Yann Martel is one of Canada’s pre-eminent modern authors with an award-winning and critically-acclaimed novel under his belt. Yes, Life of Pi is downright beloved, which is what makes Beatrice & Virgil one of the most anticipated books of the year, and perhaps, one of the most divisive.
I started the book one morning in a certain brand name coffee shop. As the lady at the table next to me got up to leave, she looked at the cover and asked how I liked the book. “Well, I’m only 20 pages in, but so far so good,” I replied quite earnestly.
“Yes,” she retorted, “the first 20 pages are good.”
The implication was that while the first part of the book was enjoyable to read, the 200 and some pages that followed left something to be desired. Her reaction was at the front of my mind as I read through. Page-by-page, I kept wondering at what point Martel’s work would go from interesting to something you’d implicitly ridicule to a random stranger reading it in the local coffee shop.
When I finished the book, I understood where the woman was coming from and could better understand her resentment. Beatrice & Virgil is as much about the art of writing as it is about the act of reading. It’s a piece of fiction born out of the author’s own frustration in creating a complex work – part fiction, part non-fiction – about the Holocaust. There are books within books, long discussions about symbolism and artistic frustration and at the centre of it all, an oddly stoic taxidermist that nearly plays to farce if not for
an unexpected twist in the climax.
The main character of Beatrice & Virgil is Henry D’Hôte, a man that gained a measure of fame and notoriety from his first novel, but now finds himself at a creative impasse with his flip-book essay/novel about the Holocaust. Sound familiar? Exactly. Martel is writing about himself, and the similarities only get deeper from there. Henry moves to a nameless metropolis with his wife where he takes a break from writing to try his hand at being an actor, a musician, and a part-time candy store clerk.
But fate works its hand with the introduction of another Henry, a fan of author Henry who needs help with a play about a donkey and howler monkey named Beatrice and Virgil. This man, as previously stated, is a taxidermist with a lively little shop that belies his utter lack of animation. Still, there is something about him. He mostly freaks out his neighbours and writer Henry’s wife gets the creeps from him, but Henry has found a new muse and becomes surprisingly invested in the world of this man and his play.
The end comes out of left field but not in a bad way. It’s the kind of twist that makes you grunt a little in disbelief when you get there, but since you’ve made it this far you just keep reading in the hopes that the author proves his twist was more than a literary Hail Mary. So I went with it. For if Beatrice & Virgil represented an expression of real-life creative frustration, who am I to judge how said writer paints his way out of it?
For people looking for beach reading, Beatrice & Virgil probably isn’t your cup of tea. But to anyone looking for insight into the writing process, and how a project can take on a life of its own, then I think Martel’s latest offers something real that’s spun up in an interesting and easy-to-read package. It’s endlessly debatable and endlessly discussable, so no matter what you feel at the end, you’ll definitely want to talk about it.
In other words: the good stuff’s not limited to the first 20 pages. And nice talking to you too, Madame.
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