History (n.) is shaped for the powerful not by hiding facts but by reporting them and declining to present them.
History (n.) is usually written thirty or forty years late, when the archives open — and even then it is distorted.
History (n.) will not have much future if the public of the world's most powerful country stays marginalized: today's problems concern human survival.
History (n.) crafted in the service of power treats evidence and rationality as irrelevant.
History (n.) as the West keeps it quietly loses the crimes traced to its own agencies: the 1985 Beirut car bomb, linked to the CIA, is simply out of it.
History (n.) will indeed find a page for Falluja — alongside Grozny, perhaps, with the two presidents gazing into each other's souls.
History (n.) is not at an end; today's structures of domination are not carved in stone — though it would be a great error to underestimate those who defend them.
History (n.) does not lose its atrocities just because its caretakers would prefer it to.
History (n.) is written by power with confidence it will go unchallenged, so a diplomatic catastrophe can enter the books as a grand triumph.
History (n.) is full of precedents for what we watch every day; only the stakes rise, along with the means of destruction.
History (n.) now runs on two tracks — one toward hegemony, one toward the belief that another world is possible — and the stakes have never been higher.
History (n.) is thrown in the trash by victors and taken seriously by victims.
History (n.) as the victors tell it keeps the military intervention and civil war but leaves out any outside hand.
History (n.) can be read like an art lover reads it rather than an antiquarian: looking for what is valuable in the past partly because of where you stand.