I’d heard a lot of criticism about this book, so I decided not to read it, at least not then. Then, some days ago, during a particularly difficult period of my life, I happened to look at my bookshelf. My eyes stopped at The Alchemist. I picked it up almost impulsively. Perhaps it was simply a coincidence. Perhaps, as Coelho might suggest, it was an omen.

And from the very first page, it gave me something I didn’t even know I was looking for.

First published in 1988, The Alchemist follows Santiago, a young Andalusian shepherd who sets out in search of a treasure he has seen in his dreams. What begins as a physical journey across unfamiliar lands gradually becomes a journey of self-discovery. Along the way, Santiago encounters a series of people and experiences that introduce him to ideas of destiny, omens, the Soul of the World, love, fear and the courage to pursue what he believes to be his purpose.

But while reading it, I felt like the journey was mine too.

I was there with the boy and his flock of sheep, working in the crystal shop, falling in love in the desert, losing my willpower and finding it again through faith and courage. I found refuge in this book.

Perhaps it is true that no book is really bad; sometimes, we are simply not ready for it at a certain point in our lives.

If I had read this book during another phase of my life, I might have found it irritating. Perhaps I would have questioned its optimism or found its philosophy too simple. But I read it during my own inner storm, and at that particular moment, this book brought me hope and peace.

It also made me think about how differently we experience books depending on where we are in our own lives. A story that does nothing for us today might speak directly to us years later. Perhaps we don’t always choose the right book; sometimes, the right book simply finds us at the right time.

For me, The Alchemist did not solve my problems. It did not make every problem suddenly disappear. But it gave me a different way of looking at uncertainty. It reminded me that being lost does not necessarily mean that we have stopped moving, and that sometimes we have to keep walking even when we don’t know where the road will lead.

So, dear reader, if you are lost, distracted from your own pace of life, your dreams, or your inner peace, if, in one word, you are a mess, just read it. Read it slowly. Absorb the boy’s journey. Walk with him for a while. And perhaps, one fine morning, you may wake up and find yourself beneath a new sunrise of hope.

And if you have already read it and found it dull, that’s okay too. Just wait.

Read it again later, when you are ready to hear what the book has to say to you.

Because perhaps we can only truly understand and enjoy certain books and stories when we are ready for them.