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When we first begin fighting for our dream, we have no experience and make many mistakes. The secret of life, though, is to fall seven times and to get up eight times. So, why is it so important to live our personal calling if we are only going to suffer more than other people? Because, once we have overcome the defeats—and we always do—we are filled by a greater sense of euphoria and confidence. In the silence of our hearts, we know that we are proving ourselves worthy of the miracle of life. Each day, each hour, is part of the good fight. We start to live with enthusiasm and pleasure. Intense, un- expected suffering passes more quickly than suffering that is apparently bearable; the latter goes on for years and, without our noticing, eats away at our soul, until, one day, we are no longer able to free ourselves from the bitterness and it stays with us for the rest of our lives.
Then comes the fourth obstacle: the fear of realiz- ing the dream for which we fought all our lives. The mere possibility of getting what we want fills the soul of the ordinary person with guilt. We look around at all those who have failed to get what they want and feel that we do not deserve to get what we want either. We forget about all the obsta- cles we overcame, all the suffering we endured, all the things we had to give up in order to get this far. I have known a lot of people who, when their personal calling was within their grasp, went on to commit a series of stupid mistakes and never reached their goal—when it was only a step away. This is the most dangerous of the obstacles because it has a kind of saintly aura about it: renouncing joy and conquest.
But if you believe yourself worthy of the thing you fought so hard to get, then you become an instrument of God, you help the Soul of the World, and you understand why you are here. Landers The alchemist picked up a book that someone in the caravan had brought. Leafing through the pages, he found a story about Narcissus. The alchemist knew the legend of Narcissus, a youth who knelt daily beside a lake to contemplate his own beauty. He was so fascinated by himself that, one morning, he fell into the lake and drowned. At the spot where he fell, a flower was born, which was called the narcissus. But this was not how the author of the book ended the story. He said that when Narcissus died, the goddesses of the forest appeared and found the lake, which had been fresh water, transformed into a lake of salty tears.
was Narcissus beautiful? I weep because, each time he knelt beside my banks, I could see, in the depths of his eyes, my own beauty reflected. Dusk was falling as the boy arrived with his herd at an abandoned church. The roof had fallen in long ago, and an enormous sycamore had grown on the spot where the sacristy had once stood. He decided to spend the night there. He saw to it that all the sheep entered through the ruined gate, and then laid some planks across it to prevent the flock from wandering away during the night. There were no wolves in the region, but once an animal had strayed during the night, and the boy had had to spend the en- tire next day searching for it. He swept the floor with his jacket and lay down, using the book he had just finished reading as a pillow.
It was still dark when he awoke, and, looking up, he could see the stars through the half-destroyed roof. I wanted to sleep a little longer, he thought. He had had the same dream that night as a week ago, and once again he had awakened before it ended. He arose and, taking up his crook, began to awaken the sheep that still slept. He had noticed that, as soon as he awoke, most of his animals also began to stir. It was as if some mysterious energy bound his life to that of the sheep, with whom he had spent the past two years, lead- ing them through the countryside in search of food and water. Thinking about that for a moment, he realized that it could be the other way around: that it was he who had become accustomed to their schedule. But there were certain of them who took a bit longer to awaken.
The boy prodded them, one by one, with his crook, calling each by name. He had always believed that the sheep were able to understand what he said. So there were times when he read them parts of his books that had made an impression on him, or when he would tell them of the loneliness or the happiness of a shepherd in the fields. Sometimes he would comment to them on the things he had seen in the villages they passed. He had been to the village only once, the year before. The merchant was the proprietor of a dry goods shop, and he always demanded that the sheep be sheared in his presence, so that he would not be cheated. A friend had told the boy about the shop, and he had taken his sheep there. The shop was busy, and the man asked the shepherd to wait until the afternoon. So the boy sat on the steps of the shop and took a book from his bag.
The girl was typical of the region of Andalusia, with flowing black hair, and eyes that vaguely recalled the Moorish conquerors. The shepherd told her of the Andalusian countryside, and re- lated the news from the other towns where he had stopped. It was a pleasant change from talking to his sheep. He was sure the girl would never understand. He went on telling stories about his travels, and her bright, Moorish eyes went wide with fear and surprise. As the time passed, the boy found himself wishing that the day would never end, that her father would stay busy and keep him waiting for three days.
He recognized that he was feeling some- thing he had never experienced before: the desire to live in one place forever. With the girl with the raven hair, his days would never be the same again. But finally the merchant appeared, and asked the boy to shear four sheep. He paid for the wool and asked the shepherd to come back the following year. He was excited, and at the same time uneasy: maybe the girl had already forgotten him. Lots of shepherds passed through, selling their wool. And he knew that shepherds, like seamen and like traveling sales- men, always found a town where there was someone who could make them forget the joys of carefree wandering. The day was dawning, and the shepherd urged his sheep in the direction of the sun.
They never have to make any decisions, he thought. The only things that concerned the sheep were food and water. As long as the boy knew how to find the best pastures in Andalusia, they would be his friends. They were content with just food and water, and, in exchange, they generously gave of their wool, their company, and—once in a while—their meat. If I became a monster today, and decided to kill them, one by one, they would become aware only after most of the flock had been slaughtered, thought the boy. The boy was surprised at his thoughts. Maybe the church, with the sycamore growing from within, had been haunted.
He drank a bit from the wine that remained from his dinner of the night before, and he gathered his jacket closer to his body. He knew that a few hours from now, with the sun at its zenith, the heat would be so great that he would not be able to lead his flock across the fields. It was the time of day when all of Spain slept during the summer. The heat lasted until nightfall, and all that time he had to carry his jacket. But when he thought to complain about the burden of its weight, he remem- bered that, because he had the jacket, he had withstood the cold of the dawn. The jacket had a purpose, and so did the boy. His purpose in life was to travel, and, after two years of walking the Andalusian terrain, he knew all the cities of the region. He was planning, on this visit, to ex- plain to the girl how it was that a simple shepherd knew how to read.
That he had attended a seminary until he was sixteen. His parents had wanted him to become a priest, and thereby a source of pride for a simple farm family. They worked hard just to have food and water, like the sheep. He had studied Latin, Spanish, and theology. That he wanted to travel. They climb the mountain to see the castle, and they wind up thinking that the past was better than what we have now. The next day, he gave his son a pouch that held three ancient Spanish gold coins. I wanted them to be a part of your inheritance. But use them to buy your flock. The boy thought back to that conversa- tion with his father, and felt happy; he had already seen many castles and met many women but none the equal of the one who awaited him several days hence.
He owned a jacket, a book that he could trade for another, and a flock of sheep. But, most important, he was able every day to live out his dream. If he were to tire of the Andalusian fields, he could sell his sheep and go to sea. By the time he had had enough of the sea, he would al- ready have known other cities, other women, and other chances to be happy. He had never been to that ruined church before, in spite of having traveled through those parts many times. The world was huge and inexhaustible; he had only to allow his sheep to set the route for a while, and he would discover other interesting things. All they think about is food and water. Looking at the sun, he calculated that he would reach Tarifa before midday.
He had suddenly remembered that, in Tarifa, there was an old woman who interpreted dreams. The woman sat down, and told him to be seated as well. Then she took both of his hands in hers, and began quietly to pray. It sounded like a Gypsy prayer. The boy had already had experience on the road with Gypsies; they also trav- eled, but they had no flocks of sheep. People said that Gypsies spent their lives tricking others. It was also said that they had a pact with the devil, and that they kid- napped children and, taking them away to their myste- rious camps, made them their slaves. As a child, the boy had always been frightened to death that he would be captured by Gypsies, and this childhood fear returned when the old woman took his hands in hers. But she has the Sacred Heart of Jesus there, he thought, trying to reassure himself. He recited an Our Father silently. The boy was becoming nervous.
His hands began to tremble, and the woman sensed it. He quickly pulled his hands away. He thought for a moment that it would be better to pay her fee and leave without learning a thing, that he was giving too much importance to his recurrent dream. When he speaks in our language, I can interpret what he has said. But if he speaks in the lan- guage of the soul, it is only you who can understand. But he decided to take a chance. But children always seem to be able to play with them without frightening them. But she said nothing. Both times. Then she again took his hands and studied them carefully. He was going to be able to save the little money he had because of a dream about hidden treasure! Swear that you will give me one- tenth of your treasure in exchange for what I am going to tell you. The old woman asked him to swear again while looking at the image of the Sacred Heart of Jesus.
I have never heard of them, but, if it was a child who showed them to you, they exist. There you will find a treasure that will make you a rich man. And since I am not wise, I have had to learn other arts, such as the reading of palms. So the boy was disappointed; he decided that he would never again believe in dreams. The day was hot, and the wine was re- freshing. The sheep were at the gates of the city, in a stable that belonged to a friend. The boy knew a lot of people in the city. And then they want the per- son to change. Everyone seems to have a clear idea of how other people should lead their lives, but none about his or her own.
He decided to wait until the sun had sunk a bit lower in the sky before following his flock back through the fields. He started to read the book he had bought. On the very first page it described a burial ceremony. And the names of the people involved were very difficult to pro- nounce. As he read on, an old man sat down at his side and tried to strike up a conversation. He had already imagined the scene many times; every time, the girl became fascinated when he ex- plained that the sheep had to be sheared from back to front. He also tried to remember some good stories to relate as he sheared the sheep. Most of them he had read in books, but he would tell them as if they were from his personal experience. Meanwhile, the old man persisted in his attempt to strike up a conversation. The boy offered his bottle, hoping that the old man would leave him alone. But the old man wanted to talk, and he asked the boy what book he was reading.
The old man knew how to read, and had already read the book. And if the book was irritating, as the old man had said, the boy still had time to change it for another. The old man, meanwhile, was leafing through the book, without seeming to want to return it at all. He looked like an Arab, which was not unusual in those parts. Africa was only a few hours from Tarifa; one had only to cross the narrow straits by boat. Arabs often appeared in the city, shopping and chanting their strange prayers several times a day. He looked at the people in the plaza for a while; they were coming and going, and all of them seemed to be very busy. If it were, he would already have heard of it. They tell their incredible stories at the time when you want to hear them. He could see that the old man wanted to know more about his life. It was the old man who had asked for a drink of his wine, and had started the conversation. The old man was probably a Gypsy, too. But before the boy could say anything, the old man leaned over, picked up a stick, and began to write in the sand of the plaza.
Something bright reflected from his chest with such intensity that the boy was momentarily blinded. With a movement that was too quick for some- one his age, the man covered whatever it was with his cape. When his vision returned to normal, the boy was able to read what the old man had written in the sand. There, in the sand of the plaza of that small city, the boy read the names of his father and his mother and the name of the seminary he had attended. Everyone, when they are young, knows what their Per- sonal Legend is. They are not afraid to dream, and to yearn for everything they would like to see hap- pen to them in their lives. But, as time passes, a myste- rious force begins to convince them that it will be impossible for them to realize their Personal Legend.
Or marry the daughter of a textile merchant? And also by unhappiness, envy, and jealousy. All things are one. It was the old man who spoke first. But he decided first to buy his bakery and put some money aside. He never realized that people are capable, at any time in their lives, of doing what they dream of. Bakers have homes, while shepherds sleep out in the open. Parents would rather see their children marry bakers than shepherds. There was surely a baker in her town. The boy waited, and then interrupted the old man just as he himself had been in- terrupted. Sometimes I appear in the form of a solution, or a good idea. At other times, at a crucial moment, I make it easier for things to happen.
The miner had abandoned every- thing to go mining for emeralds. For five years he had been working a certain river, and had examined hun- dreds of thousands of stones looking for an emerald. The miner was about to give it all up, right at the point when, if he were to examine just one more stone—just one more—he would find his emerald. Since the miner had sacrificed everything to his Personal Legend, the old man decided to become involved. The miner, with all the anger and frus- tration of his five fruitless years, picked up the stone and threw it aside.
But he had thrown it with such force that it broke the stone it fell upon, and there, embedded in the broken stone, was the most beauti- ful emerald in the world. This is what the Warriors of the Light try to teach. And I will tell you how to find the hidden treasure. Good afternoon. He was tense and upset, be- cause he knew that the old man was right. He went over to the bakery and bought a loaf of bread, thinking about whether or not he should tell the baker what the old man had said about him. If he were to say anything, the baker would spend three days thinking about giving it all up, even though he had gotten used to the way things were. The boy could certainly resist causing that kind of anxiety for the baker.
So he began to wander through the city, and found himself at the gates. There was a small build- ing there, with a window at which people bought tickets to Africa. And he knew that Egypt was in Africa. The idea frightened him. In two years he had learned every- thing about shepherding: he knew how to shear sheep, how to care for pregnant ewes, and how to protect the sheep from wolves. He knew all the fields and pastures of Andalusia. And he knew what was the fair price for every one of his animals. From there, he could see Africa in the distance. Someone had once told him that it was from there that the Moors had come, to occupy all of Spain. He could see almost the entire city from where he sat, including the plaza where he had talked with the old man.
Curse the moment I met that old man, he thought. He had come to the town only to find a woman who could interpret his dream. Neither the woman nor the old man was at all impressed by the fact that he was a shepherd. He knew how to shear them, and how to slaughter them. If he ever decided to leave them, they would suffer. The wind began to pick up. He knew that wind: people called it the levanter, because on it the Moors had come from the Levant at the eastern end of the Mediterranean. The levanter increased in intensity. Here I am, between my flock and my treasure, the boy thought. He had to choose between something he had become accustomed to and something he wanted to have.
I left my father, my mother, and the town castle be- hind. They have gotten used to my being away, and so have I. The sheep will get used to my not being there, too, the boy thought. From where he sat, he could observe the plaza. A young couple sat on the bench where he had talked with the old man, and they kissed. The levanter was still getting stronger, and he felt its force on his face. That wind had brought the Moors, yes, but it had also brought the smell of the desert and of veiled women. It had brought with it the sweat and the dreams of men who had once left to search for the unknown, and for gold and adven- ture—and for the Pyramids. The boy felt jealous of the freedom of the wind, and saw that he could have the same freedom. There was nothing to hold him back ex- cept himself. The next day, the boy met the old man at noon.
He brought six sheep with him. He said that he had al- ways dreamed of being a shepherd, and that it was a good omen. When you play cards the first time, you are almost sure to win. The old woman had said the same thing. God has prepared a path for everyone to follow. You just have to read the omens that he left for you. He remem- bered something his grandfather had once told him: that butterflies were a good omen. Like crickets, and like grasshoppers; like lizards and four-leaf clovers. These are good omens.
The old man wore a breastplate of heavy gold, covered with precious stones. The boy re- called the brilliance he had noticed on the previous day. He really was a king! He must be disguised to avoid encounters with thieves. Always ask an objective question. The treasure is at the Pyramids; that you already knew. But I had to insist on the payment of six sheep because I helped you to make your decision. From then on, he would make his own decisions. The lad wandered through the desert for forty days, and finally came upon a beautiful castle, high atop a mountain. It was there that the wise man lived. He suggested that the boy look around the palace and return in two hours.
After two hours, he returned to the room where the wise man was. Did you see the garden that it took the master gardener ten years to create? Did you notice the beautiful parchments in my library? His only concern had been not to spill the oil that the wise man had entrusted to him. He saw the gardens, the mountains all around him, the beauty of the flowers, and the taste with which every- thing had been selected. Upon returning to the wise man, he related in detail everything he had seen. He had understood the story the old king had told him. A shepherd may like to travel, but he should never forget about his sheep. Then, taking his sheep, he walked away. From atop its walls, one can catch a glimpse of Africa. The sheep fidgeted nearby, uneasy with their new owner and excited by so much change.
All they wanted was food and water. Melchizedek watched a small ship that was plowing its way out of the port. He would never again see the boy, just as he had never seen Abraham again after hav- ing charged him his one-tenth fee. That was his work. But the king of Salem hoped desperately that the boy would be successful. I should have repeated it for him. Then when he spoke about me he would say that I am Melchizedek, the king of Salem. But an old king sometimes has to take some pride in himself. He was sitting in a bar very much like the other bars he had seen along the narrow streets of Tangier. Some men were smoking from a gigantic pipe that they passed from one to the other. As a child in church, he had always looked at the image of Saint Santiago Matamoros on his white horse, his sword un- sheathed, and figures such as these kneeling at his feet.
The boy felt ill and terribly alone. The infidels had an evil look about them. Besides this, in the rush of his travels he had forgot- ten a detail, just one detail, which could keep him from his treasure for a long time: only Arabic was spoken in this country. The owner of the bar approached him, and the boy pointed to a drink that had been served at the next table. It turned out to be a bitter tea. The boy preferred wine. What he had to be concerned about was his treasure, and how he was going to go about getting it. The sale of his sheep had left him with enough money in his pouch, and the boy knew that in money there was magic; whoever has money is never really alone.
Before long, maybe in just a few days, he would be at the Pyra- mids. Yes, the old man had known what he was talking about: during the time the boy had spent in the fields of Andalusia, he had become used to learning which path he should take by observing the ground and the sky. He had discovered that the presence of a cer- tain bird meant that a snake was nearby, and that a certain shrub was a sign that there was water in the area. The sheep had taught him that. If God leads the sheep so well, he will also lead a man, he thought, and that made him feel better. The tea seemed less bitter. The boy was relieved. He was thinking about omens, and someone had appeared. The new arrival was a young man in Western dress, but the color of his skin suggested he was from this city.
He was about the same age and height as the boy. I hate this tea. He almost began to tell about his treasure, but decided not to do so. I can pay you to serve as my guide. The boy noticed that the owner of the bar stood nearby, listening attentively to their conversation. I need to know whether you have enough. But he trusted in the old man, who had said that, when you really want something, the universe always conspires in your favor. He took his money from his pouch and showed it to the young man. The owner of the bar came over and looked, as well. The two men exchanged some words in Arabic, and the bar owner seemed irritated.
He got up to pay the bill, but the owner grabbed him and began to speak to him in an angry stream of words. His new friend pushed the owner aside, and pulled the boy outside with him. This is a port, and every port has its thieves. He had helped him out in a dangerous situation. He took out his money and counted it. Everywhere there were stalls with items for sale. They reached the center of a large plaza where the market was held. There were thousands of people there, arguing, selling, and buying; vegetables for sale amongst daggers, and carpets displayed alongside to- bacco. But the boy never took his eye off his new friend. After all, he had all his money.
He thought about asking him to give it back, but decided that would be unfriendly. He knew nothing about the cus- toms of the strange land he was in. He knew he was stronger than his friend. Suddenly, there in the midst of all that confusion, he saw the most beautiful sword he had ever seen. The boy promised himself that, when he returned from Egypt, he would buy that sword. Then he realized that he had been distracted for a few moments, looking at the sword. His heart squeezed, as if his chest had suddenly compressed it. He was afraid to look around, because he knew what he would find. He continued to look at the beautiful sword for a bit longer, until he summoned the courage to turn around. All around him was the market, with people coming and going, shouting and buying, and the aroma of strange foods.
but nowhere could he find his new companion. The boy wanted to believe that his friend had simply become separated from him by accident. He decided to stay right there and await his return. As he waited, a priest climbed to the top of a nearby tower and began his chant; everyone in the market fell to their knees, touched their foreheads to the ground, and took up the chant. Then, like a colony of worker ants, they dis- mantled their stalls and left. The sun began its departure, as well. The boy watched it through its trajectory for some time, until it was hidden behind the white houses surrounding the plaza. That morning he had known everything that was going to happen to him as he walked through the fa- miliar fields. He was no longer a shepherd, and he had nothing, not even the money to return and start everything over. All this happened between sunrise and sunset, the boy thought.
He was feeling sorry for himself, and lamenting the fact that his life could have changed so suddenly and so drastically. He was so ashamed that he wanted to cry. He had never even wept in front of his own sheep. But the marketplace was empty, and he was far from home, so he wept. He wept because God was unfair, and because this was the way God repaid those who believed in their dreams. When I had my sheep, I was happy, and I made those around me happy. People saw me coming and welcomed me, he thought. But all he found was the heavy book, his jacket, and the two stones the old man had given him. As he looked at the stones, he felt relieved for some reason. He had exchanged six sheep for two precious stones that had been taken from a gold breastplate. He could sell the stones and buy a return ticket. This was a port town, and the only truthful thing his friend had told him was that port towns are full of thieves. Now he understood why the owner of the bar had been so upset: he was trying to tell him not to trust that man.
They were his treasure. Just handling them made him feel better. They reminded him of the old man. The boy was trying to understand the truth of what the old man had said. There he was in the empty marketplace, without a cent to his name, and with not a sheep to guard through the night. The old man had said to ask very clear questions, and to do that, the boy had to know what he wanted. He took out one of the stones. Software Images icon An illustration of two photographs. Images Donate icon An illustration of a heart shape Donate Ellipses icon An illustration of text ellipses. Search Metadata Search text contents Search TV news captions Search archived websites Advanced Search. Paulo Coelho The Alchemist Item Preview.
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edu uses cookies to personalize content, tailor ads and improve the user experience. By using our site, you agree to our collection of information through the use of cookies. To learn more, view our Privacy Policy. edu no longer supports Internet Explorer. To browse Academia. edu and the wider internet faster and more securely, please take a few seconds to upgrade your browser. Log in with Facebook Log in with Google. Remember me on this computer. Enter the email address you signed up with and we'll email you a reset link. Need an account? Click here to sign up. Download Free PDF. The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho. Brahim EL FEZZAZI. And little by little, my dream was becoming reality. Ten, a hundred, a thousand, a million copies sold in America. One day, a Brazilian journalist phoned to say that President Clinton had been photographed reading the book. Some time later, when I was in Turkey, I opened the magazine Vanity Fair and there was Julia Roberts declaring that she adored the book.
What is a per- sonal calling? Whenever we do something that fills us with enthusiasm, we are follow- ing our legend. There are four obstacles. First: we are told from childhood onward that everything we want to do is im- possible. We grow up with this idea, and as the years accumulate, so too do the layers of prejudice, fear, and guilt. There comes a time when our personal calling is so deeply buried in our soul as to be invisible. If we have the courage to disinter dream, we are then faced by the second obstacle: love. We know what we want to do, but are afraid of hurting those around us by abandoning everything in order to pursue our dream. We do not realize that love is just a further im- petus, not something that will prevent us going for- ward. We do not realize that those who genuinely wish us well want us to be happy and are prepared to accom- pany us on that journey. Once we have accepted that love is a stimulus, we come up against the third obstacle: fear of the defeats we will meet on the path.
Then, we war- riors of light must be prepared to have patience in diffi- cult times and to know that the Universe is conspiring in our favor, even though we may not understand how. I ask myself: are defeats necessary? Well, necessary or not, they happen. When we first begin fighting for our dream, we have no experience and make many mistakes. The secret of life, though, is to fall seven times and to get up eight times. So, why is it so important to live our personal calling if we are only going to suffer more than other people? Because, once we have overcome the defeats—and we always do—we are filled by a greater sense of euphoria and confidence.
In the silence of our hearts, we know that we are proving ourselves worthy of the miracle of life. Each day, each hour, is part of the good fight. We start to live with enthusiasm and pleasure. Intense, un- expected suffering passes more quickly than suffering that is apparently bearable; the latter goes on for years and, without our noticing, eats away at our soul, until, one day, we are no longer able to free ourselves from the bitterness and it stays with us for the rest of our lives. Then comes the fourth obstacle: the fear of realiz- ing the dream for which we fought all our lives. The mere possibility of getting what we want fills the soul of the ordinary person with guilt. We look around at all those who have failed to get what they want and feel that we do not deserve to get what we want either. We forget about all the obsta- cles we overcame, all the suffering we endured, all the things we had to give up in order to get this far.
I have known a lot of people who, when their personal calling was within their grasp, went on to commit a series of stupid mistakes and never reached their goal—when it was only a step away. This is the most dangerous of the obstacles because it has a kind of saintly aura about it: renouncing joy and conquest. But if you believe yourself worthy of the thing you fought so hard to get, then you become an instrument of God, you help the Soul of the World, and you understand why you are here. Landers The alchemist picked up a book that someone in the caravan had brought. Leafing through the pages, he found a story about Narcissus. The alchemist knew the legend of Narcissus, a youth who knelt daily beside a lake to contemplate his own beauty.
He was so fascinated by himself that, one morning, he fell into the lake and drowned. At the spot where he fell, a flower was born, which was called the narcissus. But this was not how the author of the book ended the story. He said that when Narcissus died, the goddesses of the forest appeared and found the lake, which had been fresh water, transformed into a lake of salty tears. was Narcissus beautiful? I weep because, each time he knelt beside my banks, I could see, in the depths of his eyes, my own beauty reflected. Dusk was falling as the boy arrived with his herd at an abandoned church.
The roof had fallen in long ago, and an enormous sycamore had grown on the spot where the sacristy had once stood. He decided to spend the night there. He saw to it that all the sheep entered through the ruined gate, and then laid some planks across it to prevent the flock from wandering away during the night. There were no wolves in the region, but once an animal had strayed during the night, and the boy had had to spend the en- tire next day searching for it. He swept the floor with his jacket and lay down, using the book he had just finished reading as a pillow.
It was still dark when he awoke, and, looking up, he could see the stars through the half-destroyed roof. I wanted to sleep a little longer, he thought. He had had the same dream that night as a week ago, and once again he had awakened before it ended. He arose and, taking up his crook, began to awaken the sheep that still slept. He had noticed that, as soon as he awoke, most of his animals also began to stir. It was as if some mysterious energy bound his life to that of the sheep, with whom he had spent the past two years, lead- ing them through the countryside in search of food and water. Thinking about that for a moment, he realized that it could be the other way around: that it was he who had become accustomed to their schedule. But there were certain of them who took a bit longer to awaken. The boy prodded them, one by one, with his crook, calling each by name. He had always believed that the sheep were able to understand what he said.
So there were times when he read them parts of his books that had made an impression on him, or when he would tell them of the loneliness or the happiness of a shepherd in the fields. Sometimes he would comment to them on the things he had seen in the villages they passed. He had been to the village only once, the year before. The merchant was the proprietor of a dry goods shop, and he always demanded that the sheep be sheared in his presence, so that he would not be cheated. A friend had told the boy about the shop, and he had taken his sheep there. The shop was busy, and the man asked the shepherd to wait until the afternoon. So the boy sat on the steps of the shop and took a book from his bag.
The girl was typical of the region of Andalusia, with flowing black hair, and eyes that vaguely recalled the Moorish conquerors. The shepherd told her of the Andalusian countryside, and re- lated the news from the other towns where he had stopped. It was a pleasant change from talking to his sheep. He was sure the girl would never understand. He went on telling stories about his travels, and her bright, Moorish eyes went wide with fear and surprise. As the time passed, the boy found himself wishing that the day would never end, that her father would stay busy and keep him waiting for three days. He recognized that he was feeling some- thing he had never experienced before: the desire to live in one place forever. With the girl with the raven hair, his days would never be the same again.
But finally the merchant appeared, and asked the boy to shear four sheep. He paid for the wool and asked the shepherd to come back the following year. He was excited, and at the same time uneasy: maybe the girl had already forgotten him. Lots of shepherds passed through, selling their wool. And he knew that shepherds, like seamen and like traveling sales- men, always found a town where there was someone who could make them forget the joys of carefree wandering. The day was dawning, and the shepherd urged his sheep in the direction of the sun. They never have to make any decisions, he thought. The only things that concerned the sheep were food and water. As long as the boy knew how to find the best pastures in Andalusia, they would be his friends. They were content with just food and water, and, in exchange, they generously gave of their wool, their company, and—once in a while—their meat. If I became a monster today, and decided to kill them, one by one, they would become aware only after most of the flock had been slaughtered, thought the boy.
The boy was surprised at his thoughts.
[PDF] [EPUB] The Alchemist Download,The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho. pdf
19/10/ · Download The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho in PDF EPUB format complete free. Brief Summary of Book: The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho Here is a quick description and View Details. Request a review. Learn more The alchemist knew the legend of Narcissus, a youth who knelt daily beside a lake to contemplate his own beauty. He was so fascinated by himself that, one morning, he fell into · Before you start Complete The Alchemist PDF EPUB by Paulo Coelho Download, you can read below technical ebook details: Full Book Name:The Alchemist Author The alchemist knew the legend of Narcissus, a youth who knelt daily beside a lake to contemplate his own beauty. He was so fascinated by himself that, one morning, he fell into · The Alchemist a novel by Paulo Coelho. As long as you appreciate this is poorly written feel-good tripe out of a depressed author's mind, where character development is too ... read more
Meanwhile, the old man persisted in his attempt to strike up a conversation. He spent the entire morning observing the infre- quent comings and goings in the street. But this fear evaporates when we understand that our life stories and the history of the world were written by the same hand. Anyway, the boy had be- come happy in his work, and thought all the time about the day when he would disembark at Tarifa as a winner. That morning he had known everything that was going to happen to him as he walked through the fa- miliar fields. Yet the boy felt that there was another way to regard his situation: he was actually two hours closer to his treasure.
They provided warnings about thieves and barbarian tribes. and about omens. The boy told the younger man what he had seen, and the man asked him to wait there. You can read this before The Alchemist PDF EPUB full Download at the bottom. The Alchemist pdf book was awarded with NBDB National Book Award Nominee for TranslationGrand Prix des lectrices de Elle for roman He canceled all his commitments and pulled together the most important of his books, and now here he was, sitting inside a dusty, the alchemist by paulo coelho pdf free download, smelly warehouse.
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