Rebecca Solnit is my favorite author for the audiobooks I listen to. Maybe she’s the one who got me into listening to audiobooks with her Wanderlust: A History of Walking. Her essay collection Men Explain Things to Me has seven essays, one focusing on Virginia Woolf in dialogue with Susan Sontag. She returns back to this topic in Hope in the Dark, too. Maybe I can add that here as well. For now, I’d like to quote a passage from this essay, Woolf’s Darkness: Embracing the Inexplicable, to get back to it in the future.
Solnit, R. (2014). Men explain things to me. Haymarket Books.
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Principles of Uncertainty
Woolf is calling for a more introspective version of the poet Walt Whitman’s “I contain multitudes,” a more diaphanous version of the poet Arthur Rimbaud’s “I is another.” She is calling for circumstances that do not compel the unity of identity that is a limitation or even repression. It’s often noted that she does this for her characters in her novels, less often that, in her essays, she exemplifies it in the investigative, critical voice that celebrates and expands, and demands it in her insistence on multiplicity, on irreducibility, and maybe on mystery, if mystery is the capacity of something to keep becoming, to go beyond, to be uncircumscribable, to contain more.
Woolf’s essays are often both manifestoes about and examples or investigations of this unconfined consciousness, this uncertainty principle. They are also models of a counter-criticism, for we often think the purpose of criticism is to nail things down. During my years as an art critic, I used to joke that museums love artists the way that taxidermists love deer, and something of that desire to secure, to stabilize, to render certain and definite the open-ended, nebulous, and adventurous work of artists is present in many who work in that confinement sometimes called the art world.
A similar kind of aggression against the slipperiness of the work and the ambiguities of the artist’s intent and meaning often exists in literary criticism and academic scholarship, a desire to make certain what is uncertain, to know what is unknowable, to turn the flight across the sky into the roast upon the plate, to classify and contain. What escapes categorization can escape detection altogether.
There is a kind of counter-criticism that seeks to expand the work of art, by connecting it, opening up its meanings, inviting in the possibilities. A great work of criticism can liberate a work of art, to be seen fully, to remain alive, to engage in a conversation that will not ever end but will instead keep feeding the imagination. Not against interpretation, but against confinement, against the killing of the spirit. Such criticism is itself great art.
This is a kind of criticism that does not pit the critic against the text, does not seek authority. It seeks instead to travel with the work and its ideas, to invite it to blossom and invite others into a conversation that might have previously seemed impenetrable, to draw out relationships that might have been unseen and open doors that might have been locked. This is a kind of criticism that respects the essential mystery of a work of art, which is in part its beauty and its pleasure, both of which are irreducible and subjective. The worst criticism seeks to have the last word and leave the rest of us in silence; the best opens up an exchange that need never end.
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“Çoğunlukla romanlar bir yerlerde başarısızlığa uğrar zaten. Hayalgücü devasa bir kuvvetin altında duraksar. Sezgilerin kafası karışır; doğru ile yanlışı birbirinden ayıramaz hale gelirler, her daim farklı yeteneklerin kullanılmasını gerektiren o muazzam uğraşa devam edecek gücü bulamazlar. Ancak nasıl oluyor da bütün bunlar romancının cinsiyetinden etkileniyor, diye sordum Jane Eyre‘e ve diğerlerine bakarken. Cinsiyetleri bir şekilde kadın romancıların tutarlılığının önüne mi çıkıyor; yazarın belkemiği dediğim o tutarlılığın? Jane Eyre‘den yaptığım alıntılarda öfkenin romancı olarak Charlotte Brontë’nin doğruluğunu etkilediği aşikar. Kendini tamamen ona adaması gerekirken hikâyesini bırakıp kişisel sıkıntılarına yönelmişti. Hak ettiği deneyimden mahrum bırakıldığını hatırladı; özgürce dünyayı dolaşmak isterken bir papaz evinde çorap yamayıp yerinde sayıyordu. Hayalgücü öfkesinden sapmıştı ve biz saptığını hissedebiliyorduk. Ancak hayalgücü ile mücadele eden, onu yolundan döndüren, öfkeden daha büyük pek çok faktör vardı. Cehalet, örneğin. Rochester’in portresi karanlıkta çizilmiştir. Onda korkunun izlerini görürüz; baskının getirdiği o ekşi tadı, tutkusunun altında alev alev yanan o gömülü ıstırabı, acı bir kasılma ile bu muhteşem kitapları daraltan o kini hissettiğimiz gibi.