Ghost Stories

I’m glad this book is over.

I wish I’d had the time to give it the attention it deserves.

José Saramago’s The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis tries to be so many things at once that when one’s mind is at all elsewhere, it’s difficult to discern so much as one.

The story of a man—Ricardo Reis—who moves from Spain in 1936 back to his native Portugal, the book details his personal life before moving increasingly into the inscrutable details of Portuguese politics during World War II. Personally, I found the first half of the book far more engaging, in large part because I know nothing about Portugal, least of all in 1936, and didn’t look into it as I normally would have (more on that later). Reis lives in a hotel for a while, enters into a relationship with a chambermaid that has entirely intriguing dynamics, and wonders about a young woman whose left hand is inexplicably paralyzed. He scratches out lines of poetry that no one ever sees while keeping up the pretense that he really does intend to set up a practice again, having been a doctor in what seems to him a previous life. All while conversing with the ghost of his poet friend, whose death summoned him back to Portugal.

Then politics intrude on our nice, plot-less meditation on life. Ricardo is summoned by the police due to the fact that he has come from Spain during a delicate civil situation there. They, unsurprisingly, want to know why.

It is difficult to ascertain Ricardo’s political positions, because he meditates on what he reads in the newspaper and hears on his radio without giving much of an impression of what he believes, which may have helped me get more of a handle on the situation. For a while he seemed to be a Nazi sympathizer, a supporter of the dictatorship in his native country, but, especially after a scene near the end of the book in which he attends a political rally, he seemed more than anything apathetic.

When I’m in school, I want quicker reads. I would love to be able to philosophize about a book. But I just don’t have the time, or the mindset. I think differently. There were several places in the book when I actually wanted to write down a line or observation that I found particularly meaningful or astute. I didn’t, and I don’t remember them now. Had I been in a different place—had I read this three weeks ago—I’d have pages of quotes, which I wouldn’t need because I’d have memorized them.

I enjoyed the book; I enjoyed Saramago’s usual philosophical meanderings, I enjoyed his beautifully smooth, consistently eloquent prose. I enjoyed—though was slightly befuddled by—his trademark devastation of an ending. He’s still my favorite author. Any blame to be laid for my feelings about this book falls on me. I think I know better, now, than to read one of his books when I cannot devote to it my undivided attention. I probably won’t read him again until April, when I will happily snatch up Seeing the day it arrives in the bookstore.

But who knows? If one calls to me, I’ll read it.

Parting thought: I do believe José Saramago is one of the only living writers who gets away with giving away his plot twist in the title.