Ensayo sobre la ceguera

When you sit in a coffee shop at the corner of two busy streets and read a book about blindness, you find yourself thinking unfamiliar thoughts, and you believe, when you raise your head to watch the people passing, that you see things differently. You notice the soft yellow light of the shop reflecting off the bronze of the hardwood floors. You notice among the people coming from the train two girls who intersect that line, spilt, call back, and go their ways, dividing into the two directions of larger traffic. When the girl working the shop goes out and leans against the brick entrance – to clear her head of coffee smells or just to see more of the sky – you feel the breeze blow in, and you smell it, and you feel that all these things – the sights and smells of a place you already know – are now something different. The place you know, you don’t know. It becomes mysterious, romantic: a newness you don’t have to search for, or travel toward, because you are already among it. You only want to feel more of it sweep over you, and as a result feel new yourself. If only for a few minutes longer.

You walk home and notice a discarded knit hat at the foot of a tree; you see the street cleaners’ orange signs tied to tree trunks, lampposts, telephone poles. You see a train run alongside you the color of the silver clouds, of the reflected golden light. You see people, in all their shapes, walk past you, each individual and anonymous. You feel anonymous yourself, and therefore more forgiving, more patient. You think everything is possible. You think everything possible must already exist. You think again of something you already believe: that people read the books that find them. That stories arrive to tell themselves, as relevant as news.

A little King, a little Camus, a little Gabriel Garcia: which is to say Blindness is a lot of everything.

What kind of a person is it who relishes reviewing the books he hates and quails at the thought of reviewing his five-star books?

It would appear that that could be a description of me. Well, the reason's obvious - it's great fun to boot a bad book and some bad ideas all around this site, a chance for a few jokes, a laugh, a song and a hand grenade, a couple of pints of Scruttock's Old Dirigible and everyone goes home with a smile on their face, no harm done. Not so easy to describe greatness, something so strange and awe-inspiring that your keyboard falls silent, abashed. So this is the book, this Blindness novel, which was so hard to read, so painful, so strange, so brilliant, that I don't really want to sing its praises or recommend it to everyone because everyone won't like it and those who do might not be glad they read when they finally fall over the threshhold of the last page back into the light of some sort of sanity and order we hope, and look back and shudder. Well. You have to read this one, but I didn't tell you to.

من الروايات ما تبهرك، تثير حماستك، وتعتقد أنها أفضل ما قرأت لكن بمجرد إغلاقها وبمرور يوم واحد فقط على قراءتها تُنسى.
لكن قليلة هي الروايات التي تجعلك تقف أمامها مذهولاً، مشدوهاً، تجعلك تفكر، تغيّرك، تغير نظرتك لكُل الأشياء من حولك
ترتفع بك لأعلى لترى الموجودات من ذات أسمى وأنقى وأطهر لترى الحقيقة جليّة واضحة
ترى العفن المُستشري في كُل ما حولك، تُصدمك حقيقة أن العفن لا ينبع مما حولك فقط، بل ينبع من داخلك أيضاً

من الروايات ما تستطيع أن تعّبر عن مشاعرنا؛ الفرح، الحزن، البكاء، الخوف، الأمل.
تشعر بها أثناء قراءتها، حتى أنك تستطيع لمسها داخلك، تظبط نفسك متلبساً وأنت تبكي مع الأبطال، تضحك معهم, وتحزن معهم
لكن قليلة هي الروايات التي تُرعبك
ليس الرعب الذي تشعر به عند قراءتك لروايات لستيفن كينج, أو آدجار آلان بو
أو ما تشعر به أثناء قراءتك لأي رواية ما تتحدث عن الأشباح والمذؤوبين
بل هو الرعب الذي ينتابك أثناء قراءتك لرواية فلسفية رمزية
الرعب الذي يجعلك تخشى من أن تلقى المصير ذاته مما يلاقيه أبطال الرواية
تخشى بعد كُل صفحة أن تفقد بصرك, أو أن تغرق في ذلك النهر الحليبي كما وصفه الكاتب
سارماجو أرعبني
طول قراءتي للرواية وعيناي مفتوحة على اتساعهما ربما من بشاعة الأحداث، أو ربما هي حركة غريزية خوفاً من ملاقاة المصير نفسه
كيف استطاع رسم هذه المعاناة والمأساة بهذا الإبداع
كيف يطوع الحبكة والأحداث، ويجعلك تراها أمامك، وتعيش بداخلها
برهنت الرواية على الطبيعة الحيوانية للإنسان، اجعله يفقد حاسة واحدة فقط من حواسه لتكشف غرائزه وطبيعته الحيوانية والأنانية عن نفسها
سيسير هائماً على وجهه، بلا تنظيم، همه الأول والأخير هو إشباع غرائزه
وإذا تمتع ببعض القوة يُصبح همه الثاني هو السلطة والسيطرة

أكان غريباً أن هذه المرأة هي الوحيدة التي لم تفقد بصرها؟
كيف للوباء أن يقترب من ملاك مثلها، ملاك يشعر أن مسئوليته وواجبه هو مساعدة هؤلاء الآخرين ممن لا يقوون على مساعدة أنفسهم
لا تشعر أنها تقدم لهم العون أو المساعدة بل تشعر إنه نداء الواجب
إنه السبب الذي بقيت عيناها سليمتان لأجله
كالأم التي تمسك بيد طفلها ليحبو دون أن يسقط, تمسك بيدك لترشدك، لتكن عينيك اللتين ما عاد باستطاعتهما أن يبصروا
كالأم التي تنظف طفلها دون تقزز أو تأفف، تُطهرك من كُل ما يعلق بك من قاذورات المحجر
كالأم التي تزأر حين يقترب الخطر من أبنائها، تقتل إذا كان هو الخيار الوحيد لتدافع عن مجموعتها..
كالأم التي تظل تشعر بالمسئولية تجاه أطفالها حتى بعد أن يكبروا، تظل هي تشعر بمسئوليتها تجاه مجموعتها، حمايتها وإطعامها..
كيف لوباء كهذا أن يقترب من كتلة حنان وشجاعة وعطاء مثلها؟

وصفه للحياة في المدينة على لسان الرجل ذو العصابة السوداء أرعبني
وباء كهذا قد يكشف عن الجانب القذر في الانسان، قد يقلب مدينة رأساً على عقب
وقد يردها مرة أخرى للبدائية الأولى.
وصفه لحالتهم بلا ماء ولا طعام, جعلني أتساءل، كيف عاش البشر الأوائل؟
يبدو أنه من السهل أن تعتاد صعوبة الحياة حينما تجدها على ما هي عليه لكن بعد أن تعتاد أنت وجسدك على التقدم والتكنولوجيا يصعب من الصعب عليك أن تتعامل مع الطبيعة بمفردها!
لا تستطيع انتظار المطر، ولا أكل زهور وأوراق الأشجار، ولا البحث عن آبار وتجاويف المياه
يُصبح بالنسبة لك ضرب من ضروب المستحيل أن تتعامل مع الطبيعة وجهاً لوجه وبدون مراحل تفصل بينكما!

مُرهقة لكن بعد انتهائي من قرائتها أشعر أني أصبحت أبصر أكثر من ذي قبل؛ ربما هي البصيرة التى يجعلك سارماجو تدركها ويأخد بيدك ليجعلك تتلمسها داخلك، أو ربما هو فقط تقدير لهذه الأعين، بعد ما شاهدته من ويلات فقد البصر
لا أدري تحديداً لكن كُل ما أدركه أنها غيرت شيء داخلي.
إنه الأبداع متجسد في كلمات!

تمّت

Once we accept our postmodern affliction of Blindness - blindness to any and all intrinsic sets of values we once had - as regrettably inevitable, there it is, then! There is nothing we can do or refuse to do, no cure, no panacea nor peace.

It is God’s world, and if it is His will it will inevitably be done.

Our common bed has been made.

Now we must lie in it.

All we, like sheep, have gone our Own Way!

***

In 2005, Henry Kissinger remarked that the New World Order was nearly upon us. Now it’s too late, of course. The New World Order has become like something T.S. Eliot once wrote of the correcting Divine Will - it is that will, that

“will not leave us,
But prevents us everywhere.” (Four Quartets)

This is Blindness. The Absolute Zero pain of being totally, blindingly awake but helpless, "pinned and wriggling on a wall."

It’s in the air that we breathe. Books are being banned. Even Amazon is part of the whitewashing. Indecent behaviour is put high on a pedestal.

In other words, move over, tradition. The New World is HERE.

The State has become like a god among men. Its Right and Left sides equally attract and repel, now that humanity is split and helpless.

The New Fall of Man is here Now - as I speak.

Surely the “whole earth is groaning, as one giving birth:” but it’s not the Second Coming.

It’s apocalypse.

***

You see, it’s like in Kamakana’s SF world of Advent. We have slowly surrendered to alien gods. We have bought into their technology. And by doing so, more and more, we have found ourselves bereft of the comfort of our childhood faith.

Now we are alone and hurting.

We’ve got what Saramago calls BLINDNESS.

We “go with the flow.” We take it easy. But suddenly, the Fit comes upon us. We are plunged into incredible helpless anger. We rage and lash out in fury…

While the corporate yes-men of the upper echelons stay Blindly cool.

And here now is their secret, the Golden Rule of Blind Cool:

He who is most Myopically Cool makes the Rules, for the Blind shall lead the Blind.

Like lemmings.

***

Once I was broken. Badly. They threw me into confinement and psychotropically reworked my brain.

That process, along with the follow-up meds, took fifty years. Am I healed now? Well,

There is no pain, you are receding -
A distant ship's smoke on the horizon.
You are only coming through in waves,
Your lips move, but I can't hear what you say:

For I... have become Comfortably Numb.

So, am I now, like these others, Blind?

Not quite.

I am merely become
Nervelessly and terminally, dumbly Numb!

I don’t write reviews.

As I prepare to write private-public notes stating my thoughts on this utter travesty of… I mean -coughs- on this Nobel Prize Winning m-m-masterpiece… shit. I ask that Saint Ellison, as always, encourage me to speak my opinion loudly and clearly, without care for the crowd. I don’t think I’ll have a problem doing that. (I go in no-holds-barred. You’ve been warned).

This is a mess of a book. Not just because it’s written badly, oh no! It’s literally FULL of shit. The preoccupation with excrement is telling. This man hates humanity and gives them less credit than the worst pessimists I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. One day into a forced quarantine and twenty blind people are crapping on the floor because “no one will see.” They have to live in this place indefinitely but Jose says they’d shit the bed right off, because humanity is bad.

I started feeling strange about this story after the setting is described and our characters are in place. Why? Because he stopped telling a story. Instead, bless his simple soul, he started using the situation he set up to wax romantic about Marxism and communist theory.

Knowing this, it makes sense that he didn’t bother to name the characters. In true Marxist form, everyone is labeled by their jobs or unchangeable characteristics. Intersectionality is dehumanizing and still leads you down to the truth - each man is special and different, not a member of an oppressed class. If you keep labeling, you’ll come to the truth of the person, that being, he is who he is, not what the world throws on him. Jose loves things and labels though, so we have characters like “the doctor’s wife” and “the old man with the black eye patch.” Fucking riveting commentary, Jose!

Randy old political Jose goes so far as to have a bunch of men come in and “control the means of distribution,” straight-up the blind robbing (and raping) the blind. Ok Lizz, but THAT’S the story right? No. He used this to tell us how tyranny offers a kind of predictable safety that individual responsibly lacks. He has his female characters OFFER THEMSELVES to be gang-raped for a little more assured tyranny. Including VERY descriptive scenes of women forced to give post-coitus fellatio to random men or they would withhold food. Brave feminist characters they are, said fuck you, right? Nah. They sucked.

Finally, the lying still-sighted doctor’s wife does a thing. But not before the doctor cheats on her. Yes he does right in front of her KNOWING she can see. Afterwards they doctor’s wife has a touching moment reaching over him to talk softly and lovingly with the adulterous woman. Jose you’re dead now, but in life you lived on planet earth right? This man claims his philosophy is love overcoming all. Yet he purposefully breaks the main strength of love, fidelity. Then he spits in its face.

I’m done now. I’m angry at this. Everyone thinks this is such a great novel. That the bad writing is an amazing breaking of the rules by a master. I see it like this: these people adore CIA-run Nextflix and mainstream news too. They watch super hero movies and think we need more big government. (I know there are still some thinking people out there and it’s to you I’m writing). So cool, love this book. As the world declines, books like this stand as records of how we lost our humanity and reveled in our decline like pigs in shit.

This is definitely a book that people will either love or hate. It's just that kind of book. Not everyone is going to pick this up and like it. Even the people who end up really liking it, while reading it keep finding themselves putting down the book, looking around the room and sighing in discomfort, wondering if they should really continue. They will though, and they will once again find themselves fully immersed.

Jose Saramago writes this specific story in such a way that you are one of the blind people. Punctuation is few and far between, at least when it comes to dialogue. When people are talking to each other, it's just one continuous run on sentence, forcing the reader to try and discern who is talking and what they are talking about. It forces you to be in the same predicament as the blind.

The way he writes makes you realize just how much we all do rely on visual stimuli, even in books! Even though our protagonist is one of the few with sight, Saramago often forgoes visual descriptions of objects and places with the way the feel, sound and even smell. For me, it marked Saramago as a truly brilliant writer.

But even brilliant writers and brilliant books have their flaws. The time spent in the hospital seemed too long and unneccessary to further the story along, rather it stopped the story. It was that portion of the book I found it most difficult to get through, but in the end I got through it and to their journey out into the real world. It's there that the book picks back up and you find yourself absolutely enthralled.

Overall, this book was beautifully written and wonderfully told. An interesting story made even more so with the way Saramago writes it. This is a book I definitely recommend, but I give you a warning, it becomes slightly wordy at times and drags at different times. Give it a chance though, because it does pick back up.

New review after rereading in October 2020
Returning to this book 18 years after first reading it was a rewarding experience - the book has lost none of its power and it is still probably Saramago's greatest masterpiece.

Like its sequel Seeing, Death at Intervals and to some extent The Stone Raft, it is a sort of modern parable in which Saramago imagines the consequences for society of something we normally take for granted disappearing - in this case he imagines a city in which everyone succumbs to a plague of contagious blindness.

The consequences are viewed in microcosm by a small cast who were among the first "victims", confined together in a former mental hospital guarded by troops, the only support being an occasional food supply. None of the characters is named - all are defined using one characteristic. One character, the doctor's wife, has feigned blindness in order to accompany her husband, and as the only person left who can see, she is able to help the others, initially surreptitiously but eventually overtly.

One thing I had forgotten since my initial reading is just how unsparingly brutal and bleak Saramago's vision is - at one point an armed gang takes control of the hospital and demands payment for food, first via possessions and then by providing women for sex.

The mental hospital inmates eventually escape to find that the entire city is an anarchic wasteland, and the victims only start to regain their sight in the last few pages.

There is a range of allusions and plenty of political allegory, and unpacking exactly what Saramago's thoughts on this were is probably beyond my level of comprehension.

Thanks to the Reading the 20th Century group for choosing this book for a discussion, which is still ongoing.

Original summary review
In this extraordinary modern parable, Saramago imagines a society in which everyone is suddenly blinded, and deals unflinchingly with the consequences.

De los mejores libros que he leído en mi vida. El mejor de Saramago sin duda.

n  Estimado, José Saramago,

Tu obra «Ensayo sobre la ceguera» me ha conmovido por completo. Gracias a tu historia he aprendido lecciones importantes, entre ellas, la más importante de todas, ser consciente del regalo que he recibido al momento de mi nacimiento. Desde hoy, y hasta el final de mi existencia, te prometo valorar cada día de mi vida porque tengo la oportunidad de disfrutar de mi sentido de la vista. A partir de ahora observaré con cariño y detenimiento los colores, los rostros de mis familiares, los animales y la naturaleza que me rodean. Cuando me sienta desorientado o desanimado recordaré tu historia, y al hacerlo traeré a mi memoria tus lecciones; lecciones que me invitan a practicar la gratitud por lo que aún no pierdo y por tener la oportunidad de volver a intentar en lo que he fracasado anteriormente. Gracias a tu relato distópico ahora podré ver el mundo de una manera diferente.

Gracias por esta historia, por tus moralejas, y por decidir convertirte en escritor. Espero que en el otro mundo exista correspondencia, para que puedas comprobar, por medio de este mensaje, que siempre existirán lectores que recordarán y agradecerán tus historias porque dejaste un legado muy bello y valioso en este mundo. Muchas gracias por todo.

Te envía un gran saludo, tu seguidor, Steven Medina.
n

Reseña completa más adelante.