In interest-bearing capital, the capital relation takes its most bare, most fetish-like shape. Here we just have M-M′: money making more money — value that grows itself — with the whole process that connects the two ends left out.
Commercial capital, M-C-M′, still shows something of that process. It runs money into goods and back into money, so it still shows a process, still shows two opposite steps — buying and then selling — and the profit, even though it only comes from that circulation, still looks like the product of a social relation, not the product of a bare thing.
None of that survives here. Say a capitalist lends out £1,000 at 5 per cent. The value of that £1,000 as capital for a year is the sum plus the interest it earns: 1,000 + (1,000 × 1/20) = £1,050. So the value of £1,000 as capital is £1,050 — which means capital is not just an amount of money. It is a relation: the original sum, taken as a given value, set against that same sum as value that grows itself, as a sum that has produced a surplus. And, as we have seen, this is how capital presents itself to every capitalist who actively uses it — whether the capital is his own or borrowed.
M-M'. This is capital's original starting point: money in the formula money-goods-money, cut down to just its two ends, so that the second sum equals the first plus an increase. It is capital's oldest, most general formula, squeezed into a phrase that, taken on its own, makes no sense. It is capital in its finished state, production and circulation rolled into one, throwing off a fixed surplus over a given stretch of time. In interest-bearing capital this shows up directly, with no production process and no circulation process standing behind it. Capital appears as a mysterious source that creates its own growth out of itself. The thing itself — money, a commodity, a sum of value — is now capital simply by being that thing; the outcome of the whole reproduction process looks like a property the thing carries on its own; and it is up to whoever holds the money, that is, holds a commodity in its always-exchangeable form, whether to spend it as plain money or hire it out as capital.
So in interest-bearing capital this automatic fetish is worked out in its purest form: value that grows itself, money that breeds money — and in this shape it no longer carries any trace of where it came from. The social relation is completed as the relation of a thing, money, to itself. Instead of the real turning of money into capital, all that shows here is that transformation's empty shell.
As with labour-power, the use-value money has here is that of creating value — a greater value than it itself contains. Money as such is already, in potential, value that grows itself, and it is lent out as just that — which is what selling means for this peculiar commodity. It becomes exactly as much a property of money to create value, to throw off interest, as it is a property of a pear tree to bear pears. And it is as this interest-bearing thing that the money-lender sells his money.
Nor does it stop there. Capital that is actually at work, as we have seen, presents its own interest not as the yield of capital doing that work, but as the yield of capital as such, of money capital.
And there's a further twist. Interest is really only one part of the profit — that is, of the surplus-value — that the functioning capitalist squeezes out of the worker. But now it appears the other way round: interest looks like capital's own proper fruit, the original thing, while profit — now recast as profit of enterprise — looks like a mere extra, a trimming added on in the course of reproduction. At this point the fetish-shape of capital, the whole picture of capital as a fetish, is complete.
In M-M' we have capital's most conceptless form, the inversion and thing-ification of the relations of production carried to its highest power: the interest-bearing shape, capital's simplest shape, in which capital is treated as if it existed before its own reproduction process; the ability of money, or of a commodity, to grow its own value on its own, independent of reproduction — capital's mystification in its most glaring form.
For vulgar economics, which wants to present capital as an independent source of value, of value-creation itself, this form is of course a godsend — a form in which the source of profit can no longer be made out, and in which the result of the capitalist production process, cut loose from the process itself, gets a life of its own.
Only as money capital does capital become a commodity — one whose value-growing quality has a fixed price, quoted as the going rate of interest.
As interest-bearing capital — and specifically in its direct form, interest-bearing money capital (the other forms of interest-bearing capital, which don't concern us here, are derived from this one and assume it) — capital reaches its pure fetish form: M-M' as the subject, a sellable thing.
The first ground is its continuing existence as money — a form in which every particular feature of capital is dissolved away and its real, concrete elements become invisible. Money is exactly the form in which the differences between commodities as use-values are wiped out, and so too the differences between the various industrial capitals made up of those commodities and their conditions of production; it is the form in which value — capital, here — exists as an independent exchange-value. Within capital's own reproduction process, the money form is a fleeting thing, a mere moment of passage. On the money market, though, capital exists in this form all the time.
The second ground is that the surplus-value capital creates — again here in the form of money — seems to belong to the thing itself. Just as growing seems a property of trees, so the generation of money seems a property that belongs to capital in this money-capital form.
In interest-bearing capital, capital's whole movement gets compressed to almost nothing. The process that used to connect the two ends is left out, so a capital of 1,000 is simply fixed as a thing that is, in itself, 1,000, and that, over some stretch of time, turns into 1,100 — the way wine improves in the cellar and gains in use-value after a while. Capital is now a thing, but a thing that is capital. The money now has love in its body, so to speak. As soon as it's lent out — or even just put to work in the reproduction process, so far as it throws off interest to the functioning capitalist as its owner, kept separate from profit of enterprise — interest keeps growing on it, whether it's asleep or awake, at home or travelling, day and night. So in interest-bearing money capital (and every capital, expressed in terms of value, is money capital, or now counts as an expression of money capital) the hoarder's oldest wish comes true.
This growing-together of interest with money capital, as if interest were a property of a thing (which is how the production of surplus-value by capital appears here), is exactly what troubled Luther so much in his naive, blustering attack on usury. He first works out that interest may be charged when a loan is not repaid on the agreed date and this causes the lender, who himself owes payments to others, real expenses — or when it costs him a profit he could otherwise have made, say by buying a garden. Then he goes on:
'Now that I've lent you these hundred guilders, you turn my loss into two losses: I can't pay what I owe, and I can't buy what I meant to buy, so I lose on both counts. Lawyers call this double damage — one for the loss that actually happens, one for the profit that's missed... Once people hear that Hans lost out on the hundred guilders he lent, and that he's asking for fair compensation, they jump straight in and charge two losses on every hundred guilders — the cost of not being able to pay, and the missed chance to buy the garden — exactly as if those two losses had grown naturally onto the hundred guilders themselves, so that wherever there's a hundred guilders, out it goes, and they count those two losses on top of it, losses they never actually suffered...
That makes you a usurer: you make your neighbour pay for a loss you only imagined, a loss nobody actually caused you, and one you can't prove or calculate. Lawyers call a loss like that not a real damage but an imagined one — a loss each man dreams up for himself... It is no excuse to say the loss might have happened, that I might not have been able to pay or buy. That would be turning a mere possibility into a certainty — making something sure out of what was never sure to begin with. Wouldn't usury like that swallow up the whole world in a few years...
An accidental misfortune that happens to a lender against his will — from that he may well need to recover. But in trade it works the other way round, exactly the opposite: there people go looking for losses, inventing them, at their needy neighbour's expense, wanting to live off it and get rich, to lounge about idle and live well off other people's work, without any worry, risk, or loss of their own — so that I can sit by my stove, let my hundred guilders go out and earn for me in the countryside, and still keep it safe in my purse, since it was only ever lent out, with no risk or worry at all. My friend, who wouldn't want that?'
The idea that capital reproduces itself and grows all on its own, simply because it has a built-in property of being value that lasts forever and keeps expanding — the same 'hidden quality' the medieval schoolmen once imagined — is what led Dr Price to his fantastic claims, claims that leave the fantasies of the alchemists far behind. Pitt believed these claims in all seriousness, and made them the pillars of his financial policy in the laws that set up the sinking fund.
Price wrote: money lent out at compound interest grows slowly at first, but since the rate of growth keeps speeding up, it soon becomes so fast that it outstrips anything you could imagine. A penny lent out at the birth of our Saviour at five per cent compound interest would by now have grown into a larger sum than is contained in a hundred and fifty million earths, all of solid gold. But laid out at simple interest over the same time, it would have grown only to seven shillings and four-and-a-half pence. Up to now our government has chosen to improve its finances the second way rather than the first.
He flies still higher in his Observations on Reversionary Payments, etc., London 1772:
A shilling, laid out at the birth of our Saviour (presumably in the Temple of Jerusalem) at six per cent compound interest, would have grown into a larger sum than the whole solar system could hold, even turned into a sphere as wide across as the orbit of Saturn. A state, therefore, need never find itself in difficulties: with the smallest savings it can pay off the largest debt in as short a time as its interest may require. (pp. xiii, xiv.)
What a charming theoretical send-off for the English national debt!
Price was simply dazzled by the sheer size of the figure a geometric progression produces. Because he looked at capital without any regard for the conditions of reproduction and of labour, treating it as a self-acting automaton, a bare number that multiplies itself by itself — exactly the same mistake made when population is treated as a bare geometric progression — he could imagine he had found the law of its growth in the formula s = c(1 + i)ⁿ, where s is the sum of capital plus compound interest, c is the capital advanced, i is the rate of interest (expressed as a fraction of 100), and n is the number of years the process runs.
Pitt took Dr Price's mystification entirely seriously. In 1786 the House of Commons decided that £1,000,000 should be raised for public purposes. Following Price, whom Pitt believed, the obvious thing was to tax the people so as to 'accumulate' the sum raised, and so conjure the national debt away by the mystery of compound interest. That resolution of the House of Commons was soon followed by an act, brought in by Pitt, ordering the accumulation of £250,000 'until, together with the lapsed annuities, the fund should have grown to £4,000,000 a year.' (Act 26 George III, chapter 31.)
In a speech of 1792, proposing to increase the sum set aside for the sinking fund, Pitt listed machines, credit, and the like among the causes of England's commercial dominance — but named as 'the most far-reaching and lasting cause, accumulation.' This principle, he said, had now been fully worked out and explained in the work of that genius, Smith... this accumulation of capital came about, he said, by setting aside at least part of the year's profit to enlarge the main sum, which would then be employed the same way the following year, yielding a continual profit.
By way of Dr Price, then, Pitt turned Smith's theory of accumulation into a way of enriching a nation by piling up debt, and arrived at the pleasant prospect of an endless progression of loans — loans taken out to pay off loans.
We already find the same idea in Josiah Child, the father of modern banking: that '£100 at 10 per cent, compounded over seventy years, would produce £102,400.' (Treatise on Trade, by J. Child, translated, Amsterdam and Berlin 1754, p. 115. Written in 1669.)
How thoughtlessly Dr Price's way of seeing things has crept into modern economics is shown by the following passage from the Economist:
Writing in 1851, the Economist put it this way: because compound interest keeps adding to every bit of capital that gets saved, all the wealth in the world that income is drawn from has long since turned into interest on capital, so that all rent is really nothing but interest on capital that was sunk into the land at some earlier point.
In its capacity as interest-bearing capital, all the wealth that can ever be produced belongs to capital; everything it has received so far is only a first instalment against its all-engrossing appetite. By its own built-in laws, all the surplus labour the human race can ever supply belongs to it. Moloch.
Finally, one more piece of gibberish, from the 'romantic' Müller:
Dr Price's enormous growth of compound interest — or of the self-accelerating powers of human beings — can only produce these enormous effects if it presupposes an undivided, unbroken, uniform order running across several centuries. As soon as the capital is split up, cut into several separate branches each growing on its own, the whole process of accumulating powers starts over again. Nature has spread the growth of a person's powers over a career of about twenty to twenty-five years, on average, allotted to each individual worker(!). Once that time is up, the worker leaves his career and must now hand over the capital built up through compound interest on his labour to a new worker, usually splitting it among several workers or children. Before these can actually draw real compound interest from the capital that falls to them, they first have to learn to bring it to life and put it to use. Moreover, a huge amount of the capital bourgeois society gains, even in the most energetic communities, is only gradually piled up over long years and not put directly toward expanding labour; rather, once a sizeable sum has been collected, it is handed over to another person — a worker, a bank, the state — under the name of a loan, and the recipient, by actually setting the capital in motion, draws compound interest from it, and can easily undertake to pay the lender only simple interest. Finally, working against those enormous progressions in which people's powers and their products might grow, if the law of production or of thrift alone were to hold, stands the law of consumption, of desire, of waste. (A. Müller, cited work, III, pp. 147-149.)
It is impossible to pack more hair-raising nonsense into so few lines. Not to mention the comical mix-up of worker with capitalist, of the value of labour-power with interest on capital, and so on — the whole explanation offered for why compound interest falls off comes down to saying that capital 'is lent out,' where it 'then brings compound interest.' This is how our Müller always proceeds, and it is typical of the Romantics in every field. Their content is made up of everyday prejudices, skimmed off the most superficial appearance of things. This false and trivial content is then supposedly 'elevated' and turned poetic by a mystifying way of talking.
In one sense, the process by which capital accumulates can be understood as an accumulation of compound interest: the part of profit — of surplus-value — that gets turned back into capital, that is, that goes to absorb fresh surplus labour, can be called interest. But:
First — setting aside all the accidental disruptions — over the course of the reproduction process, a large part of the existing capital keeps losing value, more or less, because the value of commodities is set not by the labour-time their production originally cost, but by the labour-time their reproduction costs now, and that keeps falling as the social productive power of labour develops. So at a higher stage of social productivity, all the capital that exists appears not as the result of a long process of accumulating capital, but as the result of a comparatively short reproduction time.
Second — as was shown in Part Three of this book, the rate of profit falls as capital accumulates and, correspondingly, as the productive power of social labour rises, which shows up precisely in the constant part of capital growing relative to the variable part. To keep producing the same rate of profit, if the constant capital set in motion by one worker were to grow tenfold, the surplus labour-time would have to grow tenfold too — and before long the whole working day, even the full twenty-four hours of it, would not be enough, even if capital seized the whole of it. It is the assumption that the rate of profit does not fall that underlies Price's progression, and indeed the whole idea of 'all-engrossing capital, at compound interest.'
Because surplus-value is identical with surplus labour, a qualitative limit is set on the accumulation of capital: the total working day, together with whatever level the productive forces and the population have reached at the time, which is what bounds how many working days can be exploited at once. But if surplus-value is grasped instead in the conceptless form of interest, the limit becomes merely quantitative, and mocks any fantasy you like.
Yet it is in interest-bearing capital that the idea of the capital fetish reaches its finished form — the idea that credits the accumulated product of labour, fixed moreover as money, with the power, by some innate secret quality, to produce surplus-value in geometric progression all on its own, like a pure automaton, so that, as the Economist believes, this accumulated product of labour has long since laid claim in advance to all the wealth of the world for all time, as rightfully its own and rightfully coming to it.
The product of past labour, past labour itself, appears here as pregnant in its own right with a piece of present or future living surplus labour. But we know that, in actual fact, the preservation — and so also the reproduction — of the value of the products of past labour is only the result of their contact with living labour; and, second, that the command the products of past labour hold over living surplus labour lasts only exactly as long as the capital relation lasts — that particular social relation in which past labour confronts living labour as something independent and more powerful.
In interest-bearing capital, the capital relation takes its most bare, most fetish-like shape. Here we just have M-M′: money making more money — value that grows itself — with the whole process that connects the two ends left out.
Commercial capital, M-C-M′, still shows something of that process. It runs money into goods and back into money, so it still shows a process, still shows two opposite steps — buying and then selling — and the profit, even though it only comes from that circulation, still looks like the product of a social relation, not the product of a bare thing.
None of that survives here. Say a capitalist lends out £1,000 at 5 per cent. The value of that £1,000 as capital for a year is the sum plus the interest it earns: 1,000 + (1,000 × 1/20) = £1,050. So the value of £1,000 as capital is £1,050 — which means capital is not just an amount of money. It is a relation: the original sum, taken as a given value, set against that same sum as value that grows itself, as a sum that has produced a surplus. And, as we have seen, this is how capital presents itself to every capitalist who actively uses it — whether the capital is his own or borrowed.
M-M'. This is capital's original starting point: money in the formula money-goods-money, cut down to just its two ends, so that the second sum equals the first plus an increase. It is capital's oldest, most general formula, squeezed into a phrase that, taken on its own, makes no sense. It is capital in its finished state, production and circulation rolled into one, throwing off a fixed surplus over a given stretch of time. In interest-bearing capital this shows up directly, with no production process and no circulation process standing behind it. Capital appears as a mysterious source that creates its own growth out of itself. The thing itself — money, a commodity, a sum of value — is now capital simply by being that thing; the outcome of the whole reproduction process looks like a property the thing carries on its own; and it is up to whoever holds the money, that is, holds a commodity in its always-exchangeable form, whether to spend it as plain money or hire it out as capital.
So in interest-bearing capital this automatic fetish is worked out in its purest form: value that grows itself, money that breeds money — and in this shape it no longer carries any trace of where it came from. The social relation is completed as the relation of a thing, money, to itself. Instead of the real turning of money into capital, all that shows here is that transformation's empty shell.
As with labour-power, the use-value money has here is that of creating value — a greater value than it itself contains. Money as such is already, in potential, value that grows itself, and it is lent out as just that — which is what selling means for this peculiar commodity. It becomes exactly as much a property of money to create value, to throw off interest, as it is a property of a pear tree to bear pears. And it is as this interest-bearing thing that the money-lender sells his money.
Nor does it stop there. Capital that is actually at work, as we have seen, presents its own interest not as the yield of capital doing that work, but as the yield of capital as such, of money capital.
And there's a further twist. Interest is really only one part of the profit — that is, of the surplus-value — that the functioning capitalist squeezes out of the worker. But now it appears the other way round: interest looks like capital's own proper fruit, the original thing, while profit — now recast as profit of enterprise — looks like a mere extra, a trimming added on in the course of reproduction. At this point the fetish-shape of capital, the whole picture of capital as a fetish, is complete.
In M-M' we have capital's most conceptless form, the inversion and thing-ification of the relations of production carried to its highest power: the interest-bearing shape, capital's simplest shape, in which capital is treated as if it existed before its own reproduction process; the ability of money, or of a commodity, to grow its own value on its own, independent of reproduction — capital's mystification in its most glaring form.
For vulgar economics, which wants to present capital as an independent source of value, of value-creation itself, this form is of course a godsend — a form in which the source of profit can no longer be made out, and in which the result of the capitalist production process, cut loose from the process itself, gets a life of its own.
Only as money capital does capital become a commodity — one whose value-growing quality has a fixed price, quoted as the going rate of interest.
As interest-bearing capital — and specifically in its direct form, interest-bearing money capital (the other forms of interest-bearing capital, which don't concern us here, are derived from this one and assume it) — capital reaches its pure fetish form: M-M' as the subject, a sellable thing.
The first ground is its continuing existence as money — a form in which every particular feature of capital is dissolved away and its real, concrete elements become invisible. Money is exactly the form in which the differences between commodities as use-values are wiped out, and so too the differences between the various industrial capitals made up of those commodities and their conditions of production; it is the form in which value — capital, here — exists as an independent exchange-value. Within capital's own reproduction process, the money form is a fleeting thing, a mere moment of passage. On the money market, though, capital exists in this form all the time.
The second ground is that the surplus-value capital creates — again here in the form of money — seems to belong to the thing itself. Just as growing seems a property of trees, so the generation of money seems a property that belongs to capital in this money-capital form.
In interest-bearing capital, capital's whole movement gets compressed to almost nothing. The process that used to connect the two ends is left out, so a capital of 1,000 is simply fixed as a thing that is, in itself, 1,000, and that, over some stretch of time, turns into 1,100 — the way wine improves in the cellar and gains in use-value after a while. Capital is now a thing, but a thing that is capital. The money now has love in its body, so to speak. As soon as it's lent out — or even just put to work in the reproduction process, so far as it throws off interest to the functioning capitalist as its owner, kept separate from profit of enterprise — interest keeps growing on it, whether it's asleep or awake, at home or travelling, day and night. So in interest-bearing money capital (and every capital, expressed in terms of value, is money capital, or now counts as an expression of money capital) the hoarder's oldest wish comes true.
This growing-together of interest with money capital, as if interest were a property of a thing (which is how the production of surplus-value by capital appears here), is exactly what troubled Luther so much in his naive, blustering attack on usury. He first works out that interest may be charged when a loan is not repaid on the agreed date and this causes the lender, who himself owes payments to others, real expenses — or when it costs him a profit he could otherwise have made, say by buying a garden. Then he goes on:
'Now that I've lent you these hundred guilders, you turn my loss into two losses: I can't pay what I owe, and I can't buy what I meant to buy, so I lose on both counts. Lawyers call this double damage — one for the loss that actually happens, one for the profit that's missed... Once people hear that Hans lost out on the hundred guilders he lent, and that he's asking for fair compensation, they jump straight in and charge two losses on every hundred guilders — the cost of not being able to pay, and the missed chance to buy the garden — exactly as if those two losses had grown naturally onto the hundred guilders themselves, so that wherever there's a hundred guilders, out it goes, and they count those two losses on top of it, losses they never actually suffered...
That makes you a usurer: you make your neighbour pay for a loss you only imagined, a loss nobody actually caused you, and one you can't prove or calculate. Lawyers call a loss like that not a real damage but an imagined one — a loss each man dreams up for himself... It is no excuse to say the loss might have happened, that I might not have been able to pay or buy. That would be turning a mere possibility into a certainty — making something sure out of what was never sure to begin with. Wouldn't usury like that swallow up the whole world in a few years...
An accidental misfortune that happens to a lender against his will — from that he may well need to recover. But in trade it works the other way round, exactly the opposite: there people go looking for losses, inventing them, at their needy neighbour's expense, wanting to live off it and get rich, to lounge about idle and live well off other people's work, without any worry, risk, or loss of their own — so that I can sit by my stove, let my hundred guilders go out and earn for me in the countryside, and still keep it safe in my purse, since it was only ever lent out, with no risk or worry at all. My friend, who wouldn't want that?'
The idea that capital reproduces itself and grows all on its own, simply because it has a built-in property of being value that lasts forever and keeps expanding — the same 'hidden quality' the medieval schoolmen once imagined — is what led Dr Price to his fantastic claims, claims that leave the fantasies of the alchemists far behind. Pitt believed these claims in all seriousness, and made them the pillars of his financial policy in the laws that set up the sinking fund.
Price wrote: money lent out at compound interest grows slowly at first, but since the rate of growth keeps speeding up, it soon becomes so fast that it outstrips anything you could imagine. A penny lent out at the birth of our Saviour at five per cent compound interest would by now have grown into a larger sum than is contained in a hundred and fifty million earths, all of solid gold. But laid out at simple interest over the same time, it would have grown only to seven shillings and four-and-a-half pence. Up to now our government has chosen to improve its finances the second way rather than the first.
He flies still higher in his Observations on Reversionary Payments, etc., London 1772:
A shilling, laid out at the birth of our Saviour (presumably in the Temple of Jerusalem) at six per cent compound interest, would have grown into a larger sum than the whole solar system could hold, even turned into a sphere as wide across as the orbit of Saturn. A state, therefore, need never find itself in difficulties: with the smallest savings it can pay off the largest debt in as short a time as its interest may require. (pp. xiii, xiv.)
What a charming theoretical send-off for the English national debt!
Price was simply dazzled by the sheer size of the figure a geometric progression produces. Because he looked at capital without any regard for the conditions of reproduction and of labour, treating it as a self-acting automaton, a bare number that multiplies itself by itself — exactly the same mistake made when population is treated as a bare geometric progression — he could imagine he had found the law of its growth in the formula s = c(1 + i)ⁿ, where s is the sum of capital plus compound interest, c is the capital advanced, i is the rate of interest (expressed as a fraction of 100), and n is the number of years the process runs.
Pitt took Dr Price's mystification entirely seriously. In 1786 the House of Commons decided that £1,000,000 should be raised for public purposes. Following Price, whom Pitt believed, the obvious thing was to tax the people so as to 'accumulate' the sum raised, and so conjure the national debt away by the mystery of compound interest. That resolution of the House of Commons was soon followed by an act, brought in by Pitt, ordering the accumulation of £250,000 'until, together with the lapsed annuities, the fund should have grown to £4,000,000 a year.' (Act 26 George III, chapter 31.)
In a speech of 1792, proposing to increase the sum set aside for the sinking fund, Pitt listed machines, credit, and the like among the causes of England's commercial dominance — but named as 'the most far-reaching and lasting cause, accumulation.' This principle, he said, had now been fully worked out and explained in the work of that genius, Smith... this accumulation of capital came about, he said, by setting aside at least part of the year's profit to enlarge the main sum, which would then be employed the same way the following year, yielding a continual profit.
By way of Dr Price, then, Pitt turned Smith's theory of accumulation into a way of enriching a nation by piling up debt, and arrived at the pleasant prospect of an endless progression of loans — loans taken out to pay off loans.
We already find the same idea in Josiah Child, the father of modern banking: that '£100 at 10 per cent, compounded over seventy years, would produce £102,400.' (Treatise on Trade, by J. Child, translated, Amsterdam and Berlin 1754, p. 115. Written in 1669.)
How thoughtlessly Dr Price's way of seeing things has crept into modern economics is shown by the following passage from the Economist:
Writing in 1851, the Economist put it this way: because compound interest keeps adding to every bit of capital that gets saved, all the wealth in the world that income is drawn from has long since turned into interest on capital, so that all rent is really nothing but interest on capital that was sunk into the land at some earlier point.
In its capacity as interest-bearing capital, all the wealth that can ever be produced belongs to capital; everything it has received so far is only a first instalment against its all-engrossing appetite. By its own built-in laws, all the surplus labour the human race can ever supply belongs to it. Moloch.
Finally, one more piece of gibberish, from the 'romantic' Müller:
Dr Price's enormous growth of compound interest — or of the self-accelerating powers of human beings — can only produce these enormous effects if it presupposes an undivided, unbroken, uniform order running across several centuries. As soon as the capital is split up, cut into several separate branches each growing on its own, the whole process of accumulating powers starts over again. Nature has spread the growth of a person's powers over a career of about twenty to twenty-five years, on average, allotted to each individual worker(!). Once that time is up, the worker leaves his career and must now hand over the capital built up through compound interest on his labour to a new worker, usually splitting it among several workers or children. Before these can actually draw real compound interest from the capital that falls to them, they first have to learn to bring it to life and put it to use. Moreover, a huge amount of the capital bourgeois society gains, even in the most energetic communities, is only gradually piled up over long years and not put directly toward expanding labour; rather, once a sizeable sum has been collected, it is handed over to another person — a worker, a bank, the state — under the name of a loan, and the recipient, by actually setting the capital in motion, draws compound interest from it, and can easily undertake to pay the lender only simple interest. Finally, working against those enormous progressions in which people's powers and their products might grow, if the law of production or of thrift alone were to hold, stands the law of consumption, of desire, of waste. (A. Müller, cited work, III, pp. 147-149.)
It is impossible to pack more hair-raising nonsense into so few lines. Not to mention the comical mix-up of worker with capitalist, of the value of labour-power with interest on capital, and so on — the whole explanation offered for why compound interest falls off comes down to saying that capital 'is lent out,' where it 'then brings compound interest.' This is how our Müller always proceeds, and it is typical of the Romantics in every field. Their content is made up of everyday prejudices, skimmed off the most superficial appearance of things. This false and trivial content is then supposedly 'elevated' and turned poetic by a mystifying way of talking.
In one sense, the process by which capital accumulates can be understood as an accumulation of compound interest: the part of profit — of surplus-value — that gets turned back into capital, that is, that goes to absorb fresh surplus labour, can be called interest. But:
First — setting aside all the accidental disruptions — over the course of the reproduction process, a large part of the existing capital keeps losing value, more or less, because the value of commodities is set not by the labour-time their production originally cost, but by the labour-time their reproduction costs now, and that keeps falling as the social productive power of labour develops. So at a higher stage of social productivity, all the capital that exists appears not as the result of a long process of accumulating capital, but as the result of a comparatively short reproduction time.
Second — as was shown in Part Three of this book, the rate of profit falls as capital accumulates and, correspondingly, as the productive power of social labour rises, which shows up precisely in the constant part of capital growing relative to the variable part. To keep producing the same rate of profit, if the constant capital set in motion by one worker were to grow tenfold, the surplus labour-time would have to grow tenfold too — and before long the whole working day, even the full twenty-four hours of it, would not be enough, even if capital seized the whole of it. It is the assumption that the rate of profit does not fall that underlies Price's progression, and indeed the whole idea of 'all-engrossing capital, at compound interest.'
Because surplus-value is identical with surplus labour, a qualitative limit is set on the accumulation of capital: the total working day, together with whatever level the productive forces and the population have reached at the time, which is what bounds how many working days can be exploited at once. But if surplus-value is grasped instead in the conceptless form of interest, the limit becomes merely quantitative, and mocks any fantasy you like.
Yet it is in interest-bearing capital that the idea of the capital fetish reaches its finished form — the idea that credits the accumulated product of labour, fixed moreover as money, with the power, by some innate secret quality, to produce surplus-value in geometric progression all on its own, like a pure automaton, so that, as the Economist believes, this accumulated product of labour has long since laid claim in advance to all the wealth of the world for all time, as rightfully its own and rightfully coming to it.
The product of past labour, past labour itself, appears here as pregnant in its own right with a piece of present or future living surplus labour. But we know that, in actual fact, the preservation — and so also the reproduction — of the value of the products of past labour is only the result of their contact with living labour; and, second, that the command the products of past labour hold over living surplus labour lasts only exactly as long as the capital relation lasts — that particular social relation in which past labour confronts living labour as something independent and more powerful.