Commenting on the flap over George W. Bush's visit to Bob Jones University during the 2000 primary election campaign, journalist Hendrik Hertzberg claimed that even staunch conservatives decried the South Carolina college's ban on inter-racial dating as “indefensible.” “This may seem unremarkable,” he noted, ”until one reflects how far it was from being the case a generation or two ago, when miscegenation was racism's trump card and even the most enlightened Americans, black and white, took it for granted that sexual fear was its unkillable heart.” Hertzberg seems unduly optimistic - violence against the bodies of racial “others’ continues to splatter across the American landscape, from the Rodney King beating to the Amadou Diallo shooting. The police rape of Abner Louima illuminates how power, not sexuality, informs such assaults.

The success of the Founding Fathers in building a nation has for a long time attracted a sense of marvel. That admiration is well deserved. Political leaders in post-Revolutionary America understood that hard-won liberty could only flourish if there was a popular sense of common enterprise. They needed to create a cultural settlement that gave the idea of national civilization clear meaning. The new state would have to contrast sufficiently to the league of states that had combined to overthrow colonial rule, while still protecting local interests and sensitivities. It was an era that lent itself to imaginative statecraft and the Founding Fathers supplied it through their crafting of a national government and a national society. They appreciated that proper constitutional arrangements would not in themselves suffice to bind the common enterprise. The young republic needed to generate its own cultural and economic mechanisms that would serve to consolidate affinity to the nation. Recent studies on the formation of nationhood in the United States have identified some of these mechanisms in the shape of everyday experience in the forging of an identity that transcended the local community. For example, David Waldstreicher and Len Travers have pointed to the role of festivity and ritual in creation of a national consciousness. They have shown that celebration in the early republic served to reinforce the national implications of the American Revolution.

The artistic appropriation of place ranks among the central concerns of Asian American writing. Place in literature, a simultaneous geography of space and imagination, has the potential to represent communal formation and preservation as it highlights the identity that binds its members in a shared sense of purpose and a common sense of belonging. For first-generation writers, the portrayal of the land of the past often blends with that of the present, offering a vivid depiction of how immigrants perceive the physical and emotional journey from the geographic and temporal past to the present, as they struggle to establish themselves in the new surroundings. For second-generation Asian Americans, place often acquires another meaning, that of a definition of self in the place of birth, as they shift between visions of their parents' past location and their own cultural differences. Third-generation writers engage a wide spectrum of negotiations with the land that was a protagonists of their growing up, and that of their increasingly complex personal and community history. Consequently, a sense of place becomes one of the most significant elements the Asian American writer can manipulate to condition self-representation and the portrayal of community.

He was born in 1893 in the New York brownstone house near Washington Square where he lived all his adult life, a member of Edith Wharton's settled, circumscribed world of ordered privilege whose affluent, well-travelled, and sophisticated men and women traced their lineage back to the Founding Fathers and their principles to the American Revolution. His father was an artist who served as Consul General to Italy, and Armstrong was brought up in a milieu which took for granted the fact that there existed a world outside the United States. He died in 1973, as the United States finally withdrew from the Vietnam War, a conflict which deeply distressed him and shattered the foreign policy elite and its controlling consensus, whose creation had been a major part of his life's work. In an obituary notice Arthur M. Schlesinger, Jr., described him as “a New York gentleman of a vanishing school,” who “treated every one, old or young, famous or unknown, with the same generous courtesy and concern.”

I recently completed a book of interviews (Latina Self-Portraits: Interviews with Contemporary Women Writers, co-edited with Juanita Heredia, University of New Mexico Press, 2000) with ten of the most prominent Latina writers in the US; Julia Alvarez, Denise Chávez, Sandra Cisneros, Rosario Ferré, Cristina García, Nicholasa Mohr, Cherríe Moraga, Judith Ortiz Cofer, Esmeralda Santiago and Helena María Viramontes. These women, Cuban, Dominican, Mexican and Puerto Rican Americans, raised issues that ranged from the craft of writing to the inherent problems of national identities. The themes generated in our conversations with these women – their doubled ethnic identities, their complicated relationship to their communities, their difficulties in representing their communities and, finally, their work as part of the larger American canon – revealed a powerful discourse about what it means to be Latina American in the United States. After spending two years talking with these women, it is evident to me that Latina literature is a vital part of American literature and should be included in any study of comparative American literatures.

Shortly after the end of World War II, on 11 December 1945, James Webb Young, Chairman of the Advertising Council and Director of the J. Walter Thompson Company, spoke to the annual meeting of the American Association of Advertising Agencies at the Continental Hotel in Chicago. The title of his speech was, “What Advertising Learned From the War,” and in it Young talked about an immediate post-war period that was, by most accounts, an exuberant time for an America flushed by a victory that finally marked it as a true global power. The American government proclaimed it, the American people believed it, and American business stood ready to sell it through an advertising industry that itself had come of age during, and because of, the war.

Barbara Haskell, The American Century: Art and Culture 1900–1950 (New York: Whitney Museum of American Art, in association with W. W. Norton, 1999, $60 cloth). Pp. 408. ISBN 0 393 04723 7, 0 87427 122 3.

Lisa Phillips, The American Century: Art and Culture 1900–1950 (New York: Whitney Museum of American Art, in association with W. W. Norton, 1999, $60 cloth). Pp. 398. ISBN 0 393 04815 2, 0 87427 123 1.