Genre: Literary
Publisher: Spiegel & Grau
Released: April 2010
Reviewed by Jonathan Schindler
Henry is an author whose last book—a fantastical story involving animals—was both a critical and popular success, garnering literary awards and huge sales. Five years later, Henry has written a flip-book, one side of which is a novel and the other side an essay, both concerning the Holocaust. Despite the wild popularity of Henry’s previous book, the publishers dismiss Henry’s new manuscript, and Henry, distraught, moves with his wife to “one of those great cities of the world that is a world unto itself.”
It is in this great city that Henry receives an enigmatic note from an even more enigmatic taxidermist: “Dear Sir, I read your book and much admired it. I need your help.” Enclosed with this note are a short story by Flaubert and the first scene of a play the taxidermist is composing, a play with two characters, Beatrice and Virgil. Unable to check his curiosity, Henry finds the taxidermist and begins a journey that will change the way he looks at suffering and at the nature of storytelling.
(Beatrice and Virgil, aside from being the namesakes of Dante’s guides through The Divine Comedy, are a donkey and a howler monkey, respectively, who the taxidermist explains are his “guides through hell.”)
Beatrice and Virgil—an interesting blend of fiction and nonfiction, using the modes of novel, short story, play, essay, and “games for Gustav”—is the newest book from Booker Prize–winning author Yann Martel.
The fiction/nonfiction blend is apparent in the book’s main character, Henry, who purposely leaves the reader wondering how much of Beatrice and Virgil is autobiographical. Martel’s last book, Life of Pi, was also a fantastical story involving animals, lauded by readers and critics alike. Beatrice and Virgil was released nearly nine years after Life of Pi—perhaps due to wary publishers? And the novel’s subject, the Holocaust, is a subject perhaps most frequently treated in nonfiction accounts.
One of the effective images Martel uses to explain Henry’s (his own?) method is a suitcase. History is often forgotten because it fails to resonate with the masses. Art, on the other hand, packs the essentials of history into a format that has the power to deeply affect its participants. He writes of other artists, “[they] had taken a vast, sprawling tragedy, had found its heart, and had represented it in a nonliteral and compact way. The unwieldy encumbrance of history was reduced and packed into a suitcase. Art as suitcase, light, portable, essential.” Of Henry’s flip-book, Martel writes, “Was such a treatment not possible, indeed, was it not necessary, with the greatest tragedy of Europe’s Jews?”
While such a treatment might be possible (as evidenced by other fictions of the Holocaust), and while Beatrice and Virgil itself is well written, the book struggles in its overburdened format—stuffing too much into an already packed suitcase—and lacks the magic we know the author is capable of from Life of Pi. The book felt by turns either too heavy handed (“This is what I’m doing, and you must pay attention to this Important Symbol!”) or too obscure (“This is certainly symbolic, but I won’t tell you what it means!”).
The fiction I find most enjoyable is seamless. The author is performing magic before your eyes, but you don’t always know how he’s doing it. The constituent words are there—you can see them, say them—but at the end of the story, you are baffled at the rabbit’s being pulled from the hat. You have the impression that great magic has been done behind the scenes without knowing how the trick was performed. Reading Beatrice and Virgil felt like being at a magic show where the magician was either narrating every action as he was doing it, so that the rabbit’s appearance was no surprise, or performing the trick behind a curtain, so that you couldn’t see the rabbit even if it did appear. Despite the magician’s talent, without these aspects of showmanship and craft, it makes it difficult to be swept away in the story.
That said, I like the ideas that Martel engages in Beatrice and Virgil. It’s true that the most enduring histories are the ones we put into narratives because humans are essentially storytellers. I even liked the multiple methods he used to tell this story. But I found myself wishing that Martel had written Henry’s flip-book rather than the genre cocktail of Beatrice and Virgil. Fact and fiction are related, and it may be valuable for readers to be reminded of this. But in this case it seemed like the story was made to serve the ideas rather than the ideas serving the story. The result is a mainly cerebral experience, one that while “good for you” is not one you’re likely to repeat.
Beatrice and Virgil provides a novel way to think about the Holocaust and the limits we face in putting human suffering into language. While Martel’s goal of creating a suitcase for the Holocaust is noble, it is yet to be seen whether Martel’s suitcase will survive the test of time, and readers might be better served by taking different luggage on the trip.
Review copy provided by Spiegel & Grau.