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: Dual Nature (A Literacy Moment)

The civilization-nature dichotomy is strong in the early chapters of the book.  Jamie has a heightened awareness of his dual nature--or perhaps even a tripartite nature: physical, spiritual, and intellectual.  Living in nature, knowing himself to be dependent on nature, he hunts like a pagan, feeling himself part of the legendary hunt:

The moon cast his shadow on a rock, humped and fantastic, as he made his slow, ungainly way down the hill. The deer’s antlers bobbed above his shoulder, giving him in shadowed profile the semblance of a horned man. He shivered slightly at the thought, remembering tales of witches’ sabbats, where the Horned One came, to drink the sacrifice of goat’s or rooster’s blood. (57)

The figure of the horned man was a fertility symbol--appropriate because of Jamie's hunting and provision, but ironic because of his then-celibacy.  As an additional layer of wildness-civilization imagery, we have day and night, light and dark:

He felt a little queasy, and more than a little light-headed. More and more, he felt the disorientation, the fragmenting of himself between day and night. By day, he was a creature of the mind alone, as he escaped his damp immobility by a stubborn, disciplined retreat into the avenues of thought and meditation, seeking refuge in the pages of books. (57)

Thought there is no mention of Greek myth, it is nevertheless very Apollonian for Jamie to be rational and intellectual in the daytime, which is "ruled" by the sun, and Apollo.  Given the associations between Ancient Greece and rationality and learning, this is perhaps not a far-fetched interpretation.

Not to be missed, here, is the literacy moment.  By day, Jamie "seek[s] refuge in the pages of books."  In Dragonfly, Jenny uses her literacy to allow her mind the freedom to roam while her body performed necessary tasks; here, Jamie uses literacy as a refuge--not simply an escape, but a place of safety and protection.  Literacy allows him to cope.

The precise nature of this coping, and of this reading material, becomes clear with the highlighted reading material.  Though it is not the only book he will have during his cave-dwelling, he is, in fact, reading (and, it turns out, internalizing) Robinson Crusoe, published in 1719.  In Robinson Crusoe, Jamie can seek refuge--escape, but also safety, and coping--given that his own isolated situation is very like a shipwreck:

The wind had been blowing downwind from the cave, and he had no expectation of seeing deer. He had been lying on the ground just within the cave entrance, where enough light filtered through the overhanging screen of gorse and rowan for him to read on fine days. There were not a great many books, but Jared managed still to smuggle a few with his gifts from France. 

This violent rain forced me to a new work, viz., to cut a hole through my new fortification, like a sink, to let the water go out, which would else have drowned my cave. After I had been in my cave some time, and found still no more shocks of the earthquake follow, I began to be more composed; and now, to support my spirits, which indeed wanted it very much, I went to my little store and took a small sup of rum, which however, I did then and always very sparingly, knowing I could have no more when that was gone. 

It continued raining all that night, and great part of the next day, so that I could not stir abroad; but my mind being more composed, I began to think  … 

The shadows across the page moved as the bushes above him stirred. Instincts attuned, he caught the shift of the wind at once— and on it, the sound of voices. (80-81)

Another remarkable literacy moment--however sharpened Jamie's senses, it is the movement of shadow across the book that first alterts Jamie to the presence of English soldiers.  He faces the cave entrance for light by which to read, and intently focuses his attention on the page.

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.

ROTK: Thinking about Denethor

On Friday, December 14,  many lives were interrupted--some permanently.  In the face of this, I am interrupting my posts on Outlander, just for a moment.

On Friday, December 14, Peter Jackson also released another of his interpretations of Tolkien.  I have not seen The Hobbit.  But I remember that, when Fellowship of the Rings was released into theaters on the heels of September 11, 2001, it offered some comfort in its portrayal of Tolkien's noble, beautiful Middle Earth--a world that was crumbling, but was still worth fighting for.  The film reminded us, in Tolkien's words, that "All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us."  It gave us a vision of joining hands and bravely facing what might lie ahead, however beautiful or terrible.

By the third film, many of these ideas--prominent in Tolkien-- had been left by the wayside, or reduced to an afterthought.  I focus on Denethor, because Jackson's film gives us a vision of Denethor as a near-demonic madman, first with a mouth full of berry juice, dripping red down his chin--heavily (and heavy-handedly) symbolic of the blood of his people, and of a flaming Denethor hurling himself off a cliff.

Denethor has always registered with me as painfully tragic.  He kills himself, and tries to kill his son.  He is corrupted by the absolute evil of Sauron.  But he is not a demon, or, strictly speaking, a monster.  He is simply a soul in absolute despair.  And Tolkien gives the reader, in the words of Gandalf, the tools to understand Denethor's actions:

"Authority is not given to you, Steward of Gondor, to order the hour of your death," answered Gandalf.  "And only the heathen kings, under the domination of the Dark Power, did thus, slaying themselves in pride and despair, murdering their kin to ease their own death." (835)

Because of his despair and pride in his own false knowledge, Denethor is unable to face life.  But he is equally unable to face death alone.

Tolkien evokes "heathen kings."  Wives thrown onto the pyres at Norse funerals, or buried alive.  The accompaniment of souls into the afterlife is an idea evoked in Marion Zimmer Bradley's The Mists of Avalon, when Nimue kills herself after betraying Kevin the Bard to his death--Morgaine is comforted that Kevin will have someone waiting for him on the other side.

We are afraid of death.  We seek company in our fear.  We want a blaze of destruction to signify our mark on the world, and to give us the courage to die.  A grand gesture.  I am reminded of the video to Pearl Jam's "Jeremy," which does not (as some suggested when the video was popular) show the boy committing an act of violence on others, but rather, depicts suicide and death as a grand performance.  It is a madness of pride and egotism.  But it is very, painfully, human--and a symptom of our broken world.  A world that, in some ways, returns to primitive customs in the absence of Faith and in response to despair.

And as we ask why, one discourse is lacking--a discourse that centers on our fear of death, but also human desire for companionship, despair in isolation, and pervasive lack of faith in a world to come, or in a God who will comfort us on the other side.