Finally, it’s here. The I finished it. It took me two weeks to read this latest (probably last for me) Paulo Coelho book. At the end I find myself a bit sad. All of his other books I read in a day or two. Those were the good times, as I would like to refer to now. Times when Coelho was still brilliant or I was more innocent.
The writing style in this book seemed repetitive to the point of annoying. I know repetition used to be an aspect of Coelho’s style that made sense, had something of a mantra. In this book, it is just empty and futile.
There is no message. A few things, here and there, that didn’t coagulate into something bigger, into a world shattering view, as it used to happen. Long time ago. When I read Veronica Decides to Die.
There are editing mistakes. Small, but unpleasant. Like making herbal tea out of chamomile leaves. Hello, Mr. Coelho! The flowers of chamomile as used for tea! Oh, I am being too mean. But there was also something else that I seemed to have forgotten.
He throws in a few images of Romania. I should have loved that – Romania, on Coelho’s map. I would have loved it. Another time. When he was still a white magician. Now… it just made me angry because I could tell he has such superficial knowledge of the gipsies, the culture, Eliade. Really, just bad fiction. There is nothing more to it. This book was not inspired into Coelho’s plume by higher energies of the Universe. It used to be like that. I felt it. A feeling of yore.
After reading Zahir, I still had hopes. Now, I am in mourning. Coelho is no longer… … Coelho. I am no longer the one who found revelations in his prose. One of us is gone. Or both of us. Good bye.
P.S. You got to love the cover, though! Flawless, isn’t it?
