An hour here or there
« We throw our parties; […] we struggle to write books that do not change the world, despite our fights and our unstinting efforts, our most extravagant hopes. We live our lives, do whatever we do, and then we sleep – it’s as simple and ordinary as that. A few jump out of windows or drown themselves or take pills; more die by accident; and most of us, the vast majority, are slowly devoured by some disease or, if we’re very fortunate, by time itself. 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 but children (and perhaps even they) 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.
Heaven only knows why we love it so. »
From The Hours, by Michael Cunningham. I’m still full of that just-finished-reading-a-great-book feeling, and I am copying some of the text here not only to make the feeling last but because I believe in the redeeming value of « these hours ».
I am impressed by this take on Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway, and I haven’t even seen the movie yet. More on this complex adaptation process later…
