We await our Marx, we agree. We await a bearded thinker, a serious thinker to diagnose the crisis of our time, who, even now, is probably locked in the British library or some other library, reading, writing. To diagnose it, and to lead us out of it, a new Moses! To give us a new word in place of communism for the hopes of the left! A new word, for a new left, and for a new world for the left, after the last revolution!
To him, our Marx, we will be the rubbish to be cleared. We won't deserve to be called allies. Foolishness!, Stupidity! That's what our Marx will write in the margins of our work. Total idiocy!
Oh, how joyfully we will read his polemics against us and others like us! We'll be happy when his cannonballs shatter our philosophical windows, and when our names are only known as among the obscurest of the opponents he railed against in one of his jeremiads.
'Our task must be unsparing criticism, directed even more against our self-styled friends than against our declared enemies', wrote the old Marx. Our self-styled friends: the phrase makes us tremble with passion. So the new Marx will find us out. We'll be judged! Found wanting!
'A rowdy, loudmouthed and extremely confused little manikin' … that's what the old Marx called Rudolf Schramm. 'Ferret face': that's what he called Arnold Ruge. – 'And you, what will our new Marx call you?', W. wonders. 'A toad. A squat man. A man with a micropenis! A nanopenis! A man with a quantum penis!'
W. finds this very funny. Of course, our new Marx won't spare him, either. He'll dismiss W. in a phrase! In a word! A deviationist, he'll write. A dullard. Yes, that's how W. will be known to post-revolutionary history.
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