George Santayana's oft-quoted aphorism: "Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it" has entered cultural ubiquity and become a cliché, paraphrased ad nauseam by politicians and philosophically inclined college students. However, oversaturation of this sentiment does not make it any less true, and American playwrights active in the last quarter of the twentieth century seemed to know it. For example, the most representative artistic movement of the era, postmodernism, is characterized by an interest in representing and reinterpreting history on stage. Unlike the modernists of the first half of the century, postmodernists did not see their ancestors as artists to be transcended. Instead, they innovated by channeling their influences and interpolating them into new material. These playwrights knew that to adequately understand the present – ​​the increasingly complicated contemporary world – they needed a deep understanding of the past. More importantly, they recognized the power of history and memory, recognizing that nostalgia can quickly turn into a corrosive illusion and distort one's vision of the present. These characteristics are best exemplified by David Mamet's Glengarry Glen Ross, Tony Kushner's Angels in America, and Suzan-Lori Parks' Topdog/Underdog. While none of these works can be definitively labeled postmodern, their characters embody a postmodern understanding of the past, remembering events differently and adapting history to their needs to imagine better lives for themselves. In Topdog/Underdog, Lincoln's analysis of history can apply to most of the characters in these plays: “People like to do historical shit a certain way. They like it to open the way they folded it. Neatly like a book. Not ragged and bloody and screaming” (Parks, 52). Ultimately, these plays suggest that, while history is fungible, it cannot be surpassed. Say no to plagiarism. Get a tailor-made essay on "Why Violent Video Games Shouldn't Be Banned"? Get an Original Essay In Glengarry Glen Ross, Shelly Levene is caught up in a romantic vision of her past self, a salesman who could win big clients and big commissions. At the start of the show, however, he is older and broke, begging Williamson for more promising leads. Typically, he refers to his past sales numbers, trying to pass them off as a barometer of his current abilities: “April, September 1981. That's me,” he says, “[…] Sixty-five, when we were there, with Glen Ross Farm? Call them downtown. What was this? Fortune? […] My stats for those years? Bullshit… in that time period…? Bullshit. It wasn't luck. It was skill” (Mamet, 17-18). Going further, Shelley operates from an anachronistic view of the world. At the beginning of the play, he is still clinging to the idea, however slight, that his age gives him a hierarchical advantage and demands respect; he doesn't realize that his age has had the opposite effect, and made him essentially obsolete. For example, he tries to invoke his age when bargaining with Williamson, saying, “I'm older than you. A man acquires a reputation. On the street. What does he do when he is awake, what does he do otherwise..." (Mamet, 24 years old). His reasoning is also obsolete; Levene doesn't realize that Williamson doesn't care about old-fashioned notions of "reputation." Although Levene believes himself to be a competent salesman tainted by a string of bad luck, there is nothing in the text to suggest that Williamson is wrong in denying him leads. Indeed, Levene's nostalgia – his romanticization of past sales – is.