The first time I ever heard of Life of Pi, I was at a friend's apartment in the Czech Republic. He loved books, and loved lending them to people who might appreciate them. I felt privileged to be among those. "You might not like it," he warned, as he handed it to me. "But you'll never forget it." I've read it twice now, and he was right: I don't think I'll ever forget it.
I also liked it. I loved the zookeeping trivia, the psychology of it, the absolute uniqueness of the story. Yann Martel's writing style is smooth and absorbing.
The first time I read it, I turned the last page, then sat there for a while staring at the blank paper. I didn't understand what had really happened.
The second time, I knew I wasn't meant to.
I'm still not sure what to believe, and I'm not sure what that means about me.
Years ago, I rather scoffed at the tag line: "a story that will make you believe in God." Now I understand. And perhaps that's the most disturbing bit of the whole book.
Read it. You might not like it, but you'll never forget it.