Yann Martel’s Beatrice & Virgil
I recently finished reading Yann Martel’s Beatrice & Virgil, and afterwards I was kind of speechlesslessly moved… and disturbed. But after the prickles in my skin smoothed and my fur unruffled, a couple of sleeps later… these thoughts came to me.
One could say that it is ‘like’ Life of Pi in that it’s deep and philosophical… and… it has animals in it… but there the resemblance ends. Beatrice and Virgil is a darker book, and upon reflection, the key difference is that instead of being about me, it’s about you. And by that I mean that it’s ultimately about empathy. It’s a subtle and a quiet book.
One could say that it is ‘like’ Life of Pi in that it’s deep and philosophical… and… it has animals in it… but there the resemblance ends
Martel begins by introducing us to his narrator Henry, a writer not unlike Martel, we are led to believe, and through this sleight of hand, helps us to believe and empathize and get inside of Henry’s head and heart. Then takes us on a journey with Henry, getting to know first the characters in a play, Beatrice and Virgil, absorbing their remembrances and thoughts and feelings, until they too are like our own, eventually and literally ‘getting under our skin.’ Martel succeeds in a fresh, innovative and sneaky way, through a fiction inside a fiction, in helping every reader to empathize with Holocaust survivors in a way they likely haven’t done before, in a lasting way, and then he even manages to ‘help’ us empathize with the perpetrator of the Horrors, the old taxidermist, a Nazi war criminal, through his obsession, his consuming guilt and self-loathing, even through his cold detachment… and thank you, that’s not creepy.
Martel succeeds in a fresh, innovative and sneaky way, in helping every reader to empathize with Holocaust survivors in a way they likely haven’t done before, in a lasting way
You’ll say I’ve missed the point, that Martel meant this book and its subject matter to represent an allegory for the blind ignorant, cruel destruction and extermination by humankind of animalkind, and yes it manages to do that too, like an oroboros eating its own tail, it goes round and round, one meaning the other. It’s about the heartless destruction by man of all life, his own kind, other kinds… the planet… individual lives… relationships… families… pasts and futures… dreams and hopes… entire habitats and cultures… ultimately himself. Martel helps us feel these things, from the armature that underpins us to the markings on the surface of our fur, in such a way that we can never forget.
Martel helps us feel these things, from the armature that underpins us to the markings on the surface of our fur, in such a way that we can never forget
If that is not enough for a slim volume to accomplish, Martel’s book does one more thing. The author slyly and wittily announces his intentions at the outset through his puppet Henry by laying out his thesis- that while history can tell us what is real, only fiction can teach us what is true. And just like his panel of judges, we are not completely convinced. He then proceeds to prove it.
I can still remember like it was yesterday the evening almost eleven years ago that I sat beside my husband in bed, doing aptitude tests and reading books like What Colour Is My Parachute? It wasn’t the first time I was trying to decide what I wanted to be when I grew up. I’d already been to university for years and earned several degrees. I’d tried to put all that worthy education to good use by building not one but two professional careers, first as an architect, then as an academic researcher in gerontology, and then, rather feebly, as an architect again.
Then a baby, aging parents and a huge home renovation got in the way. Et voila, five years vanished. Strangely, I put good use to my architectural training being my own house designer and project manager, and I put all that valuable gerontology knowledge to good use caring for my mother-in-law and mother. But once junior was in full time kindergarten, I began to get restless and look for new outlets for my energy and creativity. Thus the soul-searching moment I mentioned above. At that point in my life I really needed to close those doors and move into a new arena.
Or not completely new, as I’d always been an avid reader and book lover, and had attempted to craft my first novel at the age of nine. I made it (longhand on yellow foolscap) ten chapters in before something else stole my attention away. But I never lost the desire, and the books, or their genesis, accumulated inside my head over the years, like secret friends whose voices called to me.
Five years came and went in the blink of a cursor, and no book publishing happened. I suppose for some writers it happens faster, but I believe for most there are many quiet years of devotion and diligence, and perhaps dabbling, that precede those fabulous debuts. But the path to publishing is paved by many a stumbling block. Mine included perfectionism, an addiction to research and learning, crushing self-doubt (a cliché in our business), a desire to learn how to navigate the online world of social media in order to build my author “platform”, a desperate attempt to learn about and keep abreast of the quickly shifting sands of the publishing industry. All necessary parts of the author’s career. Oh, and did I mention crushing self-doubt? None of these new challenges came easily, especially the digital-technical stuff, which seems to get harder the older I get.
Having several completed works is one of the side benefits of working diligently for eleven years– I have an “oevre.” And I’m certain at least one of those books will be published very soon. One way or another. I now have a solid sense of the industry and my place in it, and a lot more confidence about how I want to manage my writing career.
