I wish I were eating Pie

Initially, I was excited to read “Life of Pi”. The cover was engaging, the plot creative, the illustrations beautifully done, and initially I was right. The first few chapters captured my attention and pulled me into the intriguing world of Pi. Then came chapter eight.

I read to escape the world. I read to put myself in another place and time and get swept away in someone else’s story. I read for enjoyment and pleasure. These are not the things I found in chapter eight. After the first paragraph I was feeling a little depressed. Paragraph two brought revulsion and sickness. By paragraph three, I was ready to put the book down and never open it again – if I had been reading the novel of my own choice I would have – but for the fact that it was required for the course. Maybe I am more sensitive than others. Maybe I am just weak stomached or faint of heart, but when I read about meaningless pain or suffering described in graphic and evocative terms, I feel that I lose the companionship of the Spirit. I cannot feel its presence near when I am focused on gruesome experiences. This fact alone tainted the rest of the novel for me. I couldn’t fully enjoy something that kept leaving me feeling so awful. Nevertheless, I continued onward, hoping that I could find something within the book that would redeem it for me, but to no avail.

I had nightmares. I’ve been blessed with a very active imagination, which translates into vivid and realistic dreams. This is a wonderful thing when you’re dreams are about a handsome Prince Charming, but a horrible thing when you’re dreams are about a man eating tiger trying to eat you or fighting for your life on a sinking ship or worse watching those you love be murdered and eaten by a crazy Frenchman. Each time I opened the book I was filled with dread. I would think to myself, “I wonder what happens in this book today that is going to leave me in a cold sweat tonight?”

At this point, I must give some credit to Yann Martel. True, his novel completely horrified me; however, I respect his ability to do so. Martel’s writing was so lifelike, so descriptive. The words on the page held such power that they affected my life drastically and continually after I put down the book. This is the mark of a great writer, and one reason why I believe “Life of Pi” is categorized as a Great Work. My favorite writers are the individuals who can, like Martel, change my daily existence with mere words. I simply prefer to read works that make positive changes instead of negative ones.

My personal dislike of survival stories because they are just plain gross aside, there was one more detail that slammed this book to the bottom of the heap for me: the ending. While the final chapter of the book is well written and sums up the main story, I felt that the side story, that of the supposed author gaining a belief in God through Pi’s experience, could have been developed better. The whole lead into the story was that it was meant to make the supposed author believe in God. In the introduction, it does say that after hearing the tale the author agrees with that statement, but frankly, by the end of the novel you don’t remember that it says that in the introduction. You reach the end and think, “Wait, what about the author’s belief in God?” Even knowing that the question is resolved in the introduction, one still wonders how the story and belief in God changed the author’s perspective.

While I have the utmost respect for the skill in which “Life of Pi” was crafted, I can’t say that the novel left any lasting impact on me besides the knowledge that if I were ever put in such a life or death situation, I would not survive. Gruesome imagery, inducing nightmares, and an ending that left me feeling unfulfilled, “Life of Pi”, three strikes and you’re out.