The explanations for the red scare of the Cold War years have often been concerned with the direction taken by anti-Communist pressures. These have sometimes been represented as welling up from below, perhaps in the form of grassroots anxieties and resentments directed at well-to-do liberals and intellectuals, or as Catholic and immigrant enmity towards the Soviet Union. Such populistic currents may be portrayed as disturbing the normal routines of American politics. More often in recent years anti-Communist sentiments have been presented as elite-inspired influences working their way down in the polity, such as the anti-Soviet rhetoric and policies of the Truman administration, or the partisan opportunism of Republican politicians. The American political process itself may then be held to account. There have been a few attempts to test these interpretations by studies at state level, although it is not self-evident that such studies will favour either of these explanations. Indeed, the more detailed the study the more it is likely to acknowledge the complexity of American anti-communism. The evidence of California suggests that the second great red scare arose out of the convergence of pressures both from above and from below, in a process involving at least three different political dimensions.

When a white writer portrays a black character, racial stereotypes and literary patterns almost always reveal their power. The portraits of blacks take forms that are by now archetypal: the mammy, Stepin Fetchit, the buck, the unspoiled primitive, the member of the oppressed black proletariat…. Such forms come all too easily to white writers; but “modern realism,” as Erich Auerbach called it, comes hard. Thus, white writers can seldom present a “tragically conceived life” of a black character and set that life solidly in a black culture. In portraying blacks, white writers tend toward the sentimental, the satiric, and the didactic rather than “objective seriousness, which seeks to penetrate to the depths of the passions and entanglements of a human life, but without itself becoming moved, or at least without betraying that it is moved” (Auerbach, 457 and 490). Although William Faulkner often tumbles – and sometimes leaps – into those pitfalls, occasionally he avoids them altogether. When he does so, however, readers find his work particularly hard to understand. His story “That Evening Sun” is a case in point.

In 1911, at the age of fifty-one, Harriet Monroe of Chicago decided to seek in that city sponsorship for a magazine devoted solely to the publication and criticism of poetry. It was a bold project, if not an unlikely one. America had never had such a journal. Chicago had a reputation as the graveyard of little magazines. There appeared to be scant supply of good new poetry and less demand. Moreover, it was doubtful that Chicago's intermittent patronage of the arts could be diverted from the publicly prestigious forums of the Art Institute and the Chicago Symphony.

When Thomas Jefferson said in his 1801 Inaugural Address, “We are all republicans: we are all federalists,” he was attempting to reconcile the differences between the two political parties and make a bid for Federalist support. He could not have realized then that one of the greatest threats to political achievement in his second administration would not come from friction between the established parties, but from one individual who styled himself and his small circle of followers as a “third something” between Republicans and Federalists. During Jefferson's first term certain issues arose which caused a growing dissatisfaction with administration policies among a few party members. Chief among that small, disaffected faction (commonly called the “Tertium Quids” because they claimed to be “third something”) was John Randolph of Roanoke – one of the most capable and consistent representatives who ever took the oath of office. Although Randolph's announcement of his willingness to meet men on that ground called quiddism came in 1806 during debates on non-importation of goods from Great Britain, his personal war with Jefferson had already evolved through a series of issues which emphasized their emerging differences on how political theory, purity and principle should be put into practice. By early 1806 Randolph's break with the administration was inevitable and reconciliation impossible.

We all know that the revolution in art – or the revolutions in the arts – that resulted in the emergence of what we loosely call “modernism” created a great deal of excitement and controversy. Noise and shouting filled the air. Critics opposed to the new currents saw in them the possibility of the destruction of everything noble in the Western tradition of the arts and perhaps even Western civilization itself. Defenders of the new ways were only slightly less acrimonious, if at all, and between the two there were continuing tumultuous and occasionally bitter arguments.