So when the works of authors like Handke, Pinter, Saramago, and Grass are seen and interpreted as dealing with a universally legible and graciously apolitical soulfulness—and resolutely not seen and interpreted as also being the identity-politics-driven work of a specific white milieu—what we’re really offering them is that precious empathy, which white supremacy levies from us every day and never has to name.
