There comes a point in the first few chapters of Room by Emma Donoghue when readers have to make a choice. Either they allow the narration of a five-year-old boy to annoy them or they can roll along with it as his voice matures and more adult dialogue helps move the story along.

For some readers, it won't be an easy decision to make. But the longer they take to make it, the harder it will be to enjoy the subtitles and substance of the Room, a novel about perspective as much as anything else. Jack and his mother have two very different world views.

"I always saw the novel as having two halves, each would shed a different light on the other," says Donoghue. "As always happens with a book in two parts, reviewers tend to prefer one over the other: many find the second half more ordinary, but a few find relief after the claustrophobia of the first."

While some may have a favorite half, Donoghue is right. Neither can exist without the other. It is Jack's ability to compare two very different worlds that completes the book. It also reinforces the haunting justification of their captor — that somehow they should have been grateful to be isolated from it.

Inside, it's the physical space that confines the mother and son. Outside, it is the social mores that can feel suffocating. While the author never suggests the former is better than the latter, she does make a statement about how petty, judgmental, and restrictive that society can be, especially the media.

Once they are free, the mother-son protagonists find that the outside world can be both kind and cruel. For them, everything becomes a dangerous and life-threatening wild card.

The best thing about Room: A Novel is when the story moves beyond the opening routines and settles in on their plans of escape. The most challenging parts of the story are in attempting to reconcile the size of the room (overtly cramped) and the attitudes of some adults once they are out. Empathy is surprisingly rare among most of them.