(This article is a translation of the original Falemos sobre “o” Saramago published November 16th, 2020)
The relationships that can be established between author and work are vast. And there are many opinions. We won’t go deeply into the subject; I have no intention of producing theory, but I have half a dozen words to record: one of the multiple opinions.
Saramago came into my life without asking permission. I confess that, from the start, it was a door that was locked. One day, however, it was only on the latch; the first paragraphs of “Memorial do Convento” came in and stayed there, with the same naturalness that brought Baltazar and Blimunda together. I learned that you don’t get to know the world through whispers; you need words that are well pronounced. My resistance to the writer of “Um Ensaio sobre a cegueira” was not related to biographical facts; in fact, I only discovered them later. I had created preconceptions about the work, but they soon became noise.
Basically, my role here is provocative (for laypeople like me, of course). Is there a point where author and work touch? That leaves room for multiple opinions. If I may be so bold, the only point where author and work are one is in the act of writing. Once completed, the book goes its own way. And so does the writer. Perhaps it’s like the feeling of bringing up a child: you have to help with the first steps, but at a certain point you have to let go. If we consider intertextuality as one of the paths of his works, Saramago is a master at leading other literary pearls astray in such a way as to “make the reader’s flesh and hair stand on end”.
José Saramago’s case is very illustrative of this debate. Between the writer’s eccentricity and his harmonious writing, where does the man end and the work begin? Let the river of perspectives come. There are those who accuse him of being incongruous, and there are those who accuse him of being unconscious. A little research is all it takes to hear mutterings about “the” Saramago. This article, so simply defined, is the basis for all the discussion on the subject (despite the fact that I make a variety of judgements, sometimes without any knowledge of the facts). I don’t claim to be a theorist; I’m just a lover. I give what I have, and I don’t feel I can ask for anything. That’s why I’m also limiting myself to mumbling, in the hope that someone will consider it a well-spoken speech.
“The” Saramago doesn’t exist in the literary universe. There is only Saramago, that is, the monument of our Literature which is the work written by José Saramago. Just as we shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, it’s also unfair to judge the value of a work by its author. Each entity, work, and author fulfils its destiny. Not agreeing with an author’s ideologies, acts, sins, or omissions is no reason not to enjoy the genius of their writing or to disregard the colossal cultural and, in this case, literary contribution of a personality. Genius transcends flesh and blood; it materialises in the materiality of writing, which I believe is what the human being can judge. At least, this literary lover doesn’t consider herself qualified to criticise an author’s choices, except for those that permeate their written output. Much less about the person who kills Pessoa in order to gather the heteronyms; his mastery of this literary “theft” is immense.
My interest in the individual who writes is always subsequent to reading his pages. It’s just my reflection, deposited in the river that will never stop flowing, I hope (perhaps Death will consider using its power of intermittence here). In short, I can’t help but believe that, in certain situations, temporary blindness helps us to see more clearly.
Ana Rua
