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Time Will Run Back

March 21, 2007

Tags Free MarketsMedia and CulturePhilosophy and Methodology

[Henry Hazlitt was uniquely qualified to write the first and only novel in which the problem of economic calculation provides the central plot theme. He was literary editor of the Nation from 1930 to 1933 and a highly regarded critic. He also understood Mises's argument against socialism and how it went to the very core of the economic problem. Time Will Run Back — which has been out of print for a very long time but which is now available both online (in PDF) and from our store — is unique in other respects. Few people in the 1950s imagined that communism would fall of its own dead weight, but Hazlitt understood what others did not. He also saw that a mixed system would fail of its own internal contradictions. This book thus teaches economics in a special way that is accessible to people of all ages, but to teens in particular because the story is fictional. And yet it is not fictional: what Hazlitt forecasts in this book — the unraveling of a system — actually did take place. So his novel might be seen as a foreshadowing of events in Russia, China, and elsewhere. We hope you enjoy his introduction, which follows.]

I

If capitalism did not exist, it would be necessary to invent it — and its discovery would be rightly regarded as one of the great triumphs of the human mind. This is the theme of Time Will Run Back. But as "capitalism" is merely a name for freedom in the economic sphere, the theme of my novel might be stated more broadly: the will to freedom can never be permanently stamped out.

This book was first published in this country in 1951 under the title, The Great Idea. The British publishers, however, were not happy with the title. Of the several alternatives I submitted, they much preferred Time Will Run Back and it was published in England under that title in 1952.

I now prefer this myself, not only because of its Miltonic origin, but because by implication it challenges the present smugly fashionable assumption that every change means progress, and that whatever political or economic trend is latest in time must be best.

In addition to changing the title I have changed the ending. The original novel closed ironically; by that ending I meant to emphasize the insecurity of all human progress. But my ending unfortunately gave at least one or two reviewers the quite mistaken impression that I personally favored Wang's middle-of-the-road notions over Peter Uldanov's forthright libertarianism.

I have changed the fictional ending in the new version to obviate any such impression.

The idea of writing a novel on this theme came to me many years ago. It was touched off, as I recall, by several paragraphs in Ludwig von Mises's Socialism, which I reviewed for the New York Times (January 9, 1938). But more than a decade passed before I felt sufficient sense of urgency to put the idea into effect.

The form I chose for my work made it difficult to assign credit where credit was due. If it had been written as an economic treatise, it would doubtless have been peppered with footnotes.

Not only, however, would footnotes have been out of place in a novel, destroying whatever illusion I might otherwise have succeeded in creating, but by the premise of this particular novel all the economic and political writing of the past, except that of the Marxists, has been completely wiped out. My hero is supposed to perform the truly prodigious feat of recreating out of his own unaided head ideas that it has in fact taken generations of great economists to develop and refine. It would be fatuous to make excessive claims to originality in this field. I should like, therefore, to indicate here some of the principal writers to whom my own thought is indebted.

They include Böhm-Bawerk, John Bates Clark, Frank H. Knight, Ludwig von Mises, Brutzkus, Halm, Pareto, Barone, Jevons, Wicksteed, Carver, and Roepke. There are doubtless still further debts that slip my mind at the moment. Most readers will, of course, recognize the metaphor of "the invisible hand" as Adam Smith's. And some will recall that the aphorism, "Despotism may govern without faith, but liberty cannot," is de Tocqueville's.

So much for ideological credits. Now as to structural. Many readers will see, in Part One of my book, striking coincidences with George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four. These are, however, in fact coincidences. Orwell's book was published in 1949, The Great Idea not until 1951. I did not read Orwell's book until after I had finished the first draft of my own. I was at first disturbed by the number of coincidences, but it then occurred to me that at least the broad outlines if not all the details of the imagined future life were the common property of more than one of the recent writers who have tried to imagine that life (Zamiatin in We and Aldous Huxley in Brave New World, for example).

These writers had not been plagiarizing from each other; but all of them had, so to speak, been plagiarizing from the actual nightmare created by Lenin, Hitler, and Stalin (and now prolonged by Communist regimes wherever they get into power).

All that the writer had done was to add a few logical extensions not yet generally foreseen.

While Orwell, moreover, portrayed with unsurpassable power the intellectual paralysis and spiritual depravity that a totalitarian regime imposed, he left the determining economic aspect virtually blank (except for the dreadful end-results for consumers). And his book closed on a note of utter despair. Time Will Run Back, with its promise of material progress and spiritual rebirth, is in a sense an answer to the black pessimism of Nineteen Eighty-Four.

Though my book begins at practically the same point as Orwell's, it ends at a diametrically opposite one. My book is also, in a sense, an answer to Bellamy's Looking Backward of 1888, because it turns the Bellamy situation upside down. But Time Will Run Back was not conceived as an answer either to Bellamy or to Orwell. It was written to state a positive theme of its own. Its fate must rest on the success with which it states that theme.

II

The question may arise in some readers' minds whether as a result of the passage of time in the fifteen years since my mock novel was originally published, parts of it may not have become out of date. But to ask this is to misconceive the nature and purpose of the book. It is true that the people in my story are forced to rely on radio and the airplane, and do not have television and intercontinental thermonuclear missiles. But a central theme of my book is that under complete world totalitarianism (in which there was no free area left from which the totalitarian area could appropriate the fruits of previous or current discovery and invention, or in which its own plans could no longer be parasitic on knowledge of prices and costs as determined by capitalistic free markets) the world would in the long run not only stop progressing but actually go backward technically as well as economically and morally — as the world went backward and remained backward for centuries after the collapse of Roman civilization.

If my book seems out of date in a few other respects it is, ironically, precisely because of the fulfillment of some of its predictions or apparent predictions. Thus the dictator in my story is named Stalenin (an obvious combination of Stalin and Lenin). He is incapacitated by a stroke, and later he is shot. By coincidence it happened that a bare two years after my book appeared Stalin was reported to have had a stroke. And it is still an unanswered question today, because of the mystery and delays surrounding the announcements of his illness and death, and the subsequent puzzling zigzags and reversals in attitudes towards him on the part of Khrushchev and his successors, whether or not he was actually assassinated.

But other events since the original appearance of The Great Idea were not coincidences. Thus my book points out that a centrally directed economy cannot solve the problem of economic calculation, and that without private property, free markets, and freedom of consumer choice, no organizational solution of this problem is possible. If all economic life is directed from a single center, solution of the problem of the exact amounts that should be produced of thousands of different commodities, and of the exact amount of capital goods, raw materials, transport, etc. needed to produce the optimum volume of goods in the proper proportion, and the solution of the problem of the coordination and synchronization of all this diverse production, becomes impossible.

No single person or board can possibly know what is going on everywhere at the same time. It cannot know what real costs are. It has no way of measuring the extent of waste. It has no real way of knowing how inefficient any particular plant is, or how inefficient the whole system is. It has no way of knowing just what goods consumers would want if they were produced and made available at their real costs.

So the system leads to wastes, stoppages, and breakdowns at innumerable points. And some of these become obvious even to the most casual observer. In the summer of 1961, for example, a party of American newspapermen made an 8,000-mile conducted tour of the Soviet Union. They told of visiting collective farms where seventeen men did the work of two; of seeing scores of buildings unfinished "for want of the proverbial nail"; of traveling in a land virtually without roads.

In the same year even Premier Khrushchev complained that as of January 1 there were many millions of square feet of completed factory space that could not be used because the machinery required for them just wasn't available, while at the same time in other parts of the country there were the equivalent of hundreds of millions of dollars worth of machinery of various kinds standing idle because the factories and mines for which this machine was designed were not yet ready.

At about the same time G.I. Voronov, a Communist party Presidium member, said:

"Who does not know that the national economy suffers great difficulties with the supply of metals, that the supply of pipes is inadequate, that insufficient supplies of new machinery and mineral fertilizers for the countryside are produced, that hundreds of thousands of motor vehicles stand idle without tires, and that the production of paper lags?" (See New York Times, Oct. 29, 1961.)

In 1964 Izvestia itself was complaining that the small town of Lide, close to the Polish border, had first been inundated with boots, and then with caramels — both products of state factories. Complaints by local shopkeepers that they were unable to sell all these goods were brushed aside on the ground that the factories' production schedules had to be kept.

Such examples could be cited endlessly, year by year, down to the month that I write this. They are all the result of centralized planning.

The most tragic results have been in agriculture. The outstanding example is the famine of 1921–22 when, directly as a result of collectivization, controls, and the ruthless requisitioning of grain and cattle, millions of peasants and city inhabitants died of disease and starvation. Revolts forced Lenin to adopt the "New Economic Policy." But once more in 1928 more "planning" and enforced collections of all the peasants' "surpluses" led to the famine of 1932–33, when more millions died from hunger and related diseases.

These conditions, in varying degree, come down to the present moment. In 1963 Russia again suffered a disastrous crop failure. And in 1965, this agrarian nation, one of whose chief economic problems in Tsarist days was how to dispose of its grain surplus, was once more forced to buy millions of tons of grains from the western capitalist world.

The industrial disorganization has been less spectacular, or better concealed — at least if we pass over that in the initial phase between 1918 and 1921. But in spite of extravagant claims of unparalleled "economic growth," Russia's problems of industrial production have been chronic. Since factory output goals are either laid down in weight or quota by the planners, a knitwear plant recently ordered to produce 80,000 caps and sweaters produced only caps, because they were smaller and cheaper to make.

A factory commanded to make lampshades made them all orange, because sticking to one color was quicker and less trouble. Because of the use of tonnage norms, machine builders used eight-inch plates when four-inch plates would easily have done the job. In a chandelier factory, in which the workers were paid bonuses based on the tonnage of chandeliers produced, the chandeliers grew heavier and heavier until they started pulling ceilings down.

The system is marked by conflicting orders and mountains of paperwork. In 1964 a Supreme Soviet Deputy cited the example of the Izhora factory, which received no fewer than 70 different official instructions from nine state committees, four economic councils and two state planning committees — all of them authorized to issue production orders to that plant. The plans for the Novo-Lipetsk steel mill took up 91 volumes comprising 70,000 pages, specifying precisely the location of each nail, lamp, and washstand.

Yet in 1964, in Russia's largest republic alone, deliveries of 257 factories had to be suspended because their goods were not bought. As a result of the consumer's stiffening standards and an increased inclination to complain, $3 billion worth of unsellable junk accumulated in Soviet inventories. (For the foregoing and other examples, see Time, Feb. 12, 1965.)

Such conditions have led to desperate remedial measures. In the last couple of years, not only from Russia but from the Communist satellite countries, we get reports of massive decentralization programs, of flirtations with market mechanisms, or more flexible pricing based on "actual costs of production" or even on "supply and demand." Most startling, we hear that "profits" is no longer a dirty word. The eminent Russian economist Liberman has even argued that profit be made the foremost economic test.

"The higher the profits," he has said, "the greater the incentive" to quality and efficiency. And equally if not more miraculous, the Marxian idea that interest represents mere exploitation is being quietly set aside, and in an effort to produce and consume in accordance with real costs, interest (usually at some conventional rate like 5 percent) is being charged not only on the use of government money by shops and factories, but against the construction costs of plants.

III

On the surface all this looks indeed revolutionary (or "counterrevolutionary"); and naturally I am tempted to hope that the Communist world is on the verge of imitating the optimistic prediction of my novel and rediscovering and adopting a complete capitalism. But several weighty considerations should warn us against setting our hopes too high, at least for the immediate future.

First, there is the historical record. This is not the first time that the Russian Communists have veered toward capitalism. In 1921, when mass starvation threatened Russia and revolt broke out, Lenin was forced to retreat into his "New Economic Policy", or NEP, which allowed the peasants to sell their surplus in the open market, made other concessions to private enterprise, and brought a general reversion to an economy based on money and partly on exchange. The NEP was actually far more "capitalistic," for the most part, than recent reforms. It lasted till 1927. Then a rigidly planned economy was re-imposed for almost forty years. But even within this period, before the recent dramatic change, there were violent zigs and zags of policy.

Khrushchev announced major reorganizations no fewer than six times in ten years, veering from decentralization back to recentralization in the vain hope of finding the magic balance.

He failed, as the present Russian imitation of market mechanisms is likely to fail, because the heart of capitalism is private property, particularly private property in the means of production.

Without private property, "free" markets, "free" wages, "free" prices are meaningless concepts, and "profits" are artificial. If I am a commissar in charge of an automobile factory, and do not own the money I pay out, and you are a commissar in charge of a steel plant, and do not own the steel you sell or get the money you sell it for, then neither of us really cares about the price of steel except as a bookkeeping fiction. As an automobile commissar I will want the price of the cars I sell to be set high and the price of the steel I buy to be set low so that my own "profit" record will look good or my bonus will be fixed high. As a steel commissar you will want the price of your steel to be fixed high and your cost prices to be fixed low, for the same reason. But with all means of production owned by the state, how can there be anything but artificial competition determining these artificial prices in such "markets"?

In fact, the "price" system in the U.S.S.R. has always been chaotic. The bases on which prices are determined by the planners seem to be both arbitrary and haphazard. Some western experts have told us (e.g., in 1962) that there were no fewer than five different price levels or price-fixing systems in the Soviet Union, while others were putting the number at nine. But if the Soviet planners are forced to fix prices on some purely arbitrary basis, they cannot know what the real "profits" or losses are of any individual enterprise. Where there is no private ownership of the means of production there can be no true economic calculation.

It is no solution to say that prices can be "based on actual costs of production." This overlooks that costs of production are themselves prices — the prices of raw materials, the wages of labor, etc. It also overlooks that it is precisely the differences between prices and costs of production that are constantly, in a free market regime, redirecting and changing the balance of production as among thousands of different commodities and services. In industries where prices are well above marginal costs of production, there will be a great incentive to increase output, as well as increased means to do it. In industries where prices fall below marginal costs of production, output must shrink.

Everywhere supply will keep adjusting itself to demand. But in a system only half free — that is, in a system in which every factory was free to decide how much to produce of what, but in which the basic prices, wages, rents, and interest rates were fixed or guessed at by the sole ultimate owner and producer of the means of production, the state — a decentralized system could quickly become even more chaotic than a centralized one. If finished products M, N, O, P, etc. are made from raw materials A, B, C, D, etc. in various combinations and proportions, how can the individual producers of the raw materials know how much of each to produce, and at what rate, unless they know how much the producers of finished products plan to produce of the latter, how much raw materials they are going to need, and just when they are going to need them? And how can the individual producer of raw material A or of finished product M know how much of it to produce unless he knows how much of that raw material or finished product others in his line are planning to produce, as well as relatively how much ultimate consumers are going to want or demand?

In a communistic system, centralized or decentralized, there will always be unbalanced and unmatched production, shortages of this and unusable surpluses of that, duplications, time lags, inefficiency, and appalling waste.

It is only with private property in the means of production that the problem of production becomes solvable. It is only with private property in the means of production that free markets, with consumer freedom of choice and producer freedom of choice, become meaningful and workable. With a private price system and a private profit-seeking system, private actions and decisions determine prices, and prices determine new actions and decisions; and the problem of efficient, balanced, coordinated, and synchronized production of the goods and services that consumers really want is solved.

Yet it is precisely private property in the means of production that Communist governments cannot allow. They are aware of this, and that is why all hopes that the Russian Communists and their satellites are about to revert to capitalism are premature.

Only a few months ago the Soviet leader Kosygin told Lord Thomson, the British newspaper publisher: "We have never rejected the great role of profits as a mechanism in economic life…. [But] our underlying principle is inviolate. There are no means of production in private hands." (New York Herald-Tribune, Sept. 27, 1965.)

The Communist rulers cannot permit private ownership of the means of production not merely because this would mean the surrender of the central principle of their system, but because it would mean the restoration of individual liberty and the end of their despotic power. So I confess that the hope that some day an idealistic Peter Uldanov, miraculously finding himself at the pinnacle of power, will voluntarily restore the right of property, is a dream likely to be fulfilled only in fiction.

But it is certainly not altogether idle to hope that, with a growth of economic understanding among their own people, the hands of the Communist dictators may some day be forced, more violently than Lenin's were when the mutiny at Kronstadt, though suppressed, forced him to adopt the New Economic Policy.

Yet any attempt to decentralize planning while retaining centralized ownership or control is doomed to failure. As a recent writer explains it:

"If the state owns or controls the major resources of the economy, to allow for local autonomy in their utilization invites utter chaos. The Soviet planners, then, are caught on the horns of a serious dilemma. They find that their economy is becoming too complex and diverse to control minutely from above; yet they cannot really achieve the tremendous productiveness of a decentralized economy without relinquishing complete ownership or control of the nation's resources." (G. William Trivoli in National Review, March 22, 1966.)

Henry Hazlitt

March, 1966

                                            


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