Accidental Friends | The Nation


Accidental Friends

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"One does not jail Voltaire." So responded the president of France to calls that Jean-Paul Sartre be arrested for backing an independent Algeria. The year was 1960, and Sartre was traveling the world as a radical ambassador, the guest of Castro, Tito and Khrushchev. He spearheaded a politics that denounced colonialism and imperialism. He would soon write what may be his most famous short piece, the preface to Frantz Fanon's The Wretched of the Earth, in which he lyrically defends the violence of Algerian rebels against French settlers. In 1960 Sartre seemed to be everywhere. In that year too, Albert Camus died, when the sports car driven by his publisher, Michel Gallimard, slammed into a tree. Camus was 46, Sartre 55.

About the Author

Russell Jacoby
Russell Jacoby, a professor of history at UCLA, is the author of The Last Intellectuals, Dialectic of Defeat and other...

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"I encourage you all to go shopping more," advised President Bush at a press conference last winter. Shop and prime the pump, goes the idea. Spring for a plasma television set and spur more production and employment. The newly employed go to the mall to pick up more goodies and widen the circle of production and employment. At least Wall Street is following orders. Its million-dollar end-of-the-year bonuses caused a flurry of shopping. Young hedge fund analysts were "scooping" up $2 million to $3 million "starter" apartments. Things were tougher in Connecticut, where a car dealer lamented a waiting list of fifty for $250,000 Ferraris.

Of course, there are always naysayers, unconvinced that shopping will lead to universal prosperity. These included the cleaning staff at the London branch of Goldman Sachs, where the bonuses were highest. While the financial house handed out gifts that averaged $600,000--and often reached millions--its custodians contemplated going on strike. With their hourly wage they would attain the average bonus in twenty-two years. Of course, at the end of twenty-two years, they would have spent that amount on life and its necessities.

The idea that individual consumption drives the economy has a long pedigree. It seems intuitively obvious. Without people wanting and buying iPods, there will be no iPod assembly workers, ergo, no economy. One fellow, now forgotten--a freelancer who wrote for the defunct New York Daily Tribune--challenged this. Karl Marx focused on production, not consumption. Insofar as capitalism sought to minimize the amount of labor it needed, Marx noted, it proved to be extraordinarily productive; fewer workers produced more goods. Yet it also proved vulnerable to crises of overproduction. As the industrial apparatus becomes more efficient and requires fewer workers, it undercuts itself. After all, the workers themselves are part of the market. If they are unemployed, they buy little or nothing and the commodities go unsold. The specter of overproduction haunts the modern economy, which responds in several ways: by selling goods to new consumers (say, baby formula to breast feeders); by selling more goods to existing consumers (say, bigger television sets to television set owners); and by selling more goods to the government (say, aircraft carriers and Hummers to the military).

Advertising addresses the first two markets and insures that no one escapes the imperative of consumption. Even the exits lead to the checkout counter. Advertising cannot put money into the pockets of shoppers, but it can create a need to consume out of unformed insecurities and desires. Sales of Listerine mouthwash skyrocketed in the 1920s when its manufacturer promoted the term "halitosis" and encouraged all to think they suffered from chronic bad breath: "Even your closest friends won't tell you." At least they did not tell tragic "Edna," who remained unmarried at 30, the victim of bad breath. "Often a bridesmaid but never a bride," ran the famous advert for the mouthwash. Not only Edna benefited from Listerine but so, presumably, did the workers who produced and packaged it.

Benjamin Barber, a political theorist and author of Jihad vs. McWorld, wades into the debate on shopping and advertising in Consumed. His is an ambitious book that seeks to define a period as well as to outline forms of resistance, which include a new type of global citizenship. A century ago German sociologist Max Weber attributed the rise of capitalism to a new religious spirit, a Protestant ethos of saving and hard work. That argument has yielded a small library of elaborations and refutations. Barber, who is not exactly a shrinking violet, seeks to revise Weber with an idea equally "provocative and controversial"--the notion of an "infantilist ethos." Once upon a time capitalism, driven by a Protestant spirit, "shaped a culture conducive to work and investment," serving nations and citizens, but today a consumerist capitalism, driven by an "infantilist ethos," "shapes a culture conducive to laxity, shopping, and spending," turning us into hapless shoppers and in the process gutting democracy. Not only have children and teens become a vast consuming market but adults no longer grow up: "Aging adults remain youth consumers throughout their lives."

But what exactly is the "infantilist ethos" that Barber offers as his contribution to the vast literature on consumption? "Infantilization aims at inducing puerility in adults and preserving what is childish in children trying to grow up." Unfortunately, this does not take us very far. Barber offers a series of what he calls dyads that "capture infantilization": easy over hard, simple over complex and fast over slow. "Easy versus hard acts as a template for much of what distinguishes the childish from the adult." We have "easy listening" and "shopping made easy," which "promote commercial products" attuned to the attention span and tastes of the young. Yet Barber's heart is not in this. He prefers maundering on about political thinkers, not psyching out infantilization. One paragraph after announcing the "easy over hard" dyad, he informs us that "the preference for easy plays off of modern utilitarian ideas," which allows Barber to discourse on Jeremy Bentham and John Stuart Mill. How could this be? Are modern capitalists reading Bentham and Mill? Are children?

Barber's dyads seem questionable. "The preference for the simple over the complex is evident in domains dominated by simpler tastes--fast food and moronic movies, revved-up spectator sports and dumbed-down video games." Yet is this infantilization? It seems more plausible to argue the opposite. Nothing is especially "simple" about fast food and action movies; they are constructed by adults with the most advanced know-how. Nor is "simple" something to be censured. On the contrary. Classic childhood games--hopscotch, hide and seek--were simple and required nothing except vigor and imagination. Simple food is often excellent. Compare a meal based on garlic sizzling in olive oil, cheese and pasta with a meal from a trip to a Subway sandwich franchise, with a choice of seven breads (all the same) and fifteen varieties of subs, each of which allows numerous options in condiments and toppings. That's complicated.

The genius of capitalism turns the simple and easy--meals, relationships, joy--into things complicated and hard; it commodifies all of life. With a click of the mouse and a credit card number it also offers instant pleasures. What once could be done outside the market--for instance, games and sports--now requires money and purchases. "Infantilization" may actually signal the demise of the infant. Adult fashion and sexuality now encompass children and preteens. This suggests not the triumph of the infant but the triumph of adult marketing.

Infantilization, for Barber, is a catch-phrase that he does not really analyze. Rather, he turns to what he calls "affiliated ideologies" of privatization, branding and total marketing, which promote hyperconsumerism. Here, where Barber feels more at home, he ranges far and wide; he reviews the fetish of everything private--housing, roads, schools, security--and the suspicion of everything public. He surveys the omnipresence of brands and "lifestyle" advertising in American life. He outlines the supremacy of the market. But while Barber is a thoughtful guide, he is not an especially incisive one, and often the drone of the political science professor takes over: "There are five forms of market domination that constitute the substance of my argument... I will argue that the consumer market is ubiquitous (it is everywhere); that it is omnipresent (it is 'all the time')...it is addictive (it creates its own forms of reinforcement)...it is self-replicating (it spreads virally); and it is omnilegitimate (it engages in active self-rationalization and self-justification)." Pssst! What time is class over?

In the last section of the book Barber sketches out "a moderate and democratic way" to resist consumer capitalism. He wants to restore capitalism to "its primary role" as an efficient producer and to uphold the "democratic public" as the regulator of "our plural life worlds." But the weakness of his ideas shows through his PowerPoint presentations. He locates three types of consumer resistance and subversion: "I will discuss them under the rubrics cultural creolization, cultural carnivalization and cultural jamming." By creolization, he means the effort to turn market brands against the market, where commodification serves heretical groups or movements, like Hasidic rock, in which ultra-orthodox Gad Elbaz sets pious lyrics to throbbing rhythms. By "jamming" Barber means tactics derived mainly from Kalle Lasn, founder of Adbusters magazine. In Lasn's words, the jammers paint their "own bike lanes, reclaim streets, 'skull' Calvin Klein ads, and paste GREASE stickers on tables and trays at McDonald's restaurants."

The last Leninists may scoff at such stuff: What does this have to do with overcoming capitalism? This would be unfair. In an airless political universe, any sparks should be appreciated. However, it wouldn't be unfair to wonder at the sharp limits of this cultural subversion, about which Barber is well aware. As soon as he introduces his forms of cultural resistance, he notes how easily they get incorporated into the market. A coffee chain in India that challenges Starbucks--to Barber, inexplicably, an example of creolization--looks very much like an Indian Starbucks. The Adbuster jammers have launched their own brand of athletic sneakers, which takes on Nike. The "Unswoosher" not only is union-made and "earthly friendly" but comes with a red "sweet spot" on the toe "for kicking corporate ass." Nice, but isn't this just another hip brand, as subversive as Ben and Jerry's or Whole Foods?

In addition to his three forms of cultural resistance Barber comes up with other, more disparate, perhaps desperate, efforts to rein in the market--such as consumer activism (dolphin-safe tuna), creative video games (SimCity) and especially George Clooney movies (Good Night, and Good Luck and Syriana). Barber is only the latest progressive to go gaga over Hollywood. He dreams its milquetoast offerings are revolutionary provocations. Movies like Bulworth, with Warren Beatty, and American Dreamz, with Hugh Grant, demonstrate Hollywood's "own dialectical capacity to generate rebellion and subversion." It is more likely that they demonstrate Barber's capacity for wishful thinking. The ravages of the market in the impoverished Third World also catch Barber's attention--at least for ten pages. Here too he finds counter-movements or partial remedies like Doctors Without Borders's 500-calorie Plumpy Nut bar, which is "a miracle cure for the starving," and Nobel Prize-winning economist Muhammad Yunus's idea of microcredits for the very poor.

No one can fault Barber's earnestness, humanism or goodwill, but his book is spongy--soft in its prose, edges and center. He only half believes and half pursues his thesis on infantilization. Weber's notion of the Protestant ethic remains safe; and for an analysis of what drives consumption, the New York Daily Tribune freelancer is a better bet. The acts of consumer resistance that Barber highlights, however salutary, amount to little; and his reflections on the global market, its disasters and imperfect antidotes, like the Plumpy Nut, lack conviction.

Barber refers more than once to a "fiendishly simple method of trapping monkeys in Africa" as a metaphor for consumer capitalism. In this trap a nut can be accessed through a single small hole in a closed and secure box. The hole is too small to allow the monkey's fist to withdraw and the monkey will not release the treat. Hunters come by "hours or even days later, because the monkey--driven by desire--will not relinquish the nut. It will die first (and often does)." For Barber "consumers are capitalism's one-trick monkeys.... With the infantilist ethos stroking their desires, inside the infantilist monkey trap they find themselves unable to let go."

In its clunky prose this is pure Barber, but there is another problem. The "infantilist" monkey trap is itself a myth. Monkeys do not die in these traps, and they flee when hunters approach; consumers may be equally wise. Perhaps this does not matter, but it may illustrate something of Barber's less-than-rigorous approach. His indubitably well-intentioned book represents not hard-hitting social commentary but soft-core liberalism.

He concludes by calling for "a transnational citizenry" in which citizens reassert their control over the global market. This would entail putting "the trump card back into the hand of the public." As usual, Barber's language turns flabby. The new citizenship, he explains, "relies on innovative forms of traditional commons, including new information rooted in new technologies." The problem is not the weak prose but the anemic ideas. Barber believes he is offering a bold "utopian dream." But where is the utopia? His goal of "democratizing globalization" and restoring "the balance between citizens and consumers" suggests tinkering, not transformation. At his best, Barber gives us decaf liberalism brewed with fair-trade coffee.


In death and life Sartre and Camus seem inextricably linked. Their first important works breathed of existential philosophy and the "absurdity" of life. Both Sartre's 1938 novel Nausea and Camus's 1942 The Stranger expressed a spirit of unease and meaninglessness. Yet their authors were political animals, as much by instinct as circumstance. The onset of World War II and the Nazi occupation of France gave a hard edge to their existentialism. It also brought them together. They had reviewed each other's books, but first met in 1943 at the Paris opening of Sartre's allegorical play denouncing Nazi collaboration, The Flies. By that time Sartre was already working on No Exit, and Camus, who loved the theater, accepted Sartre's suggestion that he stage it. Nothing came of this plan, but for some years the paths of Sartre and Camus would cross and crisscross.

Each became an editor of a left-wing periodical that emerged from the Resistance. Sartre asked Camus to join his editorial staff; Camus gave Sartre newspaper assignments. At the end of the war, they loomed as the new French intellectual stars. Even the American press took note. In 1946 Vogue ran "Portraits of Paris" that featured dark and moody photographs of Sartre and Camus. A year earlier, the magazine had described Sartre "like the men on the barricades in pictures of the Paris Insurrection. Just forty, he is small, intent...[with] his worn trench coat, his pipe, his heavy-rimmed glasses...indeed, a man of the Resistance."

By 1952 they had broken with each other and never spoke again. What happened? To be sure, to pursue this question requires taking French intellectuals as seriously as they take themselves. This is not always easy. Perhaps only in France could a dispute between two intellectuals generate so much print. It began with a critical twenty-one-page review of Camus's The Rebel in Sartre's journal, Les Temps modernes. Camus's reply took up seventeen pages. Two rejoinders to Camus clocked in at twenty and thirty pages, and that issue sold out twice. The daily and weekly press covered the row as big news. "The Sartre-Camus break is consummated," announced a typical headline. Does it matter?

Yes, according to Ronald Aronson, who gives us the first full-scale inquiry into the Sartre-Camus fallout. Aronson, who has written books on Sartre and Marxism, argues that only now, with the end of the cold war, can we assess the issues that drove Sartre and Camus apart. More to the point, he believes that both of them have something to offer leftist thought and practice; that Sartre's rigid radicalism and Camus's rigid anti-Communism divided the world into a fallacious either/or that we must now overcome. To reconsider their dispute, then, is to reconsider contemporary radicalism. He may be right.

Aronson may be wrong, however, in framing the break as a great friendship that went awry. Perhaps it was the coming together of Sartre and Camus that was the accident, not their falling out. Much separated them. Camus came from a poor French family in Algeria and attended local schools. Sartre came from the old French bourgeoisie and attended the elite École Normale Supérieure. Camus sometimes seemed conceptually uncertain and felt more at home in fiction than Sartre, who confidently scaled the philosophical heights. In 1943 Sartre published a tome that tackled nothing less than Being and Nothingness.

Even at their closest, they may have been on divergent political paths--Camus easing away from orthodox political radicalism and Sartre moving toward it. Camus preceded Sartre into active politics of the Communist Party and the Resistance. Only several years after they met, however, Camus was challenging conventional leftist assumptions about revolutionary violence--ideas that found expression in his 1951 The Rebel. At the same time, Sartre, moving in the opposite direction, was embracing the French Communist Party--ideas that found expression in his 1952 The Communists and Peace. Sartre's slashing putdown of Camus's angry response to the unflattering review of The Rebel sealed the break, but hardly initiated it. The elite graduate upbraided the scholarship boy: "I have at least this in common with Hegel: you have not read either of us."

However, even if preordained, the Sartre-Camus standoff well deserves attention, and Aronson has given us a thoughtful and engaging account of its vagaries. Inasmuch as he elsewhere identifies himself as a "Sartrean," Aronson knows he has a difficult task. The tide of historical judgment has emphatically been running against Sartre. From almost every point of view Camus shows up as more attractive--even physically, of which the wall-eyed Sartre was well aware. Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir often appear as intellectual bullies; they sought and found minions. The office of Sartre's journal was known as the temple. Slow to become political, Sartre compensated by becoming an extremist and changing positions regularly; he disdained the Communist Party; he celebrated it; he left it behind; he became an anti-colonialist, a 1960s radical; a Maoist. By the end of his life he seemed to have succumbed to an erstwhile follower, the late Benny Lévy, who himself moved "from Mao to Moses," or Orthodox Judaism.

By comparison, Camus was a loner, and more consistent. If not as philosophically accomplished as Sartre, he developed a critique of violence and Marxism that has aged well. Today it is toasted everywhere. Camus represents an independent, sometimes quirky, leftism. It seems fitting that another maverick thinker, the American Dwight Macdonald, translated and published Camus's 1946 articles calling for a new peace movement, Neither Victims nor Executioners.

Yet attractiveness is not a political category. To seriously assess these figures we must resist Camus's considerable charms and look into Sartre's difficult face. On the issue of colonialism Camus's moral philosophy showed signs of fraying. For the French in the 1950s, Algeria was the problem of the day. Unlike Sartre, Camus, of course, knew Algeria well; he grew up there and set his stories there. But though Camus spoke out movingly in favor of reconciliation between French Algerians and Muslims, he proved incapable of grasping the national aspirations of Algeria's Arabs and Berbers. He wanted peace, agreements, freedom and nonviolence. But he refused to accept the end of French rule. As Camus dithered, Sartre denounced the French use of torture in Algeria and came out in favor of independence when the idea was unthinkable to most of his countrymen. Twice the OAS, a terrorist paramilitary group devoted to the cause of Algérie française, bombed Sartre's apartment.

Aronson comes down hard on Camus's ambivalent response to French colonialism. On this issue Sartre shows the greater realism--perhaps the greater toughness of the two. It may have been easier for Sartre, but that is not the question. Sartre understood that sometimes a third option--peaceful accommodation or new accords--does not exist; and that the hour for a French Algeria was past. "A fine sight they are too, the believers in nonviolence, saying that they are neither executioners nor victims," wrote Sartre in his preface to Fanon's Wretched of the Earth, alluding to Camus. "Very well then; if you're not victims when the government which you've voted for, when the army in which your younger brothers are serving without hesitation or remorse have undertaken race murder, you are, without a shadow of doubt, executioners." Touché.

Camus's political Achilles' heel may be his moralism. It is what makes him appealing, but also sometimes questionable. Political realities vanish in fine phrases. This was the heart of Sartre's charge against Camus: He preferred ethereal truths to disorderly choices. Camus's anti-Communism, according to Sartre, became a seductive pose that defended the establishment. Camus was eloquent about the Soviet invasion of Hungary and mealy-mouthed about the French rule in Algeria. To Sartre, Camus sought an unattainable political purity; he did not live in the real world. "I see only one solution for you," Sartre remarked, "the Galapagos Islands." Sartre's existential realpolitik required making hard choices. Yet the Sartrean ethos could easily slide into justifying political misrule and violence--and it did.

Perhaps Camus flinched when it came to Algeria; perhaps his anti-Communism became too strident, his moral purity too precious. Yet he gave us some fine philosophical pieces and some brilliantly wrought novels from The Stranger to The Plague and The Fall. As Sartre admitted in his eulogy, "He reaffirmed the existence of moral fact within the heart of our era...against the Machiavellians, against the golden calf of realism." This is of no small account. Camus protested the leftist pieties, once far more prevalent than now, on the imperatives for revolutionary violence. He also objected to the cheap argument that political reception determines truth and that The Rebel must be suspect if conservatives cheered it. A "book is not true," he pointedly observed, "because it is revolutionary"; it may be revolutionary because it is true.

And Sartre himself? His faults are increasingly obvious--personal, intellectual and political--yet how much poorer would we be without his oeuvre! It is almost the vastness that is startling, the extent that Sartre poured himself into everything--and that words poured out of him. Indeed, his autobiography, which does not get beyond the age of 10, is called The Words. But with all the words he wrote Sartre finished virtually nothing. The hapless reader who makes it through the 800 pages of Being and Nothingness will discover that the last sentence evokes questions that will be taken up in a "future work." Sartre considered his five volumes on Flaubert a preface to his unwritten sixth volume. Yet his shortest works may endure the longest--his What Is Literature?, Anti-Semite and Jew, Existentialism and Human Emotions and other essays, plays, prefaces and lectures.

Aronson bravely challenges the anti-Sartrean sentiment of our day. After all, why assess a chapter in two lives if only to confirm the prevailing sentiment that Camus was a mensch and Sartre a no-goodnik? Unfortunately, Aronson is less convincing than he might have been. His account is ultimately somewhat airless; he opens too rarely the window to larger issues. We circle in and around the comments, writings and gestures of Sartre and Camus. What was the significance of Camus slamming the door after an argument at a party in 1946? Did Simone de Beauvoir misrepresent this incident in her memoirs? How do Sartre's comments about Camus in 1944 tally with his remarks of 1952 and 1970? An impatient reader might want to jump straight to the exemplary collection Sartre and Camus: A Historic Confrontation. This includes not only the pertinent documents--the review of The Rebel by Sartre's protégé Francis Jeanson, which spurred the break, and the responses to it--but essays by American scholars that give the background and context of the fallout.

Aronson is surely right to remind us that both Sartre and Camus fastened on part of the truth--the need, on the one hand, for real, if unpretty choices and, on the other, for moral verities. About Algeria the half-blind Sartre saw further than Camus. Yet Camus possessed a superior moral compass. The early death of Camus precludes a wider comparison. We don't know how he would have evolved as a political thinker, but this may not be urgent. If Sartre and Camus wrangled with each other, they mainly wrangled with the issues of the day. On this they agreed: the necessity of seizing the political moment. The French intellectuals who followed them--the Althussers, Lacans, Foucaults, Derridas--failed to address politics with the same passion and clarity. We return to Sartre and Camus because they were supplanted but not surpassed.

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