In an introduction to Louis J. Halle's Civilization and Foreign Policy, Dean Acheson notes with approval that Halle believed a group of men, formerly members of the Policy Planning Staff of the United States State Department, to be seeking a new theory of foreign policy which would lie outside the traditional theory. Halle's work, like that of the others whose names were mentioned (George F. Kennan, Paul Nitze, and C. B. Marshall), represented a serious and searching analysis of the conceptual frame of American foreign policy, a search largely accompanied by a demand for a more realistic consideration of problems of power. The members of the Policy Planning Staff were by no means the only, or even the first, Americans to question American thinking on foreign policy from the standpoint of power politics. Without going back to Alexander Hamilton, we must consider, in particular, Hans J. Morgenthau and Reinhold Niebuhr. This kind of thinking is still being advanced; and, more recently, the warning that Americans misunderstood the problem of power was put with some forcefulness by Robert Endicott Osgood : “More than any other great nation, America's basic predispositions and her experience in world politics encourage the dissociation of power and policy.” There is no doubt that work of recent years has shown the increased seriousness of American interest in the problems of foreign policy and civilization. The contribution which these and other writers have made is a very great one. Despite many differences among themselves, their trend seems to embody a certain oneness, which lies in a perception of the problems of power. Acheson points to the practical experience of the State Department group and their intention to “see life steadily and see it whole,” in Matthew Arnold's famous phrase. Yet, a few years after these writers, whom Acheson so highly regarded, had tried to acquaint the American people with the realities of power in foreign policy, one of them, George F. Kennan, was publicly criticized by Acheson himself for “never having understood the realities of power politics.” Shortly thereafter, Acheson, in his latest book, reiterated the charge that “power politics” was, for Americans, still a derogatory term. Kennan, one of our most thoughtful and sensitive writers on foreign policy, and Acheson, one of our most articulate and eloquent secretaries of state, had failed to satisfy the American people, and Kennan had failed, apparently, to satisfy Acheson regarding the significance and the reality of power politics. Yet in the light of some of the literature which has appeared since the rise of these writers, whom we may call “realists” though they do not necessarily so characterize themselves, one may question whether the danger is still that which Acheson described. One who reads Henry A. Kissinger's Nuclear Weapons and Foreign Policy may wonder not whether Americans understand the realities of power but whether, indeed, some of them understand anything else. We face the danger that the wheel may come full circle, that a naïve idealism may be replaced by a purely methodical realism, and that the very words “politics” and “strategy” may become interchangeable terms. We face that danger, but let no one suspect that Americans, in general, have succumbed to it.

During the first half of the twentieth century geographers analyzed at length the individual's relationship with his natural environment. The French school of humanist geography must be credited with stressing the influence of environment which, in proportion to its pronounced characteristics, becomes more and more powerful. Thus we came to understand the causes which determine a way of life, the customs, psychology, and idiosyncracies of those who inhabit the mountains, plains, forests, deserts, or seas. Our task has been a more daring one : we have studied the relationships established in the past between a certain geographical environment and the civilizations which formerly flourished there. In recognition of their meaning we labeled these relationships “geopolitics.” The term, coined by the German school, enjoyed a tremendous vogue because it was so apt. However, as critics have amply demonstrated, of and by itself it was really meaningless because the subject matter with which it must be concerned belonged to other, previously established and independent disciplines, such as economics or political geography. An inexact term, the word “geopolitics” crept into our present-day language. We, however, have chosen it to designate a determinate historical relationship.

The symbol is a form composed by man more unconsciously than consciously. With primitive peoples, this form seems to have been born from the desire to penetrate to the kernel of supernatural or magical power by means of a concise formula, all-inclusive or ambiguous, particularly through a magic incantation or a song. This penetration, however, is only possible if one understands the inner structure of such a power. According to primitive belief, the true seat of this power is not found in the world of our direct experience but in a magical area in which it rests in a completely abstract, latent state. In this condition it has not yet spread out into various shapes which it has to assume for concrete manifestation but appears completely homogeneous and solid. Moreover, the innermost substance (kernel) of this power is always organized antinomically. From this fundamental tendency to include opposites in a dualistic way, thunderstorms for example emerge as a dual combination of fire and water. Also dualistic is the “fiery stream of volcano and smithy,” the light-dark, hermaphroditism, etc. Psychologically, the original dual event is expressed in the fusion of love and hatred or the combination of a lust for power with inferiority.

Picture a vast territory whose soil is peopled by European colonists, while military conquest places the natives in a position of total dependence. Settlers from all parts of the parent state and from other countries as well form, at first, an inorganic mass of families arbitrarily placed side by side and differing from one another in all aspects as to place of origin, mental attitudes, habits, way of life.

The modern engineer, because of his tendency to express himself in language which, even in reference to very simple things, systematically retreats into mathematical symbolism—strictly incomprehensible to the average man—enrols himself, unconsciously or deliberately, in a jealously closed caste in which those we call “technocrats” shut themselves up. This is the caste which seeks to be the sole elite and necessary heir of the former nobility in the new social “pattern.”

There has often been criticism of the use which was made by certain sociologists toward the beginning of the century (Lévy-Bruhl in particular) of the adjective “primitive” to characterize the level of culture of peoples whom we formerly called “savage.” The term “archaic” perhaps creates fewer difficulties, but its etymology nevertheless involves the inconvenience of intimating that the societies in question might be closer to the origins than ours. Certain anthropologists, attempting to find an objective criterion which would permit us to draw a line of demarcation between the so-called primitives and ourselves, use the term “peoples without writing” to designate the former—that is, they refer to a technique. It is true that there might be good grounds for specifying this criterion. Indeed, graphic representation can consist of rudimentary signs such as one sees on the messagesticks of the Australians or in the sketched stories, such as those with which the North American Indian covered animal skins. We can speak of writing from the moment that definite characters of precise conventional meaning appear; but from the pictogram to the abstract sign there are still many transitions. For example, in the pre-Columbian epoch, the writing system of the Aztecs “constituted a compromise between the ideogram, phonetism, and simple drawing.” Egyptian hieroglyphics were not yet totally freed from their pictographic origins. In the evolution which led to our modern system, the first step was taken when syllabic representation was adopted. But writing ceased to be reserved for specialists and truly became a widespread institution when the alphabet was invented; and that discovery, made no doubt toward the year 1800 b.c. by the Semitic peoples, came more than three thousand years after the first step. In general, the term “peoples without writing” does not in itself specify that it must be understood as meaning “peoples without an alphabet”; thus there is some doubt about civilizations like that of the Aztecs, endowed with a rather elaborate pictographic system. There would be good reason, moreover, to ask ourselves if the technique of writing really constitutes a reliable criterion for establishing a distinction between societies which stagnate in archaism and those which open up to history. Certain writers, such as Marcel Griaule or M. Gurvitch, would be inclined to refute it and to seek other technical criteria, such as the use of machines or reference to creative characteristics.