Antonio Gramsci 1917

*Character*

Our adversaries don’t worry themselves with judging the attitude of
socialists in the same way as they do principles and methods that the
socialists have always professed and followed. Doing do this would mean
truly considering them and doing something concrete. They don’t even attempt
this judgment, being incapable of it.

They lose their way when placed before men of character, grope about in the
darkness, giving up all hope in the blind alleys of gossip, of slander, of
defamation. They don’t understand a straightforward, strictly coherent
demeanor. They are hypnotized by facts, by current events. They don’t
understand the man of character, who weighs and judges facts not in and of
themselves as much as in their relationship with the past and the future;
that facts are thus judged primarily for their effect, their eternal nature.
They are mystics of the fact. And a mystic can’t judge: he can only bless or
hate.

But this is the strength of Italian socialists. To have preserved character.
To have succeeded in defeating sentimentality, to have succeeded in
throttling the throbbing of the heart as a stimulus to action, as a stimulus
to the manifestations of collective life. In this period of history the
Italian Socialists have realized for historic ends humanity in its most
perfect form. A humanity that doesn’t fall into the easy traps of illusion.
A humanity that has rejected as useless and harmful the inferior forms of
spiritual life: the impulses of the tender heart and sentimentality.

They have rejected this consciously. Because they knew how to assimilate the
teachings of their greatest teachers, as well as the teachings that are
spontaneously produced by bourgeois reality, bitten into by the reagents of
socialist criticism. The Italian Socialists have remained steadfast in their
ranks determined by the demands of the social class. As a collective they
are not disturbed by the painful spectacles that are presented to them. As a
collective they don’t faint when the still breathing corpse of a murdered
child is thrown at their feet. The commotion that every individual has felt,
the heartache, the sympathy that every individual has felt hasn’t scratched
the granite-like compactness of the class.

If every individual has a heart, the class, as such, does not have a heart
in the sense that feeble humanism usually gives it. The class has a will,
the class has a character. All of its life is molded by this determination,
this character, with nothing left over. As a class it can have no other form
of solidarity than that of class, no other form of struggle than that of
class, no other nation than the class, that is, the International. Its heart
is nothing but the consciousness of its class being, the consciousness of
its ends, the consciousness of its future. Of the future that is its alone,
for which it demands the solidarity and collaboration of no one, for which
it doesn’t desire the throbbing of anyone’s heart. There only throbs, in its
immense dynamic and creative potential, its tenacious determination,
implacable towards all who are foreign to it.

Our adversaries don’t understand this. In Italy character is not understood.
And this is the only thing in which the Socialists can benefit and have
benefited Italianness. They have given Italy that which it has lacked up
till the present moment: A living and dramatically throbbing example of an
adamantine and superbly proud character.

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