeonholers and ticketpunchers of the
world spirit. What I wish you, as I wish myself and us all, is a
little more clarity about our own confusion, a little less fear of our
own fear, and a little more attentiveness, respect, and modesty in
the face of the unknown. Then we shall be able to see a little
further.
Yours, H.M .E.
Translated by David Fern bach
Notes
The Industrialization of the M ind

1. This delusion became painfully apparent during the Nazi regime in
Germany, when many intellectuals thought it sufficient to retreat into in
ner emigration, a posture that turned out to mean giving in to the Nazis.
There have been similar tendencies in Communist countries during the
reign of Stalinism. See Czeslaw Miloszs excellent study, The Captive Mind.
(London, 1953).
2. Karl Marx, Die deutsche Ideologie (Part I, 1845-46).
3. A good example is the current wave of McLuhanism. N o matter
how ingenious, no matter how shrewd and fresh some of this authors
observations may seem, his understanding of media hardly deserves the
name of a theory. His cheerful disregard of their social and political im
plications is pathetic. It is all too easy to see why the slogan the medium
is the message has met with unbounded enthusiasm on the part of the
media, since it does away, by a quick fix worthy of a cardsharp, with the
question of truth. Whether the message is a lie or not has become irrele
vant, since in the light of McLuhanism truth itself resides in the very
existence of the medium, no matter what it may convey: the proof of the
network is in the network. It is a pity that Goebbels has not lived to see
this redemption of his oeuvre.
4. The importance of the transistor radio in the Algerian revolution
has been emphasized by Frantz Fanon, and the role of television in the
political life of Castros Cuba is a matter of common knowledge.
5. A good example of this instinctive sense of security shared by the
most entrenched political powers is offered by Senator Joseph M cCar
thys lunatic crusade against Hollywood producers, actors, and writers.
Most of them had shown an abject loyalty to the demands of the industry
throughout their careers, and yet no abnegation of their talents could free
them from suspicion. M uch in the same way, Stalin never trusted even his
most subservient lackeys of the intellectual establishment.
243
244 Notes
6. Among those who blithely disregard this fact, I would mention some
European philosophers, for example Romano Guardini, M ax Picard, and
Ortega y Gasset. In America, this essentially conservative stance has been
assumed by Henry Miller and a number of Beat Generation writers.
Poetry and Politics

1. Plato, The Republic, in particular 377401 and 559608.
2. For this and what follows I am indebted to European Literature and
the Latin M iddle Ages by Ernst Robert Curtius (Princeton, 1967). Cf. in
particular Chapters 8 and 9.
3. Lachmann 26, 10.
4. Ibid., 17, 6. For what follows, cf. above all 19, 17; 17, 11; 31, 23;
26, 23; 26, 33; 28, 1; 28, 31.
5. From the complex of the Venezianische Epigramme, Artemis-Ausgabe II, 177 (Zurich, 1950).
6. Samtliche Werke und Briefe, edited by Helmut Sembdner, Vol. I, 28
(Munich, 1961).
7. Written on July 31, 1898. Quoted from the Jubilee Edition, Vol. I
(Berlin, 1919).
8. Quoted from Die Z eit of February 9, 1962. Some critics have ques
tioned the existence of Gerd Gaisers and Hans Carossas Hitler poems.
Gaisers poem D er Fiihrer can be found in his first book, Reiter am
Himmel, published in 1941; Carossas poem is contained in a Tornisterschrift des Oberkommandos der Wehrmacht (Abteilung Inland). Zum
Geburtstag des Fiihrers 19 4 1. H eft 3 7 ; the work bears the title Dem
Fiihrer, Worte deutscher Dichter.
9. The Republic, 378; 391; 607.
10. Curtius, European Literature and Latin M iddle Ages.
11. In the ironic Lobgesdnge au f Konig Ludw ig (1841), for example,
the moment the rulers name is mentioned, the lines degenerate to the
level of a mediocre cabaret or beerhall joke.
12. The name Hitler appears in only two of Brechts poems, in the
Lied vom Anstreicher Hitler and in the H itler-Chorale (Gedichte III,
p. 35ff, Frankfurt, 1961). Both were written in 1933. Later Brecht con
sistently avoided the name and instead used paraphrases like der
Trommler or der Anstreicher. (Cf. op. cit. IV., p. 10, 16, 100, etc.). The
difference is not superficial. Brechts most effective poems on fascism avoid
all allusion to Hitler (Die Erziehung der Hirse, Berlin, 1951).
13. The poems mentioned are to be found in my Museum der modernen Poesie (Frankfurt, 1960).
14. In Die Heilige Familie, Chapters V and VIII (Frankfurt, 1845).
15. Draft of a letter to Margret Harkness in Uber Kunst und Literatur,
Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels (Berlin, 1949).
16. Ibid. Concerning Marx, Engels und die Dichter, see the book with
this title by Peter Demetz (Stuttgart, 1959); it contains a comprehensive
chapter on Lukacs.
Notes 245
17. Georg Lukacs, Wider den missverstandenen Realismus (Hamburg,
1958).
18. Two great exceptions are Benjamin and Adorno. Benjamins trea
tise on Der B egriff der Kunstkritik in der deutschen Romantik (Scbriften
II, Frankfurt, 1955) and Adornos essay Zum Gedachtnis Eichendorffs
(Noten zur Literatur I, Frankfurt: 1958) could form the basis of a true
understanding of German romantic poetry.
19. Journaux intimes. M on cceur mis a nu. L X X X III.
20. Auswahl in sechs Banden, I (Berlin, 1959).
21. Ftille des Daseins, p. 106 (Frankfurt, 1958).
22. Ausgewahlte Gedichte, p. 49 (Frankfurt, 1960).
23. Gesammelte Werke III, p. 656 (Hamburg, 1961).
24. The Republic, 424. In accordance with the Greek notion, Plato
conceives music to include what we would call rhythm and metrical fig
uration, as well as accent and phrasing. This is clear from the context; cf.
in particular 398-401.
Commonplaces on the Newest Literature

1.
A number of publications should be mentioned in reference to these
commonplaces. Particularly worth mentioning are: Kritik: Eine Selbstdarstellung deutscher Kritiker, edited by Peter H am m (Munchen: Hanser,
1968); Kurbiskern 4/1968; M artin Walser, postscript to Bottroper Protokolle, by Erika Runge (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1968); Karel Teige, Liquidierung der Kunst, Analysen und Manifeste (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp,
1968). The Breton quotes are from The Second Surrealist Manifesto of
1930. Regis Debrays letter is dated September 20, 1967, Camiri. The
sentence from Walter Benjamin can be found in his Versuche iiber Brecht.
Constituents of a Theory of the Media

1. Bertolt Brecht, Theory o f Radio (1932), Gesammelte Werke, Band
VIII, pp. 129 seq., 134.
2. Der Spiegel (October 20, 1969).
3. El Lissitsky, The Future of the Book, N ew Left Review , No. 41,
p. 42.
4. Kommunismus, Z-eitschrift der Kommunistischen Internationale fur
die Lander Siidosteuropas, 1920, pp. 1538-49.
5. Walter Benjamin, Kleine Geschichte der Photographie, in Das
Kunstwerk im Zeitalter seiner tecbmschen Reproduzierbarkeit (Frankfurt,
1963), p. 69.
6. Walter Benjamin, The W ork of Art in the Age of Mechanical Re
production, Illuminations (New York: Schocken, 1969), pp. 22327.
7. Ibid., p. 229.
8. Op. cit., p. 40.
9. Benjamin, op. cit., p. 42.
246 Notes
Toward a Theory of Treason
1. Quoted from Gunther Weisenborn, Der lantlose Aufstand. Bericht
iiber die Widerstandsbewegung des deutschen Volkes 19 3 3 bis 19 4 5, p.
25Off. (Reinbek, 1962).
2. Margret Boveri, Der Verrat im 20. Jabrbundert. I: Fur und gegen
die Nation (Hamburg, 1956), p. 12.
3. W ith respect to the following, compare Sigmund Freud, Totem and
Taboo. New York: Norton, 1952.
4. J. G. Frazer, The Golden Bough, Part II. Taboo and the Perils o f
the Soul. Third Edition (London, 1911), p. 132.
5. Montesquieu, L Esprit des Lois, XII, 7.
6. Hannah Arendt provides a very trenchant analysis of the concept of
the objective opponent in her book Origins o f Totalitarianism (New
York: Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich, 1973).
7. Ibn Batuta, Die Reise des Arabers Ibn Batuta durch Indien und
China. Bearbeitet von H. von Mzik. (Hamburg, 1911). Quoted from Elias
Canetti, Masse und Macht (Hamburg, 1960), p. 497; English transl.,
Crowds and Power, New York: Continuum, 1978). Canettis work is
indispensable for the study of the connection between sovereignty and
paranoia.
8. The figure 150,000 is based on data of Dieter Posser, a lawyer
from Essen, who has made a name for himself as a defense attorney in
political trials. Compare the Suddeutsche Zeitung of April 30, 1964.
Reflections before a Glass Cage

1. Eleventh edition, Vol. VII, p. 447.
2. Leviathan, X X V II chapter.
3. Chapter 5 in Totem and Taboo. Freuds argument is not necessarily
dependent on the teachings of psychoanalysis. It makes sense even if one
deletes motivation through the Oedipus complex and the question of in
cest.
4. Malinowskis investigation of Sex and Repression in Savage Society
is a good characteristic example of the scientific criticism of Freuds hy
potheses. Malinowski attempts an empirical reconstruction of fratricide
and its consequences, an undertaking that has led to hypotheses ad absurdum. His critique shows the limits of Freuds presentation; Freud,
however, who expressly called it a scientific myth, was fully aware of
these limitations himself. A refutation in this manner is just as impossible
as is proof. The question of the priority of crime and social organization
leads to philosophical and semantic conundrums into which anthropology
can enter but which it cannot solve.
5. Canetti, Crowds and Pow er.
6. The Taboo and Emotional Ambivalence in Totem and Taboo.
Notes 247
7. Canetti, Crowds and Pow er.
8. Politik (Leipzig, 1897).
9. Fischer Lexikon, Volume 12: Recht (Frankfurt am M ain, 1959),
p. 137f.
10. Zeitgemasses tiber Krieg und T o d (1915), in Das Unbewusste.
Schriften zur Psychoanalyse (Frankfurt am M ain, 1960), p. 19If.
11. Gerhard Schoenberner, The Yellow Star, rev. ed., trans. Susan
Sweet (London: Corgi, 1969), p. 12.
22.
Es gibt keinen jiidischen Wohnbezirk in Warschau mehr. Facsimile
edition of the Stroop Report English trans. Jurgen Stroop, The Stroop
Report: The Jew ish Quarter o f Warsaw Is N o M ore, trans. and annotated
by Sybil M ilton, intro, by Andrzej Wirth [New York: Pantheon, 1979]).
13. Felix Kersten, Totenkopf und Treue, p. 144. Quoted from Joachim
C. Fest, Das Gesicht des Dritten Reiches (Munchen, 1963), p. 169f.
14. Internationales Militartribunal, D er Prozess gegen die Hauptkriegsverbrecher (Niirnberg, 1947), Volume X X IX , p. 145ff.
15. On Thermonuclear War, p. 21.
16. Op. cit., p. 133 and passim.
17. Der Spiegel, Nr. 47/1963, quoting the Journal o f Abnorm al and
Social Psychology (Boston, October 1963).
18. In reference to this compare Eric J. Hobsbawm, Primitive Rebels:
Studies in Archaic Forms o f Social Movements in the 19th and 20th Cen
turies (New York: Norton, 1965).
Berlin Commonplaces
1.
The Fallex Bunker is where the West German government went when
it exercised the suspension of the Basic Law (the constitution) under the
emergency laws.
Tourists of the Revolution

1. Heberto Padilla, Ausserhalb des Spiels (Frankfurt, 1971), pp. 113
15.
2. Leon Trotsky, The Revolution Betrayed (New York, 1973).
3. Victor Serge, Memoirs o f a Revolutionary 1 9 0 1 19 4 4 (Oxford:
1967).
'
4. Franz Jung, Der Weg nach unten (Neuwied, 1961), p. 169ff.
5. Victor Serge, Memoirs o f a Revolutionary.
6. Arthur Koestler, A rrow in the Blue (New York: Macmillan, 1970).
7. Panait Istrati, quoted from Jurgen Riihle, Literatur und Revolution
(Munchen, 1960), p. 402.
8. Andre Gide, Retuschen zu meinem Russlandbuch, in Reisen (Stutt
gart, 1966), pp. 41315.
248 Notes
9. Bertolt Brecht, Kraft und Schwache der Utopie, in Gesammelte
Werke, VIII (Frankfurt, 1967), pp. 43437.
10. Andre Gide, op. cit., p. 404. Gide is referring here to a pamphlet
by M . Yvon, Ce quest devenue la Revolution Russe.
11. N ouvelle Revue Frangaise (March 1936).
12. Andre Gide, op. cit., p. 8.
13. Leon Trotsky, Revolution Betrayed, p. 8.
14. Umberto Melotti, in Terzo M ondo (Milano, March 1972), pp. 93ff.
The book by Maria Macciocchi that he criticizes appeared in M ilano in
1971 under the title Dalla Cina, dopo la rivoluzione culturale.
15. Susan Sontag, Trip to Hanoi (New York, 1969).
16. Jan Myrdal, Report from a Chinese Village (New York: Pantheon,
1965).
Critique of Political Ecology

1. Ecology and Revolutionary Thought, by Murray Brookchin (New
York, 1970), p. 11. Brookchin argues that asking an ecologist exactly when
the ecological catastrophe will occur is like asking a psychiatrist to predict
exactly when psychological pressure will so affect a neurotic that com
munication with him will be impossible.
2. An Inquiry into the Sanitary Conditions o f the Labouring Popula
tion o f Great Britain, Report from the Poor Law Commissioners to the
Home Department (London, 1842), p. 68. Quoted in The Politics o f
Ecology, by James Ridgeway (New York: Dutton, 1971).
3. Examples of this are not lacking in the ecology movement. In France
there is an organization for environmental protection that has an ex
tremely right-wing orientation. The president of these Eco-fascists is
none other than General Massu, the man responsible for the French use
of torture in the Algerian war.
4. Profitschmutz und Uni welts chrnutz, in Rote Reihe (Heidelberg,
1973), vol. I, p. 5.
5. Capital (Moscow, 1961), vol. I, p. 510 n.
6. Ridgeway, op. cit., pp. 2225, sees Chadwick as an archetypal util
itarian bureaucrat, whose function was to secure the interests of capital
by achieving peace and order among the poor. Better sanitation would
produce a healthier and longer-living working force. Sanitary housing
would raise workers morale, and so on.
7. Ridgeway, Politics o f Ecology, p. 15f., shows that over 150 years
ago the Benthamites had evolved a theory of protecting the environment
to promote production. As he also points out, the measures taken in the
advanced, capitalist United States in the late 1960s fail to reach the stan
dards of water and air cleanliness proposed by the utilitarians.
8. Der Spiegel (8 January 1973), p. 38.
9. Ridgeway, Politics o f Ecology, pp. 20711, analyses the eco-indus
trial complex, i.e., the growing role played by business in promoting
Notes 249
ecological campaigns, such as Earth Day, and the liaison between busi
ness, politicians, local government, and citizen campaigns.
10. For an illustration of the eco-industrial complex in West Ger
many see Profitschmutz, p. 14, and the pamphlet Ohne uns kein Umweltschutz.
11. Primera Conferencia de Solidaridad de los Pueblos de America
Latina, in America Latina: Demografia, Poblacion indtgena y Salud, vol.
2 (Havana, 1968), pp. 15f.
12. Ibid., pp. 5557.
13. Claus Koch, Mystifikationen der Wachtumskrise : Zum Bericht
des Club o f Rome, Merkur, Heft 297 (January 1973), p. 82.
14. La morte ecologica, Foreword by Giorgia Nebbia (Bari, 1972),
p. xvf. (Italian edition of The Ecologist, A Blueprint for Survival [Hammondsworth, 1972]).
15. Club of Rome, Limits to Growth (New York, 1972), p. 13.
16. Kapitalismus und Umweltkatastrophe, by Gerhard Kade, dupli
cated manuscript, 1973.
17. Die sozialistischen Lander: Ein Dilemma des westeuropaischen
Linken, by Rossana Rossanda, Kursbuch 30, 1973, p. 26.
18. Cf. Marx und die Oologie in Kursbuch 33, 1973, pp. 17587.
19. Rossana Rossanda, op. cit., p. 30.
20. Andre Gorz, Technique, Techniciens et Lutte de Classes, Les
Temps Modernes (AugustSeptember 1971), vol. 30-12, p. 141.
21. Anne H. and Paul R. Ehrlich, Population, Resources, Environment
(San Francisco, 1972), pp. 32224.
22. Fore-efter, En Diagnos, by Gosta Ehrensvard (Stockholm, 1971),
pp. 105-7.
23. Ehrlich, Population, p. 322.
24. Offentlichkeit und Erfahrung. Z u r Organisationsanalyse von burgerlicher und proletarischer Offentlichkeit (Frankfurt, 1972), p. 242.
25. Ibid., pp. 283f.
26. Economic and Philosophical Manuscripts o f 1844, by Karl Marx,
ed. D. Struik, (London, 1970), p. 137.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The sources of the translations contained in this volume are as follows:
The Industrialization o f the M in d , Poetry and Politics, Commonplaces on
the Newest Literature, Toward a Theory o f Treason, Reflections before a
Glass Cage, Berlin Commonplaces, Tourists of the Revolution all appeared
in The Consciousness Industry and Politics and Crime, both copyright 1974 by
The Continuum Publishing Company.
Las Casas, or A Look Back into the Future appeared in Bartolome de las Casas,
The Devastation o f the Indies, copyright 1974 by The C ontinuum Publishing
Company.
Constituents o f a Theory o f the M edia and A Critique o f Political Ecology artcopyright 1974 by the New Left Review; Notes on the End of the W orld is
copyright 1978 by the New Left Review.
The original German sources are as follows:
Bewusstseins-Industrie and Poesie und Politik from Einzelheiten, copyright
1962 by Suhrkamp Verlag, Frankfurt; Z ur Theorie des Verrats and Reflexionen
vor einem Glaskasten from Deutschland, Deutschland unter anderem, copyright
1964 by Suhrkamp Verlag, Frankfurt.
Gemeinplatze, die neueste Literatur betreffend copyright 1969 by Kursbuch
Verlag, Berlin; Baukasten zu einer Theorie der M edien copyright 1971
Kursbuch Verlag, Berlin; Berliner Gemeinplatze copyright 1968 Kursbuch
Verlag Berlin; Revolutions-Tourismus and Z u r Kritik der politischen
O kologie copyright 1973 Kursbuch Verlag, Berlin; Zwei Randbemerkungen
zum Weltuntergang copyright 1978 Kursbuch Verlag, Berlin.
Las Casas oder ein Riickblick in die Z uku n ft copyright 1962 Insel Verlag,
M unich.
Von der Unaufhaltsamkeit des Kleinbiirgertums copyright 1976 by the
Frankfurter Rundschau.
250

Enzensberger Hans Magnus Critical Essays

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

Enzensberger Hans Magnus Critical Essays

Uploaded by

Document Information

Copyright

Available Formats

Share this document

Share or Embed Document

Sharing Options

Did you find this document useful?

Is this content inappropriate?

Copyright:

Available Formats

Enzensberger Hans Magnus Critical Essays

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

What is the book about based on the introduction and table of contents?

What is the book about based on the introduction and table of contents?

What rights are reserved regarding the content of the book?

What rights are reserved regarding the content of the book?

Hans Magnus Enzensberger

The German Library : Volume 98

Peter Demetz (Yale University)

Hans Magnus Enzensberger

The Continuum Publishing Com pany

Library o f Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

For acknowledgments o f previously published material, see

Foreword: John Simon vii

enaissance men (or women) are in short supply these days.

t happened nearly two decades ago, yet I can recall it as vividly

All texts are complete and unabridged, except for sections 28

4 Hans Magnus Enzensberger

The Industrialization of the Mind 5

6 Hans Magnus Enzensberger

The Industrialization of the M ind 7

8 Hans Magnus Enzensberger

The Industrialization of the Mind 9

10 Hans Magnus Enzensberger

The Industrialization of the M ind 11

12 Hans Magnus Enzensberger

The Industrialization of the Mind 13

14 Hans Magnus Enzensberger

16 Hans Magnus Enzensberger

Poetry and Politics 17

18 Hans Magnus Enzensberger

Poetry and Politics 19

20 Hans Magnus Enzensberger

In Germany the last poetically legitimate verses composed as

Poetry and Politics 21

22 Hans Magnus Enzensberger

The unintended humor of these verses, particularly of the ir

Poetry and Politics 23

24 Hans Magnus Enzensberger

Poetry and Politics 25

26 Hans Magnus Enzensberger

Poetry and Politics 27

28 Hans Magnus Enzensberger

Poetry and Politics 29

30 Hans Magnus Enzensberger

This is a verse from the East German national anthem, composed

Despite the ideological differences that separate the two authors,

Poetry and Politics 31

A political poem? The mere question shows how little is to be

32 Hans Magnus Enzensberger

No enemy of poetry has described its effects with greater insight

Poetty and Politics 33

34 Hans Magnus Enzensberger

36 Hans Magnus Enzensberger

Period of deliberation. Almost everyone longs for certainty,

Commonplaces on the Newest Literature 37

38 Hans Magnus Enzensberger

Commonplaces on the Newest Literature 39

40 Hans Magnus Enzensberger

A literature that corresponds to such demands does not exist, at

Commonplaces on the Newest Literature 41

42 Hans Magnus Enzensberger