Lessons from a Tree

Yann Martel’s Beatrice and Virgil is a deceptive piece of creative writing. It begins with the rejection of an author’s new work on the holocaust by his publishers. He revels in his misery and becomes angry with the publishers for their inability to understand his work. He finally learns how to come to terms with his failure. The description that follows traces the mental journey he takes from desolation to anger and finally a draining out of all emotions. The last line is a great motivational thought.

The London park was not like that. It was an expanse of the loveliest grass, a symphony of green. There were some trees, buy they stood very tall with high branches, as if they were mindful of not getting in the way of the unbridled grass. A round pond gleamed in the centre of the park. The weather was warm and sunny and people were not in great numbers. As he wandered about the park, Henry awoke to what had just happened to him. Five years of work had been consigned to oblivion. His mind, stunned into silence, sputtered to life. I should have said this…. I should have said that …. Who the fuck was he …? How dare she …?-so the shouting match in his head went, a full-blown anger fantasy.

A moment came when the tense muscles twitching in Henry’s body and the emotions seething inside him came together and spoke in unison: with his fists clenched in the air, he lifted a foot and stamped the ground with all his from his throat. He hadn’t consciously decided to act out like this. It just happened, a snap expression of hurt, fury and frustration. He was near a tree, the soil-stamping was and bare, and the impact of his foot-stamping was thunderous. It was a giant tree, a galleon with its sails in full rig, an art museum with its entire collection on display, a mosque with a thousand worshippers praising God. He gazed at it for several minutes. A tree had never before been so soothing to him. As he admired it, he could feel the anger and distress draining from him.

After an hour or so, he made his way to the edge of the park. A sign informed him he was in Hyde Park. The irony struck him. He had entered the park like Mr.Hyde of Stevenson’s tale, deformed by anger, willfulness and resentment, but he was leaving it more like the good Dr.Jekyll.

A stroll in a London park and an encounter with a beautiful tree at least taught him that useful lesson: if you are pitched into misery, remember that your days on this earth are counted and you might as well make the best of those you have left.