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The Hours: A Novel (Picador Modern Classics Book 1) Kindle Edition
The 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.
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherFarrar, Straus and Giroux
- Publication dateJuly 31, 1998
- File size803 KB
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Editorial Reviews
Review
“An exquisitely written, kaleidoscopic work that anchors a floating postmodern world on pre-modern caissons of love, grief, and transcendent longing.” —Los Angeles Times
“Cunningham has created something original, a trio of richly interwoven tales...his most mature and masterful work.” —The Washington Post Book World
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
She hurries from the house, wearing a coat too heavy for the weather. It is 1941. Another war has begun. She has left a note for Leonard, and another for Vanessa. She walks purposefully toward the river, certain of what she'll do, but even now she is almost distracted by the sight of the downs, the church, and a scattering of sheep, incandescent, tinged with a faint hint of sulfur, grazing under a darkening sky. She pauses, watching the sheep and the sky, then walks on. The voices murmur behind her; bombers drone in the sky, though she looks for the planes and can't see them. She walks past one of the farm workers (is his name John?), a robust, small-headed man wearing a potato-colored vest, cleaning the ditch that runs through the osier bed. He looks up at her, nods, looks down again into the brown water. As she passes him on her way to the river she thinks of how successful he is, how fortunate, to be cleaning a ditch in an osier bed. She herself has failed. She is not a writer at all, really; she is merely a gifted eccentric. Patches of sky shine in puddles left over from last night's rain. Her shoes sink slightly into the soft earth. She has failed, and now the voices are back, muttering indistinctly just beyond the range of her vision, behind her, here, no, turn and they've gone somewhere else. The voices are back and the headache is approaching as surely as rain, the headache that will crush whatever is she and replace her with itself. The headache is approaching and it seems (is she or is she not conjuring them herself?) that the bombers have appeared again in the sky. She reaches the embankment, climbs over and down again to the river. There's a fisherman upriver, far away, he won't notice her, will he? She begins searching for a stone. She works quickly but methodically, as if she were following a recipe that must be obeyed scrupulously if it's to succeed at all. She selects one roughly the size and shape of a pig's skull. Even as she lifts it and forces it into one of the pockets of her coat (the fur collar tickles her neck), she can't help noticing the stone's cold chalkiness and its color, a milky brown with spots of green. She stands close to the edge of the river, which laps against the bank, filling the small irregularities in the mud with clear water that might be a different substance altogether from the yellow-brown, dappled stuff, solid-looking as a road, that extends so steadily from bank to bank. She steps forward. She does not remove her shoes. The water is cold, but not unbearably so. She pauses, standing in cold water up to her knees. She thinks of Leonard. She thinks of his hands and his beard, the deep lines around his mouth.
She thinks of Vanessa, of the children, of Vita and Ethel: So many. They have all failed, haven't they? She is suddenly, immensely sorry for them. She imagines turning around, taking the stone out of her pocket, going back to the house. She could probably return in time to destroy the notes. She could live on; she could perform that final kindness. Standing knee-deep in the moving water, she decides against it. The voices are here, the headache is coming, and if she restores herself to the care of Leonard and Vanessa they won't let her go again, will they? She decides to insist that they let her go. She wades awkwardly (the bottom is mucky) out until she is up to her waist. She glances upriver at the fisherman, who is wearing a red jacket and who does not see her. The yellow surface of the river (more yellow than brown when seen this close) murkily reflects the sky. Here, then, is the last moment of true perception, a man fishing in a red jacket and a cloudy sky reflected on opaque water. Almost involuntarily (it feels involuntary, to her) she steps or stumbles forward, and the stone pulls her in. For a moment, still, it seems like nothing; it seems like another failure; just chill water she can easily swim back out of; but then the current wraps itself around her and takes her with such sudden, muscular force it feels as if a strong man has risen from the bottom, grabbed her legs and held them to his chest. It feels personal.
More than an hour later, her husband returns from the garden. "Madame went out," the maid says, plumping a shabby pillow that releases a miniature storm of down. "She said she'd be back soon."
Leonard goes upstairs to the sitting room to listen to the news. He finds a blue envelope, addressed to him, on the table. Inside is a letter.
Dearest,
I feel certain that I am going
mad again: I feel we can't go
through another of these terrible times.
And I shant recover this time. I begin
to hear voices, and cant concentrate.
So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have
given me
the greatest possible happiness. You
have been in every way all that anyone
could be. I dont think two
people could have been happier till
this terrible disease came. I cant
fight it any longer, I know that I am
spoiling your life, that without me you
could work. And you will I know.
You see I cant even write this properly. I
cant read. What I want to say is that
I owe all the happiness of my life to you.
You have been entirely patient with me &
incredibly good. I want to say that--
everybody knows it. If anybody could
have saved me it would have been you.
Everything has gone from me but the
certainty of your goodness. I
cant go on spoiling your life any longer. I dont think two
people
could have been happier than we have been. V.
Leonard races from the room, runs downstairs. He says to the maid, "I think something has happened to Mrs. Woolf. I think she may have tried to kill herself. Which way did she go? Did you see her leave the house?"
The maid, panicked, begins to cry. Leonard rushes out and goes to the river, past the church and the sheep, past the osier bed. At the riverbank he finds no one but a man in a red jacket, fishing.
She is borne quickly along by the current. She appears to be flying, a fantastic figure, arms outstretched, hair streaming, the tail of the fur coat billowing behind. She floats, heavily, through shafts of brown, granular light. She does not travel far. Her feet (the shoes are gone) strike the bottom occasionally, and when they do they summon up a sluggish cloud of muck, filled with the black silhouettes of leaf skeletons, that stands all but stationary in the water after she has passed along out of sight. Stripes of green-black weed catch in her hair and the fur of her coat, and for a while her eyes are blindfolded by a thick swatch of weed, which finally loosens itself and floats, twisting and untwisting and twisting again.
She comes to rest, eventually, against one of the pilings of the bridge at Southease. The current presses her, worries her, but she is firmly positioned at the base of the squat, square column, with her back to the river and her face against the stone. She curls there with one arm folded against her chest and the other afloat over the rise of her hip. Some distance above her is the bright, rippled surface. The sky reflects unsteadily there, white and heavy with clouds, traversed by the black cutout shapes of rooks. Cars and trucks rumble over the bridge. A small boy, no older than three, crossing the bridge with his mother, stops at the rail, crouches, and pushes the stick he's been carrying between the slats of the railing so it will fall into the water. His mother urges him along but he insists on staying awhile, watching the stick as the current takes it.
Here they are, on a day early in the Second World War: the boy and his mother on the bridge, the stick floating over the water's surface, and Virginia's body at the river's bottom, as if she is dreaming of the surface, the stick, the boy and his mother, the sky and the rooks. An olive-drab truck rolls across the bridge, loaded with soldiers in uniform, who wave to the boy who has just thrown the stick. He waves back. He demands that his mother pick him up so he can see the soldiers better; so he will be more visible to them. All this enters the bridge, resounds through its wood and stone, and enters Virginia's body. Her face, pressed sideways to the piling, absorbs it all: the truck and the soldiers, the mother and the child.
--This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.
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Copyright 1998 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.
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Product details
- ASIN : B003XF1OK4
- Publisher : Farrar, Straus and Giroux; First edition (July 31, 1998)
- Publication date : July 31, 1998
- Language : English
- File size : 803 KB
- Text-to-Speech : Enabled
- Screen Reader : Supported
- Enhanced typesetting : Enabled
- X-Ray : Enabled
- Word Wise : Enabled
- Sticky notes : On Kindle Scribe
- Print length : 239 pages
- Best Sellers Rank: #58,778 in Kindle Store (See Top 100 in Kindle Store)
- #34 in LGBTQ+ Literary Fiction (Kindle Store)
- #82 in Contemporary American Fiction
- #446 in Contemporary Literary Fiction
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Laura Brown, a housewife at on the cusp of middle age, pregnant with her second child, tries desperately to connect to her three year old son, and struggles with depression, disillusionment of living a stereotypical female life, and suicidal ideation, mirroring the demons that afflicted Woolf herself prior to her own suicide, in 1941. Clarissa Vaughn, dubbed Mrs. Dalloway (a character from a novel written by Woolf), by her ill-fated, bi-sexual, lover, Richard Brown, who not only is similar to the tragic character Septimus Smith, in the Woolf novel, but her story mirrors Woolf’s real life bohemian lifestyle where she had an open relationship with a man who had a separate gay lover, and where Woolf herself had a same sex relationship with Vita Sachville-West. Cunningham cleverly sets the tone of the story by weaving elements of the famous author’s own life, as tragic metaphors—of Mrs. Dalloway (Vaughn) and Mrs. Laura Brown, comparing them with Woolf’s own life in 1923, as she recovers from mental illness in the suburbs with her husband while writing her novel, Mrs. Dalloway, and planning a tragedy, that foreshadows, Richard Brown’s demise, in Clarissa’s story.
The clever use of language, and stream of consciousness similar to a modernist style, and the precise, vivid, descriptive language, that paints pictures into the mind of the reader, captures Woolf’s own unique style and enhances the melancholy tone of the novel. The author uses his character descriptions, not only to set the tone of the story, but to foreshadow its tragic ending, stating:
She straightens her shoulders as she stands at the corner of
Eighth Street and Fifth Avenue, waiting for the light… She
still has a certain sexiness; a certain bohemian, good-witch sort
of charm; and yet this morning she makes a tragic sight, standing
so straight in her big shirt and exotic shoes, resisting the pull of
gravity, a female mammoth already up to its knees in the tar,
taking a rest between efforts, standing bulky and proud, almost
nonchalant, pretending to contemplate the tender grasses waiting
on the far bank when it is beginning to know for certain that it will
remain here, trapped and alone, after dark, when the jackals come
out. (Cunningham, 13).
Through Clarissa’s story, Cunningham cleverly crafts his theme into the first few pages of his novel, “she loves the world, for being rude and indestructible, and she knows other people must love it too … Why else do we struggle to go on living, no matter how compromised, no matter how harmed?” (Cunningham, 15).
Like Woolf, Cunningham is able to develop original, fresh metaphors that capture an image, and compares her madness, and debilitating headaches to a “scintillating silver-white mass … like a jellyfish.” (Cunningham, 70). Cunningham use of a cake to represent ‘disappointment’ in Laura Brown’s story is Poignant, and reminiscent of the manner Woolf takes the mundane, in Mrs. Dalloway, and makes it remarkable. It compares the cake to her ‘life as a mother and housewife.’ Laura’s ability to bake a simple birthday cake for her husband transcends her success or failure as a wife and mother. “The cake will speak of bounty and delight the way a good house speaks of comfort and safety.” (Cunningham, 76). When she begins the process, Laura is filled with anticipation of a great accomplishment, “she hopes to be as satisfied and as filled with anticipation as a writer putting down the first sentence, a builder beginning to draw the plans” (Cunningham, 77) but in the end, Laura Brown is disappointed, “[t]he cake is less than she’d hoped it would be.” The cake parallels the disillusionment she has for her life, “there’s nothing really wrong with it, but she’d imagined something more. She’d imagined it larger, more remarkable.” (Cunningham, 99). Cunningham goes even further with his metaphor. He compares the disappointments in Virginia Woolf’s life, with the failure of Brown to make a remarkable cake. “Would she rather …have her cake sneered at? Of course not … she wants to be a competent mother … a wife who sets a perfect table. She does not want … to be the strange woman, the pathetic creature, … tolerated but not loved. Virginia Woolf put a stone into the coat of her pocket, walked into a river, and drowned.” (Cunningham, 101). Further, the subtle reference to an unknown illness revealed in Brown’s story of her neighbor and (wanton lover) Kitty, is metaphoric when compared to Clarissa’s allusive love interest in her friend and former lover, Richard Brown, who is dying of aids. Additionally, Cunningham places subtle references to the influence of the sexual abuse that plagued Woolf throughout her life, into the stories of these different women, as well as her homoerotic nature. Brown, kisses her child and feels something more than motherly love stirring, Clarissa’s kiss of her daughter Julia, and Woolf’s strange kiss with her sister Vanessa, stir restlessly below the surface, like the “innocent kiss” in the kitchen that “feels like the most delicious and forbidden of pleasures.” (Cunningham, 154).
Cunningham also sets up a metaphor where Brown’s suicidal ideation, as she rents a room to read a novel (ironically by Woolf) and is directly compared with Woolf’s own ideations, “She could decide to die… She imagines Virginia Woolf, virginal, unbalanced, defeated by the impossible demands of life and art, she imagines her stepping into a river with a stone in her pocket. …it would be as simple [] [] as checking into a hotel.” (Cunningham, 152). Through it all, Cunningham manages to eke out a positive, message from a dark theme of death, disintegrating relationships and disillusionment, by comparing the hours of ‘brightness’ in each story, Brown’s joy in her son’s tender moments of love and endearment, Clarissa’s romanticism, and love of nature, and of flowers—set in a natural way, compare with Woolf’s sudden realization that life hold’s precious moments that make all of the other dismal hours seem worthwhile, “there is this hour, now, in the kitchen” with her sister Vanessa, drinking tea, “[h]ow could she bear to leave all this?” And the forbidden pleasures of a “Kiss.” (Cunningham, 154).
Like a lyrical essay, with its poetic language streaming in the reader’s imagination, Cunningham ties his story together with delicate associations, and subtle metaphorical images that mesmerize, and leave a reader with a better understanding of modern literature; so immutable, touching, squeezing, and stimulating the soul of each of us with a unique, a
But be forewarned. If you have read "Mrs. Dalloway" fairly recently and genuinely understand and appreciate what Woolf is doing, Cunningham is no Virginia Woolf--not even close. Woolf's fairly concise novel includes a send-up of Victorian morés, a lively and bristling comedy of manners, and a biting indictment of politics, religion, and the medical profession (physicians and psychiatrists), as well as love (yes, more often than not she associates the twin demons of "religion and love"), and finally a wake-up call to an entire age (the 1920s) with its anachronistic "London Victorians" leading a life of shallowness, pretense and self-deception as though their fabricated sense of the old order can protect them from the reality of the times post-World War I. In general, her continual argument in Clarissa is with pompous arrogance and irresponsible uses of power, above all those who attempt to dominate others. (The words Woolf uses to describe such hubris have to be` "worked at" to be understood: "Human Nature," "Proportion," and "Conversion" refer to the crimes against humanity and the self perpetrated by her worst villains--Dr. Holmes, Sir Bradshaw, and Miss Kilman.) All of this is missing from Cunningham's novel, none of its three stories or any combination of the three carrying any of the resonance of Woolf's London and its cross-section of modern life.
As a prose stylist, Woolf's syntax is much like Shakespeare's, Joyce's, and Faulkner's--a rippling stream, a continuing "play" of language in motion, embodying the very life that is its subject. Woolf is a musician, allowing her meanings to evolve in time, our discovery of the new contingent upon the phrases and motifs that she has already planted in the reader's consciousness. Cunningham, on the other hand, is a painter, giving the reader a much steadier and clearer picture but also more limiting and less exhilarating than anything in Woolf. Or staying with the visual metaphor, Cunningham's is a securely grounded camera providing inarguably accessible set pieces; Woolf's is a hand-held movie camera, constructing a fluid and seamless montage as it moves in and out of characters' private and public worlds and changes from one character's point of view to another's with effortless mastery (an illusion, since we know, first, that Woolf was a slow-working perfectionist and, second, that the reader must work hard, exercising great patience simply to identify Woolf's deliberatively indefinite pronouns--but the pay-off is worth it).
Finally, Cunningham paints in broad strokes that, by comparison to Woolf's multihued palette, wide field of vision, and shifting focus, can come suspiciously close to the world of soap opera. Whereas homosexuality (male and female) is but one form of human association among many in Woolf's multifarious, truly diverse unvierse, Cunningham seems to be banking on unconventional relations and gender roles to at once arouse interest and bring out the reader's best (and self-comforting) instincts (after all, one human being loving another is what matters most, doesn't it?). And isn't it generous of us to be so understanding of "hot button" issues in a world with no shortage of neo-con and other righteous, judgmental types? Perhaps he succeeds, though I can't help but feel a bit manipulated by the reduction of Woolf's representation of life and human relationships to such a singleminded emphasis, not to mention his employment of AIDS (from which two characters suffer directly, the others indirectly) as a metaphor for the universal dread of mortality that hovers over all of Woolf's characters, a death sentence of which her major characters are acutely conscious.
Cunningham's conclusion works passibly well--Clarissa generously invites to the party intended for Richard, Richard's mom, with whom she has established an at least temporary bond. And in the tradition of what some readers refer to as "women's literature," Virginia chooses death--a kind of martyrdom given her melodramatic ultimatum to Leonard that it's "London or death"'--while Mrs. Brown and Clarissa also make life-altering choices, decisions that offer some consolation to women who sacrifice happiness but not the freedom to choose and to endure.
By contrast, Woolf offers a conclusion that is about more than choosing and enduring. Clarissa is granted an epiphany in which she is able to "see" her identification with Septimus and the mistakes she's made, chief among them trading an authentic "life" worthy of her vibrant nature for a superficial notion of stability and "success." The final sentence--"And there she was"--announces a new and whole Clarissa, no longer trapped by the traditions of the past or the conventions of the present, or split into two Clarissas, regardless of the face she chooses to assemble. Although Peter's hopes are immediately realized, it is not someone else but the reborn Clarissa herself who is invited to her own party, and we as readers cannot help but respond to the self-affirming celebration of life that Clarissa represents at that moment. Virginia Woolf, by now it should go without saying, knows how to throw a party.
Top reviews from other countries
Virginia Woolf, die „Mrs Dalloway“ genannt Clarissa Vaughan und eine Mrs Brown sind die Protagonistinnen, deren Verbindung für die größte Zeit der Lektüre nur im gemeinsamen Bezug auf das Werk Virginia Woolfs zu bestehen scheint. Der Roman lehnt sich stilistisch stark an Woolfs Meisterwerk Mrs Dalloway an, und es ist beeindruckend zu sehen, wie gut Autor Michael Cunningham in den meisten Phasen die (freilich vereinfachte) Reproduktion des Gedankenstroms gelingt.
Jeweils steht nur ein Tag der Protagonistinnen Mittelpunkt, wobei die überzeugendsten (und bei weitem längsten) Passagen um die Party kreisen, die Clarissa Vaughan für den von Aids gezeichneten sterbenden Schriftsteller Richard zu geben beabsichtigt. Außenseitertum, Homosexualität und immer wieder der Tod sind die Themen, um die der Text kreist, und die Frage, wie es gelingen kann die endlosen Stunden zu füllen, die gleichzeitig doch unerbittlich abzulaufen scheinen.
Kleinere Schwächen: Anders als Mrs Dalloway bleibt The Hours sehr viel konsequenter auf das erleben seiner Protagonistinnen fixiert. Da wirken dann Momente, in denen man andere Charakteren beim Denken zuhört, eher inkonsequent. Auch die Virginia-Passagen wirken manchmal vergleichsweise hölzern. Die vielleicht größte Literatin (Literaten eingeschlossen) der Neuzeit zur Protagonistin zu erwählen ist durchaus eine Belastung, wenn auch eine, ohne die der Roman nicht denkbar wäre und das wäre schade. Genial dagegen, wie Suizid im eher unerwarteter Weise zum Thema gemacht wird und wie zum Schluss des Romans die getrennten Episoden auch physisch zusammengeführt werden (mit der erst etwas unverbunden wirkenden Mrs Brown in der Schlüsselrolle).
Ein großes Werk, das sich seiner großen Protagonistin würdig erweist.
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