The idea of decadence is intriguing. It conjures up visions of languor, mental if not physical harems, sensuous tedium, affluence past the point of satiety.

It is also an artful term with which to articulate our distaste for the present. It imbues our outrage with a certan Puritan vigor and, at the same time, a millennial grandeur, as we liken our condition to Rome or Byzantium on the eve of annihilation. We can entertain the idea of decadence—so-called decadent art and literature are enjoying a vogue, late-Victorian pornography, Beardsiey, art nouveau— while at the same time we disparage it.

But just what exactly is decadence, how do we deline it? Is it a useful phrase? Does it rightfully characterize the period through which we are living? Is America in the seventies decadent?