Social Philosophy

The last 100 years have seen more attempts at purposeful change on a vaster scale than ever before in history.

—Clyde Kluckhohn, Culture and Behavior (1962)

The desirability of social change is the single issue most conclusively separating radicals from liberals and both of them from conservatives—the last opposing change, or espousing the continuing relevance of established traditions or elites (“reactionaries” advocating the return, usually impossible, to an earlier culture); the liberals favoring orderly change and government involvement in economic and social life, as well as democratic procedures; and radicals demanding great social change, sometimes at any cost. As the meaning of these terms has so often become obscured in recent sloganeering and exchanges of epithets, general definitions are necessary at the beginning; they also make it clear that each social philosophy has its own traditions: the precursors of recent conservatism including Edmund Burke, John C. Calhoun, and Jos é Ortega y Gasset; liberals descending from John Locke, John Stuart Mill, Thomas Jefferson, John Dewey, and John Maynard Keynes; and radicalism incorporating two related but crucially different traditions, one descending largely from Karl Marx that for now favors more government control (though purportedly less in the utopian future), the other from William Godwin and anarchist philosophers favoring far less government at all times. The transactions of politics do not, of course, constitute intellectual history, which deals instead with the fundamental ideas and normative philosophies informing proposed policy; nor should politics itself be confused with the study of “government” (a.k.a. political science), which consists of forms for understanding actual politics.

Liberalism has been the dominating American tradition, as electoral democracy and provisions for both legislative and judicial change were explicitly written into the oldest Constitution still valid in the Western world. Not only have most of our major political intellectuals and intellectual politicians expressed varieties of liberalism, but so have most of America’s histories and most of its political critiques been written from the liberal point of view. “Since the beginning of our American history,” Franklin D. Roosevelt told Congress in 1941, “we have been engaged in change—in a perpetual peaceful revolution—a revolution which goes on steadily, quietly adjusting itself to changing conditions.” Though liberalism has been, as Louis Hartz prominently argued, the only continually influential tradition in American social thought, both conservatism and radicalism have had their native exponents over the years. To Russell Kirk, an unashamedly conservative publicist for the new conservatism, the relevant indigenous tradition encompasses such superficially different figures as John Quincy Adams, Henry Adams, George Santayana, and the editor E. L. Godkin. Proponents of native radicalism acknowledge, on one hand, such Marxists as Daniel De Leon and Algie M. Simons and, on the other, such anarchists as Henry David Thoreau, Benjamin Tucker, Lysander Spooner, and Josiah Warren.

The disillusions caused by two World Wars within a generation demanded a new kind of liberal philosophy; for the recognition of man’s inhumanity to men, particularly in the revelations of Nazi atrocities, destroyed the base of liberalism’s traditional beliefs in the goodness of human nature and in the beneficence of governmental intervention in human affairs. Moreover, American liberalism’s fairly undiscriminating faith in “progressive” social change was undercut by the almost universal disillusion with what had transpired in the purportedly “progressive” Soviet Union. During the thirties, nearly everyone who called himself “liberal” maintained at least a sentimental sympathy for the Soviet “experiment,” but by the forties, especially after the Stalin-Hitler pact of 1939, it became clear that the Russian result was not a millennium, or even an incipient millennium, but a totalitarianism very closely resembling Nazi Germany’s. These new realities also denied the liberal notions of history as essentially progressive, of reason as all-powerful, or science as intrinsically beneficial, and of comprehensive economic planning as inherently liberalizing. In short, by war’s end, if the liberal values of democracy, social equality and due-process legality were to survive, they needed a more sophisticated philosophic rationale; and pragmatic philosophy, still epitomized by the “instrumentalism” of John Dewey, depended upon optimistic conceptions of human nature and history that could not survive recent history.

Into this breach came ideas that the theologian Reinhold Niebuhr had been propagating, with increasing influence, since the early thirties—first in Moral Man and Immoral Society (1932) and most auspiciously in the two-volume The Nature and Destiny of Man (1941, 1943). In brief, though he managed to doubt most of the liberal pieties about history, reason, science and social planning, Niebuhr still refused to abandon liberalism. His thought realized the philosophic innovation of basing a rationale for liberal processes and programs on a dark conception of human nature and possibility. Indicatively, though officially a member of the Socialist Party of America, Niebuhr never suffered “illusions” about Russia or any other totalitarianism. In The Children of Light and the Children of Darkness (1944), his most influential book at the time, Niebuhr argued that a conservative, “more realistic” image of human fate need not “seem to refute the democratic ideals as well,” for it was his brilliant criticism to charge that the pessimistic image of man used to characterize the masses in conservative theory “is not applied, as it should be, to the ruler.” Nor do conservatives acknowledge the potential evil of such capitalist institutions as modern bureaucracy, where the diffusion of responsibility deflects the restraint of individual moral conscience. Therefore, Niebuhr regarded democratic process, political pluralism, and unending public scrutiny as encumbering procedures functioned to protect the populace from the excesses of leadership, simply by placing “checks upon the power of the ruler and administrator and thus prevent them from becoming vexatious.” This tragic view of both man and history informed Niebuhr’s essentially conservative critique of totalitarian excess, emphasizing what could not be done successfully in the name of man, and a persuasively tragic conception of progressive legislation, warning that it would never cure every ill that needed aid. Out of this paradoxical image of humanity suspended between ideals and a failure to achieve them came a series of political paradoxes: “Man’s capacity for justice makes democracy possible, but man’s inclination to injustice makes democracy necessary.” Or, “For democracy is a method of finding proximate solutions for insoluble problems.”

It was this unsentimental rationale that saved philosophic liberalism from the impotence that Lionel Trilling and others were decrying in the late forties; yet it was Niebuhrian liberalism, despite the absence of social programs, that survived the disasters of the Eisenhower years to become the dominant political philosophy during the Kennedy administration. The intermediary in this particular intellectual history was Arthur M. Schlesinger, Jr., one of many secularists to acknowledge the relevance of Niebuhr’s political thinking. Schlesinger’s precocious polemic, The Vital Center (1949), publicized the new doctrine that continued to influence his own thinking; he subsequently became the most influential intellectual-in-residence (and speechwriter) during the Kennedy administration. To Schlesinger in The Vital Center, a relevant liberalism had to confront three major problems; and the way he phrased the questions implied judgments about the most desirable means:

Do the people have a relative security against the ravages of hunger, sickness and want?

Do they freely unite in continuous and intimate association with like-minded people for common purposes?

Do they as individuals have a feeling of initiative, function and fulfillment in the social order?

Precisely by acknowledged the post-War realities this kind of liberal philosophy still made relevant the classic liberal values of humane justice, equitable procedure, moderate change, and democratic order.

The new post-War conservatism advocated the continuing relevance of old moral and religious values in a world distinctly new and increasingly secular, for aristocracy and accompanying class divisions at a time increasingly egalitarian, for individual liberty and private property against growing collectivism, for the immutability of human nature against the increasingly popular persuasion that people could be beneficially changed by the state. Particularly in the early fifties, this conservatism was more successful than leftish radicalism in capitalizing on the public impotence of liberalism, as well as pessimistic assessments about man’s ability to change and the pervasive sense that change itself is not ultimately commendable. The advocates of the new conservatism had, of necessity, to distinguish their position from fascism, which leftist polemicists attempted to equate with all conservatism (quoting as well certain “conservative” pillars who seemed to sympathize with the German and/or Italian regimes). In intellectual history, genuinely conservative philosophy must be separated from the essentially anti-liberal criticism of such journalists as William Buckley and Irving Kristol.

This new conservatism established its intellectual seriousness not by lamenting the disappearance of an elite or idolizing a past society but by deducing what was currently worth conserving in this changing world. Though their prescriptions often ran to platitudes or disingenuously used general homilies to mask particular privileges (such as “economic freedom” as an excuse for corporate plunder), a true conservative philosophy began to emerge from the books of Russell Kirk, Frederich A. Hayek, Clinton Rossiter, and Peter Viereck. The last writer, for instance, regarded conservatism as “more an implicit temperament, less an articulate philosophy than the other famous isms,” and his “conservative principles par excellence” included:

Proportion and measure; self-expression through self-restraint; preservation through reform; humanism and classical balance; a fruitful nostalgia for the permanent beneath the flux; and a fruitful obsession for unbroken historic continuity. These principles together create freedom, a freedom built not on the quicksand of adolescent defiance but on the bedrock of ethics and law.

This emphasis upon values and procedures—“man as an end, not a means”—in addition to Viereck’s uncompromising attacks on totalitarianism both right and left and then both Senator Joseph McCarthy and Barry Goldwater as well, made Viereck appear an eccentric liberal; but in books entitled Conservatism Revisited (1949) and Conservatism (1956), he made a major personal contribution to a distinctly non-liberal philosophic tradition.

Russell Kirk’s list of “what social institutions the United States have to conserve” was considerably less cultural and more social, as it included:

The safest division of powers, the widest diffusion of property, the strongest sense of common interest, the most prosperous economy, an elevated moral and intellectual tradition, and a spirit of resolute self-reliance unequalled in modern times.

Beyond that, Kirk stood for “an affirmation of the moral nature of society, an [individual] life of dignity and order,” and “the defense of property,” which surprisingly includes not only “strict surveillance of the leviathan business and the leviathan union,” but finally “preservation of local liberties, traditional private rights, and the division of power,” which looks, even in context, like a mask for states’ rights and local authority on racial segregation.

Other strains of new American conservatism emphasized the virtues of rule by a cultural elite, instead of representatives of the hoi polloi; and yet other conservatives, such as Hayek in The Road to Serfdom (1944), stood against economic collectivism, whether by the government or “big business.” If only because Eisenhower was not intellectually responsive enough to be a truly conservative leader, the movement’s energies became enervated during the fifties; and by the sixties, conservative political philosophy seemed as impotent as liberalism was a decade before.

Radical thinking in America was sickly at the end of WWII, in part due to an intellectual success that saw many of Norman Thomas’s 1928 proposals become Roosevelt’s New Deal, socialism in some forms having conquered America without ever winning a major election. Another cause for radicalism’s flaccidity was the persistent pacifism that reduced Thomas himself to joining conservative America Firsters at rallies to keep the U.S. out of foreign wars. The 1939 Stalin-Hitler pact, and its subsequent betrayal, revealed the American Communist Party as not an independent radical movement but a slave of the latest shifts in Soviet policy, as the latest dogma infiltrated skeins of “front groups” that had various degrees of distance, ideologically and politically, from the core of the Party onion.

This decline was surprising, if one remembers that Marxism had dominated political philosophy in the 1930s, persuading many eminent intellectuals (all of whom officially quit the Communist Party by 1940); but they functioned less as philosophers than propagandists, as no American since Daniel De Leon, early in the century, had made a generally acknowledged philosophic contribution to Marxist thought. The crucial truth is that American Marxism has always been blander and less apocalyptic than European, where Marxists at least hoped to win the attention of a large constituency; so that even the intellectually more independent followers of the non-Communist Socialist Party of America tended, like their figurehead Thomas, to advocate not revolution but greater social control than, say, the liberals proposed, such as the state’s greater distribution of wealth and greater regulation of corporate monopolies, while still retaining the classical liberal commitment to democratic processes.

American socialism was so philosophically impoverished, if not bankrupt, by the 1950s that younger “socialist” spokesmen, such as C. Wright Mills and Michael Harrington, functioned not as speculative thinkers but as severe critics of, first, the disparity between American ideals and current realities and then, with acknowledgment to the young Marx, an individual’s alienation from the industrial world. Dissent became the appropriate title for an intelligent new periodical that was democratic socialist (and vehemently anti-Communist) in its commitments and aimed largely at a pre-converted audience. Its contributors, most of whom were academics, favored social relevance, humane values, and critical dissent as general principles apart from any particular vision or program, while a peculiar emphasis on doctrinaire and personal purity (uncontaminated by either past errors, such as Communist influence or “selling out”) effectively kept the discussion more closed and self-congratulatory than intellectually open. This particular mix of criticism and scholarship, epitomized perhaps by “radically” rewriting established interpretations of history, set the style for subsequent radical journals, such as Studies on the Left (founded in 1958) and New University Thought (founded in 1960), whose contributors were inevitably younger academics.

Although Harrington’s essays on the native poor, The Other America (1962), partially inspired the “War on Poverty” initiated during the Kennedy administration, the Marxian tradition had little to offer a country suffering not class war but pluralistic conflicts, not depression but fairly general prosperity, not disgust with exploitation but disillusion with abundance. As critics they were all too ignorant of technology to wield as potent a reforming influence as, say, Ralph Nader’s attack on automobile defects, Unsafe at Any Speed (1965). The intellectual failure of socialist thinkers to deal with new and indigenous issues primarily accounts for why the “new left” that emerged in the sixties expressed even more severe criticisms, rather than a vision of a different society, and then concentrated its youthful energies on such patent social evils as the escalating war in Vietnam, racial injustice, and the alienating dehumanization of contemporary bureaucratic society.

It seemed that certain strains of anarchism had more to say about this new predicament of the overly organized, increasingly meddlesome society, but that anarchist tradition had always been too sporadic and diffuse in America to marshal a strong intellectual attack. It should not be forgotten that the three major strands of anarchism are quite different—one emphasizing individual liberty against the state and even the duly empowered majority, another emphasizing decentralized democratic communities (and usually a concomitant pacifism), and the third the apocalyptic overthrow of existing institutions. In American intellectual history, Benjamin Tucker in the late nineteenth century epitomized the first persuasion; such Catholic anarchists as Ammon Hennacy and Dorothy Day the second; and western-states syndicalism, epitomized by the IWW early in the twentieth century, the third. However, since mention of that last strain usually embarrasses, or compromises, advocates of the other two, it should really be classed in its own category—one that, until recently perhaps, has had little influence in America.

The most persistent anarchist intellectual in recent years has been Paul Goodman; and as the anarchist critique of America became more relevant in the 1960s Goodman’s intellectual fortunes progressed apace. A communitarian anarchist from his intellectual beginnings in the Marxist 1930s, and a pacifist during World War II, Goodman at first concentrated his writing energies on poetry, fiction, and criticism; so that not until the late forties, in the pamphlet Drawing the Line (1946) and Communitas (1948), the latter coauthored with his brother Percival, a noted architect, did Goodman emerge as a consequential social philosopher. The emphasis of the latter book was philosophic criticism of excessively comprehensive and regularized city plans, especially those disregarding certain ineradicable human needs; and prophetically anticipating subsequent “ecological” protests, the Goodmans continually proposed incorporating more of nature into city life and urban landscape. (Years later they repeated Lewis Mumford’s eminently persuasive, but politically unpopular, proposals for banning private automobiles from Manhattan and converting most of the side streets into public parks.) Arguing from anarchist principles Paul Goodman favored the legislated abolition of economic monopoly, he protested the coerciveness of all large institutions, he charged that all governments are unalterably opposed to political rights and civil liberties. He blamed both wars and totalitarianism on bureaucratic, centralizing industrialism itself, whether capitalist or socialist. In books such as Growing Up Absurd (1960) and People or Personnel? (1963), Goodman applied his anarchist philosophy, with its conservative distrust of both technology and the state, to innumerable pressing problems, usually producing inventive plans that emphasized not more centralization and more government intervention, as liberals and socialists would propose, but much less, in addition to less machinery, less labor, less bureaucracy, and, more important, less regimentation of individual life. Typical, and perhaps most original, is Goodman’s utopian idea for separating the American economy into two domains, one for subsistence goods and the other for luxuries; so that people with small taste for the latter could freely choose to work only one year of several in the subsistence economy. More than once he reminded his readers of the great truth of anarchist economics—that the best things in life are free: love, friendship, learning, esthetic experience, nature. Precisely because he emphasized social disorganization along with humanity’s cooperative instincts, and yet willfully ignored man’s recent inhumanities, Goodman made anarchism relevant to contemporary America, in part capitalizing on the criticisms made by leftist radicals who were unable to formulate a social philosophy, let alone proposals; but by the middle sixties, Goodman’s anti-technological bias made him less visionary than a newer group of radical philosophers. By the 1960s, pacifism became a more consequential doctrine, less through Goodman’s influence than that of A. J. Muste, a sometime Protestant minister; and drawing more from Gandhi than any American pacifist, Martin Luther King made nonviolent civil disobedience the prime strategy of black protests in the South. (The case of pacifism became more acceptable at the time when no wars directly threatened, or even promised to threaten, American land.)

In the sixties came a new radical social philosophy that looked to the future for visions relevant to the present; and so fundamentally different from the old, the new radicalism seemed beyond both “left” and “right,” as it forced an entirely alternative way of thinking about contemporary transformation. The new radicalism responded to the major ongoing sources of change in advanced industrial society—technological development, new knowledge about society and machines (especially “ecology”), increased economic affluence and material abundance, and such a pronounced intellectual and psychological difference in generations that the leaders of one seemed decades beyond the leaders of the next. This philosophy regarded the present as so different from the past that radicals were obliged to envision a future even more different from now. This alternative kind of thinking also reflected the increasing social concern of scientists immediately after World War II, as evidenced in the founding of the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists in 1946, the global frame of The Challenge of Man’s Future (1953) by the geophysicist Harrison Brown, and the general recognition, among scientists, of the social power of scientific knowledge. The new thinking also descended from the highly organized and well-subsidized considerations of unprecedented social and technical situations, as initiated by the RAND Corporation in the fifties and subsequently pursued in other “think tanks” distributed across the country. Most of this new radicalism accepted a “liberal” commitment to democratic means, Soviet-American detente, progressive domestic values, and the entire world as the most appropriate frame of concern. Unlike the old philosophies, whether left or right, that articulated more taboos and criticisms than directions, this new radicalism was indubitably positive and optimistic. In practice, its advocates tended to emphasize either one of two great questions—how to generate desirable social change in the world, and what kinds of possible lives those changes made feasible.

Regarding the first issue of making change, nothing seemed more persuasive than the “Dymaxion” social philosophy that R. Buckminster Fuller had been articulating since the 1920s—ideas belatedly collected into such books as Nine Chains to the Moon (1938), Ideas and Integrities (1963), and Utopia or Oblivion? (1969); but not until the post-Marxist sixties, indicatively, did Fuller become widely hailed as the social visionary he had always been. (By contrast, another brilliant precursor, Oliver Reiser’s “Scientific Humanism,” never received the credit it deserved, even though Reiser himself, the same age as Fuller, produced new books into the sixties.) In intellectual history, Fuller’s concern with synergistic maximizing of resources and energy was indebted less to avowed philosophers, except perhaps Ralph Waldo Emerson and his friend Margaret Fuller (in fact, a Buckminster Fuller relative), than to such industrial entrepreneurs as Thomas Alva Edison and Henry Ford. The first man invented the research laboratory, which is to say the collaborative process of generating and organizing technological innovation; the second recognized that by cutting costs within the production process itself the workers could be paid more while making a product that sold for much less. Both Ford and Edison saw that relevant knowledge and cooperative planning were necessary to execute a certain complicated job (change) efficiently. This combination has animated such subsequent programs for realizing envisioned technological breakthroughs as the Manhattan Project, the first communications satellite, the moonshot, etc.

Fuller feasted on this principle of achieving more with less, calling it “ephemeralization,” and then regarded it as the central factor not only in technological advance but modern life itself. Ephemeralization, therefore, included not only the miniaturization of appliances, especially after the introduction of the transistor, and the increasingly greater power of newer computers, but also increases in the amount of socially useful work (measured by any means) that the average person could accomplish in a normal day; ephemeralization represents, in Fuller’s philosophy, the largely beneficent principle of modern progress. Thus, the key to contemporary innovation was not just further ephemeralization but also the invention of new machines and new applications of existing technologies, as well as the rapid conversion of new knowledge (mostly scientific) to practical uses, all coupled with the phasing out of obsolete machines and information. As much as Fuller respected industrial institutions for their innovating prowess, he continually notes that the visions inspiring technological invention usually come from a lone individual. “Roughly, the fundamental processes of social change today start with dreams (whose mother may be necessity),” I wrote in Beyond Left & Right (1968), both my phrases and the book itself reflecting Fuller’s influence, “for the desire for something impossible is the first step toward a vision that can then be realized.”

To this kind of thinking, many problems that were formerly lost in political meandering actually demanded not technocrats-as-politicians but purely technological solutions; for the implication was that the greatest social changes were achieved largely outside of politics—outside of governmental initiative, outside of violent revolution and often outside of the awareness of duly elected officials. Instead, within the scheme of modern evolution politics functioned as a backward-looking regressive force, revealing its ultimate ineffectuality at every turn. This realization prompted the political scientist Karl Deutsch to conjecture, in The Nerves of Government (1963), that, “It might be more profitable to look upon government somewhat less as a problem of power and somewhat more as a problem of steering.” As a dymaxicrat, rather than a utopian, Fuller regarded unending piecemeal planning at all levels, personal and institutional, as the most propitious vehicle for implementing both optimal technological utilization and further social progress. Such thinking implied that industrial society, or at least its preconditions, could be established anywhere in the world.

The second issue of the new radicalism—what kinds of possible lives these technological changes made feasible—inspired further thought about, among other possibilities, continually optimal biological functioning, technological replacement of all kinds of human labor, and computer-assisted teaching machines. Other strains resembled Goodmanian anarchism in regarding the populace as more progressive than government and the ultimate aim of human life as not more social slavery but the right not to work. Exponents of this view argued that if increasingly efficient machines and automated assembly lines can produce more goods with less human labor, then less employment (which is to say unemployment) becomes inevitable. This realization implied, of course, not only revisions of social policy that included sufficient subsidy to all of the unemployed, whether they wanted work or not—the Guaranteed Annual Wage proposed by Robert Theobald and others—but also a revolution in moral values and attitudes toward leisure.

Curiously, the most influential exponents of this new post-technological anarchism were two sometime Marxists, Herbert Marcuse and Norman O. Brown, both of whom revealed their intellectual origins in dialectical patterns of thinking. In Marcuse’s Eros and Civilization (1955), his most radical venture into social philosophy, he portrays industrial society with all its alienating labor as the intermediate antithesis between the pre-industrial world and the post: “The transition to a new stage of civilization, which the capabilities of the present suggest, might mean the subversion of the traditional culture, intellectual as well as material, including the liberation of instinctual needs and satisfactions which have hitherto remained tabooed and repressed.” Subtitled “A Philosophical Inquiry into Freud,” Eros and Civilization performed a dialectical operation on Sigmund Freud’s Civilization and Its Discontents (1930); for if Freud’s book argued that repression was necessary for the sake of civilization, Marcuse, with a subsequent generation’s awareness of likely technological abundance, took the radical leap of suggesting that alienating work and economic exchange and even instinctual repression might no longer be essential to the functioning of modern civilization. All this genuine fresh radical thinking was, however, subsequently undercut by Marcuse’s next book about contemporary life, One-Dimensional Man (1964), which repeated in pretentious language many familiar journalistic clichés about American society, as well as revealing, to nearly everyone’s surprise, an anti-technological bias more typical of an unashamed conservative.

This theme of a conceivable end to repression was more elaborately and eccentrically pursued in Norman O. Brown’s Life Against Death (1959), itself another dialectical reworking of Civilization and Its Discontents. Brown took so many intellectual leaps that the result was less a social philosophy than a speculative vision—a post-science fiction, so to speak—of an anarchic society based on the unfettered, inclusive sexuality of the infant:

The resurrection of the body is a social project facing mankind as a whole, and it will become a practical problem when the statesmen of the world are called upon to deliver happiness instead of power, when political economy becomes a science of use-values instead of exchange values—a science of enjoyment instead of a science of accumulation.

True to his particular purposes, Brown produced in Love’s Body (1966) an even more speculative tract that interpreted all experience within an encompassing body mysticism that seemed even more distant from any social philosophy that pretends to feasibility. On the other hand, the peacetime achievements of technological ephemeralization and material abundance have made continually more reasonable the post-industrial, post-economic vision articulated in Brown’s books.

This new development in radical social philosophy was necessary for the times, even though its publicists remained less influential than familiar “left” criticism; for it was this new radicalism, rather than the other, that offered feasible visions of a better world for all. It was also this new radicalism, rather than any other, that commanded more influence among post-student leaders abroad—for instance, the French publisher Jean-Jacques Servan-Schreiber writing in Le Defi Americain (1967) a paean to American innovative thinking. By emphasizing the fact of radical change through technology, and acknowledging both the present as radically different from the past and increasingly rapid change as intrinsic in industrial society, this new radical social philosophy made itself increasingly relevant to the coming times.

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Brown, Norman O. Life Against Death. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University, 1959.

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———. Ideas and Integreties. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hill, 1963.

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———. People or Personnel? New York: Random House, 1963.

———, and Percival Goodman. Communitas (1947). Second ed. New York: Random House, 1960.

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———. The Children of Light and the Children of Darkness. New York: Scribner’s, 1944.

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———. Conservatism Revisited. Revised ed. New York: Collier, 1962.

———, ed. Conservatism from John Adams to Churchill. Princeton, NJ: Van Nostrand, 1956.

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