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I have been on a jag of reading long, dismal ultra-modern fiction lately. Krasznahorkai, Cartarescu, Pynchon. When I read them, I see the world as I observe it. There is a special thrill of identification, explanation and exploration of the world as it appears, its stylized reality - if not its naked image.

Saramago awoke a new appreciation for the modern psychological novel, which unfortunately too often is reduced to watered down realism, particularly in American literature. But what Saramago delivers in psychological, emotional, and philosophical breadth, in this odd parable is so gripping, so visceral. I couldn't put it down. In technical terms I believe this is a perfect novel, the kind of novel that convinces people of the value of literature. It is a rare novel that I recommend to all.

It is occasionally good medicine to the post modern dismal to take a draught of Hope.