LIFE OF PI, by yann martel
i am on page 228 of this 319 page paperback. i am exhausted. this book reads like the worse decade of my life. i remember it painfully well. everyday about survival. -just when you take a breath of fresh air -you accidentally choke and nearly die. -nearly die, nearly die, nearly die, again and again and again
to be honest, i may not finish this book. it is too reminiscent
but the writing is crisp and horrifically descriptive. it is both annoying and admirable the way this author maintains the same small cast of characters, keeps them on the same stage, but re-creates high stakes, life or death suspense over and over and over again.
and again and again.
i was just shy of finding it too formula~ick when i turned to page 215/ch 78
where the prose -just in the nick of time- offers subtle poetic surprises:
there were many skies. the sky was invaded by great white clouds, flat on the bottom but round and billowy on top. the sky was completely cloudless, of a blue quite shattering to the senses. the sky was a heavy, suffocating blanket of grey cloud, but without promise of rain. the sky was thinly overcast. the sky was dappled with small, white, fleecy clouds. the sky was streaked with high, thin clouds that looked like a cotton ball stretched apart. the sky was a featureless milky haze. the sky was a density of dark and blustery rain clouds that passed by without delivering rain. the sky was painted with a small number of flat clouds that looked like sandbars. the sky was a mere block to allow a visual effect on the horizon: sunlight flooding the ocean, the vertical edges between light and shadow perfectly distinct. the sky was distant black curtain of falling rain. they sky was many clouds at many levels, some thick and opaque, others looking like smoke. the sky was black and spitting rain on my smiling face. the sky was nothing but falling water, a ceaseless deluge that wrinkled and bloated my skin and froze me stiff.
there were many seas. the sea roared like a tiger. the sea whispered in your ear like a friend telling you secrets. the sea clinked like small change in a pocket. the sea thundered like avalanches. the sea hissed like sandpaper working on wood. the sea sounded like someone vomiting. the sea was dead silent
and in between the two, in between the sky and the sea, were all the winds.
and there were all the nights and all the moons.
to be a castaway is to be a point perpetually at the centre of a circle. however much things may appear to change -the sea may shift from whisper to rage, the sky might go from fresh blue to blinding white to darkest black -the geometry never changes. your gaze is always a radius. the circumference is ever great. in fact, the circles multiply. to be a castaway is to be caught in a harrowing ballet of circles. you are at the centre of one circle, while above you two opposing circles spin about. the sun distresses you like a crowd, a noisy, invasive crowd that makes you cup your ears, that makes you close your eyes, that makes you want to hide. the moon distresses you by silently reminding you of your solitude; you open your eyes wide to escape your lonliness. when you look up, you sometimes wonder if at the centre of a solar storm, if in the middle of the sea of tranquility, there isn't another one like you also looking up, also trapped by geometry, also struggling with fear, rage, madness, hopelessness, apathy.
otherwise, to be a castaway is to be caught up in grim and exhausting opposites. when it is light, the openness of the sea is blinding and frightening. when it is dark, the darkness is claustrophobic. when it is day, you are hot and wish to be cool and dream of ice cream and pour sea water on yourself. when it is night, you are cold and wish to be warm and dream of hot curries and wrap yourself in blankets. when it is hot, you are parched and wish to be wet. when it rains, you are nearly drowned and wish to be dry. when there is food, there is too much of it and you must feast. when there is none, there is truly none and you starve. when the sea is flat and motionless, you wish it would stir. when it rises up and circle that imprisons you is broken by hills of water, you suffer that peculiarity of the high seas, suffocation in open spaces, and you wish the sea would be flat again. the opposites often take place at the same moment, so that when the sun is scorching you till you are stricken down, you are also aware that it is drying the strips of fish and meat that are hanging from your lines and that it is a blessing for your solar stills. conversely, when a rain squall is replenishing your fresh water supplies, you also know that the humidity will affect your cured provisions and that some will probably go bad, turning pasty and green. when rough weather abates, and it becomes clear that you have survived the sky's attack and the sea's treachery, your jubilation is tempered by the rage that so much fresh water should fall directly into the sea and by the worry that it is the last rain you will ever see, that you will die of thirst before the next drops fall.
the worst pair of opposites is boredom and terror. sometimes your life is a pendulum swing from one to the other. the sea is without a wrinkle. there is not a whisper of wind. the hours last forever. you are so bored you sink into a state of apathy close to coma. then the sea becomes rough and your emotions are whipped into a frenzy. yet even these two opposites do not remain distinct. in your boredom the are elements of terror: you break down into tears; you are filled with dread; you scream; you deliberately hurt yourself. and in the grip of terror-- the worst storm -- you yet feel boredom, a deep weariness with it all.
only death consistently excites your emotions, whether contemplating it when life is safe and stale, or fleeing it when life is threatened and precious.
life on a lifeboat isn't much of a life. it is like an end game in chess, a game with few pieces. the elements couldn't be more simple, nor the stakes higher. physically it is extraordinary arduous, and morally it is killing. you must make adjustments if you want to survive. much becomes expendable. you get your happiness where you can. you reach a point where you're at the bottom of hell, yet you have your arms crossed and a smile on your face, and feel you're the luckiest person on earth. why? because at your feet you have a tiny dead fish.
-love that close.
and had a giggle reading/retyping this chapter: to be a castaway is to be a perimenopausal woman...
and i think this sentence -his own words - in the last paragraph above, sums up this story quite well: the elements couldn't be more simple, nor the stakes higher.
boy * tiger * boat * sea * life or death.
and writing teacher alert: perfect exercise! in a class of 12 or more students. each one finish the sentence: the sky... the sea...
put them all together and what do you get? paragraph one & two of chapter 78.
posted by SHE @ 5:02 PM
9 Comments:
Though it didn't sound very interesting in your exhausted introduction, I ended up reading the quote all the way through too..beautiful. I enjoy when the pace and lengths of the language can support their sense; the claustrophobia, the widths, the boredom, the despair.
And speaking of quotes; I have laughed so much these past days about you, me, the quoting, your comments, your previous posting from yesterday. Really laughed so much, that I had to explain our entire exchange several times to people around me wondering, what was so funny on that internet..
It won't be long before I find a reason to quote my comments from your blog, just to even out here..besides I have a fetish for the phenomenon of self-quoting, which you probably didn't even know, but it's also why I find this hilarious (and not at all embarrassing for you). I'll do it in conversations, very seriously say; And if I may quote myself... and then be sure to quote myself on something completely, completely uninteresting, that I said five minutes ago or the day before. I find it wonderful, like I jump into the boat of dictators and inflated philosophers who find every word of their own worth marking and repeating for the mere reason, that the words came from oneself, were they ever so banal. You're so welcome in that boat too :) (I've also had amazing moments of witnessing jaw-dropping, when someone who didn't know me in a group of people have heard this, and I can read their mind; How SELF-IMPORTANT can you LEGALLY be??, looking at me in horror when I totally stoneface say something like, "If I may I quote myself, this is really a delicate sauce.." It's priceless.)
I haven't read this yet but have heard very very good things about it. It sounds like it would be somewhat interesting. Just like it's interesting to read those books that affect us so much because they remind us of where we've been. "Lucky" did that for me. So so hard to get through but I was so glad once I did.
I love that we talked about this book a while back, and how engaging you are in your blogging. To you, blogging is an activity and an arena to befriend, to learn, to grow, to expand.
Some of my friends send me links to blogs while I'm at work, but they are all hideously negative and judgemental, evaluating and condemning celebrities. I don't care about celebrities, and I'm not exactly worthy of making such harsh judgements - nor do I desire to...
Plus, I much prefer your thoughtful, reflective, interactive blogging. It's beautiful.
I'm so glad you found some beauty in the book. It is definitely harsh in the sense that it messes with reality and uses ridiculous scenarios to draw you in. I had a hard time reading it about mid-way because of the graphic descriptions, and much like you, got tired of its almost simplicity - one stage, one set of characters.
Yet, somehow, he keeps you hanging on by a thread.. Much like Piscine Patel himself!
Anywho, great fun :) Books are grand. Your blogging is, too.
tine: it is exhausting and beautiful; beautifully exhausting, this life of pi story. i read more today.. thinking
come on God, cut this kid some slack! -and then he does
n't. and the life/death struggle continues. but with just enough poetry in the prose to keep me turning those pages
i haven't felt this way about an author in a long time
irritating ~ irresistible.
so i'm taking him to bed with me tonight.
AND - i've been laughing too about the quote thing. i had a sneakin' suspicion i was not the only one
my embarrassment is practically erased by your "if i may now quote myself" confession. hilarious.
my writing ego has found a friend and is suddenly out of control. not only did i springboard and savor my own quote
but i hear my words yelling at me:
"bold me! dress me in red and sexy font shapes"
i say "oh, now, come on words. you don't need to dress sexy to stand out"
"DO TOO!" (such attitude).
karma: people say good things about my ex-husband too
(edit/hilarious but inappropriate comment here)
you're adding on here to a lot of great testimony i've heard about the book "lucky" which was given to me as a gift but remains unopened. same with another .. what's the name? has "bones" in the title (?)
-one day; maybe.
brings up a memory from long ago. i was a hostess at a restaurant. terms of endearment was the box office hit. some couples would come in raving about what a wonderful, emotional, movie it was
but then there were couples who had lost someone to cancer, and they had no desire to be "entertained" by a movie like terms of endearment.
much like romantic relationships, there is an art to matching audience with art.
bh: i remember life of pi being on your good books list. -appreciate those emails
and thank you very much for your kind words about my blogging
i enjoy yours too; as you know. learn. laugh. grow.
i feel like (thank you to the brains behind this whole blogging concept) i've found my true home. my true writing home.
i feel like little red blogging hood
journalism was too serious
novels were too big
but, when i sat down and started to read and comment and then post my own blogs
everything felt just write.
and the friends! the connections! the writing! the stories! the lives!
honestly -don't let on, but i can't go a day without my leonard.
and then there's you, matt (with a question mark...) -the amazing stories from singtome & slb & eric's poetry. wordshaman.. ott's only words can say, luxury, madabandon, scott adams... and my most recent treasure/tine b
and with the exception of only adams -are these words on the bookshelf? in the retail market? library?
they feel extra special because they are HERE. you find them like hidden treasures
and the interaction.. the ability not only to post, but to comment, and then comment on the comments
and the LIBERTY! and justice for ALL
write
what you want
when you want
how you want
i think of my daughter's classroom on the last day of school. 30 somethin' 4th graders running wild through the grass. hands waving, smiles stretching "we're free! we're free!"
and this is my feeling everytime i sit down to read or comment on a blog.
and i know there are many blogs which are only an extension of everything you've ever seen and read before
political propaganda
advertisements/advertisement/advertisements
gorilla marketing campaigns
i just ignore them all.
feel like i'm snorkeling in the ocean, surrounded by the most wonderful, colorful, exotic, original life forms
"come look at this! you've gotta see this!"
and lucky ones jump in; explore
while others stay on shore making new bill boards.
that's frustrating
i do not know how, or if i can, edit my comments
to include karma in my treasure blog list.
a magical connection - a sister/friend. traveling through a darkness i remember too well
and writing her way through, much like i did
and still do.
Original post 08/22/2007
-because just saw the trailer.... There's a movie coming out...
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