A Slice of Pi

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I went and saw Life of Pi and I enjoyed it, but I’m left with the same question I had after reading it: Did I truly understand it? I’m about to let the cat out of the bag (or the tiger off the boat, as it were), so if you haven’t read the book or seen the movie and care about spoilers, now’s the time to bail.

The story is really two stories. The first encompasses most of the book and movie, and features Pi and his battle for survival after a shipwreck. He shares a lifeboat with a zebra with a wounded leg, an orangutan, a hyena, and the tiger, Richard Parker. The hyena kills the zebra. The hyena kills the orangutan. Richard Parker kills the hyena. Pi and Richard Parker then spend innumerable days on the Pacific, fighting for survival, until ultimately making landfall in Mexico.

The second story is simpler, shorter, and much more gruesome. Pi shares a lifeboat with a sailor with a wounded leg, his mother, and the cook from the ship. The cook kills the sailor. The cook kills Pi’s mother. Pi kills the cook. Pi then spends innumerable days on the Pacific, fighting for survival, until ultimately making landfall in Mexico.

Unless I’m much mistaken, the latter story is the “truth.” The former appears to be something that Pi invented because the truth is too painful to face. And, perhaps, because it makes for a better story.

And here’s where my confusion lies. In the film, the adult Pi says that both stories feature him losing his family, and both stories feature him suffering, and then asks the visiting writer which story he prefers. The writer says he prefers the tale with the tiger. “And so it is with God,” says Pi.

Forgive my lack of subtlety and insight, but what is the implication of that line? Is he saying that life is full of loss and suffering, and that, all things being equal, we might as well believe in God, because it makes for a better story? Or a better life?

If so, I wonder about the truth of that. I’m agnostic, and while I allow that there are indeed aspects of existence that I don’t understand and can see the appeal of religion, I’ve never experienced something to make me Believe, with a capital B.

It feels disingenuous to go through the motions of faith simply because one wants to believe. That feels like a lie. Isn’t it more honest to push on through life without faith than to pretend to have it? Wouldn’t God, if he (or she) exists, prefer your honest dubiousness to you comforting yourself in the dark by clinging to the tatters of a less-than-genuine faith?

These are not rhetorical questions, by the way. I’m honestly curious as to what you think, especially those of you who are religious, who do Believe with a capital B. Maybe you’re seeing a side of this that I’m not. Or maybe someone out there can inform me that I’m grossly misunderstanding the point of the story, and that I’ve blazed a trail off into left field and beyond.

Regardless, the story moves me in a way that I can’t quite put my finger on. It did so when I read it, and the film had the same effect. It feels like a sliver of something special, of some greater truth.

And that’s another thing that strikes me, especially with regard to the film: Pi travels through the Pacific, seeing wondrous phenomena. Terrible storms, bioluminescent seas, flocks of flying fish, carnivorous islands inexplicably filled with meerkats when he’s in the Pacific and the nearest wild meerkat population is half a world away in southern Africa. He witnesses these things and is overcome with awe in the face of God. I see those same things, and I too am filled with awe, but I am in awe of Nature.

Does it matter whether that awe is inspired by God or Nature? Is there really that much of a difference? Is Nature merely my secular surrogate for God? I don’t pray to Nature. I don’t expect guidance or strength from it. But I’ve studied it pretty extensively. My love of biology and affinity for its many sub-disciplines could be seen as something akin to a secular sort of Talmudic piousness, I suppose. And there’s nothing quite so humbling as standing on top of a mountain and looking out over the world around you; or seeing the stars from the countryside, unspoiled by the city’s light pollution; or hiking deep into a forest and knowing that you and your companions are the only human beings around for miles. These things fill me with awe every time.

It seems to me that what really matters is the awe, the appreciation of something outside oneself. It’s a surrender of sorts, an acknowledgment that we are adrift on the sea, powerless to do anything but fight for survival. And maybe dream up an unbelievable tale or two.