“She never looked at herself in mirrors again. As the war got darker she received reports about how certain people she had known died. She feared the day she would remove blood from a patient’s face and discover her father or someone who had served her food across a counter on Danforth Avenue. She grew harsh with herself and the patients. Reason was the only thing that would save them and there was no reason. The thermometer of blood moved up the country. Where was and what was Toronto in her mind? This was treacherous opera. People hardened against those around them-soldiers, doctors, nurses, civilians.”
Michael Ondaatje, “The English Patient”, 1992.
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