Adultery: When Being Ignored Feels Worse Than Being Wrong

Paulo Coelho writes books where ordinary dissatisfaction becomes spiritual crisis. Where everyday problems get reframed as cosmic questions. Where someone’s personal mess somehow reveals universal truths.

Adultery tries to do this. It follows Linda—a woman with a stable marriage, two kids, a comfortable life—who’s bored. Restless. Feeling like something’s missing even though she has everything she thought she wanted.

So she has an affair. And then the book tries to convince you this is about searching for meaning, about confronting desire, about spiritual awakening.

But here’s what it actually shows: a woman who can’t stand not being the center of attention. Who mistakes obsession for passion. Who directs cruelty at anyone or anything that reminds her she’s not special. And who, when things get messy, gets handed philosophical explanations that let her off the hook for never actually looking at herself.

This isn’t a story about mid-life crisis or losing your mind. It’s about someone so fragile that the moment life stops revolving around her, she lashes out—and then gets rewarded with spiritual wisdom instead of consequences.

Terrified of Everything, Committed to Nothing

Linda starts the book caught between two fears: the terror of change and the terror of everything staying the same.

That’s interesting, actually. Because most of us live in that tension. We’re scared things will change. But also scared they won’t. We want something different but we’re too afraid to reach for it.

But with Linda, this tension doesn’t create complexity. It creates paralysis that quickly turns into aggression.

She’s not brave enough to change anything real. Not strong enough to accept things as they are. So she does the one thing that feels like action without actually requiring courage: she starts an affair.

Not because she’s in love. Not even because she’s genuinely attracted to this man. But because wanting him—obsessing over him—gives her something to feel. Makes her feel alive in a way her actual life apparently doesn’t.

The problem is, the book never really interrogates this. Never asks: why does Linda need drama to feel real? Why can’t she find meaning in the life she has? Why does desire for someone who treats her badly feel more authentic than love from someone who actually cares?

Instead, it just follows her as she spirals. And then, later, offers her philosophy to make it all make sense.

The Marianne Problem: When Envy Looks Like Desire

There’s a woman named Marianne. Beautiful. Confident. The kind of woman who seems effortlessly put together.

And Linda hates her. Deeply, viciously hates her.

Not because Marianne did anything to her. But because Marianne has what Linda wants—or thinks she wants. Attention. Ease. That quality of being desired without needing to chase it.

The thoughts Linda has about Marianne are revealing. She doesn’t just envy her. She wants to destroy her. Wants to see her broken, humiliated, reduced.

This isn’t rivalry. This is projection. Linda is looking at Marianne and seeing everything she feels she’s lacking. And instead of dealing with that—instead of asking why she feels so inadequate—she redirects all that rage outward.

This is one of the most honest parts of the book. Because this is how insecurity actually works. You don’t just feel bad about yourself. You also resent anyone who reminds you of what you’re not.

But again, the book doesn’t push this. Doesn’t make Linda confront what her hatred of Marianne says about her. It just shows you the hatred and moves on.

The Cornered Tiger Who Never Questions the Cage

Linda describes herself as a cornered tiger. Trapped. With no option but to attack.

Except she’s not trapped. She has a husband who loves her. Children who need her. A comfortable life. Options for therapy, self-reflection, honest conversation about what she’s feeling.

She just doesn’t want any of that. Because those things would require looking inward. Admitting that maybe the problem isn’t her circumstances but something in how she sees herself. Something in how she needs to be desired to feel valuable.

The “cornered tiger” framing is convenient. It makes aggression look like survival. Makes selfishness look like instinct.

But in my opinion, Linda isn’t cornered. She’s just convinced herself that attack is easier than examination.

The Poodle: A Window Into Something Darker

Here’s where the book accidentally tells you something it doesn’t mean to.

Linda has a history of cruelty. Specifically, when she was younger and couldn’t have something she wanted—a man who loved his dog more than/as much as—she hurt his dog. A poodle. Something small and voiceless that couldn’t defend itself.

The book mentions this almost in passing. Like it’s just an example of Linda being “passionate” or “extreme.”

But think about what that actually means.

She couldn’t handle being second. Couldn’t tolerate that someone not seeing her as the center of everything. And instead of dealing with those feelings, she took them out on an innocent creature that had nothing to do with the situation.

That’s not passion. That’s cruelty. That’s targeting the most vulnerable thing available because you can’t touch the person who actually hurt you or not ready to reflect on yourself.

And the fact that the book doesn’t treat this as a massive red flag—that it just moves past it like it’s a quirky character detail—tells you something about how it sees Linda.

It sees her as troubled. Conflicted. Complex.

But what it shows is someone who’s been violent when denied attention. Who displaces rage onto the helpless. Who has a pattern of this behavior, not just a one-time crisis.

This isn’t mid-life boredom. This is something that was already there, just waiting for the right trigger.

Parables That Explain Too Much

Coelho loves parables. Little stories-within-stories that are supposed to illuminate universal truths.

Adultery has several. Porcupines in the Ice Age learning to balance closeness and distance. A mouse who becomes a tiger but stays terrified inside.

These are meant to help you understand Linda’s situation. To show that her struggles are universal. That desire and fear and insecurity are part of the human condition.

And sure, that’s true. Everyone struggles with these things.

But the parables also do something else: they universalize Linda’s specific failures in a way that excuses them.

Because if everyone is like the porcupines—struggling to get close without getting hurt—then Linda’s affair isn’t really her fault. It’s just human nature. Just the inevitable result of that universal struggle.

If she’s the mouse-turned-tiger—still carrying all her old fears inside—then her cruelty and obsession aren’t choices. They’re just manifestations of deep-seated insecurity everyone has.

The parables give philosophical cover for never actually holding Linda accountable for her actions.

The Cuban Shaman and Convenient Clarity

About halfway through, when the narrative starts losing momentum and Linda’s spiraling seems directionless, a Cuban shaman appears.

This is classic Coelho. When his characters get too lost, when the psychological mess gets too complicated, spiritual intervention arrives to provide clarity.

The shaman gives Linda answers. Frameworks for understanding what she’s going through. Ways to see her confusion as meaningful rather than just destructive.

And later, there are more philosophical moments. Eagles as symbols. Lessons about acceptance and consciousness. The usual Coelho blend of Eastern philosophy, pop psychology, and spiritual reassurance.

These moments aren’t bad, exactly. The philosophy is generally sound. Thoughts will arise. You can’t suppress them. You have to deal with them consciously.

But they feel imported. Like they’re being dropped into the story from outside rather than emerging organically from Linda’s actual experience.

And they arrive at suspiciously convenient moments. Right when you might start questioning whether Linda deserves sympathy. Right when her behavior is getting hard to defend.

Suddenly: wisdom. Suddenly: context that makes it all okay. Suddenly: a framework that turns selfishness into self-discovery.

The Man Who Gives Her Nothing

The man Linda obsesses over treats her terribly.

He doesn’t respect her. He objectifies women openly. He’s dismissive, cold, only interested in her when it’s convenient for him.

And she keeps going back.

Meanwhile, her husband loves her. Actually loves her. He’s patient, supportive, trying to understand what’s happening to her. He references Psyche and Eros—offers her a beautiful metaphor about love and trust.

And Linda feels… nothing. No guilt. No recognition of what she’s throwing away. No appreciation for being loved this steadily, this loyally.

This is the emotional disconnect at the heart of the book.

Why does the man who treats her badly feel more real than the man who treats her well? Why does being objectified feel more like desire than being cherished?

The book never really answers this. It shows you the pattern but doesn’t interrogate what it means.

And without that interrogation, Linda just seems shallow. Like she only values attention, not love. Like being wanted feels more important than being known.

Philosophy Declared, Not Demonstrated

By the end, Adultery wants to arrive at a message about accepting your thoughts, dealing with desire consciously, not suppressing what you feel.

That’s a good message. True, even.

But the book doesn’t really demonstrate it. It just declares it.

Linda doesn’t grow through genuine self-examination. She doesn’t confront her pattern of cruelty or her need to be the center of attention. She doesn’t grapple with why she hurts the people who love her.

Instead, she gets philosophical explanations that reframe everything she’s done as… what? A spiritual journey? A necessary exploration of desire? A cosmic lesson?

The philosophy arrives to paper over the lack of real psychological work.

And that’s unsatisfying. Because you can sense the book wants to say something profound about human nature and desire. But it never earns that profundity through the character’s actual journey.

It just imports it at the end and asks you to accept that Linda has learned something, grown somehow, even though nothing in her actual behavior suggests real change.

Who This Book Works For

Adultery will resonate with some readers and frustrate others. Be honest with yourself about which camp you’re likely in.

You might connect with this if:

• You’re a Coelho fan who enjoys his spiritual framing
• You’re interested in unlikeable protagonists
• You don’t need characters to be accountable for their actions
• You value philosophical messaging over psychological realism
• You’re okay with wisdom arriving conveniently to resolve messy situations
• You find comfort in universalizing personal failures

You’ll probably be frustrated if:

• You expect character growth to come through consequences, not just revelation
• You want emotional accountability
• You need protagonists to actually look at themselves honestly
• You’re uncomfortable with cruelty being explained away as complexity
• You want psychology that feels grounded rather than spiritualized
• You think desire and obsession should be distinguished, not conflated

This is a book for readers who want to feel like chaos has meaning. Who want reassurance that messy feelings are actually profound. Who prefer philosophical comfort over psychological honesty.

What the Book Actually Shows You

Strip away the spiritual framing, the parables, the philosophical interludes. What does Adultery actually show you?

A woman who can’t stand not being the center of attention. Who lashes out when ignored. Who mistakes obsession for desire and drama for meaning. Who hurts people—and animals—when she doesn’t get what she wants. Who returns repeatedly to someone who treats her badly because being wanted badly feels more real than being loved well.

And who, in the end, gets handed explanations that make it all okay. That turn her selfishness into self-discovery. That reframe her cruelty as complexity.

The book wants to be about confronting desire. About dealing with thoughts consciously. About the human struggle to balance closeness and autonomy.

But what it actually is: a story about someone so fragile that not being desired feels like death. So insecure that other people’s happiness feels like a personal attack. So unwilling to look inward that she needs philosophy delivered from outside to make sense of her own behavior.