Masterful Restraint (and a Lack Thereof) in "The Closing Door"

It occurred to me just now, as I was pulling my Harlem Renaissance Reader out to discuss Angelina Weld Grimké’s The Closing Door, that it is situated right after Nella Larsen’s Passing. Those who read last week’s blog know how much praise I have for that novel, and I was actually planning on looking at The Closing Door in the same light. Apparently, David Levering Lewis (the editor of the HRL) agrees with me.

Actually, I think a more specific way to define what makes The Closing Door so compelling is its masterful employment of literary restraint or, in one particular case, a severe lack thereof. Before I dive into it, I suppose it would probably be worthwhile to explain exactly what I mean by “literary restraint.” In any given moment, an author has limitless possibilities regarding where he or she could go next with his or her story. Some authors choose to go big, the easiest example would be using lots of guns, blood, explosions, nudity, etc. There’s no subtlety there, no restraint. Sure, it’s exciting for that one moment, but as humans we become desensitized to these things very quickly. Take horror movies for an example. The best ones keep the monster or villain in the shadows, away from view, for as long as possible because this heightens the tension and makes the audience truly involved in what’s going on. That’s restraint. Monster movies that lack restraint will show the monster within the first five minutes and by the end of the movie the audience is already used to the snarling fangs and glowing red eyes. What I’m saying is that, used properly, restraint adds to the tension and involves readers, forcing them to put the pieces of an event together in their own minds with only a minimal amount of actual description from the author. Now, actual definition aside, I’ll dive into The Closing Door.

The story opens in media res, with Agnes Milton already in some sort of care facility, clearly depressed, a “blank, empty... grey automaton” (Grimké 486). We are not given any real clue as to the reason for her decline, though we are given a bit of ironic foreshadowing in the form of the first line regarding Agnes’ “mother heart” (Grimké 486). This in particular in an interesting hook, something that you’d never see in something like Babbit or The Beautiful and Damned, as they seemed locked into their chronological structure. This bit of restraint, holding back all but the most tantalizing of details, is not exactly the restraint I’m referring to, but it helps to set the stage for what is to come.

The piece of restraint I’m primarily referring to when I brought this whole thing up would be on the final page, just before the last paragraph at the end. Yes, I’m referring to Agnes’ murdering of her own child. It’s such an absolutely gut-wrenching scene because of its restraint. Grimké does not show Agnes smothering her baby. She does not employ the use of gratuitous blood or violence. If all she wanted to do was disturb and shock us, Grimké could have just had Agnes take a butcher knife from the kitchen to her child, but you’ll notice the act of murder isn’t even seen. What she does describe, however, is far more disturbing and heart-shattering. Grimké’s narrator sees Agnes standing in her room in the darkness. Okay, strange. Then, there’s the questioning in her own head, “What had Agnes Milton wanted in my room?” (Grimké 500). This is when the reader starts to remember the event that had happened just prior, with Agnes standing over the baby and crying. There’s a sudden moment of horrible realization with a faint hope that maybe, just maybe, we’ve jumped to a conclusion that won’t come to pass. Grimké, almost assuredly anticipating this reaction (or even better, orchestrating it), follows with the supremely disturbing “It was quiet, very quiet, too quiet” (Grimké 500). Only then does she spell it out, and only in one very factual, almost objective statement. I would argue that this scene could have been much, much more graphic, but would that have made it any more powerful? No. In fact, I will assert her that Grimké obvious talent with restraint is the main factor that drives the power of this scene.

I’m running a bit longer than I’d hoped to, but I should mention that The Closing Door does have its share of restraint failures. In particular, Joe’s description of Bob’s lynching. Grimké spares no detail, from the hanging to the shooting to the burning to the solicitation of the body parts. Obviously, there’s a serious lack of restraint being shown here. Why, you ask? Surely Grimké didn’t just accidentally forget to employ restraint? Actually, the lack of restraint here makes perfect sense, especially considering it seems to be one of the only (and certainly the most prominent) time it happens within the whole story. I would argue there are two reasons for this lack of restraint:

1) The act itself is a horrible one. Grimké uses the shocking nature of the description, especially compared to the rest of the relatively somber prose, to emphasize how horrible and atrocious the murder was.

2) More importantly, this is the thing that sends Agnes over the edge, so to speak, so it makes absolute sense that it would be the most horrific and obscene description in the story. The shocking, inconsistent nature of it is what sends Agnes spirally into her depression.

There, another week, another blog. The Closing Door is a great piece of work, and really serves (along with Passing) to exemplify some of the more modern pieces within our required reading this semester. I, for one, am definitely glad we read it.