English Patient/ イギリス人の患者」は英国最高の文学賞であるブッカー賞を受賞している。
I don't see novels ending with any real sense
of closure. I see the poem or the novel
with an open door.
"I thought I was going to die. I wanted
to die. And I thought if I was going
to die I would die with you. Someone like
you, young as I am, I saw so many dying near
me in the last year. I didn't feel scared.
I certainly wasn't brave just now. I thought
to myself, We have this villa this grass,
we should have lain down together, you in
my arms, before we died. I wanted to
touch that bone at your neck, collarbone,
it's like a small hard wing under your skin.
I wanted to place my fingers against it.
I am so tired, Kip, I want to
I want to sleep under this
my eye against your collarbone
I just want
to close my eyes without thinking
want to find the crook of a tree
into it and sleep. ...."
He lit a flare for himself and hoisted
his body up into the dome within the deep
blue of the artificial sky. He remembered
its gold stars from the time he had gazed
on it with binoculars. Looking down he saw
the mediaevalist sitting on a bench, exhausted.
He was now aware of the depth of this church,
not its height. The liquid sense of it. The
hollowness and darkness of a well. The flare
sprayed out of his hand like a wand. He pulleyed
himself across to her face, his Queen
of Sadness, and his brown hand reached out
small against the giant neck.
And the sergeant released the catch of
the flare and held it up in his outstretched
arm, the niagara of its light pouring off
his fist, and stood there for the length
of its burn like that. The rest of them stood
looking up at the figures and faces crowded
onto the ceiling that emerged in the light.
（Courtesy of Artchive）
'This is a murder victim, Sarath.'
'A murder ... Do you mean any murder ...
or do you mean a political murder?'
'It was found within a sacred historical
site. A site constantly under government
or police supervision.'
'And this is a recent skeleton,' she said
firmly. 'It was buried no more than four
to six years ago. What's it doing here?'
'There are thousands of twentieth-century
bodies, Anil. Can you imagine how many murders
'But we can prove this, don't you see?
This is an opportunity, it's traceable. We
found him in a place that only a government
official could get into.'
A scarf tied tight around her head holds
the earphones to her. She needs music to
push her into extremities and grace. She
wants grace, and it happens here only on
these mornings or after a late-afternoon
downpour ― when the air is light and cool,
when there is also the danger of skidding
on the wet leaves. It feels as if she could
eject herself out of her body like an arrow.