Once upon a time, there was an article of commerce, the product of an individual’s labour, something made in order to be sold, a commodity. It matters not what this article is. It could be a yard of linen, a coat, a bottle of whiskey, a Bible, a watch. But this thing, as a commodity, has strange powers. Although as inert as a table, it develops in its wooden head a need for a social life and a change of scene, and its magic therefore brings together two creatures – two human beings who may or may not know each other, but who are summoned nonetheless by their own products to meet in the marketplace. In the hands of one of our ensorcelled creatures is the commodity. But he wishes to be rid of it. It is of no use to him, except in that he hopes it might bring him something that his heart – or stomach – desires. In the hands of the other is a commodity of equal value (or a quantity of money of equal value). The same considerations apply. The other creature too wants rid of his commodity. Our two creatures find, in each other’s hands, the object of their individual desires. Their eyes gleam at the sight of them. All that now needs to happen is for the commodities to change hands.

Not all stories have happy endings – it might be that such meetings lead not to exchange but to nothing more than a parting of the ways. (Magic does not always work, and the story of crisis starts here.) But in our story, the magic happens, the deal is done. Each human creature, seemingly of his own free will, and according to law, decides to dispose of what is his, on condition that he receives in return the commodity in the other’s hands. The contract agreed, both exchange commodities, then walk away as free men, both the richer for the encounter, both blissfully unaware and unconcerned with the other except in as far as it affects his own gain, his own interests. In this happy tale, an equal exchange has been made – neither man is better off than the other in terms of value. But both are richer nonetheless as they have disposed of the thing of no use to them and won instead just whatever it was their hearts yearned for. Meanwhile, our wooden-headed protagonist, the commodity, its desire for social life satiated, settles down in the world for which it was destined: the realm of consumption.

The setting of this story, what Marx calls the sphere of exchange, is an Eden of the innate rights of man, a world of freedom and equality. So far, so good. Unfortunately, the tale needs some modification before it can tell capitalism’s story quite accurately. In the real world, the world in which we live, in which Marx lived, two people do again meet in the market. And, as before, one of them has in his hands a thing – a quantity of money – that the other desires. The other creature, though, comes to market in an unusual position – she comes empty-handed, she has nothing to sell – or no thing to sell, at any rate. (The story of how it came about that this poor soul should have nothing to bring to market is written in blood – you can find a version of it in the final part of volume 1 of Capital.) The two meet in this Eden of freedom. Then, something horrific happens. The money-owner changes shape; his face changes expression. Marx writes:

“When we leave this sphere of simple circulation or the exchange of commodities, which provides the ‘free-trader vulgaris’ with his views, his concepts and the standard by which he judges the society of capital and wage labour, a certain change takes place, or so it appears, in the physiognomy of our dramatis personae. He who was previously the money-owner now strides out in front as a capitalist; the possessor of labour-power follows as his worker. The one smirks self-importantly and is intent on business; the other is timid and holds back, like someone who has brought his own hide to market and now has nothing else to expect but – a tanning.”

Off they go, but where are they going? They head for a dark underworld – the hidden abode of production. They reach the entrance, which is barred with a door, and on the threshold there hangs the notice ‘No admittance except on business’. At this door, you hang your coat for the day – along with your independence, your freedom, any notion of democratic participation, your self-confidence, your ability to make free decisions about what to do with your god-given energies, your self-respect. You hang your coat, and the door slams behind you.

In this story, then, as opposed to our first fairy tale, nothing at first changes hands when our two creatures meet in the market, but both first enter the workplace. But when we next see them both, emerging blinking into the daylight, and the two go their separate ways, we find that the capitalist still has in his hands his money, but it has magically increased in size. This he calls his profit. Our worker, however, leaves with nothing but an invoice for expenses. On cashing this in, then using the money to renew the energy and spirit drained in the dark abode, she finds that the prize she held has mysteriously vanished.

And so she sets off, once again, with nothing but her own hide, to market. And eventually, after a brief period of youthful illusion and optimism, she abandons all hope, all Bildung, at the door of the dark abode, along with her coat, and settles down for a lifetime of wage slavery.

From Faerie to reality

Surely most of us will recognise this story, and identify at once with the timid creature straggling along behind the smirking businessman. Anyone, at least, who has ever been for a job interview, and experienced the first day on the job for an employer, will see in this story a mirror for their own experience.