The cover copy of my version of ’’The English Patient’’ indicates that the book within is ’’A rare and spellbinding web of dreams.’’ Even though I’m not sure what that means, strangely, I agree. Ondaatje’s language is lyrical enough to transport one to his dream world, a world of half-glimpsed comprehension, passion and sensuality. His descriptions of the world he has created are certainly dream-like; when the English Patient first emerges from the wrecked plane, he is afire, his headed sporting ’’antlers of flame’’. From that moment, I belonged to Ondaatje.
Narrative is an important part of a novel. But if you like yours linear, you will be disappointed here. ’’The English Patient’’ flashes backwards and back to the present, rarely giving one warning or even a way to tell where we are, chronologically. It is a quilt of a book, much like the patient’s copy of Herodotus’ ’’The Histories’’, which has been woven from the original text and additional maps, notes & drawings. It is at once what it appears to be and something different, something organic, alive and changing with us as we read it.
Most of the characters are fascinating. Caravaggio, the thumbless thief, who, naked, once stole a photograph of himself from the woman who took it. Kip, the Sikh ’’sapper’’, or demolitions expert, who spends his days communing with the bombs that surround their villa. Hana, the nurse, who finds solace and support in books, to the point of rebuilding a portion of the staircase by nailing heavy books in place (If that isn’t an incredible metaphor, I don’t know what is).
Then there is the patient himself, burnt black, quietly awaiting death and reflecting on its nature. For much of the novel, we don’t know who he is, except a reminder of death and betrayal. This is barely his story at all; he is merely a catalyst. Without him, we have the idea that the other three would never have come together, would never have discovered their identities.
For that’s what this book is, an examination of the nature of identity. Who are we, when the lights are out? Is it only the presence of other people that makes us who we are? Michael Ondaatje isn’t telling, rather, he leaves it up to us.