by José Saramago
“Besides, all the many things that have been said about god and about death are nothing but stories, and this is just another one.”
— José Saramago, Death at Intervals
Notes
Saramago’s premise that death stops working unfolds like a bureaucratic fable.
These snippets capture his tone: philosophical absurdity, moral fatigue, and quiet humor in the face of cosmic inconvenience.
Didn’t love the bits with personification of death and falling in love with the cellist, wasn’t particularly striking to me.
Quotes
“…it seems to me what’s going to happen in this country at midnight is a catastrophe, a cataclysm like no other, a kind of end-of-the-world, but when I looked at you, it’s as if you’re merely dealing with some routine government matter, you calmly give your orders, and a little while ago, I even had the impression you smiled.
If you knew how many problems this letter will resolve for me without my having to lift a finger, I’m sure that you would smile too, director-general.”
“…on the autocue, that wonderful piece of apparatus which creates the vain illusion that the person speaking is doing so directly and solely to each member of the audience.”
“There really is nothing in the world as naked as a skeleton. In life it walks around doubly clothed, first by the flesh concealing it, then by the clothes with which said flesh likes to cover itself, if it hasn’t removed them to take a bath or engage in more pleasurable activities.”
“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.”
Reflection
Saramago writes like someone filing reports for eternity: detached, amused, and oddly tender.
In a book about death ceasing to exist, the human details, vanity, habit, the gentle farce of survival, remain stubbornly alive.