by James Gurrey “Use every man after his desert, and who should ‘scape whipping?” — Hamlet For as long as I have been a part of the Left, for most activists there has been a tacit subjective injunction at various times to feel guilty about various things: the fact that some are worse off than ourselves, that we are insufficiently active, that we are not politically ‘hard’ enough, that we have and enjoy different kinds of ‘privilege’. However there is nothing progressive about guilt. Quite the opposite. Defining guilt as the projecting inwards of aggressive instincts we
by Richard Seymour Women, children, and revolutionaries hate irony. —Joseph Conrad I. Gramsci is supposed to have claimed, in one of his recondite quips, that Marxism is ‘organised sarcasm’. There is something terribly appealing about the idea of sarcasm, red in tooth and claw, being marshalled into the proletarian side of battle. It is ludic and yet hugely suggestive. And Gramsci certainly withered his opponents nicely when duty demanded it. What would the claim be like if it were true?
by Richard Seymour. “As long as you think you’re white,” James Baldwin said, “there’s no hope for you.” And if this seems counterintuitive — as though one might think white people are the only people with hope — he went on to say: “Insofar as you think you’re white, you’re irrelevant. We can no longer afford that particular, romance.” There’s something odd, and challenging here. It’s a strange way to put it: whiteness is supposed to be a privilege, something those interpellated as ‘white’ are getting something out of, not — as Baldwin seemed to believe — doom. At
by Franco Fortini How have we lived, in the last thirty years? Before replying, try to read the conclusions of this book*, which did so much in its time. The first of eight Italian editions is from 1962, one year after the French, a few months before Fanon’s death. The revolt of the Arab world and of the Black world, Africa and Algeria. Who was that doctor from the Antilles, between psychoanalysis and Marxism, prefaced by Sartre, who still dared to write: ‘Come, then, comrades, brothers’? The idiot who, one eye open, dozes in all of us, opens the