Showing posts sorted by relevance for query MARX VAMPIRE. Sort by date Show all posts
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query MARX VAMPIRE. Sort by date Show all posts

Sunday, March 14, 2021


where news meets its scholarly match

Marxferatu: Teaching Marx with Vampires

For a younger generation trying to understand Marxism, the best way in may be: vampirism.


By: Matthew Wills
October 30, 2018

Bram Stroker’s Dracula, published in 1897, is usually seen as the birth of the undying vampire industry. But what about Karl Marx? True, Marx didn’t write vampire fiction. But he was fascinated by the metaphor of capitalism as vampirism. For instance, in Das Kapital, Marx describe his subject as “dead labor, that, vampire-like, only lives sucking living labor, and lives the more, the more labor it sucks.”

Students come to college with more knowledge of popular culture vampires than awareness of Marx.

Perhaps influenced by the European fascination with vampirism, Marx circled back to vampirism throughout his work. But vampirism wasn’t just a visceral literary device for him, it was key to his understanding of capitalism: the blood of labor being sucked by capital. And this, thinks political scientist Jason J. Morissette, is a way to teach Marx to a generation of college students raised on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, the Twilight series, and True Blood.

Morissette reasons that students come to college with more knowledge of popular culture vampires than awareness of Marx. Moreover, Marx’s “language is dense, the arguments are sophisticated, and the early industrial era during which Marx and his collaborator Frederick Engels wrote seems like ancient history.” Morissette also notes that “a growing number of college students enter the classroom prepared to actively resist any attempts at ‘Marxist indoctrination’ by their ‘agenda-pushing’ professors.”



Morissette argues that using vampirism as a window into Marx’s thought is an excellent way using a contemporary cultural phenomenon to shed light on the past. As an example, he discusses the exploitative and conflict-producing relationship between what Marx called “dead labor” or capital, and “living labor,” or workers:

Motivated solely by profit, factory owners emerge as a form of economic vampires, improving their bottom line through longer hours, lower wages, and poorer working conditions. Capitalists are, in effect, draining away the value of their workers’ labor to enrich themselves—just as supernatural vampires drain their victims’ life force to grow stronger.

The figure of the vampire is the ultimate individual: predatory, inhuman, anti-human, with no moral obligation to others. Of course, this selfishness leads to alienation. One of the great themes of vampire fiction is the tragedy of the vampire’s inability to connect with life except in a murderous way, or to live for centuries in what is the ultimate gate community. The only escape is the stake through the heart.



Does it work? (The vampire pedagogy, not the stake through the heart.) Morissette stresses that “reconciling the Marxist critique of capitalism with dominant trends in contemporary popular culture” is only an entry point to getting students to think about the ideas involved. It’s necessarily an “imperfect representation of Marx’s ideas,” such as class conflict, alienation, and false consciousness but it’s a start for those who have “grown up immersed in both classical and contemporary vampire fiction.”

Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Vampire Capitalism


With the crash and resuscitation of finance capitalism and its fordist counterpart (auto and other manufacturers) by the state and with the popularity of vampires in consumer culture I thought I would add some links on vampiric capitalism and the vampire state in light of my 2005 article; Gothic Capitalism, which I would like to point out has been published in Slovinian by anarchist comrades in Serbia.

Marx of course was writing in the era of the popular vampire novels while Dr. Polidori first published a vampire novel, and Sheridan Le Fanu published his vampire short story, it was Dracula, that had a larger popular impact with mass publication of the book and its follow up as a stage play.

Marx identifies capital as dead labour living off the life force of the working class a class it created for its own ends (thus the later zombie motif that has also increased in popularity in mass culture during this captialist crisis, see my Gothic Capitalism for more on this)

The notion of vampire as symbol of capitalist oppression is certainly not original
to Stoker, who was doubtlessly influenced by or at least aware of the works of Karl Marx and other socialists who considered the vampire something of a patron saint to capitalists.
Discussing Marx, critic Andrew Smith says his “rhetorical fulcrum in this respect relies on an imaginative juxtaposition with images drawn from the pre-capitalist world. Hence, it is no coincidence that he keeps coming back to these occult pictures”. Or as Ken Gilder writes in his book Reading the Vampire, “modern capitalism here is by its very nature excessive, driven by‘irresistible force’ to consume and accumulate. Marx draws on the metaphor of the vampire timeand again to describe its processes”.
Critic Steve Shaviro gives us an even more detailed view of Marx’s use of the vampire motif, More generally, vampires and zombies are vital (if that is the right word) to the functioning of capitalist society. Traditional Marxist theory, of course, focuses onvampires. Marx himself famously describes capital as ‘dead labor which, vampirelike,lives only by sucking living labor, and lives the more, the more labor it sucks’ .

In the nineteenth century the Gothic Revival also found itself central to
political and cultural debates. In Victorian England, the gothic suburban villa
empowered the middle classes and the building of Houses of Parliament made a
statement about ‘making a nation’ and creating a national identity. John Ruskin
attacked Marx and Engel’s ideology through his writings about the Gothic and
William Morris championed the Arts and crafts movements while attacking the great Gothic Revival perpetuated by practitioners such as George Gilbert Scott as bringing about capitalism.

Karl Marx

Capital Volume One
Chapter Ten: The Working-Day

Capital is dead labour, that, vampire-like, only lives by sucking living labour, and lives the more, the more labour it sucks.

Constant capital, the means of production, considered from the standpoint of the creation of surplus-value, only exist to absorb labour, and with every drop of labour a proportional quantity of surplus-labour. While they fail to do this, their mere existence causes a relative loss to the capitalist, for they represent during the time they lie fallow, a useless advance of capital. And this loss becomes positive and absolute as soon as the intermission of their employment necessitates additional outlay at the recommencement of work. The prolongation of the working-day beyond the limits of the natural day, into the night, only acts as a palliative. It quenches only in a slight degree the vampire thirst for the living blood of labour. To appropriate labour during all the 24 hours of the day is, therefore, the inherent tendency of capitalist production.

It must be acknowledged that our labourer comes out of the process of production other than he entered. In the market he stood as owner of the commodity “labour-power” face to face with other owners of commodities, dealer against dealer. The contract by which he sold to the capitalist his labour-power proved, so to say, in black and white that he disposed of himself freely. The bargain concluded, it is discovered that he was no “free agent,” that the time for which he is free to sell his labour-power is the time for which he is forced to sell it, that in fact the vampire will not lose its hold on him “so long as there is a muscle, a nerve, a drop of blood to be exploited.”

The Grundrisse

Capital posits the permanence of value (to a certain degree) by incarnating itself in fleeting commodities and taking on their form, but at the same time changing them just as constantly; alternates between its eternal form in money and its passing form in commodities; permanence is posited as the only thing it can be, a passing passage — process — life. But capital obtains this ability only by constantly sucking in living labour as its soul, vampire-like.


The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Napoleon Chapter 7

But in the course of the nineteenth century the urban usurer replaced the feudal one, the mortgage replaced the feudal obligation, bourgeois capital replaced aristocratic landed property. The peasant's small holding is now only the pretext that allows the capitalist to draw profits, interest, and rent from the soil, while leaving it to the agriculturist himself to see to it how he can extract his wages.

The bourgeois order, which at the beginning of the century set the state to stand guard over the newly emerged small holdings and fertilized them with laurels, has become a vampire that sucks the blood from their hearts and brains and casts them into the alchemist's caldron of capital.

Capitalism originates in Gothic Culture and the fact that it now has reached its historic epoch, it's tendrils now encapsulate the entire globe, unlike any other time in history. Its commidification of our lives is now complete, hence the growth of the mass culture of consumption that is mirrored in the popularity of vampires and zombies as cultural motifs are the visions of ourselves alienated from our humanity, they are the ultimate consumers.

Robert Park, later sociology chair at the University of Chicago, took a more global
perspective on the phenomenon of “vampiric capitalism,” in his journalistic critiques of western exploitation within Africa, both of its peoples and resources (Lyman, 1992). American sociology, after the 1920s, would reject the use of both journalistic and philosophical analyses of evil for a more thoroughly scientific methodology (Greek, 1992). However, the discipline then was left with great difficulties in discussing evil (now referred to as deviance) without transvaluing it as sickness (Menninger, 1973) or as sign of social malaise or anomie (Orru,1987), leaving treatises on the nature of evil to more ethnographically inspired writings such as criminal biographies, novels, plays, and ultimately screenplays.


Popular culture now has labeled the latest capitalist crisis as a problem of both vampire banks and zombie banks. How fitting. America no longer manufactures goods for the world, that capitalist role is now being played out by China. Under Reagan America became a consumer of credit and goods, and thus has a zombie economy.

Zombies reproduce through consumption of the living, which serves as a nearly endless supply of brother and sister Zombies. Consider earth’s current human population explosion as a metaphoric never-ending supply of both brains and new Zombies. As one character in the original Dawn says when warning survivors of the process: "It gets up and kills. The people it kill get up and kill." It’s a never-ending supply of both consumables and consumers (a capitalist dream). But, of course, the perishable items (bread and bullets) in the mall run out. And when they do, survivors need to make very difficult choices. Where’s the next mall? What place do we pillage next? An island, perhaps?

As today and in the Zombie world, sustainability and survival are interchangeable. When the resources for survival run out and the malls have been picked clean, then we will reach for sustainability as a final solution. Or we will eat brains.
Simply put Capitalism, zombie or vampire, sucks!

Check out this fun blog;Vampire Capitalism

Wednesday, November 02, 2022

Reading Marx on Halloween


Life under capitalism is the experience of horror — and there is no better guide to it than Karl Marx.


Richard Haidinger / Flickr


10.31.2018
 Jacobin

Like the seemingly omnipotent antagonist in any given horror movie, capitalism is not just unstoppably horrific. It horrifies in its apparent unstoppability.

“The runaway world,” argues Chris Harman in a book on zombie capitalism, “is the economic system as Marx described it, the Frankenstein’s monster that has escaped from human control; the vampire that saps the lifeblood of the living bodies it feeds off.”

The diagnosis invites the big question: how do we orient ourselves politically within a social dynamic whose very essence is horror?

This is a question taken up by Karl Marx himself, whose writing overflows with tropes and figures born of the gothic, and it is one worth revisiting for Halloween.

“Capital,” Marx tells us, “is dead labour, that, vampire-like, only lives by sucking living labour, and lives the more, the more labour it sucks. The time during which the labourer works, is the time during which the capitalist consumes the labour-power he has purchased of him.” Or, in an altogether more grotesque formulation:

The capital given in exchange for labour-power is converted into necessaries, by the consumption of which the muscles, nerves, bones, and brains of existing labourers are reproduced, and new labourers are begotten.

In these two sentences, both taken from the only published book that Marx himself brought to completion, sounds more like Mary Shelley than a work of political economy, summoning predatory vampires, undead monsters, and dismembered bodies.

Both Dracula and Frankenstein have been read as a tales of capitalism. The vampire is, of course, a capitalist hellbent on imperial expansion:


There was a mocking smile on the bloated face which seemed to drive me mad. This was the being I was helping to transfer to London, where, perhaps, for centuries to come he might, amongst its teeming millions, satiate his lust for blood, and create a new and ever-widening circle of semi-demons to batten on the helpless. The very thought drove me mad. A terrible desire came upon me to rid the world of such a monster.

Frankenstein’s monster is, by contrast, the zombified embodiment of proletarian retribution:

All, save I, were at rest or in enjoyment: I, like the arch-fiend, bore a hell within me; and, finding myself unsympathised with, wished to tear up the trees, spread havoc and destruction around me, and then to have sat down and enjoyed the ruin.

But unlike the novels of Stoker and Shelley, Marx’s account is not only gothic. His descriptions of a blood-drenched and gore-caked mode of production are prescient of horror as we see it in more recent cinema. Whatever these descriptions lack in the sense of morality shared by gothic novelists they make up for in cold rationality.Capitalist accumulation is, as Marx knows, a crime whose most obvious analogue is cannibalism.

Marx’s horrors are irredeemable and absolute. When he insists that capitalism is the mode of production that “comes dripping from head to foot, from every pore, with blood and dirt,” he really commits himself, as a gifted writer and a master-stylist, to conveying specifically that kind of horror.

Elsewhere in Capital, when the vampire image returns, narrative emphasis shifts from the bourgeois predator to the exploited worker, and specifically to the worker’s obliterated body:


It must be acknowledged that our labourer comes out of the process of production other than he entered. In the market he stood as owner of the commodity “labour-power” face to face with other owners of commodities, dealer against dealer. The contract by which he sold to the capitalist his labour-power proved, so to say, in black and white that he disposed of himself freely. The bargain concluded, it is discovered that he was no “free agent,” that the time for which he is free to sell his labour-power is the time for which he is forced to sell it, that in fact the vampire will not lose its hold on him “so long as there is a muscle, a nerve, a drop of blood to be exploited.”

The vampire reveals itself only when it is already too late, when the façade of legal niceties turns out to be an evil, Faustian pact, inescapable until the death of either party.

Stylistically important is that quoted material at the end, taken from a description made elsewhere by Friedrich Engels. The quotation from Engels confirms the organic substance of capital, its own expropriated lifeblood, is the insides of the worker.

While Marx frequently draws on the patently gothic imagery of vampires and werewolves, specters and gravediggers, here we can see that his accounts of capital also acquire a taste for human viscera, with sentences chewing their way through bodily gristle:

We may say that surplus value rests on a natural basis, but this is permissible only in the very general sense, that there is no natural obstacle absolutely preventing one man from disburdening himself of the labour requisite for his own existence, and burdening another with it, any more, for instance, than unconquerable natural obstacles prevent one man from eating the flesh of another.

Capitalist accumulation is, as Marx knows, a crime whose most obvious analogue is cannibalism. Born into the wage-relation we are not human subjects. We are only our capacity to work, which means serving up our variously muscular, nervous, and cerebral organs — and consuming those of our friends and families, as well as those of complete strangers.

Gothic descriptions like these are not merely decorative. Instead, they get to the very essence of life under capitalism. They remind us how bodies and brains are mutilated into commodities. Literally, we need only think of the deformations, injuries, and fatalities caused by strained working conditions at every level of capitalist industry, from neurological trauma through to heart attacks, right down to broken bones, amputated limbs, and mass deaths.

Figuratively, every minute and every hour spent in wage labor is another minute and another hour in which our bodies are wired to a vast machine that only lives by draining our life substances.

Life under capitalism is the experience of horror, the irreversible liquefying of human substance and its necrophagic consumption. Like the grim fate of the victims in any given horror film, whose bodies are obliterated beyond all recognition and so frequently ingested by other humans, once our labor succumbs to value that transformation is utterly irreparable. So reflects poet Keston Sutherland in a brilliantly nauseating essay on Marx’s jargon: “All that is meat melts into bone, and vice versa; and no effort of scrutiny, will or heated imagination, however powerfully analytic or moral, is capable of reversing the industrial process of that deliquescence.”

The lesson can be put this way: we all inhabit the same horror story and we should all be intensely revolted by this. But, even if we cannot undo what has already been done, that revulsion might still be a catalyst for revolution. Perhaps this is what Marx was trying to teach us all along with his unique brand of gothic horror.


Mark Steven is a lecturer in literature at the University of Exeter. He is the author of Red Modernism: American Poetry and the Spirit of Communism and Splatter Capital.


SEE MY GOTHIC CAPITALISM
Feb 15, 2005 — The development of capitalism in the 18th and 19th Centuries saw not only bourgeois revolutions but the revolt of slaves and the most successful ...

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Karl Marx GOTHIC CAPITALI$M The Horror of Accumulation & The Commodification of Humanity Gothic Capitalism The Horror of Accumulation and the 









Tuesday, September 13, 2022

EXCERPTS

From the “Introduction” to Capitalism in the Anthropocene

J.B. FosterEXCERPTS

The Anthropocene Epoch, according to the Anthropocene Working Group of the International Union of Geological Sciences can be seen as having begun in 1945, at the end of the Second World War, or else in the 1950s. The stratigraphic markers most commonly referred to are radionuclides from hundreds of nuclear tests (and two nuclear bombings) and the development of plastics and petrochemicals. These developments are seen as having introduced a new “synthetic age.” Yet, this was also the time of the Cold War, the consolidation of global monopoly capitalism, and what is often referred to as capitalism’s “golden age.” The immediate post–Second World War period saw what environmental historians have referred to as the Great Acceleration of economic impacts on the earth to the point that planetary boundaries were being crossed, or in danger of being crossed. The Anthropocene Epoch can thus be seen as having its origins in the post–Second World War era, with monopoly capitalism at a high level of globalization as its principal driver.

Since each geological epoch is divided into geological ages, the first age of the Anthropocene Epoch can be referred to as the Capitalinian Age, describing its social origins, now dominating over the stratigraphic indicators of geological change. To designate the present as a particular age of the Anthropocene Epoch is to point to the temporary, historical character of the geological age in which we now reside, which will lead either to a new geological (and social) age, stabilizing the human relation to the earth, referred to here as the Communian, or to an end-Anthropocene extinction event resulting in the destruction of civilization and quite possibly humanity itself.

Indeed, the notion of the Anthropocene Epoch in geological history, expressing how human society, via capitalism, has proceeded to foul its planetary nest, has not been the revelation of a moment. Rather it can be seen as a product of a century-long discussion on the growing human impacts on the earth environment. In his Kingdom of Man in 1911, E. Ray Lankester, the leading British zoologist in the generation after Charles Darwin and a close friend of Marx, insisted that humanity as a result of capitalism had become a “disturber” of the ecology of the earth to such an extent that it undermined its own environment, giving rise to “nature’s revenges,” including new zoonotic diseases threatening humanity.

…For many, willing to resign humanity to its “fate,” the idea of a way out of our current dilemma, fundamentally altering society in order to avoid the socioecological chasm before us, will undoubtedly sound utopian. But utopia, a pun coined in the sixteenth century by Thomas More meaning both “nowhere” and “good place,” and therefore often seen as representing a kind of dream state or wishful projection into the future, loses its idealistic connotation in the context of a planetary dystopia where catastrophe, measured against historical precedents, has now become normal and threatens to become irreversible on a planetary scale, due to the inherent apocalyptic tendencies of the current mode of production. Under such circumstances, only the reconstitution of society as a whole, and thus of the human relation to the earth, holds any realistic hope for the future of humanity….

Marxism and the Universal Metabolism of Nature

…Beginning in the 1850s, based on the work of his close friend and comrade, the physician and scientist Roland Daniels, as well as on Justus von Liebig’s agricultural chemistry, Marx incorporated the notion of metabolism into his general analysis, introducing a conception of production (or the labor and production process) as constituting the “social metabolism” of humanity and nature.57 This conception was developed further in Capital, particularly in the analysis of ecological crisis, with the social metabolism standing for what we today call human-ecological relations. Here it is important to note that today’s ecosystem and Earth System analyses, and all form of systems ecology, have the concept of metabolism and flows of energy as their logical bases. Marx saw the social metabolism introduced by human beings in production as part of what he called the “universal metabolism of nature.”

In the mid-nineteenth century a soil crisis occurred in the new industrialized agriculture. Soil nutrients, such as nitrogen, phosphorus, and potassium, contained in the food and the fiber, sent hundreds and even thousands of miles to the new urban industrial centers where the population was now concentrated, ended up as pollution in the cities rather than being returned to the land, with the result that these vital “constituent elements” of the soil were lost to the soil. Marx saw this as a manifestation of a contradiction between the alienated social metabolism of capitalist production and the “universal metabolism of nature,” generating a “rift in the . . . social metabolism” or metabolic rift, which constituted the main structure of ecological crisis under capitalism.60 The triad of concepts of the universal metabolism of nature, the social metabolism, and the metabolic rift thus gave to Marx’s understanding of the ecological nature of production a complex, historically grounded conceptual structure, encompassing both Earth change and social system change, and their coevolution within the historical process. Exploring this problem in his later works, Marx engaged in extended analyses of ecological crises, or the metabolic rift, some of which were embedded in his ecological notebooks. Although Marx wrote of the metabolism of nature and society, this was not, as some critics have charged, a “dualistic” conception, since his emphasis was on how the social metabolism, rooted in changing relations of production, historically mediated the dialectical relation between humanity and earth.

Fundamental to this whole framework, emanating from classical historical materialism (in which Frederick Engels, as we shall see, also played a crucial role), is the notion that economic and environmental crises are two sides of a single coin associated with capitalism’s exploitation of labor, on one side, and its expropriation of people and the earth, on the other. Capitalism is not only an alienated economic regime, but also, as a precondition of this, an alienated ecological regime. Industrial capitalism requires as its basis, as Marx argued, the removal of the population from the land and thus from the organic means of production. It was the expropriation of the commons as well as whole populations on a world scale (including chattel slavery) that led to “the genesis of the capitalist farmer,” on the one hand, and the “genesis of the industrial capitalist,” on the other.62 This alienation from nature constituted the basis on which the alienation of human being from human being and between classes was established. This twofold alienation from nature and other human beings constitutes the source of capitalism’s continuing creative destruction of the conditions of existence of humanity itself…..

The origin of the “Western Marxist” tradition, in this sense, is usually traced to Georg Lukács’s criticism in History and Class Consciousness (1923) of Engels’s conception of the dialectics of nature. In footnote 6 of chapter one on “What Is Orthodox Marxism” Lukács inserted a short comment in which he stated:

It is of the first importance to realise that the method is limited here to the realms of history and society. The misunderstandings that arise from Engels’s account of dialectics can in the main be put down to the fact that Engels—following Hegel’s mistaken lead—extended the method to apply also to nature. However, the crucial determinants of dialectics—the interaction of subject and object, the unity of theory and practice, the historical changes in the reality underlying the categories as the root cause of changes in thought, etc.—are absent from our knowledge of nature. Unfortunately it is not possible to undertake a detailed analysis of these questions here.

This footnote by Lukács, consisting of less than ten lines altogether—the last line of which says, “It is not possible to undertake a detailed analysis of these questions here”—has often been exaggerated, treated as a full-blown critique, rather than a mere aside…

From Chapter 1:

…The remarkable discovery in the Soviet archives of Lukács’s manuscript Tailism and the Dialectic, some seventy years after it was written in the mid-1920s (just a few years after the writing of History and Class Consciousness), makes it clear that this critical shift in Lukács’s understanding, via Marx’s concept of social and ecological metabolism, had already been largely reached by that time. There he explained that “the metabolic interchange with nature” was “socially mediated” through labor and production. The labor process, as a form of metabolism between humanity and nature, made it possible for human beings to perceive—in ways that were limited by the historical development of production—certain objective conditions of existence. Such a metabolic “exchange of matter” between nature and society, Lukács wrote, “cannot possibly be achieved—even on the most primitive level—without possessing a certain degree of objectively correct knowledge about the processes of nature (which exist prior to people and function independently of them).” It was precisely the development of this metabolic “exchange of matter” by means of production that formed, in Lukács’s interpretation of Marx’s dialectic, “the material basis of modern science.”

Lukács’s emphasis on the centrality of Marx’s notion of social metabolism was to be carried forward by his assistant and younger colleague István Mészáros in Marx’s Theory of Alienation. For Mészáros the “conceptual structure” of Marx’s theory of alienation involved the triadic relation of humanity-production-nature, with production this way human beings could be conceived as the “self-mediating” beings of nature…. Lukács and Mészáros thus saw Marx’s social-metabolism argument as a way of transcending the divisions within Marxism that had fractured the dialectic and Marx’s social (and natural) ontology. It allowed for a praxis-based approach that integrated nature and society, and social history and natural history, without reducing one entirely to the other. In our present ecological age this complex understanding—complex because it dialectically encompasses the relations between part and whole, subject and object—becomes an indispensable element in any rational social transition.

Marx and the Universal Metabolism of Nature

…Since the Grundrisse in 1857–58, Marx had given the concept of metabolism (Stoffwechsel)—first developed in the 1830s by scientists engaged in the new discoveries of cellular biology and physiology and then applied to chemistry (by Liebig especially) and physics—a central place in his account of the interaction between nature and society through production. He defined the labor process as the metabolic relation between humanity and nature. For human beings this metabolism necessarily took a socially mediated form, encompassing the organic conditions common to all life, but also taking a distinctly human-historical character through production.

Building on this framework, Marx emphasized in Capital that the disruption of the soil cycle in industrialized capitalist agriculture constituted nothing less than “a rift” in the metabolic relation between human beings and nature. “Capitalist production,” he wrote,

collects the population together in great centres, and causes the urban population to achieve an ever-greater preponderance. This has two results. On the one hand it concentrates the historical motive force of society; on the other hand, it disturbs the metabolic interaction between man and the earth, i.e. it prevents the return to the soil of its constituent elements consumed by man in the form of food and clothing; hence it hinders the operation of the eternal natural condition for the lasting fertility of the soil. . . . But by destroying the circumstances surrounding this metabolism . . . it compels its systematic restoration as a regulative law of social production, and in a form adequate to the full development of the human race. . . . All progress in capitalist agriculture is a progress in the art, not only of robbing the worker, but of robbing the soil; all progress in increasing the fertility of the soil for a given time is progress toward ruining the more long-lasting sources of that fertility. . . . Capitalist production, therefore, only develops the technique and the degree of combination of the social process of production by simultaneously undermining the original sources of all wealth—the soil and the worker.

…In the twentieth century the concept of metabolism was to become the basis of systems ecology, particularly in the landmark work of Eugene and Howard Odum. As Frank Golley explains in A History of the Ecosystem Concept in Ecology, Howard Odum “pioneered a method of studying [eco-]system dynamics by measuring . . . the difference of input and output, under steady state conditions,” to determine “the metabolism of the whole system.” Based on the foundational work of the Odums, metabolism is now used to refer to all biological levels, starting with the single cell and ending with the ecosystem (and beyond that the Earth System). In his later attempts to incorporate human society into this broad ecological systems theory, Howard Odum was to draw heavily on Marx’s work, particularly in developing a theory of what he called ecologically “unequal exchange” rooted in “imperial capitalism.”

Indeed, if we were to return today to Marx’s original issue of the human-social metabolism and the problem of the soil nutrient cycle, looking at it from the viewpoint of ecological science, the argument would go like this. Living organisms, in their normal interactions with one another and the inorganic world, are constantly gaining nutrients and energy from consuming other organisms or, for green plants, through photosynthesis and nutrient uptake from the soil—which are then passed along to other organisms in a complex “food web” in which nutrients are eventually cycled back to near where they originated. In the process the energy extracted is used up in the functioning of the organism although ultimately a portion is left over in the form of difficult to decompose soil organic matter. Plants are constantly exchanging products with the soil through their roots—taking up nutrients and giving off energy-rich compounds that produce an active microbiological zone near the roots. Animals that eat plants or other animals generally use only a small fraction of the nutrients they eat and deposit the rest as feces and urine nearby. When they die, soil organisms use their nutrients and the energy contained in their bodies. The interactions of living organisms with matter (mineral or alive or previously alive) are such that the ecosystem is only lightly affected and nutrients cycle back to near where they were originally obtained. Also on a geological time scale, weathering of nutrients locked inside minerals renders them available for future organisms to use. Thus, natural ecosystems do not normally “run down” due to nutrient depletion or loss of other aspects of healthy environments such as productive soils.

As human societies develop, especially with the growth and spread of capitalism, the interactions between nature and humans are much greater and more intense than before, affecting first the local, then the regional, and finally the global environment. Since food and animal feeds are now routinely shipped long distances, this depletes the soil, just as Liebig and Marx contended in the nineteenth century, necessitating routine applications of commercial fertilizers on crop farms. At the same time this physical separation of where crops are grown and where humans or farm animals consume them creates massive disposal issues for the accumulation of nutrients in city sewage and in the manure that piles up around concentrations of factory farming operations. And the issue of breaks in the cycling of nutrients is only one of the many metabolic rifts that are now occurring. It is the change in the nature of the metabolism between a particular animal—humans—and the rest of the Earth System (including other species) that is at the heart of the ecological problems we face.

Despite the fact that our understanding of these ecological processes has developed enormously since Marx and Engels’s day, it is clear that in pinpointing the metabolic rift brought on by capitalist society they captured the essence of the contemporary ecological problem. As Engels put it in a summary of Marx’s argument in Capital, industrialized-capitalist agriculture is characterized by “the robbing of the soil: the acme of the capitalist mode of production is the undermining of the sources of all wealth: the soil and labourer.” For Marx and Engels this reflected the contradiction between town and country, and the need to prevent the worst distortions of the human metabolism with nature associated with urban development. As Engels wrote in The Housing Question:

The abolition of the antithesis between town and country is no more and no less utopian than the abolition of the antithesis between capitalists and wage-workers. From day to day it is becoming more and more a practical demand of both industrial and agricultural production. No one has demanded this more energetically than Liebig in his writings on the chemistry of agriculture, in which his first demand has always been that man shall give back to the land what he receives from it….

 

From Chapter 10:

The Theory of Unequal Ecological Exchange

Just as unequal economic exchange theory postulated the exchange of more labor for less, unequal ecological exchange theory had as its basis the exchange of more ecological use value (or nature’s product) for less. Unequal ecological exchange was first raised as a major issue in the work of Liebig and Marx. From the 1840s to the 1860s, the great German chemist Justus von Liebig introduced a critique of industrial agriculture as practiced most fully in England, referring to this as a condition of “Raubbau” or the “Raubsystem,” a system of robbery or overexploitation of the land and agriculture at the behest of the new industrial capitalism emerging in the towns. In Liebig’s view, the elementary soil nutrients, nitrogen, phosphorus and potassium, were being removed from the soil and sent to the cities in the form of food and fiber, where they ended up contributing to pollution rather than being recirculated to the soil. The result was the systematic robbing of the soil of its nutrients. English agriculture, then, tried to compensate for this by importing bones from the catacombs and battlefields of Europe and guano from Peru. “Great Britain,” Liebig wrote,

deprives all countries of the conditions of their fertility. It has raked up the battlefields of Leipzig, Waterloo, and the Crimea; it has consumed the bones of many generations accumulated in the catacombs of Sicily; and now annually destroys the food for future generations of three millions and a half of people. Like a vampire it hangs on the breast of Europe, and even the world, sucking its lifeblood.

Marx developed Liebig’s approach into a more systematic ecological critique of capitalism by designating the robbery of the earth as “an irreparable rift in the interdependent process of social metabolism,” or metabolic rift. Such conditions were, for Marx, the material counterpart of the capitalist organization of labor and production. It constituted the alienation of the “metabolic interaction” between humanity and the earth, that is, of the “universal condition” of human existence.

The metabolic rift under capitalism was connected to unequal ecological exchange. England, as the leading capitalist country at the center of a world-system, Marx stated, was “the metropolis of landlordism and capitalism all over the world,” drawing on the resources of the globe, with nations in the periphery often reduced to mere raw material providers. “One part of the globe” is converted “into a chiefly agricultural [and raw material] field of production for supplying the other part, which remains a preeminently industrial field.” Thus a whole nation, such as Ireland, could be turned into “mere pasture land which provides the English market with meat and wool at the cheapest possible prices.” Indeed, Ireland was reduced by imperialist means to “merely an agricultural district of England which happens to be divided by a wide stretch of water from the country for which it provides corn, wool, cattle and industrial and military recruits.” The resulting “misuse” of “certain portions of the globe” in the periphery of the system is thus determined by the accumulation imperatives of the center. Marx illustrated the absolute robbery involved in the appropriation of the natural wealth of the one country by another by stating, “England has indirectly exported the soil of Ireland, without even allowing the cultivators the means for replacing the constituents of the exhausted soil.” Like Liebig, Marx pointed to the fact that England was forced to import guano in massive quantities from Peru (in a world-system of exploitation that also involved importing Chinese labor to dig the guano) in order to make up for the loss of nutrients in English fields.

Marx saw production as a flow of both material use values and exchange values or, simply, values. He used the term “metabolism” (Stoffwechsel) to refer to the material exchange (the exchange of matter-energy) that always accompanied monetary exchange of value….

Capitalism in the Anthropocene: Ecological Ruin or Ecological Revolution

Saturday, July 19, 2025

Becoming the Monster: Imperial Anxieties and the Birth of the Racialized Vampire


 July 18, 2025

German promotional material for Nosferatu – US PD

Both Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1897) and its German cinematic adaptation Nosferatu (1922) project the vampire as a racialized and cultural Other, a figure onto which the anxieties of imperial decline, xenophobic paranoia, and racial-political fantasies are mapped. In these texts, the vampire is not merely a supernatural being, but a vessel for deeper fears about reverse colonization, cultural infiltration, and contamination. This racialization of the vampire unfolds in distinct historical stages, from the imperial imaginary of the late 19th century to the racial visual codes of interwar European cinema.

In Stoker’s Dracula, the eponymous figure represents a complex form of otherness rooted in both geographical and cultural displacement. Though the novel is situated in London, Count Dracula originates from Transylvania, a region that was often coded in 19th-century Britain as part of a vague and threatening East.

Dracula’s knowledge of British culture, law, and customs, initially charming to Jonathan Harker, soon becomes a source of fear as it reveals a strategic appropriation designed to penetrate and exploit the British Empire from within. This fear of reverse colonization is central to the novel’s horror: the imperial subject finds itself vulnerable to the very tools it used to dominate others. Inverting the colonial missionary enterprise, Dracula becomes a figure of counter-knowledge, using the West’s languages, geographies, and rationalities against it. Stoker underscores this destabilizing globalism through Van Helsing’s observation that vampire lore spans civilizations – from Greece and Rome to India and China – situating the threat as global, migratory, and non-European. This aligns the Count with what can be termed the “Oriental Other”, designating how Western powers construct foreign identities in order to reinforce their own superiority and coherence.

The enduring threat posed by Count Dracula as an Other is reflected not just in the novel’s initial success, but in its dramatically heightened popularity in the years following its publication. As the British Empire reached its zenith and simultaneously became more anxious about its durability, readers and audiences increasingly identified with the novel’s dramatization of boundary collapse. After World War I, the novel found renewed popularity through a series of adaptations that brought its themes into mass culture. The stage version by Hamilton Deane and John L. Balderston premiered in 1924 and found major success on London’s West End by 1927. The American version starring Bela Lugosi followed on Broadway the same year, translating the Count into a transatlantic myth of infiltration. It was in this charged cultural atmosphere that Nosferatu, directed by F.W. Murnau in 1922, reimagined the vampire narrative within a distinctly German cinematic language of racial threat.

In adapting DraculaNosferatu changes both names and settings. Count Dracula becomes Count Orlok, and the narrative is transported to the fictional German town of Wisborg to avoid copyright infringement. But more importantly, Nosferatu radically transforms the visual and semiotic function of the vampire. While Stoker’s Dracula could pass for an aristocratic human, Count Orlok is immediately monstrous: bald, gaunt, hunched, with elongated fingers and a prominent hooked nose. These features align with anti-Semitic visual tropes that were widespread in Weimar Germany, where Jews were frequently depicted in caricatures as vermin-like, parasitic, and racially degenerate. Orlok’s rat-like movements, association with plague-bearing rodents, and physical grotesqueness all participate in this visual economy of racial fear.

Thus, Orlok does not merely continue the tradition of the orientalized outsider; he becomes, more specifically, a racialized threat coded in anti-Semitic terms. The fact that he must travel with the soil of his homeland, and that his destruction is accompanied by the destruction of his castle, suggests a fantasy of national purification through the elimination of foreign contaminants. The final shot of Orlok’s destroyed homeland implies that his evil was not only personal but civilizational. Orlok’s grotesque, rat-like body embodies the racialized Other while his distant, decaying castle evokes the Orientalized East, a symbolic homeland of foreign corruption. The film stages the destruction of both. That Orlok is ultimately destroyed by the pure, self-sacrificing figure of Ellen further reinforces this racialized morality: the national community can only be saved through the eradication of the Other by means of sacrificial innocence.

Ellen’s Descent: From Symbolic Purity to Sexual Transgressor

In this ideological framework, Ellen serves as the moral opposite of the racialized Other: a passive, self-sacrificing woman whose purity redeems society. However, the 2025 remake radically reimagines her character, shifting the logic of purity and monstrosity and ultimately rendering Ellen an Other in her own right.

Nosferatu (1922) portrayed Ellen in a completely stereotypical light. The only way to defeat the monster is for an “innocent maiden” to sacrifice her life by allowing him to drink her blood. Ellen sacrifices herself to save everyone else, even though she has nothing to do with the plague. From the beginning of the movie, she is bathed in sunlight as she plays with a kitten and cries over plucked flowers, all of which are symbols of her purity. The director of the 2025 remake, Robert Eggers, consciously sought to change this. In what can be seen as a decidedly feminist revision, Ellen initiates a relationship with Nosferatu because she is desperately lonely within a patriarchal order. However, she soon discovers that Nosferatu turns all her pleasure into pain, for he is a force of darkness. After this, she settles down with Thomas Hutter and lives peacefully with him until Nosferatu returns to claim her, having made her promise to be eternally his.

Unlike the earlier version, Ellen here embraces the darkness from the beginning and is more in control of it than those around her. It is because of this that others misunderstand her. Yet she is not a passive victim. She speaks out against those who disbelieve her, who tie her up and call her mad, even against her husband, whom she loves. She criticizes him for going on a “fool’s errand” against her wishes and asks where the wealth is that he was supposed to bring. Instead of bringing home any riches, she accuses him of having sold her for gold.

However, like in the older film, she too sacrifices herself in the end. She is made to feel ashamed of her actions by society. Her ultimate sacrifice seems to come too late because Anna and her children, who had treated her with kindness, are already dead. Anna had been just like Ellen in the 1922 version: a loving mother and wife. She sympathizes deeply with Ellen, and it is only because of her kindness that Ellen is not turned out of the Harding household by her husband. After Anna’s death, Ellen feels it is her duty to save the city by ending her own life. In doing so, perhaps she too can be considered virtuous, just like Anna, even at the cost of her own life.

In the end, Ellen seems to be conforming to an ideal set by women like Anna. She may have spoken back, expressed her sexuality, and shown emotion more freely, but ultimately, the fate of her town and her loved ones depends on her refusal to “let her lower animal functions dominate,” as Von Franz once said of her.

In this way, Ellen too becomes an Other. While the 1922 Ellen had no transcendental connection with anyone but Hutter, the 2025 version gives her a deep connection with Nosferatu. In the earlier film, as Orlok is about to attack Thomas, Ellen screams his name, and Orlok withdraws, suggesting she possesses some moral force that protects her husband. In the new version, Ellen has no such moral power. In fact, while speaking to Thomas, she says, “He told me about you. He told me how foolish you were. How fearful. How like a child. How you fell into his arms as a swooning lily of a woman.” As Alisha Mughal writes,

“As much as the Count represents a racial ‘other,’ Ellen represents a sexual other. While Ellen is not a vampire specifically within the story, she is a ‘blot on the human conscience’ in the sense that she has always been her animalistic self—a strain first on her father and his household, and then on the Harding household, a strain on the finances of a successful, civilized man. She is everything a proper woman in her society ought not to be: loudly insane, experiencing paroxysms that even a corset cannot contain. She sleepwalks, weeps incessantly, and experiences verboten sexual desires.”

Ellen recognizes that she is the Other and is filled with shame. She does not want to be anything like Nosferatu. Unlike him, however, she is the constructed Other. She can choose to be human. She can choose to rejoin society, even if it’s the only choice left to her. The foreign outsider is born an outsider and will forever remain so. Ellen becomes an outsider through transgression but ultimately must return and draw the line between the morally upright white civilization and the sexually aggressive Other. Nosferatu’s otherness is naturalized, it is inherent to him, written into his very body. He is the essential Other. Unlike Ellen, he has no society that casts him out because he was never part of it to begin with. When Orlok first meets Ellen in Wisborg, she tells him that he cannot love, and he agrees, as if he were made that way.

Orlok vs. Heathcliff: Two Visions of the Gothic Other

Eggers has said that one of the major inspirations while writing the Nosferatu (2025) script was Wuthering Heights, as he saw a similarity between Heathcliff and Count Orlok. However, while Heathcliff is an Other, he is not an essential Other. Unlike Orlok, whose monstrosity is depicted as innate, Heathcliff’s demonization stems from the way he is treated by those around him. From the moment of his arrival at Wuthering Heights, he is subjected to abuse, especially by Hindley. After the death of Mr. Earnshaw, Heathcliff is forced into servitude, denied an education, and made to labor in the fields. As Nelly observes,

“He seemed a sullen, patient child; hardened, perhaps, to ill-treatment: he would stand Hindley’s blows without winking or shedding a tear, and my pinches moved him only to draw in a breath and open his eyes, as if he had hurt himself by accident, and nobody was to blame.”

By being continually portrayed as demonic and subhuman, Heathcliff gradually transforms into the image others have imposed upon him. He conforms to the role society assigns him, not because he is inherently monstrous but because monstrosity is the only way left to assert agency. In Wuthering Heights, the figure of the Other functions not as a permanent outsider, but as a mirror reflecting society’s own prejudices and contradictions. For example, when Catherine tells Nelly about a dream in which she goes to heaven and feels utterly miserable, only to be cast out by the angels and return joyfully to the earth, it reveals how the Other disrupts conventional notions of order and moral idealism. Catherine understands that she becomes an Other by loving Heathcliff and she chooses to marry Edgar Linton, believing that doing so would help both herself and Heathcliff materially.

However, Heathcliff overhears only the part where she says that marrying him would degrade her, and leaves before hearing her declare her love and insist that nothing would separate them. He returns years later, wealthy and vengeful, not against Catherine but against those he holds responsible for keeping them apart. His revenge extends to Linton’s daughter and Hindley’s son, targeting the next generation. Meanwhile, Catherine, torn between societal expectations now that she is married to Linton and her passionate love for Heathcliff, spirals into madness and dies. Even as Heathcliff seeks revenge, he is shattered by grief at Catherine’s death. In end, the grief overtakes him to such an extent that he cannot pursue revenge anymore. Everything reminds him of Catherine, he wants to die so he can reunite with Catherine and his wish is ultimately fulfilled when he dies of starvation after refusing to eat for several days. He sees death as the only means to reunite with Catherine, showing that he is capable of love, unlike Orlok.

Where Orlok is essentialized as the Other and denied interiority, Heathcliff’s Otherness is a product of social exclusion, classism, and cruelty. His monstrosity is not innate but reactive. It is a human response to inhuman treatment. As Adele Hannon has said,

“Placing a magnified lens on the acts of monstering the Other and the dislikeable aspects of humanity will show how observations of the cultural Other are rendered incomplete, as any true understanding of the Other will locate them outside the realm of unknowable and unfamiliar, making the subject harder to dehumanise and marginalise. Even though Heathcliff is without a narrative voice or any distinct identity, his actions speak to many transgressive ideas concerning gender, otherness and understandings of the abject. Where he lacks in definition, his obscure identity allows Brontë’s audience to displace their own trauma onto this tragic gothic villain. Thus, the once unfamiliar Other is exposed to share a familiar face to the differing insecurities of the reader.”

Ultimately, Orlok and Heathcliff embody two opposing visions of the Other. Orlok is essentialized: monstrous by nature and irredeemable, while Heathcliff’s Otherness is constructed through cruelty and exclusion. While Orlok is denied interiority, Heathcliff is haunted by it, capable of love, grief, and moral ambiguity. He does not embody evil but reflects the violence of a society that creates its own monsters, revealing that the true horror lies not in the foreign invader, but in the civilizational gaze that defines, distorts, and ultimately destroys those it deems unworthy of belonging.

Maliha Iqbal is studying at Aligarh Muslim University. Her short stories, poems, and essays have appeared in Live Wire (The Wire)CerebrationKitaabCountercurrentsFreedom ReviewArmChair JournalCounterviewWriters’ CafeteriaCafé DissensusBorderless Journal, and Indian Periodical. She can be reached at malihaiqbal327@gmail.com.


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