Scarred and broken people,

isolated in a random post-catastrophe community.

The breathtakingly beautiful landscapes seem almost ironic in this desolate setting.

Captivating characters and storylines unfold, drawing the reader in with their complexity and depth.

This is a truly wonderful novel, told in different layers and voices and from different perspectives. At the end of the nightmare tale, one character reflects on the intellectual brilliance that humanity invests in creating ever more sophisticated ways to kill each other, ultimately culminating in nuclear weapons. If we can rationalize this, the character wonders, we can rationalize anything.

And unfortunately, this still seems to hold true. We have the ability to rationalize even the most heinous acts, and in doing so, we continue to destroy what we have created.

However, there is another message in this beautifully depressing story. Words matter, and they have power. By keeping the story alive, someone, somewhere, will listen and be moved to act with individual kindness and charity.

Hope and despair walk off the stage of this story together, holding hands in their loneliness, a poignant reminder of the delicate balance between the two in our own lives.

This book is truly remarkable. If it fails to turn you into an Ondaatje fan, then it seems nothing else will. I really wish I still had it in my possession. I'm certain it's worth another read. It's that kind of book that leaves a lasting impression and has the power to draw you in again and again.

Looking at the previous review, we have "Down By the River Where the Dead Men Go" by Pelecanos. The next review is "Erasmus of Rotterdam" by Zweig. There's also a more recent review of "Leonard Maltin's Movie Guide".

In the context of library reviews, the previous one was "Life of Pi" and the next one will be "Americanah". These reviews provide a diverse range of literary works for readers to explore and discover. It's fascinating to see the different perspectives and opinions expressed about these books.

Overall, the world of literature is vast and full of treasures waiting to be unearthed, and these reviews serve as a guide to help us navigate through this wonderful landscape.

This is the type of book that I usually enjoy.

However, I am seriously struggling to get into it.

There is something about the writing style that is completely alienating me from the characters and the events that are being described.

It's as if an invisible force is pushing me further and further away with each page I turn.

Despite my initial interest, I had to give up on it at page 89.

I really wanted to like this book, but unfortunately, the writing style has made it impossible for me to engage with the story on a deeper level.

Maybe it's just not the right fit for me at this time, but I can't help but feel a sense of disappointment.

I hope that in the future, I will come across a book with a similar premise that is written in a way that speaks to me more directly.

A plane crashes in the desert and the Bedouins who live there rescue the pilot who has been on fire and after some care, hand him over to the Allied forces. This unnamed pilot, known as the English patient, along with his nurse Hana, are in a building that has been emptied after bombings. Two more people are added to this group, a thief named Caravaggio and an Indian sapper expert in mine and bomb disposal named Kip. Throughout the story, we move back and forth between the past and the present until we listen to the story of the English patient. A story of love, betrayal, separation, death, and forgetfulness. In my opinion, the book doesn't have a very interesting translation, but the story is interesting. Moreover, a film has been made based on this book, which is at least more attractive than the Persian version of the book. That is, if you have to choose between reading the book or watching the film, my recommendation is the film.

It should be noted that the book I read was translated by Niloufar Serhadi.

What can I say and what true literature I see in this book
Whose name is "The Awards" -
Michael Ondaatje, a more than wonderful novelist -
The translation by Osama Esber is great and brilliant.
The cover and design by Dar al-Ra'ayat are really cool -
I'm done.

This book, "The Awards" by Michael Ondaatje, is truly a masterpiece. The novel is not only beautifully written but also translated superbly by Osama Esber. The story takes the reader on a journey through the lives of the characters, exploring themes of love, loss, and redemption. The cover and design of the book, by Dar al-Ra'ayat, are also very eye-catching and add to the overall appeal of the book. I highly recommend this book to anyone who loves literature and wants to experience a truly unforgettable story.

Negative stars should be given for extremely inappropriate and immoral behaviors such as necrophilia, which involves sexual activities with the deceased. This is not only a violation of the most basic ethical and moral norms but also causes great harm and disrespect to the dignity of the dead.

Sexual things with kids are even more abhorrent. It is a heinous crime that seriously endangers the physical and mental health and well-being of children, leaving them with indelible psychological traumas.

As for seahorse penises, although they may have some unique biological characteristics, using them in inappropriate or unethical ways is also unacceptable. We should respect the natural world and all living beings and not engage in any behavior that goes against nature and morality.

In conclusion, these behaviors are all worthy of condemnation and should be firmly opposed and prohibited by society. We should establish correct values and moral concepts and jointly create a healthy, harmonious and civilized social environment.

I may have been in a rather foul mood when I watched the film adaptation of this novel upon its initial release.

Truth be told, I didn't have much of an inclination towards it. It seemed overly long and sluggish, and I couldn't muster up any concern for the characters.

I wonder if my perception of the film would have been different had I read the novel beforehand. However, what I do know for certain is that my aversion to the film deterred me from reading the novel, and by extension, any other works by Ondaatje.

Thankfully, I was able to overcome my negativity towards the film and finally got around to reading this novel with my friend Jemidar.

After delving into it, I have a better understanding of the film. Although it hasn't yet transformed me into a die-hard Ondaatje fan, I might be on the path towards becoming one.

A few days after finishing the book, Ondaatje's exquisitely poetic use of language still lingers in my mind, as do the four characters whose intertwined lives form the crux of the narrative.

This novel, perhaps with the exception of its portrayal of Kip Singh's experiences, lacks a certain sharpness. There is a certain haziness to it that at times made me feel as if I was under the influence of the morphine haze in which two of the four characters lead their lives.

It's clearly not a novel for those who crave a fast-paced narrative or a narrative devoid of ambiguity. Nevertheless, it is the poetry that makes it truly worthwhile.

This was a rather slow read for me. I really struggled to follow the jumbled timelines that seemed to jump around haphazardly. Trying to connect with the main characters was also a challenge. I'm well aware that many of my Goodreads friends adored the poetic writing style. However, it simply didn't work for me. When I picked up this book, I was anticipating a war novel with an engaging plot, well-developed and relatable characters. Instead, I found myself delving into an epic, meandering, and overly prolix narrative poem.

Towards the end of World War II, four people from different nationalities are brought together by chance at a Tuscan villa. The Englishman has suffered severe burns from a plane crash and is on the verge of death. The Canadian nurse, Hana, who had the option to go with other hospital nurses to the safer north, makes the decision to stay and nurse him. A Sikh sapper, Kip, undertakes the life-threatening task of defusing mined bombs around the villa. An Italian-Canadian thief and spy, Caravaggio, who is a friend of Hana's father, arrives to persuade her to leave the dangerous place. Despite his suspicion of white Europeans, Kip falls in love with Hana. Caravaggio identifies the English patient as the pro-German Hungarian desert explorer.

Each character has a deeply poignant backstory. When these are revealed, they provide insights into their present states of mind. The English patient once had a passionate love affair with the wife of a British intelligence agent, which led to the husband's suicide-murder attempt that ultimately claimed the wife's life. Hana had an aborted child and was left devastated by her father's death from serious burns. Kip lost a dear British friend and coach who was killed while defusing a bomb. Caravaggio had his thumbs severed as punishment for stealing photo shots of German officers.

The plot, in itself, was not a bad one. However, the way it was executed diluted the suspense significantly. With the exception of the Sikh (Kip), the characters failed to strike a chord with me.

Throughout the novel, there is interspersed technical information about cartography, desert oases, and bomb defusing. Unfortunately, I didn't find any of this particularly interesting.

All in all, I'm giving this novel 3 stars.

A love story is not simply about those who lose their hearts haphazardly. Instead, it is about those who discover that sullen inhabitant within. When this inner being is stumbled upon, it means that the body can no longer deceive anyone or anything. It can't fool the wisdom of sleep or the habit of social graces. It is a process of completely consuming oneself and one's past.

She entered this story with the awareness that she would come out of it feeling as if she had been deeply immersed in the lives of others. The plots extended back twenty years, and her body was filled with sentences and moments. It was as if she was awakening from sleep with a heaviness brought on by unremembered dreams.

She had always craved words. She loved them and had grown up surrounded by them. Words gave her clarity, brought reason and shape to her thoughts. On the other hand, I believed that words could distort emotions, much like sticks appear bent when placed in water.

I can't believe it took me such a long time to get to this book. But in a strange way, I'm glad I read it four months into a deadly pandemic.

Immersing myself in this tale of four strangers holed up in a crumbling, abandoned villa outside Florence in the final days of World War II felt oddly soothing during this bizarre, uncertain time.

The way Ondaatje crafts the story, skillfully weaving in and out of people's memories, is truly masterful. He creates a dreamscape filled with vivid imagery, profound thoughts, and a captivating narrative.

The book, which is of average length, around 300 pages or so, has such rich and suggestive language that I found myself rereading passages, savoring and almost tasting the words.

On one level, the book is a mystery. Who is this patient, presumed to be English, with his body charred and blackened after being found in a burning plane in the Egyptian desert? And what draws the young Canadian nurse, Hana, who has endured much loss during the war, to tend to him?

Later, her family friend Caravaggio, a thief and (as it turns out) a spy, joins her, convinced he knows secrets about the patient. And then there's the fourth figure, Kirpal ("Kip") Singh, an Indian Sikh bomb disposal expert who was trained in England and forms connections with the erudite patient and the vulnerable Hana.

But it's about so much more than just a mystery. It explores betrayals (both of nations and of the heart), colonialism, grief, and different kinds of love. There's also a significant amount of discussion about jazz, one of Ondaatje's recurring obsessions.

If you're familiar with the acclaimed movie – I've seen it four or five times and plan to rewatch it again right after writing this – there are many differences.

For instance, the narrative in the movie is easier to follow, and there's no ambiguity about the patient's identity. The two main settings of the book – 1945 Italy and 1930s Egypt – are interwoven in a more satisfying way in the movie (in the novel, the Cairo section doesn't really start until halfway through).

Moreover, the younger characters in the villa - especially Caravaggio and Kip – have more thorough and complex backstories in the movie.

Surprisingly, I admire the adaptation even more after reading the book. The filmmakers often take snippets of scenes from one part of the book and juxtapose them in another, always for emotional impact and clarity.

The cinematography and music in the movie also add fascinating layers. The novel has a different conclusion, but both the film and the book end on satisfying, hopeful notes.

Ondaatje remains one of the most sensual writers. His double romance narratives are enchanting without falling into clichés or sentimentality. And the way he gradually reveals the patient's history (the concept of history being a major theme), often through the influence of morphine, is simply mesmerizing.

This is a book that will stay in my imagination – and haunt my dreams – for a very long time.

This novel indeed contains some truly fantastic prose. The words seem to dance on the page, creating vivid images and emotions. However, despite its literary merits, it has a rather peculiar effect on me. Every time I pick it up and read just one or two pages, I find myself succumbing to sleep.

It's quite strange really. I can't seem to stay awake long enough to get into the story. As a result, I don't remember the plot at all. My memory of this book is now inextricably tied up with the dreams that I have during my afternoon naps.

Perhaps it's the soothing nature of the prose that lulls me to sleep. Or maybe it's just that I'm always so tired when I try to read it. Whatever the reason, it's a bit of a disappointment. I would have liked to have been able to fully appreciate the story and the writing, but unfortunately, that just hasn't been possible so far.

I wonder if I should try reading it at a different time of day, or in a different environment. Maybe that would make a difference. Or perhaps I should just accept that this particular book isn't meant for me to read in the traditional sense. Instead, I can enjoy the beautiful prose as I drift off to sleep and let my dreams take me on their own adventures.

The English Patient is truly a literary masterpiece of the highest caliber. Every single word within it is essential, with nothing being superfluous. The prose is richly saturated with the essence of poetry. Ondaatje masterfully weaves an intricate plot that gradually unfolds as memories are delicately delineated. He infuses tender emotions into one of the bloodiest and most ruthless periods of conflict in human history, thereby creating an augmented reality through fiction. This fictional world attempts to soothe the pain of loss and bring some semblance of meaning to the senselessness.

It was as if he had walked beneath the millimeter of haze just above the inked fibres of a map, that pure zone existing between land and chart, between distances and legend, between nature and storyteller... The place they had chosen to visit, to be their best selves, to be oblivious of ancestry... He understood during these times how the mirage operated, the fata morgana, for he was right within it. (p.213)

He transforms the arid desert landscape into a depoliticized, sacred meeting place for lovers. The impulsive irrationality of love shatters the barriers of conventional ethos, the thin veneer of societal decorum and respectability.

The mapping of human emotions, the inevitable rift that emerges within relationships due to political ideologies and national boundaries, is juxtaposed with the choreography of the theatre of war and devastation. This serves as a subtle indication of a precarious glimmer of optimism rising from the debilitated rubble.

I would like to draw attention to the role that morphine plays, interspersed throughout the novel as a playful device, serving as an oasis of oblivion. Almasy's refusal to take morphine when offered by Caravaggio is symptomatic of the pain, or rather the memory that stubbornly refuses to be transcended or numbed. Its tenacious vestiges are indelible, deterministic, and deeply entrenched.