Over the past two years, a series of incidents in this country has highlighted the uneasiness with which some Americans occasionally view their official leaders. The Southern sit-ins, with their Northern counterparts of sympathetic picketing, is one example; the organizing of SANE another; a third, the various pacifist-sponsored demonstrations (which ranged from the year-long “vigil” at Fort Detrick, Maryland—a center of chemical and biological warfare—to the one-day civil defense protest staged in New York). All these incidents have bypassed the usual political institutions. But equally suggestive of the same uneasiness are those quieter incidents which have taken place within the government, and however we judge their final impact, they may in fact represent an important change in political behavior. Perhaps the most striking such incident is the Liberal Project, a recent attempt by eleven Democratic Congressmen (most of whom won their seats in the 1958 party sweep) to establish some common ground between themselves and a group of independent intellectuals.

Every administration, of course, has its professorial and scientific advisors, and every Congressional committee can call on any number of consultants; but few administrations, or Congressional committees, or Congressional groups, have or care to have an independent body of intellectuals offering them not only facts, but a combination of general policies and ideas which together would form a consistent program for governing the United States. To organize such a body of independent thinkers—or, at least, to set up the machinery for the functioning of such a body—is what the eleven Congressmen, together with a total of forty-six intellectuals, scientists, and scholars are attempting to do under the auspices of the Liberal Project.

The project, determined to bring into closer relation the domains of power and of independent knowledge—which for many years have seemed so far apart—has the far-reaching aim of strengthening the role of Congressmen in the formation of foreign and domestic policies. The assumption here is that an increased knowledge and competence on the part of the legislators will add to the “weight” of their positions vis-à-vis other segments of government. More immediately, the Project hopes to develop a program for the 60’s that will provide alternatives for present domestic and foreign policies, so many of which are involved with the very question of survival. In all its objectives, the Liberal Project mirrors the dissatisfaction of some Americans with their cold-war country. But whether it will, finally, succeed in becoming the political-cultural force it strives to be is still unclear.

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The idea of the Liberal Project was first suggested early in 1959 by a young man who was then acting as a legislative counsel to a new Democratic Congressman from Iowa. Marcus Raskin, a graduate of the University of Chicago Law School, had been in Washington slightly over a year, observing Congressional politics; he had been struck, he says, by the “anti-programmatic ad hocism” of both parties and by the resulting ascendence in Congress of “political brokers.” Interpreting the 1958 elections as a sign of protest against the Eisenhower administration and, at the same time, as a demand for alternative policies and new ideas, Raskin became convinced that nothing less than a completely reformulated liberalism could provide either the policies or the ideas. (On occasion in Washington, the New Deal’s response to problems of the 30’s still reverberates.)

A Congressman from Wisconsin, Robert Kastenmeier (another freshman), had been thinking along similar lines and suggested that Raskin draw up a memorandum detailing the current political deficiencies he saw and the solution he envisioned so that they might show the memo to a small group of sympathetic Congressmen.

A few months later, Kastenmeier arranged for Raskin to discuss the memo with himself and six other Congressmen—George Kasem of California, Frank Kowalski of Connecticut, Byron Johnson of Colorado, George McGovern of South Dakota, William Meyer of Vermont, and Charles Porter of Oregon. Except for Porter and McGovern, both of whom had been elected to the 85th Congress in 1956, the legislators were all freshmen. Two of them, Meyer and Johnson, were pacifists, and Meyer had the distinction of being the first Democrat to be sent to the House in a hundred and eight years. Johnson had been a professor of economics and McGovern a professor of history. All had voted against extending the draft for four years and, sometime after this meeting, all voted (except Kasem, who was absent) against the right of states to legislate their own anti-subversion laws.

Raskin’s memo spoke of the ad hoc methods of dealing with problems “after they occurred, and then only in a partial manner—thus guaranteeing the likelihood that the problems would reoccur in an even more virulent form.” Though the Eisenhower administration made use of this approach most conspiciously, “in the United States there is no . . . ‘loyal opposition.’. . . Bipartisanship [today] is nothing more than a cover-up for the fact that no new policies have been fashioned.” Thus, “the hands of political brokers have been greatly strengthened.”

The memo went on to argue that realistic liberal policies “must be much broader than the kind of economic liberalism promulgated in the 1930’s,” and that liberalism needed new leaders, whose influence would not depend on one charismatic personality, but on a “rational program”: “a complete . . . restatement of all areas of public policy, foreign policy, defense policy, industrial policy, agricultural policy, legal and judicial policy. Finally, what is needed is a formulation of the philosophic condition of Man in the Twentieth Century.”

Following this formidable introduction, the memo proposed a list of topics under four headings—foreign policy; economic, industrial, and agricultural policy; judiciary, law, and human rights; and education, science, and culture. It suggested that papers be written on these topics and that “particular scholars and experts” be used only when necessary. An outline of questions followed each topic. For example, under “Foreign Policy, General Statement,” Raskin proposed that the group ask itself whether it is “necessary to lead away from the traditional nation-state conception of sovereignty into a notion of world law which recognizes the revolutionary character of the century and rejects traditional conceptions of the status quo?” Under “Economic, Industrial, and Agricultural Policy, Taxation,” he asked: “Should there be a tighter and higher tax structure on corporate entities similar in result to the excess profits tax?” And under “Education, Science, and Culture, General Statement”: “How can communication and understanding be effectuated between men of action, contemplation, and the farmer and worker so that a meaningful democracy may be created?” These were only three of the 216 questions Raskin elaborated in his ambitious attempt to establish the basis for a complete restatement of liberalism.

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The Congressmen found Raskin’s argument both impressive and persuasive, and they agreed to form a group to analyze the problems he outlined. On the other hand they wanted the group to involve more than discussion. They hoped, as the memo said, that the “Liberal Syllabus [a term now replaced by “Liberal Papers”] will be completed in February [1960]. . . . The liberal group . . . will try to gain general . . . support for the program. . . . The Syllabus. . . . will [also] serve as a basis for writing a suggested Democratic Party platform for 1960 and as a campaign text for liberal condidates.”

But it was clear that to have a completed, usable syllabus by February the group would need outside help. The Congressmen appointed Raskin general secretary (to work in conjunction with Kastenmeier) and gave him permission to contact anyone who in his opinion could prepare a suitable paper. (Any contribution of time or effort made by Raskin or anyone else, had to be voluntary. The Project had no money.)

One thing more was decided: the group would not attempt to establish a large following until it could clarify and state its position; the Project would not allow itself to be “watered down” by increased membership. But if the group thought that a fellow Congressman did agree with its orientation, he would be asked to join.

Between this meeting in May or June of 1959 and the following February, by which time all the papers were to be completed, progress was somewhat haphazard. Raskin got in touch with a large number of intellectuals: some agreed, some declined to write papers. Two of the original Congressional members—Kowalski and McGovern—left the Project for private reasons, but remained interested observers. Somewhat later, seven other Congressmen joined.

The Congressional “half” of the Project rarely met. Individual members were usually given a report of developments informally, or through memos from Raskin or Kastenmeier. Papers were received, but because of enormous difficulties in getting them duplicated, most of them were read only by Raskin and Kastenmeier (and one of Kastenmeier’s assistants, Arthur Waskow). James Warburg’s analysis of foreign policy was the single paper examined by all the Congressmen (this was at a time when the Project had only six members); the group suggested some revisions, and Warburg complied.

Those preparing papers often had no notion of who else was doing so, nor even any notion of the size of the group for which their papers were being prepared. Yet despite the haziness surrounding these aspects of the Project, it began developing a sort of underground reputation in the academic world, and occasionally someone would write in to ask if he might participate. A few intellectuals became extremely interested—David Riesman in particular—and they kept suggesting both additional topics and new writers. By February, forty-six “scholars,” as the Project calls them, had agreed to write papers based on the topics listed in Raskin’s memo. Among them were H. Stuart Hughes (professor of intellectual history at Harvard University), writing on NATO; Norbert Wiener (mathematician and one of the developers of automation), on automation; John Cogley (former editor of Commonweal), on security and human rights; and Harold Taylor (former president of Sarah Lawrence College), on the general statement for the section on “education, science, and culture.” In addition, several of the country’s most famous and influential intellectuals—among them, Hannah Arendt, David Riesman, and Erich Fromm—agreed to write “philosophic statements” redefining liberalism and its role in politics today. (Raskin has recently discussed with a publisher the possibility of collecting these pieces under the title of The Liberal Papers.)

But it became clear that a set of papers covering all the original topics listed was hardly likely to be completed by the early part of 1960. The scholars were, not unexpectedly, often tardy—to this date, in fact, only twenty-three papers have been received—and the Congressmen had not enough time to make full use of what already was at hand. There was, accordingly, a shift in thinking about the Project: some members came to regard it as a study group instead of a political action group; yet others saw the change as only a temporary maneuver.

With the group developing, an official public announcement had to be made at some time. The Congressmen decided to release the Warburg paper—though not as their consensus of opinion on foreign policy. For one thing, six new members had joined the Project after the Warburg paper had already been discussed; and, in addition, there seems to have been some disagreement concerning the validity of Warburg’s analysis. Thus, the Congressmen decided to release the paper as the first in a series of studies “sponsored” by the Project.

They also agreed to James Roosevelt’s suggestion that the Project hold four informal meetings—one each on foreign policy; economic and industrial policy; education, science, and culture; and, finally, on the redefinition of liberalism. At these meetings scholars would first present their ideas; their presentation would be followed by discussion between the scholars and the Congressmen; and this dialogue in turn would be followed by questions from journalists invited for the occasion by Raskin and Kastenmeier.

The first meeting, on foreign policy, was held May 23; the last, on the redefinition of liberalism, June 13. The Project released Warburg’s paper the day of the first meeting, the Monday that happened to follow the U-2 incident and the collapse of the summit. The press release accompanying the Warburg paper analyzed its relation to these world events as follows: “The statement represents an . . . analysis of our foreign policy which we offer . . . to stimulate debate and honest discussion in the formulation of a new American foreign policy. It is not inspired by recent events such as the failure of the summit meeting and the contradictory policies followed by the Administration in the handling of the U-2 incident. These events, however, have supplied the final proof—if any such proof were needed—that this nation’s foreign policy needs serious study and new direction so that it will be relevant to the conditions which exist in the world today.” But how this paper was to be used—who were the debaters it would stimulate—was left unclear; and this unclarity reflected the Project’s essential indecision as to whether it exists to act or simply to study.

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The eleven Congressmen who now make up the Liberal Project are on the average about ten years younger than their fellow Representatives. Eight of the Project’s members are freshmen; two of the other three (all third-termers)—James Roosevelt, California; and Frank Thompson, Jr., New Jersey—only joined the Project this year, approximately seven months after it got under way. Other new members are James G. O’Hara, Michigan (the youngest in the Project: thirty-three) ; Clem Miller, California (the third of the Project members from that state); Wiliam Moorhead, Pennsylvania; and Leonard Wolf, Iowa. Geographically, the South is the only unrepresented section of the country.

The project’s Congressmen come from both conservative and liberal districts—some had easy campaigns, some difficult ones. William Meyer, the pacifist from Vermont (which elects only one representative at large), ran on a platform of ending atom bomb tests and recognizing Red China. In contrast, William Moor-head, a party candidate in an overwhelmingly Democratic district in Pennsylvania, ran practically no campaign at all. But most of the Congressional members of the Project based their campaigns on ideas calling for some major re-examination of American policy, domestic or foreign; they have united in the Liberal Project to broaden this examination, and to bring to it both an intellectual and political consistency.

For some of these Congressmen, membership in the Project reinforces their political image—it certifies the identity they have for their constituents. Byron Johnson, for example, the other pacifist in the group, has also been a professor of economics. Thus his background classifies him as an intellectual, and his constituents probably are not bothered by his participating in a Congressional group of liberals sponsoring independent studies of national policy. Nor would they be angered if Johnson and the group attempted to influence a larger group of Congressmen in their direction, or tried to legislate specific policies or helped influence the formulation of the party’s national platform.

But membership in the Project brings no such gain for everyone. Clem Miller, who has been attempting unsuccessfully to inform his conservative district in California of the problems of automation which it may soon face, does take a small chance by belonging to the Project. And others in the Project incur Miller’s risk rather than Johnson’s gain. Regardless of their constituents, however, all of the Project’s members may be taking another kind of political risk. Miller has suggested that in Congress it is always more dangerous to belong to a ten- or twelve-man group than to belong to no group at all: a group of eleven has no power; it only brings attention to its members.

What the Project undeniably gives to its participants is “social support.” For a Congressman who works hard and is often in the minority because of his politics, the knowledge that there are other Congressmen like him with whom he can work, is a substantial psychological gain. True, one member of the Project remarked that what a few of his associates took to be an enormous battleship seemed to him a very small cork riding a big ocean; and another referred somewhat disparagingly to the Project’s political ambitiousness, and its intellectual pretentiousness—yet both remain members. Primarily these Congressmen stay because of their individual political positions and the necessity they see for broad, liberal legislation; some stay, it is clear, because they truly want new ideas. But they also stay because to be in the group, for most, is to feel less isolated.

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The Congressmen themselves believe that as a political force the liberal Congressman is less isolated in the United States now than he was five or ten years ago. Most of them do not think that a Liberal Project could have been created much before this year: McCarthyism, with its pronounced anti-intellectuality and anti-individualistic political standards, would have had liberals in the House too frightened to form such a group. Several of the Congressmen also argue that the scholar “half” of the Project would not have joined so eagerly. Again, McCarthyism is one reason. A second argument is that intellectuals—five or ten years ago—did not see that the whole structure of American politics, including the government and its machinery, was becoming less and less representative of American ideals and perhaps of Americans themselves. Many of the Congressmen in the Project take its existence as a sign that the liberal voice now speaks with more assurance.

Yet not all the Congressmen agree with one another as to what the Liberal Project should be doing, and on one important problem they obviously disagree: the Project’s purpose. The alternatives, as I have already indicated, are simple:a political action group vs. a study group. Until the present, despite the early hopes of all the members, the Project has been a study group—now some of the Congressmen speak of a five- or ten-year project during which liberal Congressmen and intellectuals will come together for mutual clarification and the slow development of programmatic legislation, to be offered only after the Project has gained considerable public support. Until then, one Congressmen said, “As soon as the Liberal Project becomes a political action group, I will leave it.”

The opposing position holds that the group should expand to form a bloc of fifty or seventy-five Congressmen and press immediately for specific, less programmatic legislation. The new ideas offered to the Project by intellectuals, they argue, could be incorporated later; the need now is “to make some political hay.”

Between these unambiguous alternatives is a series of actions not clearly in one direction or the other. Some members of the Project still think it possible to influence the Democratic Study Group by forming the intellectual nucleus of that 120-man body.¹ Neither the “political action” men nor the “study” men know quite what this move would mean. Their membership in the Project, and perhaps the existence of the Project, depends on how they interpret such possibilities and on how the public responds to the studies released by the Project. But at some point, the Project must formulate its purpose more clearly, and then each member, or potential joiner, will have to estimate and balance the political risk, the psychological gain, and the liberals’ strength against his own conception of what something called the Liberal Project should be.

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I attended only the first of the four informal sessions arranged for politicians and intellectuals to meet, finally, face to face. I had thought some gesture toward clarification might emerge from this direct confrontation: how cultural analyses (such as Riesman and Maccoby’s “The American Crisis”²) could be made politically relevant, how forty-six papers could be made to mean one whole program, what the purpose and value of the Project’s political-intellectual alliance were. For the most part, though, these issues were mentioned only tangentially, and the most discussed topic of the evening was James Warburg’s solution to the Berlin situation.

Seven Congressmen attended this first meeting. Two other Project members—Kasem and Roosevelt—were out of town, and one more had been so incensed at the AP’s reporting of the Warburg paper (according to the AP it called for recognition of Red China, though the paper’s actual wording was “to open the channels of negotiation”), that he indicated he might leave the group.

Matching the Congressional half of the Project were the four invited “scholars”: Warburg, Vera Micheles Dean (editor of the Foreign Policy Association), whose paper dealt with American policy in Southeast Asia and Japan, Frank Tannenbaum (professor of history at Columbia University), who had prepared a paper on American policy in Latin America, and Quincy Wright (professor of political science at the University of Virginia), who discussed strengthening the UN. Five reporters, some Congressional staff members, and a few wives completed the audience of about twenty-five.

Opening the meeting Congressman Kastenmeier briefly outlined the Project—“mainly for the reporters,” who, he felt, might misinterpret a single meeting on foreign policy if they were unaware of the additional discussions that had been planned. Then he suggested that each of the scholars state the gist of their papers, and turned the meeting over to Byron Johnson.

The fact that only the Warburg paper had been available to the audience before the meeting complicated the scholars’ presentation. The Congressmen themselves had just received copies of Dean and Tannenbaum’s papers earlier in the day, and probably most had been too busy to read them. Quincy Wright’s paper had not been reproduced at all—it was likely that only Kastenmeier and Raskin had read it.

Warburg was brief and to the point; Wright spoke leisurely, as if he were addressing a classroom; Dean was sharp and witty; and Tannenbaum spoke haltingly and with passion. Their styles matched their approach: both Warburg and Dean suggested policies in detail, Wright based his analysis on a historical argument that war would result if the world were allowed to “polarize,” and Tannenbaum contrasted the discrepancy between America’s revolutionary impact as an industrial democracy and its conservative influence as a government.

After they had finished, William Meyer re-emphasized Kastenmeier’s remarks. The papers, Meyer said, were only a few of a much larger number which dealt with many other problems, and all the papers were part of a serious attempt by a small group of Congressmen to develop intelligent, liberal legislation with the aid of an independent group of scholars.

Later in the evening, while the reporters kept jostling Warburg as if they and he were panelists on “Meet the Press,” and after Warburg irately listed two major differences between Wright and himself, Frank Kowalski, one of the Congressmen no longer a member of the Project, asked: “How are you going to make all of this clear to the people?” He had been interested in and had enjoyed all of what had been said, but, he insisted, how could it be told to the people? They, after all, did the electing and were the ultimate source of the foreign policy changes that had been described.

Johnson, from Colorado, argued that the people were much readier to listen than Kowalski thought; Warburg urged that the evening’s points be explained to them again and again; and Vera Dean demurred: how to reach the electorate, she was afraid, though she and Warburg were constantly trying, was, finally, the Congressman’s job.

That was the evening. The Liberal Project, which, in both its history and through discussion with its members, had seemed ambivalent—if ambitious—so delineated itself again. What might have seemed to be the beginning of a Fabian movement in America was, in fact, an amorphous group with no hard center, one not yet ready to discuss more than a specific policy. For the group to become a persuasive voice in the determination of policy, its Congressional participants would surely have to be re-elected, decide exactly what the group’s objectives were, and proceed to establish either an extended Congressional base or more serious ties between Congressional members and scholars. The Project would also need some money, and it would need to find some formula for permanence.

But the Project’s existence, tentative or not, is itself a fact of importance, for, unlike student movements or pacifist-sponsored events, it represents something of an in-group revolt among the professionals themselves. The attempt of eleven Democratic Congressmen to reinvigorate American policy by discussing with forty-six intellectuals changes in that policy may, indeed, be one more indication of a resurgent citizenry in America.

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¹ A group of liberal Representatives, formed about eight months ago, who hold meetings—not binding on its attendants—to discuss specific legislation.

² COMMENTARY, June 1960