That the past has been denied relevance in modern systems can best be understood as a method of population control. It constitutes a detachment from nature, from our very identity, so as to facilitate a reintegration into abstract concepts, such as nation, ideal, country, economy.
Modernity might declare a love of nature, as being a part of its advancement towards a pristine, cleansed, idealistically sanitized natural world but in fact it deplores nature, and all this connects to.
Nature represents, for them, a burden they would sooner forget or deny than accept and be forced to deal with.
The dissatisfaction with the world is inherit, but more so there is an underlying self-hatred expressed as this undying, blind love for otherness. This “love”, like their kind of love, is the emotionally driven kind; the kind which goes on a whim, changes when the winds change direction and has the reliability of a child, or a woman.
The past is always “overcome” or engaged in from the comfortable and fearless distances of books, graphs, art, and fences. Anything that gives them that desirable distance of space, making the other this idealized object d’art that is best appreciated from afar but quickly turns ugly as you approach it discovering the techniques of its apparent perfection.
These “renaissance men” tear down the walls because it is remoteness that is their barricade. The more “open” they become to this “otherness” all the more they take a step back, away from it, to enjoy it better.
The modern man visits wilderness in parks or when it’s particular manifestation is chained and caged; he does no different when it comes to history. He indulges his curiosity about the past with the cold aloofness of a man who is not touched by the subject, choosing to learn how the ancients bathed or what languages they used to communicate or how they wiped their bottoms after defecating, but he never really cares about it, as none of it pertains to his modernistic lifestyle and it changes nothing about his already made choices.
A quaint little vacation from his “reality”, which is nothing other than an artificiality he has never been outside of. He loves going places but not really happy about the mosquitoes or the smells or the heat or those pesky locals that try to pull that piece of coinage form his well-crafted portfolio. He loves the meat, but prefers to keep the killing part out of his mind, because it might disturb his enjoyment of the meal.
The “real” is flipped on its head.
The fabrication becomes the “natural”, forgotten for a long time when man tumbled into barbarity; the counterfeit becomes the “authentic”, where nobody can quite remember what the original looked like; the shark swimming behind the glass wall is now “inside” whereas he, the sophisticated man, is residing and walking about “outside” the enclosure, free to return to his own little fishbowl any times he chooses to.