Does Socialism Stifle Creativity?

One of the oldest, dustiest arguments against socialism and communism is that they supposedly stifle individuality and creativity. No more artists, no more inventors, no more rebels, just gray uniforms, gray buildings, and gray minds.

This idea gets dragged out every time someone suggests workers deserve rights or billionaires shouldn’t exist. But here’s the truth:

This claim is propaganda and it’s tired.

Yes, in some authoritarian regimes that simply called themselves communist (Stalin’s USSR or Mao’s China), artistic and intellectual repression happened. That’s real. But equating all socialism with state authoritarianism is like saying all capitalism is just Enron and child labor in sweatshops.

Authoritarianism stifles creativity. Not socialism.

Let’s flip the script.

Capitalism loves to parade around as the champion of individuality. But unless your creativity makes more money? It’s worthless.

Under capitalism:

If your art doesn’t sell, it doesn’t matter.
If your innovation can’t be patented or monetized, tough luck.
If you’re too exhausted from your soul-crushing job to create? Oh well.

Creativity under capitalism is only celebrated if it turns a profit. Everything else? It gets buried.

Socialism doesn’t kill creativity. It frees it.

Under democratic socialism or libertarian socialism or anarcho-communism, creativity can actually flourish. Why?

Basic needs are met. You’re not working three jobs just to survive. You have time to think and make things.

Your worth isn’t tied to profit. You don’t need your poem to be a product. Your band doesn’t have to blow up on Spotify to matter.

Community matters. Creativity isn’t just for clout, it’s for connection.

Imagine millions of people who are free to paint, code, write, build, and dream — not because it’s marketable, but because it’s meaningful.

Let’s talk about some actual socialists:

George Orwell wrote 1984 and Animal Farm as a democratic socialist.

Albert Camus was anti-authoritarian, anti-capitalist, and deeply creative.

Nina Simone was a radical, a revolutionary, and raw.

Kurt Vonnegut was openly socialist and still endlessly imaginative.

Entire movements — Soviet avant-garde, worker theatre, Cuban film collectives, Indigenous co-ops — were built on socialist principles.

And let’s not forget that Marx and Kropotkin were writing philosophy and science, not just manifestos.

Bottom line: if communism killed creativity, we wouldn’t have all the radical art, music, theory, and rebellion.

If capitalism encouraged creativity, you wouldn’t be drowning in Marvel sequels, AI sludge, and corporate TikToks trying to go viral by pretending to be relatable.

So no. Socialism doesn’t stifle creativity. Capitalism just wants you to believe that so you don’t imagine something better.

Why I Broke Away from Nietzsche

Like a lot of people, I discovered Friedrich Nietzsche in high school. Call it teen angst or whatever you will, but he felt dangerous, electric, liberating. While everyone else was parroting morality or chasing grades, Nietzsche was telling me to reject the herd, smash idols, and carve my own path. It felt like rebellion with a brain.

However, over time I outgrew him. Not because I stopped caring about meaning or individuality, but because I realized what kind of individualism he was selling, and who else was selling it.

Nietzsche championed the “Ubermensch,” the one who rises about the herd to create new values. Ayn Rand gave us John Galt, the genius industrialist who shrugs off society to build his perfect world. It hit me one day that these two weren’t as far apart as I once thought. Both glorify the exceptional individual. Both sneer at the masses. Both turn their back on solidarity.

What started as an inspiration to think freely began to feel like an excuse to disengage. Nietzsche was attacking morality from above. Rand was doing it from the boardroom. Either way, it ended with contempt for the people I now wanted to fight alongside.

I’m sure my readers know by now, but what really broke the spell was Camus. The Myth of Sisyphus didn’t offer me transcendence (or male and femalescendence for all you transphobes out there.) It didn’t demand I become a god. It simply asked me to imagine Sisyphus happy. That small act of rebellion — accepting the absurd and refusing to despair — hit harder than a thousand pages of will to power.

I realized I didn’t want to overcome the herd. I wanted to organize it. I didn’t want to create values in a vacuum. I wanted to challenge the systems that crush people every day. Nietzsche gave me the tools to reject inherited meaning, but he had nothing to offer once the dust settled.

Nietzsche lives in the realm of aesthetics: life as art, suffering as transformation, truth as personal creation. But when you’re watching the wealthy elite hoard resources, cops brutalize communities, and working people drown in debt, aesthetics isn’t enough. You need ethics. You need justice. You need solidarity.

Nietzsche taught me to question everything, and in turn, I had to question him too.

I didn’t reject Nietzsche because he was wrong about everything (did that with Rand.) I rejected him because he wasn’t enough. He lit the fire. Camus gave it direction. Socialism gave it purpose.

If Nietzsche taught me to become who I am, then breaking with him was part of that becoming. And maybe that’s the most Nietzschean move of all.

Two Books That Changed My Life

I know I posted my top five favorite books, but I thought I’d post the two books that changed my life in impactful ways and discuss them a little. Coincidentally, they’re both from my top five list.

The Stranger by Albert Camus has affirmed my sense of absurdity. Meursault (main character)’s indifference, his refusal to feign emotion for society’s sake resonates with my own misanthropy. His detachment from norms helped me feel less alien in a world that demands people fake performances of meaning and morality. The book’s cold eye on things like funerals, justice, and religion strengthened my distrust in institutions, and it gave me permission to question the systems we’re told to respect–even if they’re hollow.

Camus’ exploration of life’s absurdity–the idea that existence lacks inherent meaning–has sharpened my anti-natalist views that bringing new life into a meaningless, and often cruel world is unethical. Life isn’t a gift. It’s an imposition.

Meursault doesn’t pretend to be anything but himself, even when it might save him. That’s the kind of integrity I aspire to, even if it makes me weird. As far as the ending of the book–Meursault accepting the absurd and facing death without illusions–it mirrors my own attempt to live authentically in a chaotic world.

The Myth of Sisyphus, also by Albert Camus, had an even deeper influence on me than The Stranger. It gave me a way to live with absurdity. Before Camus, absurdity felt like a huge weight, a realization that life has no inherent meaning and that could easily lead to despair and eventually suicide. This book showed me another path: instead of seeking meaning or collapsing under nihilism, I can simply accept life’s absurdity and keep pushing forward.

It also reinforced my rejection of false hope. Camus’ critique of “philosophical suicide”–the way people escape absurdity through religion, ideology, or forced optimism–resonated with me deeply. I refuse to cling to comforting illusions, whether it’s capitalism’s promises or religious dogmas. I used to suppress illusions with drugs and alcohol. Now, I choose to face reality, no matter how bleak.

It has also helped with my political views. Sisyphus’s struggle isn’t just personal, it’s an act of defiance. Pushing the boulder, knowing it will never stay at the top, mirrors my approach to wanting to fight capitalism. I’m aware the system is monstrous, victories are temporary, but I choose to fight anyway, and not because I expect some final triumph, but because the struggle itself is worth it.

And lastly, it aligns with my misanthropy and humor. My messing with people politically and my sense of humor fit within Camus’ absurdist outlook. I want to weaponize absurdity and turn meaninglessness into a playground.

Top 5 Favorite Books

I’ve always told people I have a top five list of favorite books. I thought I’d post them here and why I love each of them.

The Stranger by Albert Camus

It’s the perfect mix of existentialism, absurdism, and detachment, which are three things that resonate with me. Mersault’s indifference and refusal to play along with society’s expectations, and his ultimate acceptance of the absurdity of life align with my own views.

The Myth of Sisyphus by Albert Camus

This book gave me a framework to make peace with the absurd. Instead of drowning in nihilism or clinging to false meaning, Camus handed me a third option: defiance. I don’t have to pretend life has inherent meaning, but I also don’t have to collapse under that realization. I can push the boulder up the hill, knowing it’s pointless, and still find joy in the act.

Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace

It’s a chaotic, sprawling, brilliant mess, just like the world it critiques. It takes on capitalism, addiction, entertainment, and the crushing weight of modern existence, all with a mix of absurd humor and gut-wrenching sincerity.

At it’s core, it’s about resistance. Against addiction, against passive entertainment, against the numbness that capitalism and media try to impose.

Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy

Pure, unfiltered chaos — violence, fate, and the raw, indifferent brutality of the universe laid bare. It doesn’t try to comfort you; it forces you to stare into the abyss and see it staring back. It doesn’t just tell a story. It drags you through hell and leaves you to make sense of it yourself.

The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck

One of the most powerful indictments of capitalism and injustice ever written, and it does so with raw emotion and unflinching truth. It isn’t just about suffering; it’s about resistance, solidarity, and the idea that even in the face of crushing exploitation, people can come together and fight back.

Steinbeck’s anger at the system is palpable, but he doesn’t preach; he shows. He makes you feel the desperation, the hunger, the betrayal by a system designed to grind people down, but at the same time there’s that threat of quiet, unwavering defiance.