The Hours, the Pulitzer prize winning novel of Michael Cunningham, is depressing, but punctuated by snippets of euphoric celebration of life. And perhaps it mirrors life itself for I myself often feel I lead a life of quiet desperation only to be jolted sometimes by a moment that make it all worth it - the kiss of my child, a quiet moment with my wife, the gratitude of an inspired employee.
I am sad for Virginia, Laura and Clarissa. I feel I have gained some insight into how modern life drives women to insanity or to run away. I will never truly understand the dilemma of asserting the self while taking care of the home. I can only try and help my wife. I do not want us to count the hours and let them pass. I want us to celebrate and savor the hours that make a life.
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