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<!DOCTYPE html>
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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">
From that day on, it was the desert that would be important. She
would look to it every day, and would try to guess which star the
boy was following in search of his treasure. She would have to send
her kisses on the wind, hoping that the wind would touch the boy’s
face, and would tell him that she was alive. That she was waiting for
him, a woman awaiting a courageous man in search of his treasure.
From that day on, the desert would represent only one thing to her:
the hope for his return.
“DON’T THINK ABOUT WHAT YOU’VE LEFT BEHIND,” THE alchemist said to
the boy as they began to ride across the sands of the desert.
“Everything is written in the Soul of the World, and there it will stay
forever.”
“Men dream more about coming home than about leaving,” the
boy said. He was already reaccustomed to the desert’s silence.
“If what one finds is made of pure matter, it will never spoil. And
one can always come back. If what you had found was only a
moment of light, like the explosion of a star, you would find nothing
on your return.”
The man was speaking the language of alchemy. But the boy
knew that he was referring to Fatima.
It was difficult not to think about what he had left behind. The
desert, with its endless monotony, put him to dreaming. The boy
could still see the palm trees, the wells, and the face of the woman
he loved. He could see the Englishman at his experiments, and the
camel driver who was a teacher without realizing it. Maybe the
alchemist has never been in love, the boy thought.
The alchemist rode in front, with the falcon on his shoulder. The
bird knew the language of the desert well, and whenever they
stopped, he flew off in search of game. On the first day he returned
with a rabbit, and on the second with two birds.
At night, they spread their sleeping gear and kept their fires
hidden. The desert nights were cold, and were becoming darker and
darker as the phases of the moon passed. They went on for a week,
speaking only of the precautions they needed to follow in order to
avoid the battles between the tribes. The war continued, and at
times the wind carried the sweet, sickly smell of blood. Battles had
been fought nearby, and the wind reminded the boy that there was
the language of omens, always ready to show him what his eyes had
failed to observe.
On the seventh day, the alchemist decided to make camp earlier
than usual. The falcon flew off to find game, and the alchemist
offered his water container to the boy.
“You are almost at the end of your journey,” said the alchemist.
“I congratulate you for having pursued your Personal Legend.”
“And you’ve told me nothing along the way,” said the boy. “I
thought you were going to teach me some of the things you know. A
while ago, I rode through the desert with a man who had books on
alchemy. But I wasn’t able to learn anything from them.”
“There is only one way to learn,” the alchemist answered. “It’s
through action. Everything you need to know you have learned
through your journey. You need to learn only one thing more.”
The boy wanted to know what that was, but the alchemist was
searching the horizon, looking for the falcon.
“Why are you called the alchemist?”
“Because that’s what I am.”
“And what went wrong when other alchemists tried to make
gold and were unable to do so?”
“They were looking only for gold,” his companion answered.
“They were seeking the treasure of their Personal Legend, without
wanting actually to live out the Personal Legend.”
“What is it that I still need to know?” the boy asked.
But the alchemist continued to look to the horizon. And finally
the falcon returned with their meal. They dug a hole and lit their fire
in it, so that the light of the flames would not be seen.
“I’m an alchemist simply because I’m an alchemist,” he said, as
he prepared the meal. “I learned the science from my grandfather,
who learned from his father, and so on, back to the creation of the
world. In those times, the Master Work could be written simply on
an emerald. But men began to reject simple things, and to write
tracts, interpretations, and philosophical studies. They also began to
feel that they knew a better way than others had. Yet the Emerald
Tablet is still alive today.”
“What was written on the Emerald Tablet?” the boy wanted to
know.
The alchemist began to draw in the sand, and completed his
drawing in less than five minutes. As he drew, the boy thought of
the old king, and the plaza where they had met that day; it seemed
as if it had taken place years and years ago.
“This is what was written on the Emerald Tablet,” said the
alchemist, when he had finished.
The boy tried to read what was written in the sand.
“It’s a code,” said the boy, a bit disappointed. “It looks like what I
saw in the Englishman’s books.”
“No,” the alchemist answered. “It’s like the flight of those two
hawks; it can’t be understood by reason alone. The Emerald Tablet
is a direct passage to the Soul of the World.
“The wise men understood that this natural world is only an
image and a copy of paradise. The existence of this world is simply a
guarantee that there exists a world that is perfect. God created the
world so that, through its visible objects, men could understand his
spiritual teachings and the marvels of his wisdom. That’s what I
mean by action.”
</p>
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<h5 class="pageNumber">Page 49</h5>
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