They’re tosh, obviously. Anyway are the enchanted stories and otherworldly thoughts of Paulo Coelho agreeable tosh? Is it true that they are, say, in the Matrix class? Laurence Fishburne thinks so; he’s purchased the rights to The Alchemist. Coelho has sold something like 50 million books, and is even now going solid. Each era has its picked master supplying opium to the masses. What is solitary about Coelho is that he is a completely globalized master; he is to tosh what Pele was to soccer. Coelho’s site offers entries in no short of what 14 dialects. Brazilian by beginning (and as of late chose to that nation’s Literary Academy), he finds his purposeful anecdotes everywhere throughout the world. The entire world reacts, appreciatively.
Coelho’s first (and greatest) hit, The Alchemist, chronicled a quest for the general dialect. He appears to have discovered it. His local Portuguese slips effortlessly into English. Straightforwardness has something to do with it; around his referred to sources are Saint-Exupéry‘s The Little Prince, Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea, and the stories of our Lord. Experts of straightforwardness, every one of them.
Coelho was, he lets us know, administered into the way of fiction by a complex old geezer who seemed to him out of the ether on a vacationer visit to Dachau. Search for the typical implications of the incredible religions of the world, he was educated. Coelho’s regular plot is the journey in which a straightforward saint or champion (more often than not of the easier requests) finds the significance of life. His accounts are larded with such chunks of higher toshery as: “Life moves very fast. It rushes us from heaven to hell in a matter of seconds”, and “It is the simple things in life that are the most extraordinary; only wise men are able to understand them”.
Eleven Minutes withdraws to some degree from the Coelho equation. He apologizes to his dedicated followers in a garrulous foreword. This is a novel, we are cautioned, and that will manage “a subject that is harsh, difficult, shocking”: the global wrongdoing of “People trafficking“. The courageous woman, Maria, is a surpassingly lovely virgin from the Brazilian back-nation. She runs off to Rio where she is deceived into going as a “lover of the dance floor” to Geneva. There she plummets into hooking.
In this way illustrated, Eleven Minutes may appear to guarantee a confession of white subjugation. It doesn’t. Maria’s experience with the dismal punters of Switzerland is to the extent that voyage of magnificent finding as Santiago’s fortune chase in The Alchemist . Through the flesh business, Maria reveals the center truths of the human condition. All the while, she spares her “spirit”; she likewise spares advantageous bank equalization. Her rate for 11 minutes (life is not by any means the only thing that moves quick) is 1,000 Swiss francs. After a year she has the capacity to resign, solid, well off and smart.
Maria begins headed straight toward enlightenment by perusing a genuinely astounding book by an un-named Brazilian wise man- something to do with an Andalusian shepherd kid’s fortune chase. Her examination takes shape in a predicament, typified in two of her clients. Ralf, a splendid craftsman, venerates from a separation the purified “light” she oozes. Terence, by complexity, is a rich cruel person with a cold gleam in his eye. He delights Maria to the point of euphoric climax with the whip. Is this Brazilian woman of the night, we ponder, the Blessed Virgin Mary, or Mary Magdalen. On the other hand would she says she is – brave thought – both.