This morning, on my walk to work, I finished The Hours by Michael Cunningham. Yes, while I was walking. Reading and walking is a skill I mastered many moons ago, with very few casualties, besides that one time I was walking around on campus in college, and I came about two inches from slamming face first into a van that was parked on the sidewalk. The guy sitting in the van honked his horn to warn me, and I gave him a terrible look, but actually he saved my life. I’ve always felt bad about that.
ANYWAY. The Hours. My review: eh. I mean, okay, okay, there are things that I really liked about the book. 1. It reminds me of how much I loved Mrs. Dalloway. 2. It features several women who often disassociate, which is a feeling I can relate to. 3. All three main characters are teetering (again, a feeling I can relate to.) But all in all, I wanted to like it so much more than I actually did. I’ve heard good things–glowing reviews. “Oh, The Hours! That is such a great book!” I’ve heard. But no, I do not give it a glowing review. It was easy–short with large type and wide spacing. But all in all. Did it really deserve a Pulitzer? Sometimes I do not agree with those Pulitzers. The Brief, Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao–yes. March–no.
With that being said, up next is another Pulitzer. Michael Chabon’s The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay. Have you noticed a theme here? All new, new, new books this month. Within the past ten years or so. It’s because I’m scared to try anything else. Scared that I will screech to a halt and stop reading, again. Just reserve your judgment and let me ease back into it, okay? Okay.
