The Alchemist

When you can judge a book by its cover…

I had the misfortune of being lent ‘The Alchemist’ by a friend. She was worried about my health. After reading it, I’m worried for her sanity. The book was sheer dross – a poorly written, ‘chicken soup for the soul’ type of book that could only possibly speak to unhappy teenage girls who think that liking Sylvia Plath would make them too goth.

In fact, this book was so laughably pretentious that at first I thought was reading a parody. I only kept reading because I was certain some sort of punchline would come at the end of this colossal joke. But no such respite was to be found – Coelho just carries on delivering nugget after nugget of ‘inspirational’ philosophy, presumably gleaned from the back of matchboxes, or discarded Penguin wrappers, or whatever it is the man reads. Then again, what (other than deepest humility) would you expect from a man who, according to the back of the jacket ‘is a storyteller with the power to inspire nations?’ I kid you not.

So to the plot. And I’m sorry to report that this guy has lost it. ‘The Alchemist’ – supposedly ‘a fable about following your dream’ follows the life of doe eyed shepherd boy, Santiago, who goes on a ‘life changing’ journey to find his dream. Along his way he meets a tired procession of even more trite characters, all of whom dole out intensely profound pellets of wisdom such as “if I am really a part of your dream, you’ll come back one day” or “don’t think about what you’ve left behind,” merrily presented alongside some kind of quasi-mystical philosophy which steals liberally from Christianity, Buddhism and Taoism in what can only be a drunken orgy of non-consensual, penetrative contradictions, with our boy shepherd repeatedly spurning one philosophy to follow another, without blinking so much as an eye.

I suppose buying this book is cheaper than visiting a brain quack, but then again, you get what you pay for. I can’t think of any other reason for a human being with an IQ marginally above the level of idiot to buy this book. It’s poorly written (though mercifully short) and stuffed with the kind of worthless ‘philosophy’ that would make Voltaire’s Pangloss blush. If you don’t recognise either of those names, you’ll probably love this book, and find it full of world-changing profundities. In which case I hope you get run over by a bus, or at the very least, for the good of humanity, are struck down with immediate and permanent sterility.

Has this book ever done anybody any favours? Yes. Paulo Coelho. There is little doubt in my mind that he now sleeps soundly on a gigantic four poster bed, stuffed with high-denomination notes instead of feathers, surrounded by adoring, manic-depressive teenage girls and desperate, prozac-addled housewives who gently fellate him to sleep every night. The rest of us should treat this book as if it were about to creep up behind us to deliver a highly toxic enema: avoid like the plague.