Coelho somehow always manages to write a book about a man disguised as a book about a woman.
This one is a very good exception, but still not a very good book. Literary speaking, of course. I will not allow myself to discuss the spiritual component, though, because I understand its importance but am not experiencing it personally.
Reading his books leaves me with an unsettling feeling that I took the time and went over someone else's feelings and hopes without even stopping to let them try and touch me. Like I gave a beggar a dime without looking at the sign in front of him.