Maybe this is the point: to embrace the core sadness of life without toppling headlong into it, or assuming it will define your days.

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.

If writers possess a common temperament, it's that they tend to be shy egomaniacs; publicity is the spotlight they suffer for the recognition they crave.

Maybe this is the point: to embrace the core sadness of life without toppling headlong into it, or assuming it will define your days.

Grief is what tells you who you are alone.

the mother's first job is to raise a daughter strong enough to outlast her.

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