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A review by jiibii
The Hours by Michael Cunningham
challenging
dark
emotional
reflective
sad
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
5.0
"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, though (...) everyone knows these hours will inevitably be followed by others, far darker and more difficult.
Still, we cherish the city, the morning;
we hope, more than anything,
for more."
This book re-arranged me like outdated furniture.
It made me think a lot of things. It made me spiral completely out of orbit, from my own to the book’s, from the book’s to my own, and I think any work of fiction that makes you reflect so deeply on your life is worthy of merit.
It made me (further) ponder on the extent to which I (we) fall in love with those I do because I yearn to see a part of myself - either real or ideal - in the other? Do I tend to seek out people who will simulate externally the conversations I have internally? It managed to solidify and expand the belief I have that other people will always carry strong ideas of how you should be treading this earth, and how soul-stifling these expectations can become. Is it the case that I (we), tend to validate those other moral ideals over the ones that originate inwards, exactly because they’re external? These characters portray with a staggering accuracy, a disarming simplicity, the struggle that is having to swim against that current, to battle against the Expectation of Who You Should Be. That was one of the pearls in this oyster, the relation between what is inside of us and what is outside of us and how they perpetually inform and repulse each other, ouroboros-esque - how they dictate what we are attracted to and by, the fragments of our selves we need to make known by touching another whose edges complement our own…
The one thing that played the pitch-perfect transcendental chord on my heartstrings was the tone of both homage to and warning against simple domesticity. We see it in the undertones of all three of these tales, and we see it in the overarching story it is trying to tell. It isn’t anything new, but I had never seen its many facets captured so humbly and so earnestly, and in a way that so vividly mimics my own way of thinking. The lamentations of Mrs. Brown over the artistic constraints presented by the making of a home (which is also the validation some crave that homemaking can be seen as an art); Virginia’s desperate clawing at the situation her head recognises as necessarily remedial but her heart screams is ultimately smothering; Clarissa’s fierce defensiveness of her domestic lifestyle when presented with Mary’s radical views (prompting an immediate inner explanation as to why it is equally worthy)… they’re all fascinating in and of themselves, but to be presented with these characters’ inner monologue so as to know that they feel at times the complete opposite was a refreshing portrayal of the human spirit. It blankets the entire narrative and my breath was caught at having this shard of my self so clearly looking back at me.
This book was such a beautifully singular reading experience… I don’t think I could ever try to capture all of my thoughts with just the one reading.
Still, we cherish the city, the morning;
we hope, more than anything,
for more."
This book re-arranged me like outdated furniture.
It made me think a lot of things. It made me spiral completely out of orbit, from my own to the book’s, from the book’s to my own, and I think any work of fiction that makes you reflect so deeply on your life is worthy of merit.
It made me (further) ponder on the extent to which I (we) fall in love with those I do because I yearn to see a part of myself - either real or ideal - in the other? Do I tend to seek out people who will simulate externally the conversations I have internally? It managed to solidify and expand the belief I have that other people will always carry strong ideas of how you should be treading this earth, and how soul-stifling these expectations can become. Is it the case that I (we), tend to validate those other moral ideals over the ones that originate inwards, exactly because they’re external? These characters portray with a staggering accuracy, a disarming simplicity, the struggle that is having to swim against that current, to battle against the Expectation of Who You Should Be. That was one of the pearls in this oyster, the relation between what is inside of us and what is outside of us and how they perpetually inform and repulse each other, ouroboros-esque - how they dictate what we are attracted to and by, the fragments of our selves we need to make known by touching another whose edges complement our own…
The one thing that played the pitch-perfect transcendental chord on my heartstrings was the tone of both homage to and warning against simple domesticity. We see it in the undertones of all three of these tales, and we see it in the overarching story it is trying to tell. It isn’t anything new, but I had never seen its many facets captured so humbly and so earnestly, and in a way that so vividly mimics my own way of thinking. The lamentations of Mrs. Brown over the artistic constraints presented by the making of a home (which is also the validation some crave that homemaking can be seen as an art); Virginia’s desperate clawing at the situation her head recognises as necessarily remedial but her heart screams is ultimately smothering; Clarissa’s fierce defensiveness of her domestic lifestyle when presented with Mary’s radical views (prompting an immediate inner explanation as to why it is equally worthy)… they’re all fascinating in and of themselves, but to be presented with these characters’ inner monologue so as to know that they feel at times the complete opposite was a refreshing portrayal of the human spirit. It blankets the entire narrative and my breath was caught at having this shard of my self so clearly looking back at me.
This book was such a beautifully singular reading experience… I don’t think I could ever try to capture all of my thoughts with just the one reading.
Content Warnings
Graphic: Suicidal thoughts