On the 29th of May 2002, hours before writing the last sentence
of my new book, I went to the Grotto at Lourdes in France to fill
up a few bottles of holy water from the fountain there. When I entered
the cathedral grounds, a man of about 70 years old came up to me
and said: "You know you look like Paulo Coelho?" I answered
him that that was who I really was.
The man gave me a hug and introduced his wife and grand-daughter.
He told me how important my books were in his life, ending with
the phrase: "They make me dream."
I had already heard that said several times, and it has always
made me glad. At that moment, however, it scared me a bit, because
I knew that "Eleven minutes" touches on a delicate, strong,
shocking question: the journey of a Brazilian prostitute in search
of her soul. I walked over to the fountain, filled the bottles,
returned, asked the man where he lived (in the north of France,
near Belgium) and wrote down his name.
Right there and then I decided to dedicate the book to that man,
Maurice Gravelines. I hold an obligation towards him, his wife,
grand-daughter, and myself: to talk about what bothers me, not about
what everyone would like to hear.
Some books make us dream, others show us reality, but none can
elude what is most important for an author: honesty to what he writes.
Writing about sex was for me a challenge I had faced since my youth,
when the hippie revolution devised a whole lot of new modes of behavior
in this respect, sometimes stretching the limits of common sense.
After those crazy years we went through a conservative period because
of the advent of mortal diseases, and marked by that persistent
question: "but is sex really all that important?"
We live in a world of standard behavior: standards of beauty,
quality, intelligence, efficiency. We believe there is a model for
everything and we also think that we will be safe if we follow that
And for that very reason we set a "sex standard," which
in fact consists of a series of lies: vaginal orgasm, virility above
all else, better to pretend than to leave the partner disappointed,
and so on. A direct consequence of this type of attitude is that
millions of people are left frustrated, unhappy and guilty. And
this has caused all sorts of aberrations such as pedophilia, incest
or rape. Why we behave like this with something that's so important?
In the same way that an author never knows the course that his
books are going to take - and that is why he lets the text take
off in unexpected directions - we too have to live our contradictions,
above all in areas as sensitive as sex and love. The man who wants
to follow a standard the whole time will be obliged to think today
what he thought yesterday and always wear a tie to match his socks.
Can you think of anything more boring?
The society that today approaches sexual behavior with a "standard,"
without respecting individual differences, should try to remember
one of the most beautiful poems on the human condition, the hymn
to Isis discovered by Nag Hammadi, which scholars claim was written
between the 3rd and 4th centuries of our age:
Because I am the first and the last
I am the venerated and the scorned
I am the whore and the saint
I am the wife and the virgin
I am the mother and the daughter
I am the arms of my mother
I am the sterile one, and my children are many
I am the well-wed and the spinster
I am the one who gave the light and the one who never gave birth
I am the wife and the husband
And it was my man who bore me in his belly
I am the mother of my father
I am the sister of my husband
And he is my rejected son
Respect me always
Because I am the scandalous and the discreet.