Tags: books


A post where perhaps I pontificate too much

I'm known as one of those people who enjoys long, wordy novels. I'm usually more concerned with how something is written rather than what happens plot wise. I find myself more interested in the "why" of a person's actions rather than the "what", which I feel is the point of writing. I love words; they open someone up and scoop out their inner workings, displaying them on pages for everyone to see.

This, I think, is the reason why the book The Hours by Michael Cunningham touched me so deeply. It is an interesting task to take one day in the life of three women in three time periods and link them together with chains of life, death, and yellow roses. It says a lot about how so many of us live for other people. We dwell in the light of the expectations of others and so rarely say aloud how we feel. Sometimes, perhaps, we get so lost in that light, we can't interpret how we truly feel. Women, in particular, are wont to live in that space. Whether we are inherently that way or we are bred to be so, I still don't know. This book suggests that it is a bit of both, and is a very unobtrusive portrail of such internal struggles. It is worth a read.