How Best to Rule
Although Machiavelli is very often seen as a bad man, he is without a peer when it comes to teaching us how best to rule, a formulation designed to be ambiguous. I will bracket (at least for now) recent scholarship on the Florentine’s republicanism—that is, the Machiavelli of The Discourses, the prophet of active citizenship and liberty—so as to concentrate on the adviser to princes. The Prince is concerned most of all with how to hold new territory, from which derive various principles of rule that led to Machiavelli gaining his reputation for evil. I have always had a divided view about this. On the one hand, there is a very great deal to be said for the view that politics is not moral, that its language is violence, and that it is a mistake to enter this world with a view to saving one’s soul. In this matter Machiavelli’s great descendants are Max Weber and Raymond Aron, both of whom wrote on the nature of the political with enormous force.1 On the other hand, and perhaps because of this very understanding, it seems to me that there is much to approve morally in some of the points made by this purportedly bad man. Machiavelli is right to insist that it is dangerous to seek to please too easily, to dispense goodies of one sort or another to the extent of bankrupting the state, thereby leading to arbitrary policies later on that are likely to create resentment and opposition. The more general point that Machiavelli makes in connection with this is that—to use modern words—politics do not matter most of the time for most citizens. Hence, any injury, any act of visceral coercion, should be inflicted at the start of a period of rule, so that it can then be forgotten during the extended periods of benign and regular stability that can follow.
This is the insight that leads to the call for civility in political life. The principle is best stated bluntly: political integration is the best route to order because softer political rule de-radicalizes. Civility is desirable, to put the point with reference to another supposedly nasty theorist, for Hobbesian reasons. Let me try to prove this case with reference to the entry of the people onto the political stage, both as classes and nations.
The most obvious, appropriate, and helpful place to begin when considering class is with Karl Marx, the greatest theorist of socialism. His expectation, and that of most Marxists in the years before the First World War, was clear: workers had no countries and so would inevitably be forced to unite as a solidarity class because of the inherent contradictions of the capitalist mode of production. In retrospect, we can see that the decision of workers to fight for their countries in 1914 was the first piece of writing on the wall that indicated the limits to the secular religion that is Marxism. But what matters here is something entirely different—namely, the variation in working-class behavior in the years before the onset of war.
Let us construct an imaginary scale of radicalism or political consciousness—as we must if we wish to be true to historical experience—and then turn to an explanation of its character.2 At one end of such a scale is the United States, bereft of any mass socialist movement then and now. More radicalism is apparent in British politics with the emergence of the Labour Party in the early years of the twentieth century. But the radicalism of British workers was not deep, as can be seen by looking at two cases at the other end of the scale. Marx’s greatest hopes were reserved for German workers, which is not surprising, as they possessed genuine political consciousness, expressed in 1912 in the electoral surge of the Socialist Party. Samuel Gompers and Arthur Henderson knew of Marxist ideas but resisted them as foreign and dangerous; in contrast, Marx’s ideas were well known to many manual workers in Germany. Still, the farthest point on the scale belongs to Russian rather than to German workers. The point can be made straightforwardly: the workers of Saint Petersburg and Moscow put up barricades in the streets in 1917, which created the situation of dual power, famously described by Trotsky in his History of the Russian Revolution. These workers were genuinely revolutionary, prepared to act without intellectual guidance, and clearly less respectable and orderly than their German colleagues. These staccato points lead to a single conclusion: Marx was wrong, even for his own time. There was no single working class, but rather working classes of particular countries. Let us see by country what was involved so that the variation can then be properly explained.
Workers in the United States were militant at the industrial level but lacked any alternative political consciousness because the state was, so to speak, their own: virtually all white males in the United States gained the vote in the 1830s, the age of Andrew Jackson. Doubtless there were other factors: class solidarity was undermined by immigrant labor, while one should not discount Werner Sombart’s insistence that socialism in America drowned on the reefs of roast beef and apple pie.3 Still, the other cases suggest that the nature of the political regime is the key variable. Thus, in Britain the moderation encouraged by the granting of trade union rights, but not votes for all manual workers, was interrupted by the 1902 Taff Vale court decision, which seemed to threaten them. The Labour Party resulted from this moment of putative repression. But any further move toward greater radicalism was prevented by the softer regime of the Liberal governments in the decade before the war, not least in its restoration of union rights. Equally, regime behavior best explains the radical cases. Antisocialist laws in Germany from 1878–90 meant that workers were forced to take on the state precisely because their industrial rights were curtailed. But imperial Germany was a Rechtsstaat, and this encouraged legalistic, respectable politics. Imperial Russia was, of course, very different, autocratic and arbitrary rather than merely authoritarian. The fact that one might be shot for distributing leaflets encouraging a strike meant that the regime had to be destroyed. A necessary caution must be entered here, not least as it so massively supports the general argument. Adapting a phrase of Sartre helps capture the point. Russian workers had existences rather than any single essence. When the regime seemed open to the granting of rights, as in the early part of the century, radicalism declined markedly.4 Lenin in effect wrote about those moments in What Is to Be Done?, his classic 1903 analysis of workers who were lacking political consciousness and so stuck in economism that a vanguard party was necessary if revolution was to be achieved. It was the abrupt ending of such political openings that drove workers to revolution without, as Lenin had suggested, the intervention of a vanguard party of intellectuals.
What is going on is clear. Workers jumped at the chance of reform rather than revolution, preferring to gain industrial benefits through union activity rather than risk being shot at on the barricades. So the character of working-class movements derived more from the nature of the political regime with which they interacted than from capitalist social relations. From this derives the point that matters: political inclusion contained—even tamed—working-class demands. It takes a very great deal to make working classes radical, let alone revolutionary—indeed, I can only really think of Russian workers before 1914, Protestant workers in Northern Ireland setting up barricades against power-sharing agreements in 1974, and the Polish workers of Solidarity as true political agents. Clearly, it is not capitalism that occasions violent conflict from below.
Two qualifications need to be made concerning the highly simplified picture that has been presented. The first is historical. Elite treatment of working classes changed markedly after the First World War, with fascist regimes sometimes seeking to mobilize rather than to contain popular pressure. The second qualification concerns liberalism itself. It is important to remember that there were in fact two sides to liberal behavior. If one side allowed entry into politics, another side was capable of extreme viciousness toward small groups of extremists. The British state sent Chartist leaders to Australia, while worker deaths in the United States in the nineteenth century were second only to those in czarist Russia.5 This complete strategy of liberalism in practice—at once offering an opening to the many while seeking to crush the few—is, of course, entirely in accord with the spirit of The Prince.
The same structure of argument applies to nations as to classes. In this intellectual field, we most certainly face an essentialist definition of nationalism, and one of great power and interest.6 Ernest Gellner, the greatest theorist of nationalism, was wont to claim that one should assimilate or get one’s own state, given that the only remaining alternative was to be killed. It is not hard to see that such a view derives from a thinker with a Jewish background (or, to be precise, with a Jewish background imposed upon him) who had experienced the full horrors of the twentieth century’s darkest continent.7 Hence, his definition of nationalism stresses the need for each state to have a single culture, and each culture to have its own state. But this is not correct, at least in the terms that Gellner had set for himself, that is, as a general theory of nationalism. A superior alternative view stresses the very varied arrangements that have allowed different ethnicities and nations to live together in peace. The key principle here is very clear, and it is best expressed in terms of Albert Hirschman’s Exit, Voice and Loyalty.8 When a nation is denied voice—that is, when it is faced by a state that denies it cultural rights and political representation—secessionist exit becomes attractive, even necessary. Allowing voice, in contrast, can produce loyalty, thereby undermining secessionist drives. This is to say that different nations can live under a single political roof, as long as institutions and rights are established that allow the nations to prosper and survive. The key point that deserves emphasis here concerns the drivers of nationalism. Gellner had secession in mind in his famous parable of Ruritanians seeking to escape from Megalomania. But it was the behavior of Megalomania when trying to build a nation-state out of disparate elements—that is, of the elite, often radical in character—that helped to create demands for secession. Once again the character of movements resulted from the nature of the state with which they interacted. Some illustrations help make this clear.
One can begin with the classic case of the Czechs in the nineteenth century.9 There was nothing inevitable about the creation of a Czech nation-state. Very much to the contrary, virtually every Czech national leader in the nineteenth century merely sought for cultural autonomy under the protection of the Hapsburgs. The logic to this position was very clearly articulated by František Palacký in 1848 when arguing for a Slav Congress in Prague—in opposition, of course, to the liberal meeting held in Frankfurt at that time. The Czechs feared being absorbed by Germany and were quite as afraid of Russia. If Austria did not exist, Palacký argued, it would have been necessary to invent her. The Czech national movement was not particularly radical; that is, it did not seek independence, so long as there was sufficient hope that the Hapsburgs would allow for cultural autonomy within their empire. For long periods there was every reason to believe that such hopes were realistic: linguistic and educational rights were granted, as was a measure of self-government. In the last analysis, however, the Hapsburgs balked at the granting of real autonomy: in the early years of the First World War it became clear that the constitutional monarchy for which the Czechs longed was to be denied. It was these circumstances that finally convinced Tomáš Masaryk that national independence had to be sought.
Even cursory reference to other cases makes it clear that there is nothing peculiar about the Czechs. I have been witness to exactly the same considerations in Quebec. The core liberalism of the Canadian state makes it very hard indeed to mobilize sufficient support for genuine independence, especially now that the French language is securely protected in Quebec. This is not to say that secession is impossible. What would be needed to create secession—and what independentist leaders continually seek—is some insult, some moment of repression that will make those who wobble believe that voice is denied to such an extent that exit has become absolutely necessary. The gut instinct, so far at least, of the rest of Canada has been to offer accommodations and defuse the situation with endless fuzzy civility. The same cards seem to be present in the relations between Scotland and England. Scottish nationalism gained some force as the result of the long period of interventions, especially in local government, of a Conservative government for which Scots had not voted. Devolution defused the situation, albeit Tony Blair’s idiotic comment that real powers were not involved undermined the sensible accommodations being institutionalized. So the Scots, like the Quebecois, now have rights and multiple identities, and only normally wish for more if they can maintain existing links. They wish, to make use of an old Quebecois joke, for total independence within a united country. This can change, but only if pressure from the majority forces the minority into a corner from which it feels it must escape.
The general view being put forward is sufficiently novel as to deserve restatement by recalling the sociological insights of Ralf Dahrendorf’s Class and Class Conflict in Industrial Societies. Dahrendorf’s opposition to the Parsonian view of societies as held together by normative consensus led him to produce a series of abstract propositions about the nature of social conflict. The particular claim of interest here concerns the intensification of conflict. A single conflict is, so to speak, trivial and manageable. Real intensity results when different types of conflict are layered on top of one another.10 An example given by Dahrendorf himself remains useful. French society has seen intense political conflict because religious and political divisions were layered on top of each other. To be on the left meant that one would inevitably be anticlerical, for those on the right received the backing of the Catholic Church. The underlying point remains that conflict diffuses through society unless state actions concentrate matters. Differently put, political civility can defuse tensions throughout society, thereby creating fundamental political stability.
Dahrendorf’s principle can easily be illustrated with reference to the field with which he was purportedly concerned; namely, that of modern class conflict. Consider Solidarity. The fact that Polish workers were not allowed to have their own unions meant that they had to “take on” the state, because politics and economics were combined in actually existing socialism. The extraordinary consequence of this was that a group of workers in a nearly defunct industry did a very great deal to destroy the socialist state of Poland—thereby putting one of the nails in the Soviet model, and perhaps in socialism more generally. The point being made—that conflict diffuses through society unless it is artificially concentrated—can be reinforced by considering class conflict in modern Britain. I remember claiming in the early Thatcher years that any massive increase in unemployment caused by her policies would surely lead to protest on a very large scale. Unemployment surged, but without much popular reaction. The answer to this conundrum lay most immediately in the fact that the unemployed lost union support, and tended moreover to be older—together with the state’s intelligent provision of various social programs for the young. But something much larger was at issue. Social contracts between labor, capital, and the state have as a side effect the politicizing of industrial relations—they make the state responsible for levels of employment and give workers the right of access to political power. Margaret Thatcher abolished this connection, the world of “beer and sandwiches” in Downing Street: levels of employment resulted from the impersonal forces of global capitalism, held to be beyond the power of any state to control.11
That the principle in question has reached beyond the sociology of classes and nations can be shown by a cursory look at important recent work on the sociology of revolutions. The flavor of such work is neatly captured in the title of a leading treatise in the field, Jeff Goodwin’s No Other Way Out.12 Being shot at, tortured, and imprisoned is so terrifying that people seek to avoid it at all costs. But when it is not possible to escape such treatment, and when life can be dangerous in any case, people do become revolutionaries. The absence of the ability to participate in politics turns people into revolutionaries: normal politics is consequently a safety valve, diminishing the intensity of conflict. A member of the traditional elite of his society, Václav Havel only moved into outright opposition because there was no other way to be heard. The analytic point is clear: mere social relations do not explain the incidence of revolution. Thus, capitalist social relations and/or levels of poverty in Central America cannot explain the incidence of revolution for the simple reason that these conditions were essentially similar throughout the region, with revolution occurring in some rather than in other countries, for example, in Nicaragua rather than in Costa Rica. One factor that explains this should now be obvious to us: Costa Rica has a long history of liberal politics, in contrast to the Nicaragua of Somoza—which excluded and so radicalized another member of another elite family, Daniel Ortega. If here, too, the basic principle of civility in politics gains support, it is important to note that Goodwin’s complete account pays attention to one further factor. Liberalism most certainly did not characterize Salvador, but that country avoided revolution. What distinguished Salvador from Nicaragua was the presence of genuinely meritocratic, and truly vicious, forces of coercion, in contrast to the nepotistic, “Sultanist” arrangements within Nicaragua. Pure force can sustain a regime, leading in the Salvadorean case to a period of brutal civil war. Nonetheless, the Weberian point—that force is less stable in the long run than legitimate power—remains true, with contemporary Salvador gaining real stability only in the last years when liberal openings have been created.
Let us turn away from these considerations and back to the historical record. It takes but a moment to realize how terribly Europe managed the entry of the people onto the political stage. Workers were radicalized in both imperial Germany and imperial Russia, which caused political difficulties in the former and a revolution in the latter that led to horrors that have still not been fully recorded. Nationalism was equally radicalized by state behavior. If nationalism was not the sole cause of war in 1914, it certainly added to the range and intensity of conflict within Europe during its darkest days, between 1914 and 1945. The principle of one culture per state was fulfilled only by means of population transfer, ethnic cleansing, and mass murder, all habitually carried out in the midst of the fog of war. There is thus something altogether odd about Europe seeing itself as a fount of wisdom, prepared to offer advice to the developing world. All in all, the elites of Europe exemplified human folly at its worst.
Nonetheless, Europe has now firmly established liberal democratic rule, and it is important to locate some elements of that achievement before turning to one surprising but very substantial achievement of some parts of the developing world. A foundation of the stability established by postwar European liberal democracy has been the role played by the United States. European history has been witness to endless wars of an increasingly destructive character in the industrial age. The United States solved Europe’s security problem—and solves it still.13 Beyond this, however, are factors internal to Europe itself. Two world wars provided the incentive, particularly on the part of the Franco-German condominium, to create that greater level of international cooperation within Europe that is the European Union. Here we have a second historic moment akin to the accords that ended the Thirty Years’ War, when the experience of horror combined with stalemate led to the (re-)creation of civility. France had suffered three invasions from Germany in a single lifetime, and so changed its tactics—it could not win, so it embraced instead. And this symbolized the calculations of most European states, realizing that doing less, ceasing to seek to be complete power containers, created more.14 Further, civil politics emerged from the discrediting of the extreme Left and the extreme Right, that is, of those forces that sought to make virtue the business of the state. The defeat of fascism was so total as to discredit it completely, with Christian democracy perhaps doing more than any other force to cement liberalism in postwar Europe. The extreme Left was not defeated in battle in the same manner; rather, the undermining of communist parties in Europe in the immediate postwar years had a good deal to do with American interventionist policies, but it was largely discredited by the events of 1956, and wholly so by the suppression of the Prague Spring. In these circumstances class compromise was possible, blessed above all by the golden years of economic growth characteristic of the belle epoque of postwar Europe.15
Europeans have a right to be proud of these postwar achievements. But pride most certainly should not be excessive, as we can see if we turn from class to nation. There are achievements in this area as well. Geopolitical order has allowed states to be less unitary, with real autonomy being granted to regions of Britain and Spain. But the fundamental reason for the diminution of conflict over the national question is altogether brutal. The national question no longer exists in most of Europe: it was “solved” by the horrors of twentieth-century politics. Before 1914 perhaps sixty million Europeans lived in states ruled by people not cocultural with themselves. This was reduced to perhaps twenty million by the creation of new states in 1918 and 1919.16 Still, many of those states had significant minorities within them, and it took the Second World War to establish near-complete national homogeneity in Central and Eastern Europe. We have, of course, witnessed the continuation of this dreadful history in the third set of Balkan wars that followed the dissolution of Yugoslavia.
It is at this point that one can point to a marvelous development present in some parts of the developing world. The almost total inability of Europeans to create political regimes within which different nations can live and prosper stands in marked contrast to the situation elsewhere. The classic and most important example is that of India, whose situation is best understood with reference to the political scientist David Laitin’s superlative work on linguistic repertoires.17 Active Indian citizenship requires linguistic capacity in three plus or minus one languages. Two languages that are clearly necessary are those of Hindi and English, both of which have all-India official status. But most people live within states that have their own language—for example, Tamil for Tamil Nadu. One needs capacity in only two languages when one’s state is Hindi-speaking, but four languages if one happens to be a minority in a non-Hindi-speaking state, such as Tamil Nadu. Language is, of course, but one factor; still, it is a vital symbol, making India’s success very remarkable indeed.18 Some details and qualifications need to be added to this picture.19 Support is given to the picture painted of India by the rather different behavior of that state in Kashmir: authoritarian rule there exacerbates secessionist feelings. In contrast, Tamil nationalism lost its secessionist drive because of the granting of rights.20 Still, it is thanks to the observation of the principle of civility that this great part of the developing world has not followed the pattern of Europe’s past. Accordingly, tens of millions of people have avoided violent deaths. The pacifying effects of civility on the part of the state are confirmed once again, but a crucial misunderstanding must be avoided. Though there are a significant number of countries in the developing world that operate with linguistic regimes not dissimilar to those of India, there is no denying the fact that many other states have sought to copy the European route of national homogenization, often with disastrous consequences. But India shows that a better way to rule is a possibility.
These comments about language suggest a final look at the European situation. The European Union more or less possesses a linguistic regime similar to that of India, a two plus or minus one repertoire—the language of one’s state plus English comprising the standard two, minus that if one is English, with a third language necessary if one is a minority within all national states except for Great Britain.21 For that reason, there is a sense in which Europe has now become an Austria-Hungary that works—in part, though, because it has few geopolitical ambitions that would require unitary statehood. But it takes just a moment to realize that problems remain within Europe. Languages can be learned, allowing several nations to live under the same political roof, but class factors can play a role within nationalism. Specifically, it is not easy to be truly fluent in another language, with capacities in writing as well as speaking. Class advantage, the ability to take holidays in other countries and to send one’s children to summer schools in such countries, helps create linguistic repertoires. One form of nationalism that seems to have gained prominence in the early years of the new millennium is that of the excluded, that is, those whose class background makes them wish to preserve the benefits of traditional nation-states. Tensions are developing between internationalism and domestic social cohesion. Civility in political life faces considerable new challenges that will require rethinking of some of its core components.22
In conclusion, let me return to theoretical matters. The main claim has been that civil society “normally” operates according to its own logic, the insistence that political consciousness is created by the demands of an interfering state, and the discovery that inclusion can defang or contain radicalism. One thinker who stands close to the general argument is Max Weber. He was well aware that German workers had been turned in a radical direction by the regime’s antisocialist laws, and his views on a reconstructed Germany made it quite clear that he thought a measure of inclusion would make them loyal to the regime.23 It might seem that this makes him an exemplar of the position advocated here, but this is not quite so, for Weber despised political passivity. If workers had been unnecessarily radicalized, his fundamental belief was that loyalty to Germany should be active rather than passive—through endorsement of the national principle that he himself held so dear. More generally, his view of democracy emphasized the importance of charismatic leadership, the highlighting of which would allow movement rather than stagnation in a society. There is also some resonance of the argument with the views of Tocqueville. As we will see in chapter 9, the great French liberal certainly stressed in multiple ways that social forces gain their character from the nature of the states within which they are embedded. A rather neglected example of this concerns civil associations. These were dangerous in France, as they were conspiratorial and convinced of their right to rule, whereas in the United States they served as the training ground for responsible citizenship. The difference was easily explained. When associations were forced underground, they became radicalized and prone to believe that they represented the popular will; such delusions were removed by openness, which transmitted a sense of reality.24 But Tocqueville has severe and understandable misgivings about the position advocated, as we can see by turning to its great weakness.
The case that has been made is not altogether nice, being, so to speak, left-handed or paradoxical in endorsing practices almost in opposition to the spirit in which they were created and for which they were intended. Perhaps this does not matter. Surely it is better to be intellectually powerful than politically correct, especially in an intellectual environment in which hope so often triumphs over historical experience. But it is also good to note the fundamental presupposition that civil society can and will operate on its own, if the state allows that to happen. This is accurate sociology in normal times. But times are not always normal. The classic instance of this not being so is, of course, that of Weimar Germany. Political order could not be achieved passively, by allowing economic growth to paper over political cracks. In these circumstances, the lack of positive enthusiasm came to matter. So in the end we are returned to the Machiavelli of the Discourses, and to Tocqueville’s great warning about self-interest properly understood.25 Negative rule is not always enough.
This is a good moment to consider the criticism of the general argument made by Ralph Schroeder in his important An Age of Limits: Social Theory for the 21st Century.26 He draws a contrast between the radicalism present in the work of Michael Mann and the liberalism argued for here, and suggests that the former has a structural base in working-class movements that the latter altogether lacks. There is both exaggeration and truth here. There is probably less difference between these two positions than is suggested. The working class is no longer much of a structural base, while I am totally happy, as the comment made about negative rule indicates, to acknowledge the contributions made by those who struggled for citizenship. What matters for both parties he identifies is the importance of political struggle within bounds; neither romanticizes revolution. Further, it will become clear that I am certainly at one with Mann in a different matter, believing that much social change results from geopolitical outcomes rather than from domestic social life. But Schroeder is correct when insisting that civility has no secure structural base. That is a core presumption of this book: when we have it, we should cherish it. This is not to say that this book is bereft of advocacy or totally without any thought as to forces that strengthen and extend civility. On the contrary, civil behavior by elites has crucial societal consequences, and it can be recommended on the grounds of self-interest. And one can go a little further. Adam Smith’s emphasis on the crucial importance of human capital seems even more relevant as production structures change, with knowledge becoming more relevant as well. Necessity is never necessarily the mother of invention; rather, changes have to be recognized for responses to be made. But at times one can see elite intelligence in action, based on the recognition of necessity: Danish elites, for example, seem determined to include the people within society, to make social democracy increasingly more effective, so that their small nation can survive.27 Larger states are less vulnerable, and they possess more power, so desirable changes in political economy are by no means uniform. And against optimism must be set those occasions when one sees political elites acting with absolute folly, as in 1914 and perhaps now in Europe when imposing austerity in a way that will, for sure, prove to be self-defeating. This last thought simply underlines the fact that civility is not guaranteed.
1 M. Weber, “Politics as a Vocation,” in From Max Weber, ed. H. H. Gerth and C. W. Mills ([1919] New York: Oxford University Press, 1948); R. Aron, Mémoires (Paris: Julliard, 1983), 22–23.
2 This scale is based on M. Mann, The Sources of Social Power, vol. 2, The Rise of Classes and Nation-States, 1760–1914 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), chapters 15, 17, and 18.
3 I. Katznelson and A. Zolberg, eds., Working-Class Formation: Nineteenth-Century Patterns in Western Europe and the United States (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1988); W. Sombart, Why Is There No Socialism in the United States? ([1906] London: Macmillan, 1976).
4 T. McDaniel, Autocracy, Capitalism and Revolution in Russia (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988).
5 Mann, Sources, chapters 15 and 18.
6 E. A. Gellner, Nations and Nationalism (Oxford: Blackwell, 1983).
7 J. A. Hall, Ernest Gellner: An Intellectual Biography (London: Verso, 2010).
8 A. O. Hirschman, Exit, Voice and Loyalty: Response to Decline in Firms, Organizations and States (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1970).
9 P. Bugge, Czech Nation-Building, National Self-Perception and Politics, 1780–1914 (Aarhus: University of Aarhus, 1994).
10 R. Dahrendorf, Class and Class Conflict in Industrial Societies (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1959), chapter 6.
11 K. Bradley and A. Gelb, “The Radical Potential of Cash Nexus Breaks,” British Journal of Sociology 31 (1980).
12 J. Goodwin, No Other Way Out: States and Revolutionary Movements, 1945–91 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001).
13 J. A. Hall, “Europe: Banalities of Success,” in International Relations Theory and Regional Transformation, ed. T. V. Paul (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012).
14 A. Milward, The European Rescue of the Nation-State (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992).
15 A. Milward, The Reconstruction of Western Europe, 1945–51 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984).
16 M. Mann, “The Dark Side of Democracy: The Modern Tradition of Ethnic and Political Cleansing,” New Left Review, no. 235 (1999): 33.
17 D. Laitin, Language Repertoires and State Construction in Africa (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993).
18 No claim is being made that the liberalism of language policy is the only factor responsible for political stability in India. The presence of an army that remains the backbone of the state, as well as a measure of unity bred by participation in a mass nationalist movement, clearly have enormous significance as well.
19 A. Stepan, J. Linz, and Y. Yadav, Crafting State-Nations: India and Other Multinational Democracies (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2011).
20 N. Subramanian, Ethnicity and Popular Mobilization: Party Politics and Democracy in South India (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999).
21 D. Laitin, “The Cultural Identities of a European State,” Politics and Society 25 (1997).
22 J. A. Hall, “Nationalism Might Change Its Character, Again,” in Nationalism and Globalisation: Conflicting or Contemporary?, ed. D. Halikiopoulou and S. Vasilopoulou (London: Routledge, 2012).
23 M. Weber, “Parliament and Government in a Reconstructed Germany,” in his Economy and Society, ed. and trans. G. Roth and C. Wittich ([1922] Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978).
24 A. de Tocqueville, Democracy in America, trans. H. Mansfield and D. Winthrop ([1835 and 1840] Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000), 170–71.
25 Ibid., 514–17.
26 R. Schroeder, An Age of Limits: Social Theory for the 21st Century (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013).
27 J. L. Campbell and J. A. Hall, “Defending the Gellnerian Premise: Denmark in Historical and Comparative Perspective,” Nations and Nationalism 16 (2010).