Thursday, September 1, 2011

The Complexity of the English Patient

The old classic, The English Patient, consists of two different stories clashing and entwining into one throughout the novel. There are many different aspects of each character and they are created to be complex people. The most fascinating thing is that although each characters story clashes with the other, neither story would be interesting separate. The four characters and their conflicting relationships give The English Patient a complicated and fascinating story.

Ondaatje uses an extremely complex structure and poetic language to further the interweaving of the characters' lives. According to one critic, The author's four stories are not a story that gathers momentum from start to finish. They are the widening and fading circles on a pond into which history has plunged like a cast stone.

The overall structure of the book is circular and allusive, advancing, rounding back on itself, coming to endings that are not necessarily resolutions, and which may be co nnected to other starting points. The novel begins en medias reis with the burned English patient already installed in an upper room of the villa. It is near the end of the war. The other doctors and nurses have left leaving only the patient and his nurse. He can only give short, vague descriptions of exploring the Liberian desert. When Kip and Caravaggio enter Ondaatje interlaces flashbacks to give the reader glimpses of their pasts. The novel has third person, but often characters revert to the first person to tell their own story.

The least is learned about Hana's past. Most of what is known about her childhood in Toronto is given by Caravaggio. As the novel progresses the English patient's flashbacks become longer, more detailed and coherent. The farther into the novel the farther into the past he recalls. Ondaatje moves toward the denouement obliquely, avoiding standard conventions of plot and narrative voice.

The English patient's story is the oldest narrat ive material, the center around which the rest of the book builds. His story lies at the center of the book, just as the patient himself lies at the center of the villa. The dialog is often not substantial enough to carry the deep emotions of the characters, so Ondaatje often relies on interior monologue. I'm drawn to the kind of people who behave as though there were a finite number of words.

In addition to his skill with prose, Michael Ondaatje is a poet as well as a novelist, and the discipline and cadence of poetry informs all of his Writing, as one critic says. His prose is inventively figurative. There is figurative thinking at every level of this novel. His characters, stories, and settings make literal as well as figurative sense. He creates images and scenes that are unlikely but still intensely vivid. Through the intimacy and richness of his language Ondaatje draws the reader into the world of the characters. He is interested in mood and feeling.

I don 't like to throw characters into a plot as though it were a raging torrent where they are swept along, What interests me are the complications and nuances of character. Few of my characters are described externally; we see them from the inside out. Ondaatje also creates powerful narrative images that stick with the reader - a boy in a ditch with a bomb, a woman dying in a cave, a small Indian girl tied to a man's bed.

The article was produced by the writer of masterpapers.com. Sharon White is a senior writer and Writers consultant at term papers. Get some useful tips for thesis Writing and term paper Writing .


Author:: Sharon White
Keywords:: article submission, Articles, Writers, Writing, Publishing, Ezine, Email marketing, Email newsletter, Email
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WaspwastedNeighbors In Spanish and English

Waspwasted-Neighbors [For: Gary B.s neighbors

1 The Neighbors

Like stripped insects, Uncultivated
Like dirty-water from the drains
Such can be neighborsand are
In the Anglo-Saxon neighborhoods
Waspwasted-neighbors of Roseville,
Minnesota, a city among cities!...

2 The City

But it is much the same elsewhere
In neighborhoods: in cities, here, there:
Narrow alleys, main buildings
Unending gutters and blank and
Knob-less doors: like people
Oil and grease, hand prints everywhere
Even a faint and cavernous murmur
(people going, but going nowhere)
Fences and chicken-wire
Waspwasted-neighbors made
Out of paper, made for the purpose
Of resting upon the shoulders of others

3 The Valley

The Valley, the Valley, where should I go
To the mountains in the Andes
I think so
Floorless arches
People with bronze, brown skin
Balanced by free gravity
In the high mount ains
Its gold and purple skies
A breeze from the lake nearby
Nature tries to make:
Earth, water and sky
And the Mantaro Valley as one
A labyrinth of grass
Passageways, creeks, all about
The rocker arms of the world!...
(that is what its about)

#874 9/27/05

The Commentary: by the Author: once upon a time there was what now is called the old breed, not many left, a few. This breed is seldom seen, or identified in the United States today. And if youd go to a few South American countries, theyd know exactly what you are talking about. Not the young generation today; sad to say. Yet there are some left, the old breed, even a few of the old breed in the new breed. What exactly is this breed?--: let me explain (if I can). In Peru, most of the folks would say: Americans dont lie (and we know this is not true anymore, right?) And they would say: Americans always do the right thing (this again is not so true, Right?). And theyd say: dont lie to an American because they will not trust you anymore (well, this is old and out of date, data: is what most young Americans would say. And even say: how naive can they be.). But that is how it used to be. It used to be, a mans word was his oath, hed die by it, it was his values. And an American had a hard time violating his values. This is what Peru, and many of the South American countries hold on to, until they come here, and get confused: only to find out, it was all bullshit.

In Spanish Translated by Nancy Penaloza

Versin en Espaol

Maraa de vecinos (Dedicado a los vecinos de Gary B.)

1

Los Vecinos

Como insectos desnudos, Incultos Como el agua sucia del alcantarillado

As pueden ser los vecinosy estn En los vecindarios Anglosajones Maraa de vecinos de Roseville, Minnesota, una ciudad entre ciudades!...

2

La Ciudad

Pero esto es muy semejante en otras partes En vecindarios: en ciudades, aqu, all: Cal lejones estrechos, edificios grandes Canales interminables y blancas Puertas sin perillas: como la gente Aceite y grasa, dejan huellas por todas partes Incluso un murmullo dbil y cavernoso (La gente yendo, pero yendo a ninguna parte) Cercos y corrales de pollos Maraa de vecinos hechos De papel, hechos con el propsito De descansar sobre los hombros de otros.

3

El Valle

El valle, el Valle, donde debera ir Hacia las montaas en los Andes Yo creo Arcos sin pavimento Gente con piel bronceada Equilibrados por la gravedad libre En las altas montaas Sus cielos dorados y prpuras Una brisa del lago cercano, La naturaleza trata de hacer: Tierra, agua y cielo Y el Valle del Mantaro como uno Un laberinto de hierba Pasadizos, riachuelos, todo sobre

Los balancines del mundo! ... (Esto es acerca de lo que es)

# 874, 27 de setiembre del 2005

El Comentario: por el Autor: Hubo una vez lo que es ahora llamada la vieja clase, no quedan muchos , slo unos pocos. Esta clase raras veces es vista, o identificada en los Estados Unidos ahora. Y si podras ir a algunos pases sudamericanos, ellos sabran exactamente de lo que ests hablando. No la generacin joven de hoy; es triste decir. Todava hay algunos que quedan, de la vieja clase, incluso algunos de la clase vieja en la nueva generacin. Qu es exactamente esta clase?: djeme explicar (si puedo). En Per, la mayor parte de la gente dira: Los americanos no mienten (y sabemos que esto no es verdad nunca ms, verdad?) Y ellos diran: Los americanos siempre hacen la cosas correctas (esto otra vez no es cierto, verdad?). Y ellos podran decir: no mientas a un americano porque ellos no confiarn en ti nunca ms (bien, estos datos son viejos y anticuados, es lo que la mayora de los americanos jvenes diran. Y an aadir: cuan ingenuos pueden ellos ser). Pero as es como sola ser esto. Esto sola ser, la palabra de un hombre era su juramento, l morira por ello, stos eran sus valores. Y un americano tena dificultad en violar sus valores. Esto es lo que Per, y muchos de los pases sudamericanos sostienen, hasta que ellos vienen aqu, y se confunden: slo para averiguar, que todo esto era una falsedad.

See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com


Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Poetry
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To an Old Dead Friend From DonkeylandUSA

In the heydays of the early-sixties car-loads of us neighborhood-bums ignorant and arrogant dreamers came crashing through the streets, funny we all remained alive, free-spirited Christian infidels, with stray spirits, many never find the way out, too good to be true.

Often I used to loiter past the old church steps to the Mount Airy Bar, time after time like you, waiting for something. There in that neighborhood we got hooked, like two bears to honey, someone, somewhere praying for our souls, Where is God, take me from this booze.

Now I stand outside the consecrated ground remembering your high school smile, You lost, but like one whod won I gave it all up, long pursuit of Gods demon, man-slayers with drugs and booze, those transitory imps, fell off you lice back into the neighborhood, like friendly mice, when you died, in your early fifties, still covered, confused, and drugged, true to your boyish wariness in high school.

Old friend, I see your wife b urdened, living a single life, on whatever she can, under your hand, she was nothing worn, waiting for you to come home, broken-hearted lioness, hands of stone waitingthen you hung yourself in prison.

#1374 6/25/06

See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com


Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Poetry
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Two Middling Poems: September Grass & The Stage

Two Middling Poems:

September Grass

September Grass, always
Seems to have crickets
Ticking like clocks
(around their core)
And I can hear them
As I walk at twilight
Blurred, running through
The September Grass
I must have stepped
On a few in the dark
But they never stopped:
Ticking, ticking, counting
Time, time, time
Whatre you dong?
I asked the crickets
They whispered
I heard them:
A private celebration
They were watching me!
Sight unseen, by me
I just didnt like time
Being clicked away by
Crickets, crickets, crickets
Then they all stopped
Then I could start living Again

#782 8/2/2005

The Stage (1958)

The stage is largely empty
The opening scene (Act I)
The Stage Managers Introduction
The Paper Boy says:

Paper, Five Cents! [Vigorously
Its summer and the stage is hot

Time Capsule
Afternoon arrives (Act II)
Panto mime, (whispers the Manager)
He is reading the newspaper

(the stage is emptydark)
A car goes by on stage

(a chair is used for the car)
The orchestra choir, in the pit
Sings!
The Paper Boy sits down (rests)
(Act III) Twilight falls over the stage
The Paper Boy looks here and there
(his face has a flat affect; empty)

Time Capsulewe return to day

Paper, Five Cents! the boy says.
(hes the most stable character
in the play)
The boy flaps his hands
Like a big bird, with big wings
Slowly, slowly, slowlythey
Somehow turn into little wings
And back to no wings.

#781 8/2005

Notes, by the author:The hard truth is often times the bare facts of the issue. I still have the medieval code, and the old ideals; in a world where it has largly disappeared.Yes, yes, I find myself, I find I do clash with the modern world. Perhaps unequiped to deal with the reality of it. And so somehow that provoked the two poems here. Lucky me, I have a young wife that is equiped to handle such a world, and she is my representative, for the rest of my time here on earth. What more could I ask for.

Dennis Siluk's web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com


Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Poetry
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The Diversified Poems five Poems

The Diversified Poems

1) A Fearless Night

I sat quietly, and watched the night weeping in
Lonely from some eerie dark, unknown to man.
Lo! Beneath the dome of heaven, grit with crept
And conspiracy,(Clark A. Smith looked at me)
He sucked the sunlight, hid within the twilight,
With unrequited tears: then in ominous silence,
He tried to swallow me!...

*865 9/2005 [dedicated to: CAS

2)Shadow-lands

I walked with the deadquietly

In the darkness of its vaults

Looking at its ruined past,
Their shadows taunting above my head!

In the twilight of these unwashed vaults

Shadow-lands, unresponsive

Yearning hands, vaguer faces:
All shadowy hanging limbs above me!

All these grim and ghostly shapes I see

Have tears, sorrow, and misery.

No joy upon their faces at all;
I pause, I sigh, I see thee, see thee

(I am like a dreamless bird, caught in, in the vanishing shadow-la nds of a vision.)

3) A Witness of Minnesota

The winter moonlight frosts the north

The lights that melts the quiet sky

Silentlyfrom far to near
The evening trembles forth with stars!

From ebbing forests, rivers sweep

Unseen life, oblivious weeps,

That held dominion in the deep,
Once changeless, now changesperpetuity

Who guards the holy northern skies?

At their insurmountable posts?

What final commands bend their might?
O, territorial armies of eternal light.

And onto which this land was born,

Whose life awakes to live again?

The light of forests lift up ye face
To the legacy of lasting Destiny!

#863 9/2005

4) City of Doom

Where lonely now, New Orleans rests

And scattered dwells, antique dust
The towers of doomed cities (saith sing) rise

Accordant to American skies!

Swept into destructions forum

The city of melody is no more
Floating u nder waters and waist

The cords of music cry, infinity!

#860 9/2005

5)An Old Poet

O, yes, yes! To thy I bow, too

The dignified laurels on my brow

To my unwortht, is give to know!
Such poet who holds humanities soul

A shadow oer my vision runs

Lo! The weariness of man

As I taste his bitterness: death
What is, shall be; what was, is.

(And sealed for eternity.)

#861 9/2005
(For Robert Bly and Don Hall)

See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com


Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Poerty
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Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Daughter of Destiny

Daughter of Destiny
Child of the Spirit
Yesterdays is gone
A new day has come
With the fire of My Spirit
You now shall burn and run
Taking your testimony forth
Going into the nations
Boldly arising without hesitation
For the finances shall flow
All fear and doubt go!
Provision youll know
My bounty untold
Abundant treasures of old.

As for your audience
Youll attract them like a magnet
For you attract what you are
And daughter you are much
Much more than you know
Definitely beyond the vain show
For you are a woman of valor
A woman of honor
A woman of strength
None shall dishonor
For I shall be with you
I will guard your back
And silence the enemy
Before every attack
So fear not My daughter
For this is your hour
To arise and shine
Redeem the time
Be at peace and sublime
For youre in your prime
Prime time ha s come
Divine destiny is fun!
Together well teach
The nations well reach
And when you open your mouth
Through it I shall speak
My Authority youll know
My power through you shall flow
Demon power shall go
As you abide in My zoe
The God kind of life
That cuts through lies
With the edge of a knife
The sword of the Spirit
Causing to cease all turmoil and strife
The gifts of the Spirit within you
Far better weapons are they
Yet to be discovered
Theyre in you already
Waiting happily to be uncovered
Gifts to be unwrapped
Treasures to be unlocked
Divine ability to explode in you
So you can teach and do!
Its all yours by faith
Just believe and enter in
Grab it with grace
With a smile on your face
Once you get it
Guard it well
For the jealous devil
Would prefer you in hell
As you freely receive
Freely give
Give it to the nations
Letting God arise
Imparting spiritual sensations
Removing all limitations!

The Dream-Maker is here
In His glory Hes come
To take away the dull
And make life more fun
To cause you to arise
To not despise
Even to remove the scales
From your eyes
Imparting spiritual vision
A burden for the nations
A yearning for revival
And divine impartation
So think it not strange
As I the Lord come suddenly
For I have chosen you
To be a daughter of destiny.

by Paul Davis - poet and prophet

Paul Davis is Author of Breakthrough for a Broken Heart a book telling us How to overcome disappointments and blossom into your dreams! He is a Minister, life coach (relational & professional), dating expert, popular worldwide keynote speaker, creative consultant, humor being, adventurer, explorer, mediator, liberator and dream-maker.

Paul's compassion for people & passion to travel has taken him to over 50 countries of the world where he has had a tremendous impact. Paul has also brought revival to many in war-torn, impoverished and tsunami stricken regions of the earth. His nonprofit organization Dream-Maker Ministries is building dreams and breaking limitations.

Paul's Breakthrough Seminars inspire, revive, awaken, impregnate with purpose, impart the fire of desire, catapult people into a new level of self-awareness, facilitate destiny discovery and dream fulfillment.

Paul can be contacted at: RevivingNations@yahoo.com
407-967-7553 or 407-282-1745.

For additional info:
http://www.CreativeCommunications.TV
- http://www.DreamMakerMinistries.com


Author:: Paul Davis
Keywords:: Paul Davis, Author, keynote public speaker, breakthrough semi nars, life coach, Minister, love doctor
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His Life

He was born at 3.30 in the morning
A difficult birth, must be said.
The labour lasted just short of two days
So, he is hungry, and demands to be fed.

Several years have now passed
And he is 5 years old.
His first day at school, it is looming
Hes excited, hes brave and hes bold.

And now he is heading to college
He wants to get himself a degree.
And then hell join the RAF
What an adventure that will be.

Hes fighting for his country
Who have got tangled up in a War.
The casualties, they are heavy
Hes losing comrades he has known from afar.

His plane is shot down and hes wounded
He awakes in a military bed.
No more flying for him, hes told
Hell have to have a desk job instead.

But thats not for him not why he joined up
A pilot was all hed ever be.
Hes fighting again now, a personal battle
To get back in a fighter jet, soaring and free.

His persistence, it works, and hes got what he wanted
And a long, worthy career he does have.
Hes retiring now to live in the countryside
Enjoying what his comrades died to save.

Its just passed his 85th birthday
And he is so tired right now.
His Lifes had its ups and down - hed agree
But, hes got this far into it, somehow.

They said that he died whilst he was asleep
So Peaceful, just as he had yearned.
They buried him alongside his Mum
And he was wearing the medals hed earned.

In memory of those who have died in Service and every hero and heroine in the world.

I have been writing poetry for many years and regularly have it published in print. My poetry is published by ForWard Press and in many other publications. So I'm now putting my poetry online. I'm married to my husband Peter. I publish my poetry on my Blog jo-hale-poetry at http://jo-hale-poetry.blogspot.com/ and on 8hop.com My poetry on 8hop.com. I also have information about my poetry at ht tp://www.squidoo.com/jo-hale-poetry.


Author:: Joanne Hale
Keywords:: Service, Respect, Love, old age, Life, Lifetime, Helping, Loyalty, War, Peace, Patriotism
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