Beyond the Galaxy [A Conference Talk]

Recently, I was invited to deliver a paper at the BH+DH Conference at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. The call for papers prompted presenters “to study how digital humanities grows out book history, how ‘bh’ and ‘dh’ continue to be mutually informative and generative, and how they also contradict each other.” Below is a copy of my presentation, which I hope to return to as an article:


First film, then print, and finally, the post.

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After the horrific events of Charlottesville and a growing tolerance of racist rhetoric by our civic leaders, various pundits and politicos throughout the mainstream media have expressed, on the left, shock, and further to the right, awe, at the reemergence of white nationalism from out the west wings of American political discourse. Of course, racist ideology is nothing new to our nation’s institutions, nor has it ever vanished from them entirely, such that if anything of late has been in fact surprising, it is not that white supremacists occupy every corner of the Oval Office, but rather that they do so, so flagrantly. Just about gone are the folksy dog whistles—why would they need them, when the Commander-in-Cheeto is the first president in over a century to not enjoy the companionship of any pet—and in their place we hear political rhetoric hounded by Dixie-whistling confederate apologists and shepherds of a Germanic carnage, who bear the tiki-torch of America’s shameful and ongoing legacy of racism. The fact of that matter is that while the White House has repeatedly housed white supremacists, the American public has not seen such brazen and blatant racism come from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue since Woodrow Wilson screened D.W. Griffith’s The Birth of a Nation (1915). The first-ever film shown at the presidential residency, Wilson reportedly described it as “writing history with lightning,” and it was thanks to his enthusiastic approval and that of the Supreme Court—Chief Justice Edward White only agreed to watch the three-hour epic after hearing it made heroes of his beloved Klan—that the pictured secured wide release and enormous popular success.[1]

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For all its ahistorical sincerity, the irony underlying the historic impact of The Birth of a Nation is that, while the film utterly and willfully misrepresents white supremacist propaganda as an accurate record of Reconstruction and the rending of American unity, at the same time Griffith’s masterpiece engendered a new movie-going public across the country, as well as rekindled the KKK—the same iteration as likely included Fred Trump, by the way. In establishing for the first time a nonverbal cinematic language, a feature-length narrative structure, a full score combining original and adapted music, realism as film’s standard aesthetic mode, and (especially) Hollywood’s huge economic potential,[2] The Birth of a Nation stands as a principle illustration of the relationship between a citizenry’s ideology and its media. Said otherwise: D.W. Griffith’s The Birth of a Nation gave birth to our nation of movie-goers, with its artistic and technical innovations defining even up to today the basic rules and expectations we have for cinema—an origin inseparable from the film’s similar entwinement with the politics of its, which remains our, time. The point here is not simply that Griffith’s movie functioned explicitly as racist propaganda reimagining and revitalizing American white nationalism, but that by delineating the nascent medium’s grammar and potential, The Birth of a Nation hailed a cinematic citizenry, doing for the 20th Century what Benjamin Franklin’s printing press did for the 18th and what Silicon Valley has been doing for ours: That is, they effect newly mediated publics, or what Benedict Anderson has termed imagined communities.

According to the late Anderson, the birth of a nation—and here we are talking about the concept of a nation generally, no longer limited to Griffith’s film or to America specifically, but nationhood and nationalism at large—is entirely dependent upon an era’s dominant medium of communication, and in particular, the development and standardization of print technology. When combined with the mechanical reproduction and disseminative power of Capitalism, early print media “laid the bases for national consciousness” by both giving “a new fixity to language” as well as fixing “unified fields of exchange and communication” among a burgeoning public.[3] For the first time, print media—and especially newspapers and pamphlets—permitted people who would otherwise be strangers separated across continental geographies and centennial temporalities to conceive of themselves as an interrelated population of fellow-readers, all sharing the same semi-official “print-language,” each reading the same printed material. “These fellow-readers, to whom they were connected through print,” writes Anderson, “formed, in their secular, particular, visible invisibility, the embryo of the nationally imagined community,” wherein every morning people would open their newspapers, well aware that countless like-minded neighbors were simultaneously replicating this banal ritual, absorbing the news in privacy and silence, as if in morning prayer. What is more, the synthesizing form of the medium itself allowed this emerging citizenry to imagine themselves as a quasi-cohesive community, sharing the space and the time of a single printed page: Persons in, say, Maryland could see juxtaposed on the same page a column covering the commercial news of their surrounding neighborhood and, barely a line apart, a paragraph on the social happenings in Virginia, thereby creating among these fellow-readers a sense that this disconnected assemblage of events, people, and things all belonged together, and in time, all belonged to the imagined community of a single, limited nation[4]imagined not because they are inauthentic, but because nations are speculatively established, founded upon a promise first made available by the “reproducibility and dissemination” of print media.[5]

2561532Despite immediate appearances, the literary character of nationalism is not lost in the transition from print to film as our dominant national medium, from the birth of a nation with cannons to The Birth of a Nation with cameras nearly a century and a half later. Had I the time here, I would more fully trace the relationship between exclusionary racism and print-culture nationalism through reference to the work of Peter Sloterdijk, and tying that together with the traditional humanities more generally, but for now I want to limit our scope to a discussion of how media structure ideologies, and thus how communication technologies inform our understandings of the human condition. That media function unconsciously to constitute our social and psychical experience is what Marshall McLuhan means with his famous dictum that the medium is the message: The ideological power of the periodicals written by the founding fathers stems not so much from the overt arguments they make for revolution or democracy, but from the material form in which those arguments are delivered. The topical juxtaposition of a newspaper page or the replicative distribution of a printed pamphlet thus can do more to unite and stabilize the idea of a national public in the minds of diverse, silent, yet monolingual fellow-readers than any explicit patriotic rhetoric.

For McLuhan—who agrees with Anderson that nationalism finds its origin in the regularity of print technologies,[6] which is why modernity’s epoch of the nation-state is coterminous with what he calls the Gutenberg Galaxy—the cinematic medium merely continues the alphabetic, literary import of the printing press. Insofar as “the Gutenberg technology of movable types is quite indispensable to any industrial or film process,”[7] from the contracts to the critics, then, writes McLuhan, “[f]ilm, both in its reel form and in its scenario or script form, is completely involved with [print] culture,”[8] that is, with “a culture in an extreme reach of typographic conditioning,”[9] of which “[f]ilm [is], as a form, [its] final fulfillment.”[10] McLuhan’s claim here is not ancillary to my larger point about nationalism, print culture, and—here is where we are headed, in short order—the Internet’s transformation of traditional ideological structures; rather, McLuhan helps us to explain the excessive popularity of Griffith’s film by interpreting The Birth of a Nation not as a revolutionary break with communications media past, but stricto sensu as a continuation of print’s ideological form of mechanical reproduction and uniformity, imagistic juxtaposition, phantasmatic interiority, high-definition realism, and linear narrative structure.[11] By this account, the unprecedented and perhaps still unparalleled triumph of The Birth of a Nation at bottom should be generally attributed to its patriotic and nationalist function, instead of its entertainment appeal, aesthetic merit, sheer novelty, or use as Klan propaganda (in this context, it is worth recalling that the film came out after the outbreak of World War I, but before the United States joined the Allied forces, a point when exceptionalist isolationism and protectionist nationalism were running high).

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Were Griffith to release his film today, complete with CGI-enhanced battles and a score by Hans Zimmer that goes BWONG, I doubt it would be greeted with the same success, despite an audience already existing that has shown a renewed political commitment to white nationalism. Even a century after The Birth of a Nation, mainstream film studios, like our public discourse at large, have maintained a banal tolerance of racist ideologies, and audiences rarely balk at even the most egregious examples of minority exploitation or erasure; rather, it would be the film’s overriding and structural nationalist implications that would fail to connect with viewers today. Such a claim may seem counterintuitive in light of movements declaring they will #hashtag Make America Great Again and demanding we put America First—the latter slogan also being used by Woodrow Wilson in the 1916 presidential election—but my point here is, again, a structural one: If nationalism and nationhood as such arise with the ascendancy of print media, are conditioned by and contingent to Gutenberg technologies, then in an era marked by the decline and death of print, in the wake of print’s waning, nationalism and nationhood consequently must bear witness to this shift, characterized itself by the fluidity and specificity of the Internet, our new, now dominant medium.

This is all to say that if we have, over the past few years, seen the rise of neo-nationalisms and neo-fascisms abroad and at home, then these social trends and political movements necessarily must be of a different quality than their print-based predecessors. In place of print-nationalism’s mechanical uniformity, wherein a Texan and a Wisconsinite conceive themselves as always receiving the same news, sharing the same page, appearing under the same typographic conditions, the economic model of the Internet is constructed around targeted advertising and individually curated newsfeeds, what Eli Pariser describes as our algorithmically personalized filter bubbles, which prevent traditional communities from imagining themselves as interconnected across space and time. Whereas print technologies effectively stabilize and elevate some particular vernacular dialect into a standardized national tongue—or, in the related case of screen media, the way regional American accents generally have been reduced in deference to network newscaster English—the Internet once again returns us to a semi-oral kaleidoscope of nonstandard usages and in-group slang, often involving nonverbal signals like memes, emojis, and reaction gifs. This drift moves in other directions, as well, for if print media traditionally were limited in their dispersive capacity to physically and temporally “finite, if elastic, boundaries, beyond which lie other nations,” as Anderson says,[12] these borders fall away when faced with the instantaneous, widespread, indefatigable reach of the Internet.

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The rapid-fire, far-ranging technological systems underlying contemporary modes of communication irrevocably alter our traditional social formations, thereby giving birth to new nationalisms ostensibly reproducing an imagined past, but in reality unrecognizable to those older institutions. The hypertextual fecundity and fluidity of modern digital media make print’s uniformity, isolation, and commonality unviable as principles for political organization, which is why neo-nationalisms (particularly of the white supremacist type) position themselves as a-nation-within-a-nation, representatives of a supposedly “true” or “real” political remnant that inherently disrupts any sense of functional national unity by pitting neighbor against neighbor, where a citizenry are defined not by a geographic or typographic relation, but by ideological and ethnic affiliation. Again, had I the time today, I would trace this transformation of nationalism from the so-called Gutenberg Galaxy of print media, through the Babbage Black Hole of digital technology, to what McLuhan labels our emerging Global Village—but whereas McLuhan sees this “simultaneous happening,”[13] this “sudden implosion” of “all social and political functions” as a net positive of the Net,[14] what we have seen of late is how the move from classical nationalism to the Global Village has resulted in a resurgence of tribalism and eugenic ideologies.[15] To be clear, this is not to say that such racist and divisive tribalism is inevitable, nor do I mean to endorse a vision of strict technological determinism; yet changes in media will ineluctably have social and subjective effects, prostheses working to redefine what we can do, how far we can go with one another, and therefore, at bottom, who we are as a people. Had we been paying closer attention to this shift, the advent of the Global Village could have gone the way McLuhan believed it inevitably would, a world where political boundaries and personal bigotries fall away as we are thrust into a situation of radical cybernetic interconnectedness. The possibility has not been foreclosed, and we might still reorganize ourselves and our society towards that egalitarian promise should we chose to do so—and the moment for that choice simply will not wait in a world of digital haste—but a functioning democracy can no longer be achieved through the stratagems and structures of print-nationalism, for though the structural ideal of the republic might still remain, the nation as traditionally imagined is no more.

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Annotated Bookshelf: The Mass Psychology of Fascism

Reich, Wilhelm. The Mass Psychology of Fascism. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1980.

Once again, we left-leaning people, left lying facedown in the worst political dirt, must ask ourselves: How did it come to this? Or, more specifically: Why has the worker’s revolution not come to pass, even not come up at all, despite how ripe the economic and technologic conditions have become? Why has the working electorate once more voted against their own material self-interest? Or, as Reich succinctly puts it (14): “what prevents the economic situation from coinciding with the psychic structure of the masses?” Long before Žižek first sniffed, writing as the Third Reich rode onto the scene, this Reich already proposed that ours was a question not for Marxist sociology but psychoanalysis, for “psychic structure…is forced to develop a contradiction corresponding to the contradiction between the influence exercised by [mankind’s] material position and the influence exercised by the ideological structure of society” (18). Said otherwise, the ideologically and materially subjugated masses vote against their interests not because they are fooled, but because their interests are repressed, silenced by a fascist super-ego. “Thus, the authoritarian state gains an enormous interest in the authoritarian family: It becomes the factory in which the state’s structure and ideology are molded,” Reich forwards in a key passage, naming the family as “the authoritarian state in miniature;” and as such, it is through the patriarchal family that “[m]an’s authoritarian structure…is basically produced by the embedding of sexual inhibitions and fear in the living substance of sexual impulses” (30), leading ultimately, in a return of the repressed, to the bigotry and brutality of the fascist masses. That is to say, because “[s]exual desires naturally urge a person to enter into all kinds of relations with the world, to enter into close contact with it in a variety of forms” (56), the repression of those desires leads to a xenophobic narrowing of the world, and ultimately, through identification with a singular führer-figure, a “childish need for protection” by the state and a defense of “national narcissism” that loudly proclaims the “greatness of the nation” (63). Sound familiar? Without going too deeply into Reich’s final solution for fascism—it has to do with what he calls “work-democracy,” the “natural process of love, work, and knowledge” that is immanent to rational social relations (311)—above all else, Reich asserts that to achieve freedom over fascism, the masses must become “burdened” by social and self responsibility, accepting of their biological and unconscious desires (334).

This post is one entry in an ongoing annotated bibliography of my bookshelf. If it’s useful to any person other than myself, all the better.

Annotated Bookshelf: The Parallax View

Žižek, Slavoj. The Parallax View. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2006.

Self-described as his magnum opus, in his heretofore most sustained and explicit attempt at systemization — divided into sections for philosophy, cognitive science, and Marxist politics each — Žižek outlines the broad scope of his critical approach. Although the fundamental, Lacanian negative ontology of reflexivity has been in place since Sublime Object, Žižek develops here a new conceptual operator, the parallax, to signal “the confrontation of two closely linked perspectives between which no neutral common ground is possible” (3). As is usual, Žižek provides an indefatigable string of examples, but one (borrowed from Jean-Luc Marion) extrinsic to the text will suffice: Game 5 of the 1997 NBA Finals; with only 25 seconds on the clock, the incredibly ill Jordan sinks a 3-pointer, putting the Bulls ahead of the Jazz just enough to clinch the game, 90–88 — the score is an objective (and, for Stockton & Co., traumatic) fact, but whether the Bulls won or the Jazz lost depends on whether you were in Chicago or Utah that June night, a matter of the audience’s gaze being constitutive of the game itself. Thus a “minimal parallax constellation” is inherent to the object in question and so must be in place to make possible ontic realization and meaning; as such “all that has to intervene in the Real is an empty frame,” our interpretation of reality, “so that the same things we saw ‘directly’ before are now seen through the frame” functioning as Hegelian synthesis (29). There are therefore three forms of parallax throughout Žižek’s text: The ontological, preconditioning our experience of reality; a scientific (what I would call rhetorical) parallax, “the irreducible gap between the phenomenal experience of reality and its scientific account/explanation” (10); and a political, the apparent “split between the public Law and its obscene superego supplement” wherein the two sides, like Kant and Sade for Lacan, share the same content, so that “the dignified and impersonal Law looks like an obscene machine of jouissance,” the ideological injunction to enjoy (334).

This post is one entry in an ongoing annotated bibliography of my bookshelf. If it’s useful to any person other than myself, all the better.

Annotated Bookshelf: The Rhetorical Foundations of Society

Laclau, Ernesto. The Rhetorical Foundations of Society. Brooklyn: Verso, 2014.

The last book he oversaw the publication of before his death, the two decades’ worth of essays collected here circle around and expand upon, “from three perspectives — psychoanalytical, linguistic and political” (144) — Laclau’s original intervention into the notion of hegemony. The basic structure of his analysis remains the same throughout his engagements with and criticisms of Christian mysticism, de Man, Žižek, Badiou, and Agamben: Foremost, society is founded upon an irresolvable failure of total signification, a permanent “gap between ‘order’ and ‘ordering’ . . . a heteronomous dimension of social life that cannot be eliminated” (136); this is an impossibility comparable to Lacanian lack or Heideggerian ontological difference. Because “society does not succeed in constituting itself as an entirely objective order as a result of the presence, within itself, of [heterogeneous] antagonistic relations” (111), there arise, with an increasing intensity, demands from people on their political structure: “[W]hat were requested within institutions [become] claims addressed to institutions, and at some stage they [become] claims against the institutional order” (149). These demands coalesce around socially invested slogans and signifiers like justice or freedom; but, as they accumulate in a chain of equivalence one after another in a metonymic sequence, the very fact of “enumeration . . . destroys the particularized meanings of its terms” (40). Thus the nodal points of populist rhetoric take on a catachrestic character — a “movement from metonymy to metaphor, from contingent articulation to essential belonging” (63), which is ultimately a universalizing of the particular into a Master Signifier that, following Gramsci, Laclau identifies as hegemony: “Certain contents are invested with the function of representing the absent fullness of the community” (121). Finally, because a “hegemonic operation is essentially tropological” (69) and because “[r]hetorical figures are thus endowed with an ontological value” (123), Laclau claims that a “true political intervention . . . is one that displaces the terms of the debate, that rearticulates the situation in a new configuration” (176), making revolution a rhetorical act.

This post is one entry in an ongoing annotated bibliography of my bookshelf. If it’s useful to any person other than myself, all the better.

Annotated Bookshelf: On the Pleasure Principle in Culture

Pfaller, Robert. On the Pleasure Principle in Culture: Illusions without Owners. Translated by Lisa Rosenblatt. Brooklyn: Verso, 2014.

Through a psychoanalytically inclined account of ideology in line with Žižek’s — though with far greater reference to Freud than to Lacan — cultural critic Pfaller here, in his first major publication in English, thoroughly and extensively elucidates his notion of interpassivity, which is “the illusion of the other” — a symbolic and naïve observer that only perceives and judges a subject’s objective, exterior actions (as opposed to an omniscient and accusatory superego) — that makes up “culture’s sole and adequate pleasure principle” (164). These illusions, subjectively denounced by their actors insofar as the actions are owned/believed in by virtual others, “can be understood as every movement that shifts the consumption [or enjoyment] of a product from the consumer to a delegated consumption agency” (19), such as occurs with canned laughter in a sitcom, or buying desired books as a gift, or ‘Liking’ another person’s exuberant status update. These mechanisms of pseudo-experience are characterized by both a sense of reflexive awareness and compulsiveness: The Catholic interpassive subject knows that lighting a candle is not the same as praying, but nevertheless does so, repeatedly, consistently, and subsequently feels as if they have in fact said the Pater Noster. This process has the form of fetishistic disavowal (Je sais bien…mais quand même…) as described in Mannoni’s account of ritualistic, superstitious belief versus religious faith; as such, contemptuously “knowing better . . . prevents the actors from considering themselves as carriers of the illusion” and so is “the condition for devotion to the illusion” (41), a knowledge that allows for the forgetting of knowledge. The same is the case with play, as outlined by Huizinga: “[P]recisely because the game is ‘nonsense’ in [the subjects’] eyes, a mere game, and because they therefore disdain and hate the game (while [ambivalently] simultaneously loving it, whether for the suspended illusion that is presented in it or for the suspension of that illusion), they fall under its spell” (104). In effect, what makes modern interpassive operations, characterized as they are by contemporary asceticism and strengthening ideological faith, so engaging is a dialectical process wherein:

(a) A subject distances herself from, and with knowledgeable disdain for, originary ritualistic, symbolic practice, such as totemic magic performed for a naïve virtual other (258);

(b) That contempt, as a “symbol of negation[,] thus enables neurotics to transform forbidden object-libido into ego-libido” (152), which pleasurably reinforces narcissistic self-esteem;

(c) Insofar as the initial disavowal of (a) is itself repressed in the obsessional neurosis of (b), “[t]he unconsciously experienced pleasure is defended as a treasure, but experienced manifestly as displeasure” (210).

Unfortunately, Pfaller veers in his final conclusion to suggest a “culture that is capable of recognizing the form in which its illusions exist, eliminating the need to misjudge the principle of their lust” (282) by remaining at the fundamental level of symbolic, interpassive belief — and, as such, renouncing any ideal ego, or the accumulation of ego-libido in narcissistic religious faith.

This post is one entry in an ongoing annotated bibliography of my bookshelf. If it’s useful to any person other than myself, all the better.

Annotated Bookshelf: Banal Nationalism

Billig, Michael. Banal Nationalism. London: Sage, 1995.

In large part building off of Benedict Anderson’s thinking of nations as imagined communities, Billig’s notion of “banal nationalism” seeks to describe not only the socio-psychological construction of nation-states, but “the patterns of belief and practice” in everyday experience “which reproduce the world—’our’ world—as a world of nation-states, in which ‘we’ live as citizens of nation-states,” as well (14). Rather than confining nationalism to “hot” performances, outrages, and periphery politics—or suggesting, as PoMo theorists like Baudrillard or Fukuyama do, that nationalism has given way to globalism—the text argues that “[d]aily, the nation is indicated, or ‘flagged’, in the lives of its citizenry. Nationalism, far from being an intermittent mood in established nations, is the endemic condition” (6); thus the flag of banal nationalism is not the one waving proudly in a parade, but the one hanging quietly above your neighbor’s door. Yet it is the character of the everyday to escape notice, and according to Billig, this omission is multiplied: “The double neglect of banal nationalism involves academics forgetting what is routinely forgotten” (49)—that is, the lived ideology the text describes has been neglected by sociologists who have treated nationalism as jingoistic rhetorical surplus that sets us against them, ignoring their own nationalistic presumptions and givens, blind to their own enhabited presuppositions. What these scholars ignore, then, is how the rhetoric of nationalism, particularly in its most “banal words, jingling in the ears of the citizens, or passing before their eyes…the prosaic, routine words, which take nations for granted, and which, in so doing, enhabit them” (93)—especially through deixis and presumed context—are “always a reminding, a re-presenting and, thus, a constricting of the imagination”(103), a conceiving of the unified national community and a reifying of the nation-state as the sine qua non social principle. While such banality might most readily be noticed within the discourse of celebrity politicians, Billig points to its ubiquitous appearance in newspapers, which write of this nation, the weather, our team, placing national news on one page and international on a separate.

This post is one entry in an ongoing annotated bibliography of my bookshelf. If it’s useful to any person other than myself, all the better.

Annotated Bookshelf: Imagined Communities

Anderson, Benedict R. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. Rev. ed. NY: Verso, 2006.

Admittedly, Anderson’s sociological and historical methodology is not within my wheelhouse, and with over three decades between his publishing and my reading, the geopolitical crises to which Imagined Communities responds are only remotely familiar; nonetheless, Anderson writes with a baroque vitality that dips every sentence in honey, and his elegant prose only sharpen an argument so well argued it seems almost counterintuitive. The book attempts to define the nation as “an imagined political community—and imagined as both inherently limited and sovereign…It is imagined because the members of even the smallest nation will never know most of their fellow-members, meet them, or even hear of them, yet in the minds of each lives the image of their communion;” and similarly, “[c]ommunities are to be distinguished, not by their falsity/genuineness, but by the style in which they are imagined” (6). That is to say, nations are through and through rhetorical, built not on boundary or ethnicity, but through invention and style—and, perhaps most importantly, through writing or print-capitalism, “[t]he revolutionary vernacularizing thrust” (39) of which introduced the nation as a new form of consciousness through new media like the novel or the newspaper. “What,” according to Anderson, “made the new communities imaginable was a half-fortuitous, but explosive, interaction between a system of production and productive relations (capitalism), a technology of communications (print), and the fatality of human linguistic diversity…a general condition of irremediable linguistic diversity” (42f.), wherein anyone can learn any language, but no one can know all (134). The function of language is key here, for “amor patriae does not differ in this respect from the other affections, in which there is always an element of fond imagining,” Zizek’s sublime object of ideology or Lacan’s objet a; “what the eyes is to the lover—that particular, ordinary eye he or she is born with—language—whatever language history has made his or her mother-tongue—is to the patriot. Through that language, encountered at mother’s knee and parted with only at the grave, pasts are restored, fellowships are imagined, and futures dreamed” (154). (Note, however, that this is not merely technological determinism à la McLuhan, since the medium and the mode of production are always linked for Anderson: “Nothing served to ‘assemble’ related vernaculars more than capitalism, which, within the limits imposed by grammars and syntaxes, created mechanically reproduced print-languages capable of dissemination through the market” [43].) With print-capitalism, political subjects become national citizens through the elevation of an official vernacular, inevitably tied to the geographical span of former administrative territories as they became bureaucracies, as well as the realization of a “homogeneous, empty time” (26) during which fellow-citizens could be imagined as participating in the abstract machinery of a nation common to all (62). This sense of temporality, marked as it is by “an originary present” (205), also meant that “the new imagined communities…conjured up by lexicography and print-capitalism always regarded themselves as somehow ancient. In an age in which ‘history’ itself was still widely conceived in terms of ‘great events’ and ‘great leaders’, pearls strung along a thread of narrative, it was obviously tempting to decipher the community’s past in antique dynasties” (109), through attempts to ground the nation in a mythic and self-evident past. Moreover, not only were the everyday elements of bourgeois existence reproducible in their national commonality—these are our institutions, our representatives—but “independence movements” too “became, as soon as they were printed about, ‘concepts,’ ‘models,’ and indeed ‘blueprints’…[thus] a ‘model’ of ‘the’ independent national state was available for pirating” (81)—a point given new resonance in John Perry Barlow’s “A Declaration of the Independence of Cyberspace,” which even seeks to cement the sovereignty of the Internet through an allusion to America’s mythic origins, now sublime and morally apolitical (144). Thus, even online, “the ‘end of the era of nationalism,’ so long prophesied, is not remotely in sight. Indeed, nation-ness is the most universally legitimate value in the political life of our time” (3), whether virtual or real and always imagined.

This post is one entry in an ongoing annotated bibliography of my bookshelf. If it’s useful to any person other than myself, all the better.