1/ Let’s talk about collapse. Fires rage in Los Angeles, and no one can put them out—a clear symbol of a civilization unable to solve even its most basic problems. Joseph A. Tainter's "The Collapse of Complex Societies" provides a framework to understand why this happens.
2/ Civilizational collapse is no relic of the past or mere curiosity for court historians, whose interests often veer into the irrelevant and removed from the pressing realities of today. Collapse is a recurring phenomenon, an inevitable stage in the life cycle of societies. As the West faces internal fractures and accelerating decline, it is imperative to understand the forces that have undone great civilizations before us.
In "The Collapse of Complex Societies," Joseph A. Tainter provides a framework for analyzing this decline. As an anthropologist, his approach stands apart from the abstractions of historians. Tainter reveals that complexity—vital for societal advancement, particularly in an increasingly globalized and technologized world—carries within it the seeds of its own destruction. Societies that grow increasingly complex invest more in solving problems through administrative, technological, and bureaucratic means, yet these solutions yield diminishing returns. Over time, the cost of maintaining the system outweighs its benefits, creating a tipping point where collapse becomes not just possible but the rational culmination of a managed decline.
The West today is approaching this threshold. Institutions designed to safeguard stability and progress have become engines of inefficiency, consuming resources to sustain themselves while delivering little value. More troubling, however, is the ideological rot at their core.
3/ Tainter’s analysis exposes how societies fail when they lose the ability to reconcile complexity with functionality, but the West’s decline is accelerated by its fixation on utopian ideals divorced from reality. Chief among these is the obsession with absolute equality, which manifests in policies that undermine competence, cohesion, and trust.
Modern institutions prioritize demographic representation over merit, subordinating excellence to ideological conformity. Programs like affirmative action and quotas enforce a belief that all outcomes must be leveled, regardless of skill or capability. The result is a system that sacrifices institutional effectiveness on the altar of symbolic progress. Fields demanding expertise—medicine, engineering, national defense—are increasingly populated by individuals chosen for reasons other than their merit. This erosion of standards not only weakens critical sectors but also breeds resentment, as citizens see fairness and competence replaced by ideological orthodoxy.
Such policies are not about solving problems but about enforcing control. Utopian ideals of absolute equality have become tools of an increasingly dysfunctional elite, wielded to maintain their own power while deflecting attention from systemic failures. These initiatives serve as a façade, masking the inability—or refusal—to confront the real issues undermining society’s foundations.
4/ Demographic transformation further accelerates collapse, creating divisions that a complex society cannot sustain. Unlike historical collapses where population shifts were often imposed largely by external forces, the West’s demographic replacement is deliberate—an ideological project rooted in utopian fantasies of global equity.
Mass immigration, lauded as an economic and moral imperative beyond reproach, serves as a tool to obscure systemic failures and pacify growing discontent. Rather than addressing the festering rot in infrastructure, education, or governance, elites import new populations under the guise of "growth." This transformation fractures the cultural and ethnic unity that once underpinned Western nations, replacing shared identity with competing allegiances. Instead of cohesive societies, we witness the rise of competing enclaves, driven by BIPOC identity politics, fracturing unity as they battle for resources and power.
This demographic shift is not incidental—it is weaponized. By replacing founding populations, elites create a population easier to control, one less connected to the traditions, history, and identity of the nations they inhabit. This strategy ensures that the institutions of power remain insulated from dissent, as the newly imported underclass relies on those same elites for survival. It is a cynical manipulation that trades long-term stability for short-term dominance.
5/ Tainter’s insight that collapse unfolds as a slow unraveling, rather than a sudden event, is painfully relevant. The West’s decline is marked by missed opportunities for reform and an unwillingness to address the structural contradictions tearing it apart. Leaders blind themselves with ideological dogmas, pouring resources into symbolic gestures while neglecting the decay of physical infrastructure, economic stability, and social trust.
Crumbling roads, failing schools, and soaring debt are treated as secondary concerns to the pursuit of utopian ideals. Instead of confronting these failures, Western elites double down on globalist ambitions—remaking the world in their image through international economic policies, climate agendas, and mass migration. These distractions allow them to avoid responsibility for internal decay while perpetuating the illusion of progress.
Yet this house of cards cannot hold. As systems grow more unwieldy and populations more divided, the West’s ability to withstand external shocks or internal crises diminishes. Tainter’s warning is clear: societies that refuse to adapt to reality are doomed to collapse under the weight of their own contradictions.
6/ History offers no guarantees, only lessons. The West’s trajectory mirrors the failures of past civilizations, but its ideological rigidity and demographic engineering make its decline uniquely self-inflicted. Tainter’s work is not merely a study of the past but a mirror for our present condition—a reminder that complexity, unchecked by reality, leads inevitably to destruction.
Survival demands rejecting the utopian fantasies of universal equality and globalism that have hollowed out the West’s foundations. It requires a return to the enduring truths of identity, merit, and the natural order—principles that once defined the strength of Western civilization. Without this course correction, the West is destined to join the annals of civilizations that fell, not to external enemies, but to our own hubristic desire to ignore reality.
7/ An Addendum (As I often provide for clarification)
This essay was a brief exploration of Joseph Tainter's "The Collapse of Complex Societies," alongside my analysis of the reigning liberal-humanist ideology in the West, its role in demographic transformation, and how these dynamics contribute to systemic fragility. It is not intended to be exhaustive or conclusive.
On X, I often discuss books and ideas that I don’t fully agree with, drawing my own conclusions, as any critical reader should. While I don’t align with every aspect of Tainter’s work, his overriding thesis rings true: complex societies collapse when the costs of maintaining their complexity outpace their ability to solve problems. Given that our world is the most interconnected and technologized in human history, his insights remain strikingly relevant.
It’s worth noting that Tainter wrote this book in 1988, and much of what he foresaw has now become our reality.
In the replies and reposts, most responses fall into one of two camps, either agreeing with the larger point or critiquing it.
For the latter, two recurring misconceptions dominate:
1. The Pilot and the First Tweet
Some are fixated on the helicopter footage, insisting the pilot isn’t to blame. But this entirely misses the point. The video wasn’t about the pilot; it was a visual shorthand, necessary on a platform like X, to draw attention. It represents systemic failure decades in the making—failure rooted in decayed leadership, crumbling infrastructure, and misplaced priorities.
Whether the pilot was doing his best within a broken system or is the product of DEI-driven hiring is ultimately irrelevant. The clip serves as a visceral reminder of what happens when a society’s capacity to maintain basic functionality erodes. It’s not about one individual’s actions but the larger decay that leaves a helicopter missing its mark as an emblem of collapse.
Naturally, the forces of Mother Nature play a role—as they always have and always will. Factors like erratic wind patterns, thermal turbulence, the inherent difficulty of aerial firefighting, etc., all complicate such efforts. Yet the question remains: is a society equipped to adapt and overcome these challenges, or does it succumb to its own self-inflicted fragility, leaving technical obstacles as insurmountable failures rather than manageable hurdles?
2. Policy Mismanagement
The other camp focuses on "policy mismanagement," claiming it as the root cause. This is a classic example of missing the forest for the trees. Tainter’s work isn’t a catalog of policy blunders; it’s a meta-analysis of civilizational collapse, spanning 18 vastly different societies across history. His purpose is to uncover the deeper patterns that arise when societies become too complex to sustain themselves.
Policy mismanagement is not the cause—it’s a symptom. As Tainter demonstrates, collapse occurs when the diminishing returns on complexity lead systems designed to solve problems to become the problems themselves. A society consumed by inefficiency, symbolic gestures, and ideological pretense is incapable of adapting to the practical demands of survival.
Focusing on isolated issues like brush management or fire zone construction obscures the broader reality: a system so unwieldy and preoccupied with maintaining appearances that it can no longer deliver meaningful solutions. The priorities are misplaced, the vision myopic, and the result predictable.
Tainter’s central message is that civilizations do not collapse due to isolated missteps—such as flawed policies, which ultimately reflect the values and priorities of a society and its elites—but because they become trapped by their own complexity, unable to address the fundamental realities needed for their survival.
Our current crises—whether in infrastructure, governance, or demography—are not isolated aberrations or events, they are the symptoms of a system that has prioritized ideological conformity and bureaucratic bloat over competence and survival.
The lesson is clear: without a return to practical, grounded solutions and the political will to confront uncomfortable truths, we risk joining the ranks of civilizations that collapsed under the weight of their own pretenses.
1/ America lives under two rival and irreconcilable constitutions: the original, and the one imposed by force through the Civil Rights Act of 1964.
The postwar order rested upon an illusion of continuity, a dream of permanence concealing the slow decay of the Republic beneath it. Beneath the surface of prosperity and the rhetoric of liberty, the foundations of the old order had already begun to crumble.
What Christopher Caldwell accomplishes in The Age of Entitlement: America Since the Sixties is not merely to trace this decline but to reveal the mechanism by which it occurred. Written with the restraint of a man long accustomed to respectable discourse, the book nonetheless advances one of the most subversive theses to appear from the American Right in half a century: that the Civil Rights Act of 1964 created a second constitution, a rival order of law and morality, and that this new constitution has displaced the old in practice, leaving behind only the symbols and ceremonies of the former Republic.
Caldwell is no pamphleteer. A veteran of The Weekly Standard and a contributor to The New York Times, he occupies that peculiar place in American letters reserved for men who think carefully yet are punished for seeing too clearly. It was inevitable, therefore, that his book would be met with hysteria. The New York Times called it “an overwrought and strangely airless book” that “leads nowhere.” The Washington Examiner dismissed it as “Trumpism for highbrows.” Yet such reactions reveal less about Caldwell than about the clerisy he exposes. The fury of his reviewers testifies to the truth of his insight; he has touched the sacred nerve of the modern order, the moral absolutism of civil rights, which polite society forbids anyone to question.
2/ In its surface structure, The Age of Entitlement is a history of America from the assassination of John F. Kennedy to the rise of Donald Trump. But beneath its chronology lies a moral and constitutional argument of far greater consequence. Caldwell shows how the civil rights movement, ostensibly a campaign for racial equality, became the model for an entirely new form of governance in which law is subordinate to moral feeling and the state exists to enforce a vision of universal redemption. What began as an appeal to conscience was institutionalized as a bureaucracy of coercion. Out of the ruins of segregation arose a new elite of administrators, judges, and corporate patrons who discovered that the rhetoric of justice could serve as the instrument of power.
Caldwell’s claim that the Civil Rights Act became a Second Constitution was not metaphorical. The law was drafted as a limited measure; its framers promised it would not create quotas or destroy private association. Yet once enacted, it expanded without limit, its implications treated by the courts with the same reverence once reserved for the Bill of Rights. Through the Civil Rights Act, federal authority extended into every sphere of private life, reaching from employment and education to housing, speech, and even thought, until it became impossible to act freely without transgressing the new moral code. What was once the liberty of the citizen became the privilege of the compliant. The old constitution, with its balance of powers and jealous regard for local autonomy, was hollowed out from within by a rival order of legislation, precedent, and bureaucratic fiat.
This development, Caldwell observes, was not the product of a sudden coup but of moral transformation. The Civil Rights Act fused law and religion, replacing the Constitution’s procedural neutrality with a creed of emotional righteousness. To oppose its expansion was to sin. In this sense, the regime it founded was theological rather than legal; its authority derived not from consent but from sanctity. The language of rights replaced the language of reason, and the courts came to interpret feeling as fact. The civil rights order became a form of political mysticism, an instrument of redemption that demands endless confession and sacrifice.
3/ Yet Caldwell’s history does not confine itself to race. He sees in the civil rights movement the template for every subsequent revolution of the modern Left: feminism, gay liberation, immigration, and the cult of diversity. Each borrowed the moral prestige of the original movement while expanding its reach. Once every grievance could be recast as a claim of civil rights, politics itself was transformed into litigation. The result is a system that perpetuates conflict rather than resolving it, for the machinery of reform depends upon perpetual transgression. In this sense, the United States after 1964 became an empire of moral administrators, feeding upon its own guilt, forever declaring new forms of injustice to justify its own existence.
The transformation was not confined to government. Caldwell shows how finance, commerce, and popular culture absorbed and reproduced the new morality. Corporations discovered that public professions of virtue could protect them from criticism and serve as profitable spectacle. Universities institutionalized the language of grievance and exported it through generations of bureaucrats and consultants. The entertainment industry converted rebellion into product, turning moral revolt into fashion. By the 1990s, the vocabulary of civil rights had merged entirely with the logic of consumption. Diversity was no longer the cry of the oppressed but the brand of the ruling class.
In this synthesis of moralism and capitalism, Caldwell identifies the true engine of the post-1960s order. The financialization of the economy, the rise of debt-driven consumption, and the global outsourcing of industry all advanced under the same moral canopy that forbade criticism of the new social dispensation. Reagan, whom conservatives remember as their champion, appears in Caldwell’s account as the paradoxical executor of this revolution. By expanding credit and removing fiscal restraint, Reagan enabled America to finance its new moral order with borrowed money. Civil rights became not only a spiritual imperative but an economic one; the cost of maintaining equality was deferred indefinitely into debt. The conservative counterrevolution was thus neutralized from the start, for it had accepted the premises of the regime it imagined to oppose.
1/ On April 24, 1916, while the Great War consumed the continent and the empires of Europe strained beneath the weight of modern industrial slaughter, a handful of Irish rebels seized the heart of Dublin and proclaimed the birth of a Republic.
They occupied the General Post Office, raised their flag above Sackville Street, and read aloud a proclamation in the name of God and the dead generations. To outside observers it appeared a futile gesture: scarcely a thousand men, armed with little more than rifles and shotguns, defying the garrison of the British Empire. Yet in that week of fire and ruin the Irish question ceased to be a matter of parliamentary negotiation and became instead a struggle of destiny.
Patrick Pearse, the poet and schoolmaster who stood at the head of the Volunteers, did not expect victory in arms. He sought to enact a myth, to consecrate the Republic in blood. His conviction resembled what Georges Sorel was then formulating in France: that nations are not held together by rational programs or parliamentary bargains, but by myths that grip the soul and sanctify sacrifice.
For Pearse, that myth was Ireland redeemed through martyrdom, a fusion of Christian passion with the pagan heroic temper of Cú Chulainn. He knew that he and his comrades would be crushed, and that many of their own people would revile them for the devastation of Dublin. Yet he believed their deaths would awaken the nation, and that from their graves a people would rise, determined never again to live as subjects.
2/ The Rising lasted six days. The Volunteers and members of the Irish Citizen Army held public buildings across Dublin, but artillery and gunfire soon reduced them to ruins. Civilian casualties mounted into the hundreds, and public opinion turned against the insurgents. On April 29 Pearse surrendered. He and the other leaders were court-martialed and executed in early May, among them James Connolly, already so badly wounded that he had to be tied to a chair before the firing squad. At first the people of Dublin spat upon the defeated Volunteers. Yet as the executions followed one after another, and as British guns shelled the city as though it were an enemy capital, sympathy shifted. The men once denounced as criminals became martyrs, and their deaths gave life to a Republic that had not yet existed in fact.
This was Pearse’s design. He had long believed that Ireland could be reborn only through sacrifice, that the blood of patriots would cleanse and sanctify the nation. His imagination was nourished by the sagas of the Gaels, above all the figure of Cú Chulainn, who stood alone against overwhelming odds and died young in battle. Pearse fused that heroic image with the Christian symbolism of martyrdom, seeing in both the same redemptive power: the death of a few to redeem the many. The Rising was less a military plan than a ritual act, a mythic proclamation through suffering.
The conviction that sacrifice could regenerate a people was not confined to Ireland. Across Europe, men such as Charles Péguy and the Futurists spoke of death in battle as the price of renewal, a cleansing fire against the decadence of liberal society. Pearse stood in this same current, though his expression was Irish, a union of legend and Passion, Cú Chulainn bound to his pillar and Christ upon the cross, each a figure of death that gives life to the nation. His words at his court-martial made the point plain: “We seem to have lost. We have not lost. To refuse to fight would have been to lose. We have kept faith with the past, and handed down a tradition to the future.”
3/ Yet Pearse’s martyrdom, for all its power, could not in itself sustain a Republic. From that tradition arose the Irish War of Independence. The executions of 1916 radicalized public opinion, especially as British repression deepened. In 1917 and 1918 Sinn Féin, once a fringe party, gained overwhelming support. Éamon de Valera, spared execution because of his American birth, became its leader. In December 1918 Sinn Féin swept the general election, and instead of taking their seats at Westminster, the victorious members assembled in Dublin as Dáil Éireann, once more proclaiming the independence of Ireland.
It was then that Michael Collins emerged. Born in 1890 in County Cork, he was not a poet but a soldier, not a schoolmaster but an organizer, a man of action whose temperament was as direct as Pearse’s was visionary. He understood that myth alone could not preserve the Republic, that only discipline could give sacrifice the strength to endure. Appointed Minister for Finance in the Dáil, he raised funds to sustain the cause. More crucially, as Director of Intelligence, he built a network that reached into the very heart of Dublin Castle. He reshaped the Irish Republican Army into flying columns, small mobile units that struck swiftly, then dissolved into the countryside, denying the British the advantage of conventional strength.
Collins’s methods were severe yet effective. He created “The Squad,” later known as the Twelve Apostles, to eliminate informers and British agents. On November 21, 1920, his men struck the Cairo Gang, killing fourteen intelligence officers in Dublin. That afternoon British forces retaliated by firing into the crowd at a Gaelic football match in Croke Park, killing fourteen civilians. The cycle of reprisal and counter-reprisal intensified, but with each act the British grasp slackened, and the Republic’s claim to legitimacy took firmer root.
1/ The greatest question before the West today is not one of markets or diplomacy but of life itself. Our peoples are dying, not metaphorically but literally, in the most direct biological sense.
Fertility has fallen below the level of replacement, while foreign populations continue to increase. Two processes converge: the inflow of millions of migrants from alien lands and the refusal of Westerners to reproduce themselves. Territory is finite. Employment is finite.
Housing, schools, hospitals, and public revenues are finite. When these resources are consumed by strangers, they are denied to our own descendants. Migrants arrive from poor and overpopulated countries and encounter our labor markets and welfare systems as a sudden wealth. They raise more children here than they could have supported in their homelands.
Across the West, their fertility is consistently higher than ours. Even if borders were sealed tomorrow, the replacement of the native population would continue through differential birthrates. Restriction is not enough. Repatriation is a necessity.
2/ Yet immigration, though decisive, is not the whole cause of our crisis. We must face the harder truth that much of our demographic decline arises from within. Fertility among Western peoples fell before mass migration became overwhelming. The sickness is internal. To understand it, we must return to the origins of our social order.
When our ancestors entered the forests and plains of Europe more than forty millennia ago, they faced winters of hunger, scarcity, and cold. Intelligence, foresight, and restraint were forged by this climate. Yet no less important was the dependence of women upon male provision. Unlike in tropical Africa, where women could cultivate the soil with simple hand tools and feed themselves, the West demanded the plough, a labor requiring the full strength of the male body.
Men labored in the fields, women tended the home. Out of this necessity came monogamy, the durable bond between husband and wife, and the elevation of the provider as the true mark of manhood. Across thirteen hundred generations, women developed a preference for capable providers, and men found dignity in fulfilling that role. This was no social convention but an adaptation fixed by time and selection. It cannot be wished away.
Here lies one of the fatal illusions of the modern world. Men believe women should love them “for richer or poorer.” Women believe they desire equality. Yet biology has its own commands. Women will seek provision as instinctively as men seek youth and beauty. To deny this is to deny reality. Feminism, by granting women economic independence, severed this ancient bond.
For the small number of women indifferent to marriage and family, independence may have proved advantageous. For the vast majority, it has been disastrous. Women’s entry into the workforce has depressed male wages and simultaneously raised women’s expectations of what a worthy provider must earn. The result is double pressure upon men: diminished capacity to provide and heightened standards to meet. This is the paradox of modern prosperity: never have material resources been greater, yet never have women been more dissatisfied with men.
3/ The origins of the problem lie not in feminism alone but in the logic of industrial capitalism. Before the industrial age, work and home were one. The farm united livelihood and household. With the rise of factories, the two were torn apart. A new question arose: who should leave the home to labor for wages? The capitalists answered: all. Men, women, and even children should work, swelling the labor supply, depressing wages, and enriching owners. This was the first phase of industrialism, and it was brutal. Whole families were conscripted into mills and mines. Children were worked to exhaustion, women were placed in dangerous trades, and fathers could no longer sustain households on their earnings alone.
Against this disorder another principle slowly asserted itself, not through the goodwill of employers but through the resistance of organized labor and the pressure of law and custom. It was unions above all that demanded a man’s wage sufficient to support his household, often at great cost and after long strikes. The capitalist preferred a limitless pool of workers, for the wider the supply of labor the cheaper its price. But men who wished to found households, unions that defended them, churches that sanctified their role, and legislators who feared the collapse of the family began to push back. Out of their efforts arose the doctrine of the family wage: that the father alone should labor for wages, while wife and children remained at home, and his earnings must suffice to sustain them.
This settlement was not born all at once but through decades of conflict and reform. Laws restricted child labor, sparing boys and girls from the mines and mills. Women were removed from the most dangerous occupations, on the understanding that their bodies were bound to motherhood and their safety too vital to risk. Professions and trades were divided into men’s jobs and women’s jobs. Men’s jobs paid more, on the presumption that men bore the burden of provision. In many places, marriage bars removed women from employment once they became wives, since their vocation had shifted to the raising of children. The result was a truce between market and home. Employers were compelled to pay higher wages to men, and in return men were expected to bear the full responsibility of supporting their households.
The family wage was not perfect. It could not scale precisely to family size, and a few bachelors might enjoy salaries designed for breadwinners. Yet it succeeded in its essential task. It upheld provision as the essence of manhood, secured women in the vocation of motherhood, and sustained fertility above replacement.
1/ Carl Schmitt stands as one of the few jurists of the twentieth century who grasped that law and politics cannot be separated, that every constitution rests finally on power and decision, not on procedure or neutral principle. Against the illusions of liberalism, which imagine that societies can be governed through rules, balances, and endless discussion, Schmitt insisted that sovereignty is revealed only at the point of rupture, when order is threatened and authority must act without mediation. He called this the state of exception, the moment when the sovereign decides not within the law but over it, and thereby discloses the true foundations of political order.
For Schmitt, liberalism’s dream of a politics reduced to administration was nothing but a form of decay. Parliamentary systems spoke endlessly of rights, freedoms, and humanity, yet in practice they neutralized the state’s capacity to defend the people. By displacing real decisions into endless procedures, they confused weakness for virtue, compromise for wisdom. Schmitt’s diagnosis was not the rant of a reactionary nostalgic for monarchy, nor the fantasy of a utopian revolutionary. It was the sober recognition that politics, in its essence, is conflict, and that no society can endure if it refuses to recognize its enemies, internal or external, and to affirm its own unity against them.
What, then, can we learn from Schmitt? His writings do not hand down a ready-made program, but they reveal truths about political life that no society can escape. They remind us that politics is never settled, that sovereignty cannot be hidden behind procedures, and that a people survives only by affirming itself against those who would undo it.
2/ Schmitt’s first lesson is that conflict cannot be abolished. In “The Concept of the Political” he argued that political life arises from the distinction between friend and enemy, from the ability of a people to recognize those who threaten its existence and to affirm its own being against them. He did not glorify violence, nor did he celebrate war as a positive ideal. His point was sharper: that enmity is a permanent possibility, an irreducible horizon of collective life. No matter how refined institutions become, no matter how elaborate treaties appear, human groups will always find differences they regard as worth defending with their lives. Order itself rests upon acknowledging this fact, for to deny it is to prepare the ground for collapse.
Liberalism denies the permanence of enmity. It dreams of a politics reduced to dialogue, negotiation, and exchange, where all disagreements can be settled by reason or dissolved into tolerance. In practice, this vision erodes the state’s ability to act. A people that refuses to draw boundaries soon discovers that it cannot command loyalty or inspire sacrifice. Where every distinction is blurred, there is nothing left to defend. Such a community is defenseless even against ordinary trials and shatters altogether in moments of crisis. Schmitt’s warning was that politics does not wither away with progress. It endures as long as peoples endure, and when it is forgotten, it returns with greater violence.
3/ From the recognition of conflict follows Schmitt’s second lesson, the meaning of sovereignty. In “Political Theology” he defined the sovereign as the one who decides on the exception, the figure who reveals authority not in routine administration but in the moment when order is imperiled. Sovereignty, for Schmitt, is not a matter of legal formulas or constitutional abstractions. It is the living capacity to declare when the law no longer suffices and to act in defense of the political community. Liberal systems recoil from this truth, for they wish to imagine that legality sustains itself, that institutions stand outside the contingencies of history, that peace has become permanent. Yet every crisis exposes the fragility of these illusions. When danger comes, when the foundations of order are shaken, sovereignty is revealed not in texts or procedures but in the decisive act that preserves the state. The sovereign does not speak within the law but over it, and in doing so discloses the ground upon which all constitutions rest.
Schmitt did not attack law as such, nor did he call for arbitrary power. His concern was to remind us of the limits of rules, to show that legal order depends upon a prior authority willing to enforce and, if necessary, to suspend it. Statutes and procedures can regulate daily life, but they cannot defend themselves against forces that deny their validity. In moments of peril, neutrality and delay do not avert conflict but intensify it, for the refusal to decide is itself a decision, one that cedes initiative to others. When the state abdicates sovereignty, partisans within its borders or hostile powers beyond them will seize it for themselves. To recognize the exception, to act when formulas collapse, is therefore the ultimate test of political strength. For Schmitt, this was not a passing observation but the very essence of politics: that every order rests on the will to preserve a people’s existence, and that survival depends not on abstract norms but on the authority to decide when those norms give way.
1/ President Trump is expected to sign the American Tech Workforce Act, the most serious effort yet to defend American technology workers from foreign labor schemes.
It sets a $150,000 minimum salary for H-1B workers, indexed annually, ends the random visa lottery by prioritizing higher pay, and abolishes Optional Practical Training (OPT), the back-door pipeline that corporations and universities use to flood the market with cheap labor.
The message is unmistakable: foreign labor will no longer be subsidized at America’s expense.
It is also one step closer to breaking the Indian ethnic mafia that has entrenched itself in American tech, and elsewhere.
One of the most admirable aspects of tariff policy is how it puts American producers before American consumers. With tariffs in place, prices may rise, but domestic industries survive.
This is a conscious choice to protect American workers from foreign competition, and it works. Tariffs now defend steel and auto jobs, keeping Americans employed rather than consigned to welfare rolls.
The same principle must apply to the technology sector.
2/ The Act raises the wage floor for H-1B workers to $150,000, stripping away the incentive for corporations to import foreigners at half the cost of Americans. Either companies pay the higher wage and prove these workers are truly exceptional, or they hire Americans at a fair market rate.
Yet even with these reforms, the deeper problem must be understood. The H-1B visa was created in 1990 as a temporary work permit for “specialty occupations” that supposedly required foreign talent. In practice, it became a corporate device for importing cheaper labor. Companies claimed they could not find enough American workers, then filled their ranks with foreigners at cut-rate salaries. Up to 85,000 new visas are issued each year, with hundreds of thousands already in the system. Workers are chosen not for excellence but by lottery, a bureaucratic mechanism that has nothing to do with merit.
3/ OPT is the other half of the scheme. Originally intended as a short period of work experience for foreign graduates, it has swollen into a massive back-door labor program. Students can stay and work in the United States for up to three years after receiving their degree, and because employers do not have to pay payroll taxes on OPT workers, they are even cheaper than H-1Bs.
Universities profit by marketing this loophole, and corporations exploit it as an endless supply of compliant labor. For American graduates, it is nothing less than theft: they take on crushing debt for their degrees, only to watch jobs handed to foreign replacements subsidized by their own government.
If corporations insist that H-1B imports are the “best and brightest,” then it follows they should be paid more than Americans, not less. By setting the wage floor far above the prevailing rate, the Act destroys the financial incentive to import foreign labor as a discount commodity.
1/ Every political order must answer the oldest question of all: how to restrain the conflict between the few and the many.
Patrick Deneen has become one of the most prominent mainstream critics of the liberal order. His widely discussed book “Why Liberalism Failed” contrasted the promises of the tradition with the evident decay of our present.
His more recent “Regime Change: Toward a Postliberal Future” advances the argument by proposing remedies, with particular emphasis on the recovery of the mixed constitution, an ancient device for reconciling classes and preserving civic stability.
2/ Deneen situates his argument within a much older problem, one that the Greeks themselves faced. Their cities were repeatedly consumed by class struggle, oligarchs contending with democrats, at times resorting to the annihilation of rivals. From such experience came the first attempts to understand politics as the art of restraining conflict by cultivating the virtues of each class while suppressing their vices.
The wealthy enjoyed refinement and leisure, yet often succumbed to arrogance and selfishness. The poor, hardened by necessity, lived with frugality and endurance, yet remained vulnerable to envy and demagoguery. Aristotle, Polybius, and others proposed the mixed constitution as the answer: a structure balancing these forces, or a broad middle element capable of stabilizing extremes.
3/ Modern liberalism emerged centuries later with the rejection of feudal privileges. Yet it did not empower the many. Instead, it elevated a new elite of the “industrious and rational,” entrusted with directing society while shielding their activity from interference by the masses. Early liberals hoped that rising prosperity would reconcile the majority to this minority rule. When material progress came, later liberals sought to extend it into the moral sphere, dissolving local attachments in favor of national or even universal solidarity.
John Stuart Mill, writing in the nineteenth century, gave this tendency its most complete expression. He regarded inherited custom as a form of despotism, advocated plural voting to weight politics toward the educated, and proposed the “harm principle” as the measure of law. He even justified coercion abroad, insisting that “progress” must be imposed upon peoples incapable of valuing it without compulsion.