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The Hours by Michael Cunningham
Book Summary InformationAuthor: Michael Cunningham Edition: Paperback Audio: English (Unknown); English (Original Language); English (Published) Published: 2002-11-01 ISBN: 0312305060 Number of pages: 240 Publisher: Picador
Book Reviews of The HoursBook Review: All in a Day Summary: 5 Stars
I am the last person I know to have read THE HOURS. I admit I delayed for mostly wrong reasons, put off by the success of the popular movie, and then by hearing that is was a reworking of one of my favorite books, MRS. DALLOWAY by Virginia Woolf. I still haven't seen the movie, but within the first few chapters of the book, I realized that this was far from being a mere spin-off. Michael Cunningham seems virtually to channel Virginia Woolf, not only capturing her style and sensibility, but revisiting her deepest concerns to show their relevance to the setting and mores of our own day.
I cannot imagine how it would be to come to THE HOURS without having read MRS. DALLOWAY first. The distinctive structure of that book -- an hour-by-hour account of a single day in the life of a woman as she prepares to give a party in the evening -- is copied in each of the three interleaved stories that make up Cunningham's novel: Virginia Woolf herself, living near London in 1923, beginning work on MRS. DALLOWAY; Laura Brown, a young wife and mother in 1949 Los Angeles, preparing for her husband's birthday dinner, reading the Woolf novel, and beginning to question her life; and Clarissa Vaughan, in New York City at the end of the century, preparing for a party in honor of an old friend who once nicknamed her "Mrs. Dalloway." The three stories move forward together, hour by hour, paralleling the progress of the book, and linked to one another by a series of references (such as the yellow roses that crop up in all three stories) that give a little lift of recognition each time they occur. But there is nothing systematic about this; the action seems natural, not preordained. When Virginia thinks about the novel, for example, she at first plans something rather different from the book she finally wrote; we see her ideas for the book changing over the course of the day, in response to her emotional reactions to its small events. So when even the model is fluid, the stories that are patterned after it can be fluid too.
And then there is the style. When writing about Virginia or Laura, Cunningham uses a straightforward modern style, but he writes of Clarissa uncannily like Woolf might have done, had she been living in New York in the nineteen-nineties. For example, as she sets out: "The vestibule door opens onto a June morning so fine and scrubbed Clarissa pauses at the threshold as she would at the edge of a pool, watching the turquoise water lapping at the tiles, the liquid nets of sun wavering in the blue depths." A little overwrought, perhaps? But read on: "New York in its racket and stern brown decrepitude, its bottomless decline, always produces a few summer mornings like this." That is New York all right, not a translated Bloomsbury. It is quite amazing how beautifully Cunningham balances the reflective mental imagery that is the hallmark of Woolf's style with a practical sense of urban life as it is lived today, with its share of street people, oddballs, AIDS, and four-letter words.
Yet structure and style alone do not make a novel; Cunningham uses his three stories (which ultimately interconnect, though in a slightly artificial way) to develop themes that are also central in Woolf's own work. Most obviously, there is the role of women. All three, at some point in the day, question what they are doing, and attempt small escapes that may be harbingers of something larger. This is clearest in the story of Laura Brown, who apparently lives the American dream, so her growing unease raises questions by coming from left field. Virginia's end by suicide is prefigured in a prologue, and Clarissa, by contrast, seems already to have made her break for independence, living openly as a lesbian and having a child by a donor. Woolf touched lightly on gay themes in MRS. DALLOWAY and elsewhere, but Cunningham develops these a lot more explicitly, enabling him to examine many more shades of the sexual spectrum than his model, but always honestly and often with a touch to stop the heart.
But the quality that Cunningham captures best, I think, is the very essence of MRS. DALLOWAY: the sense of looking back at the past from middle age. The third Clarissa chapter (pages 89-98 in the paperback) is a perfect distillation of the bittersweet scent of past loss intruding on present contentment. Perhaps if I put together a few sentences from the end of that chapter, I can have Michael Cunningham say it better than I can: "She could, she thinks, have entered another world. She could have had a life as pleasant and dangerous as literature itself. Or then again maybe not, Clarissa tells herself. Venture too far for love, and you renounce citizenship in the country you've made for yourself. You end up just sailing from port to port. Still, there is this sense of missed opportunity. Maybe there is nothing, ever, that can equal the recollection of having been young together. Maybe it's as simple as that." And then the very last lines of the chapter: "There is still that singular perfection, and it's perfect in part because it seemed, at the time, so clearly to promise more. Now she knows: that was the moment, right then. There has been no other." But Clarissa, nonetheless, is content.
Summary of The HoursThe Pulitzer Prize-winning novel becomes a motion picture starring Meryl Streep, Julianne Moore, and Nicole Kidman, directed by Stephen Daldry from a screenplay by David Hare
The Hours tells the story of three women: Virginia Woolf, beginning to write Mrs. Dalloway as she recuperates in a London suburb with her husband in 1923; Clarissa Vaughan, beloved friend of an acclaimed poet dying from AIDS, who in modern-day New York is planning a party in his honor; and Laura Brown, in a 1949 Los Angeles suburb, who slowly begins to feel the constraints of a perfect family and home. By the end of the novel, these three stories intertwine in remarkable ways, and finally come together in an act of subtle and haunting grace. The Hours is the winner of the 1999 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction. The Hours is both an homage to Virginia Woolf and very much its own creature. Even as Michael Cunningham brings his literary idol back to life, he intertwines her story with those of two more contemporary women. One gray suburban London morning in 1923, Woolf awakens from a dream that will soon lead to Mrs. Dalloway. In the present, on a beautiful June day in Greenwich Village, 52-year-old Clarissa Vaughan is planning a party for her oldest love, a poet dying of AIDS. And in Los Angeles in 1949, Laura Brown, pregnant and unsettled, does her best to prepare for her husband's birthday, but can't seem to stop reading Woolf. These women's lives are linked both by the 1925 novel and by the few precious moments of possibility each keeps returning to. Clarissa is to eventually realize: 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.... Still, we cherish the city, the morning; we hope, more than anything, for more. As Cunningham moves between the three women, his transitions are seamless. One early chapter ends with Woolf picking up her pen and composing her first sentence, "Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself." The next begins with Laura rejoicing over that line and the fictional universe she is about to enter. Clarissa's day, on the other hand, is a mirror of Mrs. Dalloway's--with, however, an appropriate degree of modern beveling as Cunningham updates and elaborates his source of inspiration. Clarissa knows that her desire to give her friend the perfect party may seem trivial to many. Yet it seems better to her than shutting down in the face of disaster and despair. Like its literary inspiration, The Hours is a hymn to consciousness and the beauties and losses it perceives. It is also a reminder that, as Cunningham again and again makes us realize, art belongs to far more than just "the world of objects." --Kerry Fried
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