Paulo Coelho
Aleph
Translated from the Portuguese by Margaret Jull Costa
Dedication
For J. who keeps me walking,
S. J. who continues to protect me,
Hilal, for her words of forgiveness in the church in Novosibirsk.
O Mary, conceived without sin,
pray for those who turn to you. Amen.
A certain nobleman went into a far country to
receive for himself a kingdom, and to return. Luke 19:12
Epigraph
The Aleph was about two to three centimetres in diameter, but all of cosmic space was there, with no diminution in size. Each thing was infinite, because I could clearly see it from every point on the universe.
Jorge Luis Borges, ‘The Aleph’
Thou knowest all – I cannot see.
I trust I shall not live in vain, I know that we shall meet again In some divine eternity.
Oscar Wilde, ‘The True Knowledge’
Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
King of My Kingdom
Chinese Bamboo
The Stranger’s Lantern
If a Cold Wind Blows
Sharing Souls
9,288
Hilal’s Eyes
The Ipatiev House
The Aleph
Dreamers Can Never Be Tamed
Like Tears in the Rain
The Chicago of Siberia
The Path to Peace
The Ring of Fire
Believe Even When No One Else Believes in You
Tea Leaves
The Fifth Woman
Ad extirpanda
Neutralising Energy without Moving a Muscle
The Golden Rose
The Eagle of Baikal
Fear of Fear
The City
The Telephone Call
The Soul of Turkey
Moscow, 1 June 2006
Author’s note
Copyright
King of My Kingdom
Oh no, not another ritual! Not another invocation intended to make the invisible forces manifest in the visible world! What has that got to do with the world we live in today? Graduates leave university and can’t find a job. Old people reach retirement and have almost nothing to live on. Grown-ups have no time to dream, struggling from nine to five to support their family and pay for their children’s education, always bumping up against the thing we all know as ‘harsh reality’.
The world has never been as divided as it is now, what with religious wars, genocides, a lack of respect for the planet, economic crises, depression, poverty, with everyone wanting instant solutions to at least some of the world’s problems or their own. And things only look bleaker as we head into the future.
What am I doing here, trying to make my way in a spiritual tradition whose roots are in the remote past, far from all the challenges of the present moment?
Along with J., whom I call my Master, although I’m beginning to have doubts about that, I am walking towards the sacred oak tree, which, for more than five hundred years, has stood there impassively contemplating humanity’s woes, its one concern being to surrender its leaves in winter and recover them in spring.
I can’t stand to write any more about my relationship with J., my guide in the Tradition. I have dozens of diaries full of notes of our conversations, which I never bother to re-read. Since our first meeting in Amsterdam, in 1982, I have learned and unlearned how to live hundreds of times. Whenever J. teaches me something new, I think that perhaps this will be the last step required to reach the top of the mountain, the note that justifies a whole symphony, the word that sums up an entire book. I go through a period of euphoria, which gradually dissipates. Some things stay for ever, but most of the exercises, practices and teachings end up disappearing down a black hole. Or so it seems.
The ground is wet. It occurs to me that my trainers, meticulously washed two days before, will soon be covered in mud again, however carefully I tread. My search for wisdom, peace of mind and an awareness of realities visible and invisible has become routine and pointless. I began my apprenticeship in magic when I was twenty-two. I followed various paths, walked along the very edge of the abyss for many years, slipped and fell, gave up and started all over again. I imagined that, by the time I reached the age of fifty-nine, I would be close to paradise and to the absolute peace I thought I could see in the smiles of Buddhist monks.
In fact, I seem to be further from achieving that than ever. I’m not at peace; now and then I go through periods of inner conflict that can persist for months; and the times when I immerse myself in some magical reality last only seconds, just long enough to know that another world exists and long enough to leave me frustrated because I can’t absorb everything I learn.
We arrive.
When the ritual is over, I’ll have a serious talk with him. We both place our hands on the trunk of the sacred oak.
J. says a Sufi prayer:
‘O God, when I listen to the voices of animals, the sounds of trees, the murmurings of water, the singing of birds, the whistling of the wind or the boom of thunder, I see in them evidence of Your unity; I feel that You are supreme power, omniscience, supreme knowledge and supreme justice.
‘I recognise You, O God, in the trials I am going through. May Your pleasure be my pleasure too. May I be Your joy, the joy that a Father feels for a son. And may I think of You calmly and with determination, even when I find it hard to say I love You.’
Usually, at this point, I would feel – for only a fraction of a second, but that’s always enough – the One Presence that moves the Sun and the Earth and ensures that the stars remain in their places. But I don’t feel like talking to the Universe today, I just want the man at my side to give me the answers I need.
He removes his hands from the tree trunk, and I do the same. He smiles at me, and I return his smile. We make our way, in silence, unhurriedly, back to my house, where we sit on the verandah and drink coffee, still without talking.
I look at the huge tree in the middle of my garden, with a ribbon tied round its trunk, placed there after a dream I had. I am in the hamlet of Saint Martin, in the French Pyrenees, in a house I now regret having bought, because it has ended up owning me, demanding my presence whenever possible, because it needs someone to look after it, to keep its energy alive.
‘I can’t evolve any further,’ I say, falling, as always, into