The Sympathetic Consumer: Moral Critique in Capitalist Culture

THE SYMPATHETIC CONSUMER

Moral Critique in Capitalist Culture

TAD SKOTNICKI

STANFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS

Stanford, California

STANFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS

Stanford, California

©2021 by the Board of Trustees of the Leland Stanford Junior University. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system without the prior written permission of Stanford University Press.

Printed in the United States of America on acid-free, archival-quality paper

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Skotnicki, Tad, author.

Title: The sympathetic consumer : moral critique in capitalist culture / Tad Skotnicki.

Other titles: Culture and economic life.

Description: Stanford, California : Stanford University Press, 2021. | Series: Culture and economic life | Includes bibliographical references and index.

Identifiers: LCCN 2020033193 (print) | LCCN 2020033194 (ebook) | ISBN 9781503614635 (cloth) | ISBN 9781503627734 (paperback) | ISBN 9781503627741 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Consumer movements—United States—History. | Consumer movements—Great Britain—History. | Consumers’ leagues—United States—History. | Consumers’ leagues—Great Britain—History. | Consumption (Economics)—Moral and ethical aspects—United States—History. | Consumption (Economics)—Moral and ethical aspects—Great Britain—History.

Classification: LCC HC110.C6 S565 2021 (print) | LCC HC110.C6 (ebook) | DDC 306.30941—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020033193

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020033194

Cover design: Rob Ehle

Cover images: From Hull House Maps and Papers, Florence Kelley, 1895. Graciously provided by the Florence Kelley website at the Northwestern University Library.

Typeset by Kevin Barrett Kane in 10/14 Minion Pro

CULTURE AND ECONOMIC LIFE

EDITORS

Frederick Wherry

Jennifer C. Lena

EDITORIAL BOARD

Gabriel Abend

Michel Anteby

Nina Bandelj

Shyon Baumann

Katherine Chen

Nigel Dodd

Amir Goldberg

David Grazian

Wendy Griswold

Brayden King

Charles Kirschbaum

Omar Lizardo

Bill Maurer

Elizabeth Pontikes

Gabriel Rossman

Lyn Spillman

Klaus Weber

Christine Williams

Viviana Zelizer

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

1. The Rise of the Sympathetic Consumer

2. Abolitionist Visions

3. Turn-of-the-Twentieth-Century Visions

4. Practicing Sympathetic Consumption

5. Moral Arguments

6. The Sympathetic Consumer, Challenged

7. Whither the Sympathetic Consumer?

Notes

Bibliography

Index

Acknowledgments

When I was a teenager, I spent an unhealthy amount of time sprawled out in front of the stereo squinting at liner notes. Years later I find something similar, if perhaps a bit less cryptic, in these sections of books. In that spirit, I offer these remarks.

I began this project in the Department of Sociology at the University of California, San Diego. There I was fortunate to meet Rick Biernacki, who showed me how to seek fundamental questions and, moreover, to learn as much from the answers that I couldn’t give as from those that I attempted to give. While always insisting on precision, he nevertheless opened up a space for thinking in a world that often seems to crowd it out. Jeff Haydu always met my flights of fancy with a quick wit, genuine interest, and a keen eye for both ungainly prose and bloated thinking. Kwai Ng helped me discern what I wanted to do and modeled a kind of intellectual patience that I am still trying to learn. Isaac Martin insisted on analytical clarity where I may not have noticed that it was needed. Erika Rappaport risked joining a committee in a foreign discipline at the other end of the Surfliner. But without her insistence on the importance of the consumer co-operatives, among other insights, this would have been a much weaker project. The debts I owe to those already mentioned will be evident in this book, though, like any true debt, I cannot imagine how they could be repaid. I must also thank other faculty and staff in sociology and beyond, who supported me as I wandered into many blind alleys, in particular: Amy Binder, Stan Chodorow, Harvey Goldman, Robert Horwitz, Rebecca Plant, and Stefan Tanaka. I am grateful, also, to the staff within and around the Social Science Building for their support and assistance through my years in San Diego. Finally, the UCSD Sociology Department as well as the Institute for International, Comparative, and Area Studies underwrote my first trip to the archives in England.

Since then, I stumbled into the Department of Sociology at the University of North Carolina, Greensboro. While they may question many things about me, my colleagues have maintained a catholic vision of sociology and social science—one that makes room for imagination as well as rigor and precision. I am especially indebted to Sarah Daynes, who took it upon herself to ensure that I could find my way in Greensboro. A number of UNCG faculty members have commented on work that appears in or informs this book: Sarah Daynes, Cindy Brooks Dollar, Dan Huebner, Şahan Savaş Karataşli, Şefika Kumral, Zach Levenson, and Ting Wang. I owe an immense debt to Şahan, Şefika, and Zach, who read and commented on the entire manuscript. Their exacting questions invited me to see the work anew. It is a sincere pleasure to work in the same hallway, where I can lob strange queries and half-baked observations only to have them returned to me with greater thought, care, and refinement than they deserve. A Faculty First grant from UNCG funded a second trip to England at a decisive moment in the development of this manuscript.

In general, I am no good at conferences and find them demoralizing. If you ever see me at one and have the interest, consider this an invitation to say hello. But I am grateful to have encountered Michaela DeSoucey, Marc Dixon, Jennifer Jordan, Isaac Reed, Yaniv Ron-El, Lyn Spillman, Sam Stabler, and Fred Wherry along the way. They have, each in their own way, made these professional rituals bearable. In particular, Fred has been extraordinarily supportive from the early stages and has, at decisive points, pushed me to clarify the kind of work that I hoped to produce. At the same time, he also reminded me—repeatedly, since I am a slow learner—that someone, somewhere might have an interest in reading it. Lyn Spillman presented an inspiring vision of what social science could be, one whose distinctness I only recognized belatedly.

In carrying out the research for this book, I received aid from archivists at the Co-operative Archives in Manchester; the Trades Union Congress Library at London Metropolitan University; the London School of Economics Library; the Pusey House in Oxford; the Hull History Centre; the Library of the Society of Friends in London; the Bodleian Library at the University of Oxford; the Kheel Center for Labor-Management Documentation and Archives at Cornell University; as well as the librarians at the University of California, San Diego, and the University of North Carolina, Greensboro. The documents cited in this book can be found in these archives, as well as the Gale Slavery and Anti-Slavery Transnational Archive. I have a special place in my heart for the archivists and staff at the Co-operative Archives. They showed me that time well spent in the archive need not always feel like a wake. Sophie McCulloch graciously tracked down some materials in the Co-operative Archives on my behalf. With characteristic generosity, Rick Biernacki photocopied the records of the Consumers’ League of New York City while at the Cornell University Library in Ithaca. My aunt, Peggy Skotnicki, found several news articles about the National Consumers’ League in the records of the Buffalo and Erie County Public Library.

Throughout this book’s gestation, I have been surrounded by friends I admire; they have informed my thinking and enriched my life. Some have been mentioned above. I shared countless meals and conversations with Gary Lee and Yao-Tai Li. At a semi-weekly theatre of the absurd with pizza and beer, Waqas Butt, Gary Lee, Yao-Tai Li, Corinna Most, David Pinzur, Andrew Somerville, and a rotating cast of fellow travelers created an atmosphere where I felt genuinely at home. Ian Mullins and Natalie Aviles have been fiercely supportive and trusted sources of advice. My ongoing conversations, however intermittent, with Michael Berman, Graham Holt, and BJ Strew always feel like revelations. It was, finally, Kelly Nielsen who suggested that we read Being and Time together. Little did either of us know what that would mean. Fortunately, that remains an open question—one that we will continue to explore together.

At Stanford, Marcela Maxfield and the series editors offered some feedback on my initial proposal that helped me clarify how to approach the manuscript. The reviewers for Stanford returned with constructive, discerning reports that encouraged me to write a better book. I hope not to have disappointed them. Many other staff members at Stanford helped bring this manuscript to publication, especially Stephanie Adams, Sunna Juhn, Greta Lindquist, and Emily Smith. Jennifer Gordon’s thoughtful copy editing helped me to avert many unforced errors. Allison Brock bravely assisted me in constructing the index.

I also appreciate the thankless work of those behind the scenes. Small portions of Chapter 4 originally appeared in my article Commodity Fetishism and Consumer Senses: Turn-of-the-Twentieth-Century Consumer Activism in the United States and England in the Journal of Historical Sociology.

My family has encouraged me to pursue the work that resulted in this book, wherever it has taken me. This is a rare privilege. I hope that, even at my most dour, some sense of this cannot be suppressed. All of them insist on loving and supporting me, even if I stubbornly refuse. But perhaps most directly germane to this work, my parents Ted Skotnicki and Laura Vendryes, among countless other things, enabled my obsession with reading from a young age. I spent many hours in the Buffalo Public Library children’s section with Peggy Skotnicki. Andy Skotnicki reveled in the enthusiasms of thought and made it seem possible. Gloria Vendryes has been a spirited debating partner and loving grandmother. Though she is no longer with us, I am comforted to know that Helen Skotnicki would have been proud of me. Rachel, John, and Nikolas Kozera have been gracious hosts and confidants. The newest additions to my family never hesitated to embrace me: Judy and Dr. Yiu-Fei Shih, Eddie Shih and Linda Hsu, and Allen Shih and Ina Flores Shih. Though Dr. Shih departed shortly after we met, he ensured that I would be welcome. Judy Shih has shown unparalleled generosity, a kind that can never be earned. That must be said, finally, and with unrivaled force, for Tien-Ann Shih. There are few pleasures more elusive and humbling than thinking with someone who inspires and who, without fail, insists on leading an ethical life. This book is yet another river stone in the path that we are laying together.

1

The Rise of the Sympathetic Consumer

ON APRIL 24, 2015, a UK-based nonprofit organization called Fashion Revolution staged a social experiment.¹ It documented the experience with a brief video. In the heart of Berlin’s Alexanderplatz, a commercial and transport hub, Fashion Revolution placed a vending machine that promised t-shirts for the bargain price of two euros. The vending machine—flaunting an eye-catching, geometrically patterned shell of teal and black—offered row after row of white t-shirts packed in clear plastic with a minimal black and white label and script that read FashRev. People want fashion for a bargain, the documentary began, moments before the screen cut to dozens of different people facing the machine, one after another, intrigued by the promise of a cheap t-shirt: Two women, brown shopping bags at their sides, approached cautiously; next, a solitary bearded man with close-cropped hair and a light-brown leather bomber jacket took an interest; then, a pair of young men sidled up to the screen, faces alight as though they couldn’t believe their luck. Others gathered around to wait in line or to simply peer over the shoulders of the intrepid bargain hunters. But would they still buy it, Fashion Revolution asked, if they knew how it was made?

Once those at the machine inserted their two euros and selected the desired t-shirt size on the touch screen, a video began to play. Meet Manisha, the screen read, one of millions making our cheap clothing for as little as 13 cents an hour each day for 16 hours. The text was superimposed over still images of dignified, predominantly female workers in dingy, crowded factories. While the video played, a camera in the vending machine captured the reactions of prospective buyers as they learned the story behind their bargain-priced t-shirts. One of the women with the brown shopping bags, aghast, covered her mouth. New faces trembled before the vending machine, somber and tense. A mother and father clutched their child. A solitary young woman stood transfixed. After the story of the t-shirt concluded, a question flashed across the screen, Do you still want to buy this 2€ t-shirt? More and more new faces appeared in the video. Some laughed nervously. On the vending machine screen, to their left, the prospective buyer could choose to continue with the purchase. To their right, they could choose to donate to Fashion Revolution. As the soundtrack pivoted toward an inspirational crescendo, person after person reached with their right hand—or awkwardly with their left—to select donate. A father encouraged his little girl to do the honors. Even more new faces, now betraying both relief and purpose, chose to contribute. The documentary concluded: People care when they know. Help us to remind the world.

Two years after the Rana Plaza garment factory disaster in Bangladesh—a 2013 building collapse that killed 1,134 and injured almost 2,500—Fashion Revolution used this vending machine to make a dramatic point about the origins of fast fashion. The organization spearheads a range of efforts to transform the fashion industry including a social media campaign that encourages consumers to publicly ask brands #whomademyclothes. Workers can reveal themselves to consumers, too, by posting images of themselves holding signs that read I made your clothes. This campaign draws attention to the laborers behind branded goods and pressures manufacturers to disclose these hidden working conditions. When they see who make their clothes and learn of their working conditions, Fashion Revolution expects that consumers will feel the weight of their responsibility to these invisible laborers.

Just over a century earlier, with less technical flare, a group of reform-minded women in the National Consumers’ League took on a very similar problem. In 1904, the league told of the Travesty of Christmas.² For thousands of men, women and children, a member wrote, the holiday season has come to mean chiefly weariness due to excessive work, followed often by illness and still oftener by an enforced holiday without pay, a bitter inversion of the order of holiday cheer. A veritable army of workers—from employees in the stores and delivery boys in streets to laborers in factories and in tenements—exposed themselves to bitter hardships, moral turpitude, illness, and even death. But the perpetrators of these Christmas cruelties were not greedy manufacturers or heartless shop owners. These things occur, the league continued, not because employers are deliberately cruel, but because they must meet the demands of their customers or fail. The customers cause the suffering, faintly hinted at in this brief sketch, not because they are deliberately cruel, but because they are thoughtless. It was the task of the National Consumers’ League to build a thoughtful consuming public, one that took to heart the conditions of those laboring to manufacture, sell, and distribute goods.

If people became thoughtful consumers, league members argued, this would spur changes in the production process. In that spirit, the NCL developed a label for goods made under clean and healthful conditions. Any articles bearing the label—typically, though not exclusively, textiles—were authorized after investigation. League members were directly involved in the investigation of working conditions in industries from mining and farm-working to tenement homework and department stores. Further, the league publicized these findings to educate and organize the public as consumers. As with Fashion Revolution, the National Consumers’ League hoped that, upon learning about the hidden costs of their goods, consumers would feel their responsibility to those harmed and shop accordingly.

Nearly one century before the National Consumers’ League, in 1792, the abolitionist movement was in bloom. Agitators and visionaries penned pamphlets and poems to advance the abolitionist cause. One such pamphlet began with a verse from the Apostle James: Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world. The pamphlet picked up where the Letter of James left off: Now, if many thousands are made fatherless and widows, by the grievous oppression of our fellow creatures in the sugar colonies, and by the trade to Africa for negroes, to supply the place of those who are worn out, or destroyed by excessive labour and cruel treatment, is not the produce of such labour polluted with blood?³ The anonymous author insisted that the rum and sugar produced by enslaved people were polluted, spiritually and physically, and that it was the duty of all Christians to refrain from the purchase and use of slave-made goods.⁴ The author presented slave-made rum and sugar in terms of the goods’ origins and consumers’ responsibility for them: [I]t must be admitted that the consumers are supporters of those iniquitous proceedings; and without them the slave-trade, with its lamentable consequences, must soon cease.⁵ To fend off arguments against this anti-sugar campaign, the author appealed to the law and scripture, which confirmed the consumer’s responsibility. Lest the individual consumer lose heart at her diminutive contribution to the cause of the oppressed Africans, the author concluded, Let not any be discouraged by looking at the little that is in their power to do; but rather be concerned to be found faithful in that little, leaving the event to Him who hath begun powerfully to plead the cause of the greatly oppressed people; and is able, as he hath promised, to carry on the work of their deliverance, to the praise of his own great name.⁶ The British imperial consumer of slave-grown sugar, too, was charged with the responsibility of ethical purchasing.

The Sympathetic Consumer

Across different eras of capitalist development, these activists urged people to sympathize with distant, hidden laborers via the goods that linked them. There is, here, an interlaced pattern of interpretations of the lived world and the social conditions upon which this lived world rests that I call the sympathetic consumer. The sympathetic consumer points to a cultural pattern of ideas, practices, and conditions specific to a capitalist social order—one where the exchange of commodities obscures the labor behind it and turns labor into a mere means of commodity production. This book explores several interpretive features of the sympathetic consumer and demonstrates what renders them coherent—in relation to one another and to the social conditions upon which they depend.

These interpretative features appear in activists’ campaigns to encourage ethical purchasing. One appears in activists’ visions of the consumer as the central figure in a capitalist system. When the abolitionists’ rallied consumers to the cause of the enslaved Africans and the National Consumers’ League blamed thoughtless consumers for Christmas cruelties, they placed the consumer at the heart of a network of production, distribution, and exchange. This systemic centrality had important ramifications. Crucially, these activists viewed it as the consumer’s responsibility to sympathize with invisible laborers. Another interpretive feature appears in activists’ practical efforts to cultivate consumer sympathy. Consider the abolitionists’ vivid descriptions of sugar plantations, the National Consumers’ League label, or the dramatic video in the Fashion Revolution vending machine. These ways of seeing invited consumers to imagine and look into those otherwise invisible labor conditions. Having access to such ways of seeing, these activists hoped, would encourage consumers to feel with those laborers and purchase with them in mind. A third interpretive feature appears in the assumptions that structured activists’ moral arguments as to why people should be ethical consumers. Their chains of reasoning, like the National Consumers’ League argument about Christmas cruelties, tracked the links that joined producers to consumers. The coherence of their moral case and activism depended, in other words, on the image and organization of a capitalist system.

To investigate the sympathetic consumer, this book focuses on the abolitionist movement in the late eighteenth century and consumer movements at the turn of the twentieth century (the National Consumers’ League, the Co-operative Wholesale Society, and the Women’s Co-operative Guild). Arising at crucial junctures in merchant and industrial capitalism, respectively, these movements laid a template for subsequent consumer activists—from boycotts and selective purchasing to ethical product labeling and product exhibitions. Yet the sympathetic consumer is not merely a matter of antiquarian interest, as the opening pages make clear. Thus, the book concludes with a discussion of recent fair trade campaigns and related market-based advocacy. It is, after all, this kind of contemporary consumer activism that people deride as a distinctive outgrowth of late twentieth century neoliberal capitalism. But we need not narrate these contemporary developments in consumer activism as a clean break with the past. Rather, we can tell them as a story of recurrence.⁷

What accounts for the recurrence of the sympathetic consumer across different capitalist regimes? My answer to that question is rather simple: These activists were all trying to make sense of commodity-exchange. More precisely, they wrestled with curiously depersonalized⁸ goods in exchange—that is, goods that conceal the conditions of their making and exchangeability. For all of their differences, the abolitionists, National Consumers’ League, and Fashion Revolution sought to expose the hidden conditions of production to consumers—the slavery and the sweatshops and the suffering within them. In sum, these structurally similar experiences of commodity-exchange correlate with remarkably similar interpretations, wherein consumption matters in terms of the labor behind consumer goods.

To explain, the book revisits an important, oft-misunderstood notion of Karl Marx’s: commodity fetishism. Commodity fetishism allows us to understand how people make sense of commodity-exchange and the social conditions out of which it emerges (e.g., the commodity-form and depersonalized labor, especially). According to Marx, capitalist commodity-exchange is at once banal and strange. The work of the abolitionists, National Consumers’ League, Fashion Revolution, and many others reveals a common interpretation of commodity-exchange as a contradictory unity of banality and strangeness. In this way, commodity fetishism—interpretations that depend on the appearance of commodity-exchange in a capitalist social order—can account for the recurrence of the sympathetic consumer, from an era of steam power, colonial empires, and gunpowder to one of fossil fuels, nation-states, and nuclear weapons.

Before inquiring into this pattern, though, I have invoked several important concepts that demand further discussion: sympathy, capitalism, culture, and commodity fetishism. Discussing them will clarify what it means to claim that the sympathetic consumer is a feature of a capitalist social order.

Feeling For, Feeling With

In these campaigns, the activists invited consumers to imagine the people, places, and things that made ordinary, everyday commodities possible. Abolitionists lamented those made fatherless and widowed by a devilish slave system. The National Consumers’ League evoked bedraggled delivery boys and fatigued shop girls in a disorganized world of industrial mass production. Fashion Revolution portrayed Manisha, one of millions exploited in the production of fast fashion. In virtue of their connection through circuits of production, distribution, and exchange, consumers were offered the chance to feel with, not just for, invisible workers all along the supply chain. This "feeling with, or sympathy, resonated through the process of commodity-exchange. By looking through commodity-exchange to the labor behind it, consumers could make inferences about these hidden workers’ feelings and thoughts—whether sorrow, dignity, outrage, or others. The phrase sympathetic consumer, therefore, suggests both the conditions of exchange through which sympathy develops and the consumer’s efforts to feel with" these workers.

It is common to associate sympathy with specific emotions, especially pity. These consumer activists certainly expressed and sought to cultivate pity for distant laborers. But I use sympathy in a broader sense—one that encompasses yet also transcends mere pity. This usage can be traced through the Scottish Enlightenment—especially David Hume and Adam Smith—and has been helpfully elaborated as a materialist account of sympathy by contemporary anthropologists Danilyn Rutherford and Catherine Fennell. A materialist account of sympathy tracks the intricate pathways through which encounters with objects and others give rise to feelings and thoughts.⁹ These feelings and thoughts involve inferences about the feelings and thoughts of others. In this way, these feelings and thoughts are shared in the sympathizer’s imagination. Asked to consider the grievous oppression visited upon enslaved Africans in the sugar colonies, the British consumer of sugar could imagine what they would feel if they were enslaved, fatherless, widowed, or otherwise oppressed. This is what I mean by sympathy. It is a practical and imaginative act of feeling with others. To feel with others is, in effect, to imagine that those with whom you feel are in some sense like you. Without this imagined likeness, sympathy would be impossible.

Though it may seem anodyne, sympathy also reveals the workings of power. Whether in the construction of colonial empires or modern states, sympathy has abetted projects of power, domination, and governance.¹⁰ To rule in unknown lands, for instance, colonial state-builders needed to sympathize with potential imperial subjects. This enabled would-be colonists to foster some compliance among native populations upon whom, in many other respects, their survival depended.¹¹ The sympathetic consumer is no exception to such patterns. However scrupulous and thoughtful these activists may have been, they were dedicated to mobilizing people as consumers on behalf of workers. As a result, their attentions were biased toward the sympathies that consumers could extend through commodity-exchange to laborers and laboring conditions. While consumers were asked to identify with the workers through commodity-exchange, the workers themselves remained largely mute, or were ventriloquized by the activists. Many—though not all—of these activists were unconcerned with the reverse question: whether unseen workers sympathized with consumers. In the consumer activist’s imagination, we will see, power traveled from consumers to producers.

Those who study sympathy or emotions know well that such phenomena are not simply natural or instinctive; people also cultivate, manage, and strategize with emotions.¹² Catherine Fennell reminds us that "feeling with does not emerge easily or spontaneously."¹³ Consumer activists recognized this. They gave people the tools through which they could sympathize with distant laborers. What was the National Consumers’ League label, if not a tool that would enable consumers to feel with workers? Activists wanted to evoke and harness sympathetic emotions—sorrow, yearning, pity, even rage—in the service of popular movements for change. But it is important to recall that the sympathetic consumer indicates an aspiration more than an achievement. By no means did these activists always succeed. Moreover, I must stress that I do not write as an advocate for the sympathetic consumer. Nor do I seek to simply dismiss sympathetic consumption. Rather, I describe the emergence of this cultural pattern, trace its form, and adduce several arguments about how it develops within a capitalist social order. Ultimately, I explore how these activists sought to make sympathy reverberate from consumers to producers through the process of exchange. These efforts illuminate something about culture and capitalism that may, in turn, help to clarify the limitations and possibilities of sympathetic consumption.

In Search of a Capitalist Culture

Since Weber sought the Protestant origins of a capitalist spirit and Horkheimer and Adorno inveighed against the degradation of thought in a world of mass culture, the desire to describe a distinctly capitalist culture has fractured and dissipated into more specialized pursuits.¹⁴ There has been plenty of excellent work on the cultures of the market or commercial culture or moralized markets by historians, sociologists, anthropologists, and economists.¹⁵ My concerns are at once more specific and broader than these approaches. Though we may sometimes forget this, capitalism doesn’t own markets or commerce; these are social forms that accompany human civilization writ large. To speak, then, of a market culture or moral markets suggests a generic sociological concern with the ways that markets arise through, create, and depend upon particular ways of understanding the world. One could investigate efforts to free markets from their social moorings or to re-attach markets to these social moorings through government regulation, popular movements, and other forms of resistance to market liberalization.¹⁶ Or one could, for instance, investigate the coexistence of capitalist and non-capitalist market cultures in booksellers who feel queasy about the demands of running a cutthroat business.¹⁷ Such investigations often stop short of demonstrating connections between these market cultures and capitalism as a system. Through this investigation of the sympathetic consumer, I explore a distinct pattern in a culture that refers, directly, to features of a capitalist social order. This pattern is not a feature of market cultures in general, but of a specifically capitalist one.

The search for a capitalist culture is broader, in effect, because it traces the recurrence of cultural patterns like the sympathetic consumer across distinct historical periods and areas. The abolitionists, the National Consumers’ League, and Fashion Revolution interpreted and organized around the consumer in very similar ways; I want to account for these similarities. In studies of market cultures, there is a tendency to identify the new, the different, and the plural—not the similar.¹⁸ For example, Viviana Zelizer traces how, at the turn of the twentieth century, a new understanding of childhood emerged in the United States through a shift in the emotional value of children.¹⁹ Richard Biernacki exposes the distinct cultural idioms around labor that manifested in Great Britain and Germany throughout early periods of industrialization.²⁰ Of late, the notion that we should discuss cultures of capitalism has become more or less axiomatic—to speak of a capitalist culture, in the singular, seems to trample over great empirical diversity.²¹ While we have much to learn from these approaches, it strikes me as no less important to investigate how similar patterns may manifest across longer timespans and space. The search for a capitalist culture, I argue, allows us to discover similarities without effacing differences across places and over time.

This phrase, capitalist culture, invokes two concepts that have been sufficiently fraught as to render their union intimidating, at best, and hopelessly incoherent, at worst. It may recall the bad old days, where culture appears to merely reflect or follow the economy. As such, one may worry that the phrase consigns this work to the dustbin of history, where fiery materialists and dreamy idealists are locked in a struggle to the death. There is, at least on this score, good news. Not only is it possible to speak of a capitalist culture, but we can do so in a way that doesn’t simply rehash a profound but suffocating debate.

What is capitalism?

The book covers several distinct periods in the historical development of capitalism—an era of mercantilism and colonial empires, an era of industry and mass production, and, finally, a present of hyper-financialization and speculation. Thus, it is important to establish what makes them capitalist.

One tendency is to consider capitalism—in any of its phases of development—as a mere economic system. This narrow definition of capitalism