Irene and Jim Westcott are a sheltered couple who have constructed picturesque lives by choosing to remain ignorant of certain harsh truths. A new radio, however, reveals secrets about their neighbors and exposes the Westcotts’ to the stark realities and moral dilemmas of others’—and, eventually, their own—lives. Ultimately, the radio forces the Westcotts to end their constructed sense of innocence: it catalyzes a fight that reveals their own unspoken, terrible secrets. In Cheever’s story, knowledge forces individuals to abandon their willful ignorance and to become irrevocably self-aware. What’s more, once innocence and ignorance are lost, they can never be regained.
From the beginning of the story, Cheever contrasts the the radio, a symbol of knowledge and communication, with the Westcotts’ deliberate obliviousness. Irene Westcott has a “forehead upon which nothing at all had been written,” a description that emphasizes her guilelessness: she is seemingly unaware of—and unmarred by—stress. Jim is described as an “earnest” man who wears “the kind of clothes his class had worn at Andover,” a boarding school. Jim deliberately dresses like a schoolboy, as a way of playing up his childlike qualities. The Westcotts have cultivated their appearance to seem innocent, in order to emphasize their unawareness of the world and its pressures.
When the Westcotts purchase a new radio, however, the machine acts as a corrective to the Westcotts’ calculated naivety. It “stands among [their] intimate possessions like an aggressive intruder,” illustrating how the radio interferes with the Westcotts “carefully” curated image. Irene then adds that “violent forces” seem “snared” in the radio; her portrayal hints further at how the radio is a disturbance to the Westcotts’ peace. The radio’s description implies its ability to disrupt the cultivated tranquility of the Westcotts’ life and home. Additional descriptions of the radio emphasize its omniscience and power. The radio seems to possess a “sensitivity to discord,” indicating that it perceives and thrives on the chaos of the outside world. Furthermore, the radio is described as something that cannot be mastered; this description illustrates how the radio, again a means of communication and awareness, is an inescapable transmitter of knowledge and “discord.”
Irene’s “life” before the radio is purposefully “simple and sheltered,” but when the radio exposes the problems faced by her neighbors, her outlook changes. She hears “brutal language,” which “astonishe[s] and trouble[s] her.” Moreover, the radio makes Irene increasingly mistrustful: when she has lunch with a friend, she wonders about her friend’s hidden secrets. Irene’s innocence, however cultivated, has been erased by her exposure to the radio. Even her most personal relationships, which she had not questioned previously, have become doubt-ridden.
Eventually, Irene overhears her neighbor Mr. Osborn “beating his wife.” She exclaims that “life is too terrible, too sordid,” illustrating how the radio has destroyed her carefree worldview. She attempts to cling to her prior ignorance, and begs Jim to confirm that, unlike their neighbors, they are “good and decent and loving.” Despite Jim’s reassurance, however, Irene has become inescapably aware of her peers’ cruelty. As a result of this newfound knowledge, Irene begins to change her behavior. Jim notes how Irene acts “sad and vague,” and highlights her unfamiliar “look of radiant melancholy.” Irene’s sadness demonstrates how her purposefully “simple” life has changed; the radio has erased her willful ignorance, and introduced her to the quagmire of others’ lives.
The awareness Irene has gained from the radio is ultimately a burden. It prompts Irene to think not only about her neighbors’ lives, but also her own. Unfortunately for Irene, this introspection is inescapable; nevertheless, she attempts to return to her previous, oblivious behavior. For example, Irene asks Jim to confirm that, unlike her troubled neighbors, they are “happy.” Moreover, when she is given the opportunity to relinquish the radio’s power, she takes it gladly: a handyman fixes the radio, and Irene is “happy” to hear the radio playing “Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.” The radio’s repair provides a false sense of reprieve: it frees Irene from hearing about her neighbors, but cannot entirely return her to a state of ignorance.
This momentary respite does not last. Jim, angered by Irene’s behavior, starts a fight, and it is revealed that Irene’s obliviousness is an act cultivated to hide her past behavior. After telling Irene that he cannot maintain their lavish lifestyle, Jim confronts her about her supposed “virtue,” and claims he will “never forget” how she withheld money from her sister and stole her mother’s jewelry. The radio has forced Irene into a confrontation with Jim that destroys her pretense of innocence, and prevents her return to an easygoing state of unawareness. In this way, Cheever complicates the dynamic between knowledge, innocence, and ignorance: cognizance of others’ pain forces an individual to become less ignorant of the world, but ultimately, it is self-awareness that erases one’s innocence for good.
Distraught by this new self-awareness, Irene attempts—and fails—to reclaim her prior naivety one last time: she listens to the radio “hoping” it will “speak to her kindly.” Instead, the radio announces that a “railroad disaster in Tokyo” killed “twenty-nine people,” offering another dark view of the world. The radio then refuses to offer her respite, symbolizing the inexorable end of her innocence.
In Cheever’s story, then, the Westcotts are initially portrayed as characters who have cultivated an unwitting, protected worldview. Eventually, their new radio exposes the Westcotts to their neighbors’ struggles, and forces a confrontation between Irene and Jim that reveals Irene’s ruthlessness. Cheever’s story thus illustrates how willful innocence and ignorance cannot be maintained in the face of dawning knowledge and self-awareness.
Innocence, Ignorance, and Knowledge ThemeTracker
Innocence, Ignorance, and Knowledge Quotes in The Enormous Radio
Jim and Irene Westcott were the kind of people who seem to strike that satisfactory average of income, endeavor, and respectability that is reached by the statistical reports in college alumni bulletins. They were the parents of two young children, they had been married nine years, they lived on the twelfth floor of an apartment house near Sutton Place, they went to the theatre on an average of 10.3 times a year, and they hoped someday to live in Westchester.
Irene Westcott was a pleasant, rather plain girl with […] a wide, fine forehead upon which nothing at all had been written […] You could not say that Jim Westcott looked younger than he was, but you could at least say of him that he seemed to feel younger. He […] dressed in the kind of clothes his class had worn at Andover, and his manner was earnest, vehement, and intentionally naïve. The Westcotts differed from their friends, their classmates, and their neighbors only in an interest they shared in serious music. They went to a great many concerts—although they seldom mentioned this to anyone—and they spent a good deal of time listening to the music on the radio.
She was struck at once with the physical ugliness of the large gumwood cabinet. Irene was proud of her living room, she had chosen its furnishings and colors as carefully as she chose her clothes, and now it seemed to her that the new radio stood among her intimate possessions like an aggressive intruder [ … the radio] filled the apartment with the noise of music amplified so mightily that it knocked a china ornament from a table to the floor […] The violent forces that were snared in the ugly gumwood cabinet made her uneasy.
Jim was too tired to make even a pretense of sociability, and there was nothing about the dinner to hold Irene's interest […] She listened for a few minutes to a Chopin prelude and then was surprised to hear a man’s voice break in. “For Christ’s sake, Kathy,” he said, “do you always have to play the piano when I get home?” The music stopped abruptly. “It’s the only chance I have,” a woman said. “I’m at the office all day.” “So am I,” the man said. He added something obscene about an upright piano, and slammed a door. The passionate and melancholy music began again.
“Did you hear that?” Irene asked. […]
“It's probably a play.”
“Those must be the Fullers, in 11-E,” Irene said. “I knew they were giving a party this afternoon. I saw her in the liquor store. Isn't this too divine? Try something else. See if you can get those people in 18-C.”
The Westcotts overheard that evening a monologue on salmon fishing in Canada, a bridge game, running comments on home movies of what had apparently been a fortnight at Sea Island, and a bitter family quarrel about an overdraft at the bank. They turned off their radio at midnight and went to bed, weak with laughter.
Irene shifted the control and invaded the privacy of several breakfast tables. She overheard demonstrations of indigestion, carnal love, abysmal vanity, faith, and despair. Irene's life was nearly as simple and sheltered as it appeared to be, and the forthright and sometimes brutal language that came from the loudspeaker that morning astonished and troubled her. She continued to listen until her maid came in. Then she turned off the radio quietly, since this insight, she realized, was a furtive one.
Irene had a luncheon date with a friend that day, and she left her apartment at a little after twelve. There were a number of women in the elevator when it stopped at her floor. She stared at their handsome and impassive faces, their furs, and the cloth flowers in their hats […] Which one had overdrawn her bank account? […] Irene had two Martinis at lunch, and she looked searchingly at her friend and wondered what her secrets were. They had intended to go shopping after lunch, but Irene excused herself and went home.
A Salvation Army band was on the corner playing “Jesus Is Sweeter.” Irene drew on her husband's arm and held him there for a minute, to hear the music. “They're really such nice people, aren't they?” she said. “They have such nice faces. Actually, they're so much nicer than a lot of the people we know” […] Irene looked up at the spring stars. “‘How far that little candle throws its beams,’” she exclaimed. “‘So shines a good deed in a naughty world.’”
“Mr. Osborn's beating his wife. They've been quarreling since four o'clock, and now he's hitting her. Go up there and stop him."
[…] "You know you don't have to listen to this sort of thing," he said […]
"Don't, don't, don't, don't quarrel with me," she moaned, and laid her head on his shoulder. "All the others have been quarreling all day. Everybody's been quarreling. They're all worried about money. Mrs. Hutchinson's mother is dying of cancer in Florida and they don't have enough money […] and that girl who plays the ‘Missouri Waltz’ is a whore, a common whore, and the elevator man has tuberculosis and Mr. Osborn has been beating Mrs. Osborn.”
“I'm sick to death of your apprehensiveness. The radio can't hear us. Nobody can hear us. And what if they can hear us? Who cares? […] Why are you so Christly all of a sudden? […] You stole your mother's jewelry before they probated her will. You never gave your sister a cent of that money that was intended for her—not even when she needed it […] where was all your piety and your virtue when you went to that abortionist? I'll never forget how cool you were.”