![]() ![]() After I graduated I sold a cartoon series to New Statesman titled Scenes from the Lives of the Great Socialists, based on hideously contrived puns on the defining dicta of Marxism. As a student, I joined the Communist party, although I only hung around for a week. Soon I’d devoured Edmund Wilson’s To the Finland Station, visited the Soviet Union and, aged 19, wrote a thankfully unpublished novel that hinges round a fictitious Marxist uprising. Moreover, in its compelling combination of reason and romanticism, I was entranced not only by the manifesto’s universal scope but also its playfulness. ![]() I instantly got the Dialectic, the inexorable, tectonic grindings of All History Hitherto, the Class Conflict and all the stuff about the inevitability of the ultimate victory of the downtrodden over their oppressors. At about 15, I finally read The Communist Manifesto and it made complete sense. As I grew older, the obsession continued. ![]()
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