If you want to get to bed at a decent time, do not—I repeat do not—begin watching the final hour of the The English Patient on HBO at 11:00 pm.
My sleep will be fitful, no doubt, and not entirely because Lea's toes will be pressed against my spine. My dreams are sure to be haunted by the perfect cheekbones of Juliette Binoche. The thumbless hands of Willem Dafoe. The glorious hair of Naveen Andrews. The English rose-ness of Kirsten Scott Thomas. And the strapping, desert-tan visage of one Ralph Fiennes.
I'm sorry; I'm too sleepy for links. And I'm sorry, too, if I'm committing some sort of literary sacrilege by being swept up in the film. I've never read the novel, you see, and have no point of reference. Off to bed with me now.
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