Odavno nisam čitala nešto ovako kvalitetno i lepo napisano.

Saramago je odabrao najnevidljiviju moguću profesiju za svog junaka: on je, naime, korektor i ceo život je proveo ispravljajući greške u tuđim knjigama i... to je sve, ništa drugo nije radio. Ništa žena, deca, kućni ljubimci. Ali roman započinje u trenutku kad korektor, iznerviran osrednjošću istorijske knjige koju pregleda i povremenim materijalnim greškama koje nalazi (ali ne sme da ih ispravlja), jednu potvrdnu rečenicu pretvori u odričnu. Nikad jadnije pobune nije bilo, ali kako to već biva, uhvate ga, dobro ga izgrde, i postave mu novu šeficu čiji je posao od sada da nadgleda korektore.
Međutim, nova urednica je zapravo oduševljena njegovim blesavim potezom i predloži mu da napiše celu knjigu koja bi počela od te rečenice: da su krstaši rešili da NE pomognu u opsadi Lisabona.

I to je to. Ali kako Saramago od te gotovo socrealističke anegdote (nek digne ruku ko se seća scene s lektorkama u filmu Ogledalo) ispreda roman, to treba stati pa gledati. U svojim tradicionalno bezobalnim rečenicama, on uz finu ironiju i mnogo nežnosti ismejava svoje junake, književnost kojoj su posvećeni, istoriju sa kojom se rvu, ismejava i versku mržnju i samu religiju, ali istovremeno lagano vuče zaplet u smeru retko jednostavne i ljupke ljubavne priče.
A način na koji razvija roman-u-romanu je domišljat i ekspeditivan - posle prvog većeg segmenta nam sam pripovedač skreće pažnju na to da jedan pisac-početnik nikad ne bi mogao da ispiše ovoliko pa još sređenog teksta za samo dan i po i da ovo treba da posmatramo više kao aproksimaciju romana u nastajanju tako da se time praktično obezbeđuje od mehaničkog uklapanja dva različita narativa (i ostavlja sebi prostor da zajedljivo komentariše opšta mesta istorijskog romana). Umesto toga imamo istinski uspešno pretapanje dve ravni pripovedanja koje ni u jednom trenutku ne ode u jeftine paralele.

Jedina mana ovog izdanja jeste prevod, i to kažem uz veliku ogradu da portugalski ne znam i ne poznajem original pa se moj sud a priori ne računa, i još veću, da dobro znam pod kakvim pritiskom i kakvim uslovima prevodioci danas kod nas rade. Iako bih rekla da se prevoditeljka potrudila koliko god je mogla (na početku navodi i saradnike koji su je savetovali) i da su pojedina rešenja uspela, malo-malo pa tekst negde isklizne, rečenica se pokarabasi, pojavi se moreuz u Lisabonu (?) ili tako štogod i onda sve vreme čitam pitajući se šta sam još propustila. I to je šteta jer je ovo zaista dobra knjiga i po meni ide odmah uz Godinu smrti Rikarda Reiša po kvalitetu.

قصة حصار لشبونة

مع ساراماغو أكون قد قرأت مئة كتاب لهذا العام، وأنجزت التحدي القرائي لـ 2014، طبعاً لا يعني هذا أنني سأجلس بلا قراءات فيما بقي من العام، بالعكس الرقم مرشح للزيادة، لأن القراءة بالنسبة لي ليست تحدياً سنوياً وإنما هي ممارسة يومية، تملأ روحي وقلبي وعقلي بهجة ولذة.

اخترت ساراماغو لأني أردت ختاماً يليق بعام قرائي حافل ومثير، قرأت فيه عناوين كانت تنتظر منذ زمن، ولم يخيبني النوبلي البرتغالي، فقدم رواية يمتزج فيها التاريخ – سقوط لشبونة بيد البرتغاليين وتأسيس البرتغال بعد طرد المسلمين منها - بالواقع - من خلال مصحح يعمل على مخطوطة تتحدث عن حصار لشبونة يقرر أن يعيد كتابة التاريخ انطلاقاً من تغيير طفيف، كلمة واحدة - وكذلك بالحب - من خلال علاقة المصحح بامرأة يتعرف عليها وتنمو علاقتهما سريعاً -.

الرواية رغم أسلوب ساراماغو المميز وطريقته المرهقة في الكتابة، إلا أنها تبدو مختلفة نوعاً ما، مختلفة عن ما قرأته لساراماغو حتى الآن، ففي حين تتشابه العمى والطوف الحجري، تبدو هذه الرواية أقرب لرواية (كل الأسماء).

4.3

4.5 - ganhou dois décimos depois da discussão no clubinho.

رواية عجيبة! أسلوب مدهش مختلف! فكرة ذكية وعميقة!
البحث في مصداقية التاريخ ومزالق تأريخه.
بين مؤلف/راو سرعان ما يغيب خلف ضغط الواقع وإلحاح الأحداث على خلفية شديدة التركيب والتعقيد؛ وبين مصحح يعبث في حرف فيعبث في تاريخ كامل وحكاية كانت تبدو مكتملة ليفتحها على احتمالات أخرى .
وأظن أن الرواية بفكرتها الأساس كانت تصلح لمساقات أكثر وعورة وأشد إدهاشا من المسار الذي أخذنا فيه الكاتب.
الأسلوب مربك بسبب تداخل الأحاديث والفصل بين الأقوال داخل السطر الواحد بنقطة فقط، والترجمة جيدة جدا ولا تخلو من هنات.

«Sembra che siamo in guerra. Chiaro che siamo in guerra, ed è una guerra di accerchiamento, ognuno di noi assedia l'altro ed è assediato, vogliamo abbattere le mura dell' altro e mantenere le nostre, l'amore verrà quando non ci saranno più barriere, l'amore è la fine dell' assedio»

L'intreccio tra la Lisbona del passato con quella del presente, tra la storia di Raimundo Silva e quella dei mori è semplicemente geniale. Romanzo poliedrico che forse dovrei rileggere altre tre volte per apprezzarne davvero tutte le sfumature.

Jose Saramago may not somebody who relies so heavily on plot. He utilizes stream-of-consciousness in "The History of the Siege of Lisbon" as a way to merge the history of the city’s past with that of the protagonist living out his life in the modern day. In the novel, conversations bear no quotations, no parentheses appear on added-on ideas/non sequiturs, nor are questions accompanied by a ?. Whole paragraphs are pages long, & it's safe to say that most of them contain a single action or noun which is then fully explored for the remainder of that paragraph: each minutiae is meticulously explained and more questions (plenty of the hypothetical kind) are added on to the subject in question. Also a heavy use of commas and lists is a way of penetrating truths in a deeper way. He's NOT MY KIND OF WRITER: he asks way too much of his readers, & one wonders what would happen if Saramago had SOMETHING going on, namely a STORY, & if he added all the flourishes that make him unique: THAT would truly grab me.

Here then (for my CONSCIOUSNESS & FICTION grad class) an attempt at a Saramagian yarn:

Montage

tLazaro has put on his contact lenses and is ready to get to work. Some saline solution still drips down the sides of his bright, bright eyes as he tidies up the bathroom a bit, dabbing the teeny puddles of water left on the rim of the faucet with the Kleenex he used previously to wipe the sides of his eyes, making perfect green vertical rectangles of the bath towels hanging on a chrome bar to his side, placing the half-empty bottle of solution, his eyeglasses which he won’t need anymore, and his contact case inside the mirror cabinet, then enters his room, his domain, his dark lair, sits still on his chair and exhales loudly. He hasn’t even looked at the posters which undoubtedly require, seek, his attention, which are the sole objects we must now devote our focus on. Let’s not look too much at this room, though there is a considerable plenty to contemplate here: books on the redwood shelf, A Confederacy of Dunces, The Corrections, White Teeth, The Secret History, The Rules of Attraction, The Blithedale Romance, all three Lord of the Rings plus The Hobbit, The Complete Short Stories of J. G. Ballard, Bel Canto, Candide, The Shining, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Senor Vivo and the Coca Lord and additionally a huge array of colors, thin and almost invisible, in the form of individual DVD titles, Titanic, Cool Hand Luke, Mulholland Drive, 2001: A Space Odyssey, Halloween, Sleeping Beauty, Fellini’s La Dolce Vita, Pink Flamingoes, Lost in Translation, Before Sunrise plus some smaller slits of color nearby which conform exactly to the shapes of CDs the colors white, red, black, blue, magenta, with titles given them by the artists responsible, just as writers themselves must give names to their peculiar rowdy offspring made of ink and paper, but these music artists are more important than the forgettable titles of their work, songs played in supersonic repetition by the likes of Pink Floyd, E.L.O., Dr. Dre, NIN, Philip Glass, Black Flag, Maria Daniela y su Sonido Lasser and Britney Spears. All this is too much to see all at once but a mixture of all these catalysts and inspiring cores exists in some indiscernible form within the brain of our Lazaro. There is however a vast difference between all the inspiration found in these artistic forms of the modern age, their sheer attainability is surreal, all these masterpieces, all this plot, image and sound in a micro museum at our protagonist’s disposal, his points of reference, & the posters which are laid down like grey corpses, spread out the full length of the desk. These are definitely unfinished, unpublished, unseen by the masses, and they are precisely this way because at this point Lazaro is barely getting the courage to move his drawing pencil in concentric circles, rightward, downward, then back up again as the snake eats up its tail, as this surely will bring something out. Maybe the knife should gleam only slightly, he thinks then, at its tip, and maybe the victim’s mouth will be the circles, which can become as small or as large as the artist imagines. And words. There will be a cryptic feel to this poster, this attempt at art, attempt at permanence, just as those others are there now, looking down at him with ambiguity from their shelves, maybe even with some jealousy, and the feeling will be inspired by everything he’s ever come into contact with. He takes some certain image from a book, from a film, from the lyrics of songs and tries to do something of it, he takes it within himself to rearrange it, chip at it, add some meat to it, change its entire significance. He starts committing the pencil to the noisy endless paper, begins to think calmly, letting things displace themselves like autumn leaves from his cranium. The montage then is too much to bear, this happens when Lazaro thinks way too much on a single muchness, on one singular complexity, because everything everything has been done one or two or millions of times before and nothing is ever quite original, but only the montage will bring out something that he would have otherwise kept to himself, inside himself, entombed, and it hurts. He has, some hours later, a blueprint, an essence and sure existence, since now it is there for all to see, for there it is for Lazaro to finish off, and he is incredibly happy on many levels, one being that he has not wasted his time after all, one below that that this may actually turn out to be something, something good, and in the basement level which states that leaving things internal is just so wrong that it could lead to something bad, an overload, like cancer.

Ще ніколи так не раділа факту, що книга закінчилась

Saramago riesce a sorprendermi sempre, ad ogni nuova lettura!Non è un autore facile, per il suo periodare fitto e complesso, che richiede una lettura senza fretta, ad ampio respiro e soprattutto una mente sgombra per concentrarsi e riuscire a lasciarsi andare alla magia delle sue parole.L'autore si diverte ad inventare siruazioni paradossali o assurde per raccontare l'uomo con i suoi difetti, i suoi limiti, le sue speranze, le sue utopie, le sue meschinità.Narrando l'assedio di Lisbona, riscritto e reinventato da un revisore che si è divertito a "cambiare la storia", racconta parallelamente anche una bellissima storia d'amore, in modo tenero, poetico, scavando nell'intimo dei due personaggi fino a mostrarci la parte più vera, quell'eterna voglia e paura allo stesso tempo di mostrarci nudi davanti all'altro. Perchè "ognuno di noi assedia l'altro ed è assediato, vogliamo abbattere le mura dell'altro e mantenere le nostre, l'amore verrà quando non ci saranno più barriere, l'amore è la fine dell'assedio'.

هناك أناساً يستهويهم المظنون أكثر من المؤكد، وبقية الشئ أكثر من الشئ نفسه، والأثر على الرمال أكثر من الحيوان الذى تركه، هؤلاء هم الحالمون
ساراماجو يغوص فى أعماقنا بشدة

Abordo la reseña de la primera lectura conjunta del #vecindarioliterario con algo de nervios y mucha emoción, y es que “Historia del cerco de Lisboa”, de José Saramago, a pesar de salir en la lista de los “1001 libros que hay que leer antes de morir”, me ha dado más de un dolor de cabeza.

La premisa es genial, un corrector literario decide poner un “no” donde debía ir un “sí”, y este simple hecho es del que se sirve el autor para construir la ficción alrededor de este corrector protagonista y para narrar lo que fue el cerco de Lisboa.

Si la prosa de Saramago es compleja de por sí, leerla mientras se explaya en conceptos y personajes históricos y diatribas filosóficas puede ser más que complicado; reconozco que he encontrado en estas páginas párrafos con reflexiones que probablemente sean de lo mejor que he leído jamás, pero las peroratas histórico-filosóficas hacen deslucir las partes buenas.

En cuanto a lo que es la pura ficción, me ha parecido que la trama es original y diferente, que se pueden sacar grandes reflexiones de ella, pero debo reconocer que ni he empatizado con los personajes, ni me ha enganchado la historia, ni he sido capaz de disfrutar de ella como quizá merece una obra de este calibre.

Estoy segura de que, sin duda, no ha sido la mejor obra para empezar a leer a Saramago, pero me quedo con la satisfacción de haber sido capaz de hacerme con su prosa, de haber disfrutado, como digo, de esos párrafos tan bellos y brillantes y, sobre todo, de los buenos ratos que he pasado con los vecinos leyéndolo

Este foi o meu 6° livro de Saramago, e a par com as Intermitências da morte os que menos gostei do autor.

Um livro apesar de tudo interessante, onde se revisita a conquista de Lisboa aos mouros por parte de D. Afonso Henriques.

O autor aproveita este contexto histórico para relatar um romance entre duas personagens, onde uma delas acaba por reescrever este momento histórico de uma forma muito pessoal...

3.8

foi sofrível, lamento saramago mas é um grande não.