Essay

The rhetoric of reaction

RHETORIC WAS UNDERSTOOD by Aristotle to include those many, often refined, techniques of argumentation unavoidable in domains of life, such as politics and law, where persuasion is necessary but conclusive demonstration is unavailable. It is unavoidable, significant and there are good and bad forms of it. As Samuel Goldwyn might observe, however, we've passed a lot of water since then. Today, "rhetoric" is almost always spoken of pejoratively, and more often than not, dismissively: words without weight ("empty rhetoric"), which add nothing but adornment ("mere rhetoric"). If, in Australia, it is already suspicious to be eloquent, it is unpardonable to be rhetorical.

What I have in mind is somewhere between the refined and the corrupt. The sorts of rhetoric I discuss here are significant, but none of them is to be recommended. Certainly, they are all about persuasion. I'm not a fan of them, but they're not "mere" hot air, or sweet words, or just style as opposed to substance. Indeed, they're not mere anything and they are far from empty. They have their role and significance in public debate.

On the other hand, my usage follows the modern debased understanding, in disapproving of them. For their contributions to "the conversation of citizens", while real, are of a specific, negative, sort. In particular, they include ways of framing issues, resolving them, and avoiding them that block conversations rather then further them. The sort of conversational contribution, perhaps, that the American novelist Ring Lardner had in mind in one of his character's response to a question from his grandchild: "Shut up, he explained".

And I am concerned not just with any rhetoric but quite specifically with that which I take to be the specific progeny of reaction. And though the word "reaction" in the bad sense is itself a highly rhetorical term in public debate, I mean, in the first instance, something quite specific: a responsea "re-action" to claims or views that assault, or give affront to, something one holds dear. Or are understood to do so.

In this sense reaction can go in any political direction. White Australians can respond in reactionary ways to attacks, or what they take to be attacks, upon what they value in their society; so, too, Aborigines to denigration, or what they take to be denigration, of what they value in theirs. In fact, I don't think there is anything in principle wrong with the motivation that fuels reaction in this sense. Though I will be focusing on its dangers, it is not necessarily ignoble. Indeed its opposite might be. Recall the French notice, sometimes said to have been seen in a Paris zoo: "Beware! This animal is vicious! When attacked it defends itself." Often it happens in public debate that one feels something to which one is attached emotionally, personally, morally, intellectually, is being attacked, denigrated, sold short, treated with frivolous lack of seriousness, respect or concern. And often that is precisely what is happening. Feeling that, one can feel stungpersonally stung, and wish to sting backI've known such feelings. When I first thought of this essay, I conceived of it as a polemic, attacking, as one commonly attacks, the squalid activities of opponents. I have come to realise that part of the description that follows is self-description and part of my analysis is self-analysis.

 

AS IT HAPPENS, I was born, indeed in my particular case conceived, an anti-communist. The reasons were not only genealogical. Communism assaulted, often with ferocious intensity, almost all the things that seemed to me to matter– among them freedom, rights, civil society and the rule of law, not to mention telephones that work. And communists did so deliberately and typically without remorse. It is true, but scarcely adequate to say, that I thought that was a mistake. I hated it. Mine was a "reactionary" position, in this sense, if ever there was one, defined as it was in the first instance in terms of what it rejected. And I also deplored non-communist anti-anti-communists, plentiful in Australia, who, more rightly than they knew, considered me and mine reactionaries, at least in relation to them and in the sense I have in mind. One reason for my reaction, and for its heat, was what I took to be the contempt, the light-minded disdain, so often displayed for what seemed to me precious. That is one aspect of my life that I don't regret at all. In that case it served me well to be a reactionary.

Over the past couple of years, I have again recalled some of those reactionary emotions when I felt disturbed by what I took to be the visceral glee of some critics of the war in Iraq. For some, I suspected, the war provided a welcome release for an anti-Americanism that had been pent up with nowhere obvious to go since 1989. "At last!" I could imagine them saying.

There are, of course, many good reasons to criticise this war, and reaction of this sort often simply misses the point in relation to them. In this case I can't disavow the emotion, but I have come – though with some discomfort – to see that it is not always reliable. Unreflected upon, it might well lead anyone, and not only people I don't like, in the directions I will shortly describe. And so, though my particular criticisms here are not intended as self-criticism, they may well boomerang.

What I take to be the motivational source of reaction, then, seems to me defensible, and I will return to some implications of that at the end of these remarks. However, what matters then is what you do with it, and here what I've called the rhetoric of reaction is not the only way to do business, though it is readily available and the temptations to use it aren't small. Unfortunately, it is a distasteful but characteristic part of Australian public debate. And, though our debates seem especially rich with it, it is not only found here. I suspect the temptation to indulge in it will occur wherever and whenever the wound is deep to attachments that matter, sources of national identity prominent among them. So one will often find it, particularly in arguments over what Keith Windschuttle has aptly dubbed "the character of the nation". However, the extent to which that is all one finds, that it dominates public debate, varies. I suspect it is a useful index of the intellectual quality, openness to complexity, space available for conversation rather than noise and fumes, characteristic of a particular public culture. Its prominence is inversely related to these things. In the debates I'm concerned with, it's been extremely prominent, and I take that to speak ill of our public discourse.

In 2002 I wrote about two roughly simultaneous controversies that occurred in Australia and Poland over allegations taken to suggest a national connection with terrible wrongs allegedly done to members of national minorities. In Australia, of course, the broad context is that of debate about the history of white/Aboriginal relations; the more specific catalyst was the Bringing them home report. More recently, of course, we have had the Fabrication/Whitewash stoush. (The Fabrication of Aboriginal History, Keith Windschuttle, Macleay Press, 2002;., Whitewash. Robert Manne, edBlack Inc.,2003)[i] In Poland, the painful context is relations between ethnic Poles and Jews; the catalyst, in turn, a book, Neighbours by Jan Gross(Princeton University Press)[ii] that appeared in May 2000 about a massacre of the Jews of a small town by their Polish neighbours that took place in Nazi-occupied Poland in 1941. In both cases, the intensity and heat raised by these catalytic volumes were unanticipated and remarkable.

I was struck not merely by the existence of similar sorts of responses to allegations that shameful things occurred in these two contexts separated widely by time, space and subject, but also by the close similarities in the character of the moves here and there. The parallels are, I'm convinced, not accidental. Though few if any participants in either controversy had any knowledge of the other, and though the particulars alleged had different causes, characters and consequences, there was a sense in which the debate was in both places over the same thing: reaction to painful unsettlement of a certain myth of national rectitude.

At the end of  In Denial (Black Inc, 2001), Robert Manne asks a very simple question about child removals: "Why has so much energy been expended in the attempt to deny ... that a really terrible injustice occurred?"[iii] That is the meta-question of that debate and it can be generalised to the larger debate about white/Aboriginal relations. Here I am more concerned with how than why.

You might recall the scene in Monty Python's Holy Grail, where Sir Lancelot is welcomed by the host of a wedding party, many of whom, among them the bride-to-be's father, he has just dismembered. Over the protests of the survivors, the host reminds them: "This is supposed to be an 'appy occasion. Let's not bicker and argue about who killed who." This is a gambit often associated with those who say it only makes sense to concern ourselves with forward-looking "practical reconciliation", not to fuss about the past. That move was not available in Poland, by the way, since there were so few Jews left after the war, but it has been popular here. It's a classically reactionary move, since it is only ever heard in reaction to critiques of aspects of that past. No one has heard John Howard say, for example: "Let's not worry about Gallipoli. Let's just work out how to improve the lot of the Turks."

The rhetorical point of this is obvious. If successful, it makes it difficult, bad form even, to express concerns about the character of a nation's past. There is a difficulty with it, though. On its own, this plea for forgetfulness can only plausibly be made by people other than those who actually make it. Determined cosmopolitans, resolute citizens of the world, might really have no concern with the past doings of a particular nation. What's Gallipoli to them? But the people who make the claim in our public debates are commonly hostile to cosmopolitanism. They are patriots, proud of their past and, in other, celebratory, circumstances, voluble about it. As many people have pointed out, simple moral coherence requires shame for the shameful aspects of our past, from those proud of the prideful. Moreover, their acts betray their words. Much though they seek to minimise discussion of sad moments, they act as though it matters.

If questions about the past can't be quelled this way, the next reaction to disturbing allegations is simply to deny them. Of course, that is a legitimately available response if one has evaluated evidence and found it wanting, as Windschuttle claims to have done, but what is interesting is the speed with which reactors jumped to denial, of stolen children, of massacres – here or in Poland – immediately the allegations appeared. Both here and there, investigation of these things has not been easy or quick. And though Windschuttle's beliefs are well known, his first volume was not available for some time and later volumes aren't out yet, and his chorus of supporters didn't even wait for the first one, so quick off the mark were they after his first Quadrant article in 2000. So it's hard to know what the claims of his early and vociferous supporters, who had not done the research Windschuttle is still doing, were based on. Actually it is not so hard. Like an auto-immune system of a peculiarly hyperactive, allergic sort, if reaction to perceived threat or pain is allowed to operate undisciplined, it will simply seek to expel what unsettles it. Presumptive denial is simply sneezing in prose.

 

OF COURSE, DENIAL can't just stay presumptive, and there is no doubt that deniers do argue about evidence. Windschuttle says that is all that he does. But here a common strategy of reaction is what Dirk Moses has called "crazed positivism", that is insistence on standards of proof that commonly cannot be met, "the fetishisation of direct evidence to underwrite every historical conclusion", such as a demand that Hitler's signature on an order to exterminate Jews be produced, or eyewitness evidence corroborated of any allegation of murder, however implausible it might be to expect that. This is how Windschuttle can pretend to be so certain of his 118, now revised to 120, Tasmanian Aborigines killed, notwithstanding a later nonchalant oral admission that if we contemplate the addition of wounded Aborigines who might have died unseen, that figure might need to be doubled. No room here for murders unreported by their perpetrators, though. This sort of strategy has two appeals: first, it makes it hard to prove anything much happened, particularly in those circumstances when it was least likely to have been recorded; secondly, and more particularly, it makes the business of talking about the past pretty simple. No inferences necessary, no "convergence of evidence", no room for historical imagination, like that of Inga Clendinnen. Just counting of reassuringly small numbers.

Counting occurs in another common rhetorical trope, too. Often we are exhorted to recognise that there are more goods in our national "balance sheet" than bads, as though to recognise one involves denying the other. This allows one to acknowledge the possibility that bad things happened in our past, which might prove on occasion to be unavoidable, but to cancel them with the undoubted many good things that also happened. But historical goods and evils are not to be balanced in this way. To recognise one and the other is not to indulge in "black-armband history" or its opposite, but merely to show due recognition of the moral complexity that commonly exists in a nation's past. As Jerzy Jedlicki, a distinguished Polish historian, has put it: "What then counts in the general, nationwide balance sheet? Heroism or baseness? Compassion or a lack of mercy? Both count: there is no way one can subtract one from the other or offset one with the other. There will always be two separate ledgers." Or, as Jan Gross, the author of Neighbours that exposed the Jedwabne massacre, observes: "Simply put, after all, we are dealing here with a question of ethics, and not of accountancy."

There is another reason counting and ethics often part company. The bads you can count (like the goods) are often only a small part of what needs to be understood. Perhaps that is why there is so much focus on them. I am acquainted with a number of former communist countries. In recent years, there have been controversies over how many people were killed in them. There is a literature of debate about the figures in Robert Conquest's The Great Terror (1968), for example, and another one around the global estimates essayed in the Black Book of Communism (ed. Mark Kramer, Harvard University Press, 1999)These are important controversies, but they are also misleading, sometimes deliberately so. For they lead us away from the many ways that have nothing to do with killing, in which the communist system blighted lives. But there are no gravestones for those injuries.

 

AS OWEN HARRIES has pointed out, "comparsons may be odious and analogies tricky, but they are also indispensable". Discussing the war in Iraq, he draws analogies with the Suez Crisis, notwithstanding that "the analogy is not exact, of course. Analogies never are." Though analogies can't be exact, they can be intellectually and morally useful if they illuminate a subject by drawing parallels one might not have thought of without them. By contrast, they are useless or harmful if the parallels make no sense, or the differences are so great or important as to nullify them, or if their only point is to elevate or demean one's subject by bathing it in reflected glory or gore.

Critics of contentious policies or histories will often be drawn to analogies with events the evil of which needs no demonstration, to transfer our assessment of the example chosen to what they are actually criticising. Defenders of such policies or histories will resist such analogies. All this can go on in an intellectually respectable way, since analogies are made not found, and there will often be room for argument. But analogies can be usable rhetorically, as can rebuttal of them, for reasons neither intellectual nor moral. This has often been the case in the debased ways we invoke or condemn the invocation of the Holocaust and genocide in local arguments.

Analogies with the Holocaust have clouded discussions on all sides. According to Windschuttle, what is despicable about the "orthodox" historians of Australia is that they have led us to think of our history as on a par with Nazism. I agree with him that anyone who ventures such an analogy is playing with moral fire. Analogies with cataclysmic events, perhaps none more than the Holocaust, are among the rhetorical strategies that should always be handled with the greatest scrupulousness, sensitivity and care, equally for moral as for intellectual reasons. For such analogies are often cheap. When so, they are inexcusable. The moral stakes are too high. This does not mean that all comparisons with the Holocaust are illegitimate. That couldn't be the case, since even to deny similarity you need to compare. But identifications of different sorts of tragedy, which dissolve massive differences of quality, quantity, intention and manner of execution are, I would want to say, not merely foolish but sinful.

The Australian story is very far from Nazism. Tragic as the history of settlement has been for Aborigines, it is not a unique or unprecedented tragedy. Not even rare in human history. The Holocaust was. When I began trying, a few years ago, to get some measure of our history of settler-Aborigine relations I read the so-called "orthodox" historians, among them Reynolds and Rowley. So far as I noticed, they said nothing of the Holocaust. They talked of fear, of lack of policing and biased policing, of racist condescension and, on occasion, of murder. What they described gave plentiful reminders, not of Nazism, but of the old wisdom thatman is a wolf to manThere is not much consolation in the ordinariness of that fact but it remains true that there is little unimaginable in what happened here. Our difficulty has been to imagine that our sort had been involved in it, not that anyone could be. For we know that they often have been.

So Windschuttle is right to resist the analogy with Nazism. However, given that he does not offer up even one "orthodox" historian who makes the analogy, it seems odd to justify his three volumes as a debunking of it. Actually, as part of a rhetorical strategy, it's not at all odd. Since no one is caught in flagrante, some preparation is necessary, of course, and he gives it by making a quick leap from those historians he attacks to others, mainly journalists, who have used the analogy, so that the former come out as the organ grinders, the latter merely the monkeys. But if they didn't make the analogy, what is the attack on analogies with Nazism doing here? Alienating the reader from the enemy. And that's the point.

What is needed, and what the analogy wars exclude, is an intellectually and morally complex appraisal of the character of contacts, over long periods of time, between whites and Aborigines. It is likely that there was good and bad in those contacts, as Inga Clendinnen has sensitively and imaginatively demonstrated inDancing with Strangers (Text, 2003). It is also likely that tragedy was written into the script, whatever individuals did, as soon as whites determined to stay and proliferate here, pastoral industry became attractive, and so on. And it is likely, too, that many shameful things occurred, among them killing, forcible abduction of children and, of course, wholesale dispossession of land, which no one denies and which, even had it been done with exquisite politeness, spelt the birth of our way of life and the death of that of Aborigines.

There are many ways of behaving badly, leading to terrible consequences, that we know about because history is full of them, even though it is not full of Holocausts. Had defenders of "the character of the nation" been less concerned to deny what no one should sensibly say, and grapple with what is, at the same time, in parts a very happy and in others a very sad story, our public conversation might be in better shape than it is.

 

ANOTHER CONCEPT THAT often lends itself to inapt analogies, indeed often to the same analogies, is genocide. In some ways I wish the word had never been used in the Australian context. For it is very hard to discuss rationally, because of the passions it inflames and the comparisons it inevitably demands. It is also rarely, in my experience, discussed in good faith. Many who carelessly accuse white Australians of genocide trade on the association of the term with the Holocaust, to suggest some assimilation by analogy of the two. On the other hand, many out to deny there was genocide in our history focus on the word for a particular reason. Focusing on criticism of the analogy allows one to smear and then ignore claims that shameful, even dreadful, things occurred: it's not genocide, so we're home free. But it is not as simple as that.

The way the term figures in the rhetoric of reaction is similar to the way the Holocaust does, and for the same reason. We find it very hard, and many people see no reason to try, to think of genocide without assimilating it to its most dreadful example, where without doubt genocide occurred, but so did many other dreadful things. However, there is a sophisticated literature on genocide, much of which emphasises, as Hannah Arendt does, and following her Raimond Gaita and Robert Manne do, that we need some concept to capture the distinctive evil of trying to do away with a peoplewhich is a different aim from murderous resettlement of them or even from mass killings without that particular aim. If "genocide" is also linked with the Holocaust to do that work, even though the term was coined before the Holocaust occurred, then some other term is needed. The issue, in other words, is not disposed of; we are simply left with the need to find some other word and idea.[iv]

I fear that the concept is so drenched with Holocaust associations that it is no longer helpful to general public conversation, in contexts where that analogy is misplaced, even though the conceptual case for it is convincing. But that can be argued both ways. However, even this level of complexity is never broached by the rhetoric of reaction. No matter how often people who know something about genocide insist that this does not necessarily mean the Holocaust, that rhetoric sweeps these petty conceptual distinctions out of the way, immediately assimilates genocide to the Holocaust and thus blasts away anyone who would use that accursed word of anything that might have happened in this blessed land. And, since homogenisation of one's opponents is standard fare in these debates, often people who have never used the concept in relation to local events have been dismissed by extension, as it were. If they suggest shameful things happened in our past, they must be saying genocide, therefore Holocaust, therefore to hell with them.

 

DISCUSSIONS ABOUT REAL and false analogies are good ways of doing what false dichotomies are so often used to do: to polarise, and therefore simplify, intellectual and moral options. Targeting extremes to avoid dealing with unexceptional but complex mixtures of good motives and bad, good consequences and tragic ones, ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances, is part of the elimination of complexity so characteristic of these debates and of our time.

Excessive simplification is often just a problem of intelligence, in moral matters at times of innocence, at others of Manichaean zealotry. But it is a rhetorical resource, too. For if choices can be sufficiently reduced – preferably in Schmittian fashion to one: ours versus theirs – all you need, to leave the former standing, is to knock over the latter. And so our debates have gone.

Often, this sort of polarisation takes the form of Manichaean myth-making, with  debates over our past presented as a highly scripted Manichaean drama, with its two characters, negative images of each other, locked in battle. The drama is heightened by certain rules of the genre: each character is portrayed in stark contrast: black-white, no shades of grey. They must be mutually exclusive: no partly this, partly that, will do. They must exhaust the field: no other possibilities, nothing else, nothing more, and they must be polar opposites. In Fabrication, the protagonists are a black myth – Holocaust, genocide – generated by a gang of "orthodox" historians who apparently all speak with one voice in maligning our national character, versus a "white myth", aka the truth – a quest to civilise brought down by its putative beneficiaries – which you have to be a hero like Windschuttle or P. P. McGuinness to voice. If not A, then B. End of story.

There are other ways of doing this. One way is to reject this sort of caricatured set of polarisations and face common and often tragic complexities, where good and evil come together, even involve each other, where harm can be done even by people who don't mean to (though harms were also done by people who did mean to), where the situation is good for some and bad for others, and good for some because bad for others, all at the same time. Instead, a common ploy of reactionary rhetoric is to fabricate – only in order to denigrate – a paranoid construction of the "enemy", and offer its mirror image as a substitute.

A focus on prohibited analogies and false dichotomies often follows the model of the Irish question, as described by the authors of 1066 and All That (Methuen 1931)[v].  They explained that Gladstone, "spent his declining years trying to guess the answer to the Irish Question; unfortunately, whenever he was getting warm, the Irish secretly changed the Question". And so, many Australians have worried whether something worrying might have happened in the nation's past – indeed at its state-and-nation building core – something with which we might feel some moral connection, shame, some sort of responsibility even. That is a large question, to which many events, predicaments and circumstances, are relevant. If the conversation can be redirected, particularly if a questionable part can be represented as the whole, then one can easily forget why the discussion began, leaving the questions, which have caused many of us anxiety, unanswered and unattended.

A recent example of the Irish question in operation is a warm review of Windschuttle's Fabrication by Neil McInnes who explains that though, in colonial encounters, "murders were not uncommon, usually as revenge for livestock rustling or crop burning ... they are not the theme of the story of settlement".[vi] They are not, because even without them, Aboriginal populations would have been decimated, mainly by introduced diseases. But it is interesting to ask, what would it mean to say they were "the theme of the story of settlement"? Even to suggest that they were the central reason for the decimation of Aboriginal populations makes no sense, at least where these populations were large. Take the Australian debate. Windschuttle, after all, takes greatest umbrage at the estimates of 20,000 Aborigines killed between 1788 and the late 1920s, suggested independently by Henry Reynolds and Richard Broome. He believes the figure was far less. But even if we stay with the allegedly gross exaggerations of Reynolds and Broome, we have an estimate of 20,000 killed over about 130 years or, on average, about 150 per year. That being only a fraction of the drop in population, it can't even begin to rate as "the theme" of it. But by now the discussion has been hijacked. What began as a complex and multifaceted tragedy, which involved wholesale dispossession of land and, in fairly short order, destroyed a whole way of life and continued in myriad ways with catastrophic effects, is reduced to the question whether the primary cause of drops in Aboriginal populations was murder. Who can remember what we started with?

Interestingly, having driven out complexity in these ways, this polarising strategy allows a bit of it back, in a rhetorically disarmed form. Thus, having concentrated one's fire on the possibility of genocide, one can then admit in a rhetorically minor key that – to be sure, no one would deny, it goes without saying etc – some unfortunate things actually happened. Almost every reactionary rhetorician does this some way through their polemics (though rarely at the start of them, but only when the damage has been done). This sort of concession works according to the semantic logic once identified by Ernest Gellner, when he observed that "the English expression ‘to be sure' belongs to the interesting class of phrases like ‘I would be the last to suggest', which mean the opposite of what they seem to mean". More simply, this sort of concession, coming as it always does after the head kicking has been done, just works to establish one's credentials as a regular guy. By the time the concession comes, it is calculated to do no harm in the main game, dwarfed as it must be by the rhetorical demolition of much larger fry.

 

 

THERE ARE OTHER FORMS of reactionary rhetoric that i could mention, but the general idea is plain. The rhetoric of reaction is a device intended not to further the flow of a conversation of citizens, but to dam it up or redirect it into unthreatening channels. Where it is the characteristic mode of intervention, it should, I believe, be exposed and criticised.

And, yet, I began by professing sympathy with the motivation to react to attacks on things to which one is understandably, and often rightly, attached. It is that motivation that fuels the rhetoric I've been describing or, perhaps more accurately, ensures that whatever the motives of perpetrators of reactionary rhetoric, it doesn't always fall on deaf ears. Perhaps nothing will open the ears or eyes of the rhetoricians I have mentioned and perhaps not all who listen to them are persuadable either. Nevertheless, I take it to be a regulative ideal of conversation, as distinct from wars of words, that the possibility of dialogue is presumed. What is needed, then, for real engagement in conversation?

One answer can be stated in simple, even banal, terms: a conversation necessarily has more than one party, and it is a peculiarity of the participants' engagement, as distinct from a monologue, a harangue, a tirade, a shouting match, that they treat each other with respect. What might that involve, particularly when passions are high and moral energies charged? I don't have clear answers to this, nor have I always behaved consistently with such answers as I do have. But I would at least insist on this: there is a rhetoric of critique that can easily provoke the rhetoric of reaction, as a mirror does a reflection. It has nothing better to be said for it than its opposite. It relentlessly moralises about what the other with equal determination seeks to sanitise, exaggerates what the other is determined to minimise, demonises what the other sanctifies, closes off exactly the complexities that the other also denies, but for opposite ends.[vii] And anyone concerned to stimulate the conversation of citizens has, I believe, a responsibility to avoid that sort of rhetoric.  

 


[i] Keith Windschuttle, The Fabrication of Aboriginal History. Vol 1: Van Diemen's Land 1803-1847, Sydney: Macleay Press, 2002; Robert Manne, ed., Whitewash. On Keith Windschuttle's Fabrication of Aboriginal History, Black Inc., Melbourned, 2003.

[ii] Jan Gross, Neighbors. The Destruction of the Jewish Community in Jedwabne, Poland, Princeton University Press, Princeton, NJ, 2001.

[iii] "In Denial. The Stolen Generations and the Right", Quarterly Essay, Issue 1, 2001, 102.

[iv] I owe this point to discussions with Robert van Krieken who, happier than me to use the "g" word, has taught me that not using it does not solve the problem or make it go away.

[v] More precisely, 1066 and All That: a memorable history of England / comprising all the parts you can remember including one hundred and three good things, five bad kings, and two genuine dates, by W.C. Sellar and R.J. Yeatman. Illus. by J. Reynolds, 10th edition, Methuen, London, 1931.

[vi] "Requiem for a Genocide"(Summer 2004) 76 The National Interest, 177.

[vii] Eg, "Marxism, Communism, and Narcissism", (1990) 15 Law and Social Inquiry 709-32.

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