FICTION
A Room Called Earth
Madeleine Ryan
Scribe, $29.99

At the start of Madeleine Ryan’s debut novel, a young, unnamed narrator in Melbourne is about to join a party, and the narrative stays with her the entire time as she prepares for, attends and then leaves the gathering. We are privy to her intimate stream-of-conscious thoughts over the course of a night. It may seem quite cramped and claustrophobic to be in the company of a single person over the duration of such a limited period, but as the title suggests, there’s an entire world within this woman’s room that’s captured in her desultory, perambulatory musings.

It should be pointed out that both Ryan and her protagonist are autistic (although the character is never identified as such in the book). Nonetheless, the novel is not about autism per se; it just happens to be about a person with autism. The distinction may seem negligible but it’s an important one. Her neurodiverse ways of seeing and thinking and behaving are just one part of her identity and certainly one that informs her experiences, but she’s a multidimensional – not a reducible – character.

As she navigates her environment, readers eavesdropping in her head can tell that she’s an overthinker, self-analytic and self-aware. We meet her donning a red kimono and shiny black heels and if it seems as if she’s wearing a costume, she probably is. “My dream is to leave people wondering and nothing more,” she says, and later, “Mystery is my favourite accessory”. Freely admitting that she finds connections with her own species difficult, she is far more at ease with her constant companion, her beloved cat. After all, he is always clear about his needs and there are no lies and subtext.

A Room Called Earth is visceral and voluptuous. The woman has an abiding interest in her immediate surroundings and takes us into the pleasures of her bath routine (oils, essences, peony rose petal), of cooking and eating, or being grounded in nature. We get the sense that she likes order and ritual and that there’s a soothing balm in the sanctity of private spaces, in the patterns of behaviour.

The narrative is dry, acerbic and droll in turns, and though she comes across as confident, she’s also not afraid to confess her lack of understanding about what troubles her. There’s certainly an artlessness, an honesty to her that can be endearing or frustrating at turns.

When she arrives at the party itself it’s obvious how separate she is from the rest of the crowd even as she desperately seeks a connection (and she readily admits people have difficulty connecting with her). As an orphan and an only child, her desire for intimacy seems acute but entering a social situation, even though she’s spent a lot of time in preparation, is fraught and she is stymied by the thought that nothing she can do or say will be appropriate.

She’d rather dance because not speaking makes one more interesting, and she likes to observe other partygoers and construct a narrative for them as though she were a witness or an anthropologist. Entire conversations between those with whom she interacts are recounted verbatim.