Ο Σαραμάγκου είναι από εκείνο��ς τους συγγραφείς που ξέρεις πως ό,τι και να γράψει καλό θα είναι, άσχημα δε θα περάσεις. Ίσως σε δυσκολέψει λίγο, αλλά στο τέλος θα βγεις στην άλλη πλευρά ευχαριστημένος και με την πεποίθηση ότι διάβασες κάτι που άξιζε τον όποιο κόπο. Έχει αυτό το σπινθηροβόλο πνεύμα που μαγνητίζει το μυαλό του αναγνώστη και, συνδυασμένο με το πολύ προσωπικό του στιλ με τις μακρές περιόδους δίνει έναν ρυθμό που δεν σου επιτρέπει να το αφήσεις πριν ολοκληρώσει το νόημα. Για όσους ξέρουν από μουσική, ο λόγος του Σαραμάγκου είναι ό,τι πιο κοντινό (εξωμουσικά) έχω δει σε φράση. Θα έκανα και μια αναλογία περί της δομής που οδηγεί στο κρεσέντο, αλλά φοβάμαι πως αυτό είναι πολύ κλισέ, οπότε λέω να το κόψω στο μοντάζ.

Στα του βιβλίου τώρα, πρόκειται (ως συνήθως) για ένα πολύ ιδιαίτερο έργο. Βρισκόμαστε στο έτος 1937, η Πορτογαλία είναι υπό το καθεστώς της δικτατορίας του Σαλαζάρ και το φάντασμα του φασισμού έχει αρχίσει να ίπταται πάνω από την Ευρώπη. Όλα αυτά υπάρχουν μέσα στο βιβλίο και τα βλέπουμε να εξελίσσονται μέσα από την ιστορία του κεντρικού ήρωα Ρικάρντο Ρέις. Η οποία ιστορία είναι η βραδυφλεγής πορεία του ήρωα προς το θάνατο (μην ακούσω χαζά για spoilers, το λέει στον τίτλο). Παρακολουθούμε λοιπόν το τελευταίο έτος στη ζωή του Ρικάρντο Ρέις, ποιητή και γιατρού που επιστρέφει στην πατρίδα του, τη Λισαβόνα, όταν πληροφορείται το θάνατο του Φερνάντο Πεσσόα, με τον οποίο ξεκινά μία σχέση διαλόγου που διατρέχει όλο το βιβλίο. Η ιδιαιτερότητα προφανώς έγκειται στο ότι ο Ρικάρντο Ρέις είναι ετερώνυμος του ίδιου του Φερνάντο Πεσσόα (και άλλοι ετερώνυμοι αναφέρονται μέσα στο βιβλίο ως αυτοτελή πρόσωπα). Οι συζητήσεις προφανώς περιστρέφονται γύρω από τα θέματα που θα συζητούσαν ένας ζωντανός ποιητής με έναν νεκρό ποιητή, δηλαδή την ποίηση, τη ζωή και το θάνατο, τον έρωτα.

Ο Σαραμάγκου επιλέγει τις λέξεις που θα χρησιμοποιήσει με προσοχή, με περίσκεψη και φροντίδα. Αυτή είναι η βασική δουλειά του λογοτέχνη γενικώς, συνήθως όμως είναι μια διεργασία εσωτερική, μια άσκηση που εκτελεί ο συγγραφέας μόνος του και ο αναγνώστης μόνο ένα μικρό μέρος αυτής της δύσκολης προσπάθειας μπορεί να συλλάβει και να κατανοήσει. Γιατί ο αναγνώστης εκτίθεται μόνο στο τελικό έργο, απολαμβάνει το αποτέλεσμα της δουλειάς και συχνά δεν υποψιάζεται καν πόσο επίπονη ήταν αυτή η δουλειά που απαιτείται για να παραχθεί το συγκεκριμένο βιβλίο. Ο θείος Ζοζέ κάνει όμως κάτι άλλο, επιλέγει λέξεις μπροστά σου, σου παραθέτει εναλλακτικές μορφές του λόγου, σου προσφέρει δυνητικές ερμηνείες της πραγματικότητας, σε μυεί στα μυστικά της τέχνης του και τελικά σου παραδίδει ένα έργο με πολλαπλές σημάνσεις, από τις οποίες μπορείς να επιλέξεις μία ή περισσότερες - και το πιθανότερο είναι πως αν το ξαναδιαβάσεις, θα εισπράξεις κάτι διαφορετικό, θα σκεφτείς κάτι άλλο, θα ανακαλύψεις ένα επίπεδο διαφορετικού βάθους από εκείνο που είδες στην πρώτη ανάγνωση. Ανάλογα με τη χρονική στιγμή που θα σε πετύχει, μπορεί, τελικά, να διαβάσεις ένα άλλο βιβλίο.

Στο τέλος (περίπου το 1/4 θα έλεγα, ίσως λίγο λιγότερο) κάνει μια ελαφριά στροφή προς τα έξω, αλλάζει λίγο την εστίαση για να ασχοληθεί με το γενικότερο πολιτικό πλαίσιο της εποχής στην Ισπανία (άνοδος του Φράνκο) και για εμένα εκεί το χάνει λίγο. Δε χάνεται τελείως η επαφή με την οπτική του Ρικάρντο Ρέις, όμως η εσωτερικότητα που κυριαρχεί σε όλο το βιβλίο σα να σβήνει και παραπέμπει περισσότερο σε κοινωνικοπολιτική ανάλυση και λιγότερο σε οργανικό μέρος της ιστορίας. Σα να θυσιάζει το ύφος του και τη δομή του για να μιλήσει για κάτι που θεωρεί σημαντικό, σαν το τελικό κρεσέντο (δεν την απέφυγα τελικά την κλισεδιά) να κείται εκτός του πλαισίου που είχε τεθεί στην αρχή. Ίσως δε θα το είχα σκεφτεί καν αν δεν ήταν τόσο ατμοσφαιρικό το βιβλίο μέχρι εκείνο το σημείο. Άλλωστε κάποιος μπορεί να πει ότι αυτό είναι το πιο ενδιαφέρον κομμάτι (εκεί γίνεται επιτέλους κάτι, βρε αδερφέ!), αλλά εμένα δε με συγκίνησε.

Αγαπημένος Ζοζέ Σαραμάγκου. Δεν είναι το αγαπημένο μου δικό του, αλλά το αγάπησα και αυτό.

Em 1988, uma das curvas apertadas da vida (serviço militar), desaguou-me em Mafra. Pareceu-me, então, ser uma excelente altura para, lendo o Memorial do Convento, iniciar-me em Saramago de quem tanto ouvira e nada houvera lido - e o muito que ouvira era essencialmente político e pouco abonatório. Adiante.
Não consegui terminar as andanças de Blimunda e Baltasar Sete-Sóis: habituado a outros cânones literários (Steinbeck, Hemingway, então os meus faróis), o estilo de Saramago era-me desconfortável.
Muitos anos volvidos, foi-me veementemente recomendado por alguém cujas leituras não merecem reparo. E assim, volvidos quase 30 anos, aventurei-me a pegar neste O Ano da Morte de Ricardo Reis.
Em boa hora o fiz, o livro é espantoso, lê-lo é (foi) um prazer. Fazem-se descobertas: a erudição de Saramago é um dado adquirido, sabe-se pelos dados biográficos que foi um auto-didacta, um rato de biblioteca - a sua biblioteca em Lanzarote faz-nos perder o ar! Mas do seu seu sentido de humor, não suspeitava. Nem do seu extraordinário talento com as palavras, usando um vocabulário que, não sendo extenso, é rigoroso e preciso.
"... quando o que em nós pensa está apenas sentindo..." ou "há circunstâncias em que calar-se é mentir." são modestos exemplos, que me ocorrem ao correr da pena, da genialidade das frases simples.
Camillo era um sarcástico verrinoso. Eça, um humorista de fina ironia. Saramago é a síntese de ambos, sem perder a originalidade.
Gostei tanto que, limpo o pó de trinta anos, voltei ao Memorial, com renovada expectativa. Oxalá não me arrependa.

تلك رواية من الروايات التي تشعر معها بالتناقض ، ربما تشعر بملل في مرحلة ما منها ولكنك لا تستطيع أن تتركها فلها طعم ما بروحك أو في رواسب الذاكرة تجعلك تحن بها إلى قديم كطعم الليالي الشتوية والوحدة الليلية مع مشروبك الساخن .

ليديا وريكاردو ، في الوهلة الأولى تظن أن علاقتهما محض علاقة جنسية لكن بمرور الصفحات تجد علامات العلاقة بينهما تتضح وتتعقد أكثر ، علاقة هي رغبة في التواصل ، في وجود رفيق لك ويد تحنو عليك ، رغبة من ريكاردو في وجود رفيق له في غربة ضربت عليه في وطنه الذي انقطعت بينه وإياه الروابط ، ورغبة منها في الشعور بالاتصال بأحد يراها في وسط ذلك الزخم الكبير وهي المنسية بغرفات الفندق الضخم بالعاصمة الكبيرة التي تسحق روحها .

مارسيندا وريكاردو ، العلاقة التي يراها ريكاردو مثالية ، ويطمح إليها في تطلع منه لمثل أعلى ممثل في تلك البريئة الجميلة صاحبة الاعاقة ، ربما هي شفقة منه عليها وهي النموذج الغير مكتمل للجمال .

وروح فرناندو بسوا التي تلوح في الأفق لشخص شخصيته المتخيلة ريكاردو ريس في كل طاريء.
ربما الرواية في حد ذاتها هي تحدي للعنة الزمن في النسيان ، هي تخليد لروح بسوا في شخص ريكاردو ريس ، تحدي لمقولة درويش : تنسى كأنك لم تكن ..."و أعتقد أنه نجح كثيرا في تحديها.

"أنشاص"

Saldi melancholija. Skaičiau vis atsiversdamas Fernando Pessoa "Poezijos rinktinę":
http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/11...
Šias dvi knygas galėtų pardavinėti komplekte.

It's funny how synchronicity can work. In Lisboa, we visited the Saramago museum and the ticket person told me to hang on to my ticket for a discount at the La casa do Fernando Pessoa. Who? One of Portugal's great 20th century poets. We went there and enjoyed ourselves, picking up some of his poetry including his "Odes by Ricardo Reis." Why that book? The name sounded familiar and in Seville, I found out why. José Saramago wrote a book called "El año de la muerte de Ricardo Reis."

After reading Fernanado Pessoa's "Odes by Ricardo Reis," it was only natural to read "The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis." So one must admit it's a little weird to read the story of a character, a completely fictional creation by Pessoa (one of his many creations). So it's even weirder when I read that after Reis lands at the docks of Sodré, he stays at the Hotel Bragança at the base of la rua do Alecrim. That's funny, because we stayed at an apartment in the same location. Checked Google maps and I discovered that it's the building across the street. Wow, I am amazed!

Now the book itself is an amazing read. Ricardo Reis returns from living 16 years in Brazil after hearing of the death of Fernando Pessoa. During his stay in the hotel he starts relationships with two women. The maid Lidia goes to bed with him (enchanted by her name because Lidia is a name commonly used in Reis' poems) while he falls in love with Marcenda, the daughter of Doctor Sampaio from Coimbra. Marcenda and her father visit monthly Lisboa to see doctors trying to cure her lame arm. However, Reis uses his doctor position to see Marcenda more with his hopes of assisting her. At the same time, Reis enjoys Lidia more for her housework, and later the bedroom antics but can't let go of Marcenda. The classic love triangle develops.

Enter Fernando Pessoa. Yes, one of the best parts of the book are the ghostly visits of dead Pessoa with Reis. Pessoa often acts as his conscious, or sometimes to mock him. It's truly great fun.

Yet, the most amazing part is that this is not just a simple romance. Underlining the entire story is the politics of the day. Reis arrives shortly after Pessoa's death in November 1935 and he constantly picks up newspapers to read the headlines. As the year develops, things change greatly in Spain, his native Portugal and of course in Germany and Italy. As the story develops, the politics entangle our poor Doctor Reis. No spoiler here but even I was surprised with what happens. It's a great yarn.

Saramago plays with us through this simple character. We never really find out what he did in Brazil for 16 years, nor learn much about his departure for Brazil. And that is okay because it is the action of Reis throughout that people's the story along. Where Pessoa created this fictitious poet; Saramago brings him to live caught in the social-political changes of the day. The visits to Fátima and a right wing rally exemplify this. On one hand, we see how the religious fervour devours the simple pilgrim; on the other, the political rally devours poor Reis. Saramago is very astute, profound and disturbing (and funny) with these two events.

Despite how strange the synchronicity occurred to me while reading this book, the story once again proves the mastery of Saramago.

..... Και το χειρότερο απ’ όλα ίσως να μην είναι οι ειπωμένες λέξεις και οι πεπραγμένες πράξεις, το χειρότερο, όντας εντελώς ανεπανόρθωτη, είναι η χειρονομία που δεν έκανα, η λέξη που δεν είπα, εκείνο που θα είχε δώσει νόημα στο πεπραγμένο και στο ειπωμένο ...,

Η χρονιά κλείνει με ένα υπέροχο βιβλίο για μένα το καλύτερο του Σαραμάγκου που έχω διαβάσει ως τώρα
Δεν ξέρω αν είμαι και πολύ αντικειμενική δεδομένης της αδυναμίας που έχω στον Πεσσόα και στο πόσο καιρό περίμενα να διαβάσω αυτό το βιβλίο

Εδώ συναντάμε ένα Ρικάρντο Ρέις ανθρώπινο που έχει σχέση με γυναίκες, ερωτεύεται και συνομιλεί με τον νεκρό πλέον Fernando και για άλλη μια φορά προσπαθεί να αναλύσει το μεγάλο ερώτημα την στάση ζωής και θανάτου ως επιλογή

.... Οι ζωντανοί όμως είναι ανίκανοι να μάθουν ένα θεμελιώδες πράγμα και να επωφεληθούν από αυτό, Ποιο, ότι πεθαίνουν, εμείς οι ζωντανοί το ξέρουμε ότι θα πεθάνουμε, δεν το ξέρετε, κανείς δεν το ξέρει, όπως ούτε εγώ το ήξερα όταν ζούσα, αυτό που ξέρουμε όντως είναι ότι οι άλλοι πεθαίνουν.

Ατμοσφαιρική Λισαβόνα το 1936 που σπαράζεται από τον ισπανικό εμφύλιο και τον επικείμενο δεύτερο παγκόσμιο στην Ευρώπη
Δυστυχώς και όπως είναι φυσικό στο τέλος το ερώτημα δεν απαντάται παρά μόνο οι δύο ετερώνυμοι χάνονται
«Εδώ όπου η θάλασσα τελείωσε και η στεριά περιμένει»

ΥΓ Συστήνεται ανεπιφύλακτα!

Χρησιμοποιώντας τον κόσμο του φανταστικού που τόσο καλά ξέρει ο Saramago προσπαθεί να συνδέσει τα διάφορα πρόσωπα του Πεσσόα με τις συνθήκες της εποχής που έζησε, ωραίο και ευφάνταστο εγχείρημα...Ο συγγραφέας μέσα από το φανταστικό παρουσιάζει μια σκληρή αλήθεια, όσο αδιάφορος παρατηρητής και να έχεις υπάρξει αποκλείεται να μη σε έχουν καθορίσει έστω και ασυνείδητα οι συνθήκες της εποχής που υπήρξες

Truth to tell, I was expecting to fall in love with the guy (I mean Ricardo Reis) but no, eventually I have turned myself against such a male prototype. Sadly, this man appears to have nothing else to do, he sleeps, eats, strolls, and composes poetry line by line with much effort, agonizing over rhyme and meter.

When I just recall that It all started so nicely, almost softly adorning a picture of an interesting novel hero...≪ A grizzled fellow, skin and bones […] resumes his existence on terra firma… Betraying for the first time a slight Brazilian accent…reading a book called The God of the Labyrinth by Herbert Quain, attracted to it by the ennui of the voyage and book’s evocative title. A labyrinth with a god, what god might be, which labyrinth, what labyrinthine god. ≫
So, it happened that I was much curious and anxious (same as the policeman in the novel) to get a more detailed acquaintance with this Portuguese doctor (poet, too) who was earning a good living in Brazil, who returned after sixteen years in his native land of Lisbon, Portugal, who has been living in a hotel for two months and he does not work!‼ [how can one allow oneself such luxury nowadays], although he used to coquettish with the idea of resuming his practice…
But Ricardo Reis, serious by nature, often felt a repressed Dionysian turmoil stirring within. Only the fear of his own body prevented him from throwing himself into wild frenzy (such for example the Carnival on the streets of Lisbon), as we never know how such things will end…Especially when we talk about samba, the samba, that tremor in one’s soul. Ha.

I wished there had been more dialogues and/or monologues with/by Fernando Pessoa. To my ever-constant, slightly growing regret during the course of reading there is just a bit of what I expected and wished for, and it could never satisfy any recurrent hunger especially on such themes as elaborated by Fernando Pessoa.
However, there is a (very) big plus after finishing the novel. I felt there are too many gaps or voids to fill in to my mental self so I just have to get back with re-reading him. I have actually started immediately and opening my favorite (so far) The Book of Disquiet I dived exactly on the page where the poet described what Freedom should stand for…and I agree.
≪.. Two words about the poet’s [Fernando Pessoa] earthly passage. For him two words suffice, or none. Indeed, silence would be preferable, the silence that already enshrouds both him and us and which is in keeping with his temperament, for what is close to God is close to him. Yet those who were his peers in extolling beauty should not, could not have allowed him to descend into earth, or rather ascend to the final horizons of Eternity without voicing their protest, calm yet aggrieved at this departure, the companions of Orpheus, more brothers than companions, who pursued the same ideal of beauty, they could not, I repeat, abandon him in this final resting place without having showered his gentle death with the white lilies of silence and suffering. We mourn the man whom death takes from us, and the loss of his miraculous talent and the grace of his human presence, but only the man do we mourn, for destiny endowed his spirit and creative powers with a mysterious beauty that cannot perish. The rest belongs to the genius of Fernando Pessoa. Come now, come now, exceptions can fortunately still be found to the normal rules of life. Since the time of Hamlet we have been going around saying, The rest is silence, in the end it’s genius that takes care of the rest, and if this genius can do it, perhaps another genius can too≫.

In one word (few actually), I feel this novel is like a long and lovely prose ode of the lonely…There are hundreds of sentences, huge blocks of texts, where (anti)-hero Ricardo Reis is utterly companionless by his own nature, self, caprice or forcefully, and, eventually, solitude weighs on him like night, and the night devours him like bait…

≪ Ricardo Reis is ready to leave. He has no one waiting for him…The sensible thing would be to stay at home… He has papers to arrange, books waiting to be read, and decisions to make, what kind of future does he want, what kind of job, where can he find the motivation to live and work, the reason…≫.
≪ Ricardo Reis returned to his room, thought perhaps he should make the bed before going out, he must not allow himself to become lax in his habits, but it was hardly worth the effort, he was not expecting visitors, so he settled in the chair where Fernando Pessoa had spent the night, crossed his legs as he had seen him do, clasped his hands on his knee, and tried to imagine himself dead, to contemplate the empty bed with the lifeless eyes of a statue. But there was a vein throbbing in his left temple, and the left eyelid twitched. I am alive, he murmured, then in a loud, sonorous voice he repeated, I am alive, and since there was no one there to contradict him, he was convinced ≫.
≪ He rummages at the desk, through the manuscripts of his poems…He reads at random and asks himself if he is their author, for he does not recognize himself in what is written, in this detached, calm, resigned person, almost godlike, for that is how gods are, composed as they assist the dead. Vaguely he muses, he must organize his life, his time, decide how he will spend his mornings, afternoons, and evenings, get to bed early and rise early, find one or two restaurants that serve simple, wholesome meals, and he must reread and revise his poems …≫.

Oddly, as it often happens, we take the first two steps because we are daydreaming or distracted and then have no choice but to take the third step, even when we know that it is wrong or ridiculous. Ha. True enough because ‘Man, in the final analysis, is an irrational creature.’
Nonetheless, in the same line of conclusion, should never forget that ≪ Man must always make an effort, so that he may deserve to be called man, but he is much less master of his own person and destiny than he imagines. Time, not his time, will make him prosper or decline, sometimes for different merits, or because they are judged differently. What will you be when you discover it is night and you find yourself at the end of the road≫

داستان سال مرگ ریکاردو ریش به فرناندو پسوآ ارتباط پیدا می‌کند سوال اینجاست که فرناندو پسوآ کیست؟
او بزرگترین شاعر معاصر پرتغال زاده ۱۸۸۸ لیسبون بوده که در سال ۱۹۳۵ در لیسبون از دنیا رفته است.
او همزادهایی برای خودش به وجود آورده بود که هر کدام خصایصی متفاوت داشتند.
ریکارد ریش یکی این همزادها بود که ساراماگو با مهارت و ظرافت و هنر خودش ماجرای ریکاردو و رویارویی اورا با پسوآ به زیبایی به رشته تحریر درآورده است.

Sa Saramagom izgleda ne mogu da omanem. Ovo je putovanje Lisabonom (neke knjige treba čitati na određenim mestima, pa sam ovu čuvao do puta u Lisabon), ali i kroz portugalsku istoriju dvadesetog veka, stvaralaštvo portugalskog velikana Fernanda Pesoe, pogled na religiju, samoću i dolazeći fašizam (roman se dešava 1936., u godini nakon Pesoine smrti).

Saramago je nekonvencionalan, na prvo čitanje njegove rečenice mogu izgledati pomalo zastrašujuće, ali nakon što se navikneš na neobično (ne)korišćenje punktuacije, zaljubiš se, ustanoviš da je svaki roman pun sjajnog smisla za humor. Često zna da prekine priču i da se obrati čitaocu, da u inače ozbiljne rečenice ubaci opušten komentar - nema veze ako na taj način komentariše i ozbiljne teme.

Izlaze ljudi iz parobroda u lisabonskoj luci...

"Kako ko kroči na zemlju, smesta trči u zaklon, stranci gunđaju protiv kijameta, kao da smo mi krivi za ovo pasje vreme, izgleda da su zaboravili da u njihovim francuskama i engleskama ima običaj da bude mnogo gore, uostalom, njima je svaka sitnica dobrodošla da bi omalovažavali siromašne zemlje, čak i prirodna kiša..."

"... napojnica raste sa saosećanjem, o, zaostali narode, s večno ispruženom rukom, svako prodaje ono čega ima napretek, pomirenost sa sudbinom, poniženje, strpljenje, uvek se nađe neko ko je spreman da trguje tom robom. Putnici su prešli na carinu, malo njih, kao što se moglo pretpostaviti, ali neće skoro odande izaći s obzirom na sijaset papira koje treba popuniti i na prave manijake u krasnopisu koji su danas na dužnosti, verovatno se oni brži nedeljom odmaraju."

Ovo je odličan roman i vrhunska literarna zabava. Deluje mi da bi još bolje legla nekome ko je upoznat sa Pesoinim delima. Ja nisam - počeću sa Knjigom nespokoja.

A haunting novel - in more ways than one:-

With its Borgesian and Joycean echoes, this surrealist and symbolic novel pays homage to the poetry of Fernando Pessoa, as well as being an ambulatory paean to the city of Lisbon.
Our narrator's eponymous protagonist, Ricardo Reis, has returned to Portugal at the time of political turmoil and instability throughout Europe in the 1930s. Here, among the boulevards and alleyways of the city, he is visited 12 times by the spirit of his alter ego Pessoa, holding conversations which reflect the poet's philosophical musings.
Saramago’s use of the present tense gives immediacy and intimacy to the narration, closely drawing the reader into each minutely described scene, so that we feel like companions. The classically formal style suits the strangely detached meditations of Reis/Pessoa, which evoke the ghostly passivity of the pre-war populace – suggesting the blurred distinction between the living and the dead which Saramago implies throughout the novel.
This is my first venture into Portuguese literature, but it won't be my last.

E’ il 30 dicembre 1935. A Lisbona, proveniente dal Brasile, sbarca un medico e poeta, Ricardo Reis, che manca dal Portogallo da 16 anni, un uomo in realtà mai esistito se non nella fantasia di Fernando Pessoa, morto il 30 novembre1935. Reis e Pessoa: un personaggio finto, uno scrittore inventato da un altro scrittore, morto da un mese. Ecco due dei protagonisti del romanzo di Saramago, due fantasmi, uno è un fantasma della mente dell’altro, che è un fantasma vero. Niente altro che finzioni, spettri che meditano su quanto di più umano vi sia, la vita, la morte, la guerra. Ed è proprio il continuo intreccio tra fantasia e realtà il motivo dominante del romanzo: Pessoa e Reis si incontrano, passeggiano, dissertano nelle strade di una Lisbona anch’essa magica, malinconica e piovosa, nelle cui piazze le fredde statue di marmo del massimo poeta portoghese, Luís Vaz de Camões, e dei personaggi dei suoi poemi acquistano umanità grazie ai piccioni che vi si posano, agli anziani che si siedono ai loro piedi, al fiume Tago sul quale si specchiano. Ma nelle acque del fiume si riflettono anche le navi da guerra pronte a salpare: è l’anno 1936, un anno in cui in Europa soffiano terribili venti di guerra, stanno nascendo i primi movimenti militari tedeschi alla conquista delle nazioni vicine, Mussolini sta portando avanti l’invasione dell’ Etiopia, in Spagna scoppia la guerra civile a seguito dell’insurrezione dell’esercito contro il governo guidata dal generale Franco, in Portogallo Salazar si muove sulle posizioni dei governi di destra europei, sostenendo apertamente il nazismo e il fascismo. Queste notizie vengono recepite dal lettore attraverso i giornali che Reis quotidianamente consulta, trattasi di notizie miste con propaganda di regime e pubblicità menzognere, sulle quali si fonda il potere del dittatore Salazar.
Il 1936 è anche l’anno, come dice il titolo del libro, della morte di Ricardo Reis: la morte di un fantasma creato dalla mente di un altro fantasma non può essere frutto del destino, è una scelta deliberata. Muoiono la libertà e la pace in Europa, muore la libertà nell’amata patria portoghese. Ancora una volta finzione e realtà, storia e fantasia sono indissolubilmente intrecciate.
Scrivendo questo commento ho riflettuto sulla bellezza delle pagine lette ed ho cambiato idea, quattro stelle sono poche per il più bel romanzo di Saramago che ho letto finora.