I am meeting Pi for the second time. I first read Yann
Martel’s critically acclaimed novel nearly six years ago, when I was a high
school senior taking a creative writing course. The book was an assignment of
sorts: I could read and present on any award-winning novel or group of short-stories
that I chose. I chose The Life of Pi.
I enjoyed the novel, then, which is part of the reason that I decided to read
it, again. My second reading was precipitated by the premiere of the novel’s
movie adaptation. I have no designs to see the movie; I might never see the
movie. I have nothing against movie adaptations in general, but most movie
adaptations fail to do the novels they adapt justice, and too many people only
experience novels through the movies. (I’m sure that there are novels that I
only know anything about because of their movie adaptations). I am re-reading The Life of Pi, because the movie’s
premiere reminded me of how much I had forgotten about the book, and so I set
out to reclaim the life that my memory had lost.
The
novel comes alive through Martel’s vivid descriptions of the Pondicherry Zoo,
the Patel family, the Pacific Ocean, and Pi’s observations. Martel brings to
life a landscape that most people, including myself, would think desolate,
monotonous, and boring. Through Pi, he brings to light the liveliness of the
Pacific Ocean, turning the teams of fish into a thriving hive of city-folk, and
rendering clearly the relationships among the men and animals of his novel’s
microcosm.
I have
heard that the novel is criticized by some readers for starting out too slowly,
and I admit that the first part of the novel, before the real adventure begins,
can be burdensome, but it is also absolutely necessary. Reading the book a
second time has allowed me to see how well it is put together, how details are
not wasted, but are referred back to later. Having picked up on this during my
first reading, I am more apt to see the economy of language Martel uses. The
first part of the novel introduces Pi, establishes his spiritual journey, and
explains, in an off-hand way, how he has come by all his knowledge about
animals and their habits. At first, this information may seem excessive,
anecdotal, and unnecessary, but as the novel proceeds, everything that Pi
learns in the overture becomes important, as he struggles to survive on the
Pacific Ocean with a Bengal tiger, hyena, orangutan, and wounded zebra, after
the Japanese cargo ship, the Tsimtusm
sinks on July 2, 1977.
If the
novel is flawed, its flaws are minor. At times, Pi, who is sixteen during his
ordeal, and much older when he relates his story to the novel’s fictional
writer, comes across as much too childlike for a man of his years. Martel tries
to allow Pi’s voice to speak through his frame novelist, but, at times, he
fails to render Pi’s adult voice, and one imagines that Pi’s words and thoughts
come from a much younger child. Nonetheless, Pi’s insights are vivid and his
outlook is uniquely his own. He steps out of the page and into life. One can
forgive him for sometimes speaking like a child, given what he has experienced.
Pi’s
spiritual journey is also one of the novel’s most touching aspects. Pi might
not be the best Hindu, Muslim, or Christian in the world, but he is certainly
one of the world’s most devout spiritualists. He has recognized that the essence
of all religion boils down to hope, love, and respect. Pi is an avid
vegetarian; he recognizes the value of all sentient life, and he struggles to
kill the first fish that lands – almost literally – in his lap. Throughout the
novel, he maintains his pious belief in the tenants of vegetarianism, but he
does not forget that to survive on the ocean, he must cede belief to necessity.
He fishes and captures turtles for both himself and the tiger, Richard Parker;
nonetheless, he consistently affirms that he did not relish eating meat. Martel
explores man's relationship with other members of creation. In one of the
novel's longer episodes, he depicts a carnivorous man as the man most likely to
be cruel, to kill, to have a complete disregard for life other than his own.
For Martel, the overly carnivorous man embodies the worst in men. Meanwhile,
Pi, though he dabbles in cannibalism, is left untainted. He is a carnivore only
of necessity, and would rather be a vegetarian.
Reading
the novel a second time, has enabled me to see all of the theoretical
implications that Martel has deployed. I enjoyed the novel purely as a well put
together piece, complete with vivid descriptions, a good story, and a
philosophical demeanor, during my first reading. Now, after being exposed to a
wider range of environmental discourses, I am able to see the novel as a work
of theoretical fiction that is highly successful, even though it does not
support a worldview that I embrace. Part Three reiterates Martel’s points about
animals and humans, about belief and spirituality. And yet, it also offers an
alternative to Pi’s story, straight from Pi’s own mouth. The alternative
provides a different cast of characters with a very similar experience to that
he has told throughout the novel. This new story is given at the prompting of
two Japanese officials who do not like his fantastical tale of survival,
complete with the Bengal tiger. Pi’s alternative tale is more real, but
incredibly disturbing. In the end, the reader is left to determine which story
is factually true, just as the Japanese officials file a report, in which the
official report is given with a large degree of salt. Or perhaps, the novel
seems to suggest, the facts don’t matter. What matters is which story makes a
better story, and as Pi asks the Japanese officials, if facts don’t matter,
then which version makes the better story, the one with animals, or the one
without animals?
Pi’s
greatest tool for survival is hope. He hopes and he prays and he perseveres. As
the novel’s frame informs us, through the interjection of its fictional writer,
this is a happy story, after all, even if much of it is marked by sadness,
loss, and despair.
JCM
21 December 2012
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