Veronika Decides To Die, by Paulo Coelho
I found this book at the oft-mentioned
Normal's bookstore on 31st and Greenmount here in Baltimore. Obviously, the title captured me and was the first book I carried around, surviving every pause to re-evaluate my pile. Is it my current bout of depression that saved this one from the shelf? Is it the fact that despite such a decision made in the first page of the novel, a hundred or so pages still followed? Whatever it was that made me bring it home, I'm glad that I did.
Veronika is 24 years old and for no reason other than the chance to break the monotony of life, she decides to kill herself by overdosing on sleeping pills. Knowing she won't become unconscious right away, she grabbed a magazine to read while she waits. She comes upon an article that asks, in the first line, "Where is Slovenia?" Veronika is from Slovenia, and here she is, in the capital city, killing herself--and yet people in the world don't know where it is! She then decides that she'll write a letter to the magazine in response to this question. Some will think it her suicide note; some will overlook it.
Her suicide fails and she wakes in a mental hospital. Disappointed at her inability to take her own life, she is somewhat shocked to learn that she has damaged her heart sufficiently in her failed suicide attempt that she has only 5 to 7 more days to live. What to do in those 7 days? Certainly not change her mind! But staying still and waiting for the time to come is a lot harder than she thinks.
After I read this book, which I thoroughly enjoyed, I did some very vague research on the author. I left each website feeling he was a motivational speaker. I wished I hadn't looked up anything, because it gave
Veronika Decides To Die a cheesy element that I hadn't sensed before. I laughed out loud while I read it, I pondered it's thoughts, and I wondered: if I were to die in 5 days, what would I want to do that I can't do today because the world will call me crazy? Well... it's actually a hard list to come up with. I'd want to go to an ocean and walk into it naked. I'd want to hang upside down from a tree and hope a handsome, true-love-for-a-day man walked opposite and kissed me. I'd want to sing poetry and write novels while a scribe followed behind me as I flounce through
Sounds of Music-like hills. I want to kiss strangers. I want to pet a pig. I want to sit on top of a billboard. I want to paint a picture. I want to lie down and rest and enjoy the moment in which I realize: tomorrow, I don't have to go to work.
A quick snippet:
"I'm going to tell you a story," said Zedka. "A powerful wizard, who wanted to destroy an entire kingdom, placed a magic potion in the well from which all the inhabitants drank. Whoever drinks that water would go mad.
"The following morning, the whole population drank from the well and they all went mad, apart from the king and his family, who had a well set aside for them alone, which the magician had not managed to poison. The king was worried and tried to control the population by issuing a series of edicts governing security and public health. The policemen and inspectors, however, had also drunk the poisoned water, and they thought the king's decisions were absurd and resolved to take no notice of them.
"When the inhabitants of the kingdom heard these decrees, they became convinced that the king had gone mad and was now giving nonsensical orders. They marched on the castle and called for his abdication.
"In despair the king prepared to step down from the throne, but the queen stopped him, saying 'Let us go and drink from the communal well. Then we will be the same as them.'
"And that was what they did: The king and the queen drank the water of madness and immediately began talking nonsense. Their subjects repented at once; now that the king was displaying such wisdom, why not allow him to continue ruling the country?
"The country continued to live in peace, although its inhabitants behaved very differently from those of its neighbors. And the king was able to govern until the end of his days."
The Poisonwood Bible, by Barbara Kingsolver
Do you think you're ready to read what I have to say about this novel? It was one of those, "Oh. I'll start this now. Everyone says I should read it..." So you start to read. Then you go away on a weekend trip and silly you! You forgot your book! So you pick up a new book and start reading that. Then you start another book, because you just weren't disappointed enough the first time you had to put the book down--what if it's not worth it? What if you want to put it down because the flashes of other book covers on your walls and floor are screaming at you to free them of their bondage?
But I did pick it up. And I did continue to read, and though I wasn't praising the book for its adventure or its thrill, I did raise an eyebrow to its clout. A Baptist man leading his family into the 1960s Congo, straight from Georgia, to praise the merits of Jesus in his toga to men and women who don't even have legs and share their bowls with villagers. Was the man crazy? YES. Were the women scared? Hell, no.
The story is shared through journal entries from each woman in the family: the mother, the twins (one a bit slant) and the youngest of the bunch, 5 year-old Ruth May. It was hard to pick a favorite among them--even the angst-ridden, snobby Rachel who despises the very blue sky over a country of black people had her charms. And despite the utter dismay I couldn't help but experience when reading about the Baptist Hellian known as Brother Price, Kingsolver broadens your understanding and empathy farther than you thought you were capable. How does a writer create a horrid individual who commits crimes too cruel to put in law books--and still make you feel bad for him?
Sheer talent.
I fell in love with the Congolese, with the play of languages, with the eccentricities of a mute and reaffirmed my belief that to write well, to tell a story well, to create three generations of life that educate you, while you sit in your bed reading till 1:00 am and the covers are getting itchy--you need to educate yourself on the rest of the world and not just organize your desk for a day of writing. I learned more about the Congo in four parts than I would have reading a bestseller. Kingsolver's bibliography helps cement your newfound education.
It's not a roller coaster ride; it doesn't even make you scream and get nervous at the top, but it's a nail biter... it's a
Wendigo* - and though I won't say "I can't talk to you till you read the book," I will ask you every now and then at the bar if you read it yet, and if you have, if you wanna go on a little jaunt to Zaire next winter.
*
Wendigo is
a film by Larry Fessenden that I watched about two years ago with a friend. We both felt the same thing: utter fright for the first hour of the film...and yet
nothing had happened. So how could that be? We checked each other, each expecting something to jump out, to scare us, to remind us that in the end, we're all alone. Nothing ever did. The rest of the movie turned out to be a complete bust - shit, if you ask me. But the first hour is the best suspense and thrill of a horror movie that has ever been made.
The Lovely Bones, by Alice Sebold
I've had this book on my shelves (or in my boxes) for well over a year yet each time I considered reading it, something said to me, "Sappy. Skip it for now." I'm not going to launch into an exciting dance-theme of "Boy, was I EVER wrong!" - because though it was not sappy, it wasn't a killer of a novel either. Perhaps I'm too harsh; a co-worker of mine, who also read the book, noted that she cried. I may be the next Hitler, who knows, but all I really wanted to know was: when are they gonna catch the bastard?
The back cover explains that the novel teaches about forgiveness. I had a hard time relating. Though I could see that theme played out in the personal relationships of the family, I could not help but wish and wish the guy who caused the whole novel get shot in the head by the little brother.
Here's the jist:
The Lovely Bones is a novel told by the perspective of a young girl, only 14, who is raped and murdered in what can be called, for all intents and purposes, her own backyard. She is in heaven (not a typical heaven with clouds, togas and angels) watching the world unfold after her death. She watches her father, mother, sister and brother, her high school crush, classmates she never talked to, and her killer...
The familial relationships - the characters, the ties, the essence and personality of each of them - were exceptionally related (here, I wish I could define a new word:
shewn. It has no meaning as of yet, but I feel it should mean "expressed; shown; displayed; all "show and not tell" -ed). In reading, I felt for the worn mother who loses feeling in her limbs and wants to run away and abandon all she's ever known if only to never have it taken away; her father, who knows in the very first week who it was that killed her - and nobody believes him; the sister who is left with the ghost of her dead sister written all over her face; the brother who asks daily "Where is she?" - these characters were so well placed; so well loved; and so well lived in the novel, I wonder if they were representations of Alice's own childhood.
I would recommend you take the time to read it if only for the characterization. I never am one to suggest it teaches a life lesson; after all, I didn't cry.
