Stuart Hall’s autobiography, Familiar Stranger: A Life Between Two Islands (2017), examines his identity as a colonial outsider navigating between Britain and Jamaica. Its most significant contribution is not in its explicit claims but in what it inadvertently uncovers. Hall describes himself as a “familiar stranger,” which conceals the crucial detail that he was “a non-native petty bourgeois—someone who encountered racism as an obstacle to upward mobility within established power structures. His goal was not revolutionary change but to reform British social democracy to better include people like him.

The memoir serves as an important resource for understanding the petty-bourgeois opposition to Marxism in Britain post-1956. Hall’s path—from the New Left to Cultural Studies, then to Marxism Today and New Labour—demonstrates a deliberate intellectual development. It reflects the ideological stance of a social class whose interests contrast sharply with those of the working class. This review seeks to place Hall within this wider historical context.

1956 and the Crisis of Stalinism 

The year 1956 marked a major crisis for Stalinism, highlighted by the Moscow Trials. Khrushchev’s “secret speech” and the Hungarian workers’ uprising shattered the illusions held by Communist Parties across Europe. In Britain, the CPGB lost nearly one-third of its members. For revolutionary Marxists—especially Trotskyists of the International Committee of the Fourth International—1956 confirmed Stalinism’s counter-revolutionary character. They opened an opportunity to attract confused CP members to a truly internationalist outlook.

Hall arrived at Oxford in 1951, coinciding with the onset of this crisis. His memoir describes his political awakening, which focused on opposing authoritarianism and dogmatism. However, it is important to clarify that his real political shift was marked by his rejection of Leninism, which was based on a pseudo-leftist critique of the vanguard party.

Hall did not align with the Trotskyists, who sought to clarify Stalinism and uphold the continuity of Marxism. Instead, he became a founding editor of Universities and Left Review, which later merged with E.P. Thompson’s New Reasoner to create the New Left Review. This environment openly rejected the Leninist idea of the revolutionary party, criticising it for Stalinism’s atrocities.

The Role of Jock Haston

During this period, Hall’s mentor was Jock Haston, a former Trotskyist who abandoned the Fourth International and pledged his allegiance to the Labour Party, which he regarded as “one of the most democratic workers’ organisations in existence.” Haston’s shift—from revolutionary Marxism to Labourism— symbolised the petty-bourgeois response to 1956: a withdrawal from the working class and an attempt to find a “third way” between Stalinism and Trotskyism that, in fact, represented a step back into social democracy. Hall absorbed this outlook completely.

The British New Left didn’t revive Marxism; they outright rejected it. Their core belief was that Leninism inevitably led to Stalinism, so they argued the revolutionary party should be abandoned. This perspective falsely reverses historical facts — Stalinism was a betrayal of Leninism, not its successor. Yet, the petty-bourgeois intellectuals of the New Left equated Leninism with words like “authoritarianism,” “dogmatism,” and “sectarianism.” Hall’s memoir can’t challenge this ideological stance because it was the foundation of his entire political perspective.

The New Left emerged from a specific social layer: middle-class intellectuals disillusioned with Stalinism but hostile to the working class as a revolutionary force. They sought a politics that would preserve their moral radicalism while avoiding the discipline and programmatic clarity required by Marxism.Hall’s own background—“middle-class Jamaican upbringing,” Rhodes Scholarship, Oxford intellectual circles—placed him squarely within this layer. His political development was not a break with his class position but its ideological expression.

Cultural Studies  

Hall’s key institutional contribution was leading the Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies (CCCS) at Birmingham from 1972. While Cultural Studies is frequently seen as an innovative academic field, Hall reportedly referred to it as “politics by other means” Cultural Studies was effectively an intellectual framework created to supplant class as the primary focus of social analysis.

Cultural Studies emphasized race, gender, sexuality, nationality, and “subcultures” as separate areas of struggle that are “relatively autonomous.” This focus complicated viewing capitalist exploitation as a unified system. As a result, the working class was replaced by shifting identity-based ‘agencies’ as the main revolutionary subjects. This shift was not a supplement to Marxism but a rejection of it. Cultural Studies laid the ideological groundwork for current identity politics that now dominate the pseudo-left.

The emergence of Cultural Studies coincided with the decline of the traditional labour movement and the increasing involvement of petty-bourgeois intellectuals within the growing university sector. Hall’s theoretical innovations were not politically neutral; instead, they reflected the aims of a social class eager to gain influence in both the state and academia, rather than promote revolutionary change.

Marxism Today 

By the late 1970s, the CPGB adopted Eurocommunism, forsaking any claim to revolutionary politics. Marxism Today, the publication of the Eurocommunist faction, became the main platform for this ideological shift, with Hall being its most prominent contributor. His 1979 essay, “The Great Moving Right Show,” is often regarded as visionary. However, its true importance lies in its adaptation to Thatcherism rather than a critique of it. Hall suggested that Labour needed to move away from its traditional working-class roots and fight elections on the same “conjunctural” terrain established by Thatcher. This approach served as the ideological basis for New Labour. By 1990, Blair was using Marxism Today to float the ‘New Labour’ project. Hall later expressed mild misgivings about Blair, but this is irrelevant. He had already supplied the theoretical justification for Labour’s rightward turn: the working class was in decline, class politics were obsolete, and Labour must become a party of the “modernising” middle class.

Hall’s contributions to Marxism Today played a role in weakening the working class during the neoliberal era. By claiming that class politics were outdated, he offered ideological support for Labour’s move away from socialism and towards market reforms. His innovative theories—such as Cultural Studies, the “New Times” thesis, and conjunctural analysis—laid the groundwork for identity politics. By breaking down social analysis into individual identities, Hall fostered a politics naturally opposed to the interests of the working class.

Identity politics benefits the petty-bourgeois intelligentsia by shifting focus away from class as the main political axis, emphasizing subjective experience over objective social relations, dividing the working class into competing identity groups, and granting moral justification for middle-class progress within capitalist structures. Hall did not create identity politics, but he laid out its theoretical framework.

Hall’s memoir is the autobiography of a man who spent his entire career constructing an anti-Marxist intellectual apparatus. History will judge him more harshly: as someone who helped disarm the working class at the very moment it needed revolutionary leadership.”

Notes

1.           Stuart Hall and Bill Schwartz, Familiar Stranger: A Life Between Two Islands (London:                Penguin Books, 2017).

2.           Paul Bond, “Stuart Hall: A Political Obituary,” World Socialist Web Site, 2014.

3.           E.P. Thompson, “The Peculiarities of the English,” Socialist Register (1965).

4.           Stuart Hall, “The Great Moving Right Show,” Marxism Today (January 1979).

5.           Geoff Andrews, Endgames and New Times: The Final Years of British Communism                      (London: Lawrence & Wishart, 2004).

6.           Alex Callinicos, The New Mandarins of American Power (Cambridge: Polity, 2003).

7.           David North, The Heritage We Defend (Detroit: Labour Publications, 1988).

Pip: July Fourth, and somewhere a pseudo-left is writing a pros-and-cons list about the Declaration of Independence — which, to be fair, is one way to spend a holiday.

Mara: freerein61 has a sharply argued case for why that approach fails, and it goes straight to the question of how the left should read 1776 — not as mythology, not as indictment, but as a world-historical turning point whose democratic stakes are very much alive in 2026.

Pip: Let's start with the Revolution itself, and what a Marxist defence of it actually looks like.

The American Revolution and the Stakes of 1776

Mara: The post opens a debate that is not really about history at all — it is about whether the left has the analytical tools to defend democratic ideals at a moment when those ideals are under direct authoritarian pressure.

Pip: The argument against the pseudo-left rests on a specific methodological charge, and the post quotes David North to crystallise it: "Calling the founders hypocrites does not explain why a revolution happened, why the Declaration gained significance beyond their intentions, or why its words resonated with abolitionists, enslaved people, workers, socialists, and civil rights activists."

Mara: What that means in practice is that listing the Revolution's exclusions — enslaved people, women, Indigenous peoples, the propertyless — while accurate, does not constitute analysis. It substitutes moral inventory for the question of historical causation and consequence.

Pip: The post traces what the Revolution actually was: a break in the global system of absolutist monarchy, one that preceded and helped ignite the French Revolution, the Haitian Revolution, and the Latin American independence movements. Tom Paine's claim that the cause of America was the cause of all mankind was not rhetoric — it was a description of an ideological rupture of world-historical scale.

Mara: The post also takes on the Socialist Worker article directly, describing its method as swinging between praise for the Revolution's radical aspects and criticism of its shortcomings, then landing on a vague moral call to make its promises true — without naming which social forces would do that work. The post calls this, pointedly, "political tourism through the past."

Pip: And the stakes are not abstract. With democratic institutions under pressure and the executive branch openly entertaining authoritarian governance in 2026, the post argues that abandoning 1776 as an enslaver's conspiracy effectively surrenders the language of popular sovereignty to the right.

Mara: The post's conclusion is direct: the democratic principles of 1776 cannot be fully realised under capitalism, and the working class must defend that legacy not as myth but as the unfinished business of universal emancipation.

Pip: Which is, at minimum, a more useful July Fourth position than a pros-and-cons list.

---

Mara: The core argument is that historical materialism and democratic principle are not in tension — the Revolution's contradictions are the reason the struggle continues, not the reason to dismiss it.

Pip: More of that argument next time, presumably.

The Battle Over 1776 in the Present Crisis

The discussion on the importance of the American Revolution has become a central ideological conflict in the early 2000s. The elite, struggling with a legitimacy crisis, tries to both absorb and undermine the democratic ideals of 1776. At the same time, the pseudo-left has completely abandoned these traditions, reducing the Revolution to a moralistic list of hypocrisies, exclusions, and crimes. In this context, defending the American Revolution as a key bourgeois democratic movement is not just an academic issue but a crucial political stance.

The latest article, published by the British Socialist Workers Party, illustrates what happens when a pseudo-left view tackles a historic issue without a solid Marxist basis. The article exemplifies the pseudo-left’s failure to clearly answer key questions, swinging between praising the revolution’s “radical” aspects and criticising its shortcomings, concluding with a vague moral call to “make true” its promises—without explaining how or through which social forces. This is not representative of Marxism. It is political tourism through the past.

Currently, the only political organisation capable of providing a historical materialist perspective on the American Revolution is the ICFI and its online publication, The World Socialist Website. It rejects the vague “on the one hand, on the other’ approach used by the SWP and instead employs the method of historical materialism to uphold the revolutionary legacy of 1776.

A Marxist viewpoint sees the American Revolution differently. It views it as an important bourgeois-democratic movement in global history. The working class ought to rekindle the democratic ideals of 1776 — not as a patriotic legend, but as a vital part of the ongoing struggle for universal emancipation.

The Historical Necessity of the Bourgeois Democratic Revolution

Marxism does not view bourgeois revolutions as moral issues but as necessary historical stages in the evolution of capitalist society and the modern working class. The American Revolution was not just an accident, an enslaver’s conspiracy, or a simple colonial uprising. Instead, it symbolised big changes in property relations, class structure, global trade, ideological awareness, and the growth of Enlightenment universalism. The pseudo-left fails to understand this because it dismisses historical materialism, replacing analytical reasoning with moral outrage and current feelings without historical context.

By the mid-18th century, North American colonies had developed a distinct social landscape, including a petty-bourgeois class, a rising capitalist elite, and a literate, politically engaged artisan and labourer population. These colonies were also characterised by frontier society in conflict with aristocratic land claims and a political culture influenced by republicanism, dissenting Protestantism, and Enlightenment ideas. These factors made the colonies particularly receptive to revolutionary ideas. The Revolution was not a top-down imposition; rather, it was driven from the bottom up by a broad social coalition whose demands went beyond those of the elite.

 The American Revolution marked the first significant break in the global system of absolutist monarchy. It came before and played a role in sparking the French Revolution, the Haitian Revolution, the Latin American wars of independence, and the worldwide spread of republican ideas. Tom Paine recognised this when he stated that “the cause of America” was “the cause of all mankind.” The Revolution’s universalist language was more than mere rhetoric; it reflected an ideological shift of world-historical importance.

As David North points out in his essential formulation, the Declaration “indicted the existing social and political order and called for its overthrow in the most sweeping and universal terms. “This is the key to understanding 1776. The Declaration’s assertion that “all men are created equal” was not a description of existing social relations. It was a revolutionary negation of the entire edifice of hereditary privilege, monarchy, aristocracy, and divine right.

What the Revolution Was

The American Revolution was a bourgeois democratic movement, not a socialist one, and no Marxist has ever suggested otherwise. This term is a precise, scientific description, not an insult. As David North noted in his opening remarks at the WSWS’s 250th anniversary webinar, the Declaration of Independence “condemned the existing social and political order and called for its comprehensive overthrow.” It challenged monarchy, hereditary privileges, and colonial dominance. The statement that “all men are created equal” and have “unalienable rights” was revolutionary in a world dominated by lords and kings who claimed divine right.

The Socialist Worker article hints at this but quickly shifts to moral judgment: acknowledging that the revolution was progressive yet noting that enslavers also participated, Indigenous peoples were dispossessed, and power remained in the hands of the wealthy. This ‘pros and cons’ approach fails to offer real insight. As North pointed out: ‘Calling the founders hypocrites does not explain why a revolution happened, why the Declaration gained significance beyond their intentions, or why its words resonated with abolitionists, enslaved people, workers, socialists, and civil rights activists.”

The American Revolution was founded on contradictions. Its promises excluded enslaved individuals, women, Indigenous peoples, and those without property. However, the democratic ideals it promoted went beyond the limitations of its era. This creates a dialectic: the Revolution was both rooted in its time and forward-looking. It inspired the French Revolution, the Haitian Revolution, anti-colonial efforts in South America, the abolitionist movement, and later democratic and socialist campaigns. As Tom Paine stated, “the cause of America” was “the cause of all mankind.”

The Socialist Worker article views the 1788 Constitution as merely the end of a story — a compromise between Northern capitalists and Southern enslavers that temporarily masked divisions until the Civil War. However, this perspective overlooks a key point: the Civil War was not accidental or secondary. Instead, it was the second American Revolution, completing the first. As North pointed out, “The transition from the first to the second stage of the bourgeois democratic revolution proceeded rather rapidly. Thaddeus Stevens, the most prominent radical Republican, was born in the early years of George Washington’s presidency.”

The end of slavery and the Radical Reconstruction represented the realisation of the democratic ideals established in 1776, rather than their betrayal. The subsequent defeat of Reconstruction and the rise of Jim Crow laws served as counter-revolutions that reversed the Civil War’s progress. This perspective is missing from the pseudo-left, which replaces class analysis with racial theory.

Why This Matters Now

The question “Should we celebrate the American Revolution?” is not purely academic; it has become a highly political issue in 2026. The Trump administration is intensifying its assault on democratic rights, with the president openly discussing dictatorial governance. The fundamental idea of popular sovereignty—government of, by, and for the people—is now under threat.

Under these circumstances, abandoning the revolutionary democratic tradition in favour of reaction would be a devastating political mistake. Unfortunately, that is what much of the pseudo-left effectively does when it dismisses 1776 as merely an enslaver’s plot or dismisses the Declaration’s language of equality as mere hypocrisy. As North warned: “If the left abandons the revolutionary-democratic tradition, viewing equality, rights, popular sovereignty, and universal emancipation as deception, it risks handing that tradition over to reaction. And that is precisely what is occurring.”

The working class must safeguard the democratic ideals of the American Revolution, viewing them not as complete but as unfulfilled. The goals of 1776 cannot be achieved under capitalism; instead, they demand a socialist overhaul in which the working class seizes power and the capitalist system—which accumulates wealth and authority in fewer hands—is abolished. As Andre Damon noted in 2016: “The American Revolution provided the ideological and political impetus for the French Revolution and all subsequent democratic, egalitarian and socialist movements.”

The significance of the American Revolution extends beyond mere history; it is a crucial political issue today. By 2026, democratic institutions face exceptional pressures, with the executive branch increasingly flirting with authoritarianism and democratic norms eroding rapidly. The pseudo-left’s rejection of 1776 as a conspiracy by enslavers dismisses the progressive aspects of the bourgeois revolution, rejects universal principles, weakens the ideological basis for democratic rights, and leaves the working class without political power.

Yes, we should honour the American Revolution—not as a patriotic myth, a completed achievement, or by ignoring its contradictions—but as a significant historical milestone whose democratic principles are still revolutionary today. Its unfulfilled promises can only be realised through socialist revolution, and the working class must protect its legacy against the current authoritarian threat. The ambiguous, moralistic, and politically inconsistent tone of the Socialist Worker article offers no guidance.

The democratic principles established in 1776 — such as equality, rights, and popular sovereignty — are still revolutionary. However, they cannot be fully realised within capitalism and instead demand a socialist revolution. The American Revolution was a major bourgeois-democratic revolution of global historical importance. While it had contradictions, these do not diminish its significance; rather, they highlight the need for continued revolutionary progress.

The working class must uphold the democratic legacy of 1776, not as a myth but as a historical fight for universal emancipation. Achieving the Revolution’s promises requires a socialist restructuring of society.”

A Literary Resurrection as Political Symptom

The reissue of Izumi Suzuki’s Terminal Boredom and Set My Heart on Fire by Verso Books is more than just a literary event; it is a political gesture. Suzuki’s portrayal as a “radical feminist icon” by the #MeToo movement and the petty-bourgeois intelligentsia reflects the ideological needs of the ruling class facing the most severe crisis of global capitalism since the 1930s. Her fiction—branded as rebellious, provocative, and visionary—is actually a reflection of political defeat, social fragmentation, and petty-bourgeois despair.

The fact that a publisher, claiming to be “left-wing,” is now promoting this kind of work serves as a warning: identity-driven pseudo-radicalism has become a cultural tool used to redirect social anger away from capitalism and into pointless, apolitical dead ends. Suzuki’s resurgence should be viewed in a historical context. It is motivated more by ideological convenience than by literary value.

Historical and Class Context: Literature Born of Defeat

Suzuki’s worldview wasn’t born from personal eccentricity or a tragic life story. Instead, it stemmed from the devastating defeat of Japan’s working class after the war—a loss managed, justified, and upheld by the Stalinist Japanese Communist Party (JCP). The JCP’s cooperation with the American occupation, its nationalist stance, and its suppression of revolutionary efforts resulted in a political void. This vacuum left sections of the intelligentsia feeling alienated, pessimistic, and inward-looking.

Suzuki’s shift away from the working class was not merely a personal eccentricity but a result of both objective historical failures and subjective betrayals. This is the core idea. Suzuki’s writing does not symbolise progress; instead, it reflects a tired generation that lost hope and stopped seeking. The aftermath of defeat heavily influences her stories: they reject collective action, show a breakdown in historical awareness, and elevate individual trauma to a metaphysical level. This background forms the foundation of her fiction.

Suzuki’s Worldview: Gender War as Ersatz Politics

Suzuki’s stories centre around themes of gender conflict, misanthropy, and personal grievances. They portray worlds where men are imprisoned, women wield power through bureaucratic oppression, and social conflict is replaced by personal domination. This does not represent feminism or radical ideas. Instead, it reflects the ideology of a petty-bourgeois class that has lost faith in the working class, resorting to identity categories rather than class analysis.

Her dystopias mirror oppressive systems rather than challenge them. They don’t provide a route to human freedom, only a reshuffling of the prison hierarchy. The uploaded document states: “Suzuki’s focus on gender classifications and identity… aligns with a petty-bourgeois movement that replaces collective class action with individual grievances.” This explains why the #MeToo movement supports her. As it’s rooted in upper-middle-class circles, it emphasises personal trauma over social analysis and views gender identity as the main political focus. Suzuki offers a simplified mythology: a world where men are naturally oppressive, women are inherently victims, and social change is reduced to interpersonal power struggles. Her writings reflect a resignation rather than resistance.

The Philip K. Dick Comparison: A Category Error

Calling Suzuki ‘Japan’s Philip K. Dick” is not just inaccurate but also politically telling. Dick, despite his contradictions, wrestled with major 20th-century issues such as fascism, technological power, the vulnerability of democracies, and the manipulation of consciousness. As the uploaded document mentions, The Man in the High Castle explores themes of historical memory and the political fallout of losing.

Suzuki, in contrast, completely withdraws from history. Her worlds are sealed off, lacking social conflict, class distinctions, or collective action. They feel claustrophobic, introspective, and politically inert. Comparing Dick and Suzuki blurs the lines between pessimism and depth. Dick explores the roots of alienation, while Suzuki depicts alienation as an aesthetic. This comparison unfairly favours Dick and misrepresents Suzuki.

Her work risks falling into psychologism, but her personal experiences—marriage to Kaoru Abe, violence, the toe-cutting incident, and suicide—should not be seen as explanations for her writing. Instead, they reflect the same social pathology that influences her fiction: the isolation of the petty-bourgeois intelligentsia, disconnected from the working class and overwhelmed by personal despair.

A Marxist review should reject the liberal approach that treats biography as direct causation. Instead, the focus is not on pathologising Suzuki but on uncovering the social forces that shaped her art and tragedy. Both her personal life and her fiction originate from the same source: the political defeat of the working class and the ideological collapse of the petty-bourgeois intelligentsia.

A polemical review must do more than reject; it needs to establish clear standards. What sets progressive science fiction apart is not its optimism but its awareness of history. It portrays humans as active participants within a social whole, capable of changing their circumstances. It acknowledges that alienation stems from social class rather than being a metaphysical constant. Writers like Dick, Lem, and certain aspects of New Wave SF understood this. Their work, despite certain flaws, engages with the social and historical forces influencing human life. Suzuki, however, does not. Her fiction reflects paralysis rather than potential. A Marxist critique should explicitly define this criterion.

Why Suzuki, and Why Now? The Ideological Function of Her Revival

This is the key question. Suzuki’s resurgence is motivated more by ideological usefulness than literary quality. Bourgeois publishers—including Verso—have adopted identity politics as a replacement for true social critique. They favour stories of personal trauma, gender conflict, and apolitical melancholy because these types of “dissent” do not challenge capitalist property systems.

Suzuki’s fiction resonates now because it lets readers feel “radical” without having to take political action. It diverts social frustration from capitalism to personal relationships. By framing the crisis of bourgeois society as a gender conflict, it shields the ruling class from criticism. Her revival functions as a cultural strategy: elevating a petty-bourgeois perspective exactly when many are mobilising against capitalism.

Conclusion: A Literature of Political Defeat

Suzuki’s fiction is neither revolutionary, feminist, nor progressive. It represents the artistic voice of political defeat. Verso’s revival is a concession to the ruling class’s ideological needs, aiming to redirect social anger into identity-based dead ends. A Marxist review must critically expose this process. The goal is not to mourn Suzuki but to understand her: to situate her work within the broader historical crisis that shaped it and to oppose the ideological forces seeking to weaponise it against the working class.

Her fiction is a thing of the past. The future will be shaped by a working class that refuses to accept the petty-bourgeois despair that Suzuki mistakenly took as truth.

The Declaration as a Battleground of Historical Memory

Edward L. Widmer’s The Living Declaration is framed as a “biography” of the Declaration of Independence. This genre has grown popular in recent years amid the commercialisation of the American founding. In mainstream liberal scholarship, these biographies often serve not as critical examinations of revolutionary ideas but as tools to reinforce the current ideological framework. Despite its engaging writing style and clear narrative, Widmer’s book fits well within this tradition.

The Declaration of Independence isn’t a neutral document; it serves as a revolutionary manifesto. Its core principles—equality, popular sovereignty, and the right to revolution—have significantly influenced major social conflicts throughout American history. Any in-depth analysis must address the radical implications of these ideas for today’s society. However, Widmer avoids this challenge, presenting a cleaned-up, heritage-focused version that downplays the Declaration’s revolutionary significance and reframes it as a civic symbol aligned with capitalist elites.

The Declaration as a Product of World-Historical Crisis

The Declaration of Independence was more than a philosophical concept created by Jefferson and his team. It signified a profound global crisis: the fall of the ancien régime, the rise of capitalist social relations, and the emergence of a revolutionary bourgeoisie. This new class’s struggle against feudal absolutism drastically changed the world.

A Marxist reconstruction starts not with Jefferson’s writing or Locke’s essays, but with the material changes in Atlantic capitalism during the eighteenth century. The Declaration served as the ideological manifestation of a society in flux, during a period when the emergent bourgeoisie aimed to dismantle feudal political structures while maintaining their economic base in private property. Its roots are deeply intertwined with the inherent contradictions within bourgeois society.

By the mid-1700s, the North American colonies had become deeply connected to Atlantic capitalism. The production of commodities such as tobacco, wheat, timber, and rum, as well as the use of enslaved labour, created a class of colonial merchants, planters, and professionals whose interests increasingly conflicted with those of the British imperial government.

Britain’s victory in the Seven Years’ War resulted in a substantial imperial debt. The Crown sought to increase revenue from the colonies via taxes and tighter administrative oversight. This was not driven by ethical concerns but by a material conflict between a growing bourgeois class and a declining imperial system.

The colonies operated as economically capitalist entities but remained politically subordinate to a monarchical and aristocratic state. This contradiction—capitalist economic relations existing under feudal political structures—was the root of the revolutionary crisis. The Declaration represents the ideological resolution to this conflict.

The Declaration’s phrases—“self-evident truths,” “unalienable rights,” “consent of the governed”—embody the core principles of Enlightenment rationalism. However, Enlightenment ideas were not purely abstract philosophy; they formed the ideological foundation of an advancing bourgeois class.

Locke’s theory of natural rights mainly served to justify private property. His well-known idea that property comes from labour isn’t an absolute truth but rather a bourgeois rationalisation that supports capitalist accumulation. Jefferson’s version— “Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness”—also reflects this classical perspective. The rights declared in the Declaration appear universal in structure but are bourgeois in substance.

The statement that “all men are created equal” was not a philosophical assertion. Instead, it served as a political tool to oppose aristocracy, monarchy, and inherited privilege. In this context, equality referred to equal legal status within a capitalist system, not equal social or economic conditions.

The Declaration’s reference to “self-evident truths” embodies the Enlightenment belief that society could be restructured based on rational principles. This expressed the bourgeoisie’s desire to overthrow irrational feudal systems. Reason was a revolutionary force—yet its revolutionary potential was confined within the bounds of bourgeois society.

The main authors of the Declaration were members of the colonial bourgeoisie, including lawyers, merchants, planters, and intellectuals. They articulated grievances related to taxation, trade restrictions, and imperial oversight, which were rooted in class interests. While artisans, small farmers, and urban labourers also significantly contributed to the revolutionary movement, their interests differed from those of the bourgeois elite. However, the imperial crisis temporarily unified these diverse groups with a shared purpose.

The Declaration’s universalism intentionally excluded enslaved Africans and indigenous peoples, reflecting a deliberate choice tied to the bourgeois revolution within a slave society. The tension between universal equality and racial slavery is not merely moral but also reveals a core contradiction in bourgeois property relations. Its most radical claim—that people can “alter or abolish” any government threatening their rights—appears revolutionary but fundamentally aligns with bourgeois interests.

The right of revolution was aimed at overthrowing monarchy and aristocracy, serving as the ideological basis for dismantling feudal political structures. While the bourgeoisie endorsed this right, they also feared it might threaten their own class interests. Interestingly, the same individuals who supported the right to overthrow oppressive governments also suppressed Shays’ Rebellion and slave uprisings.

The Declaration’s revolutionary ideas could not be fully put into practice within bourgeois society. Its focus on universal principles extended beyond capitalism itself. This is why the Declaration served as the ideological basis for the Civil War—the second American revolution—and why its principles are still not fully realised today.

The Declaration’s ideological roots are in the bourgeois revolution, but its future is with the working class. As the Socialist Equality Party states, the true successors of 1776 are not the representatives of the American ruling class, but the workers and youth fighting against inequality, war, and the erosion of democratic rights. The Declaration remains vital—not merely as a historical artefact, but as a revolutionary document that demands a socialist transformation of society.

The Ideological Function of Gordon Wood in American Historiography

Gordon S. Wood holds a unique place in American historical scholarship. He is both the most renowned interpreter of the American Revolution and a key defender of bourgeois ideological continuity. His introduction to Edward L. Widmer’s The Living Declaration exemplifies this duality. Wood describes the Declaration of Independence as the “most profound manifesto of democratic revolution in history,” but his framing diminishes its revolutionary significance for today.

Wood’s prose is refined and erudite, yet his approach remains largely conservative. He presents the Declaration as a victory of enlightened thought, deliberately sidestepping the societal contradictions that led to it and the volatile implications of its principles for modern capitalism. His introduction doesn’t advocate for revolutionary change but instead honours a heritage that has been safely preserved.

Wood’s opening highlights that the United States is “unique because it was founded entirely on a set of philosophical ideas rather than shared heritage or ethnicity.” This reflects Wood’s overall historiographical approach: emphasising ideology over material conditions and portraying the Revolution as a victory of enlightened ideas rather than as a struggle rooted in class, colonial economics, or imperial crises.

The issue isn’t that ideas had no role—they did. Instead, Wood overlooks how social forces shaped these ideas. He views the Declaration as a result of philosophical agreement, not a revolutionary break. That’s why Wood claims Jefferson’s statement that “all men are created equal” reflected the mainstream enlightened thought of the time. But this is historically questionable and politically telling. Equality wasn’t just a conventional idea; it challenged the entire hierarchical order dominated by monarchy, aristocracy, and hereditary privilege. Wood’s approach trivialises the Revolution by framing its most radical principle as a polite, common belief.

Wood emphasises Jefferson’s belief in a universal “moral sense,” even among enslaved people, implying that this shared empathy helped shape abolitionist arguments. This reflects Wood’s typical approach: a moral-philosophical interpretation that conceals the harsh material realities of slavery and the economic motives behind it. Jefferson’s moral sense did not stop him from enslaving people, nor did it prevent the new republic from establishing a constitutional framework that protected slave property for nearly a century. Wood’s reference to moral sense acts as a liberal justification—an effort to reconcile the universal ideals in the Declaration with the founders’ active participation in a slaveholding society.

A Marxist analysis begins from the opposite premise: the contradiction between universal equality and private property in human beings is not a moral paradox but a structural contradiction of bourgeois revolution. Wood cannot confront this because his method is idealistic rather than materialistic.

Wood’s introduction notably omits key points. He does not mention the Declaration’s claim that people can “alter or abolish” governments that threaten their rights. Additionally, he overlooks the relevance of this principle during the Civil War, which Lincoln viewed as the embodiment of the Declaration’s revolutionary ideas. Moreover, he neglects to consider how this principle applies in a society controlled by a financial oligarchy.

Wood’s introduction celebrates the ideals of the Declaration rather than analysing their outcomes. He commends the Revolution’s opposition to aristocracy but overlooks the rise of a new wealthy aristocracy. While praising equality, he ignores the significant inequality present in modern America. This is intentional, as Wood’s purpose in American historiography is to uphold the established order by framing the founding as a completed, accomplished event rather than an ongoing revolutionary process.

The Political Context: Wood vs the 1619 Project, and the Limits of Liberal Defence

Wood has been a notable critic of the New York Times’ 1619 Project, rightly pointing it out as a racialist distortion of history. However, his critique is constrained by his ideological biases. While he defends the Revolution against racial reductionism, he does so from a liberal perspective that fails to recognise the class struggles inherent in the Revolution or the enduring importance of its principles.The WSWS has shown that rejecting 1776 as a pro-slavery conspiracy, as the 1619 Project does, is both historically inaccurate and politically reactionary.However, Wood’s alternative—an idealist praise of enlightened ideas—falls short.It defends the founders but weakens the Declaration’s revolutionary significance.

Wood criticises the racialist distortion of history but fails to challenge the capitalist distortion. His introduction overlooks that today’s ruling class openly disregards every right listed in the Declaration. He is unable to admit that the Declaration’s revolutionary ideals condemn the social order he aims to maintain.

The Declaration as a Living Document: Wood’s Title, Widmer’s Book, and the Marxist Alternative

Wood agrees with Widmer’s idea of a “living declaration,” but he sees “living” as more conservative. To Wood, it’s alive because it continues to inspire civic pride and a sense of democracy. Widmer, however, believes it remains alive because each new generation has reinterpreted it. In contrast, Marxists see the Declaration as alive because its ideals remain unfulfilled, and achieving them would require a revolutionary societal change.

The Declaration remains alive not due to admiration but because it continues to reveal the contradictions within capitalist society. It stays relevant by affirming equality in a world marked by inequality and by declaring the right to revolution against oligarchic rule. Wood, however, cannot recognise this. His introduction romanticises the Declaration with reverent language while diminishing its revolutionary power.

Gordon Wood’s introduction to The Living Declaration is a refined, knowledgeable and ultimately conservative piece. It extols the ideals of the Declaration while toning down their implications. It defends the Revolution from racialist distortions yet sidesteps the class conflicts that influenced it. While praising equality, it overlooks the capitalist system that makes such equality unachievable. Overall, Wood’s introduction is not a genuine living declaration but a sanitised version that serves the interests of the ruling class.

Widmer’s Method: Liberal Antiquarianism in the Service of the Present Order

Widmer’s “biography” approach exemplifies the heritage industry in American historiography, as the WSWS frequently criticises. Instead of placing the Declaration within the ongoing dialectical evolution of bourgeois revolution, Widmer regards it as a cultural artefact whose “life” is shaped by how it has been received, reinterpreted, and symbolically employed over time.

This approach yields three distinct effects: First, the Revolution becomes depoliticised, as Widmer emphasises anecdotes, personalities, and textual idiosyncrasies, while minimising the Declaration’s significance as the ideological source of significant social change. Second, the contradictions of the Revolution are viewed through a psychological lens, transforming questions about class tensions, property rights, and slavery into moral or personal dilemmas rather than material disputes. Third, the current situation is presented as natural.

The Declaration as Revolutionary Manifesto: What Widmer Cannot Confront

Widmer’s account cannot encompass the Declaration’s most radical claim: “That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it…”

This is not just a decorative element; it forms the heart of the document. As David North stated, the principles of the Declaration “were obtained through the application of scientific thought, i.e., Reason,” and their revolutionary power remains because they express universal, not just colonial, claims.

Widmer’s biography treats this passage as a historical footnote rather than an active critique of today’s capitalist oligarchy that rules the United States. He fails to recognise that the Declaration’s underlying logic extends beyond bourgeois society itself—suggesting that the promise of equality conflicts with a social system in which a few billionaires possess more wealth than the entire bottom half of humanity. Addressing this would mean acknowledging the Declaration’s role in the Civil War—the so-called “second American revolution”—and its ongoing significance to modern working-class struggles. Yet, Widmer completely sidesteps this connection.

Widmer’s book comes at a time when the Declaration faces fierce political debate. Two main forces drive this contest: The New York Times’ 1619 Project criticises the Declaration as a hypocritical document meant to defend slavery. As the WSWS has shown, this view is both historically inaccurate and politically reactionary. It ignores the revolutionary significance of 1776 and reduces the American Revolution to a racial myth. Widmer does not oppose this false narrative; instead, it sidesteps it.

The ruling elite claims the Declaration as a patriotic symbol while simultaneously ignoring every right it guarantees. Patrick Martin pointed out that “Every basic right enumerated in it is openly flouted.” The right to revolution is dismissed as sedition, extreme inequalities undermine equality, and due process is compromised through widespread surveillance and militarised policing. Widmer does not challenge this contradiction; instead, he aestheticises it. In both instances, Widmer’s silence aligns with the ideological interests of the current order. His biography does not defend the revolutionary ideals of the Declaration but rather contributes to their neutralisation.

Bourgeois Scholarship and the Neutralisation of Revolution

Widmer’s book highlights the wider limitations of bourgeois historiography. It lauds the Declaration as an element of America’s “heritage” but neglects its revolutionary core. This aligns with James P. Cannon’s warning: “Nobody can sell me the Fourth of July speeches which represent the start as the finish and the promise as the fulfilment.” Widmer’s biography resembles a Fourth of July speech in book form, presenting the Declaration as a finished accomplishment instead of an ongoing revolutionary effort.

A truly critical biography of the Declaration would place it in the context of the global crisis of the ancien régime and the emergence of bourgeois revolution. It would examine its Enlightenment roots—drawing from Locke, Scottish moral philosophers, and 18th-century scientific rationalism. It would reveal contradictions in its founding, such as slavery, property relations, and class conflicts. The biography would track its lasting revolutionary influence, particularly in the Civil War and abolition movements. It would also show its incompatibility with modern capitalism, where equality cannot exist under private ownership of the means of production. The biography would highlight the working class as the agent capable of realising its promise. However, Widmer’s biography does none of these; it is not a living Declaration but an embalmed one.

Conclusion: The Declaration Lives—But Not in Widmer’s Book

Widmer’s The Living Declaration is a refined, accessible, and ultimately conservative account. It provides a biography of the Declaration that is suitable for corporate publishers, university lectures, and Fourth of July celebrations. It avoids addressing the Declaration’s revolutionary potential today or recognising the social forces that could bring its promises to fruition. The Declaration endures—though not within Widmer’s family-friendly narrative. It persists in the working class’s struggles against inequality, war, and the erosion of democratic rights. Its principles serve as a critique of tyranny and a rallying cry for revolutionary change. Widmer’s book is a biography; the working class will author the sequel

But where, say some, is the King of America? I’ll tell you, friend, he reigns above, and doth not make havoc of humanity like the Royal Brute of Great Britain. Yet that we may not appear to be defective even in earthly honours, let a day be solemnly set apart for proclaiming the Charter; let it be brought forth, placed on the Divine Law, the Word of God; let a crown be placed thereon, by which the world may know, that so far as we approve of monarchy, that in America the law is king. 

The Writings of Thomas Paine, Vol. I (1774-1779)

“Associate yourself with men of good quality, if you esteem your own reputation; for ’tis better to be alone than in bad company.”

George Washington

“The workingmen of Europe feel sure that… it fell to the lot of Abraham Lincoln, the single-minded son of the working class, to lead his country through the matchless struggle for the rescue of an enchained race and the reconstruction of a social world.”

Karl Marx

“We hold the power to start the world anew. No similar situation has occurred since Noah’s days until now. A new world’s birth is imminent, and a population, possibly as large as all of Europe, is about to gain their share of freedom”

Thomas Paine-

oll.libertyfund.org/titles/paine-the-writings-of-thomas-paine-vol-i-1774-1779#

History as a Battlefield

The upcoming 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence has starkly exposed a deep crisis in the United States’ historical awareness. At a time when democratic rights face unprecedented threats, the political elite and its media outlets have shown what the World Socialist Web Site accurately describes as “disinterest and even hostility… toward the bourgeois democratic traditions of the United States.’”¹ The ruling class, mired in oligarchic decay, recoils from the revolutionary origins of its own state because those origins expose the illegitimacy of its present‑day authoritarian turn.

In this context, the WSWS hosted a significant international webinar titled “The American Revolution and Its Place in History: From the War Against Monarchy to ‘No Kings.’” Featuring prominent historians such as James Oakes, Sean Wilentz, Richard Carwardine, Adam Hochschild, and Thomas Mackaman, it represented the most in-depth scholarly discussion of the Revolution during this anniversary year. Its importance extends beyond academic clarification, reflecting the ongoing political debate over the significance of 1776.

The core question is whether the American Revolution was a groundbreaking democratic shift in world history or, as the 1619 Project and its academic allies claim, a reactionary revolt aimed at preserving slavery. This answer shapes both our understanding of history and our approach to current fights against dictatorship.

The Revolutionary Character of 1776

The Declaration of Independence remains one of the most consequential documents in world history. As David North emphasised, it “indicted the existing social and political order and called for its overthrow in the most sweeping and universal terms.”² Its proclamation that “all men are created equal” established a new standard of political legitimacy, one that transcended the limitations of its time and pointed toward future struggles for emancipation.

James Oakes underscored this universalism, noting that the Declaration “establishes an entirely new revolutionary standard by which every social movement from that point on is evaluated.”³ The Revolution shattered the ancien régime’s world of inherited rank and ascribed status. Richard Carwardine described 1776 as the formal end of a social order in which one’s place was fixed by birth.⁴

This was not a provincial tax revolt. It was the first great bourgeois‑democratic revolution of the modern era, whose reverberations were felt across the Atlantic world. As Sean Wilentz observed, “you can’t understand any of the other revolutions without understanding the American Revolution.”⁵ The upheaval in North America helped detonate the French Revolution, inspired abolitionist networks in Britain, and later shaped the international working‑class movement.

The Two Revolutions: Against Monarchy and Against Slavery

The Revolution’s internal contradictions—between universal equality and the persistence of slavery—did not negate its revolutionary character. Rather, they generated a second, deeper revolution culminating in the Civil War. Wilentz emphasised that the struggle against slavery was not external to 1776 but inherent within it.⁶

Karl Marx grasped this dialectic with unmatched clarity. Writing for the International Working Men’s Association, he recognised that the Civil War represented the completion of the bourgeois‑democratic revolution begun in 1776.⁷ The working class in Britain, influenced by Marx and Engels, sided with the Union against the Confederacy, despite the economic hardships caused by the cotton famine.

The WSWS webinar traced this international thread: abolitionist diagrams circulated from London to Philadelphia; Lafayette carried the spirit of 1776 to Paris; British workers mourned Lincoln’s assassination.⁸ The Revolution’s universalist content proved irrepressible.

The Presentist Falsification of History

The greatest threat to the Revolution today stems from racialist narratives promoted by the New York Times’ 1619 Project and Gerald Horne’s The Counter-Revolution of 1776. These works suggest that the Revolution aimed to preserve slavery, argue that 1776 was not truly a revolution, or even describe it as a counter-revolution.

Thomas Mackaman demolished this fabrication: “In its time, nobody, including its enemies, thought it was anything but a revolution.”⁹ The claim that the Revolution was a pro‑slavery conspiracy is a grotesque anachronism, a projection of contemporary racial politics onto the eighteenth century.

Both Mackaman and Wilentz identified the method of these narratives as “presentism” and “anachronism.”¹⁰ They reduce history to moral denunciation, stripping events of their material context and class dynamics. David North exposed the underlying ideology as a “petty‑bourgeois view of history” that substitutes race for class and rests on a “perverted zoological conception” of human society.¹¹

Oakes drew the logical conclusion: the universalist principle of equality is “seriously antithetical to identity politics,” which fragments society into antagonistic racial blocs.¹² The 1619 Project’s racial essentialism is not a radical critique of America’s past but a reactionary repudiation of Enlightenment rationality.

The 1619 Project did not develop in isolation. It reflects the worldview of a ruling class that has become increasingly distrustful of its revolutionary democratic roots. As the WSWS notes, the political elite shows “disinterest and indeed hostility… to the bourgeois democratic traditions of the United States itself.” In this context, the New York Times’ 1619 Project serves a clear political purpose: it disconnects the working class from the universalist, Enlightenment-inspired principles of 1776. Instead, it promotes a racial mythology that hampers collective action.

The central claim of the Project—that the United States was founded as a slavocracy, that 1619 is the actual founding year, and that the Revolution was fought primarily to defend slavery—is not just mistaken; it distorts history through flawed methods that conflict with rigorous scholarship. It replaces class with race, moralism with materialism, and judges the past through a modern lens.

The 1619 Project isn’t a historical account but a moral story crafted to support current political objectives. As Thomas Mackaman and Sean Wilentz pointed out in the WSWS webinar, it employs ‘presentism’ and ‘anachronism’ by judging the past through today’s standards, reducing complex historical events to moral judgments about individuals. Presentism isn’t just a flawed method; it fundamentally rejects genuine historical analysis by blurring the line between past and present, preventing understanding of historical figures within their own context. David North highlighted that this approach replaces explanation with moral condemnation and lacks true explanatory power.

The racial essentialism underlying the Project.

The 1619 Project is based on what North correctly calls a “perverted zoological conception” of human society. It views race as a timeless, unchangeable factor that determines human behaviour. This isn’t radical thinking; it’s a step backwards to pre-Enlightenment ideas. It dismisses the idea that human reason is universal and that people can overcome inherited social roles.

The Project criticises the Declaration of Independence because its claim that “all men are created equal” clashes with its racial worldview. As Oakes notes, the universalist idea of equality directly conflicts with identity politics. Consequently, the 1619 Project seeks to challenge the validity of the Enlightenment itself.  

The Revolution was not fought to defend slavery

The Project claims that colonists rebelled to defend slavery from British abolition, but this is clearly false. There is no evidence—none—that fears of abolition drove the Revolution. As Mackaman noted earlier, “In its time, nobody, including its enemies, thought it was anything but a revolution.” The British Empire didn’t abolish slavery until 1833, fifty-seven years after the Declaration. The Somerset decision of 1772 applied only to England and Wales, not to the colonies. The idea that it threatened colonial slavery is a myth.

The Revolution sparked ideological forces that made slavery increasingly difficult to sustain. The earliest abolition societies appeared in the 1770s and 1780s. Northern states began to enact gradual emancipation. The Declaration’s universal principles directly influenced the antislavery movement. Wilentz repeated his point that “you can’t understand any of the other revolutions without understanding the American Revolution.” The 1619 Project, however, isolates the Revolution from the Atlantic world, overlooking its crucial role in the French and Haitian Revolutions and the global push for democracy.

The Continuity of Democratic Struggle

Far from being a dead letter, the Declaration’s principles have animated every major democratic movement in American history. Oakes noted that labour radicals of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries “repeatedly invoked the Declaration of Independence,” as did abolitionists and suffragists before them.¹³

Adam Hochschild demonstrated the contemporary relevance of the Declaration’s indictment of George III. Its charges—military power over civil authority, the transportation of people “beyond seas” for “pretended offences”—read, he observed, as if they “were written this morning.”¹⁴The continuity is unmistakable: the struggle for democratic rights is inseparable from the revolutionary legacy of 1776.

The Present Crisis and the Necessity of Historical Consciousness

The United States is undergoing a profound crisis of bourgeois democracy. Trump’s open embrace of dictatorial methods, his attempt to overturn the 2020 election, and his use of the Alien Enemies Act of 1798 for mass deportations all testify to the breakdown of constitutional norms.¹⁵The Supreme Court’s reactionary rulings, the impunity of the January 6 conspirators, and the draconian sentences imposed on anti‑ICE protesters reveal a ruling class that has repudiated even the pretence of democratic rights.¹⁶

In this context, the fight over the meaning of 1776 is not academic. It is a struggle over political consciousness. As North concluded, “the political consciousness and perspective required for the future” cannot be supplied by any faction of the ruling class.¹⁷ The defence of democratic rights falls to the international working class, whose interests align with the universalist principles first articulated in 1776.

Conclusion: Toward 2036 and Beyond

North ventured a prediction: “The America and the world of 2036 will look vastly different from the world of today.”¹⁸ This is not utopian speculation but a sober assessment of the contradictions tearing apart global capitalism. The revolutionary potential of the international working class, the globalised character of modern society, and the intensifying social opposition all point toward profound transformations.

To realise this potential, the working class must reclaim the revolutionary heritage of 1776—not as nationalist mythology, but as part of the world‑historical struggle for human emancipation. The fight for socialism requires a fight for historical truth.

The WSWS webinar stands as a major contribution to that struggle. Its analysis must be studied, disseminated, and armed with Marxist clarity. The meaning of 1776 is not settled in the past; it is being fought over in the present, and its outcome will shape the future.

Footnotes

1. On the eve of the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, 1.
2. Ibid., 2.
3. Ibid., 4.
4. Ibid., 5.
5. Ibid., 3.
6. Ibid., 5.
7. Karl Marx, The Civil War in the United States (New York: International Publishers, 1937).
8. On the eve…, 3–4.
9. Ibid., 6.
10. Ibid., 6.
11. Ibid., 7.
12. Ibid., 7.
13. Ibid., 4.
14. Ibid., 8.
15. Ibid., 2.
16. Ibid., 8.
17. Ibid., 9.
18. Ibid., 9.

Endnotes

The Writings of Thomas Paine, (1774-1779) oll.libertyfund.org/titles/paine-the-writings-of-thomas-paine-vol-i-1774-1779

Christopher Kempf’s What Though the Field Be Lost appears at a moment of profound crisis in American society. Staggering levels of social inequality ravage the United States, a political system in advanced decay, and a ruling class increasingly reliant on authoritarian methods to maintain its dominance. Under such conditions, the Civil War — the “Second American Revolution” — inevitably returns as a point of reference. It is the last moment in US history when the contradictions of the social order were resolved through revolutionary means. Any serious artistic engagement with the present must therefore confront the legacy of that conflict not as a cultural inheritance but as a historical process driven by class forces.

Kempf’s collection highlights the ideological deadlock facing modern American intellectuals. It is driven by a sincere desire to explore the past and its ongoing impact today. The work dismisses the superficial confessional trends common in American poetry, focusing instead on history, landscape, and the enduring material traces of the Civil War within the American consciousness. However, it is ultimately limited by the ideological frameworks—such as race, region, identity, and the elevation of “ambivalence” as a moral and aesthetic ideal—that shape how the liberal-academic world interprets reality.

The poem explores key questions of American history, though it stops short of fully addressing them. Kempf perceives the Civil War as a revolutionary break and senses the lingering contradictions it left unresolved. He also intuitively understands that today’s American capitalism crisis stems from the same class conflicts that ignited in 1861. However, he struggles to realise these ideas fully, instead adopting a stance of cultivated uncertainty, as if the poet’s role is to observe contradictions rather than resolve or comprehend them.

This ambivalence is fundamentally a social issue rather than an artistic one. It illustrates the stance of a segment of petty-bourgeois intelligentsia that exists anxiously between the working class and the ruling class, feeling the mounting pressures beneath but lacking the political and theoretical tools to understand their true meaning. Kempf’s poetry reflects this tension clearly: it hints at the revolutionary aspects of American history but stays grounded in culturalist ideas that hide that history’s true significance.

In this framework, the Civil War is seen not as a revolutionary clash between conflicting social systems but as a symbolic space where issues of identity, memory, and national belonging are explored. The working class is depicted not as an active historical force but as a cultural symbol — sometimes sentimentalised, sometimes ridiculed, admired for its “decency” yet often viewed humorously, as if its presence were an anthropological oddity rather than the cornerstone of modern society.

Kempf’s approach has limitations that go beyond aesthetics; they are political. As the American ruling class currently uses reactionary tactics—such as censorship, rewriting history, and fuelling racial and gender divisions—the artist’s role is to clarify the historical forces, not to aestheticise ambiguity. The Civil War was fundamentally a class struggle over the future of a social order, not merely an issue of identity politics. To relate its revolutionary fervour to today, one must pinpoint modern parallels, such as widening inequality, labour exploitation, and the global capitalism crisis.

Kempf’s poetry, despite its intelligence and craftsmanship, ultimately doesn’t make this leap. It stays confined within the ideological limits of the present, unable to see the past as a guide for the future. Therefore, criticism’s role isn’t just to evaluate the poems but to situate them within the larger crisis of American intellectual life—one caused by the petty-bourgeois intelligentsia’s failure to break free from the ideological frameworks that benefit the ruling class.

The Civil War as Historical Problem — Class, Revolution, and the Limits of Cultural Memory

The American Civil War holds a distinctive place in global history. It was more than just a regional conflict or a tragic internal rupture; it represented a revolutionary clash between two incompatible social systems: the industrialising capitalist North and the slave-dependent, semi-feudal South. The abolition of slavery—considered the largest expropriation of private property in the Western Hemisphere before the Russian Revolution—was not merely a consequence of the war but its core historical significance. To truly understand the Civil War, one must recognise it as a class struggle fought across the continent, with its outcome shaping the future of American capitalism for over a century.

However, prevailing ideological perspectives in modern American culture make this understanding nearly inaccessible. The Civil War is often viewed primarily through the lens of identity: as a clash among racial groups, regional cultures, or conflicting national narratives. This shift towards culturalist interpretation is intentional, serving the interests of the ruling class. It aims to hide the revolutionary roots of American history and to prevent the working class from realising its own historical power.

Kempf’s poetry, despite its historical interest, remains confined within a specific ideological framework. His portrayal of the Civil War is filtered through the lens of modern liberal concepts such as race, region, memory, and the obsession with “national identity.” These ideas are not just inadequate; they distort the true history of the conflict by turning a revolutionary war into a symbolic stage for cultural expression, emphasising ambiguity over social analysis.

Kempf’s portrayal of Confederate memory reveals an aesthetic focus on the monument’s “splendour,” which is not merely a mistake but a natural outcome of viewing the Civil War as part of cultural heritage instead of a class struggle. When the war is seen as a conflict of identities, even reactionary ones gain a degree of legitimacy. Consequently, the Confederate cause is depicted as a tragic regional pride rather than a defence of human bondage. The monument is thus seen as an object of beauty rather than a symbol of violent reaction. A Marxist cannot adopt this perspective. The Civil War was a clash between social systems, not cultures. The Confederacy epitomised the most reactionary class in American history: a slaveholding oligarchy whose economic goals were opposed to modern societal progress. Approaching its symbols with ambivalence conceals the underlying class struggle and blurs the distinction between revolutionary change and reactionary forces. 

Kempf’s poetry reveals a broader issue in how Americans perceive their history. The Civil War is fading from its specific origins and instead serves as a symbol of national trauma, division, and contemporary anxieties. This isn’t merely a misunderstanding; it is a political error. Detaching the Civil War from its class issues erases the working class’s revolutionary legacy. It conceals that America’s major advances—such as ending slavery, expanding democratic rights, and asserting federal authority—were achieved through mass struggles, not just cultural debates.

Kempf’s work engages with this process, even as it aims to resist it. His poems include historical fragments, archival remnants, and traces of the past. Yet these elements do not provide a clear, dialectical view of history shaped by class struggles. Instead, they remain in an aestheticised ambiguity, suggesting that the poet is cautious about making definitive claims about the material he references.

This passage explains the ideological role of “ambivalence” in modern American literature. It enables artists to acknowledge historical complexity without confronting its political consequences. Instead of interpreting contradictions, poets act as curators of them. Essentially, it represents a form of ideological stagnation—the petty-bourgeois intelligentsia’s failure to recognise the revolutionary significance of history when such awareness is critically needed.

The Civil War calls for clarity, requiring an understanding of history as a conflict among social forces rather than merely a collection of cultural identities. Kempf’s poetry, despite its intelligence and craftsmanship, ultimately falls short of this requirement. It mirrors the crisis of a social class that feels the looming Great Events but lacks the necessary theoretical and political tools to understand them fully.

The Ideology of Ambivalence — Petty-Bourgeois Paralysis in Contemporary American Poetry

In Christopher Kempf’s poetic universe, ambivalence functions as more than just a stylistic choice; it is the central ideological principle. It shapes the way history is perceived, informs the poet’s attitude toward the world, and offers a means of transforming urgent social issues into aesthetic concerns. To understand “What Though the Field Be Lost,” one must view ambivalence not merely as an artistic trait but as a mirror of a broader social problem: the stagnation of the contemporary American petty-bourgeois intellectual class amidst rising class conflicts.

Ambivalence as a Social Position, Not an Aesthetic Insight

Contemporary American poets, especially in academia, hold a conflicted social position. They encounter economic insecurity, become more proletarianised, and face pressures akin to those of the working class. Yet they remain ideologically connected to liberal institutions such as universities, foundations, and cultural organisations, which are strongly dedicated to maintaining the existing social order.

Ambivalence stems from this contradiction, illustrating a class segment that senses the system’s instability but cannot imagine an alternative. It embodies the worldview of a social layer that experiences the pressures of capitalism but lacks the political insight to oppose it. Here, ambivalence indicates ideological fatigue rather than sophistication.

Kempf’s poetry effectively depicts this condition. His poems contain numerous historical fragments, political echoes, and social snapshots. Yet, these components never fully coalesce into a coherent view of the world. Instead, they remain in a state of unresolved tension, suggesting the poet is cautious about drawing his insights to their logical end.

The Aestheticisation of Contradiction

Ambivalence allows the poet to treat contradiction as an aesthetic theme instead of a historical process. The Civil War is portrayed as a collage of conflicting narratives; the working class is represented through cultural symbols; and the current crisis is shown as a series of “echoes” or “parallels,” rather than as a reflection of deepening class conflicts.

This aestheticisation of conflict serves to disarm political engagement by transforming the poet’s role from a historian’s interpreter to a curator of fragments. It suggests complexity without the obligation to analyse, indicating a withdrawal from active comprehension of the world. The WSWS review rightly notes that Kempf’s poems “juxtapose” instead of explaining, “hint” instead of fully expressing, and “suggest” rather than present definitive conclusions. This is not about poor craftsmanship but about perspective. The poet’s ambivalence is not a quest for truth; it is a means to avoid the effort of discovering it.

The Working Class as Cultural Object

Kempf’s portrayal of the American working class exemplifies ambivalence. His mentions of hot dogs, AutoZone, homecoming queens, and small-town rituals do not show solidarity, but rather an outsider’s view. These references reflect a poet who watches the working class with affection and amusement, as if examining a cultural spectacle instead of engaging with a social group.

This perspective mirrors the wider liberal-academic view, which sees the working class not as active agents in history but as a cultural concept. Instead of being recognised as subjects shaping history, they are depicted as objects of representation. Their struggles, hopes, and contradictions are often aestheticised rather than genuinely comprehended.

Kempf’s ambivalence toward the working class reflects a class position rather than a personal trait. It represents a social stratum that is materially near the working class but ideologically disconnected from it. This group perceives the potential for working-class unity but struggles to see it as a feasible political reality.

Ambivalence as Ideological Containment

Ambivalence in contemporary American poetry serves a conservative role. It stops poets from making conclusions that could threaten the current social system. Instead, it turns political issues into artistic expressions. This way, poets can recognise social contradictions without the need to clarify or resolve them.

In this context, ambivalence benefits the ruling class by maintaining the intelligentsia’s ideological confusion, hindering their ability to develop a clear critique of capitalism. It also conceals the revolutionary legacy of the Civil War with layers of cultural complexity. Additionally, it obstructs the working class from seeing itself as part of history.

The Confederate Question — Aestheticising Reaction in an Age of Resurgent Authoritarianism

The most politically sensitive part of ‘What Though the Field Be Lost’ is Kempf’s handling of Confederate memory. This section highlights the ideological limits of his uncertain approach and clearly shows the gap between historical materialism and today’s liberal cultural perspectives. The Civil War is more than just another historical event; it is the pivotal moment in shaping the modern American state. Addressing its reactionary aspect — the slaveholders’ rebellion — with an aesthetic hesitation is not a neutral artistic decision. It represents a political statement, whether intentionally or not.

The Confederate Monument as an Aesthetic Object

Kempf’s mention of the “splendour” of a Confederate monument is more than a minor detail. It encapsulates the book’s overall ideological framework. The monument is presented not simply as an emblem of a reactionary social order but as an aesthetic reflection, a remnant of a tragic history whose significance is complex, layered, and open to various interpretations.

This is exactly the core issue. The Confederate cause was clear-cut. It was neither tragic nor merely a cultural expression of regional identity. Instead, it was the organised political and military defence of a slaveholding oligarchy whose economic interests were inherently opposed to modern societal progress. Approaching its symbols with ambiguity masks the class nature of the conflict and blurs the distinction between revolution and counter-revolution.

The beautification of reactionary ideas is always risky politically, especially now when authoritarianism is resurging worldwide. The ruling class, facing worsening social issues, often resorts to distorting history, restoring reactionary symbols, and promoting nationalist myths. In this environment, the poet’s role isn’t to make ambiguity look beautiful but to make the historical significance of the past clear.

The Liberal-Academic Reframing of the Civil War

Kempf’s approach to Confederate memory exemplifies a wider trend within the liberal academic sphere: the transformation of the Civil War from a conflict of revolutionary class struggle into a cultural narrative centred on identity, memory, and regional pride. This reframing serves a particular ideological purpose. It enables the ruling elite to diminish the revolutionary roots of the Civil War by separating it from its material, economic foundations. When the Civil War is viewed as a clash of identities, all identities — including reactionary ones — are given some degree of legitimacy. 

The rebellion of slaveholders is seen as a “perspective,” a “narrative,” or a “memory.” Confederate monuments then become sites of cultural significance rather than symbols of a social order rooted in human slavery. This perspective is not about historical accuracy but about ideological control.

The Class Content of the Confederate Cause

From a Marxist viewpoint, the Confederacy was the most reactionary social class in U.S. history. The slaveholding elite aimed not to defend a “way of life” but to uphold a property system that forcibly repressed millions. Their defeat was a vital step in the development of modern American capitalism and the expansion of democratic rights. Romanticising Confederate symbols conceals the revolutionary importance of the Civil War, portraying reactionary elements as mere cultural symbols rather than organised resistance by a ruling class resisting progress.

Ambivalence as a Form of Historical Neutralisation

Kempf’s mixed feelings about Confederate memory are not a flaw but a core aspect of his approach. This ambivalence enables him to view reactionary symbols as aesthetic objects rather than as displays of class dominance. As a result, the Confederate monument becomes a space for reflection instead of a symbol of the violent social system it signifies.

This is not harmless. In a time when authoritarianism is resurging—reactionary forces openly use Confederate imagery, the ruling class revives symbols of past oppression, and historical falsehoods serve political control—the aesthetic presentation of reaction unintentionally aids in confusing the public’s understanding of ideology. The poet who treats the Confederate monument with ambivalence is not impartial; instead, he contributes to a larger cultural trend that normalises, sanitises, and erases the historical significance of reaction.

The Importance of Clear Historical Perspective

Understanding the Civil War requires focusing on its social forces rather than viewing it solely as a conflict of cultural identities. The Confederate cause was mainly reactionary, as shown by its symbols and monuments. Ignoring this viewpoint obscures the class dynamics involved and hinders the working class from truly grasping its history. Kempf’s poetry, while insightful and skillfully written, ultimately misses this point. It mirrors the ideological stalemate of a social class that predicts major events but fails to understand the underlying historical forces.

Kempf’s Interview — Latent Class Insight and the Limits of Liberal Consciousness

Kempf’s interview with the WSWS is the most insightful document on What Though the Field Be Lost, revealing the gap between the poet’s latent political awareness and the ideological limits that influence his artistic approach. In the interview, Kempf offers insights that nearly align with a Marxist critique of modern American society. However, these insights are largely missing from the poetry itself. Thus, the interview acts as a kind of critical commentary on the book — showcasing what the poet understands but avoids expressing. ^[1]

The Poet Speaks More Clearly Than the Poems

Kempf acknowledges the social themes in his work, highlighting realities his poems only hint at. He points out that graduate students, whom he describes as experiencing “precarious labour,” share similar class interests with “Trump voters” in the rural Midwest. This is a notable admission because it contradicts the widespread belief that these groups are culturally incompatible. Instead, it reveals that beneath political differences lies a shared material condition: exploitation by capital.

This point is fundamental and underpins any serious socialist analysis of modern America. However, in the poetry, this understanding is only implicit, expressed through contrasts and echoes instead of a clear perspective. The poems acknowledge the cultural divide but fail to reveal the underlying class unity. The interview shows that Kempf is aware of this unity—it just can’t see it as a political force.

The Poet’s Critique of Corporate Identity Politics

Kempf’s observation that “virtually every corporation has much to gain from promoting narrow, sectarian strife” stands out even more. This insight surpasses the rest of the book in political depth, framing identity politics not as an accidental cultural trend but as a deliberate instrument of class control — a way for the ruling class to divide the working class and hinder its awareness of shared interests.

This analysis is exactly what the WSWS presents, an insight that poetry, despite its intelligence, never fully captures. Kempf’s acknowledgement of the corporate roots of identity politics indicates he could offer a more radical critique than his poetry reveals. However, he remains bound by the liberal-academic environment, which emphasises identity as the main lens for social analysis. This creates a clear disconnect: the poet’s political insight surpasses the ideological boundaries of his artistic approach.

The Liberal Fetish of “Ambivalence” as a Barrier to Clarity

Kempf justifies his poetic ambivalence as an intentional artistic choice. He believes that poetry doesn’t instruct directly but instead uses juxtaposition to provoke thought about parallels, incongruities, or echoes across history. This perspective is common among contemporary American writers, reflecting a generation of poets who are wary of clarity, tend to steer clear of political commitments, and regard ambiguity as a sign of artistic refinement.

However, this defence fails on closer examination. Ambivalence is not a way to uncover truth; it serves to avoid it. It allows the poet to recognise social contradictions without analysing them, thereby turning political issues into aesthetic concerns. Essentially, it acts as a form of ideological containment— preventing the poet’s insights from becoming threatening.

Kempf’s interview shows he can be clear. He understands modern American class dynamics and the influence of corporations in fostering division. He also recognises the potential for unity among workers. However, his poetic style, rooted in liberal ambivalence, stops him from stating these insights plainly.

The Unspoken Tension: A Poet on the Threshold of Marxism

The interview reveals a tension permeating the entire project: Kempf is on the verge of adopting a Marxist perspective on American history, but is still unable to do so fully. He recognises the Civil War’s revolutionary significance and identifies class struggles in modern society. Although instinctively aware, he also recognises that identity-politics categories do not sufficiently explain the current crisis.

However, he stays confined to the ideological frameworks of the liberal-academic environment. He is unable to see the working class as an active force in history. He cannot envision the potential for revolutionary change. Additionally, he struggles to move beyond the aestheticisation of ambivalence.

The result is a poetry that is historically curious but politically paralysed — a poetry that gestures toward revolution but retreats into ambiguity.

The Task of Criticism

Marxist criticism aims to contextualise Kempf’s work within the broader crisis of American intellectual life rather than criticise him for failing to produce socialist poetry. His ambivalence is understood as a social issue, indicative of the paralysis of petty-bourgeois intelligentsia who sense major events approaching but lack the theoretical and political tools to understand them.

The interview points in a different direction—one based on class analysis, historical understanding, and recognition of the working class as the key force in modern society. However, this alternative approach is not yet reflected in his poetry.

The article discusses how Kempf struggles to link the Civil War’s legacy to today’s issues. The unresolved tension in “What Though the Field Be Lost” only becomes evident when connected to the current American capitalism crisis. For Kempf, the Civil War is not just history but a key perspective on America’s ongoing divisions. Yet pressing modern problems like the decline of democratic institutions, rising inequality, and the resurgence of authoritarianism demand a clearer historical understanding—something Kempf’s uncertain approach does not entirely provide.

The Civil War as a Mirror of the Present

The Civil War marked the final time in American history when revolutionary methods resolved the contradictions within the social order. It was a conflict centred not on cultural identity but on the future of the social system itself. The abolition of slavery was a crucial prerequisite for the rise of modern American capitalism. As Marx described, it was a “bourgeois revolution” led by the most progressive elements of the ruling class and backed by the widespread mobilisation of both the working class and the enslaved people.

Today, the United States faces a new yet equally significant crisis. The contradictions of capitalism—such as globalised production, financialisation, extreme inequality, and political decline—have escalated to the point where traditional governance structures can no longer contain them. In response, the ruling class employs authoritarian tactics, engages in historical distortion, and fosters racial and gender divisions. Meanwhile, the working class, though fragmented and confused, remains objectively the sole force capable of addressing the crisis.

At such a moment, the Civil War acts as a mirror, reflecting the revolutionary potential of the working class, emphasising the need to challenge reactionary forces, and showing that deep social conflicts cannot be resolved through cultural negotiation. Kempf perceives this clearly. His poems echo the past within the present, capturing the “presentness of the past” and the strange persistence of Civil War memory in modern American life. However, he cannot explicitly express this link, as doing so would mean abandoning the ideological frameworks of identity and ambivalence that underpin his work.

The Liberal-Academic Horizon as a Barrier to Historical Understanding. Kempf’s poetry is limited not by aesthetics but by ideology. He views the Civil War mainly through familiar liberal categories like race, region, identity, and memory. These are not impartial; they serve as ideological tools the ruling class uses to interpret social conflict in cultural terms, concealing its economic roots. To truly see the Civil War as a class struggle, one must recognise the class nature of the current crisis. This involves understanding that the working class, rather than cultural identity groups, is the key force today and abandoning the dominant ideological frameworks in academia in favour of a historical materialist approach.

Kempf is unable to make this leap because it would directly conflict with the institutions shaping his worldview. The liberal-academic environment treats identity as the primary analytical category and regards class as either secondary or suspect. It promotes ambivalence and mistrusts clarity, encouraging the aestheticisation of contradiction while discouraging political engagement. Kempf’s poetry embodies these restrictions: it is historically intriguing but politically reserved. It hints at class struggle but focuses on cultural aspects, sensing the Civil War’s revolutionary potential yet failing to express it.

The Revolutionary Legacy of the Civil War and the Fear of Its Implications

Viewing the Civil War as a revolutionary event means acknowledging the potential for revolution today. This hidden fear underscores Kempf’s analysis. The Civil War was not merely a tragic conflict of identities but a violent break that dismantled the old social order and established a new one. During this period, the working class and the oppressed significantly influenced the course of history.

Recognising this suggests that the current crisis might demand a significant rupture. It acknowledges that the contradictions within modern capitalism cannot be resolved through cultural debates or aesthetic indifference. Instead, it emphasises that the working class, rather than the liberal intelligentsia, drives historical change. Kempf’s poetry hints at this possibility but never fully confronts it. The Civil War is depicted as a haunting memory or a symbolic landscape — never as a framework for understanding today. While the poems sense the arrival of major events, they remain immobile in the presence of these events.

Conclusion — Toward a Marxist Aesthetics of the American Past

The contradictions at the heart of What Though the Field Be Lost are not merely the contradictions of a single poet. They are the contradictions of an entire social layer — the American petty-bourgeois intelligentsia — confronting a historical moment that exceeds its ideological capacities. Kempf’s work is therefore valuable not only for what it says, but for what it cannot say; not only for its insights, but for its silences; not only for its historical curiosity, but for the ideological limits that shape it.

Kempf’s collection title, taken from Milton — “What though the field be lost?” — reveals more than the poet might expect. The field is not truly lost. The revolutionary legacy of American history endures. The working class continues to be the key driver of historical change. The contradictions within modern capitalism highlight the need for revolutionary transformation.

What is required is clarity — the clarity that ambivalence cannot provide, the clarity that historical materialism demands, the clarity that the present crisis makes unavoidable.

Kempf’s poetry, for all its limitations, is a symptom of a society on the brink of transformation. It registers the tremors beneath the surface. It senses the approach of great events. It reveals, in its very hesitations, the ideological crisis of a social layer confronted with the return of history. The task now is to move beyond ambivalence — to grasp the field not as lost, but as the terrain upon which the future will be fought.

 Notes

What Though the Field Be Lost: Poet Christopher Kempf’s historical view of contemporary America-Erik Schreiber-www.wsws.org/en/articles/2021/07/29/kemp-j29.html

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[1] An interview with poet Christopher Kempf, author of What Though the Field Be Lost-www.wsws.org/en/articles/2021/08/18/kemp-a18.html

Introduction: Liberal Mythmaking in an Age of Crisis

Heather Cox Richardson’s How the South Won the Civil War (2020) isn’t traditional history but a political commentary disguised as history. Its aim isn’t to clarify the past but to defend the legitimacy of American liberalism during a crisis. The main idea—that the slaveholding South’s “ideology” spread westward and culminated in Donald Trump—serves as a moral story for a confused middle class, reassuring them that the Democratic Party still protects “democracy.”

Richardson’s narrative is a “concentrated expression of the political and historiographical dead end of American liberalism.”¹ This narrative depicts a world where ideas are detached from material realities, class conflict vanishes, and the Democratic Party takes centre stage in American history. However, this is not genuine history; it is a form of ideological self-comfort.

The Civil War as a Bourgeois Revolution

The American Civil War stands as the most significant revolutionary event in U.S. history. Contrary to liberal historiography’s portrayal as a moral struggle between “democracy” and “oligarchy” or a tragic clash of opposing American ideals, it was fundamentally a bourgeois revolution. This upheaval was fueled by the deep-seated contradiction between the South’s slave-based plantation economy and the North’s fast-growing industrial capitalism.

The abolition of slavery was essential to the full development of American capitalism. The Union’s victory dismantled the political influence of the enslaved person owning class, seized control of the plantation aristocracy, and freed four million enslaved individuals. This marked the Second American Revolution, finishing what the first had started: establishing a unified national market and removing pre-capitalist barriers to bourgeois progress. However, like all bourgeois revolutions, it contained inherent contradictions that the bourgeoisie itself could not resolve.

Reconstruction: The High Point of the Democratic Revolution

Reconstruction stood as the most radical democratic effort in American history. During a short-lived phase, Radical Republicans, freedmen, and impoverished Southern whites united to reshape the South around universal male suffrage, public education, civil rights, and the political advancement of formerly enslaved people.

This moment marked the peak of the Second American Revolution’s democratic potential. There was a brief window for a complete transformation of Southern society, including the redistribution of land and the establishment of a biracial democracy focused on labour interests. However, this opportunity was never realised, as the bourgeoisie backed away from the consequences of their own revolution.

The Bourgeoisie Feared the Working Class More Than the Planter Class

Once slavery was abolished and the national market secured, Northern capital no longer needed the freedmen as political allies. What it feared was the emergence of a politically conscious, unified working class—Black and white—whose demands would extend beyond democratic rights to social and economic equality.

The bourgeoisie recognised that the democratic mobilisation unleashed in the South could merge with the rising labour movement in the North. The Great Railroad Strike of 1877 confirmed these fears. Faced with the prospect of a broader class challenge, the bourgeoisie chose to abandon Reconstruction and reconcile with the Southern elite.

The Agrarian Question Was Never Resolved

Reconstruction failed to initiate the agrarian revolution that could have dismantled the economic dominance of former slaveholders. Without redistributing land, political rights remained fragile, leaving freedmen economically reliant on their former masters. This shortcoming was deliberate; the bourgeoisie could not endorse challenging property structures that sustained the reactionary class’s power.

The Democratic Revolution Threatened to Become a Social Revolution

Trotsky’s concept of permanent revolution explains why Reconstruction failed. The bourgeoisie initiates the democratic revolution but cannot finish it because doing so would endanger capitalist property by mobilising the masses. Only the working class has the capacity to complete the revolution. In the 1860s and 1870s, in America, the working class was not ready to take on this role due to a lack of organisation, political independence, and class awareness. Consequently, the revolution remained incomplete.

IV. The Counterrevolution of 1877 and the Consolidation of Jim Crow

The end of Reconstruction was not due to “Northern fatigue,” “racism,” or Southern ideology’s persistence. Instead, it was a counterrevolution led by the bourgeoisie to maintain capitalist dominance.

The Compromise of 1877, which ended federal military presence in the South, coincided with the violent suppression of the Great Railroad Strike. These events were interconnected, representing different aspects of the same class struggle. The bourgeoisie suppressed both the democratic hopes of freedmen and the rising militancy of industrial workers. Consequently, this led to the establishment of the Jim Crow system: Black voter disenfranchisement, the restoration of planter dominance, racial terror, and a strict racial caste hierarchy. This outcome was not a Southern “victory” but a betrayal of the democratic revolution by the Northern bourgeoisie.

The Legacy of the Second American Revolution

The abolition of slavery was irrevocable, but Reconstruction’s failure left the democratic revolution unfinished. Its repercussions influenced American society for over a century: the working class remained racially divided, the South turned into a centre of reactionary politics, and the ideal of multiracial democracy was postponed. Additionally, the capitalist state solidified racial hierarchy as a means of class dominance. The unresolved issues from Reconstruction resurfaced throughout American history—from the Populist movement to the CIO, the civil rights era, and ongoing challenges to American democracy.

The Book’s Foundational Falsehood: The South Did Not Win the Civil War

Richardson’s title serves as a provocation, yet it is historically inaccurate. The South did not achieve victory in the Civil War—neither militarily, politically, nor socially. The slave system was dismantled; the planter aristocracy was broken; and four million enslaved individuals were freed. As the document highlights, these represent “world-historic achievements of the Second American Revolution.”²

Richardson’s trick is to reinterpret “winning” as the subsequent betrayal of Reconstruction. However, this was not a victory for Confederate “ideology.” Instead, it was a shift in class alliances within the Northern bourgeoisie, which, after fulfilling its goals of unifying the nation and dismantling the slave power, chose to forsake the freedmen. It then reconciled with former enslavers to secure capitalist stability in the South.

This was not a triumph of ideas but a victory of property relations. The bourgeoisie pulled back from the revolutionary consequences of Radical Reconstruction because it endangered private property rights and empowered the rising labour movement.³Richardson’s ideological framing—“democracy vs oligarchy”—is a liberal mystification that dissolves the material foundations of the conflict into a moral drama.

 Ideology Without Class: The Liberal Flight from Materialism

Richardson’s story centres on a long-standing conflict between “democracy” and “oligarchy,” but these terms are not purely historical categories; rather, they serve as moral labels. This framing obscures the reality that the Civil War was fundamentally a conflict between two economic systems: chattel slavery, based on plantation agriculture, and free labour, driven by industrial capitalism.

The critique rightly observes that Richardson “substitutes a clash of ideas for a struggle between classes.”⁴ This exemplifies contemporary liberal historiography, which struggles to recognise the importance of class without compromising its political core. By equating the planter class with the modern Republican right as manifestations of a single “ideology,” Richardson neglects the significant changes in American capitalism over the past 150 years. Her approach shifts from detailed analysis to a moral narrative.

The Erasure of the Working Class

Perhaps the most critical flaw in Richardson’s book is its almost complete neglect of the working class. The significant labour struggles of the late 19th century—the Great Railroad Strike of 1877, the Haymarket Riot, the Homestead Strike, and the Pullman Strike—are either overlooked or treated merely as background. Richardson suggests that ‘History is made by elites,’ with the working class only depicted as a passive object of elite kindness or manipulation. This isn’t an accidental omission but a reflection of a class stance: the petty-bourgeois liberal intelligentsia cannot see the working class as an independent historical actor. Its political viewpoint is confined to swinging between “good” and “bad” elites.

The New Deal, in Richardson’s account, becomes a triumph of enlightened leadership rather than a ruling‑class concession extracted under the pressure of mass strikes and the growing influence of socialist ideas.⁶ This is liberal mythology, not history.

The Democratic Party as the Hero of History

Richardson’s narrative clearly aims to reframe the Democratic Party as the enduring protector of democracy. Achieving this requires ignoring a substantial amount of history. Historically, the Democratic Party was associated with slavery, Jim Crow laws, internment of Japanese Americans, initiating the Cold War, and escalating the Vietnam War. Its so-called “progressive” reforms were actually concessions gained through mass activism, which were then reversed once the pressure diminished.⁷

Yet Richardson groups Lincoln, FDR, LBJ, and contemporary Democrats together as part of a single “democratic tradition.” This is more about political branding than analysis. As the critique points out, this framing “serves a clear political purpose: to channel opposition to Trump and the right into support for the Democratic Party.”⁸

Trump as Symptom, Not Confederate Resurrection

Richardson sees Trump as the reincarnation of the Confederate oligarchy, but this oversimplifies the American crisis. Trump isn’t a modern Jefferson Davis; he’s the result of decades of deindustrialisation, loss of stable jobs, working-class hardship, endless imperialist conflicts, and political disintegration. As noted, “Trump is not Jefferson Davis reborn. He is a product of decades of capitalist decay.”⁹ By personalising and moralising Trumpism, Richardson obscures the structural crisis of American capitalism and the bankruptcy of both major parties.

Conclusion: Liberalism’s Desperate Search for a Usable Past

How the South Won the Civil War is more of a political narrative than a serious historical work. It aims to reassure liberal readers that history supports their views, portrays the Democratic Party as the guardian of “democracy,” and considers Trumpism an anomaly rather than a sign of systemic failure. As the critique notes, the book’s popularity reflects the political deadlock of that social class, which desperately seeks a past that can justify remaining loyal to a party aligned with Wall Street and warfare.”¹⁰

Historical materialism points in the opposite direction: toward the necessity of the working class taking power in its own name.

Footnotes

1. “The book’s thesis can be critically assessed… concentrated expression of the political and historiographical dead end of American liberalism.”
2. “These were world‑historic achievements of the Second American Revolution.”
3. “The failure of Reconstruction was the failure of the bourgeoisie to carry through the democratic revolution to its conclusion…”
4. “Richardson’s framework… substitutes a clash of ideas for a struggle between classes.”
5. “In Richardson’s narrative, history is made by elites.”
6. “When the New Deal arrives, it is presented as a victory of enlightened leadership…”
7. “Its ‘progressive’ reforms have always been concessions wrung from it by mass struggle from below…”
8. “Richardson’s framing serves a clear political purpose: to channel opposition to Trump… into support for the Democratic Party.”
9. “Trump is not Jefferson Davis reborn. He is a product of decades of capitalist decay.”
10. “The book’s popularity… is a measure of the political impasse of that social layer…”