Karl Marx always looked like he had birds nesting in his beard or maybe a smorgasbord of food debris clogging up his grizzled follicles from the last few meals he’d scoffed. He never looked quite healthy. He wasn’t. He drank too much, smoked too much (noxious cheap cigars), and was almost driven demented by a rash of painful boils on his butt that meant he did a lot of his writing standing up. More importantly, he hardly looked like the guy who is regularly blamed for the state oppression and the genocide of millions of people under communism or socialism or whateverism. If Marx knew the atrocities supposedly carried out in his name he’d probably swing fists or hurl chunks. The gulf between Marx’s ideas and the practice of so-called communism and socialism as has all-too often been carried out in his name is like the difference between those dour gritty portraits of a bad Santa and what the real Karl Marx was like as a person.
He was a complex fucker was our Karl.
Photographic portraits of Marx don’t suggest a guy who wrote poetry, loved his wife with a passion, doted on his kids, and was once a hellraiser of a student—getting drunk, causing mayhem, and being chased by the police after one too many for the road. He was also scarred in a duel and exiled from Germany, Belgium, and France over his barbed and satiric attacks on these countries often despotic rulers. Marx was a man of action always willing to lead the fight who eventually settled for a life of sedentary toil to produce works that changed the world.
He was also a voracious reader who loved the works of Shakespeare and could quote entire plays by the Bard—just as his children could—and generally took an interest in everything. “Art,” he said, “is always and everywhere the secret confession, and at the same time the immortal movement of its time.” No idea or philosophy or culture was foreign to him, and there was nothing that didn’t keen his interest.
Yet, he could also be bad tempered and foul to those who went against him. And on occasion was anti-semitic and racist—he described one poor frenemy (Ferdinand Lassalle) as a Jewish n-word. No saint, but all human.
Karl also enjoyed playing parlor games like Confessions, which is now probably better known as the set of questions devised by Marcel Proust. In April 1865, Marx was staying with relatives when he as asked by his daughters to answer a set of confessions. Marx’s responses give an interesting (and at times humorous) insight into the great political and economic philosopher, journalist and writer.
Your favourite virtue: Simplicity
Your favourite virtue in man: Strength
Your favourite virtue in woman: Weakness
Your chief characteristic: Singleness of purpose
Your idea of happiness: To fight
Your idea of misery: To submit
The vice you excuse most: Gullibility
The vice you detest most: Servility
Your aversion: Martin Tupper [popular Victorian author]
Your favourite occupation: Glancing at Netchen [“Netchen, or Nannette, was Antoinette Philips, aged 28 at the time, Marx’s cousin and a member of the Dutch section of the International”]
Your favourite poet: Aeschylus, Shakespeare
Your favourite prose-writer: Diderot
Your hero: Spartacus, Kepler
Your heroine: Gretchen
Your favourite flower: Daphne
Your favourite dish: Fish
Your favourite colour: Red
Your maxim: Nihil humani a me alienum puto [Nothing human is alien to me]
Your favourite motto: De omnibus dubitandum [Doubt everything]
H/T Marx/Engels Archive.