In the late 1880's new sounds reverberated throughout the Catholic Church in America. Rapid urban growth and the rising tides of immigration required new perspectives on religion in the social order: science and historical criticism involved philosophy and theology, and rumblings of internal as well as external controversy were heard in the Church. The layman was achieving status in business and politics and, as he became more vocal on civic and cultural issues, he played a larger role in representing Catholicism before the American people. Self-critical voices sounded forth in the Catholic press, and churchmen were calling upon the laity. When the conjunction of several major centennial celebrations occurred in 1889, laymen leaped into the breach and started a trend in Catholic thought and action that has much to say to our generation, especially in the light of the Second Vatican Council.

Relatively little has been added in the past two or three years to the discussion of Catholic intellectual life in the United States which reached a climax following the publication of Msgr. John Tracy Ellis's essay on the subject in 1955. No doubt one reason is that the subject appeared to be very nearly exhausted—or at least the reader of Catholic journals was faced with exhaustion if he tried to keep abreast of the discussion. A volume of readings entitled American Catholicism and the Intellectual Ideal contains excerpts from forty-six books and articles published in the years 1955–1958 alone. Interest flagged somewhat in the early 1960's, but two recent developments may serve to quicken it: one is the publication of Richard Hofstadter's general study, Anti-intellectualism in American Life, which includes a brief treatment of the Catholic aspects of anti-intellectualism; the other is the publication by Reverend Andrew M. Greeley of the results of a survey of the academic experience and career plans of 35,000 college graduates of the class of 1961.

How the Soviet citizen views the world, and how he will view it five or ten years from now, is a crucial question. It may determine whether we, and all people, can live in relative peace on this planet, or whether mankind will end up making our globe more or less uninhabitable. The new weapons which science and technology have provided make it all the more urgent to understand the thoughts and purposes of a people and its leaders who wield such great power.

Throughout Latin America the Catholic Church has embarked upon a process of modernization. The key element in modernization has been the assumption of an active role in the quest for economic betterment of the conditions in which a majority of the population lives. Realizing that a modern nation is an integrated nation, the Church seems to have adopted as its motto: A Modem Church in a Modern Nation. Consequently, it has begun to help Latin American republics become nations through the integration of previously excluded groups into society.

Modern Totalitarianism has often been grouped with various forms of authoritarianism in a genus characterized by excessive discipline. Is it not true, though, that the typical totalitarian motivation of our times can be described as revolutionary rather than authoritarian? Is it not a spirit that sees in revolution a vocation, an end in itself, a way of life? A faith in the creativeness of total destruction can be found in Bakunin, Goebbels, and Lenin. Their will to revolution stems not from an identification with the grievances of a suffering class, but from an ideological rejection of everything that exists.

There are two principal elements in Christian faith which underwrite and require the attention of Christian ethics to problems of foreign policy. First, the Christian is convinced that God is sovereign over all the world and therefore over all the areas of the common life—not the least of which is political society. On these terms no political engagement is ever a mere power struggle and no Christian in politics is ever merely or even primarily political man, for the engagement is understood through faith to be a locus of divine activity and the politically-involved Christian is above all a man seeking to make his action correspond faithfully to the action of God. Divine sovereignty imposes a qualification on political sovereignty and thereby requires the recognition of limits to the exercise of political power and to the exaltation of national existence. But it also strengthens legitimate political authority by means of the explicit declaration that the powers that be are ordained of God. Second, the vocation of the Christian in the world is to serve the neighbor in love.

On Marx's characteristic — although not wholly consistent—view, an ideology is a false theory (or, in his own words, a form of “false consciousness”) of a special kind, namely, one that serves to mask or “rationalize” the unpleasant realities of a given socioeconomic system. Lenin drastically expanded the sense of the term, making ideology equivalent to theory, whether rational or “rationalizing,” and to knowledge, whether adequate or inadequate. Leninists regard all knowledge as “superstructurally” determined by socioeconomic relationships, and thus, in “class society,” partisan to the interests of a given class.

Those not well acquainted with Karl Marx often believe that the founder of “scientific Communism” was a militant atheist who considered the extermination of religion and, in particular, of Christianity one of his major tasks. This belief is, to say the least, inexact.

The close relation between language and politics was noted by George Orwell many years ago. Undoubtedly, no other political phenomenon brings this relationship more sharply into focus than that of nationalism.

“In our time, the national community has assumed paramount power,” notes Frederick Hertz. Along with this development, “the national language has become one of the idols of a new religion. All nations regard it as a symbol of their independence and honour, as the supreme expression of their personality, and they esteem its exclusive domination within their national territory more highly than obvious spiritual and material advantages.” Indeed, language has been widely (though in some cases erroneously) accepted as one of the prime indicators of national identity.

The First World War is sometimes credited with the dissolution of the well-ordered universe of the nineteenth century. In fact, by 1914 there was very little left to destroy, for most of the essential work had already been accomplished. The aftermath of the war merely helped to make the collapse of order and stability more visible. But the post-1918 atmosphere of gloom, later crystallized in the “Lost Generation” and in the escapist movements of the twenties, gave the impression that the war had been responsible for the moral and intellectual Zusammenbruch of the period. The feeling of decay was everywhere; the old values, the former certainties and criteria had vanished, leaving an impression of emptiness behind. The old order had crumbled, without dignity, “not with a bang but with a whimper,” as T. S. Eliot put it.

Settlement workers during the Progressive era were probably more committed to political action than any other group of welfare workers before or since. Charity organization workers also cooperated on occasion in political reform projects, but Robert Hunter, the itinerant radical, settlement worker, and charity expert was probably right in 1902, even if he exaggerated, when he decided that the settlement worker and the charity worker had basically different temperaments. The charity worker was hesitant to get involved with reform, Hunter decided; he had a philosophy of “don't, don't” and was constantly troubled by the fear that his relief would destroy independence. The settlement worker, on the other hand, was more often the victim of unbounded enthusiasm than of moral questioning. “He is constantly doing, urging; he is constantly pressing forward, occasionally tilting at wind mills, at times making mistakes, often perhaps doing injury, but filled with enthusiasm, warmth and purpose, without much question”.

The political thought of Fyodor Dostoevsky grows out of his opposition to nihilism, atheistic humanism, and socialism in much the same way as the philosophy of Plato grew out of his opposition to the sophists. Indeed, the parallel of Dostoevsky's thought with that of Plato is to be seen in some further aspects of this fundamental opposition. Both the Russian master of the novel and the Hellenic founder of political science confronted adversaries for whom “Man is the measure of all things” and each based his opposition on the principle “God is the Measure,” to use Plato's formulation. This declaration, echoing like a thunderclap across more than twenty centuries of history, found consummate expression in the last great work of each writer: the Laws and The Brothers Karamazov.

A Few years ago an editor was beaten in Uganda for using the “wrong” forms of the Luganda tongue, which somewhat earlier had been “standardized.” This incident reflects the emotionalism surrounding language issues in the emergent African countries, so desperately seeking a common medium for internal and external communication.

Some fifty years ago, Douglas Ainslie wrote of Benedetto Croce: “I can lay no claim to having discovered an America, but I do claim to have discovered a Columbus.” Eric Voegelin, today at the height of his career as a political philosopher, scarcely needs to be discovered; he is regarded as a Columbus in the realms of the spirit by many concerned with the the oretical analysis of politics. But in the political science profession he has been more often ignored or systematically misunderstood than read for what he has to teach. Among those according an indifferent or hostile reception to Voegelin are many who, bewailing the recent “decline” of political theory, might have been expected to welcome the appearance of a thinker meticulously pointing the way to the recovery of political theory as a tradition of inquiry. The basic reasons for this curious reception will be alluded to in the course of this essay. The major objective, however, is to isolate the key elements in Voegelin's political theory and to give some indication of his general position in contemporary political science. Hopefully, the result will be to further the understanding of his work and the appreciation of his achievement.

In May, 1924, the National Council of the Partita Popolare elected Alcide De Gasperi, deputy from Venezia Tridentina and president of the Popolare parliamentary group, as political secretary. This election united for the first time in one mandate the presidency of the parliamentary organization and the party secretaryship. Under De Gasperi the party remained on center moorings, opposing Fascism on constitutional grounds and employing moderate, legal methods. But the struggle was an unequal one. The violence of the Fascists did not abate after their April electoral successes, and the headquarters of the local branches of the Partito Popolare, along with Catholic societies and “White” cooperatives, continued to be objects of squadrist attacks, especially in northern Italy. As an able opponent of Fascism both at Montecitorio and in the Trentino, his homeland, De Gasperi aroused the enmity of Mussolini and his subordinates.

How shall men know honor in the bureaucratic life? If not at all, we may largely lose sight of a virtue respected in the West, though not unquestioned, at least since Homer. A substantial and evidently increasing proportion of the members of a modem society, including many persons not “clerks” or “administrators” by vocation, works within bureaucracy. Though large organizations differ in the degree of their bureaucratization, for example, in the tightness of routine and control, they have common features which influence their members. These are: the anonymity of each participant, the joint nature of every action, the force of precedent and rules, and hierarchy in relations among members. These features work against honor.

The five weeks' government of Prince Max von Baden (Oct.3–Nov. 9, 1918) is of crucial importance in German history, for it signalizes the end of the First World War and Germany's formal achievement of the parliamentary system. A great deal of material was published about it shortly afterwards, usually with a highly polemical purpose. Thus the Amtliche Urkunden zur Vorgeschichte des Waffenstillstandes 1918 published by the Foreign Ministry and the Ministry of the Interior in 1919 (2nd edition, Berlin, 1924), was motivated by the desire to pin responsibility for Germany's armistice request upon the Supreme Command. It succeeded in dispelling the Stab-in-the-Back Legend as far as educated people were concerned, but these proved only an uninfluential minority during the Weimar Republic. The comprehensive Erinnerungen of Prince Max (Berlin, 1927), written with a large staff of collaborators, provided an exceptionally full account of the period, though one necessarily apologetic in tone and reticent about Max's own weaknesses. The case of the Conservative opposition was ably argued by Count Kuno Westarp, the Conservative leader, in his Die Regierung des Prinzen Max von Baden und die Konservative Partei 1918 (Berlin, 1928). These important works all included the publication of primary documents, though they were necessarily selected in an ex parte manner.

Spanish patriots have prided themselves on the fact that Spain was one of the first nations in Europe to achieve political unity. They devoutly believe that Ferdinand and Isabella created the first “nation” in Europe. To them, as well as to many non-Spaniards, Spain seems an entity unique in Europe, with a distinct psychology and value system. The traditional xenophobia of Spaniards and their emotional resentment of the outer world — the “otherness” of Spain in the twentieth century — make it difficult to conceive of the Spanish as anything other than a narrowly personalistic or nationalistic group.

A. J. P. Taylor's reputation among his fellow historians, like his writings, is marked by paradoxes and contradictions. There is respect for his learning, envy of his brilliance, admiration for his originality, and irritation, if not downright indignation, at his alleged vices. In private, his close friends assure you of his very great qualities as a historian, only to grumble at his absurdities as a showman. In public, his reviewers, even when they praise his scholarship, complain of the impossibility of seeing him as a whole

There is something Shavian about A. J. P. Taylor and his place among academic historians: he is brilliant, erudite, witty, dogmatic, heretical, irritating, insufferable, and withal inescapable. He sometimes insults and always instructs his fellow-historians.…

Almost ten years have passed since this comment was made, and Taylor is no less controversial now than before. Indeed, his two latest books, The Origins of the Second World War (1961) and the Illustrated History of the First World War (1963) have only increased his notoriety among his colleagues. As for this essay, the assumption behind it is that a historian as prolific and important as Taylor deserves a comprehensive and sober analysis, and that perhaps even his eccentricity and insufferableness can be instructive.

The aim of this essay is to describe the nature of the relationships between two worlds, the Roman-Hellenistic and the Oriental; and speaking more precisely of the traditional and geographic division of mankind, we may say, Europe and the Far East. The relations go back to the age of the great nomadic migrations through the vast sea of the steppes, stretching from Mongolia through Central Asia to Asia Minor and the Black Sea.