On the morning of June 30, 1880, gendarmes arrived at the Jesuit scholasticate of Laval to dissolve the institution and evict its 155 students and teachers. Splintering into small groups, the Jesuits took shelter in the homes of local laypeople for a few months, before making their way to Saint-Malo, where they set sail for the island of Jersey. For the next sixty years, this small dependency of the British Crown—located just fourteen miles off the coast of Normandy—would host Jesuits from across France while they completed part of their formation to become priests. The reason for the abrupt relocation was the proclamation of the Ferry Decrees, which dissolved the Jesuit order in France. This was the opening salvo in a twenty-five-year campaign by the republican government to dismantle the legal privileges of the Catholic Church in France. Most religious orders soon met the same fate as the Jesuits, including the Dominicans, who moved their Parisian house of studies to Kain, just across the Belgian border, in 1904. By the time the French Republic officially proclaimed the separation of Church and state in 1905, roughly 30,000 religious had been driven into exile.
What few at the time could have predicted, however, was that these two exiled seminaries—the Maison Saint-Louis on Jersey and Le Saulchoir in Belgium—would become the cradles of a revolution in Catholic theology. The French Jesuits and Dominicans who studied at these institutions in exile would go on to develop what became known as the nouvelle théologie (“new theology”) in the 1930s and 1940s. Born from the ashes of the anticlerical campaign, this movement would play a key role in modernizing the Church and would eventually inspire many of the changes wrought by the Second Vatican Council in the 1960s. But it also transformed French intellectual life more broadly, bringing theologians into a mutually enriching dialogue with secular philosophers. In this way, the separation of Church and state in France inadvertently created the conditions for the revitalization of modern Catholicism. Soldiers of God in a Secular World tells the story of that renaissance.
The scene at Laval on the morning of June 30 was by no means an isolated event in nineteenth-century Europe. Across the continent, the Church faced a formidable assault on its traditional privileges, as nationalists sought to consolidate their jurisdiction over newly established states while liberals and socialists lambasted Catholicism as an obstacle to economic, political, and intellectual progress. The result of these conflicts was a series of laws that turned areas of public life that had traditionally fallen under the purview of the Church—including marriage, education, health care, Church property, and ecclesiastical appointments—over to the state and either restricted or evicted Catholic religious orders (beginning, usually, with the Jesuits). Meanwhile, the unification of Italy in 1870 left the Holy See without a territorial homeland and the pope a self-proclaimed “prisoner” of the Vatican. The anticlerical campaign in France was only one flashpoint in this broader conflict, albeit one of the bitterest and most polarizing.
And yet, the separation of Church and state did not bring an end to the public role of the Catholic Church in France. Though it marked the end of one kind of Catholic politics, it also marked the beginning of another. One might assume that henceforth it would fall to the laity to spearhead Catholic political engagement and that theology would have little to contribute to this endeavor once Church and state had been separated. But in fact, the events of 1905 forced theologians to reimagine the nature of the Church and its relationship to the political order, as they grappled with the key quandary facing the Catholic Church in the twentieth century: how to maintain a public role for itself once the institutions of public life had been secularized. How could the Church play a robust role in the secular public sphere without compromising its values in the process? By posing this question, I argue, the separation of Church and state had a productive rather than a destructive effect on Catholic theology, inspiring new approaches to the problem of political theology and opening up new avenues for Catholic engagement in public life. The results were transformative not just for the Church, but also for European politics more broadly, as theologians weighed in on debates over fascism and communism, democracy and human rights, colonialism and nuclear war.
In recent years, historians have begun to draw attention to the contributions that Catholics made to the major developments in twentieth-century European politics. They have shown how Catholics contributed to the postwar rebuilding of democratic institutions and the development of an international human rights framework; how they engaged with various parties, trade unions, and philosophies of the left; and the tacit and not-so-tacit support they lent to a slew of right-wing governments from Portugal to Croatia. But what of those Catholics who did not translate their political intervention into the familiar language of party politics or who refused the choice between the dominant political ideologies of their day? Until recently, historians have tended to approach religious actors from the perspective of secular political categories and ideologies, without considering how their subjects might call such categories into question. And yet, what is most striking about Catholic political thought is the extent to which it defied the logic of secular political taxonomies. How does one classify someone like Jacques Maritain, for instance, who made the transition from being a partisan of the far-right Action française (AF) to a leading champion of democracy and human rights? Or Emmanuel Mounier, who graduated from the institutions of the collaborationist Vichy government during the Second World War to become a leading voice of the Catholic left after the war? What makes these figures so difficult to classify is that they often self-consciously conceived their worldview in opposition to the dominant political ideologies of their day. They sought to articulate a religiously grounded alternative to both capitalism and communism, both liberalism and totalitarianism. To understand the protean nature of Catholic politics, it is therefore crucial to grasp the religious commitments that informed it.
In Soldiers of God in a Secular World, I show how Catholic intellectuals and priests turned to the resources of Catholic theology in order to formulate a public role for Catholicism in a secular age. The key question they confronted was not whether to embrace modernity, but which aspects of the modern settlement were compatible with Catholic teaching. To what extent could Catholics work with secular institutions and ideologies to achieve their ends? Conversely, how could they articulate an explicitly Catholic vision of community and human life without excluding non-Catholics? These were the central problems that theologians faced as they sought to chart a path between accommodation and resistance to the modern world. To solve them, they looked not to the tools of secular political theory, but rather to premodern theological debates about the relationship between the natural and supernatural orders, the nature of the Church, the ends of human life, and the structure of time. This does not mean that theology simply determined their political commitments, however. As we shall see, the same theological model could be deployed to serve a range of different political projects. Instead, theology provided a grid through which these Catholics made sense of the dominant political challenges of their day, but one that they constantly reshaped as well, in light of their experiences and changing historical events. In the process, they fashioned a distinctively Catholic response to the political, social, and intellectual challenges of the twentieth century.
Modernity and Tradition
By examining the rise of the nouvelle théologie, we can explore a question that has long fascinated historians: how and when did the Catholic Church make its peace with modernity? At the dawn of the twentieth century, Church leaders were locked in a fierce struggle against “modernism” both within and beyond the Church. This was still the Church of Pius IX, whose famous Syllabus of Errors (1864) denounced everything from rationalism and ecumenism to religious freedom and the principle of Church-state separation. And yet, by the time of the Second Vatican Council one hundred years later, the Church had embraced many of these selfsame principles and recognized the need to update its teachings in order to bring them into line with the demands of the modern world. How did this happen? In the past few years, a new generation of European historians has tackled this question anew, showing how the Church came around to such typically modern ideas as religious freedom, human rights, and the distinction between the private sphere of religion and the public sphere of politics. Others have suggested that the Church made its peace with these ideas relatively late or not at all.
Soldiers of God reframes the story of how the Church became modern by asking, not how Catholics came to “accept” or “embrace” typically modern principles, but how they contested and transformed what it meant to be modern. It shows how the “modernization” of Catholicism was, somewhat counterintuitively, anchored in premodern categories and concepts. To bring Catholicism into the twentieth century, theologians returned to the medieval and ancient sources of the Catholic tradition in order to find the resources for an authentically Catholic modernity. They kept one eye trained on their contemporary moment and the other eye focused on the distant past, and this explains why Catholics often fit awkwardly into conventional definitions of modernity. While the figures at the center of this story embraced some aspects of modern thought and politics—the separation of Church and state, for instance—they resisted others, such as the distinction between the private and public spheres, notions of historical progress, the primacy of the nation-state, and the autonomous individual. To be Catholic and modern, in other words, was not to embrace a secular definition of modernity. This suggests that there was rather more continuity between Catholic “modernism” and the traditional antimodernism of the Church than one might expect. But it also indicates that the story of how Catholics became modern should change not only how we understand twentieth-century Catholicism, but also how we define what it means to be modern. After all, Catholics were not the only ones to look back to premodern traditions—invented or otherwise—to anchor a deeply modern worldview, as historians of nationalism and socialism can attest.
Naturally, Catholic theologians and philosophers disagreed on what the Church’s engagement with the modern world should look like. We can identify two broad Catholic responses to the challenge of modernity. Some argued that Catholics should work within the secular institutions of public life, joining forces with non-Catholics to achieve a shared set of practical goals. This position was rooted in neo-Thomist theology, which had come to dominate Catholic thought since the nineteenth-century revival of the work of Thomas Aquinas and his scholastic commentators. Central to the Thomist system was a distinction between the natural and supernatural ends of human life, which allowed it to grant a certain degree of autonomy to temporal affairs—those activities possessing a natural end, which do not directly affect salvation.
In the aftermath of the separation of Church and state in France, this logic underwrote a range of political projects. For those who had not made their peace with the secular Republic, it served to justify a Catholic alliance with the royalist Action française, in spite of the fact that it was led by a nonbeliever. By the late 1930s, however, Thomism took on an entirely new political resonance in the work of Jacques Maritain, himself a former partisan of the AF. In his book Integral Humanism (1936), Maritain called on Catholics to give up the dream of restoring the confessional state and work to build a new, “profane Christendom” that would be appropriate to the secular, pluralist reality of modern politics. This did not mean that Catholics no longer had a role to play within the temporal order. But rather than entering it as “a Christian as such,” one would now enter it simply “as a Christian, engaging only myself, not the Church.” By the early 1940s, Maritain had developed these principles into a fully fledged Thomist theory of human rights and democracy, one he sought to implement in his contribution to the debates leading up to the drafting of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Meanwhile, others deployed the Thomist distinction between the temporal and spiritual planes to justify an engagement with communism and various forms of working-class activism, as a nascent Catholic left came into its own following the Second World War. Underpinning these very different political commitments was a Thomist framework that allowed for a relatively autonomous realm of human affairs, beyond the direct remit of the Church. It was thus well-suited to a context in which the institutions of public life had been secularized.
Thomism offered one answer to the problem of how to engage with public life in the aftermath of secularization, but it was not the only option. Beginning in the 1920s and 1930s, a group of French Jesuits led by Henri de Lubac began to articulate a powerful critique of the dominant brand of neo-Thomism by turning back to the earliest sources of the Catholic tradition: St. Paul and the Church Fathers. Along with Dominicans such as Marie-Dominique Chenu and Yves Congar, these Jesuits became the architects of a nouvelle théologie that would eventually find expression at the Second Vatican Council. They are the protagonists of Soldiers of God.
This group of French Jesuits came of age in the aftermath of the separation of Church and state, completing part of their religious formation in exile on the island of Jersey. It was here, in the early 1920s, that Henri de Lubac, Gaston Fessard, Robert Hamel, and Yves de Montcheuil developed a close friendship. Formative experiences in the trenches of World War I had convinced these seminarians of the urgent need for new theological tools capable of bridging the gulf between the Church and the modern world. Like Maritain, they recognized that it was no longer possible to revive the medieval alliance of throne and altar, but they were equally suspicious of party politics. Instead, they looked for a way to be in the secular public sphere, but not of it. They wanted to make Catholicism modern without subjecting it to the corrosive effects of secularization.
But here the Jesuits parted company with their Thomist peers. They could not abide the way neo-Thomism separated the natural from the supernatural order and temporal from spiritual affairs. In fact, Henri de Lubac went so far as to suggest that this theology had inadvertently aided and abetted the secularization of European life. “The relative autonomy it accorded to nature” was “a temptation to independence,” he warned, and “the most confirmed secularists found in it, in spite of itself, an ally.” Instead, taking his cue from the Church Fathers, de Lubac insisted that it was not possible to imagine an autonomous order of human affairs that was oriented to a purely natural end. Consequently, there could be no question of “closing the Church off from any terrain of human thought or action.” If “the supernatural is not separate from nature and the spiritual is everywhere mixed in with the temporal,” he concluded, “the Church has . . . authority over everything, without having to step outside of its role.” De Lubac and his fellow Jesuits thus looked to the Church rather than the state as the primary framework for collective life.
This might sound like an effort to subordinate the state to the Church. And indeed, the Augustinian tradition on which these Jesuits drew had been associated historically with the theocratic pretensions of the medieval papacy. But de Lubac’s circle was by no means calling for the resurrection of this model or the revival of the confessional state. Instead, they wished to return to an even earlier moment in the history of the Church, before it became the official religion of the Roman Empire. They believed that the separation of Church and state, and the secularization of European public life more broadly, presented the Church with an opportunity to recover its original role as a critical force vis-à-vis the powers of this world. Moreover, the “Church” that they had in mind was less the visible institution headquartered in Rome than the Church conceived as the “mystical body of Christ,” an entity that would only come into fullness at the end of time. Conceived in this way, they believed, the Church was the only communal body capable of overcoming the limitations of secular ideologies and warring nation-states.
This vision of the Church would inspire all the political activities of these priests, from their critique of the AF in the 1920s to their antitotalitarian activism in the 1930s and 1940s. It found its highest expression during the Second World War, when de Lubac, Chaillet, and Fessard launched the clandestine resistance journal Témoignage chrétien, which became the leading voice of the “spiritual resistance” to Nazism in France. After the war was over, it led them to turn their attention to the threat posed by communism and the Catholic left. But in addition to inspiring their anti-totalitarianism, this theological vision also led them to reject the fundamental premises of liberal politics (as they understood it)—including the primacy of the individual, the sovereignty of the state, and the distinction between the private and public spheres. In other words, they were both anti-totalitarian and antiliberal, which makes it very difficult to classify them according to the categories of the modern political spectrum.
French Catholics thus developed two main theological responses to modernity and the secularization of public life—one Thomist and one broadly patristic. And crucially, both these approaches cut across secular political distinctions between “right” and “left” or “liberal” and “conservative.” As I show, Thomist political theology could be, and was, deployed to serve a range of competing political projects. This was not lost on critics such as de Lubac, who recalled in his memoirs that he had known “a Thomism as patron of the ‘Action française,’ a Thomism as the inspiration of Christian Democracy, a progressive and even a neo-Marxist Thomism.” In fact, Thomism was the red thread that tied the antimodernist Church of the turn of the century to the Church that reinvented itself as the preeminent defender of human rights and democracy in the latter half of the twentieth century. The history of this transformation is in many ways the history of Thomism itself and of the various ways it was reformulated and redeployed in the course of the century, from its neo-scholastic iteration to the very different Thomisms of Maritain and of the Dominican branch of the nouvelle théologie.
If Thomism could be, in a sense, “both right and left,” the patristic vision of de Lubac’s circle was “neither left nor right.” For these priests, the political role of the Church was above all a critical one; they looked to theology to articulate a critique of the dominant political ideologies of their day—or what I call a “counter-politics.” Theology thus gave them a means to access the political obliquely; it gave them language with which to intervene in political questions even as they claimed to remain at arm’s length from politics. This is by no means to suggest that their theology actually was above politics, but rather to indicate how this disavowal was itself crucial to theology’s political power. This became particularly apparent during the Second World War, when de Lubac’s circle was able to circumvent wartime censorship by encoding their resistance message in the language of theology. In this way, they used the resources of ecclesiology, eschatology, and theological anthropology to fashion a response to the dominant political questions that exercised their world.
What the Thomist-patristic typology underscores is the crucial role that theology played in mediating the Catholic response to the modern world. This was not a division between Catholics on the right and those in the center or on the left. Nor was it simply a split between Catholics who embraced modernity and those who refused any such compromise. Instead, we should view these as two different theological modes of engaging with the modern world. Both sought to do so through a return to the premodern sources of the Catholic tradition, and indeed, each accused the other of making too many concessions to modernity. While de Lubac and his friends suggested that Thomist metaphysics had unwittingly reinforced the secular logic of separate spheres, Thomist critics of the nouvelle théologie took issue with the way the Jesuits seemed to naturalize the supernatural—a tendency they attributed to the insidious influence of modern philosophy. And they were not entirely wrong. Jesuits such as Gaston Fessard and Jean Daniélou did in fact play a leading role in the Catholic engagement with the Hegelian and existentialist philosophies that dominated France in the 1930s and 1940s, while their brother Pierre Teilhard de Chardin developed a distinctive theory of evolution that wove together the insights of theology and paleontology. It was this effort to engage with modern thought that would eventually, if temporarily, cause this group to be condemned in 1950, when Pius XII issued the encyclical Humani Generis.
And yet, it is crucial not to overstate the differences between the Thomist and the patristic models. In the first place, there was considerable diversity within each—especially within what Étienne Gilson called the “great family” of Thomism—and some, especially the Dominicans associated with the nouvelle théologie, had affinities with both models. The Jesuits, for their part, were not so much opposed to the work of Thomas Aquinas himself as to the neo-Thomist interpretation of his work. Ultimately, both approaches would place their mark on the Second Vatican Council and go on to set the terms for subsequent debates, influencing everything from liberation theology in Latin America to the worldviews of Pope Benedict XVI and Pope Francis. At base, both of these theological approaches shared the same goal: to carve out a public role for Catholicism after the separation of Church and state. Emerging from the crucible of the anticlerical campaign in France, both sought to chart a middle path between the old alliance of throne and altar and the privatization of religion demanded by secular politics. In the process, they articulated a way of being and belonging that was modern but far from secular.
Theology and Intellectual History
To be sure, the political positions taken by these theologians and philosophers were not always representative of lay politics, and formed only one component of their much larger contribution to Catholic thought. Soldiers of God therefore does not aim to provide an exhaustive account of the theological prehistory to Vatican II or of Catholic politics in twentieth-century Europe. Instead, by focusing on how theologians engaged with broader developments in European thought and politics, it seeks to integrate theology into the intellectual history of modern Europe.
The history of theology and modern European intellectual history have traditionally been told as separate stories. While theologians tend to approach theology through the lens of internal debates within the Catholic tradition, historians of modern European thought have, until very recently, devoted little attention to Catholic theology. And yet, theologians made crucial contributions to modern philosophical developments from phenomenology and the philosophy of history to human rights and totalitarianism theory. Doing so brought them into dialogue with a range of interlocutors, from Jean-Paul Sartre and Maurice Merleau-Ponty to Martin Heidegger and Alexandre Kojève as well as Georges Bataille and Raymond Aron, and both theology and secular philosophy were reshaped in the process. Specifically, Catholic theologians played a pivotal role in the French reception of Hegel, Heidegger, and the early writings of Marx, as well as the development of Christian existentialism. They also made important contributions to historical scholarship in dialogue with secular historians such as Ernst Kantorowicz and the architects of the Annales School. A major goal of Soldiers of God, then, is to show that the histories of modern theology and modern European thought are far more intertwined than previously imagined, and in doing so, to begin to integrate theology into the canon of modern European intellectual history.
Working with theology requires a different set of methodological tools of the intellectual historian, and in particular, a new approach to contextualization. Because Catholic philosophers and theologians approached their contemporary moment through the categories of premodern thought, historians must balance two different contexts when making sense of their work. To understand religious ideas, we must attend not only to the particular place and time in which they are articulated, but also to the much longer textual traditions in which they are embedded. In the case of de Lubac, for instance, this means reading his work in the context of both the Church Fathers and the rise of Nazism. The history of theology and religious thought, in other words, requires an approach to contextualization that is both temporally intensive and temporally extensive. Keeping both these contexts in view allows us to see how Catholic intellectuals used premodern theologies to make sense of the dramatic events of the twentieth century, but also how their experiences led them to retool and transform these theologies.
Equally important is the need to attend to the communities and institutions in which religious thought takes shape. This is particularly the case with members of a religious order. In these communities, the distinctive spirituality of the order and the affective bonds forged in the course of religious life are inseparable from intellectual production. The story of the Jesuits demonstrates the crucial role that friendship in particular can play in the development of ideas. Focusing on these institutional and friendship networks also provides a different perspective on the nouvelle théologie than one finds in the existing literature, which tends to group Jesuits such as de Lubac and Daniélou together with Dominicans such as Chenu and Congar. Examining the archives left by these actors and situating them in their institutional and interpersonal context yields a quite different picture, revealing significant fault lines between the Dominican and Jesuit branches of the nouvelle théologie.
Religion and Politics in a Secular Age
The story of these priests also has much to tell us about the continuing political power of religion in a secular world. Thirty years ago, many social scientists were convinced that religion was destined to disappear from public life, but in the wake of the rise of the American religious right, anxieties about “political Islam,” and most recently, the revival of Christian nationalism in Eastern Europe, it seems clear that religion is destined to remain a powerful political force.
The perceived resurgence of religion in public life has yielded a growing body of scholarship on secularization and political theology that draws from anthropologists, political theorists, philosophers, sociologists, historians, and scholars of religion. What is most striking about this rapidly expanding field, however, is how rarely the discipline of theology and the work of professional theologians enter into the discussion of political theology. Taking its cue from Carl Schmitt, this literature has tended to focus on the medieval or early modern theological origins of modern political concepts, treating theology as something that existed in the past but whose formal features have now been taken over by the political. The effect is to confine theology’s moment of efficacy to a premodern past, foreclosing the possibility that it might continue to play a robust political role in the modern world. Soldiers of God offers a corrective to such one-directional accounts. It attends instead to the productive relationship between theology and secularization—the way the secularization of European public life has spurred theological reflection and opened the way for new politico-theological configurations. By demonstrating the ongoing role of theology in a secular political context, it aims to bring the “theology” back into the literature on political theology.
Doing so is complicated by the fact that many of the priests at the heart of this study did not conceive of themselves as “doing politics,” which can make it difficult to grasp the political stakes of their work. In her 2005 study of the women’s mosque movement in Egypt, the anthropologist Saba Mahmood lamented the fact that “we have few conceptual resources available for analyzing sociopolitical formations that do not take the nation-state and its juridical apparatuses as their main points of reference.” When religious actors, such as the women in Mahmood’s study or the theologians in mine, do not frame their goals in the language of party politics, legal rights, or policy-making, they are liable to “fall off the ‘political radar’” of most scholars. This is a testament to the continuing power of the secular liberal distinction between the private sphere of religious belief and the public sphere in which political discourse takes place. Liberal political theorists such as John Rawls and Jürgen Habermas insist that religious actors must translate their faith commitments into the universal, neutral, and secular language of public reason in order for their claims to have political purchase. When religious actors do not translate their goals into secular political terms—for instance, by making claims on the state or demanding legal recognition—they tend to become politically illegible.
I argue that we ought to take seriously the political power of religious ideas that refuse this sort of translation, not least because their power often derives from this very refusal. The priests in this story did not take the state as their primary point of reference. Eschewing party politics, they worked through a range of nonstate bodies such as Catholic Action associations, journals, trade unions, pastoral initiatives, and international organizations. But this does not mean that their work did not have political effects or that they simply accepted the modern distinction between the private realm of faith and the public realm of politics. Instead, the very claim to remain above politics itself performed political work for these priests, whether by allowing them to circumvent state censorship, authorizing them to pronounce on questions that might otherwise seem beyond their purview as priests, or clothing their political interventions in the transcendent authority of religious faith. As Gaston Fessard put it during a discussion with several other leading Catholic intellectuals about the Spanish Civil War, “I think it is precisely because I strive to be apolitical that I become supremely political.” The difficulty with the logic of separate spheres so central to liberal politics is that it tends to naturalize the distinction between religion and politics. It thus obscures the way in which this distinction is constantly drawn and redrawn, and the ideological work performed in the act of doing so. Just as political authorities can deploy the distinction between religion and politics strategically—as in the recent efforts by the French state to police the public expression of Islam—so, too, can religious actors use this distinction to advance their own ends. Indeed, this is precisely how Catholic priests and theologians were able to carve out a role for themselves in public life after the institutions of Church and state were separated in France.
There is yet another reason why theology can be politically powerful even when it does not purport to engage in politics. While the priests at the heart of this study were deeply suspicious of political parties, ideologies, and state power, their work was nevertheless political in a much wider sense. This was because they firmly believed that Catholicism was an indispensably social faith and that its teachings therefore could not leave the structures of temporal life untouched. The central questions that animated Catholic theology in the twentieth century—questions about the relationship between the individual and the community, the nature and ends of the human person, the direction of history, the dignity of labor, the relationship between Judaism and Christianity—had clear political import, especially in the context of twentieth-century European political developments such as the rise of fascism and communism. The theologians whom I follow were keenly aware of this significance and of the religious and metaphysical assumptions built into even the most secular of political projects. What they recognized, and what gave their thought political purchase, was that all politics presupposes a much wider set of ideas about the relationship between the individual and the community, the source of authority, human nature, and the structure of time. Of course, these are precisely the sorts of questions that theology seeks to answer, which is why it continues to impinge on political life in even the most robustly secular of modern states. But to recognize this, it is necessary to embrace a more expansive view of the political—one that focuses not just on the conventional sites of political action such as the state, the law, and the economy, but also integrates the sorts of anthropological, temporal, and metaphysical questions that are central to theology as well. In this way, the history of the nouvelle théologie invites us to rethink what constitutes a political act and where the boundaries of the political lie.
EDITORIAL NOTE: Excerpted from SOLDIERS OF GOD IN A SECULAR WORLD: CATHOLIC THEOLOGY AND TWENTIETH-CENTURY FRENCH POLITICS by Sarah Shortall, published by Harvard University Press. Copyright © 2021 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
