The archive.

Profit and loss enter the analysis where certainty ends. The second volume—continuing the German translation of Man, Economy, and State—moves from the static market into dynamic change, treating entrepreneurial profit as the reward for correctly appraising underpriced factors and loss as the penalty for error. From here Rothbard mounts his assault on rival doctrines: he denies that a monopoly price can be identified on an unhampered market, dismantles the Keynesian multiplier and consumption function, rejects Fisher's quantity equation and its 'price level' as pseudo-measurements, and defends 100 percent gold reserves against fractional-reserve banking, which he calls fraud. Unions, he argues, win restrictive wages for some only by forcing others into unemployment. Value, throughout, flows from consumer demand back to factor prices, never from cost forward to price.

Das Kapital erzeugt keinen Gewinn. Das tun nur kluge unternehmerische Entscheidungen.

English translation: “Capital does not generate profit. Only shrewd entrepreneurial decisions do.”

Can law developed by judges rather than legislators still enforce oppression? In this review of Bruno Leoni’s Freedom and the Law, first published in 1962 and supplied here in its 1981 reprint, Murray N. Rothbard welcomes the challenge to legislative sovereignty but presses beyond institutional reform. Custom and decentralized courts, he argues, offer no guarantee that legal rules will protect liberty: inherited prohibitions on conspiracy and seditious libel expose the problem. His proposed alternative combines competing private judges with a fixed legal standard forbidding initiated violence against persons and property. The review makes visible a tension within libertarian legal thought: whether freedom rests on the process through which law emerges or on substantive principles that can condemn even established custom.

Bretton Woods was a dollar standard masquerading as gold, and its collapse — foreseen by the Misesians, missed by the Keynesians — frames this uncompromising monetary tract. Rothbard argues that the dollar was never an independent thing but a name for a weight of gold, roughly 1/20 of an ounce; a gold standard defines the unit, it does not 'fix a price.' His most radical claim targets fractional-reserve banking: notes and demand deposits issued beyond the specie actually held are fraudulent warehouse receipts, a legalized counterfeiting. Against the fear that a growing economy would run short of money, he answers that the supply does not matter, since purchasing power adjusts. His remedy is a full-reserve gold dollar with private coinage, the Federal Reserve liquidated and 'dollar' itself eventually retired for weight units such as the gold gram.

The natural tendency of the state is inflation.

America's first nationwide boom and bust arrived without war, famine, or embargo to explain it, a puzzle that makes the depression of 1819 an ideal laboratory for watching a young republic reason about hard times. Rothbard reconstructs the inflationary land-and-import bubble fed by war finance and the Second Bank of the United States, then the Bank's sharp 1818 contraction that toppled prices, banks, and debtors alike. His real subject is the debate that followed: stay laws and debtor relief, schemes for state and national paper money, demands to restrict bank credit and enforce specie payment, and a rising protective-tariff movement. Sound-money and inflationist opinion, he shows, cut across region and class, seeding the later Jacksonian hard-money politics of Benton, Polk, and Kendall.

Beginning in the summer of 1818, the Bank precipitated the Panic of 1819 by a series of deflationary moves.

Few economic subjects breed more confusion than money, and here — in the German translation of Rothbard's 1963 What Has Government Done to Our Money? — that confusion is dismantled by returning to the market. Money is no creature of decree but a commodity risen from barter, the most saleable good gradually accepted by all; gold and silver won the role by being durable, divisible, and independently desired. Paper circulates only by inheriting purchasing power already established in metal. From this Rothbard argues that the size of the money stock is irrelevant to real wealth, that inflation is a hidden tax enriching its first receivers, and that fractional-reserve banking issues many claims to the same specie — fraud dressed as credit. State mints, legal-tender laws, and central banks complete money's long descent into fiat disorder.

Weil Gold ein allgemeines Tauschmittel ist, ist es am marktgängigsten, kann es aufbewahrt werden, um morgen genau wie heute verwendet zu werden, und werden alle Preise in seinen Einheiten ausgedrückt.

English translation: “Because gold is a universal medium of exchange, it is the most marketable of goods; it can be stored so as to be used tomorrow just as today, and all prices are expressed in its units.”

Money is one side of every exchange in an advanced economy, and whoever controls its supply, quality, or use, Rothbard argues, has taken a major step toward controlling the whole system. The essay pairs Austrian monetary theory with revisionist history. Money arises on the market as a demanded commodity—gold or silver—so that income stays tied to production; the state breaks that discipline through inflation, which Rothbard treats as legalized counterfeiting and hidden taxation, with central banking as the institutional form of modern mercantilism. Five American case studies press the point: the Massachusetts Land Bank of 1740, Nicholas Biddle's national bank, Stephen Colwell's protectionism, and Paul Warburg's promotion of bankers' acceptances reveal inflationism driven not by poor debtors but by merchants, bankers, and manufacturers seeking privilege through state-managed money.

Money is the nerve center of any economy above the most primitive level.

The hardest case for a theory built on nonaggression is war, and Rothbard meets it head-on: if no one may aggress against another's person or property, then even just defense cannot license violence against innocent third parties. From this single axiom he condemns modern warfare outright, since nuclear, aerial, and biological weapons cannot distinguish the criminal from the bystander. The State, defined as a territorial monopoly of coercion funded by taxation, wages war through conscription and levies that are themselves aggression against its own subjects. Private defense and some revolutions may be legitimate; wars between states, which inevitably tax, mobilize, and slaughter civilians, are always to be condemned. Disarmament thus becomes not a pacifist sentiment but a demand of justice, and the claim that war shields its subjects is exposed as the very myth that lets the state grow fat on conflict.

War, then, is only proper when the exercise of violence is rigorously limited to the individual criminals.

Liberty belongs on the revolutionary Left, not with conservatism—this is the wager that organizes Rothbard's sweeping reconstruction of the political spectrum. Classical liberalism, he argues, was originally radical, anti-feudal, and internationalist, the force that overthrew the Old Order of caste, theocracy, and militarism; it decayed only when natural rights gave way to utilitarian compromise. Socialism enters as a confused heir, chasing liberal ends through the conservative means of state power. Following Gabriel Kolko, Rothbard reads American Progressivism and the New Deal not as socialist ruptures but as state monopoly capitalism, in which business secured through regulation the privilege it could not win in competition. Mid-century libertarians erred by mistaking conservatives for allies; the corrective, he insists, is a movement that recovers its antiwar, anti-privilege inheritance and trades short-run despair for long-run confidence.

It was, and still is, middle-of-the-road because it tries to achieve liberal ends by the use of conservative means.

Could the New Left’s demand for participatory democracy lead toward free markets rather than centralized planning? In this 1965 essay, Murray N. Rothbard finds potential allies among civil rights organizers, antiwar students, and rebels against bureaucratic universities. His interest lies in what they do: organize Freedom Schools, resist conscription, and build institutions outside established channels of authority. Against both the Old Left’s reliance on government and the Right’s support for militarism, he reads these experiments as forms of libertarian resistance. Yet his sympathy is also an attempt at persuasion: the market society he proposes is his destination, not an agreed New Left objective. The essay exposes both the practical grounds for cooperation and the unresolved economic disagreements within this proposed alliance.

Strip away the civic pieties and the State stands revealed, in this 1965 essay, as something other than society organized for the common good. Rothbard opposes the comfortable equation of government with "we the people," insisting that taxation, conscription, and imprisonment are impositions by one organized group upon another. Borrowing Franz Oppenheimer's distinction between the "economic means" of production and exchange and the "political means" of seizure, he casts the State as the institutionalized political means—born of conquest and tribute, not social contract. Because rulers are always a minority, they enlist intellectuals to manufacture legitimacy; because constitutions are interpreted by the very power they would bind, limits become licenses. War, feared alongside revolution, is the great engine of expansion. History itself becomes a race between social power and State power, cooperation against predation.

It forbids private murder, but itself organizes murder on a colossal scale.

Rothbard's method here is selective inheritance: keep Lysander Spooner and Benjamin Tucker's stateless politics, discard their economics. He honors the pair for carrying individualist anarchism from anti-state protest into a positive model of voluntary society—Spooner's likening of taxation to a highwayman's threat crystallizes the shared premise—yet parts from them on two political points and one economic core. Ad hoc jury-made law, he insists, must yield to an objective libertarian legal code; occupancy-and-use land tenure must yield to Lockean acquisition and free transfer. The heart of the critique is monetary: their mutualism, inheriting the labor theory of value, wrongly treats rent, interest, and profit as exploitation. Drawing on time preference, Rothbard argues that interest would persist even in barter, and that genuine free banking would yield harder money rather than endless credit.

The fact is that the government, like a highwayman, says to a man: “Your money or your life.”

What can sustain a lifelong, costly alienation from the status quo when victory seems distant? Rothbard dismisses the thin answers—liberty as intellectual amusement, or as a route to private profit—and rejects even utilitarian forecasts of abundance as too weak to command sacrifice. The durable ground, he insists, is a passion for justice, and his central move is to distinguish injustice from misfortune: poverty yields only slowly to capital and time, but injustice is an action men inflict on other men and can therefore cease at once. English rule in Ireland, wage and price controls, chattel slavery—each could be ended by will. Invoking Leonard Read's button and William Lloyd Garrison's demand for immediate emancipation, Rothbard casts the true libertarian as a radical abolitionist who states the end without dilution.

In framing principle, it is of the utmost importance not to mix in strategic estimates with the forging of desired goals.