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PAULO COELHO THE ZAHIR PDF

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Born in Brazil, PAULO COELHO is one of the most beloved writers of our time, The Zahir: a novel of obsession / Paulo Coelho ; translated from the Portuguese. Author: Coelho Paulo. downloads O Zahir (persian translation). Read more · The Zahir Read more · The Zahir: A Novel of Obsession (P.S.) · Read more. PAULO COELHO The Zahir A NOVEL OF OBSESSION Translated from the Portuguese by Margaret Jull Costa O Mary, conceived wi.


Paulo Coelho The Zahir Pdf

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PDF | Paulo Coelho's The Zahir revolves around the disappearance of a wife, called Esther, whose pseudonym zahir implies her husband's. The narrator of The Zahir is a bestselling novelist who lives in Paris and enjoys all the privileges money and celebrity bring. His wife of ten years, Esther. Read The Zahir by Paulo Coelho for free with a 30 day free trial. Read unlimited* books and audiobooks on the web, iPad, iPhone and Android.

The seven-and-a- half page story traces the obsessive thoughts of an unnamed male narrator. Following the death of a woman named Teodelina Villar who he admired from afar, he finds an Argentine cent coin known as the Zahir that emblematically becomes for him everything he desires.

Departing from my last visit to Teodelina Villar and drinking a glass of harsh brandy in a corner bar-and-grocery-store was a kind of oxymoron: the very vulgarity and facileness of it were what tempted me. Borges, , p. However, the term does operate in the same way: as an emblem of the search for a woman who an unnamed narrator has loved and lost; this loss triggers a search for the meaning of life and love that borders on the obsessive nature of such a quest, and is characterized by many forays into literary references and walks in a capital city Buenos Aires replaced by Paris, though the Argentine capital is often compared to the City of Lights.

Dawn often surprises me upon a bench in the Plaza Garay, thinking or trying to think about that passage in the Asrar Nama where it is said that the Zahir is the shadow of the Rose and the rending of the Veil.

I long to travel that path. Perhaps by thinking about the Zahir unceasingly, I can manage to wear it away; perhaps behind the coin is God.

In the final chapter of The Zahir, we read the following words of this first-person narrator: Although I know that I may have lost forever the woman I love, I must try to enjoy the graces that God has given me today.

Grace cannot be hoarded. There are no banks where it may be deposited to be used when I feel more at peace with myself. If I do not make full use of these blessings, I will lose them forever. I embraced her, rested my head on her shoulder, and began to cry. She stroked my hair, and by the way she touched me I began to understand what I did not want to understand, I began to accept what I did not want to accept.

He taught me to love myself rather than to love him. He showed me that my heart was at the service of myself and of God, and not at the service of others. Coelho, b, p. Reality-Making in the Text Coelho recreates the Borgian intertextual impulse as a creative and inductive act, multiplying the distance from the original source.

The certainty that everything has already been written annuls us, or renders us phantasmal. I have not included that adjective out of mere rhetorical habit; I hereby state that it is not illogical to think that the world is infinite.

Those who believe it to have limits hypothesize that in some remote place or places the corridors and staircases and hexagons may, inconceivably, end—which is absurd. And yet those who picture the world as unlimited forget that the number of possible books is not. I will be bold enough to suggest this solution to the ancient problem: The Library is unlimited but periodic.

If an eternal traveler should journey in either direction, he would find after untold centuries that the same volumes are repeated in the same disorder—which, repeated, becomes order: the Order. My solitude is cheered by that elegant hope. The difference between Borges and Coelho lies in their underlying assumption about the nature of the organizing force at the helm of the universe.

In Borges, it is referred to in this short story as: The work of chance or of malevolent demiurges; the universe, with its elegant appointments—its bookshelves, its enigmatic books, its indefatigable staircases for the traveler, and its water closets for the seated librarian—can only be the handiwork of a god.

In order to grasp the distance that separates the human and the divine, one has only to compare these crude trembling symbols which my fallible hand scrawls on the cover of a book with the organic letters inside—neat, delicate, deep black, and inimitably symmetrical. For Coelho, there is a benevolent force at the core of the universe that is revealed through his search for love in the novel The Zahir.

As the narrator states midway through the novel: That meaning went far beyond my marriage: all men and all women are connected by an energy which many people call love, but which is, in fact, the raw material from which the universe was built.

This energy cannot be manipulated, it leads us gently forward, it contains all we have to learn in this life. Coelho incorporates, at the same level of discourse, sacred and fictional texts, but not to say spiritual truths are fiction, but that fiction can be put to the service of the discovery of spiritual truth, or even that it is a path to its discovery through its symbols—orthographic, emblematic, and thematic.

This term comes from the narrative work by Borges that contains more references to Arabic and Islamic motifs: El Aleph Tornielli, , p. After I had walked the road to Santiago 6, everything had changed completely: what we need to learn is always there before us, we just have to look around us with respect and attention in order to discover where God is leading us and which step we should take next.

I also learned a respect for mystery. As Einstein said, God does not play dice with the universe; everything is interconnected and has a meaning. That meaning may remain hidden nearly all the time, but we always know we are close to our true mission on earth when what we are doing is touched with the energy of enthusiasm.

If it is, then all is well. If not, then we had better change direction. When we are on the right path, we follow the signs, and if we occasionally stumble, the Divine comes to our aid, preventing us from making a mistake. Was the accident a sign?

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Had Mikhail intuited a sign that was intended for me? I decided that the answer to these questions was yes.

Coelho, b, pp. After searching obsessively for his wife for two years, he has written a book A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew as: A true account of [his] marriage, but it was, above all, my own testimony, declaring that I am capable of loving and needing someone else.

Esther deserved more than just words, especially since I had never said those words while we were together. He realizes then that he no longer needs the Zahir: That night, I went to sleep smiling.

It was this voyage that caused him to decide to become a professional novelist, and also it became the subject of his first book, translated into English as The Pilgrimage As a writer, he devotes himself to show, in a plain and fluid style, the richness of our inner reality with the intention of sharing his experiences with all of us. These paths lead to various regions of the world and end in the return to an inner world of experience and to an understanding of love and God.

To achieve this, Coelho, as did Borges, guides his characters by providing cited passages at key moments of the narrative structure, weaving among the actions, the metaphors and resonances gained from the readings of sacred texts and of works by other authors who have also questioned existence in this manner.

Not at all. Indeed what we find in his works, such as in his novel El Zahir, is that they maintain is a recognition of previous readings, wherebythere is a greater sense of freedom:of a type of reader who is liberated from the tyranny of an absolute writer who has established a pre-determined meaning.

Thus the not-knowing is a provocation for dialogue and for there to be a choicein perspective. Coelho lays bare his creative process in The Zahir, writing from the voice of the narrator-writer: I find myself through my readers, I understand what I wrote when I see that others understand it too, but never before. On a few rare occasions, like the one that is just about to happen, I manage to look those people in the eye at book signings and then I understand that my soul is not alone.

Book Review: The Zahir by Paulo Coelho

The writer, thus, becomes his own reader, and explores what he wrote with like-minded readers on a similiar path. The point of convergence is not the text itself, but rather the reading s of it a posteriori. A hardcover edition of the English translation book was published in by HarperCollins Publishers.

What Kristeva proposed in her publications of the later s was that intertextuality supercedes the limits of formalism and structuralism to orient the text toward its socio-historic signification as opposed to its fixed meaning in the interaction of various codes, discourses or voices that traverse the text. Rather, it allows the persistence of another level of unity to be established over the novel than the purely textual, and provides the possibility for not closing the text to pure relativism.

This discussion adopts the contours of the semiosis defined by Charles Peirce in that intertextuality is located in a hermeneutic process of actualizing the text [and its previously set, inherent meaning] in the act of reading Goddard, , p. Borges, as Tornielli suggests: Was a devout believer in literature, able to revere a religious text for its character as a classic of literature or a philosophical doctrine for its literary value Shopenhauer, Berkeley, Swedenborg.

I shake his hand and leave. Ever since I was a child, I have fought to make freedom my most precious commodity. I fought with my parents, who wanted me to be an engineer, not a writer. I fought with the other boys at school, who immediately homed in on me as the butt of their cruel jokes, and only after much blood had flowed from my nose and from theirs, only after many afternoons when I had to hide my scars from my mother—because it was up to me, not her, to solve my problems—did I manage to show them that I could take a thrashing without bursting into tears.

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I fought to get a job to support myself, and went to work as a delivery man for a hardware store, so as to be free from that old line in family blackmail: I fought—although without success—for the girl I was in love with when I was an adolescent, and who loved me too; she left me in the end because her parents convinced her that I had no future.

I fought against the hostile world of journalism—my next job—where my first boss kept me hanging around for three whole hours and only deigned to take any notice of me when I started tearing up the book he was reading: I fought for the socialist ideal, went to prison, came out and went on fighting, feeling like a working-class hero—until, that is, I heard the Beatles and decided that rock music was much more fun than Marx. I fought for the love of my first, second, and third wives.

I fought for the courage to leave my job on the newspaper and launch myself into the adventure of writing a book, knowing full well that no one in my country could make a living as a writer.

Slaves to luxury, to the appearance of luxury, to the appearance of the appearance of luxury. Slaves to a life they had not chosen, but which they had decided to live because someone had managed to convince them that it was all for the best. And so their identical days and nights passed, days and nights in which adventure was just a word in a book or an image on the television that was always on, and whenever a door opened, they would say:.

How could they possibly know if they were in the mood or not if they had never tried? But there was no point in asking; the truth was they were afraid of any change that would upset the world they had grown used to. Of course, this has led me to drink wines I did not like, to do things I should not have done and which I will not do again; it has left scars on my body and on my soul, it has meant hurting certain people, although I have since asked their forgiveness, when I realized that I could do absolutely anything except force another person to follow me in my madness, in my lust for life.

I know that freedom has a high price, as high as that of slavery; the only difference is that you pay with pleasure and a smile, even when that smile is dimmed by tears.

My lawyer is waiting for me with a few consoling words and a bunch of flowers. He says that he managed to prevent journalists from finding out where I was being held. He says he needs to talk to me in order to draw up a legal strategy that will help me defend myself against any future accusation.

Will I get drunk and be arrested again? Will I cause a scandal? Will I try to kill myself? I tell him I have some important business to sort out and that we both know perfectly well that I have no problem with the law.

I take a taxi to the center of Paris and ask to be dropped near the Arc de Triomphe. It was our coming-home ritual, a plunge back into the love that bound us together, even though life kept sending us off along ever more diverging paths.

I keep walking. They should all be feeling sad, sympathetic, supportive of a man whose soul is losing love as if it were losing blood; but they continue laughing, immersed in their miserable little lives that only happen on weekends. What a ridiculous thought! Many of the people I pass must also have their souls in tatters, and I have no idea how or why they are suffering. I go into a bar and buy some cigarettes; the person answers me in English. Before I reach the hotel, I am stopped by two boys just arrived from Toulouse who are looking for a particular shop; they have asked several other people, but no one understands what they say.

It has obviously been a long time since Esther and I met here to drink hot chocolate, even though we have each been away and come back several times during that period. There is always something more important.

There is always some unpostponable appointment. My cell phone! I take it out of my pocket and immediately turn it on; it rings several times, and each time my heart turns over. On the tiny screen I see the names of the people who have been trying to get in touch with me, but reply to none of them. I hope for someone unidentified to appear, because that would be she, since only about twenty people know my number and have sworn not to pass it on.

They must be eager to know what happened, they want to help but how? The telephone keeps ringing. Should I answer it? Should I arrange to meet up with some of these people? I am greeted as if I were a friend of the family; I choose a table next to an exquisite clock; I listen to the piano and look out at the garden. I need to be practical, to study the options; after all, life goes on.

I am not the first nor will I be the last man whose wife has left him, but did it have to happen on a sunny day, with everyone in the street smiling and children singing, with the first signs of spring just beginning to show, the sun shining, and drivers stopping at pedestrian crossings? I pick up a napkin. Response to this possibility: She also withdrew money from her bank.

Of all the hypotheses, this is the only one that makes any sense. We suffered, but we never lied to each other, although it was part of the rules of the game not to mention any extramarital affairs.

The Zahir: A Novel of Obsession

I was aware that she had changed a lot since meeting this fellow Mikhail, but did that justify ending a marriage that has lasted ten years? The book touches on themes of love, loss and obsession. The Zahir was written in Coelho's native language, Portuguese , and it has been translated into 44 languages.

The book was first published in Iran , in Persian translation, by Caravan publishing. Iran has never signed any international copyright agreements. By being published first in Iran, the book falls under the national copyright law of Iran.

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This copyright measure created an unusual situation where a book is first published in a language other than the author's native language. However, the book was banned in Iran a few months after its publication, during the 18th Tehran International Book Fair. The story revolves around the life of the narrator , a bestselling novelist, and in particular his search for his missing wife, Esther. He enjoys all the privileges that money and celebrity bring. He is suspected of foul play by both the police and the press, who suspect that he may have had a role in the inexplicable disappearance of his wife from their Paris home.Will I get drunk and be arrested again?

In the Coelho equation, there is an inter-subjective dynamism between the human and the Universe, and the ultimate quest of that search is Love. On a few rare occasions, like the one that is just about to happen, I manage to look those people in the eye at book signings and then I understand that my soul is not alone.

A Novel of Obsession by Paulo Coelho.

O Zahir persian translation. Start your free 30 days. Amidst the debate over his popular writings Albanese; Ndagano , the discussion turns to whether Coelho continues a poetics of narrative developed by Jorge Luis Borges. His wife of ten years, Esther, is a war correspondent who has disappeared along with a friend, Mikhail, who may or may not be her lover. He asks if we have any domestic problems. Makaryk Ed.