{"id":175,"date":"2026-06-03T10:46:18","date_gmt":"2026-06-03T10:46:18","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/atlaslivingmedia.com\/?p=175"},"modified":"2026-06-03T10:46:18","modified_gmt":"2026-06-03T10:46:18","slug":"the-ghosts-of-antonio-gramsci","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/atlaslivingmedia.com\/?p=175","title":{"rendered":"The Ghosts of Antonio Gramsci"},"content":{"rendered":"
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\"Image<\/figure>\n\n<\/div>\n
\nChildren looking at a mural of Antonio Gramsci, 1975. \n<\/span>\n(Mondadori via Getty Images)<\/span>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

Fifty years after Selections From the Prison Notebooks<\/em> was first published in 1971, the joke still remains popular: Antonio Gramsci is a communist you can bring home to your parents. It wouldn\u2019t matter if they were liberals or Maoists, social democrats or anti-imperialists, populists or pacifists\u2014everyone gets along with Antonio.<\/p>

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Books in review<\/h3>\n
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Roses for Gramsci<\/h4>\n\n by Andy Merrifield <\/span>\n<\/span>\nBuy this book\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

The reasons for Gramsci\u2019s popularity, as well as his pliability, lie in the unique form of his oeuvre. His themes, for one, are startlingly capacious: serial novels and popular theater, factory councils and peasant estates, Catholicism and communism, newspaper design and comparative grammar, folklore and opera. There\u2019s something here for everyone. At the same time, Gramsci\u2019s prison writing\u2014over 3,000 pages across 33 notebooks\u2014is peppered with myriad \u201cAesopian\u201d codes and terms. These ciphers were originally intended to confound Benito Mussolini\u2019s Fascist censors, but their diffuse meanings have since triggered a series of heated polemics. And so, apart from attracting an unusually diverse readership, Gramsci\u2019s work has also spawned diverse, frequently disparate, interpretations.<\/p>\n

Is \u201csubaltern\u201d a code for the working classes? Is \u201chegemony\u201d an economic force or a cultural power? Are \u201corganic intellectuals\u201d inherently more progressive? The answers to such questions depend upon your choice of scholar\u2014whether, say, you\u2019re reading a Foucauldian literary critic or a Marxist sociologist, a subaltern historian or a posthuman anthropologist. Over the years, Gramsci\u2019s writing has been polished by critics of such diverse persuasions that it has now become a mirror: One opens his books only to confirm one\u2019s own beliefs.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s no surprise, then, that when the English writer Andy Merrifield arrived in Rome, feeling \u201cwashed out intellectually,\u201d Gramsci came to the rescue. In June 2023, Merrifield followed his wife\u2019s new job to Italy. Having written a dozen books\u2014about plagues, cities, donkeys, magic\u2014he wasn\u2019t sure if he had another book left in him. The \u201cpractical chores\u201d of moving had left him burned out, prompting fears of an early retirement. A visit to the city\u2019s Non-Catholic Cemetery, however, soon cured his writer\u2019s block.<\/p>\n

A brilliant bloom of flowers, cicadas, birds, and cypresses: This \u201ctropical\u201d cemetery looked nothing like the rest of Rome. A 2,000-year-old Egyptian pyramid of Caius Cestius stood in the vicinity. The distant Aurelian city walls, equally ancient, towered above the graves. This \u201cmagical kingdom\u201d was an appropriate resting place for the cemetery\u2019s famous denizens: the English Romantic poets John Keats and Percy Shelley. But Gramsci? The lush serenity was at odds with the circumstances of the revolutionary\u2019s life. Gramsci had spent his last decade on the earth rotting, quite literally, in Fascist prisons. He suffered from uremia, angina, gout, tubercular lesions, arteriosclerosis, and Pott\u2019s disease. By the time he died in 1937, at the age of 46, Gramsci\u2019s head was so swollen that it resembled the otherworldly granite stones that have littered the southern landscape of his native Ghilarza since the Neolithic age. In a fitting reversal, however, his grave has since become a totem for Italy\u2019s freedom from Fascist rule.<\/p>\n

Merrifield, in recent years, has acquired a reputation for his stylish portraits of Western Marxists: the French Situationist Guy Debord; the English critic, poet, and novelist John Berger; the French philosopher and sociologist Henry Lefebvre; and, most recently, Marx himself. Roses for Gramsci<\/em> is a welcome, if predictable, addition to this rogue\u2019s gallery. What\u2019s surprising, though, are Merrifield\u2019s unconventional, playful methods. Previously, in The<\/em> Amateur<\/em> (2017),Merrifield had sketched out a stern critique of \u201cprofessional intellectuals,\u201d whose research remains detached from the world outside their campuses and offices. Appropriately enough, Roses for Gramsci<\/em> isn\u2019t interested in recycling academic exegeses of Gramsci\u2019s texts. Instead, Merrifield seeks a living Gramsci, one no longer entombed in books or museums, much less in a cemetery. His trip to Gramsci\u2019s grave wasn\u2019t followed by a visit to the library. Instead, as befits an amateur, Merrifield instantly took up a new job at the cemetery.<\/p>\n

Gramsci is, by the numbers, an incredibly popular thinker: There are over 23,000 references to his work\u2014pamphlets, dissertations, newspaper articles, academic essays, artworks\u2014according to the informal biography maintained by the Fondazione Gramsci. In just the past two years, at least three new biographies have been published as well. Gianni Fresu has written an intellectual biography in broad strokes, while Jean-Yves Fr\u00e9tign\u00e9 has affixed the revolutionary under a microscope (the appendices include family trees and a list of prison visitors). George Hare and Nathan Sperber, meanwhile, have extended the biographical scope by examining Gramsci\u2019s legacy in a contemporary context of right-wing authoritarianism.<\/p>\n

Roses for Gramsci<\/em>, however, isn\u2019t a biography, at least in any conventional sense. It\u2019s a slim book; one is tempted to describe it as a miniature portrait. Its eight chapters\u2014with carefully curated titles like \u201cGoblin\u201d and \u201cA Rose\u201d\u2014certainly give the impression of a refined belletrist at work. But on a closer look, Merrifield harbors a loftier aspiration: He wants to rewire our canonical, hallowed ideas of intellectual labor. Merrifield\u2019s narrative consists of instinctual jottings of archival study, political analysis, travel, photographs, and personal memories. He takes to Gramsci the way a person might take to cooking or gardening. Not surprisingly, some of these diaristic notes were first posted on his blog.<\/p>\n

Merrifield\u2019s prose is informal and, for that reason, inviting. And not just for general readers\u2014even professional Gramscians will welcome the change of scenery. In the cemetery, Merrifield works at the Visitors\u2019 Center. His job as a volunteer also inflects his portrait of Gramsci: Merrifield might be holding the brush, but it\u2019s the visitors who command it. For instance, if the old man sitting on the \u201cGramsci bench\u201d wants to talk about Antonio\u2019s antagonists\u2014the onetime Hegelians Benedetto Croce, who later became a liberal philosopher, and Giovanni Gentile, who later became a Fascist minister of education\u2014then what choice does the caretaker have? He will have to hold his tongue this morning.<\/p>\n

These constraints serve Merrifield nicely. For one, they keep him from writing like a pedant or a preacher, roles otherwise so dear to Marxists of a certain vintage. Always by our elbow, Merrifield never gets in our face. Simultaneously, a circumstantial scatter of strangers enlivens the cemetery setting. Apart from the steady trickle of local devotees, who periodically tidy Gramsci\u2019s grave, we also encounter a much larger, multinational crowd on key festive occasions (Gramsci\u2019s birthday and Liberation Day). These celebrations also betray an unexpected political strife: It turns out that, outside the academy, Gramsci\u2019s legacy is the subject of even more fractious quarrels. The International Gramsci Society and the Fondazione Gramsci,whose members don\u2019t talk to each other, organize separate commemorations in the cemetery.<\/p>\n

Merrifield frequently shuttles between the cemetery and the key sites of Gramsci\u2019s life: lodgings, museums, and clinics. There isn\u2019t, however, much handwringing about \u201cresearch methods\u201d here. His narrative turns, as a result, retain their freshness. When he is ready, Merrifield simply announces: \u201cI am standing under the entrance arch of the Hotel Villa Morgagni.\u201d A hundred years ago, this was a modest lodging house where Gramsci was arrested by Mussolini\u2019s henchmen; now it\u2019s \u201ca 4-star, 34-room, luxury boutique hotel, equipped with Jacuzzis.\u201d Not long after, Merrifield transports us to New York City, where he\u2019s come to visit David Harvey to discuss the economic theories of Gramsci\u2019s friend Pieroo Sraffa. (Harvey was Sraffa\u2019s student at Cambridge and Merrifield\u2019s doctoral adviser at Oxford.) Other guests in the book\u2014both living and dead\u2014include John Berger (the book is dedicated to him), the painter Renato Guttuso, the translator Maria Nadotti, and the filmmaker Pier Paolo Pasolini, whose long poem \u201cThe Ashes of Gramsci\u201d is, in fact, set at the Non-Catholic Cemetery.<\/p>\n

But this is Gramsci\u2019s story\u2014and, like most Gramsci scholars, Merrifield also centers his narrative on two key historical figures. Tatiana Schucht, Gramsci\u2019s sister-in-law, supplied him with pens and books, served as an intellectual foil in their letters, and eventually smuggled out his prison notebooks. Sraffa, meanwhile, was Gramsci\u2019s favorite sparring partner in left circles\u2014even after moving to England, he continued to foot Gramsci\u2019s bills for hospitals and bookstores and ran an international campaign for his release. Gramsci\u2019s other relationships, however, proved less fortunate and were permanently ruptured by his imprisonment: his landlady, Clara, in Turin (he never found out about her death); his mother, Giuseppina, in Ghilarza (he never found out about her death either); and his younger son, Guiliano, in Moscow (he never saw him). Seven decades later, Guiliano, who retired as a professor from Moscow\u2019s Music Conservatory, was still wrestling with the personal costs of Italian Fascism:<\/p>\n

Dear Papa, I\u2019ve aged, am eighty years old. You are always the same\u2014young, intelligent, sharp, and handsome. I\u2019ve never touched you with my hands, but always caressed you on paper, and embraced you in my dreams.<\/p>\n

Even seasoned Gramscians will find new details in Merrifield\u2019s portrait. Most notably, it\u2019s the trivial margins of Gramsci\u2019s oeuvre that gleam with a lively, winking crispness. Consider his favored pseudonym\u2014Raksha\u2014<\/em>for some early articles in Avanti!<\/em> and Il Grido del Popolo<\/em> (The Cry of the People). Why should a revolutionary borrow the guise of a she-wolf from Rudyard Kipling\u2019s The Jungle Book<\/em>?Gramsci\u2019s peculiar, even problematic, attraction to Kipling can be productively read as a Machiavellian tactic. In his Prison Notebooks<\/em>, Gramsci explicitly stresses the importance of extracting \u201cimages of powerful immediacy,\u201d especially from the works of a reactionary imperialist like Kipling. Even so, Merrifield cautions that the deviant charm of wolves and mongooses in Gramsci\u2019s life cannot simply be tallied like zeros and ones on a political abacus.<\/p>

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The roots of this fascination with animals lie in Gramsci\u2019s Sardinian childhood. Frequently bullied because of his hunchbacked appearance (his spine was deformed after an early accident), Gramsci\u2019s only friends as a child were animals: birds of all kinds (barn owls, finches, crows, magpies), as well as snakes, lizards, weasels, and hedgehogs. Writing to his elder son, Delio, from prison, Gramsci often blended excerpts from The Jungle Book<\/em> with his own stories of animal friends; for his sister\u2019s children, Gramsci translated the fairy tales of the Brothers Grimm. Although these German fables were 100 years old, Gramsci surmised that they would still resonate with children in southern Italy\u2019s backwaters, where the popular folklore was replete with bandits, witches, and all kinds of magical creatures.<\/p>\n

This archaic nature of his native south\u2014Gramsci famously theorized it as the \u201csouthern question\u201d\u2014was a historical product of Italy\u2019s \u201cinternal colonialism.\u201d The southern peasants were forced to extract raw materials, mainly agricultural produce and minerals, for northern factories, which, protected by import tariffs, enjoyed a ready domestic market. In addition to being exploited, then, the southerners were also forced to buy the more expensive northern goods. But this economic imbalance wasn\u2019t sustained by political repression alone. According to Gramsci, \u201ca social group can, and indeed, must, exercise \u2018leadership\u2019 (i.e. be hegemonic) before<\/em> winning governmental power.\u201d In Italy, the \u201chegemonic\u201d basis of \u201cinternal colonialism\u201d lay in the reactionary formation of its intelligentsia. In the south, \u201ctraditional intellectuals\u201d like Benedetto Croce served to legitimize the rule of clergy and landlords, while in the north, trade unionists propagated anti-southern prejudice as an essential lubricant for running factories at a profit.<\/p>\n

The southerners periodically lashed out, but the revolts by bandits and war veterans remained \u201cdisjointed and episodic,\u201d riddled with all kinds of reactionary, feudal notions. Even so, Gramsci refrained from dismissing subaltern rebellions as mere symptoms of a \u201cfalse consciousness.\u201d \u201cAll men,\u201d he countered, \u201care intellectuals,\u201d even if the capitalist division of labor permitted only a handful to become \u201cprofessional intellectuals.\u201d In this context, Gramsci\u2019s penchant for southern folklore was more than just the sentimental fondness of a native son\u2014it was a tactical response to the existing forces of political hegemony. Instead of simply importing a \u201ccorrect\u201d Marxist line from outside, Gramsci envisioned a \u201cPopular Manual of Marxism,\u201d one that was attuned to popular subaltern cultures and could fertilize the seeds of southern discontent into the organic saplings of critical consciousness.<\/p>\n

As has become customary in cultural studies, Merrifield frames Gramsci\u2019s interest in subaltern cultures as an implicit critique of contemporary Soviet dogmas, including the widespread belief in the \u201cprimacy of economics.\u201d His arguments are certainly compelling. Nor is there any doubt about Merrifield\u2019s ingenuity as a storyteller. His sketches of Gramsci\u2019s life flow fluently, even if his piety sometimes feels theatrical (at one point, he pontificates about \u201canimality\u201d while stroking \u201cThe General,\u201d a feral cemetery cat he has nicknamed after Engels). It\u2019s the clumsy handling of Gramsci\u2019s pre-prison activism, however, that disfigures his otherwise lively portrait. Merrifield posits cultural mindfulness as a sure antidote to economic orthodoxy. But his own fixation on Gramsci\u2019s cultural identity\u2014\u201ca lad from the south\u201d\u2014obscures the systemic workings of the \u201csouthern question.\u201d<\/p>\n

Like several critical theorists over the years, Merrifield affirms Gramsci\u2019s idea of \u201corganic intellectuals\u201d as a counterpoint to \u201ctraditional intellectuals\u201d and \u201cnorthern communists.\u201d But like most of them, Merrifield, too, renders this opposition in cultural terms, celebrating in particular the ability of organic intellectuals to articulate the \u201celemental passions\u201d of subaltern classes. For Gramsci, however, an organic intellectual was essentially a political<\/em> actor, one who performed \u201corganizational functions\u201d organic to his context. None of Gramsci\u2019s own political activities, however, find a mention here. During bienne russo<\/em>, the \u201cred years\u201d of 1919\u201320, he actively organized workers\u2019 councils in Turin\u2019s metal factories. Routinely overlooked by critics, these pre-prison episodes hold the key not just to the riddle of the \u201csouthern question,\u201d but also to the unusually capacious range of Gramsci\u2019s texts. It was precisely the northern hustle of Italian socialist and communist parties\u2014running newspapers, proletarian reading groups, and cultural clubs\u2014that molded Gramsci into a unique, shapeshifting intellectual, equally adept at reviewing serial novels and labor politics.<\/p>\n

In Turin, the workers\u2019 councils intended to disrupt the \u201cnorthern compromise\u201d between reformist trade unions and factory owners. But lacking any control over the banks or the bureaucracy, much less the military, their operations remained heavily circumscribed. The workers could occupy the factories and even prove that they were capable of running them on their own. But such occupations couldn\u2019t hold on, much less transform the existing relations of power in Italy. Although roundly defeated, Gramsci still insisted that a political victory in the north was essential for building a united front with southern peasants. Given the poor levels of cultivation in the south, the political regeneration of southerners wasn\u2019t simply a cultural problem. Unless the northern workers permanently captured their factories, a democratic transfer of new agrarian technology to the south was impossible. In the absence of these material transformations, Gramsci warned that progressive policies like land reforms would only feed the \u201clandlord instincts\u201d of the southern comrades.<\/p>\n

Such interlinked reflections on national and class politics are lacking in Merrifield\u2019s portrait. These elisions, in turn, also inflect his anxieties about Gramsci\u2019s contemporary relevance: \u201cNo, he\u2019s not forgotten, I reassured myself; no, he\u2019s not forgotten.\u201d As if to make a point, then, everywhere he goes, Merrifield sees only Gramsci: in museums, archives, clinics, streets. It is telling, too, that his ethnographic jaunts never introduce us to any workers, peasants, shepherds, or refugees. Instead, Merrifield is increasingly obsessed with capturing his own impressions of Gramsci\u2019s time: \u201ca smell, a texturing of the cultural and natural landscape\u2026the look on people\u2019s faces, the region\u2019s light and warmth, its dusty aridness, the sun beating down.\u201d The succulence of these thick descriptions, however, doesn\u2019t nourish Gramsci\u2019s political vision.<\/p>\n

When Merrifield occasionally does look up from these textures to assess the world around him, his sentences, hitherto crackling with wit and insight, also begin to falter. In order to explain the country\u2019s current right-wing lurch, he recycles a number of pallid clich\u00e9s, including \u201cwidespread brainwashing.\u201d The people, we are told, are suffering from \u201cfalse consciousness.\u201d The intellectuals, meanwhile, have \u201clet the people down, retreated to our college campuses, given ourselves over to the management committees and research assessments.\u201d These criticisms of academics are curious\u2014not because they aren\u2019t true, but rather because, despite his roaming outside the campuses, the political horizons of Merrifield\u2019s \u201camateur\u201d seem equally restricted. Enchanted by the historical figure of Gramsci, he appears increasingly unmoored from contemporary political and economic realities.<\/p>\n

Working in Turin, Gramsci speculated that \u201cindustrial centralization\u201d would soon \u201cspread to the entire world of bourgeois economy.\u201d Yet the industries of the Global North have long since shuttered, resurrecting, instead, as informal sweatshops and assembly plants in the Global South. Similarly, the US-led restructuring of world agriculture has long preempted Gramsci\u2019s hopes from mechanized agriculture. Starting in the postwar era, US food-aid programs disseminated new machinery and fertilizers across the postcolonial world, exposing its peasantries to competition with the highly subsidized capitalist farms of the Global North. Over time, the economic and ecological crises in these southern hinterlands have created enormous urban masses of superfluous laborers. As a result, contemporary \u201csoutherners\u201d appear increasingly trapped in the global coils of supply chains and migration routes. Even as Merrifield pokes the \u201cprofessional intellectuals\u201d in their campus cages, he says little about the \u201csouthern question\u201d of our own time, and less still about the \u201corganic intellectuals\u201d fighting these new global divisions of labor.<\/p>\n

Given his obvious writerly gifts, it\u2019s not surprising that Merrifield is able to rise above these limits to summon a final, artistic flight of imagination. His narrative ends with a searching, forensic aria of counterhistory: What if, in 1937, Gramsci had survived his bout of illness in Rome, instead of dying days before he was set to be released from prison? What if he had managed to make his way back to Sardinia? It is endearing to imagine our withered revolutionary otherwise: fitted with a sparkling set of false teeth, drinking aperitivo with the villagers, and taking gentle walks draped in a typical shepherd\u2019s shawl. This Sardinian junket, however, could have lasted only for so long. Mussolini\u2019s Fascist military would soon stomp across the island, ready to cast beyond the Mediterranean an even wider net of imperialism.<\/p>\n

Where would Gramsci go? A ferry from Porto Torres to Marseille? And from there, a ride on the famed Capitain Paul Lemerle <\/em>to Martinique? On the decks of this famous cargo boat, our folklorist of communism would have jostled with a rowdy cast of dissidents fleeing the Gestapo: the surrealists Andr\u00e9 Breton and Wilfred Lam, the photographer Germaine Krull, the anthropologist Claude L\u00e9vi-Strauss, and the anarcho-Bolshevik Victor Serge. But Martinique, controlled by Vichy\u2019s collaborationist forces, wouldn\u2019t have offered a safe harbor. Nor could Gramsci have followed his fellow passengers to New York: He would have been denied entry to the United States because he\u2019d been a member of the Italian Communist Party. Like comrade Serge, then, would Gramsci have settled in Mexico City instead? And would Stalin\u2019s apparatchiks, who denied his application for refuge before his death (they thought he was a \u201ccloset Trotskyite\u201d), eventually follow him to his new lodgings?<\/p>\n

These speculations are exhilarating. But standing in Gramsci\u2019s place today, it\u2019s not the fable of an individual departure, but rather the news of a collective arrival that makes demands on our imagination. If we squint just a little, we would likely find an odd boat floating off the shores of Porto Torres, ferrying dozens of refugees from Tunisia, Iraq, Morocco, Syria, Afghanistan, Senegal, and India. Will a patrolling unit of the Guardia di Finanza seize this boat before it can dock? Or will members of Arci Mediterraneo welcome the refugees with blankets and food? And what will become of these refugees in the coming days? Will they find lodgings at a local integration center? Or will they get picked up by the notorious gangmasters, who, seizing their papers, will condemn them to the purgatory of southern Italy\u2019s farmlands? Will they harvest tomatoes and watermelons in Apulia or olives and citruses in Sicily? Trapped in a variety of barracopoli<\/em> (shantytowns) and tendopoli<\/em> (tent cities), will these fugitives ever encounter a reference to Antonio Gramsci in, say, the street graffiti or a radio station run by Campagna de Lotta? And if so, what will they make of the \u201csouthern question\u201d?<\/p>

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