The Circus Goes Dark: Swamplandia! and the Loss of Innocence

Karen Russell doesn’t simply tell a story—she lures us into a lush, otherworldly place, then deftly pulls back the curtain to reveal the unsettling truths that come with growing up. The brilliance of the novel isn’t just in its imaginative setting or unique characters, but in how Russell uses point of view to pull us deeper into this delicate, haunting space where innocence fades and the real world takes over. At first, Swamplandia! feels like a whimsical escape—strange, vivid, full of wonder—but as you turn the pages, it becomes something darker, more bittersweet.

This sense of magic slowly eroding resonated with me on a personal level. When I was a child, the Fourth of July was the holiday for me. Summers felt magical—long, warm, and full of possibility. The Fourth was a landmark, a monument to joy and celebration. My childhood home was just a block away from the parade, the carnival was down the road, and the fireworks lit up our backyard as if a personal display just for us. Every year we would climb onto our roof to sit and watch, scooping heaps of homemade vanilla ice cream into our mouths. And to top it off, my parents worked at the California State Fair, so that same warm energy filled the air all summer long, much like the magic Ava associates with Swamplandia.

For years, I could soak up that energy—the feeling that everything was alive, colorful, full of life. But as I got older, that magic started to slip through my fingers— slowly, then all at once. The parades still marched on, the fireworks still boomed, but they felt different—quieter, less electric. It wasn’t the same without my childhood friends running beside me or my parents lighting cat-shaped sparklers. My mom only sang Prince’s Purple Rain when requested; I was hardly a spectator of the parade, let alone filling a role in it; and the heat made making ice cream almost unbearable, but we did it still, if only for the time together and the sweet treat at the end of the night. Little by little, the magic dimmed, and the vividness of my childhood world faded into something quieter, more subdued. Reading Swamplandia! took me right back to that feeling of loss—the moment when the circus lights flicker out, and we’re left standing in the dim glow of reality.

Russell captures this experience beautifully, showing us the extremes of such a transition through Ava’s journey. We follow Ava and Kiwi as they navigate this loss of innocence, and through their narratives, we see how hope clings on despite the looming darkness. It’s this delicate balance of magic and reality, of light and shadow, that makes Swamplandia! such a poignant and unforgettable read.

Beyond this personal resonance, I found Russell’s use of point of view to be particularly intriguing. What struck me most was how seamlessly she shifts between the first-person perspectives of Ava and Kiwi, two of the novel’s central characters. Each of them has a distinct voice, and this selective focus allows the reader to experience their contrasting journeys without diluting the narrative tension.

Had Russell expanded the point of view to include other key characters like Ossie or Chief, I believe much of the tension and suspense would have been lost. Instead, by giving us insight only into Ava and Kiwi’s thoughts, Russell builds a sense of unease around the other characters—Ossie, Chief, and most notably, the Bird Man. These characters feel distant, closed off, even untrustworthy. The Bird Man, in particular, represents danger from the start, yet through Ava’s eyes, we cling to the hope that he may be something more, even as the darkness closes in.

I found Kiwi’s character especially compelling because of his struggle with identity. He sees himself one way, while the world outside of Swamplandia sees him differently. This disconnect between how we perceive ourselves and how others perceive us is something many of us face, particularly as we grow up and enter new environments. Kiwi’s vulnerability is palpable in the way he tries to mask his insecurities, a trait that manifests in poignant moments throughout the novel.

One of the most striking excerpts that showcases this contrast is:

"Heaven, Kiwi thought, would be the reading room of a great library. But it would be private. Cozy. You wouldn’t have to worry about some squeaky-shoed librarian turning the lights off on you or gauging your literacy by reading the names on your book spines, and there wouldn’t be a single other patron. The whole place would hum with a library’s peace, filtering softly over you like white bars of light…
Kiwi grunted; someone had written BOOTY FUCK THE MOTHERFUCKERS on the wall beside the escalator to the Jaws. Where was his paintbrush?"
(Swamplandia!, 279)

This passage beautifully illustrates the gap between Kiwi’s dream and the harshness of his reality. His idealized version of heaven—a place of solitude, peace, and intellectual fulfillment—stands in sharp contrast to the gritty world around him, filled with crude graffiti and mundane struggles. In that moment, Kiwi is jolted back into reality—he’s not in the peaceful library of his imagination but stuck cleaning up after tourists, his dreams of escape slipping further out of reach.

I relate so deeply to Kiwi in this moment—this constant struggle to be who we need to be in order to get through to where we want to be. It’s the knowledge that we might never attain that "great after," that ideal future, but we keep hoping for it nonetheless. I recently spoke with a friend about how I’m trying so hard to maintain momentum in the literary world after graduating from Stonecoast, but in doing so, I’ve left little time in my schedule for my own writing—the thing I’m most passionate about. Life gets in the way, as it so often does. I joked that I would start scheduling "phantom appointments" for myself—telling people I’m at the dentist or in therapy, but really just locking myself away in a dark room to read or write. Anything to carve out a little space that’s just for me. I get why Kiwi’s stuck in that in-between, struggling to make it all work at the cost of his own passions. I’m in my thirties now, and I’m just starting to figure out how important it is to protect that personal time. But Kiwi doesn’t quite grasp this yet. He’s trying his damndest to make everything fit together. It makes sense.

Ava, on the other hand, is a whole different story. She’s still holding onto that selfless hope, and it’s heartbreaking. She cares so much about the people around her, even as everything is falling apart. She’s the glue that holds her family together, while the others are off in their own worlds—selfish, stubborn, or just plain lost. Ava makes you want to believe that everything will be okay, even though you know better. The Bird Man, especially—she sees him as a guide to the underworld, but we know he’s trouble from the start. We just want to grab her by the shoulders and shake.

There’s this moment where Ava sees birds exploding into the sky, and she asks the Bird Man if he’s the one making it happen. It’s such an Ava moment—her eyes always searching for wonder, even as the shadows grow longer around her.

In the end, Swamplandia! left me reflecting on the push and pull between magic and reality, between hope and the inevitable loss of innocence. In so many ways, it mirrors the struggle I’ve been dealing with lately—this constant need to balance the external demands of life with the quiet, personal space where our real passions thrive. Just like Kiwi and Ava, I’m learning that growing up isn’t about leaving that magic behind—it’s about finding a way to carry it with us, even when the lights start to fade.

Swamplandia! is a novel that sneaks up on you, leaving you with lingering thoughts about the fragile balance between holding onto the magic of childhood and making peace with the inevitable losses that come with growing up. It’s a story that reminds us, in both its magic and its tragedy, that even as the world shifts around us, our inner worlds—those private, creative spaces—are worth fighting for. Karen Russell makes that journey feel deeply personal, even as she pulls us through the extraordinary and the strange.

Leah Scott-Kirby, M.F.A.
Writer | Marketer | Creative Writing Instructor
Co-Founder of The Practice of Writing
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