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<!DOCTYPE html>
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<html lang="en">
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<head>
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<meta charset="UTF-8">
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<meta http-equiv="X-UA-Compatible" content="IE=edge">
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<meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1.0">
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<title>the alchemist</title>
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<link rel="stylesheet" href="style.css">
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</head>
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<body>
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<div class="container" >
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<div id="myHeader" class="header">
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<a href="index.html"><button class="home-button">Home</button></a>
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<button class="bookmark-button">Bookmark</button>
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<div class="wrapper">
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<input type="text" id="text-to-search" placeholder="Enter text to search...">
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<button onclick="search()">Search</button>
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</div>
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</div>
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<h6>Author</h6>
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<h1>Paulo Coelho</h1>
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<h6>Brazilian lyricist</h6>
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<p id="paragraph">
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There were almost two hundred people gathered there, and four
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hundred animals—camels, horses, mules, and fowl. In the crowd
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were women, children, and a number of men with swords at their
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belts and rifles slung on their shoulders. The Englishman had
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several suitcases filled with books. There was a babble of noise, and
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the leader had to repeat himself several times for everyone to
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understand what he was saying.
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“There are a lot of different people here, and each has his own
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God. But the only God I serve is Allah, and in his name I swear that I
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will do everything possible once again to win out over the desert.
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But I want each and every one of you to swear by the God you
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believe in that you will follow my orders no matter what. In the
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desert, disobedience means death.”
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There was a murmur from the crowd. Each was swearing quietly
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to his or her own God. The boy swore to Jesus Christ. The
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Englishman said nothing. And the murmur lasted longer than a
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simple vow would have. The people were also praying to heaven for
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protection.
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A long note was sounded on a bugle, and everyone mounted up.
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The boy and the Englishman had bought camels, and climbed
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uncertainly onto their backs. The boy felt sorry for the Englishman’s
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camel, loaded down as he was with the cases of books.
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“There’s no such thing as coincidence,” said the Englishman,
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picking up the conversation where it had been interrupted in the
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warehouse. “I’m here because a friend of mine heard of an Arab
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who…”
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But the caravan began to move, and it was impossible to hear
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what the Englishman was saying. The boy knew what he was about
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to describe, though: the mysterious chain that links one thing to
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another, the same chain that had caused him to become a shepherd,
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that had caused his recurring dream, that had brought him to a city
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near Africa, to find a king, and to be robbed in order to meet a
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crystal merchant, and…
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The closer one gets to realizing his Personal Legend, the more
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that Personal Legend becomes his true reason for being, thought the
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boy.
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The caravan moved toward the east. It traveled during the
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morning, halted when the sun was at its strongest, and resumed late
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in the afternoon. The boy spoke very little with the Englishman, who
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spent most of his time with his books.
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The boy observed in silence the progress of the animals and
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people across the desert. Now everything was quite different from
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how it was that day they had set out: then, there had been confusion
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and shouting, the cries of children and the whinnying of animals, all
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mixed with the nervous orders of the guides and the merchants.
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But, in the desert, there was only the sound of the eternal wind,
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and of the hoofbeats of the animals. Even the guides spoke very
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little to one another.
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“I’ve crossed these sands many times,” said one of the camel
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drivers one night. “But the desert is so huge, and the horizons so
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distant, that they make a person feel small, and as if he should
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remain silent.”
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The boy understood intuitively what he meant, even without
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ever having set foot in the desert before. Whenever he saw the sea,
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or a fire, he fell silent, impressed by their elemental force.
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I’ve learned things from the sheep, and I’ve learned things from
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crystal, he thought. I can learn something from the desert, too. It
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seems old and wise.
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The wind never stopped, and the boy remembered the day he
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had sat at the fort in Tarifa with this same wind blowing in his face.
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It reminded him of the wool from his sheep…his sheep who were
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now seeking food and water in the fields of Andalusia, as they
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always had.
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</p>
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<div>
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<h5 class="pageNumber">Page 30</h5>
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<a href="alchemist29.html" class="previous">&laquo; Previous</a>
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<a href="alchemist31.html" class="next">Next &raquo;</a>
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</div>
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</div>
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<!-- script -->
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<script src="script.js"></script>
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</body>
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</html>

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