I read (sort of read, mostly skimmed) The High Mountains of Portugal because of the title.
Ah, Portugal, I adore you. Someday I will return to your azulejos, your bolos de Berlim, and your gracious people. I would like to tour the inside of the Palacio de Pena, not just the outside, and I want to see Cascais in the summer.
I did not read the book because of the author. I never did get the Life of Pi, Martel wrote that one too.
Turns out, I really didn't get this book either. It's not really fiction, it's not really a folktale, it's not really a story. It's more of a journey and I just couldn't full-heartedly jump on the train because I kept thinking, "This book is weird. This book is very weird."
That was the point, and there is a lot of meaning in this weird book, it just wasn't time for me.
I will go back to this book when I am in a foreign film mood. I will go back to this book when I am looking for meaning and trying to find it in the story about a gorilla, Agatha Christie, and a nice car. I am sure there are profound truths here, just not for me, not this time.
Maybe it is your time, though. If you liked Life of Pi, you will like this.
Or it will be like dating the guy you know it's not going to work out with, and at the end, when it doesn't work, you will say, "I guess I knew that wasn't going to work out anyway."
Either way, it will make you think of Portugal, and that will be worth the ride.
