Having said that, I like very much her reluctance to enter the details in her log book. That is very nicely done.
Mira
Fm: Diana Gabaldon 76530,523
To: Mira Brown 100425,170 (X)
Dear Mira—
Well, as you say, the medical people at the hospital were terribly upset, because you _could_ have died, and they felt responsible, even though they had no choice. I’ve talked with a number of doctors by way of research (and curiosity), and an underlying sense of deep responsibility—that does go beyond reason, now and then—seems to be a trait they share.
One doctor told me about in-house inquiries into patient deaths—a vague variant of which I used in this scene—and mentioned that one of the chief intentions/effects of this was to provide catharsis for the physician who had caused/presided over the death, because there _was_ a deep feeling of guilt attending, no matter whether the physician _could_ have prevented the death or not.
In other words, Claire’s feelings of responsibility and guilt are pretty much based on testimony by Real Doctors I Have Known (and read about). They may be slightly complicated here by the use of the penicillin; that is, she _knows_ how chancy the stuff is, though the chanciness would more often have to do with a lack of effectiveness, or an accidental contamination, than with a straightforward hypersensitivity. Still, she knows how desperately valuable an antibiotic can be, and has been making steady efforts throughout the book to find a way to make it reliable enough to be useful.
So, this penicillin is entirely her game, so to speak; naturally, she’s going to feel responsible for anything that happens in consequence of using it, no matter what the other circumstances.
As to anger—well, she’s been in the eighteenth century for a longish time now, and she’s seen one hell of a lot of (what would be by modern standards) unnecessary deaths. I don’t think she’d waste a lot of time getting angry at people for ignorance—she never has, if you look back at the other books. She’s pretty outspoken about telling people what they _ought_ to do, but she’d lived in primitive places long before her disappearance into the past; she isn’t one to look down on people or get mad at them because they don’t know what she knows.
Besides.
Likewise, she realizes—also perhaps for the first time—that she _has_ given part of herself to her daughter, and that will continue, even after Claire herself has gone.
So, the guilt and responsibility flow naturally into that whole mortality/immortality theme (if I dare mention such a word); everything fits—the need for confession, connection, understanding; realization of mortality and the need for continuance; and finally, unexpected absolution. Raging about what had happened wouldn’t fit; it would just be a distraction.
See, this scene isn’t _about_ Rosamund; it’s about Claire.
Glad you liked the “life goes on” part; so did I.
—Diana
Fm: Mira Brown 100425,170
To: Diana Gabaldon 76530,523
Hi Diana,
(In my own case, I should imagine the doctors did get angry with the couple of doctors who failed to stem the bleeding, and with plenty of reason. It wasn’t a case of “looking down,” just simple, justified expectations from their own profession.)
<
Yes, I have noted that before and thought that was really well handled. After I sent the message I realized it would be easy to interpret the “anger” that way and that’s not what I meant. I’m talking a more general feeling/awareness of helplessness and limitations—the anger that’s a result of frustration. That’s something I can see happening to a doctor over and over again, keeping them from getting de-sensitised (sp?), maintaining the sense of personal responsibility (which is quite different from guilt, far more rational).
You know I get a feeling that we may be hitting yet again the American/European divide. While I don’t think there are *any* actual differences, the psychological process is very probably exactly the same on both sides of the Atlantic, interpretation/presentation may be very different. Europeans don’t mind being seen as “realistic”; Americans very often wrap it up in emotional tissue paper. Do I need to d&r?
<< Besides.
Hm, indeed. You see, until now I’ve never taken your time travel very seriously. To me it’s been just a vehicle, not really very different from a plane or a camel. Now, you are bringing it into a different focus, and at least for the moment, I can’t get my head around it. There are questions piling up faster than I can type them: Where is Claire going to die? Does she know she can’t change/influence history? How much is anything she does influenced by the fact that she can—at least in theory—pop back to her own time and look up the history records for that time/area? You see, I really can’t deal with this imaginatively.
<< Raging about what had happened wouldn’t fit; it would just be a distraction. See, this scene isn’t _about_ Rosamund; it’s about Claire. >> Agreed. And a good way of doing it. Mira
Fm: Diana Gabaldon 76530,523
To: Mira Brown 100425,170
Dear Mira—
Ah, I see. Yes, I had misunderstood your first account of your accident—I thought the doctors who tended you later were upset because the earlier rescuers hadn’t done things right. Got it.
Yes, good point regarding American/European methods of expression. That’s one reason I gave Claire such a “mixed” background from the beginning; I figured it was inevitable that I would occasionally do something recognizably American, rather than British, but if she had spent a good deal of time in contact with Americans (during the War), or working in America (during her years with Frank), any such cross-cultural lapses would still be believable. —Diana
Fm: Diana Gabaldon 76530,523
To: Mira Brown 100425,170
P.S. Oh, the time travel. Ah… have you read the second book in the series? That begins to deal with these questions—but not nearly on the level that FIERY CROSS will.
Can one change history? Well, yes and no (under the Gabaldon Theory of Time Travel, that is). One usually _can’t_ change the outcome of any “large” event, simply because knowledge isn’t the crucial factor.
If you _knew_ for an absolute fact that someone was going to assassinate President Clinton tomorrow—what would you do to prevent it? Call the FBI? Sure, and when they ask you how you know, and what you know, and by the way, what is the number you are calling from, please… Go to wherever Clinton will be tomorrow (and how do you find that out? And do you have sufficient money to buy a plane ticket to get there?), and try to spot the potential assassin, and/or warn the President himself? Think about it. And then consider that an assassination is a very simple historical event, by contrast to things like battles, wars, major economic movements (how would one go about preventing the Depression of the 1930s, say?), etc.
The thing is, most “large” historical events occur as the result of the cumulative actions (pro, con, and sideways) of dozens, hundreds, _thousands_ of people. _One_ person, no matter how much he or she _knows_, is not likely to be able to exert enough power to sway things.
On the other hand… an individual quite
possibly _can_ change “small” events, with the assistance of foreknowledge. That is, events that affect only one, or a few people—because those are the sort of events that a single individual normally _does_ affect, with or without specialized knowledge. You probably _could_ keep someone—an ordinary person, whom another ordinary person could easily approach—from getting on a plane you knew would crash; if necessary, you could tackle them physically, or hit them over the head.
You might not always succeed in changing small events—but I think you _could_; whereas an ordinary individual usually wouldn’t be in a position where he or she would have the power necessary to change larger events.
That help any?
Fm: Beth Shope 110137,367
To: Diana Gabaldon 76530,523
Diana,
Re: changing history. I have often wondered if Jamie and Claire’s efforts to prevent Culloden by ruining Bonnie Prince Charlie financially, did in actual fact ensure that it happened—because the Prince foolishly sailed for Scotland without the necessary resources (which they had so helpfully deprived him of). Beth
Fm: Diana Gabaldon 76530,523
To: Beth Shope 110137,367 (X)
Dear Beth—
Oh, indeed they might have—a thought that occurs to them later on, during heated discussions of time-changing in FIERY CROSS. As it happens
One thing we’ve got going here is the contrast between “large” and “small” historical events. They _couldn’t_ change Culloden, which was a large event (and the focus—in that particular plotline—of DRAGONFLY [middle book of the first trilogy]). In FIERY CROSS, the abiding time-change question through the book (middle book of the second trilogy) is a _personal_ question: Can Jamie and Claire avoid their own predicted fate?
They aren’t about to try to change the outcome of the American Revolution—aside from the general impossibility of such a thing (there was no climactic battle—though I do have something in mind for Yorktown
Well, as Jamie says, “If ye ken the house is going to burn down, what sort of idiot would stand in it?”
Of course, the interesting thing about time travel, history-changing (or not-changing) etc., is the Moebius twist.
Fm: Beth Shope 110137,367
To: Diana Gabaldon 76530,523
Diana,
<< And one of these days, we might find out whose side the Duke of Sandringham was really on, too. >>
One of the burning questions of this generation of readers…
<
Well, can they? No, don’t answer that.… Beth
Fm: Barbara Schnell/SL 7 & 15 70007,6001
To: Diana Gabaldon 76530,523
Dear Diana,
I just started reading THE THIRTY-NINE STEPS this morning, and when Buchan defines his book as “the romance where the incidents defy the probabilities, and march just inside the borders of the possible” in its preface, he echoes very nicely what I thought when reading your excerpt last night.
I don’t know how probable Claire’s penicillin experiments are (but I do hope the medical experts will give you an alls-clear to let the scene stand), but once again you tie them very nicely with events and questions that are deeply rooted in a doctor’s professional life—and, to make them ring even truer, in a mother’s life.
That’s what kept me reading the later parts of VOYAGER (and keeps me rereading it); that even though the plot sometimes made me think that now Robert Louis Stevenson had finally gotten the better of you
As you may notice, I’ve given in to curiosity and read the scene, and I don’t think you’ve spoiled anything for me. So, if you still feel like it, I’d be more than happy if you shared whatever scenes you feel like showing to someone with me.
Thanks for posting this. Baerbel
Fm: Mira Brown 100425,170
To: Diana Gabaldon 76530,523
Hi Diana,
<< Can one change history? Well, yes and no (under the Gabaldon Theory of Time Travel, that is). One usually _can’t_ change the outcome of any “large” event, simply because knowledge isn’t the crucial factor. >>
Ah, yes, one can’t stop the Jacobean uprising but one can tell friends to plant potatoes? I think I’ve grasped enough of the Gabaldon Theory of Time Travel *not* to expect you to put Mr. Fleming out of business.
OK, I’ll try and explain what I mean, but I probably won’t do it very well: Even with the accepted perspective on the past and the future, it’s fairly normal to have at best limited expectations of one’s own impact and contribution. Now, Claire *knows* that penicillin doesn’t come into use (other than use of mould in traditional medicine all over the world, I suppose) until WWII. How does, or doesn’t it or even shouldn’t that affect her “back to the future” view of events? I can understand her desire, even ability, to improve things in whatever small way she can, but somewhere in there must be more doubt than hope, more for her than people who live in their own time. This is where I get lost in all this “backward and forward” stuff.
<
Fm: Eve Ackerman/Librarian 71702,3077
To: Diana Gabaldon 76530,523
Speaking of time travel…
I was thinking about your characters the other day. So far, we haven’t seen any travel forward in time farther than where he/she would be in “normal” life. IOW, Claire returned to the twentieth century no later than where she would have been anyway, right?
So what does this mean to a baby born in the eighteenth century whose parents can return to their points of departure in the twentieth century? Would he not be traveling forward beyond his biological time?
But of course, being an author, you have godlike powers to do whatever you want. Within reason
Fm: Marte Brengle 76703,4242
To: Diana Gabaldon 76530,523 (X)
I think in the event of assassinations and so forth, while one couldn’t change the outcome, one *could* use foreknowledge to clear up various and sundry mysteries. Think if you could step through the stones and go back to November 1963 and focus a tele-photo lens on that sixth-floor window in Dallas, for example. (And then scoot before the FBI grabbed the film.)
But as for changing small events… have you ever read that wonderful science fiction story where the time-traveler steps on the butterfly?—M—
Fm: Betty Babas 76336,113
To: Diana Gabaldon 76530,523
changing events…
So, for instance, doing something that assures Hitler dies in WWI wouldn’t necessarily prevent WWII. Just that someone else would emerge to take his place?
OTOH, we could (for fictional purposes) alter something in history which, if we *hadn’t* interfered, could result in the present being different than it is.
Fm: Diana Gabaldon 76530,523
To: Betty Babas 76336,113
Dear Betty—
Well, there’s the rub; _some_ large events really are dependent on the personality of a specified individual—Bonnie Prince Charlie, for example. Eliminate _him_, and sure enough, that particular event (Culloden) probably won’t happen (though something else _might_). Thing is—is our putative time-traveler capable of what amounts to cold-blooded murder, even fo
r a larger cause? J & C weren’t—and lived to regret it.
Hitler, I dunno. Chances are that_some-thing_cataclysmic would have happened, given all the other circumstances, but it might have taken quite a different shape. Who knows?
That’s what makes time travel fun.
Fm: Alan Smithee 110165,3374
To: Diana Gabaldon 76530,523
Hi, Diana!
You warned me, but I couldn’t help reading the penicillin scene. I love the way you use words. It takes me right into the situation, making me feel the pain and sadness that seeing a patient, and a doctor, in this desperate plight always brings.
I think I may need to know more about your intentions and Claires character to figure how to approach this. After reading the scene I’m unclear about what has caused Rosamund’s death. In fact, were I in Claire’s position, I don’t think I’d conclude that the death could be blamed upon the penicillin—at least not solely upon the penicillin. Is this what you intended? If Claire is the sort of person who would be harder on herself than would her peers, a common tendency among many fine physicians, any mystery, even a slight doubt, about the cause would trouble her because of the unorthodox methods she’d employed.
This is certainly not my bailiwick, but I believe that a fatal drug reaction of this sort would probably occur rapidly, within minutes (possibly even seconds), of the initial injection, though, I suppose, in the patient’s already compromised condition, a less catastrophic immune-involved reaction than anaphylaxis could still result in her death over a longer period of time. (I have the impression from the scene that Rosamund’s death had required much more time than I would have anticipated.) High fever is not a symptom I’d expect of either anaphylaxis or pulmonary embolic phenomena. (Obviously, severe anaphylaxis would result in high fever were it not for the fact that, without modern forms of intervention, it would most likely result in the patient’s immediate expiration.) If Rosamund is already suffering from hyperthermia before Claire gets to her, this obfuscates the cause of death by making it apparent that the sepsis was already advanced and systemic. If high fever occurs following treatment, it actually reduces the likelihood that the penicillin caused the death. High fever would make me think that the surgical treatment of the wound might have spilled an abscess into the patient’s bloodstream, thereby leading to anaphylaxis or bacterial embolus or both. That type of accident is always a risk of this type of invasic intervention and is the reason why it would be normal to administer IV antibiotic _before_ attempting it. The risk of sudden systemic introduction of a large colony of pathogens would be greatly reduced by amputation above the affected area, the solution that Claire suggested when she first saw the patient. Before antibiotics, amputation of a gangrenous limb proximal to the infection was the only course with a reasonable expectation of success. (By the way, why does Claire agree to the pigeon poultice? I know that she’s working in less-than-ideal social circumstances here, but this is a practice that she might have a really tough time accepting—you know, the “do no harm” thing. Not that a gangrenous wound is likely to become that much more badly infected, I suppose. But the mere mention of it made me flinch in revulsion.)
The Outlandish Companion Page 41