I’d barely started and then I fell into a hiatus I thought would never end. But now that all technical difficulties are behind me (hopefully), we can once again talk about the things we love – books and nudity. February is both the shortest month and the longest. In this corner of the North Atlantic, February brings the worst weather. Nights are long and cold, wet and windy. There is surely no better way to spend those night than laying luxuriously in bed, lost in words. And when the depth of February pulls you under, you must find new places, new ways to remind yourself that you still have breath. Some books do that, and for me Michael Cunningham’s The Hours is such a book. An enveloping story, and a literary style which echoes Woolf will both draw the reader fully into the book, and out again so that one can blink back to reality and marvel at the language and the craft.
The Hours is good company on a cold, February night. It is a book that makes you ponder life, and makes you want to live it, in all it’s darkness and light.