Читать книгу A Left that Dares to Speak Its Name - Slavoj Žižek - Страница 11

In his “Political Considerations About Lacan’s Later Work,” Jean-Claude Milner quotes Lacan’s “Joyce le symptôme”: “Ne participent à l’histoire que les déportés: puisque l’homme a un corps, c’est par le corps qu’on l’a [The only ones to participate in history are the deported: since man has a body, it is by means of the body that others have him].” … “Il [= Joyce] a raison, l’histoire n’étant rien de plus qu’une fuite dont ne se racontent que des exodes [Joyce is right, history being nothing more than a flight, about which only exodus is told].” Lacan refers here to the opposition between “flight” (wandering around without goal) and “exodus” (when we wander with a final destination in mind, like the Jews in search of a promised land): “flight” is the real of history, lawless wandering, and this flight becomes part of narrated history only when it changes into exodus. Milner then applies this opposition to today’s immigrants: they wander around and the place where they eventually land is not their chosen destination. This impossibility to organize their experience into the narrative of an exodus is what makes the immigrant refugees real and, as such, unbearable. Their bodies (often the only thing they possess) are an embarrassment, disturbing our peace – we perceive these bodies as a potential threat, as something that demands food and care, that pollutes our land. Hence,

the hate they [the immigrants] are subjected to as well as the necessity of humanitarian pity in order to avoid the only logical consequence that western political systems should draw explicitly, if they were to accept their own real structure: the physical elimination of immigrants. As a middle term between verbal pity and factual cruelty, the honorable souls have discovered the virtues of segregation. Since the beginning of 1970s, Lacan considered segregation as the social fact par excellence, racism being but a subcase of that general process.⁴

How do these wandering intruders relate to proletarians? In some Leftist circles, the exploding growth of homeless refugees gave rise to the notion of the “nomadic proletarian.” The basic idea is that, in today’s global world, the main antagonism (the “primary contradiction”) is no longer between the capitalist ruling class and the proletariat, but between those who are safe beneath the cupola of a “civilized” world (with public order, basic rights, etc.) and those who are excluded, reduced to a bare life. “Nomadic proletarians” are not simply outside the cupola but somewhere in between: their premod-ern substantial life-form is already in ruins, devastated by the impact of global capitalism, but they are not integrated into the cupola of the global order, so they roam in an in-between netherworld. They are not proletarians in the strict Marxian sense; paradoxically, when they enter the cupola of developed countries, the ideal of most of them is precisely to become “normal” exploited proletarians. Recently, a refugee from Salvador who tried to enter the US on the Mexico–US border said to the TV cameras: “Please, Mr. Trump, let us in, we just want to be good hard workers in your country.”

Can the distinction between proletarians proper (exploited workers) and the nomadic (less than) proletarians be somehow blurred in a new more encompassing category of today’s proletarians? From the strict Marxian standpoint, the answer is a resounding NO: for Marx, proletarians are not only “the poor” but those who are, by way of their role in the production process, reduced to subjectivity deprived of all substantial content; as such, they are also disciplined by the production process to become bearers of their future power (the “dictatorship of the proletariat”). Those who are outside the production process – and thereby outside a place in social totality – are treated by Marx as “lumpenproletarians,” and he doesn’t see in them any emancipatory potential; rather, he treats them with great suspicion, as the force that is, as a rule, mobilized and corrupted by reactionary forces (like Napoleon III.).

Things got complicated with the victory of the October Revolution, when Bolsheviks exerted power in a country where not only the large majority of the population were small farmers (and Bolsheviks gained power precisely by promising them land), but where, as the result of violent upheavals during the civil war, millions of people found themselves in the position not of classic lumpenproletarians, but of homeless nomads who were not yet proletarians (reduced to the “nothing” of their working force) but literally less-than-proletarians (less-than-nothing). Their massive presence is the central topic of the work of Andrei Platonov, who described in detail their way of life, elaborating a unique “materialist ontology of poor life.”⁵ From the standpoint of the “ontology of poor life,” the parallel between Samuel Beckett and Platonov is fully relevant: is the experience of a “poor life” also not the core of Beckett’s great trilogy of novels Molloy, Malone Dies, The Unnamable? The entire topic, as well as the details of Malone Dies, clearly relate to the French péripéties during the German occupation and its aftermath: Nazi and collaborationist control, terror and oppression, the revenge against collaborationists, and the way refugees were treated when returning home and recuperating. What gives such power to the novel is precisely that these three domains are condensed into a single suffocating experience of a displaced homeless individual, an individual lost in the web of police, psychiatric, and administrative measures.

The difference between Platonov and Beckett is that, while Beckett renders the experience of homeless refugees as individuals at the mercy of state institutions, Platonov focuses on displaced nomadic groups in a post-revolutionary situation when the new communist power tries to mobilize them for the communist struggle. Each of his works “departs from the same political problem of how to build communism: of what communism means and how the communist idea meets the concrete conditions and reality of the post-revolutionary society.” Platonov’s answer to this problem is paradoxical, far from the usual dissident rejection of communism. His result is a negative one; all his stories are stories of a failure; the “synthesis” between the communist project and the displaced nomadic groups end in a void; there is no unity between proletarians and less-than-proletarians:

In Chevengur (1926–28), the orphan Sasha Dvanov becomes a communist in the year of the revolution, joins the Bolsheviks and goes on a party errand to support the revolution in a village. During his long journey, Dvanov discovers “communism in one village,” established by poor peasants. The communism of the Chevengur village is accompanied by various absurd experiments with urban planning and farming, permanent terror and hunger. The wandering organic intellectuals are a supplement to the wandering masses, classes and communities, and they are all accompanied in their migration by animals, plants and natural landscape. The protagonist of Dzhan [1936; in English, “Soul”], Nazar Chagataev, returns to his native town in Turkestan on a party errand to find the lost nomadic nation Dzhan, from which he had come, in order to establish a socialist order. Dzhan was written after Platonov’s two journeys in Turkestan as a member of writers’ delegations. This was during the period when the civil war in Turkestan had just ended and a campaign against traditional nomadic forms of life had been initiated. The task of the delegation was to write an orthodox socialist realist story about a successful “civilizing” process in the local communities. The central problem of Platonov’s Dzhan may seem to conform to this brief, narrating as it does the story of a “Red Moses” leading the nomadic inhabitants of the Asian desert to socialism. However, Chagataev goes back to Moscow when his mission has ended and one is left with doubts about the future of communism in the desert…. The most famous work of Platonov, The Foundation Pit (1930), was also created in the context of the first five-year plan. It unfolds by way of a series of meetings between the protagonist Voshchev and the residents of a small provincial town, who are involved in the construction of an enormous proletarian house. While Voshchev challenges the representatives of different class groups, engaging in a Socratic inquiry into truth, the project acquires a more and more grandiose plan, before finally coming to an end with no result.

But we are at the same time as far as possible from the old conservative liberal critique of revolution as a violent attempt to impose on actual life models that are foreign to it. First, Platonov articulates his despair from the position of an engaged fighter for communism (he was actively engaged with nomadic groups in the 1920s, also at a very practical technical level, planning and organizing irrigation projects, etc.). Second, Platonov is not depicting a conflict between the traditional texture of social life and the radical revolutionary attempt to change it (in the style of Edmund Burke’s critique of the French Revolution): his focus is not on the traditional forms of life but on the dispossessed nomads whose lives were already irretrievably ruined by the process of modernization. In short, the radical cut Platonov depicts is not between the “spontaneous” proletarian crowd and the organized communist forces, but between the two aspects of the proletarian crowd itself, between the two social “nothings”: the strictly proletarian “nothing” of the modern workers generated by capitalism, and the “less-than-nothing” of those not integrated into the system, not even as its immanent negativity, as is made clear in this short exchange from Chevengur: “‘Who did you bring us?’ Chepurny asked Prokofy … ‘That’s proletarians and others,’ Prokofy said. Chepurny was disturbed ‘What others? Again the layer of residual swine?’ … ‘The others are the others. Nobody. They’re even worse than the proletariat.’” Here are some passages that describe these social “less-than nothings”:

Platonov’s heroes have different national and cultural backgrounds, but nonetheless they represent the same category: the proletariat. The idea behind “the international” and “non-Russian” faces is the idea of an average multinational proletariat that makes up one class. There is a significant explanation of the “non-Russianness” of the nomadic declassed people in Chevengur: “This is the true international proletariat: look – they’re not Russians, they’re not Armenians, they’re not Tartars – they’re not anything! I bring you live international.” It is precisely this multinational, and one can even say anticolonial, perspective that leads Platonov to the deconstruction of the dominant image of the white industrial working class that was so typical among the hard-liners in Proletkult…. He saw comrades the likes of whom he had never encountered before, people without any understanding or appearance of class and without revolutionary worth. These were instead some sort of nameless others who lived utterly without significance, without pride, and off to one side of the impending world-wide triumph. Even the age of these others was impossible to grasp, for all that could be made out was that they were poor, had bodies that grew unwillingly, and were foreign to all…. Platonov names his marginal declassed wanderers as “handmade people with an unknown designation,” “uncounted,” “mistak-able,” or “prochie” – “others,” in the English translation of Robert Chandler. The Russian word prochie also refers to the “rest,” the “remainder.” Thus others is the rest of the people; they don’t belong to any class category existing in Marxist theory, because they are too poor and detached from normal social life…. The other, therefore, refers to someone who remains unaccounted for due to their amorphous and marginal status, but who is also part of a multiplicity which is not countable – part of a scattered and nomadic people, an anomaly of humanity, trapped between life and death, social and biological.

As the last quoted sentence makes clear, one has to avoid absolutely the elevation of prochie into an original site of productivity, its living presence oppressed by state representation. Prochie are not the Deleuzian multitude, they are, on the contrary, “living dead” caught in a non-productive passivity, basically deprived of the very will to be active. This is why we should take the risk of offering yet another translation of prochie: neighbors, with all the biblical weight of this term, those who are “others” and precisely as such always too close to us, no matter how far away they are. What makes them too close is that we lack a proper distance toward them because they don’t possess a clear identity, a place in society. The Christian motto “love your neighbor as yourself” acquires here its full weight: true social love is the love for the unaccountable less-than-nothings. However, this love can take different forms, and while Bolsheviks certainly loved them, wanted to help and redeem them, they followed the model of what Lacan called “university discourse”: prochie were their objet petit a, and they put all their effort into enlightening them, into changing them in modern subjects. The conflict that lies at the heart of Platonov’s work is thus not a conflict between enemies but a kind of lovers’ quarrel: Bolsheviks wanted to help the homeless others, to civilize them, and the others (depicted by Platonov) sincerely endorsed the communist ideals and fought for them, but everything went wrong: “Others in Platonov’s novels are always manipulated by ‘more conscious’ comrades, party leaders and intellectuals, but always unsuccessfully – it is almost impossible to integrate others into the collective body of the workers and to establish a normalized sociality based on the collectivization of labor and industrial production.”

However, Platonov subtly noted that this gap is not just the gap between self-conscious revolutionary force and the inertia of the crowds: while Bolsheviks focused on the operational aspect of social transformation, the core of the communist utopia was directly present in the dreams of Others who expected something radically new to arise. Communism was nowhere closer than in the immobility of the Others, in their resistance to get caught in concrete operative measures: “the special status of the poor and declassed elements, which unlike the organized workers, the party representatives and the intellectuals, are ready to stay where they are in order to do something radically new. In a way theirs is a life that remains in a state of waiting, and the question is what kind of politics will be established here.” Platonov’s famous inflections of language also located in this context of the tension between official Party language and the “primitive” speech of the others:

Platonov reflected the historical development of a new Soviet language made of revolutionary slogans, the vocabulary of Marxian political economy, the jargon of the Bolsheviks and party bureaucrats and its absorption by the illiterate peasants and workers. Historical research shows that for most of the post-revolutionary population, especially in the provinces, the language of the party was foreign and unintelligible, so that “they themselves perforce began to absorb the new vocabulary … often garbled its unfamiliar, bookish terms or reconfigured them as something more comprehensible, however absurd.” Thus, “deistvyushchaya armia” – “acting army” – became “devstvyushchaya armia” – “virginal army” – because “acting” and “virginity” sound identical in Russian; “militsioner” (“militiaman”) became “litsimer” (“hypocrite”).

Is this unique bastard mixture, with all its “senseless” mobilization of sound resemblances that can engender sparks of unexpected truth (in an oppressive regime, policemen are hypocrites; revolutionaries are supposed to act virginally, in a kind of innocence, freed of all egotist motives), not an exemplary case of what Lacan called lalangue, language traversed by all social and sexual antagonisms which distort it beyond its linguistic structure? This lalangue emerges through Platonov’s use of two (almost) symmetrically opposed devices:

[First,] he interprets an abstract ideological definition through the use of the common man, the person from the people, and secondly, he makes an inverse operation, when he overloads the simplest and clearest everyday words and expressions … with a set of ideological associations, to such an extent that these words become “so terribly improbable and confusing that, finally, they lose their initial meaning.”

What is the political implication of this loss of meaning? Although interpenetrating, the two levels – official Bolshevik speech and the everyday speech of the Others – remain forever antagonistic: the more the revolutionary activity tried to combine them, the more their antagonism becomes palpable. This failure is not empirical and contingent; the two levels simply belong to radically heterogeneous spaces. For this reason, one should also avoid the trap of celebrating the “undercurrent” of Soviet Marxism, the other line suppressed by official Soviet Marxism-Leninism, the line that rejected the controlling role “from above” of the Party and counted on the workers’ direct self-organization “from below” (as was the case with Bogdanov), indicating a hope for a different, less oppressive, development of the Soviet Union, in contrast to Lenin’s approach, which laid the foundations for Stalinism. True, this other line was a kind of “symptom” of official Leninist Marxism; it registered what was “repressed” from official Soviet ideology, but precisely as such it remained parasitical on official Marxism – i.e., it didn’t stand on its own. In short, the trap to be avoided here is to elevate the “poor life” of the Others into some kind of authentic communal life out of which an alternative to our ill-fated capitalist modernity can emerge. There is nothing “authentic” in the poor life of the Others; its function is purely negative, it registers (and even gives body to) the failure of social projects, including the communist one.

And, sadly, the same failure, which is necessary for structural reasons, also characterizes a homologous project of fusion of today’s working class and today’s “less-than-proletarians” (refugees, immigrants) – i.e., the idea that the “nomadic proletarian” is the potential source of revolutionary change. Here also, one has to fully assume Platonov’s lesson: the tension is not only between the local conservative racist lower classes and the immigrants; the difference in the entire “way of life” is so strong that one cannot count on an easy solidarity of all the exploited. Perhaps the antagonism between proletarians and less-than-proletarian “others” is an antagonism that is in some sense even more unsurpassable than the class antagonism within the same ethnic community. Precisely at this point when the “subsumption” (of Others into “our” proletarians) seems the most obvious, and the universality of all oppressed seems at hand, it slips out of our grasp. In other words, the “less-than-proletarian” Others cannot be subsumed, integrated, not because they are too different, too heterogeneous with regard to our life world, but because they are absolutely inherent in it, the result of its own tensions.

This, of course, in no way implies that the Marxian proletarian position is only possible in the developed West. During a visit to India, I met representatives of the movement of the lowest part of the lowest cast (the “untouchables”), the dry-toilets cleaners, and they gave me a wonderfully concise answer to what they want to achieve: “We don’t want to be what we are.” So there is no identity politics, no search for recognition and respect for the unique job they are doing, just the demand for social change that will render their identity superfluous and impossible.

One is thus tempted to propose a radical reformulation here: in today’s global capitalism the problematic elements are not the nomadic “less-than-nothings” who resist being subsumed into the proletarian “nothing” as the eventual site of a possible radical social change; the problematic elements are, more and more, (local) proletarians themselves who, when confronted with the nomadic “less-than-nothings,” all of a sudden realize that their “nothing” (the zero-level, the “place of no-place” in the existing social order) is nonetheless a determinate nothing, a position within the existing social order with all the privileges (education, healthcare, etc.) that this implies. No wonder, then, that when “local” proletarians encounter the nomadic “less-than-nothings,” their reaction is the rediscovery of their own cultural identity. To put it in speculative Hegelian terms, the “local” proletarians discover that their “nothing” is nonetheless sustained by a series of particular privileges, and this discovery, of course, makes them much less prone to engage in radical emancipatory acts – they discover that they have much more to lose than their chains.

There is a well-known joke about Jews gathered in a synagogue to publicly declare their failures. First, a mighty rabbi says: “Forgive me, god, I am nothing, not worthy of your attention!” After him, a rich merchant says: “Forgive me, god, I am a worthless nothing!” Then a poor ordinary Jew steps forward and says: “Forgive me, god, I am also nothing.” The rich merchant whispers to the rabbi: “Who does he think he is, this miserable guy, that he can also say he is nothing?” There is a deep insight in this joke: to “become nothing” requires the supreme effort of negativity, of tearing oneself away from immersion in a cobweb of particular determinations. Such a Sartrean elevation of the subject into a void, a nothingness, is not a true Lacanian (or Hegelian) position: Lacan demonstrates how, to do this, one has to find support in a particular element that functions as a “less than nothing” – Lacan’s name for it is objet a, object-cause of desire. Let’s take a political example. The politically correct prohibition of asserting the particular identity of White Men (as the model of oppression of others), although it presents itself as the admission of their guilt, confers on them a central position: this very prohibition to assert their particular identity turns them into the universal-neutral medium, the place from which the truth about the others’ oppression is accessible. And this is why white liberals indulge so readily in self-flagellation: the true aim of their activity is not really to help the others but to achieve the Lustgewinn brought about by their self-accusations, the feeling of their own moral superiority over others. The problem with the self-denial of white identity is not that it goes too far, but that it does not go far enough: while its enunciated content seems radical, its position of enunciation remains that of a privileged universality. So yes, they declare themselves to be “nothing,” but this very renunciation to a (particular) something is sustained by the surplus enjoyment of their moral superiority, and we can easily imagine the scene from the quoted Jewish joke repeated here: when, say, a black guy says “I am also nothing!” a white guy whispers to his (white) neighbor: “Who does this guy think he is to be able to claim that he is also nothing?” But we can easily move from imagination to reality here. A decade or so ago, at a round table in New York where the politically correct Leftists predominated, I remember a couple of big names among the “critical thinkers” engaging, one after the other, in self-flagellation, blaming the Judeo-Christian tradition for our evils, pronouncing scathing verdicts on “Eurocentrism,” etc. Then, unexpectedly, a black activist joined the debate and also made some critical remarks about the limitations of the black Muslim movement. Hearing this, the white “critical thinkers” exchanged annoyed glances whose message was something like “Who does this guy think he is that he can also claim he is a worthless nothing?” And does something similar not hold for the way “our” proletarians tend to react to the nomadic proletarians? “We are the true nothing – who are they to also claim that they are nothing?”

Back to Platonov: at an abstract level, he thus raises the question of subsumption (of Others into the proletariat), and today we are facing the same problem not just with regard to refugees and other migrants (can they be subsumed into the global capitalist order?), but also at a more formal level of what Balibar calls “total subsumption” as the basic tendency of today’s capitalism.⁶ This term does not cover only the phenomenon of so-called “cultural capitalism” (the growing commodification of the cultural sphere), but, above all, full subsumption under the logic of the capital of the workers themselves and the process of their reproduction:

Whereas Marx explained that “capital” ultimately could be reduced to (productive) labour or was nothing other than labour in a different form, appropriated by a different class, the theory of human capital explains that labour – more precisely “labouring capacity” [Arbeits vermögen] – can be reduced to capital or become analysed in terms of capitalist operations of credit, investment and profitability. This is, of course, what underlies the ideology of the individual as a “self-entrepreneur,” or an “entrepreneur of oneself.”⁷

The issue here is “not so much to describe a growth of markets for existing products; it is much more to push the range of the market beyond the limits of the ‘production sphere’ in the traditional sense, therefore to add new sources of permanent ‘extra surplus-value’ that can become integrated into valorization, overcoming its limitations, because capital is valorized both on the ‘objective’ side of labour and production, and on the ‘subjective’ side of consumption and use.”⁸

So it’s not just about making the workforce more productive, it is to conceive of the workforce itself directly as another field of capitalist investment: all aspects of its “subjective” life (health, education, sexual life, psychic state, …) are considered not only as important for the productivity of the workers, but as fields of investment that can generate additional surplus-value. Health services do not only serve the interests of capital by way of making workers more productive; they are themselves an incredibly powerful field of investment, not only for capital (health services comprise the single strongest branch of the US economy, much stronger than defense) but for the workers themselves (who view paying health insurance as an investment for their future). The same goes for education: it does not only get you ready for productive work; it is in itself the field of a profitable investment for institutions as well as for individuals who invest in their future. It is as if, in this way, commodification not only becomes total, but also gets caught up in a kind of self-referential loop: working power as the ultimate “source of (capitalist) wealth,” the origin of surplus-value, becomes itself a moment of capitalist investment. Nowhere is this loop more clearly expressed than in the idea of the worker as a “self-entrepreneur,” a capitalist who decides freely where to invest his (meager) surplus resources (or, mostly, resources acquired through loans): into education, health, housing property … Does this process have a limit? When, in the very last paragraph of his essay, Balibar approaches this question, he strangely resorts to a Lacanian reference, to Lacan’s logic of non-All (from his “formulas of sexuation”):

This is what I call a total subsumption (after “formal” and “real” subsumption) because it leaves nothing outside (no reservation for “natural” life). Or, anything that is left outside must appear as a residue, and a field for further incorporation. Or must it? That is of course the whole question, ethical as much as political: are there limits to commodification? Are there internal and external obstacles? A Lacanian might want to say: every such totalization includes an element of impossibility which belongs to the “real”; it must be pas tout, or not whole. If that were the case, the heterogeneous elements, the intrinsic remainders of the total subsumption, could appear in many different forms, some apparently individualistic, such as pathologies or anarchist resistances, others common or even public. Or they may become manifest in certain difficulties in implementing the neoliberal agenda, such as the difficulty of dismantling a Medicare system once it has been legalized.⁹

What Balibar says here is, for a Lacanian, very strange. He condenses (or, rather, just confuses) the two sides of Lacan’s formulas of sexuation, and simply reads exception as non-All: the totality of subsumption is non-All since there are exceptions that resist being subsumed to capital. But Lacan precisely opposes non-All and exception: every universality is based on an exception, and when there are no exceptions, the set is non-All, it cannot be totalized. (An interesting example of exception to the politically correct control of public speech are rap lyrics: there you can say it all, celebrate rape, murder, etc., etc. Why this exception? The reason is easy to guess: blacks are considered the privileged image of victimhood, and rap the expression of the misery of black youth, so the brutality of rap lyrics is absolved in advance as the authentic expression of black suffering and frustration.) This opposition should also be applied to the topic of subsumption: one should pass from the search for exception, for those who resist (universal) subsumption and are as such the “site of resistance,” to endorsing subsumption without exception and count on its non-All. The subsumption of individual lives to which Balibar refers cannot be reduced to a particular case of universal capitalist subsumption; they remain a particular case which, on account of its self-relating nature (the workforce itself becomes capital), redoubles the production of surplus-value.

In Marx’s critique of political economy there are two main cases of universality through exception: money, workforce. The field of commodities can only be totalized through a special commodity which functions as a general equivalent of all commodities but is, as such, deprived of use-value; the field of the exchange of commodities only gets totalized when individual producers not only sell their products on the market, but when the workforce (as a commodity whose use-value is to generate surplus-value) is also sold on the market as a commodity. So maybe there is a third case here: when this commodity, which produces surplus-value, itself becomes an object of capital investment bringing surplus-value, so that we get two types of surplus-value: the “normal” surplus-value generated by the products of the workforce, and the surplus generated by the production of the workforce itself. A nice example of Hegel’s insight into how the Absolute always involves self-splitting and is, in this sense, non-All: with the production of workforce itself as a field of capital investment, the subsumption under capital becomes total – but, precisely as such, it becomes non-All, it cannot be totalized, the self-referential element of the workforce itself as a capital investment introduces a gap that introduces imbalance into the entire field. For example, what do the enormous investments in education actually amount to? Many empirical studies demonstrate that most of higher education is not really of use for the reproduction of capital – even business schools actually do very little to train individuals to become effective managers. Consequently, although the media bombard us with the message that education is crucial for a successful economy, most college studies are irrelevant for business purposes. This is why state and business institutions complain all the time about how the humanities serve no purpose, and how universities should be made to serve the needs of actual life (i.e., of capital). But what if this, precisely, is what makes our enormous educational system so precious? It serves no clearly defined goal, it just multiplies “useless” culture, refined thinking, sensitivity for art, etc. Consequently, we find ourselves in a paradoxical situation: at the very moment when, formally, even education gets more and more subsumed under capital as a field of investment, the actual result of this subsumption is that enormous amounts of money are spent on the cultivation of knowledge and art as its own aim. We thus get hundreds of thousands of highly educated individuals who are of no use to capital (who cannot find jobs). But instead of protesting against this meaningless spending of financial resources, should we not celebrate this result as an unexpected sign of the expansion of the “realm of freedom”?

Maybe this gap can function as a source of hope, maybe it opens up the possibility of radical change: the logic of capital gets threatened not from some external nonintegrated rest, but from its own inner inconsistency, which explodes when subsumption gets total.