OK, this is one from the metaphorical archives, but if there’s ever a place to let fly about it, this is it.
Let’s be clear about one thing – I actually enjoyed this book. It’s surreal enough to be engrossing, and it’s as well written as a Booker winner should be. (It is, and always will be the Booker. Fuck the Man)
However, and I say this as a born and raised Canuck, it is so. fucking. Canadian.
You can tell in every page he was paid by the Canada Council for the Arts. It’s so egalitarian and plain fucking nicethat it almost detracts from the story. It certainly broke my immersion when Pi went on asides about how much he loved Toronto (Torontonians don’t like Toronto. There is nothing to like about Toronto. See the Arrogant Worms’ Toronto Song for more reasons.
OK, I just looked at Yann Martel. He is living Saskachewan. He should know better than to promote Toronto. There’s a reason Rob Ford got elected.
Anyway, the book. Lovely fantasy story spoiled by the fact that the protagonist is the nicest, most balanced person ever to have lived. This is probably why the tiger didn’t eat him, as he’s got no flavour. Despite wonderful descriptions like “speaking like he had a mouth full of warm marbles,” the whole thing becomes flat.
On the whole, reading Life of Pi was like being obliged to listen to Alanis all through the nineties. While enjoyable in its way, you’re left with the feeling that if it wasn’t for CanCon it wouldn’t be a hit, and for fuck’s sake ironic doesn’t mean what she thinks it does.