Non è mai facile per me raccontare ciò che Saramago è in grado di regalarmi e darmi, ma questa volta cercherò di valicare il confine delle emozioni e essere più razionale possibile per parlare di questo libro.
"Qui dove il mare è finito e la terra attende" si narra la storia di Ricardo Reis, uno degli eteronimi dietro cui si cela la figura di Fernando Pessoa. Saramago introduce la figura di Ricardo Reis presentandoci un medico-poeta che ha vissuto per ben 16 anni in Brasile e che giunge sulle coste del Portogallo scendendo dall'Highland Brigade, la nave che lo porta a casa. Una figura di carne e di sentimenti, di pensieri, di emozioni, di amore,che valica i confini del tempo per entrare nella storia, nel mito.
E mentre il mondo continua a rotolare (vedi la guerra di Spagna), Ricardo Reis alias Fernando Pessoa è il faro che illumina, non solo il Portogallo, ma anche il mondo intero.

4,5 *

Hayal ile gerçek arasında muazzam bir kitap.
Ricardo Reis bir Pessoa karakteri ve bir şekilde (spoiler vermeyeceğim) Pessoa ile karşılaşıyorlar. Pessoa okumadığım için bazı şeyleri kaçırmış olabilirim.
Ancak Saramago ikilinin diyalogları dışında kitaba Avrupa'da yükselen faşizmi, Hitler'i, Salazar'ı da katıyor.

Bir yandan ikili ilişkilere hatta aile olmaya da bakış atıyor.
Saramago'nun 17 kitabını okumuşum ve her seferinde şaşırıyorum adamın düşünce tarzına, fikirlerini lanse etme şekline.

"İnsan dediğin, her şeyden biraz okumalı,..., ne de olsa hayat kısa, dünyanın lafı bol."

Ας ξεκινήσουμε από την Λισαβόνα. Η πρωτεύουσα της Πορτογαλίας έχει πληθυσμό 553 χιλιάδες κατοίκους και είναι μια από τις ομορφότερες πόλεις της Ευρώπης. Κι εμάς τι μας νοιάζει; θα πείτε. Εσάς μπορεί όχι. Εμένα που την έχω επισκεφτεί με νοιάζει. Όχι ο πληθυσμός. Η ίδια η πόλη. Και είναι παρούσα σ' αυτό το μυθιστόρημα του Σαραμάγκου. Εμφανίζεται ευθύς αμέσως με την άφιξη του Ρικάρντο Ρέις στο λιμάνι κι έπειτα μας συνοδεύει σε όλο σχεδόν το βιβλίο. Τι ρόλο λοιπόν έπαιξε η πόλη και όχι το ίδιο το μυθιστόρημα; Όταν ξεκίνησα να διαβάζω, στις πρώτες δεκαπέντε είκοσι σελίδες είχα λίγο 'μπουκώσει'. "Έτσι φλύαρα θα συνεχίσει;" αναρωτιόμουν. "Μ' αυτό τον αργό ρυθμό;" Οι πλατείες, οι δρόμοι, τα σημεία κατατεθέν, τα μνημεία, όλα αυτά λοιπόν δεν μ' άφηναν να το παρατήσω. Και μαζί μ' αυτά, τη νοσταλγία μου, αλλά και τη μαγεία που ξαφνικά μου αποκαλύφθηκε όταν έπαψα να θέλω να επιβάλω στην ανάγνωση έναν γρήγορο ρυθμό εγκλωβίστηκα στο σύμπαν του συγγραφέα χωρίς ούτε καν να μου περνάει απ' το μυαλό πλέον η πιθανότητα να το παρατήσω... Περισσότερα εδώ: https://spirosglykas.blogspot.com/202...

I feel awful saying this, but this book is a pretty dull read. I feel like this admission will require me to hand back my Portuguese passport and sever all ties with certain family members.

Ricardo Reis comes back to Lisbon after 16 years in Brazil and proceeds to have a desultory wander through Lisbon and the lives of two women. Usually in the rain. I appreciate the socio political commentary, if not satire, of a pathetic crypto fascist state agog with the spectacle of the Spanish civil war, I truly loved how the magic of Lisbon is brought to life, and I even appreciated the beautiful monotony of some of the language. In the final reckoning I could not subsume my will into the passive zen like trance the author seemed to expect me to lie in. The pages were counted, a duty was fulfilled but sadly little pleasure was had.

I do feel terribly guilty.

A strange, dreamy book that is as much about how life fades into death as early 20th Century Portuguese history. Saramago's voice dominates every page of the work to the extent that it seems to be a monologue about a fictional figure and not a novel in the traditional sense. Reis, the main character -- other than the narrator -- was a pseudonym used by the poet Fernando Pessoa, and here Saramago imagines his return to Portugal on the occasion of his creator's death after 16 years in Brazil. It was a turbulent time of Marxist revolts and the rise of fascism in Europe, and Reis' support of monarchy and strict social classes is shaken by Franco's bloody rise to power neighboring in Spain and an awkward affair with a hotel chambermaid. Suffused first with rain and then with oppressive heat, the book seems blurred, dropping into the forgetfulness of death that dominates Reis' conversations with a ghostly Pessoa.

While honestly a beautiful book, it is not an easy read, expecting a certain knowledge of Lusitanian history and literature from the audience. Saramago revels in minutiae and the events, weather, and even newspaper ads described in the book were meticulously researched from primary sources -- rich as a representation of period culture, the details can sometimes overwhelm. In addition, dense, confusing sentences and paragraphs that can extend for a half-dozen pages or more are only made more trying by a poor translation that does neither the English nor the Portuguese justice. New translations of all of Saramago's books are in order given his status as a Nobel Prize winner. It is one of those novels where one expects to be rewarded after the brute force required of the reader. I'm not entirely sure the payoff is worth it for most of the audience, but for a few it could be a profound book.

My second time; this time for a class on Pessoa. Combined with ten days in Portugal earlier this year, I was able to appreciate this book on a whole new level. Saramago’s ploy of setting one of Pessoa’s heteronyms loose in the world is brilliant; at once an homage to the master which somehow also reads as a poignant depiction of May-December love (of a sort) amid social commentary that rings true today.

ساراماجو هنا قاسى جدااا منح الابطال كل شىء وخد منهم كل شىء الرواية فيها كل معانى قسوة الحياة الحب والامل والعبثية الحرب والتردد ادتها اربع نجوم لكثرة الجزء السياسى فى اخرها اللى افقدها رونقها فى نظرى

“Ogni lettore legge le storie come unico reale sopravvissuto”

Piove su Lisbona sul finire dell’Anno Domini 1935.
Precisamente è il 30 dicembre e nel porto di Alcanatara sta attraccando una nave che arriva dal Brasile.
A bordo c’è Ricardo Rèis: un nome ideato da Fernando Pessoa a cui Saramago da corpo, forma e voce.
Pessoa è morto ma questo suo eteronimo sopravvive, anzi, torna proprio per la scomparsa del Poeta.

” Ricardo Reis, età quarantotto anni, nato a Porto, stato civile celibe, professione medico, ultima residenza Rio de Janeiro, Brasile, da dove proviene, ha viaggiato sull’Highland Brigade “

Saramago non solo ci porta nei vicoli inerpicanti di Lisbona, nelle sue piazze e nei suoi giardini (dove i vecchi aspettano con ansia di sfogliare giornali che parlano della cronaca nera e distolgono lo sguardo dal nero mantello con cui la Germania sta avvolgendo il Portogallo, l’Italia e la vicina Spagna) ma crea labirinti.
Rèis legge “The God of the labyrinth” di Herbert Quain autore anch’esso inesistente in quanto frutto della fantasia di Borges.
Labirinti nel labirinto, intrecci casuali o meno di cui è fatta la vita.
Pessoa si frazionava nei suoi eteronimi. Un aggrapparsi ad una sopravvivenza moltiplicata che non riusciva a soddisfarsi di una sola voce ma in un ventaglio di possibili versioni.
Vero e menzogna. Realtà storica e immaginazione poetica. Questi i binari di un romanzo in cui a Pessoa morto sono stati concessi ancora otto mesi per completare il suo distacco terreno incontrerà quel Rèis che qui vive la fisicità (il cibi, il esso, la malattia fisica) che il suo creatore ha perso come fosse l’ultima esalazione di un respiro che si fa idea e a cui non rimarrà che sopravvivere nelle parole che ha lasciato.
Saramago è qui nel suo tipico stile di romanzo chiacchierato con quel suo periodare a fiume proprio come la chiacchera di chi ha tanto da dire e si aggrappa le parole spesso perdendo il filo iniziale per l’ansia che ci sia solo il silenzio della solitudine.
(…)le frasi, una volta dette, sono come porte, rimangono aperte, quasi sempre entriamo, ma a volte ce ne restiamo fuori, in attesa che un’altra porta si apra (…)”

Tipico è quell’amaro sarcasmo che guarda alla Storia dei popoli e fa parlare il monarchico Reìs di ciò che accade dall’ariana Germania alla terra lusitana.
La dittatura di Salazar e la sua ideale alleanza con il nazismo e il fascismo, la guerra civile spagnola e il falangismo, l’Anschluss e la guerra di Etiopia…
I colloqui con Pessoa, invece, si collocano su dimensioni più interiori.
Giochi di parole, giochi di specchi.
Un libro che rileggerò quando avrò più bagaglio perché i rimandi a Pessoa sono tanti e vanno letti.
Tante, tante sottolineature.
Una fra le altre:

"Ricardo Reis abbassa il giornale, si guarda nello specchio, superficie due volte ingannevole perché riproduce uno spazio profondo e lo nega mostrandolo come mera proiezione, dove nulla accade davvero, solo il fantasma esteriore e muto delle persone e delle cose, albero che s’inclina sul lago, volto che in esso si cerca senza che le immagini di albero e di volto lo turbino,
o lo alterino, o almeno lo tocchino. Lo specchio, questo come tutti, perché sempre restituiscono un’apparenza, è protetto contro l’uomo, davanti a lui non siamo altro che quel che in quel momento siamo, o siamo stati, come uno che prima di partire per la guerra del millenovecentoquattordici si fosse rimirato
nell’uniforme che indossava, avesse guardato qualcosa più che se stesso, senza sapere che in questo specchio non si guarderà più, la vanità è anche questo, ciò che non dura. Così è lo specchio, sopporta, ma, se può rifiuta. Ricardo Reis ha distolto lo sguardo, cambia posto, gli dà, rifiutando, o rifiutato, le spalle. E magari lo rifiuta perché è specchio anche lui."

5 March 2025 - added during third read through. In light of all that is going on in the world right now, and Ukraine in particular following the disgusting display from Trump and his minions, it felt right to quote this passage here:


"Addis Ababa, such a poetic name, such a handsome race, it means New Flower. Addis Ababa is in flames, her streets covered with dead bodies, marauders are destroying homes, committing rape, looting and beheading women and children as Badoglio's troops approach. The Negus has fled to French Somalia, from where he will sail to Palestine aboard a British cruiser, and later, toward the end of the month, before a solemn gathering of the League of Nations in Geneva he will ask, What reply should I take back to my people. But after he speaks, no one replies, and before he got up to speak, he was jeered by the Italian journalists. Let us show tolerance, it is well known that nationalist fanaticism can easily dim one's intelligence, so he that is without sin, let him cast the first stone. Addis Ababa is in flames, her streets are covered with dead bodies, marauders are destroying homes, committing rape, looting and beheading women and children, as Badoglio's troops approach. Mussolini declared, This remarkable achievement has sealed the fate of Ethiopia, and the wise Marconi warned, Those who would seek to offer resistance to Italy are committing the most dangerous of follies, and Anthony Eden argued, Circumstances advise the lifting of sanctions, and The Manchester Guardian, speaking for the British Government, said, There are many reasons why colonies should be handed over to Germany, and Goebbels said, The League of Nations is a good thing but flying squadrons are better. Addis Ababa is in flames, her streets are covered with dead bodies, marauders are destroying homes, committing rape, looting, beheading women and children, as Badoglio's troops approach, Addis Ababa was in flames, homes burned, castles were sacked, bishops stripped, women raped by knights, their children pawns skewered with swords, and blood flowed in the streets. A shadow crosses the mind of Ricardo Reis."


....ORIGINAL REVIEW BELOW.....

There are certain writers, and Saramago is clearly one of them, whose voice is so well defined we can recognise it within a few words. Even his less successful Novels are intensely pleasurable for me to read, simply because I love spending time in the presence of his voice (as translated by the wonderful Giovanni Pontiero of course). And here, in this text, we open the first page and read as follows:

”Here the sea ends and the earth begins. It is raining over the colourless city. The waters of the river are polluted with mud, the riverbanks flooded. A dark vessel, the Highland Brigade, ascends the sombre river and is about to anchor at the quay of Alcântara. The steamer is English and belongs to the Royal Mail Line. She crosses the Atlantic between London and Buenos Aires like a weaving shuttle on the highways of the sea, backward and forward, always calling at the same ports, La Plata, Montevideo, Santos, Rio de Janeiro, Pernambuco, Las Palmas, in this order or vice versa, and unless she is shipwrecked, the steamer will also call at Vigo and Boulogne-sur-Mer before finally entering the Thames just as she is now entering the Tagus, and one does not ask which is the greater river, which the greater town.”

There is so much to love in this paragraph alone – all those illimitable “e”s in the first sentence, the melancholic suggestiveness of the rain, the dark vessel, the sombre river…The foreshadowing of the “Eternal Return” in the repetitious journey of the steamer…

I don’t know. For me, such a paragraph is enough to inspire trust and guarantee a committed reading.

There were a few of his novels that were fighting for a place in my Most Elite shelf (Worshiped and Adored being the most accurate description of my feelings for these texts), this one won out partly, I think, because it is woven tight to Pessoa, another of my literary loves (though I don’t think knowledge of his work is a prerequisite for reading this novel).

Regardless, I shall end with a quote from Reis himself:

“Numberless live in us;

I think or feel, ignorant

Of who is thinking or feeling.

I am only the place where

Someone feels or thinks.



I have more than one soul.

There are more I’s than I.

Even so I exist

Indifferent to them all.

I silence them: I speak.



Crossed impulses of that

Which I feel or do not feel

Dispute in who I am.

I ignore them. They dictate nothing

To whom I know I am: I write. “ - Ricardo Reis (Pessoa)

ساراماغو يأخذ بتلابيب القارئ منذ الصفحات الأولى ولا يفلته حتى الصفحة الأخيرة
رواية متعددة الطبقات,مراوغة ومعقدة, صعبة وممتعة, مكتوبة بإزميل نحّات وريشة رسّام بآنٍ
معاً.
أدب رفيع المستوى لا يكتبه سوى القلائل.. وساراماغو واحد منهم بالتأكيد

Poets, even if they are among us, live in another land where everything is different…

Films, like poetry, are the art of illusion, by adjusting a mirror you can transform a bog into the ocean.

This simple comparison really bares the soul of poetry – shift a vantage point just a wee bit and the whole world will be seen in a new marvellous light.

A poet does not ask that his muses speak, only that they exist, Neaera, Lydia, Chloe.

The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis is much more than just a tribute to the great poet – it is a resurrection of one poet in the consciousness of the other.

In a changing, uncertain confluence, as the river is formed by its waves, so contemplate your days, and if you see yourself pass as another, be silent.

Poets depart for eternity but their poetry stays with us.