- I've spent the last two weeks teaching a course on the history of the conservative intellectual movement for the Hertog political studies program. This is the second year Hertog has offered the course, and the first time under President Trump. I like to joke that I offered the students, all of whom were intelligent, well spoken, and impressive, a complete story. There was a beginning, middle, and end.
I’ve spent the last two weeks teaching a course on the history of the conservative intellectual movement for the Hertog Political Studies Program. This is the second year the program has offered the course, and the first time doing so under the Trump presidency.
I like to say I gave the students—who were all intelligent, articulate, and genuinely impressive—a complete story: a beginning, a middle, and an end.
And that’s already more structure than most modern politics can manage.
If, as Alfred North Whitehead argued, the history of philosophy is a series of footnotes to Plato, then the history of American intellectual conservatism is largely a series of influences on the mind of William F. Buckley Jr..
Buckley sits at the center of this story. I sometimes think of him as the intellectual equivalent of a group chat admin—ideas flying in from every direction, but somehow he’s the one organizing the thread and deciding what stays.
And occasionally muting half the conversation.
We spent the first week on the intellectual foundations behind National Review, the magazine Buckley launched in 1955.
First came the classical liberals, especially F.A. Hayek and Milton Friedman. They emphasized free markets, individual liberty, and deep skepticism of centralized economic planning.
Hayek and Friedman looked at government economic planning the way a cat looks at a bathtub—confident it’s dangerous and planning to leave immediately.
Next were the traditionalists, including Richard Weaver and Russell Kirk. They emphasized moral order, cultural continuity, and the wisdom embedded in long-standing institutions.
Traditionalists hear “we’ve always done it this way” and respond, “Good. Let’s keep going and add paperwork.”
We also studied Willmoore Kendall, a majoritarian constitutionalist who believed democratic legitimacy should rest primarily with the will of the majority rather than elite interpretation layered on top of it.
Kendall’s approach to politics could be summarized as: if nine people want pizza and one wants sushi, we are not convening a constitutional emergency over dinner.
Then there were the anti-Communists, especially Whittaker Chambers and James Burnham. Their experiences during the Cold War helped shape a worldview focused on confronting totalitarian systems directly and uncompromisingly.
During the Cold War, anti-Communists didn’t just disagree with Communism—they treated it like an unwanted telemarketing call: hang up immediately, no follow-up, no callback.
Among them, Burnham may have been the most structurally influential on Buckley’s thinking. His focus on power, bureaucracy, and political realism left a lasting imprint on the movement.
Burnham’s instinct was always to ask: “Forget what people say—who actually has the keys to the building?”
What fascinated the students most was watching how these different intellectual traditions—free-market liberalism, traditionalism, constitutional majoritarianism, and anti-Communism—merged into the founding framework of National Review in 1955.
It was basically the Avengers of conservative thought: different powers, different personalities, occasional infighting, but a shared mission.
Reading Buckley’s original statement of principles makes clear that these weren’t isolated schools of thought. They were ingredients in a larger intellectual recipe that became modern American conservatism.
Political movements are basically chili recipes: everyone agrees there are essential ingredients, nobody agrees on the proportions, and eventually someone starts a decades-long argument about it.
By the end of the course, the students could see how ideas evolve, collide, and consolidate into movements that shape political life for generations.
Which proves that if you study enough political theory, every cable news debate starts sounding like a sequel nobody asked for.
And that’s what made teaching the course rewarding. Intellectual history isn’t just a list of thinkers and texts—it’s a narrative about how ideas compete, survive, and reshape the world in the process.
And unlike most political debates, this story actually has a beginning, a middle, and an end.*I’ve spent the last two weeks immersed in the history of the conservative intellectual movement, mostly out of pure obsession with the subject. It started as curiosity and turned into something closer to a deep dive I didn’t really plan to resurface from.
I like to say I’ve been giving people—who, to be fair, are usually intelligent, well spoken, and genuinely impressive—a complete story: a beginning, a middle, and an end.
Which already puts it ahead of most modern political conversations.
I’ve also spent time teaching a course on the history of the conservative intellectual movement for the Hertog Political Studies Program. This is the second year the program has run it, and the first time it’s been taught under the Trump presidency.
What I kept coming back to is how rare it is in politics to actually have structure. I like to think I was offering something simple but unusual: a coherent narrative arc instead of an endless stream of disconnected arguments.
Most political discourse feels like someone hit shuffle on a playlist and never turned it off.
If Alfred North Whitehead was right that the history of philosophy is a series of footnotes to Plato, then the history of American intellectual conservatism is, in many ways, a series of intellectual paths that converge on the mind of William F. Buckley Jr..
Buckley sits at the center of this entire story. I sometimes imagine him as the world’s most influential group chat admin—ideas constantly flooding in from every direction, arguments unfolding in real time, and somehow he’s the one keeping it all organized.
And occasionally muting half the participants when things get too
We spent the first week focused on the intellectual foundations behind National Review, which Buckley launched in 1955.
The first group we studied were the classical liberals, especially F.A. Hayek and Milton Friedman. They championed free markets, individual liberty, and a deep skepticism of centralized economic control.
Hayek and Friedman looked at government economic planning the way a cat looks at a bathtub—instantly suspicious and already calculating an exit strategy.
Next came the traditionalists, including Richard Weaver and Russell Kirk. They emphasized moral order, cultural continuity, and the importance of inherited wisdom embedded in long-standing institutions.
Traditionalists hear “we’ve always done it this way” and respond, “Perfect. Let’s formalize it and make it harder to change.”
We also studied Willmoore Kendall, a majoritarian constitutional thinker who believed democratic legitimacy ultimately rests with the will of the majority rather than elite interpretation layered on top of it.
Kendall’s political philosophy can basically be summarized as: if nine people want pizza and one wants sushi, you’re not triggering a constitutional crisis over dinner.
Then there were the anti-Communists, especially Whittaker Chambers and James Burnham. Their Cold War experiences shaped a worldview centered on confronting totalitarian systems directly and without hesitation.
During the Cold War, anti-Communists didn’t just disagree with Communism—they treated it like a spam call you immediately hang up on, no questions asked.
Among them, Burnham stands out as especially influential on Buckley’s thinking. His focus on power, bureaucracy, and political realism left a deep mark on the movement’s intellectual DNA.
Burnham had a habit of cutting through theory and asking: “Forget what people say—who actually controls the building?”
What fascinated me most—and what seemed to resonate with students—was how these distinct intellectual traditions eventually came together in the founding framework of National Review in 1955.
It was, in a sense, the Avengers assembling for the first time: different intellectual backgrounds, different instincts, occasional disagreements, but a shared sense of purpose.
And just enough internal conflict to make every meeting interesting.
Reading Buckley’s original statement of principles makes it clear that these weren’t isolated schools of thought. They were ingredients in a larger intellectual recipe that eventually became modern American conservatism.
Political movements are basically chili recipes: everyone agrees there are essential ingredients, nobody agrees on the proportions, and the arguments about it never really end.
By the end of it all, I found that students could clearly see how ideas develop, collide, and eventually form movements that shape political life for decades.
Which proves that if you study enough political theory, every cable news segment starts to feel like a sequel nobody actually asked for.
And that’s what made this whole experience worth it. Intellectual history isn’t just a list of names and books—it’s a living narrative about how ideas compete, survive, and reshape the world.
And unlike most political debates, this story actually has a beginning, a middle, and an end.*
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