a strange combination of lust and innocence
I have to be honest: I’m not much enjoying my experience reading Michael Cunningham’s The Hours.
If I weren’t reading it in conjunction with Mrs. Dalloway, perhaps I would have a different opinion. Despite the fact that in class we agreed that Cunningham expects his readers to have prior knowledge of both Virginia Woolf and her novel, as The Hours is a celebration of both, I think that I could easily have read this as a stand-alone novel. I imagine I would have appreciated the plots and characters just as much (if not more) as I do at this point. It’s a high-quality piece of literature; it offers complex, real characters, thoughts on identity, and some daring social commentary.
But reading Mrs. Dalloway felt like a reason to be alive. The incredible fullness in the way the words flowed together, the depth of thought — I connected so much with the text and felt simultaneously awed and captivated every time I picked it up. The Hours seems like a pale, empty shadow in comparison (a well-written shadow, but a shadow nonetheless). It’s not entirely the fault of the novel: the inherent problem with reading any piece and its inspiration side by side is that the stark comparison the reader is forced to make only highlights the disparities between the two.
Who knows. Maybe this summer, after I have some time and distance on my side, I’ll pick The Hours up again and have an entirely different experience. Or maybe it’s just getting started, and I’ll enjoy it more as it picks up speed. However, I’m stubbornly not quite ready to let go of Mrs. Dalloway at this moment in my life.
