Democracy and revolution are dominant, recurring themes in the politics of the past two centuries. They work variously in combination and tension, with other major themes: autocracy and privilege, empire and dependency, capitalism and socialism, white man and colored man. We need to understand these matters better; we shall be dealing with them all our lives.
At the threshold stands a major obstacle to understanding. It is a fighting counterrevolutionary doctrine, a product of the French revolutionary struggle, and not devoid of insight. But it masquerades as a reasoned philosophical analysis of the nature of society, government, and recent history. We have to remove the masks, so that we can profit from the perceptions of bitter partisans, without giving their slogans undue weight.
In the first part of this essay I discussed the reasoned, comprehensive analysis of the revolutionary age 1760—1800 by Professor R. R. Palmer and also the penetrating study of its most contemned element, the revolutionary crowd in France, by Mr. George Rudé. I also suggested a re-examination of the reputation of the greatest spokesman of the counterrevolutionary tradition, Edmund Burke, and attempted a denial of his claim to be considered a serious philosopher, a revealing historian, or a considerable statesman.
I propose now to examine briefly recent publications on three revolutions—in America, Europe, and Asia—before turning to more analytical comments on several problems of democracy and revolution in our time.
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The American Revolution
The movement of the American colonies toward independence, in the years 1760 to 1776, reveals a profound, unacknowledged estrangement from much that Britain was or was taken to be. Gilded pronouncements of affection and allegiance predominate down through 1774. The crown is sacred, particularly when worn by such a patriot king. Parliament is the noblest creation of British genius. The residents of the American colonies look to the people of Britain as their dear relatives. Theirs is indeed a fostering mother country. But all this is on the level of high sentence—high and empty. On the practical level, the colonies will pay nothing for their great love. They will concede nothing. They are determined to be equal, and, if necessary, they will be separate.
In the 1760’s, after the great British-French war for empire, the colonies were called upon only to provide part of the cost of their own defense. Grenville asks the colonial agents, headed by Franklin, repeatedly, “Can you gentlemen . . . name any mode of raising money for public service that the people would have less objection to . . .?” There is no affirmative response. The colonies find every mode inappropriate, illegal, unconstitutional, unnatural—in the end, dastardly. First it is improper to tax them internally, then also externally; later it is wrong to control their trade; finally they will not bear any legislation by Parliament at all. For a time, they play with the idea of allegiance to the king alone, but there is effectively no king in England who does not act, in great matters, with Parliament. Allegiance to king alone is only a pretense and a short-lived one. When they come to a Declaration of Independence, they will attribute the worst evils to the king in person—though, for many of the best informed, only as a slogan, only half believing. They are estranged, they are going apart; they must first quarrel and call names. The usually judicious Franklin will now, in 1775, deprecate any idea of coupling together Britain dead and America living, and he writes: “. . . when I consider the extream corruption prevalent among all orders of men in this old rotten State, and the glorious publick virtue so predominant in our rising country, I cannot but apprehend more mischief than benefit from a closer union.” Better equal and separate.
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The separation may have been wise, but it does not involve us in accepting the slogans under which it was accomplished. The men of the 18th century could not perhaps bear the simplicity of their estrangement, their desire to govern themselves. We can bear it. It does not therefore beseem us, in 1958, to quote the statement that “A great empire and little minds go ill together” and to suggest, as Commager and Morris do,1 that the little minds were all on one side of the water. If it was wise to preserve a political union of the British and American peoples, then little minds ruled on both sides. The British government thought predominantly in terms of subordination and a lesson to be taught unruly subjects. But the American colonial leadership also gave itself little serious concern, in the years after 1760, to provide a revenue base and a working system for cooperation with Britain. The American leadership did not will the means of union with Britain, just as our Southern states did not will the means to make an end of Negro slavery a century later. They did not bother their heads. They would have their own way, on their own terms.
A slight tendency to overvalue American patriotic legend is the one defect I find in the two volumes of selections on the American Revolution edited by Commager and Morris. It is not only their dust jacket that is red, white, and blue. Professor Commager has sinned gravely elsewhere by idolatrous worship on the altar of the American past. In 1951 he declared2 his conviction “. . . that most of the problems that confront Americans today . . . are really old and familiar, and that Americans need not look abroad for solutions, or fabricate new ones, but that they can turn, with confidence, to their own historical past.” This is a kind of silliness which we have unfortunately grown used to indulging in historians. But it does not seriously disfigure the work on the American Revolution. For the most part, Commager and Morris are just, searching, and informative. Their introductory sections do not have the smooth continuity of conventional historical narrative, but perhaps so much the better, so much the more truthful. They know that there was a revolution, and they know it was accompanied by civil war, lynching, extensive confiscation of property, and the emigration of those most loyal to the old cause. They do not indulge the idea that a Washington, a Livingston, or a Gouverneur Morris, being wealthy gentlemen, could not approve the rancorous pursuit of their enemies. On the contrary, they describe clearly how each side in this civil war “met bitterness with bitterness and savagery with savagery.” Our literature does not contain a weighty, comprehensive narrative history of the American Revolution. If I were limited to two volumes, I would take these.
Commager and Morris see the American Revolution also as rich in political ideas and in precedents relevant far beyond the United States. What was then done of such weight and novelty? The Americans set the example of a colony breaking away from a mother country. They called constitutional conventions, constituted states, congresses, a confederation and a federation of United States. They acted as if men could create institutions, and as if reason were related to the process. More, they acted on the principle that the right and obligation to shape and reshape governments belongs to those who are on earth and that the living are not wisely ruled by the dead. They disestablished churches, and they established constitutions that claimed no Providential sanction. They moved in the direction of universal suffrage and legislated to safeguard individual civil liberties. They were concerned with the need for popular education. They proclaimed human equality and accepted Negro slavery. They enunciated principles and made compromises; they solved some problems, for their time, and knowingly left others for an uncertain future.
Some Americans of the 20th century have been concerned to deny that there ever was an American Revolution. Others have suggested that the men of ’76 had no political ideas worth mentioning—or only ideas to be found already in St. Thomas Aquinas and Cicero. In great part, this denial of reality or novelty to the American Revolution reflects the mere vulgar search for conventional respectability. Revolutionaries are violent, blood-stained, disorderly people, but our ancestry is of the purest strain of Christendom or (what is equally respectable) Western civilization. But there are more subtle grounds of denial. One is the dominance of crude Marxian imagery, even among political conservatives. The American Revolution was neither the revolt of the bourgeoisie against feudalism nor the revolt of the proletariat against bourgeois society; therefore it was no revolution at all. Related to such imaginative inadequacy, is the inability to perceive that the issues of the American Revolution were once real issues, worth fighting about. Colony and mother country; convention, congress, and constitution; established church and religious freedom; civil rights and popular suffrage—are not all these symbols for children? They are not American issues now; could they ever have been issues calling for a revolution?
But the deepest source of denial is perhaps a sense of insufficiency. There was a time when the ideas of their revolution were proclaimed, by some Americans, as providing answers to all political questions, for all societies, at all times. Only the most stupid would advance such a claim today. The three great political questions of our time center around world peace, underdeveloped societies, and socialism. In part, these are merely 20th-century facets of permanent social problems. But to permanent social problems, it is possible to give only general answers, not sufficiently particular to determine specific choices and actions. To those particular aspects of these permanent problems that are distinctively and urgently of our time, and which require specific answers, the men of ’76 do not speak at all—or speak like those unmeaning oracles that provide an answer only to the suppliant who already has one. We, the Americans of the 20th century, have made only a limited contribution to fundamental thinking about these, our own political problems. Where the sons are so unproductive, what could be more comforting than to deny originality, genuine novelty, and creative power to the fathers also? Only total denial of the reality of all human creativity. Where everything is null, our own unproductivity cannot be a reproach.
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Overthrow of a Democracy: Czechoslovakia
Communism seized power in Czechoslovakia easily. It did not take over a shattered society. Czechoslovakia suffered relatively little material damage in war, resistance, or revolution. When the Communist take-over was accomplished, in 1948, the country was prospering. All Europe wanted its industrial exports. Its farmers had received the spoil of expelled Germans. Russian troops had been withdrawn in 1945. The leaderships of the various democratic parties were confident that, taken together, they had the support of a majority of the voters. Beneš reigned in dignity in the presidential palace and made speeches, in private, testifying to the firmness with which he would resist the Communists. But, in the end, Beneš signed whatever Gottwald insisted upon: it was only necessary for Gottwald to take the trouble to repeat the same demands day after day. There was a show of force but no fighting. The Communists merely arrested their democratic opposition. Most resistance promptly subsided into muttering. Everything was legal. Masaryk even joined the government that carried out the putsch. Prominent and convinced democrats who could evade arrest and expected no mercy fled abroad.
Professor Josef Korbel gives3 a better connected account of this Communist victory than has previously been assembled in one place. As a former senior Czechoslovak diplomat and a careful student of documents, he is well situated to know what happened. He describes the course of events clearly and with few immediately apparent gaps—except one. That one is the motivation of those 1,354,601 persons (more than 10 per cent of the whole population of the country) who, according to the figures Korbel cites, had joined the Czechoslovak Communist party by February 1948. And when we reflect on this gap, we begin to feel that perhaps Professor Korbel has left out something more. And on further reflection we are driven, however reluctantly, to the conclusion that, while he has told us a great deal, and we have read with interest, he has really not helped us to understand what it all means. He has not even tried to explain what it was about democracy and Communism in Czechoslovakia that gave the latter so easy a victory over the former.
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At bottom, Professor Korbel, though he is a sensible man, explains the Czechoslovak revolution by demonry. Only now it is the Communists of 1948 who are the demons, not the Jacobins of 1793. And against demons, mere honorable men apparently cannot stand. In the years to 1948, Korbel says, “. . .I had shared their belief that one might cooperate with Czech Communists.” But in retrospect he now sees that the establishment of Communism in Czechoslovakia “. . . is a story of deliberate intent, of unscrupulous design, in which no falsehood was too great, no betrayal too vicious, no treachery too infamous, no deceit too contemptuous. . . .” The rhetoric of condemnation flows exuberantly to a climax in the discovery that “. . . the total perfidy of the Communist mind no civilized man is able to comprehend, no man of good will is able to believe.” We are back with Lucifer again, but he wears a deeper disguise; unlike the traditional Devil, no one is able to believe in him!
The Czechoslovak democrats were not fighters. They had the worldly good sense not to fight in September 1938, and they were the same people—with an older, more exhausted wisdom—in February 1948. Fighting and the planning of fighting was either for professional soldiers or for vulgarians, hooligans. Had the Israeli leadership of the 1940’s shared the mentality of Czechoslovak democracy, mere never would have been a State of Israel. In the years 1945—48, the Czechoslovak democrats, as reasonable men, took into account the likelihood that Russia would help the Czech Communists, but the West would not help them. In March 1948, a month after the Czech collapse, Stalin began to threaten Tito with total annihilation, but Tito was prepared to risk everything. The Czech democrats operated with more caution and less success. As was said long ago in another context, “The Lord will only keep those who are resolved to stake their strength to the uttermost and to concentrate their will.” And He may not keep even them.
The Czechoslovak democratic leaders were also not organizers. In Moscow, before returning home, the leaders of the democratic parties yielded to the Communists and their fellow-travelers the tasks of administering the Czechoslovak police, army, education, information, industry, agriculture, and social welfare. The Communists themselves moved into local governments and the trade unions, and they also used their administration of land reform and German expulsion to build a strong following among the peasants. The Social Democrats retained preeminence in the trade unions, but when, in the crisis of February 1948, the Social Democratic leadership was defeated by its own fellow travelers, the democratic parties were left with no point of strength in any organized body. The appeal of the Czechoslovak democratic parties was to the decent individual, the isolated voter, the person with too much good sense to concentrate attention on politics.
In the years 1945—48, Czechoslovak Communism recruited hundreds of thousands of militant members. They were organized and led by assiduous—if devious—professionals. Communism mattered to them very much. If a Communist society were the end and goal toward which all reality labors, it was also something they could help bring about through individual daily effort. There is no evidence that democracy was important, in a comparable way, to any considerable number of people. For that matter, there is no evidence that democracy, as distinguished from nationalism, was important in that way to President Eduard Beneš. He seems to have been more profoundly convinced that “. . . the State must be administered and led.” The Communists called him “a democrat-formalist”; there is no reason to say that the name is unjust or that it would be unfair in a wider application. The Communists said also that Beneš was “neither salty, nor greasy,” and they prophesied that all such would come to a miserable end. An older book says it differently: “I know thy works, that thou art neither cold nor hot: I would thou wert cold or hot. So then because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spue thee out of my mouth.”
Would not our American democracy of 1960 be rejected by the same test?
Karl Marx erred in forecasting the increasing proletarianization of the more industrialized societies of Europe and America. The concept of increasing proletarianization may, however, be given two aspects. On the one hand, the economic fact of deprivation of any significant stake in property, so that the proletarian has nothing to give the state but his children. On the other hand, the socio-psychological fact of the alienation of the proletarian from the state, so that he feels that he has no stake or interest in it. For some years now, it has been fashionable among European and American publicists to describe Communism as a doctrine for the underdeveloped economies of Asia and Africa. In such economies, it is said, particularly in the aftermath of war and famine, there may be masses of urban and rural proletarians, economically deprived and alien in feeling. But our Western advanced economies are safe from all this.
To such confidence of safety, the example of Czechoslovakia might come as a solvent, if the example were taken to heart and not comfortingly explained away. Czechoslovakia was the most successful, functioning industrialized economy in Central Europe when it was taken over by Communism, without serious resistance. And when we ponder the example of Czechoslovakia, without being taken in by Marxism materialism, our thinking inevitably falls next upon the working classes of France and Italy. In the past fifteen years, both countries have accomplished considerable economic progress. In mere economic measures, their working classes may not qualify as proletarian. But their alienation of sympathy from the states in which they live has been substantially constant in the years since World War II. Communism has maintained its hold over the majority of these French and Italian workers.
Let us not foreshorten the future and deprive it of all disturbing novelty. No, we have no ground for confidence that Communism is a doctrine that can win its way to power only in underdeveloped economies.
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A Frustrated Colonial Revolution: Indonesia
Mr. Louis Fischer shared a banana with President Sukarno, and Sukarno called him “Louis”Sukarno also called him a fighter.4 Fischer is against Dutch colonialism. That takes as much courage, in this context, as being against Nasser in Tel Aviv. Fischer is in favor of birth control. Any visiting foreigner may favor that in Indonesia; it goes with open house to foreign social workers. Fischer is also in favor of a federal senate for Indonesia. That view is acceptable, too, from a foreigner. It may even be regarded as an amiable idiosyncrasy. As there is today effectively no Indonesian parliament, why should it not have a second house?
Mr. Fischer expresses himself also, in part and for a time, against the State Department. He finds the Department too indulgent of the 1958 Padang (Sumatra) revolt against the Sukarno government and not sufficiently quick and abundant in its aid to Sukarno. Fischer expresses a judgment too against such foreign aid as contributes to the “political power of a clique” and against aiding “ruling oligarchs by propping them up with arms and dollars.” This is after he has looked around Indonesia for several weeks and has met and observed both President Sukarno and Chief of Staff, Major General Nasution. But he does not tie together the judgment regarding oligarchs and the observations in Indonesia. Can it be that Fischer is incapable of recognizing an oligarch, modern style? In any case, we must not expect the State Department to be influenced by such a level of criticism. The Department has modest professionals in Far Eastern affairs who know far more about Indonesia than does Mr. Fischer.
His first ten chapters tell the history of Indonesia through 1945. They are best skipped. Mr. Fischer’s contribution lies in a faithful journalist’s account of things seen and of conversations held with Indonesian political figures. On history, the student of Indonesian matters will find nothing new, and the general reader will do better in a textbook.5 Fischer’s narrative of the years 1945—49 is worth reading, the earlier chapters not.
Mr. Fischer went early in his journey to Bali, and, for him, it is an “Isle of the Gods,” a shockingly unperceptive tourist’s Bali. He has seen the temple but not the witch play, and he has not understood either the dancer or the woodcarver. He has completely missed the Balinese emotional starvation that goes far deeper than an occasional empty stomach. Even a reporter with sharp eyes cannot be expected to understand everything in a few days. But Mr. Fischer’s long bibliography gives us eight titles on Raffles, a book of voyages dated 1700, a volume on Dutch alliances dated 1712, and even a book of The Voyages of Christopher Columbus—who spent his search in quite other Indies. Mr. Fischer, and his readers, would have fared better if he had left these titles in the library catalogue and read instead the distinguished 1942 volume by Bateson and Mead on Balinese Character. These careful students of Bali would have helped him to see the horrible frustration in traditional Balinese culture, the somber meaning in what is otherwise gilded appearance, and they might have deepened his search for other not immediately apparent meanings in Indonesian character and public life.
Fischer writes a chapter entitled “Land Without Tension,” in which he repeats the usual views regarding the well-known Indonesian tradition of consensus, compromise, and avoidance of straightforward dissent. He finds the root of these practices in personal consideration, which he summarizes in the maxims “Always give joy first” and “Circumlocution is the best policy.” But the Indonesian tradition of individual circumlocution and group-determined consensus is found also in primitive Bali, in a culture as remote as any ever observed from the ideas of personal consideration and personal thoughtfulness. Even in contemportry Jakarta, Indonesian circumlocution reflects something more than tolerance and a desire to “give joy first”; it reflects also the denial of individuality, where the inner core of moral self-assertion is weak, where social pressure is all-surrounding, and where there is universal fear of eventful reprisals from those who wield power.
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Where dissent is unclear, assent is also of doubtful reliance. In a relatively static community, the achievement of a working consensus by elaborate indirection (and even its enunciation, as in Bali, by a medium in trance) may minimize tensions. But it is doubtful whether circumlocution and evasion are techniques of thought and discourse that can yield useful results in a community subject to novel, cumulative change. Then to “speak Javanese” is to avoid issues, to build up individual and social tensions, and to afford them no resolution. If such observations may be permitted a friend who is not a countryman, the deep revolution which Indonesia needs is perhaps, first, one in modes of thought and, second, one in modes of discourse. The mind and hand of man could, no doubt, build a creative society in contemporary Indonesia. The Indonesian hand does not lack sensitivity and adaptability to the acquisition of skills. But the mind must first effort-fully, painfully remake the foundations and workings of the mind and then learn to speak what it has thought. Directness and the discipline of the issue are sadly lacking, and these can be acquired at no sacrifice of true personal consideration. Such change is what is hardest. Repetitious commonplace and pallid courtesy will not help.
Independent Indonesia has failed to achieve economic growth. Independence was recognized in December 1949. By 1957, economic reconstruction may have come near to compensating for the retrogression that occurred during World War II and in the subsequent fighting for Indonesian independence. But economic development had taken no significant step forward by 1957, and it has since then fallen back. Even in 1957 food supplies were more pinched than they were in 1938—40. Indonesia’s exports had declined. If we eliminate plants directed and managed by foreign interests, Indonesian manufacturing industry was on a most elementary level. It may be doubted whether there was more modern manufacturing, managed by Indonesians, among all the ninety million people in Indonesia in 1959 than there was in the one city of Paris in 1789. The Paris of 1789 certainly had more skilled industrial labor and experienced management. Indonesian agriculture is also of shockingly low productivity. Despite favorable natural conditions and the lavish application of labor, Indonesian yields per acre of rice and corn (the two preferred staple foods) are barely a third of the yields achieved in good modern cultivation. Due to this agricultural backwardness, the country has now become a chronic food importer.
In mid-1957, President Sukarno installed a government of experts, subject to his close personal control. Under the administration of these non-party experts, the cost of living is acknowledged to have doubled in two years. Late in 1957, Indonesia failed to get its own way in the United Nations on the trivial question of western New Guinea. At the same time, an attempt was made to assassinate Sukarno. His response to foreign and domestic opposition was to direct popular attention toward seizing all Dutch property in Indonesia. The remaining Dutch residents were hastily expelled. (With the Dutch gone, some three million Chinese became the next target.) The economy has continued to go from bad to worse. The Sukarno government has been widely criticized for this economic failure. Sukarno’s response has been to emphasize the uniqueness of Indonesian circumstances and values. Criticism regarding a price level that rises 5 per cent a month, Sukarno has said recently, reflects ideas developed in Holland thirty years ago. Such an extraneous standard, he has said, “does not measure Indonesian air.” Dr. Johnson said that patriotism was the last refuge of a scoundrel. We have made progress. The last refuge now is an appreciation of national and cultural uniqueness.
Sukarno is described by Mr. Fischer as a great lover, who loves and wishes to be loved. Foreign residents of Indonesia tend to describe him as a great playboy, who loves official cars, motorcycle escorts, and uniforms. Mohammed Hatta describes him (without using the ugly word) as a demagogue, who will always rouse the crowd to some irrelevant nationalist demonstration. Perhaps there is no inconsistency in these three descriptions. They all point to a figure who (once formal national independence was achieved) had no political objectives that would interfere with the primary objective of occupying the highest seat of public eminence.
In contrast, development-minded Indonesian democrats could not find their way to power after the first revolutionary period. Sjahrir, the first prime minister, and perhaps intellectually the most attractive of Indonesian political figures, has been the leading light in a kind of unorganized Fabian Society. Attractive to intellectuals, civil servants, and some army officers, he nevertheless built no mass organization. Sumitro, Indonesia’s outstanding professor of economics and a socialist finance minister, joined the Padang rebels. Hatta has preserved a reputation as an economist and administrator, which impresses Mr. Fischer as it does other journalists, not by any demonstrated competence as an economic administrator. What Hatta has demonstrated, in common with other development-minded Indonesian democrats, is that he is not a successful man of action. Perhaps the contemporary intellectual has characteristics of mind and taste that unsuit him for leadership in a society that is not totalitarian but has a level of education very remote from his and an outlook he does not share. The non-intellectual Sukarno is the success figure in individual leadership in Indonesia, as the Communists are in building mass organizations.
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In Indonesia today, power is concentrated primarily in the civil and military officers of government. The reach of power is not totalitarian; the requisite organization is lacking. The Indonesian “power elite” is small. Mr. Herbert Feith estimates it at five hundred persons. These include civil servants, army officers, businessmen, professors, and a few other people of importance, most of whom live in Jakarta. The power elite is subject to unorganized influence first by a circle of the better educated, which may be taken as constituted roughly by about 800,000 buyers of daily newspapers and their families. It is also subject to organized influence from trade unions, religious bodies, and other special interest groups. Practically all of the elite accepts a vague patina of “socialist” ideas, combined with emphasis on the importance of Indonesia’s cultural tradition and nationhood. This elite prefers to run its own national show, with such aid as it can get abroad, indifferently from Communists or anti-Communists. It is not much interested in regional decentralization. (Despite Mr. Fischer, the Padang rebels were as nationally-minded as Sukarno or Hatta. They wished to rule in Jakarta, not Padang. They took the route to power they thought open.) Domestically, the Indonesian elite has popular sympathies. It would like to educate the masses. It would like to achieve economic growth, to make both classes and masses better off. But it does not know how to set its hand to practical development work, and it desires quick results.
The physical resource base of Indonesia, both for agriculture and industry, is superior to that of Japan. A competent agriculture could double and triple yields, while releasing labor for industry. Nowhere between the Persian Gulf and California is there an equal resource base for a great petro-chemical industry. The social climate of Indonesia is perhaps not so favorable for economic growth as the social organization of Japan was a century ago, but, on the other side, the world has made a great deal of technical progress in that century, and technique is available to any newcomer who has the determination to take it. It would, on balance, perhaps not be unreasonable to set for Indonesia the target of matching the present Japanese standard of living in something less than a century. But that is a target which would call for great initiative, creative economic organizing capacity, social discipline, and some abstinence, if not sacrifice.
The Indonesian Republic has now gotten rid of the skills and experience of its former Dutch residents. It is hemming in its Chinese businessmen. Financial instability and disrespect for foreign property rights have frightened off new European and American capital outside the oil business. Private Indonesian businessmen do not have the capital, the experience, or the disposition to create major new industries. Indonesian economic development, therefore, depends on the state. Politics comes before economics. The Republic has moved away from a libertarian society, without developing any effective method of fostering economic growth.
We have to ask ourselves: how much of this Indonesian development reflects recurrent trends in the colonial revolutions of our time? Are such trends avoidable? By our initiative or by the initiative primarily of the former colonial peoples themselves? What it is then we should try to do to assist them, and what measure of success can we reasonably expect?
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1 H. S. Commager and Richard B. Morris (editors), The Spirit of 'Seventy-Six. The Story of the American Revolution as Told by Participants. Bobbs-Merrill, 1958, 2 vols., 1348 pp., $15.00.
2 Living Ideas in America, p. XVII.
3 The Communist Subversion of Czechoslovakia, Princeton, 1959, 258 pp., $5.00.
4 The Story of Indonesia, Harper, 341 pp., $5.00.
5 For example, the sections on Indonesia by Mr. Herbert Feith in Governments and Polities of Southeast Asia, Cornell, 1959.