Back when Mark Zuckerberg needed startup capital for a certain internet venture, he attracted the interest of two downright sinister sources of funding: cyber-libertarian futurists, and the intelligence community.

After a summer of intense partisan political protests and a series of bold, left-leaning initiatives pushed by the new president, it comes as no surprise that conservatism has united to gain traction in recent months.

A few years back I, too, was a hardworking, idealistic college student who, like many politically active students, thought I might run for office one day. Friends of mine would join me to discuss politics as I tended bar after class at the West End (now Havana Central). We talked about political races the way most people discussed football stats. To us, watching Meet the Press on Sunday mornings was as exciting as Monday night football (well, almost as exciting). The idea of running for office one day was something we all dreamed about.

We all know what’s going on in Washington: somehow health care, the driest of all dry political issues, has become the most incendiary topic in politics. Politicians are shrieking at the President, constituents are fired up about… something, and grown men are crying into their pillows at night.

As the print media dies a slow, ink-stained death, it’s taking one of the most important visible social markers of American society to the grave with it: the morning paper. For many—and especially for many at Columbia—the publication a person chooses is strongly indicative of his personal character. A lady of distinction would never be seen descending into the metro with AM New York, for example (if she were forced to take the train at all).

You, or several of your friends, are studying either Mandarin or Arabic. It’s a fact. Of that pool, the vast majority have undertaken their studies because they see Mandarin and Arabic as useful languages—languages that will set them apart from the crowd, advance them in their careers, and possibly earn them a buck or two.

About two weeks ago, the White House released a list of 45 works that are on loan to the Obama family from several Washington museums. Among them is one pictured to the left, entitled “I think I’ll…” by California artist Ed Ruscha. Set against a fiery red sunset are several phrases, including “On Second Thought…” and “Maybe…No,” all playing on the theme of indecision.

“You can sleep after election day,” I heard one volunteer say, and this battle cry seemed to capture a truth of the 2008 presidential campaign — that the election mattered, not only because of the president it would elect, but because of the sense of belonging and meaning citizens gained from their participation in it. But it also hinted at another truth: that come November 4th, for most people, the work would be over. Even though this year’s presidential primaries marked the highest voter turnout in over three decades, less than one-fifth of Americans expect to be involved in political issues after the election. It would be Obama’s job from there on out.

We seem to love to consume the myth that some man will lead us to the promised land absent any real struggle or sacrifice on our part. In this, as in other aspects, Barack Obama is a product of the politics of our day. We not only adore the myth that a man will give us a good speech and lead us to progress, we adore the idea that we won’t be required to do any real work or make any real sacrifice ourselves.

“I’ve had a little problem with the language in the past,” he joked, “so—if you’ve got room in the initiative for me, let me know.” Had President Bush changed that first “I” to “we,” he would have made an equally true but infinitely more powerful statement.

On May 6, 2002, the Bush Administration took the unusual action of ‘unsigning’ an international treaty. Equally unusually, Bill Clinton had signed this treaty on his last day in office more than two years earlier. The treaty in question was the Rome Statute, the founding document of the International Criminal Court (ICC).

When I broke the news to my parents this past Thanksgiving that I would not be seeking conventional employment after graduating this May, I was met with a surprising reaction: “You realize that you’re not going to be covered under our health insurance policy.”

Few issues bring forth such bilious bombast as the firefight between gun advocates and anti-gun activists. Shootings at Northern Illinois University and Virginia Tech recently brought questions of gun control back into the public consciousness. Now, as the Supreme Court prepares in this summer’s District of Columbia v. Heller to address the 2nd Amendment for the first time since 1939’s U.S. v. Miller, the bile is rising once more.

“Indian peasants live in such a primitive way that communication is practically impossible… The price they must pay for integration is high-renunciation of their culture, their language; their beliefs, their traditions and customs, and the adoption of the culture of their ancient masters… Perhaps there is no realistic way to integrate our societies other than asking the Indians to pay that price…”

Bruce Robbins is a professor of English and Comparative Literature at Columbia. His most recent book is Upward Mobility and the Common Good: Toward a Literary History of the Welfare State.

How free is democracy? How do raids perpetuate apartheid? Is economic competition the result of an innate human viciousness? The answers to these and other political questions, framed as a series of short essays, allow J.M. Coetzee to expose the fragility and incoherence of strong political opinions in his latest novel, Diary of a Bad Year.