Quick Notes: Veronika Decides to Die by Paulo Coelho

Genre: Realistic Fiction/Philosophy/Mental Health
Copy: Paperback
Rating: 🌕🌕🌕🌖

“Once you learn how to die, you learn how to live.”

This line from Mitch Albom’s Tuesdays with Morrie perfectly summarizes Veronika Decides to Die for me.

Inspired by events from Coelho’s past life, this book tells the story of Veronika — a 24-year-old woman who seems to have everything anyone could ever ask for. Nonetheless, she feels dissatisfied and makes a decision to end her life. She lives and survives and finds herself in a mental asylum where her life completely change.

I finished Veronika Decides to Die last week but it took me a while to wrap my emotions around it. Not sure if it’s the timing, since I was going through another anxiety phase when I was reading it; or because I haven’t considered suicide yet; or because Veronika’s troubles hit very close to home.

Life and death are the central themes of the story, as are madness and conformity.

This book will make you ponder on the consequences of living a repressed life, one that conforms to the norms set by society or that is bounded by one’s own limiting beliefs. It will have you thinking about the days when you feel like Veronika (tired of your prosaic life), or Zedka (unable to keep your emotions at ease), or Mari (too afraid so you choose to escape the real world), or Eduard (constrained by other people’s demand and pressure). It will make you question your authenticity — and insanity.

What would I do if death comes sooner than I expected? Truth is, I don’t know. But just as Vilette is a “safe place” for these people to express themselves, I’d say poetry is my own. Perhaps through these poems, I’d get to figure out myself and life.

Overall, this novel left me more questions than realizations (which is a good thing). Looking forward to finding the answers as I live my numbered days. 😀

Heavy by Mary Oliver

That time
I thought I could not
go any closer to grief
without dying

I went closer,
and I did not die.
Surely God
had his hand in this,

as well as friends.
Still, I was bent,
and my laughter,
as the poet said,

was nowhere to be found.
Then said my friend Daniel,
(brave even among lions),
“It’s not the weight you carry

but how you carry it –
books, bricks, grief –
it’s all in the way
you embrace it, balance it, carry it

when you cannot, and would not,
put it down.”
So I went practicing.
Have you noticed?

Have you heard
the laughter
that comes, now and again,
out of my startled mouth?

How I linger
to admire, admire, admire
the things of this world
that are kind, and maybe

also troubled –
roses in the wind,
the sea geese on the steep waves,
a love
to which there is no reply?

---

Sharing this poignant poem about dying and living after someone’s death. For some unknown reason, I find myself drawn to this piece today. I hope we all heal from all kinds of loss.

Because I could not stop for Death by Emily Dickinson

Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring –
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed Us –
The Dews drew quivering and Chill –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – ’tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses’ Heads
Were toward Eternity –

---

Who loves Emily just as I do? I know I keep repeating this but I just adore her, her dashes and her poems. This piece takes us on a poetic exploration of the cyclical nature of life and death.

Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

---

I have been feeling a lot of pressure at work with our new quota for writeups and I found courage and inspiration in this piece. I know it is Dylan’s message to his dying father but we all have different kinds of death, right? We must also remind ourselves to rage against everyday challenges, knocking depression and more.

Yesterday, I listened to an awesome reading of this poem on loop. Please give it a try here — I promise it will be worth your time. Kudos to the man for giving it so much emotion and force.

P. S. Who would have thought it was also Dylan’s birthday, on this day, in 1914. Coincidence or fate? 🤗

Writer’s Quote Wednesday – The Great Perhaps

“I go to seek a Great Perhaps.”

―François Rabelais

It is with heavy heart that I share this quote as I mourn for a colleague, a friend, and a kuya who is now off to seek his Great Perhaps. I cannot talk about life and death the way Albom or Coelho does, but I can wholeheartedly say the world lost another good man today. I could only wish he left us on a good time. Not during this cursed pandemic. But perhaps, God has far better plans. He may not be surrounded by the people whose lives he touched, but his soul will be surrounded by our love. 😦

When the Night Warrants Death

I have just spent a night among the trees, out in the cradle of the mountains. I thought I’d carry the memories of that fun night a little longer. I thought I could look at the moon with a smile. But not tonight.

Tonight, anger simmers in me at a constant roil. I want to wail and rail against the world. This heart feels as if it might break through my ribcage from an intense revolt. For the first time, I hated the night. Not because of an American post-apocalyptic horror film but because of something vile and real. They come in uniform with their hands of steel. Filling the night with a staccato of gunfire, leaving men half blown off, fatal wounds in the head or face. I hated the night for they come in it. And they warrant death.

This quiet is piercing. The night is orphaned from the sound of crickets. I wonder if they knew. I wonder if they are mourning too. I wonder if the crickets offer this brief silence to the stolen lives of the dead just as I do.

The night cries justice
A long pause from the crickets—
Can somebody hear?

---

In response to dVerse’s Haibun Monday: The Sounds of Koorogi hosted by Victoria C. Slotto. This piece might be a bit digressing from the topic but I hope it counts.

Currently, my mind is in rigor from reading about the death of seven men from Antique. They were rebels, members of our local red fighters. The AFP came in the middle of the night to serve “arrest” warrant to two men but it ended with death instead. What really happened, only the crickets know. This shouldn’t be a shock, they say, for the body bags have been pilling up. But it still makes me sad and mad. Especially when I found that one of them goes by the pen name of Maya Daniel. I came across this poet last 2017. He writes poignant and painful poems, each is a cry for freedom, liberation and resistance from oppression. His death marks another voice silenced, another pen deprived of ink.

Head over here to join the fun!

Snippet: (Non)sensical ruminations

“Death might be life in prison”
I wonder what you’d say when I tell you this.

Last night, I carved a path out of this carnal flesh
Wanting to leave the world behind—
Thoughts, feelings
Images, emotions
Flickering like jeers from far-off constellations

Death, this world has too many body bags
And the irony that prison has become a safer place is a shame

Between us, I was the lesser WHY-person
And you were the one with the bigger questions
Transcending physics to the realm of extraordinary things
While I was lost in poetry and daydreams

Detached from the physical body
Passing through astral planes and realities
Talking about death and life
A skeptic and a believer at the same time—
This is how we’ll make love

“Death might be life in prison”
I wonder what you’d say when I tell you this, love.

 

Arms

in a perfect world
arms are safe haven—
body parts
wrapped around your waist

they are not pieces of steel
sending you to hell
or to heaven
at point-blank range

in a perfect world…

arms bring bodies closer
not bodies enclosed in boxes

---

In response to dVerse’s Quadrille #62: Thinkin’ Inside the Box  hosted by De Jackson.

For some reason, today’s prompt reminded me of the rampant killings in my country and the world as a whole. 😦 The image above, Soldier Flower Gun Boy, is another guerilla graffitti from Banksy that has stirred the minds of many with its irony and juxtaposition. The image speaks for itself.

Head over here to join the prompt!

Unceasing

Unceasing
A Realistic Fiction

A piano sits in the empty room where Amy used to play with her heart poured in every key, her fingers tapping to the tune of Beethoven, Mozart, Bach, and Debussy. But one accident and, in the blink of an eye, those days were gone.

“Do you know the first thing I did after I find out I have ALS?” A voice came from behind and she turned to find her mother’s weak smile. “I started swimming. I lived my life doing the thing I love the most. I swum rivers, beaches, and pools until this disease finally took away my strength. That morning, I felt like I died a thousand times and all those years of fight were pointless.””

Her mother paused, catching her breath. “But there are things that even death cannot take.” She walked slowly towards Amy, with eyes brimming with tears. “Love. My love for water never ceased… And so should your love for music, my child.”

Word Count: 162

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Here is for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers prompt. This week’s photo prompt was taken from a hidden paradise near our place. It was not until last year that the locals discovered how beautiful this river was.

P.S. My deepest condolences to PJ and her family. You have my prayers and love. Please take care and stay strong PJ. ❤

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