Time Out with Nick Cohen

Poets and novelists have often tried to describe happiness. Andrew Oswald has found a way of countin

I quickly learned that it was pointless to invite Andrew Oswald to engage in fanciful speculation. He is an economist to his bones, who believes in what he can count - and little else. I saw him at Warwick University, and it felt fitting that he should have found a professorship in a monument to the modernism of the mid-1960s. Warwick's blocks show only straight lines; no place here for the decorative. In Oswald's bright, white office there are few individual touches and no unnecessary clutter. Oswald is at home: a numbers man in a suit and tie with nothing to distract him from his calculations.

Yet this meticulous academic, cooped up in a machine for learning, has released a shockingly hippie version of economics into his dry discipline. When Labour's female politicians worry that the party will lose the next election if it doesn't think about the strains on families, when Iain Duncan Smith talks about the importance of marriage and David Cameron says it is time we looked at general well-being as well as gross domestic product index, they are unconsciously passing on ideas that Oswald developed in the early 1990s.

Novelists, poets and psychologists have always thought about happiness. Oswald has found a way of counting it. And this miserabilist approach, this calculus of contentment whose utilitarianism seems against all the spontaneity we associate with happiness, may be a great intellectual breakthrough, precisely because it translates feelings into figures.

If the political interest and the sales of popular "happiness economics" books are a guide, Oswald has provided a tool that will change the way people think, as his once sceptical colleagues are beginning to realise.

"I just have to click on the internet now, and every week there are new papers on happiness written by people I've never met, never heard of," he says. "It has reached some take-off point, so that if someone were to tell me that economists had taken a random sample of 10,000 Koreans and asked them about happiness and mental health, I could bet you that marriage will come through with the same positive coefficient in Korea as in France and the United States. Edu cation will be as important there as here, and the Koreans' happiness will follow a U-shape through life, with a greater chance of unhappiness in people's thirties, just as it does in every country. Human beings are very similar. We're uncovering something deep about them."

Oswald speaks without bravado. He is too good-natured to brag, even though he has every right to be pleased with himself. His is the classic story of the independent-minded researcher with a new idea, who finally forces his indifferent colleagues to take notice.

He is the son of an academic family - his father taught psychiatry at Edinburgh University - whose intellectual life was determined by the crisis of the early 1970s. "I was very committed in my youth to improving the world. I remember sitting on a train reading in the Guardian about stagflation when I was very young, and thinking: 'Yes, I'm going to work on this. I'm going to solve this problem.'" At the time, the decisive response came from Milton Friedman and the free-market right. One aspect of Friedman's work, which was more of an assumption than a detailed argument, profoundly unsettled Oswald and stayed with him for years. In common with most other economists, Friedman supposed that people were rational. In his work on unemployment that was to win him the Nobel Prize, he took it for granted that inflation made sensible people choose unemployment over work - they simply calculated that more leisure compensated for the loss of income, and went on the dole.

The idea that joblessness was voluntary was incredibly useful for Conservatives presiding over the mass unemployment of the 1980s. Norman Tebbit told the 1981 Conservative party conference: "I grew up in the 1930s with an unemployed father. He did not riot. He got on his bike and looked for work, and he kept on looking until he had found it." By implication, the unemployed who didn't get on their bikes wanted to stay at home and riot, and nothing could be done for them.

Disproportionate misery

Oswald thought Friedman and his acolytes were talking nonsense, but how to prove it? His conceptual breakthrough was to use the statistical technique of regression analysis to isolate and measure the happiness and misery of people's lives. Put simply, regression analysis involves assigning values to variables. For instance, suppose you are asked how happy you are on a scale of one to ten and you say "five". The next year your pay doubles from £20,000 to £40,000 and you say you now feel at "six". If you are fired a year later and your happiness falls to two, the price a statistician can assign to your unhappiness is huge: £80,000. As Oswald and his colleagues found when they did slightly more sophisticated calculations than mine, the effect of unemployment is irrational, out of all proportion to the actual loss of income. People weren't sitting on the dole coolly weighing the benefits of more spare time against loss of wages. They were wracked by a disproportionate misery.

As with unemployment, so with marriage, divorce, being placed under an airport flight path . . . any event or pheno menon that can impact for good or ill. Nor was it hard to find raw data. Most governments in the rich world produced vast surveys of their citizens' contentment. Oswald and his colleagues ran them though their equations and began to churn out figures. A good marriage was far more important than the liberal-minded imagined, they found. Getting married brought happiness equivalent to additional income of £70,000 per year. Good health was hugely important, as might be expected. Widowhood brought a degree of unhappiness that would take, on average, an extra £170,000 per annum to offset. Maybe that was not too surprising. But many of their results were unexpected. Long-distance commuting was like unemployment, for instance, and imposed far more stress than outsiders realised.

As Oswald went through his figures, I made the romantic objection that he was trying to monetise the human condition: to turn its joy and despair into pounds and pence.

Many others have said that to him. And although he tried to take my objection to pricing seriously, it clearly baffled him. "It may be because of my training that monetary units come to mind, but they don't have to. I could say that having your partner die is the same as being unemployed for 17 years. But that would be even stranger than saying a marriage is worth £70,000 in happiness terms. I'm not making a moral judgement about money. I just need to get some units."

Growing prosperity

His colleagues were worried not by the vulgarity of his work, but by the fact of his doing it at all. Economists didn't ask people how they felt, because they weren't concerned with happiness. It took Oswald five years to get a paper published by the American Economic Review, the world's most respected economics journal. The editors sent it back for revision seven times, and, Oswald suspects, published him only when other economists began to replicate his results.

There was a second reason for their suspicion. Oswald was not the first economist to look at happiness. In 1974, Richard Easterlin, a California economist, had examined studies that asked Americans how happy they were and found not a shred of evidence that America's growing prosperity had made Americans happier since 1945. His colleagues dismissed or ignored his work at the time, and a dispirited Easterlin gave up. Everyone knew that the business of governments was to increase national wealth. An oddball's insistence that the effort was futile was not something economists and politicians wanted to hear. Oswald helped rescue Easterlin's reputation, and today "Easterlin's paradox" is a vital issue for the social sciences - the vital issue, according to Oswald.

He thinks there is no way out of it. Once you have removed the fear of famine and thirst and provided security and shelter, increases in the gross domestic product have no effect on contentment, because man is a social animal who compares himself with other members of the species. Oswald's favourite cartoon encapsulates his point. It shows an employee bellowing at his boss: "I was so happy when you gave me a pay rise, then you spoiled it by giving one to everyone else."

"There's only so much rank in society to go around," he explains. "We can look at a society in 1900 and there's just this amount of rank, and look at it now and there's the same amount of rank. The way to happiness is to lower our aspirations and concentrate on our relationships."

If the work that Oswald and now hundreds of other economists are producing sounds warmly green and co-operative, it can be like that, but there is no necessity that happiness economics and vaguely leftish sentiments will always march in step. It still makes sense for individuals to seek status and reward, even though if everyone in their group does it, most are likely to end up forlorn. Equally, happiness economics has all the philosophical flaws of utilitarianism. If the Serb residents of a Balkan town say that they would be far happier if the police put the Muslim minority in a concentration camp, the utilitarian who believes in the greatest happiness of the greatest number has no way of objecting to the outrage.

The American economist Paul Krugman pointed out that happiness economics might lead you to advocate government policies that slow down the rat race, impose high taxes on the wealthy, and grant generous benefits, long holidays and short working weeks to everyone else. France has all of these policies, and its unemployment rate is more than twice as high as America's as a result. As happiness economists say that unemployment is a great social evil, which hits people with disproportionate force, conservatives could argue back that their market policies bring greater happiness.

As I thought about the objections, I felt the temptation to shrug my shoulders and conclude that all that the happiness economists have done is to recast the old arguments between left and right without settling them. But that isn't fair. New ways of thinking produce new results. If the government goes ahead with the planned expansion of airports, protesters will now be able to put an exact figure on how much distress living under a flight path will cause - just as those who object to new commuter towns will be able to say that regular long-distance travel is a good route to mental distress.

In the past, economists counted growth figures and household incomes and assumed that if they went up, society's contentment went up with them. Professor Oswald and his colleagues have blown that idea out of the water and forced them to look elsewhere. We are ruled by statistics; by changing what is counted, Oswald is also changing what will count.

Nick Cohen is an author, columnist and signatory of the Euston Manifesto. As well as writing for the New Statesman he contributes to the Observer and other publications including the New Humanist. His books include Pretty Straight Guys – a history of Britain under Tony Blair.

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Bernie Sanders and the future of the American left

How an old, white guy is bringing class-based politics to the Democratic primary.

One thing is immediately striking: as he addresses primary rallies across America, arms flailing like a giant bird coming in to land, snow-white hair fizzing skywards like Doc Brown’s in Back to the Future, eyes startled behind the robust spectacles he has worn since childhood, Bernie Sanders looks quite unlike any other presidential candidate.

Perhaps the surprise in those eyes is sparked by the size of the crowds Sanders has been attracting. They are enormous, rivalling the numbers who turned out for Barack Obama back in 2008, and unprecedented for a candidate who is not shy of describing himself as a socialist: 28,000 in Portland and LA, 25,000 in Boston and 15,000 in Seattle. Even in Dallas, not a renowned centre of radicalism, 8,000 turned out to “feel the Bern”.

In these days when slick suits and expensive haircuts are increasingly a turn-off for a public weary of smooth politicians they see as delivering only for the wealthy, Sanders’s persona, like that of Jeremy Corbyn, his equally unkempt British counterpart, has proved popular. But it is his message – an angry chronicling of the depredations facing so many Americans and a solid social-democratic programme for putting things right – that is really pulling in the crowds. Sanders, who is 74, and the main challenger to Hillary Clinton for the Democratic nomination, doesn’t just look different. With his confident calls for a “revolution” to break up the banks and impose higher taxes on the rich, he doesn’t sound like any other recent presidential contender, either.


I first met Bernie Sanders in 1996. I was the publisher of his book Outsider in the House, a political autobiography that appeared the following year (and which has just been reissued by Verso with a new foreword, and more than a hint of optimism, as Outsider in the White House). The occasion was a benefit concert during his successful bid to be re-elected to the House of Representatives from the small, rural state of Vermont.

Sanders’s early years are not well documented, least of all by him. He devotes less than three of the 300 pages in Outsider to the first three decades of his life. He doesn’t much care for the “humble roots” narrative beloved of so many politicians, generally millionaires whose ancestors lived in broken-down cabins. But the raw material is certainly there. The son of Polish immigrants, Sanders grew up in a working-class Jewish family in Flatbush, Brooklyn. At home, money was tight: “Every major household purchase . . . would be accompanied by a fight between my parents as to whether we could afford it,” he wrote.

It was an achievement to gain admission to the University of Chicago, and though he described himself as “not a good student”, that was a result of sacrificing coursework to the cause of social activism. He settled permanently in Vermont at the age of 27, having bought an 85-acre farm in the north of the state for $2,500. Four years later he moved to Burlington, the state capital, where he became involved in city politics, at first in the tiny Liberty Union Party and then as an independent. In 1981 he was inaugurated as mayor and commenced a series of tilts at the state’s congressional seat. He finally entered the House of Representatives in 1991 – the first independent candidate to enter Congress in 40 years.

By the time I encountered him, Sanders was seeking to defend his seat for the third time. The concert where we met was taking place in an old art-deco theatre in Brattleboro, perhaps the most hippiefied community in a state where tie-dye remains as ubiquitous as dairy herds. It was headlined by Pete Seeger, who ran through a panoply from his folk songbook to a packed crowd that knew all the words.

Ten years earlier, Mayor Sanders, a long-time admirer of Seeger, had recorded one of his songs, “Where Have All the Flowers Gone”, on a surreal folk/rap album. Now, he waited until Seeger had finished his set before taking the stage and, speaking in the only manner he seems to know – a gruff, shouted staccato – exhorted Vermonters to join him in the fight against Newt Gingrich and Bob Dole to stop the Republicans from taking over the presidency and the Senate. The response was rapturous. Sanders left the stage like a president concluding a State of the Union speech, gladhanding lines of admirers as he made his way out of the hall.

A few weeks later I met him again, this time at his congressional office in Washington, DC. On the wall of his office I spotted a plaque of Eugene Debs, who ran for Congress and the presidency on a socialist ticket, travelling to every part of the country on a train he called the Red Special and picking up 6 per cent of the popular vote in 1912, when he finished fourth, behind Woodrow Wilson, Theodore Roosevelt and William Howard Taft.

Sanders had invited me to lunch and so we headed off through the underground passageway that leads from the office building to the congressional dining room. We were accompanied along the way by one of his assistants who, in true West Wing style, peppered him with questions and made notes on a clipboard as we walked. We had just started our food when John Kasich, then congressman for Ohio and now governor of the state and a contender for the Republican presidential nomination, wandered over for a chat. Despite Kasich’s reputation as a fiscal conservative, it was evident that he and Sanders had a cordial relationship, and indeed, Sanders invited him to join us for lunch.

It was difficult to reconcile these two contrasting snapshots of Sanders: the rousing air punch in Vermont and the bridge-building handshake in DC. But the more one looks into his career, the clearer it becomes that this dual approach is integral to his remarkable political ascent. Sanders plays it quite differently inside and out, but he plays both sides very hard.

“Bernie doesn’t see a contradiction between working within the system and campaigning to change it,” the journalist Matt Taibbi told me, recalling the time when he shadowed Sanders for several weeks in 2005 while researching a piece for Rolling Stone. “I remember one Thursday afternoon I made a snarky comment about members of the House already sneaking off home for a long weekend and how it seemed to me that many of them were pretty lazy. Bernie scolded me, insisting that most of the people in Congress work very conscientiously. He doesn’t believe the system functions for ordinary people, but he’s not cynical about it either.”

This point was reiterated by Heather Gautney, an associate professor of sociology at Fordham University in New York who previously worked as a researcher in Sanders’s Senate office. “Working with Bernie in DC, I realised what a difficult place it was for someone more interested in movement-building than passing legislation,” Gautney said. “But Bernie was known for getting substantial chunks of the Republican vote in Vermont and he used that same skill to connect with some pretty unlikely allies in Congress.”

Sanders’s legislative record is strikingly good. In the decade after the Republicans took over the House of Representatives in 1995 no other lawmaker attached more amendments to bills that were voted on. He achieved this by using his position as an independent to put together coalitions that spanned both of the main parties, and also by sheer hard work. In his Rolling Stone article, Taibbi describes Sanders waiting patiently for hours to table an amendment in the office of the House rules committee, “a tiny, airless closet deep in the labyrinth of the Capitol where some of the very meanest people on Earth spend their days cleaning democracy like a fish”.

Sanders’s method of working across party lines is not without its critics. Especially on the left, there are voices that wonder if the compromises that inevitably accompany playing the system in DC are too large. Many of Sanders’s positions on foreign policy have skewed towards the militarism and careless disregard for human rights that prevail among the Washington establishment. Although notably, and unlike Hillary Clinton, he opposed the initial vote on the Iraq War, Sanders voted for every bill that came before Congress to fund the occupations of Afghanistan and Iraq. He has supported basing the new F-35 fighter plane at Burlington Airport in Vermont, despite widespread concern from residents about the environmental impact. And he did not oppose the Senate resolution that supported Israel’s attack on Gaza in 2014, which left as many as 2,200 Palestinians dead.

Sanders is clearly happier talking about problems inside the US than foreign policy. In his opening statement to last Saturday’s televised debate between the Democratic candidates, he segued awkwardly from condemning the attacks in Paris to excoriating America’s “rigged economy”. Yet on domestic issues, too, some of his stands have given progressives pause for thought: his opposition to the Trans-Pacific Partnership, a 12-country trade agreement championed by Barack Obama, has always been grounded in an argument in favour of saving jobs for American workers, rather than any notion of international solidarity. His slowness in expressing support for the burgeoning Black Lives Matter movement, something which his campaign has latterly striven hard to correct, was less of a surprise to those aware of his consistent support for the police union while mayor of Burlington. And his position on guns (he voted against the Brady Bill, which mandated background checks on buyers of firearms) is the only area in which Clinton outflanks him to the left.

But perhaps the biggest issue for many progressives is Sanders’s decision to run for president through, rather than outside, the Democratic primary. Though he began his political career in the Liberty Union Party and has stood in every election since as an independent, he is, as Howard Dean, the progressives’ challenger in the Democratic primary of 2003/2004, put it, “basically . . . a Democrat . . . [who] votes with the Democrats 98 per cent of the time”.

As Sanders relates in Outsider in the House, faced in 1996 with the choice of backing Ralph Nader, “a personal friend and an exemplary progressive” running as an independent, or Bill Clinton, whose policies on health care, welfare reform, trade, gay marriage and military spending he sharply disagreed with, Sanders decided to “support” Clinton. “Perhaps ‘support’ is too strong a word,” he frets in the book. “I’m planning no press conferences to push his candidacy, and will do no campaigning for him. I will vote for him, and make that public.”

Sanders has called for a vote for the Democratic nominee in every presidential election since Jimmy Carter left office in 1981, and early this month, on ABC’s This Week, he appeared to have completed a long transition, asserting: “I am a Democrat now.”

This failure to build an electoral force outside the Democrats always leads to a dead end, according to Anthony Arnove, a prominent member of the International Socialist Organisation (ISO) who is also a publisher and literary agent representing a range of leftish writers, including Arundhati Roy. “We’ve seen it over and over,” Arnove said: “a left challenge fires up the base and is then defeated in the primaries by a centrist, or, more accurately, right-wing candidate, who goes on to betray everything those people were mobilised around.”

Sanders’s fundraising almost matched Clinton’s over the summer – in the third quarter they raised $26m and $28m, respectively – and in September he became the first candidate to attract more than a million individual donations. (The average donation to his campaign has been $30.) But his dip in the polls after Hillary’s strong performances in the first nationally televised primary debate, and then again at her House select committee hearing on the 2012 attack on the US consulate in Benghazi, Libya, suggests he will struggle to win the nomination. As of early November he trailed Clinton nationally by 25 points.

In Arnove’s view, Sanders “won’t get further than Super Tuesday [at the beginning of March], when he’ll direct his base to vote for Clinton. This is exactly how the Democrats become a graveyard for progressive politics, when what we desperately need are social movements that can remain independent of both establishment parties and push for their own agenda.”


The revolution to which Sanders often refers is a long way from the sort envisaged by Arnove’s ISO. He is pursuing a fairer capitalism, not its overthrow. “He’s not Trotsky,” as Taibbi put it to me. But there are those inside his campaign who think its primary focus should be building a grass-roots organisation capable of transcending the four-yearly coming together of presidential elections, to create a more permanent basis for a broad, progressive movement.

One such advocate is Adolph Reed, a writer and academic who is campaigning for Sanders in South Carolina. Working with local unions and Labor for Bernie Sanders 2016, which has 70,000 signed-up members, Reed sees the potential in using Sanders’s programme, with its emphasis on basic economic demands such as the minimum wage, universal health care and free college tuition, as a way of drawing together various groups campaigning around single issues such as housing and police racism.

For Reed, who is black, class trumps race as the key to building a movement. “In New Orleans everyone talked about Katrina as having a devastating effect on black people in the city, which of course it did. But when you analyse it, class was a much better predictor of who suffered most there,” he told me. The centre of a class-based movement, Reed argues, will have to be provided by the trade unions. “Despite the fashionability of protests without any specific demands or elected leaderships, no movement initiative is going to have staying power without being anchored in the trade unions.”

Recruiting the unions to work alongside Sanders’s campaign in the way Reed envisages isn’t easy. The American Federation of Teachers and the machinists’ union have already thrown in their lot with Hillary Clinton. And Richard Trumka, the president of the AFL-CIO (America’s national federation of trade unions), has warned individual unions against coming out for Sanders. But Reed can point to significant declarations of support, from postal workers and the National Nurses Union. The AFL-CIO chapters in Vermont and, more surprisingly, South Carolina have also backed his run.

“It’s important to keep Bernie in the race for as long as possible, but the ultimate objective is to develop structures that can continue beyond the election,” Reed said. “It’s premature to say what this network will look like, but Bernie’s campaign provides an important boost to putting it in place.”


From Jesse Jackson to Dennis Kuci­nich to Howard Dean, an array of people’s champions has made a splash in the recent history of Democratic presidential primaries. None, however, has been as explicitly critical of capitalism (or so gruff about it) as Bernie Sanders. His no-nonsense, class-based politics are a measure of how the disenchantment with the ideology of a free market that arrived like a train in the 1980s and ran off the rails in 2008 is now finding its way into the mainstream.

Up until now, the critical moments of left advance in America – the Seattle WTO protests, the anti-war movement, Occupy Wall Street, the campaign for gay rights and, today, Black Lives Matter – have occurred outside electoral politics. There are a couple of good reasons for this. The US electoral system, like Britain’s, makes third-party challenges extraordinarily difficult. And inside the Democratic Party these movements would have been crushed by a conservative leadership around the Democratic National Committee, put in place by Bill Clinton.

One result is a paucity of new progressive voices inside the party. At a moment when, as Gramsci once put it, the old order no longer works but the new order has not yet been born, Sanders, with his New Deal politics and firebrand demeanour, seems not so much a successor to the old order as a throwback to a time that pre-dates it, when politicians spoke with conviction and the society they represented was less unfair. As such, he provides a staging post for a new progressive consciousness (according to a poll by Pew at the end of 2011, more Americans aged 18 to 29 would prefer to live under socialism than under capitalism) that is not yet sufficiently coherent to enter mainstream politics in its own right, either through a serious third-party challenge or the transformation of the Democratic Party.

As a middle-class white man, Sanders has been able to get a pass to promote bold positions that someone with a less privileged identity might have found hard to sell. And his age, paradoxically, has proved not to be a disadvantage with a youthful constituency dismayed by the surrender to expedience that disfigures so much of contemporary American politics. His record has been constant over such a long period that, again like Jeremy Corbyn, he can be relied on not to sell out. Though his politics are less radical, his venerability provides a messianic cloak from the same closet as the one worn by Noam Chomsky, another hero for many young progressives.

So it’s not just today’s professionally polished politicians to whom Sanders presents a stark contrast. Recent progressive movements have embraced an identity politics that was much less prevalent when Sanders started out back in 1970s Vermont. In order to forge the sorts of alliances that are necessary to mount a credible challenge on the national political stage, they will likely have to borrow extensively from his unifying class politics. But their leadership will be younger, blacker, less straight and less masculine than Sanders. In that sense, he represents the last hurrah for the old white guy.

Colin Robinson is co-publisher at OR Books (, based in New York

This article first appeared in the 19 November 2015 issue of the New Statesman, The age of terror