Room by Emma Donoghue

Book: Room

Author: Emma Donoghue
 

Why I Read It: I loved one of her other books, Slammerkin, and I was enamored with the idea of writing about the experience of abuse and captivity from the view of a child.

First Line: "Today I'm five."

First Impression: Wow. This is so realistic. And depressing.

Last Impression: Wow. This is so realistic. And depressing. And DAMN can she write!

 

Ratings 

Overall – 5 Heart Racing I was surprised by how true to life the situation felt; how they play Scream, how he has to hide every night in case Old Nick visits, how detailed the minutia of each day is because it is all they have.

Characters – 3 Ma and Jack, our main characters, create their own little world in room. Jack narrates, so Ma is only viewed in the mothering role. Her other female experiences are on the periphery, making the abusive situation easier to tolerate, but also leaving her flat and underdeveloped. Old Nick is a disembodied voice but functions in the role of the abuser. Jack is the driving force of the book and much of his personality is shown through his insights.

Story – 5 The story carries itself much further through the action than I anticipated.

Narration – 4 The narration suffers from inconsistency part way through the book, and Jack's voice feels less organic and a bit forced. But the idea of narrating the abusive situation through his naive view is brilliant.

Read Again? Absolutely. It was inspiring to ingest such a well-written, refreshing and engaging story. I was on the edge of my seat.

Tell Others to Read? Yes. But I will warn them. It is a lot and hard to handle. You have to be prepared to read about a woman who has been raped and abused on a very regular basis. You have to be prepared to accept this as her existence and read on anyway. You have to be prepared to watch suffering and hope and despair interact in a very believable way.

Excerpt: "Monday is a laundry day, we get into Bath with socks, underwears, my gray pants that Ketchup squirted on, the sheets and dish towels, and we squish all the dirt out. Ma hots Thermostat way up for the drying, she pulls Clothes Horse out from beside Door and stands him open and I tell him to be strong. I would love to ride him like when I was a baby but I'm so huge now I might break his back. It would be cool to sometimes go smaller again and sometimes bigger like Alice. When we've twisted the water out of everything and hanged them up, Ma and me have to rip off our T-shirts and take turns pushing ourselves into Refrigerator to cool down.

     Lunch is bean salad, my second worst favorite. After 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 and holler howl yowl shriek screech scream the loudest possible. Today I'm the loudest ever because my lungs are stretching from being five.

     Then we shush with fingers on lips. I ask Ma once what we're listening for and she said just in case, you never know."

 

 

Excerpt content property of Little, Brown and Company

An Abduction by Tessa Hadley

Jane Allsop was abducted when she was fifteen, and nobody noticed. This happened a long time ago, in Surrey, in the nineteen-sixties, when parents were more careless. She was home from boarding school for the summer, and day after day the sun rose into a cloudless sky, from which Jane couldn’t unfix the word “cerulean,” which she’d learned in the art room. (She wasn’t clever or literary, and was nervous of new words, which seemed to stick to her.) “Cerulean” was more of a blank, baking glare than mere merry blue.

 

It prised its way each morning like a chisel through the crack between Jane’s flowered bedroom curtains and between the eyelids she squeezed tightly shut in an effort to stay inside her dreams. It wasn’t acceptable in Jane’s kind of family to complain about good weather, yet the strain of it told on them, parents and children: they were remorselessly cheerful, while secretly they longed for rain. Jane imagined herself curled up with a bag of licorice beside a streaming windowpane, reading about the Chalet School. But her mother said it was a crime to stay indoors while the sun shone, and Jane couldn’t read outside with the same absorption; there was always some strikingly perfect speckled insect falling onto your page like a reminder (of what? of itself), or a root nudging into your back, or stinging ants inside your shorts.

 

The morning of the abduction, Mrs. Allsop—dishevelled in a limp linen shirtdress—was wielding her secateurs up a ladder, pruning the climbing roses. She was immensely capable; tall and big-boned with a pink, pleasant face and dry yellow hair chopped sensibly short. Jane admired her mother greatly, especially when she transformed herself at night, for a concert in London or a Rotary Club dinner, with clip-on pearl earrings and lipstick and scent, a frilled taupe satin stole. Jane coveted this stole and tried it on when her mother was at the shops, making sultry faces at herself in the mirror—although sultry was the last thing her mother was, and everyone told Jane that she looked just like her. She certainly seemed to have her mother’s figure, with not much bust, no waist to speak of, and a broad flat behind.