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Michael Cunningham

Michael Cunningham Quotes

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Famous Michael Cunningham Quotes

“I've felt it for some time now, closing around me like the jaws of a gigantic flower. Isn't that a peculiar analogy? It feels that way, though. It has a certain vegetable inevitability. Think of the Venus flytrap. Think of kudzu choking a forest. It's a sort of juicy, green, thriving process. Toward, well, you know. The green silence. Isn't it funny that, even now, it's difficult to say the word 'death'?”

DeathDyingIllnessThe Hours
Book:The Hours
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“There are times when you don't belong and you think you're going to kill yourself. Once I went to a hotel. Later that night I made a plan. The plan was I would leave my family when my second child was born. And that's what I did. I got up one morning, made breakfast, went to the bus stop, got on a bus. I'd left a note. I got a job in a library in Canada. It would be wonderful to say you regretted it. It would be easy. But what does it mean? What does it mean to regret when you have no choice? It's what you can bear. There it is. No-one's going to forgive me. It was death. I chose life." -Laura Brown-”

LifeSpiritLonelinessDesperationHopelessness
Book:The Hours
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“Eventually, decades later, when the king was dying, the queen gently ushered everybody out into the corridor, closed the door to the royal bedchamber, and got into bed with her husband. She started singing to him. They laughed. He was short of breath, but he could still laugh. They asked each other, Is this silly? Is this...pretentious? But they both knew that everything there was to say had been said already, over and over, across the years. And so the king, relieved, released, free to be silly, asked her to sing him a song from his childhood. He didn't need to be regal anymore, he didn't need to seem commanding or dignified, not with her. They were, in their way, dying together, and they both knew it. It wasn't happening only to him. So she started singing. They shared one last laugh - they agreed that the cat had a better voice than she did. Still, she sang him out of the world.”

LoveDeathDeath Of A Loved One
Book:A Wild Swan: And Other Tales
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“We throw our parties; we abandon our families to live alone in Canada; we struggle to write books that do not change the world, despite our gifts and our unstinting efforts, our most extravagant hopes. We live our lives, do whatever we do, and then we sleep. It's as simple and ordinary as that. A few jump out windows, or drown themselves, or take pills; more die by accident; and most of us are slowly devoured by some disease, or, if we're very fortunate, by time itself. There's just this for consolation: an hour here or there when our lives seem, against all odds and expectations, to burst open and give us everything we've ever imagined, though everyone but children (and perhaps even they) know these hours will inevitably be followed by others, far darker and more difficult. Still, we cherish the city, the morning; we hope, more than anything, for more. Heaven only knows why we love it so...”

DeathSuicide
Book:The Hours
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“We live our lives, do whatever we do, and then we sleep. It's as simple and ordinary as that. A few jump out windows, or drown themselves, or take pills; more die by accident; and most of us are slowly devoured by some disease, or, if we're very fortunate, by time itself. There's just this for consolation: an hour here or there when our lives seem, against all odds & expectations, to burst open & give us everything we've ever imagined, though everyone but children (and perhaps even they) know these hours will inevitably be followed by others, far darker and more difficult. Still, we cherish the city, the morning, we hope, more than anything for more. Heaven only knows why we love it so.”

LifeDeathSuicide
Book:The Hours
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“She's had a long life. Now she's going to the Lord." "Frankly it creeps me out a little when you say things like that," Simon said. "It shouldn't. If you don't like 'Lord,' pick another word. She's going home. She's going back to the party. Whatever you like." "I suppose you have some definite ideas about an afterlife." "Sure. We get reabsorbed into the earthly and celestial mechanism." "No heaven?" "That's heaven." "What about realms of glory? What about walking around in golden slippers?" "We abandon consciousness as if we were waking from a bad dream. We throw it off like clothes that never fit us right. It's an ecstatic release we're physically unable to apprehend while we're in our bodies. Orgasm is our best hint, but it's crude and minor by comparison.”

DeathAfterlifeOrgasm
Book:Specimen Days
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“How often since then has she wondered what might have happened if she'd tried to remain with him; if she’d returned Richard's kiss on the corner of Bleeker and McDougal, gone off somewhere (where?) with him, never bought the packet of incense or the alpaca coat with rose-shaped buttons. Couldn’t they have discovered something larger and stranger than what they've got. It is impossible not to imagine that other future, that rejected future, as taking place in Italy or France, among big sunny rooms and gardens; as being full of infidelities and great battles; as a vast and enduring romance laid over friendship so searing and profound it would accompany them to the grave and possibly even beyond. She could, she thinks, have entered another world. She could have had a life as potent and dangerous as literature itself. Or then again maybe not, Clarissa tells herself. That's who I was. This is who I am--a decent woman with a good apartment, with a stable and affectionate marriage, giving a party. Venture too far for love, she tells herself, and you renounce citizenship in the country you've made for yourself. You end up just sailing from port to port. Still, there is this sense of missed opportunity. Maybe there is nothing, ever, that can equal the recollection of having been young together. Maybe it's as simple as that. Richard was the person Clarissa loved at her most optimistic moment. Richard had stood beside her at the pond's edge at dusk, wearing cut-off jeans and rubber sandals. Richard had called her Mrs. Dalloway, and they had kissed. His mouth had opened to hers; (exciting and utterly familiar, she'd never forget it) had worked its way shyly inside until she met its own. They'd kissed and walked around the pond together. It had seemed like the beginning of happiness, and Clarissa is still sometimes shocked, more than thirty years later to realize that it was happiness; that the entire experience lay in a kiss and a walk. The anticipation of dinner and a book. The dinner is by now forgotten; Lessing has been long overshadowed by other writers. What lives undimmed in Clarissa's mind more than three decades later is a kiss at dusk on a patch of dead grass, and a walk around a pond as mosquitoes droned in the darkening air. There is still that singular perfection, and it's perfect in part because it seemed, at the time, so clearly to promise more. Now she knows: That was the moment, right then. There has been no other.”

HappinessMemory
Book:The Hours
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“It had seemed like the beginning of happiness, and Clarissa is still sometimes shocked, more than thirty years later to realize that it was happiness; that the entire experience lay in a kiss and a walk. The anticipation of dinner and a book. The dinner is by now forgotten; Lessing has been long overshadowed by other writers. What lives undimmed in Clarissa's mind more than three decades later is a kiss at dusk on a patch of dead grass, and a walk around a pond as mosquitoes droned in the darkening air. There is still that singular perfection, and its perfect in part because it seemed, at the time, so clearly to promise more. Now she knows: That was the moment, right then. There has been no other.”

Happiness
Author:Michael Cunningham
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“Susan was a tough-minded romantic. She wanted to fall in love with a book. She always had reasons for her devotions, as an astute reader would, but she was, to her credit, probably the most emotional one among us. Susan could fall in love with a book in more or less the way one falls in love with a person. Yes, you can provide, if asked, a list of your loved one’s lovable qualities: he’s kind and funny and smart and generous and he knows the names of trees. But he’s also more than amalgamation of qualities. You love him, the entirety of him, which can’t be wholly explained by even the most exhaustive explication of his virtues. And you love him no less for his failings. O.K., he’s bad with money, he can be moody sometimes, and he snores. His marvels so outshine the little complaints as to render them ridiculous.”

ReadersNew Yorker
Author:Michael Cunningham
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“Questa è una delle esperienze più singolari: svegliarsi in quello che sembra un buon giorno, prepararsi al lavoro, ma non cominciarlo ancora veramente. Questo momento racchiude infinite possibilità, intere ore a venire. La mente ronza. Questa mattina può penetrare la foschia, i condotti intasati, raggiungere l'oro. Riesce a sentirlo dentro di sé, una seconda se stessa indescrivibile, o piuttosto una se stessa parallela, più pura. Se fosse religiosa la chiamerebbe "l'anima". E' più della somma del suo intelletto e delle sue emozioni, più della somma delle sue esperienze, anche se corre attraverso tutte e tre come vene di metallo brillante. E' una facoltà interiore che riconosce i misteri che animano il mondo, perché è fatta della stessa sostanza, e quando è molto fortunata lei è capace di scrivere attingendo direttamente da quella facoltà. Scrivere in quello stato è la soddisfazione più profonda che conosca. Ma la sua capacità di accedervi va e viene senza preavviso. Può impugnare la penna e seguirla con la mano mentre si muove per il foglio; può impugnare la penna e scoprire che è solo lei: una donna in vestaglia che regge una penna, timorosa e incerta, con una competenza solo superficiale e nessuna idea su dove cominciare o cosa scrivere. Impugna la penna. La signora Dalloway disse che avrebbe comprato lei i fiori.”

WritingScrittura
Book:The Hours
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“Eukko tarjoilee jättiläiselle härän. Kokonaisen härän. Jättiläinen: Hmm. Maistuu ihan tavalliselta härältä minun suussani. Eukko: Jos minä en sitten enää hanki tätä sorttia. Jättiläinen: Ei tavallisessa härässä ole mitään vikaa. Eukko: Niin, mutta pieni vaihtelu silloin tällöin... Jättiläinen: Sinä olet mainoksen uhri.”

HuumoriRuokaJaakko Ja PavunvarsiJättiläisetKuluttaminenMainontaSadut
Book:A Wild Swan: And Other Tales
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“At the risk, then, of being shunned by some of my gloomier peers, I venture to tell you that writers work like demons, suffer greatly, and are also happy, in unmistakable ways, some of the time. If we had no knowledge of happiness, our novels wouldn't sufficiently resemble real life. Some of us are even made a little bit happy, on occasion, by the writing process itself. I mean, really, if there wasn't some sort of enjoyment to be derived, would any of us keep doing it?”

IfsWayWritingMeanLittlesMadeRealSufferingBitsProcessNovelRiskLittle BitReal LifeOccasionsEnjoymentDemonPeersVentureWriting Process
Author:Michael Cunningham
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“Remember, how often the great art of the past didn't look great at first, how often it didn't look like art at all; how much easier it is, decades or centuries later, to adore it, not only because it is, in fact, great but because it's still here; because the inevitable little errors and infelicities tend to recede in an object that's survived the War of 1812, the eruption of Krakatoa, the rise and fall of Nazism.”

FirstsLooksLittlesArtStillsWarFactsPastRememberFallCenturyObjectsEasierErrorsDecadesInevitableSurvivedAdoreGreat ArtNazismRise And FallEruptionWar Of 1812
Author:Michael Cunningham
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“Jenny Offill's Dept. of Speculation resembles no book I've read before. If I tell you that it's funny, and moving, and true; that it's as compact and mysterious as a neutron; that it tells a profound story of love and parenthood while invoking (among others) Keats, Kafka, Einstein, Russian cosmonauts, and advice for the housewife of 1896, will you please simply believe me, and read it?”

IfsBelieveBookStoriesMovingAdvicePleaseProfoundMysteriousParenthoodBelieve In MeSpeculationHousewifeCompactJennyNeutrons
Author:Michael Cunningham
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“It's the city's crush and heave that move you; its intricacy; its endless life. You know the story about Manhattan as a wilderness purchased for strings of beads, but you find it impossible not to believe that it has always been a city; that if you dug beneath it you would find the ruins of another, older city, and then another and another.”

IfsKnowsBelieveStoriesMovingCitiesImpossibleEndlessRuinsCrushWildernessStringsManhattanBeadsIntricacyEndless Life
Book:The Hours: A Novel
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