Taking the measure of the zeitgeist is never an easy task, with every thing to recommend avoiding it. Yet here we are, near the end of a century, indeed a millennium, and the temptation seems more and more irresistible. Early indications suggest that this time no one is going to be caught up in glib repetition, that we have come to regard all that fin de siecle stuff as very suspicious. After all, anti-foundationalism flourishes and this time it appears as if we will take our existential freedom seriously, but minus the melodrama, and that we will also apply the lessons of poststructuralism -- the constructedness of all concepts, the decentered self, the privileging of undecidability -- but consistently, without exception. History, we believe, will sort itself out, or, more accurately, allow us to sort it out without benefit of metanarratives, repeated patterns or transcendent instances; for history, as one sage put it, is ultimately just one damn thing after another. If anything can escape rhetoric or emplotment, we tend to feel, it is sheer numeracy, and so one hundred years, or a thousand, is simply a unit of measurement, nothing to be grand or melancholic about. Yet can we really look at the numerals 2001 and see no figure at all? What lover of rhetoric can sneeze at a millennium? A more honest posing of the problem would admit that we will almost certainly see some figural shape, at the same time that we can decide, more or less freely, whether it will be an angel, a rough beast, or simply a human form that greets us, looking back or ahead, or even staring blankly. With respect to the question of whether it will it be human, all too human, or somehow less or more than that, at present the notion of the post-human appears entrenched, and the closing pages of Les Mots et les Choses, where Foucault's dream of the end of humanity is teasingly glimpsed, are frequently cited. What we need to bear in mind, however, is the extent to which this version of the fin de siecle might turn out to be an unhappy (or vanished?) reflection of ourselves, a version built on affectless irony and promises unfulfilled. In short, as we approach the year 2000 we are tempted by configurations of exhausted millenniums made new, because of the reassurance they give us, even while increasingly we suspect that such visionings are too secure in their closures and false significances. This double temptation--to chose to focus on the new, or to suspect all such configurations--shapes our political and artistic imaginations and traditions, and recently several contributions to the ages-long debate about art and politics have exhibited this temptation toward either the millennial (the figure of time redeemed) or the immediate (time left to its shapeless forms). My purpose here is to review this debate in order to shed some light on our political and artistic possibilities, and perhaps even to suggest -- without practical proposals -- a way beyond the impasse. I begin with a discussion of the political dimension, then move to a consideration of literary criticism that attempts to be political, and end with an argument about the nature of the literary imagination in relation to the rest of our experience. My claim is that we are seldom able to resist completely the temptation to schematize our history, despite knowing that this distorts our political hopes and esthetic dreams; my (tentative) suggestion is that a reconsideration of John Dewey's thought on these issues may improve our prospects. The post-communism currently being speculated on in various quarters can serve as the harbinger of how the end of an old order inevitably suggests the start of a new, and how the old-turned-new is a powerfully shaping trope. Few people see the events in Eastern Europe as having cleared away the falsehoods of actually existing so that we can now start to work on a true socialism. Other participants in the dialogue maintain, however, that socialism itself has not been discredited. …
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