Loving makes us divine, this seems to be one of the adages that cross the pages of the biting epistolary novel Siberian Vodka, self-published by the writer herself, Veronica Tomassini, because Italian publishing houses are too busy publishing dull, standardized, politically correct, and banal authors.
Veronica Tomassini is a rare demonstration of how in Italy people try to make literature, that literature that reminds us that knowing ourselves depends both on our relationship with the whole, with the Absolute, and on the name we give to this relationship. Siberian Vodka is a metaphysical journey into evil from which love and compassion spring; an almost insatiable book that embraces the transcendent, questions it, where the characters are shipwrecked and then grasp shreds of the infinite, in the manner of Dostoevsky, not by chance among the writers who have most influenced Veronica Tomassini.
The characters of Siberian Vodka are attracted and at the same time reject something that calls them, embodying obsessions, vices, weaknesses, monstrosities that overwhelm the most demanding and sensitive reader. The letters collected by Tomassini become a novel and tell the historical loneliness of the past, the mid-90s, after the fall of the wall, the time ended in the history of the countries of the former curtain.
From disorder – that is, the reckless democracy that swoops like a disturbing wind over the now lifeless communist elegy finally nailed to the real crime – to that chaos whose tragic has the contours of a biblical prophecy, nourish generations of displaced persons, the so-called crowd of men. Wanderers, decanted in the fat and distracted West, drinkers, bearers of perennial mourning. Obscenity to be extinguished in a park of a metropolis or a modest provincial, European, Italian city.
Specifically, that is, in my novel, a Sicilian provincial town. This is the original synopsis of the novel by the Syracusan writer. Veronica Tomassini speaks to us of love, true, but of a love that dies, betrays, hurts. Of an immortal love, which is divine, which loves the other before even knowing him, and which must first pass through the meanders of the dark soul and then come to the realization that what is truly real is the invisible and unlikely. We must live as if we were living in another world, Veronica Tomassini seems to suggest, abandoning ourselves to the mystery, including that of love.
So is loving normal or not? Everyone talks about love, confusing it with passion, with a feeling that gratifies, moves, makes you feel alive. But love, as the author says, is not even a feeling. While waiting for love or living it with difficulty, one must accept what takes life away from us, embed one’s loneliness among the raindrops that bathe us, drawing flashes of light and hope from the dark, like the great mystics.
The perfection of pain would manifest itself at the end of the time set for you and the inhabitants of the house built on the tides. A crew of stragglers with only one aspiration: disaffection with life. Life, whatever it meant. Then it seemed to you that it was only a question of subtraction, which life was advancing, taking away. In the noblest form, life takes away. The uprooted gesture of proof. Sometimes it returns, indeed it certainly does, not what you thought, perhaps, or hoped for. But is it better, is it worse?