I was thoroughly engaged by this deceptively casual and dreamlike way of writing. The flow of such uniquely beautiful stories captivated me in a way only describable by the junction of myself and this work by Ondaantje.
In a sea of literature I stumbled onto this unassuming book. Rather, at the risk of being tawdry, I had been unknowingly thrown upon by The English Patient itself. One of an armful of books I purchased that day, The English Patient took precedence quickly. As I settled into the story I had no pretense for what I was about to venture into other than the murmurs I had heard in past conversations. Swept up, engulfed, overwhelmed and altogether invested in this solemn intersection of lives, I found a deep harmony resound between myself and the story. Fully appreciating the despair and humanity that I was fortunate enough to read through, this book brought me to a state of swoon. As soon as I became aware of my state of fascination, I was reveling in every word and thought that Ondaatje narrated with the utmost care.
In short: a catatonic state befell me to the point of personal negligence. It has been a long span of time since I had been so utterly captivated by a storyteller.
With whatever briefness I have left, I request from you similar books. Or altogether dissimilar. I merely wish to be engaged by aspects more provoking than just plot or story and more so through an alluring experience of detail and essence.
