Review: Materialism and the Dialectical Method by Maurice Cornforth

Where does one go to learn about Marxist philosophy and dialectical materialism? Cornforth provides one avenue in Materialism and the Dialectical Method. This work is written in an accessible style, with the ideas developed in an intuitive and clear manner in plain language and with helpful examples. Cornforth includes lengthy quotes by the most prominent names in Marxism (predominantly Engels, Lenin, and Stalin, but also Hegel, Marx, and Mao), giving the reader a sense of the intellectual tradition. The book covers the difference between idealism and materialism, contrasts dialectical versus metaphysical modes of thought, and introduces various principles of dialectics (contradiction, development, interpenetration, negation of the negation, etc). It’s a solid place to start, and I think it is a good option for a curious beginner.

That said, I found it not particularly useful as a more advanced reader, and here it stands in contrast with other works that I think also serve as good entry points to Marxist philosophy: Ludwig Fuerbach and the Outcome of Classical German Philosophy by Engels, The Dialectical Biologist by Levins and Lewontin (for scientists, in particular), The Development of the Monist View of History by Plekhanov. These works present philosophical problems with more depth, and query philosophical failures in greater detail, rewarding the advanced or repeat reader. They also present the history of philosophy as a battle of ideas, showing dialectical materialism to be the winning philosophy. In the hands of these authors, philosophy feels very alive and yet incompletely solved; it is portrayed as a rich, developing field and invites the reader to join it. Cornforth’s book is undoubtedly written in more accessible language, but it is also more didactic; the party higher-ups have done the studying, and identified the solution, and it is up to the reader to learn the material so they can help change the world. A curious beginner up for a more challenging read may get more out of these other works.

Something I did find interesting about my read of this book was comparing its evolution between editions. The first edition (1953) lauds Lysenko as a shining example of dialectical materialism applied to the natural sciences. By the fourth edition (1968), Lysenko had become a cautionary tale of dogmatism. To a lesser extent, language around Stalin and the Soviet Union also shifted. Reading between the lines, Cornforth seems to hew close to his party’s line. This isn’t, on its face, objectionable, but I wish that his editorial notes had revealed more about his reflections on how he had made such an incorrect assessment (about Lysenko) to start, and how that shaped his thinking.

Cornforth’s introductory book is, at this point, over half a century old. Some of his examples would have been more topical than they are currently (e.g., nuclear bomb, the space race). There has also been considerable philosophical development since then: Marxism versus analytical philosophy, and Marxism versus post-modernism are pertinent debates absent from Cornforth’s book. Perhaps it is time for a new introductory book?

Review: Tender Is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald

Tender is the Night is Mad Men or Bojack Horseman, but nearly a century older and set in the French Riviera: a psychological portrait of a glamorous, charming man succumbing to his weaknesses and temptations. Dick Diver is a renowned psychologist and author who marries a wealthy socialite, Nicole. He finds it difficult to pursue his academic work amidst the temptations of the life of luxury his wife’s bank account affords him, no matter how much he tries to live modestly when traveling on his own. He also finds reward in developing romantic relationships with emotionally-vulnerable and subordinate women; it devastates him when they no longer need him or prize him like before.

The novel is structured unusually: the first book is told through the perspective of Rosemary, an eighteen year-old starlet who falls in love with Dick at first sight. While her young love struck me as overly melodramatic, this method of introducing Dick to the reader allows us to see him in an idealized form, the way he wishes to be seen. He is charismatic, effortlessly graceful, the center around which the universe of wealthy American travellers rotates. Only slowly, and through partially-caught whispers, do we get the sense there is more to Dick and Nicole than they let on.

The second book relates Dick’s perspective through his decline, and shows us who Dick and Nicole are beneath the facade. We learn that Nicole was once Dick’s patient, seeking treatment for trauma from childhood sexual abuse; she fell in love with him, seeing him as a stable and dashing authority figure, and he liked her attention and the opportunity her money would give him to write. A decade later, Rosemary plays a similar role in his life as Nicole’s struggles with mental illness strain their marriage. Seeing Rosemary grow into an independent woman rather than remain an infatuated ingenue, Dick turns to drink, costing him his social grace and professional reputation. The third and final book relates his decline: his social circles shut him out, his business partner buys him out to prevent further fiasco, and Nicole divorces him. He lives in obscurity in America, still struggling with his demons. This book is told through Nicole’s perspective; this distance lets the reader appreciate the sad position Dick has fallen into, without the benefit of his own self-justification.

While painting this psychological portrait, the novel also explores socioeconomic themes. The novel was partially-written in the mid 1920s, and completed in the early 1930s. The careless extravagance of the Roaring Twenties permeates the scenes — but Dick’s decline also hints towards the Great Crash of 1929 and the Great Depression that followed it. Fitzgerald directly contrasts the wealth obtained from capital versus that obtained from wages, represented respectively by Nicole and Rosemary. 

Nicole was the product of much ingenuity and toil. For her sake trains began their run at Chicago and traversed the round belly of the continent to California; chicle factories fumed and link belts grew link by link in factories; men mixed toothpaste in vats and drew mouthwash out of copper hogsheads; girls canned tomatoes quickly in August or worked rudely at the Five–and–Tens on Christmas Eve; half–breed Indians toiled on Brazilian coffee plantations and dreamers were muscled out of patent rights in new tractors—these were some of the people who gave a tithe to Nicole.

Her position in the world allows her to spend money with ease: “everything she liked that she couldn’t possibly use herself, she bought as a present for a friend.” On the other hand,

Rosemary spent money she had earned—she was here in Europe due to the fact that she had gone in the pool six times that January day [spent filming a movie] with her temperature roving from 99° in the early morning to 103°, when her mother stopped it.

While Nicole is independently wealthy, she is nevertheless dependent on men: first, her doctor-husband Dick for his psychological support, then her second husband, for helping her leave an unhappy marriage. Rosemary, a self-made woman, begins the novel closely attached to her mother for guidance, but soon learns to travel the world and advance her career on her own.

In the backdrop of this character drama, there is a world in flux. Europe is still the land of elegance and old money, but America’s rapidly-growing wealth is reshaping their dynamic. American tourists are pouring their money into the region, and the US is starting to be a leader in scientific research. The main characters are American by birth, but their “Europeanness” is often highlighted (“their point of resemblance to each other and their difference from so many American women, lay in the fact that they were all happy to exist in a man’s world....”). Dick’s downfall could also be a metaphor for the decline of an empire focused on leisure and frivolity rather than steady hard work and commitment.

The story of a psychological unwinding of a morally-grey, complicated man has been told many times, and this version shows its age in its handling of mental illness and race. On the other hand, it intricately weaves together its themes, its writing around misplaced affection and grief is often beautiful, and its unusual structure provides a unique vantage point into this particular man’s downfall. I enjoyed it.

Review: How to Read Chinese Poetry, edited by Zong-Qi Cai

This guided anthology is an autodidact’s dream. It provides the breadth and depth of a university-level course in Chinese poetry, assuming little familiarity with Chinese literature, language or history. 

After an introduction to the general content and form of traditional Chinese poetry, each chapter focuses on a particular time period and style of poetry, starting with the Shijing (11th-7th centuries BCE), and ending with the Ming and Qing dynasties (1400s-1912). These chapters present and analyze a selection of representative poems, which are provided in translation, in traditional Chinese script, in pinyin, and in transliterated characters. This format allows appreciation of the emotional content of the poems, their syllabic patterns, the ambiguity in meaning, and the beauty of the organization of the characters. The chapters are written by different contributors, and so the historical and interpretive context provided and the emphasis of the analyses vary between chapters, however I found them to be consistently educational and enriching of my understanding of each era and style. 

The book then concludes with a chapter considering how specific aspects of the Chinese language lend themselves to the poetic devices commonly employed, and how grammatical constructs and thus presentation of ideas varied across the different eras as line length and structure changed. While the book does not assume the reader knows Mandarin, I believe my elementary grasp of the language helped me appreciate this chapter more (and in turn, this chapter helped me appreciate the beauty of the language).

While I found the regulated verse of the Tang dynasty impressive — the constraints in tone and structure produced some gorgeous creativity — I found the lyrical poems of the Song dynasties more often touched my heart. I was also delighted by the simple but timeless works of the ancient Shijing. The chronological order of the chapters also gave me an appreciation for the evolution in style, and the change in the role of elevated speech as society evolves.

I’d recommend this as a work for anyone with a broad interest in Chinese literature, which so often references their poetic tradition, or for anyone who enjoys studying ancient poetry.

Review: A Social History of Analytic Philosophy by Christoph Schuringa

A Social History of Analytic Philosophy traces the evolution of Analytic Philosophy from its early 20th century roots in Cambridge, Oxford, and the Vienna Circle, through its rise to hegemony in anglosphere academia in the second half of the 20th century, to its absorption of feminist and decolonial schools of thought in the 21st century. Schuringa challenges Analytic Philosophy’s self-mythologizing: the origin story that Analytic Philosophy sprung from Gottlob Frege’s natural language approach to logic was constructed by Michael Drummett in the 1970s. Schuringa also criticizes Analytic Philosophy for viewing itself to be largely synonymous with western philosophy, despite its disregard for Western philosophical developments after Kant. 

Schuringa attributes Analytic Philosophy’s present hegemony to its alignment with liberalism. Unlike Marxism and other critical theories, Analytic Philosophy largely escaped McCarthyism. Its Humean conception of the world as an unchanging collection of facts to be interpreted by the mind leads it to regard the world as unchangeable beyond the (liberal) status quo, even as it takes on questions of gender and race. Schuringa argues that this liberalism shapes not only analytic philosophy's content and conclusions but also its mode of philosophical inquiry:

The ideology of analytic philosophy is that of liberalism. Accordingly, participants in its discussions are conceived of as entering a liberal marketplace of ideas. Circulation on the market is the mechanism by which the best ideas win out. It is presupposed that each participant may enter the market as they see fit, and take full part in the process of exchange. Entry conditions are not considered – it is taken for granted that all are free, sovereign individuals. The maintenance of the fiction of equal entry, of course, just as in the case of the commercial marketplace, serves the interests of those who in fact exercise power.

The author identifies three tendencies in Analytic Philosophy which results in its stodgy resistance to change and its liquidation of other forms of philosophy:

1. Deference to science: analytic philosophers either attempted to turn philosophy into a science (empiricism, Bertrand Russell) or serve as science’s handmaiden (Vienna Circle), thereby limiting the scope of philosophy to only what science could not answer.
2. Retreat to common sense: taking on a “noble savage” view of the common man and never questioning how culture, religion and other such factors shape our expectations, philosophy became a series of thought experiments and appeals to intuition (“intuition pumping”).
3. Impulse to therapy: the skepticism arising from empiricism turned philosophy into an ailment that must be cured; what is needed is not a constructive philosophy but a critique of philosophy.

These intellectual developments are presented through the book's social history of the discipline. But the “society” of this social history is narrowly scoped: beyond university administration and academic publishing, there is relatively little discussion of Analytic Philosophy’s interaction with the general public. Other than Analytic Philosophy's relatively friendly encounters with McCarthyism, Schuringa discusses only effective altruism as a significant point of contact between Analytic Philosophy and the broader public. Proponents of this utilitarian strain of analytic ethics seek to maximize their own wealth so that they can devote it to charities that maximize quality-adjusted life years. I ran into many “effective altruists” during my time in the Bay Area, and concur with the author’s assessment of its philosophical poverty, although it seems fairly largely confined to elite tech circles. But several generations of students have now taken philosophy courses at universities dominated by Analytic Philosophy. What broader impacts has it had on society? Schuringa stops short of answering this question.

I found this book valuable for its coherent overview of the major figures and overall trajectory of Analytic Philosophy — things I had put together piecemeal while reading about other 20th century philosophical movements. However, I also recommend it with reservations: the author sees little of value in Analytic Philosophy, thus reassuring me of my own pre-conceived notions. Schuringa writes polemically; I agree with the author that western philosophy’s preoccupation with Analytic Philosophy has not met the needs of our times. Schuringa also writes dismissively; he credits a handful of thinkers for their rigor and originality (Wittgenstein in particular), but dismisses most for narrow-mindedness, sloppiness, and oblivious recourse to metaphysics. Why did so many thinkers pursue this dead-end approach to philosophy? Schuringa's answers of McCarthyism, tacit support of liberalism, and journal monopolies don't satisfy me as a full answer for its appeal. Rather than feeling challenged to integrate new material into my philosophical views, I found myself suspiciously wondering what was left out, or painted with too snide a brush. 

Review: The Brides of High Hill by Nghi Vo

The Brides of High Hill is the fifth novella in Nghi Vo's Single Hills Cycle, and continues in the footprints of the last two instalments by making the nonbinary cleric Chih its protagonist. This structure is a departure from the first two novellas where Chih’s mission to collect stories serves as a framing device for other characters’ journeys. This latest episode includes virtually no recounting of stories to be stored in the archives of Chih's monastery; instead, Chih is a bewitched witness to triumphant revanchism, watching history unfold before their eyes.

There are some fun themes in this little story. Echoing literature from across cultures and centuries, financial pressures push a young woman into marriage with a much older, domineering man. Recalling works like Jane Eyre, a mad and sometimes violent family member is hidden away in the stately residence of the would-be husband (also as in Jane Eyre, a pining soul finds themselves sketching the likeness of the one they miss). There are the plot beats of many Victorian novels: etiquette questions, servant whisperings, immoral lords, negligent parents, and a curious and plucky young woman who deserves better than enslavement in marriage. Like many novels of that era (say, Middlemarch), the setting features political tensions in the background, with family drama taking the center stage.

However, the central twist didn't land for me because the novella never builds enough unease to prepare for it. The tone of the first three-quarters of the novel is sort of a low-stakes, Cozy Fantasy twist on 18-19th century literature — rather than Jane Eyre’s impassioned internal monologues, we have George R.R. Martin-style descriptions of lavish banquets. I therefore expected the climax to revolve around a family drama, resolved through emotional openness and understanding.

But then comes the reveal: the Pham family Chih accompanied are not who they seem. They are actually foxes who have enchanted Chih and intend to reclaim their former territory. Discovering that you are surrounded by monsters and can no longer trust your own memories should be terrifying. But in Vo’s cozy castle explorations, there were no increasingly eerie signs to heighten suspense — like the mysterious laughs and strange servant behavior in Jane Eyre. Nor did the narration convey that Chih was under an enchantment. An offhand comment about a teapot’s style being out of character for the Pham clan did not pique my curiosity enough to make its transformation into Chih’s companion, Almost Brilliant, feel earned. In fact, I felt rather chided as a reader, for not questioning why the story started in medias res or why Almost Brilliant was absent (recalling the end of the last story, I assumed Almost Brilliant remained on maternity leave). The plot and setting showed potential, but needed more horror woven in with the coziness.

Review: The Man In The High Castle by Philip K. Dick

The Man in the High Castle imagines a world in which the Axis powers won World War 2, and divided up the USA between Germany and Japan. The title refers to the within-world author of a banned book that imagines what would have happened if the Allies won.

This premise is overtly political, however I was overall disappointed in its exploration of political topics. Nazi ideology was simplified into genocidal hatred of Jewish people and Black people, and the desire to ever expand their territory. But the ideology of fascism is broader than that, and shifts as the needs of the fascist party do. What would a victorious Nazi party transform into? Moreover, how would American culture adapt to occupation by German and Japanese fascists? (We should remember that US racial segregation laws were the inspiration for Nazi regulations around race, disability, and other methods of categorizing people.) These questions were not explored.

One of the most important pillars of fascism is irrationalism and mysticism, both of which were missing in Philip K. Dick’s imagined Nazism. This absence was rendered starker by mysticism being the philosophical guidance of the protagonists: the American and Japanese characters continually consulted the I Ching to aid in decision-making. In fact, the author himself used the I Ching to determine key plot points. The climax of the book revolves around characters discovering the plurality of worlds, the absence of a singular truth. Our world, the world of the novel and the world of the novel within the novel are all suggested to co-exist. In sum: history is subjective, constructed; truth is what you make of it; Nazism is bad, but irrationality and mysticism are very, very good.

Still, there were a few aspects of the novel that I thought were fun. Several story lines revolve around the art world, where Americans scavenge and counterfeit their own culture and history to satisfy buyers with stereotyped, fetishized views. It was a good exploration of how imperial subjugation shapes one’s relationship with one’s culture, and reminded me a little of A Memory Called Empire by Arkady Martine. However, I preferred Martine's handling of this theme: her fantasy world was distant to our own, which allowed for richer exploration. Dick's novel leans on the shock of, "what if people did to us what we did to other cultures?"

Dick captured wonderfully the awkward tension of social situations where individuals of conflicting political persuasions are confronted by their differences but feel the need to maintain social ease. For example, I enjoyed the scene of the American comprador dining at the house of a curious, possibly radical, Japanese couple. This scene was narrated through the perspective of the American, who misses the subtext to the conversation, and this irony heightened the suspense. The scenes between Juliana and her undercover Nazi lover were also well done; here, suspense was driven by concern for her safety at the hands of a violent man. Maybe it is unsurprising that this facet of the novel was deftly portrayed while its political philosophy remained shallow: Americans have a simplistic understanding of Nazism, but ample experience keeping the peace during family Thanksgiving dinners with political opponents.

Review: Palo Alto by Malcolm Harris

This is a fun, thorough, “people’s history” of Palo Alto, and as Malcolm Harris argues, the history of Palo Alto is the history of capitalism in the United States. Harris’s narrative is a counter-history; rather than recounting the story Silicon Valley prefers to tell about itself — geniuses working out of their garages to found the companies that will bring about the information age and/or save democracy, for example — he emphasizes labour relations, privatization of the commons, exploitation of legal grey zones, and (neo-)colonial relationships. Harris draws out many historical patterns that continue to play out in our present era: Palo Alto’s long history of union-busting presaged the labour regulation evasion of start-ups like Uber; the eugenics program of Stanford University’s founder shows an ideological continuity with Elon Musk’s technocratic right-wing beliefs; the close ties between industrial capitalists and the US government forged by President Hoover find their echoes in the revolving doors between the US White House and Silicon Valley tech giant. 

It’s an approachable book, packed with interesting historical details, and condenses an impressive variety of secondary historical sources into a quickly-paced narrative. It would make a great entry-point into contemporary criticism of capitalism.

Because of these characteristics, I found myself comparing it to Tyler Shipley’s Canada In The World: Settler Capitalism and the Colonial Imagination, which I think serves as a fantastic introductory read for Canadian lefties. Shipley revisits Canadian history, understanding it to be driven by the demands of capitalism and settler colonialism, with even its foreign policy today being shaped by this core ideology. Though not short (452 pages), it is tightly written — that so much of Canada’s counter-history can be told without meandering too far from the topic of settler capitalism is a testament to the parsimony of his thesis. 

Palo Alto performs more of a bait-and-switch: ostensibly about the history of a relatively tiny patch of the United States, it is actually about American settler capitalism. Harris colours quite a bit outside the lines of the municipality of Palo Alto. Conveniently for Harris, President Hoover was a Stanford graduate, providing a tangential excuse for covering the US state response to the Great Depression. In a further afield digression, Harris explains the different paths to economic liberalization pursued by the USSR and China — the connection is that Silicon Valley companies set up manufacturing operations in China during this period, you see. Perhaps because Harris can connect nearly every historical beat a beginner leftist ought to know to Palo Alto somehow, the book crams in a lot, and I think Harris’s argument gets a little lost in all the details. A more discerning selection of anecdotes could have trimmed the book down from a rather bulky 720 pages and allowed the major historical patterns to shine through more brightly.

While Canada In The World is a pop history, Tyler Shipley is an academic; the book’s tone is conversational but precise, opinionated but not over-dramatized. Harris is a journalist, and his writing style is more melodramatic, more podcasty, more cute. While not quite my taste, perhaps Harris’s book will pique readers’ curiosity to learn more, which I welcome.