This was one of those random finds while browsing the shelves at the library, and an example of why it’s worth doing so I suppose. I’m not sure what it was about the spine which made me pull it off the shelf, but the cover is interesting, and the blurb met the “well, this seems so strange I kind of have to give it a go” criteria for coming home with me.
When I first started reading, admittedly, I had some doubts. The story seemed a little too jumpy, a little too coy and elliptical, while the scene descriptions often seemed weirdly over-detailed. And to some extent, these and other criticisms can really be applied to the entire book, but Veronica ends up making up for it and, in some ways, even making a virtue of these qualities.
For an absolute executive summary evaluation, I can only describe Veronica as a kind of hallucinatory fever dream. Trying to explain it beyond that is possibly a waste of time, though I’ll try: it’s set mostly in New York, though it’s a kind of magic-underground New York. The plot, if it’s possible to summarize, is the story of a photographer on a quest for a mysterious woman named Veronica, who is meanwhile on a quest for her vanished magician father. There’s magic, time travel, fluid identity, sex, Tibetan mythology, and lots of vodka and black tea. (As I say, daunting to describe beyond “fever dream.”)
The whole thing really walks a line between fascinating mystery and overly-cryptic indulgent sketch, but manages to avoid falling onto the wrong side of that division. At least, I thought so. Though I suspect that opinions of the book would vary widely depending on what the reader brings to it.
For my part, as I got into the story, I not only settled into its rhythms and oddness, but began to find associations with other ideas and experiences which might only work for a relatively small number of potential readers. For example, I’ve read a lot of weird stuff, including comic books, “magic realism” and in particular the work of Alan Moore, in which context the magic forces, spacetime-distortion and elliptically-narrated events of Veronica aren’t actually that outlandish. The BBC program Neverwhere was also a good conceptual lead-in (though the two works were created at pretty much the same time, in another of those weird examples of synchronicity.) All in all, I was relatively comfortable filling in the story’s gaps on my own, or else living with some things being left open to interpretation.
Another surprising association was the narrative’s odd evocation--presumably wholly unintentional--of old-school text-based adventure games. It’s difficult to even explain unless you’ve spent some time playing these, but after a few chapters it was striking, for me. The story moves pretty fast, throughout most of the book, frequently leading the protagonist from one curious interior space to another. And these spaces are almost invariably introduced with a careful description of the furniture, objects, and people (if any) in view. Again, this probably wouldn’t mean anything to someone unfamiliar with 1990s adventure games, but at times it felt almost like someone had simply drawn long excerpts from one of them.
The adventure game feeling was also prompted by the relatively anonymous nature of the protagonist. He has a name, Leo, though frankly I have difficulty remembering it; while bits about his personal life and past are worked into the story here and there, on the whole he’s a cipher. And thus, while Veronica is related in first-person, the protagonist seems much like the largely anonymous “you” of so many old-school adventure games.
Indeed, this is probably the closest I can come to identifying one unequivocal weakness in Veronica, as opposed to all the facets which might be flaws, and then again might just be weird. The main character is not only a blank, but is mostly pulled along through events like a puppet; his few significant decisions and actions are almost entirely reactive, and the story never really establishes any clear sense of Leo as a real individual with his own free will and motivations.
And even this, arguably, is neither accident nor flaw, depending on how one chooses to view it. The blank nature of Leo arguably makes him, as in those old video games, more of an avatar for the reader. While, on the other hand, as the whole story has a fever-dream quality, anyway, a dreamlike sense of detachment from one’s own experiences and actions can be seen as entirely fitting. Indeed some of Leo’s disorientation and “stranger in his own life” impressions seemed very familiar to me; I think any sensitive and imaginative person who has ever experienced upheaval or turmoil would probably know these feelings.
Beyond this, venturing into the kind of multilayered speculation which Veronica invites, the story seems to contain repeated hints that, sort of like Deckard in Blade Runner, Leo may be something other than an ordinary human being pulled into weird circumstances simply by chance. I don’t think these add up to anything conclusive, but they add yet another wrinkle to the whole kaballistic structure. Which considered as a whole does make it difficult to really evaluate Veronica, because there are so many open questions about the “real” significance of what one has actually read.