Latin American Marxisms: Reading José Carlos Mariátegui and José Aricó Today

Abstract

This review essay reads Mike Gonzalez’s In the Red Corner: The Marxism of José Carlos Mariátegui alongside Martín Cortés’s Translating Marx: José Aricó and the New Latin American Marxism.

Keywords:

• Marxism
• translation
• José Carlos Mariátegui
• José Aricó
• Subcomandante Marcos
• the Zapatistas

While most people still vividly remember the 2008 world economic crisis, another crisis is looming – and to some extent is already under way – as a result of the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic. Then as now, activists and intellectuals on the Left are seeking to analyse the historical conditions in which we find ourselves in an effort to alter them, to put into crisis a system that can only promise more crises on the horizon. I suspect that, as before, we will see renewed interest in the ideas of Marxism, communism, socialism, and anarchism, which may or may not coincide with an equally likely new wave of political experiments and social movements. One thing that is noticeably different this time around, however, is that the Anglophone world has far greater access to an immense and diverse tradition of Leftist thinkers and organisers hailing from Latin America thanks to the many relevant books, essays, zines, and translation projects that have come out in recent years. Beyond simply challenging the provincialism of the English-speaking Left, which is already an important task in and of itself, this kind of work provides resources that can speak to some of today’s most urgent political dilemmas while offering guidance on how to resolve them. In this review essay, I consider two examples of a broader “turn” toward radical politics in Latin America: Mike Gonzalez’s In the Red Corner: The Marxism of José Carlos Mariátegui (2019) and Martín Cortés’s Translating Marx: José Aricó and the New Latin American Marxism (2020). My aim is to enter into critical dialogue with these texts, to reflect on their limits but also their potential contributions to deciphering and abolishing the present state of things.

With few exceptions, In the Red Corner moves chronologically through José Carlos Mariátegui’s short but impactful life (1894–1930) as a Marxist intellectual and militant. The book is perhaps best characterised as a politically engaged intellectual biography written in the style of works like David Macey’s Frantz Fanon: A Biography (2012) or Howard Eiland and Michael W. Jennings’s Walter Benjamin: A Critical Life (2014). In the first half of In the Red Corner, there are chapters dedicated to the most formative experiences of Mariátegui’s youth in Peru; the intellectual and political education that he received while travelling around Europe; the lecture series that he gave upon his return at the Universidad Popular Manuel González Prada; and the efforts that he made as an organiser to build a united front among different factions of the Peruvian Left. Subsequent chapters cover Mariátegui’s editorial and publishing work with the journal Amauta; the core themes of his magnum opus, Seven Interpretive Essays on Peruvian Reality; his engagement with literature, avant-garde culture, and the arts; and the various controversies surrounding his formation of the Peruvian Socialist Party. All along the way, Gonzalez is careful to place Mariátegui’s activities in their historical context so that the reader can appreciate the extent to which said activities – far from the isolated musings of an armchair philosopher – constituted political interventions in the major debates and events of Mariátegui’s time. Yet Gonzalez also insists that Mariátegui has much to teach us in our own times of crisis and social upheaval, opening and closing the book with discussions of the creative and heterodox nature of Mariátegui’s Marxism and its capacity to help the Left address today’s challenges and problems.

Not unlike some classic texts on Mariátegui, such as Harry Vanden’s National Marxism in Latin America: José Carlos Mariátegui’s Thought and Politics (1986) or José Aricó’s edited volume, Mariátegui y los orígenes del marxismo latinoamericano (1978), Gonzalez’s In the Red Corner offers a panoramic view of the Peruvian Marxist and his most important arguments and positions. We are told of Mariátegui’s reflections on the First World War, how he perceived the event as triggering not only an economic crisis but also a political and ideological crisis that left the institution of liberal democracy and the bourgeois myth of linear historical progress in ruins, prompting him to argue – via a reading of Georges Sorel – for the need to generate a new myth of social revolution that would contribute to ushering in a new form of political life. We are introduced to Mariátegui’s “anti-Jacobinism,” the way – not unlike the Antonio Gramsci of L’Ordine Nuovo – he envisioned a vanguard group emerging organically from within an existing mass movement rather than functioning as the external precondition for such a movement. We are given an account of how Mariátegui challenged the sectarianism of the Stalinist Third International, the economism of the Second International, and the populism of Raúl Haya de la Torre and the Alianza Popular Revolucionaria Americana (APRA) by developing a conception of Marxism as a philosophy of praxis that entailed an expanded notion of the revolutionary subject, one not restricted to the urban factory worker, as well as an expanded notion of the revolution itself that no longer condemned Latin America to passing through the same stages of historical development as industrialised Europe. And, of course, we are reminded of Mariátegui’s path-breaking diagnosis of the so-called “problem of the Indian”, which he construed as a socioeconomic problem rooted in the expropriation of common land and the semi-feudal exploitation of Peru’s indigenous peasant majority, a problem that could not be resolved through education, charity, religious conversion, or racial mixing but only through an “Indo-American” form of socialism that would take as its point of departure the longstanding communal organisation known as the ayllu.

If discussions of these themes in Mariátegui’s work can be found elsewhere, they have rarely been treated in such a succinct yet encompassing manner, especially in the English language. The true originality of In the Red Corner, however, lies in its emphasis on an aspect of Mariátegui’s legacy that was not mentioned in the previous paragraph – namely, his unapologetic commitment as a revolutionary intellectual and organiser to a politics of the united front. Gonzalez recovers a brief but truly extraordinary and often neglected text from Mariátegui’s oeuvre, “May Day and the United Front” ([1924] 1987; 2011), to argue for the many lessons that can be gleaned from it in terms of building a coalition between communists, socialist, and anarchists as well as between the movements and organisations to which they pertain. The idea, to be clear, is not to erase the real political disagreements and philosophical differences between these factions of the Left. As Mariátegui explains in the aforementioned text, the unity of the united front is not premised on “confusing or amalgamating all of the doctrines” of the Left “into a single doctrine” (2011, 342). “What is important”, Mariátegui nonetheless argues, is that diverse tendencies and groups “know how to understand each other before the concrete reality of the day. That they are not mired in byzantine reciprocal denunciations and excommunications. That they do not distance themselves from the masses of the revolution with the spectacle of dogmatic quarrels between preachers. That they do not use their weapons or squander their time by wounding one another, but rather that they combat the social order, its institutions, its injustices, and its crimes” (343 [translation modified]; 1987, 109). Gonzalez demonstrates how Mariátegui put these ideas into practice in very concrete ways, thereby providing the contemporary Left – the book’s presumed audience – with a kind of model for collective action as it struggles to work together and overcome its many missed encounters. “The key issue for revolutionary socialists today,” Gonzalez writes, “is how to work, as revolutionaries, with social movements whose horizons are very different. Mariátegui has much to offer in that discussion” (2019, 4).

And yet, Gonzalez’s treatment of contemporary social movements in the book falls short of Mariátegui’s vision and produces missed encounters of its own. This is the case, for example, when the Zapatista insurgency of Chiapas, Mexico (arguably the most important ongoing political experiment in Latin America and perhaps even the world) is hastily dismissed in the middle of an equally hasty dismissal of John Holloway’s thought because of the movement’s auto-identification with “the metaphor of the snail – enclosed within its own house. But how could coordination and solidarity – the concepts at the heart of Mariátegui’s thinking – be achieved among self-isolating units within a region or a nation, let alone a global system” (Gonzalez 2019, 7). Anyone familiar with the Zapatistas will immediately notice what is wrong with this summation of the movement. The caracol or snail shell does indeed occupy an important place in the Maya symbolism and cosmology that informs the Zapatista experiment; however, it represents the very opposite of isolation, for it is traditionally associated with facilitating communication, understanding, and consensus-based decision-making (González Casanova 2005; Rabasa 2010). As Subcomandante Marcos relates in “Chiapas, the Thirteenth Stele,” it is said that the very first peoples of these lands used the caracol “to summon the collective so that the word could travel between one and the other – so that agreement could be born” (2007, 202). It is also said that the caracol enhanced listening, that it helped these peoples “hear even the most distant word” (202). Stories such as these motivated the decision of the Zapatistas to set up a number of “Caracoles” or places of encounter and dialogue among the autonomous municipalities of the rebel territory. Marcos goes on to explain their significance: “And so the Caracoles will be like doors for going into the communities and for the communities to leave. Like windows for seeing us and for us to look out. Like speakers for taking our word far and for listening to what is far away. But, most especially, for reminding us that we should stay awake and be alert to the comprehensiveness of the worlds that people the world” (218 [translation modified]; 2003a, no page number). It follows that, far from self-isolating enclosures, the Caracoles are meant to contribute to a broader project of the Zapatistas, that of building a global network of solidarity, a world of many worlds, or what Marcos elsewhere describes as a “world where many resistances fit. Not an international of resistance, but a polychromatic flag, a melody with many tunes” (2003b, no page number [my translation]).

Is there a better image for the kind of united-front politics that Mariátegui cultivated? It might be worth recalling, along these lines, how the celebration of May Day illuminates “the possibility of the united front” for Mariátegui precisely insofar as the holiday “does not belong to one International: it is the date for all Internationals” (2011, 341). But if the possibility of the united front is to become an actuality, if revolutionary socialists are to work with social movements whose horizons are very different from their own, if they are to lend their hand in waving a multicoloured flag and contribute their voice to the polyphonic melody of resistance, then they are going to have to do a better job of listening to their potential allies and of learning from them. Perhaps it would not hurt if these socialists had their own caracol so that they could hold it up to their ear and amplify what the social movements are communicating to them, so that they could allow what they hear to enter their heart, which, according to Marcos, is what the first peoples called understanding (2007, 202). Absent this kind of effort, the only thing that can occur is what Gonzalez inadvertently stages for the readers of his book: an all-too-familiar missed encounter between the ideas of Marxist socialism and the beliefs guiding today’s indigenous-led movements.

What explains this missed encounter, especially in a book that explicitly laments such occurrences?¹ Or, to put it another way, can we understand this missed encounter as an effect or a consequence, the result of some thesis or position advanced in the book? My sense is that the missed encounter can in fact be understood in this way, that it stems from one of the book’s core arguments – namely, its assertion that Mariátegui’s originality resides in his unique “application” of Marx and Marxism in Latin America (Gonzalez 2019, 21, 43–44, 127–128). The careful reader will sense quite a bit of tension surrounding how the concept of application is deployed in the book, for Gonzalez implicitly acknowledges its inadequacy on various occasions even as he continues to rely on it. He writes, for instance, that “what differentiates Mariátegui” from other Marxist figures in Latin America is “the creativity of his application of Marxism to the Peruvian reality. There had been no historical materialist approaches to Peruvian reality, no application of Marxist analysis to it, until his work began” (187). Just two sentences later, however, Gonzalez qualifies this statement: “But Mariátegui did not simply take the general principles embodied in Marx and apply them – he elaborated and tested them against his reality” (187). This is a crucial distinction. Mariátegui stands out from his contemporaries (and from many of his precursors and predecessors) precisely insofar as he rejected the simple application of Marx’s ideas in Latin America and instead insisted on their elaboration, on what we could call – borrowing from Mariátegui’s own lexicon – their translation (Arnall 2017). This is not simply a matter of semantics, for the concepts of application and translation advance very different understandings of Marxism: as a set of timeless and abstractly universal axioms that can speak to (read: be applied in) any and every historical context or as a continually changing form of theory and practice that becomes concretely universal upon its reinvention (read: translation) in and for a specific concrete situation (Arnall 2020a, 10–14). In the Red Corner frequently and often lyrically describes Mariátegui’s project in ways that resonate with the latter understanding of Marxism, all while depending on a concept that cannot grasp what is truly at stake in said project.

But – and more importantly for the problem of the missed encounter – the “application” of Marxist analysis also advances a certain understanding of Latin America; it becomes the particular site of application, an object to be analysed, but not, at the same time, a source of different yet equally universalist traditions of thought and action with which Marxists must negotiate if anything like a united front is to be formed. In other words, the thesis of Marxism’s application in Latin America cannot but produce, as its effect, a missed encounter with indigenous cosmologies that contain their own universalist horizons. While this is not really something that Mariátegui ever addressed in his own work and thus marks a limit in his thought, it is to the great credit of the Zapatistas that they locate practices of translation between Marxist and indigenous worldviews at the very core of their movement (Marcos and Le Bot 1997). Those among the Left who would embrace a politics of the united front would therefore do well to read the Zapatistas alongside Mariátegui and supplement In the Red Corner with the many communiques, declarations, and stories ringing out from the Caracoles of the Lacandon Jungle.

Translating Marx, like In the Red Corner, does not address the question of multiple universalities, which means that it faces some of the same limitations in terms of its capacity to engage with the problems facing today’s struggles.² What it does offer, however, is some much-needed reflection on the political saliency of translation as a kind of “operation” or “exercise” that is “fundamentally at odds with the rote application of concepts across different contexts” (Cortés 2020, 3). In dialogue with Michael Löwy, Cortés explains how the practice of translation enables Latin American Marxists to avoid the “twin temptations” of Eurocentrism and exoticism, of mechanically applying Marx’s ideas in Latin America and claiming that Latin America is somehow “impervious to foreign-born categories of thought” (4, 13). As Cortés explains: “Both temptations clearly imply a misreading of the relation between the universal and the singular; in the case of Eurocentrism, by subsuming the singular under the construction of an abstract universal, while in the case of exoticism, by rejecting the need for dialogue between the singular and the universal via a compensatory maneuver that postulates some Latin American ‘essence’” (2020, 13). The task of translation, in contrast, is to create a Latin American variant of Marxism “that compellingly relates the universal vocation of the latter with the specific dilemmas of the former” (2020, 2). This would entail working within the Marxist tradition to concretely analyse the region’s historical specificity while at the same time grappling with the theoretical and political consequences of this analysis for Marxism as such, for a rethinking of its universalist premises. The exceedingly thoughtful and thought-provoking treatment of these issues in Translating Marx is what makes it stand out in relation to other books on Marxism in Latin America. Instead of providing a general summary on the life and work of José Aricó (1931–1991), Cortés focuses on how the Argentine intellectual embraced the task of translation in a multitude of ways, how a certain “translation strategy” articulated his wide-ranging activities and interventions as a writer, editor, translator, and cultural organiser (23). Cortés also demonstrates, in the book’s most reflexive moments, how this translation strategy can be interpreted as itself a product of translation, how Aricó discovered a certain method for doing theoretical work in the writings of Antonio Gramsci and Mariátegui – his most important references alongside Marx – and remade this method as his own.

Before discussing the contents of Translating Marx, I should address what appears to be a bit of terminological slippage in the book. While the text generally construes “the singular” as synonymous with “the specific,” like in the previously cited passages, on a few rare occasions the singular takes on a more singular connotation, which is to say that the term – as it pertains to Latin America – is associated with the temptation of exoticism, “the temptation of fixating on the idea of the region’s irreducible, singular content” (Cortés 2020, 156).³ An important category in the book, Cortés likely inherits his emphasis on the singular from Aricó himself. The latter dedicated many pages in La hipótesis de Justo, for instance, to critiquing European socialism’s historical disregard for “la singularidad latinoamericana” (Aricó 2017, 367). Such critiques of Eurocentrism are of course vital for the Left’s struggle to overcome its own limits, yet they can be counterproductive in the last instance if based on what Cortés – via a reading of Aricó – describes as “the folkish idea of some irreducible Latin American uniqueness” (2020, 13). It seems to me that this idea of irreducible uniqueness haunts the category of the singular when it is applied, as both Aricó and Cortés do, to the diverse and internally contradictory realities of the continent. To uncritically refer to the singularity of Latin America – even when loosely understood as another way of describing the region’s historical particularity or specificity – is to risk falling into the trap of exoticist essentialism while obscuring how the logic of translation explicitly avoids such traps. In other words, Translating Marx can be read as developing tools for its own critique, as challenging its own use of the singular – and, by extension, Aricó’s use as well – in theorising Latin America. Pursuing this kind of reading would help clarify, in turn, how the translation of Marxism sets in motion a dialectical process that moves between the universal and the particular, the general and the specific.⁴

Originally published in Spanish as Un nuevo marxismo para América Latina. José Aricó: traductor, editor, intelectual (2015) and eloquently translated into English by Nicolas Allen, Cortés’s book is divided into two parts: “Part 1: Translation” and “Part 2: Marxisms”. The first chapter of Part 1, in conjunction with the book’s preface and introduction, provides the reader with a broad theoretical overview of the above-outlined notion of translation and its central importance for understanding Aricó’s contributions to both Latin American Marxism and Marxism tout court. There is a commendable emphasis throughout these early pages on the political nature of Aricó’s translation strategy, on how he turned to old and forgotten texts, figures, and debates from the Marxist tradition not for their own sake, nor for merely philological or antiquarian reasons, but rather for their capacity to intervene in the present conjuncture. Typically, Aricó’s aim was to subvert longstanding and severely limited readings of Marx and Marxism so as to reinvest both with renewed life while at the same time addressing unforeseen and recurring problems facing Latin America so as to participate – humbly, but with great commitment – in the continent’s revolutionary transformation. Cortés’s lucid discussion of these issues plays an important role in setting up the second and final chapter of Part 1, which offers a quasi-biographical sketch of Aricó’s intellectual career, focusing on the many journals, groups, and publishing houses with which he was associated. It is only with an appreciation of Aricó’s political motivations at any given moment in his life that his work – contributing to the publication of nearly 200 volumes on Marxism, including Spanish translations of Marx’s Grundrisse and Gramsci’s Prison Notebooks – can be properly understood. Far from the sad Marxologist who treats every dusty pamphlet as an archaeological relic to be preserved in a museum, Cortés presents Aricó as a collector in the strictly Benjaminian sense of the term, someone who recovered and widely disseminated Marxist texts from the past based on their not-yet-realised potential, their possible role in an “as-yet-unfinished pursuit” (Aricó in Cortés 2020, 32).

Part 2 of Translating Marx delimits its focus to Aricó’s period of exile in Mexico after the 1976 Argentine coup that overthrew Isabel Perón. This was a time of great turmoil for the Left in Latin America and around the world, which gained expression at the level of theory in what was referred to as “the crisis of Marxism”. For Aricó, however, the crisis represented an opportunity, not to wallow in nihilism but to renovate Marxism by sweeping away the determinist, idealist, and positivist delusions that had plagued the tradition since its founding. Indeed, if Aricó once quipped that “there have always existed multiple Marxisms,” the first chapter of Part 2 considers Aricó’s take on what Marxism (every Marxism?) is not: a philosophy of history (Aricó in Cortés 2020, 22 [original emphasis]). To challenge this notion of Marxism as a closed system, as a metaphysical narrative of history necessarily moving in a unilinear fashion toward some ultimate telos, Aricó looked to the writings of the late Marx, his reflections on Russia, Poland, Ireland, and other “peripheral” contexts, which forced the German thinker to reevaluate his earlier positions on historical development, capitalism’s supposedly progressive nature, and the relationship between social emancipation and national liberation. This is perhaps the book’s best example of Aricó’s translation strategy. Not only did Aricó make these texts widely available in Spanish translation through the Cuadernos de Pasado y Presente series, but he also wrote about them extensively, including in his most well-known book, Marx y América Latina ([1980] 2010; 2015). In this way, he simultaneously critiqued the prevailing Marxist orthodoxy of the period and paved the way for another reading of Marx – or, perhaps more precisely, a reading of another Marx – that could open up a different understanding of Marxism beyond its so-called crisis. Cortés thus concludes this chapter of the book with some hypotheses concerning Aricó’s own conception of Marxism, once it is distinguished from a philosophy of history. This is also where Cortés, with some help from Louis Althusser, introduces Aricó’s notion of asynchrony, which will thematically organise the book’s remaining two chapters. As Cortés compellingly argues, Aricó understood Marxism as a critique of the present moment, not a supra-historical theory but a theory immanent to the real movement of history, a concrete analysis of concrete situations that are asynchronically structured, that maintain a relationship of “discontinuity and opacity” rather than linear or expressive causality between “the economy, politics, and ideology; between theory and political movements; between national development and the international system” (2020, 117).

These hypotheses concerning Aricó’s Marxism gain further nuance in the next chapter, where Cortés examines how Aricó construed politics and the nation as (relatively) autonomous realms that develop asynchronously with respect to economic production and world capitalism. Cortés showcases Aricó’s readings of Marx, Eduard Bernstein, Lenin, Gramsci, and Mariátegui on these issues, as well as Aricó’s attempt to highlight certain parallels between Marx and Carl Schmitt regarding their shared insistence on the autonomy of the political, on politics as a “specific force” rather than merely “an expression of a set of existing economic relations” (Cortés 2020, 127). The final chapter of the book completes its discussion of asynchrony by ruminating on how this notion informed Aricó’s engagement with some of the core problems of Marxist political theory, from the formation of the State, the organisation of the party, and the struggle for hegemony to the relationship between theory and practice, economic classes and political subjects, and socialism and democracy. This chapter considers how Aricó reformulated these problems from the vantage point of Latin America, drawing upon his extensive research on the history of socialism in the region (especially around the figure of Juan B. Justo) and his intellectual exchange with contemporaries like Juan Carlos Portantiero and René Zavaleta Mercado.

In sum, Cortés has produced an incredibly rich and theoretically sophisticated book that manages to combine laser-like focus on the problematic of translation with a sweeping commentary on the “manifold object” that is Marxism (2020, 28). What is at times missing from this erudite study, though, especially in its final chapters, is some translation work on the part of its author. Cortés does not really address, for example, what Aricó’s emphasis on the national question has to teach us in today’s globalised world.⁵ What is at stake conceptually and politically in revisiting those classical debates now? This was a question that Aricó attempted to answer in the late 1970s and early 1980s and it ought to be posed again for contemporary times.⁶ If many of today’s critics of Marxism – and some of its adherents – still need to be reminded that Marx did not invent a philosophy of history, other aspects of Aricó’s thinking during his period of exile feel less obviously relevant for the present conjuncture, which is not to say that they are no longer relevant but rather that a more explicit case needs to be made for their relevance. That being said, what immediately stands out for its contemporaneity and retains all of its urgency – in my estimation – is not this or that specific intervention by Aricó but rather his mode of intervention itself, his translation strategy, which rightly takes centre stage in Cortés’s book.

Missed encounters continue to divide, torment, and weaken the Left in Latin America and beyond. As a result, the lessons of Mariátegui and Aricó, particularly on the formation of a united front and the translation of Marx and Marxism, remain as vital as ever. Thanks to the efforts of Gonzalez and Cortés (and Allen), these lessons are now available to a much wider audience and will hopefully contribute to producing some much-needed political effects. Indeed, to read Mariátegui and Aricó today is to remember them for their futurity, for what they announced long ago that is still yet to come.

Disclosure statement

No potential conflict of interest was reported by the author.

Additional information

Notes on contributors

Gavin Arnall

Gavin Arnall is Assistant Professor in the Department of Romance Languages and Literatures at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. He is the author of Subterranean Fanon: An Underground Theory of Radical Change (Columbia University Press, 2020) and the translator of Emilio de Ípola’s Althusser, The Infinite Farewell (Duke University Press, 2018).

Notes

1 Consider this early example from In the Red Corner: “The relationship between Marxist ideas and indigenous struggle was broken [after Mariátegui’s death …], and it would be decades before the resulting distrust would begin to be overcome” (Gonzalez 2019, 9). See, relatedly, García Linera (2008); García Linera (2015); Arnall (2020b).

2 Cortés does note that Aricó encouraged “secular dialogue” between Marxism and other forms of knowledge, but these knowledges are understood as “partial perspectives” that can be explained from Marxism’s “overarching vantage point” rather than worldviews with their own universalist horizons. To approach dialogue in this way is to guarantee a missed encounter (2020, 4, 24).

3 This slippage sometimes occurs in the same sentence: “[T]ranslation is possible and necessary because, on the one hand, there exists a certain level of universality, while on the other, there are singular forms that must be apprehended in their specificity” (Cortés 2020, 2 [my emphasis]). The reader interested in exploring the philosophical and political nuances of the distinction between singularity and specificity might turn to Peter Hallward’s excellent book, Absolutely Postcolonial: Writing between the Singular and the Specific (2001).

4 Consider how Cortés sets up his discussion of Marxism’s translation: “And while Marxist theory does presuppose universality – the proletariat’s negation of capitalism representing the negation of a global phenomenon – the question remains how to extrapolate this universal order for the analysis of historical particularities” (2020, 12 [my emphasis]).

5 The issue receives cursory attention in the conclusion: “In light of today’s globalizing tendencies, along with the growing importance of regional blocs, the centrality of the nation-unit as the privileged site of analysis is an open question. Whatever the case, the nation continues to structure the diverse dimensions of the social sphere in such a way that analysis cannot afford to simply ignore it” (Cortés 2020, 189).

6 Gavin Walker (2016) helpfully addresses this point in his own work on the Japanese Marxist Uno Kozo.