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3.94 AVERAGE
3.94 AVERAGE
interesting yet irritating. falls into sentimentalism at times. has moments of exceptional prose, and then suddenly it's a bit purply. i think i enjoyed the film more; the philip glass soundtrack is so lovely, and nicole kidman very convincing.
mrs. dalloway is a tough act to follow, but of course it's 10 times the novel that this is.
one more thing: i LOATHE movie-cover bookbinding. ugh.
mrs. dalloway is a tough act to follow, but of course it's 10 times the novel that this is.
one more thing: i LOATHE movie-cover bookbinding. ugh.
challenging
emotional
reflective
sad
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
A mix
Strong character development:
No
Loveable characters:
Complicated
Diverse cast of characters:
Complicated
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
I wasn’t really sure what to expect when I picked this book up. While I’m glad I went in with no expectations, I do wish I had had a little more of an idea about the story. Weaving three stories into one is never easy and I do appreciate what the author did here. The characters were flawed, oh yes, and they never really did learn from their mistakes, but as the entire book takes place over a singular day, how would they? I gave it a 3 star rating because towards the end it did become a little more palatable, but up until approx page 185, it was a sold 2 star for me.
Content Warnings
Graphic: Homophobia, Mental illness, Suicidal thoughts, Suicide, Suicide attempt, Schizophrenia/Psychosis
First reaction when I started reading this book: "This is a bit over-written, isn't it". Second reaction: I think it might just be that I have read so much literary fiction (probably inspired by this type of book, whose style was probably fresh in the late 90s, when it was published) that features this same writing-style that I just can't be moved by it anymore. Third reaction: You know what this reminds me of, those writing exercises where you are asked to imitate the writing style of some better author so you can get a feel for how it's done and what works best for you.
It's weird to have these many neutral veering to negative reactions when you start reading a book and yet get to the other side loving it. How I feel about books seems to be more than a sum of my individual reactions throughout the reading experience. This was lovely really and I think it helped that I decided to just sit down and finish it in a few hours, definitely not the type of book you want to read in bits and pieces. A bit like most of Woolf's books herself, immersing yourself in the writing and in the story is the best way to feel it.
This might be a by-product of my tendency to focus on the language itself, or to be swept in the story without questioning the author all that much, but I might be the most unobservant reader ever. When the last chapter came around and I figured out the relationship between Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Dalloway, I was so shocked.
All in all, I lovely reading experience. Side not, but thank you to Michael Cunningham for being living proof that it is indeed possible to write multiple fleshed-out, realistic female characters even as a man. Makes me feel better to tearing down those authors that seem incapable or, better, unwilling to do so (because they won't pick up a book written by a woman).
It's weird to have these many neutral veering to negative reactions when you start reading a book and yet get to the other side loving it. How I feel about books seems to be more than a sum of my individual reactions throughout the reading experience. This was lovely really and I think it helped that I decided to just sit down and finish it in a few hours, definitely not the type of book you want to read in bits and pieces. A bit like most of Woolf's books herself, immersing yourself in the writing and in the story is the best way to feel it.
This might be a by-product of my tendency to focus on the language itself, or to be swept in the story without questioning the author all that much, but I might be the most unobservant reader ever. When the last chapter came around and I figured out the relationship between Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Dalloway, I was so shocked.
All in all, I lovely reading experience. Side not, but thank you to Michael Cunningham for being living proof that it is indeed possible to write multiple fleshed-out, realistic female characters even as a man. Makes me feel better to tearing down those authors that seem incapable or, better, unwilling to do so (because they won't pick up a book written by a woman).
The writing in this was beautiful, and I was glad to read it to expand my awareness of Virginia Wolff. I couldn’t quite decide what the author’s overall focus was, though - whether it was general dissatisfaction among the characters, or more of a feminist angle on how sniffling life could be for women in earlier eras.
J'ai vraiment beaucoup aimé ce livre. Si je dis que l'écriture y est charmante, est-ce que ça lui ôte une part de sérieux, est-ce que ça dissimule la portée doucement tragique du projet? Peu importe. Cunningham a une façon très jolie de rythmer ses phrases. C'est délicieux & c'est charmant.
Le roman suit trois femmes, à trois époques différentes, le temps d'une seule journée : Virginia Woolf, qui panse ses blessures intérieures en banlieue de Londres, en 1941 ; Laura Brown, femme au foyer qui entreprend, un matin de 1949, en banlieue de Los Angeles, la lecture de Mrs Dalloway ; et Clarissa Vaughan, qui achète des fleurs dans le West Village new-yorkais, en préparation pour la fête qu'elle donne en l'honneur d'un vieil ami, un écrivain qui la surnomme Mrs Dalloway.
C'est intéressant de voir comment les récits se répondent & se rejoignent, mais c'est encore plus intéressant de voguer d'une phrase à une autre, de se laisse prendre par le langage & de couler avec lui.
Aucune idée comment on a réussi à faire un film qui se tient avec ce livre, mais ça m'a donné envie de passer l'été à lire tout Virginia Woolf.
Le roman suit trois femmes, à trois époques différentes, le temps d'une seule journée : Virginia Woolf, qui panse ses blessures intérieures en banlieue de Londres, en 1941 ; Laura Brown, femme au foyer qui entreprend, un matin de 1949, en banlieue de Los Angeles, la lecture de Mrs Dalloway ; et Clarissa Vaughan, qui achète des fleurs dans le West Village new-yorkais, en préparation pour la fête qu'elle donne en l'honneur d'un vieil ami, un écrivain qui la surnomme Mrs Dalloway.
C'est intéressant de voir comment les récits se répondent & se rejoignent, mais c'est encore plus intéressant de voguer d'une phrase à une autre, de se laisse prendre par le langage & de couler avec lui.
Aucune idée comment on a réussi à faire un film qui se tient avec ce livre, mais ça m'a donné envie de passer l'été à lire tout Virginia Woolf.
the prologue was good, and I enjoyed the chapters on mrs brown and mrs woolf. the middle felt draggy, unnecessarily draggy. the ending came as a little surprise but the ending remarks about laura brown felt…wrong.
throughout the whole novel, I thought the author wanted to protect virginia woolf’s decision on to live or to leave.
however as i approached the end, laura brown’s struggle with her guilt & responsibilities got brushed over. she was reduced to a “melancholic wife who didn’t appreciate what she had and was emotionally neglecting her son and wanted to drag her unborn child to death too”. her suicide attempt then traumatized her son to write about it in his work, and then eventually do the same.
i guess what made me uncomfortable was the sentiment that suicide is selfish. laura brown’s tragic ending, having to overlive everyone around her, seems almost like a “punishment”.
what i wanted to read from this: across time and space, suffering is our existence and death can be so close to us, it is within our reach if we turn to it or stretch out our hands. and sometimes an individual, when plagued with the constant presence of pain, leans just a little forward towards death, and their life will come to its end. it’s like septimus’s leap from the window, it’s a moment that you cannot logically explain. it’s an outburst of everything one bears. yet people with suicidal intentions can also be some of the most passionate and optimistic spirits. the two are not exclusionary. they are not selfish people who are obsessed with their melancholy.
what i got from this book instead: people with suicidal thoughts want to flee from their obligations and the people who have given them so much love. sometimes they will be punished by failed attempts (laura brown).
idk but it’s 6am i have just finished this book and i am: disappointed
throughout the whole novel, I thought the author wanted to protect virginia woolf’s decision on to live or to leave.
however as i approached the end, laura brown’s struggle with her guilt & responsibilities got brushed over. she was reduced to a “melancholic wife who didn’t appreciate what she had and was emotionally neglecting her son and wanted to drag her unborn child to death too”. her suicide attempt then traumatized her son to write about it in his work, and then eventually do the same.
i guess what made me uncomfortable was the sentiment that suicide is selfish. laura brown’s tragic ending, having to overlive everyone around her, seems almost like a “punishment”.
what i wanted to read from this: across time and space, suffering is our existence and death can be so close to us, it is within our reach if we turn to it or stretch out our hands. and sometimes an individual, when plagued with the constant presence of pain, leans just a little forward towards death, and their life will come to its end. it’s like septimus’s leap from the window, it’s a moment that you cannot logically explain. it’s an outburst of everything one bears. yet people with suicidal intentions can also be some of the most passionate and optimistic spirits. the two are not exclusionary. they are not selfish people who are obsessed with their melancholy.
what i got from this book instead: people with suicidal thoughts want to flee from their obligations and the people who have given them so much love. sometimes they will be punished by failed attempts (laura brown).
idk but it’s 6am i have just finished this book and i am: disappointed
Really, a Pulitzer Prize? Really? Must have been a slow year. Granted, I've never read Virginia Woolf, but come on! I can some up the book in three sentences: Depression is a killer. Depression set by losing one's mind is even worse. Latent homosexuality, AIDS, and a hereditary predisposition of depression, well there's only one way out of that. Yay, Virginia! You've opened the door for all of us! Or should I say: you've shown us where the deep end of the stream is.
So what if she bought the flowers herself?
So what if she bought the flowers herself?
I started to read this book back in 2000 or 2001 while I was in the middle of two book reports for school and reading a few other books on the side (I miss having that sort of concentration!). I had put this one down because I just couldn't get into it. Last month I was going through boxes of books to find a specific one and I came across this one again so I figured that I'd give it another go, almost 10 years later. It's still a pretty big N-O. Whereas it is written fairly well, it's just fucking boring.
I couldn't get into this one. I tried for about 40 pages, but was completely uninterested by the characters and writing style.
I can clearly perceive the objections to Cunningham's homage, and I'm not certain it should work for me either—but the simple fact remains that it somehow always does. Other than the work of Woolf herself, I've only encountered several other texts that manage to move me so completely and consistently on an emotional level—reading tends to be primarily an activity of cerebral/analytical pleasure for me— which is probably the reason why I've found myself instinctually returning to it during real-life moments of sadness, trauma, pain (and yes, this latest rereading was compelled by such circumstances).
Reading through some of the objections logged in the reviews on this site, it seems many (most?) revolve around either the representation of Woolf herself and/or discomfort over the appropriation of her style and achievements; I personally don't share either concern. I see it as a kind of an admirable feat of what I'd tentatively call "soft postmodernism," on one level reveling in the reflexivity and and self-referentiality of postmodern literary aesthetics (and Cunningham cleverly weaves together references far beyond [b:Mrs. Dalloway|14942|Mrs. Dalloway|Virginia Woolf|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1479336522s/14942.jpg|841320] and Woolf's biography; I wrote an undergrad thesis on how Laura Brown is a rewriting of Lily Briscoe in [b:To the Lighthouse|59716|To the Lighthouse|Virginia Woolf|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1346239665s/59716.jpg|1323448] in the same way Clarissa Vaughn recasts Clarissa Dalloway, for instance), while on another level weaving together a series of interlocking narratives approachable enough for a reader who has never heard of Woolf before, let alone read one of her novels.
As for the depiction of Woolf herself, I do agree that it places a bit too much emphasis on her death and struggle with mental illness (though think the 2002 film adaptation is much more egregious on this count), but have come to think of it as something akin to the situation of Joan Crawford with Mommie Dearest, giving her legacy a new life for our current era. I couldn't begin to say how many times in conversations over the years I've cited The Hours when a mention of Woolf as my favorite author is met with a blank stare, and I'd say 3/4 of the time that sparks recognition and allows for further conversation—allowing a starting point for my evangelistic fervor for Woolf.
As for myself, what I find most affecting is Cunningham's very supple and deft delineation of the complexity of human relationships: how emotional and physical intimacy establish whole histories that tangles us up with others in the most unexpected ways, or how just running into the most casual acquaintance can inspire a series of otherwise unanticipated reactions and revelations. I think one of the main reasons I've often turned to the novel in times of emotional duress is that it manages to pull me outside of myself and the prison of my own consciousness and remind me that everyone has their own intense and difficult-to-manage lives and experiences as well.
I guess in those moments it gives me comfort and makes me feel, well, just a little less alone.
Reading through some of the objections logged in the reviews on this site, it seems many (most?) revolve around either the representation of Woolf herself and/or discomfort over the appropriation of her style and achievements; I personally don't share either concern. I see it as a kind of an admirable feat of what I'd tentatively call "soft postmodernism," on one level reveling in the reflexivity and and self-referentiality of postmodern literary aesthetics (and Cunningham cleverly weaves together references far beyond [b:Mrs. Dalloway|14942|Mrs. Dalloway|Virginia Woolf|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1479336522s/14942.jpg|841320] and Woolf's biography; I wrote an undergrad thesis on how Laura Brown is a rewriting of Lily Briscoe in [b:To the Lighthouse|59716|To the Lighthouse|Virginia Woolf|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1346239665s/59716.jpg|1323448] in the same way Clarissa Vaughn recasts Clarissa Dalloway, for instance), while on another level weaving together a series of interlocking narratives approachable enough for a reader who has never heard of Woolf before, let alone read one of her novels.
As for the depiction of Woolf herself, I do agree that it places a bit too much emphasis on her death and struggle with mental illness (though think the 2002 film adaptation is much more egregious on this count), but have come to think of it as something akin to the situation of Joan Crawford with Mommie Dearest, giving her legacy a new life for our current era. I couldn't begin to say how many times in conversations over the years I've cited The Hours when a mention of Woolf as my favorite author is met with a blank stare, and I'd say 3/4 of the time that sparks recognition and allows for further conversation—allowing a starting point for my evangelistic fervor for Woolf.
As for myself, what I find most affecting is Cunningham's very supple and deft delineation of the complexity of human relationships: how emotional and physical intimacy establish whole histories that tangles us up with others in the most unexpected ways, or how just running into the most casual acquaintance can inspire a series of otherwise unanticipated reactions and revelations. I think one of the main reasons I've often turned to the novel in times of emotional duress is that it manages to pull me outside of myself and the prison of my own consciousness and remind me that everyone has their own intense and difficult-to-manage lives and experiences as well.
I guess in those moments it gives me comfort and makes me feel, well, just a little less alone.
"'What I wanted to do seemed simple. I wanted to create something alive and shocking enough that it could stand beside a morning in somebody's life. The most ordinary morning. Imagine, trying to do that. What foolishness.'
'It isn't in the least bit foolish.'"