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| Photograph by Michael S. Williamson/The Washington Post/Getty |
THE NEW YORKER
Since the news from Cleveland broke earlier this week, I have been thinking about Emma Donoghue’s novel “Room.” Published in the autumn of 2010, “Room” is narrated by a five-year-old boy named Jack who, along with his twenty-six-year-old mother—“Ma”—is imprisoned in a one-room structure by a man referred to only as Old Nick. Jack is the product of rape, but his mother strives to keep the truth of their situation from him, maintaining the illusion that their eleven-foot-by-eleven-foot prison is the extent of the real world and that everything else is TV. Much of the power of the novel comes from the discrepancy between the innocence of Jack’s narration and the reader’s horror at what is actually taking place. In this passage, Jack describes a portion of a typical day:
Jack thinks this is a game, but his mother is, of course, hoping to draw the attention of a passing Charles Ramsey. Ultimately, they do escape and the last third of the novel describes their difficult acclimation to “normal” life.
In an interview with The New Yorker’s Book Club in 2011, Donoghue [above] said that the inspiration for the novel was, in part, the Fritzl case, which came to light in 2008. An Austrian man named Josef Fritzl held his daughter Elisabeth captive in the basement of his home for twenty-four years, repeatedly raping and abusing her. Seven children were produced as a result of the sexual abuse, the youngest of whom, Felix, was five at the time that their imprisonment was discovered. One of the strangest aspects of the case was the division of the children. Three were confined to the basement with Elisabeth, while three were allowed to live in the main house with Josef and his wife, and were passed off as foundlings. (The seventh child died in infancy, his body incinerated.)
“Room” shares some elements with both the Cleveland and the Fritzl cases. The book is particularly strong on the corruption of the familial and the domestic. “Home” is not a place of safety, but a torture chamber; “father” is not a parent, but a monster. Donoghue is also very effective at conveying the gruelling monotony of imprisonment and the way that the hopelessness of the situation permeates even the most mundane aspects of such a life. “Next week when I’ll be six, you better get candles,” Jack tells his mother on his fifth birthday. “Next year,” she replies. “You mean next year.’” It is a crushing moment.
In its vivid portrayal of its two central characters, “Room” serves as a reminder of something that is too easy to forget as we watch the television reports and read the newspaper accounts from Cleveland: that the victims are people with interior lives that are unknowable to us. As Jaycee Dugard, who was kidnapped for eighteen years, said, the alleged brutality inflicted on Amanda Berry, Gina DeJesus, and Michelle Knight by Ariel Castro “isn’t who they are. It is only what happened to them.”
As harrowing as parts of “Room” are to read, its narrative point of view means that most of the worst of what goes on between Old Nick and Jack’s mother either happens off the page or is not rendered directly or graphically. Jack’s inability to fully comprehend their situation ends up putting the onus on the reader to imagine the worst. This is not a criticism of Donoghue’s novel, only a a recognition of the limitations imposed by her choice of narrator. Donoghue acknowledged as much in her interview:
Berry, DeJesus, and Knight did not have that power. As Amy Davidson discussed yesterday, [ Ms. Davidson's article is poignant and powerful, a moving complement to the devestating desolation felt in reading this article.--Esco] Ariel Castro is alleged to have been far more cruel and abusive than Donoghue’s Old Nick. The details that are emerging leave very little to our imaginations. For a decade, Castro set the terms for his captives, but now, as he faces trial, the terms will be set for him.
Lunch is bean salad, my second worst favorite. After a nap we do Scream every day but not Saturdays or Sundays. We clear our throats and climb up on Table to be nearer Skylight, holding hands not to fall. We say, “On your mark, get set, go,” then we open wide our teeth and shout holler yowl shriek screech scream the loudest possible….
Then we shush with fingers on lips. I asked Ma once what we’re listening for and she said, just in case, you never know.
Jack thinks this is a game, but his mother is, of course, hoping to draw the attention of a passing Charles Ramsey. Ultimately, they do escape and the last third of the novel describes their difficult acclimation to “normal” life.
In an interview with The New Yorker’s Book Club in 2011, Donoghue [above] said that the inspiration for the novel was, in part, the Fritzl case, which came to light in 2008. An Austrian man named Josef Fritzl held his daughter Elisabeth captive in the basement of his home for twenty-four years, repeatedly raping and abusing her. Seven children were produced as a result of the sexual abuse, the youngest of whom, Felix, was five at the time that their imprisonment was discovered. One of the strangest aspects of the case was the division of the children. Three were confined to the basement with Elisabeth, while three were allowed to live in the main house with Josef and his wife, and were passed off as foundlings. (The seventh child died in infancy, his body incinerated.)
“Room” shares some elements with both the Cleveland and the Fritzl cases. The book is particularly strong on the corruption of the familial and the domestic. “Home” is not a place of safety, but a torture chamber; “father” is not a parent, but a monster. Donoghue is also very effective at conveying the gruelling monotony of imprisonment and the way that the hopelessness of the situation permeates even the most mundane aspects of such a life. “Next week when I’ll be six, you better get candles,” Jack tells his mother on his fifth birthday. “Next year,” she replies. “You mean next year.’” It is a crushing moment.
In its vivid portrayal of its two central characters, “Room” serves as a reminder of something that is too easy to forget as we watch the television reports and read the newspaper accounts from Cleveland: that the victims are people with interior lives that are unknowable to us. As Jaycee Dugard, who was kidnapped for eighteen years, said, the alleged brutality inflicted on Amanda Berry, Gina DeJesus, and Michelle Knight by Ariel Castro “isn’t who they are. It is only what happened to them.”
As harrowing as parts of “Room” are to read, its narrative point of view means that most of the worst of what goes on between Old Nick and Jack’s mother either happens off the page or is not rendered directly or graphically. Jack’s inability to fully comprehend their situation ends up putting the onus on the reader to imagine the worst. This is not a criticism of Donoghue’s novel, only a a recognition of the limitations imposed by her choice of narrator. Donoghue acknowledged as much in her interview:
I never wanted to give Old Nick that much prominence in my novel; just as Ma does, I chose to keep him at arm’s length, not letting him set the terms of the story.
Berry, DeJesus, and Knight did not have that power. As Amy Davidson discussed yesterday, [ Ms. Davidson's article is poignant and powerful, a moving complement to the devestating desolation felt in reading this article.--Esco] Ariel Castro is alleged to have been far more cruel and abusive than Donoghue’s Old Nick. The details that are emerging leave very little to our imaginations. For a decade, Castro set the terms for his captives, but now, as he faces trial, the terms will be set for him.