Read Online The Hours by Michael Cunningham - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Cunningham
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them?’’
‘‘No. Well, sometimes.’’
‘‘I think I’m going to talk to Bing about increasing your medication, would that be all right?’’ He sighs wearily. ‘‘The fact that I sometimes don’t hear them or see them doesn’t mean they’re gone,’’ he says.
5 9
‘‘Bu t if you don’t hear them or see them,’’ Clarissa says, ‘‘you can rest. Honestly, you didn’t sleep at all last night, did you?’’
‘‘Oh, a little. I’m not so worried about sleep. I’m much more worried about you. You look so thin today, how are you?’’
‘‘I’m fine. I can only stay a minute. I’ve got to get the flowers in water.’’
‘‘Right, right. The flowers, the party. Oh, my.’’
‘‘I saw a movie star on my way over here,’’ Clarissa says. ‘‘I think that’s probably a good omen, don’t you?’’
Richard smiles wistfully. ‘‘Oh, well, omens,’’ he says. ‘‘Do you believe in omens? Do you think we’re taken that much notice of ? Do you think we’re worried over like that? My, wouldn’t that be wonderful? Well, maybe it’s so.’’
He will not ask the name of the movie star; he actually does not care. Richard, alone among Clarissa’s acquaintance, has no essential interest in famous people. Richard genuinely does not recognize such distinctions. It is, Clarissa thinks, some combination of monumental ego and a kind of savantism. Richard cannot imagine a life more interesting or worthwhile than those being lived by his acquaintances and himself, and for that reason one often feels exalted, expanded, in his presence. He is not one of those egotists who miniaturize others. He is the opposite kind of egotist, driven by grandiosity rather than greed, and if he insists on a version of you that is funnier, stranger, more eccentric and profound than you suspect yourself to be—capable of doing more good and more harm in the world than you’ve ever imagined—it is all but impossible not to believe, at least in his presence and for a while after you’ve left him,
6 0
tha t he alone sees through to your essence, weighs your true qualities (not all of which are necessarily flattering—a certain clumsy, childish rudeness is part of his style), and appreciates you more fully than anyone else ever has. It is only after knowing him for some time that you begin to realize you are, to him, an essentially fictional character, one he has invested with nearly limitless capacities for tragedy and comedy not because that is your true nature but because he, Richard, needs to live in a world peopled by extreme and commanding figures. Some have ended their relations with him rather than continue as figures in the epic poem he is always composing inside his head, the story of his life and passions; but others (Clarissa among them) enjoy the sense of hyperbole he brings to their lives, have come even to depend on it, the way they depend on coffee to wake them up in the mornings and a drink or two to send them off at night.
Clarissa says, ‘‘Superstitions are a comfort sometimes, I don’t know why you so adamantly refuse all comforts.’’
‘‘Do I? Oh, I don’t mean to. I like comforts. Some of them. I like some of them very much.’’
‘‘How are you feeling?’’
‘‘Well. Quite well. A bit ephemeral. I keep dreaming that I’m sitting in a room.’’
‘‘The party’s at five, do you remember? The party’s at five, and the ceremony comes after, at eight, uptown. You remember all that, don’t you?’’
He says, ‘‘Yes.’’
Then he says, ‘‘No.’’
6 1
‘‘Whic h is it?’’ she asks.
‘‘Sorry. I seem to keep thinking things have already happened. When you asked if I remembered about the party and the ceremony, I thought you meant, did I remember having gone to them. And I did remember. I seem to have fallen out of time.’’
‘‘The party and ceremony are tonight. In the future.’’
‘‘I understand. In a way, I understand.
‘‘No. Well, sometimes.’’
‘‘I think I’m going to talk to Bing about increasing your medication, would that be all right?’’ He sighs wearily. ‘‘The fact that I sometimes don’t hear them or see them doesn’t mean they’re gone,’’ he says.
5 9
‘‘Bu t if you don’t hear them or see them,’’ Clarissa says, ‘‘you can rest. Honestly, you didn’t sleep at all last night, did you?’’
‘‘Oh, a little. I’m not so worried about sleep. I’m much more worried about you. You look so thin today, how are you?’’
‘‘I’m fine. I can only stay a minute. I’ve got to get the flowers in water.’’
‘‘Right, right. The flowers, the party. Oh, my.’’
‘‘I saw a movie star on my way over here,’’ Clarissa says. ‘‘I think that’s probably a good omen, don’t you?’’
Richard smiles wistfully. ‘‘Oh, well, omens,’’ he says. ‘‘Do you believe in omens? Do you think we’re taken that much notice of ? Do you think we’re worried over like that? My, wouldn’t that be wonderful? Well, maybe it’s so.’’
He will not ask the name of the movie star; he actually does not care. Richard, alone among Clarissa’s acquaintance, has no essential interest in famous people. Richard genuinely does not recognize such distinctions. It is, Clarissa thinks, some combination of monumental ego and a kind of savantism. Richard cannot imagine a life more interesting or worthwhile than those being lived by his acquaintances and himself, and for that reason one often feels exalted, expanded, in his presence. He is not one of those egotists who miniaturize others. He is the opposite kind of egotist, driven by grandiosity rather than greed, and if he insists on a version of you that is funnier, stranger, more eccentric and profound than you suspect yourself to be—capable of doing more good and more harm in the world than you’ve ever imagined—it is all but impossible not to believe, at least in his presence and for a while after you’ve left him,
6 0
tha t he alone sees through to your essence, weighs your true qualities (not all of which are necessarily flattering—a certain clumsy, childish rudeness is part of his style), and appreciates you more fully than anyone else ever has. It is only after knowing him for some time that you begin to realize you are, to him, an essentially fictional character, one he has invested with nearly limitless capacities for tragedy and comedy not because that is your true nature but because he, Richard, needs to live in a world peopled by extreme and commanding figures. Some have ended their relations with him rather than continue as figures in the epic poem he is always composing inside his head, the story of his life and passions; but others (Clarissa among them) enjoy the sense of hyperbole he brings to their lives, have come even to depend on it, the way they depend on coffee to wake them up in the mornings and a drink or two to send them off at night.
Clarissa says, ‘‘Superstitions are a comfort sometimes, I don’t know why you so adamantly refuse all comforts.’’
‘‘Do I? Oh, I don’t mean to. I like comforts. Some of them. I like some of them very much.’’
‘‘How are you feeling?’’
‘‘Well. Quite well. A bit ephemeral. I keep dreaming that I’m sitting in a room.’’
‘‘The party’s at five, do you remember? The party’s at five, and the ceremony comes after, at eight, uptown. You remember all that, don’t you?’’
He says, ‘‘Yes.’’
Then he says, ‘‘No.’’
6 1
‘‘Whic h is it?’’ she asks.
‘‘Sorry. I seem to keep thinking things have already happened. When you asked if I remembered about the party and the ceremony, I thought you meant, did I remember having gone to them. And I did remember. I seem to have fallen out of time.’’
‘‘The party and ceremony are tonight. In the future.’’
‘‘I understand. In a way, I understand.
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