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<h6>Author</h6>
<h1>Paulo Coelho</h1>
<h6>Brazilian lyricist</h6>
<p id="paragraph">
“Working,” the boy answered dryly, making it look as if he
wanted to concentrate on his reading.
Actually, he was thinking about shearing his sheep in front of the
merchant’s daughter, so that she could see that he was someone
who was capable of doing difficult things. He had already imagined
the scene many times; every time, the girl became fascinated when
he explained 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. She would never
know the difference, because she didn’t know how to read.
Meanwhile, the old man persisted in his attempt to strike up a
conversation. He said that he was tired and thirsty, and asked if he
might have a sip of the boy’s wine. 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 boy was tempted to be rude, and move to
another bench, but his father had taught him to be respectful of the
elderly. So he held out the book to the man—for two reasons: first,
that he, himself, wasn’t sure how to pronounce the title; and second,
that if the old man didn’t know how to read, he would probably feel
ashamed and decide of his own accord to change benches.
“Hmm…” said the old man, looking at all sides of the book, as if it
were some strange object. “This is an important book, but it’s really
irritating.”
The boy was shocked. 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.
“It’s a book that says the same thing almost all the other books in
the world say,” continued the old man. “It describes people’s
inability to choose their own Personal Legends. And it ends up
saying that everyone believes the world’s greatest lie.”
“What’s the world’s greatest lie?” the boy asked, completely
surprised.
“It’s this: that at a certain point in our lives, we lose control of
what’s happening to us, and our lives become controlled by fate.
That’s the world’s greatest lie.”
“That’s never happened to me,” the boy said. “They wanted me
to be a priest, but I decided to become a shepherd.”
“Much better,” said the old man. “Because you really like to
travel.”
“He knew what I was thinking,” the boy said to himself. The old
man, meanwhile, was leafing through the book, without seeming to
want to return it at all. The boy noticed that the man’s clothing was
strange. 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.
“Where are you from?” the boy asked.
“From many places.”
</p>
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<h5 class="pageNumber">Page 7</h5>
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