The Outlandish Companion - Diana Gabaldon [229]
You may notice that that scene is phrased almost entirely in terms of muscle tone, not fatness or thinness. The only indication that Claire is reasonably slender is that her waist is “still narrow,” seen in back view. She doesn’t say exactly what her bottom looks like, but the strong implication is that it’s reasonably hefty, though well-toned (no dimples, at least, she thinks, after a long look at it).
So we’re left with her adjuration to her daughter not to get fat. Well, let’s consider a couple of things. For one, this was 1968, not the 1990s. People didn’t even jog back then, and aerobics was a crackpot new fad. Women by and large weren’t physically active, and those who weren’t careful of their nutrition generally did tend to be pudgy, out of shape, unhealthy, and look middle-aged. Coupled with the advice to “stand up straight,” and Claire’s own apparent levelheaded attitudes toward food and body (which we’ve seen in both pronounced and subtle ways all through the books), basically, Claire is not telling her daughter to starve, but to stay fit.
For another, let us consider the rhythm of that letter and the scene of which it’s a part. We have deep emotion, heart-wrenching, soul-searching explorations of guilt and love. Then, at the end, we have a short, ultramaternal zetz (as one of my Jewish friends put it) to break the tension, restore the tone of the relationship between Claire and Brianna, and—not least—give the reader the feeling of Claire’s sense of humor, which is profound and inclined to pop up even in the midst of Sturm und Drang. (This is not an isolated instance, after all; the reader certainly ought to have a good idea of Claire’s style by now.)
So yeah, she could have said “Eat leafy green vegetables, take calcium supplements, and always wash the pesticides off apples or peel them.” Or any number of other accurate, medically informed bits of advice (don’t you figure she’s told her daughter that kind of stuff all along? I’ve got kids. You do this kind of brainwashing constantly; you don’t save it up for your deathbed or some other dramatic parting). But that wouldn’t have had the sudden break in rhythm and the comic effect I was after.
In short, Claire isn’t offering Important Advice there; she’s reasserting her role as Bree’s mother. Readers who mention that letter (I’ve heard from quite a number of them—though none concerned with Claire’s attitude toward eating) have told me that they’re awash in tears and throbbing emotion. Then they hit that line, and laugh, with a sudden bitter-sweetness that makes the whole thing much more affecting than it would had I made the whole letter a straightforward tearjerker. They suddenly see themselves and their own mothers or daughters, which is what I intended.
See, I’m a writer. Not—repeat not—a feminist, a political activist or a spokesperson for some group that perceives itself as entitled to everyone’s attention. My own rather strongly held opinion is that it is not the business of novels to push political agendas of any kind. There are plenty of novels that do this, but I personally don’t care for them.
I take such concerns as yours very seriously—if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have spent two hours I can’t afford to answer your letter in such detail. I trust you will take mine with equal seriousness.
Any reader brings his or her own experience to a book, and consequently, perceptions will differ. That being so, I cannot possibly write with the possibility of multiple hypersensitivities in mind. Such an approach—seeking above all to offend no one, or to adhere to some standard of political correctness—results in blandness and mediocrity. I’m a storyteller, and it’s my job to tell the story of these people, keeping faith with my characters, to the best of my ability. Nothing more.
Sincerely, Diana Gabaldon
Chinese Sex Fiends
I was rather surprised, a couple of years