War and Power: Logistics, Industry, and the Reality Behind Victory

Phillips Payson O'Brien's War and Power is one of the most thought-provoking books on military history I have read in recent years. It complements Graham Allison's Destined for War in an unexpected way. Allison asks why great powers find themselves on a path toward conflict. O'Brien asks a different question: once war begins, what actually determines who wins?

His answer challenges many of our assumptions. O'Brien argues that we have been captivated by the myth of the decisive battle. History remembers names such as El Alamein, Stalingrad, Kursk, Midway, and the Somme because they are dramatic moments with enormous casualties and unforgettable stories. Yet he contends that these battles were often symptoms rather than causes of victory. The real decisions had already been made elsewhere—in factories, shipyards, railroads, ports, oil fields, and supply depots.

The book repeatedly demonstrates that armies do not lose because they suddenly fail on the battlefield. They lose because they can no longer replace men, tanks, aircraft, ammunition, fuel, and food. By the time many famous battles occurred, one side had already exhausted its ability to sustain the war. The battlefield merely revealed a defeat that logistics and industrial production had already made inevitable.

O'Brien applies this argument particularly well to the world wars. His discussion of the First World War is especially illuminating. The conflict is often remembered as a succession of horrific battles with staggering casualties but little territorial gain. O'Brien shifts the focus away from individual offensives to the broader industrial struggle. By 1918, the Allies had achieved overwhelming superiority in the production of artillery, aircraft, tanks, trucks, ships, and munitions. Germany's armies continued fighting bravely, but the nation itself was running out of the means to wage war. Retreat at the front and revolution at home were the consequences of an economic defeat that had been developing for years.

His treatment of the Second World War follows the same pattern. El Alamein, Stalingrad, and Kursk remain immensely important, but O'Brien argues that they should be understood within larger campaigns in which logistics, industrial capacity, and strategic resources had already shifted the balance. Empty fuel depots, broken transportation networks, and factories unable to replace losses mattered as much as battlefield tactics.

One of the book's greatest strengths is its willingness to challenge familiar narratives without diminishing the courage of the soldiers who fought. O'Brien never suggests that battles were unimportant or that individual acts of leadership and bravery did not matter. Rather, he places them within the larger systems that made victory or defeat possible. Soldiers fight battles; nations fight wars.

War and Power is a superb work of military history because it changes the questions we ask. Instead of focusing exclusively on generals and battlefields, O'Brien reminds us to look at the factories, railroads, merchant fleets, oil supplies, and industrial workers who sustained the armies. His arguments are persuasive, clearly written, and supported by an impressive command of historical evidence.

After finishing this book, I found myself looking back at both world wars with a different perspective. We remember the great battles because they are dramatic. O'Brien reminds us that wars are often decided long before the decisive battle begins. It is a compelling reinterpretation, and one that has encouraged me to read more of his work.

 

A Day at the Imperial War Museum Duxford

 

One of the highlights of my recent visit to England was a bicycle ride from Cambridge to the Imperial War Museum Duxford, one of the finest aviation museums I have ever visited. Housed on the historic airfield from which RAF fighter squadrons flew during the Battle of Britain, Duxford is much more than a museum. It is a living airfield where history still flies.

My visit began with an unexpected thrill. A beautifully restored Bristol Blenheim taxied past, its twin Bristol Mercury radial engines producing a sound that transported me back to newsreels of the early years of World War II. Soon afterward, a Supermarine Spitfire taxied onto the runway, accelerated, and lifted gracefully into the sky. Seeing a Spitfire fly from an active wartime airfield was one of those rare experiences that no photograph or film can truly capture. It was easy to imagine the young RAF pilots who once took off from the same runway to defend Britain.

I spent the remainder of the day exploring Duxford's five major exhibition halls, each offering a different chapter in aviation history. Together they present an extraordinary survey of British aviation, from the fragile aircraft of the First World War through the Battle of Britain, the jet age, and the Cold War.

As impressive as the British collection is, I was equally surprised by the museum's remarkable display of American aircraft. Few museums outside the United States possess such a comprehensive collection. The American Air Museum houses iconic aircraft spanning nearly the entire twentieth century, including fighters, bombers, reconnaissance aircraft, cargo planes, helicopters, and Cold War strategic aircraft. Walking beneath these machines provides a vivid reminder of the enormous industrial and technological effort that shaped the outcome of World War II and the decades that followed.

Unlike many museums where aircraft are displayed as isolated exhibits, Duxford presents them within the broader story of military aviation. The exhibits explain not only how airplanes evolved but also how they transformed warfare, strategy, and the lives of the men and women who flew and maintained them. Restoration workshops visible to visitors further emphasize that preserving aviation history is an ongoing craft rather than simply displaying artifacts behind ropes.

Perhaps what impressed me most was the atmosphere of the place. Because Duxford remains an operating airfield, the museum never feels static. The sound of aircraft engines, the sight of airplanes moving across the taxiways, and the possibility that a historic aircraft might suddenly take flight create an experience unlike any conventional museum.

For anyone interested in military history, engineering, or aviation, the Imperial War Museum Duxford is an extraordinary destination. It combines the history of the Royal Air Force, the remarkable contribution of American air power, and the excitement of seeing historic aircraft still alive and flying. For me, the ride from Cambridge and the day spent at Duxford became one of the most memorable experiences of my visit to England.

Nazi Death Camps and C.S. Lewis

Emily, Me and Cliff

Since 2017, I have visited sixteen different Nazi death camps in Germany, Poland, Czechia and France.  A few of them twice.  I have also visited Holocaust memorials including Yad Vashem and the Deportation Memorial in Paris on the same island as Notre Dame Cathedral.  Since 1977, I have read all the works of C.S. Lewis, many of them several times.  When I visited death camps, it is with a mind very much formed by Lewis’s view of the world.  Lewis did not write about the camps or the Holocaust, but he has given me the ability to tour the camps and learn the details of the torture and murder committed in these places and maintain my sanity. 

The three books in particular are in the back of my mind if not in conscious thought when I visit Nazi death camps. They are The Four Loves, The Great Divorce, and The Screwtape Letters. The first death camp I visited was Auschwitz-Birkenau.  In 2017, I rode a bicycle to the city of Oswiecim from Belgrade the continued on to Lviv, Ukraine. I learned from reading Bloodlands by Timothy Snyder that Auschwitz was the center of industrial murder of Jews. Lviv was the place where the Nazis did almost nothing. Residents of the city raped, robbed and murdered all the Jews in the city and disposed of the bodies.  My intention was to see the worst sites of the Holocaust. Then I flew to Israel and visited Yad Vashem.  I returned to Europe and spent a week with my best friend. He and I were roommates in Wiesbaden, West Germany, in the Cold War US military in the late 1970s.  I left the Army and went to college. Sgt Cliff Almes upon discharge joined the land of Kanaan Lutheran monastery in Darmstadt and became Bruder Timotheus. 

In the years since my first visits in 2017,  Cliff and I visited death camps together.  It was wrenching to go alone, but with Cliff, we could discuss what we saw afterwards.  In The Four Loves Lewis says the posture of friendship is side-by-side, sharing the same journey.  Cliff and I went to a dozen death camps together and also spent a week in Israel. Lewis says facing a hard task together is much better than facing it alone. (He also says shirking is best done with companions.) On our most recent journey Cliff and I were joined by a mutual friend who was deployed to Poland and got a four-day pass to join us.  I taught ESL with Emily a decade ago in Lancaster. She visited Kanaan in 2019. In 2020 she joined the Army and became a combat medic. She was running a medic team in Poland.  The three of us went to the Sobibor, Treblinka, Chelmno and Majdanek death camps.  A pair of friends can always be joined by another.

Every death camp different. Many people asked me why go to so many death camps? Because each death camp is unique. While the ultimate goal was death to the Jewish people and all deemed unfit to live by the Nazis, each camp was run differently.  In Auschwitz-Birkenau more than a million Jews from all over Europe were murdered: gassed or worked to death. It was also a huge slave labor camp.  Some inmates lived more than a year and survived their terrible confinement. Treblinka, by contrast, was death machine.  Trains ran back and forth from Warsaw to Treblinka.  Those on the train were murdered on arrival, and another train rolled in. More than 800,000 were murdered in just two years. Another contrast in these camps: Treblinka was hidden from view in a remote forest.  Auschwitz is right in the city of Oswiecim. One of the strangest things about visiting Auschwitz is hearing the church bells.  The Catholic Church is adjacent to the camp.

The camps were all run by human beings.  As I see the barracks, the gas chambers, the cremation ovens, the kitchens, the latrines, the guard towers, the work rooms, I see places that were run by men and women who had eternal souls.  The people who ran the camps were not another species of evil beings, they were no different from us in substance, just different in the way they chose to live their lives.  I am aware that choice is limited in a totalitarian regime, but there was resistance.  German police were mobilized in thousands to murder Jews with gunshots and shove them into mass graves.  Some few refused. They were allowed other duties. Lewis made clear there are no ordinary persons. We are all eternal. Including murderers of innocents. Someday they will join the queue for the tour bus.  If they board they will travel to the edge of Heaven and a victim of their crimes will make the long journey to offer them forgiveness.  How many will heed that offer?

Which brings me to the bespeckled embodiment of Nazi evil. A failed Austrian salesman with a talent for logistics who joined the Nazi Party in Germany soon after Adolph Hitler took power because he needed a job.  Adolph Eichmann became a Nazi official and by 1935 was organizing the deportation of Jews from the Reich. In an irony of obeying orders, Eichmann saved the lives of thousands of Jews by deporting them.  Many Jews wanted to leave but could not navigate the approvals necessary. Eichmann organized a large arena where all the agencies were under one roof, completing all the paperwork in a day or two.  The Jews he processed lost all their property but escaped with their lives. 

 When the Nazis invaded Poland, Eichmann was on hold for two years from late 1939 until early 1942 when the Final Solution became Nazi policy.  The same Eichmann who got Jews out of the Reich used his same logistic skill to round up Jews and send them to death camps. Eichmann took three million Jews from their homes and sent them to death camps.  He was efficient and thoughtless.  Screwtape, the mid-level bureaucrat in the lowerarchy of Hell does what his Father Below orders.  As I visit camps, I look at the rail sidings, the offices, the barracks, and feel the presence of clerks doing their jobs. Reading and rereading The Screwtape Letters I was amused by the wit that assembled these advice letters to Wormwood.  But the evil hovers there.  Eichmann was a small and vain man. When he did his job well he bragged and expected praise.  He would fit perfectly within Screwtape’s world. 

My friends Bruder Timotheus and Sergeant Emily Burgett are with me at Belsen, Treblinka, Buchenwald and all the other camps helping me to navigate the near-infinite evil of these camps. And C.S. Lewis is there also.

 

A Most Elegant Equation: Euler's Formula and the Beauty of Mathematics by David Stipp: The Joy of Understanding!

 

A Most Elegant Equation by David Stipp is a small book about a large idea: that mathematics, at its deepest level, is not a collection of separate tools but a unified language capable of describing the universe with astonishing precision. Centered on Euler’s identity—often called the most beautiful equation in mathematics—the book shows how seemingly unrelated parts of math come together in a single, elegant statement.

As someone whose formal math education stopped at Calculus II, I found the book both accessible and intriguing. It does not require advanced training to appreciate the central insight: that numbers, functions, and constants that appear to belong to entirely different domains—imaginary numbers, exponential growth, circular motion—can be woven together into a relationship that is both exact and profound. The equation itself feels almost like a coincidence at first glance, but the book patiently reveals the deeper structure behind it.

What makes the book especially compelling is its ability to convey why this matters beyond mathematics. The same abstract relationships that produce Euler’s identity also underlie the physical world—waves, oscillations, and the geometry of space. It is a reminder that mathematics is not just invented, but discovered, uncovering patterns that seem to exist independent of us.

At times, the explanations push the edge of what a non-specialist can easily follow, and some readers may find themselves rereading sections to fully grasp the connections. But that effort is part of the experience. The reward is a clearer sense of how disparate ideas—real and imaginary numbers, algebra and geometry—fit together into a coherent whole.

In the end, A Most Elegant Equation succeeds not by teaching advanced mathematics, but by revealing its unity. It leaves the reader with a renewed sense of wonder at how something so abstract can so precisely describe the world we live in.

Lincoln at Gettysburg by Garry Wills--The Gettysburg Address Moved America from Constitutional Compromise to Aspiration

 

Garry Wills’s Lincoln at Gettysburg is a short book with a large argument: that Abraham Lincoln, in just 272 words, redefined the meaning of the American republic. Wills’s central claim: the Gettysburg Address does not look to the Constitution as the nation’s founding document, but to the Declaration of Independence. In this address, Lincoln shifted the moral center of the United States from a framework of compromise to one of aspiration.

The Constitution, as Wills reminds us, is a document forged through political necessity—one that accommodated slavery in order to secure union. The Declaration, by contrast, proclaims a principle: that all men are created equal. Lincoln’s genius at Gettysburg was to elevate that principle above the compromises of 1787 and to present it as the true foundation of the nation. “Four score and seven years ago” reaches back not to the Constitution’s ratification, but to 1776, reframing the Civil War as a test of whether a nation dedicated to equality can endure.

Wills shows that this was not rhetorical flourish but the culmination of Lincoln’s evolving thought. Over the course of his career, Lincoln moved from a position of containing slavery to one of confronting its moral incompatibility with the nation’s founding ideals. Yet he never abandoned his primary objective: preserving the Union. In Lincoln’s mind, the Union and the principle of equality were not separate goals but intertwined ones. The Union gave political life to the Declaration’s promise; without it, the principle would remain abstract.

One of the book’s most compelling insights is Lincoln’s refusal to treat the Confederacy as a separate nation. Even in the midst of a brutal war, Lincoln spoke and acted as the president of all Americans. Southerners were not foreigners but citizens engaged in rebellion—participants in what he viewed as an unlawful act against a legitimate government. This stance shaped both his wartime policies and the tone of the Gettysburg Address, which avoids vindictiveness and instead calls for “a new birth of freedom” that would bind the nation together more fully than before.

Wills also situates the address within its intellectual and cultural context, contrasting Lincoln’s spare, biblical language with the ornate oratory of his contemporaries. The result is a speech that feels both timeless and radical, quietly overturning the assumptions on which the nation had been built.

Lincoln at Gettysburg is ultimately a study in how ideas shape history. Wills demonstrates that Lincoln did not merely commemorate the dead at Gettysburg—he reinterpreted the American experiment itself, grounding it not in compromise, but in a moral vision that continues to define the country’s aspirations.

Beautiful, Suggestive, and Not Quite Convincing: A review of The Light Eaters: How the Unseen World of Plant Intelligence Offers a New Understanding of Life on Earth

 Zoë Schlanger’s The Light Eaters: How the Unseen World of Plant Intelligence Offers a New Understanding of Life on Earth is an elegant, curious, and ultimately frustrating book. It sits at the intersection of science writing and philosophical speculation, and while it succeeds admirably at the former, it strains credibility in the latter.

Schlanger is at her best when she is simply observing. Her reporting on plant behavior—root systems exchanging chemical signals, leaves responding to touch, forests linked through underground fungal networks—is vivid and often mesmerizing. She has a gift for rendering the slow, silent life of plants into something legible and even dramatic. You come away with a sharpened sense that plants are not passive background but active participants in the ecosystems we barely notice.

Where the book begins to wobble is in its central claim: that these behaviors amount to something like intelligence. Schlanger builds her case through anecdotes and emerging research, but the leap from responsiveness to cognition is never fully justified. The evidence feels suggestive rather than conclusive, and at times the argument seems to run ahead of the science, leaning on metaphor where demonstration would be required.

That tension defines the book. It is never dull—far from it—but it leaves you unconvinced. You learn a great deal about how plants live, communicate, and adapt, yet the larger thesis remains just out of reach, more poetic than proven.

In the end, The Light Eaters is best read not as a definitive account of plant intelligence, but as an invitation to rethink how we define life and awareness. It opens a door, but it does not quite walk you through it.

Einstein's Cosmos by Michio Kaku

 

Michio Kaku’s Einstein’s Cosmos is a lively, accessible tribute to the great physicist that mixes biography with clear explanations of the physics that made Einstein’s name synonymous with modern science. As a first-time Kaku reader, I appreciated his engaging, conversational voice—brisk storytelling, vivid analogies, and just enough technical detail to illuminate without bogging the reader down.

A central theme of the book is how many of Einstein’s most daring ideas anticipated discoveries that wouldn’t be confirmed until decades after his death. Kaku does an excellent job highlighting those prescient insights and the ways Einstein’s intuition outpaced the experimental technology of his era.

Gravitational waves are a standout example. Einstein’s general relativity mathematically admits ripples in spacetime, but the notion of real, detectable waves was controversial and even confusing in his lifetime; Einstein himself wavered on their physical reality. Kaku traces the theory’s development and the long experimental road that ended with LIGO’s 2015 detection—an observation Einstein could not have witnessed, yet one that vindicated a fundamental prediction of his theory.

Black holes are another major case. The Schwarzschild solution to Einstein’s equations appeared within a year of general relativity, but the idea of a physically real object from which not even light can escape seemed almost science-fictional then. Einstein resisted the notion of singularities and collapsed stars; still, his equations implied them. Kaku shows how later theoretical work and astronomical observations—accretion disks, X-ray binaries, and the imaging of a black hole’s shadow—confirmed what the mathematics had already suggested.

Kaku also explores gravitational lensing and gravitational redshift—phenomena predicted by general relativity that were difficult to test with early 20th-century instruments. The 1919 Eddington expedition began confirming light-bending, but precise, wide-ranging confirmations came much later, and precise applications (like GPS time corrections) are entirely post‑Einstein technologies. Kaku frames these developments as part of a pattern: Einstein supplied a conceptual framework so profound that it required future generations and instruments to fully validate and exploit it.

Throughout, Kaku emphasizes Einstein’s creative process—thought experiments, stubborn skepticism, and a willingness to challenge received wisdom. The book blends human detail with scientific exposition in a way that makes complex ideas feel graspable.

If you’re looking for an approachable, well-written account that honors both Einstein’s genius and the later triumphs his theories enabled, Kaku’s Einstein’s Cosmos is a rewarding read.

Carl Lutz, Visas for Life, and Eric Saul

Eric Saul (tall man in the middle) at Arch Street Friends Meeting House

At the end of March I went to a presentation titled:

Visas For Life: The Righteous and Honorable Diplomats

held at the Arch Street Friends Meeting House.  The event focused on Carl Lutz, a Swiss diplomat in Budapest who rescued 62,000 Jews from the Holocaust. At the center of research and publication of work about Lutz and other diplomats who rescued Jews is Eric Saul, one of the speakers at the event.

I was not aware that anyone had rescued that many Jews from Hitler and his horrible minions.  And I think of Budapest as one of the worst sites in the tragedy of that is The Holocaust.  In just a few months in the middle of 1944, more than 400,000 Jews were deported from Budapest to Auschwitz and other death camps.  Adolph Eichmann reached his peak of evil efficiency in Budapest in 1944.  It was happily stunning to find that an epic rescue was going on at the same. 

I will be writing more about this program and about Saul later in the year.  At this time of the year when the world marks the end of the Holocaust and of World War II in Europe, I was delighted to learn about a heroic action I had not previously been aware of.  

 

Yiyang Zhuge: Translating Hannah Arendt Across Worlds

 

Yiyang Zhuge translator of Hannah Arendt and Plutarch

At a recent conversation hosted by the Hannah Arendt Center in New York City, Roger Berkowitz interviewed Yiyang Zhuge. Her work represents a remarkable intellectual bridge between languages, traditions, and political worlds. Still a graduate student at Boston College, Zhuge has already emerged as a significant figure in bringing Western political thought—especially the work of Hannah Arendt—to contemporary Chinese readers.

Roger Berkowitz and Yiyang Zhuge

Zhuge’s recent translation of The Human Condition into Mandarin, published this year in China, has already sold 15,000 copies—an impressive number for a dense philosophical text. The year before, her translation of Plutarch’s Moralia reached an even wider audience, with 36,000 copies sold. These numbers suggest not only the quality of her work but also a growing appetite among Chinese readers for classical and modern texts that explore politics, ethics, and the human condition.

Plutrach's Moralia translated from Greek to Mandarin by Yiyang Zhuge

What makes Zhuge’s work even more striking is the path that led her there. She came to the United States at the age of fifteen and attended a private high  school with little knowledge of English. In an environment where she faced social difficulties, language itself became both refuge and passion. She immersed herself in study, mastering not only English but also Greek, Latin, and German. That linguistic range enabled her to translate Arendt not from English but from German.  Arendt wrote her major works in both English and German. Zhuge and Berkowitz mentioned some of the differences between the German and English version of The Human Condition including Arendt’s quotations of German poetry in the edition she wrote in German. 

The Human Condition translated from German to Mandarin by Yiyang Zhuge

Zhuge’s work is not limited to translation. She has built a substantial following through a Mandarin-language YouTube channel where she discusses politics and feminism. In doing so, she participates in a broader intellectual project: creating a space for political thought that crosses cultural and linguistic boundaries. Her translations and public engagement bring thinkers like Arendt into conversation with contemporary Chinese audiences, where questions of authority, freedom, and public life carry particular urgency.

Zhuge's translation of Men in Dark Times will be published later in 2026 

Her current effort to publish a Mandarin translation of Men in Dark Times highlights the challenges of that project. The text, with its reflections on individuals who maintained moral clarity under oppressive conditions, must pass through China’s censorship process. That negotiation itself underscores the stakes of Zhuge’s work. Translation under censorship is not only an intellectual exercise but also a political act.

Zhuge’s story highlights language as a form of freedom. From a teenager struggling to find her place in a new country to a scholar translating some political philosophy from the 20h century and the ancient world, she has turned linguistic mastery into a means of connection and influence. In bringing Arendt into Mandarin, she is not only translating words but opening a space for thought—one that, like Arendt’s own work, insists on the importance of thinking in difficult times.

Review: Organic Nomenclature and the Discipline of Naming

 

There are few books more practical—or more quietly transformative—than Organic Nomenclature by James G. Traynham. It is not a glamorous book. It does not promise sweeping insights or theoretical breakthroughs. Instead, it offers something more fundamental: a disciplined way to bring order to the sprawling, often bewildering world of organic chemistry.

I first encountered Traynham’s book in 1994, under circumstances far removed from a university classroom. I was working as a writer at an advertising agency when we took on a new client: Atofina, a French chemical company expanding its American operations. Their U.S. headquarters was in Philadelphia, and I began commuting from Lancaster several times a week. On those train rides, I opened an organic chemistry textbook and worked steadily through Traynham’s exercises.

That decision changed the way I approached my work. Organic nomenclature is, at its core, a language. Without it, the world of organic chemistry remains opaque—filled with unfamiliar names that conceal more than they reveal. With it, structure begins to emerge. Chains, branches, functional groups, and substituents all fall into place. What once looked like chaos becomes readable.

Traynham’s book excels because it treats nomenclature as a skill to be practiced, not merely understood. The exercises are incremental and cumulative, forcing the reader to engage actively with the material. There is no shortcut. Mastery comes only through repetition—naming compounds, checking answers, and learning from mistakes. Over time, patterns begin to stick. The logic of the system becomes internal rather than memorized.

For me, this practical mastery had immediate value. It allowed me to speak more confidently with chemists and researchers, to understand the products and processes I was writing about, and to translate technical information for colleagues and customers who did not share that background. The book did not make me a chemist, but it gave me access to the language of chemistry—and that made all the difference.

Recently, I returned to Traynham’s exercises, working through them again decades later. The experience was both humbling and satisfying. Some concepts came back quickly; others required renewed effort. But by the end, I felt once again that sense of order—the ability to look at a compound and name it with confidence. Even the modern world seemed to respond: my online feeds began offering organic chemistry quizzes and resources, as if the discipline had reawakened a dormant part of my thinking.

Organic Nomenclature remains what it always was: a workbook. It rewards patience, persistence, and attention to detail. For anyone who wants to make sense of organic chemistry—whether as a student, professional, or curious outsider—it offers something rare: clarity earned through practice.

Hannah Arendt and the Illusion of Progress

"On Violence" is one of the essays in the book

Crises of the Republic by Hannah Arendt

 

In her essay On Violence, Hannah Arendt offers a lucid critique of the modern belief in historical progress. Writing in the late 1960s amid political upheaval, student revolts, and widespread violence in American cities, Arendt challenges the idea—deeply embedded in modern Western thought—that history moves steadily toward moral or political improvement. For Arendt, this belief is not an ancient insight but a relatively recent intellectual construction.

She traces the idea historically. In the seventeenth century, she notes, the concept of inevitable progress was largely unknown. Early modern thinkers saw human affairs as cyclical or contingent rather than steadily improving. 

Ancient Greeks looked back to a Golden Age.

Romans looked back to the founding of Rome from the ashes of Troy.

Jews and Christians look back to Eden and a march of sin only to be relieved by the Messiah.

The Enlightenment of the eighteenth century began to change this perspective. Philosophers increasingly believed that reason, science, and education could gradually improve human society. By the nineteenth century, the idea of progress had hardened into something close to certainty. Scientific and technological breakthroughs seemed to demonstrate that human knowledge advanced continuously. Many thinkers then assumed that moral and political life must be advancing as well.

Arendt rejects this leap. In On Violence, she argues that technological progress does not imply moral progress. The twentieth century, in her view, destroyed that illusion. Two world wars, the rise of totalitarian regimes, and the development of weapons capable of annihilating humanity demonstrated that increased scientific capability can coexist with unprecedented brutality. Indeed, modern technology often magnifies violence rather than restrains it. For Arendt, the assumption that history inevitably turns toward improvement is therefore a philosophical error—an unsupported faith rather than a proven truth.

The arc of history occasionally bends toward justice, but can just as easily snap back toward patriarchal tyranny. 

Yet Arendt’s critique of progress does not amount to pure pessimism. Her earlier work The Human Condition offers a more subtle view of human development. In that book she analyzes the fundamental activities of human life—labor, work, and action—and explores how modern society has transformed them. Although she does not embrace the Enlightenment narrative of inevitable progress, she does acknowledge that human beings continuously reshape their world. Through “work,” humans build durable structures, institutions, and technologies that alter the conditions of life on earth. Through “action,” they create new political possibilities through persuasion.

In this sense, Arendt recognizes change and improvement, but she refuses to call it progress in the philosophical sense. Progress implies a predictable direction, a historical law guaranteeing advancement. Arendt insists that no such law exists. Human achievements remain fragile and reversible because they depend on political judgment and collective responsibility. Civilization can advance, but it can also collapse.

Another striking element of The Human Condition reinforces this position: Arendt assumes that humanity’s future will remain on earth. Writing during the early space age, she reacts skeptically to fantasies of escaping the human condition through technological mastery. Even as science expands human power, our political and moral challenges remain rooted in the earthly world we share.

Taken together, On Violence and The Human Condition reveal Arendt’s distinctive position. She rejects the comforting belief that history inevitably moves toward improvement. The catastrophes of the twentieth century demonstrate that progress is not guaranteed. Yet she does not deny human creativity or the possibility of building better institutions. What she rejects is the illusion that improvement will occur automatically.

For Arendt, the future is not secured by historical progress but shaped by human action. Whether societies become more just or more violent depends not on the momentum of history but on the choices people make.

Reading Moby-Dick After a (Late) Life at Sea (Mostly in Books)

Few novels have the global reputation of Moby Dick. Readers around the world consider it a monument of American literature—a small ship circling the world yet always anchored in New England. I just read it for the first time. I meant to read it for decades, but never got around to it until this year. I had no idea what a great story it is.  Its reputation is long and boring, as cold as antarctic seas, but it is a vivid sea story, full of danger, humor, superstition, theology, and the daily labor of sailors. When I finished it, I found myself surprised not by its difficulty but by its vitality. It is a wonderful story. 

I am also glad I waited to read it until now--after learning to swim at 59 and reading all of the Master and Commander novels after I retired. Swimming on the shore of several continents gave me a feeling of the majesty of the ocean I did not have in my first six decades of landlocked life.

One of the most striking elements of the novel is the depth of its religious imagination. Herman Melville was steeped in the Protestant culture of nineteenth-century New England, and that background permeates the book. The narrative voice of Ishmael reflects a distinctly American Protestant sensibility—hopeful, reflective, and often shaped by a Calvinist awareness of fate and providence. The novel constantly wrestles with questions of judgment, suffering, and divine purpose.

At the same time, Melville refuses to keep religion within neat doctrinal boundaries. The sailors of the Pequod live in a world where traditional Christianity blends easily with seafaring superstition, pagan imagery, and fatalistic humor. Men who can quote Scripture in one moment may read omens in the sea the next. Sermons, prophecies, and strange coincidences all accumulate as the voyage unfolds. Melville captures something very human here: in a life filled with boredom, danger, and uncertainty, people reach for every available framework—religious, mythic, or superstitious—to make sense of their fate.

Captain Ahab stands at the center of this spiritual drama. His pursuit of the white whale becomes not just a hunt but a rebellion against the universe itself. Ahab’s obsession reflects a darker side of Calvinist theology—the sense that a hidden power governs the world and that human beings are helpless before it. Yet Ahab refuses submission. His struggle with the whale becomes a struggle with God, fate, and existence itself.

For readers unfamiliar with seafaring life, parts of Moby-Dick can seem digressive. Melville famously interrupts the narrative with long chapters describing whale biology, classification, and the equipment of a nineteenth-century whaling ship. These sections are sometimes treated as obstacles, but they are integral to the novel’s world. The Pequod is not just a stage for philosophical drama; it is a working vessel, and the reader is immersed in its tools, routines, and technologies.

In my case, those chapters were a particular pleasure rather than a burden. Having already read the twenty-one novels in the Master and Commander series by Patrick O'Brian, I had grown accustomed to detailed descriptions of ships, rigging, and maritime life. O’Brian’s world of naval warfare prepared me well for Melville’s whaling industry. Without that background, the technical discussions of whales and the equipment of the Pequod might have seemed tedious. Instead they felt immersive, part of the texture of life at sea. 

In the very good movie titled Master and Commander Captain Aubrey lures a superior French ship to its destruction by disguising the HMS Surprise as a whaling ship.

That preparation also highlights how different Melville’s project is from most sea fiction. O’Brian writes historical novels about naval officers and campaigns. Melville writes something stranger: a philosophical epic disguised as a whaling voyage. The Pequod’s journey becomes an exploration of faith, obsession, knowledge, and the limits of human understanding.

In the end, Moby Dick earns its reputation as a great American novel not because it is difficult but because it is so expansive. It contains theology, natural history, adventure, comedy, and tragedy all within a single narrative. Melville’s novel reminds readers that life—especially life lived close to danger—rarely separates these elements neatly.

"Call me Ishmael" are the opening words of the narrator who is the only survivor of the wreck of Pequod at the conclusion of the novel. For those willing to sail with Ishmael, the voyage is unforgettable. And much safer than a real-life whaling ship.....

Geography, War, and Power: Ian Morris’s Grand Argument

 

Across Why the West Rules, for Now, War! What Is It Good For?, and Geography Is Destiny, historian Ian Morris advances one of the most ambitious arguments in contemporary historical writing: geography shapes human possibilities; war accelerates political organization; and power flows toward regions best positioned to exploit both.

Each book stands alone. Together, they form a coherent trilogy about how civilizations rise, dominate, and eventually yield.

1. Why the West Rules, for Now

In Why the West Rules, for Now, Morris asks the question that animates much global history: why did Western Europe, rather than China or India, come to dominate the modern world? His answer rejects racial or cultural superiority. Instead, he proposes a measurable index of “social development,” tracking energy capture, organization, information technology, and war-making capacity over 15,000 years.

The core claim: geography determines which societies have access to the resources, domesticable plants and animals, navigable waterways, and communication networks that allow complexity to scale. For centuries, China led. Then Europe’s fragmented geography and Atlantic position created competitive pressures and maritime advantages that propelled it forward. Western dominance, in Morris’s telling, is neither destiny nor virtue. It is a phase.

The “for now” matters. The title already anticipates decline.

2. War! What Is It Good For?

If Why the West Rules maps long-term development, War! tackles a more uncomfortable thesis: large-scale warfare has historically made societies safer.

Morris does not romanticize violence. He argues that throughout history, bigger and bloodier wars have tended to create larger political units — empires and states — that suppress smaller-scale violence. The Roman Empire, the Qin and Han dynasties, early modern European state formation — all demonstrate that consolidation through war reduces the frequency of everyday killing.

The modern world’s relative safety, he suggests, rests on centuries of brutal state-building. War is not good in itself. It is good at forcing cooperation and creating Leviathans capable of imposing order.

Read alongside Why the West Rules, the logic tightens: geography creates opportunities; competition turns violent; war builds larger structures; those structures increase social development.

3. Geography Is Destiny

In Geography Is Destiny, Morris narrows his focus to Britain. The book is smaller in geographic scope but just as sweeping chronologically. Here he tests his thesis against a single case: the United Kingdom.

Britain’s island geography, he argues, made it simultaneously European and separate from Europe. The English Channel fostered political independence while proximity guaranteed entanglement. Over 8,000 years, Britain oscillated between integration and distance. Brexit, in this framework, is not a rupture but a recurring pattern.

Morris invokes what he calls “Thatcher’s Law”: Britain is part of Europe, like it or not. Geography constrains identity politics. The island does not move.

The book also revisits themes from his earlier works. Britain’s imperial ascent stemmed from geographic advantages in Atlantic trade and naval projection. Its imperial collapse followed the massive costs of industrialized war in the twentieth century. Geography enabled empire; geopolitics destroyed it.

But the final move of Geography Is Destiny expands outward. Morris argues that Brexit debates miss the larger transformation underway. The real structural shift is the rise of China. Just as Why the West Rules suggested Western dominance was temporary, Geography Is Destiny hints that the world’s center of gravity is moving back toward East Asia. China calling itself the “Middle Kingdom” is not mere poetry; it reflects long-term civilizational centrality.

The Through-Line

Taken together, the three books make a disciplined argument against short-term thinking.

• Geography shapes opportunity.

• Competition produces war.

• War builds states.

• States dominate until geography and development shift advantage elsewhere.

Morris consistently refuses cultural triumphalism. Western dominance was contingent, not permanent. Britain’s imperial power was structural, not eternal. China’s resurgence may represent reversion rather than revolution.

What makes Morris compelling is scale. He is not distracted by electoral cycles or policy squabbles. He looks at millennia. That long view is unsettling. It suggests that national debates — over Brexit, NATO, American decline — are ripples atop tectonic plates.

If Why the West Rules explains how the West rose, and War! explains the violent machinery behind state power, Geography Is Destiny asks what happens when geography shifts the balance again.

The trilogy leaves readers with a sobering possibility: the West’s “for now” may be ending, not because of moral failure alone, but because geography and development are rebalancing the world.

Morris does not celebrate this. He simply traces it.

That clarity — unsentimental, structural, and expansive — is what makes his work so compelling.