In a recently released French film, the central character, a feisty female director, tells her assistant, “When an actor doesn’t show his inner light, you film dead flesh”. It struck me that the sentiment behind this statement resonates throughout Paulo Coelho’s book.
Eleven Minutes tells the story of Maria, a young Brazilian who has sworn herself off love. Maria, after a series of chance events leads her to Geneva, develops a fascination with sex, and when she realises the market value of sex (and herself), takes to working as a prostitute from a ‘reputable’ club. This was not a frivolous move for Maria, indeed she took it very seriously, intrigued by why her clients were prepared to pay for sex, becoming intellectually the best equipped woman at the club at addressing her client’s needs, all the while of course ignoring her own.
Eleven Minutes sees Maria confronted by two paths. The darker path takes her to a place in which pain is pleasure, where sadomasochism is ironically a source of total sexual liberation derived from submission. The other, to a place where sex is sacred, sex in the context of love, a place in which Maria can exude her ‘inner light’. Coelho’s book is essentially Maria’s exploration of both.
Eleven Minutes is more a return to Veronika Decides to Die than The Alchemist. Though still full of the themes that have touched many millions, fate and love, loss and redemption, this book is more daring, more explicit, more real than others in its exploration of sex and its effect, its importance. In his latest book Coelho also reminds us that every day a miracle can happen. Every day a small, apparently insignificant moment may present itself that could change the course of our lives forever.