Veronika ​Decides to Die (On the Seventh Day) 19 csillagozás

Paulo Coelho: Veronika Decides to Die Paulo Coelho: Veronika Decides to Die Paulo Coelho: Veronika Decides to Die

Veronika has everything she could wish for – young and pretty, with plenty of attractive boyfriends, a steady job, loving family. Yet Veronika is not happy and one winter's morning takes an overdose of sleeping pills, only to wake up some time later in the local hospital. There she is told that although she is alive, her heart is now irreparably damaged and she has only a few days to live…

This story follows her through these intense days as she starts question all her ideas about life. Soon she comes to realise that every second of existence is a choice we all make between living and dying. This is a moving and uplifting song to life, one that reminds us that every moment in our lives is special and precious.

Eredeti megjelenés éve: 1998

HarperCollins, London, 2009
192 oldal · ISBN: 9780007835447 · Fordította: Margaret Jull Costa
HarperCollins, London (United Kingdom), 2005
210 oldal · ISBN: 9780061015014 · Fordította: Margaret Jull Costa
HarperCollins, London, 2000
192 oldal · ISBN: 9780007103461 · Fordította: Margaret Jull Costa

3 további kiadás

Kedvencelte 3

Most olvassa 1

Várólistára tette 2

Kívánságlistára tette 2

Kiemelt értékelések

Paulo Coelho: Veronika Decides to Die

Nekem már nincsenek elvárásaim, ha valami számomra is érthetetlen okból Coelhot kezdek olvasni. Talán így történhetett, hogy ezúttal kevésbé csalódtam a regényben. Nem különösebben rossz könyv a Veronika meg akar halni, csak éppen annyira jó se. Coelho általában át szeretne adni valami mélynek szánt gondolatot az életről. Ez történt ebben az esetben is. Csak éppen a mélyen szánt gondolatait nem érzem elég mélynek, regény alapjául kevésnek találom.

Paulo Coelho: Veronika Decides to Die

Amikor a fülszöveget elolvastam, már akkor megfogott a könyv, mostanában megszerettem az ilyen elmélkedős, elgondolkodtató történeteket. Mindent összevéve, nekem tetszett, 5-ből minimum megérdemel egy 4-est. Az az egy minusz pont is csak a vége miatt van, mert nekem nem igazán tetszett a lezárás.

Csiga_bige P>!
Paulo Coelho: Veronika Decides to Die

Sokáig halogattam ezt az értékelést, legfőképpen azért, mert nem értettem, miért hatott rám így ez a könyv. Magyarul már olvastam, nem csak ezt, sok más Coelhot is, ezért is vettem meg jópár könyvét, hogy az ismert és szeretett! történetet majd könyebb lesz olvasni angolul. Sajnos azt kell hogy mondjam, nem az esetleges nyelvi problémák miatt nem gyakorolt rám olyan hatást, mint anno 10 évvel ez előtt. Amit sajnálok, mert emlékszem, akkor nagyon a hatása alá kerültem és vártam most is a katarzist, de nem jött. És nem azért, mert már ismertem a történetet. Bármikor képes vagyok újra olvasni és ugyanúgy élvezni egy Agatha Christie könyvet, mint elsőre, akkor is, ha még élénken él bennem a gyilkos kiléte. Régen úgy éreztem, sorsfordító igazságokat olvasok, most pedig csak közhelyeket láttam. Van az az életkor, amikor Coelho egyfajta spirituális vezető szerepét tölti be a könyvei által, én ebből (sajnos) már kinőttem.

Paulo Coelho: Veronika Decides to Die

nem rossz. határozottan nem rossz.
mondjuk nekem a vége túl szentimentalista…

Népszerű idézetek


Since people always tend to help others – just so that they can feel they are better than they really are – they'll give me my job back at the library. In time, I'll start frequenting the same bars and nightclubs, I'll talk to my friends about the injustices and problems of the world, I'll go to the cinema, take walks around the lake.
Since I only took sleeping pills, I'm not disfigured in any way: I'm still young, pretty, intelligent, I won't have any difficulty in getting boyfriends, I never did. I'll make love with them in their houses, or in the woods, I'll feel a certain degree of pleasure, but the moment I reach orgasm, the feeling of emptiness will return. We won't have much to talk about, and both he and I will know it. The time will come to make our excuses – ‘It's late’, or ‘I have to get up early tomorrow’ – and we'll part as quickly as possible, avoiding looking each other in the eye.
I'll go back to my rented room in the convent. I'll try and read a book, turn on the TV to see the same old programmes, set the alarm clock to wake up at exactly the same time I woke up the day before and mechanically repeat my tasks at the library. I'll eat a sandwich in the park opposite the theatre, sitting on the same bench, along with other people who also choose the same benches on which to sit and have their lunch, people who all have the same vacant look, but pretend to be pondering extremely important matters.
Then I'll go back to work, I'll listen to the gossip about who's going out with whom, who's suffering from what, how such and such a person was in tears about her husband, and I'll be left with the feeling that I'm privileged: I'm pretty, I have a job, I can have any boyfriend I choose. So I’ll go back to the bars at the end of the day, and the whole thing will start again.
My mother, who must be out of her mind with worry over my suicide attempt, will recover from the shock and will keep asking me what I'm going to do with my life, why I'm not the same as everyone else, things really aren't as complicated as I think they are. ‘Look at me, for example, I've been married to your father for years, and I've tried to give you the best possible upbringing and set you the best possible example.’

One day, I'll get tired of hearing her constantly repeating the same things, and to please her I'll marry a man whom I oblige myself to love. He and I will end up finding a way of dreaming of a future together: a house in the country, children, our children's future. We'll make love often in the first year, less in the second, and after the third year, people perhaps think about sex only once a fortnight and transform that thought into action only once a month. Even worse, we'll barely talk. I'll force myself to accept the situation, and I'll wonder what's wrong with me, because he no longer takes any interest in me, ignores me, and does nothing but talk about his friends, as if they were his real world.
When the marriage is just about to fall apart, I'll get pregnant. We'll have a child, feel closer to each other for a while, and then the situation will go back to what it was before.
I'll begin to put on weight like the aunt that nurse was talking about yesterday – or was it days ago, I don't really know. And I'll start to go on diets, systematically defeated each day, each week, by the weight that keeps creeping up regardless of the controls I put on it. At that point, I'll take those magic pills that stop you feeling depressed, then I'll have a few more children, conceived during nights of love that pass all too quickly. I'll tell everyone that the children are my reason for living, when in reality my life is their reason for living.
People will always consider us a happy couple, and no one will know how much solitude, bitterness and resignation lies beneath the surface happiness.
Until one day, when my husband takes a lover for the first time, and I will perhaps kick up a fuss like the nurse's aunt, or think again of killing myself. By then, though, I'll be too old and cowardly, with two or three children who need my help, and I'll have to bring them up and help them find a place in the world before I can just abandon everything. I won't commit suicide: I'll make a scene, I'll threaten to leave and take the children with me. Like all men, my husband will back down, he'll tell me he loves me and that it won't happen again. It won't even occur to him that, if I really did decide to leave, my only option would be to go back to my parents' house and stay there for the rest of my life, forced to listen to my mother going on and on all day about how I lost my one opportunity for being happy, that he was a wonderful husband despite his peccadillos, that my children will be traumatised by the separation.
Two or three years later, another woman will appear in his life. I'll find out – because I saw them, or because someone told me – but this time I'll pretend I don't know. I used up all my energy fighting against that other lover, I've no energy left, it's best to accept life as it really is, and not as I imagined it to be. My mother was right.
He will continue being a considerate husband, I will continue working at the library, eating my sandwiches in the square opposite the theatre, reading books I never quite manage to finish, watching television programmes that are the same as they were ten, twenty, fifty years ago.
Except that I'll eat my sandwiches with a sense of guilt, because I'm getting fatter; and I won't go to bars any more, because I have a husband expecting me to come home and look after the children.
After that, it's a matter of waiting for the children to grow up and of spending all day thinking about suicide, without the courage to do anything about it. One fine day, I'll reach the conclusion that that's what life is like, there's no point worrying about it, nothing will change. And I'll accept it.


She hated her father too, because, unlike her mother, who worked all the time, he knew how to live, he took her to bars and to the theatre, they had fun together, […].

62. oldal (Harper, London, 2000)


It was best to put an end to everything now, while she was still brave and healthy enough to die.

24. oldal

Hasonló könyvek címkék alapján

Colleen Hoover: November 9 (angol)
V. E. Schwab: The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue
Elena Ferrante: My Brilliant Friend
Olivier Bourdeaut: Waiting for Bojangles
Kristin Hannah: Firefly Lane
Leah Scheier: Your Voice Is All I Hear
Taylor Jenkins Reid: The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo
Jennifer Niven: All the Bright Places
Michelle Hodkin: The Evolution of Mara Dyer
Carlos Ruiz Zafón: Marina (angol)