a review of fredric jameson’s representing capital

Soon there’s no end, no beginning, only an ‘eternal virginity’ in which repetition is everything. Beckett: ‘habit is the ballast that chains the dog to his vomit.’ The age has erased what remains of a past that doesn’t bear out what it says of itself. In front of us, nothing but ‘blocked futurity.’ Behind: a history spent as its own remainder; the lengthening shadow of something that should have been.

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