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<text id=92TT2479>
<title>
Nov. 02, 1992: Reviews:Books
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1992
Nov. 02, 1992 Bill Clinton's Long March
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
REVIEWS, Page 71
BOOKS
Magic Carpet Ride
</hdr><body>
<p>By PICO IYER
</p>
<p> TITLE: THE ENGLISH PATIENT
AUTHOR: Michael Ondaatje
PUBLISHER: Knopf; 307 pages; $21
</p>
<p> THE BOTTOM LINE: A hauntingly beautiful tale weaves myths
and metaphors around the end of Empire.
</p>
<p> Four figures move like shadows through an abandoned villa.
All four of them have converged on this Tuscan space, without
lives or real identities, in the limbo at the end of war. All
four pass in and out of consciousness, half-daydreaming in a
crumbling palace "lit only by candlelight and now and then light
from a storm, now and then the possible light from an
explosion." One of them is an "English patient," tarred black
by burns and lost now in his memories of map-making explorations
in the deserts of North Africa. One is a morphine thief named
Caravaggio. The third is an Indian Sikh, called Kip, working for
the English as a bomb defuser. And the sun around which all
these "planetary strangers" turn is a 20-year-old female nurse
from Canada.
</p>
<p> Out of these ghostly materials Michael Ondaatje has
fashioned a magic carpet of a novel that soars across worlds and
times. Ondaatje, a Sri Lankan poet who lives in Toronto, has
gained considerable acclaim before, most notably for his
one-of-a-kind memoir of colonial Ceylon, Running in the Family.
He has also established himself as one of the most inspired
chroniclers, and exemplars, of the new cross-cultural mix taking
shape all around us, able to light up Salman Rushdie-land with
a visual daring that must have moviemakers salivating. Two weeks
ago, The English Patient won England's prestigious Booker
Prize, sharing the award for best novel of the year with Barry
Unsworth's Sacred Hunger.
</p>
<p> The heart of the book is the slow unraveling of the
faceless patient's life, educed by morphine and haunted by
scenes from Cairo nights when it was necessary "to proceed into
the plot of the evening, while the human constellations whirled
and skidded around you." That is very much how Ondaatje
proceeds. One by one he introduces his characters, and slowly
he unlocks their secrets, leading us through their lives as
through the darkened corridors of a huge and secret house. Loves
flicker, footsteps echo, lines of poetry recur. All four feel
their way through darkness, by hand and memory, and with all the
phantom sensuousness that darkness brings. The effect is a
little like Borges on a love-potion.
</p>
<p> What makes it shine is that Ondaatje alchemizes these
abstract spaces with a poet's fluent radiance. Scene after scene
shimmers with the jeweled brilliance of Arab poetry. The Indian
alone, in the course of his wanderings, walks through cities
where corpses are strung from trees and sleeps beside angels in
deserted churches. He sees the Virgin Mary emerging from the sea
(until her batteries give out), and he finds himself one of 12
defusers alone in a city without lights. Woven through such
flights are colorful threads of historical arcana: richly
researched evocations of the "desert Englishmen" of the '30s,
lilting allusions to Herodotus and Kipling, catalogs of the
winds that blow across the sands. The result is a realism that
could not be more magical: "I carried Katharine Clifton into the
desert, where there is the communal book of moonlight. We were
among the rumour of wells. In the palace of winds."
</p>
<p> In time, it begins to become clear that the bandaged
European, on his sickbed in 1945, stands for many things that
are lost and wounded. And in the dying light of Empire, Ondaatje
shows us the end of one world and the birth of another --
deracinated, post-national -- where people must be mapmakers in
a different kind of desert. Kipling has been eclipsed by Kip.
Occasionally, the author's design becomes almost too insistent,
finding in Hiroshima and Nagasaki not only the explosion of the
whole world of nation-states, but also the final cruelty of the
West upon the East. By then, however, he has thoroughly
enveloped the reader in as rare and spellbinding a net of dreams
as any that has emerged in recent years.
</p>
</body></article>
</text>