By Audrey Fong
We’re often taught that the merit of literature is its ability to teach us how to empathize with people across time and cultures. But what does it mean to write as an other, as someone marginalized by society? Where do the limits of empathy fall short? Last fall, I took a class that grappled with the supposed purpose of literature, the limits of empathy, and what it means to write as an other taught by Viet Thanh Nguyen, author of The Sympathizer.
In this class, we challenged this assumption about literature in addition to considering what it means to be an other. Through texts from exiles like Palestinian American literary critic Edward Said and refugees like Cambodian Canadian scholar Y-Dang Troeung and Kurdish Iranian journalist Behrouz Boochani, we examined how writings by others counter nationalist memory, force us to reckon with our own complicity in a violent state, and explain the long-lasting impacts of imperialism. Nguyen’s latest book, To Save and to Destroy: Writing as an Other, is largely a summary of this class, referencing the same assigned texts and themes. At the end of the semester, Nguyen even joked that he considered assigning this book but felt it may be too vain to do so. However, for those unable to take this class, it is the ideal summary of Nguyen’s stance on what it means to be an other, to find joy as an other, and to form expansive solidarities.
To Save and To Destroy consists of six essays, originally delivered as part of the Norton Lectures at Harvard – an honor Nguyen acknowledges “mean[s] something, even if [he does] not know exactly what,” an admission that lets critics know he’s aware that these lectures may not seem impressive to everyone, especially in the age of anti-intellectualism that we’re currently experiencing.
For readers familiar with Nguyen’s work, much of To Save and to Destroy may feel repetitive—familial stories that appear in A Man of Two Faces, a call for Asian solidarity with Palestine as seen in The Nation, etc. However, given that these essays were initially delivered as speeches, it’s important to note the difference in genre and how this may appeal to different audiences, providing multiple entry points to engage with Nguyen’s thoughts.
Even for those who have read Nguyen’s work, To Save and To Destroy still offers many valuable insights. I was particularly interested in his essay, “On Being Minor,” in which he reflects on what it means to be minor in society and why, despite the word “minor” having negative connotations, being minor might be a good thing. Fairly quickly, he introduces us to his definition of minor and how this concept appears in the world:
Being minor is partly about numbers and partly about power. Where they meet shapes our perception of who is minor and what that means. Even those comfortably in the majority, whether through size or power, may feel minor if their privileges become contested. The majority, however defined, strikes back partly out of fear that the minority seeks to replace them, doing essentially what the majority might have done to others in order to become major. This fear extends to culture as well, where symbolic war manifests in the struggle over whose stories are told and taught.
We see this fear in play with the resurgence of white supremacy, book banning, and attacks on DEI initiatives. Because of certain practices meant to even the playing field and to expand the education students receive in public schools, those in power feel something is being taken from them.
Nguyen further dives into these issues at play; on the literary canon, he admits he was once seduced by it, that he “willingly believed in the Great Names, the Great Works, the Great Books because [he] believed in the Great Words: Art, Civilization, Humanism, and the Canon.” This rhetorical strategy makes him relatable to those who may initially hesitate when it comes to expanding the canon because just like them, Nguyen too once believed in the Great Works. By doing so, Nguyen invites the reader to grow with him as he changes his opinion on the canon.
As Nguyen comes to a different understanding of being minor, he is able to see “the minor as a mode of opposition,” pulling from Deleuze and Guattari’s work, and how “the minor is always political.” This belief in literature as political builds up to Nguyen’s examination of how “empires and war machines deploy the language of neutrality, bureaucracy, and symmetry to disguise the impact of their asymmetrical policies and weaponry.” This makes room for his argument on why writing as minor is not necessarily negative: rather, it works to dismantle nationalist narratives and beliefs, offering a wider understanding of our histories. In these stories, we see “the human, empirical reality of empire” which governmental language rarely provides or purposefully obfuscates.
On being major or minor as a writer, Nguyen concludes: “Consciously aspiring to be major as a living author could lead to major art, but it can also lead to collaboration with the ruling tastes of the day, shaped in my case by the politics of an empire that refuses to call itself an empire.” With this final thought, the reader is left to ponder: What does it mean to become major? By becoming major, do you or your work become agents of empire?
Questions like these are what makes Nguyen’s work worthwhile time and time again. His works force us to reconsider the ways at which we look at the world and our commitments to bettering the world. To Save and to Destroy is simultaneously a great crash course on Nguyen’s thoughts for new readers and an expansion of common themes and arguments from his previous work for his most devoted fans.
Audrey Fong is your stereotypical Southern Californian. She loves the beach, drinks more boba than the doctor recommends, and has an Insta-famous dog. She is the co-founder and co-editor of Soapberry Review.