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<!DOCTYPE html>
<html lang="en">
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
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<meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1.0">
<title>the alchemist</title>
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<body>
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<a href="index.html"><button class="home-button">Home</button></a>
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<h6>Author</h6>
<h1>Paulo Coelho</h1>
<h6>Brazilian lyricist</h6>
<p id="paragraph">
“Can I help you?” asked the man behind the window.
“Maybe tomorrow,” said the boy, moving away. If he sold just
one of his sheep, he’d have enough to get to the other shore of the
strait. The idea frightened him.
“Another dreamer,” said the ticket seller to his assistant,
watching the boy walk away. “He doesn’t have enough money to
travel.”
While standing at the ticket window, the boy had remembered
his flock, and decided he should go back to being a shepherd. In two
years he had learned everything 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.
He decided to return to his friend’s stable by the longest route
possible. As he walked past the city’s castle, he interrupted his
return, and climbed the stone ramp that led to the top of the wall.
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.
They were solitary individuals who no longer believed in things,
and didn’t understand that shepherds become attached to their
sheep. He knew everything about each member of his flock: he
knew which ones were lame, which one was to give birth two
months from now, and which were the laziest. 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. There was also the merchant’s daughter, but she wasn’t as
important as his flock, because she didn’t depend on him. Maybe she
didn’t even remember him. He was sure that it made no difference
to her on which day he appeared: for her, every day was the same,
and when each day is the same as the next, it’s because people fail to
recognize the good things that happen in their lives every day that
the sun rises.
</p>
<div>
<h5 class="pageNumber">Page 11</h5>
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