ABFED #8 The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje
So this book is pretty up there in terms of CanLit must-reads - made into a movie that people actually went and saw, even in the States, etc. etc. But I really had no idea what it was about. Well. It happens to be about a foursome of diverse-and-interesting (how can that possibly sound as cliche as it does?) people who find themselves in the same, half-bombed Italian villa near the end of the Second World War. They are a young Canadian nurse, her Italian-Canadian friend (well, father's friend - he's at least 25 years older) who is a thief and a spy, and had his hands mangled in a botched robbery, a Sikh bomb defuser who works with the British army, and the eponymous English Patient (SPOILER ALERT! One of the major tensions in the novel is figuring out if he is, in fact, English. Which he is not. Which lends itself to some interesting re-interpretations of the title). This English patient has the dubious distinction of falling in a ball of fire from the sky over the Libyan desert, and being cared for by a Bedouin tribe until they dump him in, oh, Egypt, I think. Eventually, clearly, he makes it back to Italy and to Hana's care.
The book doesn't have a capital-P Plot like the thriller or mysteries that I've been reading, at least not in a linear sense. There is a huge flashback element to the book; in the case of Caravaggio and the E.P. revelations are made more often that not under the influence of entirely too much morphine. Each character's backstory is explored in slightly different ways, Kip's in stories of mentorship and bomb-defusions, Caravaggio's in his previous exploits as a burgler and then a spy. Hana is perhaps the most mysterious of the characters, but on the other hand, she has a lot less backstory to tell; her life and identity is completely wrapped up in the present - she is, plainly and simply, a nurse. Whereas the revelations about these three characters seem to happen organically, as a function of proximity and familiarity, the E.P's story seems ripped from him. Some of his history is gleaned from the book he keeps with him, half reference and half scrapbook, that Hana or Caravaggio reads while he sleeps. The end, but also the most relevant parts, of his story, seem taken from him, as Caravaggio doses him with morphine and alcohol. It rings true, but seems unfair.
In addition, and I've said this before, I really need to stop reading bits of text that come before the story begins. There is a note somewhere between the dedication and the title plate that mentions that one of the parts (there are about eight) of the book was published at some point "in slightly different form" in the New Yorker. Me being easily persuaded, this portion of the book though (probably) no fault of it's own thereafter seemed, indeed, a little out of place. The events that it described seemed just a little too polished, a little too sustained, compared with the narration styles in the rest of the novel. To be fair, the novel's perspective does fluidly shift between characters, and recollections are, if not in the first person, very precise in their omniscience. It is entirely possible that the difference in narrative styles perfectly echoes the nature of the speaker; sadly, I do not possess the skillz to notice that on first reading.
Which brings me to my conclusion. The English Patient is melancholy, and haunting, and evocative, and downright educational, but it's greatest strength is in the pure beauty of its prose. I'm throwing it right back on my "to read" list, because it's one that both deserves and demands a second reading, to pick up any detail that may have been accidentally overlooked the first time around. This is both a practical and an artistic comment; Michael Ondaatje's writing is sparse almost to the point of ambiguity, and bits that look like they will be clarified later on...aren't. N.B. this could be completely attributable to my lack of reading comprehension due to my non-lack of reading speed. Anyway. I will be glad to reread, because it really is that beautiful and enjoyable.
Off to (maybe) watch the hockey game. Go Wings!
The book doesn't have a capital-P Plot like the thriller or mysteries that I've been reading, at least not in a linear sense. There is a huge flashback element to the book; in the case of Caravaggio and the E.P. revelations are made more often that not under the influence of entirely too much morphine. Each character's backstory is explored in slightly different ways, Kip's in stories of mentorship and bomb-defusions, Caravaggio's in his previous exploits as a burgler and then a spy. Hana is perhaps the most mysterious of the characters, but on the other hand, she has a lot less backstory to tell; her life and identity is completely wrapped up in the present - she is, plainly and simply, a nurse. Whereas the revelations about these three characters seem to happen organically, as a function of proximity and familiarity, the E.P's story seems ripped from him. Some of his history is gleaned from the book he keeps with him, half reference and half scrapbook, that Hana or Caravaggio reads while he sleeps. The end, but also the most relevant parts, of his story, seem taken from him, as Caravaggio doses him with morphine and alcohol. It rings true, but seems unfair.
In addition, and I've said this before, I really need to stop reading bits of text that come before the story begins. There is a note somewhere between the dedication and the title plate that mentions that one of the parts (there are about eight) of the book was published at some point "in slightly different form" in the New Yorker. Me being easily persuaded, this portion of the book though (probably) no fault of it's own thereafter seemed, indeed, a little out of place. The events that it described seemed just a little too polished, a little too sustained, compared with the narration styles in the rest of the novel. To be fair, the novel's perspective does fluidly shift between characters, and recollections are, if not in the first person, very precise in their omniscience. It is entirely possible that the difference in narrative styles perfectly echoes the nature of the speaker; sadly, I do not possess the skillz to notice that on first reading.
Which brings me to my conclusion. The English Patient is melancholy, and haunting, and evocative, and downright educational, but it's greatest strength is in the pure beauty of its prose. I'm throwing it right back on my "to read" list, because it's one that both deserves and demands a second reading, to pick up any detail that may have been accidentally overlooked the first time around. This is both a practical and an artistic comment; Michael Ondaatje's writing is sparse almost to the point of ambiguity, and bits that look like they will be clarified later on...aren't. N.B. this could be completely attributable to my lack of reading comprehension due to my non-lack of reading speed. Anyway. I will be glad to reread, because it really is that beautiful and enjoyable.
Off to (maybe) watch the hockey game. Go Wings!