On the Edge of Ruin...: Rereading and what is "Notable."

I cried last night while reading The Two Towers.

Unlike Mrs. Gibson, the teacher who cried while reading Charlotte's Web to our 5th grade class, the I rarely cry for any fictional character--in fact, the death of Théoden may be the only time time it has happened, and it is certainly the only time it has happened repeatedly, even predictably.  But I was not reading of Théoden's death.  Rather, I cried as Théoden rode to meet with Saruman, his parting after his first meeting with Merry and Pippin:

"Farewell, my hobbits! May we meet again in my house! There you shall sit beside me and tell me all that your hearts desire: the deeds of your grandsires, as far as you can reckon them; and we will speak also of Tobold the Old and his herb-lore. Farewell!" (545)

It is a truly notable moment, and one that could easily be missed in a first reading of Lord of the Rings.  What we have in this scene is a reunion between the members of the Fellowship who still remain West of the Anduin.  Merry and Pippin are introduced to Théoden and learn that the Rohirrim, having come from the North, preserve a memory of hobbits in oral, folk memory, whereas the scholars of Middle Earth (the Elronds, Sarumons, and Denethors), and even the Ents, who also carry oral wisdom, have none.  Théoden in particular seems to remember tales of hobbits--holbytlan, in the language of the Mark--particularly fondly, and in his goodbye ("Farewell, my hobbits!") I hear a good deal of wonder, and ownership not only of their acquaintance, but of the discovery that they do exist.  More than in battle, this exchange seems to make the years fall away from Théoden, Lord of the Mark.

It is the following line that had me choked up, however:  "There you shall sit beside me and tell me all that your hearts desire: the deeds of your grandsires, as far as you can reckon them; and we will speak also of Tobold the Old and his herb-lore."  Gandalf has cautioned Théoden that hobbits will sit "on the edge of ruin" and discuss the minutiae of everyday life and geneology.  Théoden, while enraptured by what Merry has to tell, must ride on to meet with Sarumon, and bids them farewell until another time.  The tragedy, of course, is that this time will never come.

These words of Théoden look forward to Théoden's death, which moves me primarily because of this--the loss of opportunity to sit in peace and discuss the history of the Shire.  It almost an unfilfilled promise--a moment that never comes fruition.  Otherwise, Théoden's death is heroic--a matter, the Rohirrim might say, for song and not for tears.  Of course, there is a sense in which heriosm, pointing to something larger than mortality, is itself a matter for tears, if not quite for tears of sadness.

The words also look back--at least, in the structure of the book.  The Prologue, "Concerning Hobbits," has seemingly been written in reference to this conversation with Théoden.  The phrase "concerning hobbits" occurs within the exchange ("never till now have I found a people that knew any story concerning hobbits" - p. 544), while the section "Concerning Pipe-weed" quotes a volume of herblore written by Merry, undoubtedly in memory of Théoden, that tells of "Tobold the Old and his herb-lore."  This moment contains the Beginning, Middle, and End of The Lord of the Rings--all three books!--though "Concerning Hobbits" and "Concerning Pipe-weed" were "written" ( by Merry) long after the events have concluded.  I have not yet considered the fact that a very scholarly, written tract functions as a dedication to the king of Rohan, which still exists (more or less) as a primary oral culture.

Though I do not attribute to my own experience the emotional impact of the scene, I can't help but recall the months leading up to my grandfather's death.  When he was in the hospital after his heart attack, I went to read to him.  Having recently finished a college course on Ancient Greek literature, I thought he would particularly enjoy Robert Fitzgerald's translation of The Odyssey.  I began reading, but became overwhelmed by the hospital setting--seeing him hooked to machines.  Feeling dizzy, and watching the edges of the world become black, I patted his hand and told him that I would be back--then I turned and left.  Although he was in the hospital for 6 more months, that was the last time I saw him, and I did not return to read more of The Odyssey.  It is something I have come to terms with, though I don't think I exactly blamed myself.  Rather, like the words of Théoden, my promise was one that did not come to fruition.  It was a lost opportunity--and interestingly, an opportunity that centered on stories and history.

Sometimes, it is good to cry.  Even in the lost opportunity of Merry and Théoden, there is connection, and the desire to share with someone else something that is precious to us, though I feel the irony in using that particular word, and to know that they are eager to sit and hear the tale.  My tears are as much for Théoden's wonder at the existance of the holbytlan, and for the beauty that is interrupted but can still be recalled, as for the sadness of the unfulfilled promise, and for my certain knowledge of Théoden's glorious death.  It is impossible, perhaps, not to think of Fallenness, and Promises, and Glory in this moment--so that even in tears, there is Hope.

Note:  I made a small change to the paragraphs about the Prologue, since Merry is not the primary author, only a source.  I think the overall reading of symmetry in the moment "on the edge of ruin" still holds, however!

Tolkien and Nuance: Dwarf as 'Other' in Rohan

Sometimes, we are too close to a topic emotionally to be able to write about it well, or to get started with what we want to say.  Would it be strange to say that I feel that way about the Ents? But never fear--an Ent post is coming.

In the meantime, I have pased the compelling part of the Ent story in The Two Towers, and moved into Rohan, which I also love.  From the earliest encounter with the Rohirrim, Gimli's difference is the most pronounced of the three travelers--Aragon, Legolas, and Gimli--as compared to the Rohirrim.  Though the Riders think it is strange for a dwarf and an elf to be travelling in company, Gimli is singled out for his difference more often.  Having gotten on the wrong side of Éomer by being hasty, as Treebeard might say, over the matter of Galadriel, the Lady of the Wood, whom the Rohirrim call a sorceress, Gimli becomes the focus of Éomer's attention and menace.  The dialog that follows might be called trash talk, Middle Earth style (hence its inclusion in Peter Jackson's film), if not for Éomer's spear and sword:

"I would cut off your head, beard and all, Master Dwarf, if it stood but a little higher from the ground."

Though the Rohirrim are also bearded (a fact we learn from Theoden's snow-white beard, though in the initial description of Éomer and his men, there are no beards), Gimli's beard is noteworthy enough to be a focus of Éomer's threat.  However, Gimli's height is the focus of greater insult.  We know that the Rohirrim are tall; Gimli's stature makes him, in Éomer's insult, unfit to kill.

While the particular insult is racial, the tension between the two is not--except insofar as a dwarf is defending the honor of an elf to a man who has insulted her.  But this scene offers to the reader the sense that dwarves are particularly strange in Rohan, though their ways are known.

This is not the notable moment that inspired me to write, however.  The moment occurs in Helm's Deep--in a chapter that I hate and dread because Peter Jackson has made me expect the Battle of Helm's Deep to be interminable as his portrayal of it.  My mantra as I enter the chapter:  "It's only ONE chapter.  It's only ONE chapter.  It's only ONE chapter.  And there's only ONE elf."  During this particular reading, I found myself anticipating a particular meeting of man of Rohan and dwarf, and thinking about a critique that some level at Tolkien--that he lacks nuance.  One example is the age-old accusation, more recently based in the movie adaptations and largely ignoring traditional literary dichotomies, that Tolkien equates blackness and dark races with evil and whiteness or white races with goodness.  More recently, the "no nuance" argument has been a characteristic of George R. R. Martin's attempts to differentiate himself from Tolkien, which were brought to my attention by Darwin's post on the topic.

In Helm's Deep, we see an encounter between Gimli the Dwarf and Gamling the Old, a defender of the Hornburg who describes himself as having "seen too many winters," that shows a rather nuanced understanding of encounters with difference:

     "We must stop this rat-hole," said Gamling.  "Dwarves are said to be cunning folk with stone.  Lend us your aid, master!"
     "We do not shape stone with battle-axes, nor with our finger-nails," said Gimli.  "But I will help as I may."
     They gathered such small boulders and broken stones as they could find to hand, and under Gimli's direction the Westfold-men blocked up the inner end of the culvery, until only a narrow outlet remained.

On the surface, Gimli's frustration may seem to be with the lack of tools for the task, though it never seemed so to me.  Reading this now, I think of the posts that appear on Facebook, promoting sensitivity and understanding for one or another group (most recently, families who adopt and Autistic individuals) from others--sometimes well-meaning, sometimes not--who regard them as strange or different.  Posts like the photo essay by one mother who poses her daughters with signs displaying rude and inappropriate comments made by strangers draw support for sensitivity, inform, and shame those who have behaved in rude, inconsiderate, unthinking, or blatantly hostile ways.  Many times, we are intended to squirm, because who hasn't been in a situation in which we have not known what to say, and have inadvertently said the wrong thing--or remained silent, which is often considered just as discriminatory?

Here, in Helm's Deep, Gamling draws on what he knows of dwarves to make a connection with Gimli, to offer a compliment, and yes, to solicit assistance in Rohan's need.  However, the situation and his particular way of soliciting help with a compliment reveals--at least to Gimli--the man's utter ignorance of the way of dwarves.  It is pehaps the stress of battle and frustration with the lack of tools, but may also be a crotchety yet ultimately good-natured ribbing and correction of an ignorant view of dwarves that prompts Gimli's words:  "'We do not shape stone with battle-axes, nor with our finger-nails,' said Gimli.  'But I will help as I may.'"  That Gimli's words are instructive is borne out by the narrative:  "...under Gimli's direction the Westfold-men blocked up the inner end of the culvery, until only a narrow outlet remained."  Gimli counters the man's ignorance of the ways of dwarves and stonework, but also demonstrates what skill he has to apply to the situation.

In this scenario, I have always felt a bit more sorrow and embarrassment for Gamling than amusement at Gimli's words.  After all, this is a man who has (presumably) had no encounters with dwarves apart from the songs and tales of the Rohirrim.  I imagine the mortification I would feel as an onlooker in such a situation, knowing what the person speaking could not know.  In a way, Gimli diffuses it with crotchety humor and grace, but the fact remains that these are two very different races, and that the men know very little of dwarves.  At the end of the battle, we see again this difference when Gimli comments on the glittering caverns of Helm's Deep--men hide in them in times of war, but dwarves would cultivate them to reveal their beauty.  Like the men of Rohan, Legolas has little appreciation for caves, which might signal that he is less strange to them overall.  Although the Rohirrim exhibit some superficial similarities to dwarves--they are blunt and direct, battle-hardy, and hunt orcs--and bear little resemblance to elves, it is Gimli who is revealed--over and over again--to be the Other.  Even Ents and Hobbits (the holbytla, in the tongue of the Rohirrim) have more in common with Rohan.  And yet, there is not a simple dichotomy here (Human/non-Human or Dwarf/non-Dwarf).  In a very small moment, when Gamling solicits Gimli's help, Tolkien reveals, as he does many times over, that he has a very nuanced understanding of interpersonal interactions, and of the conflict that can occur between those who are fundamentally different, even as they seek connection.

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?

"No oath or bond is laid...": A Notable Moment from Fellowship of the Ring

This is a Notable Moment post, and what I mean by "notable moment" reaches back into my purpose(s?) for keeping up this blog (intermittently):  to give an outlet to my instinct for analysis, to stay in touch with my academic side, to develop my theory of rhetorical reading, and to practice close reading on the web (or at least closer than your average book review!)

Notable moments are "rhetorical responses."  They stem from the circumstances of reading--what readers might be looking for (like me with literacy), what their life experiences have been, what they have been reading, thinking or talking about reading.  This is the value of rereading--each reading situation is different.  The work itself hasn't changed, but we read it differently:  bringing different things to the text and taking different things away.

Notable moments are a teaching and research methodology.  They

• encourage reader engagement with the text
• provide a basis for class discussion
• stimulate connections (synthesis, to use a $0.10 pedagogical word) between what readers already know and what they are reading
• validate active reading
• collect ideas that might evolve into research paper/article ideas

They also work particularly well as blog posts.

Recently, I have been rereading The Lord of the Rings.  I have read it and listened to the unabridged audiobook numerous times at this point, so that it is almost too familiar.  It is slow going, because there isn't the compulsion to read, but at times, having read more contemporary writing lately, I am struck by how simply exquisite the language is--to say nothing of plot and character development, world building, mythos, and all that makes Tolkien fabulous.  In the midst of my reading, I read Darwin's response to George R. R. Martin's somewhat offhanded critique of Tolkien on war.  I also find myself reading Tolkien with the American History Channel series The Revolutionary War as background noise.  And so, I come across this passage:

"The others go with him as free companions, to help him on his way.  You may tarry, or come back or turn aside in other paths, as chance allows.  The further you go, the less easy it will be to withdraw; yet no oath or bond is laid on you to go further than you will.  For you do not yet know the strength of your hearts, and you cannot forsee what each may meet upon the road."

     "Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens," said Gimli.

     "Maybe," said Elrond, but let him not vow to walk in the dark, who has not seen the nightfall."

     "Yet sworn word may strengthen quaking heart," said Gimli.

     "Or break it," said Elrond. (FOTR 274)

I paused over this passage initially, thinking about war.  Thinking about the British in particular, and the treatment of deserters in the Great War--the first "modern" war, a for which young British males volunteered enthusiastically, for which they were unprepared.  It is also, famously and notably, the war Tolkien experienced first hand.

As Elrond commends the newly-formed fellowship to their journey, it is tempting to see this passage as a statement of sympathy, if not with deserters, than certainly with those who volunteered for a war they could not possibly understand.  Whether or not the cause is the epic mythology of good and evil, Elrond's wisdom asserts that resolve alone can't necessarily drive one through fear.  Later, in Return of the King, Aragorn deals gently with men who were ill-equipped to march into Morder, setting them to tasks that were appropriate to their ability, and which preserved or restored their dignity.

And yet, even though Aragorn and Boromir intend to head to war, the situation of the fellowship is different.  Two pages earlier, the narrative asserts that "[t]he Company took little gear of war, for their hope was in secrecy not in battle" (272).  Perhaps, then, Elrond's conditions are not applicable to war.  After all, what general can command men who are not bound to follow orders? Could Tolkien possibly mean that soldiers should only serve insofar as they were able?  This seems doubtful, and yet, the association between oaths in war and the oaths of the fellowship is hard to avoid, and perhaps it is in Aragorn's generosity and skill with men that the question is resolved.

What is interesting is the exchange of proverbs--not quite platitudes--between Gimli and Elrond, which represent two seeminly opposed approaches to oath-taking, and perhaps to human nature more generally.  The opposing views may also characterize the particular races of Middle Earth--the elves, who keep to themselves, who belong to families and kinds, but who are very individualized, and the dwarves, who seem to be of one kind, but who are more clanlike, joining together in common purposes.  Elrond is for individual freedom; Gimli, for allegience and loyalty.  Inevitably, both are right, but Elrond seems more right.

It is not a theory; simply an observation, and a question.  Is this about war?  Politics?  Individual freedom?  Individual will?  How does being bound to another affect individual will?

Novels and Songs -or- How Toad the Wet Sprocket Speaks to Marian Zimmer Bradley

Do you have novels that you associate with songs, and vice versa?  I don't listen to music while reading as much as I have in the past, but when I did, there were songs that became entangled with the mood and imagery, and sometimes theme of the book.  There's a certain exhilheration listening to the opening of "Ramble On" that I will always associate with Frodo's first venturing out of the Shire in Fellowship of the Ring--in that case, there is evidence that the novel influenced Led Zeppelin in some way.  Other times, there is no correlation--like when I was reading The Last Unicorn while listening to John Denver's Greatest Hits.  "Annie's Song" (with its reference to a "knight in a forest") will always remind me of that book, in spite of the movie version, which has a very different feel.

The most powerful connection, for me, between a book and a song is the link that I see between The Mists of Avalon and "Pray Your Gods" by Toad the Wet Sprocket.

When I read The Mists of Avalon for the first--and second, and third, and likely fourth--time(s), Toad the Wet Sprocket was getting airplay, and someone in our speech and debate team got the rest of us hooked on the album Fear.  "Pray Your Gods" is a mournful song, and really, I can't separate the meaning from the novel:  

I will give the secrets you request
And you will be the one to sacrifice
So lay your olive arms upon my breast
And sing the poems, free the butterflies

Pray your gods who ask you for your blood
For they are strong and angry jealous ones
Or lay upon my altar now your love
I fear my time is short
There are armies moving close
Be quick, my love

I feel my body weakened by the years
As people turn to gods of cruel design
Is it that they fear the pain of death
Or could it be they fear the joy of life

Pray your gods who hold you by your fear
For they are quick and ruthless punishers
Or lay upon my altar now your love
I fear my day is done
There are armies moving on
Be quick, my love

The first stanza gives us the idea of a mystery religion, while also evoking "olive arms" (Morgaine was described over and over again as being "little and dark") and physical contact--and the mystery religion described in The Mists of Avalon is one in which the gods are worshipped by way of human sexuality.

The second stanza is rich--the gods who ask for your blood might be the pagan gods, who require a sacrifice (the young stag brings down the king stag, and virginity is also a suitable blood sacrifice).  Laying your love upon my altar evokes that sacrifice of virginity to the truimphant king stag, which happens as King Arthur is preparing for a symbolic battle against the Saxons.

In the third stanza, someone grows old--as both Ladies of the Lake do in the novel.  Meanwhile, "people turn to gods of cruel design," either from "fear of death" or fearing "the joys of life."  Here is where I suspect that my link between the two very different media is not entirely far-fetched:  in both cases, we seem to have a clash of religion.  Because the Toad song mentions "gods" (plural), it is easy to assume some sort of pagan religion.  There is nothing to suggest geography, or a specific cult, which made it ripe for my imagination to fill in details from Bradley's work.  In the context of Avalon, the goddess of Avalon and the god of the Druids are certainly represented as cruel on occasion--by turns, capricious and just.  But Christianity is the opponent, and is one that restricts the pleasures (here, sexual pleasures) available to the common people--hence, the "joys of life."

The final stanza includes a new element--"ruthless punishers."  These might be either the pagan gods or the Christian God, as both have the capacity and the will to punish, according to their priests, albeit for different reasons.

This is how I have always seen the two working together--and at times, I make connections between other disparate works--Browning's "Andrea del Sarto" is in my dissertation, which focuses on the British Modernists.

I consider this a "rhetorical reading"--a work of literature and something, in this case a song, come together simply because of the circumstances of reading, and something new is created--a collaboration that, in this case, sheds light on both works.  If this isn't useful academically--so be it!  I've always found it...fun.

The Ethos, Logos, and Pathos of Choosing Notable Moments

“And you, my Sassenach? What were you born for? To be lady of a manor, or to sleep in the fields like a gypsy? To be a healer, or a don’s wife, or an outlaw’s lady?” 

“I was born for you,” I said simply, and held out my arms to him. 

“Ye know,” he observed, letting go at last, “you’ve never said it.” 

“Neither have you.” 

“I have. The day after we came. I said I wanted you more than anything.” 

“ And I said that loving and wanting weren’t necessarily the same thing,” I countered.

He laughed. “Perhaps you’re right, Sassenach.” He smoothed the hair from my face and kissed my brow. “I wanted ye from the first I saw ye—but I loved ye when you wept in my arms and let me comfort you, that first time at Leoch.”

The sun sank below the line of black pines, and the first stars of the evening came out. It was mid-November, and the evening air was cold, though the days still kept fine. Standing on the opposite side of the fence, Jamie bent his head, putting his forehead against mine.
“You first.” 

“No, you.” 

“Why?” 

“I’m afraid.”

“Of what, my Sassenach?” The darkness was rolling in over the fields, filling the land and rising up to meet the night. The light of the new crescent moon marked the ridges of brow and nose, crossing his face with light. 

“I’m afraid if I start I shall never stop.” 

He cast a glance at the horizon, where the sickle moon hung low and rising. “It’s nearly winter, and the nights are long, mo duinne.” He leaned across the fence, reaching, and I stepped into his arms, feeling the heat of his body and the beat of his heart. 

“I love you.”

As part of the ongoing read-along of Diana Gabaldon's Outlander novels, a promotion on the Diana Gabaldon (official) Facebook page to re-invigorate the already vigorous fan-base in anticipation of the March release of Written in My Own Heart's Blood, "Ashley," the Random House communications person posted the above passage from Outlander, to the admiration of many swooning fans.  I mentioned this initiative in my last blog post, and while I think it's interesting, I take issue with the method.  Why, you ask?  Well, I would not read the books based on the above passage.  Even seeing it out of context makes me cringe more than a little.  It was probably at this point in the novel (or a little before) when I started entertaining significant suspicions about the genre--would I have to go into the ROMANCE NOVEL section in order to buy the next installment??  That I am a book snob (though an odd one) is not a surprise if you have read this blog before.

What we have here is not what I would call a "notable moment."  Perhaps it's a swoon-worthy moment or some such, but it does not pull thoughts in my mind.  It is perhaps a matter for Aristotelian rhetorical terms--this passage is making an appeal by way of pathos, eliciting emotion from the reader.  And while it is effective in context, it just registers as, well, sappy out of context.  There are undoubtedly appeals by means of pathos throughout the Outlander series--and perhaps especially in Book 1.  But though some readers might engage with this element, they are not the substance of the works.  And, frankly, this marketing ploy is losing me--to the extent that it ever had me.

"Ashley" should, perhaps, take a cue from Diana Gabaldon herself, who personally posts (if the internet is to be trusted) "Daily Lines" from her novels, most notably from the upcoming novel, on Facebook and (occasionally) on her blog.  Very rarely, first of all, do these "Daily Lines" tell a whole story. They are evocative, and they leave more unsaid than they do said in most cases. This is particularly important because Gabaldon is posting lines from a previously unpublished, soon-to-be-published manuscript.  She only posts scenes that whet the appetite--none that satisfy--which means that the reader, who has already read some substantial bits from the novel by this time, does not have the sense that she now knows what will happen in the book.

That strategy fits with Gabaldon's purpose of posting from the upcoming novel.  Her publicity agents are not following the same strategy.  Rather, assuming that the reader of the Facebook is already a fan, the agent is posting more complete scenes, like the one above.  The scenes are rather to evoke the nostalgia that fans--many of whom reread the books frequently--have for the characters' romance.  This works for certain fans, as the hundreds of comments and thousands of "likes" on Facebook indicate.  However, it does not work for all readers, and should someone who has not read the books happen upon these excerpts, it is possible that the quotes and excerpts, taken as they are out of context, will either give a false impression, will "satisfy" because the scene involves closure, or will turn the reader off because of the sickly sweet sentiments.  The novels are love stories, no doubt--but they are more complex and grittier than that.  I would like to see some of the gritty. 

Moments can be notable to an audience, then, for different reasons, and Gabaldon and the Random House representative are tapping into two different purposes and functions of an excerpt.   My own notable moments are personal, but meant to be public as well, as I share my deep reading in the hopes that my analysis will open something new in the novels for others.  My choice of moments is bound up with my process of reading, my academic training, and what interests me not only in the books, but in life.  That's what I mean by a reader's personal "rhetorical situation of reading":  it's where the reader is right now--mentally, in terms of interest and life experience, and, yes, emotionally--that influences what elements of a text engage, frustrate, or please him or her.  While in the moment--and certainly in the first flush of reading a new book--I might be reading for the escapism, intentionally getting caught up in the pathos, the moments that are truly notable--moments that make my mind take notice, that make me form theories and connections--are the moments that engage me by means of logos, and here I mean not just "logic" but compelling content that invites potential argument and dialogue with the text, as well as the moments in which the author, intentionally or unintentionally, imparts her own ethos, revealing something about her artistic choices.  I think it is the variety and quality of the integration of ideas, as well as the successful manipulation of emotion, that make successful novels, as the quality and variety of appeals are what guarantee that a variety of people will find the novel engaging.

Although I didn't write about many notable moments in the Harry Potter novels during my recent rereading, I actually think that J. K. Rowling's strength as a writer lies in the ability to execute many appeals simultaneously, to engage a variety of readers--which, of course, just makes sense.  But for me, during this reread, I was not attuned so much to the ideas.  I was retreading old territory, in part to see what the experience felt like for me right now.  It was sort of like a vacation--no, not to Hogwarts.  Just an adventure in novel reading.  And what stood out for me this time was the ethos--the author's exercise of control over the text.  It is something I have criticized before--truly, at times Rowling might have been reigned in by an editor, but on this reread (perhaps my third reading), I don't think she necessarily had to be reigned in much.  I find the symmetry and tying up of loose ends in The Goblet of Fire to be very pleasing.  It is a very well-executed mystery.  And while the angst of Order of the Phoenix and The Half-Blood Prince were still there, what struck me more than anything was the pointlessness of the former (really? all of this effort over some words?) and the exquisite ending of the latter.  I wonder if perhaps Rowling was giving the reader a taste, in Order of how Harry would feel about the futility of striving in Deathly Hallows.  And Half-Blood Prince had at once a satisfying sense of closure--the reader knew that the novel had to end there--and the sense of a long road ahead--seemingly the opposite of closure, and yet not.  I don't think I had yet appreciated exactly that aspect of the sixth book in the series, but because of where I was--my mindset, my leisure, my particular literate moment--I was able to appreciate it.  But it was not a notable moment, because it involved the novel as a whole.

So as I work toward a consideration of the ways of reading of different personality types, and how INFPs and ENTJs, for example, engage with different elements, it is useful, I think, to consider how an individual chooses a selection from a novel to highlight, and why.  It is also useful to think of how personal circumstances, including modes of reading--rereading compared to exploratory reading, for example, or academic vs. pleasure reading--contexts, and even overall mood--change what we get out of fiction--how we filter the details and action differently.  I also think it is useful to consider ethos, logos, and pathos--the friends, and perhaps the bane, of every scholar of rhetoric, from Freshman to graduate level.  Because where I look at the passage from Outlander out of context and wrinkle my nose and say, "oh, please!" the fact is that I enjoyed it in context, in the rhetorical reading situation in which I encountered it first--and again.  It wasn't a "notable moment" to me, because why would I analyze saying or not saying "I love you"?  It's not particularly meaningful to me.  But clearly, to hundreds and thousands of readers of Gabaldon, it is meaningful.  It captures their nostalgia for the emotion evoked, and their admiration of the ideal portrayed in the scene.

Postcolonialism at the Quidditch World Cup

Continuing to idly read Harry Potter instead of devoting the hours that I need to devote to packing for our upcoming move, I have reached Book 4, The Goblet of Fire.  And though I remember it as one of the more well-balanced and symmetrical in terms of plot, with all of the threads coming together neatly, it's taking a while to get moving.  Last night (well, longer ago now that I'm finally finishing this post), I read about the happenings at the Quidditch World Cup,  and frankly, Quidditch doesn't interest me all that much.  But the scene as as a whole, which might more accurately be two or three separate scenes, deserves some scrutiny for how it develops what becomes one of the central themes in the series--namely, race and race relations.  And in particular, in this first meeting of wizards from different countries, Rowling's choice of bringing the Irish to the forefront in the Quidditch match, while also staging an attack on "Muggles," invites comparison of the wizards' treatment of non-magic humans and British colonialism in Ireland.  Adding another layer to the race relations is the treatment of the second-ever house elf.  The difference between non-magic human and house-elf on the race-relations spectrum seems to be that while most wizards agree--and express openly--that house elves are inferior, there is some room for debate about Muggles.

Some of the amusing clashes of culture are the fights between the Bulgarian mascots--the veela--and the Irish mascots (leprechauns, of course--and I have a joke for you:  An Irishman walks out of a pub.)  Veela (or Vila, or Wila) are Slavic nymphs or fairy-like creatures--or so says (*sigh*) Wikipedia.  However, these Slavic creatures do not carry the same cultural currency--at least in America--or stereotype as the leprechaun.  Another amusing moment is when the Bulgarian PM reveals that he has been pretending not to understand English because he was amused by Ludo Bagman's attempts to communicate.  But there is a more serious sub-text that the presence of the Irish and all of the trappings of Irish culture highlights.

I'm thinking, here, of a little book called Inventing Ireland by Declan Kiberd.  It's probably the most readable work of postcolonial criticism I've ever read.  One of the central ideas is that British colonialism looked different in Ireland for two reasons: because of the proximity of Ireland and England (as compared to the other colonies) and because the Irish and the English just weren't that different, especially in appearance.  And so because the Irish were "closer to home"--literally and metaphorically--there was more pressure to prove that England had control, and there were more pains taken to demonstrate the differences between the English and the Irish, and more necessaity to demonize the Irish and portray them as slovenly and barbaric.  Not that the English didn't do this in/with the other colonies.  But because of this closeness, suppression of the Irish could appear more brutal than in the other colonies (some woul debate whether it was actually more brutal, I'm certain)--and often was extremely brutal--while it took a bit more propoganda and some mental gymnastics to differentiate the Irish in such a way that British superiority was highlighted.  Religion obviously played a huge part--demonize Catholicism and you demonize the Irish.  Done.

I give this overview of Kiberd because in the Quidditch World Cup, the Irish are the champions, and they have green and shamrocks and leprechauns (though not Catholicism), and they are celebrated--and even celebrated as representing the British Isles, since England's Quidditch team didn't do so well.  So no colonialist or racial tensions there (except the fighting mascots, which is a sports rivalry thing).  And yet, race is all over this scene.

After the tournament, some former Death Eaters (the followers of Voldemort) have a bit of fun with a Muggle family.  Now, I have problems with the term "Muggle."  I recognize the necessity of having a term to distinguish between the magic- and non-magic humans.  To call non-magic folk "humans" would be to imply that wizards were not human.  I think I would be okay with that, but I understand why the author wouldn't want to make that large of a divide--all people need to be people in the books, or the race divide becomes more problematic, and you might have some siding with the dark wizards who think that humans--who are another species now--are inferior.  The connection has to be closer--like the (white) Irish and the (white) English, who look more or less the same, but are somehow different (and is that difference magic?  is magic like religion?).

The problem with "Muggle" is that when it is used, it is used to Other.  Even when it is used by well-meaning wizards, it never quite registers as neutral.  The most prominent Muggles are, after all, the Dursleys, who represent the worst type of non-magic folk (as Professor McGonnogal says at the beginning of the first Harry Potter film).  So "Muggle" is first associated with them, and never quite shakes that association.  Hermione's parents are rarely mentioned, and are sort of pitiful and meek--so no help comes from calling them Muggles.  It still remains negative.  And any time the distinction between two sets of people is represented in a label, it is ugly.  So really, there's no hope for the term.  It never feels neutral.  Even Mr. Weasley, who loves Muggles, draws attention to the trivial or idiosynchratic in his struggle to understand them--the Other.  They-who-can-not-be-understood.

I have a theory that even Rowling found the "Muggle" moniker problematic after a while.  After a relatively short while.  Because she had to come up with something that was actually worse than Muggle.  Something that not only marked the distincton, but did so in a decidedly negative fashion.  The wizarding equivalent of a racial slur:  Mudblood.  Which means a wizard born of Muggles.  Which doesn't really make sense because as they were Muggles, their blood couldn't be muddied--they were already something different.  Or so we're supposed to think.  Mudblood does two things for me.  It emphasizes Malfoy's class-consciousness.  This is about being nobility--the wizard bluebloods.  Pure Bloods.  And maybe if I were British, it would register differently, but I can't even see why Hermione was so stressed out about it in The Chamber of Secrets, when the term was introduced, given that she was raised in a non-wizarding context, just like Harry.  I mean, it was clear that Malfoy was trying to be insulting, but sticks and stones, luv. [Actually, Hermione's point was that, being raised in a different context, the label didn't insult her. The movie said otherwise.] The other thing that "Mudblood" does for me is emphasizes the negativity of "Muggle"--both words, after all, start with the very same phonetic sounds.  Both are two-syllable words.  Both have the emphasis on the first syllable.  Barring the difference in the voiced velar plosive 'g' which registers in the throat with a gentle pause, and the 'd' (dental) and 'b' (labial) combination, which cause a dramatic full stop in the center of the (compund) word, the words do sound similar.  And while Mudbloods should actually be better than Muggles, they are worse--primarily because they collapse the distinction between the wizard and the Muggle, calling into question the superiority of the wizard.  So Mudbloods are reviled because by being magic, they suggest that Muggles are not so different--something that the labels belie.

There are, of course, other racial struggles.  There are the house elves, the goblins, the giants--or, in Hagrid's case, the half-giants.  All of these racial dynamics emerge in Goblet of Fire in a more developed way than in any of the previous books.  And it becomes clear that while Ron is very much immersed in these prejudices, Harry and Hermione are not.  Their ignorance permits them to behave as if the other magical races are their equals.  However, the other racial struggles are different.  On the one hand, there is obvious disenfranchisement.  That the house elves are slaves seems an ambiguous issue--because they like it. But neither they nor goblins can have wands.  On the other hand, goblins and house elves and giants are, well monsters.  They look different. They have different phisiology in addition to history and culture.  They are more obviously Other.  Muggles, on the other hand, are, well--us.  The reader.  But since most readers identify with magical characters, we as readers are put in a position of Othering ourselves.  And that's not at all a comfortable position, when you think about it.  And it is not an isolated move in fantasy.  But why?  What is the inevitable effect?  Because I can't say that I think the fans notice the difference, even when a family of Muggles, including small children, is tortured and humiliated.  It remains--distant.  Because Muggles are "not me."  They are Other.

And that's where I come back to the Irish, I guess--the Other that is like me; the Other that is me.  So who is the reader? The colonizer or the colonized?

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!

Let's Talk about Resistance: Why can't I read Regina Doman? Pt. 1

It's a great concept.  It's a concept I should like.  Fairy tales recast in contemporary settings, but in such a way that they still engage with good and evil, and from a specifically Catholic perspective. Regina Doman's fairy tale novels are novels I really want to like.  And yet, every time I read them, I encounter difficulties--first with The Shadow of the Bear, and then with Alex O'Donnell and the 40 Cyber Thieves--I find myself enjoying some parts of the stories, but rejecting others so firmly that the experience of reading is seriously impeded.  So when I read Sarah Reinhard's review of Rapunzel Let Down, I was intrigued.  I was interested!  And I was cautious.  But from the review, and from Regina Doman's web site, it seemed that the tone was different in this book--more different from the other two than Shadow and Alex were from each other.  So I started reading.  I am still reading.  But the resistance is definitely there--and building.  So I'm blogging about it.

Resistance is something I've thought about quite a bit.  When teaching composition, I teach audience resistance as a way of getting students to consider audience when they are writing, and to consider what rhetorical appeals they can employ or what strategies they can evoke in order to minimize the resistance that an audience might feel when reading a persuasive essay on a particular topic that happens to be written from a particular perspective.  Often (but not always), it has been a matter of helping a very religious undergraduate student consider how an academic audience will react to a position based in Christian morality, and to strategize reaching an audience that might not find certain arguments convincing--or who might find them offputting.  So resistance is absolutely about the reader, and as a writer, negotiating reader resistance depends on whom a writer sees as her audience (more on this in the next post).

I have thought about resistance in teaching and training contexts as well.  Most recently, I have thought about ways in which "soft skills" trainers really don't help themselves because they are completely unaware of what aspects of a sensitive topic might make class participants bristle.  As a literature teacher, it occurred to me that not only were many students resistant to fantasy, whole classes could be resistant to reading literature in particular way (reading children's literature as literature rather than for its potential as a teaching aid, for example), individual students could be significantly resistant to particular works.  My favorite example of student resistance has to be the student who told me that he refused to read Plato's Symposium on the basis of my introductory lecture on the historical context--and Greek homosexuality.  I talked him through his resistance by pointing out the influence of the "Ladder of Love" on Christian philosophy, and he actually wrote his final paper on the Symposium.

When I assigned "rhetorical blogging" in my most recent/last children's literature course, I was hoping that the blogging, which specifically acknowledged the "rhetorical situation" of reading, would help students to overcome any resistance they might have to 1) fantasy or 2) reading children's literature as scholars and critics.  As it turned out, those particular students were not generally resistant, but certain things emerged:  some female students were resistant to books that they identified as "boy books"; some (also female) students felt betrayed because they expected Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH would be about the little mouse named (by her married name) and depicted on the cover; some were resistant to books about rodents (a lesson I didn't learn, that cost me a job in New Zealand); most were resistant to Roald Dahl because of what they felt was a cruel and warped sense of justice.   So in fact, we did engage with resistance in that class, and often by way of the blogs.

My purpose in having the students blog and identify areas of resistance was so that by acknolwedging the resistance, and analyzing the reasons for that resistance, students might gain awareness of their reading that would permit them to read to the end of the book, and move out of their comfort zones, and also to help them to identify these points of resistance as areas for analysis.  If something bugs you while reading--figure out why!!

So having the blog, and relizing that when I read Regina Doman's novels, I have that bristling that  makes me want to argue, even if I know that I basically agree with her underlying point, I need to pause and ask why, especially as I want to like the story.

So that's the theoretical part.  I have some ideas, but I'll save those for the next post!

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: Claire's Vocation (again)

So the question of vocation gets sticky when tangled with Roger's self-perception and first tentative questioning of why he is what he is, and Frank's insecurity with Claire's vocation and passion and his relative lack of vocation, and passion.  As Claire is the central character and common denominator, her own experience of vocation carries greater weight, and Roger and Frank at this point serve to "fill in" the picture of Claire.  So it is worth noting when Claire remembers Mrs. Graham's fortune telling as it reflects on fate and individual destiny:

“The lines in your hand change as you change,” she had said. “It’s no so much what you’re born with, as what ye make of yourself.” (107)

So destiny.  Is it a thing?  Identity.  Is it fixed?  Both seem to be a series of choices.  And that means a lot for a time traveler.  It also means a lot for a mother.

And it is as a mother with a vocation that I am interested in all of this.  The word "vocation" is one I would not necessarily have used before becoming Catholic.  At root, it means a sort of divine calling--usually to the priesthood and religious life.  But it has been expanded to give value to work in general, or for specific roles--motherhood in particular.  It can be used to validate women who are mothers, and for whom motherhood is their primary vocation--because motherhood absolutely is still a calling!  But it is often not acknowledged as such--often not even acknowledged as a valid lifestyle choice, much less a vocation.  On the other hand, marking motherhood as a vocation heightens the conflict inherent in choosing motherhood in addition to another occupation--particularly an ambitious one.  Because the rhetoric of "vocation" is somewhat absolute--and having dual "vocations" is not generally permissible in the rhetoric of vocation.

Now, this is problematic when you have marriage and motherhood as vocations, though for men, having a vocation as a husband and father is seamless with providing for the  family through work.  The specific type of work isn't generally mentioned as a "vocation"--which is the more secular meaning--except in the case of privileged service professions, like teaching and medicine, interestingly enough.  Really, the concept works best in the context of consecrated religious life, since being a priest, brother, or religious sister does preclude other vocations--marriage and parenthood most obviously--it gets tricky again with the diaconate.  What emerges is that sometimes vocation means something like "work," while other times it means something like "lifestyle," but it always means something like "calling."

It is from this context--and the context of a woman who is a mother, and who feels called to a particular kind of work, from which I am currently estranged, and which seemed much more compatible in many ways with motherhood than what I am now doing (working 40 hours rather than holding an academic teaching position)--that I write about vocation.  So when Claire mentions her competing vocations, and laments that she once experienced a unified identity, I take note:

Once I had thought I was whole—had seemed to be able to love a man, to bear a child, to heal the sick—and know that all these things were natural parts of me, not the difficult, troubled fragments into which my life had now disintegrated.  (107)

Perhaps predictably, we return to the (romanticized) difference in life between the 20th Century and the 18th.  And while part of this is no doubt Jamie, part of it is also the seamlessness of existence in the  (romanticized) 18th Century--which Claire only gets to experience because she is married to Jamie.  I doubt that Dougal McKenzie would have permitted such freedom, or enabled such unity.  And yet, Jamie epitomizes his age for the reader.  There is passion and vitality, there is not time for anxiety, because survival is the first priority.  And so Claire enjoys a more unified existence.  And so in the 20th Century, she throws herself into medicine, in order to recover a sense of purpose if she can't recover the wholeness.  It is hardly a surprise that there are bumps, but the consolations are what elevate Claire's work to a calling:

“Frank was right, in a way, though. It isn’t necessarily easier if you know what it is you’re meant to do— but at least you don’t waste time in questioning or doubting. If you’re honest— well, that isn’t necessarily easier, either. Though I suppose if you’re honest with yourself and know what you are, at least you’re less likely to feel that you’ve wasted your life, doing the wrong thing.”  (110)

Such is the epitome of "vocation."

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

Voyager: Frank's Vocation -or- The Supportive Spouse

In a way, this is another post about Claire's vocation.  But in particular, it is about how her vocation affects her 20th Century husband, Frank, and his own concept of his vocation.  The conflict between a man's and a woman's vocation is a very 20th Century phenomenon.  When women are limited to vocations that complement those of men (and notice I did not say "women's vocation is to serve men," or women's vocations are limited to home and family," because I feel that those statements are too stereotypically feminist and reductive), then there could be no conflict.  Even in the 18th Century, Jamie did not feel that his own role was threatened by Claire's vocation--by other things, certainly, and sometimes by Claire's 20th Century sensibility, but not specifically by her vocation.  The reasons for this difference remain to be seen...

During their discussion of vocation, upon hearing that Frank made Claire's medical career possible, Roger remarks to Claire that he didn't think Frank would have approved.  Claire confirms--Frank did not approve.  This is important in itself, because Claire's vocation did indeed come into direct conflict with Brianna's wellbeing--hence, with Claire's other vocation, and what many today, especially in religious circles, would still see as her primary vocation: motherhood.  The narrative here evokes a long debate, since pioneering voices in women's rights--Wollstonecraft and Gilman in particular, for very different reasons--felt that not every woman (whether or not she had borne a child) was suited for motherhood as a vocation.  The event (which I'm not going to recount) that brings the matter to a head for Frank and Claire is sufficiently dramatic, but, though Frank does, the reader is never expected to judge Claire as an unfit mother.

Nevertheless, Frank, in a not-so-rare moment of clarity, voices the contrast between Roger's sense of a "natural" vocation as something he continued to do out of habit, and Claire's as something she was driven from within to continue to do:

“Ah, Claire.” He spoke impatiently, but with a tinge of affection nonetheless. “You’ve known forever who you are. Do you realize at all how unusual it is to know that?”  (105)

Frank contrasts her passion with his sense of simply doing very well one of many things he might have done well:

"I haven’t got that absolute conviction that there’s something in life I’m meant to do— and you have.”
     “Is that good?” The edges of my nostrils were sore, and my eyes puffed from crying.
     He laughed shortly. “It’s damned inconvenient, Claire. To you and me and Bree, all three. But my God, I do envy you sometimes.” (106)

That envy becomes even more clear as Frank contrasts his own scholarly occupation, which, like Roger's, does not seem to ascend to the level of a vocation, with the men whom he and others study:

“To have that passion for anything”— a small twitch tugged the corner of his mouth—“or anyone. That’s quite splendid, Claire, and quite terribly rare.” He squeezed my hand gently and let it go, turning to reach behind him for one of the books on the shelf beside the table.
     It was one of his references, Woodhill’s Patriots, a series of profiles of the American Founding Fathers.
     He laid his hand on the cover of the book, gently, as though reluctant to disturb the rest of the sleeping lives interred there.
     “These were people like that. The ones who cared so terribly much— enough to risk everything, enough to change and do things.  Most people aren’t like that, you know. It isn’t that they don’t care, but that they don’t care so greatly.” He took my hand again, this time turning it over. One finger traced the lines that webbed my palm, tickling as it went.
     “Is it there, I wonder?” he said, smiling a little. “Are some people destined for a great fate, or to do great things? Or is it only that they’re born somehow with that great passion— and if they find themselves in the right circumstances, then things happen? It’s the sort of thing you wonder, studying history  …   but there’s no way of telling, really. All we know is what they accomplished. (106-107)

In the midst of this HUGE, AMAZINGLY HUGE foreshadowing, I am curious about those "circumstances."  Frank's question seems particularly valid and compelling, considering that Claire and Jamie found themselves in those circumstances, on numerous occasions--Claire in World War II, and then in the 18th Century.  Only back in the postwar 20th Century is she compelled less by circumstance than by inner passion.

Frank lacks that passion, but--like Roger--is drawn by it to Brianna. But he is somewhat absolved, perhaps, because he did not have the circumstances to inspire passion.  He can blame his more lukewarm existence in a more passionless age (World War II notwithstanding).  Here again, as in Outlander, Frank represents a time period that is lacking immediacy and passion.

Frank perhaps redeems himself further when, in deference to Claire's vocation--which he defines with reference to an inner calling and passion--he offers his own brand of support (albeit reluctantly):

“I said,” he repeated patiently, “that I’ll take Bree. She can come from her school to the university, and play at my office until I’m ready to come home.” (107)

This is a gesture that was not only alien to Frank--it was alien to the 1960s.  In fact, in certain academic cultures, it is still alien, though I have believed academia to be more family-friendly than most professions.  For a man to make this kind of sacrifice at this moment in history is about as much an element of fantasy as travel back in time through standing stones. However, as a narrative gesture, it speaks to the necessity of support for a mother who would accomplish external goals.  Claire had to have some support on the parenting side, otherwise she would not--could not--have become a doctor.

However, Frank's attitude does not make things easier for Claire.  His support is itself a condemnation (he has already implied that she will "pay" for her passion), and a punishment, and he remains slightly despicable:

     “Why?” I asked bluntly. “It isn’t that you’re dead keen on my being a doctor; I know that.”
     “No,” he said thoughtfully. “It isn’t that. But I do think there isn’t any way to stop you— perhaps the best I can do is to help, so that there will be less damage to Brianna.” His features hardened slightly then, and he turned away. (108)

However, his actions did facilitate Claire's career.  And perhaps Frank is justified in his hurt, and in his assessment.  Claire is not a motherly mother.  But he is well-established by this time as an unsympathetic character.

As historical commentary, it is worth noting that Jamie was more accepting of Claire's vocation than the 20th Century Frank, just as Claire's healing seems--in some ways--more of an anomaly in the 20th Century.  Frank wants Claire's identity to be more one-dimensional than Jamie.  Which perhaps makes for a reactionary commentary:  do 20th Century men keep tighter reign on women because, unlike in the 18th Century, men's power is not absolute?

As for what motivated Frank...

“So far as he ever felt he had a destiny— something he was really meant to do— he felt that Brianna was it,” Claire said. She stirred her cocoa meditatively.  (108)

This is a moment in the narrative that should give every reader pause, as the implications are painfully profound.  In Outlander, Frank is unable to entertain the notion of adoption--his first revelation of his selfishness--because he does not feel that he can ever truly love a child that is not his own.  And yet, he does more than adopt Brianna--he accepts her as his own, even knowing that she is not a child of his body.  Perhaps a noble act, it nevertheless carries quite a bit of selfishness.  He cannot father children.  He will never have another child.  And... he needs a purpose.

What does it mean to have as your purpose--the closest thing to a passion-driven vocation--the nurturing of the child you will never have?  Particularly as a man obsessed with genealogy.  The position has the potential to be deeply humbling and uncomfortable.  He is, in essence, in love with another man's progeny, when in the first place, he has a debt of honor to receive the woman who has been married to another man and is carrying another man's child--by virtue of the fact that he (Frank) is still married to her.  That's a bit of a twisted cruller.  But in a way, Frank is bound by another debt of honor.  One might wonder if--in her full disclosure--Claire has told Frank about Jack Randall and Jamie.  The Frasers and Randalls seem to be bound by blood and sex--and now, honor.

I have said before that Voyager feels purgatorial in some ways.  Is it too much to suggest that in Frank's adoption of Brianna--by making her the focus and the meaning of his life--he is atoning for his own sin of adultery and his ancestor's sins toward Brianna's father?

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