Return to Room 19

Dear Doris Lessing,

First, woohoo! Congratulations on the Nobel prize! You may not know this, but you wrote my favorite short story, To Room 19. For years, when asked what my favorite story is I've given To Room 19 as the answer. This morning it struck me: I can not recall what To Room 19 is about.

This is sad, because your story made a huge impact on me in college. Life-and-personality changing impact. No recall whatsoever, Doris. It's like saying, oh, my favorite song is The Beatles "Yesterday," and then someone asks you to sing it and you can't remember the tune or lyrics, or, anything, except it's your favorite.

I tried in vain to find it in my books. I went through every Norton's Anthology I own (well, I only own three). I tried to find it on the Internet, and I could not.Still, what I found was sufficient to remind me of the theme.

The woman in your short story is in an "intelligent" marriage and lets reason dictate all her life choices. It does not end well for her (suicide, I think, in a hotel room). It was a revelation to me that reason divorced from emotion could fail, especially in marriage.

Soon after I read your story I began dating Gary. I just want to thank you for making my life hell. Because of your words I find myself trapped on this emotional .... emotional ... no, I will not say emotional roller coaster to someone who won the Nobel Prize ... emotional goose winter, this emotional funfair that is marriage to Gary.

I could have married a cold, rational, logical sort. He would talk me into threesomes like the husband in your story (it came back to me eventually). I'd be getting laid every night and calmly discussing world politics the next morning. But no. I had to start making decisions based on emotions, like love. I blame you and your irresponsible art.

So, yeah, thanks Doris. Suck my balls.

Comments

[Kathy]

If I had to list all the books that made an impact in my life, The Golden Notebook would be in my top five, though I don't know why anymore.

[Becs]

I tried to read The Golden Notebook back in college. Meh. I now have a policy against reading any writer who has won just about any literary prize.

And also, I will not read a book by any woman named "Anita", because they always creep me out.

[sue]

I haven't read any of her works, but I heard someone discussing her on tv last night and they said "To Room 19" was the definative short story about a woman's suicide... does that ring any bells?

Let me know if I can help out anytime. ;)

[TheQueen]

Kathy - See? It's infuriating. I've never read The Golden Notebook, though.
Becs - I don't know of any Anita writers. I've always had good luck with the Pulitzer Prize novels.
Sue - That sounds about right.

[JonesJef]

It's a devastating story (To Room 19, that is) about the emptiness of a seemingly content, "intelligent" woman's life, and of the slow slide into depression and eventual despair against which she is powerless. It is also, in its own brutal way, a response to Virginia Woolf's A ROOM OF ONE'S OWN. Suicide, in both cases, being the least of it.

[Hot Mom]

JonesJef,

Are you talking about Virginia Woolf's To The Lighthouse? There was a depressing story.

A Room of One's Own is a writer's manual for the (then) modern woman.

Yes, the author committed suicide but so have a host of other writers and artists. She was bipolar, by the way, and couldn't stand the psychosis that came with her manic episodes.

If you're looking for enlightenment with a non-deathly ending, try The Awakening by Kate Chopin.

[TheQueen]

JonesJef (Hello JonesJef - please come back) - Hot Mom tells me To the Lighthouse is the one that starts with the kids on the beach. For me, it also stopped with the kids on the beach. I couldn't get into it. Now, I think I recall the essay VW wrote on how it sucks to be a woman writer - the one you mentioned - except that almost suggests VWs suicide was because of her frustrations ... instead of being senseless.
Hot Mom -
Then again, this does explain why I have always confused Doris Lessing and Virginia Woolf.