The Search for the Great Community

We have had occasion to refer in passing to the distinction between democracy as a social idea and political democracy as a system of government. The two are, of course, connected. The idea remains barren and empty save as it is incarnated in human relationships. Yet in discussion they must be distinguished. The idea of democracy is a wider and fuller idea than can be exemplified in the state even at its best. To be realized it must affect all modes of human association, the family, the school, industry, religion. And even as far as political arrangements are concerned, governmental institutions are but a mechanism for securing to an idea channels of effective operation. It will hardly do to say that criticisms of the political machinery leave the believer in the idea untouched. For, as far as they are justified—and no candid believer can deny that many of them are only too well grounded—they arouse him to bestir himself in order that the idea may find a more adequate machinery through which to work. What the faithful insist upon, however, is that the idea and its external organs and structures are not to be identified. We object to the common supposition of the foes of existing democratic government that the accusations against it touch the social and moral aspirations and ideas which underlie the political forms. The old saying that the cure for the ills of democracy is more democracy is not apt if it means that the evils may be remedied by introducing more machinery of the same kind as that which already exists, or by refining and perfecting that machinery. But the phrase may also indicate the need of returning to the idea itself, of clarifying and deepening our apprehension of it, and of employing our sense of its meaning to criticize and re-make its political manifestations.

We have already briefly noted the distinction between democracy as a social ideal and political democracy as a system of government. The two are, of course, connected. The ideal remains empty and unproductive unless people put it into practice in their relationships. Yet we must distinguish between the two when discussing them. The democratic ideal is broader and richer than even the best state can express. To become a reality, democracy must shape all forms of human association: family, school, industry, and religion. Even in politics, government institutions are only tools for putting an ideal into effective practice. We can hardly say that criticism of political machinery leaves believers in the democratic ideal unaffected. When such criticisms are justified, they spur believers to act so that the ideal can find better machinery to work through. And no honest believer can deny that many criticisms are all too well founded. But committed believers insist that the ideal must not be confused with its outward institutions and structures. Opponents of existing democratic government commonly assume that attacks on government also challenge the social and moral ideals behind its political forms. We reject that assumption. The old saying that the cure for democracy's ills is more democracy is not fitting if it means more machinery of the existing kind. Nor is the saying fitting if it means refining and perfecting that machinery to remedy those ills. But the phrase may also point to the need to return to the ideal itself. We need to understand the ideal more clearly and deeply. We also need to use that understanding to criticize and reshape the political forms through which the ideal is expressed.

Confining ourselves, for the moment, to political democracy, we must, in any case, renew our protest against the assumption that the idea has itself produced the governmental practices which obtain in democratic states: General suffrage, elected representatives, majority rule, and so on. The idea has influenced the concrete political movement, but it has not caused it. The transition from family and dynastic government supported by the loyalties of tradition to popular government was the outcome primarily of technological discoveries and inventions working a change in the customs by which men had been bound together. It was not due to the doctrines of doctrinaires. The forms to which we are accustomed in democratic governments represent the cumulative effect of a multitude of events, unpremeditated as far as political effects were concerned and having unpredictable consequences. There is no sanctity in universal suffrage, frequent elections, majority rule, congressional and cabinet government. These things are devices evolved in the direction in which the current was moving, each wave of which involved at the time of its impulsion a minimum of departure from antecedent custom and law. The devices served a purpose; but the purpose was rather that of meeting existing needs which had become too intense to be ignored, than that of forwarding the democratic idea. In spite of all defects, they served their own purpose well.

For now, we are considering only political democracy. Even so, we must again reject the assumption that the democratic idea itself produced the practices of democratic governments. These practices include universal suffrage, elected representatives, majority rule, and so on. The idea has influenced the actual political movement, but it has not caused that movement. Government by families and dynasties, supported by traditional loyalties, gave way to popular government primarily because of technological discoveries and inventions. These discoveries and inventions changed the customs that had bound people together. The change did not come from the doctrines of rigid theorists. The familiar forms of democratic government reflect the combined effects of countless events. These events were unplanned in their political effects and had unpredictable consequences. There is nothing sacred about universal suffrage, frequent elections, majority rule, or congressional and cabinet government. These arrangements developed along with the prevailing current of change. Each wave of change, when it occurred, departed as little as possible from earlier customs and laws. These arrangements served a purpose. But their purpose was more to meet existing needs that had become too pressing to ignore than to advance democracy’s ideal. Despite all their defects, these arrangements served their own purpose well.

Looking back, with the aid which ex post facto experience can give, it would be hard for the wisest to devise schemes which, under the circumstances, would have met the needs better. In this retrospective glance, it is possible, however, to see how the doctrinal formulations which accompanied them were inadequate, one-sided and positively erroneous. In fact they were hardly more than political war-cries adopted to help in carrying on some immediate agitation or in justifying some particular practical polity struggling for recognition, even though they were asserted to be absolute truths of human nature or of morals. The doctrines served a particular local pragmatic need. But often their very adaptation to immediate circumstances unfitted them, pragmatically, to meet more enduring and more extensive needs. They lived to cumber the political ground, obstructing progress, all the more so because they were uttered and held not as hypotheses with which to direct social experimentation but as final truths, dogmas. No wonder they call urgently for revision and displacement.

Looking back, with the help of hindsight, even the wisest would struggle to devise better plans for those circumstances. Yet looking back also reveals that the doctrines accompanying those plans were inadequate, one-sided, and plainly wrong. In fact, the doctrines were hardly more than political rallying cries. They helped advance some immediate campaign or justify some particular practical political system struggling for recognition. Yet these doctrines were presented as absolute truths about human nature or morality. The doctrines served a particular local, practical need. But often, their very fit with immediate circumstances made them practically unsuited to broader and more lasting needs. The doctrines survived to clutter political life and obstruct progress. They did so all the more because people presented and accepted them not as hypotheses to guide social experimentation. Instead, people treated them as final truths, as dogmas. No wonder these doctrines urgently need revision and replacement.

Nevertheless the current has set steadily in one direction: toward democratic forms. That government exists to serve its community, and that this purpose cannot be achieved unless the community itself shares in selecting its governors and determining their policies, are a deposit of fact left, as far as we can see, permanently in the wake of doctrines and forms, however transitory the latter. They are not the whole of the democratic idea, but they express it in its political phase. Belief in this political aspect is not a mystic faith as if in some overruling providence that cares for children, drunkards and others unable to help themselves. It marks a well-attested conclusion from historic facts. We have every reason to think that whatever changes may take place in existing democratic machinery, they will be of a sort to make the interest of the public a more supreme guide and criterion of governmental activity, and to enable the public to form and manifest its purposes still more authoritatively. In this sense the cure for the ailments of democracy is more democracy. The prime difficulty, as we have seen, is that of discovering the means by which a scattered, mobile and manifold public may so recognize itself as to define and express its interests. This discovery is necessarily precedent to any fundamental change in the machinery. We are not concerned therefore to set forth counsels as to advisable improvements in the political forms of democracy. Many have been suggested. It is no derogation of their relative worth to say that consideration of these changes is not at present an affair of primary importance. The problem lies deeper; it is in the first instance an intellectual problem: the search for conditions under which the Great Society may become the Great Community. When these conditions are brought into being they will make their own forms. Until they have come about, it is somewhat futile to consider what political machinery will suit them.

Nevertheless, the trend has moved steadily in one direction: toward democratic forms. Government exists to serve its community. Government cannot fulfill that purpose unless the community helps choose its leaders and shape their policies. These facts remain after doctrines and forms pass away, and as far as we can see, will remain permanently. These principles do not capture the whole democratic idea, but they express its political side. Belief in political democracy is not a mystical faith in some guiding providence. It is not like trusting a power that protects children, drunkards, and others unable to help themselves. Instead, belief in political democracy reflects a conclusion well supported by historical facts. We have every reason to expect that changes to existing democratic institutions will give the public interest still greater priority. The public interest will become a more decisive guide and standard for government action. Such changes will also enable the public to develop and express its purposes with still greater authority. In this sense, the cure for democracy’s ailments is more democracy. As we have seen, the main difficulty is finding how a scattered, mobile, and diverse public can recognize itself. That recognition must enable the public to define and express its interests. Finding the means for such recognition must come before any fundamental change in democratic institutions. We are therefore not concerned here with recommending improvements to democracy’s political forms. Many improvements have been suggested. Saying that these changes are not currently a primary concern does not diminish their relative value. The problem goes deeper. It is first an intellectual problem: finding the conditions under which the Great Society may become the Great Community. Once those conditions exist, they will produce their own forms. Until then, considering what political institutions would suit those conditions is somewhat pointless.

In a search for the conditions under which the inchoate public now extant may function democratically, we may proceed from a statement of the nature of the democratic idea in its generic social sense.¹¹ From the standpoint of the individual, it consists in having a responsible share according to capacity in forming and directing the activities of the groups to which one belongs and in participating according to need in the values which the groups sustain. From the standpoint of the groups, it demands liberation of the potentialities of members of a group in harmony with the interests and goods which are common. Since every individual is a member of many groups, this specification cannot be fulfilled except when different groups interact flexibly and fully in connection with other groups. A member of a robber band may express his powers in a way consonant with belonging to that group and be directed by the interest common to its members. But he does so only at the cost of repression of those of his potentialities which can be realized only through membership in other groups. The robber band cannot interact flexibly with other groups; it can act only through isolating itself. It must prevent the operation of all interests save those which circumscribe it in its separateness. But a good citizen finds his conduct as a member of a political group enriching and enriched by his participation in family life, industry, scientific and artistic associations. There is a free give-and-take: fullness of integrated personality is therefore possible of achievement, since the pulls and responses of different groups reënforce one another and their values accord.

We are looking for the conditions that would allow today’s still-unformed public to function democratically. We may begin by describing the democratic idea in its broad social sense.¹¹ For individuals, democracy means taking a responsible share, according to their abilities, in shaping and directing their groups’ activities. It also means sharing, according to their needs, in the values those groups uphold. For groups, democracy requires freeing members to develop their abilities in harmony with shared interests and benefits. Since everyone belongs to many groups, this requirement can be met only when groups interact freely and fully with one another. A member of a robber band may use his abilities in ways consistent with belonging to that group. He may also be guided by the interests its members share. But he does so only by suppressing abilities he can develop only through membership in other groups. The robber band cannot interact freely with other groups. It can act only by isolating itself. It must block all interests except those that define it as a separate group. But a good citizen’s participation in a political group enriches his family life and his involvement in industry, science, and art. His participation in these other groups also enriches his political conduct. There is a free give-and-take. A fully developed, integrated personality is therefore possible, since the demands and responses of different groups reinforce one another. The groups’ values also agree.

Regarded as an idea, democracy is not an alternative to other principles of associated life. It is the idea of community life itself. It is an ideal in the only intelligible sense of an ideal: namely, the tendency and movement of some thing which exists carried to its final limit, viewed as completed, perfected. Since things do not attain such fulfillment but are in actuality distracted and interfered with, democracy in this sense is not a fact and never will be. But neither in this sense is there or has there ever been anything which is a community in its full measure, a community unalloyed by alien elements. The idea or ideal of a community presents, however, actual phases of associated life as they are freed from restrictive and disturbing elements, and are contemplated as having attained their limit of development. Wherever there is conjoint activity whose consequences are appreciated as good by all singular persons who take part in it, and where the realization of the good is such as to effect an energetic desire and effort to sustain it in being just because it is a good shared by all, there is in so far a community. The clear consciousness of a communal life, in all its implications, constitutes the idea of democracy.

As an idea, democracy is not an alternative to other principles of shared life. It is the idea of community life itself. Democracy is an ideal in the only meaningful sense of that word. An ideal takes the tendencies and movements of something that exists and imagines them fully developed, complete, and perfected. But actual things face distractions and interference, and do not reach such fulfillment. So democracy in this sense is not a fact and never will be. But in this sense, no community fully exists or has ever existed either. No community is entirely free of elements foreign to community life. Yet the idea or ideal of community represents actual aspects of shared life, freed from restrictions and disruptions. It imagines those aspects developed to their fullest extent. Wherever people act together and every participant recognizes the results as good, one condition for community is present. Another condition is that achieving this good creates a strong desire and effort to sustain it, precisely because everyone shares it. Wherever these conditions hold, a community exists to that extent. A clear awareness of community life, with all that such a life involves, forms the idea of democracy.

Only when we start from a community as a fact, grasp the fact in thought so as to clarify and enhance its constituent elements, can we reach an idea of democracy which is not utopian. The conceptions and shibboleths which are traditionally associated with the idea of democracy take on a veridical and directive meaning only when they are construed as marks and traits of an association which realizes the defining characteristics of a community. Fraternity, liberty and equality isolated from communal life are hopeless abstractions. Their separate assertion leads to mushy sentimentalism or else to extravagant and fanatical violence which in the end defeats its own aims. Equality then becomes a creed of mechanical identity which is false to facts and impossible of realization. Effort to attain it is divisive of the vital bonds which hold men together; as far as it puts forth issue, the outcome is a mediocrity in which good is common only in the sense of being average and vulgar. Liberty is then thought of as independence of social ties, and ends in dissolution and anarchy. It is more difficult to sever the idea of brotherhood from that of a community, and hence it is either practically ignored in the movements which identify democracy with Individualism, or else it is a sentimentally appended tag. In its just connection with communal experience, fraternity is another name for the consciously appreciated goods which accrue from an association in which all share, and which give direction to the conduct of each. Liberty is that secure release and fulfillment of personal potentialities which take place only in rich and manifold association with others: the power to be an individualized self making a distinctive contribution and enjoying in its own way the fruits of association. Equality denotes the unhampered share which each individual member of the community has in the consequences of associated action. It is equitable because it is measured only by need and capacity to utilize, not by extraneous factors which deprive one in order that another may take and have. A baby in the family is equal with others, not because of some antecedent and structural quality which is the same as that of others, but in so far as his needs for care and development are attended to without being sacrificed to the superior strength, possessions and matured abilities of others. Equality does not signify that kind of mathematical or physical equivalence in virtue of which any one element may be substituted for another. It denotes effective regard for whatever is distinctive and unique in each, irrespective of physical and psychological inequalities. It is not a natural possession but is a fruit of the community when its action is directed by its character as a community.

Only by starting with the reality of community can we reach an idea of democracy that is not utopian. We must understand that reality in ways that clarify and strengthen the elements of community. The ideas and slogans traditionally associated with democracy gain truth and provide guidance only when understood through community. They must describe an association that fulfills the defining characteristics of a community. Fraternity, liberty, and equality are hopeless abstractions when separated from communal life. Asserting them separately leads either to mushy sentimentality or to extreme, fanatical violence that ultimately defeats its own aims. Equality then becomes a belief in rigid sameness, contrary to the facts and impossible to achieve. Efforts to achieve such equality weaken the vital bonds that hold people together. To the extent that these efforts produce results, the outcome is mediocrity. Good is then common only in the sense of being average and vulgar. Liberty is then understood as freedom from social ties, and ends in breakdown and anarchy. Brotherhood is harder to separate from community. So movements that identify democracy with Individualism either largely ignore brotherhood or add it as a sentimental afterthought. Properly connected to communal experience, fraternity means the benefits people consciously value in an association shared by all. These benefits guide each person's conduct. Liberty means the secure freedom to develop and fulfill personal potential. This happens only through rich and varied relationships with others. Liberty is the power to become a distinct individual, make a unique contribution, and enjoy shared benefits in one's own way. Equality means that each community member can share without obstruction in the results of joint action. This share is fair because it is measured only by need and the ability to make use of it. It is not measured by unrelated factors that deprive one person so another can take and possess. A baby in a family is equal to others, but not because of some preexisting quality everyone shares. Rather, the baby is equal insofar as the baby's needs for care and development are met. Those needs are not sacrificed to others' greater strength, possessions, or developed abilities. Equality does not mean mathematical or physical equivalence, where one element can replace another. It means actively respecting what is distinctive and unique in each person, regardless of physical and psychological inequalities. Equality is not something people possess by nature. It is a product of community when the community's actions are guided by its character as a community.

Associated or joint activity is a condition of the creation of a community. But association itself is physical and organic, while communal life is moral, that is emotionally, intellectually, consciously sustained. Human beings combine in behavior as directly and unconsciously as do atoms, stellar masses and cells; as directly and unknowingly as they divide and repel. They do so in virtue of their own structure, as man and woman unite, as the baby seeks the breast and the breast is there to supply its need. They do so from external circumstances, pressure from without, as atoms combine or separate in presence of an electric charge, or as sheep huddle together from the cold. Associated activity needs no explanation; things are made that way. But no amount of aggregated collective action of itself constitutes a community. For beings who observe and think, and whose ideas are absorbed by impulses and become sentiments and interests, “we” is as inevitable as “I.” But “we” and “our” exist only when the consequences of combined action are perceived and become an object of desire and effort, just as “I” and “mine” appear on the scene only when a distinctive share in mutual action is consciously asserted or claimed. Human associations may be ever so organic in origin and firm in operation, but they develop into societies in a human sense only as their consequences, being known, are esteemed and sought for. Even if “society” were as much an organism as some writers have held, it would not on that account be society. Interactions, transactions, occur de facto and the results of interdependence follow. But participation in activities and sharing in results are additive concerns. They demand communication as a prerequisite.

Joint activity is necessary for creating a community. But association itself is physical and biological, while communal life is moral, sustained by emotion, thought, and conscious effort. Human beings act together as directly and unconsciously as atoms, masses of stars, and cells do. They separate and repel one another just as directly and unknowingly. People act together because of their own makeup, as man and woman unite. A baby seeks the breast in the same way, and the breast is there to meet the baby's need. People also act together because of outside circumstances and pressures. Atoms likewise combine or separate in the presence of an electric charge, and sheep huddle together against the cold. Joint activity needs no explanation. Things are made that way. But no amount of collective action, by itself, creates a community. For beings who observe and think, “we” is as inevitable as “I.” Their ideas become part of their impulses and develop into feelings and interests. But “we” and “our” exist only when people recognize the consequences of acting together and desire and work toward those consequences. Similarly, “I” and “mine” appear only when someone consciously asserts or claims a distinct share in joint action. Human associations may arise entirely from natural processes and operate firmly. But they become societies in a human sense only when their consequences are known, valued, and sought. Even if “society” were an organism, as some writers have claimed, being an organism would not make it a society. Interactions and exchanges occur in fact, and interdependence produces results. But participating in activities and sharing in their results require something more. Both require communication first.

Combined activity happens among human beings; but when nothing else happens it passes as inevitably into some other mode of interconnected activity as does the interplay of iron and the oxygen of water. What takes place is wholly describable in terms of energy, or, as we say in the case of human interactions, of force. Only when there exist signs or symbols of activities and of their outcome can the flux be viewed as from without, be arrested for consideration and esteem, and be regulated. Lightning strikes and rives a tree or rock, and the resulting fragments take up and continue the process of interaction, and so on and on. But when phases of the process are represented by signs, a new medium is interposed. As symbols are related to one another, the important relations of a course of events are recorded and are preserved as meanings. Recollection and foresight are possible; the new medium facilitates calculation, planning, and a new kind of action which intervenes in what happens to direct its course in the interest of what is foreseen and desired.

Human beings act together. But when nothing else happens, their joint activity inevitably turns into another form of interconnected activity. The same is true of the interaction between iron and the oxygen in water. Everything that happens can be described entirely in terms of energy, or, in human interactions, force. Only when signs or symbols represent activities and their outcomes can this flow be viewed from outside. Only then can the flow be paused for consideration and evaluation, and brought under control. Lightning strikes and splits a tree or rock. The resulting fragments carry on the process of interaction, and the process continues endlessly. But when signs represent stages of the process, a new medium comes between those stages. As symbols connect with one another, the important relationships within a sequence of events are recorded and preserved as meanings. Remembering and anticipating become possible. The new medium makes calculation, planning, and a new kind of action easier. This action intervenes in events to guide their course toward what is foreseen and desired.

Symbols in turn depend upon and promote communication. The results of conjoint experience are considered and transmitted. Events cannot be passed from one to another, but meanings may be shared by means of signs. Wants and impulses are then attached to common meanings. They are thereby transformed into desires and purposes, which, since they implicate a common or mutually understood meaning, present new ties, converting a conjoint activity into a community of interest and endeavor. Thus there is generated what, metaphorically, may be termed a general will and social consciousness: desire and choice on the part of individuals in behalf of activities that, by means of symbols, are communicable and shared by all concerned. A community thus presents an order of energies transmuted into one of meanings which are appreciated and mutually referred by each to every other on the part of those engaged in combined action. “Force” is not eliminated but is transformed in use and direction by ideas and sentiments made possible by means of symbols.

Symbols, in turn, depend on communication and encourage it. People reflect on the results of shared experience and pass those results on. Events cannot be passed from one person to another, but meanings can be shared through signs. Wants and impulses then become linked to shared meanings. Through these links, wants and impulses become desires and purposes. Because these desires and purposes involve shared or mutually understood meanings, they create new bonds. These bonds turn joint activity into a community of shared interests and efforts. The result may be called, metaphorically, a general will and social consciousness. Individuals desire and choose to support activities that symbols make possible to communicate and share among all concerned. In a community, then, organized energies become organized meanings. Everyone acting together values these meanings and relates them to everyone else. “Force” is not eliminated. Instead, ideas and feelings made possible by symbols change how force is used and directed.

The work of conversion of the physical and organic phase of associated behavior into a community of action saturated and regulated by mutual interest in shared meanings, consequences which are translated into ideas and desired objects by means of symbols, does not occur all at once nor completely. At any given time, it sets a problem rather than marks a settled achievement. We are born organic beings associated with others, but we are not born members of a community. The young have to be brought within the traditions, outlook and interests which characterize a community by means of education: by unremitting instruction and by learning in connection with the phenomena of overt association. Everything which is distinctively human is learned, not native, even though it could not be learned without native structures which mark man off from other animals. To learn in a human way and to human effect is not just to acquire added skill through refinement of original capacities.

Transforming the physical and biological aspects of life together into a community of shared action never happens all at once or completely. Such a community is shaped and guided by a common interest in shared meanings. Through symbols, the consequences of acting together become ideas and things people want. At any given time, creating such a community remains a problem to solve, not a finished achievement. We are born as living beings connected with others, but we are not born members of a community. Young people must be introduced through education to the traditions, outlook, and interests that define a community. This education requires constant instruction and learning through the activities of life together. Everything distinctively human is learned, not inborn. Yet none of these human qualities could be learned without the inborn structures that distinguish humans from other animals. Learning in a human way, with human results, means more than gaining skills by refining our original abilities.

To learn to be human is to develop through the give-and-take of communication an effective sense of being an individually distinctive member of a community; one who understands and appreciates its beliefs, desires and methods, and who contributes to a further conversion of organic powers into human resources and values. But this translation is never finished. The old Adam, the unregenerate element in human nature, persists. It shows itself wherever the method obtains of attaining results by use of force instead of by the method of communication and enlightenment. It manifests itself more subtly, pervasively and effectually when knowledge and the instrumentalities of skill which are the product of communal life are employed in the service of wants and impulses which have not themselves been modified by reference to a shared interest. To the doctrine of “natural” economy which held that commercial exchange would bring about such an interdependence that harmony would automatically result, Rousseau gave an adequate answer in advance. He pointed out that interdependence provides just the situation which makes it possible and worth while for the stronger and abler to exploit others for their own ends, to keep others in a state of subjection where they can be utilized as animated tools. The remedy he suggested, a return to a condition of independence based on isolation, was hardly seriously meant. But its desperateness is evidence of the urgency of the problem. Its negative character was equivalent to surrender of any hope of solution. By contrast it indicates the nature of the only possible solution: the perfecting of the means and ways of communication of meanings so that genuinely shared interest in the consequences of interdependent activities may inform desire and effort and thereby direct action.

Learning to be human means developing, through the give-and-take of communication, a strong sense of belonging to a community. It also means recognizing yourself as a distinctive individual within that community. You understand and appreciate the community’s beliefs, desires, and ways of doing things. You also help turn natural capacities into human resources and values. But this transformation is never complete. The old Adam, the unreformed element in human nature, persists. This element appears wherever people seek results through force rather than communication and understanding. It appears more subtly, widely, and effectively when people use communal knowledge and skills to serve unmodified wants and impulses. These wants and impulses have not been shaped by concern for a shared interest. The doctrine of “natural” economy claimed that commercial exchange would create interdependence and automatically produce harmony. Rousseau had already given an adequate answer to this claim. He pointed out that interdependence creates the very conditions that make exploitation possible and worthwhile for stronger, more capable people. They can exploit others for their own purposes, keeping them under their control and using them as living tools. Rousseau’s proposed remedy was a return to independence based on isolation. He hardly meant this proposal seriously. But the desperation of his remedy shows how urgent the problem is. Its negative approach amounted to giving up any hope of a solution. By contrast, the proposal points to the only possible solution: improving the means and methods of communicating meaning. Such improvement must allow a genuinely shared interest in the consequences of interdependent activities to shape desire and effort. That shared interest can thereby guide action.

This is the meaning of the statement that the problem is a moral one dependent upon intelligence and education. We have in our prior account sufficiently emphasized the rôle of technological and industrial factors in creating the Great Society. What was said may even have seemed to imply acceptance of the deterministic version of an economic interpretation of history and institutions. It is silly and futile to ignore and deny economic facts. They do not cease to operate because we refuse to note them, or because we smear them over with sentimental idealizations. As we have also noted, they generate as their result overt and external conditions of action and these are known with various degrees of adequacy. What actually happens in consequence of industrial forces is dependent upon the presence or absence of perception and communication of consequences, upon foresight and its effect upon desire and endeavor. Economic agencies produce one result when they are left to work themselves out on the merely physical level, or on that level modified only as the knowledge, skill and technique which the community has accumulated are transmitted to its members unequally and by chance. They have a different outcome in the degree in which knowledge of consequences is equitably distributed, and action is animated by an informed and lively sense of a shared interest. The doctrine of economic interpretation as usually stated ignores the transformation which meanings may effect; it passes over the new medium which communication may interpose between industry and its eventual consequences. It is obsessed by the illusion which vitiated the “natural economy”: an illusion due to failure to note the difference made in action by perception and publication of its consequences, actual and possible. It thinks in terms of antecedents, not of the eventual; of origins, not fruits.

This is what it means to say that the problem is moral and depends on intelligence and education. Our earlier account sufficiently emphasized how technology and industry helped create the Great Society. That account may even have seemed to accept the view that economic forces determine history and institutions. Ignoring or denying economic facts is foolish and pointless. Economic facts do not stop operating because we refuse to notice them or cover them with sentimental idealizations. As we have also noted, economic forces produce visible, external conditions for action. These conditions are understood with varying degrees of accuracy. What actually happens as a result of industrial forces depends on whether their consequences are understood and communicated. The outcome also depends on foresight and its influence on desires and efforts. Economic forces produce one result when left to operate on a purely physical level. The same holds when their operation is modified only by the community’s accumulated knowledge, skills, and techniques reaching its members unequally and by chance. Economic forces produce a different outcome to the extent that knowledge of consequences is fairly distributed. That different outcome also depends on action being guided by an informed, vivid sense of shared interest. The economic interpretation of history, as usually stated, ignores how meanings can transform outcomes. It overlooks how communication can become a new means of shaping the eventual consequences of industry. This doctrine is obsessed with the same illusion that undermined the “natural economy”. That illusion arises from overlooking how action changes when its actual and possible consequences are understood and made public. The doctrine thinks in terms of what came before, not what may follow. It focuses on origins, not results.

We have returned, through this apparent excursion, to the question in which our earlier discussion culminated: What are the conditions under which it is possible for the Great Society to approach more closely and vitally the status of a Great Community, and thus take form in genuinely democratic societies and state? What are the conditions under which we may reasonably picture the Public emerging from its eclipse?

This apparent detour has brought us back to the question that our earlier discussion led to. Under what conditions could the Great Society become more fully and meaningfully a Great Community, and thus take shape as genuinely democratic societies and a state? Under what conditions may we reasonably imagine the Public emerging from its eclipse?

The study will be an intellectual or hypothetical one. There will be no attempt to state how the required conditions might come into existence, nor to prophesy that they will occur. The object of the analysis will be to show that unless ascertained specifications are realized, the Community cannot be organized as a democratically effective Public. It is not claimed that the conditions which will be noted will suffice, but only that at least they are indispensable. In other words, we shall endeavor to frame a hypothesis regarding the democratic state to stand in contrast with the earlier doctrine which has been nullified by the course of events.

The study will be theoretical or hypothetical. We will not try to explain how the necessary conditions might arise or predict that those conditions will occur. The analysis aims to show that unless certain identified requirements are met, the Community cannot become a democratically effective Public. We do not claim that the conditions we identify will be enough, only that they are indispensable. In other words, we will try to develop a hypothesis about the democratic state. This hypothesis will contrast with the earlier doctrine, which the course of events has invalidated.

Two essential constituents in that older theory, as will be recalled, were the notions that each individual is of himself equipped with the intelligence needed, under the operation of self-interest, to engage in political affairs; and that general suffrage, frequent elections of officials and majority rule are sufficient to ensure the responsibility of elected rulers to the desires and interests of the public. As we shall see, the second conception is logically bound up with the first and stands or falls with it. At the basis of the scheme lies what Lippmann has well called the idea of the “omni-competent” individual: competent to frame policies, to judge their results; competent to know in all situations demanding political action what is for his own good, and competent to enforce his idea of good and the will to effect it against contrary forces. Subsequent history has proved that the assumption involved illusion. Had it not been for the misleading influence of a false psychology, the illusion might have been detected in advance. But current philosophy held that ideas and knowledge were functions of a mind or consciousness which originated in individuals by means of isolated contact with objects. But in fact, knowledge is a function of association and communication; it depends upon tradition, upon tools and methods socially transmitted, developed and sanctioned. Faculties of effectual observation, reflection and desire are habits acquired under the influence of the culture and institutions of society, not ready-made inherent powers. The fact that man acts from crudely intelligized emotion and from habit rather than from rational consideration, is now so familiar that it is not easy to appreciate that the other idea was taken seriously as the basis of economic and political philosophy. The measure of truth which it contains was derived from observation of a relatively small group of shrewd business men who regulated their enterprises by calculation and accounting, and of citizens of small and stable local communities who were so intimately acquainted with the persons and affairs of their locality that they could pass competent judgment upon the bearing of proposed measures upon their own concerns.

As you will recall, the older theory had two essential elements. First, each individual inherently has the intelligence needed to take part in politics, guided by self-interest. Second, universal voting rights, frequent elections, and majority rule are enough to keep elected leaders accountable to the public’s wishes and interests. As we shall see, the second idea is logically tied to the first and stands or falls with it. The whole framework rests on what Lippmann aptly called the “omni-competent” individual. Such an individual can develop policies and judge their results. In every situation requiring political action, the individual can recognize what serves their own good. The individual can also uphold that idea of good, and the will to achieve it, against opposing forces. Later history has shown that this assumption was an illusion. Without the misleading influence of a false psychology, the illusion might have been recognized in advance. But the philosophy of the time held that ideas and knowledge came from an individual mind or consciousness. That mind or consciousness developed through the individual’s isolated contact with objects. In fact, however, knowledge comes from association and communication. Knowledge depends on tradition and on tools and methods passed down, developed, and accepted by society. The abilities to observe effectively, reflect, and form desires are habits acquired through society’s culture and institutions. These abilities are not innate powers that come fully formed. People act from habit and from emotions shaped by only rudimentary understanding, rather than from rational thought. This fact is now so familiar that we struggle to appreciate how seriously the opposite idea was once taken. Yet that idea served as a foundation for economic and political philosophy. Whatever truth the idea contained came from observing a relatively small group of shrewd businesspeople and citizens of small, stable communities. The businesspeople managed their enterprises through calculation and accounting. The citizens knew their communities’ people and affairs intimately. That knowledge allowed them to judge competently how proposed measures would affect their own concerns.

Habit is the mainspring of human action, and habits are formed for the most part under the influence of the customs of a group. The organic structure of man entails the formation of habit, for, whether we wish it or not, whether we are aware of it or not, every act effects a modification of attitude and set which directs future behavior. The dependence of habit-forming upon those habits of a group which constitute customs and institutions is a natural consequence of the helplessness of infancy. The social consequences of habit have been stated once for all by James: “Habit is the enormous fly-wheel of society, its most precious conservative influence. It alone is what keeps us within the bounds of ordinance, and saves the children of fortune from the uprisings of the poor. It alone prevents the hardest and most repulsive walks of life from being deserted by those brought up to tread therein. It keeps the fisherman and the deck-hand at sea through the winter; it holds the miner in his darkness, and nails the country-man to his log cabin and his lonely farm through all the months of snow; it protects us from invasion by the natives of the desert and the frozen zone. It dooms us all to fight out the battle of life upon the lines of our nurture or our early choice, and to make the best of a pursuit that disagrees, because there is no other for which we are fitted and it is too late to begin again. It keeps different social strata from mixing.”

Habit is the main driver of human action, and habits form mostly under the influence of a group’s customs. The human body’s structure makes habit formation inevitable. Whether we want it or not, and whether we know it or not, every act changes our attitudes and dispositions. These changes guide our future behavior. Habit formation depends on the group habits that make up customs and institutions because we are helpless as infants. James summed up the social effects of habit once and for all: “Habit is society’s enormous flywheel, its most valuable force for preserving the existing order. Habit alone keeps us within the bounds of established rules and protects the fortunate from uprisings by the poor. Habit alone keeps people raised for the hardest and most unpleasant kinds of work from abandoning them. Habit keeps the fisherman and the deckhand at sea through the winter. Habit holds the miner in his darkness. Habit ties the farmer to his log cabin and lonely farm through all the snowy months. Habit protects us from invasion by the native peoples of the desert and the frozen regions. Habit condemns us all to fight life’s battles along paths set by our upbringing or early choices. Habit forces us to make the best of work we dislike. We are suited to no other work, and it is too late to start again. Habit keeps different social classes from mixing.”

The influence of habit is decisive because all distinctively human action has to be learned, and the very heart, blood and sinews of learning is creation of habitudes. Habits bind us to orderly and established ways of action because they generate ease, skill and interest in things to which we have grown used and because they instigate fear to walk in different ways, and because they leave us incapacitated for the trial of them. Habit does not preclude the use of thought, but it determines the channels within which it operates. Thinking is secreted in the interstices of habits. The sailor, miner, fisherman and farmer think, but their thoughts fall within the framework of accustomed occupations and relationships. We dream beyond the limits of use and wont, but only rarely does revery become a source of acts which break bounds; so rarely that we name those in whom it happens demonic geniuses and marvel at the spectacle. Thinking itself becomes habitual along certain lines; a specialized occupation. Scientific men, philosophers, literary persons, are not men and women who have so broken the bonds of habits that pure reason and emotion undefiled by use and wont speak through them. They are persons of a specialized infrequent habit. Hence the idea that men are moved by an intelligent and calculated regard for their own good is pure mythology. Even if the principle of self-love actuated behavior, it would still be true that the objects in which men find their love manifested, the objects which they take as constituting their peculiar interests, are set by habits reflecting social customs.

Habit has a decisive influence because all distinctly human action must be learned. And the very heart of learning, its lifeblood and muscle, is the creation of habits. Habits bind us to orderly, established ways of acting for several reasons. They make us comfortable, skilled, and interested in familiar things. They also make us afraid to try different ways and leave us unable to attempt them. Habit does not rule out thought, but it determines the channels in which thought operates. Thinking takes place in the gaps between habits. Sailors, miners, fishermen, and farmers think, but their thoughts stay within the framework of familiar occupations and relationships. We dream beyond the limits of familiar practices and customs. But only rarely do daydreams lead to actions that break those limits. This happens so rarely that we call people who do it geniuses with uncanny powers and marvel at the sight. Thinking itself becomes habitual along certain lines, a specialized occupation. Scientists, philosophers, and literary people have not broken free of habit, allowing pure reason and emotion untouched by custom to speak through them. These people have a specialized, uncommon habit. So the idea that people act from an intelligent, calculated concern for their own good is pure mythology. Even if self-love drove behavior, habits reflecting social customs would still determine the objects in which people express that love. Those objects are what people consider their particular interests.

These facts explain why the social doctrinaires of the new industrial movement had so little prescience of what was to follow in consequence of it. These facts explain why the more things changed, the more they were the same; they account, that is, for the fact that instead of the sweeping revolution which was expected to result from democratic political machinery, there was in the main but a transfer of vested power from one class to another. A few men, whether or not they were good judges of their own true interest and good, were competent judges of the conduct of business for pecuniary profit, and of how the new governmental machinery could be made to serve their ends. It would have taken a new race of human beings to escape, in the use made of political forms, from the influence of deeply engrained habits, of old institutions and customary social status, with their inwrought limitations of expectation, desire and demand. And such a race, unless of disembodied angelic constitution, would simply have taken up the task where human beings assumed it upon emergence from the condition of anthropoid apes. In spite of sudden and catastrophic revolutions, the essential continuity of history is doubly guaranteed. Not only are personal desire and belief functions of habit and custom, but the objective conditions which provide the resources and tools of action, together with its limitations, obstructions and traps, are precipitates of the past, perpetuating, willy-nilly, its hold and power. The creation of a tabula rasa in order to permit the creation of a new order is so impossible as to set at naught both the hope of buoyant revolutionaries and the timidity of scared conservatives.

These facts explain why the social theorists of the new industrial movement foresaw so little of its consequences. These facts explain why the more things changed, the more they stayed the same. Democratic political machinery was expected to bring sweeping revolution. Instead, established power mostly just passed from one class to another. A few men knew how to run businesses for financial profit and make the new government machinery serve their ends. They had this expertise whether or not they judged their own true interests and well-being correctly. Only a new race of human beings could have used political structures without the influence of deeply rooted habits. They would also have had to escape the influence of old institutions and established social positions. All these influences carried ingrained limits on what people expected, desired, and demanded. And unless this new race consisted of angels without bodies, its members would simply have started the task over. They would have begun where human beings began when they emerged from the condition of humanlike apes. Despite sudden and catastrophic revolutions, history’s essential continuity is guaranteed in two ways. Personal desires and beliefs are shaped by habit and custom. And the material conditions that supply the resources and tools for action are products of the past. So are the limits, obstacles, and traps those conditions impose. Whether we like it or not, these conditions keep the past’s grip and power alive. Creating a blank slate to make a new order possible is impossible. This impossibility defeats both the hopes of optimistic revolutionaries and the fears of frightened conservatives.

Nevertheless, changes take place and are cumulative in character. Observation of them in the light of their recognized consequences arouses reflection, discovery, invention, experimentation. When a certain state of accumulated knowledge, of techniques and instrumentalities is attained, the process of change is so accelerated, that, as to-day, it appears externally to be the dominant trait. But there is a marked lag in any corresponding change of ideas and desires. Habits of opinion are the toughest of all habits; when they have become second nature, and are supposedly thrown out of the door, they creep in again as stealthily and surely as does first nature. And as they are modified, the alteration first shows itself negatively, in the disintegration of old beliefs, to be replaced by floating, volatile and accidentally snatched up opinions. Of course there has been an enormous increase in the amount of knowledge possessed by mankind, but it does not equal, probably, the increase in the amount of errors and half-truths which have got into circulation. In social and human matters, especially, the development of a critical sense and methods of discriminating judgment has not kept pace with the growth of careless reports and of motives for positive misrepresentation.

Nevertheless, changes happen and build on one another. Observing these changes in light of their known consequences prompts reflection, discovery, invention, and experimentation. Once knowledge, techniques, and tools reach a certain level, change speeds up greatly. Then, as today, change outwardly appears to be the dominant feature. But corresponding changes in ideas and desires lag far behind. Habits of opinion are the hardest of all habits to change. Once these habits become second nature, even when supposedly thrown out the door, they creep back in. They return as quietly and surely as first nature does. And when habits of opinion do change, the first effect is negative: old beliefs fall apart. In their place come shifting, unstable opinions picked up by chance. Of course, humanity's knowledge has grown enormously. But that growth probably falls short of the increase in errors and half-truths now in circulation. This is especially true in social and human affairs. Critical thinking and methods for making careful judgments have not kept pace with the growth of careless reporting. Nor have they kept pace with the growing motives for deliberate misrepresentation.

What is more important, however, is that so much of knowledge is not knowledge in the ordinary sense of the word, but is “science.” The quotation marks are not used disrespectfully, but to suggest the technical character of scientific material. The layman takes certain conclusions which get into circulation to be science. But the scientific inquirer knows that they constitute science only in connection with the methods by which they are reached. Even when true, they are not science in virtue of their correctness, but by reason of the apparatus which is employed in reaching them. This apparatus is so highly specialized that it requires more labor to acquire ability to use and understand it than to get skill in any other instrumentalities possessed by man. Science, in other words, is a highly specialized language, more difficult to learn than any natural language. It is an artificial language, not in the sense of being factitious, but in that of being a work of intricate art, devoted to a particular purpose and not capable of being acquired nor understood in the way in which the mother tongue is learned. It is, indeed, conceivable that sometime methods of instruction will be devised which will enable laymen to read and hear scientific material with comprehension, even when they do not themselves use the apparatus which is science. The latter may then become for large numbers what students of language call a passive, if not an active, vocabulary. But that time is in the future.

More importantly, much of our knowledge is not knowledge in the ordinary sense, but “science.” The quotation marks show no disrespect. They point to the technical nature of scientific material. People outside science take certain widely circulated conclusions to be science. But scientific researchers know that these conclusions count as science only in connection with the methods used to reach them. Even true conclusions are not science simply because they are correct. They count as science because of the tools and procedures used to reach them. These tools and procedures are highly specialized. Learning to use and understand them takes more work than learning to use any other tools humans possess. Science, in other words, is a highly specialized language, harder to learn than any natural language. It is an artificial language, not in the sense of being fake, but of being an intricate human creation. This language serves a particular purpose and cannot be learned or understood as we learn our native language. It is possible that teaching methods will someday allow people outside science to read and hear scientific material with understanding. They might understand even without using the tools and procedures that make up science. Science may then become, for many people, what language students call a passive, if not an active, vocabulary. But that time is still in the future.

For most men, save the scientific workers, science is a mystery in the hands of initiates, who have become adepts in virtue of following ritualistic ceremonies from which the profane herd is excluded. They are fortunate who get as far as a sympathetic appreciation of the methods which give pattern to the complicated apparatus: methods of analytic, experimental observation, mathematical formulation and deduction, constant and elaborate check and test. For most persons, the reality of the apparatus is found only in its embodiments in practical affairs, in mechanical devices and in techniques which touch life as it is lived. For them, electricity is known by means of the telephones, bells and lights they use, by the generators and magnetos in the automobiles they drive, by the trolley cars in which they ride. The physiology and biology they are acquainted with is that they have learned in taking precautions against germs and from the physicians they depend upon for health. The science of what might be supposed to be closest to them, of human nature, was for them an esoteric mystery until it was applied in advertising, salesmanship and personnel selection and management, and until, through psychiatry, it spilled over into life and popular consciousness, through its bearings upon “nerves,” the morbidities and common forms of crankiness which make it difficult for persons to get along with one another and with themselves. Even now, popular psychology is a mass of cant, of slush and of superstition worthy of the most flourishing days of the medicine man.

For most people, except scientific workers, science is a mystery controlled by an initiated few. These experts have gained their skills by following rituals from which the uninitiated masses are excluded. Those who gain even a sympathetic understanding of the methods organizing science’s complex apparatus are fortunate. These methods include analytical, experimental observation, mathematical formulation and deduction, and constant, thorough checking and testing. For most people, this apparatus becomes real only through practical applications, mechanical devices, and techniques that affect everyday life. They know electricity through the telephones, bells, and lights they use. They know it through the generators and magnetos in their cars and the trolley cars they ride. Their knowledge of physiology and biology comes from taking precautions against germs and consulting physicians they depend on for health. The science of human nature might seem closest to them, yet it remained a mystery for insiders alone. That changed only when this science was applied to advertising, salesmanship, and staff selection and management. Through psychiatry, it also entered everyday life and public awareness by addressing “nerves,” unhealthy mental states, and ordinary crankiness. These problems make it difficult for people to get along with one another and with themselves. Even now, popular psychology is a mass of empty jargon, sentimental nonsense, and superstition. It is worthy of the medicine man’s most flourishing days.

Meanwhile the technological application of the complex apparatus which is science has revolutionized the conditions under which associated life goes on. This may be known as a fact which is stated in a proposition and assented to. But it is not known in the sense that men understand it. They do not know it as they know some machine which they operate, or as they know electric light and steam locomotives. They do not understand how the change has gone on nor how it affects their conduct. Not understanding its “how,” they cannot use and control its manifestations. They undergo the consequences, they are affected by them. They cannot manage them, though some are fortunate enough—what is commonly called good fortune—to be able to exploit some phase of the process for their own personal profit. But even the most shrewd and successful man does not in any analytic and systematic way—in a way worthy to compare with the knowledge which he has won in lesser affairs by means of the stress of experience—know the system within which he operates. Skill and ability work within a framework which we have not created and do not comprehend. Some occupy strategic positions which give them advance information of forces that affect the market; and by training and an innate turn that way they have acquired a special technique which enables them to use the vast impersonal tide to turn their own wheels. They can dam the current here and release it there. The current itself is as much beyond them as was ever the river by the side of which some ingenious mechanic, employing a knowledge which was transmitted to him, erected his saw-mill to make boards of trees which he had not grown. That within limits those successful in affairs have knowledge and skill is not to be doubted. But such knowledge goes relatively but little further than that of the competent skilled operator who manages a machine. It suffices to employ the conditions which are before him. Skill enables him to turn the flux of events this way or that in his own neighborhood. It gives him no control of the flux.

Meanwhile, applying the complex tools of science through technology has transformed the conditions under which people live together. People may know this as a stated fact and agree with it. But they do not know it in the sense of understanding it. They do not understand this transformation as they understand a machine they operate, or electric light and steam locomotives. They do not understand how the change has happened or how it affects their behavior. Without understanding its “how,” they cannot use and control the forms the change takes. They experience the consequences and are affected by them. They cannot manage those consequences. Still, some are fortunate enough to exploit some part of the process for personal profit. This is what people commonly call good fortune. But even the shrewdest and most successful person lacks an analytical, systematic understanding of the system in which he operates. His understanding of that system cannot compare with the knowledge he has gained in smaller matters through demanding experience. Skill and ability operate within a framework we have not created and do not understand. Some people hold strategic positions that give them advance information about forces affecting the market. Through training and a natural aptitude, they have acquired specialized skills. These skills let them use the vast, impersonal current to turn their own wheels. They can dam the current here and release it there. But the current itself remains beyond their control, just as a river remained beyond the control of an ingenious mechanic. Using knowledge passed down to him, that mechanic built a sawmill beside the river. The mill turned trees he had not grown into boards. There is no doubt that successful people have knowledge and skill within certain limits. But their knowledge goes relatively little beyond that of a skilled operator who manages a machine. Such knowledge is enough to use the conditions at hand. Skill lets people turn the flow of events one way or another in their immediate surroundings. It gives them no control over the flow itself.

Why should the public and its officers, even if the latter are termed statesmen, be wiser and more effective? The prime condition of a democratically organized public is a kind of knowledge and insight which does not yet exist. In its absence, it would be the height of absurdity to try to tell what it would be like if it existed. But some of the conditions which must be fulfilled if it is to exist can be indicated. We can borrow that much from the spirit and method of science even if we are ignorant of it as a specialized apparatus. An obvious requirement is freedom of social inquiry and of distribution of its conclusions. The notion that men may be free in their thought even when they are not in its expression and dissemination has been sedulously propagated. It had its origin in the idea of a mind complete in itself, apart from action and from objects. Such a consciousness presents in fact the spectacle of mind deprived of its normal functioning, because it is baffled by the actualities in connection with which alone it is truly mind, and is driven back into secluded and impotent revery.

Why should the public and its officials be wiser and more effective, even if those officials are called statesmen? The first requirement for a democratically organized public is a kind of knowledge and insight that does not yet exist. Without that knowledge and insight, trying to describe what they would be like would be utterly absurd. But we can identify some conditions that must be met for such knowledge and insight to exist. We can borrow that much from the spirit and method of science, even without understanding its specialized tools and procedures. One obvious requirement is freedom to investigate social life and share the conclusions. The idea that people can think freely even when they cannot freely express and share their thoughts has been persistently promoted. That idea began with the belief that the mind is complete in itself, separate from action and the things around it. In fact, a mind in that state cannot function normally. It is blocked by the realities through which alone it can truly function as a mind. As a result, it is driven back into isolated, powerless daydreaming.

There can be no public without full publicity in respect to all consequences which concern it. Whatever obstructs and restricts publicity, limits and distorts public opinion and checks and distorts thinking on social affairs. Without freedom of expression, not even methods of social inquiry can be developed. For tools can be evolved and perfected only in operation; in application to observing, reporting and organizing actual subject-matter; and this application cannot occur save through free and systematic communication. The early history of physical knowledge, of Greek conceptions of natural phenomena, proves how inept become the conceptions of the best endowed minds when those ideas are elaborated apart from the closest contact with the events which they purport to state and explain. The ruling ideas and methods of the human sciences are in much the same condition to-day. They are also evolved on the basis of past gross observations, remote from constant use in regulation of the material of new observations.

No public can exist without full access to information about all consequences that concern it. Anything that blocks or restricts access to information limits and distorts public opinion. It also holds back and distorts thinking about social affairs. Without freedom of expression, even methods for studying society cannot be developed. For tools can be developed and improved only through use: observing, reporting, and organizing actual subject matter. And these tools can be used only through free and systematic communication. The early history of knowledge about the physical world, including Greek ideas about natural phenomena, proves a point. Even the most gifted minds produce inadequate ideas when they develop them without close contact with the events involved. These are the very events the ideas claim to describe and explain. The dominant ideas and methods in the human sciences are in much the same condition today. They too are developed from broad, rough observations made in the past. They are not continually used to organize and guide new observations.

The belief that thought and its communication are now free simply because legal restrictions which once obtained have been done away with is absurd. Its currency perpetuates the infantile state of social knowledge. For it blurs recognition of our central need to possess conceptions which are used as tools of directed inquiry and which are tested, rectified and caused to grow in actual use. No man and no mind was ever emancipated merely by being left alone. Removal of formal limitations is but a negative condition; positive freedom is not a state but an act which involves methods and instrumentalities for control of conditions. Experience shows that sometimes the sense of external oppression, as by censorship, acts as a challenge and arouses intellectual energy and excites courage. But a belief in intellectual freedom where it does not exist contributes only to complacency in virtual enslavement, to sloppiness, superficiality and recourse to sensations as a substitute for ideas: marked traits of our present estate with respect to social knowledge. On one hand, thinking deprived of its normal course takes refuge in academic specialism, comparable in its way to what is called scholasticism. On the other hand, the physical agencies of publicity which exist in such abundance are utilized in ways which constitute a large part of the present meaning of publicity: advertising, propaganda, invasion of private life, the “featuring” of passing incidents in a way which violates all the moving logic of continuity, and which leaves us with those isolated intrusions and shocks which are the essence of “sensations.”

It is absurd to believe that thought and communication are now free simply because old legal restrictions have been removed. The spread of this belief keeps our understanding of society in an infantile state. It obscures our central need for concepts that serve as tools for focused inquiry. These concepts must be tested, corrected, and developed through actual use. No person and no mind has ever been freed merely by being left alone. Removing formal restrictions only clears away barriers. Positive freedom is not a state but an activity that requires methods and tools for controlling conditions. Experience shows that a sense of external oppression, such as censorship, sometimes acts as a challenge. That sense of oppression awakens intellectual energy and stirs courage. But believing in intellectual freedom where none exists only encourages complacency in what amounts to enslavement. Such belief also encourages carelessness, superficiality, and the pursuit of sensations instead of ideas. These are defining traits of our current understanding of society. On one hand, thought blocked from its normal course retreats into academic specialization, comparable in its way to scholasticism. On the other hand, the abundant means of reaching the public are used for certain purposes. These purposes make up much of what publicity now means: advertising, propaganda, invasion of private life, and the “featuring” of passing incidents. This treatment of passing incidents violates all the logic of how events unfold and connect over time. It leaves us with isolated intrusions and shocks that are the essence of “sensations.”

It would be a mistake to identify the conditions which limit free communication and circulation of facts and ideas, and which thereby arrest and pervert social thought or inquiry, merely with overt forces which are obstructive. It is true that those who have ability to manipulate social relations for their own advantage have to be reckoned with. They have an uncanny instinct for detecting whatever intellectual tendencies even remotely threaten to encroach upon their control. They have developed an extraordinary facility in enlisting upon their side the inertia, prejudices and emotional partisanship of the masses by use of a technique which impedes free inquiry and expression. We seem to be approaching a state of government by hired promoters of opinion called publicity agents. But the more serious enemy is deeply concealed in hidden entrenchments.

It would be a mistake to blame only openly obstructive forces for limiting the free exchange of facts and ideas. These limits, in turn, halt and distort social thinking and inquiry. We must certainly reckon with people who can manipulate social relations for their own benefit. Such people have an uncanny instinct for spotting any intellectual trend that even remotely threatens their control. They have become extraordinarily skilled at winning over the masses by exploiting inertia, prejudice, and emotional loyalty to one side. Their methods obstruct free inquiry and expression. We seem to be approaching government by hired opinion promoters called publicity agents. But the more serious enemy lies deeply concealed in hidden strongholds.

Emotional habituations and intellectual habitudes on the part of the mass of men create the conditions of which the exploiters of sentiment and opinion only take advantage. Men have got used to an experimental method in physical and technical matters. They are still afraid of it in human concerns. The fear is the more efficacious because like all deep-lying fears it is covered up and disguised by all kinds of rationalizations. One of its commonest forms is a truly religious idealization of, and reverence for, established institutions; for example in our own politics, the Constitution, the Supreme Court, private property, free contract and so on. The words “sacred” and “sanctity” come readily to our lips when such things come under discussion. They testify to the religious aureole which protects the institutions. If “holy” means that which is not to be approached nor touched, save with ceremonial precautions and by specially anointed officials, then such things are holy in contemporary political life. As supernatural matters have progressively been left high and dry upon a secluded beach, the actuality of religious taboos has more and more gathered about secular institutions, especially those connected with the nationalistic state.¹² Psychiatrists have discovered that one of the commonest causes of mental disturbance is an underlying fear of which the subject is not aware, but which leads to withdrawal from reality and to unwillingness to think things through. There is a social pathology which works powerfully against effective inquiry into social institutions and conditions. It manifests itself in a thousand ways; in querulousness, in impotent drifting, in uneasy snatching at distractions, in idealization of the long established, in a facile optimism assumed as a cloak, in riotous glorification of things “as they are,” in intimidation of all dissenters—ways which depress and dissipate thought all the more effectually because they operate with subtle and unconscious pervasiveness.

The emotional and intellectual habits of most people create conditions that manipulators of feeling and opinion merely take advantage of. People have grown used to experimental methods in physical and technical matters. They are still afraid of using those methods in human affairs. This fear is all the more powerful because, like all deep fears, it hides behind all kinds of rationalizations. One of its most common forms is a truly religious idealization of, and reverence for, established institutions. In our own politics, examples include the Constitution, the Supreme Court, private property, freedom of contract, and so on. The words “sacred” and “sanctity” come readily to our lips when we discuss such things. These words reveal the religious halo that protects these institutions. Suppose “holy” means something that must not be approached or touched except with ceremonial precautions and by specially anointed officials. If so, these institutions are holy in contemporary political life. Supernatural matters have gradually been left high and dry on an isolated beach. As this has happened, actual religious taboos have increasingly gathered around secular institutions, especially those connected with the nationalistic state.¹² Psychiatrists have discovered that one of the most common causes of mental disturbance is a hidden fear. The person is unaware of this fear, but it leads them to withdraw from reality and resist thinking things through. A social sickness powerfully obstructs effective inquiry into social institutions and conditions. This sickness shows itself in a thousand ways. These include constant complaining, helpless drifting, restless attempts to find distractions, and idealizing what has long been established. They also include easy optimism worn as a disguise, wild glorification of things “as they are,” and intimidation of all dissenters. These behaviors suppress and scatter thought all the more effectively because they work subtly, unconsciously, and everywhere.

The backwardness of social knowledge is marked in its division into independent and insulated branches of learning. Anthropology, history, sociology, morals, economics, political science, go their own ways without constant and systematized fruitful interaction. Only in appearance is there a similar division in physical knowledge. There is continuous cross-fertilization between astronomy, physics, chemistry and the biological sciences. Discoveries and improved methods are so recorded and organized that constant exchange and intercommunication take place. The isolation of the humane subjects from one another is connected with their aloofness from physical knowledge. The mind still draws a sharp separation between the world in which man lives and the life of man in and by that world, a cleft reflected in the separation of man himself into a body and a mind, which, it is currently supposed, can be known and dealt with apart. That for the past three centuries energy should have gone chiefly into physical inquiry, beginning with the things most remote from man such as heavenly bodies, was to have been expected. The history of the physical sciences reveals a certain order in which they developed. Mathematical tools had to be employed before a new astronomy could be constructed. Physics advanced when ideas worked out in connection with the solar system were used to describe happenings on the earth. Chemistry waited on the advance of physics; the sciences of living things required the material and methods of physics and chemistry in order to make headway. Human psychology ceased to be chiefly speculative opinion only when biological and physiological conclusions were available. All this is natural and seemingly inevitable. Things which had the most outlying and indirect connection with human interests had to be mastered in some degree before inquiries could competently converge upon man himself.

The underdevelopment of social knowledge shows in its division into separate, isolated fields of study. Anthropology, history, sociology, ethics, economics, and political science go their own ways, without regular, organized, productive exchange. The physical sciences only appear to be divided in the same way. Astronomy, physics, chemistry, and the biological sciences continually enrich one another. Discoveries and improved methods are recorded and organized so that constant exchange and communication take place. The isolation of fields concerned with human life is connected to their separation from the physical sciences. We still draw a sharp line between the world people live in and human life within and through that world. The same divide appears in the separation of human beings into body and mind. Body and mind, people commonly suppose, can be understood and dealt with separately. It was to be expected that, over the past three centuries, effort would focus chiefly on studying the physical world. This inquiry began with things most remote from human beings, such as heavenly bodies. The history of the physical sciences shows a certain order in their development. Mathematical tools had to be used before a new astronomy could be developed. Physics advanced when ideas developed through studying the solar system were applied to events on Earth. Chemistry had to wait for physics to advance. The sciences of living things needed the materials and methods of physics and chemistry to make progress. Human psychology stopped being chiefly speculative opinion only when findings from biology and physiology became available. This whole sequence is natural and seemingly inevitable. Things with the most distant and indirect connections to human interests first had to be understood to some degree. Only then could inquiry competently turn toward human beings themselves.

Nevertheless the course of development has left us of this age in a plight. When we say that a subject of science is technically specialized, or that it is highly “abstract,” what we practically mean is that it is not conceived in terms of its bearing upon human life. All merely physical knowledge is technical, couched in a technical vocabulary communicable only to the few. Even physical knowledge which does affect human conduct, which does modify what we do and undergo, is also technical and remote in the degree in which its bearings are not understood and used. The sunlight, rain, air and soil have always entered in visible ways into human experience; atoms and molecules and cells and most other things with which the sciences are occupied affect us, but not visibly. Because they enter life and modify experience in imperceptible ways, and their consequences are not realized, speech about them is technical; communication is by means of peculiar symbols. One would think, then, that a fundamental and ever-operating aim would be to translate knowledge of the subject-matter of physical conditions into terms which are generally understood, into signs denoting human consequences of services and disservices rendered. For ultimately all consequences which enter human life depend upon physical conditions; they can be understood and mastered only as the latter are taken into account. One would think, then, that any state of affairs which tends to render the things of the environment unknown and incommunicable by human beings in terms of their own activities and sufferings would be deplored as a disaster; that it would be felt to be intolerable, and to be put up with only as far as it is, at any given time, inevitable.

Nevertheless, the course of development has left us today in a difficult position. We call a scientific subject technically specialized or highly “abstract” when we do not understand its connection to human life. All merely physical knowledge is technical, expressed in specialized language that only a few can understand. Even physical knowledge that affects human behavior, changing what we do and experience, can be technical and remote. It remains so to the extent that its effects are not understood and put to use. Sunlight, rain, air, and soil have always been visible parts of human experience. Atoms, molecules, cells, and most other things studied by science affect us, but not visibly. They enter life and change experience in ways we cannot perceive, and their consequences go unrecognized. Because of this, discussion of these things is technical, and communication relies on specialized symbols. One would think, then, that a basic, ongoing aim would be to explain knowledge of physical conditions in widely understood terms. These terms would identify the consequences for people, the benefits and harms those conditions bring. For ultimately, all consequences that enter human life depend on physical conditions. Those consequences can be understood and controlled only by taking physical conditions into account. One would think, then, that any situation preventing such understanding and communication would be condemned as a disaster. Such a situation leaves people unable to know or discuss their surroundings in terms of their own activities and suffering. One would think people would find this intolerable and accept it only insofar as it is unavoidable at any given time.

But the facts are to the contrary. Matter and the material are words which in the minds of many convey a note of disparagement. They are taken to be foes of whatever is of ideal value in life, instead of as conditions of its manifestation and sustained being. In consequence of this division, they do become in fact enemies, for whatever is consistently kept apart from human values depresses thought and renders values sparse and precarious in fact. There are even some who regard the materialism and dominance of commercialism of modern life as fruits of undue devotion to physical science, not seeing that the split between man and nature, artificially made by a tradition which originated before there was understanding of the physical conditions that are the medium of human activities, is the benumbing factor. The most influential form of the divorce is separation between pure and applied science. Since “application” signifies recognized bearing upon human experience and well-being, honor of what is “pure” and contempt for what is “applied” has for its outcome a science which is remote and technical, communicable only to specialists, and a conduct of human affairs which is haphazard, biased, unfair in distribution of values. What is applied and employed as the alternative to knowledge in regulation of society is ignorance, prejudice, class-interest and accident. Science is converted into knowledge in its honorable and emphatic sense only in application. Otherwise it is truncated, blind, distorted. When it is then applied, it is in ways which explain the unfavorable sense so often attached to “application” and the “utilitarian”: namely, use for pecuniary ends to the profit of a few.

But the facts show the opposite. For many people, the words matter and material carry a negative meaning. People see the material world as an enemy of life’s ideals, rather than as the conditions that let those ideals emerge and endure. Because of this division, the material world does become an enemy of those ideals. Anything consistently separated from human values weighs down thought and makes those values scarce and insecure in practice. Some even see modern life’s materialism and the dominance of commercialism as results of excessive devotion to physical science. They fail to see that the numbing force is the artificial split between humanity and nature. That split comes from a tradition older than our understanding of the physical conditions through which human activities take place. The most influential form of this split is the separation of pure and applied science. “Application” means a recognized connection to human experience and well-being. So honoring what is “pure” and despising what is “applied” produces a remote, technical science that only specialists can understand. It also leaves human affairs managed haphazardly, with bias and an unfair distribution of things people value. Instead of knowledge, ignorance, prejudice, class interests, and chance are put to work in governing society. Science becomes knowledge in the fullest and most respected sense only through application. Otherwise, science is incomplete, blind, and distorted. When such science is then applied, its uses explain the negative meaning so often attached to “application” and the “utilitarian”: use for financial ends that profit a few.

At present, the application of physical science is rather to human concerns than in them. That is, it is external, made in the interests of its consequences for a possessing and acquisitive class. Application in life would signify that science was absorbed and distributed; that it was the instrumentality of that common understanding and thorough communication which is the precondition of the existence of a genuine and effective public. The use of science to regulate industry and trade has gone on steadily. The scientific revolution of the seventeenth century was the precursor of the industrial revolution of the eighteenth and nineteenth. In consequence, man has suffered the impact of an enormously enlarged control of physical energies without any corresponding ability to control himself and his own affairs. Knowledge divided against itself, a science to whose incompleteness is added an artificial split, has played its part in generating enslavement of men, women and children in factories in which they are animated machines to tend inanimate machines. It has maintained sordid slums, flurried and discontented careers, grinding poverty and luxurious wealth, brutal exploitation of nature and man in times of peace and high explosives and noxious gases in times of war. Man, a child in understanding of himself, has placed in his hands physical tools of incalculable power. He plays with them like a child, and whether they work harm or good is largely a matter of accident. The instrumentality becomes a master and works fatally as if possessed of a will of its own—not because it has a will but because man has not.

At present, physical science is applied to human concerns rather than in them. In other words, science is applied from outside human life to benefit a class that owns and accumulates wealth. Applying science in life would mean that scientific knowledge was absorbed and widely shared. Science would help create shared understanding and thorough communication. Both are necessary for a genuine and effective public to exist. Science has been used steadily to regulate industry and trade. The scientific revolution of the seventeenth century paved the way for the industrial revolution of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. As a result, humanity has felt the impact of vastly increased control over physical forces. Yet people have gained no corresponding ability to control themselves and their own affairs. Knowledge has been divided against itself. Science is already incomplete, and an artificial split has made that incompleteness worse. Such divided knowledge has helped enslave men, women, and children in factories. There, people serve as living machines tending lifeless machines. Such knowledge has sustained filthy slums, frantic and unsatisfying working lives, grinding poverty, and luxurious wealth. It has sustained brutal exploitation of nature and people in peacetime, and high explosives and poisonous gases in wartime. Humanity, still a child in self-understanding, has put physical tools of incalculable power into its own hands. People play with these tools like children, and whether the tools do harm or good is largely a matter of chance. The tool becomes the master and brings disaster, as if driven by a will of its own. This happens not because the tool has a will, but because humanity has none.

The glorification of “pure” science under such conditions is a rationalization of an escape; it marks a construction of an asylum of refuge, a shirking of responsibility. The true purity of knowledge exists not when it is uncontaminated by contact with use and service. It is wholly a moral matter, an affair of honesty, impartiality and generous breadth of intent in search and communication. The adulteration of knowledge is due not to its use, but to vested bias and prejudice, to one-sidedness of outlook, to vanity, to conceit of possession and authority, to contempt or disregard of human concern in its use. Humanity is not, as was once thought, the end for which all things were formed; it is but a slight and feeble thing, perhaps an episodic one, in the vast stretch of the universe. But for man, man is the center of interest and the measure of importance. The magnifying of the physical realm at the cost of man is but an abdication and a flight. To make physical science a rival of human interests is bad enough, for it forms a diversion of energy which can ill be afforded. But the evil does not stop there. The ultimate harm is that the understanding by man of his own affairs and his ability to direct them are sapped at their root when knowledge of nature is disconnected from its human function.

Under such conditions, glorifying “pure” science is a way to justify escape. It means building a refuge and avoiding responsibility. Knowledge is not truly pure simply because it remains untouched by practical use and service. Its true purity is entirely a moral matter. It depends on honesty, impartiality, and a generous breadth of purpose in seeking and sharing knowledge. Knowledge is corrupted not by its use, but by bias rooted in vested interests, prejudice, and one-sided views. Other sources of corruption include vanity, pride in possessing knowledge and authority, and contempt or disregard for human concerns when using knowledge. Humanity is not, as people once thought, the purpose for which all things were created. Humanity is only a small and fragile presence in the vast universe, perhaps only a passing one. But for human beings, humanity is the center of interest and the measure of importance. Elevating the physical world at humanity’s expense is simply an abandonment of responsibility and an escape. Making physical science a rival to human interests is bad enough. It diverts energy that we can hardly afford to spare. But the harm does not stop there. The deepest harm comes when knowledge of nature is separated from its human purpose. That separation undermines the very foundations of people’s understanding of their own affairs and their ability to direct them.

It has been implied throughout that knowledge is communication as well as understanding. I well remember the saying of a man, uneducated from the standpoint of the schools, in speaking of certain matters: “Sometime they will be found out and not only found out, but they will be known.” The schools may suppose that a thing is known when it is found out. My old friend was aware that a thing is fully known only when it is published, shared, socially accessible. Record and communication are indispensable to knowledge. Knowledge cooped up in a private consciousness is a myth, and knowledge of social phenomena is peculiarly dependent upon dissemination, for only by distribution can such knowledge be either obtained or tested. A fact of community life which is not spread abroad so as to be a common possession is a contradiction in terms. Dissemination is something other than scattering at large. Seeds are sown, not by virtue of being thrown out at random, but by being so distributed as to take root and have a chance of growth. Communication of the results of social inquiry is the same thing as the formation of public opinion. This marks one of the first ideas framed in the growth of political democracy as it will be one of the last to be fulfilled. For public opinion is judgment which is formed and entertained by those who constitute the public and is about public affairs. Each of the two phases imposes for its realization conditions hard to meet.

Throughout, I have implied that knowledge involves communication as well as understanding. I clearly remember something a man said about certain matters. He had little formal schooling. “Someday these things will be discovered, and not just discovered, but known.” Schools may assume that something is known once it has been discovered. My old friend understood that something is fully known only when it is published, shared, and accessible to society. Recording and communicating knowledge are essential to knowledge itself. Knowledge locked inside a private mind is a myth. Knowledge of social life depends especially on being shared, because only through sharing can such knowledge be gained or tested. A fact about community life that is not shared as common knowledge is a contradiction in terms. Sharing knowledge means more than scattering it everywhere. Seeds are not properly sown simply by being thrown around at random. They must be spread in ways that let them take root and give them a chance to grow. Communicating the results of research into social life is the same thing as forming public opinion. This was one of the earliest ideas to emerge as political democracy developed. It will also be one of the last to become reality. For public opinion is judgment formed and held by the people who make up the public, and concerns public affairs. Meeting each of these two requirements depends on conditions that are hard to achieve.

Opinions and beliefs concerning the public presuppose effective and organized inquiry. Unless there are methods for detecting the energies which are at work and tracing them through an intricate network of interactions to their consequences, what passes as public opinion will be “opinion” in its derogatory sense rather than truly public, no matter how widespread the opinion is. The number who share error as to fact and who partake of a false belief measures power for harm. Opinion casually formed and formed under the direction of those who have something at stake in having a lie believed can be public opinion only in name. Calling it by this name, acceptance of the name as a kind of warrant, magnifies its capacity to lead action estray. The more who share it, the more injurious its influence. Public opinion, even if it happens to be correct, is intermittent when it is not the product of methods of investigation and reporting constantly at work. It appears only in crises. Hence its “rightness” concerns only an immediate emergency. Its lack of continuity makes it wrong from the standpoint of the course of events. It is as if a physician were able to deal for the moment with an emergency in disease but could not adapt his treatment of it to the underlying conditions which brought it about. He may then “cure” the disease—that is, cause its present alarming symptoms to subside—but he does not modify its causes; his treatment may even affect them for the worse. Only continuous inquiry, continuous in the sense of being connected as well as persistent, can provide the material of enduring opinion about public matters.

Opinions and beliefs about the public depend on effective, organized inquiry. We need methods to identify the forces at work and trace their consequences through a complex web of interactions. Without these methods, supposed public opinion is merely “opinion” in the negative sense, not truly public, however widespread. The number of people sharing factual errors and false beliefs measures the potential for harm. Opinions formed carelessly, under the direction of people who benefit from spreading a lie, are public opinion only in name. Calling such opinion public, and accepting that label as a guarantee of reliability, increases its power to misguide action. The more people share such opinion, the more harmful its influence. Public opinion, even when correct, appears only occasionally unless it comes from ongoing investigation and reporting. It emerges only in crises. So its “rightness” applies only to an immediate emergency. Without continuity, public opinion is wrong when judged against the course of events. It is as if a doctor could handle an immediate medical emergency but could not adjust treatment to its underlying causes. The doctor may then “cure” the disease by making its current alarming symptoms subside. But the doctor does not change the disease’s causes, and the treatment may even make those causes worse. Only continuous inquiry, connected as well as persistent, can provide the basis for lasting opinion about public matters.

There is a sense in which “opinion” rather than knowledge, even under the most favorable circumstances, is the proper term to use—namely, in the sense of judgment, estimate. For in its strict sense, knowledge can refer only to what has happened and been done. What is still to be done involves a forecast of a future still contingent, and cannot escape the liability to error in judgment involved in all anticipation of probabilities. There may well be honest divergence as to policies to be pursued, even when plans spring from knowledge of the same facts. But genuinely public policy cannot be generated unless it be informed by knowledge, and this knowledge does not exist except when there is systematic, thorough, and well-equipped search and record.

Even under the best conditions, “opinion” rather than knowledge is the right term in one sense: judgment or estimate. Strictly speaking, knowledge can refer only to what has happened and been done. What is still to be done requires predicting a future that remains uncertain. Such predictions cannot avoid the risk of mistaken judgment involved in all estimates of what is likely to happen. People may well honestly disagree about which policies to pursue, even when their plans draw on the same facts. But truly public policy cannot emerge unless knowledge guides it. And that knowledge exists only when research and recordkeeping are systematic, thorough, and well equipped.

Moreover, inquiry must be as nearly contemporaneous as possible; otherwise it is only of antiquarian interest. Knowledge of history is evidently necessary for connectedness of knowledge. But history which is not brought down close to the actual scene of events leaves a gap and exercises influence upon the formation of judgments about the public interest only by guess-work about intervening events. Here, only too conspicuously, is a limitation of the existing social sciences. Their material comes too late, too far after the event, to enter effectively into the formation of public opinion about the immediate public concern and what is to be done about it.

Moreover, inquiry must keep as close as possible to current events. Otherwise, inquiry is useful only for studying the past. Knowledge of history is clearly necessary to connect what we know. But history that stops short of current events leaves a gap. Such history shapes judgments about the public interest only through guesswork about events in that gap. Here, all too clearly, is a limitation of the existing social sciences. Their findings arrive too late, too long after events, to help effectively shape public opinion about immediate public concerns. Those findings arrive too late to help shape public opinion about what should be done about those concerns.

A glance at the situation shows that the physical and external means of collecting information in regard to what is happening in the world have far outrun the intellectual phase of inquiry and organization of its results. Telegraph, telephone, and now the radio, cheap and quick mails, the printing press, capable of swift reduplication of material at low cost, have attained a remarkable development. But when we ask what sort of material is recorded and how it is organized, when we ask about the intellectual form in which the material is presented, the tale to be told is very different. “News” signifies something which has just happened, and which is new just because it deviates from the old and regular. But its meaning depends upon relation to what it imports, to what its social consequences are. This import cannot be determined unless the new is placed in relation to the old, to what has happened and been integrated into the course of events. Without coördination and consecutiveness, events are not events, but mere occurrences, intrusions; an event implies that out of which a happening proceeds. Hence even if we discount the influence of private interests in procuring suppression, secrecy and misrepresentation, we have here an explanation of the triviality and “sensational” quality of so much of what passes as news. The catastrophic, namely, crime, accident, family rows, personal clashes and conflicts, are the most obvious forms of breaches of continuity; they supply the element of shock which is the strictest meaning of sensation; they are the new par excellence, even though only the date of the newspaper could inform us whether they happened last year or this, so completely are they isolated from their connections.

Even a quick look shows that our tools for gathering information about the world have far outpaced our intellectual methods. We have not kept up in investigating that information and organizing the results. The telegraph, telephone, and now radio have developed remarkably, along with cheap, fast mail. So has the printing press, which can quickly reproduce material at low cost. But the picture changes when we ask what kind of material is recorded and how it is organized. The same is true when we ask how that material is presented intellectually. “News” means something that has just happened, something new because it departs from the familiar and routine. But its meaning depends on its significance, on its social consequences. We cannot determine that significance without connecting the new to the old, to past happenings absorbed into the course of events. Without connections and continuity, events are not events but mere occurrences, intrusions. An event implies the circumstances from which a happening emerges. So even if we set aside private interests that bring about suppression, secrecy, and misrepresentation, an explanation remains. This lack of connections explains the triviality and “sensational” quality of so much of what passes as news. Disastrous happenings, namely crime, accidents, family quarrels, personal clashes, and conflicts, are the most obvious breaks in continuity. They provide the shock that is the strictest meaning of sensation. They are the new above all else. Yet only the newspaper’s date could tell us whether these happenings occurred last year or this year. So completely are they cut off from their connections.

So accustomed are we to this method of collecting, recording and presenting social changes, that it may well sound ridiculous to say that a genuine social science would manifest its reality in the daily press, while learned books and articles supply and polish tools of inquiry. But the inquiry which alone can furnish knowledge as a precondition of public judgments must be contemporary and quotidian. Even if social sciences as a specialized apparatus of inquiry were more advanced than they are, they would be comparatively impotent in the office of directing opinion on matters of concern to the public as long as they are remote from application in the daily and unremitting assembly and interpretation of “news.” On the other hand, the tools of social inquiry will be clumsy as long as they are forged in places and under conditions remote from contemporary events.

We are so used to this way of collecting, recording, and presenting social changes that the following may well sound ridiculous. A genuine social science would prove its value in the daily press, while scholarly books and articles provide and refine research tools. But only inquiry can provide the knowledge needed for public judgment, and that inquiry must address current events every day. Even if the social sciences had more advanced specialized research methods, their power to guide public opinion would remain relatively limited. This limitation would persist as long as those methods remained disconnected from the daily, ongoing collection and interpretation of “news.” On the other hand, tools for social inquiry will remain clumsy as long as they are developed far from current events.

What has been said about the formation of ideas and judgments concerning the public apply as well to the distribution of the knowledge which makes it an effective possession of the members of the public. Any separation between the two sides of the problem is artificial. The discussion of propaganda and propagandism would alone, however, demand a volume, and could be written only by one much more experienced than the present writer. Propaganda can accordingly only be mentioned, with the remark that the present situation is one unprecedented in history. The political forms of democracy and quasi-democratic habits of thought on social matters have compelled a certain amount of public discussion and at least the simulation of general consultation in arriving at political decisions. Representative government must at least seem to be founded on public interests as they are revealed to public belief. The days are past when government can be carried on without any pretense of ascertaining the wishes of the governed. In theory, their assent must be secured. Under the older forms, there was no need to muddy the sources of opinion on political matters. No current of energy flowed from them. To-day the judgments popularly formed on political matters are so important, in spite of all factors to the contrary, that there is an enormous premium upon all methods which affect their formation.

What has been said about forming ideas and judgments about the public also applies to sharing knowledge. Sharing that knowledge allows members of the public to use it effectively. Any separation between these two sides of the problem is artificial. But discussing propaganda and its practice would require a whole book. Only someone much more experienced than I am could write it. So I can only mention propaganda and note that the present situation has no precedent in history. Democratic political institutions and partly democratic habits of thinking about social issues have forced some public discussion. They have also forced at least the appearance of consulting the public when making political decisions. Representative government must at least appear to rest on public interests as the public understands them. The days are past when governments could operate without even pretending to find out what the governed wanted. In theory, the government must secure their consent. Under older forms of government, there was no need to muddy the sources of political opinion. Those sources supplied no power. Today, despite all the forces working against them, the political judgments formed by the public are enormously important. As a result, all methods that influence how those judgments form are highly valued.

The smoothest road to control of political conduct is by control of opinion. As long as interests of pecuniary profit are powerful, and a public has not located and identified itself, those who have this interest will have an unresisted motive for tampering with the springs of political action in all that affects them. Just as in the conduct of industry and exchange generally the technological factor is obscured, deflected and defeated by “business,” so specifically in the management of publicity. The gathering and sale of subject-matter having a public import is part of the existing pecuniary system. Just as industry conducted by engineers on a factual technological basis would be a very different thing from what it actually is, so the assembling and reporting of news would be a very different thing if the genuine interests of reporters were permitted to work freely.

The easiest way to control political behavior is to control opinion. As long as profit interests remain powerful and the public has not found and recognized itself, a problem remains. Those with profit interests will have an unopposed motive to manipulate the sources of political action in everything affecting them. In industry and trade generally, “business” obscures, redirects, and undermines the role of technology. The same happens in the management of public information. Gathering and selling material of public importance is part of the existing profit-driven system. Industry would be very different if engineers ran it on the basis of facts and technology. Just so, gathering and reporting news would be very different if reporters’ genuine interests were allowed to operate freely.

One aspect of the matter concerns particularly the side of dissemination. It is often said, and with a great appearance of truth, that the freeing and perfecting of inquiry would not have any especial effect. For, it is argued, the mass of the reading public is not interested in learning and assimilating the results of accurate investigation. Unless these are read, they cannot seriously affect the thought and action of members of the public; they remain in secluded library alcoves, and are studied and understood only by a few intellectuals. The objection is well taken save as the potency of art is taken into account. A technical high-brow presentation would appeal only to those technically high-brow; it would not be news to the masses. Presentation is fundamentally important, and presentation is a question of art. A newspaper which was only a daily edition of a quarterly journal of sociology or political science would undoubtedly possess a limited circulation and a narrow influence. Even at that, however, the mere existence and accessibility of such material would have some regulative effect. But we can look much further than that. The material would have such an enormous and widespread human bearing that its bare existence would be an irresistible invitation to a presentation of it which would have a direct popular appeal. The freeing of the artist in literary presentation, in other words, is as much a precondition of the desirable creation of adequate opinion on public matters as is the freeing of social inquiry. Men’s conscious life of opinion and judgment often proceeds on a superficial and trivial plane. But their lives reach a deeper level. The function of art has always been to break through the crust of conventionalized and routine consciousness. Common things, a flower, a gleam of moonlight, the song of a bird, not things rare and remote, are means with which the deeper levels of life are touched so that they spring up as desire and thought. This process is art. Poetry, the drama, the novel, are proofs that the problem of presentation is not insoluble. Artists have always been the real purveyors of news, for it is not the outward happening in itself which is new, but the kindling by it of emotion, perception and appreciation.

One aspect of the issue concerns how knowledge is spread. People often say, with what seems like good reason, that freeing and improving inquiry would make no particular difference. They argue that most readers have no interest in learning and absorbing the results of accurate research. Unless people read those results, the findings cannot seriously influence how members of the public think and act. The findings remain tucked away in libraries, studied and understood by only a few intellectuals. This objection is valid unless we take the power of art into account. A technical, highbrow presentation would appeal only to people with those specialized interests. It would not be news to the wider public. Presentation is fundamentally important, and presentation is a matter of art. A newspaper offering only a daily version of a quarterly sociology or political science journal would undoubtedly have few readers. Its influence would be narrow. Even so, the mere existence and availability of such material would have some guiding effect. But we can look much further. The material would have such enormous importance for so many people's lives that its very existence would invite artistic presentation. That invitation would be irresistible, calling for a presentation with direct popular appeal. In other words, writers must be free to use their art if adequate public opinion is to develop. This freedom is as necessary as freedom in social inquiry. People's conscious opinions and judgments often remain superficial and trivial. But their lives reach a deeper level. Art's role has always been to break through the crust of conventional, routine awareness. Ordinary things can touch the deeper levels of life: a flower, a gleam of moonlight, a bird's song. These are not rare or distant things. Through them, those deeper levels come to life as desire and thought. This process is art. Poetry, drama, and novels prove that the problem of presentation can be solved. Artists have always been the true bearers of news. What is new is not the outward event itself, but the emotion, perception, and appreciation the event awakens.

We have but touched lightly and in passing upon the conditions which must be fulfilled if the Great Society is to become a Great Community; a society in which the ever-expanding and intricately ramifying consequences of associated activities shall be known in the full sense of that word, so that an organized, articulate Public comes into being. The highest and most difficult kind of inquiry and a subtle, delicate, vivid and responsive art of communication must take possession of the physical machinery of transmission and circulation and breathe life into it. When the machine age has thus perfected its machinery it will be a means of life and not its despotic master. Democracy will come into its own, for democracy is a name for a life of free and enriching communion. It had its seer in Walt Whitman. It will have its consummation when free social inquiry is indissolubly wedded to the art of full and moving communication.

We have only briefly touched on the conditions needed for the Great Society to become a Great Community. In such a society, people would fully understand the ever-expanding, intricately branching effects of activities carried out together. This understanding would allow an organized Public with a clear voice to emerge. The most advanced and demanding inquiry must take control of the physical machinery for transmitting and circulating information. So must an art of communication that is subtle, sensitive, vivid, and responsive. Together, inquiry and communication must breathe life into that machinery. When the machine age has perfected its machinery in this way, the machinery will serve life rather than rule it. Democracy will then reach its full potential, for democracy means a life of free and enriching connection with others. Democracy had its visionary in Walt Whitman. Democracy will reach its fullest expression when free social inquiry is inseparably joined with the art of full, moving communication.