Author's Roundtable II: Eva Illouz's Cold Intimacies

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

posted under , , , by Unit for Criticism

Written by Manisha Basu (English)

As I began to read Eva Illouz’s 2007 book Cold Intimacies, I realized that this was one of those rare books that spoke around and across the boundaries of distinct regimes of knowledge. Indeed, as it moved deftly from modern selfhood to postmodern role-playing to the ontic self produced in the conjunction between psychology and new media, and again between Durkheim’s sociology, self-help pamphlets, and traditions of romantic love, it drew in, perhaps demanded even, different disciplinary responses. In particular, I think there are two principal conceptual energies that impel Illouz’s book in these different directions for thinking. The first is an emphasis on the fluidity, the malleability, and the infectious intermixing of rigid binaries like public and private, rational and emotional selves, the surprise of love and the regularities of the market.

The other and deliciously contrasting impulse is an emphasis on stasis. For instance, when in talking of “the writing down of emotions,” Illouz says, “The reflexive act of giving names to emotions in order to manage them gives them an ontology, that is, seems to fixate them in reality,” and later again, when she refers to the ontic self arrested in the intersection between psychology and new media, she is bringing to the foreground “the colonization of time and space” that underlies visions of fluidity. With these two conceptual energies as a kind of framing device, I am going to shift Illouz’s analysis to a slightly different domain of analysis—that of colonial and postcolonial studies with particular reference to the South Asian context. I hope that such a shift is not too cavalier on my part, because of course Cold Intimacies gestures toward this movement when it extends its analysis of interpersonal relations to the imagining of nation and in particular, when it draws attention to Benedict Anderson’s emphasis on style in his diagnosis of the nation as imagined community.

Illouz points out how if “Victorian emotional culture had divided men and women through the axis of the public and the private, the twentieth century therapeutic culture slowly eroded and reshuffled those boundaries by making emotional life central to the workplace.” At the same time, Partha Chatterjee ,in an of-quoted articulation, has argued that the colonial situation and the response of nationalists to the critique of Indian tradition had already in the nineteenth century introduced a new flexibility in dichotomies like public/private, inner/outer, and spirituality/ materiality.

With the expansion of modern European powers into the Empires of the Orient, the Western male subject, fashioned on a principle of rational self-conscious individuality was confronted with a problem: How was he to practice slavery, oppression and exploitation of native men in the colonies who, as men, were rational individuals and, hence, equally deserving of freedom and dignity in the public sphere? Given this pressure to legitimize practices of domination, the public and private realms are reconfigured in terms of the colonial projects and their nationalist responses.

This reconfiguration involved the simultaneous effeminization and hypersexualization of Hindu Bengali men by colonial administrators who must naturalize the regularities of British imperial expansion, and by extension of British patriarchy. As a result, British women and Bengali men were both deemed incapable of rational political life because they were plotted on a continuum with one another. In response, at least the early Indian nationalists, many of whom were western educated, accepted the domination of the latter in the spheres of rationality, public works, impersonal bureaucracy, and modern education but maintained their cultural superiority in the ‘inner’ sphere, traditionally the domain of Indian women.

The modern Hindu Bengali woman was a key figure in this discussion—the nationalist text had painted her as the very repository of tradition, untouched by the profanity of the material world. But at the same time, she needed to have some idea of the world outside the home, into which she could even assay as long as it did not taint her core self. It is this latter criterion which loosened the boundaries of the home from the yoke of confines earlier defined by purdah to a more flexible, but nonetheless culturally determinate domain constituted by the differences between socially approved male and female conduct. The essence of woman had to be initially ossified in terms of certain culturally visible spiritual qualities, but once this was so, the domain constituted by differences clearly marked for the Hindu middle-class Bengali woman her "superiority over the Western woman for whom, it was believed education meant only the acquisition of material skills to compete with men in the outside world and hence a loss of feminine (spiritual) virtues” (Chaterjee). In other words, the binaries remained rigid for the western woman—she was a static figure who could be either feminine or masculine, either spiritual or material, either of the inner or of the outer world—whereas the Hindu woman was superior precisely because she was endlessly fungible and able to lubricate the boundaries between private and public spheres.

My point in bringing colonial and nationalist projects into the discussion is not a mere nominalism, but rather I think in some way to follow Illouz’s lead as she attempts to map how the self produced in the nexus between psychology, the language of productivity and the commodification of identity is further transformed and shaped by internet technology. In other words, in a situation where dichotomies like east and west or spirituality and materiality endlessly fold into one another through the neo-colonial traffic in alterity, how do we map popular understandings amidst the Indian middle-class, for instance, that ‘psychology’ is a ‘western’ luxury necessitated by the relentless materiality of that culture? How then do ‘eastern’ practices like yoga combine so seamlessly with ‘western’ psychology to provide a narrative of self-realization and infuse the materiality of the workplace with the spirituality of family and home? In what ways do we begin to theorize the packaged and codified re-entry of these forms into the newly liberalized Indian market when we witness management trainees in a swanky office building in Mumbai meditating after a long day of work, but this time not in response to a loin-cloth wearing ascetic, but rather a theater screen beaming an American CEO leading their meditation from his office in San Francisco. Is the apparent fluidity here undergirded by a stasis in which difference as a function of time and historicity is itself apprehended and arrested? Read more

Secular Collectivity

Thursday, April 24, 2008

posted under , , , , by Unit for Criticism
Written by Michael Rothberg, Unit for Criticism

[This short piece was originally presented at the “Erich Auerbach and the Future of Criticism” conference on April 18, 2008 here at Illinois as part of a roundtable on “Auerbach and Edward Said.” The other panelists were Jed Esty and conference co-organizer Manuel Rota. The conference focused especially on the legacy of Auerbach’s great book Mimesis, which he wrote while in exile from Nazism in Istanbul. In American critical discourse, Edward Said’s many discussions and invocations of Auerbach and the circumstances of the writing of Mimesis have helped make the German-Jewish scholar a recurring topos for discussions of comparative and world literature.]

I am interested in how Said draws on Auerbach as a model for the intellectual and as a point of departure or Ansatzpunkt for issues of commitment and cultural legacy. In the relation between Said and Auerbach I see a series of tensions that remain unresolved: between the individual and the collective; between part and whole; between home and homelessness; between critique and affirmation; and ultimately between what, with a nod to Jean-Luc Nancy, I would call common being and being-in-common. At stake is the question of whether commitment and cultural legacy can be rethought from the grounds of being-in-common instead of common being—that is, from the grounds of a community without essence.

In a 1998 essay in Critical Inquiry, Aamir Mufti has most convincingly drawn out the implications for the discussion of Auerbach as an intellectual model for Said, and he refers, rightly, I think, to Said’s 1983 essay “Secular Criticism,” the introduction to The World, the Text, and the Critic. Mufti emphasizes “Auerbach in Istanbul” as Said’s privileged figure of the secular, minority, exiled intellectual. Since Emily Apter’s essay on Spitzer and Auerbach in Istanbul (now collected in The Translation Zone), the empirical picture of Auerbach’s exile has appeared more complicated—and I’m sure that Kader Konuk’s forthcoming work on the writing of Mimesis in Istanbul will give us the definitive account of this moment. My own concern here is less with the historical context of Auerbach’s exile, however, than with its significance for Said and its role in his argument for a secular criticism.

For Said, as Mufti, Bruce Robbins, and others remark, secularism as a critical ideal is not primarily the opposite of religiosity, but rather a skeptical stand toward all forms of nationalism, identity politics, and dogma. (I’ll return to the question of nationalism at the end of this post.) Here is how Said defines criticism:

On the one hand, the individual mind registers and is very much aware of the collective whole, context or situation in which it finds itself. On the other hand, precisely because of this awareness—a worldly self-situating, a sensitive response to the dominant culture—that the individual consciousness is not naturally and easily a mere child of the culture, but a historical and social actor in it. And because of that perspective, which introduces circumstance and distinction where there had only been conformity and belonging, there is distance, or what we might call criticism. A knowledge of history, a recognition of the importance of social circumstance, an analytical capacity for making distinctions: these trouble the quasi-religious authority of being comfortably at home among one’s people, supported by known powers and acceptable values, protected against the outside world. (The World, the Text 15-16)


But if distance and discomfort are central to Said’s conception of the intellectual, they alone do not constitute secular criticism for Said. The opposite, proximity, is also necessary. A few pages later, he writes, “Criticism in short is always situated; it is skeptical, secular, reflectively open to its own failings. . . . To stand between culture and system is therefore to stand close to—closeness itself having a particular value for me—a concrete reality about which political, moral, and social judgments have to me made and, if not only made, then exposed and demystified” (26). To be “situated” as a secular critic is to be both distant from and proximate to culture. Said captures this paradoxical situatedness in the figure of Auerbach’s tenuous exile at the edge of Europe, in Istanbul.

Said’s favorite figure of this situated, secular intellectual comes from the end of Auerbach’s essay on “Philology and Weltliteratur,” in which, after identifying “the earth” as the philologist’s home instead of the nation, Auerbach goes on to dispossess the critic of any claim to home. He famously cites what Said calls the “exilic credo” of Hugo of St. Victor: “The man who finds his homeland sweet is still a tender beginner; he to whom every soil is as his native one is already strong; but he is perfect to whom the entire world is a foreign land” (qtd. in The World, the Text 7). In Said’s multiple citations of this passage he makes Hugo a little less unhomely for his readers than he appears in Auerbach’s essay by citing him in English rather than Latin.

The minority intellectual who emerges from the chain of citations linking Hugo to Auerbach to Said is an incredibly compelling figure of engaged dissent or proximate distance, and Said’s summation of this position is all but irresistible: “criticism must think of itself as life-enhancing and constitutively opposed to every form of tyranny, domination, and abuse; its social goals are noncoercive knowledge produced in the interests of human freedom” (29). In a contribution to a special issue of boundary 2 (2004) on “critical secularism,” Stathis Gourgouris calls such secular criticism an “experimental” attitude and likens it to the genre of the essay, a reference to Adorno’s account of his own aleatory approach in “The Essay as Form” (Adorno is another key minority exile for Said).

But somewhere around here I start to worry about the absolutely anti-systemic tendency of the account of criticism that Said takes, in part, from the model of Auerbach. Auerbach becomes the occasion for Said’s refusal to affiliate with any theoretical movement or critical ideology: he writes that “criticism modified in advance by labels like ‘Marxism’ or ‘liberalism’ is, in my view, an oxymoron” (SC 28). I have two questions about Said’s refusal of system, method, school, and theory and they both turn on questions of collectivity:

First, does Said’s refusal of system risk becoming a methodological individualism? For me, this would be one of the real limits of the figure of Auerbach in Istanbul: it’s a heroic, or perhaps melancholic, but in any case individualist model of the exile, even if the intellectual project involves the reconstruction of various cultural totalities through the synecdochal model of beginning from textual fragments.

Second, does the combination of the secular critique of identity with a methodologically individualist skepticism of system risk writing out the collective energies that theory can represent and that are encoded in the texts of “religiosity,” broadly conceived? Is ideology not a necessary component of political movement and collectivity? The negative critique of secular criticism needs supplementation by the kind of recognition Fredric Jameson offers in the too-little discussed final chapter of The Political Unconscious, which takes up “The Dialectic of Utopia and Ideology.” Jameson provocatively suggests that “all class consciousness—or in other words, all ideology in the strongest sense, including the most exclusive forms of ruling-class consciousness just as much as that of oppositional or oppressed classes—is in its very nature Utopian. . . . insofar as it expresses the unity of a collectivity. The achieved collectivity or organic group of whatever kind—oppressors fully as much as oppressed—is Utopian in itself, but only insofar as all such collectivities are themselves figures for the ultimate concrete collective life of an achieved Utopian or classless society” (PU 289, 291). No doubt, we can hear in Jameson’s use of “figure” in this passage an echo of his teacher Auerbach’s thought, and particularly of the notion of “figural realism” in which the representation of the everyday here and now connects vertically to another realm, here secularized as classless society. While I have some questions about the residually Christian framework of even this secularized model of figuration, I also think it would be worth exploring how Jameson’s insights might provide a way of thinking about the Eurocentric canon represented in Mimesis as a utopian figuration anticipating an even more worldly collectivity—as I believe Said would want us to see it as well.

My questions for Said and Auerbach, then, are these: How do we get from criticism back to collectivity? Can we imagine moving from minority critique to something that we might not want to call majority but that is also not simply oppositional? Is it possible to imagine not just secular criticism but secular collectivity, a being-in-common that does not presuppose common being?

Postscript

After I gave the talk posted above I read Robert Warrior’s fascinating essay “Native Critics in the World: Edward Said and Nationalism,” his contribution to the 2006 collectively authored book American Indian Literary Nationalism (written with Jace Weaver and Craig S. Womack). Drawing on his own experiences studying with Said, Warrior makes a compelling case that one can be—and indeed that Said was—both a secular critic and a nationalist, and he makes a provocative allusion to the figure of Auerbach in Istanbul:

Said’s articles were included in the one box of research papers and two boxes of books that I mailed to myself when I moved to Pawhuska on the Osage Reservation to draft my dissertation in the spring of 1990. I can . . . remember comparing what I was doing to Said’s description . . . of the impact of exile on Erich Auerbach’s Mimesis.
In his monumental study of western literature, Auerbach describes the difficulty of composing so ambitious a book after having fled from Nazi Europe to Istanbul, a great city, but one with no library to support such an effort. In moving to Pawhuska, I was the opposite of an exile, someone returning home to do what Taiaiake Alfred would later advocate for Native American Studies, that it come from ‘someplace Indian.’ . . . Thinking in Pawhuska of Auerbach in Istanbul and the importance of that to Said’s self-conception of exile in his life of criticism, I thought of the ironies of how I had come home to the national capital of the Osages only to be reminded of the underdeveloped nature of our life as a nation without, among other things, a library. . . . Reading and rereading The World, the Text, and the Critic as I worked in Pawhuska helped me to learn one of the enduring lessons I took from my work with Edward Said. That was the idea that it is possible to be a critic, a nationalist, a cosmopolitan, and a humanist all at the same time. (191-92)


Although my own project is not a nationalist one, Warrior’s vision of “Native nationalism,” inspired in part by Said, is one that sounds very much like the secular collectivity I call for above—it involves, among other things, a community open to negotiation with internal and external difference. Perhaps most inspiring to me, though, is the fascinating itinerary that is traced here: from the German-Jewish exile in the Islamic world, to the Palestinian Christian based in New York (one of the great “Jewish” cities of the world!), to the cosmopolitan Osage nationalist and critic.

Kader Konuk’s work on Auerbach in Istanbul demonstrates that Auerbach was not the isolated figure there that he is often made out to be; rather he was part of a lively, modern, secularizing, conflicted society that was also host to a large community of refugees. A new vision of the multiply affiliated intellectual that emerges from Auerbach, Said, Konuk, and Warrior seems like a good Ansatzpunkt for thinking further about the possibility of secular collectivity.
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Forum on World Literature (II)

Being Medium: Ten Paragraphs on the National

Tuesday, February 5, 2008

posted under , , by Unit for Criticism
Written by Matt Hart, English

1. Spiky Exceptions. Writing after the abortive 1979 referendum on Scottish Home Rule, Tom Nairn rejected the consolations of socialist internationalism over the nation-state. Internationalism, he wrote, is “an organic part of the conceptual universe of nationalism.”1 Cosmopolitanism, the UN, the dream of a universal polity—these are important parts of political history but they aren’t (or weren’t) the fate of modernity.2 His response was to replace internationalism with internationality, an effect of relations between and among nation-states. “The overwhelmingly dominant political by-product of modern internationality,” he declared, “is nationalism […] Not swelling 'higher unity' but 'Balkanisation,' a world of spiky exceptions to what ought to have been the rule.” (13).

2. Boundary Stones. Reviewing Hardt and Negri’s Multitude a quarter century later, Nairn’s analysis changes only little. He scorns the authors’ Spinozism as a philosophy of “rapturous merging” that “identifies everything with everything else.” By “[fusing] the coat of many colours into a consummate internationalism,” he complains, such philosophy tries to invert the ideological trick of nationalism, which, although it claimed to abolish universal empire in the name of the masses, more often than not only expressed “fratricidal great-nation hegemony.” But if nationalism was the hostage of murderous elites, it was nevertheless a relatively autonomous historical force. By contrast, Nairn insists, “Internationalism’, in the old sense creakily replayed by [Hardt and Negri], was a part of the 1870-1989 nationalist world, not an answer to it.” It is only now, after the revolutions of 1989, that one can imply anything different—only now that “the wealth and the meaning of nations [have begun] to struggle out from the chrysalis of the ism.”3 This is the context in which Hardt and Negri proclaim that the job of the political future is to bridge the gap between the worldwide “production of the common” and a dead or dying “global system of sovereignty.”4 But Nairn rejects this premise entirely, arguing that the current crisis in sovereignty is insufficient reason to tear down the “painfully assembled boundary stones” of nationality. If the “mastadons” of the Westphalian system are fading away, he asks, why shouldn’t this lead towards more particularity, not less: “to new kinds of democracy, […] [and] closer links between societies and states?”5

3. Homologies. This question is of old provenance. It points to the centrality of the “national” homology between cultural and political identity—and the faultline that opens-up within it. This faultline is what Slavoj Zizek explains as the contradiction between Kantian cosmpolitanism’s “radical emptying” of citizenship as a “pure Form” beyond the contingencies of culture and the “fanaticism” of the Nation-Thing, with its pleasurable illusion that we enjoy the same way of life as our neighbors (and that our neighbors believe the same Thing of us).6 Nairn implies, with Zizek, that nationalism is an inevitable response to the contradictions of market-led globalization, where the neo-liberal state has been universalized amid profound cultural difference and staggering material inequality. For Nairn, it is also an appropriate response: a way of giving shape to smaller, more manageable, and more equitable cultures and communities.

4. At what cost? The present nature of the EU—a vast and unequal transnational project with shallow roots outside political elites—suggests that these are hardly trivial questions. There’s a lot at stake in judging whether “citizenship has to be tied to community and politics to common values if we are to have the solidarity and stability that democratic societies require.”7 And yet Nairn nonetheless struggles to answer the obvious rejoinder to his language of social solidarity. If the answer to liberal formalism depends on people having an identity in common, where does one draw the line between who belongs and who doesn’t? Who decides? And at what cost?

5. Literature At Last. For all that, the nation-state’s ideological link between culture and the state guarantees its importance to literary history. Pascale Casanova, for instance, argues that Paris is the capital of the “world republic of letters” because French is the language into which the most translations are made. Her emphasis on worldwide literary capital does not, however, imply that she comes as a prophet of “globalization.”8 She rather describes how “the writer stands in a particular relation to world literary space by virtue of the place occupied in it by the national space into which he has been born” (41). This world literary space is very much inter- rather than trans-national, defined as it is by rivalry among its members rather than by deterritorializing flows. Moreover, Casanova’s emphasis on competition between established metropolitan centers and emerging cultural-capital markets indicates the profound difference between the structure of her project and something like Gayatri Spivak’s forever-unrealizable horizon of “planetarity.”9 Despite all indications to the contrary, The World Republic of Letters describes neither a world nor a Republic.

6. More Homologies. The presumed identity between political and cultural concepts has massive implications. As Wai Chee Dimock explains, the enunciation of US sovereignty in 1776 established a dubious but nonetheless totemic cause, chronology, and cartography for American literary history.10 This story is of course longer and more complicated than this crude correspondence allows. Nevertheless, it remains true—as Giorgio Agamben has it—that we often depend on the unintelligible notion of a language to define the incomprehensible idea of a people. And we depend on that impossible idea of a people to make sense of the Leviathan, “whose body is made up of citizens but whose soul is sovereignty.”11 In May 2005, Senator James Inhofe introduced an amendment to an immigration bill calling for English to be made the official language of the US.12 For the members of ProEnglish, a group that lobbied in support of Inhofe, this attempt to leverage sovereign power to shape the language of the people should be only the first of many such biopolitical acts. For instance: “To reduce the distrust and estrangement that has come between members of the American polity,” they write, we also ought to “[end] dual citizenship by enforcing the Oath of Allegiance to the United States.”13 Thus does a single language stand in for unitary citizenship of an indivisibly sovereign state.

7. Shallow and Deep. But all this, so the objection goes, is reactionary nonsense: “You use the words modernity and nation-state as if these were blithe facts of human history. But they’re not. The nation-state is exceptional. Look about you, look to the margins, or back before the seventeenth century, and you’ll see that the homology between political and cultural communities is an aberration. Dig deep or look at the topsoil—either way, you can’t mistake the transience of ethnolinguistically homogenous states.”

8. Look at Britain. And the objection is right. Within the next decade, cities like Leicester and Birmingham will become “super-diverse” spaces in which, for the first time since the Norman conquest, no ethnic group commands a majority. Meanwhile, Westminster now pools and merges its sovereignty in the multilateral institutions of the EU and the European Court of Human Rights—and in a bilateral arrangement with the Republic of Ireland, which has a statutory role in the governance of Ulster. And think again about British state-formation, in which there never was any identity between culture and politics. From 1603, after all, the Stuarts reigned over a composite monarchy with one sovereign, two sovereignties, two territories, and at least four languages. Even the creation of a unitary sovereignty in 1707 did not end the multi-national character of the Union.

9. Interregnum. If the nation-state system is a mere interregnum in global history, the period of its hegemony is nevertheless coincident with the emergence of literary studies as an academic discipline. It should be no surprise, then, that our profession is simultaneously anxious and excited about reforming its largely national disciplinary structures. There’s nothing so scary as exhuming a corpse, nothing so hopeful as cutting one’s ties.

10. The trials of being medium. The dilemma facing national literatures is that their relatively large size makes it hard for them to adjust to a fluid economy of cultural difference or métissage. At the same time, they’re by definition not up to the border-crossing work of global culture. They are condemned to be medium, too big yet too small. But this condition needn’t be fatal. Among the terms in play in contemporary methodological discourse, I prefer “transnational” for how its spatial prefix implies a journey across as well as beyond the nation. It is vastly preferable, in this way, to the term “post-national,” which in its crudest version consigns the nation to the dustbin of history, forgetting that the Owl of Minerva flies several days either side of trash night. “Transnational” also contains neither the evaluative connotations of a “comparative” method, nor the hyper-ambitious geography implied by “global.”14 A “transnational” criticism goes through the nation, not around it. It pays attention to how literary cultures are built above and below the nation-state—and to the ways the nation-state still operates as an agent of patronage, welfare, and coercion.15 It cannot any more be said, if it ever could, that the concept of a literature makes sense only by analogy with a concept like citizenship. But if our critical method is to do more than chase the zeitgeist, we must nevertheless keep our eyes on the medium scale.

NOTES:
[1] Tom Nairn, Faces of Nationalism: Janus Revisited (London: Verso, 1997), 27.
[2] “Nationality is simply the fate of modernity” (Tom Nairn, After Britain: New Labour and the Return of Scotland [London: Granta, 2000], 199).
[3] Quotations to this point in para. 2 from Tom Nairn, “Make for the Boondocks,” London Review of Books (May 5, 2005). . Accessed February 2, 2008.
[4] Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri, Multitude: War and Democracy in an Age of Empire (New York: Penguin, 2004), 358.
[5] Nairn, “Make for the Boondocks.”
[6] Slavoj Zizek, Tarrying with the Negative: Kant, Hegel, and the Critique of Ideology (Durham: Duke U. P., 1993), 221-2.
[7] Thomas McCarthy, “Reconciling Cosmopolitan Unity and National Diversity,” in Alternative Modernities, ed. Dilip Parameshwar Gaonkar (Durham: Duke U. P., 2001), 201.
[8] Pascale Casanova, The World Republic of Letters, trans. M. B. DeBevoise (Cambridge: Harvard U. P., 2004), 168.
[9] Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, Death of a Discipline (New York: Columbia U. P., 2003), 102. Quoted in Wai Chee Dimock, Through Other Continents: American Literature Across Deep Time (Princeton: Princeton U. P., 2006), 7.
[10] Dimock, Through Other Continents, 4.
[11] See Giorgio Agamben, Means Without End: Notes on Politics, trans. Vincenzo Binetti & Cesare Casarino (Minneapolis: U. Minnesota P., 2000), 29-35 & 63-72. The Leviathan quotation is from Michel Foucault, “Society Must Be Defended”: Lectures at the Collège de France, 1975-1976, ed. Mauro Bertani & Alessandro Fontana; trans. David Macey (New York: Picador, 2003), 34.
[12] See Carl Hulse, “Senate Votes to Set English as National Language,” New York Times (May 19, 2006). Accessed February 3, 2008.
[13] Quoted from the policy paper “Invaluable and Insignificant: a Meditation on US Citizenship.” . Accessed February 3, 2008.
[14] For a critique of comparative method in these terms, see Micol Seigel, “Beyond Compare: Comparative Method after the Transnational Turn,” Radical History Review 91 (2005), 62-90.
[15] See, e.g., the essays collected in Françoise Lionnet & Shu-mei Shih, eds., Minor Transnationalism (Durham: Duke U. P., 2005). Read more

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