The Hours
The blustery, dampened air put the world on edge. Pedestrians clung to their coats as they battled steady salvos of wind. Debris from shedding trees dotted the surface, susceptible still to the wake of a passing car. Colonies of light activated as the sun continued it’s subtle fade away. The crescendo of an economic liquidity crisis was at its loudest and an election was in a few days— both presidential candidates running on varying platforms of change. It was a moment of transition, a time when what would happen next contained a palpable level of uncertainty.
I recount this, not to set up a tale of incredible misfortune, a tale of dramatic consequence, but to mention a bowl of lobster bisque I had for dinner that evening. It was delicious, to the extent that I’ve never desired another. I wanted to preserve the unexpected perfection in a bowl of soup enjoyed on that most imperfect day. It was an odd experience, but the type of experience that Michael Cunningham deftly navigates in his novel, The Hours. He asks, “what if that moment at dinner—that equipoise, that small perfection—were enough? What if you decided to want no more?”