Creeping up on history like a bong monged hoodie jacking grandma, modernity is a sly epoch. The sullied caper of ironic distance, the nudge nudge wink wink of densensitized apoliticism, the anal fisting of revisionist allopathy. Modernity imbricates reason and identity, deindividuating bio-technico-power relations in wickedly unfunny hetrosexist tracts, panhistoric palandromes. Oxymoronically it’s commitment to the atomization of communicative action, and converse conviction that globalized anomalous monism deifies the very construal of identity.
Unfaithful to the antecedents of heretical transgressive epistemological progressivism, modernity rezones Eliot’s wasteland, constructing brutalist metanarrative edifices to Durkheim’s anomie. A branding dehumanizing reification of relativism, this most Kafkaesque of periods begs an eternal, tautological skepticism, an historic poker face.