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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">
“Wait for the end of the war. Then leave with the caravan. Don’t
try to enter into the life of the oasis,” he said, and walked away.
But the Englishman was exultant. They were on the right track.
Finally, a young woman approached who was not dressed in
black. She had a vessel on her shoulder, and her head was covered
by a veil, but her face was uncovered. The boy approached her to
ask about the alchemist.
At that moment, it seemed to him that time stood still, and the
Soul of the World surged within him. When he looked into her dark
eyes, and saw that her lips were poised between a laugh and silence,
he learned the most important part of the language that all the
world spoke—the language that everyone on earth was capable of
understanding in their heart. It was love. Something older than
humanity, more ancient than the desert. Something that exerted the
same force whenever two pairs of eyes met, as had theirs here at
the well. She smiled, and that was certainly an omen—the omen he
had been awaiting, without even knowing he was, for all his life. The
omen he had sought to find with his sheep and in his books, in the
crystals and in the silence of the desert.
It was the pure Language of the World. It required no
explanation, just as the universe needs none as it travels through
endless time. What the boy felt at that moment was that he was in
the presence of the only woman in his life, and that, with no need for
words, she recognized the same thing. He was more certain of it
than of anything in the world. He had been told by his parents and
grandparents that he must fall in love and really know a person
before becoming committed. But maybe people who felt that way
had never learned the universal language. Because, when you know
that language, it’s easy to understand that someone in the world
awaits you, whether it’s in the middle of the desert or in some great
city. And when two such people encounter each other, and their
eyes meet, the past and the future become unimportant. There is
only that moment, and the incredible certainty that everything
under the sun has been written by one hand only. It is the hand that
evokes love, and creates a twin soul for every person in the world.
Without such love, one’s dreams would have no meaning.
Maktub, thought the boy.
The Englishman shook the boy: “Come on, ask her!”
The boy stepped closer to the girl, and when she smiled, he did
the same.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Fatima,” the girl said, averting her eyes.
“That’s what some women in my country are called.”
“It’s the name of the Prophet’s daughter,” Fatima said. “The
invaders carried the name everywhere.” The beautiful girl spoke of
the invaders with pride.
The Englishman prodded him, and the boy asked her about the
man who cured people’s illnesses.
“That’s the man who knows all the secrets of the world,” she
said. “He communicates with the genies of the desert.”
The genies were the spirits of good and evil. And the girl pointed
to the south, indicating that it was there the strange man lived. Then
she filled her vessel with water and left.
The Englishman vanished, too, gone to find the alchemist. And
the boy sat there by the well for a long time, remembering that one
day in Tarifa the levanter had brought to him the perfume of that
woman, and realizing that he had loved her before he even knew
she existed. He knew that his love for her would enable him to
discover every treasure in the world.
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<h5 class="pageNumber">Page 38</h5>
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