Trying to Figure Ruth Out

I just finished Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson this morning, and I still feel like I don't really know Ruth. She partakes in barely any dialogue throughout the book, and the narration is all retrospective. It wasn't until the end that I got a clearer glimpse of her.

But after a while, when the customers and the waitresses and the dishwasher and the cook have told me, or said in my hearing, so much about themselves that my own silence seems suddenly remarkable, then they begin to suspect me, and it is as if I put a chill on the coffee by serving it. What have I to do with these ceremonies of sustenance, of nurturing? They begin to ask why I do not eat anything myself...Once they begin to look at me like that, it is best that I leave.

Just like me, the people around her are perplexed by her silence, and in seeing this, I found myself becoming more sympathetic with her. Although she may be very introverted, it is not out of self-absorption or disinterest with the people around her. It is almost the opposite: she quietly takes in her surroundings with fascination, too enthralled to disrupt the events around her. She reacts the same way when she's in the woods with Lucille, peacefully listening to the animal sounds, unlike Lucille who is impatient with the disorder of the outdoors. Be it nature, animals or people, Ruth is mutely observant, and perhaps this is what makes her able to write so well. She takes the time to understand the world, rather than drowning out its sounds with her own voice.

Sylvie played a huge role in aiding Ruth to become the keen observer that she becomes. Her practice of eating dinner in the dark forced Ruth to employ her other senses while her eyesight was of little use. I was especially impressed by Ruth's behavior when Sylvie took her to the abandoned house in the valley. When Sylvie left her, she remained still, always watching, always imagining. Even though Sylvie facilitates Ruth in becoming quiet and observant, there is something unique about Ruth which allows her to become this way, because Lucille was given the same upbringing and yet is completely different.

At the end of the novel, Ruth traces her uniqueness back to waiting on her grandmother's porch for her mother to return, saying it instilled in her a "habit of waiting and expectation which makes any present moment significant for what it does not contain." This explanation makes sense to me. Even if Lucille was also on that porch, the experience clearly meant something different to Ruth, maybe because she was younger, or maybe, because Ruth was already different since conception as she later goes on to claim.

I still can't say I feel like I know Ruth intimately, like I could have said for Holden Caulfield, but then again, not many people could, and that's part of what defines her. Living in a reality where she can barely distinguish dreams from real events, nor does she bother even trying to, she's on a level at which friendship would take on a completely different meaning. She drifts and barely speaks, let alone opens up to people. But I do like her. She's imaginative, pensive, and so free-spirited that she's just out of everyone's grasp.