Over the last few months, as I’ve looked at 120 years of novels about American politics, I’ve been surprised how often American writers have filtered their experiences of the political process into dystopian novels. The combination of a charismatic politician, shadowy advisers and a rabid collection of supporters are often grist for a plot that ultimately points to the downfall of the American way.

Sinclair Lewis’ It Can’t Happen Here (1935) is one of the best known of these types of novels. It chronicles the rise to the presidency of Sen. Berzelius “Buzz” Windrip, a folksy politician from a western state with a devoted following of bitter, unemployed or underemployed men. Although Windrip’s ascendancy shares similarities with what was happening in Italy and Germany in the 1930s, Lewis was likely also thinking of homegrown politicians like Louisiana senator Huey Long when he wrote the book. 

Windrip defeats Franklin Delano Roosevelt at the 1936 Democratic convention, then defeats the Republican candidate and several third party candidates — including Roosevelt — to win the election in November. His rise to power is the result of pitch-perfect behind-the-scenes maneuvering by his confidante, ghostwriter and chief strategist, Lee Sarason; the support of a widely popular radio preacher, the Rev. Paul Peter Prang; and the unwavering dedication of thousands of disaffected men — the League of Forgotten Men.

Windrip mobilizes this League by capitalizing on the great economic trauma that many faced at the height of the Great Depression. His platform includes nationalizing all banks and labor unions, freedom of religion (except for atheists and Jews), a guaranteed national income (but with a constantly shifting dollar amount) along with a cap on total net worth of any individual, a military that is equal in size to any other nation’s, a sharp curtailing of the rights of both women and minorities, limits on acceptable political speech, and a subjection of the power of Congress to the power of the president. 

The novel is seen primarily from the viewpoint of Doremus Jessup, editor and publisher of a small-town Vermont newspaper. Doremus looks at the election and early days of the Windrip administration with the expected detached bemusement of a journalist. “He simply did not believe that this comic tyranny could endure.” But endure it does, as Windrip and his League, transformed into white-shirted “Minute Men,” use simple terror to get the populace to conform, and establish concentration camps as the final destination of anyone who doesn’t conform. (There also is an odd and understated gay subtext to the behind-the-throne power of Lee Sarason and the Minute Men which, in Lewis’ eyes, adds an extra layer of menace to their abuse of power.)

As the Windrip administration starts ruthlessly to carry out its agenda, Doremus tries to remain a dispassionate observer. At first he is reluctant to participate in any organized protest, but he becomes radicalized when he himself is imprisoned after writing an editorial critical of the new administration and is forced to give up control of his newspaper. In his jail cell, he realizes that his “own timid soul and drowsy mind” — and the timidity and drowsiness of so many others — is responsible for this new American dictatorship.

Freed from prison but now editing his newspaper only under the watchful eye of one of many of Windrip’s minions, Doremus still holds to his beliefs that reason will eventually triumph over despotism. He is enticed to join the Communists in attempting to overthrow the Windrip regime, but he sees little difference in the ideas and tactics of the elected fascist regime and the Communist underground. As more and more friends and acquaintances are either brutally murdered by the state or swept into concentration camps, however, Doremus sees no choice but to finally join a different underground movement (run by the ex-Republican candidate for president, now living in exile in Canada). Eventually, Doremus himself is arrested and sent to a concentration camp.

Amidst the sudden loss of livelihood and liberty, after being unjustly arrested and tried, after weeks of torture, Doremus still holds to his ideals — that “the Liberal, the Tolerant, might in the long run preserve some of the arts of civilization, no matter which brand of tyranny should finally dominate the world.”

In his novel, Lewis is concerned about what happens when a candidate creates an emotional response with voters, tapping into their fears and disaffection, and, yes, even raising their hopes. Lewis writes that the “conspicuous fault” of Windrip’s opposition in the 1936 election “was that it represented integrity and reason, in a year when the electorate hungered for frisky emotions ... all the primitive sensations which they thought they found in ... Buzz Windrip.”

It Can’t Happen Here has gone in and out of print over the last 70 years. The writers of the introductions to each new edition of the book can’t help but look at it through the prism of their own decade’s politics. The introduction to the 1993 edition, for example, compares Windrip’s folksiness and the rabid support of the League of Forgotten Men to events in the recently ended Reagan administration. The introduction to the 2005 edition concludes that in the post-9/11 world, discerning readers of all political persuasions will find the book a “revealing and disturbing read.”

As an experiment, I Googled “It Can’t Happen Here” and “Obama” — and discovered more than a few blogs and articles that raised concerns that the Obama campaign, with its message of hope and thousands of devoted supporters who sometimes refer to him in messianic terms, was the next incarnation of Buzz Windrip. Um, no. I don’t think so. There’s no denying, however, that Lewis has created a chilling, and obviously enduring, image of a US voting itself into dictatorship. It’s not likely to happen here, especially if we not only vote but also constantly remind our elected officials who’s really in charge.