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A review by belacbooks
The High Mountains of Portugal by Yann Martel
3.0
There were pieces of this novel that really spoke to me: that really came off the page and forced me to question things or ponder turns of phrase. These endearing pieces convinced me that I should take a few moments (i.e., about 20 hours) to contemplate my final review. The following is the result of this meditation on the meanings of Martel's newest edition to the printed word.
In most cases, I normally take this long to come to a decision on a book because I am vacillating between a four and five star review: routinely, a selection that is quite riveting but possibly not worthy of top-tier status. Unfortunately, my lack of resolve for The High Mountains of Portugal was caused by a back-and-forth mental debate on whether to throw it a two for being so piecemeal and unreliable, reward it a four for having some redeemable qualities, or average it all out to a three. As is obvious, the average approach won out.
Was The High Mountains of Portugal intriguing, inventive, and inspired in many sections? Yes. Was the triptych structure, the trinity of stories a nice trope? For sure. Did I thoroughly enjoy the story being told in present tense? You betcha. It is the one thing at which I believe Martel excelled. Were the protagonists memorable and three-dimensional? Well, one, maybe two, of the three were. Did I finish the book and have an immediate revelation that will cause me to sing the praises of Martel's newest work to all I pass? Certainly not.
Upon concluding this book, I couldn't help but feel a bit annoyed at Martel. I thoroughly dislike literary fiction (or experimental, or whatever it may be labeled) that leaves you perplexed with no readily available threads to pull in an attempt to unravel the author's intent. [Aside: I'm sure that some people will respond, "But of course those threads are there! Martel left them in plain view!" I beg those persons to share their knowledge: it will be greatly appreciated. But, as a pretty well-read person, I did not see those hanging filaments and shall rely on my experience to adjudge these clues obscure.] After turning the final page, I decided to try something that was alluded to through most of the novel: walking backwards.
Martel describes this process as walking backwards with routine looks over one's shoulder to make sure he isn't going to hit something. With this as my guide, I thumbed through the book in search of some form of satisfaction: working from end to beginning.
What I found was by no means earth-shattering. It was just small pieces of ideas that I am still trying to put together in my mind to form a better picture of Martel's intentions. It could be that Martel tried but did not succeed. But, as that is not a productive thought, I will continue in my searching for a least a bit longer.
The other thing that stuck out on my backwards travel was the fact that the second part, "Homeward," serves as Martel's disclaimer to the whole novel: THIS WHOLE BOOK IS SYMBOLIC. TAKE THINGS LITERALLY AT YOUR OWN RISK. Thus, all of the parts are drawn into question. I particularly disliked this little foray into theory and refuse to believe the argument that "Christ" is in "Christie." However, the one thing that this part stressed was that the victim was the most important part of a story, not the murderer. The victim that has the most impact on the whole narrative was The Golden Child. I am still trying to comprehend what this does to alter my interpretation of the stories.
Overall, I think this book just didn't deliver. It had potential. It had promise. It fell short. I hope that someone will provide me with better explanations and answers for my lingering issues with these men's stories. For this longing, I give Martel credit. By creating something perplexing, he has left me interested. Unfortunately, this interest is of the window-shopping variety: something I am certain I will move away from with the slightest nudge.
Understanding The High Mountains of Portugal may prove as elusive as an Iberian rhino: you always think you see it in the distance, but you can never get close enough to touch it. My efforts above-and-beyond the normal reading experience yielded few things and largely only led to more questions. Overall, this novel was interesting but not worthy of much praise. Thus, three stars suits it perfectly.
In most cases, I normally take this long to come to a decision on a book because I am vacillating between a four and five star review: routinely, a selection that is quite riveting but possibly not worthy of top-tier status. Unfortunately, my lack of resolve for The High Mountains of Portugal was caused by a back-and-forth mental debate on whether to throw it a two for being so piecemeal and unreliable, reward it a four for having some redeemable qualities, or average it all out to a three. As is obvious, the average approach won out.
Was The High Mountains of Portugal intriguing, inventive, and inspired in many sections? Yes. Was the triptych structure, the trinity of stories a nice trope? For sure. Did I thoroughly enjoy the story being told in present tense? You betcha. It is the one thing at which I believe Martel excelled. Were the protagonists memorable and three-dimensional? Well, one, maybe two, of the three were. Did I finish the book and have an immediate revelation that will cause me to sing the praises of Martel's newest work to all I pass? Certainly not.
Upon concluding this book, I couldn't help but feel a bit annoyed at Martel. I thoroughly dislike literary fiction (or experimental, or whatever it may be labeled) that leaves you perplexed with no readily available threads to pull in an attempt to unravel the author's intent. [Aside: I'm sure that some people will respond, "But of course those threads are there! Martel left them in plain view!" I beg those persons to share their knowledge: it will be greatly appreciated. But, as a pretty well-read person, I did not see those hanging filaments and shall rely on my experience to adjudge these clues obscure.] After turning the final page, I decided to try something that was alluded to through most of the novel: walking backwards.
Martel describes this process as walking backwards with routine looks over one's shoulder to make sure he isn't going to hit something. With this as my guide, I thumbed through the book in search of some form of satisfaction: working from end to beginning.
What I found was by no means earth-shattering. It was just small pieces of ideas that I am still trying to put together in my mind to form a better picture of Martel's intentions. It could be that Martel tried but did not succeed. But, as that is not a productive thought, I will continue in my searching for a least a bit longer.
Spoiler
The only thing that really struck me upon my backwards trek was the four chimpanzees on the African island which permanently changed Father Ulisses and the four chimpanzees on the island in Oklahoma which permanently changed Peter's life. It is clear that Martel chose to create this correlation. By looking at these men backwards, you see a man who describes himself as "lowering" himself to the enlightened existentialism of an ape and another man who realizes that men are not fallen angels, but risen apes. By lowering himself, Peter achieves the Iberian rhino (i.e., a form of nirvana). By assuming he is risen, not fallen, Father Ulisses is driven to existential madness. These men, taken together, provide satisfactory interpretations of what I am assuming is Martel's thesis on evolution, Darwin, and Christianity: merely accepting evolutionary biology is not enough to achieve "spiritual" peace. Borrowing from Nietzsche, one must go under to go over.The other thing that stuck out on my backwards travel was the fact that the second part, "Homeward," serves as Martel's disclaimer to the whole novel: THIS WHOLE BOOK IS SYMBOLIC. TAKE THINGS LITERALLY AT YOUR OWN RISK. Thus, all of the parts are drawn into question. I particularly disliked this little foray into theory and refuse to believe the argument that "Christ" is in "Christie." However, the one thing that this part stressed was that the victim was the most important part of a story, not the murderer. The victim that has the most impact on the whole narrative was The Golden Child. I am still trying to comprehend what this does to alter my interpretation of the stories.
Overall, I think this book just didn't deliver. It had potential. It had promise. It fell short. I hope that someone will provide me with better explanations and answers for my lingering issues with these men's stories. For this longing, I give Martel credit. By creating something perplexing, he has left me interested. Unfortunately, this interest is of the window-shopping variety: something I am certain I will move away from with the slightest nudge.
Understanding The High Mountains of Portugal may prove as elusive as an Iberian rhino: you always think you see it in the distance, but you can never get close enough to touch it. My efforts above-and-beyond the normal reading experience yielded few things and largely only led to more questions. Overall, this novel was interesting but not worthy of much praise. Thus, three stars suits it perfectly.