“And you, my Sassenach? What were you born for? To be lady of a manor, or to sleep in the fields like a gypsy? To be a healer, or a don’s wife, or an outlaw’s lady?”
“I was born for you,” I said simply, and held out my arms to him.
“Ye know,” he observed, letting go at last, “you’ve never said it.”
“Neither have you.”
“I have. The day after we came. I said I wanted you more than anything.”
“ And I said that loving and wanting weren’t necessarily the same thing,” I countered.
He laughed. “Perhaps you’re right, Sassenach.” He smoothed the hair from my face and kissed my brow. “I wanted ye from the first I saw ye—but I loved ye when you wept in my arms and let me comfort you, that first time at Leoch.”
The sun sank below the line of black pines, and the first stars of the evening came out. It was mid-November, and the evening air was cold, though the days still kept fine. Standing on the opposite side of the fence, Jamie bent his head, putting his forehead against mine.
“You first.”
“No, you.”
“Why?”
“I’m afraid.”
“Of what, my Sassenach?” The darkness was rolling in over the fields, filling the land and rising up to meet the night. The light of the new crescent moon marked the ridges of brow and nose, crossing his face with light.
“I’m afraid if I start I shall never stop.”
He cast a glance at the horizon, where the sickle moon hung low and rising. “It’s nearly winter, and the nights are long, mo duinne.” He leaned across the fence, reaching, and I stepped into his arms, feeling the heat of his body and the beat of his heart.
“I love you.”As part of the ongoing read-along of Diana Gabaldon's Outlander novels, a promotion on the Diana Gabaldon (official) Facebook page to re-invigorate the already vigorous fan-base in anticipation of the March release of Written in My Own Heart's Blood, "Ashley," the Random House communications person posted the above passage from Outlander, to the admiration of many swooning fans. I mentioned this initiative in my last blog post, and while I think it's interesting, I take issue with the method. Why, you ask? Well, I would not read the books based on the above passage. Even seeing it out of context makes me cringe more than a little. It was probably at this point in the novel (or a little before) when I started entertaining significant suspicions about the genre--would I have to go into the ROMANCE NOVEL section in order to buy the next installment?? That I am a book snob (though an odd one) is not a surprise if you have read this blog before.
What we have here is not what I would call a "notable moment." Perhaps it's a swoon-worthy moment or some such, but it does not pull thoughts in my mind. It is perhaps a matter for Aristotelian rhetorical terms--this passage is making an appeal by way of pathos, eliciting emotion from the reader. And while it is effective in context, it just registers as, well, sappy out of context. There are undoubtedly appeals by means of pathos throughout the Outlander series--and perhaps especially in Book 1. But though some readers might engage with this element, they are not the substance of the works. And, frankly, this marketing ploy is losing me--to the extent that it ever had me.
"Ashley" should, perhaps, take a cue from Diana Gabaldon herself, who personally posts (if the internet is to be trusted) "Daily Lines" from her novels, most notably from the upcoming novel, on Facebook and (occasionally) on her blog. Very rarely, first of all, do these "Daily Lines" tell a whole story. They are evocative, and they leave more unsaid than they do said in most cases. This is particularly important because Gabaldon is posting lines from a previously unpublished, soon-to-be-published manuscript. She only posts scenes that whet the appetite--none that satisfy--which means that the reader, who has already read some substantial bits from the novel by this time, does not have the sense that she now knows what will happen in the book.
That strategy fits with Gabaldon's purpose of posting from the upcoming novel. Her publicity agents are not following the same strategy. Rather, assuming that the reader of the Facebook is already a fan, the agent is posting more complete scenes, like the one above. The scenes are rather to evoke the nostalgia that fans--many of whom reread the books frequently--have for the characters' romance. This works for certain fans, as the hundreds of comments and thousands of "likes" on Facebook indicate. However, it does not work for all readers, and should someone who has not read the books happen upon these excerpts, it is possible that the quotes and excerpts, taken as they are out of context, will either give a false impression, will "satisfy" because the scene involves closure, or will turn the reader off because of the sickly sweet sentiments. The novels are love stories, no doubt--but they are more complex and grittier than that. I would like to see some of the gritty.
Moments can be notable to an audience, then, for different reasons, and Gabaldon and the Random House representative are tapping into two different purposes and functions of an excerpt. My own notable moments are personal, but meant to be public as well, as I share my deep reading in the hopes that my analysis will open something new in the novels for others. My choice of moments is bound up with my process of reading, my academic training, and what interests me not only in the books, but in life. That's what I mean by a reader's personal "rhetorical situation of reading": it's where the reader is right now--mentally, in terms of interest and life experience, and, yes, emotionally--that influences what elements of a text engage, frustrate, or please him or her. While in the moment--and certainly in the first flush of reading a new book--I might be reading for the escapism, intentionally getting caught up in the pathos, the moments that are truly notable--moments that make my mind take notice, that make me form theories and connections--are the moments that engage me by means of logos, and here I mean not just "logic" but compelling content that invites potential argument and dialogue with the text, as well as the moments in which the author, intentionally or unintentionally, imparts her own ethos, revealing something about her artistic choices. I think it is the variety and quality of the integration of ideas, as well as the successful manipulation of emotion, that make successful novels, as the quality and variety of appeals are what guarantee that a variety of people will find the novel engaging.
Although I didn't write about many notable moments in the Harry Potter novels during my recent rereading, I actually think that J. K. Rowling's strength as a writer lies in the ability to execute many appeals simultaneously, to engage a variety of readers--which, of course, just makes sense. But for me, during this reread, I was not attuned so much to the ideas. I was retreading old territory, in part to see what the experience felt like for me right now. It was sort of like a vacation--no, not to Hogwarts. Just an adventure in novel reading. And what stood out for me this time was the ethos--the author's exercise of control over the text. It is something I have criticized before--truly, at times Rowling might have been reigned in by an editor, but on this reread (perhaps my third reading), I don't think she necessarily had to be reigned in much. I find the symmetry and tying up of loose ends in The Goblet of Fire to be very pleasing. It is a very well-executed mystery. And while the angst of Order of the Phoenix and The Half-Blood Prince were still there, what struck me more than anything was the pointlessness of the former (really? all of this effort over some words?) and the exquisite ending of the latter. I wonder if perhaps Rowling was giving the reader a taste, in Order of how Harry would feel about the futility of striving in Deathly Hallows. And Half-Blood Prince had at once a satisfying sense of closure--the reader knew that the novel had to end there--and the sense of a long road ahead--seemingly the opposite of closure, and yet not. I don't think I had yet appreciated exactly that aspect of the sixth book in the series, but because of where I was--my mindset, my leisure, my particular literate moment--I was able to appreciate it. But it was not a notable moment, because it involved the novel as a whole.
So as I work toward a consideration of the ways of reading of different personality types, and how INFPs and ENTJs, for example, engage with different elements, it is useful, I think, to consider how an individual chooses a selection from a novel to highlight, and why. It is also useful to think of how personal circumstances, including modes of reading--rereading compared to exploratory reading, for example, or academic vs. pleasure reading--contexts, and even overall mood--change what we get out of fiction--how we filter the details and action differently. I also think it is useful to consider ethos, logos, and pathos--the friends, and perhaps the bane, of every scholar of rhetoric, from Freshman to graduate level. Because where I look at the passage from Outlander out of context and wrinkle my nose and say, "oh, please!" the fact is that I enjoyed it in context, in the rhetorical reading situation in which I encountered it first--and again. It wasn't a "notable moment" to me, because why would I analyze saying or not saying "I love you"? It's not particularly meaningful to me. But clearly, to hundreds and thousands of readers of Gabaldon, it is meaningful. It captures their nostalgia for the emotion evoked, and their admiration of the ideal portrayed in the scene.
No comments:
Post a Comment