of Western Europe. Theorised as Eurocommunism by the Spanish party leader Santiago Carrillo, then helping to restore the Bourbon monarchy in Madrid, it was reproduced in its fashion by the Communist party in France, where the new doctrine had early adepts. Common to all variants was rejection of the principles on which the Third International had been founded, and commitment henceforward to gradual parliamentary reforms as the West European path to socialism; the Italian version adding a declaration of loyalty to NATO. In these conditions, the image of Gramsci—for the PCI, a national icon who could not be casually abandoned—had to be adjusted to the needs of the time, as a far-sighted precursor of the party’s conversion to peaceful, incremental progress towards more advanced forms of democracy.
The Italian Socialist Party, under its new leader Bettino Craxi, did not, however, intend to let itself be marginalised by the Historic Compromise, and soon showed its ability to wrong-foot its larger rival. An early sign was the appearance in the autumn of 1976 of four articles in its monthly journal Mondoperaio by leading intellectuals—two historians, Massimo Salvadori and Ernesto Galli della Loggia, and two philosophers, Norberto Bobbio and Lucio Colletti—congratulating the PCI on its new outlook, but calling on it to abandon the pretence that this had anything to do with Gramsci, who had been a dedicated revolutionary committed to the overthrow of the very liberal democracy to which the PCI had now at last rallied, as it became—a development which was entirely positive—for all practical purposes a reformist party in the tradition of Kautsky and European social democracy.4 Put on the defensive, the PCI—which had been organising its own discussion to explain how its current positions were a creative development of the heritage of Gramsci—at first responded testily, then mindful of the need for national solidarity, more temperately but for the most part lamely, in early 1977. These exchanges overlapped with the appearance of ‘Antinomies’ in New Left Review. But not following the Italian political scene closely enough at that point, I was unaware of them.
Later that year, to commemorate the fortieth anniversary of Gramsci’s death, the PCI organised its largest-ever conference on his thought. Held in Florence, and attended by numerous foreign participants, it marked, in the words of the richest history of the reception of Gramsci in Italy, the apogee of his influence in the public life of the country. But, as the same account added, also the moment of its crisis.5 For this was also the year of the widespread student and youth revolt against the Historic Compromise and all that it stood for, which became the ‘Autonomia’. In February, the head of the PCI’s trade union wing, who had told workers they must make economic sacrifices to prop up the National Solidarity government, was driven off the campus of Rome University amid angry scenes, and by the autumn Bologna was the stage of a virtual uprising. The Autonomia would fade, but the PCI never recovered from the alienation its connubium with Christian Democracy caused in the most politicised spirits of the younger generation. By the end of 1978 the failure of the Historic Compromise even on its own terms—the DC had taken Communist votes and yielded nothing in return—was obvious, and the PCI was duly punished at the elections the following year, beginning its slow descent towards dissolution.
The publication of Ambiguità di Gramsci in the spring of 1978 thus came at a juncture of continuing insistence by the PCI that its support for National Solidarity was thoroughly Gramscian, and a revolt against both the political line and the whole culture of the PCI by radical forces of a new generation to the left of it. For the latter, Gramsci was an irrelevance. For the former, any reminder of his connexion with Bolshevism could only be an embarrassment to the pursuit of a marriage with Christian Democracy. Logically, the book was ignored by the one and dismissed by the other.6
Some six years later, however—by this time the Historic Compromise had been abandoned, though it was never repudiated—a reply was forthcoming. L’officina gramsciana marked the debut of a party intellectual with a future, Gianni Francioni. Proposing a reconstruction of the Prison Notebooks based on an attempt to determine as far as possible the precise chronological sequence of their composition, its aim was twofold: to dismantle the order of the critical edition produced by Gerratana, and to refute ‘Antinomies’, an exercise to which the latter part of the book was dedicated.7 So far as the first went, the battery of tables and charts designed to establish the novelty and importance of Francioni’s findings left Gerratana politely unpersuaded.8 Lacking any reference to the trajectory of the actual conditions, physical and moral, in which Gramsci had to write in prison, the result says much less about the history of his composition than the acute and moving account of it by another scholar, Raul Mordenti, in the following decade.9
As to Francioni’s other aim, the guiding principles behind his argument were affirmation of the essential coherence of Gramsci’s conceptual apparatus, and abstraction of it from any significant historical context; the first revolving around reiteration of the claim earlier advanced by a French stalwart of Eurocommunism, Christine Buci-Glucksmann, that contradictions in Gramsci’s handling of the terms ‘state’ and ‘civil society’ disappeared once it was realised that he arrived at the notion of an ‘enlarged’ or ‘integral’ state encompassing both. The second involved a taboo on all evidence, however plain, that Gramsci’s political outlook had by then virtually nothing in common with what the PCI had become. Chronological quibbles added little to the case.10 As an enterprise in local apologetics, L’officina gramsciana was soon overtaken by events, as the party lurched towards its end. Three years later, on the fiftieth anniversary of Gramsci’s death in 1987, Colletti could remark with relief that the left in Italy was now universally reformist, but Gramsci had never been, and the party had therefore rightly taken an all but irreversible distance from him. Within the PCI, no less an authority than Aldo Schiavone, director of the Gramsci Institute itself, concurred: in the overall politics of the party, he declared, not a single Gramscian idea was left.11 Nor, it might be said, any other idea of moment in those who led it to extinction soon afterwards.
In Italy, the disappearance of the PCI has not meant loss of public interest in its greatest thinker. Too many careers, institutional or academic, remained invested in his person and work for the Gramsci industry in the country to close down along with the party that had given rise to it. Across the nineties and into the new century an indefatigable flow of exegesis has continued, in a philology now detached from current—if not always past—politics, culminating in the inception of an Edizione Nazionale of Gramsci’s opera omnia, ‘under the High Patronage of the President of the Republic’, in 2007. Planned to total some nineteen volumes, a decade later just three have so far appeared, two of them simply translations from other writers by Gramsci, a rate at which the project could expect completion around 2070. Responsibility for volumes to contain in due course the Prison Notebooks has been entrusted to Francioni, fulfilling his ambition of supplanting the work of Gerratana, a scholar of an older style of integrity cold-shouldered by the legatees of his party.12 Misgivings about the enterprise have been expressed by scholars attached to the memory of Gramsci in less marmoreal mode. Francioni’s proposed rearrangements of the Notebooks have come under fire as arbitrary personal decisions, serving in one case—already on display—a concealed political intent with no philological foundation; while the monumental character of a National Edition, product of a decree of the Ministry of Culture, has prompted fears even among otherwise sympathetic critics that its effect risks official mummification of Gramsci.13
The most conspicuous other body of literature on Gramsci in Italy has been of an entirely different tenor, this one concerned—in recent times, to virtual paroxysm—with biographical questions about his personal life and political fate. These have surfaced as what was once tight party control of archives held in Rome has loosened, if still selectively, and what were formerly closed dossiers in Moscow have opened, if incompletely. New documentary evidence has come to light about the Russian family into which he married, the roles of Piero Sraffa and his sister-in-law Tatiana Schucht in his communications with the party while in prison, the actions taken towards him by the PCI and the Comintern in those years, the fate of his notebooks after his death, and much else. The copious literature all this has produced contains much of interest. But it has been persistently vitiated by two opposite instrumental
