Hippie

by Paulo Coelho

Why do I want to go to Nepal? I was never one to believe much in these things; my Lutheran upbringing is stronger than any incense, mantras, sitting postures, meditation, sacred books, or esoteric sects.

Ever since boredom had set in among everyone on the trip, Karla had begun to face herself and her favorite question: Why do I want to go to Nepal? I was never one to believe much in these things; my Lutheran upbringing is stronger than any incense, mantras, sitting postures, meditation, sacred books, or esoteric sects. She didn’t want to go to Nepal to find answers to these things—she already had them, and she was tired of the need to make a constant show of her strength, her courage, an unwaning aggressivity, her uncontrollable competitiveness. All she’d ever done in her life was outrun others, but she would never be able to outrun herself. She had gotten used to who she was, despite her young age.

She wanted everything to change, but was incapable of changing herself.

She yearned to be a vase where Love would come and leave its flowers and its fruit. Where the living water would preserve them as though they’d just been picked, ready to be delivered to whoever had the courage—yes, “courage” was the word—to seize them.

(no one refused a trip to Paris,

He knocked several times, but no one answered. He turned the handle, the door was unlocked. Should he go in? Could he be accused of trespassing? Wasn’t it true that abandoned buildings had wild dogs looking after them to keep out the homeless?

“Perfect. You came here just as I did when I left Tarbes—a tiny little town in the middle of nowhere in France with a single mosque—in search of knowledge and wisdom.

“What do you want?” he asked with a French accent. What could Paulo say? The truth. Dancing dervishes. The man laughed. “Perfect. You came here just as I did when I left Tarbes—a tiny little town in the middle of nowhere in France with a single mosque—in search of knowledge and wisdom. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Do what I did when I found one of them. Spend a thousand and one days studying a poet, memorizing everything he wrote, answering any questions anyone ever has with the wisdom of his poems, and then you can begin your training. Because your voice will have begun to mix with that of the Enlightened One and the verses he wrote eight hundred years ago.” “Rumi?” The man bowed upon hearing the name. Paulo sat on the floor. “And how can I learn? I’ve already read much of his poetry, but I don’t understand how he put it into practice.”

“A man in search of spirituality knows little, because he reads of it and tries to fill his intellect with what he judges wise. Trade your books for madness and wonder—then you will be a bit closer to what you seek. Books bring us opinions and studies, analyses and comparisons, while the sacred flame of madness brings us to the truth.”

Paulo began emptying his mind; it wasn’t so difficult, not in that place bereft of any ornament—not even the words of the Koran written in that script that looked like a painting. He had reached total emptiness, far from home, his friends, the things he’d learned, the things he still wanted to learn, from good or evil, he was there. Just there, in the moment.

At that exact moment, the loudspeakers mounted in the mosque towers began to recite something, the sound filled the city, and Paulo knew it was the call to prayer. His face was turned to the sun, a lone ray visible on account of the dust, and he knew from the noise behind him that the old man with the French accent must have fallen to his knees, turned his face toward Mecca and started to pray. Paulo began emptying his mind; it wasn’t so difficult, not in that place bereft of any ornament—not even the words of the Koran written in that script that looked like a painting. He had reached total emptiness, far from home, his friends, the things he’d learned, the things he still wanted to learn, from good or evil, he was there. Just there, in the moment.

So you want to be a pilgrim on the pathway of the Light? Learn to roam the desert. Speak with your heart, because words are a question of mere chance—though you need them to communicate with others, do not be misled by meanings and explanations.

Walk hand in hand, drink and be merry with life, but keep your distance such that one never relies on the other—our fall is part of the journey and we all must learn to rise again on our own.

It was time to leave, he was slowly relinquishing himself to the sacred flame of madness.

He closed the door but knew that, for those who seek to step beyond the threshold, the door is always open.

He lit a stick of incense next to the chair and left. He closed the door but knew that, for those who seek to step beyond the threshold, the door is always open. You need only turn the knob.

“So, we know that it’s a movement without prejudices, based on drugs, music, huge open-air concerts where anything goes, travel, absolute and total disregard for those who are fighting at the moment for an ideal, a free, a more just society…”

“Have you experimented with drugs?”

“Have you experimented with drugs?” “Of course: marijuana, mushrooms, a few chemical drugs that made me sick, LSD. I’ve never touched heroin, or cocaine, or opium.” The journalist looked over at her father, who listened calmly at his daughter’s side.

“Because the most important thing to me is the journey. It’s meeting people I’d never have the opportunity to meet flying first class on Air France,

“I want to know why you’re going to Nepal by bus. From what I understand, and from what I can tell from the clothes the two of you are wearing, you have enough money to go by airplane.” “Because the most important thing to me is the journey. It’s meeting people I’d never have the opportunity to meet flying first class on Air France, as I’ve done so often before—no one talks to anyone there, even if they’re sitting next to one another for twelve hours.”

“Nobody knows. But, if we were to be very French about it and try to find a definition for everything, the idea of sex, vegetarianism, free love, and communal living has its origin in Persia, in a cult founded by a guy named Mazdak. We don’t know much about him. However, as we were finding ourselves forced to write more and more about this movement, a few journalists came upon a different origin: among the Greek philosophers known as the Cynics.”

“I think that my daughter and I deserve to learn a bit. We aren’t sure, for example, where the word hippie comes from.” He was clearly being ironic, but she pretended not to notice and decided to carry on. She was dying for a coffee. “Nobody knows. But, if we were to be very French about it and try to find a definition for everything, the idea of sex, vegetarianism, free love, and communal living has its origin in Persia, in a cult founded by a guy named Mazdak. We don’t know much about him. However, as we were finding ourselves forced to write more and more about this movement, a few journalists came upon a different origin: among the Greek philosophers known as the Cynics.” “Cynics?” “Cynics. Nothing to do with the meaning we give the word today. Diogenes was the group’s most famous proponent. According to him, we ought to set aside whatever society imposes on us—all of us were raised to have more than we need—and return to primitive values. In other words, be in touch with the laws of nature, depend on little, find joy in each new day, and completely reject all that we grew up with—power, gain, avarice, that sort of thing. The only purpose in life was to free themselves of what they did not need and find joy in each minute, in each breath. Diogenes, by the way, lived in a barrel, according to legend.”

“The idea spread during Christianity, when monks would walk into the desert in search of the necessary peace to speak with God.

“The idea spread during Christianity, when monks would walk into the desert in search of the necessary peace to speak with God. And it is with us until today, through well-known philosophers like the American Thoreau or the liberator of India—Gandhi. Keep it simple, they all say. Keep it simple and you shall be happy.”

“We’ve been doing this since the end of the glorious Ottoman Empire, when people were forced to determine a new path for the country. Those who were in favor of the reform wore a mustache in the shape of an M. Those who were against it allowed the sides of the mustache to grow downward, forming a sort of upside down U.”

Atatürk. The courageous army officer who’d fought in the First World War, staved off an invasion, abolished the sultanate, put an end to the Ottoman Empire, separated Islam from the state (which many had judged impossible).

Atatürk. The courageous army officer who’d fought in the First World War, staved off an invasion, abolished the sultanate, put an end to the Ottoman Empire, separated Islam from the state (which many had judged impossible). And, what was more important to the damn English and French, he refused to sign a humiliating peace treaty with the Allies—as Germany had done. A treaty that unintentionally planted the seeds of Nazism. Jacques had already seen several photos of the greatest icon of modern Turkey—when the company where he’d worked had tried to conquer that empire once again, employing seduction and malice. He had never noticed that at times Atatürk appeared without a mustache; he’d noticed only that in the photos where he had a mustache he wore it in neither the shape of an M nor the shape of a U but in the Western tradition, in which the whiskers come to the ends of the lips.

every farmworker knows that nature’s work is never finished and that farming alternates between moments of backbreaking work—planting, pruning, harvesting—and moments of extreme boredom, spent waiting for nature to complete its cycle.

Most of his ideas about marketing (a word and a profession then in vogue) were accepted, though some were questioned by attention-seeking interns.

He tried walking toward the Sorbonne, but the streets were completely blocked, by pitched battles between the forces “of order” and what looked to be a bunch of anarchists from some horror film.

His daughter’s phone call came around two in the morning—he’d kept the television on; the two public TV channels were showing and analyzing, analyzing and showing, what was going on in Paris.

they tried to demonstrate calm and make sense of the confrontations between police and students using the pompous explanations of sociologists, politicians, analysts, a few policemen, a few students, and the like.

The chaos and the conflicts hadn’t ceased as expected. On the contrary, the situation worsened when people saw the way the police were treating the students.

The only thing no one was able to explain was why it all was happening.

What he’d thought would be a fleeting moment, a contained fury, ended up spreading over all of France;

What he’d thought would be a fleeting moment, a contained fury, ended up spreading over all of France; employees kidnapped their bosses, and a general strike was declared. Most factories were occupied by workers—just as had happened a week earlier with the universities. France came to a standstill. The problem was no longer the students—who seemed to have changed their focus and now waved flags emblazoned with FREE LOVE or DOWN WITH CAPITALISM, or OPEN BORDERS FOR ALL, or THE BOURGEOISIE DON’T UNDERSTAND A THING. The problem now was the general strike.

The students, who no longer had any demands, slowly returned to classes—overcome with the sensation that their victory meant absolutely nothing.

“I’m tired of this place. I’m going to travel and live far away from here.”

He never saw a single line that could bring him to conclude: “Ah, that’s what started it all.”

The second—and defining—transformative moment was a dinner in one of Paris’s finest restaurants, where he would bring special clients—potential buyers for their countries and cities.

After everyone had ordered, the waiter turned to Jacques: “The usual?”

After everyone had ordered, the waiter turned to Jacques: “The usual?” The usual: oysters for an appetizer. He explained how they must be served alive; seeing how the majority of his guests were foreigners, they were horrified. His plan was to order snails next—the famous escargots. He’d end by asking for a plate of frog legs. No one dared join him, and that was how he preferred it. It was part of the marketing. All the appetizers were served at the same time. The oysters arrived, and everyone else sat waiting to see what would happen next. He squeezed a bit of lemon over the first, which moved a bit, to the surprise and horror of his

There was a quick moment of anxiety, and then Jacques died.

There was a quick moment of anxiety, and then Jacques died. Suddenly, he was hovering near the restaurant ceiling looking down on a crowd that had gathered around his body. Others tried to make room for help to arrive, as the Moroccan waiter ran toward the kitchen. His vision wasn’t exactly sharp and clear; it was as though there was a transparent veil or some sort of water running between him and the scene below. Fear, and everything else, had ceased to exist—an immense peace washed over everything, and time, because time still existed, sped up. The people down below seemed to move in slow motion, in other words, in photograms. The Moroccan waiter returned from the kitchen, and the images disappeared—the only thing left was complete, white emptiness, and a peacefulness that was almost palpable. Contrary to what many said on occasions like that, he saw no dark tunnel; he felt a loving energy all around him, something he hadn’t experienced in a long time. He was a baby in his mother’s womb, nothing more—he never wanted to leave there again.

Suddenly he felt a hand grabbing him and pulling him down.

The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was the restaurant owner’s face, somewhere between worried and overjoyed.

“I want to tell you something: I was dead for a few seconds, or minutes, or an eternity—I don’t have a sense of the time because things happened so slowly. And suddenly I saw myself surrounded by a loving energy I’d never felt before.

“I need to immerse my soul and my body in rivers I’ve not yet known, drink things I’ve not yet drunk, contemplate mountaintops I’ve only seen on television, allow the same love that I felt tonight to return, even if it’s only for a minute each year.

“I need to immerse my soul and my body in rivers I’ve not yet known, drink things I’ve not yet drunk, contemplate mountaintops I’ve only seen on television, allow the same love that I felt tonight to return, even if it’s only for a minute each year. I want you to lead me through your world. I will never be a burden, and when you feel I ought to go off on my own, you need only ask and I’ll do it. And when you feel the time is right to return, I’ll do that and we’ll take one more step together. I’ll say it again: I want you to lead me.”

The two of them thirsted for the Everlasting. Quenching this thirst was simple—they needed only to allow the Everlasting to appear to them. To do so, they needed no special place beyond their own bodies and faith, a shapeless force that runs through everything and carries within it what the alchemists call anima mundi.

“I have an offer that you can’t refuse: let’s have dinner in Asia.”

Favorable delusions were always welcome.

They boarded the bus and crossed the Bosphorus in reverential silence—as though having a religious experience.

A waiter approached to take their order. They asked him to choose the best and most traditional dish. The waiter wasn’t used to this.

A waiter approached to take their order. They asked him to choose the best and most traditional dish. The waiter wasn’t used to this. “But I need to know what you want. Here, everyone typically knows what they want.” “We want the best. Isn’t that a good enough answer?” No doubt it was. And the waiter, rather than complaining again, accepted the fact that the foreign couple was placing their trust in him. Which was an incredible responsibility, but at the same time, an incredible joy.

“I think you must have had a powerful experience because this place is filled with the energy of the dancing dervishes. Although, I must stress: every place on Earth contains the presence of God in the tiniest things—insects, a grain of sand, everything.”

“I knew you would return,” said the man without a name when he saw the young man in colorful clothes walk through the door. “I think you must have had a powerful experience because this place is filled with the energy of the dancing dervishes. Although, I must stress: every place on Earth contains the presence of God in the tiniest things—insects, a grain of sand, everything.”

“Sufism is nothing more than bringing yourself up-to-date, shifting your mind, understanding that words lack the power to describe the Absolute, the Infinite.”

Gazing at the sky, the full moon, the waters of the Bosphorus glowing beneath its rays, their faces illuminated by candlelight, their hearts bursting at the meeting of two strangers who suddenly enter another dimension together.

“I have found someone and I am in love, though he doesn’t know it.”

It had nothing to do with the food, the moon, the Bosphorus, or the bridge—but with the day both of them had had.

It had nothing to do with the food, the moon, the Bosphorus, or the bridge—but with the day both of them had had. “Will you tell me the rest?” Karla asked, lighting two cigarettes and handing him one. “I’m dying to tell you about my day and how I found myself.” By the look of it, she’d found her soul mate. In reality, Paulo no longer had any interest in his own story, but she’d asked him to tell her, and now he’d tell it to the end.

“Who were your three teachers?”

I remembered the thief’s words—‘Nothing tonight. But, God willing, I’ll try again tomorrow.’ This gave me the strength to carry on.”

I was walking to the river for a drink when the dog appeared. He, too, was thirsty. But as he neared the river, he saw another dog there—it was nothing more than his reflection.

I was walking to the river for a drink when the dog appeared. He, too, was thirsty. But as he neared the river, he saw another dog there—it was nothing more than his reflection. “He was frightened, turned back, barked, did everything he could to free himself of the other dog. Nothing happened, of course. Finally, because his thirst was immense, he decided to face the situation and flew headlong into the river; at that moment, the image disappeared.”