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. 

Voyager: Jamie Teaches Sex Ed

The Outlander novels, on the whole, are preoccupied with sexual education.  There aren't just scenes of sex; there are instructional discussions of sex, sexuality, and matters of reproduction that occur (I believe) in all of the books, beginning as early as Outlander--I'll come back to that in a minute.

In Dragonfly in Amber, for example, Claire--with her 20th Century knowledge, her medical knowledge, and her sexual experience, corrects Mary Hawkins' misperceptions that Frenchmen do anything different from Englishmen or Scotsmen do in bed:

"Well," I said matter-of-factly, "there are only so many things you can do in bed with a man, after all.  And since I see quite a large number of children about the cite, I'd assume that even Frenchmen are fairly well versed in the orthodox methods."
     "Oh! Children.... well, yes, of course," she said vaguely, as though not seeing much connection. "B-b-but they said"--she cast her eyes down, embarrassed, and her voice sank even lower--"th-that he... a French-man's thing, you know...."
     "Yes, I know," I said, striving for patience.  "So far as I know, they're much like any other man's.  Englishmen and Scotsmen are quite similarly endowed."
     "Yes, but they, they... p-p-put it between a lady's l-l-legs!  I mean, right up inside her!"  This bit of stop-press news finally out, she took a deep breath, which seemed to steady her, for the violent crimson of her face receded slightly.  "An Englishman, or even a Scot... oh, I didn't mean it that way..."  Her hand flew to her mouth in embarrassment.  "But a decent an like your husband, surely he would n-never dream of forcing a wife to endure s-something like that!"
     I placed my hand on my slightly bloated stomach and regarded her thoughtfully.  I began to see why spirituality ranked so highly in Mary Hawkins's catalog of manly virtues.
     "Mary," I said, "I think we must have a small talk." (Dragonfly 254)

She has "the talk" with other young women throughout the Outlander series, and counsels and reassures Mary after an interrupted rape that she will not become pregnant, because he "didn't finish" (Dragonfly 360).

In Voyager, Jamie is a somewhat unlikely sex ed teacher.  Except that, if we consider the romance novel model, maybe it's not so unlikely that Geneva Dunsany's sexual instruction comes from the attractive near-stranger who also provides her sexual initiation (and, indeed, her sole sexual experience).  But his instruction begins immediately after he yields to her blackmail.  Now that he is a "co-conspirator," he gives her advice based on biology, of which she is clearly ignorant:

     “Arrange it, then,” he said, his stomach curdling. “Mind ye choose a safe day, though.”
     “A safe day?” She looked blank.
     “Sometime in the week after ye’ve finished your courses,” he said bluntly. “You’re less likely to get wi’ child then.”
      “Oh.” She blushed rosily at that, but looked at him with a new interest. (208)

There is no indication that this is information that Jamie has learned from Claire; however, because Jamie was a virgin when he and Claire were married, the encounter with Geneva necessarily recalls his own first time, with his own inexperience:

     “How much do you  …   I mean, have ye any idea how it’s done?”
     Her gaze was clear and guileless, though her cheeks flamed.
     “Well, like the horses, I suppose?” He nodded, but felt a pang, recalling his wedding night, when he too had expected it to be like horses.
     “Something like that,” he said, clearing his throat. “Slower, though.  More gentle,” he added, seeing her apprehensive look.  (212)

In Outlander, Claire's first experience as a sexual educator was, in fact, correcting Jamie's assumptions.

Jamie is sensitive to Geneva's desire to watch him undress and conflicting shyness; he addresses in a less direct way the physical change of erection.  He addresses with her whether the act will hurt, reassuring her that the experience will improve after the first time, and gives her the opportunity to satisfy her curiosity about his body (212).  He also imparts something of the sacred nature of sex, though the context is both forced (for him) and (once again) fornication.  First, in the context of a reprimand to Geneva, he indicates that there is honor in the sex act, for men and for women:

“I’ll serve ye properly,” he said, looking down at his working fingers, “for the sake of my own honor as a man, and yours as a woman...." (201)

Even as he acknowledges to himself that the loveless, all-consuming lust he feels in anticipation of a sexual encounter is not honorable:

But overall there was a terrible lust, a need that clawed at his vitals and made him ashamed of his own manhood, even as he acknowledged its power. (213)

Then, as he commences with Geneva, he instructs her in how she should feel about her own body, and how a man should treat her in bed:

“A man should pay tribute to your body,” he said softly, raising each nipple with small, circling touches. “For you are beautiful, and that is your right.” (214)

The emphasis is actually on her dignity.

When the act is complete, Jamie answers her confusion:

     “I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice. “I didn’t know it would hurt you too.”
     His eyes popped open in astonishment, and he raised himself on one elbow to find her looking at him like a startled fawn. Her face was pale, and she licked dry lips.
     “Hurt me?” he said, in blank astonishment. “It didna hurt me.”
     “But”— she frowned as her eyes traveled slowly down the length of his body—“ I thought it must. You made the most terrible face, as though it hurt awfully, and you  …   you groaned like a—”
     “Aye, well,” he interrupted hastily, before she could reveal any more unflattering observations of his behavior. “I didna mean  …   I mean  …   that’s just how men act, when they  …   do that,” he ended lamely. (216)

He tends to her, and even endures the indignity of her response to his ejaculation, another learning experience for her.

Jamie's final lesson to Geneva about sex is that it should not be confused with love, though there is something more akin to infatuation or puppy love than lust in Geneva's regard for Jamie, and certainly more akin to love than anything she was likely to experience in her arranged marriage.

     “No,” he said, but gently, shaking his head. “That’s the third rule. You may have no more than the one night. You may not call me by my first name. And you may not love me.”
     The gray eyes moistened a bit. “But if I can’t help it?”
     “It isna love you feel now.” He hoped he was right, for his sake as well as her own. “It’s only the feeling I’ve roused in your body. It’s strong, and it’s good, but it isna the same thing as love.”
     “What’s the difference?”
     He rubbed his hands hard over his face. She would be a philosopher, he thought wryly. He took a deep breath and blew it out before answering her.
     “Well, love’s for only one person. This, what you feel from me— ye can have that with any man, it’s not particular.” (217-218)

While he is trying to protect himself from the beginning, he is also trying to protect her.

Jamie's is necessarily a more comprehensive lesson than those usually given by Claire--even more so than her instruction of him, since she was not concerned with honor or dignity or emotion, simply with completing the act, and with pleasure.  Though I have argued that Geneva's tryst with Jamie parallels the expected plot of a romance novel, and though even these moments of instruction have correlations in the romance genre, the nature of the instruction, and in particular Jamie's honest and straightforward communication with Geneva and emphasis on her dignity, distinguish Gabaldon's imitation from the real romance novel genre, even making the romance novel seem a parody of this more serious representation of an inexperienced girl's willful manipulation of a man she desires into her bed for her edification.

Gabaldon, Diana (2004-10-26). Voyager (Outlander). Random House, Inc.. Kindle Edition. 

Voyager: Title Changed to Prevent Search Engine Issues

It may not actually be the case, but it seems as though I have already written about sex more with reference to Voyager than with either of the other novels, and that feels strange to me, and a bit misleading, because when reading the books this time, it has felt as if the sex doesn't reach out and grab the reader by the appropriate appendage the same way in Dragonfly in Amber and Voyager as it undoubtedly does in Outlander. In fact, the point throughout Voyager is that, really, Jamie and Claire aren't having much sex.  They are separated from each other, and while they both find themselves in positions which require (though that seems too strong a word) more-or-less reluctant sexual intercourse, these acts are infrequent.  And yet, because the overall emphasis is on celibacy (sort of/not really--perhaps "denial" is a better word), each sexual act takes on thematic significance. It is in sex that things happen in this particular novel, and the sexual act is the locus of interaction between men and women, with all of the various complexities that sex--along with interpersonal connections, and gender and power relationships--entails.  (I find myself thinking, as much for my own benefit as others', "See?  Lit crit does tell us something about life.")  So while I was consciously not stopping to talk about each sexual encounter in Dragonfly and (especially) Outlander, I find myself feeling compelled to talk about each sexual encounter in Voyager.

And so it is, after remaining celibate for years after Culloden and Claire's departure (longer than Claire, whose encounter with Frank apparently happened within two years or so of returning), and refusing to think about a woman as a mate or a spouse or a sexual object for 7 years, Jamie is presented with a "gift"--a "sending off" and opportunity for tenderness and release from a woman for whom Jamie was laird and a benefactor of sorts.  This description suggests an unequal power relationship.  In fact, there is not one--or at least, not a traditionally unequal one, as Jamie does not, in fact, possess (or desire) power over her.  Lacking Claire, Jamie is always at a disadvantage when he enters into sexual situations with the three women with whom he copulates during her 20-year absence.**  Mary McNab is the first.

The occasion is Jamie's last night in a cave near Lallybroch before giving himself up to the English for a ransom to provide for his family and tenants.  Mary brings him his meal, and then lays out his bed.  When Jamie refuses her, she begins by giving him back his title, and granting him some of the power and identity that he has lost:

     “My lord!” she said.
     He stopped, but did not turn around. “It isna suitable to call me that,” he said.
     “Lallybroch is yours,” she said. “And will be so long as ye live. If ye’re its laird, I’ll call ye so.”
     “It isna mine. The estate belongs to Young Jamie.”
     “It isna Young Jamie that’s doing what you are,” she answered with decision. “And it isna your sister that’s asked me to do what I’m doin’. Turn round.” (90)

Because she is effectively restoring his position, I sense an ironic echo of the droit du seigneur--the right by which a French feudal lord could choose to deflower a bride on her wedding night.  Mary is not a virgin, and Jamie is not that kind of lord.  And that is largely the point.  Except that, through sex, she is able to restore him to his proper station--before it is stripped from him entirely.

The scene is one of a non-sacramental union.  From a Christian perspective, it would have to be regarded as fornication.  But though that is the perspective that formed Jamie's consciousness and world view long ago, he has been muted by sorrow and suffering, and a little bit of relativism from Claire (though not in the matter of sexuality, where she does, in fact, expect and demand a high level of honor and fidelity).  The issue of fidelity is raised, in the narrative, by the woman herself (and I wonder, here, if Mary McNab is a type of Mary Magdalene as she has existed in various traditions--giving something to her Lord that He could use):

     “I ken weel enough what ye’re thinkin’,” she said. “For I saw your lady, and I know how it was between the two of ye. I never had that,” she added, in a softer voice, “not wi’ either of the two men I wed. But I know the look of a true love, and it’s not in my mind to make ye feel ye’ve betrayed it.”
[....]
     “What I want,” she said quietly, “is to give ye something different. Something less, mayhap, but something ye can use; something to keep ye whole. Your sister and the bairns canna give ye that— but I can.” He heard her draw breath, and the touch on his face lifted away. “Ye’ve given me my home, my life, and my son. Will ye no let me gi’e ye this small thing in return?” (90)

And so what we have in this sexual moment is human need for tenderness and physical contact (though the emphasis is not on physical release), along with a pagan joining and sending off--a secular/pagan "communion" of sorts--and another testament to the integral nature of body and soul.  Sex has power, the narrative argues, even outside of the Sacrament.  Even so, it is used gravely, as a sacrifice, and with reverence.

Gabaldon, Diana (2004-10-26). Voyager (Outlander) (p. 90). Random House, Inc.. Kindle Edition. 

**There is a larger point to be made about the vulnerability of masculinity.  Jamie is thoroughly unmanned in this novel, and has been at risk since Outlander--from Jack Randall, from Claire, from the English, from childbirth, and now from women, though he retains dignity (perhaps separate from masculinity, or perhaps a redefinition of what masculinity means.  Still thinking about this...  It is certainly his vulnerability that makes Jamie such an attractive Romance hero for Diana Gabaldon's fans.)

Voyager: Chivalry, Body Hair, and Civilization

In isolated moments in the narrative, the contrast between civilization and a sort of "state of nature" (but not really) is thrown into relief.  It is not a true state of nature, because while Jamie is living outside of civilization, and in nature, civilization still exists, and he is aware of it, and how he has been shaped by it.  Also, there are no Others in Jamie's uncivilized state to compete for resources and cause the conflicts that necessitate the formation of government.  Indeed, it is the unjust tyranny of a foreign government after Culloden that leads to Jamie's retreat into nature.

If it is not the State of Nature, Jamie's living arrangements are somewhat Purgatorial.  He is living in a cave, reminiscent of a desert hermit--isolated, celibate, unshaven, practicing secular reading and meditation.  However, rather than becoming closer to God, in the manner of a Christian saint, Jamie becomes closer to Celtic pagan Nature:

He pulled the dirk from his belt and knelt by the deer, hastily saying the words of the gralloch prayer. Old John Murray, Ian’s father, had taught him. His own father’s mouth had twisted slightly, hearing it, from which he gathered that this prayer was perhaps not addressed to the same God they spoke to in church on Sunday. But his father had said nothing, and he had mumbled the words himself, scarcely noticing what he said, in the nervous excitement of feeling old John’s hand, steady on his own, for the first time pressing down the knife blade into hairy hide and steaming flesh. (56)

In keeping with the Purgatorial theme, this is, in fact, a prayer, though a pagan one.  The mouth twist from Jamie's father indicates a tension between the Celtic prayer and the Christian faith of Brian Fraser that is generally absent, but which is appropriate in this context, when Jamie's removal from civilization threatens to overwhelm him.  The suggestion that Christianity is a "civilized" religion that ceases to exist, somehow, in the wild is a thread that will reemerge in America, in future books.

That the presence of others is the key to civilization becomes explicit:

It was only as the lights of Lallybroch manor came into view that he felt at last the mantle of humanity fall upon him, and mind and body joined as one again as he prepared himself to greet his family. (58)

Part of this transformation into a civilized man--a ritual of his "return to civilization"--is the act of shaving.  When he enters the house, and begins to shave his full beard--a month's growth--the boys in the household gather to watch, anticipating their own rite of passage to adulthood within civilization.  When Jamie describes shaving as "one of the plagues of Adam," the boys begin to speculate on the removal of the various hair that signifies adulthood:

     “But what about the other hair?” Rabbie demanded. “Ye dinna shave there!” Young Jamie giggled at the thought, going red again.
     “And a damn good thing, too,” his elder namesake observed. “Ye’d need the devil of a steady hand. No need of a looking glass, though,” he added, to a chorus of giggles. (54)

When Fergus mentions women's body hair, Jamie jests,

     “Oh, well, that’s no a curse,” he told his rapt audience, picking up the basin and tossing the contents neatly through the open window. “God gave that as a consolation to man. If ye’ve ever the privilege of seeing a woman in her skin, gentlemen,” he said, looking over his shoulder toward the door and lowering his voice confidentially, “ye’ll observe that the hair there grows in the shape of an arrow— pointing the way, ye ken, so as a poor ignorant man can find his way safe home.”  (54)

In this passage is an echo of man's desire to return to the womb--albeit couched in a bawdy joke.  However, Jamie regrets his unchivalrous words quickly:

     He turned grandly away from the guffawing and sniggers behind him, to be struck suddenly with shame as he saw his sister, coming down the hall with the slow, waddling stride of advanced pregnancy. She was holding the tray with his supper on top of her swelling stomach. How could he have demeaned her so, for a crude jest and the sake of a moment’s camaraderie with the boys?

     “Be still!” he had snapped at the boys, who stopped giggling abruptly and stared at him in puzzlement. He hastened forward to take the tray from Jenny and set it on the table. (54-55)

It is a symptom of his living apart from civilization that he stoops to make unchivalrous jokes to the young boys of whom his sister has custody, and he realizes both his misstep in demeaning her, and the cause--his desire for companionship.

This moment of realization and compensation for unchivalrous words demonstrates again that 18th Century code of honor, contrasting with the 20th Century doctor's attitude toward Claire, and insinuations about her marital sexuality.  To demean women is, for Jamie, to be uncivilized and ungracious, in spite of--and perhaps because of--the difficult burdens that Jenny--a sort of ideal everywoman of the 18th C--has to bear.

Gabaldon, Diana (2004-10-26). Voyager (Outlander). Random House, Inc.. Kindle Edition.

Voyager: 18th Century Sexuality, 20th Century Sexism

For Valentine's Day: a little meditation on 18th and 20th Century sexuality by way of Voyager....

One of the semi-reactionary threads that runs through the novel is the difference between 18th Century men and 20th Century men--with 18th Century men generally coming out on top (not intending anything off-color).  While rape is rampant, gender roles static, abuse frequent, prostitution commonplace, and marriage often miserable, nevertheless the novels come back time and again to the idea that men respect and protect women in a way that is qualitatively different in the 18th Century, even though they are, in fact, protected from other 18th C men.  I will return to this idea when male gallantry rears its head in Voyager.

Meanwhile, in a passage that's easy to overlook, Claire is subjected to a bothersome example of what happens when the code of honor dictating respect to women erodes, but the tendency to sexualize them remains.  In an italicized flashback, Claire is thinking back to Frank's first (somewhat involuntary) indication after Brianna's birth that he would like to "come home all the way":

I could do it—physically, at least. I had seen the doctor for a checkup the week before, and he had—with an avuncular wink and a pat on the bottom—assured me that I could resume “relations” with my husband at any time. (34)

The doctor's attitude--his "wink" and "pat on the bottom," should register immediately as behavior that is not suitable for a medical professional when dealing with a patient--of whatever sex.  His actions suggest vicarious pleasure and almost a lewd appreciation of her desire for sex.  There is no social code to hold him in check.

Interestingly, the doctor's behavior does resemble one 18th Century male--Dougal MacKenzie--and the liberties that he takes in the particular context of Claire's and Jamie's wedding, from the intimate position of kinsman, the power relationship as the brother of the lord of Clan MacKenzie, and from the bawdiness of 18th Century Scotts interactions.  Outwardly, the 20th Century revels less in sex--in fact, sex comes indoors in the 20th Century.  In the Outlander novels, the 18th Century is marked by a constant awareness of sexuality, and a sort of implicit celebration of its pleasure and fruitful potential that lurks just under the surface of interactions between men and women.  Shocking at times to a more contemporary sensibility (as when Claire is mortified at their companions' jesting about hers and Jamie's wedding night), nevertheless, there is an honesty and celebratory aspect to sex that is missing from the 20th Century scenes.

The doctor--supposedly a healer if not precisely a nurturer--who nevertheless occupies a position of power--can make insinuations about Claire's sexuality and even touch her inappropriately, though the culture is one in which sex is taken indoors, not discussed in public, and treated as something private--almost to the suggestion of shamefulness.  (There is also something to be said here about the predominance of male doctors.)  Frank--the suave gentleman of Claire's recollections--is the epitome of sneaky sexuality.  And yet, we generally think of the 20th Century as increasingly enlightened as compared to historical models of sexuality.  Whatever its historical accuracy, this flashback provides another indictment of the 20th Century as being less honest, less vital, and less desirable than the "barbaric" past.

***

A further note on Kindle reading...  When I copy from the Kindle App for Mac or Windows (which I use only at work on my lunch break), it automatically generates a reference when I paste the text:

Gabaldon, Diana (2004-10-26). Voyager (Outlander) (p. 34). Random House, Inc.. Kindle Edition.

This reference corresponds to the small trade paperback edition of Voyager with the green cover and gold brooch.

Dragonfly: Humiliations Galore

Warning:  This discussion cites, and elaborates upon, some of the more intense and disturbing imagery in the first two Outlander books.

In The Princess Bride, as Fezzig wrestles the Man in Black (i.e. the Dread Pirate Roberts, i. e. Wesley, i. e. Cary Elwes), he says, "I just want you to feel you're doing well.  I hate for people to die embarrassed."  The line sounds amusing.  If one is about to die, what does embarrassment have to do with it?  Would having one's fighting ability validated in some way matter?

I believe that the Outlander books answer the second question constantly.  Death in battle is definitely the most noble way to die, for those who are able, but it is clear that this is not the only way that people die--and that many suffer much more ignoble deaths.

Of all of the tortures enacted upon Jamie Fraser in Wentworth prison by Jack Randall to satisfy his sadistic lusts, the most chilling account, to the mind of this critic, occurs in Ch. 8: "Unlaid Ghosts and Crocodiles," as Jamie presumably unburdens his soul onto Claire. The disembodied voice of Jack Randall, which Jamie tries to separate from all physical sensation, taunts him as it abuses him:

     "Have you ever seen a man hanged, Fraser?" The words went on, not waiting for him to reply....
     "Yes, of course you have; you were in France, you'll have seen deserters hanged now and again.  A hanged man loses his bowels, doesn't he? As the rope tightens fast round his neck." [...] He clenched his good hand tight around the edge of the bed and turned his face hard into the scratchy blanket, but the words pursued him.
     "That will happen to you, Fraser.  Just a few more hours, and you'll feel the noose." The voice laughed, pleased with itself. "You'll go to your death with your arse burning from my pleasure, and when you lose your bowels, it will be my spunk running down your legs and dripping on the ground below the gallows." (Dragonfly 156)

Taken out of context, the words lose some of their disturbing quality. We might get hung up on words like "spunk" and "arse," wonder whether the sadist and torturer would have really led off with the rhetorical question, "Have you ever seen a man hanged, Fraser?"  When I read, "A hanged man loses his bowels, doesn't he?" I think of a particular episode of Futurama, in which a comatose Leela hallucinates Fry's funeral, and the minister intones, "And it goes without saying that it caused him to empty his bowels."

But it is that bowel emptying, and the rapist's semen, and most of all, that the perpetrator should choose this particular taunt to a doomed man with no hope who is suffering every pain and indignity--these are what cause the horror that lingers, and prompts me to write this post.  The humiliation of the doomed.

There was a billboard that I used to pass every time a road trip took me through Orange, TX.  It said, "Raped While Dying."  There was a snippet of a story involving a man's rape and murder of his ex-wife, and possible desecration of her grave.  I can't find a link to the story, but I did find a Google archive of a Houston Chronicle archived story that no longer exists online:

This story held the same kind of haunting horror because it combined torture and humiliation with the sure knowledge of death.  Of course, the details are not really known when the victim dies.  Fictional Jamie lives to recount--remember--relive.  It is fiction, but the horror is real.

There is yet another account of humiliation in death that carries the same sickening sense of horror as the narrative moment in Dragonfly in Amber, as Jamie recalls Jack Randall's taunts.  This one feels particularly relevant, as it is World War II horror--the horror of the 20th Century war that Claire lived through.  Although I can't find a "linkable" reference, late night documentary-watching acquainted me with the execution of one of the members of--I believe--the Valkyrie plot, or someone only marginally associated with the plot, if memory serves.  He was filmed--being hanged--with his pants pulled down. Humiliation in death.

And so when I read the moment in Dragonfly in Amber, it sort of explodes in my mind.  Whatever else might be going on in the narrative--"bowels," "spunk," or "arse"--this particular moment conveys the kind of psychological torture that would break a man who seemingly could not be broken.  The preceding analogous examples underscore the emasculation that Jamie suffers, as well as the dehumanization.  And the humiliation--the blending of sex and death--makes the detail of Jack Randall's torture more chilling than the warning description of the traitor's death--hanging, drawing, and quartering--in a later chapter (430-433).

I am reminded of the line from Tolkien, "It is perilous to study too deeply the arts of the Enemy." Because to dwell on torture is to do exactly that.  I have not seen it questioned whether the depiction of torture was realistic, but the horror it evokes feels real, and brings me back to Fezzig's gallantry:

"I hate for people to die embarrassed." 

And that, by contrast, is why Jack Randall is a monster.  It's about dignity.