On Authors, Fans, and Audience: Written in My Own Heart's Blood (MOBY - Outlander Book 8)

Last night, I polished off the remainder of another Outlander colossus--Written in My Own Heart's Blood.  Did you know that there are virtually no nouns that refer to 'a huge thing' without the connotation of a monster or a demon?  My first impulse was to call it a behemoth, but that wouldn't do at all, because I like 800+ page books if they are engaging.  (Now, the title, on the other hand, is somewhat of a behemoth!)

Disclaimer:  This is basically a review.  Yes, of course there are spoilers.

Those of you who know me know that when I undertake a review, it is generally not to praise the work.  If I find the work praiseworthy, I generally start by analyzing it, as I have with the Hunger Games series, and with a few volumes of the Outlander series as well.  Generally, for me, 'review' means 'critique.'

The Outlander series, written by Diana Gabaldon, is on Book 8 now.  I have written extensively on this blog about three of the books:  Outlander, Dragonfly in Amber, and Voyager.  I became stuck in Voyager because there is so much to say about the themes that interest me--I became bogged down, finished my reread without writing out everything I thought, and moved on.  When I started rereading The Fiery Cross with an eye to blogging it, I realized that I just wasn't that interested in that particular volume, which had a lot to do with Jamie and Claire's daughter Brianna and her intended, Roger, with establishing "Fraser's Ridge," and with a minor peacekeeping skirmish that just wasn't terribly heroic.  Also with preventing pregnancy (a theme that was on the rise from the second book on) and the unlikely parentage of Brianna's son Jem (you will never convince me that it is more likely for a child to have been conceived when the couple practiced coitus interruptus than when she was raped by a pirate the next day).  In spite of The Fiery Cross, and a few moments when it was impossible to suspend disbelief, I was still enjoying the series, and waiting, perhaps not as anxiously as Diana's fans, for the next installment.

Written in My Own Heart's Blood became known through the author's conventions of abbreviation as MOBY on social media and on her web site.  And boy, have the past couple of years been exercises in social media promotion.  I am not certain how any author could sustain such a campaign and not emerge with utter contempt for her fan base.  For much of the last year and a half of her writing process, she (or her PR person) has been posting "Daily Lines"--sneak peeks of the forthcoming volume meant to titillate fans (sometimes literally).  Having just finished An Echo in the Bone, which I enjoyed, but which had a cliffhanger ending or two, I did eagerly consume these snippets.  Then, I tried to read them more carefully, avoiding the fan feedback, which was often in the form of "Oh, Diana, I LIVE for these books!" and "Oh, Jamie!  Oh, Claire!!" or "I just ADORE [character of choice]" or "When is the book going to be out?" or "WHY does the publication date keep moving?  I can't STAND this any more!!" or "Why are you DOING this to your fans who LOVE you?" and other ludicrous forms of praise and complaint.  Throw in the commentary on the casting of the Outlander Starz series, and it was truly nauseating.  I know, I know. Don't read the comments.  But the comments were part of this whole dog-and-pony show, since the whole Facebook page was designed to promote the book(s).  Eventually, I still consumed the snippets, but with less relish.  There were too many details revealed.  The snippets were repeated, or a slightly different paragraph break was posted, but essentially the same part of the story.  I began to fear that when I actually read the book, I would feel like I was reading all of the posts from Facebook, strung together.  This did happen to an extent.  And by the time the book came out, I was no longer eager to read it.  I waited at least a whole week before buying it (it may have been a month, actually), and probably would have waited longer had I not simply needed a book to read that would last through my husband's week-long conference in Switzerland.

That's the backstory.  But it's more than that.  It influenced how aware I was of the writer's writing process.  I did get the impression that the writing of this novel was a long, tedious haul--or at least, the combination of the Facebook campaign and the novel itself led me to that conclusion.

So before buying the book, I read a few Amazon reviews--something I rarely do.  I started with the negative reviews, because having seen fanbabble for the past 18 months, I rather knew what drivel would be in the positive reviews.  I wanted something honest.  What I learned is that some people--even self-described die-hard fans--were disappointed.  Even bored.  Here's a sampling:

I'm sad to say that MOBY was a major disappointment! I'm a huge fan of the series and have read every book, novella, etc available. Pre-purchased this book and counted the days until delivery. 

Plot lines were repetitious and somewhat boring (found myself skimming to get to point). Book lacked the flow that its predecessors possessed; in prior books I couldn't put the book down because the action was so intense. Stories seemed choppy and lacked relevance to each other, in some cases. 

Overall, for a book that took 5 years to write, it felt rushed, thrown together and lacked the authenticity that the 1st 7 books made look so simple. I didn't believe this journey...it felt forced.

***

 The book was so disjointed and did not flow with the poetry of the other 7. It made no sense that so many KEY, nay CRUCIAL components to this 24 years-to-compose series are not answered. Too many new characters were introduced, and I believe the author, Miss Galbadon, forgot to include many, many things alluded to in the story lines of the previous seven novels. Is this because she focused that information in her novellas?

***

A few things that irritated me.Jamie, raised in Scotland educated in France and now 20 years later.. In this book he talks more Gaidhlig than he ever has. Yet his sister who has never left Scotland, talk 99% great English. Felt like DG Learned some new words and had to include them. They didn't fit and it was SO over done. 

I didn't like Clair in this book, she took on the character of a know it all, always reminding us of how amazingly educated she is. We get it! So many useless filler stories that drag on and on, over detailed descriptions of surgery. Who cares when surgery are done on strangers, that have nothing to do with the continuing story. So many retold stories. Same Story different day.. War. war and.. the burning of a print shop again... At times I thought the story was about to pick up, only to find my hope die. The book is just a filler to the next book. I guess DG is dragging it out to make as much money as she can from this series. 

Ian had some great moments, His story could have been so much more with his fear of the baby's birth. Only to read Rachel water broke one page and 3 days later, Clair tells Jamie Ian has a son. Wow really, No excitement, no joy, no enjoying Ian's moment?The Greys have their own series and they should stay there. How stupid 70% of this book was the Greys searching for Ben. Who cares about Hal, who cares about Ben? I care nothing for William either. DG failed badly. If she spent half as much time building the characters as she did adding languages we didn't need and over detailed medical descriptions. 

***

I think that the build-up backfired with these readers.  But these reviews didn't put me off.  I forgot many of the criticisms--other than "boring," "surgery," and "characters."

I did not, however, find the novel boring.  Moving through, I could see what the reviewers meant--there were a lot of details of life, but I was prepared to forgive those.  More than prepared--I welcomed most of them.  One of the strengths of Gabaldon's writing is often that she does infuse purpose and significance into the ordinary... when she's not subverting the ordinary.  I did get bogged down in the character list sometimes, finding myself thinking--okay, who was that? and concluding that it didn't actually matter.

The first significant problem I noticed was the repetition of scenes from previous books.  Yes--at times, entire scenes.  Verbatim.  We relived, in brief, many events from each of the other seven books.  It felt like filler, and it felt a little insulting--like the reader could not be trusted to remember.  Now, this is an author who has direct contact with her readers via Facebook.  Many of those readers remember better than she does what happened in each of the books--or assume that they do.  In most cases, the flashback was strictly unnecessary, and rather felt like a device that should have been reserved for the mini series versions.  This was my first inkling that there was something odd in the relationship that the author had established with her audience--or fan base, since I don't think a "fan base" and an "audience" are precisely the same thing.

The third reviewer I quoted above mentions the Gaidhlig words and phrases in this book.  I will second that observation.  Though I did not remember that complaint from the review as I was reading, I developed it quite independently.  In his old age, Jamie is definitely slipping back into Gaidhlig.  Except that... I made up that "old age" part.  There is no rhyme or reason for why he--and Ian, who probably should be interspersing as  much Mohawk as Gaidhlig in his swearing and muttering--uses the Scotch Gaelic so much more in this particular book.  It becomes distracting.  But that's not all....

Speaking of vocabulary, I found myself using my Kindle dictionaries to look up obscure words and usages much more often than I have ever done before, and much more often than a casual reader with a Ph.D. in English should have to do.  I couldn't help feeling that this was another strategy--or dig--aimed at the fans she had come to know on Facebook.  First, the Gaidhlig was there for the fans, to allow them to revel in Jamie's Scottishness, and also to show off and allow them to pick up and puzzle over pronunciation and meaning.  Pure crowd-pleasing.  Meanwhile, the obscure vocabulary functioned to reinforce authorial superiority and control.  Except that the Gaidhlig did so, too.  As I read, I found myself getting the distinct impression that the author was reaching in and reminding me that she was smarter than me.  There were two things wrong with that--first, anyone can do research.  The vocabulary was a product of the nuts and bolts WORK behind the novel, just like the research into surgical techniques or military campaigns of the Revolutionary War.  Sure, a novel is work.  And in fact, more and more we're told that it's more work than inspiration.  Fine.  Whatever.  But the work should be behind-the-scenes.  The author can't imbue the work with the message, "See?  Look how much WORK I did!" Particularly when there has been a dialog on Facebook with that very implication--novels take a long time; they take a lot of work.  Gabaldon goes so far as to reprimand readers who think she is wrong about word usage in the back matter.  I was sort of incensed to read this after finishing the novel:

Owing to the interesting ideosyncracies of the Scots dialect, some words may appear to be misspelled--but they aren't.  For instance, while an English cook may have made her flapjacks on an iron griddle, her Scottish counterpart was frying sausages on a hot girdle.  (This occasional transposition of sounds results in such entertaining items as a Scottish dessert known as "creamed crud" ("curd" to the less imaginative English).  It also results in the occasional inattentive reviewer denouncing the occurance of "typos" in my books.  This is not to say that there aren'tany typos--there always are, no matter how many eyeballs have combed the pages--just that "girdle" isn't one of them.

Thank you, Mrs. Gabaldon.  However, this is a problem for readers, and by adding this note, you indicate that you know that this is a problem for readers, but don't care, because you're too smart to care, and ultimately you are the one in control. (Your editors know that, too, don't they?)  But frankly, this damages your ethos as well as your narrative.  Because the second problem with obscure words or confusing spellings is that they disrupt the reading process.  If I have to stop and puzzle while reading, to look up a word that is too obscure for an overeducated person to know readily, I have suddenly become more aware of my reading process than of the characters and plot.  This is a narrative intrusion that is much more disruptive--and possibly more condescending--than the famed "intrusive narrator," a subject of much contempt in certain camps, particularly among children's literature critics.  In my case, I did not think it was Gabaldon's typo, but I did think it was a Kindle transciption error. Consider the context:

I had a tiny cautery iron, its handle wrapped in twisted wool, heating on Amy's girdle.  I supposed it didn't matter if it tasted like sausages.

Given Gabaldon's sense of double entendre, and knowing now that it was not a transcription error, I can't help imagining her chuckling to herself about "girdles" tasting of "sausages" (*wink, wink* *nudge, nudge*)

I have not done as much research as Gabaldon on the linguistic characteristics of Scottish dialects, clearly.  But here's a thought.  In American English, a naturally occurring linguistic change is for "nuclear" to be pronounced "nucular" or "nuculer."  However, this is not something that appears in print.  If it were to appear in a narrative, even if the intent was to represent dialect, it would not register as such with readers, and would certainly not pass muster with editors.  Let's examine this from another angle.  The story.  Perhaps you noticed that the character who was narrating this particular chapter was Claire Fraser?  Right.  The time traveler. The ENGLISH time traveler.  From the 20th Century.  Why on earth would her internal narrative reflect 18th Century Scots pronunciation?  Exactly.  So that the author can demonstrate how smart she is.  *sigh*

I'm being perhaps more snarky and belligerant than I meant to be.  However, this is a natural response to the type of authorial antagonism present in the narrative, and in the note.  And that authorial antagonism is, I believe, a natural consequence of knowing your audience too intimately.

On a less personal note...

I do agree that the novel was extremely choppy.  It did not, in fact, read as a coherent novel with... okay, a plot.  There were sub-plots, but there was not an overarching plot.  I don't consider "Get Jamie and Claire back to Fraser's Ridge" to be a plot.  That, in fact, was the only unifying problem that needed to be overcome, and it was an author's dilemma rather than a plot dilemma--which points to my other major criticism.  After a while, I was tracing the author's writing process, which again took me out of the book.  It began to feel like a laborious process, and while I could appreciate the challenges of writing the book, that is not where I wanted to be.  Nevertheless, the stories themselves were interesting.  Unlike other critical reviewers, I enjoyed the presence of the Grey family throughout the novel.  For the first time, that family does actually seem to belong in the story of the Fraser's lives.  I was interested in Hal's search for his son Ben and his (purported) widow.  Unfortunately, that plot didn't resolve.  I was interested in William's... journey, which also didn't resolve, but came to one dead end (no pun intended--more on that in a bit...).  The wedding plots were fine, and provided the opportunity for some virgin (and not-so-virgin) sex and some sex ed, which again, is a crowd-pleaser.  These scenes did feel a bit forced, but they had to be there.  It's all part of the schtick.  I did not particularly enjoy the Roger-in-the-too-distant-past interlude, which seemed pointless but provided an intersection with her short story, "A Leaf on the Wind of All Hallows" (which was not my favorite thing that Gabaldon has written).

I have not particularly enjoyed the "Bree and Roger in the 1980s" segments, and I almost think that all of their intrigues in MOBY were engineered to get them back to the past (HT: Roger Zemeckis).  While in the 1980s (and I would have to say that there was such an incredible imbalance between Roger and Bree time and the 18th C people that the overall impression was that Bree and Roger didn't fit into this book at all), there were, of course, pop culture references.  There was Fraggle Rock, which, as a fraggle fan, I appreciated, but which sort of registered along with Disneyland almost as product placement.  And then, there was the Tardis.  *sigh*  And I don't care how many Dr. Who fans are out there, I just think that to drop a Tardis reference into a time travel series is ridiculous--another somewhat pointless fan-pleaser borne of social media involvement.  I actually think of Tardismania as a very contemporary thing--I don't remember the Tardis being stressed in the 80s the way it is now, though certainly Dr. Who has many incarnations that (heh) span time.

In general, I enjoyed the surgery--though "enjoy" might be overstating it.  Some made me cringe--most decidedly.  Some were designed to make the reader cringe--in fact, I would guess that most of the surgical scenes were designed--yes, to show off the author's research, but also to make the reader squirm uncomfortably.  A different kind of squirming than the sex scenes, but I do believe that both types of scenes reach out of the book to produce a physical reaction in the reader.  And it works.  How a reader reacts to that type of forced engagement is another question--I was basically okay with it, though some things did stretch my suspension of disbelief.  For example... would incisions under the tongue really stop bleeding in 2 minutes' time with only pressure and cotton?  Having dealt with mouth injuries and extracted teeth, I doubt it.  Mouth injuries bleed profusely.  And would you really want to ply the 13 year-old with whiskey to perform the outpatient procedure, even if nothing else were available? Let's ask 'ol Hippocrates about that one. One surgery seemed placed in the novel for three purposes:  to disgust the reader, to stress the importance of birth control by depicting the (historical?) dangers of childbirth, and to introduce the ethics of forced sterilization.  I did rather feel that whereas in previous books the author's "out" when she encountered a block in writing was sex, in this book it was surgery.  I know people who could not have handled the description or their own visceral reactions to the descriptions, but though I read sympathetically/empathetically, I was able to read through them all. Not all contributed significantly to the novel overall, however.  I keep coming back to that, because being able to point to this or that as not really mattering demonstrates why the novel felt choppy and why it lacked cohesion--it could hardly have been more disjointed as a series of short stories or novellas, which seems to be the mode the author might have preferred for the separate sub-plots.

The other conspicuous authorial strategy was killing off inconvenient characters.  She does it twice.  It is terribly obvious.  And only one of the two is really forgivable, artistically speaking.   She introduced a character in the last book or two who was born a dwarf.  He has no place in 18th Century society outside of a circus, but is a delightful child.  Unable to provide for such a character, the author seems to have made a decision to kill him off.  It's a pity--he was an interesting character.  And the incident is really too random to feel satisfying, and too abrupt to be sad.  Gabaldon also introduces a prostitute and her sister as part of William's coming-to-terms-with-his-illegitimacy sub-plot.  As he struggles with what it means to have honor, shepherding a prostitute and her sister and shielding them from her professional hazards somehow begins to form part of his new identity.  Unfortunately, Jamie Fraser's son--even if illegitimate--and an Earl to boot--could not fall in love with a prostitute.  Which means that we can only find out that he probably was falling in love with her after she is dead.  *sigh*

Poor William. He has issues.  But how could he not, given his parentage?  I have to say that in this book, I cease to like the character of Jamie Fraser.  He is a barbarian at the beginning, and he is a barbarian at the end.  And poor, dear, overstimulated Claire needed to be a bit more defensive of Lord John Grey, who was, after all, trying to save her life by marrying her.  But when the red-heided battering ram (and I did not mean that as a double entendre, though it works) shows up again, all is forgotten.  Suffice it to say, other characters and certain sub-plots carried me through this one.

Did I like the book?  It hardly matters.  I was distracted enough by form and function that I don't know that I had the opportunity to like it.  When I wasn't thinking about how it was constructed and why, I liked it well enough, but don't get me started on the chapter titles (more crowd-pleasing, self-conscious cleverness).  There were certainly things I liked about it.  The book has not, by any means, put me off of the series (though Jamie's character came close--both at the beginning and at the end). I guess there are still too many plot holes--and that's it:  I want to know what happens next.  This one was not a cliffhanger, but in spite of its bulk, with many sub-plots and no overarching, unifying plot structure, it feels incomplete. Things that I still want to know:

• Is Ben Grey really dead?
• What is the story behind Amaranthus--Ben's purported widow?
• Will William ever love again? 
• Will Benedict Arnold turn his coat, and why?
• Where are Dottie and Denzell?
• What about that sticky business of someone knowing that Lord John is homosexual?
• Why did Ian try to kill Rachel in his sleep?
• How will the Revolutionary War end?
• Are these characters secretly immortal, and not in the literary sense?

You might notice that none of these relate directly to Claire, Jamie, & co.  Well, okay.  The last one does.  In fact, my curiousity about Jamie's ghost in Book 1 is beginning to wane.  The mystery is likely more intriguing than any answer could be.

Written in My Own Heart's Blood is a transitional point in the Outlander story--sustained only by the fact that it is part of a series.  I hope that the author works through her attraction to the short story/novella genres before plotting--or plodding through--the next full-fledged Outlander installment. But anyway, I will be waiting for the next installment.  In 5 or 10 years, I'll be ready.

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. 

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.

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. 

The Ethos, Logos, and Pathos of Choosing Notable Moments

“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.