A few years ago, during the Blue Metropolis Montreal International Literary Festival, Yann Martel read an excerpt of his work in progress: The 20th-Century Shirt. Crumpled papers in hand, he tantalized the audience with a sneak peek at the anticipated follow-up to Life of Pi, winner of the 2002 Man Booker Prize. He left us with high expectations and imaginations running wild. Then, nothing—until today.
Henry, a successful writer whose last novel—which featured animals—won prizes and acclaim, wrote a book on the Holocaust. A flip book with a novel on one side and an essay on the other. But his editors don’t like it and don’t think it will sell: where will they put the barcode if the book has two covers? Does it go in the fiction or the non-fiction section? Distraught, Henry leaves town to start a new life with his wife; a life full of anything but writing. Then, one day, Henry receives a curious package from a man also named Henry who is asking for help with his play. After some time, Henry #1 (the writer) visits Henry #2, a taxidermist who happens to live in the same town. Working on the play—The 20th-Century Shirt, featuring Beatrice (a donkey) and Virgil (a howler monkey), survivors of the Horrors—Henry #1 soon realizes that Henry #2 succeeded in writing the Holocaust allegory he so wanted to create.
Martel’s latest novel, Beatrice & Virgil, feels like a revenge story: an author taking revenge on his editor for not wanting to publish the first version of his book. Full of the writer’s presence, Beatrice & Virgil exudes Yann Martel in that he never disappears from the novel and readers never lose themselves in the book. The main character Henry #1 is so obviously Martel that he distracts the reader from the novel. This is not a novel (good or bad) on the Holocaust, this is Yann Martel’s novel about the novel on the Holocaust he never published, and we never seem to forget that.
The beginning sounds like a fairy tale narrative (telling instead of showing) until the taxidermist and his play come on stage. The play is wonderful. Its lines are as succulent as the pear it describes (“Slice a pear and you will find that its flesh is incandescent white. It glows with inner light. Those who carry a knife and a pear are never afraid of the dark.”) or as dreadful as the Horrors they don’t name. Unfortunately, readers can’t quietly savour these wonderful lines as Henry #1 praises them, which sounds like Martel praising his own beautiful lines.
Beatrice & Virgil only makes readers yearn for the original 20th-Century Shirt. If the original novel sounded anything like the taxidermist’s play, then it would have been an incredible book. As it is, the story’s core is diluted by what feels like the writer’s self-absorption.
Mélanie Grondin is a writer and translator whose work has appeared in carte blanche, Room, Nashwaak Review and other literary magazines. Mélanie is also associate editor at the Montreal Review of Books.
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I am in wholehearted agreement with the reviewer's comments about what she describes as the author's revenge on his publisher and the unsuspecting reader. At times, I could swear It heard Martel whispering, "Look at how well I've manipulate this story… and you."
At first I thought the reveal about the re-write was an excellent marketing ploy but having read Beatrice and Virgil, I now suspect it was more of a warning.
Melanie, you're too kind. The book is a stinker and would never have seen the light of day if you or I had written it.