Outlander by Diana Gabaldon

1.30/5.00

Published: 1991

Genre: Historical Fiction/Romance

Goodreads

Let me explain.

I am a sucker for a true love story. Surprise, I know. How can someone who complains about The Fault in Our Stars or Twilight claim to love love? Easy. People understandably confuse love for sickly sweet, fantasy romances. Claire and Jamie fall into the latter category. It’s like porn. Not for the suggestive scenes. I’m not squeamish about sex, and I’ve enjoyed it in other books. Really, though, porn isn’t about sex. It’s about fantasy fulfillment. The boy dreaming of heroically and unrealistically saving some pretty girl he holds on a pedestal engages in the same fantastical dreaming as the one who feeds some fetish by staring at a flickering screen and listening to actors moan.

Outlander focuses so heavily on this (fairly manufactured) romance that anything else potentially interesting in the plot just falls by the wayside. There were so many opportunities to make this a gruesome, twisted, heart-wrenching read, and instead I felt like the author chose the easy way to most people’s hearts.

Do painfully obvious delineations between good and evil excite you in a book intended for anyone over the age of eight? If so, this book might just be for you. It feels insulting to my intelligence when the author makes someone a torturer and a rapist just so I know he’s the bad guy. It’s as pretentious as making a giant, light-up arrow. Of course, the good guys are justified in whatever they do, and any offense against them is the plot of evildoers. Everyone is wicked but our heroes and their simple sidekicks. It lacks any of the complexity I’ve almost taken for granted in the other books I’ve read recently. Which brings me around to another point. Manufactured suffering. Plan carefully, choose the right ingredients, whip it together, tie it all together with a pretty ribbon and watch those heartstrings dance, right? Yet another problem I have with books like The Fault in Our Stars and Outlander is that it feels as though bad things happen just because the author thought it sounded good, something to stir up the reader’s sympathy and mess with their emotions. It feels fake. It feels forced. It feels like the author is trying to shove her hands down my throat to get at my heart but is, of course, choking me instead.

I find written accents to be a bother. It breaks the pace. Characters have an accent, yes, but I don’t need to read it phonetically. Claire certainly has an accent of some kind (everyone does), yet her speech isn’t written phonetically. The author could add that a character has a specific accent and leave it at that.

I also feel the need to mention the oddity that is the phrase “the slippery cleft between my legs.” I have nothing against explicit scenes in books. I think sex should be discussed in books. Some authors handle sex in an amazing way, but “slippery cleft” reminds me of my teenage self trying to sound mature and sexy. Nope, it’s just awkward and painful.

Yes, it has been a while since my last review. That’s because I’ve been trudging through this book. Not only is it long, but I did not feel in the least motivated to pick it up. I wanted to like this book. Reviewers I trust rated it well. I was disappointed. Plus, school got in the way, but I'll try to pick up the pace now. 

Diana Gabaldon is an American author best known for her book series Outlander. She is currently working on Go Tell the Bees that I am Gone, ninth book in the series, plus a few .5s. The series has been adapted to TV. If you can’t tell already, I do not recommend this book, but hey, apparently someone likes it. If you want to see a more flattering, and arguably fairer, take on the book, I suggest looking up Emily May or Sasha Alsberg (@abookutopia).