Patocka or Leszek Kolakowski—were still mostly unknown outside their own countries. As for the sparkling cohort of economists, philosophers and social theorists who had flourished in Central Europe before 1934: most of the survivors had gone into permanent exile in the US, Great Britain or the Antipodes, where they formed the intellectual core of modern ‘Anglo-Saxon’ scholarship in their fields.
In its newly fashionable usage, ‘Theory’ meant something quite different. It was largely taken up with ‘interrogating’ (a contemporary term of art) the method and objectives of academic disciplines: above all the social sciences—history, sociology, anthropology—but also the humanities and even, in later years, the laboratory sciences themselves. In an age of vastly expanded universities, with periodicals, journals and lecturers urgently seeking ‘copy’, there emerged a market for ‘theories’ of every kind—fuelled not by improved intellectual supply but rather by insatiable consumer demand.
At the forefront of the theory revolution were the academic disciplines of History and the softer social sciences. The renewal of historical study in Europe had begun a generation before: the
The scholarship produced by the men and women associated with these groups and institutions was not necessarily iconoclastic; indeed, though usually of very high quality, it was often quite methodologically conventional. But it was self-consciously
But for all its political applications, History is a discipline peculiarly impervious to high theoretical speculation: the more Theory intrudes, the farther History recedes. Although one or two of the leading historians of the Sixties went on to achieve iconic status in old age none of them—however subversive his scholarship—quite emerged as a cultural guru. Other disciplines fared better—or worse, depending on one’s point of view. Borrowing from an earlier vein of speculation in the field of linguistics, cultural anthropologists—led by Claude Levi-Strauss— proposed a comprehensive new explanation for variations and differences across societies. What counted was not surface social practices or cultural symptoms but the inner essences, the deep structures of human affairs.
‘Structuralism’, as it came to be called, was intensely seductive. As a way of sorting human experience it bore a family resemblance to the
In the course of the 1960s there emerged a plethora of applied structuralisms: in anthropology, history, sociology, psychology, political science and of course literature. The best-known practitioners—usually those who combined in the right doses scholarly audacity with a natural talent for self-promotion—became international celebrities, having had the good fortune to enter the intellectual limelight just as television was becoming a mass medium. In an earlier age Michel Foucault might have been a drawing-room favourite, a star of the Parisian lecture circuit, like Henri Bergson fifty years earlier. But when
Foucault himself foreswore the label ‘structuralist, much as Albert Camus always insisted he had never been an ‘existentialist’ and didn’t really know what that was.[163] But as Foucault at least would have been constrained to concede, it didn’t really matter what he thought. ‘Structuralism’ was now shorthand for any ostensibly subversive account of past or present, in which conventional linear explanations and categories were shaken up and their assumptions questioned. More importantly, ‘structuralists’ were people who minimized or even denied the role of individuals and individual initiative in human affairs.[164]
But for all its protean applications, the idea that everything is ‘structured’ left something vital unexplained. For Fernand Braudel, or Claude Levi-Strauss, or even Michel Foucault, the goal was to uncover the deep workings of a cultural system. This might or might not be a subversive scholarly impulse—it certainly was not in Braudel’s case—but it does gloss over or minimize change and transition. Decisive political events in particular proved resistant to this approach: you could explain why things
The youthful impulse of the Sixties was not about understanding the world; in the words of Karl Marx’s
The intellectual affinities and political obsessions of the Sixties in Europe only make sense in the light of this continuing fascination with Marx and Marxism. As Jean-Paul Sartre put it in 1960, in his
Between 1956 and 1968 Marxism in Europe lived—and, as it were, thrived—in a state of suspended animation. Stalinist Communism was in disgrace, thanks to the revelations and events of 1956. The Communist parties of the West were either politically irrelevant (in Scandinavia, Britain, West Germany and the Low Countries); in slow but unmistakable decline (France); or else, as in the Italian case, striving to distance themselves from their Muscovite inheritance. Official Marxism, as incarnated in the history and teachings of Leninist parties, was largely discredited—especially in the territories over which it continued to rule. Even those in the West who chose to vote Communist evinced little interest in the subject.
At the same time there was widespread intellectual and academic interest in those parts of the Marxist inheritance that could be distinguished from the Soviet version and salvaged from its moral shipwreck. Ever since the Founder’s death, there had always been Marxist and