Tag Archives: books
The Warrior of Light and renunciation
“In any activity, we have to know what to expect, the means to reach our objective, and the capacity we possess for the proposed task.”
“The only one who can say that he has renounced the fruits is he who, being thus equipped, feels no desire for the results of the conquest, and remains absorbed in combat.”
“You can renounce the fruit, but this renunciation does not mean indifference towards the result.”
This strategy belongs to Mahatma Gandhi. The Warrior of Light listens with respect and does not allow himself to be confused by people who are incapable of reaching any result and always preach renunciation.
Renouncing vengeance
The Warrior of Light holds the sword in his hands. He is the one who decides what he is going to do, and what he will not do in any circumstances. There are moments when life leads him to a crisis: he is forced to divorce himself from things he has always loved.
Then the Warrior reflects. He assesses whether he is fulfilling God’s will or if he is acting through egoism. If separation is really the path he must follow, he accepts it without complaining.
However, if this separation is provoked by the perversity of others, then he implacable in his answer.
The Warrior possesses the art of the blow and the art of pardon. He knows how to use both with equal skill.
Renouncing provocation
The experienced fighter endures insults; he knows the strength of his fist and the efficacy of his blows. In front of the ill-prepared opponent, he merely contemplates and shows his strength through his look. He wins without needing to take the fight to the physical level.
As the Warrior of Light learns from his spiritual master, the light of faith also shines in his eyes and he does not need to prove anything to anyone. The aggressive arguments presented by the opponent – saying that God is superstition, that miracles are tricks, that believing in angels is fleeing from reality — are of no importance.
Like the fighter, the Warrior of Light is aware of his immense strength, and will never fight with anyone who does not deserve the honor of combat.
Renouncing time
The Warrior of Light listens to Lao Tzu when he says that we must detach ourselves from the idea of days and hours and pay more and more attention to the minutes.
Only in this way will he manage to resolve certain problems before they happen. By paying attention to the small things, he manages to protect himself from the great calamities.
But to think about the small things does not mean to think small. The Warrior knows that a great dream is made of many different things, just as the light of the sun is the sum of its millions of beams.
Renouncing comfort
The Warrior of Light contemplates the two columns beside the door he plans to open. One is called Fear, the other Desire.
The Warrior looks at the column of Fear, where he reads: “you are about to enter an unknown and dangerous world where all that you have learned up to now will be of no use whatsoever.”
The Warrior of Light looks at the column of Desire, where he reads: “you are about to leave a known world where all the things you always wanted and all that you have fought so hard for are kept.”
The Warrior smiles, because nothing can frighten him and nothing can hold him. With the confidence of those who know what they want, he opens the door.
The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho for free!
My Heart Is Afraid that it will have to suffer,” the boy told the alchemist one night as they looked up at the moonless sky.”Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. And that no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dreams.”
Every few decades a book is published that changes the lives of its readers forever. The Alchemist is such a book. With over a million and a half copies sold around the world, The Alchemist has already established itself as a modern classic, universally admired. Paulo Coelho’s charming fable, now available in English for the first time, will enchant and inspire an even wider audience of readers for generations to come.
The Alchemist is the magical story of Santiago, an Andalusian shepherd boy who yearns to travel in search of a worldly treasure as extravagant as any ever found. From his home in Spain he journeys to the markets of Tangiers and across the Egyptian desert to a fateful encounter with the alchemist.
The story of the treasures Santiago finds along the way teaches us, as only a few stories have done, about the essential wisdom of listening to our hearts, learning to read the omens strewn along life’s path, and, above all, following our dreams.
Dear readers,
You can now browse the full edition of The Alchemist (courtesy of Harper Collins) on my blog: http://paulocoelhoblog.com/
Love, Paulo
Best-Selling Author Turns Piracy into Profit
Paulo Coelho, author of books such as “The Alchemist” and “The Witch of Portobello”, sold over 100 million books last year. In part, he puts this success down to BitTorrent, as he saw a huge increase in sales when his books appeared on sites such as The Pirate Bay. We talked to Coelho to find out more about this remarkable story.
http://torrentfreak.com/best-selling-author-turns-piracy-into-profit-080512/
Quote from Book Two; Amber Shadows and the Crystal Locket
Chapter One
(Illustration)
Alluring Danger
| M |
onday morning every cauldron alarm clock in the Shadows’ household flashed twelve o’clock. The storm brewing since midnight whipped branches viciously against rooftops and power lines, sending several garbage cans rolling around yards and down the streets.
Several feet away, on the border of Magian countryside and Downtown Magia, a rooted pinecone fir tree snapped in half and fell against the main power lines. Instantaneously power outage darkened every window and street lamp, as if a Dark Magic spell covered the Magians with a mysterious, velvety black cloak.
As the town slept, a svelte silhouette cloaked in blackish-red, dragon hide lurked just outside the youngest Shadows’ bedroom window. Fingernails of various dragon designs carved into the paint-chipped siding, leaving deep gashes in its weathered wood. As the silhouette moved closer to gaze in through a narrow slit in the curtain panels, the wind sifted through her long, black locks. She stood motionless, watching Amber toss and turn as she called out incoherent names in her sleep.
The woman’s lips curled in hatred as her fingers twiddled in a spherical motion, magically forcing the towel in the opening of Amber’s window to fall inward. Just as the woman was on the verge of vaporizing into a thin, serpent-shaped coil of vapors, the wind viciously shifted. She tilted her head backward to peruse the sky. The heavens stirred furiously, blanketing the entire neighborhood with threatening cloud formations. Thunder boomed magnificently throughout the inky-black sky as rain plopped here and there, and then suddenly, a crack of lighting struck the ground just inches away from where the woman stood, as if to warn her.
Startled by her near death experience the woman transformed into a black and red snake, with a spiked dragon tail and glittering birthmark on its head. Lightning struck again nearly setting her tail on fire as she slithered back into the Wood at full speed, down into a bubbling hole leading to what those living in the Bewitched Forest would call, the Dark Magic Realm.
Rain continuously poured in sheets as lightning struck the earth near Amber’s room three times, waking her from what felt like a heart pounding nightmare. Above the Shadows house lightning cracked as it formed an angel outline, etching it into the clouds. With eyes open wide, yet not totally aware of her surroundings, Amber covered her head and slid underneath her bed, her breathing erratic. She’d never truly been afraid of lightning before, but it was so close above her part of the house she feared it was going to strike the roof and set the house on fire.
Moments later all was silent and the rain stopped instantaneously. Amber peered out from under her bed and noticed a brilliant light beaming through the crack in the curtains. Curiosity overwhelmed her fears as she slowly crawled out from under her bed and stepped toward the window. Staring up into the seven heavens, her fears were replaced by peacefulness and her breathing suddenly shifted into normal, slow breaths. Amber couldn’t help but think that the angel resembled Jocelyn’s face (her late, great-great grandmother).
It must be a warning, thought Amber. Something just happened . . . something Jocelyn wanted me to know about . . . . She looked out into the backyard and saw nothing except wet grass and swaying woods. Plops of rain began hitting her window pane again. Amber glanced upward hoping the angel would remain long enough for her to commune with her inner intuition, but the angel vanished before her eyes, leaving stormy billows in its place.
If something hasn’t already happened it’s about to, thought Amber. She sat down befuddled by the angel and its meaning; then suddenly remembered how she’d witnessed something horrifying in her dreams . . . something that may be linked to the etched angel in the clouds.
Grasping at the covers, Amber struggled to see through the blackness engulfing her surroundings as she shivered from the unexplainable, cold draft invading the room. Being a bit preoccupied with the sign from heaven, she hadn’t thought to check and see if the towel was tucked in the hole of the window, and shivered for several moments before snapping out of her thoughts.
Amber leaned over and twisted the light switch to her lamp twice but it would not turn on. She then gazed down and noticed the alarm clock flashing 12:00. Another power failure, she thought. Sighing, she pulled out a box of matches. As she struck the match, Amber noticed rain spattering on her bedside table and on the edge of the pillar candle. She pulled the candle towards the edge closest to her and got to her feet. Rubbing her arms for warmth, she headed toward the window to see if the towel was not properly tucked in the hole.
That’s strange, thought Amber, where is the towel? She picked up the candle and looked on the floor to see if it had fallen out from the force of the wind. Nearly missing sight of it, Amber noticed something red sticking out from behind her bedside table. She pulled it out after some difficulty only to find it was an envelope with gold ribbon. Amber was about to open the envelope when the room temperature suddenly dropped. Although anxious to read its contents, she couldn’t handle the cold a moment longer. She set the candle down and searched for the towel.
Amber managed to reach further behind her bedside table after a bit of difficulty and grabbed hold of what she thought was the towel, but when she looked at it, it was nothing more than a small square of singed material. Someone was here . . . trying to get in, thought Amber, someone using Dark Magic by the looks of it. After all this time, someone had finally attempted to cause her and possibly her family harm. She pulled out an old pair of sweats and was about to stuff them into the window, when a creaking noise from the hallway drew her attention to the bedroom door left slightly ajar.
Amber swallowed hard. Perhaps it was her imagination working overtime, but the longer she stared at the door, the more her imagination tricked her into believing someone was slowly pushing their way into the room.
She blew out the candle and slipped back in bed, pulling the covers up over her head. Grasping her crystal locket, she prayed that whoever it was would change their mind and go away. Lying still, she inhaled and exhaled long breaths, lip synching, “It’s only my imagination . . . it’s only my imagination . . . the house is just settling . . . yeah . . . yeah that’s it . . . that has to be it . . . it’s just settling . . .“
After several moments had passed and it had become quite clear that no one had entered the room, Amber sat up and pulled the covers from her head. She wiped her forehead with her nightdress sleeve as she sat staring at the door thinking, I must have been hallucinating . . . the door hasn’t budged.
In fact, as Amber looked around she couldn’t help noticing that everything was as still as can be. The only sounds breaking the silence of the room was the expansion and retraction of the heating pipes, the rain pattering against the window, and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway just a few feet away from her bedroom door.
Amber re-lit the candle and glanced around. The room appeared ominous, what with the antique dresser, rickety desk, and chair sitting idle in the flickering candlelight. The spindles at the foot of her bed cast silhouettes on the wall, stretching from halfway up the closet doors to the ceiling in an eerie fashion.
“My imagination should get an award for being overactive,” she muttered. As Amber sat staring into the surrounding darkness, it suddenly struck her why she was getting so freaked out. She remembered in vivid detail what woke her in the first place.
Amber got to her feet and lifted her top mattress. Hidden away with the Legends, Spells, and Enchantment Book was the Emerald Wand of Chrysalis. With a few White Magic words she removed the shield protecting it and tip toed about the house, placing seven protection charms on every window and the front and back doors. There, that out to hold whoever it was out for a while, she thought. Amber was about to tuck into bed when she remembered the red envelope.
She began ripping at the corners of the envelope, hoping to find a message from her late, great-great grandmother Jocelyn, but after several attempts of actually ripping it open and it resealing itself, she gave up. “Must be a protective spell . . .” Amber muttered in befuddlement.
As tired as she was, her curiosity propelled her into thumbing through the Legends, Spells and Enchantment Book twice, but none of spells she tried worked and neither did any of the spells she recited while using the Emerald Wand of Chrysalis.
“Must be some type of Dark Magic unknown to the book,” Amber said under her breath, thoroughly frustrated. She tucked the red envelope inside the book for safe keeping until she could figure out how to open it. Then she tucked the book back under her top mattress and placed the Emerald wand inside her pillow case, her grip firmly on its handle. She needed to salvage what few hours of sleep she had left. Soon, her family would be busying the hallway in their daily morning rush to ready themselves for a new day at school or work, without any knowledge of what happened during the night.
Less than an hour later, Amber was still awake and staring out the window from where she lay. She could not block out the flashes of a deformed, half-dead figure, and several serpent guards with scaly blackish-green skin and feelers on top their heads chasing her in her nightmare, nor could she forget about the angel etched in the clouds and how much she reminded her of Jocelyn. And it certainly did not help to know the attempt of someone breaking into the house justified her reasons of worrying all summer. Now that something finally happened, Amber found herself more concerned about what she was going to do about it, and who, pray tell was it?
It was at that precise moment something long lying at the foot of the bed in the shadows moved. Startled out of her thoughts, Amber huddled up in the upper corner of her bed; fearing it was a snake. Slowly she opened her eyes and outstretched her arm to pick up the candle and relight it. There at the foot of her bed in tousled blankets lay an undisturbed feline; stretched out, purring and pawing at the air, his wizards’ crest birthmark glistening in the darkness. Taking a deep breath, she lowered the candle and placed it back on the bedside table relieved to find she was over reacting. “It was only Zappy stirring about . . . .”
Having had enough of a sleepless night, Amber slipped into her robe and tucked the Emerald wand in her pocket. With the wand at her side, she figured she would be perfectly safe to catch a breath of fresh air while she wrote in her diary. She gathered her writing tools and steadied the candle in a firm grip as she softly tip-toed through the house, out the back door, and gently closed the screen door behind her. Settling on the back porch swing, she noticed the rain was now softer and steady. Amber released the invisibility charm and thumbed through her diary, counting the number of entries she had written. The entry she was about to pen would make the seventh entry to date.
*****
You simply must buy the first book to find out what happened! I refuse to spoil it for those who are still reading the first book or who have yet to purchase it. Until then, I’m sorry to say, this is only a teaser excerpt from Book Two in the Amber Shadows series.
Have a bewitching read.
*****
Wendy Willett
"The act of writing – the reader" by Paulo Coelho
“There are two types of writers: those who make you think and those who make you dream” says Brian Aldiss, who made me dream for such a long time with his science-fiction books. Thinking about his sentence and my work, I decided to write some columns on the subject. In principle I believe that every human being on this planet has at least one good story to tell his neighbor. What follows are my reflections on some important items in the process of creating a text.The reader
Above all else, the writer has to be a good reader. The kind that sticks to academic texts and does not read what others write (and here I’m not just talking about books but also blogs, newspaper columns and so on) will never know his own qualities and defects.
So, before starting anything, look for people who are interested in sharing their experience through words. I’m not saying: “look for other writers”. What I say is: find people with different skills, because writing is no different from any other activity that is done with enthusiasm.
Your allies will not necessarily be those that everyone looks on with admiration and says: “there’s nobody better”. It’s very much the opposite: it’s people who are not afraid of making mistakes, and yet they do make mistakes. That is why their work is not always recognized. But that’s the type of people who change the world, and after many a mistake they manage to get something right that will make all the difference in their community.
These are people who cannot sit around waiting for things to happen before they decide on the best way to narrate them: they decide as they act, even knowing that this can be very risky.
Living close to these people is important for writers, because they need to understand that before putting anything down on paper, they should be free enough to change direction as their imagination wanders. When a sentence comes to an end, the writer should tell himself: “while I was writing I traveled a long road. Now I can finish this paragraph in the full awareness that I have risked enough and given the best of myself.”
The best allies are those who don’t think like the others. That’s why, while you are looking for your companions (not always visible, because meetings between the reader and the writer are rare), trust your intuition and don’t pay any attention to others’ remarks. People always judge others using the model of their own limitations – and at times the opinion of the community is full of prejudices and fears.
Join those who have never said: “it’s finished, I have to stop here”. Because just as winter is followed by spring, nothing comes to an end: after reaching your objective, you have to start again, always using all that you have learnt on the way.
Join those who sing, tell stories, enjoy life and have happiness in their eyes. Because happiness is contagious and always manages to keep people from being paralyzed by depression, loneliness and troubles.
And tell your story, even if it’s only for your family to read.
The pen
All the energy of thinking is eventually shown in the nib of a pen. Of course, here we can substitute nib by ballpoint, computer keyboard, or pencil, but the nib of a pen is more romantic, don’t you think?
To get back to the theme: words eventually condense an idea. Paper is just a support for this idea. But the pen will always remain with you, and you must know how to use it.
Periods of inactivity are necessary – a pen that is always writing ends up losing the awareness of what it is doing. So let it rest whenever possible, and concern yourself with living and meeting your friends. When you return to the business of writing, you will find a happy pen with all its strength intact.
Pens have no conscience: they are an extension of the writer’s hand and desire. They serve to destroy reputations, make us dream, send news, trace pretty words of love. So always be clear about your intentions.
The hand is where all the muscles of the body, all the intentions of the person writing, all the effort to share what he feels, are concentrated. It is not just a part of his arm but an extension of his thought. Hold your pen with the same respect that a violinist has for his instrument.
The word
The word is the final intention of someone who wishes to share something with his neighbor.
William Blake said: all that we write is the fruit of memory or the unknown. If I can make a suggestion, respect the unknown and look there for your source of inspiration. The stories and facts remain the same, but when you open a door in your unconscious and let yourself be led by inspiration you will see that the way to describe what you have lived or dreamt is always far richer when your unconscious is guiding the pen.
Every word leaves a memory in your heart – and it the sum of these memories that form sentences, paragraphs, books.
Words are as flexible as the tip of your pen, and they understand the signs on the road. Sentences do not hesitate in changing course when they make a discovery, when they spot a better opportunity.
Words have the same quality as water: they go around rocks and adapt to the river bed, sometimes turning into a lake until the depression has filled up and they can continue their journey.
Because when words are written with feelings and the soul, they do not forget that their destination is the ocean of a text, and that sooner or later they have to arrive there.
(Ends next number)
The Valkyries for free!
Dear readers,
You can now browse the full edition of The Valkyries (courtesy of Harper Collins).
Therefore, you can read the first pages (or the full edition).
Love, Paulo
