To my distress and perhaps to my delight, I order things in accordance with my passions…. I put in my pictures everything I like. So much the worse for the things–they have to get along with one another.
Might one sometimes judge a book by its cover? A most telling image adorns the front jacket of Marshall Berman’s new book, Adventures in Marxism, produced with panache by the radical publisher Verso: a dancing Marx. Despite his aging years and huge gray mane, the old prophet still knows a few slick dance moves. He might be grooving to sixties rock and roll, a streetfighting man demanding the world and wanting it now, but his gleaming blue zoot suit suggests a jazzier Marx, a fifties retread, mellow and free, perhaps improvising and syncopating to a bebop alto sax. Berman has his millennial sage straddle both decades and affirms a Marxism that is melodic and ironic, yet somehow loud and rough and sexual, too. Here Berman’s Marx isn’t merely a “poet of commodities” (as Edmund Wilson once put it); his whole body is animated by commodities, contorting and twisting, matching their inexorable flow, trailing them as they exchange and circulate and shape the world in their own image.
And yet, for all this exuberance, once we open the book we hear a strangely hesitant Berman: He had, we’re told, “doubts” about a book of this nature–a collection of previously published essays, mainly book reviews, most of them beautifully written, spanning a period of more than thirty years in publications ranging from the New York Times and the Village Voice to Dissent, New Left Review and the pages of this very magazine. At first, Berman says, “it looked like a pile of fragments that just didn’t add up.” Neither, apparently, did these fragments come from the “depths of an author’s soul”: They weren’t like his masterpiece, All That Is Solid Melts Into Air. Nothing here seemed to come from those inner depths; nothing seemed to have the organic magic or psychic immediacy of a “book.” Nothing solid seemed to stick as the years after 1982 melted away.
Still, Berman never stopped writing or teaching political theory and urbanism at the City University of New York. Meanwhile, and largely unbeknown to the author, his own “adventure” with Marx and Marxism was unfolding, a romantic voyage that occurred in books and real life. And it used and developed Marxism as a “special kind of human experience,” a structure of feeling that is “different from ordinary life, joyful, liberating, thrilling, but problematic, scary, dangerous.” Soon Berman spotted continuity, a larger order to his disparate jottings. In fact, the essays did add up, to an open-ended whole–a rather complex cubist canvas where each piece blurs and elucidates, complements and even undermines each other piece. They now have to try to get along with one another.