Voyager: Prison Vocations

Throughout the first half of Voyager, there are parallels between the experiences and conversations or thoughts of Claire in the 20th Century and those of Jamie in the 18th.  So it is not a surprise when, following the Roger and Claire, Frank and Claire, and Claire scenes that theorize vocation, Jamie meditates on something similar:

Odd, he thought dimly. How whenever you had a group of men, they seemed to find their proper jobs, no matter whether it was a thing they’d done before. Morrison had been a cottar, like most of them. Likely a good hand with his beasts, but not thinking much about it. Now he was the natural healer for the men, the one they turned to with a griping belly or a broken thumb. Morrison knew little more than the rest, but the men turned to him when they were hurt, as they turned to Seumus Mac Dubh for reassurance and direction. And for justice.  (185)

Earlier in the novel, Morrison's affinity for healing has been introduced:

The prison had no doctor; Morrison, who had a touch for healing, was permitted by the guards to go from cell to cell to tend the sick or injured, at Mac Dubh’s request.  (120)

As Jamie himself is under Morrison's ministrations after the flogging, he considers further the roles that the men fall into, in prison or out, seeming to conclude that they are something innate:

He lay still then under Morrison’s hand, eyes closed, and waited for the sounds to stop. Despite himself, he wondered who it was, that administrator of blind justice in the dark. Sinclair. His mind supplied the answer without hesitation. And Hayes and Lindsay helping, no doubt.
     They could no more help themselves than he could, or Morrison. Men did as they were born to. One man a healer, another a bully. (187-188)

And again:

One man with the weakness for drink, another with a hatred of it. One man a lover of women, and another…  (188)

While these last aren't truly related to vocation, they (and Lord John's propensities) are included in Jamie's more general consideration of "nature."  While vocation is understood as something God-given in religious discourse, that line of thought is absent from Claire's and (for now) Roger's considerations of the topic.  Jamie introduces it, specifically making reference to Pentacost and the Holy Spirit:

     He wondered where they came from, these gifts that shaped a man’s nature. From God?
     Was it like the descent of the Paraclete, and the tongues of fire that came to rest on the apostles? (188)

I would venture to suggest that at this point, the sense of vocation as being innate (in those who have it) and from God is dominant.

Bringing the contemplation of vocation full-circle in the novel (or almost--it actually begins with Roger), Jamie thinks of Claire, echoing the words of Frank Randall (after dreaming of his abuses by Jack Randall):

     Claire, his own Claire— who knew what had sent her to him, had thrust her into a life she had surely not been born to? And yet she had known what to do, what she was meant to be, despite that. Not everyone was so fortunate as to know their gift. (188)

Claire's exceptionalism is underscored here.

A new thread in this consideration is Jamie's thought for men who are not born into the roles they must fulfill:

     He had been born a leader, then bent and shaped further to fit such a destiny. But what of a man who had not been born to the role he was required to fill? John Grey, for one. Charles Stuart for another.
     For the first time in ten years, from this strange distance, he could find it in himself to forgive that feeble man who had once been his friend. Having so often paid the price exacted by his own gift, he could at last see the more terrible doom of having been born a king, without the gift of kingship. (189)

The implicit comparison between Charles Stuart (a lover of women) and John Grey (...) is curious, as the men seem to have little in common beyond Jamie's impression of their mutual inability to fulfill their roles.  However, this consideration shows Jamie as particularly empathetic--something that has been emerging, but has not always emerged in such a direct way, in each of the three novels.  He is able to see how both of his--estranged friends, one might say--feels.  The narrative suggests, here, that part of Jamie's talent for leadership is his empathy.  Claire, in fact, is not as empathetic, and is able to be somewhat ruthless because of it--but perhaps a general and lord is more in need of empathy than a doctor... and mother?

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

Voyager: The Scourging of Jamie

In Dragonfly in Amber there is a scene of extended biblical allusion that seems to add little to the novel, and almost functions as a parody of the biblical scene--when Jack Randall's brother gives his beloved, pregnant Mary to Jack as his wife.  In Voyager, a scene of Jamie being flogged, arms outstretched, similarly evokes a biblical scene--the scourging of Christ leading up to the Crucifixion:

The man’s muscles tightened in resistance to the pain. Again and again, until each separate muscle stood hard under the skin. His own muscles ached with tension, and he shifted inconspicuously from one leg to another, as the brutal tedium continued. Thin streams of red ran down the prisoner’s spine, blood mixed with water, staining the cloth of his breeches. (183)

And yet, it is difficult to say what this scene contributes to the novel.  The reader has seen Jamie flogged before with no references to Christ, but here, the mixture of blood and water echoes the Crucifixion very clearly.  Perhaps it taps into the idea that Voyager is a purgatorial novel.  But it never quite reaches that level of significance, since the point seems to be how Jamie has allowed himself to be flogged, not merely as sacrifice for Angus McKenzie, but to force Lord John to punish him, and so perhaps divert Grey's sexual attraction.  

If I were forced to find significance in this allusion, given that the emphasis is on Grey's response rather than Jamie's pain, I would have to conclude that Jamie has, in fact, sacrificed himself for? because of? John's sin.  John does feel "self-disgust," but mainly because his eyes are fixed to the "wrenching beauty" of the scene of agony--a narrative commentary from Grey's voice that evokes artistic representations of Christ's agony.

Regardless of possible symbolism, I am forced by Jamie's sacrifice and John's gaze to remember Jamie's last (debasing) homosexual encounter(s)--with a man (Jack Randall) who would have derived more punishment from seeing Jamie flogged than from the sexual act.  After the flogging, ordered by Grey, Jamie dreams of the aftermath of the flogging by Jack Randall that nearly killed him.  Having himself flogged in response to Grey's desires recalls Randall's sadism, linking the two homosexual characters through violence to Jamie's body--perhaps to distinguish John Grey's homosexual desire (what Grey calls love*) from Randall's sadism.  Or perhaps it suggests that there is an element of sadism in homosexual desire--contributing to my sense that Gabaldon's narratives never wholeheartedly embrace homosexuality--and perhaps also that there are elements of sadism and homoeroticism in Christian artwork, which has been argued before.

And also masochism . . . I am tempted to resist it as self-punishment, because Jamie does not seem guilty of a crime towards Grey or towards himself.  However, there is the hint of something--again, a Purgatorial resonance.  The punishment--represented as a removal, and almost a scourging of temptation--seems to have brought peace:

He felt relieved at once of many things. Of the weight of immediate responsibility, of the necessity for decision. Temptation was gone, along with the possibility of it. More important, the burden of anger had lifted; perhaps it was gone for good.  (189)

But what is the temptation?  To yield to loneliness and accept John's advances? Or to sell his body for continued warmth and nourishment--and freedom?   (There are two conflicting suggestions in this and other works--that Jamie is incapable of giving his body to John freely, and that he could offer John use of his body only as an absolute sacrifice.  But as a prisoner, perhaps the promise of companionship is enough?)  Or perhaps it's the more benign temptation to place himself in Lord John's company once again, and potentially leave himself open for further advances.

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

*Lest my statement "what Grey calls love" be taken as more jaded than I intend it to be, let me say that I have no doubt that John does feel sexual attraction to Jamie.  He might feel the beginning of philia.  He certainly feels philia later--but perhaps not here, as his acquaintance with Jamie is at this point too brief, and exists in a context (of prisoner/imprisoned) that precludes romantic love (eros) or selfless love (agape).   A confusion of friendly and sexual feelings at this point marks John's same-sex attraction, marking it as a hybrid and even disordered as compared with the ideal of love in the novels, the love between Jamie and Claire, though it is worth noting that to John at least, his love for Hector (a play on the Illiad,  no doubt, in which Hector kills Achilles' lover--friend, fellow-soldier--Patroclus) is akin to Jamie's for Claire (see Voyager p. 172-173, 178).

Voyager: Denial yields... Ghosts

It was a moment that I drifted over the first time I read the novel.  And the second.  And as I looked through my notes, I overlooked it again.  And then I started actually reading the chapters to recover a sense of the scenes I was analyzing, I lingered for a moment on the word, "ghosts":

     Grey breathed deep, and let it out slowly. “I am sorry for your loss,” he added formally.
     They were both quiet for a moment, alone with their ghosts. Then Fraser looked up and drew in his breath. “Your brother was right, Major,” he said. “I thank ye, and I’ll bid ye good e’en.” He rose, set down his cup and left the room. (174)

I had to work backward a bit to find the reference, and about what Lord Melton was right.  It was obvious... and not, because the references were separated by a couple of dense pages:

     “He made me go and look at the body— Hal did, my brother,” Grey blurted. He looked down at his hand, where the deep blue of Hector’s sapphire burned against his skin, a smaller version of the one Fraser had reluctantly given him.
     “He said that I must; that unless I saw him dead, I should never really believe it. That unless I knew Hector— my friend— was really gone, I would grieve forever. If I saw, and knew, I would grieve, but then I should heal— and forget.” He looked up, with a painful attempt at a smile. “Hal is generally right, but not always.” (172)

And perhaps it is a function of quick reading--and also why I enjoy reading and rereading a book, because I notice new things each time--but it seems that there is a bit of a puzzle.  With what ghost was Jamie alone?  Claire, of course, but the fact is that Jamie did not ever see her dead.  And so, as an earlier incident indicates to Jamie and the reader, he has difficulty believing that she is... gone from him.

This might be clear, or not seem to require the analysis that I have given it, but ghosts are a common theme in the novels, and one I have set out to tackle.  When we think of the figurative meaning of "being alone with one's ghosts," the reference is not necessarily to someone who is dead, but to someone who is removed from one--who cannot be recovered.  With Hector, the novel treats the phrase literally.  He is one of Grey's "ghosts."  At this point, we also know that Jamie has ghosts, including his brother William, who are still real to him.  Claire may be like a ghost to him, but she in fact still does exist.  In this, she actually resembles Jamie's other ghosts, who also exist--and seem to occupy a "space apart" in a very real afterlife.  But Claire occupies a different--a virtual--space for Jamie--the one from which she came to him in the first place.  Because he knows that when he left her, she was alive, and knows that it was his intention to keep her alive, he can never believe that she is gone.  And he will grieve forever.  Or so he assumes.

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

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.

Voyager: A Literate Friendship?

It is perhaps not surprising, after their initial encounter cleared up the misperceptions Lord John Grey has about Jamie's (and Highlanders') literacy (which might be read as synonymous for intelligence or capacity for rational thought), that the common ground that allows these two vastly different men to relate to one another is found in books.

Even after Grey puts Jamie in a position that compromises Grey's authority, and potentially compromises Jamie's integrity, and Jamie--not quite in response--breeches Grey's trust (and there are other issues concerning whether a captor has a right to further bind a captive via trust*), it is through books that they establish the normal--but highly abnormal--familiarity that borders on friendship:

They discussed matters of the prison, had a little conversation of books, and parted formally, but on good terms. (152)

The caveat "Grey did not mention gold" (152) points to use of common literate context as a diversionary, trust-building, and information-gathering tactic--chalk that one up to "uses of literacy"!

As the now-weekly conversation shifts to Jamie's experiences in French literary circles, it becomes a bit more theoretical, centering on the person of the author:

     Fraser smiled. “Oh, aye, Major. In fact, I was privileged to entertain Monsieur Arouet— Voltaire being his nom de plume, aye?— at my table, on more than one occasion.”
     “Really?” Grey cocked a brow in interest. “And is he as great a wit in person as with the pen?”
     “I couldna really say,” Fraser replied, tidily forking up a slice of mutton. “He seldom said anything at all, let alone much sparkling with wit. He only sat hunched over in his chair, watching everyone, wi’ his eyes rolling about from one to another. I shouldna be at all surprised to hear that things said at my dinner table later appeared on the stage, though fortunately I never encountered a parody of myself in his work.” He closed his eyes in momentary concentration, chewing his mutton. (153)

At this point, Jamie's invocation of Voltaire might be a diversionary tactic as well, since Jamie already knows of Grey's literacy snobbery.  So literacy functions as a potential plot device, on the one hand, and on the other hand, Jamie's display of his literary connections functions in the narrative as a commentary on the sociability of authors.  An unrelated point is Jamie's appreciation of the food, which Grey finds unacceptable, but which is choice compared with the prisoners' fare--an appreciation which borders on absurd when Jamie (implicitly) compares the mutton to French banquet fare (Again--consider the artfulness and subterfuge in Jamie's interaction with Grey.)

As Jamie continues to describe the habits of Voltaire, the reader gets a peek at the writer's art:

     “I have never seen Monsieur Arouet consume anything beyond a glass of water and a dry biscuit, no matter how lavish the occasion. He’s a weazened wee scrap of a man, ye ken, and a martyr to the indigestion.”
     “Indeed?” Grey was fascinated. “Perhaps that explains the cynicism of some of the sentiments I have seen expressed in his plays. Or do you not think that the character of an author shows in the construction of his work?”
     “Given some of the characters that I have seen appear in plays and novels, Major, I should think the author a bit depraved who drew them entirely from himself, no?”
     “I suppose that is so,” Grey answered, smiling at the thought of some of the more extreme fictional characters with whom he was acquainted. “Though if an author constructs these colorful personages from life, rather than from the depths of imagination, surely he must boast a most varied acquaintance!” (154)

Through discussion of literature, the two men leave behind their roles as prisoner and prison governor, and Jamie manages to court Grey's curiosity via his own literary knowledge.  In their commentary, the reader gets a portrait of the artist as introspective, dyspeptic (in the literal and figurative sense), and antisocial.  He practices the stereotypical "people-watching."  And the debate between Grey and Jamie as to the nature of the author's art and inspiration--from within or from without--is a kind of literary cliché, though presumably not for armchair critics in the 18th Century!  To take the cliché (an enjoyable cliché, mind you) a bit further, Jamie recounts that

“It was not Monsieur Arouet, but a colleague of his— a lady novelist— who remarked to me once that writing novels was a cannibal’s art, in which one often mixed small portions of one’s friends and one’s enemies together, seasoned them with imagination, and allowed the whole to stew together into a savory concoction.” (154)

This "author-as-cannibal" is a necessary transition into discussion of Robinson Crusoe, which Grey introduces as "a favorite of mine since boyhood" (154).  The remainder of their evening is neatly summarized:

The conversation turned then to romances, and the excitement of the tropics. It was very late indeed when Fraser returned to his cell, leaving Major Grey entertained, but no wiser concerning either the source or the disposition of the wanderer’s gold. (154)

The moment turns out rather pitiful.  From assuming a position of superiority, Grey has been caught unaware by the extent of Fraser's knowledge--a fact that Jamie uses in order to dominate and direct the conversation away from the subject Grey most wants (wanted?) to address--the matter of gold.  The scene is a reminder not to underestimate literacy--or shared literacy context--and the power it can give. The positions of the two men are equalized, and then Grey's authority effectively subverted.

What becomes a bit heartwrenching is Jamie's exploitation of Grey's naïveté--a naïveté he has exploited before, on the eve of a battle in the uprising (see Dragonfly in Amber, or Grey's reminiscence in Voyager).  Even given his authority, Grey has weaknesses--loneliness, and desire for intellectual companionship, quite apart from an appreciation for Jamie's attractiveness (at this point understated).  If one has the ability to feel pity for Grey given his authority, and specifically, to feel a pity centered specifically on his homosexuality**, it is sad to see that his affection for Jamie (which includes, but does not seem limited to, sexual attraction) begins with deception.  It is not unreasonable to expect that Jamie enjoyed the evening, but the narrative ("Fraser returned to his cell, leaving Major Grey entertained, but no wiser concerning either the source or the disposition of the wanderer’s gold") strongly suggests that he did not lose himself in the conversation the way the other did.  Beware, then, the literacy-based affection?

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

* In an earlier circumstance, Jamie declares to Grey, “It is not legitimate for ye either to extort my services or to threaten me, Major.” (134)

**In all of the novels in which he is a character, Lord John's homosexuality is frequently an object of pity inspired by the narrative, rather than sympathy or empathy.  If I analyze the Lord John novels, I plan to explore how I think Gabaldon maintains an arms' length from Grey's sexual orientation, often portraying homosexual relationships as destructive, futile, and sordid, especially as compared to Grey's platonic and almost transcendant relationship with Jamie.

Voyager: Prison Literacy

Of all of the details about prison life in the chapters dealing with Jamie's incarceration, the scenes of literacy and orality stand out as particularly well-formed.  The place of honor in the prison is the hearth--reserved for anyone with a story to tell, a preservation of the bardic tradition, and a narrative nod to the tradition of oral storytelling.  Jamie, aka Mac Dubh, does oral storytelling a bit differently:

Mac Dubh never took his place on the hearth, even when he told them the long stories from the books that he’d read— The Adventures of Roderick Random, The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling, or everyone’s favorite, Robinson Crusoe. (119)

First, he refuses the seat of honor, presumably because of either humility or because he already holds a privileged position--or a combination of the two.  Second, the stories he is telling orally are novels.  So Jamie sets himself up not only as literate, but also as well-read. This account takes Jenny's reading aloud to a different level.  Novels were frequently read aloud in communal settings in the18th Century [citation needed--but not right now], but here is a hybrid--the story is text-based, but the text is remembered rather than being present.  Yet it is not like oral storytelling or oral-formulaic because there is a fixed, linear storyline that asks to be remembered in the same order in which it exists in the text--in oral-formulaic poetry, the idea is that the basic elements of the story, as well as formulaic poetic elements, were compiled anew by each performer, resulting in a story with a basic storyline that varied some with each telling. However, Jamie is shaped more by his literacy than the oral highland tradition, and so is concerned with remembering plot details exactly--a point that becomes clear in his first encounter with the new Governor of Ardsmuir prison:  Lord John Grey.

From the earliest moments of their relationship, Jamie's and Lord John's interactions are literate encounters:

     When Grey came through the door from his bedroom a few moments later, he found his guest standing by the bookshelf, apparently absorbed in a copy of Nouvelle Héloïse.
     “You are interested in French novels?” he blurted, not realizing until too late how incredulous the question sounded.
     Fraser glanced up, startled, and snapped the book shut. Very deliberately, he returned it to its shelf.
     “I can read, Major,” he said. He had shaved; a slight flush burned high on his cheekbones.
     “I— yes, of course I did not mean— I merely—” Grey’s own cheeks were more flushed than Fraser’s. The fact was that he had subconsciously assumed that the other did not read, his evident education notwithstanding, merely because of his Highland accent and shabby dress. (151)

Grey is in a position of authority over Jamie.  He is coming from a place of privilege.  Immediately, he makes assumptions about Jamie's literacy based on his dress and accent.  Accent is important as a marker of class throughout English literature--D. H. Lawrence and G. B. Shaw provide particularly good examples, and Joyce's "The Dead" provides an Irish-flavored example of speech as a marker of class and education.  However, "shabby dress" seems a bit much, given that Jamie is a prisoner, and does not possess the ability to clothe himself as a free man might.  The unstated assumption is that prisoners are uneducated.

There is nevertheless a difference between Jamie's protest, "I can read, Major," and Grey's own assumption that "the other did not read."  The difference is that Grey's assumption is not an assumption of illiteracy, but rather not reading.  And that is interesting because it resembles contemporary literacy crises--we don't so much worry about the ability to read--at least in suburbia; the question is whether people read or what they read.  I'm thinking about a not-atypical comment by a professor of mine from graduate school, that his daughter's friends' homes had no books.  They simply didn't read.  And that indictment is perhaps more serious than illiteracy (especially from an English professor), because to be able to read, and not to do it, is--more or less--a middle class snubbing of literacy.  Which is a greater excuse for snobbery than the inability to read.  And Grey is a first class literacy snob.

Jamie explains:

“I have been telling the men the story, but it has been some time since I read it; I thought I would refresh my memory as to the sequence of the ending.” (152)

So he is not only literate, and reads; Jamie has in fact read the novel in question, which is interesting since this scene takes place in 1755, and Rousseau's novel seems to have been published in 1761 (oops!).  But what I was going to say before I looked it up is that the novel was contemporary, and in French, and yet Jamie has already read it.

Having been corrected in his impressions of Fraser's literacy, and having been told Fraser's purpose in consulting the book, Grey turns his snobbery to the men:

     “I see.” Just in time, Grey stopped himself from saying “They understand it?”
     Fraser evidently read the unspoken question in his face, for he said dryly, “All Scottish children are taught their letters, Major. Still, we have a great tradition of storytelling in the Highlands.” (152)

And so Jamie sets himself up as more or less a typical Highlander--a hybrid of literacy and oral tradition, though his fact-checking--or sequence-checking--suggests that he is more indebted (or perhaps enslaved) to his literacy.

Grey's snobbery might be a product of his position as an Imperial authority.  Elsewhere (in other novels), and primarily in his sexual exploits, he is more... egalitarian.  But being illiterate, unintelligent, uneducated, and savage, is part and parcel of being a Highlander in the English imagination, as represented by Lord John Grey.

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

Is there a Postcolonial Scotland?

This post starts from a couple of places. First, Marc Gunn's blog, where he writes about the differences between Scottish and Irish Celtic music in the context of his experience with each:

"It’s like the Irish songs were seeped in hundreds of years of oppression and Scotland broke free from that feeling. Oh wait! They did!"

Now, reading this from where I am now, analyzing a series of historial fantasy/fiction that dramatizes the  definitive defeat of the Highland clans and the aftermath of that conflict seen through the lens of a fictional Highlander and various 20th Century characters, it struck me that this conclusion was a bit too... easy, perhaps?  So I posted a couple of responses on Facebook:

You might say that the English crushed the opposition more definitively in Scotland in the 18th C, so there wasn't the festering subversive element as in Ireland. The clans didn't really survive as such. The Irish didn't have the obvious social/political structure in place, so it wasn't as easy to rout out. And even in the 18th C, Scotland was more influenced by Protestantism. In Ireland, the English Protestant landowners formed a superstructure on top of the native Irish--with more integration in Ulster. You might say that the religious question was already native to Scotland, so it wasn't an imposition from without as in Ireland.

And specifically with reference to music:

Also - I would venture that the complex stories are there in Scottish ballads, but those aren't the songs we remember as being quintessentially Scottish. I think the songs we remember as quintessentially Scottish are the ones with bagpipes and brogues. Many of the songs that we think of as *Irish* actually appear among the ballads collected by Frances James Child in the Nineteenth Century in England and Scotland!

So really, it's more complex in terms of folk-tradition.  Why is there this connection?  What was the folk culture exchange between Ireland and Scotland?  I'm sure someone has written on this subject.  And politically, I'm not sure I feel comfortable with the idea of Scotland more easily accepting its position relative to England.

Now, on this blog, I have posts that ask postcolonial questions.  But I am not really asking them of Scotland, but of the novels--which are 20th and 21st Century American novels. Not British.  Not Scottish.  So really, the novels don't tell us anything at all about Scotland, only about the perception of Scotland that the novel represents.  A historical novel has the potential to act as a piece of historical commentary, arguing more effectively than any textbook or essay that the reader should view the past from a certain perspective.  Films do this, too.  Consider Gone with the Wind, for example--because it's an easy one, and both a film and a novel.  It definitely presents a very specific view of the South from before and after the Civil War. The problematic character of Scarlett O'Hara might make each work's sympathies harder to sort out.  By contrast, the reader's lot in the Outlander novels is cast irrevocably with Jamie's sympathies and experiences, even if sometimes tempered by Claire's 20th Century hindsight.

Scotland was never a colony.  Ireland was.  America was.  Scotland and England have shared monarchs, dynasties, land mass,  religious movements.  As an English major and History minor, I never learned about Scotland as separate from England.  The one reference to Scottish history I will never forget was my history professor Dr. Schlunz, who said that James I looked around at Parliament and said, "I know what you are!  You're a bunch of goddamned Presbytarians!"  Irish history, I learned through studying Yeats and largely under the tutelage of Dr. Mary FitzGerald (and to a degree, O'Flaherty's Irish Pub).  But there was no "in" for me in Scottish literature--Burns?  Not someone I ever liked, in part because I had no real interest in the 18th Century, and no real interest in Scotch Gaelic.  I studied French, Latin and Greek, and considered Irish, but I wanted my English literature in English.  I didn't give Old English any serious attention until grad school, and didn't really have the patience for Chaucer's Middle English.  So only through some Celtic music, like "Culloden's Harvest" by Deanta, which I enjoyed but didn't investigate, and now through the Outlander books, do I get a sense of Scottish history.  (And I've read a few bona fide history articles, though not a lot.)

America was a colony.  So it makes sense that I grew up feeling a hefty sense of righteous indignation toward Imperialists--England, and especially Spain, which was vilified in all textbooks of the 1980s and early 90s, to my knowledge.  I have an affinity for postcolonial criticism and literature--Marxism notwithstanding.  I like the idea of a center and a periphery, and an exchange between the two--that the colonizer is influenced by the colonial subject.  I like the idea that by exercising power over others, the colonizer is debased.  I like subtle subversion of colonial power.  I do not think we would be better off had the Spanish not wiped out the Aztecs, nor if Christianity had not spread.  I am definitely an imperfect postcolonialist.  I do think that England caused immeasurable, lasting global political harm with its Empire.  But...  Scotland was not a colony.  So when I look for that postcolonial sentiments in Outlander, it is to satisfy my own righteous indignation at the atrocities committed in Scotland, by the English, in acts that were similar to the oppression/suppression under colonization, but not technically colonization.

Scotland has nationalism, but not postcolonialism.  The clans--who would offer resistance to English rule--were well-organized, and easily stamped out.  Robert Burns may have actually been fairly typical of the non-Highland response to the Jacobite rising, if you consider his version of the Anti-Jacobite/anti-war "Ye Jacobites by Name":

YE Jacobites by name, give an ear, give an ear,
Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear,
Ye Jacobites by name,
Your fautes I will proclaim,
Your doctrines I maun blame, you shall hear.	5
What is Right, and What is Wrang, by the law, by the law?
What is Right and what is Wrang by the law?
What is Right, and what is Wrang?
A short sword, and a lang,
A weak arm and a strang, for to draw.	10
What makes heroic strife, famed afar, famed afar?
What makes heroic strife famed afar?
What makes heroic strife?
To whet th’ assassin’s knife,
Or hunt a Parent’s life, wi’ bluidy war?	15
Then let your schemes alone, in the state, in the state,
Then let your schemes alone in the state.
Then let your schemes alone,
Adore the rising sun,
And leave a man undone, to his fate.

It might be summed up as "don't rock the boat," or "why can't we be friends?" And perhaps the Jacobites were to blame.  (Come to think of it, Bono from U2 might be the Irish equivalent of Robert Burns in "Ye Jacobites by Name."  Turn that one over for a moment!)  But it seems that there was an element of identity at stake--personal identity, religious identity (for the Catholics), and national identity.

Because it is the clans and the plaids--and the symbols of the past that was so definitively cut off by Culloden--that signify Scottish Nationalism today.  When you look to representations of Irish Nationalism in popular culture, they're not always pretty--Patriot Games, for example.  (Also see Patriot Games and "The Patriot Game.")  But the examples are contemporary.  When we look for movies that celebrate Scotland--and Patriot Games in no way celebrates Ireland, by the way.  I would look to The Secret of Roan Inish or The Field or The Commitments or even The Quiet Man--when we look for celebrations of Scotland, we get Braveheart or Brave.  One historical, one fantasy--both idealizations of a far, far distant past.  Postcolonial, post-British Nationalist Scotland is, in fact, pre-British Scotland.  As in Outlander.

I think that American audiences, and maybe contemporary audiences, want to see oppression opposed.  And so I look for postcolonial perspectives (for so they are called) imposed onto 18th Century Scotland by the author--to ignite my righteous indignation and to satisfy my innate sense of justice.  And sometimes, I find them.

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.

Voyager: Vocation (Roger and Claire)

Following closely on all of the literacy moments in Ch. 7, Roger, thinking about how he stepped into his role as scholar after his uncle and adoptive father, the Reverend Wakefield, and how Fiona stepped into the role as housekeeper after her grandmother Mrs. Graham, considers vocation as a possible hereditary inclination:

     It made one wonder, he thought, as he went into the study. In the old days, when a man’s son usually followed his father’s profession, was that only a matter of convenience— wanting to keep the business in the family— or was there some sort of family predisposition for some kinds of work? Were some people actually born to be smiths, or merchants, or cooks— born to an inclination and an aptitude, as well as to the opportunity?  (101)

He provides for exception, but seems to rest on the idea that certain families do have a predisposition to a certain vocation:

      Clearly it didn’t apply to everyone; there were always the people who left their homes, went a-wandering, tried things hitherto unknown in their family circles. If that weren’t so, probably there would be no inventors, no explorers; still, there seemed to be a certain affinity for some careers in some families, even in these restless modern times of widespread education and easy travel. (101-102)

As this contemplation comes right after Roger's condescending (but affectionate) regard for Fiona as not really literate by his definitions, and after his memory of Mrs. Graham "manning the stove, supplying the old man's bodily needs during bouts of late night scholarship, just as Fiona was now doing for [Roger]" this might not register as very positive.  After all, a hereditary predisposition to a certain kind of work forms a rather neat justification for limited social mobility.  If people are inclined to keep menial work in the family, why should social mobility be an issue?  And in this case, it means that he gets a really great housekeeper (who might have aspired to more through her designs on Roger).  It might be such moments that Roger seem a rather uninteresting character--at least to this reader!  I actually think he has quite a fan following, but when he is introduced in Dragonfly and Voyager, he is defined by his somewhat stuffy scholarliness--something he doesn't ever quite shake--and his attraction to Brianna.  I read Roger as another contrast between 18th Century men and 20th Century men, not unlike Frank Randall--and this develops more later.  But unlike Frank Randall, Roger is exposed to, and feels the pull of, that vivid physicality that Claire finds in Jamie, which we assume will redeem him.

It is Claire who pulls Roger out of his contemplation, asking about his thoughts, and in response to his question about "how people become what they are," and how she became a doctor, for example, asks him how he came to be a historian (102).  For his part, Roger opts for nurture, not nature:

     “I grew up in the midst of it all; I was ferreting round the Highlands in search of artifacts with my father from the time I could read. I suppose it just seemed natural to keep doing it.” (102)

Claire, who did not grow up around doctors, nevertheless claims a similar experience, but it registers very differently:

“Well, it was something like that for me,” she said. “It wasn’t so much that I suddenly decided I must become a doctor— it was just that I suddenly realized one day that I’d been one for a long time— and then I wasn’t, and I missed it.” (102)

She elaborates, drawing on her experiences in World War II and in 18th Century Scotland and France:

“I’d seen Paree,” she said softly. She looked up from her hands, alert and present, but with the traces of memory in her eyes, fixed on Roger with the clarity of a second sight. “And a lot of other things besides. Caen and Amiens, Preston, and Falkirk, the Hôpital des Anges and the so-called surgery at Leoch.  I’d been a doctor, in every way there is— I’d delivered babies, set bones, stitched wounds, treated fevers  …” She trailed off, and shrugged. “There was a terrible lot I didn’t know, of course. I knew how much I could learn— and that’s why I went to medical school. But it didn’t really make a difference, you know.” She dipped a finger into the whipped cream floating on her cocoa, and licked it off. “I have a diploma with an M.D. on it— but I was a doctor long before I set foot in medical school.”

The sense of doing what is "natural" or comes naturally is common between Roger and Claire--and, by proxy, between Frank (whose profession Roger shares) and Claire.  They choose their professions because the profession simply means the continuation of something that feels "natural," as Roger says--though it could be argued that a profession is artificial, not natural.  But as they describe what natural means, a difference emerges.  Roger feels that scholarship seems natural because he accompanied Rev. Wakefield as a lad.  Claire feels it is natural because she has already done it.  And when she doesn't do it, she misses it.  To be a doctor is, to Claire, a part of her being.  For Roger, it seems as though being a historian is simply a matter of habit.  Roger will have a long and difficult road to real discernment.

But next time, Frank...

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

Voyager: Some Problems with Literacy (A Literacy Moment)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Voyager: Faith in Literacy and Orality (A Literacy/Orality Moment)

Claire settles in to read the account of Jamie's exodus from Culloden and Inverness in Lord Melton's journal, which Roger just received in the mail from a fellow-scholar.  The experience of reading has the ability to transport her to the place, particularly since it is a place she already knows:

I accepted a cup of tea myself, and sat down in the wing chair with the pages of Melton’s journal. The flowing eighteenth-century handwriting was surprisingly clear, in spite of the archaic spelling, and within minutes, I was in the confines of Leanach farmhouse, imagining the sound of buzzing flies, the stir of close-packed bodies, and the harsh smell of blood soaking into the packed-dirt floor.
     “ …   in satisfaction of my brother’s debt of honor, I could not do otherwise than to spare Fraser’s life. I therefore omitted his name from the list of traitors executed at the farmhouse, and have made arrangement for his transport to his own estate. I cannot feel myself either altogether merciful toward Fraser in the taking of this action, nor yet altogether culpable with respect to my service toward the Duke, as Fraser’s situation, with a great wound in his leg festering and pustulent, makes it unlikely that he will survive the journey to his home. Still, honor prevents my acting otherwise, and I will confess that my spirit was lightened to see the man removed, still living, from the field, as I turned my own attentions to the melancholy task of disposing of the bodies of his comrades. So much killing as I have seen these last two days oppresses me,” the entry ended simply. (96)

Some of the difficulties of archival research and working with primary sources--the handwriting and archaic spellings--figure into the account, but by contrast, since Melton's handwriting is legible.  The limits of the research in this case are the limits of Melton's first hand knowledge.  It is as Brianna asserts her faith in Jamie's identity as the "Dunbonnet" of legend that the research moves from textual sources into the realm of oral history:

     “The Dunbonnet?” Fiona, tut-tutting over my cold cup of undrunk tea, looked over her shoulder in surprise. “Heard of the Dunbonnet, have ye?”
     “Have you?” Roger looked at the young housekeeper in astonishment.
     She nodded, casually dumping my tea into the aspidistra that stood by the hearth and refilling my cup with fresh steaming brew.
     “Oh, aye. My grannie tellt me that tale, often and often.”
     “Tell us!” Brianna leaned forward, intent, her cocoa cupped between her palms. “Please, Fiona! What’s the story?”
     Fiona seemed mildly surprised to find herself suddenly the center of so much attention, but shrugged good-naturedly.  (97)

When written sources have been exhausted, oral tradition fills in the gaps, and puts Roger on Jamie's scent once more:

     “Jesus Christ,” Roger breathed. He set his cup down carefully, and sat staring into space, transfixed. “Prison.”
     “You sound like that’s good,” Brianna protested. The corners of her mouth were tight with distress, and her eyes slightly shiny.
     “It is,” Roger said, not noticing her distress. “There weren’t that many prisons where the English imprisoned Jacobite traitors, and they all kept official records. Don’t you see?” he demanded, looking from Fiona’s bewilderment to Brianna’s scowl, then settling on me in hope of finding understanding. “If he went to prison, I can find him.”  (99)

Roger has a sort of opportunistic attitude that does not register as amiss, since the reader wants Roger to find Jamie.  But there is some insight into what it means to think like a scholar in Brianna's dismay as compared to Roger's enthusiasm--a man's misfortune is a scholar's gold, and in this case, the man in question is the focus of much narrative sympathy:

     “He’s in there,” Roger said softly. “On a prison roll. In a document— real evidence! Don’t you see?” he demanded again, turning back to me. “Going to prison made him a part of written history again! And somewhere in there, we’ll find him!” (99)

Though Roger's enthusiasm is in part because of his now-intimate connection with the story through Claire and (especially) Brianna, there is a certain coldness in his jubilation to find that Jamie went to prison.  The contrast with Fiona's more personal connection with the tale is sharp:

“So he made a bold plan, the Dunbonnet did,” Fiona was continuing. Her round face was alight with the drama of her tale. “He arranged that one of his tenants should go to the English, and offer to betray him. There was a good price on his head, for he’d been a great warrior for the Prince. The tenant would take the gold o’ the reward— to use for the folk on the estate, o’ course— and tell the English where the Dunbonnet might be taken.”  (98)

Even though the story is far removed, the connection to the oral tale seems more emotional--more human than the connection documents can provide.

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