Paulo Coelho

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Le Sibille, capaci di prevedere il futuro, vivevano nell’antica Roma. Un bel giorno, una di esse si presentí² al palazzo dell’imperatore Tiberio con nove libri: disse che contenevano il futuro dell’Impero e chiese dieci talenti d’oro per i testi. Tiberio li troví² carissimi e non volle comprarli.

La sibilla se ne andí², brucií² tre libri e torní² con i sei rimanenti. “Sono dieci talenti d’oro”, disse. Tiberio rise e la mandí² via: come aveva il coraggio di vendere sei libri per lo stesso prezzo di nove?

La sibilla brucií² altri tre libri e torní² da Tiberio con gli unici tre volumi rimasti: “costano gli stessi dieci talenti d’oro”. Incuriosito, Tiberí² finí¬ per comprare i tre volumi, e poté leggere soltanto una piccola parte del futuro.

Stavo raccontando questa storia a Monica, mia agente e amica, mentre viaggiavamo in auto diretti in Portogallo. Quando ebbi terminato, mi resi conto che stavamo passando per Ciudad Rodrigo, alla frontiera con la Spagna. Proprio lí¬, quattro anni prima, mi era stato offerto un libro, che perí² non avevo comprato.

In occasione del primo viaggio di divulgazione dei miei libri in Europa, avevo deciso di pranzare in quella cittadina. Poi ero andato a visitare la cattedrale, dove avevo incontrato un prete. “Guardi come il sole del pomeriggio rende tutto pií¹ bello qui den­tro”, mi aveva detto. Quel commento mi era piaciuto, ci eravamo messi a chiacchierare e lui mi aveva guidato tra gli altari, i chiostri, i giardini interni di quel tempio. Alla fine, mi aveva offerto un libro che aveva scritto sulla chiesa: ma io non avevo voluto comprarlo. Una volta uscito, mi ero sentito in colpa: io sono uno scrittore, e mi trovavo in Europa proprio per vendere il mio lavoro – perchè allora non comprare il libro del prete, per solidarietí ? Ma avevo dimenticato quell’episodio, fino a quel momento.

Fermai l’auto: non era un caso che mi fossi ricordato di quella storia dei libri sibillini. Ci avviammo verso la piazza di fronte alla chiesa, dove una donna guardava il cielo.

– Buon pomeriggio. Sono qui per trovare un prete che ha scritto un libro su questa chiesa.

– Il prete, che si chiamava Stanislau, è morto un anno fa – rispose lei.

Provai una tristezza immensa. Perché non avevo dato a padre Stanislau la stessa gioia che provavo io quando vedevo qualcuno con uno dei miei libri?

– E’ stato uno degli uomini pií¹ buoni che abbia mai conosciuto – continuí² la donna. – Veniva da una famiglia umile, ma era riuscito a diventare uno specialista in archeologia. Aveva anche fatto avere a mio figlio una borsa di studio.

Le raccontai allora cosa facevo lí¬.

– Non deve sentirsi in colpa, figliolo – disse lei. – Vada a visitare di nuovo la cattedrale.

Pensai che fosse un segnale e feci cií² che la donna suggeriva. C’era soltanto un prete nel confessionale, che aspettava i fedeli che non arrivavano. Mi chiese di inginocchiarmi, ma gli spiegai che ero lí¬ solo per comprare un libro sulla chiesa, scritto da un uomo di nome Stanislau.

Gli occhi del prete brillarono. Lui uscí¬ dal confessionale e torní² qualche minuto dopo con un esemplare.

– Che gioia che lei sia venuto solo per questo! – disse. – Io sono fratello di padre Stanislau, e questo mi riempie di orgoglio! Lui sarí  in cielo, felice di vedere che il suo lavoro è importante!

Pagai il libro, ringraziai, e lui mi abbraccií². Quando stavo ormai per uscire, udii la sua voce.

– Guardi come il sole del pomeriggio rende tutto pií¹ bello qui dentro! – disse.

Erano le stesse parole che padre Stanislau mi aveva detto quattro anni prima. C’è sempre una seconda occasione nella vita.

Les Sibylles, des sorcières capables de prévoir l’avenir, vivaient í  Rome dans l’Antiquité. Un beau jour, l’une d’elles se présenta au palais de l’empereur Tibère avec neuf livres ; elle annoní§a qu’ils contenaient l’avenir de l’Empire et réclama dix talents d’or pour les textes. Tibère trouva que c’était très cher et ne voulut pas acheter.

La sibylle sortit, brí»la trois livres et revint avec les six restants. « Cela fait dix talents d’or », dit-elle. Tibère rit, et il la renvoya ; comment osait-elle vendre six livres au míªme prix que neuf ?

La sibylle brí»la encore trois livres et revint vers Tibère avec les trois derniers volumes : « Ils coí»tent toujours dix talents d’or. » Intrigué, Tibère finit par acheter les trois volumes, et ne put lire qu’une petite partie de l’avenir.

Je racontais cette histoire í  Monica, mon agent et amie, tandis que nous nous rendions en voiture au Portugal. Quand j’ai terminé, je me suis rendu compte que nous passions par Ciudad Rodrigo, í  la frontière espagnole. Lí , quatre ans auparavant, un livre m’avait été offert, et je ne l’avais pas acheté.

Lors du premier voyage pour la divulgation de mes livres en Europe, j’avais décidé de déjeuner dans cette ville. Ensuite, j’étais allé visiter la cathédrale, et j’avais rencontré un príªtre. « Voyez comme le soleil de l’après-midi rend tout plus beau í  l’intérieur », dit-il. Ce commentaire m’avait plu, nous avions parlé un peu, et il m’avait guidé dans les autels, les cloí®tres et les jardins intérieurs du temple. í€ la fin, il m’avait offert un livre qu’il avait écrit au sujet de l’église, mais je n’avais pas voulu l’acheter. Quand je suis sorti, je me suis senti coupable ; je suis écrivain, et j’étais en Europe pour essayer de vendre mon travail – pourquoi ne pas acheter le livre du príªtre, par solidarité ? Et puis j’avais oublié l’épisode, jusqu’í  ce moment.

J’ai arríªté la voiture ; ce n’était pas par hasard que je m’étais souvenu de l’histoire des livres sibyllins. Nous avons marché vers la place en face de l’église, oí¹ une femme regardait le ciel.

« Bonsoir. Je suis venu ici voir un príªtre qui a écrit un livre au sujet de l’église.

– Le père, qui s’appelait Stanislau, est mort il y a un an », a-t-elle répondu.

J’ai senti une immense tristesse. Pourquoi n’avais-je pas donné au père Stanislau la míªme joie que je ressentais quand je voyais quelqu’un avec un de mes livres ?

« C’était l’un des hommes les plus généreux que j’aie connus, a poursuivi la femme. Il venait d’une famille modeste, mais il était devenu expert en archéologie ; il m’a aidée í  obtenir pour mon fils une bourse au collège. »

Je lui ai raconté ce que je faisais lí .

« Ne vous culpabilisez pas inutilement, mon enfant, a-t-elle dit. Retournez visiter la cathédrale. »

J’ai pensé que c’était un signe, et j’ai suivi son conseil. Il y avait seulement un príªtre dans un confessionnal, attendant les fidèles qui ne venaient pas. Il m’a prié de m’agenouiller, mais j’ai dit que je n’étais lí  que pour acheter un livre sur cette église, écrit par un homme du nom de Stanislau.

Les yeux du príªtre ont se sont éclairés. Il est sorti du confessionnal et il est revenu quelques minutes plus tard avec un exemplaire.

« Quelle joie que vous soyez venu seulement pour cela ! a-t-il dit. Je suis le frère du père Stanislau, et cela me remplit de fierté ! Il doit íªtre au ciel, content de voir que son travail a de l’importance ! »

J’ai payé le livre, je l’ai remercié, il m’a donné l’accolade. Alors que je sortais déjí , j’ai entendu sa voix.

« Voyez comme le soleil de l’après-midi rend tout plus beau í  l’intérieur ! » a-t-il dit.

C’étaient les mots que le père Stanislau m’avait adressés quatre ans plus tí´t. Il y a toujours une seconde chance dans la vie.

Las Sibilas, hechiceras capaces de prever el futuro, viví­an en la antigua Roma. Cierto dí­a, una de ellas apareció en el palacio del emperador Tiberio con nueve libros; dijo que allí­ estaba escrito el futuro del Imperio, y pidió diez talentos de oro por los textos. A Tiberio le pareció un precio elevadí­simo y no los quiso comprar.

La Sibila se marchó, quemó tres libros, y regresó con los seis restantes. “Cuestan diez talentos de oro”, dijo. Tiberio soltó una carcajada, y la echó del palacio. ¿Cómo se atreví­a a vender seis libros por el precio de nueve?

La sibila quemó tres libros más y volvió ante Tiberio sólo con los tres volúmenes que habí­an restado: “También cuestan diez talentos de oro”. Intrigado, Tiberio acabó comprando los tres volúmenes, y sólo pudo leer una pequeña parte del futuro.

Estaba contándole esta historia a Mí´nica, mi agente y amiga, mientras í­bamos en coche a Portugal, y al terminar me di cuenta de que estábamos pasando por Ciudad Rodrigo, en la frontera con España. Justamente allí­, cuatro años atrás, alguien me habí­a ofrecido un libro, y yo no lo habí­a querido comprar.

Durante el primer viaje de divulgación de mis libros en Europa, habí­a decidido almorzar en aquella ciudad. Después fui a visitar la catedral y encontré a un padre. “Vea como el sol del atardecer hace todo más bonito aquí­ adentro”, me dijo. Me gustó el comentario, conversamos un poco, y él me guió por los altares, claustros y jardines interiores del templo. Al final, me ofreció un libro que habí­a escrito sobre la iglesia, pero yo no lo quise comprar. Cuando salí­, me sentí­ culpable; yo era escritor, estaba en Europa tratando de vender mi trabajo: ¿por qué no comprar el libro del padre, por solidaridad? Pero después olvidé el episodio. Hasta aquel momento.

Paré el coche; no me habí­a acordado de la historia de los libros sibilinos por casualidad. Nos dirigimos a la plaza que hay frente a la iglesia, donde una mujer estaba mirando al cielo.

– Buenas tardes. Estoy buscando a un padre que escribió un libro sobre esta iglesia.

– Ese padre, que se llamaba Estanislao, se murió el año pasado – me respondió ella.

Sentí­ una inmensa tristeza. ¿Por qué no habrí­a dado yo al padre Estanislao la misma alegrí­a que sentí­a yo cuando veí­a a alguien con uno de mis libros?

Fue uno de los hombres más bondadosos que conocí­ – continuó la mujer. Vení­a de familia humilde, pero llegó a ser especialista en arqueologí­a. Ayudó a conseguir para mi hijo una beca en el colegio.

Le comenté a ella lo que me habí­a llevado allí­.

– No se culpe inútilmente, hijo mí­o – dijo. Vaya a visitar otra vez la catedral.

Pensé que era una señal, e hice lo que me mandaba.

Sólo habí­a un padre en un confesionario, esperando a los fieles que no acudí­an. Me dirigí­ hacia él, que me hizo una seña para que me arrodillase, pero yo le interrumpí­.

– No quiero confesarme; sólo vine a comprar un libro sobre esta iglesia, escrito por un hombre llamado Estanislao.

Los ojos del padre brillaron. Salió del confesionario y volvió minutos después con un ejemplar.

– Qué alegrí­a que haya venido para esto! – me dijo. – ¡Soy hermano del padre Estanislao, y esto me llena de orgullo! ¡Él debe de estar en el cielo, contento al ver que su trabajo es apreciado!

Con tantos padres por allí­, yo habí­a encontrado justamente al hermano de Estanislao. Pagué el libro y le agradecí­. Él me abrazó. Cuando iba saliendo, escuché su voz.

– Vea como el sol del atardecer hace todo más bonito aquí­ adentro – me dijo.

Eran las mismas palabras que el padre Estanislao me habí­a dicho cuatro años antes. Siempre hay una segunda oportunidad en la vida.

As Sibilas, feiticeiras capazes de prever o futuro, viviam na antiga Roma. Um belo dia, uma delas apareceu no palácio do imperador Tibério com nove livros; disse que ali estava o futuro do Império, e pediu dez talentos de ouro pelos textos. Tibério achou carí­ssimo e ní£o quis comprar.

A sibila saiu, queimou tríªs livros, e voltou com os seis restantes. “Sí£o dez talentos de ouro”, disse. Tibério riu, e mandou-a embora; como tinha coragem de vender seis livros pelo mesmo preí§o de nove?

A sibila queimou mais tríªs livros e voltou para Tibério com os únicos tríªs volumes que restavam: ” custam os mesmos dez talentos de ouro”. Intrigado, Tibério terminou comprando os tríªs volumes, e só pode ler uma pequena parte do futuro.

Estava contando esta história para Monica, minha agente e amiga, enquanto viajávamos de carro para Portugal. Quando terminei, me dei conta que estávamos passando por Ciudad Rodrigo, na fronteira com a Espanha. Ali, quatro anos antes, um livro me havia sido oferecido, e eu ní£o comprei.

Na primeira viagem de divulgaí§í£o de meus livros na Europa, resolvera almoí§ar naquela cidade. Depois, fui visitar a catedral, e encontrei um padre. “Veja como o sol da tarde faz tudo mais bonito aqui den­tro”, disse ele. Gostei do comentário, conversamos um pouco, e ele me guiou pelos altares, claustros, jardins interiores do templo. No final, ofereceu-me um livro que havia escrito sobre a igreja; mas eu ní£o quis comprar. Quando saí­, senti-me culpado; sou escritor, e estava na Europa tentando vender meu trabalho – por que ní£o comprar o livro do padre, por solidariedade? Mas esqueci o episódio, até aquele momento.

Parei o carro; ní£o fora por acaso que eu me lembrara da história dos livros sibilinos. Nos encaminhamos para a praí§a em frente í  igreja, onde uma mulher olhava o céu.

– Boa tarde. – Vim aqui encontrar um padre que escreveu um livro sobre esta igreja.

– O padre, que se chamava Stanislau, morreu faz um ano – respondeu ela.

Senti uma imensa tristeza. Por que eu ní£o tinha dado ao padre Stanislau a mesma alegria que eu sentia quando via alguém com um dos meus livros?

– Foi um dos homens mais bondosos que conheci – continuou a mulher.- Vinha de uma famí­lia humilde, mas chegou a tornar-se um espe­cialista em arqueologia; ajudou a conseguir para meu filho uma bolsa no colégio.

Contei a ela o que fazia ali.

– Ní£o se culpe í  toa, meu filho – disse. -Vá visitar de novo a catedral.

Achei que era um sinal, e fiz o que ela mandava. Havia apenas um padre num confessio­nário, esperando os fiéis que ní£o vinham. Pediu que me ajoelhasse, mas disse que estava ali apenas comprar um livro sobre esta igreja, escrito por um homem chamado Stanislau.

Os olhos do padre brilharam. Ele saiu do confessionário e voltou minutos depois com um exemplar.

– Que alegria vocíª ter vindo só por isso! – disse. – Sou irmí£o do padre Stanislau, e isto me enche de orgulho! Ele deve estar no céu, contente por ver que seu tra­balho tem importí¢ncia!

Paguei o livro, agradeci, ele me abraí§ou. Quando eu já ia saindo, escutei sua voz.

– Veja como o sol da tarde faz tudo mais bonito aqui dentro! – disse.

Eram as mesmas palavras que o padre Stanislau me dis­sera quatro anos antes. Sempre há uma segunda chance na vida.

The Sybilines, witches capable of foretelling the future, lived in ancient Rome. One fine day one of them appeared at Emperor Tiberius’ palace with nine books; she said that therein lay the future of the Empire, and asked for ten talents of gold for the texts. Tiberius found the price too high and refused to buy them.

The Sybiline left, burned three of the books and returned with the remaining six. “These cost ten talents of gold,” she said. Tiberius laughed and told her to leave; how could she have the nerve to sell six books for the same price as nine?

The Sybiline burned another three books and went back to Tiberius with the only three remaining books: “They cost the same ten talents of gold.” Intrigued, Tiberius ended up buying the three volumes and could only read a small part of the future.

I was telling this story to Monica, my agent and friend, while we drove to Portugal. When I finished, I realized that we were passing through Ciudad Rodrigo, on the Spanish border. There, four years before, I was offered a book, which I did not buy.

During my first author tour to promote my books in Europe, I had decided to have lunch in that town. Afterwards, I went to visit the cathedral, where I met a priest. “See how the afternoon sun makes everything more beautiful in here,” he said. I liked this comment, we talked a little, and he showed me around the altars, cloisters, and courtyards of the temple. In the end, he offered me a book he had written about the church; but I did not wish to buy it. After I left, I felt guilty; I am a writer, and was in Europe trying to sell my work – why not buy the priest’s book, out of solidarity? But then I completely forgot the episode. Until now.

I stopped the car; it was not by chance that I had remembered the story of the Sybiline books. We walked to the square in front of the church, where a woman was looking up at the sky.

– Good afternoon. – I’ve come to see a priest who wrote a book about this church.

– The priest, whose name was Stanislau, died a year ago – she answered.

I felt deeply saddened. Why had I not given Father Stanislau the same joy I felt whenever I saw someone with one of my books?

– He was one of the kindest men I have ever met – continued the woman.- He came from a humble family, but became a specialist in archeology; he helped my son obtain a college grant.

I told her what I was doing there.

– There’s no need to feel guilty, my son – she said. – Go and visit the cathedral again.

I thought this must be a sign, and did as she said. There was just one priest in the confession booth, awaiting the faithful, although there were none just then. I went over to him; the priest gestured for me to kneel down, but I interrupted him.

– I don’t want to make a confession. I just came to buy a book about this church, written by a man named Stanislau.

The priest’s eyes glinted. He came out of the confession booth and returned a few minutes later with a copy of the book.

– How marvelous of you to have come especially for that! – he said. – I am Father Stanislau’s brother, and this fills me with pride! He must be in heaven, content at seeing his work considered so important!

Among all the priests there, I happened to have run into Stanislau’s brother. I paid for the book, thanked him and he embraced me. Just as I was leaving, I heard his voice.

– See how the afternoon sun makes everything more beautiful in here! – he said.

They were the same words Father Stanislau had spoken to me four years earlier. In life, there is always a second chance.

Paulo Coelho

– Master, what is faith?

The master asked the disciple to light a fire. The two of them sat in front of it and contemplated the flames.

– That is faith – said the master. – It is the firewood in the fire. The fuel that keeps the flame of God alive in our hearts.

– But the firewood needs a spark to change it into light.

– There are many sparks. The most common one is called Will. Just wanting to have faith is enough for it to appear in our path.

– Even when we spend all our life without believing in anything?

– We always believe, even without knowing or accepting it and that is why it is so easy to awaken the spark. And furthermore, the more we live, the closer we grow to God: old firewood burns more easily.

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Paulo Coelho

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He takes a few steps and his head begins to ache terribly. This is perfectly normal: the blood is flooding the brain, an understandable reaction in someone who has just been under extreme tension.

Despite the headache, he feels happy. Yes, he has done what he set out to do.
He can do it. And he’s happier still because he has freed the soul from that fragile body, freed a spirit incapable of defending herself against a bullying coward. If her relationship with her boyfriend had continued, the girl would have ended up depressed and anxious and devoid of all self-respect, and would have been even more under her boyfriend’s thumb.

This had never been the case with Ewa. She had always been capable of making her own decisions. He had given her both moral and financial support when she decided to open her haute-couture boutique; and she had been free to travel as much as she wanted. He had been an exemplary man and husband. And yet, she had made a mistake: she had been unable to understand his love or his forgiveness. He hoped, however, that she would receive these messages; after all, he had told her on the day she left that he would destroy whole worlds to get her back.

He picks up the throwaway mobile phone he has just bought and on which he has entered the smallest possible amount of credit. He sends a text message.

11.00 a.m.

It all began, they say, with an unknown 19-year-old posing in a bikini for photographers who had nothing better to do during the 1953 Cannes Festival. She immediately shot to stardom, and her name became legendary: Brigitte Bardot. And now everyone thinks they can do the same. No one understands the importance of being an actress; beauty is the only thing that counts.

That’s why women with long legs and dyed hair, the bottle blondes of this world, travel hundreds or even thousands of miles to be in Cannes, even if only to spend the whole day on the beach, hoping to be seen, photographed, discovered. They want to escape from the trap that awaits all women: becoming a housewife, who makes supper for her husband every evening, takes the children to school every day, and tries to dig up some dirt on her neighbours’ monotonous lives so as to have something to gossip about with her friends. What these women want is fame, glory and glamour, to be the envy of the other people who live in their town and of the boys and girls who always thought of them as ugly ducklings, unaware that they would one day grow up to be a swan or blossom into a flower coveted by everyone. They want a career in the world of dreams even if they have to borrow money to get silicone breast implants or to buy some newer, sexier outfits. Drama school? Forget it, good looks and the right contacts are all you need. The cinema can work miracles, always assuming, of course, you can ever break into that world. Anything to escape from the prison of the provincial city and the long, dreary, repetitive days. There are millions of people who don’t mind that kind of life, and they should be left to live their lives as they see fit. However, if you come to the Festival you must leave fear at home and be prepared for anything: making spur-of-the-moment decisions, telling lies if necessary, pretending to be younger than you are, smiling at people you loathe, feigning an interest in people who bore you, saying ‘I love you’ without a thought for the consequences, or stabbing in the back the friend who once helped you out, but who has now become an undesirable rival. Don’t let feelings of remorse or shame get in your way. The reward is worth any amount of sacrifice.

Fame. Glory. Glamour.

Gabriela finds these thoughts irritating. It’s definitely not the best way to start a new day. Worse, she has a hangover.

At least there’s one consolation. She hasn’t woken up in a five-star hotel next to a man telling her to put her clothes on and leave because he has important business to deal with, like buying or selling films.

She gets up and looks around to see if any of her friends are still in the apartment. Needless to say they’re not. They’ve long since left for the Boulevard de la Croisette, for the swimming pools, hotel bars, yachts, possible lunch dates and chance meetings on the beach. There are five fold-out mattresses on the floor of the small shared apartment, hired for the duration at an exorbitant rent. The mattresses are surrounded by a tangle of clothes, discarded shoes, and hangers that no one has taken the trouble to put back in the wardrobe.

‘The clothes take up more room here than the people,’ she thinks.

Not that any of them could even dream of wearing clothes designed by Elie Saab, Karl Lagerfeld, Versace or Galliano, but what they have nevertheless takes up most of apartment: bikins, miniskirts, T-shirts, platform shoes, and a vast amount of make-up.

‘One day I’ll wear what I like, but right now, I just need to be given a chance,’ she thinks.

And why does she want that chance?

Quite simple. Because she knows she’s the best, despite her experience at school – when she so disappointed her parents – and despite the challenges she’s faced since in order to prove to herself that she can overcome difficulties, frustrations and defeats. She was born to win and to shine, of that she has no doubt.

‘And when I get what I always wanted, I know I’ll have to ask myself: Do they love and admire me because I’m me or because I’m famous.’

She knows people who have achieved stardom on the stage and, contrary to her expectations, they’re not at peace with themselves; they’re insecure, full of doubts, unhappy as soon as they come off stage. They want to be actors so as not to have to be themselves, and they live in fear of making the one false step that could end their career.

‘I’m different, though. I’ve always been me.’

Is that true? Or does everyone in her position think the same?

She gets up and makes herself some coffee. The kitchen is a mess, and none of her friends has bothered to wash the dishes. She doesn’t know why she’s woken up in such a bad mood and with so many doubts. She knows her job, she’s devoted herself to it heart and soul, and yet it’s as if people refuse to recognise her talent. She knows what human beings are like too, especially men – future allies in a battle she needs to win soon, because she’s 25 already and nearly too old for the dream factory. She knows three things:

(a) that men are less treacherous than women;

(b) that they never notice what a woman is wearing because they’re always mentally undressing her;

(c) that as long as you’ve got breasts, thighs, buttocks and belly in good trim, you can conquer the world.

Because of those three things, and because she knows that all the other women she’s competing with try to emphasise their attributes, she pays attention only to item (c) on her list. She exercises and tries to keep fit, avoids diets and, illogical though it may seem, dresses very discreetly. This has worked well so far, and she can usually pass for younger than her age. She’s hoping that it’ll do the trick in Cannes too.

Breasts, buttocks, thighs. They can focus on those things now if they want to, but the day will come when they’ll see what she can really do.

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So we are here at Checkpoint Charlie (Berlin). Twenty years ago there was a wall here. Unfortunately there’s still another type of wall separating people. So my question this week is: how can we tear down this wall called “the clash of civilizations”?

You can now read The First Chapters of my new book The Winner Stands Alone in your mobile.

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This space is for you to share your ideas on anything that you consider relevant today.

You can publish here excerpts from your blogs or news and articles in general that you think make a difference to the world today. Try to make a bit of editing on what you post here – try to highlight passages with copy-paste, rather than simply giving links.

Please keep in mind that this blog is currently viewed by 230.000 unique visitors a month, and chances are that many of them are going to read your thoughts.

The door symbolizes not only a way to reach another space, but it also symbolizes a space in itself. Hence the mysterious dimensions that usually are bestowed upon this object.

The door signifies the entrance towards a fundamental space. In temples, the gates that lead to the holiest parts are usually sumptuous doors that only the high priest can pass under. There’s also the entrance door of the temple – necessary to mark the difference between the sacred temple and the profane world.

In China, the closed door is considered as “yin” (passive, female energy) whereas the open door symbolizes “yang” (masculine, active energy). The universe then is constantly swinging between these two poles.

In Christianity, Jesus compares himself to the door through which all men can be saved. Hence the presence of the figure of Christ in the opening gates of cathedrals as well as celestial protective forces (such as Saint Michael or the apostle Peter).

Now you take the floor : what do you associate with The Door?