In 1834 a young Vermonter named John Humphrey Noyes, a Dartmouth graduate then studying theology at Yale, announced that he had stopped sinning. He meant it technically rather than boastfully: he had concluded that Christ’s second coming had already occurred in the year 70, that the millennium was therefore underway, and that a believer could consequently achieve perfection in this life rather than waiting for the next. The doctrine is called Perfectionism, and it cost him his licence to preach immediately. Over the following decade he assembled a following in Putney, Vermont, worked out the practical arrangements his theology implied, and in October 1847 was indicted for adulterous fornication. He absconded to New York State, and in 1848 founded, with eighty-odd followers on land beside Oneida Creek, the community that would make his name.

It ran for thirty-one years, grew to over three hundred members, and became by some distance the most economically successful communal experiment in American history, manufacturing animal traps that dominated the North American market, silk thread, canned goods, travelling bags, and eventually silverware. It also practised the most systematic reorganisation of intimate life ever attempted on American soil. In June 1879 Noyes fled to Canada ahead of a warrant, and within two months the community had abandoned its central practice; within two years it had voted itself out of existence and reconstituted as a joint-stock company. That company outlived the community by more than a hundred and twenty-five years. Very little in the record of communal experiments ends by turning into a major manufacturer, and the reason it happened here is the same reason the community collapsed as fast as it did.

Perfectionism

Noyes deserves to be taken seriously as a thinker before he is judged as anything else, because the practices that followed were derived rigorously from premises he genuinely held. If the millennium has already begun, then the arrangements appropriate to the fallen world are no longer binding, and Noyes read the Gospel statement that in heaven there is neither marriage nor giving in marriage as a description of the condition believers could enter now. Exclusive marriage, on this reading, is a form of ownership: it makes one person the property of another, generates jealousy, and directs love toward an individual when it ought to flow toward the whole body of believers.

It is worth noting how much of the Oneida Community’s later structure was already worked out in Vermont, before there was any community to apply it to. Noyes developed complex marriage, male continence, and mutual criticism at Putney in the early and mid-1840s among a handful of couples, and the move to New York was a flight rather than a founding: the doctrines arrived fully formed and the settlement was assembled around them. That sequence matters, because it means the Oneida Community was never an arrangement negotiated among the people who had to live in it. It was a specification, developed by one man on theological grounds, into which several hundred people subsequently placed themselves.

From that he derived a positive programme. If exclusive attachment is the problem, the solution is a system in which no attachment is exclusive, and he called it complex marriage, in which every man in the community was considered married to every woman and every woman to every man. He worked out a method of contraception he called male continence, which placed the burden of avoiding conception on men and which, whatever else is said about it, spared the women of Oneida the serial childbearing that killed and exhausted so many nineteenth-century women. And he instituted a practice called mutual criticism, in which members submitted themselves to the assessment of a committee or the whole community. The theological confidence of a leader who has declared himself beyond sin is a familiar and dangerous configuration, and the history of religious institutions in which doctrinal authority and practical control are held by the same hands is not encouraging, as the record of church governance and its scandals attests. Everything that followed was a deduction. That is what makes it worth analysing.

The Oneida Community

The site had been offered by a sympathiser, and the Oneida Community began on a modest scale, in a converted farmhouse and an old sawmill, with the members initially living in improvised quarters while they built. Growth was steady rather than explosive, and it came from conversions and from families joining together rather than from the drifting individual arrivals that characterised the later communes. That matters for what followed, because it meant the Oneida Community’s membership was unusually stable, unusually committed, and unusually willing to accept an arrangement that would have struck almost any casual visitor as intolerable.

The settlement itself was substantial and, by the standards of the genre, extremely well built. The original eighty-seven members grew to three hundred and six by 1878, with satellite branches at Wallingford in Connecticut, Brooklyn, Newark, and in Vermont, most of which were consolidated back into the main community by the mid-1850s. They constructed a large brick Mansion House, added to repeatedly over the decades, which contained sleeping rooms, a communal dining hall, a library, a great hall with a stage, workshops, and, crucially, a separate wing for the children.

The Oneida Community’s economic position also deserves noting at this stage, because it was unlike anything else in this history. Within two decades the community was not merely solvent but wealthy, employing hired labourers from the surrounding district in its own factories, which is a remarkable inversion of the usual communal experience of chronic shortage. Members were well fed, decently housed, medically attended, and educated, and several were sent to university at the community’s expense. Whatever else is said about the arrangements, material deprivation was not among the pressures acting on the Oneida Community, which distinguishes it sharply from nearly every other case and removes the most common explanation for communal collapse before the analysis begins.

The internal organisation was thorough. Property was held in common, labour was assigned by committee and rotated so that nobody occupied a position permanently, and the community ran on a dense schedule of meetings, evening gatherings, lectures, and shared meals. Women wore short hair and a distinctive short dress over trousers, which freed them from the physical constraints of nineteenth-century clothing and which they had adopted themselves; they worked in the businesses, participated in governance, and had access to education, and by the standards of 1860 the women of Oneida had unusual autonomy in nearly every domain except the one that mattered most. The physical plant was impressive enough that a substantial portion of it is still standing and inhabited today, which is more than most communal experiments left behind, and it belongs in the record of what determined groups manage to build. They built well. They organised everything.

Complex Marriage

The sexual system needs describing accurately and without either prurience or euphemism, because its structure is the point. Under complex marriage any adult member could, in principle, form a sexual relationship with any other, subject to a procedure: proposals were conveyed through a third party rather than made directly, which allowed refusals without confrontation, and the arrangement was overseen by the community’s leadership. Older members were understood to be spiritually more advanced and were therefore preferred partners for younger ones, a doctrine called ascending fellowship. Noyes himself selected and encouraged particular pairings.

It should also be said that women’s experience of the system was not uniform and that the historical assessment has moved considerably. Some members described the arrangements as liberating, and the community’s practices around contraception, work, education, and dress gave women a degree of freedom from compulsory childbearing and domestic confinement that was genuinely rare in the period. Others recorded coercion, distress, and an inability to refuse without incurring the charge of selfishness, which is the difficulty with a system in which refusal is doctrinally suspect. Both accounts come from members of the Oneida Community and both are credible, and the honest position is that a single arrangement produced radically different experiences depending on where in it a person stood.

The prohibition is more revealing than the permission. What complex marriage forbade was exclusivity. Forming a durable preference for one person, which the community called special love, was treated as a serious spiritual fault, an act of selfishness that withdrew affection from the collective and hoarded it privately. Couples discovered to be attaching to one another were separated, sometimes by sending one of them to a branch community, and were subjected to criticism. It is essential to state plainly that this system included the sexual initiation of adolescents by considerably older members, that Noyes participated in this, and that it is the reason a warrant for statutory rape was being prepared in 1879. Whatever analytical interest the arrangement holds as a social mechanism, that fact is not a footnote to it, and the community’s own members later gave testimony that makes uncomfortable reading. The system permitted a great deal. It forbade one thing absolutely.

The Children’s House

The same logic was applied to parenthood. Children lived from an early age in a separate wing of the Mansion House under the care of designated adults, and their parents visited occasionally rather than raising them. This was framed positively, and there is a real argument in it: children were educated collectively, cared for by people chosen for aptitude rather than by whoever happened to have borne them, and freed from dependence on the fortunes of a single household.

The children themselves left testimony, some of it decades later, and it is mixed in an instructive way. A number recalled the Children’s House warmly, with companionship, good teaching, and freedom from the anxieties of a single household. Others described a specific and remembered grief at being kept from a mother, and the phenomenon that most troubled the community’s own adults was that the separations did not appear to reduce the attachment at all; they simply made it painful. What an organism experiences under those conditions is exactly the sort of question that the modern study of subjective states in other creatures exists to take seriously, and the Oneida Community’s records show it noticing the distress and interpreting it as evidence that the counter-pressure needed to be maintained rather than relaxed.

But the enforcement mechanism gives the intention away. Undue attachment between a parent and a child was punished with prolonged separation, and mothers who were judged to be too devoted to their own children were kept from them. Attachment between parent and child is among the most thoroughly documented phenomena in the study of mammalian behaviour, arising reliably wherever the relevant biology exists, as the science of how animals bond and behave describes, and the transmission of care and knowledge from adults to the young is the ordinary mechanism by which any group perpetuates itself, examined in the study of how practice passes between generations. Oneida was not unaware of this. The community treated the bond as a force requiring active and continuous counter-pressure, which is an accurate assessment of what it was dealing with. They separated the children. They also had to keep separating them.

Mutual Criticism

The third mechanism addressed what remained. In mutual criticism a member sat before a committee, or on occasion the entire community, and listened without replying while their faults were enumerated in detail: their vanity, their laziness, their attachments, their doctrinal errors, their manner. It was applied to everyone, including at intervals to Noyes, and members frequently requested it for themselves. It was also used as a corrective for particular offences, and being criticised for special love was among the more common occasions.

Mutual criticism is also the practice that outsiders found most disturbing and that the Oneida Community regarded as its greatest contribution, and both reactions are defensible. Members frequently sought it out voluntarily, found it clarifying, and reported that it dissolved resentments that would otherwise have festered, and the community exported the technique enthusiastically, publishing on it and recommending it to other organisations. A procedure that makes conflict explicit and collective rather than private and corrosive is a real institutional achievement. It is simply also, and inseparably, a machinery of surveillance in which everyone is permanently observed by everyone else, of the kind studied wherever institutions monitor their own members, as the record of how organisations watch the people inside them documents.

Read as a social device rather than as a spiritual one, mutual criticism does something specific: it makes the interior life of each member the property of the group. There can be no private grievance, because grievances are aired; no confidential friendship, because confidences are subject to disclosure; and no faction, because the mechanism that would let one form has been converted into a public procedure. It also generates a permanent low-level anxiety about how one is perceived, which is an extremely effective instrument of conformity and requires no coercion whatsoever. The formation of private alliances is the ordinary way that power redistributes itself inside any group, from the coalition politics of social animals to every institution that has ever developed a faction, and concealment is the necessary precondition, as the study of how organisms manage information about themselves makes clear. Nothing was private. That was the function.

What All of It Had in Common

Here is the mechanism, and it becomes visible only when the practices are read together rather than separately. Complex marriage prevented the pair bond. The Children’s House prevented the parent-child bond. Mutual criticism prevented private alliances and friendships. Job rotation prevented occupational identity and the small power bases that specialists accumulate. Communal property prevented material independence. Stirpiculture, when it arrived, placed reproduction itself under committee control.

The comparison with the communities that lasted makes the point exactly. Zoar had a strong leader and also had families, households, and a shared national origin that would have survived him; when Bimeler died the Society continued for another forty-five years. Twin Oaks has no doctrine at all and distributes authority across rotating planners, which means nobody’s departure is fatal. The Oneida Community had removed every structure of that kind on principle, so that when the question arose of what held the place together in the absence of the founder, there was no available answer, because each candidate had been systematically dismantled as a form of selfishness over the preceding three decades.

Every single one of these is a mechanism for eliminating a competing loyalty. Individually each has a plausible justification and Noyes supplied one for all of them; together they constitute a systematic programme for ensuring that no member has any durable attachment to anything except the community as a whole. And since the community as a whole was interpreted, directed, and personified by one man, who selected the pairings, presided over the criticism, chose who would reproduce, and defined what the doctrine required, the practical effect was that every bond in the place ran through Noyes. This is what makes Oneida structurally different from communities that merely had a strong founder. It had actively demolished the alternatives, which is a very different and much more fragile arrangement than simply having a leader people admired, and it is the failure mode that the more durable experiments in self-governance avoid by distributing authority rather than concentrating it. They removed every other bond. Only one was left holding.

Stirpiculture

In 1869 Noyes added the final element, and it is the one that reads worst now and that did the most immediate damage then. Persuaded by contemporary evolutionary thinking that human breeding could be improved deliberately, he instituted a programme he called stirpiculture, under which members wishing to have children applied to a committee, which selected suitable pairings on grounds of physical, moral, and spiritual quality. Roughly a hundred people participated over ten years and fifty-eight children were born, of whom about ten were fathered by Noyes, who regarded himself as among the community’s most spiritually advanced members.

It is worth being clear about the intellectual context without using it as an excuse. Selective breeding of humans was a respectable subject in advanced circles in 1869, discussed in scientific journals, and Noyes was not alone in the enthusiasm; what distinguishes the Oneida Community is that it actually implemented a programme rather than merely writing about one, and that the man who designed the selection criteria was also the principal beneficiary of them. Enthusiasms of that kind, adopted early and confidently on the strength of a fashionable theory, run through the whole record of ambitious undertakings pursued before the evidence was in, and the fifty-eight children born under the programme spent their lives being studied.

This is a eugenics programme, decades before the word was current, run inside a religious community by a man who exempted himself from the selection process he had designed. It produced immediate resentment among those excluded, and it introduced a formal hierarchy of human worth into a community founded on the abolition of hierarchy. But its most consequential effect was one nobody anticipated. Pairing specific people for reproduction, and then having them raise the possibility of a child together, turns out to be an extremely effective way of generating exactly the exclusive attachment the entire system existed to suppress. The programme reawakened monogamous instincts among its participants, and dissatisfaction with the regulated sexual arrangements grew from precisely the group the founder had selected as the community’s best. The suppression apparatus had produced its own solvent. He designed it to control reproduction. It manufactured couples.

The Traps and the Silk

While all of this proceeded, the community was quietly becoming rich, and the source of the money had nothing to do with any of it. Early attempts at agriculture and horticulture were unremarkable. What transformed Oneida’s position was a member named Sewell Newhouse, a trapper who made steel animal traps of exceptional quality, and whose product the community industrialised. Oneida traps came to dominate the North American market and were sold throughout the fur trade. Around them the community built other enterprises: silk thread, canned fruit and vegetables, travelling bags, and from the late 1870s silverware.

The hired labour is worth pausing on because of what it reveals about the Oneida Community’s actual economic model. A commune that employs a couple of hundred wage workers from the surrounding district is not, whatever its internal arrangements, an experiment in the abolition of wage labour; it is a firm with an unusual ownership structure and an unusual set of domestic customs. Members increasingly occupied supervisory and skilled positions while the routine factory work was done by outsiders who went home at night, which is a fairly ordinary industrial arrangement and one that generated exactly the frictions with the surrounding population that helped destroy the community, since the neighbours could observe the domestic practices at close range while depending on the wages.

None of these businesses expressed the theology in any way. They were ordinary manufacturing, run competently, with quality control, distribution, and reinvestment, staffed by a rotating labour force that also included substantial numbers of hired outside workers, of whom the community eventually employed a couple of hundred. The community’s own archival record, held and catalogued at Syracuse University Libraries, documents an operation that was in commercial terms a diversified manufacturing group, selling into national markets in the ordinary way that any producer does, as the history of getting goods to distant buyers describes, and building the sort of process expertise that underpins any serious manufacturing base. By 1880 the holdings were valued at around six hundred thousand dollars. The theology was elaborate. The money came from traps.

June 1879

The end came quickly and from several directions at once. Noyes’s health and hearing were failing, and in the late 1870s he attempted to transfer leadership to his son Theodore, who was an agnostic and by most accounts an unsuited administrator, which fractured the community into factions almost immediately; a founder handing authority to an heir who lacks the founder’s claim to it is among the most reliable ways to end an institution, as the record of succession crises suggests. Younger members educated outside the community were returning with doubts about the doctrine and a preference for ordinary marriage. And externally, a campaign led by Professor John Mears of Hamilton College culminated in a protest meeting attended by forty-seven clergymen, agitating for prosecution.

The financial dissolution was handled with a competence that says a great deal about who had actually been running the enterprise. Assets estimated at around six hundred thousand dollars were converted into shares distributed among the members according to their contributions and length of service, provision was made for the children, and the businesses continued operating throughout without interruption. Nobody was evicted and the works did not close. Winding up a communal enterprise without either bankruptcy or litigation is close to unheard of in this history, and it required exactly the kind of clear-eyed accounting that is conspicuously absent from institutions that could not settle their own affairs and from the losses that accumulate where nobody is keeping proper books.

In late June 1879, warned by an adviser that a warrant for statutory rape was imminent, Noyes left the Mansion House at night and crossed into Canada, and never returned to the United States. In August he wrote to the community advising it to abandon complex marriage, and it did so immediately. What happened next is the most instructive fact in the entire history of the place: members began marrying one another, in numbers, within weeks. Couples who had been together in the stirpiculture programme formalised their attachments. Parents reclaimed their children. A practice that had been maintained by continuous institutional effort for three decades disappeared in a single summer, and the arrangements it had suppressed reasserted themselves so fast that the community could not settle into any stable alternative. By 1880 a committee was considering reorganisation on a joint-stock basis, and in January 1881 the Oneida Community, Limited was incorporated, as the documentary history maintained by the Social Welfare History Project at Virginia Commonwealth University records. He left in June. It was effectively over by September.

The Oneida Community in 2026

It is worth noting how completely the Oneida Community’s origins were subsequently buried by its own commercial success. For most of the twentieth century the name meant tableware and nothing else, advertised in magazines and given as wedding presents, with no reference whatever to the religious commune that had generated it; a company selling silverware for conventional marriages had every commercial reason to leave complex marriage out of the brochure. The history was preserved by archivists, descendants, and the museum rather than by the firm, and the general public rediscovery of the Oneida Community as a subject of interest is largely a phenomenon of the last few decades.

What survived is the strangest afterlife in this literature. The joint-stock company distributed shares to the members, continued the businesses, and over the following decades shed everything except the tableware. Oneida Limited became one of the largest producers of cutlery and tableware in the world, its silverware a fixture of American households through the twentieth century, and it remained a significant manufacturer for well over a century after the community that founded it had ceased to exist. The company passed through bankruptcy in the mid-2000s and the brand continues under other ownership, which means the commercial entity created to wind up a nineteenth-century religious commune outlived that commune by roughly four times its lifespan.

The Mansion House also survives, and it survives as a building people live in. It operates as a museum and a National Historic Landmark, with exhibitions, archives, and public tours, and it also contains private apartments, some occupied by descendants of community members, so that the physical centre of the experiment has been continuously inhabited since 1862. Descendants of the stirpiculture children have been the subject of genealogical and historical study, and the archives at Syracuse and elsewhere support a continuing scholarly literature. That is a considerably better outcome than a site that exists only in the record, and rather better than the fate of most industrial utopias, including Ford’s plantation on the Amazon, whose buildings the forest took back. Modern manufacturing has moved on entirely, into the automated and instrumented production described across contemporary industrial technology, and the corporate structure that carried the community’s assets forward is the same legal instrument examined in every account of what a company actually is. The doctrine is gone entirely. The silverware is in cupboards.

What Was Load-Bearing

Strip Oneida to its structure and two findings emerge, and they point in opposite directions. The first is that the community’s entire social architecture was a system for removing competing bonds, and that a system of that kind is far more fragile than it looks, because it does not replace the attachments it suppresses; it holds them down. Complex marriage did not abolish the pair bond, as thirty years of continuous enforcement against special love demonstrates, and the proof arrived in the summer of 1879 when the enforcement stopped and people got married within weeks. The most telling detail is that the stirpiculture programme, the most controlling mechanism of all, was itself the thing that most effectively regenerated the attachments it was designed to manage. Suppression requires permanent effort, and permanent effort requires someone to make it, which is why removing every bond except the one running to the founder produced a community that could not survive a single man crossing a border.

The test this suggests is worth applying to any organisation that asks a great deal of the people inside it. Ask what bonds the arrangement discourages, and what it offers in their place, because suppression and replacement are entirely different things and only one of them is stable. Ask what would still hold the group together if the founder walked out tomorrow, and whether that answer has been allowed to exist. Ask whether the practices requiring continuous enforcement have become less necessary over time, since a genuinely internalised norm needs less policing each year rather than more. And ask which parts of the enterprise would still function if every belief were abandoned, because those are the parts that will outlive it.

The second finding is what actually endured, and it is not what anyone intended. Every doctrine was gone within two years: Perfectionism, complex marriage, mutual criticism, the Children’s House, stirpiculture, all of it. What lasted was the trap works and the silk mill and the silverware line, built by ordinary manufacturing competence that owed nothing whatever to the theology, and those survived for a hundred and twenty-five years and made the name of Oneida familiar to millions of people who have no idea it was ever a religious community. That inversion is what secures the case its place in the catalogue of utopian societies. Noyes spent his life constructing an elaborate machine for the perfection of human relations, and the part of it that was still running in the twenty-first century was the cutlery.

In June 1967 eight people moved onto a worn-out tobacco farm in Louisa County, Virginia, about an hour from Charlottesville, with very little money and no agricultural experience among them. They had come together out of a conference held to discuss B. F. Skinner’s 1948 novel Walden Two, which describes a community organised on behaviourist principles where careful design of incentives produces a society so efficient that nobody works more than four hours a day. They intended to build it. As one of the founders later wrote, they wanted community and they wanted it immediately, with or without money, planning, or psychologists.

The psychologists never came, and neither did the behaviourism. Within a few years Twin Oaks had abandoned Skinner’s theoretical framework entirely, and it says so on its own website today: it is no longer a behaviourist community. What it kept were two pieces of machinery from the novel, the labour credit system and the planner-manager form of government, and those it has been modifying continuously ever since. Fifty-eight years later the community is still there, on roughly four hundred and fifty acres with something under a hundred adults and children, income-shared, self-supporting, and entirely ordinary in the sense that people get up and go to work. Almost everything in the record of intentional communities is a story about how a settlement ended. This is a story about a settlement that discarded the idea it was founded on and outlived nearly every community that kept theirs, and it belongs alongside the handful of long-running self-governing places like the free town of Christiania.

Twin Oaks and the Tobacco Farm

The founding was less an implementation than an improvisation, which turns out to be the first clue. The group had no capital to speak of, no farming skills, no plan for how the community would support itself, and no agreement on how it would govern itself. They nearly went broke in the first years, and members took jobs commuting into Richmond to keep the place afloat, which is not a detail that appears in Walden Two. Turnover in the early period was severe and the income was inadequate, and by the standards applied to most utopian ventures the first five years were a failure.

The land itself was not promising and nobody pretended otherwise. Louisa County tobacco ground that has been worked hard is depleted, acidic, and unforgiving, and the founders arrived without the skills to improve it or the capital to buy their way out of the problem. It is worth registering that Twin Oaks began with precisely the disadvantages that have destroyed communities elsewhere, including at Ford’s plantation in the Amazon, where far greater resources were deployed against a landscape nobody understood. What differed was not the starting position but the willingness to conclude, fairly quickly, that farming was not going to pay the bills and that something else would have to.

What is striking in hindsight is how quickly they began changing things. On the day of the founding they adopted consensus decision-making, which is both the most attractive arrangement to a group of idealistic people in 1967 and about as un-Skinnerian a mechanism as exists, and they abandoned it almost immediately once it became clear that the group would not tolerate a single dissenter blocking a decision most people wanted. That is a remarkable act for a community less than a year old: to adopt a governing principle, discover it does not work, and change it, rather than concluding that the members needed to become the sort of people for whom it would work. The instinct to fix the mechanism instead of blaming the participants is rare, and it is the opposite of the instinct that runs through the failures collected in the record of governance built from first principles. They had founded the whole enterprise on a novel, and they started editing the novel within the first year.

The Doctrine That Was Dropped

Behaviourism went the same way, and the manner of its going is the substance of this case. Skinner’s proposition was that human behaviour is shaped by its consequences, that a community could therefore be engineered by manipulating reinforcement schedules, and that this engineering should be conducted by trained behavioural scientists occupying a specific institutional role. Twin Oaks had the novel and the enthusiasm but no behavioural scientists, and as it turned out no particular appetite for being engineered.

It is worth being fair to Skinner, since the popular version of his ideas is a caricature and Walden Two is a more interesting book than its reputation suggests. His central claim was that arrangements shape behaviour and that designing arrangements deliberately is therefore both possible and preferable to leaving them to accident, which is not obviously wrong and is in fact the premise underlying every institution that has ever worked. What Twin Oaks discarded was not that insight but the apparatus built on top of it: the idea that a trained cadre should do the designing, that the community was a laboratory, and that the resulting society could be specified in advance. The insight survived. The apparatus did not.

What went was the theoretical superstructure: the behavioural management, the conception of the community as a designed experiment in reinforcement, the whole scientific frame that had supplied the original justification. What stayed was operational: a system for allocating labour and a system for making decisions. That distinction, between a theory that explains why an arrangement should work and the arrangement itself, is the single most important thing about Twin Oaks, and it is the reverse of what almost every other community in this history has done. Brook Farm kept the doctrine and abandoned the business that was paying for it. The Icarians held their founder to a book. Skinner’s underlying psychology has meanwhile been substantially absorbed, revised, and in places superseded by later work on how behaviour and cognition actually operate, as the science of nervous systems has developed, which is exactly what happens to theories and exactly why binding an institution to one is dangerous. The theory did not survive. The tools did.

The Labour Credit System

The mechanism they kept is worth describing precisely, because it does most of the work. Every adult member has a weekly labour quota, currently around forty-two hours. Every task performed for the community earns credit against that quota, and here is the crucial part: every task means every task. Cooking earns credits. Cleaning earns credits. Childcare earns credits. Milking the cows, doing the laundry, maintaining a building, sitting on a committee, driving somebody to a medical appointment, and weaving a hammock all earn credits, at the same rate.

The system also has a feature that solves a problem most communities never even identify, which is variety. Members are not assigned to a single role; they take shifts across many areas, and most prefer it that way, so that a person might spend part of the week in the tofu operation, part in the garden, part cooking, and part on a committee. That prevents the emergence of a permanent division of labour in which some people always do the pleasant work and others always do the unpleasant, which is precisely the hierarchy that income-sharing is supposed to abolish and which reappears immediately in any community that lets specialisation harden. Rotation is expensive in efficiency terms and it buys something the efficiency would otherwise destroy.

That inclusiveness makes the forty-two hours much lighter than it sounds, because it absorbs nearly everything that a person in the mainstream economy does after finishing a forty-hour job. It also does something more interesting. By counting domestic and care work as labour identical in value to income-producing work, the system refuses to reproduce the hierarchy that ranks the wage above the household, which was a deliberate feminist commitment from early in the community’s history and remains one. Skinner’s original scheme used variable credits, paying more for undesirable work so that unpleasant jobs would clear the market; Twin Oaks tried it, found it produced its own distortions, and moved to a standardised system where an hour is an hour. The distribution of effort within a group is one of the oldest problems in social organisation, visible wherever animals or people must divide necessary work, as the study of how groups allocate labour and status shows. Everything counts as labour, without exception. That inclusiveness is very nearly the whole design.

Accounting Instead of Authority

Here is the mechanism, and it is the direct answer to the problem that destroyed the communes of the 1960s. A group in which anyone may join and nobody may be compelled to work faces free riding, and there are only three known solutions. You can install an authority who directs labour and expels the idle, which most utopian communities exist specifically to avoid. You can rely on shared belief strong enough that nobody would dream of shirking, which works in religious communities like Zoar and almost nowhere else. Or you can make contribution visible.

The general principle is worth stating plainly because it extends well beyond communes. Groups can sustain costly cooperation without hierarchy when contribution is observable, and cannot when it is not, which is why the design question that matters is almost never what people believe but what the group can see. A shared ledger is a technology for making behaviour visible, and it is the same technology, applied at different scales, as double-entry bookkeeping, an audit, or the documentary trails that reveal who actually holds what. None of these require anyone to be virtuous. They require only that the relevant facts be written down somewhere everyone can check.

Twin Oaks chose the third, and the choice is what allows the other two to be dispensed with. A labour credit sheet does not judge anyone’s character, sincerity, or ideological soundness; it records hours. Nobody has to decide whether a member is committed, which is the question that generates endless conflict wherever it is asked, because the ledger answers a much narrower question that has a factual answer. Kat Kinkade, the founder who chronicled the place, was explicit that the community avoided the laziness and freeloading stereotypically associated with communes precisely by adopting a structured but flexible labour system, and the emphasis belongs on both adjectives. Detecting non-contribution is among the hardest problems any cooperative arrangement faces, biological or human, as the literature on free riding and its detection describes, and the ordinary institutional solution is an audit function, which is exactly what a labour system is, and whose absence is the recurring theme in the anatomy of organisations that could not account for themselves and in the forensic literature on internal losses. They did not need a boss. They needed a spreadsheet.

Nothing Is Sacred

The second component is the community’s relationship to its own rules, which is unusually unsentimental. The quota has changed repeatedly over five decades. The credit system has been revised, restructured, and argued over continuously. The governance arrangements have been adjusted. Membership policies have changed. Businesses have been started, expanded, and abandoned. There is no founding charter that binds the present membership to the intentions of 1967, and no text that anybody can invoke to settle an argument by authority.

There is a subtler benefit to having no sacred text, which is that disagreements stay about the thing being disagreed over. Where a founding document exists, every practical dispute becomes an interpretive dispute, and the argument shifts from what would work now to what the founder intended, which is a question nobody can settle and which converts a solvable operational problem into a permanent doctrinal one. Twin Oaks arguments are reportedly plentiful and often lengthy, but they are arguments about quotas, budgets, buildings, and policies, all of which have the enormous advantage of being decidable by a vote of people who will live with the outcome.

Set that against the failures. Drop City wrote its most cherished principle into the deed, permanently, and thereby destroyed its own capacity to reconsider. The Icarians deposed their founder because he asked for something his own book forbade, and then spent decades splitting over what the book required. Brook Farm imported a complete system from France and reorganised a working institution around it. In each case a document or a doctrine acquired standing above the people currently living with the consequences, and in each case that standing prevented the correction that might have saved the place. Twin Oaks has no equivalent, and the practical effect is that when something stops working it can simply be changed, which sounds trivial and is the rarest capability in this entire literature. Three planners serve staggered terms of eighteen months, carrying out executive functions and focusing the community’s attention, and they can be replaced. Nothing is permanent. That is the point.

Businesses That Fit the Workers

The economics deserve their own analysis, because Twin Oaks solved a problem that defeated Brook Farm and Fruitlands, and it solved it by reversing the usual order of decision. Most communities decide what they believe and then attempt an occupation that expresses it, which is how a group of Boston intellectuals ends up failing at agriculture on sandy soil. Twin Oaks asked instead what kind of work suits a rotating, non-specialist, income-sharing labour force in which people prefer variety and nobody is assigned permanently to anything.

The contrast with farming is instructive and the community made it deliberately. Agriculture demands skill accumulated over seasons, tolerates interruption badly, punishes inexperience severely, and imposes its schedule from outside, which is exactly wrong for a rotating workforce of generalists, and it is the reason so many communities founded on a return to the land discovered that the land declined to cooperate. Twin Oaks still gardens extensively and keeps dairy cows, but as domestic provision rather than as the economic base, which is the correct allocation for a place whose members are not farmers and whose access to good soil and reliable water was never the reason they came.

The answer was hammocks. Rope hammock weaving can be taught in an afternoon, requires no credentials, tolerates interruption, can be done in short shifts by anyone regardless of strength or experience, scales with available labour, and produces a durable product that sells wholesale. For decades Twin Oaks made hammocks and casual furniture, at one point supplying a major national retail chain, and maintained the contract through competitive pricing, consistent quality, and a free repair service, which is a serious commercial achievement for a commune. Alongside it came organic tofu, book indexing and proofreading, and seed growing in partnership with the neighbouring community of Acorn for Southern Exposure Seed Exchange. Each of these has the same profile: trainable, interruptible, quality-controllable, and saleable. Depending heavily on a single large customer is a real exposure, of the sort familiar from any supply relationship with a concentrated buyer and from the history of selling into distant markets, and the community understood it. They did not pick work that expressed their values. They picked work their people could actually do.

The Three-Week Visitor Period

Admission is handled by a mechanism that is neither an open door nor an interview panel. Anyone interested in joining must first complete a three-week visitor period, living in the community, working under the labour system, eating in the dining hall, and being observed by and observing everybody else, after which membership is decided. Places must usually be booked months in advance.

There is also a straightforward informational asymmetry that the visitor period corrects. A community knows a great deal about itself and almost nothing about an applicant; an applicant knows a great deal about themselves and almost nothing about the community, having generally formed their impression from a website and their own hopes. Three weeks of shared work reduces both gaps simultaneously and at low cost to either side, and it does so through direct observation rather than through claims, which is the only reliable method available for questions of this kind and the one that underlies every serious attempt to evaluate anything, from ambitious technical undertakings onward.

The elegance is that three weeks of ordinary life is both a filter and a disclosure. It filters, because arranging three consecutive weeks away from one’s existing life is a cost that a person seeking a free place to stay is unlikely to pay, and because three weeks of hammock weaving and dish washing on a quota reveals to the visitor whether they actually want this. And it discloses, because the visitor learns what the arrangement is really like before committing, which prevents the slower and more corrosive failure in which people join an imagined community and discover the real one. This is the membrane that Drop City refused on principle and paid for, and it operates without anyone having to judge a stranger’s soul, in the way that any institution must eventually decide who is inside it. Three weeks is not a test of belief. It is a demonstration of the actual job.

Kat Kinkade

The community’s chronicler deserves her own section, because she is the closest thing this history has to a professional communitarian. Kat Kinkade was in her mid-thirties in 1967, a former secretary from Seattle who had described herself as bored, and she was one of the eight founders and the only one to remain associated with Twin Oaks for most of its existence. She wrote the two essential books about it: an account of the first five years published in the early 1970s, and a second book at the twenty-sixth year, whose title asks whether it is utopia yet, which is precisely the right question and precisely the right tone.

Her books are unusual in the literature for their tone, and the tone is part of the argument. They are not manifestos and they do not claim vindication; they are detailed, frequently funny, and consistently willing to report what did not work, including her own misjudgements and the community’s periods of near-collapse. A movement that produces founding documents produces defenders. Twin Oaks produced a chronicler who treated the enterprise as an ongoing practical problem with a running record of attempted solutions, which is a different literary genre entirely and a much better guide for anyone contemplating the same thing.

She also did something more unusual. She left in the 1970s to help found East Wind in the Missouri Ozarks, returned, and in 1993 co-founded Acorn, a third income-sharing community a few miles from Twin Oaks, and she was instrumental in establishing the Federation of Egalitarian Communities, a network through which members can transfer labour credits between communities and work at one another’s sites. That is a person treating community-building as a practice to be improved through repetition rather than as a single revelation to be defended, which is the same disposition that lets a community edit its own rules, and it is how any body of practical knowledge accumulates, as the study of how technique passes between people describes. She died in 2008 of metastatic breast cancer and was cared for by the community at the end, reportedly under an arrangement that departed from a policy she had helped write. Even her own rules were revisable.

The Fire

On 24 March 2024, a wind-driven wildfire reached the industrial area at the centre of the Twin Oaks property and destroyed it. The damage exceeded a million dollars. The buildings where the rope hammocks and swing chairs were manufactured and stored were lost, along with a sawmill, other structures, and the conference pavilion. The hammock business, which had provided the community’s economic foundation for the better part of five decades and which was the thing Twin Oaks was best known for in the outside world, was gone.

It is worth acknowledging that this comparison flatters Twin Oaks in one respect that has nothing to do with design. A community in 2024 has insurance markets, disaster relief, crowdfunding, a federation of sibling communities, and fifty-seven years of accumulated reputation and goodwill to draw on, none of which was available in West Roxbury in 1846. Some of the difference in outcome is simply the difference between the nineteenth century and the twenty-first. But that only accounts for part of it, because the decisive question after a fire is whether the members conclude that the enterprise has lost its reason to exist, and that question is settled by what the enterprise thought it was for long before the fire started.

Compare Brook Farm. In March 1846 an uninsured fire destroyed the phalanstery, the community collapsed within months, and the enterprise was in bankruptcy the following year. The buildings burned in both cases and the outcomes could hardly be more different, and the difference is not insurance or luck but what the destroyed thing was for. Brook Farm’s building was the physical embodiment of the doctrine the community had reorganised itself around; losing it meant losing the demonstration. Twin Oaks lost a revenue stream, which is a serious operational problem and not an existential one, because the hammocks had never been what Twin Oaks was, only what it happened to be selling. The community’s own account of its position afterwards is straightforward about exploring new businesses as a result of the loss, which is the language of a going concern rather than of a bereavement, and rebuilding is treated as the ordinary engineering problem it is. The same accident. Two completely different meanings.

Twin Oaks in 2026

None of this should be read as a claim that the arrangement is easy or universally appealing, and the community is candid on the point. Turnover has always been substantial, the material standard of living is modest by American norms, privacy is limited, meetings are frequent and long, and the allowance would not cover a phone contract in most of the country. Twin Oaks works for the people it works for, which is a small and self-selected population, and the honest description of its achievement is not that it has solved communal living but that it has run continuously for fifty-eight years without either collapsing or hardening into something its members cannot change. That is a lower bar than utopia and a considerably harder one than it sounds.

The community continues. Membership sits somewhere in the region of eighty-five to a hundred adults and children on four hundred-odd acres of farm and forest, and the economic base has shifted decisively toward seed growing, which has become the largest income source, alongside the indexing and proofreading business and tofu production, with the hammock operation in transition following the fire. Members receive housing, food, clothing, healthcare, and childcare, plus a personal spending allowance in the region of a hundred dollars a month, which tells you honestly what kind of material life this is and is not. Less than half the community’s labour goes into income-producing work at all; the rest supports the village itself, the gardens, the dairy, the kitchen, the buildings, and the children.

Twin Oaks maintains its own detailed account of how the community works and what it currently does for a living, and the Federation of Egalitarian Communities lists it alongside its siblings, including East Wind and Acorn, in the network’s directory of member communities. It runs annual gatherings, hosts a communities conference, and has become an institution in the field rather than merely a participant in it. Modern agricultural equipment and monitoring, including autonomous machinery and survey tools, have transformed the surrounding farm economy in ways the founders could not have anticipated, and the community’s response has been characteristically unsentimental: adopt what helps and ignore the rest. Fifty-eight years. Still deciding things by meeting.

What Burned

Strip Twin Oaks to its structure and the survival is not mysterious and not lucky, and it is not a matter of the members being better people than the ones who failed elsewhere. It is a set of three decisions, each of which inverts a failure recorded elsewhere in this history. They treated their founding doctrine as disposable and their operating machinery as revisable, which is the reverse of Brook Farm importing a system and reorganising around it. They made contribution legible through an accounting system that counts hours rather than judging character, which solves without authority the free-rider problem that dissolved Drop City. And they chose businesses to suit the workforce they had rather than the values they held, which is the error that put a group of Transcendentalist ministers on sandy soil in West Roxbury.

It is also worth noting what the community has not done, which is grow. Twin Oaks has hovered around a hundred people for decades, has spun off new communities rather than expanding itself, and has never attempted to scale toward the numbers that its founding novel specified or that its admirers periodically suggest. That restraint looks like modesty and is closer to engineering judgement: the mechanisms that make the place work, a labour ledger everybody can inspect and a general meeting where everybody can speak, have a size limit, and exceeding it would require exactly the layers of authority the arrangement exists to avoid. Rather than redesign for scale, they built more communities, which is the same instinct that treats a working mechanism as something to be replicated rather than stretched, and it stands in contrast to the recurring temptation in every field where a laboratory result is assumed to scale.

The test this yields is short and can be run on any community, organisation, or project. Ask what would have to be true for the founding idea to be abandoned, and whether anyone has the standing to abandon it. Ask whether contribution is visible to the people bearing its cost, or whether it has to be inferred from character. Ask whether the revenue-generating activity was chosen to suit the people available or to express what the group believes. And ask what would happen if the main business burned down tomorrow, because the answer reveals whether it was an instrument or an identity.

The fire of 2024 is the cleanest available test, and it happened recently enough that the result is still being written. A community that had built its economy on one product for half a century lost the whole operation in an afternoon, and it did not dissolve, because at no point had it confused the hammocks with itself. That is what a disposable instrument looks like when it is finally disposed of, and it is why Twin Oaks belongs at the end rather than the middle of the catalogue of utopian societies, as the one entry that is not a place you can only visit in the archive. Everybody else in this history was building something they believed in. Twin Oaks built something it was willing to change, and is therefore the only one still standing to be argued with.

In April 1841 a Unitarian minister named George Ripley, who had resigned his Boston pulpit the year before because he could no longer preach what his congregation wished to hear, bought a dairy farm nine miles outside the city in West Roxbury and moved onto it with his wife Sophia and a small group of friends. They converted the main farmhouse into a building they called the Hive, and they named the venture the Brook Farm Institute of Agriculture and Education. Ripley’s stated purpose was to establish a way of living that combined the enchantments of poetry with the facts of daily experience, which is about as Transcendentalist a sentence as the 1840s produced, and the practical form it took was that everyone would farm in the morning and think in the afternoon, and that manual and intellectual labour would be paid at the same rate.

Over the next six years Brook Farm became the most famous utopian community in American history, drew the attention of nearly every significant literary figure in New England, produced a novel by Nathaniel Hawthorne, and failed comprehensively, ending in bankruptcy in 1847 with debts of about seventeen thousand dollars. The standard account attributes this to the impracticality of intellectuals attempting agriculture, and there is something in that. But it misses the genuinely instructive thing, which is that Brook Farm did discover a working business, ran it successfully for several years, understood perfectly well that it was the source of the money, and then in 1844 reorganised the entire community around an imported French doctrine that had nothing to do with it. That distinguishes it from most of the record of communities that endured and from the industrial utopias that never found a viable product at all, such as Ford’s plantation on the Amazon. They found what worked. Then they replaced it.

The Ministers Who Bought a Farm

The founders were not naifs, though they were certainly not farmers. Ripley was among the most formidably educated men in America, a Harvard graduate and a leading intellectual force in the Transcendentalist circle, and Sophia Dana Ripley was an accomplished educator and an early feminist whose contribution to what followed is routinely undercredited. The people they gathered were of similar quality: former ministers, teachers, writers, and editors, along with a smaller number of tradesmen and actual labourers, in a community that at its height numbered somewhere around seventy to a hundred residents.

It is worth being clear that Brook Farm was never a retreat from the world, whatever the pastoral setting suggests. Nine miles from Boston in 1841 meant a couple of hours by carriage, close enough that members went into the city regularly, that visitors came constantly, and that the community was continuously observed and discussed by the most articulate people in America. Emerson declined to join and wrote about why. Margaret Fuller visited repeatedly. Bronson Alcott came, judged it insufficiently austere, and went off to found Fruitlands. The place was under permanent review by an audience whose approval its founders cared about a great deal, which is a condition that shapes decisions in ways that isolation does not.

The financial structure was a joint-stock company. Members bought shares, the shares funded the purchase of the property and the working capital, governance operated by a vote weighted to shareholding, and profits were to be divided according to labour performed, with the radical provision that an hour of teaching Greek and an hour of spreading manure earned identically. That arrangement is more sophisticated than most communal experiments of the period managed, and it meant, as at Llano del Rio seventy years later, that the enterprise had a legal existence and a capital structure that could be examined, audited, and eventually wound up, which is why the record of who put in what and what became of it is unusually clear, in the manner of any venture whose ownership is documented rather than assumed. They incorporated properly. That turns out to matter at the end.

What Brook Farm Called Itself

The name is worth stopping on, because it contains the entire argument in five words. The Brook Farm Institute of Agriculture and Education. Agriculture first, education second, and that ordering was not casual; it reflected exactly what the founders believed they were doing. The point of the enterprise was to demonstrate that intellectual people could support themselves by honest labour on the land, that the division between the thinker and the worker was artificial, and that a person might hoe potatoes in the morning and read Kant in the evening without either activity being diminished. Agriculture was the demonstration. Education was the sideline.

The equal-pay provision deserves a moment because it was genuinely radical and because it interacted badly with the economics. Paying an hour of Greek instruction the same as an hour of ditching was a deliberate assault on the social hierarchy that ranks mental above manual work, and it was sincerely meant. It also meant that the community’s most commercially valuable labour, teaching, generated no more internal reward than its least, which removed any signal that might have directed effort toward the activity that was actually paying for everything. A pricing system that deliberately refuses to distinguish between activities cannot tell you which activities to expand.

Reverse the two halves and you have an accurate description of the institution. Within a couple of years Brook Farm was running an infant school, a primary school, a six-year college preparatory course, and an agricultural school, and the preparatory course in particular acquired a serious reputation, sending its students onward to Harvard. Boston families paid to send their children, and the fees came in reliably. Meanwhile the farm, worked by an over-large group of largely inexperienced people on rather sandy soil, did not produce an adequate return in any year. The record is blunt about this: the schools were a financial success and the agricultural efforts were not, which is a straightforward statement of where the money came from and where it went. The name had it backwards. Everyone could see this within about eighteen months.

The School That Worked

It is worth understanding why the school was good, because it was not luck and it explains a great deal. Brook Farm had accidentally assembled one of the highest concentrations of pedagogical talent in the United States: people trained in theology, classics, and modern languages, several of whom had run schools before, working in a beautiful rural setting a short ride from Boston, in a culture that took education with immense seriousness. The teaching was progressive by the standards of the day, emphasising the pupil’s freedom and personal responsibility rather than recitation and discipline, and students were treated as members of the community rather than as inmates of an institution.

Sophia Ripley’s role belongs in this section rather than as a footnote. She ran much of the educational programme, taught history and modern languages, and was by several accounts the person who made the school function as an institution rather than as an assembly of gifted amateurs. Brook Farm’s most successful enterprise was substantially organised and sustained by a woman in a period when that was close to invisible, and the tendency of the historical record to file her under her husband’s name is a fair illustration of how easily the actual load-bearing contribution of a community gets attributed to whoever was doing the theorising.

This is what a comparative advantage looks like. The community’s actual endowment was not land, capital, or agricultural skill, all of which it conspicuously lacked; it was an extraordinary stock of learning and the ability to transmit it, which is a genuinely scarce and genuinely valuable commodity that people will pay for. Teaching is the transmission of accumulated practice from one person to another, the mechanism examined in the study of how knowledge passes between generations, and the intellectual traditions the Brook Farmers were working in have proved durable across the subsequent development of our understanding of how minds learn. Students came, parents paid, and the reputation grew. The school was the business, and the business worked.

The Farm That Did Not

The agricultural side deserves an honest reckoning rather than a joke about intellectuals with hoes. West Roxbury soil in that section is sandy and thin, and the property had been a dairy farm rather than a productive arable holding, which is a meaningful distinction: pasture that supports cows does not automatically become cropland that supports a hundred people. The labour force was enthusiastic, well-intentioned, and largely untrained, and the work was organised around the principle that people should do what attracted them rather than what needed doing, which is charming and produces uneven results at harvest.

There is a specific trap in the attractive-labour principle that shows up most clearly in agriculture. If people work at what appeals to them, the distribution of effort follows preference rather than necessity, and farming’s requirements are almost entirely a matter of necessity arriving on a schedule nobody chose. Hay must be brought in when it is dry, not when someone feels drawn to haymaking, and manure must be spread whether or not it is attractive. A system that allocates labour by inclination will reliably under-supply exactly the unglamorous, time-critical, physically unpleasant tasks on which an agricultural year depends, and it will do so without anybody behaving badly.

More fundamentally, the arithmetic was against them from the start. A hundred and seventy-five acres of indifferent land worked by amateurs will not generate a surplus sufficient to support a hundred people and service the capital, and no amount of good faith alters that, which is the same brutal calculation that has defeated a great many settlements founded by people who assumed that the land question would sort itself out and that access to decent soil and water was a matter of willingness. There were bright spots on the industrial side: the community ran genuinely profitable operations making sashes and blinds, and a printing shop, both of which were skilled trades rather than farming and both of which reflected what the membership could actually do. Those small manufactures could sell into the Boston market like any other producer, in the ordinary way that goods reach buyers. The farm was in the name. It never paid.

Hawthorne’s Six Months

Nathaniel Hawthorne arrived in 1841 as one of the earliest members, invested a thousand dollars, threw himself into the manual work, and left within about six months, and his reason is the most useful piece of testimony anyone produced about the place. He had come believing that physical labour would nourish his writing, and he discovered that it did not; that after a day of forking manure he was too tired to write anything at all, and that the arrangement which was supposed to unite the hand and the mind had in his case simply exhausted the one and silenced the other.

Hawthorne is also a reminder that a community’s most sympathetic critics are usually its former members. He did not leave in anger, he retained affection for several of the people, and his objection was not to the principles but to their effect on him specifically, which is the most damaging kind of testimony precisely because it cannot be dismissed as hostility. Communities tend to treat departures as defections and to explain them by the departing person’s deficiencies, which is a comfortable reading and forecloses the possibility that the arrangement itself is producing the exits, a form of self-serving misreading that is thoroughly documented across the study of how groups interpret signals about themselves.

This is a real finding and it undermines the founding premise more thoroughly than any financial statement. The proposition that manual and intellectual labour are complementary and that a person can do both at full intensity is attractive, egalitarian, and empirically doubtful, and Hawthorne’s six months constitute a small controlled test of it by a subject with every motive to want it to be true. He returned to Salem and wrote, and a decade later produced The Blithedale Romance, a novel set in a thinly disguised Brook Farm which is chilly about the enterprise and its participants and which has done a great deal to shape how the community is remembered. He also sued to recover his investment. The most famous member left early and wrote the most influential account of the place, and the account is a critique, which is roughly the relationship that self-governing settlements have always had with their literary chroniclers, from the free town of Christiania onward. He put in a thousand dollars. He got a novel.

The Conversion

In 1844 the community changed direction entirely, and the decision was Ripley’s. The doctrine it adopted was Fourierism, the elaborate system devised by the French theorist Charles Fourier, which specified that human society should be reorganised into communities called phalanxes, each containing precisely one thousand six hundred and twenty people selected to represent the full range of human passions, housed in a single vast building called a phalanstery, working according to a scheme of attractive labour in which tasks rotated frequently enough that nobody grew bored.

The appeal of Fourierism in America at that precise moment is worth understanding, because Brook Farm was not eccentric in adopting it. Albert Brisbane had been promoting the doctrine energetically, Horace Greeley was giving it space in the New York Tribune, which was among the most influential papers in the country, and dozens of phalanxes were founded across the northern states in the 1840s. Ripley was joining a national movement with prominent backers and a coherent programme, not wandering off after an obscure enthusiasm, and from inside 1844 the decision looked like connecting a small local venture to a serious and growing cause with real political weight, of the kind that attracts the attention of national figures and the press.

Brook Farm adopted it wholesale. A new constitution was written, the name was changed to the Brook Farm Association for Industry and Education, and in 1845 the community was incorporated as the Brook Farm Phalanx. The Harbinger, a Fourierist journal, began publishing from West Roxbury and became one of the movement’s principal organs in America. Work was reorganised into series and groups with defined categories and considerably more structure than before. And, as the Massachusetts Commonwealth Museum’s account of the Phalanx years records, many members found the new arrangement too rigid and too structured, and at odds with what they had originally joined. A community that had been founded on the removal of imposed structure adopted, from a book, an imposed structure of remarkable specificity, and the internal disputes that followed have the shape that factional disputes always take inside a bounded group, as the study of how coalitions form and fracture suggests, and as the record of governance rewritten from first principles repeatedly shows. They changed the name. They changed considerably more than that.

Why a System Beats an Accident

Here is the mechanism, and it explains something that otherwise looks simply foolish. Brook Farm’s leadership knew the school was profitable. They said so; the financial planning of the Phalanstery years explicitly anticipated expanding educational activity, with the associated boost in income, once the new building was finished. The school was not an unnoticed asset. It was understood, and it was still subordinated, and the reason is that a working arrangement which nobody designed does not feel like an achievement.

There is a further asymmetry that pushed the same way. A working business generates obligations rather than admiration: pupils to teach, fees to collect, parents to satisfy, terms to keep. A doctrine generates identity, allies, correspondence, a journal, invitations, and the sense of participating in something historically significant. For a community whose members were writers and thinkers by disposition, the second offered rewards the first could not, and the daily experience of running a good school in West Roxbury was never going to feel like the reason one had abandoned a Boston pulpit. The school was work. The system was a cause.

Consider what the school was, from the founders’ point of view. It had not been planned; it had emerged, because people who could teach found themselves in a place where teaching could be sold. It rested on no principle, demonstrated no theory of society, could not be explained to a visitor as an answer to anything, and could not be exported, since it depended entirely on the particular people who happened to be present. It answered the question of how they would pay for the year, and not the question of what they were proving. Fourierism answered the second question completely: it was universal, systematic, transferable, intellectually elaborate, and it came with a movement, a literature, and a diagram. For a group of intellectuals whose entire purpose was demonstration, a general theory is worth more than a going concern, and the pull of a complete system over a working improvisation operates everywhere, in the great ambitious undertakings and in every field where an elegant theoretical result attracts more attention than the messy practice that actually functions, as the long history of claims that work beautifully except in the laboratory illustrates. The school paid the bills. It did not prove anything.

The Phalanstery

The doctrine came with a building, and the building consumed everything. Construction of the phalanstery began in the summer of 1844 on an ambitious scale, intended as the new centre of the community where everyone would live, eat, work, and learn together, in accordance with the specification. It was a very large structure for a community of that size and finances, funded partly by bonds, and into it went all available funds.

The scale mismatch was structural rather than a matter of ambition. Fourier’s specification called for one thousand six hundred and twenty people, a number he derived from his taxonomy of human passions and treated as essential rather than approximate, and Brook Farm had perhaps a hundred residents. Building a phalanstery for a phalanx that could not be assembled meant constructing the physical apparatus of a system while lacking the population the system required to function, which is a category of error that recurs whenever an implementation is scaled down from a specification without recalculating whether the thing still works at the reduced size. It does not usually work, and the shortfall was not a matter of degree but of kind.

The strain showed immediately. During the winter of 1844 and 1845, food, clothing, and fuel were what the community’s own records call retrenched, with members in good health encouraged to do without meat, tea, butter, and sugar. The following winter brought the same. Work on the phalanstery was slow, was suspended over the winter months, and dragged on into a second year. Meanwhile the national Fourierist organisation, whose support Brook Farm had expected, had privately concluded that the community must inevitably fail because it was operating at too small a scale to realise the system properly, and was raising a hundred thousand dollars for a more ambitious association elsewhere. So the community was rationing sugar to build a structure required by a doctrine whose own central organisation had written it off for being too small to satisfy that doctrine. Large capital projects have a way of absorbing the resources of everything around them, as the record of what gets built and at what cost and of industries that consume more than they return both attest. They stopped eating butter to pay for it.

March 1846

On the third of March 1846 the phalanstery, still unfinished, caught fire and burned to the ground in a couple of hours. It was uninsured. Accounts differ on the precise circumstances of the lapse, but the substance is not in dispute: the community’s entire capital investment of the previous two years, a building on which it had staked its reorganisation, was destroyed and nothing was recovered.

It is worth noticing how the two catastrophes interacted, because either alone might have been survivable. The smallpox outbreak attacked the revenue by removing the pupils; the fire attacked the capital by destroying the building. A community with an intact school could have rebuilt slowly, and a community with intact capital could have waited for the school to recover. Losing both within about a year meant there was neither income to service the debt nor an asset to borrow against, and the members who left in the months afterwards were not abandoning a viable enterprise but recognising a completed arithmetic.

The fire was not the only blow of that period and possibly not the decisive one. An outbreak of smallpox in the community during 1845 and 1846 had already caused parents to withdraw their children, which struck directly at the only reliable revenue the place had, and the school never recovered. After the fire, roughly sixty-five people remained; within months the number was about thirty, and virtually all the students had gone. What followed was a slow administrative ending: an informal funeral for the enterprise late in 1846, the auction in Boston of several hundred volumes from Ripley’s personal library, which had been among the finest in the country, and bankruptcy proceedings completed in 1847 with debts of some seventeen thousand dollars. Ripley remarked at the time that he now understood how a man would feel attending his own funeral. He spent years afterwards paying the creditors off from his salary as a literary critic in New York, which is a detail worth holding onto, since founders of failed communities do not usually settle the debts personally. Uninsured catastrophic loss and an inability to meet liabilities is the ordinary anatomy of institutional collapse, as the forensic accounts of organisations that could not cover themselves and the literature on losses that arrive from inside both describe. The building burned in two hours. The recovery took Ripley the rest of his working life.

Brook Farm in 2026

Before the archaeology, there was the fiction, and it arrived first by decades. The Blithedale Romance was published in 1852, five years after the bankruptcy, and it fixed Brook Farm in the American imagination as a place of chilly idealism and self-deception well before any historian had assembled the records. Members of the community objected, reasonably, that Hawthorne had spent six months there a decade earlier and had not much liked it at the time. The objection made no difference. A novel by a major writer beats a set of ledgers, and the popular memory of Brook Farm has been substantially Hawthorne’s memory ever since.

The site survives, which is more than can be said for most of these places, and it survives in an unusual condition. After the community dissolved, the property served as a West Roxbury almshouse, then as a Civil War training camp, then as an orphanage and a Lutheran cemetery, and today the land is a protected historic and archaeological site within the City of Boston, with the City’s archaeology programme maintaining an account of the site and its excavation. Almost nothing stands above ground. What is there is buried: foundations, the print shop, the outlines of the Hive, the material record of six years, which archaeologists have been steadily recovering, in a landscape now surveyed with the aerial and remote sensing equipment applied to every documented site of a settlement that no longer physically exists.

It is worth being precise about what the community actually proved, since this is usually stated backwards. Brook Farm did not demonstrate that people cannot live cooperatively; it demonstrated, for about three years, that a group of educated people could run an outstanding progressive school on a cooperative basis, pay themselves equally for unequal work, maintain a genuinely humane internal culture, and cover their operating costs from tuition. That is a real result and a considerably more useful one than the demonstration they were attempting. It simply was not the finding anyone had gone there to obtain, and so it was never written up as a finding at all.

The intellectual legacy is enormous and almost entirely indirect. Charles Anderson Dana, who ran the Brook Farm school’s finances, became one of the most powerful newspaper editors in America. John Sullivan Dwight founded the country’s first serious music journal. Ripley became the leading literary critic of his generation at the New York Tribune. Hawthorne wrote The Blithedale Romance. The Harbinger carried Fourierist and reformist argument across the country for years. Margaret Fuller, Emerson, Alcott, Greeley, and Channing all passed through or corresponded, and the community sits at the centre of the Transcendentalist story in a way that guarantees it a place in every account of nineteenth-century American thought. What survives is a bibliography and a set of careers. What does not survive is the demonstration.

Agriculture and Education

Strip Brook Farm to its structure and the failure is not that intellectuals cannot farm, true though that turned out to be. It is that the community discovered its actual comparative advantage, built a genuinely excellent institution on it, watched that institution generate the only reliable income the place ever had, and then subordinated it to a system imported from a French theorist who had never seen West Roxbury and whose specification called for a population twenty times larger than anything Brook Farm could assemble. The money went into a building the doctrine required rather than into the school the accounts favoured, and when the building burned there was nothing left.

The test this suggests is uncomfortable and short. Ask what is actually paying the bills, in cash, this year, and whether that activity appears anywhere in the founding statement of purpose. Ask whether the thing being expanded is the thing that earns or the thing that explains. Ask, when a complete system is on offer, what specifically about the current arrangement it is meant to improve, and whether anyone has checked that the system’s own requirements can be met at the available scale. And notice if the honest answer to why the working activity is being subordinated is that it fails to prove anything, because that is not a reason to stop doing it.

The deeper point is why that decision was almost inevitable given who they were. Brook Farm existed to demonstrate a principle, and an emergent, locally-fitted, unrepeatable arrangement demonstrates nothing; it is merely a living. A complete general system, by contrast, is exactly what a demonstration requires, and its completeness is precisely what makes it dangerous, because a system specified in advance cannot adapt to the particular soil, the particular people, or the particular market that a community actually has. That is what earns the case its permanent place in the catalogue of utopian societies. They called it the Institute of Agriculture and Education, put agriculture first, and lost money on it for six years while the education paid. When they finally rewrote the name, they dropped agriculture and added industry, and left education exactly where it had always been, at the end.

In 1911 a Los Angeles lawyer named Job Harriman came within a few percentage points of becoming mayor of the largest city in the American West on a Socialist Party ticket. He had already run for vice president of the United States in 1900 as Eugene Debs’s running mate, and he would later run for governor of California, and he lost all of them, the mayoral race most painfully and most publicly. His conclusion was not that his politics were wrong but that the contest was unwinnable on those terms: that between the mainstream press, which in Los Angeles meant Harrison Gray Otis and the Los Angeles Times, and the business interests aligned with it, socialism would never be permitted a fair hearing at the ballot box. So he decided to stop arguing and build a demonstration instead.

In 1914 he founded the Llano del Rio Cooperative Colony in the Antelope Valley, about forty-five miles north of Los Angeles on the desert side of the mountains, and within three years it held something approaching a thousand people. It was, by common assessment, the most significant non-religious utopian community in the history of the American West. It was also finished by 1918, killed by a problem that had nothing to do with socialism, cooperation, human nature, or anything Harriman’s critics had predicted. It ran out of water. And then the colonists did the thing that almost nobody in the whole record of intentional communities manages: they chartered a train, crossed fifteen hundred miles of continent, bought an abandoned sawmill town in Louisiana, and started again, and the second colony lasted twenty years and died of something else entirely.

The Man Who Lost the Election

Harriman is a more interesting figure than the standard account of a defeated politician retreating to the desert allows. He had trained for the ministry before turning to law, and he brought to socialist politics a combination of legal precision and evangelical conviction that made him formidable in a courtroom and effective on a platform. His 1911 mayoral campaign was genuinely close, and it collapsed in its final days when the McNamara brothers, whom Harriman had been helping to defend against charges arising from the bombing of the Los Angeles Times building, changed their pleas to guilty. The political effect was immediate and total.

The timing of the McNamara confession is worth registering because it shaped Harriman’s reading of everything afterwards. He had joined the defence team believing the brothers innocent, campaigned on that basis, and learned of the guilty pleas days before the vote, which meant his political destruction arrived through a channel he could neither anticipate nor answer. A man who loses narrowly to argument concludes he needs a better argument. A man who loses to an event he could not have foreseen and could not correct in the time available concludes something rather different about the reliability of the process, and Harriman’s turn from electoral politics to demonstration follows directly from that reading.

What he took from that experience is the founding premise of everything that followed. He concluded that the argument could not be won through persuasion because the channels of persuasion were owned, and that the only remaining demonstration was an actual functioning example that people could visit, inspect, and judge for themselves. That is a coherent strategic response to being locked out of public debate, and it has been the reasoning behind a great many practical experiments in social organisation, from the ventures catalogued in the record of governance built on stated principles onward, and it was sharpened in his case by direct experience of how concentrated media ownership shapes what a public is permitted to consider, a dynamic that runs through the study of how power operates out of view and through every account of politics conducted against an unfriendly press. He lost the election decisively. He did not conclude that he was wrong.

Llano del Rio

The choice of the Antelope Valley is worth examining, because it followed a logic that looked sound at the time. Land on the desert side of the San Gabriels was extraordinarily cheap, it was close enough to Los Angeles that supporters and visitors could reach it, and the surrounding country was being actively promoted for irrigated agriculture, with a genuine boom in alfalfa and orchards then underway across the valley. Harriman was not buying wasteland on a whim; he was buying into an established regional expectation that the desert could be farmed, which for a great many properties in that valley turned out to be true. It simply was not true for the particular water source his colony depended on.

The colony was organised as a cooperative corporation rather than as a commune, which turns out to matter enormously later. Members bought shares, worked for wages credited against their accounts, and held their interest in the enterprise as stock rather than as a claim on a particular house or field. Land was acquired in the Antelope Valley near what is now Pearblossom, on the desert side of the San Gabriel range, and settlement began in 1914 with a handful of families.

The corporate form deserves more attention than it usually receives, because it is unusual in this literature and it is the reason the later relocation was possible at all. Most utopian communities of the period held their property either in a founder’s name, as at Drop City and Kaweah, or in a trust or association bound to a particular piece of land. Llano was a company. Members held stock, the company held assets, and the relationship between a member and the enterprise was mediated by a share register rather than by residence in a particular house. That arrangement produced its own disputes about who really controlled the enterprise, but it also meant that the community had a legal existence independent of any specific acreage.

Growth was rapid and the construction was substantial. Within three years the population reached roughly nine hundred to a thousand, and Llano del Rio had a hotel, a bakery, a laundry, a print shop publishing its own newspaper, workshops, a cannery, a lime kiln, brick and stone buildings including a substantial silo, orchards, alfalfa fields, and a rabbitry. It ran a Montessori school, one of the earliest in the country, and provided childcare that allowed women to work in the colony’s enterprises, which in 1915 was genuinely advanced. It attracted visitors, publicity, and a steady stream of applicants from across the United States, and by any measure of construction, organisation, and morale it was working. The physical achievement stands comparison with the more celebrated entries in the history of what determined people build. Everything was going well. The problem was underneath.

The Water

The Antelope Valley is Mojave Desert, and the colony’s entire agricultural future depended on Big Rock Creek, which drains the San Gabriel Mountains and which the colony intended to impound behind a dam to provide reliable irrigation. This was not a naive plan; it is what everyone in that country did, and the arithmetic of desert agriculture is simply that stored water equals farmland. The colony bought land with water claims attached and set about securing the rights and building the works.

It is worth understanding how prior appropriation works, because it explains why the colony’s position was hopeless rather than merely difficult. Under the doctrine that governs water across most of the American West, the first party to divert water to beneficial use holds a right superior to everyone later, in perpetuity, regardless of need, proximity, or how much land they own. A newcomer buying property along a creek does not thereby acquire water; they acquire whatever is left after every senior claim has been satisfied, which in a dry year is frequently nothing at all. The ranchers who sued had been there first, and that single fact settled the matter before any judge considered the merits of cooperative agriculture.

Three things went wrong, and none of them was about ideology. Local ranchers, who held prior claims on the same creek, went to court, and in the water law of the American West prior appropriation is close to absolute, so the colony’s position was legally weak from the start. Then in July 1916 the California Commissioner of Corporations refused the colony’s application to secure water rights and construct its dam, on the stated grounds that it lacked sufficient experience and funds, which was a defensible regulatory judgement about a cooperative with no engineering track record proposing to build a substantial impoundment. And underneath all of it lay the geology: the San Andreas fault runs directly through that stretch of the valley, the rock is fractured, and water in such ground behaves unpredictably, appearing and disappearing in ways that make a flow measurement in one season a poor guide to the next. Water rights are the hardest currency in the West, as every account of water as a strategic resource makes clear, and the documentary record of who holds what claim decides these questions absolutely, in the manner of every dispute settled by title rather than by merit. They had built a town. They could not water it.

A Constraint You Cannot Argue With

It is worth pausing on the character of what defeated Llano del Rio, because it is different in kind from what defeats most utopian communities and the difference is the whole point. The colony did not fall apart because members would not work, or because they quarrelled about who should lead, or because the theory of cooperative labour proved unfounded. It ran into a quantity: the amount of water that could be legally obtained and physically stored at that location was less than the amount required to farm it, and no amount of commitment, reorganisation, or good faith could alter either number.

There is also a diagnostic advantage to a physical constraint that communities rarely appreciate until they lack one. Because the water problem could be quantified, it could be forecast, and the leadership could see in 1916 and 1917 that the trajectory did not recover, which gave them time to plan an alternative while the colony was still functioning and its members still had confidence in one another. A social problem produces no equivalent forecast; it deteriorates without a published number, and the moment when it becomes fatal is usually apparent only afterwards. Llano’s leadership had the enormous advantage of a failure they could see coming.

Physical constraints have a specific and unusual property in the life of a community, which is that they are not anybody’s fault. Nobody at Llano del Rio had to be blamed for the hydrology of the San Gabriel Mountains or for the prior claims filed by ranchers thirty years earlier, which meant the failure could be discussed openly without anyone’s character or commitment being on trial. That is a rare and valuable condition, and it is the reason a physical failure can produce a clean collective decision where a social failure produces recrimination. Hard limits of this kind are the ordinary experience of anyone attempting to build something in the material world, from the thermodynamic ceilings that constrain every ambitious technical undertaking to the stubborn physics that has defeated a century of claims about materials that would work if only conditions cooperated. The water was not a disagreement. It was a number.

The Chartered Train

What Harriman and the colony’s leadership did next is the most impressive decision in this entire body of history, and it is almost never given its due. Rather than argue, appeal, reorganise, or hold on in the hope that conditions would improve, they concluded that the site was fatal and that the enterprise should be moved. In 1917 they identified a replacement, arranged its purchase, chartered a train, and relocated.

It should be said plainly that this was also a rupture, and that two thirds of the colony did not go. Some had no money, some had no appetite for another beginning, and some had joined a specific place in the California desert rather than an abstract cooperative enterprise, and for those people the relocation was simply the end of the thing they had bought into. Every account of the move that emphasises its boldness should sit alongside that fact. A community capable of relocating is a community capable of leaving a substantial share of its own members behind, and the same corporate structure that made the move possible is what made the abandonment legally straightforward.

The numbers are modest and the logistics were not. Somewhere between two and three hundred people made the journey, perhaps sixty families, which is roughly a third of the colony at its peak, and the rest dispersed. They travelled fifteen hundred miles from the Mojave Desert to western Louisiana, carrying what they could and abandoning nearly everything they had built, including the buildings, the improvements, the orchards, and the silo. The Llano del Rio Company went into bankruptcy in late 1917 and the California site was abandoned in 1918. What survived the move was not the property but the organisation: a corporate structure, a membership, a leadership, a newspaper, and a set of working practices, which is precisely the category of asset that can be loaded onto a train. Most communities in this literature discover at exactly this moment that everything they own is nailed down. Llano discovered that most of what it owned was not.

Stables, Louisiana

The replacement site tells you that they had learned the lesson precisely. Where Llano del Rio had been cheap desert land with an unproven water claim, forty-five miles from a city across a mountain range, the new site was an abandoned sawmill town called Stables in Vernon Parish, Louisiana, bought from the Gulf-Anderson Lumber Company along with about twenty thousand acres of cut-over timber land. It came with existing buildings, including houses. A state highway ran through it. So did a railroad.

The comparison with other transplanted utopias is instructive here, because moving is not by itself a solution and has destroyed as many communities as it saved. Henry Ford put an industrial town into the Amazon on the assumption that capital and planning would substitute for local knowledge, and the result is documented in the history of that plantation city; the site defeated the enterprise regardless of resources. What distinguishes Llano’s relocation is not that they moved but that they moved toward specific, checkable advantages they had learned to value the hard way: existing structures, rail access, road access, cheap land, and neighbours who were politically sympathetic. They were not looking for a better place in the abstract. They were correcting four identified defects.

That last detail is the entire correction. The Antelope Valley colony had been isolated, dependent on hauling everything over a mountain range, and unable to move produce to market at reasonable cost; the Louisiana site had rail and road access built in, which meant materials in and goods out. Western Louisiana in 1917 was also a shrewd political choice, because the timber industry had cut most of the old-growth and was selling off its holdings, and the parish had a long history of bitter and sometimes violent strikes and had returned socialist votes at a rate among the highest in the country in 1900, so the arriving colonists found neighbours who recognised what they were attempting rather than regarding them as exotic. Buying the residue of an extractive industry that has finished with a landscape is a recurring pattern, familiar from the histories of commodity operators moving through resources and from every account of what happens after an extraction economy has taken what it came for. Cut-over land is cheap because the value has been removed. That was the point.

Twenty Years

New Llano, sometimes written Newllano, ran from 1917 until the end of the 1930s and is generally regarded as the longest-lived non-religious socialist community in American history. Over its full span, counting the California years, more than ten thousand people passed through it. It was largely self-sufficient, farming, raising poultry and livestock, and operating industries on the site, and it established satellite colonies in Texas and New Mexico. It published the Llano Colonist continuously until 1937, and the newspaper’s archive is the reason so much is known about the colony’s internal life; its history is preserved among the newspaper collections catalogued by the Library of Congress.

The colony’s institutional depth is what distinguishes it from almost every other entry in this literature and what makes the twenty-year run comprehensible. Where most experiments consist of a founding principle and an improvised daily practice, New Llano developed actual institutions: a school system, a medical arrangement, a training programme, a newspaper with a continuous run of two decades, a governance structure with committees, and satellite settlements. Skills were transmitted deliberately rather than picked up, which is the mechanism by which any body of practical competence survives a generation, as the study of how knowledge passes between people describes, and it meant new arrivals could be absorbed and made useful rather than merely accommodated.

Under the management of George Pickett, who dominated the colony’s later decades, New Llano developed social provision that was decades ahead of the surrounding country. There was universal medical care within the colony, education from early childhood through vocational training, and an arrangement Pickett called the kid colony. Women were trained in trades and could achieve a degree of financial independence unavailable to most women in rural Louisiana at the time, a genuinely significant achievement in that place in the 1920s. Theodore Cuno, one of the founders of Labor Day, was among its benefactors. The colony’s account of itself, and the parish’s account of the colony, are preserved by the Louisiana humanities encyclopedia, which records that the surrounding population largely recognised in the cooperative the reforms they had themselves fought the lumber companies to obtain. It was not a fringe curiosity. It was a functioning small society, and it lasted a generation.

Portable and Unportable Problems

Here is the mechanism, and Llano demonstrates it better than any other case because the same community ran into both kinds of problem in succession. Constraints come in two varieties with entirely different properties. Physical constraints are located in a place: the water table, the rainfall, the soil, the distance to a railhead, the legal claims attached to a particular creek. They are measurable, they are impersonal, they are not anybody’s fault, and crucially they can be escaped, because they belong to the site rather than to the people. If the numbers do not work in the Mojave, they may work in Louisiana, and the remedy is a train ticket.

The distinction has a physiological analogy that makes it intuitive. An organism can escape a hostile environment by moving, and a great deal of biology consists of exactly that manoeuvre, from migration to dispersal, as the study of how creatures respond to their surroundings documents at length. What an organism cannot do is move away from a disorder that is internal to it, because the disorder is carried in the same body that does the travelling. Communities are subject to the identical rule, and the reason the rule is hard to apply in practice is that a community’s internal condition is much harder to observe than its external circumstances, particularly from inside.

Social constraints are located in the membership: how disputes get settled, who holds authority and on what basis, how decisions are made, what happens when a faction forms, whether the leadership can be replaced. These are not measurable, they are intensely personal, they implicate everyone, and they cannot be escaped by relocation because they board the train with you. A community that moves to solve a social problem arrives with the problem intact and with the additional strain of having just moved. The systematic difficulty is that communities routinely misdiagnose which sort they have, generally in the direction of preferring the physical explanation, because a physical constraint costs nobody their dignity and a social one costs somebody theirs, and the dynamics of authority and faction inside a bounded group are as durable as anything studied in the politics of social animals. Llano had a physical problem in California. It solved it by moving.

Receivership

And then, over twenty years in Louisiana, it developed the other kind. The decline of New Llano is not a single event and the sources agree on its ingredients without agreeing on their weights. There were persistent internal disputes over Pickett’s management, which was effective and increasingly personal, and the colony went through repeated factional conflicts, expulsions, and departures. There was debt, accumulated over years of investment in enterprises that did not always return. There was litigation, both internal and external. And there was the Depression, which simultaneously drove new members toward the colony seeking security and destroyed the markets for what it produced.

It is worth resisting the temptation to read the second failure as an indictment of the first success. Twenty years is a very long run by the standards of this literature, longer than Zoar’s founding generation took to become prosperous and vastly longer than most secular experiments manage, and a community that provides medical care, education, vocational training, and a livelihood to several hundred people for two decades in rural Louisiana during the Depression has accomplished something regardless of how it ended. Self-governing settlements that endure at all are rare enough that the ones which manage decades, like the free town in Copenhagen, are studied precisely because they are exceptional.

The ending was legal rather than dramatic. The colony went into receivership in 1937, closed in 1938, and was formally dismantled by court order in 1939, which is a very different kind of death from running out of water, and a much less dignified one. Nobody could point at a number. Everyone could point at somebody. Institutions that fail through accumulated internal dispute rather than external shock end up in exactly this condition, unable to reform themselves and handed over to a court to be taken apart, which is the terminal state described in the anatomy of organisations that could not resolve their own affairs and in the forensic literature on losses that accumulate inside a trusted institution. The first colony ended with a decision. The second ended with a receiver.

Llano del Rio in 2026

It is worth noting how differently the two places are remembered, and how little that tracks their actual achievements. There is a further reason the California ruin holds attention, which is what it stands next to. The Antelope Valley in the twenty-first century is exurban Los Angeles, a landscape of tract housing, commuter highways, aqueducts, solar arrays, and warehousing, all of it the built form of exactly the economic order Harriman was attempting to demonstrate an alternative to. The stone chimneys sit beside a highway carrying people to jobs in the city he failed to become mayor of. Ruins acquire their meaning from their surroundings, and these ones are surrounded by the outcome of the argument they lost.

Llano del Rio, which lasted four years and failed, is famous: it appears in books about California, it is photographed constantly, it has been written about by novelists and urban theorists as an emblem of the futures Los Angeles did not choose. New Llano, which lasted twenty years and accomplished a great deal more, is largely unknown outside Vernon Parish. The difference is that one of them left a ruin in a photogenic desert beside a highway, and the other left a functioning town, and ruins are much better copy than municipalities.

Both sites survive, in very different conditions. The ruins of Llano del Rio still stand in the Antelope Valley beside Highway 138 near Pearblossom, a scatter of stone chimneys, foundations, an arched fireplace, and the silo, among the Joshua trees, entirely unprotected and steadily deteriorating. Aldous Huxley, who lived nearby in the Mojave, called the place a desert Ozymandias, which is exactly right and has been quoted by everyone since; the ruins have become one of the standard images of vanished Californian futures, and they are visited constantly by people who have read about them, photographed from every angle including from the air with the drone and survey equipment now used to document every abandoned site of a place that once existed.

Louisiana went the other way. New Llano did not become a ruin; it became a town. The village was incorporated in 1942, three years after the colony was dismantled, and it is still there today, a municipality in Vernon Parish adjacent to Fort Johnson, with a mayor, a council, and several thousand residents, and it maintains a Museum of the New Llano Colony that preserves the record. The colony failed and the settlement did not, which is an outcome none of the more famous experiments achieved and which reflects the fact that the second site had been chosen for its transport links and its existing buildings rather than for its ideological suitability. The Mojave site is a photograph. The Louisiana site is an address with a post office.

The Failure That Had an Exit

Strip Llano to its structure and it offers something the rest of this literature almost never does, which is a controlled comparison inside a single community. The same organisation, substantially the same people, and the same principles were tested against two entirely different kinds of failure. In California the constraint was physical, external, measurable, and nobody’s fault, and the response available was to leave, which they did, at enormous cost and with impressive decisiveness, arriving in Louisiana to build something that worked for twenty years. In Louisiana the constraint was social, internal, unmeasurable, and everybody’s fault to some degree, and there was no train that could be chartered against it.

The test this suggests is worth running before any community concludes it needs to relocate, and equally before it concludes it does not. Ask whether the binding constraint can be written as a number, because if it can, it belongs to the site and a different site may have different numbers. Ask whether anyone is at fault, because a constraint with a culprit is almost always social and will travel. Ask what specifically would be different at the proposed destination, and whether those differences are checkable in advance rather than hoped for. And ask honestly which of the current disputes would board the train, because those are the ones that will still be running in twenty years.

That asymmetry is the useful finding, and it inverts the usual moral of these stories. The conventional lesson holds that utopian communities fail because human nature defeats their theories, and Llano del Rio’s first collapse is a standing refutation of that: it failed because of hydrology and water law in a desert, and its members proved the point by relocating and running successfully for a generation. What ended the second colony was indeed something like the conventional lesson, arriving twenty years late and taking the form of factions, debt, and a courtroom. That is what secures the whole episode its particular place in the catalogue of utopian societies. They escaped the desert because the desert was only a place. They could not escape the argument, because the argument had bought a ticket.

On 20 February 1890, a ship called the Citta di Roma left Genoa for Rio de Janeiro carrying an Italian agronomist named Giovanni Rossi and a handful of companions. Rossi was thirty-four, trained as a veterinarian, versed in the natural and political sciences, and had spent his adult life writing about how an anarchist society might be organised. He was not going to Brazil to escape persecution, to find land, or to make money. He was going to run a test. His intention, stated plainly in his own writing and repeated by every serious historian since, was to take anarchism out of the realm of argument and subject it to trial: to build a community without authority, hierarchy, or private property, observe what happened, and report the results.

They arrived in April and, after one of the party fell ill en route to their intended destination further south, settled instead on a tract of about two hundred and seventy-eight hectares between Santa Barbara and Palmeira in the state of Parana. Rossi named the place Cecilia, after the heroine of his own first novel. Over the next four years the population rose to something approaching three hundred, mostly Italian, mostly male, mostly urban working people, and they held the land in common, worked without wages, kept a communal fund, made their decisions without officers, and sanctioned free unions between men and women without marriage. In 1894 it ended. Rossi wrote it up, remained in Brazil for another thirteen years working as an agronomist, went home to Italy, and died in Pisa in 1943. Almost every entry in the record of intentional communities is founded by people looking for a home, and the ones that go wrong in Brazil, like Ford’s plantation on the Amazon, go wrong for reasons of arrogance or ignorance. Cecilia went wrong for a subtler reason, and the reason is contained in the word Rossi himself used for it.

The Man Who Published The Experiment

Rossi’s biography is the argument in miniature. Born in Pisa in 1856, he trained in agronomy and veterinary medicine, which is to say he was educated in the observational sciences at a moment when their prestige was overwhelming, and his intellectual formation was in method as much as in politics. At twenty-two he published a novel, Un comune socialista, which set out his theory of how a communal society should be organised, and which was successful enough to run through five editions and to become the best-known title in its publisher’s socialist library.

It is worth being clear about what kind of anarchist Rossi was, because the label covers a great deal of ground and he sat at one specific point on it. He was not an insurrectionist and had no interest in propaganda by deed, the bombings and assassinations that dominated the public image of anarchism in the 1890s and that were being carried out by other Italians in exactly those years. His position was constructive and demonstrative: that the way to establish anarchism was to build a functioning example and let it persuade by existing. That commitment to demonstration over agitation is what makes Colonia Cecilia interesting, and it is also what made the colony’s survival a matter of intellectual rather than merely practical importance to him.

Then he did something unusual for a political theorist: he tried it. Working with the socialist leader Andrea Costa, he founded and published a periodical titled Lo Sperimentale, which translates as The Experiment. In November 1887 he established an agricultural cooperative called Colonia Cittadella near Cremona, on land offered by a sympathetic landowner, running for about two years as a working trial of cooperative agriculture. Only after that did he go to Brazil. The sequence is theory, pilot study, full trial, publication, which is precisely the sequence of a research programme rather than of a search for a place to live, and it reflects a nineteenth-century confidence that social questions would yield to the same methods that were transforming the study of the living world and every other field then being systematised, a confidence that runs through the whole catalogue of ambitious undertakings. He published a journal called The Experiment, and then, at thirty-four, he went to South America and performed one.

The Naming of Colonia Cecilia

The name repays attention. Cecilia was the heroine of Rossi’s first novel, the fictional demonstration of his theory, and the colony was named after her, which means that the settlement in Parana was consciously and explicitly an instantiation of a text he had written twelve years earlier. He was not founding a place and then describing it; he was taking a description and attempting to make a place out of it.

There is a further oddity in the naming worth pausing on, since the accounts differ slightly and both versions point the same way. Some sources hold that Cecilia was the heroine of the novel; others that she was a young woman Rossi had known at university, blonde and long-braided, who inspired the character and later married him. Either way the settlement in Parana carried a name imported from Rossi’s own imaginative life rather than from anything in Brazil, from the land, the river, the region, or the people who would live there. Communities that name themselves after a local feature are describing where they are. Colonia Cecilia was named after where its founder had been.

That order of operations has consequences that are easy to miss. A community founded by people who want to live differently begins with the people and negotiates the arrangements around them, which is untidy and produces institutions nobody would have designed. A community founded to instantiate a specification begins with the arrangements and recruits people to fill them, which produces something much closer to what the founder intended and much less robust, because the specification was written without reference to the particular human beings who would have to inhabit it. Rossi had thought about the theory with enormous care and about the individuals not at all, which is not a criticism of his character but a description of what a general theory is for. The gap between an elegant plan and the ground it has to sit on is the standing difficulty of every serious construction effort, as the history of what actually gets built repeatedly shows. He named the colony after a character. She had been easier to accommodate.

The Accidental Site

How the group ended up in Parana at all is a small story with large implications. The plan had been for somewhere else, with Uruguay and Rio Grande do Sul both appearing in the accounts, and one of the party fell ill during the journey south, so they stopped partway and established themselves where circumstances permitted. The land was neither surveyed for their purposes nor selected for its qualities. It was where they happened to be when they had to stop.

The accidental siting mattered more than it might appear, because subsistence agriculture is the one enterprise in which the specific piece of ground determines almost everything. Soil, drainage, aspect, frost dates, rainfall distribution, and access to a market are not details to be worked around but the fundamental parameters of whether a group of people will eat, and an agronomist of all people would ordinarily insist on assessing them before committing. Rossi took the land that was available when circumstances stopped him, and the colony’s entire food supply thereafter depended on a decision made by an illness, in a region whose agricultural potential the group had no means of evaluating and whose water and seasonal conditions were unknown to every one of them.

There is also a persistent and attractive story that the colony was made possible by a grant of land from Emperor Pedro II, arranged through the composer Carlos Gomes, a friend of Rossi’s musician uncle. Recent scholarship treats this with considerable scepticism, and the objection is chronological and hard to answer: the Brazilian Republic was proclaimed in November 1889, some months before the anarchists sailed, and by Rossi’s own report there had been no negotiation with the Emperor, who was by then deposed and in exile. What is not in doubt is that the group arrived into the middle of a regime change and a national immigration drive, which shaped everything about their reception, and that the shifting legal position of their land became a real problem later, of the kind that documentary title exists to prevent, as the great investigations into who holds what demonstrate, and that arrives whenever a change of government scrambles existing arrangements. They chose the theory carefully. They chose the site by accident.

What They Built

The physical record is modest and honest. The first arrivals put up a communal shed to house the families temporarily, with each household then expected to build its own dwelling, and by the end of 1891 the settlement consisted of about twenty wooden houses and that one shared building. Into this they packed a population that had grown to nearly three hundred, which is a serious mismatch, and the accounts are frank that the structure available never caught up with the number of people arriving.

The housing arithmetic deserves to be stated because it is the clearest single measure of the mismatch between plan and reality. Twenty wooden houses and one communal shed, for a population approaching three hundred. Even allowing for households rather than individuals and for the temporary nature of the arrangement, that is a settlement in which a substantial share of the members were living in shared emergency accommodation years after arrival, in a climate that is mild by Italian standards but wet, and where privacy was effectively unavailable. Almost every account of internal friction at Colonia Cecilia has to be read against that background, since a great many disputes that get attributed to ideology are more economically explained by too many people in one building.

The economy showed real ingenuity within its limits. They farmed and kept livestock, and in the colony’s best period, around 1892, when new colonists arrived and morale recovered, they began viticulture and set up the manufacture of shoes and barrels, which are exactly the sort of skilled trades that a group of Italian artisans could actually perform and sell. The land itself was decent enough and the region was filling with immigrant settlement of every description, Russian-Germans, Poles, and later Mennonites, so there were markets within reach for anyone with a product, of the kind that has always determined whether a remote settlement can trade its way to viability, as the history of moving goods to distant buyers makes clear. They managed to build twenty houses in all. The population needed a great many more than that.

Farmers Who Were Not Farmers

The composition of the population is where the experimental frame does its most quiet damage, and the sources are consistent about it. The colonists were largely of working-class urban origin, drawn from the Italian labour movement, and a great many of them had no agricultural knowledge whatsoever. They had been recruited on the basis of their politics, because their politics was the variable under investigation, and the community was intended to demonstrate that people committed to anarchist principles could live by them.

The recruitment method compounded this. Colonists came in waves, drawn by Rossi’s published appeals and by word of mouth through the Italian labour movement, which meant the selection filter was enthusiasm for the idea plus the ability to afford a passage, and nothing else. Nobody was asked what they could do. Nobody was assessed for the skills the settlement actually required, which were clearing, ploughing, animal husbandry, and the judgement of seasons in an unfamiliar hemisphere. A recruitment process that screens for belief will reliably deliver believers, and a farm needs farmers, and those two sets overlap only by accident.

But the trial required them to feed themselves by subsistence farming on unimproved land in a subtropical climate none of them had worked, and commitment to a principle does not teach anyone to judge a planting season. The farming and livestock did not produce enough to sustain the population, and the difficulty compounded, because a group short of food is a group short of the time and energy required to learn anything, and agricultural competence in any region is a body of local knowledge that ordinarily takes a generation to accumulate and is transmitted person to person, as the study of how practical knowledge passes between people describes. Rossi himself was a trained agronomist, which is the sharpest irony available here, and one agronomist cannot substitute for two hundred people who know what they are doing. He had selected for the hypothesis. He had not selected for the harvest.

The Running Report

Throughout, Rossi wrote. He produced letters, reports, and polemical articles about the colony and sent them to the European anarchist and socialist press continuously, and these were gathered and published in a substantial volume in Zurich in 1897 by the Swiss libertarian Alfred Sanftleben, under a title that translates as Utopia and Experiment. His personal papers survive in an archive in Brazil and have been catalogued by Brazilian historians, with the holdings described in the proceedings of the Brazilian national association of history, and they constitute a remarkably complete record for a community of this size and duration.

The audience for those reports is the detail that matters most. Rossi was not writing for the colonists, who were present and did not need to be told what was happening; he was writing for readers in Italy, Switzerland, and France, for the European movement, for the record. The colony’s most articulate member was therefore continuously oriented outward, toward a distant public whose judgement of the experiment mattered to him more than the daily management of the settlement could. That is a defensible allocation of a scarce person’s attention if the point of the enterprise is to produce a finding. It is a strange one if the point is to get through the winter.

That documentation is why we know anything about Cecilia, and it is also the tell. A man who keeps a running account of his community’s internal difficulties and posts them to an international readership is not simply a diarist; he is filing progress reports. The writing was not incidental to the project but constitutive of it, since an experiment that produces no publishable account has not been performed at all, and the discipline of recording what happens including the failures is genuinely admirable and genuinely scientific, of the sort that separates a real result from a claim in any contested field, as the long argument over replicating exotic laboratory findings illustrates. He documented everything, which is why we can see what happened. It is also why we can see what he thought he was doing.

The Investigator and the Subjects

Here is the mechanism. When a community is framed as an experiment, the founder occupies the position of investigator and the members occupy the position of subjects, and those two positions have profoundly different relationships to the outcome. An experiment produces knowledge whether it succeeds or fails; a negative result is a result, and the investigator’s purposes are served either way. The participants’ purposes are served only if it succeeds, because what they have staked is not a hypothesis but their labour, their savings, their years, and in many cases their emigration.

It is worth saying clearly that Rossi was not cynical and did not exploit anyone in any straightforward sense. He went to Brazil himself, lived in the conditions he had designed, worked, and stayed to the end, which is more than a great many founders manage, and he never appears to have enriched himself or held himself apart. The problem is structural rather than moral. A person can be entirely sincere, entirely present, and entirely honest, and still be occupying a role whose relationship to failure differs fundamentally from that of everyone around him, and the difference does not require bad faith to operate. It only requires that one participant is keeping score in a currency the others are not.

This asymmetry is invisible at the founding, when everybody’s interests appear aligned, and it becomes decisive at the point of collapse. It also has a subtler effect throughout, because an investigator’s commitment to the trial is contingent on its informativeness rather than on its survival, which means the founder has no particular reason to make the compromises that would keep the thing alive at the cost of contaminating the result. Admitting an authority to settle disputes, or a wage to reward effort, or a screening process at the gate, would each have improved Cecilia’s chances and each would have destroyed the purity of the test, and Rossi consistently declined them, which was correct experimental practice and fatal community management. Anarchist arrangements have been attempted many times since with more pragmatism and more success, as the record of governance experiments and enduring self-governing settlements like the free town of Christiania show. The founder was running a trial. Everyone else was living in it.

Free Love as a Variable

The colony’s sexual arrangements are the part most often sensationalised and they deserve a sober account, because they illustrate the mechanism more clearly than anything else. Rossi was a genuine and early advocate of the emancipation of women and of free unions, holding that relationships should rest on affection alone rather than on property, law, or clerical sanction, and that a woman’s dependence on marriage was a form of ownership. In 1890 those were radical and, by most modern lights, admirable positions, and the colony sanctioned unions formed and dissolved without ceremony or legal standing.

The gender composition made the arrangement considerably more fraught than the theory allowed. The colony was, by every account, predominantly male, which means that free unions were being practised in a population where the numbers were badly unbalanced, and a doctrine of unconstrained affection operates very differently in a community of roughly equal numbers than in one where most members have no realistic prospect of a partner at all. This was foreseeable and does not seem to have been foreseen, which is characteristic of a plan derived from principle rather than from observation of the particular people involved, and it is the sort of misreading of a social situation that the study of signalling and misdirection in social species suggests is very easy to make and very expensive to correct.

What is striking is not the practice but Rossi’s treatment of it. He published an analytical account of a particular emotional episode within the colony, examining the conduct and feelings of the people involved as material for general conclusions about how such arrangements function under strain. Read as advocacy it is bold; read as a document of a founder’s relationship to his community it is something else, because the members’ private lives had become case material, appearing in the European press as evidence. That is the investigator position carried to its natural end, and it raises exactly the questions about consent and observation that any study of subjects who cannot fully weigh the terms must confront, which is why the study of intentional communities sits so close to the ethical problems examined in the science of experience and its limits and in the social dynamics traced in the study of group behaviour. The colonists lived through it. Their founder wrote it up for publication.

The End

It is worth noting how quickly it went, relative to what was invested. Four years is very short by the standards of this literature, and the people who dispersed in 1894 had crossed an ocean, given up whatever they had in Italy, and put four years of labour into land they did not individually own and could not take with them. When Colonia Cecilia ended there was no division of assets, no settlement, and no compensation of the kind that the Zoarites arranged for themselves; there was simply a community that stopped functioning and a group of poor immigrants who had to find work elsewhere in a country most of them had reached only a few years earlier.

The dissolution was gradual and had several causes, and the honest historiography does not agree on their weighting. Material poverty was chronic and the food supply never became secure. Hostility from sections of the local elite was real, and the colony’s politics, its foreignness, and its sexual arrangements made it an easy target in a region absorbing large numbers of immigrants under official encouragement. The change of regime altered the colony’s legal and fiscal position, and taxation became a burden a marginal agricultural enterprise could not carry.

The external pressures deserve a fair hearing too, because it would be wrong to treat Colonia Cecilia as purely self-destroying. A community of foreign anarchists practising unconsecrated unions and holding land in common, in a rural Catholic province during a period of political instability, was never going to be left alone, and local hostility was persistent and sometimes organised. The colonists were also immigrants with limited Portuguese, no local networks, and no political standing whatsoever in a country that had changed its form of government a few months before they landed. Any settlement facing that combination would have struggled, and attributing the whole outcome to internal arrangements would be unjust to the people who lived there.

And there was a theft. The communal fund, to which every member had access by design, was robbed by a colonist, which is precisely the failure mode that shared-access arrangements invite and precisely the one that anarchist principle made hardest to guard against, since preventing it requires either locks or an authority, and the point of the colony was to have neither. Some accounts treat the theft as the trigger of the collapse and others as a symptom of a disorganisation already well advanced, which is the standard difficulty in reconstructing losses inside trusted institutions, as the forensic literature on internal theft and the anatomies of institutions that could not account for themselves both illustrate. Departures accelerated. By 1894 the colony was finished, and its members dispersed into Parana, Sao Paulo, and Rio Grande do Sul, where some later turned up in the Brazilian labour movement and some simply became farmers.

Colonia Cecilia in 2026

The afterlife is disproportionate to the four years, and it is almost entirely literary. Rossi kept writing: in 1895 he produced another utopian novel, Il Parana nel XX secolo, imagining the state as one of the great world powers of the twentieth century, narrated by his own pen name, Cardias, which means that after the experiment failed he returned to the genre in which it had begun. The Brazilian anarchist writer Afonso Schmidt published a novel about the colony in 1942. Jean-Louis Comolli made a feature film, La Cecilia, in 1976. Renata Pallottini wrote a play at the commission of the governor of Parana. There have been miniseries, academic theses in three languages, and a Parana state press edition of Rossi’s own writings.

It is worth registering what did not survive, since the contrast with the other great communal experiments is stark. There are no Colonia Cecilia buildings, no preserved village, no museum on the site, no descendant community holding the land in common, and no institution carrying the name forward. Four years of intense effort by three hundred people left, in physical terms, effectively nothing, and the settlement has the peculiar status of a place that is thoroughly documented and no longer locatable. What Rossi produced instead was a literature, which is precisely what an experiment is supposed to produce, and precisely what a home is not.

The scholarly record is now genuinely good, and the University of Sao Paulo’s Brasiliana library has published an accessible account of the colony and its surviving documents, drawing on the testimony of former colonists and their children alongside Rossi’s own essays. Descendants remain in the region, and Palmeira acknowledges the episode in its municipal history alongside its Russian-German, Polish, and Mennonite settlements. There is no site to visit in any meaningful sense, no preserved buildings, and nothing that would be recognisable from the air even with the survey tools, including autonomous aerial mapping, that would find the foundations of most vanished settlements. What survives of Colonia Cecilia is a bibliography.

The Control Condition

Strip Colonia Cecilia to its structure and the lesson is not that anarchism cannot work, which four years in Parana with untrained farmers on accidental land does not establish, and Rossi would have been the first to insist on the point. The lesson concerns what happens when a community is constituted as a test. The framing determined the recruitment, since Rossi selected for ideological commitment because commitment was the variable, and thereby assembled a population with no idea how to farm. It determined the refusal of every remedy, since admitting authority or wages or screening would have preserved the colony and ruined the result. It determined the documentation, which is why we know the story. And it determined the ending, because a trial concludes and a home does not.

The test this suggests applies to any project that describes itself as a pilot, a trial, or a proof of concept, which in the present era is a great many of them. Ask who is bearing the downside if the result is negative, and whether that is the same person collecting the finding. Ask what the completion condition is, and whether the people living inside the project know what it is. Ask whether the remedies that would keep the thing alive have been ruled out because they would compromise the result, which is the specific signature of the investigator relationship. And ask what the founder plans to do afterwards, because the answer usually reveals what the project was for.

There is a final detail that closes the argument better than any analysis. After the colony dissolved, Rossi stayed in Brazil for thirteen years teaching agricultural subjects in Santa Catarina and Rio Grande do Sul, and in 1907 he returned to Italy, where he remained involved with cooperative ventures until his death. He went home having formed a lasting and monogamous relationship with a woman who had been a member of the colony. The most prominent advocate of free love in nineteenth-century anarchism, having tested the proposition on several hundred people and published the findings, concluded his own life in the arrangement he had spent his career arguing against, which is either a very human ending or a very honest one and is probably both. That is what secures the case its place among the genuinely instructive entries in the catalogue of utopian societies. He ran the experiment on everyone else. At the end, he selected the control condition for himself.