"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?

Upcoming reads...

I have somehow become enmeshed in reading multiple series.  Series of three or more books are, of course, the thing--I do wonder whether there was every a pair of books?--so I should really watch for them when I start reading so that I can perhaps limit myself to the ones that have already been published in toto. On the other hand, it does give me something to look forward to.  So these are the ones I'm waiting for currently (as much for my benefit as for yours!):


Written in My Own Heart's Blood by Diana Gabaldon - June 10, 2014

Ruin and Rising by Leigh Bardugo - June 17, 2014

The Blood of Olympus by Rick Riordan - October 7, 2014

Waistcoats & Weaponry by Gail Carriger - November 4, 2014


Is that all?  Surely there was another...  Ah well.  I will update as necessary!

In the meantime, I am trying very hard to stay dedicated to writing an article for actual print publication.  It will draw on some of the Hunger Games material that I wrote for this blog, but in a more coherent, academic-argument sort of way.  Wish me luck!  (Seriously, because I need all the support I can get!  It's very hard to remember why this publishing schtick is theoretically important...)

The Immediate Book Meme, Plus One

From DarwinCatholic, a fun book meme:

There are plenty of memes that want to know all about your book history and your all-time greats and your grand ambitions, but let's focus on something more revealing: the books you're actually reading now, or just read, or are about to read. Let's call it The Immediate Book Meme.

1. What book are you reading now?

No particular book; various and sundry articles and books on dystopia.

2. What book did you just finish?

Allegiant by Veronica Roth; not sure the series was worth the effort or the $$...

3. What do you plan to read next?

I tend not to plan; it doesn't work out well.

4. What book do you keep meaning to finish?

The Fiery Cross by Diana Gabaldon (the reread that just. isn't. happening.) 

The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland by Catherynne M. Valente 

Little House on the Prairie - I was reading it to my girls, and we just can't seem to read the last two chapters!!

5. What book do you keep meaning to start?

Good Omens by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett

6. What is your current reading trend?

Fantasy and YA dystopia

And, to add one of my own...

7. What is your favorite thing that you've read recently?

The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern 

The Golem and the Jinni by Helene Wecker 

 

Ceci n'est pas une poème

Magritte knew something right
about temptation. He never painted the apple
in front of the man--it's part of him,
unless suspended above: a ten-ton weight
among the wisps of cloud.

                                           And even now,
when looking at him, I often think of you:
how your face glowed like a shiny apple,
and how I hung, ready to drop into your lap.

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.

Books that Define You/Me

There's a meme on Facebook that circulates about once a year--and like all Facebook memes, there are several versions--that asks what the 10 books (authors, songs, albums) that most influenced you.  You're supposed to list these off the top of your head without thinking too much about it so that you can tag your friends and keep the ball rolling, or whatever memes do.  This is is not really practical for someone like me, who tends to overthink things--and who doesn't simply read books, but ingests them, internalizes them--lives them.  When I came up with the list, it looked something like this:

1. The Little House Books (mostly The Long Winter and These Happy Golden Years) by Laura Ingalls Wilder
2. The Chronicles of Narnia (mostly The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, The Last Battle, and The Magician's Nephew)
3. The Mists of Avalon by Marion Zimmer Bradley
4. The Vampire Lestat by Anne Rice
5. The Odyssey by Homer
6. The Inferno by Dante Alighieri
7. The Lord of the Rings by J. R. R. Tolkien
8. Victorian People and Ideas by Richard Altick
9. Dreamers of Decadence by Philippe Jullian
10. Orality and Literacy by Walter Ong

My Facebook list looked a little different, as I had forgotten #4, and couldn't come up with another to take its place.  I had to scramble a little for #8, #9, and #10, which were all influential nonfiction.  But fiction was what defined me at various points in my life.

In fact, #1, #2, #3, #4, and #7 were all on the list because I read them more times than I know--and the list is in rough chronological order.  I read Little House on the Prairie in 3rd grade, and perhaps the following year, I got the boxed set of books, and read them voraciously for the next several years.  I remember specifically brining the books to school each day in 4th, 5th and 6th grades, and reading one of the books in a single day.  The Long Winter and These Happy Golden Years became worn from being read over and over, more than the rest--the former because it was an amazing tale of endurance, the latter because it was a portrait of growing up.

When I was in 6th grade, I attended a Christian school for part of the year because my mother had a job there, and at one point, the librarian, impressed with my appetite for books, and recognizing my resistance to "girl books" like Sweet Valley High and The Babysitters Club, or books about animals, directed me to the Chronicles of Narnia.  I was in love.  I read all but The Magician's Nephew while I was at the school--repeatedly.  When I returned to my public elementary school that same year, I bought The Magician's Nephew from Scholastic.  Years later, when I was 15, I worked as a camp counselor of sorts at Camp-of-the-Woods in Upstate New York, and I was able to buy my own set from their bookstore.  They fell apart almost immediately, and I wrote HarperCollins for a refund of the $40+ that they had cost.  The following year, it began to click for me that they were not simply fantasy, but Christian allegory--and so began my disillusionment wiht the Chronicles, and in a way, with Christianity (a symptom, also, of the particular type of Christianity I encountered at Camp-of-the-Woods, the superficiality, the compulsory nature of faith, and the loneliness....)  The books remained with me for a long time, as I learned more about Lewis, wrestled with his Christian identity, his adpotion by the evangelicals who made me feel alienated from Christianity, and his curious and often disturbing biography....  But even so, they stayed close as the more I read, the more I understood Lewis's influences, allusions, and techniques.  By the time I entered my M.A. program, I wanted to "redeem" The Chronicles of Narnia from those who would dismiss them on the basis of their Christianity.  My first graduate paper, my first abstract, and, consequently, my first article and my M.A. thesis came from that impulse.  From rereading, I was able to see exactly how to make a complex argument about how to read the books.  I squeezed another conference paper out of the Chronicles as well.  And this is what books should do--stay with us, grow with us, and lend themselves in some way to our intellectual or spiritual development.  My daughter has started reading The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, though she might be a little young to get through it on her own.  Someday, I'm sure I will reread them again.

The first non-children's lit--although it might justifiably be called"adult"--novel on the list is The Mists of Avalon--I credit--or blame--a high school English teacher for introducing it.  It's about a million pages long--longer than any of the Outlander books, for certain.  And sort of a poisonous, intoxicating book for a young woman/girl, disenchanted with Christianity, and sexually curious.  I read it probably ten times over the years, and fashioned myself into Morgaine--Bradley's version of Morgan le Fay.  For me, it epitomizes a "dangerous book"--I might say more about that one day soon, as I am currently rereading it--20 years later--to find out what my younger self found so captivating.  And really?  It is still captivating.  And I have found that the little bit of serious fiction I have written is heavily influenced by Marion Zimmer Bradley's tale, but perhaps I'll return to that in another post.

I may or may not have read The Vampire Lestat before The Mists of Avalon.  Or it might have been the same time.  It is the second of Anne Rice's Vampire Chronicles.  At the time, she had written up to The Queen of the Damned, and by the time The Tale of the Body Thief was written, I was disenchanted.  I read them out of order, so I worshipped Lestat and hated Louis--narrator of Interview with a Vampire--which is not what is supposed to happen.  Rice's vampires showed me an agnostic vision, at best, and a homoerotic one, and I dwelt there for a while, idealizing something I could never know.

I would think it odd that I did not find another book that I could reread and live in for many years, but as an undergraduate, I was a poet.  Then, as a new mother at 20, and in graduate school, I simply didn't have the time.  The Odyssey was influential intellectually as my introduction to Orality-Literacy theory, while the Inferno started tipping me toward Catholicism.  The next on the list was Tolkien's Lord of the Rings, and in a very short time, I read it as many times as some of the others.  As the first book I "lived in" as an adult, and a new Catholic, I found a lot of ways to work out ideas in The Lord of the Rings.  It refreshed my spirit, much like the story Lucy read in the magician's house in Voyage of the Dawn Treader--and I was able to share it with my husband as well.

So as I'm rereading--and reliving--The Mists of Avalon, and wondering what thoughts it will yield about books, about my former self, and about ideas that I could not have seen in the novel 20 years ago--I want to ask you--and consider it a tag:  what books have defined you?  What books have you read again and again, and lived in, so that they shaped the person you were, or who you would become?  Because a book can do that--it's the beauty of books, and also what makes them feared (the missing narrative of banned books week, present in dystopian literature).

Comment, blog about your books, and if you would, link back and leave a comment!  Happy reading.

Another Disney Aside: The Aesthetics of Frozen

As I sit here on Saturday morning, the first day of my long birthday weekend, as I like to think of it, I am dreading going back to work on Tuesday for a completely novel reason.  Yesterday evening I took my girls to see Disney's Frozen.  I had been avoiding it deliberately--first because of the snowman, Olaf.  Second, because I had heard about a certain plot twist, whereby the initial love interest is revealed to be the bad guy.  I don't like when films--or books--trick the viewer/reader in cruel ways.  But in the course of a Facebook exchange, I became intrigued enough to resolve to see the film.  It sounded interesting.  So when I was "surprised" with a cake on Thursday by my co-workers (it's an office ritual, and I'm not one to scoff at an opportunity to stop working), I mentioned that I was thinking of taking of Friday afternoon (my actual birthday) and bringing my girls to see Frozen.  We chatted about it a bit.  My boss, who is a very sweet person, and a former dance major/instructor, mentioned that when she saw it with her teenaged daughter, she didn't know it was a musical.  She said the songs were awesome.

Therein lies the difficulty.  *sigh*  I didn't think the songs were awesome--or even very good--with one notable exception.  "Frozen Heart"--the ice-cutters song.  And the other thing that people defend for one reason or another (and I think it's because everyone secretly knows that the film would have been better off without) is the other element I couldn't stand--the snowman, Olaf, whom I knew would be a problem for me just from the previews.  Defending Olaf is a lot like defending Jar-Jar Binks, but Olaf has a better backstory.

So as I think about Tuesday (long weekend), I think about being asked what I thought of how I liked the movie, and what I will say, and how I can say it without bringing judgment upon myself as the snob with the English Ph.D. who can't enjoy anything.  I can't help remembering a fellow English major I was dating at the time remarking, "Oh, so you're saying that you want your animated films to be more realistic?"  He should have known better, but in a way that mirrors what you see all over the internet when someone applies analytical skills to pop culture-- "Are you kidding? Shut up and enjoy the film."  (Only spelled worse.)  I had similar successes trying to get students to analyze or evaluate Disney films and children's literature.  No one quite sees the point.

Here, for a change, I am not actually dealing with analysis, but evaluation.  Because I believe (and it's an unpopular belief) that it is possible to set criteria and judge whether something is a good or a bad work of art, a successful or (artistically) unsuccessful film, book,whatever.  And in fact, I'm not a culture snob.  I love children's media in particular, and bought "What Does the Fox Say?" from the iTunes store, whatever judgment that might bring upon me.  So what did I think of Frozen?  Well, taken as a whole, I didn't particularly like it.  And I wanted to.  But at the end of the day, the elements that were pleasing, and what the writers of the story were attempting to do broke down for me because of the elements that simply got in the way or did not contribute to the overall purpose of the film.  And the purpose of the film was to tell a story and convey ideas, not merely to entertain.

There were very strong elements in the movie.  I enjoyed the story.  The dynamic between the sisters was interesting, and the character development--though not as strong as in Tangled (in part because Tangled had fewer characters to develop)--was better than one expects from a fairy tale.  The twist was fine--the way it was executed struck me as overly dramatic.  Surely, Hans knew he would betray her before he leaned in for the kiss, and the kiss--having nothing to do with true love--wouldn't have worked anyway.  I liked that Ana saved herself and her sister.  And I liked Christof.

The animation was, at times, stunning, though I had to keep reminding myself that the sisters were not the new Strawberry Shortcake, because their exaggerated eyes and top-heavy movements reminded me strongly of that animation.  But the ice was lovely, particularly in the opening sequence.

In fact, the opening sequence--with the ice cutting--was my favorite part of the film.  Just as we get past the odd chanting--Lion King in Scandinavia?? (I'm assuming there's some reason for the chant, but it didn't set the tone well)--we see (and hear) boots crunching across the ice--which we see from below.  And then the saw pierces the ice.  The motion of the saw forms the rhythm for the sone "Frozen Heart"--also the best song in the film.  When my husband (who did not see the film, but who enjoyed Tangled along with the rest of us) saw this sequence, he said, "Now, we need a good work song."  And that's what "Frozen Heart" is, in spite of it being, as one YouTube commenter so eloquently said, "the whole freakin' movie."  Men's voices chant a vague legend about a frozen heart while describing the danger and wonder of ice.  The music itself has folk elements to it, including a stringed instrument that reminds me of the Swedish nykelharpa, an instrument I discovered by listening to Vicki Swan and Johnny Dyer on the Irish and Celtic Music Podcast, because several of their songs had a stringed instrument that was low enough to be a cello, but was clearly (to my son, who plays one) not a cello.  This song--the song that opened the action of th film--clearly set the stage for the action, and also established the setting, both musically and thematically.  All without being distracting and calling undue attention to itself as a musical number.

Unfortunately, the other songs did not follow suit, and that is my largest problem with the film--well, that and Olaf.  The other songs in the film were, quite simply, pop.  They were a cross between Beyoncé and Evita--clearly meant to facilitate the movement of Frozen to Broadway and other stage venues, and also to be sold on CD and through iTunes and other digital music vendors.  And that was the problem.  The music was not part of the whole--it was thrown on top.  So when people say that it is catchy when you listen to it repeatedly at the request of your children, but that it nearly put them to sleep as part of the film, they are simply confirming:  the music did not belong in the film.  Particularly after the stage was set--by the amazing work-song, "Frozen Heart."  Someone at Disney knows that the folk elements integrated well with the Scandinavian setting, but let's fact is: pop sells.  In ways that folk music does not.  Every dance recital for the next two years, and several Olympic ice skating routines, will feature music from Disney's Frozen, cementing everyone's impression that the film is wonderful and amazing.  Which it would have been, had the disparate parts--the parts, like Olaf, designed to appeal to the most base sense of humor, and the soundtrack, meant to stand alone--held together better.

The good news is that I'm not alone.  Far and few between there are people who acknowledge the problem, however much their children may have enjoyed it--and I don't think that it's a problem to teach my children that a good work of art is a unified work of art.  At a birthday party on Saturday, shortly after strating this post, I spoke to the mother of my daughter's friend.  They are Korean, and she has a Ph.D. in Chemistry, and when my daughter mentioned seeing the film, we talked, and she--cautiously, it seemed--volunteered when I did not gush about the film that the music didn't really seem to fit, and said many of the things I have said here.  But she, too, knew that it would not be a popular opinion.

Meanwhile, here's what a nykelharpa can do, first folk:

And then more of a classical fusion:

The Question of Literacy in The Hunger Games (Pt. 3): Scripted or Unscripted?

Continued from Pt. 2

It is Catching Fire that introduces the reader to one of the grand literacy themes in the Hunger Games trilogy, which can be best summed up in the question:  scripted or unscripted?  Up to this point, we have become acquaited with the artiface of the capital in The Hunger Games, and we have learned, in particular, of the artiface of the games, which require the tributes to play to the audience, deliberately providing the grand entertainment in order to have their efforts to engage the Capital rewarded in the form of help in the arena as the citizens throw support behind their favorite tribute by buying gifts to help that tribute survive.  However, the artificiality very deliberately does not translate into something that is scripted.  Unlike in Brave New World, in which the "feelies" are scripted (by such as Helmholz Watson), the entertainment in the capital seems reality-based, like the games.  Other events in support of the games are televised, including, significantly, interviews with Caesar Flickerman, which are not scripted, but are the result of coaching from the District mentor and Effie Trinket (in the case of Disctrict 12), who is a kind of escort to the tributes.

That entertainment is artificial, but not script-based does not seem to have much to do with literacy--after all, we have reality television, and though the games are extreme, there is an element of familiarity to the genre of television portrayed.  It is in Catching Fire, when Peeta and Katniss are given scripts, and when Katniss tries to write for herself a memorial of Rue that the script--or lack thereof--becomes important.  During the victory tour, Peeta and Katniss are expected to follow a set routine, which Katniss describes:

Peeta and I will be introduced, the mayor of 11 will read a speech in our honor, and we’ll respond with a scripted thank-you provided by the Capitol. If a victor had any special allies among the dead tributes, it is considered good form to add a few personal comments as well. 

Her dilemma is that though she knows she should add a personal statement about Rue and Thresh,  she faces what one of my English teachers in high school would call the "tyrrany of the blank page":  "every time I tried to write it at home, I ended up with a blank paper staring me in the face."  (56-57).  However, as the narrative stresses over and over, Katniss cannot perform by creating or recreating context in her mind alone.  She can not fool herself into acting--or in this case, writing--as if the contrived or imagined situation is real.  By contrast, she is able to deliver a speech to District 11, following Peeta's gift of one month of their winnings every year--once she is actually present in the moment:

“Wait, please.” I don’t know how to start, but once I do, the words rush from my lips as if they’ve been forming in the back of my mind for a long time. “I want to give my thanks to the tributes of District Eleven,” I say. I look at the pair of women on Thresh’s side. “I only ever spoke to Thresh one time. Just long enough for him to spare my life. I didn’t know him, but I always respected him. For his power. For his refusal to play the Games on anyone’s terms but his own. The Careers wanted him to team up with them from the beginning, but he wouldn’t do it. I respected him for that."  

. . .  

I turn to Rue’s family. “But I feel as if I did know Rue, and she’ll always be with me. Everything beautiful brings her to mind. I see her in the yellow flowers that grow in the Meadow by my house. I see her in the mockingjays that sing in the trees. But most of all, I see her in my sister, Prim.” My voice is undependable, but I am almost finished. “Thank you for your children.” I raise my chin to address the crowd. “And thank you all for the bread.” (60-61)

Katniss's struggles with writing her feelings, contrasted with her ability to speak in context, stresses one of the essential properties of writing.  It is decontextualized.  Usually, this observation is made of writing itself--that it is, as Walter Ong noted, "separate from the human life-world."  The book is decontextualized; the reader has to recreate the context from the available clues.  However, the writer is often separate from the context as well.  Katniss's difficulty stems from that decontextualization, and recalls Wordsworth's description of poetry as the "spontaneous overflow of powerful emotion recollected in tranqility."  Clearly, Katniss is not a poet, since even when she feels "powerful emotion," her recollections, which cannot really be said to take place "in tranquility," do not translate into words.

When the Quarter Quell is announced, and Peeta and Katniss are reaped and then, without being allowed to say goodbye, taken to the Capital, Katniss actually muses on the limitations of literacy, and specifically, its removal from the immediacy of real life as it is happening:

I sit on the bed, knowing I will never write those letters.  They will be like the speech I tried to write to honor Rue and Thresh in District 11. Things seemed clear in my head and even when I talked before the crowd, but the words never came out of the pen right. Besides, they were meant to go with embraces and kisses and a stroke of Prim’s hair, a caress of Gale’s face, a squeeze of Madge’s hand. They cannot be delivered with a wooden box containing my cold, stiff body.  (188-189)

Writing lacks immediacy; it is decontextualized, cold and impersonal.

Although Katniss can conjure words when she is moved, Peeta is represented in the novel as being particularly good with words, particularly as compared to Katniss, and by Katniss in particular.  The difference is that Peeta is able to perform on command, to play to a crowd, and that he can lie--he can "make anyone believe anything" (346).  In short, Peeta has a natural gift for rhetoric.  Nevertheless, on the victory tour, he is also scripted, with a speech prepared by the Capital.  In Distrct 11, he deviates:

Peeta had his personal comments written on a card, but he doesn’t pull it out. Instead he speaks in his simple, winning style about Thresh and Rue making it to the final eight, about how they both kept me alive — thereby keeping him alive — and about how this is a debt we can never repay. And then he hesitates before adding something that wasn’t written on the card. Maybe because he thought Effie might make him remove it.  (59)

Peeta's addition is the offer of one month of their winnings each year, which prepares the way for Katniss's speech, which in turn incites defiance in District 11.  The result for Peeta and Katniss is that, seeing how easily they can cause a crisis, they resolve to stick to the script:

Listen to a speech in our honor. Give a thank-you speech in return, but only the one the Capitol gave us, never any personal additions now.  (71)

Katniss's commentary is telling, and reveals another weakness of writing:  it can be discovered, and censored.

There are a few other interesting literacy moments in Catching Fire:  Snow reading the card with the Quarter Quell challenge, supposedly written 75 years before, but clearly altered; Madge's access to capital newspapers by way of her father the Mayor of District 12;  Peeta making notes on the other victors, then tearing the pages of notes from his notebook of victors who were not reaped.  The idea of being scripted continues into Mockingjay--the artificiality of the Capital and Katniss's inability to conform to others' expectations is a major theme in the book, and the "Propos" in District 13 further develop the theme and help the reader to discover Katniss, and Katniss to discover herself.  The underlying point, however, is that literacy has limitations--not everyone can use it to their advantage, as Katniss certainly is unable to command written language.  Literacy is risky, since it can be discovered.  And if she can't be scripted, Katniss can't easily help the rebels by being their mouthpiece in Mockingjay.  Literacy carries very little power in the Hunger Games Trilogy.

What, then, is its power?  I think the answer is something much more akin to the power of Peeta's painting.

To be continued in Pt. 4

The Question of Literacy in The Hunger Games (Pt. 2): Snow as Literate Dictator

Continued from Pt. 1

So where is literacy in the Hunger Games?  It is clear that the people of Panem are literate.  There is education in all of the districts, though Katniss gives a hint of what that schooling is like:  in District 12, everything is coal-related.  I imagine their curriculum being like Abeka books for homeschooling, in which everything is Biblical.  The math problems are about tithing.  In my mind, I substitute coal-related word problems for District 12.  The history of Panem is included for purposes of indoctrination--to make certain that the school children grow up knowing their inferior position in relation to the Capital.  And while limited information is given about the districts, it is not information that conveys the reality, as Katniss discovers when she visits the vast, firmly controlled District 11 during the victory tour.

There is a very small, isolated example of literacy in The Hunger Games (the novel rather than the series) that I am choosing to ignore for the moment.  It is both utilitarian and heartening.  It demonstrates both the ability to read and command of writing, and how those things relate--in a tangible way--to the ability to cope.  But I plan to come back to it because it is easy to miss the importance when reading the first novel.

Let me, instead, jump into Catching Fire.  There are a couple of very striking references to literacy in the beginning of the novel.  I am still double-checking, but I think that there are only two books in the entire Hunger Games trilogy, and one of them is wielded by President Snow.  When he visits Katniss in order to intimidate her into helping him to pacify the districts, Snow is reading a book.  "He holds up a finger as if to say, 'Give me a moment'" (17).  Katniss is expected, so she does not surprise him in the act of reading.  Reading is either something he routinely does to pass the time, or it is a pose, indicating his relative importance.  After all, he has to finish his reading before addressing her.  Or perhaps simply possessing a book indicates his relative importance, since we are not told that the house in Victory Village has books.  This is the single time that someone is shown reading in such a way that attention is drawn to the act of reading--the deliberateness of the act of reading--and to the book itself without any indication of the subject or purpose of the book. (Perhaps if the Slate article that uses statistics as a substitute for analysis looked up occurrances of the word "book," it would have been useful!)  The book itself becomes an object of note in the scene.  Although we lose sight of it in the exchange between Katniss and Snow, he "places his book on the corner of the desk" when Katniss's mother brings tea (22).  When he leaves, he "retrieves his book."

One of two books mentioned specificially in the entire series (if I find another, I'll blog it--I promise!), and we don't know anything about the book.  The book must, then, tell us something about the reader, just by its very presense.  We know very little about Snow, but we know that he wants to be seen reading.  A book accompanies him, whether he reads it or not.  This is very little to go on, but it does call to mind another--perhaps more benign--dystopian dictator, Mustapha Mond in Brave New World.   Apart from the fact that the populace tends only toward context-specific, utilitarian literacy, and the dehumanization common to all dystopias, the societies of the two works are vastly different.  The only similarities between the governments are the desire to keep order and the presence of a single president.  In the case of Brave New World, the president is Mustapha Mond--the only character in the novel who is, in fact, highly literate, possessing both the ability to read and process at a high level, and also the access to books and knowledge gained from books.  He can read them because he has chosen to value order above ideas; in widespread literacy, he sees the dangers of disorder. In higher-level literacy, he sees the potential for competition between the most intelligent citizens.  In Brave New World, the reader is given these insights when Helmholtz Watson discusses these things with Mond--before being banished because he strives for greater art than his society can provide, or finds useful and safe.  In the Hunger Games, we are given no such insights because Katniss is given no such insights.  Snow is not so forthcoming, and literacy is not an obvious primary concern in the novels.  However, by placing a book in the hand of President Snow, against the backdrop of a functionally-literate society lacking in literary pursuits, or the opportunity to pursue reading and writing for pleasure, the novels are setting up an image of a dictator who is, perhaps, highly literate--perhaps the only highly literate member of the society.  It is not too difficult to imagine Snow as controlling all literacy--whether for pleasure or for a purpose--to his own ends, since he certainly controls all information.  In addition, his use of the book is deliberately calculating.  He reads it in order to show his ease; he will not be called out of it until he is ready.  Even in this, higher-level literacy makes one calculating.  And it is hardly a leap to say that this is a man who lives in his own mind.

In a narrative that is not only told by a single character, but by a character whose perspective is limited by her own tendency to live in the moment, by her own lack of introspection, and by her own lack of importance (she does not merit the kind of talk that Helmholtz Watson gets as high-level Alpha in Brave New World), a book--even one without a title--says something about a character who wields it.  It also says something about the link between literacy and power.  Those who have literacy have power.  Those without power have more limited literacy--or perhaps those with more limited literacy have limited power.  Culturally, we no longer question what the specific link is between literacy and power, because it is almost a trusim that literacy empowers.  What the actual link is between literacy and power is discussed most often in reference to new media, which gives a venue to basically whomever wants one and is willing to court an audience.

Might there be an underlying distrust of literacy in the Hunger Games?  Literacy is not, in fact, the means to undermining the society.  Action--often unpremeditated--seems to assume that role.  Snow's use of the book actually suggests literacy as a cloak for insecurity--a guise of control rather than control itself.  Literacy has an important higher-order function in the novels (TBA).  But it is not intimately connected to maintaining political power.

After all, we don't even know what book Snow is reading.

To be continued in Pt. 3

The Question of Literacy in The Hunger Games (Pt. 1)

It's been a while since my Hunger Games posts, but after seeing Catching Fire last night (it was good; go see it!), and after reading an essay on Neville Longbottom that typifies the kind of literary criticism I want to do, I want to return to my final commentary on the Hunger Games trilogy.

The topic here is literacy, and originally I saved it until last because at first glance, there doesn't seem to be much to say about literacy.  But that, in itself, is highly significant in children's and young adult literature, genres which never quite get themselves away from asserting the importance and significance of reading.  It's as if they're still aware that their primary audience is in school, and might need encouragement to read.  With female protagonists in particular, it is a sort of young adult trope (since Anne Shirley, perhaps--or maybe Jane Austen or Jane Eyre) that the female character is unusual for being a reader, and consequently for being introspective.  But the primary reason that I think writers who stress the importance of reading do so is because writers tend to be readers, and so they are fully aware of the benefits and joys of reading in their own lives, and want to share these with their own readers--much as I do.  It is also always in a writer's best interest to stress the importance of reading, is it not?  So when a young adult author seems to neglect this message, it can register as significant, particularly when the heroine is neither introspective, nor a reader.

The other reason an absence of literacy is suspicious and worthy of further investigation is that Hunger Games portrays a dystopia.  And like utopian literature, dystopian literature always treats literacy in some way.  I need to double check C. S. Lewis's That Hideous Strength, but science rather than government is the primary danger in that novel, which calls into question whether or not it is a dystopia--but that is a different topic entirely.  Take the two most prominent examples:  1984 and Brave New World.  In both cases, literacy is strictly regulated if not forbidden outright, because ideas derived from reading pose a thread to the State.  In both cases, this fact is played out in the text.  Not so in the Hunger Games.  Why?  And where is literacy?

Well, let's look at the first question first.  The question of Katniss.  I have said before that as a character, I was not drawn to identify with her.  I did come to admire her, for some of the same reasons the other sympathetic characters admired her--her strength, her loyalty, her ability to act, often without thinking.  One of the reasons that I was not drawn to her is that I felt, as a reader, like I was kept at arm's length by the narrative voice.  She is not an introspective character.  In fact, we get the action as it happens.  There is no reflection in part because the narrative forbids it--it is first person present tense.  But as the story progresses, this becomes more natural. Katniss doesn't ruminate.  She's not that kind of personality.  But what if she did?

Returning for a moment to the character of Anne Shirley--it has been decades since I read Anne of Green Gables and Anne of Avonlea, and I didn't particularly like her character.  But she typifies, first, the slightly odd literate heroine--perhaps a bit more odd than some, since authors seem to be trying to make the reading heroine seem unique, special, normal, and popular all at the same time.  I'm thinking here of Cassandra Clare's Tessa Grey in her Infernal Devices series, who, we are told, is very unique, interesting, and bookish, but who is actually just an empty brown-haired shell who likes books; the books supply the personality, in fact.  But Jo March is another slightly odd literate female protagonist... and the list goes on...  So Anne of Green Gables thinks and dreams about everything.  In some ways, she is a female Don Quijote.  She thinks about everything because she has read, and read, and read, and because she sees herself as living her own story, akin to the story in a book.  And sometimes, for fear of what will happen next in her story, she becomes paralyzed, and unable to act.  This typifies a character who is not only literate, but hyper-literate.  A character for whom life is something to ponder, and to analyze, and in some ways, to construct.  Such characters are also highly self-conscious.  Early twentieth-century British literature has notable examples:  J. Alfred Prufrock.  Gabriel Conroy in "The Dead."  They are dreamers and ponderers--over-thinkers, and they don't function terribly well in the real world.  Both of those examples are men, as is Don Quijote.  Looking back to Jane Austen, you have Mary Anne Dashwood the Romantic.  While literate, Margaret Dashwood is more practical, as is Jane Eyre.  When constrained by their social situation, it was perhaps difficult for female characters to be swept into inaction by introspection as the men were, or as Ane Shirley is; however, novels were often described as dangerous for other reasons, as in Louisa May Alcott's works, in which they were potentially a path to immorality for boys and girls.

This little survey is meant to illustrate that for a female (or male) protagonist, reading about life tends to skew one's impression of life, and to cause one to analyze, ruminate, and philosophize about the meaning of life, sometimes to the point of inaction.  Immediately, it should become clear that Katniss cannot operate in the typical mode of a highly literate or hyper-literate character.  Her circumstances require quick and decisive action.  She is strategic, so there is no quesiton as to her intelligence.  And she is capable of analysis, but not for the sheer sake of analysis.  Analysis, for her, is a means to an end--to the specific end of deciding what to do next in order to survive.  Survivial is her life, so in a way, she doesn't have time to read for its own sake--for pleasure, or for the development of her mind.  And in a very real sense, because she has to survive, she doesn't necessarily want to analyze, to philosophize, and to ruminate, either on the purpose of her existence, on her past experiences, or on what she has to do to survive.  She doesn't want to analyze the situation in District 12.  Literacy doesn't offer a path for improvement.  She doesn't want to kill the other tributes, but she has to.  So she does what she can to keep herself from analyzing the problem of the Games. They are inescapable.  It won't help her to dwell on them.  And caught up in the problem of survival, there is neither the need to consume art, nor the leisure to create it.

Having said this, Katniss is literate.  She and Prim go to school.  Like the castes in Brave New World, their education is utilitarian and appropriate to their district's particular trade.  But literacy neither defines her nor helps her.  It is a very minor, utilitarian part of her life--for the most part.

To be continued in Pt. 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Outlander Looks Back on American History and Catholicism: Denying the Sacraments in The Fiery Cross

Every now and then it is good to get a perspective on history.  I find that the latter books of the Outlander series deal in some very interesting ways with pre-Revolutionary American history.  If it amuses me, at times, to think of Jamie Fraser as the ancestor of the Discovery Channel moonshiners, I have a different kind of reaction to the scene, from The Fiery Cross, in which a priest is arrested at the Gathering--presumably to prevent him from administering the Sacrament of Marriage, though Baptism was also on the agenda.  The scene is humorous, serious, and at times deeply irreverent, but poignantly, it reminds us that the recent threat to priests who would administer the Sacraments has some historical precedent:

     He bowed punctiliously. “You say you wish to speak with the clerical gentleman under arrest?”
     “Under arrest?” I affected great surprise at that. “A priest? Why, whatever can he have done?”
     The Sheriff and the magistrate exchanged glances. Then the magistrate coughed.
     “Perhaps you are unaware, madam, that it is illegal for anyone other than the clergy of the established Church— the Church of England, that is— to undertake his office within the colony of North Carolina?”
     I was not unaware of that, though I also knew that the law was seldom put into effect, there being relatively few of any kind of clergy in the colony to start with, and no one bothering to take any official notice of the itinerant preachers— many of them free lances in the most basic sense of the word— who did appear from time to time.
     “Gracious!” I said, affecting shocked surprise to the best of my ability. “No, I had no idea. Goodness me! How very strange!” Mr. Lillywhite blinked slightly, which I took as an indication that that would just about do, in terms of my creating an impression of well -bred shock. I cleared my throat, and brought out the silver flask and case of needles.
     “Well. I do hope any difficulties will be soon resolved. However, I should very much like to see Father Donahue for a moment. As I said, I am his physician. He has an … indisposition”— I slid back the cover of the case, and delicately displayed the needles, letting them imagine something suitably virulent—“ that requires regular treatment. Might I see him for a moment, to administer his medicine? I … ah … should not like to see any mischief result from a lack of care on my part, you know.” I smiled, as charmingly as possible.
. . . . .
     “She wants to see the priest,” Anstruther interrupted.
     Goodwin blinked at that, taken only slightly aback.
     “Priest. There is a priest here?”
     “A Papist,” Mr. Lillywhite amplified, lips curling back a bit from the unclean word. “It came to my attention that there was a Catholic priest concealed in the assembly, who proposed to celebrate a Mass during the festivities this evening. I sent Mr. Anstruther to arrest him, of course.”
     “Father Donahue is a friend of mine,” I put in, as forcefully as possible. “And he was not concealed; he was invited quite openly, as the guest of Mrs. Cameron. He is also a patient, and requires treatment. I’ve come to see that he gets it.”
. . . . .
     Now that I got a clear look at the priest, the impression of martyrdom grew more pronounced. He looked like Saint Stephen after the first volley of stones, with a bruise on his chin and a first-rate black eye, empurpled from browridge to cheekbone and swollen quite shut.
     The nonblackened eye widened at sight of me, and he started up with an exclamation of surprise.
     “Father Kenneth .” I gripped him by the hand and squeezed, smiling broadly for the benefit of whatever audience might be peeking through the flap. “I’ve brought your medicine. How are you feeling?” I raised my eyebrows and waggled them, indicating that he should play along with the deception. He stared at me in fascination for a moment, but then appeared to catch on. He coughed, then, encouraged by my nod, coughed again, with more enthusiasm.
     “It’s … very kind of ye to … think of me, Mrs. Fraser,” he wheezed, between hacks. I pulled off the top of the flask, and poured out a generous measure of whisky.
     “Are you quite all right, Father?” I asked, low-voiced, as I leaned across to hand it to him.
     “Your face …”
     “Oh, it’s nothing, Mrs. Fraser dear, not at all,” he assured me, his faint Irish accent coming out under the stress of the occasion. “’Twas only that I made the mistake of resistin’ when the Sheriff arrested me. Not but what in the shock of it all, I didn’t do a small bit of damage to the poor man’s ballocks, and him only doing of his duty, may God forgive me.” Father Kenneth rolled his undamaged eye upward in a pious expression— quite spoiled by the unregenerate grin underneath.
     Father Kenneth was no more than middle height, and looked older than his years by virtue of the hard wear imposed by long seasons spent in the saddle. Still, he was no more than thirty-five, and lean and tough as whipcord under his worn black coat and frayed linen. I began to understand the Sheriff’s belligerence.
     “Besides,” he added, touching his black eye gingerly, “Mr. Lillywhite did tender me a most gracious apology for the hurt.” He nodded toward the table, and I saw that an opened bottle of wine and a pewter cup stood among the writing materials— the cup still full, and the level of wine in the bottle not down by much.
     The priest picked up the whisky I had poured and drained it, closing his eyes in dreamy benediction.
     “And a finer medicine I hope never to benefit from,” he said, opening them. “I do thank ye, Mistress Fraser. I’m that restored, I might walk on water meself.” He remembered to cough, this one a delicate hack, fist held over his mouth.
     “What’s wrong with the wine?” I asked, with a glance toward the door.
     “Oh, not a thing,” he said, taking his hand away. “Only that I did not think it quite right to accept the magistrate’s refreshments, under the circumstances. Call it conscience.” He smiled at me again, but this time with a note of wryness in the grin.
     “Why have they arrested you?” I asked, my voice low. I looked again at the tent’s door, but it was empty, and I caught the murmur of voices outside. Evidently, Jamie had been right; they weren’t suspicious of me.
     “For sayin’ of the Holy Mass,” he replied, lowering his voice to match mine. “Or so they said. It’s a wicked lie, though. I’ve not said Mass since last Sunday, and that was in Virginia.” He was looking wistfully at the flask. I picked it up and poured another generous tot.
. . . . .
     “I have just been explaining to your husband, madame , that it is my regard for Mrs. Cameron’s interests that led me to attempt to regularize Mr. Donahue’s position, so as to allow his continued presence in the colony.” Mr. Lillywhite nodded coldly at the priest. “However, I am afraid my suggestion was summarily rejected.”
     Father Kenneth put down his cup and straightened up, his working eye bright in the lamplight.
     “They wish me to sign an oath, sir,” he said to Jamie, with a gesture at the paper and quill on the table before him. “To the effect that I do not subscribe to a belief in transubstantiation.”
     “Do they, indeed.” Jamie’s voice betrayed no more than polite interest, but I understood at once what the priest had meant by his remark regarding conscience.
     “Well, he can’t do that, can he?” I said, looking round the circle of men. “Catholics—I mean— we”—I spoke with some emphasis, looking at Mr. Goodwin—“ do believe in transubstantiation. Don’t we?” I asked, turning to the priest, who smiled slightly in response, and nodded.
     Mr. Goodwin looked unhappy, but resigned, his alcoholic joviality substantially reduced by the social awkwardness.
     “I’m sorry, Mrs. Fraser, but that is the law. The only circumstance under which a clergyman who does not belong to the established Church may remain in the colony—legally— is upon the signing of such an oath. Many do sign it. You know the Reverend Urmstone, the Methodist circuit rider? He has signed the oath, as has Mr. Calvert, the New Light minister who lives near Wadesboro.”
     The Sheriff looked smug. Repressing an urge to stamp on his foot, I turned to Mr. Lillywhite.
     “Well, but Father Donahue can’t sign it. So what do you propose to do with him? Throw the poor man in gaol? You can’t do that— he’s ill!” On cue, Father Kenneth coughed obligingly.
     Mr. Lillywhite eyed me dubiously, but chose instead to address Jamie.
     “I could by rights imprison the man, but out of regard for you, Mr. Fraser, and for your aunt, I shall not do so. He must, however, leave the colony tomorrow. I shall have him escorted into Virginia, where he will be released from custody. You may rest assured that all care will be taken to assure his welfare on the journey.” He turned a cold gray eye on the Sheriff, who straightened up and tried to look reliable, with indifferent results.
. . . . .
     Jamie cleared his own throat and drew himself up a bit. “Well, then,” he said. “I wonder whether I might make so bold as to ask …” He paused, seeming slightly embarrassed.
     “Yes, sir?” Lillywhite looked at him curiously.
     “I wonder whether the good Father might be allowed to hear my confession.” Jamie’s eyes were fixed on the tent pole, sedulously avoiding mine. “Your confession?” Lillywhite looked astonished at this, though the Sheriff made a noise that might charitably be called a snigger.
     “Got something pressing on your conscience?” Anstruther asked rudely. “Or p’r’aps you have some premonition of impending death, eh?” He gave an evil smile at this, and Mr. Goodwin, looking shocked, rumbled a protest at him. Jamie ignored both of them, focusing his regard on Mr. Lillywhite.
     “Yes, sir. It has been some time since I last had the opportunity of being shriven, ye see, and it may well be some time before such a chance occurs again. As it is—” At this point , he caught my eye, and made a slight but emphatic motion with his head toward the tent flap. “If ye will excuse us for a moment, gentlemen?”
     Not waiting for a response, he seized me by the elbow and propelled me swiftly outside.
     “Brianna and Marsali are up the path wi’ the weans,” he hissed in my ear, the moment we were clear of the tent. “Make sure Lillywhite and yon bastard of a sheriff are well away, then fetch them in.”
     Leaving me standing on the path, astonished, he ducked back into the tent.
     “Your pardon, gentlemen,” I heard him say. “I thought perhaps … there are some things a man shouldna quite like to be saying before his wife … you understand?”
     There were male murmurs of understanding, and I caught the word “confession” repeated in dubious tones by Mr. Lillywhite. Jamie lowered his voice to a confidential rumble in response, interrupted by a rather loud, “You what?” from the Sheriff , and a peremptory shushing by Mr. Goodwin.
     There was a bit of confused conversation, then a shuffle of movement, and I barely made it off the path and into the shelter of the pines before the tent flap lifted and the three Protestants emerged from the tent. The day had all but faded now, leaving burning embers of sunlit cloud in the sky, but close as they were, there was enough light for me to see the air of vague embarrassment that beset them.
     They moved a few steps down the path, stopping no more than a few feet from my own hiding place. They stood in a cluster to confer, looking back at the tent, from which I could now hear Father Kenneth’s voice, raised in a formal Latin blessing. The lamp in the tent went out, and the forms of Jamie and the priest, dim shadows on the canvas, disappeared into a confessional darkness.
     Anstruther’s bulk sidled closer to Mr. Goodwin.
     “What in f@%$’s name is transubstantiation?” he muttered.
     I saw Mr. Goodwin’s shoulders straighten as he drew himself up, then hunch toward his ears in a shrug.
     “In all honesty, sir, I am not positive of the meaning of the term,” he said, rather primly, “though I perceive it to be some form of pernicious Papist doctrine. Perhaps Mr. Lillywhite could supply you with a more complete definition— Randall?”
     “Indeed,” the magistrate said. “It is the notion that by the priest’s speaking particular words in the course of offering his Mass, bread and wine are transformed into the very substance of Our Savior’s body and blood.” “What?” Anstruther sounded confused. “How can anyone do that?”
     “Change bread and wine into flesh and blood?” Mr. Goodwin sounded quite taken aback. “But that is witchcraft, surely!”
     “Well, it would be, if it happened,” Mr. Lillywhite said, sounding a bit more human . “The Church very rightly holds that it does not.”
     “Are we sure of that?” Anstruther sounded suspicious. “Have you seen them do it?”
     “Have I attended a Catholic Mass? Assuredly not!” Lillywhite’s tall form drew up, austere in the gathering dusk. “What do you take me for, sir!”
     “Now, Randall, I am sure the Sheriff means no offense.” Goodwin put a placatory hand on his friend’s arm. “His office deals with more earthly matters, after all.”
     “No, no, no offense meant, sir, none at all,” Anstruther said hurriedly. “I was meaning more, like, has anybody seen this kind of goings -on, so as to be a decent witness, for the prosecution of it, I mean.”
     Mr. Lillywhite appeared still to be somewhat offended; his voice was cold in reply.
     “It is scarcely necessary to have witnesses to the heresy, Sheriff, as the priests themselves willingly admit to it.”
     “No, no. Of course not.” The Sheriff’s squat form seemed to flatten obsequiously. “But if I’m right, sir, Papists do … er … partake of this— this transubwhatnot, aye?”
     “Yes, so I am told.”
     “Well, then. That’s frigging cannibalism, isn’t it?” Anstruther’s bulk popped up again, enthused. “I know that’s against the law! Why not let this bugger do his bit of hocus-pocus, and we’ll arrest the whole boiling lot of ’em, eh? Get shut of any number of the bastards at one blow, I daresay.”
     Mr. Goodwin emitted a low moan. He appeared to be massaging his face, no doubt to ease a recurrent ache from his tooth.
     Mr. Lillywhite exhaled strongly through his nose.
     “No,” he said evenly. “I am afraid not, Sheriff. My instructions are that the priest is not to be allowed to perform any ceremonial, and shall be prevented from receiving visitors.”
     “Oh, aye? And what’s he doing now, then?” Anstruther demanded, gesturing toward the darkened tent, where Jamie’s voice had begun to speak, hesitant and barely audible. I thought perhaps he was speaking in Latin.
     “That is quite different,” Lillywhite said testily. “Mr. Fraser is a gentleman. And the prohibition against visitors is to insure that the priest shall perform no secret marriages; hardly a concern at present.”
     “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” Jamie’s voice spoke in English, suddenly louder, and Mr. Lillywhite started. Father Kenneth murmured interrogatively.
     “I have been guilty of the sins of lust and impurity, both in thought and in my flesh,” Jamie announced— with what I thought rather more volume than was quite discreet.
     “Oh, to be sure,” said Father Kenneth, suddenly louder too. He sounded interested . “Now , these sins of impurity— what form, precisely, did they take, my son, and upon how many occasions?”
     “Aye, well. I’ve looked upon women with lust, to be starting with. How many occasions— oh, make it a hundred, at least, it’s been a time since I was last to confession. Did ye need to know which women, Father, or only what it was I thought of doing to them?”
     Mr. Lillywhite stiffened markedly.
     “I think we’ll not have time for the lot, Jamie dear,” said the priest. “But if ye were to tell me about one or two of these occasions, just so as I could be formin’ a notion as to the … er … severity of the offense  …?”
     “Och, aye. Well, the worst was likely the time wi ’ the butter churn.”
     “Butter churn? Ah … the sort with the handle pokin ’ up?” Father Kenneth’s tone encompassed a sad compassion for the lewd possibilities suggested by this.
     “Oh, no, Father; it was a barrel churn. The sort that lies on its side, aye , with a wee handle to turn it? Well, it’s only that she was workin’ the churn with great vigor, and the laces of her bodice undone, so that her breasts wobbled to and fro, and the cloth clinging to her with the sweat of her work. Now, the churn was just the right height— and curved, aye?— so as make me think of bendin’ her across it and lifting her skirts, and—”
     My mouth opened involuntarily in shock. That was my bodice he was describing, my breasts, and my butter churn!
. . . . .
     Jamie stopped abruptly as we fumbled our way inside. Then I heard him say quickly, “And sins of anger, pride, and jealousy—oh, and the odd wee bit of lying as well, Father. Amen.” He dropped to his knees, raced through an Act of Contrition in French, and was on his feet and taking Germain from me before Father Kenneth had finished saying the “Ego te absolvo.”
     My eyes were becoming adapted to the dark; I could make out the voluminous shapes of the girls, and Jamie’s tall outline. He stood Germain on the table before the priest, saying, “Quickly, then, Father; we havena much time.”
     “We haven’t any water, either,” the priest observed. “Unless you ladies thought to bring any?” He had picked up the flint and tinderbox, and was attempting to relight the lamp.
     Bree and Marsali exchanged appalled glances, then shook their heads in unison.
     “Dinna fash, Father.” Jamie spoke soothingly, and I saw him reach out a hand for something on the table. There was the brief squeak of a cork being drawn, and the hot, sweet smell of fine whisky filled the tent, as the light caught and grew from the wick, the wavering flame steadying to a small, clear light.
     “Under the circumstances …” Jamie said, holding out the open flask to the priest.
     Father Kenneth’s lips pressed together, though I thought with suppressed amusement, rather than irritation.
     “Under the circumstances, aye,” he repeated. “And what should be more appropriate than the water of life, after all?” He reached up, undid his stock, and pulled up a leather string fastened round his neck , from which dangled a wooden cross and a small glass bottle, stoppered with a cork.
     “The holy chrism ,” he explained, undoing the bottle and setting it on the table. “Thank the Virgin Mother that I had it on my person. The Sheriff took the box with my Mass things.” He made a quick inventory of the objects on the table, counting them off on his fingers. “Fire, chrism , water— of a sort— and a child. Very well, then. You and your husband will stand as godparents to him, I suppose, ma’am?”
     This was addressed to me, Jamie having gone to take up a station by the tent flap.
     “For all of them, Father,” I said, and took a firm grip on Germain, who seemed disposed to leap off the table. “Hold still, darling, just for a moment.”
     I heard a small whish behind me; metal drawn from oiled leather. I glanced back to see Jamie, dim in the shadows, standing guard by the door with his dirk in his hand. A qualm of apprehension curled through my belly, and I heard Bree draw in her breath beside me.
     “Jamie, my son,” said Father Kenneth, in a tone of mild reproval.
     “Be going on with it, if ye please, Father,” Jamie replied, very calmly. “I mean to have my grandchildren baptized this night, and no one shall prevent it.”
     The priest drew in his breath with a slight hiss, then shook his head.
     “Aye. And if you kill someone, I hope there’ll be time for me to shrive you again before they hang us both,” he muttered, reaching for the oil. “If there’s a choice about it, try for the Sheriff, will you, man dear?”
     Switching abruptly to Latin, he pushed back Germain’s heavy mop of blond hair and his thumb flicked deftly over forehead, lips, and then— diving under the boy’s gown in a gesture that made Germain double up in giggles— heart, in the sign of the Cross.
     “On-behalf-of-this-child-do-you-renounce-Satan-and-all-his-works?” he asked, speaking so fast that I scarcely realized he was speaking English again, and barely caught up in time to join with Jamie in the godparents’ response, dutifully reciting, “I do renounce them.”
     I was on edge, keeping an ear out for any noises that might portend the return of Mr. Lillywhite and the Sheriff, envisioning just what sort of brouhaha might ensue if they did come back to discover Father Kenneth in the midst of what would surely be considered an illicit “ceremonial.”
     I glanced back at Jamie; he was looking at me, and gave me a faint smile that I thought was likely meant for reassurance. If so, it failed utterly; I knew him too well. He wanted his grandchildren baptized, and he would see their souls safely given into God’s care, if he died for it— or if we all went to gaol, Brianna, Marsali , and the children included. Of such stuff are martyrs made, and their families are obliged to lump it.
     “Do-you-believe-in-one-God-the-Father-the-Son-and-the-Holy-Ghost?”
     “Stubborn man,” I mouthed at Jamie. His smile widened, and I turned back, hastily chiming in with his firm, “I do believe.” Was that a footfall on the path outside, or only the evening wind, making the tree branches crack as it passed?
     The questions and responses finished, and the priest grinned at me, looking like a gargoyle in the flickering lamplight. His good eye closed briefly in a wink.
     “We’ll take it that your answers will be the same for the others, shall we, ma’am? And what will be this sweet lad’s baptismal name?”
     Not breaking his rhythm, the priest took up the whisky flask, and dribbled a careful stream of spirit onto the little boy’s head, repeating, “I baptize thee, Germain Alexander Claudel MacKenzie Fraser, in the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Amen.”
     Germain watched this operation with profound interest , round blue eyes crossing as the amber liquid ran down the shallow bridge of his nose and dripped from its stubby tip. He put out a tongue to catch the drops, then made a face at the taste.
     “Ick,” he said clearly. “Horse piss.”
     Marsali made a brief, shocked “Tst!” at him, but the priest merely chuckled , swung Germain off the table, and beckoned to Bree.
     She held Jemmy over the table, cradled in her arms like a sacrifice. She was intent on the baby’s face, but I saw her head twitch slightly, her attention drawn by something outside. There were sounds on the path below; I could hear voices. A group of men, I thought, talking together, voices genial but not drunken.
     I tensed , trying not to look at Jamie. If they came in, I decided, I had better grab Germain, scramble under the far edge of the tent, and run for it . I took a preparatory grip on the collar of his gown, just in case. Then I felt a gentle nudge as Bree shifted her weight against me.
     “It’s all right, Mama,” she whispered. “It’s Roger and Fergus.” She nodded toward the dark, then returned her attention to Jemmy.
     It was, I realized, and the skin of my temples prickled with relief. Now that I knew, I could make out the imperious , slightly nasal sound of Fergus’s voice, raised in a lengthy oration of some kind, and a low Scottish rumble that I thought must be Roger’s. A higher-pitched titter that I recognized as Mr. Goodwin’s drifted through the night, followed by some remark in Mr. Lillywhite’s aristocratic drawl.
     I did glance at Jamie this time. He still held the dirk, but his hand had fallen to his side , and his shoulders had lost a little of their tension. He smiled at me again, and this time I returned it.
     Jemmy was awake, but drowsy. He made no objection to the oil, but startled at the cold touch of the whisky on his forehead, eyes popping open and arms flinging wide. He uttered a high-pitched “Yeep!” of protest, then, as Bree gathered him hastily up into his blanket against her shoulder, screwed up his face and tried to decide whether he was sufficiently disturbed to cry about it.
     Bree patted his back like a bongo drum and made little hooting noises in his ear, distracting him. He settled for plugging his mouth with a thumb and glowering suspiciously at the assemblage, but by that time, Father Kenneth was already pouring whisky on the sleeping Joan, held low in Marsali’s arms.
     “I baptize thee, Joan Laoghaire Claire Fraser,” he said, following Marsali’s lead, and I glanced at Marsali, startled. I knew she was called Joan for Marsali’s younger sister, but I hadn’t known what the baby’s other names would be. I felt a small lump in my throat, watching Marsali’s shawled head bent over the child. Both her sister and her mother, Laoghaire , were in Scotland; the chances of either ever seeing this tiny namesake were vanishingly small.
     Suddenly, Joan’s slanted eyes popped wide open and so did her mouth. She let out a piercing shriek, and everyone started as though a bomb had exploded in our midst.
     “Go in peace, to serve the Lord! And go fast!” Father Kenneth said, his fingers already nimbly corking up bottle and flask, frantically whisking away all traces of the ceremony . Down the path, I could hear voices raised in puzzled question.
     Marsali was out the tent flap in a flash, the squalling Joan against her breast, a protesting Germain clutched by the hand. Bree paused just long enough to put a hand behind Father Kenneth’s head and kiss him on the forehead.
     “Thank you, Father,” she whispered, and was gone in a flurry of skirts and petticoats.
     Jamie had me by the arm and was hustling me out of the tent as well, but stopped for a half-second at the door, turning back.
     “Father?” he called in a whisper. “Pax vobiscum!”
     Father Kenneth had already seated himself behind the table, hands folded, the accusing sheets of blank paper spread out once more before him. He looked up, smiling slightly, and his face was perfectly at peace in the lamplight, black eye and all.
     “Et cum spiritu tuo , man,” he said, and raised three fingers in parting benediction.

And if this looks lazy of me, since there is no analysis, let me just say that inserting all of those hard returns and indents was pretty tedious!


Gabaldon, Diana (2002-10-01). The Fiery Cross (Outlander). Random House Publishing Group. Kindle Edition.