Amazon.com Review
"The earth," said Gertrude Stein in 1938, "is not the same as in the 19th century." And how. Covering a staggeringly vast distance, Peter Conrad traces the development of modern consciousness during the 20th century through the art and thought of Vienna, Paris, Berlin, and Tokyo. He compares the progress to that of a human life, passing from youthful zest to maturity, but only by way of anguish and torment. This sounds simplistic; the book is not. Conrad's prose is as fluid as his ideas are sharp, and the scope of his reference is vast, its application unassailable. This is intellectual writing at its most accessible. He considers Freud and Chaplin, Stravinsky and Einstein, as he pursues his theme of a planet that has shrunk, as we have grown, to a size that we can manipulate and, as Hiroshima showed, we can destroy. Society's greatest advances have been technological, he argues, yet at the expense of reducing the individualism of humankind, of "dumbing down" to a sedative senility. Wisely avoiding the business of prediction, his declaration of faith in laughter when facing the future, and in the reinterpretation of the past in order to escape it, provides a pleasantly unexpected conclusion.
Arranged in 30 chapters, each a rounded essay in its own right, Modern Times, Modern Places is a powerfully evocative appraisal of the 20th century and its achievements that succeeds, quite frankly, where many will fail. --David Vincent
From Publishers Weekly
Examining art as evidence of the massive changes in human society during this most hectic of centuries rather than as a subject in itself, Conrad has organized this herculean project into thematic, almost free-standing essays. The nuclear bomb is for him the emblem, the "equivocal triumph," of modernity, an age that both "took the world to pieces" scientifically and redefined suicide as a heroically defiant gesture. Conrad's narrative moves from European cultural capitals at their peaks to America after WWII, traveling eastward only at the book's end. When dealing with European modernist arts, Conrad is at his best, capturing elusive issues with apt phrasing and lucidity even when drawing on academic studies. Still, at times he opts for superficial, if provocative soundbytes, as the subject changes every few pages. This problem worsens as Conrad approaches the present: in a lazily dismissive paragraph, for instance, he trivializes a series of Cindy Sherman photographs as a "woman rehearsing and exhausting our shared quota of cultural stereotypes." Attending to jazz more closely also could only have benefited his discussion. Part of the trouble is that Conrad's tastes are unrepentantly highbrow, which ill serves an era of postmodern repetition and lowering standards. While attempting to understand what "it has meant to be alive in the twentieth century," he uses the first-person plural throughoutAsuggesting a wistful fantasy that his elite reader represents all of humankind. But many aspects of the multifaceted modernity he describes don't exist even for many in the first world. Read as a sweeping intellectual autobiography, from the viewpoint of an idiosyncratic "I," however, the book becomes a deeply compelling study, and a highly engaging feat of scholarship.
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