Excerpt: In her 1986 review of Louise Erdrich’s second novel, The Beet Queen (1986), Leslie Marmon Silko seems to praise Erdrich’s “dazzling and sleek” prose only to criticize what she reads as a postmodern aesthetic ideology that prioritizes language “without the tiresome interference of any historical, political or cultural connections the words may have had in the past” (178-79). For Silko, Erdrich’s postmodern aesthetic, by which she means an intensively self-referential style of writing, constructs its beauty at the expense of history and politics, both of which would only “muddy” the demands of “language itself” (179).1 Erdrich’s postmodernist style only works, in other words, by emptying itself of any referential content, by disavowing the connective tissue otherwise signified by its language. Silko’s review has generated a great number of critical responses, including a response from Erdrich that intensified rather than mitigated this dispute with Silko.2 While I have no desire to repeat or adjudicate these debates, I begin with this comment from Silko because she so concisely introduces a fraught relation between aesthetics and politics, especially in Erdrich’s fiction. Erdrich’s 2021 Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, The Night Watchman (2020), offers an occasion to revisit the question of politics and history in her aesthetic project. The novel seems to foreground the very “muddy” territory—the imbrication of history, politics, and aesthetics—that Silko claims The Beet Queen avoids by presenting itself as an account of Indigenous resistance to the US government’s termination era policies (1940s-1960s), which refer to the ongoing formal and legal attempts to eliminate tribal sovereignty. Yet The Night Watchman’s explicitly political nature also introduces new ambiguities into its aesthetic project. This ambiguity stems in large part from the novel’s engagement with, and production of, disavowal as the structure that at once enables and disables the American political representations and expressions at the center of the narrative and its extratextual history.


Description: In early America, interracial homicide—whites killing Native Americans, Native Americans killing whites—might result in a massive war on the frontier; or, if properly mediated, it might actually facilitate diplomatic relations, at least for a time. In Killing over Land, Robert M. Owens explores why and how such murders once played a key role in Indian affairs and how this role changed over time. Though sometimes clearly committed to stoke racial animus and incite war, interracial murder also gave both Native and white leaders an opportunity to improve relations, or at least profit from conflict resolution. In the seventeenth century, most Indigenous people held and used enough leverage to dictate the terms on which such conflicts were resolved; but after the mid-eighteenth century, population and material advantages gave white settlers the upper hand. Owens describes the ways settler colonialism, as practiced by Anglo-Americans, put tremendous pressure on Native peoples, culturally, socially, and politically, forcing them to adapt in the face of violence and overwhelming numbers. By the early nineteenth century, many Native leaders recognized that, with population and power so heavily skewed against them, it was only practical to negotiate for the best possible terms; lex talionis justice—blood for blood—proved an unrealistic goal. Consequently, Indigenous and white leaders alike became all too willing to overlook murder if it led to some kind of gain—if, for instance, justice might be traded for financial compensation or land cessions. Ultimately, what Owens analyzes in Killing over Land is nothing less than the commodification of human life in return for a sense of order—as defined and accepted, however differently, by both Native and white authorities as the contest for land and resources intensified in the European colonization of North America.