Catherine told me you just finished reading Mrs. I often wondered if she knew what she did to me. “ The Hours by Michael Cunningham, didn’t they make a film out of it with Kidman?” One martini was going to be more than enough.
I was getting about four hours of sleep a night which right now was making me a cheap drunk. When I was between assignments, which was all too frequent, I would read book after book usually I would be in the middle of at least three at any one time. It made me shiver somewhere in the core of me.
Her lips mere millimeters away from my ear. “I hear you are on a reading binge.” She’d leaned in close, as she had a tendency to do with me. It was Charlotte who pressed this book upon me. It’s about the hours right? Those few precious hours over a lifetime when we feel we have a chance to do something special, to prove that we can do something that will forever immortalize us as someone exceptional. A few jump out of windows or drown themselves or take pills more die by accident and most of us, the vast majority, are slowly devoured by some disease or, if we’ve very fortunate, by time itself.” We live our lives, do whatever we do, and then we sleep-it’s as simple and ordinary as that. ”We throw our parties we struggle to write books that do not change the world, despite our gifts and our unstinting efforts, our most extravagant hopes.
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