One of my favourite things to do during the winter break is to crack open a big book. It's usually a book that's been recommended to me as requiring patience. In years past I've read novels that became instant favourites, like Thomas Mann's The Magic Mountain (1924) and Peter Weiss's The Aesthetics of Resistance (1975). In other years I've read books that have been gifted to me, like Gareth Steadman Jones's critical biography of Marx, Greatness and Illusion. What unites them all is that they bear some relation to German history and culture. This year, it's finally time to read Eiland and Jennings' 700-page study of Walter Benjamin's life and work. I say finally because I once loaned this book out from the university library in 2015, only to return it again in 2016 completely untouched. But I am glad to have returned to it. I start reading it in the final days of the general election, and I finish the night before new year's eve.
First things first: this is an astonishing book. It's long, but not a single page is wasted. It's critical, but rarely cold. Its balance between page-turning biographic life-writing, pertinent historical contextualisation and rigorous scholarly analysis is mostly pitch perfect. Anyone who's remotely interested in Walter Benjamin will, I think, get a great deal from it. I look forward to reading it everyday of the holidays, and I'm sad when it's over.
Benjamin was born into a haute-bourgeois German-Jewish family in the late nineteenth century. In his twenties, he was messed-around by several German universities. He was never awarded a Habilitation for his work on German tragic theatre, and this effectively locked him out of academia and stable employment. He became a critic, living mostly on small commissions and his wife Dora's salary. By his thirties, when he resolved to become the foremost literary critic in Germany, he had already lived through the First World War, the Russian Revolution, and the Sparticist uprising. During this time he published articles on literature, cinema and art; he wrote popular reviews and miniature reflections (what he called Denkbilder, or "figures of thought", literally "thought-images") in national newspapers; and he hosted radio shows on popular culture. He fled Nazism in the 30s, scraped by in Paris until the outbreak of the Second World War, only to find himself interred in a refugee camp. He fled southwards towards Spain in 1938. With his heart growing weaker and his anxiety growing stronger, Benjamin was granted a visa to travel to the United States and work with his long-time associates Max Horkheimer and Theodor W. Adorno. But the visa arrived too late. France was now occupied, the Vichy government installed, and all the borders were closed to the country's fleeing Jews and communists. Benjamin kept his head down in Marseilles, then smuggled himself across the border with a group of fellow travellers. On the night that they were turned away from entering Spain at Portbou, Benjamin took his own life. The next day, the rest of the travellers were granted entry into Spain, and escaped the Nazi holocaust.
The Benjamin I've come to know from my reading over the past few years is dominated by the writer of One-Way Street, Berlin Childhood around 1900, and 'The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction', as well as by the Benjamin who shines through in Illuminations, the selected works that Hannah Arendt edited and published in the late 1960s. Yet one of the central arguments that Eiland and Jennings make is that Benjamin's project culminates – chronologically, thematically, politically, formally – in the two major works that I haven't read: The Arcades Project, his study of the Parisian arcades, and his monograph on Charles Baudelaire as the quintessential poet of modernity. Who knows if this is correct, but at least it gives me motivation to read them.
Another of the book's major contentions is that Benjamin was contradictory. In both his life and his work, Benjamin was a "mobile and contradictory whole", "a set of pure improvisations". Benjamin was characterised by an almost antique commitment to friendly pleasantries and manners, yet he was manipulative and kept each of his friends separate, never allowing them to meet one another. He wrote passionately about the prospect of a communist society, yet he remained mostly distant from all communist politics on the ground, and he clung on in his daily life to the warm privileges of his family's wealth. He kept a weekly budget for his finances, yet he factored into these budgets the fact that he would waste a portion of his income on gambling. He was a tireless critic of an emerging consumer society, yet he would often spend hundreds of francs in luxury toy shops. Turns out, too, that Benjamin was a pretty inadequate father to his son and a bad husband to his wife. An expert procrastinator, he turned down opportunities to move to Moscow, Paris, London, and Israel, only to later find the door closed when he needed to move the most.
All of this is not to say that Benjamin was a "hypocrite", or that by doing one thing (like enjoying bourgeois daily life) he necessarily cancelled out his wish for another thing (a communist revolution). Rather, it's to tell the truer, fuller story of Benjamin's life, a story that's also more dialectical. For in the case of Benjamin's relationship with communism, Eiland and Jennings argue – persuasively, I think – that it's precisely this contradictory relationship to communist politics that drives the innovations of his work. Benjamin not only arrived at communism relatively late (in the 1920s, thanks to the amazing Latvian actress and proletarian theatre director, Asja Lacis), but he also pushed Marxist thought into conversation with a kind of gnostic Jewish mysticism. Thus Benjamin's work practiced a dialectical rethinking of Marxism itself – and it's this contribution that has sustained Benjamin's appeal into the twenty-first century.