ثاني لقاء لي مع العملاق البرتغالي جوزية ساراماغو، وذلك بعد رواية العمى التي تركت في نفسي انطباعاً لا يمحى. أولا أتمنى أن لا يضيق القارئ ذرعاً بأسلوب كتابة هذه المراجعة فهو يحاكي أسلوب "تيار الوعي" وهو الذي كُتبت فيه هذه الرواية حيث يعتمد الكاتب على تدفق الأفكار في جمل طويلة ليست موزعة في فقرات ولا حتى الحوارات مقسمة إلى أسطر حسب المتكلم مع الكثير من الاستطراد والأفكار المعترضة. الرواية في عمومها ساخرة أو فلنقل تتبع أسلوب الكوميديا السوداء إذ تطلق الكثير من النكات على موضوع قاتم كالموت، يسخر ساراماغو بلا رحمة من أسلوب الموت وأثره على حياة البشر كأفراد وجماعات، وعموما فإن الرواية تطمح إلى دراسة أثر الموت على البشر أفراداً وجماعات بأسلوب غير مألوف، خالٍ من دموع الفراق وزفرات الوفاة. تنقسم الرواية إلى قسمين أولها يتحدث عن انقطاع الموت عند دولة ما وأثر تلك الإجازة المؤقتة على حياة البشر. كما تتوقع سيتثبت الكاتب أن الموت نعمة لبني الإنسان ولكنهم لا يدركون ذلك. وجدت هذا القسم ساذجاً في بعض أفكاره كما التمست فيه براعة ساراماغو في نقد الدولة والمؤسسات فمثلا تحاول المعارضة استخدام هذا الأمر لنقد الحكومة بينما تحاول الحكومة التنصل من مسؤوليتها بالتعاقد مع جهات غير قانونية وبينما تحاول العصابات استثمار الأمر لرفد جيوبها تسعى المؤسسات الدينية لإيجاد مخرج من مأزق وضعه فيها اختفاء الموت ناهيك عن الشعب الذي يعتبر توقف الموت أمراً يستلهم أرقى المشاعر الوطنية والفخر المشوب بالحذر من "حسد" الدول المجاورة. وجدت القسم الذي يتحدث عن الرسالة البنفسجية الغامضة التي يستلمها مدير التفلزيون شيقاً وممتعاً وهو ختام القسم الأول أما القسم الثاني فهو "دراسة حالة" يسرد فيها الكاتب وقائع محاولة (موت) النيل من عازف الفيلونسيل. ماهو الفيلونسيل؟هو نفسه التشيلو. ماهو التشيلو؟ آلة موسيقية ولا يهم أن تعرفها بالضبط. قد يجد البعض هذا القسم رتيباً مملاً لكن مع التأمل نجد السرد يلهمنا التأمل في جمال الحياة العادية وتربص الموت ونعمة جهلنا بموعده. النهاية بديعة وإن كنت قد توقعتها بشكل ما. الخلاصة أن الرواية تستحق القراءة إذا توخى القارئ التأمل العميق في مكنوناتها وتحلى بالصبر حتى يعتاد اللغة الفريدة واللكنة الساخرة وعدم تواجد شخصيات رئيسية لجزء كبير من النص. تشعر بحاجة لأن تتنفس الصعداء بعد قراءة المراجعة؟ هذا لا يقارن بما ستشعر به بعد فراغك من (انقاطاعات الموت).

Um novo favorito da vida e cada vez mais tenho a certeza que quero ler tudo o que este senhor já escreveu.

Saramago’s novels often have the appearance of grand allegories, but they are not. One gets the sense of a writer simply exploring a premise with great freedom and a lack of embarrassment. Saramago allows himself to follow a line of thought to its logical conclusion, even if that conclusion is absurd to the point of ridiculousness. What makes this work is that he does not expect you to suspend disbelief. This is an exercise in conjecture, not realism. Where there are nonsensical contradictions, he is the first to point them out and laugh along with you.

Saramago begins Death at Intervals with very broad strokes. He is poking around, trying to kick up a worthy subject from under the dust, and it is clear from this haphazard approach that he really has no idea of the direction the novel will take. The scope narrows suddenly and dramatically in the second half of the novel, as he latches onto the single, salient figure that this rummaging has found for him. The entire thing is as absurd as it is refreshing. The surprising strangeness of the second half of the novel justifies the meanderings of the first.

But with Saramagos’s writing, it’s very much about the journey, not the destination. The author leaves no stone unturned, no question unasked, as he takes us on this strange trip. The characters themselves guide his writing, and they are allowed to roam unbounded within his imagination. There are so many surprising turns, so many dark corners of human experience that are uncovered in this free exploration, that are not acknowledged by any other writer. Death at Intervals is strange and flawed, but Saramago’s approach is just so unusual, and his imagination so free – it really is a wonderfully unique experience.

Si tende spesso a considerare esclusivamente i lati positivi di un’ipotetica immortalità: poter usufruire dei piaceri della vita in eterno, un infinito approfondimento del mondo che ci circonda, riuscire ad affrontare con maggior distacco delusioni e tormenti.
Saramago ci porta a riflettere, non solo a livello filosofico ma anche a livello pratico, sugli effetti (tragici) che comporterebbe vivere per sempre.
Il tutto condito con un intreccio amoroso che tiene incollati alle pagine del libro. Mostrare la Morte non solo nella brutalità del compito che è chiamata a impiegare (compito che vuole dimostrare essere essenziale) ma anche nel suo lato “umano”, porta il lettore a legarsi, affezionarsi al personaggio.
Il giusto mix di romanticismo, ironia, suspense.
Tra i miei preferiti dell’autore.

Attention please!
Cease your work and grab this book.
Phenomenal piece of writing.

The most striking line ever to start a novel.
THE FOLLOWING DAY, NO ONE DIED.

One of the finest book I have ever read.
I bet no one has written anything a bit similar to this.
If you haven't read it yet, you're missing something remarkable.
Hands down to this absolutely fascinating, terribly terrific, painstakingly beautiful, exceptional masterpiece. For me definitely one of the all-time great works. Sir José Saramago is one of my top favorite writers. He's incredibly genius having
Top-notch writing style
Punctilious philosophy
Miraculous plot,
Exceptional circumstances
& what not.
Precisely this man is unrivalled.

Whatever he wrote is improbable to think, believe or imagine. But he has written all in books with so perfection that you are forced to believe & go with the flow.
It's impossible to compile all my thoughts in one review. My words can't do justice with his sheer brilliance but I can't let it go without saying anything.

How can one write a review when it's all about death and it's ruthlessness.
And when the starting line of the book is:
THE FOLLOWING DAY, NO ONE DIED.
I mean how could one think
Death went on vacations for a particular country & no one is dying.
Can we? NO.
People are about to die but death leaves & then came back with all her due death tasks.

Death speaks,
Wrote letters on violet coloured paper,
Dispatch them.
&
The turning point
death has feelings and fall in love with the cellist.

Strongly recommended.
You must must must read this one. You cannot let it go.
I'm telling you simply cannot.

I was sad to see not many people has read this masterpiece yet but it's high time now. Better late than never.
Pick up this one & read.

The book has so much to talk about so I'm going to add all my favourite melancholic lines & brilliant excerpts here:

There would probably have been no salvation for this particular patient, but one thing was clear, today, the victim refused to die.


What the hell is going on with the government, who have so far given not the slightest sign of life.


A philosopher from the optimistic wing, why are you so alarmed by the fact that death has ended, We don't know that it has, we know only that it has ceased to kill, which is not the same thing.


What would happen if we all lived forever, where would it end.


IN THIS COUNTRY IN WHICH NO ONE DIES NOT EVERYTHING was as sordid as we have just described, nor, in this society torn between the hope of living forever and the fear of never dying.


So the death that used to be our death has stopped working, but the others, the deaths of animals and plants, continue to operate.


IT WAS MUCH MORE THAN A HECATOMB. THE SEVEN MONTHS that death's unilateral truce had lasted produced a waiting list of more than sixty thousand people on the point of death, or sixty-two thousand five hundred and eighty to be exact, all laid to rest in a moment, in an instant of time packed with a deadly power that would find comparison only in certain reprehensible human actions.


By the way, we feel we must mention that death, by herself and alone, with no external help, has always killed far less than mankind has.


Letter by death,
Dear madam, I regret to inform you that in a week your life will end, irrevocably and irremissibly. Please make the best use you can of the time remaining to you, yours faithfully, death. Two hundred and ninety-eight sheets of paper, two hundred and ninety-eight envelopes, two hundred and ninety-eight names removed from the list, this is not exactly a killingly hard job, but the fact is that when she reaches the end, death is exhausted.


WE'VE ALL HAD OUR MOMENTS OF WEAKNESS, AND IF WE manage to get through today without any, we'll be sure to have some tomorrow.


It would, in fact, be incongruous, more than that, superfluous, to find in a book that determines for each and every representative of the human race a full stop, a conclusion, an end, a death, such words as life and live, such words as I'm alive and I will live.


These convulsive, agitated pages, emblazoned with exclamatory, apocalyptic headlines that can be folded up and put in one's pocket and carried off to be re-read at leisure in one's home and of which we are pleased to present a few of the more striking examples here, After Paradise, Hell, Death Leads The Dance, Immortal But Not For Long, Once More Condemned To Die, Checkmate, Prior Warning From Now On, No Appeal And No Hope, A Letter On Violet Paper, Sixty-Two Thousand Deaths In Less Than A Second, Death Strikes At Midnight, No Escape From Destiny, Out Of the Dream And Into the Nightmare, Return To Normal, What Did We Do To Deserve This, etcetera, etcetera.


Death never replies, not because she doesn't want to, but because she doesn't know what to say in the face of the greatest of human sorrows.


According to the authorized opinion of a grammarian consulted by the newspaper, death had simply failed to master even the first rudiments of the art of writing. And then, he said, there's the calligraphy, which is strangely irregular, it's as if it combined all the known ways, both possible and aberrant, of forming the letters of the latin alphabet, as if each had been written by a different person, but that could be forgiven, one could even consider it a minor defect given the chaotic syntax, the absence of full stops, the complete lack of very necessary parentheses, the obsessive elimination of paragraphs, the random use of commas and, most unforgivable sin of all, the intentional and almost diabolical abolition of the capital letter, which, can you imagine, is even omitted from the actual signature of the letter and replaced by a lower-case d. It was a disgrace, an insult, the grammarian went on, asking, If death, who has had the priceless privilege of seeing the great literary geniuses of the past, writes like this, what of our children if they choose to imitate such a philological monstrosity, on the excuse that, considering how long death has been around, she should know everything there is to know about all branches of knowledge. And the grammarian concluded, The syntactical blunders that fill this appalling letter would lead me to think that this was some huge, clumsy confidence trick were it not for grim reality and the painful evidence that the terrible threat has come to pass.


Reply of death to the editor:
As we mentioned, on the afternoon of that same day, a letter from death reached the newspaper, demanding, in the most energetic terms, that the original spelling of her name be restored, Dear sir, she wrote, I am not Death, but death, Death is something of which you could never even conceive, and please note, mister grammarian, that I did not conclude that phrase with a preposition, you human beings only know the small everyday death that is me, the death which, even in the very worst disasters, is incapable of preventing life from continuing, one day you will find out about Death with a capital D, and at that moment, in the unlikely event that she gives you time to do so, you will understand the real difference between the relative and the absolute, between full and empty, between still alive and no longer alive, and when I say real difference, I am referring to something that mere words will never be able to express, relative, absolute, full, empty, still alive and no longer alive, because, sir, in case you don't know it, words move, they change from one day to the next, they are as unstable as shadows, are themselves shadows, which both are and have ceased to be, soap bubbles, shells in which one can barely hear a whisper, mere tree stumps, I give you this information gratis and for free, meanwhile, concern yourself with explaining to your readers the whys and wherefores of life and death, and now, returning to the original purpose of this letter, written, as was the one read out on television, by my own hand, I ask you to fulfill the provisions contained in the press regulations which demand that any error, omission or mistake be rectified on the same page and in the same font size, and if this letter is not published in full, sir, you run the risk of receiving tomorrow morning, with immediate effect, the prior warning that I was reserving for you in a few years' time, although, so as not to ruin the rest of your life, I won't say exactly how many,
yours faithfully, death.

كيف ممكن أن لا أقع في غرام هذا الكاتب وفي كل مرة
منذ أن أنهيت الرواية وأنا أسيرة تلك الحكاية قد يبدو الأمر في الجزء الأول متشابها مع روايته العظيمة العمى
أعنى ذلك الوباء الذي يصيب مدينة ما لكن الأمر في جزءه الثاني تطور إلى أشياء لم
تخطر في بالي لقد تحول مسار الرواية تماما ومن هنا وقفتُ احتراما لهذا الكاتب العظيم
إن ساراماغو قادر ببراعة على أن يفعل ذلك دون أن تشعر حتى

الرواية تدور حول الموت وفلسفة الوجود ماذا لو قرر الموت أن ينقطع عن مدينة ما ماذا لو حدث ذلك ما هي الأشياء التي ستشغل أمور الناس صنع ساراماغو المشكلة ولعب بخياله الواسع في الكيفية التي سيتقبل بها البشر هذه الأمر ماذا لو تخطى الموت كبار السن وماذا لو عجت المستشفيات بمن يجب أن يموتوا حالا لكن الموت لا يأتي
هذه الفنتازيا التي تحمل سخرية لاذعة لم تتوقف عند هذا الحد هذا الجزء بالمناسبة هو الجزء الصعب أعني الجزء البارد الجزء الذي لم تكن به شخصيات تتفاعل معها وتتأثر بها وتنتج تلك العلاقة الدافئة بين القارىء وبين الشخصيات التي لم تكن موجودة إلا لتوضيح الفكرة كان الأمر يبدو مكيكانيكيا سردا خاليا من المشاعر
لكن ساراماغو ليس كأي كاتب عادي إنه ذلك الكاتب الذي يحمل لك المفاجئات الكاتب الذي يحقق لك الدهشة !
إن ظهور شخصية موت صاحبة تلك الرسائل البنفسجية هو الجزء الأكثر إبهارا في الرواية ، موت تبدو جلية واضحة كما هي الحياة
لن أحكي لكم كيف وصف ساراماغو موت وكيف كان وصفه شائقا للدرجة التي عجز عنها خيالي المتواضع أن يتصورها كما أراد وإن كنتُ اجتهدت !

تبدو أجواء الرواية سوداوية أليس كذلك لكنها لم تكن تخلو من الظرافة المشهد الذي وضع الرواي يده على كتف الموت البائسة مثلا أو تصرفات موت بحد ذاتها لا أدري كيف
زاوج ساراماغو بين الموت وبين تلك الظرافة
لكنني أحببت هذه الرواية الرواية التي تشغل بالك الرواية التي تجعلك تفكر الرواية التي تدهشك فكرتها هي تلك الرواية العظيمة التي ستخلدها ذاكرتك

هذا الكاتب البارع من يلومنا إن لاحقنا مؤلفاته !
كتبتُ في توتير : الكاتب الذي كتب إنقطاعات الموت الذي سخر من الموت
ترى كيف استقبل الموت !

Yes, This is It! This short-sized and small length book (~ 250 pages) made me knock-out, or, paraphrasing, the small stone overthrows the big cart. It successfully targeted my 'Achilles' heel' (well, each one of us is a potential Achilles). So, in other words, it made me fail the bet I made with myself that I won't read anything else but only Saramago until I'll devour and satisfy myself with all his existing printed out books. That was my Olympic marathon. It was a thing I was proud of, especially that I'm (raising) head over heels in a clashing and crushing amour with this Portuguese writer. I guess that because of too much spellbound charm I got myself 'blinded' (could be truth in saying that love is blind) and even extra deep sensitive. The novel Death with Interruptions had to be the one to make me realize that indeed I am not a super-hero-god to disregard anything with the same attitude of 'everything is possible, nothing is impossible'.
It is a story about death (with small ‘d’, and yes, a correct guess, death is a 'she', wonder why!) having decided to go on strike, for a period of approx. 7-8 months, without any pre-warning or secondary details shared with the population of an unnamed country, still somewhere in recent times as all mass media is strongly present in the scenery. Not surprisingly, a complete economic and social breakdown ensues in the unnamed country (though a monarchy..). The implications on all the social and economic stakeholders are terrifying, shocking, dizzying, eventually apocalyptic. The book itself abounds with a completely challenging theme. But, as always and ever again, it is the playfulness, the language, the wit and irony that glued me to this book. An original, critical and utterly entertaining fantasy.
Saramago's narrator is in no hurry to tell the reason(s) why the ‘death’ took this unexpected step. He just starts outlining all the consequences of this unprecedented event and what big calamity it turns out to be for entire mankind, although it seems for animals and vegetal worlds another death, maybe her sister or cousin, is still proceeding with work as usual, ending lives when the clock strikes the right time (could there ever be a right time to depart!?, so it seems) or the hour glass has finished all the sand counting… There is a high-quality humor on every page, the narrator speaking directly to the reader and, time and again, even apologizing for "offending against the rules of storytelling." How is that? Just makes me solidify my every blooming smiles and grins...
Everything he writes about leads to insightful comments that deepens the novel. He is an amazing novelist, letting his engaging and entertaining stories speak for themselves. What can be best (not just better) but to tell tales about things he has either seen or invented, experienced or imagined, as if to possess the supreme art of being able to blur the frontiers between the two.
I feel myself convinced that when a highly appreciated book finds you at the right moment in life, that becomes integrated and intrinsically stitched into your overall identity. This book should be the soulless one of Saramago (I mean ‘death’ is so), but no, it’s just the opposite. It has a soul, a big one, which the genius of Saramago proposes and delivers to his readers with all the amazing mix of his stunning writing of witty, intelligent, loving, crazy, magical, abounding generosity.

4,5

Há sempre uma grande injustiça que cometemos ao ler um autor perfeito como Saramago. É, precisamente, o de não darmos margem a qualquer imperfeição. Se este livro fosse assinado por qualquer outro escritor, a parte central da obra, um pouco monótona, seria totalmente perdoada face a um início e final brilhantes. Esta é a história de um povo onde não se morre durante algum tempo e todas as consequências práticas e filosóficas que advêm dessa ocorrência. O tom é genial, um humor fino, intimista, que nos permite avançar avidamente entre aqueles parágrafos imensos, povoados ora da referência mais aleatória possível, ora de uma teoria que nos muda totalmente a visão sobre determinado facto. O meu conselho, para quem se começa a sentir um pouco intimidado naquelas páginas intermédias (e imagino que tenha sido propositado para que assim fosse), é que não desista, que continue até um final sublime. Sem adiantar, sem spoilers, apenas refiro que, entre os muitos subtextos da obra, ficou presente (e imagino que por muito tempo) a ideia de que a morte é evento ao qual damos demasiada importância (e aqui Saramago deita mais uma acha para a fogueira dos seus desentendimentos com a Igreja). O Amor, a Arte, a Vida (e compreenderá quem leu o livro a razão de escrever estas palavras com maiúsculas), superam o poder da própria morte, subjugando-a e tornando-a acessória no caminho percorrido por cada um. Como sempre, uma leitura transformadora, que colocou muitas das minhas vivências em perspectiva.

http://p-encadernadas.blogspot.pt/201...

Mi introducción a José Saramago vino de la mano de una recomendación de un familiar, que textualmente me comentó: “tras finalizar este libro, la muerte no me parece tan mala idea”. Con esta premisa, lo único que pude hacer es enfrascarme instantáneamente en una de las lecturas más interesantes y lúcidas que recuerdo haber leído. Era consciente del interés que tenía el autor por tratar temas con un matiz distópico o, como mínimo, socialmente complejos por sus causas y consecuencias. Sin embargo, no sabía lo que me iba a encontrar hasta que ya estaba cegado por la historia.

Las intermitencias de la muerte se inicia cuando la muerte suspende sus funciones y, como consecuencia, la gente deja de morir en un país concreto aunque indeterminado. Pese a la alegría inicial, esta situación desatará toda una serie de problemas sociales y políticos que nunca antes habían tenido la necesidad de plantearse.

Saramago decide dividir su novela en dos partes claramente diferenciadas. Por un lado, el primer bloque se asemeja prácticamente a un tratado sociológico sobre las consecuencias progresivas de la situación. Desde la religión hasta la estructura sanitaria o las compañías de seguros, todos los diferentes estamentos y sectores verán como el mundo deja de tener el sentido que hasta ahora parecía inamovible. En el segundo bloque el autor finaliza con una narración mucho más novelizada, dejando de lado la visión global con la que trataba el tema y acercándose así a los individuos.

Una de las características que más sorprende cuando el lector se inicia en la obra de Saramago es su particular estilo de escritura: prescinde de la mayoría de signos de puntuación, evocando una transmisión mucho más oral que no escrita. Pese a la agilidad que se gana en la narración, no es fácil acostumbrarse a este método, especialmente en sus primeras páginas, que pueden resultar algo enrevesadas si no se ha leído nada del autor con anterioridad.

Con este estilo tan particular, José Saramago narra una historia preciosa, conmovedora y realista, pese a su planteamiento fantástico. Consigue jugar y hacer malabares con el lenguaje para ofrecer todo un entramado que ofrece más respuestas al misterio de la vida que al misterio de la muerte. Se desprende un análisis exhaustivo y pormenorizado del planteamiento inicial. Su visión macrosocial es tan completa que choca como posteriormente puede desarrollar un relato final tan intimista.

Tal vez llegue tarde pero ha sido un verdadero placer encontrarme con un autor tan profesional y con ideas tan interesantes que plasmar sobre el papel. La historia sigue dando vueltas por la mente una vez se ha leído la última página, quizás por tratar un tema tan atemporal y universal. Me quedo con la sensación de no poder estar de acuerdo con la persona que me recomendó el libro puesto que, bien pensado, tras finalizar este libro, la vida no me parece tan mala idea.

Un incipit sorprendente, buttato lì quasi con indifferenza, dà il via a un vortice di pensieri e avvenimenti legati a uno dei temi principali della nostra vita: la morte (con la m minuscola), che ci accomuna pur nelle sue infinite differenze. Ogni uomo ha la sua morte, un fatto unico, irripetibile e privato, che nasce insieme a lui. Ognuno reagisce in maniera diversa all'evento conclusivo della vita. E spesso si sogna l'immortalità. O, in alternativa, di sapere "quando", pensando che avere il tempo di prepararsi renda il passo meno doloroso.
Ma è realmente così?
Un giorno una piccola morte - forse stanca, forse annoiata, forse curiosa - si aggira per le vie di un'ignota monarchia costituzionale, stravolgendo le "regole" del suo rapporto con gli uomini. Congetture e riflessioni si accavallano nel piccolo universo precipitato nel caos, finché la stessa signora con la falce si troverà alle prese con un mistero più grande di lei.
Ne nasce un ritratto ironico e disincantato della società, mentre la penna di Saramago dilata le parole, le espande nel tempo e nello spazio, le sgretola e poi le ricompone, rivelandone l'incapacità di "tradurre" correttamente la realtà.

This is something that I did not expect myself to say, but I liked this better than Blindness. They are both heavy books in content, with fascinating concepts. But with Death With Interruptions I feel that I related more easily to the ideas that the author wanted to express.

We all fear death, some more than other. I for one am scared out of my wits of dying. At least when I'm in my brooding moods and start having dark thoughts. So imagine a world in which dying is out of the equation, how would that affect us? And what if we knew in advance when we were about to die? These are questions we all ask ourselves, but that we find difficult to answer.

These might be difficult questions, but José Saramago does a spectacular job of trying to answer them while still leaving enough for the reader to interpret. Unlike Blindness. which can be classified quite easily as an extremely realistic and depressing dystopia, labeling Death With Interruptions is a lot more difficult, magical realism simply isn't enough.
This is a book that will leave you with more questions than answers and that's alright, because some questions are worth pondering on.