Charlton Allen
- Indexed articles, last 90 days
- 4
- Latest publication
- Aug 21, 2026
- Outlet visibility, for Americanthinker
- Top 100K sites
- Earliest in this view
- Jul 11, 2026
Latest articles
When Lenin Lost An Election, He Abolished Democracy (opens the original)
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When revolutionary socialists tell us who they are, perhaps we should take them at their word. History remembers revolutions for their explosions. Think of the French Revolution, and the storming of the Bastille comes quickly to mind. The American Revolution has Lexington and Concord. Russia’s revolution is remembered through darker images: armed Bolsheviks in Petrograd, the cruiser Aurora and the fall of the Winter Palace, the slaughter of the Romanovs at Ekaterinburg, Perm, Alapayevsk, and the
Through a Glass, Darkly (opens the original)
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An elegy for Lamar and Ashton Allen, thirty years after TWA Flight 800. Thirty years is a long time—long enough for one generation to grow into adulthood and another to begin. With time, great public tragedies pass into history. Dates remain. Photographs endure. The language used to describe them becomes familiar through repetition. The people themselves are more easily lost. So it has been with TWA Flight 800. The flight number remains familiar, as do the arguments surrounding its destruction.
The Call: Thirty years after TWA Flight 800 (opens the original)
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Foreign Policy > TWA Flight 800 Link copied For the families left behind, the loss remains an open wound. Thirty years changes almost everything. Children grow up and have families of their own. Cities become almost unrecognizable. The technology that once seemed futuristic becomes part of ordinary life. Even tragedies that once dominated the news gradually recede into history. For the families of TWA Flight 800, July 17, 1996, never did. I do not want this essay to be about me, though some of t
Citizen Kane at 85: A Revolutionary Masterpiece Still Hiding in Plain Sight (opens the original)
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Orson Welles’s film may no longer shock us the way it shocked audiences in 1941—but only because so much of modern cinema learned to speak its language. I do not often write about movies. In fact, I have not written an essay about one in more than thirty years. The last time I did so followed a two-night movie binge in the winter of 1996, the first night of which began with my date and me in what we call in the Carolinas a snowbank—and what those north of the Mason-Dixon Line would more accurate
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