Room
- Mar 18, 2017
- 2 min read
★★★★☆
Emma Donoghue’s Room has been on my reading list for quite a while, but for some reason I just haven’t felt like reading much fiction over the past few years. In fact, only three of the books I’ve read since 2011 weren’t non-fiction—and only one of those was a proper novel (the others being a play and a fictional memoir). I probably would have continued my non-fiction streak had I not recommended Room to my wife, Megan, who, barely a quarter into the book herself, insisted it be the next book I read. So, thanks to her, I finally checked this one off my list. I was delighted I did.
For those of you considering this book who don’t already know, the story is told from the perspective of a five-year-old boy named Jack. How much you do or don’t enjoy Room will very much depend on how much you can or can’t give yourself over to his voice. Donoghue’s narrative choice is almost always the first thing people site in their negative reviews. While I can’t say they’re wrong in rejecting the story for that reason, that they are means they’re missing what gives Room its impact. Not to take away from the innate strength of the story which is compelling in its own right, and not to give the impression that Jack’s voice is mere gimmickry because it isn’t, but I don’t think we’d be talking about this book much at all had it been written more conventionally.
If you can let yourself be taken in by Jack and his telling of the story, you’re in for a treat. Room is a page-turner par excellence: I read the first three-quarters in a single sitting. Then I got to the last section and put it down for nearly a week because I didn’t want it to end. It is exactly this tension, between voraciously devouring and intentionally delaying, that, for me anyway, is the hallmark of a great book. With Room, Emma Donoghue has succeeded in spades.
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