THE ALCHEMIST, Paulo Coelho

March 2004, chosen by J

Points: 1.5

Blurb says: 

"Every few decades a book is published that changes the lives of its readers forever. Paulo Coehlo's 'The Alchemist' is such a book. With over 20 million copies sold worldwide, 'The Alchemist' has already achieved the status of a modern classic.

This is the story of Santiago, an Andalusian shepherd boy who dreams of travelling the world in search of a treasure as extravagant as any ever found. From his home in Spain he journeys to the exotic markets of Tangiers and then into the Egyptian desert, where a fateful encounter with the alchemist awaits him.

'The Alchemist' is a transforming novel about the essential wisdom of listening to our hearts, learning to read the omens strewn along life's path and above all following our dreams."

They say:

"Coelho's writing is beautifully poetic but his message is what counts ... He gives me hope and puts a smile on my face"

"His books have had a life-enhancing impact on millions of people"

"One of the few to deserve the term 'publishing phenomenon'"

We say:

Bad news. This is Sacha Distel's Desert Island Book. And that is as good as it gets. We were warned - "NOT The Alchemist!" bellowed a correspondent to these pages. We cottoned on quick, and at the meeting decided to change our new rule of giving each other 2 minutes to have our say and settle instead for 2 words. "Piss-poor," said P, "fridge magnet," said I. "Slept through it," said F, who clearly can't count. We were the kind ones.

Yes, we are back in sneer-land, where we possibly seem happiest, but just what is the point of this book, and at whom is it aimed? We wondered if A's daughter might like it, but at ten she really seems a little old for such crystal-shop trash, so maybe it would appeal to the aromatherapy classes, Feng Shui suckers or to people who think that their cat talks to them? Certainly not for the serious reader. More for Earth's Children who want something to do while the dolphin music plays. The startling success of 'The Alchemist", and its soi-disant world-changing capacities, speak depressing volumes about the state of humanity eager to sop it up. It is a book - in form at least, it is a book - for Stepford wives; the cynical, cosy stuff of those sad little volumes featuring chicken soup flogged at bookshop tills, and bearing the trite sentiments of down-market Christmas crackers. You'll have to read on to see whether we liked it or not.

It started reasonably enough, comfortingly even, in the soothing manner of a fable, but lost any veracity the more fanciful it became. Even from the beginning, however, too much is sheep-led: let it be said categorically that sheep don't talk to people and don't Have The Answer (nor do cats). Then sheep are dumped and the animal of choice becomes a camel; camels too, it seems, are wise and life-changing. If that isn't enough, there is too much wind (does the wind talk to us too? probably), and absolutely no laughs.

Perhaps it appeals to the over-sophisticated in search of an antidote to a materialistic life, who want to feel that they have experienced something deep and meaningful and who are convinced by the pseudo-peasant roots; maybe Sacha Distel rued so much time hob-nobbing with Brigitte Bardot and quaffing champagne, and sought a spot of innocent Alchemist balm in restitution. But surely even Sacha and the sophisticats must have been dismayed by the treasure at the end being revealed to be real, rather than symbolic, and so greedily dug for from beneath a scrubby old bush; crassly naff and clumsy enough to irk, as well as being stylistically at odds with the overall parable tone. Any resonance that 'The Alchemist' can claim comes from the exotic backdrop: imagine the same reverent tones but the thrust of the story being transposed from Spain and Northern Africa to Brentford, with the treasure - a few knocked-off car stereos - languishing at the bottom of a bin in a Lidl car park, waiting to be discovered by the hero, perhaps played by Robson Greene, on his return from a soul-searching trip to Wolverhampton ... Amanda Holden could play the merchant's daughter and Jordan could be the other one.

Extremely disappointing, when we expected something transcending time and boundaries, which would speak to us of greater truths and cross-cultural connections. But no, it was an empty little epic, Philosophy'R'Us, a McBook, a commodity of words, a franchise of the literary world, the soul of something a computer might cough up and, meanwhile, Harper Collins' marketing department has been having a fine old time of it. On our editions, which all appeared to be published contemporaneously, the figures varied wildly. Mine claimed that 'The Alchemist' had been translated into 42 languages, one had 27, another had 43, a fourth 56. Some of us were treated to a beseeching, doe-eyed photograph of the author, and to a preface, a real publishing faux pas, where Mr C stands back and admires/explains his own work, which should surely stand for itself?

There is, of course, nothing new under the sun, but this is being peddled as if there is. There are indeed universal truths which each generation has the right to rehash, but it's wrong that this book is treated as if it's something so very fundamental and life-changing. 'The Wizard of Oz' did all that back in 1939, with "Somewhere over the Rainbow" expressing the yearning considerably more melodiously, until a tappety-tap of the red shoes, and the realisation that "There's no place like home." What does Paulo Coehlo think that he's saying that hasn't been said before, with his desert setting, wise old animals, and learned alchemists (a pretentious and trying metaphor, incidentally, used to parachute some intellectual weight into an otherwise feeble novelette)?

Anything in its favour? Well, it's short, but not as short as fridge magnets.