A Critic's Meta Review: 4/5
The Alchemist by Paulo Coehlo (REVIEW)
This is it, y’all. This is the one - the only work of fiction you ever really need to read in order to make yours a fulfilling, satisfying existence. Forget about Harry Potter And The Prisoner Of Azkaban, The Perks Of Being A Wallflower, or The Bible; all of these books, though certainly not without literary merit, are ultimately distractions from the only message you must receive before you proceed. What is this message, you might ask?
It is simple: hold on to your soul.
That is it.
There is nothing else you need to do. As long as you just continue to place your trust in the path your spirit has set forth for you, everything else will surely fall into place. Maktub - “it is written.”
It is written, indeed, and it is written quite well. I remember when I finished reading this book for the first time. It is a moment in my life that I will never forget. Like most other unforgettable moments in my life, it occurred while my derriere was getting reacquainted with the toilet seat for an extended period of time. I must have been eating some sort of Latin American cuisine the night before, because, I am telling you, these little chocolate torpedoes were shooting out of my rear end like jalapeno poppers. Anyway, this is not a particularly important detail. It is just still so fresh in my memory is all.
Where was I? Oh yeah, finishing the book. When I sat down on the crapper, I had about forty three pages left to go. Now, being that I was (and still am, though not as much) a notoriously slow reader, I did not anticipate making much of a dent in the somewhat sizeable chunk of reading material I was going to have to eventually trudge on through. Maybe ten pages - fifteen at most. Surely nowhere near forty three.
But, then, something happened. Something that I can only describe as divine. The song “The Creator Has A Master Plan” by Pharoah Sanders (an over thirty minute odyssey into the capabilities of the human mouth) began to make its way into my ear holes from my smartphone speakers. And, then, I was no longer reading. I was traveling. And I traveled, and traveled, and traveled, until I got to that last page.
When I finally got around to flushing that toilet, I stood and pulled up my pants a new man. When I washed my hands, I did so thoroughly and with intent.
I ain’t been the same since, jack.