Farmer Maggot's Farm: If not locus amoenus, then what?

Since I am actively looking for places where the Hobbits and the ring company experience rest and rejuvenation along their journey, I feel compelled to pause and consider Farmer Maggot's farm.  Farmer Maggot's farm is a place of rest, yes.  They eat and drink as they rest.  But is it a locus amoenus?  And if not, then what?

The meal is a homely one--a homey one, we might say--farmhouse fare.  It consists of mushrooms and other appropriate foods, and it is eaten within man-made--or hobbit-made--walls rather than in nature.  In particular, there is no running water.  There is also no priest.  Farmer Maggot is a shrewd fellow, but he does not, in fact, preside over the meal.  His wife is more instrumental than he in laying the table, and his part in the tableau is to analyze recent events rather than to serve.  That the main part of the meal is made of mushrooms suggests an earthiness, or perhaps we might say an earthliness.  This is good, nourishing food, but it is food of the earth rather than heavenly food.  So perhaps sometimes a meal is just a meal? And yet, I'm not sure.

The meeting with Farmer Maggot follows close on the heels of the meeting with the elves at Woodhall.  In fact, it is the very next chapter.  Like the supper with the elves, this supper is communal:  the hobbits share a meal with others, bringing the total to 14--the same number (if memory serves) as the voyage to the Lonely Mountain in the Hobbit, without Gandalf.  Interestingly, it is also one more than the total of Jesus and his 12 disciples at the Last Supper (which some would say is the origin of 13 as an unlucky number).

Farmer Maggot, though not a priestly figure, offers sanctuary.  He shields Frodo from the Black Riders and transports him to the Ferry.  But in spite of not being a "priest" figure (there seem to be no priests among hobbits, even though Gildor calls Frodo a prince among hobbits), he has been in the Old Forest, and has even had some dealings with Tom Bombadil, who reveals his respect for Farmer Maggot later.  And while the food is earthly rather than spiritual, he and his wife provide food for Frodo, Sam, and Pippin for their journey, and they later share it with Merry and Fredegar Bolger.

The positioning of this "ordinary" scene of communal eating so close to the extraordinary scene of communal eating and celebration begs for the reader to consider the possible connections.  The spiritual food of the elves is different in kind than the homely, earthy food of the farmer, and yet both nourish the body.  The eating of the communal meal at Farmer Maggots does relieve their fears, but the communal nature seems to be responsible for that relief rather than the food itself.  While it is a man-made shadow of something that, with the elves, touches the divine, a communal meal nevertheless anticipates and participates, in a small way, in that taste of heaven.  Here, we glimpse how ordinary moments become elevated to the sacramental in Tolkien, and as we live in this world, such a moment can be equally significant.

The Locus Amoenus in Middle Earth: Elvish Spaces

It's been a while since I've written a notable moment post, or written about Tolkien or the locus amoenus in Lord of the Rings in particular, but I bought myself a copy of the complete Lord of the Rings for Kindle (on sale for $5!) with my Christmas gift card, and started reading on a recent trip back from New Orleans, so it seemed an opportune time to resume.  (Quotes will be from the three-volume Houghton-Mifflin edition, copyright 1994.)

I started at the beginning again, reading the Forward and the Prologue, and a very long textual note that outlined all of the many times errors were introduced into the volumes and corrected by Tolkien and his publishers.

Reading very specifically with the locus amoenus in mind, I am approaching the farm of Farmer Maggot, with Black Riders on the road--Farmer Maggot is an important personage, and even though his farm is not a locus amoenus, per se, it is a resting place where the weary have food and drink, and Tom Bombadil himself attests to the farmer's wisdom.  Before the hobbits find Farmer Maggot, however, they encounter first a Black Rider, and second Gildor Inglorian of the House of Finrod with a host of High Elves.

I resist discussing the elves when analyzing the locus amoenus and the priesthood of Middle Earth.  Elves are the most obvious priests of Middle Earth.  They are in possession of two of the three Rings of Power.  They posess the wisdom (at least of their own kind).  They are fair and have the most fair dwellings.  Their dwellings--to which they admit outsiders in the Ring quest and in The Hobbit--offer food, drink, and rest.  They feature stories of the sacred history of Middle Earth.  They are the closest to Illuvatar (with the possible exception of Gandalf); they know--and evoke--the name of Elbereth.  They drive away Black Riders simply with their presence.  When Frodo journeys with them to their banquet placr, a "veil is lifted"--more or less--and the hobbits glimpse different stars than the ones they have yet glimpsed on their journey.  These elves are not rooted to the particular place, but with their presence and their celebration they consecrate the place.  This is the first time on the journey that the hobbits receive the food and drink of the elves.

But there is a problem with elves.  They are remote.  As a result, they are held in awe, but they are also feared.  They are concerned with their own affairs to the exclusion of all other races.  They are also leaving--their time is done.  So while the dwellings and sacred places of the elves obviously represent the locus amoenus as sanctuary, and priestly sanctuary in particular, the places that are sanctuaries and sacred spaces, priestly dwellings, rest for the journey, but are not associated with elves seem the more significant--both because they are less expected, and because they tap more specifically into the sacred that is grounded in Middle Earth.  Nevertheless, elves--and elvish spaces--set the standard.

So what of the elvish space on the road from the Shire to Buckleberry Ferry?

It is in the "woods on the hills above [the town of] Woodhall" (79).  When they approach the space, the trees become denser and younger.  The clearing is surrounded by woods on three sides, but "eastward the ground fell steeply" and the tops of trees are far below (80).  Time is significant--the time for celebration is marked by the movement of the stars:

Away high in the East swung Remmirath, the Netted Stars, and slowly above the mists red Borgil rose, glowing like a jewel of fire.  Then by some shift of airs all the mist was drawn away like a veil, and there leaned up, as he climbed over the rim of the world, the Swordsman of the Sky, Menelvagor with his shining belt.  The Elves all burst into song.  Suddenly under the trees a fire sprang up with a red light. (80)

The veil of mist--presumably revealing stars that would have been seen on Middle Earth anyway--anticipates the veil that separates Middle Earth from Valinor, through which Frodo, Bilbo, Galadriel, Gandalf, and Elrond pass after the aftermath of the War of the Ring.  The same veil recalls the veil of the temple, "rent in two" when Jesus died.

The boughs of trees make a kind of roof over the natural space, which is like a hall.  There is a fire and food--"good enough for a birthday-party" (81), although Gildor apologizes for the poor fare.  Specifically, the food is eucharistic: "bread, surpassing the savour of a fair white loaf to one who is starving," fruit of the vine "sweet as wildberries and richer than the tended fruits of gardens," and "a cup that was filled with a fragrant draught, cool as a clear fountain, golden as a summer afternoon"--a foretaste of heaven indeed.

Though Gildor is friendly and responsive to the hobbits' fears and wish for information, he remains distinctly above them.  Sam, who has wished to see elves above all elves, is speechless and wears "an expression half of fear and half of astonished joy" (79-80).  When Gildor attempts to give Frodo warning, Frodo "cannot imagine what information could be more terrifying than [Gildor's] hints and warnings" (82), and cites a proverb: "Go not to the Elves for counsel, for they will say both no and yes" (83).  Gildor's advice is guarded because "advice is a dangerous gift," but also because

[t]he Elves have their own labours and their own sorrows, and they are little concerned with the ways of hobbits, or of any other creatures upon earth.  Our paths cross theirs seldom, by chance or purpose. (83)

The wisdom of the Elves is great but has limits, as Gildor discerns that there may be a purpose to their meeting, but he does not know what it might be, and thus is even more hesitant to give advice.

After the meeting with the Elves, who do provide sanctuary, the hobbits are rested and refreshed, and provided with (literal) food for their journey.

Sam's reflective observation proves particularly insightful:  that Elves "seem a bit above [his] likes and dislikes" (85).  While all of the consecrated of Middle Earth are beyond the hobbits' understanding, the Elves occupy the space that is the most remote.  The relationships that the hobbits form with other priestly figures close some of the distance, while also bringing the humble hobbits closer to experience of the divine.

Language and Race, Nostalgia and Place - Stopping in Hollin/Eregion: A Notable Moment

It's a funny thing about Notable Moments.  Once I commit one to writing, my mind becomes oriented in that direction--seeking, finding, and writing notable moments.  (And now I need to publish this one so that I can write about the Ents and Entwives...) This is another thing I hoped to inspire in my students during that second-to-last semester teaching when I introduced the "notable moments" blog assignment--a habit of thought and a pattern of writing down thoughtful analyses and questions.  Because Notable Moments don't have to come to conclusions, and unlike research papers (particularly graduate research papers), there is no pressure to say something that no one else has said or thought.  In fact, on the internet, saying something original is not particularly important.  Saying things that others have thought, in fact, builds community.

***

A few pages past my last post, when Elrond sends the fellowship on their way(s), they reach Hollin, which had been Eregion.  It is a moment of beauty and longing, and I paused over it fondly to think about what it is that I find so compelling about the passage:

     "I need no map," said Gimli, who had come up with Legolas, and was gazing out before him with a strange light in his deep eyes.  "There is the land where our fathers worked of old, and we have wrought the image of those mountains into many works of metal and of stone, and into many songs and tales.  They stand tall in our dreams: Baraz, Zirak, Shathûr.

     "Only once before have I seen them from afar in waking life, but I know them and their names, for under them lies Khazad-dûm,the Dwarrowdelf, that is now called the Black Pit, Moria in the Elvish tongue.  Yonder stands Baranzinbar, the Redhorn, cruel Caradhras; and beyond him are Silvertine and Cloudyhead: Celebdil the White, and Fanuidhol the Grey, that we call Zirakzigil and Bundushathûr.

     "There the Misty Mountains divide, and between their arms lies the deep-shadowed valley which we cannot forget: Azanulbizar, the Dimrill Dale, which the Elves call Nanduhirion."

[....]

     "Dark is the water of Kheled-zâram," said Gimli, "and cold are the springs of Kibil-nâla.  My heart trembles with joy that I may see them soon."

     "May you have joy of the sight, my good dwarf!" said Gandalf.  "But whatever you may do, we at least cannot stay in that valley.  We must go down the Silverlode into the secret woods, and so the Great River, and then---"

     He paused.

     "Yes, and where then?" asked Merry.

     "To the end of the journey--in the end," said Gandalf.  "We cannot look too far ahead.  Let us be glad that the first stage is safely over.  I think we will rest here, not only today but tonight as well.  There is a wholesome air about Hollin.  Much evil must befall a country before it forgets the Elves, if once they dwelt there."

      "That is true," said Legolas.  "But the Elves of this land were of a race strange to us of the silvan folk, and the trees and the grass do not now remember them.  Only I hear the stones lament them: deep they delved us, fair they wrought us, high they builded us; but they are gone.  They are gone.  They sought the Havens long ago." (FOTR 276)

And might I just take this moment to say that the feature of Mac OS that allows you to hold down a letter key to bring up all of the accented letters (à, á, â, etc.) and choose one with a number key or a click is AWESOME?

In this passage, the first thing I notice is language.   This is new to this particular reading--although I am well aware of Tolkien's attention to languages, when I have read Fellowship of the Ring before, or listened to the audiobook, I did not necessarily register how many different names were given for the mountains.  Only Caradhras registered--the important one.  And yet, consider:

Baraz	Baranzinbar	the Redhorn	Caradhras
Zirak	Zirakzigil	Silvertine	Celebdil the White
Shathûr	Bundushathûr	Cloudyhead	Fanuidhol the Grey

There are four distinct designations for each mountain.  The six names in dwarvish are interesting in that the first are shortened versions of the second, and that each is shortened in a different way.  Baraz takes the first two syllables of "Baranzinbar," but omits the "n," perhaps because, linguistically, the first "n" in "Baranzinbar" mirrors the second, in the syllable "zin," while also creating a full stop before the third syllable.  In the shortened form, there is no need for the mirroring--particularly when the "n" would become "swallowed" by the "az" anyway (there's a linguistic term for this, but my Old English is far behind me...)--and since the "z" is now part of the second syllable rather than the third, there is no need for a pause within the word.  "Zirak" is a more simply shortened form--simply the first two syllables of "Zirakzigil"--while "Shathûr" is the last two syllables of "Bundushathûr."

In addition, you have the elvish names--Caradhras, Celebdil, and Fanuidhol, presumably the Redhorn, Silvertine, and Cloudyhead in the common tongue.  On the umpteenth reading, I think I finally noticed that "Caradhras" and "the Redhorn" are the same mountain, which others no doubt caught on the first reading...  That "Silvertine" is the mountain designated "the White" by the elves is interesting to me; I wanted the clouds ("Cloudyhead") to be white and Fanuidhol the Grey to be silver ("Silvertine"), but my instinctive preference does not account for the fact that there is a reason present in the description.  Fanuidhol is grey because of the clouds, presumably.  And it is the bright white of Celebdil that makes it shine like silver--in the names are embedded more clues as to the appearance of the mountains.

I would argue that Tolkien's deep studied and instinctive connection to language is on display in this passage in more varied and obvious ways than it is almost anywhere else in Fellowship of the Ring--and it centers on the dwarves, who are evoked more poignantly in this scene than in the whole journey through Khazad-dûm.  The phrase, "Dark is the water of Kheled-zâram, and cold are the springs of Kibil-nâla," sends a little thrill through me every time I read it, though "dark water" and "cold springs" are, in themselves, unremarkable.  Quite apart from the place-names, which are exotic and strange and evoke the unknown culture and history of dwarves, the phrasing itself--the syntax--is made ritualistic through parallelism:  "dark is the water," "cold are the springs."  One can imagine this being a responsorial chant (and dwarf poetry, as Tolkien shows us, has the feel of a chant, a march, a procession) or a greeting.  And indeed, it becomes a greeting when Galadriel, to comfort Gimli and show her understanding, says also, "Dark is the water of Kheled-zâram, and cold are the springs of Kibil-nâla," and adds that "fair were the many-pillared halls of Khazad-dûm in Elder Days before the fall of mighty kings beneath the stone."  It does not simply evoke a place and a description, but a custom, and a culture, and, in fact, a spirituality.

The passage is also replete with nostalgia, and nowhere more clearly than in Gimli's recitation of the dwarf proverb.  However, the passage holds a less distinct nostalgia as well.  Gimli feels nostalgia for Khazad-dûm, but though they are passing through Hollin, which was Eregion, a great kingdom of elves in the Second Age, Legolas, who represents the race of elves on the quest, does not feel nostalgia.  While Gandalf asserts that "much evil must befall a country before it forgets the Elves, if once they dwelt there," Legolas feels only strangeness:

"That is true," said Legolas.  "But the Elves of this land were of a race strange to us of the silvan folk, and the trees and the grass do not now remember them.  Only I hear the stones lament them: deep they delved us, fair they wrought us, high they builded us; but they are gone.  They are gone.  They sought the Havens long ago."

Here, there is a different kind of nostalgia.  The narrative makes it clear that something is lost, and gives the reader a sense of nostalgia without using the memory (personal or collective) of a character.  Rather, the fact that Legolas should not be able to remember or to feel the imprint of his kin--except that the elves who dwelt there were not of the same race as Legolas, exactly--seems to evoke a different kind of sadness.  The loss of Eregion is a more complete loss than the loss of Khazad-dûm.  And yet, the rocks, which were directly manipulated by the elves, and which did not continue to live, die, and replace themselves like trees and grass, do still bear the imprint.  In that which is not living, the memory survives--hauntingly, since the memory and their handling by the elves grants the stones a sense of life... almost a soul.

In this lost place, we see a small hint of a recurring motif in Tolkien:  the locus amœnus.  This is a literary term that I learned in the context of a graduate class on Dante, and which I have not encountered elsewhere in literary scholarship.  Perhaps it is an outdated concept; perhaps it is simply foreign to the American tradition of literary criticism, which seems likely, even given the advent of ecocriticism, which purports to root itself in place.  I have not ever found an answer to this question, but the locus amœnus is a concept I find useful and compelling, particularly with reference to Tolkien.  Wikipedia has a brief entry on the term that encapsulates most of what I was taught.  Locus amœnus means "pleasant place," but more--there is a hint of heaven or Elysium.  It is a place of safety.  In the Commedia, a locus amœnus is a resting place, particularly when there is a transition--some kind of shift in the journey. There are multiple loci amœni in the Purgatorio, and some have said that Dante's representation of Limbo, itself a nod to pagan Elysium, is a locus amœnus.  They are shadows and foretastes of heaven, safe places, resting places, pauses on the journey.

By this definition, a reader of Tolkien could, fairly easily, trace the loci amœni through Lord of the Rings.  I am not going to count the Shire, because except in memory, it does not seem imbued with power the same way that others are--though Farmer Maggot's house is a decent candidate for a locus amœnus.  Tom Bombadil's house is most certainly one, as is Rivendell.  As the reader progresses further into Lord of the Rings, the power of the locus amœnus becomes more apparent, and patterns emerge:  there is a priest-figure; there is water; there is a sacred or solemn or celebratory feast.  Many of these places are revealed in The Two Towers--my favorite of the three parts of the journey, perhaps for this reason.

So what about Hollin?  It has "a wholesome air."  But it is not safe for very long.  They are forced to continue along after being detected by spies of Saurumon (presumably).  The priests--if ever there were priests--were gone.  And yet... the stones seem still to bear the mark.  Were they consecrated?  Even if the elves are corrupt, which these were--descendents of Fëanor for those who know the Silmarillion--elves are still powerful and, in their very essence, good.  Or so it seems in this age of Middle Earth.  In Hollin, formerly Eregion, we have the memory of a place that had been a locus amœnus, but is no more.  It shows how even a foretaste of heaven can be subject to destruction--utterly obliterated, except for the memory of the stones:  a small trace of holiness.  A former locus amœnus offers no protection, and the fellowship must continue on, while the reader might remember Elrond's words--that if the Ring were kept in Rivendell, they would hold out as long as possible, but eventually would fail.  And perhaps only the stones would hold the memory of the elves who had once lived there.

"No oath or bond is laid...": A Notable Moment from Fellowship of the Ring

This is a Notable Moment post, and what I mean by "notable moment" reaches back into my purpose(s?) for keeping up this blog (intermittently):  to give an outlet to my instinct for analysis, to stay in touch with my academic side, to develop my theory of rhetorical reading, and to practice close reading on the web (or at least closer than your average book review!)

Notable moments are "rhetorical responses."  They stem from the circumstances of reading--what readers might be looking for (like me with literacy), what their life experiences have been, what they have been reading, thinking or talking about reading.  This is the value of rereading--each reading situation is different.  The work itself hasn't changed, but we read it differently:  bringing different things to the text and taking different things away.

Notable moments are a teaching and research methodology.  They

• encourage reader engagement with the text
• provide a basis for class discussion
• stimulate connections (synthesis, to use a $0.10 pedagogical word) between what readers already know and what they are reading
• validate active reading
• collect ideas that might evolve into research paper/article ideas

They also work particularly well as blog posts.

Recently, I have been rereading The Lord of the Rings.  I have read it and listened to the unabridged audiobook numerous times at this point, so that it is almost too familiar.  It is slow going, because there isn't the compulsion to read, but at times, having read more contemporary writing lately, I am struck by how simply exquisite the language is--to say nothing of plot and character development, world building, mythos, and all that makes Tolkien fabulous.  In the midst of my reading, I read Darwin's response to George R. R. Martin's somewhat offhanded critique of Tolkien on war.  I also find myself reading Tolkien with the American History Channel series The Revolutionary War as background noise.  And so, I come across this passage:

"The others go with him as free companions, to help him on his way.  You may tarry, or come back or turn aside in other paths, as chance allows.  The further you go, the less easy it will be to withdraw; yet no oath or bond is laid on you to go further than you will.  For you do not yet know the strength of your hearts, and you cannot forsee what each may meet upon the road."

     "Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens," said Gimli.

     "Maybe," said Elrond, but let him not vow to walk in the dark, who has not seen the nightfall."

     "Yet sworn word may strengthen quaking heart," said Gimli.

     "Or break it," said Elrond. (FOTR 274)

I paused over this passage initially, thinking about war.  Thinking about the British in particular, and the treatment of deserters in the Great War--the first "modern" war, a for which young British males volunteered enthusiastically, for which they were unprepared.  It is also, famously and notably, the war Tolkien experienced first hand.

As Elrond commends the newly-formed fellowship to their journey, it is tempting to see this passage as a statement of sympathy, if not with deserters, than certainly with those who volunteered for a war they could not possibly understand.  Whether or not the cause is the epic mythology of good and evil, Elrond's wisdom asserts that resolve alone can't necessarily drive one through fear.  Later, in Return of the King, Aragorn deals gently with men who were ill-equipped to march into Morder, setting them to tasks that were appropriate to their ability, and which preserved or restored their dignity.

And yet, even though Aragorn and Boromir intend to head to war, the situation of the fellowship is different.  Two pages earlier, the narrative asserts that "[t]he Company took little gear of war, for their hope was in secrecy not in battle" (272).  Perhaps, then, Elrond's conditions are not applicable to war.  After all, what general can command men who are not bound to follow orders? Could Tolkien possibly mean that soldiers should only serve insofar as they were able?  This seems doubtful, and yet, the association between oaths in war and the oaths of the fellowship is hard to avoid, and perhaps it is in Aragorn's generosity and skill with men that the question is resolved.

What is interesting is the exchange of proverbs--not quite platitudes--between Gimli and Elrond, which represent two seeminly opposed approaches to oath-taking, and perhaps to human nature more generally.  The opposing views may also characterize the particular races of Middle Earth--the elves, who keep to themselves, who belong to families and kinds, but who are very individualized, and the dwarves, who seem to be of one kind, but who are more clanlike, joining together in common purposes.  Elrond is for individual freedom; Gimli, for allegience and loyalty.  Inevitably, both are right, but Elrond seems more right.

It is not a theory; simply an observation, and a question.  Is this about war?  Politics?  Individual freedom?  Individual will?  How does being bound to another affect individual will?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Close Reading on the Web

This blog has become, more or less, an excercise in close reading--which suits me just fine, because it's what I enjoy the most!  However, I do see myself as being somewhat outside of internet book culture because, with few exceptions, I avoid book reviews.  I also tend to write critically--not only in terms of exercising "critical thinking" and having a "critical eye," but also by being somewhat negative.  By offering critique.  By saying what I see as being wrong with a book.  And this is something that many book bloggers avoid or sugar coat.  I think it's part of the culture.

This is how I do close reading, although most of the time my close reading has more to do with interpretation and analysis, discourse and association.  At least, I think so.  I haven't been told otherwise--yet!  But what I'm wondering is. . .  where else is Close Reading happening on the web in general, and on blogs in particular?  Book reviews are not close reading.  They can't be!  Their goal is to give an overview and promote the book (usually)--or else not so  much.

I will actually be presenting a paper in September on the "close reading" method of blogging, because I know it's out there.  I can't see that anyone has labeled it as such, but I've seen it in political and religious contexts, when a blogger focuses very closely on words and phrasing in order to reach a fuller understanding, as in Melanie's Waste Land and Nicene Creed projects, or in order to argue for a particular point or interpretation.  I have also seen it in Ann Althouse's Great Gatsby Project, which must be getting an absurd number of hits since the movie re-adaptation (and here's Althouse getting indignant about her idea--*sigh*).

So I will be gathering some data on this particular topic, and if I find anything interesting, I'll share.  It's good practice and good accountability!  Because you know.  I might be writing the conference paper in the hotel otherwise...

And please--if you find any examples of close reading, no matter what the context (well, okay, I do have some limits, but I don't think my readership will take it there...), please leave a comment and link and tell me about it!