HAVE you heard the one about the two left-wing Jews, the German philosopher and the Russian prince? It sounds like it would make a fascinating lunchtime confabulation down at the Old Dog and Duck, or perhaps even an intriguing dinner party, but it might also serve a very useful purpose. Our first Jew, Karl Marx (1818-1883), believes in the eventual attainment of a communist utopia and clearly has very little in common with our philosopher friend, Arthur Schopenhauer (1878-1860), who, in turn, is said to have a rather pessimistic view about the ultimate potential for humanity.
Our second Jew, on the other hand, a Marxist by the name of Max Horkheimer (1895–1973) and a key member of the infamous Frankfurt School, was never able to shake off his early obsession with Schopenhauer’s Aphorisms on the Wisdom of Life. In light of the Marxian urge to reshape mankind in the way that Christianity is perhaps dependent upon the notion of redemption, the work of both Schopenhauer and Marx appear to be at loggerheads. After all, as Alfred Schmidt points out in his 1993 work, Max Horkheimer’s Intellectual Physiognomy, the
“ensnarement of humanity in eternal nature and an unswerving struggle against temporal injustice are already central in his [Horkheimer’s] thinking. As essential as he finds it that the unjust distribution of goods be abolished, he nonetheless wonders if the fulfilment of the boldest utopias would not leave the great torment untouched, because the core of life is […] torment and dying.” (p.26)
Indeed, even Horkheimer himself was forced to admit that
“my relationship to Hegel and Marx and my desire to understand and change social reality have not extinguished my experience of his [Schopenhauer’s] philosophy, despite all the contradictions involved.”
At least he was being honest, I suppose. Which brings us neatly on to our fourth guest, Peter Kropotkin (1842-1921), who, as both anarchist and aristocrat is probably obliged to arrive later than everybody else. Yet, as he walks into the room and joins his squabbling counterparts at the table, he brings with him the solution that will transcend all three methods of looking at the world and its problems. Beaming with pride, he takes from his back pocket a crumpled copy of his new manuscript, Mutual Aid. “Have a butcher’s at that,” he says. “You might learn something.”
Whilst Marx and Horkheimer secretly realise that human affairs can only be reoriented by forcibly containing the natural human spirit and, thus, the will of the individual through the imposition of the state and the so-called dictatorship of the proletariat, Kropotkin knew full well that the inevitable Marxian descent into totalitarianism on the one hand and Schopenhauer’s disillusionment with nature on the other could only be successfully overcome if the wings of modern civilisation were clipped and man learned to co-operate with nature itself.
Herein lies the solution to the multifarious problems of our age. It is pointless, like Schopenhauer, to despair at the plight of humanity when we were never actually designed to live in concrete tenement blocks or spend our days shut away in factories and office blocks in the first place, let alone accept that one must be crushed beneath the Marxian grindstone and endure the unforgiving dehumanisation of the Siberian gulag. One view fails to deal with the basic realities of the natural world, the other rebels against it to the detriment of man and nature alike. Both, meanwhile, deal with mankind in a decidedly modern context and do not think about how we should really live.
Kropotkin, turning his nose up at the cheap philosophical caviar of his bickering associates and moving straight on to the main course, rams the silver spoon up Horkheimer’s bourgeois backside – from whence it came – and eats his curried greens with due reverence. A consequence, therefore, of the complementary relationship between the natural world and the turmeric-stained pages of the Anarchist Cookbook. Bon appetit!
