Tag Archives: Emma Donoghue

Akin: In which I am bossy about how a plot should behave

The overwhelming word that comes to mind with Emma Donoghue’s Akin is ‘lukewarm,’ which as someone who tries to write down how I feel about the books I’ve read feels unsatisfying. Declare a position! But really, I could neither urge you to read or not read this one. It’s fine. If your book club picks it? Fine. If someone gifts it to you because it was on the bestseller table at the book store? Fine. If you pass over it at the used bookstore because there are seven copies and you’d rather take home [insert anything else] [except Girl on the Train] Fine.

I read it out of curiosity. I’d enjoyed Room  and Akin was getting lots of hype and I’m nothing if not easily persuaded by best-of lists and recommendations. And Akin does have reasons for recommendations: (1) it’s a tight plot – taking place in a little over ten days, it follows octogenarian Noah as he must unexpectedly take over the care for his grand-nephew, Michael, and still journey to his birthplace of Nice to discover the truth about his mother (Noah does, I mean). The focused plot gives the novel a short story-esque feel, and a relative certainty early on for the reader on how things between Michael and Noah are going to turn out. (Cue every plot ever about a troubled teenager and an equally-troubled-but-pretending-to-have-it-all-sorted adult like every teacher-disturbed class movie ever). (2) Michael is a well done character, and the questions he asks and his reactions feel sensible and in line with what his character would say or do.

And then there’s the reasons you could pass this one by: (1) The aforementioned obviousness of the outcome of the Noah-Michael dynamic and the somewhat alarming way in which having children is roughly inserted towards the end of the novel as a prime Purpose for living – an insult to folks who don’t have kids and an unreasonable burden to place on children (2) The entire plot line of investigating the backstory of Noah’s mother reads as both impossibly far-fetched and like a poorly grafted limb onto the main body of the story. Every time the two of them set out to investigate another piece of her backstory I was surprised again to find that the novel seemed to think Noah’s mother and Nazi history was the point of the book or the thematic center. Not so, novel. Figure out what you’re about and be about that. (Curious minds want to know? Themes of judgement, justice and redemption).

Taken together I remain… lukewarm. Convince me otherwise? Or don’t. With this one I really don’t care.

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Filed under Bestseller, Book I'll Forget I Read, Canadian Literature, Fiction, Prize Winner

The Wonder: Great Holiday Read

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There’s much to enjoy in Emma Donoghue’s latest novel, The Wonder. One word of warning: do not make the mistake I did and read the book flap. The person who wrote the book flap should be reprimanded for summarily spoiling a significant plot question in the description. Fear not. I won’t do the same. Continue reading

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Room: Disturbingly Enjoyable


I didn’t want to like Emma Donoghue’s *Room*. I resisted reading it until now – despite the swells of book-club interest, the claims of brilliance from fellow readers – because there seemed something exploitative and disturbing about the idea of a child protagonist narrating his experiences first held captive in a 12×12 room and then emerging to be reintegrated into “normal” life. 

And there was something disturbing out of the pleasure I took in reading it – the rapturous irresistibility of the narrative. I had trouble putting it down – first wanting to know what depraved and horrifying passage might come next, and later wanting to observe the herculean task of reorienting these “victims” into the Outside. Like watching one of the many crime procedurals the fascination must be one of pleasure: do we want to experience something similar (as perpetrators? as voyeurs? as victims?) or do we attend to these stories of the depraved in humanity because it reminds us of what we are capable of and congratulates us for the smart choices we’ve made in *not* succumbing to these base impulses.

I’m not sure what the cause of the pleasure, but I found myself very much enjoying the story and from that enjoyment very much disturbed by my pleasure. And disturbed, too, for the thousands (millions?) of fellow readers who felt similarly drawn to this story (hopefully with as much reflexive concern for their own pleasure, but I suspect more likely aghast by the “horror” and “darkness” and “how-could-he” – which is not the same as me thinking that I’m somehow more insightful than all the other readers, rather I think I’m willing in this space to be honest and because it’s scary and vulnerable to say you took pleasure in the abuse of others). 

I should read something about reader-viewer pleasure in watching disturbing violence. I’m sure there’s something good out there – suggestions? – that could nuance my reading of *Room*, but as it stands I’ll just have to say – with a decided lack of theoretic depth – I *enjoyed* the book and I wish I hadn’t.

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Filed under Canadian Literature, Fiction, Prize Winner