Book Three

Jan 21, 2008 14:02

The Hours
By Michael Cunningham
Genre: Contemporary Fiction

After finishing my review of Mrs. Dalloway, I started on my second reading of The Hours and finished about twenty-four hours later. (I'm only posting so late because our internets died for a bit.) Cunningham combines three storylines into one interweaving plot that jumps easily back and forth between one day in three separate time periods: modern day, where Clarissa Vaughn is planning a party in honor of a friend; the 1950s, where a bookish housewife struggles to be the perfect wife and mother; and 1923, where Virginia Woolf begins to write Mrs. Dalloway.

Each storyline mirrors the other in distinct yet subtle ways. The character of Clarissa, nicknamed Mrs. Dalloway by her friend and former lover, especially mirrors her namesake in both her relationships and the events of the day. This is the most obvious connection to Cunningham’s inspiration, but it is done is such a way that the story is made both modern and believable.

The Hours completely captures the sense of longing found in Woolf’s novel without becoming depressing, expanding the sense of desperation and searching into various characters, as well as connecting Mrs. Dalloway to Woolf’s own life as she was writing her most well-known novel and struggling with mental illness.

I enjoyed this novel even more so than the last time I read it. I found so much more depth in it, obviously, since I had never read Mrs. Dalloway. I would completely recommend it, and even more so, I recommend reading Mrs. Dalloway first. The prose is gorgeous and draws on Woolf’s style with hints of stream-of-consciousness without completely mimicking his inspiration.

As with Mrs. Dalloway, some of the final sentences are my favorite. No spoilers here, so no worries.

Yes, Clarissa thinks, it’s time for the day to be over. We throw our parties; we abandon our families to live alone in Canada; we struggle to write books that do not change the world, despite our gifts and our unstinting efforts, our most extravagant hopes. We live our lives, do whatever we do, and then we sleep-it’s as simple and ordinary as that. A few jump out of windows or drown themselves or take pills; more die by accident; and most of us, the vast majority, are slowly devoured by some disease or, if we’re very fortunate, by time itself. There’s just this for consolation: an hour here or there when our lives seem, against all odds and expectations, to burst open and give us everything we’ve ever imagined, though everyone but children (and perhaps even they) knows these hours will inevitably be followed by others, far darker and more difficult. Still, we cherish the city, the morning; we hope, more than anything, for more.

Heaven only knows why we love it so.
Previous post Next post
Up