The English Patient go inside Books I marvel that this was ever read by more than a thousand people It is too poetic for the mainstream too fragmented for easy consumption and too sensual fo
The English Patient go inside Books I marvel that this was ever read by more than a thousand people. It is too poetic for the mainstream, too fragmented for easy consumption, and too sensual for those who consider plot the most important part of a novel. This remains one of my three favourite novels because of its poeticism, fragmentation and sensuality.This time through I decided to read it out loud, and a whole new sensuality exploded into the experience for me. Actually rolling those words and worlds around on my tongue, wheezing my way through the English Patient's tale, letting Kip's Lahore English spill over my teeth, adopting Carravagio's voice as my own, and trying my best to capture Hana for myself (I have the benefit of being mostly Canadian and not having to adjust my accent for the latter two) broadened the sensuality of the book, and not just because the sounds were resounding in my head. I could feel the words filling my lungs, or burning my throat, or passing through my airways in different manners, so that saying the words on the page, those already sensual words, made the sensuality tangible for me. To feel a book in other ways as I read it and hear it is as near as I come to a holy experience. Words are my church. Michael Ondaatje is my priest. The English Patient is one of my scriptures. Don't even talk to me about the travesty that is the film. . With ravishing beauty and unsettling intelligence, Michael Ondaatje s Booker Prize winning novel traces the intersection of four damaged lives in an Italian villa at the end of World War II Hana, the exhausted nurse the maimed thief, Caravaggio the wary sapper, Kip each is haunted by the riddle of the English patient, the nameless, burned man who lies in an upstairs roWith ravishing beauty and unsettling intelligence, Michael Ondaatje s Booker Prize winning novel traces the intersection of four damaged lives in an Italian villa at the end of World War II Hana, the exhausted nurse the maimed thief, Caravaggio the wary sapper, Kip each is haunted by the riddle of the English patient, the nameless, burned man who lies in an upstairs room and whose memories of passion, betrayal, and rescue illuminate this book like flashes of heat lightning.. Bestseller Book The English Patient 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.