Skip to main content

The End of History

Geo-Cosmos in the National Museum of Emerging Science & Innovation (Miraikan) in Tokyo

Francis Fukuyama wrote a famous book in the early 1990's that argued capitalism had won. With the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989, capitalism did win - and its victory precipitated the end of history.

Liberal democracy had proven itself the ultimate form of government and a repudiation of Karl Marx's assertion that communism would be that governance system claiming the ultimate position.

For the Gen Y (and younger) generation who did not experience the anxieties of the Cold War, the debates around governance systems are somewhat arcane, replaced by more current worries related to social media and acceptance of various cultural and religious beliefs.

It seems that every generation carries the full potency of their history with them, unique to their times. The Baby Boomer generation, for instance, would know more about the turmoil of the Civil Rights movement and the volatility of a decade of assassinations from JFK to MLK to Malcolm X to RFK. The Greatest Generation would know more about the horrors of war and the want for uneasy peace and prosperity of post-WWII and so on.

I reflected on this in relation to the temporal nature of our lifetimes and the unique circumstances and events that shape what we know. Within our own generations, we directly experience so many things that other generations will not quite know as we do, same as the experiences they know more directly than are only notional for ourselves.

In other words, Mr. Fukuyama was on to something profound, this idea of the end of history. It just had less to do with governance systems and more with his own personal experiences than he might have appreciated.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Party Like It's 1999

A coworker sent me a meeting invitation to the end of the world.  Fitting.  I'm not sure if I should accept or not (suppose it depends on your views of the end of the Mayan calendar ), but somehow it reminded me of the Prince song on a related subject . Fitting as well that this coworker was not born when Prince extolled the virtues of partying like it's 1999 (side note: I did party like it's 1999 while studying abroad in Milan at that time, which was a heady experience with the coming of the Euro and all.  How times have changed, how the mighty have fallen...).  Time change, sometimes faster than we think, and our cultural references become dated.  Perhaps just like the Mayan calendar falling out of fashion over the last few centuries, until its end becomes a modern cultural phenomenon - or not, depending on your view of things. In either case, it's worth partying like it's 1999 regardless because hey, it will be Friday when this all goes down, and Fridays

New York Pause

Heading to the Helmsley Sometimes I work in NYC, and this is my office.  More precisely, there is a desk in the upper floors of this distinctive building that has a major thoroughfare running through it that I inhabit while typing up documents and conducting meetings in the city.  It is nothing exceptional, usually the work and sometimes the desk at which I sit, but the surrounding city is commanding, ever-thriving, and never-still. If I pay close enough attention, I am reminded of the countless things that make this city unique among the many cities I have had the pleasure to live in and visit.  But on this brisk morning, when winter gusts barrel down Park Avenue as I hustle the blocks from Lex to the building entrance security guards, I pause long enough to snap this picture.  That pause is enough reminder that I am lucky to be here, and New York City is ready to give me its best shot (I'm still not sure if the city is better personified male or female).  But that is all t

A Little Bit of Proust

Somehow I started to read Proust. The blame goes to Alain de Botton , a writer whose witticisms deconstruct modern thinking and make intellectualism seem but a trifle and a whim. He wrote a book in 1997 called "How Proust Can Change Your Life" which distills the enigmatic French novelist into a self-help dispenser of pithy ideas. How clever I found Mr. de Botton to be when I dipped my toe into the vagaries of Proust; I picked up volume one of "In Search of Lost Time" and instantly fell into the deep end. What author dares to run sentences onward into the stratosphere that sometimes seemingly mellows behind the stars of a bright night, but never so much as an introspective person that wretches for the meaning of a simple thought, sometimes stumbling, but always emerging strongly as that same night in starry sky, almost an homage back to Van Gogh, whose rich paintings greatly represented the mood of a generation - and generations often afford a few mis-steps in l