January 28: Saint Thomas Aquinas

Last night, I hosted the monthly meeting of my book club.  The fourth Thursday of every month is one of my favorite evenings.  My friends and some family come over, sit around, eat really good food, and talk about a really good book.  I try to keep a handle on the club's literary selections; I can't stand being forced to read a book in which I have little to no interest.  One time, I made the mistake of going to the bathroom in the middle of one of our get-togethers.  When I came back, my club members had selected the books for the next six moths.  (I know I have written about this occurrence before, but I still suffer flashbacks to Edith's Story, a dreadful Holocaust memoir that I endured one November.  I take literature quite personally, and I hate wasting my reading time on books for which innocent trees are murdered for no good reason.  If I sound like a book snob, I am.)

Last night's book was worth the slaughter of a forest.  It was Emma Donoghue's Room, and it ranks as one of my favorite reads of the last twelve months.  It's based on the real-life story of Jaycee Dugard, a woman who was snatched off the street by a man when she was 11-years-old.  The man held her captive in his backyard for eighteen years, raping her on a frequent basis.  During her captivity, she gave birth to and raised two children.  Donoghue uses the basic elements of this news account for her novel.  It's about an imprisoned woman who raises her young son in an 11' by 11' room for the first five years of his life.  The novel is narrated by the five-year-old son, Jack.  Donoghue manages to turn a story premise that has the potential to be incredibly depressing and grim into a heartbreaking, coming-of-age tale.  Room reminds me of some of my favorite novels--Catcher in the Rye, To Kill a Mockingbird, and The Lovely Bones.  It's all about narrative voice.  Donoghue's Jack reminds me of Scout and Holden and Susie.  His point of view transforms his prison into a universe of mother-son love.

Everything outside the parameters of that universe becomes a threatening Wonderland, and Jack must learn to navigate this space.  His perception of the real world is that of an alien, a creature without even the normal vocabulary for "grass" or "wind" or "sun."  That's what is so engaging about the entire book.  Donoghue manages to hold up a mirror to our world and reveal its ugliness, absurdity, and beauty.

Okay, I know this blog is starting to sound like an Amazon.com customer review, but when I read a good piece of literature, I generally become a little obsessed with getting other people to share my experience.  Therefore, for the time being, I'm going to be a cheerleader for Emma Donoghue.  Even my incredible ego won't get in the way.  Much.  I'll admit, when I finished reading Room, I sat back and thought, "Damn, I wish I'd written that."  If you're one of my few constant readers (shout out to my five followers!), you know I have a problem with jealousy.  I admire the work of other writers, but I prefer to keep the literary spotlight amongst my close friends and associates firmly focused on myself.  (Yes, I did write "amongst."  I trying to sound like a serious critic.)  If that means I have to make snarky and mean-spirited comments about other authors, so be it.  Room has had incredible success since its publication.  It got glowing reviews, hit the bestseller lists, and, I assume, will be nominated for all kinds of awards.  It's got that literary-awards cachet.  Usually, for me, that trinity of good fortune kicks my envy machine into overdrive.  In this case, I can't do it.

When a little-known writer comes out of nowhere with a really wonderful book that receives all kinds of recognition and popular/monetary rewards, it gives me hope.  If it can happen to Emma Donoghue, my mind reasons, it can happen to me.  That's why I won't say that Room becomes a little long-in-the-tooth near its conclusion.  That's why I won't say that the novel lacks a polish of craft that could make it truly great.  That's why I won't say that Donoghue lapses into melodrama and stereotype at points--with suicide attempts, a cold and insensitive father, and an exploitative TV interviewer.  I won't say any of that, because it would make me sound small and petty.

Today's saint is Thomas Aquinas.  Thomas was a remarkable guy.  He knew from a very young age that he wanted to enter the religious life, even though his family was titled and wealthy.  But, of course, he gave it all up, because that's just what saints-in-training do.  Aside from being holy and devout, Thomas was a brilliant philosopher, theologian, and writer, even though he was nicknamed the "Dumb Ox" by his fellow students because of his "silent ways and huge size."  Thomas' writings fill twenty volumes, including the classic Summa Theologica.  His work  is "characterized by brilliance of thought and lucidity of language."  If I had been a student with Thomas, I would have hated him because all the teachers would have been "Thomas did this" and "Thomas did that" and "Thomas said this" and "Did you read the paper Thomas wrote?"  Despite the fact that he turned down every "ecclesiastical dignity" offered to him, including Archbishop of Naples, Thomas was still famous in his own lifetime.  And humble.  Killer combo for sainthood.

There you go.  A saint and a bestselling author.  I appreciate good writing, admire brilliant thinking.  I've already said that.  Go and read Room and the Summa Theologica.  You won't be disappointed.  I don't begrudge Emma Donoghue and Saint Dumb Ox their success and glory.  I'm a bigger person than that.  Really, I am.