Stephen King and the Art of Empathy

Reflections on Rose Madder: Part One (pp. 1 – 192)

In the early-to-mid 1990s, Stephen King wrote a small string of books—tenuously, but intriguingly related to one another—featuring abused female protagonists who come up against a different sort of evil than is customary in King’s horror fiction: the sort of evil perpetrated by vicious men.  I found the first of these novels, Gerald’s Game, to be vaguely exploitative, unnecessarily grim and too vulgar for its own good, but the second one, Dolores Claiborne, to be a terrific achievement. 

Rose Madder, the third book, seems to be widely regarded as the worst of the batch—and not just that, but also as one of Stephen King’s “lesser” books overall.  This reputation preceded my reading of the novel, yet a mere few chapters in, I could already see what a great work of empathy it is.

To begin with, I have not always been enamored with King’s ability to write from the perspective of women.  I am not qualified to say whether he is actually effective at doing so; only that his attempts feel forced to me at times.  But what he does in conveying the experiences (both external and internal) of Rosie McClendon is far more sympathetic and sensitive than I expected.  King earnestly depicts the many-faceted ways prolonged physical, emotional, and sexual abuse has affected her, doing so with particular thoughtfulness and a good amount of insight into the nature of post-traumatic responses.  But King also clearly sees deeper than Rosie’s victimhood; he sees her essential spirit and will to live.  This is a loving, respectful, admiring portrait of a woman overcoming her fears.

I approached the novel knowing very little about it, aside from the fact that it dealt with the subject of domestic abuse.  Given that fact, I expected that King would detail the abuse in the extensively graphic manner he often employs when writing about violence.  I was surprised, then, to find that apart from a visceral (and therefore tough-to-read) first chapter, King does not dwell on describing the violence Rosie is made to endure at her husband’s hand.  King quickly switches gears, to go about telling of Rosie’s escape and redemption from all that.

The book is filled with keen observations into the world of an abused woman’s “second life,” as it were—such as the difficulty Rosie has interpreting social situations in the broader world outside of the one where she was isolated for so long.  King makes a great insight in suggesting that Rosie got her ideas about how the world works mostly through what she saw on TV.  King captures the unease Rosie has when navigating her new life, and the effectiveness here is twofold: Rosie is learning to interact in a world she has little experience with (and few skills to help her along), and she is plagued by the lingering influence of her former oppressor.  She may have escaped the clutches of her husband, but the fear he instilled in her remains, causing her to worry, to doubt herself, and to regard the world with suspicion.  King, as usual, makes good dramatic use of the tormenting voice in Rosie’s head.    

There is a sense of horror in the novel, as there is in basically all of King’s works.  In King’s literary universe, human nature is often dark, corruptible, violent—rarely immune from acts of evil.  In that vein, the evil in this case is not an alien or demonic force, but rather a sadistic, controlling husband who cannot bear to lose his possessive grip on his wife.  The passages about Rosie’s malicious husband Norman are reasonably effective, if not completely convincing.  I suppose I will see if Norman is given greater dimension as the novel evolves, but at the point I am at now, I must confess he feels a little generic.  His anger and violence are expressed as all-encompassing but given little context.  How did he become this way?  There are some brief details suggesting that his parents were brutal toward him, lending itself to the notion that abuse begets abuse, but so far, it is hard to see beneath his hostile, rage-filled exterior.  Consequently, he is not very interesting. 

The horror elements give the novel a dark, appealing edginess, and of course they establish the essential tragic framework for the story of Rosie’s redemption.  But those aspects are not what I admire or even enjoy so much about the novel.  Rather, it is the grace Rosie finds in her attempt to bravely enter into a new life.  King beautifully expresses the way certain unexpected mercies feel to a person who has long been conditioned by fear.       

There is, for instance, a warm and affecting camaraderie between Rosie and the others in the victim’s shelter, a place that offers her safety and understanding.  And the budding affection and trust Rosie is tentatively extending toward the prospective suitor she finds in Bill.  King invests many of these passages with felt warmth, which has me feeling hopeful for Rosie and for her happiness. 

But as Rosie tries to establish and enjoy a brighter existence, danger lurks behind many corners.  King strikes a nice balance between light and dark, giving the story the tension it needs to be involving.

At the point I’ve reached, I can sense that the novel is approaching some supernatural territory.  I am curious to see where that leads, given that so much of the first half of the book is grounded and realistic.  We shall see.  So far, I am quite impressed by what I’ve read!