When I first experienced this novel, I was a freshman in college. My grades had been poor because the journalism major I had thought I wanted to pursue turned out to just be a series of courses on how to write with hot air and the unnecessary rules that bind that style of writing--it was clear that Hunter S. Thompson had made no impression on the School of Journalism at the University of Maine. I was clearly too depressed and listless to make any real attempt at passing those journalism courses, and the few English classes I was taking were "core" classes and so crammed lots of Shakespeare down my throat (despite my current infatuation with the Bard, I was then much too restless to appreciate the finer qualities of his plays).And then, Professor Norris assigned us The English Patient.I remember thinking within the first few pages of reading how bizarre the novel seemed to be. After all, the tense shifts frequently back and forth from present to past in an apparently random fashion. The setting jumped all over the place, from an abandoned Italian monastery towards the end of World War II to a cartographers' camp outside of Cairo, and so on. And yet, it was clear to me by the time I finished that, despite the apparent randomness of the technical aspects of the novel, no other novel had ever left such a definite and lucid impression on me. I truly knew the characters, how they thought, how they acted, and how they interacted with one another. The plot, while it seemed difficult to follow at first, was not only understandable by the end but moreover heartrending and tragic. I had no idea that novels could do this, be so disjointed and yet singularly impressive and evocative. Needless to say, my faith in literature was completely renewed after reading The English Patient, and while it is perhaps not the best example of the novel (remember, this was years before I first encountered Ulysses), it nevertheless showed me the infinite possibilities of the narrative form.Indulge me for a moment to divulge a bit more about the novel itself:The characters in the novel are among those from literature I will remember and cherish as long as my memory remains intact. There is Hana, the young Canadian nurse who is clearly suffering from PTSD (for many things experienced during the War, including the death of her father, a pilot who was shot down) and is trying to make it right by caring for someone who will remain alive. There is Almasy--the titular patient--who we first encounter as a mystery burn victim, a man pulled from the wreckage of a crashed plane (as Hana's father would have been had he survived...), but who we later learn is a much, much more complex character. There is Caravaggio, the Canadian thief (and apparent friend of Hana's father) and sometime secret agent who is now mysteriously missing both of his thumbs. And there is Kip, the Sikh sapper who has joined the British Army in an attempt to show his loyalty to the British Empire and assimilate himself into it, despite protests from his anti-Imperial brother.And these are only the characters we meet in the "present" time of the novel, that is, the end of World War II. I have said nothing of Katharine, around whom Almasy's stories and memories constantly revolve, or Geoffrey Clifton, Katharine's husband, who becomes an obvious obstacle for Almasy (though the author, Michael Ondaatje, never allows his narrative to sink to the level of a soap opera). These characters live only in the memory of the novel, and we never see them in the "present."The reason we never see them in the present is one of the reasons why the novel's plot is so heartrending. I will say nothing of what happens, except to say that if you have seen the equally wonderful--but incredibly different--Academy Award-winning film adaptation, you only know half of the story. There is so much more going on in the novel, things that cannot be fully translated to the screen because they are emoted in such a dreamlike and poetic fashion.Michael Ondaatje is one of the contemporary authors I admire most. He follows the "rules" of novel-writing, but only until they hamper his ideas, at which point he bends them or ignores them altogether. He seamlessly blends poetry and prose and is therefore able to touch emotions that most other novelists completely ignore. Undoubtedly, it is for these reasons that I found The English Patient so refreshing back in the spring of 2001, and why I have since returned to it time and time again.
I am just going to fess up. This book was too literary and depressing for my tastes or, at least, for my mood when I started. Ondaatje offered beautiful descriptions, insightfulness, and a profound melancholy. Yet I found myself trudging through this one, propelled forward only by his up-coming visit to Houston.Given his picture on the jacket cover, highfaluting writing style, and acclaimed career, I expected him to be pretentious. To the contrary, he was charming during the on-stage interview. (He actually reminded me of E.L. Doctorow.) I enjoyed hearing him read out loud from his new book, The Cat's Table, during which he elicited a few good chuckles from the crowd. And it was cute when he described copy editing as the most humiliating experience for an author. “Everything is wrong!”One critic describes Ondaatje as a “novelist with the heart of a poet” and that’s really telling. His first four works were poetry. When he switched to prose, he wanted to maintain that suggestiveness, that restraint, that vagueness. To start a novel, he requires very little: a period of time, landscape, and a hint of a character or two. (And contrary to rumors, he doesn’t go and live at a book’s location. He may just visit briefly.) Thereafter, he doesn’t like to fill his head with research. He jokingly called himself an inaccurate researcher and warned us to not depend on him to defuse bomb. (A character from this book was an expert at bomb disposal.)The shame I felt sitting in the audience! There Ondaatje had been, graciously giving me space in his world. He invited me to engage with the text in my own way. I could paint the rest of the picture. I was encouraged to pause and ruminate on this or that genius nugget at my leisure. And what did I do? I whined about the remote characters and lack of plot. The characters were recovering from a disastrous war – of course, I couldn’t relate to them! How I have been ruined by urban fantasy shit! Oh well.Once the interview concluded, I was ambivalent about getting my book signed for a variety of reasons. It had been a long day at work. It was a three-star book. And more importantly, the line was 70 people long and growing. Alas, my friend, Jen wanted get hers signed and I agreed to accompany her. I was mentally estimating a good thirty minutes standing around in my high heels. But once Ondaatje sat down at the signing table, that line moved like lightning! It wasn’t until I got up there that I realized why. He wasn’t talking to anyone. Everyone’s murmurings (I love your work, yada yada yada) went unanswered. Sign book, nod, sign next book, nod. It saved me the trouble of pretending more enthusiasm for his book than I felt and I can understand how tedious these book tours must have become for him. Still, Ondaatje, come on!
Do You like book The English Patient (2006)?
This Booker Prize winner is the story of the shedding of skin. The process of becoming another can occur dramatically like the burns the Englishman suffers in the desert plane crash that claims his physical identity and memory. It can also happen internally with the loss of friends, altered perceptions and compromised beliefs, and the endless arrivals of the dead and wounded. The self can be a casualty of war too.It's the end of the Second World War, mines litter the landscape of Italy, bandits and deserters hide in plain sight, and everyone's loyalty is suspect. Danger persists for the medics transporting the wounded and dying to safety in northern hospitals. One has taken his last trip, as the decision is made to change course, leave the others and claim a bombed out and deserted villa as hospice. It is here that truths will be uncovered and identities reclaimed in Michael Ondaatje's multi-layered story of adventure, mystery, and romance.There are secrets to reveal, deeds to acknowledge, and futures to fantasize all spelled out in words exquisitely chosen for their mystery and sensual pleasure. Against the backdrop of cave markings, the legends and myths of Herodotus, and ancient cities, a love story is unvailed along with the Englishman's identity. Hauntingly beautiful storytelling! Highest Recommendation.
—Cheryl Kennedy
The English Patient is one of my least favorite novels of all time. Michael Ondaatje's prose is the literary equivalent of having a gossamer skein repeatedly thrown over your face and then dragged away; fleeting and insubstantial, but just present enough to be really fucking annoying. Also, his dialogue sucks. People in the 1940s absolutely did not speak the way Ondaatje has them speaking. This novel won the Booker Prize in 1992, an award which was, for some God-unknown reason, split with Barry Unsworth's Sacred Hunger. I haven't read Sacred Hunger, but the one novel by Unsworth I have read, Morality Play, was crisply written, well thought-out, and compelling, so I'm going to go ahead and say that--without ever having read it--there's no way Sacred Hunger could possibly occupy the same literary sewer that The English Patient does.
—Adam
Who really is the English Patient?Brought to a mountain villa, outside of Florence Italy, after being rescued in the deserts of Libya, by Bedouins. Burnt badly in a plane crash, Hana, a young Canadian nurse, takes care of the "Englishman" .She falls in love with this sad enigma.Set in the closing days of the second world war.The nurse refuses to leave with the other doctors and nurses, when the conflict heads north.She believes the patient will not survive , the move. Enter David Caravaggio, an old friend of her father's, back in Toronto.Caravaggio a petty thief, is like an uncle to Hana.David a former spy for the allies,reveals that the English Patient,is Count Ladislaus de Almasy. A Hungarian, who worked for the Germans.But does it matter anymore? The patient is dying !Another man comes to the villa,Kirpal Singh, an Indian sapper(bomb disposal expert). Hana is attracted to "Kip" and he to her.Kip was trained in London and followed the war to Italy.He has second thoughts about what he's doing here,many miles away from colonial ruled India.His older brother is in jail for opposing the British.The Count,was an explorer in the Sahara Desert, with a few others in 1930's .He tells the story of his affair with Katharine,a woman married to his friend.Tragic events happen as a consequence.This unusual book keeps a reader interested to the very end.
—Henry Avila
