Read Online Like the Flowing River: Thoughts and Reflections by Paulo Coelho - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Paulo Coelho
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osteoporosis.’
That same afternoon, my wife e-mails me an article she has found on the internet:
People who are now aged between 40 and 60 years old used to drive around in cars with no seatbelts, no head support and no airbag. Children sat in the back, making a tremendous racket and having a great time.
Baby cribs were painted with brightly coloured paints, all highly suspect, since they might have contained lead or some other dangerous substance.
I, for example, am of the generation that used to make their own ‘go-karts’ (I don’t know quite how to explain this to today’s generation – let’s just say they were made with ball bearings fixed inside two iron hoops) and we would race down the hills in Botafogo, using our feet as brakes, falling off, hurting ourselves, but very proud of our high-speed adventures.
The article continues:
There were no mobile phones, and so our parents had no way of knowing where we were – how was that possible? As children, we were never right, we were occasionally punished, but we never had any psychological problems about feeling rejected or unloved. At school, there were good pupils and there were bad pupils: the good pupils moved up to the next year, the bad ones flunked. Psychotherapists were not called in to study the case – the bad pupils simply had to repeat the year.
And even so, we managed to survive with a few grazed knees and a few traumas. We not only survived, we look back nostalgically to the days when milk was not apoison, when a child was expected to resolve any problems without outside help, getting into fights if necessary, and spending much of the day without any electronic toys, and, instead, inventing games with friends.
But let’s go back to my initial topic. I decided to try the miraculous new product that could replace murderous milk.
I got no further than the first mouthful.
I asked my wife and my maid to try it, without telling them what it was. They both said they had never tasted anything so disgusting in their life.
I’m worried about tomorrow’s children, with their computer games, their parents with mobile phones, psychotherapists helping them through every failure, and – above all – being forced to drink this ‘magic potion’, which will keep them free of cholesterol, osteoporosis, and safe from those 59 active hormones and from toxins.
They will be very healthy and well balanced; and when they grow up, they will discover milk (by then, it may well be illegal). Perhaps some scientist in 2050 will take it upon himself to rescue something that people have been drinking since the beginning of time? Or will milk only be available from drug traffickers?
Marked Out to Die
I possibly should have died at 22:30 on 22 August 2004, less than forty-eight hours after my birthday. In order for the scene of my near-death to be set, a series of factors came into play:
(a) In interviews to promote his latest film, the actor Will Smith kept mentioning my book The Alchemist.
(b) His latest film was based on a book I had read years ago and very much enjoyed: I, Robot. I decided to go and see it, in homage to Smith and Asimov.
(c) The film opened in a small town in the south-west of France in the first week of August. However, for a series of entirely trivial reasons, I had to postpone going to the cinema until that Sunday.
I ate supper early and drank half a bottle of wine with my wife. We invited our maid to come with us (she resisted at first, but finally accepted); we got there in plenty of time, bought some popcorn, saw the film, and enjoyed it.
I got into the car to make the ten-minute drive back to the old converted mill that is my home. I put a CD of Brazilian music on and decided to drive fairly slowly so that, during those ten minutes, I could listen to at least three songs.
On the road, passing through small, sleepy villages, I see – appearing out of nowhere – a pair of headlights in the driver’s side mirror.
That same afternoon, my wife e-mails me an article she has found on the internet:
People who are now aged between 40 and 60 years old used to drive around in cars with no seatbelts, no head support and no airbag. Children sat in the back, making a tremendous racket and having a great time.
Baby cribs were painted with brightly coloured paints, all highly suspect, since they might have contained lead or some other dangerous substance.
I, for example, am of the generation that used to make their own ‘go-karts’ (I don’t know quite how to explain this to today’s generation – let’s just say they were made with ball bearings fixed inside two iron hoops) and we would race down the hills in Botafogo, using our feet as brakes, falling off, hurting ourselves, but very proud of our high-speed adventures.
The article continues:
There were no mobile phones, and so our parents had no way of knowing where we were – how was that possible? As children, we were never right, we were occasionally punished, but we never had any psychological problems about feeling rejected or unloved. At school, there were good pupils and there were bad pupils: the good pupils moved up to the next year, the bad ones flunked. Psychotherapists were not called in to study the case – the bad pupils simply had to repeat the year.
And even so, we managed to survive with a few grazed knees and a few traumas. We not only survived, we look back nostalgically to the days when milk was not apoison, when a child was expected to resolve any problems without outside help, getting into fights if necessary, and spending much of the day without any electronic toys, and, instead, inventing games with friends.
But let’s go back to my initial topic. I decided to try the miraculous new product that could replace murderous milk.
I got no further than the first mouthful.
I asked my wife and my maid to try it, without telling them what it was. They both said they had never tasted anything so disgusting in their life.
I’m worried about tomorrow’s children, with their computer games, their parents with mobile phones, psychotherapists helping them through every failure, and – above all – being forced to drink this ‘magic potion’, which will keep them free of cholesterol, osteoporosis, and safe from those 59 active hormones and from toxins.
They will be very healthy and well balanced; and when they grow up, they will discover milk (by then, it may well be illegal). Perhaps some scientist in 2050 will take it upon himself to rescue something that people have been drinking since the beginning of time? Or will milk only be available from drug traffickers?
Marked Out to Die
I possibly should have died at 22:30 on 22 August 2004, less than forty-eight hours after my birthday. In order for the scene of my near-death to be set, a series of factors came into play:
(a) In interviews to promote his latest film, the actor Will Smith kept mentioning my book The Alchemist.
(b) His latest film was based on a book I had read years ago and very much enjoyed: I, Robot. I decided to go and see it, in homage to Smith and Asimov.
(c) The film opened in a small town in the south-west of France in the first week of August. However, for a series of entirely trivial reasons, I had to postpone going to the cinema until that Sunday.
I ate supper early and drank half a bottle of wine with my wife. We invited our maid to come with us (she resisted at first, but finally accepted); we got there in plenty of time, bought some popcorn, saw the film, and enjoyed it.
I got into the car to make the ten-minute drive back to the old converted mill that is my home. I put a CD of Brazilian music on and decided to drive fairly slowly so that, during those ten minutes, I could listen to at least three songs.
On the road, passing through small, sleepy villages, I see – appearing out of nowhere – a pair of headlights in the driver’s side mirror.
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