Like the Flowing River by Paulo Coelho – Ebook | Scribd – Post navigation
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Like the flowing river free download.Like The Flowing River Paulo Coelho Pdf Free Download
Be like the flowing river,. Silent in the night. Be not afraid of the dark. If there are stars in the sky, reflect them back. If there are clouds in the sky. like the Flowing River Paulo Coelho pdf free download is an inspirational book pdf which is written by famous Brazillian writer Paulo Coelho.
Like the flowing river free download
Search the Wayback Machine Search icon An illustration of a magnifying glass. Sign up for free Log in. Like the flowing river : thoughts and reflections Item Preview.
EMBED for wordpress. Want more? Advanced embedding details, examples, and help! There are no reviews yet. Be the first one to write a review. Sharing his thoughts on spirituality, life and ethics, Paulo touches you with his philosophy and invites you to go on an exciting journey of your own. Being the author of 30 books that have sold over million copies in countries, he has become one of the most widely read authors in the world today.
Review must be at least 10 words. Do you actually know what it means to be a writer? If you study engineering, you can always write in your spare time. This is what I learned about what being a writer meant in the early s:. Half the time he feels angry about everything and the other half depressed. He spends most of his life in bars, arguing with other dishevelled, bespectacled writers. He always has amazing ideas for the plot of his next novel, and hates the one he has just published.
A writer revises and rewrites each sentence many times. The vocabulary of the average man is made up of 3, words; a real writer never uses any of these, because there are another , in the dictionary, and he is not the average man. Even so, he secretly hates all other writers, because they are always jockeying for the same vacancies left by the history of literature over the centuries. It always works. Armed with all this information, I went back to my mother and explained exactly what a writer was.
She was somewhat surprised. Then a rock singer turned up and asked me to write words for his songs, and I withdrew from the search for immortality and set myself once more on the same path as ordinary people. This path took me to many places and caused me to change countries more often than I changed shoes, as Bertolt Brecht used to say. These stories and articles have all been published in various newspapers around the world and have been collected together at the request of my readers.
Each of them lasts about four months of the year; and although there is often a little of each during one particular month, they never get confused. Right now, night has fallen on the two hundred inhabitants of this Pyrenean village, whose name I prefer to keep secret and where, a short while ago, I bought a converted mill.
I wake every morning at cock-crow, have breakfast, and go out for a walk amongst the cows and the sheep and the fields of maize and hay. I have no questions and no answers; I live entirely in the present moment, knowing that the year has four seasons yes, I know this may seem obvious, but we do sometimes forget , and I transform myself just as the countryside does around me. I see a farmer working in his field.
The subject agitating the region at the moment is a group thought to be responsible for cutting down a line of plane trees along a country road because they blame the trees for the death of a motorcyclist. I lie down by the stream that runs past the mill. I look up at the cloudless sky in this terrifying summer, during which the heatwave has killed five thousand in France alone. I get up and go and practise kyudo, a form of meditation through archery, and this takes up another hour of my day.
I know that the moment I press a button on that machine, the world will come to meet me. I resist as long as I can, but the moment arrives, my finger presses the on-switch, and here I am again connected with the world: Brazilian newspapers, books, interviews to be given, news about Iraq, about Afghanistan, requests, a note that my plane ticket will arrive tomorrow, decisions to be postponed, decisions to be taken.
I work for several hours, because that is my choice, because that is my personal legend, because a warrior of light knows that he has duties and responsibilities. The sun is setting. I switch the computer off again, and the world goes back to being the countryside, the smell of grass, the lowing of cattle, the voice of the shepherd bringing his sheep back to the pen beside the mill.
I ask myself how I can exist in two such different worlds in one day. I have no answer, but I know that it gives me a great deal of pleasure, and that I am happy while I write these lines. I have gloves on, too, in order to avoid cuts and scratches. The metal end has three prongs on one side, and a sharp point on the other. With the spear in my hand, I start to remove the weeds growing amongst the grass.
I do this for quite a while, knowing that each plant I dig up will die within two days. The flower was fertilized at the expense of innumerable insects; it was transformed into seed; the wind scattered it over the fields round about; and so — because it was not planted in just one place, but in many — its chances of surviving until next spring are that much greater.
If it was concentrated in just one place, it would be vulnerable to being eaten, to flood, fire and drought. But all that effort to survive is brought up short by the point of a spear, which mercilessly plucks the plant from the soil. Someone created this garden. But its creator must have thought long and hard about what he or she was doing, must have carefully planted and planned for example, there is an avenue of trees that conceals the hut where we keep the firewood and tended it through countless winters and springs.
When I moved into the old mill — where I spend a few months of each year — the lawn was immaculate. I continue digging up unwanted plants and placing them on a pile that will soon be burned. Perhaps I am giving too much thought to things that have less to do with thought and more to do with action. But, then, every gesture made by a human being is sacred and full of consequences, and that makes me think even more about what I am doing.
On the one hand, these plants have the right to broadcast themselves everywhere. In the New Testament, Jesus talks about separating the wheat from the tares. But — with or without the support of the Bible — I am faced by a concrete problem always faced by humanity: how far should we interfere with nature? Is such interference always negative, or can it occasionally be positive?
I set aside my weapon — also known as a weeder. Each blow means the end of a life, the death of a flower that would have bloomed in the spring — such is the arrogance of the human being constantly trying to shape the landscape around him.
I need to give the matter more thought, because I am, at this moment, wielding the power of life and death. Why do you want to kill me? In the end, the Hindu text, the Bhagavad-Gita comes to my aid. I remember the answer that Krishna gives to the warrior Arjuna, when the latter loses heart before a decisive battle, throws down his arms, and says that it is not right to take part in a battle that will culminate in the death of his brother.
Your hand is My hand, and it was already written that everything you are doing would be done. Metropolitan Museum Cleveland Museum of Art. Internet Arcade Console Living Room. Books to Borrow Open Library. Search the Wayback Machine Search icon An illustration of a magnifying glass. Sign up for free Log in. Like the flowing river Item Preview. EMBED for wordpress. Want more?