The Question of Literacy in The Hunger Games (Pt. 3): Scripted or Unscripted?

Continued from Pt. 2

It is Catching Fire that introduces the reader to one of the grand literacy themes in the Hunger Games trilogy, which can be best summed up in the question:  scripted or unscripted?  Up to this point, we have become acquaited with the artiface of the capital in The Hunger Games, and we have learned, in particular, of the artiface of the games, which require the tributes to play to the audience, deliberately providing the grand entertainment in order to have their efforts to engage the Capital rewarded in the form of help in the arena as the citizens throw support behind their favorite tribute by buying gifts to help that tribute survive.  However, the artificiality very deliberately does not translate into something that is scripted.  Unlike in Brave New World, in which the "feelies" are scripted (by such as Helmholz Watson), the entertainment in the capital seems reality-based, like the games.  Other events in support of the games are televised, including, significantly, interviews with Caesar Flickerman, which are not scripted, but are the result of coaching from the District mentor and Effie Trinket (in the case of Disctrict 12), who is a kind of escort to the tributes.

That entertainment is artificial, but not script-based does not seem to have much to do with literacy--after all, we have reality television, and though the games are extreme, there is an element of familiarity to the genre of television portrayed.  It is in Catching Fire, when Peeta and Katniss are given scripts, and when Katniss tries to write for herself a memorial of Rue that the script--or lack thereof--becomes important.  During the victory tour, Peeta and Katniss are expected to follow a set routine, which Katniss describes:

Peeta and I will be introduced, the mayor of 11 will read a speech in our honor, and we’ll respond with a scripted thank-you provided by the Capitol. If a victor had any special allies among the dead tributes, it is considered good form to add a few personal comments as well. 

Her dilemma is that though she knows she should add a personal statement about Rue and Thresh,  she faces what one of my English teachers in high school would call the "tyrrany of the blank page":  "every time I tried to write it at home, I ended up with a blank paper staring me in the face."  (56-57).  However, as the narrative stresses over and over, Katniss cannot perform by creating or recreating context in her mind alone.  She can not fool herself into acting--or in this case, writing--as if the contrived or imagined situation is real.  By contrast, she is able to deliver a speech to District 11, following Peeta's gift of one month of their winnings every year--once she is actually present in the moment:

“Wait, please.” I don’t know how to start, but once I do, the words rush from my lips as if they’ve been forming in the back of my mind for a long time. “I want to give my thanks to the tributes of District Eleven,” I say. I look at the pair of women on Thresh’s side. “I only ever spoke to Thresh one time. Just long enough for him to spare my life. I didn’t know him, but I always respected him. For his power. For his refusal to play the Games on anyone’s terms but his own. The Careers wanted him to team up with them from the beginning, but he wouldn’t do it. I respected him for that."  

. . .  

I turn to Rue’s family. “But I feel as if I did know Rue, and she’ll always be with me. Everything beautiful brings her to mind. I see her in the yellow flowers that grow in the Meadow by my house. I see her in the mockingjays that sing in the trees. But most of all, I see her in my sister, Prim.” My voice is undependable, but I am almost finished. “Thank you for your children.” I raise my chin to address the crowd. “And thank you all for the bread.” (60-61)

Katniss's struggles with writing her feelings, contrasted with her ability to speak in context, stresses one of the essential properties of writing.  It is decontextualized.  Usually, this observation is made of writing itself--that it is, as Walter Ong noted, "separate from the human life-world."  The book is decontextualized; the reader has to recreate the context from the available clues.  However, the writer is often separate from the context as well.  Katniss's difficulty stems from that decontextualization, and recalls Wordsworth's description of poetry as the "spontaneous overflow of powerful emotion recollected in tranqility."  Clearly, Katniss is not a poet, since even when she feels "powerful emotion," her recollections, which cannot really be said to take place "in tranquility," do not translate into words.

When the Quarter Quell is announced, and Peeta and Katniss are reaped and then, without being allowed to say goodbye, taken to the Capital, Katniss actually muses on the limitations of literacy, and specifically, its removal from the immediacy of real life as it is happening:

I sit on the bed, knowing I will never write those letters.  They will be like the speech I tried to write to honor Rue and Thresh in District 11. Things seemed clear in my head and even when I talked before the crowd, but the words never came out of the pen right. Besides, they were meant to go with embraces and kisses and a stroke of Prim’s hair, a caress of Gale’s face, a squeeze of Madge’s hand. They cannot be delivered with a wooden box containing my cold, stiff body.  (188-189)

Writing lacks immediacy; it is decontextualized, cold and impersonal.

Although Katniss can conjure words when she is moved, Peeta is represented in the novel as being particularly good with words, particularly as compared to Katniss, and by Katniss in particular.  The difference is that Peeta is able to perform on command, to play to a crowd, and that he can lie--he can "make anyone believe anything" (346).  In short, Peeta has a natural gift for rhetoric.  Nevertheless, on the victory tour, he is also scripted, with a speech prepared by the Capital.  In Distrct 11, he deviates:

Peeta had his personal comments written on a card, but he doesn’t pull it out. Instead he speaks in his simple, winning style about Thresh and Rue making it to the final eight, about how they both kept me alive — thereby keeping him alive — and about how this is a debt we can never repay. And then he hesitates before adding something that wasn’t written on the card. Maybe because he thought Effie might make him remove it.  (59)

Peeta's addition is the offer of one month of their winnings each year, which prepares the way for Katniss's speech, which in turn incites defiance in District 11.  The result for Peeta and Katniss is that, seeing how easily they can cause a crisis, they resolve to stick to the script:

Listen to a speech in our honor. Give a thank-you speech in return, but only the one the Capitol gave us, never any personal additions now.  (71)

Katniss's commentary is telling, and reveals another weakness of writing:  it can be discovered, and censored.

There are a few other interesting literacy moments in Catching Fire:  Snow reading the card with the Quarter Quell challenge, supposedly written 75 years before, but clearly altered; Madge's access to capital newspapers by way of her father the Mayor of District 12;  Peeta making notes on the other victors, then tearing the pages of notes from his notebook of victors who were not reaped.  The idea of being scripted continues into Mockingjay--the artificiality of the Capital and Katniss's inability to conform to others' expectations is a major theme in the book, and the "Propos" in District 13 further develop the theme and help the reader to discover Katniss, and Katniss to discover herself.  The underlying point, however, is that literacy has limitations--not everyone can use it to their advantage, as Katniss certainly is unable to command written language.  Literacy is risky, since it can be discovered.  And if she can't be scripted, Katniss can't easily help the rebels by being their mouthpiece in Mockingjay.  Literacy carries very little power in the Hunger Games Trilogy.

What, then, is its power?  I think the answer is something much more akin to the power of Peeta's painting.

To be continued in Pt. 4

The Question of Literacy in The Hunger Games (Pt. 2): Snow as Literate Dictator

Continued from Pt. 1

So where is literacy in the Hunger Games?  It is clear that the people of Panem are literate.  There is education in all of the districts, though Katniss gives a hint of what that schooling is like:  in District 12, everything is coal-related.  I imagine their curriculum being like Abeka books for homeschooling, in which everything is Biblical.  The math problems are about tithing.  In my mind, I substitute coal-related word problems for District 12.  The history of Panem is included for purposes of indoctrination--to make certain that the school children grow up knowing their inferior position in relation to the Capital.  And while limited information is given about the districts, it is not information that conveys the reality, as Katniss discovers when she visits the vast, firmly controlled District 11 during the victory tour.

There is a very small, isolated example of literacy in The Hunger Games (the novel rather than the series) that I am choosing to ignore for the moment.  It is both utilitarian and heartening.  It demonstrates both the ability to read and command of writing, and how those things relate--in a tangible way--to the ability to cope.  But I plan to come back to it because it is easy to miss the importance when reading the first novel.

Let me, instead, jump into Catching Fire.  There are a couple of very striking references to literacy in the beginning of the novel.  I am still double-checking, but I think that there are only two books in the entire Hunger Games trilogy, and one of them is wielded by President Snow.  When he visits Katniss in order to intimidate her into helping him to pacify the districts, Snow is reading a book.  "He holds up a finger as if to say, 'Give me a moment'" (17).  Katniss is expected, so she does not surprise him in the act of reading.  Reading is either something he routinely does to pass the time, or it is a pose, indicating his relative importance.  After all, he has to finish his reading before addressing her.  Or perhaps simply possessing a book indicates his relative importance, since we are not told that the house in Victory Village has books.  This is the single time that someone is shown reading in such a way that attention is drawn to the act of reading--the deliberateness of the act of reading--and to the book itself without any indication of the subject or purpose of the book. (Perhaps if the Slate article that uses statistics as a substitute for analysis looked up occurrances of the word "book," it would have been useful!)  The book itself becomes an object of note in the scene.  Although we lose sight of it in the exchange between Katniss and Snow, he "places his book on the corner of the desk" when Katniss's mother brings tea (22).  When he leaves, he "retrieves his book."

One of two books mentioned specificially in the entire series (if I find another, I'll blog it--I promise!), and we don't know anything about the book.  The book must, then, tell us something about the reader, just by its very presense.  We know very little about Snow, but we know that he wants to be seen reading.  A book accompanies him, whether he reads it or not.  This is very little to go on, but it does call to mind another--perhaps more benign--dystopian dictator, Mustapha Mond in Brave New World.   Apart from the fact that the populace tends only toward context-specific, utilitarian literacy, and the dehumanization common to all dystopias, the societies of the two works are vastly different.  The only similarities between the governments are the desire to keep order and the presence of a single president.  In the case of Brave New World, the president is Mustapha Mond--the only character in the novel who is, in fact, highly literate, possessing both the ability to read and process at a high level, and also the access to books and knowledge gained from books.  He can read them because he has chosen to value order above ideas; in widespread literacy, he sees the dangers of disorder. In higher-level literacy, he sees the potential for competition between the most intelligent citizens.  In Brave New World, the reader is given these insights when Helmholtz Watson discusses these things with Mond--before being banished because he strives for greater art than his society can provide, or finds useful and safe.  In the Hunger Games, we are given no such insights because Katniss is given no such insights.  Snow is not so forthcoming, and literacy is not an obvious primary concern in the novels.  However, by placing a book in the hand of President Snow, against the backdrop of a functionally-literate society lacking in literary pursuits, or the opportunity to pursue reading and writing for pleasure, the novels are setting up an image of a dictator who is, perhaps, highly literate--perhaps the only highly literate member of the society.  It is not too difficult to imagine Snow as controlling all literacy--whether for pleasure or for a purpose--to his own ends, since he certainly controls all information.  In addition, his use of the book is deliberately calculating.  He reads it in order to show his ease; he will not be called out of it until he is ready.  Even in this, higher-level literacy makes one calculating.  And it is hardly a leap to say that this is a man who lives in his own mind.

In a narrative that is not only told by a single character, but by a character whose perspective is limited by her own tendency to live in the moment, by her own lack of introspection, and by her own lack of importance (she does not merit the kind of talk that Helmholtz Watson gets as high-level Alpha in Brave New World), a book--even one without a title--says something about a character who wields it.  It also says something about the link between literacy and power.  Those who have literacy have power.  Those without power have more limited literacy--or perhaps those with more limited literacy have limited power.  Culturally, we no longer question what the specific link is between literacy and power, because it is almost a trusim that literacy empowers.  What the actual link is between literacy and power is discussed most often in reference to new media, which gives a venue to basically whomever wants one and is willing to court an audience.

Might there be an underlying distrust of literacy in the Hunger Games?  Literacy is not, in fact, the means to undermining the society.  Action--often unpremeditated--seems to assume that role.  Snow's use of the book actually suggests literacy as a cloak for insecurity--a guise of control rather than control itself.  Literacy has an important higher-order function in the novels (TBA).  But it is not intimately connected to maintaining political power.

After all, we don't even know what book Snow is reading.

To be continued in Pt. 3

The Question of Literacy in The Hunger Games (Pt. 1)

It's been a while since my Hunger Games posts, but after seeing Catching Fire last night (it was good; go see it!), and after reading an essay on Neville Longbottom that typifies the kind of literary criticism I want to do, I want to return to my final commentary on the Hunger Games trilogy.

The topic here is literacy, and originally I saved it until last because at first glance, there doesn't seem to be much to say about literacy.  But that, in itself, is highly significant in children's and young adult literature, genres which never quite get themselves away from asserting the importance and significance of reading.  It's as if they're still aware that their primary audience is in school, and might need encouragement to read.  With female protagonists in particular, it is a sort of young adult trope (since Anne Shirley, perhaps--or maybe Jane Austen or Jane Eyre) that the female character is unusual for being a reader, and consequently for being introspective.  But the primary reason that I think writers who stress the importance of reading do so is because writers tend to be readers, and so they are fully aware of the benefits and joys of reading in their own lives, and want to share these with their own readers--much as I do.  It is also always in a writer's best interest to stress the importance of reading, is it not?  So when a young adult author seems to neglect this message, it can register as significant, particularly when the heroine is neither introspective, nor a reader.

The other reason an absence of literacy is suspicious and worthy of further investigation is that Hunger Games portrays a dystopia.  And like utopian literature, dystopian literature always treats literacy in some way.  I need to double check C. S. Lewis's That Hideous Strength, but science rather than government is the primary danger in that novel, which calls into question whether or not it is a dystopia--but that is a different topic entirely.  Take the two most prominent examples:  1984 and Brave New World.  In both cases, literacy is strictly regulated if not forbidden outright, because ideas derived from reading pose a thread to the State.  In both cases, this fact is played out in the text.  Not so in the Hunger Games.  Why?  And where is literacy?

Well, let's look at the first question first.  The question of Katniss.  I have said before that as a character, I was not drawn to identify with her.  I did come to admire her, for some of the same reasons the other sympathetic characters admired her--her strength, her loyalty, her ability to act, often without thinking.  One of the reasons that I was not drawn to her is that I felt, as a reader, like I was kept at arm's length by the narrative voice.  She is not an introspective character.  In fact, we get the action as it happens.  There is no reflection in part because the narrative forbids it--it is first person present tense.  But as the story progresses, this becomes more natural. Katniss doesn't ruminate.  She's not that kind of personality.  But what if she did?

Returning for a moment to the character of Anne Shirley--it has been decades since I read Anne of Green Gables and Anne of Avonlea, and I didn't particularly like her character.  But she typifies, first, the slightly odd literate heroine--perhaps a bit more odd than some, since authors seem to be trying to make the reading heroine seem unique, special, normal, and popular all at the same time.  I'm thinking here of Cassandra Clare's Tessa Grey in her Infernal Devices series, who, we are told, is very unique, interesting, and bookish, but who is actually just an empty brown-haired shell who likes books; the books supply the personality, in fact.  But Jo March is another slightly odd literate female protagonist... and the list goes on...  So Anne of Green Gables thinks and dreams about everything.  In some ways, she is a female Don Quijote.  She thinks about everything because she has read, and read, and read, and because she sees herself as living her own story, akin to the story in a book.  And sometimes, for fear of what will happen next in her story, she becomes paralyzed, and unable to act.  This typifies a character who is not only literate, but hyper-literate.  A character for whom life is something to ponder, and to analyze, and in some ways, to construct.  Such characters are also highly self-conscious.  Early twentieth-century British literature has notable examples:  J. Alfred Prufrock.  Gabriel Conroy in "The Dead."  They are dreamers and ponderers--over-thinkers, and they don't function terribly well in the real world.  Both of those examples are men, as is Don Quijote.  Looking back to Jane Austen, you have Mary Anne Dashwood the Romantic.  While literate, Margaret Dashwood is more practical, as is Jane Eyre.  When constrained by their social situation, it was perhaps difficult for female characters to be swept into inaction by introspection as the men were, or as Ane Shirley is; however, novels were often described as dangerous for other reasons, as in Louisa May Alcott's works, in which they were potentially a path to immorality for boys and girls.

This little survey is meant to illustrate that for a female (or male) protagonist, reading about life tends to skew one's impression of life, and to cause one to analyze, ruminate, and philosophize about the meaning of life, sometimes to the point of inaction.  Immediately, it should become clear that Katniss cannot operate in the typical mode of a highly literate or hyper-literate character.  Her circumstances require quick and decisive action.  She is strategic, so there is no quesiton as to her intelligence.  And she is capable of analysis, but not for the sheer sake of analysis.  Analysis, for her, is a means to an end--to the specific end of deciding what to do next in order to survive.  Survivial is her life, so in a way, she doesn't have time to read for its own sake--for pleasure, or for the development of her mind.  And in a very real sense, because she has to survive, she doesn't necessarily want to analyze, to philosophize, and to ruminate, either on the purpose of her existence, on her past experiences, or on what she has to do to survive.  She doesn't want to analyze the situation in District 12.  Literacy doesn't offer a path for improvement.  She doesn't want to kill the other tributes, but she has to.  So she does what she can to keep herself from analyzing the problem of the Games. They are inescapable.  It won't help her to dwell on them.  And caught up in the problem of survival, there is neither the need to consume art, nor the leisure to create it.

Having said this, Katniss is literate.  She and Prim go to school.  Like the castes in Brave New World, their education is utilitarian and appropriate to their district's particular trade.  But literacy neither defines her nor helps her.  It is a very minor, utilitarian part of her life--for the most part.

To be continued in Pt. 2

A Bit of a Departure: Triton's Sacrifice in The Little Mermaid

It's not--strictly speaking--a book.  In fact, I don't want to tie it to the Hans Christian Anderson story--which I love--at all, but neither am I here to talk about the shortcomings of the Disney version as compared to the original fairy tale.  My daughters just happened to be watching The Little Mermaid tonight, and I was thinking about all of the ridiculous feminist critiques that my students drummed up for their Introduction to Literature papers when I was teaching with a Re-Visions theme, and how, when asked whether these damning interpretations would have any influence on whether or not they would let their sisters, nieces, or daughters watch the film, they said no, literary criticism would have no bearing on their actions.  And yet, they parroted it.  *sigh*  That class had no idea what I wanted, only a vague idea of what English teachers want.

I watched Ursula in particular.  She's a good villian, and besides the dribble about the reestablishment of the patriarchy when it is Triton's powers that give Ariel her wish instead of having her act on her own accord, I actually agree with much of what the critics say.  Yes. Ursula is absolutely the transgressive embodiment of voluptuous female sexuality.  She is vast and sensual, and greedy and gluttinous.  She is definitely impaled by Eric, and sure--let's call it a symbolic rape.  I'm okay with that.  Eric conquors her sexuality--and she self-destructs.  We have evil sexualized females operating outside of the social order all throughout traditional fairy tales--and yes, Gilbert and Gubar have attacked all of that as well.  But once we establish that, what do we do with it?  If what you do is celebrate all manifestations of assertive female sexuality, then this will resonate as very bad.  The "witch"--who represents what female sexuality is without so-called patriarchal control (which is to say, the woman who operates outside of what is acceptable to the social order)--is revealed as hyper-sexualized and grotesque, and is defeated by the prince.  The reestablishment of the social order by marriage is celebrated, much as it is in Shakespeare's comedies.  If you believe that there is something fundamentally wrong with the social order, then you will necessarily want to criticize this ending.  However, traditional fairy tales do function to reinforce rather than to subvert the social order, and to criticize Disney for doing that is to misunderstand the function, and also to try to recreate Disney in the critic's own image.  I have no problem, then, with Ursula's embodiment of unrestrained sexuality, or with her subsequent defeat.

However, to say that the patriarchy is all that it's cracked up to be in Disney's The Little Mermaid is not to pay attention.  So let's take a look at Triton.  He is not a strong king.  He is not a strong father.  His daughter defies him, gets out from under his thumb, and is rewarded rather than punished for her transgressions.  But that's not where I want to go, either.  Let's look at his self-giving sacrifice for a moment.

When Ursula is about to foreclose on Ariel, transforming her into a little worm-like creature that no doubt has some kind of sexual significance for the feminist critics (I don't get to lay into them too often, and I've got years of grad school to make up for), Triton appears to prevent Ursula's wicked scheme from coming to fruition.  His first act is very manly--he simply blasts the glowing magical contract.  Way to go, masculinity.  Score one for the patriarchy.  Ursula, however, is wise to the ways of the patriarchy.  She knows that brute force is no match for legalisms.  So as it turns out, the contract is legal.  And though she will try to sabotage a contract--which is the only way Ariel did not "win" their bargain, incidentally--she agrees to be bound by them when the decks are stacked in her favor.  So she offers the all-powerful sea king a deal.  His own freedom in exchage for Ariel.

On the surface, Triton's sacrifice is noble.  In fact, if you're not still in 16-year-old girl-power mode, you might notice that he loves his daughter more than his daughter loves him--rather like Cordelia and Lear (another ineffective monarch undone by his daughters/offspring).  But what is he really sacrificing?

Triton is not simply a father.  He is a king.  So by sacrificing himself for Ariel, he is placing her above all of her sisters, his kingdom--oh, and by the way, all of the oceans, and humanity's travel, trade, shipping, couastline cilvilization--and placing them all into the hands of pure, voluptuous evil.  Score another one for the patriarchy.  But he loves his daughter, so it's okay.  I'm not sure I can get behind that.  Particularly when--is it really his daughter he is thinking of, or only parental insecurity?  Is he making it up to Ariel for being a bad father by wrecking the whole world's oceans?  Way to show you care, Dad.

When you add it all up, Ariel's freedom is not worth the sacrifice that he makes.  After all, he is not godlike.  He can't keep up with his own daughter, so we know that he is not concerned with every sparrow.  But what should Triton have done?  The contract was legal, right?

Maybe he knew that Eric would come along--but we've already established that he's not omniscient, so no.  But it is worth noting that Eric kills Ursula--it was always his intent to do so (score one for the land-based patriarchy!)  Why does Ursula deserve to die?  (I mean, besides representing dark female sexuality.)  She has drawn up two contracts, and rightfully secured possession of the ocean, which she will now proceed to destroy.  So misuse of power.  Standard Macchiavelli.  She does rather expect Eric and Ariel to fall in line or be destroyed.  But there was also the small matter of the original contract, which she sabotaged.  And if Eric had the right to destroy her, couldn't Triton have indicted her on that account rather than trying to blast the paper?  Why, yes.  And he had evidence from Sebastian to condemn her for breach of contract. Heh.  Score one for the incompetant patriarch who had to wait for the land mammal to come along and save the day.

Outlander Looks Back on American History and Catholicism: Denying the Sacraments in The Fiery Cross

Every now and then it is good to get a perspective on history.  I find that the latter books of the Outlander series deal in some very interesting ways with pre-Revolutionary American history.  If it amuses me, at times, to think of Jamie Fraser as the ancestor of the Discovery Channel moonshiners, I have a different kind of reaction to the scene, from The Fiery Cross, in which a priest is arrested at the Gathering--presumably to prevent him from administering the Sacrament of Marriage, though Baptism was also on the agenda.  The scene is humorous, serious, and at times deeply irreverent, but poignantly, it reminds us that the recent threat to priests who would administer the Sacraments has some historical precedent:

     He bowed punctiliously. “You say you wish to speak with the clerical gentleman under arrest?”
     “Under arrest?” I affected great surprise at that. “A priest? Why, whatever can he have done?”
     The Sheriff and the magistrate exchanged glances. Then the magistrate coughed.
     “Perhaps you are unaware, madam, that it is illegal for anyone other than the clergy of the established Church— the Church of England, that is— to undertake his office within the colony of North Carolina?”
     I was not unaware of that, though I also knew that the law was seldom put into effect, there being relatively few of any kind of clergy in the colony to start with, and no one bothering to take any official notice of the itinerant preachers— many of them free lances in the most basic sense of the word— who did appear from time to time.
     “Gracious!” I said, affecting shocked surprise to the best of my ability. “No, I had no idea. Goodness me! How very strange!” Mr. Lillywhite blinked slightly, which I took as an indication that that would just about do, in terms of my creating an impression of well -bred shock. I cleared my throat, and brought out the silver flask and case of needles.
     “Well. I do hope any difficulties will be soon resolved. However, I should very much like to see Father Donahue for a moment. As I said, I am his physician. He has an … indisposition”— I slid back the cover of the case, and delicately displayed the needles, letting them imagine something suitably virulent—“ that requires regular treatment. Might I see him for a moment, to administer his medicine? I … ah … should not like to see any mischief result from a lack of care on my part, you know.” I smiled, as charmingly as possible.
. . . . .
     “She wants to see the priest,” Anstruther interrupted.
     Goodwin blinked at that, taken only slightly aback.
     “Priest. There is a priest here?”
     “A Papist,” Mr. Lillywhite amplified, lips curling back a bit from the unclean word. “It came to my attention that there was a Catholic priest concealed in the assembly, who proposed to celebrate a Mass during the festivities this evening. I sent Mr. Anstruther to arrest him, of course.”
     “Father Donahue is a friend of mine,” I put in, as forcefully as possible. “And he was not concealed; he was invited quite openly, as the guest of Mrs. Cameron. He is also a patient, and requires treatment. I’ve come to see that he gets it.”
. . . . .
     Now that I got a clear look at the priest, the impression of martyrdom grew more pronounced. He looked like Saint Stephen after the first volley of stones, with a bruise on his chin and a first-rate black eye, empurpled from browridge to cheekbone and swollen quite shut.
     The nonblackened eye widened at sight of me, and he started up with an exclamation of surprise.
     “Father Kenneth .” I gripped him by the hand and squeezed, smiling broadly for the benefit of whatever audience might be peeking through the flap. “I’ve brought your medicine. How are you feeling?” I raised my eyebrows and waggled them, indicating that he should play along with the deception. He stared at me in fascination for a moment, but then appeared to catch on. He coughed, then, encouraged by my nod, coughed again, with more enthusiasm.
     “It’s … very kind of ye to … think of me, Mrs. Fraser,” he wheezed, between hacks. I pulled off the top of the flask, and poured out a generous measure of whisky.
     “Are you quite all right, Father?” I asked, low-voiced, as I leaned across to hand it to him.
     “Your face …”
     “Oh, it’s nothing, Mrs. Fraser dear, not at all,” he assured me, his faint Irish accent coming out under the stress of the occasion. “’Twas only that I made the mistake of resistin’ when the Sheriff arrested me. Not but what in the shock of it all, I didn’t do a small bit of damage to the poor man’s ballocks, and him only doing of his duty, may God forgive me.” Father Kenneth rolled his undamaged eye upward in a pious expression— quite spoiled by the unregenerate grin underneath.
     Father Kenneth was no more than middle height, and looked older than his years by virtue of the hard wear imposed by long seasons spent in the saddle. Still, he was no more than thirty-five, and lean and tough as whipcord under his worn black coat and frayed linen. I began to understand the Sheriff’s belligerence.
     “Besides,” he added, touching his black eye gingerly, “Mr. Lillywhite did tender me a most gracious apology for the hurt.” He nodded toward the table, and I saw that an opened bottle of wine and a pewter cup stood among the writing materials— the cup still full, and the level of wine in the bottle not down by much.
     The priest picked up the whisky I had poured and drained it, closing his eyes in dreamy benediction.
     “And a finer medicine I hope never to benefit from,” he said, opening them. “I do thank ye, Mistress Fraser. I’m that restored, I might walk on water meself.” He remembered to cough, this one a delicate hack, fist held over his mouth.
     “What’s wrong with the wine?” I asked, with a glance toward the door.
     “Oh, not a thing,” he said, taking his hand away. “Only that I did not think it quite right to accept the magistrate’s refreshments, under the circumstances. Call it conscience.” He smiled at me again, but this time with a note of wryness in the grin.
     “Why have they arrested you?” I asked, my voice low. I looked again at the tent’s door, but it was empty, and I caught the murmur of voices outside. Evidently, Jamie had been right; they weren’t suspicious of me.
     “For sayin’ of the Holy Mass,” he replied, lowering his voice to match mine. “Or so they said. It’s a wicked lie, though. I’ve not said Mass since last Sunday, and that was in Virginia.” He was looking wistfully at the flask. I picked it up and poured another generous tot.
. . . . .
     “I have just been explaining to your husband, madame , that it is my regard for Mrs. Cameron’s interests that led me to attempt to regularize Mr. Donahue’s position, so as to allow his continued presence in the colony.” Mr. Lillywhite nodded coldly at the priest. “However, I am afraid my suggestion was summarily rejected.”
     Father Kenneth put down his cup and straightened up, his working eye bright in the lamplight.
     “They wish me to sign an oath, sir,” he said to Jamie, with a gesture at the paper and quill on the table before him. “To the effect that I do not subscribe to a belief in transubstantiation.”
     “Do they, indeed.” Jamie’s voice betrayed no more than polite interest, but I understood at once what the priest had meant by his remark regarding conscience.
     “Well, he can’t do that, can he?” I said, looking round the circle of men. “Catholics—I mean— we”—I spoke with some emphasis, looking at Mr. Goodwin—“ do believe in transubstantiation. Don’t we?” I asked, turning to the priest, who smiled slightly in response, and nodded.
     Mr. Goodwin looked unhappy, but resigned, his alcoholic joviality substantially reduced by the social awkwardness.
     “I’m sorry, Mrs. Fraser, but that is the law. The only circumstance under which a clergyman who does not belong to the established Church may remain in the colony—legally— is upon the signing of such an oath. Many do sign it. You know the Reverend Urmstone, the Methodist circuit rider? He has signed the oath, as has Mr. Calvert, the New Light minister who lives near Wadesboro.”
     The Sheriff looked smug. Repressing an urge to stamp on his foot, I turned to Mr. Lillywhite.
     “Well, but Father Donahue can’t sign it. So what do you propose to do with him? Throw the poor man in gaol? You can’t do that— he’s ill!” On cue, Father Kenneth coughed obligingly.
     Mr. Lillywhite eyed me dubiously, but chose instead to address Jamie.
     “I could by rights imprison the man, but out of regard for you, Mr. Fraser, and for your aunt, I shall not do so. He must, however, leave the colony tomorrow. I shall have him escorted into Virginia, where he will be released from custody. You may rest assured that all care will be taken to assure his welfare on the journey.” He turned a cold gray eye on the Sheriff, who straightened up and tried to look reliable, with indifferent results.
. . . . .
     Jamie cleared his own throat and drew himself up a bit. “Well, then,” he said. “I wonder whether I might make so bold as to ask …” He paused, seeming slightly embarrassed.
     “Yes, sir?” Lillywhite looked at him curiously.
     “I wonder whether the good Father might be allowed to hear my confession.” Jamie’s eyes were fixed on the tent pole, sedulously avoiding mine. “Your confession?” Lillywhite looked astonished at this, though the Sheriff made a noise that might charitably be called a snigger.
     “Got something pressing on your conscience?” Anstruther asked rudely. “Or p’r’aps you have some premonition of impending death, eh?” He gave an evil smile at this, and Mr. Goodwin, looking shocked, rumbled a protest at him. Jamie ignored both of them, focusing his regard on Mr. Lillywhite.
     “Yes, sir. It has been some time since I last had the opportunity of being shriven, ye see, and it may well be some time before such a chance occurs again. As it is—” At this point , he caught my eye, and made a slight but emphatic motion with his head toward the tent flap. “If ye will excuse us for a moment, gentlemen?”
     Not waiting for a response, he seized me by the elbow and propelled me swiftly outside.
     “Brianna and Marsali are up the path wi’ the weans,” he hissed in my ear, the moment we were clear of the tent. “Make sure Lillywhite and yon bastard of a sheriff are well away, then fetch them in.”
     Leaving me standing on the path, astonished, he ducked back into the tent.
     “Your pardon, gentlemen,” I heard him say. “I thought perhaps … there are some things a man shouldna quite like to be saying before his wife … you understand?”
     There were male murmurs of understanding, and I caught the word “confession” repeated in dubious tones by Mr. Lillywhite. Jamie lowered his voice to a confidential rumble in response, interrupted by a rather loud, “You what?” from the Sheriff , and a peremptory shushing by Mr. Goodwin.
     There was a bit of confused conversation, then a shuffle of movement, and I barely made it off the path and into the shelter of the pines before the tent flap lifted and the three Protestants emerged from the tent. The day had all but faded now, leaving burning embers of sunlit cloud in the sky, but close as they were, there was enough light for me to see the air of vague embarrassment that beset them.
     They moved a few steps down the path, stopping no more than a few feet from my own hiding place. They stood in a cluster to confer, looking back at the tent, from which I could now hear Father Kenneth’s voice, raised in a formal Latin blessing. The lamp in the tent went out, and the forms of Jamie and the priest, dim shadows on the canvas, disappeared into a confessional darkness.
     Anstruther’s bulk sidled closer to Mr. Goodwin.
     “What in f@%$’s name is transubstantiation?” he muttered.
     I saw Mr. Goodwin’s shoulders straighten as he drew himself up, then hunch toward his ears in a shrug.
     “In all honesty, sir, I am not positive of the meaning of the term,” he said, rather primly, “though I perceive it to be some form of pernicious Papist doctrine. Perhaps Mr. Lillywhite could supply you with a more complete definition— Randall?”
     “Indeed,” the magistrate said. “It is the notion that by the priest’s speaking particular words in the course of offering his Mass, bread and wine are transformed into the very substance of Our Savior’s body and blood.” “What?” Anstruther sounded confused. “How can anyone do that?”
     “Change bread and wine into flesh and blood?” Mr. Goodwin sounded quite taken aback. “But that is witchcraft, surely!”
     “Well, it would be, if it happened,” Mr. Lillywhite said, sounding a bit more human . “The Church very rightly holds that it does not.”
     “Are we sure of that?” Anstruther sounded suspicious. “Have you seen them do it?”
     “Have I attended a Catholic Mass? Assuredly not!” Lillywhite’s tall form drew up, austere in the gathering dusk. “What do you take me for, sir!”
     “Now, Randall, I am sure the Sheriff means no offense.” Goodwin put a placatory hand on his friend’s arm. “His office deals with more earthly matters, after all.”
     “No, no, no offense meant, sir, none at all,” Anstruther said hurriedly. “I was meaning more, like, has anybody seen this kind of goings -on, so as to be a decent witness, for the prosecution of it, I mean.”
     Mr. Lillywhite appeared still to be somewhat offended; his voice was cold in reply.
     “It is scarcely necessary to have witnesses to the heresy, Sheriff, as the priests themselves willingly admit to it.”
     “No, no. Of course not.” The Sheriff’s squat form seemed to flatten obsequiously. “But if I’m right, sir, Papists do … er … partake of this— this transubwhatnot, aye?”
     “Yes, so I am told.”
     “Well, then. That’s frigging cannibalism, isn’t it?” Anstruther’s bulk popped up again, enthused. “I know that’s against the law! Why not let this bugger do his bit of hocus-pocus, and we’ll arrest the whole boiling lot of ’em, eh? Get shut of any number of the bastards at one blow, I daresay.”
     Mr. Goodwin emitted a low moan. He appeared to be massaging his face, no doubt to ease a recurrent ache from his tooth.
     Mr. Lillywhite exhaled strongly through his nose.
     “No,” he said evenly. “I am afraid not, Sheriff. My instructions are that the priest is not to be allowed to perform any ceremonial, and shall be prevented from receiving visitors.”
     “Oh, aye? And what’s he doing now, then?” Anstruther demanded, gesturing toward the darkened tent, where Jamie’s voice had begun to speak, hesitant and barely audible. I thought perhaps he was speaking in Latin.
     “That is quite different,” Lillywhite said testily. “Mr. Fraser is a gentleman. And the prohibition against visitors is to insure that the priest shall perform no secret marriages; hardly a concern at present.”
     “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” Jamie’s voice spoke in English, suddenly louder, and Mr. Lillywhite started. Father Kenneth murmured interrogatively.
     “I have been guilty of the sins of lust and impurity, both in thought and in my flesh,” Jamie announced— with what I thought rather more volume than was quite discreet.
     “Oh, to be sure,” said Father Kenneth, suddenly louder too. He sounded interested . “Now , these sins of impurity— what form, precisely, did they take, my son, and upon how many occasions?”
     “Aye, well. I’ve looked upon women with lust, to be starting with. How many occasions— oh, make it a hundred, at least, it’s been a time since I was last to confession. Did ye need to know which women, Father, or only what it was I thought of doing to them?”
     Mr. Lillywhite stiffened markedly.
     “I think we’ll not have time for the lot, Jamie dear,” said the priest. “But if ye were to tell me about one or two of these occasions, just so as I could be formin’ a notion as to the … er … severity of the offense  …?”
     “Och, aye. Well, the worst was likely the time wi ’ the butter churn.”
     “Butter churn? Ah … the sort with the handle pokin ’ up?” Father Kenneth’s tone encompassed a sad compassion for the lewd possibilities suggested by this.
     “Oh, no, Father; it was a barrel churn. The sort that lies on its side, aye , with a wee handle to turn it? Well, it’s only that she was workin’ the churn with great vigor, and the laces of her bodice undone, so that her breasts wobbled to and fro, and the cloth clinging to her with the sweat of her work. Now, the churn was just the right height— and curved, aye?— so as make me think of bendin’ her across it and lifting her skirts, and—”
     My mouth opened involuntarily in shock. That was my bodice he was describing, my breasts, and my butter churn!
. . . . .
     Jamie stopped abruptly as we fumbled our way inside. Then I heard him say quickly, “And sins of anger, pride, and jealousy—oh, and the odd wee bit of lying as well, Father. Amen.” He dropped to his knees, raced through an Act of Contrition in French, and was on his feet and taking Germain from me before Father Kenneth had finished saying the “Ego te absolvo.”
     My eyes were becoming adapted to the dark; I could make out the voluminous shapes of the girls, and Jamie’s tall outline. He stood Germain on the table before the priest, saying, “Quickly, then, Father; we havena much time.”
     “We haven’t any water, either,” the priest observed. “Unless you ladies thought to bring any?” He had picked up the flint and tinderbox, and was attempting to relight the lamp.
     Bree and Marsali exchanged appalled glances, then shook their heads in unison.
     “Dinna fash, Father.” Jamie spoke soothingly, and I saw him reach out a hand for something on the table. There was the brief squeak of a cork being drawn, and the hot, sweet smell of fine whisky filled the tent, as the light caught and grew from the wick, the wavering flame steadying to a small, clear light.
     “Under the circumstances …” Jamie said, holding out the open flask to the priest.
     Father Kenneth’s lips pressed together, though I thought with suppressed amusement, rather than irritation.
     “Under the circumstances, aye,” he repeated. “And what should be more appropriate than the water of life, after all?” He reached up, undid his stock, and pulled up a leather string fastened round his neck , from which dangled a wooden cross and a small glass bottle, stoppered with a cork.
     “The holy chrism ,” he explained, undoing the bottle and setting it on the table. “Thank the Virgin Mother that I had it on my person. The Sheriff took the box with my Mass things.” He made a quick inventory of the objects on the table, counting them off on his fingers. “Fire, chrism , water— of a sort— and a child. Very well, then. You and your husband will stand as godparents to him, I suppose, ma’am?”
     This was addressed to me, Jamie having gone to take up a station by the tent flap.
     “For all of them, Father,” I said, and took a firm grip on Germain, who seemed disposed to leap off the table. “Hold still, darling, just for a moment.”
     I heard a small whish behind me; metal drawn from oiled leather. I glanced back to see Jamie, dim in the shadows, standing guard by the door with his dirk in his hand. A qualm of apprehension curled through my belly, and I heard Bree draw in her breath beside me.
     “Jamie, my son,” said Father Kenneth, in a tone of mild reproval.
     “Be going on with it, if ye please, Father,” Jamie replied, very calmly. “I mean to have my grandchildren baptized this night, and no one shall prevent it.”
     The priest drew in his breath with a slight hiss, then shook his head.
     “Aye. And if you kill someone, I hope there’ll be time for me to shrive you again before they hang us both,” he muttered, reaching for the oil. “If there’s a choice about it, try for the Sheriff, will you, man dear?”
     Switching abruptly to Latin, he pushed back Germain’s heavy mop of blond hair and his thumb flicked deftly over forehead, lips, and then— diving under the boy’s gown in a gesture that made Germain double up in giggles— heart, in the sign of the Cross.
     “On-behalf-of-this-child-do-you-renounce-Satan-and-all-his-works?” he asked, speaking so fast that I scarcely realized he was speaking English again, and barely caught up in time to join with Jamie in the godparents’ response, dutifully reciting, “I do renounce them.”
     I was on edge, keeping an ear out for any noises that might portend the return of Mr. Lillywhite and the Sheriff, envisioning just what sort of brouhaha might ensue if they did come back to discover Father Kenneth in the midst of what would surely be considered an illicit “ceremonial.”
     I glanced back at Jamie; he was looking at me, and gave me a faint smile that I thought was likely meant for reassurance. If so, it failed utterly; I knew him too well. He wanted his grandchildren baptized, and he would see their souls safely given into God’s care, if he died for it— or if we all went to gaol, Brianna, Marsali , and the children included. Of such stuff are martyrs made, and their families are obliged to lump it.
     “Do-you-believe-in-one-God-the-Father-the-Son-and-the-Holy-Ghost?”
     “Stubborn man,” I mouthed at Jamie. His smile widened, and I turned back, hastily chiming in with his firm, “I do believe.” Was that a footfall on the path outside, or only the evening wind, making the tree branches crack as it passed?
     The questions and responses finished, and the priest grinned at me, looking like a gargoyle in the flickering lamplight. His good eye closed briefly in a wink.
     “We’ll take it that your answers will be the same for the others, shall we, ma’am? And what will be this sweet lad’s baptismal name?”
     Not breaking his rhythm, the priest took up the whisky flask, and dribbled a careful stream of spirit onto the little boy’s head, repeating, “I baptize thee, Germain Alexander Claudel MacKenzie Fraser, in the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Amen.”
     Germain watched this operation with profound interest , round blue eyes crossing as the amber liquid ran down the shallow bridge of his nose and dripped from its stubby tip. He put out a tongue to catch the drops, then made a face at the taste.
     “Ick,” he said clearly. “Horse piss.”
     Marsali made a brief, shocked “Tst!” at him, but the priest merely chuckled , swung Germain off the table, and beckoned to Bree.
     She held Jemmy over the table, cradled in her arms like a sacrifice. She was intent on the baby’s face, but I saw her head twitch slightly, her attention drawn by something outside. There were sounds on the path below; I could hear voices. A group of men, I thought, talking together, voices genial but not drunken.
     I tensed , trying not to look at Jamie. If they came in, I decided, I had better grab Germain, scramble under the far edge of the tent, and run for it . I took a preparatory grip on the collar of his gown, just in case. Then I felt a gentle nudge as Bree shifted her weight against me.
     “It’s all right, Mama,” she whispered. “It’s Roger and Fergus.” She nodded toward the dark, then returned her attention to Jemmy.
     It was, I realized, and the skin of my temples prickled with relief. Now that I knew, I could make out the imperious , slightly nasal sound of Fergus’s voice, raised in a lengthy oration of some kind, and a low Scottish rumble that I thought must be Roger’s. A higher-pitched titter that I recognized as Mr. Goodwin’s drifted through the night, followed by some remark in Mr. Lillywhite’s aristocratic drawl.
     I did glance at Jamie this time. He still held the dirk, but his hand had fallen to his side , and his shoulders had lost a little of their tension. He smiled at me again, and this time I returned it.
     Jemmy was awake, but drowsy. He made no objection to the oil, but startled at the cold touch of the whisky on his forehead, eyes popping open and arms flinging wide. He uttered a high-pitched “Yeep!” of protest, then, as Bree gathered him hastily up into his blanket against her shoulder, screwed up his face and tried to decide whether he was sufficiently disturbed to cry about it.
     Bree patted his back like a bongo drum and made little hooting noises in his ear, distracting him. He settled for plugging his mouth with a thumb and glowering suspiciously at the assemblage, but by that time, Father Kenneth was already pouring whisky on the sleeping Joan, held low in Marsali’s arms.
     “I baptize thee, Joan Laoghaire Claire Fraser,” he said, following Marsali’s lead, and I glanced at Marsali, startled. I knew she was called Joan for Marsali’s younger sister, but I hadn’t known what the baby’s other names would be. I felt a small lump in my throat, watching Marsali’s shawled head bent over the child. Both her sister and her mother, Laoghaire , were in Scotland; the chances of either ever seeing this tiny namesake were vanishingly small.
     Suddenly, Joan’s slanted eyes popped wide open and so did her mouth. She let out a piercing shriek, and everyone started as though a bomb had exploded in our midst.
     “Go in peace, to serve the Lord! And go fast!” Father Kenneth said, his fingers already nimbly corking up bottle and flask, frantically whisking away all traces of the ceremony . Down the path, I could hear voices raised in puzzled question.
     Marsali was out the tent flap in a flash, the squalling Joan against her breast, a protesting Germain clutched by the hand. Bree paused just long enough to put a hand behind Father Kenneth’s head and kiss him on the forehead.
     “Thank you, Father,” she whispered, and was gone in a flurry of skirts and petticoats.
     Jamie had me by the arm and was hustling me out of the tent as well, but stopped for a half-second at the door, turning back.
     “Father?” he called in a whisper. “Pax vobiscum!”
     Father Kenneth had already seated himself behind the table, hands folded, the accusing sheets of blank paper spread out once more before him. He looked up, smiling slightly, and his face was perfectly at peace in the lamplight, black eye and all.
     “Et cum spiritu tuo , man,” he said, and raised three fingers in parting benediction.

And if this looks lazy of me, since there is no analysis, let me just say that inserting all of those hard returns and indents was pretty tedious!


Gabaldon, Diana (2002-10-01). The Fiery Cross (Outlander). Random House Publishing Group. Kindle Edition.

Fiery Cross: Dignity in Suffering

Sometimes, when focusing on just one aspect of a work, we get bogged down.  I am interested in the treatment of reproductive issues in the Outlander books, but I am completely bogged down by them, because there's so much there, and because I've written about it at such length already.  So... as I continue to read (and I admit to being bogged down a little bit in the series; at this point, I'm sort of just waiting for the next book, and for Rick Riordan's The House of Hades in paperback or some other discounted format...), I am putting things off for later.  I did this with Voyager, and never came back, but sometimes that's what has to be done.  And putting it off for later analysis is definitely easier with the Kindle format.  When I am reading a paper copy, I don't want to flip too many pages past the passage that I want to analyze because I'm not marking the copy.

As I was reading during my lunch hour today, I came across a scene that struck me as being true--and that I believe speaks to the reader in a particular way.  At the Gathering of the Clans that begins in Drums in Autumn (a poor title, really) and continues into The Fiery Cross (which arguably contains the content that the title of Drums was referring to), Roger MacKenzie, whom I see as participating in the weakened masculinity of the 20th Century as much as Frank in the earlier books, makes the rounds of certain families to enlist their help in an attempt by the governor to prevent revolt.  While making the rounds, he encounters a strong woman, "Auld Joan," who has become the head of her family because of the inability of her brother to assume the role:

     “A bhràthair, here’s Captain MacKenzie,” she said, reaching out a hand to the man that lay on a pallet of dry grass under the blanket’s shelter. Roger felt a sudden shock at the man’s appearance, but suppressed it.

     A spastic, they would have called him in the Scotland of Roger’s own time; what did they call such a condition now? Perhaps nothing in particular; Fraser had said only, He has nay speech.

     No, nor proper movement , either. His limbs were bony and wasted, his body twisted into impossible angles. A tattered quilt had been laid over him, but his jerking movements had pulled it awry, so that the cloth was bunched, wrenched hard between his legs, and his upper body was left exposed, the worn shirt also rumpled and pulled half off by his struggles. The pale skin over shoulder and ribs gleamed cold and blue-toned in the shadows.

 Nevertheless, his sister involves him in the decision to send men of the family to this skirmish or to withold them, and the revelation to Roger, and to the reader, that follows is quite profound, and sheds light on previous events in the series involving life, death, and dignity:

     Joan Findlay cupped a hand about the man’s cheek and turned his head so that he could look at Roger. “This will be my brother Iain, Mr. MacKenzie,” she said, her voice firm, daring him to react. 

     The face too was distorted, the mouth pulled askew and drooling, but a pair of beautiful—and intelligent —hazel eyes looked back at Roger from the ruin. He took firm grip of his feelings and his own features, and reached out, taking the man’s clawed hand in his own. It felt terrible, the bones sharp and fragile under skin so cold it might have been a corpse’s.

     “Iain Mhor,” he said softly . “I have heard your name. Jamie Fraser sends ye his regards.”

     The eyelids lowered in a graceful sweep of acknowledgment, and came up again, regarding Roger with calm brightness.

The expressiveness of the eyes immediately puts to rest any thought that this man is not a participant in the life of his family--and that fact exists quite apart from the care with which his sister has kept him alive and preserved his dignity and his place in the family.

In our own time, we have debates about the quality of life of severely disabled individuals.  On the one hand is the abstract notion of "quality of life," and the assumption that if one's life does not meet certain criteria, the misery of that knowledge or that state of being, or its limitations, make death preferable.  On the other hand is the--perhaps equally abstract notion of "dignity of life," a notion which seems to be contradicted by the undignified position of the severely disabled.  This scene cuts through all of the abstraction, however, and shows the reader what is at stake--and what is at stake is the soul, which is very much alive.

I have not mentioned them before now, but I have maked "for future discussion," if you will, scenes in which a main character--Claire most often, or in one case, Dougal MacKenzie--was the agent of death for someone who was suffering.  In three cases, it was not so-called "passive" euthenasia, though once Claire did simply withold treatment from a man who was bleeding to death with the knowledge that he would die a horrible death from infection if he survived the boar attack.  In two cases, Claire administered drugs--in a 20th Century hospital, and in the event of a near-lynching.  Dougal acted more in a more direct manner, speeding the death of a kinsman with his sword--unlike the medically assisted examples, it is not an "easy" death.  But each case was cast as a mercy killing, and each does, indeed, put an end to earthly suffering.  At no time during these scenes does the narrative evoke dignity in suffering.

Here, however, there is suffering, and there is also dignity.  The suffering is not man-made suffering resulting from violence.  Nor is it represented as a terminal illness--though it is likely degenerative.  It is a narrative moment when the author's Catholic background shines through, and it is one to notice, and perhaps to ponder against the examples of mercy killings in the other books of the series.

Gabaldon, Diana (2002-10-01). The Fiery Cross (Outlander) (Kindle Locations 2645-2646). Random House Publishing Group. Kindle Edition. 

Just for Fun: Wordles of my Fiction

For even more fun, which two are the same story told in narrative fiction and narrative verse?  (Okay, I didn't realize it was so obvious...)

Drums: More "Women's Issues" (Pt. 2)

The writing of this post resembled a research paper--I can only hope it doesn't read like one.  Here, I try to give an overview of how the Outlander books build up a preoccupation with sexuality, bound up with fertility, that develops, in later books, into a curious near-feminist statement on birth control and reproduction.

The Early Books

From the first novel, Outlander, Gabaldon's novels have been focused on reproduction and fertility in one way or another.  At first, the focus is negative--that is, the absence of fertility. Claire wants to get pregnant. She has a duty  to get pregnant.  But she can't get pregnant.  The novel ends on a positive note for Jamie and Claire.

Geilie Duncan, on the other hand, does get pregnant in Outlander, and does so deliberately, in order to have a hold on the father.  I believe that there is also the implication that she dabbles in abortifacients, for her own unwanted offspring and for other women.  Her pregnancy is both her means of exposure and her means of buying Claire's escape (Outlander) and eventually her own (as Claire learns in Voyager).

Fertility becomes a problem for Claire and those around her in wholly new ways in Dragonfly in Amber, as Claire experiences pregnancy complications, and as she befriends a coquette who finds herself pregnant by her lover at an inopportune time, and a young girl who is completely ignorant of sex and its ties to reproduction.  In these contexts, and in her work at L'Hopital des Anges, Claire first encounters and contemplates Eighteenth-century abortion, and first teaches sex-ed (of a sort).   Nevertheless, Claire's advice to Mary after an interrupted rape is not textbook Twentieth-Century advice:

"Am I going to have a baby?" she blurted out, looking  up fearfully.  "You said..."
"No," I said , as firmly as I could. "You aren't. He wasn't able to...finish." In the folds of my skirt, I crossed both pairs of fingers, hoping fervently that I was right. The chances were very small indeed, but such freaks had been known to happen.  (Dragonfly 360)

Claire is clearly hedging here, but the certainty she expresses to Mary to prevent the girl from panicking contrasts directly with her stance on coitus interruptus in Drums of Autumn, and although the two situations are different--in one case the man is forced to discontinue the incomplete act while in the other, he does reach climax--the risk of pregnancy is similar in each case, speaking biologically rather than statistically.

Eighteenth and Twentieth Century Men and Fertility

In previous books, the relationship between men and fertility is straightforward:  Frank wants a child of his own (though he's not too sure he could love an adopted one); Jamie wants a child of his own. In Voyager, things get more complex for men and women, in the Eighteenth and Twentieth Centuries.

In Voyager, a good part of the action takes place in the Twentieth Century, which generally manifests its own particular form of sexism under the veneer of more enlightened attitudes toward sexuality.  Frank has learned that he can, indeed, love another man's child--particularly since he is infertile himself.  Nevertheless, he manifests Twentieth Century chauvenism by philandering while staying with Claire while they raise Bree.  This wouldn't seem to lend itself to judgment of Bree, but he seems to presume that she is as guilty of promiscuous tendencies as any undergraduate of the college, stating bluntly that "she'll be off with the first fellow who--" (what, we don't know).  (If Bree only knew, she might not think that Frank would be kinder to her than Jamie, when Jamie calls her a wanton in Drums of Autumn...)  When Claire interrupts Frank, defending Bree, she adds a certain Sexual Revolution "wisdom":  "Besides, all young people experiment, that’s how they learn. You can’t keep her swaddled in cotton wool all her life”  (Voyager 268).  The curious thing is that she upholds Bree's right to experiment--suggesting that Bree might, in fact, be "off with the first fellow who..." and at the same time defends Bree's virtue.  Frank continues with a particularly nasty bit of racism.

While Claire is living with philandering Frank in the Twentieth Century, Jamie adopts some of Claire's erstwhile Eighteenth-Century roles, namely sexual education (albeit in an ironic sense), critique of his century's (Biblical?) view of women, and acknowledment of the dangers of childbearing.  All of these contexts interact in interesting ways with his own masculinity, showing clearly how female identity and its constraints and dangers influence how men are able to be--and expected to be--men.  The most poignant damage done to Jamie's masculinity happens through the person of Geneva, who blackmails him into sex, conceives his child (perhaps intentionally, as she "looks at him with new interest" when Jamie warns her to summon him when she is least fertile), and dies in childbirth.  When explaining the situation to Claire, he confesses his guilt, which carries the realization that his sexuality, which he has already felt as shameful because of Geneva, is also deadly:

“No,” he said softly. “She  …   wanted me. I should have found a way— should have stopped her, but I could not. She wished me to lie wi’ her. And I did, and  …   she died of it.” He did look down then, long lashes hiding his eyes. “I am guilty of her death, before God; perhaps the more guilty— because I did not love her.”  (Voyager 940-941).

Claire's Mission 

In both centuries, it is up to Claire to be the voice of Enlightment as regards sexuality in general, and contraception in particular.  So Voyager functions as a kind of primer of Claire's mature knowledge of and philosophies on sex and reproduction, influenced by her medical training against the backrdrop of emerging Twentieth Century attitudes toward sex and their culmination in the 1960s.  Claire's return to the past represents not only a reunion with Jamie, and the continued consummation of their love, but also a mission of sorts--to spread sexual education to 18th Century women, thus improving their overall condition (we learn in Drums that this has been a Twentieth Century mission of hers as well--more on this later).  It starts with her observation of the affects of childbearing on women who were ignorant of hygiene and nutrition:

Nineteen when the eldest was born, and Maisri was ten now. She was twenty-nine. And I, blessed by good nutrition, hygiene, and dentistry, not worn down by multiple pregnancies and hard physical labor, looked a good deal younger than she.  (Voyager 311-312)

The dangers of childbith, and the detriment to men and women that come from those dangers, are so much a part of Voyager that Jamie picks up that traditional wartime rhetoric--the comparison between childbirth and battle:

“I’m a man, Sassenach,” he said, very softly. “If I thought there was a choice  …   then I maybe couldna do it. Ye dinna need to be so brave about things if ye ken ye canna help it, aye?” He looked at me then, with a faint smile. “Like a woman in childbirth, aye? Ye must do it, and it makes no difference if you’re afraid— ye’ll do it. It’s only when ye ken ye can say no that it takes courage.”  (Voyager 877)

A less comfortable revelation than his night with Geneva, Jamie's failed marriage to Laoghaire makes clear, by degrees, that women stand not only to lose their looks, their health, and their life, but also sexual pleasure.   Influenced by her mother's warnings and fears of Jamie, Laoghaire's daughter Marsali, who has seen that Claire enjoys sex, confides her fears that childbearing will prevent her enjoyment of the marriage act.  Marsali is comparatively well-educated on the topic when she poses her question to Claire:

     “Weel, it’s to do wi’ bairns,” she explained. “And how ye get them.”
     I raised one eyebrow. “Your mother didn’t tell you where babies come from?”
     She snorted impatiently, her small blond brows knotted in fierce scorn. “O’ course I ken where they come from! Any fool knows that much. Ye let a man put his prick between your legs, and there’s the devil to pay, nine months later. What I want to know is how ye don’t get them.”

Specifically, she confesses to Claire, anticipating her marriage to Fergus, “I want to like it.... When we get to the prick part”  (Voyager 706-707).  Marsali's question leads Claire into her first explicit lesson on contraception, 18th Century style:

     “So there is a way?”
     “There are a lot of ways, and unfortunately most of them don’t work,” I told her, with a pang of regret for my prescription pad and the reliability of contraceptive pills. Still, I remembered well enough the advice of the maîtresses sage-femme, the experienced midwives of the Hôpital des Anges, where I had worked in Paris twenty years before. (Voyager 711)

[....] 

     “Here,” I said, pulling out a large chunk of cleaned sponge. I took one of the thin surgical knives from the fitted slots in the lid of the box and carefully sliced off several thin pieces, about three inches square. I searched through the box again and found the small bottle of tansy oil, with which I carefully saturated one square under Marsali’s fascinated gaze.
     “All right,” I said. “That’s about how much oil to use. If you haven’t any oil, you can dip the sponge in vinegar— even wine will work, in a pinch. You put the bit of sponge well up inside you before you go to bed with a man— mind you do it even the first time; you can get with child from even once.”  (Voyager 711-712)

So here we have it--explicit instructions for the 18th Century contraceptive sponge.  And at the same time, the first really direct contraceptive propoganda, complete with the admonition that a woman can get pregnant even from the first time--which, by now, we have learned from Jamie and Geneva.  This is textbook sex ed, though interesting.  I would want to know whether this is a historically accurate birth control method (something I suppose Google would tell me--or the dreaded Wikipedia), and what the actual effectiveness is, given that Claire is recommending it as at least somewhat reliable from her Twentieth-Century authority and her Eighteenth-Century practical wisdom.

But more than that, I wonder about the role it plays in the novel.  It signals to the reader, certainly, that Claire is serious about contraception, and signals this in a big way.  Whereas there is commentary earlier in the books on the state of women who are burdened with multiple pregnancies, particularly in an age lacking in hygeine and nutrition, and action in the novel that dramaties the dangers of childbirth and its implications for men and women, when Claire actually dispenses birth control rather than providing commentary, the reader is asked to take notice in a whole new way.  The gesture not only says, "Unregulated birth is a problem for women," it provides the solution, backed by Claire's medical authority, Twentieth Century wisdom, and position as the central character in the Outlander novels.  Moreover, the action is presented as amoral.  There is no indication that the Church or religion condemn contraception, although there are a couple of digs at St. Paul for not particularly liking women.  Rather, there is a strange little scene when Claire visits her stillborn daughter Faith at the Hôpital des Anges:

As we walked slowly back, I noticed other small stones set here and there among the larger ones.
     “Are those all children?” I asked, a little surprised.
     “The children of the nuns,” she said matter-of-factly. I gaped at her in astonishment, and she shrugged, elegant and wry as always.
     “It happens,” she said. She walked a few steps farther, then added, “Not often, of course.” She gestured with her stick around the confines of the cemetery. “This place is reserved for the sisters, a few benefactors of the Hôpital— and those they love.”
     “The sisters or the benefactors?”
     “The sisters...."  (Voyager 629)

This clearly means that the sisters have had tristes, and that those unions have resulted in children.  The fate of the children is less certain.  Did they simply die?  It might be strange for so many to have died in childhood, though perhaps not.  The uniformity of the size of the graves suggests infanticide or abortion--sinister alternatives glossed over with a shrug and almost... understanding.  Not quite a divine pass, but definitely stopping short of narrative condemnation, since neither of these strong, authoritative women seems to condemn.

So why the contraceptive propoganda--why now, in the third book?  Why continuing throughout the series--even into the newest volume, due out in March?  What seems clear is that fertility is a preoccupation of the author--as well it might be for a female author.  As it is, in fact, for me. And there is no doubt that the novels romaniticize sexuality.  They do so, however, in a very specific way--by romanticizing near-impossible marital sexual passion and prowess.  If a reader isn't paying attention, however, good sex with a tall Scotsman might be mistaken for the union between Claire and Jamie, and it is a reality that there are many, many women--many young women certainly, and just as certainly women of other staeges of life--who are confused or deluded about sex--whatever "being confused about sex" means to my readers, who no doubt see sexuality and reproduction in a few different ways, complete with nuances.  The novels are not, I would say, feminist overall, but they do have this element of feminism:  the need to warn women about the reprocussions of sexual activity.  Perhaps it has to do with responsibility--the woman's, or the author's.  In the first two novels, Claire either fears herself barren, or carries a child.  So in the books in which sexuality carries such a locus of power, there is, in fact, very little emphasis on unwanted consequences.  So perhaps the lesson from Voyager forward is that Claire's barrenness shouldn't lure young women into false securiy?  What, in fact, is the reader supposed to glean from these lessons?

I do read them as a lesson for the reader--and one that is reemphasized, almost ad nauseum.  But for all that, there is still some ambiguity, and some room for the reader to negotiate levels of awareness of fertility and its power, use of birth control, and occasions of self-giving.  Jamie and Claire remain open--well, almost.  So the conflict between what is good for the woman according to Claire's wisdom, and what is powerful and vital, is played out between the other "power couple"--Brianna and Roger.

To be continued...

Gabaldon, Diana (2004-10-26). Dragonfly in Amber (Outlander). Random House, Inc.. Kindle Edition.Gabaldon, Diana (2004-10-26). Drums of Autumn (Outlander). Random House Publishing Group. Kindle Edition.

Sonnet: Suburban Love - Revisited

When I was seventeen, I wrote a poem
rejecting what I called 'Suburban Love,'
as represented by the type of home
that middle class's newlyweds dream of.
Addressed to someone whom I didn't love,
it priviledged torment, promiscuity
over losing desire for what I couldn't have--
that wouldn't make me happy anyway.
But what was happiness at seventeen?
I look at life with you, and still don't have
Sylvania lighting, high-end floors.  Between
mild luxury and poverty, we live
weighted with bills, from month-to-month, and day--
and knowing love, would have it what other way?


Perhaps it's not fair to write a poem that responds to a poem that, for all practical purposes, is lost.  It was called "No Suburban Love," and what I can remember of it goes like this:

I'll never have that soft suburban love
Adorned with plush carpets, [....], a cat
I want to layer pain upon pain, and live
remembering faces in you--after you--after you.

The last line imagines a succession of lovers who would not necessarily be satisfactory because of the lover who was lost, but who would echo that lost lover in some way.  I remember writing it, and I do remember the painful longing that characterized that particular point in my life.  I believe I was actually 18--not seventeen, but seventeen had the right number of syllables for my purposes here.  In a way, too, this poem was an expression of my desire to 'strive for the infinite' rather than settling down into complacent domesticity. Little did I know that domesticity would not necessarily bring rest from striving...

Drums: More "Women's Issues" (Pt. 1)

It's an ambitious title for a post, no? [Refers to a previous title] And a long time coming.  It's the post that I really wanted to write when I intially finished the books, but the more I reread, the less I want to write about it because I've already got it all worked out in my head and now I want to move past it.  But it's very much a part of the Outlander books.  So here goes...

One thing that struck me when I was initially reading Outlander is that the novel did not toe the feminist line by denouncing historical gender roles as necessarily oppressive and unjust.  Rather, it is often the case that the historical limitations on what women could do in society, the need for women to be protected by their men (most often from other men), are validated, and the lot of women not so terrible--or at any rate, no worse than what men had to endure.  A good example of this is the should-be-scandalous spanking scene.  Reading the Little House Books to my daughters, I recently realized that the justification in those books for corporal punishment was much the same as Jamie's justification to Claire in Outlander, and while she is his wife rather than his child, the fact that her disobediance did endanger everyone does suggest the need for some type of consequence--at least in that society.  Repeatedly through the first two books, Claire's twentieth-century headstong nature, while one of her strengths, proves to be out-of bounds and dangerous to her and to those around her.  In the struggle between female independence and history, history prevails.

I was also struck after a while--though not at first--by representations of 18th Century women and their fertility.  Claire is the only major female character in Outlander, and she is unable to become pregnant--first in the Twentieth Century, and then in the Eighteeth Century.  She seems to be barren.  In the Twentieth Century, she and Frank want a child.  In the Eighteenth Century, she is expected to want a child, and while she is a bit more ambivalent about the prospect, she is still open to the possibility of life--and after a while, she wants to give Jamie a child.  The first book, then, treats fertility as something desirable, if risky.  Even the fecundity of Jenny and Ian (the elder) is basically a good thing, though she is weary.  Jenny wouldn't have it any other way, and expects to bear many children.  In Drums of Autumn, Jamie articulates it very simply in response to the implication, stated by his own (unknowing) offspring, that Scots breed like rabbits:

“Scottish families are sometimes large, aye.” Jamie plucked a wren’s down feather from the small box and laid it delicately against the shank of his hook. “We think children a blessing.”

However, as the books progress, the narrative seems to make an effort to correct the error inadvertantly committed in Outlander, the book that Diana Gabaldon wrote, according to her own account, as an experiment, never completely expecting it to be published.  It is a risky novel, and by implication (as a discourse on the dangers of pregnancy and the need to limit births creeps in) one of the bold and perhaps inadvisable moves (Books 2 through 7 suggest) is the depiction of unrestricted, unprotected sex.  It is perhaps the prominance of the birth control message in the subsequent books that make it seem not only like a backlash against its absence in the first book, but also like a particular, pointed message aimed at the reader.  Don't think, the books seem to suggest, that this is the right way to live.  Even Claire's Twentieth Century pregnancy is risky, and Claire denies medicated childbirth because she is afraid that she will die in childbirth, even with available medical interventions.

The discourse of birth control does not, however, revolve around Claire, though Claire is the source of much of the emotional and physical vulnerability that surrounds pregnancy and childbirth, including miscarriage.  In fact, it is striking that the sexual relationship between Jamie and Claire--which is the ideal around which the novels are built--remains largely untainted by concerns with birth control. Once or twice we do learn that the pre-menopausal Claire is not taking chances this time around, but for other characters, birth control is much more a part of the story, and in the case of Bree and Roger, it is much more an anxiety of the male.  More on this later, because I don't think it actually works out in poor Roger's favor.  The message we get, increasingly, is that children are good, childbirth, pregnancy, and unregulated births are dangerous to women and undermine their autonomy.  However, the contradictory message that we get is that children are good--very good--much to be desired, that children strenghten a family and provide a powerful bond between men and women that is not always respected, and that men for whom female fertility is a source of anxiety are comparatively weak.  This will require some proving, I know.  So my feeling is that the narrative of birth control is still somewhat reactionary, which makes it all that much more artificial to me--again, as if the reader is being cautioned not to see unrestrained sexuality as an absolute good.  If there's a discourse on chastity, I haven't found it--such would be the Catholic remedy for the tendency toward licentiousness.

But what begins in Dragonfly in Amber surfaces in a big way in Drums of Autumn.  In my next post, I plan to review how the theme builds.  Eventually, I will take a closer look at some of the scenes, dialogues, and curcumstances that build into the discourse on birth control.

Gabaldon, Diana (2004-10-26). Drums of Autumn (Outlander) (Kindle Locations 10291-10292). Random House Publishing Group. Kindle Edition. 

About rereading Harry Potter...

So I know I didn't really blog Harry Potter when I reread the books this summer.  Part of it was that I was moving during most of the reading process.  Part of it was that I was reading just to read--not necessarily looking for things to analyze.  I did find one or two things along the way, and I did give some final thoughts, here (toward the end).  But all in all, not a concentrated effort in blogging or analysis.  I even got rather tired of the books--about the time Sirius showed up and started acting like an overgrown adolescent--but somehow I couldn't stop reading until Voldemort was dead.  I think the more I read the books, the less I like the supporting characters.

But now that I've finished, and I'm rereading Drums of Autumn (the Outlander book with the title I get wrong more times than not), I find myself going through the day thinking, "Hmmm, I'll just go home and read about Hermione impersonating Bellatrix Lestrange..." or "Yeah, Harry's cleaning up Sirius's place... oh, wait..."  It's like the meme that you can't move on to the next book because you're still living in the previous book's world.

I was also thinking about what readers of this blog--you, my friends--seem to be most interested in.  And I think it's the personality type reading theory (which I must have mentioned in more than the two posts linked... no? well...)  Now, each of the Harry Potter books is very different, and the first three engage the reader in very different ways than the last 4.  Book 4 is a transitional book in more than one way, and also has the most symmetry in its structure, being a mystery of sorts.  It is the most pleasing to me in terms of its construction.  But Book 5 is my favorite of all, I think.  So I wonder...  Might the Harry Potter series be a good place to start with consideration of personality types and reading preferences?  Does anyone out there have a favorite Harry Potter book?  If so, let me know (and remind me of your personality type (Literacy-chic:  Book 5, INFP).

Plagiarism: A sonnet

I had a dream that was not all a dream:
We were as clouds that veil the midnight moon
And goodly states and kingdoms had we seen;
And the world was ever with us--late and soon.
There is sweet music here that softer falls
upon the straits--on the French coast the light
changes, surprises--and God made it all!
Dim now, through misty panes and thick green light.
If but some vengeful god would call to me
for every tatter in its mortal dress
from ranches of isolation and busy griefs,
and make a welcome of indifference...
Or how can a poet's reach exceed her grasp
in an age of scum, spooned off the richer past?

Un-sonnet-ed

I almost like #3 better like this:

The clouds hang low.
There's moisture in the air.
I wake an hour earlier today.
I'll do the same tomorrow, if I can bear the weight
of the new routine.
My daughters play and bicker as they brush their teeth.
My son is off to catch the bus.
He doesn't drive.
A mortal sin for teenagers.
The one thing I want most is coffee.
Lucky I've got someone making it so perfectly--sticky and sweet.
The morning is a knot of hair and limbs and shoes and socks and bread for sandwiches.
Until it's only me, driving.
The coffee's gone.
And what I've got is a poem.
Disjointed like the day ahead.