Why Marxians are getting excited about the credit crisis

Are we all doomed?

Karl Marx knew a thing or two. Only six years after Charles Darwin published “The Origin of Species” Marx had worked out that capitalism needed two things to be fit to survive; growth and debt. Profits could only be created if someone, somewhere, borrowed money.

This dependency on debt meant that capitalism, viewed from a Marxist perspective, was doomed to periodic crises as human nature couldn’t self-limit. Credit binges would erupt from time to time, threatening the edifice of debt-fuelled consumption. More to the point each crisis would become larger and larger until, one day, capitalism would implode and the social economy would take its rightful place.

And so it has been since Marx first published “Das Kapital” in 1867: debt has accumulated in the corporate sector, the private sector and, most controversially, at the heart of western governments. Even the United States, supposed to be that most arch of capitalist economies, has racked up debts equal to its national income and now its annual interest bill is rising at an alarming rate.  We in the UK are not immune: soon our fourth largest government expenditure will be the interest we pay on our government debt.

As a Marxian you might even regard this phenomenon with some glee; the crisis of capitalism has passed from the private domain, through the banking system into our central banks and now is gathering within our government finances.  The conspiratorial nature of Marxist analysis even has it that Big Finance bullies government into borrowing, destructively transferring wealth from citizens to capitalists. This paradoxical behavior leads to the conclusion that the biggest enemy of capitalism is not the working classes but capitalism itself.

So Marx would have it that the third wave of the current crisis will be that a well-known national government will renege on its interest payments; someone is going to default as the jargon goes. The logical response would be to start reducing your debts and this is at the heart of those who see austerity as a social cost worth paying to stabilize national finances. But controlling national finances comes with a social cost. Witness the 27 per cent unemployment in Spain and the rioting on the streets of Europe.

So far politicians have tried to appease the markets at the expense of the people. This has worked for a time but now, with their survival instincts at full the throttle, the pressure is rising to change course. The IMF has told the UK coalition government to loosen the girdle it has placed around public finances whilst the first statement by the new Italian Prime Minister Enrico Letta has been to reverse some of the tax increases meant to control Italy’s chronic debts. Last week Spain decided to take the brakes off deficit reduction and Greece is heading in the direction of requiring another round of forgiveness and do I really have to mention Cyprus? Trouble is brewing at the heart of government finances – marx my words Karl might say….

A bust of Marx. Photograph: Getty Images

Head of Fixed Income and Macro, Old Mutual Global Investors

Qusai Al Shidi/Flickr
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I can’t follow Marie Kondo's advice – even an empty Wotsits packet “sparks joy” in me

I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

I have been brooding lately on the Japanese tidying freak Marie Kondo. (I forgot her name so I typed “Japanese tidying freak” into Google, and it was a great help.) The “Japanese” bit is excusable in this context, and explains a bit, as I gather Japan is more on the case with the whole “being tidy” thing than Britain, but still.

Apart from telling us that we need to take an enormous amount of care, to the point where we perform origami when we fold our underpants, which is pretty much where she lost me, she advises us to throw away anything that does not, when you hold it, “spark joy”. Perhaps I have too much joy in my life. I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

After a while I gave up on this because I was getting a bit too happy with all the memories, so then I thought to myself, about her: “This is someone who isn’t getting laid enough,” and then I decided that was a crude and ungallant thought, and besides, who am I to wag the finger? At least if she invites someone to her bedroom no one is going to run screaming from it, as they would if I invited anyone to my boudoir. (Etym: from the French “bouder”, to sulk. How very apt in my case.) Marie Kondo – should bizarre circumstance ever conspire to bring her to the threshold – would run screaming from the Hovel before she’d even alighted the stairs from the front door.

I contemplate my bedroom. As I write, the cleaning lady is in it. To say that I have to spend half an hour cleaning out empty Wotsits packets, and indeed wotnot, before I let her in there should give you some idea of how shameful it has got. And even then I have to pay her to do so.

A girlfriend who used to be referred to often in these pages, though I think the term should be a rather less flippant one than “girlfriend”, managed to get round my natural messiness problem by inventing a game called “keep or chuck”.

She even made up a theme song for it, to the tune from the old Spiderman TV show. She would show me some object, which was not really rubbish, but usually a book (it may not surprise you to learn that it is the piles of books that cause most of the clutter here), and say, “Keep or chuck?” in the manner of a high-speed game show host. At one point I vacillated and so she then pointed at herself and said, “Keep or chuck?” I got the message.

These days the chances of a woman getting into the bedroom are remote. For one thing, you can’t just walk down the street and whistle for one much as one would hail a cab, although my daughter is often baffled by my ability to attract females, and suspects I have some kind of “mind ray”. Well, if I ever did it’s on the blink now, and not only that – right now, I’m not even particularly bothered that it’s on the blink. Because, for another thing, I would frankly not care to inflict myself upon anyone else at the moment.

It was all a bit of a giggle eight years ago, when I was wheeled out of the family home and left to my own devices. Of course, when I say “a bit of a giggle”, I mean “terrifying and miserable”, but I had rather fewer miles on the clock than I do now, and a man can, I think, get away with a little bit more scampish behaviour, and entertain a few more illusions about the future and his own plausibility as a character, when he is squarely in his mid-forties than when he is approaching, at speed, his middle fifties.

Death has rather a lot to do with it, I suppose. I had not actually seen, or touched, a dead body until I saw, and touched, my own father’s a few weeks ago. That’s what turns an abstract into a concrete reality. You finally put that to one side and gird up your loins – and then bloody David Bowie snuffs it, and you find yourself watching the videos for “Blackstar” and “Lazarus” over and over again, and reach the inescapable conclusion that death is not only incredibly unpleasant, it is also remorseless and very much nearer than you think.

And would you, dear reader, want to be involved with anyone who kept thinking along those lines? I mean, even if he learned how to fold his undercrackers into an upright cylinder, like a napkin at a fancy restaurant, before putting them in his drawer? When he doesn’t even have a drawer?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war