43 pages • 1 hour read
Rebecca SolnitA modern alternative to SparkNotes and CliffsNotes, SuperSummary offers high-quality Study Guides with detailed chapter summaries and analysis of major themes, characters, and more.
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Mr. Very Important I is the host of a party Solnit attends with her friend. An “imposing man who’d made a lot of money” (1), he insists that she stay and talk to him, patronizingly asking her about her writing. When she begins to talk about her new book about Eadweard Muybridge, he talks over her to asks if she has “heard about the very important Muybridge book that came out this year” and is soon “telling [her] about the very important book—with that smug look [Solnit] know[s] so well in a man holding forth, eyes fixed on the fuzzy far horizon of his own authority” (2). It is some time before Solnit’s friend is able to get him to realize that he is actually talking about Solnit’s own book. Several years later, “Mr. Very Important II sneer[s] at [Solnit]” (9) while attempting to correct her on a subject that she has, in fact, thoroughly researched for another of her books. She does not argue with his arrogant assumption of his own accuracy although later confirms that she is correct.
In both cases, the individual men represent men’s assumption that, by virtue of their gender, they are better qualified to talk about a topic than women, despite any evidence to the contrary. This is a playing out of traditional gender roles. Indeed, it is so deeply rooted in gender roles that, when Mr. Very Important I learns that Solnit is the author of the book he is discussing, he cannot fit this information into his limited understanding of gender. As Solnit notes, it “confuse[s] the neat categories into which his world [is] sorted” and renders him speechless for a moment “before he [begins] holding forth again” (4). The playing out of these gender roles encourages men to adopt the “out-and-out confrontational confidence of the totally ignorant” (4). This works to reinforce gender roles that expect women to be uninformed and submissive, effectively silencing women. Even Solnit, who has “a fairly nice career as a writer” and has had “more confirmation of [her] right to think and speak than most women,” (5) experiences this. She allows Mr. Very Important I to speak over her, assuming that maybe he is correct and another book on the subject was released at the same time as her own and finds Mr. Very Important II’s scorn “so withering, his confidence so aggressive, that arguing with him seem[s] a scary exercise in futility” (9). Such behavior and its results are part of a wider pattern of men’s aggression and silencing of women. It expresses the same power as that which is expressed through “intimidation and violence” and which “silences and erases and annihilates women, as equals, as participants, as human beings with rights, and far too often as living beings” (15).
In 2011, Dominique Strauss-Kahn, the “extraordinarily powerful head of the International Monetary Fund (IMF), a global organization that has created mass poverty and economic injustice, allegedly assaulted a hotel maid, an immigrant from Africa, in a hotel’s luxury suite in New York City” (42). In Solnit’s exploration of the incident, Strauss-Kahn comes to represent how powerful, privileged men often abuse their positions through “predatory behavior toward women” (46) and the way society often protect such men. Indeed, as Solnit asserts, the way he remained a significant figure despite numerous accusations of abuse “says something about the shape of our world and the values of the nations and institutions that tolerated his behavior and that of men like him” (47).
Even more explicitly, Solnit uses Strauss-Kahn’s alleged actions as a metaphor for the neo-colonial exploitation enacted by Western governments and institutions like the IMF against the Global South. She asks: “How can I tell a story we already know too well? Her name was Africa. His was France. He colonized her, exploited her, silenced her” (41) and later makes the connection even more explicit by stating: “Her name was Africa. His name was IMF. He set her up to be pillaged, to go without health care, to starve. He laid waste to her to enrich his friends. Her name was Global South” (45). The parallels between Strauss-Kahn’s alleged assault of Diallo and the IMF’s assault on the Global South is so neat that Solnit even asks: “Who would ever write a fable as obvious, as heavy-handed as the story we’ve just been given?” (42).
However, she also flips this analogy, focusing on Diallo’s courage in accusing such a privileged man and suggesting that the “struggles for justice of an undocumented housekeeper and an immigrant hotel maid are microcosms of the great world war of our time” (53): poor, marginalized people’s resistance to exploitation by the rich and powerful. In this reworked analogy: “His name was privilege, but hers was possibility […] the possibility of changing a story that remains unfinished” (53). While this is an optimistic end to the original article, a postscript written after Strauss-Kahn got the case dropped “through the massive application of money to powerful teams of lawyers” (54) suggests that the incident still plays out themes of how rich and powerful characters like Strauss-Kahn can silence marginalized women like Diallo. After Diallo wins a civil case against Strauss-Kahn, Solnit notes that “one part of the terms involving what may have been a substantial financial settlement was silence. Which brings us back to where we began” (55).
Solnit praises Woolf as a Virgil-like figure “guiding [her] through the uses of wandering, getting lost, anonymity, immersion, uncertainty, and the unknown” (89). She begins her assessment with a quote from Woolf’s journal—“The future is dark, which is the best thing the future can be, I think” (85)—which she presents as a “celebration of darkness” (86). By this, she means that Woolf’s quote, and her work more generally, asserts “that the unknown need not be turned into the known” (86). After all, Solnit reasons, “the night in which distinctions and definitions cannot be readily made is the same night in which love is made, in which things merge, change, become enchanted, aroused, impregnated, possessed, released, renewed” (86). Recognizing the difficulty of writing about the unknown, Solnit suggests that “the language of bold assertion is simpler, less taxing, than the language of nuance and ambiguity and speculation” (88-89) and declares that “Woolf was unparalleled at that latter language” (89).
Solnit proposes that a “portion of Woolf’s genius” (96) comes from her ability to willing embrace what poet John Keats called Negative Capability” (95) or the ability to sit with uncertainty and mystery “without any irritable reaching after fact and reason” (96). This is particularly true of her essays, which Solnit lauds as “models of counter-criticism” that do not seek to “nail things down” or assert authority over “the slipperiness of the work and the ambiguities of the artist’s intent and meaning” but instead seek to “expand the work of art, by connecting it, opening up its meanings, inviting in the possibilities” (100-101). This embracing of ambiguity is also present in Woolf’s demands for liberation. Her work abounds with celebrations of “a liberation that is not official, institutional, rational, but a matter of going beyond the familiar, the safe, the known into the broader world” (101-102). More than this, the freedom Woolf pursues and demands is “the freedom to continue becoming, exploring, wandering, going beyond” which ultimately leads Solnit to conclude: “She is an escape artist” (103).
By Rebecca Solnit