This is my second book by Paulo Coelho, the first being The Alchemist, which I loved. I love Coelho’s writing, and I’ll definitely be reading even more of his works.
Someone in my family is going to shoot me for this (you know who you are), but I really loved this book. Very similar to The Alchemist, it’s about finding out who you are, what you want to do, and then doing it. Veronika is a 24 year-old Slovenian who has decided to commit suicide, but she fails and is sent to a mental institution. While there, along with her fellow “crazies,” she discovers that maybe she isn’t so crazy after all.
Look at me; I was beginning to enjoy the sun again, the mountains, even life’s problems, I was beginning to accept that the meaninglessness of life was no one’s fault but mine. I wanted to see the main square in Ljubljana again, to feel hatred and love, despair and tedium–all those simple, foolish things that make up everyday life, but that give pleasure to your existence. If one day I could get out of here, I would allow myself to be crazy. Everyone is indeed crazy, but the craziest are the ones who don’t know they’re crazy; they just keep repeating what others tell them to.
Apparently Coelho wrote this in part as a reflection upon his own experience in his youth when his parents sent him to a mental institution. All because he wanted to be an artist. Whoa. He does say that later they very much regretted what they had done, and I believe he wrote this book only after they had both died.
Caution: I could have done without the e*plicit *ex situation. I would have rated this a ‘5′ otherwise.
1998, 210 pp.
Rating: 4.5
