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256 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2005
芦Las religiones, todas, por m谩s vueltas que le demos, no tienen otra justificaci贸n para existir que no sea la muerte, la necesitan como pan para la boca. Los delegados de las religiones no se toman la molestia de protestar. Al contrario, uno de ellos, reputado integrante del sector cat贸lico, dijo, Tiene raz贸n, se帽or fil贸sofo, justo para eso existimos, para que las personas se pasen toda la vida con el miedo colgado al cuello y, cuando les llegue su hora, acojan la muerte como una liberaci贸n, El para铆so, Para铆so o infierno, o cosa ninguna, lo que pase despu茅s de la muerte nos importa mucho menos de lo que generalmente se cree, la religi贸n, se帽or fil贸sofo, es un asunto de la tierra, no tiene nada que ver con el cielo,禄
芦脡rase una vez, en el antiguo pa铆s de las f谩bulas, una familia integrada por un padre, una madre, un abuelo que era el padre del padre y el ya mencionado ni帽o de ocho a帽os, un muchachito. Suced铆a que el abuelo ya ten铆a mucha edad, por eso le temblaban las manos y se le ca铆a la comida de la boca cuando estaban a la mesa, lo que causaba gran irritaci贸n al hijo y a la nuera, siempre dici茅ndole que tuviera cuidado con lo que hac铆a, pero el pobre viejo, por m谩s que quisiera, no consegu铆a contener los temblores, peor a煤n si le rega帽aban, el resultado era que siempre manchaba el mantel o el suelo al dejar caer la comida, por no hablar de la servilleta que le ataban al cuello y que era necesario cambiarla tres veces al d铆a, en el que desayuno, al almuerzo y a la cena. Estaban las cosas as铆 y sin ninguna expectativa de mejor铆a cuando el hijo decidi贸 acabar con la desagradable situaci贸n. Apareci贸 en casa con un cuenco de madera y le dijo al padre, A partir de ahora comer谩 aqu铆, sentado en el patio que es m谩s f谩cil de limpiar para que su nuera no tenga que estarse preocupando con tantos manteles y tantas servilletas sucias. Y as铆 fue. Desayuno, almuerzo y cena, el viejo sentado solo en el patio, llev谩ndose la comida a la boca conforme era posible, la mitad se perd铆a en el camino, una parte de la otra mitad se le ca铆a por la boca abajo, no era mucho lo que se le deslizaba por lo que el vulgo llama canal de la sopa. Al nieto no parec铆a importarle el feo tratamiento que le estaban dando al abuelo, lo miraba, luego miraba al padre y a la madre, y segu铆a comiendo como si nada tuviera que ver con el asunto. Hasta que una tarde, al regresar del trabajo, el padre vio al hijo trabajando con una navaja un trozo de madera y crey贸 que, como era normal y corriente en esas 茅pocas remotas, estar铆a construyendo un juguete con sus propias manos. Al d铆a siguiente, sin embargo, se dio cuenta de que no se trataba de un carro, por lo menos no se ve铆a el sitio donde se le pudieran encajar unas ruedas, y entonces pregunt贸, Qu茅 est谩s haciendo. El ni帽o fingi贸 que no hab铆a o铆do y sigui贸 excavando en la madera con la punta de la navaja, esto pas贸 en el tiempo que los padres eran menos asustadizo y no corr铆an a quitar de las manos de los hijos un instrumento de tanta utilidad para la fabricaci贸n de juguetes. No me has o铆do, qu茅 est谩s haciendo con ese palo, volvi贸 a preguntar el padre, y el hijo, sin levantar la vista de la operaci贸n, respondi贸, Estoy haciendo un cuenco para cuando seas viejo y te tiemblen las manos, para cuando tengas que comer en el patio, como el abuelo. Fueron palabras santas. Se cayeron las escamas de los ojos del padre, vio la verdad y la luz, y en el mismo instante fue a pedirle perd贸n al progenitor y cuando lleg贸 la hora de la cena con sus propias manos lo ayud贸 a sentarse en la silla, con sus propias manos le acerc贸 la cuchara a la boca, con sus propias manos le limpi贸 suavemente la barbilla, porque todav铆a pod铆a hacerlo y su querida padre ya no. De lo que pasara despu茅s no hay se帽al en la historia, pero de ciencia muy cierta sabemos que si es verdad que el trabajo del muchachito se qued贸 a la mitad, tambi茅n es verdad que el trozo de madera sigue por ah铆. Nadie lo quiso quemar o tirar, ya sea para que la lecci贸n del ejemplo no cayera en el olvido, o por si se diera el caso de que alguien decidiera terminar la obra, eventualidad no del todo imposible de producirse si tenemos en cuenta la enorme capacidad de supervivencia de los dichos lados oscuros de la naturaleza humana.禄
"The following day, no one died."So begins Jos茅 Saramago's Death with Interruptions. In an unnamed small European country without any explanations people have stopped dying - an eternal dream come true, right?
"Having lived, until those days of confusion, in what they had imagined to be the best of all possible and probable worlds, they were discovering, with delight, that the best, the absolute best, was happening right now, right there, at the door of their house, a unique and marvelous life without the daily fear of parca鈥檚 creaking scissors, immortality in the land that gave us our being, safe from any metaphysical awkwardnesses and free to everyone, with no sealed orders to open at the hour of our death, announcing at that crossroads where dear companions in this vale of tears known as earth were forced to part and set off for their different destinations in the next world, you to paradise, you to purgatory, you down to hell."Well, once the celebrations died down, it quickly becomes obvious that this paradise on earth comes at a price. Immortality is not eternal youth, and ultimately what we have is hundreds and thousands of people suspended on the edge of dying, in the in-between state, neither dead nor alive, caught on the borderline.![]()
"...One must admit that the prospects are not just gloomy, they're terrible, catastrophic, more dangerous by far than anything even the wildest imagination could dream up."And slowly it sinks in that before long it's not only the undertakers and gravediggers who are out of jobs; not only religion that becomes obsolete as its greatest reward - resurrection - is no longer a big deal (seriously, Saramago's distaste for religion is very prominently underscored and explained in this book); not only the philosophical schools left pointless and speechless; it's generations and generations in "this society torn between the hope of living forever and the fear of never dying" who will have to dedicate themselves to caring for the millions of not-quite-dead; it's the country unprepared to care for the citizens who are no longer free to enjoy the certainty of death.
"If we don鈥檛 start dying again, we have no future."![]()
It's where Saramago's prose, his entire narration undergoes a fascinating transformation. No, his style does not change. We still have solid blocks of text and meandering ramblings and endless strangely punctuated sentences, but the slow shift in the mood and the feeling subtly creeps up making you look up from the book and wonder - am I still reading the same story? And why do I have those pesky tears glistening in the corners of my eyes? And why can't I stop myself from sighing and quietly saying, "Aww...." at the end?
"Due to some strange optical phenomenon, real or virtual, death seems much smaller now, as if her bones had shrunk, or perhaps she was always like that, and it's our eyes, wide with fear, that make her look like a giant. Poor death. It makes us feel like going over and putting a hand on her hard shoulder and whispering a few words of sympathy in her ear, or, rather, in the place where her ear once was, underneath the parietal."
"For the first time in her life, death knew what it felt like to have a dog on her lap."
"The following day, no one died."So simplySaramago begins: in an undisclosed small European country, without any logic or harbinger, people suddenly stopped dying.
"Having lived, until those days of confusion, in what they had imagined to be the best of all possible and probable worlds, they were discovering, with delight, that the best, the absolute best, was happening right now, right there, at the door of their house, a unique and marvelous life without the daily fear of parca鈥檚 creaking scissors, immortality in the land that gave us our being, safe from any metaphysical awkwardnesses and free to everyone, with no sealed orders to open at the hour of our death, announcing at that crossroads where dear companions in this vale of tears known as earth were forced to part and set off for their different destinations in the next world, you to paradise, you to purgatory, you down to hell."A dream come through, correct?
"Due to some strange optical phenomenon, real or virtual, death seems much smaller now as if her bones had shrunk, or perhaps she was always like that, and it's our eyes, wide with fear, that make her look like a giant. Poor death. It makes us feel like going over and putting a hand on her hard shoulder and whispering a few words of sympathy in her ear, or, rather, in the place where her ear once was, underneath the parietal."Saramago simply captivates the reader. Read it if you enjoy something that will leave you with much more than with what you started before opening one of his books. As his literature Nobel Prize attests, he knows how to write. He is brilliant, and you won鈥檛 forget him after the first taste.
毓賻賳賿 兀賻亘賽賷 爻賻毓賽賷丿賺 丕賱禺購丿賿乇賽賷賽賾 乇賻囟賽賷賻 丕賱賱賻賾賴購 毓賻賳賿賴購 賯賻丕賱賻: 賯賻丕賱賻 乇賻爻購賵賱購 丕賱賱賻賾賴賽 氐賻賱賻賾賶 丕賱賱賴購 毓賻賱賻賷賿賴賽 賵賻爻賻賱賻賾賲賻: 賷購丐賿鬲賻賶 亘賽丕賱賿賲賻賵賿鬲賽 賰賻賴賻賷賿卅賻丞賽 賰賻亘賿卮賺 兀賻賲賿賱賻丨賻. 賮賻賷購賳賻丕丿賽賷 賲購賳賻丕丿賺: 賷賻丕 兀賻賴賿賱賻 丕賱噩賻賳賻賾丞賽. 賮賻賷賻卮賿乇賻卅賽亘購賾賵賳賻 賵賻賷賻賳賿馗購乇購賵賳賻. 賮賻賷賻賯購賵賱購: 賴賻賱賿 鬲賻毓賿乇賽賮購賵賳賻 賴賻匕賻丕責 賮賻賷賻賯購賵賱購賵賳賻: 賳賻毓賻賲賿. 賴賻匕賻丕 丕賱賲賻賵賿鬲購. 賵賻賰購賱購賾賴購賲賿 賯賻丿賿 乇賻丌賴購. 孬購賲賻賾 賷購賳賻丕丿賽賷: 賷賻丕 兀賻賴賿賱賻 丕賱賳賻賾丕乇賽. 賮賻賷賻卮賿乇賻卅賽亘購賾賵賳賻 賵賻賷賻賳賿馗購乇購賵賳賻. 賮賻賷賻賯購賵賱購: 賵賴賻賱賿 鬲賻毓賿乇賽賮購賵賳賻 賴賻匕賻丕責 賮賻賷賻賯購賵賱購賵賳賻: 賳賻毓賻賲賿. 賴賻匕賻丕 丕賱賲賻賵賿鬲購. 賵賻賰購賱購賾賴購賲賿 賯賻丿賿 乇賻丌賴購. 賮賻賷購匕賿亘賻丨購 孬購賲賻賾 賷賻賯購賵賱購: 賷賻丕 兀賻賴賿賱賻 丕賱噩賻賳賻賾丞賽 禺購賱購賵丿賹 賮賻賱丕賻 賲賻賵賿鬲賻. 賵賻賷賻丕 兀賻賴賿賱賻 丕賱賳賻賾丕乇賽 禺購賱購賵丿賹 賮賻賱丕賻 賲賻賵賿鬲賻. 孬購賲賻賾 賯賻乇賻兀賻: 賵賻兀賻賳賿匕賽乇賿賴購賲賿 賷賻賵賿賲賻 丕賱丨賻爻賿乇賻丞賽 廿賽匕賿 賯購囟賽賷賻 丕賱兀賻賲賿乇購 賵賻賴購賲賿 賮賽賷 睾賻賮賿賱賻丞賺 賵賻賴購賲賿 賱丕賻 賷購丐賿賲賽賳購賵賳賻 .賲乇賷賲: 39賴匕丕 賲丕 鬲賳丕賯賱鬲賴 兀睾賱亘 丕賱兀丿賷丕賳 亘氐賷睾 賲禺鬲賱賮丞 毓賳 賲賵鬲 丕賱賲賵鬲. 賵 賱賰賳賴 爻賷丨丿孬 亘毓丿 賷賵賲 丕賱丨爻丕亘 丨賷孬 鬲亘丿賱 丕賱兀乇囟 睾賷乇 丕賱兀乇囟 賵 丕賱爻賲丕賵丕鬲.