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Imagine if people stopped dying in your country; what do you think would happen? What unique experiments would your nation's scientists craft to test the phenomenon? What about the dare-devils? How would the international community react? It'd be major news around the world, that's for sure. And the world's great powers would certainly want in; they'd flood your poor country with spies and outside funding. What about attempts by the terminally ill to emigrate? The potential for a humanitarian crisis, not to mention individually heart-rending stories, is almost too dramatic to think about. If nothing else, there would be an incredible public debate over what to do and what it all means.
t
Death With Interruptions, the tale of an unnamed country where people have stopped dieing, is not about any of this. It's about the important questions, such as what would happen to the funeral industry and what sort of black market would emerge to smuggle the comatose out of the country. It's also about Death personified as a woman who sneers at standardized punctuation and capitalization (much the way Saramago himself does) and falls in love with the man she cannot kill. Despite the plain, black cover, this book would fit best in the 'humor' section.
t
But Saramago's great blunder is not that he takes an intriguing idea and makes a joke out of it; it's that he takes his joke and bludgeons it with verbose, rambling language. As one egregious example; Saramago, after describing a border standoff over the exportation of the comatose, takes a whole page to explain why he took so long and finally settles on a single word; context. In Saramago's world, bloviation in the soul of wit.
t
This is a silly book that's too wordy to be clever and a philosophical book that's too nonsensical to take seriously. At every turn, Saramago presents us with a joke smashed by rambling anecdote, an observation drowned by irrelevance or a plot twist stifled by non sequitur. Death With Interruptions is not merely the worst experience I've ever had with a novel, it's the antithesis of my basic literary beliefs.
t
Death With Interruptions, the tale of an unnamed country where people have stopped dieing, is not about any of this. It's about the important questions, such as what would happen to the funeral industry and what sort of black market would emerge to smuggle the comatose out of the country. It's also about Death personified as a woman who sneers at standardized punctuation and capitalization (much the way Saramago himself does) and falls in love with the man she cannot kill. Despite the plain, black cover, this book would fit best in the 'humor' section.
t
But Saramago's great blunder is not that he takes an intriguing idea and makes a joke out of it; it's that he takes his joke and bludgeons it with verbose, rambling language. As one egregious example; Saramago, after describing a border standoff over the exportation of the comatose, takes a whole page to explain why he took so long and finally settles on a single word; context. In Saramago's world, bloviation in the soul of wit.
t
This is a silly book that's too wordy to be clever and a philosophical book that's too nonsensical to take seriously. At every turn, Saramago presents us with a joke smashed by rambling anecdote, an observation drowned by irrelevance or a plot twist stifled by non sequitur. Death With Interruptions is not merely the worst experience I've ever had with a novel, it's the antithesis of my basic literary beliefs.