The Hours

by Michael Cunningham

This is one of the best novels I have read recently. Elegantly and expertly crafted, it is like a delicious slice of cake, set on fine china, to be enjoyed slowly and with respect, so that your eyes can feast on its display, your nose can take in the amora, your tongue allowed a small lick, a tentative courtship before a full embrace. The monthful slowly melts, then linger on, sending the sweet sensation throughout your body. Until you finish it with a satisfied, euphoric sigh.

Okay, I was a little carried away with that piece of chocolate cake…

The Hours is about three women: Clarissa, who one New York morning goes about planning a party in honor of a beloved friend; Laura Brown, a 1950s housewife who feels unhappy with her perfect family and home; and Virginia Wolfe, recuperating with her husband in a London suburb and planning her next book Mrs. Dalloway. Just as the booksake Mrs. Dalloway, the three stories, though interwoven, are about one day, a snapshot, of each life. These three parallel tales, different yet similar, are finally brought together at the end, to deeply touch your heart.