Introduction

As has often been noted, Philip Selznick's rich corpus of scholarly writing shows remarkable long-run continuities of concern over the course of its development, despite the widely varying subject matter that he addressed successively, especially in his books. The aim of this chapter is to explore and assess Selznick's concepts of culture and community. These concepts assume prominence in different ways and at different stages in his work, but it will be argued here that they are intimately related and ultimately mutually supportive. Consequently, neither can be fully understood and productively analyzed without the other. However, the concept of culture emerges explicitly in Selznick's thinking long before that of community. Culture as an idea is presented early as a focus in his work, in his second book (Selznick 1952), although initially in an oblique way, mainly through a sociological portrayal of the elements of social life that are likely to remain if culture is more or less absent from it. By contrast, the concept of community is presented in fully developed form only in the final stages of Selznick's career; above all, in his great summation of his intellectual outlook in The Moral Commonwealth (1992) and in the short work The Communitarian Persuasion (2002) that followed it.

As regards community, this chapter is not directly concerned to evaluate the normative commitments to communitarianism in Selznick's late work, but only to examine the analytic utility of his concept of community. He recognized the closeness, in some important respects, of Emile Durkheim's thinking to his own sociological outlook, primarily in the sense that both Selznick (1992, xii, 141) and Durkheim saw sociology as preeminently a “moral science,” that is, an empirical inquiry about the moral structures and underpinnings of social life. So, in evaluating Selznick's ideas, some comparisons can usefully be made with a Durkheimian approach to community. Such an approach, it will be suggested, is very close to Selznick's in some ways; in others sharply and instructively opposed.

Never have I been so fortunate as to travel with such a pleasant and diverse company as I did on the trip from Berlin to Dresden. My fellow travelers were Prussian government officials, officers, merchants, one apothecary, and so on. They talked about various subjects of daily life and discussed the battles that had taken place at these very sites twenty-five years ago. I, on my part, related several events from our patriotic war that are not known abroad. The Prussians, in general, are notorious in Germany for their boastfulness, but those who were with us in the diligence talked about the heroic deeds and failures of their country humbly, nobly, and cleverly. Generally speaking, it is more pleasant to travel in Germany than elsewhere—of course, if you understand and speak German decently. Among the fellow travelers in any diligence or dining at the same table, there will always be clever, educated conversationalists. At first, the Germans may seem uncouth and apprehensive with foreigners, especially when they see in one's passport “kaiserlich-russischer Staatsrat.” They dread and avoid arrogant foreigners who treat them no better than those same foreigners treat postmasters in their own countries. But as soon as they hear a tender, courteous word, not even pronounced in pure German, yet in a way they understand, they become friendly, trustful, and obliging. The main, or fundamental, virtue of Germans is their rectitude, Rechtlichkeit. One can do anything to a German as long as the action is based on the law: he obeys and endures everything. But the slightest violation of his rights, even one that is not committed to cause deprivation or offense, makes him lose his patience. Napoleon conquered all Germany, brought it to complete ruin by taxes and extortion, killed hundreds of thousands of Germans in wars alien to the interests of Germany. The Germans remained silent. “This is the right of war,” they said. “Napoleon treats us cruelly, severely, mercilessly, but we let him defeat us and must suffer for it.”

During my short trip to foreign lands last year (1837), I wrote brief remarks about the places I visited and published some of them in The Northern Bee. Now, in publishing the collected travel letters, I particularly wish that these volumes would receive the same favorable attention that was given to the previously published excerpts by the people whose opinion I hold dear. My trip was neither academic nor literary: I went abroad for rest and pleasure; at the same time, I engaged in constructive work. The minister of finance, having solicited the highest Imperial assent for my trip abroad, also expressed a desire to receive accurate and thorough information about the structure of technical and trade schools in foreign lands, especially in Germany. I fulfilled the wish of my most venerable chief, and, having presented to His Excellency the report on foreign establishments of this kind, asked for permission to print an excerpt from it in this collection. This treatise is placed at the end of the third part of these letters.

In publishing this book, I have an advantage over many other writers: They await the judgment and opinion of the public in the future; I, however, having published some of my letters in the newspaper, have already heard opinions of my views and judgments and can answer some of the critical remarks that reached me.

Mainly, as far as I am aware, I was accused of expressing strict and biting opinions of France and the Frenchmen; it was claimed that I scold them mercilessly and unfairly. But have my critics been to France? Have they been there in the last seven years? I did not scold anyone at all and did not dare to scold, but wrote what I felt and thought. In France one can find people of great intellect, talent, and achievements; there are heroes of truth, honor, and virtue, who sacrificed everything to their oath and the given word. I happen to know Frenchmen, to whom, without much thought, I would entrust the protection of my life, my children, my honor.

Introduction

While children's literature with LGBTQ themes has been explored in the last three decades (see Abate and Kidd 2011; Cart and Jenkins 2006; Day 2000; DePalma 2016; Dorr and Deskins 2018; Epstein 2012a, 2012b, 2013, 2014; Jenkins and Cart 2018; Jiménez 2015; Lester 2014; McGlashan and Sunderland 2010; Miller 2019; Naidoo 2012; Sciurba 2017; Sunderland and McGlashan 2012, 2013; Taylor 2012, among others), a small but growing body of literature has remained uninvestigated: children's books about assisted reproductive technology and in particular, books about donor insemination used by lesbian mothers to build their families. While picture books for young children lack portrayals of lesbians in general (Cummins 2015; Jiménez 2015), they also lack representation of children who are donor-conceived in any type of family, straight or LGBTQ. Of the approximately 576 books extant on the subject of assisted reproductive technology for children in the world (Sarles 2019a), 241 of them, or approximately 42 per cent of them are about sperm donation. Of those, 47 (19 per cent) have been written specifically for the children of lesbians who were created via sperm donation. That is, approximately one-fifth of all children's books written on sperm donation are written by or for lesbians.

In the context of global publishing, then, such books are noticeably rare, and are seldom found in the average public library (only 29 of them are found on library shelves somewhere around the world, according to WorldCat; see also Mendell and Sarles 2010b). This is remarkable given the fact that there has been a lesbian baby boom taking place around the world for the last 40 years (Agigian 2004; Patterson 1995). Nevertheless, the mere existence of these books is evidence of the increasing presence of lesbians with children conceived via sperm donation.

For this chapter, only those books written by lesbian mothers are examined; however, an exhaustive list is available on pages 321–23, of this book and on this author's blog (Sarles 2019a). Amongst other things, these books were analysed for how lesbian families are portrayed, how donors are depicted, and whether the children were conceived via known or unknown donor.

In all ancient, and even recent, travel accounts of Germany, writers complain about the poor management of the postal service, about its sluggish pace, about the discomfort of the equipages, about the rudeness of the postmen. Now, these complaints are a thing of the past. The diligences or post coaches run on a regular schedule, and travel is quite fast and cheap. How much, do you think, did the trip from Frankfurt-am-Main to Berlin cost me in the most expensive seat of the diligence? Sixty rubles! The carriages of Prussian diligences are designed very conveniently; one can get on and off safely and easily. There is enough space, especially in the front cabriolet. If it is necessary to slow down the wheels, the conductor does not need to get out of the carriage; he simply turns a lever handle in the middle of the carriage, and the wheels stop spinning. The best part is that passengers know when they will arrive at each stop, and there are no extra stops along the way. In Italy, for instance, as I have heard, the diligences drive very fast but have the worst kind of harness. The diligence might leave the station at full speed and drive for about two versts, and then it will stop. What happened? One of the traces snapped. Sometimes the coachman will approach a passenger and ask, “Do you happen to have a rope, sir?” What is more, the wait at the stations can be at least an hour. And thus, the travel time will turn out the same: the time gained from the rush of driving will be lost at the stops. The equipage suffers the most. By the color of postmen's uniforms in Germany, it's easy to tell which territory the diligence is travelling through: in the Duchy of Baden, the uniforms are yellow; in the Duchy of Darmstadt, blue with red collars; in the Duchy of Gotha, they are red; in the Kingdom of Saxony, yellow; in Prussia, blue with orange collars; in Bavaria, blue with black collars;

Introduction

LGBTQ families and civil rights is a current hot topic in Italy. In June 2016, the Italian government approved a law that recognizes same-sex unions. The subject is still quite delicate and much discussed, but the country is slowly opening up to new realities. In particular, children's picturebooks presenting non-traditional families are becoming more and more popular. Among the Italian publishers whose aim is to promote diversity in children's literature, Lo Stampatello is one of the most active and innovative. The publishing house was created by Maria Silvia Fiengo and Francesca Pardi, a couple interested in queer families and gender identity. After a brief introduction to the Italian social and cultural context concerning LGBTQ identities, this chapter will present picturebooks written, illustrated and translated by Italian writers and artists. In particular, the chapter will focus on Lo Stampatello's works, considering both their merits and weaknesses. On the one hand, its picturebooks are opening the way to ‘taboo topics’ in children's literature; on the other, much has to be done to provide children with books of greater quality and depth.

Civil Rights in Italy: A Brief Historical Background

The topic of LGBTQ rights is usually perceived as extremely delicate and controversial by the Italian population. On the one hand, Italians are slowly opening up to new realities and accepting differences in sexual orientation; on the other, the country is still conservative and suspicious about LGBTQ lives, which are usually imagined in a highly stereotypical way in popular media (Malafreca 2007; Malici 2012).

First of all, same-sex encounters have been considered legal since 1887, when the Zanardelli Code2 was promulgated. In spite of this, during Mussolini's reign homosexuals were regularly persecuted or exiled since they were thought to act against moral and religious beliefs. As a matter of fact, the first draft of Codice Rocco (1930) included an article that limited LGBTQ rights; however, the article was rejected since homosexuality was considered a minor problem in fascist Italy (Rossi Barilli 1999, 20).

Reading my travel notes—or letters, if you prefer—you probably will ask how my stay in London was, what general impressions foreign visitors get living there, if lodging is expensive, if the service is good, etc. — Very well, I will tell you about these things, too, as accurately as possible.

I already mentioned that I found accommodations on the day of my arrival in the Hotel Jaunnais at Leicester-Square. This hotel, in comfort, splendor, and even cleanliness, is inferior to other London inns and is quite similar to a French hotel, but I was very pleased with it. For two guineas a week (48 r.), I had two rooms, one spacious, and the other one smaller, with a bed. The furniture is not expensive, but comfortable and quite beautiful. Count Ugarte paid more and lived in a much better room with windows overlooking the square. Parks, or little gardens fenced with iron bars, to which all the owners of the houses surrounding the square have keys, serve not only for beauty, but also for maintaining good air in London. A gilt equestrian statue of King George I stands in our park. From my rooms, the windows overlook ugly roofs. Not knowing how to communicate in English, I hired a lackey. An old Frenchman called François fell to my lot, a creature narrow-minded and sluggish, but good-natured and honest. I quarreled with him several times a day and then made peace. His main virtue consists in the fact that he speaks good English and knows all the streets in London like the back of his hand. Walking by my side or sometimes ahead of me, he would stop at every crossroads, bow, and pronounce the name of the street, pointing at the sign: Welbeck Street, Dover Street, Golden Square, etc. I paid him seven shillings (8 r. 40 kop.) per day. — Having made it a rule to adapt as far as possible to the customs and lifestyle in those places where I happen to live, I ate breakfast and dinner that are typical for England. For breakfast—tea, with slices of toasted bread and with salted beef or ham. Dinner was semi-English, semi-French: a lot of meat and other heavy dishes.

I have stayed in Paris for two weeks already and don't know what to say about the city or about my life here. Recollecting how joyfully and pleasantly I spent my time here twenty years ago, I thought that I would divert and amuse myself in this capital of all possible amusements and entertainments. But—

Yet, I should say that the circumstances were not favorable to my expectations, either. When I arrived in Paris on the 29th of May, towards evening, I hurried to Madame Conrad's for my letters from Petersburg. When I found two letters awaiting me, I forgot about anything else in the world, and not even having apologized to the hostess, began to read them eagerly—I didn't notice at that time that she looked worried, would answer my questions abruptly, and didn't show much joy even when I gave her the letters and the parcel from her dear daughter, whom I saw before my departure from St. Petersburg. I asked her how her husband was doing. — “There are rumors,” she answered with trepidation, “that he is wounded.” — “Oh, my dear!” said one of the ladies visiting her at the time, “this is newspaper gossip, and you know how those rascal reporters lie.” The next day, I found out that her husband had been killed. — In the chancellery of our embassy, I met Peter Vasilievich Poggenpohl, who serves at the Madrid mission but lives in Paris while waiting for the end of the turmoil in Spain. I inquired if he had any news about his brother, Nikolai Vasilievich, who was very sick when I left him in Petersburg. — “Yes, I do,” answered he, “but his condition is poor. His sickness has taken a precarious turn. I am terribly worried.” — Some time later, I learned that Nikolai Vasilievich passed away. He was a noble, virtuous, educated, pleasant man, one of those people who bring joy by their mere existence. I have known him since his youth: he was one of my most exceptional students in the Petrovskaya school.

In 1837, Russian writer Nikolai Ivanovich Gretsch (Николай Иванович Греч, 1787– 1867, see Figures 1.3 and 1.4, Portraits of Nikolai Gretsch) set out from the imperial Russian capital of St. Petersburg on a six-month journey through parts of England, France, and Germany. As an official representative of the Russian government, Gretsch was tasked with examining trade and technical schools in the regions he visited. On his return to Russia, he would compile a lengthy report (not included here) about these schools to present to his superiors.

Not surprisingly, as he completed his trip, Gretsch took advantage of this tremendous opportunity to engage in extensive tourism. Along the way, he made notes about his adventures in the form of letters that he sent back to friends and family members in Russia, and he chose to publish some of these letters in the journal he coedited called The Northern Bee (Северная Пчела). After his return to St. Petersburg, Gretsch then compiled 41 letters into three volumes that he titled Travel Letters from England, Germany and France (Путевыя Письма изъ Англiи, Германiи и Францiи). The present volumes offer the firstever, full English translation of Gretsch's travelogue.

Gretsch's Life

Nikolai Gretsch had a long and productive life. He was a teacher, translator, novelist, encyclopedist, journalist, editor, memoirist, literary critic, textbook writer, and government functionary. Born on 3 August 1787 in St. Petersburg, he completed his education in Russia before becoming a teacher in 1804, a role that he held at various institutions for many years. One of his first literary endeavors was the translation of anti-Napoleonic essays starting in 1806. He would later translate other material, including various German works.

Gretsch spent many years working for the imperial Russian government. He became an important member of the official St. Petersburg Censorship Committee in 1805 and held the position for 10 years. During this time, he also began editorial work for a journal called Гений Bремëн (Genius of the Times), for which he worked from 1807 until 1809 when, ironically, the journal's run was terminated by the censor. Interestingly enough, Gretsch would go on to help write the censorship laws that went into effect in 1828.

Introduction

Philip Selznick (1919–2010) was one of the preeminent sociologists of his time. He is widely recognized for his major contributions to a number of fields, including general sociology, sociology of organizations, industrial sociology, sociology of law, and moral sociology. He was professor of sociology (and later professor of law and sociology) at the University of California (UC), Berkeley, from 1952 until his retirement in 1984. He founded the Center for the Study of Law and Society (in 1961) and the Jurisprudence and Social Policy (JSP) Program (in 1978), both at UC Berkeley. The Law and Society Center and the JSP Program are still thriving and over the years have brought legions of students and scholars from all over the world to Berkeley.

This opening chapter of the Anthem Companion to Philip Selznick is organized as follows. The first section presents biographical information on Selznick's family situation and his experiences in childhood and early youth in Newark. This information helps us to understand his intellectual formation and predisposition. The second section and the third section focus on his years in college and graduate school in New York City, from 1935 to 1942. In this period, both his academic and his political interests became manifest. The fourth section explores Selznick's lifelong commitment to a broad perspective of what sociology as an academic discipline could and should be. This broad perspective stands out most significantly in what he himself considered his magnum opus, The Moral Commonwealth (1992). In the fifth and final section, the discussion turns to Selznick's last book, A Humanist Science (2008), in which he argues that sociology is both a “humanist science” and a branch of “public philosophy.” In contemporary sociology, there have been lively debates on “public sociology.” Some of that literature is quite critical of the work of Selznick. What is the relation between public sociology and public philosophy? This chapter ends with an attempt to answer that question.

Growing Up in Newark

Selznick was born in 1919, in a working-class family in Newark, in northeastern New Jersey. He had a sister, his only sibling, who was two years older.