The end of 1966 finds the United States with more hard business before it than at any time since 1962. We are embattled in Viet Nam; we are in the middle of a true social revolution at home; and we have undiminished involvement with continents and countries that still refuse to match our simpler pictures of them. It is not surprising that one can almost hear the nation asking where it is trying to go. It is Viet Nam that gives the question a special edge, and probably it will be in Viet Nam that the most important early answers will be given. But Viet Nam is not the place to begin. It is better to begin with ourselves, and to ask ourselves again what we want-and should want-in the world.
The end of 1966 finds the United States with more hard business before it than at any time since 1962. We are embattled in Viet Nam; we are in the middle of a true social revolution at home; and we have undiminished involvement with continents and countries that still refuse to match our simpler pictures of them. It is not surprising that one can almost hear the nation asking where it is trying to go. It is Viet Nam that gives the question a special edge, and probably it will be in Viet Nam that the most important early answers will be given. But Viet Nam is not the place to begin. It is better to begin with ourselves, and to ask ourselves again what we want-and should want-in the world.
With all his international preoccupations, the American remains a man of private purposes. His hopes and fears for these purposes still decide most elections. Foreign travel and investment multiply (to the despair of those who think the dollar an end, and not a means, and to the great advantage of a nation that must not live alone any more), but they multiply mainly for private reasons, Americans can be touched by hunger and sentiment, so that food goes to India and help of all sorts to Israel, but the American dream remains domestic. However great their nation's interests overseas, the boys always want to come home. Such inwardness of national feeling can be dangerous, but it has the enormously important consequence for others that the American democracy has no enduring taste for imperialism.
What the American people still want of the world, then, is that it should allow what George Washington called "the security of their union and the advancement of their happiness." The enormous difference between Washington's foreign affairs and our own-a difference nine-tenths of which has developed in the last twenty-five years-is in the number, variety and size of the American actions which are generated by this desire. It is not a change of national purpose. Behind every sustained and serious engagement of the United States there lies an express or implied decision that this action is important to the safety and welfare of the United States itself. Policies which cannot persuasively claim this justification do not last, however attractive they may be for a time or with a part of our public. The American commitment anywhere is only as deep as the continued conviction of Americans that their own interest requires it.
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The summer of 1969 has seen men on the moon and almost half the American Senate voting against a defense decision supported by two Presidents. In the summer pride of the moon landing it is not pleasant to turn the mind back to the terrible topic of nuclear danger. Yet the splendid technical achievement of Apollo contains its own reminder that similar skills applied with similar single-mindedness have now led the two greatest powers of our generation into an arms race totally unprecedented in size and danger.
It is with some sense of temerity that a member of the White House staff undertakes to comment on the large topic of the Presidency and the Peace. Loyalty and affection are so normal in such service that detachment is difficult. Nevertheless the importance of the topic and the enforced familiarity of close experience with the Presidential task may justify a set of comments whose underlying motive is to express a conviction that is as obvious as the daylight, in general, and as fresh as every sunrise, in particular: a conviction that the American Presidency, for better, not for worse, has now become the world's best hope of preventing the unexampled catastrophe of general nuclear war.
One of the great problems in arms control is that advances in technology, and their application to military programs, tend to invalidate or render meaningless even the soundest arms-control proposals. Twice in the last decade this has occurred, once when the diffusion of nuclear technology and the production of large numbers of nuclear weapons rendered futile any hope of complete nuclear disarmament, and again when the advent of intercontinental missiles made necessary a rethinking of all the proposals for limiting or abolishing strategic strike forces. It may well be that we are about to witness a similar overtaking of current arms-control proposals because of the possibility of deploying highly effective ballistic missile defenses.

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