L'Année de la mort de Ricardo Reis

by José Saramago

Ricardo Reis est l'un des hétéronymes du grand poète portugais Fernando Pessoa.
Créature imaginaire, qui pourtant s'inscrit dans la réalité en signant une œuvre poétique importante, il devient, sous la plume de José Saramago, le personnage central d'une fiction romanesque. Dans une Lisbonne changeante, que les reflets du Tage font parfois paraître comme irréelle, Ricardo Reis poursuit une quête d'identité où se mêlent le vrai et le faux ; les morts côtoient les vivants, les sages, les fous, en un mystérieux jeu de miroirs.
En choisissant le thème du double, José Saramago interroge les relations entre la littérature et le mythe, le mensonge et l'Histoire, et nous donne à lire un roman étourdissant.

Genres: Fiction, Portugal, Portuguese Literature, Classics, Historical Fiction, Literature, Novels

480 pages, Pocket Book

First published January 1, 1984

About the author

José de Sousa Saramago (16 November 1922 – 18 June 2010) was a Portuguese novelist and recipient of the 1998 Nobel Prize in Literature, for his "parables sustained by imagination, compassion and irony [with which he] continually enables us once again to apprehend an elusory reality." His works, some of which have been seen as allegories, commonly present subversive perspectives on historic events, emphasizing the theopoetic. In 2003 Harold Bloom described Saramago as "the most gifted novelist alive in the world today."

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jos%C3%...

Reviews

[Vit Babenco · Rating 5 out of 5]

Poets, even if they are among us, live in another land where everything is different…

Films, like poetry, are the art of illusion, by adjusting a mirror you can transform a bog into the ocean.

This simple comparison really bares the soul of poetry – shift a vantage point just a wee bit and the whole world will be seen in a new marvellous light.

A poet does not ask that his muses speak, only that they exist, Neaera, Lydia, Chloe.

The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis is much more than just a tribute to the great poet – it is a resurrection of one poet in the consciousness of the other.

In a changing, uncertain confluence, as the river is formed by its waves, so contemplate your days, and if you see yourself pass as another, be silent.

Poets depart for eternity but their poetry stays with us.

[Luís · Rating 5 out of 5]

It is difficult to "enter" this novel without some precision, especially regarding the work of Pessoa, to whom Saramago leaves a beautiful tribute here. Fernando Pessoa is unique in creating characters from his novel and authors of heteronyms with whom he exchanges ideas, with whom he argues that he protects, and who are part of his work. Since his first texts, the writer has shown an appetite for madness, schizophrenia, and double personalities from this meeting imagined by Saramago between Pessoa and his "other."

[BlackOxford · Rating 5 out of 5]

Deep Inside Lisbon

How is it possible to combine Kafka, Proust, and Borges to create something entirely unique and compelling? Only Saramago knows for sure. With him Portugal is the home of Everyman who copes with the quotidian as well as the bizarre with panache and fortitude. As an incidental benefit, Ricardo Reis also provides a synopsis of Iberian literary history as well as an interesting travelogue of Lisbon. Read this with Google Earth at hand as he takes you round Baixa and Rossio.

[Rakhi Dalal · Rating 4 out of 5]

The only difference between life and death is that the living still have time, but the time to say that one word, to make that one gesture, is running out for them. What gesture, what word, I don't know, a man dies from not having said it, from not having made it, that is what he dies of, not from sickness, and that is why, when dead, he finds it so difficult to accept death. My dear Fernando Pessoa, you're reading things upside down. My dear Ricardo Reis, I can no longer read. Improbable on two counts, this conversation is reported as if it actually took place. There was no other way of making it sound plausible.
-----José Saramago

Sometimes Silence is enshrouded in such disquiet that unheard voices have the loudest sound. Their echoes continue to haunt generations to come long after the voices have themselves ceased to exist. Among those haunted, there remain a few whose sojourn in the land of unheard is deliberately prolonged. Perhaps what haunts them is the echo of their own thoughts, sometimes resulting in a laborious love affair with words which benefits the readers like us in a twofold manner. Interestingly, even if those words, at a glance seem mundane, they carry with them such traces which make you feel nostalgic for that Silence you savored in the first place. This is how I can describe my reading experience of this work by Saramago featuring Fernando Pessoa.

Pessoa’s “The Book of Disquiet” left a profound impression upon me and the knowledge of his creation of heteronyms (around 80) intrigued me even more. To be able to create such heteronyms and then to ascribe different personality traits and writing style to them, is a marvelous feat in my opinion, especially since it demonstrates the enormity of an otherwise trivial human existence. And this idea is what is precisely achieved by Saramago through his writing in this work. He creates a piece which befits his style and his personality, written in a manner quite ordinary (as demonstrated by the thoughts and life of Ricardo Reis, a heteronym of Pessoa, in this work) yet it captures the immensity of a banal existence so beautifully that it makes you ache more for the master.

“We mourn the man whom death takes from us, and the loss of his miraculous talent and the grace of his human presence, but only the man do we mourn, for destiny endowed his spirit and creative powers with a mysterious beauty that cannot perish. The rest belongs to the genius of Fernando Pessoa.”

It seems Saramago was enchanted not only by the creative power of Pessoa but also by his life, his everyday life. That is why he casts Ricardo Reis, a heteronym of Pessoa, as the central character here and offers us a glimpse into the master’s mind as he carefully constructs the character of a sluggish and estranged Reis, these traits being also associated with Pessoa during his lifetime. His deftness in using magical realism shines forth as he juxtaposes Reis and Pessoa in the novel. Reis comes to Lisbon after the death of Pessoa and visits his grave. He is then visited by the ghost of Pessoa and the two engage in conversations whenever they meet. The conversations are cerebral at times which only seems to suggest the kind of struggle Pessoa, who mostly remained solitary, went through during his lifetime.

“If I accept sleep, it's to be able to dream, To dream is to be absent, to be on the other side, But life has two sides, Pessoa, at least two, we can only reach the other side through dreams, you say this to a dead man, who can tell you from his own experience that on the other side of life there is only death. Well I don't know what death is, but I am not convinced that it is this other side of life we are discussing, because death, in my opinion, limits itself to being. Death is, it does not exist, it is. Are being and existing not the same thing then, No, my dear Reis, being and existing are not the same thing, and not simply because we have these two different words at our disposal, on the contrary it is because they are not the same thing that we have these two words and make use of them.”

Being and existing are not the same things. Sometimes we just exist, as life exists but without being aware of this existence. We stride through life as in a dream, languid and aloof. Sometimes we struggle to be on the other side, to feel intensely and make out some meaning, to seek answers and to elevate. And perhaps these are the two sides of life which are indispensable, which are necessary to navigate through this world.

I am still not sure why Saramago named this work as “The Year of the death of Ricardo Reis”, maybe I am looking for too much, may be this way he pays his tribute to the master, by saying all those words that Pessoa didn’t in his lifetime and thus finally letting him rest in peace.

[Sawsan · Rating 4 out of 5]

يتخطى ساراماجو الحدود بين الخيال والواقع
ويتتبع شخصية ريكاردو ريس من لحظة وصوله للبرتغال بعد غياب 16 عام
ريس هو أحد الشخصيات البديلة التي ابتكرها الشاعر البرتغالي فيرناندو بيسوا
وبين الشعر وشوارع لشبونة وعلاقات ريس وأحاديثه مع بيسوا بعد وفاته
يعرض الأحوال السياسية.. القمع والديكتاتوريات والثورات والحروب
وخاصًة في البرتغال وجارتها أسبانيا فترة ثلاثينيات القرن الماضي

[Carmo · Rating 5 out of 5]

Não sei se esta é a história de Ricardo Reis, ou se Saramago o usou como pretexto para dar a conhecer o mundo, particularmente a Europa, no ano de 1936.
Em qualquer dos casos, Ricardo Reis volta a Portugal, depois do exílio no Brasil, quando tem conhecimento da morte de Fernando Pessoa.
Desembarca numa Lisboa sombria; sombria pelo tempo chuvoso e pelo clima político e social que se vive no país.
Numa narrativa onde a melancolia dá mãos à beleza, o autor disseca a realidade crua de uma das piores fases deste país; uma população esmagada sob um regime ditatorial, sem justiça, sem esperança, a depositar a última fé de salvação nos hipotéticos milagres de Fátima.
O futuro é incerto, sobretudo com a Europa unida num abraço fascista que abarca a Alemanha de Hitler, a Itália de Mussolini, a Espanha de Franco, e Portugal; que se ajoelha perante o "salvador" da Pátria, Salazar, louvado e temido na mesma medida.
Perante este cenário, Ricardo Reis, na sua costumada pasmaceira de viver sem nada ambicionar, conformado com a efemeridade, tendo a morte como única certeza, vai tomando conta do estado da nação, sobretudo pelos jornais. Mero espectador, o seu senso crítico é nulo e Saramago serve-se dele para expor a sua crítica pessoal com a ironia e sarcasmo habituais.

Mal Ricardo Reis pôs os pés em terra começou a receber visitas se Fernando Pessoa, que vem do mundo dos mortos para encontros onde discutem a vida, o mundo à sua volta, os amores e a conduta do poeta. Foi o lado irreal da história, e onde a ficção e a realidade coexistiram de uma forma fascinante.
A mulher forte desta obra é Lídia: criada no hotel onde o poeta se hospedou, começa pouco tempo depois a fazer-lhe "visitas noturnas". Mulher do povo, inculta, pouco espera da vida mas é ciente da realidade e destemida.
Ricardo Reis faz-lhe um filho - que não pretende reconhecer- e Lídia nada exige, aceita o seu destino. Ela que era a sua ligação ao quotidiano, vai ficando mais independente, vai-se afastando, e ele vai caindo no marasmo. Ricardo Reis desiste de viver. Lídia enfrenta a vida carregando no ventre a esperança de um melhor futuro.

Outro dos pontos fortes deste livro é o roteiro lisboeta percorrido por Ricardo Reis. Muitos o fazem e eu também o fiz. Foram três dias a subir e descer ruas, ao segundo, pés e pernas já pediam clemência, ao terceiro parecia uma aleijadinha. Mas foi inesquecível!

Quer pelo valor indesmentível da obra, quer pelas recordações da fantástica maratona pedestre, este é um dos livros especiais que só a demência poderá apagar da minha memória.

[MihaElla · Rating 5 out of 5]

Truth to tell, I was expecting to fall in love with the guy (I mean Ricardo Reis) but no, eventually I have turned myself against such a male prototype. Sadly, this man appears to have nothing else to do, he sleeps, eats, strolls, and composes poetry line by line with much effort, agonizing over rhyme and meter.

When I just recall that It all started so nicely, almost softly adorning a picture of an interesting novel hero...≪ A grizzled fellow, skin and bones […] resumes his existence on terra firma… Betraying for the first time a slight Brazilian accent…reading a book called The God of the Labyrinth by Herbert Quain, attracted to it by the ennui of the voyage and book’s evocative title. A labyrinth with a god, what god might be, which labyrinth, what labyrinthine god. ≫
So, it happened that I was much curious and anxious (same as the policeman in the novel) to get a more detailed acquaintance with this Portuguese doctor (poet, too) who was earning a good living in Brazil, who returned after sixteen years in his native land of Lisbon, Portugal, who has been living in a hotel for two months and he does not work!‼ [how can one allow oneself such luxury nowadays], although he used to coquettish with the idea of resuming his practice…
But Ricardo Reis, serious by nature, often felt a repressed Dionysian turmoil stirring within. Only the fear of his own body prevented him from throwing himself into wild frenzy (such for example the Carnival on the streets of Lisbon), as we never know how such things will end…Especially when we talk about samba, the samba, that tremor in one’s soul. Ha.

I wished there had been more dialogues and/or monologues with/by Fernando Pessoa. To my ever-constant, slightly growing regret during the course of reading there is just a bit of what I expected and wished for, and it could never satisfy any recurrent hunger especially on such themes as elaborated by Fernando Pessoa.
However, there is a (very) big plus after finishing the novel. I felt there are too many gaps or voids to fill in to my mental self so I just have to get back with re-reading him. I have actually started immediately and opening my favorite (so far) The Book of Disquiet I dived exactly on the page where the poet described what Freedom should stand for…and I agree.
≪.. Two words about the poet’s [Fernando Pessoa] earthly passage. For him two words suffice, or none. Indeed, silence would be preferable, the silence that already enshrouds both him and us and which is in keeping with his temperament, for what is close to God is close to him. Yet those who were his peers in extolling beauty should not, could not have allowed him to descend into earth, or rather ascend to the final horizons of Eternity without voicing their protest, calm yet aggrieved at this departure, the companions of Orpheus, more brothers than companions, who pursued the same ideal of beauty, they could not, I repeat, abandon him in this final resting place without having showered his gentle death with the white lilies of silence and suffering. We mourn the man whom death takes from us, and the loss of his miraculous talent and the grace of his human presence, but only the man do we mourn, for destiny endowed his spirit and creative powers with a mysterious beauty that cannot perish. The rest belongs to the genius of Fernando Pessoa. Come now, come now, exceptions can fortunately still be found to the normal rules of life. Since the time of Hamlet we have been going around saying, The rest is silence, in the end it’s genius that takes care of the rest, and if this genius can do it, perhaps another genius can too≫.

In one word (few actually), I feel this novel is like a long and lovely prose ode of the lonely…There are hundreds of sentences, huge blocks of texts, where (anti)-hero Ricardo Reis is utterly companionless by his own nature, self, caprice or forcefully, and, eventually, solitude weighs on him like night, and the night devours him like bait…

≪ Ricardo Reis is ready to leave. He has no one waiting for him…The sensible thing would be to stay at home… He has papers to arrange, books waiting to be read, and decisions to make, what kind of future does he want, what kind of job, where can he find the motivation to live and work, the reason…≫.
≪ Ricardo Reis returned to his room, thought perhaps he should make the bed before going out, he must not allow himself to become lax in his habits, but it was hardly worth the effort, he was not expecting visitors, so he settled in the chair where Fernando Pessoa had spent the night, crossed his legs as he had seen him do, clasped his hands on his knee, and tried to imagine himself dead, to contemplate the empty bed with the lifeless eyes of a statue. But there was a vein throbbing in his left temple, and the left eyelid twitched. I am alive, he murmured, then in a loud, sonorous voice he repeated, I am alive, and since there was no one there to contradict him, he was convinced ≫.
≪ He rummages at the desk, through the manuscripts of his poems…He reads at random and asks himself if he is their author, for he does not recognize himself in what is written, in this detached, calm, resigned person, almost godlike, for that is how gods are, composed as they assist the dead. Vaguely he muses, he must organize his life, his time, decide how he will spend his mornings, afternoons, and evenings, get to bed early and rise early, find one or two restaurants that serve simple, wholesome meals, and he must reread and revise his poems …≫.

Oddly, as it often happens, we take the first two steps because we are daydreaming or distracted and then have no choice but to take the third step, even when we know that it is wrong or ridiculous. Ha. True enough because ‘Man, in the final analysis, is an irrational creature.’
Nonetheless, in the same line of conclusion, should never forget that ≪ Man must always make an effort, so that he may deserve to be called man, but he is much less master of his own person and destiny than he imagines. Time, not his time, will make him prosper or decline, sometimes for different merits, or because they are judged differently. What will you be when you discover it is night and you find yourself at the end of the road≫

[Claudia · Rating 4 out of 5]

Vou tentar descrever o que senti durante a leitura deste livro maravilhoso de José Saramago. O Ano da Morte de Ricardo Reis é absolutamente fantástico. Fez-me amar mais Lisboa, as pessoas e a vida. O escritor conseguiu surpreender-me ao longo da leitura e viver algumas semanas no ambiente característico do século XIX. A mentalidade do povo português pouco mudou.

Ricardo Reis regressa do Brasil depois de estar dezasseis anos longe do seu país. O estranhamento inicial e a procura de um lugar para chamar de lar. Passear pelas ruas lisboetas pelo olhar do médico foi agradável. A paixão e o amor entre duas mulheres tão diferentes. Personagens femininas fantásticas. Quando estas mulheres roubam a cena ao protagonista são, sem dúvida, as minhas partes preferidas.

Li o livro de forma lenta como a narrativa pede. São expostos vários temas a partir das observações dos personagens e acontecimentos. Os diálogos entre Ricardo Reis e o seu criador deixaram-me fascinada com a forma brilhante como o escritor resolveu contar esta história.

Imersa enquanto folheei as páginas deste livro. Mexeu com as minhas emoções e emocionou-me.

Havia tanto a dizer mas eu não sou capaz.

Cinco estrelas.

blog: www.amulherqueamalivros.blogs.sapo.pt

[Anni · Rating 5 out of 5]

A haunting novel - in more ways than one:-

With its Borgesian and Joycean echoes, this surrealist and symbolic novel pays homage to the poetry of Fernando Pessoa, as well as being an ambulatory paean to the city of Lisbon.
Our narrator's eponymous protagonist, Ricardo Reis, has returned to Portugal at the time of political turmoil and instability throughout Europe in the 1930s. Here, among the boulevards and alleyways of the city, he is visited 12 times by the spirit of his alter ego Pessoa, holding conversations which reflect the poet's philosophical musings.
Saramago’s use of the present tense gives immediacy and intimacy to the narration, closely drawing the reader into each minutely described scene, so that we feel like companions. The classically formal style suits the strangely detached meditations of Reis/Pessoa, which evoke the ghostly passivity of the pre-war populace – suggesting the blurred distinction between the living and the dead which Saramago implies throughout the novel.
This is my first venture into Portuguese literature, but it won't be my last.

[Jonathan · Rating 5 out of 5]

5 March 2025 - added during third read through. In light of all that is going on in the world right now, and Ukraine in particular following the disgusting display from Trump and his minions, it felt right to quote this passage here:


"Addis Ababa, such a poetic name, such a handsome race, it means New Flower. Addis Ababa is in flames, her streets covered with dead bodies, marauders are destroying homes, committing rape, looting and beheading women and children as Badoglio's troops approach. The Negus has fled to French Somalia, from where he will sail to Palestine aboard a British cruiser, and later, toward the end of the month, before a solemn gathering of the League of Nations in Geneva he will ask, What reply should I take back to my people. But after he speaks, no one replies, and before he got up to speak, he was jeered by the Italian journalists. Let us show tolerance, it is well known that nationalist fanaticism can easily dim one's intelligence, so he that is without sin, let him cast the first stone. Addis Ababa is in flames, her streets are covered with dead bodies, marauders are destroying homes, committing rape, looting and beheading women and children, as Badoglio's troops approach. Mussolini declared, This remarkable achievement has sealed the fate of Ethiopia, and the wise Marconi warned, Those who would seek to offer resistance to Italy are committing the most dangerous of follies, and Anthony Eden argued, Circumstances advise the lifting of sanctions, and The Manchester Guardian, speaking for the British Government, said, There are many reasons why colonies should be handed over to Germany, and Goebbels said, The League of Nations is a good thing but flying squadrons are better. Addis Ababa is in flames, her streets are covered with dead bodies, marauders are destroying homes, committing rape, looting, beheading women and children, as Badoglio's troops approach, Addis Ababa was in flames, homes burned, castles were sacked, bishops stripped, women raped by knights, their children pawns skewered with swords, and blood flowed in the streets. A shadow crosses the mind of Ricardo Reis."


....ORIGINAL REVIEW BELOW.....

There are certain writers, and Saramago is clearly one of them, whose voice is so well defined we can recognise it within a few words. Even his less successful Novels are intensely pleasurable for me to read, simply because I love spending time in the presence of his voice (as translated by the wonderful Giovanni Pontiero of course). And here, in this text, we open the first page and read as follows:

”Here the sea ends and the earth begins. It is raining over the colourless city. The waters of the river are polluted with mud, the riverbanks flooded. A dark vessel, the Highland Brigade, ascends the sombre river and is about to anchor at the quay of Alcântara. The steamer is English and belongs to the Royal Mail Line. She crosses the Atlantic between London and Buenos Aires like a weaving shuttle on the highways of the sea, backward and forward, always calling at the same ports, La Plata, Montevideo, Santos, Rio de Janeiro, Pernambuco, Las Palmas, in this order or vice versa, and unless she is shipwrecked, the steamer will also call at Vigo and Boulogne-sur-Mer before finally entering the Thames just as she is now entering the Tagus, and one does not ask which is the greater river, which the greater town.”

There is so much to love in this paragraph alone – all those illimitable “e”s in the first sentence, the melancholic suggestiveness of the rain, the dark vessel, the sombre river…The foreshadowing of the “Eternal Return” in the repetitious journey of the steamer…

I don’t know. For me, such a paragraph is enough to inspire trust and guarantee a committed reading.

There were a few of his novels that were fighting for a place in my Most Elite shelf (Worshiped and Adored being the most accurate description of my feelings for these texts), this one won out partly, I think, because it is woven tight to Pessoa, another of my literary loves (though I don’t think knowledge of his work is a prerequisite for reading this novel).

Regardless, I shall end with a quote from Reis himself:

“Numberless live in us;

I think or feel, ignorant

Of who is thinking or feeling.

I am only the place where

Someone feels or thinks.



I have more than one soul.

There are more I’s than I.

Even so I exist

Indifferent to them all.

I silence them: I speak.



Crossed impulses of that

Which I feel or do not feel

Dispute in who I am.

I ignore them. They dictate nothing

To whom I know I am: I write. “ - Ricardo Reis (Pessoa)

[Zaphirenia · Rating 4 out of 5]

Ο Σαραμάγκου είναι από εκείνους τους συγγραφείς που ξέρεις πως ό,τι και να γράψει καλό θα είναι, άσχημα δε θα περάσεις. Ίσως σε δυσκολέψει λίγο, αλλά στο τέλος θα βγεις στην άλλη πλευρά ευχαριστημένος και με την πεποίθηση ότι διάβασες κάτι που άξιζε τον όποιο κόπο. Έχει αυτό το σπινθηροβόλο πνεύμα που μαγνητίζει το μυαλό του αναγνώστη και, συνδυασμένο με το πολύ προσωπικό του στιλ με τις μακρές περιόδους δίνει έναν ρυθμό που δεν σου επιτρέπει να το αφήσεις πριν ολοκληρώσει το νόημα. Για όσους ξέρουν από μουσική, ο λόγος του Σαραμάγκου είναι ό,τι πιο κοντινό (εξωμουσικά) έχω δει σε φράση. Θα έκανα και μια αναλογία περί της δομής που οδηγεί στο κρεσέντο, αλλά φοβάμαι πως αυτό είναι πολύ κλισέ, οπότε λέω να το κόψω στο μοντάζ.

Στα του βιβλίου τώρα, πρόκειται (ως συνήθως) για ένα πολύ ιδιαίτερο έργο. Βρισκόμαστε στο έτος 1937, η Πορτογαλία είναι υπό το καθεστώς της δικτατορίας του Σαλαζάρ και το φάντασμα του φασισμού έχει αρχίσει να ίπταται πάνω από την Ευρώπη. Όλα αυτά υπάρχουν μέσα στο βιβλίο και τα βλέπουμε να εξελίσσονται μέσα από την ιστορία του κεντρικού ήρωα Ρικάρντο Ρέις. Η οποία ιστορία είναι η βραδυφλεγής πορεία του ήρωα προς το θάνατο (μην ακούσω χαζά για spoilers, το λέει στον τίτλο). Παρακολουθούμε λοιπόν το τελευταίο έτος στη ζωή του Ρικάρντο Ρέις, ποιητή και γιατρού που επιστρέφει στην πατρίδα του, τη Λισαβόνα, όταν πληροφορείται το θάνατο του Φερνάντο Πεσσόα, με τον οποίο ξεκινά μία σχέση διαλόγου που διατρέχει όλο το βιβλίο. Η ιδιαιτερότητα προφανώς έγκειται στο ότι ο Ρικάρντο Ρέις είναι ετερώνυμος του ίδιου του Φερνάντο Πεσσόα (και άλλοι ετερώνυμοι αναφέρονται μέσα στο βιβλίο ως αυτοτελή πρόσωπα). Οι συζητήσεις προφανώς περιστρέφονται γύρω από τα θέματα που θα συζητούσαν ένας ζωντανός ποιητής με έναν νεκρό ποιητή, δηλαδή την ποίηση, τη ζωή και το θάνατο, τον έρωτα.

Ο Σαραμάγκου επιλέγει τις λέξεις που θα χρησιμοποιήσει με προσοχή, με περίσκεψη και φροντίδα. Αυτή είναι η βασική δουλειά του λογοτέχνη γενικώς, συνήθως όμως είναι μια διεργασία εσωτερική, μια άσκηση που εκτελεί ο συγγραφέας μόνος του και ο αναγνώστης μόνο ένα μικρό μέρος αυτής της δύσκολης προσπάθειας μπορεί να συλλάβει και να κατανοήσει. Γιατί ο αναγνώστης εκτίθεται μόνο στο τελικό έργο, απολαμβάνει το αποτέλεσμα της δουλειάς και συχνά δεν υποψιάζεται καν πόσο επίπονη ήταν αυτή η δουλειά που απαιτείται για να παραχθεί το συγκεκριμένο βιβλίο. Ο θείος Ζοζέ κάνει όμως κάτι άλλο, επιλέγει λέξεις μπροστά σου, σου παραθέτει εναλλακτικές μορφές του λόγου, σου προσφέρει δυνητικές ερμηνείες της πραγματικότητας, σε μυεί στα μυστικά της τέχνης του και τελικά σου παραδίδει ένα έργο με πολλαπλές σημάνσεις, από τις οποίες μπορείς να επιλέξεις μία ή περισσότερες - και το πιθανότερο είναι πως αν το ξαναδιαβάσεις, θα εισπράξεις κάτι διαφορετικό, θα σκεφτείς κάτι άλλο, θα ανακαλύψεις ένα επίπεδο διαφορετικού βάθους από εκείνο που είδες στην πρώτη ανάγνωση. Ανάλογα με τη χρονική στιγμή που θα σε πετύχει, μπορεί, τελικά, να διαβάσεις ένα άλλο βιβλίο.

Στο τέλος (περίπου το 1/4 θα έλεγα, ίσως λίγο λιγότερο) κάνει μια ελαφριά στροφή προς τα έξω, αλλάζει λίγο την εστίαση για να ασχοληθεί με το γενικότερο πολιτικό πλαίσιο της εποχής στην Ισπανία (άνοδος του Φράνκο) και για εμένα εκεί το χάνει λίγο. Δε χάνεται τελείως η επαφή με την οπτική του Ρικάρντο Ρέις, όμως η εσωτερικότητα που κυριαρχεί σε όλο το βιβλίο σα να σβήνει και παραπέμπει περισσότερο σε κοινωνικοπολιτική ανάλυση και λιγότερο σε οργανικό μέρος της ιστορίας. Σα να θυσιάζει το ύφος του και τη δομή του για να μιλήσει για κάτι που θεωρεί σημαντικό, σαν το τελικό κρεσέντο (δεν την απέφυγα τελικά την κλισεδιά) να κείται εκτός του πλαισίου που είχε τεθεί στην αρχή. Ίσως δε θα το είχα σκεφτεί καν αν δεν ήταν τόσο ατμοσφαιρικό το βιβλίο μέχρι εκείνο το σημείο. Άλλωστε κάποιος μπορεί να πει ότι αυτό είναι το πιο ενδιαφέρον κομμάτι (εκεί γίνεται επιτέλους κάτι, βρε αδερφέ!), αλλά εμένα δε με συγκίνησε.

Αγαπημένος Ζοζέ Σαραμάγκου. Δεν είναι το αγαπημένο μου δικό του, αλλά το αγάπησα και αυτό.

[João Carlos · Rating 4 out of 5]

Fernando Pessoa (1888 - 1935)

José Saramago (1922 – 2010), Prémio Nobel da Literatura 1998, publicou o romance “O Ano da Morte de Ricardo Reis” em 1984.
Tal como o título indica, José Saramago, constrói a narrativa recorrendo a Ricardo Reis, a personagem principal do romance com uma identidade imaginária, um dos heterónimos do poeta e escritor Fernando Pessoa, “ele próprio”, uma personagem secundária.
Ricardo Reis, com quarenta e oito anos de idade, natural do Porto, solteiro, médico e poeta, com última residência no Rio de Janeiro, regressa a Portugal em Dezembro de 1935, após dezasseis anos de auto-exílio no Brasil, alojando-se primeiro no Hotel Bragança, na proximidade do Cais do Sodré, e mais tarde aluga um apartamento na zona do Miradouro de Santa Catarina em Lisboa.
Lisboa e Portugal vivem um dos períodos mais sombrios da sua história; a ditadura de Salazar, conjugada no discurso e na propaganda ideológica fascista, a repressão e a intervenção da polícia política do Estado Novo, a PIDE; inúmeros acontecimentos políticos e militares, num contexto geográfico europeu, igualmente, em transformação, como a Guerra Civil em Espanha, a ascensão ao poder de Mussolini em Itália e a expansão da ideologia nazi na Alemanha de Adolf Hitler, são alguns dos exemplos que José Saramago destaca n´“O Ano da Morte de Ricardo Reis”.

José Saramago associa de uma forma magistral a relação entre a vida e a morte, entre o heterónimo Ricardo Reis e o seu “criador” Fernando Pessoa, numa efectiva autonomia biológica, vivendo e sobrevivendo à morte do poeta, mantendo uma “proximidade” física, que se revela e que se acentua pela convivência e pelos diálogos reais e/ou imaginários entre as duas personagens, sobre factos e acontecimentos reais que ocorreram nos anos 30.
Em determinadas partes d´“O Ano da Morte de Ricardo Reis” achei a componente histórica excessiva e considero que a viagem ou a “peregrinação” a Fátima está um pouco descontextualizada do comportamento de Ricardo Reis.
“O Ano da Morte de Ricardo Reis” é um excelente romance, onde se revela a genialidade da escrita de José Saramago, uma prosa única e original, em que os desafios linguísticos e semânticos são permanentes, nomeadamente, na construção do texto e na supressão de algumas regras gramaticais e de pontuação, que conferem aos seus livros uma fascinante viagem pela história e pela literatura.


José Saramago (1922 - 2010)

"Aqui o mar acaba e a terra principia." (Pág. 11)

"Um homem deve ler de tudo, um pouco ou o que puder, não se lhe exija mais do que tanto, vista a curteza das vidas e a prolixidade do mundo." (Pág. 137)

"Aqui, onde o mar se acabou e a terra espera." (Pág. 407)

"(...) a solidão é não sermos capazes de fazer companhia a alguém ou a alguma coisa que está dentro de nós..." (Pág. 220)

[Mark André · Rating 4 out of 5]

Modern and idiosyncratic. My second Saramago. More to come. The hero, the heroine and the ghost seem to dissolve into history at the end.

[Dalia Nourelden · Rating 3 out of 5]

ملحوظة سريعة :
مبدئيا كده الرواية دى لا انصح بها كبداية لقراءة لسارماغو .
وتقييمي للرواية فعليا في الفقرة الأخيرة.

من هو ريكاردو ريس ؟ كتعريف به من خلال الرواية :
‏
" اسمه، ريكاردو ريس ، عمره ، ثمانون وأربعين سنة، مولود في بورتو عازب ، مهنته، طبيب، آخر عنوان له ، ريو دو جانيرو ، البرازيل "

ريكاردو ريس الذي عاد بعد ١٦ من تواجده في البرازيل بعد وفاه فرناندوا بيسوا . الذي نشر خبر نعيه في إحدي الجرائد مقدما إياه :
"فرناندو أنطونيو فوغيرا بيسوا ، عازب ، في السابعة والأربعين من عمره، مولود في ليشبونة ، حائز على دبلوم في الآداب من جامعة انكلترا، كاتب وشاعر شهير في الوسط الأدبي"

نعود مرة أخرى لنقدم ريكاردو ريس على أرض الواقع ، من هو :
هو شخصية روائية متخيلة ؟ام شخصية حقيقية؟!
‏هو كلاهما في الواقع . فهو شخص حقيقي متخيل لكن ليس من مخيلة سارماغو.
‏
"إذا قيل لي أنه من العبث التحدث، على هذا النحو، عن احد لم يوجد قط ، ارد بأن ليس لدي أى دليل على ان ليشبونة ، هي أيضا ، قد وجدت، أو على كوني ، أنا الذي أكتب أو أى شئ آخر ، في أي مكان، قد وجدنا "
( فرناندو ببسوا )
‏
لنتحدث عن ريكاردو ريس يجب ان نتحدث اولا عن فرناندوا بيسوا . نعم ، هو بيسوا الذي كتبت نعيه في الرواية منذ قليل .
فرناندوا بيسوا شاعر عُرف عنه شخصياته او كما يسميهم انداده المتعددة . بيسوا الذي قال ( من كتاب : رسائل ونصوص) :

" منذ كنت طفلاً ، شعرت بالحاجة إلى توسيع العالم بشخصيات متخيلة - أحلام لي صيغت بعناية، مُتصورة بوضوح فوتوغرافي، وسبرت أغوارها حتي أعماق ارواحها. حين لم أكن قد تعديت الخامسة من عمري بعد، طفلا منعزلا وراضياً تماما بذلك ،استمتعت بالفعل بصحبة شخصيات محددة من أحلامي، بما فيهما شخصان يدعيان القبطان تيبو والفارس دوبا وعديد من آخرين نسيتهم .
=====
كانت تلك الشخصيات بالنسبة لي حقائق إنسانية تماماً وهو ما كانت لتفسده أى دمية - لأنها غير حقيقية . كانوا بشراً.

بيسوا كان في داخله أشخاصاً آخرين لهم حياتهم الخاصة وأحلامهم وأحزانهم ومهنهم وأسرارهم وطريقتهم الخاصة في الحديث والكتابة وشخصيتهم المنفردة وأرائهم والتي قد تتعارض كلياً مع رأى بيسوا نفسه . كانوا يتناقشون معه ويتبادلون الأفكار وللبعض منهم كتبهم المنشورة الخاصة بهم .حتى إنهم كانوا يبدون ارائهم في حياته العاطفية . وكان احدهم مثلا وهو ألبارو دى كامبوس يكره حبيبه بيسوا اوليفيا ويرغب في انفصالهم.لذا كان أنداد بيسوا بالنسبة له شخصيات مستقلة بذاتها فقد كانت مخيلتة كوكباً مستقلاً بحد ذاته .

"لم نتفاهم قط جيدا جدا بعضنا مع بعض. كان هذا محتوماً ، فقد كنا أكثر مما ينبغي "




هل كان مريضاً ! مجنونا! أيا كانت حالته وتشخيصه النفسي هو عالم خاص بنفسه وله كتابات وتعبيرات وقعت في عشقها منذ اول مرة قرأت له ( لست ذا شأن ) وبالطبع هناك اشياء لم أفهمها له لكنه ممن ينطبق عليهم بالنسبة لى " أحبه وفقط "

لقد اخذني الحديث عن بيسوا وحان وقت العودة لبطل روايتنا ريكاردو ريس وهو أحد انداد ببسوا المشهورين وهو طبيب وشاعر نفي نفسه إلى البرازيل . وفي هذه الرواية نشهد عودته الى البرتغال بعد وفاة بيسوا.

لماذا عاد ؟ وهل سيبقي في البرتغال أم سيعود للبرازيل ؟ وكيف ستكون حياته ؟ وكيف سيدخل فرناندوا ببسوا الى الرواية ؟!

" أعتقد أنى عدت لأنك مت ، وبعد موتك كنت أنا الوحيد الذي يستطيع أن يملأ المكان الذي كنت تشغله.
لايمكن لأى حي أن يحل محل ميت .
ليس أي منا حياً حقاً ، ولا ميتاً حقاً"

بعد ٤ لقاءات روائية جميلة جدا لسارماغو استمتعت بقرائتهم جدا وتقييماتهم بالنسبالى ما بين ٤ و ٥ نجوم جاء الجزء الاول من هذا اللقاء الخامس الذي كنت متشوقة له بشدة لاهتمامي الخاص ببيسوا وانداده كما ذكرت . فكان تجمع سارماغو مع بيسوا تشوق مضاعف . لأصاب بخيبة أمل شديدة في الفصل الاول من الكتاب.
‏الفصل الاول كان ممل لى بشدة وهناك أجزاء كثيرة لم أستوعب ماذا يريد سارماغو وتفاصيل أخرى تخص أخبار البرتغال غير مفيدة بالمرة ( او ربما يستطيع فهمها واستيعابها من يعرفون تاريخ البرتغال جيدا او يرغبون في البحث ورائها لانها كانت كأنك تقرأ عناوين اخبار جرائد بس في تفاصيل صغيرة اوى فعلا ومش مهمة وأخبار محلية وعالمية لكن أسلوب تقديمها وعرضها ليس سهلا أو مشجعاً على المعرفة ) . واستمر شعورى بالضيق حتى وصلت إلى ظهور بيسوا مع نهايات الفصل الاول تقريبا في الصفحة ٨٠ لأعود لحماسي فأنا أحب شذرات كثيرة لبيسوا وتعدد أنداده واجده شخصية مختلفة وله مقاطع قريبة منى . فظننت ان الرواية ستبدأ في التحسن لكن عاد سارماغو مرة أخرى لتفاصيل مملة وغير مفهومة ( تفاصيل ومعلومات عامه تاريخية وثقافية واجتماعية وسياسية ) ‏كنت افقد تركيزى بالكامل معها ثم تتخللها بعض الاجزاء الجيدة ثم بدأت الرواية في التحسن وزادت التفاصيل حول ريكاردو وشخصيات الفندق ولقاءاته النادرة والقصيرة مع بيسوا . لذ بدأت اخيرا في الاندماج مع الرواية مع وصولي الصفحة ١٥٥ تقريبا .وظننت لفترة انها قد تحسنت وان سارماغو سيصالحني وارتفع تقييمي المتوقع ثم عاد الملل مرة اخرى واخذت تتراوح ما بين اجزاء مقبولة واجزاء مملة كما ان الاسلوب ايضا استغرق مني وقتاً حتى توصلت للاعتياد عليه. فتناوبت بين الاندماج مع الروا��ة احيانا وبين الملل وفقدان التركيز أحيانا اخرى .
‏
‏ " سيأتي يوم ينكرونك فيه مئة مرة، ويوم آخر ، ستكون أنت من يتمنى ذلك فيه "
‏


‏ لم تكن هذه الرواية ما أردته وتخيلته وتمنيته ، لم استطع الانغماس في الرواية كما اعتدت مع سارماغو . كانت يعتريني الملل وهذا كان صدمة لي . تخيلت ان سارماغو قادر ان يقدم هذه الفكرة بشكل أفضل بكثير .فلم تلاقي الرواية حماسي ولا توقعاتي.
‏

‏" حتى انت ياسارماغو "💔

‏
الروابة دى فضل تقييمي ليها في تغيير مستمر . في البداية كان تقييمها بالنسبالى نجمة وعند ظهور بيسوا ارتفع لاثنين وبعدها اصبح ٣ ، ثم قلت حسناً لقد تحسنت كثيرا، ربما لو ظلت هكذا ربما سيصل تقييمي ل ٤ لكن ... للاسف أخذت مرة أخرى في الانحدار .وبعد ماخلصتها كان قرارى الاخير :
تقييمى الشخصي ٢ /٥ و من اجل الفكرة نفسها ومن اجل بيسوا وسارماغو سيكون تقييمي ٣ .
قلبى لا يطاوعني ان اعطي سارماغو اقل من ٣ نجوم رغم خذلانه لي 💔
لقاء غير موفق لكن لن يمنعني من العودة للقراءة لسارماغو . لازال رصيده من حبي له كبير

٢٨ / ٩ / ٢٠٢٢

[Rita da Nova]

«Não sei porque adiei esta leitura durante tanto tempo, bastou-me começar para compreender que tinha tudo aquilo de que gosto em Saramago: uma premissa original, uma crítica política e social mordaz, diálogos tão reais que não poderiam ser inventados. E, especificamente em O Ano da Morte de Ricardo de Reis, existe ainda uma certa intertextualidade, no sentido em que são mencionados vários outros textos canónicos da Literatura portuguesa — também essas referências em jeito de sátira, como lhe era habitual.»

Review completa em: https://ritadanova.blogs.sapo.pt/o-an....

[Ian "Marvin" Graye · Rating 4 out of 5]

CRITIQUE:

Prologue

"Wise is the man who contents himself with the spectacle of the world."

This novel is more than just a (or the) spectacle of the world. You could argue that it's a pair of (one or more of the authors') spectacles.

The Appropriation of the Heteronym

Unless an author writes series of novels (rather than individual stand-alone volumes), a literary character can be trapped in a single short, one-dimensional life, where they live only a narrow part of one life, and not the whole of a life that readers might imagine the character to have.

In this novel, Jose Saramago rescues one such character belonging to the Portuguese writer, Fernando Pessoa, and transplants him into a novel of his own. Saramago actually constructs an entire novel around him.

During his own lifetime, Pessoa invented or discovered many identities, personae or "heteronyms", who were fully-fledged authors or poets in their own right. They were neither just characters in Pessoa's fiction or poetry, nor mere figments of his imagination. They had a life of their own, and could write themselves into (and out of) existence.


Portrait of Saramago [Source:]

The Intrigue of Intertextual Healing

In Saramago's novel, the heteronym, Ricardo Reis, is both a doctor of medicine and a poet, who lived in Rio de Janeiro for sixteen years, before he elected to return to Lisbon in 1935/ 1936 on the death of his author/ creator, Pessoa.

Ricardo Reis (who is always referred to by his full name) initially spends three weeks walking around the streets of Lisbon, reacquainting and familiarising himself with the city. The police suspect him of being a Marxist spy, even though he's a conventional monarchist.

Ricardo Reis lived a modest life before his appropriation for the purposes of Saramago's intertextual entertainment.

Saramago allows Ricardo Reis to live in a comfortable hotel, read newspapers at a leisurely pace in the lobby, meet other guests, eat succulent meals, drink expensive alcohol, discuss contemporary issues of interest (such as revolutionary and counter-revolutionary politics, ardent youth, Christian fervor, nationalist zeal, the fraternity of arms, the memory of past triumphs, the hope for a bright future, and a mutiny), visit the theatre, and have a sexual relationship with Lydia, one of the hotel chambermaids.


Untitled print by Ilda Reis, Saramago's first wife (It's unclear what significance the surname had for Pessoa or Saramago) [Credit:]

The Resurrection of the Original Author

Ricardo Reis is so unused to these "amorous intrigues" that Pessoa himself revives and makes a number of appearances in the novel to check up on his well-being. He sits on the edge of Ricardo Reis's bed, and talks to him while he waits for Lydia to arrive.

The Invention of the Later Author

And then there are Saramago's own especially invented characters, Marcenda (and Lydia's brother, a sailor, who was involved in the 1936 Portuguese naval revolt), who are signs and symbols of unrequited love and politics respectively.

Epilogue

"Here the sea ends and the earth begins."

The death of Ricardo Reis is adverted to in the title of the novel, but I don't recall it occurring in the novel itself.

Does Ricardo Reis die only if and when and where the sea and the novel end, i.e., does the life of a character end when the novel ends? Even the life of a heteronym? Can the heteronym be revived by another (third) author, e.g., a successor to Saramago?

Is the author writing away somewhere out there now? Is it you or maybe even me?


ODES TO A HETERONYM :

Alcoholic Ode to Ricardo Reis

With his cool reason
No longer busy
In the wintry season,
A champagne fizzy
Made this bold lyric
Genius dizzy.

Ode to the Second Hand Man

I keep a close watch
On the bogus man,
See him turn around
Like a second hand
Character in a
Fantasy land.


SOUNDTRACK:

Graham Parker - "Hotel Chambermaid"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uJLNf...

Graham Parker - "Lady Doctor"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UbSh9...

Roxy Music - "The Bogus Man"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SS-J1...

[Skorofido Skorofido · Rating 4 out of 5]

Ένιωσα πως σε τούτο το βιβλίο, ο Σαραμάγκου έστησε έναν λαβύρινθο... You know, σαν εκείνο τον λαβύρινθο της Αλίκης στη χώρα των θαυμάτων (έχει έναν τέτοιο στη Eurodisney), που μπαίνεις μέσα όλο χαρά κι αρχίζεις και γυρνάς γύρω γύρω, ζαλίζεσαι, πέφτεις πάνω σε εμπόδια, τοίχους ολάκερους, γυρνάς πίσω και ξαναπέφτεις σε τοίχο, κι άλλο αδιέξοδο, μέχρι που κάποια στιγμή τα καταφέρνεις και βγαίνεις, κατάκοπος και καταϊδρωμένος αλλά δικαιωμένος που τα βγαλες πέρα μ’αυτή τη δοκιμασία.
Δεν με ενόχλησαν οι μεγάλες χωρίς τελείες προτάσεις (τις έχω συνηθίσει – λέμε τώρα – αυτές του Σαραμάγκου), θεωρώ απλώς πως το βιβλίο ήταν τόσο προσανατολισμένο προς την Πορτογαλία και ιδιαίτερα προς τη Λισαβώνα, που κάπου το έχανα... δεν βρήκα τον οικουμενικό χαρακτήρα που έχω βρει σε άλλα του βιβλία.
Ο Ρικάρντο Ρέις, πορτογάλος γιατρός, δόκτορας με τ’όνομα, επιστρέφει από τη Βραζιλία μετά από 16 χρόνια στην πορτογαλέζικη πρωτεύουσα, χωρίς λόγο και αιτία, χωρίς σκοπό και στόχο. Σαν clandestino igual καταλύει πρώτα στο ξενοδοχείο Μπραγκάνσα και δημιουργεί απ’αυτές τις σχέσεις που προσωπικά λατρεύω, με παλαιακούς ξενοδόχους και μπάρμεν, μέχρι να νοικιάσει το προσωπικό του διαμέρισμα ως πολίτης που σέβεται τον εαυτό του. Χρόνο έχει άπλετο και σουλατσάρει στη Λισαβώνα, πρωί, μεσημέρι και βράδυ σε αξιοθέατα κι εστιατόρια, σε παγκάκια δίπλα στο ποτάμι, πίνοντας πόρτο και διαβάζοντας εφημερίδα.
Εάν είχα επισκεφθεί τη Λισαβώνα, εάν είχα κολλητούς που η μητρική τους μοιάζει με «βλάχικα καστιλιάνικα», σόρρυ μέου αμίγκου, εάν, εάν, είμαι σίγουρο πως θα κατάφερνα να εισχωρήσω καλύτερα στην πορτογαλέζικη αμπιάνς κι αυτά τα κομμάτια να τ’αγαπήσω λίγο περισσότερο, αλλά ούτε την αμπιάνς ήξερα ούτε την αγάπησα. Έτσι γύριζα τόσο που ζαλίστηκα κι η Λισαβώνα μου έπεσε βαριά στο στομάχι.
Στον Σαραμάγκου αρέσουν τα παιχνίδια. Κι αποφασίζει να παίξει ένα από αυτά τα λογοτεχνικά που τόσο αρέσουν σε κριτικούς και σε φιλολόγους για να παιδεύουν τους μαθητές στα διαγωνίσματα. Ο Ρικάρντο Ρέις, ο πρωταγωνιστής του βιβλίου, είναι ένα από τα «ετερώνυμα εγώ» του Πορτογάλου ποιητή Φερνάντο Πεσσόα που είχε διάφορες λογοτεχνικές περσόνες, που εάν το κάνω εγώ στην καθημερινότητά μου, θα με πούνε σχιζοφρενή, αλλά εδώ είναι σικ «ετερώνυμο εγώ». Αυτά τα ετερώνυμα εγώ, εμφανίζονται στο βιβλίο... ο μόνος πιστός φίλος του Ρικάρντο λοιπόν, είναι ο Φερνάντο Πεσσόα, ο οποίος όμως έχει αποδημήσει πρόσφατα εις τόπον χλοερόν και τον επισκέπτεται συνήθως τις άγριες ώρες για φιλοσοφικό και όχι μόνο κουτσομπολιό. Ομολογώ την άγνοια μου. Πριν διαβάσω τούτο το βιβλίο, δεν ήξερα τίποτα από Πεσσόα και Ρικάρντο Ρέις, αυτό δεν εμποδίζει την ανάγνωση του βιβλίου, ωστόσο θεωρώ πως οι καθηγητάδες της λογοτεχνίας πολύ θα το χάρηκαν το παιχνίδισμα και θα έχουν έναν ωραίο λόγο για να παιδέψουν τους φοιτητές τ��υς κατά την εξεταστική.
Ο Ρικάρντο Ρέις όμως δεν είναι μόνο γιατρός και ποιητής. Είναι και άνδρας. Και έχει και ορμές. Κι έτσι συνάπτει στενές επαφές τρίτου τύπου με τη Λίντια, την καμαριέρα του ξενοδοχείου. Είναι όμως και άντρας της εποχής του και της τάξης του. Και ερωτεύεται πλατωνικώς τη Μαρσέντα, την χλωμή νεαρά με το ανάπηρο χέρι, παρθένα όπως επιβάλλει η τάξη της γιατί είπαμε καλώς ο σαρκικός έρως αλλά που ακούστηκε δόκτορας με καμαριέρα… Ντροπή!
Λοιπόν το βιβλίο είναι πολλά πράγματα, εγώ όμως κατέληξα πως το συγκεκριμένο βιβλίο είναι ένα και μόνο ένα. Είναι ένα βαθιά πολιτικό βιβλίο, που ειρωνεύεται, καγχάζει και σαρκάζει τον φασισμό (η όλη ιστορία τοποθετείται την εποχή της ανόδου του φασισμού στην Ευρώπη – Χίτλερ, Σαλαζάρ, μελανοχιτώνες στην Ιταλία) και όλα τα ολοκληρωτικά καθεστώτα. Πιστεύω πως ο Σαραμάγκου για να σφάξει με το γάντι τον ολοκληρωτισμό μας έκανε ένα ζαλιστικό ζιγκ – ζαγκ ώσπου να φτάσουμε ξέπνοοι στο τέλος και να μείνουμε με έναν κόμπο στον λαιμό.
Εάν αγάπησα κάποιον ήρωα, αυτή είναι μόνο η Λίντια, η καμαριέρα, η γυναίκα του λαού, που έχει μάθει να ζει τη ζωή όπως είναι γιατί δ��ν ξέρει να κάνει αλλιώς. Τη Λίντια που έχει αποδεχθεί την τάξη της και που λέει τις πιο απλές σοφίες γιατί έτσι είναι. Viva Lindia!
Υ.Γ. Κλείνοντας το βιβλίο, μου έμεινε στη μύτη μια μυρωδιά κρεμμυδίλας... Τι τύπος αυτός ο Βίκτωρ...

[Nick Grammos · Rating 5 out of 5]

All we can ask of a character is that they inhabit the earth for a time, whether that is the time we read about them, or the times in which they exist on the page. A character is a fiction, the work is a fiction. Yet they can travel through real time and place, and use real words on a page, make us walk side by side with them as real (or at least plausible), force real thoughts and emotions out of us. Living in strange times (all times are strange, though some are worse for more protagonists than others) turns fiction into a universe that makes more sense than the world did before we read it. Saramago was aware of this when he set this in the 1930s.

What a strange time to be placed in as a character, alive during a dictatorship, when nothing makes sense, everything uttered by the state is a fiction, an exaggeration, a corporate cliche. Well, fortunately for Dr Ricardo Reis he doesn't exist, he is a creation of the poet Fernando Pessoa who died just a few months before Reis returns from Brazil after 16 years absence. Reis doesn't exist, but we do. So we are left to process this half-life during dictatorship. It shouldn't make sense that a fictional character talks to a real author during the time immediately after his death. And yet what better way do we have to understand the universe created by dictatorships?

Nothing is stable. Reis lives in a half-way place, a hotel, for three months. There, everything is taken care of: bed, meals, warmth, polite conversation with manager and staff, and the chambermaid Lydia becomes his mistress. Lydia is real, in the sense that Pessoa did not invent her. The weather - it rains all day, that is real, as is the cold and the distilled facts Reis reads in the newspapers: the republic in Spain and the military coup, these are all real. Fernando Pessoa, Reis' creator, shows up one night and the two men talk, creator to heteronym. A heteronym for Pessoa's purposes was something like an alter ego but also a pseudonym of sorts. Pessoa had several and they all wrote poetry or prose- Dr Reis wrote classical lyrical works for instance. I looked it up and 'heteronym' means a word spelled the same but has two different meanings. Ideal, since Pessoa was only dealing with words on the page.

Reis has little or no purpose and no real plans. When it gets too difficult in the hotel, after an influx of new Spanish guests, right wing refugees from the republic - all obnoxious self important and fatuous, Reis takes an apartment. He lives off English currency and has savings still in Brazil. Lydia keeps coming and going, cleaning the apartment, pretending she is in a relationship. But Reis also fantasises about the elegant and young Marcenda, who has a crippled hand. Reis becomes a locum doctor, filling in for a cardiologist. Another indication that he doesn't actually exist - he works without proper experience and qualification as a cardiologist. But he muddles through. Fiction is like that.

The crisis in Spain spills over to Portugal. The rhetoric of dictators like Salazar is real, even if it is nonsense, enough people believe it all, like those that believe in the miracles of Fatima and go there on pilgrimage in droves.

Pessoa turns up at any and all hours. He is bound by some death ritual to traverse the physical world for nine months after his death. But he cannot read in the physical world so Reis informs him of goings on. They have philosophical discussions after which Pessoa disappears. We never know when he might return.

"A word lies. With the same word, one can speak the truth. We are not what we say, we are true only if others believe us." Says Reis.

In other words, fiction can be as powerful as reality. Dr Reis exists because Pessoa invented him and Saramago writes a convincing novel about him. A plausible story, the same as the plausible ideas in the speeches of Salazar the dictator on the modern greatness of Portugal, or as Saramago reminds us in the words of Unamuno: the fascists are protecting western civilisation. Of course they are.

Pessoa wrote in the Book of Disquiet:

"Everything we do in art or in life is the imperfect copy of what we thought of doing"

And so Reis is the imperfect creature on the page, indecisive, shallow - he pines for one woman, yet happily sleeps with another - flops around without much of a plan, vain and neurotic - he worries about what time to go down to dinner and what the hotel manager thinks of him. Perhaps that makes him the perfect creature of a writer's imagination. At least in art we can appreciate failures and imprecise representations. Reis is the perfect creature to arise out of Pessoa's brain, the antidote to the perfectible human - the good Portuguese, like the great Aryan - that other ideal national hero doing the rounds during the 1930s. Failure is of greater value to Pessoa than the sham of perfection.

Saramago is meticulous in trawling through the daily history of 1936. A big year for Portugal, Spain, the world. Fascism was on the rise. It seemed like the only reality and many were falling over themselves to be part of it. Not just the dictators like Salazar, but we are reminded too that so was Chamberlain. And that great philanthropist, Rockefeller was funding Franco, and the abdicated king of England was dancing cheek to cheek with Adolf. Fascism seemed like such a good idea. The world was on a knife-edge between the real and the fictional. Fascist fiction is also very real unfortunately.

And that's the problem when we listen to the bullshit of corporations and narcissist presidents. It all seems so real for a time. Thankfully we have literature, and make believe, to tell us the difference between bullshit and real.

Addit. I dipped into Pessoa's extraordinary guide to a life - The Book of Disquiet - after reading this. Saramago drew on Pessoa's persona closely for both Reis, Pessoa and the themes of his novel:

"I existed only so much as I filled time with consciousness and thought"

"It's so hard to describe what I feel when I feel I really exist and my soul is a real entity that I don't know what human words could define it."

[Marc Lamot · Rating 3 out of 5]

I enjoyed this second acquaintance with the work of Saramago much more than the first one. I didn't like Baltasar and Blimunda because of its exuberance and baroque style. Even in "The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis" you can find pages that are over the top, especially near the end. But I must admit: in this book Saramago has a more restrained style, even a very ingenious one. I think that is because he seems to be telling a rather conventional story, but the storyteller (Saramago himself) is a kind of ghost that watches the events around the main character, Ricardo Reis, undergoes them together with him, and almost constantly drops commentaries in a very sardonic and misantropic way.

The whole novel has a sad, dreamy, and sleepy flavour, and more and more so as the story unfolds. This is very functional, because Ricardo Reis himself seems to lose his grip on reality and to degenerate into a kind of ghost, "as an elephant that feels his end approaching and walks of to the place he's going to die". Reis is one of the famous heteronyms of the Portuguese writer Fernando Pessoa (1888-1935), who himself is a character in the novel as a ghost that comes to visit Reis and discusses philosophical, existantial and political issues. A bit hilaric, isn't it?

I also liked the very fine psychological description of the different characters, with much attention to the social (and sexual) relationships between people, and often very ironic situations. I'm less enthousiastic about the political dimension of the novel: Saramago has set the story in the year 1936, in the time of Salazar-dictatorship in Portugal and the beginning of the civil war in Spain. He does a fine job suggesting the atmosphere of fear and intimidation, but makes a bit of a caricature of the Portuguese idolatry of Salazar; only the house-maid Lydia, the mistress of Reis, seems to have the right ideas, and she is put down as a very dramatic character. Also the abundance of references to Portuguese heroes and history, and the reveries on the Portuguese identity, make this work rather tough reading for an outsider.

But that is compensated by the beautiful image you get of the city of Lissabon, walking through the streets and alleys in the company of Ricardo Reis, looking over the river Tagus; it reminded me very much of Leopold Bloom, walking through Dublin. That's quite a reference, isn't it?

[عبدالخالق كلاليب · Rating 5 out of 5]

ساراماغو يأخذ بتلابيب القارئ منذ الصفحات الأولى ولا يفلته حتى الصفحة الأخيرة
رواية متعددة الطبقات,مراوغة ومعقدة, صعبة وممتعة, مكتوبة بإزميل نحّات وريشة رسّام بآنٍ
معاً.
أدب رفيع المستوى لا يكتبه سوى القلائل.. وساراماغو واحد منهم بالتأكيد

[Nelson Zagalo · Rating 4 out of 5]

Este foi o oitavo livro de Saramago que li, comparativamente é talvez a sua melhor obra literária, não fazendo isso deste o seu melhor livro. A escrita, a investigação, a estrutura e a intertextualidade fazem deste trabalho uma obra de grande valor no domínio da arte das letras, contudo à história falta enredo e essencialmente conflito, o que torna a sua leitura um tanto espessa, por vezes penosa até, para o leitor.

[Ler com formatação, links e imagens no VI
https://virtual-illusion.blogspot.pt/...]

“O Ano da Morte de Ricardo Reis” é apenas o quinto romance do autor, sendo precedido em dois anos pelo não menos relevante “Memorial do Convento” (1982), e claro suportado por toda uma experiência acumulada por Saramago nos seus, até à publicação do texto, 62 anos. Visto deste modo, espanta menos a complexidade apresentada, ainda que o que aqui temos não esteja ao alcance de qualquer escritor. Neste sentido, para se poder verdadeiramente apreciar a obra é necessário realizar algum esforço de análise e estudo, para o que tentarei apontar aqui algumas linhas que facilitem essa análise e entrada no texto.

Primeiramente, e talvez o mais sobejamente conhecido, cabe identificar quem é, ou foi, Ricardo Reis. Um dos quatro mais reconhecidos heterónimos de Fernando Pessoa, com uma faceta marcada pela poesia clássica da Roma Antiga, nomeadamente Horácio (65 a.c. - 8 a.c.), daí que o estilo de Reis seguisse de perto as estruturas das Odes, com uma queda para os temas amorosos. Saramago escolheu-o por gosto pessoal, mas em especial por ter verificado que Reis era o único dos quatro que Pessoa não tinha morto, tendo resolvido-se a terminar o trabalho iniciado por Pessoa.

Como nenhum dos heterónimos de Pessoa era totalmente autónomo de si, Saramago opta por construir uma escrita que apesar de suportada em alguns temas de Reis, segue mais de perto o estilo geral de Pessoa. Basta ler algumas passagens da obra, para se perceber que sendo Saramago quem escreve, parece ser Pessoa quem dita, e é desde logo aqui que a obra começa a ganhar a sua relevância, dando conta da capacidade de Saramago para incorporar e elaborar diferentes estilísticas. Ao mesmo tempo que esta fusão entre Saramago e Pessoa é, talvez, do ponto de vista do prazer da leitura, o que de melhor a obra tem para nos dar.

“Vivem em nós inúmeros, se penso ou sinto, ignoro quem é que pensa ou sente, sou somente o lugar onde se pensa e sente, e, não acabando aqui, é como se acabasse, uma vez que para além de pensar e sentir não há mais nada. ”

“Estás só, ninguém o sabe, cale e finge, murmurou estas palavras em outro tempo escritas, e desprezou-as por não exprimirem a solidão, só o dizê-la, também ao silêncio e fingimento, por não serem capazes de mais que dizer, porque elas não são, as palavras, aquilo que declaram, estar só, caro senhor, é muito mais que conseguir dizê-lo e tê-lo dito.”

“Não é Ricardo Reis quem pensa estes pensamentos nem um daqueles inúmeros que dentro de si moram, é talvez o próprio pensamento que se vai pensando, ou apenas pensando, enquanto ele assiste, surpreendido, ao desenrolar de um fio que o leva por caminhos e corredores ignotos (..)”

Saramago, José. “O Ano da Morte de Ricardo Reis.” 1984

Em termos da narração, apesar de termos apenas um narrador, Reis, ele não é apenas ele, ou seja não temos poesia na forma de odes, como nunca o poderia ser sendo heterónimo de Pessoa, que enquanto tal nos vai tocando com as suas preocupações mais profundas sobre o devir, mas também não é apenas Pessoa, sendo Saramago quem romanceia, desde logo por toda a acidez política que se vai desvelando ao longo da obra, assim como pela sexualidade que emerge, estranha a Reis e Pessoa. Ou seja, ler este romance é viver o mundo simultaneamente pela experiência de três distintas personalidades.

Refletindo agora, não sei até que ponto a complexidade implícita neste narrador não terá servido de motivação a Saramago para aplanar o enredo, e assim garantir tempo, mas acima de tudo espaço para o acesso a cada uma das três experiências nele presentes. O que ajuda a compreender toda a relevância, detalhe e investigação sobre a geografia de Lisboa apresentada na obra por Saramago, nomeadamente quando se representa uma Lisboa de 1935, a partir de linhas escritas quase 50 anos depois. Este trabalho é tão minucioso e relevante, que a Porto Editora se prepara, pelas mãos de Ricardo Cruz, para lançar um livro sobre os espaços do livro em 2017, contrastados com os dos anos 1930.

[imagem]
Saldanha, Lisboa (F. Cunha, c. 1930)

O ano de 1935 não é fruto do acaso, é o ano da morte de Pessoa, como tal é aí que Saramago resolve voltar na sua viagem no tempo. E se Reis estava no Brasil exilado, é a Lisboa que resolve voltar para saber mais sobre a morte de Pessoa. E se Saramago apresenta uma Lisboa de 1935 tão detalhada, não faz menos pela História, tanto nacional como internacional. Relembrar que o livro foi escrito apenas dez anos após a nossa revolução de 1974, vive-se ainda com o sentir muito colado a um ditador que marcou a História do país por mais de 40 anos, e chegou ao poder apenas 3 anos antes de Pessoa se despedir. Por outro lado a Europa vive tempos muito atribulados, com Mussolini em Itália, Hitler na Alemanha, e Espanha em plena guerra civil.

Mais uma vez refletindo, não deixa de ser algo excêntrico a contundente crítica de Saramago ao nacionalismo do Estado Novo, à sua ânsia por estimular os valores nacionais, relembrando o prémio de Ferro a Pessoa pelo poema “Mensagem” ou a referência ao “Dia da Raça”, e no entanto todo este “O Ano da Morte de Ricardo Reis” ser um autêntico hino às letras nacionais. Se o espaço é Lisboa, Saramago usa-o para nos conduzir, pela mão de Reis, até à estátua de Camões, mantendo o poeta presente ao longo de quase toda a narrativa, não se ficando por aí, levando-nos também até Eça e ao Adamastor. Assim se Saramago nos obriga a respirar as letras nacionais, ler esta obra hoje, depois de tudo o que alcançou como escritor, leva-me a interrogar sobre o que mais se poderia pedir a uma obra de enaltecimento do nosso país? Teria Saramago consciência de tal? Mesmo no campo da intertextualidade parece haver uma certa fixação, já que se a grande extensão das citações e referências se fazem para com Reis, Pessoa e Camões, ou ainda Eça, o facto de ser ir buscar Jorge Luís Borges para autor do livro que acompanha Reis durante a sua estadia em Portugal, não é inocente. Borges foi uma das várias mentes brilhantes que proveio de famílias judias expulsas de Portugal no século XVIII.

No campo das personagens, Saramago junta a Reis duas mulheres, Lídia e Marcenda. Lídia assume o primeiro plano, apesar de sempre atirada para um papel secundário, mas o que é ainda mais interessante é o facto de Lídia ser o principal amor das Odes de Ricardo Reis, tendo Pessoa ido buscá-la às Odes de Horácio, e não foi o único. Contudo como diz António Manuel Ferreira, ao contrário de outras personagens históricas ou ficcionais — como “Adriano, Efigénia, Antígona, Cassandra, Ganimedes, Antínoo, ou Ofélia” — Lídia é alguém não só praticamente desconhecida, como não detém especificidade, e assim talvez se perceba melhor o modo como Saramago a trata, secundarizando-a. Em certa medida, Lídia lembra Ofélia Queiroz, a única namorada conhecida de Pessoa, que tendo-o sido, foi-o quase sem o ser, e talvez seja mesmo este ponto que justifica a opção de Saramago.

“Vem sentar-te comigo, Lídia, à beira do rio.
Sossegadamente fitemos o seu curso e aprendamos
Que a vida passa, e não estamos de mãos enlaçadas.
(Enlacemos as mãos).”
Pessoa, Fernando. “Poesia Completa de Ricardo Reis.” 12-6-1914

O enredo acaba sendo o parente mais pobre de toda a obra. Saramago parte com uma excelente premissa, “como teria morrido Reis se Pessoa tivesse tido tempo para o matar?”. Contudo, e apesar de apimentado com um triângulo amoroso, apesar da presença fantástica de Pessoa fantasma, que visita Reis nos nove meses após a sua morte, o enredo é quase inexistente. Reis limita-se a chegar a Lisboa e a nela deixar-se viver, segue um dia para Fátima, que Saramago aproveita para dissertar sobre a religião, mas de resto não arreda pé, nem do espaço, nem da pessoa que é. É certo que o niilismo de Reis e Pessoa nunca se dariam muito facilmente aos artifícios romanescos, em especial o conflito, que serve de alavanca à progressão, evolução e transformação, mas Saramago soube dar a volta a tantas outras componentes, não ficando claro porque aqui não o fez. Não é uma incapacidade de Saramago, basta atentar na obra anterior — “Memorial…” —, no entanto temos de admitir que é uma forma de enredo que apesar de funcionar em pequenos poemas, perde em fluidez no modo romance, tornando a leitura bastante lenta e difícil.

"Nada fica de nada. Nada somos.
Um pouco ao sol e ao ar nos atrasamos
Da irrespirável treva que nos pese
Da húmida terra imposta,
Cadáveres adiados que procriam.
Leis feitas, estátuas vistas, odes findas -
Tudo tem cova sua. Se nós, carnes
A que um íntimo sol dá sangue, temos
Poente, porque não elas?
Somos contos contando contos, nada"
Pessoa, Fernando. “Poesia Completa de Ricardo Reis.” 28-9-1932

Tendo em conta a dificuldade de leitura, sou obrigado a questionar as razões que levaram o Ministério da Educação a tornar obrigatória a leitura desta obra no 12º ano nos anos lectivos de 2017/18 e 2018/19, sendo depois destes permitida a opcionalidade com “Memorial do Convento”. Como fica claro deste texto, considero as duas obras do melhor que Saramago nos deu, mas tendo em conta a dificuldade de leitura apresentada por “Ricardo Reis…” não consigo compreender a obrigatoriedade tendo em conta a idade dos leitores. Não é assim que garantimos uma motivação para a leitura nestas camadas.

Para fechar, deixo-vos com a máxima de Saramago, em entrevista, a propósito deste livro: "Neste livro nada é verdade e nada é mentira".


Texto publicado no VI em:
https://virtual-illusion.blogspot.pt/...

[Roula · Rating 4 out of 5]

Ο Ρικάρντο ρεις είναι ένας γιατρός και ποιητής, ή ποιητής και γιατρός? Κάπως έτσι μέσα σε όλο το βιβλίο η ζωή του πηγαίνει από την αντιμετώπιση της σκληρής πραγματικότητας και καθημερινότητας του 1936 στην Πορτογαλία, όπου από τη μια έχουμε τις εξελίξεις του ισπανικού εμφυλίου, την Ευρώπη να βράζει από την άνοδο του φασισμού και να βρισκόμαστε και λίγο πριν τον Β παγκόσμιο πολεμο... Και από την άλλη, μέσα σε ολα αυτά ο Ρικάρντο Ρεις ζει, ερωτεύεται δύο γυναίκες ταυτόχρονα , γύρνα στην αγαπημένη του πατρίδα, την Πορτογαλία ύστερα από 16 χρόνια στην Βραζιλία, γράφει στίχους και βρίσκει το χρόνο να φιλοσοφήσει με το φάντασμα του μέντορα του, του Φερνάντο πεσοα, ο οποίος "δεν εμφανίζεται κάθε φορά που είναι αναγκαίος, είναι όμως αναγκαίος κάθε φορά που εμφανίζεται"..
Πραγματικά ένα απολαυστικό βιβλίο, ιδιαίτερα στις στιγμές που εμφανίζεται ο πεσσοα, θα ήθελα να είναι περισσότερες. Είναι ένα βιβλίο που δυσκολεύτηκα να πιστέψω ότι έχει γράψει ο σαραμαγκου, καθώς τα υπόλοιπα βιβλία του που έχω διαβάσει, είναι τελειως διαφορετικά σε θεματολογία και ύφος. Όμως σίγουρα κατάφερε να με βάλει στο κλίμα της εποχής και μου κράτησε το ενδιαφέρον.
Στα αρνητικά θα βάλω ότι το κείμενο είναι αρκετά απαιτητικό με τεράστιες παραγράφους και ελάχιστα σημεία στίξης, όπως και πολύ λίγους διαλόγους.
⭐⭐⭐⭐/5 αστερια

"η μοναξιά, ε λοιπόν έχεις πολλά να μάθεις για να ξέρεις τι θα πει, πάντα μόνος μου ζούσα κι εγώ, αλλά μοναξιά δεν είναι να ζει κανείς μόνος του, μοναξιά είναι να μη μπορούμε να κάνουμε παρέα σε κάποιον ή σε κάτι που βρισκεται μέσα μας, η μοναξιά δεν είναι ένα δέντρο στη μέση μιας κοιλάδας όπου μόνο αυτό υπάρχει, ειναι η απόσταση ανάμεσα  στους χυμούς του βάθους του και τον φλοιό, ανάμεσα στο φύλλο και τη ρίζα "

[David Carrasco · Rating 5 out of 5]

¿Y si un personaje ficticio decidiera seguir viviendo después de que su autor haya muerto?

Esa es la premisa alucinante de El año de la muerte de Ricardo Reis, y si te parece una pregunta absurda, entonces no conoces a Saramago. O no has leído a Pessoa. O quizás estás a punto de descubrir que en la literatura portuguesa —la buena de verdad— los muertos nunca están del todo muertos, y los vivos… bueno, tampoco están del todo vivos.

En El año de la muerte de Ricardo Reis, Saramago no resucita a Pessoa, sino a uno de sus heterónimos. O mejor dicho, finge que ese heterónimo —el doctor Ricardo Reis, poeta neoclásico y conservador— ha vuelto a Portugal tras dieciséis años de exilio en Brasil, en 1936, justo después de la muerte de Pessoa. Porque Saramago hace una de esas cosas que sólo él puede hacer sin sonar ridículo: resucitar un personaje ficticio, darle un cuerpo real, soltarlo en Lisboa en pleno 1936 y dejarlo vagar entre hoteles, lluvias interminables y ecos de autores muertos mientras Europa se prepara —otra vez— para destruirse. Reis llega desde Brasil con un aire de bostezo existencial, como quien sabe que ha venido a asistir al final de algo, pero no tiene del todo claro si ese ‘algo’ es su propia vida, la literatura, o el sentido del mundo en general.

Lo que sigue no es exactamente una trama, sino un lento desfilar de pensamientos, paseos, diálogos con fantasmas y breves intrigas amorosas en una Lisboa donde la historia se cuela por las rendijas: el avance del fascismo, la Guerra Civil española al fondo, y una lluvia casi constante que parece jarrear más sobre las almas que sobre las calles. Ricardo Reis camina. Lee el periódico. Escribe unos versos. Se aloja en un hotel donde el tiempo se disuelve. Coquetea con una camarera que no está hecha para el amor romántico. Se obsesiona con una mujer enferma que representa el fracaso de cualquier intento de permanencia. Y sobre todo, conversa con Fernando Pessoa, que ha muerto hace poco pero que, como toda buena figura literaria, se niega a desaparecer del todo. Lo que importa aquí no es lo que pasa, sino cómo se cuenta. Porque El año de la muerte de Ricardo Reis no se lee, se habita. Se respira. Es una experiencia lenta, densa, como caminar entre escombros filosóficos con una linterna apagada. No hay giros argumentales, ni clímax, ni siquiera una dirección clara. Pero lo que hay es hipnótico.

Que Saramago eligiera a Ricardo Reis y no a Álvaro de Campos o Bernardo Soares ya dice mucho. Reis era el más contenido, el más estoico, el que hablaba como si no le pasara nunca nada, ni bueno ni malo. Era el que leía a Horacio mientras los otros se emborrachaban de angustia o melancolía. Así que sí, que sea él quien vuelve es casi un chiste filosófico. O una sentencia.

La prosa de Saramago aquí ya es plenamente Saramago: ese estilo inconfundible que parece que el narrador y los personajes estuvieran todos bebiendo de la misma copa de vino, interrumpiéndose con naturalidad, sin comas que avisen ni puntos que se impongan. A veces ni sabes si quien habla es el narrador, Reis, Pessoa o el propio Saramago, que pasa por ahí como quien deja caer un comentario al pasar. Hay frases que parecen tener tres voces dentro, y ninguna se impone. Solo flotan. Y es que aquí Saramago vuelve a hacer de las suyas: diálogos que entran sin llamar, puntuación que parece improvisada por un músico de jazz y frases que, si las subrayas todas, revientas el libro.

Y para unir todo eso, un narrador omnisciente pero travieso, que comenta, duda, se mete en lo que no le importa y, sobre todo, se divierte jugando con la voz narrativa como un gato que juega con su presa. No es una lectura que se deje domar fácilmente. Hay que entregarse a su ritmo, a su cadencia que parece no ir a ninguna parte pero que, al llegar, te hace preguntarte cuándo cambiaste tú sin darte cuenta.

Reis es un personaje fascinante por lo que no hace. Es el hombre que ha leído demasiado para seguir creyendo, pero no lo suficiente como para rebelarse. Es un fantasma vivo que no quiere pertenecer a nada: ni a la historia, ni al amor, ni al compromiso político, ni siquiera al dolor. El contraste entre su apatía y la Lisboa que tiembla bajo el avance del fascismo es brutal. Mientras el mundo se va al carajo, él sigue escribiendo odas en un cuaderno, convencido de que la distancia estética lo salvará del derrumbe. Spoiler: no.

La estructura se sostiene como una especie de deriva existencial: no es lineal, no es circular, es una caminata en espiral por una ciudad donde todo parece esperar algo que no llegará. Reis es un personaje que parece no tener ganas ni de existir, pero cuya pasividad esconde una batalla filosófica constante. Su mirada sobre el mundo es la de alguien que ha leído mucho, sentido poco y vivido a través de los márgenes. El amor —si se le puede llamar así— aparece en la figura de Lídia, una criada con una sabiduría pragmática que humilla la pedantería del protagonista sin necesidad de levantar la voz. También está Marcenda, la joven tullida y melancólica, hija de la alta burguesía, que parece salida de un mal sueño romántico. Pero más que personajes, son símbolos, espejos, preguntas sin respuesta.

Y claro, está él: Fernando Pessoa, el muerto que no termina de irse, su creador, que lo visita como quien visita a un hijo que ha salido torcido. A veces aparece para filosofar con Reis, otras para molestarlo como quien interrumpe una siesta, y a veces solo para recordarle que morir es también una forma de cansancio. Las conversaciones entre ellos dos son de lo mejor que ha escrito Saramago: lúcidas, irónicas, melancólicas, tan cargadas de dobles sentidos que uno no sabe si están hablando de literatura, de la muerte o de la imposibilidad de ser alguien coherente en un mundo que ya no se sostiene ni sobre sí mismo. Son como un viaje hacia la incomodidad. No sólo están hablando de literatura o de la muerte: están peleando contra lo que significa ser alguien, lo que significa existir, lo que significa no ser nadie. Pessoa le recuerda a Reis que él —Pessoa— está muerto, sí, pero también le recuerda que, como heterónimo, Reis nunca estuvo del todo vivo. Y eso duele más.

Pessoa muere atropellado por su hígado; Ricardo Reis, atropellado por la Historia. Uno de forma súbita, el otro poco a poco, sin ruido, como si fuera deshaciéndose en el aire que respira. Esta convivencia entre el muerto y el casi muerto es, en el fondo, el corazón del libro. Porque El año de la muerte de Ricardo Reis no es solo un título: es una sentencia. Desde la primera página sabemos que Reis va a morir. Y sin embargo, lo importante es cómo se disuelve su identidad antes de eso. Lo que muere no es solo un hombre: es una forma de estar en el mundo. Pessoa murió en 1935. Pero en la biografía ficticia de Ricardo Reis —esa que el propio Pessoa escribió— no se anotó ninguna fecha de muerte. Saramago lo leyó y debió de pensar: “Perfecto, entonces aún está disponible para otra novela”, una que es prima hermana de Todos los nombres y La caverna.

Porque aquí también está esa soledad metafísica tan propia de Saramago, esa melancolía no por lo que se ha perdido, sino por lo que nunca llegó a ser. Pero si en Ensayo sobre la ceguera hay desesperación colectiva, aquí hay un silencio individual, como si el protagonista llevara una sordina vital permanentemente colocada. Reis es, en muchos aspectos, lo contrario de los personajes saramaguianos más famosos: no lucha, no se rebela, ni siquiera se queja. Solo observa, duda, camina, se deja llevar. Y eso lo hace profundamente humano, y profundamente trágico.

Literariamente, hay algo de Pirandello en este juego de identidades desdobladas, de personajes que son y no son, de autores que hablan con sus criaturas. Y también hay un eco kafkiano en esa Lisboa tan burocrática, tan gris, tan impermeable al deseo. Lisboa no es fondo, es presencia. La ciudad se mueve lenta, lluviosa, gris y vigilada, como si también ella supiera que hay algo podrido en Europa. Pero lo que hace única a esta novela es ese tono saramaguiano de humor seco y ternura impasible, esa manera de decirte que el mundo se cae a pedazos pero, mira, hay tiempo para un café y un poema.

La novela plantea también una pregunta incómoda: ¿es posible vivir sin creer en nada? Reis lo intenta. Se aferra a su escepticismo como otros se aferran a una fe. Pero hasta el más indiferente acaba teniendo que tomar partido, aunque sea por omisión. Y esa omisión también es política, también es ética, también deja marcas. Aún no es el Saramago de los ciegos, ni el de las cavernas ni el de los evangelios subversivos. Pero ya se intuye al fondo una mueca de hastío, un escepticismo que va ganando territorio palabra a palabra. Esta novela es como la calma tensa antes del estallido. En un mundo donde el fascismo avanza y la historia arde, quedarse al margen es una forma de complicidad. Saramago lo insinúa sin sermonear, con esa sutileza suya que te deja pensando varios días después.

Quizá lo más desolador —y lo más bello— de esta novela es que nadie la lee del todo igual. Hay quien la encuentra insoportablemente lenta. Hay quien se rinde a la belleza de sus frases y no necesita más. Quien disfrutó con Sostiene Pereira va a reconocer aquí la misma niebla moral, el mismo temblor de conciencia, pero con un fantasma que te acompaña a tomar café. Y hay quien, como yo, sale de ella con la sensación de haber estado encerrado en una habitación con dos fantasmas discutiendo sobre la vida mientras Lisboa se inunda. Y te juro que es una experiencia que vale la pena.

Uno podría leer esta novela como un ejercicio literario brillante —que lo es—, pero quedarse ahí sería imperdonable. Porque La muerte de Ricardo Reis no trata sólo de un personaje que no existe. Trata de todos nosotros cuando nos deslizamos por la vida como si no fuera con nosotros, esperando que alguien —un muerto, un amor, una dictadura, una gripe— venga a darnos un sentido. Trata del miedo a vivir con convicción en un mundo donde cada decisión parece absurda. Trata de la literatura como refugio... y como cárcel. Y sí, Saramago lo sabía: a veces, lo más difícil no es morir. Es seguir existiendo mientras el mundo cambia de dueño y tú sigues leyendo a Horacio bajo la lluvia.

Saramago escribió muchas novelas memorables, pero esta es especial. Porque es la más triste, la más íntima, la más desesperadamente lúcida. Aquí no hay milagros ni plagas ni religiones que se tambalean: sólo un hombre que no quiere ser del todo real, hablando con otro que ya está muerto, en una ciudad en la que llueve sin parar, mientras el fascismo se cuela por las rendijas y el lector, si es valiente, se da cuenta de que lo que está leyendo no es solo una novela: es un espejo.

Y qué espejo más jodido.

[فهد الفهد · Rating 5 out of 5]

سنة موت ريكاردو ريس

إذا لم تكن برتغاليا ً أو مطلعا ً على الأدب البرتغالي، ولم تقرأ المقدمة التي وضعها المترجم تحت عنوان ( إلى القارئ)، واعتذر فيها عن اضطراره للتفسير وأخذ يدك خلال الرواية، فستكون الحكاية بالنسبة لك، طبيب برتغالي يعود من البرازيل حيث عاش 16 عاما ً، ما الذي أعاده؟ لا ندري !!! ما الذي كان يفعله في البرازيل خلاف أن يطبب الناس؟ لا ندري !!! يأخذنا الطبيب، الذي يتكشف عن شاعر، عبر حياة جديدة يعيشها في البرتغال، في فندق ومن ثم في شقة يحصل عليها بعدما تضيق عليه السلطات البرتغالية قليلا ً، لشكوكها فيه، فذلك العصر حيث الثورات الشيوعية في كل مكان، وخاصة في البلد المجاور – أسبانيا -، يأخذنا الطبيب كما كنا نقول في علاقتين عاطفيتين، إن كنا متجوزين وسمينا العلاقة الأولى الجسدية تماما ً مع خادمته في الفندق بالعلاقة العاطفية، أما علاقته التالية فلم يكن فيها شيء جسدي، وكانت مع فتاة من نزيلات الفندق الشهريات، حيث تنزل به أياما ً من كل شهر، قادمة من مدينتها الصغيرة مع والدها، لتعالج يدها التي لم تعد تتحرك، ولكن الرواية ليست بكل هذه الواقعية، فهناك جانب خيالي سنحار في تفسيره عندما يلتقي الطبيب بشاعر برتغالي مات قبل أيام من وصوله من البرازيل، الشاعر يدعى ( فرناندو بيسوا) وبما أنه ميت، فالطبيب يلتقي بشبحه من حين إلى حين، وكل ما يفعلانه هو الحديث، هذا غريب !!! ولكنه ليس أغرب ما وجدناه في الروايات، إذن ما الذي يكسب هذه الرواية أهميتها في الأدب البرتغالي؟ هذا سؤال يقودنا جوابه إلى سؤال آخر، من هو ( فرناندو بيسوا)؟ يخبرنا المترجم عنه بأنه شاعر برتغالي كان لديه حلم بأن يكون هو بنفسه ( أدبا ً كاملا ً)، فلذا قام باختلاق شخصيات شعراء نشر تحت أسمائهم أعماله وقصائده ( البرتو كاييرو)، ( ألفارو دوكامبوس)، ( برناردو سواريس) و( ريكاردو ريس)، من هنا تبدو لنا المتاهة التي يدبرها لنا ساراماغو، فبطله ريكاردو ريس ليس إلا شخصية وهمية اخترعها شاعر برتغالي مات سنة 1935 م، ولكن ساراماغو يمنح هذه الشخصية الحياة، ويأتي بها من البرازيل – حيث وضعها موجدها – ليعيش في البرتغال ويكون شاهدا ً على تلك الفترة من تاريخها، وليلتقي بموجده ومبتكره بيسوا، أجمل ما بدا لي في فكرة الرواية هو أنه للحظة يبدو لنا ريكاردو ريس والذي لطالما كان مجرد فكرة في ذهن بيسوا، شخصا ً حقيقيا ً يتخيل كل هذه اللقاءات ببيسوا، والذي يرتد من كونه حقيقة موجودة إلى مجرد وهم يخلقه كاتب آخر هو ساراماغو، ولنتخيل يوما ً يأتي فيه كاتب برتغالي آخر – لن يكون هناك معنى لو جاء كاتب غير برتغالي -، ويصنع من ساراماغو حكايته، ستكون هذه لمحة ساخرة، من سارماغو الساخر دوما ً، ربما تتساءل الآن لم كتبت كل هذا بهذه الطريقة المتصلة، الكئيبة وغير المبهجة للعين !!! حسنا ً... هكذا قرأت الرواية، يقول المترجم أن ساراماغو كتب هذه الرواية بهذه الطريقة، وأنه احتراما ً لطريقته ترجمها بذات الأسلوب، ولا أظن أنكم تريدون مني أن أكون أقل احتراما ً !!!

[Cherisa B · Rating 4 out of 5]

I'm adding the category "speculative fiction" to this book though I usually reserve it for what's frequently called fantasy or science fiction, stories set in other worlds or places to explore this thing called the human condition free of the usual limitations of the space time continuum of planet Earth. Why? Because in this book, the author explores the world of fiction and creativity and life beyond death through the interaction of a literary character who returns from Brazil upon learning of the death of the Portuguese writer who created him. Both of them were "real" in the sense that the author within the story, Fernando Pessoa, was a real writer, and the returnee of Saramago's story, Ricardo Reis, was an actual character that Pessoa created, though in fact he was a persona of the writer, to whom he gave an independent intellectual life and history, writing and publishing as him.

It was a bit mind-boggling to learn about Pessoa, and what exactly Saramago is doing with his story. Not having read Pessoa nor his Reis heteronym, as he called the personas he created and unleashed as separate individuals in the world (there were three or four), I mostly took the book at face value, with the discussions that Reis had with the dead author, who would visit him from the grave, as an interesting and stimulating component.

Reis is a poet, and Saramago has him creating poetry within the book. Is it his own or Reis's or Pessoa's? I don't know. But some of it was really moving:

Between what I live and life, between what I appear to be and am, I slumber on a slope, a slope I will not leave....

There is a lot of humor, mixed with unexpected grace: I'm beginning to think the dead are worse than the elderly, once they start talking they don't know when to stop. You're right, perhaps they regret everything left unsaid when there was still time.

Saramago adopts Reis's persona as created by Pessoa and gives him a small life for a few months in Lisbon as the Civil War next door in Spain rises. He finds something like love though his diffidence keeps him apart. I think other characters and writers are included and I'm sure I missed many references, but Saramago didn't make me feel dumb. The references were organic and brief Google searches could fill in some missing details.

The book is melancholic and thoughtful and engaging and whimsical. I really loved it.

[Patrizia · Rating 5 out of 5]

L'ho letto con insolita lentezza, assaporando riga dopo riga, soffermandomi sulle parole e seguendo suggestioni, rimandi e richiami. Ho letto le odi di Ricardo Reis, per ritrovarle tra i pensieri del protagonista di questo uno e mille libri al tempo stesso (come Pessoa?).
Già l'incipit, bellissimo, "Qui il mare finisce e la terra comincia", crea quell'atmosfera indefinita, sospesa tra sogno e realtà, che caratterizza l'intero romanzo. Una città reale, Lisbona, che l'acqua dell'oceano, del fiume e della pioggia, trasforma quasi in un'isola. E in effetti è su un'isola che vive Ricardo Reis, creatura di Pessoa, a lui sopravvissuto. Il mondo reale lo circonda, l'Europa sta per precipitare nel periodo più oscuro della sua storia, ma Ricardo Reis, quasi come Bernardo Soares alla finestra della sua stanza (Il libro dell'inquietudine) osserva attraverso il filtro dei giornali, “parole, notizie, è ciò che del mondo resta, l’altro resto è la parte di invenzione necessaria perché del suddetto mondo possa rimanere anche un volto, uno sguardo, un sorriso, un’agonia,”. E noi lo percepiamo anche attraverso gli occhi del direttore e del facchino dell'albergo in cui il protagonista si sistema inizialmente. E ancora dai racconti di Lidia, la cameriera che incarna un amore cantato nei versi che Ricardo ha scritto. Lidia e Marcenda (un nome o un "gerundio" significativo) sono le due figure femminili che Reis incontra e tra le quali il suo pensiero si divide: popolana e carnale una, di diversa educazione e livello sociale l'altra.
È il racconto di un Portogallo ancora solo sfiorato dai tragici eventi della Storia, con quella pioggia insistente che sembra confermare l'idea che la natura partecipi alle tragedie dell'uomo.
Ed è il sorprendente racconto di una solitudine disperata, bisogna capire che “la solitudine non è vivere da soli, la solitudine è il non essere capaci di fare compagnia a qualcuno o a qualcosa che sta dentro di noi, la solitudine non è un albero in mezzo a una pianura dove ci sia solo lui, è la distanza tra la linfa profonda e la corteccia, tra la foglia e la radice”
È una storia di distanze, “il muro che separa i vivi gli uni dagli altri non è meno opaco di quello che separa i vivi dai morti”; di confini indefiniti tra realtà e sogno, tra vita e morte, in questa città in cui i vivi e i morti camminano fianco a fianco (come nella Lisbona di Berger, "Qui, dove ci incontriamo"). Solo qui, infatti, è possibile che Fernando Pessoa, morto nel 1935, trascorra ancora qualche mese dopo la morte (una sorta di compensazione per i mesi che abbiamo trascorso nell'utero materno) e si rechi a incontrare Ricardo Reis, suo eteronimo.
Splendidi i dialoghi tra il grande poeta, scomparso “senza aver capito se è il poeta che si finge uomo o l’uomo che si finge poeta,” su vita, morte, io, tutte domande per le quali non esiste una risposta, così come “Non c’è risposta per il tempo, in esso siamo e assistiamo, niente più”. E il tempo li ingoia tutti e due, sfumando i contorni di Pessoa, finché non si avvieranno insieme verso il destino comune. Saramago ha concesso loro una proroga, un'indimenticabile opportunità di confronto.
Così com'era iniziata, la storia si conclude “Qui, dove il mare è finito e la terra attende.”

[Leonor · Rating 5 out of 5]

“Sábio é o que se contenta com o espectáculo do mundo “
Ricardo Reis

Foi esta a ode de Ricardo Reis, heterónimo de Fernando Pessoa, que inquietou José Saramago desde cedo e que o impulsionou a escrever esta obra literária.

Como é possível alguém ser agente de passividade? Que sabedoria é esta?

Com criatividade e mestria únicas, José Saramago cria uma ficção com Ricardo Reis baseada em eventos históricos passados no ano de 1936 não só em Portugal como também a nível mundial altura em que os nazis ascendem ao poder, começa a Guerra Civil espanhola, havia a ditadura de Salazar em Portugal, a criação da Mocidade Portuguesa, da Legião Portuguesa, a Itália de Mussolini...

“O espectáculo do mundo” nesta obra abrange também a crítica social, cultural, religiosa e política.

Nesta leitura ficamos a conhecer a cidade de Lisboa, as suas gentes e costumes através dos olhos de Ricardo Reis enquanto este deambula pelas ruas. Uma verdadeira viagem geográfica e temporal!

A representação do amor está presente através de duas mulheres com características opostas: Lídia e Marcenda, com quem Ricardo Reis se relaciona e não sente paixão por nenhuma.

Marcenda, jovem de cerca de 20 anos, ficou com a mão esquerda paralisada desde a morte da mãe. Esta alusão à mão esquerda é feita em mais obras de José Saramago como em “A caverna".

Um dos meus maiores desafios nesta obra mas que me encantou foi a sua intertextualidade: referência às obras de Fernando Pessoa, Luís de Camões, Eça de Queiroz, Cesário Verde, Cervantes…

Demorei-me neste livro e pretendo regressar a ele pois tenho a certeza que muito mais existe para descobrir e me deslumbrar.

Através da Fundação José Saramago assisti à leitura encenada desta obra assim como também fiz o percurso literário em Lisboa que são complementos que enriqueceram esta vivência.

Para finalizar, fiquei com duas questões:
- Qual seria a resposta de Fernando Pessoa a esta obra?
- O que aconteceu ao herdeiro de Ricardo Reis?

https://ensina.rtp.pt/artigo/como-jos...

[Cat · Rating 5 out of 5]

Every time I read a book by Saramago I feel sad because he is no longer among us, to delight us with his writing, and that feels terrible. I felt this once more while reading this book, and I think I will feel it when I read the books I haven't read yet.

Having said this, I had a wonderful time reading this book. Basically it tells what happens when Ricardo Reis, one of Fernando Pessoa's heteronyms, returns to Lisbon after sixteen years living in Brazil. There is a revolution in that country, Reis learns that Pessoa has died, and he makes up his mind to return to Portugal. And finds that many things have change, only in his country but also in Europe. In the first months, Reis lives in a hotel and starts an affairs with a chambermaid called Lídia. There, he also meets Marcenda, a young lady from Coimbra, who suffers a mysterious condition that has paralyzed her left arm. Reis is a medical doctor but in is first times in Lisbon he does not practice. Instead, he walks around the city, reads the papers, and he's visited by Fernando Pessoa, who, despite being dead, is capable of visiting Reis (he offers a very interesting theory on this).

After leaving the hotel, Reis finds a house to live and he even finds a job as a substitute doctor. But most of his time is spent walking around and learning the news, both national and international, throught the reading of the newspapers. And thus, we now how the life went in the Portugal of the mid-thirties, and in the world.

Another great book.

[Voja · Rating 5 out of 5]

Oster je, ako me pamćenje dobro služi, u jednom intervju izneo tezu da se svaki pisac bavi jednom do tri teme kroz ceo svoj opus uz niz varijacija, što mislim da nije daleko od istine. Računajući i ovu, pročitao sam 6 knjiga od Saramaga koji i kroz ovaj roman indirektno provlači teme koje ga opsedaju - smrt i bog. A ja, premda ne verujem u boga(zbog čega i volim to što kroz svako delo "pecka" božanstvo) verujem u Saramaga - u to da će me svaki put zadiviti načinom na koji piše. U ovom delu, posebno mi se dopala ta lakoća, poetičnost napisanog. Nema onog matematički preciznog pisanja kad, nakon što neki lik izađe iz prostorije, pisci krenu sa opisom eksterijera, ili, u slučaju pojave novog lika, krenu sa opisom njegovog izgleda itd. Saramago je, pak, barem mi se tako čini, potpuno oslobođen od bilo kakvih pravila.

S' jedne strane, drago mi je što je organizovana hrišćanska religija praktično proterala Saramaga iz domovine. Taj potez je možda i najveći doprinos umetnosti od strane katoličke crkve. Jer da nisu tako pobožno reagovali, osuđujući nevinog čoveka zbog toga što je pisac, možda nikad ne bih otkrio ovog genija.
U ovom delu, pokazao je kako i mala, obična priča, može biti velika i sjajna kad je piše umetnik, kao što u šahu, kad ga igra velemajsto, pešak, kao najslabija figura, bez muke postaje kraljica.
Za kraj ću dodati samo to da se
Radi , zasigurno, o jednom od najboljih romana od onih koje sam pročitao.

[Ana Filipovic · Rating 5 out of 5]

Kod Saramaga volim sto od svojih likova nije kreirao heroje, licnosti koje sve znaju i razumeju, vec osobe koje pokusavaju da rastumace sta je zivota, a sta smrt i gde prestaje jedno a pocinje drugo. Rikardo Reisa je nenametljiva licnost, u borbi da razume sebe i svrhu postojanja, ali i da zadovolji obrasce ponasanja, da ne bude sumnjiv, a opet da utoli zedj u svakom smisli. Mislila sam da ce Rikardo Reisa i Fernando Pesoa vise liciti jedno drugom, ali ce se u smrti ( valjda ) izjednaciti.

“…cudno je to kako se covek ne izgubi u toj zbrci znacenja, ili je uistinu izgubljen i prepoznaje se svakog dana u toj izgubljenosti.”

“A i ljudi ne sanjaju da onaj ko zavrsi jednu stvar nije onaj isti koji je tu stvar zapoceo, cak i onda kada obojica imaju isto ime, jer to je jedino sto ostaje nepromenjeno, ime, i nista vise.”

P. S. Saramago je moj omiljeni i nezamenljivi pisac, i uvek kada uzmem da citam njegova dela imam osecaj kao da radim najispravniju stvar na svetu 🥰