Voyager: One More Romance Novel Post (and a bit of Metafiction)

After the mini-romance novel scenario in Chapter 14, Chapter 15 reinforces the point by finding Jamie reading the 18th Century equivalent:

My lips, which I threw in his way, so as that he could not escape kissing them, fix’d, fir’d and embolden’d him: and now, glancing my eyes towards that part of his dress which cover’d the essential object of enjoyment, I plainly discover’d the swell and commotion there; and as I was now too far advanc’d to stop in so fair a way, and was indeed no longer able to contain myself, or wait the slower progress of his maiden bashfulness, I stole my hand upon his thighs, down one of which I could both see and feel a stiff hard body, confin’d by his breeches, that my fingers could discover no end to. (qtd in Voyager 219)

Except that arguably the novel he is reading, Fanny Hill or Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure by John Cleland, is not a romance novel at all, but erotica.  On the one hand, it does dramatize the circumstances in which a young orphan from the country might land herself in the position of prostitute or kept woman in London, but it is dramatized in such a way as to titillate the reader with the spectacle of Fanny's "education" and desires rather than to underscore the social circumstances or her moral downfall.  Though I have not read to the end of my copyright-free Kindle edition, I suspect that there is no "awakening conscience," unlike William Holman Hunt's much later painting, or if there is, it is only meant to redeem the novel in some small way.

So what does the inclusion of this novel excerpt contribute to the conversation on genre? Because certainly that is why it is there.  The argument seems to be, first of all, for anyone who might be wondering whether the sexual practices discussed or enacted by the characters in the Outlander series were well-known during the 18th Century, that yes, everything that the characters do and discuss is historically appropriate.  So okay, most people would probably assume that sexual positions and acts are as old as the hills anyway.  I've read The Symposium.  And I've seen a fair sampling of Greek kylix (okay, one is Etruscan--and these are TAME).

 But there might be a legitimate question about inhibitions and whatnot--likely based more on stereotyped views of the 19th century.  There are countless rape narratives (including Pamela) from the 17th and 18th centuries.  Some are called "marriage plays" (proto-Romance novels?).  In many ways, Mrs. Bennett and Lydia in Pride and Prejudice represent the old way of getting husbands in literature, while Jane and Lizzie represent the post-Romantic movement way.  So Jamie's reading material, which offers him some variation from Defoe and Fielding, proves that erotica was a familiar genre for the time period,  and that depictions of sexuality in literature go way back.  In a way, this gives some validation to the frank depictions of sexuality in the Outlander novels.  However, if the reader goes a little bit further and actually investigates the 18th Century erotica in question, a contrast becomes apparent.  Fanny Hill exists for titillation.  The Outlander books do not have titillation as their primary purpose, though certainly scenes may titillate.  (I think that's the word of the day.  Use it whenever appropriate.)

So once again, the reader is asked to think about literature generally (or generically!) based on a scene or a literary reference or a quote in the text (and in case you were wondering, it's all about literacy) for the purpose of coming to (predetermined?) conclusions about the genre of Gabaldon's books (or at least, what they are not--too long, romance novels, or erotica).  So really, if the reader is open to it, Voyager is asking the reader to engage with questions that a reader does not always consider apart from the bookstore or the odd Amazon.com review--perhaps encouraging a more analytical reader.

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

Voyager: A Little Metafiction

Chapter 11 begins after a laying to rest of the tensions that exist between Fraser and Grey over the matters of gold and betrayal.  As is now their habit, prisoner and governor play chess and discuss books.  "This evening, they had come from the dinner table, still discussing Samuel Richardson’s immense novel Pamela" (168).  Pamela is famously (or infamously) voluminous, and the men begin by discussing the length:

      “Do you think that the size of the book is justified by the complexity of the story?” Grey asked, leaning forward to light a cheroot from the candle on the sideboard. “It must after all be a great expense to the publisher, as well as requiring a substantial effort from the reader, a book of that length.”
 . . . .
     “What is it— twelve hundred pages? Aye, I think so. After all, it is difficult to sum up the complications of a life in a short space with any hope of constructing an accurate account.”  (168)

A reader of Diana Gabaldon's Outlander novels should chuckle at this exchange--though perhaps if the reader is holding a Kindle or Nook instead of a 1000+ page paperback with smallish font, the point would be diminished somewhat.  But it's easy to get the sense that the author is responding to--or at least exploring--the criticism of her books as over-long.  The first point--Fraser's--is that length is necessary to "sum up the complications of a life" accurately.  Grey plays devil's advocate in the fictional debate over novel length:

     “True. I have heard the point made, though, that the novelist’s skill lies in the artful selection of detail. Do you not suppose that a volume of such length may indicate a lack of discipline in such selection, and hence a lack of skill?”
     Fraser considered, sipping the ruby liquid slowly.
     “I have seen books where that is the case, to be sure,” he said. “An author seeks by sheer inundation of detail to overwhelm the reader into belief. In this case, however, I think it isna so. Each character is most carefully considered, and all the incidents chosen seem necessary to the story. No, I think it is true that some stories simply require a greater space in which to be told.” (168)

Presumably, in this, as in matters of Scottish nationalism, the reader will agree with Jamie, but the working out of it is amusing.  Is the length of Gabaldon's novels appropriate to the complexity of the storyline?  Does it show a lack of artfulness?  The narrative answers these questions for itself, in Jamie's voice.  It is a clever joke.

I am reminded here of J. K. Rowling, whose stated purpose in the Harry Potter series was to grow her readers with her novels, from shorter to longer works, and with progressively darker stories.  Desensitizing readers to length might have been a clever technique; however, setting out to write longer and longer books justifiably gives rise to the same questioning--could the novel have been tighter?  In some cases, Rowling's books certainly could.  In Gabaldon's--I haven't seen any need for more careful editing.  They are intricate and very well-crafted.

It is perhaps a more serious point that circumstance and temperament determine preference for long novels.  Since 8th grade, when I read the unabridged version of Great Expectations, I have never shied away from a novel because of length.  When I look at an eBook, I look for two things:  the publisher (especially whether there is a recognizable publisher) and the print length.  I have heard someone say that she resisted finishing books because she didn't want them to end--and I have suggested (fruitlessly) that an 8-book series of 1000+ page novels might be a cure...  On her website, Gabaldon recounts how "when a reading person is about to be deployed to Iraq or Afghanistan, the first thing they do is go to the bookstore and look for a hefty book that will last them through the flight.  Not surprisingly {cough}, they often end up with one of mine."  She includes a letter from a serviceman to that effect, as well.  So, acquainted as she is with the reasons people read, and why they choose long books, she writes Jamie's perspective:

     “Of course, I admit to some prejudice in that regard, Major. Given the circumstances under which I read Pamela, I should have been delighted had the book been twice as long as it was.”
     “And what circumstances were those?”
     “I lived in a cave in the Highlands for several years, Major,” Fraser said wryly. “I seldom had more than three books with me, and those must last me for months at a time. Aye, I’m partial to lengthy tomes, but I must admit that it is not a universal preference.”  (169)

There are reasons to choose a lengthy book--particularly one that can entertain the mind and take a reader out of himself--or herself.  On the other hand, on the same page, Grey recounts--and both men mock--the kind of attitude that would avoid a book altogether because of its length:

     “I remember,” he continued, sucking fiercely on his cheroot, encouraging it to draw, “a friend of my mother’s— saw the book— in Mother’s drawing room—” He drew deeply, and blew once more, giving a small grunt of satisfaction as the new ring struck the old, dispersing it into a tiny cloud.
     “Lady Hensley, it was. She picked up the book, looked at it in that helpless way so many females affect and said, ‘Oh, Countess! You are so courageous to attack a novel of such stupendous size. I fear I should never dare to start so lengthy a book myself.’” Grey cleared his throat and lowered his voice from the falsetto he had affected for Lady Hensley.
     “To which Mother replied,” he went on in his normal voice, “‘Don’t worry about it for a moment, my dear; you wouldn’t understand it anyway.’” (169)

I do find it interesting that it is particular type of female reader (or non-reader) that Grey (and his mother) are mocking.  However, the superficiality of this reader--a type of society woman--stands in stark contrast not only to the men, but also to Jenny Fraser Murray (see here and here and here).

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

Voyager: A Literate Friendship?

It is perhaps not surprising, after their initial encounter cleared up the misperceptions Lord John Grey has about Jamie's (and Highlanders') literacy (which might be read as synonymous for intelligence or capacity for rational thought), that the common ground that allows these two vastly different men to relate to one another is found in books.

Even after Grey puts Jamie in a position that compromises Grey's authority, and potentially compromises Jamie's integrity, and Jamie--not quite in response--breeches Grey's trust (and there are other issues concerning whether a captor has a right to further bind a captive via trust*), it is through books that they establish the normal--but highly abnormal--familiarity that borders on friendship:

They discussed matters of the prison, had a little conversation of books, and parted formally, but on good terms. (152)

The caveat "Grey did not mention gold" (152) points to use of common literate context as a diversionary, trust-building, and information-gathering tactic--chalk that one up to "uses of literacy"!

As the now-weekly conversation shifts to Jamie's experiences in French literary circles, it becomes a bit more theoretical, centering on the person of the author:

     Fraser smiled. “Oh, aye, Major. In fact, I was privileged to entertain Monsieur Arouet— Voltaire being his nom de plume, aye?— at my table, on more than one occasion.”
     “Really?” Grey cocked a brow in interest. “And is he as great a wit in person as with the pen?”
     “I couldna really say,” Fraser replied, tidily forking up a slice of mutton. “He seldom said anything at all, let alone much sparkling with wit. He only sat hunched over in his chair, watching everyone, wi’ his eyes rolling about from one to another. I shouldna be at all surprised to hear that things said at my dinner table later appeared on the stage, though fortunately I never encountered a parody of myself in his work.” He closed his eyes in momentary concentration, chewing his mutton. (153)

At this point, Jamie's invocation of Voltaire might be a diversionary tactic as well, since Jamie already knows of Grey's literacy snobbery.  So literacy functions as a potential plot device, on the one hand, and on the other hand, Jamie's display of his literary connections functions in the narrative as a commentary on the sociability of authors.  An unrelated point is Jamie's appreciation of the food, which Grey finds unacceptable, but which is choice compared with the prisoners' fare--an appreciation which borders on absurd when Jamie (implicitly) compares the mutton to French banquet fare (Again--consider the artfulness and subterfuge in Jamie's interaction with Grey.)

As Jamie continues to describe the habits of Voltaire, the reader gets a peek at the writer's art:

     “I have never seen Monsieur Arouet consume anything beyond a glass of water and a dry biscuit, no matter how lavish the occasion. He’s a weazened wee scrap of a man, ye ken, and a martyr to the indigestion.”
     “Indeed?” Grey was fascinated. “Perhaps that explains the cynicism of some of the sentiments I have seen expressed in his plays. Or do you not think that the character of an author shows in the construction of his work?”
     “Given some of the characters that I have seen appear in plays and novels, Major, I should think the author a bit depraved who drew them entirely from himself, no?”
     “I suppose that is so,” Grey answered, smiling at the thought of some of the more extreme fictional characters with whom he was acquainted. “Though if an author constructs these colorful personages from life, rather than from the depths of imagination, surely he must boast a most varied acquaintance!” (154)

Through discussion of literature, the two men leave behind their roles as prisoner and prison governor, and Jamie manages to court Grey's curiosity via his own literary knowledge.  In their commentary, the reader gets a portrait of the artist as introspective, dyspeptic (in the literal and figurative sense), and antisocial.  He practices the stereotypical "people-watching."  And the debate between Grey and Jamie as to the nature of the author's art and inspiration--from within or from without--is a kind of literary cliché, though presumably not for armchair critics in the 18th Century!  To take the cliché (an enjoyable cliché, mind you) a bit further, Jamie recounts that

“It was not Monsieur Arouet, but a colleague of his— a lady novelist— who remarked to me once that writing novels was a cannibal’s art, in which one often mixed small portions of one’s friends and one’s enemies together, seasoned them with imagination, and allowed the whole to stew together into a savory concoction.” (154)

This "author-as-cannibal" is a necessary transition into discussion of Robinson Crusoe, which Grey introduces as "a favorite of mine since boyhood" (154).  The remainder of their evening is neatly summarized:

The conversation turned then to romances, and the excitement of the tropics. It was very late indeed when Fraser returned to his cell, leaving Major Grey entertained, but no wiser concerning either the source or the disposition of the wanderer’s gold. (154)

The moment turns out rather pitiful.  From assuming a position of superiority, Grey has been caught unaware by the extent of Fraser's knowledge--a fact that Jamie uses in order to dominate and direct the conversation away from the subject Grey most wants (wanted?) to address--the matter of gold.  The scene is a reminder not to underestimate literacy--or shared literacy context--and the power it can give. The positions of the two men are equalized, and then Grey's authority effectively subverted.

What becomes a bit heartwrenching is Jamie's exploitation of Grey's naïveté--a naïveté he has exploited before, on the eve of a battle in the uprising (see Dragonfly in Amber, or Grey's reminiscence in Voyager).  Even given his authority, Grey has weaknesses--loneliness, and desire for intellectual companionship, quite apart from an appreciation for Jamie's attractiveness (at this point understated).  If one has the ability to feel pity for Grey given his authority, and specifically, to feel a pity centered specifically on his homosexuality**, it is sad to see that his affection for Jamie (which includes, but does not seem limited to, sexual attraction) begins with deception.  It is not unreasonable to expect that Jamie enjoyed the evening, but the narrative ("Fraser returned to his cell, leaving Major Grey entertained, but no wiser concerning either the source or the disposition of the wanderer’s gold") strongly suggests that he did not lose himself in the conversation the way the other did.  Beware, then, the literacy-based affection?

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

* In an earlier circumstance, Jamie declares to Grey, “It is not legitimate for ye either to extort my services or to threaten me, Major.” (134)

**In all of the novels in which he is a character, Lord John's homosexuality is frequently an object of pity inspired by the narrative, rather than sympathy or empathy.  If I analyze the Lord John novels, I plan to explore how I think Gabaldon maintains an arms' length from Grey's sexual orientation, often portraying homosexual relationships as destructive, futile, and sordid, especially as compared to Grey's platonic and almost transcendant relationship with Jamie.

Reading Voyager: An Analysis of Technology-mediated Reading

I'm gearing up to start posting on the third book in Diana Gabaldon's Outlander series, Voyager.  Note that I'm not gearing up to read the book--I've been working on it for about a week now, and I'm close to halfway finished (even with a busy week)!  But either because of how I'm reading it, or the book itself, or other writing I'm doing, I'm not stopping as often to post my analyses.

I love Outlander.  And I like Dragonfly in Amber.  Right now I'm trying to decide if I like Voyager more than the other two.  Probably not more than Outlander, because, well--Outlander starts the ball rolling.  There are mysteries and people to discover, places to see--and see again--a lot of sex and a lot of adrenaline.  And in fact, it is maybe the adrenaline that makes me feel like Outlander is not as easy to revisit.  But Voyager has the pace--it clips along very nicely, thank you!  Dragonfly in Amber does not have the same fast pace--which is just as well, because when I first read Outlander, I could not have handled another book of the same intensity so soon after.  My heart would have lept out of my chest!  But if it somewhat slower--if some parts even drag a bit for me--there is a lot in Dragonfly that can be considered, and analyzed.  Voyager is nice to just read.  There is not as much as in Outlander that's unfamiliar or disturbing.  Many of the essential comparisons between the 20th and the 18th Centuries have already been made by the third book.  It is a book with action, but not tense action--at least, not yet.  There is tension, but it comes later.  So it is a book that says to me, "Read me!  You know you want to.  Things are happening.  Come and see how they unfold!"  And it begs me to save the analysis for later.

On the other hand, I have many things that I plan to analyze.  I have them marked.  And the marking is a difference in my method.

For the first time, I am reading one of the Outlander books on my new Kindle.  For my birthday last month, I got a Kindle Paperwhite.  I had no idea that it would change my reading, though--literacy theory scholar that I am--I should probably have anticipated it.  Marshall McLuhan could have warned me, I'm sure.

Voyager is not the first book I have read on the Kindle--I read Lady of Devices: A Steampunk Novel by Shelly Adina (it's free for Kindle), which was not a terribly challenging read--in a couple of days.  I also read A Leaf on the Wind of All Hallows: An Outlander Novella--in a relatively short time.  Both short; both books that were more straightforward, with less to analyze (not that I won't come back to A Leaf at some point, mind you...).  Not so, Voyager.  But the way of reading persists.

When I was rereading Outlander and Dragonfly in Amber in the small, trade paperback editions with the solid-covers of blue and orange (respectively), adorned with appropriate symbolic object, I was not making notes in the books.  I have no problem making notes in the books--except that I'm picky about what kind of pen/pencil I use, and I sometimes want to reread a book from scratch without my previous marks influencing my reading, and that the paper on which these books are printed are a little too coarse and porous to lend themselves to notes.  Okay, I have several problems with making notes in books--particularly since the advent of eReading technology.  And also, since rediscovering reading like a reader instead of reading like a critic, I have actually stopped reading with my pen. It's sort of liberating.   However, it wasn't a conscious decision not to mark the books.  It just happened that way.

So while reading Outlander and Dragonfly, I would read the book.  When I came to a scene that I wanted to blog, I would either type the passage as a draft post right then and there, or I would remember it for later, or I would stop reading until I felt like coming back to blog about it, or I would use the Blogger app on my iPod to enter some basic info--page numbers and a title at the least, but sometimes I also included a note or two of what I wanted to say about the passage in question.  I frequently had several minimal draft posts on the go at the same time, and I would come back to them at leisure.  But what happened was that the knowledge that I had 4 or so draft posts to work on would halt my reading.  I couldn't go on until I cleared the cache, so to speak.  It was an interesting phenomenon.

So what is different with Voyager?  One of the greatest features of the Kindle (and assorted eReaders) is the ability to highlight and make notes.  I personally wish that it would allow me to export my notes more easily.  I can post them to Facebook, but that's not what I want to do.  I would love for it to export to Blogger, or to send it to my email.  So what I've been doing is, instead of posting to Blogger--actually typing in the text as I come to it--I've been highlighting my Kindle version.  This saves the text for later, but without the same pressure of the draft posts.  It works out very nicely, because I can then use my Mac version of the Kindle Reader to review my highlights and copy the text from the eBook into Blogger.  The Kindle Cloud Reader for Chrome doesn't have this capability, but the one for Mac OS does.  Go figure.  (See Kindle Reading Apps here.  No, Amazon isn't paying me anything.)

The highlighting feature also allows me to make notes and highlight text indiscriminately.  The thought process that went into choosing what would make a good analysis is not quite present--the selection process is reserved for when I start writing, instead of taking place as I decide whether analysis of this or that particular passage is worth the effort of typing it into the computer or--horrors!--the iPod.  (Not iPAD--iPOD!  Translation: very tiny touchscreen.)  So I have a number of collected ideas, notes, and highlights.  I just haven't gotten around to applying the filter and deciding which notes are post-worthy. But I'm getting there!

So between the novel itself and the Kindle interface, I'm just sailing along.  But I've got a lot in the pipeline that I'll be rolling out soon!