Quote by Paulo Coelho

Travelling to past lives is like making a hole in the floor and letting the flames of the fire in the apartment below scorch and burn the present


Travelling to past lives is like making a hole in the floor

Summary

This quote suggests that dwelling on past lives or constantly revisiting past experiences can have negative consequences on the present. The analogy used implies that just as making a hole in the floor allows the flames below to cause damage, delving too much into the past can hinder growth and progress in the current life. It emphasizes the importance of focusing on the present moment and not getting consumed by past events, as it can potentially hinder personal development and fulfillment.

By Paulo Coelho
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Random Quotations

As she came up to the arch Elizabeth saw with a start that it was written on. She went closer. She peered at the stone. There were names on it. Every grain of the surface had been carved with British names; their chiselled capitals rose from the level of her ankles to the height of the great arch itself; on every surface of every column as far as her eyes eyes could see there were names teeming, reeling, over surfaces of yards, of hundreds of yards, over furlongs of stone.She moved through the space beneath the arch where the man was sweeping. She found the other pillas identically marked, their faces obliterated on all sides by the names that were carved on them.'Who are these, these ...?; She gestured with her hand.''These?' The man with the brush sounded surprised. 'The lost.''Men who died in battle?''No. The lost, the ones they did not find. The others are in cemetries.''These are just the ... unfound?'She looked at the vault above her head and then around in panic at the endless writing, as though the surface of the sky had been papered in footnotes.When she could speak again, she said, 'from the whole war?'The man shook his head. 'Just these fields.' He gestured with his arm.Elizabeth went and sat on the steps on the other side of the monument. Beneath her was a formal garden with some rows of white headstones, each with a tended plant or flower at its base, each cleaned and beautiful in the weak winter sunlight.'Nobody told me.' She ran her fingers with their red-painted nails back through her thick dark hair. 'My God, nobody told me.

Sebastian Faulks, 'Birdsong' p.