Hours

I've been reading more lately. This is an act of will and love, to fill my head with words, wordplay and stories. Last week I finished Not Wanted On The Voyage by Timothy Findley, an old favourite revisited.

Then, in less than a week, I read The Hours. It's not a long novel, but last night I started halfway through, and that was a problem. Around 2:15 this morning, I still had 75 pages to go. Facing a long drive today, I tried to turn in, but my head was spinning with narrative. So I gave in, read to the end, and finally turned out the light sometime around 3:30, nudging my alarm forward to 7. At least I slept decently the rest of the week; one short night shouldn't bother me much. And tonight at Lake Fletcher I shall sleep the sleep of the innocent.

Several people told me I'd like the book better. In fact, the movie remains a favourite. It succeeds for me as well as the book, if not better. It is different—the movie's characters are less subtle, but equally complex. In fact, the book dissatisfies. Meryl Streep's character is more interesting than the Clarissa in the novel. One expects a book to be meatier than the movie, but this book is so brief as to be merely a gesture—vivid and thoughtful, but a gesture.

I remember the first time I saw the movie: left the theatre whirling, dazed, stricken by beauty and sadness.

Now, I have 20 minutes to shower, pack, and get on the highway for the weekend.