Are we sensible enough of all the sources of our own literary heritage? The question is suggested to me by some of the writings of the young Trotsky. Upon reading them, it is quickly evident, even from the accessible fraction of a much larger output belonging to the years before the October Revolution, that here is one rich source. Where is its wealth appreciated? Naturally, anyone in the least familiar with Trotsky’s life’s work will know that within his wide range of concerns the literary-artistic occupied a prominent place, as they will know also the power and quality of his best writing. His biographer, in a work whose own towering literary achievement is undiminished by the passage of a decade and a half since its completion, gives due space and attention to these facets of Trotsky’s personality. Others besides Isaac Deutscher have commented on the excellence of his prose.footnote1 And yet such is the imaginative force of some parts of Trotsky’s early work, and so compelling their narrative drive, it is difficult to avoid the feeling that, as a contribution to revolutionary literature, they have not yet been properly valued. This appears to be a paradox,
Let me then pose another question, the answer to which I really do not know. When one speaks of revolutionary literature or art, when, as Marxists and socialists, we seek to define a tradition in this matter, to appraise its elements or provide a theory of its nature, is the view cast sufficiently wide that it will encompass also such elements as might lie beyond the boundary of works of literature and art in the strict sense? Can it take in not only Brecht but also Marx, Trotsky as well as Eisenstein? Even in the sober, matter-of-fact idiom of Lenin, a world away from the creative drama or fiction, one can be startled on occasion by the appearance of an unexpected image, telling in its own specific way beyond the possibilities of prosaic argument: as, for example, when towards the end of the relentlessly detailed polemic of What Is To Be Done?, Lenin abruptly unlocks a window from the Russian underground on to a more open revolutionary horizon by picturing himself at a party conference stoutly defending his right to dream; or when, in a swift phrase in Two Tactics, he encapsulates an essential truth about revolutions, calling them ‘festivals of the oppressed’.footnote2 In any case, it is out of
The reasons for this are not very difficult to identify. If we examine for a moment the other case, alluded to above, lying beyond that tightlydrawn boundary of creative literature, the case, namely, of Marx, things stand rather differently. So great today is the intellectual authority of the man that even those in the process of breaking from revolutionary politics seek for a shred of justification in his work, while others more distant still from Marxism will concede to him every sort of merit other than the essential ones. One of them is a powerful artistic vision and this has been widely acknowledged. It is impossible to read Marx’s magnum opus, whatever difficulties it might otherwise present, and fail to be impressed by his rich satirical gift, by the cumulative impact of his documentary description and by his arresting use of metaphor and imagery.footnote3 The impersonal interplay of commodities with commodities, of capitals with each other, and the crushing weight of this world of automata are conveyed there with a force that puts to shame many a contemporary drama of human alienation. Marx’s scrupulous depiction of the living and working conditions of labouring men and women, a vivid sketch of hell, belongs to a long line passing through such points as Engels’s Condition of the Working Class in England and Jack London’s People of the Abyss, Zola’s Germinal and Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle. Each type of discourse is clearly an important strand within a socialist literary tradition. But so, equally clearly, should be what one might call a discourse of the mass workers’ movement, of its periods of calm and defeat as of those of stormy upsurge, of its vast organizations, of its leaders and of its masses. For this one has to look beyond Marx’s time. Where Marx is revered or at least respected, Trotsky on nearly every side has been regarded with some mixture of hostility, contempt and ignorance. The phenomenon reaches far beyond the confines of a hard-nosed Stalinism of the ‘old’ sort into the consciousness even of some of the most independent thinking socialists. Amongst people who have been unwilling to approach Trotsky’s political contribution to the workers’ movement with the conscientious principle and seriousness which it merits, it is not surprising if a literary dimension of his earlier writings has been of no great interest.
However, a combination of reasons, good and not so good, may have been responsible also for its relative neglect by those nearer Trotsky’s politics or more sympathetic to his person. Among the good, one can count the fact that, taken as a whole, the works of Trotsky’s
Trotsky, then, is at work. He is discussing Tolstoy on the latter’s eightieth birthday. Where Marx and Heine, he says, still appear contemporary with his own generation, this actual contemporary is already cut off from it by the flow of time. He pictures him, at first, as ‘an enormous jagged cliff, moss-covered and from a different historical world’. Then, evoking that historical world, Trotsky quickly restores Tolstoy to his real physical, and social, setting. He grew up ‘in an atmosphere of the old nobility, among inherited acres, in a spacious manorial home and in the shade of linden-tree alleys’. The ‘short and narrow path’ from the manor to the peasant’s hut Tolstoy, the artist, trod lovingly before Tolstoy, the moralist, turned it into ‘a road of salvation’. At the source of his creative being he is, according to Trotsky, an aristocrat. His is the world of landlord and muzhik; he hates the turmoil and disintegration brought by new social relations, the hum of city life. Although no apologist for serfdom, his heart belongs ‘there where life is reproduced changelessly from one generation to the next’, and this is reflected in the ‘aesthetic pantheism’ of his best work, War and Peace, as in his ‘calm, unhurried, frugal’ style. During the course of this appreciation, we are told of Tolstoy’s abode: ‘In the ancestral home of the Princes Volkonsky, inherited by the Tolstoy family, the author of War and Peace occupies a simple, plainly furnished room in which there hangs a handsaw, stands a