Emma Donoghue’s latest novel, Room, recently shortlisted for the Booker, is told from the perspective of five-year-old Jack, who has lived his whole life inside a locked 11 by 11 foot room. Ma has lived in Room since before Jack was conceived: imprisoned there by the shadowy night-visitor, Nick. She has made an effort to care for Jack the best she can under the circumstances: providing a routine of stories, games, exercise, meals, and TV, and maintaining the illusion that Room is real and everything they see on TV is not. On Jack’s fifth birthday, however, Ma admits that Outside is real, and Jack’s fragile certainties start to fall apart.

There are some similarities between the narrative of Room and the true story of Elizabeth Fritzl, who was kept prisoner in a cellar for 24 years, though there are also marked differences in the details of who, when, where and so on. The most radical shifts in focus, however, are not related to the superficial truths of the story, but to how they are told: from the perspective of a child. As well as in the novel’s focus on Ma’s efforts to provide a positive, even ideal, childhood for Jack. As the author states, the novel is less an exploration of the horror of their situation, than a “celebration of resilience and the love between parent and child”.

Many of Donoghue’s earlier novels, including The Sealed Letter and Slammerkin, have been historical novels, drawing on Donoghue’s comprehensive knowledge of eighteenth-century literature and often based on true stories. She has written other works of contemporary realism (Hood, Landing), but Room is a significant departure from her usual style. There are, however, compensatory similarities to her earlier works in the way the story is inspired by real events, and in Donoghue’s engaging and empathetic rendering of character. In some ways, Room is a more successful work than her historical novels, more concise and dramatic, without the excess of detail and description that can bog down works about fantastical or remote times.

Jack is a classic unreliable narrator: a child whose understanding of the world he lives in is flawed and partial. Like Bruno in Boyne’s Boy in the Striped Pyjamas, Jack affords us an innocent’s perspective, devoid of any understanding of social or historical context that might furnish him with reasons to fear and resent his caged existence. For Jack, unlike his mother, Room is a world complete. A world in which he is, for the most part, happy.

Writing from a child’s point of view, particularly that of such an unusual child, presents considerable challenges. Donoghue doesn’t always manage the delicate balance of the limitations of the Jack’s viewpoint with the complexity of the novel’s thematic and narrative concerns. At times, Jack’s voice grates, or is inadequate to convey the details of the story, particularly once Jack and Ma are Outside. While Jack’s partial perspective allows us to see the world in a new way, this is sometimes counteracted by a lack of clarity, or by the unconvincing persistence of Jack’s naiveté. On the other hand, while Nick is only sketchily drawn – despite the small space, Jack has rarely, if ever, seen his mother’s captor – he is a terrifying presence. His power over Jack and Ma is absolute. When he turns off the heat and gas, and stops delivering food, his absence is both boon and threat.

The first few chapters, in which Donoghue establishes Jack’s routines, and the reader becomes attuned to Jack’s initially irritating voice, were intriguing enough to keep me engaged, though I did wonder at times where the story was going, and whether sufficient narrative tension could be made out of a such a limited world. Soon the story picked up pace, however, as Jack struggled to accept the reality of Outside, and Ma made plans for an escape.

When I finished reading the novel, I was anxious to find others who had read it. The conceit of the book: that a mother might provide a ‘good’ childhood for her son in such conditions, opens up a slew of questions about mothering. Jack’s responses to Outside didn’t always ring true, but they made me think about how we – particularly as children – discern reality from fantasy; what kinds of protection parents can, or should, afford their children; what is a good childhood, good mothering; what are the conditions under which love (or Love) can flourish. This urge to seek other readers of the book to talk with is, I think, a mark of an accomplished novel: one that has stimulated the reader, and which sends them out into the world changed and curious.

About the Author

Nike is one of the editors at Perilous Adventures.

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