I adore Michael Cunningham's The Hours. He writes in the female perspective in such a relatable way, it seems more honest a job than I could ever do as a woman myself. The Hours makes ordinary thoughts so tragic with an irresistibly everyday beauty. His voice was so effortlessly intimate that it felt like it was always me only, alone with and quietly guarding each character, sharing a profoundly close yet unnoticed (by them) interaction with them.
Not only does it stand by itself in its charm, but this book made me appreciate Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway in a way that I couldn't achieve on my own. That's skill, if I may. Cunningham seamlessly weaves plot points and themes from one narrative to the next, while echoing pages from Woolf's own novel, jarring personal memories of familiar yet distant pages. It causes a strange effort to interact with the story, activating personal uncertainties and deja vu, scanning your own mind for real or invented memories. On top of all that, Cunningham's ability to blend fact and fiction into one beautiful concoction wins trust somehow, inviting one to stay awhile and let go, soak it all in and steep in it.
Who hasn't at one time felt the desperation that Virginia, Clarissa, and Laura have felt? There is comfort in knowing that one is rather ordinary, after all.
I will most definitely be watching the film this weekend to keep my love affair for this one going.
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