Friday, 31 July 2026

Eric Williams’ Capitalism and Slavery: A Materialist Reckoning with Abolition’s Sanitized Myth

Eighty years after its publication, Eric Williams’ Capitalism and Slavery (1944) remains one of the few works of historical scholarship that a socialist reader can approach without performing the usual surgery of extracting a materialist core from an idealist narrative. Williams — a Trinidadian historian trained at Oxford and later the first prime minister of an independent Trinidad and Tobago — set out to dismantle one of British liberalism’s most cherished myths: that abolition was the triumph of moral conscience over economic interest. His achievement was not merely to expose the hypocrisy of this narrative, but to relocate abolition squarely within the history of capital accumulation.

Williams develops his argument in two parts: slavery as the engine of British capitalism’s rise, and abolition as capitalism’s rational response once slavery no longer served its interests. A deeper Marxist reading reinforces both claims by placing them within the frameworks of primitive accumulation, formal and real subsumption, and the dialectic of economic crisis and political action — concepts Williams approached but did not fully develop.

Slavery as Primitive Accumulation: Capital’s Violent Foundation

Williams’ first claim — that slavery financed the rise of British capitalism — is now widely accepted, though often detached from its theoretical force. His point was not merely that Britain profited from slavery, but that the plantation complex formed a stage of primitive accumulation (Marx 1976, 873–940): capital’s violent pre-history, in which wealth was extracted through extra-economic coercion. The Caribbean plantation was a modern capitalist enterprise under conditions of formal subsumption: capital controlled the labour process without yet transforming it. Surplus was extracted through the whip, the chain, and the legal fiction of human property. Slavery was therefore indispensable to early British capitalism because it generated enormous coerced surplus, supplied capital for industrial investment, and integrated Britain into a global commercial system whose profits exceeded those of domestic production.

Williams documented this with a precision few historians have matched, drawing on shipping records, customs ledgers, and parliamentary debates (Williams 1944, 51–78). The result was a portrait of a capitalist system whose industrial future was financed by the blood and labour of enslaved Africans.

Abolition as Capitalist Rationalization: When Slavery Became a Barrier

Williams’ second claim — that capitalism discarded slavery once it was no longer profitable — remains contested. A Marxist framework, however, sharpens his argument. By the early nineteenth century, the plantation system faced structural crisis: exhausted soil depressed yields (Beckles 2013), protected monopolies clashed with free-trade ideology (Ragatz 1928), industrial capital required mobile wage labour rather than fixed chattel (Engels 1845), and the Haitian Revolution greatly increased the costs of military repression (Dubois 2004).

Slavery had become a barrier to capital’s shift from formal to real subsumption: from extracting surplus through direct coercion to extracting it through wages, machinery, and rising productivity (Marx 1976, 1019–1038). Abolition was not capitalism’s redemption, but its modernization.

Williams came close to this conclusion but never fully stated it: abolition marked the shift from mercantile to industrial capitalism, from plantation extraction to factory exploitation. The form of domination changed, but domination itself remained.

Eric Williams’ Capitalism and Slavery and the 1619 Project

Eric Williams’ Capitalism and Slavery (1944) has returned to public debate in recent years, partly because of its 2022 republication as a Penguin Modern Classic and partly because controversies around the New York Times’ 1619 Project have revived questions about slavery, capitalism, and the origins of the modern world. Williams’ thesis — that slavery built British capitalism, and that capitalism abandoned slavery only when it was no longer profitable — speaks directly to the 1619 Project’s central claims, even though the two works differ in method, scope, and political purpose.

Williams’ Thesis: Slavery as Engine and Obstacle of Capitalism

Williams’ argument has two parts. First, he shows that the profits of Caribbean slavery financed Britain’s commercial and industrial expansion, supporting port cities, banks, and the early industrial revolution (Williams 1944; Project MUSE summary). Second, he argues that British capitalism opposed slavery only when the plantation system began to obstruct further accumulation. Abolition, in this account, was not a moral awakening but a rationalization of capital.

Williams’ thesis broke with the liberal historiography that had long dominated Anglo-Caribbean history and helped open the way for a generation of West Indian scholars and anti-colonial thinkers (Marshall 1991; JSTOR summary). As the Royal Historical Society observes, it remains “perhaps the most influential book written in the twentieth century on the history of slavery” (RHS panel summary).

II. The 1619 Project: Slavery as America’s Foundational Structure

The 1619 Project, launched by the New York Times in 2019, makes a related but distinct argument: that slavery fundamentally shaped the United States, and that 1619 — when the first enslaved Africans arrived in Virginia — should be understood as the nation’s true founding. Its essays contend that American capitalism, political institutions, racial ideology, and democratic contradictions cannot be understood without placing slavery at the centre. While Williams focuses on Britain and the Caribbean, the 1619 Project centres the United States. While Williams writes as an economic historian dismantling imperial self-mythology, the 1619 Project intervenes journalistically and politically to reshape national memory. Both, however, share a core premise: slavery was not an aberration within capitalism, but one of its constitutive foundations.

Williams argues that slavery financed Britain’s industrial revolution; the 1619 Project argues that slavery shaped the distinctive features of American capitalism, including labour discipline, financial instruments, and racialized class relations. Both reject the idea that capitalism and slavery were opposites, insisting instead that capitalism developed through slavery. For Williams, plantations were capitalist enterprises driven by profit, not feudal remnants. The 1619 Project makes a similar claim, presenting plantation accounting systems, productivity metrics, and coercive labour management as precursors to modern corporate practice.

Williams showed that British humanitarianism closely tracked changing economic interests, while the 1619 Project argues that American ideals of freedom and democracy rested on the material foundation of racial slavery. In both accounts, morality follows interest, not the reverse. Williams grounds his analysis in trade statistics, shipping records, and economic logic; his critics argue that he underplays enslaved resistance and political mobilization (Drescher 2010). The 1619 Project, by contrast, foregrounds culture, ideology, politics, memory, identity, and national mythmaking.

Williams writes from the Caribbean, analysing Britain’s imperial economy. The 1619 Project writes from within the United States, confronting the legacy of slavery in American institutions. Williams dismantles imperial self‑congratulation; the 1619 Project dismantles nationalist self‑congratulation.

Williams wrote during the age of anti-colonial nationalism, providing intellectual support for independence movements (JSTOR summary). The 1619 Project intervenes in a moment of racial reckoning, political polarization, and debate over structural racism in the United States. Their strongest point of convergence — and where Williams offers the sharper materialist insight — is abolition. For Williams, abolition was not capitalism’s moral triumph but its transition from one mode of exploitation to another: mature industrial capitalism required wage labour rather than chattel labour, free trade rather than protected monopolies, and flexible labour markets rather than fixed human property.

Williams underplays enslaved resistance — revolts, sabotage, flight, and the Haitian Revolution — as material forces that shaped slavery’s profitability. The 1619 Project, by contrast, foregrounds enslaved people as historical agents whose struggles helped shape American democracy. In this respect, it corrects a genuine limitation in Williams’ account. It also examines slavery’s ideological afterlife, showing how racial capitalism persists in policing, housing, healthcare, and labour markets — dimensions Williams did not address.

Despite their differences, Williams and the 1619 Project share a central claim: slavery was not an external stain on capitalism but one of its formative structures. Williams demonstrates this through economic history; the 1619 Project does so through national memory and institutional analysis. Both challenge liberal narratives that portray slavery as a regrettable departure from Western progress, insisting instead that capitalism’s history cannot be told without placing slavery at its centre.

The Enslaved as Historical Agents: The Material Force Williams Underplayed

Critics often argue that Williams underplays the agency of the enslaved (Drescher 2010). This criticism is valid, but often misdirected. The problem is not that Williams failed to “give voice” to enslaved people; it is that he understated their role as material actors who shaped the profitability of slavery itself. The Haitian Revolution (1791–1804) was decisive.

The Haitian Revolution showed that enslaved labour was not passive raw material but a revolutionary force capable of destroying the plantation system itself. After Haiti, the costs of maintaining slavery rose sharply; fear of revolt became a constant factor in economic calculation; and the British state faced the prospect of repeated military intervention to defend planter property. Enslaved resistance — through revolts, slowdowns, sabotage, and flight — was not merely a moral drama, but a material pressure that made slavery increasingly untenable. Later Marxist scholarship has developed the analysis Williams left implicit (Blackburn 1988; James 1938).

Williams has been criticised for moving too quickly from economic crisis to political outcome, but this misreads the relation between economics and politics under capitalism. Mass petitions, abolitionist agitation, parliamentary debates, and enslaved uprisings were not moral forces set against economic ones; they were the forms through which economic necessity became political action.

Capital does not act on its own. It moves through parties, movements, ideologies, and crises. The political history missing from Williams is therefore not an alternative to economic explanation, but the mechanism by which economic imperatives became policy.

Williams wrote in the 1930s and 1940s as a colonial subject, before the global Marxist revival and before the full publication of Marx’s economic manuscripts. Capitalism and Slavery was an anti-colonial intervention aimed at exposing British hypocrisy, not a systematic Marxist theory of capitalist development. What Williams could not fully state — but what a Marxist reading must — is that the same British capital that abandoned chattel slavery in the 1830s was, within a generation, extracting surplus value from wage labour under conditions Engels described as “social murder” (Engels 1845, 109). Abolition was not the victory of conscience, but the victory of industrial capital.

Why Williams Still Matters: The Ideology of Humanitarianism Today

Williams’ method remains indispensable because it exposes the material interests beneath contemporary ideology: “humanitarian intervention” conceals geopolitical strategy; “anti-corruption reform” advances market liberalization; and “corporate diversity” can mask labour discipline and brand management. The pattern remains the same: morality follows interest, not the other way round. Williams’ central lesson — that ruling-class morality discovers itself in line with ruling-class interest — has lost none of its force.

Williams’ book remains indispensable precisely because it refuses the liberal fantasy of moral progress and insists that the history of abolition, like the history of capitalism itself, can only be understood through the logic of material interests.

Bibliography

Primary Works

  • Engels, Friedrich. The Condition of the Working Class in England. 1845.
  • James, C.L.R. The Black Jacobins: Toussaint L’Ouverture and the San Domingo Revolution. London: Secker & Warburg, 1938.
  • Marx, Karl. Capital: Volume I. Trans. Ben Fowkes. London: Penguin, 1976.
  • Williams, Eric. Capitalism and Slavery. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1944.

Secondary Works

  • Beckles, Hilary McD. Britain’s Black Debt: Reparations for Caribbean Slavery and Native Genocide. Kingston: University of the West Indies Press, 2013.
  • Blackburn, Robin. The Overthrow of Colonial Slavery, 1776–1848. London: Verso, 1988.
  • Drescher, Seymour. Abolition: A History of Slavery and Antislavery. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010.
  • Dubois, Laurent. Avengers of the New World: The Story of the Haitian Revolution. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004.
  • Ragatz, Lowell J. The Fall of the Planter Class in the British Caribbean, 1763–1833. New York: Century, 1928.

 

Reclaiming Marx for the History of Slavery: A Review of David McNally’s Slavery and Capitalism: A New Marxist History

For nearly two decades, debate over slavery and capitalism in the United States has been shaped by the so-called “New History of Capitalism” (NHC), a loose group of scholars whose influence reflects less intellectual strength than the deep disorientation of contemporary bourgeois scholarship. Arising after the 2008 financial crisis and the collapse of neoliberal triumphalism, the NHC has sought to offset its theoretical weakness through extensive empirical accumulation. Its central claim—that plantation slavery was integral to capitalist development—is correct, but it reaches that conclusion without grasping capitalism itself.

This is no accident. The NHC is a petty-bourgeois ideological formation rooted in academic middle layers whose outlook is marked by hostility to Marxism, suspicion of theory, and retreat into descriptive empiricism. Its scholars have produced vast archival detail yet remain unable to explain the structural relationship between slavery and capitalism. Their work reflects a wider crisis: the abandonment of historical materialism in the universities and the rise of identity politics, moralism, and methodological fragmentation.

David McNally’s Slavery and Capitalism: A New Marxist History enters at this moment of theoretical collapse. More than a contribution to slavery historiography, it directly challenges the petty-bourgeois drift of contemporary scholarship. It restores Marxist method to a field that has grown uncertain of its capacity to explain the world.

McNally counters long-standing caricatures by showing that Marx understood Atlantic plantation slavery as capitalist commodity production and the enslaved as a “chattel proletariat.” This is more than a small interpretive correction: it decisively refutes the Eurocentric view that capitalism is defined solely by free wage labour, a view that obscures its global, violent, and coercive development.

The Argument: A Systematic Reassertion of Historical Materialism

McNally’s book proceeds in two parts. First, through case studies of Richard Ligon’s account of Barbadian sugar production, George Washington’s role as an agrarian capitalist slaveholder, and Edward Gibbon Wakefield’s theory of colonial labour, it shows that plantation slavery bore the defining marks of capitalist production: production for world markets, systematic labour discipline, and constant pressure to raise productivity.

The second part shifts to political economy, showing how capital derived from slavery helped shape modern financial institutions, including the Bank of England, and later influenced the development of American capitalism. The conclusion is clear: slavery was not outside capitalism but structurally central to it.

McNally places his work within a “forgotten critical Marxist tradition” of C.L.R. James, W.E.B. Du Bois, and Sylvia Wynter, all of whom rejected the Eurocentric view that capitalism is defined solely by free labour. By reviving this tradition, he exposes the NHC’s theoretical bankruptcy: its attempt to explain capitalism without Marx and slavery without class analysis.

Where the Book Succeeds: Restoring Class Struggle to the Centre of the Narrative

The book’s strongest contribution is its analysis of enslaved resistance. Liberal historiography has often reduced rebellion, sabotage, and flight to moral testimony or narrative detail. Despite its empirical breadth, the NHC largely repeats this pattern, treating enslaved resistance as an outside disruption rather than a structural feature of capitalist production.

McNally breaks sharply with this approach by recasting enslaved resistance as labour struggle, structurally comparable to strikes, slowdowns, and collective bargaining. In doing so, he restores the enslaved to their proper place as historical agents contesting the conditions of production and reproduction. This is a genuinely original contribution that gives his theoretical framework real explanatory force. His prose is clear, forceful, and historically grounded; planter diaries, travel accounts, and slave narratives function not as ornament but as evidence of the lived reality of capitalist exploitation.

David McNally and the 1619 Project: Marxism Against the Petty‑Bourgeois Rewriting of History

David McNally’s Slavery and Capitalism: A New Marxist History appears at a moment of profound ideological confusion. Few examples reveal this more clearly than the rise of the 1619 Project, a political and cultural intervention embraced by parts of the media and academia as a definitive reframing of American history. In fact, it marks the culmination of a petty-bourgeois ideological turn: replacing historical materialism with racial essentialism, class analysis with moral narrative, and revolutionary perspective with political demoralisation.

Although not written as a direct reply to the 1619 Project, McNally’s book stands in sharp theoretical opposition to it. While the 1619 Project casts slavery as a story of racial continuity and national guilt, McNally emphasises the structural, global, and capitalist character of New World slavery. Rather than treating slavery as the permanent essence of American society, he locates it within the development of the capitalist mode of production—a system driven not by racial metaphysics but by profit, accumulation, and class domination. The contrast could hardly be sharper.

The 1619 Project: A Petty‑Bourgeois Politics of Race

The 1619 Project is not a serious historical intervention but a political project grounded in the outlook of the upper-middle-class layers that dominate contemporary cultural institutions. Its method replaces historical materialism with racial essentialism, presenting American history as an unbroken chain of racial oppression from the arrival of enslaved Africans to the present. This narrative serves clear ideological functions: it collapses class into race, erasing capitalist exploitation; substitutes moral condemnation for structural analysis, reducing history to a record of injustice rather than social forces; denies the revolutionary agency of the working class by portraying American society as permanently defined by racial hierarchy rather than class struggle; and aligns with the interests of affluent professional strata, who use racial discourse to claim moral authority while preserving their own class position.

The 1619 Project’s hostility to Marxism is deliberate. It reflects the political needs of a social layer threatened by genuine materialist analysis, which would expose the class basis of exploitation and the capitalist state’s role in sustaining inequality.

McNally’s Intervention: Restoring Marxism to the Debate

McNally’s Slavery and Capitalism directly challenges this ideological drift. His claim is not merely that slavery was linked to capitalism, a point the 1619 Project acknowledges only superficially, but that slavery was a form of capitalist production governed by the same structural imperatives that shaped wage labour. This distinction is decisive. Where the 1619 Project treats slavery primarily as a racial institution, McNally shows it was a capitalist institution driven by production for world markets, systematic labour discipline, relentless pressure to raise productivity, and integration into global circuits of finance and credit. By recovering Marx’s writings and the tradition of Du Bois, C.L.R. James, and Sylvia Wynter, McNally exposes the theoretical bankruptcy of approaches that reduce slavery to racial essence rather than analysing it as a capitalist relation.

Enslaved Resistance: Class Struggle, Not Racial Allegory

One of McNally’s key contributions is to recast enslaved resistance as labour struggle. This sharply contrasts with the 1619 Project, which presents resistance mainly as racial testimony: a moral counter-narrative rather than a structural feature of capitalist production. McNally instead restores the enslaved as historical agents engaged in class struggle, contesting the conditions of production and reproduction within capitalism. This is a fundamentally Marxist insight, and it is absent from the 1619 Project’s racial-moral framework.

Why the 1619 Project Cannot Explain Slavery

The 1619 Project cannot explain slavery because it cannot explain capitalism. Its framework is moral rather than material, racial rather than structural. It presents slavery as America’s original sin, not as a global capitalist institution embedded in world markets, finance, and imperial expansion. McNally, by contrast, shows that slavery was not an aberration but a central mechanism of capitalist accumulation; that the enslaved were not racial symbols but workers subjected to capitalist discipline; that the plantation was not simply a racial institution but a capitalist factory in the fields; and that resistance was not merely racial defiance but class struggle within a coercive labour regime. In short, McNally explains slavery because he explains capitalism; the 1619 Project explains neither.

Marxism Against Petty‑Bourgeois Revisionism

David McNally’s Slavery and Capitalism is more than a scholarly study; it is a necessary intervention in a historiographical field shaped by petty-bourgeois racial politics and theoretical fragmentation. Despite its cultural influence, the 1619 Project retreats from materialist analysis, recasting the history of slavery as a narrative of racial permanence. McNally’s book restores what that project cannot: the structural, global, and capitalist character of slavery; the agency of enslaved workers as participants in class struggle; and the indispensable role of Marxist theory in explaining the modern world’s development.

Where It Meets Resistance: The Petty‑Bourgeois Fear of Theory

The sharpest critique of McNally comes from a review in the Journal of Social History, which objects that McNally is engaged in theoretical reconstruction rather than conventional archival history. This criticism is revealing. It reflects the methodological conservatism of contemporary academic history, which has increasingly abandoned theory in favour of empiricism and treats conceptual clarity as a threat rather than a necessity.

The objection that “historians and theorists do different kinds of work” is not a methodological point but an ideological one. It expresses the petty‑bourgeois fear of totalising explanation — the fear that a coherent analysis of capitalism might expose the social foundations of exploitation and the class character of the academy itself.

The NHC’s refusal to engage with Marx is not an oversight. It is a political stance. It reflects the ideological position of a stratum that seeks to critique capitalism’s excesses while preserving its foundations, and that therefore cannot tolerate a genuinely materialist analysis.

McNally’s insistence on theoretical coherence is therefore not a flaw but a strength. It is a challenge to a historiographical field that has retreated from explanation into description and from analysis into moralism.

A Necessary Marxist Intervention in a Field Adrift

Slavery and Capitalism is not a conventional historical monograph. It is a theoretically ambitious and politically necessary intervention into a debate dominated by empiricism, identity politics, and methodological fragmentation. McNally demonstrates that Marx’s framework, properly understood, already contains the tools needed to explain the relationship between slavery and capitalism — tools the NHC has lacked and attempted to replace with descriptive accumulation.

Whether or not one accepts McNally’s full theoretical argument, his reframing of enslaved resistance as labour struggle is a major contribution. His recovery of a critical Marxist tradition is timely and essential. And his critique of the NHC exposes the limits of a historiography that has attempted to understand capitalism without Marx.

For scholars engaged in the debate over slavery and capitalism, McNally’s book is a serious, provocative, and necessary work — one that restores historical materialism to a field that has drifted far from it.

Slavery and Capitalism: A New Marxist History was published by the University of California Press in September 2025.

Sources and Bibliography

I. Works by David McNally

  • McNally, David. Slavery and Capitalism: A New Marxist History. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2025.
  • McNally, David. Global Slump: The Economics and Politics of Crisis and Resistance. Oakland: PM Press, 2011.
  • McNally, David. Against the Market: Political Economy, Market Socialism and the Marxist Critique. London: Verso, 1993.
  • McNally, David. Bodies of Meaning: Studies on Language, Ideology and Politics. Albany: SUNY Press, 2001.

II. Marx, Engels, and the Classical Marxist Tradition

  • Marx, Karl. Capital: Volume I. Translated by Ben Fowkes. London: Penguin, 1976.
  • Marx, Karl. Capital: Volume II. London: Penguin, 1978.
  • Marx, Karl. Capital: Volume III. London: Penguin, 1981.
  • Marx, Karl. Grundrisse: Foundations of the Critique of Political Economy. London: Penguin, 1973.
  • Marx, Karl. Theories of Surplus Value. Moscow: Progress Publishers, 1969.
  • Marx, Karl, and Friedrich Engels. Collected Works. 50 vols. London: Lawrence & Wishart, 1975–2004.
  • Engels, Friedrich. The Origin of the Family, Private Property and the State. New York: International Publishers, 1972.

III. The Critical Black Marxist Tradition (Du Bois, James, Wynter)

  • Du Bois, W.E.B. Black Reconstruction in America, 1860–1880. New York: Free Press, 1998 (orig. 1935).
  • Du Bois, W.E.B. The World and Africa. New York: Viking, 1947.
  • James, C.L.R. The Black Jacobins: Toussaint L’Ouverture and the San Domingo Revolution. New York: Vintage, 1989 (orig. 1938).
  • James, C.L.R. A History of Pan-African Revolt. Chicago: Charles H. Kerr, 1969.
  • Wynter, Sylvia. “Unsettling the Coloniality of Being/Power/Truth/Freedom.” CR: The New Centennial Review 3, no. 3 (2003): 257–337.
  • Wynter, Sylvia. “Novel and History, Plot and Plantation.” In Savacou 5 (1971): 95–102.

IV. The New History of Capitalism (NHC)

Core Works

  • Baptist, Edward E. The Half Has Never Been Told: Slavery and the Making of American Capitalism. New York: Basic Books, 2014.
  • Beckert, Sven. Empire of Cotton: A Global History. New York: Knopf, 2014.
  • Beckert, Sven, and Seth Rockman, eds. Slavery’s Capitalism: A New History of American Economic Development. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2016.
  • Johnson, Walter. River of Dark Dreams: Slavery and Empire in the Cotton Kingdom. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2013.
  • Johnson, Walter. The Broken Heart of America: St. Louis and the Violent History of the United States. New York: Basic Books, 2020.
  • Rosenthal, Caitlin. Accounting for Slavery: Masters and Management. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2018.

Representative Articles

  • Rockman, Seth. “The Unfree Origins of American Capitalism.” Journal of the Early Republic 36, no. 3 (2016): 335–350.
  • Beckert, Sven. “History of American Capitalism.” In Oxford Handbook of American Economic History, edited by Louis Cain et al., 1–28. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018.

V. The 1619 Project

Primary Texts

  • Hannah‑Jones, Nikole, ed. The 1619 Project: A New Origin Story. New York: Random House, 2021.
  • The New York Times Magazine. The 1619 Project. Special Issue, August 18, 2019.

Key Essays (Original Magazine Issue)

  • Hannah‑Jones, Nikole. “Our Democracy’s Founding Ideals Were False When They Were Written.”
  • Desmond, Matthew. “To Understand the Brutality of American Capitalism, You Have to Start on the Plantation.”
  • Kendi, Ibram X. “The Anti‑Blackness of American Democracy.”
  • Berry, Mary Frances. “How Segregation Shaped American Education.”

VI. Critiques of the 1619 Project

Marxist and Materialist Critiques

  • Reed, Adolph. “The 1619 Project and the Racialization of Everything.” Catalyst 3, no. 4 (2020): 1–20.
  • Reed, Adolph, and Walter Benn Michaels. “The Trouble with Disparity.” Jacobin, February 2020.
  • WSWS Editorial Board. “The New York Times’ 1619 Project: A Racialist Falsification of History.” World Socialist Web Site, September 2019.
  • North, David. The New York Times’ 1619 Project and the Racialist Falsification of History. Mehring Books, 2021.

Academic Critiques

  • Wilentz, Sean. “A Matter of Facts.” The Atlantic, January 2020.
  • Oakes, James. “The 1619 Project and the Origins of the Civil War.” Catalyst 4, no. 1 (2020): 1–30.
  • McPherson, James M. Interview in WSWS, November 2019.
  • Bynum, Victoria. “The 1619 Project and the Problem of Historical Truth.” Journal of the Civil War Era, 2020.

VII. Slavery, Capitalism, and Political Economy (General Scholarship)

  • Williams, Eric. Capitalism and Slavery. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1944.
  • Blackburn, Robin. The Making of New World Slavery. London: Verso, 1997.
  • Blackburn, Robin. The American Crucible: Slavery, Emancipation and Human Rights. London: Verso, 2011.
  • Tomich, Dale. Through the Prism of Slavery: Labour, Capital, and World Economy. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield, 2004.
  • Holt, Thomas. The Problem of Race in the Twenty‑First Century. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2000.
  • Berlin, Ira. Many Thousands Gone: The First Two Centuries of Slavery in North America. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1998.
  • Morgan, Philip D. Slave Counterpoint. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1998.
  • Mintz, Sidney. Sweetness and Power: The Place of Sugar in Modern History. New York: Viking, 1985.

VIII. Political Economy, Finance, and Empire

  • Arrighi, Giovanni. The Long Twentieth Century: Money, Power, and the Origins of Our Times. London: Verso, 1994.
  • Harvey, David. The New Imperialism. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003.
  • Hobsbawm, Eric. The Age of Revolution: 1789–1848. London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1962.
  • Hobsbawm, Eric. Industry and Empire. London: Penguin, 1968.
  • Inikori, Joseph. Africans and the Industrial Revolution in England. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002.

IX. Useful Archival and Primary Sources

  • Ligon, Richard. A True and Exact History of the Island of Barbados. London, 1657.
  • Wakefield, Edward Gibbon. A View of the Art of Colonisation. London: Parker, 1849.
  • Washington, George. The Papers of George Washington. Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press.
  • Slave Narratives (WPA Federal Writers’ Project), Library of Congress.

  

Wednesday, 29 July 2026

A review of Colin Kidd’s Twilight of the Dons: British Intellectuals from World War II to Thatcherism

The Last Dons: The Collapse of Britain’s Bourgeois Intellectual Establishment

At its core, Colin Kidd’s Twilight of the Dons examines the terminal decline of a ruling-class intelligentsia. The “golden age” of Oxbridge dons was less a period of democratic intellectual flourishing than the final moment when a small academic elite exercised ideological authority on behalf of the British bourgeoisie. Although Kidd writes with affection for his subjects, his book inadvertently exposes the exhaustion of an entire social order and the inability of its intellectual representatives to understand the forces that displaced them.

A wartime bureaucracy becomes an ideological caste

Kidd’s central historical claim—that Oxbridge intellectuals rose to postwar prominence because of the Second World War—is wholly persuasive. Returning from Bletchley Park, Whitehall, and the intelligence services, these dons did not simply resume academic life; they were drawn into the machinery of the state. Their authority depended less on public engagement or democratic legitimacy than on Britain’s distinctive culture of elite deference.

This intelligentsia functioned as a manager of ideology. Figures such as Isaiah Berlin, Hugh Trevor‑Roper, Elizabeth Anscombe, and Edmund Leach were not detached from power; they helped justify it. The debates, rivalries, and feuds Kidd recounts with relish were the internal dramas of a caste whose role was to stabilise bourgeois rule after war and empire.

The tremors of crisis

Kidd’s narrative of the 1960s and 1970s is revealing. The student protests, curricular battles, and increasingly parochial academic disputes were not merely cultural episodes. They were symptoms of a deeper crisis: the erosion of the ideological authority of the bourgeois academy.

For the first time, the dons had to justify their role. The old assumptions—that Oxbridge defined national culture and that its professors naturally guided public life—began to collapse. Kidd presents these disturbances as early signs of Thatcherism, but they were better understood as expressions of the global capitalist crisis of the late 1960s, which shook the institutions built on postwar stability.

Kidd’s most striking insight—and the one closest to a Marxist reading—is that the dons were not overthrown by radical students or left-wing agitation, but by the right.

Thatcher’s government, serving finance capital and an assertive new managerial class, saw Oxbridge’s intellectual aristocracy as an obstacle to market discipline. Long accustomed to acting as an unelected arm of the state, the dons suddenly appeared as inefficient remnants of a paternalistic order the ruling class no longer required. The irony is central: the bourgeois intelligentsia was dismantled by the very class it had served. Thatcherism did not simply reform the universities; it destroyed the social foundations that had sustained Oxbridge’s ideological authority for decades.

Elegy from inside the citadel

Kidd’s account is intimate and nostalgic, as might be expected from a former Fellow of All Souls. It is richly detailed, but also limited by a key blindness: he laments the disappearance of an elite without fully examining the class relations that sustained it. The dons’ authority was never democratic; it rested on Britain’s rigid social hierarchy. Their decline was therefore not a cultural tragedy, but a sign of the wider decay of bourgeois intellectual life.

Why the book matters now

The significance of Twilight of the Dons lies not in its nostalgia, but in its unintended warning. The forces that dismantled the Oxbridge establishment—marketisation, managerialism, and austerity—now weigh on the entire university system. Today’s academic, deprived of autonomy and governed by bureaucratic metrics, is less the heir to Berlin or Trevor‑Roper than another casualty of the forces that displaced them.

Hugh Trevor‑Roper: The Bourgeois Historian as Court Intellectual

Hugh Trevor‑Roper is central to Colin Kidd’s Twilight of the Dons because he so clearly embodies the contradictions of the postwar Oxbridge intellectual caste. His career shows how the British ruling class depended on a narrow elite of academics to give its authority ideological coherence—and how that elite ultimately failed to grasp, much less resist, the forces that would displace it.

Trevor‑Roper was more than a historian. He was a court intellectual whose authority derived from proximity to power, social status, and Britain’s reverence for Oxbridge as guardian of national culture. His work advanced a view of British history that legitimised the existing order: rational, moderate, anti‑revolutionary, and deeply wary of mass politics.

The Don as Defender of the Establishment

Trevor‑Roper’s postwar prominence grew directly from the wartime experience that shaped Kidd’s generation of dons. His intelligence work gave him access to the state, a reputation for administrative competence, and the conviction that intellectual authority belonged within government. He emerged not as a radical critic, but as a trusted interpreter of Britain’s past for the ruling class. Whether writing on the Puritans, the Civil War, or historical method, he reinforced a conservative narrative in which national stability depended on elite stewardship and resistance to ideological extremes. In this sense, Trevor‑Roper acted as an ideological stabiliser, helping sustain bourgeois hegemony during the fragile postwar settlement.

Kidd emphasises Trevor‑Roper’s legendary feuds — with A.J.P. Taylor, with Lawrence Stone, with anyone who threatened his intellectual territory. These were not merely personal eccentricities. They were the internal politics of a caste whose authority depended on maintaining hierarchical control over the production of historical knowledge.

Trevor‑Roper’s battles were, in effect, defensive actions against the encroachment of new methods, new disciplines, and new social forces. His hostility to social history, his contempt for sociology, and his suspicion of Marxist analysis were expressions of a deeper fear: that the bourgeois narrative of British history was losing its grip.His feuds were the last gasps of a declining intellectual aristocracy.

The Hitler Diaries Debacle: A Crisis of Bourgeois Authority

The 1983 Hitler Diaries scandal, in which Trevor‑Roper authenticated forged documents, is often seen as a personal humiliation. Yet it also exposed a wider crisis. His error was more than a lapse in expertise: it revealed the fading authority once automatically granted to Oxbridge dons, the susceptibility of elite intellectuals to media spectacle and commercial pressure, and the old establishment’s inability to adapt to a market‑driven cultural environment. The scandal became symbolic: the bourgeois historian, once treated as an arbiter of national truth, was shown to be fallible, compromised, and out of step with Thatcherism’s emerging order.

Thatcherism and the End of Trevor‑Roper’s World

Trevor‑Roper’s career spanned the “twilight” of the dons that Kidd describes. He lived to see the world that had sustained him dismantled by Thatcher’s reforms, as market logic displaced elite cultural authority, managerial bureaucracy replaced the Oxbridge intellectual, and the social foundations that had allowed dons to act as an unelected arm of the state were destroyed. His marginalisation in the 1980s was therefore not merely personal misfortune, but the political liquidation of the caste he represented.

From a Marxist perspective, Trevor‑Roper’s importance lies less in his scholarship, however stylish, than in his social function. He defended bourgeois historical interpretation, managed elite ideology, and ultimately became a casualty of the ruling class’s shift from paternalistic conservatism to neoliberal aggression. His career traces the arc of the British bourgeois intelligentsia: wartime integration into the state, authority sustained by cultural deference and institutional prestige, crisis under the pressures of mass politics and intellectual diversification, and collapse under Thatcherism’s assault on elite autonomy. Trevor‑Roper was therefore more than a don: he embodied a social order no longer able to reproduce its own ideological guardians.

Conclusion

The rise of artificial intelligence, the commodification of research, and the corporate transformation of universities mark a new phase in the crisis of bourgeois intellectual production. Kidd’s dons belonged to the last generation whose authority was socially assumed rather than bureaucratically measured. Their disappearance was not an isolated event, but part of the bourgeoisie’s wider failure to sustain a coherent ideological worldview.

Twilight of the Dons is not simply a history of Oxbridge. It is a chronicle of the collapse of a ruling‑class intellectual apparatus. Kidd’s affection for his subjects cannot obscure the truth: the dons were the final representatives of a decaying social order, undone not by revolution but by the internal contradictions of capitalism itself.

 


The Nuremberg Women: Liberal Mythmaking and the Erasure of Fascism’s Class Roots: A review of Natalie Livingstone’s new book

Natalie Livingstone describes The Nuremberg Women as a “fresh” and “humanising” depiction of the Nuremberg Trials, highlighting eight women—including journalists, interpreters, witnesses, artists, and administrators—whose efforts, she claims, made the proceedings “more democratic” and contributed to the perception that “justice was served." Nonetheless, the book aligns with contemporary liberal historiography, emphasising personal stories, moral judgments, and depoliticisation. It masks the underlying class conflicts of fascism and neglects the political limitations inherent in the trials.

Livingstone’s book aligns with a recent microhistorical genre that emphasises personal experience rather than broad historical causality, prioritising emotional immediacy over political clarity. This creates a narrative filled with anecdotes but potentially misleading regarding its historical and political significance.

The book has been thoroughly reviewed. Notably, Katja Hoyer’s critique in the TLS stands out from a political viewpoint. Her review of The Nuremberg Women exemplifies a refined form of liberal historiography—graceful and compassionate, yet ultimately evasive. It demonstrates a style that appeals to the reader’s moral instincts while subtly lacking the political and structural context of the event. By lauding Natalie Livingstone’s microhistory, Hoyer reflects a broader ideological pattern: replacing detailed analysis with narrative empathy and transforming structural violence into emotional spectacle. As a result, the review appears to enhance our understanding of Nuremberg but in fact limits it by depicting the women in the trials as moral witnesses rather than active participants in the postwar justice system.

Hoyer aims to humanise the Nuremberg Trials by highlighting women who typed transcripts, translated interrogations, and experienced the surreal environment of occupied Germany. While recognising the importance of reclaiming women’s labour, she does not view these women as part of a gendered labour system. Instead, she portrays them as emotional mediators—conscience bearers, moral stabilisers, and psychological interpreters. This approach is more sentimental than historical, disguising insight with emotion. The women were not merely moral spectators; they were integral to the bureaucratic machinery that facilitated the Allies' legal theatre. Their work was organised, exploited, and instrumentalised, and reducing them to psychological witnesses ignores the conditions that made their roles necessary.

Nuremberg Without Politics

Hoyer’s review is most revealing in its omissions. The Nuremberg Trials were not simply a moral reckoning with fascism; they were also a geopolitical performance that legitimised the postwar order, a selective prosecution that spared the economic foundations of German imperialism, a mechanism for reintegrating former Nazis into the emerging Cold War state, and a legal spectacle that concealed the class forces behind fascism. Hoyer acknowledges none of this. Instead, she presents the trials as a psychological drama in ruined Germany, witnessed by women whose moral clarity offsets the defendants’ brutality.

This is the liberal fantasy: fascism appears as a moral aberration rather than a structural product of capitalist crisis. Hoyer’s praise for Livingstone’s narrative craft is revealing. She commends the book’s vivid scenes, reconstructed conversations, and psychological atmosphere, but narrative is never neutral. It organises meaning ideologically, privileging the exceptional over the typical, the visible over the structural, and the personal over the political. In Hoyer’s hands, microhistory becomes a way to avoid the larger question: what social forces produced fascism, and what political economy shaped its juridical aftermath? By centering individual women, Hoyer displaces the trials’ structural contradictions, replacing analysis with empathy and empathy with moral reassurance.

The Depoliticisation of Fascism

What is most troubling in Hoyer’s review is its understated depoliticisation of fascism. She presents the Nazi defendants as psychological monsters, the women as moral witnesses, and the trials as a cathartic encounter with evil. The framing is comforting, but historically misleading. Fascism was not a mental pathology; it was a class project, a violent defense of property relations amid capitalist crisis. The Nuremberg Trials did not dismantle that order; they purified its image, punishing the most visible criminals while leaving intact the structures that made their crimes possible. Hoyer cannot confront this because her method forecloses it: liberal humanism can describe the emotional aftermath of structural violence, but not explain its foundations.

Empathy cannot replace analysis. It is not enough to sympathise with the women of Nuremberg; we must examine the conditions that shaped their labour, the political forces that defined their roles, and the ideological purposes their presence served. Hoyer’s review offers emotional satisfaction while withholding historical understanding. It is an elegant evasion.

Katja Hoyer’s review exposes a broader weakness in contemporary historiography: the dominance of liberal sentiment over structural analysis. It presents history as moral reassurance rather than explanation, humanising power instead of scrutinising it. The women of Nuremberg deserve more than the role of emotional witnesses in a liberal morality play. They should be understood as workers, agents, and participants in one of the twentieth century’s most politically charged legal proceedings. To recover that reality, we must move beyond Hoyer’s humanist framing and confront the structural conditions her review leaves untouched.

The Personalisation of History

Livingstone presents the trials through the lives of eight women, including Erika Mann, Marie-Claude Vaillant-Couturier, Tatiana Stupnikova, Laura Knight, Ursula von Kardoff, Ingeborg Kálnoky, and two others whose roles are framed as morally or emotionally decisive. Their stories are rendered with sympathy and detail. Yet the book’s central claim—that these women’s “human” and “intimate” experiences disclose Nuremberg’s “true” meaning—rests on a false and politically reactionary premise.

Contrary to Livingstone’s account, the Nuremberg Trials were not a moral drama in which personal courage and emotional labour delivered justice. They were a legal response to a crisis of world capitalism, shaped by Allied geopolitical interests and the emerging Cold War. Politically selective and tightly constrained, they could not confront fascism’s social roots. By centering individual experience, Livingstone sidesteps the essential question: what social forces produced fascism, and why did Nuremberg fail to hold them accountable?

The Erasure of Capitalism’s Responsibility for Fascism

Livingstone’s narrative accepts the juridical fiction that fascism was the work of a handful of political criminals. Her focus on the Nazi defendants’ physical and psychological decline, as Erika Mann observed at Camp Ashcan, reinforces this myth. Descriptions of Göring, Streicher, and others as “gaunt,” “broken,” or “like wild beasts in a zoo” are treated as evidence of moral collapse, but this is trivia presented as historical insight. The condition of Nazi leaders in 1945 tells us nothing about the class forces that brought them to power. Fascism arose not from individual pathology, but from the crisis of German capitalism, the destruction of the workers’ movement, and the support of monopoly capital. The industrialists who financed and sustained Hitler—Krupp, Thyssen, and IG Farben—largely avoided serious punishment. Livingstone does not confront this because her framework obscures it. Nuremberg’s failure to indict capitalism was not incidental; it was the trials’ central political limitation, a reality her human-interest narrative conceals.

The Liberal Myth of “Democratic Justice”

Livingstone repeatedly argues that women’s participation made the trials “more democratic” and “more humane.” The claim is sentimental but politically hollow. Women interpreters, journalists, and artists did not alter the trials’ fundamental character, which was determined by the geopolitical aims of the United States and Britain as they moved toward confrontation with the Soviet Union.

Tatiana Stupnikova, the Russian interpreter, exemplifies this problem. Livingstone presents her labour as evidence of international cooperation and moral seriousness. Yet the emerging Cold War shaped every aspect of the trial, as the Allies disputed charges, evidence, and the scope of prosecution. Nuremberg was not a harmonious exercise in global justice, but a site of political conflict. By turning these tensions into background for personal drama, Livingstone reinforces the liberal myth of Nuremberg as a triumph of Western democratic values.

Laura Knight, the British war artist, allows Livingstone to aestheticise the trial. Knight’s paintings are presented as capturing the proceedings’ “humanity,” but this framing has an ideological function: it turns a legally constrained, politically shaped process into a cultural scene of moral reckoning. Art at Nuremberg did not uncover deeper truths; it helped construct the trial’s image as civilised, rational, and humane. Livingstone accepts that image without criticism.

Livingstone presents Ursula von Kardoff, the German journalist, as a symbol of the “new Germany”: a nation prepared to confront its past and embrace democracy. This distorts history. The German bourgeoisie was not remade after 1945; it was preserved. The class forces that supported Hitler were absorbed into the postwar order and realigned with the Western powers against the Soviet Union. Livingstone’s portrayal of Kardoff therefore aids the rehabilitation of the German ruling class by casting its postwar representatives as enlightened democrats.

Gender as Moral Category

Livingstone treats gender in liberal-essentialist terms, casting women as moral anchors, emotional mediators, and guardians of humanity. Their labour—as interpreters, witnesses, reporters, and carers—is presented as inherently humane and democratising. A Marxist analysis, by contrast, understands gender as a social relation rather than a moral category. The gendered labour at Nuremberg shaped the trial’s ideological presentation but did not overcome its political limits. Livingstone’s sentimental feminism humanises the proceedings while obscuring their structural constraints.The Nuremberg Women is polished and readable, but politically reactionary. By personalising history, moralising justice, aestheticising suffering, and erasing fascism’s class roots, Livingstone ultimately reinforces the dominant liberal narrative of the postwar order.

The book’s central claim—that the emotional labour and personal courage of eight women reveal Nuremberg’s “true” meaning—is untenable. Nuremberg can be understood only through a materialist analysis of the social forces that produced fascism and the political limits that shaped the trials.