The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje

This book first came to my attention when it was adapted into a film in 1996. I never saw the film, but I recall the critical fanfare which surrounded it. I later encountered fans of the book, who were always quick to point out all the awards it had won for being amazing and for being Canadian all at the same time.

I didn't really choose to read this book first this summer. I went to the nearest branch of the Toronto Public Library and filled out the necessary paperwork for a library card with dizzying anticipation. The Rexdale Branch Library is a dismal place: one floor with sparse shelving and fluorescent lights. Most of the space is taken up by the children's literature section and a few computers. I looked (with slightly diminished excitement) for anything that was on my reading list, and along came Ondaatje. They had several of his books there, and none of the others', so I took his home.

The first impression that I had upon finishing the book was that the experience of reading it had been much more memorable than the content itself. I have, after some thought, attributed this to the writing style.

Although there are several central characters who take turns as the narrator, the voice and tone stays consistent throughout. This voice and tone has a poetic, observational quality that creates a type of emotional distance between the reader and the narrator. I believe this was done on purpose by the author, who wished to demonstrate the characters' experiences of each other. Each pair of central characters seems to share a remarkable intimacy, which is revealed by the stories and experiences they tell to each other. This intimacy is always oppressed by a reserve. Although they share extensively about who they have been and what they have done, there is rarely any expression of their inner motives, desires, or reactions to their experiences. The tone of the narration coupled with the detailed exploration of their lives gives me a strong feeling of intimacy lost or missed - like friends who have grown apart or words that were not spoken.

The matter of the book was, I suppose, along this same vein. I think it means to say that in times of great hurt, we reach out for supports. Sometimes we fabricate supports for ourselves out of people, and make them into things that never really existed. Hana believes her English patient is a warrior saint, a man of mystery and power and goodness. In reality he was a spy, a cuckold, and on the wrong side of the war. Her belief was good, although factually baseless, because it helped her recover some sanity and purpose after months of helping soldiers die comfortably.

To be honest, I don't know if I "got" this one. The writing was stylistically beautiful, and as I had said, the experience of reading it was delightful. I can try to assemble themes and meanings for it, but it seems contrived. I sum up my impression thus: He told her everything except for 'why'.