Slow Violence and a Repertoire of Selves: An Interview with Rob Nixon

Transcript

Hello and welcome to the latest
installment of Being Human from the
University of Pittsburgh.
This series is devoted to exploring
the humanities, their connections to
other disciplines, and their value
in the public world.
I'm Dan Kubis, assistant director of
the Humanities Center at Pitt.
My guest today is Rob Nixon,
professor of English at Princeton
University.
Professor Nixon's work revealed the
connections and divisions created by
global and transnational practices.
He's most well-known for doing this
in his 2011 book, Slow Violence
and the Environmentalism of the
Poor, a book that won multiple
awards and has provided a new
vocabulary for talking about
environmental movements.
In this book, Nixon uses the concept
of slow violence to link
environmental threats like oil
spills, climate change, and
radiation at nuclear test sites.
These threats, Nixon argues, do
their damage over a longer timespan
and thus lend themselves less
readily to high-profile
environmental efforts.
Nixon explores these threats through
the work of marginal writers and
activists like Kim Stanley Robinson,
Wangari Maathai, Jamaica Kincaid,
and others.
Nixon's sensitive readings of these
figures shows the disproportionate
effect that environmental
degradation has on the Global South
and also reveals strategies for
opposition.
Much of Nixon's work is
characterized by this ability to
both reveal dangers and inspire
resistance.
Like one of his mentors, Edward
Said, Nixon also writes and
publishes in ways that bring
academic and public work together.
His book, Dream Birds, for example,
is both a memoir and a history of
the ostrich as a commodity in
20th-century Western culture.
Nixon's fascinating account of this
history provides an unlikely example
of capitalism's unending churn.
But it also explores the subtle
interactions between humans and
nature and suggest that the two
are inseparable.
Nixon has recently been working on a
series of essays on the
Anthropocene, and I began by asking
him how his work contributes to this
ongoing dialogue and how it relates
to the important work he's done to
this point.
The dominant idea of the
Anthropocene is this idea that maybe
we've reached a tipping point where
Homo sapiens has become a geological
age. And as the biologist
Anthony Barnosky put it, we
are the asteroid.
This idea that humanity has collided
with earth's biology of
physical systems, and
we're changing the nitrogen cycle,
the water cycle, the carbon
cycle. Through
habitat loss,
extinction rates have soared.
And so, there are all these
different ways in which
life on earth has been altered.
And so, this has
become a kind of gathering place
for
public figures and also
intellectuals from all different
disciplines.
And I think that's the positive side
of it. The people have strong
opinions.
They have a
stake in it, and it's
become a very fertile place
of debate.
My own particular take on it is
to do with my background
in postcolonial studies,
which is the relationship between
Homo sapiens as a species actor
and the vast disparities among
different actors in terms
of our impacts on
the earth's past, present, and
future, and the degree
to which--
there's a danger sometimes that we
lump humanity together
as a single geological agent,
that we lose sight of
histories of colonialism, histories
of injustice, the degree
to which, say,
one person might
have a knee-deep
ecological footprint, another
person might have an indecipherable
ecological footprint because
they have so little impact in terms
of their resource use.
And so, trying to tease apart
the idea of the human epoch.
So that's one key area.
Related to that is the
degree to which, in some circles,
and I don't want to paint the whole
Anthropocene
like this, but in some circles,
I have some concern
that the Anthropocene could
become a stalking horse
or a Trojan horse really for
reinserting
the selective enlightenment
into the thinking about human.
So it started off as the age of man.
It was a problematic
idea.
And
there are, I think, in some
quarters, attempts
to see this as a species
problem without first
discriminating among
different histories of the species.
Who has been
deemed fully human, who has
been deemed less than human,
and how does that play out in our
thinking? And so one of the things
that I've been writing a bit about
is the we of the Anthropocene.
How do we disaggregate that
and acknowledge that there's
a concerted need for
large-scale solutions,
but in plutocratic
times, there are dangers
that certain
powerful actors can abrogate
to themselves, the
right to govern the
earth or to steer
the earth in
a certain path? So my
interest comes from a commitment
to participatory democracy
to the struggle to
have input from
all humans and all
non-humans who are affected
by the choices that we
make going forward.
Yeah, well, one of the things in
some recent writing that you've done
on the Anthropocene, you bring
up the idea of engaged humility.
And that to me seemed
like a kind of stance for you that
you were suggesting could
move forward with the position
that you were just trying to
outline, and
the idea that it's not kind of-- it
avoids a sense of mastery,
but it doesn't fall into quietism.
Exactly. I think that's
exactly right. I think engaged
humility is
a very valuable posture
because
the Anthropocene, and there's no
question about it, there are these
runaway impacts and these
unforeseen consequences
of some of humanity's greatest
achievements.
And the fallout from those
is felt unevenly by
different populations.
So how can we
both recognize that
technological solutions alone,
especially highly centralized
technological solutions alone,
won't address the
distributive challenges
of the Anthropocene? They
may
be central to engineering the
future, but how do we make sure
that the future's
available to us imaginatively
and ultimately and materially
or accommodating
of as wide a variety of
human needs as possible?
And so there's a sense,
I think, as you're intimating, that
for some people, humility is
a negative or defeatist posture.
But if
an ideology
of dominion and earth mastery
has created some of
the most dramatic crises
of our time,
I would be wary of doubling down
on dominion,
especially when that dominion, as I
say, is highly
centralized.
And there's been such a pushback
against participatory democracy.
Yeah.
Well, you also write a lot about the
idea of representation
in the Anthropocene and how it is
that the arts, in particular,
can play a role in representing
the era
that we're currently in.
You reference in a recent piece of
writing, Amitav Ghosh comments about
the realist novel and the
limitations of that form.
You do it, I think, not to kind of
like-- not to necessarily bash
the realist novel or realism in
general but to raise
the idea of form and
the kind of current moment that
we're in. And I wonder if you can
say a little bit about that and your
thoughts on kind of form and the
novel. And you write about arts
outside of literature, too.
So just any thoughts you have about
that issue?
Well, I mean, one of the things that
Amitav Ghosh writes about in The
Great Arrangement is
the degree to which
enlightenment thinking
was word centered.
And he doesn't go into it in great
detail, but he leads towards the end
that the way
that our cultures of communication
have shifted so radically
recently and have become
more image centered.
And there's a different meld of
word and image.
And I certainly see the
power of that
and the creativity that
has been magnetized by
the new platforms that meld
with an image in relation
to attempts to communicate
these vast scales of time and place
and to create
figurative ways of
entering
sensorially into what can seem
kind of daunting epoch-size
events.
Right.
I'm also interested in asking you a
question about form and
your own work as a critic
and a writer.
The big question is kind of
what thoughts you have or efforts
you've made to work with form in
your own work.
But there's a particular work of
yours that's a few years old called
How to Read a Bridge, which
to me, I
was reading through all your other
works and thinking of them as
essays, and this one seems almost
like prose poetry or something.
Like you're doing something a little
bit different.
I wonder if you can talk about that
or other efforts you've made.
Right. So, I have a background
in journalism, and as a nonfiction
writer, I wrote a memoir, and I've
written a number of autobiographical
essays, and I feel
quite strongly that
there's a place for
autobiographical thinking that also
has a conceptual component.
And I did my dissertation
with Edward Said, and the thing
that I came away
from that period with most
strongly was
his commitment to
the sort of cunning of accessibility
that it's actually often harder
to
communicate an idea lucidly
than it is to
announce it in an opaque
and a recognizably
academic way.
So in a number of essays, including
How to Read a Bridge, I've tried to
start from an autobiographical
place. In
this essay, going back
to the town I was brought up in
South Africa and
driving through what were the former
Bantustans, the reservations
sort of more or less equivalent to
the Native
reservations in the US,
and coming across this bridge
which divided
white South Africa from the
Bantustans, these segregated
homelands, so-called homelands
for the Zulus, closest different
groups.
And when I
went down below the bridge, I saw
that the bridge was being prized
apart by these strangler
figs. Their root systems
were in the divides and in these
concrete blocks and was actually
being pulled apart.
And there were these weaver birds,
these bright yellow birds that make
pendulous
nests that had built
in it. It was a colony of the birds.
So there was this whole what
scientist sometimes call novel
ecosystem that
had taken advantage of
infrastructural neglect.
And so what I was trying to do in
that essay was to tease
out
my personal thoughts and personal
memories, the political history
of that place, and also
some of the
debates around
animal agency
and botanical
agency that are current
in academe.
And so we hear
talk of, say, ecosystem engineers.
And it seems to me that
the strangler figs,
in a way, are ecosystem engineers.
Defensible architecture, too, right?
Right.
They're building a kind of-- creating
some defensible architecture for themselves. Yeah.
Exactly. Creating defensible
architecture. And they are
exploiting
an infrastructure of neglect
that had an apartheid history.
It was rooted, as it were, in
race.
So
it was a short essay and a kind of
an attempt to evoke these different
layers of feeling.
Yeah. You end that essay with
talking about the fact that you
wrote an email suggesting
that the government should do
something and get these figs off of
there. I imagine you're still
waiting that reply.
Yeah, I'm still waiting for the reply.
Well, I want to ask a question
about-- this is kind of connected,
I think, some of the
comments you've already made about
kind of like form and
things like that. This
is a question about language.
And it comes from some of the
reviews from your most recent
publication, which is Slow Violence
and the Environmentalism of the
Poor.
And some of the reviewers pointed
out something which I have noticed
across your work, which is how
skilled you are at creating new and
evocative phrases in
the work to
create new opportunities or new ways
of seeing relations to our moment.
I wonder if that's something that
you think-- I mean, Slow Violence
really, in itself, is kind of one of
them, right? That's the lead one.
But there are a number of others,
too.
I wonder how you think about that in
your work and if that's something
you consciously aim to do or if
it's something that kind of just
naturally comes out of the
larger goals that you've got in your
criticism.
Yeah, it's
not a conscious thing.
I mean, I think there are useful
neologisms and neologisms
that require so much explaining
that they don't function
outside of a very localized
context.
So it's hard to know what will gain
purchase or traction and what won't.
But I do think, in general,
if you can use ordinary words
to try to shift consciousness,
it's much better than creating
sort of bulky Latinate
neologisms that need a lot of unpacking.
And if we think of terms, I mean,
there are terms that are
super self-explanatory.
Like I think environmental justice
is quite easy to convey
to a layperson,
whereas there are terms I wish could
be uninvented, like neoliberalism.
It's bandied around a lot, and
it's trying to communicate certain
important things, but it's certainly
not self-explanatory.
Postcolonialism to a certain extent
as well.
So I
love lucidity combined
with a paradigmatic
shift. If you can get that
combination,
I think that's the kind of ideal
space.
Yeah.
Well, I think it seems to me like
slow violence is a
phrase that has been taken up fairly
successfully.
And it's possible,
for example, to read articles.
I recently read an article in The
Guardian by Robert McFarlane about
the-- he was writing about the
Anthropocene, and he uses the
phrase slow violence without quoting
the work or anything. It seems to
just kind of like have seeped into
discourse about this.
And I wonder if
you have seen-- so it's
been a number of years since your
book came out and whether
the phrase slow violence or even the
idea of slowness itself, does it
seem to you like it is gaining
traction and becoming something that
is a usable tool
for people imagining that moment?
Yes, definitely.
And I've
been surprised by that.
There was a student who wrote
to me from Stanford, and his father
had been a football player, and he
was a football player.
And he was doing his thesis
on slow violence and
head injuries.
And the fact that
there wasn't a dramatic call
to the damage, but the damage was
cumulative attrition and
not really counted as violence, or
it wasn't counted as brutal.
And so he had this familial history
of brain damage that he was
trying to speak to.
And he just said he found that
helpful.
And I was especially touched by a
woman who wrote to me from Canada
recently who said
she'd been
reading this book for a cause, and
she'd been in an abusive
relationship and
had been afraid to leave a
relationship because she had
two kids.
And then, in the course of
reading this book, she had
realized that she had a vocabulary
for talking about domestic
abuse that she couldn't quite
pinpoint in terms
of broken bones or
overt brutalization, but
that the incremental brutalization
was such.
So, I mean, the fact she
left the relationship and finds
herself in a better space is due
almost entirely to her courage.
But I felt
gratified that the language
resonated in an unexpected
way.
Yeah.
Well, also thinking about
this idea of
slowness is
one of the spaces in your work
where I see kind of opportunities
for the tools of the humanities to
be an important-- make an important
contribution to our discussions.
Having
to do with attention to language,
having to do with awareness of
history, the
kind of patient elaboration, I
suppose, of issues and problems and
things like that. I wonder, and this
could be a naive question, but if
there is a
greater sense of awareness about
the relevance
of, let's say slow violence.
Is there greater opportunities
for the humanities also
attendant to that to kind of be a
part of these discussions?
Yeah, I think very much so.
And by humanities,
I include the arts.
And so, I was
recently teaching
Jeff Orlowski's movie Chasing
Ice with
photographic attempts to use
very sophisticated technologies
to dramatize
something like glacial retreat.
So some of what's available now
in technological terms was simply
not possible before in terms
of
slow-motion footage, and
just the engineering
side of it can help the
narrative side of it.
And I see a lot of those kind
of collaborations,
even if you look at, say,
Planet Earth 1 versus Planet Earth
2. In Planet Earth 2,
it's a drone-driven
film, and you think, "Wow,
okay." And there's a difference
in the pacing. There's a difference
in the idea of distance.
And so I
think ideas
of narrative per
se are shifting in relation to time
and in relation to
technology.
And so there is this paradox
with, say, the Anthropocene
that we are suddenly asked to think
of ourselves as geological
actors on this vast
stage at the same time
as we are operating
in minuscule
units of time, and our
attentiveness is kind of
fractured.
And we have this ability to create
like aggregate power
in a very short space of time,
but that part can dissipate very
rapidly.
And so, how do we deal
with the narrative
demands of something like
glacial retreat, climate change,
the Anthropocene
at a time where we have all of these
fantastic
media platforms? But we're
competing for
fragments of time.
Yeah.
And I mean, you mentioned Edward
Said earlier, and
this is reminding me of kind of like
the comment you made about kind of
like being
canny about the ways that messages
can get out. Right? And then, not
necessarily giving up on complexity,
but communicating with the big
audience.
I want to ask you a question that
is kind of connected, I think, to
your mention of Said earlier.
And it's about public intellectuals,
which is a category that comes
up in your work.
One of the things I recognized
reading
you writing about public
intellectuals and slow violence
and the environmentalism of the poor
was-- I kind of got a sense when
you were talking about a lot of the
writers that you were reading
in that book. I'm thinking of
Wangari Maathai.
I'm thinking of June Jordan and
Jamaica Kincaid and all the other
authors that you read in that book.
You mentioned, early on, that many
of them had been the first in their
family to go to college and
that there's a kind of-- not only
are they in
their work dealing with issues of
dislocation and things but that
biographically, they're also dealing
with that.
That really, for me, in a way, kind
of made-- and you go on to talk
about, then, that they're performing
translational work.
And
that, to me, it
sort of crystallized, I think, the
idea of the public intellectual as
engaged in this kind of not just
translation but a kind of a struggle
and kind of inventing community and
being forced to invent that sense of
community as part of
what they're doing all the time.
And
I wonder if you can talk a little
bit about that and that kind of
picture of the public intellectual
versus something like-- it's so
easy to find people talking
about public intellectuals in the
sense that they would be leaders of
certain kinds. And I think that's a
very different picture of the role
of a public intellectual.
I wonder if you can say a little bit
about that.
Yeah. I mean, Wangari Maathai
is a great example of
somebody. She was the first
in her family to go to college and
the first woman in East Africa to
get a Ph.D.
in the life sciences.
She comes to America, does a degree,
she's exposed to the civil rights
struggle, goes back, and connects
and creates this with
rural women like herself.
But she's a go-between.
And ultimately, the Green Belt
movement planted something like
30 million trees.
I mean, enormous success.
But she was able to perform
different selves for different
audiences.
And when you emigrate or when you
migrate across classes or
identities, you
have a repertoire of selves.
And it's not a question of integrity
or not having integrity.
It's a question of actually
performing certain features of
yourself that allow you to
connect with that audience.
And so if you survived
that upheaval in the chaos of
something like immigration or being
the first generation to go
to college, you can actually draw
on those as resources.
And both myself and my partner, Ann
McClintock, were
first generation college students.
So we were constantly
trying to explain to our family what
it was we did.
And so you
don't take for granted the idea
that, A, you have a college
education and, B,
that what you're doing
is communicable.
And I think there's some-- maybe for
people who are the first generation
college, there's some familial
pressure to be pretty simple and
clear in your communication
about what the hell it is you're
doing, especially in the humanities,
perhaps. Yeah.
Yeah. Well, I wanted to ask you
about that. I mean, the
kind of the description you're
making here of kind of the
translational work reminds me so
much of Edward Said's work.
And it also reminds me of-- I mean,
I really enjoyed reading-- you
mentioned your memoir earlier, and
that's Dream Bird.
And I really enjoyed that a lot.
And that's a lot of, I think, what
you talk about there.
I mean, it's a memoir, but it's also
a totally fascinating book about
ostriches, among other things.
Among other things.
But there's a lot of the histories
of ostriches there.
Yeah. Can you talk a little bit
about or expand on
- you already mentioned a bit - a
little bit on some of
the translational work that you talk
about there and how that's been a
part of your work?
Well, I was very fortunate when I
arrived in the US.
I left South Africa as a
conscientious objector.
This is the end of the apartheid
days.
So there was a two-year call up for
white kids after high school.
And I put that off until after
university. Then, I had
to leave.
And so I arrived
in the middle of the anti-apartheid
protest in the US, the boycott
years.
And I happened to
write a piece for The Village Voice,
and The Village Voice was sort of
a very dynamic publication.
And so I started writing for
particularly for The Village Voice
and The Nation as a graduate
student.
And that was enormously beneficial
because I felt it was a place
to put my political passions.
But it also allowed me to hone a
public voice in
a context that had a fairly high
intellectual caliber of
thinking.
And that combination really
helped me a lot.
And one
of the things that I struggle
with this generation of students
is I was able to--
when I was a graduate student, I
would write a 1500-word
piece for The Voice.
And I would get $1,000
or something.
And that was probably $2,000
today.
And it helped pay the rent and
helped me move
forward in my career, helped
me reduce student debt and
all of those things.
And the challenge today,
when I see students just as talented
as I was as writers now, is
how do you monetize that.
There's so much content
out there, and so much of it is
brilliant, but
it's not priced the way it was
when I was starting out.
And I feel for
the students that
there's kind of a volunteer
creativity, whereas I had the
affirmation that
it was political, it was creative,
and it was financially
rewarding. And that was a real
trifecta.
Yeah. Well, I want to ask you one
other question, if I could, from
Dream Birds.
And this is a--
there's - I guess I would say - a
story that
is in that book that
you talk in the beginning.
It's about your grandmother and the
Mavis.
The Mavis is a bird.
I'll let you tell the story.
But it's something that
seems-- it seemed to me in that
book, we talked a little bit about
images earlier and how an image is
kind of like being able to do
certain things.
And these are visual images.
But that to me was kind of an image
in that book that seemed to
have so many-- seemed to be able to
kind of crystallize or pull together
so many of the different-- that
story, anyway.
It was one that pulled together so
many of those things in that book.
I wonder if you can just say a
little bit about that story and
talk about that.
As it happened, I did my early work
on V.S. Naipaul, and I remember an
essay he wrote called Jasmine
where he talked about
having read about Jasmine in the
book and not realizing that the
flower that he smelled, this
overwhelming,
deep, powerful smell
that he smelled every day
on the island was connected to that
word. And there was a book word,
and there was a smell, and
that he didn't expect to have
the objects in his everyday world,
coming from the Caribbean, reflected
in literature, which always seemed
to come from elsewhere.
And so I grew up in an unusual
family, which there were nine
of us and four generations under one
roof.
And my great grandfather and
grandmother had grown up in Scotland
before moving to South Africa.
And so my grandmother would often
reminisce about Scotland.
And she said, before she died,
one of the things she really wanted
was to hear the Mavis sing.
She used to hear the Mavis sing on
the way to school, and nobody could
find out what this Mavis thing was.
She didn't know. That was the only
word she knew.
And other friends you knew who knew
a lot about birds.
I tried looking it up and so forth.
And then I was doing
some research in the British Museum
in London at the time, and we were
living in North London.
And I happened
to come across this word, Mavis,
and it was the song
thrush.
And I walked home that
evening from the tube across
the lawns, and there these song
thrushes were singing.
And it was this incredible sense of
just completing the loop
of a story.
There she was, 80
years before, as a schoolgirl
walking to school in Scotland,
listening to this noise, to the
sound. And here
I was. She
had died in the meantime. Having
this avenue, this very, very
personal avenue into this
bird song, once the
meaning of the word Mavis had
been released.
Yeah.
And it seemed to me to
say a lot about things that you're
concerned with in that book, in your
memoir, but also throughout your
work about
the really complicated relationships
that humans have with the
natural world around them and
that it's not necessarily just one
of appreciation, that it's one
sometimes where nature is something
that humans can kind of project
dreams on. And dreams,
desires, things like that.
And that there's so much more to
it than the times it gets written
about.
Absolutely.
And I think that
connects with the issue of
translating science into the public
realm as well.
That you can have ecosystem
science that looks at
whether it's a functioning
ecosystem or not or
a compromised ecosystem.
And so you have scientists
talk about, say, a functional
analogue in an ecosystem,
which would be, say, an apex
predator. So when an apex predator
is removed, but you bring in another
apex predator that forms
a similar function.
But if we're talking about, say, an
apex predator like a wolf,
you put a wolf in a story, and
it's got an incredible heritage,
positive and negative.
Like everybody has
feelings about wolves, even people
who haven't seen them.
So if we talk about the wolf as a
functional analogue, we're talking
one kind of a register.
If we're talking about it as a wolf,
whether it's replaced or not,
it has an enormous
cultural energy.
And so I think that's
part of where the environmental
humanities and arts come in is how
do we understand
the science, learn the science,
and then think about
the implications of communicating
the science in this kind of image
or that kind of story or that kind
of figure of speech.
Yeah. And not
only that, but your work, it seems
like one of the things that
is so important to you is to try
to harness that, understand it, and
kind of like move us towards
a--
move us towards a world
that is more characterized by
participatory democracy, perhaps,
than the one that we're currently in.
Absolutely. And I think one of the
very encouraging things about
environmental studies
today, in particularly the
humanities, is
there was a perception that
environmentalism at one point
was not kind of real politics.
And it was very much--
it emanated from a kind
of American studies and
was wilderness-focused.
There was a component of
that was sort of anti-human
environmentalism. It was going
back to the seventies.
And that's not the complete story by
any means, but there was a strong
strain of that and an
idea that this message
needed to be communicated
to poorer people and people
elsewhere in the world.
And I think what has shifted now,
and this is partly due to
environmental justice coming front
and center,
is that we understand multiple
genealogies of environmentalism.
And so, if we
think of the tree huggers in
the Chipko Forest in India
in the 1970s, these were
villages who had depended on the
forest for firewood,
for the protection of their water,
for food.
And the government then said, "We've
sold this off to
a sports company." I think it was a
cricket bat company or something.
And they found these people arriving
claiming that they owned the forest,
whereas they felt that spiritual
ownership of it.
They formed these chains
around the trees. And that's our
earliest record of tree-hugging.
So we might be
associated with Humboldt County,
but there are there are many, many
starting places for these.
And every community
has its own
place of purchase in
the environmental world.
And if we listen to those and
we respect those, I think we
have a much better chance
of actually
preserving what we value
and adapting to what we
cannot change.
Yeah. Well, Rob Nixon, thanks so
much for joining us.
Thank you, Dan.
That's it for this edition of Being
Human.
This episode was produced by
Christian Snyder, Humanities Media
Fellow at the University of
Pittsburgh.
Stay tuned next time when my guest
will be Robin Bernstein, Professor
of African and African American
Studies at Harvard University.
Thanks for listening.

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Being Human Podcast Recordings

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Title
Slow Violence and a Repertoire of Selves: An Interview with Rob Nixon
Contributor
University of Pittsburgh (depositor)
Nixon, Rob, 1954- (interviewee)
Kubis, Dan (interviewer)
Date
June 1, 2018
Identifier
20230127-beinghuman-0032
Description
An interview with Rob Nixon, professor of English at Princeton University. The interview focuses on Professor Nixon's life and career, particularly his work in environmental criticism and public humanities. His book "Slow Violence and the Environmentalism of the Poor" and essay "How to Read a Bridge" are discussed.
Extent
35 minutes
Publisher
University of Pittsburgh. Department of English
Type
sound recording-nonmusical
Genre
interviews
Subject
Ecocriticism
Environmentalism--Social aspects
Poor
Equality
Nixon, Rob, 1954-
Source
Being Human
Language
eng
Collection
Being Human Podcast Recordings
Contributor
University of Pittsburgh
Rights Information
In Copyright. This Item is protected by copyright and/or related rights. You are free to use this Item in any way that is permitted by the copyright and related rights legislation that applies to your use. For other uses you need to obtain permission from the rights-holder(s).. Rights Holder: University of Pittsburgh
http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/
Rights Holder
University of Pittsburgh

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Slow Violence and a Repertoire of Selves: An Interview with Rob Nixon

In collections