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EN ESPANOL AQUI>>> Alicia
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I wonder if I’ve been changed in the night? Let me think. Was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I’m not the same, the next question is ‘Who in the world am I?’ Ah, that’s the great puzzle!

If it had grown up, it would have made a dreadfully ugly child; but it makes rather a handsome pig, I think. Oh, how I wish I could shut up like a telescope! I think I could, if I only knew how to begin.

If everybody minded their own business, the world would go around a great deal faster than it does.

Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end: then stop.

It would be so nice if something made sense for a change.

You are old, Father William, your hair has become very white. And yet you incessantly stand on your head – do you think, at your age, it is right?

If you don’t know where you are going, any road will take you there.

The adventures first… explanations take such a dreadful time.

We are all mad here ( The Cat)

Alice is a magistral character, created by Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, a.k.a. Lewis Carroll

What’s Aleph about?
My experience on the Trans-Siberian Railway. I was thinking: ‘I’m already a very successful author, I don’t need to do anything,’ and was feeling something was wrong. I travelled for three months. I started in London in 2006 and ended up in Vladivostok – just to get in contact with my soul.

Did you learn anything about yourself?
You’re always learning. The problem is, sometimes you stop and think you understand the world. This is not correct. The world is always moving. You never reach the point you can stop making an effort.

Were there any revelations along the way?
Of course. Just from meeting people – a taxi driver, for example – or finding a book. I’m open to life and during this period I was open to new experiences. When you don’t follow the rule your parents impose – ‘don’t talk to strangers’ – you learn.

People seem to experience spiritual revelations in exotic locations – can you have one on the way to work?
Of course. I don’t take the Trans-Siberian every day but I try to give every day the opportunity for these experiences. If you’re open to people on your way to work, it can happen. Or you can choose to be totally inwards and think only of yourself. You have to live in the moment.

What do your readers expect from your books?
I don’t know. I never write books with this question in mind. I only write to understand myself better. I talk to my readers on social networking sites but I never tell them what the book is about. Writing is lonely, so from time to time I talk to them on the internet. It’s like chatting at a bar without leaving your office. I talk with them about a lot of things other than my books.

Do you have any writing habits?

It’s as Lewis Carroll said: start at the beginning, go to the end, then stop. That’s how I write. I write quickly. I don’t try to show how intelligent or how cultivated I am, I just try to share my soul. Sharing is part of life.

Read more: 60 Seconds with Coelho

A group of monks from the monastery of Sceta – among them the great Abbot Nicerius – were walking in the Egyptian desert when a lion appeared before them.
Terrified, they all began to run.

Years later, when Nicerius was on his death bed, one of the monks remarked:

“Abbot, do you remember the day we met the lion? That was the only time I saw you afraid.”

“But I was not afraid of the lion.”

“Then why did you run like all the rest of us?”

“I thought it better to run away from a lion one afternoon than to spend the rest of my life running away from vanity.”

It is likely that Saint George was born to a Christian noble family in Lod, Syria Palaestina during the late third century between about 275 AD and 285 AD, and he died in Nicomedia. His father, Gerontius, was a Roman army official from Cappadocia and his mother, Polychronia, was from Palestine. They were both Christians and from noble families of Anici, so by this the child was raised with Christian beliefs. They decided to call him Georgius (Latin) or Geōrgios (Greek), meaning “worker of the land”. At the age of 14, George lost his father; a few years later, George’s mother, Polychronia, died.Eastern accounts give the names of his parents as Anastasius and Theobaste.

Then George decided to go to Nicomedia, the imperial city of that time, and present himself to Emperor Diocletian to apply for a career as a soldier. Diocletian welcomed him with open arms, as he had known his father, Gerontius — one of his finest soldiers. By his late 20s, George was promoted to the rank of Tribunus and stationed as an imperial guard of the Emperor at Nicomedia.

In the year AD 302, Diocletian (influenced by Galerius) issued an edict that every Christian soldier in the army should be arrested and every other soldier should offer a sacrifice to the Roman gods of the time. However George objected and with the courage of his faith approached the Emperor and ruler. Diocletian was upset, not wanting to lose his best tribune and the son of his best official, Gerontius. George loudly renounced the Emperor’s edict, and in front of his fellow soldiers and Tribunes he claimed himself to be a Christian and declared his worship of Jesus Christ. Diocletian attempted to convert George, even offering gifts of land, money and slaves if he made a sacrifice to the Roman gods. The Emperor made many offers, but George never accepted.

Recognizing the futility of his efforts, Diocletian was left with no choice but to have him executed for his refusal. Before the execution George gave his wealth to the poor and prepared himself. After various torture sessions, including laceration on a wheel of swords in which he was resuscitated three times, George was executed by decapitation before Nicomedia’s city wall, on April 23, 303.

Saint George’s tomb in Lod, Israel

Source: Wikipedia

EM PORTUGUES AQUI: Amargura
EN ESPANOL AQUI: Amargura
_______________________________________In my book “Veronika decides to die”, which takes place in a psychiatric hospital, the director develops a theory about an undetectable poison which contaminates the organism over the years: vitriol.

Like the libido – the sexual liquid that Dr. Freud had recognized, but no laboratory had ever been able to isolate – vitriol is distilled by the organisms of human beings who are in a state of fear. Most of the people affected identify its taste, which is neither sweet nor salty, but bitter. That’s why depressions are intrinsically associated to the word Bitterness.

All beings have Bitterness in their organism – to a greater or lesser degree – in the same way that almost all of us have the tuberculosis bacillus. However, these two diseases only attack when the patient is debilitated; in the case of Bitterness, the terrain for the disease to arise appears when we are afraid of the so-called “reality”.

Certain people, in their anxiety to build a world where no outside threat could penetrate, increase exaggeratedly their defenses against the outside – strangers, new places, different experiences – and leave the inside unprotected. It is then that Bitterness begins to cause irreversible harm.

The main target of Bitterness (or Vitriol, as the doctor of my book preferred) is desire. People attacked by this evil begin losing their desire for everything and in a few years are unable to go outside their world – because they have used up enormous energy reserves building high walls for the reality to be what they wanted it to be.

When avoiding outside attack, they also limit internal growth. They continue going to work, watching television, complaining about the traffic and having children, but all that happens automatically, without really understanding why they are behaving like that – after all, everything is under control.

The great problem of poisoning by Bitterness lies in the fact that passions – hate, love, despair, enthusiasm and curiosity – also don’t appear any more. After some time, the bitter person has no more desire. They had no more will even to live, or to die; that was the problem.

For that reason, for bitter people, heroes and madmen are always fascinating: they are not afraid to live or die. Both heroes and madmen are indifferent in the face of danger and go on ahead in spite of everyone saying not to do so. The madman commits suicide, the hero offers himself up to martyrdom for a cause – but both die, and bitter people spend many nights and days talking about the absurdness and glory of the two types. That is the only moment when the bitter person has the strength to reach the top of his defensive wall and look outside a little; but soon his hands and feet tire and he returns to daily life.

The chronically bitter person only notices his disease once a week: on Sunday afternoons.
Then, as he has no work or routine to relieve the symptoms, he realizes that something is very wrong.

Standing above the little town of Tarifa is an old fort built by the Moors. I remember sitting here with my wife, Christina, in 1982, and for the first time looking at a continent from across a narrow stretch of water: Africa. At that time I could not dream that such a lazy moment in the late afternoon would inspire a scene in my best-known book, “The Alchemist”. Nor could I have dreamed that the story that follows, heard in the car, would serve as an excellent example for all of us who are searching for some balance between discipline and compassion.

A merchant sent his son to learn the Secret of Happiness from the wisest of men. The young man wandered through the desert for forty days until he reached a beautiful castle at the top of a mountain. There lived the sage that the young man was looking for.

However, instead of finding a holy man, our hero entered a room and saw a great deal of activity; merchants coming and going, people chatting in the corners, a small orchestra playing sweet melodies, and there was a table laden with the most delectable dishes of that part of the world.

The wise man talked to everybody, and the young man had to wait for two hours until it was time for his audience.

With considerable patience, he listened attentively to the reason for the boy’s visit, but told him that at that moment he did not have the time to explain to him the Secret of Happiness.

He suggested that the young man take a stroll around his palace and come back in two hours’ time.

“However, I want to ask you a favor,” he added, handing the boy a teaspoon, in which he poured two drops of oil. “While you walk, carry this spoon and don’t let the oil spill.”

The young man began to climb up and down the palace staircases, always keeping his eyes fixed on the spoon. At the end of two hours he returned to the presence of the wise man.

“So,” asked the sage, “did you see the Persian tapestries hanging in my dining room? Did you see the garden that the Master of Gardeners took ten years to create? Did you notice the beautiful parchments in my library?”

Embarrassed, the young man confessed that he had seen nothing. His only concern was not to spill the drops of oil that the wise man had entrusted to him.

“So, go back and see the wonders of my world,” said the wise man. “You can’t trust a man if you don’t know his house.”

Now more at ease, the young man took the spoon and strolled again through the palace, this time paying attention to all the works of art that hung from the ceiling and walls. He saw the gardens, the mountains all around the palace, the delicacy of the flowers, the taste with which each work of art was placed in its niche. Returning to the sage, he reported in detail all that he had seen.

“But where are the two drops of oil that I entrusted to you?” asked the sage.

Looking down at the spoon, the young man realized that he had spilled the oil.

“Well, that is the only advice I have to give you,” said the sage of sages. “The Secret of Happiness lies in looking at all the wonders of the world and never forgetting the two drops of oil in the spoon.”

A farm labourer with a sick wife, asked a Buddhist monk to say a series of prayers. The priest began to pray, asking God to cure all those who were ill.

‘Just a moment,’ said the farm labourer. ‘I asked you to pray for my wife and there you are praying for everyone who’s ill.’

‘I’m praying for her too.’

‘Yes, but you’re praying for everyone. You might end up helping my neighbour, who’s also ill, and I don’t even like him.’

‘You understand nothing about healing,’ said the monk, moving off. ‘By praying for everyone, I am adding my prayers to those of the millions of people who are also praying for their sick.

‘Added together, those voices reach God and benefit everyone. Separately, they lose their strength and go nowhere.’

“I saw only a tunnel.”
In the bar in Sibiu, in Transylvania, Sorin looks deep into my eyes. He carries on speaking.
“I saw a black tunnel with a man at the end of it, making signs at me.”
I wait. We have all the time in the world and I remember that when I was in the same situation I saw a tunnel too, except this one led to a hotel in Rio de Janeiro, the Glória Hotel. I looked at that hotel, expected the worse and thought to myself: “it’s not fair, I’m only 26 years old!” Fair or not, in the early morning of 27 May 1974 I stood before death and could not see what was happening beside me. Just the tunnel and the hotel. But my story does not matter, it serves only to say that I understand perfectly well what Sorin is telling me in a bar lost in the middle of the Carpates Mountains.
“I saw only a tunnel, with a man pointing a gun at me and telling me to get out of the car.”
Sorin Miscoci’s Calvary began on 28 March 2005, near Baghdad. He had been designated to spend a week there at the request of a Rumanian TV station and ended up being kidnapped for 55 days.
“Later on, when they freed me, the American security agents asked me how many people were there. And I told them: one. They laughed and said that just wasn’t possible. It was the psychologist who helped me, explaining that in situations like this, nothing in the surroundings has any importance. All you see is the focus of the crisis, what is threatening you, and you simply forget the rest.
Sorin has just got married to Andrea, who strokes his hand. We have been traveling together for three days and we will continue for another week crossing the Carpates Mountains. I knew his story, but waited until he was in his home town before asking him the details. Cristina Topescu, an old friend who worked as a journalist in the same TV as Sorin, was also at the table. She says that when the time came to mobilize the country, few colleagues came forward to speak to the President of the Republic, for fear of losing their jobs.

Several biological studies have shown that a frog placed in a container along with water from his pond, he will remain alive while you heat the water. The toad does not react to the gradual increase of temperature (change of environment) and only dies when the water boils, swollen and happy.

On the other hand, if a toad is thrown into that same container when the water is already boiling, he will immediately jump out. He will be a little singed, but alive!

Sometimes we can be like the boiled toads. We do not notice changes.
We think everything is good, or that whatever is evil will pass, it’s just a matter of time.
We are about to die, but we are floating, stable and apathetic as the water warms up every minute.
We are dying, fat and happy, without having noticed the changes around us.

There are boiled toads who still believe that the key is obedience, not competence: might is right, and obey whoever is sensible. From all this, where is the real life? It is better to emerge from a situation, maybe a little singed from time to time, but alive and ready to act.

An action is a thought that manifests itself.
A small gesture denounces us, so we have to make everything perfect, think about the details, learn the technique so that it becomes intuitive.
Intuition has nothing to do with routine but rather with a state of spirit that lies beyond technique.
So, after practicing a lot, we no longer think about all the necessary movements: they become part of our very existence. But for this to happen, you have to train and repeat.

And as if that were not enough, you have to repeat and train.
Watch a good blacksmith working the steel. To the untrained eye he is repeating the same hammer blows over and over again.
But those who know the importance of training know that each time the hammer is raised and then lowered, the intensity of the blow is different. The hand repeats the same gesture but as it approaches the iron it knows whether to touch it harder or softer.
Look at the windmill. Whoever sees its vanes just once imagines that it always turns with the same speed, always repeating the same movement. But those who know windmills know that they are conditioned to the wind and change their direction whenever necessary.
The hand of the ironsmith was trained after the gesture of hammering was repeated thousands of times.
Windmill vanes can move fast after the wind has blown a lot and polished their gears.
The archer lets many an arrow pass far from the target because he knows that he will only learn the importance of the bow, posture, the string and the target after he repeats his gestures thousands of times without being afraid of making a mistake.

Training is NOT routine. It is essential

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EN ESPANOL CLICAR AQUI: Las dos gotas de aceite
EM PORTUGUES, CLICAR AQUI: As duas gotas de óleo
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Story taken from my book “The Alchemist”, one of the Top 20 Bestselling Books from all times

A merchant sent his son to learn the Secret of Happiness from the wisest of men. The young man wandered through the desert for forty days until he reached a beautiful castle at the top of a mountain. There lived the sage that the young man was looking for.

However, instead of finding a holy man, our hero entered a room and saw a great deal of activity; merchants coming and going, people chatting in the corners, a small orchestra playing sweet melodies, and there was a table laden with the most delectable dishes of that part of the world.

The wise man talked to everybody, and the young man had to wait for two hours until it was time for his audience.

With considerable patience, the Sage listened attentively to the reason for the boy’s visit, but told him that at that moment he did not have the time to explain to him the Secret of Happiness.

He suggested that the young man take a stroll around his palace and come back in two hours’ time.

“However, I want to ask you a favor,” he added, handling the boy a teaspoon, in which he poured two drops of oil. “While you walk, carry this spoon and don’t let the oil spill.”

The young man began to climb up and down the palace staircases, always keeping his eyes fixed on the spoon. At the end of two hours he returned to the presence of the wise man.

“So,” asked the sage, “did you see the Persian tapestries hanging in my dining room? Did you see the garden that the Master of Gardeners took ten years to create? Did you notice the beautiful parchments in my library?”

Embarrassed, the young man confessed that he had seen nothing. His only concern was not to spill the drops of oil that the wise man had entrusted to him.

“So, go back and see the wonders of my world,” said the wise man. “You can’t trust a man if you don’t know his house.”

Now more at ease, the young man took the spoon and strolled again through the palace, this time paying attention to all the works of art that hung from the ceiling and walls. He saw the gardens, the mountains all around the palace, the delicacy of the flowers, the taste with which each work of art was placed in its niche. Returning to the sage, he reported in detail all that he had seen.

“But where are the two drops of oil that I entrusted to you?” asked the sage.

Looking down at the spoon, the young man realized that he had spilled the oil.

“Well, that is the only advice I have to give you,” said the sage of sages. “The Secret of Happiness lies in looking at all the wonders of the world and never forgetting the two drops of oil in the spoon.”

from the book “The Alchemist”

Certo mercador enviou seu filho para aprender o Segredo da Felicidade com o mais sábio de todos os homens. O rapaz andou durante quarenta dias pelo deserto, até chegar a um belo castelo, no alto de uma montanha. Lá vivia o Sábio que o rapaz buscava.

Ao invés de encontrar um homem santo, porém, o nosso herói entrou numa sala e viu uma atividade imensa; mercadores entravam e saíam, pessoas conversavam pelos cantos, uma pequena orquestra tocava melodias suaves, e havia uma farta mesa com os mais deliciosos pratos daquela região do mundo.

O Sábio conversava com todos, e o rapaz teve que esperar duas horas até chegar sua vez de ser atendido.

Com muita paciência, escutou atentamente o motivo da visita do rapaz, mas disse-lhe que naquele momento não tinha tempo de explicar-lhe o Segredo da Felicidade.

Sugeriu que o rapaz desse um passeio por seu palácio, e voltasse daqui a duas horas.

– Entretanto, quero lhe pedir um favor – completou, entregando ao rapaz uma colher de chá, onde pingou duas gotas de óleo. – Enquanto você estiver caminhando, carregue esta colher sem deixar que o óleo seja derramado.

O rapaz começou a subir e descer as escadarias do palácio, mantendo sempre os olhos fixos na colher. Ao final de duas horas, retornou à presença do Sábio.

– Então – perguntou o Sábio – você viu as tapeçarias da Pérsia que estão na minha sala de jantar? Viu o jardim que o Mestre dos Jardineiros demorou dez anos para criar? Reparou nos belos pergaminhos de minha biblioteca?

O rapaz, envergonhado, confessou que não havia visto nada. Sua única preocupação era não derramar as gotas de óleo que o Sábio lhe havia confiado.

– Pois então volte e conheça as maravilhas do meu mundo – disse o Sábio. – Você não pode confiar num homem se não conhece sua casa.

Já mais tranqüilo, o rapaz pegou a colher e voltou a passear pelo palácio, desta vez reparando em todas as obras de arte que pendiam do teto e das paredes. Viu os jardins, as montanhas ao redor, a delicadeza das flores, o requinte com que cada obra de arte estava colocada em seu lugar. De volta à presença do Sábio, relatou pormenorizadamente tudo que havia visto.

– Mas onde estão as duas gotas de óleo que lhe confiei? – perguntou o Sábio.

Olhando para a colher, o rapaz percebeu que as havia derramado.

– Pois este é o único conselho que eu tenho para lhe dar – disse o mais Sábio dos Sábios. – O segredo da felicidade está em olhar todas as maravilhas do mundo, e nunca se esquecer das duas gotas de óleo na colher.

“O Alquimista” é um 20 livros mais vendidos de todos os tempos

 
 

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The Hallelujah Chorus, from Handel’s Messiah, is one of the most well-known musical pieces from the baroque period, AND also one of the most difficult to perform. Therefore, there must be a conductor in the crowd, but I am unable to identify him/her<