I don't know how it took me so long to find this out, but
José Saramago has a blog. (Linked in the title of this entry.)
Downside to it being my foolish decision to opt for German
as my second language years ago, because it is available in
Portugese (which wasn't really an option for me, so I'll let
myself slide) and Spanish (which would've been a bit more
useful, but what can you do?) which every American should
have a working knowledge of, beyond my current capacity, which
is knowing how to get beer, cigarettes, matches and meals and
Twice as irksome is that the entries are timely. His latest entry
is on El Salvador. Running it through an autotranslation program
is pretty useful. One can read around the inborn vicissitudes of
such a thing and get at the meat, if not the marrow.
I am wont to ruminate on good ole José, who becomes more of
an influence with every passing month. His beauty is his existence
in-between existences, his prose veering betwixt epic and plainspoken,
his characters occupying the terra while straddling some subatomic
plane (or Plain? both, I think) that becomes more real than the
seemingly physical world they find themselves thrust back into,
his "dialogue" or, in this case, Dialogue, at times mystical and
common. If there is a more important living author, I'd be keen on
getting whatever s/he has composed.
It doesn't hurt that his politics are as in line with my own as any
thinker I've been made aware of, and that his background is one
I can relate to, inasmuch as an American in his early (early, I tell
you!) thirties can to a Portugese man in his late eighties. In lieu of
language acquisition, I'll be copying and pasting to autotranslate.
In unrelated, sad news, Nicholas Hughes has committed suicide
in Alaska. His life, of course, was his own, and it is somewhat jarring
to see the headlines of "Sylvia's son," which set a backdrop to
a host of complications none of us can imagine, but it is natural
if discourteous to see this as yet another horrific footnote in an
ongoing tale of woe. Incredibly sad stuff.