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thisnewdayI've just read the prologue to Michael Cunningham's The Hours and now I don't know if I can do it. Don't know if I can finish reading it, that is. I was stopped by her note, once before, by the merest fragment of it in a Wikipedia article, I think. And now I 've read the whole thing and watched and felt as she experienced her own death.
And so I wonder, knowing so intimately how it ends, if I can read on and experience her life, as Cunningham will represent it to us. It's been a fragile, difficult day with a kind of lifting upward towards the end, "A minor fall, a major lift," as Leonard Cohen would have it.
I think, instead of reading more, I'll go to bed shortly, hoping not to dream of anything, hoping simply to awake to the next new day that will carry us its distance down the river of time. Past morning streets, past Cape Cod houses brightly dressed, awaiting winter, past children and schools and basketball courts and, finally, soccer fields.
And I will sit there and decide if I can or should read on...
LPK
Dreamwidth
10.14.2017
And so I wonder, knowing so intimately how it ends, if I can read on and experience her life, as Cunningham will represent it to us. It's been a fragile, difficult day with a kind of lifting upward towards the end, "A minor fall, a major lift," as Leonard Cohen would have it.
I think, instead of reading more, I'll go to bed shortly, hoping not to dream of anything, hoping simply to awake to the next new day that will carry us its distance down the river of time. Past morning streets, past Cape Cod houses brightly dressed, awaiting winter, past children and schools and basketball courts and, finally, soccer fields.
And I will sit there and decide if I can or should read on...
LPK
Dreamwidth
10.14.2017
