This book was mostly what I was after. I wanted to read a biography of Marx, but biographies are often hit and miss. Part of the problem is, I guess, that they can read like they have been written by a genealogist on their great, great grand aunt. That is, you get a very positive view of her life, but really it is packed with all of the dross she might not have remembered herself. The date she moved into the little house on Grove Avenue, how much she was paid when she sold her dining table and chairs – which, unfortunately enough, is the sort of things recorded in most records, that is, the sorts of things that only tell you the most uninteresting things about people in the past. Inevitably, there was stuff like that in this book, too, biographies being what they are.
The other problem with doing a biography on someone like Marx is summed up in his own statement “what is certain is that I am no Marxist”. There are so many ‘Marxists’ and, like Christians, it isn’t in the least bit clear that Christ would have called himself a Christian either. But the sort of person likely to write a book like this is also likely to belong to one or other of these sects, and so the biography has the danger of being written to justify the sect more than explain the person. A problem further compounded by the fact that Marx isn’t exactly someone you can discuss without also discussing his ideas.
What I wanted from this book was a thumbnail of his key ideas, but mostly a timeline of his key works that also gave something of a feel for the time and situation in which he wrote them. And I got this in spades. And for that reason, I would recommend this book. I really should have read something like this book years and years ago, but didn’t. If I had it would have saved me a lot of frigging around. Not least since it would have been clearer why he was writing certain texts at certain times.
Marx’s style of writing is a bit of a function of him being a perfectionist. Any number of times in this we will be told that, in response to a publisher or friend or comrade, Marx would, often in all sincerity, say he was two weeks away from finishing some major work. Then, three years later, it still wouldn’t be finished. This wasn’t always due to procrastination, most often it was because he had found a series of books on the same topic and decided that he needed to read and incorporate all of these into his text first… or that he needed to wait while some new crisis of capitalism was playing out to be sure his theories would still hold given the new context.
The other part of this book is the horror of the life he lived – particularly in relation to his family life. His devoted wife seems to have been very devoted – but early on, Marx got into something of an argument with God, and God never seems to have forgiven him. If you want to see what a complete bastard this God guy can be, Marx’s life is something of an exemplar. From carbuncles on his penis (now, there's a thing), to the majority of his children dying before becoming adults, to his favourite daughter dying just before he did – honestly, we are talking Job level torments. As Stendhal once said, “God’s only excuse is that he doesn’t exist”.
Even so, this book could hardly be called a hagiography. I’m not entirely sure if I left the book actually liking Marx. That said, I think it would be hard to come away from this book without some respect for him. He put himself in the midst of change and was buffeted by change, often to points beyond endurance. He was constantly criticised for being a communist, but also by the left for being too much of the middle class, being too educated, being a Jew. When people refuse to challenge your ideas, they are most likely to find other things to criticise you for.
If I have a problem with this book, I guess it is that the author plays down Marxist philosophy. He sees dialectics as being something Engels snuck in under Marx’s gaze, or rather waited to sneak in after Marx had died. I’m not convinced of this. Dialectics is truth through negation, and that is the essence of Marx’s critical philosophical stance. At one point the author says something to the effect that it seemed odd that Marx often began works as a polemic against some leading idea of the time. But this would be hardly surprising if Marx was what he said he was – a person who saw the path to truth as coming through a clash of contradictory elements.
This book becomes increasingly difficult to read at the end, not the language or ideas, but this is where God extracts he nastiest revenges –all the same, it will give you enough background to understand what you are reading if you choose to read some of Marx’s actual works themselves.