“The Hours” by Michael Cunningham: Time, Identity, and the Echo of Virginia Woolf

 

When I first read The Hours, I didn’t know a novel could hold so many worlds in a single breath. Michael Cunningham’s Pulitzer-winning book unfolds like a literary triptych—three women in three different times, all tethered by one haunting narrative thread: Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway. And yet, it’s not merely homage. The Hours becomes its living, breathing thing—timeless, intimate, and dazzlingly recursive.

I came to this novel already reverent of Virginia Woolf. Her stream-of-consciousness prose and raw insight into mental illness had marked me. So, when Cunningham dared to reimagine Woolf—not just as a character, but as a connective tissue between modern lives—I read with equal parts wonder and skepticism. I found it as masterful as it was deeply informed.

What many readers might not know is that Cunningham studied Virginia Woolf extensively in college. His fascination with her wasn’t fleeting; it was deep, rigorous, scholarly. He has said in interviews that the seeds of The Hours were planted during this time, when his close reading of Mrs. Dalloway and Woolf’s diaries began to evolve into something more personal, more novelistic. The Hours is the fruit of that long, respectful engagement—a work born not of imitation but of immersion.

In The Hours, we follow:

• Virginia Woolf in 1923, battling her mind while beginning Mrs. Dalloway in Richmond.
• Laura Brown, a 1950s housewife in Los Angeles, suffocating under the weight of domestic life as she secretly reads Mrs. Dalloway.
• Clarissa Vaughan, a modern-day version of Mrs. Dalloway, living in New York City, throwing a party for her friend and former lover who is dying of AIDS.

At first, these women seem disparate. But Cunningham merges their stories through carefully mirrored moments—a cake that fails, a kiss that confuses, a party that never quite arrives. These resonances are where the novel sings. Time folds in on itself. Character becomes archetype. Clarissa is both herself and a reincarnation of Woolf’s Clarissa Dalloway. Laura Brown is reading Mrs. Dalloway, but she is also somehow in it.

Writing the Edges of Reality

What struck me most was how Cunningham writes internal monologues that feel suspended between thought and breath. Like Woolf, he isn’t afraid to linger on a detail, to allow a character’s day to unfold across pages. But unlike Mrs. Dalloway, The Hours makes the shifting explicit. It’s a modern novel conscious of its lineage.

And yes, there are moments when Cunningham writes as if channeling Woolf directly—her melancholia, her clarity, her frailty, and her genius. His Virginia is not a caricature. She is a woman living on the edge of life and death, brilliance and despair. The decision to begin the novel with Woolf’s suicide note is gutting and brave.

The Film: Expanding the Echo

I watched Stephen Daldry’s 2002 film adaptation of the story. With Meryl Streep, Julianne Moore, and Nicole Kidman (who won an Oscar for her portrayal of Woolf), the film maintains the story’s lyrical fluidity. Philip Glass’s score threads the timelines together like breath. Some changes are inevitable, but the spirit remains: fractured identities, temporal bleed, the weight of art and ordinary hours.

What the film does especially well is visualize the mirroring. It lingers on hands, flowers, mirrors—reminders that each woman is both singular and plural. Watching it felt like rereading the novel in another language I already knew.

Why I Find this Book Useful for Teaching Literature

The Hours isn’t just a literary fan letter. It’s a conversation across time about what it means to live a meaningful life when death is always near. It’s about the agony and necessity of writing. It’s about queer love, motherhood, depression, and the everyday moments that shape us.

As a writer, I found it inspiring. As a woman, I found it unsettling and true. As a Woolf reader, I found it luminous. If you’ve ever felt seen by Mrs. Dalloway or been undone by Virginia Woolf’s sentences, The Hours will also open something inside you. And if you haven’t yet met Woolf, this story is a door.

Reread These YA & Kids' Lit Gems—They Still Hold Up (And Maybe Even More Now!)

I’ve been thinking about how some books—especially the ones I've already blogged about —just keep getting better on second (or third) time reading. So this is my gentle nudge (okay, maybe a friendly shove ) for you to go back and reread three titles on my read YA list: Freewater, Maizy Chen’s Last Chance, and the classic we never quite outgrow—Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret.

These stories first drew me in with their heart and honesty. But on the second (or yes, even third) read? I'm getting a deeper resonance: sharper and more real in spite of the different cultural contexts. So here's a rundown of my a repeat reading—just because I think they're great.

Freewater by Amina Luqman-Dawson

First time around, I was floored by the hidden wilderness community and the bravery of Homer and Ada. But now? I appreciate new and brighter layers of resistance, hope, and community-building. The quiet power of nature-as-refuge feels especially relevant especially with all the talk about taking care of our environment. And that twist toward the end still has the power to clutch at my heart. Freewater is one of those books that speaks louder the second time.

Maizy Chen’s Last Chance by Lisa Yee

On my first read, I was charmed by Maizy’s humor and her search for connection. On rereading, I lingered over her family’s stories and discovered a new richness. The blend of past and present feels more seamless now that I know where it’s headed. Themes of identity, belonging, and courage land with even greater clarity. Though as old as time, they grow more nuanced with each revisit. Rereading Maizy felt like visiting family and suddenly catching a detail you’d somehow missed growing up. And those golden dragons? Still magical.

Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. by Judy Blume

Oh, Margaret. You all remember the bras, the periods, the prayers. But rereading it now, with a few more years behind me, I see it’s so much more than a puberty story. It’s about belief, doubt, and the quiet, complicated process of growing up—both in public and in private. When I first read the book, I didn’t find it entirely satisfying. Maybe because I’m a boomer and Margaret, to simplify the gap, belongs to Generation Z. But then I watched the film, and afterward read the book again. To my surprise, the inner monologues—still funny, still awkward—now struck me with tenderness. That thread of spirituality, once just a detail, revealed itself as a real question. And I was reminded: even the young are already searching for meaning. Blume wrote an honest question that’s worth every reread and reflection

Rereading as Recharging 

I've come to see rereading as a kind of meditation—a quiet return that reveals deeper layers of meaning, even if you're not actively doing deep hermeneutics or contextual analysis. What once felt like surface-level insight can suddenly spark a eureka moment. With time, books begin to speak to each other, forming a kind of textual community. In rereading, connections emerge, and a familiar book can feel newly alive and even more relevant.

How about picking these books up again yourself? Want to revisit my original blog posts from my first reads? Drop a comment in the thread—I’d love to gossip about bookish epiphanies with you. What did you notice the second time around? Which book shimmered unexpectedly?

Wishing you joy in your second (or third!) read—and may your favoritestories always meet you where you are.

The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao: A Heartfelt Review Through the Eyes of an Aunt to a Neurodivergent Nephew

 

Why Oscar Wao Feels Personal to Me

I met Oscar Wao in the middle of a quiet afternoon, expecting literary footnotes and angst. What I didn’t expect was how deeply I'd connect with this overweight, awkward, dreamy Dominican-American nerd. Oscar is tender, tragic, and deeply human. He reminded me of someone very close to my heart—my autistic nephew.

My nephew is on the high end of the spectrum and has global developmental delay. He doesn’t talk about Tolkien like Oscar, but he too lives in a world slightly apart. Where Oscar’s world spins with comics, Dungeons & Dragons, and unrequited love, my nephew's world is filled with messy cardboard boxes, picked plastic cup caps, tapes, staplers, paints – as he repeatedly constructs (also with Minecraft if this is digital) a building with a ceiling that should have fire alarms and walls with sprinklers. The rooms in this imagined house space are lighted with his favorite bulbs, and always, the bathroom is the only space filled with things – pail, dipper, shower, and the toilet bowl of course

What Makes Oscar Wao a Wondrous Read

The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Díaz is no simple read. It's a whirlwind of history, nerdy pop culture, Dominican curses, and footnoted political trauma. But beneath all the layers is a boy who doesn’t fit in—and refuses to shrink himself just to belong.

Oscar’s story resonated with me as an aunt. He’s different, yes, but so full of feeling, imagination, and longing. Like my nephew, Oscar doesn't filter himself to fit expectations. And that refusal to conform is, to me, wondrous.

Recommended Books Featuring Neurodivergent Characters

If you love characters like Oscar or know someone who sees the world differently, here are some books with neurodiverse protagonists that you may enjoy:

1. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon

A smart, funny, and moving mystery narrated by a boy on the autism spectrum.

2. Marcelo in the Real World by Francisco X. Stork
A quiet teen with cognitive differences navigates summer work, faith, and justice.

3. Mockingbird by Kathryn Erskine
Told from the POV of a girl with Asperger’s, this novel explores loss and empathy.

4. Anything But Typical by Nora Raleigh Baskin
An autistic boy’s journey to make sense of social cues and creative writing spaces.

5. El Deafo by Cece Bell (Graphic Memoir)
While centered on hearing loss, this graphic novel is a powerful look at difference, friendship, and self-worth.

Reading About An "Other"

Oscar Wao doesn’t get a fairy tale ending—but his story is filled with courage, love, and radical honesty. For anyone raising, loving, or being someone who walks a different path, this book is a reminder: different isn’t broken—it’s brilliantly human.

If you’ve read this book or have recommendations for stories featuring neurodivergent characters, I’d love to hear from you in the comments below.

Late to the Tesseract: Discovering A Wrinkle in Time (at My Age) and Other YA Books Worth Teaching

By a Lit Teacher Who Came for the Theology—and Stayed for the Time Travel

I have a confession: I just read A Wrinkle in Time for the first time.

Yes, that book. The one with tessering, Mrs. Who, and the planet where everyone bounces balls in sync. The one I somehow missed in childhood, skipped over in teacher trainings, and only recently picked up because I’d fallen in love with Madeleine L’Engle’s Walking on Water, her beautiful book on faith and art.

I expected something whimsical, maybe a little quaint.

Instead, I got Meg Murry.

I got a girl who doubts herself deeply but still shows up. A child who fights conformity with nothing but a stubborn heart. A mother who loves without limits. A cosmos that bends—not for power, but for love.

And now, even though I’ve taught literature for years, I’m seeing young adult books in a new light—not as stories I’ve outgrown, but as stories that meet readers where they are, whether they’re fifteen or, well… not.

Why A Wrinkle in Time Is Still a Gift in the Classroom

Teaching this book isn’t about nostalgia. It’s about giving students a story that takes their moral imagination seriously.

Meg is a misfit, not a martyr. She feels her feelings (loudly), questions adults, and keeps showing up even when she doesn’t believe she can. She is, in other words, exactly like many of our students—and she gets to be the hero.

There’s also something profound in the way L’Engle weaves together physics, scripture, and emotional truth. For those of us who’ve read her nonfiction meditations, it’s familiar terrain. She trusts that the sacred and the scientific can co-exist. So can fear and love. So can doubt and faith.

(And yes—if they’ve only seen the film, they’ve missed the point. The visuals may dazzle, but the soul of the book lives in its language, its moral clarity, and its quiet theological courage.)

And that’s what makes the novel so teachable: it lets teenagers be complicated—and still believe they’re capable of saving the world.

A Few More YA Books I’d Gladly Teach (and Re-read)

Here are some books I’ve either taught or read recently that pair beautifully with A Wrinkle in Time—in tone, theme, or depth.

When You Reach Me by Rebecca Stead

Stead builds a quiet mystery around a girl receiving strange notes that change how she sees her world. It’s essentially a love letter to A Wrinkle in Time.
Best classroom use: Compare how both novels handle time, trust, and the sacred ordinary.

The Giver by Lois Lowry

A classic for good reason. A world with no pain, no color, no choice—and one boy who starts to see through it.
Pair with: L’Engle’s Camazotz for a discussion on control vs. freedom.

The Book Thief by Markus Zusak

A story where books save lives—sometimes literally. Liesel is another fierce young girl navigating unimaginable darkness with light and language.
Use for: Voice, metaphor, and a gut-punch of a narrative.

Scythe by Neal Shusterman

It’s darker than L’Engle, but just as philosophically rich. A society without death has to invent artificial mortality. What could possibly go wrong?
For older teens: Lots of moral and theological angles to explore here.

Orbiting Jupiter by Gary D. Schmidt

Short, powerful, heartbreaking. A foster kid searching for his daughter.
Why I’d teach it: Schmidt, like L’Engle, writes with quiet compassion. He doesn’t protect readers from sorrow—but he doesn’t leave them there, either.

Teaching (and Reading) With Wrinkles

I used to think YA lit was for the young. Now I know it’s for the honest. These books don’t just entertain—they insist that even the smallest voice matters. They believe in the power of questions. They teach us that mystery isn’t something to solve, but something to enter.

Reading A Wrinkle in Time at this point in my life wasn’t a gap to be embarrassed about. It was a gift. And now, I’m passing it on.

If you’re a fellow teacher—seasoned, skeptical, or simply searching for your next great read—don’t sleep on these stories. They may be labeled “young,” but they are not shallow. They are liturgies in disguise.

Let’s talk.
Which YA books do your students respond to? Which ones surprised you? And have you ever come to a “kid’s book” late, only to find it changed you anyway?

Leave a note below—I’d love to swap book lists and maybe a few stories of our own.

 

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2025 Aspen Words Literary Prize Ceremony & Winner Announcement

Illustrado by Miguel Syjuco -

[Filipiniana Book Shelf series focuses on books on the PAWR library - that is, bought books that have been read and are being re-read just because... they are valued properties] 

From the PAWR Filipiniana Book Shelf, llustrado by Miguel Syjuco is special because it challenges the audience to rethink the role of the Filipino Illustrado in Philippine context and history. More than just a historical fiction this book provokes us to think deeply about the subject of the Illustrado identity.

I didn't always immediately understand post-modern tales but I feel that traditional novels - those chronological, plot oriented or character driven narratives sometimes become dull and boring to read. So to challenge myself I picked Illustrado again from the PAWR library. This novel has given me really deep thoughts about writing a novel.

For instance, I thought about how the narrator in Illustrado isn't reliable and yet, he's the only narrator that can tell me that very tale of why novelists matter. And further, how authors themselves are aware that what they've written probably won't matter at all in the greater scheme of things. 

But even with this knowledge, not writing isn’t an option. This is a calling that will not go away –for all the desiring-to-become-writers out there. There’s no way to curb the desire to write, it is simply frustrating and exhausting to do so. 

And it seems to me that this is the sadness of Syjuco's tale: how an author can be so engaged with history and the suffering of its nation, and will always be motivated and eager to pen a prophetic piece, but will have to always fight oneself in the process, since all writers who are eager to write anything at all will have to decide against any soul sell-out and scheme for a quick and easy road to prosperity.

In this novel, the term Illustrado is negatively pursued, because the narrator doubts the protege to be a real Illustrado. Like, what does this Illustrado really know about the grim realities on the city streets, the squalor in urban squatters, the catastrophe in the rural areas where disasters are endless? His more financially endowed background should have allowed him more opportunities to advocate for development where change needed to happen, but in his rich location, he often didn’t have an accurate feel of the sadness of the situation. If he would fully engage, he would have to become a traitor to his class.

If he could see his birthplace from exile as most Illustrados did before him, how deeply could he engage the questions of national suffering once he’d gone incognito in some remote place as an OFW? He would have to negotiate the terms of comfort – this freedom from the onslaught of suffering outside his country vis a vis his desire to go back and confront by actually seeing, hearing, tasting, smelling, and feeling his country's ills. Perhaps then, he could burn his bridges and tell-all.

This seems to be the burden of the Illustrado. The prospective Illustrado who wants to write-all immediately wasn’t yet fully in the know, at least, as far as the narrator’s assessment is concerned. 

The student of history isn’t in the story yet, but only interpolating in the narratives that were penned before his time. Not yet a real witness of history, not yet a real Illustrado. 

Or a millennial who is trying not to get confused about the past. Or they have witnessed some facts of history but their own scant viewpoint keeps their language cautious, objective, and probing rather than purposeful.

In the narrator’s portfolio in this novel, he has done all the genre novels - sci fi tale, detective whodunit, even the historical romance. But he is not satisfied. And although he’s begun something that should burn bridges, it’s still questionable if he would be able to divulge in time all that is burning within him. Until he does so then, he hasn't written. 

And probably, this single fact redeems the Illustrado – that after all, he's still the ONE who could be writing something that must shake the political systems, provoke a revolution, and change cultural habits and attitudes for the better. Yet, how this novel ends doesn't make me optimistic that this narrator who is the seemingly authentic illustrado is up to the task himself. 

No. not at all.