You don't have to search for long on the internet to find the most varied criticism to the prodigious writer Paulo Coelho. The most-read author in Brazil, one of the ten living writers in the world, who earned over than seventy awards, was translated to seventy-six languages and is read in one hundred sixty country, is he a real big mess as some spiteful scholars claim?
Just when I finished my first book, an autobiography, still drunk with all those words and letters but willing to keep on writing fiction, I was stupidly bewildered to decide to make further studies on aspects related to creative process and literature construction. While pseudo-specialists under the influence of Kafka and Flaubert state that Paulo Coelho was a foolish charlatan, I forged to be the elitist I will never be and read Madame Bovary, The Process and the Metamorphosis. However, what I really wanted was that they let me read the wizard.
While some promising writers (that never were anything but promises) lent me Dante, Shakespeare, Balzac, Dostoevsky and Cervantes, I started questioning my self-alienating blindness: how would be possible that 48 out of 100 best-selling titles in Brazil in the 90s were by national writer and 20 of them belong to the so called dumb wizard? Then, when xenophobic disguised as patriotic scholars said that real literature was Machado de Assis and Guimarães Rosa, I no longer wanted to know if was Dom Casmurro or The Posthumous Memoirs of Bras Cubas which made Machado de Assis a specialist in first person writing or if was the first ellipse in The Devil to Pay in the Backlands a case for grammar or not. I was completely in love with Veronika decides to die.
Suddenly, I began to see through the walls of limitation of wise fools that surrounded me: the more I kept imprisoned by the rules, standards, styles and literary methods, the less I could write. I knew what was break of semantic parallelism, euphemism, onomatopoeia, prosopopoeia, epistrophe, periphrases, inversion, pleonasm...whatever. Almost all these bullshit that the morons think to be what it takes to be a genius.
But, was when a professor told me in a tone of joke that Paulo Coelho writes for needy, depressive young adults who believe in elves and who think about suicide. I immediately replied:'THEN I DON'T WANT MAKE LITERATURE, I WANT TO MAKE PAULO COELHO!' So, unlike Virginia Woolf, Paulo Coelho writes not only with his fingers or as a whole person; he writes with his soul, not being subservient to grammar rules that limits the most overbearing authors. And you know what would be worse than a flopped author writing a book only to externalize their contained disability? TWO FRUSTRATED AUTHORS WITH THE SAME PURPOSE:
1) The messenger without a message named DIOGO MAINARDI, who cannot enjoy the verve great authors can have, wrote LULA É MINHA ANTA (his Magnum Opus); gathering all his repetitive and dull articles about the man he wanted to be.
2) And following the same steps of mediocrity, the illustrious unknown, Janilto Andrade wrote the unpopular best-seller WHY NOT READ PAULO COELHO in which he defines the wizard as an exciting vulgar looking for being qualified as sophisticated art.
But as John Steinbeck would say: 'Of all animals in God’s creation .... Man is the only one who drinks without being thirsty ...eats without being hungry and talks without having something to say.'