My best friend called me just to tell me that she is reading Michael Cunningham's The Hours and if I haven't read it I should because the writing reminds her so much of the way I write on my blog that she can't stop thinking of me.
She compared me to Michael Cunningham.
I have never read anything by Michael Cunningham nor have I seen the movie The Hours.
This morning I went to Amazon.com and took a peek inside Michael Cunningham's The Hours. I was immediately sucked in, floating on the words and images, lost to the here and now.
"a June morning so fine and scrubbed..."
"pauses at the threshold as she would at the edge of a pool, watching the turquoise water lapping at the tiles, the liquid nets of sun wavering in the blue depths...."
"...the plain shock of immersion...."
"...mornings invaded everywhere by an assertion of new life so determined it is almost comic.."
"...the window box...filled as it always is with faded red plastic geraniums pushed into the dirt, has sprouted a rogue dandelion...."
This is not a book I will borrow from the library, but one I will rush off in a flight of fancy with wild abandon to the local bookstore and buy and bring home and deliciously devour letter by letter.
I am no Michael Cunningham, maybe some day, but his writing is surely inspired and I could learn a lot from reading his words.