Cunningham, Michael. Day. Random House, New York. 2023. F;11/23.

When I saw this title and author in my weekly online Book Marks Bulletin I got excited. One of my favourite novels of all time is Cunningham’s The Hours. For some reason I had forgotten that I also reviewed his A Home at the End of the World, which wasn’t in the same league for me. Neither I’m afraid is this one. Cunningham is a senior creative writing teacher which he certainly deserves to be, but for some reason (unless I’m projecting) his gentle charming impact is etiolated around the edges by pessimism here and the characters and plot follow along. I feel I should say if I was writing for a big scope of audience I would soft peddle all this a bit…

(Scattering of plot alerts here) The pandemic overshadows this story, told over three annual days in April starting in 2019. A family – has-been rock musician Dan and his wife magazine designer Isobel, with their seven-year-old Violet and ten-year-old Nathan – experience vague dissatisfaction and vague wondering why that would be. Upstairs lives Isabel’s brother Robbie, a vibrant imaginative character who however declined admission to medical school and is teaching, and now has to move out. He’s getting over a breakup of a nascent gay relationship and consoling himself by inventing Wolfe, a hotshot imaginary online character who has accumulated lots of followers.

A year later Robbie a bit inexplicably goes off to be a hermit in a cabin in Iceland. Meanwhile Dan’s brother Garth who is a sculptor is pushed away from a relationship with his biological child by estranged English instructor sperm recipient Chess: more conflict and dissatisfaction in this crazy mixed up modern world. The kids Violet and Nathan are a bit bumped around too, she by obsessive worry and disappointment and he by jeering male friends and directionlessness.

Finally in 2021 Isobel retreats to a rented rural house (she “underestimated its lingering air of dank disappointment”) and a dénouement of sorts occurs among the remaining characters, Robbie, the only bright-light character, dies of Covid.

Early on I was buoyed by some of the writing and sentiments:

How is it possible that a five-year-old girl is already developing a hint of mortal wistfulness, the nascent fear of her own disappearance?

He’s not quite sure when he edged over from acting like an affable, harmless man and became an affable, harmless man. It seems to have occurred by imperceptible degrees.

… still even in these graceful insights lurks the overall tone of awful inevitability. Later it gets less covert:

(Little Violet goes to a park to see a favourite small dog) If (she) waits long enough, she knows it will appear, straining at the end of its leash. She knows that when she first spots it it will look like a speck of light on the broad brown slope of the park, hurtling toward her.

(… of course no dog appears.)

(Isobel reflecting on marriage and life)  Does it ever get to be too late? … Does it ever become irreparable? If so, when? How do you, how does anyone, know when they cross over from working through this to it’s too late? Is there (she suspects there must be) an interlude during which you’re so bored or disappointed or ambushed by regret that it is, truly, too late?

I’m reminded of the ending in Paul Murray’s The Bee Sting about which I said “It seemed a bit strange that a writer this good couldn’t conclude things gracefully and with impact.” Same deal here, but it’s a bit more dispiriting because of how good The Hours was. This whole thing reminds me of teenage Olympic athletic champions who discover as they grow up gradually that it’ll never be quite as thrilling again. Along comes real life: marriage isn’t perfect, children likewise, attempted comebacks fail, not enough money, and the last straw Covid and lockdown. Did I really sign up for all this? Oh shit I guess I just give in and let my writing reflect how I really feel about being over-the-top: old. Finished.

Covid gets Robbie, and perfect imaginary Wolfe. I’m sure I’m stretching it a bit to picture our author unconsciously waving wistful farewell by evoking Virginia Woolf whose book was the basis for his greatest achievement. But confining the action to three different days also harkens back to Hours...

Somebody did remark ironically that the worst thing about reading something incandescently fabulous is the next thing you read pales by comparison. But oh dear although this story sighs with Cunningham’s lambent grace it’s in decline and that is mirrored by the plot. As a sad comment on the pandemic and life in general it could be a minor wistful gem for some readers. No question Hours imposes on me an unreasonable expectation.

Hours fans, I’m saying save your money. The famous-story’s echoes, plunging depths, symmetry, and gorgeous heartfelt sympathy you remember is present here only in the distance and fading fast. Without at all diminishing my respect for Michael Cunningham’s achievements I suggest you skip this one.

6.5/8.8