Drums: More "Women's Issues" (Pt. 2)

The writing of this post resembled a research paper--I can only hope it doesn't read like one.  Here, I try to give an overview of how the Outlander books build up a preoccupation with sexuality, bound up with fertility, that develops, in later books, into a curious near-feminist statement on birth control and reproduction.

The Early Books

From the first novel, Outlander, Gabaldon's novels have been focused on reproduction and fertility in one way or another.  At first, the focus is negative--that is, the absence of fertility. Claire wants to get pregnant. She has a duty  to get pregnant.  But she can't get pregnant.  The novel ends on a positive note for Jamie and Claire.

Geilie Duncan, on the other hand, does get pregnant in Outlander, and does so deliberately, in order to have a hold on the father.  I believe that there is also the implication that she dabbles in abortifacients, for her own unwanted offspring and for other women.  Her pregnancy is both her means of exposure and her means of buying Claire's escape (Outlander) and eventually her own (as Claire learns in Voyager).

Fertility becomes a problem for Claire and those around her in wholly new ways in Dragonfly in Amber, as Claire experiences pregnancy complications, and as she befriends a coquette who finds herself pregnant by her lover at an inopportune time, and a young girl who is completely ignorant of sex and its ties to reproduction.  In these contexts, and in her work at L'Hopital des Anges, Claire first encounters and contemplates Eighteenth-century abortion, and first teaches sex-ed (of a sort).   Nevertheless, Claire's advice to Mary after an interrupted rape is not textbook Twentieth-Century advice:

"Am I going to have a baby?" she blurted out, looking  up fearfully.  "You said..."
"No," I said , as firmly as I could. "You aren't. He wasn't able to...finish." In the folds of my skirt, I crossed both pairs of fingers, hoping fervently that I was right. The chances were very small indeed, but such freaks had been known to happen.  (Dragonfly 360)

Claire is clearly hedging here, but the certainty she expresses to Mary to prevent the girl from panicking contrasts directly with her stance on coitus interruptus in Drums of Autumn, and although the two situations are different--in one case the man is forced to discontinue the incomplete act while in the other, he does reach climax--the risk of pregnancy is similar in each case, speaking biologically rather than statistically.

Eighteenth and Twentieth Century Men and Fertility

In previous books, the relationship between men and fertility is straightforward:  Frank wants a child of his own (though he's not too sure he could love an adopted one); Jamie wants a child of his own. In Voyager, things get more complex for men and women, in the Eighteenth and Twentieth Centuries.

In Voyager, a good part of the action takes place in the Twentieth Century, which generally manifests its own particular form of sexism under the veneer of more enlightened attitudes toward sexuality.  Frank has learned that he can, indeed, love another man's child--particularly since he is infertile himself.  Nevertheless, he manifests Twentieth Century chauvenism by philandering while staying with Claire while they raise Bree.  This wouldn't seem to lend itself to judgment of Bree, but he seems to presume that she is as guilty of promiscuous tendencies as any undergraduate of the college, stating bluntly that "she'll be off with the first fellow who--" (what, we don't know).  (If Bree only knew, she might not think that Frank would be kinder to her than Jamie, when Jamie calls her a wanton in Drums of Autumn...)  When Claire interrupts Frank, defending Bree, she adds a certain Sexual Revolution "wisdom":  "Besides, all young people experiment, that’s how they learn. You can’t keep her swaddled in cotton wool all her life”  (Voyager 268).  The curious thing is that she upholds Bree's right to experiment--suggesting that Bree might, in fact, be "off with the first fellow who..." and at the same time defends Bree's virtue.  Frank continues with a particularly nasty bit of racism.

While Claire is living with philandering Frank in the Twentieth Century, Jamie adopts some of Claire's erstwhile Eighteenth-Century roles, namely sexual education (albeit in an ironic sense), critique of his century's (Biblical?) view of women, and acknowledment of the dangers of childbearing.  All of these contexts interact in interesting ways with his own masculinity, showing clearly how female identity and its constraints and dangers influence how men are able to be--and expected to be--men.  The most poignant damage done to Jamie's masculinity happens through the person of Geneva, who blackmails him into sex, conceives his child (perhaps intentionally, as she "looks at him with new interest" when Jamie warns her to summon him when she is least fertile), and dies in childbirth.  When explaining the situation to Claire, he confesses his guilt, which carries the realization that his sexuality, which he has already felt as shameful because of Geneva, is also deadly:

“No,” he said softly. “She  …   wanted me. I should have found a way— should have stopped her, but I could not. She wished me to lie wi’ her. And I did, and  …   she died of it.” He did look down then, long lashes hiding his eyes. “I am guilty of her death, before God; perhaps the more guilty— because I did not love her.”  (Voyager 940-941).

Claire's Mission 

In both centuries, it is up to Claire to be the voice of Enlightment as regards sexuality in general, and contraception in particular.  So Voyager functions as a kind of primer of Claire's mature knowledge of and philosophies on sex and reproduction, influenced by her medical training against the backrdrop of emerging Twentieth Century attitudes toward sex and their culmination in the 1960s.  Claire's return to the past represents not only a reunion with Jamie, and the continued consummation of their love, but also a mission of sorts--to spread sexual education to 18th Century women, thus improving their overall condition (we learn in Drums that this has been a Twentieth Century mission of hers as well--more on this later).  It starts with her observation of the affects of childbearing on women who were ignorant of hygiene and nutrition:

Nineteen when the eldest was born, and Maisri was ten now. She was twenty-nine. And I, blessed by good nutrition, hygiene, and dentistry, not worn down by multiple pregnancies and hard physical labor, looked a good deal younger than she.  (Voyager 311-312)

The dangers of childbith, and the detriment to men and women that come from those dangers, are so much a part of Voyager that Jamie picks up that traditional wartime rhetoric--the comparison between childbirth and battle:

“I’m a man, Sassenach,” he said, very softly. “If I thought there was a choice  …   then I maybe couldna do it. Ye dinna need to be so brave about things if ye ken ye canna help it, aye?” He looked at me then, with a faint smile. “Like a woman in childbirth, aye? Ye must do it, and it makes no difference if you’re afraid— ye’ll do it. It’s only when ye ken ye can say no that it takes courage.”  (Voyager 877)

A less comfortable revelation than his night with Geneva, Jamie's failed marriage to Laoghaire makes clear, by degrees, that women stand not only to lose their looks, their health, and their life, but also sexual pleasure.   Influenced by her mother's warnings and fears of Jamie, Laoghaire's daughter Marsali, who has seen that Claire enjoys sex, confides her fears that childbearing will prevent her enjoyment of the marriage act.  Marsali is comparatively well-educated on the topic when she poses her question to Claire:

     “Weel, it’s to do wi’ bairns,” she explained. “And how ye get them.”
     I raised one eyebrow. “Your mother didn’t tell you where babies come from?”
     She snorted impatiently, her small blond brows knotted in fierce scorn. “O’ course I ken where they come from! Any fool knows that much. Ye let a man put his prick between your legs, and there’s the devil to pay, nine months later. What I want to know is how ye don’t get them.”

Specifically, she confesses to Claire, anticipating her marriage to Fergus, “I want to like it.... When we get to the prick part”  (Voyager 706-707).  Marsali's question leads Claire into her first explicit lesson on contraception, 18th Century style:

     “So there is a way?”
     “There are a lot of ways, and unfortunately most of them don’t work,” I told her, with a pang of regret for my prescription pad and the reliability of contraceptive pills. Still, I remembered well enough the advice of the maîtresses sage-femme, the experienced midwives of the Hôpital des Anges, where I had worked in Paris twenty years before. (Voyager 711)

[....] 

     “Here,” I said, pulling out a large chunk of cleaned sponge. I took one of the thin surgical knives from the fitted slots in the lid of the box and carefully sliced off several thin pieces, about three inches square. I searched through the box again and found the small bottle of tansy oil, with which I carefully saturated one square under Marsali’s fascinated gaze.
     “All right,” I said. “That’s about how much oil to use. If you haven’t any oil, you can dip the sponge in vinegar— even wine will work, in a pinch. You put the bit of sponge well up inside you before you go to bed with a man— mind you do it even the first time; you can get with child from even once.”  (Voyager 711-712)

So here we have it--explicit instructions for the 18th Century contraceptive sponge.  And at the same time, the first really direct contraceptive propoganda, complete with the admonition that a woman can get pregnant even from the first time--which, by now, we have learned from Jamie and Geneva.  This is textbook sex ed, though interesting.  I would want to know whether this is a historically accurate birth control method (something I suppose Google would tell me--or the dreaded Wikipedia), and what the actual effectiveness is, given that Claire is recommending it as at least somewhat reliable from her Twentieth-Century authority and her Eighteenth-Century practical wisdom.

But more than that, I wonder about the role it plays in the novel.  It signals to the reader, certainly, that Claire is serious about contraception, and signals this in a big way.  Whereas there is commentary earlier in the books on the state of women who are burdened with multiple pregnancies, particularly in an age lacking in hygeine and nutrition, and action in the novel that dramaties the dangers of childbirth and its implications for men and women, when Claire actually dispenses birth control rather than providing commentary, the reader is asked to take notice in a whole new way.  The gesture not only says, "Unregulated birth is a problem for women," it provides the solution, backed by Claire's medical authority, Twentieth Century wisdom, and position as the central character in the Outlander novels.  Moreover, the action is presented as amoral.  There is no indication that the Church or religion condemn contraception, although there are a couple of digs at St. Paul for not particularly liking women.  Rather, there is a strange little scene when Claire visits her stillborn daughter Faith at the Hôpital des Anges:

As we walked slowly back, I noticed other small stones set here and there among the larger ones.
     “Are those all children?” I asked, a little surprised.
     “The children of the nuns,” she said matter-of-factly. I gaped at her in astonishment, and she shrugged, elegant and wry as always.
     “It happens,” she said. She walked a few steps farther, then added, “Not often, of course.” She gestured with her stick around the confines of the cemetery. “This place is reserved for the sisters, a few benefactors of the Hôpital— and those they love.”
     “The sisters or the benefactors?”
     “The sisters...."  (Voyager 629)

This clearly means that the sisters have had tristes, and that those unions have resulted in children.  The fate of the children is less certain.  Did they simply die?  It might be strange for so many to have died in childhood, though perhaps not.  The uniformity of the size of the graves suggests infanticide or abortion--sinister alternatives glossed over with a shrug and almost... understanding.  Not quite a divine pass, but definitely stopping short of narrative condemnation, since neither of these strong, authoritative women seems to condemn.

So why the contraceptive propoganda--why now, in the third book?  Why continuing throughout the series--even into the newest volume, due out in March?  What seems clear is that fertility is a preoccupation of the author--as well it might be for a female author.  As it is, in fact, for me. And there is no doubt that the novels romaniticize sexuality.  They do so, however, in a very specific way--by romanticizing near-impossible marital sexual passion and prowess.  If a reader isn't paying attention, however, good sex with a tall Scotsman might be mistaken for the union between Claire and Jamie, and it is a reality that there are many, many women--many young women certainly, and just as certainly women of other staeges of life--who are confused or deluded about sex--whatever "being confused about sex" means to my readers, who no doubt see sexuality and reproduction in a few different ways, complete with nuances.  The novels are not, I would say, feminist overall, but they do have this element of feminism:  the need to warn women about the reprocussions of sexual activity.  Perhaps it has to do with responsibility--the woman's, or the author's.  In the first two novels, Claire either fears herself barren, or carries a child.  So in the books in which sexuality carries such a locus of power, there is, in fact, very little emphasis on unwanted consequences.  So perhaps the lesson from Voyager forward is that Claire's barrenness shouldn't lure young women into false securiy?  What, in fact, is the reader supposed to glean from these lessons?

I do read them as a lesson for the reader--and one that is reemphasized, almost ad nauseum.  But for all that, there is still some ambiguity, and some room for the reader to negotiate levels of awareness of fertility and its power, use of birth control, and occasions of self-giving.  Jamie and Claire remain open--well, almost.  So the conflict between what is good for the woman according to Claire's wisdom, and what is powerful and vital, is played out between the other "power couple"--Brianna and Roger.

To be continued...

Gabaldon, Diana (2004-10-26). Dragonfly in Amber (Outlander). Random House, Inc.. Kindle Edition.Gabaldon, Diana (2004-10-26). Drums of Autumn (Outlander). Random House Publishing Group. Kindle Edition.

Voyager: Is it 'The Gaze' if She Asks for It? (A Reactionary Moment)

Yes, the title of this post is intentionally provocative and potentially inflammatory.  I refer to the theoretical concept of "The Gaze," but use a kind of rhetoric of rape--and the comparison is apt.  "The Gaze" is a concept that is very closely related to feminist theory, but has roots in psychoanalytic theory (Lacan and Freud) and film theory, since the lens of the camera is a male-controlled eye that focuses on the female object, and also directs the audience toward that object as an object.  "The Gaze," then, is (masculine) force that objectifies and sexualizes the (female) object.  Here's a pretty good explanation with the right basic citations.  There is a sense in which "the gaze" becomes a sort of visual rape--hence the title of the post.

And yet, as I evoke feminist theory, I believe that Gabaldon's novel is doing the opposite--or rather, evoking feminist theory, and then discounting it in a single gesture.  As she prepares to return to Jamie, 20 years after leaving him in the past, assuming that he would die on the Culloden battlefield, Claire seeks the opinion of her medical school friend, Joe Abernathy--the same friend who introduces her to romance novels, and with whom Frank believes (and if Frank is to believed, others believe) her to be having an affair.  The exchange is both amusing, and telling:

     “Am I sexually attractive?” I demanded. His eyes always reminded me of coffee drops, with their warm golden-brown color. Now they went completely round, enhancing the resemblance.
     Then they narrowed, but he didn’t answer immediately. He looked me over carefully, head to toe.
     “It’s a trick question, right?” he said. “I give you an answer and one of those women’s libbers jumps out from behind the door, yells ‘Sexist pig!’And hits me over the head with a sign that says ‘Castrate Male Chauvinists.’ Huh?”
     “No,” I assured him. “A sexist male chauvinist answer is basically what I want.”
     “Oh, okay. As long as we’re straight, then.” He resumed his perusal, squinting closely as I stood up straight.
     “Skinny white broad with too much hair, but a great ass,” he said at last. “Nice tits, too,” he added, with a cordial nod. “That what you want to know?” (280-281)

So how does this register with you, the reader?  Is Claire violated in this scenario?  She has literally asked for "the Gaze":  "a sexist male chauvinist answer is basically what I want."  She is asking to be appraised--like a piece of property, or like livestock--and Abernathy delivers.  And in fairly... direct terms.  And Claire is satisfied.

However, the two are not only equals, between whom there is no sexual attraction, between whom there is personal and professional respect, and between whom there is a shared literacy context (the romance novel), the two are further linked by a professional disadvantage arising from what might be considered identity politics--he is black, and she is female.  Neither of them, however, is an activist for the cause.

So what is going on here?

Well, this is a nicely subversive moment.  A black man and a white woman--both doctors--are undermining the seriousness of the feminist movement in general, and female objectification in particular.  As the novels suggest elsewhere that what the late-20th-Century historian might see as oppression might actually have been social necessity (see here, here and here) , or even biologically-based necessity, so the narrative suggests here that fear of sexual objectification might be slightly laughable--that sexual attraction between men and women is visual, and so that gaze which could be cast as objectifying, is part of the whole picture of passion.

Joe is familiar enough with feminism to know the risk that he runs, but he succumbs to her request--in a way that also stresses her race and difference from him.  A few pages earlier, he has asserted the essential physical differences between black people and white, so it reinforces that point when he calls her a “Skinny white broad with too much hair, but a great ass.”  Claire is not offended, but relieved.  She still has what Jamie wanted.

And if you want to see what real sexism looks like, see Claire's doctor's commentary on her sex life.

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

Voyager: The Romance Novel Within (More Metafiction)

I am not a reader of romance novels, but one or two have passed in front of my eyes over the years.  When I was in high school, one of my teachers (of English and History), one outspoken about her Christian belief and anything else that popped in her head, and who doubted (in a kind? way) my ability to write analysis, was an avid reader of romance novels.  Some of the girls in the class were also avid readers of romance, and she leant them books.  In retrospect, I'm not sure I approve, since the books are completely without substance, explicitly sexual, and promote highly unrealistic expectations of relationships, but at the time, I was curious, so she loaned me one.  I read it, returned it, and was done with the genre.  In fact, as I mentioned up front, I was sort of mortified when I was first reading Outlander to think that I might have to venture in the romance section of the bookstore to buy the next installments, and grateful when I found it shelved in "Literature" instead.  Literacy snob?  Perhaps I share that with Lord John Grey... to a degree.  But the real issue for me is that in order to escape into fiction, I have to have fiction that I can wrap my head around.  Obviously not a problem with Outlander.

If I read more than one romance novel (and I think I must have read one more), I did not notice a great distinction between them.  I did come away with a basic plot formula: strong-willed woman meets attractive, arrogant man with rippling muscles and flowing hair (possibly in disguise); they are attracted to one another, but hate one another; she is sexually naïve while he is sexually experienced; they torment one another, but can't resist the bubbling passion; they "get carried away" and have sex "without meaning to," which compromises her honor; he offers to marry her/marries her against her will; she still hates him, until he tames her, and she doesn't any more.  They live happily ever after many gratuitous scenes of fornication all along the way.  Obviously, Outlander doesn't fit the formula (forced marriage notwithstanding).  But continuing the subtle metafiction joke, which pokes fun at the Outlander novels' characteristic features beginning with Jamie's conversation with Lord John about Pamela, Chapter 14 is a romance novel microcosm.

My first (and almost only) romance novel went something like this:

Arrogant prince has to disguise himself.  He presents himself and his situation to a lesser nobleman, who knows who he is, and reluctantly agrees to permit the prince to work in the stables with the horses--noble beasts with which the prince is well-acquainted.  The nobleman has a daughter--youngish, strong-willed, sexually inexperienced--who is attracted to the new stablehand, but views him with contempt because of his station, and so torments him.  At some point, she asks him to "teach her about kissing," which he does.  When she feels him harden against her copious skirts, and when he begins to feel the inside of her thigh, etc. etc., she asks whether this is "part of kissing." He lies, and continues, eventually losing control and deflowering her in the stables.  She finally realizes what has just happened.  He goes immediately to her father, who is inexplicably overjoyed to see his daughter wed to a stablehand, and he leaves with her--for Scotland.  Yes.  Scotland was part of the scenario.  She is captured by highwaymen and nearly raped (again?), but he saves her.  This part is fuzzy, but I think he offers to set her free, but she realizes she loves him and vice versa.  She finds out that he is the prince, and they live happily ever after.

I have no idea what the name of the book might have been.  I think my second/other romance novel involved pirates, but it was even less memorable than this one.

Compare Chapter 14 of Voyager:

Dispossessed ex-laird and prisoner Jamie is brought by Lord John to Helwater, where he is to serve as groom for a noble, not-so-wealthy family.  He immediately catches the attention of the elder daughter Geneva, a spoiled headstrong girl, but remains carefully aloof.  At some point, she announces to him that she is to be married, that she disapproves of the match, and wants Jamie to come to her bed so that she doesn't have to lose her maidenhead to a nasty old man.  He is completely unwilling, but she threatens and then blackmails him so that he feels he must agree in order to protect those for whom he cares most.  She is completely ignorant, and Jamie must teach her about sex.  He endeavors to be slow, but has been celibate for several years.  He has also never been with a virgin.  So when he enters her, and she protests out of fear, he claps a hand to her mouth, tells her "No," and...  finishes anyway.  She professes love for him, and he gently chastises her.  He also gently fulfills his part of the bargain, serving and servicing her throughout the night as a lover and as the servant he more truly is.  He departs before dawn, and she is married as planned.

The parallel is striking.

If you find any complaints about Jamie or the novel on internet message boards and reviews, they likely cite this scene as rape.  This reading says more about our society's hyper-sensitivity to victimization** than it does about the actual events of the text, as the only time Jamie in the chapter that actually has any power--in the initiation and orchestration of the sexual act--he is, in fact, not in control because, in succumbing to Geneva's demands and beginning the sexual act, he has, in fact, relinquished what control he had of his bodily urges.  Given the circumstances (which include not only explicit consent, but coercion and blackmail from Geneva), 18th Century law would have convicted him--to flogging or perhaps even hanging--but 20th or 21st Century law likely would not.  Public opinion is up for grabs.

However, as my romance novel summary demonstrates, rape is, in fact, a convention of the romance genre--often a catalyst for both love and sensual pleasure, and a means to the "taming" of the spoiled or willful female.  If Jamie's experience at Helwater is a kind of microcosm of the romance novel scenario, then, the rape suggestion is no doubt part of the narrative strategy.  If we unpack the Voyager romance scenario, a kind of critique emerges:

• Sexual power dynamics are not always as they might seem, particularly when the male is of a lower class or inferior station.
• Sex can be scary, even to a woman who feels she is in control.
• Sexual desire is not the same as love--a point that is made explicitly in the dialogue between Jamie and Geneva--nor does it necessarily lead to love.
• When the dearly bought night is over, events continue as they would have anyway.  (Well, almost...)

A point that is perhaps left for the reader to figure out is that things might have gone much, much worse for Geneva had Jamie been like one of the other grooms--that is, had he not been an honorable man who was determined to honor her femininity and his masculinity through the sexual act (210).  But he is a laird in disguise.  Unlike the typical romance hero, Jamie is a very well-developed character, whom the reader recognizes as having self-respect, respect for women, and respect for the power and sacredness of sexuality.  He continually controls his very just anger toward Geneva--anger which, if unleashed, might have lead to true brutality.  The anger and desire for domination and control--which enters into the romance novel sex scene--is not present.  Jamie is "angry, scared, and most mightily roused" (214), but does not wish to dominate or control her. Rather, "[h]e closed his eyes and breathed deeply, striving for calm, seeking for gentleness" (214).  His unwilling empathy, response to her trust, and admiration of her courage does, in fact, lead to a small amount of tenderness.

It is a racy scene, to be sure, but inevitably a sad one, which leaves Jamie "feeling empty of everything" (218)--hardly the desired effect if the novel had been of the romance genre.

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

**Not meaning to undermine the seriousness of rape, simply to critique the ways in which we make everyone a victim on the one hand, and yet confuse the issue when there are real victims involved.

Voyager: Some Problems with Literacy (A Literacy Moment)

The title of my dissertation was "Literacy and Its Discontents."  Finally, Ch. 7 of Voyager introduces a few of the problems of literacy--albeit more material and less existential problems than might be found elsewhere.  The first is the difficulty of finding information in documents.  It is ironic commentary when the narrative reveals that "a week later, Roger’s faith in documents remained unshaken" (99).  Because they do not know in which prison exactly Jamie was incarcerated, they have to acquire documents from all of the possible prisons.

The second "problem" of literacy is one that bibliophiles and scholars (and all people who get junk mail) know well--the problem of the voluminous mass of print materials:

This table normally was asked to accommodate no more than a small lamp, and a collection of the Reverend’s smaller artifacts; it was pressed into service now only because every other horizontal surface in the study already overflowed with papers, journals, books, and bulging manila envelopes from antiquarian societies, universities, and research libraries across England, Scotland, and Ireland. (99)

This is one of the major benefits of the eReader.  Even someone enamored of the codex will admit that storing them becomes a problem after a while.  With limited space, and without the ability to cover every flat surface with paper, I do find my Kindle and my Kindle apps (and PDFs, etc) to be a welcome relief.

Perhaps a more existential problem (or perhaps not) is the difficulties that arise from placement or misplacement of documents.  Sometimes, you just can't remember where you're put them.  And when Roger misplaces a specific envelope, he has to issue an appeal for help finding it.

Fiona, who Roger inherits as housekeeper, has a relationship with the books and documents that marks her as a non-reader.  This makes for some interesting commentary and interaction.  At this point in the chapter, the narrative seems to be coming from Roger, who has the most intimate (but not in that way) knowledge of Fiona:

Fiona had not the slightest use herself for history— never read anything beyond My Weekly magazine— but she never questioned his activities, tranquilly dusting the heaps of books and papers daily, without bothering about their contents.
     “Thanks, Fiona,” he said. “I was only wondering, though; have you seen a big blue envelope— a fat one, about so?” He measured with his hands. “It came in the morning post, but I’ve misplaced it.”
     “Ye left it in the upstairs bath,” she said promptly. “There’s that great thick book wi’ the gold writing and the picture of the Bonnie Prince on the front up there, and three letters ye’d just opened, and there’s the gas bill, too, which ye dinna want to be forgetting, it’s due on the fourteenth o’ the month. I’ve put it all on the top of the geyser, so as to be out of the way.” A tiny, sharp ding from the oven timer made her withdraw her head abruptly with a smothered exclamation. (100)

This passage portrays Fiona as a practical woman with a relationship to the written word that is different from Jenny's.  Rather than seeking any kind of help--practical or transcendental--from books, Fiona simply counts books as part of the household objects.  The initial description of Fiona as having "not the slightest use herself for history," coming as it does on the heels of her account of the oral history of the "Dunbonnet," who all (except Fiona) understand to be Jamie, the description is particularly unfair.  Her level of and use for literacy--described with reference to a popular publication--emphasizes the "hyper-literacy" of Roger and the comparatively low literacy of the housekeeper.  Further indictment comes from the fact that she never "bothers about [the] contents" of the books and papers that she dusts daily.  Hers is a functional literacy, but one that isn't particularly functional for her.

And yet there is affection (albeit condescending) in Roger's account of Fiona, and her practicality stands in contrast to the absent-minded professor who leaves the documents in the bath and forgets to pay the gas bill.  A follow-up paragraph--one that really makes the narrative "voice" sound like Roger's--emphasizes Fiona's focus on the materiality of books:

     Roger turned and went up the stairs two at a time, smiling. Given other inclinations, Fiona’s memory might have made her a scholar. As it was, she was no mean research assistant. So long as a particular document or book could be described on the basis of its appearance, rather than its title or contents, Fiona was bound to know exactly where it was.  (101)

Again, the tone is affectionate, but the meaning is condescending--to Fiona and to research assistant, who, the implication seems to be, would be more efficient if they paid more attention to the appearance of the book or document and less to their insides!  It might take a tiny twist to get to that particular implication, but I don't think it's too far off.

There are many questions that remain unanswered about Fiona, her "inclinations," and whether Roger's assessment is particularly fair.  If there is indictment of the scholarly inclination and lifestyle as elitist and scattered, it is slight--but then, the narrative pulls from Roger's perspective, and in the bigger picture, Fiona provides the missing elements of memory, practicality, and orality.

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

Voyager: Translation and Torment (A Literacy Moment)

This post is sort of a side note in two different ways--it is a side note to the last post because it discusses a literacy context that frames the scene in which Jamie waits anxiously in the house as his sister Jenny gives birth.  It is also a side note to the literacy theme of Voyager (and if I haven't said it before, I think that Voyager has more of a literacy sub-text than the others--at least up to this point in the series).

As Jamie enters the house to wait for Jenny to give birth--and to be with her in spirit, if not actually in the room--he surprises a neighbor, who is reading to the children from the Bible:

     “ ‘ And Adam was not deceived, but the woman being deceived was in the transgression,’  ” read Mrs. Kirby. There was a loud, rolling scream from upstairs, that seemed to go on and on. Mrs. Kirby paused for a moment, to allow everyone to appreciate it, before resuming the reading. Her eyes, pale gray and wet as raw oysters, flickered toward the ceiling, then rested with satisfaction on the row of strained faces before her.
     “ ‘ Notwithstanding, she shall be saved in childbearing, if she continue in faith and charity and holiness with sobriety,’  ” she read. Kitty burst into hysterical sobbing and buried her head in her sister’s shoulder. Maggie Ellen was growing bright red beneath her freckles, while her elder brother had gone dead-white at the scream. (66)

It is an interesting literacy moment because of the type of literacy represented.  First of all, it is didactic.  There is both an implicit and an explicit lesson.  The words that Mrs. Kirby is reading indict every female in the guilt of Eve--not an uncommon argument, even in contemporary Abrahamic religions--and that childbearing saves women.  Implicitly, pain in childbirth is punishment (a point that is explicit in Genesis 3:16), and Jenny--for some of them, their own mother--is an exemplar of this.  (I do wonder what a literal reading of the Biblical passages would mean for women who opt for an epidural... No pain, no heavenly gain?)

I do take issue with this scene, as it assumes that women in the 18th Century would not have had pain management techniques.  A well-prepared woman need not scream, even without modern medicine, and Jenny would have had the wisdom of her midwife, of women around her, and of her own previous births, as well as the endurance of a woman who was used to having to endure other pain and discomfort in daily life!  But then, this vision of childbirth goes along with an agenda that is subtly apparent throughout the books--the danger, hardship, and pain of childbearing.  The combination of this Bible verse and childbirth in this particular novel suggests childbearing as a Purgatorial act for women--although the context (the cruelty of Mrs. Kirby's didacticism; Jamie's intervention) argues strongly that if Christianity teaches that childbirth is Purgatorial, that this is evidence of Christian teaching about women being skewed.

The other reason that it is interesting is because of the text, which is from 1 Timothy 2:14-15.  No, I'm not that good.  That's what Google is for.  The text also appears to be taken from the King James Version, which is another thing I need to ponder.  The King James Version, while poetic, is a notoriously bad translation, as a semester of Ancient Greek made clear.  Just for fun, here's a sample from Catholic apologist Jimmy Akin. I'm a little fuzzy on whether an 18th Century Scottish Catholic household would have a Bible in English, much less the King James Version (albeit the nod to the Stuarts).  I don't have a source that I can check for this a the moment, only the internet (I could go over to the library databases of the university for which I work, and in order to answer the question sufficiently, I would have to do more research than that...), but for now, I simply have the question:  To what extent was the King James Version of the Bible adopted by Catholics in/by the 18th Century?  I would expect that, in Scotland, the Bible would have been in Latin, or if possible, Gaelic, with an alternate translation being the third choice.  The dominant Catholic translation would have been the Douay-Rheims.  Jamie might have had a French Bible.  The question is an interesting one.  In the meantime, here are some parallel translations of the line in question.

Incidentally, here's the Douay-Rheims:

{2:14} And Adam was not seduced; but the woman, being seduced, was in the transgression.{2:15} Yet she shall be saved through child bearing; if she continue in faith and love and sanctification with sobriety.

The language is much more Catholic.

Jamie enters in this mist of this troubling literacy moment, disperses the crowd and confiscates the Bible in displeasure.  It is a nice detail that Jenny’s bookshelf is "battered and scarred from the last incursion of Redcoats, three months ago." (67)  When he hears the sounds of Jenny's suffering, he unwillingly turns to the words in the book he holds--not verses this time, but records:

Hearing a prolonged moan from above, he glanced down involuntarily at the Bible in his hand. Not really wanting to, still he let the book fall open, showing the page at the front where the marriages, births, and deaths of the family were recorded. (67)

What follows in the novel is a text-based reminiscence of Jamie's family history, beginning (in a way) with the birth of his older brother, William:

     The entries began with his parents’ marriage. Brian Fraser and Ellen MacKenzie. The names and the date were written in his mother’s fine round hand, with underneath, a brief notation in his father’s firmer, blacker scrawl. Marrit for love, it said— a pointed observation, in view of the next entry, which showed Willie’s birth, which had occurred scarcely two months past the date of the marriage.

Mention of William, and the record of his niece's death, encourage his consideration of all of the uncertainties, from the "what if" of his own inherited role as laird after his brother's death, to the "what if" of his inability to provide:

Closing the book, his eye caught the last entry— Caitlin Maisri Murray, born December 3, 1749, died December 3, 1749. Aye, if. If the Redcoats had not come on December 2, would Jenny have borne the child too early?  If they had had enough food, so that she, like the rest of them, was no more than skin and bones and the bulge of her belly, would that have helped?

Literacy, in these moments, causes introspection and torment.

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: Men, Childbirth, and Helplessness

In the early chapters of Voyager, Jenny gives birth to her youngest son Ian, who becomes one of the central characters in Outlander series and the primary motivation behind the plot action in the latter 1/3 of the novel. Although he has had warning that there are British soldiers in the area, Jamie feels compelled to be nearby in the house while Jenny gives birth.  In the scene of Jamie's waiting, and his subsequent conversation with Jenny, several of the notable threads that run through the books come together.

The overarching theme is a further development of the position of men in relation to women's fertility--but not simply their fertility.  The word "fertility," in fact, sounds a bit like critical or clinical jargon as compared to the fully developed process--from copulation, to conception, to birth, to breastfeeding--that is the fruitful potential of woman.  The Outlander books develop this very well in some places--particularly with reference to Jenny and Claire, and Jamie's relationship with the women whom he loves.  Other times, women's fertility is treated in less of a rich, full manner--particularly with reference to the adult Brianna, or at other times when "women's issues" are invoked as such.

The difference depends to a large degree on perspective.  When Jamie's perspective on women and childbirth enters into the narrative, fertility is that large, encompassing, nurturing, desirable thing.  Jamie desires to be both lover and child (in a way that Frank achieves--well, almost), to protect woman and be protected by her, all the while aware of the danger and joy inherent in every sexual act and every procreative act. There are times when his fear does reduce female fertility to more of a medical concern, though this is under Claire's 20th century medical (contraceptive) influence.

What becomes apparent in this particular scene in Voyager is that Jamie, who is strong and fearless as a warrior, is helpless--reduced to a child himself--when confronted with childbirth.  Birth unmans men, who are nevertheless complicit in the creation of the child--except that Jamie is not complicit in the creation of this child.  This child is Ian's and Jenny's.  So as he waits, Jamie experiences fear and reverts somewhat to childhood, calling on his older brother who died when they were children:

Another scream came from upstairs, and a spasm of fear clenched his hands on the book. “Pray for us, Brother,” he whispered, and crossing himself, laid down the Bible and went out to the barn to help with the stock. (68)

Here, the ghost of Jamie's brother William is invoked as a saint--to pray for the living, as a friend or priest or whomever would pray--from a position that is closer to God.  However, since William died as a child--when Jamie was a still younger child--Jamie positions himself as a childlike younger brother once more when he asks his brother to pray for him and for Jenny.  This is the comfort he seeks in the face of childbirth--the comfort that a small child seeks from a beloved older brother: "he had always felt safe, with Willie standing behind him" (68).  It is always in moments of severe self-doubt when Jamie invokes his brother as a saint, as in Dragonfly in Amber.

When he goes to see Jenny with the newborn Ian, Jamie reveals some of that self-doubt:

     “She was with child,” he said softly at last, speaking to the reflection. “When she— when I lost her.” How else could he put it? There was no way to tell his sister, where Claire was— where he hoped she was. That he could not think of another woman, hoping that Claire still lived, even knowing her truly lost to him for good. 

     There was a long silence from the bed. Then Jenny said quietly, “Is that why ye came today?” He sighed and turned sideways toward her, leaning his head against the cool glass. His sister was lying back, her dark hair loose on the pillow, eyes gone soft as she looked at him. 

     “Aye, maybe,” he said. “I couldna help my wife; I suppose I thought I might help you. Not that I could,” he added, with some bitterness. “I am as useless to you as I was to her.” (74-75)

Warrior though he is, Jamie is reduced to a child by the awesome power and risk of childbirth.

It is interesting to me here that while women's "devouring sexuality" is often represented as a thing to be feared--or so argue generations of feminist critics who enjoy ferreting out such things--here, it is the bringing forth of life that is dangerous to men--primarily because of its danger to women.  Woman takes in the man in the sexual act; she contains him in the womb.  In Outlander, both the "taking in" and the "containing" are good.  It is in the bringing forth of childbirth that she endangers him--primarily by endangering herself.  Of course, this could be because--as the narrative repeats again and again--she already has possession of his soul.

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

Voyager: Jenny Reading Again - More Women's Literacy

In the early chapters of Voyager, in the aftermath of Culloden, when the people of Lallybroch are coping with hunger, grief, fear and oppression,  literacy takes on a more urgent kind of significance than the one it had for Jenny in Dragonfly in Amber.   In his hermit-like exile, Jamie depends on books, and Claire's medical training is not only book-based, but occasions her own use of books for coping.  Meanwhile, in her own, practical way, Jamie's sister Jenny also depends on books to cope with hardship--and not French novels and poetry this time (see here and here for Jenny reading in Dragonfly).

So it happens that, coming into the house with freshly killed rabbits, Jamie finds Jenny with a book that seems, to him, superfluous:

“Cut them into collops and break the bones for me, will ye, Jamie?” she said, frowning at Mrs. McClintock’s Receipts for Cookery and Pastry-Work, laid open on the table beside the pie pan.
     “Surely ye can make hare pie without looking in the wee book?” he said, obligingly taking the big bone-crushing wooden mallet from the top of the hutch where it was kept. He grimaced as he took it into his hand, feeling the weight of it. It was very like the one that had broken his right hand several years before, in an English prison, and he had a sudden vivid memory of the shattered bones in a hare pie, splintered and cracked, leaking salty blood and marrow-sweetness into the meat.
     “Aye, I can,” his sister answered abstractedly, thumbing through the pages. “It’s only that when ye havena got half the things ye need to make a dish, sometimes there’s something else you’ll come across in here, that ye can use instead.” (61-62)

This is an interesting moment, because it shows a book--a codex--that is not used for pleasure or propaganda.  Rather than providing spiritual nourishment (as Bibles are mentioned occasionally, though in Outlander mainly as an object signifying need for vengeance against Jack Randall), this book provides for physical nourishment.

This literacy moment is also interesting because it is another instance of gendered reading.  When Claire reads, it is without the same kind of gender marker as Jenny, simply because she is a different kind of woman than Jenny.  Claire, while marked by motherhood, can't really be called "domestic"--much to the chagrin of Frank.  Jenny's reading--in this and the other instance, in Dragonfly--is gendered, domestic reading.  By this I mean that in the narrative, it is specifically tied to her duties as the matriarch of the household, providing food and clothing and otherwise caring for her children and her men.  Beyond just the fact of being gendered and domestic, this women's reading is thrifty and useful.  She reads for reference, which is not common in the novels--even when Claire refers to reading medical texts, the emphasis is on the fact that she and her colleague are not reading professional materials.  She also reads as a matter of resourcefulness.  It is a hands-on, practical means of coping, showing that not all reading in the Outlander books is pie-in-the sky, escapist sort of stuff.  In fact, the uses of literacy are quite diverse (even if individual, intellectual uses of literacy are privileged).

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

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.

Reading The Awakening Wrong**

I've always hated Kate Chopin's The Awakening, ever since it was forced upon us in high school.  When, as a 19-year-old college senior, 8 months pregnant, I was designated in my Literary Criticism  class to read aloud the Marxist feminist essay on The Awakening that argued that motherhood rendered a woman's life meaningless, I was amused, but not more inclined to like the tale.  I have not quite decided to reread it, as I am still inclined to think that trotting out The Awakening as a long-lost, long-forgotten classic that was suppressed because of the patriarchal slant of the canon was bona fide First- or Second Wave feminist nonsense, but as I was turning it over in my mind today, I decided to jot down a few thoughts.

While it may seem like a drastic departure from the Outlander series, I'm not sure that it wasn't, in fact, Outlander that brought it to mind.  Or at least, it was Outlander with its discourses on gender, sexuality, and motherhood, combined with my own thoughts on those very same subjects--which happen, actually, to be some of my very favorite subjects, just not as they are usually treated by literary critics and gender theorists.  My own model of literary criticism would take as a starting point the reader's reactions and the connections that proceed from those reactions, rather than taking as a starting point some external point of reference, like Marx (for an easy example).  It is entirely possible that Marx might become relevant (though usually not here), and certainly external theorists, philosophers, and critics--many more (and many more classical and Enlightenment philosophers) than exist in the current canon in the humanities--should be available as a point of reference.  But in order for the writer to be truly invested in the analysis, in order to be writing something that is, for her, meaningful, and in order for the result to have originality and resonance, the initial spark should be at least somewhat personal.  This is why student papers on "Good and Evil in XY Literary Work" will always be doomed to failure (well, one reason)--lack of personal investment.  (The same can be said about hot topics in composition courses.  Because really?  They don't have much invested in a paper about lowering the drinking age, even if they think they do.)  It is the original combination of influences, experiences, and knowledge that shape an original critic.

So I found myself thinking about motherhood.  And thinking about my recent posts, here and here, about women in some stage of becoming mothers claiming the child as their own, I realized--this is a necessary step in becoming a mother.  It is, in some ways, a sign of the maturity and capacity to mother a child.  It is--at least in Dragonfly in Amber and Voyager--an Awakening.  But it is clearly a step that is missing from Chopin's Awakening.

So I thought to myself, perhaps that's the point.  Perhaps the feminist icon Edna Pontellier was not a model of subversion and rebellion.  Certainly, she achieves self-negation rather than succumbing to the role of mother.  But is this the result of a deep character flaw, or a nobility of cause and purpose?  She is petulant.  She is childish.  She is weak.  She is hardly an admirable character.  And yet I remember having the distinct impression that her act of self-negation, because it was rebellion against the only possible role available to her as a woman, was a noble act.  Is it any wonder I regarded the work with disgust?  I do remember asking how her original audience received the story.  I'm not sure my teacher in high school new the answer--and when I was in college, my questions about reception were automatically dismissed as irrelevant.  I believe that Chopin was popular--it's one of the arguments for retaining her in the revised canon (If she was relevant in her own time, why have we dismissed her? Because she's a woman?  And yet, Tolkien is often considered unworthy of graduate study because he is popular, as when a course on his novels was proposed in my degree-granting department.)

Thinking further about Pontellier, though, I remember how she was set up against Adèle Ratignolle, the epitome of perfect, devoted motherhood.  While I find Edna repugnant, Adèle is not a suitable alternative, because to be held up to such a model of perfection could make any woman feel that self-annihilation is preferable to 1) that model of motherhood, or 2) trying to live up to that model while knowing the impossibility of achieving it.

I couldn't help visualizing this New Yorker cover, with its take on women and identity.

It seems that every model of womanhood in The Awakening is impossible, or imperfect, or undesirable, and perhaps that is more to the point than the claim that motherhood negates one's identity.  Edna Pontellier did not have an identity.  She looked for one in the women she knew, and she looked for one as a lover of the men she knew, and she was unable to find anything to fill her own void.  Rather, she becomes aware of herself as the Self that cannot be signified (a reference to Lost in the Cosmos by Walker Percy).  She cannot identify herself except with reference to others, and finds, finally, that her self does not exist, and yields to non-existence.  I find this slightly more interesting, but I still find Edna Pontellier to be a waste of a significant chunk of novella.

As it reflects on motherhood, though--it is her failure as a mother to claim her children that seems significant.  I have written papers (in grad school) about the need for the postfeminist woman to come to terms with fertility, and the choice to--or not to--mother.  But women constantly have choices put before them regarding their fertility, though they are not discussed as such. The "choice" that is commonly evoked with reference to women's fertility is, in fact, and act of violence that negates that fertility.  The choice that Edna never makes is the choice to claim her children as her own.  And it is only when she makes that choice that she can construct an identity that includes the act of mothering, even if her identity is not limited to Mother.

**I leave it open whether I am reading it wrong--intentionally against the grain--or whether I think that the feminist readings I was taught were wrong.  At the end of the day, I am not, in fact, committed to the text, though I am invested in the ideas of motherhood, choice (no, not that kind of choice!), and identity.

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: Jenny Reading Pt. 2 (A Literacy Moment, contd.)

In Dragonfly in Amber, we get, alongside Jenny's love of books, details about the literacy of the Fraser household, and also something about the character of reading in the 18th Century:

The manor boasted a small library, in fact, and if the evening leisure between work and bed was short, still it usually included at least a few minutes' reading. (580)

"The manor boasted" a small library--which was, indeed, a boastable feature.  Here's a little blurb from an article on the topic of book ownership in 18th Century Scotland:

Late eighteenth-century Scotland saw a period of growth in the availability of print material set against the backdrop of the Scottish Enlightenment. Yet despite much scholarly attention having been paid to the Enlightenment and an increasing interest in the books people were reading, little attention has been paid to the books that would have been found in individual Scottish houses and what they reveal about Scottish mindsets in these years. This paper addresses this topic, using a local case study of after-death inventories of personal possessions. These rich records reveal the size of household libraries, the varieties of books they contained, variation by occupation and social class, and the extent to which their owners engaged with and were influenced by debates and ideas of the time. In addition, the evidence allows us to consider the uses to which different types of books were put, examine differences between urban and provincial Scotland, and consider how and where people bought their books.

(Thank you, EBSCO and Scottish Historical Review! And if I'm silently thumbing my nose at Wikipedia, Wikipedia is none the wiser.)  The main thing to note here (besides the very interesting research!) is that the availability of print materials increases in the late  18th century.  The early Outlander novels take place in 1743-45, with the Lallybroch library being compiled some time before, as both of Jamie's and Jenny's parents are dead by the time the events in the first book take place (their father is only recently dead).  So the library would have had to predate this growth in printing, which demonstrates the wealth of Lallybroch as well as the special place reserved for literacy and learning in the Fraser household.

Further, reading is a communal activity, though I do question whether French novels--which were notoriously scandalous to Louisa May Alcott's 19th Century American heroines--would have been good family read-aloud material. Both because of the scarcity of reading materials (who would have two copies of a novel?) and the rarity of literacy (in a later chapter, Claire notes that a woman watches her write "with an almost superstitious awe" (633)), reading aloud would definitely have been typical in the 18th Century.  Numerous scholars--notably, literature scholar turned literacy theorist Walter Ong--have discussed the influence of oral storytelling even in 19th Century novels.  Ong famously mentions how "the author intones dear reader" as a reminder of the storyteller or the reader in a communal setting.  It is a nice touch to see this social reality of reading included in a work of historical fiction, though the little glimpses of literacy do not become important until later novels in the Outlander series.

Given its limited function--what function does literacy serve in the plot? it's fairly incidental--one might wonder why it is included at all, or question this bold assertion of Jenny's literacy.  Would she have been educated?  We are led to believe that her class and her family's inclinations toward learning make this possible.  But as the female head of household, mother of three at this point...  What is reading for her?  What use would she have had for literacy?  Would she have had time to read?  If reading is an adventure, is it an escape?  Does it distract from other duties?

The narrative answers these questions very succinctly:

"It gives ye something to think on as ye go about your work," Jenny explained, when I found her one night swaying with weariness, and urged her to go to bed, rather than stay up to read aloud to Ian, Jamie, and myself.  She yawned, fist to her mouth.  "Even if I'm sae tired I hardly see the words on the page, they'll come back to me next day, churning or spinning or waulkin' wool, and I can turn them over in my mind." (580-581)

In fact, Jenny's reading allows her mind to escape while her body remains very much present.  And this is something that readers of Gabaldon's fictions can very much appreciate, I think.  It is perhaps a contrast to more male-centered versions of escapist reading (I'm thinking of E. M. Forster's "The Celestial Omnibus"--you can read about it in greater detail here) that her transcendent reading does not remove her from the material world of people who depend on her.

Interestingly, at this point in the scene, the issue of literacy drops completely, transitioning into a description of the somewhat unsavory occupation of "wool-waulking," but not without leaving the reader with a compelling discourse on literacy and its use in the life of an individual--the 18th Century stay-at-home mom.  Most stay-at-home mothers whom I know (at least through blogging) are either readers, writers, or seamstresses,* and almost always combinations of two or more, as if this life of the mind is a natural extension of the daily lives that they live with their children, managing their homes.  It seems, in fact, an essential part.  And the internet enables and gives testimony to it.

Thinking about what a busy woman--too busy to read, but who reads nevertheless--gains from literacy, I was reminded of my favorite poem by Adrienne Rich (1929-2012), "An Atlas of the Difficult World."  This poem provides Rich's own discourse on literacy, as the voice of the poet envisions the people who will read the poem, and recounts the reasons they will read:

I know you are reading this poem  

late, before leaving your office  

of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window 

in the lassitude of a building faded to quiet 

long after rush-hour. I know you are reading this poem 

standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean 

on a grey day of early spring, faint flakes driven 

across the plains’ enormous spaces around you. 

[....] 

I know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light 

in the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted out, 

count themselves out, at too early an age. I know 

you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick 

lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on 

because even the alphabet is precious. 

And among the seemingly endless, democratic, Whitmanic catalog, these lines stand out:

I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove 

warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your hand 

because life is short and you too are thirsty. 

The lines straddle the line between hope and despair, but "life is short and you too are thirsty" resonates as the most profound testimony to the function of literacy--of literature--in the life of an individual.  The written word feeds us.  Gives us nourishment.  Specifically, like a mother.  A mother's mother.

There are, of course, religious resonances in the idea of being fed by the w/Word--but let's leave it at literacy for now.  Reading.  It is what it is--but what does it do?

A: It feeds the soul, which sustains the body.

Literacy--in either context--keeps the body from forgetting that it also possesses a soul.

*I use the outdated, gendered term "seamstress" and reject the more contemporary "sewers," which evokes toilet water in my mind.

Dragonfly: Jenny Reading Pt. 1 (A Literacy Moment)

I go by "Literacy-chic," and that's no accident.  It's a name I came up with while working on my dissertation--when, in fact, my blog had very little to do with reading and everything with putting words together--still "literate activity," you might say, but still not quite what I meant by the name.

I meant it to be a play--not only was I a "literacy chick"--a female scholar concerned with representations of literacy in fiction, I was interested in seeing literacy become chic, en vogue, specifically with reference to literary criticism, which doesn't consider "the reader" in quite the way I was doing.  And I still see myself as "Literacy-chic," though I'm not currently writing formal literary criticism.  Instead, I'm writing informal literary criticism on whatever strikes me.  But I am still on the lookout for "literacy moments," or "scenes of literate activity."  Because looking at how writers conceptualize the act of reading, writing, or otherwise engaging with written texts can tell us a lot about what we think literacy does, and what we see as the place of literacy in society and in our own lives.

So any time you're reading a book, and some character is reading, the novel is drawing attention to the fact that the character is reading--"Look!  You're reading a book about someone reading!"  Frequently, there is an implied question:  "So why is this person reading?" and "Is this person reading for a good reason?  Are they getting anything out of it?" and "Okay, so what are they getting out of it?"

A reader might then be prompted to ask, "So why am I reading?" and "Why do I read?" That's a question I wish all of those people who pushed those shady gray books to the top of the charts would ask themselves (I really should have written the title out to get hits, but I decided not to)--for cheap thrills?  (Were they worth it?)  For escapism? I read for escapism, too--absolutely!  And an essential part of my escapism is to be found in the ideas I get when I read.  About things like why we read.  Things I can think about instead of the things I'd rather not think about.  So reading about the fictional reader reading should make us ask, "Why do we (people in general, certain types of people, people in society) read?"

In Dragonfly in Amber, when Jenny Fraser becomes ecstatic over the prospect of new reading material, the text very specifically asks exactly that kind of question:

"Ooh, three French novels and a book of poetry from Paris!" Jenny said in excitement, opening the paper-wrapped package.  "C'est un embarras de richesse, hm?  Which shall we read tonight?"  She lifted the small stack of books from their wrappings, stroking the soft leather cover of the top one with a forefinger that trembled with delight. Jenny loved books with the same passion her brother reserved for horses.  (580)

The level of delight is conspicuous, particularly in the last line.  The comparison--books to horses--is appropriate because of the relationship between Jamie and Jenny as siblings.  It is an obvious comparison, since Claire's narrative voice seeks to understand how the two, who grew up in the same household, measure up to one another and to Claire's understanding of Jamie.  Such comparison of siblings is a frequent narrative gesture in the chapters with Jenny.

However, the comparison is interesting for another reason.  Thinking about the comparison of books and horses, what exactly does it say about books?  Horses are living creatures.  Books are inanimate objects.  Horses belong outside.  Books are kept indoors.  Something might be said about exterior and interior spaces, and women being comfortable or belonging in interior spaces, but given all of Jenny's various activities, that's not really a relevant statement, and would reveal more about the critic's biases and sensitivities than about the novel itself.

Horses are active.  We might assume that books are passive, but the novel doesn't tell us that.  In fact, Friday's post will show that reading books is not, in fact, a passive activity for Jenny.

Perhaps the love of books runs deep in Jenny, and the love of horses deep in Jamie, because both brother and sister have strength of spirit that requires transport and freedom.  Both books and horses provide transport and freedom according to what each of them needs--or can use.  Admittedly, Jenny cannot run from the responsibility of the home--unlike Claire, who has no home, or Jamie, whose role as laird is largely forfeit throughout Outlander and Dragonfly in Amber.  An 18th Century novel might not have been self-conscious enough to declare reading a path to a kind of freedom, but Dragonfly in Amber (1992), as a 20th Century novel, comfortable with literacy and with all of the demands and expectations we have for reading, is free to make that claim.  Certainly, Jenny has a good reason to read.  She would have to have a good reason in order to make time, considering all of her other obligations.

But think about it--why do people read? Why does Jenny Fraser read? And what do authors and the characters and books they write tell us about why we should read?  Why do you read?

More on this next time...

Dragonfly: "Women's Issues" #1

Okay, so there's something a little disingenuous about the title of this post--hence the quotation marks.  Though it is common for contraception and abortion to be termed "women's health issues," and though political platforms that provide for such are considered sensitive to "women's issues," I generally protest that designation, since it reduces women to their reproductive functions, while at the same time denigrating those functions, and relegating them to the status of a medical problem.  That said, I maintain the title of the post as a kind of protest of the designation, and a reluctant acknowledgment that "women's issues" is generally understood to mean reproduction--and specifically contraception and abortion.  This is the disclaimer for my own use of the phrase, and does not reflect at all on the author or the novel, though I may offer a critique of the ways in which the later novels deal with "women's issues"--as such.

Chemical abortifacients have been mentioned before this point, and the dangers of childbirth as well, but the chapter "Deceptions" in Dragonfly in Amber is the first "up close and personal" encounter that the reader has with a reproductive issue, and the narrative comes down on the side of protecting the unborn child.  The relevant scene, in which Claire discusses with Louise de La Tour, mistress of Prince Charles, Louise's proposed decision to abort her child, raises other issues of women's place in 18th C society, evoking in the process Wollstonecraft's admonition against a society that would value women for their most superficial attributes, leaving them virtually no choice but to act in shallow and immoral ways.

Louise is caught in exactly this trap--she is bound to a man whom she marries for status and money (Wollstonecraft advocates for friendship in marriage).  She has a vivacious personality, and finds herself attracted to Prince Charles.  Now, there is not much to say about this attraction, because the Prince, while portrayed as personable, and lordly at will, seems pretty vapid himself, mooning over Louise, and yet blaming her for getting pregnant before the time he deems appropriate. Their attachment seems genuine enough, and yet also proceeds from the coquetry of the time (for a primer of the French coquette, see Molière, who admittedly predates this period by 100 years, but who gives a scathing portrait of the woman presiding over admirers in Le Misanthrope).  One way or another, Louise finds herself in the position of asking Claire for an abortifacient potion, for fear of utter ruin, divorce, excommunication (Dragonfly 243).

Not being an expert, I am not certain of the origin of the term "angel-maker" (and Google is no help), but it is used in Dragonfly to underscore the prevalence of abortion in 18th C France.  Claire, while protective of her own unborn child and careful to indicate that her child is not subject to the practice, registers no shock at the practice.  No moral judgment is passed from Claire's character to others in the novel(s)--at least, not beyond Claire's exclamation at Louise's question of whether Claire has used the concoction:  "God, no!"  Claire's own struggles with (presumed) infertility might excuse the vehemence of her reaction.  Rather, as a good counselor, she questions Louise:

"Louise," I said.  "Do you want the child?"

I find Louise's response particularly revealing:

     She lifted her head and stared at me in astonishment.
     "But of course I want it!" She exclaimed. "It's his--it's Charles's! It's..." Her face crumpled, and she bowed her head once more over her hands, clasped so tightly over her belly.  "It's mine," she whispered. (243)

Louise moves, in these lines, from desiring the child for Charles's sake--because the pregnancy proceeds from the man she loves--to desiring it for her sake, and for its own.  "Owning" the pregnancy allows her to accept the circumstance of being pregnant, and to devise--with more than the hint of a suggestion from Claire--a strategy for keeping her child.  It's a useful exercise, and a valuable (pro-life?) literary moment to turn panic into planning.

Although Louise wants to save the child--a point reinforced by Jamie's assessment of the situation (247)--Claire's concern does not focus on the child, but on Louise herself.  With fresh memory of "a young servant-girl, dying in protracted, blood-smeared agony"(244), Claire sees "no good reason for her to risk her life for the sake of Charles Stuart's pride" (243).

I'm not sure I find that thoroughly convincing from a 1940s woman--even a field nurse.  Her moral compass, in 1940, would likely have registered both the child's life and the woman's, especially as a woman who had herself struggled with infertility.  But it is so that the novel skirts the issue of abortion and morality in the scene rather neatly, avoiding giving offense to either "camp" of readers (except insofar as portrayal of botched abortion is argument for legalized abortion--unless it is explicitly an argument for improved social conditions for women and a world in which abortion is not even on the table, like the world in Charlotte Perkins Gilman's Herland) while normalizing the practice--at least in 18th Century France.

It is perhaps worth noting that while Dragonfly rather openly allows for feminist interpretations in support of abortion choice, the narrative takes a definite stance on adultery:

     "Why, why couldn't I be as fortunate as you--to be bearing the child of a husband I loved?" [...]
     There were any number of answers to that particular question, but I didn't think she really wanted to hear any of them. (242-243)