Focusing on the close connection between Friedrich Nietzsche's historical thought and the discourse of German historicism in the second half of the nineteenth century, this article argues in a thick contextual reading that Nietzsche's second “Untimely Meditation,” Vom Nutzen und Nachtheil der Historie für das Leben (1874), needs to be understood as a reflection on the political dimension of historical consciousness, outlining what I shall term a “critical historicism.” In contrast to the standard emphasis on Nietzsche's presumed aestheticism, he is shown to react to rather specific developments within the contemporary intellectual context, such as the establishment of specific historical foundation myths for a new German nation state, exemplified by the public monuments and commemorations of the 1870s, the effect of such foundation myths on the political imagination of historical scholarship, and the intellectual antagonism between Basel's “antimodernism” and the German nation state.

John Dewey, like many other American intellectuals between the world wars, was fascinated by Soviet events. After visiting Russia in 1928 he wrote excitedly about the “Soviet experiment” and especially about Soviet educational theorists. In his early enthusiasm Dewey hoped that the US and the USSR could learn from each other, especially among the cosmopolitan group of progressive pedagogues he met on his trip. Observing the rise of Stalinism in the 1930s, though, his optimism dissipated; at the same time he came to emphasize historical and cultural differences between the US and the USSR. The result is apparent in Dewey's writings in the late 1930s (especially Freedom and Culture, 1939), as he began to evaluate the Soviet Union in terms that would have been anathema to him a decade earlier. He increasingly blamed Russia's cultural heritage for inhibiting Soviet development along the lines he had envisioned. Dewey's transformation suggests the importance of a cultural reading of American ideas about the USSR. Many American observers joined Dewey in seeing the USSR as the product of Russian culture, with its historical traditions and its own national character—and not just as the instantiation or betrayal of a political doctrine.

People often seem to forget that Rousseau dedicated his Second Discourse to “The Republic of Geneva.” This is a shame because, in doing so, they miss precious clues not only about the meaning of the Discourse itself, but also about its place in Rousseau's political thought as a whole. It is also rather curious, because Rousseau's dedicatory letter to Geneva is actually not so easy to overlook; in the Pléiade edition it takes up more than ten pages of tightly worded text and is thus almost twice as long as Rousseau's more frequently cited “Preface” that follows it. Ignoring the dedication is, of course, part of a larger and more general problem in Rousseau scholarship: the still widespread tendency to read Rousseau out of historical context and with little concern for his intended meaning.

In the Confessions Rousseau provides a very helpful account of the composition of the Discourse on Inequality (as he calls the Second Discourse). This account contains two elements that prefigure the work's reputation among scholars today. First, Rousseau says that, while in his earlier works he had only partially revealed the basis of his thought, the question posed by the Academy of Dijon offered him the occasion to develop his principles, “completely in a work of the greatest importance.” A few pages later he confirms the importance of the Discourse by saying, “Everything that is bold in the Social Contract was previously in the Discourse on Inequality.” A consensus of scholars would, I think, agree that the Discourse is, indeed, a particularly bold work and the first place to look for a rigorous exposition of Rousseau's principles.

In the Troisième Dialogue Rousseau suggests that all his writings pursued a single theme—to the effect, as he puts it, that “Nature made mankind happy and good but…. society depraves and renders it miserable.” Emile, in particular, he adds, “is nothing but a treatise on the original goodness of mankind.” He no doubt conceived Emile in that vein, since the opening line of its first book heralds precisely the claim that in the Dialogues he would declare to be his works' chief contention: “Everything is good when it springs from the hands of our Creator; everything degenerates when shaped by the hands of man.” Yet if on his own testimony we accept that this was the guiding thread of his philosophy as a whole, it is difficult to escape the conclusion that the text which most fully elaborates Rousseau's central principle, and which on account of the attention he there devotes to it lies at the nexus of his whole career, is the Discours sur l'inégalité.

The action of the soul on the body is the abyss of philosophy in the constitution of man, just as the action of the general will on the public force is the abyss of politics in the constitution of the State.

Is there any work by a modern author that inspires the range of comparisons that Rousseau's Second Discourse does? Looking backward, the quartet of scholars writing above—leading figures of anglophone scholarship on Rousseau—finds echoes of the book of Genesis, the Histories of Tacitus, Ovid's Metamorphoses, and Pelagius. Others have been reminded of Lucretius and more than one of Plato's dialogues. Looking forward, the names of Hegel, Marx, and Heidegger are cited here; comparisons with The Genealogy of Morals and Civilization and Its Discontents spring as easily to mind. If the Second Discourse thus serves as a kind of intense philosophical echo-chamber, this no doubt has something to do with its author's singular position in modern intellectual history, standing not just at the crossroads of the Enlightenment and Romanticism, but at that of antiquity and modernity themselves. It also owes much to the sheer internal complication of the text, whose relatively few pages feature a bewildering variety of moving parts: the extended Dedication to Rousseau's native city of Geneva; the Preface, with its preliminary presentation of Rousseau's philosophical anthropology; the prize question that inspired the Second Discourse: “What is the origin of inequality among men, and whether it is authorized by natural law”; the Exordium, announcing Rousseau's scandalous intention to “set aside the facts”; the analysis of the “state of nature” in Part One, with its excoriating attack on previous natural-law thinkers; the account, in Part Two, of the various “revolutions” that gradually established and deepened social inequality, before sealing it with political tyranny; and last, but certainly not least, Rousseau's trenchant endnotes, conjuring up a fabulous range of philosophical, cultural, and scientific reference, as essential to the Second Discourse as Gibbon's footnotes are to his History.

“Occult,” a 1902 international encyclopedia of religion tells us, is derived “from Latin occultus—Hidden,” and is applied to the assumption that insight into and control over nature is to be obtained by mysterious or magical procedures and by long apprenticeship in secret lore. The physical science of the middle ages, alchemy and astrology, and in modern times spiritualism, theosophy, and palmistry contain various factors of occult lore. Such doctrines, known as occultism, fall outside the realm of modern science. See MAGIC.

In the last fifteen years or so, Chinese intellectuals have been heatedly debating the complex relationships between China's prospects, China's past, and the modern predicament. In this context Wang Hui has emerged as one of China's most challenging and controversial intellectuals. His work is controversial. At a time when intellectuals take modernization as a goal, Wang has consistently voiced reservations. Readers find his works challenging because, instead of criticizing modernity or capitalism from simple moral tenets, Wang has always sought to redefine the terms of the debate through detailed and sensitive historical analysis. Hence amidst his busy life as editor, professor, and polemicist, Wang has devoted more than ten years to writing his magisterial four volume book The Rise of Modern Chinese Thought (Zhongguo sixiang de xingqi), in which he fundamentally rethinks the relationship between modernity and Chinese thought. However, Wang's book is not just an immense contribution to historical and historiographical scholarship; his work is a self-consciously political intervention. Specifically, he highlights the role of intellectual history as critique and attempts to recover repressed elements of the past in order to question the structures that govern the present. In the last line of the conclusion to his book he writes, “the history that modernity loftily and even proudly rejects contains the inspiration and possibilities for overcoming its crisis.” Taking China as his focus, Wang attempts to write this history.

John Edward Toews, Becoming Historical: Cultural Reformation and Public Memory in Early Nineteenth-Century Berlin. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004. pp. xxiv + 466.

George S. Williamson, The Longing for Myth in Germany: Religion and Aesthetic Culture from Romanticism to Nietzsche. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004. pp. xiv + 428.

Peter Fritzsche, Stranded in the Present: Modern Time and the Melancholy of History. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2004. pp. 268.

Each generation chooses its own objects of historical inquiry. Over the past decade or two, many historians have moved away from perennial topics in social and political history, turning their gaze on more ethereal questions in the realm of “memory studies.” The three splendid books under review here examine elusive phenomena in nineteenth-century Europe: the transformation of historical consciousness, the invention of national myths, and the emergence of nostalgia as a prominent element of European culture after the French Revolution and the Napoleonic age. Taken together, these works vividly illustrate both the value and the challenges of scholarship on the modern historical imagination.

Susan M. Ryan, The Grammar of Good Intentions: Race and the Antebellum Culture of Benevolence, Cornell University Press, 2003

Gregg D. Crane, Race, Citizenship, and Law in American Literature, Cambridge University Press, 2002

Moral sympathy does not necessarily imply condescension. Try to do something about sympathy, cross the line to benevolence, try to improve someone else's lot in life, and that can too easily change. Reform can become coercion and intolerance. The needy can come to seem permanently debased. They can also trick or manipulate the benevolent. These ambiguities pose severe problems for anyone who wants to imagine a democratic politics based on morality. Does neediness make the needy incapable of self-reliance and citizenship? Does benevolence corrupt the giver? Who gets to decide what laws are moral? According to literary scholars Mary Ryan and Gregg Crane, antebellum American literature perceived these problems and in many cases quite self-consciously tried to resolve them.

Kathleen G. Donohue, Freedom from Want: American Liberalism and the Idea of the Consumer (Johns Hopkins University Press, 2003)

Jonathan M. Hansen, The Lost Promise of Patriotism: Debating American Identity, 1890–1920 (University of Chicago Press, 2003)

Daniel Horowitz, The Anxieties of Affluence: Critiques of American Consumer Culture, 1939–1979 (University of Massachusetts Press, 2004)

To recapture the ideal vision that many late nineteenth-century American thinkers held for their society one can do no better than Edward Bellamy's utopian novel, Looking Backward, 1887–2000 (1888). In it Bellamy transports his young protagonist, Julian West, from the Boston of his day to a far more appealing version of the same city imagined as it was about to enter the twenty-first century. Julian finds a consumers' paradise, where each citizen receives a credit card to use in selecting from a virtually limitless variety of goods available for sale at local distribution centers. With everyone receiving a per capita share of the burgeoning national output, the entire society has now become securely middle class. Indeed, there is so much wealth that citizens are actively encouraged to spend rather than save. “The nation is rich,” we are told, “and does not wish the people to deprive themselves of any good thing.” Labor unions, strikes, and class conflict have all become a distant memory. Along with the working class, the unsightly factories that once dominated so much of the urban landscape have essentially vanished. A cornucopia of goods miraculously appears, with the apparatus required for manufacturing them entirely out of sight. Given this happy state of affairs, all citizens exhibit a strong degree of patriotism. Dissent and disloyalty have become unknown, since there is no longer any need for them.