When Gayatri Spivak ends her groundbreaking essay “Can the Subaltern Speak?” (1988) with a definitive statement “the subaltern cannot speak”, a section of literary criticism took that dictum literally—accepting the “cannot” to represent mutism or an inability to speak.
Whether it was in the past or in the present, Jo March instilled herself in every woman.
I often feel overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of new books that I still want to read—so many stories, so little time—and understand that this is an ambition that rereading can only delay.
We witness her ferocities that are little associated with the common understanding of a “just” ruler. We see her as a loving mother, while also finding the fallibilities of motherhood flawlessly seamed into the storytelling.
When Gayatri Spivak ends her groundbreaking essay “Can the Subaltern Speak?” (1988) with a definitive statement “the subaltern cannot speak”, a section of literary criticism took that dictum literally—accepting the “cannot” to represent mutism or an inability to speak.
Whether it was in the past or in the present, Jo March instilled herself in every woman.
I often feel overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of new books that I still want to read—so many stories, so little time—and understand that this is an ambition that rereading can only delay.
We witness her ferocities that are little associated with the common understanding of a “just” ruler. We see her as a loving mother, while also finding the fallibilities of motherhood flawlessly seamed into the storytelling.
