PROLOGUE

The Alchemist picked up a book that someone in the caravan had brought. Leafing though the pages, he found a story about Narcissus.

The alchemist knew the legend of Narcisus, a youth who knelt daily beside a lake to contemplate his own beauty. He was so fascinated by himself that, one morning, he fell into the lake and drowned. At the spot where he fell, a flower was born, which was called the narcissus.

But this was not how the author of the book ended the story…

He said that when Narcissus died, the goddesses of the forest appeared and found the lake, which had been fresh water, transformed into a lake of salty tears.

"Why do you weep?" the goddesses asked.

"I weep for Narcissus," the lake replied.

"Ah, it is no surprise that you weep for Narcissus," they said, "for though we always pursued him in the forest, you alone could contemplate his beauty close at hand."

"But…was Narcissus beautiful?" the lake asked.

"Who better than you to know that?" the goddesses said in wonder. "After all, it was by your banks that he kenlt each day to contemplate himself!"

The lake was silent for some time. Finally, it said:

"I weep for Narcissus, but I never noticed that Narcissus was beautiful. I weep because, each time he knelt beside my banks, I could see, in the depths of his eyes, my own beauty reflected."

"What a lovely story," the Alchemist thought. - excerpts from Paulo Coelho’s "The Alchemist"

page 89 on brida

…She went back to bed and soon fell asleep. Before she did, though, she remembered another story about her father. It was Sunday, and they and all the family were having lunch at her grandmother’s house. She must have been bout fourteen, and sher was complaining about not being able to do a piece of homework, because every time she started, it went wrong.

“Perhaps the times when it goes wrong are teaching you something”, said her father. But Brida was sure that she’d taken the wrong path and that there was no way to put things right.

Her father took her by the hand and led her into the living room, where her grandmother used to watch television. There was a large, antique grandfather clock, which had stopped years before because it could no longer be repaired.

“Nothing in the world is ever completely wrong, my dear”, said her father, looking at the clock. “Even a stopped clock is right twice a day.” - excerpt from Brida (Paulo Coelho)