Worldmaking Read online

  In writing a book with a biographical frame, I am conscious that choices can appear arbitrary. Individuals such as Woodrow Wilson, George Kennan, Henry Kissinger, Paul Wolfowitz, and Barack Obama are well known as shapers of American foreign policy. Presidents and high-level policy advisers, after all, are less likely to raise hackles about the criteria for their inclusion. The Nobel Prize–winning psychologist Daniel Kahneman and his collaborator Amos Tversky described this phenomenon as the “availability heuristic,” which applied to this book suggests that if a name is easily recognizable, that person must be important.20 But Alfred Mahan, Charles Beard, and Walter Lippmann are not so prominent, did not assume direct policymaking roles, and require more by way of explanation.

  Alfred Thayer Mahan’s ideas are alive today, possessed of a timeless quality also evident in Thucydides, Sun Tzu, Machiavelli, and Clausewitz. Author of the seminal The Influence of Sea Power upon History, Mahan was prescient on the big issues of war, trade, and the central importance of sea power, making his inclusion a straightforward decision. As the subject of my first chapter, I might have discussed Theodore Roosevelt, Henry Cabot Lodge, or Secretary of State John Hay, who all presented powerful and influential diplomatic visions at the end of the nineteenth century. But none of their foreign-policy contributions rivaled Mahan’s in sweep and originality. Inspired by Pax Britannica, Mahan anticipated a Pax Americana that was historically unprecedented: an economic and cultural empire that did not require the formal annexation of vast swaths of territory. His books and essays propelled the debate about American expansion through the 1890s and beyond.

  Until, that is, Woodrow Wilson rejected the materialism and amorality of Mahan’s worldview—the president believed that narrowly emulating British practice betrayed America’s promise—and set U.S. foreign policy on a very different course. When he became president in 1913, Wilson’s foreign-policy philosophy was inchoate. But when he concluded in 1917 that there was no choice but to declare war on Germany, he proposed nothing less than a revolution in world affairs. On how to reincorporate Germany into the international system after its likely defeat, Wilson sought a “peace without victory” that would disavow retribution and secure postwar stability through its broad-based legitimacy. More broadly, however, Wilson believed that the establishment of a League of Nations was the only sure way to prevent cataclysmic wars from occurring again. At the Paris Peace Conference, the president hoped to craft a “scientific peace.”21

  Wilson’s hopes for the League of Nations wilted on home soil as the nation reverted to its long-standing tradition of eyeing Europe’s major powers warily and haughtily from a comfortable distance. It is essential for any study of U.S. foreign policy to understand why this happened, to engage with the real historical rather than the epithet version of isolationism.22 And so the book turns next to discuss the historian and political scientist Charles Beard, who believed Mahan and Wilson were reckless interventionists, similarly driven by the illusory benefits to America of free trade—although the amoral Mahan was the guiltier party. Beard became the most articulate and intellectually coherent advocate of “continental Americanism,” an autarkic version of isolationism, in the interwar years.

  The 1920s and 1930s are vitally important decades in the history of American foreign relations, and many other individuals—such as Senator Gerald Nye of North Dakota; Senator William Borah of Idaho; the aviator and chairman of the America First Committee, Charles Lindbergh; and the radio priest and demagogue, Charles Coughlin—also argued that the United States should abjure involvement in the looming European crisis. But none presented a sustained and coherent exploration of how America’s isolation from global conflict and trading patterns might plausibly be achieved. (Plus Lindbergh and Coughlin were shallow thinkers motivated by a crude chauvinism and anti-Semitism.) With a series of books and articles published during the 1930s and 1940s Charles Beard made the strongest case that retrenchment would make the United States a fairer and more successful nation—at all societal strata—and that this would allow it to serve as a beacon for other nations.

  Of course, Beard’s “continental Americanism,” and the less edifying visions of other isolationists, did not carry the day. Instead, Franklin Delano Roosevelt led the United States toward activist global leadership—which leads directly to the nation’s pivotal world role today. Yet while Roosevelt’s presidency is of vast significance in the history of U.S. foreign relations, it is difficult to identify a grand strategy or strategist that defined his presidency. The president himself was not a deep thinker. George Kennan later described FDR as an “intellectually superficial but courageous and charming man,” which is fair in one sense, although it scarcely does justice to his qualities of political judgment, which were superior to Kennan’s.23 Roosevelt was adept at improvisation and placed great store in the importance of personal diplomacy; he danced around fixed principles, blurring lines where he believed it served the greater good.24 “You know, I am a juggler,” FDR observed in 1942, “and I never let my right hand know what my left hand does … I may have one policy for Europe and one diametrically opposite for North and South America. I may be entirely inconsistent, and furthermore I am perfectly willing to mislead and tell untruths if it will help me win the war.”25

  Roosevelt juggled and used whatever ideas best served his goals at a particular time. And from 1939 to 1945, the most original foreign-policy ideas came from outside his administration, which is why I devote a chapter to the journalist Walter Lippmann. The most read, revered, and trusted print journalist in America from Calvin Coolidge to Lyndon Johnson, Lippmann performed multiple roles during the Second World War. Lippmann helped FDR formulate a persuasive rationale for providing Great Britain with material support—so much so that a journalist from the St. Louis Post Dispatch threatened to investigate Lippmann’s role in “this plot to get America into the war.”26 From 1939, he identified through his syndicated “Today & Tomorrow” columns a compelling strategic rationale for facing down Germany and Japan. Then in 1943 Lippmann published U.S. Foreign Policy: Shield of the Republic, a book that sold close to half a million copies and was syndicated in Reader’s Digest. Lippmann drew inspiration from Mahan, repudiated Wilson’s idealism, and shot down Beard’s isolationism with élan. Roosevelt needed a shaper of public opinion more than he needed a grand strategist. While there was no overt collaboration between the two men, Lippmann and Roosevelt’s goals happily overlapped.

  Kennan and Lippmann shared many views, but it was a bitter dispute that first brought them together. Lippmann believed that the continuation of a strong U.S.-Soviet alliance was essential to maintain postwar stability. In 1946, George Kennan made a strong case that such views were naïve. From his post at the U.S. embassy in Moscow, Kennan cabled Washington his view that Stalin was determined to expand his nation’s power at the expense of American interests; thus it was essential to resist Soviet adventurism that was fueled by nationalism, deep-rooted fears of vulnerability, and a messianic Marxist-Leninist ideology. This nearly six-thousand-word “Long Telegram” is the most famous communication in the history of the State Department, and its impact in Washington was profound. A year later, writing anonymously under the letter “X,” Kennan published an essay in Foreign Affairs titled “The Sources of Soviet Conduct” that elaborated on this “containment” strategy, comparing the Soviet Union to a wind-up toy that would move relentlessly in a particular direction unless a barrier was placed in its way. His authorship was soon revealed, and Kennan was met with acclaim from most and scorn from some.

  In a series of articles that were subsequently published as a book titled The Cold War—a phrase that caught on—Lippmann attacked Kennan’s “containment” as a “strategic monstrosity” that would imperil the United States through the accumulation of unsustainable obligations in areas of low importance. Kennan was stung by Lippmann’s assault, but he subsequently came to agree with most of what he wrote. Kennan believed a sagacious foreign policy requires flexi
bility and intuition, but somehow or other he bequeathed an ambiguous document—it looked a lot like a blueprint—ripe for misinterpretation. Kennan was a principal author of the central strategy America pursued through the Cold War—containment—and one of the most powerful dissenters from the decisions made in its name.

  Kennan’s successor as chair of the Policy Planning Staff, Paul Nitze, figured that he was simply fleshing out his predecessor’s ideas when he chaired a committee that authored the top secret NSC-68 (its official title: “United States Objectives and Programs for National Security”), a seminal policy document signed by President Truman in 1950, which Kennan disliked intensely. Throughout his career, Nitze believed that a combination of psychology and systems analysis could be used to accurately assess Soviet capabilities (and hence intentions) and this could be weighed against America’s military ability to discourage any Soviet attack. He described this calculation as the “correlation of forces,” and Nitze usually believed that this tilted more in Moscow’s favor than was generally recognized. NSC-68 identified the Soviet Union’s principal goal as “the complete subversion or forcible destruction of the machinery of government and structure of society in the countries of the non-Soviet world” and recommended a huge military buildup combined with a greater willingness to combat communism in the “Third World” as the appropriate American response.27 When North Korea invaded South Korea two months after NSC-68 was completed, Nitze appeared vindicated.

  A central figure in the final years of the Truman administration, Nitze was also a significant presence throughout the 1950s, when he lambasted the Eisenhower administration for allowing the Soviets to develop a lead in nuclear and nonnuclear military capabilities. John F. Kennedy used Nitze’s identification of a “missile gap” to devastating effect against Nixon, and the logic of NSC-68 helped propel Kennedy’s and Johnson’s foreign-policy activism. JFK’s inaugural promise to “pay any price … to assure the survival and the success of liberty” was a fair précis of NSC-68. These significantly expanded foreign-policy parameters gave individuals like Walt Rostow (an influential adviser to Kennedy and Johnson, and the subject of my first book) the space to thrive—he operated in the Age of Nitze. Though he was deeply ambivalent about Johnson’s decision to Americanize the Vietnam War, a perspective shared by Lippmann and Kennan, Nitze’s foreign legacy cannot be disentangled from the calamitous war in Southeast Asia.

  Henry Kissinger believed that America had to step sharply back from the unsustainable commitments that Nitze’s NSC-68 had encouraged. Throughout his tenure as national security adviser and later secretary of state, Kissinger encouraged a policy of détente (a relaxation of tensions) with the Soviet Union, a reduction in America’s overseas commitments by delegating roles to regional powers, and formally recognizing the People’s Republic of China. Kissinger was a polarizing figure: George Kennan applauded his efforts and advised him to ignore his detractors; Paul Nitze abhorred his worldview and questioned his patriotism.

  Yet the foreign-policy value that Kissinger revered above all others was “credibility.” He recognized that the United States had to withdraw from Vietnam, but in a way that communicated to enemies and allies alike that the nation remained a force to be reckoned with. This was achieved through bombing and launching an “incursion” into Cambodia as well as bombing North Vietnam (with fewer qualms about civilian casualties than the Johnson administration), while at the same time withdrawing American troops and reallocating primary defensive responsibilities to the Army of the Republic of (South) Vietnam. Elsewhere, Kissinger launched a destabilization campaign against the democratically elected government of Salvador Allende in Chile, supported a Pakistani government perpetrating terrible crimes against Bengalis in the 1971 Indo-Pakistani War, and invested American credibility in a tangential though bloody conflict against communist proxies in mineral-rich Angola. Kissinger’s legacy is highly controversial, combining genuine insight with reckless bellicosity, seminal diplomatic achievements, and vivid illustrations of how an amoral worldview can lead to immoral outcomes.

  Like Kissinger, Paul Wolfowitz is a Jewish intellectual with a political science Ph.D. from an Ivy League college—but the similarities end there. Wolfowitz believed that Kissinger’s service to the Nixon and Ford presidencies was tactically and morally deficient. Wolfowitz drew from Woodrow Wilson the exceptionalist notion that the United States was a uniquely moral, democratizing force in world affairs, and that to believe otherwise was to betray its ideals. Through his service to Presidents Carter, Reagan, and both Bushes, Wolfowitz was consistent in his view that his nation had a duty to lead the world in the direction of democracy and liberal capitalism, and that merely serving as a beacon was not enough.

  During George H. W. Bush’s presidency, Wolfowitz argued strongly against reducing defense spending following the collapse of the Soviet Union, and made the case, unheeded, that regime change in Iraq should have followed the ejection of Saddam Hussein’s forces from Kuwait. In the immediate aftermath of the 9/11 attacks, Wolfowitz forcefully remade the case that removing Saddam Hussein from power was imperative. But this was simply a first step. Mimicking Woodrow Wilson’s vaulting ambitions in 1918—and showing a similar lack of respect for Mahanian historical precedent—Wolfowitz called for a wholesale transformation of the Middle East. He observed that the United States had successfully occupied Japan and Germany after the Second World War and transformed these societies into high-performing democracies. Without reference to the historical context of those nation-building campaigns, he provocatively extended his analysis to ask: What was stopping the United States from doing the same in Iraq? Though costly in human and financial terms, such a move could ultimately pacify not just Iraq but also a restive and dangerous region. With Saddam gone and Iraq thriving, its neighbors would inevitably tilt in the direction of representation, accountability, and economic competence. A democratic wave would redound to the advantage of all.

  Wolfowitz’s campaign did not end well. On December 18, 2007, Barack Obama, then a candidate for the Democratic presidential nomination, observed, “I am running to do more than end a war in Iraq. I am running to change the mindset that got us into war.”28 He had identified that mind-set in his most significant speech on foreign policy prior to his winning the presidency, delivered at an “antiwar rally” in Chicago in 2002. Obama lambasted the move to war against Saddam Hussein’s Iraq as a “dumb war. A rash war. A war based not on reason but on passion, not on principle but on politics…” “What I am opposed to,” said Obama, “is the cynical attempt by Richard Perle and Paul Wolfowitz and other armchair, weekend warriors in this administration to shove their own ideological agendas down our throats, irrespective of the costs in lives lost and in hardships borne.”29

  President Obama’s foreign policies have been shaded by this aversion to ideology. The president is opposed to declaring allegiance to a fixed foreign-policy principle, and it seems highly unlikely that he will bequeath a presidential foreign-policy “doctrine”—unless the absence of one counts as one. He declined to consult Congress over the intervention in Libya in 2011, but did so in regard to Syria in 2013. He ordered a troop surge in Afghanistan in 2009—which he now seems to view as his gravest foreign-policy error—and then retreated from further commitments with alacrity. Obama drew a red line on Syria regarding the use of chemical weapons, invited Congress to decide what to do when Assad crossed it, and then ceded a starring role in finding a solution to Vladimir Putin. “Folks here in Washington like to grade on style,” Obama told ABC News. “I’m much more concerned about getting the policy right.”30 More than any other individual surveyed in this book, Obama believes that foreign policy is an imperfect art, that consistency is not a virtue in and of itself. The president appears to concur with Ralph Waldo Emerson (and FDR) that “a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines.”

  * * *

  These nine individuals are difficult to
pigeonhole using the conventional terminology favored by scholars of international relations. This book challenges the oft-cited distinction between realism and idealism as an imperfect expression of the principal divide in U.S. foreign policy. There is insight to be gleaned in interrogating diplomacy through this prism, clearly. But it has also become a little tired. Instead, I suggest that another binary reveals something different about America’s interactions with the world: art versus science.

  Each of the individuals in this book approached foreign policymaking with contrasting manners of thought and expression—their education and subsequent disciplinary preferences were quite different. Some—like Mahan, Kennan, and Kissinger—were drawn primarily to history, philosophy, and literature, which tended to impart a sense of tragedy and caution, and a reluctance (unless the fate of the world was deemed to be at stake as per Kennan and the H-bomb) to depart from observed historical precedent. But others, including Wilson, Nitze, and Wolfowitz, were trained in the social sciences—political science, economics, psychology, and later the fledgling discipline of international relations—and were more inclined to view the world as “makable” following the identification and application of the appropriate patterns and theories. Individuals possessed of such ideas often seek to transcend history rather than operate within its observed confines—to do things that have never been tried.