Trevor Latimer’s Small Isn’t Beautiful: The Case Against Localism confronts an ideological localism that treats localist solutions as a panacea, a presumption, and as an “article of faith.” He defines localism primarily as a political philosophy, defining it as “the belief or the claim that we should prioritize the local by making decisions, exercising authority, or implementing policy locally or more locally.” Like other theories of life and politics, however, what seems salutary on the surface can become practically dangerous. If the road to hell is paved with good intentions, then Latimer’s localism is one such road.

I will concede that I sympathize, in part, with Latimer’s concern. The foolish temptation to idealize all that qualifies as “local” or “small” does present itself from time to time, but it is usually dispelled with minimal reflection. One could, for example, read Wendell Berry (who, bewilderingly, is only mentioned twice) as a dogmatic localist. But Berry’s fictional town of Port William is no utopia, even if his idealistic tendencies briefly emerge now and then. His essays and poetry are colored by themes of loss, death, lament, and realism. There is great hope and beauty too, but a serious reader of Berry—arguably localism’s most prolific muse—could hardly justify dogmatism.

Latimer avoids not only Berry, but nearly all localist humanities in favor of the social sciences and economics, though not in a systematic sense. The book, instead, relies primarily on a dogmatic skepticism with a utilitarian bias he labels as “welfarist” or “consequentialist.” His approach also tries to exclude “impersonal reasons or values,” which may be impossible to identify. These include “beauty,” for example, as well as considerations of religious values. “The mere fact that the something pleases God,” he contends, “does not count in its favor, according to my approach in this book. Undoubtedly, what’s good for people pleases God, so what pleases God is good, but because it’s good for people, not because it pleases God.” Latimer should avoid theology, but from the outset, he has set himself and localism up for failure. His radical skepticism and aversion to anything subjective (other than his own beliefs and feelings), leave even his utilitarianism without a leg to stand on.

Nevertheless, Latimer will assert that “the case for localism is inconclusive at best, mistaken at worst.” After a brief review of some definitions of localism and its overlap with decentralization and federalism, he confronts categories of arguments localists make in light of their commitments and observed consequences. Latimer purports to refute or, at least, weaken, each of these arguments, but each chapter is too comprehensively problematic to adequately address here. I will instead focus on a few of his more controversial premises.

Localism Against Tyranny

Localists, for example, may defend their position as a resistance to tyranny, but Latimer contends that “centralization … is not necessarily tyrannical.” Furthermore, “despotism and tyranny can be resisted without recourse to localism, which is fortunate, because localism can do more harm than good.” In a basic sense, it is possible that centralized governments could do bad things, but so could smaller, decentralized governments. He also says that “tyranny is in the eye of the beholder.” One would be hard pressed to dismiss the atrocities of the last two centuries—from genocides and world wars to gulags, slavery, and Jim Crow—as subjectively tyrannical.

At this point, though, we find a curious and telling anecdote from Medieval English history misused by Latimer as an illustration. Centralization may, in his mind, be worth the risk since a more “localist” arrangement could prove dangerous. He writes, “Consider … the period in English history, often referred to as ‘the Anarchy,’ during the reign of King Stephen (roughly 1135–1153), in which rival claimants to the throne led England” into a violent and disordered chaos. This analogy is remarkably overdrawn.

Henry I’s son, William, died tragically in the “White Ship Disaster” of 1120 and the succession crisis provoked a civil war between Henry’s incompetent daughter, Matilda, and her feckless cousin, Stephen. Failed leadership on both sides led to a stalemate and a power vacuum dubbed by Victorian historians as “the Anarchy.” The power vacuum resulted in some unusually barbaric behavior at the local level, in which village scores might be settled without anything like “due process,” civility, or accountability.

To suggest that the absence of a central authority leads to what some paint as a Hobbesian state of nature, however, is quite a stretch. The civil war and corresponding disorder were not the “default” of Medieval England, involved nobles more than peasants, and could hardly be blamed on localism (anachronism aside). Indeed, it was more a result of failure at the top—with Henry I, the nobles, Stephen, Matilda, and Church leaders. Furthermore, comparing the pre-modern political order to modern states betrays a telling lack of historical sophistication. Contemporary localism is, in part, a response to the modern state.

While one must not idealize feudal Europe, could this more decentralized system of political order be labeled as more violent and bellicose than modern, centralized states? There are mass graves around the world testifying to the inhuman violence perpetrated by imperialism and ideological movements wielding the swords and bombs of centralized states. Unless I am mistaken, world wars have yet to be fought between villages and boroughs.

Localism and Nature

Writers from Aristotle, Rousseau, Tocqueville, and Jefferson to localists like Wendell Berry and Kirkpatrick Sale have grounded their preference for smaller communities in political anthropology. The preference for the local and decentralized is rooted in who human beings are morally, spiritually, and, perhaps, biologically. But in a chapter confronting localist appeals to “nature,” Latimer writes, “Facts about human nature do not tell us how we ought to organize our lives.” Later he adds, “Facts about human nature do not settle anything; nature is not our master.” Latimer wants to avoid deriving an “ought” from an “is,” and seems unwilling to identify human persons as anything other than advanced, utility-maximizing animals. The utility principle and “almighty reason” supersede nature. At best, he thinks, more “objective” scientific literature on human evolution may suggest that “large, multilayered political communities” may be preferable.

He also takes a rather superficial stab at Catholic subsidiarity, which he describes as weak and not necessarily given to localism. The latter point is true enough since changing conditions may necessitate moving some social functions to different levels of government as a matter of prudence. But he dismisses questions of “size, distance, scale, and level” as “peripheral issues that confuse and distract; they don’t settle anything.” At best, it seems, arguments can only be settled by observing outcomes that most people like.

He goes on to argue that localism does not necessarily promote greater belonging or democratic participation, that the need for local knowledge does not necessitate political localism, and that arguments for localism as “efficient” fail in important ways. Throughout these chapters and others, he does a good job of anticipating his critics and admits when he’s exaggerating his opponents’ position. But in the end, for Latimer, localism has not proven itself on utilitarian grounds and its proponents over-emphasize the benefits without taking stock of the costs.

Latimer suggests that pathologies of localism can be overcome by a turn toward the “moral imagination.” Drawing on the work of David Bromwich, Latimer describes a moral imagination as that which “grant[s] the highest possible reality and the largest conceivable claim to a thought, action, or person that is not our own, and not close to us in any obvious way,” or, in Latimer’s words, to ”what isn’t local.”

This is more accurately understood by Irving Babbitt’s phrases of “idyllic imagination” and “sentimental humanitarianism.” The moral imagination, for Latimer, seemingly favors compassion and sympathy with those farther away; but at what cost? To be sure, as a Christian, the “neighbor” I am called to help may be next door, thousands of miles away, or not yet born, but Latimer seems to think there’s something less “praiseworthy” about loving what is local.

This is absurd and escapist. It is far easier to love an abstraction like “the poor” by writing checks and re-tweeting a GoFundMe page. It is far harder to love and serve particular individuals and families. The immediacy of local responsibilities often demands far greater sacrifice and moral effort than the contemporary tendency to elevate benevolent feelings and symbolic policies over concrete action.

Why Localism?

Contrary to Latimer, localism is not so much a presumption as it is an aspiration. It is a desire to resist a “bigness” that effaces individuality and particularity within and beyond modern politics and economics. Digital technology and remote work seem to have done little to slow urbanization, and the small town remains on life-support. So even if localism cannot succeed comprehensively, it will have achieved much by imperfectly preserving particulars, local traditions, and memory.

Localism might also be understood as a disposition to make the big feel smaller. It is a mistake to think that localism must necessarily be confined to rural life. The work of Jane Jacobs comes to mind on this point, observing how urban and suburban neighborhoods and communities can be ways of resisting atomization and loneliness for the sake of preserving the good, true, and beautiful close to home.

Ultimately, the problems Latimer finds with localism will not be solved by its rejection. Nor can localism save us from political strife. From the small Midwestern township to the halls of the US Congress, human sinfulness will always pose a threat to peace, justice, and order. Smaller, more decentralized systems of government may not always be efficient, but they may limit how much damage such sinfulness can do when it becomes the default of a given community. The corrupt county road commissioner is far less worrisome than a foolish President. If, at best, localism requires a “lesser evil” kind of argument, so be it.

Toward the end of the book, Latimer admits that he may be overstating the problem. “Someone could say that localism is not intended as a presumption. … Localism, in short, is much more modest than I’ve presented it.” If this is the case, he observes, then the discourse is dominated far more by the dogmatic than the sensible. And he rightly points out that, even if these more ideological voices are not representative of a group, they must still be confronted lest they achieve the status of a collective “common sense.” On this, Latimer and I agree. If localism becomes another utopian ideology, animated by unreflective presumptions and untested platitudes devoid of a historical sense, then sign me up for the opposition.

Anecdotally, my experience is that modesty is one of the distinguishing factors of all but the most militant localists; and the latter is, frankly, not influential. On the other hand, those advocating for centralization—either rhetorically or in practice—tend to believe they know what’s best for everyone, and not just for their immediate neighbors.

Non-ideological localism is more about humility and less preoccupied with solving all human suffering. It is, in this sense, a struggle to be human where we are in the time we have. It’s a way to be more human without the pressure to be superhuman.

Furthermore, thoughtful localists do not see themselves as defending some mass movement or ideology. They are animated by a love of a particular place, with particular people and traditions. This need not be at the expense of other places nor as a kind of zero-sum economic game; nor can the positive and negative consequences of a given localism always be comprehensively captured by empirical data.

I do not love localism because of some illusion that it is perfect. I prefer the local because I am too small and too sinful to assent to the alternative. I object to concentrating power in too few hands for the simple fact that I do not believe any of us—myself included—can wield it without losing our souls. We might summarize the argument using the fictional world of another localist, J. R .R. Tolkien. Latimer would ignore the Council of Elrond, thousands of years of history, and argue, with Boromir, that the ring of power is more a gift than a threat. Localists take their chances that Gandalf and Frodo are right to destroy it.