I am a great fan of Yann Martel's most famous book, The Life of Pi, so I was looking forward to another piece of masterful storytelling; unfortunately I read Beatrice and Virgil instead.
This book starts off as an easy read, exploring the writing career of Henry, setting his back story but this takes far too much of what is a very short book and part the way through this section one begins to tire of a highly narrative and, in fact, immature writing style - it reminded me of the sort of dross I would produce when I was at school. As the reader progresses the hope is that there is some highly profound message later on to make up for this. There is not.
Henry meets a struggling play writer and attempts to help finish the script, which then condemns the reader to dealing with many pages written in play form, with moribund dialogue that one can hardly be bothered to read and allegories so esoteric that the author must explain what they mean lest the reader be left in the dark.
This novel does make readers turn the pages, partly because they want to discover what will happen and that there must be some kind of twist in the end, partly because they want to skip the boring play dialogue. It is perhaps ironic that in this book there are two authors who try to represent the Holocaust in an original way and fail, because this author does exactly the same.
I would not recommend this book to anybody other than those who are attempting to write their own books and are tempted to try and be more intellectual than they need to be by introducing pointless allegories that do not contribute to the story at all, so that they can see how not to write. More than anything this book is just boring. Read The Life of Pi, it is wonderful, but leave this alone.