《The Hours》读后感摘抄
《The Hours》是一本由Michael Cunningham著作，Fourth Estate出版的Paperback图书，本书定价：GBP 6.99，页数：240，特精心从网络上整理的一些读者的读后感，希望对大家能有帮助。
《The Hours》精选点评：
●在俺心里可以列入名著了
●劳拉·布朗始终吸引着我!!
●all about Woolf
●小傑作，語言詩篇般纖細，觸覺敏銳至神經質的地步
●電影和書都好
●我觉得思考人生的人都或多或少是在找死。因为你总能发现自己是多么平凡渺小。
●irritating. 没看完
●comforting yet heart-wrenching
●5年前还没结婚前看了第一次电影，人生经历所限，没办法明白Mrs. Brown，今年年初看第二次似乎明白更多了，此时已经结婚4年，女儿3岁，在美国的郊区过着和Mrs. Brown类似的生活，终于切身体会到这种在平静幸福的日常琐碎中无法抵抗的绝望感，内心的感受在这本书中找到了具体的描述。
●比電影有味兒~電影看不明白的地方看完書就恍然大悟了!!!
《The Hours》读后感(一)：胡言乱语
在状态极端低迷混乱的一天读完了这本书，以至于翻过最后一页又过了几分钟才反应过来最后一章里的Laura Brown是谁，and then it all ties together. Neatly.
I sympathize with Laura in so many ways. 当她在某一刻觉得“I’m trapped here being a housewife”， “what if I had no talents” 当她驾车跑到LA的酒店里为了关起门来看几个小时的书，当她在饭桌上有一刻无法遏制毁灭一切的冲动，当她想着，isn’t this little perfection enough, 当她想着，death is an option. 但她还是活下来了，day after day, hour after hour. 仿佛无边的绝望之中一点小小的善意。And perhaps I will too, doing things that do not change the world despite the best intentions. And one day, I will become a retired librarian in Canada. 在那之前，生活将会继续，在很多绝望和一点点希望之中。
《The Hours》读后感(二)：你他妈给我解释一下什么叫***人生
1941年的春夏，伍尔夫写好遗书放在桌上，匆忙披上衣服，趁佣人不注意的时候从后门溜出去，一路上她慌慌张，却还不忘看四周熟悉的风景。走到河边，捡一块大石头勉强揣进口袋，接着慢慢向河中央走去。
1949年6月的一个早晨，美国主妇劳拉读着伍尔夫的小说《达洛维夫人》，想不明白写出样作品的人为什么要自杀。她读到书里的一段：
“在穿过维多利亚街时她心里想，我们是多么愚蠢啊。因为只有上帝才知道为什么人这样热爱生活，这样看待生活，想象生活是什么样子，在自己周围建构生活、推倒、再重新加以创造；但即使是穿着最邋遢的女人，坐在门口世界上最沮丧忧愁的人也同样如此；正是因为这个原因——他们热爱生活——她相信就算议会的法令也改变不了。在人们的眼光中，在轻松的、沉重的、艰难的步态中；在轰鸣和喧嚣声中；马车、汽车、货车、公共汽车；铜管乐队；手拉风琴；在胜利的欢庆声、铃儿的叮当声和头顶上飞机飞过奇怪的尖啸声中，有她热爱的一切：生活，伦敦；六月的这个时刻。”
一个能写出这样句子的人——能感受到这些句子中包含的一切的人——怎么会选择自杀呢？
平凡的主妇劳拉不懂。在她推着购物车在超市里挑西红柿的时候，在她查看吹风机、仿佛这就是自己全部本领的时候，她不懂，这个才华出众、有着深沉的悲哀的女人怎么会在口袋里装上石头，走进冰冷的河里。
劳拉生活在一个刚刚被重新建起、充满希望的世界里。男人们从战场上带着英勇和荣誉归来，成为拯救世界的英雄，理应得到他们能够得到的一切：房子、妻子、孩子、工作，全都显得顺理成章。嫁给一个英雄，做全职主妇，有个健康可爱的儿子——再不热爱生活便是你无理取闹。
偏偏伍尔夫就像一个魔咒，让劳拉觉得这一切都不讨厌，只是平庸得让人爱不起来。
或者说，生活万事如意，就是找不到一个不死的理由。
二十世纪末六月的一个早晨，克莱丽莎起个大早出门买花。走过纽约的某个街角，她看见某个像是梅丽尔•斯特里普的女星正在拍电影。她忽然觉得影星都令人羡慕，当凡人死后被尘土掩埋被世界遗忘的时候，他们仍然会为世人所知，会存在于档案馆、书里、影像里。多少人想要名垂青史，还不是因为成为名人即意味着永生与不朽，意味着这人间短暂的几十年没有白活，在自己死后，仍然会有人、不断地有人翻看自己的模样，听自己的声音，考证自己的生平。从性取向到喜欢吃哪种水果，都会有后世争论不休。
那么我们每天这么碌碌无为地活着又是为何？
伍尔夫在《达洛维夫人》中写：
“人都会记得过去的事，而她热爱的是此时、此地、眼前的一切。那么这重要吗，她在向邦德街走去时自问，她的生命最终必定会完全停止，这重要吗？没有她而这一切必将继续存在下去；她感到忿恨吗？抑或，相信死亡使一切完全终结，不也令人感到安慰吗？但在伦敦的大街上，不知怎地，在这儿在那儿，经历了沧桑岁月，她幸存了下来，彼得幸存了下来，生活在彼此心中，她坚信自己是家乡树木的一部分，是哪座破败宅子的一部分，是她从未曾得见的人们的一部分。但是，当她往书店橱窗里看去时，她在梦想着什么呢，在追忆什么呢？
‘不要再怕炎炎骄阳，也不要畏惧寒冬的肆虐。’”
二十年来，克莱丽莎已经不知道自己爱不爱理查德，她只知道，自己一生中最快乐的时光是与这个男人在一起的某个夏日清晨，她站在门廊，他在身后叫她“达洛维夫人”。从空气中的青草味到晨间的露水，她忽然觉得这便是人生最美的光景，人世间最美的十八岁。这个瞬间在她之后的岁月中不断浮现，甚至觉得这段回忆足以撑起自己琐碎苍白的生活，成为“活过”的某种证明。于是这个男人的存在也逐渐成为自己继续生活的理由之一。不知道是不是每个人心里都有那么一个人，是自己永远过不去的过去、来不了的将来，爱不成，恨也不成。多年以后再回首两个人的往事，甚至想不起完整的前因后果，却能铭记某个秋日夜晚肩并肩走在路上的场景，记不得吵过的架和撒过的气，却对一起在某个饭店吃过的某一顿饭念念不忘。
《美国丽人》的男主人公说，人在知道自己快要死的时候，脑中会飞快地闪回各种人生片断，并且奇怪的是，此时回想起的，竟然都是从小到大经历过的美好而温暖的瞬间。
那么是不是说，我们大多数人活着，其实都是在收集自认为快乐的时间碎片，把它们切得工工整整，存进一只小猪储蓄罐。当某一天知道自己就要离开时，便奋然砸碎小猪，然后对着散落了一地的时时刻刻，心满意足地感叹一句：看啊，人生。
《The Hours》读后感(三)：A conversation with myself on re-reading The Hours
A: Re-reading books/re-watching films are like visiting old-time friends (did I not say it a million times？) who stayed exactly how they were, so that you know you are a changed person.
: Interesting…
A: Not just interesting, it’s revealing actually (maybe even reassuring？). Your circumstances have changed, yet you are essentially the same you. You still get touched by the lines that used to touch you, the lines that used to sweep you off your feet and take your breath away.
: You talk as if the book has been a lover to you.
A: I guess you can say it’s a relationship, of-sort, a nutritious momentary relationship that makes you realize how wonderfully large the world is, so much larger than the time/space one individual gets. I mean, I so admire people who are capable of producing something that touches others.
: You can enjoy the writer’s talent from a safe distance.
A: I mean, when you read a great book, you would know how unfulfilling it is not to read. You would know what you would have missed, and how much time you have wasted browsing through staff that don’t really matter! Doesn’t matter at all.
: What else？
A: You know how everything boils down to me having a baby boy lately？ I mean, when books take me away from my mundane life (even for a brief moment), I just can’t help thinking how wonderful it would be if he loves reading, so that he socials with the talented, with the wise, with people who are bigger, you know, people who thinks and creates.
: Actually, it’s not just books (you talk about books because that’s all you know). What about music？ What about art？ The whole aesthetics thing, you know.
A: I guess this is why people say your parents are your start line, but hey, I can always grow with him.
: Don’t you have to go home yet？
A: Oh sh*t, this late？ I can’t afford to be back home late, not even by ten minutes. So let’s call it a day.
: Let’s do that.
《The Hours》读后感(四)：暗流
失眠是暗蓝色的/由一场雨带来的忧郁/星空和灯火一起沉落/在房屋后面，在樟树林的后面//这个时候/睡意由湍急渐渐/变缓，渐渐裸露出旅行者/的地图/像一株打开茂密枝叶的樟树//没有去向/没有可以抓住的/挥别之手/在稠密的夜色里/唯凭记忆的雪花/证明冰凉坚硬的时间//时间之岸/睡莲和流水彻夜喧哗/关于内心的孤决/只能以一枝奋迅的笔/书写梦境以及消逝//有些清醒来自于神谕/有些记忆是为了印证疼痛……（旧诗稿，《失眠》。2003.11）
无疑，这是一场真正的失眠。并无诗意。拿出旧稿默读一遍，发觉当年幼稚而无畏。
真正可怕的是一触即发的头痛，刚发现的那几天，只是在轻轻一声咳嗽中感到太阳穴处像注满了不可负担的重物。大概是天热没有休息好的原因吧。自己暗忖。
最近的生活除了一如既往地浑浑噩噩，还多了奔波。也不能停下来。停下来就会有强烈的失败感紧逼着自己。等疼痛已经从平静中凸显出来的时候，终于意识到已经来到一个临界的状态。
疼痛并非难堪，但是伴着巨大的清醒。巨大的，足够覆盖过整个长夜。这长夜，刚好用来读点书。坎宁安的《THE HOURS》，翻拍的电影已经看了很多遍。一直喜欢的朱莉安–摩尔、妮可–基德曼、梅丽尔–斯特里普，灵光闪现地演绎了三个在不同时空交替出现的女人，因为一部小说被宿命般联系起来。“头痛正在来临，好像轰炸机又出现在空中了”——不是同样的头痛，但还是为了这样的句式充满安慰。通篇充满了某种失败的情绪，大概正是因为这一点才让自己热爱：被自己的天赋逼到绝境的大名鼎鼎的弗吉尼亚夫人，不堪美满生活下潜伏着无法自我认同的布朗太太，与青梅竹马的爱人难以携手最后只得默默守望的克拉丽莎女士。有人说这是一个关于抑郁症的小说。弗吉尼亚的自溺、布朗太太抛夫弃子、克拉丽莎爱人理查德从窗口翻身坠落……，全是源于这种蓝色的病症。关于抑郁症也许是存在的，但更为让自己信服的总结是：身陷平庸生活的梦想家们，终于发现生活的本质居然正是这平庸……
是啊，平庸的生活，如此盛大、辽阔的平庸。一日三餐、拼写的错误、招待喧哗的访客、给丈夫庆祝生日、生病的邻居、一场当事人缺席的庆功会……这些琐碎而毫无意义的生活，它们的温度只会让人渗出又黏又湿的汗来，甚至不足以流下一滴可以自我救赎的泪水。是的。看着窗口正在来临的清晨，那即将开始又喧闹热烈的世界，像头痛一样清晰地提示你如此失败。除了把自己瑟缩在自己越来越小的世界里，已经没有任何方法可以来抵消这充满羞耻感的失败。甚至，这种羞耻让爱都变得微不足道，无限蔓延的羞耻最终将成为自己尚可苟活的唯一理由。
“死亡。她心里想，可能给人以深深的慰藉；可能使人感到极度的自由：就那么离去”。像到旅馆开一间房一样简单的死亡，怀着孕的布朗太太，独自在旅馆品尝死亡。“她想象着弗吉尼亚–伍尔芙，纯洁，错乱，被生活和艺术对她的难以实现的要求击败；想象着她口袋里装着一块石头走进河里……”散乱的故事渐渐裸露出清晰的线索：作为弗吉尼亚创作的《达洛维夫人》最忠实的读者，布朗太太终于抛弃了家庭，她的儿子，才华横溢的诗人理查德，与他心目中的“达洛维夫人”克拉丽莎爱恨纠缠半生……这些被神遴选出来身怀天赋的人，或者被自己认为可能持有某种才华的人，他们活着，就是在向世人演示梦想如何熄灭？
若说还有希望，平庸的克拉丽莎才可以承载这些幻灭的梦想。她爱着天才诗人理查德，在那个爱欲弥漫的奇妙夏天，理查德最后选择了俊美少年路易斯。究竟是源于她对他顽强的爱，还是她对他才华的迷恋，克拉丽莎用一生守护着疯狂而脆弱的诗人、最终感染了艾滋的理查德。好像他们的命运一开始就被这本理查德母亲热爱的《达洛维夫人》所诅咒了。 “为什么一定有人要死？雷纳德问维吉妮娅。为了对比。弗吉妮娅说，为了让活着的人更加懂得珍惜生活。那么谁会死？雷纳德又问。诗人。弗吉妮娅说，那些心怀梦想的人。” 理查德是克拉丽莎的梦想，也是她的牢笼。梦想泯灭了，平庸的生活将延续，并将获得自由与快乐。
长夜将过去。一触即发的头痛，似乎在暗示这个自以为是、扮演梦想家的人，现在，终于可以因为失败，因为承认自己的平庸，而与平庸的生活握手言和。除了不能停歇的羞耻和惭愧，再没有什么可以献给这个因平庸而伟大的世界。
“你第几次品尝死亡？/同样幽暗的黄昏/你第几次得到孤独的神谕/像遵从空气一般/为生命分离出爱和疼痛//你已精通后园小河的水势/如同你精通血管里/何时会搏动不安/那些在光线后班驳的事物/一直被你信仰//再也回不去了/暖人的晚宴、酒会里点满蜡烛/丝质礼服以及薄而清亮的口红/诵读那些裸露出灵魂的诗句/会让一个女子变得更加/优雅而寂寞//敬畏死亡必敬畏生命/文字终究不是一条去路/更揪心的是/爱人的心跳亲近却并不可及/人生的真相莫不如此//是的，是时候了/随暗流潜入黑暗与不朽/这是你一生中/唯一失守的黄昏……”（旧诗稿，《暗流》。2004.12）
《The Hours》读后感(五)：To Transcend the Mundane life: Mission Impossible?
Life tortures men in all means: it batters the poor physically and corrupts the wealthy mentally. Ordinary ones, gaining an innocent but not-that-high salary from their decent job, having a kind yet not-that-beautiful spouse, as well, never escape. It is, however, the third one that is ignored by most people, and it is these people that are suffering, though unaware.
The book The Hours discusses the theme of the mundane life. How far can it possibly drive a man to？ How do people react to it？ Does the reaction, in different ages, ever change？ It takes Mrs. Dalloway, a masterpiece of Virginia Woolf’s, as the base and depicts three stories of three women, in different eras. Nothing in same, though it may looks, they all have, in a way, related to Mrs. Dalloway. Virginia Woolf is the one who creates the woman; Mrs. Brown is its reader and also deeply influenced; Clarissa is a Mrs. Dalloway in modern times.
The first story is about Virginia Woolf. It is a flashback: at the very beginning, she walked into a stream and drowned herself. It was an uneventful day. The author wrote with great detachment, as if her death was not worthy to be talked of. “Here they are, on a day early in the Second World War: the boy and his mother on the bridge, the stick floating over the water’s surface, and Virginia’s body at the river’s bottom.” It is as if the body was no other than a stick. The world would not be interrupted by a woman’s death: children still admired soldiers, soldiers still went to the battlefield, and the battlefield would still bear dead bodies. They all did their routine, no one found she dead.
In the late days of her life, she suffered from psychoauditory and moved to Richmond, a town at the outskirt of London, for better recuperation. Meanwhile she was writing Mrs. Dalloway. Although she was an adult already, inside she was still a kid that never grew up. She was afraid of the housemaid, and was to some degree shared the same thought with her sister’s youngest daughter. She was paradoxical: the bustle in London aroused the voices inside her (the psychoauditory); but the still-existing voices drove her back to London. Luckily she had a perfect husband, Leonard, who would do anything for her good. He stopped to be a publisher when they moved to Richmond, and he also agreed to go back to London when Virginia came up with the idea, which meant throwing away his career again. At last, when Virginia realized that whatever she did, wherever she lived, she may not get rid of these voices forever, she became desperate. She killed herself.
Writers are one of the least who could bear the mundane life. Writers, especially good writers, need a sensitive heart to discover the most subtle feelings and minuscule details in life. Thus, they are more prone to perceive sadness. For Virginia, a woman with an unmentionable childhood, now well-protected by her husband, burying herself in writing, is ever more typical.
It may successfully escape from the readers’ eye what happened when Virginia’s sister, Vanessa and her three children paid a visit. The children found a dying bird and the youngest, Angelica, decided to bury it. “’Right.’ Virginia answers. She almost protests that the bird should be laid down first, the roses arranged around its body. That is clearly how it should be done. You would, she thinks, argue with a five-year-old girl about such things. You would, if Vanessa and the boys weren’t watching.” The odd thing is that during Vanessa’s visit, Virginia spent most time with the youngest child Angelica, rather than Vanessa, and this detail reveals that she was, in her nature, almost as innocent and naïve as five. She judged and did things from the view of a five-year-old. How could a child manage to endure the morbidity？ So she died.
The second one is about Laura Brown, a housewife in Los Angeles, 1949. It was a time when soldiers survived from the war went back home with distinguished honor, the world was recovering from the war. Laura married a soldier, gave birth to a boy, and was pregnant again. It seemed perfect: a loving husband, a cute son, no heavy work except some house tasks. What more could you expect？ As for Laura, however, it was not satisfactory.
eople have different expectations for life; some need material, some desire spiritual comfort; some greedy for everything, others willing to devote as much as they can. Thus, everyone should live in a way that fits them, and if it doesn’t, however glamorous it may seem, he will never be happy. Such was the case of Laura Brown.
Her life was peace, yes, undoubtedly, but tedious too. “It seems he is always making a wish, every moment, and that he wishes, like his father’s, having mainly to do with continuance. Like his father, what he wants most ardently is more of what he’s already got (though, of course, if asked about the nature of his wishes, he would immediately rattle off a long list of toys, both actual and imaginary).” A life with no novelty was obviously intolerable to her.
Laura was never a housewife type. She loved reading, and reading meant spare time, and freedom. She was so average a woman of few chasers that it could be regarded as an honor to be proposed by Dan, her husband. However, she failed to adapt herself in the role as a wife. Anyhow, she did housework, though she forced herself to. “She will do all that’s required, and more.” She was not supposed to be a wife, at least a housewife like this. A woman like her wouldn’t survive in such a life. She had long realized the mistake of marrying Dan; the only way out was ever so clear: to run away.
Yes, the idea had occurred to her, and she did try once. On Dan’s birthday- as a matter of fact, all this happened in this day- she dropped her son at the babysitter’s and went to a hotel, stayed in a room for two hours. She neither killed herself nor escaped. She only read Mrs. Dalloway.
Even when she was away from home, when there was no housework to do and no worry of attending to the kid, she never shook off the shackles. “ For an hour or two, she can go wherever she likes. After that, the alarms will start up. By five o’clock or so, Mrs. Latch will begin to worry, and by six at the latest she’ll start making calls. If it gets that late Laura will have explaining to do, but right now and for at least another two hours, really, she is free.” The mundane chains always existed, though invisible. Laura realized this on that day; however, she had no one to tell.
he had friends, and Kitty just paid her a visit when she baked a cake for Dan, but she didn’t mention a word about her miserable situation to Kitty. They passed the time of day for so long, though neither readers nor themselves were likely to catch the point of what they were talking. Actually, they were hardly friends. Laura didn’t seem to trust or treasure this friend, they got in touch only because they were lonely. They needed to convince others that they lived well.
Laura’s story is, as it were, a variation of Mrs. Dalloway. Superficially, nothing particular happened, however, it was this day that she made up her mind to evade. She was determined that she would leave the family after she gave birth to the second child. A woman trapped in daily trivialities, even didn’t care much about her family. She was so lonely and inverted that she had to hide her true self even when she was with her husband and son.
The third woman is Clarissa, a modern Mrs. Dalloway, and it was exactly what Richard, her friend and former lover, called her. Her day is almost the same with the book Mrs. Dalloway. Richard had won a small literature prize and she decided to throw a party for him. She went out in the morning to buy flowers and went to his apartment to tell him to come. Richard was a writer who wrote a book with an interminable length, was not well-known. Tormented by HIV, he was already desperate. Clarissa, after taking care of Richard for twenty years, had no idea if she still loved him; what kept her doing so was the sweet memory of the days of youth when they were together. She thought she could help him, which she actually couldn’t; however she couldn’t even help herself: she had a daughter, but she didn’t know the father; she was not married at the age of fifty and lived with a lesbian. Richard, at last, chose to commit suicide. And the one who failed to kill herself, Laura Brown, turned out to be his mother. She, as what had been resolved, abandoned her family after the second child’s birth, which casted heavy shadow among Richard. In his novel, he even killed the character that was distinctly originated from Laura.
What vexed Clarissa was how slight a mundane person would be. When she went out to buy flowers, she happened to saw Meryl Streep shooting on the street. Thoughts began to sprawl. People talked about them of everything, from tiny to large. They were always the topic, and they would remain to be talked about even after they died. But what about the ordinary ones？ If no one would remember them ,why bother living that hard？
It is better to say that Richard is a part of Clarissa’s character. Clarissa held the party for Richard because she didn’t want him to be forgotten quickly, especially when his condition was getting increasingly worse. She, not a celebrity as well, was also afraid of being forgotten. The party was for Richard, and it was for Clarissa herself too.
There were some particular narrations after Richard died. “ The food feels pristine, untouchable; it could be a display of relics. It seems, briefly, to Clarissa, that the food- that most perishable of entities- will remain here after she and the others have disappeared; after all of them , even Julia, have died. Clarissa imagines the food still here, still fresh somehow, untouched, as she and the others leave these rooms one by one, forever.” The remaining food of the party symbolized Richard’s achievement, which Clarissa hoped to be preserved forever.
Later that day, Clarissa started to worry about herself. “ soon Clarissa will sleep, soon everyone who knew him will be asleep, and they’ll all wake up tomorrow morning to find that he’s joined the realm of the dead. She wonders if tomorrow morning will mark not only the end of Richard’s earthly life but the beginning of the end of his poetry, too. There are, after all, so many books.” A mediocre book will soon fade, just as an average person will never be memorized.
Everyone prefers fame; few are willing to reconcile to the mundane life. Is it possible to transcend it？ Maybe one day we have to accept that mundanity is the truth for most of us. Will you still love life when that day comes？
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因為某些原因有些地方寫得特傻逼 比如標題。。又懶得改了 大家保護好自己的狗眼吧