Thoughts on the Grisha Trilogy by Leigh Bardugo (with a note on God in fiction)

Last night I finished, for all practical purposes, the Grisha Trilogy by Leigh Bardugo.  The third book, Ruin and Rising, came out on June 17, and I bought it on Kindle the same day.  The books are compelling--interesting, and to me, different.  For one thing, the female protagonist has three potential love interests! Okay, I'm kidding.  Mostly.  I found the characters well developed and the writing lucid and un-self-conscious.  I was not burdened, as some readers were, by the Russian-sounding names, wondering whether they were accurate.  It was simply a different approach to fantasy naming conventions.  I particularly liked some of the snappy dialog in the third book, which really brought the personalities of the characters to the forefront.  And I liked the character of Nickolai, the bastard prince/pirate/potential love interest.

I may at some point go back and reread them, but even though some of the names of places were getting fuzzy, I don't feel the need to revisit the stories yet.  (I also won't be reading the extensive extra-novel material that sells for $0.99 a short story.  That's cheating, in my book...) For one thing, I technically have 9 minutes left in the book, according to the Kindle.  There's a loooong denouement.  I guess something significant could still happen.  But I rather doubt it.  It will be interesting to see the "After" chapter--each book has started with a "Before" that was written in a more formal storytelling voice, meant to mimic something like a "Lives of the Saints" prose style, if I'm reading it correctly.

But when I reread, I do it for two reasons:  sheer enjoyment, and analysis.  If I badly want to relive something, I reread it.  If I want to delve further in, I reread it.  I did enjoy the books, but I'm not captivated by the world.  It's an ugly place, and not a place in which I want to spend more time.  I'm also not convinced that there's anything for me to analyze.  The themes are large and hard to miss, and the literacy is not tied to theme in a significant way.  There is, however, one thing that fascinated me that seems to need to be addressed before I can move on--or back--to the Hunger Games article that I've been trying to write since February or March (and then ultimately to Lord of the Rings):  religion.

This ties in a strange way to the Hunger Games.  When critics of the Hunger Games go searching for religion, they come up short, here and here and here and here and here and here... and so on.  The "spiritual but not religious" claim is the one that makes me chuckle.  I would venture to argue that the critical perception of how religion and God can be manifest in literary texts is extraordinarily narrow, and that there are enough very small hints to betray a rather sophisticated religious sensibility--what, after all, is all that bread doing there?  And what do we make of the fact that along with the bread, the marriage rituals maintain the flavor of the districts?  There is a sacramental subtext to the Hunger Games that has, as far as I know, not been mentioned outside of this blog and one of my Facebook threads.

I bring this up because the presence or absence of "religion" or "God" in a text has nothing to do with explicit reference to religion or the trappings of religion, which becomes clear in The Grisha Trilogy--and in Ruin and Rising in particular.  One of the things that intrigued me early on--but not what kept me reading, by any means--was the mention of Saints. There is a book of lives of the Saints, which the priest-figure, who is himself a creepy, opportunistic, exploitative figure, gives to the female protagonist, Alina.  There are churches and icons and miracles, and at the center, a mysterious Sankta Ilya, as well as the adoption of Alina as a saint becuase of her powers, and the potential she has to act as a deliverer for Ravka.  There are also throngs of believers. THRONGS of faceless believers.  But there is, ultimately, no God.

While faith is not actually condemned--it is occasionally useful, and two of the more important characters are devotees of the novel's religion--the narrative leaves no room for God to exist.  In fact, the religion is saint-based rather than God-based, which is interesting considering the Russian influence on the setting.  It also has nothing to do with morality.  Alina has a strong ethical sense, and she is unique because of her capacity for mercy and forgiveness, and she happens to be chaste until a pledge that substitutes for a wedding-that-can-never-be before battle, but there is no moral code.  The treatment of sexuality is occasionally blasé, but not in the way you might think with Young Adult fiction.  It is also not subject to morality or ethics of any sort.  Promiscuity sort of... happens.  But again, it's not really a big thing, and it's not a central part of the novel.  In fact, it's rather a mistake, if a slight one that doesn't hurt anyone too much.  It rather reminds me of how I felt about sex as a teen.

Beyond the "no moral code" thing, I would say that I just kept waiting for religion to be developed.  It was there, but it was wholly a construction of people--mortals. Specifically, mortals who are either pathetic and desperate, or opportunisitic and manipulative. The immortals in the story are either completely corrupt and cruel or cruelly bitter.  Alina is different, and it is hinted that she, too, is immortal, but we never get to see that for certain.  But where the life is sucked from religion is in the treatment of saints.  They are not holy.  They are not even good, necessarily.  They are simply presumed to have been Grisha whose powers to manipulate the elements--or, really, the particles of creation--were used in service to humanity in some way.  It is almost an atheistic vision--we are all there is.  And so I wonder whether that is why I am not rushing to reread.  For all of its outcome, there is still an absence of hope or substance.  There is dark.  There is light.  There is struggle.  But ultimately, we are all there is.

**It is interesting to note that the author was born in Jerusalem.  I don't have any basis for knowing what cultural influences might have contributed to the worldview of the novels, but that might be an interesting question to explore.

Notes Toward an Article on Blogging and Reading

In a burst of creative/critical energy this morning, I decided to collect everything I have said about notable moments--on my original class blog, which is private, in a conference presentation I gave, in an article I wrote that was rejected, and on this blog--to prepare to shape them into one of the articles I've been avoiding.  I have a number of thoughts about the benefits of the notable moment post.  However, in the meantime I had a revelation about Freud's Civilization and Its Discontents...  I had latched onto Freud's idea that intellectual activity is beneficial because it helps us to stave off suffering, but I have decided that this is only the case when the intellectual activity itself is not the source of the suffering!

I get stuck on research.  When I research, I get lost in trying to be exhaustive, fighting the urge to completely disregard everything everyone else is saying because I'm saying something different anyway.  In the meantime, I become overwhelmed by the cacophany of voices who are not quite saying the same thing, and end up comvinced that I have nothing new to add to the conversation.  This is where I was at about 2 P.M. today, and I have not yet had the courage to look back at all of those open tabs of scholarly and non-scholarly sources discussing blogs and close reading.  The last time I researched blogs and education, I was ultimately rejected by an editor for not citing the right sources (which are pretty difficult to find, frankly).  Here is where not having anyone to ask "how's that article coming," and no real mentor from whom to seek advice really hurts me--because everyone who used to be a mentor has washed their hands of me, since I failed in finding an academic job that would lend intellectual community.  And because of that failing, I am doomed to continue to spiral into failure.  But enough of that.  Trying to lift myself out now!  

I wound up finding the outline I wrote last night, which goes something like this:

• What we think about reading on the internet

• What academics/teachers say about blogging

• Where close reading happens online

• How it can shape how we read

• How it can shape the way we teach

• How it can shape literary criticism

Perhaps if I stick to finding articles that can bolster each of these, I will not need to be terribly exhaustive in order to prove that I am saying something different.

In the meantime, at the end of the above outline was a second outline--this one a little more "conversational"--meant to be expanded into a book.  What I need to decide is who my audience would be, and why they would care...

Blogging the "Notable Moment"

It started with a class…

…and continued with a blog.

It happens on political blogs…

…and religious blogs…

…but is not typically a feature of book blogging…

…or online book reviews.

It can change the way we teach…

…and the way we interact with books.


It can change online literacy, or at least bring literary culture and reading online in a less shallow sort of way--don't you think?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Close Reading on the Web

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Voyager: Jamie Teaches Sex Ed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The emphasis is actually on her dignity.

When the act is complete, Jamie answers her confusion:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Voyager: 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: A Little Metafiction

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Historical Fiction in Dialogue with History and Fiction

I have always like the idea of having texts "talk" to one another.  When I was an undergrad, I was excited to see the ways in which The Chronicles of Narnia, which I had read a hundred times, echoed the literature I was reading.  I liked the idea of "reading backwards"--reading contemporary allusions first, and discovering the originals, almost as commentary on the later works.  It was a perspective thing.  Later, I taught an Intro to Lit course using parallel ancient Greek and later British and American works--not really my best course concept (a bit sophomoric)--and also a course on "retellings."  So while this is nothing new--for me, or perhaps for anyone, I still like the idea of teaching contemporary texts alongside their historical counterparts. (I also like having a few "revealing" novels to illustrate historical social movements as the basis for British literature survey courses, but while related, that's sort of different.)

Today I am thinking about the way survey courses integrate background material and even literary criticism.  I have not met too many undergraduates (translate: none) who relish reading journal articles about literary works, and lecturing on the historical period is not my favorite way to pass the time.  It's too much work for too little return, and really? there has to be a better way to get students to get a sense of a historical period.

Take historical fiction, for example.  Writers of good historical fiction do their homework--they have to!  They immerse the reader in the historical period, and even when they take liberties, those liberties can be interesting topics for discussion, as in my reactionary moments posts on the Outlander novels.  They tell us something about history, but they might tell us more about our own historical moment and how we regard the past.  That they do so in the guise of fiction is perhaps a boon, since though there is the tendency to view historical fiction as historical, there is more of a tendency to view historical nonfiction as TRUTH.  And in truth, that's a bit of a gamble sometimes, especially when the critical method falls into certain ideological categories.  So regarding historical fiction as a type of literary criticism can actually give a healthy perspective on how we regard criticism--with some skepticism.  This in turn teaches critical thinking and active reading.

In addition to Outlander, which I think could serve to jump-start a course on 18th Century literature and history, Steampunk provides some good material to use when looking back on the 19th Century.  Consider Gail Carriger's Parasol Protectorate.  Nothing but fun there.  It shatters, in a way, the notion that the Victorians were nothing-but-stuffy while playing up that stuffiness at the same time.  Most Steampunk novels that I've read include little bits of commentary about how Victorians regarded class and objects.  This is one of the best, from Carriger's Soulless:

Everything was perfectly clean and chosen with utter precision, each object occupying the space it had been given with immense dignity. (83)

Also consider:

Miss Tarabotti could not help but compare it to the Duchess of Snodgrove's palatial residence.  Here there was more real affluence and grandeur, the kind that did not need to display itself openly--it simply was. (82)

In a book I decided not to read after downloading a sample, I noted the distinction between antique white-and-blue china, and the mass-produced variety that social climbing households acquired to imitate the upper crust.  These few fictional moments replace at least three intolerably dull, overtheorized and overwrought articles I had to read in grad school.  Having read the latter, I can recognize the former.  But wouldn't it be fun to tell students--see?  This is a commentary on a real fact of Victorian social climbing.  This kind of thing comes to a head in expat Henry James's 20thC novel The Spoils of Poynton, which, when we read it, will seem even more dull and Henry James-ish by comparison.