The claim that George Orwell served as a “left-wing gatekeeper” who “vociferously opposed actual socialism” and was thus a “traitor to socialism” has some historical basis. However, as the document emphasizes, this is “a significant and genuinely complex question that requires a careful, historically informed answer.” While there is some truth to the accusation, it is part of a broader political and theoretical confusion—one that sheds more light on the ideological landscape of the twentieth century than on Orwell’s personal shortcomings.

This response traces Orwell’s political evolution to better understand the nature of his anti-Stalinism, the boundaries of his theoretical development, and why his work ultimately supported imperialist interests despite his proclaimed socialist beliefs. The argument aligns with the view of the International Committee of the Fourth International (ICFI), which rejects the simple dichotomy of viewing Orwell as either a hero or a traitor, instead advocating for a dialectical analysis of his complex legacy.

I. Orwell’s Political Crime: Collaboration with the British State

Any comprehensive Marxist analysis must confront the most damaging event in Orwell’s political history. In 1949, while gravely ill and just a year before his death, Orwell submitted a list of individuals sympathetic to Stalinism to the British Foreign Office’s Information Research Department (IRD). The document states: “Orwell compiled a list of roughly 130 intellectuals… and passed approximately 35 of those names to the Information Research Department.” This act—regardless of Orwell’s personal motives—constitutes a political capitulation to imperialism. As Fred Mazelis observes: “He was willing to form a political alliance with British imperialism… This decision revealed his rejection of Marxism and a genuinely revolutionary perspective.”

From a Marxist perspective, collaborating with an imperialist propaganda machine is a grave political offense, not a minor mistake. It positioned Orwell clearly on the side of the bourgeois state during the Cold War’s rise as a worldwide ideological push against socialism. Later, Western propagandists exploited Animal Farm and Nineteen Eighty-Four to falsely link socialism with totalitarianism, worsening the reactionary impact of this choice.

II. The Limits of the Indictment: Stalinism Is Not Socialism

Labeling Orwell simply as a “traitor to socialism” overlooks a crucial distinction in Marxist analysis: the difference between Stalinism and socialism. Orwell’s opposition to Stalinism was not only justified but also, in some ways, brave. His book, Homage to Catalonia, is one of the earliest and most explicit critiques of the counterrevolutionary nature of the Stalinist machine during the Spanish Civil War. As the essay highlights: “Orwell, to his credit, was neither a dupe of Stalinism nor a bourgeois liberal defender of the Moscow regime.” In this regard, Orwell aligned more closely with the truth than most Western intellectuals of his era, who either capitulated to Stalinist defenses or supported the class-collaborationist policies of the Popular Front.

The issue was not Orwell’s anti-Stalin stance itself, but rather the lack of a Marxist theoretical framework that could clearly differentiate Stalinism from socialism. His political ties—including Britain’s Independent Labour Party and Spain’s POUM—were centrist groups that fluctuated between revolutionary rhetoric and accommodation within the Popular Front. As I mentioned, “Orwell’s anti-Stalinism was based more on emotion and sentiment than on scientific conviction.” This theoretical deficiency made Orwell susceptible to Cold War ideological pressures, where anti-Stalinism was increasingly controlled by the bourgeoisie.

III. The False Binary: Stalinism vs Bourgeois Democracy

The article highlights Orwell’s main political tragedy: being caught in the misleading binary that shaped twentieth-century ideological debates. “You dislike Stalin? Then you must support Churchill, Roosevelt, NATO.” This dichotomy of Stalinism versus bourgeois democracy was actively promoted by Western imperial powers. Orwell, without a revolutionary Marxist viewpoint, eventually embraced this framework. Consequently, he drifted rightward politically, not due to personal gain but because of theoretical confusion.

In contrast, the Fourth International proposed a third camp: an independent revolutionary movement representing the international working class. The document highlights that “Those who today praise Orwell as a solitary opponent of Stalinism… censor any mention of Trotsky, the Left Opposition and the Fourth International.” Orwell never understood this alternative. His anti-Stalinism, detached from Marxist theory, was co-opted into imperialism’s ideological framework.

IV. The Irony of Animal Farm and Nineteen Eighty‑Four

The article reveals a significant irony: Orwell emphasised that Nineteen Eighty-Four was “NOT intended as an attack on socialism.” Instead, it served as a warning against the bureaucratic distortion of socialism—a problem seen in fascism, Stalinism, and possibly Western capitalism. As noted in the text, “His novel… is a critique of unaccountable elite power in general, including capitalist power.”

Since Orwell lacked a clear Marxist analysis of bureaucracy, class, and the state, his work was frequently appropriated by the forces he sought to critique. During the Cold War, the establishment transformed 1984 into a symbol against socialism, diverging from Orwell’s true intent. This highlights a political lesson: without a strong theoretical basis, even sincere socialist critiques can be hijacked by reactionary groups.

Conclusion: Orwell’s Tragedy and the Necessity of Marxist Theory

The document concludes—and this rewrite confirms—that Orwell was not merely a treacherous figure but a deeply confused socialist whose mistakes stemmed from a lack of theoretical understanding rather than malicious intent. “Sentiment, moral outrage, and literary talent are no substitute for the scientific socialism that Trotsky embodied.” Orwell’s life shows that anti-Stalinism, unless based on Marxist theory and the Fourth International’s revolutionary program, can be misused to serve imperialism. Therefore, his legacy is not one of moral caution against individual betrayal but a historical defense of the importance of revolutionary theory, clear programmatic goals, and the active political engagement of the working class.

A Marxist Analysis of Historical Falsification and the Crisis of Bourgeois Historiography

Part I: The English Revolution and the Crisis of Historical Consciousness

1. The Political Stakes of Historical Interpretation

The seventeenth-century English Revolution holds a special place in human history. It marked the first successful overthrow of a feudal monarchy by a rising bourgeoisie and the first time a king was executed by his own people. It also represented the first continuous effort to establish a political system based not on divine right but on the secular needs of property, trade, and the growing global market. Essentially, it was the foundational moment of the modern world.

In today’s era—defined by the accelerating crisis of global capitalism, the breakdown of democratic institutions, and the resurgence of authoritarian governance—the English Revolution has been systematically misrepresented. The bourgeoisie, faced with the effects of its own historical decline, avoids acknowledging its revolutionary roots. It aims to hide the truth that its rise to power was not the result of slow reforms or constitutional changes, but was achieved through violent upheavals, mass mobilisation, and the overthrow of the old order.

The debate over Cromwell’s role in history is mainly a political contest regarding the interpretation of revolution. The bourgeoisie, facing a legitimacy crisis not seen since the early 20th century, struggles to accept its revolutionary origins. It tends to dismiss, downplay, or psychologize the English Revolution to preserve the illusion that social change happens through parliamentary politics, constitutional stability, and gradual reforms. In reality, the bourgeoisie seized power via insurrection, civil war, and severe suppression of radical left movements—actions that are unacceptable to a ruling class now cautious of the working class’s revolutionary capacity. Hence, the distortion of the English Revolution is shaped by current political interests.

2. The Bourgeoisie Renounces Its Own Revolution

The bourgeoisie’s ideological shift away from its revolutionary roots is a notable aspect of modern historical consciousness. In the 1800s, liberal historians like Macaulay praised the English Revolution as a victory for liberty over tyranny, Parliament over monarchy, and reason over superstition. At that time, the bourgeoisie, still convinced of its historical purpose, upheld the revolutionary aspects of its history.

However, as capitalism advanced into its imperialist stage—characterised by worldwide competition, colonial control, and the rise of the working class as a distinct political entity—the bourgeoisie began to distance itself from the revolutionary violence that had initially elevated it. By the mid-20th century, amid the rise of fascism, Stalinism, and the Cold War, the bourgeoisie had completely dissociated from revolutionary ideals. Its historians shifted focus, highlighting continuity, moderation, and constitutional principles.

In the late 20th and early 21st centuries, this stance shifted toward outright denial. Revisionist scholars—such as John Morrill and Mark Kishlansky—contend that the English Revolution was not truly a revolution. Instead, they describe it as a “war of religion,” a “crisis of authority,” or simply a “series of misunderstandings.” They minimise class conflict, dismiss mass mobilisation, regard the Levellers as a statistical anomaly, and depict Cromwell as a devout soldier caught in uncontrollable circumstances. This historiographical counter-revolution reflects the political interests of a ruling class that fears the resurgence of revolutionary movements. To deny the English Revolution is to deny the possibility of revolution today.

3. The Liberal-Biographical Tradition: Fraser and the Humanisation of Power

Antonia Fraser’s *Cromwell: Our Chief of Men* illustrates the liberal-biographical method. Fraser depicts Cromwell as a man driven by a strong conscience, a conflicted Puritan whose moral integrity is central to his greatness. The revolution acts as a backdrop that reveals his personality. This method plays three key ideological roles: it personalises structural change by framing class conflict through character; it moralises colonial violence by viewing Cromwell’s Irish atrocities as tragic yet somewhat understandable; and it limits the revolution’s focus to the development of English constitutional identity.

Fraser’s biography is not just inadequate; it is also politically reactionary. It portrays Cromwell — the military leader of a bourgeois revolution — as a tragic hero whose actions are only understandable through personal faith and psychological nuances. The masses vanish; class conflict is overlooked; the revolution turns into a moral story rather than a social upheaval. This exemplifies the ideological role of bourgeois biography: to humanise authority, sentimentalise violence, and conceal the structural forces driving history.

4. The Marxist Tradition: Hill, Manning, and the Restoration of Class

The Marxist tradition, chiefly represented by Christopher Hill and Brian Manning, opposes this falsification. Hill’s work is the most significant Marxist contribution to understanding the English Revolution. He reestablished the importance of the masses in history, highlighted the class dynamics in the conflict, and uncovered the ideological role of Puritanism.

Hill’s Cromwell is not a heroic figure but the political representative of the gentry faction within the emerging bourgeoisie. The Levellers are not just a fringe group but the revolutionary left of the movement. The New Model Army functions as a political entity rather than merely a military force.

Hill’s Marxism was influenced by the national scope of the Communist Party Historians’ Group. His view of revolution is centred on England, not the global context; his concept of bourgeoisie is confined to the nation, not the international scene; and his analysis stops short of framing the English Revolution within the broader emergence of capitalism worldwide.

In contrast, Manning’s work is more radical and considers wider international effects. He emphasises the importance of the lower classes, such as artisans, small producers, and soldiers, who played a key role in the revolutionary movement. Manning portrays the Levellers as a mass movement rather than a fringe group. He contends that the revolution was incomplete because the bourgeoisie feared that the lower classes’ democratic ambitions could threaten their interests.

Together, Hill and Manning exemplify the peak of Marxist historiography on the English Revolution. However, their work needs to be expanded, enhanced, and connected more broadly internationally.

5. The Internationalist Breakthrough: Pashukanis, Slaughter, and the World-Systemic Perspective

The most sophisticated Marxist analysis of the English Revolution does not originate from British Marxist historians but from the internationalist perspective crafted by the Trotskyist movement. Evgeny Pashukanis offers the key theoretical insight: the bourgeois revolution generates the legal subject, embodying the juridical expression of the commodity form. Cliff Slaughter, working within the International Committee of the Fourth International, provides the only fully coherent Marxist interpretation of the revolution. He situates the revolution within the global rise of capitalism rather than solely within England’s national development.

For Slaughter, Cromwell’s Irish campaign exemplifies primitive accumulation rather than a mere military conflict. In the end, the bourgeois revolution is viewed as a fundamental historical break that goes beyond just a constitutional change. This internationalist view shows the English Revolution as part of a worldwide process, including the shift from feudalism to capitalism, the rise of the global market, and the development of the modern state.

6. The Contemporary Relevance of the English Revolution

The political lessons from the English Revolution remain relevant today, directly addressing the current crisis of capitalism. The bourgeoisie rejects its revolutionary roots because it is now afraid of revolution. Liberal historians tend to sentimentalise Cromwell, as they avoid confronting the violence that accompanies capitalist growth. Revisionists omit the masses to prevent the resurgence of mass politics. Marxists emphasise the revolutionary nature of the seventeenth century because the working class needs to understand how ruling classes ascend and decline within historical processes. The English Revolution demonstrates that no ruling class relinquishes power voluntarily, that the masses make revolutions, and that the bourgeoisie, once victorious, turns ruthlessly against those who carried it to power.

Part II: The World-Systemic Origins of the English Revolution

1. The English Revolution as a Product of Global Transformation

Viewing the English Revolution as a global event requires rejecting the narrow, nationalist viewpoint common in both liberal and revisionist histories. It was not merely an isolated act of English exceptionalism or a simple domestic struggle over constitutional issues. Instead, it reflected a deep transformation in the world economy: the rise of capitalist social relations, the growth of the global market, and the breakdown of feudal systems across Europe.

The English Revolution must be viewed in the context of wider historical shifts from the fifteenth to the seventeenth century. These include the growth of Atlantic trade, the increase of colonial silver wealth, the expansion of international commerce, the rise of financial capitalism in the Dutch Republic, the decline of feudal rent practices, and demographic and agricultural changes in early modern Europe.

England actively contributed to these forces, serving as a key testing ground. The enclosure movement, expansion of merchant capital, emergence of a commercially driven gentry, and deeper integration into global trade networks fostered social conditions conducive to revolutionary upheaval. Thus, the English Revolution was not merely a national anomaly but an essential stage in the worldwide shift from feudalism to capitalism.

2. The Bourgeoisie Before the Bourgeoisie: The Gentry and the Transformation of Property

A common myth in English historiography is the idea that the bourgeoisie was weak, marginal, or lacked political influence in the seventeenth century. This misconception supports the revisionist view that the Civil War was driven not by class struggle but by conflicts among elites over religion and constitutional power. In truth, the English bourgeoisie was emerging within the gentry — a class increasingly connected to capitalist agriculture, commercial rents, and trade investments. The gentry were not merely feudal remnants but served as the transitional class through which capitalist relations spread into the countryside.

The transformation of property relations—such as enclosure, leasehold reform, and the monetisation of rents—led to the emergence of a class whose interests conflicted with the absolutist state. The monarchy, reliant on feudal privileges, monopolies, and arbitrary taxation, hindered the free growth of capitalist accumulation. Consequently, the clash between Parliament and the Crown was not merely a constitutional dispute but a conflict between incompatible modes of production.

3. The New Model Army and the Political Form of the Bourgeois Revolution

The New Model Army served as the crucial force behind the revolution. More than just a military entity, it functioned as a political organisation — the first modern army in history, characterised by discipline, centralisation, and a unified ideology. Its members primarily came from the upper segments of the petty bourgeoisie, including artisans, small producers, and radicalised yeomen. The Army’s political discussions — such as the Putney Debates of 1647, the petitions from the Agitators, and the Leveller manifestos — mark the earliest sustained efforts to define a democratic political agenda rooted in the interests of the lower classes. In essence, the New Model Army was the revolutionary party of the seventeenth century.

The Army also embodied the revolution’s internal contradiction. While the bourgeoisie relied on the Army to overthrow the monarchy, it simultaneously feared the soldiers’ democratic hopes. The suppression of the Levellers in 1649, including the execution of the Burford mutineers, marked the point when the bourgeoisie turned against the very masses that had helped it rise to power. This illustrates the core dialectic of the bourgeois revolution: it mobilises the masses to dismantle feudalism, only to repress them to secure capitalist stability.

4. Cromwell as the Instrument of Class Necessity

Oliver Cromwell’s importance in history lies less in his personal traits, faith, or psychological intricacies—common themes in liberal biographies—and more in his role as the political figure who embodied the growing bourgeois class. He served as the means for the bourgeoisie to address and overcome the contradictions arising from the revolution.

Cromwell’s measures—such as dissolving Parliament, suppressing the Levellers, conquering Ireland, and establishing the Protectorate—were motivated by the goal of stabilizing the new social order rather than personal ambition. He executed the king not out of fanaticism, but because the monarchy clashed with bourgeois interests. His crackdown on the Levellers was a response to the bourgeoisie’s fear of the lower classes’ democratic aspirations, not tyranny. Meanwhile, his Irish conquest was driven by the need to seize land for capital accumulation, not cruelty. Cromwell is a key figure of the bourgeois revolution.

5. Ireland and the Colonial Foundations of Capitalism

No part of Cromwell’s legacy has been more distorted than his actions in Ireland. While some liberal historians like Fraser see the massacres at Drogheda and Wexford as tragic yet understandable parts of seventeenth-century brutal warfare, revisionists tend to diminish or relativise the violence, and nationalists often mythologise it. A Marxist perspective clarifies these distortions, showing that Cromwell’s Irish campaign was not an anomaly but a fundamental act of primitive accumulation.

The seizure of Irish land, the displacement of the Catholic peasantry, and the redistribution of property to English soldiers and settlers were crucial steps in forming a landless proletariat and a capitalist farming class. Ireland served as a testing ground for English capitalism. Cromwell’s campaign violence was driven not solely by religious fanaticism but by the inherent violence of capitalist development. The bourgeois revolution, especially in its colonial context, involved dismantling traditional property systems, expropriating peasants, and establishing a new legal and economic framework. The Irish case illustrates the global scope of the English Revolution, highlighting its links to colonial expansion, the Atlantic economy, and the creation of the world market.

6. The Restoration as the Consolidation of Bourgeois Power

The Restoration of 1660 is often seen as a failed revolution, with the monarchy returning and Cromwell’s legacy discarded. However, this view is mostly incorrect. The Restoration was more about strengthening existing gains than undoing them. The bourgeoisie had already secured key objectives: ending absolutism, asserting parliamentary dominance, protecting property rights, and establishing a legal system suitable for capitalism. The monarchy that came back in 1660 was not the same as Charles I’s; it was a constitutional monarchy that served bourgeois interests.

Charles I’s execution fundamentally changed the political scene. After 1649, no monarch felt truly secure on the throne. The Glorious Revolution of 1688—viewed by the bourgeoisie as their preferred revolution—was only feasible because the upheavals of the 1640s shattered the basis of absolutism. The Restoration served as the bourgeoisie’s strategy to secure the revolution’s gains while limiting its radical democratic prospects.

7. The English Revolution and the Birth of the Modern State

The modern state—characterised by centralisation, bureaucracy, secularism, and a focus on capital interests—originated from the English Revolution. During this period, feudal privileges were abolished, taxation was streamlined, a standing army was established, and a legal system rooted in property rights was developed.

The Protectorate, often regarded as a failed experiment, was in fact the initial effort to establish a modern bourgeois state. Its constitutional documents—the Instrument of Government and the Humble Petition and Advice—are among the earliest attempts to formalise the political structure of capitalist society. Consequently, the English Revolution was not just a political event but also a fundamental transformation of the state’s structure.

Part III: The Levellers, the Democratic Surge, and the Bourgeoisie’s Fear of the Masses

1. The Levellers and the Revolutionary Left Wing of the English Revolution

No part of the English Revolution has been more deliberately misrepresented by bourgeois history than the role of the Levellers. Liberal scholars see them as merely a group of troublemakers; revisionists consider them an insignificant statistical blip; and Cromwell’s biographers depict them as a bother he was compelled to contain. This misrepresentation is purposeful. The Levellers embody the democratic promise of the revolution—the idea that overthrowing absolutism could lead not only to property rule but also to political empowerment for the lower classes.

The Levellers were not just a fringe group but the earliest organised democratic movement in modern history. Their platform—outlined in The Agreement of the People, petitions from London radicals, and speeches by Army Agitators—called for: universal male suffrage, biennial Parliaments, legal equality, religious toleration, and the subjugation of political authority to popular consent. These demands were not mere idealistic dreams but reflected the real interests of artisans, small producers, and radicalised soldiers. The Levellers embodied the working-class foundation of the revolution—the social strata whose mobilisation enabled the overthrow of absolutism.

The bourgeoisie could not accept this wave of democracy. The Levellers’ agenda threatened the core of capitalist property rights. Allowing everyone to vote would have strengthened the lower classes; legal equality would have challenged the privileges of property owners; and popular sovereignty could have destabilised the nascent bourgeois state. Therefore, the Levellers were seen as internal enemies of the bourgeois revolution—a force that needed to be suppressed after the monarchy was overthrown.

2. The Putney Debates: The Revolution Thinks Aloud

The Putney Debates of 1647 are among the most remarkable events in history. For the first time, ordinary soldiers—artisans, small farmers, and radical democrats—challenged the political leadership of a revolutionary army and sought a voice in shaping the nation’s future. These debates vividly illustrate the class tensions of the revolution. On one side were the Levellers and the Army Agitators, advocating for political equality and popular sovereignty, while on the other were Cromwell and Henry Ireton, representing the interests of the propertied classes.

Ireton’s arguments exemplify classic bourgeois ideology. He argued that political power should be linked to property, claiming those without property lack a “permanent interest” in the nation, and warning that universal suffrage could destroy social order. These points—repeated by capitalists’ defenders over centuries—highlight the core contradiction of the bourgeois revolution: proclaiming universal rights while limiting political power to the propertied. The Putney Debates marked a turning point, when the revolution became self-aware—when the common people voiced their democratic hopes and the bourgeoisie expressed its fears.

3. The Suppression of the Levellers: The Bourgeoisie Turns Against the Masses

The repression of the Levellers in 1649 was not a mere anomaly but a natural result of the bourgeois revolution. After the monarchy was abolished and traditional structures were dismantled, the bourgeoisie no longer relied on the radicalised masses. The Levellers’ calls for popular sovereignty, legal equality, and democratic responsibility challenged the stability of the emerging social order, conflicting with the interests of the property-owning classes.

Cromwell’s suppression of the Levellers— arresting their leaders, destroying their presses, and executing the Burford mutineers—was not a personal act of betrayal but a class-driven necessity. The bourgeoisie needed to crush the lower classes’ democratic hopes to strengthen its power. The execution of the Burford mutineers— soldiers who fought for the revolution and now demanded their deserved rights— highlights a key moment in bourgeois history. It shows that while the bourgeois revolution was progressive in ending feudalism, it was also fundamentally reactionary in oppressing the masses. The Levellers were the first victims of the bourgeois counter-revolution.

4. The Diggers and the Limits of Agrarian Radicalism

If the Levellers were the democratic faction of the revolution, the Diggers embodied its agrarian-communist spirit. Under Gerrard Winstanley’s leadership, the Diggers tried to farm shared land at St. George’s Hill, asserting that the earth belonged to everyone as a ‘common treasury.’ Their goals—eliminating private land ownership, promoting communal farming, and establishing an equal society—were remarkably progressive for their era.

The Diggers weren’t proto-socialists in today’s terms, but their movement reveals the revolution’s hidden potential. The abolition of feudal property relations opened the door to a more radical change—one that could have challenged not just the monarchy but also the emerging capitalist system. The bourgeoisie could not accept this threat. The Diggers were suppressed as ruthlessly as the Levellers, with their communes destroyed, leaders arrested, and their movement suppressed. Their fate highlights the limits of the bourgeois revolution: it could dismantle feudalism but not establish a society of equality. It could mobilise masses but not empower them, proclaim universal rights but fail to realise them.

5. The New Model Army as a Revolutionary Organism

The New Model Army was the most sophisticated political institution of the seventeenth century. It stood out as the first modern army — disciplined, centralised, and ideologically united — and also marked the inaugural mass political organisation in world history. Its soldiers engaged in political debates, elected leaders, and expressed a democratic agenda.

The Army served as the revolutionary force of the seventeenth century, overthrowing the monarchy, defeating royalist armies, and enforcing Parliament’s will. However, it also reflected the revolution’s internal conflict, pitting bourgeois leaders against radicalised common people. Thus, it functioned both as a tool of bourgeois dominance and as a means for democratic hopes. The suppression of the Levellers marked the point at which the Army shifted from a revolutionary entity to an instrument of the bourgeois state.

6. The Bourgeois Revolution and the Dialectic of Liberation and Suppression

The English Revolution exposes the core dialectic of the bourgeois revolution: it starts by freeing society from feudalism and mobilising the masses to overthrow the old order. However, once the bourgeoisie secures its interests, it suppresses those same masses. This pattern is not unique to England but is seen in every bourgeois revolution: the suppression of the sans-culottes during the French Revolution, the betrayal of radical democrats in the American Revolution, the crushing of the Paris Commune by the French bourgeoisie, and the repression of Chartism in the nineteenth century. The bourgeoisie acts as a revolutionary class only against feudalism; once it establishes its power, it becomes a reactionary force. The English Revolution is the earliest and clearest example of this recurring pattern.

7. The Levellers and the Contemporary Working Class

The political lessons from the Levellers extend beyond the seventeenth century and directly relate to today’s working-class struggles. The Levellers were the first to try to develop a democratic agenda independent of the ruling class. Their suppression shows the limitations of bourgeois democracy and highlights the need for a separate political movement for the working class.

The Levellers’ focus on popular sovereignty, legal equality, and democratic accountability is still pertinent today. Their struggle highlights a core contradiction in capitalist society: the clash between the democratic hopes of the people and the economic goals of the ruling elite. The working class should learn from the Levellers—not by copying their policies, but by understanding how ruling classes historically ascend, strengthen, and silence the masses.

Part IV: The Legal Form, the Modern State, and the International Logic of the Bourgeois Revolution

1. The Bourgeois Revolution and the Emergence of the Legal Subject

The English Revolution not only dismantled feudal political institutions but also fundamentally changed the nature of law itself. This shift cannot be fully grasped through liberal constitutionalism, which views law as a neutral structure for politics. Instead, it is best understood via the Marxist theory of the legal form, as elaborated by Evgeny Pashukanis.

Pashukanis showed that the legal subject—abstract, equal, and formally free—represents the juridical expression of the commodity form. The rise of capitalist production relations necessitates a legal system where individuals interact as holders of rights, obligations, and property. Consequently, the law of the bourgeois state is not merely an ideological superstructure imposed from above, but a fundamental expression of capitalism’s social relations.

The English Revolution marked the first time this legal form appeared in its early stages. The abolition of feudal privileges, the restructuring of taxation, the codification of property rights, and the development of contract law all reflected new social relations forming beneath political conflicts. Although often seen as technical or administrative, the legal reforms during the revolutionary era actually laid the juridical groundwork for capitalist society.

2. The Instrument of Government and the First Bourgeois Constitution

The Instrument of Government (1653), which served as the constitution for Cromwell’s Protectorate, is one of the most overlooked documents in world history. Liberal historians view it as a failed experiment, revisionists see it as an authoritarian imposition, and constitutional scholars often ignore it completely.

A Marxist perspective highlights its significance: the Instrument of Government was the world’s first written bourgeois constitution. Its main features—such as a centralised executive, a standing army, regular Parliaments, and a legal system based on property—mark the earliest effort to formalise the political structure of capitalist society. The Instrument was not an idealistic plan but a practical measure for a class that seized power through revolution and sought to stabilise its dominance. The Protectorate represented the first modern state: a centralised, bureaucratic, secular system designed to serve capital’s interests. It laid the foundation for the bourgeois state, which later appeared in the Dutch Republic, the United States, and revolutionary France.

3. The Humble Petition and Advice: The Bourgeoisie Seeks Stability

The Humble Petition and Advice (1657), which proposed offering Cromwell the crown, exposes the internal contradictions of the bourgeois revolution. While the bourgeoisie had toppled the monarchy, they now aimed to reinstate a modified form of it to secure the stability of the new social order.

This seeming paradox is not a contradiction of principle but reflects class necessity. The bourgeoisie needs a state strong enough to safeguard property, enforce contracts, and control the masses, yet weak enough to prevent the return of absolutism. Cromwell’s proposed constitutional monarchy aimed to establish a political system that could balance these conflicting requirements.

Cromwell’s rejection of the crown—often idealised as a sign of republican virtue—actually acknowledged that the monarchy, even in a transformed state, conflicted with the revolutionary roots of the new government. The bourgeoisie would eventually reconcile this in 1688 with William of Orange’s rise to the throne under Parliamentary conditions. However, during the 1650s, the revolutionary wounds were still raw, and the contradictions too pronounced, making such a compromise impossible at that time.

4. The International Dimension: England, the Dutch Republic, and the World Market

The English Revolution should be viewed in conjunction with the Dutch Republic, which was the leading capitalist society of the seventeenth century. The Dutch pioneered financial capitalism, maritime trade, and global markets. Their political system — republican, commercial, and oligarchic — embodied the most advanced form of bourgeois governance in Europe.

England’s conflict with the Dutch during the First Anglo-Dutch War (1652–1654) was more than a fight for naval dominance; it was a clash between two models of capitalist development. The Navigation Acts, the growth of the English navy, and the proactive pursuit of colonial trade reflected England’s efforts to access the global market, which the Dutch then controlled. The English Revolution was not just a domestic upheaval but also part of the broader global contest for capitalist supremacy. England’s emergence as a world power—culminating in the 18th-century British Empire—was rooted in the revolutionary changes of the 1640s and 1650s.

5. Primitive Accumulation and the Colonial Foundations of Capitalism

Marx’s idea of primitive accumulation — involving the violent seizure of peasant land, the destruction of communal ownership, and the formation of a landless working class — is crucial to understanding the English Revolution. It accelerated long-standing processes such as enclosure, the shift to monetised rents, the commodification of labour, and the growth of colonial exploitation.

Cromwell’s Irish campaign marked a pivotal point in this history. The seizure of Irish land, the removal of Catholic peasants, and the redistribution of land to English soldiers and settlers were driven more by economic motives than military needs. The violence enacted during the 1650s colonial efforts established the groundwork for Ireland’s transition to capitalism and strengthened English influence across the Atlantic.

The English Revolution was both a domestic and colonial event, with internal changes closely linked to external expansion. The bourgeoisie that arose from the revolution became not only a national class but also a global player, focused on the world market and reliant on colonial exploitation.

6. The Restoration and the Completion of the Bourgeois Revolution

The 1660 Restoration is often perceived as a failure of the revolution, marked by the monarchy’s return and the rejection of Cromwell’s legacy. Yet, this perspective is fundamentally mistaken. The Restoration was not a defeat but a culmination. The bourgeoisie had achieved its primary objectives: dismantling absolutism, establishing parliamentary dominance, securing property rights, and developing a legal framework suited to capitalism. The restored monarchy in 1660 was not Charles I’s original monarchy but a constitutional one aligned with bourgeois interests. The execution of Charles I permanently altered the political landscape, as no monarch post-1649 could feel secure on the throne. The 1688 Glorious Revolution, favored by the bourgeoisie as a revolutionary act, only occurred because the revolutionary upheavals of the 1640s had weakened absolutist foundations. Consequently, the Restoration signified the bourgeois consolidation of the revolution’s achievements.

7. The English Revolution and the Birth of the Modern World

The English Revolution marked the first successful bourgeois revolution in history. It abolished feudalism, affirmed the authority of Parliament, developed the legal and political structures of capitalist society, and set the stage for England’s emergence as a global power.

Its importance cannot be overstated. The modern era—characterized by capitalist economies, constitutional governments, and a global market—originated from the revolutionary upheavals of the seventeenth century. When liberal and revisionist historians distort the history of the English Revolution, they do more than make an academic mistake; they engage in a political act. This distortion aims to hide the revolutionary roots of the modern world and to dismiss the potential for revolutionary change today.

Part V: The Crisis of Bourgeois Historiography and the Contemporary Relevance of the English Revolution

1. The Bourgeoisie’s Flight From Its Own Origins

The misrepresentation of the English Revolution is not just a scholarly mistake but reflects a deeper crisis in bourgeois historical awareness. A dominant class that believes in its revolutionary purpose embraces its origins, while a declining ruling class rejects them.

In the nineteenth century, the bourgeoisie maintained a sense of historical legitimacy. It celebrated Cromwell as a heroic figure who destroyed tyranny, saw Parliament as the symbol of liberty, and regarded the revolution as the basis of modern civilization. Macaulay’s *History of England* exemplifies this confidence: a triumphant narrative portraying the bourgeoisie as the rightful successors of progress.

However, as capitalism moved into its imperialist stage—characterized by international competition, colonial control, and the rise of the working class as a distinct political entity—the bourgeoisie started distancing itself from its revolutionary roots. The brutality of its beginnings was now considered shameful; the democratic hopes of the masses posed a threat; and the memory of revolution was seen as a danger.

By the late twentieth century, views had shifted to outright denial. Revisionist scholars—Morrill, Kishlansky, and their followers—claim the English Revolution was not a true revolution. They characterize it as a “war of religion,” a “crisis of authority,” or a “series of misunderstandings.” According to them, class conflict disappears, mass mobilization fails to materialize, the Levellers are just a statistical anomaly, and Cromwell is depicted as a devout soldier caught in circumstances beyond his control. This historiographical counter-revolution reflects the political needs of a ruling class afraid of revolutionary resurgence. To deny the English Revolution is to deny the possibility of revolution today.

2. The Postmodern Assault on Historical Truth

The crisis in bourgeois historiography worsens with the rise of postmodernism, which rejects the idea of objective historical truth. According to postmodernism, history isn’t about studying actual events but about interpreting texts; it’s not about analyzing social forces but deconstructing narratives; and it’s not about reconstructing the past but revealing linguistic structures.

This epistemological nihilism benefits the interests of the ruling class. Without objective truth, there is no definitive history of class struggle. If all narratives hold equal validity, then the revolutionary view of the English Revolution is just one among many “discourses.” If the past cannot be known, then the future remains unchangeable.

Postmodernism reflects a bourgeoisie struggling with its own legitimacy, embodying a ruling class that no longer believes in progress, distrusts its institutions, and no longer views itself as guiding historical development. In response to this intellectual decline, Marxism emphasizes that history results from concrete social forces, that revolutions are objective occurrences, and that past events can be understood scientifically through class analysis.

3. The English Revolution and the Crisis of the Modern State

The modern state—characterized by centralization, bureaucracy, secularism, and a focus on capital—originated during the English Revolution. This period saw the abolition of feudal rights, reforms in taxation, the establishment of a standing army, and the development of a legal system rooted in property rights.

However, the modern state is facing a crisis. The institutions established by the bourgeois revolution—such as Parliaments, constitutions, legal systems, and representative bodies—are becoming less capable of handling the tensions of global capitalism. The growing wealth gap, diminishing democratic rights, increasing militarization, and the emergence of authoritarian rule expose the limitations of the political structures developed in the seventeenth century.

The crisis faced by the modern state is essentially the crisis of the bourgeois revolution. The political structures established by the bourgeoisie can no longer hold back the social forces unleashed by global capitalism. The contradictions that fueled the English Revolution—such as those between traditional and modern property, the masses and the ruling class, and societal needs versus elite interests—are reemerging worldwide today.

4. The Lessons of the English Revolution for the Contemporary Working Class

The English Revolution offers crucial lessons for today’s working class, illustrating that no ruling class will willingly surrender power. The monarchy didn’t fall due to persuasive arguments or constitutional constraints; it was overthrown by a revolutionary movement that mobilised the masses and dismantled the old regime’s institutions. Additionally, it emphasises the vital role of the masses in shaping history. Groups like the Levellers, the Army Agitators, and the radicalised soldiers of the New Model Army were active participants rather than passive observers.

Their demands for democracy, equality, and popular sovereignty fueled the revolution. Third, it underscores the limitations of bourgeois democracy. The bourgeoisie rallied the masses to overthrow feudalism but later suppressed them to safeguard their own interests. The suppression of the Levellers, the dismantling of the Diggers, and the strengthening of the Protectorate reveal the fundamental contradiction of the bourgeois revolution: it claims to defend universal rights while restricting political power to property owners. Fourth, it emphasizes the importance of an independent political movement for the working class. The Levellers were defeated not because their program was unrealistic, but because they lacked an independent organizational base capable of challenging the bourgeoisie. Their defeat illustrates the need for a revolutionary party that can unite the masses and lead the struggle for power.

5. Conclusion: The English Revolution and the Future of Humanity

The English Revolution marked the first major bourgeois revolution in history. It dismantled feudal structures, established the modern state, and laid the groundwork for capitalist society. Its importance is immense. The modern world — characterized by a capitalist economy, constitutional governments, and a global marketplace — originated from the upheavals of the seventeenth century. However, the bourgeois revolution is now reaching its limits. The political systems it created face crisis; the social relations it fostered are no longer sustainable; and the contradictions it introduced pose a threat to humanity’s future.

The working class has yet to finish the historical journey started in the seventeenth century. The initial phase was the dismantling of feudalism; the subsequent phase is the overthrow of capitalism. The English Revolution shows both what bourgeois transformation can achieve and its boundaries. It proves that masses are the agents of history, that revolutions are essential, and that the future does not lie with the ruling class but with those fighting to change society.

The task of the present is to carry forward the revolutionary legacy of the past — not by returning to the Levellers’ programme or the institutions of the Protectorate, but by building a global working-class movement capable of resolving capitalism’s contradictions and creating a new world based on equality, democracy, and human liberation.

 I. Introduction: The ULR as a Historical and Political Problem

The Universities and Left Review (ULR), established in 1957 by Raphael Samuel, Stuart Hall, Gabriel Pearson, and Charles Taylor, has long been viewed within British historiography as the origin of the “first New Left.” Its editors are praised for their cultural innovation, rejection of Stalinism, and their perceived renewal of socialist ideas. However, the historiography of the ULR is predominantly written by those sharing its assumptions, environment, and political boundaries. What remains lacking is a historical-materialist perspective on the ULR as a political entity: an analysis that places it within the class dynamics of post-war Britain, the 1956 Stalinism crisis, and the broader development of petty-bourgeois radicalism during the second half of the twentieth century.

This chapter addresses that task directly. Its core argument is simple: the ULR should be evaluated not by its rhetoric of renewal but by the social content of its politics, the forces it represents, and the tangible impacts of its actions on the working class. From this perspective, the ULR is seen not as a revolutionary departure from Stalinism but as a petty-bourgeois reaction to Stalinism’s crisis. It replaced class struggle with cultural critique and moral protest for political organisation, and contributed to the ideological groundwork for the subsequent pseudo-left.

Raphael Samuel’s role in this formation is crucial. (1934–1996) would later become a leading British historian, pioneering “history from below” and founding the History Workshop movement. His research illuminated working-class life, popular culture, and daily experience, making it essential to socialist historiography. However, his outlook often favoured cultural memory over class struggle, local activism over revolutionary tactics, and moral critique over clear programs. Samuel’s time at the ULR exemplified these tendencies.

The ULR’s politics did not happen by chance. They openly expressed the beliefs of a specific social group: university intellectuals, former Communist Party members, and radical students who were neither proletarian nor bourgeois but petty-bourgeois and professionally dependent. This group, which emerged after 1956, aimed at a politics that preserved the moral intensity of Stalinist radicalism while rejecting its organisational discipline and its often distorted ties to the working class. The outcome was a form of cultural radicalism lacking a class-based strategy, a trend that later evolved into Cultural Studies, identity politics, and the academic left.

This chapter contends that the ULR was a dead end for socialist politics. Its dismissal of Marxism was not a move towards clearer revolutionary thinking but a fallback into culturalism, moralism, and academic radicalism. Its antagonism towards Trotskyism—shown in its handling of the Socialist Labour League (SLL) and the Labour Review—was the clearest sign that its editors had not genuinely broken away from Stalinism, at least conceptually. As Brian Pearce noted at the time, the ULR’s failure to critically examine Stalinism left it “unconsciously open to influence by false ideas absorbed during their period in the Stalinist camp.” That prediction proved to be accurate.

A historical-materialist approach should steer clear of idealising the Trotskyist movement. Gerry Healy’s influence in the late 1950s was both politically crucial and progressive: the SLL aimed to attract the thousands shifting from the CPGB to the Fourth International’s program. However, Healy’s later decline—culminating in the 1980s with the collapse of the Workers Revolutionary Party (WRP)—must also be recognised. The International Committee of the Fourth International (ICFI) acknowledged and opposed this degeneration. A dialectical perspective must, therefore, place both the ULR and Healy within the conflicting pressures of their historical context.

This chapter argues that the ULR’s politics were petty-bourgeois in class origin, anti-Marxist in theory, and ultimately conservative historically. Its cultural innovations are tied to its political shortcomings. The focus on “new readers and new writers” concealed a decline in support for the working class. Its incorporation of Gramsci and the Frankfurt School offered a theoretical framework that facilitated the abandonment of revolutionary politics. The resulting legacy—Cultural Studies, identity politics, and the academic left—demonstrates the long-term effects of this retreat.

Marxist historiography’s goal is not to dismiss Samuel or the ULR, but to situate them in their historical context, understand the social forces they represented, and extract key political lessons. Only by doing so can the authentic accomplishments of “history from below” be incorporated into a revolutionary approach, rather than being co-opted by capitalism’s ideological framework.

II. The Class Basis and Social Composition of the ULR

Any Marxist analysis of the Universities and Left Review should start with its class roots. The ULR did not develop naturally from the working class nor from the industrial struggles that characterised post-war Britain. Instead, it was created by a specific petty-bourgeois intellectual layer—comprising university lecturers, postgraduate students, cultural workers, and ex-Communist Party intellectuals—whose material situation influenced both their political approach and content.

This layer held a paradoxical role within British capitalism. While it became more proletarianised through the post-war expansion of higher education, the casualisation of academic jobs, and increased managerial oversight of universities, it also preserved access to cultural capital, professional connections, and institutional prestige. These conflicting influences led to a politics that was oppositional in rhetoric but conciliatory in practice: it criticised capitalism’s cultural aspects without challenging its economic base.

The ULR’s editors exemplified this intellectual community. Raphael Samuel, Stuart Hall, Charles Taylor, and Gabriel Pearson were all influenced by the post-1956 Stalinism crisis. Their departure from the Communist Party was motivated more by emotional and organisational concerns than by theoretical shifts. They opposed the CPGB’s bureaucratic authoritarianism while still maintaining its core ideas: replacing class struggle with cultural analysis, distrust of revolutionary organisation, and the belief that socialism could be renewed through moral critique rather than through political mobilisation of workers.

The ULR’s stance aligned with its social class position. Instead of focusing on the industrial working class—whose struggles were growing more urgent in the pits, docks, and factories during the 1950s—the ULR targeted students, ex-CP intellectuals, fellow travellers, radicalised middle-class youth, and cultural critics searching for a new ideological base.

This was not an accidental choice. It expressed the editors’ belief that the working class was no longer the central agent of revolutionary change. As Samuel himself later admitted, even during his time in the CP, he did not view the working class as a revolutionary force; he saw it as a repository of radical traditions, not as the subject of socialist transformation. This distinction is crucial. It explains why Samuel’s later “history from below” celebrated working‑class culture while avoiding the strategic questions of class power, political organisation, and revolutionary leadership.

The ULR’s class basis also shaped its political method. Its analyses tended to elevate questions of culture, identity,  representation, curriculum, “democratisation” of institutions, and moral critique over the Marxist categories of production, class struggle, and the state. This was not simply a theoretical preference; it was the ideological expression of a social layer whose own position was rooted in the institutions of bourgeois civil society—universities, publishing houses, cultural organisations—and whose political horizon rarely extended beyond reforming those institutions.

The outcome was a politics that replaced class-based interests with cultural radicalism. The ULR’s editors criticised the CPGB’s limited perspective, the Labour Party’s traditionalism, and the complacency of post-war British society. However, they expressed these critiques from a viewpoint still confined within the ideological limits of the petty-bourgeois intellectual class. Their form of radicalism leaned more towards moral and cultural aspects than towards strategic or political change, and was more reformist than revolutionary.

This also clarifies the ULR’s hostility towards Trotskyism. The Socialist Labour League (SLL), led by Gerry Healy, embodied a different tradition—one grounded in the industrial working class, dedicated to the principles of the Fourth International, and focused on building a disciplined revolutionary party. For the ULR’s editors—who rejected the organisational discipline of the CP but remained wary of revolutionary Marxism—the SLL symbolised what they sought to avoid: politics centred on class struggle, clear programmatic aims, and internationalism.

Samuel’s dismissive comment about the increasing number of inner-party groups and the dozen ‘vanguard’ parties vying to lead a “non-existent revolutionary working class” was not just a rhetorical flourish. It reflected the ULR’s core political stance: rejecting the working class as the driver of socialist change and turning inward to the cultural politics favoured by the petty-bourgeois intelligentsia.

The URL’s class background thus influenced its political path. Its editors aimed to foster a new socialist culture, but from within bourgeois institutions. They opposed Stalinism but did not fully adopt Marxism. While criticising capitalism, they refrained from questioning its core principles. Their political stance was influenced by the contradictions inherent in their social position, which ultimately shaped the direction of the British New Left.

III. 1956 and the Crisis of Stalinism: The Political Conjuncture of the ULR’s Formation

The Universities and Left Review did not arise in a political vacuum. Its creation in 1957 was directly linked to the 1956 crisis of Stalinism. This year undermined the ideological bases of Communist Parties throughout Europe and triggered a significant political shift among intellectuals, students, and parts of the working class. To understand the ULR from a historical-materialist perspective, one must start with the specific historical context that led to its emergence.

1. The Shock of Khrushchev’s “Secret Speech”

In February 1956, Nikita Khrushchev delivered his “Secret Speech” at the 20th Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, partially acknowledging Stalin’s crimes in a self-serving manner. The speech was more a bureaucratic move than an act of political bravery: it aimed to stabilise the Soviet regime by separating the leadership from Stalin’s most extreme actions. Despite this, the speech had a profoundly explosive effect.

In Britain, the CPGB faced an unprecedented crisis, with thousands of members resigning. This included many prominent historians, such as E. P. Thompson, Christopher Hill, and John Saville, as well as a sizable group of younger intellectuals. Raphael Samuel, who had joined the CP in his teens and was active in the Communist Party Historians Group, was among those who departed.

Samuel later looked back on his years in the CP with a sense of romanticism, recalling a “powerful sense of apartness” alongside a desire for acceptance. Yet, this nostalgia masked a deeper political truth: he had never thoroughly critiqued Stalinism nor engaged with Trotskyist perspectives on the Soviet bureaucracy. His departure from the CP was motivated by moral outrage over Stalin’s atrocities, not a major ideological break from Stalinism. This point is important because it clarifies why Samuel and his colleagues later reproduced many of the Stalinist ideological assumptions in new cultural forms, despite believing they had left that world behind.

2. The Hungarian Revolution and the Collapse of Stalinist Legitimacy

If Khrushchev’s speech began to unravel the illusion of Stalinist authority, the Hungarian Revolution of October–November 1956 broke it down entirely. The uprising—organised by workers’ councils, students, and intellectuals—represented the most significant challenge to the Soviet bureaucracy since the 1920s. The brutal suppression by Soviet tanks revealed the counter-revolutionary nature of Stalinism with stark clarity.

For many CP members, the Hungarian events were a turning point. The CPGB leadership supported the Soviet invasion, condemning the revolution as a “fascist counter-revolution.” This stance was morally unjustifiable and politically disastrous. It hastened members’ leaving and left a void among disillusioned intellectuals and students.

The ULR arose directly from this vacuum. Its founders aimed to develop a new socialist politics that rejected Stalinism’s authoritarianism while maintaining the moral passion and cultural radicalism that initially attracted them to the CP. However, because they did not view Stalinism as a bureaucratic counter-revolution against October 1917, they struggled to abandon its fundamental theoretical foundations.

3. The Missed Opportunity: Trotskyism and the Labour Review

The 1956 crisis provided a historic chance for the Trotskyist movement. Under Gerry Healy’s leadership, the British section of the International Committee of the Fourth International (ICFI) started the Labour Review in January 1957 to address the political confusion among former Communist Party members and to attract them to revolutionary Marxism.

The Labour Review had a vastly different political stance compared to the ULR. It was centred on the industrial working class, aimed to develop a disciplined revolutionary party, and was based on Trotsky’s theoretical fight against Stalinism. Its goal was to transform the spontaneous split from the Communist Party into a deliberate political shift toward the Fourth International.

The ULR rejected this stance, with its editors dismissing the SLL as one of the “mushrooming” vanguard groups vying to lead a “non-existent revolutionary working class.” While this comment is often cited to highlight the ULR’s realism, it actually reveals its petty-bourgeois pessimism and its refusal to recognise the working class as the driving force of socialist change.

Brian Pearce, a former CP historian who later joined the SLL, warned that the ULR’s hostility to Trotskyism clearly indicated that its editors had not conceptually distanced themselves from Stalinism. They had abandoned the CP’s organisational structure but still harboured the same ideological distrust of revolutionary Marxism. Pearce’s warning proved to be insightful. The ULR’s refusal of the SLL set in motion a path that, via the New Left Review, eventually led to Cultural Studies, identity politics, and the academic left—a shift characterised by the replacement of class politics with cultural critique.

4. The ULR’s Interpretation of 1956: Stalinism as Marxism

A key insight into the ULR’s politics was its view on Stalinism. Charles Taylor, writing in the ULR, claimed that Stalinism “grew out of Communism” rather than being a separate deviation. This view—common among many former CP intellectuals—was a serious theoretical error. It blurred the line between Marxism and its bureaucratic distortion, offering an ideological excuse to abandon revolutionary politics entirely.

Eric Hobsbawm, who stayed in the CPGB, made a similar argument. The editors of ULR, despite splitting from the CP, shared this perspective. Their opposition to Marxism was not because of Stalinism but because they disavowed the revolutionary tradition that Stalinism had compromised.

This interpretation of 1956 had significant implications. It enabled the ULR to frame its cultural shift as a needed reaction to the perceived “failure” of Marxism, rather than as a step back from the working class’s strategic goals. This perspective justified replacing class analysis with cultural studies, favouring moral critique over political organisation, and abandoning the proletariat as the central subject of history.

5. The Political Conjuncture and the ULR’s Formation

The ULR originated from a particular historical background: the 1956 Stalinism crisis, confusion among petty-bourgeois intellectuals, absence of a mass revolutionary party, rising managerial control over universities, and the prevailing ideological influence of cultural radicalism. These conflicting factors shaped its political position. It sought to create a new socialist culture but within bourgeois institutions. While criticising Stalinism, it did not fully embrace Marxism. Likewise, it critiqued capitalism but did not challenge its fundamental principles. Therefore, the ULR was both a reflection and a catalyst of the larger political change associated with the British New Left—a move from class-based politics to cultural issues, from political economy to identity, and from revolutionary tactics to moral protest.

IV. Culturalism, the Frankfurt School, and the Theoretical Foundations of the ULR

If the Universities and Left Review was influenced by its editors’ class background and the political climate of 1956, its intellectual focus shifted toward culturalism. This change replaced traditional Marxist concepts of class, production, and political economy with an emphasis on culture, identity, and ideology. This shift was deliberate, reflecting the petty-bourgeois intelligentsia’s search for a new political stance following the decline of Stalinist authority. Its theoretical basis draws from two related traditions: the Frankfurt School and a selective adaptation of Gramsci.

1. The Frankfurt School: Pessimism as Theory

The Frankfurt School, associated with figures such as Max Horkheimer, Theodor Adorno, and Herbert Marcuse, arose from the setbacks faced by the European working class during the interwar years, the ascent of fascism, and the strengthening of the Stalinist bureaucracy. Its strong sense of intellectual pessimism was not just philosophical but also reflected the beliefs of a group of exiled intellectuals who had lost faith in the revolutionary potential of the proletariat.

The Frankfurt School argued that advanced capitalism had incorporated the working class into a system of mass consumption and ideological control, directly opposing the Marxist view of the proletariat as the revolutionary agent. Marcuse clarified this in his later writings, claiming that the working class in developed capitalist societies had developed a “proto-fascist syndrome,” which made it incapable of revolutionary awareness. He believed that liberation would instead stem from students, intellectuals, and marginalised groups.

This was not just a theoretical mistake; it reflected a specific class stance. It revealed the disdain of a confused petty-bourgeois intelligentsia for the working class and its shift toward cultural radicalism as a replacement for political activism. The ULR adopted this pessimism, with its editors supporting the Frankfurt School’s critique of mass culture, distrust of economic determinism, and focus on ideology and consciousness. However, they failed to recognise the class roots of these ideas. Consequently, their politics viewed culture as the main battleground and the working class as a passive subject of analysis rather than as a revolutionary agent.

2. Gramsci and the New Left: A Selective Appropriation

While the Frankfurt School offered the ULR a theoretical framework rooted in cultural pessimism, Antonio Gramsci supplied it with a vocabulary centred on cultural activism. The ULR’s editors adopted Gramsci’s concepts of hegemony, civil society, and the war of position as strategic tools to reframe socialist approaches within cultural contexts.

However, the version of Gramsci they adopted was not the one from the early Communist International, where he supported the dictatorship of the proletariat and the need for a revolutionary party. Instead, it was the Gramsci of the Prison Notebooks, selectively interpreted from the perspective of post-war Western Marxism. This view highlighted cultural struggle, ideological leadership, and gradual changes within civil society. He was portrayed as an alternative to Leninism, rather than as its continuation.

The ULR’s use of Gramsci fulfilled several political purposes: it justified replacing class struggle with cultural struggle, offered a theoretical basis for concentrating on universities, media, and civil society instead of workplaces and unions, enabled the editors to dismiss the Leninist idea of a vanguard party while keeping a radical language, and connected the ULR with the wider New Left’s rejection of the working class as the primary agent of socialist change.

Gramsci’s limitations—such as his critique of “economism,” his opposition to Trotsky’s theory of Permanent Revolution, and his acceptance of Stalinism’s nationalist framework—made him especially appealing to the ULR’s editors. As Gramsci stated, “the point of departure is national,” a phrase that aligned well with the ULR’s focus on cultural nationalism.

3. Culturalism as a Political Project

The ULR’s shift towards culturalism was not just an intellectual change; it was a political initiative. It aimed to forge a new socialist culture that would go beyond the “dogmatism” of the CPGB and the “economism” of traditional Marxism. However, by rejecting the Marxist analysis of class and the strategic importance of the proletariat, this project was fundamentally limited. Culturalism provided critique without a plan of action, radicalism without organisation, moral protest without a political agenda, identity without class consciousness, and culture without the aim of revolution.

This enabled the ULR’s editors to uphold a sense of radical identity without engaging in the challenging tasks of creating a revolutionary movement—such as confronting trade-union bureaucracies, organising workplaces, and fighting for the political independence of the working class. The cultural shift also set the stage for the emergence of Cultural Studies in the 1960s and 1970s, which became a key academic discipline of the British New Left. More than just a neutral scholarly field, Cultural Studies embodied the political goals of the ULR, shifting focus from class analysis to identity politics, replacing political economy with discourse analysis, and turning socialist critique into a form of academic radicalism.

4. The ULR’s Cultural Politics in Practice.

The early issues of the ULR featured articles on youth culture, literature, film, popular music, education, and the “democratisation” of cultural institutions. While these topics were significant, they were treated as separate spheres, isolated from the influences of capitalist production and class conflict. The ULR’s editors criticised British society’s cultural conservatism but did not examine the capitalist relations behind it. They praised youth culture’s creativity but failed to link it to the material realities of working-class life.

The outcome was a politics that seemed radical in appearance but was actually conservative in its impact. It questioned the cultural aspects of capitalism while maintaining its economic base. It targeted the symptoms of capitalist society without addressing the underlying causes.

5. Culturalism and the Retreat from Marxism

The ULR’s cultural shift was both a sign and a driver of the wider decline of Marxism on the British left. It indicated the confusion of a petty-bourgeois intellectual class that had lost faith in the working class and was searching for new sources of radical identity. Additionally, it played a role in the ideological shift that shaped the New Left: replacing class with culture, political economy with identity, and revolutionary tactics with moral critique.

This retreat had enduring impacts. It influenced the development of Cultural Studies, identity politics, and the academic left. It laid the ideological groundwork for the rise of New Labour and the managerial politics of the 1990s. Additionally, it left the working class politically powerless in the face of neoliberal restructuring. The ULR’s focus on culturalism was thus not a renewal of socialism but a retreat from it. It embodied the ideological stance of a social class that had abandoned the working class’s strategic tasks and instead sought refuge in the cultural institutions of bourgeois society.

V. Raphael Samuel, “History from Below,” and the Limits of Cultural Radicalism

Raphael Samuel’s later legacy is primarily built on his pioneering role in ‘history from below” and as a founding figure of the History Workshop movement. These efforts were meaningful, challenging the elitist tendencies of traditional historiography, uncovering the experiences of working people, and broadening the scope of socialist historical awareness. However, from a Marxist perspective, Samuel’s historiographical innovations are intertwined with certain political constraints. His “history from below” was not aimed at revolutionary change but served as a cultural-democratic initiative, rooted in the same petty-bourgeois environment that gave rise to the Universities and Left Review.

1. Samuel’s CP Background and the Persistence of Stalinist Assumptions

Samuel’s involvement with the Communist Party Historians Group (CPHG) significantly influenced his subsequent work. This group was responsible for nurturing notable British Marxist historians of the twentieth century, such as E. P. Thompson, Christopher Hill, and Rodney Hilton. However, their work was rooted in Stalinist ideology. Their historiography focused on themes such as national traditions, popular radical movements, moral heroism, and the enduring nature of “progressive” struggles over centuries.

This approach echoed the CPGB’s Popular Front strategy, which placed the working class under the influence of ‘progressive’ bourgeoisie factions and replaced internationalist ideals with national-popular narratives. Samuel internalised this framework thoroughly. His later nostalgia for the CP—shown in The Lost World of British Communism—was not just sentimental; it also exposed his difficulty in breaking away from the Stalinist view of history.

Samuel’s memoirs of the CP are notable for their omissions. He notably “stays silent on Stalin’s murderous purges of the 1930s” and does not discuss the conflict between Trotsky’s Left Opposition and Stalin’s bureaucracy. His narrative leans more toward cultural memory than political analysis. This omission is deliberate, reflecting the enduring influence of Stalinist ideas in Samuel’s later work: replacing class struggle with cultural tradition, favouring national radicalism over international socialism, and steering clear of strategic debates about revolutionary leadership.

2. “History from Below” as Cultural Recovery, Not Revolutionary Strategy

Samuel’s approach of “history from below” aimed to democratize history by highlighting the experiences of ordinary people—workers, artisans, women, migrants, and local communities. This methodology expanded historical understanding and questioned the elitist tendencies of academic historiography. However, it did not address the underlying material relations of capitalist society. While it celebrated working-class culture, it stopped short of challenging the political systems that oppress the working class.

From a Marxist view, the problem isn’t just documenting working-class experiences—an important step—but rather the absence of a clear strategic plan. Samuel’s work recorded the lives of workers, celebrated their agency, and critiqued elite narratives. However, it failed to link these histories to revolutionary objectives. It treated the working class as a cultural entity rather than a political force. Although it offered a detailed mosaic of popular memory, it did not connect that memory to capitalist production dynamics, class struggle, or the need for a revolutionary party. Thus, Samuel’s “history from below” was the historiographical equivalent of the ULR’s cultural politics: seemingly radical but ultimately politically conservative.

3. The History Workshop: Institutionalisation and Absorption

The History Workshop movement, established in the late 1960s, aimed to democratise the practice of history by engaging workers, activists, and community organisations in the creation of history. Its core principle—“history from below, for the people, by the people”—embodied a truly democratic spirit. However, the movement’s institutional development highlights the boundaries of cultural radicalism within a capitalist framework.

By the 1980s, the History Workshop had become part of the mainstream academic system. It served as a credential for advancing careers in universities, a space for cultural radicalism within bourgeois institutions, and a training ground for the academic left. Its radical spirit was tamed, and its democratic principles were turned into a participatory teaching approach. Its critique of elite historiography was absorbed into the very institutions it aimed to challenge. This transformation was not unique to the History Workshop but reflected a broader pattern where universities, NGOs, and cultural institutions incorporated the cultural innovations of the New Left.

From a Marxist perspective, this absorption was unavoidable. Without a revolutionary approach, cultural radicalism remains subject to the influence of bourgeois institutions. It essentially becomes a type of institutional dissent, accepted because it doesn’t challenge the core structures of capitalist power.

4. Samuel’s Critique of Classlessness and His Theoretical Limits

Samuel’s essay “Class and Classlessness” is often cited as evidence of his commitment to class analysis. In it, he criticises Stuart Hall’s claim that class was becoming obsolete in post‑war Britain. Yet Samuel’s own conception of class was shaped by the CPGB’s cultural‑nationalist framework. He recognised the historical radicalism of the working class but did not view it as a revolutionary force in the present.

This restriction was not just theoretical but also political. Samuel’s work consistently sidestepped crucial Marxist questions: the working class’s role in overthrowing capitalism, the need for a revolutionary party, the international scope of socialist revolution, and the importance of political economy in historical analysis. Instead, he concentrated on culture, memory, and daily life, creating a detailed historical record but leaving the working class politically passive.

5. The Political Consequences of Samuel’s Historiography

Samuel’s historiographical project had significant long-term effects. While it helped shape British leftist intellectual culture, it also inadvertently supported the shift away from Marxism. It played a role in the emergence of Cultural Studies, the move from class to identity politics, the academic focus of radical politics, and the division of socialist consciousness. Although Samuel wasn’t solely responsible for these trends, his work contributed to the ideological environment that enabled them. His “history from below” offered cultural material for a left that had abandoned core strategies of the working class and instead relied on bourgeois civil society institutions.

VI. The ULR, the New Left, and the Historical Verdict: A Marxist Conclusion

The Universities and Left Review holds a central position in post-war Britain’s intellectual and political history. It served as the birthplace of the first New Left, bringing together ex-Communist intellectuals, radicalized students, and cultural critics as they sought to develop a new socialist politics following the 1956 crisis. However, from a Marxist perspective, the ULR’s importance is less about its innovations and more about its limitations—limitations rooted in its class origins, theoretical approach, and political direction.

1. The ULR as a Petty‑Bourgeois Response to the Crisis of Stalinism

The ULR arose from a petty-bourgeois intelligentsia’s confusion after losing faith in the Communist Party but not adopting Marxism. Its editors denounced Stalinist authoritarianism yet kept their ideological doubts about revolutionary groups and shifted focus from class struggle to cultural analysis. Their break with the CPGB was rooted in emotional and moral reasons rather than in theory or politics.

Failing to interpret Stalinism as a bureaucratic counter-revolution against October 1917 made the ULR’s editors susceptible to the very ideological influences they aimed to avoid. Their antagonism toward Trotskyism—shown in their rejection of the Socialist Labour League and Labour Review—indicates they had not abandoned the theoretical roots of Stalinism. As Brian Pearce pointed out, they continued to be “unconsciously open to influence by false ideas absorbed during their period in the Stalinist camp.”

2. The Cultural Turn and the Retreat from Marxism

The ULR’s shift toward culturalism—guided by the Frankfurt School and a selective use of Gramsci—was not a revival of socialism but a step back from it. It replaced Marxist concepts like class, production, and political economy with an focus on culture, identity, and ideology. It favored moral critique over political tactics, cultural activism over revolutionary organization, and academic radicalism over class struggle.

This cultural turn reflected the ideological stance of a social class whose material basis was rooted in bourgeois civil society institutions such as universities, publishing houses, and cultural organizations. Their political scope was usually limited to reforming these institutions. This approach enabled the ULR’s editors to uphold a radical identity without engaging in the strategic efforts of the working class.

3. The ULR’s Legacy: From Cultural Studies to Identity Politics

The long-term impact of the ULR’s policies was significant. Its emphasis on culturalism established the groundwork for Cultural Studies, identity politics, the academic left, and the managerial politics of New Labour. These trends were not anomalies but was the natural result of the ULR’s ideological and political stance. By discarding the working class as the driving force of socialist change, the ULR contributed to a left that became more removed from workers’ material struggles and more embedded within bourgeois institutional frameworks.

The ULR’s legacy is thus dual-edged: it enhanced cultural analysis yet weakened socialist strategy. It broadened the scope of critique but restricted political possibilities. This resulted in a generation of intellectuals who were radical in rhetoric but reformist in action.

4. Raphael Samuel and the Limits of Cultural Radicalism

Raphael Samuel’s later contributions to the History Workshop movement showcased both the strengths and limitations of the ULR’s political approach. His approach of “history from below” aimed to recover the experiences of working people and challenge the elitist tendencies in academic historiography. However, it did not address strategic issues related to class power, political organization, or revolutionary leadership.

Samuel’s work was democratic, humane, and filled with empirical detail. However, it was also influenced by the cultural-nationalist outlook of the CPGB and the petty-bourgeois radicalism of the ULR. While it celebrated working-class culture, it did not connect it to the mechanisms of capitalist production or the goals of socialist revolution. This resulted in a valuable archive of popular memory but left the working class politically unarmed.

5. The Missed Opportunity of 1956

The 1956 crisis presented a significant chance for Marxism’s renewal. During this period, thousands of workers and intellectuals distanced themselves from the CPGB, looking for a new political direction. Among them, the Socialist Labour League, affiliated with the British section of the International Committee of the Fourth International, was the only group actively aiming to bring this segment into the fold of revolutionary Marxism.

The ULR dismissed this opportunity, shifting its focus from the working class to bourgeois cultural institutions. They rejected Leninist ideas of a vanguard party and adopted a politics of cultural radicalism. This shift contributed to the development of a New Left that was politically inconsistent, theoretically diverse, and ultimately unable to address the issues arising from the capitalist crisis.

6. The Historical Verdict

From a Marxist perspective, the historical judgment on the ULR is definitive: it was a petty-bourgeois reaction to Stalinism’s crisis, replacing class struggle with cultural critique, and favoring moral protest over revolutionary Marxism. This fostered a left that, while radical in rhetoric, was reformist in action, ultimately leading to the ongoing fragmentation of socialist consciousness.

The ULR’s accomplishments—such as its cultural innovations, critique of British conservatism, and revival of popular traditions—were genuine. However, they were overshadowed by its political shortcomings. It did not offer a clear alternative to Stalinism, nor did it focus on mobilizing the working class. Additionally, it failed to see that the 1956 crisis could only be resolved by returning to the Fourth International’s program.

The ULR was not the start of a socialist revival but rather marked a political withdrawal—moving away from Marxism, class struggle, and the revolutionary goals of the working class. Its legacy serves as a warning: lacking a solid theoretical base and a revolutionary strategy, cultural radicalism risks becoming a way to accommodate the very system it aims to critique.

Sophie Scott-Brown’s article on Raphael Samuel is a thoughtful, well-researched contribution to understanding postwar British left intellectual culture. It benefits from careful critical analysis, especially from a Trotskyist perspective, as it uncovers not only the contradictions within Samuel’s project but also highlights the broader political trend of the British left during the second half of the twentieth century. This trend, as the essay suggests, is one of political withdrawal, often disguised by rhetoric around democratic education, cultural diversity, and the praise of “ordinary people” as key historical actors.[1]

Scott-Brown’s essay effectively emphasises several key points. She observes the theatrical and deliberately crafted nature of Samuel’s “people’s historian” persona—his “iron resolution” hidden behind a “deliberately dozy and slightly dotty front,” as Sheila Rowbotham noted. She also examines the contradictions between Samuel’s professed egalitarian ideals and his actual behaviours: for example, overriding Ruskin students’ choices on Workshop themes, staging the 1979 confrontation between E.P. Thompson, Stuart Hall, and Richard Johnson like a theatrical director, and employing charm and tactics where his theoretical authority was lacking. These insights are important corrections to the often romanticised views of Samuel’s legacy.

She correctly traces Samuel’s organising style back to the culture of the Stalinist Communist Party of Great Britain (CPGB), highlighting the Popular Front approach of persuasion—prioritising “friendly persuasion over theoretical cudgelling.” However, the article stops short of extracting the essential political implications of this insight. From a Marxist and Trotskyist perspective, Samuel’s involvement with the CPGB isn’t just a biographical detail but rather the key political environment that shaped his entire intellectual path.

I. The CPGB Historians’ Group and the Popular Front Tradition

The Communist Party Historians’ Group, which educated Samuel alongside notable figures like Christopher Hill, E.P. Thompson, Eric Hobsbawm, and Rodney Hilton, was deeply influenced by Stalinist politics. Ann Talbot noted that Hill’s “people’s history” approach, promoted by the CPGB, was more than just an academic tradition; it served as a political tool aligned with Popular Front ideology. This approach offered a democratic facade for a political stance that placed the working class under the control of the “progressive” sections of the bourgeoisie and justified the international repression of revolutionary Marxists.

A.L. Morton’s People’s History of England, the key work of the genre that Samuel inherited, intentionally downplayed the class aspects of historical struggles, blending them into a unified national-popular story. This nationalist skew was deliberate, driven by the CPGB’s focus on forming cross-class alliances. Even after Samuel left the Party in 1956, his “people’s history” continued to reflect this distortion.

Scott-Brown observes that many in Samuel’s generation left the CPGB following the Soviet invasion of Hungary. However, she does not mention that the most ideologically committed members joined the Trotskyist movement. Those who moved towards the New Left, including Samuel, retained the core political flaw of Stalinism: their rejection of an independent working-class political agenda in favour of a broad, pluralist, cross-class cultural movement.

II. Thompson, Althusser, and the Retreat from Marxism

Scott-Brown regards the clash between Thompson’s “socialist humanism” and the Althusserian structuralism of Hall and Johnson as the key theoretical controversy of that era. From a Trotskyist perspective, this debate was essentially a retreat from Marxism.

Thompson’s *Making of the English Working Class* is a truly brilliant work, but his idea of “socialist humanism” marked a retreat into empiricism, moralism, and eventually a nationalist view of working-class history. His polemic *The Poverty of Theory* argued for English empiricism against Continental theory, not scientific Marxism against idealism. Meanwhile, Althusserianism reduced class struggle to structuralist abstraction.

Samuel’s refusal to choose between these positions—his emphasis on “plurality”—was not a genuine compromise but a political dodge. The failure of Workshop 13 in 1979, as vividly detailed by Scott-Brown, was not just bad event management. It revealed the deeper incoherence of a political movement that had forsaken clear programmatic goals and sought to unify conflicting intellectual tendencies through organisational talent and personal charisma.

III. The Democratisation of History and Its Class Content

Samuel’s main initiative—the democratisation of historical practice—aims to empower “ordinary people” to produce their own histories, reflecting a genuine emancipatory goal. He believes that workers should understand their own history, as traditional ruling-class historiography often mystifies and subjugates them. Contributions such as the Ruskin College pamphlets on pit life, narratives from rail workers, and working-class club culture are important examples of this effort.

However, democratisation lacking political clarity risks becoming empty radicalism. Samuel’s idea of a “people’s historian” served more as a cultural stand-in for revolutionary political education. The key issue is not just whether workers can write their own history, but whether they can comprehend their role within capitalist society well enough to change it.

The traditional Samuel obstructed this understanding by reducing class analysis to a sort of ‘plurality’ and favouring cultural populism over political action. By the 1990s, as Scott-Brown observes, he had adapted more to the Thatcherite heritage industry than challenged it. The progression from the Ruskin pamphlets to ‘Theatres of Memory’ (1994) illustrates this shift. By that time, Samuel had moved from encouraging workers to investigate their own exploitation to praising popular historical entertainment—such as period dramas, country houses, and ‘retrochic’—as ways of creating history. Richard Hoggart’s comment that the book was created by a “traumatised Marxist” is harsh, but it holds some truth.

IV. Memory as a Substitute for Politics

Samuel’s shift to memory studies was more a political response than an intellectual breakthrough. When history is viewed as a cultural activity rather than a scientific analysis of class society, it becomes impossible to differentiate between progressive and reactionary historical views. If all “meaning-making about the past” holds equal validity, then miners’ oral histories and the National Trust’s curated nostalgia are seen as comparable.

This marks Samuel’s conception of pluralism: a theoretical approach where the working class and the bourgeoisie are seen as equal contributors to memory, rather than as opposing classes in conflict. The working class is viewed as a remembering subject, not just a resisting one. The past transforms into a space for identity formation rather than a field for critique. History turns into a theatrical stage rather than a purely scientific discipline.

V. The Limits of Cultural Democracy

Samuel’s approach to democratizing history increased participation but narrowed political perspectives. It made archives accessible but limited avenues for revolutionary ideas. While it amplified diverse voices, it also diminished the relevance of class. Workers can document their histories, yet if the framework is influenced by Popular Front nationalism or New Left culturalism, it results in self-expression confined to bourgeois ideology rather than fostering revolutionary consciousness.

The democratisation of history is significant only if it is connected to the political self-liberation of the working class, which demands a scientific grasp of capitalism, an internationalist outlook, and a revolutionary agenda. Samuel did not provide any of these elements.

VI. The Trotskyist Alternative: History as a Weapon

While Samuel’s tradition dissolves into cultural populism, the Trotskyist tradition emphasises the importance of the unity between historical knowledge and revolutionary practice. Trotskyism regards history as a science rather than a stage, considers the working class to be a revolutionary force rather than merely a cultural identity, and views the past not as a memory resource but as a strategic guide for overthrowing capitalism.

This is the response Samuel was unable to give when asked in 1979, “What is socialist history?” His reply—“it’s an awfully big question, Brian”—was not due to modesty but evasion. A truthful answer would have involved confronting the Stalinist tradition he inherited and recognising the need for an independent working-class political program.

Postscript: The Contemporary Stakes of Reassessing Raphael Samuel

A Trotskyist re-assessment of Raphael Samuel goes beyond mere antiquarian interests; it engages directly with current political and intellectual debates. The British left’s crisis in the late twentieth century—characterized by a retreat from class-based politics, an embrace of culturalism, and the shift from unified programs to pluralism—remains unresolved and has even intensified. The intellectual currents Samuel helped shape now dominate the humanities, while the working class continues to face systemic exclusion from political representation.

The modern academy, largely focused on cultural studies, memory, and identity-based histories, reflects the tendencies Samuel represented. The shift from class to culture, the prioritization of “voices” over analysis, and the celebration of diversity without political focus are now standard in historical research. Although seen as radical, these approaches serve as ideological compromises that allow a capitalist system to incorporate cultural criticism while suppressing conflicts over class.

Samuel’s legacy requires careful examination, not because of personal failings, but because his path illustrates a larger historical trend: the shift of the left from advocating revolutionary self-emancipation of workers to becoming a cultural and intellectual sphere focused on representation, identity, and memory. This shift has significant political implications. A left that neglects class struggle cannot challenge capitalism effectively. Similarly, a historical perspective that ignores class cannot reveal the true workings of exploitation. Without a clear program, politics cannot lead to genuine emancipation.

Today, Marxist historiography should focus on clarifying the structure of capitalist society and the role of the working class, rather than generating multiple narratives. It needs to reject the culturalist fragmentation legitimized by Samuel’s pluralism, reaffirm the scientific basis of historical materialism in opposition to the relativism of memory studies, and restore the connection between historical research and the political aim of socialist revolution.

This calls for a break not just from the Stalinist distortions of history but also from current culturalist distortions. It necessitates returning to the methodological clarity of Marx, Engels, Lenin, and Trotsky—not treating them as icons, but as theorists of a dynamic movement. It requires a historiography that views the past not as a stage for memory but as a battleground of struggle, where their lessons are crucial for future battles.

Raphael Samuel’s work, despite its vibrancy and generosity, ultimately aligns with a political tradition that lacked clarity. His idea of a “people’s history” made the archive more accessible but stripped away the political conflict of class struggle. It highlighted the ingenuity of ordinary people but overlooked the deep structural forces influencing their lives. While it expanded the number of stories and fostered engagement with warmth and color, it lacked the theoretical tools necessary to challenge capitalism.

A Marxist revaluation of Samuel does not reject his dedication to ordinary people but instead reclaims the political scope that his tradition denied. The working class requires more than just a platform for remembrance; it needs a thorough understanding of history. It needs an actionable plan and a movement that can change society, not just analyse its history.

Only the revolutionary Marxist tradition, embodied by the International Committee of the Fourth International, provides this perspective. It uniquely maintains the continuity in the fight against Stalinism, nationalism, and the culturalist dissolution of class. Additionally, it asserts that history is not a collection of competing stories but a tool for a class poised to seize power.

Samuel’s critique is not meant as a closing but as an opening gesture. It extends beyond the cultural turn, the New Left, and the Popular Front, aiming to reaffirm a Marxist historiography suitable for the twenty-first century. The goal is not merely to democratize history but to equip the working class with the historical awareness essential for its emancipation.

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[1] Raphael Samuel and the Politics of the People’s Historian Sophie Scott-Brown-journal.socialisthistorysociety.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/Socialist-History-61_Final-76-95.pdf

Pip: There's a genre of history that loves the underdog so much it forgets to ask why the underdog keeps losing — and freerein61 has written a long, serious essay about exactly that problem.

Mara: This episode covers one extended piece of Marxist historiography: a close critical reading of Raquel Varela's work on European history, measured against Zinn, Hobsbawm, and Trotsky.

Pip: Let's start with what "people's history" gets right, and what it structurally cannot see.

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A People's History Without Revolutionary Leadership?

Mara: The essay opens a debate inside the left-wing historical tradition itself — not whether to center the working class, but whether centering "the people" is actually the same thing, and whether that distinction has real political consequences.

Pip: The core charge is laid out early, and it's precise. The essay argues that "the concept of 'the people' is politically vague… it conflates the working class, the peasantry, the urban petty bourgeoisie, and sections of the bourgeoisie itself."

Mara: So the upshot is that a category meant to be inclusive ends up dissolving the very class distinctions that explain why revolutions succeed or fail. Sympathy replaces analysis, and the reader is left inspired but not equipped.

Pip: The essay positions Varela against three reference points: Zinn, Hobsbawm, and Trotsky. Zinn gets credit for moral urgency but is faulted for treating all resistance as driven by a single impulse — victims and heroes rather than classes and parties.

Mara: Hobsbawm is handled differently. The essay acknowledges the structural depth of the Age of trilogy while noting that his Communist Party loyalty prevented him from analyzing Stalinist betrayals in Germany and Spain. Theory sound, politics compromised.

Pip: Trotsky is the yardstick. The essay identifies four methodological principles in his work: rigorous class differentiation, the centrality of revolutionary leadership, dialectical materialism, and internationalism. That last one matters — the argument is that you cannot understand the Russian Revolution without the German Revolution, cannot understand Spain without the Stalinist bureaucracy's global role.

Mara: The Portuguese Revolution of 1974 to 1975 is the essay's main test case. It argues that the Carnation Revolution was ultimately contained through the intervention of the Portuguese Communist Party and the Socialist Party, with the trade union bureaucracy as complicit. Varela describes the mass radicalization but, the essay contends, does not analyze the political mechanisms that stabilized capitalist rule.

Pip: Which is the structural flaw the essay keeps returning to: a history that chronicles uprisings without explaining their outcomes is a history that cannot teach the next generation what went wrong.

Mara: Part III widens this to the post-Soviet intellectual environment — the collapse of the USSR pushed the academic left toward cultural and identity frameworks, away from class analysis and the concept of revolutionary leadership. The essay reads Varela's theoretical gaps as a symptom of that broader retreat.

Pip: So the book is not dismissed — it's diagnosed. Valuable correction to bourgeois historiography, real sympathy for the oppressed, but short of what Marxist historical method actually demands.

Mara: The closing argument is that Varela's work should be read alongside Trotsky, Lenin, and the early Comintern — not as a replacement for that tradition, but as a starting point that needs the harder theoretical framework beside it.

Pip: History that inspires without equipping is, in the end, a comfort rather than a weapon.

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Mara: The question underneath all of this is whether the left's historiography is adequate to the political crises it's trying to address.

Pip: Moral urgency is not a substitute for a theory of defeat — and that gap, the essay argues, is not accidental. It's the next episode's problem too.

Raquel Varela, the Zinn Tradition, Hobsbawm’s Marxism, and the Trotskyist Conception of History

Part I

Raquel Varela’s A People’s History of Europe is a major contribution to modern left-wing historiography. It aims to blend the “history from below” perspective with a broad overview of Europe’s development from the Middle Ages to the present day. Varela’s writing is driven by a genuine commitment to workers, peasants, and oppressed groups, and it carries a moral urgency that sharply contrasts with the complacency and cynicism common in mainstream academic history. However, the strengths of her approach—such as its empathy for the exploited, focus on mass movements, and rejection of elite-focused stories—are closely linked to its weaknesses. These issues are not personal flaws but stem from the political and theoretical limits of the environment in which she operates, shaped by left-reformist, post-Trotskyist, and post-Stalinist currents that have influenced the European radical left since the 1990s.

This essay aims to analyse Varela’s approach by comparing it with that of three key figures: Howard Zinn, Eric Hobsbawm, and Leon Trotsky. Zinn embodies the populist moral story of resistance; Hobsbawm’s Marxism is scholarly yet politically compromised by the Communist Party; Trotsky advocates a scientific, dialectical, revolutionary approach that provides a clear explanation of major modern upheavals. Varela’s work exists where these traditions meet, drawing from each but mainly echoing the limitations of Zinn and Hobsbawm, while remaining somewhat distant from Trotsky’s method.

This analysis is more than an academic exercise; it involves high-stakes political issues. Addressing the crisis of global capitalism, the rise of imperialist wars, the growth of fascist movements, and the escalating struggles of the working class requires a historical perspective rooted in scientific socialism. While the ‘people’s history’ genre has its strengths, it falls short of this scope. It chronicles struggles but doesn’t analyse their outcomes, celebrates resistance but overlooks defeats, and invokes “the people” while hiding the crucial role of class leadership. The outcome is a history that is morally inspiring but lacks the necessary theoretical foundations—one that motivates but doesn’t equip.

Varela’s work aligns with the tradition set by Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States—a tradition with notable strengths and notable limitations. The book is praised for emphasising class struggle, general strikes, and revolutionary upheavals. Still, it is also criticised for theoretical ambiguity and political vagueness, especially around the concept of “the people.” The main flaw identified is that “the concept of ‘the people’ is politically vague… [it] conflates the working class, the peasantry, the urban petty bourgeoisie, and sections of the bourgeoisie itself.” This issue is fundamental, as it underpins the book’s entire methodological approach. People’s History

The term “the people” is not rooted in Marxist theory but is instead a populist idea. It conceals the class conflict that shapes capitalist societies. This concept enables historians to praise acts of resistance without examining the underlying political goals, class makeup, or leadership of the movements. It replaces detailed, scientific analysis with moral outrage. Furthermore, it serves as a tool for the reformist left to avoid facing the key lesson of the 20th century: that the outcome of revolutions depends not on the vague notion of “the people,” but on the political leadership within the working class.

This is where a comparison with Zinn becomes necessary. Zinn’s “People’s History” is a passionate and compelling narrative that highlights the brutality of American capitalism and amplifies the voices of the oppressed. However, it does not offer a Marxist analysis. It fails to differentiate between proletarian, populist, petty-bourgeois radical, and bourgeois liberal movements, viewing all resistance as driven by a single moral impulse. Instead, it presents a history that focuses on victims and heroes rather than on class struggles or political parties. It chronicles injustice without analysing the inherent contradictions of capitalism.

Varela adopts this framework, viewing her “people” as united by oppressions rather than their roles in production relations. Her narrative emphasises sympathy over theoretical analysis, highlighting the struggles of workers, peasants, women, colonised peoples, and soldiers without exploring the class dynamics behind these conflicts. She lauds the mass movements of 1848, the Paris Commune, the Russian Revolution, the German Revolution, the Spanish Civil War, and the Portuguese Revolution, but does not analyse the political leaderships that shaped their outcomes. Consequently, her history is detailed but lacks explanatory depth.

The difference with Hobsbawm is revealing. Eric Hobsbawm, a highly knowledgeable Marxist historian, authored the significant “Age of” trilogy, which is a major achievement. He comprehended capitalism’s structural dynamics, the long-term shifts in class relations, and the broader European development context. However, his work was influenced by his lifelong allegiance to the Communist Party, preventing him from addressing Stalinism’s crimes or the betrayals within the Communist International. Consequently, he couldn’t analyse the critical role of Stalinist leadership in the failures of the German and Spanish Revolutions and the post-war revolutionary surge. While his Marxist theory was profound, his political stance remained compromised.

Varela resembles Hobsbawm in her focus on long-term processes and her sympathy for labour movements. However, she lacks his depth in theory. She does not provide a systematic analysis of capitalist development, class formation, or revolutionary dynamics. Simultaneously, she echoes his political evasions by avoiding the role of Stalinism in 20th-century defeats, the betrayals within social democracy, the political limits of anarchism, and the essential issue of revolutionary leadership.

This is where Trotsky’s approach proves essential. His works—such as The History of the Russian Revolution (1905), The Revolution Betrayed, and his analyses of the German catastrophe and the Spanish Revolution—are the pinnacle of Marxist historiography. They go beyond simple event recounting, offering scientific analyses of society’s laws of development. These works are rooted in dialectical materialism, focusing on the contradictions between productive forces and relations of production, the global nature of class struggle, and the critical influence of political leadership.

Four principles define Trotsky’s method.

First, Trotsky’s class analysis does not categorise “the people” as a single analytical unit. Instead, he clearly distinguishes among classes and their political tendencies, analysing the proletariat, peasantry, petty bourgeoisie, bourgeoisie, and state apparatus as separate social forces with distinct interests. Second, Trotsky emphasises the importance of leadership. He believes that the success of revolutions depends on the revolutionary party’s program, strategy, and organisation. While the working class may possess great energy and creativity, without revolutionary leadership, they cannot seize power.

Third, Trotsky advocates dialectical materialism, viewing revolutions as outcomes of capitalism’s contradictions. He explores the relationship between objective conditions and subjective factors, spontaneous struggle versus conscious leadership, and national developments in relation to the international context—fourth, internationalism. Trotsky rejects the national framework of bourgeois historiography. He analyses revolutions as part of a global process. He understands that the fate of the Russian Revolution depended on the German Revolution, that the international crisis of capitalism shaped the Spanish Revolution, and that the defeats of the 20th century were the result of the betrayals of the Stalinist bureaucracy on a world scale.

This approach highlights the weaknesses in Varela’s method, especially evident in her analysis of the Portuguese Revolution of 1974–75. The document emphasises this event as the critical test of her historiography. It states that the revolution “was ultimately contained and betrayed through the intervention of the Portuguese Communist Party… and the Socialist Party, with the complicity of the trade union bureaucracy.” This analysis aligns with Trotskyist perspectives by recognising the revolutionary potential of the working class, the counter-revolutionary roles played by Stalinism and social democracy, and the absence of a revolutionary party capable of leading the power struggle.

Varela’s interpretation of the Carnation Revolution, however, highlights the spontaneity and creativity of the masses, while downplaying the roles of the PCP and SP in maintaining capitalism. She praises the radicalisation of workers and soldiers but refrains from discussing revolutionary leadership. She outlines the process without addressing its ultimate result. Her account depicts a struggle but lacks a comprehensive theory of revolution.

This is the main flaw of the “people’s history” genre. It collects evidence of exploitation and resistance but fails to analyse the dialectical laws governing historical progress. It notes the symptoms of capitalist crises without exploring their root causes. While it praises the courage of the oppressed, it does not account for their defeats. It refers to “the people” but does not analyse the class forces that influence history. Consequently, it presents a history of victims and heroes rather than of classes and political parties.

The outcome is a history that appeals morally but fails to offer political solutions. It evokes sympathy without guiding strategy. It stirs feelings of injustice without proposing specific plans for revolutionary change. This is a significant flaw— the core limitation of the reformist left. It explains why the left struggles to give a clear response to the crisis of global capitalism, why mass movements often lead nowhere, and why betrayals by social democracy and Stalinism have not been remembered as lessons. It also clarifies why the working class lacks a revolutionary leadership.

The purpose of Marxist historiography is to analyse the class struggle, not to celebrate “the people.” Its role is to explain resistance outcomes, not just record them. It aims to understand rather than moralise, and to empower rather than inspire. Varela’s book, despite its virtues, falls short of this standard. While it corrects bourgeois historiography by highlighting the working class, it does not fully explain the class’s historical role. It recounts revolutions but lacks analysis of the conditions needed for their success. Although it celebrates struggle, it does not investigate leadership. It documents the oppressed’s history but does not depict the class struggle in the Marxist sense.

Part II

Varela’s A People’s History of Europe reveals its methodological weaknesses mostly through its narrative structure. The book focuses on episodes of mass resistance—such as peasant uprisings, strikes, revolutions, and anti-colonial struggles—and shows genuine sympathy for the oppressed. However, its narrative is episodic rather than dialectical, jumping from one act of resistance to another without examining the underlying contradictions or the political forces influencing these movements. Consequently, it offers a detailed account but falls short in providing comprehensive explanations.

This episodic format mirrors the influence of the Zinn tradition. Zinn’s People’s History presents a series of moral tableaux: the dispossession of Native Americans, the exploitation of workers, women’s struggles, and African American resistance. Each chapter functions as an independent critique of injustice. However, the book lacks a systematic theory of American capitalism or a dialectical analysis of its evolution. It doesn’t explore the links between economic change and political institutions, class struggle and state power, or national and international development. Overall, it is a moral narrative rather than a scientific examination.

Varela’s approach follows this pattern by depicting the struggles of “the people” as heroic episodes. However, she does not explore the underlying structural dynamics of European capitalism, such as the transition from feudalism to capitalism, the rise of the bourgeois state, the development of the modern working class, or the emergence of imperialism as a global system. She also overlooks the contradictions within the capitalist mode of production and the connection between economic crises and political upheavals. While she describes the symptoms of capitalist development, she does not analyze its fundamental laws.

This lack of theoretical analysis is intentional, mirroring the current European left’s shift away from Marxist economic critique. The fall of the Soviet Union, the decline of social-democratic parties, and the emergence of post-Marxist ideas have led to a left that dismisses overarching narratives, questions class-based analysis, and resists the idea of revolutionary leadership. Consequently, the historiography focuses on resistance stories while sidestepping issues of power.

This avoidance is especially clear in Varela’s discussion of major 20th-century revolutions. The Russian Revolution of 1917, the German Revolution of 1918–23, the Spanish Revolution of 1936–39, and the Portuguese Revolution of 1974–75 are depicted as moments of popular mobilization, yet their underlying political dynamics are not analyzed. The contribution of the Bolshevik Party in guiding the Russian working class to power is recognized but not explored. The betrayals during the German Revolution by the Social Democratic Party are mentioned without analysis. The counter-revolutionary role of Stalinism in Spain is acknowledged but left unexamined. The suppression of the Portuguese Revolution by the PCP and SP is described but not sufficiently clarified.

This is not about historical facts but about the method of studying history. The outcome of revolutions depends not on the “people” in general, but on the political leadership of the working class. Trotsky’s key contribution to history shows that whether revolutions succeed or fail relies on the working class’s ability to build a revolutionary party. This party must offer strategic guidance, resist reformist and centrist influences, and lead in the fight for state power. Without such a party, the spontaneous enthusiasm of the masses cannot be turned into an aware effort to achieve socialism.

This is the lesson that Varela’s work does not fully incorporate. Her narrative is rooted in sympathy for the oppressed, yet it lacks a comprehensive theory of revolutionary leadership. She highlights the courage and creativity of the masses but does not analyze the political forces shaping their struggles. While she celebrates the Paris Commune, she overlooks the absence of a revolutionary party capable of coordinating the effort. She praises the militancy of German workers but fails to examine the SPD’s role in disarming the revolution. She venerates the heroism of Spanish workers and peasants but does not address the influence of the Stalinist bureaucracy in suppressing the revolution. Although she admires the radicalization of the Portuguese working class, she does not examine the political mechanisms through which the PCP and SP stabilised capitalist rule.

The outcome is a history that inspires morally but leaves politics confused. It elicits admiration for the oppressed’s struggles but fails to explain why those struggles were overcome. It creates a feeling of injustice without offering a clear strategy for change. While it presents a story of resistance, it does not provide a comprehensive theory of revolution.

The difference between Trotsky’s approach and others is clear. Trotsky’s “History of the Russian Revolution” is not just a timeline of events but a scientific analysis of revolutionary dynamics. It explores how objective conditions and subjective factors interact, the balance between spontaneous struggle and conscious leadership, and the relationship between the masses and the party. The book examines the contradictions within the Provisional Government, the role of the Soviets, the emergence of dual power, and the strategic choices that led to the October insurrection. It serves as a work of historical materialism, focusing on the laws governing societal change.

Trotsky’s analyses of the German and Spanish revolutions are equally meticulous. He argued that the German Revolution’s defeat was due to betrayals by the SPD and the Communist Party’s mistakes, not an inevitable outcome. Similarly, he pointed out that Spain’s revolution was defeated not because of Franco’s strength, but because of the Stalinist bureaucracy’s counter-revolutionary policies. He examined the political forces involved in these struggles and the strategic choices that led to their outcomes.

This level of analysis is missing from Varela’s work. Her narrative is detailed yet lacks explanation. She depicts the struggles of the oppressed but fails to analyze the political forces influencing their destiny. While she celebrates resistance, she does not explore leadership. She provides a history of the people but not of the class struggle.

The impact of this methodological weakness is clear in her analysis of the Portuguese Revolution. The Carnation Revolution, a key post-war movement, saw the working class radicalize, workers’ commissions form, factories occupied, and the colonial empire collapse, leading to dual power and directly challenging state authority. However, this upheaval was ultimately controlled and stabilized through an alliance between the PCP, SP, the military, and the trade union bureaucracy.

Varela discusses the mass radicalization but overlooks the political mechanisms that limited the revolution. She fails to investigate the PCP’s role in subordinating the working class to the MFA, nor does she analyze the SP’s defense of capitalist property relations. Additionally, she does not address the lack of a revolutionary party capable of leading the working class to power. While describing the symptoms of the revolution, she neglects its underlying dynamics.

This issue is not about historical facts but about the approach to history. To understand the fate of the Portuguese Revolution, it is essential to examine the roles played by PCP and SP, the impacts of Stalinism and social democracy, and the lack of revolutionary leadership. These elements are crucial in shaping the revolution’s outcome. Without considering them, the history of the revolution remains unfinished.

Varela’s discussion of European capitalism’s history shows a similar flaw. She highlights the plight of the oppressed but fails to explore the structural forces shaping capitalist growth. She overlooks key transitions like feudalism to capitalism, the rise of the bourgeois state, the advent of imperialism, and the worldwide aspects of capitalist accumulation. While she details the symptoms of capitalist development, she neglects its underlying laws.

This lack of theoretical analysis mirrors the political stance of today’s European left. After the Soviet Union’s collapse and the decline of social-democratic parties, the left has become wary of overarching narratives, doubtful of class analysis, and opposed to revolutionary leadership. Consequently, historiography tends to praise resistance while sidestepping issues of power.

This is the main limitation of the “people’s history” genre: it documents struggles but lacks analysis of their results. It honors resistance but doesn’t address defeat. It refers to “the people” but downplays the key role of class leadership. It tells stories of victims and heroes rather than classes and parties. Marxist historiography aims not to celebrate “the people,” but to analyze class struggle. Its goal is not just to document resistance but to explain its outcomes. It seeks understanding over moralizing. Its purpose is not to inspire but to equip.

Varela’s book, despite its strengths, falls short of this standard. While it offers a valuable correction to bourgeois historiography, it does not significantly advance Marxist theory. It reaffirms the importance of the working class in history but fails to explain its historical role. The book recounts revolutions without analyzing the conditions necessary for their success. It celebrates struggles but does not focus on leadership. Although it chronicles the oppressed, it does not present a history of class struggle in the Marxist framework.

Part III

Varela’s historiographical approach reveals more limitations when viewed against the backdrop of the broader crisis in historical consciousness during the post-Soviet period. The fall of the USSR in 1991 was seen by the bourgeois intelligentsia as the “end of history,” marking the triumph of liberal capitalism and the ultimate overthrow of Marxism. This ideological shift significantly influenced the academic left, leading to a decline in class analysis, a shift towards cultural and identity-focused perspectives, and increased skepticism about the idea of revolution. The result was a historiography that emphasised fragmentation, contingency, and micro‑history at the expense of structural analysis and global processes.

Varela’s approach partially counters current trends by emphasizing the central role of class struggle, the significance of mass movements, and the agency of oppressed groups. She rejects both liberal historiography’s complacency and post-modernism’s fatalism, bringing the working class back to the heart of European history. These are notable accomplishments. However, her work is still influenced by the post-Soviet left’s intellectual environment. It lacks the confidence found in traditional Marxist theory, avoids discussing revolutionary leadership, and replaces the scientific concept of class with the moral notion of “the people.” While she celebrates resistance, she does not delve into the conditions necessary for achieving victory.

This tension appears in her portrayal of European development’s long trajectory. Varela highlights peasant resistance to feudal lords, artisans fighting guild restrictions, workers opposing capitalist exploitation, and colonized peoples resisting imperial rule. However, she stops short of analyzing the structural shifts behind these struggles. She does not explore the transition from feudalism to capitalism, the rise of the bourgeois state, the expansion of the global market, or the rise of imperialism as a worldwide system. While she notes the signs of historical change, she overlooks its fundamental mechanisms.

Her treatment of 19th-century history notably omits structural analysis. While she links the revolutions of 1848, the unification of Germany and Italy, industrial capitalism’s growth, the rise of the labour movement, and imperialism as interconnected events, she does not explore their deeper dynamics. Key contradictions of capitalist development—such as the struggle between productive forces and relations of production, the tendency of profit rates to decline, the expansion of the global market, and intensified class conflict—are left unexamined. Consequently, her narrative becomes rich in detail but lacks the necessary theoretical clarity.

The contrast with Hobsbawm highlights important differences. His series—*Age of Revolution*, *Age of Capital*, and *Age of Empire*—provide a broad analysis of key structural changes in the modern world. They explore the links between economic growth, political systems, and social movements, and analyze capitalism’s contradictions and imperialism’s forces. Hobsbawm’s work places European history within a global context, but it is also influenced by his loyalty to the Communist Party. This limits his ability to critique Stalinism’s role in 20th-century defeats, the Soviet state’s decline, or the betrayals within the Communist International.

Varela’s work lacks the theoretical depth of Hobsbawm but echoes his political evasions. She avoids addressing Stalinism’s role in the failures of the German and Spanish revolutions, does not analyze the Soviet state’s degeneration, and omits the betrayals within the Communist International. While she details the struggles of the oppressed, she fails to scrutinize the political forces influencing their outcomes. Her work presents a history of the people but does not explore the broader class struggle.

This is where Trotsky’s method proves essential. His analyses of the Russian, German, and Spanish revolutions reveal that revolutions’ outcomes depend not on the “people” in general, but on the political leadership within the working class. Trotsky illustrated that the Russian Revolution’s success hinged on the Bolshevik Party’s capacity to provide strategic guidance, resist reformist and centrist influences, and spearhead the fight for state power. He attributed the failure of the German Revolution to betrayals by the SPD and shortcomings of the Communist Party. Additionally, he examined the counter-revolutionary role played by the Stalinist bureaucracy in Spain. His analysis also covered the interplay between objective conditions and subjective factors, spontaneous action and conscious leadership, as well as national and international developments.

This level of analysis is missing from Varela’s work. Her narrative is motivated by sympathy for the oppressed, yet it lacks a theory of revolutionary leadership. She highlights the courage and creativity of the masses but does not analyze the political forces influencing their struggles. While she celebrates resistance, she does not delve into strategy. She provides a history of the people but fails to address the broader class struggle.

This methodological weakness becomes especially clear in her discussion of the 20th century. While she links events like the First World War, the Russian Revolution, fascism’s rise, the Second World War, the post-war settlement, the Cold War, and the fall of the Soviet Union as interconnected, she does not analyze the deeper factors driving these events. Issues such as imperialism’s contradictions, the crisis of the nation-state, the influence of the Stalinist bureaucracy, and the global capitalist accumulation are left unexamined. Consequently, her narrative is detailed but lacks a solid theoretical foundation.

This lack of theoretical analysis mirrors the political stance of today’s European left. The fall of the Soviet Union and the decline of social-democratic parties have led to a left that distrusts grand narratives, doubts class analysis, and opposes the idea of revolutionary leadership. Consequently, historiography now emphasizes resistance but sidesteps issues of power.

This is the main limitation of the “people’s history” genre. It provides a record of struggles without analyzing their results. It honors resistance but doesn’t clarify why defeats happen. While it mentions ‘the people,’ it hides the crucial part played by class leadership. Essentially, it tells a story of victims and heroes, rather than focusing on classes and parties.

Marxist historiography’s purpose isn’t to praise “the people” but to analyze class struggle. It aims to explain resistance outcomes rather than just record them. Its goal isn’t moral judgment but understanding; not to inspire but to clarify. Varela’s book, despite its merits, doesn’t meet this standard. It offers a useful correction to bourgeois historiography but doesn’t significantly contribute to Marxist theory. While it restores the working class’s place in history, it doesn’t clarify their historical role. It describes revolutions but doesn’t analyze what conditions lead to their success. It celebrates struggle but overlooks leadership dynamics. It’s a history of the oppressed, not a history of class struggle in the Marxist sense.

The comparison with Zinn, Hobsbawm, and Trotsky highlights the strengths and weaknesses of Varela’s approach. Zinn provides a moral story of resistance but lacks in-depth theoretical analysis. Hobsbawm presents a structural view of capitalism but is politically biased due to his allegiance to the Communist Party. Trotsky offers a scientific perspective on revolutionary dynamics and emphasizes the importance of political leadership. Varela takes inspiration from Zinn and Hobsbawm, however, remains somewhat detached from Trotsky’s ideas. This distancing is intentional, reflecting the political stance of the modern European left, which has largely moved away from the Marxist critique of political economy and the idea of revolutionary leadership. Consequently, this historiography emphasizes resistance while sidestepping the issue of power.

The purpose of Marxist historiography is to surpass this restriction by analyzing capitalism’s structural dynamics, imperialism’s contradictions, the function of the state, class struggle movements, and the importance of political leadership. It should review past revolutions’ achievements and setbacks, recognize the betrayals by reformist and Stalinist leaders, and identify the conditions necessary for future struggles. The goal is to offer a scientific interpretation of history rather than a moralistic story.

Varela’s ‘A People’s History of Europe’ offers an important challenge to bourgeois historiography by re-centering the working class and questioning liberal narratives’ complacency. However, it is confined by the typical boundaries of the “people’s history’ genre, lacking the depth of historical materialism, the clear political stance of Trotskyism, and the comprehensive structural analysis found in Marxist historiography at its best.

Therefore, it is important to study Varela’s work together with the classical Marxist analyses by Trotsky, Lenin, and the early Comintern. These works offer the necessary theoretical framework to understand not only how and why workers fought and were defeated but also the lessons that can be learned for the future.

Pip: A seventeenth-century lens-grinder gets excommunicated for dangerous ideas, and four centuries later a Trotskyist historiography argues he was right about basically everything — welcome to A Trumpet of Sedition.

Mara: freerein61 has been digging into the long arc of materialist philosophy, tracing how Spinoza's monism connects to Marx, to Trotsky, and to the question of what revolutionary consciousness actually means.

Pip: Let's start with the lineage itself — Spinoza, materialism, and how one excommunicated philosopher ends up as the ontological ground of dialectical materialism.

Spinoza, Materialism, and the Revolutionary Lineage

Mara: The post opens with a provocation: that Spinoza has been celebrated precisely by stripping him of what made him threatening. Contemporary scholarship, even sympathetic scholarship, isolates him from the class antagonisms of his own century.

Pip: The post puts it directly — Spinoza's ideas were "dangerous in his own time, and remain dangerous today," because they undermine every ideological justification for hierarchy, privilege, and clerical authority.

Mara: That danger was biographical before it was philosophical. Spinoza's excommunication at twenty-three for "abominable heresies" wasn't theological squeamishness — it was a mercantile-rabbinic elite protecting its position inside the Dutch Republic's fragile tolerance. His material circumstances and his philosophy were inseparable.

Pip: And the post uses Trotsky's method of concrete analysis of concrete conditions to make that case — you cannot read Spinoza's intellectual defiance apart from the class forces that produced the Dutch Republic.

Mara: The philosophical hinge is his rejection of Cartesian dualism. Where Descartes split reality into mind and matter, Spinoza asserted one substance — Deus sive Natura — and his claim that "the order and connection of ideas is the same as the order and connection of things" anticipates Marx's insistence that consciousness is a product of material conditions.

Pip: So monism isn't a metaphysical curiosity — it's the move that makes a scientific account of society possible at all.

Mara: The post traces this through the French materialists: La Mettrie, Diderot, d'Holbach absorbed Spinoza's monism and turned it into militant atheism. Plekhanov called present-day materialism "a Spinozism that has become more or less aware of itself." Engels simply said old Spinoza was quite right.

Pip: On freedom and necessity, the post draws a careful parallel: for Spinoza, freedom is not free will but the understanding of necessity; for Trotsky, that understanding becomes collective revolutionary praxis — the working class grasping the laws of history in order to transform them.

Mara: The post also does sharp ideological critique of Roger Scruton, whose conservative reading of Spinoza the post calls "the ideological antithesis of Spinoza's rationalism" — admiring the logical rigour while rejecting the egalitarian implications, turning a revolutionary into a philosopher of aesthetic consolation.

Pip: Domesticating Spinoza, the post argues, mirrors the Stalinist domestication of Marx — detaching revolutionary thought from its materialist foundations.

Mara: The conclusion is that Marxism doesn't supersede Spinoza but completes him: his monism becomes the ground of dialectical materialism, his critique of superstition becomes the critique of ideology, and his defence of democracy becomes the defence of workers' democracy.

Pip: Four centuries on, the lens-grinder is still grinding.

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Mara: The thread running through all of this is the question of what it means to complete a thinker rather than merely inherit them.

Pip: Spinoza dissolved dualism; Marx dissolved idealism; Trotsky dissolved fatalism. That's a relay race worth following — more next time.

I. Introduction: Spinoza and the Problem of Historical Materialism

Baruch Spinoza occupies a singular position in the history of philosophy: a thinker simultaneously canonised and neutralised. He is celebrated as a rationalist metaphysician, admired as a pioneer of secular modernity, and invoked as a precursor to democratic thought. Yet these recognitions have often come at the cost of stripping his work of its revolutionary implications. Contemporary scholarship, even when sympathetic, tends to isolate Spinoza from the social antagonisms of the seventeenth century and from the radical traditions that later drew upon his ideas. Spinoza’s ideas were “dangerous in his own time, and remain dangerous today,” precisely because they undermine every ideological justification for hierarchy, privilege, and clerical authority.

2.Spinoza’s Life as a Historical Symptom

Spinoza’s biography is not an incidental backdrop to his philosophy; it is a historical symptom of the contradictions of the Dutch Republic. Born into Amsterdam’s Portuguese‑Jewish community  a community of former conversos who had fled the Inquisition  Spinoza was excommunicated at twenty‑three for “abominable heresies” and “monstrous deeds.” The severity of the cherem reveals the political anxieties of a mercantile‑rabbinic elite dependent on the Republic’s fragile tolerance. Spinoza’s ideas threatened not only theological orthodoxy but the ideological foundations of a commercial oligarchy.

His modest life as a lens‑grinder, his clandestine publications, and his sympathy for Jan de Witt’s republicanism all point to a thinker whose material circumstances were inseparable from his philosophical commitments. His attempt to denounce de Witt’s murder as “barbaric”  an act his landlord prevented for fear of reprisals  illustrates the political stakes of his thought. Spinoza’s biography thus becomes a site where intellectual history and class struggle intersect.

Leon Trotsky’s method of “concrete analysis of concrete conditions” is indispensable here. Spinoza’s intellectual defiance cannot be understood apart from the class forces that shaped the Dutch Republic: the rise of a commercial bourgeoisie, the crisis of feudal remnants, and the ideological vacuum created by the decline of scholasticism. Spinoza’s philosophy emerges not as an abstract system but as the rational expression of a world in transition.

3.Monism as the Ontological Ground of Materialism

Spinoza’s rejection of Cartesian dualism is the decisive philosophical rupture that makes modern materialism possible. Descartes’ division of reality into res cogitans and res extensa preserved the theological worldview of the seventeenth century. Spinoza demolished this architecture by asserting that there is only one substance “God or Nature (Deus sive Natura).” Thought and extension are attributes of the same substance; the mental and the physical are two expressions of one reality.

This monism is not a metaphysical curiosity but the ontological foundation of materialism. By dissolving the supernatural realm, Spinoza undermines the ideological authority of church and state. His claim that “the order and connection of ideas is the same as the order and connection of things” anticipates Marx’s insistence that consciousness is a product of material conditions. Spinoza’s monism thus becomes the conceptual precondition for a scientific account of society.

Trotsky’s dialectical materialism deepens this insight. For Trotsky, the unity of mind and world is not merely ontological but historical: consciousness develops through labour, social relations, and class struggle. Spinoza’s monism provides the ontological ground; Marx and Trotsky provide the historical and dialectical method.

4.Consciousness, the Body, and the Anticipation of Marx

Steven Nadler’s argument is that consciousness corresponds to bodily complexity, citing Spinoza’s remark that “in proportion as a body is more capable… so its mind is more capable.” This insight dissolves the Cartesian “hard problem” centuries before its formulation. Consciousness is not an immaterial substance but the mental expression of a body embedded in causal networks.

Marx radicalises this insight by adding the historical dimension. Consciousness is not only the correlate of a complex body but of a body transformed by labour, tools, and social relations. When Marx writes that “consciousness can never be anything else than conscious being,” he completes the trajectory that begins with Spinoza’s monism. Spinoza provides the ontology; Marx provides the anthropology and the historical method.

Trotsky extends this further. In Problems of Everyday Life, he insists that consciousness is shaped by the rhythms of production, the organisation of labour, and the ideological apparatuses of class society. Spinoza’s insight into the embodied nature of consciousness becomes, in Trotsky’s hands, a theory of revolutionary consciousness: the capacity of the working class to grasp the necessity of social transformation.

5.Spinoza and Trotsky on Necessity, Freedom, and Determinism

The question of necessity and freedom occupies a central place in both Spinoza’s philosophy and the Marxist tradition. Yet the conceptual architectures through which each thinker approaches the problem differ in form while converging in political and historical significance. Spinoza articulates a monistic determinism in which freedom consists in the adequate understanding of necessity; Trotsky, working within the framework of dialectical materialism, transforms this insight into a theory of revolutionary praxis in which freedom emerges through the conscious intervention of the working class into historically determined processes. The comparison reveals not only a deep structural affinity but also the way in which Marxism completes and historicises Spinoza’s project.

Trotsky’s theory of permanent revolution provides the conceptual framework for understanding Spinoza’s political significance. Spinoza’s democratic republicanism anticipates the bourgeois revolutions of the eighteenth century, but it also contains the seeds of a more radical egalitarianism that can only be realised through proletarian revolution. Spinoza’s critique of superstition becomes, in Marxist hands, a critique of ideology; his defence of democracy becomes a defence of workers’ democracy; his monism becomes the ontological ground of dialectical materialism.

6 Spinoza: Freedom as the Understanding of Necessity

Spinoza’s determinism is absolute. Everything that exists follows from the nature of substance with the same necessity with which the properties of a triangle follow from its essence. Human beings, as finite modes, are no exception. Our actions, desires, and thoughts are determined by the causal order of nature; the experience of free will is an illusion born of ignorance of the causes that determine us. As the uploaded document notes, for Spinoza “freedom… is not free will but the understanding of necessity.”

This conception of freedom is not merely metaphysical but ethical and political. To understand necessity is to liberate oneself from the bondage of passive affects, superstition, and ideological mystification. Spinoza’s critique of religious authority rests on this insight: superstition thrives where causal understanding is absent. Freedom, therefore, is the achievement of adequate ideas — a rational comprehension of the causal order that governs both nature and society.

Yet Spinoza’s determinism is not fatalistic. The more we understand the causes that determine us, the more we participate in the activity of substance itself. Freedom is not the negation of necessity but its conscious appropriation. This is the conceptual core that Marx and Trotsky will later radicalise.

7. Trotsky: Freedom as Conscious, Collective Praxis

Trotsky inherits Spinoza’s insight that freedom is inseparable from necessity, but he transforms it by embedding it within a historical and social framework. For Trotsky, necessity is not the static causal order of nature but the dynamic, contradictory movement of history shaped by class struggle, technological development, and the global expansion of capitalism. Freedom emerges not through individual rational insight but through collective revolutionary praxis.

Trotsky’s critique of voluntarism and fatalism alike reflects this dialectical conception. Against voluntarism, he insists that revolutionary action must be grounded in an analysis of objective conditions; against fatalism, he argues that these conditions do not determine outcomes mechanically but open possibilities that can be realised only through conscious intervention. The working class becomes the agent through which necessity is transformed into freedom.

In The Revolution Betrayed, Trotsky writes that “freedom is the recognition of necessity — and the transformation of necessity into action.” This formulation echoes Spinoza but adds a crucial dimension: the transformation of necessity is a historical process, not a metaphysical one. Where Spinoza locates freedom in the intellect, Trotsky locates it in praxis.

8. Determinism Without Fatalism: A Shared Structure

Both Spinoza and Trotsky reject the notion of free will understood as uncaused choice. Both insist that human action is determined by causes that can be understood and acted upon. Both oppose superstition, mystification, and ideological obfuscation. Yet neither collapses determinism into fatalism.

For Spinoza, determinism is the condition of freedom: only in a universe governed by necessity can rational understanding liberate us from passive affects. For Trotsky, determinism is the condition of revolutionary agency: only in a world governed by historical laws can the working class intervene consciously to transform society.

The difference lies in the level of analysis. Spinoza’s determinism is ontological; Trotsky’s is historical. Spinoza’s freedom is intellectual; Trotsky’s is political. Spinoza’s subject is the rational individual; Trotsky’s is the revolutionary class.

Yet the structural affinity is unmistakable. Trotsky’s dialectical materialism can be read as the historical realisation of Spinoza’s monism: the unity of mind and world becomes the unity of theory and practice; the understanding of necessity becomes the transformation of necessity; the critique of superstition becomes the critique of ideology.

9. Necessity and Freedom in Revolutionary Time

The most profound convergence between Spinoza and Trotsky lies in their shared rejection of contingency as the foundation of human action. For both thinkers, freedom is not the assertion of arbitrary will but the alignment of human activity with the causal structure of reality. In Spinoza, this alignment is achieved through adequate ideas; in Trotsky, through the scientific analysis of capitalism and the strategic organisation of the working class.

Trotsky’s theory of permanent revolution exemplifies this synthesis. The revolution is not a voluntaristic leap but the unfolding of historical necessity — the contradictions of combined and uneven development — realised through conscious action. Spinoza’s dictum that “the more we understand, the more we are free” becomes, in Trotsky’s hands, “the more the working class understands the laws of history, the more it can transform them.”

10. Completing Spinoza: Marxism as the Historical Realisation of Monism

The comparison reveals that Marxism does not break with Spinoza but completes him. Spinoza provides the ontological foundation: the unity of mind and world, the determinism of nature, the critique of superstition. Marx and Trotsky provide the historical and political realisation: the unity of theory and practice, the determinism of history, the critique of ideology.

Spinoza dissolves dualism; Marx dissolves idealism; Trotsky dissolves fatalism. Spinoza grounds equality in nature; Marx grounds it in social relations; Trotsky grounds it in revolutionary praxis. Spinoza’s freedom is the understanding of necessity; Trotsky’s is the transformation of necessity.

In this sense, Trotsky is the most Spinozist of Marxists — not because he repeats Spinoza’s metaphysics, but because he realises its deepest implications in the sphere of history and revolution.

11 Politics, Ideology, and the Democratic Lineage

Spinoza’s political radicalism emerges directly from his metaphysics. If all humans are modes of the same substance, then no divine hierarchy can justify monarchy or clerical authority. His defence of democracy, equality, and secularism is not an ethical preference but a logical consequence of his ontology. His critique of superstition anticipates Marx’s analysis of ideology: both identify false consciousness as the mechanism through which domination is reproduced.

Jonathan Israel’s argument that Spinoza was the first major modern democrat is historiographically significant, but a Trotskyist analysis must go further. Spinoza’s political thought is not merely democratic; it is revolutionary. It articulates the emerging interests of a class whose ascent threatened the existing order. Ann Talbot’s claim that Spinoza was “as responsible as any one person could be for the revolution in consciousness” preceding the Enlightenment captures this dynamic.

12. The Line of Descent: Spinoza → French Materialism → Marxism

The connection between Spinoza and Marx is not retrospective but genealogical. The French materialists — La Mettrie, Diderot, d’Holbach — absorbed Spinoza’s monism and transformed it into a militant atheism that confronted the ideological apparatus of absolutism. Plekhanov’s assertion that “present‑day materialism is a Spinozism that has become more or less aware of itself” captures this continuity. Engels’s remark — “Old Spinoza was quite right” — confirms that Marxism recognised Spinoza as a precursor.

This lineage is not a chain of influence but a sequence of determinate historical transformations. Spinoza’s nature becomes Marx’s social totality. Spinoza dissolves dualism; Marx dissolves idealism. Spinoza grounds equality in nature; Marx grounds it in social relations and class struggle.

Trotsky’s contribution is decisive here. He insists that materialism must be historical and dialectical, capable of analysing the contradictions of capitalism and the dynamics of revolution. Spinoza’s monism becomes, in Trotsky’s hands, a weapon against both idealism and mechanical materialism. The unity of mind and world becomes the unity of theory and practice; the critique of superstition becomes the critique of Stalinist mystification; the defence of democracy becomes the defence of workers’ democracy against bureaucratic degeneration.

13. Scruton and the Conservative Neutralisation of Spinoza

The uploaded document’s contrast between Spinoza and Roger Scruton is a model of Trotskyist ideological critique. Scruton’s work represents the conservative attempt to reclaim Spinoza by stripping him of his revolutionary content. He admires Spinoza’s logical rigour but rejects the egalitarian implications of his monism. He transforms Spinoza into a philosopher of aesthetic consolation, a thinker whose metaphysics can be reconciled with hierarchy, tradition, and the “sacred.”

This is not an innocent misreading but an ideological operation. Scruton’s conservatism is “the ideological antithesis of Spinoza’s rationalism.” Where Spinoza dissolves the sacred, Scruton elevates it; where Spinoza undermines hierarchy, Scruton defends it; where Spinoza insists that social reality can be understood and transformed, Scruton insists it must be accepted. Trotsky would recognise this immediately as the reactionary function of philosophy under conditions of capitalist crisis.

Scruton’s domestication of Spinoza mirrors the Stalinist domestication of Marx: both seek to neutralise revolutionary thought by detaching it from its historical and materialist foundations. A Trotskyist historiography exposes these operations and restores Spinoza to the revolutionary lineage from which he has been severed.

14. Conclusion: Spinoza in the Age of Global Capitalism

Spinoza’s revival reflects the exhaustion of postmodernism and the crisis of bourgeois philosophy. As the ideological coherence of neoliberalism collapses, the materialist tradition — from Spinoza to Marx to Trotsky — re‑emerges as the only framework capable of explaining consciousness, politics, and social transformation. Spinoza was a revolutionary in the Dutch Republic; his ideas remain revolutionary under global capitalism. Marxism does not supersede Spinoza but completes him.

Spinoza’s monism becomes the ontological ground of dialectical materialism; his critique of superstition becomes the critique of ideology; his defence of democracy becomes the defence of workers’ democracy; his rationalism becomes the rationality of revolutionary praxis. In an era marked by deepening inequality, ideological disorientation, and the global crisis of capitalism, Spinoza’s rational, egalitarian, and naturalistic worldview offers not a relic of the past but a resource for the future. Only Marxism, as the dialectical completion of Spinoza’s project, can realise its emancipatory potential.

Pip: A Trumpet of Sedition opens this week with Spinoza — a seventeenth-century lens-grinder whose ideas were so dangerous they got him excommunicated, banned across Europe, and apparently are still causing trouble in the twenty-first century.

Mara: freerein61 has been busy — the posts this week range from Spinoza's materialist philosophy and its Marxist lineage, to the contradictions inside Hobsbawm's nationalism scholarship and the crimes of the British Empire, to Emily Brontë's social world, and finally to what Hofstadter's paranoid-style thesis actually does to working-class politics.

Pip: A full week. Let's start with the philosophy — Spinoza, materialism, and why Engels said the old man was quite right.

Spinoza, Materialism, And The Marxist Lineage

Mara: The post reviewing Steven Nadler's Spinoza, Atheist frames Spinoza as the foundation of philosophical materialism — the thinker who demolished Cartesian dualism by arguing there is only one substance, God or Nature, and that mind and body are two attributes of the same underlying reality.

Pip: Which means no immortal soul, no divine providence, no miracles — and a seventeenth-century excommunication that described his offenses as "abominable heresies and monstrous deeds" without actually specifying them, which is the institutional equivalent of being too scared to write it down.

Mara: Nadler's specific contribution is on consciousness. The post quotes directly from the Ethics: "In proportion as a body is more capable than others of doing many things at once… so its mind is more capable than others of perceiving many things at once."

Pip: So degrees of consciousness track degrees of bodily complexity — which the post argues anticipates embodied cognition and dissolves the hard problem centuries before Chalmers named it.

Mara: The post then traces the line forward: Plekhanov called present-day materialism "a Spinozism that has become more or less aware of itself," and when Engels was asked whether Spinoza was right that thought and extension are attributes of one substance, he replied simply — "Of course. Old Spinoza was quite right." Marx adds the historical and social dimension Spinoza lacked.

Pip: The contrast with Roger Scruton ties it together — Scruton admired Spinoza's logic but wanted aesthetic consolation, not revolution. The post calls that a difference of class position, not temperament.

Mara: The post concludes that only Marxism can complete what Spinoza began, by grounding consciousness and freedom in the material conditions of social life. On to empire and nationalism — where the same question of class position shapes everything.

Hobsbawm, Empire, And The Limits Of Nationalist History

Mara: The post on Eric Hobsbawm's On Nationalism opens a sustained argument: Hobsbawm's scholarship on invented traditions and national identity is genuinely valuable, but his Stalinist political formation prevents him from drawing the revolutionary conclusion his own evidence demands.

Pip: He can show that Highland tartans and British coronation rituals were largely fabricated between 1870 and 1914 to manufacture deference — and then stay completely silent about Stalin constructing Great Russian nationalist mythology to consolidate the bureaucracy. That silence, the post argues, is not an oversight.

Mara: The post is direct about this: "the most disastrous 'invention of tradition' in the twentieth century was Stalinist nationalism itself — the doctrine of 'socialism in one country.'" Hobsbawm's framework can debunk bourgeois myths but cannot explain why nationalism persists once its constructed character is exposed, because he lacks a class theory of ideology rooted in material social relations.

Pip: David North's essay on Trotsky and Hobsbawm gets named here for targeting what the post calls Hobsbawm's fatalism — the reduction of history to what happened, which retrospectively validates every Stalinist betrayal by insisting there was no alternative.

Mara: The Blood Never Dried, John Newsinger's people's history of the British Empire, runs into a related problem from a different angle. The post credits Newsinger with an unflinching chronicle — the slave trade, the 1857 Rebellion, the Opium Wars, the Mau Mau camps — but argues his SWP background leads him to frame imperial crimes primarily as moral outrages rather than products of capitalism's structural logic.

Pip: The upshot being that moral outrage without class analysis slides naturally into decolonisation rhetoric and identity politics that leave the capitalist system intact.

Mara: The post closes by pointing workers toward Lenin's Imperialism and Trotsky's Permanent Revolution as the analytical tools Newsinger's framework cannot supply. Which connects directly to the next territory — what happens when inner life gets separated from those same social forces.

The Brontës, Class, And The Prison Of Victorian Society

Pip: The post on Deborah Lutz's new biography of Emily Brontë opens a question that runs through the whole piece: how did a clergyman's daughter, largely isolated on the Yorkshire moors, produce Wuthering Heights — and does a biography organised around objects and inner life actually answer that?

Mara: The post quotes Marx directly on Charlotte Brontë and her contemporaries — that they "painted the middle class as full of presumption, affectation, petty tyranny and ignorance" and revealed more political and social truths than all the professional politicians and moralists combined.

Pip: That's the benchmark the post applies to Lutz — and it finds her materialist instincts strongest in her earlier Paperwork essay, which connects Brontë's tiny, concealed handwriting to the cost of paper in the 1840s, rag shortages, and the paper tax not lifted until 1860.

Mara: The post values that work precisely because it grounds artistic practice in economic conditions. But it argues Lutz's thing theory and material culture framework stop short of asking why an exceptionally talented woman had to hide her inner life completely — and the answer the post gives is not personal eccentricity but the societal exclusion of women from public intellectual life in Victorian bourgeois society.

Pip: Emily's privacy was structural, not temperamental. The post extends this to the sisters collectively — the Brontës published as Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell because the alternative was dismissal.

Mara: The post also engages Terry Eagleton's Myths of Power as the most comprehensive Marxist reading of the Brontës to date, crediting his argument that Heathcliff's revenge is carried out entirely through property — mortgages, marriage alliances, inheritance schemes — while criticising his Althusserian framework for disconnecting the novels from actual historical class struggle.

Pip: And the SWP's treatment of the Brontës gets a sharp paragraph — reducing three of Victorian England's most complex writers to proto-feminist symbols for identity politics, the post says, diminishes both their legacy and the interests of the working class.

Mara: The post's conclusion is that Wuthering Heights endures because it is, as Paul Bond's review of the Fennell adaptation is quoted as saying, "visceral and astonishing… rooted not just in a brutal landscape, but in a real world of class distinction and savagery that must find reflection in the passions of our daily lives." That framework carries directly into the final segment — what happens when political analysis loses its class grounding entirely.

Hofstadter And The Paranoid Style As Liberal Weapon

Mara: The post on Hofstadter's The Paranoid Style in American Politics opens by granting the essay a limited concession — it correctly identifies a recurring pattern of conspiratorial politics across American history — and then argues that the framework's real function is to pathologise working-class discontent rather than explain it.

Pip: Labelling millions of people's distrust of institutions a psychiatric disorder is a tidy way to avoid asking why those institutions failed them.

Mara: The post quotes David North directly on Trump's trajectory: "More than any other Republican candidate, Trump has tailored his message to resonate with the intense anger and frustration of tens of millions of Americans who feel quite rightly neglected and scorned by a political system that overlooks their daily issues."

Pip: So the anger is legitimate — the analysis of who is responsible is wrong. That distinction is the whole argument, and Hofstadter's framework collapses it by treating the anger itself as the pathology.

Mara: The post connects this to David North's lecture on the long shadow of history — Hofstadter's shift from The American Political Tradition, written from a genuinely critical standpoint, to the consensus school, which removed class conflict as a meaningful analytical category. The post argues that move served Cold War liberalism's need to delegitimise both McCarthyism and socialist politics simultaneously.

Pip: The revival of Hofstadter in the Trump era gets the sharpest treatment — the post argues it allowed the Democratic Party and liberal establishment to avoid accountability for deindustrialisation, the opioid crisis, and the 2008 collapse by converting a political and economic crisis into a cultural one.

Mara: The post's answer is not a return to the liberal centre but the construction of a revolutionary socialist party — the same conclusion that runs through the Hobsbawm and Newsinger posts, and back to Spinoza's insistence that understanding causes is the only path to freedom.

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Pip: What ties the week together is a single question asked four different ways — what does it cost an analysis when it stops at the symptom and refuses the structural cause?

Mara: Spinoza dissolved dualism, Brontë exposed class brutality, and the posts keep returning to the same gap — the political vacuum that fills with paranoia, nationalism, or myth when the working class has no organised alternative.

Pip: More from A Trumpet of Sedition next time.