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<title>the alchemist</title>
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<h6>Author</h6>
<h1>Paulo Coelho</h1>
<h6>Brazilian lyricist</h6>
<p id="paragraph">
“They didn’t have the printing press in those days,” the boy
argued. “There was no way for everybody to know about alchemy.
Why did they use such strange language, with so many drawings?”
The Englishman didn’t answer him directly. He said that for the
past few days he had been paying attention to how the caravan
operated, but that he hadn’t learned anything new. The only thing
he had noticed was that talk of war was becoming more and more
frequent.
THEN ONE DAY THE BOY RETURNED THE BOOKS TO THE Englishman. “Did
you learn anything?” the Englishman asked, eager to hear what it
might be. He needed someone to talk to so as to avoid thinking
about the possibility of war.
“I learned that the world has a soul, and that whoever
understands that soul can also understand the language of things. I
learned that many alchemists realized their Personal Legends, and
wound up discovering the Soul of the World, the Philosopher’s
Stone, and the Elixir of Life.
“But, above all, I learned that these things are all so simple that
they could be written on the surface of an emerald.”
The Englishman was disappointed. The years of research, the
magic symbols, the strange words, and the laboratory
equipment…none of this had made an impression on the boy. His
soul must be too primitive to understand those things, he thought.
He took back his books and packed them away again in their
bags.
“Go back to watching the caravan,” he said. “That didn’t teach me
anything, either.”
The boy went back to contemplating the silence of the desert,
and the sand raised by the animals. “Everyone has his or her own
way of learning things,” he said to himself. “His way isn’t the same
as mine, nor mine as his. But we’re both in search of our Personal
Legends, and I respect him for that.”
THE CARAVAN BEGAN TO TRAVEL DAY AND NIGHT. THE hooded Bedouins
reappeared more and more frequently, and the camel driver—who
had become a good friend of the boy’s—explained that the war
between the tribes had already begun. The caravan would be very
lucky to reach the oasis.
The animals were exhausted, and the men talked among
themselves less and less. The silence was the worst aspect of the
night, when the mere groan of a camel—which before had been
nothing but the groan of a camel—now frightened everyone,
because it might signal a raid.
The camel driver, though, seemed not to be very concerned with
the threat of war.
“I’m alive,” he said to the boy, as they ate a bunch of dates one
night, with no fires and no moon. “When I’m eating, that’s all I think
about. If I’m on the march, I just concentrate on marching. If I have
to fight, it will be just as good a day to die as any other.
“Because I don’t live in either my past or my future. I’m
interested only in the present. If you can concentrate always on the
present, you’ll be a happy man. You’ll see that there is life in the
desert, that there are stars in the heavens, and that tribesmen fight
because they are part of the human race. Life will be a party for you,
a grand festival, because life is the moment we’re living right now.”
Two nights later, as he was getting ready to bed down, the boy
looked for the star they followed every night. He thought that the
horizon was a bit lower than it had been, because he seemed to see
stars on the desert itself.
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<h5 class="pageNumber">Page 34</h5>
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