Once upon a girl

I'm reading a book about a prostitute. Maria. Written by a man. A very insightful man i believe is making love to my mind through his words. So poetic. And so invasive. He has essentially written a book about me, or what i imagine that is. No, that is not correct. He has written a book i imagine i would have written. So beautiful. And yet so true. I've been swept away by the tornado he has created through his thoughts, projected onto a fictional woman who happens to be a prostitute. Aptly entitled "Eleven Minutes," (pertaining to the length of the duration of a sexual encounter). There is nothing cliche about the story as one would expect a story about a misguided prostitute to be. Instead the confusion that surrounds love. Loneliness. Acceptance. Denial. All marvellously explored in a way that can not help but invade the impressionable soul. And i have been sucked in. All my worst fears about people.... men.... love....me as a woman.... confirmed and then immediately contested. It's deliciously intriguing. Usually when reading a book, the reader indulges the author or the narrator. Instead here, Paulo Coelho has indulged me. I feel as if i am the one telling the story and he is indulging my innermost me. It's fabulous.

Here's one of my favourite parts:

"Today while we were walking around the lake, along that strange road to Santiago, the man who was with me- a painter, with a life entirely different from mine- threw a pebble into the water. Small circles appeared where the pebble fell, which grew and grew until they touched a duck that happened to be passing and which had nothing to do with the pebble. Instead of being afraid of that unexpected wave, he decided to play with it.
Some hours before that scene, i went into a cafe, heard a voice, and it was as if God had thrown a pebble into that place. The waves of energy touched both me and a man sitting in a corner painting a portrait. He felt the vibrations of that pebble, and so did i. So what now?
The painter knows when he has found a model. The musician knows when his instrument is well tuned. Here, in my diary, I am aware that there are certain phrases which are not written by me, but by a woman full of 'light'; i am that woman though i refuse to accept it.
I could carry on like this, but i could also, like the duck on the lake, have fun and take pleasure in that sudden ripple that set the water rocking."