Veronica
Mary Gaitskill

Sam Haddow
posted 5 February 2008

Veronica is a novel ostensibly centring on the relationship between two dysfunctional women – a naïve model and an eccentric proof reader – in 1970s and 80s New York. Elizabeth, the protagonist, narrates the action from middle age, long after Veronica’s death and well into her own debilitating loss of limb, wreck of career, and affliction with hepatitis.

Veronica is a self-consciously lyrical novel whose narrative style stems from Elizabeth’s frequently repeated desire to ‘live like music’, it adopts a free form expositional trajectory and flows seamlessly between ‘past’ and ‘present’, blurring the line between naivety and hindsight to ensnare the reader in the same hedonistic freefall that overwhelms and eventually destroys both characters. The prose is a first person hallucinatory rant through unreliable eyes, whilst the fragmented memories that comprise the bulk of the story are stitched into the mundane activities of a single day well into the disintegration of the narrator. Gaitskill is a much touted novelist with considerable skill – one aspect that shines here is her ability with lists, a talent perfectly espoused by Melville and one that has become sorely neglected of late.

Another praiseworthy element is her refusal in the novel to isolate any aspect of the writing process, and each part of the text as a whole stems from and works in collusion with a complete thematic saturation. Gaitskill is (as already noted in most reviews) not attempting to write social or political commentary; in many respects this isn’t a human interest story either – the prime concern of both writer and narrator is solely surface. For example, post-mortem ruminations describe photographers piercing underage models with needlepoint lights, rendering their bodies porous and expendable whilst a dispassionate eye reports the ‘one decibel’ appeal of the subject, as she herself is relegated through a token photograph to ‘companion’. This juxtaposition of perspectives under an unchanging lens is typical of a novel whose stylistic treatment of underage sex or sexual manipulation is given no more or less emotional emphasis than domestic arguments, HIV, or the latest trend in modelling fashions. Tellingly, it is only at the cinema, arbitrarily projecting their own characters onto pre-recorded images, that Veronica and Elizabeth offer the reader any chance to witness tangible personal contact.

This I found problematic – not simply because the device of images-once-removed is heavy-handed (and slightly obvious) but because it highlights a peculiarity in the novel which heralds its weakest formal point – Veronica isn’t about Veronica. It’s about Elizabeth. Who isn’t really anyone. Which is a nice concept, but I was left with a bit of ‘what’s the point’. We’re accustomed to viewing the lives of tragic, brilliant, enigmatic characters through the eyes of flawed narrators – Paul Auster has practically made a career out of it, as did Poe, Robert Louis Stevenson, the Brontes and others going back further. But the problem is, to Elizabeth, Veronica isn’t really tragic, brilliant or even particularly enigmatic – Elizabeth doesn’t even seem that interested in Veronica. Which is a shame, because the few real glimpses of Veronica the reader is treated to are tantalising, whilst Elizabeth isn’t a particularly engaging or interesting character. Doubtless this point could be easily contested when taking into consideration the novel’s avowed obsession with surfaces, but it still left me feeling a little cold. Perhaps that is the purpose, but when the writer’s talents are prodigiously geared towards depiction, it’s a shame Gaitskill didn’t find something better to depict.

The other big problem is timing. For any work of fiction to be raised above the fragility of its instance to take its place amongst the canon, it must be simultaneously of and for its time, containing elements that transcend its context that can apply to a future beyond its conception. But despite the author’s willingness to ‘penetrate’ her aesthetic novel’s surfaces, she rarely even scratches them, and we know nothing of Elizabeth’s family beyond blank biographical sketches. Veronica is an accomplished work of nostalgia, harking back to the moment the partying turned sour and offering glimpses of the tragedy that befell those seduced enough to submit to 1970s/80s New York hedonism, but it feels it could easily have been written ten or fifteen years ago. This isn’t exactly a criticism of the book itself, but Veronica could easily have become a modern classic had it only been written earlier, and it now feels tired and used, a forged postcard sent to us by someone who wishes they’d been invited.