A Turd in the Punchbowl: Initial Thoughts on Christoph Shuringa’s “A Social History of Analytic Philosophy,” Or, An Epigone Crashes the Party, #15–Analytic Philosophy in the Cold War Deep Freezer.

But you can also download and read or share a .pdf of the complete text of this essay by scrolling down to the bottom of this post and clicking on the Download tab.

*Originally published in the 3:16am blog.

** “EJ Spode” is a pseudonym of Peter Ludlow.

15. Analytic Philosophy in the Cold War Deep Freezer

There is a thesis, vaguely endorsed by Schuringa, that when the members of the Vienna Circle arrived in the United States, they shed their political interests—or (on his story) what feeble political interests they had. The theory is that Analytic philosophers either sold out, or were cowed into submission, or just gave it all up. Or maybe they just became Americanized and stopped being political. Schuringa likes the latter version of this idea:

A leading role was played by logical positivist émigrés, driven from Europe by Nazism, who came to occupy significant positions in American philosophy departments. As they acclimatized to American conditions, they became newly professionalized, conceiving of themselves not as scientists with philosophical interests, as they had been in Vienna, but as exponents of a special academic discipline called “philosophy of science.” As logical positivists became philosophers of science, their programme was shorn of its social dimension, and they now adopted a stance of political neutrality.

Schuringa probably should have stuck to some version of this as his central thesis, because it is far more plausible than his absurd strategy of downplaying the political activism of people like Neurath, Zilsel, Hahn, Carnap, Rand and Frank in Vienna. The more plausible idea is that they toned down the politics when they arrived in the United States. It at least has a certain logic to it. They were political refugees. Most had barely survived the rise of fascism in Europe (and some didn’t). Who could blame them if they kept their heads down in their new home? It’s a plausible thesis, but mostly false when mishandled. When Schuringa gets hold of it, it’s like watching a toddler play with a Faberge egg.

Fortunately for us, there is some more sure-handed work which addresses this idea, and it comes in the form of a book by George A. Reisch, entitled How the Cold War Transformed the Philosophy of Science: To the Icy Slopes of Logic (Reisch, 2005).

Conceding that the members of the Vienna Circle were at least politically progressive if not also revolutionary, we have a perfectly good question: did the Cold War put the political aspect of their project in a metaphorical deep freeze? Here we see what an actual social history of Analytic philosophy looks like, as Reisch dives into old archives and studies correspondence (including the margin notes on documents), FBI records, and the internal communications of professional societies and funding organizations like the Rockefeller Foundation.

The end result is not helpful for Schuringa’s project, as Reisch’s research sends torpedo after torpedo into the burning hull of Schuringa’s central thesis. First of all, it is clear that Reisch is going to have no time for anyone who tries to downplay the original politics of the Vienna Circle members or who says that their project was disconnected from everyday life:

[M]ost early logical empiricists, though not all, were as passionate about problems in culture and politics as they were about technical philosophy and epistemology….The movement promoted the task of unifying and coordinating the sciences so that they could be better used as tools for the deliberate shaping and planning of modern life. And it sought to cultivate epistemological and scientific sophistication among even ordinary citizens so that they might better evaluate obscurantist rhetoric from reactionary and antiscientific quarters and better contribute to planning a future unified science that would assist society’s collective goals…. [L]ogical empiricism was conceived by its founders in part to assist the coordination and coordinated use of scientific knowledge, to help modernize and improve life, education, and social and economic organization. (Reisch, 2005)

But this, of course, leaves open the question of whether something happened during the Cold War that prompted members of the Vienna Circle to keep their heads down and, at least for the moment, suppress their political project. The answer to this question ends up being nuanced.

Part of the problem is that by the end of WWII, many of the positivists were dead. Hans Hahn had died in 1933. Moritz Schlick, of course, died in 1936. Zilsel took his life in 1944 (suggesting that perhaps, contra Schuringa, they were not all that “acclimatized to American conditions”). Neurath, a frequent visitor to the United States and the driving force behind the Unity of Science project, died in 1947. So, by the time the Cold War arrived, there weren’t that many left to fight the good fight, even if that was possible. But the interesting discovery in Reisch’s work was that philosophers like Rudolph Carnap and Philipp Frank did not duck their heads so much as they were deplatformed. Or more accurately, the entire Unity of Science program was deplatformed by US funding agencies.

Here is where Reisch’s hard work starts to shine, as he delves into internal documents at the Rockefeller Foundation and other funding agencies. In an early memo, one officer at the Rockefeller Foundation (circa 1947) registered approval, even though he expressed some reservations: “sounds good, only I hope there’s no faint tinge of pink in it.” Despite that “tinge of pink,” the Foundation funded the organization … until it didn’t.

What would that tinge of pink be? Probably trigger words like “social” and “unity.” That is not a joke. On viewing an early proposal about setting up an institute for the Unity of Science, an officer named Lumis wrote, “The most striking word in the Vienna Circle’s vocabulary is ‘unity.’… Frankly, I ask what does it mean?”

The Foundation funded what they called “the Vienna boys” for a while, but then Frank found that he was running out of Rockefeller Foundation love. By 1951, it was basically over. Frank tried to pitch his project as a way to fight totalitarianism, but a Rockefeller officer, working in the natural sciences division, wasn’t buying it. As he wrote in his diary, he found Frank’s argument “very tenuous and unconvincing.” But the real problem, as Reisch reported, is that the Foundation had found someone else: The Congress for Cultural Freedom.

[C]olleagues … in the Humanities Division were already supporting international conferences of the Congress for Cultural Freedom. These conferences, unlike those Frank proposed, were not designed to fight totalitarianism with empiricism, pragmatism, or any kind of scientific philosophy that might sever its metaphysical roots. Instead, they pitted absolute values of the West against those of the Soviets and sought to influence nonpartisan European intellectuals (“neutralists,” the Congress organizers called them) before they fell under the spell of Soviet propaganda. Into an ongoing war of values and propaganda, in other words, Frank proposed introducing the tools of intellect and reflective epistemological analysis. It is perhaps less surprising, therefore, that Frank came to be viewed as an outsider in the foundation’s circles. (Reisch, 2005)

Compared with the Congress for Cultural Freedom, Frank’s institute and its projects had weak antitotalitarian credentials. That was not only because the Congress was dedicated to anticommunism, but because the goal of unifying the sciences became increasingly associated with radicalism after the war.

Don’t worry, we are going to get to the CCF, I can promise you that. The point I want you to focus on now is that Frank and the Unity of Science project didn’t sell out to The Man. They didn’t drift to the right. They didn’t become part of the military-industrial complex. They were deplatformed.

While Philipp Frank was getting rejected by funding agencies, he was about to learn that he was under investigation by the FBI, for allegedly being a communist sympathizer, or maybe worse. Then, in their investigation of Frank, the FBI found a bigger threat to the free world; the name “Carnap” began coming up. When this new name came to the attention of the FBI’s Director, J. Edgar Hoover, old J. Edgar got a giant raging hard-on, and he put all his field offices to work on this new threat. Reisch has a more scholarly way to put this same point.

As the investigation began, several offices around the nation were involved. These included Hoover’s office as well as the field offices in Washington, D.C., Newark, Chicago, and Indianapolis. In addition, since Carnap had just taken a position at UCLA, overall control of the investigation was given to the Los Angeles office. At nearly all of these offices, September 16, 1954, might have been called Rudolf Carnap Day at the FBI. In a flurry of memo writing, agents across the country shared information that continued to build a picture of Carnap as a potential political subversive. (Schuringa, 2025)

FBI Newark field office report on Carnap, Sept. 16, 1954, Rudolph Carnap Day at the FBI!

It wasn’t like all those agents came up with nothing.

The FBI’s list of activities and causes that Carnap supported grew longer and more detailed as these memos shuttled across the country. Beginning in 1949, Carnap’s name appeared on two public statements on behalf of the International Workers Order (as a signatory to a brief amicus curiae and to an open letter to Thomas Dewey, governor of New York State, where the IWO was being prosecuted). It appeared twice in the Daily Worker and once in the New York Herald Tribune against the anticommunist McCarran Act. Carnap also supported the American Committee for Protection of the Foreign Born in the Daily Worker and signed an open telegram to the Attorney General in support of deportees. Carnap also called for official recognition of the People’s Republic of China and gave his name five times in support of the American Peace Crusade. Referred to by anticommunists as Moscow’s “peace offensive” (allegedly designed to ease a Soviet takeover by lulling Americans into pacificism), the crusade consisted of various conferences and letter-writing campaigns in support of international peace, disarmament, nonmilitary treatment of tensions in Korea, as well as free-speech rights for citizens wishing to promote these causes

Still, at the end of the day, he wasn’t actually meeting with any known Soviet agents. They asked Soviet informants, but the informants had no idea who Carnap was. Did that mean he was just a super deep Communist agent? Hoover wondered. But eventually the investigation ran out of steam.

Carnap certainly knew about the FBI investigation. Did any of this deflect Carnap’s work in any way? It is hard to know. But we have some idea about how he responded to pressure that came from inside philosophy—in this case, from John Dewey’s student, Sidney Hook.

Schuringa and I don’t agree about much, but I’m sure we are on the same page about Hook. Hook began as a full-fledged Marxist, but by 1949 seemed to believe that if you weren’t rabidly anti-communist, you were basically Stalin himself. Hook is perhaps most famous for dropping dimes on intellectuals who were, or even had been, socialists of some stripe. Here again, we get some fascinating insights from Reisch’s archival research.

In 1949, shortly after lending his name to support the upcoming Cultural and Scientific Conference for World Peace, Carnap received a letter from Sidney Hook regarding the conference (also called “The Waldorf Conference” because it was to be held at the Waldorf Hotel). The Conference’s literature had all the suspicious buzzwords that could trigger a Cold-Warrior—words like “World,” and “Peace.” Hook could not abide Carnap’s participation in such an event and expressed his concern in a way that might illuminate the pressure that academics would face during the Cold War. Reisch reproduces the letter with the parts that were underlined by Carnap.

Dear Carnap,

I have just learned from Dr. Jacobs of the Voice of America that your name has been cited (presumably abroad) as a sponsor of the forthcoming Cultural and Scientific Conference for World Peace. I hope this is not true. If you actually have enrolled yourself as a sponsor, I am confident that you are unaware of the real auspices of the Conference. It is being run by people whose first act, if they came to power, would be to liquidate you and people like you…. I am enclosing some materials which I earnestly beg you to read very carefully. My experience with this Conference is decisive.

Next to the line about liquidating Carnap and people like him, Carnap wrote a “?!” in the margin. I understand this as Carnap’s version of “WTF!” As he kept reading, Carnap underlined more WTF moments in Hook’s letter.

This business is no ordinary thing, as you will learn by developments in the next few days. Anybody who is still a sponsor by the time the Party-line begins to sound off at the conference, will be marked for life as a captive or fellow-traveler of the Communist Party. You are not a Communist and you are not a political innocent.

Forgive me for writing so strongly. It is a measure of the respect I have for you and your life-work. There are mistakes and mistakes. This one can be positively fatal if not rectified.

Sincerely Yours,

Sidney Hook

Today, those words sound comical, but at the dawn of the Cold War, those were serious threats and posed a very real possibility that Carnap might be ending his career or worse by supporting the meeting. Carnap, to his credit, ignored the implicit, although not exactly implicit, threats in Hook’s letter and continued to lend his support to the Waldorf conference. Frustrated, Hook helped organize a competing conference the following year in Berlin, a conference that eventually evolved into the aforementioned Congress for Cultural Freedom (which, again, we will come back to. I promise!).

Carnap’s activism, as we learn from this case and those that caught the attention of the FBI, involved letter-writing and providing similar forms of support. I don’t think we should diminish that. And it must be acknowledged that while Neurath and Frank had definitive ideas about how their philosophy should be applied to everyday life, Carnap did not. That didn’t mean it wouldn’t be connected: it just meant that he would not be doing the connecting. The way Carnap saw it, his philosophical project involved a syntactic, a semantic, and a pragmatic component—the last being the part where the rubber met the road. In Carnap’s words, he was “compelled to leave the detailed work in this direction to philosophically-interested sociologists and sociologically-trained philosophers.”

I suppose one can take issue with that. Some philosophers want all philosophy to be socially connected right now, and if they can’t yet see how it is connected, it must be shit. But even if it were true, the objection does not speak to if or how or why Analytic philosophy was in the deep freeze during the Cold War, and here we need to return to Reich’s careful analysis.

There are several key observations in Reisch’s book: First, it is incorrect to think that it was only Analytic philosophy that went silent during the 1950s. The entire academy in the United States went silent. So whatever conclusions you want to draw from Reisch’s work, it cannot be that Analytic philosophy alone was complicit, or a victim, or deplatformed, or playing possum, or hibernating, or however you want to describe it.

The second point that Reisch makes is that the professionalization of philosophy and the lack of concern for everyday life (to the extent they happened) were not permanent conditions for Analytic philosophy. With the close of the 1950s, matters began to thaw, and you certainly saw a storm of politically active Analytic philosophers throughout the 1960s. Hilary Putnam became a Maoist and was the faculty representative for the Students for a Democratic Society (SDS). You can find old articles in the Harvard Crimson in 1969 describing him as one of “the most radical faculty members” (Galeota, 1969). And we will get to the case of Noam Chomsky and others below.

Reisch concluded his penultimate chapter with the following passage:

[I]n 1973, owing largely to the efforts of Robert Cohen, the first volume of Neurath’s selected writings appeared in English (see Neurath 1973). Only then, after student activism for civil rights and against the Vietnam War had begun to thaw the McCarthyite, Cold War culture on many campuses, were memories of the Unity of Science movement rekindled. Subsequent generations of philosophers then began to see that the movement’s breadth and ambition could never have been contained on the icy slopes of logic. (Reisch, 2005)

In other words, the Vienna Circle’s ideas were now out of the freezer, but the internal logic of the movement would have never let them remain in the freezer anyway. Not to put too fine a point on it, but Reisch is saying that far from being inherently or essentially apolitical, the movement’s internal political breadth and ambition pushed back against the external forces that tried to make it apolitical. The internal forces were stronger than the external forces that attempted to sanitize Analytic philosophy.

Reisch then makes the point that to the extent there remains a chill, it must be noted that the entire academy is still feeling that chill—at least in North America (I assume he is only talking about the US and Canada, but maybe he intends Mexico as well), and that blame for this chilling effect cannot be placed on the internal logic of Analytic philosophy or any other academic enterprise. The pressure is coming from outside.

That North American intellectuals continue to question their small voice in public affairs (especially when compared with European intellectuals, who were never so attacked) suggests again that this depoliticization did not issue from within intellectual culture. Rather, it was created by a now largely unknown, external set of pressures and agents that, as the Foucauldian theory of subjectivization would have it, concealed its operations.

In touching on this point, Reisch folds in a deeper point about the professional academy in general, and here he again draws on ideas from Foucault to make his point.

Perhaps the postwar ivory tower functioned rather as a kind of concentration camp into which intellectuals were herded by a largely anti-intellectual society and then permitted to indulge in any sorts of inquiry they liked, as long as their scholarship remained visibly disconnected from radical politics. Radicals may indeed become tenured, that is, but only if they remain either invisible within the ivory tower or incomprehensible to all but insiders and self-chosen initiates or students. (Reisch, 2005)

Academics think of universities as being safe spaces that protect them from the anti-intellectual rabble outside. But what if they function more like prisons for academics, even today? If they obey certain intellectual standards and stay within reasonable limits politically (on both the left and the right), they will be rewarded with wine and cheese and conferences in exotic locations, but the sad reality is that they are in a kind of “Club Fed” for intellectuals. Reisch asks whether philosophy wasn’t better placed in the coffee houses of old Vienna, or in teaching classes and giving lectures to adults in Red Vienna. Are universities even good places to be doing philosophy? Or anything? It’s a good fucking question, but it is a question that applies to all philosophers and all academics, and not just Analytic philosophers.

We must now return to our long march through the intellectual wasteland that is Schuringa’s book; but before we move on, there is an incident involving Carnap, at the very end of his life, that is worth calling attention to. The case is interesting because it shows that Analytic philosophy is far more diverse and radical than Schuringa imagines it to be, and because it highlights the importance of the kind of activism that Carnap was engaged in. He wasn’t manning the barricades or running interference with the Black Bloc, but he was nevertheless doing important work.

There is a Spanish-language Trotskyist publication called La Izquierda Diario (The Left Daily), and in that publication, there was an article about a Mexican Analytic philosopher and Trotskyist named César Nicolás Molina Flores (Moissen, 2015). This article in turn cites a formal academic article by Víctor Manuel Hernández Márquez—a philosopher at Universidad Autónoma de Ciudad Juárez (UACJ) (Márquez, 2013). The story told in these publications is fascinating.

César Nicolás Molina had been a devout Trotskyist (at his death, he is supposed to have had one of the largest libraries of Trotskyist literature in Mexico), but he was also one of the first Mexican philosophers to engage with Analytic philosophy – in particular, with logical positivism. His book, Matemática y filosofía (Reflexiones para la delimitación del territorio filosófico), which he self-published in 1954, sits at the core of scientific philosophy / logical positivism. Subsequent to that book, in the 1960s, he translated some of Carnap’s work.

Molina was very much on the margins of academic philosophy (he was working as a high school teacher), but Carnap befriended him at a conference in 1963.

On October 2, 1968, ten days before the opening of the Summer Olympic Games, in the Tlatelolco section of Mexico City, there was a protest by a large number of (mostly) students. During that protest, the Mexican Armed Forces opened fire on the unarmed protesters, killing many of them. (It should be remarked that it is widely believed that this was instigated by the then Mexican government, possibly with support from US security forces, but that is a topic for another day.) Reliable numbers for the subsequent carnage are hard to come by here. The Mexican government claimed that “only” a few dozen protestors died, but the students claimed that as many as 500 had been killed and over a thousand were injured. By any measure, the event dwarfed what we in the United States call “The Kent State Massacre,” in which four were killed. (Neil Young did not write a song about these Mexican victims.) We have some agreement that about a thousand protestors were arrested – some of them at the event, and some of them swept up later by police.

Among those arrested in the aftermath were two philosophers: Molina, and Elí de Gortari—the latter being a famous logician and Marxist, working both in traditional mathematical logic and Marxist dialectical logic. They were both arrested without warrants and placed in Lecumberri prison with many of the other protesters. According to Hernandez, the subsequent charges against Molina were “INCITATION TO REBELLION, CRIMINAL ASSOCIATION, SEDITION, DAMAGE TO PROPERTY, ATTACKS ON GENERAL COMMUNICATION ROUTES AND LOOTING” (his upper case).

News of their arrest eventually made its way to the United States and to the American Philosophical Association, which formed a committee that included Rudolph Carnap. Astoundingly, Carnap, then 78 years old, flew down to Mexico to try to meet with the prisoners.

1968 protestors being processed

Lecumberri prison

Lecumberri prison cells

Once in Mexico, Carnap relied on Rafael Ruiz Harrell to be his intermediary with the prison. Ruiz was a professor in the Faculty of Law at the University of Mexico, who also taught in the Department of Philosophy, and whom Carnap had met in 1963. Ruiz put Carnap in contact with de Cortari’s wife. In his report, Carnap talked about de Cortari’s wife helping him navigate through several bureaucratic hoops, then walking down long corridors in Lecumberri prison and eventually to a building called “El Polígono” [The Polygon]. There, he was able to gain access to de Cortari and, ultimately, Molina.

Carnap spoke with both prisoners for a while and learned that the protesters had come in for some rough treatment from some of the non-political prisoners. Molina’s work and his typewriter had been destroyed by other prisoners.

Ultimately, they hugged goodbye, and the two prisoners said it had been their best day since September 1968. Carnap returned home and wrote up his report for the APA shortly after his 79^th birthday. He passed away on Sept. 14, 1970. His report was published in the notes and news section of The Journal of Philosophy three months after his death.

Carnap’s report appears in The Journal of Philosophy

Rudolph Carnap. Fucking legend.

The Carnap-Molina story is instructive for several reasons. First, it shows that political activism is not merely about standing in the front row of a protest march. Sometimes it involves actions like lending moral support to political prisoners and victims of oppression. But the story also shows that sometimes political activism goes completely unseen, and sometimes we deliberately unsee it. So Schuringa does not want to see the political activism of Analytic philosophers like Carnap, which is one thing. But he also wants to unsee the political activism of less famous, often marginalized, Analytic philosophers around the world, writing them out of his history altogether—Molina is just one case in point.

Part of the problem here is that it is easy to unsee activism, and it is easy to unsee it, because traditional institutions like universities and corporate media will do what it can to obscure activism. If the activism must be noted, it will often be demonized. So, it is easy to unsee things if your vision is filtered through corporate media. All you have to do is let the magician distract you. But if you bother to see past the magician’s tricks, you can see plenty of activism, often taking the form of mutual aid, and often at the level of bridging liberation movements. Unity, solidarity, and fraternity (although triggering words to the Cold War funding agencies and to Schuringa) should not be triggering to us.

If you were to travel around the globe and visit Analytic philosophers in places like Brazil, Mexico, Argentina, etc., you would find a vast network of politically active philosophers, all unknown to Schuringa. I’m not going to mention the living philosophers because I don’t want to put them at risk, but I can say this. Some years ago, I was visiting a university in Brazil, speaking to Analytic philosophers and linguists. After the talk, many of them went to a protest against Bolsonaro. As they were talking about it, they explained the role of the Black Bloc to me—as they explained, it is “not a group but a diversionary tactic, and they are there to protect us.” I know, I was an idiot for not knowing that, but my point is that those unmentioned philosophers and linguists were all feet-on-the-pavement activists, protesting Bolsonaro.

I said I can’t mention the living, but I can talk about the dead, and I want to mention a couple of figures in latin@ Analytic philosophy. We already mentioned Molina in Mexico, but I also want to mention Luis Villoro. Historically, he was one of the central figures in the rise of Analytic philosophy in Mexico; he studied Ayer, Carnap, Russell, and Wittgenstein, and was among the drivers of Mexican Analytic work in the 1960s–80s. At the same time, his mature work included work on history, ideology, indigenous movements, and Zapatismo.

In Brazil, you could point to many examples, but there is one really big, obvious example: José Arthur Giannotti, at the University of Sao Paolo (Queiroz, 2021). He taught symbolic logic at USP and was part of the early Analytic/logic scene there. But he also had a strong Marx focus; his 1966 thesis/book Origens da dialética do trabalho was a study of “the logic of the young Marx.” Later, Giannotti become a major interpreter of Wittgenstein and Analytic philosophy of language: he translated Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus into Portuguese, and spent decades working at the intersection of logic, language, and Marx’s categories. He was forced into early retirement by the military regime in 1970 and co-founded CEBRAP, a key left-leaning research center in São Paulo.

In Spain, there is the case of Manuel Sacristán Luzón (1930–1985). He published Introducción a la lógica y al análisis formal (1964), one of the first systematic introductions to symbolic logic and Analytic method in Spanish philosophy. Recent writers have described his project as combining “rigor lógico y marxismo crítico”—logical rigor and critical Marxism—and rebuilding Marxism with tools taken partly from Analytic philosophy. Politically, he was a long-time Communist/Marxist militant (linked to the PSUC (Partido Comunista de España/Communist Party of Spain) and PCE (Partit Socialista Unificat de Catalunya/Unified Socialist Party of Catalonia)) and later an important dissident Marxist voice in Spain.

Even minor American Analytic philosophers that must be mentioned are redescribed to fit Schuringa’s narrative. So, for example, Schuringa wants to mention William T. Parry in the context of modal logic, but neglects to say that Parry was nothing if not an Analytic philosopher in addition to a communist. Here is what Schuringa tells us.

He had been radicalized in 1932 after witnessing fascist rioting at the University of Vienna, where he was spending time before handing in his PhD, completed that same year under Whitehead at Harvard, on the topic of implication. He solidified his grasp of communism by reading Lenin’s State and Revolution. In 1933 he joined the Communist Party USA, in 1936 became a founder and the first managing editor of Science & Society, and in 1937 organized the Harvard unit of the Communist Party. He left the Party in 1946, but continued to publish in the journal. After appearing before HUAC [House Un-American Activities Committee], Parry remained employed by the University of Buffalo, but had his tenure revoked and was “placed on annual appointment as associate professor.” His tenure was not restored until 1961. (Schuringa, 2025)

What is omitted is that his research was on what he called “Analytic implication,” and the idea was to extend strict implication (as in C.I. Lewis) to come up with a logic of entailments within terms/concepts. It was, among other things, a way to provide logical foundations for conceptual analysis. His work did not have uptake, as conceptual analysis ran out of steam shortly thereafter, and Quine was already privately expressing reservations about analyticity. However, it is worth noting that Parry’s ideas have foreshadowed subsequent work in linguistics (in the form of “meaning postulates”), and recent work in proof theory and term logic. He was an Analytic philosopher if there ever was one, and he was politically radical. In being those two things at once, he was not a rarity, but his story nevertheless was rewritten to fit Schuringa’s narrative.

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