The Hours.

I first heard of Michael Cunningham when I listened to one of his books on CD.

Yup.

I’m one of those nerds who listen to books while I drive. Goofily, flailing, whatever, dude.

I listened to the reading of his A HOME AT THE END OF THE WORLD and was hooked. I’d have his child if Miss Carol would let me.

I bought the book so Miss Carol could read it ’cause she’s not as nerdy or needy as me and while I was Amazoning shit I picked up THE HOURS.

Big breath. In and out, slowly.

Maybe I’m straining my credibility just a tad, like I have anything remotely resembling anything like credibility, but still, hang with me. OK?

‘Cause I’ll tell ya, I think this is the best book I’ve ever read. Papa Hemingway, Mister Steinbeck, Cormac McCarthy? you boys need to sit on the couch.

And it torches my soul to say that.

But. SHIT.

THE HOURS is so beautifully written you can literally open it at random, to any page, and start reading and wonder why you never opened it earlier, and maybe wonder when you’re gonna pick it up and read it’s little parts again.

And just when you’re thinking the tickling is fun, the ending is so searingly amazing that it not only makes you realize just how small and meaningless your life is but makes you wanna stop letting your life be so small and meaningless.

It’s that fucking good.