Bureaucrats, female or male, have never been popular, a fact which may, in part, explain neglect of their role by the growing band of students of women and politics. Theories of bureaucracy predict that this will be the least promising of settings for the empowerment of women. Max Weber's classic account depicts bureaucratic activity as a routinized and sterile process of technical determinations and rules of procedure. Some feminists argue that such modes of action epitomize the masculine. Each model portrays a rational, depersonalized, technocratic sphere of activity, hierarchical in structure, rule-bound both in what is done and how. In addition, the state itself has sometimes been presented as wholly oppressive to women, adding public power to private power to create a comprehensive system of male domination.

Though historians of technology generally work toward detailed case studies of individual machines or industries, a few voices have lately been raised in a call for broader perspectives. In a recent review essay, Josef W. Konvitz, Mark H. Rose and Joel A. Tarr urge an intellectual history of urban technologies. The discipline that treats the spinning jenny and the cotton gin must also equip itself to analyze the varied and complex technological systems present in the modern city. Only with such a broad vision will the relationships between technology and culture become clear. One helpful version of such an overview has been offered by Rosalind Williams's historical and literary meditations on underground technological environments. But Williams's focus upon nineteenth-century culture has led her to ignore the American experience almost entirely. Bound by Leo Marx's paradigmatic “machine in the garden,” Williams dismisses America in favor of Britain and France, where underground technology first entered the modern landscape. A twentieth-century focus, however, reveals a rich and complex intellectual history of urban technology within the American scene. The built environment of New York City, in particular, has dominated contemporary American expressions of the relationship between culture and technology.

The ending of the Cold War, represented by the extraordinary changes that have been taking place within the international system since 1989, has finally, it seems, put an end to a situation wherein two armed and tightly organised blocs confronted one another and perceived each other as being, in essence, a threat that was immediate and potentially mortal. Given, too, that it was the Soviet bloc and then the Soviet Union itself that fell apart, it is understandable that this should be widely perceived as a victory for the West; and it is perhaps inevitable that attention should now fall on how the United States will relate to the international environment in which the country may well find itself in the early decades of the coming century.

More than sixty-five years after the Amalgamated Meat Cutters called off its strike in February 1922, the memory of defeat remained vivid in the minds of packinghouse workers who struggled through that long, desperate winter. Stephan Janko remembered reporting for work at Armour and Company after it became clear that the cause was lost. “When we went back inside of that plant it wasn't like men. It was more like a bunch of poor dogs that had been whipped for forgettin' who the master was.” A skilled butcher, Janko found himself at the mercy of a vengeful foreman who forced him to cart scraps at unskilled wages while a scab performed his job. “I never wanted to hear the word ‘union’ again in my life,” he recalled, “and I never wanted to stick my neck out for nothing. Just wanted to work and take home my pay.”

As Christopher Thorne's readers will have discovered from this printed version of his Albert Shaw Lecture at Johns Hopkins University, his concern with the question of American political culture had become the central focus in much of his academic work, and, indeed, of his private correspondence as well. When last we spoke, two days before his death, he heaped praise on the National Health Service – which I took as a final comment on a crucial difference in British and American health care.

In the 1960s, in my home town of Jackson, the civil rights leader Medgar Evers was murdered one night in darkness, and I wrote a story that same night about the murderer (his identity then unknown) called ‘Where Is the Voice Coming From?’ But all that absorbed me, though it started as outrage, was the necessity I felt for entering into the mind and inside the skin of a character who could hardly have been more alien or repugnant to me. Trying for my utmost, I wrote it in the first person. I was wholly vaunting the prerogative of the short-story writer. It is always vaunting, of course, to imagine yourself inside another person, but it is what a story writer does in every piece of work; it is his first step, and his last too, I suppose.

In the hundred years since Kate Chopin began to publish her stories, she has been praised for her achievements as a local colorist, reviled for her shocking portrayal of woman's consciousness, forgotten, rediscovered, and – in a crescendo of critical acclaim over the last quarter century -celebrated as the pre-eminent feminist in American fiction. But she has never received the credit she deserves as a writer who constantly addressed the most profoundly disturbing of all the questions that troubled Western thought during her time. Although her biographers and critics have long known that she read the new natural history, few have imagined that she took it seriously. In fact, her ten years' work was a prolonged and progressively troubled meditation on the meaning of humanity after the successive shocks of The Origin of Species (1859), The Descent of Man and Selection in Relation to Sex (1871), and The Expression of Emotions in Man and Animals (1872).

The subject of this article is the foreign policy views of singer and songwriter Bob Dylan: a personality whose footprints during the 1960s were so impressive that a whole generation followed his lead. Today, after thirty years of recording, the number of devoted Dylan disciples is reduced but he is still very much present on the rock scene. His political influence having been considerable, his policy views deserve scrutiny. My thesis is that Dylan's foreign policy views are best characterized as “isolationist.’ More specifically: Dylan's foreign policy message is what so-called progressive isolationists from the Midwest would have advocated, had they been transferred into the United States of the 1960s or later. I shall argue that Bob Dylan is just that kind of personified anachronism, seeing the contemporary world through a set of cognitive lenses made in the Midwest before the Second World War – to a large extent even before the First (or, indeed, before the American Civil War).

In the eighteenth century England had virtually no army and only a handful of administrators in its American colonies: the empire was held together by voluntary compliance, not coercion. One of the reasons the American colonists acquiesced in imperial decisions was that they had an effective way to influence them through London lobbies working on the Americans' behalf. London interest groups spoke and acted on behalf of their colonial correspondents before the ministry, the Privy Council, the Board of Trade and, less often, Parliament; in so doing they gave the colonists an input into imperial decision-making and provided vital information to the government.

In 1964 President Lyndon Johnson, professing himself alarmed by the seemingly “endless growth of relief rolls,” declared “war” on poverty. Walter Heller, his chief economic adviser, had recently remarked that it would be quite possible to eliminate the symptoms of poverty by simply redistributing two percent of the national income. Johnson, however, preferred to attack the sources of deprivation, claiming that the range of rehabilitative services provided by his Economic Opportunity Act would allow the poor to engineer their own paths to affluence.

In the United States since the conclusion of the Vietnam War, the Vietnam veteran has become known as a neglected, troubled, and even scorned individual. According to this view, the Vietnam veteran's problems began in Vietnam where he was forced to participate in a brutal and disturbing war in which he was under fire twenty-four hours a day. The enemy, the wily and tenacious Vietcong and North Vietnamese regulars, were not always clearly defined nor were they above hiding behind or using civilians, leading to the unintentional – and sometimes intentional – killing by American forces of noncombatants, including women and children. Due to the military's policy of limiting the tour of duty in the war zone to one year, combat groups lacked cohesion and suffered from low morale, resulting in the excessive use of marijuana and heroin and an eventual breakdown of discipline, leading to the “fragging” of officers who attempted to reimpose order.

In October 1968 the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square, London was under siege from students protesing against the continued American presence in Vietnam. In France the universities were in turmoil. The Washington Post for 6 October covered the Apollo Flight – the first step to the moon–, uprisings in Columbia university, Twiggy in person and a debate about when the Bikinians might return to their island. Nixon was edging his way towards the presidency in a year that had seen the assassinations of Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King, a year in which Johnson decided not to stand for another term in order (allegedly) to devote himself to ending the Vietnam war, in which the Democratic convention took place in Chicago in the midst of violent clashes between police and demonstrators.

The idea of a “new world order,” of an opportunity to remake a broken world into a more liberal and democratic place, was very much in the air in the late 1980s and early 1990s. Some historians were encouraged to look at earlier periods with this concept in mind, and this essay is the result of one such attempt. The whole idea of an attempt to build a new world order has a very positive ring about it. At the least it seems to assume a plan, and an active personality or two behind the plan; it also assumes a global reach. If these are in any sense requirements, the United States during the interwar period fulfilled them only partially and erratically. Certainly, if one looks for the strong, general pattern in American foreign policy during this period, the culmination of many smaller plans and patterns, one can be found: the drive to convince the world to adopt policies leading to an international economy characterised by free trade, convertible currencies and open markets, and along with that, the drive to convince countries to disarm. All American administrations from 1919 to 1939 would have agreed with these policy imperatives. But what is undeniable is that they varied in their emphases, in the efforts which US governments themselves made to get these policies accepted. Only Woodrow Wilson had a plan, and only he sought to involve the US Government permanently in this process, to the extent of tying it down to future responsibilities: all others preferred, when feasible, merely to give indicative guidance.

The Confederate Woman.… It took the civilization of an Old South to produce her — a civilization whose exquisite but fallen fabric now belongs to the Dust of Dreams. But we have not lost the blood royal of the ancient line; and in the veins of an infant Southland still ripples the heroic strain. The Confederate Woman, in her silent influence, in her eternal vigil, still bides.

Written in and for a patriarchal community that valued its solidarity, Anne Bradstreet's “Contemplations” does not try to render an accurate, realistic portrait of nature in the New World. Rather, it employs what Leo Marx calls “ecological images…displaying the essence of a system of value” and subordinates these images to the reformed Judeo-Christian myth. “Contemplations” argues that God is the source of order, meaning, and history, and that the natural world, whether beneficent or hostile, reflects His omnipotence. But in delineating a predominantly masculine world view, Bradstreet also sets aside her own aspirations as a woman poet. Although the song of the female bird Philomel represents a kind of art that is free of Puritanism's monolithic expectations, Bradstreet's speaker cannot liberate herself to sing with Philomel. Instead, she stifles her own song for a practical poetic craft that serves her struggling community.

In the reams of commentary that marked the fiftieth anniversary of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, no theme was more common than that it ended American isolationism. According to Time magazine, “this was the moment that changed Americans from a nation of provincial innocents, not only ignorant of the great world but proud of their ignorance, into a nation that would often have to bear the burdens of rescuing the world.” “The United States was shaken to the bottom of its soul, its geopolitical innocence in ruins,” Newsweek recalled. “No longer could it cultivate the old American illusion of withdrawing safely behind the Atlantic and Pacific while the rest of a corrupt world went about its dirty business.”