On the morning after I finished Life Of Pi, I happily announced the accomplishment to my aforementioned colleague. We only exchanged a couple of sentences about it before it became very clear that she and I had completely different opinions about what the ending meant. That halted our conversation in a hurry. We were both embarrassed. I thought, wow, are my comprehension skills so bad that I can't even understand the ending to a famous book?
I reread the end. I still felt the same way about it. I checked message-boards and newsgroups and it turns out that there is a lot of conflict about the book's end and what it means and what was real. Whew! But what a mean thing to do to readers! I suppose that's why Life Of Pi won the Man Booker Prize. Literary award givers, in my experience, tend to honour works they don't understand in the belief that, if they can't understand it, it must be brilliant. In that case, Life of Pi is perfect.
My colleague and I have laughed about our little post-Pi conversation because, while I was worrying that I missed the book's point, it turns out that she was worrying the same about herself.
As someone who aspires to write often and write well, I devoured Life Of Pi as an example of excellent writing. It's wonderful, disturbing and I could hardly put it down. Just don't ask me to explain the ending, ok?