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Warrior of Light – Issue no. 197 – A Model’s Routine by Paulo Coelho

Book Review, , ,

In order to write the book “The Winner is alone”, the main theme of which is the cult of celebrities, I had to do some interesting research into the routine of those women who inhabit the collective imagination: photographer’s models. However different they may be, what follows is an invariable pattern of behavior among them:

A] Before going to bed they use several creams to clean the pores and keep the skin hydrated — from an early age making the organism dependent on foreign elements. They wake up, drink a cup of black coffee without any sugar, and some fruit with fibers — so that the food that they ingest during the rest of the day passes quickly through the intestines. They climb on the scales three to four times a day and become depressed by each excessive gram denounced by the needle.

B] They are all aware that they will soon be upstaged by new faces and new tendencies, and they need urgently to show that their talent goes beyond the catwalks. They are constantly pleading with their agents to arrange a test for them so that they can show that they are capable of working as actresses — which is their big dream.

C] Unlike what the legend claims, they pay for their expenses — travel, hotel, and all those salads. They are invited by fashion designers’ assistants to do what they call casting, to select those who will be picked to face the catwalk or pose for a photo session. At that moment they are in front of people who are invariably ill-humored and use the little power they have to pour out their daily frustrations and never say a nice or encouraging word: “horrible” is the comment most commonly heard.

D] Their parents are proud of the daughter that has begun so well, and regret having ever said they were against that career — after all, she is earning money and helping the family. Their boyfriends have fits of jealousy, but control themselves because it’s good for the ego to be with a fashion model. Their girlfriends envy them secretly (or openly).

E] They go to all the parties they are invited to, and behave as if they were far more important than they actually are, which is a symptom of insecurity. They always have a glass of champagne in their hand, but this is just part of the image that they want to send out. They know that alcohol contains elements that can affect their weight, so their favorite drink is mineral water (still – although the gas does not affect the weight, it does have immediate consequences for the contour of the stomach).

G] They sleep badly due to the pills. They hear stories about anorexia — the most common disease in the milieu, a kind of nervous disturbance caused by obsession with weight and appearance which eventually educates the organism and rejects any type of food. They say that this won’t happen to them. But they never notice when the first symptoms appear.

H] They go directly from childhood to the world of luxury and glamour without passing through adolescence and youth. When asked about their plans for the future, they always have the answer on the tip of their tongue: “I want to go to university and study philosophy. I’m just doing this to be able to pay for my studies”. They know that this isn’t true. They can’t afford to attend school: there’s always a test in the morning, a photo session in the afternoon, a party which they have to attend to be seen, admired and desired.

People think they lead a fairytale life. And they want to believe this. Until some more curious writer decides not to give up, and questions a bit further. After a great deal of hesitating, they eventually say: “I was born to be an actress. So I am capable of pretending that this miserable life is the most glamorous profession in the world”.

The measure of love

“I have always wanted to know if I was able to love like you do,” said the disciple of a Hindu master.

“There is nothing beyond love,” answered the master. “It’s love that keeps the world going round and the stars hanging in the sky.”

“I know all that. But how can I know if my love is great enough?”

“Try to find out if you abandon yourself to love or if you flee from your emotions. But don’t ask questions like that because love is neither great nor small. You can’t measure a feeling like you measure a road: if you act like that you will see only your reflection, like the moon in a lake, but you won’t be following your path.”

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Warrior of Light by Paulo Coelho – Issue no. 196 – The Warrior of Light and His Temperament

Free Writing, ,

The Warrior of Light can afford to live each day different from the next. He is not afraid of crying over old regrets or feeling happy at new discoveries. When he feels that the hour has come, he casts everything aside and departs for the adventure he has dreamed so long about. When he understands that he is at the limit of his endurance, he leaves the fight, without feeling apologetic for having done one or two crazy and quite unexpected things.

The story below illustrates what I mean.

A man in quest of sanctity decided to climb a high mountain with just the clothes on his back and remain up there meditating for the rest of his life.

Soon he realized that one set of clothes was not enough, because it would get dirty very quick. He descended the mountain, went to the nearest village and asked for other clothes. Since everyone knew that the man was in quest of sanctity, they handed him a new pair of shoes and a shirt.

The man thanked them and climbed back up to the hermitage he was building on the top of the mountain. He spent the night putting up the walls and the days in meditation, eating the fruit of the trees and drinking the water of a nearby spring.

One month later he discovered that a mouse was chewing the extra clothes he had left to dry. Since he wanted to concentrate only on his spiritual duty, he went back down to the village and asked them to find him a cat.

The villagers, in respect for his mission, satisfied his request.

Another seven days and the cat was almost dying of starvation because it could not eat just fruit, and there were no more mice in the place. He went back down to the village for milk; as the villagers knew it was not for him — after all, he resisted without eating anything other than what nature offered him – once more they helped him.

The cat finished the milk quickly, so the man asked them to lend him a cow.

Since the cow gave more milk than was needed, he began to drink it too, so as not to waste it. In a short time — breathing the mountain air, eating fruit, meditating, drinking milk and doing exercises — he turned into a model of beauty. A lovely girl who climbed the mountain looking for her lamb fell in love with him and convinced him that he needed a wife to look after the house while he meditated in peace.

The man spent three days fasting, trying to know which was the best decision to make. Finally he understood that marriage is a blessing from above, and accepted the proposal.

Three years later, the man was married, with two sons, three cows, an orchard of fruit trees, and he ran a place for meditation, with a huge waiting line of people who wanted to know the miraculous “temple of eternal youth.”

When someone asked him how all that had started, he would say:

“Two weeks after I arrived up here, I had only two garments. A mouse began to chew one of them, and…”

But no-one was interested in the end of the story; they were sure that he was a wise businessman just trying to invent a legend to be able to raise even higher the price he charged the lodgers at the temple.

But like a good Warrior of Light, he did not bother about what others thought; he was happy because he was able to transform his dreams into reality.

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Warrior of Light – Issue no. 195 – Challenging the Teacher by Paulo Coelho

Free Writing,

Is the bird alive?

The young man was at the end of his training, soon he would go on to be a teacher. Like all good pupils, he needed to challenge his teacher and to develop his own way of thinking. He caught a bird, placed it in one hand and went to see his teacher.

‘Teacher, is this bird alive or dead?’

His plan was the following: if his teacher said ‘dead’, he would open his hand and the bird would fly away. If the answer was ‘alive’, he would crush the bird between his fingers; that way the teacher would be wrong whichever answer he gave.

‘Teacher, is the bird alive or dead?’ he asked again.

‘My dear student, that depends on you,’ was the teacher’s reply.

The unwanted apprentice

‘We have no doors in our monastery,’ Shanti said to the visitor, who had come in search of knowledge.

‘And what about troublesome people who come to disturb your peace?’

‘We ignore them, and they go away,’ said Shanti.

‘I am a learned man who has come in search of knowledge,’ insisted the foreigner. ‘But what do you do about stupid people? Do you just ignore them as well until they go away? Does that work?’

Shanti did not reply. The visitor repeated his question a few times, but seeing that he got no response, he decided to go and find a teacher who was more focused on what he was doing.

‘You see how well it works?’ said Shanti to himself, smiling.

The yogi and the wise fool

Nasrudin, the wise fool of Sufi tradition, passes in front of a cave, sees a yogi in deep meditation, and asks him what he is seeking.

– I am contemplating the animals, and I learn many lessons from them which can transform a man’s life — says the yogi.

– Teach me what you know. And I will teach you what I have learned, because a fish has already saved my life — answers Nasrudin.

The yogi is surprised: only a saint can have his life saved by a fish. He decides to teach everything he knows.

When he finishes, Nasrudin says:

– Now I have taught you everything, I would be proud to know how a fish saved your life.

– It is simple. I was almost dying of hunger when I caught it, and thanks to it I was able to survive three days.

Enlightenment in seven days

Buddha told his disciples: whoever makes an effort can attain enlightenment in seven days. If he can’t manage it, certainly he will attain it in seven months, or in seven years. The young man decided that he would attain it in one week, and he wanted to know what he should do: “concentration” was the reply.
The young man began to practice, but in ten minutes he was already distracted. Little by little, he began paying attention to everything that distracted him, and thought that he was not wasting time, but was getting used to himself.

One fine day he decided it was not necessary to arrive at his goal so fast, because the path was teaching him many things.

It was at that moment that he became an Enlightened one.

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Warrior of Light – Issue no. 194 – Emotional Independence by Paulo Coelho

Free Writing,

“At the beginning of our life and again when we get old, we need the help and affection of others. Unfortunately, between these two periods of our life, when we are strong and able to look after ourselves, we don’t appreciate the value of affection and compassion. As our own life begins and ends with the need for affection, wouldn’t it be better if we gave compassion and love to others while we are strong and capable?”

The above words were said by the present Dalai Lama. Really, it is very curious to see that we are proud of our emotional independence. Evidently, it is not quite like that: we continue needing others our entire life, but it is a “shame” to show that, so we prefer to cry in hiding. And when someone asks us for help, that person is considered weak and incapable of controlling his feelings.

There is an unwritten rule saying that “the world is for the strong”, that “only the fittest survive.” If it were like that, human beings would never have existed, because they are part of a species that needs to be protected for a long period of time (specialists say that we are only capable of surviving on our own after nine years of age, whereas a giraffe takes only six to eight months, and a bee is already independent in less than five minutes).

We are in this world, I, for my part, continue — and will always continue — depending on others. I depend on my wife, my friends and my publishers. I depend even on my enemies, who help me to be always trained in the use of the sword.

Clearly, there are moments when this fire blows in another direction, but I always ask myself: where are the others? Have I isolated myself too much? Like any healthy person, I also need solitude and moments of reflection.

But I cannot get addicted to that.

Emotional independence leads to absolutely nowhere — except to a would-be fortress, whose only and useless objective is to impress others.

Emotional dependence, in its turn, is like a bonfire that we light.

In the beginning, relationships are difficult. In the same way that fire is necessary to put up with the disagreeable smoke — which makes breathing hard, and causes tears to pour down one’s face. However, once the fire is alight, the smoke disappears and the flames light up everything around us — spreading warmth, calm, and possibly making an ember pop out to burn us, but that is what makes a relationship interesting, isn’t that true?

I began this column quoting a Nobel Peace Prize winner about the importance of human relationships. I am ending with Professor Albert Schweitzer, physician and missionary, who received the same Nobel prize in 1952.

“All of us know a disease in Central Africa called sleeping sickness. What we need to know is that there is a similar disease that attacks the soul — and which is very dangerous, because it catches us without being noticed. When you notice the slightest sign of indifference and lack of enthusiasm for your similar, be on the alert!”

“The only way to take precautions against this disease is to understand that the soul suffers, and suffers a lot, when we make it live superficially. The soul likes things that are beautiful and profound”.

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The Winner Stands Alone : Chapter XII by Paulo Coelho

Free Writing,

Javits glances around. There’s a man in dark glasses drinking a fruit juice. He
seems oblivious to his surroundings and is staring out to sea as if he were
somewhere far from there. He’s smartly dressed and good-looking, with greying
hair. He was one of the first to arrive and must know who Javits is, and yet
he’s made no effort to come and introduce himself. It was brave of him to sit
there alone like that. Being alone in Cannes is anathema; it means that no one
is interested in you, that you’re unimportant or don’t know anyone.

He envies that man, who probably doesn’t fit the list of `normal’ behaviour he
always keeps in his pocket. He seems so independent and free; if Javits weren’t
feeling so tired, he would really like to talk to him.

He turns to one of his `friends’.

`What does being normal mean?’

`Is your conscience troubling you? Have you done something you shouldn’t have?’

Javits has clearly asked the wrong question of the wrong man. His companion will
perhaps assume that he’s regretting what he’s made of his life and that he wants
to start anew, but that isn’t it at all. And if he does have regrets, it’s too
late to begin again; he knows the rules of the game.

`I asked you what being normal means?’

One of the `friends’ looks bewildered. The other keeps surveying the tent,
watching people come and go.

`Living like someone who lacks all ambition,’ the first `friend’ says at last.

The `friend’ laughs.

`You should make a film on the subject,’ he says.

`Not again,’ Javits thinks. `They have no idea. They’re with me all the time,
but they still don’t understand what I do. I don’t make films.’

All films start out in the mind of a so-called producer. He’s read a book, say,
or had a brilliant idea while driving along the freeways of Los Angeles (which
is really a large suburb in search of a city). Unfortunately, he’s alone, both
in the car and in his desire to transform that brilliant idea into something
that can be seen on the screen.

He finds out if the film rights to the book are still available. If the response
is negative, he goes in search of another product — after all, more than 60,000
books are published each year in the United States alone. If the response is
positive, he phones the author and makes the lowest possible offer, which is
usually accepted because it’s not only actors and actresses who like to be
associated with the dream machine. Every author feels more important when his or
her words are transformed into images.

They arrange to have lunch. The producer says that the book is `a work of art
and highly cinematographic’ and that the writer is `a genius deserving of
recognition’. The writer explains that he spent five years working on the book
and asks to be allowed to help in the writing of the script. `No, really, you
shouldn’t do that, it’s an entirely different medium,’ comes the reply, `but I
know you’ll love the result.’ Then he adds: `The film will be totally true to
the book,’ which, as both of them know, is a complete and utter lie.

The writer decides that he should agree to the conditions, promising himself
that next time will be different. He accepts. The producer now says that they
have to interest one of the big studios because they need financial backing for
the project. He names a few stars he claims to have lined up for the lead roles
— which is another complete and utter lie, but one that is always wheeled out
and always works as a seduction technique. He buys what is known as an `option’,
that is, he pays around $10,000 dollars to retain the rights for three years.
And then what happens? `Then we’ll pay ten times that amount and you’ll have a
right to 2% of the net profits.’ That’s the financial part of the conversation
over with, because the writer is convinced he’ll earn a fortune from his slice
of the profits.

If he were to ask around, he’d soon find out that the Hollywood accountants
somehow manage it so that no film ever makes a profit.

Lunch ends with the producer handing the writer a huge contract and asking if he
could possibly sign it now, so that the studio will know that the product is
definitely theirs. With his eyes fixed on that (non-existent) percentage and on
the possibility of seeing his name in lights (which won’t happen either, at most
there’ll be a line in the credits, saying: `based on the book by…’), the writer
signs the contract without giving the matter much thought.

Vanity of vanities, all is vanity, and there is nothing new under the sun, as
Solomon said more than three thousand years ago.

The producer starts knocking on the doors of various studios. He’s known in the
industry already, and so some of those doors open, but his proposal is not
always accepted. In that case, he doesn’t even bother to ring up the author and
invite him to lunch again, he just writes him a letter saying that, despite his
enthusiasm for the project, the movie industry isn’t yet ready for that kind of
story and he’s returning the contract (which he, of course, did not sign).

If the proposal is accepted, the producer then goes to the lowest and least
well-paid person in the hierarchy: the screen writer, the person who will spend
days, weeks and months writing and re-writing the original idea or the screen
adaptation. The scripts are sent to the producer (but never to the author), who,
out of habit, automatically rejects the first draft, knowing that the screen
writer can always do better. More weeks and months of coffee and insomnia for
the bright young talent (or old hack — there are no halfway houses) who rewrites
each scene, which are then rejected or reshaped by the producer (and the screen
writer thinks: `If he can write so damn well, why doesn’t he write the whole
thing?’ Then he remembers his salary and goes quietly back to his computer.)

Finally, the script is almost ready. At this point, the producer draws up a list
of demands: the removal of any political references that might upset a more
conservative audience; more kissing, because women like that kind of thing; a
story with a beginning, middle and an end, and a hero who moves everyone to
tears with his self-sacrifice and devotion; and one character who loses a loved
one at the start of the film and finds him or her again at the end. In fact,
most film scripts can be summed up very briefly as: Man loves woman. Man loses
woman. Man gets woman back. Ninety per cent of all films are variations on that
same theme.

Films that break this rule have to be very violent to make up for it, or have
loads of crowd-pleasing special effects. And since this tried and tested formula
is a sure-fire winner, why take any unnecessary risks?

Armed with what he considers to be a well-written story, who does the producer
seek out next? The studio who financed the project. The studio, however, has a
long line of films to place in the ever-diminishing number of cinemas around the
world. They ask him to wait a little or to find an independent distributor,
first making sure that the producer signs another gigantic contract (which even
takes into account exclusive rights `outside of Planet Earth’), taking full
responsibility for all money spent.

`And that’s where people like me come in!’ The independent distributor can walk
down the street without being recognised, although at media-fests like this
everyone knows who he is. He’s the person who didn’t come up with the idea,
didn’t work on the script and didn’t invest a cent.

Javits is the intermediary – the distributor!

He receives the producer in a tiny office (the big plane, the house with the
swimming pool, the invitations to parties all over the world are purely for his
enjoyment — the producer doesn’t even merit a mineral water). He takes the DVD
home with him. He watches the first five minutes. If he likes it, he watches to
the end, but this only happens with one out of every hundred new films he’s
given. Then he spends ten cents on a phone call and tells the producer to come
back on a certain date and at a certain time.

`We’ll sign,’ he says, as if he were doing the producer a big favour. `I’ll
distribute the film.’

The producer tries to negotiate. He wants to know how many cinemas in how many
countries and under what conditions. These, however, are pointless questions
because he knows what the distributor will say: `That depends on the reactions
we get at the pre-launch screenings.’ The product is shown to selected audiences
from all social classes, people specially chosen by market research companies.
The results are analysed by professionals. If the results are positive, another
ten cents gets spent on a phone call, and, the following day, Javits hands the
producer three copies of yet another vast contract. The producer asks to be
given time for his lawyer to read it. Javits says he has nothing against him
doing that, but he needs to finalise that season’s programme now and can’t
guarantee that by the time the producer gets back to him he won’t have selected
another film.

The producer reads only the clause that tells him how much he’s going to earn.
He’s pleased with what he sees and so he signs. He doesn’t want to miss this
opportunity.

Years have passed since he sat down with the writer to discuss making a film of
his book and he’s quite forgotten that he is now in exactly the same situation.

Vanity of vanities, all is vanity, and there is nothing new under the sun, as
Solomon said more than three thousand years ago.

—

Welcome to Share with Friends – Free Texts for a Free Internet

—

Now you had a chance to read the first 1/11 of “The Winner stands alone” and we
stop here the publication of the first pages.
The book, already released in Brazil and Portugal, will start being published on
March 19, in UK, followed by US, France, Greece, Bulgaria, Australia, Holland.
In nearly all the other countries, it will be published from June to December
2009.

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Warrior of Light – Issue no. 193 – In Search of the Perfect Leader by Paulo Coelho

Free Writing,

A reader sends me a questionnaire in which he presents the profile of three world leaders who lived in the same period of history, and asks if it is possible to choose the best one using the following data:

Candidate A was associated with witchdoctors and often consulted astrologists. He had two mistresses. His wife was a Lesbian. He smoked a lot. He drank eight to ten martinis a day.

Candidate B never managed to hold down a job because of his arrogance. He slept the whole morning. He used opium at school, and was always considered a bad student. He drank a glass of brandy every morning.

Candidate C was decorated a hero. A vegetarian, he did not smoke. His discipline was exemplary. He occasionally drank a beer. He stayed with the same woman during his moments of glory and defeat.

And what was the answer?

A] Franklin Delano Roosevelt. B] Winston Churchill. C] Adolf Hitler.

So what then is leadership? The encyclopedia defines it as an individual’s capacity to motivate others to seek the same objective. The bookstores are full of texts on this theme, and the leaders are normally portrayed in brilliant colors, with enviable qualities and supreme ideals. The leader is to society as the “master” is to spirituality. This, however, is not absolutely true (in either case).

Our big problem, especially in a world that is growing more and more fundamentalist, is not allowing people in prominent positions to commit human mistakes. We are always in search of the perfect ruler. We are always looking for a pastor to guide and help us find our way. The truth is that the great revolutions and the progress made by humanity were brought about by people just like us — the only difference being that they had the courage to make a key decision at a crucial moment.

A long time ago, in my unconscious, I changed the word “leader” for the expression “warrior of light”. What is a warrior of light?

Warriors of light keep the spark in their eyes.

They are in the world, are part of other people’s lives, and began their journey without a rucksack and sandals. They are often cowards. They don’t always act right.

Warriors of light suffer over useless things, have some petty attitudes, and at times feel they are incapable of growing. They frequently believe they are unworthy of any blessing or miracle.

Warriors of light are not always sure what they are doing here. Often they stay up all night thinking that their lives have no meaning.

Every warrior of light has felt the fear of joining in battle. Every warrior of light has once lost faith in the future.

Every warrior of light has once trodden a path that was not his. Every warrior of light has once felt that he was not a warrior of light. Every warrior of light has once failed in his spiritual obligations.

That is what makes him a warrior of light; because he has been through all this and has not lost the hope of becoming better than he was.

That is why they are warriors of light. Because they make mistakes. Because they wonder. Because they look for a reason — and they will certainly find one.

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The Winner Stands Alone : Chapter XI by Paulo Coelho

Free Writing,

He realises he should not have asked that question. Firstly, because he doesn’t need anyone’s support to justify what he’s doing; he’s convinced that since everyone will die one day, some must do so in the name of something greater. That’s how it’s been since the beginning of time, when men sacrificed themselves in order to feed their tribe, when virgins were handed over to the priests to placate the wrath of dragons and gods. The second reason is because he has now drawn attention to himself and indicated an interest in the man on the next table.

The waiter’s sure to forget, but there’s no need to take unnecessary risks. He tells himself that at a Festival such as this, it’s only normal that people should want to know about other people, and even more normal that such information should be rewarded. He himself has done the same thing hundreds of times in restaurants all over the world, and others had doubtless done the same with him. Waiters aren’t just accustomed to being given money to supply a name or a better table or to send a discreet message, they almost expect it.

No, the waiter wouldn’t remember anything. Igor knows that his next victim is there before him. If he succeeds, and if the waiter is questioned, he’ll say that the only odd thing to happen that day was a man asking him if he thought it was acceptable to destroy a universe in the name of a greater love. He might not even remember that much. The police will ask: ‘What did he look like?’ and the waiter will reply: ‘I didn’t pay much attention, to be honest, but I know he said he wasn’t gay.’ The police – accustomed to the kind of French intellectual who sits in bars and comes up with weird theories and complicated analyses of, for example, the sociology of film festivals – would quietly let the matter drop.

Something else was bothering Igor though.

The name or names.

He had killed before – with weapons and the blessing of his country. He didn’t know how many people he had killed, but he had rarely seen their faces and certainly never asked their names. Knowing someone’s name meant knowing that the other person was a human being and not ‘the enemy’. Knowing someone’s name transformed them into a unique and special individual, with a past and a future, with ancestors and possibly descendants, a person who has known triumphs and failures. People are their names; they’re proud of them; they repeat them thousands of times in their lifetime and identify with them. It’s the first word they learn after ‘Daddy’ and ‘Mummy’.

Olivia. Javits. Igor. Ewa.

Someone’s spirit, however, has no name, it is pure truth and inhabits a particular body for a certain period of time, and will, one day, leave it, and God won’t bother asking ‘What’s your name?’ when the soul arrives at the final judgement. God will ask only: ‘Did you love while you were alive?’ For that is the essence of life: the ability to love, not the name we carry around on our passport, business card and identity card. The great mystics changed their names, and sometimes abandoned them altogether. When John the Baptist was asked who he was, he said only: ‘I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness.’ When Jesus found the man on whom he would build his church, he ignored the fact that the man in question had spent his entire life answering to the name of Simon and called him Peter. When Moses asked God his name, back came the reply: ‘I am who I am.’

Perhaps he should look for another victim, one named victim was enough: Olivia. At this precise moment, however, he feels that he cannot turn back, but he decides that he will not ask the name of the next world he destroys. He can’t turn back because he wants to do justice to the poor, vulnerable girl on the bench by the beach – such a sweet, easy victim. This new challenge — this sweaty, pseudo-athletic, henna-haired man with the bored expression and who is clearly someone very powerful — is much more difficult. The two men in suits are not just assistants; he notices that every now and then, they look around the tent, watching everything that’s going on nearby. If he is to be worthy of Ewa and fair to Olivia, he must be brave.

He leaves the straw in the pineapple juice. People are beginning to arrive. He has to wait for the place to fill up, but not too long. He hadn’t planned to destroy a world in broad daylight, in the middle of the Boulevard in Cannes, and he doesn’t know exactly how to carry out this next project. Something tells him, though, that he has chosen the perfect place.

His thoughts are no longer with the poor young woman at the beach; adrenaline is filling his blood, his heart is beating faster, he’s excited and happy.

Javits Wild wouldn’t be wasting his time here just to get a free meal at one of the thousands of parties to which he must be invited every year. He must be here for some specific reason or to meet a particular person. That reason or person would doubtless be Igor’s best alibi.

12.26 p.m.

Javits watches the other guests arriving. The place is getting crowded, and he thinks what he always thinks:

‘What am I doing here? I don’t need this. In fact, I need very little from anyone – I have all I want. I’m a big name in the movie world, I can have any woman I desire, even though I dress badly. In fact, I make a point of being badly dressed. Long gone are the days when I had only one suit, and, on the rare occasions when I received an invitation from the Superclass (after much crawling, begging and making promises), I would prepare myself for a lunch like this as if it were the most important occasion of my life. Now I know that the only thing that changes are the cities these lunches are held in; otherwise, it’s all utterly boring and predictable.

‘People will come up to me and tell me they adore my work. Others will call me a hero and thank me for giving movie mavericks a chance. Pretty, intelligent women, who are not taken in by appearances, will notice the people gathering round my table and ask the waiter who I am and immediately find some way of approaching me, certain that the only thing I’m interested in is sex. Every single one of them has some favour to ask of me. That’s why they praise and flatter me and offer me what they think I need. But all I want is to be left alone.

‘I’ve been to thousands of parties like this, and I’m not here in this marquee for any particular reason, except that I can’t sleep, even though I flew to France in my private jet, a technological marvel capable of flying at an altitude of over 36,000 feet from California all the way to Cannes without having to make a refuelling stop. I changed the original configuration of the cabin. It can comfortably carry eighteen passengers, but I reduced the number of seats to six and kept the cabin separate for the four crew members. Someone’s always sure to ask: “May I come with you?” And now I have the perfect excuse: “Sorry, there’s no room.”‘

Javits had equipped his new toy, which cost around 40 million dollars, with two beds, a conference table, a shower, a Miranda sound system (Bang & Olufsen had an excellent design and a good PR campaign, but they were now a thing of the past), two coffee machines, a microwave oven for the crew and an electric oven for him (because he’s hates re-heated food). Javits only drinks champagne, and whoever wishes to was more than welcome to share a bottle of Moët & Chandon 1961 with him. However, the ‘cellar’ on the plane had every drink any guest might conceivably want. And then there were the two 21-inch LCD screens ready to show the most recent films, even those that hadn’t yet made it into the cinemas.

The jet was one of the most advanced in the world (although the French insisted that the Dassault Falcon was even better), but regardless of how much money he had, he couldn’t change the clocks in Europe. It was now 3:43 a.m. in Los Angeles, and he was just beginning to feel really tired. He had been awake all night, going from one party to the next, answering the same two idiotic questions that began every conversation:

‘How was your flight?’

To which Javits always responded with a question:

‘Why?’

People didn’t know quite what to say and so they smiled awkwardly and moved on to the next question on the list:

‘Are you staying here long?’

And Javits would again ask: ‘Why?’ Then he would pretend he had to answer his mobile phone, make his excuses and move on with his two inseparable besuited friends in tow.

He met no one interesting. But then who would a man who has almost everything money can buy find interesting? He had tried to change his friends and meet people who had nothing to do with the world of cinema: philosophers, writers, jugglers, executives of food-manufacturing companies. At first, it all went swimmingly, until the inevitable question: ‘Would you like to read a script I’ve written?’ Or the second most inevitable question: ‘I have a friend who has always wanted to be an actor/actress. Would you mind meeting him/her?’

Yes, he would. He had other things to do in life apart from work. He used to fly once a month to Alaska, go into the first bar, get drunk, eat pizza, wander about in the wild, and talk to the people who lived in the small towns up there. He worked out for two hours a day at his private gym, but the doctors had warned him he could still end up with heart problems. He didn’t care that much about being physically fit, what he really wanted was to off-load a little of the constant tension that seemed to weigh on him every second of the day, to do some meditation and heal the wounds to his soul. When he was in the country, he always asked the people he chanced to meet what ‘normal life’ was like, because he had forgotten. The answers varied, and he gradually came to realise that, even when he was surrounded by other people, he was absolutely alone in the world.

The 12th Chapter will be posted on Friday 6th of March

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