Finally, and at last, I got back from this dry spell of actual months without my nose in a book, where I even had these books just sitting there waiting to have their spines broken and their guts devoured, but a numbness of the mind, an inspirational limbo, a too long frozen winter of intellect and nature kept me in the darkness of my own platonic cave, which the late Saramago so eloquent and yet delicately used as a sounding board, an ending starting point for this magnificent small grandeur of a book I finished one sunday morning, realizing that I will forever come to miss the company of the potter, his daughter, his son-in-law Marcal and Isaura -his last love, forever wondering where they went and if they, of which I’m almost sure, found a new and happy life outside the center and its conformicy, this menacing and oh so true apparition of a metaphor for our contemporary western society, that this read has confirmed to me is at a breaking point or rather a transitional shift to something else but not necessarily wiser. Now Plato himself has left “The Republic” in my hands to struggle with and I’m determined to read and understand it (I hope to at least) so that I can face any politician and/or politico-dweeb who thinks he or she has the one and only true answer in their possession and tell them: “I’ve seen the sun and I’m not going back” and ask them to read the news.
Saramago. You’re my paragon. Period.In BOOKS, TIME on March 18, 2011 at 16:26