WASHINGTON, D.C.—I’m back from my little vacation. But very tired. A weekend update is coming soon, but for now, a bit on Michael Cunningham’s The Hours:
I finished reading the book last weekend. It’s wonderful: three storylines each unfolding independently and then rushing towards unexpected convergence. Or rather, you know simply that the threads will come together, but the exact circumstance is surprising. The prose moves deftly, and every now and then you get a gem like this:
The woman’s head quickly withdraws, the door to the trailer closes again, but she leaves behind her an unmistakable sense of watchful remonstrance, as if an angel had briefly touched the surface of the world with one unsandaled foot, asked if there was any trouble and, being told all was well, had resumed her place in the ether with skeptical gravity, having reminded the children of earth that they are just barely trusted to manage their own business, and that further carelessness will not go unremarked.
And the author gets brownie points from me for quoting one of my favorite writers, Jorge Luis Borges, before the prologue. Can’t wait to see the movie.