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‘A Shelf of One’s Own’: Nurture as Aesthetic Experience of the Popular Romance

A Case Study of The Hellions of Halstead Hall

Master’s Thesis

submitted in partial fulfillment of the

requirements for the degree of

Master of Arts (MA)

to the Karl-Franzens University of Graz

submitted by

Kathryn Peacock

to the Department of English

Advisor: Werner Wolf; O.Univ.-Prof. Mag.art. Dr.phil.

Graz, 2014 2

Acknowledgements I would like to dedicate this thesis to those who have ‘nurtured’ me, and thereby made its writing possible. To my parents, thank you for your unwavering support, patience, and understanding. I couldn’t have done any of this without you. Literally. Thanks for all the nurture. To Professor Wolf, and the professors of the English Department at Uni Graz, thank you for giving me the chance to develop the theoretical knowledge and methodological tools I needed to complete this work, and for nurturing my tendency to write long, “challenging” seminar papers. To the Friday Girls (and Max), thank you for the stimulating conversation over many a coffee in the Anglistik Café. To my friends, near and far, in particular, Sarah, Lara, Ally, and Hannah, thank you for listening and sharing your thoughts; Sarah and Ally especially for listening to and reading my thirty-two word sentences. And to Richard, thank you for being you, the one who nurtured me while I wrote this thesis.

-- KP Table of Contents Acknowledgements ...... 2 1. Introduction ...... 6 1.1. A New Look at “Nurture” as an Effect of Popular Romance ...... 6 1.2. Definition of Terms ...... 7 1.1.1. The Popular ...... 7 1.1.2. Genre ...... 8 1.1.3. ‘Nurture’, to Nurture, ‘Vicarious Nurturance’ ...... 9 2. Popular Romance Meta-Criticism: How We Should Be Doing It Now ...... 11 2.1. Regis’ “What Do Critics Owe the Romance?”: Recommendations for Popular Romance Criticism ...... 11 2.1.1. The First Wave of Romance Criticism ...... 11 2.1.2. Regis’ Rhetorical Analytical Approach ...... 12 2.1.3. The Millennial Critics ...... 13 2.1.4. Applying the Topoi to Romance Criticism: Complexity, Contemptus Mundi, and Social Justice ...... 15 2.2. Regis: “Ten Years After A Natural History of the Romance Novel: Thinking Back, Looking Forward” ...... 20 2.3. Goris: Diversity, Precision, and Consideration of Extra-Textual Elements in Popular Romance Criticism ...... 21 2.4. Conclusion ...... 23 3. Methodology of This Project ...... 24 3.1. Text Selection: Sabrina Jeffries’ Hellions of Halstead Hall and Performing an Analysis According to Regis’ Recommendations ...... 24 3.2. Theoretical Perspective: a Narratological and Phenomenological Approach ...... 25 3.2.1. The Reading Process ...... 25 3.2.2. The Implied Reader ...... 27 3.2.3. Indeterminacies ...... 28 3.2.4. A Theory of Response vs. a Theory of Reception ...... 29 4. Radway’s Reading the Romance: Vicarious Nurture in the Popular Romance as Distraction from Social Justice ...... 30 4.1. Radway on the Construction, Constitution, and Purpose of the Genre of the Popular Romance ...... 30 4.1.1. Institutional Beginnings: Production, Distribution, and of Early Popular Romances ...... 30 4.1.2. Failed and Ideal Romances: Reader Selection and its Impact on the Genre ...... 34 4.1.3. Defining the Purpose of the Popular Romance ...... 37 4.1.4. Summary ...... 41 4.2. Radway on the of Reading as Escape and Instruction ...... 42 4.2.1. The Act of Reading as Escape, or, the Act of Not Not Reading ...... 42 4.2.2. The Act of Reading as Worthwhile Pursuit, Instructional Activity ...... 44 4.2.3. Summary ...... 45

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4.3. Radway on Immersion, Identification, and Reassurance: A Look at the Level of Story ...... 45 4.3.1. Intense Immersion through Heightened Aesthetic Illusion ...... 47 A Brief Introduction to Aesthetic Illusion ...... 48 4.3.1.1. Defining Aesthetic Illusion ...... 48 4.3.1.2. Illusion ...... 50 4.3.1.3. Factors That Contribute to Aesthetic Illusion ...... 51 4.3.1.4. Illusionist : Features and Principles of Illusion Making (cf. Wolf 2004a: 335) ...... 52 4.3.1.5. Functions of Aesthetic Illusion ...... 55 4.3.1.6. Summary ...... 56 4.3.1. Resumed: Intense Immersion through Heightened Aesthetic Illusion ...... 57 4.3.2. ‘Vicarious Nurturance’ through Strong Identification ...... 59 4.3.3. The Popular Romance as /Novel ...... 63 4.3.4. Summary ...... 67 4.4. Radway on the Narrative Discourse of the Popular Romance ...... 68 4.4.1. Disappearing Discourse: The Proximity of Signifier/Signified in the Popular Romance ...... 69 4.4.2. Escaping to a ‘Real’ World: Literary Language and Familiar Inventory ...... 72 4.4.3. Easing the Reading Process: Limited Indeterminacies ...... 74 4.4.4. Summary ...... 77 4.5. Conclusions on Radway’s Reading the Romance ...... 78 5. The Popular Romance as Women’s Fiction: Nurture as an Effect of Genre ...... 80 5.1. Female Self-Realization through the Marriage ...... 80 5.2. The Reassuring Consistency of Generic Conventions ...... 84 5.3. The Popular Romance Genre as a ‘Feminine Space’ ...... 87 5.4. Summary ...... 89 6. Nurture as Experienced through the Act of Reading Popular Romance ...... 91 6.1. Reading for Narrative ...... 91 6.2. Reading for Experience ...... 92 6.3. Reading for a Self ...... 93 6.4. Reading for Escape, Relaxation, and Pleasure ...... 95 6.5. Summary ...... 96 7. Nurture as an Effect of the Level of Story in The Hellions of Halstead Hall ...... 98 7.1. Introduction to the Texts ...... 98 7.2. Nurture as Created Through Identification with the Halstead Heroines ...... 98 7.2.1. Identifying with the Heroine’s Positive ...... 98 7.2.2. Identifying with the Process of Self-Realization ...... 100 7.2.3. Summary ...... 101 7.3. ‘Vicarious Nurturance’ through Identification ...... 102 7.3.1. The Heroine is Treated Tenderly by the Hero ...... 102 7.3.2. Mutually Assured Satisfaction ...... 105 7.3.4. Summary ...... 106

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7.4. Aesthetic Illusion Recenters the Reader in the Fictional World ...... 107 7.4.1. The Consistency of the Fictional World(s) ...... 107 7.4.2. The Facts in the Fiction ...... 108 7.4.3. Summary ...... 110 7.5. Conclusions Regarding the Level of Story of Halstead Hall ...... 111 8. Nurture as an Effect of the Level of Discourse in The Hellions of Halstead Hall ...... 113 8.1. The Smart, Funny, Romantic, Implied Reader ...... 113 8.1.1. Intelligence ...... 114 8.1.2. Sense of Humour and Appreciation of Romance ...... 116 8.1.3. Summary ...... 116 8.2. In Their Heads/Reading Their Hearts: the Narrative Situation of the Halstead Hall Series ...... 117 8.2.1. In Their Heads: Understanding Characters’ Motivation ...... 117 8.2.2. Reading Their Hearts: Implied Reader as Focalizer’s Confidante ...... 119 8.2.3. Summary ...... 120 8.3. The as Primer for the Aesthetic Experience ...... 121 8.3.1. The Front and Back Covers ...... 121 8.3.2. The Inner Pages: “Promotional Blurbs”, Introductions, Prologues, Author’s Notes .. 123 8.3.3. The Next Story Awaits… Excerpts at the End of the Halstead Hall Novels ...... 124 8.3.4. Summary ...... 126 8.4. Conclusions Regarding the Level of Discourse ...... 127 9. Conclusion ...... 129 10. Bibliography ...... 132 10.1 Primary Sources ...... 132 10.2. Secondary Sources ...... 132

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1. Introduction

1.1. A New Look at “Nurture” as an Effect of Popular Romance Novels The popular romance novel is widely referenced, widely available, and widely read. A hugely successful genre, romance fiction generated 1.438 billion USD in 2012, and was the top performing category across American bestseller lists (Romance Writers of America). Despite its success, however, the popular romance genre is often denigrated as formulaic, escapist, and non-literary. Perception of the popular romance, both within academia and in popular culture, is important, given that it may also dictate women’s attitudes towards one of the few genres both produced for and consumed by women.1 This work seeks to determine the positive value that the popular romance may have for women by examining the effect of ‘nurture’ as an aesthetic experience of Sabrina Jeffries’ Hellions of Halstead Hall series. With one series as its focus, the study cannot possibly be seen as representative. While I will discuss the impact of notions of genre on the aesthetic experience of any text, my aim here is to describe the way in which ‘nurture’ is generated in Jeffries’ series in particular, as well as to point to which of these techniques may be extrapolated to apply to similar texts. Academic attention to the popular romance has proliferated in recent years, with the foundation of the International Association of Popular Romance Studies (IAPRS) in 2009 and the creation of the Journal of Popular Romance studies in 2010; however, commonly-held attitudes towards the popular romance still reflect the findings of a handful of early canonical texts on the genre. One of these early studies of the popular romance and the women who read it, Janice Radway’s 1984 book, Reading the Romance: Women, Patriarchy, and Popular Literature, found the romance to be a source of ‘vicarious nurturance’ to its female readers. However, among various other observations about both the act of reading and the texts themselves, Radway ultimately concludes that romances offer their readers the opportunity to come to terms with precisely those oppressive social conditions that create the need for nurture in the first place, and thus, that romance novels perpetuate those structures by creating the illusion that these social conditions need not be challenged outside of the reading process (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 84). Radway’s study of the experience of nurture through the reading process is still extremely useful to contemporary research on aesthetic response; however, the social conditions creating the need for supplemental nurture have changed significantly in the past thirty years, as have the ways in which the aesthetic experience of nurture is created in popular romance texts. Although Radway is seen as having “cemented in the public mind, apparently for all time, the notion that romance is patriarchy’s tool, and its readers patriarchy’s dupes” (Regis 2011: 3), her description of ‘nurturance’ as vicariously experienced by the romance reader remains an interesting field of study. What is lacking, then, is an updated investigation of nurture as an aesthetic experience of the popular romance,

1 91% of romance readers are women according to the RWA website. 7 as well as – in contrast to Radway’s ethnographic study – an analysis which takes both the textual and material aspects of the popular romance into consideration in order to study the ways in which the reader experiences nurture, both vicariously and directly, as aesthetic experience. This lack of understanding about the aesthetic experience of nurture is significant because the popular romance is often dismissed as superficial, formulaic, and a negative influence on women—as Radway herself ambivalently suggests—when in fact, the popular romance may actually provide a service to women as a nurturing medium in a still-patriarchal society. In order to address this problem, this thesis will carry out a textual analysis of Sabrina Jeffries’ Hellions of Halstead Hall series by means of certain aspects of aesthetic response theory, in order to demonstrate that the series creates the aesthetic experience of nurture without necessarily taking part in the strategies Radway identifies as serving the patriarchy. To describe how Hellions of Halstead Hall generates the aesthetic experience of nurture, I will first provide an introduction to the current state of popular romance criticism, in order to lay bare the structure and theory underlying my investigation. Next I will summarize the key aspects of Radway’s text, Reading the Romance: Women, Patriarchy, and Popular Literature in order to point to both the overlaps and the discrepancies in our opinions about the effect of ‘nurturance’. Having thus outlined both where I think Radway’s argument is still useful to contemporary criticism, as well as where I disagree, I will go on to look at how ‘nurturance’ is produced as an effect of the generic uniformity of the popular romance novel as well as through the act of reading a popular romance. Subsequently, I will address Radway’s claims about the consequences of ‘nurturance’ as an effect of the levels of story and discourse respectively, and advance my own theory of the romance’s nurturing effect through an analysis of Sabrina Jeffries’ series, The Hellions of Halstead Hall.

1.2. Definition of Terms

1.1.1. The Popular Romance Novel Before any analysis of either the genre or the texts themselves can start, the terminology of this project must be established: while romance critics have historically differed in opinion about what exactly constitutes a romance novel – and continue to do so – the general consensus is that the story revolves around the relationship between one couple. Romance author Leigh Michaels offers the definition of a romance novel as “the story of a man and a woman who, while they’re solving a problem that threatens to keep them apart, discover that the love they feel for each other is the sort that comes along only once in a lifetime; this discovery leads to a permanent commitment and a happy ending” (Michaels 2007: 39). This definition refers exclusively to the textual elements of the romance, which is consistent with the practice of scholars like Jennifer Crusie and Pamela Regis. In describing the process of revamping the Romance Writers of America’s definition of the romance novel, Crusie mentions that there are “two aspects of the romance that [are] inviolable: the story and the ending” (2000: 1). These stipulations resulted in the definition of the romance as “a love story that 8 has an emotionally satisfying, optimistic ending” (Crusie 2000: 2). Similarly, Pamela Regis’ delineation of the eight essential narrative elements of the romance novel also focuses exclusively on textual aspects of the genre (Regis 2003). While the narrative elements themselves will be discussed below, Regis also offers temporal and spatial boundaries for what critics refer to when they speak of the popular romance, stating that “the most influential critics of the popular romance have examined the late twentieth-century popular romance novel written in English and published in America, the UK, and Canada” (Regis 2011: 2). The genealogy of romance criticism thus also partially defines what we speak of when we speak of the popular romance. An Goris is a post-structuralist critic who takes a more constructionist stance when it comes to defining the romance genre, and advocates for a definition of the romance novel that takes paratextual elements as well as institutionally defined generic conventions into account (cf. Goris 2013: 2). Responding to Goris’ reservations about a purely textual definition of the romance novel, Regis acknowledges in a 2013 article that her eight essential narrative elements may instead be thought of as “practical” or “pragmatic” elements (cf. Regis 2013: 4). Since both the textual and material aspects of a novel define its genre, including paratextual elements in the conception of genre allows for an even more nuanced examination of the role of genre in creating the aesthetic experience of nurture. Throughout this paper, the terms “popular romance” and “romance novel” will be used interchangeably to refer to novels that fulfill the textual criteria set out by Michaels, Crusie, and Regis, and which fulfill additional paratextual criteria. For example, in contrast to literary novels which may revolve around a love story and have a happy ending – thus fulfilling Crusie’s criteria – the popular romance novels in question conform to particular generic standards in terms of appearance: the books are approximately one inch thick – the type set is adjusted in order to maintain a consistent size; they also typically feature the author’s name prominently on the front cover, along with a photograph or an illustration of the heroine (and sometimes the hero). Furthermore, the back cover features a blurb that introduces both the heroine and the hero, the situation that throws them together, and hints at the extraordinary developing relationship between them, alongside glowing reviews from well-known romance authors or publications. Although this project does not seek to describe the romance genre as a whole, familiarity with the romance novel as an aesthetic object defined by genre is important to this study’s investigation of the role of genre in the creation of nurture as aesthetic experience; the uniformity of the genre in terms of appearance, as briefly described above, is not, however, meant to suggest that the novels are uniform in terms of content, as will be discussed further below.

1.1.2. Genre Of course, to discuss the role of genre with regard to its potential nurturing effects, that term will have to be defined as well. Above, I listed the certain textual elements, the who, when, where of the book’s publication, as well as paratextual and institutionally-defined properties as defining the 9 boundaries of what constitutes a popular romance novel. The consideration of all of these aspects in relation to genre corresponds with this paper’s conception of “genre as meaning-maker” (Devitt 1993: 580). Whereas thinking of genre only as a way of classifying texts approaches the concept solely from the perspective of the reader or critic and ignores the role that genre plays in the writing of the text, Devitt argues that “by integrating form and content within situation and context, recent work in genre theory makes genre an essential player in the making of meaning” (1993: 575). Thus genre is not only defined by the form or content of a text, but also reciprocally defines them. Devitt’s stance is informed by her rhetorical approach to genre theory, wherein genre is also determined by the purpose of the text: “based on our identification of genre, we make assumptions not only about the form but also about the text’s purposes, its subject matter, its writer, and its expected reader” (Devitt 1993: 575). Devitt includes Derrida’s claim that “every text participates in one or several genres, there is no genreless text; there is always a genre and genres, yet such participation never amounts to belonging” (2000: 699). While it is true that individually, many popular romances belong to more than one genre, the majority of them do signal their belonging to the romance genre most explicitly – through the author and/or the paratext, for example – while a mystery or supernatural may signal belonging to another. Integral to the understanding of genre put forth in this paper is first and foremost the fact that the genre constitutes the text in the same way that the texts constitute the genre (cf. Devitt 1993: 575). Thus as texts have changed to reflect contemporary attitudes, lifestyles, beliefs, and worldviews, the genre – constituted by its texts – has had to evolve as well. In order to avoid the trap of generalizing about the genre based on formal or functional criteria, this thesis will use a prototypical conception of genre. Genre thus functions as a kind of cognitive frame, through which one can view textual and extra-textual elements in the context of their relation to generic conventions, other texts within the genre, as well as other genres within the text. This prototypical conception is based on the idea that prototypically ideal texts will exhibit all of the generic conventions, while real texts can be graded as more or less prototypical.

1.1.3. ‘Nurture’, to Nurture, ‘Vicarious Nurturance’ The use of ‘nurture’ (as a noun) in this project is meant to refer to the word’s definition as “the or process of nurturing someone or something” (“Nurture”); as a verb, “to nurture” is defined as “to care for and protect (someone or something) while they are growing”; “to help or encourage the development of (someone or something)” (“Nurture”). Stating that the novels in Jeffries’ Hellions of Halstead Hall series produce an aesthetic experience of nurture is thus meant to convey that the experience of reading them replicates an experience in which one is nurtured: cared for, protected, and encouraged to develop. Denoting, in this thesis, an effect of literature, the term is conceived as referring to the relationship between the reader and the text: when the text is said to nurture the reader, or to create an effect of nurture, what I mean is that the text generates positive emotions, anticipates the readers’ needs, and protects and cares for them in a way similar to a mother-child 10 relationship. In her book, Radway uses the term “nurturance” to refer to the same concept (1984/1991: 84), which is defined as the “emotional and physical nourishment and care given to someone” (“Nurturance”). Although these two definitions are similar, because I disagree with Radway about the ultimate significance of the effect of nurture/‘nurturance’, I will use her term in single quotation marks, i.e. ‘nurturance’, to refer to her concept, which is most often described as ‘vicarious nurturance’. The term is from Radway (1984/1991: 84), but as it is used in this context as a term from her parlance, it will not be cited after each use. While ‘nurture’ is often used to refer to one’s “upbringing, education, and environment, [and] contrasted with inborn characteristics as an influence on or determinant of personality” (“Nurture”), its use in the current context is not meant to refer to the “nature versus nurture” debate in any way. Here I am concerned, rather, with the experience the reader has as a result of the reading process: a process that I believe is characterized by the popular romance novel’s unique ability to care for and protect the self-concept of its female readers at the same time as it encourages their development as self-fulfilled, confident women by providing the emotional nurture women are often expected to provide for their dependents (cf. Chodorow in Radway 1984/1991: 135). My analysis will be contrasted specifically with the findings of Radway’s Reading the Romance: Women, Patriarchy, and Popular Literature, but it is necessarily informed by the developments in popular romance criticism that have taken place over the last thirty years. In order to situate myself within the context of contemporary romance criticism, the following section will provide an overview of the current state of the field. 11

2. Popular Romance Meta-Criticism: How We Should Be Doing It Now Academics have been paying attention to the popular romance ever since the genre’s rise to prominence in the years following the publication of Kathleen Woodiwiss’ The Flame and the Flower in 1972 (Regis 2011: 2). In the past few years, however, as romance scholars have organized and begun engaging in the act of meta-criticism, approaches to the study of the popular romance have been refined. One critic who has suggested new approaches for the study of the genre is Pamela Regis, author of A Natural History of the Romance Novel (2003). Not only has Regis contributed “an expansive, theoretically grounded account of the genre [that] bids fair to be the standard introductory text for romance study in the coming decade” (Selinger 2007: 311), she has also introduced an interesting transdisciplinary analytical approach to the popular romance. An Goris, managing editor of the IAPRS, has been another critic to engage in meta-criticism in addition to her work on Nora Roberts and the American popular romance novel. In this section, Regis’s text will allow me to give an overview of romance criticism as she sees it in her 2011 keynote address at the Second Annual Conference of the IAPRS by outlining her analysis of a selection of critical works. Her answer to the titular question “What do Critics Owe the Romance?” provides new tools from rhetorical analysis, as well as methodological recommendations for future romance research. Goris’ rejoinder further deconstructs Regis’ own theoretical assumptions in addition to providing suggestions for future criticism. Having discussed current trends in romance criticism methodology, my own methodological approach, as informed by the discussion below, will be outlined in Chapter 3.

2.1. Regis’ “What Do Critics Owe the Romance?”: Recommendations for Popular Romance Criticism

2.1.1. The First Wave of Romance Criticism Regis’ assessment of critical texts on the popular romance allows her to provide a usefully concise survey of the critical landscape. Choosing eight of the thirty-nine “important critical works” (Regis 2011: 2) she lists in her appendix2, Regis examines four texts from the early days of romance criticism (1979-1984) and four millennial romance critics (2003-2009). Texts by Ann Barr Snitow (1979), Tania Modleski (1982), Kay Mussell (1984), and Janice A. Radway (1984) are described as having established how romance novels are perceived in the public consciousness (cf. Regis 2011: 03). Summing up the legacy of the four early critics – Regis’ “Four Horsewomen of the Romance Apocalypse” – she comments on the negativity of their conclusions about the popular romance novel, as well as the size and breadth of their samples in comparison with the sweep of their claims (see

2 Regis lists these works in her appendix (Regis 2011: 12-13). 12

Table 1 for Regis’ schematic overview of the critics in question). Under discussion is whether or not the author’s text selection justifies the scope of their conclusions; Snitow, for example, “cites five Harlequin romances published between 1977 and 1978—that is, just five novels published during two years” but nonetheless concludes that romance novels are “pornography for women” (cf. Regis 2011: 3); Modleski calls romance reading an “addiction” (cf. Regis 2011: 3), and Mussell describes romances as with the connotation of fantasy as “a bad alternative to ‘reality’” (Regis 2011: 3). Regis’ summary of Radway’s anxiety about the romance as pernicious tool of the patriarchy has already been mentioned (romance readers are “patriarchy’s dupes” (3)). Although Regis readily admits that “the full arguments of these critics provide considerably more nuance than these portable labels [as seen in Table 1] for the romance would imply” (Regis 2011: 3), Regis’ main objection is the discrepancy between how many romances are condemned versus how many are actually assessed in each study. The negative perception that surrounds the popular romance novel has been significantly influenced by claims made about the entire genre, and Regis is able to demonstrate the way that its perception has been shaped by the authors of books published at least thirty years ago.

2.1.2. Regis’ Rhetorical Analytical Approach Regis’ comparison of the texts in Table 1 allows her to make her analytical approach explicit: critics’ general conclusions are compared alongside critical topoi borrowed from rhetorical analysis. Regis explains this approach by reminding her reader that “studying the ethics of argument is the traditional province of rhetoricians” (2011: 6). As Regis states, “a ‘topos’, (the plural is ‘topoi’), is a common or topic in argument, and at least since the Greeks topoi have been the subject of rhetorical study” (2011: 6). Referencing the work of Laura Wilder, Regis describes how topoi “both our assumptions as literary scholars, and simultaneously, create our scientific community” (2011: 6). Considering the presence of these topoi in romance criticism thus allows Regis to compare the works in terms of their stance on the romance’s “special topoi”: “complexity”, “contemptus mundi” mundi” and/or “social justice” (cf. Regis 2011: 7), which will be further discussed below. Journal of Popular Romance Studies (2011) 2.1

novels, been fair to them? My aim is not to pick a winning theoretical approach from among the ethnographers, psychoanalytic critics, post‐modernists, Marxists, and the rest. Instead, I wish to see what values lie behind the assorted, and in many cases competing, theoretical assumptions that structure various critical statements about romance. What assumptions about texts, the role of critics, and the world lie behind influential statements about the romance novel, and can we from these refine an ethics of romance criticism to help us chart the way forward? In short, what, if anything, do we as critics owe the romance? The most influential critics of the popular romance novel have examined the late twentieth‐century popular romance novel written in English and published in America, the UK, and Canada. For this cumbersome phrase, i.e., “the late twentieth‐century popular romance novel written in English and published in America, the UK, and Canada,” I will use the term “romance novel.” I realize, of course, that many romance novels are older and others are newer than this body of texts, that many are written in languages other than English, and many are published in places other than the US, the UK, and Canada. However, claims made about this body of texts have been widely applied to romances that are not novels at all, and to romances that originate in various non‐Anglo cultures. In other words, the work of these critics lives on in current criticism. Their subject matter might once have had chronological and geographic boundaries, but their pronouncements inform the contemporary, international view of romance writ large. Hence, their relevance to all of us, and my analysis of them here. From a list of thirty‐nine important critical works on this body of romance novels, 13 most of them one‐author monographs, I have chosen eight study texts.[1] The four texts in the first group (see Table 1), published in the five‐year period from 1979 to 1984, analyze novels written during the beginning of the boom in romance writing and reading that began to make itself felt in response to the publication, and explosive sales, of Kathleen Woodiwiss’s The Flame and the Flower in 1972.

Table 1. The First Wave of Romance Criticism: or, the Four Horsewomen of the Romance Apocalypse Author / Title Critic begins Complexity Contemptus mundi year with / topos: are and/or social justice critic concludes romances topoi: one or both with complex? present? Ann Barr “Mass Market Formula: “the No Contemptus mundi Snitow Romance: novels have no “easy to read affirmed: Harlequins Pornography plot in the usual pablum” “reveal and pander to 1979 for Women is sense” (309) / (309) [ . . . an] impossible Different” pornography fantasy life” (320) for women Tania Loving with a “Mass- No Contemptus mundi Modleski Vengeance: produced” texts “rigid” (32) affirmed: Mass- and “Harlequin 1982 Produced psychoanalytical romances’ [ . . . ] Journal of Popular Romance Studies (2011) 2.1Fantasies for identification of insistent denial of the Women reader’s reality of male “repetition hostility toward compulsion” / women point[s] to” addiction profound “ideological conflicts” (111) Kay Fantasy and Formula / No Contemptus mundi Mussell Reconciliation: fantasy “romances affirmed: Contemporary are “Romances’ [ . . . ] 1984 of adolescent failure” as Women’s dramas that “belongs [ . . . ] to [ . Romance mirror the . . ] patriarchy’s Fiction infantilism of denial of women’s women in a right to explicate patriarchal their own lives” culture” (185) (184) Janice A. Reading the Smithton No Contemptus mundi Radway Romance: readers and their “superficial affirmed: romances Women, romances / plot “give the reader a 1984 Patriarchy, romance as development” strategy for making and Popular patriarchy’s (133) her present situation Literature tool, readers as more comfortable [ . patriarchy’s . . ] rather than a dupes comprehensive program for reorganizing her life” (215) ! ! (Regis! 2011:I chose these four because the conclusions these critics reached about the romance 2-3) ! novel have, indeed, entered the public consciousness as descriptors of not just the romance novels that they studied—the ones written in English in the late 1970s and early 1980s— ! but as characteristics of the romance novel, period. Ann Barr Snitow’s “Mass Market ! Romance: Pornography for Women is Different” has branded romance with the dismissive 2.1.3. The Millennial Critics label of porn. Tania Modleski’s Loving with a Vengeance: Mass­Produced Fantasies for ! Women asserted that reading romance is an addiction. Kay Mussell’s Fantasy and Turning! Reconciliation: Contemporary Fantasies of Women’s Romance Fiction to the next sample of texts, Regis spends a bit attached the term more time describing the projects of the “fantasy” to romance—“fantasy,” in her view, is a bad alternative to “reality.” Finally, Janice MillennialA. Radway in critics, andReading the Romance: Women, Patriarchy, and Popular Literature her conclusions about their texts can be seen in has Table 2 on the following page. cemented in the public mind, apparently for all time, the notion that romance is Regis beginspatriarchy’s tool, and its readers patriarchy’s dupes. I must emphasize that the full with her own, A Natural History of the Romance Novel (2003), which provides a arguments of these critics provide considerably more nuance and, on close examination, definitiontheir claims are considerably narrower than these portable labels for the romance would of the romance novel and its eight essential elements. As will be demonstrated by the imply. charges Regis Snitow, in her article lays out for her‐length study, cites five Harlequin romances published fellow romance critics, Regis’ approach between to the romance novel 1977 and 1978–that is, just five novels published during just two years–and then goes on to emphasizesdescribe the “underlying structure of the sexual story” that she identifies as the point of consideration and respectful study of the popular romance. The second half of her book is devoted to the analysis of individual novels, including “Pamela (1740-41), Pride and Prejudice

(1813), Jane Eyre (1847), Framley Parsonage (1860), by Anthony Trollope, and E. M. Forster’s A Rome With a View (1908)—and chapters on the twentieth-century popular romance novel” (Selinger 14

2007: 314). Regis’ eventual conclusion is that the “romance delivers joy and demonstrates the ’s, especially the heroine’s, freedom” (Regis 2011: 5), thus differentiating herself from the critics in the first wave. Lynne Pearce begins Romance Writing (2007) with an algebraic hypothesis and conducts a chronological, transmedial analysis of romantic texts, ultimately concluding “with what she herself calls an ‘ungenerous’ typification of the texts of the ‘Ur-Mills & Boon romance’ type: x+y>x’ (-y) , where x-prime is the superficially self-fulfilled heroine and minus-y the ‘disposable’ hero (Regis 2011: 6). While her corpus is more comprehensive than the earlier critics described, Pearce’s conclusion that ungenerously typifies all romances according to an equation will also relate to one of the considerations Regis claims critics “owe” the romance. Lisa Fletcher also makes a negative conclusion about the romance novel in Historical Romance Fiction: Heteronormativity and Performativity (2008), namely, that romances are defined by the repetition of “I love you” as a speech act, “claiming that these three words are repeated in romance novel after romance novel because the statement cannot once and for all manage to do what it always tries to do, which is to install heteronormativity as an unchallenged ideal in our society’s ideology, specifically, our sexual ideology” (Regis 2011: 6). Fletcher’s conclusion relating the romance to the perpetuation of “heteronormativity as an unchallenged ideal” aligns her with Radway with regard to their negative assessment of the romance’s potential effect on its readers. Finally, Regis describes the work of Sarah Wendell and Candy Tan (2009): Beyond Heaving Bosoms: The Smart Bitches’ Guide to Romance Novels: using edgy humor and over-the-top, often profane language, [Wendell and Tan] produce astute descriptions of the plots, the characters, the covers, the conventions, and the stigma attached to reading romance novels, concluding—after having acknowledged the ‘ludicrous’ in romance novels (1)—by asserting the overall ‘good’ (128) of the genre (page numbers are Wendell and Tan in Regis 2011: 6).

Regis’ comments relate more about the style of Wendell and Tan’s work than its methodology, but her focus on the fact that they point to “the overall ‘good’” (2011: 6) of romance novels originates from her interest in describing the particular conclusions each work draws about the romance novel, as well as discovering their stance on the romance novel’s special topoi. Interesting for my own analysis is their claim, included in Regis, that “anything written for an audience of mostly women by a community of mostly women is subversive, reflective of the[ir] current sexual, emotional, and political status, and actively embraces and undermines that status simultaneously” (Wendell and Tan in Regis 2011: 6). This statement reflects my own feelings about the popular romance, and its sentiment reflects one of my motivations for exploring whether I can show that the text provides a kind of feminist “safe-space” as a result of the aesthetic experience of nurture, in contrast to the ‘nurturance’ Radway sees as being ultimately a patriarchal tool. Journal of Popular Romance Studies (2011) 2.1

Harlequins (319). Modleski cites just nine Harlequins, all from one year, 1976, in her chapter on Harlequins, and then conjures Roland Barthes, Wolfgang Iser, Karl Marx, Jonathan Culler, and others in her pursuit of a psychoanalytic explanation for the “increase” in “the reader’s . . . psychic conflicts” and “dependency” on these novels, which she likens to a “narcotic” (57). Although Mussell has a wider reading list—more than 80 romances including such “originals” as Pamela, most of her study texts were published from 1955 through 1982. She pursues the insights that these “escape fantasies” provide into women’s lives (4). Radway’s ethnographic study of the “Smithton” readers—40 or so Midwestern U.S. fans of long, sensual historicals—concludes with her now‐world famous claims about patriarchy’s power as revealed in these novels. Outliving both the study texts that their conclusions were based on as well as their specific origins in the 1970s and early 1980s, the shorthand labels furnished by these critics have made them the Four Horsewomen of the Romance Apocalypse—Porn, Addiction, Fantasy, and Patriarchy’s Dupes. Like the original four horsemen—pestilence, war, famine and death—they have assumed a dark immortality.[2] 15 To understand what has and has not changed about critical practice between then and now, I will contrast the work of the Four Horsewomen with four Millennial critics, all of whom published after the turn of the 21st century (see Table 2).

Table 2. Millennial Romance Criticism

Author / Title Critic begins with / Complexity Contemptus year critic concludes topos: are mundi and/or with romances social justice complex? topoi: one or both present? Pamela A Natural Texts both Yes Social justice Regis History of the canonical and romances can be advanced: The Romance Novel popular as “complex, ending of a 2003 literature, their formally romance is structure as genre accomplished, “joyful in its (not formula) vital” and “the celebration of / joy and freedom form is neither freedom” (207) moribund nor corrupt” (45) Lynne Romance Love x+y → x’+y’ No Contemptus Pearce Writing and many, many present “glamour mundi affirmed: romances of all / kudos” of The very 2007 types / women’s existence of such x+y > x’ (–y) in lifestyles “rather “degenerate” Mills &Boon type than meaningful works—i.e., romances (141) observation on romances— Journal of Popular Romance Studies (2011) 2.1 women’s indicates a less liberation” (182) than desirable state of society. ! (138)

Social justice blocked: A completed love, one that results in x+y  x’+y’, does not result Lisa Historical Speech act “I love No Contemptus Fletcher Romance you” as definer of Historical mundi affirmed: Fiction: historical romance romance’s “I Hegemony of 2008 Heterosexuality fiction. Butlerian love you” is an heteronormativity and post-modernism “incessant is lamentable Performativity / historical rendition of romance defined, heterosexuality’s Social justice occupied, and promised but blocked: dominated by never fully Romances heteronormativity achieved preclude the absolute depiction of intelligibility” something better (34) than heteronormativity Sarah Beyond Practical criticism Yes Contemptus Wendell Heaving (reviewing) and “[R]omance mundi rejected: and Bosoms: The love for the novels . . . share Romances Candy Smart Bitches’ romance a structure but provide a social Tan Guide to / acknowledge diverge wildly good: happiness Romance the “ludicrous” based on 2009 Novels (1) but assert the subgenre and the overall “good” innovation and (128) of romances creativity of each author” (122) !

As these critics are less known, more eclectic, and wider ranging than the Four (Regis 2011: 4-5) Horsewomen, a more detailed overview of their work is in order. Regis—I—begins A Natural History of the Romance Novel with the view (which I hope that I demonstrate) that popular romance novels are literature, that they are representatives of a genre that 2.1.4. Applying theincludes canonical works. I offer a definition of “the romance novel,” namely, that it is “a Topoi to Romance Criticism: Complexity, Contemptus Mundi, and Social Justice work of prose fiction that tells the story of the courtship and betrothal of one or more Withprotagonists” (19) her summary[3] and I identify eight essential elements to use as analytical categories of the millennial critics’ work complete, Regis turns to the application of in understanding the romance novel. The earliest of my study texts is William Congreve’s her rhetoricalIncognita, published in 1692 before he made his name writing for the stage. I conclude that analytical strategy. From a more comprehensive list in Wilder (2005), Regis has romance delivers joy and demonstrates the protagonist’s, especially the heroine’s, freedom. identified “complexity”, “contemptus mundi” and/or “social justice” as the “special topoi of romance criticism” (2011: 6). If topoi are the particular themes selected by literary scholars and considered to be worthy of discussion, the “‘special’ topoi are those specific to a given group of arguers” (Regis 2011: 7). As can be seen in Tables 1 & 2, Regis proceeds to compare the appearance of these special topoi in the works of both the First Wave and the Millennial Critics. Goris criticizes this strategy by pointing out that Regis ignores important aspects of the individual critics’ historical situations and theoretical approaches (cf. Goris 2011: 2). She recommends that critics give older works due historical consideration, and points out that the variety 16 of theoretical approaches to the study of the popular romance may affect the results of a direct comparison of their topoi (cf. Goris 2011: 4). For example, Goris points to Regis’ own “traditional literary historical approach” (2011: 4) as having influenced her assessment of Radway’s ethnographic study; Goris claims that comparing the two works based on the presence or absence of certain topoi, as Regis does, fails to acknowledge how these topoi might manifest themselves in different ways through distinct approaches. The selection of complexity, contemptus mundi, and social justice as the special topoi of romance criticism is also flawed in that it seems to equate the textual characteristic of complexity as a critical topos with the contemptus mundi and social justice topoi, which are rather representative of the critic’s worldview. Regis attempts to address this difference with regard to her recommendations: complexity is dealt with by altering the critics’ strategies of text selection, while contemptus mundi and social justice are addressed with reference to the critic’s attitude towards the genre.

2.1.4.1. The Complexity Topos The particular conclusions that Regis makes about each of the eight works in question can be glimpsed in the tables above, but most relevant to the current context are the recommendations that Regis makes based on their comparison. She counts “complexity” among the special topoi of the romance novel because it can be found in all of the works under consideration, and, indeed, it seems to be one main of the themes of both scholarly and public criticism of the popular romance. Given, then, that six of the eight works in question conclude that the romance novel is not complex, Regis argues that romance critics “owe it to the romance novel to make overt and to defend our conclusion that the romance is simple, if this is, in fact, [their] assessment” (2011: 8). Linked to her position that “individual critics need to be extra mindful of their participation or rejection of the pervasive topoi of the discipline, and the values that they represent” (Regis 2011: 11), Regis asserts that critics must be aware of the impact of their conclusions on the canon of romance criticism (cf. 2011: 11). In addition to providing adequate proof and a convincing argument that romances are “simple”, if that is the critic’s position, Regis calls attention to that conclusion’s dangerous potential to imply that “consumers—the term ‘reader’ almost seems too sophisticated—of pornographic, rigid, infantile, superficial pablum must surely be mindless.” Stating that, “even Radway’s ethnographic analysis of readers—so carefully constructed, so rich in data—comes to very dark conclusions about those readers” (Regis 2011: 11). Thus critics must be wary of the implication that a simple text suggests a simple reader. To avoid infantilizing the reader, as well as to be conscious of one’s role in shaping the canon of romance criticism (2011: 9), Regis makes two more proposals relating to the “complexity” topos: first, that “we owe the romance novel a good-faith effort to uncover the complexity that our discipline values so highly. A skilled literary critic can see the complexity in any apparently simple text” (2011: 9). I think that Regis makes a valid point here, and one particularly relevant to the study 17 of a popular medium: in a 2013 article, she points to how “the contemporary romance novel of any given era […] offers a very valuable baseline for the study of the various subgenres whose authors build worlds far different from those of the society of their day” (Regis 2013: 8). Regis thus argues for the usefulness of good-faith examinations of the romance novel, although she makes clear that the “good-faith” she requires of critics is not intended to refer their eventual conclusions, but rather to the thoroughness and subtlety of their investigation as such. Closely linked to the notion of critical rigor, Regis also charges critics with the responsibility of taking “great care in choosing our study texts—more care, not less, than we take in choosing texts from literary fiction” (2011: 9). As her criticism of the samples sizes of the aforementioned works has shown, Regis stresses the importance of “identifying and studying the strongest romance novels [in order to] benefit the entire critical enterprise and help us avoid making claims about simplicity and other qualities that critics assign to the romance novel based on an unrepresentative set of study texts” (2011: 9). Pointing to the overwhelming quantity of romance novels, Regis emphasizes that those texts chosen for study will necessarily overshadow the multitude that aren’t (“creating the romance novel’s canon” (2011: 9)): critics should therefore make an effort to ensure that their study texts do not unfairly contribute to a simplistic view of the romance novel without arguing the case for that simplicity. The next recommendation Regis makes with regard to the “complexity” topos relates both to Radway, and to Regis’ previous assertion that critics must take care of the way in which their criticism characterizes the reader of romance novels: the critic must also “recognize that the values of its fans are not identical with the values of our discourse community” (2011: 9). In the same way that Radway notes her subjects’ different interpretations of both the romances themselves and the act of reading them, Regis’s assertion deals with the importance of recognizing the different priorities of various interpretive communities. Radway cites Stanley Fish in her own articulation of the idea that: “literary meaning [...] is ‘the property neither of fixed and stable texts nor of free and independent readers but of interpretive communities that are responsible both for the shape of the reader’s activities and for the texts those activities produce’” (Fish qtd in Radway 1983: 55). Regis concludes by noting that critics can either choose to work with fan-favourite texts and find interesting things to say about them, or move on to different texts. When Goris takes issue with Regis’ failure to recognize the historical and theoretical contexts of the early critics in “What Do Critics Owe”, she is drawing a similar distinction between the interpretive communities formed by the First Wave critics and the Millennial critics, Regis included. Goris argues that the First Wave critics: were operating in a context in which hardly any previous scholarship on the genre existed, were taking on a huge and virtually unexplored body of literature that was, nonetheless, surrounded by very strong cultural associations of sameness and simplicity. Negotiating these circumstances, these foundational scholars indeed made too general claims on the basis of too small and undiversified corpi [sic], but the knowledge needed to correct them 18

was simply not accessible to them in the academic context in which they were situated (2011: 3).

Goris’ meta-critical article thus suggests that not only must romance critics be aware of the different interpretive communities inside and outside of academia, they must also differentiate between the historical and theoretical contexts of critical works, which have necessarily shaped and been shaped by the interpretive communities to which their authors belong. The final recommendations Regis makes with regard to the complexity topos are indicative of a trend in romance criticism evident in the very organization of Regis’s own 2003 book3, in Goris’ own work, and, hopefully, in this investigation as well. She states that critics: owe it to the romance to recognize that our study texts are probably not representative of ‘the romance’ and to stop committing the logical fallacy known as hasty generalization. […]It is a failure of critical imagination to assume we have seen it all. A corollary: We owe it to the romance to stay within our evidence when we state conclusions. So, if we have not demonstrated that our study texts are representative, we must qualify our conclusions, and avoid talk about what ‘the romance novel’ writ large is or does (Regis 2011: 9).

Regis is not, however, advocating broader studies—the quantity of romance novels in existence being beyond the scope of any study (cf. Regis 2011: 9)—but rather for studies that make nuanced claims about the novels they have actually examined rather than about the genre as a whole. The eight narrative elements outlined in A Natural History of the Romance Novel allow for exactly this kind of analysis. The elements which constitute a prototypically ideal romance are, according to Regis, a definition of society, always corrupt, that the romance will reform; the meeting between the heroine and the hero; an account of their attraction for each other; the barrier between them; the point of ritual death [a moment at which, she subsequently explains, ‘no happy resolution of the narrative seems possible’ (the term is Frye’s)]; the recognition that fells the barrier; the declaration of heroine and hero that they love each other; and their betrothal (Regis 2003:14 in Selinger 2007: 312; bold emphasis mine).

As Eric Selinger mentions in his review of Regis (2003): “to ask students, ‘What does Crusie do with the “betrothal” element in Crazy for You?’ or ‘Where does Mary Stewart displace the element of “attraction” in Madam, Will You Talk?’ enables a rather more focused and deliberate discussion of the novels than…‘Why do women read these things?’” (2007: 313). Goris’ stance on which direction romance criticism should take picks up on Regis’ call for conservative claims and advocates an even

3 As Goris notes:

the field’s genealogical development from studying the popular romance’s general properties to focusing on more specific and particular aspects of (subgroups within) the genre is currently ongoing and can be observed in numerous recent works of romance scholarship. It is visible in Regis’ own work, particularly in her much-cited A Natural History of the Romance Novel—perhaps the most influential study of the genre published in the last decade—in which the author devotes two sections to a general discussion of the romance genre and then moves on to a thorough analysis of individual romances and novels (2011: 3).

19 narrower focus; her response to Regis’ “What Do Critics Owe” will be discussed shortly, but first, this paper will look at the other special topoi of the popular romance.

2.1.4.2. The Contemptus Mundi and Social Justice Topoi Contemptus Mundi as a topos of refers “to the critic’s sense that the world is fallen” (Regis 2011: 10). Regis describes the term as “an assumption of despair over the condition of society”, the relative valuation of “works that describe despair, alienation, seediness, anxiety, decay, declining values, and difficulty in living and loving in our society”, and the critic’s emphasis on “the unresolvable tensions and shadows in literature that at face value seem optimistic” (cf. Wilder in Regis 2011: 10). In the twenty-first century, “social justice” has replaced contemptus mundi: as Wilder (in Regis) explains: “this is the assumption that ‘literature, regardless of when it was written, speaks to our present condition’ and critics deploying this topos seek ‘in that […] connection [between literature and life] avenues towards social justice through advocating social change’ (98)” (Wilder qtd in Regis 2011: 10). Regis demonstrates that the contemptus mundi and “social justice” topoi are deployed in all of the critical works she analyzes—as seen in the fourth column of Tables 1 and 2. She notes that the critics’ acceptance of the world as fallen dovetails with conceptions of the romance novel as simple4, and, states that we owe the romance a just consideration of its happily-ever-after or happy-for-now ending. Our views that the world is fallen or that literature should indicate the need for or reveal a path from the current, lamentable state of conditions in the world to a more just world are major impediments to a fair treatment of the romance novel, perhaps even to a complete understanding of it” (Regis 2011: 11).

Regis thus suggests that perhaps the contemptus mundi / “social justice” topoi are not particularly fruitful approaches to the study of romance novels: in keeping with the idea that interpretive communities, like genres, are constantly evolving and shaped both by external forces and from within, romance scholars may want to consider leaving these topoi out of their critical arsenal. The last recommendation Regis makes relates to the critic’s awareness of their role within the construction of the romance novel’s canon: she reiterates that contemptus mundi may be a malignant device within romance criticism and that “individual critics need to be extra mindful of their participation in or rejection of the pervasive topoi of the discipline, and the values that they represent” (2011: 11). Regis emphasizes that she is not advocating the restriction of critical work to approving, positive statements, but rather “awareness of our critical assumptions […] and care in stating conclusions” (2011:11). While Regis’ own awareness of her critical assumptions has been questioned by Goris (2011), both critics agree that “we owe the popular romance a recognition of the

4 For a more in-depth discussion of how the two are connected, see Regis (2011:10); here, my focus is more on extracting Regis’ recommendations for critical methodology than on summarizing her summaries of her study texts. Regis does, however, make an interesting point about the romance’s proximity to comedy, as well as that genre’s less contemptibly regarded failure to provide “a complete solution to society’s ills or a righting of all social injustices” (Regis 2011: 11). 20 archaeology carried in its name, an archaeology written, in large part by the critical assessments of the Four Horsewomen, and not yet rewritten by the critics who have followed” (Regis 2011: 11). The recommendations in her 2011 article thus outline the ways in which Regis conceives of the responsibilities of the scholars who will rewrite this archaeology.

2.2. Regis: “Ten Years After A Natural History of the Romance Novel: Thinking Back, Looking Forward” Regis takes up this last charge in “Ten Years After A Natural History of the Romance Novel: Thinking Back, Looking Forward” (2013), where she once again expresses the ineffectiveness of the contemptus mundi topos, to say: “My response to most arguments that conclude, yet once more, with a finding that the world is fallen: ‘Well, we knew that. What else ya got?’” (3). The same article goes on to mention four new approaches Regis is testing out in her current project5: the first is to revisit her conception of genre by “re-label[ing]” the “essential elements” as “pragmatic” or “practical” (cf. Regis 2013: 4) in order to temper her own “essentialist” leanings and assuage those “who posit a more constructivist view of genre”—though Goris is not named here, her presence can be felt. The second approach is a departure from Regis’ “traditional literary historical approach”, which implements “Theory of Mind”: “the ability of a person to attribute to another person the attitudes, beliefs, knowledge, and so forth held by the second person. It turns out that it does not matter if the second person is real or not—he or she can be a in a novel” (Regis 2013: 4). Her third concern is to situate her analysis in “the larger conversation about the American novel” (Regis 2013: 4). Finally, Regis’ fourth approach, and the one that makes up the body of her article, exemplifies her rejection of contemptus mundi. As she has already shown, contemptus mundi is to be expected in the 1803 novel Emily Hamilton—her current project proposes to: recover some of the nitty-gritty detail of that ‘real life’. What was it really like in early nineteenth-century Massachusetts to be in a relationship, and in a marriage, and what might those realities suggest about courtship? How do those realities illuminate barrier and ritual death in Vickery’s novel, two of the greatest repositories of meaning in the romance? How might the lived experiences of actual early Americans have yielded this and other romances that have come down to us from early America? (Regis 2013: 5).

Turning to this project, Regis demonstrates precisely the way in which romance critics can make specific and nuanced claims about individual novels. Rejecting the topoi of “complexity” and contemptus mundi / “social justice”, Regis frames specific research questions using the narrative elements she identified in A Natural History and then seeks to find out how the novel in question emerged from its specific social context.

5 “My current project is a history of the American romance from 1803 to the present. As context, my departmental bailiwick is early American literature, where I am engaged in something of an argument with the canon of the American novel” (Regis 2013: 3). 21

Although she states that “[her] approach will not be ethnographic, which [she] believes to be fraught with difficulties” (Regis 2013: 4), these research questions, with their similarity to the research context and motivation Radway describes at the beginning of Reading the Romance (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 4), prompt one to ask what Radway might have produced if she had been writing in the current critical context. With Radway’s text, and Regis’ recommendations as my guides, I hope that the methodology of the current project will manage to follow Regis’ recommendations, recognizing the different interpretive communities that read the romance, and avoiding the trap of making hasty generalizations. Before that project can fully begin, however, An Goris’ responses to the two Regis articles cited above provide an interesting complement to the preceding discussion.

2.3. Goris: Diversity, Precision, and Consideration of Extra-Textual Elements in Popular Romance Criticism Responding to Regis’ article, Goris makes her esteem for Regis’ work clear, pointing out that “while her meta-critical efforts are strongly commendable and insightfully identify and elaborate on some of the key challenges of romance scholarship,” Goris finds that Regis’ analysis lacks a certain amount of consideration for the historical and theoretical frameworks of the works she discusses (cf. 2011: 3). This problematic aspect of Regis’ text has already been addressed above: in this section, I will describe the particular aspects of romance scholarship Goris addresses that are not found in Regis’ article. These include her own comments about text-selection, and the conclusions scholars are able to draw from their research, as well as a discussion of extra-textual aspects of the romance novel she sees as having been excluded from Regis’ work. Goris’ text is particularly useful for her comments on the relevance of the critic explicitly stating their theoretical approach so as to be aware of the assumptions with which they have approached their study. Goris echoes Regis’ recommendation that the careful selection of study texts is crucial to the integrity of ongoing romance scholarship, citing numerous instances of studies which have reduced the scope of their claims6 in keeping with Regis’ suggestion as well as the field’s “genealogical development from studying the popular romance genre’s general properties to focusing more on specific and particular aspects of (subgroups within) the genre” (Goris 2013: 2). In addition to focusing on specific authors or areas of the genre, Goris encourages critics to consider the place of their scholarship within the canon of romance criticism. In the same way that I raise concerns over the general perception of the popular romance novel in my Introduction, Goris explains how: methodological concern is all the more important in popular romance studies because both the (early) traditions in this developing field and the cultural stereotypes that stubbornly continue to surround its main object of study tend to obscure the diversity and complexity of the genre’s cultural reality that these studies aim to unlock (2011: 3).

6 For Goris’ list of studies with more specific areas of inquiry, see Goris 2011: 3. 22

In order to combat conceptions of the popular romance as a simple, homogenous genre, critics must “adopt a constant and unwavering vigilance for the actual representativeness of the particular with regard to the whole for which it is envisioned to stand” (Goris 2011: 3), narrowing the scope of their conclusions accordingly. While Regis’ 2011 article discusses the negative conclusions of the First Wave of romance scholars as well as those of some Millennial scholars, Goris warns against the temptation to dismiss the work of earlier critics. Although she doesn’t charge Regis with this particular crime, Goris notes that as the field evolves, “the natural tendency arises to look back at its foundations and, in an attempt to distinguish the present from those past origins, to identify, analyse, and even emphasise certain problematic aspects of older popular romance studies” (2011: 5). While Goris acknowledges that this is a natural part of the growth-process which “enables a much-needed identification and analysis of problems and errors in earlier studies”, she reminds us that “prudence is called for in such endeavours because they run the risk of overstating or exaggerating the problematic aspects of older studies” (2011:5). Here Goris cites Regis’ analysis of the complexity topos in Radway, and emphasizes once again the importance of recognizing one’s own theoretical approach as necessarily determining the way one perceives other studies. Goris herself is exemplary in her consistent awareness of the way in which her theoretical background influences her assessment of other critics’ work, stating, for example, that “[She] must acknowledge that, much as Pamela Regis’ theoretical position influences her meta-critical discussion, [Goris’] own critique of [Regis’] paper is shaped by [her] position as a scholar inspired by post- structuralism” (Goris 2011: 5-6). Goris does not believe that different theoretical approaches preclude dialogue between critics; on the contrary, she claims that “if we manage to continue to achieve meetings of and conversations between these, and many other, critical and theoretical perspectives…the future of popular romance studies looks brighter than ever” (2011: 6). Awareness of one’s perspective is thus the key to this bright future. Subsequently, in a response to Regis’ 2013 article “Ten Years After A Natural History of the Romance Novel: Thinking Back, Looking Forward”, Goris notes her satisfaction with Regis’ turn towards a more prototypical conception of genre with regard to the study of the popular romance (cf. Goris 2013: 2). This approach is preferable to a constructionist scholar such as Goris because it allows individual texts to be compared to a prototypical romance novel, potentially using Regis’ eight narrative elements. Goris is, in fact, responding directly to Regis’ re-definition of the “eight essential narrative elements” as “practical” or “pragmatic” (cf. Regis 2013: 4): this development means that romance scholars, looking at a particular author or area of the genre, can describe their study texts as either more or less prototypical based on the presence or absence of Regis’ narrative elements, and show how the narrative elements are implemented either in keeping with or contrary to generic conventions (cf. Goris 2013: 2). 23

Generic conventions include more than just narrative elements to Goris, however; she points to additional aspects of the romance genre that Regis does not mention: Like any other approach [Regis’] is one which highlights certain aspects and disregards others. For example, Regis pays little considered critical attention to such elements as the materiality of the text (its peritext [sic], that is its physical properties as not only an aesthetic form but also a material object in the world), the reader (that fascinating figure that seemed to endlessly intrigue but essentially elude a scholar like Radway), and the institutions fundamentally shaping both the production and reception of these novels (Goris 2011: 4; emphasis mine).

As a genre, the popular romance can be defined both by textual conventions (e.g. Regis’ narrative elements) as well as by the extra-textual elements enumerated by Goris. Related, of course, to the individual critic’s focus, as well as their theoretical approach, consideration of the myriad parts which make up the whole of a popular romance novel may or may not be intrinsic to all contemporary studies within the genre, which now increasingly focus on “a fundamentally heterogeneous conceptualization of the romance genre that aims to recognize instead of obscure the diversity within its fluid borders” (Goris 2013: 2). Whether or not extra-textual elements make up part of the analysis in question, Regis and Goris agree on the point that they are tied to questions about differing conceptions of genre, and emphasize, again, the importance of making one’s theoretical stance clear in terms of which elements of the text are included in one’s analysis.

2.4. Conclusion Having sketched the landscape of contemporary romance criticism by way of Regis and Goris’ meta-critical works, the critical context of the current project should now be somewhat clearer. While I make no pretence of assuming this Master’s thesis will become part of the canon of romance criticism, I do hope that it will meet the criteria set out by Regis and Goris with regard to its methodology, theoretical awareness, and the defined scope of its claims. In order to be explicit about what I plan to do and how I hope to do it, the following chapter will address the selection of study texts, theoretical concepts, and the scope of this project according to the standards set out by Regis and Goris above. 24

3. Methodology of This Project

3.1. Text Selection: Sabrina Jeffries’ Hellions of Halstead Hall and Performing an Analysis According to Regis’ Recommendations In my Introduction, I briefly sketched the aim of this project: to determine how the popular romance novel creates an aesthetic experience of nurture, as evidenced in the Hellions of Halstead Hall series by Sabrina Jeffries. Having introduced the state of romance criticism in the preceding chapter, this section will cover my choice of study texts, as well as the question of their representativeness for the genre as a whole, an articulation of my critical perspective, including which aspects of the text I will be addressing, and a re-articulation of my research questions as they pertain to Radway’s study. Despite Regis and Goris’ call for the careful selection of study texts, my reason for choosing Sabrina Jeffries’ Hellions of Halstead Hall series for this project was more intuitive than analytical: Jeffries’ novel The Truth About Lord Stoneville (2010) is the romance novel I was reading when the concept of nurture as an aesthetic experience of the popular romance novel first occurred to me. While this method of selection is undoubtedly less random than a sociologist would prefer, it may actually allow me to fulfill the criteria set out in Regis and Goris’ texts more easily. The status of the popular romance as the subject of literary criticism assumes the possibility of a hermeneutic approach, thus Regis’ mandate that critics defend their conclusions about whether or not the romance is complex is pre-supposed by my application of to their exegesis; while the topos of complexity is not one my project addresses overtly, my hypothesis that Jeffries’ novels produce the aesthetic experience of assumes they have the complexity of literary works. The happily-ever-after ending is not a negative factor for me – nor a failure to address an inadequate status quo – but is, rather, one of the “pragmatic elements” (Regis 2013: 4) of the romance novel that contributes to the effect of nurture. With regard to Regis’ statement that “we owe it to the romance novel to recognize that the values of its fans are not identical with the values of our discourse community” (Regis 2011: 9), I would like to introduce the three romance readers who will be mentioned in this text: the first is myself. If the critic should come clean about their theoretical perspective (cf. Goris 2011: 6), then mine begins as a fan of the romance novel. I became interested in the aesthetic response produced by the popular romance because I have been enthralled by their stories, their characters, and their worlds. On the other hand, I’ve also come to the study of romance novels because I am interested in aesthetic response theory: the second “reader” of this text is the “implied reader” (cf. Iser 1978: 27). Given that my theoretical approach is informed by aesthetic response theory, I will be discussing the reader who is constructed by the textual elements on the level of story and discourse. This “implied” reader is not to be confused with the third, real reader: that is, the actual women (and few men) who purchase romance novels. As a fan of the romance genre, I believe that my analysis of the romance novels in 25 question will be in the good faith that Regis advises; as a scholar of the popular romance, I think that my differentiation between myself as both critic and fan, and between the “implied reader” and the “real reader” of the text demonstrates an understanding of the different interpretive communities and their distinct approaches to the genre. Jeffries’ texts are not just suitable for study because they are complex: Sabrina Jeffries has had “multiple appearances on both the NYT and USA Today bestseller lists, she has received the Holt Medallion Award, the Maggie, the Bookseller’s Best Award, and is a member of the Romance Writers of America Honor Roll” (Bright 2011). Her website dubs her “Queen of the Sexy Regency Romance” (Jeffries). As a beloved and successful romance author, Jeffries has produced a number of books worthy of academic study; however, this thesis will only address her most recently concluded series. Regis asserts that “identifying and studying the strongest romance novels will benefit the entire critical enterprise and help us avoid making claims about simplicity and other qualities that critics assign to the romance novel based on an unrepresentative set of study texts” (2011: 9); I believe that Jeffries Hellions of Halstead Hall series is one worth studying, on the basis of its public recognition as well as its textual properties, but this alone does not justify its representativeness for the genre as a whole. Since this project will examine both the textual and extra-textual elements of the Halstead Hall series which contribute to the aesthetic experience of nuture, some of the extra-textual elements of the series are constants of the popular romance genre. While effects generated by the textual elements of the novels can perhaps be seen as representative of other texts in which these elements occur, further study would be required in order to verify if the effect is the same. At the same time, certain extra- textual elements of the Halstead Hall series – size, length, cover design, and marketing – are conventions of the romance genre, and the historical romance in particular. My goal in choosing to study a series of books is essentially to establish variables as in a scientific experiment: while the extra-textual elements of the novels are essentially uniform, the textual elements are uniquely deployed in each individual novel: the contrast between them allows me to demonstrate the differences and similarities between the five texts and , respectively. By proceeding in this way, I plan to limit my claims about the textual elements of romance novels to the series in question, while also discussing how generic conventions may allow those claims to be extended to romance novels with similar material qualities. There will be no “hasty generalizations” here, and I will attempt to “stay within [my] evidence” (cf. Regis 2011: 9) by providing evidence for any claims made about the romance genre as a whole.

3.2. Theoretical Perspective: a Narratological and Phenomenological Approach

3.2.1. The Reading Process If Regis’ texts focus primarily on the critic’s approach to the study text, Goris’ emphasis is on recognition and awareness of one’s own theoretical perspective. As has been mentioned already, my 26 theoretical approach to the aesthetic experience of nurture as generated by the Hellions of Halstead Hall series will be primarily narratological, as will be evidenced by my analysis of textual elements on both the levels of story and discourse. My inquiry into the narratological aspects of the text is also informed by a phenomenological approach, a theory of aesthetic response, based primarily on the work of Wolfgang Iser. Iser conceives of the reading process as a game which requires the active participation of both text and reader, wherein “the convergence of text and reader brings the literary work into existence, and this convergence can never be precisely pinpointed, but must always remain virtual, as it is not to be identified either with the reality of the text or with the individual disposition of the reader” (1972: 1). Iser’s theory of aesthetic response allows for a close analysis of the textual elements which guide readers’ experiences of a text at the same time that his construction of the reader’s active role allows for the text to convey a variety of significances (cf. Iser 1978: 151). Rather than a vehicle for meaning that exists independently of its reader, Iser puts forth a view of the literary text as the instructions the reader needs in order to assemble the meaning of the text; however, since the text cannot be comprehensive in its directives – because the reader would lose interest if the entire process were prescribed – the meaning assembled by each reader is necessarily unique. The reader becomes engaged in the reading process because of the action required of her: images which are formed as a result of one gestalt must inevitably be revised according to new information gained and new images created. As the reader attempts to assemble the meaning of the text, the “wandering viewpoint” allows the reader to consider the text’s correlatives from their current perspective, but also always in relation to their past perspectives as well as their future expectations” (cf. Iser 1978: 118). The participation required of the reader is one of the factors contributing to their immersion in the text: The image and the reading subject are indivisible. This does not mean, however, that the combination of signs made present in the image arises out of the arbitrariness of the subject—even if the contents of such images may be colored by him; it means in effect that the reader is absorbed into what he himself has been made to produce through the image; he cannot help being affected by his own production. The non-given or absent enter into his presence, and he enters into theirs (Iser 1978: 140; emphasis added).

The reader’s immersion in the text is thus achieved through their participation in the construction of its meaning because this participation requires the reader to be present within the text: as we read, we react to what we ourselves have produced, and it is this of reaction that, in fact, enables us to experience the text as an actual event. We do not grasp it like an empirical object; nor do we comprehend it like a predicative fact; it owes its presence in our minds to our own reactions, and it is these that make us animate the meaning of the text as a reality” (Iser 1978: 129).

The reader’s active role in constructing the text will be invoked below with regard to the creation of aesthetic illusion, as well as in relation to the experience of nurture elicited through the act of reading. 27

3.2.2. The Implied Reader Because the reader is actively involved in constructing the meaning of the text, a theory of aesthetic response allows the critic to discuss the way in which certain textual elements have particular effects on an “implied reader” (Iser 1978: 27). The “implied reader”, as introduced above, “embodies all those predispositions necessary for a literary work to exercise its effect— predispositions laid down, not by an empirical outside reality, but by the text itself. Consequently, the implied reader as a concept has his roots planted firmly in the structure of the text; he is a construct and in no way to be identified with any real reader” (Iser 1978: 35). Since the text must be assembled by a reader, its very nature implies a reader: Iser suggests that the concept of the implied reader both accounts for the existence of various actualizations of particular texts, in addition to providing “a link between all the historical and individual actualizations of the text and mak[ing] them accessible to analysis” (Iser 1978: 38). Walker Gibson describes a similar construct, which he refers to as the “mock reader” in a 1950 article: he describes the mock reader as the character which is constructed for the reader, by the text, and states that “we assume, for the sake of experience, that set of attitudes and qualities which the language asks us to assume, and, if we cannot assume them, we throw the book away” (1950: 265). Gibson mentions that the “mock reader” is most evident in persuasive texts, such as advertisements and propaganda, and asserts that “recognition of a violent disparity between ourself as mock reader and ourself as real person acting in a real world is the process by which we keep our money in our pockets. ‘Does your toupee collect moths?’ asks the toupee manufacturer, and we answer, ‘Certainly not! My hair’s my own. You’re not talking to me, old boy; I’m wise to you.’ Of course we are not always so wise” (1950: 266). This example suggests that we retain our individual dispositions even while embodying the role of the implied reader: in fact, identifying with the implied reader of a text allows the reader to take on their role at the same time as we are guided by our own dispositions: “generally, the role prescribed by the text will be stronger, but the reader’s own disposition will never disappear totally; it will tend instead to form a background to and a frame of reference for the act of grasping and comprehending” (Iser 1978: 37). While this text will use Iser’s term, “implied reader”, to refer to the concept, both critics point to the necessity of a construct which accounts for the nature of the “reader” implied by the textual elements of a literary work. Gibson’s example of how explicitly the implied reader can be characterized illuminates the process by which real readers decide whether or not they are willing to accept the role of implied reader in a given text. This paper will argue that the aesthetic experience of nurture in Hellions of Halstead Hall is generated in part through the real readers’ taking on the role of an implied reader who allows them to develop a positive self-concept. I would like to clarify at this point that I do not mean to talk about the real readers’ individual self-esteem, but rather the nature of the implied reader whose role they take on through the reading process, as well as the way in which they are constituted by the text (cf. Iser 1978: 154). 28

3.2.3. Indeterminacies The text allows for the construction of the implied reader and provides the reader with the building blocks of the narrative world: the author of any literary text has necessarily selected finite elements from infinite possibilities, but the reader must still be able to enter into the process in order for the text to be actualized. This actualization process takes place as a result of the gaps and indeterminacies in the text which are not prescribed by the author: thus author and reader are to share the game of the imagination, and, indeed, the game will not work if the text sets out to be anything more than a set of governing rules. The reader’s enjoyment begins when he himself becomes productive, i.e., when the text allows him to bring his own faculties into . There are, of course, limits to the reader’s willingness to participate, and these will be exceeded if the text makes things too clear or, on the other hand, too obscure: boredom and overstrain represent the two poles of tolerance, and in either case the reader is likely to opt out of the game. (Iser 1978: 108).

For the reader to be able to enter into the actualization process, there must be gaps in the text into which she can insert her own experience and expectations: these indeterminacies are tied into the concept of the implied reader since that concept is constructed by the text, and the quantity of indeterminacies in the text is correlated with that text’s assumptions about its implied reader. As the reader searches for and tries to build consistencies through the reading process, the text, through the temporal reading process, constantly introduces new gestalten – that is, patterns or structures of meaning – which make those previously established seem inadequate. The indeterminacies of a literary text thus allow the reader to enter into the reading process in order to construct the meaning of the text, and are therefore necessary for the reader’s imagination to be engaged. Related to the concept of the implied reader, too few opportunities to participate may lead to boredom and suggest a lower opinion of the implied reader than that constructed by a text in which many indeterminacies require more vigorous participation in the construction of meaning. Iser refers to Eco’s notion of the “frustration of the viewer’s ‘fictional’ instinct” (Eco in Iser 1978: 124), which occurs as a result of our attempts to organize events and experiences according to the terms of a fictional novel: “It is only natural that life should be more like Ulysses than like The Three Musketeers; and yet we are all the more inclined to think of it in terms of The Three Musketeers than in terms of Ulysses—or rather, I can only remember and judge life if I think of it as a traditional novel” (Eco in Iser 1978: 125). Ulysses, lifelike as it may be, requires far more work in order to build consistencies and fill in its indeterminacies: meanwhile, The Three Musketeers, more closely resembles the narratives we are incited to construct through the reading process. This higher degree of narrativity is linked to experientiality and aesthetic illusion (cf. Wolf 2004b: 88, 91), which result in heightened emotional involvement in the reader—aesthetic illusion will be discussed in detail below. At this point, however, it is significant a prototypical degree of narrativity means that it requires less work in order to fill in the gaps because the prototype is familiar. The combination of a high degree of narrativity and a low amount of strain on the part of the reader in order to assemble the meaning of the 29 text results in an aesthetic experience of nurture, I will argue, because of the low demands it places on the reader as well as the comfort that comes with recognizing aspects of one’s lived experience in the narrative.

3.2.4. A Theory of Response vs. a Theory of Reception The reading process, according to Iser’s theory of aesthetic response, requires the active participation of the reader in order to assemble the meaning of the text from the textual elements provided by the author. While the real reader’s mental faculties are involved in the construction of meaning, the text constructs an “implied reader” who embodies the attitudes and predispositions necessary for the text to accomplish its effect. The inability to reconcile one’s personal predispositions with those implied by the text results in a rejection of the text’s premises and will most likely lead to dissatisfaction with the literary work. However, if the real reader embraces the role of the implied reader, they will find themselves constituted by the text through the act of their participation in its actualization. For the reader to enter into the construction of meaning, the text must contain gaps, or indeterminacies, which engage the reader’s imaginative faculties. As the reader strives to build consistency within the text, they may experience boredom or frustration if the text contains too few or too many gaps, respectively. The nature of the gaps thus determines the aesthetic experience generated by the text. The preceding summary of Iser’s theory of aesthetic response informs my own approach to the study of Sabrina Jeffries’ Hellions of Halstead Hall series. Although a theory of aesthetic response may be applied to any literary text, it is obviously not the only valid approach, and must be contrasted with another reader-centered approach: that of reception theory. In Iser’s words: a theory of aesthetic response is confronted with the problem of how a hitherto unformulated situation can be processed and, indeed, understood. A theory of reception, on the other hand, always deals with existing readers, whose reactions testify to historically conditioned experiences of literature. A theory of response has its roots in the text; a theory of reception arises from a history of readers’ judgments (Iser 1978: x).

The following section will introduce Janice Radway’s account of the experience of ‘vicarious nurturance’ as a result of romance novel reading. Her analysis uses concepts from theories of both response and reception: my own argument will attempt to distinguish between the two and to show where Radway’s analysis would have benefitted from a differentiation between the strategies of the text itself and the strategies of reception Radway identifies in her readers. 30

4. Radway’s Reading the Romance: Vicarious Nurture in the Popular Romance as Distraction from Social Justice

4.1. Radway on the Construction, Constitution, and Purpose of the Genre of the Popular Romance

4.1.1. Institutional Beginnings: Production, Distribution, and Audience of Early Popular Romances In her 1984 book, Reading the Romance: Women, Patriarchy, and Popular Literature, Janice Radway studies the strategies and attitudes of a group of female romance readers towards a selection of popular romance novels. Radway’s study begins with a description of the institutional forces of the publishing industry which have shaped the romance genre since its commercial beginning: while Pamela Regis (2003) considers texts as diverse as Richardson’s Pamela (1740-41) and E.M. Forster’s A Room With a View (1908) to be romance novels, Radway identifies the period after the publication of Kathleen Woodiwiss’s The Flame and the Flower (1972) as the moment in which the popular romance genre became the next hottest genre of popular fiction. According to Radway, mystery novels established a precedent in terms of “modern mass-market publishing” given that “[that] genre was particularly well suited for semi-programmed issue because the writer-publisher-audience relationship had been formalized in the 1920s with the establishment of the pulps like Black Mask, Dime Detective, Detective Story, and Detective Fiction Weekly” (Radway 1984/1991: 31). The success of these publications established an audience as well as certain norms of production, which Radway calls “generic orthodoxy” (1984/1991: 31). The fact that mystery novels had an audience built into their production through this regular distribution can be contrasted with conditions in the publishing industry prior to the development of such popular fiction genres. Previously, editors would select books based on potential , and were then required to market them sufficiently in order to attract an audience for the individual texts’ contents: “wary of producing huge quantities of a title that had not yet demonstrated in saleability, these mass-market houses slowly began to rely on books that were examples of categories already proven to be popular with the reading public” (Radway 1984/1991: 30-1). After interest in mysteries declined in the 1950s, publishers began to look for a similar niche, at which point, “Gerald Gross at Ace Books recalled the consistent reprint success of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca” which lead to him establishing a line of (Radway 1984 31). Editor Patricia Myrer had also recognized the success of du Maurier’s Rebecca, which she attributed to women’s desire “to read emotional stories about a woman in peril” (Radway 1984/1991: 31). Myrer subsequently represented Phyllis Whitney and Victoria Holt, in the United States and England respectively, whose gothic novels went on to be hugely successful. While it would be interesting to compare the narrative elements of popular gothic fiction to romance fiction in order to determine the similarities and differences in effect, the significance of these developments is that they mark a shift in the production and distribution of popular fiction. The 31 reason that publishers were so successful at selling their popular romance fiction has much to do with the “unique situation of women in American society” (Radway 1984/1991: 32). In the context of the swift transformation of the paperback publishing industry, Radway explains that the romance exemplified category literature’s potential to appeal to a pre-existing audience: By utilizing the magazine distribution network, paperback publishers substantially increased their chances of finding buyers. But the use of this network proved especially significant for those paperback houses that were newly interested in female readers because it made available for book distribution two outlets almost always visited on a regular basis by women, the local drugstore and the food supermarket. […] Consequently, the publishers could be sure of regularly reaching a large segment of the adult female population, simply by placing the gothics in drug and food stores (Radway 1984/1991: 32).

This awareness of the novels’ audience accounts in part for the fact that the readership of romances has always been primarily female. Radway reminds her reader that book buying “is an event that is affected and at least partially controlled by the material nature of book publishing as a socially organized technology of production and distribution” (Radway 1984/1991: 20); this commercial aspect of books’ production and distribution can also be seen to account for the construction of their implied reader as female. Because the real reader must be able to accept the role of implied reader in order for the text to achieve its effect, the fact that the text is a commercial product which has a pre-existing audience determines, at least to a certain extent, the implied reader that audience is willing to become7. In the same way that aesthetic response theory claims that meaning is constructed by the interaction between the reader and the text, current thought in genre theory suggests that all aspects of the text’s creation are equally affected by genre: writers are aware of generic conventions and of which genre they are writing in – genre theorist Amy Devitt refers to teachers telling students to “figure out who your audience is” (1993: 578) – because it is through this choice that the requirements of their genre become clear. Pre-existing knowledge about their audience thus allows romance writers to construct their implied readers according to the requirements of that audience. With their audience already assembled for them, publishers of early popular romances were able to spend their time trying to optimize their titles according to that group’s preferences. This accounts for the shifts in interest Radway notes in the progress of commercial fiction: from mysteries to gothics, and gothics to the first wave of romances. The taste for these romances was set by Woodiwiss’ The Flame and the Flower (1972): although Woodiwiss’s novel, like the gothics, followed the fortunes of a pert but feminine heroine, it was nearly three times as long as the typical gothic, included more explicit

7 Here I do not mean to imply that male readers are unable to identify with the implied reader of romance novels, rather that the implied readers of romance novels are constructed in order not to stray too far from the predispositions and attitudes of the audience the texts target, as commercial products. 32

descriptions of sexual encounters and rapes, and described much travel from place to place. Despite the differences, it ended, as did all gothics, with the heroine safely returned to the hero’s arms (Radway 1984/1991: 33).

Submitted to Avon books, The Flame and the Flower was originally ignored, until it caught the eye of executive editor Nancy Coffey and subsequently held her rapt for an entire weekend (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 34). Coffey endorsed the novel and it was published as a paperback original. While Avon had experimented with paperback originals prior to The Flame and the Flower, the house’s extraordinary success with Woodiwiss’s novel soon caused industry-wide reconsideration of the possibilities of paperback originals as potential bestsellers. When Avon followed this success with two more bestseller romances in 1974, the industry was convinced not only of the viability of the original but also of the fact that a new category had been created (Radway 1984/1991: 34).

Avon’s success with The Flame and the Flower inspired a surge in production of novels with similar themes, eventually dubbed the “sweet savage romance” after one of Woodiwiss’ successors: Sweet Savage Love by Rosemary Rogers (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 34). With this sense of what kind of content they were looking for in mind, publishers turned their attention to optimizing the process of production and distribution, once again, with the bottom line in mind. Radway contrasts the industry’s prior attitude with its later one by pointing out that whereas publisher’s had once seen their industry as “the province of literary gentlemen seriously devoted to the ‘cause’ of humane letters” (Radway 1984/1991: 35), after being acquired by large communication conglomerates, the bottom line became significantly more important. The majority of American publishing houses having been taken over by corporations (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 34-5), they also became more interested in the relatively consistent sales of category fiction. By producing lines of category fiction, publishing houses could more or less guarantee themselves a certain profitability; these circumstances encouraged them to invest in market research which would allow them to adapt their product to their customers’ needs as well as possible. In order to reap the benefits of selling popular romances as a commodity, the industry – lead by Harlequin Enterprises – experimented with marketing strategies associated with products like soap or laundry detergent (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 40): “not only did [W. Lawrence Heisey, head of Harlequin Enterprises] identify and locate his readers in order to design specific strategies for contacting them, but he also sought to discover their motives for reading and their preferences in characters and plot in order to incorporate them all in a carefully elaborated advertising appeal” (Radway 1984/1991: 40). While Harlequin’s publications were somewhat derided within the industry, their success was coveted: “once ignored within the industry, Harlequin is now followed with care by book people who have little respect for the company’s editorial product but who would dearly love to duplicate its financial success” (Radway 1984/1991: 41). Thus Harlequin established careful attention to its readers’ preferences and motivation as part of the editorial process. 33

Radway describes the different methods the publishing houses employed in order to tailor their lines to their readers. Fawcett books tested five different possible imprints in focus interviews with potential readers: “because they understood that the success of brand-name category publishing is entirely dependent on the ability to establish an exact congruence between what the audience anticipates from a product and what the product actually delivers” (Radway 1984/1991: 42). Tailoring their product to a pre-existing audience’s demands allowed publishing houses “to avoid the very difficult problem of finding a real audience to match the theoretical one that usually guides the publication process through its early stages” (Radway 1984/1991: 42). While this process was first applied to popular romances, it could have been used for any category line. Radway suggests that its initial application to the sale of popular romances can be explained by the unique conditions of its target audience: female readers “are remarkably available as a book buying public in the sense that their social duties and habits make them accessible to publishers on a regular basis” (Radway 1984/1991: 42). Rather than signalling an increased need for reassurance provided by the popular romance, Radway asserts that the aforementioned developments within the publishing industry account must be taken into account in any discussion of the romance’s staggering success. This success was also influenced by the fact that, in addition to their availability, female readers also had the time and money to invest in romance reading because of the traditional allocation of responsibilities within heterosexual relationships (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 43): “although not all women readers are represented by these conditions, it seems highly likely that they do provide the background for the majority of women who are romance readers” (Radway 1984/1991: 45). Despite the fact that the social conditions Radway describes have changed dramatically since the publication of her study, they remain the conditions under which the popular romance first rose to prominence. The real situation of contemporary romance readers is necessarily much different than that of their late 20th century counterparts, however, publishing houses’ strategy of matching their product to their audience as closely as possible need not be invalidated by social changes. The ability of category fiction to match its readers’ “horizon of expectations” (cf. Jauss 1982) is in part due to publishers’ concerted efforts both to manage and to meet their readers’ expectations, and these efforts have evolved alongside women’s roles: the Internet, social media, and the construction of communities of romance readers have all contributed to romance readers’ ability to give feedback on their reading preferences, and popular romance offerings have evolved in order to reflect changing tastes. The institutional developments detailed above thus provided romance readers not only with a reading experience geared towards their particular situations, through the construction of popular romances as “semi-programmed issue”, they also alerted readers to the fact that the genre was one they could return to any time in order to obtain a similar but not identical experience. The way in which the popular romance itself has evolved in order to match these expectations will be outlined in the following section. 34

4.1.2. Failed and Ideal Romances: Reader Selection and its Impact on the Genre While institutional factors determined the process of production and distribution of popular romances, the genre’s readers have, in large part, determined the product by means of their process of text selection. As publishing houses attempt to match their products to their audiences, the audience in question is able to vote for those romances they prefer by choosing where to spend their money. Radway’s study of a group of women who select their romances based on the recommendations of Dorothy “Dot” Evans allowed her to speak directly to romance readers about what constitutes an ideal or a failed romance. Radway introduces the Smithton women as females “whose days are devoted almost wholly to the care of others” (1984/1991: 46), and states that the group formed as a result of the prevalence of bad romances (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 46). They are named after the “Midwestern community of Smithton “with its meticulously tended subdivisions of single-family homes” (Radway 1984/1991: 48), which points to the middle-class conditions that characterize their context. While she does acknowledge the limits of her study in terms of its representativeness of romance readers, the fact that individual readers will attempt to only purchase books they expect to enjoy seems both logical and intuitive. Radway’s claim that Harlequins had begun to “offend and irritate” Dot’s ladies (1984/1991: 49) points to the way in which the publishing industry’s attempt to link their houses to specific kinds of books was successful, even when their books were not. The women’s selection of texts, as well as the community within which that selection occurred demonstrates that despite the institutional factors influencing the production and distribution of romances, it is the women’s own reading preferences – and the novels’ ability to reflect them – which influence the success or failure of a romance in their eyes. Awareness of the genre and of the diversity within it, that is, the different experiences offered by different authors, lines, publishers, and sub-genres, allows women to identify and seek out a particular type of reading experience. For Dot’s readers, the “ideal romance” could be characterized by certain elements on the level of story. Radway notes with some incredulity that the women were adamant about the variety and diversity of romances at the same time as they “exhibit[ed] fairly rigid expectations about what is permissible in a romantic tale and express[ed] disappointment and outrage when those conventions [were] violated” (1984/1991: 63). The dissatisfaction experienced as a result of a book’s failure to live up to generic conventions evokes the sentiment conveyed by the statement: “I know what it is when I read it”, which also happens to be the title of an article by romance writer and theorist Jennifer Crusie. In describing the Romance Writer’s of America’s attempts to come up with a definition of romance novel for the 21st century (referenced above in my definition of terms), Crusie discusses the difficulty of trying to account for all of the things a romance novel definitely is and definitely isn’t. The RWA eventually decided that the story and the ending were the most important aspects of the genre, and ended up with the definition of romance as “a love story that has an emotionally satisfying, optimistic ending” (Crusie 2000: 2). Because they are not as motivated to be inclusive in their definition, Radway’s Smithton women are more prescriptive of what they 35 consider to be an ideal romance. Radway notes that “if the Smithton readers’ stipulations are taken seriously, a romance is, first and foremost, a story about a woman. […] To qualify as a romance, the story must chronicle not merely the events of a courtship, but what it feels like to be the object of one” (Radway 1984/1991: 64). The textual elements which contribute to experientiality will be discussed below in my analysis of Jeffries’ series, but it is interesting to note that it was introduced as a feature of the ideal romance even in Radway’s ethnographic study. In her discussion of the best and worst features of the popular romance according to the Smithton women, Radway notes that they “find it possible to select and construct romances in such a way that their stories are experienced as a reversal of the oppression and emotional abandonment suffered by women in real life. For Dot and her customers, romances provide a utopian vision in which female individuality and a sense of self are shown to be compatible with nurturance and care by another” (1984/1991: 55). While Radway is concerned with studying the strategies of interpretation the women use in order to reconcile the world of the romance with their lived experience of life in a patriarchal society, I am interested in the way in which real readers’ text selection has shaped the popular romance genre in terms of the textual elements that guide contemporary romance readers’ aesthetic response. To that end, Radway’s comments about the Smithton women’s preferences can be contrasted with today’s generic norms in order to show how the genre has evolved according to its real readers’ attitudes and predispositions. This evolution is related to a definition of genre as an institution that is constituted by its “purposes, participants, and subjects” (Devitt 2000: 4). The Smithton women, as participants in the genre, select novels whose subjects match their preferences in order to fulfill their own specific purposes for the texts: these preferences include stories which revolve around “one woman-one man” and “the gradual removal of emotional barriers between two people who recognize their connection early in the story” (Radway 1984/1991: 123), a heroine who is “differentiated from her more ordinary counterparts in other romance novels by unusual intelligence or by an extraordinary fiery disposition” (Radway 1984/1991: 123), and in which sexual fidelity is always the logical consequence of true love (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 126). These criteria are remarkably similar to those set out in Michaels 2007 guide On Writing Romance: How to Craft a Novel That Sells. In contrast, the characteristics of failed romances that Radway describes are no longer conventions of the genre. These include conflicts based solely on misunderstandings, such as triangular relationships (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 123), a lack of believability in terms of character’s behaviour and motivations (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 164), and finally, male cruelty and sexual profanity more in line with what one would expect of male pornography (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 164). Radway notes that “while [the women] find both the clinical terms and sexual profanity disturbing, what they object to most in these books is the degradation, violence and brutality that the heroine is forced to endure before the hero is transformed into her lover” (1984/1991: 165). All three of these failings are explicitly addressed by Michaels in prescriptive language urging aspiring 36 romance writers to avoid them. Of the misunderstandings, she says, “ is not […] failure to communicate. Misunderstanding each other, making wrong assumptions, jumping to conclusions, or wrongly judging one another are not illustrations of conflict but of the hero and heroine’s inability to make themselves clear” (Michaels 2007: 63); the importance of believability is stressed by Michaels’ devotion of an entire chapter to “Building a Believable Plot” (2007: 180), and finally, male cruelty is excluded most emphatically: violence occurring between the hero and heroine is a particularly difficult issue for the modern romance writer. As society becomes more aware of the dangers of domestic violence, some of the action that was considered acceptable in romance novels in the past takes on a dark and uncomfortable aura. So-called bodice rippers sometimes included the rape of the heroine by the hero, but modern readers find it difficult to believe that a heroine could ever find happiness with a man who abused her, no matter how logical the author’s reasoning, or how true to the historical period the action may be (Michaels 2007: 140; emphasis mine).

Radway’s description of the Smithton women’s efforts to avoid romances that don’t fulfill their expectations of the genre points to a kind of literary Darwinism determined by the commercial reality of book-selling: if it doesn’t sell, it must adapt or die. Through the juxtaposition of the negative traits of Radway’s failed romances and Michaels’ prescriptive text for how to write a successful romance, we can see that the conventions which were denigrated by the Smithton women thirty years ago have subsequently been more or less excised from the genre. As Michaels’ comment about the presence of rape scenes makes clear, the pre-existing audience of the popular romance means that the implied reader must be constructed, to a certain extent, with the attitudes and predispositions of the real readers in mind. Since the audience of the popular romance precedes the text, novels that fail to appeal to that audience have necessarily failed as romances. The readers’ selection of successful texts thus defines the genre at the same time as it informs the function for which the readers use the novels: The Smithton group’s reliance on this evaluation system enables the women to insure that a media institution, which in fact operates to benefit others financially, also benefits them emotionally. As a result, they at least partially reclaim the patriarchal form of the romance for their own use. By selecting only those stories that will reinforce their feelings of self- worth and supply the replenishments they need, they counter the force of a system that functions generally by making enormous demands upon women for which it refuses to pay (Radway 1984/1991:184).

The notion that the Smithton women use romances to “reinforce their feelings of self-worth and supply the replenishments they need” relates the romances they view as ideal to her conception of the genre’s purpose, at the same time as it relates to my thesis that the popular romance creates an aesthetic experience of nurture. The following section will summarize her reasoning in further detail, and point to which aspects of that conception are problematic. 37

4.1.3. Defining the Purpose of the Popular Romance

4.1.3.1. To Provide Pleasure and Encouragement, Not Strategies for Social Change In her sketch of an expanded theory of genre that moves away from the formalist classification of types of texts, Amy Devitt asks her reader to “consider what we know when, as readers, we recognize the genre of a text. Based on our identification of genre, we make assumptions not only about the form but also about the text’s purposes, its subject matter, its writer, and its expected reader” (1993: 575). While Regis and Goris have warned of the dangers of speaking of the popular romance genre as a whole, Devitt’s definition of genre as informed by the purpose of the text does allow for a certain amount of generalization, if only insofar as readers’ perception of the genre’s purpose is concerned. Radway’s account of the purpose for which the Smithton women use their romances is informed by her use of psychoanalytical theory and Nancy Chodorow’s “feminist revision of Freud”: Essentially, Chodorow’s thesis is that the characteristic sexual and familial division of labor in the patriarchal family, which accords mothering to women, results in asymmetrical personality development in women and men that prompts them to reproduce this same division of labor. […] Chodorow maintains that the consequences of this relationship are different for male and female children when both relate most consistently to a female parent. […] [She] argues that women often resort to mothering as a source of vicarious nurturance precisely because men are emotionally constituted by female mothering in such a way that they find provision of this nurturance impossible (Radway 1984/1991: 136-37).

While Radway’s interest in Chodorow’s account of the root of the need for nurture is thought- provoking, and would be interesting to consider in light of the changes in gender relations and child- rearing since 1978, it is beyond the scope of this paper to examine Chodorow’s theory in more detail. A brief introduction is necessary, however, in order to understand Radway’s understanding of the purpose for which women read the popular romance: Given the nature of the female personality as a self-in-relation, the inability of men to function as completely adequate relational partners, and the reciprocal demands made upon women by the very children they rely on to satisfy their unmet needs, it is understandable that many women derive pleasure and encouragement from repetitive indulgence in romantic fantasies (1984/1991: 138).

I agree with Radway up to this point: that women seek out romance novels because of the feelings of “pleasure” and “encouragement” that they experience while reading. The genre is thus defined by the readers in terms of what they are looking for when they reach for a popular romance, and it is limited by its readers’ recognition of what they are not looking for. Radway mentions this fact with regard to one of the Smithton readers’ nominations of a failed romance, of which she says that “it seems clear […] that failure is somehow wrapped up with the inability to provide the reader with the right kind of vicarious emotion” (Radway 1984/1991: 178). Chodorow’s psychoanalytical theory thus provides an explanation of the reason behind romance readers’ attempts to locate a source 38 of nurture; however, Radway ultimately sees this nurture as malignant in that it curbs the potential impulse for social change by temporarily compensating for the ‘nurturance’ women lack as a result of the patriarchal organization of society (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 138). Although Radway acknowledges that romance readers do experience ‘vicarious nurturance’ as an effect of romance reading – which she both locates in the textual strategies of her study texts and is told about by the Smithton readers – she is not able to reconcile this good with what she sees as the negative consequences of romance reading: On one level, then, the romance is an account of a woman’s journey to female personhood as that particular psychic configuration is constructed and realized within patriarchal culture. It functions as a symbolic display and explanation process commonly experienced by many women. At the same time, because the ideal romance symbolically represents real female needs within the story and then depicts their successful satisfaction, it ratifies or confirms the inevitability and desirability of the entire institutional structure within which those needs are created and addressed (Radway 1984/1991: 138; bold emphasis mine).

Condemning the romance for failing to address the institutional structure of patriarchy, or for providing distraction from rather than solutions to the systematic oppression of women, Radway deploys the contemptus mundi and social justice topoi mentioned in Regis (2011: 10) and above: the world is fallen because it is organized according to an institutional structure that deprives women of the nurture required in order to achieve a full sense of self, and social justice is blocked because the romance fails to provide the reader “a comprehensive program for reorganizing her life” (Radway 1984/1991: 215; cf. Regis 2011: 10). Although Radway states that “what is perhaps crucial to the ideal reading experience is the woman’s success and the particular feelings of worth, power, and satisfaction it engenders in her as well as in the reader who vicariously shares her life” (1984/1991: 184), she maintains that “although in restoring a woman’s depleted sense of self romance reading may constitute tacit recognition that the arrangements between the sexes is not ideal for her emotional well-being, it does nothing to alter a woman’s social situation, itself very likely characterized by those dissatisfying patterns” (1984/1991: 212). It is at this point that I would argue Regis’ “‘Well, we knew that. What else ya got?’” (2013: 3) seems appropriate. Between the text, the implied and real readers, the author, and the critic, Radway seems to be the only one who sees the romance’s purpose as “alter[ing] a woman’s social situation”. If genre is also shaped by the purpose for which we choose books, then it seems unfair to denigrate the romance for not fulfilling an objective which is not set out by its generic conventions. If works by feminist authors do change women’s living conditions, all the better, but I think Radway’s claim that “this activity may very well obviate the need or desire to demand satisfaction in the real world because it can be so successfully met in fantasy” (1984/1991: 212) attributes too much credit to the romance and not enough credit to its readers: assuming that women who face the structural oppression of patriarchy on a daily basis (with regard to the (ongoing) struggle to ensure women’s access to equal pay, 39 affordable childcare, and accessible birth control, for example) will be appeased by everything working out all right for a heroine in a romance novel does not set very high expectations for the social consciousness or critical thinking skills of romance readers, nor does it align with the purpose of the romance as conceived by the Smithton women as one of the romance’s community of users. Devitt reminds us that “literary genres can be described in terms of their communities of users only if the community is described always in multiple terms” (2000: 709), and points out that “as Radway notes […] even her careful study examines only a small number of readers and only one kind of reader. The mother reading romances at home while their children sleep or attend school are not the same readers as the secretaries reading romances at their desks during lunch or on the subway heading to work” (Devitt 2000: 708-9). Again, Radway’s ethnographic study focuses on a theory of reception; the current project focuses on a theory of aesthetic response. Therefore, the reader of most importance here is the implied reader, who is not typically constructed as reading for strategies for reorganizing oppressive social structures.

4.1.3.2. To Provide Relaxation, Escape, Positive Feelings Despite the fact that Radway sees romance novels as conservative because they “[give] the reader a strategy for making her present situation more comfortable without substantive reordering of its structure rather than a comprehensive program for reorganizing her life in such a way that all needs might be met” (Radway 1984/1991: 215), she acknowledges that her conclusion about the genre must be multi-faceted, in part because of the Smithton women’s own insistence that the act of reading is oppositional (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 209-10). As the ‘community of users’ in question in Radway’s study, the Smithton women themselves answered the question of how they rank “the three most important motives for romance reading out of a list of eight. […] When these first choices are added to the second and third most important reasons for reading, the totals are distributed as in” Table 3 (Radway 1984/1991: 61):

Table 3 Question: Which of the Following Best Describes Why You Read Romances? a. To escape my daily problems 13 b. To learn about faraway places and times 19 c. For simple relaxation 33 d. Because I wish I had a romance like the heroine’s 5 e. Because reading is just for me; it is my time 28 f. Because I like to read about the strong, virile heroes 4 g. Because reading is at least better than other forms 5 of escape h. Because romance stories are never sad or depressing 10 (Radway 1984: 61)

From this data, Radway concludes that romance reading is valued by the Smithton women because the experience itself is different from ordinary existence. Not only is it a relaxing release from the tension produced by daily problems and responsibilities, but it creates a time or space within which a woman can be entirely on her own, preoccupied with her personal needs, desires, 40

and pleasure. It is also a means of transportation or escape to the exotic or, again, to that which is different” (Radway 1984/1991: 61).

All of the reasons given by the Smithton women result in their experience of positive emotions through romance reading: Radway notes the feeling of release that the women experience, as well as the pleasure of having time to oneself (cf. 1984/1991: 61). The pleasure the women experience as a result of reaching for a romance novel defines their purpose for the genre: whether it is to escape or relax, indulge or learn about another time, they choose romances because they are different from the experience of everyday life. Even the purpose of reading “to learn about faraway places and times” results in positive emotions for the women because they enjoy the experience of feeling as though they have learned something and enjoyed it (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 61). By relieving their stress and giving them time to take care of themselves, romances provide the women with the nurture they give others but don’t get from anywhere else, according to Chodorow (1978 in Radway 1984/1991: 137). With this information about the purpose of the genre as conceived of by the community of users in Radway’s study, it’s possible to see the potential validity of Radway’s application of Chorodow’s psychoanalytical theory; however, acknowledging that the women read in order to experience nurture as a result of its inadequate provision in the context of patriarchal social conditions does not correspondingly imply that it is the romance’s responsibility as a genre to rectify those social conditions. While she takes this information as reason to widen her analysis to the Smithton women’s conception of the act of reading, which will be discussed below, it is also worth mentioning that Radway’s own definition of genre is somewhat different than that used in this project. Radway notes that she “agree[s] with Will Wright’s argument, articulated in his critique of Propp, that a genre is never defined solely by its constitutive set of functions, but by interaction between characters and by their development as individuals” (1984/1991:120). This definition relies only on textual elements to delineate a genre, but because these elements contribute, through the reading process, to a specific aesthetic experience of a text, it is also possible to link our two notions of genre. Pamela Regis’ eight narrative elements of the romance suggest that the interactions and character development of the main characters in romance novels can be characterized as generic conventions in that there is always development from the meeting to the betrothal (cf. Regis 2003 in Selinger 2007: 312). If the aesthetic experience of a particular text is a result of interactions between the characters and their developments on the level of story, it can also be linked to the purpose of the text because of its reader’s ability to reach for any book within that genre in order to achieve the positive feelings associated with the romance by the Smithton women. I therefore agree with Radway’s concept of genre, but find it lacking in awareness of the extra-textual elements that contribute to generic conventions. Even as Radway argues, through her use of Chodorow, that the romance provides the ‘nurturance’ the women need, she only sees this as provided vicariously on the level of story. In contrast, Suzanne Juhasz 41 offers an analysis of women’s romance fiction which, again, using Chodorow’s theory among other feminist interpretations of Freud, argues that the popular romance offers women a female version of the quest, which results in a process of self-realization (cf. Juhasz 1988: 250). Juhasz’s application of Chodorow will be discussed below, in my own analysis of the effect of genre on the aesthetic experience of nurture, but here I have summarized the two views of the purpose of the popular romance in Radway’s text: her own, which would require the romance to be more than it is, and that of her readers, which is based on more than just the text in front of them. As the response above suggests, when the Smithton women take time out of their day to read romances, they are not just choosing those books for the love story or the heroes, or the interaction between the hero and the heroine, but rather for the experience that reading romances provides them.

4.1.4. Summary Radway’s account of the institutional beginnings of the romance genre describes the innovations within the publishing industry that made the romance’s success as semi-programmed category literature possible. In its beginnings and today, the genre is constituted by its heritage as well as by awareness of its pre-existing audience. The social conditions informing the lives of some American women meant that they had both the time, money, and desire to be avid readers of romance novels. While women are by no means universally characterized by these conditions, the ones who do fit this bill are actively targeted by publishers in their construction of the implied audience of their texts. Because women are aware of this consistency within the genre, the commodification of romance novels allows them to reach for a romance every time they wish to experience a particular aesthetic experience. Developments within the genre have taken place as a result of this process: as women select romances according to which features best fulfill their desires of the genre, a kind of literary Darwinism takes place, whereby the genre evolves in order to best fulfill its audience’s criteria. The Smithton women’s ideal romances “ must chronicle not merely the events of a courtship, but what it feels like to be the object of one” (Radway 1984/1991: 64); in the thirty years since Radway’s study, reader selection has defined the current state of the popular romance genre, which can be seen in the way that contemporary romances do not include many of the aspects of romances which were already negatively perceived by the Smithton readers. For commercial genres like the popular romance to succeed, the expectations of its pre-existing audience must be taken into account in the production stages. Finally, Radway’s conclusion that the genre of popular romance fails to adequate provide women with practical solutions to the social situations which result in their need for additional ‘nurturance’ indicates a chasm between her concept of the genre’s obligations and the reasons for which the Smithton women actually seek out romances. Although Chodorow’s theory does provide a convincing account of the reasons behind the need for supplementary nurture by romance texts, the 42 readers are content with the genre as it provides them with an aesthetic experience characterized by positive feelings. The women curate their experiences of the genre by attempting to select texts which guarantee a particular aesthetic experience; they do not expect the romances to provide them with “a comprehensive program for reorganizing [their] li[ves]” (Radway 1984/1991: 215). Genre defines the aesthetic experience of the popular romance to the extent that readers can depend on its elicitation by books written according to generic conventions, as defined by their implied audience.

4.2. Radway on the Act of Reading as Escape and Instruction In her chapter on the act of reading, Radway mentions the fact that she had not anticipated the very act of sitting down to read a romance to be so important to the Smithton women. She explains how, “because the women always responded to [her] query about their reasons for reading with comments about the pleasures of the act itself rather than about their liking for the particulars of the romantic plot, [Radway] soon realized [she] would have to give up [her] obsession with textual features and narrative details if [she] wanted to understand their view of romance reading” (1984/1991: 86). This shift in focus allows Radway to theorize about what happens to the women through the reading process, as well as about how they conceive of their own romance reading as an escape from everyday cares. Finally, Radway gives her own interpretation of the justifications the women use to defend their romance reading from family members who may see it as an indulgent waste of time.

4.2.1. The Act of Reading as Escape, or, the Act of Not Not Reading The Smithton women stress the romance’s ability to allow them to leave behind the stress of every day life as one of the genre’s main attractions. This effect comes about not so much as a result of the reading process, but rather through the act of picking up a romance and sitting down to read. In a excerpt indicative of the divergent views with which critic and reader approach the genre, Radway explains that: In posing the question, “What do romance novels do better than other novels today?,” I expected [Dot] to concern herself in answer with the characteristics of the plot and the manner in which the story evolved. To my surprise, Dot took my query about “doing” as a transitive question about the effects of romances on the people who read them. (Radway 1984/1991: 87).

Dot goes on to explain how the women could also use pills or alcohol in order to escape their daily lives in the same way that the romances allow them, but that the act of reading is construed as not only more “innocuous”, but also as something that they would like their children to learn from them (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 87). While Dot and other Smithton women are apprehensive about the word “addiction” (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 88), the frequency with which they seek out romances for a break from everyday life suggests a similar relationship. Dot also mentions feeling defensive about her husband commenting on the amount of money she spends on books, and suggests that men feel threatened by romance reading because men “want their wife to be in the room with them” (Radway 43

1984/1991: 87). Dot emphasizes the escapist aspect of the act of reading with her final statement, “my body is in the room but the rest of me is not (when I am reading)” (Radway 1984/1991: 87). Thus through the act of reading, the women experience literal escape from their daily cares in that they are transported to the world of the story; this effect is not limited to fiction, but rather common to illusionist texts (cf. Wolf 2004a: 327), and often criticized as escapist. They describe this experience as a way of “denying the present” (Radway 1984/1991: 90) as well as “a special gift a woman gives herself” (Radway 1984/1991: 91), and “the Smithton women stressed the privacy of the act and the fact that it enables them to focus their attention on a single object that can provide pleasure for themselves alone” (Radway 1984/1991: 91). The notion that the women enjoy “escap[ing] the present” is particularly interesting given the Smithton women’s preference for historical novels (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 56), whose settings – if aesthetic illusion is successful – would accomplish this better than contemporary romances. The private pleasure that the women take from romance reading can thus be linked back to Chodorow’s theory of female development, in that the romances provide the women with the ‘nurturance’ that they provide their families, effectively at all times when they are not reading romances (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 94). One of the reasons the women need romances then seems to be that “as a social institution the contemporary family contains no role whose principal task is the reproduction and emotional support of the wife and mother” (Radway 1984/1991: 94). The literal escape that women cite as one of their motivations behind reading romances compensates them for the work that they do for their families, and “supplies them with an important emotional release that is proscribed in daily life because the social role with which they identify themselves leaves little room for guilt-less, self-interested pursuit of individual pleasure” (Radway 1984/1991: 95-6). The very act of taking time out of one’s day to read, of not doing anything which isn’t reading, constitutes an act of self-nurture for these women insofar as their romance reading allows them to care wholly for themselves as they temporarily decline their roles as nurturers of others. In this chapter, Radway goes on to discuss the ‘nurturance’ the women receive vicariously through their identification with a heroine who is cared for by the gentle ministrations of the hero. She claims that since the culmination of every romance novel results in the “creation of that perfect union where the ideal male, who is masculine and strong, yet nurturant too, finally recognizes the intrinsic worth of the heroine,” (Radway 1984/1991: 97) the reader vicariously experiences that ‘nurturance’ through her identification with the hero. “Ultimately,” concludes Radway, “the romance permits its reader the experience of feeling cared for and the sense of having been reconstituted affectively, even if both are lived only vicariously” (Radway 1984/1991: 97). The nurturance that the reader experiences vicariously through identification will be further discussed in the section on Radway and the romance’s story level; however, in this section, Radway describes both the figurative and literal escape accomplished by romance reading that allows the women to experience ‘nurturance’ through 44 the denial of their daily responsibilities and through their immersion in the text, for at least as long as they are reading.

4.2.2. The Act of Reading as Worthwhile Pursuit, Instructional Activity While the Smithton women themselves feel that their romance reading is equivalent to their husbands’ enjoyment of sporting events or other activities which take their attention away from the home (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 103), they have become adept at justifying their romance reading to husbands or family members who see it as a waste of time. Radway notes that “guilt arises, then, as a result of the readers’ own uneasiness about indulging in such an obviously pleasurable experience as much as it does as the consequence of others’ disapproval” (1984/1991: 105). She locates as the source of this guilt “a culture that continues to value work above leisure and play, both of which still seem to carry connotations of frivolousness for the Smithton women” (Radway 1984/1991: 105). In Radway’s opinion, it is this negative disapproval and the negative connotation of leisure that compels the women to justify their romance reading with the claim that the books are educational. The fact that she is not entirely convinced of the validity of this claim is revealed by the language she uses to express it, for example, “fortunately for them, however, they have devised an explanation for why they read romantic novels based on values more acceptable to the culture at large and to men in particular” (Radway 1984/1991: 106; emphasis mine). Similarly, she says, “Dot and Kit are not unique in their tendency to resort to this kind of logic to justify their expenditures of time, money, and energy on romances” (1984/1991: 108; emphasis mine). Because the women answered in the negative when Radway asked them how closely the events of the romance resemble real life, she finds a contradiction in the fact that they convey real information about the outside world (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 109). In her own words, Radway describes the Smithton women’s beliefs about the reality status of the text: The fact that the story is fantastic, however, does not compromise the accuracy of the portrayal of the physical environment within which the idealized characters move. Even though the Smithton women know the stories are improbable, they also assume that the world that serves as the backdrop for those stories is exactly congruent with their own. Indeed, they believe so strongly in the autonomous reality of the fictional world that they are positively indignant if book covers inaccurately portray the heroine or the hero (1984/1991: 109).

Whereas Radway implies that the consequence of this belief in the correspondence between the fictional world of the text and the external world of the readers may be a neutered impulse for social change since their needs have been met in the (cf. 1984/1991: 117), I believe that what she is really describing is evidence of the high degree of aesthetic illusion of romance novels (cf. Wolf 2004a). The factors which contribute to a literary text’s effect of aesthetic illusion will be discussed in detail below, but it is worth noting at this point that the congruence between the fictional world and the real world – even with regard to historical novels – is an example of both the text’s heteroreferentiality and accessibility, which contribute to the quality of experientiality. Both of these 45 qualities serve to heighten the effects of aesthetic illusion and identification by allowing the reader to enter into the world of the text. Radway mentions, “the extensive research library [an editor at Dell] had compiled on the English Regency to help her check the accuracy of the manuscripts submitted” (1984/1991: 109). Similarly, in her book On Writing Romance: How to Craft a Novel That Sells Michaels advises potential authors of romances – historical romances in particular – to be vigilant in their representation of real places, people, and events, so as not to contradict the reader’s pre-existing knowledge (2007: 34). Rather than an excuse for their husbands or an error in judgment about the reality status of the romance, I see the romance readers’ appreciation for the facts they learn through romance reading as appreciation for the high degree of aesthetic illusion which permits them to escape their daily lives so thoroughly. Since this argument is mine rather than Radway’s however, it will be fleshed out in more detail in my analysis of the Hellions of Halstead Hall series below.

4.2.3. Summary What the Smithton women take away from the act of reading is a feeling of having engaged in adult conversation (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 112), as well as “broader horizons” and new knowledge of the world (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 111-12). Radway’s application of Chodorow’s theory provides an explanation of how the Smithton women are denied ‘nurturance’ in their daily lives, as well as how they are “reproduced” by their romance novels. The act of reading nurtures the women in the sense that it allows women a literal escape from their daily tasks, as well as information about the world around them, which they can share in order to give their reading an educational spin for their husbands or family members. Radway notes that: the Smithton women are all acutely aware that American culture does not value the role they perform and they indignantly protest that their employment as mothers and housewives does not mean that they are necessarily stupid. Their reading, finally, serves to confirm their image of themselves as intelligent individuals who are yet deserving of occasional pleasure and escape from responsibilities that are willingly accepted and dutifully performed (1984/1991: 114).

However, by casting doubts about their own conception of the act of reading as educational – positing it as a justification intended to alleviate their feelings of guilt – Radway once again undermines her readers own experience of the texts. Perhaps it is their belonging to different interpretive communities that allows the readers to enjoy the immersivity of the text as both stimulus and outlet for deep emotions while Radway worries about whether or not “the vicarious pleasure offered by romantic fiction finally may be satisfying enough to forestall the need for more substantial change in the reader’s life” (Radway 1984/1991: 118).

4.3. Radway on Immersion, Identification, and Reassurance: A Look at the Level of Story In the course of her study on the reading habits, texts, and strategies of the Smithton readers, Radway both discusses individual study texts chosen through the women’s recommendations and the 46 genre as a whole, based on her observations about the texts she has read and the women’s comments about their most and least favourite texts. Because of Radway’s focus on reception rather than on a theory of aesthetic response, our approaches to the romance texts themselves are quite different. This section will compile the remarks that Radway makes about the genre with reference to three main points: their characterization as “particularly immersive”, their ability to provide ‘vicarious nurturance’ through the reader’s identification with the heroine, and their ambiguous status as myth/novel, the categorization of which Radway links to the verisimilitude of the text. I intend to demonstrate that these attributes of the level of story are brought about by the effect of aesthetic illusion, which I discuss in more detail below. Once again, with Regis’ remarks in mind, I am wary of speaking of the genre as a whole, particularly with reference to the level of story: while my own analysis will deal with textual examples from a single series, Radway allows herself to comment upon the entire genre based on a limited number of texts. This conception of the genre as relatively homogeneous can be accounted for in part because of the generic conventions which define certain aspects of the popular romance genre; on the other hand, the thirty years since the publication of Radway’s study guarantee that the genre has evolved significantly since then, including the emergence of various sub-genres with their own generic conventions. In addition, while Regis’ eight narrative elements may occur in most romance novels, their deployment is unique to each novel. Selinger notes that: the instantiation of each element will vary from novel to novel, and the elements themselves can “appear in any order,” happen multiple times, at any length, either on stage or off, and be “doubled and even tripled in the same scene or action,” as when a proposal follows immediately on a declaration of love (30). The art of any given novel will thus lie, in part, in the author’s skill with these required elements… (Regis 2003 in Selinger 2007: 312).

Selinger goes on to say that while Radway includes her own list of structuralist “functions” found in ideal romances (cf. Selinger 2007: 312), “the list in Regis is more precise, more elegant, and far more useful, not least because it enables one to read romances individually, with attention to their discrete tonal and thematic emphasis and (at last!) to their artistry” (Selinger 2007: 313). Even if a romance contains all of the narrative elements, then, its particular effect will be determined in large part by the “artistry” of the author. This approach is more in line with the prototypical conception of genre that Regis recommends in her more recent work (cf. 2013: 4), and Radway’s own discussion of typical “ideal” romances (1984/1991: 134) can also be seen as identifying prototypical markers of the genre. With this in mind, the following sections will respond to Radway’s comments about the genre as a whole, understanding that they represent her view of the generic conventions of the popular romance at the time that she was writing. My subsequent analysis of Sabrina Jeffries’ Hellions of Halstead Hall series will then investigate the validity of Radway’s claims with reference to a particular series of contemporary historical romances. 47

4.3.1. Intense Immersion through Heightened Aesthetic Illusion That popular romances are “particularly immersive” seems to be one of the genre’s main attractions to the Smithton women (Radway 1984/1991: 91). Dot’s claim that “‘my body is in the room but the rest of me is not!’” (Radway 1984/1991: 87) describes the experience of being “recentered in a possible world” (Wolf 2004: 325). Radway addresses this quality of romance reading in part with regard to the act of reading: she sees the feeling of escape from their daily lives that prompts the women to read romances as a testament to their dissatisfaction with their situations (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 129). Radway addresses the fact that “reading to escape the present is neither a new behavior nor one peculiar to women who read romances” (1984/1991: 89), but includes D. W. Harding’s observation that “the word is most often used in criticism as a term of disparagement to refer to an activity that the evaluator has no merit in and of itself” (Harding 1967 in Radway 1984/1991: 89). Since this project has approached the romance genre with the assumption that romances are complex, it does not follow that because they serve an escapist function for their readers that there is nothing left to investigate. Because Radway is concerned about the Smithton women’s understanding of the reality status of the text, and her view that their chronic romance reading represents a consistent need to reaffirm the structures of patriarchal gender relations, Radway sees the immersive quality of romance novels as negative because of the way it recenters women in a world where heterosexual gender relations are non-problematic: [Publishing houses] know well that when specific psychological needs, which they are not fully able to identify themselves, are inadequately addressed or left unfulfilled by a woman’s daily round of activities and social contacts, she will turn to a romance and imagine what it feels like to have her needs met as are those of her alter ego, the heroine. Still, it must always be remembered that the good feelings this woman derives from reading romantic fiction are not experienced in the course of her habitual existence in the world of actual social relations, but in the separate free realm of the imaginary. (Radway 1984/1991: 117).

By having her needs met in the “separate free realm of the imaginary”, Radway concludes that the Smithton women may not feel the need to re-examine the social structures that constitute their lived existence as one in which their “specific psychological needs” are “inadequately addressed or left unfulfilled”. Additionally, she worries that the women may in fact believe the stories are only fantasies on one level at the very same time that they take other aspects of them to be real and therefore apply information learned about the fictional world to the events and occurrences of theirs. If they do so utilize some fictional propositions, it may well be the case that the readers also unconsciously take others as having to do with the nature of the heroine’s fate as generally applicable to the lives of real women. In that case, no matter what the women intend their act of reading to say about their roles as wives and mothers, the ideological force of the reading experience could, finally, be a conservative one” (Radway 1984/1991: 187; emphasis mine). 48

Radway’s hypothesis about the potential ideological force of the popular romance implies that the fantasy realm and the real world coincide in the women’s perceptions of their roles as wives and mothers, which results in them applying the rules governing the heroine’s world to their own (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 187). This theory suggests that the immersive quality of the texts may contribute to the reception of conservative ideology. Once again, Radway is concerned with the women’s strategies of reception, while I am concerned with the textual elements that guide their aesthetic response; however, our areas of interest intersect with regard to the creation of aesthetic illusion, for it is the creation of that effect that gives the reader “a feeling of being recentered in a possible world as if it were (a slice of) life, a feeling that prevails in spite of the fact, and our latent awareness of it, that this impression is triggered by a ‘mere’ artefact” (Wolf 2004a: 325) . The line between reception theory and aesthetic response theory is very thin when considering a potential effect of a literary text that takes place inside the reader’s mind. While this subject is at the limits of the scope of philological research, the concept of aesthetic illusion allows for a discussion of such an effect as it has been theorized and experienced, insofar as its definition, the factors which contribute to it, as well as the typical features of illusionist texts (cf. Wolf 2004a: 326). In order to respond to Radway’s fears about the power of the popular romance’s immersive qualities and its potential to ideologically influence its readers, the section below will introduce the effect of aesthetic illusion in narrative fiction.

A Brief Introduction to Aesthetic Illusion

4.3.1.1. Defining Aesthetic Illusion In the essay, “Aesthetic Illusion as an Effect of Fiction,” Werner Wolf notes the difficulty of theorizing aesthetic illusion because of its locus at an intersection of theories of reception and aesthetic response: “it is a particularly elusive and hence problematic phenomenon: strictly speaking, it is a reception phenomenon located in the recipient’s mind, and what goes on there is actually beyond the scope of philology” (Wolf 2004a: 326). In order to study the phenomenon, critics may resort to “introspection” (the most subjective), “reception testimonies by others”, and finally, “clues deducible from the texts themselves” (Wolf 2004a: 326). Taking up a narratological approach to the third option, Wolf proceeds to work from “a corpus of typically illusionist texts” which allows him to describe “typical features that recur in illusionist works and furnishes a basis from which to deduce underlying principles that contribute to the production of these features” (2004a: 326). This discussion is preceded by a description of the “nature, properties, and variants of aesthetic illusion as opposed to various states of delusion” (Wolf 2004a: 326). Wolf mentions that the creation of aesthetic illusion is in no way limited to narrative fiction, and might be extended to other genres and media (cf. 2004a: 327); however, this of the topic is limited to the textual properties that can be seen as contributing to aesthetic illusion in the same way that Wolf limits his discussion to “fiction published in the Western world since the seventeenth century, for it is from this period onwards that testimonies 49 of the existence of aesthetic illusion can be observed with some frequency” (Wolf 2004a: 327). Before describing the effect of aesthetic illusion in any text, however, it is necessary to define what it is. Wolf defines the concept by identifying its main characteristics from the accounts of theoreticians, testimonials, and examples from a primary text, Julio Cortázar’s “Continuidad de los parques” ([cited in online translation in] Wolf 2004a: 327), in which aesthetic illusion plays a meta- referential role. First of all, aesthetic illusion is “a mental state triggered by concrete objects or “artefacts” such as texts, performances, artworks, etc.” and “emerges during a process of reception but not always limited to it, as ‘after-images’ may linger on for a while” (Wolf 2004a: 327). The aesthetic object stimulus necessary for aesthetic illusion to take place differentiates it from hallucinations; however, the “vivid impression” of “being ‘recentered’ or ‘immersed’ in an imaginative possible world” (cf. Ryan 1991 qtd in Wolf 2004a: 327) does resemble a hallucination or a dream in that one “has the impression of being present in [the world of the text] and, above all, of experiencing it in a way similar to that in which one experiences life” (Wolf 2004a: 327-28). This experientiality depends on the relative verisimilitude of the fictional world, as well as its probability. Wolf notes that produces an effect of aesthetic illusion that can only be classified as experiential, rather than referential, since it precludes a real-life experience. Although science fiction, for example, doesn’t create referential pseudo-illusion, since the events could not take place in the real world, verisimilitude and probability alert the reader that the fictional world functions in a way similar to our own, most importantly with regard to chronology, causality, and characters capable of conscious action (cf. Wolf 2004b: 340). Wolf refers to this as the “analogy thesis” and states that the life-like quality of aesthetic illusion is due in part to a “fundamental analogy between the experience induced by illusionist artefacts and the basic concepts and schemata that guide the perception and experience of reality” (2004a: 332). Experiential (pseudo-)illusion is thus the most prevalent form of aesthetic illusion, which is itself differentiated from “artefact induced referential delusion (mistaking an artefact for reality)” (Wolf 2004a: 330) and “artefact induced experiential delusion (experiencing an artefact as reality)” (Wolf 2004a: 330) by the latent distance that necessarily characterizes the reception of media as such. Whereas mistaking a painting for a window (artefact induced referential delusion) or being immersed in the technology of virtual reality both imply total immersion, aesthetic illusion is “fundamentally a bipolar phenomenon” (Wolf 2004a: 328) in which the reader vacillates between the two poles of total immersion and total distance, never actually reaching either pole (cf. Wolf 2004a: 329). It is because of this distance that Wolf points out that aesthetic illusion “is actually not an ‘illusion’ but an ‘experiential pseudo-illusion’” (2004a: 328) in which the reader’s “willing suspension of disbelief” (Coleridge in Wolf 2004: 328) is always tempered by their awareness of the act of doing so. The last defining aspects of aesthetic illusion include its tendency to play on the reader’s emotions. Wolf points out that “the quasi-experience of (a) reality that is typical of aesthetic illusion 50 is frequently described in (mostly pleasurable) emotional terms” (Wolf 2004a: 330). The emotional nature of the reader’s involvement is particularly important for my purposes in that it provides an explanation for how Radway’s readings of the romances were able to differ so much from the Smithton women’s: “on account of this quality, aesthetic illusion differs notably from the reader’s residual awareness of fictionality, which is rational, but also from a scholarly approach to a work of art in which its structures, themes, and meanings are analyzed” (Wolf 2004a: 330). Radway does address the different “interpretive strategies” used by critics and romance readers, and states that her ethnographic study was conceived as a way of “contrast[ing] the then-current interpretation of romances produced by trained literary critics with that produced by fans of the genre” (Radway 1984/1991: 7). Nonetheless, as an effect produced in the mind of the recipient, it is unsurprising that aesthetic illusion goes unmentioned in Radway because as a critic she may not have experienced it during the reading processes, and her subjects may have lacked the vocabulary with which to describe their experience. The Smithton women do, however, use emotional terms with reference to their experiences, and one woman’s statement, “I cry in books. I get wrapped up in them” (Radway 1984/1991: 95) strongly suggests emotional involvement. Finally, there is a quasi-sensory quality to illusionist texts, which Wolf links to the “paramount importance of visual representation in most human beings, visual ‘imagination’ here seems to predominate” (2004a: 331). This can be equated with the “showing not telling” narrative style that is advocated in Michaels’ On Writing Romance (cf. 2007: 95).

4.3.1.2. Narrative Illusion Wolf goes on to introduce the additional features of narrative illusion, which is his focus and mine. First of all, narrative illusion is induced by a particular medium, namely, “the written text of a fictional narrative” and uses “the symbolic medium of language” (Wolf 2004a: 331). The diegetic- or story-level of the text is the “principal object of narrative illusion”, which is confirmed by the majority of reading experiences, in that “what we tend to remember, even of stories transmitted by an overt, ‘authorial’ or first-person narrator, is mostly the story, and not the narrator—precisely because it was the storyworld that had us in its grip” (Wolf 2004a: 332). The level of discourse is correspondingly muted by our attention to the story world; the feeling of being “in” the story world or a witness to the events of the text parallels our “belief that we perceive reality in an unmediated (and, we love to assume, undistorted) way” (Wolf 2004a: 332). Narrative illusion also necessarily requires some key components of narrativity: action and characters are at its center, while the text must also create a “dynamic experience of time and change” (Wolf 2004a: 332). In contrast to the emphasis on action and character, time and change, “‘descriptive’ static elements such as settings or characters’ looks […] are only of secondary importance” (Wolf 2004a: 333). While these descriptive elements may be included in order to heighten narrative illusion, their absence also allows the reader to bring 51 their imaginative capabilities into play and thus increases their active participation in the creation of narrative illusion (cf. Iser 1972:280).

4.3.1.3. Factors That Contribute to Aesthetic Illusion In describing the factors contributing to aesthetic illusion, Wolf account of the reading process by which it is generated echoes much of what Iser has told us about the reading process: the [guided-]projection [i.e. the imagining that is stimulated by the text (cf. Gombrich in Wolf 2004a: 333)] takes place in the mind of the recipient, yet in the state of aesthetic illusion this mind’s activity is not free-floating but ‘guided’ by the illusionist artefact, and both the recipient and the artefact are influenced in turn by contexts which also contribute to the projection (Wolf 2004a: 333).

Beginning with the context, Wolf emphasizes the fact that since the verisimilitude that is essential to the creation of aesthetic illusion can never reflect the real worlds of all historical or cultural situations, “differences between the contexts of production and reception can substantially affect the emergence of aesthetic illusion” (2004a: 333). Similarly, “the set of frames that rule the production and reception of the arts and media in a given period” can be a contextual factor contributing to the perception and/or creation of aesthetic illusion (cf. Wolf 2004a: 333). Generic conventions constitute such a frame, as do cultural attitudes towards certain genres or subjects (cf. Wolf 2004a: 334): given the negative cultural value often attributed to romance novels, a reader who is already prejudiced against them might be more resistant to narrative illusion because of their slant towards critical distance. The individual recipient is another factor contributing to aesthetic illusion, and their variability is based on their context(s), but also on their individual characteristics, situation, and abilities (cf. Wolf 2004a: 334). Whether or not the recipient is willing to become the “implied reader”, in Iser’s terms, will also determine whether or not they will become immersed in the text (cf. Wolf 2004a: 334)8. The final variable is the work itself, which Wolf stipulates must be conceived of as “a readymade construct […] that guides the illusionist perspective” (2004a: 334). This can be reconciled with our concept of the text as a set of instructions which the reader follows in order to assemble the meaning of the work (cf. Iser 1978: 118) if we acknowledge that the instructions must be read as “readymade” and as guiding our construction of the text. The work itself is thus the least variable of the three factors because while the significance attributed to the text may change with the context and recipient, its meaning stays the same (cf. Iser 1978: 151). Agreeing on the “accessibility of the ‘work’ permits the description of typical features and devices of illusionist texts but also of the formal

8 Wolf 2004a addresses the difficulties of describing the “actual illusionist effect of a given work, text, artistic technique, etc. for all periods and for all individuals” (334) because of the variability of the recipient and the impossibility of studying or recording all interpretations; however, conceiving of an “average recipient” (Wolf 2004a: 334) – similar to the aforementioned concept of the “implied reader” – allows us to “reduce the variability of individual recipients” (Wolf 2004a: 334) by embodying the average vacillations between immersion and distance necessary for aesthetic illusion to take place. 52 principles that inform them, their structure and make-up, and […] allows the critic to highlight some techniques and devices that are frequently used in illusionist texts” (Wolf 2004a: 334). The variability of the aforementioned factors contributing to aesthetic illusion – the context, recipient, and the work – limits critics’ ability to theorize about the “illusionist potential of a given literary text or genre, for no more can be claimed” (Wolf 2004a: 335). Again, a textual analysis of a literary effect is limited in terms of its scope with regard to the actual reception of that effect. In a move similar to Regis’ re- figuring of her eight narrative elements, Wolf notes that discussion of the textual features which contribute to aesthetic illusion should not be seen as “textual essences with fixed effects in the framework of a prescriptive theory” (2004a: 335), but rather as “elements of ‘implied reading potentials’” (Rimon-Kenan qtd in Wolf 2004a: 335) or the building blocks with which aesthetic illusion may be created.

4.3.1.4. Illusionist Fiction: Features and Principles of Illusion Making (cf. Wolf 2004a: 335) In order to describe the typical features of illusionist texts, Wolf points out that nineteenth- century realist novel has a prototypically high level of aesthetic illusion because of its ability to draw the reader into the text and keep them recentered there by “maintain[ing] a feeling of verisimilitude and experientiality while minimizing aesthetic distance” (Wolf 2004a: 335). As prototypically illusionist texts, these novels contain the following features of aesthetic illusion, which Wolf then links to “principles of illusion making and specific narrative devices” (2004a: 335). The first of these features is the primacy of the story world, for as we have seen, the level of story is “the realm on which the immersive potential and the experientiality of the illusionist texts tend to be focused” (Wolf 2004a: 336). Aesthetic illusion is also linked to the story’s extension, which refers to the transition between the real world and the story world, and can backfire if it is too short (cf. Wolf 2004a: 336). The complexity of the illusionist world is also a feature of illusionist texts in that the story world must be complex enough to be imagined as a “possible world” (cf. Wolf 2004a: 336). Both of these factors are tied to the accessibility of the story world, where accessibility refers to the ease with which the reader can imagine the story world; Wolf notes that “in realism, this tendency shows in the presentation of fictional worlds that generally seem to be an extension of the recipients’ real world in terms of spatial, temporal (contemporary), and social settings but also, e.g. in terms of norms, ideals, and epistemological preconceptions about the ‘readability’ of reality” (2004a: 336). The resemblance between the reader’s real world and the fictional world allows them to “suspend their disbelief” (Coleridge 1817/1965: 169), while their similar perception of ideology and reality allows them to tread closer to the pole of immersion than that of aesthetic distance, since distance is not created by feelings or observations about contrasting norms. The next feature of prototypically illusionist texts is the “unobtrusiveness of their discourse”, which “forms a counterpart to the centrality of the story world” (Wolf 2004a: 336). Thus as the narrative elements of character and action are transmitted in a straight-forward way, the story world 53 generates an illusionist effect by means of its realistic “building blocks” at the same time that the level of discourse fades into the background in order to avoid additional aesthetic distance. This feature further encourages immersion and discourages distancing in that it “avoid[s] highlighting the mediacy or fictionality of the artefact” (Wolf 2004a: 337). Similarly, illusionist texts tend towards seriousness rather than comedy for the same reason: comic texts often elicit laughter by highlighting their own fictionality, in addition to the fact that such laughter requires aesthetic distance. Wolf further notes that “aesthetic illusion, on the contrary, has an affinity with emotional involvement, and this in turn correlates with seriousness, as can also be seen in drama. Tragedies tend towards aesthetic illusionism […] while comedies frequently have a propensity towards the breaking of illusion” (2004a: 337). The emotional involvement related to aesthetic experiences of dramatic texts, for example, is often tied to the reader’s concern about the fate of characters in a story world; the “as if” quality of this world that makes it seem like a “slice of life” (cf. Wolf 2004a: 325) comes about through the text’s inherent representational nature: “[illusionist texts] evoke or ‘represent’ a world that is seemingly outside the artefact, which therefore appears to refer to something other than itself (and thus is ‘heteroreferential’)” (Wolf 2004a: 337). Illusionist texts are thus predominantly heteroreferential (cf. Wolf 2004a: 337) because they immerse the reader in a narrative that represents characters and actions that seem to exist outside of the story world in a believably realistic way. This representation is accessible, consistent, and lifelike, and typically devoid of metareferentiality or narrative devices that emphasize the fictitious status of the story world (cf. Wolf 2004a: 336-37). Having elucidated these features of prototypically illusionist texts, Wolf goes on to extend them to “six principles of illusion-making in literary fiction” (Wolf 2004a: 338). The first of these principles deals with the accessibility of the story world as outlined in above. In practice, Wolf describes the way in which this accessibility is created by constructing the story world with “building blocks” (Wolf 2004a: 339) that are familiar to the reader, including, potentially, “locales, institutions, public persons, contemporary events, etc.” (Wolf 2004a: 339). While some indeterminacies are inherent to all representations as well as literary texts, illusionist texts reduce them to a certain extent by representing “the wealth of details perceived in everyday life” (Wolf 2004a: 339). These details are often of a visual nature to allow the reader to picture the possible world, largely thanks to their “fictional (hetero)referentiality[…] This referentiality can point to possible world of outer ‘reality’ (as in realist fiction and in drama) or of inner, psychological ‘reality’ (as in the more ‘subjective’ illusion created by modernist interior monologue or stream-of-consciousness fiction)” (Wolf 2004a: 339-40). This principle is particularly true of historical romance novels, both in terms of the outer and inner realities, as will be demonstrated with reference to Jeffries’ series. The next principle of illusion-making refers to the “consistency of the possible world” (Wolf 2004a: 340). In the same way that narrative illusion is not limited to realist or mimetic texts, the infinite story worlds portrayed in fiction are not limited to the rules which govern our own; despite this, however, there is a tendency of illusionist texts to construct story worlds which function in ways 54 not incompatible with our lived experience. That the story world works according to the same basic principles as our own establishes what Wolf describes as “a fundamental analogy between the experience of the illusionist world and the perception of the real world” (2004a: 340). This principle once again relates to the story’s narrativity, which is graded by the presence of such narratemes as chronology, causality, teleology, etc. (cf. Wolf 2004b: 89). Wolf also notes that “departures are possible, and can even remain compatible with illusion, provided they are marked and explained or linked, e.g. to generic conventions and thus obtain a secondary kind of plausibility” (2004a: 340). In this way, while Radway’s readers must recognize the difference between their real heterosexual relationships and the one between their heroes and heroines, the consistency of the world in most other aspects is analogous to our own, and the departure is not only explained, but anticipated by the generic conventions of the popular romance genre. Another principle linked to the building of narrative illusion is “perspectivity”: Wolf states that “one of the most characteristic hallmarks of the history of illusionism (both in painting and literature) has been the development and perfection of techniques that imitate the perspectivity of everyday experience, that is, the inevitable limitation of perception according to the point of view and horizon of the perceiver” (Wolf 2004a: 340-1). Perspectivity in illusionist texts therefore tends to use literary techniques to approximate its experience in real life, such as internal focalization or third-person figural , “where the ‘subjectivity’ of the internal focalizer gradually supersedes the ‘objectivity’ of an overt narrator and enhances the illusionist effect of ‘immediacy’” (Wolf 2004a: 341). Conversely, too much subjectivity can have a disorienting effect on the reader, which may have an illusion-breaking effect with regard to the text’s fictionality or consistency (cf. Wolf 2004a: 341). The fourth principle pertains to the use and optimization of the medium or genre employed. Wolf links this principle to the preceding points by claiming that “the fact that illusionist narratives (as opposed to e.g., lyric ) typically display a certain extension and possess a relatively inconspicuous discourse, and that they moreover do not principally consist of descriptions” is an example of narrative illusionist texts “respecting and exploiting the potential of the medium and the chosen genre” (Wolf 2004a: 341). The extension is necessary for this principle to occur because of the time required for a literary text to unfold in the reader’s mind; similarly, since written works can only communicate via the symbolic medium of language, they are not optimized for the transmission of visual representations, hence the relative scarcity of long descriptive passages in illusionist texts. Wolf also provides an example of how not following this principle has an illusion-breaking function, in that such a process “exposes [the medium’s] limits, makes the reader aware of the artificiality of the work and therefore fails to be in agreement with another typical feature of illusionist works: the reduction of aesthetic distance” (2004a: 341-2). The penultimate principle outlined in Wolf’s theory of aesthetic illusion is that of “generating (an emotional) interest in the possible world” (2004a: 342). This principle is most often described as “the hook” with reference to the popular romance genre (cf. Michaels 2007: 23), and describes the 55 reason for which the reader initially finds the book interesting, and subsequently remains ‘immersed’ in the story world. The techniques for generating this interest are multiple and varied, and may range from the subject matter, to “discursive devices of maintaining (e.g. Dickens’ “cliff-hanging chapter endings”), as well as topical themes (cf. Wolf 2004a: 342). Illusionist works also tend to generate this interest by appealing to the reader’s emotions. The subjectivity of the appeal of all of these aspects of the text is indicative of the extra-textual factors that affect the creation of aesthetic illusion in narrative fiction, such as the individual reader and their context, as discussed above. This principle can be related to the narrateme of “tellability”, further suggesting that a high degree of narrativity contributes to the illusion-making process. Finally, the last principle of illusion making is the “principle of celare artem”, which refers to “the concealment of artificiality” (Wolf 2004a: 342). This goes back to one of the initial aspects of aesthetic illusion that was mentioned: our tendency to conceive of our perception as unmediated and undistorted (cf. Wolf 2004a: 343). This principle works by foregrounding the potential reality status of the text (by means of the principles outlined above) while simultaneously avoiding “over-intrusive self-referentiality and generally […] all devices that foreground textuality or fictionality” (Wolf 2004a: 343). With its implications for readers’ perceptions of the reality status of the text, this principle is particularly interesting with regard to Radway’s concerns about the Smithton women’s understanding of the reality status of their romances. As a principle of aesthetic illusion, however, aesthetic distance is nonetheless implied, even when discussing the techniques by which the artificiality of the text is hidden. Should a reader’s perception of the text change from literary object to, for example, historical document, they would no longer be experiencing the effect of aesthetic illusion, but rather “artefact induced referential delusion (mistaking an artefact for reality)” (Wolf 2004a: 330). This distinction will be important below, in my response to Radway’s concern about the potentially malignant effect of romance novels on their readers.

4.3.1.5. Functions of Aesthetic Illusion Wolf notes that the “allure” of aesthetic illusion is related to both reception and production oriented functions (cf. Wolf 2004a: 343). The first of the reception-oriented functions of this effect is, unsurprisingly, “pleasurable entertainment”, which we enjoy in part because of pleasure of “the simple exertion of the imagination as an aspect of the human capacity for transcending empirical reality” (Wolf 2004a: 343). Additionally, aesthetic illusion is that effect of media that allows us to “escape from real life deficiencies” (Wolf 2004a: 343), and enables readers to experiment and explore the infinite possibilities of our world and others without the consequences of acting, thinking, or behaving in unacceptable ways in the real world (cf. Wolf 2004a: 343). In terms of production- oriented functions, Wolf relates the creation of aesthetic illusion to commercial success in that a higher degree of aesthetic illusion may result in more popularity “in a competitive market of illusionist texts” (Wolf 2004a: 343). If the story world reflects the real world – that is, if aesthetic 56 illusion is paired with experiential illusion, the text may be given the additional praise of “imitating reality”, typically seen as one of the “ennobling” functions of fiction, this was one of the original functions of the novel (cf. Wolf 2004a: 343; Watt in Radway 1984/1991: 201). Aesthetic illusion may also be implemented in order to “render artefacts suitable vehicles for extraliterary purposes” (Wolf 2004a: 343). Wolf links this persuasiveness to “ or social didacticism and criticism, but also [to] authors’ attempts to reassure or persuade readers with regard to the truth of certain worldviews” (Wolf 2004a: 343). This function is particularly relevant to Radway’s account of what happens when the Smithton women read the romance: This persuasive function of aesthetic illusionism notably refers to the general tendency of artefacts, and in particular of narratives, to present unified, closed, and meaningful worlds whose meaningfulness (most conspicuously in the convention of “”) could be regarded as “unrealistic” and contrary to the contingency of life. To present such an “unrealistic” surplus of coherence and significance in conjunction with strong inducements for aesthetic illusion may make the reader accept this excess of coherence more easily, disregarding its constructedness. (Wolf 2004a: 344).

While this function may still be modified by the factors of context, recipient, and work, it does seem consistent with Radway’s view of the persuasiveness of her study texts. Wolf goes on to describe the features of texts that feature illusion-breaking, with their foregrounding of discourse and self-referentiality; however, the breaking of aesthetic illusion rarely happens in romance texts, and is thus beyond the scope of this project.

4.3.1.6. Summary Wolf’s article “Aesthetic Illusion as an Effect of Fiction” provides an introduction to the concept of aesthetic illusion, in addition to specific tendencies of narrative illusion. The context(s), reader, and text contribute to either illusion-making or –breaking, while illusionist texts typically foreground the level of story while downplaying the discourse. This serves to make the story world seem as unmediated as possible, reflecting our perception of how we view the world. This is also accomplished through furnishing the story world with a familiar inventory, constructing a story world that fulfills our basic expectations of meaningfulness (cf. Wolf 2004a: 340), and through the use of narrative situations that imitate the perspectivity of real life, such as first-person or third-person figural narration. Illusionist texts are also heteroreferential, and tend towards seriousness at least to the extent that they don’t generate comic effects by calling attention to their fictionality. Both respecting and exploiting the medium and the genre in question aid the creation of aesthetic illusion in that this will avoid the unnecessary foregrounding of the discourse or the generic conventions. At the same time, the gradual building of aesthetic illusion and its maintenance over the course of the text parallel the chronological nature of the reading process. Illusionist texts must generate interest in their story worlds, and they do this through the use of story-elements, discursive devices (such as ), and themes that appeal to their target audiences. The strategies for generating interest in the story often play on the readers’ emotions – which are highly involved in aesthetic illusion – but 57 whether or not the text is successful at generating interest depends on both the reader and their context, since the text cannot be objectively interesting. Finally, readers may seek out aesthetic illusion for pleasurable reading, to escape from real life, or to explore life’s possibilities without consequences. Authors may utilize aesthetic illusion in order to increase the marketability of their text, or to highlight its mimetic qualities and thus claim that they are describing the human condition. Authors may also use aesthetic illusion to increase the persuasiveness of their texts, whether for social or didactic purposes, or to reassure their readers about the validity of their worldviews. This last function of aesthetic illusion, and the effect’s features and governing-principles, relate directly to Radway’s belief that the of romances is conservative because even as the Smithton women conceive of the act of reading as oppositional, the texts themselves “embod[y] a simple recapitulation and recommendation of patriarchy and its constituent social practices and ideologies” (Radway 1984/1991: 210).

4.3.1. Resumed: Intense Immersion through Heightened Aesthetic Illusion Since one of the ways to study the effect of aesthetic illusion is to look at “reception testimonies by others” (Wolf 2004a: 326), Radway’s account of the Smithton women’s reading experiences is a valid, if second-hand, look at aesthetic illusion in her study texts. Unfortunately, Radway describes the effect generally and with little reference to particular texts, but specific features contributing to aesthetic illusion will be identified with reference to Jeffries’ series below. The definition, features, and principles of aesthetic illusion described above should now have established the fact that the intense immersion the Smithton women experience as a result of their romance reading is that of aesthetic illusion: in particular, the statement that the women resent being extracted from the story world suggests the extent of their recentering (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 59). While I am not sure I agree with Radway’s statement that “their intense reliance on these books suggests strongly that they help to fulfill deeply felt psychological needs” (Radway 1984/1991: 59) given that the desire to read romance novels is dependent on the variable factor of the individual reader, and my focus is on the text itself; however, the women’s testimonies do confirm the creation of aesthetic illusion through the reading of popular romances. The detailed description of aesthetic illusion provided above is intended to form the basis of my response to Radway’s claim that reading romances may curb the Smithton’s desire or motivation for social justice. Radway’s belief that the women’s needs are met vicariously through the text, and, therefore, that they may no longer feel compelled to work towards change in the real world is based on their transferal of “fictional propositions” to their own. While this hypothesis may be supported by the persuasive function of aesthetic illusion and its ability to reassure readers about particular worldviews, e.g. the desirability of marriage within patriarchal gender relations, it is, firstly, based on the assumption that that is the worldview espoused by a homogenous genre of romance texts, and secondly, that what the women take away from their romance reading is a belief in the validity of the 58 gender arrangements in which they find themselves. This project has already acknowledge the shortcomings of Radway’s study in terms of its conception of the romance genre as homogenous, as well as its small number of study texts. While this may or may not have been true at the time that Radway was writing, the romance genre has become exponentially more diverse over the past thirty years, as sub-genres emerge and authors multiply. While the definition of romance novel dictates that it have a happy ending (cf. Crusie 2000, Michaels 2007), both the relationship and the context of that happy ending depend on the individual text and the sub-genre within which it was written9. While all five novels in the Halstead Hall series end in monogamous heterosexual marriages, the dynamic between each couple is unique. With regard to the second assumption, what seems most important to take into account is that aesthetic illusion always involves – at least to a certain extent – aesthetic distance (cf. Wolf 2004a: 326). The women’s insistence on talking about the act of reading rather than the textual features demonstrates that they are aware of the books as aesthetic objects whose story world they enter when they pick the book up and leave when they put it down (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 86). Although the texts are heteroreferential to the extent that the women feel they are an adequate substitute for travel they cannot afford (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 110), the Smithton women also acknowledge that the heroes and heroines are both believably human, but unlike people they know in real life (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 98). So, while the features contributing to aesthetic illusion may all occur in popular romances, yielding a high degree of that effect, it is not necessarily acceptance of the gender relations status quo that the women are being convinced of. If, as Radway suggests by means of Chodorow’s theory, the Smithton women are reading their romances to make up for a deficit of ‘nurturance’ in their lives (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 135), it seems most likely that what the women take away from their reading is a belief in their ability to provide themselves with nurture through the act of romance reading: Radway notes that the “feeling of pleasure [elicited through reading the romance] seems to derive from their identification with a heroine whom they believe is deeply appreciated and tenderly cared for by another. Somewhat paradoxically, however, they also seem to value the sense of self- sufficiency they experience as a consequence of the knowledge that they are capable of making themselves feel good” (Radway 1984/1991: 93). Once again, as in the preceding discussion of the purpose of the popular romance, it’s important to look at how the Smithton women conceive of the purpose of the genre they keep returning to. If the women were seeking a “comprehensive program for reorganizing [their lives] in such a way that all needs might be met” (Radway 1984/1991: 215), the argument that popular romances offer “a simple recapitulation and recommendation of patriarchy

9 For example, Inspirational Romances revolve around “the character’s spiritual journey as she discovers or finds her way back to a relationship with a higher power” while Chick-Lit refers to a sub-genre of romance novel which features “twenty- something women who are often more interested in building a career than in finding Mr Right” (Michaels 2007: 12, 9). Both of these sub-genres comply with our definition of romance novel, but their happy endings may have significantly different implied worldviews. 59 and its constituent social practices and ideologies” (Radway 1984/1991: 210) would indeed be a failing. But, if we accept the Smithton women’s own justification for their romance reading (i.e. the escape and relaxation of experiencing pleasurable feelings), it should be clear that the effect of aesthetic illusion is at least partly responsible for the fulfillment of this user-defined purpose of the genre. The intense immersion Radway sees as contributing to the Smithton women’s reassurance of the validity of patriarchal gender relations can in fact be attributed to the effect of aesthetic illusion as it is created through features of the level of story in popular romances as well as through the downplaying of the level of discourse. While successful creation of aesthetic illusion may increase the persuasiveness of a text regarding the validity of certain worldviews (cf. Wolf 2004a: 343-44), it seems farfetched that what the Smithton women take away from their reading experience is a belief in the validity of the patriarchy, when they have picked up a romance novel in order to experience positive feelings, and have subsequently successfully created that experience through the reading process. Radway documents the fact that the quality of their experience in fact depends on their ability to identify with the heroine and experience ‘vicarious nurturance’ through her (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 182). The following section in my discussion of the level of story will address the reader’s identification with the heroine, the relationship between that identification and the creation of aesthetic illusion, and the ‘nurturance’ the reader experiences as a result of it.

4.3.2. ‘Vicarious Nurturance’ through Strong Identification Radway’s study of romances the Smithton readers have dubbed either “ideal” or “failed” identifies one of the main factors determining their judgment of a text as their ability to relate to and identify with the heroine. Radway notes that while the romantic relationship is generally important to the ideal romance, it is so because it satisfies the heroine and the reader who identifies with her. This seems to suggest further that what is perhaps crucial to the ideal reading experience is the woman’s success and the particular feelings of worth, power, and satisfaction it engenders in her as well as in the reader who vicariously shares her life (1984/1991: 183-4).

More important than the love story at the center of the romance’s plot is the heroine, her experience, and the reader’s ability to share in that experience through the reading process. The reader’s identification with the heroine is that which provides her with the most ‘nurturance’ as well as the most pleasure: this statement is confirmed by Radway’s conclusion that “the emotion generated within the reader by her identification with the heroine is the crucial determining factor in distinguishing between good romances and bad” (1984/1991: 184). This section of my text will thus look at the textual elements which provide ‘nurturance’ through identification as well as the pleasurable emotions associated with this identification. The preceding introduction to aesthetic illusion provides some explanation of how the reader’s identification with the heroine takes place. Since identification is an effect stimulated by the text but 60 also taking place within the reader’s mind, it stands to reason that it is also symptomatic of the aesthetic distance which is inherent to aesthetic illusion because the reader experiences the text as immersive at the same time as she is able to draw parallels between the heroine’s experience and her own. While identification, like aesthetic illusion, is dependent on the variables of the individual reader, as well as the cultural and historical contexts of reception, and, of course, the work itself (cf. Wolf 2004a: 333), it is nonetheless facilitated by the same textual features that contribute to aesthetic illusion. This is a logical extension since Radway cites the importance of the believability of the characters’ actions, in addition to the experientiality of their emotions, as contributing to the Smithton women’s ability to identify with the heroine, and therefore also with their enjoyment of the text. For example, Radway states that according to Dot and her customers, the relative excellence of a romance is a function of its treatment of three different aspects of the story. These include the personality of the heroine, the character of the hero, and the particular manner in which the hero pursues and wins the affections of the heroine. If the individuals and relationships are not presented properly, not even ingenious plotting will rescue the novel from ‘the garbage dump’ (1984/1991: 77).

In a prototypically “ideal” romance, then, the principles of the accessibility of illusionist texts and of the consistency of the possible world refer not only to the story world as a fictional realm in which one can become immersed, but also to the construction of believable characters whose actions and reactions “meet basic expectations of meaningfulness that also apply to real-life experience” (Wolf 2004a: 340). Identification, as a corollary of aesthetic illusion, furthermore “respect[s] and exploit[s] the potential of the medium and the chosen genre” (Wolf 2004a: 341) in that it is aided by the gradual unfolding of the story over time as the reader learns more about the hero and the heroine at the same time as they learn more about each other. With regard to perspectivity, identification is also encouraged through the use of a narrative situation that grants the reader access to both the hero and the heroine’s thoughts. Radway refers to the genre’s use of “omniscient narration”, a designation I find disappointingly vague. The narrative situation of the Halstead Hall series will be discussed in significantly more detail below. However, Radway’s observes that the double perspective on the hero’s behavior [i.e. the heroine’s understanding of his actions as well as the reader’s supplementary knowledge of the hero’s thoughts and feelings] thus allows the reader to have it both ways. She can identify with the heroine’s point of view and therefore with her anger and fear. […] On the other hand, she can rely on the greater knowledge accorded to her by the narration and enjoy the reassurance it provides that, in fact, men do not threaten women or function as obstacles to their fulfillment (1984/1991: 140-41).

Specific strategies of narration can only be discussed with reference to particular text, but Radway does accurately note that it is a generic convention of popular romances to provide the reader with the point of view of both central characters: this means that identification is encouraged through experiencing the story world through the heroine’s narration at the same time as the reader acquires 61 knowledge necessary for understanding the developing relationship between the two main characters through the hero’s point of view (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 140). It goes without saying that the reader’s emotions are called upon to generate interest in a genre defined in part by its “emotionally satisfying, optimistic ending” (Crusie 2000: 2), and Radway’s concern about the women’s understanding of the reality status of the text is brought about, in part, by its successful “concealment of artificiality” (Wolf 2004a: 342). Created through the application of the principles of illusion-making as defined by Wolf, reader identification with the heroine is experienced as a pleasurable effect in keeping with the allure of aesthetic illusion, and the pleasurable experience of transcending reality and escaping real-life preoccupations (cf. Wolf 2004a: 343). From a production-oriented perspective, it also makes sense for authors of popular romances to elicit identification with the heroine because “while the lack of similarity between events in the fantasy realm and those in the real world seems to guarantee a reading experience that is ‘escapist’, emotional identification with the central character also insures that the experience will be an affectively significant one for the reader” (Radway 1984/1991: 98). The creation of identification in fiction is not the only effect in question here, however; Radway also demonstrates the way the Smithton women experience ‘vicarious nurturance’ as a result of their identification with the heroine: the reading experience is valued for the way it makes the reader feel, but the feeling it creates is interpreted by the women themselves as a general sense of emotional well-being and visceral contentment. Such a feeling is brought on by the opportunity to participate vicariously in a relationship characterized by mutual love and by the hero’s unusual ability to express his devotion gently and with concern for the heroine’s pleasure (1984/1991: 70).

The story elements contributing to this nurturing relationship include the nature of the sexual relationship between the hero and heroine, the gentle quality of his attention towards her, and the mutuality of their dependence on one another. Radway discusses the Smithton women’s preferences with regard to sexuality in popular romances by pointing out that “there is a distinct similarity between the Smithton conception of the romance and that implied in comments about the form by writers who are themselves enthusiastic readers” (1984/1991: 69). These comments suggest that the “anticipation and excitement must ‘smolder’ beneath the surface in scenes that are ‘underplayed, suggested rather than stated’” (Whitney 1967 in Radway 1984/1991: 69) and that “sex in romances must be ‘sensual, romantic, breathy— enough to make the pulse race, but not rough guy, explicit, constantly brutal.’ [Glass, an editor at Pyramid publications] adds that the predominant flavor must be an ‘understanding of female emotions: hesitancy, doubt, anger, confusion, loss of control, exhilaration, etc.’” (Glass 1977 in Radway 1984/1991: 69-70). These industry professionals understand that the appeal of romances novels to the Smithton women has little to do with pornography (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 104). While the Smithton women expect a certain amount of sexual description in their romances, they have strict 62 demands of these passages and what they should and should not contain. Ideal romances allow the reader to identify with the heroine and vicariously experience her nurture at the hands of the hero: “The women are not being disingenuous when they maintain that ‘the story is the main thing,’ for indeed what they want to experience above all else is the hero’s protective concern and tender regard for the heroine. It matters little whether that care and attention are detailed in general terms or presented as overtly sexual as long as they are extensively described” (Radway 1984/1991: 105). Here the primacy of the story level and the emotionally charged story elements serve to draw the reader into the text as well as to heighten her experience of identification via aesthetic illusion. Radway goes on to say that this focus on his attention to her is in itself erotic, for even the most euphemistic descriptions of the heroine’s reception of his regard convey the sensual, corporal pleasure she feels in anticipating, encouraging, and finally accepting those attentions of a hero who is always depicted as magnetic, powerful, and physically pleasing. While explicit description of his bodily reaction is offensive to the Smithton readers, attention to the heroine’s response to his appreciation of her physical beauty is not only desirable but absolutely central to the entire event (1984/1991: 105).

Identification with the heroine through the principles of illusion-making described above thus enables the reader to vicariously partake of the ‘nurturance’ the heroine experiences by the hero. To the same extent, the women intensely dislike reading texts in which the heroine is abused. The Smithton readers have different strategies for dealing with bad romances: some will simply stop reading, some skip to the end, and others will symbolically throw the book in the garbage (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 70). One of the women who continues to read to the end explained that to cease following a story in the middle is to remain suspended in the heroine’s nightmare while she is the heroine. […] She cannot simply dismiss the story as a badly managed fiction precisely because she becomes so involved in the tale that she lives it emotionally as her own. She and other readers like her feel it necessary to continue the imaginative pretence just long enough to share the heroine’s achievement of mutual love that is the goal of all romance-reading experiences (Radway 1984/1991: 70-1).

The extent of the women’s identification with the heroine is such that they experience both her pleasure and her pain as their own. Juhasz makes an interesting comment about the potentially different nature of male and female reading experiences, citing a study by David Bleich, who reports that “women experienced the narrative as a ‘world,’ without a particularly strong sense that this world was narrated into existence. Perhaps another way of articulating the difference would be that women enter the world of the novel […]; men see the novel as a result of someone’s action and construe its meaning or logic in those terms” (Bleich in Juhasz 1988: 253). These comments can only be taken as generalizations about the reading process of either gender, but they have interesting implications for the notion of the popular romance as a genre written for women when noted alongside the high degree of narrative illusion in the prototypically ideal popular romance. 63

Whether or not there is a gendered difference in readers’ interaction with the story world, the Smithton women are more interested in the heroine’s response to the hero’s ministrations, and they express disdain for texts they see as pornographic – particularly those in which women are abused (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 70, 165) because they experience the text through their identification with the heroine. It is important to remember at this point that the popular romance as a genre is constituted, first, by the texts which belong to it, and secondly, by the selections of its readers, given that category fiction is written for a particular audience, and “readers can indirectly affect the editorial selection process and ‘force’ publishers to take their tastes into account” (Radway 1984/1991: 38). This fact also accounts for the way in which the preferences of the Smithton women – and other romance readers – have been recognized by the popular romance genre, particularly with regard to the character of the heroine and the nature of her (sexual and other) interactions with the hero: whether or not particular titles sell constitutes a “corrective cycle” in which publishers attempt to align their offerings with the audience’s desires. So far this section has focused on aesthetic illusion and its immersive properties, as well as identification and the ‘vicarious nurturance’ of the reader as it is created through the effect of aesthetic illusion. The final part of my response to Radway on the level of story has to do with her interest in the women’s anxiety over the endings of their romances even though they have a myth-like similarity to one another.

4.3.3. The Popular Romance as Myth/Novel The most significant difference between this project and Radway’s is my conception of the popular romance as a nurturant medium versus Radway’s view that the genre “avoids questioning the institutionalized basis of patriarchal control over women even as it serves as a locus of protest against some of its emotional consequences” (1984/1991: 217). Radway suggests that the formulaic, -like structure of the popular romance links it to fantastic, escapist literature: these elements have indeed already been mentioned by the Smithton women as part of the appeal of the genre, and Radway acknowledges their “assertion that they do not expect their own lives to resemble the lives of romantic heroines suggests […] that they do not apply the principles of organization of the fantasy world to their own nor do they learn how to get more from their relationships through romance reading” (1984/1991: 186; emphasis mine). Nonetheless, the fact that the women believe in the verisimilitude of the story world in terms of history and geography suggests to Radway that “they also believe that the universe of the romantic fantasy is somehow congruent, if not continuous, with the one they inhabit” (1984/1991: 186). If the women are willing to believe the romance can teach them about the real world, Radway wonders “how much of the romance’s conservative ideology about the nature of womanhood is inadvertently ‘learned’ during the reading process and generalized as normal, natural, female development in the real world” (1984/1991: 186). Radway believes that the texts’ heteroreferentiality convinces their readers of their realism at the same time that the formulaic nature of the stories transmits “a single, immutable cultural myth” (Radway 1984/1991: 198): that women’s 64 role in patriarchal gender relations is “not as the imposed necessity that it is but […] a freely designed, personally controlled, individual choice” (Radway 1984/1991: 208). In order to respond to this allegation, I will proceed by looking at both the myth-like and novelistic markers of the popular romance as Radway has identified them, while keeping in mind my own approach to the notion of genre as defined by prototypical qualities (which are in turn defined by the genre’s users, producers, and context (cf. Devitt 2000: 704)). The theoretical approach that romance novels are complex, paired with the presentation of Regis’ eight narrative elements, suggest that there is an ambiguous relationship between generic conventions and artistry with regard to the popular romance genre. Radway’s discussion of this tension revolves around the genre’s double status as myth and realist novel. She sees the act of reading and writing romance novels as a cycle, in which both the author and the reader “understand the purpose of the text to be the romantic tale itself” (Radway 1984/1991: 198). Because the ending is always the same, Radway argues that, “in fact, they all retell a single tale whose final outcome their readers always already know” (1984/1991: 198). Since readers are able to recognize the tale by its discursive markers, and since they knowingly return to the genre for more of the same, romance novels, according to Radway, “it becomes clear that romantic novels function, on one level at least, as the ritualistic repetition of a single, immutable cultural myth” (1984/1991: 198). This myth confirms the plausibility and desirability of female self-fulfillment within heterosexual gender relations as they are presented in the popular romance. It seems that the mythic function of the popular romance novel would not be as problematic to Radway if it weren’t dressed up as a novel: “in fact, the women believe the books they buy are novels, which is to say, stories about unknown and distinct characters whose fates are not yet determined, but whose individual development can be observed in the working out of a narrative” (Radway 1984/1991: 198). The fact that romance heroines are portrayed as individuals, and particularly, that the Smithton women remember novels based on their idiosyncratic leading ladies suggests to Radway that the romance as myth adopts conventions of realist novels; furthermore, the fact that the events portrayed appear to unfold through the act of reading convince the reader that she is “accompany[ing] just-met acquaintances on a journey whose final destination is unknown at the moment of embarkation” (Radway 1984/1991: 199). While both the fully-fleshed out, believable characters as well as the sense that the text is relating previously uncompleted events can both be linked to features of illusionist texts (with regard to the features of consistency and respecting/exploiting the chosen medium, respectively (cf. Wolf 2004a: 340-41)), Radway believes that the combination of its mythic and novelistic qualities imbues the romance with additional persuasive power. In her opinion, then, “the romance-reading experience, in short, appears to provide both the psychological benefits of oral myth-telling and those associated with the reading of the novel” (Radway 1984/1991: 199). 65

As an example of the anxiety associated with the open-ended possibilities of the novel, Radway cites the fact that some of the Smithton women revealed their habit of skipping ahead to the end of a romance before they buy or begin to read the texts (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 200). She sees this desire to read ahead as symptomatic of the women’s uncertainty about the resolution of the novel, and claims that the Smithton women trust the to such a degree that they truly seem to believe in the ominous contingency of the heroine’s situation. Even though most of them have read hundreds of other romances before, they are so completely taken in by each book’s claim to its status as a novel that they are not at all willing to trust those purely discursive markers that otherwise identify the tale as a romance and establish the expectation that it “ought” to end in a certain way. (1984/1991: 203).

The assertion that the women read ahead because they are “taken in” by the realism of the books seems to me to be emblematic of Radway’s chronic underestimation of the Smithton women, as well as romance readers generally. The Smithton women’s familiarity with the genre, noted by Radway in the quotation above, as well as their evaluative system of choosing romance novels according to their preferences by means of Dot Evans’ advice both suggest that the women are aware of the genre’s conventions and aware of its effects. Given our prototypical conception of genre, it seems more likely to this author that rather than reading the endings because they are genuinely anxious about the ending, the Smithton women who engage in this practice do so because they want to check the quality of the text in comparison with a prototypical ideal. In defining the Smithton women’s ideal romance, Radway noted that “it is this preoccupation with the gradual removal of emotional barriers between two people who recognize their connection early in the story that sets the novels apart from other run-of-the-mill romances” (1984/1991: 123). Because they enjoy the effect of narrative illusion, and because of the primacy of the story level on which this gradual removal of barriers occurs, the women who choose to read the ending of the romance are not necessarily confused about its status as myth/novel so much as they are actively participating in the selection of romances they believe will fulfill their desire for a pleasurable effect throughout the reading process. By confirming that the romance in question reaches the “right” conclusion, according to the generic conventions of the popular romance genre, the Smithton women are establishing that their reading experience will be the one that they desire. Radway goes on to note further novelistic markers of the romance genre: according to Radway, the novels disguise their status as by constructing their characters as apparently real individuals. She cites Ian Watt’s observation that novels accomplish this fact “by lavishing space and attention on personality and consciousness as well as on the particularism of individual circumstance” (Watt 1957 in Radway 1984/1991: 201). Romance novels also often rely on particular techniques in order to foreground the realistic chronology and causality of their texts: “by referring strategically to the past and the present moment in the same paragraph, the text suggests that the heroine, like the reader who is opening the book, is a product of her past and awaits the unfolding of her future. She is 66 established, therefore, as a historical being who exists in time and in the ‘real’ world” (Radway 1984/1991: 204). The features of aesthetic illusion detailed above will alert the reader of my text to the fact that the attention paid to both the consciousness and personality of the central characters, as well as the “as if” nature of the story, contribute to the effect of narrative illusion. Although Radway is concerned about the readers’ understanding of the reality status of the text, narrative illusion always implies aesthetic distance (cf. Wolf 2004a: 328). This understanding of the effect which is created through the reading process thus informs my disagreement with Radway when she claims that such deliberate use of the conventions of the realistic novel thus denies that the romance is only a timeless faire tale existing solely within the reader’s imagination or between the pages of a book. In fact, these explicit references to time and to familiar objects of the real world help to dissolve the very materiality of the book itself by conjuring for the reader people who are as real as she and events that may not have happened to her but, given their plausible “ordinariness,” certainly still could (Radway 1984/1991: 204-5).

It is Radway’s worry about the women’s belief that the realism of the text, and the idea that events narrated in the novel could happen to them that also motivates her concern that popular romances make current heterosexual gender relations seem natural and desirable; the plausibility of finding self-fulfillment through a heterosexual relationship like that achieved by the romance heroine is ultimately what Radway believes will deter romance readers from actively seeking self-fulfillment through social change in the real world (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 208). This project must disagree with Radway on most counts regarding the function of the mythic and novelistic markers in the popular romance. That ideal romances consistently contain a happy, optimistic ending does not make them the simple re-telling of a single tale, but rather points to the importance of the emotional experience to the overall effect of the text. By confirming that individual books’ endings meet their expectations of generic ideals, the Smithton women are evaluating and selecting their texts based on a prototypical conception of genre, regardless of whether or not they conceive of that act as such. Correspondingly, the realist discourse of the texts, in this project’s view, is not meant to cloak the “myth in the guise of the truly possible” (Radway 1984/1991: 207), but rather a symptom of the illusionist principles at work. Given the importance of believability, consistency, and accessibility in the creation of narrative illusion, it is logical that texts seeking to create this effect will replicate that prototypically illusionist text: the nineteenth century realist novel (cf. Wolf 2004a: 335). The romance’s believable characters may not be as psychologically complex as those found in James or Eliot (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 201) but they are nonetheless presented as psychologically real and possessing the same understanding of meaningfulness as the Smithton readers. Radway notes that “even though [the Smithton women] know the characters are more perfect that they or their husbands can ever hope to be, they are yet entirely persuasive and believable as possible human individuals” (1984/1991: 203). Again, Radway links the believability of the characters and the plausibility of the story world to her concern about the women’s understanding of the reality status of the text, stating that “the Smithton women want to participate in the ritualistic 67 reaffirmation of a fixed myth, but they also want to be convinced that it is not merely a twice-told fairy tale but the fortuitous working out of one more individual woman’s problems” (1984/1991: 203). I would argue that the realism of the level of story as described by Radway has more to do with the creation of an effect of narrative illusion than with the women actually believing the events portrayed could happen to them. The function of narrative illusion in this case would be to facilitate the effects of reading that the women are conscious of: providing them with enjoyable relaxation, privacy, and a chance to escape their daily cares, as well as the effect of nurture as experienced through the reading process.

4.3.4. Summary This account of the Radway’s understanding of the popular romance’s level of story has discussed the particularly immersive quality of romance novels, the ‘vicarious nurturance’ the reader experiences through her identification with the reader, as well as the texts’ status as myth/novel. Through the lens of a prototypical conception of genre and with an understanding of features and principles of the effect of aesthetic illusion as created by fictional narratives, I have endeavoured to articulate my own perception of these story elements in relation to how they are construed by Radway. Whereas she sees the reader’s intense immersion in the text as potentially dangerous because of the romance’s potential to deter action towards social change in the real world, I believe that the aesthetic distance presupposed by aesthetic illusion means that romance readers are always conscious of the text’s fictional status, and that if they are persuaded by the text, it is with regard to the text’s ability – and their own by choosing it – to fulfill their need for positive emotions and relaxation. In addition to the positive emotions created through the effect of narrative illusion, the Smithton women also experience ‘vicarious nurturance’ through their identification with the heroine, as she is nurtured by the affectionate and caring hero. This identification is another by-product of aesthetic illusion because it requires the text to be accessible, and is heightened by the features of perspectivity and consistency. Finally, although Radway claims that the romance is ambiguously constructed as both myth and realist novel, I have asserted that the mythic qualities she identifies, such as the consistently happy endings, do not mean the texts are formulaic, but rather that generic conventions define a prototypical ideal, which the women try to identify as often as possible by reading the end of the story before they start. Once again, the trappings of realism are not meant to confuse the women as to the reality status of the text, or to induce referential delusion (cf. Wolf 2004a: 330), but rather to heighten the effect of narrative illusion. I believe that the high degree of narrative illusion allows the text to fulfill their purpose as it is conceived of by the Smithton women. Radway comments that, “for them, the romance is neither a recommendation for female revolt nor a strictly conservative refusal to acknowledge any change. It is, rather, a cognitive exploration of the possibility of adopting and managing some attitude changes about feminine sexuality by making room for them within traditional institutions and structures that they understand to be protective of a woman’s interests” (1984/1991: 68

74-75). Rather than acknowledging but ultimately dismissing the women’s understanding of the texts, I plan to show how, in addition to the positive effects that they have noted, the popular romance as exemplified by the Hellions of Halstead Hall series has a further positive influence on its reader through the creation of an aesthetic experience of nurture through genre, the act of reading, and the levels of both story and discourse. This section has dealt, generally, with the story elements Radway identifies in her text, and as such it has made few references to specific romance texts or to the creation of the effect of nurture. In my analysis of Jeffries’ novels, however, I will look specifically at the features contributing to the effect of aesthetic illusion, as well as their relationship to the creation of nurture as an effect of the popular romance. For now, I hope I have demonstrated that rather than a pernicious tool meant to convince its readers of the naturalness of the patriarchy, the popular romance’s tendency towards narrative illusion contributes to the Smithton women’s ability to get what they want from the texts: an emotionally affective experience (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 98).

4.4. Radway on the Narrative Discourse of the Popular Romance In contrast to the level of story, which she examines in almost every chapter of her text, Radway’s investigation of the popular romance’s discourse is limited to her final chapter, which allow my remarks here to be somewhat more concise than in the preceding section(s). Once again, Radway speaks generally about the conventions she has noticed through her study of the Smithton women’s reading experience and of their most and least favourite texts. Thus, her comments on the narrative discourse of the popular romance must once again be generalizations, which will be contrasted with my findings with regard to Jeffries’ series below. In the course of her study of the Smithton women, Radway has established her belief that the popular romance is simple and potentially harmful to women because it distracts them from working towards real social change. In the preceding section, I included her fear that the realist tendencies of the popular romance confuse women about the reality status of the text at the same time as the primacy of the story level contributes to a heightened experience of aesthetic illusion. In this chapter, I will look at the related claims that Radway makes about the narrative discourse of the texts, with regard to the significance of the romance’s minimal foregrounding of discourse, the combination of literary language with familiar inventory, and, finally, the haste and ease with which all indeterminacies in the text are accounted for. My findings and Radway’s overlap in terms of our observations with regard to the level of discourse, but vary greatly when it comes to our conclusions about the significance of that discourse with regard to the reading experience. Radway identifies discursive conventions which she once again sees as contributing to confusion about the reality status of the text, whereas I believe that rather than making readers believe in the veracity of the text (thus inducing referential delusion), the discourse traits that she observes heighten the effect of aesthetic illusion and contribute to the creation of an aesthetic experience of nurture. The concept of aesthetic illusion will thus continue to be important for my arguments below. 69

4.4.1. Disappearing Discourse: The Proximity of Signifier/Signified in the Popular Romance To be fair to Radway in the way Goris recommends, with consideration of her historical and theoretical context, she is explicit about the limitations of her study of the Smithton women, and articulates the fact that further studies would be necessary for her conclusions to be extended to other groups of romance readers (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 48-9). Her approach to the narrative discourse of popular romances is informed by reader response theory in terms of her understanding of the reading process, which she describes in the following terms: The act of romance reading must first involve any reader in a complex process of world construction through which the reader actively attributes sense to the words on a page. In doing so, that reader adopts the text’s language as her own and appears to gesture toward a world she in fact creates. Because the process must necessarily draw more or less on the language she uses to refer to the real world, the fictional world created in reading bears an important relationship to the world the ordinary reader ordinarily inhabits. The activities of reading and world construction, then, carry meaning for the reader on a purely formal level in the sense that they repeat and reinforce or alter and criticize the nature of the world as the reader knows it (Radway 1984/1991: 187).

This rhetorical move allows Radway to link the contemptus mundi/social justice topoi to the reading process, in that she sees the act of world construction as either necessarily endorsing or critiquing the social context of the reader whose mind brought the world into being. Given Radway’s belief that the world is fallen, and that the romance works against the Smithton women’s impulses for social justice, it follows that she criticizes the romance genre for its (alleged) endorsement of patriarchal gender relations as they are presented in the popular romance. Radway emphasizes the ideological significance of the reading process by pointing out the metaleptic nature of literary signs, which “do not simply denote things in some objectively given and immediately present world but because they represent language. In doing so, they refer to an imaginary act of speaking or writing about an equally imaginary world that is itself brought into being and conceptually organized in the very act of commenting about it” (cf. Eagleton 1979 in Radway 1984/1991: 187-88). The fictional world is evidently not the same as the real one: and yet, because of the heteroreferentiality of the story, as well as the primacy of the story level, Radway believes that “in adopting the romance’s signifying intention, then, the Smithton women simply duplicate in imaginative experience a relationship to the world that they live daily” (Radway 1984/1991: 188). Radway’s anxiety about the women’s confusion over the reality status of the text thus emerges, in part, from her understanding of the Smithton women’s reading strategies as they relate to the textual properties of the popular romance (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 189). Radway is arguing that both the production and the reception of romance novels are culturally constituted and created through a complex process in which the reader plays an active role by assigning significance to words as signs. This project conceives of the reading process in a similar way, as the previous introduction to aesthetic response theory has delineated; however, Radway sees the Smithton women’s own concept of the reading process as problematic since they are apparently 70 unaware of the fact that their reception is anything but the receipt of fully formed meaning: she states that “although it is true that readers never discover meanings ‘in’ or behind the words they find on the page but actively attribute significations to the verbal structure from their own linguistic repertoire, it is nonetheless clear that Dot and her women read the romantic text as if such simple discovery of meaning was possible” (Radway 1984/1991: 189). Because the Smithton women proceed under the illusion that “language is a transparent window opening out onto an already existent world”, Radway concludes that “their crucial interpretive strategy is governed by a set of assumptions about language and meaning that the women take entirely for granted” (Radway 1984/1991: 189). This strategy, which Radway describes with free-flowing generalizations about the women’s understanding of the reading process, is based on the understanding that within romance novels the signifier is equal to the signified (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 189-90). Radway’s pronouncements about her subjects’ understanding of the reading process don’t sit well with this author, perhaps because of my own theoretical understanding of the process or because of our diverging approaches with regard to aesthetic response and reception theory. Either way, I believe that Radway’s generalizations about the Smithton women’s understanding of the reading process cannot be representative of the popular romance’s contemporary audience because it has become so much more diverse. Although she does not extend her findings past the women in her study group, I find her claim that romance readers “freely assimilate the fictional world to their own, assuming, in effect, that all imaginary worlds ‘naturally’ resemble the world with which they are so familiar” (Radway 1984/1991: 191) unfairly denotes the women’s interpretive strategies as ‘simple’ without considering other factors that might lead them to read romances in this way. While the Smithton women’s engagement with their romances is necessarily constituted by their cultural context, a fact of which Radway believes they are unaware, the conflation of signifier and signified in the popular romance is most likely facilitated by the text itself, given the primacy of the story level and the relative downplaying of discourse that we have seen is a feature of illusionist texts. Radway believes that the women’s cultural context makes them susceptible to the illusion of reality as it is presented in the text because “it has simply never occurred to them that those [cultural codes correlating signifiers and signifieds] might be historically or culturally relative” (1984/1991: 190; emphasis mine). Furthermore, Radway claims that “because romance authors share the same assumptions about language and meaning, they write texts designed to be read in this straightforward manner” (1984/1991: 191). These comments suggest that Radway has not taken into account the fact that both generic conventions and the popular romances’ illusion-making qualities require it not to draw attention to its discourse. 71

The heteroreferential nature of the texts allows them to make references to the real world, which, again according to generic conventions, are typically true10. Furthermore, the illusion-making principle of celare artem stipulates that illusionist texts do not draw attention to their artificiality (cf. Wolf 2004a: 342). The fact that the Smithton women claim to learn from their romances does not necessarily make them gullible so much as it demonstrates a familiarity with the genre’s conventions. These conventions similarly determine that there are no semiotic tricks: in the discourse of the popular romance, the signifier does equal the signified; failure to engage in “hermeneutics of suspicion” (cf. Ricoeur 1973 in Iser 1979: 20) should not, therefore, be considered a strike against the romance readers’ awareness of the text as such. Radway claims that it is their lack of understanding about the culturally and socially constructed meaning of language that results in the Smithton women’s confusion over the reality status of the text, and “thus [that] whenever the romance reader encounters a sentence that takes the form of a syntactic assertion, even if she has never seen the place it refers to or the object or custom it describes, she simply assumes that what it claims is true; she accepts it as fact” (1984/1991: 195). I think that this is another example of the successful creation of narrative illusion, which is, of course, not unique to popular romances. To counter Radway’s claim, I offer the example of “Appendix I” at the end of Ian McEwan’s Enduring Love (1997: 233). McEwan’s novel is significantly more psychologically complex than a popular romance, both on the levels of story and discourse; however, the creation of aesthetic illusion in his novel was so successful that he tricked members of the British psychiatric community into experiencing referential delusion with regard to the reality status of an appended case study (“Fooled You”). McEwan accomplished this feat of illusion-making primarily by means of discursive markers: the Appendix’s placement after the conclusion of the narrative suggests that it is the case study upon which the novel is based, a paratextual convention that heightens the document’s believability; the Appendix is also written within the discourse of the psychiatric community it was pretending to be a part of, suggesting to its readers that it is no more than a piece of medical documentation. Readers of the case study were so consistently convinced of its reality status that it was reviewed in a psychiatric journal (“Fooled You”), although the hoax was revealed before it could be published. A scholar of McEwan would, no doubt, see this as proof of his artistry rather than evidence that the individuals who believed in the document did not possess cultural awareness or an adequately sophisticated understanding of how language works: the names of the authors who “wrote” the case study (Wenn

10 The fact that prototypically ideal historical romances do include factual information about the time in which they are set is established in Michaels (2007: 34) in which she gives the example of Georgette Heyer, “who successfully portrayed a historical figure. In An Infamous Army, a love story set against the Battle of Waterloo in 1815, she brings the Duke of Wellington to life by using his own words (taken from his letters and dispatches) to create his dialogue” (Michaels 2007: 35). While not all authors can be expected to incorporate historical details with Heyer’s skill, Michaels reminds prospective romance authors that “no matter what historical period you choose, it’s important to know enough about it to portray it realistically” (2007: 34). 72 and Camia) are an anagram of Ian McEwan, and yet the aesthetic illusion was so convincing that the status of the Appendix went unquestioned for some time11. With this contrastive example in mind then, I assert that neither the fact that the popular romance downplays its discourse and privileges the level of story, nor that it seems to assume ‘real’ status by referring to the world outside the text should be attributed to a lack of intellectual sophistication on the part of its readers; rather, the “deliberately referential language” (Radway 1984/1991: 192) and seeming equation of the signifier with the signified are symptoms of the genre’s high degree of narrative illusion, and the artistry involved in creating it. If one is concerned with the Smithton readers’ reception strategies, they should thus be credited with a better understanding of the genre and its textual qualities than Radway seems to bestow. Discourse disappears in the popular romance, and the signifier’s relationship to the signified is unproblematic, because of deliberate strategies on the part of the author to increase the narrative illusion of the text, rather than a failing of the reader at the point of reception.

4.4.2. Escaping to a ‘Real’ World: Literary Language and Familiar Inventory Radway’s second argument with regard to the level of discourse can be linked to her argument about identification on the level of story, because on the level of discourse the reader is also presented with the familiar in order to heighten the effect of identification, not only with the main characters, but also with the story world (cf. 1984/1991: 192). Radway includes the first page of Woodiwiss’ The Flame and the Flower (1972) in order to demonstrate the type of discourse she sees as typical of the popular romance genre. Interestingly, exactly the same section is quoted by Regis to demonstrate an example of terrible writing in the popular romance genre (cf. Regis 2011: 9) with regard to her recommendation that critics choose the strongest study texts to represent the genre. In any case, what Radway notices about the passage is the following: The reader cannot help but know immediately that she has been transported out of her daily world into an imaginary realm existing only between the pages of a book. The verbal structure obviously does not repeat the simple patterns of daily speech. Yet the sentences immediately following this opening contradict or, better yet, balance that effect by focusing attention on the spatial and temporal particularity of the moment (Radway 1984/1991: 192).

11 The author of the Guardian article seems to relish this fact, and his opening paragraph emphasizes that one would have thought psychiatrists could tell the difference between illusion and reality:

Few people, on the face of it, would seem so well acquainted with the strange place where imagination meets reality as the readers of the Royal College of Psychiatrists' Psychiatric Bulletin. As expert navigators of the wilder shores of delusion and hallucination, surely they, of all people, can be relied on to spot the difference between fact and fiction - to tell, for example, when they're being had? Well, no, actually, as it turns out. Ian McEwan, the bestselling novelist, comes clean in this month's edition of the Bulletin about a literary sleight of hand perpetrated on the world of psychiatry that seems to have had several of its respected members comprehensively fooled. (“Fooled You”) 73

Thus while the literary language signals to the reader that the act of reading and its attendant world-construction has begun, the referential language, in addition to the primacy of the story level, suggest to her that the story world she envisions is familiar to her. The notable absence of a distancing opening such as the fairy tale’s standard “Once upon a time…” is a marker of the romance’s story world’s relative proximity to our own (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 192). Radway claims that “this particular blend of a deliberately referential language with the signs of ‘the literary’ serves the dual purpose of signalling ‘escape’ while suggesting to the reader that the imaginary world is congruent with her own and, therefore, dominated by events that might well occur in a life such as hers” (1984/1991: 192). I agree with Radway about the combination of literary and familiar discourse up to a point: while the genre’s typical heteroreferentiality does suggest that “the imaginary world is congruent with her own”, I believe there is an important different between convincing the reader of the plausibility of the fictional world and the probability of the events depicted actually taking place. Thus when Radway argues that “the romance’s […] equivocation about its status as myth or realism could conceivably be the mark of its authors’ and readers’ deep-seated unwillingness to admit that the perfect union concluding the story is unattainable in life” (1984/1991: 193), I think she has conflated the two propositions. The Smithton readers acknowledge that their romance reading allows them to escape their daily cares by way of a romantic fantasy (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 61); they also extract knowledge about the outside world from these novels and use them, in a sense, as encyclopaedias (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 192); however, the women are similarly aware that they accomplish this escape through the act of reading, which requires the textual effect of narrative illusion in order to recenter the reader in the fictional world. The literary language thus marks the fictional world as such (since it is accessed through the book as aesthetic object and through literary signs) at the same time as the referential language and use of familiar inventory to fill the fictional world emphasizes the plausibility of the events as they take place in the fictional world. Radway’s concern about the Smithton women accepting the romance novels’ assertions as true for the external world has been discussed above, but a related ideological consequence of the reading process, as she sees it, is the construction of femininity and the feminine realm as it is construed through the mix of literary and familiar language. One of the ways in which femininity is constructed in the popular romance, according to Radway, is through the inclusion of extensively detailed descriptions of women’s fashions and homes (cf. 1984/1991: 193). Radway states that The details [of women’s fashions], however, are not really superfluous at all. They are part of an essential shorthand that establishes that, like ordinary readers, fictional heroines are ‘naturally’ preoccupied with fashion. Romantic authors draw unconsciously on cultural conventions and stereotypes that stipulate that women can always be characterized by their universal interest in clothes. However, at the same time that the fictional depend on these previously known codes, they also tacitly legitimate them through simple repetition, thereby justifying the readers’ own likely preoccupation with these indispensable features of the feminine universe (1984/1991: 193). 74

Because of her understanding of the Smithton women’s conception of the reading process, Radway worries that “the success with which the ordinary is typically mimed in the romance thus seems to confer factual status on all its other verbal assertions as well” (1984/1991: 195). However, it is Radway herself who attributes to the Smithton women a “likely preoccupation” with fashion and the home. She acknowledges that this “technique of the aimless glance” is used to create identification in the reader by means of filling the world with the familiar (Eco 1979 in Radway 1984/1991: 194), but claims that in the popular romance the consequence of this is that the women accept the proposition that they are “naturally” concerned with such details because they are presented as a natural part of the romance’s narrative discourse. Descriptions of clothing and fashions vary based on the sub-genre of the novel in question and the individual author’s tendencies, which suggests that, since the women select those texts which they believe are best suited to provide them with the reading experience they desire, they can also choose romances which include those details or not. The “aimless glance” technique on its own, therefore, is simply a realist device that contributes to illusion- making by filling the story world with the familiar inventory of the readers’ lived experience, once again, emphasizing the plausibility of the narrative and fostering identification and narrative illusion.

4.4.3. Easing the Reading Process: Limited Indeterminacies The concept of a text’s indeterminacies were mentioned in my theoretical chapter as the access points through which the reader enters the text: as the meaning of the text is actualized in the reader’s mind by way of the reading process, such gaps in the text allow them to bring their own experience and expectations to the narrative. Iser points out that an excess of gaps can result in overstrain while their scarcity may result in boredom (cf. Iser 1978: 108) if the reader does not have the chance to contribute their imaginative faculties to the construction of meaning. Radway addresses the concept of gaps in the text at the same time as she stresses the “centrality of the story to the romance-reading experience” (1984/1991: 195): Quick reader comprehension and visualization are further guaranteed in the romance by repetitive use of the same, limited vocabulary. Romantic authors endlessly repeat descriptive phrases both within a single novel and from book to book as well. […] Marked redundancy and intertextual repetition are characteristic of romantic fiction. Such a recurring vocabulary inevitably creates stock descriptions and formulaic characterizations that reconfirm reader expectations over and over again. The redundancy of the discourse permits the reader to get by with a minimal amount of interpretive work after her initial encounter with the romantic form (Radway 1984/1991: 196-97).

Radway’s concern with the redundancy of the discourse is linked to her belief in the romance’s status as a myth that appears to its readers in the guise of realist fiction; however, in that regard the notion of the repetition of textual elements has already been dealt with as related to a prototypical conception of genre. The “redundancy of discourse” that Radway notes here relates to the contingencies which are suggested by the text, and then confirmed or dispelled through the reading process. The question this raises is: how is it possible for the Smithton readers to find the romances so 75 particularly immersive at the same time that they are provided with so few opportunities to enter into the actualization of the text by participating in filling its gaps? I contend that this effect is achieved through the nature of the gaps the romance does possess, which are once again tied to the reader’s emotional involvement in the story – a factor that has been linked to the successful creation of narrative illusion (cf. Wolf 2004a: 342). Radway elaborates on her comment about the “minimal amount of interpretive work” by stating that “by masking the interpretive character of the act of reading [through the illusion of signifier being equal to signified], the redundant and simple language of the romance novel minimizes the labor the reader contributes to the production of the story. This particular linguistic practice then insures that reading will be marked not as ‘work’ but as pleasure by the women who indulge in it so frequently” (1984/1991: 196-97). The relative ease of consumption thus facilitates the Smithton women’s purpose for reading; their enjoyment of the act of reading arises out of their participation in filling the gaps on the level of story: the women’s imaginative faculties are engaged by the text because they are necessary for the story to unfold. With regard to the illusion-making principle of respecting and exploiting the chosen medium and genre, popular romances excel at involving the reader through their participation in the reading process precisely because it is through that process that the story unfolds. The centrality of the level of story thus makes the reader an integral part of the actualization process – and achieves high emotional involvement – because the reader propels the story forward simply through the act of reading. That the women read for plot rather than style is something Radway acknowledges as well (cf. 1984/1991: 189), and the fact that gaps of a more psychological level, for example, require more effort to fill can be seen in the fact that “in discussing the novels of Jane Austen, several of the women admitted that although they liked her heroines and found her stories intriguing, they could read her only if they were not tired, if they were alone, or if they were willing to pay particular attention to her verbal structures” (Radway 1984/1991: 197). Juhasz has pointed out that “the difference between the Harlequin romance and a Jane Austen novel has more to do with psychological complexity and depth than with the outlines of the plot” (1988: 246); this psychological complexity requires more interpretive work on the part of its reader, and this “work” doesn’t correspond to the purpose for which the genre’s readers seek out popular romance novels. While Radway believes that the Smithton women are unaware of the reading process as anything other than the reception of meaning that is already in the text (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 190), there are indications in her conversations with them that they are aware of the relative presence and absence of gaps in the texts, and, even if this concept is not theorized by the women themselves, the gaps are tied to the notion of the implied reader: Maureen, one of the women who makes her feelings about the romance particularly clear to Radway, describes the fact that “bad romances make her feel unhappy or angry” (Radway 1984/1991: 159): In discussing the identification process whereby she actually lives through the reading experience as the heroine, she observed, “I am whatever is going on in the story.” She 76

added immediately that this “is why I resent characters in books that are absolutely too naïve to be believable, because that way I feel the reader is—the writer is putting me down” (Radway 1984/1991: 159).

Maureen’s resentment about having to identify with a heroine she sees as “too naïve to be believable” suggests that such romances have not left enough gaps for the reader to engage her own imaginative faculties in order to contribute something to the actualization of the meaning of the text. While Maureen may never have heard of the concept of the implied reader, her apt observation nonetheless ties the amount of gaps in a text to the author’s conception of their implied reader. Unfortunately, at this point it seems that Radway allows her understanding of the Smithton women’s conception of the reading process to colour her assessment of the novels’ narrative discourse. With regard to interpretive statements made by the narrator in order to fill what little gaps there are in the text, Radway comments that it is important to point out here that these practices are not cited as evidence of the lamentable quality of writing in popular romantic fiction. Indeed, this writing can be judged harshly only if one agrees with Henry James that all fiction ought to demonstrate with subtlety rather than tell overtly [(cf. James 1948 in Radway 1984/1991: 196)]. Romance readers, of course, do not; for them, redundancy and overzealous assertion perform important and particular functions. Together, these functions combat ambiguity, imply that all events are definitively comprehensible, and reassure the reader that whatever minimal inferences she might construct, they will be adequate and accurate (Radway 1984/1991: 196).

In the years since the publication of Radway’s study, the genre has necessarily evolved, which may have something to do with our diverging opinions, but I believe that the relative ease of consumption of romance novels is a result of their discourse being optimized to fulfill their purpose as it is conceived by its users. Extreme redundancy and repetition are nowadays seen as markers of prototypically weak romances, precisely because they deny their readers the opportunity to participate in the actualization of the text. The reassurance that Radway condescendingly attributes to the “redundancy and overzealous assertions” of the popular romance will be investigated in more detail below with reference to Jeffries Halstead Hall series. Using the concept of the implied reader, I will argue that the reassurance provided by such discursive tendencies contributes to the effect of nurture as an aesthetic experience of the popular romance. With regard to Radway’s comments about the lack of gaps in the narrative discourse of the popular romance, I conclude that her account has once again underestimated the capabilities of the genre’s readers by failing to notice that what she sees as a failing (the over-determination of the text) is actually related to the successful creation of narrative illusion (because of the primacy of the story world) and to the optimization of the genre according to its readers’ concept of its purpose: relaxing enjoyment. 77

4.4.4. Summary It should be clear by now that I disagree with most aspects of Radway’s perception of the significance of the narrative discourse of the popular romance. Although, as Goris reminds us, she should be credited for pursuing her ethnographic study of the popular romance at a time when such popular literature was generally perceived as not worthy of academic study (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 3), my disagreement arises from the fact that in focusing on the cultural context that informs the readers’ reception of the popular romances they read, she seems to overlook textual effects which contribute to these reading tendencies. Although, as established by both Iser and Wolf, the cultural and historical context of both the reception and the recipient will necessarily affect the significance and effects of the text as they are constructed by the reader, the literary text itself must still be acknowledged as capable of creating certain effects in the course of its actualization through the reading process. With that in mind, Radway’s assessment of the Smithton women’s conflation of the signifier with the signified should not be perceived as a result of their lack of understanding of the reading process, but rather as a symptom of their awareness of the generic tendencies of the genre, which downplay the level of discourse in favour of narrative illusion, and which typically signal to the reader that she need not engage in a “hermeneutics of suspicion” (cf. Ricoeur 1973 in Iser 1979: 20). I agree with Radway’s observation that the combination of the popular romance’s marked literary constructions, such as “subordinate clause constructions, elaborate similes, and rhetorical flourishes” (Radway 1984/1991: 192) with its heteroreferentiality allows the reader escape her daily cares while still being comfortably aware that the fictional world follows the same rules as her own; it does not follow, however, that the reader concludes that what is depicted as plausible in both the story world and her own is probable to occur outside of the fictional realm of the romance. Finally, Radway sees the lack of gaps in the romance genre’s discourse as evidence of the fact that the text’s over- determination “cancel[s] the anxiety and contingency prompted by the fact that reading is a temporarily open-ended act, just as [it] guarantee[s] that even the laziest and most unimaginative reader will now not only what is occurring but what it means as well” (1984/1991: 196). Even though we agree on the fact that the story is at the centre of the popular romance, Radway attributes a negative significance to the fact that readers’ expectations with regard to gaps are quickly and explicitly confirmed, while I see this as symptomatic of the genre’s optimization of its medium and the best way of exploiting the emotional involvement its readers. I also conclude that even if they are unable to theorize their perceptions, the Smithton women are aware that the relative presence and absence of gaps, and other choices the authors make, are related to the role of the reader in constructing the text. My own analysis will thus focus significantly more on how the implied reader is constructed in Sabrina Jeffries’ Hellions of Halstead Hall series, and what implications this has for the creation of an aesthetic experience of nurture. 78

4.5. Conclusions on Radway’s Reading the Romance In order to follow Goris’ advice regarding the treatment and re-evalutation of older studies of the popular romance, I must acknowledge the immense contribution of Radway’s work, even as I disagree with many of her conclusions about the genre. Although her study is small and cannot be seen as representative of the genre as a whole, Radway restricts her claims accordingly (cf. 1984/1991: 49). Her early interest in a field which has expanded considerably since the publication of her text is also to be commended, and while many subsequent authors have disagreed with her conclusions, myself and Regis (2011) included, she has nonetheless provided us with something to disagree with. Radway’s choice to conduct an ethnographic study of romance readers is also interesting to this project with regard to its study of the effects of literature; although I am concerned with aesthetic response – and thus the text – rather than reception – and the strategies thereof – empirical studies such as Radway’s allow scholars of literature to test their hypotheses with regard to such effects. David Miall’s book Literary Reading: Empirical and Theoretical Studies (2006) suggests that cognitive approaches to literary studies implement empirical studies of reader responses in order to avoid “becoming merely another vehicle for arriving at interpretations of texts” (Miall 2006: 35). Radway’s study of the Smithton women’s strategies of reception might then be interesting to compare to contemporary reader responses to the genre, in a study which combines aesthetic response and reception theory. With all due respect to Radway, then, for her contribution to the field of popular romance studies, this thesis has also responded to some of her conclusions by noting that her focus on the Smithton women’s understanding of the reading process neglects consideration of how the textual elements of popular romances contribute to that understanding. Her concern over the women’s confusion about the reality status of the text obscures the fact that the texts’ heteroreferentiality actively constructs the fictional world as an extension of our own in order to contribute to the effect of narrative illusion. Narrative illusion and the enjoyment thereof could also be responsible for the Smithton women’s voracious reading habits and the fact that they don’t like to leave a story unread (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 59), rather than anxiety or a need for reassurance about the validity of patriarchal gender relations. While Radway believes that popular romances provide temporary positive feelings that may distract women from acting for real social change, this project has argued that it is not the popular romance’s job to prompt women towards that action. With particular relevance to the popular romance as a commercial genre, the fact that the novels are produced in order to fulfill the demands of a pre-existing audience constitutes their purpose as a genre: Radway’s study shows that the Smithton women buy romances for the purpose of escape and pleasurable entertainment, thus the genre should not be condemned for not lamenting the state of the world. Radway herself notes at the end of her study that the content of romances is shifting and that romance authors seem to be paying attention to readers’ demands (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 221). Her chapters about the Smithton women’s reading preferences give us an idea of how they conceived of 79 prototypically ideal romances, and additionally provide a reference point with which to compare contemporary historical romances, such as Sabrina Jeffries’ Hellions of Halstead Hall series. In this chapter, I have established the similarities and differences between my own arguments and Radway’s. My next step will be to put forth arguments supporting my thesis that nurture is the aesthetic experience of the popular romance novel, and that this effect is the result of a confluence of factors relating to genre, the act of reading, the level of story, and the level of discourse. 80

5. The Popular Romance as Women’s Fiction: Nurture as an Effect of Genre In order to begin my analysis of the effect of nurture as aesthetic experience of the popular romance genre, I would like to revisit the definition of the term as it was introduced at the beginning of this project: ‘to nurture’ was defined as the act of caring or protecting someone or something as they are growing, of helping or encouraging their development, and ‘nurture’ as the care, protection, and encouragement engendered by that act; ‘nurturance’ is Radway’s term, and is defined as emotional and physical nourishment and care given to someone (“nurturance”). In this first section addressing the generation of ‘nurturance’ as an aesthetic experience of the popular romance genre, I would like to briefly return to this concept in order to give an outline of the claims that I will make in this and the following sections. I will begin by introducing Juhasz’s comments on female self- realization as it is achieved through the conventions of the marriage plot (Juhasz 1988). Juhasz, like Radway, uses Chodorow’s theory of the female self in relation, but comes to different conclusions than Radway about the effect of romance novels on their readers: the process of self-realization that she sees as a result of the marriage plot is one example of the genre’s conventions helping and encouraging the development of its readers. Subsequently, I will examine the effect of consistently applied generic conventions to the creation of a particular aesthetic experience in order to show the way in which nurture can be depended upon as an effect of the popular romance. In this sense, the fact that the genre’s readers can always access the pleasurable feelings produced by their readers contributes to their nurturing effect. Finally, based in part on Chodorow’s theory of nurture as a typically female endeavour, I will argue that the generic conventions of the popular romance genre construct a female community, and that the fact that both the production and reception of popular romances takes place primarily within this female community heightens the experience of nurture as it is created in the popular romance genre. Where individual texts are not referenced, comments about the effect of nurture as an effect of the genre of popular romance are meant to refer to works which approach the prototypical ideal as it has been described in this project so far.

5.1. Female Self-Realization through the Marriage Plot Suzanne Juhasz begins her article on women’s fiction with the observation that while the term has “traditionally been used more disparagingly than not, to belittle or degrade fiction that women tend to prefer”, “it refers to something that exists” (1988: 239). She goes on to claim that “that preference, desire, need for the fiction written by, for, and about women is visible and vital in our culture” (Juhasz 1988: 239). While not all women’s fiction is characterized by a marriage plot, Juhasz establishes that her focus is “romance fiction, the love story, because it is far and away the favourite, as well as the most prevalent, form of the women’s novel” – a fact which was written in 1988 but still seems true today – and goes on to state that “the love story tells a tale of female aspiration to self- realization, for in women’s fantasy, love and identity are concurrent” (1988: 239). Because of the confluence of love and identity in women’s fiction, as well as the relationship between their 81 attainment, Juhasz posits that “the marriage ending is less cooptation, as some would have it, with success contingent upon submission of self to that patriarchal institution marriage, than it is reward for self-realization, for a maturation that derives from relationship rather than separation. As such, it is a fantasy, a fiction based less in verisimilitude than in imaginative reconstruction of unmet needs” (1988: 239; emphasis mine). This introduction establishes the appropriateness of Juhasz’s theory as a response to Radway’s text, given that Radway is one of those who see the marriage ending as ultimately affirming the desirability of submitting to patriarchal gender relations (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 208). Juhasz’s thesis that romance fiction allows for the self-realization of both heroine and reader is compatible with my thesis that nurture is an effect of the aesthetic experience of romance novels, in that the way in which romance fiction facilitates self-realization is equivalent to its ‘helping and encouraging’ the development of its readers. The notion of self-development requires a definition of self: “a self equals […] ‘a personal existence,’ a ‘continuity of being’ [Winnicott 1971 in Juhasz 1988: 241]. Despite the fact that postmodernist theory has questioned the validity of such a concept, it has been and remains alive as a useful way to organize our experience of human existence” (Juhasz 1988: 241). Juhasz notes that “from the eighteenth century to the present, the authors of women’s romance fiction have been concerned with themes of self-development in such a concept of self”. As in Radway, Juhasz draws on Nancy Chodorow’s theory of female development in order to explain the need for supplemental ‘nurturance’ as it occurs in women. In addition to Chodorow, she refers to Winnicott’s “picture of the mother-infant matrix [and] its emphasis on reciprocity, mutual empathy, and an ongoing dynamic between what Winnicott would call dependence and separation” (Juhasz 1988: 242). The link between this feminist psychoanalytical theory and women’s fiction is the fact that the conditions which lead to female readers requiring supplemental nurture are also relevant for the heroine at the beginning of the romantic text: thus Chodorow’s object-relations theory of the development of the female self (cf. Juhasz 1988: 253) accounts for the “distortion of the preoedipal experience that leaves daughters with few resources for achieving selfhood, which is the condition of all heroines when their stories begin” (Juhasz 1988: 245). The conditions which give rise to the need for additional nurture are thus also those which characterize the heroine’s condition at the beginning of her tale of self-realization. While the need for self-realization may, in Juhasz’s opinion, characterize all heroines at the beginning of their texts, there is a difference in the treatment of this progression in novels where self- realization is depicted as possible or impossible. Juhasz states that the lines of difference between romance fiction and those novels that strive for social verisimilitude are drawn along the axis of possibility – or lack of it – for psychological reparation and cultural reconstruction, rather than […] the axis of feminism – versus conformism. Novels like Kate Chopin’ The Awakening or George Eliot’s The Mill on the Floss are examples of the novel of verisimilitude, where the heroine’s struggle for selfhood must be thwarted, often in the most irrevocable manner. In the romance novel, on the other hand, the heroine gets a self as well as the hero. Even Harlequins are emphatic about this point. The difference between the Harlequin and a Jane Austen novel has more 82

to do with psychological complexity and depth than with the outlines of the plot (1988: 246; emphasis mine).

That romance novels constitute female fantasies has already been established in Radway, but Juhasz’s comments illuminate the way that the fantasy elements of such texts, that is, the way in which they actively deviate from the likely real outcome of a female quest for self-realization, makes the process of self-realization possible. Because of the concept of the female self in relation as described by Chodorow and Winnicott, the attainment of female selfhood is tied to the epiphany that the female is loved for her self. Focusing on the side of the continuum which allows for psychological reparation, Juhasz notes that romance novels are “like the more consciously created therapeutic practices of modern psychology: they aim to reconstruct and repair processes that have gone awry” (1988: 246). Romances are able to achieve this reparation because “the fantasy of true love, as women write it, offers to the daughter-heroine and the daughter-reader the chance to grow according to a model more maternal than paternal: love is not divorced from achievement but concomitant with it, as the self finds its identity through relational patterns in which empathy and differentiation are part of one process” (Juhasz 1988: 246). Because of the reader’s participation in the reading process, in which the text is actualized in her mind, as well as her identification with the heroine – facilitated through strategies of narrative illusion as discussed above – the heroine’s self-realization is also experienced by the reader – through her imagination’s “capacity for transcending empirical reality” (Wolf 2004a: 343). While the notion of “achievement” in the marriage plot may seem to conceive of female existence along precisely the lines that Radway was concerned would make women’s social situation seem both natural and desirable, Juhasz establishes that “the marriage plot has been particularly prevalent if only because marriage has traditionally been a vocation for most women” (1988: 247). While male self-realization has typically been dealt with in fiction through the quest (cf. Juhasz 1988: 248), the supplemental ‘nurturance’ required by woman, according to Chodorow’s theory, means that the quest is inadequate to deal with female self-realization because it conceives of the process according to male needs, resulting in a self defined by independence, ambition, and control (cf. Juhasz 1988: 250). The love that facilitates self-realization in romance novels is “maternally rather than patriarchally defined as mutual, egalitarian, and growth-enhancing”, furthermore it is a “path rather than an obstacle to self-realization” (Juhasz 1988: 250). This kind of love has been described above in terms of the vicarious ‘nurturance’ that it offers to the reader who identifies with the heroine: indeed, Juhasz references Radway explicitly to note the connection between the ‘nurturance’ that the heroine receives in the popular romance and the fact that the romance fantasy is about being the object of a particularly nurturant love (cf. Juhasz 1988: 251; Radway 1984/1991: 83). While Radway notes that the hero’s transformation into a nurturing lover is always a fantasy because it “is not structurally explained by the narrative at the time that it occurs” (Radway 1984/1991 in 83

Juhasz 1988: 251; emphasis hers), Juhasz points out that in Austen’s novels, “the hero’s change is still a fantasy: that a nicely socialized male would and could mature into a person capable of love in women’s terms. Austen, however, turns transformation into growth through a psychologically- realized process, resulting in a marriage between hero and heroine based in love that is egalitarian as well as unconditional” (1988: 251). Ultimately, it is the heroine’s ability to fully participate in an egalitarian relationship that emphasizes her selfhood because it is through the development of this relationship and through her experience of the hero’s nurturant love that she comes to know and be known as herself. Finally, Juhasz suggests that not only does the marriage plot contribute to the self-realization of both heroine and reader, but that “when women read romance stories by women, the mother-daughter bond is replicated” (Juhasz 1988: 252). Citing a variety of studies on the different reading and interpretation strategies of men and women, Juhasz suggests that the female reader “establishes an interactive intimacy with [the text] that is experiential and even somatic rather than purely intellectual. […] In this report, the male attitude toward reading is primarily analytic in the way it separates out components of the text and provides (for men) a comfortable distance between the components” (Juhasz 1988: 254). Because the different natures of their differentiation from the mother according to Chodorow, male and female readers have different relationships to the text: while male readers are more conscious of the text as such, female readers enter into the text, and are not as concerned about boundaries between themselves and the texts nor between themselves and the heroine (cf. Juhasz 1988: 254): with regard to the disappearing discourse of the popular romance, Juhasz explains that “the language of the text, its textuality, is neither an end in itself nor a veil to be torn aside, but an integral, living part of the experience. The story and the reading of it are not separate; they combine in such a way that the daughter-reader and the author-mother might establish, in the world of words, a nurturing relationship” (Juhasz 1988: 254). Thus the text embodies the mother-author while the story of the daughter-heroine is actualized in the consciousness of the daughter-reader, and the primacy of the level of story contributes to the experientiality of the text, allowing for the reader to experience the aesthetic experience of nurture. While, as mentioned above, the social circumstances creating a need for additional nurture as described by Chodorow are not the focus of this project, they do form the premise of Juhasz’s argument for why female self-realization needs to be brought about through romance reading. Juhasz’s text establishes the marriage plot as one that allows for the self-realization of both the heroine and the reader; this is accomplished through a love story rather than a quest or other masculine endeavour because, firstly, “the period of courtship was the least frivolous period of a woman’s life, the one moment in which her entire future—social, emotional, economic—was decided” (Brown 1979 in Juhasz 1988: 247), and secondly, because of the hero’s nurturant love for the heroine that replicates the mother-infant relationship and thus promotes the heroine/reader’s self- realization. The implications of this conclusion for my project should thus be clear: because the 84 marriage plot – which can alternately be conceived of as the progression through Regis’ eight narrative elements – is defined by the generic conventions of the popular romance, and has been demonstrated by Juhasz to contribute to the self-realization of the reader as she identifies with the heroine, the genre as such contributes to the effect of nurture as an aesthetic experience of the popular romance.

5.2. The Reassuring Consistency of Generic Conventions If the marriage plot provides a path to self-realization through love as described above, and that course can be linked to the generic conventions of the popular romance which deals with the developing relationship between two individuals who recognize their connection early in the story (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 123), it stands to reason that one can reach for any prototypically ideal popular romance text and experience an aesthetic experience of nurture. The creation of nurture as an effect of the popular romance has up to now only been addressed with reference to Radway’s text and briefly, above, with my introduction of Juhasz’s account of female self-realization through women’s fiction; an analysis of specific textual elements that contribute to this effect will follow below; however, it is not only the text that generates this effect, but also the genre as it is constituted by the texts within it. If ideal texts within the genre of popular romance consistently deliver the effect of nurture as an aesthetic experience, the genre itself can be seen an additional extra-textual means of generating that effect. The Smithton women, for example, are experienced romance readers who choose romances for a particular purpose: because they know that they can achieve the desired effects of experiencing pleasurable emotions, relaxation, and escape through their romance reading, the effect of genre on their aesthetic experience can be seen as one of nurture because it reliably fulfills their needs, on demand. While Radway sees the pre-determined happy ending of the popular romance as indicative of its status as myth, for the Smithton readers it is proof that the novel will generate the effect for which they read the romance. The particular distribution and ordering of the narrative elements along the way to that happy ending depend on the artistry of the author. Because a dynamic concept of genre, in which one acknowledges that genre is constituted by the texts within it as much as those texts are constituted by their genre, assumes that authors writing within that genre are constantly testing, resisting, and bending its limits, genre can be compared to language: “individuals choose within linguistic and generic conventions, and they create and recreate the society that those conventions reflect. Although genre is thus a social concept and construct, it also clarifies the nature of individual choices” (Devitt 1993: 580). Thus genre is the language (or the Saussurian langue) to the novel’s utterance (parole) (cf. Devitt 1993: 580), and the rule governing the language of romance novels is this: “category or single title, suspense or comedy, erotic or sweet—[…] no matter what else is going on, the main focus is on the hero and heroine and their growing love for each other” (Michaels 2007: 4). Given that this love is experienced vicariously by the reader through her identification with the 85 heroine, and that, as Juhasz argued, it is connected with the heroine’s progress towards self- realization, it results in the effect of nurture as aesthetic experience. This aesthetic experience is brought about in the individual “utterance” of the novel – through textual and paratextual elements – but it is also conveyed through the “language” of genre, since that nurturing love is defined by the generic conventions. Readers who recognize that they consistently experience nurture as an effect of popular romance fiction may also begin to experience what Markowitz refers to as an “aesthetic meta- response”. Because we experience aesthetic distance as a natural corollary of the reading process, “we must recognize not only a first-order response to the situation in question – a response of, for example, sympathy, indignation, anger, fear, or joy – but also a response to this response” (Markowitz 1992: 309). She cites Susan Feagin’s example of tragedies, the aesthetic responses to which include, potentially, feelings of sympathy, sadness, and tears; the meta-response to tragedy can then be seen in the pleasure that we take in our aesthetic response, which “aris[es] from our awareness of, and in response to unpleasant events as they occur in the performing and literary arts. We find ourselves to be the kind of people who react negatively to villainy, treachery, and injustice. This discovery [...] yields satisfaction” (Feagin 1983 in Markowitz 1992: 309). For an example of an aesthetic meta- response to the popular romance genre, I will draw on another article by Janice Radway in which she describes her study of the Smithton women: One woman remarked with a note of triumph in her voice: ‘My body may be in that room, but I’m not!’ […] This particular means of escape is better than television viewing for these women, because the cultural value attached to books permits them to overcome the guilt they feel about avoiding their responsibilities (Radway 1983: 58-9).

This description of Dot’s experience of romance reading is useful because her “triumphant” exclamation suggests that she enjoys romance reading not only for the reasons mentioned above, but also for the satisfaction she gets from her ability to escape her daily cares through what is perceived as a legitimate medium. It is not simply the text that engenders positive feelings in romance readers; their aesthetic meta-response is also pleasurable because it indicates self-sufficiency and the ability to identify and fulfill one’s own needs. Since this project’s definition of both genre and the popular romance includes paratextual elements, they can also be seen as contributing to the effect of nurture as it is created by the popular romance genre. Radway’s account of the institutional forces which inform the production of popular romances includes an explanation of the way in which category fiction is commoditized literature because the audience pre-exists the text. While the concept of popular romances as commodities only works if the texts are consistently close to the prototypical ideal, it is in the publisher’s best interest to suggest that the quality of their offerings is as consistent as possible. Genre contributes to the effect of nurture not only because of its definition of the generic conventions which give rise to that effect, nor because of the production of a particular aesthetic meta-response, but also because of the uniformity 86 suggested by the paratext of the novel as a commercial object. Michaels recommends that prospective romance writers read extensively within the sub-genre of their choice, but also that they study the outside of the novels (cf. 2007: 18). This study is important, she argues, because of the associations each line tries to create between their novels as commercial product and the experience that they provide: “each book published in a specific category, such as Harlequin Presents or Silhouette Intimate Moments, will have a similar cover design, and all the books in a particular category will have exactly the same number of pages” (Michaels 2007: 6). While Radway’s remarks about the commoditization of category fiction seem linked to her conception of the genre as formulaic and simple (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 40), Michaels posits this strategy as reassuring to the consumer of popular romances: “a soup manufacturer uses the same colors and design on every label to catch the consumer’s eye and assure her that she’s getting brand-name quality, whether she’s buying bean soup or corn chowder or cream of tomato. In the same way, the specific theme of a romance cover design tells the reader that this story will be the same type of story she enjoyed last month” (Michaels 2007: 6-7). The books’ uniformity also allows publishers to save money on printing and shipping costs: since romance readers tend to read a lot of romances, it is important that this allows publishers to keep their retail prices down (cf. Michaels 2007: 7), which may be seen as a pragmatic, if not particularly literary, way generic conventions nurture the reader. Finally, since narrative illusion’s role in heightening the experience of nurture has already been discussed, the last way in which genre contributes to that effect is through the mediation of the paratext. The paratext includes “such liminal elements as titles, epigraphs, dedications, prefaces, jacket copy, promotional blurbs, and the like” (cf. Genette 1997 in Gleason 2011: 7), and, as discussed above, the paratexts of the popular romance novels in question are extraordinarily uniform. To return to the example of McEwan’s remarkable feat of aesthetic illusion with regard to “Appendix I” of Enduring Love, one of the reasons that the illusion was so effective was because of the paratextual conventions of novels ‘based on real life’. In addition to McEwan’s remarkable ability to write in the style of psychiatric discourse, the placement of the Appendix after the conclusion of the narrative and the formatting of the Appendix to resemble an authentic case study can be seen as paratextual conventions contributing to the creation of aesthetic illusion. In the same way, the paratext of the popular romance as it is defined by generic conventions also contributes to the genre’s creation of aesthetic illusion: the uniformity of the books as concrete objects allow their readers to anticipate the aesthetic experience signalled by the paratext—the cover art and other external markers thus function as the extension that eases the reader into the experience of aesthetic illusion. Readers are consequently primed for the experience of narrative illusion and, subsequently, of nurture as aesthetic experience by the paratext as defined by genre.

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5.3. The Popular Romance Genre as a ‘Feminine Space’ Radway’s introduction to the institutional beginnings of the popular romance genre remind her readers that the genre’s swift rise to popularity and unprecedented financial success were made possible on account of the “unique situation of women in American society” (Radway 1984/1991: 32). The Romance Writers of America have provided us with the statistic that 91% of romance readers are female; I would also argue that even though 9% of romance readers may be male, the implied reader of the romance novel is always female. Additionally, while a (relatively) few men may write romances under female pseudonyms, Radway’s Smithton readers, at least, were sceptical of male authors’ ability to adequately “imagine the ‘gentleness’ that is essential to the good romance” (Radway 1984/1991: 73). Radway does not initially understand the women’s insistence on this point, and asks Dot to describe the difference between female- and male-authored romances: She replied that a man’s story always gives the hero’s point of view more extensively than that of the heroine. Even though her customers insisted separately that they too can always ferret out romances written by men under pseudonyms—indeed Laurie remarked that a man “always clips the woman short” – [Radway] still wondered whether this was, in fact, possible (1984/1991: 179).

In the course of her reading, however, Radway’s own reading experience confirmed the women’s opinions: …after finishing half of Jocelyn Wilde’s Bride of the Baja, [Radway] realized that the crucial passages about emotional satisfaction were not centered on the heroine’s experience at all but expressed male fantasy of what it would feel like to find a totally uninhibited female. In looking at the copyright page [… Radway] discovered that Jocelyn Wilde is, in reality, John Toombs (Radway 1984/1991: 179).

It is possible, of course, for talented authors to write from the perspective of another gender; the centrality of the heroine’s experience to the popular romance genre suggests, however, that at least the implied author must be female because she must be able to communicate with her implied reader in the discourse of both the verbal and non-verbal communication of nurture. Juhasz’s argument that in romance texts, the mother-author replicates the mother-infant bond with both the daughter-heroine, as she is written, and the daughter-reader, who identifies with the heroine’s experience is also predicated on the idea that romance novels are women’s fiction: for women by women. The fact that the production and reception of popular romances are centered around women can thus also be seen as contributing to the aesthetic experience of nurture because of the rarity of encountering female- positive media that is created primarily by women, for women. The notion of “safe spaces” has recently risen to prominence with reference to LGBTQ- individuals12: the term refers to physical or virtual spaces where people can discuss issues without fear

12 Initiatives like the Safe Spaces Project are dedicated to “to strengthening, and creating, welcoming spaces that foster the development and flourishing of Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transgender and Queer (LGBTQ) youth” – Safe Spaces Project (http://www.safespacesproject.org/). 88 of judgment or discrimination. While the sociological implications of space have been discussed by theorists like Foucault (1984), among others, this recent conception of space need not refer to real places, but rather to communities within which individuals can count on an affirming and welcoming environment, awareness of “their specific needs, perspectives, and strengths”, and a willingness and ability to meet those needs (cf. “Space Spaces Project”). The Safe Spaces Project, for example, is dedicated “to strengthening, and creating, welcoming spaces that foster the development and flourishing of Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transgender and Queer (LGBTQ) youth” (cf. “Safe Spaces Project”). While the popular romance genre clearly has no such mission statement with regard to providing a nurturing environment to romance readers, the fact that romance novels are primarily created and consumed by women nonetheless results in the creation of a ‘feminine space’. In a world where ‘mankind’ is commonly used to refer to ‘humanity’, the fact that a genre of literature made by women and catering to their specific needs exists, has, in and of itself, an element of nurture. Chodorow’s theory of female development testifies to the idea of nurture as a feminine quality, while Juhasz puts forth that women’s experience of reading is about connections, while men focus more on partition (cf. Juhasz 1988: 253). The fact that the romance genre was conceived with a female pre-existing audience in mind demonstrates the way in which its production was defined by the needs and desires of real women. The fact that this audience pre-existed the text further heightens the effect of nurture as aesthetic experience as a product of narrative illusion, in that conceiving of the genre’s audience as female lowers the variability of the recipient in terms of the factors that influence the creation of narrative illusion (cf. Wolf 2004a: 333). The stories of popular romance novels are fantasies that accomplish their purposes as a result of the creation of narrative illusion: the fact that the fantasies in question are tailored to a female audience means that narrative illusion can be optimized for its anticipated audience, as it is defined by the conventions of genre. Radway provides an example of the way in which the fantastic nature of the romance’s plot is influenced by fantasies originating in women’s lived experience: The stories are written from a perspective that is well aware of the difficulties posed by male autonomy and reticence and, as a result, they are exercises in the imaginative transformation of masculinity to conform with female standards. This is precisely what occurs when the emotional standoff between hero and heroine is partially broken in the ideal romance by the hero’s act of tenderness […]. What makes this so interesting, however, is not the fact that it occurs. This is, after all, a woman’s fantasy and, as such, it fulfills desires and satisfies wishes that are basic to her psychological construction. [The hero’s act of tenderness] of the ideal romance is intriguing precisely because it is not structurally explained by the narrative at the time that it occurs (Radway 1984/1991: 147).

It should be noted that this is the same function Juhasz identifies as contributing to the romance’s ability to provide “psychological reparation” (1988: 246) to both the heroine and the reader. Radway goes on to say that what this fantasy allows the reader to do is reinterpret the actions of the men in her life in the same way that the heroine must reinterpret the hero’s actions to account for the changes in his behaviour towards her, and, in her view, this is evidence of how “the romance 89 functions always as a utopian wish-fulfillment fantasy through which women try to imagine themselves as they often are not in day-to-day existence, that is, as happy and content” (Radway 1984/1991: 151). There are many different human fantasies in which individuals get the opportunity to imagine themselves as “happy and content”; however, the fantasy offered by the romance is one that caters specifically to the psychological needs of female romance readers. While individual male readers may well find enjoy romance reading and the aesthetic experience offered to them by the text, the fact that one of the genre’s narrative functions – as defined by Radway – specifically offers women a fantasy related to their every day lived experience demonstrates that the popular romance genre can be conceived as a ‘feminine space’. Wendell and Tan refer to a similar idea with their claim, in Regis (2011: 6) that “anything written for an audience of mostly women by a community of mostly women is subversive, reflective of the[ir] current sexual, emotional, and political status, and actively embraces and undermines that status simultaneously”. They have contributed to the creation of this community by founding and running the website Smart Bitches, Trashy Books, which allows romance readers to review romances, discuss authors, and voice opinions about current issues in the popular romance genre. Both such online forums for romance readers and the use of new social media, which allow fans to communicate with authors, have the potential to influence the production of the genre, given the importance of its pre-existing audience to how the genre is constituted.

5.4. Summary This look at how nurture is created as an effect of genre, in the case of the popular romance, has addressed aspects of genre on the levels of story and discourse, as well as with regard to the contexts of production and reception, the paratext, and the imagined recipient. Juhasz’s article, written shortly after Radway’s work, and using the same psychoanalytical theory, nonetheless disagrees with Radway’s view that romance reading is detrimental to its audience, and argues instead that the romance fantasy allows women an imaginative experience of psychological reparation denied to them in the real world and in literature tending more towards social realism/verisimilitude. Although the various sub-genres of the popular romance genre may have differing degrees of resemblance to traditional marriage plots such as the novels of Jane Austen, the celebratory ending, and as such, the evidence of their genealogy, is mandated by the generic convention of an “emotionally satisfying, optimistic ending” (Crusie 2000: 2). The potential for self-realization that Juhasz identifies thus becomes a generic convention of the prototypically ideal romance. This point is made in the context of Juhasz’s argument that women’s fiction – that is, fiction written for women, by women – is in itself nurturant, in that the author as mother and the reader as daughter replicate the nurturant mother-infant relationship, which Radway sees as the basis of women’s romantic fantasies (cf. 1984/1991: 96). The particularly female nature of these fantasies was also given as an example of the construction of a ‘feminine space’, as one of the extra-textual examples of the genre’s ability to generate the effect of nurture. 90

Other extra-textual factors include the consistency of the genre’s ideal texts’ effect on its readers, and subsequently, the effect of its aesthetic meta-response. If readers take pleasure in their ability to escape their daily cares, and experience additional gratification from the extent of their immersion, for example, the genre which, on the level of story, facilitates that escape, is furthermore responsible for the second-order response (cf. Markowitz 1992: 315). This consistent effect is a result of generic conventions, which dictate not only the level of story, but also the appearance of the book as a concrete object and its accompanying paratextual elements: this consistency means that the uniformity of novels’ exteriors also serves as preparatory extension with regard to the creation of aesthetic illusion. Readers are thus primed for the experience of narrative illusion by the paratextual elements and by their familiarity with the genre’s conventions. One further extra-textual aspect of genre that also contributes to the experience of nurture is the construction of a ‘feminine space’ because both the production and reception of the popular romance genre is perceived as (female-) gendered. Evidence of this can be found in the overwhelming majority of female romance readers, romance authors, and the supremacy of female fantasies on the level of story. This results in the construction of the popular romance genre as a community oriented around an awareness of women’s specific “needs, perspectives, and strengths” and a “willing[ness] and ab[ility] to meet their needs” (“Safe Spaces Project”). With a conception of genre as defined by both textual and extra-textual aspects, this project has made claims about texts within the popular romance genre based on the assumption that these claims are true for texts which approach a prototypical ideal. The same logic must be applied to the following section, which will investigate the effect of nurture as it is created through the act of reading prototypically ideal romances. 91

6. Nurture as Experienced through the Act of Reading Popular Romance This project’s focus on the aesthetic response versus the reception of popular romance texts means that the act of reading the popular romance is nearly outside the scope of this thesis; however, an examination of the functions of literature as they are served by the popular romance genre can provide an illuminating look into what popular romances do for their readers. This analysis will, of course, be approached by way of Wolfgang Iser’s aesthetic response theory, and both the Smithton women and Radway’s comments will be used as evidence of the claims made in this section. The list of functions of literature in this section is by no means meant to be complete: rather, I have selected exclusively those functions which I believe apply to the genre of popular romance and are which directly related to creating an aesthetic experience of nurture through the act of reading. In the narrow context of this thesis, I am drawing upon these functions to serve a specific purpose, and those which are not applicable here will have to be explained elsewhere.

6.1. Reading for Narrative Introducing the cognitive functions of literature, Wolf refers to literature’s potential to “contribut[e] to our understanding of ourselves and the world and to sharpen our cognitive tools for these purposes” (2013: 275). One of the ways in which literary works accomplish this function is by “interpreting the world on a macro- as well as on a micro-scale in order to make us understand it (better). […] Literary miniature models are especially efficient as interpretive tools when they are dynamic, in other words, when they are narratives” (Wolf 2013: 275-76). Popular romance novels not only have a high degree of narrativity, but the way in which they serve as miniature models allow their readers to learn about themselves and the world through their reading. Radway has already noted how the romances’ heteroreferentiality allowed the Smithton readers to take pleasure not only in their reading, but also in the acquisition of knowledge about the real world that they accomplished through their romances. Romance readers don’t only learn encyclopaedic facts about the world, however; the narratives also function as “training ground for our faculty to cognitively cope with reality, since [they] furnish[…] us with concepts of all kinds and illustrate[…] their meaning” (Wolf 2013: 277). Because of the emphasis on the believability of the story world, and the importance of the plausibility of both the characters and their relationships in the popular romance genre, the act of reading can be seen as providing readers of the genre with the skills necessary to deal with such relationships in real life. On a larger scale, the experience of reading itself, particularly with reference to popular romances, where the narratives are always closed and meaningful, provides readers with narrative as a model way of making sense of existence. With reference again to Iser’s quotation of Eco, that life may be more like Ulysses, but we will always think of it as The Three Musketeers (cf. Iser 1978: 125), the high degree of narrativity in popular romance novels allows their readers to conceive of their lives – which may resemble the dense and complicated modernist work – as coherent stories with clear and unambiguous characters, causality, and resolutions. In the same way that parents help their children to 92 make sense of the world, the ability of the popular romance – as literature – to do the same thing contributes to the aesthetic experience of nurture.

6.2. Reading for Experience The process of actualization described by Iser’s conception of the reading process involves the assembling of textual elements in the readers mind in order to construct the meaning of the text. As this process is carried out, the fictional world comes into being in the reader’s imagination. This process contributes to the “experiential and imagination-activating function of literature” (Wolf 2013: 277). Wolf notes that while “scientific models, like all models, serve the function of complexity reduction, they mostly remain in the sphere of abstraction and must be ‘read’, as it were, from the outside. Literary world models provide experiential models, which, so to speak, one can enter and look at from the inside in one’s imagination” (2013: 277). The connection between these experiential models and the creation of nurture as aesthetic experience emerges from the way in which romance novels construct fictional worlds in which their readers encounter real world concepts and situations. Within the fictional world created through the imagination-activating function of literature, the reader may benefit from engagement with such concepts and situations without the consequences of confronting them in the real world: “since it merely happens in imaginary possible worlds in which we only participate mentally, [contact with concepts foreign to one’s lived experience] has the advantage of allowing us harmless experience in ‘secure situations’, exempt from negative consequences which could accompany real life experience and experimentation” (Wolf 2013: 277). That which one can encounter in literature as a result of this function is not only limited to unreal but realistic situations—in addition to depicting possible worlds that have nothing to do with our reality, literature also allows us to explore what Iser calls “‘das Entzogene’ (‘that which is rationally inaccessible’) […] and concerns ‘eternal’ themes such as love, our identity, and the identity of others, death, and how to make sense of the contingency and negativity of life” (Wolf 2013: 278). The most relevant of these concepts to the current project is love. Not only do popular romances allow for “imaginative experiential explorations” of what love is, what it means to be in love, and the various different symptoms, manifestations, and consequences of love, they allow readers to engage in these explorations without any risk to their day to day lives. For romance readers in monogamous relationships, popular romances may offer them the opportunity to experience love outside of that pairing without the emotional consequences of experimentation in their real lives. Although the heroes and heroines of popular romances are typically “idealized figures” (Radway 1984/1991: 203), their believability and individuality in prototypically ideal romances suggests that they serve as adequate stand-ins for real alternate partners in providing experiential exploration of what is it like to be loved by a variety of types of men, for example. Nurture enters the picture here in terms of play. In the same way that a nurturant mother allows her child to experiment and explore the world without fear of danger or injury, popular romances provide their readers this opportunity with 93 regard to experiencing different relationships and different partners, regardless of their real-life situations. While it is not a popular romance by my definition, I offer, as an example, the recently released and phenomenal bestseller Fifty Shades of Grey by E.L. James. The novel is unconventional in terms of the nature of the sexual relationship between the two , and the fact that it allowed readers to experience and experiment with such deviance in the bedroom in a fictional realm may be one of the reasons for its outrageous success13. In a more conventional sense, because popular romance heroines are typically independent and adventurous, readers are not only able to explore different understandings of what love is and how it may appear, they are also involved, through the reading process, with the construction of worlds in which they may experience what its like to live in another century, be the head of a large family, or enjoy the splendour of a vast fortune. The fantasy element of the popular romance means that the “experiential and imagination-activating function of literature” (Wolf 2013: 277) is fully exploited as the reader enjoys creating and participating in a world different from her own.

6.3. Reading for a Self Juhasz’ theory that the marriage plot leads to self-realization for both heroine and reader is based on the following developments on the level of story in the popular romance: We read the story of a heroine who begins with much potential but also in serious immaturity; whose actions take her through developmental process that follows the outlines for the ego’s appropriate growth in the earliest months of the infant’s life; who is rewarded for achieving self-identity with marriage to a hero who has likewise been able to change and mature in the course of the novel (Juhasz 1992: 240).

The fact that the reader undergoes this process as well is due to her identification with the heroine, which is, as discussed above, made possible by the creation of narrative illusion. This identification is related to literature’s function as contributing to “identity formation” (Wolf 2013: 279). Wolf notes that as far as individual identity is concerned, it is in the nature of literature to offer us not only representations of facets of what we may think is our own identity, but also representations of Otherness. An important further means of contributing to individual identity is the invitation many literary works proffer to their recipients to take part in imaginary role play and to occupy points of view other than the ones we hold in our everyday lives (2013: 279).

Identity formation thus comes about as a result of noticing both similarities and differences between one’s self and the characters depicted or points of view made available by the text. The Smithton women note their identification with heroines they like (Radway 1984/1991: 101), but also the identity formation that comes about as a result of noting similarities between themselves and

13 “50 Shades makes EL James world's highest-earning author” (http://www.theguardian.com/books/2013/aug/13/50-shades- el-james-highest-earning-author) 94 heroines they find weak or otherwise unsympathetic. This function of the popular romance seems so obvious that the Smithton women seem amazed that Radway would question it: [Radway] accidentally stumbled across this belief in the course of observing the relish with which they described their favourite heroines whom they invariably characterized as “extremely intelligent,” “spunky,” “independent,” and “unique”. It occurred to [her] to ask whether reading about such heroines changed the women’s perception of themselves. When [Radway] finally posed the query of whether romance reading ever changes women, it was met with gales of disbelieving laughter whose force cannot be conveyed on paper. Dot, Ann, and Kit answered at once and the overlapping exclamations on the tape include “Yes,” Oh, yes,” “You better believe it,” “Ask the men,” and “Of course,” which was shouted with happy indignation (1984/1991: 101).

This reaction, when paired with the descriptors of ideal heroines, suggests that identity formation occurs not only when the women see “facets of what [they] think is [their] own identity” (Wolf 2013: 279) but also when they identify facets of the heroine’s personality that they aspire to have. Through the experiential, imagination-activating function of literature the women get to live the fictional events with the heroine, and their appreciation of certain aspects of her personality that they don’t yet have may lead to their developing certain traits. On the other hand, when the women do identify with heroines they dislike, identity formation takes place in the opposite direction: Dot contended in a later conversation that, strangely enough, it is the bad romances that most often start the women thinking. A bad romance, the reader should recall, is often characterized by a weak or gullible heroine. In reading some of those “namby-pamby books about the women who lets the man dominate them,” Dot explained, the readers “are thinking ‘they’re nerds.’ And they begin to reevaluate. ‘Am I acting like that?’” They begin to say to themselves, she added, “Hey, wait a minute—my old man kinda tends to do this.” And then, “because women are capable of learning from what they read,” they begin “to express what they want and sometimes refuse to be ordered around any longer.” (Radway 1984/1991: 102).

Identification with the heroine, whether because she possesses traits the women aspire to or because they see their own shortcomings in her behaviour, results in identity formation by making the women aware of themselves as individuals in relation to the heroine as a fictional character. This awareness allows them to modify their behaviour – if so desired – in order to come closer to the individuals they aspire to be. This process of identification and differentiation, as it relates to the identity formation function of literature, contributes to nurture as an aesthetic experience of the popular romance novel because of the sense of self that is constituted through the positive identification with heroines who are constructed as both real, or at least plausible, individuals, and, ultimately, as individuals who are capable of loving and being loved. Michaels characterizes romance heroines as being “overall […] just a little bit nicer, brighter, quicker, and better than real people. They’re allowed their petty moments, but in important matters they take the moral high ground” (2007: 45). While romance heroines may generally be “believable and sympathetic, [they] should [also] have a balance of good and bad characteristics, as all humans do” (Michaels 2007: 45). With regard to looks, “physical 95 attractiveness is one of the areas in which romance heroines are a little different from real women” (Michaels 2007: 46); however, even the most gorgeous romance heroine becomes unsympathetic if she is guilty of vanity (cf. Michaels 2007: 46). These characteristics of romance heroines, in combination with the Smithton women’s comments about how reading romances change women, suggest that the identity-formation function of literature contributes to an experience of nurture by encouraging women to be nice, bright, quick, and good, as well as by giving them the chance to reconsider unsatisfying relationships if they identify with a character in such a situation (this is a corollary of the experiential function as well).

6.4. Reading for Escape, Relaxation, and Pleasure The last two functions of literature Wolf names in his article “A Defence of (the Study of) Literature” are also the two named by Radway with regard to the Smithton women’s romance reading: the compensatory and entertainment functions (Wolf 2013: 230-1). The first is the function associated with escape, which occurs for the Smithton women, as mentioned, both as a result of denying their other responsibilities by sitting down to read a romance novel, as well as through the text, as the text’s narrative illusion takes effect through the reading process. Wolf notes that this function is associated with the failings of other institutions to fulfill the functions of literature (cf. 2013: 280); however, it may also “go beyond this particular case and range from the compensation for deficits perceived in public institutions and systems of meaning to the compensation for personal lacks in the fields of emotional experience, adventure, sociability, and so forth” (Wolf 2013: 280). This charge often carries a negative connotation, and yet the emotions is brings about in the Smithton readers, for example, is one of intense pleasure. While Radway believes that the ability to escape through romantic fiction means that romance readers may be less likely to seek out real strategies to ‘compensate’ for what is lacking in their lives, my focus on the nurture provided by the texts requires no such concern. I am more interested in the nature of the pleasure the women experience as a result of this effect, and so no reason why the selection of illusionist texts that engender this feeling of escape should be condemned as ‘escapist’ when the effect on real readers seems to be so positive. The Smithton readers are not passive recipients of the meaning contained within the texts that they experience as ‘escapist’. Radway notes the way in which, reading […] connotes a free space where they feel liberated from the need to perform duties that they otherwise willingly accept as their own. At the same time, by carefully choosing stories that make them feel particularly happy, they escape figuratively into a fairy tale where a heroine’s similar needs are adequately met. As a result, they vicariously attend to their own requirements as independent individuals who require emotional sustenance and solicitude (1984/1991: 93).

The fact that the women actively select those texts which they prefer, in addition to the fact that their pleasure is also derived from “attend[ing] to their own requirements” suggests that even if the Smithton women do read romances to compensate for some other lack in their lives, the active nature 96 of role in both text selection and the reading process excludes the possibility that they are somehow being ‘duped’ as a result of their reading. The women experience thus experience nurture as a result of their own feelings of ‘liberation’ from their daily responsibilities, at the same time as they are nurtured by the text which alleviates their worries and provides them with a sense of relief. The act of reading romances, like the genre itself, generates an experience of nurture for the women because they know that they can consistently escape the difficulties or inadequacies of every day life by returning to the pages of a favourite novel. The immersive quality of the texts guarantees that the reading process will recenter them in a fictional world. With regard to the entertainment function of romance novels, the Smithton women – and romance readers in general, it feels safe to say at this point – select their books primarily based on those they believe they will enjoy the most. The very nature of the Smithton women’s acquaintance with one another – through Dorothy “Dot” Evans who offers guidance for romance text selection – points to the fact that while prototypically good romances can be extremely enjoyable, bad romances yield no such effect, and are avoided by readers whenever possible. While Radway’s assessment of the genre’s narrative discourse is preoccupied with readers’ strategies of interpretation, she neglects to consider the enjoyment the readers may experience as a result of reading something entertaining: Wolf states that one should not underrate the pleasure triggered by literature’s entertainment function. It can range from the simple interest in the novelty of ‘novels’ to providing spaces of playful, a-rational and non-utilitarian freedom; it may emerge when literature meets what Iser calls the human wish to fictionalize (Fiktionsbedürfnis [cf. Iser 1984 in Wolf 2013]) or when it allows exciting immersions into interesting possible worlds and thus triggers a strong, usually emotion-centered aesthetic illusion in the recipients” (Wolf 2013: 281).

While the narrative discourse of the popular romance lends itself more to the pleasure of anticipation with regard to the plot than “the ecstasy that can sometimes be felt when one has the chance of appreciating exquisite beauty” (Wolf 2013: 281), romance novels are still capable of eliciting intense aesthetic pleasure. The pleasure of being presented with an enjoyable, entertaining piece of fiction that addresses your particular needs and fantasies is, in my opinion, an example of nurture as an aesthetic experience of the popular romance. Once again, the text – as part of the genre – provides the reader with exactly what she needs – and the act of reading results in a pleasurable experience defined by escape, relief, relaxation, and enjoyment. The act of reading romances alleviates stress like a soothing balm, and this reflects the nurture of the aesthetic experience they generate.

6.5. Summary This section has provided an adumbrated list of the functions of literature as they relate to the creation of an aesthetic experience of nurture through the act of reading the popular romance novel. The cognitive function relates to the genre’s ability to help readers make sense of their existence by 97 providing narratives as meaning-making models (cf. Wolf 2013: 276). The experiential and imagination-activating function gives readers the opportunity to explore different worlds, concepts, and situations without the risks or consequences this exploration might entail if undertaken in the real world (cf. Wolf 2013: 277). This exploration also allows readers to see the world from different points of view, and, if identification with a fictional character occurs – as is typical in the romance – the function of identity formation allows readers to form self-concepts in relation to the characters depicted in fiction. Whether this occurs in relation to positive or negative characters, it makes the reader conscious of her self, thus allowing for further self-development. Finally, romance novels also fulfill the compensatory and entertainment functions of literature by providing their readers with escape from their daily routines and pleasurable enjoyment. Radway pays attention only to these two functions, and yet doesn’t seem to completely capture the positive effect of these functions of literature, as they are accomplished through the act of reading romances. This thesis conceives of romance reading as a positive endeavour because the effect of nurture as an aesthetic response to the popular romance entails the experience of a positive emotion through the reading process. As texts that fulfill the aforementioned functions for their readers, romances can be seen to generate the effect of nurture by helping their readers make sense of the world, and by allowing them to participate in playful exploration of their surroundings without fear of injury. The effect of nurture created through the act of reading thus bears many similarities to the nurture children experience by their parents—while Chodorow or Radway may claim, by their mothers, I believe the organization of childcare responsibilities is one of aspects of social relations that have changed since the publication of both studies. This nurture thus allows the readers to figure out who they are, escape when they are under too much pressure, and simply enjoy the powers of imagination that they, as humans, are capable of. When combined with the notion that readers also experience nurture as a result of the consistency of the popular romance’s generic conventions, which create a particular aesthetic experience, the nurturant qualities of the act of reading can be seen as even more reliable. So far I have addressed genre with regard to certain textual and extra-textual elements, such as the paratext, in addition to the functions of reading literature as such, and how those can be related to the popular romance genre. The following section is the first in which I will attempt to demonstrate that nurture as an effect is created on the level of story, with reference to Jeffries’ Hellions of Halstead Hall series. I hope to demonstrate that the general claims I have made with reference to the genre and Radway’s analysis of the Smithton women and their romances hold true when applied to individual romance novels. 98

7. Nurture as an Effect of the Level of Story in The Hellions of Halstead Hall

7.1. Introduction to the Texts Sabrina Jeffries’ Hellions of Halstead Hall series (hereafter referred to as Halstead Hall) includes five novels, each one centered around a different sibling of the ‘infamous’ Sharpe family. Beginning with The Truth About Lord Stoneville (2010, hereafter Stoneville), the series begins with an ultimatum by the Sharpe family matriarch, the siblings’ grandmother Hetty Plumtree (Jeffries. Stoneville: i). Requiring all of her grandchildren to marry within the year, Mrs. Plumtree’s stipulation that all five siblings will be disinherited unless they all find partners (and, she hopes, happiness), gives the series both a sense of urgency and cohesion. The Sharpe siblings have been cared for by their grandmother ever since the mysterious death of their parents nineteen years before the series is set: thus while each individual novel deals with one of the Sharpes attempting to either find a partner or extricate themself from their grandmother’s proviso, the entire series is concerned with uncovering what really happened to their parents, whose scandalous demises have plagued the siblings with censure and gossip since their childhoods. Each novel stands alone in terms of its love story, but reading the series in the order it was published offers the added dimension of a mystery subplot. The following discussion of nurture as aesthetic experience in the Halstead Hall series will examine the books based on certain criteria carried over from Radway, as well as with regard to new aspects of the texts. I will begin by examining the ways in which the reader might experience nurture through identification with the heroine(s) and provide examples of textual strategies for encouraging that identification to take place. Next, I will address the source of Radway’s “vicarious nurturance” (1984/1991: 57), that is, the nurture that the heroine experiences on the level of story. I will demonstrate that there are certain generic conventions when it comes to the nurturing relationship between the two protagonists, but also that the believability and individuality of the distinct stories contributes to this effect. Subsequently, I will consider elements of the level of story which contribute to narrative illusion and allow the reader to become immersed in the text, thus heightening the nurturing effect of the story elements mentioned above. Finally, the novels’ themes contribute to the creation of nurture as aesthetic experience with regard to the cognitive function of literature mentioned above. These claims will be illustrated through examples from either one or all of the Halstead Hall novels, singularly, in order to give a textual example, and in combination, to demonstrate a tendency, if not within the genre, then at least within Jeffries’ series.

7.2. Nurture as Created Through Identification with the Halstead Heroines

7.2.1. Identifying with the Heroine’s Positive Characterization The first heroine of the Halstead Hall series is the American, Maria Butterfield. Maria is introduced in the second chapter, after Mrs. Plumtree has announced her ultimatum and Oliver has resolved to disobey her. Maria and her cousin Freddy are searching for her missing fiancé, and follow 99 a man carrying a satchel Maria bought for Nathan to the entrance of a brothel. Maria’s thoughts in this introductory chapter seem optimized to encourage identification with the implied audience of the popular romance genre as it is conceived by the publishing industry14: her thoughts are presented to the reader through third person figural narration, and as the focalizer, the reader learns not only what Maria thinks (and, more importantly, feels) about her current situation, but also about the circumstances that resulted in her being in this situation. In the ten pages of Chapter Two which introduce us to Maria, we learn that she has travelled “all the way from Dartmouth, Massachusetts, to retrieve her fiancé” (Jeffries. Stoneville: 21), that she is quick-witted and independent (through her interaction with her cousin (cf. Jeffries. Stoneville: 22), as well as a bit about the undesirable situation she is in, representative of the immature self, if we apply Juhasz’s reasoning (cf. 1988: 246). Because Jeffries’ texts are close to the prototypical ideal of a popular romance novel, readers are encouraged to identify positively with Maria’s character in order to be able to engage in the process of identity formation as well as to deepen the experience of “vicarious nurturance” (Radway 1984/1991: 57) they will experience as a result of her nurture by the hero, Lord Stoneville. Particular elements of Maria’s personality seem chosen specifically to increase reader identification with her character: reader sympathy is elicited through references to her father’s drinking and recent death (cf. Jeffries. Stoneville: 22-23), as well as through her ruminations on the character of her fiancé, Nathan, with whom her relationship is characterized by friendly feelings but definitely not love (cf. Jeffries. Stoneville: 23). The following passage provides examples of a variety of the aspects of Maria’s character which seem to invite identification: Any other male [her cousin] Freddy’s age would be dying to enter a brothel, but as usual, all he could think about was food. Yet no matter what he stuffed in his mouth, he stayed as thin as a toothpick. Meanwhile, if she so much as added sugar to her tea for a week, she started popping out of her stays. It wasn’t fair. But then, life generally wasn’t fair for women. If she’d been a man, she would have inherited Papa’s company. He would never have brought in an outsider. […] She sometimes wondered if Nathan would even have considered her as his wife if not for her connection to New Bedford Ships. No, that wasn’t fair. He’d always been perfectly lovely to her. It wasn’t his fault that their few kisses had been underwhelming—she must have done something wrong. Or expected too much from them. Maybe Papa was right. Maybe she did read too many of those Gothic novels by Minerva Sharpe. After all, no man could be as dashing as the Viscount Churchgrove, or as heroic as the Duke of Wolfplain. Or even as fascinating as the villainous Marquess of Rockton. […] Maybe she wasn’t a normal woman. She was certainly more outspoken and opinionated than most women she met. And she did so love reading about murder and mayhem. Papa had called it unnatural ((Jeffries. Stoneville: 26-27).

14 Reader statistics are available online from the Romance Writer’s of America: 100

This thought process takes place in the first few pages after Maria is introduced, but already the reader is invited to identify with her in terms of unwanted weight gain, the experience of gender inequality, unsatisfying sexual/romantic experiences, the experience of disapproval with regard to novel reading, and concern about being normal. These facets of her personality serve not only to allow the reader to note similarities in their experience and the heroine’s, but also to construct her as a believable individual. Having established her personality at the beginning of the text, the believability of the character means that the reader will be able to further identify with Maria’s internal conflict as she struggles to deal with her feelings for Oliver, or account for the difference between her feelings for her missing fiancé and the man she truly loves. If the reader is nurtured through the process of identity formation that is made possible through her identification with the fictional heroine (cf. Wolf 2013: 279), this identification is facilitated by endowing the heroine with a personality that the readers find both likeable and believable (cf. Michaels 2007: 40). Maria seems accessible because of the aspects of her personality that may resemble those of contemporary readers, particularly with regard to her penchant for gothic novels, but she is also constructed as likeable because of her spirit and honesty. These qualities are typically endearing qualities of romance heroines. Indeed, Radway notes such qualities as the heroine’s independence, spunkiness, intelligence, and uniqueness (cf. 1984/1991: 101) as appealing to the Smithton readers. The other heroines in the Halstead Hall series are likewise out of the ordinary: Annabel Lake of A Hellion in Her Bed is a “brewster” and responsible for running her brother’s brewery: she is extraordinarily capable in terms of her business acumen and equally skilled when it comes to brewing, cards, and negotiating (cf. Jeffries. Hellion: 23-24); she also manages to reform the second Sharpe brother, Jarret, from a gambler to her business partner. Minerva Sharpe, of How to Woo a Reluctant Lady, is an author of gothic fiction; in addition to her successful writing career, she stands out for her sharp wit and clever . Virginia Waverly wants to take revenge for her brother’s death in To Wed A Wild Lord, and challenges Lord Gabriel Sharpe to a dangerous horse race to accomplish it. Her daring and skill with horses construct her as a similarly unique woman. Finally, Celia Sharpe, the youngest of the siblings, is an excellent shot, determined to marry a stranger in order to thwart her grandmother’s plan. All of the heroines embody the principles of identification in popular romances: they must be likeable so that women want to identify with them, believable in order to permit identification and not break narrative illusion, and unique so that they can come to be loved for themselves as individuals. The first two of these principles have been demonstrated above with regard to Maria; the implications of the third will be discussed below with reference to the reader’s vicarious self-realization.

7.2.2. Identifying with the Process of Self-Realization Juhasz’s claim that the daughter-heroine and daughter-reader both undergo a process of self- realization through the marriage plot as a result of their interaction with the mother-author is based on 101 the heroine’s acquiring a “self” through the course of the narrative (cf. Juhasz 1988: 252). In A Hellion in Her Bed (hereafter, Hellion), Annabel Lake’s situation at the beginning of the novel is characterized by her dependence on her alcoholic brother, whose drinking threatens to put their brewery out of business (cf. Jeffries. Hellion: 20). Not only is Annabel desperate to save their livelihood, she is also suffering from the concealment of her illegitimate son, who has been raised by her brother and his wife (cf. Jeffries. Hellion: 33). These unsatisfactory conditions define her situation at the beginning of the novel, and form the basis of her internal conflict regarding her developing feelings for Lord Jarret. Even when their physical attraction to and emotional connection with one another seems to have established that they make an excellent match, Annabel is unable to believe that any man would have her, and still suffering from guilt because of her previous sexual relationship with a fiancé who died at war (cf. Jeffries. Hellion: 215-16). In addition to the development of her relationship with Jarret, Hellion also depicts the change in Annabel as she saves her brothers business, confronts him about his drinking, reveals the truth to her thirteen year old son, and reconciles her past with her present. By the end of the novel, not only has she found true love with a man who has treated her as an equal in terms of their business relationship, she has also addressed the issues that kept her from being her fully realized self. Her trajectory from incomplete heroine to whole parallels the developing love story, and allows the reader to experience that transformation as a result of their identification with her. Identification with the heroine thus contributes to nurture not only through the identity-formation function of literature, but also through its experiential and imagination-activating capabilities (cf. Wolf 2013: 278-79) because the reader is able to explore their own emotions and beliefs with regard to the heroine’s struggle to become fully self-realized.

7.2.3. Summary Identification has been shown to be a crucial element with regard to the creation of nurture: it allows the reader to engage in a process of identity-formation by seeing parts of herself in a heroine who is positively characterized and always unique. The heroine’s likeability as well as her believability heighten both identification and narrative illusion; furthermore, the heroine’s characterization as a unique individual (part of the romance’s novelistic discourse) (cf. Watt 1957 in Radway 1984/1991: 201) means that she undergoes a process of self-realization from the beginning of the novel to the end, through which she comes to terms with past traumas and previously unsatisfying situations. In Stoneville, Maria comes to realize the potential of true love after noticing the difference between her placid relationship with an uncaring fiancé and the passion she experiences with Oliver, while in Hellion, Annabel has to deal with personal struggles relating to family responsibility and guilt. The reader experiences nurture as a result of this identification with the heroine through the process where she comes to know herself because they are permitted to vicariously experience self- realization. 102

7.3. ‘Vicarious Nurturance’ through Identification In contrast to the identification described above, through which the reader is directly nurtured through the process of identify-formation they experience along with the heroine, in this section I will look at the nurture the heroine experiences on the level of story, which will allow me to address Radway’s claim that “by immersing themselves in the romantic fantasy, women vicariously fulfill their needs for ‘nurturance’ by identifying with a heroine whose principal accomplishment, if it can even be called that, is her success at drawing the hero’s attention to herself, at establishing herself as the object of his concern and the recipient of his care” (1984/1991: 84). Although my look at the reader’s experience of ‘vicarious nurturance’ will not be tinged with the negative implications Radway associates with this fact, I will provide examples of the kind of ‘nurturance’ she discusses in her text, as well as additional generic conventions that make the effect of ‘vicarious nurturance’ consistently available to romance readers. By looking at the ways in which the heroines are nurtured by the heroes on the level of story, as well as their reciprocally nurturant relationships, this section will show not only the way in which this ‘vicarious nurturance’ is produced, but also the fact that it is consistent throughout the Halstead Hall series.

7.3.1. The Heroine is Treated Tenderly by the Hero Given the experiential quality of the texts, as well as the importance of that quality for successful narrative illusion, descriptions of how the hero and heroine treat each other, both physically and emotionally, are of crucial importance to the romantic text. Michaels’ description of love scenes across different sub-genres of popular romance emphasizes the importance of their experiential nature and their importance for the reader: “no matter how sweet or spicy the level of sexuality in the story, the most important factor in a love scene is the emotions experienced by the lovers. It isn’t who puts which hand where, it’s how their feelings—and those of the readers—are touched. The goal of the love scene is to make the readers feel good, warm, and cherished” (2007: 136). In addition to the love scenes, then, interactions between the hero and the heroine where they treat each other with tenderness and show their appreciation of each others’ selves contribute to the creation of ‘vicarious nurturance’. The third book in the Halstead Hall series, How to Woo a Reluctant Lady (hereafter Reluctant) deals with the relationship between Minerva Sharpe, author of gothic romances, and Giles Masters, barrister, who is a friend of her brothers. Minerva and Giles have known each other since childhood, and the story begins with a prologue set at her parents’ funeral. Young Minerva (aged nine) is afraid to see her parents in their caskets, and Giles, as a family friend, coaxes her into the service: “How about this?” he went on. “If you come with me into the chapel, I’ll hold your hand for the service. Whenever you get frightened, you can squeeze mine as hard as you like.” Gathering her courage, she gazed into his face. He had kind eyes the color of forget-me- nots. Honest eyes, like Gran’s. […] It helped that Mama looked like a sleeping, dressed-up version of herself. But what helped the most was Giles keeping hold of her hand. He clasped it throughout the service, even 103

when Cousin Desmond’s bratty son, Ned, snickered. Every time she got scared or sad, she squeezed Giles’s hand, and he squeezed back to show that she wasn’t alone. […] That was the day she fell in love with Giles Masters (Jeffries. Reluctant: 4).

The scene is obviously thoroughly innocent, and yet it successfully establishes reader expectations for the tenor of the relationship between Minerva and Giles. Although, as adults, they bicker and ‘dislike’ each other, as their relationship develops, the tenderness of this opening scene comes to characterize their relationship once again, as, for example, when Minerva faints after revisiting the site of her parents’ death, the narration switches to Giles’ point of view: Giles turned just in time to see Minerva crumple. Alarm gripped him as he hurried to scoop her up. Cursing himself for being oblivious, he carried her outside. While he’d been spouting off about Lewis and Prudcnce Sharpe’s deaths like some pompous fool, he’d forgotten the most essential thing. They were her parents. It had been her tragedy as much as anyone’s. Much too late, he remembered the nine-year-old Minerva balking at entering the chapel for fear of what she would see there. And he’d just made her think about all of that again. What an idiot he was. The sight of her insensible in his arms did something terrifying to his insides. She looked so fragile in her thin white muslin, like an angel shot down by some errant hunter. God save him, he was spouting poetry again (Jeffries. Reluctant: 173).

The tenderness of Giles’ reaction to Minerva’s show of weakness is characteristic of the Halstead Hall series: in particular, Giles’ oath at the end of this tenderness is a typical marker that the hero has not yet completed the transformation from independent bachelor to dedicated husband. Furthermore, the “terrifying” feeling he is experiencing is a typical symptom of (popular romance) love. This scene occurs 173 pages into a 345 page novel, which typically means that, while the characters’ love is already developing, their character development and their circumstances have not yet progressed enough for their love to be unproblematically fulfilled. Nonetheless, because of the importance of allowing the reader to witness the developing love between hero and heroine, scenes like the one above which put the characters in nurturant situations before they are emotionally prepared to deal with the consequences of the feelings aroused by their interaction contribute to the building of the romantic tension that makes the story emotionally affective. While I do not fully agree with Faust’s claim in Radway, that “women want to love and be made love to as they love babies—that is, in a nurturant fashion” (Faust 1980 in Radway 1984/1991: 69), the way that the heroines of the Halstead Hall series are treated by their counterparts in times of need does confirm the attraction of such tender care. The nurturant quality of their physical interactions with each other increases as their love grows; thus while the hero always has the heroine’s pleasure in mind, as their relationship develops, the sexual and emotional aspects of their attraction merge, and the nurturant quality of their lovemaking – and all of their interactions – increases. In To Wed a Wild Lord (hereafter Wild Lord), Gabriel Sharpe is courting Virginia Waverley despite the fact that she blames him for her brother’s death in a horse race. While their attraction to 104 each other is tangible from their first dance in the opening chapters of the novel, it is only as their emotional feelings for each other develop that the nurturant qualities of their attraction emerge. The following passage shows the beginning of their sexual relationship: in a maze, on the Sharpe family’s estate. She was a fool. She should make him stop. And she would, in a few minutes. After she figured out why she didn’t want to. He pushed her against the hedge, his body plastered to hers as he ravaged her mouth over and over. The clipped edges of boxwood pricked her through her gown, and its pungent smell wafted through her senses, but she was only conscious of how he made her feel, hot and eager and agitated. Pleasurably so. Especially with him kneading her breasts and thumbing her nipples through her gown. It was hard to tell where is rapid breathing ended and hers began. Sweet Lord, he was driving her wild! And she must be doing the same to him; she could feel the hardness rising in his trousers where he was pressed up against her. […] It ought to be a warning to stop this madness, but it merely made her exult. He’d told the truth about desiring her. When he was kissing her there was no sign of the cold and remote lord, and her feminine vanity thrilled to that (Jeffries. Wild Lord: 138; emphasis mine).

As Radway notes, part of the nurturant quality of the hero’s attention to the heroine is manifested simply through his complete absorption in her. The intermingling of their breath denotes both the passion of their contact at the same time as it anticipates the growing relationship between them. Although I fervently disagree with Radway’s claim that establishing herself as the center of the hero’s attention is the heroine’s “principle accomplishment” (cf. 1984/1991: 84), Virginia’s ability to hold Gabe’s rapt attention is indeed part of the scene’s seductive quality, as evidenced by the satisfaction it gives her. In contrast to the scene above, then, the following love scene takes place once their guards have been significantly lowered through their work together on Virginia’s grandfather’s stud farm, and because they have learned more about each other over the course of the novel: He opened his breeches and drawers. As he hoisted her up to straddle his waist, her eyes went wide. He knew he shouldn’t take her like some whore in an alley. But the need to drive out the chill in his soul, to be enveloped in her warmth, was so powerful, he couldn’t help himself. […] “Gabriel…” she gasped against his mouth. “Oh… sweet…Lord. It’s amazing.” Amazing was definitely the word. With her silky thighs bracketing his hips and her delicate arms clasping him about the neck, she cocooned him in a lush tropic of female heat. Life at its most basic; a counter to the ice of Death. […] “My sweet Virginia,” he whispered, “You have me utterly enthralled” (Jeffries. Wild Lord: 291).

While Gabriel worries about the lasciviousness of this encounter, its raunchiness is counter- balanced by the nurture that he seeks and finds in her embrace. The attention that Radway sees as the object of the interactions between hero and heroine is also offered freely. Through this contrast between early and late love scenes, it’s possible to see that while sex is always tied to nurturant love in some way, the connection between the two becomes more clear as the story develops. It is also worth noting that the sexual description above describes not Gabriel’s nurture of Virginia, but the 105 nurture that he needs from her. This is tied to the importance the romance places on mutually reciprocated need, as well as on the balance of power in relationships. The reader experiences ‘vicarious nurturance’, then, because they identify with the heroine who is nurtured by the hero, and who provides him with nurture in turn.

7.3.2. Mutually Assured Satisfaction It is a generic convention of historical romances such as the Halstead Hall series for the hero to be sexually experienced while the heroine is sexually naïve (cf. 53). Michaels’ notes the anachronisms inherent in writing good historical heroes and heroines because, paradoxically, readers don’t want the text’s narrative illusion to be broken by historical facts that are not relevant to the emotional development of the characters, but instead draw attention to the negative aspects of the world in which the story is meant to take place. The Smithton women note, for example, how stories that portray depressing social situations fail to provide the ‘escape’ that the women read the romance for: “when urged to specify what made the story pessimistic, none [of the Smithton women] cited specific events in the plot of the death of the hero. Rather, they referred to the general tenor of the story and to the fact that the characters were poor. ‘Too much suffering,’ one reader concluded” (Radway 1984/1991: 99). Because of the popular romance’s fantasy element, and the compensatory function it fulfills for its readers, depressing facts are excluded from the story unless they play a part in bringing the hero and heroine closer together, as is the case in the Halstead Hall series with regard to the murder of the Sharpe parents. A further corollary of the fantasy element and compensatory function is the way in which romances depict the fulfillment of their characters’ needs by their counterparts. With quite astonishing regularity in Jeffries’ works, this includes the enthusiastic performance of oral sex, which is, furthermore, often used to signal the hero’s affection for the heroine in that it shows the sublimation of his need and the fulfillment of hers. In Stoneville, for example, the act is foreplay for the first time that Maria and Oliver have sexual intercourse, and gives her the opportunity to reflect on her tender feelings for him (cf. Jeffries. Stoneville: 273). In Hellion, Jarret introduces Annabel to this particular pleasure while they are hidden in a hayloft (cf. Jeffries. Hellion: 153). Giles and Minerva of Reluctant are forced to marry after her siblings discover them in a state of undress, but even after they are married they still have to learn to trust each other before they can achieve a happy ending. For a hero who is not yet capable of being completely open with his bride, giving her unselfish pleasure is one way Giles is able to show his dedication to Minerva (cf. Jeffries. Reluctant: 239). Gabe finds Virginia watching him do manual labour, and takes the opportunity to try and convince her of why they should be together: while he thinks that he is in control of his attempted sexual manipulation, his commitment to her pleasure fulfills a sexual fantasy at the same time that it demonstrates the depth of his need for her (cf. Jeffries. Wild Lord: 203). Finally, in A Lady Never Surrenders (hereafter Surrenders), Celia Sharpe, the youngest sister, and Jackson Pinter, the private investigator who has 106 been looking into their parents’ deaths, have already slept together by the time this scene takes place, but its function within the narrative is to emphasize the sincerity of his love for her, which is why the mandatory oral sex occurs relatively late in the story (cf. Jeffires. Surrenders: 327). While the extent of the explicitness with which such love scenes are described varies in different sub-genres, they always serve a purpose greater than mere titillation. Michaels notes that, in the same way that it is important to portray the gradual removal of barriers, it is important that the intensity of the love scenes parallel the growing intensity of the couples’ feelings for each other (cf. Michaels 2007: 136). By consistently including scenes in which the hero strives to introduce the heroine to a full range of sexual delights, Jeffries ensures that her romances fulfill their purpose as female fantasies at the same time that she foregrounds the importance of both partners being both sexually and emotionally fulfilled by their relationship. The Halstead Hall heroines all get exactly what they need in the bedroom, even if they didn’t know what it was; the reader’s identification with the heroine thus allows her to experience ‘vicarious nurturance’ through her identification with the heroine because she also gets what she needs – a romantic fantasy – from the text.

7.3.4. Summary Although Radway sees the ‘vicarious nurturance’ the Smithton women get from their romance novels as working against their impulses for social change, we agree on the fact that the women cull this ‘nurturance’ from the text through their identification with the heroine. Through this identification, they vicariously experience the ‘nurturance’ the heroine receives at the hands of the hero. Since emotion is one of the most important factors in creating a successful popular romance, descriptions of the hero’s nurturing qualities are often designed to trigger an emotional response from the reader. The Halstead Hall heroes are all extremely tender with their wives, and dedicated to loving them for their selves. The heroine’s ability to elicit complete absorption in herself from the hero also suggests that she has a degree of power over him. The novels emphasize both steamy and nurturant sex: this is related to giving the reader what she wants both in terms of the female fantasy role of the romance, and in terms of the importance of strong emotional tension. Sexual relations in the Halstead Hall books are always satisfying for the woman, and typically for both partners. Female need is always portrayed as legitimate, healthy, and desirable; the Halstead Hall heroes are always enticed by their heroine’s enthusiastic lovemaking, once she has been introduced to carnal pleasure (as, for example, in Jeffries. Stoneville: 171). The satisfaction of the heroine’s needs, as well as the tender care she experiences, are experienced vicariously by the reader through her identification with the heroine. Furthermore, because of the reader’s active role in the creation of meaning through the reading process, she is free to imagine the scene in a way that is most satisfying to her: although she is guided in her projections by the text (cf. Gombrich in Wolf 2004a: 333), she is free to embellish on its details. Identification with the heroine thus allows the readers not only to experience direct nurturance by comparing themselves with the heroine and finding the positively-constructed aspects of her 107 personality in themselves, accompanying her on her road to self-realization, they also experience ‘vicarious nurturance’ as a result of the heroes tender care and loving attention. On this Radway and I are agreed (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 184).

7.4. Aesthetic Illusion Recenters the Reader in the Fictional World The simple fact that popular romances are highly illusionist texts should by now have been established. The genre is a descendant of the 19th century novel in terms of its realism and Wolf notes that “realist novels in fact manage to draw readers quite easily into their worlds, and they keep readers ‘recentered’ there because they successfully maintain a feeling of verisimilitude and experientiality while minimizing aesthetic distance” (2004a: 335). The Hellions of Halstead Hall series is perhaps not representative of the popular romance genre as a whole, but its illusionist features are at least tendencies within the genre. As such, it seems within my scope to state that popular romance novels typically follow all of the principles of illusion making that were covered in the introduction to aesthetic illusion (Section 4.3.1.): particularly relevant to the genre are the “analogy thesis” (cf. Wolf 2004a: 340) and the consistency of the story world with regards to features like extension, complexity, and accessibility. Involvement of the reader’s emotions is built into the genre’s definition, and the primacy of the story world is guaranteed by the genre’s focus on characters, actions, and emotions. Furthermore, the novels’ “quasi-sensory quality” is attested to by the discourse of the descriptions of sexual encounters. The creation of aesthetic illusion depends on the context of its reception and the individual recipient, as well as the text itself. Given that I cannot refer to the effect as it works on specific individuals, I will now turn to the text, to demonstrate how the narrative illusion of popular romance novels contributes to the aesthetic experience of nurture.

7.4.1. The Consistency of the Fictional World(s) One feature of illusionist works that is particularly relevant to the experience of nurture as an effect of the popular romance novel is the consistency of the fictional world: as a reminder, Wolf explains this principle of illusionist texts as follows: Illusionist narratives enhance the probability of their worlds by linking their inventories in a particular way. Although possible worlds could theoretically be constructed on the basis of all sorts of rules, illusionist worlds tend to be informed, at least in fundamental, logical, and epistemological respects, by rules that are compatible, or identical, with the rules governing real life (Wolf 2004a: 340).

The story world created by the text is new to the reader given that she both discovers it and constructs it through the reading process, at the same time, however, it is familiar because it operates according to the same fundamental laws as the real world. The Halstead Hall series offers readers another level of familiarity in that Jeffries’ novels all take place in the same story world, allowing characters from one novel to cross over into the next. This technique of making the story world seem as complex as Regency London’s real social landscape can be seen in the following quotation: 108

“You didn’t hear a word I said, did you” He grimaced. Foxmoor was far too astute for his own good. The duke smirked at him. “I was talking about Kirkwood. About how he looks lost without Lady Kirkwood by his side tonight.” “Has the bloom left the rose already?” Oliver said, strangely disappointed by that thought. “Ah, there’s the Stoneville I’m used to. But no; hadn’t you heard? She’s in her confinement. The expect the arrival of their first child any day now.” Unexpectedly, he felt a blow to his chest. Kirkwood, a father. He’d never thought to see that day. Now every one of his friends would have children… and he would not (Jeffries: Stoneville: 243).

Lord Kirkwood is linked to the Halstead Hall story world through his friendship with Stoneville, who also appears in other series, and as the older brother of Giles Masters. Masters’ own complicated feelings towards Minerva in Reluctant are partly a result of the part he played in keeping his brother and his future wife apart in the Jeffries’ novel Wed Him Before You Bed Him (Jeffries: Reluctant: 156). The effect of having the fictional world appear both consistent and complex is that it allows the reader to perceive it as something there even when she isn’t reading: the fact that Lady Kirkwood, previously Charlotte Harris, of Jeffries’ School for Heiresses series (six books), is pregnant and about to give birth means that not only does chronology function in the same way as ours within Jeffries’ story world, but that time continues to pass there even when the reader is not present through the act of reading. This level of complexity is nurturing to the reader as a symbol of the reassuring fact that the world is real, and that the characters with whom they were so emotionally involved are still alive and well.

7.4.2. The Facts in the Fiction The characters of the story world may be alive and well, but the real people on which the ‘Hellions’ of Halstead Hall are based are no longer alive. Jeffries website includes the following description of the family who inspired the series: This series is the marriage of two things. First, my attachment to a leftover hero from the Heiress series, Lord Stoneville, who captured the imagination of my readers (a lot of people expected him to be Cousin Michael [Lord Kirkwood]). And second, my interest in an actual historical family from the Georgian period: the Earl of Barrymore and his siblings. The Earl of Barrymore’s parents died when he was very young (he was 4 years old at his father’s death, 11 at his mother’s), leaving him and three siblings to grow up spoiled by their grandmother. All four were quite wild, and they all had nicknames. He was called Hellgate, one of his brothers was called Cripplegate (because of a club foot), and the other was Newgate (the only prison he’d never been in). Their sister was Billingsgate, because she cursed like a fishwife. I’ve always been fascinated by them. The earl was incredibly multi-talented and romantic, though sadly he died at 24. If you want to read more about the siblings, you can find information at The Regency Collection. And at Google Books, you can find the entire biography of the Earl of Barrymore. 109

I stole a few details from the facts about this interesting family, made my guy Oliver the oldest sibling, and, voila, another noble family emerged—the Sharpes. (Jeffries).

Jeffries’ description of the family on which the Hellions are based demonstrates two important things. Firstly, Jeffries’ knowledge of the period is clearly extensive, and her research thorough. Radway’s readers’ claim that they enjoyed learning about the real world from romance novels, which Radway took to indicate that they took other aspects of the romance to be true as well (cf. 1984/1991: (109), confused about the reality status of the books, does not seem so outrageous if one is aware of the amount of factual detail involved in certain authors’ historical romances. Jeffries includes a note at the end of Hellion that informs the reader: Plumtree Brewery and Lake Ale are my inventions, but beyond that, all the details about the brewery business are taken straight from history. […] Allsopp and Bass [brewers mentioned as characters in the novel] made a fortune by taking advantage of that conflict and of the unique water of Burton [where the story is set], which has salts that improve the brewing process. Bass is still around today. The alligator at the Daventry market came right out of an account. I read of an English town market in this period. I embellished it a little, but I couldn’t resist throwing an alligator into my story! (Jeffries. Hellion: 255).

The story referring to the world outside itself contributes to the making of aesthetic illusion, and Jeffries is skilled at incorporating small historical details into the story in a way that rarely seems contrived. Although it is technically an extra-textual factor, I would also argue that the fact that Jeffries communicates the source of her inspiration to her reader further heightens the effects of both illusion and nurture because the reader knows that she can trust the information provided. Jeffries comments about the inspiration for the Halstead Hall series are also interesting because of her statement that she “stole a few details from the facts about this interesting family”. Whether or not fiction is based on real life, or if the events in a novel should be taken as representing real events, is a major issue on the level of story in Reluctant. Minerva, the gothic author, writes about Rockton, whose name would suggest that he is based on Stoneville, but who is actually modeled after Giles Masters. Masters breaks Minerva’s heart after she surprises him at a party, and she responds by turning him into a villainous French spy. Minerva is unaware that Giles was at the party to steal documents in the course of his work for the Home Office (Jeffries. Reluctant: 18). His subsequent desire to stop her writing novels and distrust of her writing career is based on his belief that the stories will be interpreted as true, and that he will be identified as the fictional spy’s inspiration. Minerva tells Giles that she wrote about him because their encounter at the party “made a good story […] and what writer can resist using such fodder?” (Jeffries. Reluctant: 305), but later admits to Giles that she was inspired to write about him for other reasons as well: “It did make a good story,” she teased, “But no, that wasn’t the reason. Mostly I did it to vent my anger and my hurt. I do that sometimes. It’s as you said that day at the lodge—it 110

gives me a feeling of power over what happened, even when I know I have no power.”15 (Jeffries. Reluctant: 305)

Read with Jeffries claim that she “stole a few details” from the Barrymore story for Halstead Hall in mind, the text’s worldview about whether or not fiction is taken from life is ambivalent, suggesting it might be creative use of interesting narratives, and/or the author purposely representing a real individual. The implied reader’s knowledge of generic conventions suggests she knows how to deal with this ambivalence: take what you need from the text, but don’t take it too seriously. In the same way I think Radway’s readers were not reading their romances as encyclopaedias, but rather to enjoy the effect of aesthetic illusion, I believe that Jeffries readers are smart enough to know what Minerva has to tell her future-husband: that fiction may use parts of real life, but it can never represent it fully. The text’s attitude towards real people and events in fiction aside, the historical facts that do make it into the text are involved in the creation of nurture as aesthetic experience. First, readers may experience the pleasure that the Smithton women reported to be associated with learning about the world and places (or times) that one has never been to. Related to the experiential and imagination inducing function of literature (Wolf 2013: 277), this pleasurable learning experience is associated with nurture as well. Second, the historical references constitute the text’s heteroreferentiality, and therefore play a part in its narrative illusion. The story world is complex, and furnished with historical details about subjects as wide ranging as holiday traditions (Stoneville), weapon design (Surrender), and beer brewing (Hellion). Most of this information is not conveyed in the form of assertions that suggest that it should be taken as fact, but simply as part of the “aimless glance” (cf. Eco 1979 in Radway 1984/1991: 194). Making her story world as realistic as possible, without having the historical details come across as overly didactic, Jeffries achieves the balance of a prototypically ideal historical popular romance, constructs an intelligent implied reader (which will be discussed in the section on the level of discourse), and makes the emotional love story seem even more believable, since if the story world is as complex as ours, the characters’ emotional lives must be as well.

7.4.3. Summary Radway mentions the fact that the Smithton women, “wish that more authors would write sequels to stories in order to follow the lives of particularly striking minor characters. The technique again allows the illusion that the romantic world is as real as the readers’ world that that the characters’ lives continue just as theirs do” (1984/1991: 109). Jeffries’ story world is based on fulfilling exactly that wish: she has six distinct series16 that are internally cohesive and many of the

15 “You had more power than you realize that night,” he said softly. “I never forgot that kiss.” (Jeffries. Reluctant: 305). In case anyone was wondering how he responded.

16 For a list of Jeffries series, see 111 books feature previous secondary characters as the hero or heroine. Historical details make it seem as though Jeffries is writing about real historical individuals; however, the aesthetic distance that is always part of aesthetic illusion, as well as the fact that the story is always mediated by the book as aesthetic object remind readers that they are reading fiction. Nonetheless, by making her story world seem as complex as our own, Jeffries underscores the emotional believability of her characters’ relationships. By drawing inspiration from historical sources, Jeffries’ creates the aesthetic experience of nurture by successfully suggesting to her reader that she can always return to the series for more of the same effect. Readers may learn about the historical world from the inclusion of historical facts, and the pleasurable experience that comes about from the popular romance’s tender education is another characteristic of its nurturing properties.

7.5. Conclusions Regarding the Level of Story of Halstead Hall The level of story of the Halstead Hall series provides the reader with multiple opportunities to experience nurture as an effect of the popular romance novel. Readers may be directly nurtured through their identification with the heroine’s positive attributes, which always emphasize the fact that she is likeable, believable, and unique. The reader is not only able to take on these qualities through her identification with the heroine, she also follows the heroine in her process of self- realization, as a result of her progress from an immature to a complete self. Direct ‘nurturance’ comes about through the reader’s identification with the heroine because of elements on the level of story, while ‘vicarious nurturance’ is created on the level of story through descriptions of the nurture the heroine receives from the hero. He is in love with her for her unique self and can’t draw himself away from her; their lovemaking is tender and loving, and always ends well. He is attentive to her emotional and sexual needs and always meets them to the best of his abilities. While the five heroes of the Halstead Hall series have distinct personalities and different motivations, these facts are true for them all. The ability to draw ‘vicarious nurturance’ from the text thus seems to be a constant, at least with regards to Jeffries’ series. Finally, the creation of narrative illusion and its subsequent effect on the reader serve to heighten both the direct nurture and the ‘vicarious nurturance’ provided by the text by immersing the reader in the story world and making it seem authentic. Real historical details allow the reader to learn something without distracting from the enjoyable experience of the narrative. Effectively, the story level of the Halstead Hall books is designed to nurture the reader in every way possible because it is composed according to her needs and desires (as a result of the conditions of a commercial genre) and because each element of the story is meant to create emotional involvement on the part of the reader. Being drawn into the text by this emotional pull makes all of the other nurturing factors even stronger, by making the whole endeavour seem more real: the nurture the reader experiences through the act of reading, through the functions of literature, for example, becomes more powerful when the reader is emotionally involved and has been recentered in the fictional world. As female fantasies, the Halstead Hall books also provide the reader, whether directly 112 or vicariously, with the nurture that she may be missing in real life: the nurture of someone telling her that she is intelligent, special, and beautiful, or that they love her for her unique self, the nurture of having someone completely absorbed in her, implying that she is the most special and interesting person in the world, and the nurture of having all of her needs enthusiastically fulfilled—particularly those most often overlooked by typical non-popular romance depictions of female sexuality. Nurture may not be the most obvious effect created by Halstead Hall’s level of story – less obvious than the effects of suspense or titillation, for example – but it is ultimately created by the interaction of generic conventions, the act of reading, the story elements described in this chapter, and the author’s discursive choices. In the same way that the story level is geared towards creating the aesthetic experience of nurture, regardless of authorial intention, the discourse level also contributes to the creation of that experience. The elements of discourse which contribute to this effect are described in the next chapter. 8. Nurture as an Effect of the Level of Discourse in The Hellions of Halstead Hall Given the preceding discussion of how discourse is downplayed in the popular romance in order to optimize the production of aesthetic illusion, it may seem as though there would be little to say about its role in the creation of nurture as an aesthetic experience of the popular romance novel; and yet, “‘transparency’ does not imply an ‘absence’ of discourse (an impossibility anyway). The discourse in illusionist works can even be quite elaborate (e.g. in the handling of discourse time), as long as it does not foreground this elaborateness […] An important factor in the creation of consistency is the figure of the narrator, in particular the authorial, ‘omniscient’ narrator” (Wolf 2004a: 340). The first aspect of discourse that will be addressed in this section relates to this thesis’ theoretical approach, specifically, to the concept of the implied reader. Next, I will discuss the narrative situation of the popular romance, which is one of the ways in which perspectivity is emphasized and discourse is concealed. Finally, I will refer to paratextual discursive elements in order to illustrate how “such liminal elements as titles, epigraphs, dedications, prefaces, jacket copy, promotional blurbs, and the like, ‘mediate’ a book to its reader” (cf. Gleason 2011: 7). While some aspects of the texts discussed in this section are the result of generic conventions and the commercial context of popular romance publication, in this section they are only meant to refer to the discourse of the Halstead Hall series by Sabrina Jeffries.

8.1. The Smart, Funny, Romantic, Implied Reader The implied reader is constructed through the “attitudes and predispositions embodies all those predispositions necessary for a literary work to exercise its effect” (Iser 1978: 35), and distinct from the real reader of the text; however, because the real reader must be able to identify with the implied reader in order for the reading process to take place, that is, in order for the reader to want to read the book, the implied reader’s role must appeal to her. In the same way that Gibson wrote that “recognition of a violent disparity between ourself as [implied] reader and ourself as real person acting in a real world is the process by which we keep our money in our pockets,” if real readers are not interested in taking on the role of the implied reader for the extent of the reading process, they will not buy the books. As commercial fiction whose genre is defined in part by a pre-existing audience, popular romances want readers to want to read them. The implied reader is thus also pre-determined by genre and sub-genre since these are constituted, in part, by their respective audiences. As an element of discourse, the implied reader of a popular romance novel is not announced by the text, since this would foreground its fictionality; the role of the implied reader is rather delineated by the choices of the implied author. In the same way that popular romance authors like Jeffries actively construct their heroines as likeable, believable, and unique individuals, I believe that the implied reader is similarly constructed as intelligent, romantic, and possessing a sense of humour; 114 furthermore, I believe that identifying with this positive characterization is another way the reader is nurtured by the aesthetic experience of the popular romance genre.

8.1.1. Intelligence It is difficult to pick out specific textual examples that convey how the implied reader of a text is constructed, but I have tried to find examples which correspond to each of the qualities I have claimed the implied reader of the Halstead Hall series possesses. To begin with, the implied reader is intelligent. In the same way that the reader is nurtured through her identification with the heroine, who is, herself, always clever, she is nurtured through her identification with the implied reader. In Stoneville as in the other Halstead Hall novels, the implied reader is constructed as intelligent by her ability to fill the indeterminacies in the text. Radway noted this feature of popular romances in general, but condemned it as evidence of the genre’s conservative narrative discourse: “perhaps the most striking linguistic feature of the contemporary romance is its constant use of an exceedingly simple syntax that yet manages to mark itself as ‘literary’. This syntactic simplicity effectively insures that individual signs can be understood immediately by even an inexperienced reader” (Radway 1984/1991: 191-92). Despite the negative connotation that Radway gives this technique, we are describing the same feature. The fact that the novel’s discourse is marked as literary and yet the reader is easily able to decipher its meaning suggest that the implied reader is someone intelligent enough to interpret literary signs, however they may conceive of that process. The following passage, for example, is narrated through Oliver’s point of view, but the implied reader has superior knowledge both of his character and the inevitable conclusion of the story, suggesting that the reader is intelligent enough to fill the indeterminacies: Was it possible that she had softened toward Maria? [The reader knows that this has already taken place.] Gran scowled. “I cannot believe you gave Prudence’s pearls to that chit.” He relaxed. Gran would never find Maria suitable to be his wife. “They were mine to give.” In truth, he’d intended merely to offer them as an accessory for the evening. But then he’d seen her in that dress, and felt her embarrassment at Gran’s disapproval, and something in him had snapped. [The reader knows that this is because he refuses to acknowledge his feelings for her.] It was just as well, he told himself defensively. How better to convince Gran that he meant to go through with marrying Maria? That was the only reason he’d given Maria the pearls (Jeffries. Stoneville: 237).

Familiarity with the generic conventions of the popular romance novel help the reader to fill in the gaps in the text because the happy ending is pre-determined. In the example above, the fact that Oliver is unaware of his grandmother’s secret approval of his fake fiancé emphasizes the ambivalence of his feelings towards her; while the hero superficially believes that everything is going according to his plan, the implied reader is intelligent enough to figure out that his true feelings for her are more complex than this passage suggests. While the last sentence in this excerpt may drive the point home a 115 little too explicitly, exemplifying the “redundancy and overzealous assertion” that Radway critiques (cf. 1984/1991: 192), the discourse nonetheless accomplishes its goal, in that it “reassure[s] the reader that whatever minimal inferences she might construct, they will be adequate and accurate” (Radway 1984/1991: 192). Since it has been established that the purpose of the popular romance genre is not to challenge the reader, but to provide her with escape and pleasurable entertainment, we can conclude that the discourse constructs the implied reader as intelligent without the scorn that Radway’s “minimal” implies. Texts that do not have enough indeterminacies, for example, have the opposite effect, in that by not giving the reader the chance to supply her own inferences, the text constructs the implied reader as not smart enough to figure things out on her own. While other factors ensure that it still generates the effect of nurture, Surrender approaches the limits of acceptable redundancy, in my opinion, with some passages leaving very little room for the reader to enter the process of meaning construction (cf. Iser 1972: 280): for example, in the following passage, in which Celia is telling Pinter about narrowly escaping an attack by her cousin Ned: “At first it was everything I wanted,” she said. “He… He kissed me. It wasn’t awful, but it wasn’t as nice as I’d expected. He was so, well, clumsy at it.” She sighed. “I didn’t like it much. But I figured it was what happened when a boy kissed a girl, you know?” No, he didn’t know, though he could well imagine a sweet young Celia eager for her first kiss. As his mother had probably been. But his mother had been old enough to realize what she was doing. Celia had only been fourteen. He choked back his anger. […] “But when he… put his hand on my bosom…I knew that wasn’t right.” The urge to kill ripped through him again. “I told him he shouldn’t do that,” she went on, “and he just kept… squeezing, so hard that it hurt.” The words tumbled out of her now, one after another, in rapid succession. “And then he started dragging up my skirts […]” She scowled. “So I hit him with a brick.” The abrupt cessation of her tale made him blink. “You… you what?”[…] “Sweet God,” he muttered, his heart leaping into his throat as he realized how close she’d come to being violated (Jeffries. Surrender: 229; emphasis mine).

In this quotation, the discourse is minimized in order to give a feeling of immediacy, but Jackson’s interjections, as focalizer, become so redundant that the reader hardly needs to pay attention to the text in order to know that Celia was attacked and this thought makes Jackson mad. In my opinion, this passage demonstrates Iser’s claim that “reading is only a pleasure when it is active and creative” (1972: 280) because the redundancy of the prose is frustrating and gives one the feeling of being talked down to. The redundancy of the discourse here, and the lack of gaps that it entails, means that the reader’s imagination is never brought into play, and as a result of this, suggests that the implied reader is not smart enough to fill these gaps on their own. This impression is highly subjective, however, because it depends on the real reader’s imaginary faculties.

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8.1.2. Sense of Humour and Appreciation of Romance Intelligence isn’t the only positive quality attributed to the reader through her identification with the implied reader: she is also a romantic with a sense of humour. The following passage from Reluctant illustrates how the text attests to this fact: She eyed him askance. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous of Mr Pinter.” “Certainly not,” he said stiffly. “You’d never be attracted to such a ‘stick-in-the-mud.’” He shot her a sidelong glance. “Would you?” Oh, that was too good to pass up. She pretended to contemplate the idea. “I don’t know. He’s quite good looking. And there’s something about officers of the law… all that masculine energy devoted to seeking justice.” “I seek justice,” he said. “But you’re an attorney—it’s not the same.” “You mean, it would be more enticing if I pranced around town waving a pistol and hauling people out of taverns whether or not they’d done anything wrong.” “I give you fair warning—if you ever start prancing about town, I shall leave you.” She burst into laughter. “I’m teasing you, you clodpate. Surely you can tell by now that I won’t ignore any chance to tweak your nose” (Jeffries. Reluctant: 219).

The humour of the preceding passage is subjective, but the assertion, from Minerva’s point of view, “Oh, this was too good to pass up” points to the pleasure that is to be had from teasing someone; furthermore, this playful interchange is emblematic of the romance’s conception of the perfect relationship as one in which there is lots of laughter. The implied reader of this passage is thus someone who appreciates this light-hearted banter and acknowledges its role in an ideal relationship. The fact that this passage consists mainly of dialogue, with some third person figural narration, also demonstrates the stripped-down discourse of Jeffries’ text: relaying just the dialogue, visual clues about the characters’ reactions, and Minerva’s thoughts as this scene’s focalizer, the immediacy of the text is emphasized in order to heighten the reader’s emotional involvement. In contrast to the exchange between Celia and Jackson, above, this passage also refrains from listing the characters’ reactions to each of the others’ statements, thus allowing the reader to imagine the chemistry between the two, and making it far more satisfying to read.

8.1.3. Summary Iser describes how the “the concept of the implied reader designates a network of response- inviting structures, which impel the reader to grasp the text” (1978: 34). Thus by participating in the reading process, the real reader accepts the invitation to take on the role of implied reader. The passages quoted above have been used to demonstrate that the “response-inviting structures” constituting the implied reader of Jeffries’ novels anticipate a response from a reader who embodies the qualities set out by the text. In other words, the concept of the implied reader is the text’s way of deciding who you have to be in order to construct its meaning. In the case of the Halstead Hall series, that person is smart, funny, and a romantic. Because it requires these qualities of its readers, it also contributes to the effect of nurture as aesthetic experience by suggesting that the real readers who identify with the implied reader are all of those qualities. 117

8.2. In Their Heads/Reading Their Hearts: the Narrative Situation of the Halstead Hall Series The narrative situation is the same in all the Halstead Hall novels, so this section will refer exclusively to the third in the series, How to Woo a Reluctant Lady. Reluctant is my favourite in the series because of Jeffries’ decision to make Minerva an author of gothic novels. Maria, of Stoneville is a fan of the author before she meets the family, and the fact that Minerva’s novels are based on her family and friends provide fodder for jokes and conflict on the level of story, as well as meta-fictional commentary. For example, in Stoneville, Maria and Oliver discuss one of the characters of the fictional novel, The Stranger of the Lake, who is (supposedly) based on Oliver himself: “I happen to think that some of us, like Rockton, are born with a wicked bent.” [Said Oliver.] She chose her words carefully. “That certainly provides Rockton with a convenient excuse for his behaviour.” His features turned stony. “What do you mean?” “Being moral and disciplined is hard work. Being wicked requires no effort at all—one merely indulges every desire and impulse, no matter how hurtful or immoral. By claiming to be born wicked, Rockton ensures that he doesn’t have to struggle to be good. He can just protest that he can’t help himself.” “Perhaps he can’t,” he clipped out. “Or maybe he’s simply unwilling to fight his impulses. And I want to know the reason for that. That’s why I keep reading Minerva’s books.” Did Oliver actually believe he’d been born irredeemably wicked? How tragic! It lent a hopelessness to his life that helped explain his mindless pursuit of pleasure (Jeffries. Stoneville: 196).

Discussion of a gothic novel on the level of story thus provides insight into the hero’s character: although we never read Rockton’s story, his role as the French spy/villain of Minerva’s novels comes up in both Stoneville and Reluctant. As his name might indicate, Rockton is believed – on the story level – to be based on Oliver, Lord Stoneville, but is in fact based on the hero of Minerva’s story, Giles Masters. The fact that, as an author, Minerva draws on real life, causes conflict in her story and provides an additional meta-fictional nod to the idea that romance novels are pure fantasy. It should be noted that in following the principle of celare artem (Wolf 2004a: 342), while there are meta-fictional references to gothic novels on the level of story, these are never made in such a way as to draw attention to the fictionality of the novel itself. Rather, as this passage shows, the references suggest that reading can help readers understand the world and teach them about the motivations of real individuals.

8.2.1. In Their Heads: Understanding Characters’ Motivation Understanding other people’s motivations is an important aspect of the popular romance’s level of story since the hero and heroine can only reach their happy ending once they have fully understood one another. In addition, knowing the reasons that someone is acting in a certain way is also crucial to the aesthetic experience of the popular romance, in that it relates to both the 118 accessibility of the text and its emotional affectiveness. While the reader may guess at the hero’s motivations throughout the text, only when he acknowledges his love for the heroine and his fear that he is unworthy of her love (as is the case in Stoneville, for example) will they be able to achieve their happy ending. One of the reasons that Halstead Hall uses third person figural narration, then, is because it allows the author to convey the characters’ emotions, motivations, and observations about other characters as they are perceived by the focalizer. The subjectivity of this mode of narration is important for two reasons. First of all, because of the stories deal with the growing love of two individuals as they overcome certain external and internal obstacles, third person figural narration allows the author to present the reader with both characters’ understanding of the events taking place and their significance. This is particularly relevant for the popular romance since the “point of ritual death”– the point at which “no happy resolution seems possible” (Regis 2003 in Selinger 2007: 312) – requires the characters to believe that their reconciliation is hopeless, and this is typically because of a difference in perspective. In Reluctant, the conflict is based on the fact that Minerva has been using her history with Giles as inspiration for her novels about Rockton—the problem is that Rockton is a villainous French spy, and Giles, unbeknownst to Minerva, really is a spy for the Crown. Giles thus decides that the best way to stop her from writing about him is to marry her (of course). Minerva, for her part, loves Giles, but refuses to marry a man who insists on keeping secrets from her. The fact that the reader knows more than she does about Giles’ reasons for concealing things from her is brought about through the narration which switches back and forth between the hero and the heroine’s focalization. The following passage, a conversation between Giles and his ‘spymaster’ illustrates the importance of the third person figural narration for the emotional tension of the story: “Masters, I realize I told you that you can’t speak of your connection with us to anyone, and I certainly wouldn’t want you spilling any state secrets, but I know I can trust you to be discreet in what you say. She is your wife, after all. Besides, the matter with Newmarsh happened before you started working for us. You have every right to speak of that to her. If you feel you can trust her—” “It’s not that.” But it was. Minerva wasn’t used to keeping secrets—look at how she’d spilled her own family secrets to him. All she would have to do is let something slip to one person, and his past could very well unravel. Plus, Minerva had a tendency to use things in her damned books. She wouldn’t if you asked her not to. Wouldn’t she? How could he be sure? “I’d just…rather not tell her. It’ll be over after this. It will all be behind me.” That way he didn’t have to risk that she’d let his secrets slip. He wanted a fresh start with her. He could have it, too. All he had to do was hide his activities this one time. It was really only a small deception. So why did it seem like an enormous one? (Jeffries. Reluctant: 215; bold emphasis mine). 119

Not only does this excerpt allow the reader to follow Giles’ train of thought as he justifies his lies to himself, it also provides a glimpse of the internal conflict he is experiencing with regard to lying to his wife. When some voice within Giles says “she wouldn’t if you asked her not to,” the reader sees him rationalize his decision to make one big mistake before he and Minerva can finally be happy together. The third person figural narrator thus allows the reader to see the workings of the focalizer’s mind, heightening the illusion that the characters are real individuals.

8.2.2. Reading Their Hearts: Implied Reader as Focalizer’s Confidante In addition to contributing to the effect of aesthetic illusion as described in the preceding chapter, this style of narration is also useful for making the implied reader feel as though she is a confidante of the focalizer. The immediacy of the narration replicates how we like to think we perceive the world (cf. Wolf 2004a: 332), but the fact that we as readers are privy to the hero and heroine’s most intimate thoughts about (and moments with) each other suggests that the implied reader is present in the storyworld; and, in fact, she is, since the process of being re-centered through aesthetic illusion means that the fictional world is created inside the reader’s mind. In examples like the following, then, from Giles’ and Minerva’s wedding night, this gives the impression that the implied reader shares a special connection with the focalizing character: From the moment Giles set her down near the bed, Minerva’s heart jumped into a stammering that wouldn’t be quelled. Not that she wanted to quell it. This was the night she’d been waiting for half her life. Giles was going to make her his wife, and she could hardly contain her excitement. But when she reached up to remove her veil, he said, “No. Let me do it.” Ooh, he was giving orders now. How perfectly delicious. Who could have dreamed that such a thing would thrill her? He took it off, then let down her hair, pausing to kiss a coil of it and give her more delectable shivers. Then he turned her around and unbuttoned her gown slowly. Too slowly. […] “Giles, please…” “Do you know how often I’ve imagined this, Minerva?” he said in a guttural voice. […] “You can’t have imagined it that often,” she snapped, “or you wouldn’t be doing it so slowly […]” (Jeffries. Reluctant: 233).

The lines I have emphasized in bold are the most illustrative of what I referred to above: this phrase seems less like something a woman would think to herself, and more like something she would say to a friend—though perhaps not in 1825. For the reader to truly understand the motivations and emotional concerns of a couple, despite the difference in their temporal and spatial settings, a certain amount of historical inaccuracy is necessary. Because of the importance of identification and emotional involvement to the optimal creation of aesthetic illusion that has been shown to be crucial to the effect of nurture, the reader is invited into the story world by language reflecting her own discourse, rather than that of the contemporary . While tolerance of anachronistic language varies from reader to reader, the fact that the Smithton women were put off by Jane Austen’s more complicated sentence structures is 120 indicative of the fact that reading an unfamiliar discourse is both more disorienting and demanding (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 197): both of which qualities are detrimental to the creation of aesthetic illusion. The bold text of the passage above exemplifies this passage as well: the titillation that Minerva experiences as a result of Giles’ bossiness in the bedroom seems designed to appeal to the same readers as E. L. James’ Fifty Shades of Grey. Her comment about the speed with which he is undressing her is also meant to elicit a smile, which relates to my point in the previous section about the construction of an implied reader with a sense of humour. The fact that the novels are written with contemporary Western discourse in mind rather than in the discourse of the historical setting can also be seen in the following passage from Wild Lord, which describes a crucial moment of Virginia’s horse race against her future-husband, Gabe: If his phaeton rolled, he could kill them both! With a curse, she slowed, praying she could control her pair when his rig tumbled over, taking him and his horses with it. But it didn’t roll. Miraculously, he maintained his speed and still managed to wrench his rig back down on to the track…and well ahead of hers. Admiration at his deft driving rapidly twisted into anger. What was he thinking, to risk such a dangerous stunt? The man was mad! And dangerous and careless and a thousand things, none of them good! She urged her team into a spring that would have left anyone else in the dust, but Gabriel seemed to have heaven on his side, for his horses ran fleeter than the wind. By the time they reached the finish line, he was still a full yard or more ahead of her. He’d won, the scoundrel! And nearly killed himself as well! (Jeffries. Wild Lord:107; emphasis mine).

The combination of contemporary colloquialisms such as “to leave someone in the dust” or “to have heaven on one’s side” marks the discourse as accessible to a modern reader, while terms such as “phaeton” and “rig” preserve the aesthetic illusion of the historical setting. I am not arguing, at this point, that these phrases are necessarily anachronisms, but the fact that they are still used in the same way makes them familiar to Jeffries’ readers. The familiarity of the discourse thus furthers the readers’ ability to become immersed in the story world, allowing her to give herself over to the narrative illusion and the aesthetic experience of nurture.

8.2.3. Summary The third person figural narrative situation of the Halstead Hall series is ideal for the purpose of the text, and for the creation of both narrative illusion and nurture as aesthetic experience. Not only does it diminish the visibility of the discourse, making the reader’s perception of the story world seem as unmediated – and therefore lifelike – as possible, it is also ideal for enabling readers to understand the motivations and inner-workings of lifelike characters. The focalizer’s observations or reactions to events and other characters are related directly to the reader as though they had access to the focalizer’s : this further positions the reader as a close friend of confidante of the focalizer. Friends typically reside within the same discourse, and since the reader might not feel at home within the discourse of 19th century England, certain aspects of contemporary discourse are 121 used in reference to the story world in order to increase its accessibility through familiarity: Radway quotes Eco on this manoeuvre, with his statement that “it is with the familiar that [the author] can solicit our capacity for identification. […] Our credulity is solicited, blandished, directed to the region of possible and desirable things” (Eco 1979 in Radway 1984/1991: 194). In Halstead Hall, this credulity is directed towards the characters as believable individuals, and thus the credibility of their developing relationship, which is at the heart of the popular romance, and will result in the “emotionally satisfying, optimistic ending” (Crusie 2000: 2).

8.3. The Paratext as Primer for the Aesthetic Experience William Gleason explores the power of the paratext in his article, “Belles and Beaux and Paratexts: American Story Papers and the Project of Romance” (2011). He argues that the success of the romance genre may well have taken off because the “unique situation of women in American society” (Radway 1984/1991: 32), but that other changes within the genre further contributed to the “project of romance” (Gleason 2011: 1), and among these changes was the creation of a consistently romantic paratext: The publishers and editors of the early romance dime novels and story papers were certainly astute enough to recognize the profit potential in turning romance into a standalone genre. […] But in the case of romance fiction, these publishers appear, in their initial experiments, to have lacked the courage of their own convictions. Instead of committing unreservedly to the project of romance, they hedged, filling the spaces around the serialized love stories with collateral materials that at times mocked their readers’ own desires. Indeed, by voting with their dimes women readers showed story paper editors that this paratextual material […] mattered as much as the love stories themselves. Romance buyers, it would appear, demanded a coherent reading environment (Gleason 2011: 4).

The consistency of the story world was demonstrated to be important to the successful creation of aesthetic illusion in the section on the level of story. In terms of discourse, then, Gleason argues that the paratextual elements are equally important in providing the readers with a “coherent reading environment” in that there is no part of the Halstead Hall books, as aesthetic objects, that disturbs the creation of aesthetic illusion or nurture as aesthetic experience. In order to consider the paratextual elements, I will proceed in what seems like the most logical order: from the front and back covers of the book – typically what one would see before buying – to the material before and after the story itself.

8.3.1. The Front and Back Covers As aesthetic objects, the Halstead Hall books themselves conform exactly to this thesis’ definition of popular romance novel: the five novels in the series are uniform in size and cover font, while each is a different colour and has a different illustration of either an individual or a couple in 19th century garb. Since pictures can convey this effect better than words, the five covers are shown below, in the order of their publication: 122

As can be seen in these cover images, certain aspects of the novels are uniform throughout the series: the author’s name and the titles appear in the same size and font; the cover images depict either the hero, heroine, or both, and the illustrations are also extremely lifelike. Sabrina Jeffries is also introduced as “New York Times Bestselling Author”, which helps assure the reader that these books will be satisfying reads. The aesthetic experience of each book is also hinted at by the sensual details of the illustrations: the cover of Stoneville, for example, features the heroine removing the hero’s shirt, while the cover of Reluctant also features an open-shirted hero with his arm around the heroine’s waist. This sensuality can be linked to Jeffries’ reputation as “the Queen of Sexy Regency Romance” (Jeffries). Given the importance of reader selection to the success of individual popular romance novels (cf. Radway 1984/1991: 50) in that those books that sell constitute the genre, the covers of the Halstead Hall series contribute to the aesthetic experience of nurture by signalling to the 123 reader the kind of experience that awaits her. The function of the paratexts is thus linked to the nurturing effect of genre, as discussed above.

8.3.2. The Inner Pages: “Promotional Blurbs”, Introductions, Prologues, Author’s Notes Each of the Halstead Hall novels’ opening pages follow the same basic order. Before the internal cover page, bearing the title of the book and which thus marks the beginning of this particular novel, there are “promotional blurbs” (Gleason 2011: 4) and excerpts from critical praise for Jeffries’ novels. This part of the paratext is linked to the same function as the conventions of the cover page: its goal is to affirm the consistency of Jeffries’ story world, in that the other books take place in the same reality, as well as to assure the reader that Jeffries is a talented romance writer. In large font on the first page within Stoneville, for example, is a quotation form “New York Times bestselling author Lisa Kleypas”, which states, in large font, “Anyone who loves romance must read Sabrina Jeffries!” (Jeffries. Stoneville: n. pag.). This enthusiastic endorsement thus reassures fans of Kleypas and the genre that Jeffries will give them what they are looking for, a fact that I have connected to nurture as an effect of genre. After the promotional blurb pages, there is the copyright page. Legal conventions impinge on generic conventions here, and attentive readers of the whole series might notice that “Jeffries” is listed as the author’s name only in the first two novels; the copyright of Reluctant belongs to Deborah Gonzales, as do those of Wild Lord and Surrender. Deborah Gonzales happens to be the legal name of “Sabrina Jeffries” who has also written under the names Deborah Martin and Deborah Nicholas. Jeffries states on her website that, “the Deborah Martin historicals are denser and less humorous than my Sabrina Jeffries books, but if you are looking for sexual tension, both styles have plenty of it” (“Jeffries”); her Deborah Nicholas line, in contrast, consisted of “contemporary paranormal romantic suspense novels” (“Jeffries”). The use of pen names, particularly by female authors, is nothing new, and not exclusive to the popular romance genre. The practice of adopting different personas for different kinds of texts, however, points to the active construction of an implied author in line with the generic conventions of the genre or sub-genre, in this case, in question. The Sabrina Jeffries name, as can be seen on the cover pages, thus promises a particular brand of historical romance, and this signal allows the reader to curate their popular romance reading experience. The next paratextual element one encounters within the covers of Stoneville, and all of the Halstead Hall series except – inexplicably, Hellion, is a letter from Hetty Plumtree, the Sharpe matriarch, who gives the ultimatum that sets off the action on the level of story. Hetty’s unhappiness with her grandchildren’s notoriety informs the “definition of society, always corrupt, that the romance novel will reform” (Regis 2003 in Selinger 2007: 312). Hetty’s letter is distinct from the level of story, because she addresses the reader directly: I’ve run the family brewery ever since my late husband died, and while there are people who give me grief over that, I always say if you have time to complain about other people’s lives, then someone needs to give you more to do. 124

Of course, when it comes to my grandchildren, I exclude myself from that. I have a right to tell them what to do, don’t I? (Jeffries. Stoneville: n. pag.)

This paratextual element thus contributes to the extension of the narrative (cf. Wolf 2004a: 335) in that it gradually eases the reader into the story world. These letters also help link the individual novels together by referencing, in the last three books, events which occurred in the preceding novels and that are relevant for the reader in terms of the series’ narrative: the mystery sub-plot regarding the Sharpe parents’ deaths. These introductory letters thus contribute to the effect of nurture by orienting the reader in the story world and easing their immersion. Furthermore, they arouse an interest with regards to the final outcome of the mystery, which requires readers to read all five books in the series if they want to know how it is resolved. The last paratextual element is the Prologue, which refers to the story level but is separate from the main narrative. Each of the Halstead Hall novels has a prologue set in 1806—the year of the Sharpe parents’ deaths. These prologues each introduce a piece of information regarding the featured Sharpe sibling’s memory of the day their parents died, and they provide insight into the event which subsequently affected the hero or heroine’s future worldview. For example, Oliver, who was caught by his mother in a sexual encounter with a married woman before she stormed off to, allegedly, shoot his father and kill herself, blames himself for her distress and, consequently, for what they believe was a murder-suicide (Jeffries. Stoneville: 1). It should be noted that since pagination begins on the same page as the Prologue, it may also be considered part of the story. Genette notes that prologues can be considered either paratextual elements or story elements based on the information they convey (cf. Genette 1997: 166). While the Prologue in Stoneville and the later Halstead Hall books is undoubtedly part of the story, I would argue that it is also a part of the paratext in that it mediates between the reader and the main narrative, which revolves around the relationship between the hero and the heroine. The Prologue is linked to the aesthetic experience of nurture, again, through the extension it provides the reader with regards to aesthetic illusion, as well as through the believability that it establishes with regard to the hero or heroine’s fears and worries, which all relate in some way to their parents’ demise.

8.3.3. The Next Story Awaits… Excerpts at the End of the Halstead Hall Novels The practice of including the opening chapter, or a long excerpt, from the next novel in the series is a technique used to raise interest in the next instalment, which has commercial and aesthetic purposes. From a commercial point of view, including even a rough chapter from a follow up book by the same author creates a “” effect in the reader, who is given just enough to develop an interest in the story action but left “hanging” when it comes to the emotional satisfaction. In an essay on the cliffhanger in television, Nussbaum points out the ambiguous nature of cliffhangers in story- telling: 125

They are sensational, in every sense of the word. Historically, there’s something suspect about a story told in this manner, the way it tugs the customer to the next ledge. […] But there is also something to celebrate about the cliffhanger, which makes visible the storyteller’s connection to his audience—like a bridge made out of lightning. Primal and unashamedly manipulative, cliffhangers are the signature gambit of serial storytelling. They expose the intimacy between writer’s room and fan base, auteur and recapper—a relationship that can take seasons to develop, years marked by incidents of betrayal, contentment, and, occasionally, by a kind of ecstasy. That’s not despite but because cliffhangers are fake-outs. They reveal that a story is artificial, then dare you to keep believing. If you trust the creator, you take that dare, and keep going (Nussbaum 2012: n. pag.).

This insight into the cliffhanger is relevant to this discussion in that cliffhangers are commercial tools that motivate the reader into buying the next book; on the other hand, the trust that they require, and the anticipation created between reading the ending of one novel and the beginning of the next is in and of itself an extra-textual aesthetic experience. Nussbaum’s assertion that “they reveal that a story is artificial, then dare you to keep believing” also relates back to aesthetic illusion and the principle of celare artem. Although cliffhangers may reveal that the story world is just a text and one’s access to it depends on a purchase, the residual effect of aesthetic illusion – a continued interest in the story world, and an investment in what happens next – mean that the text’s fictionality is not foregrounded. From an aesthetic point of view, the inclusion of such excerpts is just another way to make the story world seem consistent and real. At the end of Surrender, for example, the final Halstead Hall novel, there is an excerpt from an upcoming Jeffries’ release, featuring a secondary character from Wild Lord. On the page immediately following the conclusion of Celia and Jackson’s narrative, there is a title page prefacing the excerpted chapter that reads: “Love Sabrina Jeffries? Turn the page for a sneak peek at her exciting Christmas hardcover, featuring Pierce Waverley from To Wed a Wild Lord! Available from Gallery Books in November 2012!” Not only do these excerpts create suspense and anticipation for the next book, which can’t help but improve its sales, they also create the illusion that if the reader doesn’t want to, she never has to leave Jeffries’ world. There will always be another romance to read, and she will probably recognize someone from another book she has read before. This was the case with the Halstead Hall series itself, in fact; Jeffries notes at the beginning of the first book that she conceived the series because Stoneville, who appeared in her previous School for Heiresses series, was a fan favourite: the dedication in Stoneville reads: “[…] And to all the readers who fell in love with Stoneville—here’s your guy’s book at least!” (Jeffries. Stoneville: dedication, n. pag.). This excerpts, as paratextual material, convey to the reader that if the experience of reading the Halstead Hall series was a pleasant one, there are other books which can offer a similar reading experience: by the same author, therefore written with the same style, with some of the characters the reader has already met. When considered in conjunction with the Jeffries’ dedication, and the fact that she wrote a Stoneville story for her fans, the effect of nurture is heightened because it 126 suggests to the reader that her desires are not only considered abstractly, in terms of the production of the romance novels, but that her specific requests may very well be heard by the author. This kind of interaction between author and readership is becoming more and more common: Jeffries website lets readers message the author directly, Wendell and Tan’s website “Smart Bitches, Trashy Books” offers readers the chance to review romances for other readers, and various online forums give hopeful- authors the opportunity to submit their stories for review by fans of the genre, such as www.wattpad.com, which recently launched the writing career of a 17 year old girl, whose stories had been read over 19 million times17. Because my definition of nurture includes the mother’s-love type of attention of having one’s needs anticipated and met, innovations within the sphere of the production of popular romances have the potential to heighten that effect as the genre’s products get better at reflecting current reader preferences.

8.3.4. Summary The paratextual elements of the Halstead Hall series contribute to the aesthetic experience of nurture primarily in terms of the way they serve as extension for the novels’ successful creation of aesthetic illusion. The cover art and accompanying text all inform the reader about the type of aesthetic experience they can anticipate from the novel, as does the author’s pen name, in certain cases. The promotional blurbs within the covers assure the reader that they are holding a good book that will be satisfying, and further contribute to genre’s influence on the text’s aesthetic experience. Introductions that directly address the reader, like Hetty’s letter explaining her ultimatum, serve the typical function of paratexts, as per Genette, of mediating between the text and the reader (Gleason 2011: 4). Hetty’s letter is slightly problematic in terms of aesthetic illusion: the fact that she addresses the reader directly is a metalepsis – a diegetic character addressing the extradiegetic reader – that isn’t explained by the level of story and isn’t consistent with the novels’ otherwise straightforward and transparent discourse. However, I think that this problem can be accounted for by the fact that the individual novels are part of a series, and the metaleptic letters are Jeffries’ strategy for getting new readers up to speed on the contents of previous novels they may not have read. The prologue is another extension into the story world, providing background about the main characters and their family that accounts, in part at least, for how they see themselves later on, and for the emotional trauma that makes it difficult for them to be open to their partners. Finally, the inclusion of excerpts from the next novel in the series function as “cliffhangers”, creating suspense and anticipation for the next book which will hopefully result in a purchase, as well as creating the impression that the story world extends beyond the ending of this particular narrative.

17 See the Huffington Post article: “17-Year-Old Beth Reeks Lands Book Deal After Posting Romance Novel Online” (Johns). 127

8.4. Conclusions Regarding the Level of Discourse Characteristics of the popular romance’s discourse, as seen in the Halstead Hall series, may contribute less overtly to the creation of nurture as aesthetic experience, but they are nonetheless effective. Iser’s useful concept of the implied reader, who “embodies all those predispositions necessary for a literary work to exercise its effect—predispositions laid down, not by an empirical outside reality, but by the text itself” (Iser 1978: 35) provides the real reader with a role within the text, a point of access to participate in the construction of meaning, but the assumption of this role requires the reader to adopt certain ‘predispositions’: in the Halstead Hall series, the discourse stipulates that the implied reader is intelligent – by not overburdening her with assertions, but rather allowing her imaginative faculties to come into play; that she is a romantic, who is interested and not sceptical of the novel’s romantic discourse; that she has a sense of humour, and is willing to laugh at life and herself. These positive attributes are a prerequisite for a real reader to take on the role of implied reader, and as such the reader is nurtured through her adoption of a role that imbues her with these qualities. The narrative situation is another aspect of discourse that contributes to the experience of nurture by providing the reader with the hero and heroine’s focalization in order to heighten the illusion that they are as complex as real individuals and likewise that they experience the same complex emotions as the reader. Because the text also follows the same rules with regards to the epistemology of the world, the hero and heroine’s eventual understanding of each other suggests to the reader that her emotional world is also readable. In terms of the Halstead Hall series as books, and therefore aesthetic and commercial objects, the paratext, as an element of discourse, also contributes to the experience of nurture because of its relevance to aesthetic illusion. The cover art and text, in addition to the first pages containing promotional blurbs alert the reader to the kind of reading experience she can anticipate, which allows her to curate her popular romance reading so that the texts always provide the desired experience. Again, this element of discourse and its relevance to the creation of nurture are linked to elements of genre and the act of reading. The introductory, metaleptic letter from Hetty, which addresses readers directly, functions as an extension of the text, which eases the reader into the fictional world. That such a letter appears in all five of the Halstead Hall books means it serves a practical purpose as well by summarizing events preceding the novel so that readers who are not familiar with the whole series will be able to orient themselves in the text. Finally, the excerpts that appear at the end of the novels create suspense, as “cliffhangers” and reassure the reader that they will be able to access the nurturing story world again, as long as they buy the next book. In keeping with the principles of aesthetic illusion, the level of discourse is relatively transparent in the Halstead Hall series. As mentioned in response to Radway, the popular romance tends to suggest that the signifier is directly related to the signifier, which means less interpretive work is necessary for the reader to understand what is going on in the text. The mode of narration is optimized for perspectivity, creating the illusion that the reader has unmediated access to the 128 focalizer’s thoughts and emotions, and the paratext, as defined by generic conventions, is consistently dedicated to “the project of romance” (Gleason 2011: 4). The high degree of aesthetic illusion in the Halstead Hall series, which is in part a result of its transparent discourse, functions to raise the stakes of the level of story, by suggesting to its readers that the story depicted is real, despite the fact that it takes place within the fictional realm. The consistency of the paratext’s commitment to romance and the romance genre, in combination with the transparency of the discourse, suggest that the book as a concrete object is “a transparent window opening out onto an already existent world” in which romantic love is nurturant and leads to self-realization; however, the book as concrete object never disappears, and the experience of nurture is always mediated by the aesthetic object. By concealing its fictionality through the principle of celare artem, which occurs as a result of the tendencies I have just mentioned, the Halstead Hall novels transparent discourse heightens the effect nurture as it is created on the level of story by making the story seem as realistic and plausible as possible. 9. Conclusion The Hellions of Halstead Hall series tells the stories of five couples who overcome emotional and physical obstacles in order to achieve the “once in a lifetime love” characteristic of the popular romance genre (cf. Michaels 2007: 7). Each hero and heroine is constructed as a real, believable individual with lifelike psychological complexity, which means that readers are able to become emotionally invested in their fates and thus the outcome of the story. The series as a whole is held together by their grandmother’s ultimatum: all of the siblings must marry within a year, or they will all be disinherited, and by the mystery subplot regarding their parents’ deaths. As a whole, it portrays a complex world, with realistic complications, and believable emotional consequences. From a narratological perspective, there are many aspects of the novels that contribute to the aesthetic experience of nurture, but from the perspective of a romance fan, this effect is created most apparently by the fact that the books are emotionally satisfying to read. The overview of contemporary popular romance criticism provided at the beginning of this thesis provides certain recommendations for the study of popular romance. I have tried to bear Regis and Goris’ advice in mind in my analysis of both Radway and the Halstead Hall series. I wholeheartedly believe that romance novels should be treated as complex, which I believe my analysis has demonstrated. I see no real advantage to discussing the contemptus mundi or “social justice” topoi, since my understanding of the purpose for which readers choose the popular romance genre does not make these particularly relevant. Rather, my approach by way of aesthetic response theory has allowed me to examine the effect of genre, the act of reading, and textual elements on the levels of story and discourse in order to establish my findings about the aesthetic experience of nurture as an effect of the popular romance genre. I hope that I have been explicit about the theory informing this study, and that I did not criticize Radway’s study unfairly, given the difference in our historical and theoretical contexts. I have also attempted to restrict my claims appropriately: while I believe that generic conventions determine certain elements of popular romances, which can thus be considered uniform, I recognize that the claims I have established based on my findings in the Halstead Hall series are not necessarily true of all romance novels. My allusions to prototypically ideal romance texts are meant to indicate that they refer to the best examples of the genre, and I believe that the Halstead Hall books are some of the best. Janice Radway’s Reading the Romance provided me with an alternate topos for my critical study of the genre: the mistaken critic (cf. Regis 2011: 7). Radway’s introduction to the history of the genre and institutional factors defining the production of popular romances informed by understanding of both who creates and who uses popular romance texts. Her study of the Smithton women provided me with real readers’ impressions of the texts, and their preferences regarding the genre. She finds that the women read romances for their escapist and compensatory functions, and notes that they view the act of reading romances as both oppositional and compensatory (cf. Radway 130

1984/1991: 210). Although Radway concludes that the romances ultimately have a negative impact on the women’s lives by failing to provide them with “a comprehensive program for reorganizing her life in such a way that all needs might be met,” she admits that the genre is in flux, and that the romance reader’s text selections have an impact on what kind of texts get published. My engagement with Radway has shown that it is immersion in the story world that makes romance reading such a pleasurable experience, and that this immersion precludes believing that the events of the story are real because it is always accompanied by a “latent distance” (Wolf 2004a: 328). The statement that the women don’t come away from the book with a program for reorganizing their lives ignores the purpose for which they seek out the books in the first place, and thus fails to see what they do take away from the text: a feeling of having been nurtured, fulfilled, taken care of, and seen as intelligent, unique individuals. My definition of ‘nurture’ is related to a mother’s love in that “good-enough mothers” (cf. Juhasz 1988: 240) both anticipate and fulfill their children’s needs, aid them in building a positive self-concept and achieving self-realization, and are there for them, consistently, when they are needed. Mothers also know that children need independence to thrive, and that they can’t do everything for them: acknowledging their ability to do things on their own builds the child’s confidence and gives them a positive self-image. In this thesis, I have argued that the Halstead Hall series fulfills this role as best novels can. Genre, the act of reading, the level of story, and the level of discourse have all been shown to contribute to the creation of nurture as an aesthetic experience of the popular romance genre. In carrying out this investigation, what I found most interesting about my analysis was the role that aesthetic (and in this case, narrative) illusion played in heightening the effect of nurture. Because aesthetic illusion recenters the reader in the story world, and makes the events seem real to her, the effect of nurture is heightened through her emotional involvement in the narrative. Iser’s conception of the reading process is also important for understanding the role the reader plays in constructing the story world, as she realizes the text’s illusionist potential. The aesthetic experience of nurture can also be tied to some of the functions of literature in general, which suggests, as I believe, that popular romance is definitely not the only genre that provides nurture as an aesthetic experience. Throughout this text, I have referred to the Smithton women as readers, to the implied reader, and to real readers: studying the effects of literature is difficult without a reader because one is limited to the features of the text. Wolf notes that critics studying aesthetic illusion may rely on introspection, reception testimonies from others, and the text itself (cf. 2004a: 326). I believe that empirical studies of literature may provide another interesting approach to the study of the aesthetic experience of any text or genre. David Miall’s book Literary Reading: Empirical and Theoretical Studies suggests that empirical studies are a useful, and perhaps inevitable, way forward for literary studies (cf. Miall 2006: 12). Empirical studies of literature would “provid[e] a matrix for evaluating theoretical proposals and for rethinking the nature of literary reading and its cultural place” (Miall 2006: 12). Because of the 131 preference for empiricism in academia – and the Western world in general – empirical studies will be useful to literary scholars: in the future, according to Miall, rather than debate the (often conflicting) assertions of reader response theorists such as Wolfgang Iser or Stanley Fish, literary scholars will formulate their claims as hypotheses and set out to design empirical studies to assess their validity. […] While the place of theory will remain central, it will become possible to arbitrate between alternative positions; theory will no longer remain the interminable and inconclusive mode of debate that we currently witness; nor will it remain divorced from the interests and concerns of those outside the academy who continue to be engaged in reading literary texts. (2006: 12).

While here is not the place to go in to more detail about Miall’s understanding of the necessity of empirical studies, his claims are particularly relevant for exactly the topic I have investigated in this thesis. The claims that I have made about aesthetic illusion and nurture as an aesthetic experience of the texts are based on theory and textual interpretation; however, it would be illuminating beyond what I am capable of on my own to find out if these claims are upheld by real reader’s responses to the text. I therefore propose that future studies of aesthetic experience, of nurture or other effects, consider the usefulness of adding an empirical dimension to their studies of literature, and to “formulate their claims as hypotheses” in order to “assess their validity”. One way of carrying out such an analysis with regards to the popular romance genre would be to make use of the already existent online community of popular romance readers, who already voluntarily post reviews and responses to the novels they read in order to both express their reactions and advise other readers. The 21st century version of Dot’s service, romance readers seem to be particularly decisive about what they like or don’t like in their romance texts (as Radway noted of the Smithton women as well (cf. 1984/1991: 63). Scholars of the genre could put the genre’s reader’s online responses to use in order to confirm or reject the claims they make about the genre or individual texts. This approach could be used with regards to the claims I make in this thesis, to see if women detect nurture as part of their reading experience.

10. Bibliography

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