CULTURAL REVOLUTIONSrnEASTERN EUROPE’S recent “experiment”rnwith socialism illustratesrnsome useful principles about slavery.rnSlave labor is generally recognized as lessrnproductive than free labor, and with therncollapse of the Soviet Empire it has becomernobvious that collective propertyrn(socialism) is less productive than privaternproperty (capitalism). From thesernpremises several conclusions follow: notrnonly that free labor and private propertyrnrepresent the best of all possible wodds,rnbut that a system combining slavery andrnsocialism must be the worst—that if onernhad no choice but to be a slave, privaternslavery as in antebellum America wouldrnbe preferable to the kind of collectivernslave ownership that Eastern Europe recentlyrnexperienced.rnThe failure of this socialist “experiment”rnin Eastern Europe gives credencernto this conclusion. Just as privatelyrnowned slaves were threatened with punishmentrnif they tried to escape, in all ofrnsocialist Eastern Europe emigration wasrnoutlawed and punished as a criminal offense,rnif necessary by shooting those whorntried to run away. Moreover, all overrnEastern Europe anti-loafing laws existed,rnand governments could assign to any citizenrnany task and all rewards and punishments.rnThus the classification of thernSoviet system as slavery. Unlike a privaternslave owner, however. Eastern Europeanrnslaveholders—from Lenin to Gorbachevrn—could not sell or rent their subjectsrnin a labor market and privately appropriaternthe receipts from the sale orrnrental of their “human capital.” Hencernthe system’s classification as socialistrnslavery.rnYet without markets for slaves andrnslave labor, matters must become worse,rnnot better, for the slave. For withoutrnprices for slaves and their labor a slaveownerrncan no longer rationally allocaternhis “human capital.” He cannot determinernthe scarcity-value of his various,rnheterogeneous pieces of human capital,rnand he cannot determine the opportunity-rncost of using this capital in any givenrnemployment nor compare it to therncorresponding revenue. Accordingly,rnpermanent misallocations, waste, andrn”consumption” of human capital mustrnresult.rnThe empirical evidence indicates asrnmuch. While it rarely happened that arnprivate slaveowner killed his slave—thernultimate “consumption” of human capitalrn—the socialist slavery of Eastern Europernresulted in millions of murderedrncivilians. Under private slave ownershiprnthe health and life expectancy of slavesrngenerally increased. In the Soviet Empirernhealth-care standards steadily deterioratedrnand life expectancies actuallyrndeclined in recent decades. The level ofrnpractical training and education of privaternslaves generally rose. That of socialistrnslaves fell. The rate of reproductionrnamong privately owned slaves wasrnpositive. Among the slave populations ofrnEastern Europe it was generally negative.rnThe rates of suicide, self-incapacitation,rnfamily breakups, promiscuity, “illegitimate”rnbirths, birth defects, venerealrndiseases, abortions, alcoholism, and dullrnor brutish behavior among private slavesrnwere high. But all such rates of “humanrncapital consumption” were higher stillrnfor the socialist slaves of the former SovietrnEmpire. And similariy: while morallyrnsenseless and violent behavior amongrnprivately owned slaves occurred afterrntheir emancipation, brutalization of socialrnlife in the aftermath of the abolitionrnof socialist slavery has been far worse,rnrevealing an even greater degree of moralrndegeneration. Clearly, far more thanrnany material destruction, this humanrnwreckage—both physical and moral—isrnsocialism’s saddest legacy.rn—Hans-Hermann HoppernREGARDING THE INAUGURALrn”poem” . . . Joan Rivers. Atrium. A poetrnmanque without a poem. Or even arncoherent thought. But sexually, racially,rnpolitically correct. Living proof Darwinrnis wrong. The fittest have not survived.rnOnce mute. Now, unfortunately, speaking.rnMind-numbing gibberish thatrnwould make Ferlinghetti puke. She arnspecies that has not, alas, departed. Arnliberal dinosaur, a dry token.rnThis day crying out. But about what?rnTo whom? And nothing rhymes. Privilegedrnbeyond her wildest imaginings.rnWidely hailed by other frauds. Otherrnshadows with no place to hide. HumanrnOaklands with no there there. Black. Arnbrooding darkness. Created a little lowerrnthan your average men’s room graffiti.rnNo destiny other than to bore torntears. Angels shrieking and running forrncover. She rushing in where they fear torntread. Her mouth spilling words in nornparticular order. Bald-faced ignorance.rnCant cubed.rnThe Rocks, too, cry out—in pain. Irnknow how they feel. Mindless meanderings.rnBeamed around the worid. OnlyrnGod knows what those in Papua NewrnGuinea think. Somewhere, Robert Frostrnweeps. Each of us wondering: Huh?rnAfraid to say this. Mayans everywherernconsidering a class-action suit; Angelousrncontemplating a name change. Each ofrnus a bordered country, an island. All ofrnus inhibited by our intelligence. Unablernto dig it. Grieved because we have a willrnto meaning. Pondering puzzling phrases.rnHeads shaking. Debris on our breast.rnMere words. Stupid. Dumb. Prose pollution.rnA verbal oil spill.rnRocks? Rivers? Trees? Speakingrntrees?! The Tree and the Rock are one?rnOne what? The Kru? What the hell isrn(are?) the Kru? A black thing? I don’trnget it. But, yes, I’m praying for a dream.rnYou bet. The dream being that this,rnthis—this utterance will, at some point,rnmake sense. No way. Hopes repeatedlyrndashed.rnPlanted by the TV river, falling into it.rnGoing under for the third time. Forcedrnto watch a seeker, desperate for gain. I,rnthe victimized Inaugural-watcher. Thisrnbright morning becoming history that,rnindeed, cannot be unlived. Too bad. Arntale told by an idiot, full of sound andrnfury, signifying less than nothing.rnHearts cast down. Hopes stillborn.rnEyes crossing. Brows furrowing. Remoterncontrol buttons being punched. Otherrnchannels being sought. A dream deferred,rnbecoming a nightmare. The Englishrnlanguage being assassinated.rnWhere’s the Secret Service when wernreally need them?rnThe horizon, too, leaning forward—rnhaving fallen asleep. The pulse of thisrnfine day has ceased. A Code Blue. Dialrn911. No life signs. Death without dignity.rnOur palms sweat. A fear of beingrnyoked with this “poet” eternally. Cruelrnand unusual punishment if ever therernwas one. Horror in every classroom inrnAmerica that there will be a pop quiz onrn6/CHRONICLESrnrnrn