The archive.

A crime without a victim is how Rothbard characterizes insider trading, and from that provocation he builds a full libertarian defense of profiting from superior knowledge. The 1980s prosecutions of Wall Street financiers, he argues, are not justice but a punitive political campaign that treats speculators as worse than robbers while harming no one who was not already willing to sell. Trading on early information, in his account, is entrepreneurship: it moves capital toward the farsighted and improves the whole economic system. He reads the charge of unfairness as egalitarian resentment of any human superiority, warns that such enforcement chills speech and privacy, and contends that federal attacks on takeover financiers like Drexel Burnham Lambert shield old-line managerial elites against stockholders and market competition.

There is a veritable Reign of Terror rampant in the United States—and everyone’s cheering.

That an administration responsible for the largest deficits in American history should offer a constitutional balanced-budget amendment as the cure strikes Rothbard as image triumphing over substance. The amendment, he argues, would balance only projected budgets, never actual year-end spending, and would fall to accounting tricks, off-budget expenditures, and revenue limits pegged to national income, which he dismisses as a statistical artifact, not a real entity fit for fundamental law. Proposals to exempt government capital spending would simply relabel boondoggles as investment. Since the federal courts that would enforce it are themselves organs of the government being restrained, enforcement is a fiction. He likens the whole scheme to the supply-siders' phony gold standard: the rhetoric of discipline masking undiminished cheap money and deficit politics.

Second, balancing the budget by increasing taxes is like curing influenza by shooting the patient; the cure is worse than the disease.

"The consequences of human action, not human design"—the Ferguson-via-Hayek slogan that casts Austrian economics as the study of unintended outcomes—gets a pointed rebuttal here. Rothbard grants that the market coordinates beyond any single benevolent intention, as with Smith's butcher and baker, but insists the formula collapses once intention is taken seriously: if businessmen learn sound theory and consciously aim at serving consumers, the once-unintended becomes intended. Grounding his case in Misesian praxeology, he treats human action as purposive choice rather than blind response to stimuli. The stakes are political as well as methodological: to describe the growth of the state as nobody's design, he warns, is to disguise the special interests that consciously pursue privilege behind the rhetoric of the public good.

For if actions are largely always unintended, this means that government just grew like Topsy, and that no person or group ever willed the pernicious consequences of that growth.

Millions of tax dollars, mobilized by a propaganda campaign that has suddenly discovered the homeless: this is the spectacle Rothbard sets out to deflate. He argues that "the homeless" and "the hungry" are political labels manufactured in sequence, fracturing a single condition, poverty or lack of money, into discrete emergencies. The fragmentation is not innocent: separate needs create separate constituencies, funneling subsidies to construction firms, agriculture, food distributors, and the social-work bureaucracies that administer them. Concrete images of need, he notes, dramatize far better than cash income. Turning from rhetoric to incentives, he presses the uncomfortable questions the welfare framing avoids: why people lack money, and how permanent public aid erodes work effort, rehabilitation, and private charity.

Money does not have nearly the sentimental value of home and hearth and Christmas dinner.

Defending deregulation on the strength of whichever statistics happen to be convenient, Rothbard warns, invites disaster when the data turn against you. When bankruptcies, mergers, congestion, and delays revived calls to re-regulate the airlines in the late 1980s, he answered that these were the ordinary results of competition, not signs of failure. The old Civil Aeronautics Board, he reconstructs, was a state-enforced cartel that fixed fares far above market levels and rationed choice routes to favored incumbents; falling fares and crowded planes simply mark travel opened to students and families once priced out. The genuine bottlenecks, delays and airport congestion and air-traffic control, remain in government hands. His remedy is not nostalgia for the CAB but fuller deregulation: privatized airports and competitively priced runway space.

Empiricism without theory is a shaky reed on which to build a case for freedom.

Does capital earn interest because it is productive, or because people value present goods more highly than future goods? In this dictionary article, republished in the 2008 second edition of The New Palgrave Dictionary of Economics, Rothbard defends the second explanation while tracing its disputed intellectual ancestry. His account gives Turgot a larger role than Böhm-Bawerk allowed and finds in Fetter a crucial distinction: productivity explains the rental price of a capital good, whereas time preference explains the discount applied to its future returns. The historical argument sharpens a conceptual challenge—how to explain consumer-loan interest and returns on production within one theory. Readers can discover why, for Rothbard, explaining what a machine produces is not yet explaining why advancing money to buy it earns interest.

Media applause for Bruce Babbitt's courage in demanding higher taxes to shrink the deficit provokes Rothbard to redefine the word. Courage, he insists, once meant battling the powers-that-be, not urging the state to intensify its parasitic plunder of productive citizens, which is precisely what Babbitt, like Walter Mondale in 1984, does. The essay's central move is a class distinction: politicians and bureaucrats are not genuine taxpayers but net tax-receivers, so a public employee who remits part of a tax-funded salary merely reduces his net transfer. Shared sacrifice, on this account, is an accounting fiction that puts officials and citizens on a false common footing. Rejecting both tax hikes and supply-side complacency about deficits, Rothbard prescribes the neglected alternative: drastic, across-the-board cuts in government spending.

The proper answer is: anywhere and everywhere; only wholesale flailing away with a meat axe could possibly do justice to the task.

Judged by their actual policies rather than their campaign imagery, George Bush and Michael Dukakis emerge in Rothbard's account as interchangeable establishment centrists, proof, he says, of George Wallace's jibe that there isn't a dime's worth of difference between the parties. Both are committed to Keynesian spending, deficits, higher taxes by semantic disguise, monetary inflation, and regulation. He marshals the governing record against partisan myth: Reagan's supposedly anti-government years left federal spending higher as a share of private product, complete with protectionism, farm subsidies, and an assault on insider trading. The essay's gravest warning targets James Baker's drive toward coordinated central-bank inflation, a European currency unit, and finally a world central bank issuing world paper money. The one real difference Rothbard allows is that a Dukakis victory might simply lack the connections to advance it.

There would be no remaining checks on any country’s inflation except the wisdom and the will of the World Central Bank.

The most fashionable new mathematics of the 1980s, Rothbard argues, quietly demolishes orthodox mathematical economics from within. Chaos theory cannot be waved off as anti-mathematical, since it comes from the cutting edge, yet its lessons cut against the neoclassical apparatus. Through Lorenz's Butterfly Effect and Mandelbrot's fractals, it shows that tiny causes yield vast effects and that smooth, continuous curves misrepresent a jagged world. Rothbard turns this against calculus-based equilibrium, rational expectations, and the random-walk theory of stock markets, which he finds absurd for making the market omniscient while denying that historical events are causally connected. Careful to reject claims that nature is random or undetermined, he endorses chaos theory only tactically: newer, more advanced mathematics now does to formal economics what Austrian critics long attempted from outside.

Calling it the Butterfly Effect, he pointed out that if a butterfly flapped its wings in Brazil, it could well produce a tornado in Texas.

Part intellectual biography, part act of homage, this essay follows Ludwig von Mises from his education in Vienna to his lonely American years, presenting him as the central system-builder of modern Austrian economics and a model of principled liberal resistance. Rothbard traces the achievements in turn: the integration of money into marginal-utility theory through the regression theorem in The Theory of Money and Credit; the business-cycle account of credit-induced malinvestment and corrective liquidation; and the socialist-calculation argument that without private ownership and market prices for capital goods, rational planning is impossible. He sets Mises against the German Historical School, positivism, and interventionism, and dwells on the human cost: the denied Vienna professorship, the private seminar that formed Hayek and Machlup, exile from the Nazis, and poverty in New York. Mises could delay catastrophe, Rothbard concludes, not reverse the statist age.

I fought because I could do no other.

When the market broke on October 19, 1987, the commentary that followed was, in Rothbard's account, mostly nonsense, and he answers it point by point. Black Monday was no isolated technical glitch but the seal on a contraction already running since early September, the visible culmination of a boom that Federal Reserve credit expansion had inflated. Across nine rebuttals he dismantles the fashionable culprits: overvaluation (a definition dressed up as a cause), computer trading, the trade deficit, the budget deficit, and tight money. Against Greenspan's post-crash liquidity injections, more credit poured on a credit-made wound, he insists that recession is the corrective liquidation of malinvestment, best left to run its course. His closing warning is of an inflationary recession worse than the crash itself.

Only in Cloud Cuckoo-land, to repeat, is the cure for inflation, more inflation.

Strip the minimum wage of its protective vocabulary, Rothbard argues, and what remains is not a wage floor but a ban on jobs. A law forbidding hire below a statutory rate creates no employment and lifts no worker's productivity; it merely outlaws the contracts that marginal workers, teenagers, black workers, those with the weakest bargaining position, would otherwise make. Taking the 1988 push to raise the federal minimum as his occasion, he reads the two parties as tactically distinct but identical in substance, and presses a reductio: if a wage floor helps without cost, why not set it at a thousand dollars an hour. Behind the humanitarian language he finds cartel privilege, senior union labor shielding itself from low-wage competition, and a welfare paternalism that denies the poor the choice to produce.

In truth, there is only one way to regard a minimum wage law: it is compulsory unemployment, period.