Madness. Wholeness. Healing through the tiny details of a life lived among others who care for us, and the terrible fragility we all navigate. This is a classic. So much larger than can be contained within its pages.

THE OUTWARD ROOM is the best kind of philosophical book: one rooted in story, in character, and one in which the word 'philosophical' never appears, and yet it asks all the important questions, and does so brilliantly, in a mere 230 pages.

Reward yourself. Read this book. ( )

In the 1930s, in the midst of an unprecedented economic depression, our unnamed heroine wakes up early. Nurses traverse the corridors, unlocking doors, coming and going. There are bars on the window. As we turn the initial pages, we learn that the woman has been living in a psychiatric asylum for seven years, having been admitted following the death of her brother in a car accident for which she blames her parents. She will not see them, and she continually asserts that she, too, has died. Death, depression, and asylum in all varieties of meaning are the underpinnings of a novel about a woman's escape from a mental hospital and the year that follows.

Prior to the woman's escape, the reader peers into her asylum life, where she undergoes analysis and passes time among patients more far gone than herself. She briefly befriends a nurse who may or may not have abetted her flight by leaving the ward unlocked one evening. This is the beginning of a startlingly easy, and frankly unlikely series of events leading to the second part of the novel and the heroine's life in New York City. She manages to leave the grounds of the hospital, ride the rails of a train headed to a major metropolis, pawn her ring for enough money to live for a week, and then magically spend fewer than twenty-four homeless hours before meeting an implausibly charitable man who briefly takes pity on her before ultimately falling in love and asking her to be his wife in another week's time.

Our heroine, who has now assumed the name Harriet Demuth, refuses to be married on account of her mental instability, but leads the life of a housewife, cooking and cleaning and waiting for John, as he goes to his (also implausibly) steady job as a machinist working a lathe in a factory and organizing his fellow factory workers into a union by night. Harriet and John have it relatively easy compared to their friends, Anna and Al, and John's brother Jim. Arguably, any one of the secondary characters would have proven more compelling subjects of study than Harriet Demuth.

Do not, however, take my word for it. In the afterword, Peter Cameron reflects upon the novel's original reception and the early enthusiasm expressed for Millen Brand by the likes of Sinclair Lewis, Theodore Dreiser, and Fannie Hurst. All of whom are far better writers and critics than this humble librarian. Yet even as someone who is fascinated by studies of boredom, sketches of everyday life, and unlikely female protagonists, this book simply failed to move me, and the conclusion of the novel, which I won't discuss here, was, frankly, distasteful. ( )

The Outward Room by Millen Brand starts with a woman locked in a mental institution. She has been there since her breakdown some years ago, after her beloved older brother's death. But she is getting tired of the hospital and her life there and one day, she manages to escape. She goes to New York, taking for herself the name Harriet Demuth (we never learn her real name), pawning her treasured ring and looking for a job. But it's the Great Depression and no one is hiring. Hungry and exhausted, Harriet is lucky enough to befriend John, a machine worker who takes her in and shows her true kindness. The two learn to support and trust each other and discover the city during some of its darkest days.

Not much happens in the way of big, important events in this book. It is not about overcoming The Man or fighting very hard. It's not an over-dramatic romance. It's just a simple story about one woman struggling against depression and the man who helps her come to terms with it. It's about two people making a meager but happy existence in the midst of the Great Depression. It's one of the sweetest and most poignant love stories I've ever read.

In the afterword, Peter Cameron says, "Millen Brand has that rare empathetic ability to love all his characters... And so the reader comes to feel, and fear, for the characters in a way that is almost unbearably tender." That is true. I can't say it any better myself. I felt so deeply for Harriet in this book, and wanted nothing more than for her to find happiness. And I felt the same way about all the other characters, too. Harriet's friend Anna, who wants so badly to marry a man but feels she can't because her parents are so dependent on her income. Harriet's first landlord, George, who doesn't talk much but tells her about life in the Amazon. Mary, the young girl who helps raise all the children in the neighborhood. So many people whose lives become intertwined and who learn to help each other through small but significant hardships.

This is a slow book. It didn't make my pulse quicken or my heart pound. There were times when I got tired of Harriet just staring out the window and thinking about death. But it's a book that is true. Many of us have experienced the loneliness that permeates this book, and felt pure relief when someone comes out of the fog to help us come back to ourselves. This book is about that process, and it describes it beautifully. ( )

A sweet, odd novel originally published in 1937. Harriet is in a locked ward of an asylum since she had a nervous breakdown five years ago when her brother died in an accident. Her days are fenced in by the hospital routine, visits with her doctor, and interactions with other patients on the ward. Impulsively, she escapes and makes her way to New York.

The novel is about her return to life and how her heart opens with her return to the world. I felt a little cynical about the incredible luck with which she lands on her feet and is able to survive, then felt bad about that. It’s not an unrealistic miracle cure; it does feel real, though against the odds. It's also frustrating that her mental health comes about by taking care of a man and doing housework, but hey, I don't expect a lot more from something written in 1937. She finds a job and makes a friend there, so it's isn't just about being redeemed by the power of love, but still.

The author does a good job of describing her mental states of hopelessness, fear, desperation, and then patience and observation of her new life. It’s also a vivid picture of New York life in the depths of the Depression, which would depress anybody. ( )

As a fictional record of the awful desperation and crushing poverty that existed during the Great Depression of the 1930s, this is an outstanding example. It also depicts the beginnings of labor unions in this country. I'll admit readily I don't know that much about this aspect of the story, but I'll assume that too is accurate. As a look at the treatment of mental illness and the largely Freudian methods that were in the forefront in the 30s - once again, relevant and probably accurate. I'm not so sure, however, of the accuracy of the depiction of what might go on inside the mind of a manic-depressive woman who has been traumatized by a violent death in her family. But then who can know this for sure? The protagonist, whose real name we never learn, escapes from the Islington Hospital for the insane, where she has been incarcerated for several years or more, due to a mental breakdown following the death of her beloved older brother in an automobile accident. Taking the name Harriet Demuth, she rides the rails of a train, then hitchhikes to NYC, where she begins to try to rebuild a life. She knows she's probably still ill, but serendipitously meets a good and decent man, John, a former coal-miner turned machinist, who takes her in and cares for her and, gradually, they fall in love. Can true love cure mental illness? Well, if Brand's story can be believed, perhaps it can. I'm not inclined to disbelieve.

I didn't think I was going to like this story when I began it, but it picked up momentum once Harriet arrived in the city and then was taken in by John. I found myself rooting for this downtrodden couple - the woman tormented by her inner demons and doubts, and the hardworking, enterprising man who tries to do right by her, working long thankless hours at his lathes and drill presses in a machine shop. Harriet too takes a job for a time in a garment factory, a job which finally gave me a descriptive realistic look at what the term "sweat shop" really means. Secondary characters too come alive, in Harriet's shop friend, Anna Tannik, who can't marry her boyfriend because her parents and siblings need her paycheck, miniscule as it may be. Anna's father, let go from his job and beaten down by despair as he searches endlessly for work, pounding the pavements with thousands of other disenfranchised unemployed. And this is a love story too, told in the most simplistic and starkest of terms, but nonetheless, achingly believable.

There is also the symbolism of the "rooms" to consider here: first her room in the asylum, described minutely, then her first three-dollar-a-week room in a New York rooming house, and finally the two-room walkup she shares with John, all examined in detail and described both physically and figuratively. Though not overtly intrusive, there is 'art' in this story, something the critics I suppose loved.

When this book was first published nearly 75 years ago, it sold nearly a half-million copies, an astounding number in those days. It received high praise from the likes of Sinclair Lewis and Theodore Dreiser. And I can see why. Yet Brand never again achieved the recognition or commercial success that he enjoyed with this book, The Outward Room. Before reading this new edition from NYRB Classics, I had never heard of Millen Brand. There's nothing flashy about this novel. But it is a quietly beautiful little book. It didn't deserve to disappear the way it did for over 50 years. I hope it sticks around a while this time. Perhaps it will find a new audience now that our country seems to be on the verge of another Depression. Verge, hell. We're in it, folks. Unfortunately, the kind of anger, fear and desperation depicted in The Outward Room seems relevant once again. For that reason alone it's worth reading. I'm glad I read it. ( )