Reflections on André Aciman’s Room on the Sea

It all starts in our relationships with our mothers. That is not to say that fathers do not play an important role in forming our abilities to interact with others and in the connections that draw us in over and over again, sometimes despite a slew of good reasons against the choices we make. Still, that initial human bond originates with the mother. Its code is implanted in us. It becomes our distinctive mental and emotional compass that will, from the obscured depths of the psyche, steer our lives by our preferences and dislikes, attractions and repulsions, angers, phobias, absences, affections, and sparks of unexpected tenderness. That code develops throughout childhood, acquiring intricate emotional cyphers that even the most astute and experienced psychologist may never be able to fully untangle and decode. It is by remembering the mother that, right at the end, offers an all-too-fleeting yet touching glimpse into the psyche of Paul, the male protagonist of André Aciman’s new Audible Original tale, Room on the Sea.

But why begin these reflections-rather-than-a-review by contemplating the mother and the ending of the story? Because, without giving anything away, to me the ending is beautifully crowned by one of the principal themes animating the plot: sympathy for another as the prerequisite of spontaneous, shared happiness and well-being. The word “sympathy” has been associated so extensively with expressions of condolences that some may have forgotten that it also means the state of being in intellectual and emotional harmony with another. In ancient Greek it meant “fellow feeling” while in Late Latin, sympathia referred to “feeling in common.” 

When two people simply like each other, without judgment, without logical explanations, without implications of lust or the glossy concept of romantic love, that instantaneous accord often proves more durable, attractive, and healing than any of the societally encouraged ways in which humans choose to connect. It can transcend the subconscious influences of the mother and father, and even help us be willing to explore those influences, understand them, and make peace with them. That is because we can be ourselves in the presence of those who truly like us. And it is through the freedom of being who we really are that we can dare to dig and discover how those early parental relationships shaped us. 

The people who genuinely like us are not always the same people who love us. It is, after all, possible to love someone without actually liking that person. Sympathy between two people does not need to make sense, and in the conditioned gaze of certain societal paragons, it often doesn’t. Sympathy does not conform or fit into a pattern. It just is.

In Room on the Sea, sympathy reveals itself instantly, if subtly at first, when Paul meets Catherine in a New York City jury selection room. Both are in their sixties, married, already grandparents, and have led what they label as “good lives.” Yet, as the week goes by, they cannot help but prolong their meetings on the periphery of the jury bullpen. The two embark on a journey of getting to know each other while experiencing a charming array of New York City artistic and culinary treasures, some with echoes of a deeply longed-for Italy, which, for Paul, seems to nestle a longing for the neglected connection with his mother of whom he had not spoken in decades. 

Layer after layer of defenses and veneer peel off in Paul and Catherine’s philosophical, honest, at times whimsical, conversations, revealing how marriages are not necessarily based on sympathy, but rather on those other storybook or societal notions. What shines through clearly for both of them is that when habit and familiarity kill real intimacy—and not just the physical kind—one can feel more alone in a marriage than when single. Not to mention that when one is single, one is nevertheless in good company: it is the company of freedom—the freedom to be exactly who one is in the judgment-free zone of singlehood existence where no manifestation risks the censorship of a partner’s ridicule or contempt. 

Narrated by Jeff Daniels in a smooth, steady tone, this beautiful story illuminates the complex pathways of connection that begin with the mother—and frankly, I would have wanted to know more about Paul’s relationship with his mother—and continue with spouses, relatives, friends, colleagues, and strangers. In this case, strangers who are swiftly bonded by sympathy bypass all convention. Thought-provoking, real, profound, Aciman’s story extends the invitation to ask ourselves: whom do we really, genuinely like? Who are the people who make us feel that we can be unabashedly ourselves without fear of being judged or repressed in our initiatives? 

For the married and the partnered, there are those who have the fortune of finding that sympathetic acceptance in their spouses and partners, and then there are those who force themselves to stay in marriages or partnerships, for various reasons. For the singles, whose numbers have increased in recent years, freedom can come at a cost, but that cost will never involve putting up with a judgmental person at home—except maybe for those visiting relatives who, every Thanksgiving, ask the unavoidable and highly annoying “still single?” And it will never involve suppression of ideas and initiatives unless they apply it to themselves, but that would also be a choice made freely. 

Once again, André Aciman proves a master at probing into human nature as into the human condition on a topic that is relatable to all of us. I would invite everyone, regardless of age, to listen to this story, not only to delight in Aciman’s brilliant writing, but also to create a special space in their minds for valuing the power of sympathy and the awareness that it might benefit us all to take our time when it comes to choosing a partner. 

Listen to Room on the Sea by André Aciman, narrated by Jeff Daniels on Audible.

Top photo: Bigstock

About Maria-Cristina Necula (181 Articles)
Maria-Cristina Necula’s published work includes the books "The Don Carlos Enigma: Variations of Historical Fictions" and "Life in Opera: Truth, Tempo and Soul," two translations: "Europe à la carte" and Molière’s "The School for Wives," and the collection of poems "Evanescent." Her articles and interviews have been featured in "Classical Singer" Magazine, "Opera America," "Das Opernglas," "Studies in European Cinema," and "Opera News." As a classically trained singer she has performed in the New York City area at Weill Hall at Carnegie Hall, Merkin Hall, Florence Gould Hall, and the Westchester Broadway Theatre, and has presented on opera at The Graduate Center, Baruch, The City College of New York, and UCLA Southland. She speaks six languages, two of which she honed at the Sorbonne University in Paris and the University of Vienna, and she holds a Ph.D. in Comparative Literature from The Graduate Center, CUNY. In 2022, Maria-Cristina was awarded a New York Press Club Award in the Critical Arts Review category for her review of Matthew Aucoin's "Eurydice" at the Metropolitan Opera, published on Woman Around Town. She is a 2022-24 Fellow of The Writers' Institute at The Graduate Center.