The Long Revolution E-Book

Raymond Williams

• Herausgeber: Parthian Books
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

Raymond Williams was one of the world's leading cultural critics. With this book, Williams brilliantly documents the exciting birth of the popular press, and explores the growth of the reading public in English-speaking culture in Western Society. The Long Revolution of the title is the third revolution of culture after the democratic revolution and the industrial revolution. Almost uniquely, William's work bridged the divides between aesthetic and socio-economic inquiry, between Marxist thought and mainstream liberal thought, and between the modern and post-modern world. Continuing the theme he began so successfully in Culture and Society, Williams examines the gradual change, which took over our political, economic, and cultural life. He placed special emphasis on the 'creative mind' in relation to social and cultural thinking. After discussing the theory of culture he turns to a fascinating historical study of such institutions as education and the press, traces the development of a common language, and reveals the links between ideas, literary forms, and social history.

Leseprobe

Contents

Title Page

Foreword by Anthony Barnett

Note by Raymond Williams

About Notes

THE LONG REVOLUTION

Introduction by Raymond Williams

PART ONE

1. The Creative Mind

2. The Analysis of Culture

3. Individuals and Societies

4. Images of Society

PART TWO

1. Education and British Society

2. The Growth of the Reading Public

3. The Growth of the Popular Press

4. The Growth of ‘Standard English’

5. The Social History of English Writers

6. The Social History of Dramatic Forms

7. Realism and the Contemporary Novel

PART THREE

Britain in the 1960s

Notes

About Raymond Williams

About Anthony Barnett

Copyright

THE LONG REVOLUTION

RAYMOND WILLIAMS

Foreword toThe Long Revolution, 2011

Anthony Barnett

After half a century, why should we still readThe Long Revolution?

The immediate answer is because, from Cairo to Madrid, we live in revolutionary times. However, this customary use of the word ‘revolution’ is different from that in Raymond Williams’ title of this peculiar and important book. Highlighting the contrast between the meaning of his term and the familiar one may be the best way for new readers to start to grasp the extraordinary relevance of what you are holding in your hand or sampling on a tablet. For it isn’t really a book in the sense of a self-contained work that has a beginning, middle and end. RatherThe Long Revolutionis the cross-section of an argument that starts elsewhere, in particular in the last chapters of Williams’Culture and Societypublished in 1958, continues in other books and, naturally, has yet to conclude.

The book’s title is a concept not a description. When he refers to the ‘Long Revolution’ Williams is theorising a different epochal process, not saying, ‘Hey, this revolution is taking a long time’ – as if the revolution referred to is self-evident and he is telling us about its duration. So his term Long Revolution (from now on I will use it with capital letters when I mean Williams’ concept) is not an oxymoron or used with any sense of irony, let alone placing him on the side of those gradualists who claim to know better than believe in naïve hopes of fast, real change. On the contrary, Williams was utterly confident of the possibility of, and need for, decisive change and the creative capacity of working people to take charge of it if they have the chance. His term is a claim: that there is a historical process that is hard to comprehend because we are all within it, and it is that which he is attempting to articulate for the first time.

When on a clear night we look at the long cluster of stars that we call the Milky Way it is not obvious that what we are looking at is our own spiral galaxy from our position towards its edge. But the process of elementary astronomical knowledge and mental reorientation that such a recognition demands is simple compared to the understanding Williams is calling for. He argues that we are within a far-reaching transformation – one that brought forth the very terms such as ‘democracy’, ‘industry’, ‘culture’, ‘art’ and ‘class’ that we use to describe and measure it. Its transformation will take – has already taken – centuries. It is necessarily lengthy and multi-generational: ‘Everything that I understand of the history of the Long Revolution leads me to the belief that we are still in its early stages’.1

The concept of the Long Revolution brings together three of Williams’ themes which are also defining aspects it. Being prepared for these will make it easier to read Williams.

First, because we are within it and it is within us, shaping us in terms of our experience, our relationships with others, our differences from other generations, our work, even (as we have just noted) producing the very ideas we use to describe it, it is extraordinarily hard for us to comprehend the Long Revolution. Thisrecognition of the difficultyof what needs to be attempted is central to Williams’ argument and his method of self-awareness. We have to build into any understanding of our society that we are undertaking this work within an inherited framework of what it means to understand it, a framework that we must also question. The recognition of such difficulty anchors his opposition to all easy answers that belittle us, whether in politics (especially on the left), in the market place or culture at large. His stress on the inner challenge of understanding links to what he regarded as the essential and also very demanding external effort of collaboration. It becomes almost a trope across his writings. He might well have named this book ‘The Difficult Revolution’.

Second, the recognition of difficulty is related to the fact that the Long Revolution is a complex whole. For Williams the most important part of the Long Revolution it is not a part at all: it is the interrelationships of all of its constituent parts to one another. Each needs to be understood for what they are, but it is the interaction, interpenetration and feedback – of industry, democracy and culture – that makes the transformation they entail. None does it on its own, whatever particular priority it may have. This emphasis on relationships and interrelationship is a great virtue of Williams’ work (even if it does not make it easy to read, it gives it a reassuring integrity that he is not seeking a short-cut or a decorative flourish). There is a constant, gritty stress and working through of both the separate processes and their simultaneous shaping influence upon each other, which ‘taken as a whole’ releases the energy of change: ‘What we are looking for, always, is the actual life that the whole organisation is there to express’.2The Long Revolutionmight also have been titled ‘The Whole Revolution’.

Third, as you can see from this characteristic claim, Williams understands the energy of the Long Revolution in terms of the way it is lived. This allows him to move seamlessly (as radicals of both left and right so often do) from sociology to agency: from analysis of what is happening to advocacy of what needs to be done. But in a way that is very interesting. In a section called ‘Tragedy and Revolution’ of a book on drama,Modern Tragedy, published five years afterThe Long Revolution, Williams turns to what it means to be a revolutionary. He dismisses out of hand Communists who dehumanise the victims of revolution as merely the ‘class enemy’. But continues, ‘I do not believe, as so many disillusioned or broken by actual revolution have come to believe, that the suffering can be laid to the charge of the revolution alone, and that we must avoid revolution if we are to avoid suffering. On the contrary, I see revolution as the inevitable working through of a deep and tragic disorder, to which we can respond in varying ways… We need not identify revolution with violence or with a sudden capture of state power. Even where such events occur, the essential transformation is indeed a long revolution.’

Here he bends his term back towards the familiar one of a political uprising, what he later refers to as ‘the short revolution’.3The point I want to stress is that by doing so in a way that rejects triumphalism and accepts the terrible personal costs that can accompany genuine change, he humanises the process – he recognises its full humanity both good and wicked. He then goes on to argue that ‘the absolute test by which revolution can be distinguished, is the change in the form of activity of a society, in its deepest structure of relationships and feelings’. The mere ‘incorporation’ of new men into existing structures, even if accompanied by some improvements in ‘material conditions’ does not count as a revolution, rather ‘A society in which a revolution is necessary is a society in which the incorporation of all its people,as whole human beings, is in practice impossible without a change in its fundamental forms of relationships’ (his emphasis). He concludes, ‘Revolution remains necessary, in these circumstance, not only because some men desire it, but becausethere can be no acceptable human order while the full humanity of any class of men is in practice denied(my emphasis).’4The Long Revolutioncould have been titled, ‘The Human Revolution’.

While this argument is clearly a humanism it is not a liberal or individualist humanism. It echoes the republican argument, set out for example in Quentin Skinner’sLiberty before Liberalism, that the liberty of others is essential to our own and that the presence of state despotism for any enslaves us all. Williams understood that his humanism pitted him against the dominant socialisms of his time, Fabianism and Stalinism, ‘It has been the gravest error of socialism, in revolt against class societies, to limit itself, to the terms of its opponents: to propose a political and economic order rather than a human order’.5Profoundly loyal to the potential humanity of his side but determined to repudiate the cynical inhumanity of its various political forms, whether mandarin paternalism, bureaucratic trade unionism or police-state Communism, perhaps the deepest motivation behind Williams’ argument is his insistence upon the creative potential of self-government. In his introduction, as you can read, he describes the democratic transformation entailed by the Long Revolution as the ‘rising determination… that people should govern themselves’ while noting immediately that it will be ‘very powerfully resisted’,6and the last part of the final section of the book opens with this particular adjective ‘Thehumanenergy of the Long Revolution springs from the conviction that men can direct their own lives, by breaking through the pressures and restrictions of older forms of society and discovering new common institutions’ (my emphasis).7

These three constitutive features of our Long Revolution as conceptualised by Williams – its difficulty, its complex unity, its humanity – together form a theory of revolution that is not mechanical, determinist or reductionist. To develop this attractive insight would take me further than a foreword, but there are two revealing clues that can be quoted from related books by Williams and they reflect well on the spirit of the man. In 1958, inCulture and Societyhe writes in the chapter on ‘Marxism and Culture’, ‘For, even if the economic element is determining, it determines a whole way of life, and it is to this, rather than to the economic system alone, that the literature has to be related’.8And not just literature.

Twenty years later, debating Edward Thompson’s advocacy of the socialism of William Morris, Williams says, ‘The extent to which the idea of socialism is attached to… simplicity is counter-productive. It seems to me that the break towards socialism can only be towards an unimaginably greater complexity.’9

This assertion goes flat against the preconceptions of the political left, that socialism is somehow a happy conclusion. Later, Williams argued that he didn’t see why everyone presumed that socialism was a singular destination at all. Why shouldn’t there be many varieties of socialism? By 1983, inTowards 2000, he is using the plural form, ‘socialisms’ and increasingly talks about livelihood. Informally, he considered simply replacing the term socialism, with its fixation on the state and production, in favour of ‘livelihood’ as this encompasses consumption as well as production, relationships between generations and care of the environment, and therefore makes a claim for a whole way of life.

I am quoting from the argument to whichThe Long Revolutionbelongs. The book itself began as the continuation ofCulture and Society(1958), it continued inCommunications(1962), is returned to inModern Tragedy(1966), expresses its insistence on the historical nature of regular ideas inKeywords(1976), is challenged and assessed inPolitics and Letters(interviews withNew Left Review, 1979) and is taken up again directly inTowards 2000(1983).

It all started in 1948 after the collapse of the short-lived magazine Williams co-edited calledPolitics and Letters. An attempt, drawing on literary resources, to create an independent critical space, it was asphyxiated by the pressures of the Cold War.

After growing up in the Welsh borders where his father was a signalman, Williams had become a student Communist in Cambridge but left the Party when he signed up with the Army in 1940 (at the time the Nazi-Soviet pact meant it was Communist Party policy not to serve). He became an officer in the Guards Armoured Division and commanded a four tank unit which went ashore at the beginning of the Normandy landings and fought its way for nine months through northern Europe to Hamburg. He engaged in close personal combat in the countryside, as well as in urban warfare. The experience marked him deeply and is recounted in Dai Smith’s biography of the first half of his life,Raymond Williams, A Warrior’s Tale.

In 1948 as the Cold War set in and Williams’ idea of becoming a writer in London foundered, he found himself crushed by the immense pressures to take sides. He wrote that while US anti-Communist hysteria was obviously ‘distasteful’ Stalin’s regimentation of culture and thought was ‘certainly the most serious’.10The result was a journey of internal exile that laid the basis for the argument you find here: ‘I pulled back to do my own work. For the next ten years I wrote in nearly complete isolation’,11except for his wife Joy, with whom he argued his case ‘line by line’. The approach and its overarching concept was then reworked across nearly thirty years. Indeed, he opensTowards 2000in 1983 by republishing the entire final section ofThe Long Revolution, ‘Britain in the Sixties’. He then, to use his own words, reconsiders and reworks its four themes – of industry and post-industrial society, the forms of democracy, the institutions and technologies of culture, and class, politics and socialism – and proceeds to ‘consciously revise’ in a ‘pivotal’ fashion the national framework of his original overview, recasting the decline of Britain in its global context, examining the role of the West and the need to defeat the ‘last enemy’ of war. Finally, Williams wraps with an astonishing essay, ‘Resources for a Journey of Hope’.

Here, he argues, ‘the capitalist social order has… done its main job of implanting a deep assent to capitalism even in a period of its most evident economic failures’.12The response to two key issues – ecology and the international economic order – will now determine everything. But the environmental argument has to be expressed in how we live not what we consume, as the latter accepts the deep logic of the market in treating everything, both people and the resources of the planet, as ‘raw material’. As for the international economic order, most alarming of all, what Williams calls ‘Plan X’ moves towards a created future while the left has failed to assert an alternative ‘general interest’. The left’s natural presumption that it was the force of the future, while its reactionary opponents were conservative representatives of, at best, the status quo, has, he observes, been turned upside-down.

‘Plan X’ is not a conspiracy but rather ‘the emerging rationality of self-conscious élites’ – political, media, military, marketing, and financial specialists – who approach the future, ‘A phase at a time, a decade at a time, a generation at a time, the people who play by Plan X are calculating relative advantage, in what is accepted from the beginning as an unending and unavoidable struggle’.13This was written five years before the end of the Cold War and the triumph of the west. Looking back it is impossible to re-read it without realising that we now know the name of Plan X: it is neo-liberalism.

Can we gain the confidence ‘in our ownenergies and capacities’ to displace it, Williams asks (the emphasis is his). Suppose, he suggests, that the odds are fifty-fifty, or even less. Why then, ‘It is only in a shared belief and insistence that there are practical alternatives that the balance of forces and chances begins to alter’. And he continues: ‘Once the inevitabilities are challenged, we begin gathering our resources for a journey of hope. If there are no easy answers there are still available and discoverable hard answers and it is these that we can now learn to make and share. This has been, from the beginning, the sense and the impulse of the Long Revolution.’

These were the last words Williams was to publish in a non-fiction book.

You can see in them the combination of his hallmarks: difficulty, complexity within wholeness and humanity. And I want to return briefly toThe Long Revolutionitself, now that I’ve set it in the lifetime of Williams’ argument. It has three parts. The first, on the creative mind, the analysis of culture, individuals and society and images of society, continues directly the last three chapters ofCulture and Society. In its concluding chapter to that book he has a memorable passage arguing that, ‘There are in fact no masses, only ways of seeing people as masses’.14The claim is, in effect, worked through in the opening section ofThe Long Revolutionand the reader should be aware that it faces two ways. On the one hand it is directed at the patronising elitism and exclusions of the dominant, bourgeois society. In order to demonstrate how everyone has a claim on a society’s culture, Williams develops a key concept: every period and generation has a ‘structure of feeling’.

He writes, ‘Structure of feeling: it is as firm and definite as “structure” suggests, yet it operates in the most delicate and intangible parts of our activity. In one sense, this structure of feeling is the culture of a period, it is the particular living result of all the elements of the general organisation … It is a very deep and wide possession, in all actual communities, precisely because it is on it that all communication depends. And what is particularly interesting is that it does not seem to be, in any formal sense, learned’.15

Thus the concept of the ‘structure of feeling’ enables him to argue that all the communities of a society shape it and none can be excluded as ‘mindless’. The Long Revolution for democracy, economic equality and access to learning and communication ‘derive meaning and direction… from new conceptions of man and society which… can only be given in experience’. This is a class claim, that one man’s experience is as good as another’s. It runs strongly and personally through his writing as he identifies himself with the socially excluded and refuses to allow them to be written out by any self-serving élite.

At the same time this is an argument against his would-be comrades on the left who can also prove self-serving. He noted wryly in a public discussion to mark the publication ofTowards 2000in 1984 ‘I can never get it out of my mind, the fact that when I started to work on communications, press, television, radio etc., in the fifties I was told off quite sharply by the political press.’ He means left-wing papers and editors. They accused him, he continued, of indulging in a diversion from ‘real politics’. By the 1980s, of course, you could hardly get the Labour movement to stop banging on about ‘the role of the media’. I quote this not to record his entirely deserved pride in his pioneering judgment on the material influence of communications, but to draw attention to the perhaps more surprising point that he should feel the need to tell a public meeting in 1984 that he could ‘never get it out of my mind’ that he was attacked by blinkered representatives of the old left in the 1950s.

I think it was because this was the argument that most mattered to him personally. He needed to put the powerful and ‘distasteful’ in their place, but the ‘most serious’ aspect of the argument was against his own side, although they always remained his own side. Just before Williams launches his devastating critique of the use of the term ‘masses’ inCulture and Society, in the conclusion to his chapter on ‘Marxism and Culture’ he blows Lenin out of the water. That he should engage with Lenin at all, alongside Burke, Arnold and Marx, was so shocking that the poor indexer could not manage to include him. Nonetheless, he is included. First, Williams scornfully dismisses Lenin’s claim that while ‘Every artist… has a right to create freely… Of course we communists cannot stand with out hands folded and let chaos develop’. There is no ‘of course’ about it, Williams notes. Then he takes on the more important issue. He quotes Lenin's claim that, ‘The history of all countries shows that the working class, exclusively, by its own efforts, is able to develop only trade union consciousness.’ This slander draws a systematic, three part rebuttal from Williams, concluding, ‘If the working people are really in this helpless condition… they can be regarded as “masses” to be captured, the objects rather than the subjects of power. Almost anything can then be justified’.16And Williams knew full well that Lenin and his successors did indeed frequently refer to ‘the masses’.

I say this at some length by way of a foreword as it is important to ask: against whom isThe Long Revolutionaddressed? The answer is in the first place against the dehumanising traditions of the left and only second against the elitism and exploitation of the right. But his is not a facile third-way position-taking or version of ‘neither Washington or Moscow’. The book’s argument can face both ways because its foundation is positive not negative: its originality is Williams claim that people –his people– have the capacity to be self-governing as whole human beings.

To deliver on this claim, the middle section ofThe Long Revolutionexpands on lectures he gave that inquire into the long history of culture in Britain: its education system, the growth of the reading public, the popular press, the growth of Standard English and the history of dramatic forms (the latter would lead into his pioneering work on the genres of television). In undertaking this research he sets out a thorough assessment of the historical and material basis of popular influence within a culture.

This takes him to his concluding section where he attempts to map Britain’s own structure of feeling as it enters the sixties. The depth of research and commitment ensured he never reneged on his belief in the need for new forms of ‘communal, cooperative and collective institutions’ while it provided strong enough foundations for him to recognise the triumph of ‘capitalist thinking’ and to insist upon the failure of the labour movement and the left to arrive at ‘any accepted concept of the general interest’.18

I leave it to readers new and old to reflect on what form our understanding of the general interest should now take and how it should be organised. A good place to start is the challenge made to Williams by Perry Anderson in the last section of the book ofNew Left Reviewinterviews,Politics and Letters(in which I participated). Williams was challenged on the ‘deep ambiguity’ and reformist logic ofThe Long Revolution. Doesn’t the transition to socialism have to be inaugurated by ‘an absolutely non-gradual process’, the ‘disintegration of the capitalist state’, ‘rival institutions of popular sovereignty’, ‘dual power’ and a violent crisis that sweeps away the old order?

Williams concedes that he embraced the need for a ‘short’ revolution after long hesitation. But then he insists on the lack of preparation or understanding of what is involved (he puts it mildly) for a short revolution in advanced societies, ‘Talking about the run-up to that situation is not a form of gradualism… I am always uneasy about the talk of the short revolution when the problems of the run-up to it have not really been appreciated… the simple notion of assaulting the citadel… is the wrong kind of military thinking’. And if the revolutionary left has shown little, well, no sign whatsoever of preparing for such a showdown it also suffers from having no idea what would follow should it win. But this is critical in persuading working people to take the risk of supporting any overthrow in the short run, however grim the crisis might be. Revolutionaries will have to show that they are ‘quite clearly more democratic’. ‘The whole future of the left’ will depend on this. ‘I think we shall have to show in very great detail why a socialist society would be more democratic, and this will involve being implacably clear about the failure of other kinds of democratic processes within socialist revolutions or labour movements… What I am concerned about now is the nature of the social order towards which these transitions are directed.’ Later, and this was in 1979 when few had even seen a personal computer, he adds, ‘The real complexity is an energizing challenge – and its means are becoming increasingly available if we can find the political forms in which to use them… the new electronic communications technologies have quite extraordinary capacity for this kind of self-government… some socialists… are stuck… They should go and look at some of the new technical possibilities… and realise how marvelously active, complex and mobile a socialist democracy could now quite realistically become.’19The Long Revolution will be digital.

Perhaps I should end with recollections of my own relationship with Williams. I never heard him lecture when I was a student at Cambridge. But I was chairman of the University Labour Club in the Autumn term of 1964 when we knew an election was coming and we all expected Labour under Wilson to rid us of a loathsome, morally broken Conservative government headed by Home, pronounced Hume, who had been Chamberlain’s assistant on his infamous trip to Munich to appease Hitler in 1938 and had temporarily stepped down from being a 13th Earl to take on the irksome task of Prime Minister. (Private Eye, the organ of satire, shares the same 50th anniversary asThe Long Revolution.)

I invited Williams to give the opening talk of the term, to look forward to a Labour government with his experience of its predecessor. I have no record of what precisely he said but I recall the experience vividly. It was less a speech than a sigh; ‘Here we go again… this time it had better work’. Recent praise from Ed Miliband’s advisor Marc Stears for Attlee’s ‘reforming vision’ and his government of 1945–51 does not marry to my experience of its long aftermath. What I recall, and what I think Williams’ sigh referred to, was the expulsion of Bevan, architect of the NHS, from Government and the introduction of prescription charges, the reckless commitment to the Korean War, the creation of vast bureaucratic nationalised industries without a breath of workers or staff involvement, a willingness to allow the Conservatives to win an election in 1951 though Labour had a massive popular majority because, in Attlee’s words, it was time for the other side to bat… A keen moderniser, I organised a record turnout of student canvassers and cars to help elect Wilson, but I took Williams’ warning to heart. When the new Prime Minister failed to devalue the pound I ‘resigned’ from the Party within a week of the election, and never joined any party again. (He himself stayed on until 1966.) Intellectually, however, though I bought the hardcover edition ofThe Long RevolutionI was far too impatient to absorb its cadences or its argument.

We bumped into each other once or twice but the next political occasion I recall was going along to a planning meeting of theMay Day Manifestoin central London, probably around 1967. I was a backroom boy onNew Left Review, livid with fury over the American war on Vietnam and enjoying the romance of high theory. I found an assembly of the old, parochial (I thought)New Left Reviewwith Edward Thompson being theatrical and Raymond sitting quietly at the centre. The whole thing seemed to be about itself, I felt. Doubtless my quiet arrogance would have been reciprocated had anyone noticed, but May ’68 was about to explode.

Later, at some point in the seventies I was sub-editingNLRwhen an article by Williams came in. I got to work on the vast sentences, presuming I could cut them and found that each clause of his Germanic prose was a step in the argument, crying out for a full stop. This privileged experience left me with an awed respect for the rigor of his thinking, which previously I’d found bafflingly oblique.

Then, at the end of 1975 a text on Williams came in from Terry Eagleton. At the editorial committee Francis Mulhern described it with scrupulous hesitation as ‘parricide’ and it was decided to publish. Anyone familiar with small political groups knows that father-relations are an important hinterland to their dynamics and I decided to read the manuscript which otherwise I’d have left to those with literary expertise. I was very disturbed.

Eagleton captured the opacity of Williams’ writing but seemed unbearably cruel: ‘a thinker intellectually isolated to the point of eccentricity, driven consequently to certain sophisticated gambits of self-defence and self-justification, but nonetheless resolutely offering his own experience as historically representative’. Eagleton boasted that he had made a similar personal journey to Williams with whom he had worked and that the ‘necessarily astringent criticisms which follow are made in that spirit of comradeship and good faith’. Good faith! Williams was ‘idealist’, ‘academicist’.The Long Revolutionwas a book of ‘idealist epistemology, organicist aesthetics and corporatist sociology’. Williams suffered from ‘Romantic populism’ (as I was later to publish, a less populist figure than Williams is hard to imagine). By criticising the term ‘masses’ he ‘traded a theoretical instrument of revolutionary struggle for the short change of a liberal humanitarianism.’ He was ‘naively historicist’, ‘his work betrays a muted strain of anti-intellectualism’. Worse, ‘The idealist bent of his political conceptions was the effect of the divorce of the left-reformist intellectuals from the working class; but it was also the product of the ideological character of the class itself, by which, despite that divorce, Williams’ work remained contaminated.’ On and on, the torrent of disparagement went. Williams is even attacked for his ‘intuitive knack of pre-empting intellectual positions’, i.e. for getting arguments right when he didn’t deserve to. Gravest of all, he had a ‘reticent and ambiguous… attitude towards insurrectionary organisation’ while the poor man’s ‘rapprochement with Marxism is still, evidently, a fraught, dissentient, intellectually unclarified affair’. He remained in the phantom zone of criticism, its ‘ideological prehistory’ and had yet to enter ‘the alternative terrain of scientific knowledge’.20

Were I to read something like this now, I’d laugh and chuck it in the bin. But I was inside this argument at the time and it was being published in theReview, which was my cause, my substitute political group. Because of the references Eagleton made to it, I boughtModern Tragedyof which I’d not heard before. It changed my life.

At the time I was deep into working on a history of the Vietnamese revolution and the origins of its exemplary tenacity and the reasons for its supporters’ capacity to withstand unimaginable suffering. I was unaware of Williams’ wartime experience but it spoke through the pages ofModern Tragedy, which proposed a moral reckoning, neither refusing revolution nor denying what it means. The idea that Terry Eagleton should reprimand him for failing to enthusiastically embrace insurrectionary organisation could not be tolerated. Nor could Williams possibly be asked to reply. But there had to be a rebuttal of such vacuous Trotskyist posturing and if no one else would do it, I would, or I would have to resign.

I wrote a massive response that was rejected. I wrote a shorter, colder, authoritative demolition that was published at the end of the year.21Although it is entirely framed from the perspective of Marxist orthodoxy, a short passage marks what was in fact a turning point for me. Working through Williams’ arguments about democracy enabled me to put aside the Leninism that was my inheritance from the revolutionary turn of the sixties. I had been in thrall to theReviewand Anderson. In the process of engagement with Williams I broke free from my subservience. It became, literally, a liberation.

My article proposes a critical assessment of his work and defended both Williams’ originality and his honesty. As a repudiation of Eagleton it was generous but he lacked the capacity to agree I was right, or say that he had been wrong and acted as if it never happened. After my text was accepted, Edward Thompson struck, sensing that he might reclaim Williams from theReviewhe submitted an essay on William Morris with an addendum that fired back at Eagleton22, only to be told that he needed to adjust it a member of the Editorial Committee had replied directly. Something now needed to be done to integrate Williams back as a contributor and the idea of a book of interviews was conceived, which becamePolitics and Letters– an astonishing work of intellectual criticism, political interrogation, historical and contemporary reflection and autobiography – between two towering intellectuals, Williams and Anderson.

I was one of threeNLReditors who participated and while I loved the experience of listening to Williams and gossiping after the interviews, I was only a witness to the exchanges between him and Anderson and to a lesser degree Mulhern. I was still in post-thralldom withdrawal. It was only reading the book later that I realised how much it was like a trial, challenging Williams about his deviations from a proper Marxist view and obliging him to give as much ground as he could to orthodoxy.

I can see now that an opportunity was lost at that moment for the Review and for the left in this country to open out to the far more profound and interesting politics of democracy, and refusal of Marxist reductionism, that Williams pointed towards.

Our next meeting was in 1983, when he summoned me to Cambridge. Anderson had decided that theReviewwas in danger of moving to the right. An internal enquiry was established and after intense recriminations Fred Halliday and I resigned as active members of the Committee whereupon half the rest of its members, most of whom were inactive, left as well. Williams regarded it as outrageous that only a glancing mention was made in the magazine when such public intellectuals as Tom Nairn and Juliet Mitchell decamped after twenty years. He wanted to know what on earth had happened. What could one say? Was it a matter of character? Although the name of Trotsky was never mentioned in the memos and counter-memos, all those who stayed had enjoyed at one time or another a working relationship with the Fourth International and all of us who resigned had not. My most vivid memory of the visit was Williams showing me a colourful portrait of himself that John Bratby had painted. And my most pleasing that he told me he had bought more than half a dozen copies ofIron Britannia, my book on the Falklands war, and given them to everyone for Christmas.

My last personal encounters were around 1984. I was asked to introduce and chair a discussion ofTowards 2000. I took from it his insight that the left had lost its sense of the future whereas the right had gained one, and that the unspoken terms of politics had been reversed. (And I have a note from Williams that proposed a ‘Project 2000’ for a short-lived Socialist Society on how it should undertake its work ‘of great current and future political importance’.)

A final memory, from January 1988. I was working on a TV filmEngland’s Henry Moore, and was going to have breakfast with the producer Chris Mitchell in Soho. When I arrived he was looking black with fury. Raymond had died suddenly, and it was not even on the front page ofThe Guardian, then a broadsheet. Williams’ exile was upheld even after death.

Looking back now, I am struck by the many themes Raymond Williams identified which can help us unlock what is going on: the material reality ofexperience, the centrality ofcommunication, the importance ofgenerations, the political need formodesty, the energy ofcomplexity. This time, as I have gone back through some of his writing, his grasp of the crucial problem ofrepresentationin terms of democracy and self-government stands out more than ever before.

Given how critical this is to the Long Revolution I’m sure that were he around today he’d be examining representation in the age of the web, not least because of his abhorrence at the use of human beings as raw material. Are we representing ourselves on Facebook, as it heads towards its first billion registered users? Or are we offering ourselves up as raw material for its owners and advertisers, rather than enhancing our own ability to communicate? That we can ask such questions in terms that draw added authority from his analysis suggest that he wasn’t wrong about the Long Revolution. Although he would have added that he had only started what others need to ‘discuss, amend and support’.

1.Dai Smith, Raymond Williams, A Warrior’s Tale, p 473, from a draft unpublished ‘Conclusion’ to The Long Revolution uncovered by the biographer.

2.The Long Revolution, 1961, p 49

3.Politics and Letters, 1979, p 420

4.Modern Tragedy, 1965, pp 75–76

5.The Long Revolution, p 112

6.The Long Revolution, p x

7.As above, p 347

8.Culture and Society, 1958, p 272

9.Politics and Letters, pp 128–9

10.Politics and Letters4, 1948, p. 68 (cited in my reply to Eagleton, see fn 21 below)

11.As above, p 77

12.Towards 2000, p 254

13.As above, p 245

14.Culture and Society, p 289

15. The Long Revolution, p 48

16.Culture and Society, p 274–5

17.Towards 2000, p 123

18.As above, p 164–5

19.Politics and Letters, pp 420–435

20. Terry Eagleton, ‘Criticism and Politics: the work of Raymond Williams’,New Left Review, Jan–Feb 1976

21. Anthony Barnett, ‘Raymond Williams and Marxism: A Rejoinder to Terry Eagleton’,New Left Review, Sept–Oct, 1976

22. Edward Thompson, ‘Romanticism, Moralism and Utopianism: the Case of William Morris’,New Left Review,Sept–Oct 1976.

Note by Raymond Williams

I have been helped by many people in writing this book, and wish to record my thanks. I am especially grateful to my wife, not only for much general help with the whole text, but for her detailed work in relation to Part Two, Chapter 5. 1 was greatly helped by my colleague Michael Carritt in discussion of the problems of what we mean by creativity, and for a time the discussion was so close and continuous that it became difficult to separate his ideas from my own; I am sure, in any case, that my account as it stands owes much to him, though I cannot involve him in my errors. I was also helped by Edward Thompson’s criticism of an earlier draft of my history of the popular press, and am grateful to him for this as for much else. Other friends, especially Stuart Hall and H.P. Smith, have helped perhaps more than they know.

Parts of the book have previously appeared inPartisan Review(New York),Nuova Corrente(Milan),Monthly Review(New York),Universities and Left ReviewandNew Left Review.

R. W.

Notes

For this edition, I have made a few revisions and amendments, and added some notes, which are indicated by asterisks. These are mainly for clarification or to bring some point up to date.

I must thank all those who have written to me about the book, and those who have taken part in the public argument and discussion about it, which has been even more extensive than in the case ofCulture and Society. The point was reached, quite early, when I could not do much more than listen, but I have at least done that.

The book is, of course, still controversial and difficult: more so, for many reasons, thanCulture and Society. The earlier book gathered and tried to restate an existing tradition, whereas this book is an attempt to reach new ground. Its method is then much harder to grasp, for the method is in this sense the substance. If readers have found parts of the book useful, as many have said, that in its own way is welcome. But also, if the connexions I make and try to describe are not seen or not accepted, the book as a whole is bound to be difficult to bring into focus, and then its local difficulties are exaggerated. The many kinds of analysis which are necessary to the essential case carry their own additional problems. I do not want to argue any of the difficulties away, but most of them belong, as I see it, to the intention, and I am especially grateful to those who, realising this, have met me on that ground. Even where this, as in some cases, was the true source of the controversy, I found the recognition deeply encouraging.

R. W. 1965

For the 1980 reprint I have not made any further revisions, but I would refer any reader interested in the subsequent development of the analyses and arguments ofThe Long Revolutionto the detailed discussion in the interviews published asPolitics and Letters(NLB, 1979, pp. 133–74).

R. W. 1980

THE LONG REVOLUTION

Introduction

This book has been planned and written as a continuation of the work begun in myCulture and Society, 1780–1950. I described that book as ‘an account and an interpretation of our responses in thought and feeling to changes in English society since the late eighteenth century’, and this, of course, was its main function, a critical history of ideas and values in this period of decisive change. Yet the method of the book, and in particular its concluding chapter, led to a further intention: from analysing and interpreting the ideas and values I moved to an attempt to reinterpret and extend them, in terms of a still changing society and of my own experience in it.

I did not foresee, when I was working onCulture and Society, that by the time it was published an important part of our general social thinking would have developed along lines which included my own themes. The result of this development was not only that the book was very extensively discussed – I have read more than fifty thousand words of comment on it, and taken part in very many verbal discussions – but also that the lines of argument opened up went in many cases considerably beyond the scope of the book itself. I had planned and drafted much of the present book beforeCulture and Societywas published, but I have now considerably revised it to take account of the discussion. I have kept, however, to my own ideas of the further work that was necessary, and have limited this book to what in any case I should have written about: questions in the theory of culture, historical analysis of certain cultural institutions and forms, and problems of meaning and action in our contemporary cultural situation. I can work in these general fields only to the limit of my own interests, and do not suppose these to be ideally complete. Indeed I have already risked an extension and variety of themes well beyond the limits of any kind of academic prudence, for what seems to me the good reason that there is no academic subject within which the questions I am interested in can be followed through; I hope one day there might be, for it was quite obvious from the discussion ofCulture and Societythat the pressure of these questions was not only personal but general.

My title is taken from a sentence inCulture and Societybut a further note on it might be useful. It seems to me that we are living through a long revolution, which our best descriptions only in part interpret. It is a genuine revolution, transforming men and institutions; continually extended and deepened by the actions of millions, continually and variously opposed by explicit reaction and by the pressure of habitual forms and ideas. Yet it is a difficult revolution to define, and its uneven action is taking place over so long a period that it is almost impossible not to get lost in its exceptionally complicated process.

The democratic revolution commands our political attention. Here the conflicts are most explicit, and the questions of power involved make it very uneven and confused. Yet in any general view it is impossible to mistake the rising determination, almost everywhere, that people should govern themselves, and make their own decisions, without concession of this right to any particular group, nationality or class. In sixty years of this century the politics of the world have already been changed beyond recognition in any earlier terms. Whether in popular revolution, in the liberation movements of colonial peoples, or in the extension of parliamentary suffrage, the same basic demand is evident. Yet the demand has been and is being very powerfully resisted, not only by the weight of other traditions, but by violence and fraud. If we take the criterion that people should govern themselves (the methods by which they do so being less important than this central fact) it is evident that the democratic revolution is still at a very early stage.

The industrial revolution, backed by immense scientific development, commands our economic attention. Its rate of expansion, in the world as a whole, is already greater than anyone had foreseen, and is indeed too rapid to be easily interpreted. Yet, while its aims and methods have been almost universally accepted, most of the world is still far behind the stage actually reached in the advanced countries, while in the advanced countries the sense of possibility in the transformation of nature is being continually and rapidly extended. Thus the industrial revolution, in its broad sense, is also at a comparatively early stage. Moreover, it is evident that its correlation with the growth of democracy is by no means simple. On the one hand it seems clear that industrial development is a powerful incentive to new kinds of democratic organisation. On the other hand the apparent needs of industrial organisation, at many levels from the process of accumulating capital to the status of the worker in a very extensive and divided technical system, sometimes delay, sometimes frustrate the aspiration to share in the making of decisions. The complex interaction between the democratic and industrial revolutions is at the centre of our most difficult social thinking.

Yet there remains a third revolution, perhaps the most difficult of all to interpret. We speak of a cultural revolution, and we must certainly see the aspiration to extend the active process of learning, with the skills of literacy and other advanced communication, to all people rather than to limited groups, as comparable in importance to the growth of democracy and the rise of scientific industry. This aspiration has been and is being resisted, sometimes openly, sometimes subtly, but as an aim it has been formally acknowledged, almost universally. Of course, this revolution is at a very early stage. Bare literacy is still unattained by hundreds of millions, while in the advanced countries the sense of possibility, in expanding education and in developing new means of communication, is being revised and extended. Here, as in democracy and industry, what we have done seems little compared with what we are certain to try to do.

Yet at this point it is particularly evident that we cannot understand the process of change in which we are involved if we limit ourselves to thinking of the democratic, industrial and cultural revolutions as separate processes. Our whole way of life, from the shape of our communities to the organisation and content of education, and from the structure of the family to the status of art and entertainment, is being profoundly affected by the progress and interaction of democracy and industry, and by the extension of communications. This deeper cultural revolution is a large part of our most significant living experience, and is being interpreted and indeed fought out, in very complex ways, in the world of art and ideas. It is when we try to correlate change of this kind with the changes covered by the disciplines of politics, economics and communications that we discover some of the most difficult but also some of the most human questions.

The scale of the whole process – the struggle for democracy, the development of industry, the extension of communications, and the deep social and personal changes – is indeed too large to know or even imagine. In practice it is reduced to a series of disconnected or local changes, but while this is reasonable, in the ordinary sense, it seems to me that this scaling-down only disguises some of the deepest problems and tensions, which then appear only as scattered symptoms of restlessness and uncertainty. In a country like Britain, in which the long revolution is at a relatively advanced stage, it seems customary for each generation to announce the completion of the revolution, and to be bewildered and angry when the new young generation asserts that the revolution has after all not occurred. We are quite clearly in this situation in the 1960s, when the objectives for which many generations worked have been quite generally achieved, yet when the society has never been more radically criticised, not only by particular writers and thinkers, in articulate ways, but also more generally and in ways often so inarticulate and confused that old descriptions, such as cynicism, apathy, pointlessness, are usually the best we can find to acknowledge them. We seem severely hindered, in such a situation, by the very practice of scaling down. Thus certain expectations are shaped and defined, as universal suffrage, a particular standard of living, a given school-leaving age and level of education. These are adequate as incentives to effort, and anyone who knows their history knows that their achievement did not simply evolve, but had to be worked and struggled for, over generations. But it is characteristic of the history of what I see as the long revolution that such aims, once achieved, are quite quickly absorbed, and either new expectations are commonly defined, or in their absence there is a mood of both stagnation and restlessness. For a long time now we have been hearing from every kind of ruling group that people are never satisfied, never even grateful. Indeed this thrust of demand has been so deeply learned, and is so deeply feared, that one can see, on all sides, a ruling philosophy of delayed and graded concessions, for, as has been said, today’s concession is tomorrow’s springboard. Ruling groups have their own reasons for not wishing to recognise the true scale of the revolution, but elsewhere it is a genuine crisis of consciousness, and anybody concerned with his own life and the life of his society, in this process of general change, must obviously do what he can to try to resolve and clarify. My own view is that we must keep trying to grasp the process as a whole, to see it in new ways as a long revolution, if we are to understand either the theoretical crisis, or our actual history, or the reality of our immediate condition and the terms of change.

A very large part of our intellectual life, to say nothing of our social practice, is, however, devoted to criticising the long revolution, in this or that aspect, by many powerful selective techniques. But as the revolution itself extends, until nobody can escape it, this whole drift seems increasingly irrelevant. In naming the great process of change the long revolution, I am trying to learn assent to it, an adequate assent of mind and spirit. I find increasingly that the values and meanings I need are all in this process of change. If it is pointed out, in traditional terms, that democracy, industry and extended communication are all means rather than ends, I reply that this, precisely, is their revolutionary character, and that to realise and accept this requires new ways of thinking and feeling, new conceptions of relationships, which we must try to explore. This book is a record of such an attempt.

In my first part I begin from an examination of the nature of creative activity, which I see now as the necessary basis for extending the account of the relation between communication and community which I tried to establish inCulture and Society. I then go back to examining certain theoretical problems in the definition and analysis of culture, and work a practical example. Following a lead from the discussion of communication, I then try to analyse the concepts of ‘the individual’ and ‘society’ that we ordinarily use, and to describe certain typical relationships of this kind. I then extend this argument to a discussion of some of the existing concepts of our own society, and discuss some of the processes of social and cultural change.

My second part is an account and analysis of the development of certain of our major cultural institutions, from education to the press, and is completed by a series of essays on the relation between certain forms in art and the general development of the society. I think much of this is useful simply as information brought together in the light of a common process, though I do not doubt that my factual accounts will have to be revised as research continues. The critical essays are experimental and arguable, but attempt to develop the kind of inquiry represented by my chapter on ‘The Industrial Novel’ inCulture and Society.

My third and concluding part returns to the theme of the long revolution, which I have outlined in this introduction, by attempting a description of our contemporary culture and society in terms of what I see as a pattern of change. Briefly I attempt to assess the progress of the long revolution in Britain, and to consider its next stages. I do not confine myself to British society because of any lack of interest in what is happening elsewhere, but because the kind of evidence I am interested in is only really available where one lives. I think, however, that it could be added that Britain was very early in entering this revolution, and that our society consequently offers very rich material for the consideration of some of its general problems. It is true also that the present crisis in British society is sufficiently interesting in itself, and of commanding importance to those of us involved in it, to make this attempt to take bearings useful.

With this book andCulture and Society, and with my novelBorder Countrywhich I believe to have, in its particular and quite different way, an essential relevance to the two general books, I have completed a body of work which I set myself to do ten years ago. Other work will necessarily follow from this, but it feels like the completion of a particular stage in one’s life, and while this need not interest anybody else, it is perhaps worth recording.

PART ONE

1The Creative Mind

No word in English carries a more consistently positive reference than ‘creative’, and obviously we should be glad of this, when we think of the values it seeks to express and the activities it offers to describe. Yet, clearly, the very width of the reference involves not only difficulties of meaning, but also, through habit, a kind of unthinking repetition which at times makes the word seem useless. I propose to examine the significance of the ‘creative’ idea: first, by reviewing its history; second, by comparing its development as a term in the arts with some important recent scientific work on perception and communication; third, by looking at it as a possible key term in our contemporary discussion of culture – a discussion which centres on the relations between art and learning, and the whole complex of our activities that we call our society.

I

The history of the ‘creative’ idea is in many ways difficult to trace. It seems to me to begin, essentially, in the thought of the Renaissance, but, when we look at these sources, we find its originators referring the idea to classical thought, as if unaware of the new emphasis they seem to be making. In any past writing, only part of the original meaning is recoverable, for the meaning as a whole has come to us through many minds, and even when we have distinguished their influence we find that the original significance is, with its context, still partly withheld. Yet as I read the authors, in particular Aristotle and Plato, on whom these Renaissance thinkers relied, I see a distinction, an altered significance, which seems of fundamental importance. The activity being described is a common activity, but its description, essentially, has altered.

We speak now of the artist’s activity as ‘creation’, but the word used by Plato and Aristotle is the very different ‘imitation’. The general meaning of the Greek wordmimesisis either ‘doing what another has done’, or ‘making something like something else’. In actual use it included the activities of the dancer, the singer, the musician, the painter, the sculptor, the actor, the dramatist, and the common quality in these activities was seen as ‘the representation of something else’: ‘imitation’. Aristotle wrote:

The general origin of poetry was due to two causes, each of them part of human nature. Imitation is natural to man from childhood, one of his advantages over the lower animals being this, that he is the most imitative creature in the world, and learns at first by imitation. And it is also natural for all to delight in works of imitation. The truth of this second point is shown by experience: though the objects themselves may be painful to see, we delight to view the most realistic representations of them in art, the forms for example of the lowest animals and of dead bodies. The explanation is to be found in a further fact: to be learning something is the greatest of pleasures not only to the philosopher but also to the rest of mankind, however small their capacity for it; the reason of the delight in seeing the picture is that one is at the same time learning – gathering the meaning of things.

It seems clear from this, as from the whole of his main argument, that Aristotle considers art primarily as a representation of some hitherto-existing reality. The artist imitates this, and by his imitation, which is akin to our first process of learning, we gather the meaning of the thing that is imitated.1