Absolutely stunning.

The English Patient is a remarkable novel that follows four characters and their brief yet powerful months together in an abandoned Italian villa after World War II. The prose is beautifully lyrical, and Ondaatje effortlessly delves into the inner voices of each character. There's Hana, the young Canadian nurse; Caravaggio, the thief; Kip, the sapper; and the mysterious English patient himself.

What I adored most about this book was witnessing, especially towards the end, how each character, despite being strangers to one another, had a profound impact on each other's lives. The story isn't solely about the English patient; it's equally about every character in the narrative. At various points, we get to hear about their pasts and what drives them.

This is a story about identity. It explores the identity one is expected to have, the identity others perceive, and self-identification.

I can understand why this book won the Man Booker Prize in 1992. Maybe it's more of a 4.5-star read for me, but on Goodreads, I'd definitely round it up to a 5.

Here are some of my favorite quotes (and I have many):

"Moments before sleep are when she feels most alive, leaping across fragments of the day, bringing each moment into the bed with her like a child with schoolbooks and pencils."

"A love story is not about those who lose their heart but about those who find that sullen inhabitant who, when it is stumbled upon, means the body can fool no one, can fool nothing--not the wisdom of sleep or the habit of social graces. It is a consuming of oneself and the past."

"When we are young we do not look into mirrors. It is when we are old, concerned with our name, our legend, what our lives will mean to the future. We become vain with the names we own, our claims to have been the first eyes, the strongest army, the cleverest merchant. It is when he is old that Narcissus wants a graven image of himself."

“A man in a desert can hold absence in his cupped hands knowing it is something that feeds him more than water.”

"But I am a man whose life in many ways, even as an explorer, has been governed by words. By rumours and legends. Charted things. Shards written down. The tact of words. In the desert to repeat something would be to fling more water into the earth. Here nuance took you a hundred miles."

Felt like living in a dream. It was a strange concoction, partly a daydream filled with beautiful and enchanting images that made the heart soar. But at the same time, it was also partly a nightmare, with shadows lurking in the corners and uncertainties that sent shivers down the spine. When the book finishes, you feel like you have just woken up from this strange slumber. There is just the haze of the plot lingering in your mind, a jumble of scenes and emotions that are both vivid and yet fading. And there is a bittersweet taste in your memory, perhaps of love. Love that was passionate and intense, but also filled with pain and longing. It's a feeling that stays with you long after the last page has been turned, a reminder of the power of a good story to transport you to another world and make you feel things you never thought possible.

Don't be misled into believing that this is a book lacking in excitement. Just because the beginning presents a murky, hazy, and slow-paced scene with a bombed-out Italian villa and landscape, it is not a fair way to assess what unfolds within this masterpiece. Prepare yourself for a desert adventure, filled with spies, sexual attraction, PTSD, and so much more. All of these elements lead to a powerful statement about war, love, and white supremacy. You will find yourself wondering aloud, as I often do while making the bed, how on earth Michael Ondaatje managed to achieve such a feat. Oh, and there are numerous revealing book references, morphine comes into play, and the Marseilles is sung twice, with great feeling.

It truly is a magnificent read that will keep you engaged from start to finish. It takes you on a journey through different emotions and experiences, making you question and reflect on various aspects of life. The complex characters and their intertwining stories add depth and richness to the narrative. Whether you are a fan of historical fiction, romance, or thrillers, this book has something for everyone. So, pick it up and get ready to be captivated by its charm.

In another novelist’s hands, this book could have been a high octane WW2 thriller.

You’ve got an archaeological explorer, a spy, and a sapper defusing bombs.

But Ondaatje does something altogether much cleverer and haunting with his characters and material.

He investigates the borders of identity against the shifting borders of war.

What goes into the forming of identity and what can undo it?

“She entered the story knowing she would emerge from it feeling she had been immersed in the lives of others, in plots that stretched back twenty years, her body full of sentences and moments, as if awaking from sleep with a heaviness caused by unremembered dreams.”

The prose is mostly exquisite, though it does occasionally get carried away with itself.

“At night, when she lets his hair free, he is once more another constellation, the arms of a thousand equators against his pillow, waves of it between them in their embraces and in their turns of sleep. She holds an Indian goddess in her arms, she holds wheat and ribbons.”

My favourite part was probably the Indian Sikh’s moving relationship with the English peer who is his bomb-disposal instructor.

Despite the closeness of this bond, Kip never feels accepted by the British.

This is another example of official cartography not corresponding to personal cartography, which is again explored by the English patient himself, who, of course, is not English at all.

Ondaatje's exploration of identity and the impact of war makes this book a truly remarkable and thought-provoking read.

I may indeed be slammed for this, as it seems as if I am in the minority here regarding this book. However, I'll continue anyway.

This has to be one of the most overrated books I've read to date. It began rather promisingly, with the poetic type of writing I had expected. But in the end, quite frankly, I found it mostly to consist of needless blabber.

In the first half of the book, I spent a great deal of time trying hard to figure out how to put the pieces together in order for me to gather an interest in the story. Sadly, it didn't happen until the second half. By then, I'd already lost complete interest in the characters and what actually happens to them. Harsh, you think? I don't think so! I needed more depth in these characters for me to truly enjoy this book.

The author can obviously write, which is why I gave it a two-star rating. I am disappointed with this book as I really wanted to like it. But unfortunately, this time, it just didn't work out. Oh, and apparently this book was the winner of The Booker Prize For Fiction. REALLY? Wow.

New lovers are often in a state of nervousness and tenderness.

Their hearts, which are like organs of fire, burn with intense emotions.

They are cautious yet eager, hesitant yet bold, as they navigate the uncharted territory of their newfound love.

Every look, every touch, every word exchanged holds a special significance.

They are willing to smash everything in their path, break free from the constraints of the ordinary, and embrace the passion that consumes them.

In this whirlwind of emotions, they are both vulnerable and fearless, ready to take on the world together.

Their love is a force to be reckoned with, a blaze that cannot be extinguished.

And as they continue on this journey, they will discover new depths of themselves and each other, creating memories that will last a lifetime.

It's a world in which you have to (accept) let yourself be overwhelmed. It's not always an easy task, but once you get caught up in the game, in the mix of people, places, and eras, it becomes an entirely different experience.

Approaching it from the angle of poetry, it feels dreamlike, making it a pleasant reading. I truly liked this reading, even though at times it required my efforts. One doesn't enter this universe unexpectedly, and probably won't leave it unscathed. It offers a profound look at people, life, and feelings. And unfortunately, it also delves into war.

It's not just a look at the outside world but also at oneself and each other's humanity. I can't help but wonder how they brought this novel to the screen. It must have been a tremendous work to respect the spirit of the original. It would be fascinating to see how they managed to translate the complex emotions and the unique atmosphere of the novel onto the big screen.

Do I mark Canadian to the World Literature shelf? After careful consideration, no. I read this so long ago that I'd forgotten near everything about it. Mushed up in my mind were scenes from the movie, which I saw at the theater back when I went to theaters to see movies.

The strange plus about the book is its fairy tale nature. Only what business does a war book have being fairy book-like? None, I'll admit, which is what makes it so strange.

In the early parts of the book, when less is known, it seems to work better. The half-destroyed convent is occupied by a motley crew. There are three men and an unrealistic young woman who cares for the (ahem) "English patient" who seems to be an overcooked French fry with a penchant for Herodotus. And we have the artful dodger in his twilight years, Caravaggio (a former thief who loves his morphine - drug of choice of the soon-to-be dead, it so happens). And, of course, the young hero, a Sikh from India who can tame bombs with the best of them.

At first, given the beautiful setting in the aftermath of a war, it seems they populate their own world, one that can no longer be touched by war. Yes, life goes on somewhere, but here, as if captured in a snowless globe of medieval wonder forgotten by the modern world, we have these set players, each described with poetic tenderness by his or her Grimm creator, Michael Ondaatje.

And make no mistake, there are some poetic lines in here. Some beautiful descriptions and metaphors. In its way, this "novel" is an extended poem. It's the novel aspects that drag it down. Though I love the history and learned much about sappers and mines and the excruciatingly long and painful liberation of Italy, I got lost in the back history of the ahem English patient and his lover and her cuckolded husband. She came across as an echo of Brett Ashley, maybe, from The Sun Also Rises, but their love life bordered on corny and the ahem patient's long confession made one wish for a little more hot grease on the part of the frier... something to put him out of his misery sooner rather than later.

Regrets? None. Better at the beginning than at the end, but worth the push. And though some serious research was done to lend all of this a sense of realism, odd as that sounds in a fairy tale-ish opus Man Bookish book, one had to deal with the old suspension bridge of disbelief as time went on. Too much suspension; too little bridge.

By the end, I was crossing as it was lifting high into a parting maw ready to consume my patience. English, of course.

The English Patient is a captivating tale that leaves readers intrigued.

Who is the English Patient really? Rescued by Bedouins in the harsh deserts of Libya and brought to a mountain villa outside Florence, Italy, the pilot, severely burnt in a plane crash, miraculously has a heartbeat. But for how long?

Hana, a young and attractive Canadian nurse, takes care of the "Englishman" and falls in love with this mysterious and sad figure. Set in the closing days of World War II, she refuses to leave with the other medical staff when the conflict moves north,坚信 the needy patient won't survive the arduous move.

Enter David Caravaggio, an old friend of her father's from Toronto. A former spy for the allies and a petty thief, he reveals that the English Patient is Count Ladislaus de Almasy, a Hungarian working for the Germans. But does it matter anymore? The war is almost over, and the patient is dying.

Another man, Kirpal Singh, an Indian sapper, arrives at the villa. Hana is attracted to him, and vice versa, which is unusual for the time. Kip, trained in London and following the war to Italy, has second thoughts about being so far from his colonial-ruled India.

The unknown Count was an explorer and cartographer in the Sahara Desert in the 1930s. He tells the story of his affair with Katharine, the wife of his good friend Geoffrey Clifton, which leads to tragic consequences.

This remarkable book keeps readers engaged until the end, with two intense love affairs set in unique circumstances. It's a splendid narrative for those who enjoy a great story that unfolds slowly, perfect for readers who take the less traveled roads and savor the journey.

In the early precepts of the morning, before the spherical fire illuminates from the east, there lies a mist resembling a giant white sheet engulfing the plain of Florence when viewed from the vista of Villa San Girolamo. Villa San Girolamo is a remarkable place. It has been a resort of renaissance, a nunnery, a fortress, a makeshift hospital, and a shelter to four scarred and broken silhouettes in darkness. It stands as a testament to the arduous effects of time and the slow decomposition of the past.

How do these individuals pick up the pieces? How do they stop the nightmares that haunt them? How do they recover from the tight grip of death? How can they carry on with their lives? Can a shadow that has been in darkness for so long still be pulled out?

There are four enigmas: a nurse, a thief, a sapper, and an English patient. These entities, barely human anymore, have all been broken by their grim experiences of war and life. Each of them has built walls to hide within, using exteriors of detachment, distractions of duty, ebbs of morphia, and memories of the past. They all seem to be living in a daze, in a mystical dream of false pretenses and unaccepted truths. Blind, burned, deaf, thumb-less, and numb, they are breathing but not truly living.

“She entered the story knowing she would emerge from it feeling she had been immersed in the lives of others, in plots that stretched back twenty years, her body full of sentences and moments, as if awaking from sleep with a heaviness caused by unremembered dreams.”

“…Even the idea of a city never entered his mind. It was as if he had walked under the millimeter of haze just above the inked fibers of a map, that pure zone between land and chart, between distances and legends, between nature and storyteller. The place they had chosen to come to, to be their best selves, to be unconscious of ancestry. Here, apart from the sun compass and the odometer mileage, and the book, he was alone, his own invention. He knew during these times how the mirage worked, the fata morgana, for he was within it.”

They follow this path, this mirage in the dessert of certain death, treading in a slow, painful gait. Until one day, something draws them out, something awakens them from their deep dream-riddled sleep. But what awakens them? I will not divulge this information. I leave you to bask in the painful beauty of this mystifying masterpiece. Michael Ondaatje is a diviner of literature. He manipulates poetic prose and turns it into an engulfing atmosphere of subtle feeling, subtle but never wavering. He creates an oasis of crushed lives and broken dreams. He illustrates darkness and leaves you to feel your way out. It is a painful journey yet it is beautiful through and through.

“How can you smile as though your whole life hasn't capsized”

After their awakening, they all live their separate lives. The web of dreams is undone, and the mist is lifted. Three of them survive, but one succumbs to darkness and dreams. Years pass, and they realize that although they survive, they never truly recover. They were broken, but never fixed. They woke up, but they never stopped dreaming. What's done cannot be undone. Some wounds never heal.

You smile to mask the pain.

Where do I even begin with this book!?!

I had previously read Ondaatje's "Divisidero" and was completely taken aback by its stunning prose. The narrative was so unconventional and intriguing, it truly reminded me of the works of the beat-writers, yet it was less outlandish and indulgent. Naturally, I had high expectations for this writer's award-winning novel, "The English Patient", assuming it would evoke the same vivid imagery and magic.

However, I was sorely disappointed. This book was an absolute pain to read. I never really knew what was going on or what emotions I was supposed to be experiencing. There were no characters that I could truly identify with, no real plight to engage with, the dialogue was atrocious, and the plot was nearly impossible to discern. By the time I finished the book, I felt not only confused but also slightly violated, as if I had been tricked into believing that something interesting might unfold, but it never did.

I apologize to the fans of this book, but in my honest opinion, this book was utterly horrendous.

It was very bad. It made me angry because it was so bad. I take responsibility for myself and I won't swear.

I think its printing had an impact on the quality. Because the editing was weak and the translation was such that in some places it was very good and in some places it was so annoying that you wanted to cry. I said to myself how could the translator not notice that this sentence doesn't make sense? Well, of course, for this reason, there should be some kind of proofreading to check these things. But it seems the proofreader didn't do their job. The dialogues were sometimes in "", which actually doesn't make sense in Persian to put the dialogues like this, sometimes they were in bold, it wasn't clear whether they were direct or indirect, full of writing mistakes... and inappropriate sentences.

In some places, the writer had created very good images and feelings, but in my opinion, the biggest weakness was that they couldn't make the story important for me. I always said to myself why am I reading this? I flipped through it many times and saw that it's been a week and I still don't understand what it's saying. Not that I don't understand it in terms of meaning, but in terms of not understanding why it's describing this story. It was extremely boring, personalized, without getting close to the reader. It seems like the writer is writing the story for themselves.

I myself can't believe I read more than half of it. I don't want to read more than fifty pages of this anymore and I really don't want to continue it. It's a pain in the ass. I feel like because they're Canadian, they gave them a Booker.

I know I've become very hateful with this review, but it doesn't matter to me. It relieved my nerves. They say the movie is much better. I read some of the reviews here. Maybe I'll watch the movie.