Chapters 1 and 2

Welcome readers! I have just started reading The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje and boy is it rich. I’m already really glad that I chose this book to write a blog on because there's so much to unpack. In this post I will be focusing primarily on the stylistic choices of this novel. So without further ado, let’s jump on in.


“The Villa”

This story takes place at the end of World War II. We are immediately introduced to two of the main characters. Firstly there is a severely burned English man who was injured in a plane crash, but doesn’t have much recollection of who he is. By his side is his only nurse, Hana. We learn that the two of them live alone in an Italian Villa that has been deserted due to several bombings and devestations. Although the Villa was once a hospital and the former patients and caregivers have moved somewhere safer, our two main characters choose to stay.


I’ve often heard that a good book will tell the full story in it’s first few pages. I think it’s safe to say that in a lot of ways, this book does that. Ondaatje is remarkably thorough in his attention to detail and imagery, allowing for an immersive experience. From the very beginning he allows us to find familiarity in their little world and the intimate bond between the two. We are given a description of the wide open outdoors outside the villa where Hana gardens, which is then contrasted with the room where the English patient must stay. It is as abundant with nature as a room can get, even if the trees and sky are painted on the walls. The two are dependent on each other, as Hana is his one companion and caregiver, and in Hana’s eyes, “he is her despairing saint,” (3). And then, in the second page of text, it is disclosed to us that The English patient will die in mere months. When I read this, I immediately thought of its parallels to Romeo and Juliet. The first sonnet in the play let’s us know that the star crossed lovers will die, which makes it a devastating journey as we read through their epic love story, with the knowledge of their demise lingering in the back of our minds. I’m not sure if Ondaatje has read Romeo and Juliet or not, but I think he knew what he was doing with this.


The story continues, intermingling moments from the characters’ pasts with their present life in the villa. What I find most interesting about this style is how fragmented it is. The transitions from present day to a random moment in the past made it feel like I was reading a movie script. One moment it’s a thorough description of the soggy armchair in the library and the next it’s the English man’s journey through the desert where a Bedouin tribe rescued him from the plane crash. It’s effective in the way that it reflects how the characters are learning about each other, slowly revealing fragments that they recollect from the past few years.


One thing that I quickly picked up on is Ondaatje’s use of motifs, as they are a tool that creates consistency throughout the constant back and forth of the timelines. One motif that has stood out the most is the importance of books. Hana reads to the English man every night from various books in the villa’s library. However, she also continues these books on her own time, causing gaps in the story for the English patient.


“She was not concerned about the Englishman as far as the gaps in plot were concerned. She gave no summary of the missing chapters. She simply brought out the book and said ‘page ninety-six’ or ‘page one hundred and eleven’. That was the only indicator,” (8).


Moreover, one of the only things salvaged from the English man’s plane crash was a copy of The Histories which he wrote in. I have a feeling that might just be important later on, what with it being our only glimpse into who he was before the crash. For now, it’s an interesting detail.


Another motif that is carried into the next chapter is that of mirrors, as “The Villa” ends with a short paragraph that’s separate from the previous passage. Hana in the bathroom, where “she has removed all mirrors and stacked them away in an empty room,” (23). Hmm...


“In Near Ruins”


And we’re back in the villa but this time with a new character! David Caravaggio, a Canadian thief and war hero. He begins the chapter, being referred to as “the man with the bandaged hands”. He hears about Hana and her patient while in a hospital, recovering from an ordeal where he was caught by the Germans and lost both of his thumbs. He recognizes Hana’s name, as he knew her Father years prior, and decides to go to the villa.


There is a shift in the syntax of this chapter, which I believe to be brought upon by the introduction of Caravaggio. He is a more stubborn, grounded character who knows exactly what he wants. This is reflected in the shorter sentences that act as his internal and external dialogue. When someone tries to warn him of the dangers of the San Girolamo villa, he is unfazed. “A terrible place for a hospital. The smell of the dead is the worst. We need a good snowfall to clean up this country. We need ravens,” is responded to with a short and simple “thank you” (29). Caravaggio then continues on his way:


“He walked out of the hospital into the sun, into the open air for the first time in months, out of the green-lit rooms that lay like glass in his mind. He stood there breathing everything in, the hurry of everyone. First, he thought, I need shoes with rubber on the bottom. I need gelato” (29).

Two thumbs up for gelato!


As Caravaggio is now staying in the villa, he begins to reconnect with Hana, and Ondaatje’s deeply detailed imagery comes back to the forefront. He immediately has an unadorned fondness for Hana, as “she sits across from him in front of the dark blood-red walls, whose colour he doesn’t like, and in her black hair and with that look, slim, tanned olive from all the light in this country, she reminds him of his wife” (39). This is one of the many examples of bonds between characters in this book that are so crucial in such horrific circumstances, and it’s one reason why this writing style works so well for the story. No matter where we are in the story, the driving force is detail in the characters.


Anyways, back to motifs. We learn more about Hana’s past as a nurse during the war and why she refuses to look in mirrors. At this point in time, her Father is dead, and the war is taking a major toll on her both physically and emotionally. After days without sleep and hundreds of wounded soldiers to care for, she “picked up a pair of scissors out of the porcelain bowl, leaned over and began to cut her hair, not concerned with shape or length, just cutting it away” (49). It is made alarmingly clear that her appearance was not something she was concerned about. However, the act also appeared to be a means of letting go of some of the pent up stress that she had building up inside. And in order to remain free of that stress, she swears off mirrors… at least for now.


One of the final passages of the chapter has its own page, so you know it’s gotta be important. Without much context, it simply explains that Hana writes about Caravaggio in her copy of The Last of the Mohicans. She writes:


“There is a man named Caravaggio, a friend of my father’s. I have always loved him. He is older than I am, about forty-five I think. He is in a time of darkness, has no confidence. For some reason I am cared for by this friend of my father” (61).


Writing about your life in a book? Sounds familiar.


The chapter finally leaves us on a cliffhanger, as Caravaggio finds Hana in the kitchen with two soldiers. And this is where I leave you. Thank you for reading, and make sure to come back next week as I continue reading The English Patient.