To judge from the daily news, the management of American foreign policy is the art of throwing ourselves into one crisis after another. By shifting the spotlight from one trouble spot to the next, the impression is created that the United States Government deals exclusively in short-range reactions to external emergencies.
To judge from the daily news, the management of American foreign policy is the art of throwing ourselves into one crisis after another. By shifting the spotlight from one trouble spot to the next, the impression is created that the United States Government deals exclusively in short-range reactions to external emergencies.
Most of the people engaged in the management of American foreign policy, most of the time, are not working on the headline crises, but on other subjects. A round of tariff negotiations, a student exchange program, the use of surplus food for economic growth, the tedious but important process of getting to know hundreds of leading personalities in more than a hundred foreign countries, the analysis of bits and pieces of intelligence from all over the world, the selection and instruction of government delegates to 500 conferences a year-these and many, many other necessary works are also "American foreign policy."
Yet in the upper reaches of our Government, and particularly at the level of the President and his nearest echelon of advisers, the newspaper version of relative priorities is not, after all, so far from the facts. The President, the Secretaries of State and Defense, the Director of Central Intelligence and several dozen other men do spend a very large part of their time working on the crises of the moment. (This does not, paradoxically, mean that long-range policy is neglected; for it is often at moments of crisis that the most basic long-range decisions about foreign policy are made.)
The highest officials of our Government spend their time on crisis management because there is no other way for responsible men to take the responsibility for crucial decisions. For the problem of decision-making in our complicated world is not how to get the problem simple enough so that we can all understand it; the problem is to get our thinking about the problem as complex as humanly possible-and thus approach (we can never match) the complexity of the real world around us. And only the highest officials are in a position thus to maximize the complexities.
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We live, no doubt, in a period of accelerating history, though what precisely we can expect from this acceleration nobody dares predict. The end of World War II is still not 20 years away, yet there already is little resemblance between the blueprint for world order drawn in 1944 and the world of 1964. A world order after a war which caused 30,000,000 casualties should last somewhat longer than that. The Pax Romana after the civil wars fought just before the birth of Christ lasted, on and off, a couple of centuries. The Pax Anglica after the Napoleonic Wars lasted a century. The Pax Americana (nobody can deny that the United States has kept the peace since VJ-Day, with some tacit coöperation from Russia) has now lasted nineteen and a half years, but thanks only to several changes in the organization of the world, some of them improvised under the pressure of events.
Jimmy Carter's high-profile parachutes for peace earn scorn from some and admiration from others. From Haiti to North Korea, the ubiquitous former president helps resolve disputes with his unshakable confidence in the power of moral suasion. But Carter's penchant for bucking U.S. foreign policy has strained his relations with the Washington establishment, and the Clinton administration has not always treated him with the respect he deserves. Lost in the controversy are the humanitarian achievements on which his reputation will ultimately rest.
Foreign AFFAIRS is forty years old-and the modern foreign affairs of the United States are less than ten years older. The problems we have today-of technology, conflict, alliance and hope-have little relation to the times of the Founders, the ordeal of Lincoln, or even the turning days of Cleveland, McKinley and Theodore Roosevelt. It is August 1914, with its alerting record of the stakes of diplomacy and of the enormous damage that ordinary well-trained men can do, which reminds us that Woodrow Wilson at his typewriter, and all of his successors, have had to live with world-wide danger, world-wide power, and so world-wide responsibility.

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