Life of Pi
The first (and only) time I met Yann Martel was a few years ago in a writing workshop. It was led by Andrew Steinmetz, who had invited Yann on one occasion to speak to us. He was not yet YANN MARTEL. Indeed, he was just some other unknown anglo-Montreal writer. I noticed his rise to fame on a trip to New York about 5 years ago. I was walking along, passed by a bookstore and noticed that it had nothing but Life of Pi in its storefront window. I thought to myself, “Good for him! It’s great to see an unknown anglo-Montreal writer receive some attention. More so South of the border!” In the few following months, Life of Pi/Yann Martel became the stellar Canadian writer he now is (until, maybe, his next novel?).
I never read his book. A kid on a boat with a lion never struck me as a particularly enticing story. I did buy his book. I found a copy in a used bookstore on St-Laurent that was in good condition and going for 7$. I figured I’d read it eventually. That time came two weeks ago.
There was a small stir that brought me to reach for that orange-covered novel somewhere in a pile in my bookcase. Her name is Julie and she was in my running clinic. While on a run one day, she talked to me about not only having read the book, but having fallen into the groupie trap. She followed Yann everywhere, which I image limits itself to readings. This book profoundly moved her, and that’s mainly why I decided to give it a try. (Plus, I figured it would follow up nicely Forester’s Passage to India.)
The book is written in three sections. The first section is part narrator/writer speaking of his experience getting to know his subject, part recounting of the subject’s childhood growing up in an Indian zoo held by his father. The second section is long. It recounts the subject’s experience living on a lifeboat with a Bengal tiger (and a few other short-lived wild animals) after the boat that is bringing his family to Canada sinks in the Pacific. The third part is the transcript of an interview with officials.
Julie had warned me that many elements of the story are left out. She might have been referring to the book’s last section. (I know she spared the Richard Parker punch.) Do carnivorous algae islands truly exist? Can a tiger be tamed? Can we go blind by hunger? Can we avoid sharks on a raft? The officials don’t believe the story. So Pi obligingly makes up a new story, one without animals. This new story involves people, though some elements in it are quite similar to the original version. These similarities do not go unnoticed by the officials. They prefer the first version, though ultimately they do not decide upon which one to believe. The first version is better; the second is more realistic. The book ends with this duality. And the reader is left asking herself the same question as the novel’s officials: “Do I believe the story I read in the second section of the book? That long story I have invested myself in? That brought me to believe it? Or is the second version true, the one that’s more realistic and at the same time less enchanting and harsher by its humanity?” Was the story we read, the second section–so practically the whole novel–a lie?
The book’s conclusion reminded me of my friend Jerome who, a few years back, spent several months in India. Upon his return, his favorite Indian imitation was smiling, nodding his head sideways and saying, “Yes, yes, the same. But different.” In India, when he would go to a restaurant and ask if the meal was the same that was served the day before, the waiter would invariably reply, “Yes, yes, the same. But different.”
Now either the sense of difference is lost to Indians, or the sense of sameness is lost to Westerners. And that is, I believe, the key to Life of Pi. The two stories are true, because though they are different, they are the same. Likewise is Pi’s faith in Vishnu, Allah and Jesus pushing the idea of holy-trinity beyond the borders of different and differing religions. These religions, their ideologies and rituals are quite dissimilar, but God, who transcends religion, is ultimately the same. Similarly, Pi is the tiger, the cook is the hyena, and his mother is the orangutang. The "who's who" and the "what's what" are unimportant because ultimately they are the same. Though different.
I never read his book. A kid on a boat with a lion never struck me as a particularly enticing story. I did buy his book. I found a copy in a used bookstore on St-Laurent that was in good condition and going for 7$. I figured I’d read it eventually. That time came two weeks ago.
There was a small stir that brought me to reach for that orange-covered novel somewhere in a pile in my bookcase. Her name is Julie and she was in my running clinic. While on a run one day, she talked to me about not only having read the book, but having fallen into the groupie trap. She followed Yann everywhere, which I image limits itself to readings. This book profoundly moved her, and that’s mainly why I decided to give it a try. (Plus, I figured it would follow up nicely Forester’s Passage to India.)
The book is written in three sections. The first section is part narrator/writer speaking of his experience getting to know his subject, part recounting of the subject’s childhood growing up in an Indian zoo held by his father. The second section is long. It recounts the subject’s experience living on a lifeboat with a Bengal tiger (and a few other short-lived wild animals) after the boat that is bringing his family to Canada sinks in the Pacific. The third part is the transcript of an interview with officials.
Julie had warned me that many elements of the story are left out. She might have been referring to the book’s last section. (I know she spared the Richard Parker punch.) Do carnivorous algae islands truly exist? Can a tiger be tamed? Can we go blind by hunger? Can we avoid sharks on a raft? The officials don’t believe the story. So Pi obligingly makes up a new story, one without animals. This new story involves people, though some elements in it are quite similar to the original version. These similarities do not go unnoticed by the officials. They prefer the first version, though ultimately they do not decide upon which one to believe. The first version is better; the second is more realistic. The book ends with this duality. And the reader is left asking herself the same question as the novel’s officials: “Do I believe the story I read in the second section of the book? That long story I have invested myself in? That brought me to believe it? Or is the second version true, the one that’s more realistic and at the same time less enchanting and harsher by its humanity?” Was the story we read, the second section–so practically the whole novel–a lie?
The book’s conclusion reminded me of my friend Jerome who, a few years back, spent several months in India. Upon his return, his favorite Indian imitation was smiling, nodding his head sideways and saying, “Yes, yes, the same. But different.” In India, when he would go to a restaurant and ask if the meal was the same that was served the day before, the waiter would invariably reply, “Yes, yes, the same. But different.”
Now either the sense of difference is lost to Indians, or the sense of sameness is lost to Westerners. And that is, I believe, the key to Life of Pi. The two stories are true, because though they are different, they are the same. Likewise is Pi’s faith in Vishnu, Allah and Jesus pushing the idea of holy-trinity beyond the borders of different and differing religions. These religions, their ideologies and rituals are quite dissimilar, but God, who transcends religion, is ultimately the same. Similarly, Pi is the tiger, the cook is the hyena, and his mother is the orangutang. The "who's who" and the "what's what" are unimportant because ultimately they are the same. Though different.
posted by julie at
10:41 p.m.
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