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Thu, 25 Jun 2009 21:29:39 -0700

My friend who was seeing trying to save Neda, gives his first interview 2 BBC.

http://paulo-coelho.stumbleupon.com/review/33796985/

Mon, 22 Jun 2009 12:52:39 -0700

My best friend in Iran, a doctor who showed me its beautiful culture when I visited Teheran in 2000, who fought a war in the name of the Islamic Republic (against Iraq), who took care of wounded soldiers in the frontline, who always stood by real human values, is seen here trying to resuscitate Neda - hit in her heart.

http://paulocoelhoblog.com/2009/06/22/iran-by-neda/

http://paulo-coelho.stumbleupon.com/review/33300215/

Wed, 03 Jun 2009 00:47:53 -0700

Throughout the month of June, I will be conducting a workshop around my new title The Winner Stands Alone: http://paulocoelhoblog.com/2009/06/01/workshop-the-winner-stands-alone

http://paulo-coelho.stumbleupon.com/review/31231998/

Thu, 19 Mar 2009 20:22:18 -0700

"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".

http://paulo-coelho.stumbleupon.com/review/30844418/

Fri, 06 Mar 2009 21:29:06 -0800

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.

Continue Reading: http://paulocoelhoblog.com/2009/03/06/the-winner-stands-alone-chapter-xii-by-paulo-coelho

--

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.

http://paulo-coelho.stumbleupon.com/review/30754139/

Tue, 03 Mar 2009 22:34:35 -0800

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.'

Read More: http://paulocoelhoblog.com/2009/03/03/the-winner-stands-alone-chapter-xi-by-paulo-coelho

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

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

http://paulo-coelho.stumbleupon.com/review/30690447/

Sun, 01 Mar 2009 22:13:21 -0800

Even if he'd had his swimming things with him, he would have found it difficult to get anywhere near the sea shore. The big hotels had, it seems, acquired the rights to great swathes of beach which they had filled with their chairs, logos, waiters and bodyguards, who, at every entry point, demanded the guest's room key or some other form of identification. Other areas were occupied by huge white marquees, where some production company, brewery or cosmetics firm was launching its latest product at a so-called `lunch'. People here were dressed normally, if by `normal' you mean a baseball cap, bright shirt and light-coloured trousers for men, and jewellery, loose top, bermudas and low-heeled shoes for women.

Dark glasses were de rigueur for both sexes, and there was little bare flesh on show because members of the Superclass were too old for that now, and any such display would be considered ridiculous or, rather, pathetic.

Igor noticed one other thing: the mobile phone. The most important item of clothing.

It was essential to be receiving a constant stream of messages or calls, to be prepared to interrupt any conversation in order to answer a call that was not in the least urgent, to stand keying in endless texts via an SMS. They had all forgotten that these initials mean Short Message Service and instead used the key pad as if it were a typewriter. It was slow, awkward and could cause serious damage to the thumb, but what did it matter? At that very moment, not only in Cannes, but in the whole world, the ether was being filled with messages like `Good morning, my love, I woke up thinking about you and I'm so glad to have you in my life', `I'll be home in ten minutes, please have my lunch ready and check that my clothes were sent to the laundry', or `The party here is a real drag, but I haven't got anywhere else to go, where are you?' Things that take five minutes to be written down and only ten seconds to be spoken, but that's the way the world is. Igor knows all about this because he has earned hundreds of millions of dollars thanks to the fact that the phone is no longer simply a method of communicating with others, but a thread of hope, a way of believing that you're not alone, a way of showing others how important you are.

And it was leading the world into a state of utter madness. For a mere 5 euros a month, via an ingenious system created in London, a call centre would send you a standard message every three minutes. When you know you're going to be talking to someone you want to impress, you just have to dial a particular number to activate the system. The phone rings, you pick it up, open the message, read it quickly and say `Oh, that can wait' (of course it can: it was written to order). This way, the person you're talking to feels important, and things move along more quickly because he realises he's in the presence of a very busy person. Three minutes later, the conversation is interrupted by another message, the pressure mounts, and the user of the service can decide whether it's worth turning off his phone for a quarter of an hour or lying and saying that he really must take this call, and so rid himself of a disagreeable companion.

There is only one situation in which all mobile phones must be turned off. Not at formal suppers, in the middle of a play, during the key moment in a film or while an opera singer is attempting the most difficult of arias; we've all heard someone's mobile phone go off in such circumstances. No, the only time when people are genuinely concerned that their phone might prove dangerous is when they get on a plane and hear the usual lie: `All mobile phones must be switched off during the flight because they might interfere with the on-board systems.' We all believe this and do as the flight attendants ask.

Read More: http://paulocoelhoblog.com/2009/02/27/the-winner-stands-alone-chapter-x-by-paulo-coelho

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Tue, 24 Feb 2009 21:46:27 -0800

Her mobile phone rang.

...none at all.

It continued to ring.

She was still travelling back in time as she gazed out at the tobacconist's and at the little girl eating chocolate, then she finally emerged from her reverie, realised what was happening and answered the phone.

A voice at the other end was saying that she had an audition in two hours' time.

She had an audition!

In Cannes!

So it had been worth crossing the ocean, arriving in a city where all the hotels were full, meeting up at the airport with other young women in exactly the same position as her (a Pole, two Russians and a Brazilian), and going round knocking on doors until they found that shared, exorbitantly priced apartment. After all those years of trying her luck in Chicago and travelling now and then to Los Angeles in search of more agents, more adverts, more rejections, it turned out that her future lies in Europe!

In two hours' time?

She couldn't catch a bus because she didn't know the routes. She was staying high up on a steep hill and had only been down it twice so far - to distribute copies of her book and to go to that stupid party last night. On both occasions, when she reached the bottom of hill, she had hitched a lift from complete strangers, usually single men in magnificent convertibles. Everyone knew Cannes to be a safe place, and all women know that good looks help when trying to get a ride, but she couldn't leave anything to chance this time, she would have to resolve the problem herself. Auditions follow a rigorous timetable, that was one of the first things you learn at any acting agency. She had noticed on her first day in Cannes that the traffic was almost permanently gridlocked, and so all she could do was get dressed and leave at once. She would be there in an hour and a half; she remembered the hotel where the producer was staying because it was on the `pilgrimage route' she had followed yesterday, in search of some opportunity, some opening.

Now the problem was what to wear.

She fell upon the suitcase she had brought with her, chose some Armani jeans made in China and bought on the black market in Chicago for a fifth of the real price. No one could say they were fake because they weren't: everyone knew that the Chinese manufacturers sent 80 per cent of what they produced to the original stores, with the remaining 20 per cent being sold off by employees on the side. It was, shall we say, excess stock, surplus to requirements.

She was wearing a white DKNY T-shirt, which had cost more than the jeans. Faithful to her principles, she knew that the more discreet the clothes, the better. No short skirts, no plunging necklines, because if other women had been invited to the audition, that is what they would be wearing.

She wasn't sure about her make-up. In the end, she opted for a very light foundation and an even lighter application of lip liner. She had already lost a precious fifteen minutes.
11.45 a.m.

People are never satisfied. If they have a little, they want more. If they have a lot, they want still more. Once they have more, they wish they could be happy with little, but are incapable of making the slightest effort in that direction.

Is it just that they don't understand how simple happiness is? What can she want, that girl in the jeans and white T-shirt who just came running past? What could be so urgent that it stopped her taking time to contemplate the lovely sunny day, the blue sea, the babies in their prams, the palms fringing the beach?

Read More: http://paulocoelhoblog.com/2009/02/23/the-winner-stands-alone-ninth-chapter-3

The 10th Chapter will be posted on Friday 27th of February

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

http://paulo-coelho.stumbleupon.com/review/30485608/

Mon, 23 Feb 2009 00:25:33 -0800

She drinks her coffee and begins to understand her bad mood. She's surrounded by some of the most beautiful women on the planet! She certainly doesn't consider herself ugly, but there's no way she can compete with them. She needs to decide what to do. She had thought long and hard before making this trip, money is tight, and she doesn't have much time in which to land a contract. She went to various places during the first two days, giving people a copy of her CV and her photos, but all she achieved was an invitation to last night's party at a cheap restaurant, with the music at full blast, and where she met no one from the Superclass. In order to lose her inhibitions, she drank more than she should and ended up not knowing where she was or what she was doing there. Everything seemed strange to her - Europe, the way people dress, the different languages, the phoney jollity - when the truth was everyone was wishing they could have been invited to some more important event, instead of being in that utterly insignificant place, listening to the same old music, and having to hold shouted conversations about other people's lives and the injustices committed by the powerful on the powerless.

Gabriela is tired of talking about these so-called injustices. That's simply the way it is. They choose the people they want to choose and don't have to explain themselves to anyone, which is why she needs a plan. A lot of other young women with the same dream (but not, of course, with as much talent as her) will be doing the rounds with their CVs and their photos; the producers who come to the Festival must be inundated with portfolios, DVDs, business cards.

What would make her stand out?

She needs to think. She won't get another chance like this, largely because she's spent all her savings on this trip. And - horror of horrors - she's getting old. She's twenty-five. This is her last chance.

While she drinks her coffee, she looks through the small kitchen window at the dead-end street down below. All she can see is a tobacconist's and a little girl eating chocolate. Yes, this is her last chance. She hopes it will turn out quite differently from the first one.

She thinks back to when she was eleven years old and performing in her first school play at one of the most expensive schools in Chicago. Her subsequent desire to succeed was not born of the unanimous acclaim she received from the audience, composed of fathers, mothers, relatives and teachers. Far from it. She was playing the Mad Hatter in Alice in Wonderland. She had got the part - one of the best roles in the play - after auditioning along with a lot of other girls and boys.

Her first line was: `Your hair wants cutting.' Then Alice would reply: `You should learn not to make personal remarks, it's very rude.'

When the long-awaited moment came, a moment she had rehearsed and rehearsed, she was so nervous that she got the line wrong and said instead: `Your hair wants washing.' The girl playing Alice said her next line anyway, and the audience would never have noticed anything was wrong if Gabriela, who knew she had made a mistake, hadn't promptly lost the power of speech. Since the Mad Hatter was an essential character if the scene was to continue, and since children are not good at improvising on stage (although they improvise happily enough in real life), no one knew what to do. Then, after several long minutes, during which the actors simply looked at each other, the teacher started applauding, announced it was time for an interval and ordered everyone off-stage.

Read More: http://paulocoelhoblog.com/the-winner-stands-alone

http://paulo-coelho.stumbleupon.com/review/30329411/

Tue, 17 Feb 2009 20:46:27 -0800

He takes a few steps and his head begins to ache terribly. This is perfectly normal: the blood is flooding the brain, an understandable reaction in someone who has just been under extreme tension.

Despite the headache, he feels happy. Yes, he has done what he set out to do.
He can do it. And he's happier still because he has freed the soul from that fragile body, freed a spirit incapable of defending herself against a bullying coward. If her relationship with her boyfriend had continued, the girl would have ended up depressed and anxious and devoid of all self-respect, and would have been even more under her boyfriend's thumb.

This had never been the case with Ewa. She had always been capable of making her own decisions. He had given her both moral and financial support when she decided to open her haute-couture boutique; and she had been free to travel as much as she wanted. He had been an exemplary man and husband. And yet, she had made a mistake: she had been unable to understand his love or his forgiveness. He hoped, however, that she would receive these messages; after all, he had told her on the day she left that he would destroy whole worlds to get her back.

He picks up the throwaway mobile phone he has just bought and on which he has entered the smallest possible amount of credit. He sends a text message.

11.00 a.m.

It all began, they say, with an unknown 19-year-old posing in a bikini for photographers who had nothing better to do during the 1953 Cannes Festival. She immediately shot to stardom, and her name became legendary: Brigitte Bardot. And now everyone thinks they can do the same. No one understands the importance of being an actress; beauty is the only thing that counts.

That's why women with long legs and dyed hair, the bottle blondes of this world, travel hundreds or even thousands of miles to be in Cannes, even if only to spend the whole day on the beach, hoping to be seen, photographed, discovered. They want to escape from the trap that awaits all women: becoming a housewife, who makes supper for her husband every evening, takes the children to school every day, and tries to dig up some dirt on her neighbours' monotonous lives so as to have something to gossip about with her friends. What these women want is fame, glory and glamour, to be the envy of the other people who live in their town and of the boys and girls who always thought of them as ugly ducklings, unaware that they would one day grow up to be a swan or blossom into a flower coveted by everyone. They want a career in the world of dreams even if they have to borrow money to get silicone breast implants or to buy some newer, sexier outfits. Drama school? Forget it, good looks and the right contacts are all you need. The cinema can work miracles, always assuming, of course, you can ever break into that world. Anything to escape from the prison of the provincial city and the long, dreary, repetitive days. There are millions of people who don't mind that kind of life, and they should be left to live their lives as they see fit. However, if you come to the Festival you must leave fear at home and be prepared for anything: making spur-of-the-moment decisions, telling lies if necessary, pretending to be younger than you are, smiling at people you loathe, feigning an interest in people who bore you, saying `I love you' without a thought for the consequences, or stabbing in the back the friend who once helped you out, but who has now become an undesirable rival. Don't let feelings of remorse or shame get in your way. The reward is worth any amount of sacrifice.

Fame. Glory. Glamour.

Gabriela finds these thoughts irritating. It's definitely not the best way to start a new day. Worse, she has a hangover.

Read more: http://paulocoelhoblog.com/the-winner-stands-alone