Life Of Pi

Life of Pi
Yann Martel

•

Author’s Note

•

•

Part One. o Chapter 1 o Chapter 2 o Chapter 3 o Chapter 4 o Chapter 5 o Chapter 6 o Chapter 7 o Chapter 8 o Chapter 9 o Chapter 10 o Chapter 11 o Chapter 12 o Chapter 13 o Chapter 14 o Chapter 15 o Chapter 16 o Chapter 17 o Chapter 18 o Chapter 19 o Chapter 20 o Chapter 21 o Chapter 22 o Chapter 23 o Chapter 24 o Chapter 25 o Chapter 26o Chapter 27 o Chapter 28 o Chapter 29 o Chapter 30 o Chapter 31 o Chapter 32 o Chapter 33 o Chapter 34 o Chapter 35 o Chapter 36 Part Two. o Chapter 37 o Chapter 38 o Chapter 39 o Chapter 40 o Chapter 41 o Chapter 42 o Chapter 43 o Chapter 44

o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o

Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Chapter 58 Chapter 59 Chapter 60 Chapter 61 Chapter 62 Chapter 63 Chapter 64 Chapter 65 Chapter 66 Chapter 67 Chapter 68 Chapter 69 Chapter 70 Chapter 71 Chapter 72 Chapter 73 Chapter 74 Chapter 75 Chapter 76 Chapter 77 Chapter 78 Chapter 79 Chapter 80 Chapter 81 Chapter 82 Chapter 83 Chapter 84 Chapter 85Chapter 86 Chapter 87 Chapter 88 Chapter 89 Chapter 90

•

Chapter 91 Chapter 92 Chapter 93 Chapter 94 Part Three. o Chapter 95 o Chapter 96 o Chapter 97 o Chapter 98 o Chapter 99 o Chapter 100
o o o o

Yann Martel Life of Pi Author’s Note
This book was born as I was hungry. Let me explain. In the spring of 1996, my second book, a novel, came out in Canada. It didn’t fare well. Reviewers werepuzzled, or damned it with faint praise. Then readers ignored it. Despite my best efforts at playing the clown or the trapeze artist, the media circus made no difference. The book did not move. Books lined the shelves of bookstores like kids standing in a row to play baseball or soccer, and mine was the gangly, unathletic kid that no one wanted on their team. It vanished quickly and quietly. Thefiasco did not affect me too much. I had already moved on to another story, a novel set in Portugal in 1939. Only I was feeling restless. And I had a little money. So I flew to Bombay. This is not so illogical if you realize three things: that a stint in India will beat the restlessness out of any living creature; that a little money can go a long way there; and that a novel set in Portugal in 1939may have very little to do with Portugal in 1939. I had been to India before, in the north, for five months. On that first trip I had come to the subcontinent completely unprepared. Actually, I had a preparation of one word. When I told a friend who knew the country well of my travel plans, he said casually, “They speak a funny English in India. They like words like bamboozle.” I remembered hiswords as my plane started its descent towards Delhi, so the word bamboozle was my one preparation for the rich, noisy, functioning madness of India. I used the word on occasion, and truth be told, it served me well. To a clerk at a train station I said, “I didn’t think the fare would be so expensive. You’re not trying to bamboozle me, are you?” He smiled and chanted, “No sir! There is nobamboozlement here. I have quoted you the correct fare.” This second time to India I knew better what to expect and I knew what I wanted: I would settle in a hill station and write my novel. I had visions of myself sitting at a table on a large veranda, my notes spread out in front of me next to a steaming cup of tea.

Green hills heavy with mists would lie at my feet and the shrill cries of monkeys wouldfill my ears. The weather would be just right, requiring a light sweater mornings and evenings, and something short-sleeved midday. Thus set up, pen in hand, for the sake of greater truth, I would turn Portugal into a fiction. That’s what fiction is about, isn’t it, the selective transforming of reality? The twisting of it to bring out its essence? What need did I have to go to Portugal? The...