Country: Brazil
Genre: Drama/Coming-Of-Age
Pages: 288
Writer: Let's clear a myth, Paulo Coelho is not a priest. He's a very religious man, but the closest he got to priesthood was attending Jesuit school at a toddler. He is the writer of novels such as The Alchemist and By The Piedra River, I Sat Down And Made A Fool Of Myself...wait? Yeah I forgot to say. Coelho is a polarizing writer. Or you love him unconditionally or you want to beat him up with a shovel. I would stand in the latter category.
Veronika is not happy with her life. She's good looking, she had friends, a job, a future, but for some reason, she decides to commit suicide by sleeping pills overdose. Now, one would expect a writer to describe in two gut-wrenching chapters what's wrong with the life of his character, so that the reader can actually relate. Call his minimalism if you want, but all we get is that "everything in Veronika's life was similar" and that "she had a deep feeling of uselessness". Oh Lord, where's my suspension of disbelief? Apparently, it's hung on a wall in one of Paulo Coelho's mansions.
Unfortunately, the storytelling landslide doesn't stop there. Veronika is checked in an hospital where they put her in an narcotic coma to protect her from the damage she done to herself. Everybody knows that drug overdoses are like alcohol hangovers you need to take more in order to beat it...NOT. The usual treatment you get from a medical crew when you try to commit suicide with pills is a good stomach pumping and a slap in the back on your way out. Maybe an appointment with a psychologist if you cry enough.
Waking up from a whopping three weeks of coma, she's checked in to Villete Asylum, because you know...depressed are crazies. They need to be locked up! Over these, she faced with a staff that doesn't give a damn about her health and are more concerned with making her a functioning member of society again. But thanks to all the Gods of previsible literature, she's turned on to her true path by her fellow inmates Zedka, Maria and a young and handsome schizo boy named Eduard, in front of who she frantically masturbates (what's up with that? There's a girl beating off in Eleven Minutes too). Of course, they turn her into God and religion, so she can understand that her true path is dictated by herself and not by the surrounding meaning, which you, me and and everybody else learned in third grade.
I don't understand how Coelho has even passed the editor's refusal pile. He must've had some friends in high places or something. The reason why he sells millions of that ungodly thrash of his is because his stories are short and easy, for people that don't like to read. He never try to draw a picture, he always enunciates. "Veronika felt like his" and then BAM! to the next idea. When writers like Dennis Lehane, James Ellroy or Haruki Murakami are mauling themselves in order to give the liveliest stories possible, it's sad to see someone getting away with a such a cheap effort.
Veronika has no reason to die whatsoever, except maybe her "repressed" desire to be a professional pianist. She's also barely fictional. Coelho himself has been locked in an institution back in the days where you could lock everybody in if the money was right. Eduard is an interesting character as long as he remains silence. He's the only shadow of a symbolism you get through Coelho's tale. There is one beautiful scene in the book where Veronika plays piano, which attracts Eduard. As soon as he talks though things go down the drain. But you know...Veronika NEEDED to find true love now that she was turned to God...*sigh*
I'm not even wasting time with Zedka and Maria. Dr. Igor is, as his name suggest, a bad scientist stereotype and his whole purpose in the story is misdirected. He's an antagonist, but not really. He was keeping Veronika against her will...but not really...He's a poorly defined character where you could have had a great doctor if the lead of this tale would've been handled by Haruki Murakami or another writer with an imagination instead of a religious agenda.
I don't want to be condescending, so I'll be straightforward instead. It's a piece of shit. I'm not sure to what extent the translation played a role (I read Eleven Minutes in English and the writing was rather good) but it's terribly written.
A fact that bugs me a lot about Paulo Coelho is that he's a judgmental person that takes cheap pot shots through his book. His list of victims here count: Sigmund Freud, non-spiritual people, happy people, science and even Canada. So, you know what Paolo Coelho? FUCK YOU TOO BUDDY!
