I read Coelho’s The Pilgrimage, and found it somewhat inspirational and a pleasant read. And he is really popular. So I thought I would try another.
I really hated this book. Self-indulgent, full of cheesy semi-spiritual quasi truths that sound like they should mean something, but really don’t mean a thing upon closer examination.
A very prosperous author of motivational spiritual novels (what a coinkydink) finds that his wife of ten years has disappeared. On further investigation, it would appear she has left him. And he can’t figure out why. Self-admittedly a womanizer and a self-indulgent man, he is at a loss as to why she has gone and now suffers a broken heart, and being a lot more obsessed with her now that he has lost her than when she was actually around, he sets off on a quest to find her. . There is way too much internal streamish of consciousness twaddle about love and the meaning thereof, and about awakening the global energy (what the heck does THAT mean), and other assorted clapdoodle. It does nothing to move the plot along, and the reader (that would be me, in this case) feels the urge to smack him upside the head and say, “Get a freaking grip, you adulterous loser!” In a nice way, of course.
There is way more internal rumination and spiritualistic idealistic conversational chin dribble with other characters than there is plot. It felt like from time to time the author said to himself, “Now, where was I in this thing? Oh, yeah, now I remember.”
Does he finally find his wife and get her back? Who cares. If she’s smart, she’ll stay gone.