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This book took more time than usual for me to read. The problem with Saramago's book, at least for me, is that it requires good stretches of uninterrupted attention, something which has been a sparse thing these days. But I finally finished it today.
Saramago is up to his typical mischievousness here, lobbing another "what if"? The man's imagination is as boundless as his knowledge and wonder. The plot of this story hinges on a moment of whimsy on the part of a very ordinary, unwhimsical, unobtrusive and unassuming proofreader for a prestigious Lisbon publishing firm. While Raimundo Silva is proofing a manuscript on The History of the Siege of Lisbon, for reasons that Raimundo is later at a loss to explain, he adds the word "not" to a sentence that had originally stated that the crusaders had agreed to help the Portuguese in their siege of the Moor-held city of Lisbon. He is forgiven his moment of indiscretion, but a new position, a manager of proofreaders, is created to prevent future problems. Dr. Maria Sara is the woman hired, Raimundo's new boss. She presents two challenges for him, one to write this alternative history he has suggested by his impulsive editing; and a second, love.
As stepped, maze-like and rambling as the streets of Old Lisbon, the plot makes changes in time, verb tense and focus, which combined with Saramago's nontraditional approach to punctuation, creates a hurdy-gurdy world, which if to one's liking, is mesmerizing. Once when a friend called and wondered what I was doing, I told her "I was wasting away in Saramagoville" The author challenges our ideas of knowledge, history, historiography, human nature, language, love and the language of love. And there are the miracles; the recounting of the Miracles of St. Anthony, the Miracles of the holy knight, the miracles of love. Raimundo is very much an alter-ego for Saramago, and Raimundo's Maria Sara is Pilar, and both have alter-egos within Raimundo's story. There are times when identities, just as when standing on the balcony of Raimundo's apartment which is on the verge of Moorish Lisbon, Maria Sara askes would they have been Moors or Portuguese if it was the time of the siege. Neither is really sure. With his expansive library, Raimundo suggest they could look it up, but could the believe the answer?
The last paragraph is incandescently beautiful, but the beauty would not be there unless one muddled ones way to it. To give this book a fair shot, if one is considering reading it, read it when chunks time can be devoted to it.
This is now my most dog-eared book since as I read there would be one wry or profound insight after another. Since I did not want to lose my rhythm I stopped jotting them down and started dog-earring, something I never, never do. Yet with Saramago one can never say never.
Saramago is up to his typical mischievousness here, lobbing another "what if"? The man's imagination is as boundless as his knowledge and wonder. The plot of this story hinges on a moment of whimsy on the part of a very ordinary, unwhimsical, unobtrusive and unassuming proofreader for a prestigious Lisbon publishing firm. While Raimundo Silva is proofing a manuscript on The History of the Siege of Lisbon, for reasons that Raimundo is later at a loss to explain, he adds the word "not" to a sentence that had originally stated that the crusaders had agreed to help the Portuguese in their siege of the Moor-held city of Lisbon. He is forgiven his moment of indiscretion, but a new position, a manager of proofreaders, is created to prevent future problems. Dr. Maria Sara is the woman hired, Raimundo's new boss. She presents two challenges for him, one to write this alternative history he has suggested by his impulsive editing; and a second, love.
As stepped, maze-like and rambling as the streets of Old Lisbon, the plot makes changes in time, verb tense and focus, which combined with Saramago's nontraditional approach to punctuation, creates a hurdy-gurdy world, which if to one's liking, is mesmerizing. Once when a friend called and wondered what I was doing, I told her "I was wasting away in Saramagoville" The author challenges our ideas of knowledge, history, historiography, human nature, language, love and the language of love. And there are the miracles; the recounting of the Miracles of St. Anthony, the Miracles of the holy knight, the miracles of love. Raimundo is very much an alter-ego for Saramago, and Raimundo's Maria Sara is Pilar, and both have alter-egos within Raimundo's story. There are times when identities, just as when standing on the balcony of Raimundo's apartment which is on the verge of Moorish Lisbon, Maria Sara askes would they have been Moors or Portuguese if it was the time of the siege. Neither is really sure. With his expansive library, Raimundo suggest they could look it up, but could the believe the answer?
The last paragraph is incandescently beautiful, but the beauty would not be there unless one muddled ones way to it. To give this book a fair shot, if one is considering reading it, read it when chunks time can be devoted to it.
This is now my most dog-eared book since as I read there would be one wry or profound insight after another. Since I did not want to lose my rhythm I stopped jotting them down and started dog-earring, something I never, never do. Yet with Saramago one can never say never.