Michael Cunningham

The Hours

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  • Nina Vyvcharukhas quoted6 years ago
    These days, Clarissa believes, you measure people first by their kindness and their capacity for devotion. You get tired, sometimes, of wit and intellect; everybody's little display of genius.
  • elf1001has quoted8 months ago
    She might, at this moment, be nothing but a floating intelligence; not even a brain inside a skull, just a presence that perceives, as a ghost might. Yes, she thinks, this is probably how it must feel to be a ghost. It’s a little like reading, isn’t it—that same sensation of knowing people, settings, situations, without playing any particular part beyond that of the willing observer.
  • elf1001has quoted8 months ago
    Clarissa, sane Clarissa—exultant, ordinary Clarissa—will go on, loving London, loving her life of ordinary pleasures, and someone else, a deranged poet, a visionary, will be the one to die.
  • elf1001has quoted8 months ago
    “But there are still the hours, aren’t there? One and then another, and you get through that one and then, my god, there’s another. I’m so sick.”
  • elf1001has quoted8 months ago
    There is a surprisingly mature hollowness in his voice.
  • elf1001has quoted8 months ago
    Sally hands the flowers to her and for a moment they are both simply and entirely happy. They are present, right now, and they have managed, somehow, over the course of eighteen years, to continue loving each other. It is enough. At this moment, it is enough.
  • elf1001has quoted8 months ago
    She feels briefly, wonderfully alone, with everything ahead of her.
  • elf1001has quoted8 months ago
    I think of them as coalescences of black fire, I mean they’re dark and bright at the same time. There was one that looked a bit like a black, electrified jellyfish. They were singing, just now, in a foreign language. I believe it may have been Greek. Archaic Greek.”
  • elf1001has quoted8 months ago
    The chair—an elderly, square, overstuffed armchair obesely balanced on slender blond wooden legs—is ostentatiously broken and worthless. It is upholstered in something nubbly, no-colored, woolen, shot through (this is, somehow, its most sinister aspect) with silver thread.
  • elf1001has quoted8 months ago
    She can’t tell what he is saying— she makes out the word “hurl,” which is followed by Richard’s low, rumbling laugh, a slightly pained sound, as if laughter were something sharp that had caught in his throat.
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