Hope in the beginning feels like such a violation of the loss, and yet without it we couldn't survive.

The Hours is in fact a lovely triumph. Cunningham honors both Mrs. Dalloway and its creator with unerring sensitivity, thanks to his modesty of intention and his sovereignly affecting prose.... With his elliptical evocation of Mrs. Dalloway, he has managed to pay great but quiet tribute -- reminding us of the gorgeous, ferocious beauty of what endures.

Hope in the beginning feels like such a violation of the loss, and yet without it we couldn't survive.

I know now that we never get over great losses; we absorb them, and they carve us into different, often kinder, creatures.

That she was irreplaceable became a bittersweet loyalty: Her death was what I had now instead of her.

Grief is what tells you who you are alone.

Scratch a fantasy and you'll find a nightmare.