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Review of Trotsky’s “Literature and
Revolution”
by Joe Auciello / June 2005 issue of Socialist Action
Leon Trotsky, "Literature and Revolution"
(1923), ed. William Keach, (Chicago: Haymarket Books, 2005), paper, 300
pages, $16.
Leon Trotsky’s study of literary movements within the young Soviet
Republic, and his argument for a partisan but broad-minded government
policy towards those trends, is one of the essential works on the topic of Marxism
and art. A previous American edition, published by the University of
Michigan press, has
been out of print for some 30 years.
Haymarket Books has rendered a valuable service in not only
reissuing "Literature and Revolution" but also by publishing it
with an introductory essay, a 38-page glossary, and an index—all lacking in
previous editions. Further, this edition includes 65 pages of poetry by the
Russian writers that Trotsky analyzes and evaluates.
This volume reprints, with slight modification, the original 1925
(and sole) English translation by Rose Strunksy, a rendering that critic
Irving Howe called
"somewhat erratic." The introduction, written by Brown University
professor of English William Keach, places Trotsky’s work within its historical
context and
highlights some of the book’s most significant themes.
Nonetheless, a word of caution is necessary at the outset. Despite
all that the publishers have done to make this work accessible,
"Literature and Revolution" is not on the order of a
"Marxism and Literature for Dummies." Many readers would do well
to begin with the collection of Trotsky’s work edited by Paul Siegel, "Art
and Revolution: Writings on Literature, Politics,
and Culture" (Pathfinder Press). Helpful introductory books also
include Terry Eagleton’s "Marxism and Literature" as well as
Henri Arvon’s "Marxist
Esthetics."
"Literature and Revolution" poses some significant problems
for the contemporary reader. The title suggests the book will explain
Marxist theories of literature or expound a method of cultural criticism or
perhaps offer close readings of selected literary texts.
While all of these elements can readily be found in Trotsky’s work,
his book is not primarily a popular
exposition. Instead, he presents a historical analysis
of Russian literature from the perspective of the October (1917)
Revolution and an overall analysis of then-current literary tendencies
(Futurism, proletarian literature) as well as more specific criticism of
prominent authors.
In the closing chapters Trotsky explains his perspective for the ruling
Communist Party’s policy towards art, surveys the artistic landscape of
Russia
in the early 1920s, and envisions the art of the future socialist
society.
In other words, Trotsky does not expound principles of literary
interpretation so much as he utilizes them. When ideas operate at this level, a great deal of
knowledge is assumed. Those new to Marxism, or to this field of
Marxism, will surely find it difficult to extrapolate the critical method Trotsky
so skillfully
employs. An unfamiliar theory applied to unknown texts from a bygone
era will more likely lead readers to incomprehension rather than
enlightenment.
Yet, the effort to understand these ideas is an effort worth making.
The editor, William Keach, rightfully points out that Trotsky’s work adds
"to our ways of
thinking about the relationship between cultural and political
change at any historical moment, including our own.”
Trotsky intended "Literature and Revolution" to be more
topical than "timeless." It was his contribution to the literary
and political debates that emerged in the early, creative years of the
young Soviet Union.
Trotsky expected that history itself would give the final word to
these arguments. He envisioned "twenty, thirty, or fifty years of
proletarian world
revolution" that would ultimately result in the creation of socialism
on every continent. Old arguments would be left aside as the new era would
naturally create a new art.
Of course, world history developed in an entirely different way. What,
then, aside from historical interest, is the value of this book? The
literary
schools it discusses have long since passed away, and the Soviet
Union itself imploded in 1991. What topical significance, if any, can "Literature
and Revolution" hold for the contemporary reader?
In the first instance, certain of Trotsky’s ideas seem alive and
well today whether or not he is cited by name. In Venezuela, to celebrate
the 400th anniversary of Don Quixote, the populist government printed a million
copies of Cervantes’ novel and distributed them for free. Doubtlessly,
Trotsky, who argued on behalf of Alexander Pushkin, the Russian Cervantes, would
have welcomed President Chavez’ initiative.
Trotsky criticized the Russian Futurists, who wanted "to break
with the past" and "to liquidate tradition." To the
contrary, Trotsky said, "The working class does not know the old literature,
it still has to commune with it, it still has to master Pushkin, to absorb him,
and so overcome him."
Even after the working-class revolution, Trotsky said, "This
class cannot begin the construction of a new culture without absorbing and
assimilating the
elements of the old cultures." Clearly, the Venezuelan government
is working to achieve those ends. Many
of Trotsky’s insights remain fresh despite the
passage of time. Recently, in The New York Times Book Review, Salman
Rushdie published "The PEN and the Sword," a reminiscence of the
1986 PEN (Poets, Essayists, Novelists) conference.
Rushdie recalled he had criticized American writers for their
collective failure to confront "the task of taking on the subject of
America’s immense power in
the world." This remark provoked an outraged response from
Nobel Prize winner Saul Bellow, who said, “We don’t have tasks. ... We have
inspirations.”
Rushdie offers no rebuttal to this notion, but Trotsky answered it
decades ago: "The effort to set art free from life, to declare it a
craft self-sufficient unto
itself, devitalizes and kills art." Trotsky also pointed out
that literary inspiration originated neither in heaven or hell but on
earth, within human beings who were subject to the social influences that enveloped
them.
Perhaps Saul Bellow, a Trotskyist in his youth and a writer whose
major characters are deeply immersed in social conflict, would have agreed
with Trotsky’s observation that “art is always a social servant and historically
utilitarian.”
More importantly, however, is the possibility of learning from
"Literature and Revolution" to understand contemporary literature
and art. What is most vital in Trotsky’s work is his use of the Marxist method,
a way of thinking that enabled him to understand the culture of his day and
that can be used to analyze current cultural practices and history. It is
this use of analytical method that gives the book its present-day
significance.
"The Marxian method," Trotsky explained, "affords an opportunity
to estimate the development of the new art, to trace all its sources, to
help the most
progressive tendencies by a critical illumination of the
road.…"
Trotsky evaluated the literary trends of his time by their
relationship to the defining political event of the age: the socialist
revolution of October 1917. He
examined the history of the different, and rival, schools of art by
unearthing their social roots. Although
the political climate of today bears little comparison to that of the
Soviet Union of the 1920s, Trotsky’s approach nevertheless contains some
valuable lessons for readers and critics. The foremost point is that in
America today, literary history cannot be explained solely by literature
itself. The relatively newer and even dominant trends in fiction, poetry, drama,
and memoir can only be understood by studying
their social and political roots.
This is the idea that underlies the entirety of "Literature and
Revolution." "A work of art," Trotsky explains,
"should, in the first place, be judged by its own law, that is, by the
law of art. But Marxism alone can explain why and how a given tendency in
art has originated in a given period of history; in other
words, who it was who made a demand for such an artistic form and
not for another, and why."
These are not the ideas a student typically encounters in high
school or even in the graduate seminar, and in this distinction lies the
continued vitality of
Trotsky’s work. How is it possible to explain the evolution of
recent American literature without an understanding of politics and social
history?
Forty years ago the canon-defining "Norton Anthology of
American Literature" contained little writing by women and African
Americans, and nothing by Hispanics and American Indians. The literature of
America was not only white and male; it was presented as a direct outgrowth
of the literature of England. No others need apply.
Today, such an edition could not be published. No teacher would
assign it, and no student would accept such a narrow perspective as
informative, much less
definitive. This profound change in the literary landscape did not
result from the discovery of treasure troves of previously unpublished
literature (though research scholars, especially African Americans, have
made important discoveries).
Instead, it is the political movement of the last several decades
that changed the basis for literature today. The old tradition has been
abandoned, and the
literary canon has been enlarged to include the voices previously
excluded.
Multiculturalism is not only accepted as the new standard, in some
states it is the law. The broader representation of a plurality of literary
voices now
constitutes a student’s instruction in English from the first days
of elementary school.
Cultural change of this magnitude requires, first, a mass civil
rights movement, a women’s liberation movement, a struggle for gay and
lesbian rights. Antiwar activists
who learned to "Question Authority" also raised questions in
their classrooms as students and later as scholars and teachers. Taken
together,
all the movements for peace and social change combined to mold an
audience who would want to read this new literature and influenced the
writers who created it (as well as the publishers who profited from
printing it).
The dialectic of change in current literary history would not have
surprised Trotsky, who long ago recognized that literary trends have a
social basis
without which they could not exist: "If there were no changes
in psychology produced by changes in the social environment, there would be
no movement in art; people would continue from generation to generation to be
content with the poetry of the Bible, or of the old Greeks."
At the same time, Trotsky was well aware that art, like every other
intellectual endeavor, enjoyed at least a relative autonomy. Writers are
influenced by
and react against each other, and often create new styles in the
effort to express themselves and capture the reality of their times. Thus,
the minimalist
fiction of the 1980s (Raymond Carver, Gordon Lish, etc.) gives way
to the maximalist fiction of the present (Tom Wolfe and David Foster
Wallace, to cite
novelists of different generations).
While, in the first instance, it is right to examine the contemporary
relevance of "Literature and Revolution," its importance as an
historical document should not be ignored.
After decades of bureaucratic misrule in the postcapitalist societies
of Russia and Eastern Europe, socialism, compromised as it is in the minds
of millions, must and will once again emerge as an emancipatory idea for
humanity. It is still necessary to distinguish a revolutionary, socialist
policy in literature and art (and
not only in these fields!) from the totalitarian, Stalinist policy that
misappropriated socialism’s name.
"Literature and Revolution" joins Trotsky’s other works—"The
New Course," "The Lessons of October," "The Stalin
School of Falsification," and "The Revolution Betrayed"—that
tell the truth about the past and so prepare the possibility for a better
future. Trotsky’s writings on art constitute a part of his struggle against
Stalinism and for socialism.
Trotsky’s guidelines for the new art of the Soviet Republic were
broad and tolerant ("Art cannot live and cannot develop without a
flexible atmosphere of
sympathy around it"). "Literature and Revolution" is permeated
with that "flexible atmosphere of sympathy." Trotsky does not intend at all for
commissars of culture to dictate the content and style of literary work.
Still, Trotsky did endorse Soviet censorship of reactionary and
counterrevolutionary ideas in art. The editor of this new edition, William
Keach, correctly points out that in periods of war and severe social crisis,
all governments have limited the scope of freedom, and the Bolsheviks did
the same in defense of the working class.
But this is only a general guideline. The Bolsheviks never intended for
their policies to be copied thoughtlessly and mechanically by their
international
cothinkers. Still less does it follow that every utterance in
"Literature and Revolution" be taken as gospel.
From the vantage point of the present, from the vantage point, that
is, of those who have the opportunity and responsibility to learn from the pioneering
example of Bolshevism, Trotsky’s stance on literary freedom and restriction
raises questions not so easily resolved.
It is true that Trotsky urged a cautious, judicious censorship, but
nonetheless he did support the office of the censor. In the introduction to
his book he says
that the Party favored "complete freedom of self-determination
in the field of art," but only after a condition. Artists must first
pass a test: "complete freedom" would be granted to artists only "after
putting before them the categorical standard of being for or against the
Revolution." Of course, with
this condition, complete freedom is not complete.
In the chapter, "Communist Policy Toward Art," Trotsky is
more explicit and his tone is more pugnacious: "If the Revolution has
the right to destroy bridges and
art monuments whenever necessary, it will stop still less from
laying its hand on any tendency in art which ... threatens to disintegrate
the revolutionary environment or to arouse the internal forces of the Revolution
... to a hostile opposition to one another. Our standard is, clearly,
political, imperative and
intolerant."
In this argument from the general to the specific, Trotsky conjures
up the image of a revolution at war with its avowed enemies. Yes, the
Revolution had the
right, the obligation, to defend itself and interfere with its
enemies’ plans to destroy it. But,
as Trotsky noted, "[t]he question is only at what point
should interference begin...."
In hindsight, it is clear that by 1923 the greater danger to culture
and art was the stifling hand of the bureaucracy, not the defeated
counterrevolution and
its literary admirers. The answer to art that, for instance, waxed
nostalgic for the good old days of village life under tsarist rule, if an
answer was needed, was not socialist censorship but socialist criticism.
And if, as Trotsky said, art that looked to the past had no future
("non-revolutionary literature ... is dying, together with the classes
which it served"),
then such art would find no popular response and would fade away not
from censorship but from indifference.
In any event, the last thing needed was to cede more authority over
art to the bureaucrat in Glavlit, the Soviet censorship board.
Further, Trotsky’s criteria for censorship was overly broad and therefore
dangerous. Phrases like "disintegrate the revolutionary
environment" and
"hostile opposition" can cover everything from armed rebellion
to a sarcastic remark.
Some 15 years later, after the triumph of the totalitarian Stalinist
bureaucracy and the debasement of all forms of art and culture in the
Soviet Union, Trotsky wrote "Manifesto: Towards a Free Revolutionary Art,"
in which he implicitly reconsidered his earlier statements on censorship.
While stating that "the revolutionary state has the right to
defend itself against the counterattack of the bourgeoisie," the
emphasis of his argument had
shifted. He now explicitly refers to these laws as "temporary
measures." He goes on to say that a socialist government "is not
afraid of art." On the
contrary, "to develop intellectual creation an anarchist regime
of individual liberty should from the first be established. No authority,
no dictation, not
the least trace of orders from above!
In his last testament on art, Trotsky lands squarely on the side of
freedom of thought and expression. It is the exact opposite of the
repressive policy of the
Soviet bureaucracy and its imitators in China and Eastern Europe
from the end of the Second World War to the onset of glasnost, (excepting
the brief period of the "thaw" in the Soviet Union that allowed
the temporary publication in 1962 of Solzhenitsyn’s novella of the
concentration camps, "One Day in the
Life of Ivan Denisovich").
Trotsky clearly argues that the stifling and silencing of creative
artists that defined Soviet culture under Stalin is not at all a necessary
inevitable outcome of proletarian revolution.
If Soviet art were encouraged to speak, what, according to Trotsky,
should it say? It is useful to pose the question because every critic,
explicitly or implicitly, promotes a literary method, style, or theme.
Trotsky did anticipate "the forming of a new and great
literature," but how did he, who so sharply
defined the characteristics of pre-revolutionary art, define the
characteristics of a new revolutionary art? Trotsky’s answer is not
specific and prescriptive but
more general and vague. In no sense is this a failure of perspective
or vision. Precisely in that lack of clarity lies the freedom of the artist
to create. In fact, Trotsky insists that the socialist government must not
favor one literary tendency over another.
Trotsky notes, “Of course the new art cannot but place
the struggle of the proletariat in the center of its attention. But
the plough of the new art is not limited to numbered strips. On the contrary,
it must plough the entire field in all directions.”
Trotsky is far more articulate about what art should not be; he
firmly opposes falsehood in all its forms, such as sentimentality, heroic
posturing, or
prettifying an unpleasant reality. He states, "The art of the
Revolution does not at all consist in not seeing the truth or in
transforming the stern reality by an effort of the imagination..."
Further, he adds, "The poetry of the Revolution is not in the
booming of machine guns, nor in the struggle behind barricades; it is not
in the heroism of the fallen, nor in the triumph of the victorious.…"
If all of these scenarios seem like fit subjects for art, perhaps it
is because under the Stalin regime and after, "not seeing the
truth" and "transforming the
stern reality" became the first requirements for art. Not surprisingly, in one of the few
occasions where Trotsky describes what Soviet art should be, he
insists on literary qualities that are the opposite of Stalinism. In
the chapter "Revolutionary and Socialist Art," as part of a
discussion of Soviet theater,
Trotsky makes his most prescriptive comments. "[W]e need simply
a Soviet comedy of manners, one of laughter and indignation.…"
This "new dramatic art" should say, "We are building
a new life now, and yet how much piggishness, vulgarity and knavery of the
old and of the new are about us; let us make a clean sweep of them.…"
This fresh, honest spirit Trotsky looked for was not confined to the
stage. "The new art," he said, "will revive all the old forms.
... All that is necessary is for the poet of the new epoch to re-think in a
new way the thoughts of mankind, and to re-feel its feelings." Whether in response to Trotsky’s
criticism or in obedience to their own literary conscience, many Soviet
writers struck out on the path Trotsky had indicated for them. The results
soon proved disastrous.
As the power of the bureaucracy grew and solidified, the creativity
of the artist shriveled or went underground. Soviet writers became, in Max
Eastman’s
memorable phrase, "writers in uniform." Those who could
not enlist could not publish.
Evgeny Zamyatin’s novel "We" was not printed in the Soviet
Union. Publication abroad led to persecution at home; "the critics
have made me the devil of Soviet literature," Zamyatin said. "To
spit on the devil is considered a good work, and everyone has spat as best he
can."
Most of Mikhail Bulgakov’s plays were banned in his lifetime, and
his masterpiece, the novel, "The Master and Margarita," was only
printed a full 24 years after his death, and even then in a heavily
censored edition. At the First Congress of the Union of Writers in 1934,
Isaac Babel, the author of "Red Cavalry," spoke of cultivating a
new literary genre—silence. A few years later, with the unwanted help of
Stalin’s secret police, Babel "perfected" this grim genre.
Consider the case of Mikhail Zoshchenko, the author of numerous
satirical short stories. The enterprising hero of one story, "Bees and
People" sets off from his collective farm to gather bee hives from
another area that enjoyed a surplus. The journey home, by train, takes
several days. During a stop-over, the
stationmaster suggests the bees could be released for a few hours,
in time for them to return to their hives before the train continues on its
route.
Unaccountably, the stationmaster changes his mind, and, ignoring
pleas to wait, decides the train should leave earlier. So the train departs, empty hives and all.
By evening, unable to find their hives, the bees angrily sting everyone in
sight and chaos ensues. The stationmaster has no choice but to call ahead
and have the train with the bee hives redirected back to the station.
By the conclusion, the theme of the story emerges when the stationmaster
is told, “You can’t be so indifferent to things, whether they‘re big or
little. Bees can’t stand that. Bees
sting people for that without giving it a second thought.”
“The stationmaster groaned even louder ... ‘Bees absolutely will not
stand for being pushed around by indifferent bureaucrats. You probably
treated them the
way you treat people—and you see what you get.’” For stories like this one—tales of
"laughter and indignation," in Trotsky’s words—Stalin’s henchman,
Zhdanov, maliciously condemned Zoshchenko as a "cheap philistine,"
and "a low slanderer having no
place in Soviet literature."
The effect was chilling and immediate. The Union of Soviet Writers
promptly expelled Zoshchenko, who followed his conscience as best he could
and simply ceased writing.
"Art must make its own way and by its own means," Trotsky
insisted. "The domain of art is not one in which the Party is called
upon to command." Stalin
reversed this policy and thereby deliberately drained the breath out
of Soviet cultural life.
In "The Revolution Betrayed," Trotsky accused the bureaucracy
of devising "a kind of concentration camp of artistic
literature." He scorned the Stalinist
notion of "socialist realism," in which
"functionaries armed with pens, brushes, and scissors, under the supervision
of functionaries armed with Mausers,
glorify the ‘great’ and ‘brilliant’ leaders, actually devoid of the
least spark of genius or greatness."
One virtue of "Literature and Revolution," one reason to
welcome its return to print, is that it will help establish the truth about
Bolshevism’s relation to art. It will show that the degradation of Soviet culture
under Stalin was part of the degradation of Marxist theory and
revolutionary policy in general.
Trotsky’s book will reveal that a better and freer course for art
was not only possible but had already begun and would have developed
further until it was
crushed by the narrow-minded bureaucracy. Revolutionary art of the future will discover its link to and
take inspiration from "Literature and Revolution."
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