Critical
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Literature and Revolution
By Leon Trotsky.
Edited by William Keach. Chicago, IL, Haymarket Books. 2005. 331 pp. ISBN
1-931859-16-7. Flat spine. $16.00.
A treatise on literature by a
“Commissar of War” is surprising, to say the least, and perhaps even unique.
Leon Trotsky, head of the Red Army, writes about the different literary schools
and litterateurs of his time and place with the knowledge (and at times
stuffiness) of an academic and absolute authority of a Commissar of Art and
Poetry. “Personal lyrics of the very smallest scope have an absolute right to
exist in the new art. No one is going to prescribe themes to a poet or intends
to prescribe them.” Well, nobody, that is, except eventually Stalin. Trotsky
had warned against the latter’s rise in power and for doing so was removed as
Commissar, exiled and eventually assassinated in Mexico.
The object of Literature and Revolution was to provide a background of
the diverse literary and artistic currents of the day in Russia, while at the
same time making determinations with regards their possible usefulness and
contribution to the eventual creation of a proletarian literature. Some rallied
with the revolution, including the so-deemed literary “fellow travelers,” while
others stood against it. Trotsky devotes an entire chapter to Russian Futurism
since for him it was the most promising tendency, though warns that it too might
end up co-opted. He cites an interesting past example of such co-optation by
the bourgeoisie: “The French romanticists, as well as the German, always spoke
scathingly of bourgeois morality and philistine life. More than that, they wore
long hair, flirted with a green complexion, and for the ultimate shaming of the
bourgeoisie, Theophile Gautier put on a sensational red vest. The Futurist
yellow blouse is undoubtedly a grandniece to this romantic vest, which inspired
such horror to the papas and mammas. As is known, nothing cataclysmic followed
these rebellious protests of the long hair or the red vest of romanticism, and
bourgeois public opinion safely adopted these gentlemen romantics and canonized
them in their school textbooks.”
Trotsky warns throughout his book that a proletarian literature cannot yet exist
and that tendencies arguing to be proletarian are not really thus. In fact, he
argues that a proletarian literature will only be an intermediary point in the
final goal of achieving a socialist literature. What precisely constitutes the
difference between the two is never really stated. One must assume the latter
can only exist when class distinctions cease—when the proletariat itself ceases
to exist. Evidently, that never did occur in Russia or the Soviet Union, where
different classes continued to define society, including the apparatchik or
bureaucrat class, peasantry, proletariat, and class of gulag prisoners.
Trotsky emphasizes, contrary to certain schools, that the proletarian artist or
poet must not simply eschew bourgeois art and poetry, but rather learn from it
and build on it for that is what bourgeois artists and poets did with regards
precursor aristocratic artists and poets.
Trotsky is not always clear in his argumentation, nor logic, nor does he always
provide concise examples to illustrate the points he makes, including the
seeming sharp delineation between literature of different social classes. Would
not a proletariat artist who needs time to create, as Trotsky himself stated,
and thus needs to cease working in the factory become something other than
proletariat? After all, proletariat is not in the blood but rather in the work
function. How therefore can a proletariat artist or poet remain proletariat?
Interestingly, now and then, Trotsky’s musings, observations, and criticisms can
be extrapolated in time and place to the current literary scene in America.
Indeed, how not to think of American poets with regards the following: “Rozanov
sold himself publicly for pieces of silver. His philosophy was in accordance
with this and was so adapted. And so was his style. He was the poet of the
cozy corner, of a lodging with all comforts.” Or “Biely believes in the magic
of words. […] Biely’s roots are in the past. […] His verbal twists lead no
where.” Or “…the majority of poets are bound up with the exploiting classes
that, because of their exploiting nature, do not speak of themselves in the way
they think, nor think of themselves in the way they are.” Or “Kliuev’s poems,
like his thought and like his life, are not dynamic. There is too much
ornamentation in Kliuev’s poetry for action—heavy brocades, natural colored
stones, and all manner of other things. […] Where is there here revolution,
struggle, dynamics, a striving toward the new? Here we have peace, a charmed
immobility, a tinsel fairyland.” And how not to think of the Beatniks in the
following passage? “The workers' Revolution in Russia broke loose before
Futurism had time to free itself from its childish habits, from its yellow
blouses, and from its excessive excitement, and before it could be officially
recognized, that is, made into a politically harmless artistic school whose
style is acceptable.”
Reading Trotsky is most interesting for various reasons. For one, it is like
reading a text written by an alien creature, so far are we today from his
world. The average reader can certainly not fully comprehend his discourse for
that reason. But, oh, how interesting nevertheless. This treatise is a must
read for any poet or artist… along with Orwell’s “The Prevention of Literature,”
Emerson’s “Self-Reliance,” and Camus’ “L’Artiste et son temps.” Of interesting
note is Trotsky’s three-page critical analysis of Mayakovsky’s poem “150
Million.” He does indeed tear it apart.
A glossary at the end of the book provides definitions for terms and
descriptions of names that might normally be unfamiliar to the average reader.
Also, biographies of poets mentioned in Trotsky’s work are included in Appendix
with several sample poems for each poet. These lines from Vladimir Mayakovsky,
“Order No. 2 to the Army of the Ants,” certainly might make one think of the
bulk of American poets today:
[…]/ This is for you—who dance and pipe on pipes,/ sell yourselves openly,/ sin
in secret,/ and picture your future as academicians/ with outsized rations./ I
admonish you,/ I—/ genius or not—/ who have forsaken trifles/ and work in Rosta,/
I admonish you—/ before they disperse you with rifle-butts/ Give it up!/ Give it
up!/ Forget it./ Spit/ on rhymes/ and arias/ and the rose bush/ and other such
mawkishness/ from the arsenal of the arts./ […]
This work ought to be on the shelves of any library.
—The
Editor
