because it’s Paulo Coelho & I love him..

but, so far: not that great. The writing is kind of irritating. I’m only half way through it, maybe it will get better.

According to the writer Jorge Luis Borges, the idea of the Zahir comes from Islamic tradition and is thought to have arisen at some point in the eighteenth century. Zahir, in arabic, means visible, present, incapable of going unnoticed. It is someone or something which, once we have come into contact with them or it, gradually occupies our every thought, until we can think of nothing else. This can be considered either a state of holiness or of madness.

Faubourg Saint-Peres
Encyclopedia of the Fantastic (1953)

This book, was another journey with Coelho into his world of the spirit, and this time the real essence of love. What it means to love someone, and yourself… And again, the main character appears to be him, with the same background and his life experiences, although I’m not sure that this particular thing ever happened to him. The narrator/protagonist in the story is never named.
The book also addresses happiness and wealth. He talks about what it’s like to be a celebrity, more importantly, what it’s like to be a human being while being a celebrity.

“Look at them…They only see what the spotlights show them. When the ygo home, they’ll say that they know Paris. Tomorrow, they’ll go and see the Mona Lisa and cliam they’ve visited the Louvre. Bt the ydon’t know Paris and have never really been to the Louvre. All they did was go on a boat and look at a painting, one paitning, instead of looking at the whole city and trying to find out what’s happening in it, visiting the bars, going down streets that don’t appear in any of the tourist guides and getting lost in order to find themselves again., It’s the difference between watching a porn movie and making love.” (Page 123)

Paulo Choelho is the author of the famed book ‘The Alchemist.’ I read this last year and though I can’t say I loved it, it was okay and it definitely made me think. His latest book is more of a traditional novel, which feels more than a bit autobiographical.

As I read, I was actually curious about whether this story was in fact mirrored on the author’s life. There were many similarities. The book is about love and relationships and how these change through time. The main character, an author married to a war correspondent, searches for meaning after his wife disappears. She has left him and gone to an asian country to weave rugs and teach schoolchildren. He seeks her out through clues given to him by a young mystic, and with the help of his lover.

It took me over a week to finish it. I found it difficult to like this book and had a terrible time getting through it. It’s one of those books that didn’t draw me in and I sort of had to force myself to persevere to the end. I found that it flowed poorly and the author’s writing style irritated me in a fingernails-on-a-chalkboard kind of way. The story felt contrived and the characters were unlikable.

One thing I did like about it were the anecdotes – my two favourites were the story about the monk and the gift of grapes, and the an explanation regarding the distance beween railroad tracks. Toward the end of the novel, the story was actually starting to appeal to me. If the story had ended on page 287, I probably would have closed the book, somewhat satisfied. But the author had to write another 8 pages and completely shatter this mood he had built in the previous chapters. As I read the final pages, I hated this book.

I hesitate to completely pan it because it definitely made me think. I suppose I’m wondering if it really needed to be a ‘novel’ and perhaps would have been more effective as a series of short stories that incorporated the same ideas.