[Marxism] The Existential Robert Fitch

Louis Proyect lnp3 at panix.com
Tue Sep 20 08:05:59 MDT 2011


http://www.newpol.org/node/514

The Existential Robert Fitch

Michael Hirsch	September 19, 2011

An overflow crowd at New York's Brecht Forum on Sept. 18 
commemorated the life of the late journalist, author, scholar, 
educator, activist, union organizer and frequent New Politics 
contributor Bob Fitch, who died in March after complications from 
a fall. Among the speakers were Bertell Ollman, Steve Bronner, 
Doug Henwood, Christian Parenti, Jonathan Fitch and NP's Michael 
Hirsch. Below are Hirsch's remarks.

      Those of us who ever saw Bob Fitch make a presentation know 
he followed the showbiz adage that "if it's not on the page, it's 
not on the stage." Bob said extemporaneous speakers risked 
shortchanging their audiences. In keeping with Bob's precept, I'll 
read these remarks.

      Shakespeare talks about the seven stages of man. For the 
Bard they ran sequentially. For Bob they ran more or less 
simultaneously.

      The lover, sighing like furnace; the soldier full of strange 
oaths, though never "seeking the bubble reputation," And if Bob 
was on occasion the Justice with the "beard of formal cut" he 
never grew the "fair round belly," nor sported "eyes severe" nor 
was he "full of wise saws."

      If there were any Globe Theater analogues to Bob, they were 
John Falstaff, Puck and Henry 5th at Agincourt, who could stir 
listeners to glory and thought of his friends as "we lucky few, we 
band of brothers." I was proud to be one of those friends.

      Bob was a remarkable guy. He was three dimensional when most 
of us are lucky to live in two. He was honest to a fault. He had a 
bullshit meter that was always on and never failed him. He 
abominated clichés—probably even this one.

      He was ruthless in his criticisms of postmodernism, likening 
it to a disbelief in gravity. He joined me in pronouncing Foucault 
as "Fuck All" and considered "transgression" nonsense when not 
strictly homoerotic.

      BTW, that bullshit meter got him into plenty of trouble. A 
brilliant researcher, gifted writer and galvanizing speaker, he 
was an old-school public intellectual but not enough of a corridor 
player, elbow bender and hale-fellow-well met to land a 
tenure-line university job. If I needed one more reason to despise 
so many leftists supping at the high tables of the elite academic 
world, it was for their studied refusal to hire Bob.

      He was considered collegial enough to adjunct at a 
smattering of urban campuses, where part-timers had the mystique 
of savants and the pay, benefits and job security of car washers. 
Bob was a thoroughbred earning a living as a dray horse.

      He was also one of the most impolitic people I knew, not 
because he was clueless—he was hardly that—and not really 
confrontational.—It's just that he wasn't a flatterer when 
flattery was called for. When for example, he was tasked to review 
a book dear to the heart of a certain Tikkun magazine editor, he 
decided the book was rubbish and said so in the draft. It didn't 
run and he didn't get asked again.

      So while he was the Peck's bad boy of iconoclasm, he was 
intellectually scrupulous. Unlike Humpty Dumpty, he was ferocious 
about words meaning one thing. A blood enemy of union corruption 
who believed that institutional shape-changing from four legs to 
two was endemic to the American trade union structure, he also 
insisted that trade union tops weren't bureaucrats, but elected 
officials, a distinction with great difference for Bob. That 
distinction didn't make them better for Bob; it was only more 
accurate, more factually descriptive, more explanation than epithet.

      And he and I argued intensely about some of his 
formulations, especially his key one; that today's unions as 
bargaining and service agents were hopelessly parochial and 
padrone-like, ripe for —or already mired in —oligarchy and 
corruption. He wanted the unions torn down and rebuilt as class 
institutions.

      If I didn't and couldn't go that far—at least not to the 
tearing-down bits—I never for an instant thought his ideas came 
from either jealousy or hatred or sloppy thinking or inexperience 
or wish-fulfillment or even from exhaustion over what else is to 
be done. Intellectually he was never exhausted. For him breaking 
up service-model and undemocratic unions and starting over was 
just his Occam's razor.

      I think we do a piss poor job of supporting our iconoclasts. 
Instead of playing "What's my line? " or my dogma's bigger than 
your dogma or my CV winds down the street and around the corner 
while yours barely makes it to the kitchen, we should all have the 
intellectual curiosity of Bob Fitch.

      Any of us who knew him well can tell stories about how he 
made us better, both as thinkers, writers and as people. He was 
generous with his time. For me, he was unendingly helpful when I 
started freelancing. He was there with suggestions on stories, on 
venues, even on how to massage editors. He was extremely 
supportive of others' work. His critiques of my work were often 
penetrating even as they were often ego-deflating. And he always 
repaid a kindness with a kindness.

      He never turned down a request to speak—always did his job 
well—and always agreed to write for New Politics when I asked. He 
even thanked me once for picking a topic he wasn't on top of. By 
the time his talk was ready, he was way on top, mounted with 
bridle in one hand and whip in the other. Only it wasn't the steed 
that took the whipping.

Those of you who ever got a chance to phone Bob at home should 
remember his answering-machine voice—and least on those rare 
occasions when he wasn't at home, working, reading, writing, 
listening to music. "Hi, this is Bob Fitch. Can we talk? Of course!"

      Bob was a great talker, and a great listener. Time spent 
with Bob was time when your brain percolated. Sure, he was a 
master at pushing the envelope; a read of any article or book of 
his will tell you that. But he was also someone who pushed to see 
the logic in his own ideas, and yours.

      In a review I did of Christopher Hitchens' memoir for New 
Politics, I basically panned the book for, among its sins, a sort 
of fawning after people he liked for the instant, while 
scurrilously blasting those he did not. After the piece came out, 
Bob summarized that point as "He's either at your feet or at your 
throat," and I told him I wished that I written that.

      Later, when I found it was Churchill who said it first in 
regard to "the Hun," Bob insisted that Churchill had cribbed it 
from someone else. I'm sure he was right.

      So I owe him a lot. He was my truest critic. He even helped 
get me a job. In a world where know-who overshadows know-how, this 
was my solitary experience in that milieu. He even went to bat for 
me when a piece I'd submitted to The Nation languished in 
someone's in-box.

      A lifetime ago I attended a memorial service for Lenny 
Bruce. One of the speakers—and it could have been Ed Sanders or 
Paul Krassner—asked what would Lenny have wanted? He answered his 
own question: Lenny would want to be here! I don't know that Bob 
would want to be here. "Why are you guys talking about me?" he'd 
say. "Aren't there more important subjects to tackle? This is 
after all the Brecht Forum!"

      Well, I'm going to disagree with Bob again. No, there are no 
better things to do here. When a comrade passes, one who brought 
insight out of everything he examined, it's worth considering what 
he taught us, and what we've lost. Bob was an atheist, he didn't 
believe in an afterlife. We are what we do here.

      I remember when his book, The Assassination of New York, 
came out. Others would have had the publisher organize the event 
and keep the proceeds. Bob held his at the Chinese Restaurant 
Workers Association and gave the proceeds to them. Who does that?

      Now he's gone. We can learn from his example. He was always 
presente! He was one of the least schematic and most 
intellectually curious people I ever knew. That curiosity was 
infectious. I learned from him not only how answers could be 
found, but how hunting for them could be joyous, too.




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