Book Review: Outlander by Diana Gabaldon

 

★★★★★ — Five Stars

I have been meaning to read Outlander for years. It is one of those books that seems to be absolutely everywhere, and I think that was partly why I kept putting it off. When a book has been loved by so many people for so long, there is always that little worry that you're going to be the person sitting in the corner wondering what all the fuss is about.

Thankfully, I wasn't.

The story begins in 1945 with Claire Randall, a former combat nurse who is enjoying a second honeymoon in Scotland with her husband, Frank, after the long separation of the war. After visiting an ancient stone circle, Claire suddenly finds herself thrown back through time to 1743. It is a Scotland of clans, suspicion, violence and political unrest, and Claire very quickly discovers that being an independent twentieth-century woman in the eighteenth century is going to cause her more than a few problems.

What surprised me most was just how quickly I became absorbed in Claire's story. This is a big book, and Diana Gabaldon certainly isn't in a hurry. There are long descriptions, lengthy conversations and plenty of time spent simply living alongside the characters. I can understand why some readers find the pacing slow, because this definitely isn't a story that races from one plot point to another. That slower, richly detailed storytelling is something readers seem either to love or struggle with.

For me, though, it worked.

Claire is a wonderful heroine. She's practical, stubborn, intelligent and sometimes spectacularly bad at keeping her opinions to herself. I particularly enjoyed the fact that she doesn't suddenly become an eighteenth-century woman simply because she has landed there. Her knowledge as a nurse gives her an advantage, but her modern attitudes can also make her stand out at precisely the moments when keeping quiet would probably be sensible.

And then, of course, there is Jamie Fraser.

I finally understand.

The relationship between Claire and Jamie is at the heart of the novel, but I wouldn't describe Outlander as simply a romance. It is also historical fiction, adventure and time-slip fantasy, and that mixture is one of its strengths. Other readers have made much the same observation: despite its reputation as a romance, the book crosses genres and contains an enormous amount beyond the central love story.

The Scotland Gabaldon creates feels wonderfully tangible. Castles aren't merely picturesque places in the distance; they are busy, uncomfortable homes filled with people, animals, gossip and politics. There is mud, illness, hunger and danger alongside the sweeping landscapes and romance. I could almost hear the horses in the courtyard and feel the cold coming through the stone walls.

There are some difficult scenes, however, and I don't think this is a book I'd recommend without mentioning them. Violence, including sexual violence, features in the story and becomes particularly disturbing later in the novel. Some behaviour between characters also has to be viewed within the eighteenth-century setting, although understanding the historical context doesn't necessarily make it comfortable to read. This is something other readers have also flagged when recommending the book.

My only real complaint is that there were places where I thought the story could have moved along a little faster. Gabaldon loves detail, and occasionally I found myself thinking, yes, yes, I understand, can we get back to what is happening now please? Then something dramatic would happen and I'd be completely hooked again.

By the end, though, the length didn't matter. I had become so invested in Claire and Jamie that leaving them felt rather like being turfed out of somebody's house after staying there for several weeks.

So yes, after years of wondering whether Outlander could possibly live up to its reputation, I get it now.

And I've just discovered how many books there are in the series.

My poor bookshelf.

My Completely Unscientific Star-Rating System

 

I have a confession.

I have no sophisticated mathematical formula for rating books.

There are no spreadsheets. No points awarded for character development. No deductions for excessive use of the word "suddenly".

It's mostly a feeling.

But after years of reading reviews, I've realised that one person's three-star book is another person's "avoid at all costs", so here's what my stars actually mean.

★★★★★ – I loved it

The dangerous category.

I will recommend this book to people who didn't ask. I will think about the characters while making tea. I may become mildly irritated that everybody I know hasn't immediately stopped what they're doing to read it.

There's a very good chance I'll keep the book forever.

★★★★ – Really good

I thoroughly enjoyed this.

Maybe there was something small that stopped it becoming a five-star read, but I'd happily recommend it and I'd definitely read the author again.

Four stars is a very good rating in this house.

★★★ – I liked it

Perfectly respectable.

I enjoyed parts of it, perhaps struggled with others, but I'm glad I read it.

Three stars doesn't mean bad. It means we had a nice time together but probably won't be exchanging Christmas cards.

★★ – Not for me

I finished it.

This achievement should be acknowledged.

There were probably things I liked, but unfortunately there were considerably more things I didn't.

★ – Oh dear

Something has gone very wrong.

One-star books are actually quite rare for me because nowadays I'm much more likely to stop reading before we reach this point.

And then there is the unofficial rating:

DNF – Life is short and my TBR is enormous.

No stars required.

How do you rate your books? And more importantly, what does three stars mean to you?

Do You Have to Finish Every Book You Start?

 I used to be incapable of abandoning a book.

Once I'd started it, that was it. We were in this together until the bitter end.

It didn't matter if I was bored. It didn't matter if I disliked every character. It didn't even matter if I'd spent the previous fifty pages thinking about what I was going to have for dinner instead of taking in a single word.

I'd started the book.

Therefore, I had to finish the book.

I'm not entirely sure who made this rule.

Presumably the same person who decided we have to eat everything on our plates.

These days, I'm much more ruthless.

If I'm 100 pages into a book and picking up the hoover suddenly seems more appealing than reading another chapter, something has gone terribly wrong.

That doesn't necessarily mean it's a bad book. I've given up on books that thousands of other readers adore. Sometimes the writing isn't for me. Sometimes I'm not in the right mood. Sometimes a book and a reader simply don't get along.

And that's okay.

There are far too many books I desperately want to read to spend three evenings battling one that I'm not enjoying.

The difficult bit is deciding when to give up.

Twenty pages feels unfair.

Fifty? Maybe.

One hundred? Surely we've given this relationship a reasonable chance.

I've occasionally reached halfway before admitting defeat, which feels rather like sitting through an awful first date and then agreeing to go on holiday together because you've already invested two hours.

So I've finally given myself permission to DNF.

No guilt. No apologising to the book. Back on the shelf it goes.

Although I still can't bring myself to get rid of it.

I'm not a monster.

The Bookshelf Is Officially Out of Control

 

There comes a point in every book lover's life when you have to admit you don't need another bookshelf.

You need another room.

I've reached that point.

My books used to be arranged quite nicely. Fiction together, non-fiction together, a little section for the books I hadn't read yet. I even briefly attempted alphabetical order, which lasted approximately three days.

Now?

There are books on top of books. Books wedged sideways into gaps. Books balanced precariously on other books. There is a pile beside the bed that I'm fairly certain constitutes a health and safety violation.

And yet I keep buying them.

This is partly because I have absolutely no resistance when someone says, "You HAVE to read this."

Do I?

Excellent. I'll buy it immediately.

It doesn't seem to matter that I already have enough unread books to keep me occupied through several lengthy power cuts.

I've also discovered that my definition of "I need that book" is remarkably flexible.

Beautiful cover? Need it.

Someone recommended it? Need it.

99p on Kindle? Obviously need it.

Read it fifteen years ago and vaguely remember liking it? Better buy another copy.

Adaptation coming to Netflix? I'd better read it before everyone starts talking about it.

The worst part is that I genuinely intend to read every single one.

Perhaps that's the real problem with a TBR pile. We talk about it as though it's a list of jobs waiting to be completed, when actually it's a collection of possibilities.

Every unread book is something I'm still looking forward to.

Which sounds much nicer than admitting I've run out of shelf space.

I'm sticking with that explanation.