“Henry had written a novel because there was a hole in him that needed filling, a question that needed answering, a patch of canvas that needed painting—that blend of anxiety, curiosity and joy that is at the origin of art—and he had filled the hole, answered the question, splashed colour on the canvas, all done for himself, because he had to.”
“‘Fiction and nonfiction are not so easily divided. Fiction may not be real, but it’s true; it goes beyond the garland of facts to get to emotional and psychological truths. As for nonfiction, for history, it may be real, but its truth is slippery, hard to access, with no fixed meaning bolted to it.’”
“Words are cold, muddy toads trying to understand sprites in a field—but they’re all we have.”
When I was told that the author of “Life of Pi,” a book I really enjoyed, had written another one that spoke to the Holocaust, I was intrigued. Yann Martel relied extensively on an animal to tell much of his previous story, so I couldn’t help but wonder whether he would employ a similar technique in discussing the Holocaust. So when “Beatrice and Virgil” landed in my lap as a birthday present, I jumped into it toot-sweet, aided by a few days in the OBX sun to do so.
Right from the start, the book struck me as semi-autobiographical (not the least reason being that the lead character’s and the author’s sons share the same name, Theo), with much of the focus on a writer struggling to follow up his impressive first novel, which, not coincidentally, was told from the point of view of animals. Henry, the novelist, spoke in a dialogue that was a bit too poetic for me to believe as part of normal and common conversation, but the idea for his second novel was fascinating. Without giving too much of that away, his unique take on the Holocaust, which he finally completed, was derided by his inner circle, including agent, publisher and bookseller. The criticism and dismissal of what could be considered his life’s work sends Henry into something akin to a breakdown, and he moves to a big city with his pregnant wife, gives up writing and dabbles in music and acting. I did take issue with this development; if Henry was truly as successful with his initial novel as was described, his second novel would have been treated more gently and been published by somebody.
“In the normal course of things, editors flatter writers into seeing everything that’s wrong with their book. Every compliment hides a criticism. It’s a diplomatic way to proceed, meant to improve a book without crushing its author’s spirit.”
“‘I wrote my book on the Holocaust without worrying about where the fucking bar code would go.’”
Henry seems to have found happiness in the exploration and anonymity before he receives a fan letter asking for his help, which leads him to a taxidermy shop, which leads him to a mysterious taxidermist, which serves as the real start to the tale. Martel painstakingly details anything and everything within the taxidermy shop, which lends to an air of overseriousness that almost makes you think that Martel is simply showing off all the research he did into taxidermy. However, the time and detail that go into the descriptions seem to lead to a sense of foreboding that pervades not only the shop and its owner, but eventually the story itself. And it’s hard to shake.
The taxidermist reveals that he has spent a lifetime writing scenes about the relationship between a donkey (Beatrice) and a howler monkey (Virgil), and eventually, it begins to emerge that his story, as well, seems to relate to the Holocaust. Just underneath all of the metaphors and euphemisms, the feeling that Beatrice and Virgil are trying to escape brutal experiences similar to the Holocaust becomes apparent. However, Martel writes in such a way as to leave so much unsaid and so much left for the reader to infer; a lot of the book seems to revolve around waiting for something interesting to happen. The climax of the story seems to hang just outside of our reach throughout the middle of the book.
“‘How can there be anything beautiful after what we’ve lived through? It’s incomprehensible. It’s an insult. Oh, Beatrice, how are we going to talk about what happened to us one day when it’s over?”
“‘I can’t anymore. Not laugh, or even try to laugh. About anything.’
‘Then those criminals have truly robbed us of everything.’”
“‘Well, the silence, did you hear it?
‘Yes.
‘And?
‘It was thousands of shadows pressing on me.
‘What were they saying?
‘They were lamenting the passing of their unfinished lives.’”
While his wife and other observers are immediately overwhelmed by the general creepiness of the taxidermist, Henry seems to be oblivious to it and ignores it from the start. One can only surmise that Henry is sucked in by the feeling of his writing talents being needed again; his fans validate his need to feel successful and to point up how necessary he still is to the literary world. While he seems to thrive on the anonymity, his ego and pride are just below the surface, and, using few words, the taxidermist feeds that selfish streak in the perfect ways.
On another level, I believe there is a recognition within Henry that the taxidermist has, against all odds, actually written a better and more poignant Holocaust story, so Henry becomes very attached to and possessive of the story—almost obsessed. As others shrink away from the taxidermist, Henry is drawn to both him and his story as an excuse to begin writing again. The taxidermist claims his book is about the extinction of two-thirds of the planet’s animals, seeming to paint himself as the world’s ultimate environmentalist. When Henry’s dog and cat unexpectedly die due to rabies, it seems to bring him closer to understanding and begins to crystallize in his mind who and what the taxidermist really is.
“It wasn’t that he saw the Holocaust in everything. It’s that he saw everything in the Holocaust, not only camp victims, but also capitalists and many others, perhaps even clowns.”
As the taxidermist’s tale takes a frightening turn toward violence, the audience is subjected to some scenes of very-hard-to-read brutality and torture. The almost-clinical wording of the scenes begins to unravel the truth of their author, as revelations are unveiled slowly and dramatically. However, as a reader, your suspicions that you’ve had throughout are largely validated, leading to the natural question of wondering why it took Henry so long to realize them and why he had been so blinded. The tension-filled and dramatic conclusion is very well done, though it brings up even more questions. We are left to question whether Henry is tabbed by the taxidermist as the natural author to tell his story for him, and we see at the end, through Henry’s chilling writing, that the taxidermist’s play haunts Henry and may never quite leave him.
“Here was irrefutable proof that he was using the Holocaust to speak of the extermination of animal life. Doomed creatures that could not speak for themselves were being given the voice of a most articulate people who had been similarly doomed. He was seeing the tragic fate of animals through the tragic fate of Jews. The Holocaust as allegory.”
“The man, despite the play and the conversations they’d had, remained a mystery to him. Worse: a void.”
“There was silence, that silence the taxidermist was so comfortable with, in person and in his writing, that silence in which things can grow or rot.”
“Beatrice and Virgil” is rife with symbolism, using the technique extraordinary well as a tool to tackle an almost impossible topic. Martel’s writing is stark overall, but he excels at using scant words to spark voluminous emotion and evocative imagery. Parts of the novel reminded me very much of the short story “Apt Pupil,” by Stephen King. Delving too much into King’s efforts would reveal too much about the ending of Martel’s fine novel here, but let’s just say that the Holocaust is a huge character in that one as well.
In the end, the best way to put it is that “Beatrice and Virgil” finds a way to sneak up on you. Due to the relatively slow pacing and the fact that it is only around 200 pages long, you spend much of the reading wondering just where the story is going. But when it’s over, the effect is similar to that of a kidney punch, leaving you gasping for air and pondering just what the hell happened. The true appreciation and borderline magic of Martel’s work comes in the aftermath, as you’re forced to examine and apply value to what you’ve just digested. He’s accomplished a clever, clever trick, in finding such a remarkable and unique approach to analyzing such a taboo subject -- leaving you to silently clap your applause in the wake of the total experience.
“‘My story has no story.
It rests on the fact of murder.’”-- the taxidermist’s note
“Afterwards, when it’s all over, you meet God. What do you say to God?”
-- Games for Gustav, Game Number Nine
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