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Title: Anarchist Counterpublics Date: 2010 Source: *New Political Science*, Volume 32, 2010 â Issue 2, Pages 193â214. DOI: 10.1080/07393141003722040 Authors: Kathy E Ferguson Topics: History, Politics Published: 2021-05-19 05:57:01Z
Emma Goldman and Alexander Berkman were key figures in the creation of anarchist counterpublics in the US at the turn of the last century. Their work drew together immigrant subcultures, labor activists, progressive liberals, radical women, and international supporters to create a counterpublic within which anarchist ideals could achieve intelligibility. Their public words illuminate the dynamic relationship between the realm of ideas, the social imaginary, and the bodily habitus within which anarchism came to be in the United States. Viewing anarchism as a counterpublic highlights the significance of its temporalities, social locations, and textual practices. At the same time, reconsidering counterpublics in light of anarchist world-making practices suggests a more hybrid, fluid, non-linear conceptualization of radical counterpublics.
From their arrival in the US in the 1880s until their exile in 1919, Emma Goldman and Alexander Berkman were instrumental in creating vibrant anarchist counterpublics. Goldman was the best-known anarchist in America. Berkman, while less known outside of anarchist circles, was a stalwart figure in radical labor activism. But what does it mean to create and address a radical counterpublic? Who participated in these publics and what modes of constitution and address did they facilitate or require?
This essay looks to the political agitation of Goldman and Berkman to develop an account of anarchist counterpublics in the US at the turn of the last century. Focusing primarily on their journals, with some consideration of lectures, books, and other textual practices, I find an energetic triangle of political ideologies, symbolic communities, and embodied practices out of which anarchist counterpublics took shape.[1] Goldman established, edited, and wrote for the monthly journal **Mother Earth**, a pocket-sized publication with a sizeable circulation that ran from 1906 to 1918. Berkman also edited and wrote for **Mother Earth**; subsequently, he put out his own weekly journal **The Blast** (1916â1917) and the remarkable, poignant **Prison Blossoms** during his incarceration.[2] While no doubt some readers were merely curious or even hostileâthe government, after all, was a reliable collector of anarchist materialsâthe readership of the journals also regularly attended and helped organize lectures, participated in protests, and hosted the editors on their cross-country speaking tours. While anarchism is often dismissed with the bromide, âitâs great in theory, but it would never work in practice,â I suggest, on the contrary, that it is in the intense and energetic world of political practice that anarchismâs extraordinary but neglected presence in US politics can best be charted. Of course, there is no hard-and-fast distinction to be drawn between anarchist theory and anarchist practice, since each takes its shape from and helps create the other; yet it is still useful to shift focus away from the arguments anarchists made in order to examine what their anarchism allowed them to accomplish. Accordingly, I am pushing Goldmanâs and Berkmanâs theories temporarily to the background in order to illuminate the dynamic relationship between the realm of ideas, the social imaginary, and the bodily habitus within which anarchism came to be in the United States.[3]
Nancy Fraserâs influential critique of JĂŒrgen Habermasâs **The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere** (1989) emphasized âa host of competing counterpublics,â rather than a single unified bourgeois public sphere, and sketched the contestatory relations among these âparallel discursive arenas where members of subordinated social groups invent and circulate counterdiscourses, which in turn permit them to formulate oppositional interpretations of their identities, interests, and needs.â[4] Building on Habermas and Fraser, scholars have analyzed a variety of counterpublics, including those organized by women,[5] African Americans,[6] queers,[7] the proletariat,[8] and artists.[9] While Mark Morrison has written a fascinating analysis of Dora Marsdenâs anarchist journal **The Freewoman** (later called **The Egoist**) as a counterpublic textual space, to my knowledge no one else has applied the fertile concept of counterpublics to anarchism.[10]
In his useful overview of counterpublic literature, Robert Asen asks, âWhat is counter about counter publics?â[11] Asen identifies âparticipantsâ recognition of exclusion from wider public spheresâ and âarticulation through alternative discourse practices and normsâ as constitutive of their emancipatory potential.[12] Taking Goldmanâs and Berkmanâs activism as an example, we can both explore and expand Asenâs response. The anarchists certainly understood themselves as largely excluded from hegemonic public spaces, and they developed vigorous discursive arenas to create their own counterpublic spheres. Additionally, they allow us to see the intensely embodied material context within which anarchist ideas emerged and through which they were put into circulation. Both our understandings of anarchism and of counterpublics benefit from their encounter. Bringing the concept of counterpublics to bear on anarchism helps us to see the concrete practices through which this social movement did its work, and to chart the relations it sustained to various audiences and subcultures. Similarly, bringing anarchism into the discussion of counterpublics explores the political potential of activism based more on shared political vision than on prior sexual or racial identities, and highlights the often vicious repressions faced by radical critics. Going beyond the idea of âparallelâ publics (Fraser) or ânestedâ publics (Taylor), anarchist counterpublics embody both directly antagonistic clashes with dominant authorities as well as considerable influence upon those dominant spheres. Anarchist political practices, I argue, both created effective counterpublics and at the same time reinvented the contours that alternative publics can usefully achieve. By foregrounding the temporal and spatial practices of anarchism, I suggest a more hybrid account of the work of radical counterpublics.
Michael Warner provides a useful analysis of the circularity and layering of publics: âPublics exist,â he explains, âonly by virtue of their imagining.â[13] A speaker or writer needs a preexisting public in order to have someone to address, yet it is the act of addressing that creates the needed public. From, roughly, the Haymarket Riots in 1886 to the post World War I Red Scare, anarchism was an emergent site for this ironic process, shaping a vigorous counterpublic within the US.[14] Grounded largely in the radical immigrant communities on the coasts, while spreading to some ânativeâ (that is, non-immigrant)[15] labor and liberal circles, anarchism exemplified the relationship Warner describes between counterpublics and subcultures:
A counterpublic, against the background of the public sphere, enables a horizon of opinion and exchange; its exchanges remain distinct from authority and can have a critical relation to power; its extent is in principle indefinite, because it is not based on a precise demography but mediated by print, theater, diffuse networks of talk, commerce, and the like. ⊠[T]his subordinate status does not simply reflect identities formed elsewhere; participation in such a public is one of the ways by which its membersâ identities are formed and transformed.[16]
The constitutive relation between immigrant subcultures and anarchist counterpublics is intensified because these communities are largely subaltern, organized by racial/ethnic, religious/cultural, and above all, class stratification to produce, as Dilip Gaonkar suggests, âform[s] of social solidarityâ embracing radical social change through âimaginative act[s] of world-making.â[17]
Warner sketches three levels of public-ness, each of which is at work in anarchist social imaginaries. First, the public can refer to people in general, gathered up into a collective noun that must be imagined into reality, such as humanity, Christianity, or all residents of a nation. Secondly, âpublicâ can mean a more concrete and located audience, one that can âwitness itself in visible space,â as in the audience for a theater production, sporting event, or concert.[18] Charles Taylor calls this the âtopical common spaceâ because particular people are assembled in a specific place for an identifiable purpose.[19] Warner, however, is primarily concerned with a third sense of public: âthe kind of public that comes into being only in relation to texts and their circulation.â[20] These publics are text-based, either oral or written, and they are âautotelicâŠ[they] exist by virtue of being addressed.â[21] Not just a group of people, but a collectivity organized by discourse, textual publics are âcapable of being addressed and capable of action.â[22] Textual publics cohere with Taylorâs metatopical space, one that âknits a plurality of spaces into one larger space of nonassembly.â[23] Text-based publics extend beyond friends to include strangers, combine both personal and impersonal modes of address, work on a temporal rhythm of publication, and help constitute a life world by circulating among readers/listeners whose attention is constitutive of âthe social space created by the reflexive circulation of discourse.â[24]
Goldmanâs and Berkmanâs publics illustrate the intertwining of these three levels of publicity. At the grandest level, they imagined âthe People,â âthe masses,â âthe workers,â or âthe oppressedâ as their audience and their potential comrades. Struggle over the meaning of the multitude occupied them throughout their lives, yet they never ceased to negotiate some relationship with humanity itself. Yet, as a practical matter, there must be mailing lists, lecture halls, bookstores, and other locations for distribution of texts so that this imaginary audience, the People, can be addressed. So the most general level of public within which anarchists circulated their words still bore a **de facto** relation to identifiable geographic areas and social groupings.
At Warnerâs second level, Goldmanâs extensive audiences for her lectures and speeches constituted something like a theatrical public, a crowd that could know itself by shared attendance at a public event. By my estimate, Goldman gave over 10,000 speeches during her political career. Like William Jennings Bryant and other successful turn-of-the-century orators, her lectures drew thousands of listeners, combining political education, organizing, and entertainment. Goldman estimated that, during the years of touring in the first two decades of the 20th century, she spoke to 50,000â75,000 people annually.[25] Her lectures were often sites where the emergent anarchist counterpublic rubbed shoulders with other political dispositions, inciting conversations among radicals and liberals over shared agendas such as freedom of speech or access to birth control. Also a respected lecturer, Berkmanâs public-creating skills were strongest in militant labor circles, while Goldmanâs topical publics brought radical and liberal audiences together to experience the possibilities of coalition.
At the third level, the one that most concerns Warner, the anarchists spoke into existence the counterpublic to which they addressed themselves. Their addressees were to some extent projections, âalways yet to be realized.â[26] Their anarchist counterpublic included friends, acquaintances, and identifiable groups (such as militant unions, alternative theatre companies, anarchist colonies, radical educators, and civil libertarians) while extending further into the realm of strangers and operating under the surveillance of the authorities. Goldman and Berkman maintained offices (which were periodically raided by the police), kept subscriber lists (sometimes confiscated), corresponded with readers who invited the anarchists to lecture in their communities (frequently prohibited by local authorities), and set up talks at which copies of **Mother Earth, The Blast,** and other anarchist publications would be available for purchase (when not seized and destroyed). Always there was an excess of possible readers, a combination of known individuals and groups along with a yet-to-be tapped reservoir of potential members and an alert constituency of enemies.
Taking Goldman and Berkman as the lens through which to examine the workings of counterpublics, the distinctions that Warner draws recede in significance while the interactions among the levels stand out. Goldman and Berkman addressed the broadest possible public, which they imagined as The People, even as they came to doubt the massesâ capacity to âwake up.â The anarchists directly addressed the third level, the textual counterpublic, in their indefatigable production and circulation of written words. Candace Falk notes that there was âa strong written and oral tradition among anarchists.â[27] These traditions included a well developed material circuitry by which texts were produced and distributed, social conditions of access were facilitated, terms of intelligibility were made available, and practices of âgenre, idiolect, style, address, and so onâ were articulated and contested.[28] Both writers flourished in part because a vigorous âculture of circulationâ already existed, yet they also helped to materialize that culture by the act of addressing it. They used the second level of public, the physical assembling of an audience for a public event, as a vehicle to draw more of the masses into the circle of comrades: that is, the second kind of public constituted their opportunity to recruit from the first level, the broader public, into the third, the focused textual counterpublic.
Goldmanâs unique epistolary writing style exemplified a mixing of personal with impersonal forms of address. She wrote over 200,000 letters during her lifetime, and her letters were often the basis for her speeches, essays, books, and subsequent letters.[29] A letter, of course, is addressed to someone in particular, a known correspondent-in-the-flesh. Sometimes she sent carbon copies of her letters, which could be pamphlet-sized epistles (especially those to Berkman) to other correspondents, then built on the themes of letters addressed to a particular person to create an impersonal document addressed to strangers. Berkmanâs prison letters similarly, albeit on a much smaller scale, segued into the journal **Prison Blossoms**, invoking a radical prison micropublic. While Warner insists on a distinction between âan implied addressee of rhetoric and a targeted public of circulation,â the anarchistsâ mixed genres suggest more intimate linkages among these relations.[30] Warner maintains âthat publics are different from persons, that the address of public rhetoric is never going to be the same as address to actual persons.â[31] Yet, the epistolary style bleeds between personal and impersonal and in the process knits together modes of address to particular others with those to a generalized public.
For purposes of my explorations of anarchist counterpublics, the following aspects are particularly relevant: publics are multiple, temporal sites of struggle, anchored in concrete material spaces, and capable of enhancing the lives of their participants through the world-making practices of political struggle. In the next sections, I chart some of the key ingredients of anarchist political worlds to show **how** they worked as counterpublics. Bringing the analytic energy of counterpublics to anarchism does more than describe the same phenomena in different language; it forces fresh aspects of anarchism to the fore, compelling new insights. In the final section, I use these insights to put pressure on Warnerâs and Taylorâs analyses, expanding them to be more capacious with regard to anarchist worlds.
They are âpotentially infinite in numberâ and composed of multiple, interactive layers.[32] Gerard Hauser offers the image of a reticulate structure of discursive sites, a network of emergent processes.[33] Warner elaborates:
No single text can create a public. Nor can a single voice, a single genre, even a single medium. All are insufficient to create the kind of reflexivity that we call a public, since a public is understood to be an ongoing space of encounter for discourse. Not texts themselves create publics, but the concatenation of texts through time.[34]
A âconcatenation of textsâ is a good description of the radical Ă©migrĂ© communities of New York City. Goldman has often been heralded as âahead of her time,â but in fact she was very much **of** her time, an active node in networks of textual reflexivity by which anarchism constituted itself in discourse and institutions. In 1919 Attorney General A. Mitchell Palmer, making his case to the Senate for even more stringent anti-red laws, helpfully cataloged the available radical publications into 222 in foreign languages, 105 in English, 144 published in foreign countries and distributed in the US, and âhundreds of books, pamphlets, and other publications which also receive wide circulation.â[35] Well-known journals included the Italian-language **Cronaca Sovversiva (Subversive Chronicle)** edited by Luigi Galleani; Benjamin Tuckerâs **Liberty**; **Chicagoer Arbeiter-Zeitung**, edited by two of the Haymarket martyrs; **RegeneraciĂłn,** a Spanish-language paper edited by Mexican revolutionary Ricardo Flores MagĂłn; Johann Mostâs **Freiheit;** and the long-running Yiddish-language paper **Freie Arbeiter Stimme** (**Free Voice of Labor**). Texts circulated in nearly every European and many Asian languages and, eventually, in English.
Texts always happen in spaces. Popular theater productions and weekly lectures were robust sites for the circulation of texts: not only were spoken texts produced in these spaces, and specific self-recognizing publics constituted by attendance, but books, pamphlets, and journals were often sold there as well. Salons, homes, cafĂ©s, editorial offices, community centers, pubs, union halls, free schools, court rooms, and art exhibits were sites for the âconcatenation of textsâ through time. The hundreds of radical publications that so worried Attorney General Palmer, while concentrated in the New York area, were not limited to the east coast: Robert Reitzel edited the successful German-language literary weekly **Der arme Teufel (The Poor Devil)** in Detroit; Paris, Illinois, was the home of **The Truth Seeker,** the oldest freethinker publication in the world; Moses and Lillian Harman edited the weekly sex radical publication **Lucifer, the Lightbearer** in Valley Falls, Kansas. Goldman and Berkman raised money for anarchist journals like **Free Society** and **The Firebrand** as well as their own publications. Their dense network of citational references and social encounters took place within a horizon of intelligibility whose modes of articulation, address, and consumption made anarchism thinkable.
While counterpublics are not the same as subcultures, the former must have a constitutive link to the latter. A subculture both makes and is made by its counterpublics. Life spaces have certain characteristic elements that are formative for publics. Warner explains:
To address a public or to think of oneself as belonging to a public is to be a certain kind of person, to inhabit a certain kind of social world, to have at oneâs disposal certain media and genres, to be motivated by a certain normative horizon, and to speak within a certain language ideology.[36]
This âkind of personâ taps the prevailing construction of subject positions and identity practices within a particular counterpublic. The âsocial worldâ flags the habitus, âthe conventions by which we experience, as though naturally, our own bodies and movement in the space of the world.â[37] The last three characteristics in Warnerâs list constitute the anarchist social imaginary: âmedia and genresâ indicate the salient forms of articulation and communication constituting the available interpretive practices. âNormative horizonâ taps the cultural, religious, and political values formative within communities, and âlanguage ideologyâ gets at the discursive universe of intelligibility by which ideas can be enunciated and solutions to problems formulated.
On one level, the life space within which Goldman participated in anarchist counterpublics was her own immigrant Jewish female body, a physical site so improbable for public discourse that it was heavily scrutinized by incredulous observers. Newspaper accounts of Goldmanâs speeches frequently began with the observation that she was âclean.â Nelly Blyâs sympathetic interview with Goldman on the front page of the **New York World** noted that Goldman âloves her bath.â[38] The press was obsessed with the details of her physical appearance, commenting extensively on her wardrobe, and in her youth continuously surprised at her âgood looks.â[39] Later representations of Goldman portrayed her as big, rawboned, loud, crude, and mannish. Yet Goldman was less than five feet tall, with a slender build in her youth, becoming matronly as she aged. She dressed stylishly; in one memorable letter to her niece Stella Cominsky, she carefully specified the hat, gloves and collars she needed in order to properly dress for her release from prison.[40] While no doubt personal vanity was one consideration, Goldman was well aware of the anxieties her public presence evoked. She spoke in public; she smoked cigars; she declined to participate in the conjugal domestic family; she talked authoritatively about politics, religion, and sex. She negotiated a thicket of heteronormative expectations about bodies and publics, upsetting persistent stereotypes about unwashed immigrants, dirty Jews, and mannish unwomen.
Berkmanâs embodied presence in public life was less remarked upon than Goldmanâs, both because he was a man and because he was not a celebrity as Goldman became. Yet his personal demeanor and presentation, like hers always punctiliously respectable, took their significance from the larger space of embodied danger in which the two anarchists lived. Anarchist spaces were filled with violence. Everywhere that Goldman and Berkman traveled, they spoke and worked with people who were shot, clubbed, and trampled by public and private security forces during strikes and other protests. Between 1877 and 1903, state and federal troops were sent 500 times to put down strikes.[41] Equally violent were the private security forces. Corporations raised âpowerful private armies that often operated outside the lawâ while detective agencies provided strikebreakers, armed guards, and labor spies.[42] Politically active radicals in the US during this volatile time could not take for granted that they would be physically safe; their bodies were not secure. Additionally, routine arrests, constant official harassment, ever-present and potentially fatal danger of spies and provocateursâsuch conditions created a painfully disruptive personal and symbolic space while putting a high premium on friendship and loyalty. This level of violence strains yet also intensifies the social imaginary: it fractures and at the same time binds the implicit understandings that enable common practices.
Beyond the immediate space of their own embodiment, Berkman and Goldman participated in multiple loosely affiliated, overlapping groupings, including the following:
a. Eastern European, Italian, and Jewish immigrants
b. Progressive labor organizations and individuals
c. Radical women. **(including many from the other four categories in this list)**
d. âNativeâ liberals
e. Progressive international audiences
f. Unique anarchist spaces
Warner calls our attention to âa temporality of circulation,â âa regular flow of discourseâ that organizes time, as time organizes it: âPublic discourse is contemporary, and it is oriented to the future; the contemporaneity and the futurity in question are those of its own circulation.â[56] He emphasizes the importance of ânewsletters and other temporally structured forms oriented to their own circulationâ in forming textual publics.[57] Usually, in studying anarchist publications, the controversial content of the material stands out; but Warner calls our attention to the temporal regularity and common calendar of publicationsânot so much what was said, but the pace and timing with which discourse was put into circulation. Anarchists cultivated a remarkable proclivity toward regular, clearly dated publications. In the case of **Mother Earth**, Goldmanâs annual lecture tours were part of the regularity of the cycle of monthly publication. Goldman reported back from the field, informing readers about anarchist activities in other regions. Her animated field reports served as radical travelogues for readers unable to visit other regions, building geographic familiarity that helped people imagine themselves as part of a larger anarchist landscape.[58]
<em>Mother Earth</em> regularly marked the anarchist counterpublic by producing it in discourse. No wonder, then, that Goldman and Berkman struggled so hard to maintain the journal despite scarce resources and government harassment: it was not simply that anarchism happened elsewhere and <em>Mother Earth</em> reported it, but that the acts of writing, soliciting, editing, producing, and circulating <em>Mother Earth</em> were a happening of anarchism. The reliable punctuality of circulation was crucial to the shared sense of participating in discussion âunfolding in a sphere of activity.â[59] The temporality of a textual public is ânot timeless,â Warner explains, and ânot without issueâââthe more punctual and abbreviated the circulation, and the more discourse indexes the punctuality of its own circulation, the closer a public stands to politics.â[60] In this light, it is understandable that the creators of struggling anarchist publications would insist on frequent and regular appearance. Anarchism is often understood primarily in psychological terms, as the offspring of well-meaning dreamers or driven fanatics; shifting attention to the temporal rhythms of publications calls on us to ask less about anarchistsâ motivations and more about what they were able to accomplish. The circulation itself is an active part of the process, not the âinert oppositeâ of the writing.[61] Of the 60 anarchist and other progressive publications documented by the editors of the <em>Emma Goldman Papers</em> and by historian Paul Avrich, 28 were weeklies, 19 were monthlies, six were semi-monthly, three were dailies, two were biweekly, and only two were variable.[62] Journalsâ frequency and regularity are not simply traits of instrumental delivery vehicles for a politics that happens elsewhereâthey <em>are</em> the politics, part of the ongoing production of public temporality. As Gaonkar and Povinelli explain, the âflows and forms are integrally relatedâ so that the form of circulation both conveys and conducts social life.[63]
The flow and the form came together in the person and the machine of the anarchist printer. The materiality of the printersâ skilled laboring bodies and the pressesâ irreplaceable mechanical productions held pride of place in anarchist communities. Along with garment work, printing was one of the most common trades of anarchists, especially among the Jews. Joseph Ishill, widely known as âthe anarchist printer,â operated the Berkeley Heights Press for more than 40 years, producing approximately 250 books and pamphlets âwhose publication through the usual commercial channels was unfeasible.â[64] Ishill was a crucial link in the political economy of circulation, selecting texts by major anarchist thinkers, lovingly printing them with the greatest artistry, and adorning them with woodcuts and engravings by well-known artists.[65] Joseph Labadie, founder of the Labadie Collection of radical literature at the University of Michigan, was a well-known anarchist printer, as was his son Laurance, who inherited his fatherâs small hand press and his passion for anarchism.[66] Berkman himself was a printer. Pedro Esteve, a leader among the Spanish anarchists in the US, was a printer in Tampa and set type for **La Questione Sociale** in Paterson.[67]
The role of the printer was respected, even revered, within anarchist publics. Regardless of their professed atheism, anarchists were people of the book. The printersâ labors sometimes resembled a guerrilla war on hegemony; outnumbered and on the run, they fired back their volleys of words and evaded capture in order to carry on again tomorrow. Recalling her days printing **Frayhayt** illegally and distributing it clandestinely, Sonya Deanin remembered, âIt was holy work, you know, to distribute our literature, to spread the word.â[68] Others used similar spiritual language to speak of the struggle to produce the printed word: Bronka Greenberg, one of four young people who ran an underground press in Warsaw in the 1930s, remembered, âThe press was our most treasured possession. It must be kept safe at all costs.â Working in isolation and secrecy, they printed a few hundred copies, distributed them immediately, and then returned to their disguised print shop to do it again. Greenberg recalled, âIt was sacred work.â[69]
Anarchist schools taught printing, passing the crucial skills of circulation to subsequent generations. Anarchist cultures of circulation were further enhanced by vigorous grassroots commitments to translation. There were several anarchist bookstores and numerous booksellers.
Multilingual anarchist communities made each othersâ writings available through creative labors of circulation, which are also labors of production. The interlocking networks of printers, translators, and booksellers helped sustain the âongoing lifeâ of anarchist publics. Warner explains,
Itâs the way texts circulate, and become the basis for further representations, that convinces us that publics have activity and duration. A text, to have a public, must continue to circulate through time, and because this can only be confirmed through an intertextual environment of citation and implication, all publics are intertextual, even intergeneric.[70]
<em>Mother Earth</em> relied on certain practices of reflexivity to generate the needed ongoing feedback loops. Short, punchy articles were accompanied by activist reports and scornful (but carefully calibrated) defiance of Comstock laws and other vehicles of censorship. Readersâ relations to other readers were coordinated through ongoing debates, letters and responses, and appeals for funds and support. A regular feature called âComments and Observationsâ offered âbrief, occasionally humorous news items, miniature editorials, and follow-ups relating to previous issues of the magazineâa kind of anarchist âTalk of the Town.ââ[71] Ongoing attention to subsequent journal issues was cultivated by serial publication of some of the longer works. Cover art by Robert Minor, Jules-FĂ©lix Granjouan, Adolf Wolff, Man Ray, and Manuel Komroff cultivated readersâ attention.[72] Chatty announcements and advertisements notified readers of anarchist activities and events, such as the opening of anarchist bookstores; upcoming masquerade balls, dances, and parties (usually fundraisers); lectures, mass meetings, and commemorations of landmark anarchist events; and other anarchist publications made available through the Mother Earth Publishing Association. The journalâs temporal rhythms and self-reflexive circuits were constitutive of anarchismâs intelligibility.
Another temporal source of meaning for anarchist counterpublics was the ritual recognition of key historical events. The executions of the Haymarket martyrs in 1887, Spanish educator Francisco Ferrer in 1909, and Sacco and Vanzetti in 1927 were fertile moments of international protest and collective anger; the annual remembrance of these deaths produced a regular periodicity shaping the social imaginary. Similarly, the anniversaries of outrages against laborâHomestead, Ludlow, and Hazeltonâwere occasions to organize time in ways that made âweâ possible. Goldman was a master at anarchist time: she regularly identified the opportunities and worked to produce the memorial services, annual dinners, commemorative marches, and other âdiscursive forms, practices, and artifactsâ that, as Gaonkar and Povinelli explain, âcarry out their routine ideological labor of constituting subjects who could be summoned in the name of a public or a people.â[73] These events, repeated through dogged insistence and the continuous re-telling of anarchist counter-histories, produced a lively literature of protest, which in turn was the vehicle for reinforcing the countermemories, in a continuous chain of circulations. Additionally, each node in the temporal chain was a fund-raising opportunity. For example, it was Goldmanâs idea to organize annual commemorations of Ferrerâs death across the US to remind people of the outrage against a man widely seen as âa martyr of free thought, done to death by a vindictive clericalism in league with a reactionary state.â[74] Anarchists were joined by liberals, socialists, and people of many progressive strains to condemn the execution of another Socrates. Jack London recalled, âIt were as if New England had, in the twentieth century, resumed her ancient practice of burning witches.â[75] By 1910, 25 cities had memorial gatherings for Ferrer; the largest, in New City, brought 5000 people to Cooper Union âto pay tribute to the Spanish martyr.â[76] At these events, organizers raised funds to support what eventually became a network of 22 Modern Schools across the US, a fitting commemoration for a teacher whose last words, when facing the firing squad, were âLong live the Modern School.â[77] These temporal practices cemented a cadence of ritual memory sustaining public affect.
Publics always have histories in which the âpreconditions of [their] intelligibilityâ are produced and contested; at the same time, publics exceed and confound their own enabling circumstances and maintain an ambiguous relation to conscious political action.[78] Warner notes that âwhen people address publics, they engage in strugglesâat varying levels of salience to consciousness, from calculated tactic to mute cognitive noiseâover the conditions that bring them together as a public.â[79] Yet the conditions of struggle are not fully within the domain of conscious reflection. They also operate metapragmatically, within âthe very notion of a public or by the medium through which a public comes into being.â[80]
In Goldmanâs and Berkmanâs worlds, the conditions of struggle were frequently overt and continuous. One of anarchismâs many ironies is that this fiercely independent counterpublic could not help but be formed, in Craig Calhounâs words, âby struggle against the dominant organization of others.â[81] State and capitalist authorities identified Goldman and Berkman as public enemies. They were viewed as the terrorists of their time, minor participants in a series of assassinations and attempted assassinations that by World War I had targeted 15 heads of state.
While government harassment probably contributed to the mystique surrounding the journal, it also hampered its public-making endeavors. The police seized radical literature when they arrested radicals. The Post Office frequently delayed circulation or confiscated issues altogether. The US Post Office confiscated the June and August 1917, issues of **Mother Earth** because the journalâs opposition to conscription was defined as espionage under the eraâs anti-anarchist laws. When Goldman and Berkman were arrested on June 15, 1917, the day the Espionage Act passed, **The Blast** ceased publication. **Mother Earth**, in the hands of Stella Cominsky and Fitzi Fitzgerald, struggled on until August 1917, publishing vivid accounts of Goldmanâs and Berkmanâs trial; after closure, it was resurrected for six months as the smaller **Mother Earth Bulletin,** again confiscated by authorities (this time for publishing an account of the lynching of 13 black soldiers at an army base in Texas), and followed yet again by a brief underground newsletter, **Instead of a Magazine.** In July 1918, with Goldman and Berkman in prison, federal agents raided Fitzgeraldâs apartment in Greenwich Village, closed down the newsletter and the Mother Earth Book Shop, and circulated the names of 8,000 subscribers to federal intelligence agencies. A series of nationwide arrests followed: thousands of people were seized, often held incommunicado for weeks, and charged with vague crimes; few were convicted, but about 800 âundesirable aliensâ were eventually deported, Berkman and Goldman among them. Until the end, official persecution by the authorities immediately became grist for subsequent publications: trial transcripts and letters from prison, along with accounts of arrests and confiscations, were featured in subsequent issues, in a persistent ballet of circulations, seizures, and counter circulations of words.
Publics, Warner insists, are world-making. To address a public is to be motivated by the relationships such address enables, to participate in the constitution of a formative social imaginary. The poetics of public discourse is performative. Its speeches and performances âtry to specify in advance, in countless highly condensed ways, the lifeworld of its circulation.â[82]
While a common way to imagine public speech is the metaphor of conversation, Warner points out that public words involve much more than the back-and-forth of dialogue: the utterances and responses of public address are located in âpotentially infinite axes of citation and characterization.â[83] The metaphor of conversation suggests that first you have two speakers, then they talk to one another. The analogy is too tame and stable for the open-endedness and multi-layeredness of publics, too much about persuasion and argument, not enough about the world-making expressivity of calling worlds into being through imaginative speech.
The utter tenacity and indefatigability of Goldmanâs and Berkmanâs struggles can be understood as an unflagging commitment to anarchist world-making. Berkman lovingly characterized the circulation of prison letters as âa fresh mountain streamlet joyfully rippling through a stagnant swamp.â[84] The anarchists wrote and spoke themselves into collective life, and when they could not imagine addressing a public capable of comprehending them, they despaired. Berkman committed suicide in 1936 when the toll of imprisonment and exile, compounded by illness and the withering of anarchist counterpublics, produced what Warner aptly characterizes as âpolitical depressiveness, a blockage in activity and optimism, a disintegration of politics toward isolation, frustration, anomie, forgetfulness.â[85] Goldman believed that, had Berkman comprehended the robust anarchist possibilities of the Spanish revolution, âhe would have made an effort to continue living ⊠the chance to serve our Spanish comrades in their gallant fight would have strengthened his hold on life.â[86] While Goldman also suffered in exile, her prodigious letter-writing maintained her contact with comrades and sustained her participation in making anarchist worlds.
While prison, as Gramsci observed, is a poor place to write, Berkmanâs prison writings offer a condensed site for analyzing the complex struggle to create a counterpublic by addressing it. When Berkman first entered prison, he found the People sorely lacking. The young anarchist expressed near comic disappointment in his fellow inmates for their lack of class nobility or revolutionary consciousness: âthey do not belong to the People, to whose service my life is consecrated.â[87] Yet over time he moves from pity and condescension to intimacy and love: âDaily association dispels the myth of the âspeciesâ and reveals the individual. Growing intimacy discovers the humanity beneath the fibers coarsened by lack of opportunity, and brutalized by misery and fear.â[88] His apocalyptic revolutionary expectations were mediated by the daunting circumstances of long imprisonment. In a December 1901 letter to Goldman he reflected on their former thinking, when âwisdom [was] dear at the price of enthusiasmâ and âour eyes were riveted upon the Dawn.â[89] Yet it was not his revolutionary commitments that changed. At the end of his prison term, he still believed: âOn the wings of an all-absorbing love I hastened to join the struggle of the oppressed people.â[90] Rather, it was his understanding of the complex human beings who might come to participate in anarchist publics that underwent thoughtful, painful rethinking.
Berkmanâs prison writing began with letters. When fellow anarchists Carl Nold and Henry Bauer joined Berkman in prison, they began a vigorous correspondence. Berkman writes: âThe presence of my comrades is investing existence with interest and meaning. It has brought to me a breeze from the atmosphere of my former environment; it is stirring the graves, where lie my soulâs dead, into renewed life and hope.â[91] The prisoners exchanged views on aspects of anarchism, at first separated by old disputes, including their loyalty to or bitterness at their anarchist mentor, Johann Most, Berkmanâs âshattered idol.â[92] Yet the act of exchanging ideas soon progressed beyond rehashing old arguments. Their surreptitious correspondence was world-making:
The evening hours have ceased to drag: there is pleasure and diversion in the correspondence. The notes have grown into bulky letters, daily cementing our friendship. We compare views, exchange impressions, and discuss prison gossipâŠ. The personal tenor of our correspondence is gradually broadening into the larger scope of socio-political theories, methods of agitation and applied tactics. The discussions, prolonged and often heated, absorb our interest.[93]
The problematic materiality of their communication required extensive attention:
When a sympathetic inmate secured a large supply of paper, the three comrades expanded their correspondence into a magazine, initially in German and subsequently in English, entitled **Prison Blossoms.** They recruited other writers: an inmate whom they name **Meistersinger** contributed âa rather creditable poem.â[95] As they invented their publication, they imagined their counterpublic.
In contrast to the persistent regularity of other anarchist publications, the clandestine collective writing of **Prison Blossoms** struggled forward according to the irregular opportunities of prison time. Within the unforgiving circumstances of incarceration, the anarchists created a clandestine round-robin system of production and circulation in which the readers were also writers:
He described the contents with pride:
Ironically, Berkman worried about their successâ**ZuchthasblĂŒthen** âsoon discovers itself a veritable Frankenstein,â as âthe popularity of joint editorship is growing at the cost of unity and tendency.â[99] Things were getting out of hand: the little journal was overwhelmed with poetry, lacked sufficient paper, was becoming ideologically dispersed within the counterpulls of multiple micropublics. Berkman, Nold, and Bauer brought in other inmates, including two âHomestead men,â Hugh F. Dempsey and Robert J. Beatty, union activists from the Knights of Labor who were accused of attempting to poison the food of strike-breakers. For Berkman, their arrival âoffers opportunity for propaganda among workers representing the more radical element of American labor.â[100] The contours of the counterpublic shifted again.
The little magazine was eventually discontinued because of constant harassment by the warden. But the writers renewed their correspondence when possible and eventually revived **Prison Blossoms**; by that time, the Knights of Labor men had been pardoned, the poet also released, but they recruited others, including more imprisoned strikers from the Duquesne confrontation. Readers, generally drawn from âthe more intelligent and trustworthy element,â renewed their âsubscriptionsâ by contributing material, creating an active feedback loop within their public.[101] The public they were creating in prison also contained enemiesâthe âstoolsâ and âtrustiesâ who worked for the officers and could not be trusted. The process occasionally worked the other way, producing a friendly guard who became an ally. Berkmanâs analysis of the authority structure of the prison is part of the hazardous process by which he recruits and produces his public. Berkman writes:
The editorials are short, pithy comments on local events, interspersed with humorous sketches and caricatures of the officials; the balance of the **Blossoms** consists of articles and essays of a more serious character, embracing religion and philosophy, labor and politics, with now and then a personal reminiscence by the âsecond-story man,â or some sex experience by âMagazine Alvin.â One of the associate editors lampoons âBilly-goat Benny,â the Deputy Warden; âKâ sketches the âshop Screwâ and âthe Trusted Prisonerâ; and âGâ relates the story of the recent strike in his shop, the menâs demand for clear pump water instead of the liquid mud tapped from the river, and the breaking of the strike by the exile of a score of âriotersâ to the dungeon. In the next issue the incident is paralleled with the Pullman Car Strike, and the punished prisoners eulogized for their courageous stand, someone dedicating an ultra-original poem to the âNoble Sons of Eugene Debs.â[102]
More troubles beset their fragile relations: some readers were moved to inaccessible parts of the prison; two contributors died; the route of writing and circulating was in disarray. In the face of persistent obstacles to journal circulation, they decided to write a book. Their public shifted again; confident that a resourceful friend could smuggle the manuscript out of prison, they spoke more to the hypothetical public outside prison gates.[103] Throughout this process, Berkman worked on the materials of confinement to create a counterpublic by, as Warner eloquently explains, âelaborating common worlds, making the transposition from shame to honor, from hiddenness to the exchange of viewpoints with generalized others, in such a way that the disclosure of self partakes of freedom.â[104] Like other prisoners of conscience described by Hauser, Berkmanâs prison writings are âan example of the resistance he advocates.â[105] Within the harsh and degrading space of prison, these writings made worlds.
The vicissitudes of anarchist activism can provide insights for refining our understanding of counterpublics. For example, Warner dwells persistently on what he takes to be a troubling circularity of publics, the âchicken and eggâ problemâthe public has to exist in order for us to address it, but it canât exist until we address it. Yet Warnerâs own insights into the temporality, multiplicity, and porosity of publics suggests that he is too rigid in some of his categories, too anxious about an original moment, when his own arguments suggest a focus on connections and processes rather than stable cause and effect relations. Warner rightly points out that publics and counterpublics sustain tensions not attributable to the workings of domination on the oppressed. The search for a better public or counterpublic, while worthwhile, will not resolve these enduring tensions. Our problem isnât only that some authorities are manipulative (although they are) or use public culture to dominate (although they do); even if we succeed in replacing an oppressive public culture with a more liberated one, Warner insists that there are tensions inherent in any publics, including counterpublics, that exceed containments and defy resolutions.
Yet when Warner sorts his way through different kinds of public speech and writing, he sometimes insists on hard and fast distinctions among registers of address that are better understood as porous and interactive. For example, he contrasts public address with sermons, finding that the latter lack the needed temporality and reflexivity of circulation. A sermon, he insists, may be a kind of public eloquence and may be political, but it is a message delivered from god to sinner and lacks the circulation that constitutes and is constituted by public address. Yet the example of Goldmanâs public speaking blurs the distinctions upon which Warner insists. Like the preachers whom Warner describes, Goldman could often âspeak with something other than [her] individual voice, and⊠address the intimate hearer, creating a scene of hearing markedly different from the speech of one person to others in ordinary time.â[106] Goldman was often credited with exceptionally moving address, as though she were speaking directly to the listener and not to the crowd. Yet of course it is precisely the capacity to touch and be touched by anarchism that she was putting into circulation. Warner recognizes hybrid forms, such as the speech of itinerant preachers addressing revivals, but rather than pursuing hybridity he insists on a fundamental difference of the two categories of speech, arguing that public speech is essentially circulating while sermons address the private sinner.[107]
Warnerâs analysis in this instance is too rigid to fully capture the shifting practices of anarchist publics. Berkmanâs and Goldmanâs writing blurred distinctions between letters addressed to a specific individual and public speech addressed to the generalized other. Their practices undo clear distinctions between words meant for circulation and those meant only for exchange, as well as between the rhetorical practices of sermons and those of public address. Examining the practices of anarchist counterpublics suggests that hybridity of forms is the rule rather than the exception. Were Warner to focus more on hybridity and process, less on distinctions among categories, he could avoid some of his anxieties about âwhich came first.â For example, after many pages of insistence that publics are formed âmerelyâ by address, he admits to a ârealityâ that undermines this appearance: âA public seems to be self-organized by discourse but in fact requires preexisting forms and channels of circulation. It appears to be open to indefinite strangers but in fact selects participants.â[108] Yet this abrupt distinction between how things appear and how they really are would be unneeded, were Warner to give up the search for a founding moment. Why not instead embrace the relations among moments of a dynamic, non-linear, mutually constitutive process? Goldmanâs and Berkmanâs public careers presumed the publics they helped articulate. They took the risk of addressing participants outside their immediate circle, engaging the âfruitful perversityâ of inviting strangers into a circulatory field that the strangers might well destroy.[109] The unpredictability inherent in public world-making marked both its risks and its possibilities.
Similarly, Taylorâs analysis of publics is usefully taxed by the pressure of anarchist examples. Taylorâs image of publics is too smooth, its exchanges too conversational, to fully grasp the abiding frictions both within and between contending publics. Taylor emphasizes the commonness of publics, the way people fit together with others, âhow things go on between them and their fellows,â while in anarchist political spaces the âway things go onâ is fraught with danger.[110] Attention to anarchist counterpublics puts pressure on the serenity of Taylorâs account, bringing more turbulence into the triangular relation of social imaginaries, political ideologies, and bodily practices. While Warner recognizes the centrality of struggle to the workings of publics, he too sometimes lets the language of commonness dull his attention to the violence that struggle may entail. The instability and risk that Warner appears to regret are the flip side of the possibilities that the anarchists embraced. Warner states:
Publicness is just this space of coming together that discloses itself in interaction. The world of strangers that public discourse makes must be made of further circulation and recharacterization over time; it cannot simply be aggregated from units that I can expect to be similar to mine. I risk its fate.[111]
For Goldman and Berkman, their ability to draw upon anarchist social imaginaries to locate âthe expectations that are normally metâ in collective practices was both sustained and compromised by their subaltern position.[112] Their position was compromised because anarchists served as the constitutive Other of proper social order; it was sustained because it was exactly that fracture which anarchists utilized to articulate their critique and to draw suffering or visionary individuals into their circulations of words. Anarchist public-making was dangerous business, and Goldman and Berkman did indeed risk its fate.
; Notes
[1] Dilip Parameshwar Gaonkar, âToward New Imaginaries: An Introduction,â **Public Culture** 14:1 (2002), p. 11.
[2] In 1892 Berkman attempted to kill Henry Clay Frick for ordering assaults on striking steel workers at Carnegieâs mills in Homestead, Pennsylvania. He served 14 years in prison.
[3] I do not have space in this essay to develop their ideas; for a fuller consideration, see my forthcoming book **Goldman: Political Thinking in the Streets** (Rowman and Littlefield).
[4] Nancy Fraser, âRethinking the Public Sphere: A Contribution to the Critique of Actually Existing Democracy,â **Social Text** 25:26 (1990), pp. 61, 67.
[5] Rita Felski, **Beyond Feminist Aesthetics: Feminist Literature and Social Change** (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1989); Mariangela Maguire and Laila Farah Mohtar, âPerformance and the Celebration of a Subaltern Counterpublic,â **Text and Performance Quarterly** 14:3 (1994), pp. 238â252.
[6] The Black Public Sphere Collective (eds), **The Black Public Sphere** (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995); Melissa Harris-Lacewell, **Barbershops, Bibles, and BET** (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2004); Michael Jeffries, âDo Barbershops Matter? Disaggregating and Demystifying the Black Counterpublic,â paper presented at American Sociological Association annual meeting, Boston, MA (July 31, 2008).
[7] Michael Warner, **Publics and Counterpublics** (New York: Zone, 2002).
[8] Oskar Negt and Alexander Kluge, **Public Sphere and Experience,** trans. Peter Labanyi, Jamie Owen Daniel and Assenka Oksiloff (Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 1993).
[9] Gregory Sholette, âDark MatterâActivist Art and the Counter-Public Sphere,â **InterActivist Info Exchange** < http://info.interactivist.net/node/1946> (accessed July 20, 2009).
[10] Mark Morrisson, âMarketing British Modernism: âThe Egoistâ and Counter-Public Spheres,â **Twentieth Century Literature** 43:4 (1997), pp. 439â469.
[11] Robert Asen, âSeeking the âCounterâ in Counterpublics,â **Communication Theory** 10 (November 2000), p. 426.
[12] Robert Asen, âSeeking the âCounterâ in Counterpublics,â **Communication Theory** 10 (November 2000), p. 427.
[13] Warner, **Publics and Counterpublics**, pp. 56â57.
[14] Warner, **Publics and Counterpublics**, p. 8.
[15] I am focusing on Goldmanâs and Berkmanâs work in the United States. For an account of Goldman after 1919, see Alice Wexler, **Emma Goldman in Exile: From the Russian Revolution to the Spanish Civil War** (Boston, MA: Beacon Press, 1989).
[16] âNativeâ commonly meant non-immigrant for the anarchists, suggesting both their distance from indigenous people and their absorption in a political world framed by immigration.
[17] Gaonkar, âToward New Imaginaries,â p. 16.
[18] Warner, **Publics and Counterpublics**, p. 66.
[19] Charles Taylor, âModern Social Imaginaries,â **Public Culture** 14:1 (2002), p. 113.
[20] Warner, **Publics and Counterpublics**, p. 66.
[21] Ibid., p. 67.
[22] Ibid., p. 69.
[23] Taylor, âModern Social Imaginaries,â p. 113.
[24] Warner, **Publics and Counterpublics**, p. 90.
[25] Peter Glassgold (ed.), **Anarchy! An Anthology of Emma** **Goldmanâs Mother Earth** (Washington, DC: Counterpoint, 2001), p. xxvi.
[26] Warner, **Publics and Counterpublics**, p. 73.
[27] Candace Falk, âForging Her Place: An Introduction,â in Falk, Barry Pateman, and Jessica Moran (eds), **Emma Goldman: A Documentary History of the American Years**, vol. I, **Made for America, 1890â1901** (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2003), p. 2.
[28] Warner, **Publics and Counterpublics**, p. 73.
[29] Richard Drinnon and Anna Maria Drinnon (eds), **Nowhere at Home: Letters from Exile of Emma Goldman and Alexander Berkman** (New York: Schocken Books, 1975), p. xiv.
[30] Warner, **Publics and Counterpublics**, p. 72.
[31] Warner, **op. cit.**, p. 78.
[32] Gerard Hauser, **Vernacular Voices: The Rhetoric of Publics and Public Spheres** (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 1999), p. 90.
[33] Warner, **op. cit.**, p. 9.
[34] Gerard Hauser, **Vernacular Voices: The Rhetoric of Publics and Public Spheres** (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 1999).
[35] Investigation Activities of the Department of Justice, Letter from the Attorney General (November 17, 1919) 66th Congress, 1st Session, Senate Doc No. 153 (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1919), p. 11.
[36] Warner, **Publics and Counterpublics**, p.10.
[37] Ibid., p. 23.
[38] Falk, âForging Her Place,â p. 29.
[39] Falk, **op. cit.**, p. 35.
[40] Drinnon and Drinnon, **Nowhere at Home: Letters from Exile of Emma Goldman and Alexander Berkman**, p. 8.
[41] Falk, âForging Her Place,â pp. 19â20.
[42] Stephen H. Norwood, **Strikebreaking and Intimidation: Mercenaries and Masculinity in Twentieth-Century America** (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2002), p. 4.
[43] Falk âForging Her Placeâ, p. 21.
[44] Falk **op. cit.**, p. 48.
[45] Barry Pateman, âIntroduction,â in Alexander Berkman, **What Is Anarchism?** (Oakland, CA: AK Press, 2003), pp. ivâv.
[46] Falk, âForging Her Placeâ, p. 29.
[47] Falk, **op. cit.**, p. 29.
[48] âDirectory of Organizations,â in Falk, Pateman, and Moran, **Emma Goldman: A Documentary History of the American Years**, p. 572.
[49] See âDirectory of Organizations,â in Candace Falk, Barry Pateman, and Jessica Moran (eds), **Emma Goldman: A Documentary History of the American Years,** vol. II, **Making Speech Free, 1902â1909** (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2005), pp. 557â558.
[50] Paul Avrich, **The Modern School Movement: Anarchism and Education in the United States** (Oakland, CA: AK Press, 2006), pp. 42â52.
[51] Glassgold, **Anarchy!**, p. xxii.
[52] Falk, âForging Her Place,â p. 39.
[53] Falk, **op. cit.**
[54] While the movement had its greatest success in the US, numerous Modern Schools were created in Spain before state suppression closed them down; schools were also founded in Brazil, Argentina, China, Japan, and Europe. Nearly all of the former students of the Modern Schools interviewed by Paul Avrich in **Anarchist Voices: An Oral History of Anarchism in America** (Oakland, CA: AK Press, 2005) had strong positive memories of their early anarchist educations.
[55] Avrich, **The Modern School Movement**, p. 272.
[56] Warner, **Public and Counterpublics**, p. 94.
[57] Warner, **op. cit.**, p. 95.
[58] Falk, âRaising Her Voices: An Introduction,â in Falk, Pateman, and Moran, vol. II, pp. 48â49.
[59] Warner, **Publics and Counterpublics**, p. 96.
[60] Warner, **op. cit.**, pp. 96â97.
[61] Benjamin Lee and Edward LiPuma, âCultures of Circulation: The Imaginations of Modernity,â **Public Culture** 14:1 (2002), p. 192.
[62] See the âDirectory of Periodicalsâ in Falk, Pateman, and Moran, **op. cit.**, vol. I, pp. 563â569; vol. II, pp. 549â554; and vol. III, forthcoming. My thanks to the editors for generously sharing the Directory for volume III. See also âList of Periodicalsâ in Avrich, **Anarchist Voices**, pp. 529â534.
[63] Dilip Parameshwar Gaonkar and Elizabeth A. Povinelli, âTechnologies of Public Forms: Circulation, Transfiguration, Recognition,â **Public Culture** 15:3 (2003), p. 387.
[64] Avrich, **The Modern School Movement**, (2006), p. 257.
[65] Ishill became the printer in residence for the University of Florida in 1964. Avrich, The Modern School Movement, op. cit., p. 259.
[66] Avrich, **Anarchist Voices**, p. 15.
[67] Avrich, **Anarchist Voices, op. cit.**, p. 398.
[68] Avrich, **Anarchist Voices, op. cit.**, p. 336.
[69] Avrich, **Anarchist Voices, op. cit.**, p. 465.
[70] Warner, **Publics and Counterpublics**, p. 97.
[71] Glassgold, **Publics and Counterpublics**, p. xvii.
[72] Glassgold, **op. cit.,**, p. xvii.
[73] Gaonkar and Povinelli, **Publics and Counterpublics**, p. 389.
[74] Avrich, **The Modern School Movement**, p. 30.
[75] Quoted in Avrich, **The Modern School Movement, op. cit.**, p. 37.
[76] Avrich, **The Modern School Movement, op. cit.**, p. 47.
[77] Avrich, **The Modern School Movement, op. cit.**
[78] Warner, **Publics and Counterpublics**, p. 9.
[79] Warner, **op. cit.**, p. 12.
[80] Warner, **op. cit.**, p. 14.
[81] Craig Calhoun, âImagining Solidarity: Cosmopolitanism, Constitutional Patriotism, and the Public Sphere,â **Public Culture** 14:1 (2002), p. 162.
[82] Warner, **Publics and Counterpublics**, p. 114.
[83] Ibid., p. 91.
[84] Alexander Berkman, **Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist** (New York: New York Review of Books, 1999), p. 179.
[85] Warner, **Publics and Counterpublics**, p. 70.
[86] Goldmanâs 1937 introduction in Alexander Berkman, **What Is Anarchism?** (Oakland, CA: AK Press, 2003), p. xi.
[87] Berkman, **Prison Memoirs**, p. 140.
[88] Berkman, **Prison Memoirs**, **op. cit.**, p. 242.
[89] Berkman, **Prison Memoirs**, **op. cit.**, p. 421.
[90] Berkman, **Prison Memoirs**, **op. cit.**, p. 482.
[91] Berkman, **Prison Memoirs**, **op. cit.**, p. 180.
[92] Berkman, **Prison Memoirs**, **op. cit.**, pp. 180â182.
[93] Berkman, **Prison Memoirs**, **op. cit.**, p. 179.
[94] Berkman, **Prison Memoirs**, **op. cit.**
[95] Berkman, **Prison Memoirs**, **op. cit.**, p. 182.
[96] Berkman, **Prison Memoirs**, **op. cit.**, pp. 182â183.
[97] Josh Billings was a well-known American humorist of the time.
[98] Josh Billings was a well-known American humorist of the time, p. 183.
[99] Josh Billings was a well-known American humorist of the time, p. 183.
[100] Josh Billings was a well-known American humorist of the time, p. 184.
[101] Josh Billings was a well-known American humorist of the time, pp. 283â284.
[102] Josh Billings was a well-known American humorist of the time, p. 283.
[103] Josh Billings was a well-known American humorist of the time, p. 335.
[104] Warner, **Publics and Counterpublics**, p. 61.
[105] Gerard Hauser, âPrisoners of Conscience and the Counterpublic Sphere of Prison Writing,â in Robert Asen and Daniel C. Brouwer (eds), **Counterpublics and the State** (Albany, NY; State University of New York Press, 2001), p. 51.
[106] Warner, **Publics and Counterpublics**, p. 83.
[107] Warner, **op. cit.**, p. 85.
[108] Warner, **op. cit.**, p.106.
[109] Warner, **op. cit.**, p.113.
[110] Warner, **Publics and Counterpublics**, p. 122.
[111] Taylor, â**Modern Social Imaginaries**,â p. 106.
[112] Taylor, â**Modern Social Imaginaries**,â p. 106.