This is an excerpt (without footnotes) from The Genius of the Beast: A Radical Re-Vision of Capitalism by Howard Bloom (Prometheus Books, 2011). Reprinted by permission from the author.
Plato and The Name Game
How a Greek entrepreneur 2,400 years ago succeeded mightily, but made a big mistake.
Passion, commitment, idealism, and honesty often sound out of place in conversations about business. Yet these qualities, plus gut sense, intellect, and intense conviction, helped gross hundreds of million dollars for Stephanie Mills, for Prince, for Warner Brothers, and for Gulf & Western Industries.
The rules that made for this success in the world of corporations, politics, and even the scientific community were these:
- If you champion the interests of millions of people outside the picket fence of your friends, your co-workers, and your family;
- If you seek truths others don’t see, if you find them, if you question them, if you test them, and if, when you sense they are solid, you battle for them;
- If you know that unseen truths are not just logical;
- If you know that tracking truths takes both emotion and reason;
- If you know that truth feeds off of supersaturation—off of unconventional study and minute-to-minute immersion in your field,
- If you know that your instruments for divining truth are:
your gut feeling
PLUS your intellect
PLUS continual contact with folks outside your social sphere
PLUS the sum of all you’ve learned by following every curiosity that’s in you,
Then you will outdo your competitors. Why?
Because serving others is the real purpose of the deadened institutions in which so many of us have become like deadened cells. If you serve others with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your intellect, you may be loathed, you may be hated, and you may be mocked, harassed, and hounded, but you will succeed.
And you will do more. You will advance the cause of the evolutionary search engine. You will advance the cause of the secular genesis machine. You will advance the cause of a cosmos feeling out her possibilities. You will do it by using your emotions to feel out the soul of your fellow human beings.
So why do we often think that business is a field in which commitment and personal passion are out of place, a field in which idealism is the wrong way to go, and a field in which creating something of lasting meaning is an impractical dream? Blame it on a long line of misguided thinkers. Blame it on the Greeks.
The time was over four hundred years before the Christian Era. The place was Athens. A small group of entrepreneurs were shaping a lucrative new form of inter-continental commerce-a society-advancer par excellence—the idea business, the perception trade, and the publishing-and-higher-education industry. These pioneers of commerce were doing something more. They were shaping the perceptual lens through which you and I look at our world today.
But there was a catch. The legacy these founders of the knowledge-industry left to us was marred by a glassy flaw, a bit of fraud, a swirl of gray that blocked our sight. The founding fathers of the thinking trade pondered society and its ethics, but overlooked some of their own most important tools, tools that made their own enterprises thrive. One of those founding fathers of the wisdom trade acknowledged that a city-state needed its craftsmen, its artists, its importers, its exporters, its merchants, and its retailers if it was going to live a rich and varied life. But in his twenty-seven existing works, this sage only devoted three brief passages to the necessity of business skills, then moved on. What’s worse, he denied that the techniques of a salesman—the methods that a stall-owner in the marketplace used to persuade a shopper to favor the olive oil from one island over that from another—had anything to do with him.
That key figure in the development of the Western Way of Thought was Plato, the philosopher who many modern experts credit with opening the gates of insight to every basic issue the modern mind has ever conceived. Plato did something crucial. He invented a phrase to describe the product he claimed he wasn’t selling, the commodity he believed towered over all the others. He called it “the food of the soul.”
Plato used the concept of “merchants of the food of the soul” to ridicule his archenemies, the Sophists, who, he implied, were hawking something for drachmas that should never be bought and sold.
Plato wouldn’t stoop that low. Or so he led his customers to believe. But he sinned against the rule of the truth at any price including the price of your life. He failed to leave a treatise about one of his greatest talents—something he did better than any of his competitors—promotion and marketing: keys to the way that he himself sold concepts that expanded the reach of the soul and that multiplied the powers of those who pursue meaning.
Why did Plato fail to explain an art so crucial to his life and ours? Why did he neglect promotion, marketing, and sales, skills he had mastered to the nth degree? Because Plato came from a society that despised its merchants and its practical businessmen. Plato wanted his potential clients to regard him as far loftier than a simple vendor in the marketplace. He wanted to jack up his own price.
In other words, Plato was blinded by snobbery. And he passed that blindness on to you and me.
But make no mistake about it—Plato was a great salesman. And he had an advantage. He wasn’t building from scratch. He had two hundred years of product development behind him. In roughly 600 B.C., a full one-hundred-and-seventy-three years before Plato first emerged from the womb, a thinker from the Greek trading city of Miletus came up with a new substitute for an old wholesale and retail item, religion.
Religion claimed it could keep you from disaster and give you luck by placating the gods. Thales of Miletus—the man who invented philosophy—offered to untie you from the apron strings of the capricious deities. He developed a new technique that could protect you from cataclysm and clue you into opportunity by helping you understand far more than just the whims of Zeus and his wife, Hera. Thales’ new approach to thought could help you see the cause and effect behind mere ordinary things…things like stones and suns, plants and animals, politics, truth and justice, ideas, and your fellow human beings.
"Necessity is the strongest of things, for it rules everything." Thales of Miletus pic.twitter.com/HR8CSI6D4o
— Church and State (@ChurchAndStateN) September 5, 2017
Religion demanded faith. Thales new approach gave reign to other emotions—calm analysis and blazing curiosity. Religion’s tools were ritual and revelation. Thales’ tools were multi-cultural concept-gathering, debate, and reason.
Thales called his new approach to understanding and control “the love of wisdom and sagacity”—“philo” (love) plus “sophos” (wisdom and sagacity). Thales had invented “philosophy.”
Thales and the philosophical thinkers who followed him were in a field very similar to that of food processors like Sara Lee or of clothing makers like Gucci today. They imported ideas, reworked them, upgraded them, then retailed and promoted them. They built their image and their alliances step by step, spreading the popularity of their finished goods.
One of the coups that made Thales famous won him the title “the father of astronomy.” Herodotus, the first Westerner we know of to write a history, reports that the Medes and the Lydians had been battling for six years and nothing seemed capable of stopping the blood bath. Then one afternoon “day was on a sudden changed into night.” Apparently the darkness in mid-day scared the armor off the combatants, who stopped stabbing and hacking at each other and screamed for mercy from any god they could find. The fright was so great that the commanders hastily patched together a peace treaty.
Had the Ionian Greeks been on the battlefield, they would have known that this darkness in mid-afternoon was nothing to be afraid of and would have beaten their panicked enemies. Why? Thales had predicted this disappearance of the sun.
How did Thales know an eclipse was coming? He had more than reason on his side. Merchants and the commercial shipping industry made the Greek society tick. Greek merchants wove a web of exchange in tin, wine, wheat, pottery, and wool from Spain to the Black Sea, a mesh whose commerce threaded through five-hundred Greek city-states. Greek colonies—most of them seaports—stretched the 2,400 miles from Massilia in France (now known as Marseilles) and Hadrumetum in North Africa to Dioscurias, Theodosia, and Phasis in Turkey, Georgia, and Russia. The Greeks treated their merchants with disdain. But it’s the merchants and their profits who would someday give Socrates his bread (made from imported Russian wheat) and Plato his inspirations. Inspirations based on the imported ideas Pythagoras had developed in his academy at Crotona in Italy. And inspirations based on the imported model of the Spartan constitution and state, from which Plato had gotten the notions of political structure he proposed in his dialog The Republic.
Thales was the son of Phoenicians who had moved to the Greek shipping-hub of Miletus. Only one people rivaled the Greeks at trade—the people of Thales’ parents’ native land, Phoenicia.
What does this have to do with eclipses and philosophy? Thales was the equivalent of a searcher bee. He traveled the sea lanes—probably on trading ships—looking for ideas. He’d picked up the technique of eclipse-prediction in Egypt. He’d refined his mathematics using techniques from Babylonia. Then he’d worked these into his own concepts of a cosmos based on material substances like water. In other words, Thales was in the idea export, import, retroengineering, upgrading, and repackaging biz. He was a living embodiment of the key rule of the evolutionary search engine—search, stretch, speculate, then consolidate.
A hundred and fifty years later, the center of Greek trade and power had moved to Athens. In that town another walking Cuisinart of imported knowledge abandoned his father’s craft—sculpture—and spent his days in the marketplace asking cagey questions. Those questions made his reputation. His name was Socrates.
What were Socrates’ thought-stumping questions based on? The native Athenian blended ideas from earlier Greek philosophers: Parmenides, Heraclitus, Anaxagoras, and Zeno. All these men were foreigners whose notions had entered Athens via its routes of trade. Parmenides was from Elea. So was Zeno. Heraclitus was from Ephesus. Anaxagoras—who may have come to Athens and have been Socrates’ teacher—was from Clazomenae. Socrates, like Thales, was an ace consolidator.
By the time Plato was born, Socrates was a legend. If you can believe Plato’s later accounts (and you’d be wise to hesitate before trusting them entirely), Socrates had received the ultimate rave review from the ultimate critic—the Delphic Oracle, the woman-in-a-holy-trance who spoke on behalf of the god Apollo himself. Demonstrating that you can take men away from the gods but you can’t take the gods away from men, the Oracle had proclaimed Socrates “the wisest man in Greece.”
Socrates had also won notoriety for his influence over the young, especially over youngsters like Alcibiades, a fabulously rich kid who had captivated all of Athens with the success of his race horses, with the cleverness of his quips, and with his ability to amuse the highly visible, highly popular head of state, Pericles. Alcibiades had worked out a plan for making war on Syracuse, then was held back from leading the army by a scandal. Athens’ was dotted with statues that celebrated the holy power of the male erection. One dark night, someone knocked the statues’ penises off. Word of mouth said the culprit was Alcibiades.
Without Alcibiades leading the charge in Syracuse, the war he’d planned was lost. Alcibiades was threatened with punishment for the penis-stunt, and turned on Athens, joining up with Athens’ foes, the Spartans, then switching sides again and offering his services to another Athenian enemy—Persia.
Despite this questionable behavior, Alcibiades was called back to Athens to lead a successful naval campaign, then fell out of favor with the public when he lost big-time to a new Spartan commander, Lysander, the year after Plato became a student of Socrates. In other words, many Athenians saw Alcibiades as a trouble maker…one whose mischief sometimes threatened the city’s very survival. Keep this story in mind. It plays a part in Socrates’ demise.
Plato was the son of a very prominent, very aristocratic family, one that traced its roots to Athens’ former kings. The money that gave Plato the freedom to think probably came from the labor of the farming families who worked his ancestral land. The freedom from daily chores that gave Plato even more thinking time came from subhuman Robovacs who didn’t rate high enough for thought—slaves.
When he was twenty years old, Plato signed up as one of Socrates’ students. Eight years into the relationship between the two, Socrates pulled off the ultimate personal-marketing and publicity stunt—martyrdom. Few embark on this course deliberately—though one of Socrates’ predecessors in philosophy, Pythagoras, had done it—dressing in an all-white suit then tossing himself into a volcano. In modern times martyrdom has led to a permanent place in memory for Abe Lincoln, John F. Kennedy, and Princess Di. Martyrdom has group-bonding power. It also grabs a vital space in our respect and our memory. Even when, like Lincoln, Kennedy, and Diana, you do not seek it out.
Socrates was condemned by Athens’ authorities for leading the youth of the city—youth like Alcibiades—astray. The philosopher accepted his death sentence with grace. And at the ripe old age of seventy, he drank a fatal cup of poison, hemlock, while, if Plato’s accounts are accurate, giving one of his finest speeches.
This set the stage for Plato’s rise. The twenty-eight-year-old cashed in on the fabulous name value Socrates’ had left behind and packaged what he claimed was Socrates’ philosophy in over twenty books.
Plato may well have put his own ideas in Socrates’ mouth. However Plato presented these volumes as authentic re-creations of Socrates’ greatest hits—his most important dialogs. Then he attached the names of famous men to these bids for literary influence. Plato named one dialog for Cratylus, a philosopher who’d gained fame long before Plato came along. Cratylus had studied under one of the founding fathers of Greek thought, Heraclitus, the philosopher of change who (according to Plato) said, “you can never dip your foot into the same river twice.” Plato had attended Cratylus’ lectures in his youth as a mere member of the audience. Now Plato used Cratylus’ name to pole-vault himself up to Cratylus’ level…and beyond.
Plato used the name game once again when he named another of his dialogs The Critias. Critias was a superstar who would be dubbed by the 1898 edition of the Harpers Dictionary of Classical Antiquities as “one of the most accomplished men of his time”—a quadruple threat—a philosopher, a poet, an orator, and a politician—who would eventually become one of the Thirty Tyrants—the aristocratic strongmen who would seize control of Athens after it lost a twenty-seven-year-long war with the Spartans in 403 B.C.. Critias was more than simply famous. He was also Plato’s uncle. In essence, Plato snatched Critias’ reputation and used it for a double-duty task—to build the star power of his own writings…and to boost his family’s reputation. This was salesmanship and marketing.
Then there was the dialog Plato wrote in which he portrayed Socrates debating one of Plato’s arch-rivals for influence, Gorgias, the man known as the father of the Sophists, an inter-city-state celebrity who made a fortune in lecture fees and in fees for teaching how to make politically persuasive speeches. Public demand kept Georgias on tour so many days of the year that he was famous for upping his profits by evading taxes. How? He never stayed in one place long enough to be counted as a resident. Gorgias was also the expert who literally wrote the book on rhetoric (titled, with great wit and originality, The Handbook to Rhetoric).
When Plato used Gorgias as a character in one of his dialogs it made a ballsy statement—that Plato and Socrates were not only on a par with Gorgias, they were far higher. As an author, Plato had the power to whisk Gorgias into a “historical reenactment” of an incident from Socrates’ life, to portray Gorgias as a very bright man, to make sure that Socrates seemed even brighter, to guarantee that Socrates came out as the real master of the debate, then to shuffle Gorgias offstage again. Gorgias may have been great, but Socrates—and by extension Plato—were greater.
The use of the names of the famous was a marketing technique of the sort we see today in paid endorsements. Add the name of a celebrated person to what you’re selling, and you give your product that leading light’s candlepower. The trick may seem shabby, but it works.
Why have 2,500 years of thinkers forgiven Plato for this cheap trick?
One: because it’s a trick that all of us in the “food of the soul” trades use. We do it every time we cite an expert, every time we hark back to a legendary sage like Plato, Aristotle, Kant, Hegel, Darwin, or Einstein, and every time we write a footnote.
Two: the meat of the matter is in the validity of what we have to say. Or, as we’ll see in tales that come up a few chapters down the line, if you have something you believe in, it’s your obligation to sell it. If you fail to sell what you feel can uplift others, you let your fellow humans down.
And three: invoking the names of the great and using them to validate what you’re selling may speak to something deep in our instinctual tool kit—it may speak to an attention-swiveler built in by the evolutionary search engine.
It’s been a popular intellectual sport for centuries to find the unique qualities that put humans above all other animals. Once it was said that man alone made tools. Then Jane Goodall went to the forests of Gombe and found chimpanzees stripping the leaves from twigs and using the denuded sticks to fish termites and ants from their nests.
Other chimp researchers discovered that some of these hairy relatives of ours also set up stone anvils and hammers to break open the shells of nuts.
Birds are good at tool use, too. Darwin discovered that woodpecker finches use cactus spines to pry insects out of holes. Jane Goodall, the chimp expert, discovered that Egyptian vultures use stones to crack open ostrich shells. Others found that ravens and the seabirds known as oystercatchers use tools too. So Man the Tool Maker was no longer Man The Distinctly Different.
Then it was said that man alone had language. But researchers studying patas monkeys in Africa found that these lowly beasts use different “words” to tell each other whether to look below them for a snake, to look to either side for an approaching leopard, or to look up into the sky for a diving bird with its talons aimed at patas monkey meat. Ten years or so later researchers found that chickens have a similar lexicon of warning sounds. Gray parrots demonstrated in the lab and out of it that they can master not just one-hundred-and-fifty words or so of human vocabulary, but that they can also grasp some of the abstract concepts that go with those words. If you asked a gray parrot named Alex, a parrot studied by the University of Arizona’s Irene Pepperberg, to pick a square shape from a batch of wooden toys, he could do it. If you asked him to switch gears and to pick something blue from the same batch, and he got your drift and found you something painted in a nice cerulean hue. What’s more, if he got grouchy, Alex told Pepperberg, “Don’t tell me to calm down.”
Meanwhile a naturalist who studied prairie dogs even claimed that these chatty beasts have a “vocabulary” of two-hundred-and-twenty words. There went language as the Great Human Differentiator.
So what does distinguish humans from oystercatchers, chimps, chickens, patas monkeys, and prairie dogs? It’s the knapsack of accumulated knowledge we carry with us from toddlerhood to death—our culture. And what instincts persistently shovel new material into the cultural backpack? Ancestor worship, legend loyalty, and celebrity fetish.
We find these three in nearly every culture. To validate an argument, we refer back to our ancestors—or to someone who, while still alive, has already garnered the sort of authority only ancestors normally have. A Frenchman may cite the support for his ideas in the works of Racine or Rousseau. A dictator in Eastern Asia like Malaysia’s Mahathir Mohammed or Singapore’s Lee Kuan Yew will justify “Asian Values” by citing Confucius and the Koran. An American will cite the founding fathers—Jefferson and Ben Franklin—or the work of a popular expert, from Sigmund Freud to Dr. Phil. And we’ll all cite the authority of a person who was a legend in times past or is a living legend today.
Americans, Frenchmen, and virtually all Europeans will go back further and pull citations from four key ancestral knapsacks—the Bible, the Koran, the Vedas, or the Greek and Roman classics. To make a point, we unwittingly keep legendary figures, both living and dead, alive in our vocabulary—and alive in the minds of our friends, our employees, our bosses, and our families.
What advantage does this mental equivalent to a knee-jerk give us? It’s a conceptual structure-maker and a conceptual consolidator. It provides us with a cache of useful notions that other species would forget. It provides us with bits of wisdom (and of fallacy) from a history that’s at least eight thousand years old.
Look, for example, at what you’re reading now—the tales of ancestors and of living legends, all evoked to give you (and me) new insights into what should be obvious but isn’t—the value of what we do each day. The name game plays on this wisdom-gathering instinct, this fixation on the rich, the famous, or the great. This fixation on the big men and the big women of history.
The use of names to persuade—the name game—was only the start of Plato’s promotional campaign. Plato pulled off the ultimate social contribution—and the ultimate promotional gimmick: he established an institution that lasted 800 years, the Academy, and he established a reputation, a brand, that has held up for 120 generations. How did he do it?
Plato founded an elite school in a suburb of Athens, the above-mentioned Academy. Though he claimed he was not a “merchant,” Plato set up a money-making system that kept the Academy running for eight centuries. That money-making system is known today as bringing in endowments. Plato cherry-picked his students, gifted kids from families of mega-wealth and mega-influence. These were youngsters who already had more than a fair head-start at becoming agora-movers and Parthenon-shakers. One of Plato’s goals was to persuade the parents of alumni to leave their money to the Academy. A second target was to maximize the odds that graduates would become renowned and would boost the Academy’s fame and prestige.
It worked. Plato achieved what he set out to do. And he deserved to. He sold what he believed would better his fellow human beings. He put his whole life into developing his ideas. He put all of his intellect and all of his passion into his books. He put his soul into his work. He sold new ways to think. And he sold new ways to work out what an ideal state should be.
Plato did far more than simply sell to a local and an international market. He sold his ideas to a future audience he would never live to see, an audience that existed only in vision and imagination, the audience of future readers like you and me, the audience of posterity.
Why should this matter in a world of bottom lines? Plato’s promotional flair gave him stature, power, and money. But selling to audiences that appeared long after he was dead didn’t net him a cent. When publishing houses like Penguin put out the Greek classics today, Plato doesn’t get a royalty check. So what profit it a man to lose his life yet speak to you and me?
The payoff comes in something the Greeks were shooting for even if they wouldn’t be around to enjoy it…immortality. That’s what being a part of something higher than yourself is all about. We humans are paid not just in money but in recognition and in knowing that we’ve made a difference. This payoff, in fact, is more satisfying than cash. Permanence is more than just the ultimate coup in marketing. It’s the ultimate act of consolidation. The ultimate act of structure-making. It’s the ultimate social contribution.
Plato failed in only one thing. He said nothing about how he built his career. He didn’t explain how he constructed the launch-pad that put his concepts into a lasting orbit.
Plato sold “food for the soul” magnificently but refused to reveal the secrets of this achievement. He left us thinking that the work of a promoter, the work of a marketer, and the work of a merchant were violations of the purity of soul. Plato, more than anyone, should have known that that’s not true. Soul is at the heart of what those in business do.
For all he gave us, Plato robbed us of the dignity of our labors. He taught us to downgrade what we do to earn our daily cappuccino. He stopped us from seeing how our work, like his, can tap into our deepest passions and can inject lasting meaning into others’ lives.
Here are some of the questions Plato dodged, some of the questions whose answers he knew but hid. What is buying and selling all about? Why does this capitalist process work? What does it achieve? Why is it so central in our lives? How do we make contributions as potent and as lasting as Plato’s work turned out to be?
The story of where capitalism came from and of where it’s going next yields a heap of very strange answers to these questions. So check your oxygen tanks. We’re about to dive deep into the underwater caves of Western history. This is not the snorkel-trip they took you on in high school or in college. Capitalism’s history has been radically misperceived. It’s a tale that started with a pile of stones, a bit of mud, maniacal persistence, and a batch of lunatic daydreams. It’s the hidden tale of an astounding evolutionary search engine and of an unbelievable secular genesis machine.
Excerpted from The Genius of the Beast by Howard Bloom. Copyright © Howard Bloom, 2011. All rights reserved.
Howard Bloom has been called “next in a lineage of seminal thinkers that includes Newton, Darwin, Einstein, [and] Freud” by Britain’s Channel4 TV, “the next Stephen Hawking” by Gear Magazine, and “The Buckminster Fuller and Arthur C. Clarke of the new millennium” by Buckminster Fuller’s archivist. Bloom is the author of The Lucifer Principle: A Scientific Expedition Into the Forces of History (“mesmerizing” – The Washington Post), Global Brain: The Evolution of Mass Mind from the Big Bang to the 21st Century (“reassuring and sobering” – The New Yorker), The Genius of the Beast: A Radical Re-Vision of Capitalism (“Impressive, stimulating, and tremendously enjoyable.” James Fallows, National Correspondent, The Atlantic), The God Problem: How A Godless Cosmos Creates (“Bloom’s argument will rock your world.” Barbara Ehrenreich), How I Accidentally Started the Sixties (“a monumental, epic, glorious literary achievement.” Timothy Leary), and The Muhammad Code: How a Desert Prophet Gave You ISIS, al Qaeda, and Boko Haram – or How Muhammad Invented Jihad (“a terrifying book… the best book I’ve read on Islam,” David Swindle, PJ Media).
Bloom explains that his field is “mass behaviour, from the mass behaviour of quarks to the mass behaviour of human beings.” That specialisation gives him a wide scope. His scientific work has been published in: arxiv.org, the leading pre-print site in advanced theoretical physics and mathematics; PhysicaPlus, another physics journal; Across Species Comparisons and Psychopathology; New Ideas in Psychology; The Journal of Space Philosophy; and in the book series: Research in Biopolitics. In 2005, Bloom lectured an international conference of quantum physicists in Moscow – Quantum Informatics 2006 – on why everything they know about Schrodinger’s Equation is wrong, and the concepts Bloom introduced were later used in a book proposing a new approach to quantum physics, Constructive Physics, by Moscow University’s Yuri Ozhigov.
Bloom’s second book Global Brain was the subject of an Office of the Secretary of Defense symposium in 2010, with participants from the State Department, the Energy Department, DARPA, IBM, and MIT. Bloom is founder and head of the Space Development Steering Committee, a group that includes astronauts Buzz Aldrin, Edgar Mitchell (the sixth man on the moon), and members from the National Science Foundation and NASA. He has debated one-on-one with senior officials from Egypt’s Muslim Brotherhood and Gaza’s Hamas on Iran’s global Arab-language Alalam TV News Network. He has also dissected headline issues on Saudi Arabia’s KSA2-TV and on Iran’s global English language Press-TV. And he has probed the untold story of the Syrian Civil War with Nancy Kissinger.
In addition, Bloom’s work has appeared in The Washington Post, The Wall Street Journal, Wired, Knight-Ridder Financial News Service, the Village Voice, and Cosmopolitan Magazine. He has appeared 199 times for up to five hours on 500 radio stations on the highest-rated overnight talk radio station in North America, Clear Channel’s Coast to Coast AM, discussing everything from the biome in the gut and the evolution of the stars to the mechanism of the Great Recession of 2008 and North Korea’s rocket programme.
Bloom has his own YouTube series, Howard the Humongous, which gets up to 790,000 views per installment. His website, howardbloom.net, has had between four and five million hits. Follow him on Twitter at @HowardxBloom.
The Genius of the Beast: A Radical Re-Vision of Capitalism
By Howard Bloom
Prometheus Books; Reprint edition (October 25, 2011)
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