Lendo uma nova tradução de O Capital
por Benjamin Kunkel
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Karl Marx, 1972, de Cecilia Vicuña. Cortesia da artista e Lehmann Maupin, Nova York, Seul e Londres © 2025 Cecilia Vicuña/Artist Rights Society (ARS), Nova York |
Discutido neste ensaio:
Abordemos O Capital da forma mais ingênua possível, embora admitindo que, no caso de O Capital, essa decisão dificilmente pode ser outra coisa senão um estratagema. A ingenuidade ardilosa que tenho em mente consistirá em fingirmos não ter nenhuma informação extratextual sobre o livro — em particular, informações sobre a enorme literatura de comentários partidários que se desenvolveu em torno da análise de Marx sobre o capitalismo ou sobre o movimento comunista internacional que tomou O Capital como sua garantia.
O parágrafo acima copia quase palavra por palavra as primeiras frases de "Contra Ulisses", um ensaio de 1988 do crítico Leo Bersani sobre outro livro cuja reputação o precede quase ruinosamente, a saber, o romance de Joyce sobre um dia de junho em Dublin. Esse plágio indefeso da minha parte (acontece que eu não conseguiria imaginar uma leitura ingênua ou inocente de O Capital sem me lembrar da manobra semelhante de Bersani) deveria, por si só, implicar o quão difícil é alcançar a verdadeira ingenuidade diante de um livro excepcionalmente famoso. Já faz mais de 140 anos que um velho chamado Karl Marx e um bebê batizado James Augustine Joyce compartilharam o ar por cerca de treze meses, e agora toda a discussão interminável sobre os livros notórios que esses escritores produziram significa que qualquer tentativa de lê-los com um espírito de inocência cheira a experiência demais. Eu era apenas uma criança quando ouvi falar de O Capital pela primeira vez, um título evidentemente tão sinistro que, como Minha Luta, só poderia ser pronunciado em alemão. A maioria das pessoas ouve falar de Marx e do marxismo há séculos; até mesmo Donald Trump, de quem ninguém suspeitaria ter lido O Capital, rotineiramente critica seus oponentes como marxistas.
Nossa experiência mental condenada — encontrar o livro mundialmente famoso como se nunca tivéssemos ouvido falar dele — vale, no entanto, a pena. Como seria ler o primeiro volume de O Capital sem estar ciente das calúnias rotineiras de políticos burgueses, da superioridade presunçosa de economistas oficiais ou do entusiasmo violento de marxistas declarados? Finja que você está apenas curioso sobre o que é o capitalismo, já que ele está ao seu redor. "Eu pensei que tinha entendido o capitalismo", diz o narrador de um conto de Donald Barthelme, "mas o que eu fiz foi assumir uma atitude — melancolia e tristeza — em relação a ele. Essa atitude não é correta." Barthelme está sendo impassível, mas quem nunca se perguntou com sinceridade suficiente qual seria a atitude correta? (O principal sentimento de Marx era claramente de indignação.)
A tarefa de ler O Capital ingenuamente adquire um novo impulso de plausibilidade no caso da nova tradução de Paul Reitter do volume um. Até agora, o padrão nessa língua tem sido a elegante versão de 1976 do inglês Ben Fowkes. Baseado em uma edição lançada pelo amigo e colaborador de Marx, Friedrich Engels, sete anos após a morte de Marx, o volume um de Fowkes incorpora material que Marx havia rascunhado, mas não incluído em nenhuma das edições em alemão publicadas durante sua vida. Reitter, um americano, optou por trabalhar a partir da segunda edição alemã, de 1872, a última versão que o próprio Marx aprovou. Outra característica da versão de Reitter é a sua maior aproximação aos neologismos desajeitados do alemão de Marx, de modo que, por exemplo, a frase não tão estranha de Fowkes, "a objetividade das mercadorias como valores", se torna — ou permanece — a ainda mais estranha "valor-objetividade": sem dúvida, um termo intrigante para quem ainda não se acostumou com a argumentação de Marx, assim como sua Werthgegenständlichkeit teria sido para os primeiros leitores de O Capital. O resultado é que, justamente essas palavras em inglês, representando apenas este documento original, constituem um livro novo e um tanto desconhecido, mesmo para os adeptos marxistas.
Todos os demais estão em melhor posição para agir como se nunca tivessem lido o livro, já que — apesar de, ou por causa de, sua onipresença cultural — na maioria dos casos, esse será simplesmente o caso. Engels falou com mais sinceridade do que imaginava ao celebrar a "Bíblia da classe trabalhadora". Assim como a Bíblia, O Capital atraiu mais adeptos e oponentes apaixonados — citadores de passagens familiares e assinantes de impressões de segunda mão — do que leitores de fato, do começo ao fim. E, assim como acontece com a Bíblia, provavelmente não é decisivo qual tradução você lê. O Capital de Fowkes equivale a um texto em inglês britânico um pouco mais literário, enquanto a versão mais rigorosa de Reitter carrega um sotaque alemão mais forte. De qualquer forma, a grande história dramática transparece, desde a gênese da mercadoria capitalista até o apocalipse da revolução futura. Apesar dos méritos de Reitter, ainda me sinto mais apegado à tradução de Fowkes, mesmo porque ela representa as roupas com as quais uma das experiências mais significativas da minha vida se vestiu. Percebo, porém, que o literalismo de Reitter restaura a desajeitada e a honestidade adequadas a um texto cuja natureza é se revelar apenas de forma esporádica, e nunca de uma vez por todas.
Marx himself seems to have anticipated that this book meant to captivate the masses would have some trouble retaining readers. In the preface to the first edition, he warns that the saying all beginnings are difficult “holds for every branch of science and scholarship,” and that “the first chapter—and especially the section that contains my analysis of the commodity—will therefore be the hardest to understand.” Wishing (but failing?) to be reassuring, he goes on to insist, apropos of “the commodity,” that in fact “the value-form, which in its fully developed shape is the money-form . . . is actually quite simple.” It doesn’t help matters much that you’re not likely to have heard of “the value-form,” or to know why the excessively familiar phenomenon known as money is being referred to as “the money-form.”
Readers acquainted with the mixed lyricism and sarcasm of the Communist Manifesto or Marx’s inflamed journalism on the events of his day may be surprised by the desiccated laying out of concepts and dispassionate tone of Capital. The first sentence of chapter one is extravagantly plain: “The wealth of societies dominated by the capitalist mode of production appears in the form of an ‘enormous collection of commodities.’ ” (The authority quoted here is none other than Marx himself, in an earlier work.) A commodity is simply something—anything—for sale, and Marx patiently explains that the commodity has two properties: it serves some purpose (“use-value”), otherwise no one would buy it, and it is tradable (“exchange-value”), otherwise no one could sell it. Here, as in many passages, a sensation of huh? is apt to switch to one of duh! The “concentrated dialectical language” of the first several of Capital’s many chapters, the late Marxist critic Fredric Jameson notes, “has been deplored by those who feel that it renders these chapters inaccessible to the general reader and in particular to working class people”—but we’re pretending not to know such things. And just as well, because if confusion is an inevitable part of the experience of Capital, so is something like that of being very slowly and solemnly assured that water is wet. In fact, the apparent back-and-forth between the patently obvious and the perversely obscure may be an appropriate technique for a book that is, after all, a prolonged exposition of the hidden logic of the most evident feature of our social world, namely that everything is for sale.
If commodities are goods that embody exchange-values as well as use-values, it follows that any one commodity can be exchanged for any other. Twenty yards of linen equals one coat, one coat equals twenty yards of linen, et cetera. With his nineteenth-century examples, Marx means to show that, in spite of the incommensurable, unswappable utilities or use-values of the raw cloth and finished coat (you can’t wear a stray bolt of cloth as an anorak!), their shared nature as commodities reveals that, in given quantities, they are not merely comparable but identical, as well as identical to countless other commodities in other magnitudes: “20 yards of linen = 10 pounds of tea and so on.” In the commodity world—which, Marx argues, tends to become the only world—x of this equals y of that equals z of the other thing. And, here in the twenty-first century, it’s worth insisting that the category of the commodity also includes services as well as goods or, in other words, activities (DoorDash) as well as objects (the warm food in its plastic containers).
The obvious and the recondite coincide—and the difficulty and excitement of Capital begin—when Marx observes that the identical values of nonidentical wares must testify to some common property inhabiting them. What is this secret substance, hiding in plain sight? It’s not necessary to have cracked the spine of Capital to guess the scandalous answer: human labor. In other words, nothing of socially recognized value, with a price tag attached, can be furnished to anyone without someone else doing the furnishing, regardless of whatever raw materials or technical equipment are needed to first get going. Marx, in the colorless tones of his scientific mode, designates this indispensable quality as “socially necessary labor-time” or, in a somewhat wordier formulation, “the labor-time needed to produce a given use-value under a society’s normal conditions of production, using labor that has an average level of skill and intensity.” Measurement of socially necessary labor-time must be carried out by way of what Marx calls the “universal equivalent,” some transcendental medium that can represent the abstract value that commodities share. The household word for this supreme device is, of course, “money” or, for Marx, “the money-form.” Perhaps by now one has begun to glimpse the logic behind all this talk of forms: value (the sameness of different things) and money (the representation of said sameness) are simply the forms, or appearances, that labor takes on when commodities are exchanged.
None of this, however, amounts yet to a complete picture of what Marx meant, in his opening sentence, by the “capitalist mode of production.” In principle, one commodity exchanged for another by way of money just means that both parties unburden themselves of something they don’t need in order to acquire something that they do: “From the weaver’s standpoint, the end result of his transactions is that instead of linen he owns a Bible.” In Marx’s terms, this is “simple” commodity exchange, which predates capitalism. You get rid of one kind of thing in order to acquire another kind of thing. The capitalist departs from this thingly practice because his purpose is not just to acquire an object that he otherwise lacks; he buys and sells for the sake of ending up with more money than he started with. In the difference between simple commodity exchange (thing for thing, via money) and the capitalist compulsion to make money beget more money lies the expansionary nature of the system: “the movement of capital thus has no limit.”
At this point, armed with insights about labor, the commodity, and the money-form, the reader may be shedding any melancholy incomprehension—but can’t yet have arrived at angry lucidity. We’ve already been told that the value of a commodity derives from the socially necessary labor that goes into it. But not just any labor will award the capitalist the profit, the bonus, the extra—in Marx’s terms, the surplus value—he is after.
Labor—the activity of turning nonhuman nature into human usefulness—lies at the heart of all societies. But laborers don’t merely work with and upon some preexisting wilderness. They also, and increasingly, work with and upon “objects that have already been filtered through previous labor and are thus themselves products of labor”—tools, buildings, machinery. And accompanying this changed and changing material world—sometimes leading, sometimes following—is a remade social world, defined by new knowledge, skills, and roles. This continuous, cumulative, conflictual modification of both laboring humanity and the world that is the ground and object of its labor more or less sums up Marx’s view of history, in which it isn’t so much what people produce through their collective activity but how they produce it that distinguishes one kind of society, or “mode of production,” from another.
Yet, in Capital, Marx is not especially preoccupied, as he was in the Manifesto, with how one mode of production gives way to another. (A brief sketch of Communist revolution will only arrive toward the end.) His procedure is more a matter of logical exposition, wherein an entire social organism germinates from the “cell-form” of the specifically capitalist commodity. Marx ultimately arrives at M–C–M‘, his “general formula for capital”: an initial outlay of money (M) on the two indispensable commodities of means of production and labor-power that result, through their combination as capital (C), in an even more valuable commodity, to be sold at a profit (M‘). In other words, the price tag on a chair reflects not just the number of hours the worker spent carving or assembling it, but also the cost of the wood or, more likely, wood pulp; the costs of running the factory itself; the advertising campaign; plus a little extra (M‘).
That little extra—more money than you started with—is the whole point, and capitalism amounts to nothing other than a way of getting it. Under capitalism, generic laborers become historically specific proletarians, or wage laborers, in that they own neither the fields nor the fruits of their labor. And this central predicament allows the capitalist to split a worker’s activity into two forms. On the one hand, the proletarian contributes every bit of on-the-clock activity to the value of the resulting commodity. On the other, the wages the capitalist pays out merely buy the proletarian’s “labor-power,” which is the worker’s ability to live (and sometimes to secure a livelihood for their household) at a certain standard, in order to continue showing up at work each day. Crucially, it takes only part of the working day for workers to produce as much value as will be returned to them as wages; after that, the extra value belongs to the capitalist, and any additional labor goes unpaid. Within this gap between the time and effort the capitalist can extract and the scant wages he can get away with paying resides surplus value, the discovery of which Marx regarded as his real achievement: “for more than two thousand years, the human mind has failed to comprehend it.”
The basic imperative of capital is to maximize the contributions of laborers relative to the compensation they receive. (For Marx, this overriding law covers piecework as well as strict wage labor: “Piece wages are thus nothing but a modified form of time wages.”) And from this principle of wage labor flow all the other familiar features of capitalism, from efforts to lengthen the workday or workweek; to the introduction of new and more efficient machinery or technology, so that labor-power can pay for itself sooner in the day rather than later; to the extension of industry to regions of the globe where local conditions make the costs of labor cheaper than elsewhere; and, finally, to universal competition among capitalist firms to eliminate rival producers, capitalist and noncapitalist alike.
Once you reach the concluding chapters of Capital, a sort of worldwide wood has grown from the solitary acorn of the commodity. The fatal separation of workers everywhere from both the initial premises and the final product of their work generates a swelling social surplus known to its private possessors simply, and incuriously, as profit. Contrary to a common idea about Marx’s argument, the profit-driven process of capital accumulation doesn’t necessarily entail the overall immiseration or impoverishment of the workers of the world. In his chapter “The General Law of Capitalist Accumulation,” he concedes that the conditions “we have been presupposing are comparatively good for workers,” given that “a bigger part of the worker’s own constantly increasing surplus product” typically “comes back to him” in the shape of wages. Fundamentally, the proletarian forfeits not so much income as individual freedom and the sovereignty of his or her class. More and better consumer goods “don’t wipe away the wage laborer’s relationship of dependence and his exploitation any more than better clothes, food, and treatment, and a larger peculium”—the private property of an unfree person, such as a soldier or, at the time, wife—“do that for the slave.” For Marx, the crucial term “exploitation” (Ausbeutung) possesses not only a moral but an arithmetic meaning. In a society cleaved into labor sellers and capital owners, every increase in workers’ hourly productivity tends to accelerate their worldly dispossession. The more that workers create the world, the less do they possess and control it.
The upshot is that to belong to the proletariat is not just to do some kind of well- or badly paid job; above all, it’s to need a job, whether you have one or not. Employed or unemployed, the proletarian doesn’t own the means of production necessary for laboring, and the tendency of capital constantly to reduce the labor-time necessary to set in motion its mounting apparatus of machinery means that, over time, it requires fewer and fewer workers relative to the scale of operations. Marx refers to the unemployed as the “relative surplus population” or “industrial reserve army” and insists that “the proportional magnitude of the industrial reserve army grows as the potency of wealth does.” Such prophecies of a snowballing surplus population may seem quaint to an American reader looking up from Capital at a country boasting historically low rates of unemployment. They look different, however, from a planetary perspective, in which some two billion people, outcast from on-the-books employment, must cadge a living from their daily tightrope walk across an abyss of destitution. (Professional economists today call this generalized vertigo “the informal economy.”)
Despite Engels’s famous description of his and Marx’s method as “historical materialism,” in the end Capital is less a work of history than of logic, in which the pinwheeling formula M–C–M‘ spins out its consequences. Only in the last chapters of volume one does Marx really write as a historian, when he considers “the so-called original accumulation” of private property necessary to a first division of society into capitalists and would-be wage laborers. Original or (in Fowkes’s translation) “primitive” accumulation consists chiefly of the expulsion of the European peasantry from the land beginning in the fifteenth century, as well as the colonial plunder of Africa, Asia, and the Americas. The outcome in both cases is a class deprived of important possessions beyond its labor power—an inaugural and abiding disaster that “plays more or less the same role in political economy as original sin in theology.” The point of this closing demonstration seems to be that mature capitalism recapitulates its original sin with every new generation. Children arrive into a trammeling grid of haves and have-nots set up long before their birth, a net that individual struggles serve only to tighten. Shredding the net would require the collaboration of one whole class and the comeuppance of another. Less a manual (or manifesto) for revolution than an autopsy of the commodity, Capital nevertheless presents a notion of how such a revolution might take place. “Capitalist magnates” grow in power and wealth but decrease in number; the proletariat meanwhile grows in number but decreases in power and wealth. Finally the contradiction proves intolerable. “The expropriators are expropriated,” as Marx says. Or will be, one day.
Volume one of Capital might be said to outline the fixed logic, as Marx sees it, of continuous capitalist upheaval, what he and Engels in the Manifesto called “the constant revolutionizing of production, uninterrupted disturbance of all social conditions.” This means, among other things, that Capital is forever in need of being reintroduced to a changing world. A foreword, an introduction, and a preface all precede this latest translation, not to mention an afterword, in which the scholar William Clare Roberts suggests that, rather than look for the most authentic edition of Capital, we should regard each as answering to its historical moment. In the case of the French translation of 1875, overseen by Marx himself, Roberts proposes that its somewhat greater simplicity by comparison with the German original may be due to an audience (French workers) and a moment (not long after the Third Republic’s savage suppression of the Paris Commune) that Marx hoped might prove especially receptive.
In 1976, amid a wave of strikes in the First World and anticolonial revolutions in the Third, the Belgian Trotskyist Ernest Mandel wrote in his introduction to what was then Ben Fowkes’s brand-new translation that “it is most unlikely that capitalism will survive another half-century” and predicted that Capital “will in the end prove to have made a decisive contribution to capitalism’s replacement by a classless society of associated producers.” Here in the third decade of the twenty-first century, Princeton University Press presents Capital as the story not of inevitable proletarian triumph but of “value” and how the law of value “came to tyrannize our world.”
The emphasis on a runaway law of value that subjugates worker and capitalist alike follows recent trends in Marxist writing. Value-form theory, as it’s often called, pays less attention than prior incarnations of Marxism did to the fission between labor and capital contained in the atom of the capitalist commodity, and stresses instead that both capitalists and workers must obey the same remorseless economic law. (Presumably, this is only the more true when the pension plans of rich-country workers largely consist of shares in the stock market.) The capitalism of recent Marxist scholarship, then, remains a society in which capitalists control and exploit workers, but it is also one in which the headless process of accumulation dictates everyone’s circumstances and constrains their choices.
There is no more point in deploring this more analytic than agitational iteration of Marxism than in celebrating it. The truth is that it’s precisely the unfolding of capitalism that Marx foresaw that today makes it harder than perhaps ever before for most readers and workers to recognize themselves in the exploited factory hand of volume one, whose uncompensated hours on the assembly line unsluice the stream of surplus value. After all, the less labor is needed to set spinning the colossal mechanism of capitalist civilization, the more invisible to the naked eye that labor becomes. Surplus value-producing labor, concentrated in agriculture and manufacturing, tends in fact to slip out of view precisely to the extent that these departments of the economy grow more efficient, as if in the end the capitalist world were a product that hardly required producers.
The best recent commentaries on Marx’s nineteenth-century treatise register the uncanniness of twenty-first-century capitalism. In The Automatic Fetish: The Law of Value in Marx’s “Capital,” for one example, the Canadian scholar Beverley Best dusts off the neglected third volume of Capital to give a lucid account of how precisely those sectors of a capitalist economy most distant from the creation of surplus value, including real estate, finance, and retail, nevertheless seize and distribute “components of surplus value” (in Marx’s words) originating from living labor deployed in production. Best describes her Marx as “unreconstructed,” but he is also our contemporary, the guide to a society in which the more productive the actual producers become, the less numerous they are relative to everybody else. In other words, the proletariat, employed or otherwise, only increases in number as fewer of its members are necessary for yielding up the surplus value that forms the essence of the system.
Quer nos sintamos melancólicos, raivosos ou confusos, o capitalismo, na maioria das vezes, parece à maioria de nós uma condição simultaneamente natural e obscura, tão natural quanto as coisas são, a ponto de não precisar de um direito ou razão. E se alguém lê Marx pela primeira vez para dissipar essa ingenuidade original, o mesmo raciocínio se aplica à releitura, dado como a ubiquidade do capitalismo constantemente nos tenta a, mais uma vez, tomar seu arranjo peculiar como garantido. A principal conquista de toda essa leitura, no entanto, provavelmente não será alguma operação intelectual imensamente sofisticada e complexa no modelo do próprio Capital; é a simplicidade secundária ou renovada que permite ver a sociedade humana como a soma da atividade humana, assim como qualquer cão ou gato faria. Deveria ser óbvio — mas nunca é — que a sociedade humana é o resultado daqueles que a criam, a entregam, a cuidam e a substituem. Quase igualmente clara é a injustiça de que esses esforços não concedem às pessoas comuns o título de propriedade da terra, mas as privam dela. Os trabalhadores do mundo são o mundo (exceto quando são os jovens, os doentes ou os idosos, os ociosos, os loucos, os estudantes ou simplesmente os adormecidos, que são os eus passados ou futuros dos trabalhadores). Em última análise, tudo é de todos, ou deveria ser. A questão é tão óbvia que é preciso atenção constante para mantê-la em mente.
Benjamin Kunkel faz parte do comitê editorial da New Left Review.