LITERARY  NARRATIVE: This passage is adapted from the novel The Cat's Table by Michael Ondaatje (©2011 by Michael Ondaatje).

The ship Oronsay is departing from Colombo, Ceylon (a city in what Is today Sri Lanka), in the early 1950s.

Michael was eleven years old that night when green as he could be about the world he climbed aboard the first and only ship of his life. It felt as if a city had seen added to the coast, better lit than any town or village. He went up the gangplank, watching on y the path of his feet- nothing ahead of him existed-and continued till he faced the dark harbor and sea. There were outlines of other ships farther out, beginning to turn on lights. He stood alone smelling everything, then came back through the noise and the crowd to the side that faced land. A yellow glow over the city. Already it felt there was a wall between him and what took place there. Stewards began handing out food and cordials. He ate several sandwiches and after that he made his way down to his cabin undressed and slipped into the narrow bunk. He'd never slept under a blanket before, save once in Nuwara Eliya. He was wide awake. The cabin was below the level of the waters, so there was no porthole. He found a switch beside the bed and when he pressed it his head and pillow were suddenly lit by a cone of light.

He did not go back up on deck for a last look or to wave at his relatives who had brought him to the harbor. He could hear singing and imagined the slow and then eager parting of families taking place in the thrilling night air.  I do not know, even now, why he chose this solitude. Had whoever brought him onto the Oronsay already left? In films, people tear themselves away from one another weeping, and the ship separates from land while the deported hold on to those disappearing faces until all distinction is lost.

I try to imagine who the boy on the ship was. Perhaps a sense of self is not even there in his nervous stillness in the narrow bunk, in this green grasshopper or little cricket, as if he has been smuggled away accidentally, with no knowledge of the act, into the future.

What had there been before such a ship in my life? A  dugout canoe on a river journey? A launch in Trincomalee harbor? There were always fishing boats on our horizon. But I could never have imagined the grandeur of this castle that was to cross the sea". The longest journeys I had made were canards to Nuwara Eliya and Horton Plams, or the train to Jaffna, which we boarded at seven a.m. and disembarked from in the late afternoon. We made that journey with our egg sandwiches, a pack of cards, and a small Boy's Own adventure.

But now it has been arranged I would be traveling to England by ship, and that I would be making the Journey alone. No mention was made that this might be an unusual experience or that it could be exciting or dangerous, so I did not approach it with any joy or fear. I was not forewarned that the ship would have seven levels, hold more than six hundred people including a captain, nine cooks, engineers, a veterinarian, and that it would contain a small jail and chlorinated pools that would actually sail with us over two oceans. The departure date was marked casually on the calendar by my aunt, who had notified the school that I would be leaving at the end of the term. The fact of my being at sea for twenty-one days was spoken of as having not much significance, so I was surprised my relatives were even bothering to accompany me to the harbour. I had assumed I would be taking a bus by myself and then change onto another at Borella Junction.

There had been just one attempt to introduce me to the situation of the journey. A lady named Flavia Prins, whose husband knew my uncle, turned out to be making the same Journey and was invited to tea one afternoon to meet with me. She would be travelling in First Class but promised to keep an eye on me. I shook her hand carefully, as it was covered with rings and bangles and she then turned away to continue the conversation had interrupted. I spent most of the hour listening to a few uncles and counting how many of the trimmed sandwiches they ate.

On my last day, I found an empty school examination booklet, a pencil, a pencil sharpener, a traced map of the world, and put them into my small suitcase.

As I got into the car, it was explained to me that after I'd crossed the Indian Ocean and the Arabian Sea and the Red Sea, and gone through the Suez Canal into the Mediterranean, I would arrive one morning on a small pier in England and my mother would meet me there. It was not the magic or the scale of the journey that was of concern to me, but that detail of how my mother could know when exactly I would arrive in that other country. And if she would be there.

LITERARY  NARRATIVE: This passage is adapted from the novel The Cat's Table by Michael Ondaatje (©2011 by Michael Ondaatje).

The ship Oronsay is departing from Colombo, Ceylon (a city in what Is today Sri Lanka), in the early 1950s.

Michael was eleven years old that night when green as he could be about the world he climbed aboard the first and only ship of his life. It felt as if a city had seen added to the coast, better lit than any town or village. He went up the gangplank, watching on y the path of his feet- nothing ahead of him existed-and continued till he faced the dark harbor and sea. There were outlines of other ships farther out, beginning to turn on lights. He stood alone smelling everything, then came back through the noise and the crowd to the side that faced land. A yellow glow over the city. Already it felt there was a wall between him and what took place there. Stewards began handing out food and cordials. He ate several sandwiches and after that he made his way down to his cabin undressed and slipped into the narrow bunk. He'd never slept under a blanket before, save once in Nuwara Eliya. He was wide awake. The cabin was below the level of the waters, so there was no porthole. He found a switch beside the bed and when he pressed it his head and pillow were suddenly lit by a cone of light.

He did not go back up on deck for a last look or to wave at his relatives who had brought him to the harbor. He could hear singing and imagined the slow and then eager parting of families taking place in the thrilling night air.  I do not know, even now, why he chose this solitude. Had whoever brought him onto the Oronsay already left? In films, people tear themselves away from one another weeping, and the ship separates from land while the deported hold on to those disappearing faces until all distinction is lost.

I try to imagine who the boy on the ship was. Perhaps a sense of self is not even there in his nervous stillness in the narrow bunk, in this green grasshopper or little cricket, as if he has been smuggled away accidentally, with no knowledge of the act, into the future.

What had there been before such a ship in my life? A dugout canoe on a river journey? A launch in Trincomalee harbor? There were always fishing boats on our horizon. But I could never have imagined the grandeur of this castle that was to cross the sea". The longest journeys I had made were canards to Nuwara Eliya and Horton Plams, or the train to Jaffna, which we boarded at seven a.m. and disembarked from in the late afternoon. We made that journey with our egg sandwiches, a pack of cards, and a small Boy's Own adventure.

But now it has been arranged I would be traveling to England by ship, and that I would be making the Journey alone. No mention was made that this might be an unusual experience or that it could be exciting or dangerous, so I did not approach it with any joy or fear. I was not forewarned that the ship would have seven levels, hold more than six hundred people including a captain, nine cooks, engineers, a veterinarian, and that it would contain a small jail and chlorinated pools that would actually sail with us over two oceans. The departure date was marked casually on the calendar by my aunt, who had notified the school that I would be leaving at the end of the term. The fact of my being at sea for twenty-one days was spoken of as having not much significance, so I was surprised my relatives were even bothering to accompany me to the harbour. I had assumed I would be taking a bus by myself and then change onto another at Borella Junction.

There had been just one attempt to introduce me to the situation of the journey. A lady named Flavia Prins, whose husband knew my uncle, turned out to be making the same Journey and was invited to tea one afternoon to meet with me. She would be travelling in First Class but promised to keep an eye on me. I shook her hand carefully, as it was covered with rings and bangles and she then turned away to continue the conversation had interrupted. I spent most of the hour listening to a few uncles and counting how many of the trimmed sandwiches they ate.

On my last day, I found an empty school examination booklet, a pencil, a pencil sharpener, a traced map of the world, and put them into my small suitcase.

As I got into the car, it was explained to me that after I'd crossed the Indian Ocean and the Arabian Sea and the Red Sea, and gone through the Suez Canal into the Mediterranean, I would arrive one morning on a small pier in England and my mother would meet me there. It was not the magic or the scale of the journey that was of concern to me, but that detail of how my mother could know when exactly I would arrive in that other country. And if she would be there.

LITERARY  NARRATIVE: This passage is adapted from the novel The Cat's Table by Michael Ondaatje (©2011 by Michael Ondaatje).

The ship Oronsay is departing from Colombo, Ceylon (a city in what Is today Sri Lanka), in the early 1950s.

Michael was eleven years old that night when green as he could be about the world he climbed aboard the first and only ship of his life. It felt as if a city had seen added to the coast, better lit than any town or village. He went up the gangplank, watching on y the path of his feet- nothing ahead of him existed-and continued till he faced the dark harbor and sea. There were outlines of other ships farther out, beginning to turn on lights. He stood alone smelling everything, then came back through the noise and the crowd to the side that faced land. A yellow glow over the city. Already it felt there was a wall between him and what took place there. Stewards began handing out food and cordials. He ate several sandwiches and after that he made his way down to his cabin undressed and slipped into the narrow bunk. He'd never slept under a blanket before, save once in Nuwara Eliya. He was wide awake. The cabin was below the level of the waters, so there was no porthole. He found a switch beside the bed and when he pressed it his head and pillow were suddenly lit by a cone of light.

He did not go back up on deck for a last look or to wave at his relatives who had brought him to the harbor. He could hear singing and imagined the slow and then eager parting of families taking place in the thrilling night air.  I do not know, even now, why he chose this solitude. Had whoever brought him onto the Oronsay already left? In films, people tear themselves away from one another weeping, and the ship separates from land while the deported hold on to those disappearing faces until all distinction is lost.

I try to imagine who the boy on the ship was. Perhaps a sense of self is not even there in his nervous stillness in the narrow bunk, in this green grasshopper or little cricket, as if he has been smuggled away accidentally, with no knowledge of the act, into the future.

What had there been before such a ship in my life? A dugout canoe on a river journey? A launch in Trincomalee harbor? There were always fishing boats on our horizon. But I could never have imagined the grandeur of this castle that was to cross the sea". The longest journeys I had made were canards to Nuwara Eliya and Horton Plams, or the train to Jaffna, which we boarded at seven a.m. and disembarked from in the late afternoon. We made that journey with our egg sandwiches, a pack of cards, and a small Boy's Own adventure.

But now it has been arranged I would be traveling to England by ship, and that I would be making the Journey alone. No mention was made that this might be an unusual experience or that it could be exciting or dangerous, so I did not approach it with any joy or fear. I was not forewarned that the ship would have seven levels, hold more than six hundred people including a captain, nine cooks, engineers, a veterinarian, and that it would contain a small jail and chlorinated pools that would actually sail with us over two oceans. The departure date was marked casually on the calendar by my aunt, who had notified the school that I would be leaving at the end of the term. The fact of my being at sea for twenty-one days was spoken of as having not much significance, so I was surprised my relatives were even bothering to accompany me to the harbour. I had assumed I would be taking a bus by myself and then change onto another at Borella Junction.

There had been just one attempt to introduce me to the situation of the journey. A lady named Flavia Prins, whose husband knew my uncle, turned out to be making the same Journey and was invited to tea one afternoon to meet with me. She would be travelling in First Class but promised to keep an eye on me. I shook her hand carefully, as it was covered with rings and bangles and she then turned away to continue the conversation had interrupted. I spent most of the hour listening to a few uncles and counting how many of the trimmed sandwiches they ate.

On my last day, I found an empty school examination booklet, a pencil, a pencil sharpener, a traced map of the world, and put them into my small suitcase.

As I got into the car, it was explained to me that after I'd crossed the Indian Ocean and the Arabian Sea and the Red Sea, and gone through the Suez Canal into the Mediterranean, I would arrive one morning on a small pier in England and my mother would meet me there. It was not the magic or the scale of the journey that was of concern to me, but that detail of how my mother could know when exactly I would arrive in that other country. And if she would be there.

LITERARY  NARRATIVE: This passage is adapted from the novel The Cat's Table by Michael Ondaatje (©2011 by Michael Ondaatje).

The ship Oronsay is departing from Colombo, Ceylon (a city in what Is today Sri Lanka), in the early 1950s.

Michael was eleven years old that night when green as he could be about the world he climbed aboard the first and only ship of his life. It felt as if a city had seen added to the coast, better lit than any town or village. He went up the gangplank, watching on y the path of his feet- nothing ahead of him existed-and continued till he faced the dark harbor and sea. There were outlines of other ships farther out, beginning to turn on lights. He stood alone smelling everything, then came back through the noise and the crowd to the side that faced land. A yellow glow over the city. Already it felt there was a wall between him and what took place there. Stewards began handing out food and cordials. He ate several sandwiches and after that he made his way down to his cabin undressed and slipped into the narrow bunk. He'd never slept under a blanket before, save once in Nuwara Eliya. He was wide awake. The cabin was below the level of the waters, so there was no porthole. He found a switch beside the bed and when he pressed it his head and pillow were suddenly lit by a cone of light.

He did not go back up on deck for a last look or to wave at his relatives who had brought him to the harbor. He could hear singing and imagined the slow and then eager parting of families taking place in the thrilling night air.  I do not know, even now, why he chose this solitude. Had whoever brought him onto the Oronsay already left? In films, people tear themselves away from one another weeping, and the ship separates from land while the deported hold on to those disappearing faces until all distinction is lost.

I try to imagine who the boy on the ship was. Perhaps a sense of self is not even there in his nervous stillness in the narrow bunk, in this green grasshopper or little cricket, as if he has been smuggled away accidentally, with no knowledge of the act, into the future.

What had there been before such a ship in my life? A dugout canoe on a river journey? A launch in Trincomalee harbor? There were always fishing boats on our horizon. But I could never have imagined the grandeur of this castle that was to cross the sea". The longest journeys I had made were canards to Nuwara Eliya and Horton Plams, or the train to Jaffna, which we boarded at seven a.m. and disembarked from in the late afternoon. We made that journey with our egg sandwiches, a pack of cards, and a small Boy's Own adventure.

But now it has been arranged I would be traveling to England by ship, and that I would be making the Journey alone. No mention was made that this might be an unusual experience or that it could be exciting or dangerous, so I did not approach it with any joy or fear. I was not forewarned that the ship would have seven levels, hold more than six hundred people including a captain, nine cooks, engineers, a veterinarian, and that it would contain a small jail and chlorinated pools that would actually sail with us over two oceans. The departure date was marked casually on the calendar by my aunt, who had notified the school that I would be leaving at the end of the term. The fact of my being at sea for twenty-one days was spoken of as having not much significance, so I was surprised my relatives were even bothering to accompany me to the harbour. I had assumed I would be taking a bus by myself and then change onto another at Borella Junction.

There had been just one attempt to introduce me to the situation of the journey. A lady named Flavia Prins, whose husband knew my uncle, turned out to be making the same Journey and was invited to tea one afternoon to meet with me. She would be travelling in First Class but promised to keep an eye on me. I shook her hand carefully, as it was covered with rings and bangles and she then turned away to continue the conversation had interrupted. I spent most of the hour listening to a few uncles and counting how many of the trimmed sandwiches they ate.

On my last day, I found an empty school examination booklet, a pencil, a pencil sharpener, a traced map of the world, and put them into my small suitcase.

As I got into the car, it was explained to me that after I'd crossed the Indian Ocean and the Arabian Sea and the Red Sea, and gone through the Suez Canal into the Mediterranean, I would arrive one morning on a small pier in England and my mother would meet me there. It was not the magic or the scale of the journey that was of concern to me, but that detail of how my mother could know when exactly I would arrive in that other country. And if she would be there.

LITERARY  NARRATIVE: This passage is adapted from the novel The Cat's Table by Michael Ondaatje (©2011 by Michael Ondaatje).

The ship Oronsay is departing from Colombo, Ceylon (a city in what Is today Sri Lanka), in the early 1950s.

Michael was eleven years old that night when green as he could be about the world he climbed aboard the first and only ship of his life. It felt as if a city had seen added to the coast, better lit than any town or village. He went up the gangplank, watching on y the path of his feet- nothing ahead of him existed-and continued till he faced the dark harbor and sea. There were outlines of other ships farther out, beginning to turn on lights. He stood alone smelling everything, then came back through the noise and the crowd to the side that faced land. A yellow glow over the city. Already it felt there was a wall between him and what took place there. Stewards began handing out food and cordials. He ate several sandwiches and after that he made his way down to his cabin undressed and slipped into the narrow bunk. He'd never slept under a blanket before, save once in Nuwara Eliya. He was wide awake. The cabin was below the level of the waters, so there was no porthole. He found a switch beside the bed and when he pressed it his head and pillow were suddenly lit by a cone of light.

He did not go back up on deck for a last look or to wave at his relatives who had brought him to the harbor. He could hear singing and imagined the slow and then eager parting of families taking place in the thrilling night air.  I do not know, even now, why he chose this solitude. Had whoever brought him onto the Oronsay already left? In films, people tear themselves away from one another weeping, and the ship separates from land while the deported hold on to those disappearing faces until all distinction is lost.

I try to imagine who the boy on the ship was. Perhaps a sense of self is not even there in his nervous stillness in the narrow bunk, in this green grasshopper or little cricket, as if he has been smuggled away accidentally, with no knowledge of the act, into the future.

What had there been before such a ship in my life? A dugout canoe on a river journey? A launch in Trincomalee harbor? There were always fishing boats on our horizon. But I could never have imagined the grandeur of this castle that was to cross the sea". The longest journeys I had made were canards to Nuwara Eliya and Horton Plams, or the train to Jaffna, which we boarded at seven a.m. and disembarked from in the late afternoon. We made that journey with our egg sandwiches, a pack of cards, and a small Boy's Own adventure.

But now it has been arranged I would be traveling to England by ship, and that I would be making the Journey alone. No mention was made that this might be an unusual experience or that it could be exciting or dangerous, so I did not approach it with any joy or fear. I was not forewarned that the ship would have seven levels, hold more than six hundred people including a captain, nine cooks, engineers, a veterinarian, and that it would contain a small jail and chlorinated pools that would actually sail with us over two oceans. The departure date was marked casually on the calendar by my aunt, who had notified the school that I would be leaving at the end of the term. The fact of my being at sea for twenty-one days was spoken of as having not much significance, so I was surprised my relatives were even bothering to accompany me to the harbour. I had assumed I would be taking a bus by myself and then change onto another at Borella Junction.

There had been just one attempt to introduce me to the situation of the journey. A lady named Flavia Prins, whose husband knew my uncle, turned out to be making the same Journey and was invited to tea one afternoon to meet with me. She would be travelling in First Class but promised to keep an eye on me. I shook her hand carefully, as it was covered with rings and bangles and she then turned away to continue the conversation had interrupted. I spent most of the hour listening to a few uncles and counting how many of the trimmed sandwiches they ate.

On my last day, I found an empty school examination booklet, a pencil, a pencil sharpener, a traced map of the world, and put them into my small suitcase.

As I got into the car, it was explained to me that after I'd crossed the Indian Ocean and the Arabian Sea and the Red Sea, and gone through the Suez Canal into the Mediterranean, I would arrive one morning on a small pier in England and my mother would meet me there. It was not the magic or the scale of the journey that was of concern to me, but that detail of how my mother could know when exactly I would arrive in that other country. And if she would be there.