Since the Czech 'revivalist' movement of the last century, Czech art – along with the roles assigned to its artists – has been undergoing a continual process of definition and redefinition. The question of what constituted and what should constitute Czech artistic identity has often proved politically charged, with artists and art historians on opposing sides attacking each other for their political views. More often than not, debates on the issue have been part and parcel of wider social contexts in which artists and art historians have competed for influential positions and artistic prestige within the art world itself.

Statistics, as all other sciences, used to be a class-science in the service of capitalists and that is what it should remain to be in the interests of socialism as well. (Szabad Nép, 21 July, 1949)

The German Democratic Republic was long noted for its apparent stability, efficiency and political quiescence, in contrast to the more turbulent domestic histories of neighbouring Poland and Czechoslovakia. In established narratives of East German history, the sole evidence of mass popular unrest before the autumn of 1989 was the June Uprising of 1953. After this, with a few isolated exceptions, East Germans simply kept their heads down. ‘Dissent’ was for the most part an activity associated with a few intellectuals–Harich, Havemann, Bahro–until the growth of oppositional movements associated with unofficial peace initiatives and environmentalist groups in the 1980s1. To all outward appearances, this sketch was correct. What now requires reconsideration, however, are the underlying reasons for these appearances, and the evaluation – indeed, the very characterisation – of patterns of popular political dissent in the GDR.

Of those Hungarian intellectuals who fled abroad after the 1956 revolution, the maverick philosopher Imre Lakatos achieved the greatest prominence. In 1959, nearly three years after he reached England's shores and two years before he completed his doctorate at Cambridge, he began a brilliant teaching career at the London School of Economics and Political Science. ‘A lecture by Lakatos was always an occasion’, his colleague John Watkins has recalled, ‘the room crowded, the atmosphere electric, and from time to time a gale of laughter.’1

Like other cities, Bordeaux discovered the phenomenon of electricity by the end of the nineteenth century and tamed it during the first third of the twentieth century. Here, as elsewhere, one could follow the stages in the diffusion of the uses of electricity. But tackling the history of the electricity industry in Bordeaux means, perhaps more than elsewhere, getting involved with the evolution of the governing bodies which have dominated the process of electrification. Indeed, Bordeaux presents the case, very rare in France of a town which has known several juridical changes in the development of generation and distribution of electricity. From the start, until 1919, the construction of the network and its exploitation were taken care of by private companies. At this date, the Council appropriated the means of production and of distribution of electricity; the authority which was created then remained in existence beyond the general nationalisation of 1946, until 1956, when the city entrusted its electricity supply to the national company Electricité de France (EDF). How can these statutory changes be explained? We shall see that they can primarily be accounted for by shortcomings in the supply, whoever the operator may have been at the time. Indeed, in this field, supply first created demand and thus engendered the first faltering attempts in electricity. But, then, on several occasions, the electric power supply hit financial and technical snags. The change of juridical status then appeared as the solution to the people in charge.

After the fall of the Berlin Wall in November 1989 and the re-unification of Germany in the following year, the contemporary history of Germany was characterised by a rise in the more potent manifestations of racism, notably an increase in support for extreme right-wing parties and an enormous upsurge in the number of racial attacks which have taken place against minorities of all descriptions. In addition, as a reaction against the racist violence, specifically the attack upon a Turkish home in Solingen in June 1993, there was also a violent response on the part of the Turks.

I was first taught by A. J. P. Taylor in the Hilary Term of my second year (1957–8) at Magdalen, for what was called English History III, the period from 1685 to 1939. I was not an expert on modern English history, but I had been taught the outlines well at school, and that background together with work on a prize essay the previous long vacation meant that I had a closer knowledge of the period than most undergraduates possess before starting tutorials on it officially, and because Alan Taylor started in 1760 I was soon on familiar ground, and even able to see that I knew more about some episodes than he did.

These days, the institutions of the European Community, and especially the Commission, are criticised for being, if anything, too effective and for submerging the sovereignty of member states in the interests of a concept of European union not universally shared. In the late 1970s the perceived problem was very different. The economic crisis following the breakdown of Bretton Woods and the oil price hike had caused a resurgence of nationalism within the Community and the reemergence of barriers to trade. ‘[S]ince about 1973, trade integration among the original six members has largely stagnated, as new market barriers outweighed new liberalising action, and economic growth was cut in half.’2 The one recent achievement, the European Monetary System (EMS), had been largely created outside the machinery of the Treaty of Rome. There was resentment within the Community at its failure to protect member states against the onset of crisis or to help them to find a way out of it. There was resentment at the way in which, at a time of crisis, France, Germany and the UK tended to ignore the Community, and their obligations under the Treaty of Rome, and to enter into consultations with the USA and Japan about matters which affected all member states.

As Central and East Europeans (including Germans) strive to build new democracies on the ruins of old dictatorships, they seek to establish democratic values as well as democratic institutions. They know that democratic institutions alone were not able to save democracy in Germany's Weimar Republic, which had also risen out of the collapse of an authoritarian regime. West Germans, though, later built a viable democracy, the Federal Republic, from even more devastated and authoritarian remnants. To help explain such differing outcomes, historians have posited changes in political values, arguing that West Germans developed a democratic political culture to replace the authoritarian values many Germans had held earlier. As illuminating as such arguments could be, historians have had great difficulty finding evidence on just what political values Germans, especially common citizens, have in fact held at various times.

In 1926 the Fascist regime instituted a restrictive shop-licensing system which accounts for the continued prominence of small shopkeepers in Italy today. Retailers' interests were represented on the licensing panels by the Fascist Confederation for Commercial Traders in an apparently genuine grant of corporate authority. The confederation swiftly reconstituted itself after the fall of the regime and retained its power within the post-war licensing structure. This article will analyse the background to the introduction of the system as a way into debates about the relationship between the Fascist state and the petite bourgeoisie.

The events of 1989, the annus mirabilis, have led to a great demand for new research and a re-thinking of the history of Eastern Europe. Those sources which were kept from us for years are now available, at least in part. As part of this process political scientists and historians of Eastern Europe are now concerned to fill in the gaps in our knowledge and provide the answers to urgent questions. A consequence of this situation has been a veritable flood of publications, of which eight have been chosen for review here. With two exceptions these studies have deepened our understanding of the issues involved. There are clear differences between the historians on the one hand and the political scientists on the other in terms of their starting-point and the questions they ask. Whereas the historians deal descriptively with the origins, trends and structures of the last centuries and place the revolutions of 1989/90 in their historical context, the political scientists proceed analytically and place greater emphasis on social, ethnic and economic factors. This dichotomy is demonstrated in the different problematics of the books under review.

Perhaps the most cherished prerogative of French intellectuals is the right to take a position, to have a public opinion on any and every matter. This power to pronounce judgement has crumbled somewhat in the electronic age before the pressures of the public opinion poll and the occasionally surreal media star syndrome, but generally intellectual and cultural leaders in France have retained highly visible and respected roles within national life.

The First World War had engendered in 1917 the first communist state and, following this, in 1919, an international communist movement. With the exception of the People's Republic of Mongolia no new communist states emerged between the wars. The Second World War provided European communism with a second chance to establish itself as a significant political force. In its aftermath the Soviet model was extended to much of the eastern part of Europe while, in the West, communism reached, in 1945–6, the zenith of its influence and power. When the dust had settled, Europe, and with it socialism, had become effectively divided. In Eastern, and in parts of Central Europe a form of socialist society was created, only to be bitterly denounced by the (social-democratic) majority of the Western labour movement. It lasted until 1989–90, when, as each of these socialist states collapsed under the weight of internal dissent following the revocation of Soviet control, it became apparent that no novel socialist phoenix would arise from the ashes of over forty years of authoritarian left-wing rule – at least for the foreseeable future.

When the Swedish Social Democratic Labour Party came to power in 1932, Sweden experienced a turning point in its history. For the first time the role of the Social Democratic Party in the construction of the welfare state became significant. Until the end of the 1910s the Social Democrats had concentrated their primary efforts on the problems of trade union recognition and the struggle for parliamentary democracy. After 1920 the Social Democrats became the largest party, but did not gain political power except for a brief interlude. The concept of the ‘Swedish Model’ has often been used in Sweden and abroad to describe the unique development of Swedish society in the twentieth century. However, historians and social scientists have tended to analyse Swedish society without a clear definition of the very concept, the ‘Swedish Model’.

The 1980s proved to be a tough decade for European welfare states. The post-war ‘welfare consensus’, which perhaps had never been quite so strong or coherent as many contemporary historians and commentators had assumed, was finally laid to rest. The five great spectres identified by Beveridge want, disease, ignorance, squalor and idleness had not been humbled by public welfare provision despite its ever growing scale and cost. At the beginning of the 1980s the OECD published a report on The Welfare State in Crisis which pointed out that as welfare state expenditure had roughly doubled as a percentage of national income in most west European countries since the late 1950s, so economic growth rates had plummeted. The European welfare states appeared to produce few positive welfare benefits, and this minimal achievement was produced at enormous cost which was to the detriment of overall economic growth and societal well-being.

The significance of the Locarno treaties remains one of the central issues of the interwar period. Did they mark, as Austen Chamberlain claimed, ‘the real dividing line between the years of war and the years of peace’ or were they, at best, a truce masking the incompatible ambitions of France and Germany and, at worst, a first act of appeasement by which France and Britain obtained security for the Rhineland at the expense of Poland and Czechoslovakia? A different approach is offered by economic history: from this perspective the significant events are seen as the defeat of the French occupation of the Ruhr and the acceptance of the Dawes Plan in July 1924. France had to abandon its attempt to break the power of German industry and had to accept the British and American view that European peace required German economic recovery. The Locarno treaties may be seen simply as the best arrangements that France could make for its security following this decisive defeat.

During the Cold War era the smaller states in Western Europe were confronted with numerous external pressures. These included most of all the need for closer economic co-operation within Western Europe to sustain the process of post-war economic and political reconstruction and the impact on Europe of the confrontation between the new superpowers, the United States and the Soviet Union. The responses of the smaller states to these external pressures varied considerably between two poles: on the one hand, a policy of active integration, with common policies and the transfer of at least some degree of national sovereignty to common institutions, and, on the other, a policy of neutrality, either chosen freely or initially forced upon, to retain as much decision-making autonomy as possible, while safeguarding core economic interests through intergovernmental co-operation. The choice of strategy depended not only on the character and degree of the external political pressures, but also on the respective historical preconditions and on what domestic and external aims the smaller states hoped to achieve with their policies.

The historiography of Italian fascism has reached a curious pass. Once, especially in the English-language world, all was dominated by the study of politics, diplomacy and war. Moreover, these studies were automatically ‘intentionalist’ in their interpretation. For Denis Mack Smith as, ironically, for Renzo De Felice, it did not seem possible to think of the period from 1922 to 1945 except as ‘Mussolini's Italy’; any analysis of fascist Italy could not depart far from the dominant and dominating figure of the Duce.

Since the so-called ‘Change’ of 10 November 1989, Bulgarian historiography has been, with its society as a whole, ‘in transition’. That phrase, it should be noted, has acquired what is at best a desultory connotation in the harsh realities of contemporary Bulgaria. Blocked by protracted economic crisis and failed political leadership, the road to reform has been uncertain, its destination obscure. The same situation has held true for practically all of the institutions of Bulgarian life, including the profession of history. Some welcome changes and positive achievements have been so much accompanied by problematic trends as to preclude any definitively favourable prognosis.