I’m terrified to no longer be sharing air with José Saramago, like somehow it’s not as pure anymore.
“Blindness” is one the greatest things that’s ever happened to me. When I finished it I spent a few days fantasizing about sending Saramago a letter, which I never did. It would probably have been a useless endeavor anyway, what with all the enamored readers sending stuff in. I would have been a lot closer to him, though, since we both lived in the same country. I would have saved on postage.
I don’t know. I’m just sad.
My father returns from Madrid with a book for me. It’s “Death at Intervals”, a José Saramago I have not read. There is a short biography on the first page, and a small part of it reads: “…which have been translated into forty languages and have established him as Portugal’s most influential living writer.”
Surprisingly, this doesn’t feel like the error of an outdated edition. Immortality doesn’t always remain an element of fiction. Once again I am reminded that being a genius and a writer ((and successful, of course, but that has more to do with luck and connections and public opinion rather than ability, as evidenced by the popularity of Twilight blah blah MAN ARE FOOTNOTES COOL OR WHAT?!))has its perks: you never really die.
I have decided not to be sad about this death anymore.