Arts & Culture / Convergence / Politics / Vol. 2 No. 1-2

Arts Now

Virgie Ezelle Patton, Three Sisters: Shelly, Jennifer, Julie

Image Credit: Virgie Ezelle Patton, Three Sisters: Shelly, Jennifer, Julie, (1990s), Oil on Canvas, 44 x 52, Courtesy of the Ezelle-Patton Family Collection

Before we begin, a few things should be said: the A-Line offers itself to public scrutiny as a journal of progressive thought; after publishing four issues of the journal that focus on the enormous political crisis that confronts the United States and its citizens—the veritable inspiration for our creating the A-Line in the first place—the editors wanted to complement the journal’s originary purpose by pointing to brighter moments that also characterize the current juncture. Plans for an arts issue grew out of the wish, then, to strike a balance between bad news and good; it is in the behalf of the latter desire to achieve a kind of discursive economy that we take especial pride and joy in bringing out not only another double issue, but also the first one under our auspices on the arts. While the center of gravity of this inaugural arts issue is situated in poetry and the visual and performing arts, we anticipate enhancing the repertoire in the future by way of reference to music, architecture, dance, and photography. The participation of African American practitioners in these fields of artistic endeavor has critically increased over the last four decades. In that regard, the arts issue fits the role of both witness and register. In a broader sense, it will perhaps remark the evermore vivid trend line of what appears to be an interartistic merger in the unfolding among aspects of the arts, as in poetry as visual performance, for example, orchestrated in Claudia Rankine’s White Card. In its inimitable dynamism, the arts scene continues to turn up new ground, and if that is so, then “tradition” makes itself anew from one time to the next.

In the enumeration of the arts, the reader might well recognize an allusion to the important number “seven,” which lends its name to one of the early twentieth century’s “little magazines,” The Seven Arts, published in the United States from November 1916 to October 1917. Taking its cue from the traditional subdivision of the arts—architecture, sculpture, painting, literature, music, performance, and film– the magazine was embedded in the context of a rapidly industrializing, Fordist-led United States, as well as notable demographic shifts in a national population veering toward urban expanse and experience. One of the most stunning developments on this new scene of altered labor relations, redoubled capitalist depredation, and unprecedented migratory provenance was promulgated in considerable black movement northward that would eventuate, for instance, in renascent artistic production in the urban centers, especially Manhattan, by way of Harlem, and Chicago. The accompanying burst of artistic efflorescence would impel attention to a revised cultural consciousness released among the generation of post-Reconstruction and progressivism. These rendezvous with destiny run concurrent with international events, foremost among them, successful revolutionary transformation in Russia and Mexico and the fraught, compromised tenure of socialist rule in Germany with the advent of the Weimar Republic. Shortly after the accession of the Weimar government, Frankfurt will play host for a brief time to what is perhaps the first School of critical theory by way of the Frankfurt movement. Yet, from our current vantage, we imagine that we hear the already-coming poltergeist, rapping steadily in the long distance, that would fully reveal itself a decade and a half later in the fateful instauration of the National Socialist German Workers’ Party and its tortuous global ramifications.

Seven Arts was spearheaded by figures that we now associate, one way or another, with the birth of U.S modernism in artistic practices and their criticism, James Oppenheim, Waldo Frank, and Van Wyck Brooks; among the contributors to the magazine were what is today recognized by readers as certain iconic proper names, including Sherwood Anderson, Randolph Bourne, Theodore Dreiser, D.H. Lawrence, Amy Lowell, Khalil Gibran, and Robert Frost. Positioning itself against U.S entry—which event occurred three years after fighting had commenced in Europe—into WWI, Seven Arts correctly aligned the arts and politics, but apparently a balance of motives was difficult to sustain. In fact, according to one commentator, it appears that Randolph Bourne, one of the magazine’s most prolific contributors and, inarguably, among the most radical left thinkers ever to emerge on the American scene, brought down the project all by himself. In his introduction to the collection of Bourne’s essays, many of them penned for The Seven Arts, The Atlantic Monthly, The New Republic, and Dial,1 Olaf Hansen notes that the editorial triumvirate at the magazine “seemed to constitute an intellectual ambience which supported (Bourne’s) hopes that a combination of political analysis and poetic vision could be achieved.” It was Bourne, though, “who—in his reaction to John Dewey’s essays in The New Republic on the question of conscientious objection—became so preoccupied with politics that the moderate views of his co-editors hardly helped to influence the image of the magazine.” We might say in response that Bourne’s “influence” was all too determinative, as the magazine’s financial backers, apparently put off by his ferocity, pulled the plug, and the project subsequently foundered after slightly less than a year in operation.

The combination of “political analysis and poetic vision” seems to have been the critical aim of not only Bourne himself, but also the generative impulse of Seven Arts as a whole, but easier said than done! It is difficult to detect what Bourne is proposing as a protocol for “poetic vision,” except that we vaguely glimpse it, braided into his essayistic commentary on “Culture” more generally speaking; looking at the broad outline of some of the essays collected in The Radical Will, one surmises that “poetic vision” from Bourne’s perspective is tied up with, and not so distinct from, “the radical will,” or the critical sense, which powerfully emerges as a demonstrative instance in a piece like “Twilight of Idols,” as well as his sporadic forays—for lack of more precise description—into “literary criticism” and his posthumously-published autobiographical fragment, “History of a Literary Radical.”2 In the guise of a fictional figure named “Miro,” the latter riffs on the Spanish infinitive, “mirar”: to look; to look at, examine, study, etc. “Miro” performs an exemplary paronomastic gesture, we could say, in this assessment of the journey of a callow youth toward a maturity of consciousness. A native New Jerseyan, Bourne attended university, after a six-year delay, at Columbia, where he became a student of the eminent American philosopher of the day, John Dewey, and a devoted follower of Deweyan pragmatism.3 In its immense powers of conscription and destruction, the war seems to have embodied the Rubicon that the relationship between the two was not able to cross. In “Twilight of Idols,”4 with its decided Nietzschean echoes, Bourne manages to both praise and censure his former teacher, whose erroneous support of World War I, so far as Bourne was concerned, provided the target of his blistering disregard for the coeval intellectual class, broadly speaking; in his clear-eyed denunciation, Bourne skewers the intellectuals for a failure of imagination that borders on the treasonous; but he comes for Dewey as its primary sign and symptom. Having informed his readers that man “cannot live by politics alone,” (336) Bourne launches the essay, already airborne, and touches down a few pages later, rather like a big jet, still flying: “It is the creative desire more than the creative intelligence that we shall need if we are ever to fly.” (347) It is fascinating to try to imagine how Bourne might have developed had he lived longer, but the legacy that he leaves ends the year of the Armistice– he dies in 1918 in his thirty-second year. These essays, then, divulge earmarks of all the pregnant passions of youth, as well as the utopian yearnings that drive his scathing riffs; a few of these sentences invite pause, both for what they signal about national crisis a century ago and how they situate attitudes toward the arts’ oppositional form in notions of technique, which, In essence, precisely identify –at least analogize–our own contemporary instance. In fact, Bourne’s pursuit demonstrates what the search for an apposite grammar of civic outrage and engagement exactly looks like.

It is not a stretch for readers today to empathetically situate themselves in a context of national emergency regarding governance and war, wide-eyed stupidity and venal motivation in the political class; in this instance, Bourne succeeds in conveying an urgency that remains palpable even at this distance. Evoking the memory of William James, nearly a decade deceased at the time “Twilight of Idols” was first published,5 Bourne places his former teacher in unfavorable comparison: “I think of James now because the recent articles of John Dewey’s on the war suggest a slackening in his thought for our stir and guidance, and the inadequacy of his pragmatism as a philosophy of life in this emergency.” (336) In the decline of “sweet reasonableness,” Bourne detects a prevailing logic of the mob, but more than that, a heightening of the frisson of “explosive hatred,” which “luxuriant releases” appear to provide an exact analogy on our current unease and actual danger that are akin to the outbreak of renewed racial and partisan antagonism and the alarming threat of violence and civil disorder that it portends. If the coeval circumstance that provokes Bourne’s outrage has been willed, or accepted as “inevitable,” then “it is fatuous to protest against the gay debauch of hatred and fear and swagger that must mount and mount until the heady and virulent poison of war shall have created its own anti-toxin of ruin and disillusionment.” (337) From his point-of-view, US entry into the debacle was hardly “inevitable,” as, in fact, fighting in European theaters of war had already proceeded apace during the prior three years, but the nation, instead of using “its isolation from the conflict to educate itself,” had “fretted” the time away “and then let war, not education, be chosen, at the almost unanimous behest of our intellectual class, from motives alien to our cultural needs, and for political ends alien to the happiness of the individual.” (339) The outcome, to his mind, was not only disastrous for the country, but for himself personally it spelled devastation: “What I come to is a sense of suddenly being left in the lurch, of suddenly finding that a philosophy upon which I had relied to carry us through no longer works.” (337-38) As we read along, the unrelenting sense of anger and betrayal that Bourne apparently feels, up close and personal, suggests the youthful broken-heart whose eyes are rudely snatched wide open, when, as it always happens, the rubber meets the road with a vicious jerk. If Bourne is representative of his generation—which a famous woman writer once called “Lost”—then the impact of war had plummeted down upon their heads as a collective trauma—some even thought that it marked the end of “civilization.” What we know now after a hundred years of Monday-morning quarter-backing is that those years staged only the opening act of a catastrophe so penetrating and profound that it would traverse the entire course of the twentieth century in an infernal combination of unstinting militarism, brazen racism, and unprecedented capitalist profiteering; we live now as its uneasy, frightened legatees.

Bourne makes two major distinctions in this essay that will resurface in a parallel argumentative and conceptual frame decades later in some of the work of Herbert Marcuse, in particular the latter’s One- Dimensional Man; on the one hand, Bourne identifies the “instrumentalism” of “technical organization” and on the other, the “idealism” of the “organization of ideas.” (340) Another way to express this contrariety would be to pose the “quality of life” (or what Bourne calls “poetic vision”) over and against the “machinery of life.” (342) As Bourne explains it, the war “had revealed a younger intelligentsia, trained up in the pragmatic dispensation, immensely ready for the executive ordering of events, pitifully unprepared for the intellectual interpretation or the idealistic focusing of ends.” (342) “[S]ucked into the councils at Washington and into war-organization everywhere,” the young lions “have absorbed the secret of scientific method as applied to political administration.” (342) “[L]iberal, enlightened, aware,” this cohort “is touched with creative intelligence toward the solution of political and industrial problems.” (342) They constitute “a wholly new force in American life, the product of the swing in the colleges from a training that emphasized classical studies to one that emphasized political and economic values.” (342) If I am not mistaken, these sentiments evoke in a nutshell what, broadly speaking, had troubled Du Bois about Booker T. Washington’s Tuskegee protocol,6 though we would certainly be wise to offer a caveat and correct any comparative move here for radical differences of time and context—Du Bois addressing the status of freed people a generation after Emancipation, with access to institutions of higher learning, founded during Reconstruction, especially for black Americans; and Bourne speaking to a general population of white Americans, with access, at least in theory, to any and all institutions of higher learning; mutatis mutandis, these thinkers, disparate in time and socio-cultural location, are both, to my mind, looking dead level at the key question, then and now: what does “democracy” mean, and how might an analysis of it be converted into an “intellectual tool, turning up fresh sod for the changing future”? (340) In the opposite direction, we are currently witnessing the disparagement and evisceration of the Humanities academy, as well as the arts, as STEM programs (science, technology, engineering, mathematics) not only advance to the forefront of the nation’s educational march, but also as the corporate ideal of management dominates the view of academic life, subjecting questions of “success” in scholarly achievement, for example, to quantitative measure and algorithmic certitude and relegating the determination of teaching effectiveness to the fate of student evaluative polls; perhaps the day will come when a generation of academics and administrators will have the moral and intellectual courage to confront the tyranny of numbers and the extent to which it distorts and corrupts the learning process. If the university were once the sanctuary of ideas, it is ever more doubtful today that it remains so; it seems, then, that Bourne, nearly twenty years into the new century, already had a prescient beat on the rest of it.

Anywhere a reader touches down in this writing induces a shock of recognition (and I must admit a good deal of delight into the mix) at hearing truth so emphatically spoken to power; in that regard, Bourne, the rhetorician, is reminiscent of no other American writer I know, if not James Baldwin, the excellent public man of letters, hellbent on getting at “achieving his country.” The twists and turns of Bourne’s peroration gather force and velocity as he moves closer and closer to the embrace of the Nietzschean “malcontent,” who upends “optimism” as the “compensatory” gesture in American thought that signals “American life is too terrible to face.” (347) To his mind, what has happened dramatically demonstrates the actual cost to the society of the evacuation of “values” when the concatenation of ideals, “the production of articulate and suggestive thinking,” have not “kept pace, to any extent whatever, with their technical aptitude.” (342-43) Even though John Dewey, he contends, has summoned a “more attentive formulation of war-purposes and ideas. . .he calls largely to deaf ears” because his followers “have learned all too literally the instrumental attitude toward life, and being immensely intelligent and energetic, they are making themselves efficient instruments of the war-technique. . . .” (343) With no “coherent system of large ideas, or a feeling for democratic goals,” Bourne’s technocrats, who resemble our own, have “. . .never learned not to subordinate idea to technique” and consequently remain “. . .vague as to what kind of society they want, or what kind of society America needs, but they are equipped with all the administrative attitudes and talents necessary to attain it.” (343; emphasis mine) Dewey always meant his philosophy, Bourne goes on, “to start with values,” but he descries an “unhappy ambiguity” in Dewey’s system “as to just how values were created, and it became easier and easier to assume that just any growth was justified and almost any activity valuable so long as it achieved ends.” (343) (An inhabitant at the moment of a city “growing up,” I am ceaselessly amazed at how the Nashville landscape shifts virtually overnight, as building after building, intact over the last decades and more, gives way to new structures, often less architecturally interesting than what they are replacing; the rage for “growth” here is utterly palpable, partially gauged by irritation in motorists at increasing traffic, navigating across an infrastructure unsuitable to augmenting demand. One senses that few politicians—Republicans, for sure—in this city and at work in the whole state of Tennessee are concerned to inquire where the cities are going and why and whether or not the “growth” so anxiously, so insistently pursued in them is beneficial to the socius, or only rewarding for the corporate investor. These aims needn’t be contradictory, or an example of a “zero sum game,” but we are compelled to ask the long-range question [now generations old] whose answer is all too obvious: Can a society as wealthy as this one support an enlightened social order, or, as Bourne might have put it, the “quality of life”?) Results and product confused, Americans have been “content with getting somewhere without asking too closely whether it was the desirable place to get.” (343) Bourne, however, is not loathe to acknowledge: “You must have your vision and you must have your technique.” (343)

Because “war always undermines values,” its statesmen “cannot be trusted” to get in right perspective the nexus between vision and technique; in this case, their motto, Bourne reflects, is to win the war first, “then get what they can.” (343) (The next couple of generations of American school children might well remember some of the rheumy old war veterans who survived WWI, tales of mustard-gas attacks, trench warfare, the bulbous helmet that suddenly lost its wearer, and the next blush of patriotism [after the story of the “grateful” Pilgrims, kumbaya-ing with Native peoples in full ceremonial regalia at the first “Thanksgiving”] that boiled things down to a handful of official sayings—“we never war except for peace,” we mount the war in order “to make the world safe for democracy,” etc. Images of Woodrow Wilson in a top hat, descriptions of the coming of the League of Nations, and learning the lyrics as sixth- and seventh-graders to “roses are shining in Picardy, in the blush of the silvery dew-ooh-ooh.” And so much for U S history as taught across the racial fault line in the public school systems just prior to Brown v Board.) Early on, the young heart learns flag waving and the stirring in the blood brought on by the blare of the martial trumpet, but moreover, it becomes accustomed to “adaptation” and “adjustment,” encouraged by the politician and the statesman. This philosophy of adjustment conduces back into things as they are: “You grow, but your spirit never jumps out of your skin to go on wild adventures. If your policy as a publicist reformer is to take what you can get you are likely to find that you get something less than you should be willing to take.” (344) America was at war because its government “practiced a philosophy of adjustment, and an instrumentalism for minor ends, instead of creating new values and setting at once a large standard to which the nations might repair.” (344) At the root of Bourne’s “dissatisfaction” with the status quo rests what we might call the false calm of conformity that is nourished by a philosophy of adjustment that “has everything good and wise except the obstreperous vision that would draw all men into it.” (345; emphasis mine)

Moving steadily toward an analysis of the “obstreperous vision,” Bourne opposes the “allure of the technical,” which has superseded the powerful attractions of war, to the allure “of fresh and true ideas, of free speculation, of artistic vigor, of cultural styles, of intelligence suffused by feeling, and feeling given fibre and outline by intelligence.” (345-46) This latter, he declares, can only come from the “thorough malcontents,” who are irritated “at things as they are,” feel “disgust at the continual frustrations and aridities of American life, deep dissatisfaction with self and with groups that give themselves forth as hopeful—out of such moods there might be hammered new values.” (346) Unlike the malicious public figures who currently wield the reins of power in the United States today, Bourne’s “malcontent,” male and female, is not a “cultural vandal,” intent “only to slay,” but rather, pursues “the vital and sincere everywhere.” (346) What they want is a “new orientation of the spirit that shall be modern. . . .” (346) And here, he goes for broke: the malcontent “will be harsh and often bad-tempered” and will feel “that the break up of things is no time for mellowness.” Key characteristics are tagged in this passage with a poetic energy so perdurable that his sentences crowd the flow with the rush of enjambed image and sentiment—“a taste for spiritual adventure”; “for sinister imaginative excursions”; “a tang, a bitterness, an intellectual fibre, a verve they will look for in literature, and their most virulent enemies will be those unaccountable radicals who are still morally servile, and are now trying to suppress all free speculation in the interest of nationalism.” (346) Their own contempt barely concealed, these Americans “will be glad if they can tease, provoke, irritate thought on any subject.” (346) We recognize in these closural periods an extremity of expression that pops off the page and that may gather in its excision of compromise—its holding modulation in abeyance, its youthful and self-righteous impatience, and indeed, its unalloyed joy in commandeering the bully pulpit—a harvest of enthusiasm from either pole of the political spectrum—left and right; we have lived long enough, we must say, to see such heartiness of fervor travel both ways, but it is my belief that Randolph Bourne, in his not playful valorization of “malcontentedness” as “the beginning of promise,” embodied an exemplary moment of the unreconstructed radical man of the Left, who spoke accordingly. As these things go, he may well have departed the scene of the living far too soon.

In the darkest hour, we hang on to art. Although it actually does not work this way—consider, for example, the government-sponsored arts councils, or the National Endowment for the Arts—it is as if the people, the artists and their projects live a separate, even hostile, existence from the state apparatuses (Bourne’s view of the matter seems to enforce this perception) with their restrictive bureaucratic codes, absence of affect, and prodigious impersonality; at the very edge of things, where we reach the marrow of the bone, governments occasionally seize the offensive and treat the arts like the step child we suspect that they are meant to be—the state’s “other” that is to be tamed and disciplined into the prostrate obedience exacted of the illicit and minoritarian—we recall that books, for instance, have been torched in some quarters, at some times, as a matter of public policy, as though ideas could be expunged from human memory; monuments exploded; dramatic stages dismantled; music banished; films boycotted; paintings spirited out of sight only to resurface years later like a man or woman delivered from the underground. These rites of ocular and aural “purification,” designed to protect the state from the awful gaze of critique and difference, haunt the life possibilities of art, which signals that the latter, even when the state is quiescent, comprehends its deepest substance to be danger, and so does the audience; if we think of art as an extension of intellectual mission, as the chief bearer of “soul craft,” as a kleige light on what is hidden, I do not think we’d be mistaken. Even though it tends to make us happy, more or less, art’s real work may be otherwise.

Unlike families, with their mandates to exclusion, art appears to be the genuine “democrat” in the social field, insofar as its provenance may be one thing, pitched at times to a particular style of reception, an identitarian code of conscience, but its outcroppings and ramifications quite another: as Jeremy Glick demonstrates in lustrous example, art in the modern world knows neither time nor place, as Goya’s late eighteenth-century work, “Los Caprichos,” influentially sprints across time into the contemplative energies of Aldous Huxley and reterritorialized in the lucubrations of Jacques Lacan; this pairing gives way to a fruitful juxtaposition between W.E.B Du Bois and Amiri Baraka that traces the “overlapping dialectic between reform and revolution, the historical sedimentation and signpost of Black radical thought/struggle on display in both formulas.” In meticulously tracing another line of filiation, Chris Winks’s “Black Apocalypse, Tonight at Noon,” suggests that perhaps the arts in their blind muteness might lay credible claim to “color blindness,” as well as temporal promiscuity as we have seen in the case of Goya-Huxley-Lacan. Certainly the borders between races and cultures are routinely crossed in the arts, knocked over, in fact, often without hysteria—Aime Cesaire, Andre Breton, and American Beat poet, Bob Kaufman are all three participants in the surrealist “insurgent imaginary”—no stranger, it would seem, to Bourne’s “sinister imaginative excursions”—“grounding itself in the historical and cultural universe of Black diasporic consciousness.” Although British artist/actor/activist, Jeff Nuttall, about whose life and work Douglas Field and Jay Jeff Jones address in this issue, was primarily engaged with Anglo-American counter-cultural possibility, his views on art travel well nonetheless in a “contact zone” that embraces the African Diaspora and its artistic practices; as Field and Jones observe, Nuttall advanced the notion that art “is not a small remote compartment of human experience,” but rather, “a vital activity, a communication to a all.”

If Nuttall believed, according to the commentators, that art begins where values end, Aliyyah Abdur-Rahman would take up a different position: in “Black Feminist Regard,” the culture theorist proposes a “black feminist aesthetic” in her study of the work of Alexandria Smith, whose figural abstractions of little black girls, on display late last year at Boston University’s Stone Gallery, explore Du Boisian double consciousness and celebrate “black feminist communion.” For Abdur-Rahman, Smith’s innovative project showcases “emancipatory strategies of communion, of going deep and under in good company, of ecstatic relation, of exuberant black feminist solidarity.” The thematic of relatedness is reinforced in this volume along several lines of stress, among them, Fred Moten’s “prefatory note” in celebration of James Baldwin, who “makes us let us look for ourselves, and through ourselves, til we’re beside ourselves.” In this syntactic doubling and coupling, Moten choreographs the intersubjective linkages that he aims to declare. We detect parallel impulses in Tiana Reid’s tribute to Ntozake Shange, whose artistic career was devoted to the vision and practice of the collective energies. The notion of art’s possibilities of fellowship and associatedness is elaborated in Joanne Gabbins’s introduction to the “Furious Flower” collective, here represented by several members of the initiative, including Tony Medina, Shauna Morgan, Samantha Thornhill, Keith Wilson, and Tara Betts. Adopting its name from an exquisite line of sentiment by late poet-laureate, Gwendolyn Brooks in “Second Sermon On the Warpland”—“the time/cracks into furious flower”—the collective emerges as the nation’s first academic center “dedicated to African-American poetry.” Gabbin argues that “Furious Flower” signals a “literature that is both rageful and resolute in its truth and beauty.”

The volume’s poetic contributions, beautifully complemented by members of “Furious Flower,” are powerfully driven home by the rich and varied expressions of poets already familiar to A-Line readers—Charles Bernstein, Gale Jackson, Jim Merod, Claudia Rankine, and by way of introduction to the readership, Gabrielle McIntire, Elaine Savory, Raquel Salas-Rivera, A. Van Jordan, and Lauren Alleyne. The field of literary work would yield an incomplete harvest without fiction’s succulent fruit, here embedded in offerings from Charles Frederick and Ark Ramsay. Thanks to the tireless efforts of our editor-at-large, Rich Blint, we have gathered here a stunning hoard of imagery, from Arthur Jafa’s “Micah,” to intimations of the classical nude by Virgie Ezelle Patton that riffs, with ironical flair and humor, on the figure of Eve, to the pastels, collages, and silhouettes that invite the most wayward and playful flights of imagination: consider, for instance, “Omega Sci-Fi.” Is it the statement of an image in double exposure that highlights the abstracted power of repetition, or the sheer allure of serial display? Is it the stacked balconies of the concert hall as the lights dim? All of the above? You decide!

Welcome to the second volume of the A-Line! (which without you would not be) Enjoy!

Work Cited
1The Radical Will: Randolph Bourne—Selected Writings 1911-18, edited with an introduction by Olaf Hansen, preface by Christopher Lasch(New York: Urizen Books, 1977);qtd. P. 52. All quotations from the text come from this source, pagination internally noted.
2 See The Radical Will, part IV, 415-539.
3 For an account of pragmatism as a quintessential U S contribution to philosophy, see Cornel West, The American Evasion of Philosophy: A Genealogy of Pragmatism(Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press, 1989). On Dewey specifically, the volume’s “The Coming of Age of American Pragmatism: John Dewey,” 69-112.
4 Not unlike the pairing of H.G. Wells’s The Invisible Man and Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man, Bourne’s title, “Twilight of Idols” drops the article from Nietzsche’s original, Twilight of the Idols. For Bourne’s essay, see The Radical Will, 336-47.
5 The Seven Arts, II (October, 1917), 688-702.
6 See W.E.B. Du Bois, Souls of Black Folk, eds. Henry Louis Gates, Jr. and Terri Oliver(New York: W.W. Norton, 1999).

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