Specimen Days

I wish I could see the world like Michael Cunningham. Or at least read like him. Because who else could spin such fantastical novles out of Virginia Woolf and Walt Whitman, two celebrated writers that I struggle with reading? I was lucky to be pointed towards his work over a decade ago, and have been bowled over by each of his novels. His first two books were more domestic in nature, coming-of-age stories that spanned decades and told the tales of families both born and made. With The Hours and Specimen Days his work has become more literary and more complex (not that this makes them better than his first two books, but you can see his style and skill evolving). His thoughts are wrapped in this neatly wound prose but then suddenly something explodes out of the swiftly moving storyline and you have to stop devouring the pages and let it wash over you. I thought The Hours was impressive and well-written, and I couldn't put it down, but I prefered the sweeping nature and overpowering emotion of Flesh & Blood. Something about The Hours was ultimately a little too neat for me, a little too clever. But Specimen Days has simply astounded me. The first two stories are amazingly thought out and perfectly crafted, and lines of Whitman dance through the pages and bowl you over with their context—not to mention the ways that they are interpreted by the characters. The third story wasn't as powerful for me, which may be a matter of taste, but the first two still haunt me. I feel as if I am still absorbing their impact, their meaning.