Before turning to today’s essay, a few clarifications are in order. I’m sure the reader has heard the dismissive phrase, “It’s just semantics”—as if the meaning of words doesn’t matter. But consider the glittering generality one sees in the propagandistic appeal to “democracy.” Does the speaker mean by this term direct democracy, liberal democracy, or industrial democracy? Vagueness in meaning is also a problem for the words “communism” and “socialism.”
Communism, in its anarchist and Marxist senses, conveys a classless and stateless social order in which the distribution of work and goods follows the dictum: “from each according to his ability, to each according to his need.” Socialism, by contrast, is a social system in which the means of production are owned and controlled by the workers, either at the level of the firm or through the state, the latter known as “dictatorship of the proletariat.”
The standard definition of socialism is useful to keep. But there is another conception of socialism worth noting, since I describe it in this essay when I turn to the ideology of democratic socialism. That is Saint-Simon’s conception of an engineered society organized by experts. Rather than advocating the abolition of private property, Saint-Simon envisioned a system in which economic activity would be directed toward the common good through rational planning and administration. In his view, good government should shift from ruling over people to managing production. His vision of an organized, technocratic society profoundly influenced later socialist thought by emphasizing the moral obligation to use economic resources for the benefit of society as a whole through state direction. This is not ultimately managing people?
As for the popular meaning of communism, referring to those systems in which the people are under the thumb of an all-encompassing state, i.e., state socialism, this definition is more useful than the utopia imagined by anarchists and communists. After all, utopia literally means “nowhere.”
When Trump tells his audiences that the democratic socialists being elected to office around the country are communists, he’s not wrong. I use the popular meaning in this essay since it describes the experiences of those who have lived under communist rule. Communism, in this sense, points to a location somewhere, and we have enough real-world instances of this place to draw a conclusion about the adequacy of such systems to human freedom and well-being.
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I grant that George Orwell, a thinker I much admire, complicates any simple divide between capitalism and socialism. He never renounced his identity as a democratic socialist, believing to his end that extreme inequalities of privilege and wealth were morally and politically corrosive.
At the same time, Orwell is arguably the twentieth century’s most penetrating critic of state socialism and totalitarianism. His experiences during the Spanish Civil War and his observations of Stalinism convinced him that concentrating economic and political power in the hands of the state corrupts movements founded upon ideals of equality and justice.
Despite being saved by an American Marxist fighter after being shot in the neck by a fascist sniper near Huesca in Northwestern Spain and attended to by anti-fascists during his convalescence, the war showed Orwell that the greatest threat to liberty did not come only from fascism, but also from authoritarian factions claiming to represent socialism—those communist organizations aligned with the Soviet Union.
Orwell’s epiphany came in May 1937, in Barcelona, the year he was shot. Instead of concentrating on defeating Francisco Franco’s far-right forces, communist-controlled security forces fought other republican factions, especially the anti-Stalinist Workers’ Party of Marxist Unification (POUM), the militia Orwell had joined. Orwell witnessed men he had fought alongside arrested, disappeared into secret prisons, and executed. He watched the reputations of his fallen comrades besmirched by wicked men.
A similar epiphany occurred to the American anarchists Alexander Berkman and Emma Goldman years before. In December 1919, Berkman and Goldman were deported from the United States during the First Red Scare. They arrived in Soviet Russia in January 1920. They initially hoped the Bolshevik Revolution would realize many of the ideals they had long championed. However, as they traveled through Russia, they observed widespread shortages, strict censorship, the suppression of independent labor organizations, and the growing power of the secret police, the Cheka. They became increasingly concerned that political freedom was being sacrificed.
The decisive turning point came in March 1921 with the Kronstadt Rebellion. Sailors at Kronstadt—once celebrated by Vladimir Lenin and the Bolsheviks as heroes of the revolution—called for freer elections to the soviets, freedom of speech for anarchist and socialist groups, and an end to one-party rule. The Bolshevik government crushed the rebellion militarily, killing many and imprisoning or executing others. For Berkman and Goldman, Kronstadt was the moment they concluded that the Bolshevik government had become an authoritarian state rather than a vehicle for liberation.
What Stalinism showed Orwell requires little elaboration here. His great works of allegory, Animal Farm and Nineteen Eighty-Four, will tell the reader all about that. If a man hasn’t read these books, then there is a gap in his understanding of the problem of communism. Orwell brings to the reader what he (and Berkman and Goldman before him) saw for himself: the totalizing tendencies inherent in power not in the service of defending the intrinsic rights of man, but in the folly of transforming man’s nature.
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The shared experience of Orwell, Berkman, Goldman, and many others makes plain Thomas Sowell’s distinction between the “constrained” and “unconstrained” conceptions of human nature, described in his 1987 A Conflict of Visions, and the peril of assuming the latter. In that book, Sowell argues that political disagreements often stem from differing assumptions about human nature rather than simply competing policy preferences. History tells us which assumptions accord with our species-being.
In Sowell’s view, the constrained vision sees human beings as inherently limited—imperfect in discernment, knowledge, and morality. Therefore, the best societies rely on institutions, markets, traditions, and the rule of law to channel self-interest and minimize harm. By contrast, the unconstrained vision holds that human problems are largely the result of flawed social arrangements rather than fixed human limitations, and that deliberate planning and expertise can significantly improve society if the right people and policies are put in place. Today, the unconstrained vision is dressed in the colors of “oppressed-oppressor” and “victim-perpetrator.”
Sowell shows how the enduring debates over economics, equality, government, and justice reflect these deeper, competing visions of what human beings are capable of becoming. In doing so, he identifies a central problem in collective control over man’s fate: Who shall govern our lives?
I am reminded of Christopher Hitchens’ rhetorical questions concerning the commissar during a talk he gave in Canada at the University of Toronto in 2006. Canada is notorious for restricting the speech of its citizens under the guise of “hate speech” laws. Hitchens asked his audience:
“To whom do you award the right to decide which speech is harmful, or who is the harmful speaker? Or to determine in advance what are the harmful consequences going to be that we know enough about in advance to prevent? To whom would you give this job? To whom are you going to award the task of being the censor? Isn’t a famous old story that the man who has to read all the pornography, in order to decide what’s fit to be passed and what is fit not to be, is the man most likely to become debauched? Did you hear any speaker in the opposition to this motion, eloquent as one of them was, to whom you would delegate the task of deciding for you what you could read? To whom you would give the job of deciding for you — relieve you of the responsibility of hearing what you might have to hear? Do you know anyone? Hands up. Do you know anyone to whom you’d give this job? Does anyone have a nominee?”
Those who know Hitchens’ biography know that he was for many years a Trotskyist. The year he uttered these words was the year he declared his independence from socialist thinking. Hitchens clarified during a town hall in 2006, in conversation with a group of fellow essayists, that “I am no longer a socialist, but I still am a Marxist.”
There was a time when I, too, considered myself a socialist. I had neglected Orwell and dismissed Berkman and Goldman. I had not yet taken Hitchens to heart. In the 1990s, I even flirted with communism. (I published in the Communist Party-USA’s newspaper, People’s World, so I can’t deny this piece of my biography.) I had become convinced that a society in which workers collectively owned and controlled the means of production represented the highest expression of economic and—I cringed as I write this—social justice.
The idea of socialism appealed to my sense of fairness. Why should those whose labor creates value by transforming nature and commodities worked up by others into wealth for the few have so little say over the enterprises they sustain? It seemed obvious that democratizing the workplace would also democratize society. And democracy is a good thing (there’s that glittering generality again).
I have not abandoned that moral intuition. I still believe there is something admirable about workers sharing ownership, decision-making, and profits. And I remain an admirer of Karl Marx. He is our Darwin in the social sciences. His materialist conception of history fundamentally shaped the disciplines of anthropology and sociology, vocations to which I have devoted more than a quarter century of my life. And the best psychology is rooted in his insights about appearance and structure. Marx was, after all, a classical liberal thinker engaged in critique and dialectic, fully embedded in the scientific worldview.
What has changed is my understanding of the relationship between ideals and political power—and history. The problem is not Marx’s analysis of the problem. The problem is his solution.
The problem goes beyond communism’s entailments. To be sure, where the totalizing scheme leads has not been good for the people who have tried it. But that’s not because they weren’t doing it right. It’s because there’s something wrong with the end itself—and thus the means deployed to achieve it. The flaw lies not with worker ownership per se but rather with making worker ownership the universal economic model through the coercive power of the state.
Substantive equality, or an equality of outcomes, in contrast to formal equality, i.e., equal treatment before the law, requires sacrificing liberty to the collective. The distribution of discipline, intelligence, talents, and virtue is not uniform across the species. We are not all the same, and achieving equality of outcomes means those who can achieve great things, to the betterment of all, are made ordinary to the detriment of all. Mediocrity is inevitable. The politics of collectivism before individualism negates the individualism that organically elevates the collective. To say that inequality is the price of progress suggests that inequality is a bad thing.
This realization owes much to my reading of economist and political philosopher Friedrich Hayek. From the earliest days of the course Freedom and Social Control, my first teaching assignment as an assistant professor, I put his work before my students, contrasting it with Marx, hoping they would, like me, object to Hayek’s arguments. Instead, thanks to steelmanning Hayek’s position to model for students charity in discourse, and because course content focused on the problem of totalitarianism, I found myself persuaded to Hayek’s side.
In The Road to Serfdom, Hayek argues that comprehensive economic planning inevitably requires comprehensive political planning and social engineering. When governments decide how property must be owned, how businesses must be organized, and how economic decisions are made, they cannot avoid making choices that individuals would otherwise make for themselves, thus precluding the ingenuity that advances civilization, as well as suppressing the rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
In this context, as disagreements over policy inevitably arise, what at first appears as voluntary cooperation gives way to compulsion. The state must increasingly decide whose preferences prevail. Too often, these preferences are not rooted in a moral ontology but in some technocratic end, and the means to such ends, unconstrained by morality, are unethical. The result is an administered world governed by authoritarians and bureaucrats. This is the folly of utilitarianism, a tyranny of the brainwashed majority, inevitably led by a vanguard of social engineers, disguised as liberalism.
Hayek’s point is often misunderstood. I am guilty of misunderstanding him myself. Careful reading of his work is necessary, and the short summary I used in class did not adequately convey his worldview. He did not argue that every government intervention leads directly to dictatorship. In The Road to Serfdom, Hayek writes that there is no reason a wealthy society cannot guarantee everyone some minimum of clothing, food, and shelter.
Hayek accepted compulsory government insurance against risks that individuals cannot reasonably insure themselves against, such as serious illness, some forms of disability, and workplace accidents. He recognized that certain public health services and responses to epidemics could be legitimate government functions because they address problems individual market transactions cannot solve effectively. He supported government provisions for basic education, bridges, roads, and other public goods where markets alone may not produce efficient outcomes. And he believed government should enforce contracts, protect property rights, prevent fraud, and maintain competition through a sound legal framework.
His argument is not that the government has no place in our lives, but rather that concentrating economic decision-making in the hands of political authorities creates pressures that steadily erode individual liberty. A society cannot centrally organize economic life without also expanding the authority necessary to enforce that organization. The problem of social engineering is intrinsic to it.
Although Orwell described himself as a democratic socialist and would go further than Hayek in social provisioning, the common ground beneath them is that both rejected the idea that protecting liberty required either an all-powerful state or a completely hands-off state. After Spain, Orwell became fiercely committed to civil liberties, competitive elections, free speech, and an independent press. For Orwell, socialism without democracy was simply another form of tyranny.
However, unlike Orwell, Hayek sees that state control over the economy to achieve what Orwell believed in principle, i.e., economic equality and public ownership, is antithetical to democracy, if by that term one means constitutional limits, free and fair elections, freedom of speech, a free press, the protection of minority rights, and universal suffrage, i.e., the liberal democratic conception, what one finds in American republicism. Both Hayek and Orwell strongly supported democratic institutions of this sort because together they form a bulwark against totalitarianism. (One reasonably wonders whether, on his deathbed, Orwell would still describe himself as a socialist.)
Hayek develops this idea further in The Constitution of Liberty. Here, he argues that freedom depends less on achieving any particular social outcome than on preserving a framework in which individuals can pursue different visions of the good life. A free society allows people to cooperate and compete, succeed and fail, and voluntarily associate in countless ways. The state’s role is to maintain impartial rules rather than dictate preferred economic arrangements.
Hayek’s clear thinking transformed my own. If a man is to be a reasonable one, he must yield his convictions to the force of logic. I had before put the left’s concept of positive liberty before negative liberty, tending to see the latter as the enemy of the former. This was the debate that framed the assignment of Marx and Hayek in Freedom and Social Control. What I did not at first see is that while what Erich Fromm and Isiah Berlin describe as substantive freedom can emerge from the conditions promoted by classical liberalism, positive liberty as a politics negates the liberal freedoms I have always held dear.
I now think that Abraham Maslow’s hierarchy of needs requires a bit of reordering. But none of the needs he identifies are necessarily sacrificed in the revision. The hierarchy must rise upon a foundation of liberty as much as the requirements of the creature. We need not end inequality among men to pave the road to self-actualization. Indeed, if inequality is a sign of freedom, we should focus instead on fostering social conditions that allow human beings to transcend their lowly station—if that is what they are able and choose to do—through their own efforts.
I confess that the hardest part of accepting Hayek’s thesis is admitting that inequality is the natural order of things, that human nature is constrained. This is not to say that we must live like the other animals. But it does require recognizing that we cannot escape the laws of nature, and that, in our attempt to transcend natural history, we risk denying its results. Evolution may have no reason behind it, but there is a logic to it, and it is not a logic of man’s design. Our rights are found there, not in the designs of men.
Inequality, in Hayek’s view, is therefore not merely the unfortunate byproduct of freedom but, to a significant extent, an inevitable consequence of it. Human beings differ naturally in ambition, creativity, discipline, intelligence, interests, temperament, and willingness to assume risk. They also choose different ways of life. Some devote themselves to building businesses, others to raising families, creating art, pursuing scholarship, or serving their communities. These are not mutually exclusive vocations. Indeed, each depends on the other. A free society does not erase these differences; it allows them to flourish and integrates them. The most advanced societies recognize these truths. They are self-evident. It is why the societies that recognize them are so advanced.
As people pursue their own goals, unequal outcomes inevitably emerge. For Hayek, inequality is the mark of a free society. This is not something to regret or repair. While disparities can provoke envy, they also provide examples for others to emulate. The inventor who develops a revolutionary technology, the entrepreneur who builds a successful company, the scientist who makes a breakthrough, or the artist who creates enduring beauty all expand the horizon of what others believe is possible.
Equality of opportunity leaves room for inequality of achievement, and those achievements become models that encourage aspiration rather than conformity. Parties that organize people around resentment undermine opportunity. The democratic socialists who are taking over the Democratic Party stand against the individual’s freedom to live his life as he chooses. Really, these types have commanded the party for more than a century under the banner of progressivism, the ideological projection of corporatism. This is the operating system of Europe. Today, American socialists are more open about what they seek. And the socialism they seek is the technocratic organization of society.
This insight also reshaped the way I think about the Marxist maxim, “From each according to his ability, to each according to his need.” As an ethical aspiration, it possesses undeniable appeal; few people object to helping those who genuinely cannot provide for themselves. As I learned, even Hayek saw value and necessity here. The difficulty arises when the principle becomes the organizing rule of the state-administered economy.
If people’s needs are guaranteed regardless of effort, while the fruits of exceptional effort are continually redistributed, the incentive to strive gradually diminishes for at least some members of society, while those who continue to create, innovate, and produce find themselves surrendering an ever-greater share of what they have earned to those who have been idled or who have idled themselves.
Over time, this fosters dependence upon political institutions rather than personal initiative. Instead of working for a living, many proletarians, and especially the underclass, those made dependent on welfare, vote for a living; they vote not to open the way for those who strive, but for those who will reward sloth.
Benjamin Franklin once observed: “Sloth makes all things difficult, but industry all easy.” Marx’s maxim blurs a distinction that every free society ought to preserve: there is a profound moral difference between someone who earnestly strives yet falls short and someone who declines to strive at all. Failure despite diligence is an honorable risk inherent in liberty and self-improvement. A life defined by the refusal to exercise one’s abilities is something altogether different.
Compassion rightly belongs to those who cannot succeed despite sincere effort; it should not require treating persistent unwillingness to contribute as morally equivalent to honest failure. Yet welfare states do precisely that. And the burden of supporting that mass of people who do not strive falls upon the shoulders of the productive members of society. It is an unjust burden because it denies human nature.
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A little more than a decade ago, I gave a talk titled “The Table-Makers” at the “What is Socialism?” event held at the University of Wisconsin-Green Bay. The evening was organized by the Critical Left, a student group. The event was well attended, with animated challenges to my position coming especially from conservatives in the audience. The core argument remains valid and sound. What is missing, however, is that I presented socialism strictly as a replacement for capitalism when it doesn’t have to be. No conservative made that critique. Nor would I expect them to.
If worker-owned firms are truly superior to other arrangements—more productive, more satisfying, and more humane in their way of thinking—then people should be free to create them. They should compete in the marketplace alongside corporations, family businesses, nonprofits, partnerships, and sole proprietorships. Nothing about free-market capitalism prohibits this. Indeed, many successful employee-owned enterprises already exist, demonstrating that democratic workplaces need not remain theoretical.
What capitalism uniquely offers is pluralism. It permits many forms of ownership simultaneously. Investors may build conventional corporations. Employees may organize cooperatives. Entrepreneurs may launch startups. Communities may establish nonprofits. Consumers and workers can choose among them. By contrast, making worker ownership mandatory requires eliminating those alternatives. If every enterprise must be collectively owned, then individuals who prefer other arrangements lose the freedom to choose them. Paradoxically, achieving universal economic democracy requires restricting economic pluralism and cancelling the freedom of contract.
This is where Hayek’s warning becomes especially persuasive. The more ambitious the social objective, the greater the governmental authority required to realize it. Noble intentions do not eliminate this reality. Furthermore, can we really count on those who lead us to have noble intentions? History answers the question for us. Stalin, Mao, and other leaders of socialist systems used their authority to establish totalitarian societies where human freedom was extinguished.
Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.’s 1961 short story “Harrison Bergeron” illustrates the same principle through satire rather than philosophy. In Vonnegut’s imagined future, substantive equality has become the supreme social value. To ensure that no one exceeds anyone else, the government handicaps beauty, intelligence, strength, and talent. The result is not justice but mediocrity enforced by coercion.
The story is deliberately absurd, yet its underlying insight remains powerful. Equal outcomes cannot simply be declared or forced into existence. Not if freedom matters. Because people naturally differ in countless ways, maintaining strict equality requires continuous intervention by political authority. The more perfect the equality sought, the more intrusive that authority becomes.
If every workplace must conform to one approved model of ownership, then someone must enforce that conformity. Entrepreneurs who wish to found a conventional company must be prohibited from doing so. Novel ideas and private initiatives are negated out of the gate. If workers voluntarily accept different arrangements, those agreements must be invalidated. Freedom yields to regulation, and regulation increasingly depends upon coercion. This is also the logic behind censorship and other affronts to liberty.
Recognizing this does not require embracing an uncritical defense of capitalism. Capitalism has undeniable flaws. It rewards exploitation of labor and nature, encourages excessive accumulation of wealth (although what qualifies as “excessive” wealth concentration needs clarity), and leaves many workers with little bargaining power. Markets do not automatically produce justice. Yet these criticisms point toward reform rather than abolition.
Laws protecting workers, encouraging competition, preventing fraud, and expanding opportunities for employee ownership can all exist within a broadly capitalist framework. Capitalist governments can remove legal obstacles to cooperatives, provide fair tax treatment for employee stock ownership plans, and enforce rules that protect workers from abuse without prescribing a single model of enterprise for everyone. Worker-owned companies do not negate capitalism. But the socialism advocated by Zohran Mamdani and his crowd inevitably negates worker-owned enterprise. Workers do not really own or control the means of production under state socialism. There is no room there for entrepreneurs.
Liberal capitalism offers something I overlooked: the freedom to build socialist institutions inside the system of private ownership. Free market capitalism is based on voluntarism. If workers wish to own factories together, they may do so. If communities wish to establish cooperatives, they may do so. If investors wish to finance employee-owned firms, they may do so. Success depends not upon political decree but upon persuading others that these institutions are desirable and sustainable. Such arrangements strike a healthier balance between liberty and justice.
What is more, liberty is itself good and therefore just. Liberty allows people to make their own choices, pursue their goals, and live according to their values without unnecessary interference. A society that respects liberty recognizes the dignity and equality of individuals by giving them the freedom to think, speak, and act responsibly. While liberty should be balanced with laws that protect others from harm, it is ultimately just because it gives everyone the same basic rights and opportunities. In this way, liberty supports fairness, personal growth, and respect for human rights. Socialism at scale takes all this away.
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I still admire the aspiration that inspired my youthful socialism: giving ordinary people greater control over the economic forces that shape their lives. But I no longer believe that this aspiration justifies granting the state sweeping authority over property and enterprise. The concentration of power necessary to impose universal worker ownership poses dangers that outweigh its potential benefits. Hayek persuaded me that liberty requires preserving diverse forms of economic organization. Vonnegut showed me that even the noblest ideals can become oppressive when enforced without limit. Together, these thinkers and others like them helped me understand that freedom includes the freedom to organize cooperatively—but also the freedom not to.
Today, I believe the best society is neither one in which capitalism reigns unchecked nor one in which socialism is imposed by law. It is one in which free people can create the kinds of institutions they believe in, whether those institutions are employee-owned cooperatives, traditional corporations, nonprofits, or something entirely new. If worker ownership is truly the superior model, it should flourish through voluntary association and open competition rather than government compulsion. If it fails, then it was not the superior model. Let the better ideas win.
In reflection, I recognize that there was always a tension in my political outlook, even if I did not fully appreciate it at the time. I called myself a socialist because I was drawn to the ideal of economic justice and to the conviction that working people should have a greater voice in the institutions that shaped their lives. Yet I also called myself a liberal in the classical sense, deeply committed to the principles embodied in the Declaration of Independence and the Bill of Rights: individual liberty, freedom of conscience, freedom of speech, due process, limited government, and the inherent dignity of the individual.
This is why I have always felt a certain kinship with Orwell, even if I neglected him between my first encounters with his work and revisiting them years later. Like Orwell, I am attracted to socialism’s ethical concern for the disadvantaged while remaining instinctively attached to the liberal tradition’s distrust of concentrated power. Orwell eventually recognized that socialism without liberty could degenerate into tyranny. My own journey has led me to a similar conclusion. I have not abandoned the desire for a more just economy; rather, I have come to believe that justice achieved at the expense of the freedoms guaranteed by the liberal constitutional tradition is too costly a bargain.
If forced to choose between equality enforced by the state and liberty protected by constitutional limits, I must choose liberty—not because equality is unimportant, but because without liberty, the pursuit of equality is liable to consume the very humanity it seeks to ennoble.
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Hayek’s criticism of political movements that seek substantive equality at the expense of liberty is essential to understanding the struggle for autonomy and freedom. As natural as the desire for autonomy and liberty may be, the conditions necessary for their realization have not been the historical norm. This is because of the enduring presence of those who seek power over others’ lives. Every democratic socialist is, at heart, a totalitarian.
We must insist on formal equality, a situation where every individual stands equal before the law, enjoying the same legal rights, obligations, and protections regardless of occupation, race, religion, social standing, or wealth. Crucial to this principle is a system of rights, secured by constitutional limits, that places fundamental liberties beyond the arbitrary power of those who govern. To be sure, such a system still requires the exercise of power, but that power rests on a moral foundation committed to equality before the law rather than equality of outcomes.
Substantive equality, by contrast, seeks to equalize people’s economic conditions, social positions, or life outcomes, and the power required to achieve it necessarily entails an unjust exercise of coercion. This we cannot abide by. We’ve seen its fruits. And they’re rotten.
Hayek argued that these two conceptions of equality are ultimately incompatible. To preserve equal treatment under the law, governments must apply general rules impartially. To produce more equal outcomes, however, government must treat people differently—taxing some more heavily than others, distributing benefits unequally, or granting special preferences based upon need or circumstance. The pursuit of substantive equality inevitably requires departures from formal equality.
For Hayek, equality before the law was therefore not merely one value among many; it was the indispensable legal condition of a free society. Once the law ceases to treat citizens impartially in pursuit of preferred social outcomes, liberty itself begins to yield to political discretion, and the quality of discretion is also highly variable across the species. As it happens, sociopaths are often quite cunning.
In Animal Farm and Nineteen Eighty-Four, Orwell depicted how revolutions undertaken in the name of the people can ultimately produce new ruling elites, censorship, surveillance, and the destruction of independent thought. Although Orwell would likely have disagreed with Hayek on the merits of capitalism, they shared an essential insight: liberty cannot survive where political power becomes sufficiently centralized to dictate not only economic life but also the boundaries of dissent and truth. Orwell serves as a reminder that genuine concern for justice must always be tempered by an equally vigorous concern for individual freedom.
Hitchens thought Marx’s method of analyzing power, class, and ideology could still be useful for understanding society. But he rejected socialism as a governing program because, in his view, every attempt to implement it at scale had tended toward authoritarianism and the suppression of individual liberty. He retained from Marx the habit of analysis—seeing politics through the lens of class power and material interests—but rejected socialism as a system of economic organization because it concentrated too much power in the state and was tyrannical in practice.
This is where I land. It has been many years since I landed here, but I felt I owed it to readers of this blog an explanation. Thanks for reading and subscribing to Freedom and Reason.




















