Why I like The Hunger Games (Pt 2): Katniss

Starting with the main character is as good a place as any, and is perhaps an obvious place to start.  But let me say that I'm not in love with Katniss.  I don't relate to her particularly well, and I think that the first-person, present-tense narrative keeps the reader at arm's length in a counter-intuitive sort of way, preventing the reader from getting in her head.  But all of this is why the construction of her character is so intriguing to me.

First, her personality.  I have this one figured out.  She's an ISTJ to my INFP.  From Wikipedia:

ISTJs are faithful, logical, organized, sensible, and earnest traditionalists who enjoy keeping their lives and environments well-regulated. Typically reserved and serious individuals, they earn success through their thoroughness and extraordinary dependability. They are capable of shutting out distractions in order to take a practical, logical approach to their endeavors, and are able to make the tough decisions that other types avoid. Realistic and responsible, ISTJs are often seen as worker bees striving steadily toward their goals. They take special joy in maintaining institutions and are often highly religious. Despite their dependability and good intentions, however, ISTJs can experience difficulty in understanding and responding to the emotional needs of others. 

Although they often focus on their internal world, ISTJs prefer dealing with the present and the factual. They are detail-oriented and weigh various options when making decisions, although they generally stick to the conventional. ISTJs are well-prepared for eventualities and have a good understanding of most situations. They believe in practical objectives, and they value traditions and loyalty.

If I am slightly uncomfortable with analyzing a character according to the Meyers-Briggs Type Indicator, I am buoyed by Freudian analyses of characters, and by the very fact that, in this particular case, it makes so much sense!

So what does this mean?  In terms of the narrative voice, the emphasis in the ISTJ description on "the present and the factual" in conjunction with focus on the individual's "internal world" justifies the slightly irritating first person, present tense narration.  In fact, it's a little too neatly packaged. In terms of audience engagement, and I can only speak for myself, we have a character who is opposite from me in every possible way--except introversion.  So having figured out intuitively (INFP) why I can't find myself in the character, suddenly I can see it in concrete terms. Katniss resists introspection.  An INFP would reflect back--almost incessantly.  Katniss lives in her mind, but in the moment.  For whatever reason--personality or circumstances--she easily leaves the past behind (at least, when she is operating from her conscious mind--and trauma notwithstanding).  She is living in the moment--because she has to.  And because she lives in the moment, she survives--or, because she is a survivor, she knows to live in the moment.

Katniss is not a reader.  Literacy does not figure prominently into The Hunger Games (more on this later), but even in its absence, literacy is conspicuous.  In the children's/young adult genre, female characters are readers.  In the development of female characters, there seems to be an unspoken, unwritten, but understood rule that girls need smart characters who read to teach them that reading and being smart are okay.  The exceptional, very bright, slightly odd, female reader is such a commonplace motif as to make claims to the exceptionality of such a character hollow.  Consider, for example, the very mundane female protagonist of Cassandra Clare's Infernal Devices series.  Every now and then, the narrative shows Tessa with a book to remind the reader that her literacy is one of her distinguishing features, when otherwise, she is pretty bland.  So Katniss's very difference from these supposedly extraordinary female characters is refreshing.

So why do I like Katniss?

Although I am not particularly engaged by being able to relate to Katniss's personality--so different from my own--my own personality type causes me to read empathetically (I'm hammering the Meyers-Briggs, but it's sort of fun from a "rhetoric of reading" standpoint, because it can explain, to an extent, why certain readers engage with texts and characters the way we do!)  So I am sympathetic to Katniss's circumstances, and more sympathetic to her manipulation by those around her, when that comes to light in Catching Fire.  In fact, it was while reading Catching Fire that I really started to like the books and Katniss's character.

It is easy to understand Katniss's motivations, given what the reader knows about her character and her circumstances.  She is exactly what she should be, given what the reader knows.  And as a reader, I don't like to be unfairly manipulated by an author into feeling something I don't want to feel (as in The Giver), or thinking something that is untrue.  Katniss is satisfyingly well-constructed as a character.  And above all, what is predictable are her convictions.  There is a moment in book 3 when she votes in favor of "one last Hunger Games," and I wonder, as a reader, if this is an inconsistency in her character.  But then, I wonder whether that vote is sincere given the subsequent turn of events.

It her predictability (another ISTJ quality) as enacted in the novels that makes her vulnerable to manipulation--and having one's values subject one to manipulation is something an INFP can understand.  So there's a connection after all.  As a person of action rather than contemplation, Katniss acts from her convictions.  When she acts, she makes it count, as in volunteering for Prim in the Hunger Games, or survival in the games themselves.  Haymitch recognizes this trait throughout, and uses it for various purposes--most notably the revolutionary propaganda in book 3.

But finally, I come back to that narrative voice.  When the author's choice of a technique is so obvious as to register as a little bit wrong, there should be a definite reason for drawing attention to that choice.  I learned this from Robert Browning's verse, though Robert Frost has moments as well (Something there is that doesn't love a wall - one of the clunkiest lines in iambic pentameter).  As she moves through the events of the three novels, Katniss resists contemplation, even as she tries to work out what's happening to her.  She focuses on details rather than abstract concepts.  The narrative reinforces the sense of moving forward rather than looking backward, and does not give the reader advantages over the character's self-awareness, or lack thereof.  Rather, the reader experiences how baffling it is to be living one's own coming-of-age.  I can't speak to how it would have been to read this as a young adult.  I likely would have been more frustrated by the lack of introspection, because I wanted to figure out what was happening, or what had happened, and theorize about it.  I still do.  But looking at The Hunger Games, I can read the narrative, and live with the character, and think--yeah, it was exactly like that.  So at the end of the day, Katniss's narrative feels authentic.  And so does she.

Voyager: Jamie Teaches Sex Ed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The emphasis is actually on her dignity.

When the act is complete, Jamie answers her confusion:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dragonfly: Here is your...spouse?

"Jesus, Thou Son of Mary," I started, speaking hoarsely, "I call upon Thy name; and on the name of John the Apostle beloved...." (Dragonfly 893)

So says Claire, beginning the interrupted prayer of benediction with which she intends to send Jamie into war while she returns to the stones.  Reading this book for the second time, these lines jumped out at me, not because of the circumstances, or the prayer itself, but because of the names they invoked:  Jesus, Mary, and "John the Apostle beloved."  In particular, John, the beloved Apostle.

About 30 pages earlier in the edition I have been reading, the small trade paperback with the orange cover, a dying man presides over the marriage of his brother and his beloved, (unwed) mother of his unborn child.  Jamie and Claire stand as witnesses.  The marriage is one of convenience, undesired by either, and was intended primarily to give the family name to the brother's child, and also to give his beloved--named Mary--into the custody of his brother Jonathan.  In case the names of the characters--who have been part of the story, and so are known to the reader through their actions as well as names--did not jump out at the reader right away, the narrative includes this detail:

He stretched out a hand to his brother, who took it after a moment's hesitation.  Then he brought them together, laying Mary's hand in Randall's.  Mary's lay inert, and Jack Randall's stiff, like a dead fish on a wooden slab, but Alex pressed his hands tightly around the two, pressing them together.

     "I give you to each other, my dear ones," he said softly.  (860)

In this short passage, Alex Randall assumes the position of the dying Jesus, giving Mary (who is not his mother in this scene, but who is an innocent) into the care of his beloved John (who is Jack Randall--Black Jack Randall, so named for the color of his soul, as Jamie quips in Outlander).

What does this moment do?  It is not a parody.  As a comparison, there are too many incongruencies.  It simply. . . is.  Except that two textual moments cannot coexist as a conscious reference without there being some kind of interaction in the mind of the reader who is familiar with both texts.  So let's take a look at the incongruencies.

First, Alex.  On his way to death, he delivers Mary into the hands of John.  And yet, he is not dying at the hands of others; nor is he sacrificing himself for others.  So his situation only resembles the journey of Jesus to the Cross because of his provision for Mary.

Mary is the most interesting figure in this scenario.  She is an innocent--of sorts--but she is no longer virgin, having first been raped, and later, having had a liaison with Alex, who would have married her had he been able to support her.  She is also a mother, though not noticeably, and not the mother of him who gives her away--rather, she is his unwed spouse (if you will) and mother of his child.

John (i.e. Johnny, i.e. Jack, i.e. Black Jack Randall) is beloved of Alex, but he is not an apostle.  Truly, it remains incongruent that he is beloved of anyone--even his brother--given the depth of his depravity, which Alex claims to know.  The relationship between the brothers is deeply troubling and problematic, given that Jack--while humiliating, punishing, and raping Jamie--calls Jamie by his brother's name.  Can love coexist with the impulse to humiliate, hurt, and exploit?  The narrative suggests yes.  It is a point on which I disagree.

If Alex is Christ-like, it is perhaps in his forgiveness and unquestioning acceptance of his brother.  In which case, it is a misrepresentation of what it means to be Christ-like, since love and acceptance of depravity are not actually the same thing.  'Lest it be misunderstood, when I refer to "depravity," I am referring specifically to Jack Randall's sadism, and possibly his incestuous feelings, rather than his homosexuality, which the novels (and a spinoff series) treat separately in the character of John Grey.

The contrast between the Biblical source and the novel's scene is so stark that the point seems to be the contrast, though the narrative might be entreating the reader to view the scene with compassion and pity as well, perhaps since there is no higher meaning to this drama of human imperfection and inadequacy.  It is a clever tableau, but there is not a lot to analyze; it was simply so obvious a Biblical parallel that I would have felt remiss had I not given it a separate post.

I am open to any additional interpretations that anyone might have to share!  Might there be something to be said about dignity?  There might be a point to made about marriage as well, particularly since the observers are Claire and Jamie....

Outlander: Gaining (18th C) Perspective...

This is likely my penultimate post on Outlander.  One of the things I have tried to avoid is analyzing the most dramatic events, or disclosing too much for a potential reader.  So there is one major even that I will not discuss.  And really? I enjoy looking at the smaller moments.  The larger ones make their own impact.  The small things that really give the novel its character are more easily overlooked.

In one of my earlier posts, I mention how the novel draws the reader's attention to our historical biases, catching the reader in the act of thinking like a 21st Century person.  One such moment occurs in one of the final chapters in the novel, as Claire, unnoticed, observes Jaime examining his mutilated right hand, which she has set for him.  First, she examines the hand with him, from a distance, and from the doctor's perspective, taking responsibility for the current state of the injured hand:

     The stigma of the nail wound in the palm of the hand was quite small, and well healed, I was glad to see; no more than a small pink knot of scar tissue that would gradually fade.  On the back of the hand, the situation was not so favorable.  Eroded by infection, the wound there covered an area the size of sixpence, still patched with scabs and the rawness of a new scar.
     The middle finger, too, showed a jagged ridge of pink scar tissue, running from just below the first joint almost to the knuckle.  Released from their splints, the thumb and index finger were straight, but the little finger was badly twisted; that one had had three separate fractures, I remembered, and apparently I had not been able to set them all properly.  The ring finger was set oddly, so that it protruded slightly upward when he laid the hand flat on the table, as he did now.
     Turning the palm upward, he began to manipulate the fingers gently.  None would bend more than an inch or two; the ring finger not at all.  As I had feared, the second joint was likely permanently frozen.  (838)

When, in an earlier chapter, she sets the bones in the hand, Claire regrets the absence of modern medical conveniences--notably, the x-ray machine.  Her examination of Jamie's hand focuses on the shortcomings in her abilities, and it is not too much of a stretch to imagine that these shortcomings are, from the perspective of the WWII field nurse, due to the absence of the proper equipment. Claire's Twentieth-Century perspective guides her interpretation of Jamie's emotional reaction as he examines the hand:

     He turned the hand to and fro, holding it before his face, watching the stiff, twisted fingers and the ugly scars, mercilessly vivid in the sunlight.  Then he suddenly bent his head, clutching the injured hand to his chest, covering it protectively with the sound one.  He made no sound, but the wide shoulders trembled briefly.
     "Jamie." I crossed the room swiftly and knelt beside him, putting my hand softly on his knee.
     "Jamie, I'm sorry," I said.  "I did the best that I could."
     He looked down at me in astonishment.  [....]
     "What?" he said, gulping, clearly taken aback at my sudden appearance.  "Sorry?  For what, Sassenach?"
     "Your hand." I reached out and took it....
     "It will get better," I assured him anxiously.  "Really it will.  I know it seems stiff and useless right now, but that's only because it's been splinted so long, and the bones haven't fully knitted yet.  I can show you how to exercise, and massage.  You'll get back a good deal of the use of it, honestly---"
     "Did you mean...?" [...] "Sassenach," he said, "ye didna think that I was grieving for a stiff finger and a few more scars?"  He smiled, a little crookedly.  "I'm a vain man, maybe, but it doesna go that deep, I hope." (838-839)

At this point, the narrative has led the reader through Claire's perspective, which is close to our own.  We want perfection and wholeness, because we have medicine and science that offer near-perfection and wholeness.  Jamie's words, rather than reflection on his own vanity, register as an indictment of our own time, with its vanities.  He continues:

"I was crying for joy, my Sassenach," he said softly.  He reached out slowly and took my face between his hands.  "And thanking God that I have two hands to hold you with.  To serve you with, to love you with.  Thanking God that I am a whole man still, because of you." (839)

These words, spoken within the walls of an abbey, remind Claire and the reader that the practice of amputation was historically the only (limited) way to prevent infection of damaged limbs that could not be repaired because of incomplete anatomical knowledge, among other things.  Beyond the practical concern--that a man with missing limbs would have limited prosthetic options (Jamie's brother-in-law has a wooden leg), and would have strict limitations on his abilities and ability to support himself and his family--the phrase, "I am a whole man still," which also suggests his other, primary anatomical manifestation of manhood, evokes bodily integrity--the bodily integrity that would, according to Catholic theology, be preserved in heaven after the General Resurrection (the reason why Catholicism has always either prohibited or discouraged cremation).  By saving that part of his body, Claire has saved part of his soul.  But she was, until that moment, in ignorance of his fear:

[T]hen I remembered the butcherous assortment of saws and knives I had seen among Beaton's implements at Leoch, and I knew.  Knew what I had forgotten when I had been faced with the emergency.  That in the days before antibiotics, the usual--the only--cure for an infected extremity was amputation of the limb. (839)

Thus, while a Twentieth- or Twenty-first Century sensibility agonizes over ugliness, imperfection, and limited use, the Eighteenth Century man rejoices in the soundness of his flesh, and the wholeness of his body, which is, after all, the container for the soul.

Outlander: Innocence and Experience Pt. 2

Claire's sexual experiences in the Twentieth Century--from her first kiss at 8, then premarital sex (mentioned casually in a later novel) before wedding Frank--as compared with Jaime's relative inexperience throughout the series, highlight i/Innocence in a way that ultimately transcends sexual inexperience.  In this first book at least, Jamie--in spite of his experience of war and colonial "justice"--is an innocent.  He is a virgin, he has a strong sense of honor, and his sense of honor is, at least partially, tied to his idea of virginity.  Beyond a demonstrated unwillingness to compromise Claire's honor when they are mere acquaintances by spending the night in her room, and absolute indignation at the idea that he might have bedded Claire without wedding her, Jaime recounts his father's romanticism and good advice:

"[O]nce I got old enough for such a thing to be a possibility, he told me that a man must be responsible for any seed he sows, for it's his duty to take care of a woman and protect her.  And if I wasna prepared to do that, then I'd no right to burden a woman with the consequences of my own actions." (602)

and

"He said the greatest thing in a man's life is to lie wi' a woman he loves...." (603)

It is important to recognize the tie between sex and love in the latter, and the tie between sex and reproduction in the former.  These--and the concept of honor that, for Jamie, ties them all up in a neat package--go hand-in-hand with his innocence.  Though his r/Romanticism sets him apart from the men around him, many of whom do exploit women, he is also set apart from Claire's time, in part by comparison with Frank's experience:

There was nearly fifteen years' difference in their ages, for one thing, which likely accounted for some of the differences between Frank's urbane reserve and Jamie's frank openness.  As a lover, Frank was polished, sophisticated, considerate, and skilled.  Lacking experience or the pretense of it, Jamie simply gave me all of himself, without reservation. (305)

Earlier, the narrative voice of Claire had remarked that he "made love with a sort of unflagging joy that made [her] think that male virginity might be a highly underrated commodity" (287).

Not surprisingly, Jamie's innocence--almost prelapsarian--is the blurring of the distinction between soul and body--a split that manifests itself in striking ways when the texts introduce additional Twentieth-century characters.

Claire responds to Jamie's innocence.  It connects her soul to his.  But she views the world through her Twentieth-century lens of experience (represented by her own early experiences of physical demonstration), which Jamie negotiates from his vantage point:

     "Not the same thing, is it?" I said.  "Loving and wanting, I mean."
     He laughed, a little huskily.  "Damn close, Sassenach, for me, at least." (599)

It is Jaime's i/Innocence, here, that closes the gap between the physical (wanting) and the spiritual (loving).

***

And in some ways, Claire steals his innocence--a topic I will revisit when I move through Dragonfly in Amber and Voyager.

Outlander: Innocence and Experience Pt 1 (-or- Analysis of a Misreading)

I pause tonight on a troubling passage that requires a bit more work than a fluid, popular novel should--not because of its difficulty, but because of its ambiguity.  The curious passage occurs as Jaime and Claire are discussing how Jaime happened to remain a virgin for 23 years, which involves a story of his first kissing his cousin--at 14--and the consequent conversation with his uncle, which resulted in his not kissing another girl until he was 16.  The passage goes something like this:

    "And what of you, my bonny Sassenach?" he asked, grinning.  "Did ye have the wee laddies panting at your heels, or were ye shy and maidenly?"
     "A bit less then you," I said circumspectly.  "I was eight."
     "Jezebel.  Who was the lucky lad?"
     "The dragoman's son.  That was in Egypt.  He was nine."
     "Och, well, you're no to blame then.  Led astray by an older man.  And a bloody heathen, no less." (605).

I admit to being troubled by this the first time I read it.  Why, I wondered, should the author make this particular decision?  I have seen numerous discussions--academic and less so--on childhood sexuality, including claims from adults that they had sexual encounters which were not forced, with peers at young ages.  And certainly children can be sexually curious.  But what this passage seemed to be implying seemed a bit extreme, first.  Second, Claire's revelation does not at all disconcert Jaime, who simply laughs it off.  Jaime's opinion of sexual honor has been well established, and in later novels, he expresses shock that Claire was not a virgin when she was first married (to Frank, in the 20th Century). That seemed to me to contradict this exchange rather blatantly.

Or does it?

It occurs to me that my puzzle is based on a misreading.  There are two possibilities here.  Since they are discussing virginity, Claire could be referring to her own when she says, "I was eight."  (Because I tell you--no claim related to sexuality is so far-fetched that it couldn't show up in fiction.)  But they are also talking about kissing.  So I will now eagerly conclude that Claire's first kiss was a 9-year-old Egyptian boy, when she was eight.  And that makes me much happier.  Though seriously?  I shouldn't have had to work so hard to get there.  I think the author was being cryptic.  Although no doubt scholarship on childhood sexuality has poisoned my brain, influencing my initial interpretation.