Life of Pi
by Yann Martel
Overview
From the Publisher
As Yann Martel has said in one interview, “The theme of this novel can be summarized in three lines. Life is a story. You can choose your story. And a story with an imaginative overlay is the better story.” And for Martel, the greatest imaginative overlay is religion. “God is a shorthand for anything that is beyond the material -- any greater pattern of meaning.” In Life of Pi, the question of stories, and of what stories to believe, is front and centre from the beginning, when the author tells us how he was led to Pi Patel and to this novel: in an Indian coffee house, a gentleman told him, “I have a story that will make you believe in God.” And as this novel comes to its brilliant conclusion, Pi shows us that the story with the imaginative overlay is also the story that contains the most truth.
My thoughts
I'm only part way through this book as I write, but I am absolutely loving it! I'm not entirely sure I understand it all but the humor is delightful, and I can't wait to keep reading! The book is nothing like I thought it would be -- it's caught me totally by surprise -- but I can see this book surviving the test of time. I think generations from now people will still be reading Life of Pi. I can't wait to pass it on to my kids!
Favorite Passage
This is so awesome. I just have to share it. Pi just visits with a priest for the first time ever. Pi is Hindu. His father operates a zoo.
...he told me a story. Or rather, since Christians are so fond of capital letters, a Story.
And what a story. The first thing that drew me in was disbelief. What? Humanity sins but it's God's Son who pays the price? I tried to imagine Father saying to me, "Piscine, a lion slipped into the llama pen today and killed two llamas. Yesterday another one killed a black buck. Last week two of them ate the camel. The week before it was painted storks and gray herons. And who's to say for sure who snacked on our golden agouti? The situation has become intolerable. Something must be done. I have decided that the only way the lions can atone for their sins is if I feed you to them."
"Yes, Father, that would be the right and logical thing to do. Give me a moment to wash up."
"Hallelujah, my son."
"Hallelujah, Father."
What a downright weird story. What peculiar psychology.
I asked for another story, one that I might find more satisfying. Surely this religion had more than one story in its bag -- religions abound with stories. But Father Martin made me understand that the stories that came before it -- and there were many -- were simply prologue to the Christians. Their religion had one Story, and to it they came back again and again, over and over. It was story enough for them.
And because this book is so fun, I have one more passage to share with you, too! (And I'm not even to page 100 yet!)
After describing Krishna, Vishnu and Rama, he says ...
That is God as God should be. With shine and power and might. Such as can rescue and save and put down evil.
This Son, on the other hand, who goes hungry, who suffers from thirst, who gets tired, who is sad, who is anxious, who is heckled and harassed, who has to put up with followers who don't get it and opponents who don't respect Him -- what kind of god is that? It's a god on too human a scale, that's what. There are miracles, yes, mostly of a medical nature, a few to satisfy hungry stomachs; at best a storm is tempered, water is briefly walked upon. If that is magic, it is minor magic, on the order of card tricks. Any Hindu god can do a hundred times better. This Son is a god who spent most of His time telling stories, talking. This Son is a god who walked, a pedestrian god -- and in a hot place, at that -- with a stride like any human stride, the sandal reaching just above the rocks along the way; and when He splurged on transportation, it was a regular donkey. This Son is a god who died in three hours, with moans, gasps and laments. What kind of god is that? What is there to inspire in this Son?
Love, said Father Martin.
And this Son appears only once, long ago, far away? Among an obscure tribe in a backwater of West Asia on the confines of a long vanished empire? Is done away with before He has a single gray hair on His head? Leaves not a single descendant? What could justify such divine stinginess?
Love, repeated Father Martin.
He bothered me, this Son. Every day I burned with greater indignation against Him, found more flaws to Him.
He's petulant! It's morning in Bethany and God is hungry; God wants His breakfast. He comes to a fig tree. It's not the season for figs, so the tree has no figs. God is peeved. The Son mutters, "May you never bear fruit again," and instantly the fig tree withers. So says Matthew, backed up by Mark.
I ask you, is it the fig tree's fault that it's not the season for figs? What kind of thing is that to do to an innocent fig tree, whither it instantly?
I couldn't get Him out of my head. Still can't. I spent three solid days thinking about Him. The more He bothered me, the less I could forget Him. And the more I learned about Him, the less I wanted to leave Him.
