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Lines of communication : American psychological warfare in the twentieth century Whyte, Jeffrey O'Connor 2019

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LINES OF COMMUNICATION: AMERICAN PSYCHOLOGICAL WARFARE IN THE TWENTIETH CENTURY   by  Jeffrey O’Connor Whyte  B.A., The University of King’s College, Halifax, 2007 M.A., Simon Fraser University, 2010  A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF  DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY in THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE AND POSTDOCTORAL STUDIES (GEOGRAPHY)  THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA (Vancouver)  May 2019 © Jeffrey O’Connor Whyte, 2019 ii   The following individuals certify that they have read, and recommend to the Faculty of Graduate and Postdoctoral Studies for acceptance, the dissertation entitled: Lines of Communication: American Psychological Warfare in the Twentieth Century   submitted by Jeffrey Whyte  in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in Geography   Examining Committee: Derek Gregory  Supervisor  Geraldine Pratt Supervisory Committee Member  Trevor Barnes  Supervisory Committee Member Jim Glassman University Examiner Heidi Tworek  University Examiner  Additional Supervisory Committee Members:  Supervisory Committee Member  Supervisory Committee Member  iii  Abstract  This dissertation traces the construction and evolution of the concept of “psychological warfare” in the United States, from its beginnings in the early 1940s. It is argued that psychological warfare is an “ouroboric” concept: produced by propaganda campaigns about the power of propaganda campaigns, psychological warfare produced and continues to produce geographical imaginations of warfare in which individuals and populations are enlisted through their thoughts, feelings, and beliefs. Chapters 1 and 2 provide introductory and historical context for the emergence of psychological warfare, while chapters 3 and 5 trace the rhetorical evolution of this geographical imaginary from the Second World War to the Cold War period. Chapters 4 and 6 show how, conversely, psychological warfare existed and evolved in American theatres of war. It is argued throughout that meanings of psychological warfare are largely determined by their two geographical contexts, split between domestic rhetorical strategy, and strategies for occupying and pacifying civilian populations abroad. Furthermore, it is shown that these contexts are often incommensurable, with domestic constructions leveraged to support narratives of ‘non-kinetic’ and humanitarian warfare, while actually existing American psychological warfare provides both rationale and justification for violence against foreign civilian populations. This dissertation concludes by considering the contemporary revival of domestic psychological war rhetoric in the United States. iv  Lay Summary  This dissertation seeks to challenge popular conceptions of psychological warfare as an effective strategy for waging war. By showing the rhetorical construction and evolution of the concept, this dissertation argues that psychological warfare rarely wins the “hearts and minds” of enemy populations at war. Instead, psychological warfare offers rationales and justifications for the intensification of military violence, at the same time that it claims to make warfare more humane and “less kinetic”.  v  Preface  This dissertation is original, independent work by the author, J. Whyte   Research for chapters 3, 5, and 6 was conducted in Washington, D.C. at the United States National Archives and the United States Library of Congress.   A version of chapter 3 has been published as Whyte, J. (2018). “A new geography of defense”: the birth of psychological warfare. Political Geography, 67, 32-45.     A version of chapter 6 has been published as Whyte, J. (2018). Psychological war in Vietnam: governmentality at the United States Information Agency. Geopolitics, 23(3), 661-689.  vi  Table of Contents  Abstract ......................................................................................................................................... iii	Lay Summary ............................................................................................................................... iv	Preface .............................................................................................................................................v	Table of Contents ......................................................................................................................... vi	List of Figures ............................................................................................................................... ix	List of Abbreviations .................................................................................................................. xii	Acknowledgements .................................................................................................................... xiii	Dedication ................................................................................................................................... xiv	Chapter 1: Introduction ................................................................................................................1	Chapter 2: “The Ultimate Domain of Police” ...........................................................................13	2.1	 Omnes et Singulatim ..................................................................................................... 15	2.1.1	 E Unibus Pluram ................................................................................................... 23	2.1.2	 In Search of Lost Time ......................................................................................... 39	2.2	 Lines of Communication ............................................................................................... 57	2.2.1	 Correspondence in Crimea .................................................................................... 61	2.2.2	 The Interwar Origins of Psychological War ......................................................... 69	2.3	 Conclusion .................................................................................................................... 80	Chapter 3: A New Geography of Defense? The Birth of Psychological Warfare ..................84	3.1	 Fifth Column Lessons ................................................................................................... 88	3.2	 Into the Front: Annihilating the Spaces of American Isolationism ............................ 100	3.3	 Morale Panic: Securing Populations Through Psychological War ............................. 119	vii  3.4	 Ewald Banse and The Psychological Geography of War ........................................... 133	3.5	 American Geographers and the Psychological War ................................................... 143	3.6	 Against Geopolitics: The Strategy of Truth ................................................................ 155	3.7	 Conclusion .................................................................................................................. 167	Chapter 4: Truth, Territory, Terror ........................................................................................170	4.1	 Truth ............................................................................................................................ 171	4.1.1	 The Cynicism of the Deadly Parallel .................................................................. 171	4.1.2	 When Did Critique Run Out of Steam? .............................................................. 175	4.1.3	 The Strategy of Candor ....................................................................................... 183	4.2	 Territory ...................................................................................................................... 188	4.2.1	 North Africa’s Other Eisenhower ....................................................................... 202	4.2.2	 The Mechanical Heart ......................................................................................... 209	4.2.3	 “With a rifle, not a shotgun” ............................................................................... 218	4.3	 Terror .......................................................................................................................... 226	4.3.1	 Wo ist der Luftwaffe?: Operation Pointblank ..................................................... 236	4.3.2	 For Support not Illumination .............................................................................. 239	Chapter 5: Covert Crusade: Psychological Warfare at the CIA ...........................................256	5.1	 Getting the Sheep to Speak ......................................................................................... 256	5.2	 Uncertainty and Caution ............................................................................................. 257	5.3	 CIA at the Reins .......................................................................................................... 267	5.3.1	 The March of the Truth Dollars .......................................................................... 281	5.3.2	 Tell me who you are ........................................................................................... 288	5.3.3	 Parting the Iron Curtain ...................................................................................... 299	viii  5.4	 The Mighty Wurlitzer ................................................................................................. 310	5.5	 Conclusion: Psywar is Dead, Long Live Psywar! ...................................................... 318	Chapter 6: Psychological Warfare in Vietnam: Governmentality at the USIA ...................324	6.1	 USIA and the Counterinsurgency Turn ...................................................................... 328	6.2	 Establishing Government ............................................................................................ 334	6.2.1	 The American War Pastoral ................................................................................ 338	6.2.2	 Psywar on the Ground ......................................................................................... 345	6.3	 The JUSPAO Revolution ............................................................................................ 352	6.3.1	 Mediating Violence ............................................................................................. 361	6.3.2	 The Television War ............................................................................................. 370	6.4	 Evaluating Psychological War .................................................................................... 378	6.5	 Conclusion .................................................................................................................. 387	Chapter 7: Conclusion ...............................................................................................................392	7.1	 “Switching Back to Good Old PSYOPs”.................................................................... 392	7.2	 Lines of Communication ............................................................................................. 401	Bibliography ...............................................................................................................................423	 ix  List of Figures  Figure 1: Population accessibility c1790. ..................................................................................... 29	Figure 2: Population accessibility c1820. ..................................................................................... 30	Figure 3: "Free time" .................................................................................................................... 52	Figure 4: Crimean telegraph ......................................................................................................... 64	Figure 5: Crimean panorama ........................................................................................................ 65	Figure 6: Enthusiasm of Paterfamilias .......................................................................................... 68	Figure 7: Publication of a Crimean war gazette ............................................................................ 70	Figure 8: The fifth column menaces America .............................................................................. 93	Figure 9: The fifth column menaces South America .................................................................... 94	Figure 10: Advertisement for The Strategy of Terror ................................................................. 112	Figure 11: Exceprt (a) from German Psychological Warfare ..................................................... 130	Figure 12: Excerpt (b) from German Psychological Warfare ..................................................... 131	Figure 13: Plan for a national morale service ............................................................................. 132	Figure 14: Banse's invasion map ................................................................................................ 137	Figure 15: Ewald Banse .............................................................................................................. 142	Figure 16: Radio Propaganda in South America ........................................................................ 148	Figure 17: Geopolitical map of Venezuela ................................................................................. 151	Figure 18: Roosevelt's secret map .............................................................................................. 153	Figure 19: Divide & Conquer ..................................................................................................... 159	Figure 20: The Axis Grand Strategy ........................................................................................... 162	Figure 21: On Assignment .......................................................................................................... 166	x  Figure 22: Fallen soldiers ............................................................................................................ 185	Figure 23: The Eisenhower declaration ...................................................................................... 192	Figure 24: Leaflet drift ................................................................................................................ 194	Figure 25: Artillery leaflet shell .................................................................................................. 195	Figure 26: Safe conduct pass ...................................................................................................... 196	Figure 27: Afrika Post ................................................................................................................. 198	Figure 28: Feldpost ..................................................................................................................... 199	Figure 29: Map of OWI outposts ................................................................................................ 211	Figure 30: U.S. Army newsmap ................................................................................................. 212	Figure 31: "The News Fights for Us" ......................................................................................... 214	Figure 32: Victory magazine ...................................................................................................... 220	Figure 33: Voir magazine ........................................................................................................... 221	Figure 34: Fotorevy magazine .................................................................................................... 222	Figure 35: L’Amerique en Guerre .............................................................................................. 233	Figure 36: Fortress Europe has no roof ....................................................................................... 234	Figure 37: The heaviest bombing to date .................................................................................... 235	Figure 38: End of a Myth ............................................................................................................ 244	Figure 39: Hiroshima leaflet ....................................................................................................... 250	Figure 40: Advertisement for the "Crusade for Freedom" .......................................................... 279	Figure 41: "You Mean I can Fight Communism?" ..................................................................... 285	Figure 42: General Clay signs a freedom scroll .......................................................................... 290	Figure 43: Crusade Catechism .................................................................................................... 295	Figure 44: Crusade statement contest ......................................................................................... 296	xi  Figure 45: If you Disagree with Mr. Khrushchev… ................................................................... 297	Figure 46: Crusade for Freedom parade ..................................................................................... 300	Figure 47: Freedom Bell tour of America ................................................................................... 301	Figure 48: Crusade for Freedom motorcade ............................................................................... 303	Figure 49: Winds of freedom ...................................................................................................... 306	Figure 50: Project Revere postcard ............................................................................................. 308	Figure 51: General Mills survey leaflet ...................................................................................... 309	Figure 52: C.D. Jackson .............................................................................................................. 313	Figure 53: USIA country plan: Guatemala ................................................................................. 332	Figure 54: Kluckhohn's "value profiles" ..................................................................................... 343	Figure 55: JUSPAO field map .................................................................................................... 347	Figure 56: Rural Spirit magazine ................................................................................................ 349	Figure 57: USIA country plan: Vietnam ..................................................................................... 355	Figure 58: Tet cliches .................................................................................................................. 358	Figure 59: Tet leaflet ................................................................................................................... 360	Figure 60: Television in Vietnam ............................................................................................... 373	Figure 61: JUSPAO television schedule ..................................................................................... 375	Figure 62: "Russian interference" ............................................................................................... 395	Figure 63: Russia is winning ...................................................................................................... 397	Figure 64: “election hacking” ..................................................................................................... 400	 xii  List of Abbreviations  Central Intelligence Agency     CIA Committee for National Morale    CNM  Coordinator of Information    CoI Foreign Morale Analysis Division    FMAD Joint United States Public Affairs Office  JUSPAO National Committee for a Free Europe  NCFE Office of Facts and Figures    OFF Office of Strategic Services    OSS Office of War Information     OWI United States Information Agency   USIA xiii  Acknowledgements  I would like to thank Derek Gregory and my supervisory committee for their guidance and encouragement, the UBC Geography staff for their patience and kindness, and my fellow graduate students for good cheer and support. Special thanks to comrades Matt Greaves, Graeme Webb, Scott Timcke, Cat Gold, Emily Rosenman, Breton Peterson, Craig Jones, Wes Attewell, Paige Patchin, Sage Ponder, Adam Mahoney, Sarah Przedpelska, Max Ritts, and Bob Neubauer. This dissertation was made possible through a Social Sciences & Humanities Research Council (SSHRC) Canada Graduate Scholarship.   xiv  Dedication  For my mom who got me here.  1  Chapter 1: Introduction  Accompanying the American-led invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq in 2001 and 2003, narratives concerning the “psychological” dimension of warfare surfaced in ideas of “winning the hearts and minds” of both enemy fighters and occupied populations more broadly. An early TIME magazine article titled “Using Psywar Against the Taliban” (Waller 2001) reported that “while B-52s rain terror from the skies, an elaborate psychological operation is fighting for the hearts and minds of Afghans.” Reporting on “The US War of Minds,” the BBC (2001) similarly explained that “Taleban fighters are defecting as US-led air strikes continue” and that while “the scale of [defection] is unclear,” coalition psychological warfare was “doing its best to ensure that more desertions follow.” The BBC’s coverage concluded that “if an adversary's will to fight can be removed, it follows that lives will be saved.”  If the claim that lives could be saved through a program of aerial bombing appears incongruous, it nonetheless reflects a longer history of what Gregory (2017) has called “the moral economy of bombing” in which the practice of bombing civilian populations has been made both legally and socially permissible through its claim to hastening victory, shortening war, and ultimately preventing further casualties. The above emphasis on the relationship between bombing and psychological warfare, and their mutual collaboration to “save lives” by encouraging defections, similarly reflects a longer historical relationship that can be traced back to the Second World War. Furthermore, it suggests the humanitarian appeal as a hinge between Gregory’s moral economy of bombing and psychological warfare’s own moral economy. As one Chicago Tribune reporter wrote in the early days the 2003 Iraq war, “the goal [of psychological war] is to avoid 2  bloodshed by prompting the surrender of enemy troops” (Kilian 2003). According to retired rear Admiral Stephen Baker,  It might save hundreds of thousands of lives on the Iraqi side and might save lives on the coalition side, and possibly not require us to hit a thousand targets on day four, five and six, just the first three days (in Kilian 2003).  This moral economy of psychological warfare is deeply connected to the claim that it offers “non-kinetic” (i.e. non-violent) strategies of communication as alternatives to violence in war. As I argue in this dissertation, however, psychological warfare has in practice facilitated rather than replaced military force. That is, the rhetorical force behind psychological warfare has been to make war more permissible by claiming to make it less violent and more humane. In this way, I suggest that psychological warfare has been central to the construction of what critical military scholars have called “liberal warfare” (Dillon & Reid 2009; Evans 2011; Reid 2010, 2011; Duffield 2011) and its attendant humanitarian logic (Fassin 2007, 2011; Reid-Henry, 2014, 2015; Weizman 2011).  In addition to the claim that psychological warfare is a humane alternative to military force, it is routinely depicted as an objective process, driven by technical and scientific expertise. As the above TIME article claimed, it was “an elaborate psychological operation” that accompanied the B-52’s “rain of terror from the skies.” Describing the psychological warriors who “dumped” more than 18 million leaflets onto Afghanistan in the invasion’s first two months, TIME suggested that the 4th Psychological Operation Group at Ft. Bragg was “an eclectic organization like no other in the U.S. Army, made up of 1,200 special ops soldiers, academics, linguists and 3  marketing experts, whose weapons are words and images” (Waller 2001). If counterinsurgency was increasingly understood as the “graduate level of war,” psychological warfare claimed for itself the expert credentials of the social sciences.  Finally, early depictions of the psychological wars in Iraq and Afghanistan stressed its “law-fulness,” not only in the strict sense of its legality, but its ability to impose order on lawless populations. This is another point of accord with the moral economy of bombing. In an article aptly titled “All’s Fair in Psychological War,” (Kilian 2003) the special relationship between bombing and psychological warfare was again made in the form of a recent leaflet dropped over Baghdad: "Do not fire at coalition aircraft,” the leaflet read. “If you choose to fire, you will be destroyed. Coalition forces will attack with overwhelming force. The choice is yours.” As I will argue, the curious emphasis on the “choice” of the leaflet’s reader, as well as the second-person address suggests a governmental attempt at what Foucault (2007) calls “the conduct of conduct”; an attempt to impose order on the Iraq population through psychological war. As Baker put it in March of 2003, “we are in a critical period in the campaign to prepare the hearts and minds of 25 million people in Iraq” (Killian 2003). Like its claim to humanitarianism, I argue that psychological warfare has been central to political imaginaries of “liberal war” in which the imposition of order accompanies attempts to construct its targets as individual and governable subjects.  Apart from their articulation of these tenets of psychological warfare’s broader moral economy, these early accounts of American psychological war in the greater Middle East made curious claims concerning the historicity of psychological war. TIME claimed that “American armies 4  have used psyops since the Revolutionary War,” referencing the distribution of handbills to British soldiers at the battle of Bunker Hill (Waller 2001). The Chicago Tribune went further, stating that “psyops is one of the oldest forms of warfare” and that “Alexander the Great used it when he left huge pieces of body armor behind his advancing army to convince would-be pursuers that his force was made up of giants” (Killian 2003). While deception, coercion, and persuasion may be as old as “war itself,” these accounts of the history of psychological warfare elide the fact that, far from having ancient origins, the term did not emerge until the early years of the Second World War.   Taken together, these accounts of psychological warfare served to illustrate its moral economy — its humanitarianism, its objectivity, and its lawfulness — while also suggesting its historical inextricability from “war itself.” This dissertation attempts to challenge the claims of this moral economy by showing that psychological warfare has, on the contrary, exacerbated and prolonged armed conflict; has dismissed social scientific evidence when convenient; and has largely failed to produce social order or win “hearts and minds.” Furthermore, I argue that the origins of psychological warfare in the early years of the Second World War were exceptionally duplicitous. In fact, prior to its adoption by the American military, it existed primarily as a popular political fiction designed to foment moral panic over Hitler’s supposed “frightful new weapon” (Taylor 1941).   In addition to this historiography, this dissertation outlines a political geography of psychological warfare. After an introductory Chapter 2 on the theory and history of communication as a liberal power, this dissertation proceeds in two symmetrical halves, dealing respectively with the 5  construction and prosecution of psychological warfare in the United States and abroad. Chapter 3 details the political construction of psychological warfare in the United States between 1940-41, while chapter 4 traces its prosecution by the United States in the theatres of the war. Correspondingly, chapter 5 analyses the significance of the psychological warfare to domestic constructions of the Cold War in the United States, while chapter 6 considers the formalization and expansion of psychological war as strategy of counterinsurgency in Vietnam.   I argue throughout that domestic constructions of psychological warfare within the United States are intimately linked to the prosecution of war abroad. Framings of psychological warfare to the America public have invariably accompanied the practice of American psychological warfare in the theatre. I illustrate the ways in which domestic framings of psychological warfare, like those above concerning Iraq and Afghanistan, have had the purpose of constructing and advancing the moral economy of psychological warfare in an effort to make war both necessary and permissible. Furthermore, I argue that domestic narrations of psychological warfare have the secondary effect of prefiguring psychological war not just as something that occurs in the various locales of American military intervention, but as a kind of collective political-military struggle occurring within the United States to which ordinary Americans can contribute as assets or liabilities.   In Chapter 3, I show that the emergence of psychological warfare as a concept was tied to the contingent circumstances surrounding the question of American intervention in World War II. Simultaneously, I demonstrate how psychological warfare’s history must also be understood within the broader historical context of propaganda and communication as systems of political 6  power. In Chapter 2, therefore, I offer historical and theoretical considerations on communication as a system of liberal power in the West. I attempt to account for Foucault’s (2007) insistence that “communication is the ultimate domain of police” by considering the management of communication and public opinion as a kind of governmentality; as a strategy for governing populations. I argue that the Foucauldian sense of “communication as police” can furthermore be understood as form of proto-liberal “pastoral power,” in which power is administered at the simultaneous scales of the individual and the population.   I proceed to apply this analytic frame to a study of the rise of the liberal press in the nineteenth century United States. Drawing on the work of Allan Pred and Harold Innis, I outline the pastoral geographies of “communication as police” — both for the political economic administration of space at the scale of population, and the everyday administration of readers at the scale of the individual. As will be seen, this pastoral structure — attempts to tie the government of populations to the government of individuals — becomes a lasting and salient feature of psychological warfare in the twentieth century. I conclude the chapter with an examination of the way in which the press, as a system of “communication as police,” combines with the depiction of the first “telegraphic war” in the late nineteenth century Crimea. Finally, I suggest the ways in which the aftermath of the First World War set the stage for the emergence of “psychological warfare” twenty years later. Specifically, I show how public anger over the excesses of government propaganda created the imperative for governments both to eschew the term and to foment popular panic over the threat of foreign propaganda within their own country.   7  In chapter 3, I trace the emergence, between 1940-41, of “psychological warfare” in the United States to a concerted group of interventionists surrounding William “Wild Bill” Donovan’s Office of the Coordinator of Information. I argue that psychological warfare began as a kind of political fiction tied to what Heffernan (2000b) has called the “hysterical geographies” preceding the First World War. Evolving out of manufactured moral panics over so-called “fifth columns” within the United States, the construction of psychological warfare involved the articulation of a new and dramatic geopolitical imaginary which Nelson Rockefeller called “a new geography of defense.” This imaginary reflected a pastoral political project to govern both populations and individuals, with psychological warfare constructed as both a territorial and a personal struggle. I show how professionals in fields of psychology and geography both contributed to the popular construction of the “psychological attack” from abroad, and advocated for official government agencies to counter and meet Germany on the new “psychological terrain.” In the process, contemporary alarmism surrounding German geopolitics, particularly through the figure of Karl Haushofer, dovetailed with claims surrounding purported German psychological warfare. This culminated in the odd figure of German geographer Ewald Banse assuming in the American press the mantle of Germany’s “psychological war expert.” Through the dramas of its articulation in the American popular press, a moral economy of psychological warfare emerged in which the concept was rehabilitated from a German “strategy of terror” to what its advocates preferred to see as an American “strategy of truth.”  In Chapter 4, I outline the United States’ first forays into psychological warfare through the establishment and operation of the Office of War Information (OWI) in the theatres of the Second World War. Organized around the tripartite concepts of “truth, terror, territory,” this 8  chapter reveals the ways in which actually existing American psychological warfare contravened its purported moral economy. Contrary to its humanitarian claim to save lives, psychological warfare strengthened military rationales for the continuation and escalation of the Allied program of bombing civilian populations. Contrary to its claim to objectivity, the newly formed Office of War Information rejected social scientific findings when they did not support the military strategy of “morale bombing.” Contrary to its claim to lawfulness, little evidence exists that American psychological warfare was able to impose order on the enemy soldiers and populations. Furthermore, the Office of War Information’s commitment to the so-called “strategy of truth,” while outwardly maintained, was inwardly abandoned after American entry into the war was secured. I argue, therefore, that actually existing American psychological warfare proceed along the two main lines of territory and terror.   Behind advancing Allied lines in North Africa and Europe, the Office of War Information worked to open foreign markets to commercial American media products, and to establish permanent “information” outposts through which it could circulate materials and exercise influence over local and regional news and media production. Unlike many of the belligerents of the Second World War whose propaganda/psychological warfare was state-centralized, the Office of War Information preferred to empower private industry as its psychological avant-garde. In this way, American psychological warfare operated by attempting to establish liberal-capitalist hegemony in the field of news, entertainment and communication by controlling the production and circulation of media in occupied countries, before turning facilities over to friendly (anti-communist) liberal actors. I consider particularly the role of the London office as the OWI’s “mechanical heart” which circulated media products through the body politics of 9  Allied and neutral countries. I show, furthermore, that the OWI pursued a prototypically neoliberal strategy to project American political and economic power through the privatization of the cultural industries in the countries in which it operated. I conclude the chapter by considering the formative relationship between American psychological warfare and American aerial bombardment. While its architects insisted that it would oppose Hitler’s “strategy of terror,” American psychological warfare was everywhere connected to the United States’ program of “strategic bombing.” Though there is cause to doubt its effect, I argue that psychological warfare sought to exert a kind of biopolitical power; an extension and refinement of the colonial practice of air-policing which sought to exercise power, not just violence, over subjugated populations.  Chapter 5 begins with a consideration of the “crosscurrents of caution and uncertainty” that governed post-war debates between the Departments of Defense and State concerning where, how and if psychological warfare would be waged in times of peace. Despite eagerness in both camps, fear of exposure halted its development until the Central Intelligence Agency took responsibility for psychological war soon after its establishment in 1947. The body of this chapter focuses on what the CIA (2007) has called “one of the longest running and successful covert action campaigns ever mounted by the United States,” namely the cover of Radio Free Europe behind an ostensibly independent domestic organization called the National Committee for a Free Europe. Detailing the organization and execution of a so-called “Crusade for Freedom,” I show how the CIA work to produce a popular reimagination for the Cold War against communism. Through a massive domestic publicity campaign, the CIA entrenched the pastoral geopolitical imaginary advanced in the years before American entry into the Second World War. During the Cold War, the geopolitical connection between the territoriality of 10  psychological war abroad and the individuality of an increasingly “spiritual” war against communism at home became more overt. Americans were again primary targets of American psychological warfare.   After examining the ways in which the Crusade for Freedom mobilized liberal “technologies of the self” for psychological war, I show how the logic of psychological warfare was subsumed within the United States Information Agency’s (USIA) renewal of the OWI’s “strategy of truth” in 1953. While the creation of the USIA represented a massive expansion of its predecessor’s global psychological warfare apparatus, its establishment coincided, ironically, with a disavowal of the increasingly unpopular term “psychological warfare” to describe American propaganda activities abroad. Mirroring the way in which the language of psychological warfare replaced the unpopular language of propaganda, I show how the abandonment of terminology surrounding psychological warfare nonetheless involved an entrenchment of both its practice and the geopolitical imaginations cultivating it.  In chapter 6, I draw upon the archives of the United States Information Agency to construct a picture of American psychological warfare in Vietnam. The United States Information Agency (USIA) has received little sustained scrutiny from geographers, despite the major role it played in waging the Cold War. This chapter therefore outlines the USIA’s role in waging psychological war in support of the US mission in Vietnam, notably its establishment in 1965 of the Joint United States Public Affairs Office (JUSPAO). Through an analysis of USIA operations, I argue that psychological war in Vietnam attempted to graft on the Vietnamese people the pastoral structure of “communication as police.” I show, however, that while the United States was able 11  to increase avenues for the circulation of information in Vietnam, its ability to use psychological war to impose order was severely limited. Furthermore, psychological war in Vietnam furthered the gulf between its self-understanding as a humane alternative to violence and its actual existence refining the coercive legibility of military violence. I show that, contrary to its claim to be guided by expert knowledge, American psychological warriors in Vietnam remained deeply isolated from knowledge of the political motivations of the ordinary Vietnamese villagers on whom they understood the psychological war to turn. Despite their ability to construct ever larger apparatuses for the dissemination of psychological war materials, American psychological warriors in Vietnam failed to construct the governable subjects they sought to produce.   This dissertation argues that there is little evidence to support the thesis that nations are capable of appreciably influencing, persuading, or governing the populations of other countries at war. I seek therefore to explain and contextualize the continued reliance upon psychological warfare as a strategy of waging war, as illustrated by the supposed effort to win the “hearts and minds” of the Iraqi and Afghanistan peoples in the 21st century. Few will need to be persuaded that the United States did not achieve these objectives in these wars, however it remains to be understood how and why psychological warfare has persisted as both a political rhetoric and a strategy of war. Despite the failures to appreciably win ‘hearts and minds’ in Vietnam, the United States’ return to counterinsurgency theory in the 21st century revived dormant theories of psychological warfare. Perhaps more surprising, however, has been the conclusion of its relatively short stasis during the Obama presidency, and its subsequent return in force, now connected to a new political rhetoric of cybernetic arcana. This dissertation concludes by drawing upon its 12  constitutive parts to help explain the psychological war phoenix again reborn in the American political imaginary.      13  Chapter 2: “The Ultimate Domain of Police”  In this chapter I outline the theoretical approach of my dissertation through an analysis of the emergence of the American press in the nineteenth century. This chapter serves not only to introduce the theoretical tools which I shall employ to discuss the emergence and development of American psychological warfare in the twentieth century, but also to situate it with respect to the specific dynamics of the American liberal press. While in the next chapter, I discuss the construction of American psychological warfare during WWII, and the way it revolved around an ostensibly liberal “strategy of truth,” in this chapter I critique American press liberalism to examine the ways in which it both exercises and obscures the operation of power. To this end I employ both Foucauldian and Marxist perspectives to consider the ways in which the American liberal press developed as a form of “pastoral power,” operating at the simultaneous scales of the individual and population, and the ways in which these objects of pastoral government became increasingly commodified as the logic of capital was progressively asserted over the American press during the second half of the nineteenth century.1 I argue that the history of the press takes pastoral form: the emergence of ever larger audiences is accompanied by greater refinements in audience measurement and segmentation, leading to the absolutely indispensable objects of analysis for the study of psychological warfare: the population and individual as targets — omnes et singulatim.                                                  1	While	Marx	 and	 Foucault	 sometimes	 remain	 opposed	 as	 incommensurable	 thinkers,	 posthumous	 publications	reveal	 more	 sympathies	 than	 antipathies.	 See	 Foucault	 (2015)	 The	 Punitive	 Society	 for	 Foucault’s	 class	 based	thinking.	Similarly,	see	Marx	(1844)	for	a	discussion	of	the	limits	of	political	economy.	See	p.	71.	14  Crucially, I attempt to spatialize Foucault’s concept of pastoral power by attending to the dynamics of time-space compression as they occur pursuant to the historical development of the means of communication. Here I employ the press histories of Harold Innis, reframing his critique of the liberal “free press” in terms of a Marxist analysis – which he largely eschewed – and in terms of a Foucauldian analysis of liberalism’s longer genealogy, which he obviously preceded. Drawing upon Allan Pred’s analysis of capitalism’s reorganization of the spatial dynamics of both communication and everyday life in the nineteenth century, I analyze nineteenth century time-space compression, not in terms of its ‘annihilation of space’, but in terms of its production of new spaces of political administration. While liberal conceptions of time-space compression imagine the production of homogenous space (Barry 1996), I argue that the power of the press is rooted in its ability to administer pastoral spaces that connect the operation of power between the scales of population and the individual. In spatializing pastoral power through an analysis of the press, this chapter foregrounds the stakes of this dissertation’s following chapters by framing these spaces’ relationality to what I identify as psychological warfare’s pastoral targets, namely individuals and populations.   After a discussion of the historical development of these pastoral spaces of ‘communication as police,’ I argue that toward the end of the nineteenth century these pastoral scales combine in the commercial press’ production and commodification of audiences. Showing how the basis of mass communication in capitalism revolves around the identification and production of “target audiences” for sale to advertisers, I argue that demographic refinement can be understood as an extension of what Foucault calls the pastoral “specification” of individuals. Finally, I show that, in the wake of the large-scale propaganda operations by the belligerent nations of WWI, a new 15  liberal critique of democracy emerged which further articulated the pastoral prerogatives of American political elites to fabricate political order through the management public opinion. It is in this period that the issue of propaganda and public opinion as popular political issues foregrounds the emergence of the concept of “psychological warfare” that would emerge in the early years of the Second World War.   2.1  Omnes et Singulatim  In his lectures on the Birth of Biopolitics, delivered in 1978-79, Foucault (2008, 326) alludes to the larger project of tracing the history of liberal power which drives his research. “Only when we know what this governmental regime called liberalism was,” he suggested, “will we be able to grasp what biopolitics is.” Having thus suggested his object of study, it may puzzle readers that, in the following year’s lecture series, Foucault departs abruptly from the context of twentieth century neoliberalism to investigate the early centuries of the Christian church, particularly the evolution of the practice of confession. The move was guided, however, by Foucault’s conviction that liberal governmental power had its origins in the Christian pastorate and its emphasis on constructing both the individual (singulatim) and the flock (omnes) as objects of political administration. As Elden (2017) shows, however, the departure was in fact an effort to identify the historical origins of his primary research interests, most present in his Security, Territory, 16  Population lectures: modern governmentality as it emerged in the 17th and 18th centuries, and the Christian pastorate on top of which he argues it was built.2   Foucault’s decision to study early Christian confession and its institution of the directed examination of conscience suggests the significance Foucault placed on the history of the western liberal individual as an object and scale of power. Foucault (2003, 30) sought to correct what he saw as the liberal misconception that the individual — the freedom of the individual — was “power’s opposite number,” arguing that the “free individual” was in fact one of power’s first effects.3 Challenging a liberal naturalism which took for granted the existence and social primacy of the individual, Foucault (2007, 183-4) argued that Western liberal notions of individuality are inherited from the Christian pastorate, in which he saw “the birth of an absolutely new form of power,” namely “the emergence of what could be called absolutely specific modes of individualization.”    This “specific” mode of individualization denotes specificity not only in the sense of the particular, but in the sense suggested by Foucault’s analysis of the “specification of individuals” in his History                                                 2	 Though	geographers	have	widely	adopted	 the	analytic	of	 governmentality,	 theorizationof	pastoral	power	has	been	less	developed,	owing	in	part	to	the	fact	that	Foucault	himself	only	ever	presents	it	as	a	sketch.	For	an	account	of	 Foucault’s	 incomplete	history	of	 the	Christian	pastorate,	 see	Elden	 (2017).	 For	 geographers	working	with	 the	concept	of	pastoral	power	see	Reid-Henry	(2014);	Garmany	(2014);	Huxley	(2008).	3	 Similarly,	 Foucault	 argues	 that	 freedom	 is	 a	 precondition	 of	 power,	 not	 its	 opposite.	 For	 a	 discussion	 of	 the	difference	between	power	and	violence,	see	Foucault’s	(1979,	253)	parable	of	the	“chained	and	beaten	man”:			A	man	who	is	chained	up	and	beaten	is	subject	to	force	being	exerted	over	him.	Not	power.	But	if	he	can	be	induced	to	speak,	when	his	ultimate	recourse	could	have	been	to	hold	his	tongue,	preferring	death,	then	he	has	been	caused	to	behave	in	a	certain	way.	His	freedom	has	been	subjected	to	power.	He	has	been	submitted	to	government.	If	an	individual	can	remain	free,	however	little	his	freedom	may	be,	power	can	subject	him	to	government.	There	is	no	power	without	potential	refusal	or	revolt.		17  of Sexuality. Recalling his analysis of the human sciences in The Order of Things, Foucault identified sexuality as a critical terrain for the classification and administration of individuals, one deeply tied to the pastoral tradition. “The confessional was, and still remains,” argued Foucault (1978, 63) “the general standard governing the production of the true discourse on sex.” This was done, importantly, through specification; through the transformation of sexual practices into species of individuals.4 While the construction of the homosexual occupies much of Foucault’s attention in volume I of the History of Sexuality, he also notes the risible taxonomies5 of the nineteenth century psychiatrists who attempted, not to suppress peripheral sexualities, but to give them an “analytical, visible, and permanent reality” (ibid, 44); to “entomologize them by giving them strange baptismal names.” The allusion to baptism is intentional, again linking scientia sexualis and its confessional structure to the Christian pastorate, its direction of conscience, and its analytic classification of individuals. It is difficult on this account to overstate the significance of the pastorate in Foucault’s thinking and research. As he suggests (2007, 183),  analytical identification, subjection, and subjectivation (subjectivation) are the characteristic procedures of individualization that will in fact be implemented by the Christian pastorate and its institutions. What the history of the pastorate involves, therefore, is the entire history of procedures of human individualization in the West.   If Foucault’s (2007, 227) Security, Territory, Population lectures appear sometimes incongruous, it is because they represent an attempt to synthesize his interests in pastoral and governmental power; “to show how pastorship happened to combine with its opposite, the state.” Indeed,                                                 4	Cf.		Foucault	(1978,	43)	argues	that,	contrary	to	prior	juridical	injunctions	against	the	practice	of	sodomy,	the	new	scientia	sexualis	invented	the	homosexual	as	a	species.			5	Foucault	(1978,	43)	writes:	“there	were	Kraft-Ebing's	zoophiles	and	zooerasts,	Rohleder's	auto-monosexualists;	and	later,	mixoscopophiles,	gynecomasts,	presbyophiles,	sexoesthetic	inverts,	and	dyspareunist	women.”		18  Foucault (2007, 128) understood the emergence of the modern governmental state and its emphasis on population as an extension and development of “the paradox of pastoral power”:   On the one hand, the shepherd must keep his eye on all and on each, omnes et singulatim, which will be the great problem both of the techniques of power in Christian pastorship, and of the…modern techniques of power deployed in the technologies of population…Omnes et singulatim.”   In returning to the early church to study the emergence of confession as a mode of specifying individuals – of producing, classifying and directing their conscience – Foucault meant to develop an analysis of the way in which the “Western individual” emerged as an object of power, and how modes of specification were continued and refined with the emergence of the governmental state. As noted, the specification of sexuality was central to this process in the nineteenth century, but it was not the only arena in which individuals became specified. In this chapter I show that a more general and intense specification of individuals occurs in correspondence to the emergence of the daily press and the development of its economic prerogative to produce and refine specific and specified audiences. While it is often noted that “the public was something brought into existence by the printing press” (Carey 1989, 145), the public qua mass audience was also accompanied by a series of divisions, classifications, refinements and specifications. I argue, therefore, that the history of the press takes pastoral form: the emergence of ever larger audiences is accompanied by greater refinements in audience measurement and segmentation, leading to the indispensable objects of analysis for the study of psychological warfare: the audience and individual as targets — omnes et singulatim.   19  While Foucault has regrettably little to say about the emergence of the press as a correlate of governmental power, glimpses are discernible in his analysis of Francis Bacon’s (c1625) writing on the problems of sedition.6 Highlighting a valuable historical precedent for the relationship between communication and security viz population, Foucault (2007, 272) traces the emergence of public opinion as on object of government to Bacon’s observation that, “the two major elements of reality that government will have to handle are economy and opinion.” Foucault argues that Bacon’s emphasis on public opinion broke with the Machiavellian paradigm in concerning “not how the Prince appears, but what is going on in the minds of the governed” (ibid). This observation corresponds broadly to Foucault’s discussion of the shift from sovereign power – in which the primary consideration for thinking about public opinion concerned the maintenance of a particular sovereign’s authority – to a governmental conception of public opinion which concerned not just fealty and obeisance but a more general economy of information, ideas, and wills. Foucault (2007, 272) notes that it is also at this time (c1625) that “the first great campaigns of opinion that are a feature of Richelieu’s government” appear in France. He continues:   Richelieu invented the political campaign by means of lampoons and pamphlets, and he invented those professional manipulators of opinion who were called at the time ‘publicistes.’ Birth of the économistes, birth of the publicistes. Economy and opinion are the two major aspects of the field of reality, the two correlative elements of the field of reality that is emerging as the correlate of government.  As Foucault’s analysis leads elsewhere, his identification of publicity and public opinion as primary correlates to governmental power has often been overlooked in the literature. Similarly,                                                 6	See	Bacon’s	1625	essay	‘On	Seditions	and	Troubles’.		20  much otherwise sophisticated work developing Foucault’s analysis of police misses a crucial sense in which Foucault understands the connection between communication and police.7 Foucault (2007, 326) does not prevaricate, however: “the coexistence and communication of men with each other,” he argues, “is ultimately the domain that must be covered by the Polizeiwissenschaft and the institution of police that people of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries were talking about.” Though both these senses of ‘communication’ and ‘police’ are antiquated, examining their connection helps to show how the historical development and privatization of the “means of communication” (Williams 1980) constituted a revolutionary development in liberal governmental power. This development, moreover, had a profound effect not only in the United States, but also in numerous other states where the structure of a commercial and private press obtained.   The pre-telegraphic sense of ‘communication’, tied to transportation and the friction of distance, has led Foucauldian scholars to examine the relationship between police and communication in terms of the circulation of goods, and therefore to Foucault’s broader project of examining the economic dimensions of the emergent liberal state (Cowen 2014; Crampton & Elden, 2007). This understanding of communication and police is indeed supported by a reading of Foucault (2007, 325), who argues that “the last object of police is circulation, the circulation of goods, of the products of men’s activity…The space of circulation is a privileged object for police.”8 However, Foucault insists that the stakes and object of administering spaces of circulation is tied to                                                 7	Notable	exceptions	include	Barry	(1996),	Holmqvist	(2013;	2016),	Herbert	(1996),	Garmany	(2009)	8	 Foucault’s	 (1979,	 248)	 Tanner	 lecture	 continues:	 “the	 police’s	 other	 purpose	 is	 to	 foster	working	 and	 trading	relations	between	men,	as	well	as	aid	and	mutual	help.	There	again,	the	word	Turquet	uses	is	important:	the	police	must	ensure	‘communication’	among	men,	in	the	broad	sense	of	the	word.”	21  communication: “the word,” writes Foucault (1979, 248) “is important: the police must ensure ‘communication’ among men, in the broad sense of the word.”   While studying the circulation of objects has been central to Foucauldian scholarship, Foucault was also at pains in his 1977-78 lectures to show how his project was tied to his analysis of the way in which the government of circulation grew out of antecedent pastoral regimes which point to a fuller sense of ‘communication’ as the totality of relationships between people (as he (1979, 248) insists, “the police includes everything”). To understand this antiquated sense of communication, and the importance that Foucault placed upon it, it is helpful to consider what James Carey (1989) calls the ‘ritual view’ of communication, best understood through its etymological roots in the words ‘common’, ‘community’, and significantly, communion. In this understanding, communication is not only the transportation of goods, or the transmission of information — as in its flattened, post-telegraphic sense — but the production of culture. Thinking together both senses of communication – as economic circulation and the production of culture – suggests a fuller sense of what Foucault meant by emphasizing communication as ‘the ultimate domain of police.’  Foucault (2007, 322) is explicit on this point, arguing that police was not only about making use of the products of labour, but also about “actively making use of [the public’s] attitudes, opinions, and ways of doing things.” Though most Foucauldian scholars have overlooked the importance of this broader definition of communication, and its relationship to public opinion as a primary correlate of government, it in fact forms a centrepiece of what unfortunately remains only a sketch and outline of governmentality. However, Foucault (2007, 278) is again explicit: “when theorists 22  of [pre-governmental] raison d’État lay stress on the public and the need for a public opinion, the analysis is conducted, as it were, in purely passive terms..., and not in the least of actively making use of their attitudes, opinions, and ways of doing things.” For Foucault (2007, 322), what is characteristic of a police state is, on the contrary, “its interest in what men do; it is interested in their activity, their ‘occupation.’ The objective of police is therefore control of and responsibility for men’s activity.”   This emphasis on “what men do” — their activity — will be crucial to my understanding of how the police concept was adapted to the daily press as a strategy of power over the activity of individuals and populations. Indeed, in the press we can understand an archetypal case of police power which revolves around the production of circulation — quite literally the primary metric of the effectiveness of newsprint — and the control over “what men do” in the form of readerly activity. Moreover, the structure of the press is uniquely pastoral insofar as mechanical reproduction of the newssheet standardized the experience of individuals at larger urban, regional and national population scales. I want to show that transformations in the structure of communication in the nineteenth century led to an intensification of the sense in which we can understand “communication as the ultimate domain of police.” Indeed, in the daily presses of the nineteenth century, we see a unique combination of a new kind of governmental political sovereignty which creates an “intensity of circulations: circulation of ideas, of wills, and of orders, and also commercial circulation” (Foucault 2007, 15).  In the next two sections, I discuss the ways in which the historical development of the means of communication contribute both to the compression of time and space, but also to the production 23  of new spaces of pastoral power that correspond to and combine the scales of population and individuals, respectively. In attending to what Raymond Williams (1980) calls “the means of communication as means of production,” the creation of what I call pastoral space can be observed in the dynamics of the power of the press to construct and administer political spaces both at the level of population and individuals. I argue therefore that the emergence of the press can be understood in terms of a kind of spatialized pastoral power wherein ‘communication as police’ follows from the government of circulation — of “ideas, wills and orders” — and the way in which this circulation produces modes of subjectification and individualization. Crucial here is an understanding of the ways in which the police function of communication in the 19th century combined with liberal-capitalism, a paradigmatic case of what Neocleous (2000, 41) calls “the disciplinary logic of police… being superseded by the disciplinary logic of the market.”    2.1.1 E Unibus Pluram  In this following two sections I analyze the historical development of the American press in terms of Foucault’s understanding of ‘communication as police’. In this section I argue that the expanding scale of information circulation, and increasing concentration of control over it, produced spaces of pastoral power aimed at the government of populations (omnes). In the next section, I go on show how this space combined with its pastoral counterpart to produce domestic spaces that contribute to the historical articulation of the liberal individual (singulatim). In both cases I endeavor to show how the production of these spaces rendered people accessible to 24  information, and how these scales of governmentality were capitalized as “the disciplinary logic of police… being superseded by the disciplinary logic of the market” (Neocleous 2000, 41).     As Pred (1973, 20) notes, in the nineteenth century newspaper circulation remained “the only regular pre-telegraphic communications medium through which news of distant origin could be made locally available in the form of public information.” When considering communication as police, and police as the management of the circulation of “ideas, wills and orders,” the circulation of newspapers appears as in indispensable object of analysis. In addition to the work of Pred, I consider here the press histories written by Harold Innis toward the end of his life. Though Innis is sometimes mistaken for a technological determinist, his history of the American press reveals, on the contrary, a careful consideration of the social and political processes which governed the emergence of new communication technologies and their deliberate integration into new and existing monopolies of knowledge.9 Nor was Innis’ history of the press a mere extension of his earlier staples thesis in which the nature of staple commodities dictated Canada’s economic development. On the contrary, Innis’ press histories concern the deliberate construction of monopolistic regimes of communication and the profound effect they had on the organization of political life in the nineteenth century (Innis 1935; 1943).    Though a staunch critic of capital’s domination of the American press, Innis eschewed direct Marxist analysis and terminology, identifying “monopolies of knowledge,” and not private                                                 9	 See	 Buxton	 (1998).	 The	 sense	 of	 technological	 determinism	 pervading	 the	 sketches	 and	 abstractions	 of	 Innis’	Empire	and	Communications,	written	under	pressure	of	failing	health,	stand	in	contrast	to	specificity	of	analysis	in	his	histories	of	the	American	press,	written	in	the	1940s.		25  ownership of the means of production as such as the social ill in need of redress. This was perhaps due to the intellectual environment produced by the first anti-communist “red scare” when Innis graduated from the University of Chicago in 1920, but it was also likely due to the influence of the liberal social-democrats of the Chicago School of Sociology who, as James Carey (1989, 144) notes, “saw communication in the envelope of art, architecture, custom and ritual, and above all politics.”   Unlike Foucault – whose project was to interrogate the dynamics of power which underwrote the historical development of liberalism – Innis appears as fundamentally liberal, though deeply troubled by the illiberal tendencies which arose around the construction of monopolies of knowledge. Yet as Carey (1989, 146) argues, the originality of Innis’ thinking on communication cannot be discounted. Instead, it should be understood in contrast to the prevailing views of his peers, who understood communication through the paradigms of domination and therapy. While Innis wrote his critical histories of the American press, mainstream American communication scholarship developed along two interrelated paths that were “aided by the practical research demands of World War I”: the psychological behaviourism of John B. Watson, vice-president of the J. Walter Thompson advertising agency, and the “therapeutic model” of communication based on the Hawthorne experiments in which workers at a Chicago Western Electric plant were “re-socialized to their grievances” (Carey 1989, 147).   As the twin paradigms of communication as domination and therapy would come to define what I will call the “moral economy of psychological warfare,” it is instructive to consider how and why Innis’ critique of the liberal press breaks with these traditions. Thus, while Innis’ eschews a 26  Marxist analysis of the press, he nonetheless offers a robust criticism of the way in which the therapeutic and dominance models of communication obscured the operation of power in the liberal press. Therefore, to James Carey’s (1989, 143) insistence that the work of Harold Innis be “assimilated into and contrasted with…developments in cultural geography, Marxism, critical theory and cultural anthropology,” I add Foucault’s critique of liberalism, his emphasis on time in the administration of discipline, and his broader framework for understanding the succession and maintenance of pastoral, police, and governmental power.  In this section, however, I am concerned with articulating a spatial analysis of Foucault’s concept of pastoral power as related to the emergence of the press. As a starting point for this analysis, Allan Pred’s (1973) study of pre-telegraphic information circulation in the United States retains much of Foucault’s sense of communication as the “circulation of goods and the product of men’s activity.” In addition to canals and the emerging American railroad system, Pred identifies newspaper circulation as a crucial medium for facilitating a shift from a mercantilist to a capitalist economy in the early nineteenth century United States. Specifically, Pred identifies three essential functions of the nineteenth century newspaper: advertising, shipping intelligence, and commercial statistics.   Pred (1973, 24) links the increase in newspaper advertising in the early nineteenth century United States to the growth of population and commerce in the Atlantic seaport towns, which produced a “cascade of advertisements in the early nineteenth-century mercantile dailies of the seaports [that] included importers’ announcements; listings of auctions, cargo-space availability, ship departures, and real estate sales; the offerings of commodity brokers; and the personal requests of lenders and 27  borrowers.” Similarly, as foreign trade increased after the 1790s, the shipping intelligence function of newspapers became less informal and sporadic. “Coverage became more reliable and thorough… in certain papers that increasingly specialized in such information, such as Boston’s New England Palladium, the Boston Gazette, and the New York Gazette” (ibid). Finally, commercial statistics, “closely related to the publishing of marine intelligence, … [listed] wholesale prices and other commercial statistics of potential use to the mercantile community” (p. 25).   These increases in advertisements, shipping intelligence, and commercial statistics illustrate the sense in which newspaper circulation constituted the Foucauldian (1979, 248) sense of communication as “foster[ing] working and trading relations between men.” Furthermore, the newspaper’s central role in the facilitation of trade can be understood as a quintessential police function “whereby the riches of the state may be increased” (as cited in Neocleous 2000, 14). It is difficult here to overstate the emphasis Foucault places on the emergence of statistics as a central tool of governmentality. Newspapers as facilitators of merchant trade concerned knowledge not of the law as in previous regimes of sovereign power, but knowledge as statistics; as “knowledge of the things that comprise the very reality of the state….; of the forces and resources that characterize a state at a given moment” (Foucault 2007, 274).   Newspapers, then, were crucial to the construction of economic space as a territorial strategy of police by organizing the social and economic activities of mercantilist commerce. Along with the requisite commercial statistics to facilitate the production of trade, newspapers also facilitated the Foucauldian circulation of “ideas, wills and orders.” Significantly, the growth of newspaper 28  circulation in the United States was far from an organic process, encouraged instead through deliberate and robust state policy. Notably, the 1793 Postal Act would generalize and extend these police functions of newspapers to an expanding western frontier through heavy subsidization of newspaper transportation through the American post office. As Pred (1973, 61) notes,   the short- and long-distance movement by mail of large-city newspapers to inns, coffeehouses, and individual subscribers was encouraged by the preferential rates on newspapers that went into effect with the Postal Act of 1793, when Congress ‘avowedly undertook to encourage… [the growth of the press] as the most important disseminator of intelligence among the people.’   Before the invention of the telegraph, the main source of news and information upon which newspaper publishers relied remained the columns of other newspapers and journals. The Postal Act of 1793 therefore undertook to subsidize “newspaper exchanges” between editors, setting a rate of one cent for any distance up to 100 miles, and one and one-half cents for all distances beyond 100 miles, regardless of size or weight (ibid). It was an extraordinary subsidy, and gathering scattered data, Pred (1973, 58) concludes that “there is little doubt that newspaper mails accounted for a large proportion of all postal activities form the late eighteenth century onward.”   As Pred notes (ibid, 88), the liberal gloss of the Postal Act was rooted in “the executive and congressional view that political unity depended on a well-informed populace.” However, the lines of communication established by this policy of subsidizing newspaper exchanges involved more than the production of the proverbial ‘well-informed democratic citizen’. The policy enabled the spread of commerce into the American west, as per Pred’s analysis of newspaper advertising and commercial statistics. In addition to becoming a vector for the spread of news and information, 29  newspapers helped produce westward American settler-colonialism and a broader American “imagined community” (Anderson 1983), while integrating the expanding American west into the economic life of the Atlantic corridor.   Figure 1: Population accessibility c1790.   30   Figure 2: Population accessibility c1820.    The Postal Act of 1793 facilitated the dominance of the Eastern Corridor over the American hinterlands, and enabled an unprecedented strategy for governing populations and enabling commerce through the production of spaces of standardized circulation. (Pred 1973).    Though the creation of a ‘well-informed populace’ remained a lofty ideal, newspaper exchanges produced profound spatial biases in favour of the Eastern Corridor cities, especially New York where much printing and shipping was centralized. By the 1830s, the major journals of the Eastern cities grew larger and bulkier, and “there was a great deal of complaint on the part of the publishers of interior newspapers that the postal laws already discriminated most unjustly in favor of the 31  metropolitan newspapers’” (Pred 1973, 61). Pred (1973) maps the development of these spatial biases through a series of time-lag and population-accessibility maps from the 1790s to the 1840s [figs. 1 & 2]. These maps reveal the extent to which the newspaper exchange program expanded the circulation and spatial reach of East coast newspapers, illustrating what Andrew Barry (1996, 128) has identified as communication technology’s production of a standardized space, “maximizing the density, intensity and spatial extension of interactions within the social body itself, while, at the same time, minimizing the direct demands made by the state on the people.”  While Figs. 1 & 2 can be understood in terms of time-space compression, or the annihilation of space by time, as Barry (ibid, 127) notes, the ostensibly ‘standardized’ space of information circulation obscures the uneven spatial biases in which the Eastern corridors cities remained centres for administrating the western peripheries. Far from ‘destroying space,’ the policy of newspaper exchanges subsidized the production of a new administrative and governmental space in which populations at increasingly large scales could be integrated into the social, political and economic body of the state through the circulation of newspapers. While in the next section, I am concerned with arguing how this strategy for the government of population combined at pastoral scales with the government of individuals, in the remainder of this section I argue that the policy newspaper exchange was a territorial strategy of ‘communication as police.’  Echoing Barry’s critique of the liberal gloss of ‘standardized space,’ Innis (1952, 102) suggested the paradoxical nature of the way in which the spatial extension and standardization of content represented an eclipse of public life and a co-optation of what he called the time-biased oral tradition:  32   Technological advance in communication implies a narrowing of the range from which material is distributed and a widening of the range of reception, so that large numbers receive, but are unable to make any direct response. Those on the receiving end of material from a mechanized central system are precluded from participation in healthy, vigorous, and vital discussion. Instability of public opinion which follows the introduction of new inventions in communication designed to reach large numbers of people is exploited by those in control of inventions.   While the United States’ motto E Pluribus Unum (from many, one) is meant to denote the country’s liberal democratic ideal of the sovereignty of the people — of the unified political will which emerges from the wills of the many — Innis identified in American press monopolies an inversion of this structure in which, on the contrary, mechanical reproduction allowed for the one to produce the many. As one American novelist put it, E Unibus Pluram: from one, many10. Against liberal-therapeutic narratives in which communication is understood in terms of reciprocity and dialogue, Pred’s maps allow for a reconceptualization of the way in which monopolies of knowledge produce the spaces of information circulation. The goal of a ‘well informed populace’ appears in this light, not as an avenue for the acquisition of information for autonomous self-government, but as a territorial strategy of police; a strategy in which a ‘well informed populace’ is enrolled in its own government through its uneven access to information, and through information’s increasingly standardized access to it. In this sense, the Foucauldian sense of ‘communication as police’ can be most clearly discerned in the production of a national pastoral space in which people’s access to information doubles as a governmental strategy of information’s access to people.                                                  10	See	Wallace	(1993):	“E	Unibus	Pluram:	Television	and	U.S.	Fiction.”			33   While Innis saw this reversal as a contravention of American liberal-democratic ideals, a Foucauldian interpretation suggests that the extension of communication networks as a strategy to induce populations to self-government through the “conduct of conduct” is in fact central to the project of liberalism. Nevertheless, Innis remained a critic of liberal interpretations of American press history, emphasizing particularly the relations of power inherent in and ramp by the United States’ celebrated “freedom of the press.” Far from serving as the guarantor of democratic governance, Innis (1951, 187) argued that “freedom of the press had been an essential ingredient of the monopoly [of knowledge] for it obscured monopolistic characteristics.”   Though Innis is sometimes criticized as a technological determinist, his analysis of the importance of the newspaper exchange subsidy suggests his recognition of the social and political determination of the American ‘free press’ system, whose readership advances in printing technology would soon expand into the lower classes through the advent of the penny press. This is nowhere as clear as in Innis’ insistence that, though the newspaper industry had its origins in the “space-biased” medium of print, it was the political-economic processes inherent in the commercialization of the press which gave the newspaper industry its distinctive and deleterious characteristics.   Far from an organic coalescence of a free market, Innis demonstrates the extent to which the American “free press” was the careful construction of the post-revolution American government; a reward to the press for its active role against the British which was “crowned by a guarantee of freedom under the Bill of Rights” (Innis 1951, 156) Furthermore, Innis notes that the role of the 34  press and its relative freedom in relation to the restrictive Stamp Act of 1765 fueled the revolutionary conflict between Britain and the American bourgeoisie. After the revolution, policies like the 1793 Postal Act and the repeal of the 1798 Sedition Act were, according to Innis (1951, 157), “tributes to the power of the press and to the recognition by politicians of its possibilities as an instrument of strategy.” Though the idea of an “oppositional press” serving as a check and balance to the power of the state is another hallmark of the liberal imagination, after the American revolution a mutualistic relationship between the two inhered in, on the one hand, publishers’ reliance on lucrative government printing contracts and postal subsides; and on the other, politicians’ reliance on the ability of the press to access the publics they brought into existence. Journalists and editors became regular presidential cabinet appointments, and as John Adams wrote, an editor became “as essential an appendage to a candidate as in the days of chivalry a ‘squire’ was to a knight’” (as cited in Innis, 1951, 164).11 With the outbreak of the American Civil War, the necessity increased, and as Innis writes, “Lincoln was compelled to work directly with newspaper editors and to elaborate devices for keeping them in control, including appointments to diplomatic posts” (ibid, 170).                                                   11	‘Innis	cites	two	U.S.	Postmaster	Generals	who	use	‘freedom	of	the	press’	and	‘public	intelligence’	to	obscure	the	monopoly	of	knowledge.	Writing	 in	1848,	the	US	Postmaster	General	proclaimed	that,	“newspapers	have	always	been	esteemed	of	so	much	importance	to	the	public,	as	the	best	means	of	disseminating	intelligence	among	the	people,	that	the	lowest	rate	has	always	been	afforded	for	the	purpose	of	encouraging	their	circulation”	(as	cited	in	Innis,	1951,	169).	Similarly,	Postmaster	General	Barry,	in	1832,	states	that	“the	freedom	of	the	press	guaranteed	by	the	Constitution,	and	 the	 small	 share	of	postage	with	which	 these	publications	are	charged,	 compared	with	 the	whole	expense	of	their	transportation,	demonstrate	the	estimation	in	which	they	are	held	by	government”	(ibid,	165).	A	high	estimation	indeed.				35  This arrangement would, however, be challenged from two directions subsequent to the institution of the telegraph. First, the telegraph broke the “parochial monopoly” of New York newspapers over the American west by removing the need for subsidizing newspaper exchanges through the mails. Though the eastern corridor still maintained a privileged position as a center of political and economic power, the monopoly over news which the post office had facilitated was weakened, a competitive marketplace for news arose in the west, and “the regional daily press escaped from the dominance of the political and metropolitan press” (Innis 1951, 169).   More significant, however, was the ascendency of advertising as the primary source of revenue for the newspaper industry. Driven by the economic imperative to assemble the largest readerships possible — larger audiences commanded a higher price when sold to advertisers — newspapers, freed from the necessity of relying on subsidized newspaper exchanges, abandoned the party patronage model of the political press in an attempt to reach a mass and general audience. A commercial, advertising-based press therefore saw its advantage in a break with the short-lived era of muck-raking journalism in the late nineteenth century, and a move toward sensational and human-interest stories took place. The rise of large-scale political advertising was also accompanied by declining coverage of political activity, necessitating that candidates for office pay handsomely to advertise their campaigns. Thus, Innis (1951, 186) observes that “primaries in populous states were followed by a debauching contest of pocket books of wealthy contestants” and that the “disappearance of muck-raking in the financial field was accompanied by a decline of restrictions on speculative activity.” In a succinct passage, Innis (1951, 174) outlines how in the last quarter of the nineteenth century,  36  a press less subservient to the political control of the Republican party followed the introduction of new inventions, wider circulation, larger capital equipment, and corporate organization. Personal journalism began to decline and more important sources of revenue developed with advertising and department stores… The advertising manager began to absorb responsibility, operations were controlled by the business department, and the publisher became more important.  Both demand for news during the Civil War and the expansion of western newspapers precipitated the development of the Western Associated Press, challenging the emerging monopoly of the eastern-based Associated Press. The Associated Press responded by strengthening its connections with European news agencies and by exploiting its proximity to New York financial news. This conflict gave way to an eventual merger in 1867, and in 1877 Western Union absorbed the Atlantic and Pacific Telegraph Company, and later the National Union Telegraphy Company. Newspapers left outside this emerging monopoly formed the United Press, until the disclosure in 1892 that the Associated press, though ostensibly a competitor, had held a controlling interest in the company. This series of mergers and acquisitions prompted Innis to conclude that “the history of the Associated Press was to an important extent a history of the destruction of a parochial monopoly of New York newspapers by newspapers which had emerged in relation to the demand for news in the West, and of the growth of a monopoly in response to the demands of the telegraph” (Innis 1951, 178).    At the turn of the twentieth century, however, the monopoly of the Associated Press was again challenged by the emerging Hearst and Scripps-Howard newspaper empires. “In the struggle against the Associated Press” writes Innis (1951, 182), “the Hearst and Scripps interests were compelled to develop large-scale chain enterprises covering a vast area as a means of increasing outlets and news coverage and reducing the costs of an extensive news service, with disastrous 37  results to independent newspapers.” The disappearance of smaller newspapers drastically changed the character of the newspaper industry. It is perhaps indicative of the advertiser’s power that by 1921, Roy Howard of the Scripps-Howard press, stated that “we come simply as news merchants. We are here to sell advertising and sell it at a rate profitable to those who buy it. But first we must produce a newspaper with news appeal that will result in a circulation and make that advertising effective’” (as cited in Innis 1951, 182). By the turn of the twentieth century, then, “a journalist became one who wrote on the backs of advertisements” (ibid, 186).  The history of the American press in the nineteenth century can therefore be understood as a transformation of the political economic base upon which the circulation of newspapers rested, one that began with what I have identified as a police strategy of the US Post Office to facilitate commerce and territorial expansion, before transforming to a market-based system in which larger circulations were subsidized by advertisers eager to access the publics this circulation brought into existence. This process corresponds to Neocleous’ (2000, 34) observation that the emergence of liberalism “involved a rethinking of the police concept in new, liberal terms.” Just as Innis insisted that “freedom of the press” was central to both creating and obscuring monopolies of knowledge, the privatization and commercialization of the press can be similarly understood to have obscured its enduring police function. As Neocleous (ibid, 41) puts it, “it was possible for liberalism to transform the police concept… because the exercise of power and domination was slowly being transferred from police to capital; the disciplinary logic of police was being superseded by the disciplinary logic of the market.”   38  In a lesser-known essay, on “means of communication as means of production,” Raymond Williams observes that much research and scholarship on communication assumes a liberal interpretation of the various means of communication as simple and straightforward “media” which act as conduits for the unproblematic transmission of information between senders and receivers. On the contrary, Williams (1980, 56) argues that,   as a matter of general theory it is useful to recognize that means of communication are themselves means of production. It is true that means of communication, from the simplest physical forms of language to the most advanced forms of communications technology, are themselves always socially and materially produced, and of course reproduced. Yet they are not only forms but means of production… Moreover the means of communication, both as produced and as means of production, are directly subject to historical development.   In this section, I have attempted to show that the historical development of ‘the means of communication as means of production’ involved the production of pastoral spaces of ‘communication as police.’ I have argued that these spaces of circulation are defined, not only by their ability to make information accessible to populations, but to make populations accessible to information as a strategy of government. Crucially, this police function was gradually subsumed by market relationships, as the primary subsidy to circulation changed from a state-run system of postal exchanges to one based on the commodification of audiences through advertising. I have argued that the production of the audience as an object of political strategy — as a strategy of policing populations — can be understood as a crucial form of social production attached to the historical development of the means of communication in the nineteenth century United States. This complicates what Williams identifies as the liberal analytical bias of privileging media consumption over other aspects of communication, especially those concerning the history of the audience. As Williams (1980, 60) writes,  39   another familiar kind of history is the social history of ‘audiences’ or ‘publics’: again containing indispensable detail but ordinarily undertaken within a perspective of ‘consumption’ which is unable to develop the always significant and sometimes decisive relations between these modes of consumption, which are commonly also forms of more general social organization, and the specific modes of production, which are at once technological and social.   In the next section I follow Williams to an exploration of the political economic basis of the audience in a capitalist system of communication. I argue that, in addition to the pastoral spaces of governing populations outlined in this section, the historical development of the means of communication produced spaces corresponding to pastoral power’s other primary object: the individual. In the next section I consider the production of the individual through the lens of time-geography to show how nineteenth century time-space discipline produced and standardized domestic spaces. I argue that these spaces helped put free time to work by transforming reading and listening into activities which could be commodified and sold to advertisers.  I am concerned to spatialize an understanding of ‘communication as police’ as its relate to the commodification of individual and their activities in and the spaces everyday life. I aim to show how communication’s police function is articulated through the economic logic of audience commodification, and its  “interest in what men do… in their activity and their occupation.”   2.1.2 In Search of Lost Time   Despite Innis’ insistence on an analysis of communication monopolies as monopolies on time, little has been done to follow James Carey’s injunction to rediscover Innis’ analysis of 40  communication in light of subsequent work on the political uses and abuses of time. In this section I consider the extent to which nineteenth century American monopolies on knowledge can be understood as an outgrowth of Foucault’s concept of pastoral power, paying particular attention to the dynamics of time-discipline and the production and exploitation of time.   Thinking through advertising’s post-telegraphic ascendency requires consideration of how this change in means of communication was also an historical development in the means of production. For Williams (1980, 53), thinking about means of communication as means of production opened avenues for “new approaches to [understanding] the history of the means of communication themselves.” While Innis points broadly to the significance of advertising as a decisive reorganization of the material basis upon which the circulation of newspapers rests, he stops short of situating this historical development of the means of communication within the framework of a Marxist critique of communication. Thus, while Innis laments what he calls the “eclipse of the public” and the growth of monopolies of knowledge, he does not grasp a crucial dimension of what Williams (1980, 60) calls the “social history of audiences and publics” in the “decisive relations between modes of consumption and modes of production.”  These decisive relations were, however, at the heart of questions occupying political economists of communication in the 1970s, notably Dallas Smythe (1977, 3) whose seminal essay on communication as a “blindspot of western Marxism” asked, “what is the commodity form of mass-produced, advertiser-supported communications under monopoly capitalism?” Like Williams, Smythe rejected what he called the “bourgeois idealist view” of communication that would provide answers like "messages", "information", "images", "meaning", "entertainment", "orientation", 41  "education", or "manipulation" (ibid). In a bid to elide what Foucault (2007, 215) might call the “old conception of ideology,” Smythe (1977, 20) argued that the primary commodity produced by the mass media in a capitalist economy is the audience:  the mass media institutions in monopoly capitalism developed the equipment, workers and organization to produce audiences… between about 1875 and 1950. The prime purpose of the mass media complex is to produce people in audiences who work at learning the theory and practice of consumership for civilian goods and who support (with taxes and votes) the military demand management system.   Smythe’s theory of the “audience commodity” occasioned a lively, though still relatively obscure, discussion known as the ‘blindspot debate’ in the Political Economy of Communication (Smythe 1977; Murdock 1978; Smythe 1978; Livant 1979; Jhally 1982; Livant 1982). Though Smythe was productively challenged on several fronts, his central thesis – that audiences are produced in commodity form and sold to advertisers – remains a general maxim in the field.12  A main point of contention in the blindspot debate concerned Smythe’s adherence to the labour theory of value in concluding that the value of the audience commodity is produced by the labour of audiences. For Smythe (1977, 3), watching, reading, and listening were forms of work performed by audiences. Thus Smythe argues that   the materialist answer to the question – 'what is the commodity form of mass-produced, advertiser-supported communications under monopoly capitalism?’ – is audiences and readerships… The material reality under monopoly capitalism is that all non-sleeping time of most of the population is work time. This work time is devoted to the production of commodities-in-general… and in the production and reproduction of labour power (the pay                                                 12	 Though	 the	 blindspot	 debate	 has	 not	 circulated	 widely	 outside	 the	 discipline	 of	 the	 Political	 Economy	 of	Communication,	several	scholars	have	taken	up	and	modified	Smythe’s	thesis	for	the	digital	age	(Andrejevic,	2002;	Artz,	2008;	Bermejo,	2009;	Caraway,	2011;	Fuchs,	2012;	Napoli,	2010).		42  for which is subsumed in their income). Of the off-the-job work time, the largest single block is time of the audiences which is sold to advertisers.  Smythe’s theory of the audience commodity and its work are sketches, and in some places the strokes are perhaps too broad. Even if all time is not strictly and evenly ‘work time’, Smythe nonetheless makes salient observations about both the activity of audiences (they work; are productive), and the role of this activity in processes of social reproduction (it re/produces labour power). As part of the work of social reproduction — of the work required to produce labour as a commodity —  Smythe attempts to locate a material basis of power in the mass media’s ability to direct everyday forms of socially reproductive labour power. In this analysis, media content must be understood not as liquid information or transmitted content, but – taking Williams’ observation one step further – as a means of social reproduction with which audiences work, but from which they are alienated. “Marx assumed” writes Smythe (1977, 7), “that labour power is produced by the labourer and by his or her immediate family, i.e., under the conditions of handicraft production. In a word, labour power was ‘home-made’ in the absence of dominant brand-name commodities, mass advertising, and the mass media.” Insofar as, for Smythe, mass media become means of re/production, he concludes that   in Marx's period and in his analysis the principal aspect of capitalist production was the alienation of workers from the means of producing commodities-in-general. Now the principal aspect of capitalist production has become the alienation of workers from the means of producing and reproducing themselves (ibid).   If the audience commodity thesis contains a theory of mass mediated social reproduction, it also assumes categorically active audiences. While some thinking on “active audiences” centres the agency of viewers in reading, deconstructing, and subverting texts, thinking of audience 43  membership as a type of work suggests thinking of audiences’ relationship to texts as those of labour to means of (re)production: though reading texts requires work, audiences are largely excluded from their design and production. The significance of the “activity” of audiences lies not in the fact of activity, but the nature of the social relationships that structure the work of watching and reading texts. As spaces of “constructed in/visibility” (Gregory 2011), media texts can be understood as means of re/production with which audiences work, but not under circumstances of their own choosing.   Over-emphasis on the agency of audiences risks falling into the bourgeois trap identified by Raymond Williams, i.e. a liberal “transmission” view of communication as between autonomous receivers and senders. As Hillis (1998, 561) puts it, “it is impossible always to remain the totally active reader posited by reception theory. To theorize individuals as always succeeding in resisting the dominant readings intended by the makers of popular culture implies a denial of the limits of politics and suggests superhuman abilities, as if people never faltered or tired.” Thinking of audience activity as work suggests limits to textual “subversion” and reiterates the Foucauldian axiom that the agency of individuals is neither the opposite of, nor a bulwark against, the operation of power, but its very medium. Focusing on the activity of audiences further suggests the enduring importance of the police frame for thinking about communication, namely of the significance of public opinion – not in passive terms, but in governmental terms of “what men do.” Thinking together Foucault’s theorization of police as a kind of government of the self, with Smythe’s observation that social reproduction involves self-producing labour from which one is alienated, one can grasp the sense in which ‘communication as police’ involves more than the reception and 44  interpretation of media text, but the modes of production and work on the self; modes subject to increasing marketization.   Feminists writing on social reproduction have emphasized the uneven gendered nature of socially reproductive labour in the home, its porous temporal nature and its “invisibility” in traditional economic analysis. While the “work” of reading, listening, and watching inherent in leisure activity is further complicated by its uneven distribution along, for example, class (Veblen 1899), gender (Meehan & Riordan 2002) and racial (Gandy 2000) lines, understanding the way in which audience work underwrites the economic value of the advertising economy broadly corroborates the observation that, as Federici (2004, 7) argues, “the sphere of reproduction [is] a source of value-creation and exploitation.” Similarly, Cindi Katz (2001, 714) has made the observation that the “primarily cultural arenas of social reproduction include that broad category of cultural production categorized as the media.”   On this account it is necessary to understand the rise of advertising hegemony over the economics of communication as the rise of the commodification of the time of socially reproductive audience labour. Though uncredited, Smythe’s thinking on the commodity valuation of leisure time likely owed a debt to E.P. Thompson’s writing on the English working-class, specifically on the issue of work and time-discipline. Noting that during the industrial revolution, “the leisured classes began to discover the "problem" of the leisure of the masses,” Thompson (1967, 90) considers how emergent capitalists forms concerned themselves with the “efficient time-husbandry of the labour-force.” This involved a progressive commodification of leisure time and its enclosure as a source of exploitation and value production. Thompson (1967, 95) speculated that,  45   if we are to have enlarged leisure, in an automated future, the problem is not ‘how are men going to be able to consume all these additional time-units of leisure?’ but ‘what will be the capacity for experience of the men who have this undirected time to live?’ If we maintain a Puritan time-valuation, a commodity-valuation, then it is a question of how this time is put to use, or how it is exploited by the leisure industries.  As Elden (2015) has noted, Thompson’s work was also influential on Foucault, especially during the writing of Discipline & Punish and in his 1972-73 lecture series The Punitive Society, which reveals Foucault at his most Marxist in analyzing “the moralization of working class.”13 Neocleous’ work on police, heavily inspired by Foucault’s work during this period, makes similar observations concerning the congruity between Marxist and Foucauldian perspectives on this issue. For Foucault (2007, 322), police ensures “communication among men (sic)” and is interested “in what men do…in their activity and their occupation,” an interest that Neocleous (2000, 37) notes encompasses “the organization of labour both inside and outside production.” Again echoing Thompson on ruling class concern for the management of working class leisure time, Neocleous (2000, 55) argues that for police theorists of the 18th century, “interest lay in the problem of idleness outside the factory,” and that “the task of police is to employ a whole panoply of measures and techniques to manage idleness, extending well beyond the administration of relief into the morality, profligacy and propriety of the working class.”  While Foucault’s interests in the Punitive Society and in Discipline and Punish are the factory and the army respectively, his emphasis on the economic parallels between these institutions and the                                                 13	 Foucault	 references	 Thompson	 in	 the	 typescript	 of	 his	 lecture	 notes;	 and	Harcourt	 notes	 Foucault	 knew	 The	Making	of	the	English	Working	Class.	46  advent of capitalism’s valuation of time suggest further avenues for theorizing the ways in which capitalism altered and produced new structures of time in the administration of political and economic power.14 In his Punitive Society lectures, Foucault (2016, 73) is especially keen to observe “the organisation of worker time [in] the factory, the distribution and calculation of time [as] salary, the control of leisure, the life of the worker, savings, retirement, etc.” Suggesting what he calls “the global hold of power over time,” Foucault (ibid) notes the “species continuity between factory clock, the chronometry of the chain-gang and the prison calendar,” leading Elden (2015, 154) to suggest that Foucault’s “rethinking of temporality is one of the potential avenues for future work opened up by this set of lectures.”  Presaging a concept that will become indispensable to an analysis of psychological warfare, Foucault identifies police interest in the everyday lives of the lower and working classes as a process of moralization. As Elden (2015, 158) explains, “the state acts as an agent of morality, using the police to control everyday life” in a way that was linked to and supported the development of capitalism and the reproduction of the labour force. Disciplinary systems connected to emergence of capitalism therefore were meant to ensure that “bodies are available for work,” that “their force is applied in the right direction for the necessary task,” and crucially that “bodies are used for the reproduction of the workforce” (ibid). Though Foucault’s (1977, 149) thinking on police as a tool for the moralization of the working class predates his emphasis on                                                 14	Elden	(2015,	154)	draws	out	the	connection:		In	prison—“an	abstract,	monotonous,	rigid	punitive	system”—the	only	graduated	variable	is	time.	There	is	an	economic	parallel	here:	“Everyone	is	given	a	salary	for	labour	time,	and	inversely,	time	at	liberty	is	taken	as	the	price	for	violation	[infraction].	Time	is	the	only	property	possessed,	it	is	bought	for	work	or	it	is	taken	for	violation.”			47  pastoral power, it would corroborate it, notably in his analysis of the monastic origins of the time-table as a tool of discipline:15   The time-table is an old inheritance. The strict model was no doubt suggested by the monastic communities. It soon spread. Its three great methods — establish rhythms, impose particular occupations, regulate the cycles of repetition — were soon to be found in schools, workshops and hospitals. The new disciplines had no difficulty in taking up their place in the old forms; the schools and poor-houses extended the life and the regularity of the monastic communities to which they were often attached. The rigours of the industrial period long retained a religious air; in the seventeenth century, the regulations of the great manufactories laid down the exercises that would divide up the working day.  Though Foucault’s interests did not lead him to an examination of the press as a strategy of police, Innis’ work suggests further points of accord, notably concerning printing as an outgrowth of, and a challenge to, monastic order. For Innis (1950, 176), the printing press and the book undermined the "monopoly of monasticism" on knowledge, which in turn was challenged by the emergence of periodicals and newspapers, beginning roughly at the time of the American War of Independence. “The steadying influence of the book as a product of sustained intellectual effort,” Innis (1995, 370) argued, “was destroyed by new developments in periodicals and newspapers... The Western community was atomized by the pulverizing effects of the application of machine industry to communication." These convictions lead Innis (1952, 108) to his most insightful observations concerning the “freedom of the press” and its role in producing “the great bulwark of monopolies of time.” “It should be clear” he insisted, “that that improvements in communication tend to divide mankind." (ibid).                                                  15	This	analysis	likely	owed	something	also	to	Lewis	Mumford’s	(1934)	Technics	and	Civilization,	notably	Chapter	9,	“The	Monestary	and	the	Clock”		48   Where Innis saw rupture, however, Foucault attempted to trace continuity. For Foucault, though the explicitly sacred order of pastoral power became secularised in the governmental state, secular pastoral strategies of power “retained a religious air”. In the institution of the press in the nineteenth century we can identify, therefore, a Foucauldian mechanism of time-discipline and the “investment of duration with power.” If Foucault identified in the prison time-table the model for factory life, the observation can equally well be made of the modes of time-space standardization which are produced by the nineteenth century press. That is, the “establishment of rhythms” in the regular patterns of circulation and leisure time; of “imposing particular occupations” in the act of reading as well as what is to be read; and of “regulating cycles of repetition” in the punctuality of the daily press.16   Though for divergent purposes, both Foucault and Innis were deeply interested in uncovering the contradictions at the bottom of liberal society. While I have argued that the “work” of audiences shares its origins with the factory and the prison in its partitioning and policing of time, it is necessary to address the decisive difference of the volitional nature of reading, listening and                                                 16	Foucault’s	emphasis	on	the	“seriation”	of	activities,	and	the	“investment	of	duration	by	power”	suggests	another	staple	of	communication	media:	the	serial	and	the	series.	The	etymology	of	the	radio/television	“program”	suggests	a	similar	meaning,	when	considered	against	Foucault’s	(1977,	151)	thinking	on	time-discipline:				What	the	ordinance	of	1766	defines	is	not	a	time-table	-	the	general	framework	for	an	activity;	it	is	rather	a	collective	and	obligatory	rhythm,	imposed	from	the	outside;	it	is	a	‘programme’;	it	assures	the	elaboration	of	the	act	itself;	it	controls	its	development	and	its	stages	from	the	inside.	We	have	passed	from	a	form	of	injunction	 that	 measured	 or	 punctuated	 gestures	 to	 a	 web	 that	 constrains	 them	 or	 sustains	 them	throughout	their	entire	succession.	A	sort	of	anatomo-chronological	schema	of	behaviour	is	defined…	Time	penetrates	the	body	and	with	it	all	the	meticulous	controls	of	power.				49  watching, in comparison to the coercions of wage labour and incarceration. In the remainder of this section, I critique the notion that reading, listening and watching cannot be considered forms of audience labour, since they are 1) non-coerced as in penal or factory work and 2) that leisure or “free time” is voluntarily spent and cannot therefore be subject to disciplinary power. I argue therefore that nineteenth century mass industrialization and mass communication combine to effect transformations in the spaces of social reproduction that render them strategic objects of police.   Here Allan Pred’s application of Hägerstrandian time-geography can augment Innis’ account of the shift in the economic geography of nineteenth century U.S. communications. Moreover, Pred’s emphasis on everyday life corroborates Smythe’s turn to social reproduction as a key site for an analysis of communication. Here the synthetic power of a time-geographic perspective appears among its primary virtues. As Pred (1981, 5) sees it, “one finds in Hägerstrand's time-geography a highly flexible language and evolving philosophical perspective [that]… when integrated with other frameworks, make possible a reinterpretation of many of the grand themes of social theory.” Influenced by Bourdieu’s concept of ‘habitus’, Pred locates the family, domestic space, and processes of social reproduction at the center of time-geographic analysis. Echoing Raymond Williams, Pred (1981, 12) includes media exposure as a crucial element in coordinating both path and project development at various spatial scales:  Insofar as individuals who live in the same area have a common class or socioeconomic background and belong to the same generation are apt to have amassed numerous similar or common path elements, the uniquely emerging consciousness of many or most of them may contain strong ideological resemblances and a shared "structure of feeling", or sense of belonging to the particular social formation in which they find themselves [Williams]. That is, through participation in some of the same types of projects, through media exposure to and discussion of some of the same political-historical occurrences, celebrities, 50  and popular culture events, and through project-based contact with or exposure to manufactured objects of the same brand, the symbolic systems belonging to the consciousness of such individuals may be capable of evoking many similar associations.   Like Smythe, Pred includes both media exposure and branded commodities as sites of ideological production linked to everyday processes of social reproduction. Significantly, Pred identifies the emergence of the individual and of its ‘free time’ in particular as a correlate of the emergence of liberal capitalist forms of life. Subsequent to the nineteenth century shift away from family-defined production projects of home or farm, Pred correlates employer- and organization-defined production projects with the emergence of individualism and a changing conception of the meaning of ‘free time’. In the artisanal mode of production, Pred (1981, 9) writes, “there was apt to be an absence of strict temporal fixedness in the day-to-day arrangement of activity bundles and breaks.” The shift from a self-defined task-oriented labour process to the synchronized processes of factory labour had the well-noted effect of separating the conception of labour from its execution, but it also had the effect of powerfully rearranging the time geographies of everyday life. The time-geographic decoupling of family, Pred argues, helped solidify the individual as an independent economic unit. “Under the wage system of industrial capitalism” writes Pred, “family members were hired and fired not as a group, but as separate persons. Thus, income was frequently regarded as personal and although the vast bulk of it was given over to the family kitty, the seeds of economic individualism were planted” (p. 15 emphasis mine).    Pred’s analysis of the specific dynamics of individualism in the nineteenth century contribute to Foucault’s interest in uncovering genealogies of liberalism, and development of the individual as a correlate of pastoral power. If liberal thought is usually inclined to conceive the individual as a 51  site of discovery, like Foucault, Pred identifies structures of power beneath the liberal gloss — not discovery, but loss:   Inasmuch as factory and large-scale shop workers were reduced to interchangeable role holders confined to the disciplined execution of specialized tasks, individuals began to develop the need to be valued for themselves since individual identity could no longer be realized through work or through the ownership of productive property… Ironically, this contention is consistent with the romantic assumption… that the individual could find meaning and satisfaction in his life at home and nowhere else (ibid).  Alienation from the means of production, then, did not confine itself to the shop floor. “The mere temporal fixedness of such production projects,” Pred continues, “dictated a sharply demarcated separation of work and ‘play’… With the social contacts and life content of industrial laborers fragmented in this manner, they were apt to acquire a new sense of time marked by a distinction between one’s own time, or ‘spare’ time, and one’s employer’s time” (p. 25).  It is useful here to consider this new conception of ‘free time’ in the ironized sense conveyed by ‘free labour’ subsequent to the enclosure movements of the 18th century, and the emerging factory system. This new concept of free time is important for thinking together communication and police as a process of enclosing time. Pred’s geography of this new ‘free time’ shows that, far from the positive connotation of ‘freedom,’ a worker’s ‘free time’ was subject to powerful time-space discipline [fig. 3]. A major consequence of this time-geographic rupture was the generalization of a time-space opportunity cost to participate in nonproductive, and, significantly, political projects. This is to say that the space-time opportunity cost of factory life constituted a novel form of power exerted over the worker. The constitution of ‘free time’ as a property of individuals given over to the time-space discipline of factory work can therefore be understood, not as an autonomous 52  antithesis to capitalist work-time, but the extension of its discipline into erstwhile private life; as an enclosure of time for intensified exploitation and value production.    Figure 3: "Free time" Pred’s (1981) illustration of the constricted time-spaces attached the emergence of industrial “free time”.  53  Here an affinity between Innis’ critique of the ‘free press’ and Pred’s critique of ‘free time’ allows for a thicker contextualization of the process of audience commodification in the nineteenth century. With ‘free time’ limited to the highly disciplined time-spaces afforded by industrial leisure time, the circulation of newspapers gains purchase on an increasingly standardized and normalized configuration of working class leisure. If in the previous section I argued that nineteenth century time-space compression produced new uneven spaces of pastoral power, the standardization of working-class leisure time-spaces identified in Fig. 3 represents its pastoral counterpart at the scale of the individual. Thinking through the pastoral structure of these connected spatial scales provides a fuller picture of my attempt to spatialize Foucault’s analysis of ‘communication as police’; of a pastoral power which constructs, intervenes upon, and strategizes both populations and individuals. The standardization of information’s access to working class leisure time can therefore be understood as a dislocation of the modern habitus effected by time-space compression (Harvey 1989). However, this dislocation can again be understood as producing new rounds of pastoral spatial convergence: the commodification of spatiotemporally standardized ‘free time’ only becomes possible in relation to the existence of spaces of circulation at the scale of population. Here the omnes et singulatim of ‘communication as police’ combine in the newspaper’s ability to intervene in the time-spaces of social reproduction to produce the new peculiar commodity of audience labour.   Here again Raymond Williams injunction to understand ‘means of communication as means of production’ requires thinking of the way in which newspaper circulation produces new spaces and new forms of social organization: the newspaper becomes a means of production producing standardized spaces of circulation which render populations accessible to information, but also a 54  means of social reproduction that allows for the commodification of increasingly standardized working-class leisure time. In this light, dislocation of the habitus can be better understood in terms of spatial convergence of the pastoral scales with which I have been concerned. The newspaper becomes a spatially complex medium of a peculiar primitive accumulation; an “alienation of workers from the means of producing and reproducing themselves.”   As I have argued, over the course of the nineteenth century the crucial transformation of the pastoral and police structures of communication reflects the ascendency of capital as the primary producer of these spaces of production and reproduction. It is this permeability of time and space to capital, and the corollary pastoral structure of audience commodification that gives modern capitalist communication systems their distinctive character.17 As the chiaroscuro masses of audience commodities become the doppelgängers of public life (Warner 2002), “the public,” as James Carey (1989, 166) argues, “becomes a mere statistical artifact…[and] the public sphere goes into eclipse.”  This identification of the public’s ‘statistical artifactuality’ in a capitalist mass media system suggests further accord with a Foucauldian analysis of governmentality, particularly concerning the role of statistics as state knowledge, combined with an emphasis on managing the circulation of a contingent free press. Furthermore, the ‘statistical artifactualization’ of publics into audiences was accompanied by analytic refinements which can be understood as a mode of what I have                                                 17	 While	 Gibson-Graham	 (1996)	 has	 critiqued	 the	 Marxist	 rhetoric	 of	 capital’s	 ‘penetration’	 of	 social	 life,	 in	subsequent	chapters	(3	&	5)	I	show	that	popular	narratives	of	psychological	warfare	often	reproduce	the	same	‘rape	script’	they	identify.		55  identified as Foucault’s ‘specification of individuals’. As Innis notes, this process of specification was sped by the emergence of magazines in the early twentieth century, many of which sought to access the valuable female readerships to whom the tasks of household consumption fell. As Innis (1952, 7) writes,    the position of women as purchasers of goods led to concentration on women's magazines and on advertising…Through the national magazine, advertisers such as the manufacturers of pianos, high cost two-wheeled bicycles, and other commodities were able to reach a large market at less cost than through the daily newspaper and to concentrate on more attractive layouts appealing to people in higher income brackets. The national magazine made a systematic attack on older advertising media…The average circulations of magazines increased from 500,000 to 1,400,000 in the period from 1905 to 1915 and following the boom beginning in 1922 reached 3,000,000 by 1937. The Reader's Digest was started in 1922, Time in 1923, and the New Yorker in 1925...After the First World War, women's magazines, which had begun as pattern makers in the Delineator and other Butterick papers, gained conspicuously in circulation. Women's magazines reached the largest circulations, paid most highly for articles, and were the chief market for writers.   The competition between magazines and newspapers for access to specific populations demonstrates the way in which, at the turn of the twentieth century, the growth of audience commodification was intimately linked to ‘statistics’ in the Foucauldian sense. With the rise of television – the medium of audience commodification par excellence – the specification of individuals undergoes a round of intense refinement. In her contribution to the blindspot debate in the political economy of communication, Eileen Meehan (1984) identifies the ratings industry as a crucial intermediary in the process of audience commodification. Meehan pays particular attention to the way in which the ratings industry specifies, refines, and unevenly values audience 56  demographics along the lines of gender, race, age, income, subculture, etc.18 If Foucault is correct in identifying scientia sexualis as transforming the sexual ‘deviant’ into a species, the ratings industry, as a crucial intermediary in the production and refinement of audience commodities, similarly occasions the proliferation of new species; of audiences with specific social, economic and cultural contours.   In the first three sections of this chapter I have outlined Foucault’s theory of pastoral power as it relates to his project to understand modern liberal governmentality, and the sense in which communication can be understood as strategy of police. I have attempted to spatialize Foucault’s analysis by attending to the pastoral spaces produced by the historical development of ‘the means of communication as means of production’ in the nineteenth century United States. I have argued that Foucault’s identification of the ‘paradoxical’ scales of pastoral power — the population and the individual — combine in the newspaper’s ability to construct ‘population accessibility’ through governmental spaces of circulation, and in its ability to primitively accumulate commodified leisure time as a kind of circulating fixed capital, and a ‘means of social reproduction.’ I conclude by suggesting that the historical development of audience commodification can be understood as the continuation of the ‘specification of individuals’; as the “analytical identification, subjection, and subjectivation” that Foucault (2007, 183) understands as central to pastoral power and “the entire history of procedures of human individualization in the West.                                                  18	More	recently	Oscar	Gandy	Jr.	(2007)	has	written	about	the	role	of	audience	segmentation	in	‘The	Formation	of	A	Racial	 Class’.	 Gandy,	 like	Meehan,	 pays	 particular	 attention	 to	 the	way	 in	 which	 different	 audiences	 command	different	prices	on	the	audience	commodity	market.		57  Central to this chapter’s analytic focus has been an attempt to combine Foucauldian and Marxist analyses of communication. While Foucault may have been troubled by the rhetoric of some contemporaries’ ‘scientific’ Marxism, Foucault’s posthumous publications suggest the compatibility of his thinking to class analysis.19 Similarly, in his Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844, Marx (1844) readily accepted the limits of political economic analysis, invoking a Foucauldian menagerie: “the cheat-thief, swindler, beggar, and unemployed,” wrote Marx, “the starving, the wretched and criminal workingman – these figures who do not exist for political economy but only for other eyes, those of the doctor, the judge, the grave digger, and bumbailiff, etc; such figures are specters outside its [political economy’s] domain.” In this chapter’s final section, I suggest ways of thinking together these analyses communication as they combine with the emergence of modern warfare.   2.2 Lines of Communication    In book 5, chapter 15 of his treatise On War, Karl von Clausewitz identifies the biopolitical and arterial nature of the military line of communication, emphasizing its relational nature to the whole of the military base’s extension in space:  although according to the present system of subsistence, an army is chiefly fed from the district in which it is operating, it must still be looked upon as forming a whole with its base. The lines of communication belong to this whole; they form the connection between the army and its base, and are to be considered as so many great vital arteries.                                                 19	See	especially	The	Punitive	Society	for	Foucault	(2015)	at	his	most	class	conscious.		58   The chapters that follow in this dissertation attempt to map out the changing contours of the military line of communication in the 20th century, specifically as they concern the articulation and practice of ‘psychological warfare’ in and by the United States. While the transmission-transportation paradigm still dictates contemporary military definitions, this dissertation considers how pastoral spaces of ‘communication as police’ have constituted new lines of military communication as the civilian is increasingly subsumed within the logic of war.  Modern rounds of time-space compression, however, have fundamentally altered lines of communication and the way in which “a whole is formed with an army’s base.” While in subsequent chapters I trace the changing political contours of these new lines of “ritualistic” communication (Carey1989), in the final section of this chapter, I consider how the production of what I have above called the pastoral spaces of ‘communication as police’ fundamentally altered the military line of communication.   Central to the shift in the military line of communication in the nineteenth century was the new possibility of experiencing war at a distance (Favret 2009), particularly after the advent of the telegraph, which compressed the time-space of war reporting and allowed for the regular production and consumption of war reporting in metropolitan centers like London or Paris. While direct spectatorship of war remained impossible for most, Mieszkowski (2012, 2) theorizes what he calls the “Napoleonic war imaginary,” in which the mass reproduction and circulation of war reporting established dramatic tropes in the mediation of war spectatorship at a distance. In the popular mediation of warfare, then, Mieszkowski identified the production of a mass readership for war reporting as a kind of civilian counterpart to the French levée en masse:   59  ‘Suddenly,’ as the Prussian soldier and military theorist Carl von Clausewitz wrote, war ‘became the business of the people.’ With the advantage of hindsight, Raymond Williams would echo this sentiment, arguing that the modern notion of the ‘mass’ was forged at the turn of the nineteenth century. He might have added that it was first and foremost a mass of spectators consuming war.   Spectatorship did not always mean distance, however, and for many the experience of war was all too immediate. While the popular mediation of war allowed it to become the “business of the people,” in the nineteenth century people also became the business of war. In addition to the radical transformations which have occurred in the mediation of modern warfare, it is also necessary to consider continuities between nineteenth and twentieth century lines of communication. As an extended passage from Clausewitz’s On War reveals, far from being matter of frictionless transportation, nineteenth century lines of communication reflected the deeply human contours of the spaces through which they ran. To the extent that lines of communication were a problem for military commanders, they were a political problem. I reproduce the passage here, with commentary below:   an army in an enemy's country… can as a rule only look upon those roads as lines of communication upon which it has advanced; and hence arises through small and almost invisible causes a great difference in operating. The army in the enemy's country takes under its protection the organisation which, as it advances, it necessarily introduces to form its lines of communication; and in general, inasmuch as terror, and the presence of an enemy's army in the country invests these measures in the eyes of the inhabitants with all the weight of unalterable necessity, the inhabitants may even be brought to regard them as an alleviation of the evils inseparable from war. Small garrisons left behind in different places support and maintain this system. But if these commissaries, commandants of stations, police, fieldposts, and the rest of the apparatus of administration, were sent to some distant road upon which the army had not been seen, the inhabitants then would look upon such measures as a burden which they would gladly get rid of, and if the most complete defeats and catastrophes had not previously spread terror throughout the land, the probability is that these functionaries would be treated as enemies, and driven away with very rough usage. Therefore, in the first place it would be necessary to establish garrisons to subjugate the new line, and these garrisons would require to be of more than ordinary 60  strength, and still there would always be a danger of the inhabitants rising and attempting to overpower them. In short, an army marching into an enemy's country is destitute of the mechanism through which obedience is rendered; it has to institute its officials into their places, which can only be done by a strong hand, and this cannot be effected thoroughly without sacrifices and difficulties, nor is it the work of a moment—From this it follows that a change of the system of communication is much less easy of accomplishment in an enemy's country than in our own, where it is at least possible; and it also follows that the army is more restricted in its movements, and must be much more sensitive about any demonstrations against its communications (all emphasis mine).   From this long passage can be observed several important themes which remain relevant for understanding modern lines of communication at war. First, the line of communication appears as a relational space, produced only through the subjugation of the civilian populations through which it runs. Apart from this subjugation, it remains only a road, and not yet the ‘vital arteries’ of the line of communication. A seemingly simple point, Clausewitz notes that the problems of subjugating lines of communication are largely geographical in their determination, that is, “a change of the system of communication is much less easy of accomplishment in an enemy's country than in our own.” As the subsequent chapters of this dissertation reveal, however, this lesson has been perennially ignored as both political and military leaders persist in the belief that domestic forms of pastoral power and ‘communication as police’ — what becomes ‘psychological warfare’ — can be frictionlessly exported to enemy countries. As I show, central to the construction of psychological warfare has been the claim that technocratic mastery over public opinion and the means of communication allows for the subjugation of lines of communication across undifferentiated space.  Second, Clausewitz is clear that lines of communication are subjugated, not only through the quotidian violence of war, but through the spectacular violence of terror, which he insists must be 61  “invested in the eyes of the inhabitants.”20 Only after this initial violence, he argues, can a system of political administration in enemy territory be achieved. While Foucault is often remembered for having reversed Clausewtiz’s famous maxim that ‘war is an extension of politics by other means,’ in regard to the line of communication Clausewitz himself appears to reach a similar conclusion. Indeed, that ‘politics is an extension of war by other means’ has been observed by many psychological warriors before and without recourse to Foucault.  Taken together, these points represent enduring aspects of the line of communication: its relationality with respect to the subjugation of civilian populations, the differential geographical prospects for subjugation at home and abroad, and the enduring role of terror as a tool for subjugating enemy populations. I emphasize these points as they run counter to what becomes the received theory and doctrine of psychological warfare, namely that psychological warfare is an alternative to violence, and that psychological warfare can be effectively waged in enemy countries.    2.2.1 Correspondence in Crimea  While these enduring structures remain, historical development of the means of communication have nonetheless profoundly altered the relational space of the line of communication. In the following chapters I consider how ‘psychological warfare’ emerges as a strategy to subjugate these changing relational contours, however in the remainder of this chapter I consider how telegraphic                                                 20	While	perhaps	a	jarring	metaphor,	as	will	be	seen,	the	idea	of	violence	as	a	form	of	productive	political	capital	‘invested’	in	enemy	civilians	was	foundational	to	the	ideological	articulation	of	psychological	warfare	as	it	emerged	in	the	Second	World	War.	62  time-space compression produced new spaces of communication in the latter half of the nineteenth century, and how, as ‘the business of the people,’ the government of public opinion became necessary to warfighting. Just as the telegraph was an important actor in the reconfiguration of the political economy of the pr