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Philip Roth and the Crisis of American Liberalism: Three Biographies and Their Ideological Worlds

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The quick succession of three major biographies of Roth  Blake Bailey’s Philip Roth: The Biography (2021), Ira Nadel’s Philip Roth: A Counterlife (2021), and Steven Zipperstein’s Philip Roth: A Life signals a pivotal moment in the debate over Roth’s role in American literary history. These books do more than compete as portraits of the writer; they symbolise three different ideological approaches to interpreting the postwar American culture and the gradual decline of the American Century. Their contrasts reveal insights into Roth’s career and the shifting intellectual environment that shapes how American literature is created, understood, and moderated.

Bailey’s authorised biography epitomises the last expression of the mid-century liberal humanism tradition that viewed the writer as a sovereign individual, the literary work as an autonomous creation, and biography as a reflection of personal struggle rather than social contradiction. His approach, marked by exhaustive archival research, psychological realism, and a narrative of artistic triumph, belonged to an era when literature was still regarded as a privileged space of individual freedom. That era has been dissolving for decades, and Bailey’s story shows how far this decline has advanced. His publisher destroyed his biography after unproven allegations against him, none of which were tested in court and none related to the book itself. Liberal literary circles largely approved this destruction, viewing it as a justified response to unfounded accusations. This episode echoes Roth’s depiction of the “ecstasy of sanctimony” in The Human Stain, a stark illustration of a cultural shift away from liberal ideals and trust in their foundational assumptions.

If Bailey symbolises the exhausted liberal tradition, Ira Nadel’s A Counterlife reflects prevalent trends in contemporary critique: therapeutic moralism, psychological reductionism, and the shifting of social conflicts into personal injuries. Without access to Roth’s papers and facing legal threats, Nadel crafts a biography that contradicts Roth’s self-portrayal; his main argument is that Roth’s life and work stem from anger, abandonment, and emotional wounds. This biography functions as psychoanalysis, where childhood pains and adult betrayals illuminate Roth’s literary focus and political views. It also represents the ideological shift in a culture that has moved away from collective politics toward individualism, emphasising the mind and trauma.

The issue isn’t that Roth lacked anger he certainly had plenty of it. Instead, anger alone doesn’t explain his work. Roth’s fury over the hypocrisy of the Jewish establishment, his disdain for the moralizers of the 1990s, and his horror at Newark’s decline were not just personal neuroses. They were reactions to societal contradictions during a time of crisis: the fall of industrial America, the breakdown of postwar liberalism, and the emergence of a strict moral culture that censored speech yet ignored systemic injustice. By viewing these conflicts as purely psychological, Nadel minimises the work’s complexity and overlooks the larger historical forces at play. His portrayal reduces Roth to a man driven by neuroses rather than recognising him as a witness to the unravelling of the American Century.

Steven Zipperstein’s biography takes a distinctive approach. As a historian focusing on Jewish life rather than a literary psychologist, Zipperstein places Roth within the broader context of American political and social history. His focus isn’t on Roth’s emotional wounds but on the historical factors shaping his perspective: the rise of the Jewish petty bourgeoisie, the complexities of assimilation, the liberalism crisis after the 1960s, and the cultural fragmentation of late twentieth-century America. This is the Roth who truly matters- one who recognised that the American Century wasn’t a straightforward triumph but a period defined by internal conflicts, ideological decline, and the constant threat of authoritarian backlash.

Zipperstein’s framework helps us understand Roth’s career as a journey through different phases of postwar American history. His early works are rooted in the optimism and anxiety of New Deal liberalism. The middle period, including the Zuckerman novels and metafictional experiments, shows a shift as American intellectuals move away from social issues toward the self, the text, and the endless play of identity. In his later works, particularly American Pastoral and The Plot Against America, Roth returns to history, emphasising that the forces influencing American life- political, economic, and ideological- are not merely psychological. Roth’s later works represent a delayed reflection on the disintegration of the world that shaped him.

Taken together, Bailey, Nadel, and Zipperstein form a triptych of the ideological landscape of American letters. Bailey represents the last gasp of liberal humanism; Nadel reflects the therapeutic and moralising tendencies of contemporary criticism; Zipperstein points toward a historical reckoning with the contradictions of American society. Their differences reveal the narrowing horizons of intellectual life after the 1960s, when the retreat from politics left literature vulnerable to moralism, psychologism, and the policing of personal conduct.

The biography still to be written should see Roth not just as a man marked by wounds, but as an author who explored the contradictions within American society over sixty years of crises. His fiction documents the rise and decline of the American Century and the intellectual retreat that followed. Understanding his importance requires facing the history that shaped him and the history his best work aimed to illuminate.

Bailey: The Last Liberal Humanist

Blake Bailey’s *Philip Roth: The Biography* illustrates the final major tradition of the authorised, archival, psychologically focused life story that has influenced American literary culture for half a century. This tradition is grounded in mid-century liberal humanism, depicting the writer as an autonomous individual, with biography documenting a heroic pursuit of artistic independence and literature as a space where the self interacts with society. Bailey’s approach- extensive archival research, unrestricted access to Roth’s papers, and numerous hours of interviews- recalls the style of Richard Ellmann and Leon Edel. It assumes that understanding the writer’s inner life is crucial to understanding their work and that the biographer’s task is to reconstruct that life faithfully, sympathetically, and coherently.

This tradition was built on ideological assumptions that once felt obvious. The author was viewed as a moral figure, with the literary work representing individual freedom. Biography was seen as a way to explore the human condition. Bailey’s Roth exemplifies this pattern perfectly: a talented, challenging, obsessive individual grappling with artistic demands, fame’s pressures, and internal contradictions. The storyline follows a common trajectory: early promise, mid-career crisis, late success, and is analysed more through a psychological lens than a historical one. Roth’s struggles are understood as personal stories rather than signs of societal upheaval.

The removal of Bailey’s book highlights the significant shift in cultural attitudes. In 2021, following allegations of sexual misconduct against Bailey, none of which were proven in court or related to his biography, his publisher decided to withdraw the book and pulp the unsold copies. Many liberal literary circles celebrated this move. A major scholarly work was cancelled not because of its content, but because of accusations against its author. This incident reflects a broader trend where moral judgment takes precedence over intellectual debate, with accusations serving as verdicts and publishers acting as guardians of societal virtue. It exemplifies the “ecstasy of sanctimony” Roth described in The Human Stain, where moral panic and institutional self-interest wreck reputations.

The critique of Bailey’s biography signified the end of long-standing liberal-humanist beliefs that once upheld the authorised life. The notion that a biography should be evaluated based on scholarly quality rather than the moral character of its author has lost cultural influence. Bailey’s biographical approach, emphasising the autonomous self and questioning ideological control, has been overshadowed by a cultural environment that interprets literature through the lens of personal conduct, moral integrity, and therapeutic evaluation. Bailey’s book became collateral damage amid a broader cultural transformation: the decline of liberal humanism and the rise of a moralising politics centred on accusations.

Yet even apart from its fate, Bailey’s biography is ideologically naïve. It cannot account for the historical forces that shaped Roth’s work: the decline of industrial America, the crisis of postwar liberalism, the rise of identity politics, and intellectuals’ retreat into private life. Bailey gives us Roth the man brilliant, combative, obsessive but not Roth the historical figure. The Newark of Roth’s childhood appears as background rather than as a social formation shaped by Depression‑era hardship, wartime mobilisation, and postwar upward mobility. The cultural fractures of the 1960s and 1970s are treated as personal irritants rather than as structural crises. The political rage of Roth’s late works, American Pastoral, I Married a Communist, The Human Stain, and The Plot Against America, is read as a difficult temperament rather than a response to the disintegration of the American Century.

Bailey’s Roth exhibits psychological complexity but lacks significant historical context. The biography’s focus on realism limits its view, missing how Roth’s life fit within a deteriorating social order. Events such as Newark’s industrial decline, the end of New Deal liberalism, the rise of moralistic punishment, and the fragmentation of American intellectual culture appear in Roth’s works. Still, Bailey largely overlooks them. The portrayal of Roth’s life, centred on personal and artistic growth, fails to account for the broader historical forces that influenced his outlook.

Bailey’s biography is both impressive and incomplete. It excels in detail, narrative mastery, and adherence to the liberal-humanist tradition. However, this tradition no longer suffices to explain the world Roth lived in or his work. The traditional biography, once the main form of literary life-writing, now seems outdated, reflecting a bygone intellectual order that relied on liberal stability and the prominence of the autonomous self. Roth’s career, set against the backdrop of the crisis in American liberalism, calls for a different type of biography- one that understands the writer as both an individual and a historical figure shaped by the contradictions of his era.

Nadel: Psychology as Ideology

Denied access to Roth’s papers and threatened legally, Ira Nadel writes a biography that contrasts with Roth’s self-image. He argues that Roth’s life and work are fuelled by anger, abandonment, betrayal, and emotional pain. This approach resembles psychoanalytic biography: it replaces external historical influences with internal wounds, reducing a major postwar novelist to a collection of unresolved grievances. Nadel portrays Roth not as a witness to American society’s contradictions but as a man driven by personal hurt. While the detail is often insightful, the overall scope is limited, shaped more by current critical ideologies than by the historical context that formed Roth’s personality.

Nadel’s framework mirrors the dominant intellectual trend of the past thirty years: the psychologization of social conflicts. Here, political anger becomes emotional trouble, social disputes personal trauma, and historical contradictions childhood scars. The biographer’s role shifts from placing the author within social history to uncovering inner wounds that supposedly explain everything from artistic decisions to political views. This shift is more than a methodological choice; it represents a cultural tendency to retreat from collective politics into therapeutic individualism, where trauma language replaces ideological discourse, and the self becomes the central source of meaning.

This retreat shapes Nadel’s Roth. The Newark of Roth’s childhood becomes a psychological crucible rather than a specific historical setting: a Jewish petty-bourgeois neighbourhood shaped by Depression hardships, wartime mobilisation, and postwar upward mobility. Roth’s fiction presents the conflicts of assimilation, the contradictions of American liberalism, and the divisions within mid-century Jewish identity, but Nadel interprets them through the lens of emotional injury. Roth’s anger at the Jewish establishment’s hypocrisy- criticised for calling his early stories self-hatingis seen as a personal grievance, not a real social conflict. His disdain for the moralising culture of the 1990s is viewed as emotional instability, rather than a critique of the sanctimonious politics that led to Clinton’s impeachment. His horror at Newark’s decline is read as a private wound, not an acknowledgement of America’s industrial collapse.

The issue isn’t that Roth lacked anger or emotional intensity; he had plenty of both. The real issue is that anger alone isn’t a sufficient explanation. Roth’s rage responded to societal contradictions in a time of crisis, not just a random psychological state. The decline of industrial cities, the unravelling of postwar liberalism, the rise of moralistic punishment, and the fragmentation of American intellectual life were not mere background conditions but crucial influences shaping Roth’s work. By reducing these complex conflicts to psychological wounds, Nadel diminishes the work’s depth and obscures the larger historical forces behind its power.

This reduction is most noticeable in how Nadel approaches Roth’s later works. American Pastoral shifts from reflecting the decline of the American Century to focusing on personal disillusionment. Its discussion of the 1967 Newark rebellion, the decline of industrial America, and postwar ideological divides becomes secondary to its protagonist’s emotional struggles. I Married a Communist, which covers McCarthyism and Cold War cultural politics, is seen more as Roth’s expression of bitterness than a critique of the era’s moral hysteria. The Human Stain, Roth’s sharp critique of 1990s moral outrage, is read as evidence of Roth’s personal anger rather than a commentary on a culture where moral panic and self-protection destroy reputations. Similarly, The Plot Against America, which depicts a looming authoritarian threat from within American politics, is read as Roth’s anxious response rather than a historical warning.

Nadel’s biography offers insight by focusing on Roth’s personal life, emotional struggles, and feeling of constant conflict. However, it simplifies his story by overlooking the broader historical forces influencing his worldview. Viewing Roth mainly through psychological traits reduces him to a man with neuroses, rather than recognising him as a writer who engaged deeply with social issues, driven more by personal hurts than by societal contradictions.

This decline isn’t accidental. It mirrors the larger intellectual shift since the 1980s, when American criticism moved away from politics and toward the self, textual analysis, and trauma therapy language. The inward focus of American intellectual life, reflected in Roth’s metafictional middle phase, has fostered a critical culture in which biography functions more as emotional excavation than historical analysis. Nadel’s Counterlife exemplifies this culture: it’s a biography that fails to capture the political depth of American Pastoral, the historical breadth of I Married a Communist, the cultural critique in The Human Stain, or the foresight of The Plot Against America. It portrays Roth as a wounded individual but not as a witness to history.

The biography that remains to be written and that Nadel cannot provide understands Roth not as a man of neuroses but as a writer who traced the contradictions of American society across six decades of crisis. Until biography recovers its historical dimension, Roth will continue to be misread as a psychological case study rather than as one of the central chroniclers of the American Century’s collapse.

Zipperstein: Toward a Historical Roth

Steven Zipperstein, primarily a historian of Jewish life rather than a literary psychologist, examines Philip Roth as a product of American social history. His upcoming biography aims to portray Roth as a historical-materialist figure, suggesting that his fiction arises from societal contradictions rather than personal trauma. This shift is more than a methodological change; it marks a departure from mainstream criticism and a return to the traditional view that literature reflects history, biography is a political act, and Roth’s career centres on the crisis of liberalism.

Zipperstein’s perspective frames Roth as a chronicler of both assimilation and its struggles. Roth’s childhood in Newark wasn’t just a personal challenge; it was also rooted in a specific historical context: a Jewish petty-bourgeois neighbourhood shaped by the Great Depression, wartime efforts, and postwar upward mobility. The conflicts surrounding assimilation- the craving for acceptance, the fear of losing cultural identity, and the ambivalence about American success- were not merely personal worries but embedded in the social fabric of mid-century Jewish life. Roth’s early works, from Goodbye, Columbus to Portnoy’s Complaint, reflect these tensions with a clarity that’s hard to grasp if you view them solely as emotional issues rather than as parts of a society in transition.

Zipperstein also reestablishes Roth’s position as a critic of American moralism. Roth’s aversion to sanctimony stemmed from political beliefs, not just personality. His fiction, from The Human Stain’s campus moralism to I Married a Communist’s ideological hysteria, reveals the punitive moral atmosphere that developed as postwar liberalism declined. The “ecstasy of sanctimony” he identifies is not merely a personal fixation but a structural element of American public life, worsened by the breakdown of collective politics and the rise of individual moral judgment. Zipperstein’s historical perspective helps contextualise this critique as part of a wider backlash against the moralising trends that accompanied the splintering of American liberalism.

Roth’s role as a witness to the decline of industrial America is equally significant. The Newark rebellion of 1967, the destruction of industrial cities, and the breakdown of the postwar social contract are central themes in American Pastoral. Through Roth’s perspective, these events reflect the failure of the American Century, highlighting how liberal optimism could not withstand racial inequality, economic shifts, and political fragmentation. A purely psychological biography cannot fully capture this broad historical context. Zipperstein’s social-history approach helps readers see Roth’s later works as responses to the structural crises that transformed American society in the latter half of the twentieth century.

Zipperstein views Roth as a keen observer of authoritarian traits. ‘The Plot Against America’ is not merely a paranoid tale but a well-informed warning about how fragile liberal democracy can be. Roth recognised that the American Century harboured the potential for its own downfall through nativism, racial resentment, and strongman appeals. Zipperstein’s historical insight shows that this isn’t just Roth’s personal anxiety but a recognition of long-standing political forces that had been growing for decades. Roth’s foresight becomes clearer when biographies address political conflicts within American society, rather than focusing solely on psychological explanations.

Finally, Zipperstein places Roth in the context of intellectuals’ retreat from politics. Roth’s metafictional middle period, including the Zuckerman novels, The Counterlife, and Operation Shylock, mirrors the inward focus of American intellectuals during the Reagan era. The decline of the New Left, the end of liberal reform efforts, and the rise of neoliberal individualism created a cultural atmosphere where writers shifted their attention from social issues to the self, the text, and the fluidity of identity. Roth’s withdrawal was part of a larger intellectual trend, not just a personal choice. Zipperstein’s historical perspective shows this period as a reflection of the political environment of the time rather than a detour.

This is the Roth who truly matters: the Roth who recognised the end of the American Century and, in his later work, sought to address the historical forces that influenced his life and country. Zipperstein’s project transcends a simple biography. It challenges the prevailing approaches in modern criticism, which often reduce literature to psychology, biography to moral judgment, and politics to personal behaviour. His work emphasises that literature is shaped by history, biography is inherently political, and the crisis of liberalism is central to Roth’s career.

The Roth Zipperstein depicts is more than the wounded man in psychological biographies. He witnesses American society’s contradictions, criticises its moralising tendencies, and chronicles its political decline. Viewing Roth this way highlights that his work is not only literary but also historical, documenting the rise and fall of the American Century and the accompanying intellectual retreat. Zipperstein’s biography attempts to reintroduce this perspective into Roth’s life and work, thereby recovering the historical significance of one of America’s most influential novelists.

Roth and the Arc of the American Century

Philip Roth’s career vividly charts the rise, crisis, and gradual fall of postwar American liberalism. His work not only reflects a single writer’s perspective but also mirrors the American Century: its hope, struggles, retreat into privacy, and, finally, its cautious awareness of authoritarian threats. Studying Roth historically reveals American social dynamics seen through the sharp eyes of one of its keenest commentators.

Roth’s early work reflects the spirit of the 1940s and 1950s: New Deal optimism, Jewish social mobility, and hope for assimilation into a stable yet expanding liberal order. Growing up in Newark, Roth experienced the hardships of the Depression and wartime mobilisation, but also observed tangible social progress. The Jewish petty bourgeoisie in Weequahic believed, with some justification, that they were set to inherit the American Century. Works like *Goodbye, Columbus* and *Letting* depict this era with a mix of affection and scepticism. Roth recognised that assimilation offered both freedom and loss, and that the American Dream contained the potential for future disillusionment. His early fiction captures the contradictions of a community striving upward amid a shifting societal landscape.

The 1960s ushered in a period of liberalism’s crisis, urban uprisings, and cultural divisions. Roth’s generation saw the end of the postwar consensus, escalating racial tensions, and a fractured American political landscape. The Newark rebellion of 1967 was more than a local disturbance; it symbolised a break in the American Century’s narrative. Initially, Roth’s fiction subtly reflected this crisis through satire and provocation, yet the underlying societal pressures were evident. Debates over Jewish identity, sexual liberation, and political radicalism signalled a society losing its ideological unity. Roth’s conflicts with the Jewish establishment, labelled as self-hating, reflected broader struggles to define American liberalism amid social upheaval.

From the 1970s to the 1990s, American intellectuals withdrew from political engagement, focusing instead on the self, textuality, and identity’s fluidity. Roth’s metafictional middle phase, including the Zuckerman series, The Counterlife, and Operation Shylock, exemplifies this inward shift with remarkable clarity. The decline of the New Left, the waning of liberal reform efforts, and the rise of neoliberal individualism fostered a cultural environment in which writers shifted their attention away from societal issues to prioritise the self as the central source of meaning. Roth’s withdrawal was not isolated; it reflected a broader trend. The intellectual class, once confident in its role within public spheres, increasingly turned to metafiction, self-awareness, and the performative nature of identity. While Roth’s brilliance during this time is evident, it was also shaped by the era’s political setbacks and the narrower intellectual scope that accompanied them.

The 1990s and 2000s marked a delayed resurgence of interest in history, political anger, and fears of authoritarianism. Roth’s later works, American Pastoral, I Married a Communist, The Human Stain, and The Plot Against America, signify a decisive move back to fundamental questions his generation had previously set aside. These novels explore the decline of industrial America, the moral panic of the Clinton years, a culture of accusations and punishment, and the vulnerability of liberal democracy. American Pastoral examines the destruction of the industrial city and the disappointment of liberal ideals. The Human Stain critiques the moral arrogance that replaced political debate in the late 20th century. The Plot Against America warns of the underlying authoritarian trends in American politics.

Roth’s notable late achievement is his realisation that the American Century was ending. He recognised that the social structure of his childhood was crumbling and that his generation’s retreat into introspection had left them unprepared for subsequent political crises. His fiction chronicles not only the rise and fall of a social order but also the diminishing scope of intellectual life that went with it. Roth’s personal journey from early optimism to a more introspective mid-career, and finally to a phase of historical reflection parallels the evolution of American liberalism itself.

The Real Counterlife

The true “counterlife” in Philip Roth’s career isn’t the version he crafted in fiction or the interpretation Ira Nadel suggests through psychological analysis. Instead, it is the evolution of Roth’s work over six decades of American history: shifting from self-focus to societal critique, from personal matters to historical themes, and from liberal hope to political disillusionment. This path from the introspective focus of the Reagan era to the historical involvement in Roth’s later works is essential for understanding his role in American literature. It highlights a writer whose sensitivity was influenced not by personal trauma but by the inherent contradictions of the American Century.

Roth’s initial fiction reflected the confidence of post-WWII liberalism. In works like Goodbye, Columbus and Portnoy’s Complaint, private life is portrayed as the main source of meaning. The novel explores issues such as assimilation, upward mobility, and sexual liberation as personal dramas within a generally stable social structure. While Roth’s satire of Jewish respectability and American conformity is pointed, it still assumes the liberal social order remains intact. At this stage, Roth focuses on personal identity rather than historical change.

In the 1970s and 1980s, the focus shifted inward as American intellectual life withdrew from politics toward texts, the psyche, and the fluidity of identity. Roth’s metafictional middle era, comprising the Zuckerman series, The Counterlife, and Operation Shylockembodies this inward turn. While these works are exceptional, their brilliance is shaped by the narrowing of intellectual scope brought on by the setbacks of the New Left, the decline of liberal reform, and the rise of neoliberal individualism. Roth’s focus on authorship, identity, and self-reference reflects a broader cultural trend in which writers moved away from social issues and emphasised the self as the central source of meaning. The “counterlife” during this time is essentially a counterlife of the narrative itself: a universe where storytelling substitutes for political engagement.

The pivotal change occurs in the 1990s and 2000s when Roth revisits history with both a delayed and urgent perspective. ‘American Pastoral’ signifies this turning point. In it, Roth addresses the decline of industrial America, the devastation of Newark, and the postwar era’s ideological disintegration. The novel serves not as a psychological portrait but as a historical reflection: a contemplation on the failure of liberal optimism and the violence that follows when a social fabric unravels. Seymour Levov, Roth’s protagonist, is depicted not as someone wounded privately, but as a character overwhelmed by the contradictions inherent in American life.

In I Married a Communist and The Human Stain, Roth continues to explore history by highlighting how moral hysteria and punitive attitudes have replaced political debate in late 20th-century America. These novels identify the hollow moralism that emerged as collective politics waned and identity-based accusations became prominent, turning public life into a virtue spectacle. Roth’s critique focuses on the political aspect, viewing moralism as a sign of a society that has lost its ideological direction.

The culmination of this journey is The Plot Against America, Roth’s most explicitly historical and political novel. In it, Roth envisions an authoritarian threat arising from within American democracy. The book is not a work of fantasy but a cautionary tale, rooted in Roth’s understanding that the American Century harboured the potential for its own downfall: nativism, racial resentment, and admiration for strongman rulers. Roth’s despair is not personal but historical.

This shift from focusing on self-absorption to social critique, private life to public history, and liberal optimism to political despair represents the true counterpoint of Roth’s career. It traces a writer who began confidently within postwar liberalism and ended as one of its sharpest critics. Roth’s fiction charts the rise and decline of a social order, along with the narrowing of intellectual life that followed. To grasp Roth’s work historically is to see that, at its best, it highlights the contradictions of the American Century more vividly than any biography before it.

Biography as Ideological Struggle

The dispute over Philip Roth’s biography ultimately reflects a debate about the essence of American liberalism. Each of the three main biographers symbolises a different phase in its development. Blake Bailey represents its final phase: the liberal-humanist belief that literature represents individual, autonomous selves; that biography captures personal struggles; and that a writer’s life can be understood independently of the social forces that shaped it. The rejection of Bailey’s book, widely celebrated in liberal literary circles, signalled the end of that tradition and the rise of a moralising politics in which accusations take precedence over inquiry.

Ira Nadel views the next stage as liberalism’s therapeutic and punitive decline. His biography interprets social conflicts through a psychological lens, turning political struggles into emotional injuries and historical contradictions into childhood traumas. In Nadel’s interpretation, Roth is portrayed as a person of neuroses instead of a witness to the fall of the American Century. This reflects a form of biography rooted in therapeutic individualism, where the focus shifts from society to the self, and moral judgment takes precedence over historical context.

Steven Zipperstein suggests an alternative view: examining Roth’s role in American history. His method reestablishes the social context that influenced Roth, including the growth and decline of industrial America, the postwar liberalism crisis, the disintegration of intellectual culture, and the underlying authoritarian impulses present in American democracy. Zipperstein’s portrayal of Roth is not a psychological analysis but a historical figure moulded by the contradictions of his era.

A Marxist historiographical synthesis shows Roth not as a figure marked by personal wounds but as an author who analysed American society’s contradictions over sixty years of crises. His fiction documents the ascent and decline of the American Century and the corresponding intellectual retreat. To grasp Roth’s historical significance is to recognise that his work, at its strongest, clarifies the downfall of the liberal order more effectively than any biography so far.

Further Reading and Bibliography

I. World Socialist Web Site (WSWS) Articles on Philip Roth and American Literature

WSWS has produced some of the most politically rigorous Marxist commentary on Roth, American fiction, and the cultural crisis of late liberalism. These pieces are essential for situating Roth within the broader collapse of the American Century.

WSWS Articles on Roth

  • David Walsh, “Philip Roth (1933–2018): A Novelist of the American Century” A Marxist assessment of Roth’s career, emphasising his acute sensitivity to the contradictions of postwar American life and the political pessimism of his late work. WSWS, May 2018.
  • David Walsh, “The Pulping of Blake Bailey’s Philip Roth Biography” Analysis of the Bailey controversy as a symptom of the moralising, punitive turn in American liberal culture. WSWS, April 2021.
  • David Walsh, “The Human Stain and the Moral Crisis of American Liberalism” A discussion of Roth’s novel as a critique of sanctimony, identity politics, and the erosion of democratic norms. WSWS, early 2000s (archival).

WSWS Articles on American Literature and Culture (Contextual)

  • David Walsh, “The Crisis of American Culture and the Decline of Liberalism” Explores the retreat of intellectuals from politics and the rise of therapeutic moralism — central themes for understanding Roth’s middle period.
  • David North, “The End of the American Century”: A historical analysis of US decline that parallels Roth’s late political fiction.
  • WSWS Arts Reviews (various): Regular commentary on American fiction, film, and cultural politics, useful for situating Roth within a broader Marxist critique of contemporary culture.

II. Biographies of Philip Roth

Primary Biographies

  • Blake Bailey, Philip Roth: The Biography (2021). Authorised, archival, liberal‑humanist; withdrawn and pulped after allegations against the author.
  • Ira Nadel, Philip Roth: A Counterlife (2021). Psychological, constrained by Roth’s estate; interprets Roth through anger, abandonment, and emotional injury.
  • Steven J. Zipperstein, Philip Roth: A Life (forthcoming). Historical‑materialist orientation; situates Roth within American social history and Jewish political experience.

III. Critical Studies on Roth

Major Scholarly Works

  • Harold Bloom, Philip Roth (1986).
  • Debra Shostak, Philip Roth—Countertexts, Counterlives (2004).
  • Timothy Parrish (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Philip Roth (2007).
  • David Brauner, Philip Roth (2007).
  • Matthew Shipe, Philip Roth and the American Liberal Tradition (2016).
  • Steven Milowitz, Philip Roth and the Jews (2000).
  • Aimee Pozorski, Roth and Trauma: The Problem of History in the Later Works (2011).

Key Articles

  • Claudia Roth Pierpont, “Roth Unbound,” The New Yorker.
  • Elaine Blair, “The Problem with Philip Roth,” NYRB.
  • Adam Kirsch, “Roth’s American Tragedy,” The New Republic.
  • David Remnick, “Philip Roth’s Last Interview,” The New Yorker.

IV. Historical and Intellectual Context

American Liberalism and Its Crisis

  • Lionel Trilling, The Liberal Imagination.
  • Christopher Lasch, The Culture of Narcissism.
  • Daniel Bell, The End of Ideology.
  • Corey Robin, The Reactionary Mind.
  • Thomas Frank, Listen, Liberal.

Jewish American History

  • Hasia Diner, The Jews of the United States.
  • Deborah Dash Moore, GI Jews.
  • Steven Zipperstein, Rosenfeld’s Lives.
  • Yuri Slezkine, The Jewish Century.

The American Century and Its Decline

  • Henry Luce, “The American Century” (1941).
  • Perry Anderson, American Foreign Policy and Its Thinkers.
  • Gary Gerstle, Liberty and Coercion.
  • Jefferson Cowie, Stayin’ Alive: The 1970s and the Last Days of the Working Class.
  • George Packer, The Unwinding.

V. Primary Works by Philip Roth

A curated list of Roth’s most historically significant works:

  • Goodbye, Columbus (1959)
  • Portnoy’s Complaint (1969)
  • The Ghost Writer (1979)
  • The Counterlife (1986)
  • Operation Shylock (1993)
  • American Pastoral (1997)
  • I Married a Communist (1998)
  • The Human Stain (2000)
  • The Plot Against America

Hay Festival Forum Dallas hosts Nikole Hannah‑Jones: The 1619 Project’s racialist narrative returns to the stage.

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On October 17, the Hay Festival Forum in Dallas will host Nikole Hannah-Jones, best known for creating The New York Times’ 1619 Project, for a session titled “Reframing the American Story.” The festival’s promotional material describes a discussion on history, race, education, and national identity, highlighting Hannah-Jones’ role in transforming the conversation about the legacy of slavery in the U.S. The Hay Festival, which positions itself as a global summit of writers, intellectuals, and cultural figures, is giving a leading platform to a narrative widely discredited by scholarly research.

The festival’s presentation omits significant criticism of the 1619 Project’s reinterpretation from prominent historians specialising in the American Revolution and Civil War. Key figures like Gordon Wood, James McPherson, James Oakes, Victoria Bynum, and Sean Wilentz challenged its central assertion that the colonists initiated the Revolution primarily to shield slavery from British abolition efforts. In 2020, the Times subtly revised this claim to refer to “some of” the colonists, yet they did not withdraw the overarching interpretive framework. Despite this controversy, the Board still awarded Hannah-Jones the Pulitzer Prize for commentary.

The core issue is not whether slavery was a central part of American history; it was. Rather, it is about how history is interpreted. The 1619 Project shifts the focus from class conflict to an unchangeable racial divide, portraying “white America” and “Black America’ as forever opposing entities. This perspective diminishes the significance of the two major revolutionary moments, the War of Independence and the Civil War, stripping them of their progressive significance. The Declaration of Independence, once a rallying point for abolitionists like Frederick Douglass and Lincoln, is now seen as hypocritical. The Civil War, which cost the lives of hundreds of thousands of white workers and farmers fighting to end slavery and saw around 180,000 Black soldiers participate, is marginalised. Furthermore, the struggles of the industrial working class, including CIO organising campaigns and large-scale strikes of the 20th century, are scarcely acknowledged.

The political function of racialist historiography

This narrative does not develop in isolation. It reflects the political interests of a privileged upper-middle class, closely tied to the Democratic Party, for whom racial identity serves as a tool for career advancement in academia, media, corporations, and government. Over the last decade, this social segment has heightened racial discourse into a form of cultural capital. This credential grants access to grants, tenure, editorial roles, foundation funding, and corporate diversity positions. The 1619 Project exemplifies this ideological trend. By depicting racism as a permanent trait ingrained in the “national DNA” rather than as a result of specific social and economic conditions, it shifts focus away from capitalism, the root cause of exploitation across all races. It promotes a narrative that normalises division while hiding the material foundations of oppression.

This narrative’s political usefulness becomes evident amid the worsening crisis of American capitalism. Inequality has risen to levels unseen since the Gilded Age, social infrastructure is deteriorating, and the ruling elite is leaning toward authoritarian rule. In this climate, a united working-class movement would threaten the interests of the upper-middle class, which aligns its fortunes with the Democratic Party. Racial essentialism acts as a political tool to prevent such unity by dividing workers into hostile racial groups, fostering suspicion and resentment, and replacing the idea of common exploitation with ongoing cultural conflicts.

The racial essentialism of the 1619 Project is more than just a theoretical mistake; it has tangible political repercussions. By dismissing the revolutionary and democratic essence of the American Revolution and Civil War, it strips the working class of vital historical narratives that highlight their ability to unite and oppose oppression. The American Revolution, with its universalist claims of human equality, and the Civil War, which effectively ended slavery and can be seen as America’s second revolution, stand as some of the most significant examples of mass resistance in history. They demonstrate that ordinary people- farmers, artisans, workers, Black and white- are capable of overthrowing deeply rooted systems of exploitation when they come together around shared material interests.

Removing the progressive elements of these events erodes the working class’s historical memory. As Tom Mackaman and David North noted in their review, attacking these revolutions disarms the populace against fascism, depriving workers of the historical confidence essential to resist authoritarian regimes. When a society is taught that “white America” is inherently racist and that interracial unity is a myth, it becomes less able to see its own collective power.

The project’s author’s political trajectory underscores this function. Hannah‑Jones has repeatedly used the project to intervene in contemporary politics, promoting racial divisions and aligning herself with the Democratic Party’s electoral strategies. Her public interventions consistently frame political developments through the lens of racial antagonism, encouraging the view that racial identity is the primary determinant of social experience and political interest. In doing so, she reinforces the ideological framework through which the upper‑middle class maintains its privileges: a framework that elevates racial discourse while obscuring the class relations that structure American society.

The narrative promoted by the 1619 Project has become a key ideological weapon for a social class aiming to preserve its privileges by dividing the working class along racial lines. Its purpose is not to clarify history but to divert social anger from capitalism and toward a view where race, rather than class, is the main factor. This leads to an outlook that divides and weakens the working class when unity is most needed.

The social context in Dallas

The timing and setting of the Hay Festival Forum reveal important insights. Held amid a period when the working class faces growing inequality, threats to immigrant rights, and a move toward authoritarianism, Dallas symbolises more than just a location; it is a microcosm of America’s social crisis. Workers across Texas, regardless of race- Black, white, or Latino- share common struggles: the same employers, landlords, declining public services, and a political system responsible for decades of social decline. These issues stem not from genetic or racial factors, but from a capitalist system that prioritises private profit over social well-being.

Texas exemplifies this trend, with political leaders implementing policies that benefit corporations at the expense of public education, healthcare, and social services. Immigrant communities face punitive laws and increased militarised policing. Meanwhile, housing prices climb as wages remain stagnant. The rise of authoritarianism through attacks on democratic rights and expanded repression is deeply linked to the growing class conflict. In this context, the ruling class and its ideological supporters actively promote narratives that divide workers and hide the true causes of their oppression.

A portrayal of American history that pits workers against each other based on race offers no benefits. Moreover, it provides the far right with a simple caricature to use in campaigns against public education and historical study. The racialist story from the 1619 Project has already been weaponised by reactionaries trying to ban conversations about racism, thereby bolstering their authoritarian goals. In Texas, where authorities are aggressively censoring school curricula, the 1619 Project has been used as a justification to ban teaching about race, inequality, and oppression’s history. The right-wing attack on education is not about factual history but about distorting the narrative to make it easier for reactionaries to see any talk of racism as ideological. This analysis uncovers the political purpose behind racial essentialism. By framing American history as a moral story of ongoing racial conflict, the 1619 Project neglects the significant influence of class struggle and revolutionary traditions that have shaped the nation. It omits that major American milestones such as ending slavery, expanding democratic rights, and labour victories were achieved through collective effort across all races. This oversight strips the working class of vital historical memory needed to resist authoritarian threats today.

The Hay Festival Forum’s choice to highlight Hannah-Jones now is deliberate. The festival’s social circle, wealthy, professional, and aligned with the Democratic Party, is exactly the group that has adopted racial essentialism as its core ideology. For this group, racial identity serves to distinguish moral values and gain institutional influence. It offers a framework to voice social grievances without questioning the capitalist system that sustains their advantages.

For workers in Dallas, the prevailing story acts as a distraction, shifting focus away from their shared exploitation toward viewing society through the lens of racial identity as the key factor in experiences. It fosters division when unity is most needed. The true “reframing” is not the one promoted by the Times but a return to a materialist view of history, one that acknowledges the revolutionary legacy of the American working class and the importance of uniting workers across racial and national lines in the fight against capitalism.

The historical record and the materialist method

A true rethinking requires returning to a materialist view of history. Slavery was not driven by an inherent racial essence but was a system of class exploitation rooted in capitalism and the global market. It developed alongside major shifts in production, finance, and trade, transforming humans into commodities to satisfy the needs of expanding capitalist wealth. The plantation economy was closely linked to the rise of merchant capital, Atlantic trade, and the emergence of industrial capitalism in Britain and the northern U.S. Understanding slavery means understanding capitalism; dismantling it involves revolutionary change.

Abolishing slavery required a revolutionary struggle, beginning with the War of Independence, which paved the way for abolitionist activism, and then in the Civil War, often called the second American revolution, which dismantled the slave system through mass mobilization and armed conflict. Although the Revolution of 1776 did not end slavery, it laid the ideological and political groundwork for abolitionism. The Declaration of Independence, with its claim that “all men are created equal,” became a tool for leaders like Frederick Douglass, William Lloyd Garrison, and other anti-slavery advocates. The Civil War, largely fueled by enslaved people’s actions and the mobilization of workers and farmers, ended the slave system and established the republic on the principles of free labor. These conflicts were fundamentally class struggles with deep democratic significance, rather than racial conflicts.

The working class needs to reclaim these traditions, not as remnants of the past but as active evidence of ordinary people’s ability to challenge established systems of exploitation. The interracial struggles of the 19th and 20th centuries, ranging from the abolitionist movement to Reconstruction governments, and from the Knights of Labour to the CIO’s organising efforts, show that solidarity across racial boundaries is both possible and necessary. These struggles are not isolated incidents; they reflect the fundamental truth that workers of all races share common interests against the capitalist class.

The movement to end slavery was inherently interracial, with Black and white workers, artisans, intellectuals, and farmers collaboratively opposing the slaveholding system. During Reconstruction, Black and white workers in the South helped establish governments that expanded public education, increased political participation, and challenged former slaveholders’ influence. In the early 20th century’s industrial battles, workers from various backgrounds united in large-scale strikes that challenged the foundations of American capitalism. The CIO’s victories in the steel, auto, and mining industries came from deliberately rejecting racial divisions and advocating industrial unionism: “Black and white, unite and fight.”

These traditions expose the falsity of the racialist narrative advanced by the 1619 Project. They show that the decisive force in American history has never been immutable racial antagonism but the capacity of workers to unite around shared material interests. They reveal that progress has come not from the assertion of racial identity but from the collective struggle against exploitation.

To reclaim these traditions is to reclaim the possibility of revolutionary change today. The working class confronts a capitalist system in profound crisis marked by inequality, authoritarianism, war and social decay. Its strength lies not in racial division but in unity. A materialist understanding of history provides the foundation for such unity. It reveals that the fight against racism is inseparable from the fight against capitalism, and that the emancipation of all oppressed people requires the independent mobilisation of the working class across all racial and national lines.

A warning and a perspective

The Hay Festival Forum’s support for the 1619 Project exemplifies a wider ideological campaign designed to shift social anger away from capitalism and toward racial essentialism. It caters to a privileged elite that fears a unified working-class movement. With inequality surging to historic levels, social infrastructure crumbling, and authoritarian trends becoming more apparent, the ruling class and its allies have a clear motive to promote narratives that divide workers and hide the material roots of oppression. The 1619 Project, which emphasises race as the key and lasting factor in American society, fulfils this role.

Today, the objective is to focus on a materialist view of history that highlights the critical influence of class conflict, rather than simply reframing American history through racial perspectives. This involves understanding slavery as an exploitation system rooted in capitalism’s rise and the expansion of the global market. It also means recognising that abolition was driven by revolutionary struggles first during the War of Independence, which created the foundation for abolitionist ideas, and later during the Civil War, America’s second revolution, which dismantled slavery through mass mobilisation and armed conflict. These historic changes were driven by class forces prevailing in specific contexts, not by race or destiny.

A materialist understanding of history also requires reclaiming the revolutionary traditions that followed. The interracial struggles of the 19th and 20th centuries, from the abolitionist movement to Reconstruction, from the Knights of Labour to the CIO organising drives, demonstrate that solidarity across racial lines is not only possible but essential. These struggles were not anomalies or exceptions to an otherwise racially determined national story. They expressed the fundamental reality that workers, regardless of race, share common interests in opposition to the capitalist class. They show that the greatest advances in American history came when workers acted collectively, not when they were divided.

The racial essentialism advanced by the 1619 Project denies these traditions. It reduces the American Revolution to hypocrisy, the Civil War to a conflict devoid of progressive content, and the labour struggles of the 20th century to footnotes in a narrative of permanent racial division. In doing so, it deprives the working class of the historical memory necessary to confront the dangers of authoritarianism, inequality and war. A population taught that “white America” is irredeemably racist, and that interracial solidarity is a myth, is a population less capable of recognising its own collective strength. It is a population more vulnerable to demoralisation, fragmentation and political manipulation.

The ideological offensive represented by the 1619 Project is therefore not simply a matter of historical interpretation. It is a political intervention aimed at shaping consciousness in a period of intensifying crisis. The upper‑middle‑class layers that promote racial essentialism do so because their own social position depends on the maintenance of capitalist stability. They fear the emergence of a unified working‑class movement that could challenge the institutions through which they exercise influence: academia, media, corporate management and the state. By elevating racial identity to the status of a master category, they seek to redirect social anger away from capitalism and toward a conception of society in which race, not class, is the decisive force.

Only a materialist perspective can counter this. Only such a perspective can give the working class the historical clarity and political confidence needed to confront the dangers of authoritarianism, inequality, and war. It reveals that the fight against racism is inseparable from the fight against capitalism, and that the emancipation of all oppressed people requires the independent mobilisation of the working class across all racial and national lines. It restores the revolutionary traditions that show what workers can achieve when united. Moreover, it exposes the racialist narrative for what it is: an ideological weapon wielded by a privileged social layer to defend a social order that is collapsing under the weight of its own contradictions.

I. WSWS Articles and Analyses on the 1619 Project

  • David North & Eric London, The New York Times’ 1619 Project and the Racialist Falsification of History (WSWS, 2019–2020). A multi‑part series dissecting the project’s historical claims, political function, and methodological flaws.
  • Tom Mackaman & David North, The 1619 Project and the Second American Revolution (WSWS, 2021). A retrospective evaluation of the expanded book edition, A New Origin Story, demonstrating its deepened racial essentialism.
  • Tom Mackaman, A New Origin Story: The 1619 Project’s Racialist Distortion of American History (WSWS, 2021). A detailed review of the book edition, showing how it erases class struggle and revolutionary traditions.
  • Eric London, The New York Times and the Promotion of Racialist Politics (WSWS, 2020). An analysis of the political interests behind the project.
  • Interview Series, WSWS interviews with Gordon Wood, James McPherson, James Oakes, Victoria Bynum, and Sean Wilentz (2019). Essential primary material documenting the scholarly rejection of the project’s foundational claims.

II. Scholarly Works on Slavery, Capitalism, and the American Revolution

Foundational Historians Who Critiqued the 1619 Project

  • Gordon S. Wood, The Radicalism of the American Revolution (Vintage, 1993).
  • Gordon S. Wood, The American Revolution: A History (Modern Library, 2002).
  • James M. McPherson, Battle Cry of Freedom: The Civil War Era (Oxford University Press, 1988).
  • James Oakes, The Ruling Race: Slaveholders in the South (Knopf, 1982).
  • James Oakes, Freedom National: The Destruction of Slavery in the United States (W.W. Norton, 2012).
  • Victoria Bynum, The Free State of Jones (University of North Carolina Press, 2001).
  • Sean Wilentz, No Property in Man: Slavery and Antislavery at the Founding (Harvard University Press, 2018).

These works collectively dismantle the claim that the Revolution was fought to protect slavery and demonstrate the centrality of antislavery politics in the founding and Civil War eras.

III. Marxist and Materialist Historiography

Classic Marxist Works

  • Karl Marx, The Civil War in the United States (1861–1865).
  • Karl Marx & Friedrich Engels, The Communist Manifesto (1848).
  • Leon Trotsky, History of the Russian Revolution (1930–32). (For method: class analysis, revolutionary agency, historical materialism.)

Modern Marxist Historians

  • W.E.B. Du Bois, Black Reconstruction in America (1935). A foundational materialist analysis of the Civil War and Reconstruction, emphasising interracial working‑class struggle.
  • Herbert Aptheker, American Negro Slave Revolts (1943).
  • Eric Foner, Reconstruction: America’s Unfinished Revolution (1988).
  • Robin Blackburn, The Making of New World Slavery (1997).
  • Robin Blackburn, The American Crucible: Slavery, Emancipation and Human Rights (2011).

These works situate slavery within global capitalism and emphasise class struggle as the motor of historical change.

IV. Works on Race, Identity Politics, and the Upper‑Middle Class

  • Adolph Reed Jr., Class Notes: Posing as Politics and Other Thoughts on the American Scene (2000).
  • Walter Benn Michaels, The Trouble with Diversity (2006).
  • Barbara Fields & Karen Fields, Racecraft: The Soul of Inequality in American Life (2012).
  • Cedric Robinson, Black Marxism (1983) is important but often misused; worth engaging critically.

These works critique racial essentialism and identity politics as ideological tools of the professional‑managerial class.

V. Additional Articles and Essays

  • Leslie Harris, I Helped Fact‑Check the 1619 Project. The Times Ignored Me (Politico, 2020).
  • Sean Wilentz, A Matter of Facts (The Atlantic, 2020).
  • Gordon Wood, The New York Times’ 1619 Project Is Wrong (Various interviews, 2019–2020).
  • James Oakes, Why the 1619 Project Is Wrong About Lincoln (WSWS interview, 2019).

VI. Suggested Further Reading

  1. Du Bois, Oakes, McPherson, Wood, Foner
  2. Blackburn, Fields & Fields, Reed, Michaels
  3. WSWS analyses (North, Mackaman, London)
  4. Primary sources: Douglass, Lincoln, abolitionist newspapers, slave narratives

Burnham, Manchester City and the Political Economy of Football

~ freerein61 ~ Leave a comment

The leaked verdict declaring Manchester City guilty on nearly all of the 115 Premier League financial charges has shaken Britain’s political establishment. This isn’t because the ruling elite opposes financial misconduct since Britain’s state is rooted in it, but because the case starkly highlights the close ties between sovereign wealth, football, and the Labour government led by Andy Burnham. Soon after the reports surfaced, Burnham personally stepped in to warn against “jumping to conclusions,” a move never before seen in English football history. A sitting prime minister chose to defend one of the world’s wealthiest ruling families, rather than support fans unable to afford their own team or uphold the fairness of the sport.

This episode is not a one-off incident but a natural outcome of the Labour Party’s political path under Keir Starmer and Burnham. It now openly and without shame prioritises financial capital, the arms industry, and the Gulf monarchies, whose sovereign wealth funds are vital to Britain’s economy. The Manchester City controversy highlights a broader reality: football has evolved into an asset class, a tool for geopolitical strategy, and a means of extracting value from working-class communities. The Labour government is not an impartial observer in this process; it actively participates.

The leaked Manchester City ruling, based on emails uncovered via the Football Leaks archive, exposes a consistent pattern of disguising owner funding as sponsorship income over nearly ten years. These weren’t just isolated incidents but part of the club’s operational approach, acting almost as an extension of Abu Dhabi’s state machinery. A wealthy individual doesn’t just own Manchester City; a sovereign wealth fund led by a senior UAE government official does. This financial tactic aligns with the geopolitical aims of a Gulf monarchy, which seeks soft power, legitimacy, and influence in Britain.

Burnham’s action must be viewed in this context. His political journey has been rooted in the pro-capitalist Labour tradition. As a minister under Tony Blair and Gordon Brown, he implemented policies that increased Britain’s reliance on foreign capital and solidified the City of London as a global financial hub. His accession to the premiership in July 2026 did not mark a departure from Starmerism but continued it. Following significant losses in local elections and resulting widespread hostility, Burnham’s rise was aimed at personnel change to manage unrest rather than policy change.

The link between Labour and Gulf capital is fundamentally structural, not incidental. Sovereign wealth funds from Abu Dhabi, Qatar, and Saudi Arabia hold large stakes in British infrastructure, real estate, energy, and cultural sectors. Manchester City is just one part of this broader network. When Emirati officials reportedly voiced concern about the Premier League charges, they were not advocating for a football team but protecting a key strategic asset. Burnham’s response was therefore not about “fairness” or “due process.” It was about protecting a geopolitical partnership that Labour considers essential to Britain’s economic model.

Football’s evolution under neoliberalism reflects broader changes in British society. Originally rooted in working-class communities, the sport has been transformed into a luxury asset aimed at global investors. Stadiums now serve as consumption spaces; ticket prices have risen sharply; speculative development has reshaped local areas; and fans are increasingly seen as customers. The Manchester City case highlights these dynamics, illustrating how sovereign wealth, political influence, and regulatory capture have driven this change.

The Leaked Verdict and the Prime Minister’s Intervention

The leaked ruling by the independent commission reportedly found Manchester City guilty of disguising owner funding as sponsorship income over nine seasons. Initially revealed through internal emails published by Der Spiegel in 2018, these allegations exposed a deliberate effort to bypass the Premier League’s Profit and Sustainability Rules. This was not mere clerical error or technical mistake but a calculated scheme to launder sovereign wealth into football’s financial framework. Without whistleblowing, the mechanisms behind these capital flows would have remained hidden. The case exists solely because someone exposed what the Premier League, the club, and the British government preferred to keep secret.

Burnham responded quickly and with a strong political tone. While at the United Nations General Assembly in New York, he advised the public not to “rush to draw conclusions” about City losing titles or facing sanctions. His comment was unusual because prime ministers rarely discuss ongoing disciplinary issues, especially those involving a club owned by a foreign government. Burnham’s statement aligned with Manchester City’s PR message: that the process is disputed, people should wait, and the owners have benefited Manchester. This message was aimed not at supporters or the sport’s integrity but at Abu Dhabi.

Downing Street later tried to ease the criticism, claiming that “no one is above the rules.” However, the political message had already been conveyed. The prime minister positioned himself between the Premier League and the sovereign wealth fund backing Manchester City. This move exposed a broader reality of Britain’s political economy: the British state does not control Gulf capital; it embraces it.

Burnham’s intervention must be viewed as part of the broader trajectory of the Labour Party under Keir Starmer and now Burnham himself. Labour consistently advocates for the interests of finance capital, the arms industry, and the Gulf monarchies, whose sovereign wealth funds have become fundamental to Britain’s economy. Although the party’s rhetoric may evolve, shifting from Starmer’s managerial technocracy to Burnham’s softer left tone, the core class alignment remains unchanged. Labour’s role is to maintain stability within a system where foreign capital, especially from the Gulf, is deeply integrated into infrastructure, real estate, energy, and cultural sectors. Football is one of the most visible arenas where this relationship manifests.

Manchester City functions as more than just a football club; it serves as a tool for Abu Dhabi’s geopolitical ambitions. Its ownership is closely tied to the political goals of a Gulf monarchy aiming for soft power, legitimacy, and influence in Britain; when Premier League allegations threatened these interests, the British government responded not officially, but symbolically, through the prime minister’s public warnings. Such symbolic actions matter; they signal to regulators, investors, and foreign entities where political authority lies.

Burnham’s comments highlight a broader ideological change in football. Originally a working-class sport deeply tied to local communities, it has now become a financial asset for oligarchs, private equity, and sovereign wealth funds. Clubs have shifted from social institutions to tools for capital growth and geopolitical influence. Agencies like the Premier League act more as managers of a global entertainment industry than as protectors of integrity. Given this landscape, Burnham’s stance is expected, fitting within a political system where football is subordinate to capital interests.

The leaked verdict unveils the underlying processes of that order. It demonstrates how sovereign wealth influences British football, highlights the alignment of political authority with foreign capital, and shows how the Labour government acts to protect these interests. Burnham’s intervention was not an error but a clear sign of allegiance. It indicates that when supporters’ and communities’ interests conflict with those of capital, Labour consistently prioritises capital.

Burnham’s Political Lineage: The “Soft Left” Illusion

Burnham’s supporters in the media and Labour bureaucracy have long depicted him as the “soft left” alternative to Starmer. This label is meaningless, serving as a branding tool that disguises Labour’s right-wing, pro-capitalist policies by emphasising his more approachable, civic-minded, and regionally connected image. However, Burnham’s political trajectory has been entirely shaped within the Labour tradition that embraced neoliberalism, aligned with the City of London, and subordinated foreign policy to Washington’s strategic interests. As a minister under Tony Blair and Gordon Brown, he helped implement policies that reinforced Britain’s position as the City’s political ally and Washington’s junior partner in the Middle East. His political development was not in opposition to Blairism, but within it.

The idea of Burnham as a “soft left” figure is based on selective memory. During his time in government, he oversaw the growth of private finance initiatives, the expansion of market roles in public services, and Britain’s increased involvement in US-led military actions. He did not oppose these policies; he carried them out. His later shift to a mayoral candidate promoting Manchester’s interests did not signal a departure from his earlier politics, but a change in focus. Burnham’s regional rhetoric emphasising fairness, civic pride, and local identity masked the reality that his governing approach remained rooted in the same pro-market, pro-security framework that characterised New Labour.

His ascension to the premiership in July 2026 was a seamless transition, not a break. Starmer’s government faced intense opposition after disastrous local elections in May, during which Labour lost over 1,000 council seats. This defeat highlighted widespread public anger towards a government that enforced austerity, increased military involvement abroad, and favoured corporate interests domestically. Burnham’s appointment was a personnel change meant to manage unrest, not change policy. It was a strategic move by the Labour leadership to maintain its political agenda while shifting public frustration to a new figurehead.

Under Burnham, the Labour Party continues to follow the same fundamental priorities as under Starmer: maintaining fiscal discipline, aligning geopolitically with the US, and fostering strategic ties with Gulf monarchies, whose sovereign wealth funds are integral to Britain’s economy. Burnham’s comments on Manchester City align with this ongoing approach. His cautious comments about “jumping to conclusions” were not about procedural fairness but served as political signals. They reassured Abu Dhabi that the British government would protect its relationship, which it sees as economically and strategically crucial, from the disruptions of a Premier League disciplinary process.

Supporters of Burnham argue his intervention was meant only to prevent speculation. However, prime ministers usually avoid commenting on ongoing disciplinary matters, especially when they involve a club owned by a foreign state. Burnham’s comments mirrored Manchester City’s official stance: they claim the process is disputed, ask for patience, and praise the owners for their positive impact on Manchester. This similarity was intentional, reflecting the close ties between Labour and Gulf investment, a relationship Burnham has developed over his political career.

The Manchester City incident exposes the superficial nature of the “soft left” label. Burnham’s politics are not a gentler form of Starmerism; they are essentially Starmerism with a different tone. His leadership signifies continuity rather than change. The Labour government continues to serve the interests of the ruling class, endorsing austerity domestically, militarism internationally, and safeguarding the sovereign wealth interests ingrained in British society. Burnham’s comments on Manchester City did not show a lapse in judgment; they revealed his true political role: a manager of the capitalist state, safeguarding its alliances and priorities against opposition from supporters, communities, or the working class.

Sovereign Wealth and the British State

To understand Burnham’s defence of Manchester City, it’s essential to grasp the political economy of Britain’s sovereign wealth. Abu Dhabi United Group, the entity through which Sheikh Mansour owns Manchester City, is not a typical private investor; it’s a state instrument. Mansour serves as the UAE’s deputy prime minister and federation vice-president. Since 2007, he has led the country’s sovereign wealth fund, a massive financial network investing in British real estate, infrastructure, logistics, energy, and cultural assets. Manchester City is the most prominent and politically sensitive part of this investment network.

The leaked Premier League decision poses implications beyond just a football club. It endangers a strategic alliance between Britain and one of the world’s key oil monarchies. Bloomberg and other sources report that Emirati officials voiced their concerns to British counterparts regarding the upcoming charges. The message was clear: take action against the club, and you threaten the interests of the state backing it. In a Britain where Gulf capital has significant investments in London’s skyline, vital infrastructure, and cultural and educational institutions, this is a sensitive issue that the political leaders do not take lightly. Over the past twenty years, the UK has worked to embed Gulf sovereign wealth into its economic fabric, and it is unlikely to risk that relationship over a football disciplinary matter.

Burnham’s record clearly illustrates this connection. As Greater Manchester’s mayor, he promised to advocate for Manchester City to get “fair and consistent treatment” from the Premier League, echoing the club’s grievances about regulatory oversight. His language was not that of an impartial civic figure, but of a politician siding with a foreign-owned football entity closely linked to the local political economy.

When Burnham met UAE President Mohamed bin Zayed in July, Downing Street released a statement thanking his country for its investment in Manchester. The tone was respectful, nearly pleading. It portrayed Gulf capital not as a political force with strategic goals but as a kind benefactor whose generosity had revitalised the city. This illustrates the ideological role of sovereign wealth in Britain: to appear as philanthropy while serving as a form of geopolitical influence.

Burnham’s remarks on human rights follow a consistent logic. When asked about the Emirates’ record, he said he could judge only what he observes in Manchester and how the owners manage the club. He suggested human rights were a matter for governments to address “at a different level.” Now that he oversees that government, this “different level” has seemingly vanished. His approach to the Manchester City case avoided mentioning human rights, democratic accountability, or the political aspects of sovereign wealth. Instead, he advised caution against “jumping to conclusions,” echoing the same sentiments. club’s own PR line and signalling to Abu Dhabi that the British government would not allow a Premier League process to destabilise a strategic partnership.

This is the political economy of sovereign wealth in Britain: Gulf monarchies invest significantly in real estate, infrastructure, and cultural institutions. British governments foster these relationships as avenues for capital, geopolitical strategy, and urban redevelopment after industrial decline. Football clubs, like Manchester City, serve as tools of soft power, branding, and influence. Manchester City exemplifies how sovereign wealth functions within British society, not as an exception but as a leading example.

Burnham’s defence of the club should be seen not as a personal peculiarity or a fleeting mistake, but as a reflection of Labour’s core priorities. The party consistently supports austerity policies domestically, promotes militarism internationally, and aims to safeguard foreign capital integrated into Britain’s economic system. When supporters’ and local communities’ needs conflict with those of sovereign wealth, Labour consistently favours sovereign wealth. Burnham’s stance on Manchester City merely highlighted this underlying preference.

Regeneration as Class Policy

The defenders of Manchester City’s ownership frequently cite the “regeneration” of east Manchester as proof of their benevolence. The reality is more prosaic. The Manchester Life partnership between Manchester City Council and Abu Dhabi United Group built luxury flats in Ancoats and New Islington, delivering no affordable housing. Working‑class families watched rents rise around them while Gulf capital collected the returns.

This is not regeneration. It is class restructuring. It is the transformation of working‑class neighbourhoods into investment zones for foreign wealth. Burnham’s praise for this model reveals his political priorities: capital first, community second.

Culture Secretary Lisa Nandy offered a more critical note, insisting that “investors do not set the rules of the game.” But she took care to say her remarks were not aimed at City’s owners specifically. Her criticism was deliberately empty. The prime minister’s position mattered.

 Football as an Instrument of Capital

Football originated in working-class communities, rooted in local factories, mines, and shipyards, and served as a form of collective leisure organised by workers and rooted in local pride. Over the last thirty years, this connection has faded. The sport is now often viewed as an asset for oligarchs, private equity, and sovereign wealth funds. Clubs have shifted from civic institutions to financial assets, geopolitical tools, and global brands. Manchester City exemplifies this shift perfectly. Today, it’s more than a club; it serves as a tool of Abu Dhabi’s foreign policy, helping improve the Gulf monarchy’s image and build influence and strategic ties in the West.

The Premier League inherently cannot regulate itself effectively. It functions more as a cartel of billionaires than as a guardian of sporting integrity. Its rules aim to safeguard the league’s commercial value rather than diminish the influence of wealth. League owners, comprising American private equity, Gulf sovereign wealth, Russian petro-capital, and multinational conglomerates, lack genuine interest in oversight that challenges their interests. They seek stability, predictability, and the facade of fairness, rather than fairness itself. Although the Independent Football Regulator was launched amid much publicity, it has already recognised « serious issues »notably concerning Manchester City’s ownership by Abu Dhabi United Group. Still, Burnham’s focus was not on defending the regulator or upholding sport’s integrity. His main concern was to reassure the league’s owners.

This is the political economy of football in 2026. Sovereign wealth funds influence club decisions; governments step in to support geopolitical allies; supporters face higher prices; working-class areas are pushed out; and the sport turns into a venue for capital accumulation. Stadiums are redesigned as luxury zones. Ticket costs exceed what ordinary fans can afford. Broadcast rights are divided among various subscription services, each profiting from fans. Local neighborhoods change through speculative development tied to club ownership. Football becomes a tool for urban gentrification instead of fostering community growth.

Manchester City’s ownership exemplifies this shift. Abu Dhabi United Group’s investment in east Manchester, widely hailed as “regeneration”, has led to luxury apartments, higher rents, and the displacement of working-class residents. The Manchester Life partnership between the council and the sovereign wealth fund failed to provide affordable housing, instead prioritising financial returns. The club’s success on the field is closely linked to this larger effort: transforming Manchester into a display of Gulf capital, a city whose leadership promotes foreign investment while overlooking its social impact.

Burnham’s response to the leaked verdict should be viewed in this context. His cautious comments were clearly political, indicating to Abu Dhabi that the British government wouldn’t permit a disciplinary process against the Premier League to threaten strategic ties. They also conveyed to the Premier League that restraint was expected, and to supporters that their concerns took a backseat to economic interests. Burnham’s support for Manchester City wasn’t a standalone act but a broader statement of allegiance to the political economy now shaping football.

The way the game has changed reflects broader shifts in British society. Public services have become financialized, housing has turned into a commodity, infrastructure has been privatized, and political power now aligns with both domestic and international capital. Football exemplifies this process as one of the most visible arenas. The Manchester City case reveals the underlying mechanisms: sovereign wealth serving as geopolitical leverage, regulatory agencies prioritizing commercial interests, and governments acting to protect elite benefits.

Labour’s Programme: A Government for Capital

Under Starmer and now Burnham, Labour governs for the banks, the arms manufacturers, and the oil monarchies. The party’s factions- left, right, or “soft left” offer no alternative. They differ only in tone, not in substance. The Labour left has abandoned any pretence of socialist politics, retreating into moral appeals and parliamentary manoeuvres. The right governs openly for capital. Burnham sits comfortably between them, a figure whose political identity is defined by managerialism, technocracy, and loyalty to the state.

The Manchester City affair reveals the truth: Labour will not challenge sovereign wealth ownership of football clubs. It will not confront the City of London. It will not oppose the geopolitical interests of the Gulf monarchies. It will not defend working‑class communities against displacement. It will not return football to supporters.

A Programme for the Working Class

The game can only be returned to those who play and watch it by taking the major clubs out of private and sovereign ownership and placing them under democratic control by supporters and workers. This is not a utopian demand. It is a practical necessity. Football cannot be regulated while it remains an asset class. It cannot be reformed while oligarchs and monarchies own it. It cannot be saved while it is subordinated to capital.

Such a programme is inseparable from the fight for an independent socialist movement of the working class against Labour and the capitalist order it defends. The struggle over football is part of the broader struggle against austerity, militarism, and finance capital’s domination of society. Burnham’s intervention over Manchester City warns that the Labour government will defend the ruling class’s interests against the working class, whether in politics, economics, or sport.

Engines of Memory Capitalism: How eBay, Etsy, and the Auction Houses Pillage the Past

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The Marketplace Devours Memory

From the outset, it’s important to clarify that the concern isn’t about historians or scholars buying ‘Historical Memorabilia’ on eBay or at auction. Many committed history professors, archivists, and collectors buy these items because they worry they might otherwise remain hidden in private safes or be discarded. Criticising or reporting a history professor for buying items like strike leaflets or soldiers’ letters is unjustified. Often, they serve as the final guardians in preserving vital historical documents.

However, the very phenomenon of turning the past into a marketplace holds significant historical and political importance. A historian’s need to use eBay to recover working-class history or compete with hedge-fund managers for political papers is not just a neutral cultural shift. It points to a deeper social problem: the ongoing, systematic loss of collective memory.

Visit eBay’s “Historical Memorabilia” section in the evening, and you’ll see a scene that would shock even the most sceptical chroniclers of bourgeois history. The remnants of human efforts- soldiers’ letters, strike pamphlets, migrant records, and working-class materials- are now just thumbnails, countdown timers, and “Buy It Now” options. The past isn’t just commercialised; it’s being extensively exploited.

But eBay represents just the base level of a larger system. Etsy, with its curated sense of nostalgia and boutique “vintage” style, carries out a more refined yet equally harmful process. Above both, the auction houses-Sotheby’s, Christie’s, Bonhams- stand as revered marketplaces where the elite buy the past as an investment.

Together, these platforms create a unified system of memory capitalism: a mechanism in which society’s collective past is appropriated, fragmented, aestheticised, and sold to private individuals. What should be a shared human heritage becomes private property, strengthening class dominance and diminishing working people’s ability to understand their own history. This is intentional, serving as the cultural superstructure of a social system that relies on turning everything, including memory, into a commodity.

Memory Capitalism: The Bourgeoisie’s New Frontier

Capitalism has historically been a system built on theft: labour, land, and lives have all been stolen. It is fundamentally an order of expropriation, extracting surplus from workers, taking land from indigenous peoples, and dismantling communities in pursuit of profit. In its later stages, capitalism has expanded its plundering to include stealing the past. This theft isn’t always overt; it often occurs subtly through the market’s mechanisms. Human records- letters, photographs, tools, diaries, records- are removed from their original social contexts and sold into private markets.

The past becomes inventory; memory turns into merchandise. This process, called memory capitalism, operates through three interconnected mechanisms. Historical materials are removed from public institutions, families, and communities and sold on private markets. Archives suffer from austerity, families sell documents to pay bills, local history collections close, and estate clearances sell off decades of working-class items. Instead of remaining in public trust, these items end up on eBay, Etsy, and at auction. The past is uprooted and placed under private control.

Once in the marketplace, items are fragmented, sold separately for profit. Collections are split; union records, soldiers’ letters, inspection reports are broken into multiple listings, dissolving their original context and meaning. This mirrors the fragmentation of labour under capitalism: workers are divided, and so are the records of their struggles.

The value of artefacts is dictated not by their social or historical importance but by scarcity, demand, and buyers’ purchasing power. A strike leaflet becomes a “rare collectable,” a soldier’s letter turns into “WWI ephemera,” a migrant’s ID becomes “vintage paper goods.” Marx’s idea of commodity fetishism is prophetic here: the social relations behind these artefacts appear as intrinsic qualities of the objects themselves.

The experiences of millions are reduced to isolated exchange values. Memory capitalism is the cultural wing of rentier capitalism, with platforms and auction houses generating fees without producing content. They act as landlords of the past: eBay charges transaction fees, Etsy monetises nostalgia through listings and algorithms, auction houses profit from selling manuscripts, letters, and archives, turning history into an asset class for the wealthy.

This isn’t preservation, but extraction. It isn’t curation, but expropriation. It isn’t democratisation, but privatisation. The theft of the past isn’t just metaphorical; it’s an ongoing material process happening daily in digital markets and elite auctions. Without resistance, it will erode the working class’s collective memory- the very foundation for future struggles.

eBay: The Digital Rag‑and‑Bone Shop of History

eBay stands as the largest marketplace ever for historical artefacts, an extensive, chaotic collection of working-class history. Its listings include union history, factory inspection reports, military letters, strike pamphlets, migrant documents, and domestic tools- everyday items that represent labour, struggle, and survival. This platform functions as an informal archive of the dispossessed, created not by professional curators or archivists but by economic hardship.

This “archive” is controlled by the harshest market forces: price, algorithms, and seller insecurity. The platform’s interface erases all distinctions, turning a Civil War muster roll, a suffragette pamphlet, and a novelty mug into the same basic items, each shown as a thumbnail with a “Buy It Now” button. In this way, the past loses its hierarchy, meaning, and context. Human struggle documents are reduced to mere kitsch, interchangeable and devalued. This levelling isn’t accidental; it reflects capitalism’s cultural logic: everything is a commodity, and all commodities are valued equally in the marketplace. The real experiences of workers, soldiers, migrants, and strikers are flattened into the same abstract exchange value as mass-produced junk. The past isn’t preserved; it’s priced.

eBay not only commodifies the past but also breaks it apart. The platform promotes fragmentation because it boosts profits. A collection of documents becomes more lucrative when divided into fifty individual listings. Union records generate more revenue when dispersed among many buyers. A soldier’s letters sell for higher prices when sold separately rather than as a complete correspondence. This approach undermines the integrity of historical materials. Collections lose their internal connections, making patterns of struggle invisible. The capacity to reconstruct experiences of workplaces, units, communities, or movements is compromised. This fragmentation reflects the atomisation of labour under capitalism. Just as workers are separated by workplace, contracts, location, and competition, the traces of their collective struggles are scattered into private ownership. The past, like the present, becomes fragmented.

Most eBay sellers are not professional dealers or collectors; they are individuals attempting to supplement stagnant wages through reselling, often under difficult conditions. People clear out attics, liquidate estates, and sell personal archives because their income doesn’t cover essentials like rent, food, or bills. The so-called “democratisation” of selling on the platform actually highlights economic insecurity. Sellers are not villains; they are victims of a system that compels them to monetise whatever they can. For example, a family sells their grandfather’s strike papers out of necessity, not greed. Similarly, a worker lists their father’s military letters not for profit, but to survive.

However, the outcome is the same: the documentation of working-class life becomes private inventory. The material of collective memory feeds the gig economy, where it is fragmented, repriced, and dispersed. eBay itself produces nothing. It does not create historical value, preserve archives, or safeguard collections. Instead, it extracts fees from every transaction- listing fees, final value fees, promoted listing fees- profitably siphoning money from the circulation of memory. Its interest in historical material extends only to the commissions it earns. Ethical questions about the sale of Holocaust artefacts, slavery records, and indigenous land deeds are addressed only when public outrage threatens the brand. Even then, changes are piecemeal, reactive, and subordinated to profit. The platform’s policies are not moral principles but risk‑management strategies. 

Etsy: The Boutique Sanitiser of History

Etsy specialises in curated nostalgia, a thoughtfully organised marketplace featuring vintage clothing, retro typography, handmade replicas, upcycled materials, and stylised historical motifs. It functions as capitalism’s boutique workshop where memory is sold not as evidence but as a matter of style. The past is stripped of its social context and reassembled as decoration. On Etsy, history is simplified into aesthetic categories like “mid-century,” “industrial,” “boho,” and “Victorian.” These labels capture consumer moods rather than accurately representing historical periods. They reduce complex eras marked by struggle, exploitation, and change into simple colour schemes and design elements. The Industrial Revolution appears as distressed metal lamps; the Victorian era is expressed through lace and sepia tones; the mid-century period, defined by Cold War fears, decolonisation, and labour movements, is reduced to teak furniture and geometric patterns.

Etsy reinterprets history as a mood board rather than a strict archive; it functions as a lifestyle catalogue. The past isn’t examined critically but carefully selected, with violence, conflict, and collective agency removed from the narrative. What remains is a sanitised, aestheticised version of history, free of contradictions, marketed as personal expression. Etsy’s core ideology centres on the “creative entrepreneur”, the small-scale craft seller who turns fragments of history into boutique products. Its marketing champions this archetype: the independent maker, artisan, or small business owner who “rescues’ and reimagines old objects. This portrayal romanticises small-scale production, positioning it as an alternative to mass consumerism.

This ideology is merely a façade. Etsy sellers are deeply embedded in capitalist production systems. They rely on platform fees, branding, algorithmic visibility, and the continuous need to distinguish their products in a saturated market. Their claim of independence is a myth; they experience the same competitive pressures as other small businesses in capitalism.

The micro-narratives crafted by sellers such as ‘rescued from a 1950s factory,” “inspired by suffragette banners,’ or ‘found in an old workshop in Detroit’are not genuine historical stories but marketing strategies. They create a facade of authenticity that justifies higher prices. These stories become part of the product, serving as selling points rather than historical truths. This petty-bourgeois craft ideology behind them plays a political role by concealing the economic forces pushing people into unstable entrepreneurial work. It portrays Etsy as a hub of creativity and independence, but in reality, it profits from sellers through fees, commissions, and algorithmic controls. Etsy isn’t an alternative to capitalism; it is capitalism dressed up in artisan terms.

Etsy’s most harmful role is transforming political activism into aesthetic and commercial objects. Union symbols, protest chants, and radical icons become fashion items. The clenched fist appears on tote bags, the red flag as a design motif, and suffragette colours appear in jewellery, stripping away their political significance. These symbols become commodities, exemplifying capitalism’s tendency to co-opt dissent, absorb radical imagery, dilute its meaning, and resell it as lifestyle choices. As a result, collective struggle shifts to personal taste, and resistance history gets reduced to decorative elements. Etsy doesn’t honour political memory; it sanitises it, turning activism into sentiment, militancy into style, and radical ideas into nostalgic fashion, making history a safe, consumable object that no longer inspires or educates.

Where eBay fragments history through mass resale, Etsy fragments it through stylisation. Historical artefacts are detached from their contexts and reassembled into new aesthetic forms. A factory tool becomes a “rustic décor item.” A union badge becomes “vintage enamel jewellery.” A protest banner becomes “retro textile art.”

The past is repurposed for lifestyle creation, stripping away its social, political, and collective meanings, replacing them with individual consumption. Etsy doesn’t destroy historical artefacts; it transforms them into commodities that barely retain their original significance. This fragmentation of history is as destructive as eBay’s mass atomization, both disconnecting historical material from its context, reducing the past to mere exchange value, and limiting working people’s access to their history. Etsy isn’t just a marketplace for handmade items; it functions as a cultural force of memory capitalism, sanitising, aestheticising, and commodifying the past, turning traces of struggle into lifestyle accessories for the petty bourgeoisie.

Auction Houses: The Aristocracy of Memory Theft

Auction houses embody the peak of memory capitalism, its most aristocratic and sophisticated form. If eBay functions as a marketplace for scattered struggles and Etsy acts as a nostalgic boutique, then Sotheby’s, Christie’s, and Bonhams serve as revered temples where the elite buy the past as an investment. These institutions curate what they label as “important” archives: manuscripts, political papers, rare photographs, and artefacts linked to notable figures or events. Their catalogues establish hierarchies of historical significance, promoting elite narratives while sidelining working-class history. For example, a prime minister’s papers are depicted as globally significant, whereas records from a strike committee rarely appear in such circuits. The documentary traces of power are consecrated, while those of resistance are often ignored, undervalued, or fragmented.

Auction houses do more than sell artefacts; they shape what counts as history. They craft the memory canon based on the preferences of the wealthy, reinforcing the ideological priorities of the ruling class. This includes highlighting politicians, generals, industrialists, and cultural icons while sidelining workers, migrants, ordinary soldiers, and radical movements. 

These houses rely on specialist cataloguers, curators, historians, and archivists who authenticate, contextualise, and market historical items. However, their expertise is not neutral; it acts as a form of class gatekeeping, deciding which artefacts deserve preservation, investment, and attention.

The vocabulary of expertise- terms like “significant provenance,” “important manuscript,” and “major archive” operates as a coded value system that favours elite figures. For example, a letter from a cabinet minister is deemed “significant,” whereas one from a factory worker is considered “of minor interest.” Similarly, a colonial administrator’s diary is “important,” while a migrant labourer’s is labelled “ephemera.” This creates a canon of memory shaped by elite interests. Auction houses do more than reflect class power; they actively produce it, reinforcing the notion that history centres on the powerful and that ordinary people’s material remnants are peripheral, fleeting, or disposable. This gatekeeping is deliberate and structural, forming part of a cultural superstructure that elevates capital while diminishing labour.

Buyers at auction houses are usually wealthy collectors, corporations, or institutions. They acquire historical materials not for study, preservation, or public access, but as an asset class. Manuscripts, letters, and artefacts are kept in private vaults, out of public reach. Memory turns into capital. Auction houses promote this shift, highlighting rarity, exclusivity, and investment value. A manuscript is not seen as a window to the past but as a “unique opportunity,” and a political archive is not for research but as a “major acquisition for the discerning collector.” The past becomes a speculative commodity, history turns into a financial tool, and the documentary record of human experience becomes part of an investment portfolio. This exemplifies memory capitalism: transforming collective inheritance into private wealth.

Auction houses frequently acquire items that rightfully belong in public archives. Underfunded institutions struggle to compete with private collectors, leaving libraries, museums, and local history centres, already damaged by austerity, unable to afford these materials. As a result, collections often end up in private hands, sometimes forever lost. This loss isn’t merely cultural; it’s political, too. When documents from strike committees, mutual aid societies, rank-and-file soldiers, or migrant workers enter private vaults, the working class loses access to essential records for shaping its history. The foundational materials for class awareness are taken out of public reach.

Auction houses don’t just sell artefacts; they remove them from public view, hastening the loss of collective memory and strengthening the ruling class’s control over historical narrative. This illustrates the aristocratic aspect of memory capitalism: those who already hold the present steal the past.

A Socialist Programme for Reclaiming the Past

A socialist outlook starts from a fundamental idea: history belongs to those who created it. Documents like workers’ letters, strikers’ pamphlets, migrants’ records, soldiers’ diaries, and political movement ephemera are not merely personal curiosities or assets to speculate on. Instead, they constitute humanity’s shared heritage. These materials are not for collectors, investors, or digital platforms, but for the working class whose struggles gave rise to them. The market cannot be relied upon to preserve such historical records, as it has no interest in their context, coherence, or collective significance. Protecting the past requires a strategy that directly opposes the principles of memory capitalism.

It calls for substantial public investment in archives and libraries, reversing years of austerity and restoring these institutions responsible for preserving collective memory. It also advocates comprehensive digitisation initiatives to make the documented record of human struggles accessible to everyone, rather than hiding it behind paywalls or auction listings. The approach emphasises democratic control of cultural institutions, shifting power from elite gatekeeping to active participation by workers, scholars, archivists, and communities. Additionally, it supports public ownership of major technology platforms, transforming digital memory infrastructure from profit-driven corporations into publicly accountable utilities. International collaboration is essential to repatriate stolen or dispersed materials, returning archives looted through colonialism, war, or market extraction to their original communities.

None of this can be achieved through appeals to corporate responsibility or charitable acts alone. Instead, it demands the political action of the working class, who must actively work to reclaim their own historical records. Only through collective effort can the past be removed from commercial interests and returned to public guardianship. Memory is inherently political; it is a battleground of class interests. The ruling class recognises this deeply, which is why it invests in auction houses, private collectors, and elite cultural institutions. It also allows public archives to deteriorate and treats the past as private property. Controlling memory means controlling the narrative; controlling the narrative means shaping legitimacy; and shaping legitimacy grants power.

A socialist movement must therefore advocate not only for wages, housing, healthcare, and democratic rights, but also for the right to history: the ability to access, preserve, interpret, and mobilise the documentary record of human experience. Without this, the working class risks political amnesia, lacking the tools to understand its history and shape its future.

The Past Is Not for Sale

eBay, Etsy, and auction houses create a layered system of memory capitalism. They extract, fragment, and profit from the collective past, turning historical artefacts into commodities and reinforcing social inequality. This creates a society where the record of struggle is dispersed, aestheticised, or hidden away. The past becomes just inventory, memory turns into merchandise, and history becomes a speculative asset. To reclaim history is to regain agency; to preserve the documentary record of struggle is to keep alive the chance for future resistance. The past should not be sold to the highest bidder but kept in common, studied collectively, and used to guide the future. The past is not for sale; it is a weapon that belongs to the working class.

Stitching Freedom: Gary Tyler’s 41 Years in Angola and the Class Logic of American “Justice”

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In “Stitching Freedom: A True Story of Injustice, Defiance, and Hope in Angola Prison,” Gary Tyler, with veteran activist Ellen Bravo, details the 41 years he spent inside Louisiana’s Angola State Penitentiary. Few recent books carry such profound moral significance. Tyler’s account is more than a survival story; it’s a testimony of a man subjected to what amounts to a state-orchestrated burial. At age sixteen, he was falsely accused, convicted by an all-white jury, and sent to one of America’s most infamous prisons. He survived over forty years there, enduring death row, forced labour, brutal institutionalisation, and the callous indifference of government at all levels. His story exemplifies remarkable human dignity but also serves as a political critique of the society responsible for his suffering.

The book is promoted within the usual framework of modern criminal-justice reform, receiving endorsements from figures linked to the foundation-backed “racial justice” circle. Its promotional content highlights themes of resilience, redemption, and increased awareness. However, the reality Tyler describes cannot be confined to this framework. His case was not an anomaly in a functioning system nor simply a tragic result of personal prejudice. Instead, it reflects a product of a capitalist state where courts, police, and prisons operate based on a clear class logic that has, for decades, disciplined, terrorised, and confined the poorest sectors of the working class.

Tyler’s story clearly illustrates this logic’s devastating impact. The 1974 Destrehan frame-up involved police, prosecutors, judges, and elected officials working together. Angola prison, built on former slave plantation land and operated by predominantly Black, impoverished prisoners, symbolises the ongoing link between slavery, convict leasing, and today’s mass incarceration. The courts and governors’ long-term refusal to admit Tyler’s wrongful conviction shows more than bureaucratic delay; it highlights the judiciary’s role in upholding the state’s authority even if it means risking an innocent man’s life.

Understanding Tyler’s account requires acknowledging that the American prison system is not a flawed institution in need of correction but a fundamental element of capitalist control. The bipartisan growth of the carceral state from the reduction of social programs in the 1970s to the 1994 crime bill under Clinton was driven not just by racial bias, but by a societal structure that excludes millions of workers. The focus of the reform movement on racial “caste” as the main explanation masks this class-based origin and shifts political focus toward the Democratic Party, judicial system, and charities the very forces that upheld Tyler’s incarceration.

A frame‑up engineered by the state

The story begins with the events in October 1974 in Destrehan, Louisiana, during a violent white backlash against school desegregation. A bus transporting Black students from Destrehan High School was surrounded by a hostile crowd of white residents, many of whom had been mobilised by reactionary forces opposing federally mandated integration for months. During the chaos, a gunshot was fired. A 13-year-old white boy, Timothy Weber, was shot and died. Within moments, the state’s machinery began looking for someone to blame- not through proper investigation, but through selection. They identified a 16-year-old Black youth, Gary Tyler, as the culprit.

The case details are painfully recognisable to anyone familiar with American history’s injustices. No weapon was found on the bus, and searches of the students and the vehicle yielded nothing. Deputies thoroughly examined the scene, but found nothing. Only afterwards did a pistol appear; police supplied an asset that defence lawyers had long claimed. Witnesses faced pressure, threats, and coaching, with one key witness later recanting entirely, admitting coercion by investigators. Despite this, it was inconsequential. An all-white jury, drawn from a parish where Black residents were deliberately excluded from jury service, convicted Tyler of first-degree murder. Due to Louisiana’s mandatory death penalty law, the sentence was automatic. Consequently, Tyler became the youngest person on death row in the U.S.

Liberal commentary often portrays Tyler’s case as a miscarriage of justice, a tragic deviation from the norm, and a moment when the system “failed.” However, the book and Tyler’s own testimony clarify that nothing went wrong. The police followed their training, the prosecutors pursued the case based on political motives, the judge presided according to legal instructions, and the jury pool was selected based on Louisiana’s racial hierarchy. Each institution functioned precisely as the capitalist state intended.

A rogue deputy or a racist sheriff didn’t carry out the frame-up. It was a coordinated effort by the entire state system, including police, courts, prosecutors, and elected officials, acting to uphold a social order rooted in racial segregation and class hierarchy. Tyler’s false framing wasn’t a system failure; it was the system functioning as intended.

This is the key lesson from Tyler’s story. It’s also the point most often overlooked by the criminal-justice reform movement, which tends to see cases like Tyler’s as rare incidents caused by bias or procedural mistakes. The reform narrative suggests that the system is basically correct, just needing better oversight, more diverse juries, enhanced training, or wiser leadership. Tyler’s case reveals the flaw in that view. The state did not make a mistake; it acted deliberately.

The incidents in Des Moines are best understood within the larger social context of the 1970s, which included an economic crisis, the reduction of social programs, a political reaction against civil rights, and the ruling class’s efforts to control the most vulnerable workers. The violent white mobs forming around the bus were not sudden acts of hatred but rather a manifestation of a political strategy aimed at channelling class frustration into racial hostility. The police and courts did not act to defend the Black students; their primary concern was maintaining the existing social order.

Tyler’s wrongful framing was just one example of the broader class-based bias in American “justice.” This system has led to mass incarceration, ruined lives, and community fear for decades. Facing Tyler’s case honestly reveals that the capitalist state cannot be made humane through reform alone. It must be understood deeply, fully exposed, and ultimately replaced.

Angola: the plantation reborn

Tyler was sent to Angola, the largest maximum-security prison in the United States, situated on 18,000 acres of former slave plantations. This is not just a metaphor; it’s a tangible reality. After the Civil War, the land transitioned through the convict-leasing system into the hands of the state. Prisoners continue to work its fields, guarded by armed guards on horseback, often earning just pennies an hour. The Thirteenth Amendment abolished slavery “except as a punishment for crime,” and the Southern elite exploited that exception to rebuild a forced labour system after Reconstruction was suppressed. Angola exemplifies that exception turned into reality.

Tyler’s account of his early years, initially on death row and later in the general population, is one of the most compelling parts of the book. He depicts a world filled with violence, random punishments, and intentional humiliation. He portrays a prison system that viewed inmates as expendable labour, and a state government primarily controlled by the Democratic Party for much of the century that kept Angola functioning like a modern plantation.

The book’s emotional core centres on Tyler’s quilting and his leadership of the prison drama club. These chapters are truly moving, showing how individuals branded as beyond redemption craft beauty and forge bonds in environments meant to break both. However, they also highlight a potential issue: the so-called “redemption narrative” popular with the American media and prison authorities. Angola has long leveraged its prisoner rodeo and craft fair as tourist draws. The liberal press often celebrates stories of artistic achievement, spiritual awakening, and personal development- narratives that suggest the system offers a route to grace.

Tyler’s resilience is real. But it was achieved against the institution, not because of it. It should not be enlisted to make the institution more palatable. To its credit, the book largely resists this. Tyler presents his survival as collective, dependent on solidarity with fellow prisoners, his family, and the defence campaign outside. That collective element is the book’s most important contribution.

Four decades of judicial cruelty

For forty years, courts and the executive branch maintained Tyler’s imprisonment despite growing evidence that his trial was unjust. Federal judges recognised significant flaws in the process but upheld the conviction. Louisiana’s pardon board repeatedly recommended clemency, yet successive governors declined to act. Ultimately, no branch of government was willing to admit that the state had wrongly accused and imprisoned a child.

Tyler’s release came only through a narrow legal opening created by the Supreme Court’s rulings in Miller v. Alabama (2012) and Montgomery v. Louisiana (2016), which held that mandatory life without parole for juveniles was unconstitutional and that this applied retroactively. Prosecutors then offered a deal: plead guilty to manslaughter, accept a 21‑year sentence, and walk free on time already served.

The terms were an obscenity. To leave prison, an innocent man had to accept guilt for a killing the state could never honestly prove he committed. The plea protected the state from ever having to admit the frame‑up. Tyler’s acceptance was entirely understandable for a man who had already lost 41 years. The state’s conduct was not.

This episode exposes the true nature of the American judiciary. It is not a neutral arbiter. It is not a guardian of rights. It is an instrument of class rule. Its function is to protect the interests of the capitalist class, not to deliver justice to the working class.

Race, class, and the limits of reform

The book’s political framework follows the contemporary criminal‑justice reform movement. Its villains are racism and an unjust system. Its remedy is greater awareness, advocacy, and reform. The endorsements it carries, including one from Michelle Alexander, author of The New Jim Crow, reflect this outlook.

Racism saturated every stage of Tyler’s persecution. No serious reader can doubt that. But to treat race as the fundamental category explaining mass incarceration obscures more than it reveals. The United States imprisons millions of people of every race, overwhelmingly drawn from the poorest sections of the working class. Louisiana, one of the most impoverished states in the country, has long had one of the highest incarceration rates in the world. The prison system serves to warehouse a population that capitalism has no use for, and to terrorise the working class as a whole.

The last half‑century bears this out. Tyler’s ordeal spanned administrations of both big‑business parties, in Baton Rouge and in Washington. The great expansion of the prison population was a bipartisan project, driven forward by Democrats as eagerly as Republicans, including the 1994 crime bill championed by the Clinton administration. The reform movement’s insistence on racial “caste” as the primary explanatory category obscures the class foundations of the carceral state.

This is not an academic dispute. It is a political one. A perspective that looks to the Democratic Party, the courts, or corporate philanthropy to dismantle the prison system is a perspective of illusions. It disarms the working class.

The book gestures toward a further point but does not fully develop it. The movement that kept Tyler’s case alive in the 1970s was a mass movement drawing in workers and youth across racial lines. It was rooted in working‑class solidarity. Its decline is inseparable from the rise of identity politics and the NGO‑isation of social struggle. The book’s most hopeful pages record that solidarity. The lesson is not that the right advocates can reform the system. It is that the working class, united across all divisions, is the only social force capable of abolishing the conditions that produced Angola.

The capitalist state cannot be reformed.

Tyler emerges from Stitching Freedom as a man of remarkable dignity without bitterness, without self‑pity, devoted to the young people he now works with and to those he left behind in Angola. His capacity to retain his humanity under conditions designed to annihilate it is extraordinary. But treating his story primarily as one of personal resilience misses its political significance. Tyler’s 41 years in Angola are not simply a story about hope. They are evidence.

They are evidence that the American state the same state that framed a 16‑year‑old in 1974  is the state that today fills its prisons, militarises its police, and executes its prisoners. They show that the institutions that condemned Tyler are not malfunctioning bureaucracies in need of reform, but instruments of class rule. They are evidence that the courts, police, and prisons do not occasionally “fail.” They function exactly as designed.

The book’s narrative, even when filtered through the reformist framework of its co‑author and publisher, cannot conceal this truth. Tyler’s case spanned Democratic and Republican administrations, conservative and liberal governors, “tough on crime” crusaders and self‑styled progressives. Each upheld the conviction. Each refused to intervene. Every one of them defended the prerogatives of the state over the life of an innocent man. The bipartisan character of Tyler’s persecution is not incidental. It is the essential fact.

The American prison system is not a neutral institution corrupted by racism or distorted by bad policy. It is a pillar of capitalist rule. Its function is to discipline, warehouse, and terrorise the poorest layers of the working class  Black, white, immigrant, and native‑born. The racial dimension of Tyler’s case was real and decisive, but it operated within a broader class logic. Louisiana’s prison population, like that of the United States as a whole, is drawn overwhelmingly from those whom capitalism has no use for. The criminal‑justice reform movement’s insistence on treating mass incarceration primarily as a racial “caste” system obscures this reality. It directs political energy toward the Democratic Party, the courts, and philanthropic foundations, precisely the forces that sustained Tyler’s imprisonment.

Tyler’s story also exposes the ideological function of the “redemption narrative,” the liberal trope in which a prisoner’s artistic or spiritual transformation becomes proof that the system offers a path to grace. Angola’s rodeo, craft fair, and media‑friendly displays of inmate creativity are not celebrations of humanity; they are public‑relations operations designed to sanitise an institution built on forced labour and brutality. Tyler’s quilting and theatre work were acts of resistance, not evidence of the prison’s benevolence. His survival was collective, rooted in solidarity with fellow prisoners, his family, and the mass movement that fought for his release in the 1970s.

That movement, drawing workers and youth across racial lines, was the most hopeful force in Tyler’s story. Its decline, and the rise of the NGO‑dominated reform apparatus that replaced it, is inseparable from the broader political degeneration of American liberalism. The working class is the only social force capable of abolishing the conditions that produced Angola. No amount of advocacy, litigation, or philanthropic funding can transform the capitalist state into an instrument of justice.

Tyler’s 41 years in Angola are therefore not simply a historical tragedy. They are a warning. They demonstrate what the state is willing to do, and continues to do, to those it deems expendable. They reveal the class foundations of American “justice.” And they expose the bankruptcy of reformist illusions. The capitalist state cannot be stitched into something better. It must be replaced.

Post Script

The Workers League and the Gary Tyler Case

Any serious account of the Gary Tyler case must acknowledge the role the Workers League, the predecessor of the Socialist Equality Party, played in transforming what could have remained a local injustice into a national and international political question. While Stitching Freedom does not explore this history, reflecting the book’s reformist framework, the record shows that the Workers League intervened at a decisive moment, providing the political clarity and organisational initiative that the liberal milieu surrounding the case could not.

The Workers League recognised immediately that Tyler’s frame‑up was not an isolated act of racism but a class question. The organisation’s analysis, published in the Bulletin throughout the mid‑1970s, insisted that the events in Destrehan were inseparable from the broader offensive of the American ruling class: the dismantling of social programmes, the assault on busing and school desegregation, and the growing use of police repression to contain the poorest layers of the working class. The Workers League rejected the liberal narrative that the case was a “miscarriage of justice” caused by prejudice or procedural failure. It insisted that the capitalist state had functioned exactly as designed.

This perspective shaped the organisation’s intervention. The Workers League did not treat Tyler as a passive victim in need of charity. It fought to mobilise workers and youth across racial lines, emphasising that defending democratic rights is inseparable from the struggle against capitalism. The organisation’s members distributed tens of thousands of leaflets, held meetings in factories and schools. They linked Tyler’s case to the growing anger over police violence, unemployment, and the destruction of public education. They insisted that the fight for Tyler’s freedom required a political break with the Democratic Party, the very party that controlled Louisiana’s government and upheld Tyler’s conviction.

This was not a rhetorical point. The Workers League exposed the role of Democratic officials, judges, and prosecutors in sustaining the frame‑up. It warned that the liberal organisations dominating the defence campaign  the NAACP, local clergy, and various civil‑rights groups  were subordinating the movement to the Democratic Party and narrowing it to appeals for “fairness” and “due process.” The Workers League argued that this perspective would inevitably lead to defeat because it accepted the legitimacy of the very institutions responsible for Tyler’s persecution.

The organisation’s intervention helped galvanise a broader movement. The mass demonstration of 2,000 people in New Orleans in 1976, mentioned briefly in Stitching Freedom, did not arise spontaneously. It resulted from months of agitation, much of it carried out by Workers League members who insisted that Tyler’s case was not a “Black issue” but a working‑class issue. Their insistence on class unity stood in stark contrast to the identity‑based politics that would later dominate the criminal‑justice reform milieu.

The Workers League’s role in the Tyler case is significant not only for what it achieved but for what it revealed. It demonstrated that the defence of democratic rights cannot be entrusted to liberal organisations tied to the capitalist state. It showed that only a working-class movement, armed with a Marxist understanding of the state and independent of both big-business parties, can confront the machinery of repression.

Tyler’s story, as told in Stitching Freedom, is one of extraordinary personal resilience. But the political lesson of his case, illuminated by the Workers League’s intervention, is that the fight against injustice cannot be waged within the framework of reform. It requires a revolutionary struggle against the capitalist state itself.

Podcast Episode: The Political Songs of Iyah May: Pop Music in a Disoriented Moment

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Pip: A pop doctor walks out of a pandemic, writes a three-minute list of everything wrong with the world, and somehow ends up being shared by Students for Trump. Welcome to A Trumpet of Sedition.

Mara: freerein61 has been looking closely at Iyah May — the artist, the song, the contradiction — asking what it means when genuine anger gets picked up by exactly the wrong hands.

Pip: Let's start with the song itself, and why its structure might be the whole story.

Karmageddon and the Politics of the Scroll

Mara: The question this post opens with is a structural one: not whether Karmageddon is sincere, but whether sincerity without analysis can do political work — or whether it just becomes available to whoever finds it useful.

Pip: And the post locates the problem early. The song is described as a list — a scroll-song — where, as the post puts it, "Gaza is placed next to celebrity gossip; inflation beside misogynistic violence; pandemic profiteering alongside online outrage."

Mara: That flattening is the argument's spine. Each item gets equal weight, no causality, no connection. The post calls it a reproduction of the social media environment the song is supposedly criticising.

Pip: So the form undermines the content. The scroll isn't examined — it's re-enacted.

Mara: Right, and that's what makes the political co-option legible. Ryan Fournier of Students for Trump shared the video; Newsweek called her "the new darling of the political right"; the Epoch Times and ZeroHedge picked it up. A song naming the Gaza genocide was being circulated by people financing that genocide.

Pip: Which the post insists is not a paradox. It's a symptom.

Mara: Exactly. "Without a large socialist movement to address social collapse, right-wing groups fill the void, co-opting any discontent that can be framed as anti-elite, anti-establishment, or anti-media." The mood is appropriable because the analysis is absent.

Pip: The post also traces her earlier Island Records output — XO Girl, MF ILY — polished pop, politically disengaged. Karmageddon, self-released November 13, 2024, produced by Danny Duke, is a real break.

Mara: And she paid for that break. Her manager pushed her to remove references to Big Pharma and genocide. She refused, parted ways with the label. The post, drawing on coverage from Northern Exposure and a Grokipedia profile, frames that refusal as a small but genuine act of defiance in an industry built to discipline exactly that kind of impulse.

Pip: The Nordic Times piece calls her "fearless social commentary." The post is more precise: it's sincere, and sincerity isn't nothing, but it stops short of the analysis that would give it direction.

Mara: The post draws the Sheeran comparison to sharpen this. When Macklemore was quietly dropped from Sheeran's Loop Tour after expressing Palestinian solidarity, Sheeran retreated into language about "different approaches to advocating for peace" — treating genocide, the post notes, as a matter of tone rather than fact.

Pip: May lost a manager. Sheeran preserved a nine-figure production apparatus. The post is clear that this isn't primarily about personal courage — it's about where each artist sits inside the machinery.

Mara: And the post's cover note on her version of Wish You Were Here makes this concrete. Where Karmageddon is frantic and breathless, that performance is still, almost paralysed — mourning the absence of collective meaning rather than cataloguing its loss. Together the post calls them "a dialectic of contemporary despair: the scroll and the silence."

Pip: Which is a genuinely useful frame. The scroll reproduces fragmentation; the silence laments it. Neither overcomes it.

Mara: The post ends by asking what a critical art that did overcome it might look like — one oriented not toward mood but toward the working-class struggles it argues are the only force capable of addressing the crises May describes. Sincerity is the starting point, not the destination.

Pip: The question underneath all of it: what do you do with real anger when there's no political home for it yet?

Mara: That's the live wire running through everything here — genuine distress, no outlet, and a cultural industry that profits from keeping it that way.

Pip: Next time, we'll see what else on the site is asking where that outlet might come from.

The Political Songs of Iyah May: Pop Music in a Disoriented Moment

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Iyah May’s late-2024 single Karmageddon didn’t become an instant hit because of its musical originality. Instead, it resonated because it encapsulated, in just three minutes, the chaos an entire social stratum experienced. The song features a rapid succession of modern horrors: COVID-19, “Big Pharma,” Gaza, inflation, misogynistic violence, celebrity foolishness, and the ceaseless conflicts on social media. May (Marguerite Clark), who served as a hospital doctor during the pandemic, presents the track as a cry from someone overwhelmed by their experiences, a lament from someone who has witnessed institutions fail and people suffer. Its power comes less from technical mastery and more from its reflection of society’s fractured consciousness amid crises.

The way her song circulated reveals m middle-class frustrations rather than working-class ones from her manager and label, which is unusual in an industry that often censors political content. Ryan Fournier of Students for Trump then shared the music video and promoted it to his large following. Newsweek quickly called her “the new darling of the political right,” and outlets like the Epoch Times and ZeroHedge also picked up the story. Within days, her song criticising corporate greed and labelling Israel’s destruction of Gaza as genocide was being spread by political groups directly involved in those issues.

This is not a paradox, but a symptom of confusion when true anger lacks a political outlet. Without a large socialist movement to address social collapse, right-wing groups fill the void, co-opting any discontent that can be framed as “anti-elite,” “anti-establishment,” or “anti-media.” The political right didn’t support Karmageddon because they agree with it, but because they can weaponise its mood. A song that hints at corruption and institutional failure can easily fit into the right’s narrative of cultural decline and moral decay, even if its lyrics criticise governments and billionaires those outlets defend.

The song’s structure enhances its message of ideological flexibility. Karmageddon functions as a list or scroll-song, presenting a catalogue of disjointed horrors. Each item is given equal prominence: Gaza is placed next to celebrity gossip; inflation beside misogynistic violence; pandemic profiteering alongside online outrage. The song offers no analysis, context, or explanation. The scroll reproduces it without questioning. This flattening of experience reflects the social media environment the song criticises: a realm where crises become interchangeable content, lacking causality and historical depth.

May’s account contains some truth: pharmaceutical monopolies profited immensely during the pandemic, millions died, working people bore the economic burden through inflation while billionaires’ wealth increased, and Israel’s attack on Gaza, supported by Washington, London, and Canberra, qualifies as genocide. However, the framework reflects a disoriented middle class, not the working class. It recognises corruption but not capitalism; suffering but not the social systems that cause it. The enemies are portrayed as “elites,” “the media,” and vague institutions, with the pandemic seen as a conspiracy rather than the consequence of deliberate state policies that prioritise profit over human life. This is why the right accepts it: critique without class analysis lacks direction, and despairing politics can shift toward resentment, conspiracy theories, and reaction.

Karmageddon’s popularity should not be dismissed, as it reflects a genuine mood of exhaustion, isolation, distrust, and powerlessness driven by collapsing health systems, falling wages, endless war, and austerity-driven politics. Iyah May deserves recognition for speaking out against censorship and addressing the Gaza genocide, unlike many in the music industry who remain silent. However, sincerity alone is insufficient. Critical art must align with social forces capable of meaningful change, and today, the working class, increasingly organised worldwide, represents that force. Artists aiming to address these dark times truthfully should look beyond social media and the confusing populism that Karmageddon both symbolises and perpetuates, toward this emerging power.

The songs

Currently, May’s musical output revolves around a single theme. Her earlier works on Island Records, including XO Girl (2021), MF ILY, and others, primarily featured typical pop anthems centred on self-empowerment, friendship, and resilience. These tracks fit well within mainstream pop: vibrant, polished, emotionally straightforward, and somewhat politically disengaged. The only exception was her 2019 debut, Pray, which hinted at social issues, especially reflecting on the pressures of constant online scrolling and the suffocating feedback loop of digital life. However, even this piece’s critique was mostly personal, focusing on internal struggles rather than broader social commentary.

Karmageddon, self-released on November 13, 2024, and produced by Danny Duke, represents a distinct shift. It is a list song akin to Billy Joel’s We Didn’t Start the Fire but updated for a digital age where scrolls replace newspapers and feeds replace the world. The narrator wakes up, picks up her phone, and is immediately bombarded with headlines: Elon Musk’s latest stunt, outrage from “the left,” the Gaza genocide, celebrity antics, tax demands, and society’s overall chaos. The chorus shifts to critique the pandemic, accusing pharmaceutical giants of profiting from an artificial virus while ordinary people contend with inflation and declining living standards.

May described the track as an anthem for turbulent times, born of despair at “a divided world and deceitful corporations.” Musically, it is competent and catchy, built around a glossy alternative-pop arrangement that makes its political message accessible to mainstream audiences. Structurally, however, the song reflects the chaotic experience it criticises. Items flash past in quick succession, each given the same weight, with no real connection. Gaza sits alongside celebrity gossip; inflation next to misogynistic violence; pandemic profiteering beside online outrage. The scroll isn’t analysed; it is reproduced.

This simplification of experience is deliberate, highlighting the ideological boundaries of the social layer behind the song. Karmageddon conveys the feeling of living amid crises without understanding the forces behind them. The villains are portrayed as “elites,” “the media,” and corrupt institutions, with the pandemic depicted as a conspiracy rather than a result of deliberate state policies that prioritise profit over life. The listed catastrophes- war, disease, inflation, social atomization- are presented as separate symptoms rather than interconnected parts of a single social system driven by private profit.

This is why the song appeals to the political right even as it criticises crimes they support. A critique lacking class analysis loses direction. A politics of despair becomes easy to manipulate and reframe. Armageddon’s structure- its rapid succession of horrors and lack of connection- makes it ideologically vulnerable. It captures a real sense of exhaustion and distrust but cannot fully explain this mood, leaving it open to exploitation. Thus, the song is both a sincere cry of distress and limited, shaped by the confusion it aims to express.

What the song sees  and what it cannot

Karmageddon contains some truths. Pharmaceutical monopolies earned huge profits during the pandemic. Millions lost their lives. Working people bore the cost of inflation while billionaires’ wealth increased. Israel’s attack on Gaza, supported by Washington, London, and Canberra, is a clear genocide. A pop song referencing this is significant.

However, the song’s structure centres on the frustrations of the middle class rather than the working class. It never mentions ‘class,’ ‘capitalism,’ or suggests that the listed catastrophes have a common origin in a social system driven by private profit. Instead, it blames a changing group of “elites,” “the media,” and corrupt institutions, framing the problem as a simple plot.

This is crucial. Laboratories or vaccines did not mainly cause the pandemic’s widespread fatalities. Instead, they resulted from a calculated strategy embraced by governments across the spectrum: reopening workplaces and schools to let the virus spread so profits could continue. The anti-mandate and anti-vaccine movement that Karmageddon highlights did not oppose this strategy; rather, it vocally supported it on the streets, calling for the termination of all public health measures in the name of “freedom.”

The song’s professed even‑handedness between “left” and “right” serves the same function. To treat the official liberal establishment and the extreme right as two equal irritants on a phone screen is to leave the field open to the latter. Hence the spectacle of Students for Trump circulating a song denouncing a genocide their own patrons are financing.

Why it resonates

The popularity of Karmageddon should not be dismissed. It reportedly reached the UK singles sales chart, and its clips drew millions of views. It speaks to a real and widespread mood: exhaustion, isolation, distrust of official institutions, and a sense that nothing can be done.

This mood is objective, not psychological. Inflation has eroded wages, and the pandemic shattered health systems. Across political parties- Labour in Australia, the Democrats in the U.S., Tories and Labour in Britain- there has been oversight of war, austerity, and neglect of public health. In the void left by the lack of a strong socialist alternative, right-wing demagogues fill the space with resentment instead of explanations. May’s response to the controversy, claiming “God has a plan,” highlights her limited perspective. She turns despair into resignation and faith. The narrative ends where it started: alone, scrolling, waiting.

Toward a genuinely critical art

Iyah May deserves credit for refusing to bow to her management and for naming the Gaza genocide when much of the music industry remains silent. In an environment where major labels, PR teams, and corporate sponsors exert enormous pressure to keep artists politically neutral, her insistence on retaining a single lyric is not trivial. It represents a small but real act of resistance against an industry that has spent decades depoliticising popular music and disciplining artists who step outside the narrow bounds of marketable sentiment. Artists should be free to write what they please, and the pressure brought to bear on her from managers, labels, and the right‑wing outlets that sought to appropriate her work should be opposed without qualification.

But sincerity is not enough. The great protest music of the past, from Woody Guthrie’s ballads of working-class struggle to the anti-war songs of the 1960s, drew its power from an orientation toward social forces that could change the world. Guthrie’s “union songs” were not simply expressions of outrage; they were tied to the organised movement of millions of workers fighting for wages, dignity, and democratic rights. The folk revival of the early 1960s gained its force from the civil‑rights movement, from sit‑ins, strikes, and mass demonstrations. Even the more ambivalent figures of that era, such as Bob Dylan, were shaped by a political landscape in which collective action was visible, tangible, and capable of altering the course of events. Protest music mattered because it was connected to a living struggle.

Iyah May’s refusal to alter a lyric in Karmageddon and her decision to part ways with her manager and label have been widely interpreted as an act of artistic integrity. In a music industry where political content is routinely softened, depoliticised, or buried under euphemism, her insistence on naming the Gaza genocide stands out. It is a small but genuine act of defiance: a young artist, without the protection of a major label, choosing to hold on to a political truth rather than submit to commercial pressure. Her stance is not programmatic or rooted in a coherent political worldview. Still, it is nonetheless a refusal- a moment in which an artist declines to participate in the sanitisation of reality.

Ed Sheeran’s conduct in the Macklemore affair reveals the opposite trajectory. When Macklemore was quietly dropped from Sheeran’s Loop Tour after expressing solidarity with Palestinians, Sheeran did not defend him. Instead, he retreated into the language of “inclusivity” and “different approaches to advocating for peace,” a formulation that treats genocide as a matter of tone rather than fact. His subsequent partnership with billionaire NFL owner Robert Kraft to fund a Gaza relief initiative was widely read as an attempt to launder the incident’s optics without altering its political substance. Sheeran’s camp includes figures such as Casey Wasserman, whose name has resurfaced in Epstein‑related disclosures, and whose proximity to the entertainment‑industrial complex exemplifies the dense web of corporate, political, and financial interests surrounding global pop stardom.

The contrast between May and Sheeran is not primarily one of personal courage. It is a contrast between two positions within the cultural economy. May is a marginal figure, operating without the protective scaffolding of corporate sponsorships, stadium tours, and billion‑dollar intermediaries. Her refusal cost her a manager and a label, but she had little to lose beyond that. Sheeran, by contrast, sits atop a vast commercial apparatus. His tours are financed through sponsorship webs, insurance structures, and venue contracts whose ownership interlocks with the same financial interests underwriting arms manufacturers and occupation‑linked industries. An act of conscience from an artist at that level does not merely risk a cancelled broadcast; it risks the entire machinery that a nine-figure production depends on.

This is why Sheeran behaved exactly as the apparatus around him was built to ensure he would behave. His “stand” was not a stand at all, but a performance of neutrality designed to preserve commercial relationships. May’s stand, however limited, was a genuine refusal not because she is more virtuous, but because she is less integrated into the machinery that disciplines artists into silence.

The deeper comparison lies in what each act reveals about the era. Sheeran’s capitulation expresses mainstream pop’s near-total integration into corporate and geopolitical interests. May’s refusal expresses the confused but real anger of a social layer that senses catastrophe but lacks a political outlet. One reveals the apparatus; the other reveals the vacuum.

In that sense, May’s stand, however modest, points toward the possibility of a critical art aligned with emerging working‑class struggle. Sheeran’s reveals the cultural dead end of celebrity liberalism under late capitalism.

Today, the working class is once again entering struggle internationally, from strikes across Europe and North America to mass protests against war and austerity. But this movement has not yet found clear artistic expression. Much contemporary “political” music, including Karmageddon, reflects the confusion of a social layer that senses catastrophe but cannot locate its source. It catalogues horrors without connecting them, expresses despair without pointing to agency, and gestures toward corruption without identifying capitalism as the organising principle behind the crises it describes. The result is a politics of mood rather than analysis, a protest the right can easily appropriate because it lacks a coherent orientation toward the forces capable of transforming society.

Artists who wish to speak truth about these dark times will need to look beyond the phone screen, and beyond the confused populism that Karmageddon both expresses and reinforces. The scroll, that endless stream of disconnected outrage, is itself a mechanism of political disorientation. To reproduce it is to remain trapped within it. The task of critical art is not to mirror fragmentation but to overcome it, to reveal the underlying social relations that produce war, inequality, and despair.

This requires an orientation toward the working class, the only force capable of confronting the capitalist system that generates the crises May describes. A genuinely critical art today would not simply list horrors; it would illuminate their common root and point toward collective action. It would reject the false equivalence of “left” and “right,” refuse the conspiratorial shortcuts of anti‑mandate populism, and insist that the suffering of millions is not the result of plots but of policies.

Iyah May’s defiance deserves recognition. But the path toward meaningful protest art lies not in isolated cries of distress but in aligning artistic expression with the emerging struggles of workers around the world the only ground on which despair can be transformed into clarity, and clarity into power.

Post Script

Iyah May’s Version of Wish You Were Here

Iyah May’s reinterpretation of Wish You Were Here is not simply a cover of a canonical rock lament. It translates Pink Floyd’s meditation on alienation into the fractured, crisis‑ridden landscape that shapes her own work. Where the original song mourned the psychic dislocation of the 1970s, the commodification of art, the pressures of fame, the loss of authenticity, May’s version speaks from within a world in which alienation has become total. Her performance is quieter, more intimate, and more exposed, as though she is singing not to an absent friend but to a society that has stopped recognising itself.

The most striking feature of May’s version is its emotional framing. Pink Floyd’s recording is spacious, almost resigned, its acoustic guitar lines drifting through a haze of studio ambience. May strips the song down further, reducing it to voice and minimal accompaniment. The effect is claustrophobic rather than expansive. She does not inhabit the song as a nostalgic reflection on a lost era of authenticity; she inhabits it as someone living through a present defined by fragmentation, misinformation, and political despair. The line “We’re just two lost souls…”  one of the few phrases she retains verbatim becomes less a poetic metaphor than a literal description of the social condition.

Her vocal delivery underscores this shift. Roger Waters sang the original with bitterness and weary detachment. May sings it with a tremor of exhaustion, as though the alienation described in the song is not a philosophical problem but a lived experience of scrolling through catastrophe. The emotional centre of her version is not the loss of artistic integrity but the loss of collective meaning. The “wish” in Wish You Were Here becomes a longing for clarity, solidarity, and connection in a world that has replaced all three with algorithmic noise.

This is where May’s political sensibility enters. Her version is not overtly political; she does not alter the lyrics to reference Gaza, Big Pharma, or the pandemic, but the context of her work infuses the performance. The alienation Pink Floyd described was artists’ alienation within the culture industry. The alienation May expresses is the alienation of ordinary people living through overlapping crises: war, inflation, social atomisation, and the collapse of public trust. Her delivery suggests that the missing “you” is not a person but a political horizon, a sense of collective agency eroded by decades of neoliberalism and intensified by the pandemic.

In this sense, May’s version is a companion piece to Karmageddon. The latter catalogues horrors without connecting them; the former mourns the absence of connection itself. Karmageddon is frantic, breathless, overwhelmed. Wish You Were Here is still, suspended, almost paralysed. Together they form a dialectic of contemporary despair: the scroll and the silence, the noise of crisis and the numbness that follows.

Yet May’s interpretation also reveals the limits of her outlook. Her performance is sincere, vulnerable, and politically charged by implication, but it remains trapped within the framework of individual lament. The song becomes a personal expression of disorientation rather than a bridge toward collective understanding. Where Pink Floyd’s original hinted at the possibility of artistic rebellion against commodification, May’s version hints at resignation, a longing for someone, or something, that is not coming.

Still, her rendition matters. It shows how a younger artist, shaped by pandemic trauma and political confusion, hears one of the great songs of alienation. It is not a reinvention but a reframing: Wish You Were Here as sung from inside the crisis rather than after it. In doing so, May reveals both the depth of contemporary despair and the need for an artistic orientation that moves beyond lament toward clarity and struggle.

1. Northern Exposure: “Iyah May, When a Reel Becomes a Reckoning”

Core argument

This article presents Iyah May’s viral Instagram reel in which she explains that her manager tried to censor references to Big Pharma, genocide, and cancel culture as a moment of political rupture. The author frames May’s refusal not merely as a personal stand but as a movement, a disruption of the culture industry’s demand for silence and compliance.

Political framing

  • May’s art is described as diagnostic: a reading of a world afflicted by misinformation, distraction, and systemic rot.
  • Her refusal to “water down” her lyrics is treated as a manifesto against censorship and corporate control.
  • The article emphasises her background as a frontline doctor, arguing that her political clarity comes from lived experience rather than ideology.

Significance

The piece positions May as a figure whose authenticity and refusal to self‑censor resonate with audiences disillusioned by institutional dishonesty. It is her most explicitly political profile to date.

2. Grokipedia: “Iyah May” (Fact‑checked profile)

Core argument

This encyclopaedic entry situates May’s politics within her dual identity as a doctor and independent musician. It emphasises her commitment to “uncompromised artistry” and her willingness to confront political division, media manipulation, corporate greed, and genocide.

Political framing

  • Karmageddon is described as a protest song addressing political division, media manipulation, corporate greed, and the Gaza genocide.
  • The article stresses that she refused to modify the song despite pressure, framing her stance as a principled rejection of commercial sanitisation.
  • Her politics are presented as emerging from a blend of faith, truth‑telling, and accountability rather than formal ideological alignment.

Significance

This profile helps explain how May’s political identity is being codified in public reference sources: as a doctor‑artist whose work is shaped by crisis, empathy, and resistance to institutional narratives.

3. The Nordic Times: “Iyah May shakes up the music world with her fearless social commentary”

Core argument

This article frames Karmageddon as a socially critical intervention that “stirred the pot” by addressing political division, corporate greed, and public apathy. It emphasises her medical background and her experience on the COVID frontlines as central to her artistic worldview.

Political framing

  • May’s critique of corporate greed and political division is foregrounded.
  • Her refusal to alter lyrics is presented as a decisive break with her manager and a turning point in her career.
  • The article highlights her dual role as doctor and musician, suggesting that her political clarity comes from witnessing institutional failure firsthand.

Destroy AI? Luddism Dressed as Socialism

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Tribune’s recent call to “destroy” artificial intelligence reveals a concerning trend. It reflects growing pessimism among parts of the modern left, which views technological progress not as a tool for human emancipation but as a threat to be feared, opposed, and ultimately eliminated. Although Matthew Cole’s article employs radical language, it ultimately channels valid concerns into a reactionary dead end. It highlights genuine social and environmental issues like the carbon emissions from data centres, the extraction of minerals in the Global South, the concentration of computation in American monopolies, and the British government’s tendency to give land and water to tech oligarchs. It blames not the capitalist elite responsible, but the productive forces themselves.[1]

This is not socialism; it is despair- a despair that Marx examined over 150 years ago. In Capital, Marx scrutinised the Luddite movement and emphasised a key point: workers should distinguish between machinery itself and how capital uses it. Machines are not inherently neutral or oppressive; they become tools of exploitation only if controlled by capital. Cole reverses this, viewing AI as inherently destructive, as if the technology alone causes social problems rather than the capitalist system governing its development and application. This mistake leads him to connect struggles from the Luddites to the Writers Guild of America, implying machine-breaking and modern trade unionism share the same strategy. They do not. The Luddites were defeated, but the machines remained. What improved workers’ conditions was not smashing the looms, but the rise of organised labour capable of negotiating over the wealth these machines created. To revive Luddism is to reject the very history that gave birth to the socialist movement.

Cole’s claim that AI differs from railways, electrification, or industrialisation because it offers no tangible benefit is simply inaccurate. Historically, major infrastructure projects under capitalism have involved bloodshed: railways were built through colonial conquest, with slave-grown cotton, and during famines in India. Electrification benefited monopolies and increased factory exploitation. Industrialisation destroyed artisanal trades and displaced communities. However, the socialist movement never called for dismantling railways or banning electricity; instead, it aimed to socialise these systems. The true enemy is capitalism, not the productive forces.

Cole’s dismissal of AI’s usefulness overlooks the facts. Even within capitalism, machine learning is already employed in protein structure prediction, medical diagnostics, weather forecasts, climate models, materials science, and drug development- significant applications that represent technological progress with substantial benefits for humanity. However, these are often used for profit, surveillance, or military purposes. In a socialist system, such technologies could reduce working hours, eliminate monotonous labour, and enable more rational production planning. The real contradiction isn’t the technology itself but private ownership of the means of production and the existence of competing nation-states.

Cole’s evidentiary claims fall apart under close examination. He references a small MIT preprint to argue that AI is “retarding our brains,” but this study, with only 54 participants, cannot support broad civilizational claims. He also blames AI for falling OECD PISA scores, even though the tests were conducted before ChatGPT was available. The OECD links the score decline to pandemic-related school closures, a consequence of the ruling class’s negligent response to COVID-19, which kept workers employed while children lost years of education. His claims about carbon emissions are inconsistent: he states that the “global data cloud” emits more carbon than aviation but cites figures far below aviation’s actual footprint. While data centres do contribute to environmental harm, addressing this issue requires careful analysis rather than rhetorical exaggeration.

When Cole discusses strategy, his political class character becomes evident. He endorses anarchist sabotage, such as arson attacks on Tesla facilities and tactics like data poisoning and misinformation traps. Historically, the Marxist movement opposes such reckless actions, as they replace mass struggle with individual acts, risk provoking state repression, and leave ownership structures unchallenged. These acts also demonstrate disdain for the working class. Cole then suggests a state-led approach to dismantle data infrastructure, but given that the Labour government is influenced by finance capital and U.S. tech giants, expecting it to dismantle its own infrastructure is unrealistic. His notion of “digital sovereignty” overlooks the global nature of technology resources, from Brazil and Colombia to Kazakhstan and Taiwan’s manufacturing. No single nation can “decompute” a worldwide system; only the international working class can seize control of these productive forces.

Workers involved in building data centres, mining cobalt, labelling training data, assembling GPUs, and dismantling e-waste are not foes of technology; they are its creators. The socialist vision is not about destroying, but about expropriating: bringing tech giants like OpenAI, Anthropic, Amazon, Microsoft, and Palantir under public ownership and democratic workers’ control. Only through this can decisions about energy, water, land, and automation serve social needs instead of private profits. Like previous technological leaps, the potential of AI must be freed from capitalist ownership, not destroyed.

Cole’s article highlights a common pattern among the academic middle class: blaming social problems on productive forces instead of capitalist relations. It offers workers nostalgia instead of actionable strategies, advocates sabotage over organisation, and induces moral panic rather than critical analysis. This approach is not socialism; it is a retreat. It adopts a politics that attributes alienation to the machine rather than to the capitalist owner. Moreover, it fears the future instead of trying to control it.

The reality is that artificial intelligence, much like previous major technological advances, embodies a contradictory force. In a capitalist system, it often amplifies exploitation, reduces jobs, and supports warfare. Conversely, in a socialist framework, it can shorten working hours, remove monotonous tasks, and enhance human freedom. The core contradiction does not lie in the technology itself but in the social relationships that regulate its use. To eliminate AI is also to eliminate the chance of using it as a tool for human emancipation.

The socialist movement has consistently believed that the productive forces developed under capitalism, such as railways, electricity, industrial machinery, and computing, should be seized rather than destroyed. The goal is to advance modernity, not retreat from it. The working class must take control of these technologies to build a society centred on human needs rather than private profit. Cole’s call to “destroy AI” is therefore not a radical departure from capitalism but a surrender to it. It adopts the capitalist view that technology is inherently oppressive and that workers are powerless against it. It provides no plan for workers, no strategy for expropriation, and no vision of a socialist future. It only spreads fear.

WSWS Articles on Artificial Intelligence (AI)

A curated list with summaries

1. “The class issues in artificial intelligence”

A foundational WSWS analysis arguing that AI is not an autonomous threat but a product of capitalist social relations. It emphasises that the danger lies in private ownership, militarisation, and exploitation — not in the technology itself.

2. “Artificial intelligence and the future of work”

Examines how corporations use automation and machine learning to intensify exploitation, cut jobs, and suppress wages. Argues that AI could shorten the working day under socialism but is weaponised under capitalism.

3. “The militarisation of AI: US imperialism’s new frontier”

Discusses Pentagon and NATO investment in autonomous weapons, battlefield analytics, and surveillance systems. Frames AI as a central component of the drive toward world war.

4. “Tech layoffs and the restructuring of the global workforce”

Analyses mass layoffs at Google, Amazon, Meta, and Microsoft, linking them to automation, shareholder pressure, and the broader crisis of capitalism.

5. “The environmental cost of data centres: capitalism’s irrationality”

Explores water usage, energy consumption, and land grabs associated with hyperscale data centres. Argues that these problems stem from anarchic capitalist competition, not from computing itself.

6. “AI, surveillance, and the police state”

Covers the use of machine learning in predictive policing, biometric surveillance, and border control. Shows how governments deploy AI to suppress dissent and monitor populations.

7. “The Writers Guild strike and the question of AI”

Analyses Hollywood’s labour struggle, arguing that the WGA’s concerns about AI reflect broader contradictions between creative labour and corporate control of technology.

8. “ChatGPT and the crisis of bourgeois ideology”

A theoretical piece exploring how large language models expose the intellectual bankruptcy of academia and the media, while also revealing the enormous potential of automated knowledge systems.

9. “The global semiconductor supply chain and the drive to war”

Examines TSMC, Nvidia, ASML, and US–China rivalry. Shows how AI hardware is inseparable from imperialist conflict.

10. “Artificial intelligence and education: A capitalist catastrophe”

Discusses the use of AI in schools, testing regimes, and ed‑tech platforms. Argues that the crisis in education stems from austerity and privatisation, not from AI tools.

11. “The myth of ‘ethical AI’: Capitalism cannot be regulated”

Critiques liberal calls for AI regulation, arguing that no ethical framework can restrain profit-driven corporations or imperialist states.

12. “Automation, productivity, and the socialist reorganisation of society”

A programmatic article explaining how AI and robotics could eliminate drudgery, shorten the working day, and enable planned production — but only under workers’ control.

[1] https://tribunemag.co.uk/2026/09/destroy-ai

Earl Spencer’s Swan Song: The Aristocrat as Historian of His Own Class

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Swan Song is a memoir that presents a moral story of truth versus power through a feud within Britain’s aristocracy. Charles Spencer, the 9th Earl Spencer, has dedicated twenty years to shaping his image as a “popular historian.” His books on subjects such as Blenheim, Prince Rupert, the regicides of Charles I, and the White Ship disaster are marketed as accessible history. However, they primarily function as aristocratic self-promotions, portraying history as a form of class autobiography. His newest book, Swan Song: Diana, My Sister, published by Michael Joseph on September 22, represents the culmination of this approach. Released to mark the 30th anniversary of Diana’s death and translated into twelve languages, it seeks not only to honour his sister’s memory but also to reinforce the Spencer family’s place in the national myth.

The media have focused on the book’s assertions about the House of Windsor. Spencer claims that Prince Charles, before the wedding, admitted he did not love Diana; that she tried to cancel the engagement after finding a bracelet meant for Camilla; and that Charles appeared “giddily elated” after Diana’s death. He recalls a phone call where Charles allegedly said the family would “soon forget her” when Spencer protested William and Harry walking behind the coffin. Buckingham Palace’s response was formal: it does not comment on books, but the King said he understood how grief could affect reason and memory. These are the subtle hostilities among Britain’s elite, an aristocratic tone expressing disdain for one’s own kind.

The truth of these phone calls isn’t the main focus; instead, the emphasis is on the approach. Spencer presents a view of history where the Spencer family, especially Diana, embody progress, humanity, and truth. They are contrasted with the Windsors, “the Establishment,” and “a barbaric press.” This is more a morality play than a historical account. The memoir is based on the idea that private conflicts within Britain’s hereditary elite form the core of national history, with society shown only as tear-stained crowds supporting a feud among the ruling class.

This approach is intentional, rooted in a tradition of aristocratic historiography. Herbert Butterfield, in 1931, identified the “Whig interpretation of history” as a method that evaluates the past using present standards, portraying history as a progression toward enlightened liberty. It highlights heroes who advanced the nation and villains who opposed it, often flattering victors while hiding the social forces that shaped events. The term ‘Spencer’ is nearly literal here; the Spencers of Althorp were prominent Whig families of the 18th and 19th centuries. John Charles Spencer, Viscount Althorp, helped pass the 1832 Great Reform Act, extending suffrage to connect the industrial bourgeoisie with the landed aristocracy while excluding the working class that pushed for reform. Whiggism typically involved reform from above by enlightened elites, avoiding any fundamental change.

Swan Song situates Diana within that traditional narrative. As the publisher states, Spencer depicts her as an advocate for the marginalised, loyal to her sons, and isolated as her marriage shattered under media pressure. She is portrayed as a progressive force within a rigid institution, an aristocrat who brought humanity to the Crown. This myth gained traction in the week following her death in 1997. Tony Blair’s New Labour government embraced it wholeheartedly. Blair’s term “the People’s Princess” served a strategic political purpose: it redirected public discontent from the Thatcher-Major era into sentimental attachment to a royal figure, helping the monarchy recover after losing public trust. However, New Labour then intensified social inequalities that had fuelled that dissatisfaction.

Spencer does not challenge this myth; instead, he aims to be acknowledged as its proper guardian. He says he writes to preserve his personal memories rather than spread “untruths” repeated over time, and to represent his sister positively, as he did in his 1997 eulogy. The Whig aristocrat once more takes on the role of the nation’s moral guide.

The memoir reads like a family saga: nannies, boarding schools, divorces, a bracelet, and a phone call. Spencer even suggests that his father had a romantic link with young Princess Elizabeth, supposedly cut short by Lord Mountbatten. The entrenched bloodlines of Britain’s hereditary elite are presented as history’s natural focus. Spencer does not question the purpose of the monarchy, which stands at the top of an unelected state structure, a holder of reserve powers, and a symbol of social hierarchy, all funded by the public. He also overlooks what the aristocracy signifies in a nation where millions depend on food banks, yet estates like Althorp stay within a single family by birthright. For a Whig historian, these are not questions; the only concern is which aristocrats acted decently.

The same perspective shapes Spencer’s critique of the press. The tabloid chase after Diana was intense and degrading. However, the Murdoch and Mirror media outlets were not outsiders opposing the aristocracy; instead, they were key parts of the ruling class, benefiting from and supporting the monarchy as a commercial show. Spencer’s claim that Piers Morgan was behind the covert gym photos of Diana quickly fell apart. Morgan proved that the Sunday Mirror published these photos in 1993, nearly two years before Morgan took over the Daily Mirror. Spencer apologised, and Penguin promised to update future editions. Despite this, Morgan is still pursuing legal action, seeking damages from the King’s Trust. A fitting ending: a former tabloid editor suing an earl, with the money going to a royal charity.

The response to Swan Song has been predictable. Royalist media support the King, while liberal outlets criticise the book as indulgent and vindictive. Both sides accept that the personal grievances of the Spencers and Windsors are of national concern. For ordinary people, however, the message differs: Spencer’s Whig history argues for reforming aristocratic behaviour. The goal isn’t to choose between the House of Spencer and the House of Windsor, but to eliminate the social structure that keeps both in power.

A Whig in More Than One Sense

Herbert Butterfield’s 1931 critique of the “Whig interpretation of history” pointed out a method that evaluates the past using present-day standards, portraying history as a progression toward enlightened liberty. Its heroes are those who allegedly advanced the nation, while villains are those who opposed them. This approach favours victors and hides the social forces that actually influenced events. With Spencer, the name is almost literal. The Spencers of Althorp belonged to the prominent Whig families of the 18th and 19th centuries. John Charles Spencer, Viscount Althorp, played a key role in passing the Great Reform Act of 1832, a law that expanded the vote just enough to connect the industrial bourgeoisie with the landowning aristocracy, while excluding the working class that demanded reform. Whiggism consistently favoured reform from above, carried out by enlightened elites, resulting in little real change.

Swan Song positions Diana within a traditional framework. The publisher states that Spencer depicts her as a champion of the marginalised, committed to her sons, and desperately lonely as her marriage unravelled under media pressure. She emerges as a modernising influence within the stubborn aristocratic institution, the noble who humanised the Crown. This narrative emerged in the week after she died in 1997. Tony Blair’s New Labour embraced it wholeheartedly. Blair’s term “the People’s Princess” served a strategic political purpose: it redirected public dissatisfaction from the Thatcher-Major era into sentimental sympathy for a royal family member, helping the monarchy recover from disrepute. Subsequently, New Labour further entrenched the social inequalities that fuelled that discontent.

Spencer doesn’t challenge this myth; instead, he seeks recognition as its legitimate guardian. He states that his writing is intended to preserve his personal memories rather than to perpetuate “untruths” that persist through time, and to represent his sister in the “openly positive way” he did during his 1997 eulogy. Once more, the Whig aristocrat adopts the role of the nation’s moral authority.

History Without Classes

As previously mentioned, the book’s historical narrative revolves around a family saga. These stories are more than details; they form the heart of Spencer’s view of history. He emphasises the rival bloodlines within Britain’s aristocratic elite, viewing private family conflicts as the main factor shaping the nation’s progress. The wider society is depicted merely as tearful crowds at Westminster Abbey, acting as emotional backing for the internal conflicts among the ruling class.

His book examines history without social context. Spencer does not inquire about the purpose of the monarchy. It isn’t merely scenic background for aristocratic feelings; it represents the top of an unelected government structure, holding reserve powers and symbolising social hierarchy, all funded heavily by the public. The Crown remains vital to the constitutional framework: the armed forces pledge allegiance, governments derive authority from it, and its powers can be used in emergencies. However, in Swan Song, the monarchy is depicted as a dysfunctional family whose emotional flaws explain its public function. Spencer’s account simplifies a centuries-old class institution into a melodramatic tale of emotional woundedness.

He also overlooks what the aristocracy truly symbolises in a nation where millions depend on food banks, child poverty is on the rise, and estates like Althorp are owned by a single family by birthright. The Spencer estate isn’t just a scenic setting for televised funerals; it exemplifies Britain’s persistent system of hereditary wealth, landownership, and privilege. The aristocracy still owns large areas of land, protected by trusts, tax breaks, and political influence. However, for Spencer, the only relevant question is which aristocrats behaved decently. He ignores the underlying role of his own class- their historical function, economic power, and political influence. This reflects a form of Whig history: reform from the top, virtue shown by enlightened elites, and the belief that the ruling class naturally leads national progress.

Spencer’s critique of the press is rooted in the same perspective. The tabloids’ obsession with Diana was intense, degrading, and often harsh. However, the Murdoch and Mirror outlets were not outsiders attacking the aristocracy; they were part of the same ruling elite. These tabloids gained financially from the monarchy as a public spectacle, turning royal lives into commodities that boosted sales and advertising income. Their relationship with the Crown was mutually beneficial: they heightened the monarchy’s mystique, sensationalised its crises, and helped sustain its cultural importance. Spencer’s depiction of the press as a barbaric external enemy hides this truth. It’s a convenient narrative that portrays Diana and, by extension, the Spencer family as victims of a predatory media, rather than acknowledging their role in a system of elite power that reinforces itself.

His assertion that Piers Morgan was responsible for publishing secret gym photos of Diana fell apart within days. Morgan showed that the Sunday Mirror published the images in 1993, nearly two years before he was editor of the Daily Mirror. Spencer apologised; Penguin promised to update later editions. However, Morgan continues to pursue legal action and seeks damages from the King’s Trust. The situation paints a near-perfect picture: a former tabloid editor suing an earl, with the proceeds going to a royal charity. It offers a small-scale view of Britain’s elite: a loop of aristocrats, media magnates, and royal institutions, each defending their interests while publicly claiming to uphold truth, decency, or history.

In Swan Song, Spencer focuses not on history itself but on urging moral judgment among the elite. His story prompts readers to pick sides between the House of Spencer and the House of Windsor, emphasising a choice between different aristocratic lineages. It presumes that the private conflicts of hereditary families matter nationally, treating the emotional lives of the ruling class as valid subjects of historical study. Moreover, it encourages the public to rally behind one elite faction over another, as if the country’s future hinges on which aristocrats show greater kindness. However, for working people, the message differs: simply attributing human qualities to the monarchy won’t make it more humane, nor will better manners redeem the aristocracy. Spencer’s Whig history acts as a sentimental defence of a social order that remains inherently unequal. The real goal is not to pick between competing aristocratic houses but to abolish the system that upholds them both.

A Feud Within the Elite

The reception of Swan Song has been predictably divided. The royalist media supports the King, viewing Spencer’s memoir as an unwelcome interruption to the monarchy’s carefully controlled emotional narrative. Their reviews often sound paternalistic: they see Spencer as a grieving brother misled by sentiment, while the King is praised for his stoic restraint. The underlying message is that the monarchy must stay above conflict, safeguard its dignity, and hide internal disputes from public view. Even challenges from within the aristocracy are seen as threats to the institution’s stability.

The liberal press has adopted the opposite stance, yet they reach the same conclusion. The Guardian called the book a heated exercise in settling scores, while the Telegraph labelled it a tribute to Spencer’s ego. These critiques are accurate but superficial, focusing on Spencer’s personality rather than the social role of his narrative. They see the memoir as a matter of taste, decorum, or emotional control failure, not as a political statement. Both sides accept the core premise: that the private issues of the Spencers and Windsors are nationally significant, that Britain’s aristocratic emotional lives warrant public scrutiny, and that the political landscape should remain centred on a ruling class whose authority is neither elected nor accountable.

This consensus itself reveals a lot. It shows how the monarchy remains the ideological core of British national identity, despite increasing social upheaval. The media’s focus on Spencer’s memoir, whether sympathetic or critical, strengthens the notion that the nation’s future depends on the actions, morals, and internal struggles of aristocratic families. This acts as a kind of political deflection. Meanwhile, the underlying realities of class hierarchy, inequality, and state power are hidden behind a narrative that turns history into a series of personal conflicts among the elite.

For working people, the lesson differs. Thirty years after Diana’s death, the cult surrounding her continues to serve the same purpose as in 1997. It depicts the monarchy as capable of becoming kinder, more modern, and more “of the people,” as long as the right personalities are in power. Diana symbolises a reformed aristocracy: compassionate, emotionally open, and sensitive to suffering, in contrast to the allegedly cold and detached Windsors. This myth was politically advantageous for New Labour, which used it to redirect popular discontent into sentimental support for the royal family. Today, it remains relevant by offering a vision of moral renewal within an institution inherently resistant to change.

Spencer’s memoir aims to revive and reaffirm that myth. His Whig history advocates a better-behaved aristocracy that maintains its privileges while adopting a more compassionate public stance. It envisions a national life in which the ruling class continues to govern, but with greater sensitivity and emotional intelligence. The political purpose of this narrative is clear: it intends to uphold the monarchy and aristocracy by portraying them as capable of self-improvement from within. The message implies that the issue lies not with the institutions themselves, but with the individuals who currently fill them.

This familiar strategy has recurred throughout British history, where the ruling class tends to respond to legitimacy crises with moral rather than structural reforms. The 1832 Great Reform Act, driven by Spencer’s ancestor, expanded voting rights just enough to align the industrial bourgeoisie with the landed aristocracy while still excluding the working class. It represented reform from above, aimed at maintaining the existing social order. Likewise, Spencer’s memoir continues this tradition by advocating emotional reforms such as a kinder monarchy and a more empathetic aristocracy as alternatives to genuine political change.

The challenge for the working class is not to choose between the House of Spencer and the House of Windsor, nor to rely on either’s moral reform. The monarchy represents the peak of a social system founded on inequality, respect, and inherited privileges. It is not merely a collection of colourful figures; it embodies a class whose wealth and power stem from centuries of landownership, exploitation, and political control. Media focus on their personal issues distracts from Britain’s real social problems, where millions face rising costs, failing public services, and growing insecurity.

Abolishing the monarchy and aristocracy isn’t simply a matter of cultural preference or republican loyalty. It’s an essential move to dismantle a social system that centralises power in unelected bodies, hides wealth through hereditary privilege, and uses national myths to mask class divisions. Spencer’s memoir, despite its emotional appeal, advocates for maintaining this social order. It encourages the public to sympathise with one faction of the elite over another, to believe in the moral integrity of aristocrats, and to accept the monarchy as an enduring part of national identity.

Academic‑Style Articles, Reviews & Critical Sources

1. Media and Cultural Analyses of Swan Song

These sources offer critical commentary on Spencer’s memoir, its claims, and its reception, helping situa the book within contemporary debates about monarchy, memory, and elite self‑representation.

  • LBC – “All the claims from Charles Spencer’s Diana book, Swan Song” A detailed summary of Spencer’s allegations, including the claim that Charles was “giddily elated” after Diana’s death and the dispute over funeral arrangements.
  • Yahoo News UK – “Swan Song by Charles Spencer review: Revenge dish is even better aged 30 years” A critical review highlighting the book’s “plum pudding of revelations,” its score‑settling tone, and Spencer’s recounting of aristocratic anecdotes such as his father’s alleged romance with Princess Elizabeth.
  • The Telegraph – “Charles Spencer’s book isn’t about Diana. It’s a monument to his ego” A strongly negative review arguing that the memoir is primarily self‑aggrandising, with extensive discussion of Spencer’s attacks on King Charles and the book’s broader tone.
  • HELLO! – “Charles Spencer apologises to Piers Morgan over inaccuracy in Princess Diana memoir” Documents Spencer’s apology to Piers Morgan and outlines the legal dispute over claims regarding covert photographs of Diana. Useful for analysing the book’s factual reliability and the politics of royal journalism.
  • Yahoo News UK – “Unpacking the Drama Between King Charles and Princess Diana’s Brother Over ‘Swan Song’” Provides context for Spencer’s long‑standing conflict with King Charles and situates the memoir within the broader history of Diana’s marriage, media treatment, and posthumous mythmaking.
  • Taylor Tailored – “Swan Song By Charles Spencer Explained: Diana, King Charles And The Legal Fallout” A long-form interpretive essay examining Spencer’s stated motivations, the tension between memory and verifiable history, and the book’s position within the politics of royal narrative control.
  • UnHerd – “Aposhcalypse Now: Charles Spencer has forgotten what duty means” A cultural‑political critique situating Spencer within the decadence of Britain’s ruling class and interrogating his invocation of “duty” as a historical and moral category.

📖 Scholarly Context: Historiography, Memory, and Elite Narrative

While not directly about Spencer, the following academic source is relevant for framing his memoir within broader debates about narrative construction, meaning, and the tension between personal memory and historical method:

  • Robert Champigny, “The ‘Swan’ and the Question of Pure Poetry,” L’Esprit Créateur. Although focused on poetic semantics, Champigny’s analysis of how meaning is constructed through tension between prosaic context and aesthetic form provides a useful theoretical lens for understanding Spencer’s memoir as a literary artefact shaped by selective memory and emotional narrative.

📚 Annotated Bibliography (Academic Format)

Primary Source

Spencer, Charles. Swan Song: Diana, My Sister. Penguin Michael Joseph / Penguin Press, 2026. Spencer’s tenth book and first full-length memoir about his relationship with Diana. The text blends personal recollection with political grievance, offering a subjective account of Diana’s life, death, and treatment by the monarchy and press. The book’s reliance on unverifiable private conversations has generated controversy and legal challenges.

Secondary Sources: Reviews & Commentary

Mata, William. “All the claims from Charles Spencer’s Diana book, Swan Song.” LBC, 21 Sept. 2026. Summarises Spencer’s major allegations and the Palace’s response, framing the memoir as a catalyst for renewed royal controversy.

McDonagh, Melanie. “Swan Song by Charles Spencer review: Revenge dish is even better aged 30 years.” Yahoo News UK, 22 Sept. 2026. A critical review emphasising the memoir’s score‑settling tone and its reliance on aristocratic anecdote.

Singh, Anita. “Charles Spencer’s book isn’t about Diana. It’s a monument to his ego.” The Telegraph, 21 Sept. 2026. Argues that Spencer’s memoir is primarily self‑serving, with extensive criticism of its portrayal of King Charles.

Dye, Eleanor. “Charles Spencer apologises to Piers Morgan over inaccuracy in Princess Diana memoir.” HELLO!, 22 Sept. 2026. Documents the factual dispute between Spencer and Morgan, highlighting issues of credibility and historical accuracy.

Bujnosek, Bailey. “Unpacking the Drama Between King Charles and Princess Diana’s Brother Over ‘Swan Song’.” Yahoo News UK, 18 Sept. 2026. Provides historical context for Spencer’s grievances and the Palace’s rare public response.

Taylor Tailored Editorial Team. “Swan Song By Charles Spencer Explained: Diana, King Charles And The Legal Fallout.” A long-form interpretive analysis of Spencer’s motivations, the memoir’s evidentiary limits, and its political implications.

Harrington, Mary. “Aposhcalypse Now.” UnHerd. A cultural critique situating Spencer within the decadence of Britain’s post‑imperial aristocracy and interrogating his invocation of “duty.”

Theoretical / Historiographical Context

Champigny, Robert. “The ‘Swan’ and the Question of Pure Poetry.” L’Esprit Créateur, Vol. I, No. 3. Explores the tension between prosaic meaning and aesthetic form, a useful theoretical analogue for analysing Spencer’s memoir as a selective, emotionally charged narrative rather than a historical reconstruction.

The Cromwells as a “Dynasty”: A Family History That Cannot See the Revolution: A review of The House of Cromwell: Power, Family and the Making of Modern Britain by Miranda Malins (William Collins, 2026)

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The English Revolution still causes significant unease among the British establishment nearly four centuries later. The monarchy abolished in 1649 was quickly restored, the republic removed from history, and Oliver Cromwell’s image flattened into a mere caricature of a killjoy who “cancelled Christmas.” The most transformative decade in English history has been domesticated, diminished, and pushed to the sidelines of national memory.

Notably, a new major history of the Cromwells portrays them not as agents of social upheaval but as a “dynasty”: a family like the Tudors or Stuarts, driven by marriage, ambition, and inheritance. This framing is more than a narrative choice; it signals a broader ideological shift in current historiography, moving away from class, revolution, and social struggle toward a focus on the personal, domestic, and genealogical.

Miranda Malins, trustee of the Cromwell Association and author of two historical novels about Cromwell’s daughters, has embarked on a truly ambitious project. The House of Cromwell: Power, Family and the Making of Modern Britain explores the family lineage over two centuries, connecting Thomas Cromwell, Henry VIII’s chief minister, with his distant relative Oliver, and tracing their family from a Putney brewhouse to the heights of political influence and back. The research is extensive; Diarmaid MacCulloch, a leading biographer of Thomas Cromwell, has praised the book warmly. Its focus on the family’s women, a group often overlooked by historians, will attract many readers and undoubtedly add depth to the biography.

The book’s core idea, highlighted in its subtitle and throughout its promotion, is that “family mattered above all else,” emphasising that understanding the Cromwells requires understanding their family. However, this premise needs to be challenged. While family ties certainly influenced Thomas, Oliver, and others, genealogy alone cannot fully explain their historical importance. Instead, their significance stems from their roles in the revolutionary changes in English society. Viewing the Crawleys as a “dynasty” swaps cause and effect: their family connections gained historical importance because they were linked to the emergence of a new social class, not because the family held inherent political power.

The irony of the Putney connection highlights the core issue. Putney, Thomas Cromwell’s birthplace, was also the site of the 1647 Putney Debates. During these debates, ordinary soldiers and Leveller leaders challenged army leaders Oliver Cromwell and his son-in-law Henry Ireton about the nation’s future. Colonel Thomas Rainsborough declared that “the poorest he that is in England hath a life to live, as the greatest he,” which Ireton countered by arguing that political rights depend on “a permanent fixed interest in this kingdom,” meaning property. In that church on the Thames, the revolution’s class conflicts were revealed. Whatever the Ireton–Cromwell marriage’s other implications, it was fundamentally a political alliance of the propertied class versus the common people who fought.

Viewing Ireton mainly as a son-in-law, rather than as the leading theorist challenging bourgeois property, reduces the revolution to mere family drama. It shifts the focus from sovereignty, representation, and property to domestic stability. The Cromwells did not transform Britain solely through family ties; rather, their family connections gained historical significance because they were linked to the rise of a new social order.

Malins’s framing faces a key problem. While a connection exists between Thomas Cromwell and Oliver Cromwell, it is not a direct family line. Instead, it reflects broader shifts in property relations such as the dissolution of monasteries, the rise of the gentry and merchant classes, the expansion of capitalist agriculture, the assertion of parliamentary authority, and the revolutionary end of feudal absolutism. Reducing this history to a story about a “house” or “dynasty” misses the very processes that made the Cromwells historically significant.

Putney: The Forgotten Battleground of Class

The connection to Putney carries a poignant, revealing irony. Although Putney was Thomas Cromwell’s birthplace, it also witnessed one of England’s most remarkable political clashes. In the autumn of 1647, at St Mary’s parish church by the Thames, ordinary soldiers of the New Model Army and their Leveller leaders faced off against the army’s elite, including Oliver Cromwell and his son-in-law Henry Ireton, as they debated the country’s future constitution. The Putney Debates were not typical family discussions; they exposed the revolution’s profound social conflicts, with those who fought for Parliament questioning whether victory would serve them or the propertied classes leading them.

Colonel Thomas Rainsborough’s statement that “the poorest he that is in England hath a life to live, as the greatest he” stands as one of the most radical expressions of democratic ideals in English history. This was not simply rhetorical; it reflected the hopes of thousands of soldiers, artisans, apprentices, and small producers who believed that toppling the king would bring about a change in political rights. They called for a voice in the nation proportional to their sacrifices. They insisted that political power must be based on the consent of everyone living under the government, not just landowners.

Ireton’s response was just as definitive. He asserted that political rights should be based on a lasting stake in the country, namely, property. Allowing those without land to vote would threaten the social order’s core, risking “anarchy,” “confusion,” and the downfall of the propertied classes. According to Ireton, the revolution wasn’t a push for democracy but rather a safeguard for property against the threat of popular sovereignty.

In that church, the revolution’s sharp class conflicts were exposed. The Levellers expressed the era’s most progressive democratic hopes. At the same time, the grandees defended their own interests: gentry, merchants, and rising landlords whose ascent had been driven by social changes Thomas Cromwell had initiated a century earlier. Beyond its political implications, the Ireton–Cromwell marriage symbolised an alliance between the revolution’s propertied class and the ruling elite, against the common people who had fought the battles.

The framing of The House of Cromwell is fundamentally misleading because it portrays Ireton mainly as a son-in-law rather than as the key theorist defending bourgeois property against the Levellers. This reverses cause and effect, reducing the revolution to a domestic story. It shifts focus from the battles over sovereignty, representation, and class power to family continuity. The Cromwells did not transform Britain simply through family ties; rather, their family bonds gained significance because they were linked to the emergence of a new social class.

Viewing the Cromwells as a “dynasty” misses the core point. Dynasties only matter when political power is passed down through hereditary succession. The Cromwells were significant because they disrupted this inheritance, not because of family ties. Oliver Cromwell’s authority stemmed from the organised strength of the New Model Army, a force made up mainly of men with no lasting vested interest in the kingdom. His power arose from a revolutionary upheaval, not from inheritance or lineage.

The Putney Debates highlight the folly of viewing the Cromwells as a family on par with the Tudors or Stuarts; unlike the hereditary rule of the Tudors and Stuarts, the Cromwells governed out of revolutionary necessity. Oliver’s refusal of the crown in 1657 and the Protectorate’s quick collapse after his son Richard’s brief rule show that the Cromwells were not a dynasty, but a temporary manifestation of class struggle that couldn’t be stabilised through hereditary succession. Once the immediate revolutionary threat was over, the bourgeoisie preferred restoring a monarchy they could control rather than risking a mobilised army and a politicised population.

Reducing this process to a “house” or “dynasty” story obscures the forces that made the Cromwells historically important. It shifts the focus from revolutionary change in English society to family drama, replacing class analysis with genealogy, political conflict with domestic stories, and revolutionary ruptures with familial ties.

The Putney Debates highlight that the English Revolution was not merely a family story. It centred on political power, property rights, and the rights of common people. Grasping the Cromwells is essential to understanding the revolution itself. Viewing them as a dynasty, however, risks obscuring the broader revolutionary significance.

Thomas Cromwell and the Transformation of Property

Thomas Cromwell’s career clearly exemplifies this. The dissolution of the monasteries, which he carried out with a harshness that even some of his peers found shocking, represented the largest transfer of land in English history before the Revolution. It was more than an administrative change or Tudor state-building; it caused social upheaval. In less than ten years, nearly a quarter of England’s land shifted from church ownership to secular control. The winners were not the traditional feudal aristocracy but the emerging gentry, merchants, lawyers, and city investors, who bought monastic lands cheaply and turned them into successful agricultural and commercial ventures.

This redistribution of land established the social class that would dominate English politics for the next century: landlords, commercial farmers, and London trading interests. It hastened the decline of feudal tenures, promoted market-focused agriculture, and strengthened the class whose interests would later influence Parliament and the New Model Army. Essentially, the dissolution served as the beginning of the bourgeois revolution. It transformed the economic landscape, eroded the foundations of the old order, and empowered the groups poised to challenge royal absolutism in the 1640s.

Understanding Thomas Cromwell’s importance involves grasping the shift in property relations. His policies not only enriched select families but also reshaped England’s class dynamics. The new landowners- many minor gentry or driven urban figures- became the foundation of the parliamentary movement a century later. They pushed for limits on royal power, opposed arbitrary taxes, invested in trade, and adopted the Puritan ethic, blending religious discipline with economic reason. Their perspective, formed through property ownership and market competition, laid the groundwork for the ideology behind the English Revolution.

The link between Thomas and Oliver is genuine, but it lies in this shift in property relations, not in family lineage. Their connection is rooted in the social changes Thomas helped shape, and Oliver later embodied. Thomas Cromwell helped shape the developing bourgeois order, while Oliver Cromwell led it militarily and politically during a revolutionary upheaval. Thus, their bond is based on history, not ancestry.

Viewing the Cromwells as a “dynasty” misses their true significance. Dynasties are relevant when power is passed down hereditarily. However, the Cromwells were significant because they disrupted traditional hereditary rule. Thomas Cromwell advanced through talent, ambition, and the opportunities of a transforming economy. At the same time, Oliver Cromwell gained power by mobilising a revolutionary army mostly composed of those who benefited from the dissolution. Their importance lies in breaking from established lineage, not in family succession.

The dissolution of the monasteries established the social class that would later oppose the monarchy; the New Model Army was the means by which that opposition was expressed. Tracing a family line between Thomas and Oliver misses the core issue. The true division lies in the development of capitalist property relations, the rise of the gentry and merchant classes, and the revolutionary end of feudal absolutism. It is a class line, not a familial one.

The framing of The House of Cromwell is flawed because it emphasises family continuity, which obscures the social forces behind the Cromwells’ historical importance. Thomas Cromwell was influential because he altered the economic base of English society. At the same time, Oliver Cromwell was significant for leading the political and military efforts that finalised these changes; seeing them as merely a “dynasty” risks obscuring the revolutionary aspects of their contributions.

The Revolution as Bourgeois Breakthrough

Marx and Engels viewed the English Revolution as the first major bourgeois revolution of the modern era, serving as the prototype for 1789. It marked the moment when emerging capitalist forces challenged and dismantled the declining feudal absolutist structures. They saw the execution of Charles I not as a religious or personal act but as a political expression of a deep shift in property relations. This revolution laid the foundation for capitalist growth, the creation of a national market, and the rise to dominance of the propertied middle classes. Ultimately, it was the crucial break that signalled the beginning of modern Britain.

Christopher Hill, a leading Marxist historian of that era, expanded this analysis by illustrating how Cromwell’s Puritanism reflected the worldview of the emerging middle class. More than just a religious sentiment, Puritanism was the ideological lens through which the gentry, merchants, and commercial farmers viewed their role in a transforming society. Its focus on discipline, thrift, hard work, and moral self-assessment echoed the developing capitalist values. Hill argued that Cromwell’s speeches, correspondence, and actions reflected this perspective. He was not a mere mystic but a political figure representing a class whose goals included dismantling feudal privileges and establishing a state to safeguard property and maintain social order.

However, Hill emphasised that the revolution unleashed forces far beyond the ruling elites’ intentions. The Levellers pushed for political democracy, while Gerrard Winstanley’s Diggers promoted communal land ownership. The Fifth Monarchists envisioned a millenarian societal transformation. These movements were not mere fringe ideas but reflected the hopes of the common people who drove the revolution. They suggested, though perhaps only briefly, that dismantling the monarchy could bring about a deeper societal overhaul.

Cromwell responded firmly. He quelled the Leveller uprisings, notably at Burford in 1649, where soldiers demanding democratic rights were killed by their commanders. He also dismantled Winstanley’s Digger communes, which sought to cultivate common land in violation of property laws. He also enforced discipline within the New Model Army to prevent it from becoming a tool for social upheaval. These measures were consistent with his character; they stemmed from the nature of the class Cromwell represented- a class that aimed to abolish feudalism but also feared the revolutionary masses it had fueled.

Any fair assessment of Cromwell’s influence must include Ireland. The massacres at Drogheda and Wexford, along with the large-scale confiscation of Irish lands that ensued, established the long-lasting foundations of British colonial dominance. The same revolution that facilitated capitalist growth domestically also ensured the subjugation of Ireland. This wasn’t driven by personal cruelty or virtue but by the logic of a class whose expansion depended on forcibly integrating Ireland into a new imperial framework. The violence seen in Ireland encapsulates the colonial aspect of the bourgeois revolution.

In his 1925 work ‘Where Is Britain Going?’, Leon Trotsky advised Labour Party leaders to study Cromwell instead of the Fabians. He believed Cromwell understood that major historical issues are resolved through the organised power of a revolutionary class, not parliamentary tricks. Trotsky did not seek to idolise the Lord Protector, whose revolution ultimately favoured property owners, but argued that the British working class should embrace the revolutionary legacy its rulers have tried to erase. After their own revolution, the bourgeoisie spent centuries hiding its violent and upheaval-filled origins rooted in class struggle. Reclaiming the essence of the English Revolution means understanding the real Cromwell- not as a dynastic figure, but as a complex symbol of a class whose victory changed the world.

The Ideological Function of “Dynasty” History

The ongoing burial signifies a shift in how historians study and understand history. Recent decades have seen a move away from focusing solely on class struggles towards exploring personal, domestic, and identity-related aspects. This has led to detailed research that sheds light on private lives, highlights marginalised voices, and deepens our grasp of everyday experiences. However, this approach also serves an ideological purpose. By framing major social conflicts as stories of individual psychology and family drama, it downplays the role of structural forces, making revolution appear as mere costume melodrama scenes of personal and household conflicts set against a vague political background. Consequently, the English Revolution is viewed less as a fight over sovereignty, property, and class, and more as a struggle of temperaments and domestic affairs.

The comparison between Malins’s book and Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall is quite insightful. Mantel, an exceptional novelist, vividly captures Thomas Cromwell’s inner world with deep psychological nuance. However, a historian must explain facts that a novelist dramatises. Mantel’s Cromwell is engaging because he is a fictional creation, a consciousness brought to life through imagination. Conversely, Malins’s Cromwells are depicted as historical figures whose importance rests on their family continuity. This shifts the historical novel’s techniques into the realm of historical analysis. The Cromwells are portrayed as characters in a multi-generational saga rather than active participants in a revolutionary process.

The idea that the Cromwells formed a “dynasty” akin to the Tudors or Stuarts warrants careful examination. Dynasties rely on hereditary succession, passing political power through bloodlines. However, Cromwell’s period in control was characterised by the collapse of hereditary legitimacy. Oliver Cromwell’s refusal of the crown in 1657 was not just an oddity; it recognised that his authority could not be secured through monarchical traditions. His power rested on the New Model Army, the revolutionary upheaval that dismantled the old order, and the temporary alignment of class forces that enabled his leadership. It was not founded on bloodline.

The swift fall of the Protectorate under his son Richard clearly illustrates this point. Although Richard Cromwell inherited the bloodline, he lacked the political support. He lacked the army’s confidence, the backing of the property-owning classes, and the authority that came from his father’s leadership in the revolutionary victory. His downfall was not a sign of a failing dynasty; it revealed that no dynasty had been established. The Protectorate was not a hereditary government but an unstable Bonapartist-like regime, teetering between the army, the wealthy classes, and the subdued radicals. It was a regime born from revolution rather than inheritance.

After the Protectorate fell, the bourgeoisie faced a dilemma. They could try to maintain the revolutionary army as a political force, risking the Leveller traditions, democratic unrest, and potential social chaos. Alternatively, they could restore a monarchy stripped of its absolutist powers, one they could control through Parliament, property laws, and financial influence. They chose the latter option. The 1688 settlement delivered exactly what they sought: a constitutional monarchy that protected property rights, ensured political stability, and prevented the army from acting as an independent revolutionary force.

Calling the Cromwells a “dynasty” misreads the revolution’s entire course. It imposes a familial continuity narrative on a process marked by rupture, conflict, and class struggle. It treats the Protectorate as just another form of monarchy, rather than a transitional regime emerging from revolutionary needs. This obscures how the bourgeoisie, after employing the army to dismantle the old order, quickly moved to neutralise it when its revolutionary promise became dangerous.

The shift towards family-centred history is not without political implications. By emphasising domestic life, emotional connections, and lineage, it diverts focus from the structural forces driving historical change. It prompts readers to view the past as a series of personal dramas rather than the result of social contradictions. This framing makes revolutions seem accidental, chance-dependent, and ultimately subordinate to family dynamics. For example, in the case of the Cromwells, it recasts a revolutionary upheaval into a story about generations- precisely the kind of narrative that allows the English Revolution to be remembered without fully understanding its complexities.

Family History Is Not Class History

None of these points diminishes the importance of recovering the stories of the Cromwell women or other lesser-known family members. Such details can deepen our understanding of the era, highlight the nuances of daily life, and help correct enduring historical biases. The domestic sphere mattered to the revolution; it shaped the experiences, restrictions, and opportunities of those involved. However, it should be viewed as part of the larger historical process, not a replacement for it. Family mattered to the Cromwells, as it did to everyone. What truly made their story significant to history was something else entirely.

Malins’s framing is problematic not because it focuses on the Cromwells’ private lives, but because it makes those lives the story’s central focus. This approach risks echoing a wider trend in modern history writing: moving away from discussions of class, revolution, and structural forces that influence change. Instead of portraying the English Revolution as a conflict over sovereignty, property, and national destiny, it becomes a tale of family ties, marriage, and domestic loyalty. The Cromwells are cast as family figures rather than as representatives of a class whose victory transformed the world.

This change reflects a broader cultural trend. In an era when political disputes are often seen as personal issues, social crises are viewed through individual identity and life stories, and class struggle is considered outdated, it’s natural for historians to focus more on personal and domestic aspects. However, this distorts the picture. Major social conflicts are reduced to notions of individual psychology. Revolution becomes melodramatic, and structural change becomes mere backdrop. The political becomes personal and thus depoliticised.

The Cromwells show the limits of this approach. Their importance isn’t rooted in marriages or household affairs but in the transformative events that elevated them. Thomas Cromwell played a key role in orchestrating the largest transfer of land in England before the 1600s. Oliver Cromwell led the army that toppled the monarchy, paving the way for capitalist growth. Their family ties were secondary to these larger forces and did not drive them. Viewing them as a “dynasty” distorts the true relationship between societal forces and individual lives.

The fall of Richard Cromwell’s Protectorate clearly disproves the idea of a hereditary ruling house. If the Cromwells had truly been a dynastic family, Richard’s succession would have stabilised the government. Instead, it revealed its instability. The Protectorate was not a hereditary monarchy but a delicate Bonapartist balance maintained only by the temporary alignment of class interests following the revolution. When that balance unravelled, the regime collapsed. The bourgeoisie, wary of the army and opposed to radical plebeian movements, reinstated a monarchy they could control. The 1688 settlement finalised this shift: establishing a constitutional order that protected property, stabilised the state, and suppressed revolutionary ideals.

The burial of the past has never been complete. Those studying the English Revolution need to go beyond family histories and domestic accounts. They should consult Marx and Engels, who recognised its global importance; Christopher Hill, who identified its radical currents; the Leveller pamphlets, expressing the democratic hopes of ordinary people; and Trotsky, who argued that the revolutionary tradition belongs to the working class, not the bourgeoisie. While Malins’s book offers useful details, it doesn’t explain the revolution itself or the forces that made figures like Cromwell significant. To understand that, we must focus on the transformation of property, class, and political power, the real foundation of modern Britain.

Academic Articles and Bibliography

I. Foundational Marxist and Social-Historical Interpretations

Christopher Hill

Hill remains indispensable for any serious analysis of Cromwell, the English Revolution, and the radical movements it unleashed.

  • Hill, Christopher. God’s Englishman: Oliver Cromwell and the English Revolution. London: Penguin, 1970. A classic Marxist interpretation of Cromwell as representative of the rising bourgeoisie; essential for understanding the class dynamics behind Puritan ideology.
  • Hill, Christopher. The World Turned Upside Down: Radical Ideas During the English Revolution. London: Penguin, 1972. A definitive study of Levellers, Diggers, and Fifth Monarchists; it shows how popular radicalism exceeded the grandees’ intentions.
  • Hill, Christopher. “The English Revolution 1640.” Past & Present 1955. A seminal article establishing the bourgeois revolution thesis in English historiography.
  • Hill, Christopher. “Puritanism and Revolution.” The Economic History Review 1958. Connects Puritan ideology to emerging capitalist social relations.

Marx and Engels

  • Marx, Karl. The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte. Not about England directly, but foundational for understanding Bonapartism and class balancing — crucial for interpreting the Protectorate.
  • Marx, Karl & Engels, Friedrich. Selected Correspondence. Contains remarks on Cromwell and the English bourgeois revolution.

II. Radical Movements and the Levellers

Leveller Studies

  • Woolrych, Austin. “The Levellers and the English Revolution.” The Historical Journal 1974. A balanced but rigorous account of Leveller ideology and its challenge to property-based political rights.
  • Manning, Brian. The English People and the English Revolution. London: Heinemann, 1976. A Marxist social history emphasising plebeian agency.
  • Reid, John. “The Putney Debates: Popular Sovereignty and Property.” History Workshop Journal 1985. Excellent analysis of Rainsborough vs Ireton; directly relevant to the Putney section.

Primary Sources

  • The Clarke Papers, ed. C.H. Firth. Essential primary source collection for the Putney Debates and Army Council discussions.

III. Cromwell, the Protectorate, and State Formation

Cromwell Studies

  • Coward, Barry. The Cromwellian Protectorate. Manchester University Press, 2002. A modern scholarly account of the Protectorate’s political instability and class contradictions.
  • Durston, Christopher. “The Fall of the Cromwellian Protectorate.” English Historical Review 1992. Shows why Richard Cromwell’s failure was structural, not personal — supports your anti‑dynastic argument.
  • Smith, David. Oliver Cromwell: Politics and Religion in the English Revolution. Cambridge University Press, 1991. A nuanced political biography.

Bonapartism and Class Balancing

  • Kishlansky, Mark. “The Army and the Levellers.” Past & Present, 1979. Analyses Cromwell’s suppression of radicalism within the army.
  • Underdown, David. Pride’s Purge. Oxford University Press, 1971. Classic study of the political crisis that produced the Rump Parliament.

IV. Ireland, Empire, and Colonial Violence

Ireland under Cromwell

  • Lenihan, Pádraig. Confederate Catholics at War, 1641–49. Manchester University Press, 2001. Contextualises the Irish campaigns within broader colonial dynamics.
  • Barnard, Toby. “Cromwellian Ireland: Land and Society.” Irish Historical Studies 1980. Key article on land confiscation and settler colonialism.
  • Murphy, Elaine. Ireland and the Cromwellian Conquest. Routledge, 2010. Modern scholarly synthesis of the massacres, land seizures, and colonial restructuring.

V. Historiography, Revisionism, and the Turn to the Domestic

Revisionist and Post‑Revisionist Debates

  • Russell, Conrad. The Causes of the English Civil War. Oxford University Press, 1990. A revisionist critique of class-based interpretations; useful as a foil to Hill.
  • Morrill, John. “The Religious Context of the English Civil War.” Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, 1984. Emphasises religious motivations over class — relevant to a critique of depoliticised narratives.

History and the Domestic Turn

  • Fletcher, Anthony. Gender, Sex and Subordination in England 1500–1800. Yale University Press, 1995. Foundational for the turn toward domestic and gender history.
  • Sharpe, J.A. “The History of the Family and the English Revolution.” Social History 1992. Directly addresses the historiographical shift you critique.

VI. Trotsky and Revolutionary Strategy

  • Trotsky, Leon. Where Is Britain Going? (1925). Essential for your argument: Cromwell as a model of revolutionary decisiveness, contrasted with Labour’s parliamentary cretinism.
  • Trotsky, Leon. History of the Russian Revolution. Not about England, but foundational for understanding class forces, dual power, and revolutionary leadership — concepts applicable to Cromwell’s era.

VII. Suggested Further Reading for Workers and Students

  • Hill, Christopher. The Experience of Defeat. On the radical memory of the revolution.
  • Winstanley, Gerrard. The Law of Freedom. Primary source of Digger communism.
  • The Leveller Tracts, ed. Don Wolfe. Comprehensive collection of Leveller pamphlets.