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4.5 stars
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Cunningham has forged a masterful novel which melds ideas of creativity, failure, love, suicide, depression and gender, and has done so in a manner that manages to be profoundly moving in just a little over 200 pages. It’s not that the narrative feels compressed, it’s that the text expands beautifully around an array of images and motifs that accrue meaning each time they appear and reappear: yellow roses, a kiss, water, shoes… This fine use of intertexts is exactly what I was hoping – but failed - to get from Ali Smith’s Seasons quartet: Smith inserts traces that don’t add up to anything; Cunningham enables his connections to speak to each other and to us: they carry the message of the text beyond the plot surface.
The engagement with Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway is creative and penetrating: in the three narratives nestled here, Virginia Woolf is wrestling with what she wants her book, originally called ‘The Hours’, to be; Clarissa, nicknamed Mrs Dalloway, in late C20th New York experiences much that Woolf’s own character does in that single day that encompasses both love and death; and Laura Brown in 1950s America is struggling to find the time to read ‘Mrs Dalloway’ amidst her humdrum domesticity – while also pulling the whole book together beautifully by the end.
While, strictly speaking, it’s possible to read this without knowing ‘Mrs Dalloway’ (it’s clever that Laura is reading the book so that pertinent quotations can be inserted within this text), there are so many pleasures to be found in tracing connections and marvelling at how deftly Cunningham has both reproduced key moments and given them a modern contemporaneity Septimus Smith, for example, suffering from ‘shell shock’ in the original, becomes a man dying from HIV/AIDS.
Ultimately, this is a book about the courage it might take to live, to love or to create a work of art – where the payback is those few, singular moments that illuminate and incandesce amidst the everyday, the mundane, the painful and the terrifying of ‘the hours’ of existence.
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Why else do we struggle to go on living, no matter how compromised, no matter how harmed?n
Cunningham has forged a masterful novel which melds ideas of creativity, failure, love, suicide, depression and gender, and has done so in a manner that manages to be profoundly moving in just a little over 200 pages. It’s not that the narrative feels compressed, it’s that the text expands beautifully around an array of images and motifs that accrue meaning each time they appear and reappear: yellow roses, a kiss, water, shoes… This fine use of intertexts is exactly what I was hoping – but failed - to get from Ali Smith’s Seasons quartet: Smith inserts traces that don’t add up to anything; Cunningham enables his connections to speak to each other and to us: they carry the message of the text beyond the plot surface.
The engagement with Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway is creative and penetrating: in the three narratives nestled here, Virginia Woolf is wrestling with what she wants her book, originally called ‘The Hours’, to be; Clarissa, nicknamed Mrs Dalloway, in late C20th New York experiences much that Woolf’s own character does in that single day that encompasses both love and death; and Laura Brown in 1950s America is struggling to find the time to read ‘Mrs Dalloway’ amidst her humdrum domesticity – while also pulling the whole book together beautifully by the end.
While, strictly speaking, it’s possible to read this without knowing ‘Mrs Dalloway’ (it’s clever that Laura is reading the book so that pertinent quotations can be inserted within this text), there are so many pleasures to be found in tracing connections and marvelling at how deftly Cunningham has both reproduced key moments and given them a modern contemporaneity Septimus Smith, for example, suffering from ‘shell shock’ in the original, becomes a man dying from HIV/AIDS.
Ultimately, this is a book about the courage it might take to live, to love or to create a work of art – where the payback is those few, singular moments that illuminate and incandesce amidst the everyday, the mundane, the painful and the terrifying of ‘the hours’ of existence.