Michael Cunningham

The Hours, Michael Cunningham's meditation on the life, work, and legacy of Virginia Woolf, is a book that had been on my list for a while. I can't claim it moved up that list all that much; still, it was there, and I finished it last night. 

I should say up front that the book grew on me. Not that I didn't enjoy its opening sections - because I did. But the intersecting nature of the plot (and its three major characters) comes together particularly well at the end. And it's there, I felt, that the book was most satisfying, most profound in its observation.

The Hours is deceptively simple, curiously approachable. But of course, it's not simple at all; it's complex, both in terms of its narrative structure as well as its emotional landscape. Cunningham's characters - including Woolf - confront a real sorrow; and while it's sometimes mixed with a celebration of life and its victories, that sorrow is never far from the surface, never fully locked away. 

And that, for me, was one of the most lasting qualities of the book: that balance between despair and contentedness, that search for what constitutes happiness, especially in a domestic setting. 

I did have one criticism, though, and it's the same one I've articulated in response to the work of Marilynne Robinson: namely, that Cunningham's prose are too pretty, too composed. That's a trait I've noticed in Updike, too: the sense in which the writing is simply too precious. For me, the sentences comprising The Hours aren't detailed enough; they doesn't move enough. Instead, they're ephemeral; they float. 

Perhaps that was deliberate on Cunningham's part: I can't be sure. Regardless, I think the book would have revealed more had it been written with increased movement, with with the same intensity (or at least a similar intensity) that drove Woolf to create. 

As I say, I salute Cunningham for his achievement - because there's a quality to his work that's transcendent. That's a rare thing and is to be celebrated. But like Robinson, I find the writing here too delicate: I wish there were more.