”We throw our parties; we struggle to write books that do not change the world, despite our gifts 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’ve very fortunate, by time itself.”It’s about the hours right? Those few precious hours over a lifetime when we feel we have a chance to do something special, to prove that we can do something that will forever immortalize us as someone exceptional. It was Charlotte who pressed this book upon me. We were at a party conducted by a Mrs. Clarissa Galloway. “I hear you are on a reading binge.” She’d leaned in close, as she had a tendency to do with me. Her lips mere millimeters away from my ear. It made me shiver somewhere in the core of me.When I was between assignments, which was all too frequent, I would read book after book; usually I would be in the middle of at least three at any one time. I was getting about four hours of sleep a night which right now was making me a cheap drunk. One martini was going to be more than enough. “The Hours by Michael Cunningham, didn’t they make a film out of it with Kidman?”She nodded. She leaned in close again. I often wondered if she knew what she did to me. “The book won a Pulitzer Prize. Catherine told me you just finished reading Mrs. Dalloway. This is a terrific follow-up.“ The sisters. You couldn’t really be involved with one without being involved with the other. Catherine, my girlfriend, was writing a novel. It was brilliant in fact, but now was somewhat weighed down with its own brilliance. She was happy with the beginning and the ending, but the middle was not living up to the standards of the rest. Charlotte designed book covers for publishing companies. She had a gift for it, but frequently had to endure someone further up the chain asking for modifications, her masterpieces often becoming something more commercially appealing and soulless. When I was doing research on Virginia Woolf, before reading Mrs. Dalloway, I couldn’t help thinking of Catherine as Virginia and Charlotte as Vanessa. ”Vanessa laughs. Vanessa is firm of face, her skin a brilliant, scalded pink. Although she is three years older, she looks younger than Virginia, and both of them know it. If Virginia has the austere, parched beauty of a Giotto fresco, Vanessa is more like a figure sculpted in rosy marble by a skilled but minor artist of the late Baroque. She is distinctly earthly and even decorative figure, all billows and scrolls….”As usual, I wasn’t really sure why I was at this party. I thought with remorse of the lost pages of reading the party had already cost me. I could see the books strategically scattered around the room of the flat. A book by each of my favorite reading places. This party was bad for me, and if it was not good for me, it had to be an absolute torture for Catherine. I looked past Charlotte’s large, attentive eyes and could see that Catherine was pale. Her complexion was always pale, but there were various shades of pale that would tell me exactly what was going on with her. She closed her eyes and took too long to open them. I could tell it was time to go. I leaned in and kissed Charlotte’s ear, raising the stakes, and then muttered in the sea shell of her ear that I was going to take Catherine home. Charlotte always smelled so good, but I was never able to quite identify the scent, something old, something new. Somehow it would be breaking the rules of the game to ask her. I walked over to Catherine and put my arm around her and kissed her on the side of her mouth. She looked at me with surprise. I could see the slender flutes of her nose flutter as she took me in. Could it be that she could sense her sister’s scent even among the mingling fragrances of flowers that filled Mrs. Galloway’s party? She put her slender, fluted fingers on my shoulder. “I can feel one coming on.” “I’m here to take you home.””She can feel the headache creeping up the back of her neck. She stiffens. No, it’s the memory of the headache, it’s her fear of the headache, both of them so vivid as to be at least briefly indistinguishable from the onset of the headache itself.”I went to see Robert the next day. I’d read most of The Hours last night. Charlotte had been right. It was the perfect followup to Mrs. Dalloway. Robert had been my friend almost my entire life or at least for the segment of my life that I still wished to claim. He’d had a good career on the stage, had mother issues of course, and had always been unapologetically gay. The young nurse from Hospice was taking a vial of blood from him when I arrived. There was something so intimate about blood letting. I averted my eyes as if I’d just caught her furtively giving him a hand job. “I’m so weak. This is it, my friend.” His voice, the voice that had boomed out to theaters full of people, had been reduced to a whisper. I patted his hand. He weakly grasped it. I left my fingers there surrounded by the parchment of his hand. “You’ve rallied before.” I’d meant to put exuberance into that sentence, but somehow it all went wrong. My voice cracked and tears sprang to my eyes. “Oh, come on now. Tears now? You should have wept with joy when I looked like a young Marlon Brando. Not now, not over this decrepit body. If you were a true friend, you’d pick me up and hurl me out that window.” I thought of Septimus from Mrs. Dalloway and Richard from The Hours. It was almost too much. “Don’t say that.” My voice was still shaking. I freed my hand from his grasp to wipe my eyes. When I put my hand back on the bed, his hand was gone. “Do you think six floors would be enough to kill me? God, what a tragedy if it only breaks my bones, and leaves me somehow alive with fresh sources of pain. I was thinking about it the other day. I wouldn’t want to fall on the concrete. I want to land on a car. I want to explode through the top like they show in the movies. You own a car, don’t you? Couldn’t you park it beneath my window?”“You are hurting me, Robert.”He sighed. Closing those magnificent blue eyes that had mesmerized women and men in equal numbers, “That is the last thing that I want to do to you, my friend.” When I got back to the flat, they must not have heard me. Catherine was leaning over Charlotte. ”Virginia leaned forward and kisses Vanessa on the mouth. It is an innocent kiss, innocent enough, but just now,...it feels like the most delicious and forbidden of pleasures. Vanessa returns the kiss.” I wanted to wrap my arms around both of them and nudge them across the room to the bed. I wondered if Leonard Woolf had ever had such desires? They might have willingly went, but then what? By trying to hold them closer, I’d only lose them both. I cleared my throat and hung up my jacket. When I turned around, they were both looking at me with clear, intelligent eyes. Two sisters, so different, but so much alike as to be indistinguishable when standing in the same space. It was hard not to think about the big stone. ”She selects one roughly the size and shape of a pig’s skull. The one that took her down to the depths of the river. The one that would not let her escape the embrace of the water even if her natural desire for self-preservation had kicked in. The stone was too real to be denied. Catherine had read Mrs. Dalloway and was now reading The Hours. She had needed a break from her own writing anyway. Reading sometimes gave her a fresh source of inspiration. I wasn’t sure about her reading either book, but both together could enhance her already acute suicidal tendencies. I’d seen her more than once raking a butter knife across her wrists as if testing how it would feel. I’d had the gas oven taken out and replaced it with an electric one. I read her diary. She wasn’t particularly careful with it. She left it out all the time, rarely tucking it back under the mattress on our bed. I don’t know if she trusted me not to read it or she, being a writer, always wanted an audience for her writing. ”Everything she sees feels as if it’s pinned to the day the way etherized butterflies are pinned to the board.” She was obviously feeling trapped. Like Leonard Woolf decided to do with Virginia, I arranged to take Catherine to the country for a month. She was being overstimulated in the city. Robert threw himself out the window. He asked the nurse to open the window to give him some air. The stubborn bastard crawled across the floor, pulled himself up the wall, and threw himself out the window. Though he would have preferred a Rolls Royce, he landed on a Mercedes.Six floors, as it turned out, was enough. Two days after we reached the country Catherine disappeared. As I walked the river, along with every other able body in the county, I kept thinking about a stone the size of a pig’s skull. If you wish to see more of my most recent book and movie reviews, visit http://www.jeffreykeeten.comI also have a Facebook blogger page at:https://www.facebook.com/JeffreyKeeten
چند نفر از پنجره بیرون میپرند، یا خود را غرق میکنند، یا قرص میخورند؛ عدهی بیشتری بر اثر تصادف میمیرند؛ و اکثریت ما را رفته رفته یکی از دهها بیماری، یا اگر بخت یاری کند، خود زمان میبلعد. فقط این تسلای خاطر ناچیز هست: (ساعتی) اینجا و آنجا که زندگی ما ظاهراً، به رغم همهی غرابتها و آرزوها، به رویمان آغوش میگشاید و هر آنچه را که تصور کردهایم به ما میدهد، هر چند همه، جز کودکان ـ و شاید آنها نیز ـ میدانند که به ناگزیر (ساعات) دیگری در پی این (ساعات) است، (ساعاتی) تاریکتر و پیچیدهتر. با این حال شهر را و صبح را گرامی میداریم؛ و بیش از هر چیز به سهم بیشتر امیدواریم. تنها خدا میداند چرا این همه عاشق (ساعاتیم). صفحه 236*****هر چند خوش نمیدارم دربارهی داستان کتابها بنویسم؛ اما چون دیدم از کاربران فارسی این سایت، حتی کلمهای دربارهی این کتاب خوب ننوشتهاند، به اجمال چند خطی در پی میآید: داستان کتاب (ساعتها) برگرفته شده از کتاب (خانم دالوی) نوشتهی (ویرجینیا وولف) فقید است. داستان دربارهی سه زن، در سه زمان و مکان متفاوت که هر یک علیرغم این تفاوت زمانها، بر هم تأثیر میگذارندویرجینیا وولف در ریچموند انگلستان، سال 1923لورا براون در سن فرانسیسکو، سال 1949و در پایان، کلاریسا وون در نیویورک، سال 1998رمان (ساعتها) که در عنوان اصلیاش بهتر و عمیقتر نمایانگر جانمایهی کتاب استThe Hoursنشان از معرفه و خاص بودن (ساعتها)ییست که پی در پی و پشت سر هم میآیند و در آخر وقتی نگاه میکنی میبینی این (ساعتها) را یا بیهوده به سر بردهای و تمام تلاشت را در پی ویران کردن خود کردهایپیش از این دربارهی کتاب (آینههای در دار) از قول (ابراهیم) نقل قول کرده بودم که وقتی به سالهای میانی زندگی خود رسیده است و بسیار کتاب نوشته و کلی تأثیر در پیرامون خود گذاشته است، میگوید: وقتی بشینی و مثل بچهی آدم و بدون جانبداری و تعصب به زندگیت نگاه کنی، میبینی کلش رو باختیو متأسفانه این جملهی صحیحی است و ظاهراً انسان ساخته و آفریده شده برای اینکه ببازد. در این میان ـ تنها معدود ـ و باز هم تکرار میکنم ـ تنها معدود ـ انسانهایی هستند که میدانند برای هستی و دل خود چه میخواهند و آنقدر شهامتش را دارند که بهایش را نیز پرداخت کنند*****ریچارد: تو با من خوب تا کردی خانم دالوویکلاریسا: ریچاردریچارد: دوستت دارم. این حرف کلیشهای است؟کلاریسا: نهریچارد لبخند میزند. سر تکان میدهد. میگوید: فکر نمیکنم هیچ زوجی پیدا شوند که به اندازهی ما سعادتمند بوده باشندکمی جا به جا میشود و به نرمی از قاب پنجره میلغزد و میافتدصفحهی 210
What do You think about The Hours (2002)?
Un'opera letteraria può essere pensata, scritta, letta, amata e addirittura vissuta. E può divenire, travalicando i confini dello spazio e del tempo, una sorta di collegamento tra persone molto dissimili tra loro, eppure unite da analoghe sensazioni ed emozioni. È quanto attesta questo bellissimo romanzo che, a partire dal titolo, costituisce un tributo al capolavoro di Virginia Woolf, "Mrs. Dalloway" - originariamente destinato nelle intenzioni dell'autrice ad avere come titolo proprio "The Hours"- del quale riprende le situazioni, lo stile e le tematiche, proiettandoli come in un gioco di specchi nelle esistenze di tre donne vissute in epoche diverse: la stessa Virginia Woolf negli anni '20, periodo in cui sta progettando "Mrs. Dalloway"; Laura Brown, casalinga degli anni '40, che sta leggendo "Mrs. Dalloway" per evadere da un ménage coniugale opprimente; Clarissa Vaughan, editor newyorkese dei giorni nostri, soprannominata "Mrs. Dalloway" dall'amico di sempre, Richard, amore mancato di gioventù. Tre donne ritratte in una giornata particolare - non a caso una radiosa giornata di giugno per tutte e tre, come per Mrs. Dalloway -, in uno di quei momenti cruciali in cui si fa un bilancio della propria vita filtrandola al vaglio dei sogni e delle speranze di un tempo, nel rimpianto struggente delle opportunità perdute. Il senso di fallimento sembra sommergere ogni cosa: la carriera, la vita privata, gli affetti. Non importa quale sia stato l'elemento scatenante della crisi: una torta di compleanno mal riuscita, o un mancato invito a pranzo, o semplicemente la visita dei famigliari più intimi. Ci si sente come sull'orlo di un precipizio e ciò che importa è individuare il senso di ciò che si è e di quanto si è fatto della propria vita, trovando le motivazioni per affrontare "le ore" che seguiranno. Perché è in momenti come questi che il pensiero della morte esercita le sue lusinghe, presentandosi come consolatoria via di fuga, come estrema libertà di gestire il proprio destino.Ed è a questo punto che interviene la letteratura, unica certezza ed unica "realtà" comprensibile e attestabile. Infatti scrivendo un libro, si può trovare sollievo dalle proprie ossessioni e dai propri demoni; con un libro tra le mani si può accantonare l'idea del suicidio e scegliere di affrontare la battaglia della vita facendo semplicemente "del proprio meglio"; e da un libro, rivivendone la vicenda portante nei tratti essenziali, si può trarre consolazione dal dolore, fiducia e gratitudine per il tempo che resta. Nonostante tutto.
—Ginny_1807
Several years ago I had the fortune of watching the film adaptation of The Hours, which quite blew me away. I'm not sure why it then took me so long to read the book on which the film was based, but I'm glad I did, as it's just beautiful. The Hours is both a tribute to and an update of Virginia Woolf's 1920s classic Mrs Dalloway, in which Pulitzer-winning author Michael Cunningham tries to answer the question of how Woolf's characters would interact in a present-day setting. Short on action but long on memories, associations and momentous decisions, it's a character study of three women who are looking for some meaning in their lives. First of all, there's Woolf herself, recovering from a bout of mental illness and busy outlining the novel that will eventually become Mrs Dalloway. Secondly, there's Laura Brown, a 1940s American housewife who wishes to lose herself in the experience of reading Mrs Dalloway. And thirdly, there's Clarissa Vaughan, a modern fifty-something New Yorker who is nicknamed Mrs Dalloway and who experiences a day not unlike the one Woolf describes in Mrs Dalloway. Although the three women seem very different on the outset, they do in fact have a fair bit in common. For one thing, they're all perfectionists who obsess about little details and continually fall short of their own standards and expectations. For another, they all, for various reasons, feel trapped and want OUT. And finally, they're all prone to obsessing about the past -- to wondering why they made the decisions they made, and whether their lives would have been very different if they had made different choices at the time. Cunningham first lets his women dwell on those questions for a while, then has them either accept their current lives or find a way out. Their internal drama and eventual decisions make for a brilliant meditation on past and present, on choices and on resignation to those choices. Among other things, the book tells you what it's like to realise that you may have had your moment and let it slip through your fingers, never to regain it. It shows you what it's like to be a dreadful perfectionist, doomed always to let yourself down. It shows you love, life, death. Especially the latter. More than any other other novel I've read, The Hours is steeped in death. That probably sounds depressing, but it's really quite beautiful, if you're morbid enough to see the beauty in that sort of thing. Especially since it is in its own way quite life-affirming.I could say a lot about the fabulous way in which Cunningham links his three stories -- about the many recurring themes, associations and echoes which make this such a hauntingly beautiful book. I could also say a lot about the respectful (and in my opinion successful) way in which he elaborates on the themes and questions raised in Mrs Dalloway (a book you needn't have read in order to appreciate The Hours, although it will definitely improve your understanding and enjoyment of the latter if you have). However, the main achievement of the book, as far as I'm concerned, is the marvellous way in which Cunningham paints emotions, more specifically emotions associated with depression, angst, melancholy and regret. I think you need to have been depressed or bipolar yourself really to understand the violent mood swings through which Cunningham puts his protagonists -- rapid transitions from despair to epiphany, from frustration to gratitude and exultation, from spiritual numbness to lyrical rapture, from ferocious neuroticism to a calm resignation to things. Having been there myself, I could relate only too well. I'm sure the same is true for many people -- men as well as women.I'm taking one star off because Cunningham's shifts in perspective can be a tad jarring and because the dialogue is occasionally monotonous (all Cunningham's characters sound like the author himself, which is not a big deal as he's very articulate, but is still a bit of a flaw). Apart from that, though, The Hours is a great book which I highly recommend to anyone -- not just to neurotic women. :-)
—Martine
Apro a caso:"Qui, in questa cucina, piatti bianchi sono impilati come se fossero nuovi, come arredi sacri, dietro le porte a vetri delle credenze. Una fila di vecchie pentole in terracotta, verniciate in varie tonalità di giallo cavillato, è disposta sul ripiano di granito. Clarissa riconosce queste cose, ma rimane separata da esse. Sente la presenza del suo stesso fantasma: la parte di lei più indistruttibilmente viva e meno distinta; la parte che non possiede nulla, che osserva con meraviglia e distacco, come una turista in un museo, una fila di pentole giallo brillante e un ripiano con una sola, singola briciola sopra, un rubinetto cromato da cui una goccia tremola, prende peso e cade."Generalmente le opinioni lunghe e articolate su libri che hanno vinto un Pulitzer sono superflue e noiose. Tuttalpiù, me la vado a leggere sul NYT.Le opinioni lunghe e articolate su "The Hours" sono davvero inutili. E' un libro complesso, scritto così bene che viene da credere che ci abbia messo una settimana per pagina, i personaggi sono vividi, pieni di un'umanità che spaventa e meraviglia.Insomma, se vi piacciono solo Lee Child, Cussler, Dan Brown,... lo eviterei.Ma se vi piace leggere, questo davvero non ve lo dovete perdere.
—Giovanni Faga
