Modern Literature under Surveillance: American Writers,

State Espionage, and the Cultural Cold War

Erin G. Carlston

American Literary History, Volume 22, Number 3, Fall 2010, pp. 615-625
(Review)

Published by Oxford University Press

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Modern Literature under
Surveillance: American
Writers, State Espionage, and
the Cultural Cold War
Erin G. Carlston *

One of the more romantic figures in twentieth-century literature Modernism on File:

was that of the spy: daring, sophisticated, a maverick operating by Writers, Artists, and the
FBI, 1920–1950,
his own rules, even if nominally in the service of a government.
Edited by Claire
James Bond is the most iconic incarnation of this figure, but the A. Culleton and
world-weary secret agents in W. H. Auden’s poetry, and the novels Karen Leick.
of Graham Greene and John Le Carré, contributed something to the Palgrave Macmillan,
spy’s mystique as well. The reality of espionage, and its relationship 2008.
to literature, has been somewhat different. In the course of the twen-
tieth century, surveillance and spycraft increasingly became highly Turncoats, Traitors, and
professionalized, bureaucratized instruments of national power Fellow Travelers:
Culture and Politics of
throughout the industrialized world. During this time, the connec- the Early Cold War,
tions between the business of writing and the business of spying Arthur Redding.
grew both close and exceptionally tense. In the US, particularly University Press of
during World War II and then the Cold War, writers, critics, editors, Mississippi, 2008.
and publishers of literature sometimes found themselves acting as
operatives or informants for state agencies like the FBI, the OSS, and
its successor, the CIA; more frequently, they ended up, often without
knowing it, the targets of surveillance by these same agencies. We
have long known of the damage that harassment, purges, and black-
listing did to the careers of individual writers, especially Hollywood
screenwriters; but in the last few decades, scholars have also begun
to examine the way that Cold War politics and state surveillance
influenced whole fields of cultural production in the US.

*Erin G. Carlston is an Associate Professor of English and Comparative

Literature at UNC-Chapel Hill. The author of Thinking Fascism: Sapphic
Modernism and Fascist Modernity (1998), she is currently working on “Double
Agents,” a book about literary responses to espionage trials involving Jews,
homosexual men, and communists.

American Literary History, vol. 22, no. 3, pp. 615– 625

doi:10.1093/alh/ajq034
Advance Access publication June 17, 2010
# The Author 2010. Published by Oxford University Press. All rights reserved.
For permissions, please e-mail: journals.permissions@oxfordjournals.org
616 Modern Literature under Surveillance

Several valuable books have recently joined this conversa-

tion. Arthur Redding’s Turncoats, Traitors, and Fellow Travelers:
Culture and Politics of the Early Cold War (2008) is an elegantly
written account of the way literature and literary criticism were
shaped by, but also had their own effects on, McCarthyite efforts
to divorce cultural production from radical and prolabor politics.
Redding’s study ranges over work from F. O. Matthiessen’s criti-
cism to novels by Ralph Ellison and the Westerns of John Ford,
investigating interesting biographical details and producing some
wonderfully suggestive textual readings as he argues “that Cold
War texts variously perform, critique, and betray” the dogmatic
consensus that pitted idealized values of freedom and individual-
ism against “totalitarian tyranny” in the 1950s (3).
Carefully avoiding such Manichaean oversimplifying himself,
Redding acknowledges the complex political valences of, for
example, New Criticism. New Criticism in the US was promul-
gated by reactionary Southern Agrarians and has long been
attacked as inherently conservative for dismissing historical and
political context. Yet it was also a profoundly democratic endea-
vor, providing the tools with which to analyze and enjoy complex
works of modern art to virtually anyone who could read. On the
third hand, as it were, that very democratizing tendency could
itself serve a conservative end: Redding explains how, post-World
War II, the GI Bill aimed to enlist returning soldiers in a culture
war against communism, partly by teaching them to divorce their
new professional identities and intellectual interests from the con-
cerns of the working class from which many of them had orig-
inally come—an effort in which, he suggests, New Criticism was
complicit:

[I]f the GI Bill was designed to be a reward to returning ser-

vicemen and women for having pulled their weight in the
global struggle against fascism, it also recognized the neces-
sity of training and enlisting a huge number of scientific tech-
nocrats as well as humanists in the fight against worldwide
Communism. . . . The New Criticism advocated techniques of
close readings for analyzing a literary genre as esoteric as
lyric poetry, techniques that more or less anyone could learn.
Students required very little cultural capital to mount the
close textual readings that were pointedly dismissive of bio-
graphical, social, political, and historical concerns. (7– 8)

So millions of working- and lower-middle-class white

Americans—including members of previously marginalized ethnic
groups like Italians, Poles, and Jews—were welcomed into the
 American Literary History 617

bourgeoisie, on the condition that they firmly reject the Popular

Front culture and politics that often had nourished and inspired
their communities in the 1930s. At the same time, cultural workers
who clung to their commitments to left politics, from
dyed-in-the-wool Stalinists to civil rights activists to feminists,
were subjected to a vicious, sometimes violent, campaign of inti-
midation and harassment. As Redding concludes, in the early
years of the Cold War “[t]he radical Left was put on the run, and
cultural and intellectual production was increasingly enlisted in the
cause of manufacturing new social subjects: individuated, anxious,
self-policing, consumerist, and therefore ‘free’” (148).
Another recent book, Modernism on File: Writers, Artists,
and the FBI, 1920– 1950 (2008), delves more deeply into the
machinery of those efforts to put the left on the run. Edited by
Claire A. Culleton and Karen Leick, this new anthology belongs to
a group of works that is now almost large enough to constitute its
own genre: the criticism of FBI files. Ever since the implemen-
tation of the Freedom of Information Act in 1967, it has been at
least hypothetically possible for Americans to find out whether
they or others have been subject to official surveillance. (I say
hypothetically because in reality, finding out if a file exists on
oneself or someone else, never mind obtaining all or even part of
that file, can be extremely difficult, as many of the essays in the
Culleton and Leick anthology attest.) Generally speaking,
Republican administrations have thrown up roadblocks to FOIA
requests, while Democratic ones have tried to increase the public’s
access to files. Yet despite Ronald Reagan’s attempts to restrict the
information available under FOIA, it was during his presidency
that the first scholarly works were researched or published that
made extensive use of government documents, especially FBI
files, dealing with people in the literary world.
Herbert Mitgang’s Dangerous Dossiers: Exposing the Secret
War Against America’s Greatest Authors first appeared in 1988,
Natalie Robins’s Alien Ink in 1992. Claire Culleton’s own Joyce
and the G-Men: J. Edgar Hoover’s Manipulation of Modernism
came out in 2004, and along with Mitgang’s and Robins’s books,
laid the groundwork for the essays in the new anthology. What
these books have revealed or highlighted is that the FBI, and
J. Edgar Hoover in particular, had an extraordinarily obsessive
interest in modern literature. Hoover, it is worth remembering,
began his career as a librarian, and throughout his forty-eight-year
tenure as the director of the FBI he retained the librarian’s intense,
schematic, and classificatory relationship to written texts.
Referring to writers as potential “Communist thought-control relay
stations” (Robins 50), Hoover quickly established the engagingly
618 Modern Literature under Surveillance

named “Book Review Section” within the bureau; its actual, sinis-
ter job was “to monitor, manage, and manipulate literary pro-
duction” (Culleton 49). Numerous bureau functionaries worked,
seemingly around the clock, to review books and other printed
materials for subversive content; the scale of their efforts can be
gauged by the fact that the reading room staff was responsible for
reading and clipping 625 newspapers daily (Culleton 240). But the
bureau’s involvement did not end with surveillance: Hoover and
his staff reviewed and approved, or advised against publishing,
manuscripts submitted in advance by publishing houses, and they
maintained informants in the publishing industry, including many
supposedly on the left, who supplied Hoover with minutes and
notes from editorial board meetings so that he was aware of poten-
tial articles and books as soon as ideas for them were proposed
(Culleton 59, 238). They scanned syllabi to determine what books
were being read in college English classes (Culleton 48). Above
all, they spied on writers and critics, following them, intercepting
their mail, soliciting information from neighbors and paid infor-
mants, sometimes wiretapping them. And then they fed infor-
mation from their files on those writers to the right-wing press,
HUAC, Senator McCarthy, the INS, the military, and other gov-
ernment agencies, or anyone else Hoover thought needed to know
when a writer had—or had once had, or was said to have had—
any connection with left politics.
Actually, “left” politics is something of an oversimplification
here because Hoover feared and mistrusted anyone to the left of
far right and even kept dossiers on some conservatives like
William F. Buckley, Jr. (who fell from grace after making a joke
about Hoover’s rumored homosexuality [Robins 175]). A multi-
tude of sins could get a writer, artist, or critic investigated and, if
he or she was sufficiently worrying, “indexed”—added to what
was revealingly called the “Custodial Detention Index” until
Hoover changed the name to the more opaque “Security Index,” a
list of people to be incarcerated as security threats in case of
national emergency. (In Hoover’s view there were several such
emergencies during his lifetime, including the outbreak of the
Korean War, when he asked President Truman to suspend habeas
corpus and send 12,000 US citizens to military prisons immedi-
ately. There is no evidence that Truman paid attention to the sug-
gestion [Weiner].) In the 1920s, any signs of sympathy for the
labor movement raised a red flag, as did arguing for racial equality
or even mentioning that the US had a race problem. Writing about
poverty or unhealthy working conditions, advocating birth control,
or giving money to, or signing a petition for, any of the hundreds
of groups the FBI designated “Communist front organizations”
 American Literary History 619

were all enough to earn a writer a dossier. In the late 1930s, sup-
porting the Republicans in the Spanish Civil War was taken as a
sure sign of subversion that merited opening files on dozens of
writers and artists, despite the fact that within a very few years the
US was officially at war with the fascist regimes that had backed
Franco. And then, of course, traveling to, or praising, the Soviet
Union, let alone actually joining the Communist Party, virtually
guaranteed someone a place in Hoover’s filing cabinet.
In their introduction to Modernism on File, Culleton and
Leick argue, rather counterintuitively, that this history of surveil-
lance of the arts was productive as well as repressive:

As the 12 chapters in this book show, for nearly 50 years

Hoover’s investigative practices had considerable effect on
the lives and creative activities of writers and artists working
during his directorship, and as often as his efforts curtailed
their work and artistic license, their counterefforts to stave
off or circumvent government intervention shaped and
affected the burgeoning modern arts movement consequently
making it a self-conscious movement fed on and not starved
by the twentieth-century federal gaze. (1)

It must be said that these essays do not always bear out this some-
what optimistic claim. That art and artists were indeed “starved”
by that gaze—sometimes almost literally, in the cases of those
who lost contracts, publication opportunities and speaking engage-
ments because of bureau interference—is indubitable (Culleton
14). In “Raising Muscovite Ducks and Government Suspicions:
Henry Roth and the FBI,” Steven G. Kellman proposes that Henry
Roth’s legendary sixty-year case of writer’s block can be at least
partially attributed to bureau harassment and Roth’s “[a]nxiety
over his dissident political views” (40). Richard Wright fled to
France, James Baldwin to Turkey, to dodge Hoover; these moves
provoked FBI “travel warning[s]” about both writers that directed
the INS to keep an eye out for the men (Maxwell 32).
One of the saddest cases is that of Ernest Hemingway, whose
growing mental instability was exacerbated by his accurate suspi-
cion that he was being shadowed by Hoover’s G-Men. Debra
A. Moddelmog suggests, in her essay “Telling Stories From
Hemingway’s FBI File: Conspiracy, Paranoia, and Masculinity,”
that Hemingway’s work on his novel The Garden of Eden reflects
both an awareness of the 1950s “Lavender Panic,” the widespread
campaign against sexual deviance vigorously supported by
Hoover, and a thwarted desire to resist the tyranny of sexual
McCarthyism: “That Hemingway never published—or, for that
620 Modern Literature under Surveillance

matter, finished—The Garden of Eden is a testament to the power

of the homophobia that was the legislated order of his day and part
of his own psyche. That he attempted to write this novel at all
suggests he understood that one way to fight repressive societies
and their psychic effects is by imagining an alternative”
(Moddelmog 69). If so, it would seem he lost the fight; only hours
before he killed himself in 1961, Hemingway claimed two men in
the restaurant where he was having dinner were FBI agents
(Culleton 90). Whether they actually were or not seems beside the
point, since by then the bureau had been spying on and harassing
him for more than long enough—his file was opened in 1935—to
justify his sense that state repression was ubiquitous and inescap-
able. Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to
get you.
A central claim of Modernism on File is similar to arguments
made in Turncoats, Traitors, and Fellow Travelers and other
recent works like Alan Filreis’s Counter-Revolution of the Word:
The Conservative Attack on Modern Poetry, 1945– 1960 (2008):
that the cultural politics of the 1950s suppressed both the history
of politically engaged writing from the 1920s on and radical
writers themselves, and thus produced a version of modernism that
was apolitical and stylistically abstruse. One might even be
tempted to argue that the canonical high modernism that has come
down to us is, in essence, only what managed to evade the exter-
nal, and internalized, forces of repression most concretely embo-
died in the bureau:

[FBI] harassment compromised the militancy of modernism.

. . . Without bureau prying, without the bureau’s ponderous
reliance on tactics, strategies, policies, and institutional
brawn (not to mention Hoover’s own obsessive preoccupation
with modern and avant-garde writers and artists), creative
work produced in America from 1920s [sic] through the
1950s could certainly have developed differently, harnessing
the masses and producing the kind of revolutionary social
action the bureau feared. (Culleton and Leick 8, 17)

There is little doubt, in light of the evidence accumulated by

the scholars whose work I am considering here, that modern litera-
ture and our accounts of it would both look different without
Hoover’s intervention. We should not assume, though, that the for-
mally experimental texts of canonical modernism escaped his
notice because they were not obviously pro-proletarian or because
they were too obscure for the Book Review Section to understand.
Indeed, obscurity aroused as much alarm in the bureau as anything
 American Literary History 621

else. Natalie Robins reports that the FBI believed William Carlos
Williams’s “poems might be a clandestine code” (239), a concern
also raised about James Joyce’s Ulysses (Culleton 45). Certainly
realist or “socially conscious” writers like Theodore Dreiser,
Clifford Odets, Upton Sinclair, and John Steinbeck fell under FBI
scrutiny, but so did experimentalists Djuna Barnes, T. S. Eliot,
William Faulkner, Marianne Moore, and Ezra Pound—whose file
was opened in 1911, decades before he became a propagandist for
Mussolini. Clearly modernism itself was the problem, not any
specific literary style or political position adopted by modernist
writers or texts.
Modern literature, after all, posed many challenges to a
“Hooverite” worldview in addition to its occasional forays into
labor politics. It dealt extensively and explicitly with sexuality,
and as Culleton and Leick write in their introduction, “While
Hoover and his henchmen knew little, if anything, about art or lit-
erature per se, because so much of it (it seemed) had begun to
transgress the boundaries between art and obscenity . . . it was
identified as a legitimate area of exploration for the bureau” (6).
Modernism was also, in Hoover’s view, too Jewish (which in turn
signified left-wing and internationalist); especially before World
War II, files routinely make note of the “real” Jewish names of
subjects who had Anglicized their names, describe them as “Jew
Communists” like Lillian Hellman (Robins 254), or say they have
“Jewish appearing features,” as in the case of playwright Elmer
Rice (Mitgang 139). The preponderance of Jews among the pub-
lishers of modernist works was also duly noted. (Here it is hard to
know what is cause and what is effect. Were Jewish publishers
like Albert Boni, Horace Liveright, Pascal Covici, and Benjamin
W. Huebsch actually more drawn to publishing modernist texts
than Gentiles, for what might have been a variety of reasons? Or
did FBI pressure on established, east coast WASP-dominated pub-
lishing houses successfully deter them from taking on controver-
sial work, leaving the field open to upstart new Jewish houses with
less to lose?)
Modernism’s internationalism and the expatriate status of
many modernist writers also threatened rigid conceptions of
national identity that the bureau was meant to police. Even
though Gertrude Stein (whose file was opened in 1937) and
some of her friends said that she had no great interest in poli-
tics, for instance, the fact of her expatriation seems to have
been equated with disloyalty; her file noted that Stein’s “sym-
pathies were not very strongly with America else she would not
have stayed abroad so long” (Robins 207). Redding argues that
indeed, by attacking “internationalism,” Cold War politics were
622 Modern Literature under Surveillance

“effective in deliberately snuffing out transnational intellectual

production” (65), perhaps a reason that much American litera-
ture seems to have become more nationally, even provincially,
focused after World War II. In sum, as Culleton wrote in
Joyce and the G-Men, “Hoover feared that the modernist
writers were participating in a movement to destabilize
American democracy; that modernism was seditious; that it
could spoil everything that was good and clean about the nation
and hasten the nation’s devolution; and that it was filthy,
vulgar, and radical” (91).
Finally, no account of modern literature and state surveillance
would be complete without a discussion of what Hoover called
“the Negro issue” and the civil rights movement(s), which he con-
sidered a tool of communist influence and infiltration.
African-American intellectuals and writers came under scrutiny
earlier than most white writers, with serious surveillance beginning
as early as “the birth of the Harlem Renaissance in 1919”
(Maxwell 25), and they were often more severely harassed than
whites. A list of those with files, including many on the Security
Index, reads like a Who’s Who of African-American literary
luminaries: Wright, Baldwin, Langston Hughes, Claude McKay,
W. E. B. Du Bois, Chester Himes, Lorraine Hansberry, Paule
Marshall, Ishmael Reed, Amiri Baraka.
The most theoretically complex piece in the Culleton and
Leick anthology, William J. Maxwell’s “Ghostreaders and
Diaspora-Writers: Four Theses on the FBI and African American
Modernism,” also makes the most compelling case for a modern-
ism that interacted productively, if deeply antagonistically, with
state surveillance. In counterpoint to Redding’s claim that the
Cold War suppressed internationalism (an argument Redding
makes in a chapter specifically devoted to the “Geopolitics of
Race”), Maxwell suggests that in pursuing African-American
artists across the Atlantic, the FBI actually fostered aesthetic
innovation and diasporic consciousness among black intellec-
tuals: “Hoover’s FBI acted as a concealed censor and border
guard, distorting or deferring publications and forcing or side-
tracking international travels. At the same time, bureau spycraft
could be received by its writer-targets as a stimulating new
school for aesthetic research, inspiring the African American
prose genre of the ‘counterfile’ and an inventive modern poetics
of double agency” (25). As examples of this new genre of the
“counterfile,” Maxwell points to a number of novels by
African-American writers having to do with the FBI, G-Men, or
unnamed government secret services, as well as Wright’s satirical
1949 poem “FB Eye Blues” (35).
 American Literary History 623

Maxwell’s most intriguing argument concerns the FBI as

textual scholar and analyst: “bureau files,” he writes, “should be
considered as revealing works of literary criticism, as state-
sponsored, collectively authored compilations of textual analysis
privately bidding for interpretive dominance” (29). He describes
the difference between the CIA’s approach and the bureau’s in
terms of a clash between New Criticism and older, historical/bio-
graphical modes of textual interpretation (30). The CIA and its
precursor the OSS were, after all, staffed with Yale English pro-
fessors and students, including Norman Holmes Pearson (friend
and executor of H. D. and editor, with Auden, of the massive com-
pendium Poets of the English Language), Joyce scholar Richard
Ellman, and especially James Jesus Angleton, a Yale undergradu-
ate strongly influenced by New Criticism who rose to become
head of counter-intelligence at the CIA. Robin W. Winks, author
of a 1987 study of the Yale– CIA connection titled Cloak and
Gown, makes a statement about Pearson that could apply to most
of the CIA’s scholarly operatives, saying that Pearson “never lost
his fascination with espionage and intelligence as art forms,” and
that his critical background taught him “how to read, really read,
closely” (249, 258).
Maxwell contrasts this kind of “CIA reading,” an interpretive
practice of “[f ]ully formalist spy-reading, devoted to wrestling
with subtle indeterminacies,” with the bureau’s comparatively flat-
footed methods. While some bureau agents at least tried to make
distinctions between aesthetic quality and political tendency—
Dreiser’s file asserts that he is “a good writer, but not a good
American” (qtd. in Culleton 72)—the bureau also seems to have
believed, by and large, that literary texts were transparent records
of the beliefs and experiences of their authors. In Maxwell’s
words, “The bureau’s readings and responses were abrupt, some-
times mistaken, and generally up to no good. . . . McKay’s file, for
one, steadily exhibits the brusque, gossip-hungry diligence of such
FBI reading: the infatuation with the independent literary artifact
still imagined as an exotic confessional” (30).
As well as indulging in the intentional fallacy, the bureau
tended to produce inadvertently funny exegeses in the manner of
an undergraduate who vaguely remembers learning in high school
English class that you are supposed to look for Symbols.
Mitgang’s Dangerous Dossiers quotes directly from an agent’s
engaged but fuddled response to one of Rex Stout’s detective
stories: “Note the almost exclusive German cast of characters, par-
ticularly Fritz Brenner. Could Fritz refer to the German Consul in
San Francisco, and could Brenner have any reference to the
Brenner Pass? Could ‘Nero’ refer to Rome by any chance? While
 624 Modern Literature under Surveillance

for the purposes of the story, April, May and June are the names
of three sisters, couldn’t it also mean that for three months, or
until July, somebody’s back was to the door—maybe the door to
the Balkans or the Mediterranean?” (216). Reading this remarkable
piece of analysis, one can appreciate Maxwell’s dry comment that
“Given the FBI’s . . . intense concern for the highlights of African
American modernism, we may eventually discover that it judged
Jean Toomer’s Cane a work of both elusive Imagism and secret
Bolshevik code” (27).
And yet Maxwell’s ultimate point is not that the FBI was a
hamfisted and dangerous exegete (although it was, and very well
may be still). Rather, one of Maxwell’s four “theses” about the
relationship between the bureau and Afro-modernism is that “the
FBI is perhaps the most dedicated and powerful forgotten critic
of twentieth-century African-American writing” (28). The FBI
The FBI took black took black writers very, very seriously when mainstream insti-
writers very, very tutions of literary criticism, publication, and promotion did not.
seriously when If nothing else, the bureau bought their books. As Maxwell
mainstream institutions
of literary criticism,
poignantly, and pointedly, remarks, “[ p]ractically alone among
publication, and publicly funded institutions of literary study, Hoover’s FBI
promotion did not. never treated African American writing as an ineffectual
fad” (26).
The same could be said about the place of American letters
more generally in the Cold War: the energy dedicated to either
co-opting or persecuting writers and scholars reflects a belief in
the power of literature that I suspect we have lost. Hoover’s view
of literature was in the end oddly commensurate with the moder-
nists’; as Maxwell writes, “he shared the modernist avant garde’s
extravagant estimation of literature’s ability to order minds in a
fallen world” (29). Reading these recent works by Redding,
Culleton, and others, in fact, I experienced a pang of something
almost like nostalgia for a time when poetry and novels and lit-
erary criticism were considered important enough to pose a
genuine threat to national security. In the Cold War of ideas that
Redding describes so well, what humanists did mattered. Today,
when fewer and fewer Americans read “serious” books, funding
for the arts has been strangled and no less an authority than
Stanley Fish argues rather cheerfully that the liberal arts have had
their day and we might as well get used to it, the production and
criticism of literature seem consigned to death by irrelevance. It’s
enough to make you want to call up the FBI and demand that they
open some new files.

Works Cited
Culleton, Claire A. Joyce and the
G-Men: J. Edgar Hoover’s
Manipulation of Modernism.
New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004.
Culleton, Claire A. and Karen Leick,
eds. Modernism on File: Writers,
Artists, and the FBI, 1920–1950.
New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008.
Fish, Stanley. “The Last Professor.”
New York Times 18 Jan. 2009. Web.
1 Mar. 2010.
Kellman, Steven G. “Raising
Muscovite Ducks and Government
Suspicions: Henry Roth and the FBI.”
Culleton and Leick 39–52.
Maxwell, William J. “Ghostreaders
and Diaspora-Writers: Four Theses on
the FBI and African American
Modernism.” Culleton and Leick
23 –38.
Mitgang, Herbert. Dangerous
Dossiers: Exposing the Secret War
American Literary History 625
against America’s Greatest
Authors. 1988. New York: Primus/
Fine, 1996.
Moddelmog, Debra A. “Telling Stories
from Hemingway’s FBI File:
Conspiracy, Paranoia, and
Masculinity.” Culleton and Leick
53–72.
Redding, Arthur. Turncoats, Traitors,
and Fellow Travelers: Culture and
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Weiner, Tim. “Hoover Planned Mass
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