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From the Notebook of Saramago, the last entry of the blog author

Today, Friday, June 18, José Saramago expired at 12.30 in his home in Lanzarote, at the age of 87 years, following a multiple organ failure after a long illness.

The writer died with his family at his side, going away in a serene and tranquil.

Foundation José Saramago
June 18, 2010

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Whatever anyone says, I do not die a very specific act, distinct in its early stages with obvious ruptures, standing out clear boundaries are just machines that measure the well and the doctors / clergy with their meters subject to the technique. The term "spirit" used by his successors in his blog, The Notebook (who knows, maybe decided by Saramago himself) soothes a certain materiality of the phenomenon of death in favor of something more ethereal. Who knows, maybe even the grumpy old atheist, a sworn enemy of holy water, he manages to tame that part of existence that continues unabated when the matter ha smesso di conformarsi a certi parametri denominati vita. E questo in barba al fatto che l’accanito neurone, messo a mollo per decenni in un bagno di materialismo dialettico, cerchi disperatamente di spegnersi, inorridito dal vago ricordo che “The proof is in the pudding”, ma non ce la fa, continua a registrare ancora per un po’ anche se scollegato da altre parti del sistema che prima permettevano la comunicazione. E forse, liberato dall’apparato, il neurone ora continua a viaggiare (se n’è andato ci dicono i parenti), ancor di più se nella “vita” era abituato a scorrazzare per le praterie dell’immaginazione. O le brughiere. O gli altopiani della penisola Iberian pursuing the strategic thinking of the dogs or chasing the trails being left by tides over the centuries of pilgrims. He, the old dread, with the perceived body unknown to science today, but perhaps best known to the ancient populations distributed throughout the world, those who had prepared the ancient Pergamon ' Asklepieon "spa" mind-body not subject to market forces. This happen long before the split between spirit and body, before it is built in the West pond compartments containing the two gems like coffers. Every now and then came a pirate who had found a tattered map and tried to force those two chests, arranged side by side there were those you could with the music, who with writing, some with a brush, some with a theory but maybe they were isolated incidents that lasted the length of a "life" or lasted in 'screw 'disciples and movements that every year more and more away from the moment of discovery, and as the game where you say one word that comes completely distorted and misunderstood at the end of a vicious whispering even this was lost in the maze, and came back stronger division.

But the old man had a different ear, heard the whisper of things and this disturbed him. Other had been led to madness by those persistent rumors, he did not listen and record in the magma of writing, without groped to tame them with the logos of commas and points. And since he could feel the spirit of things tended not to separate the writing from life, everything became a big container that held out something free and fair. He observed his surroundings and tried to steal the signs, breathing metaphor. And maybe this is different from the interior monologues, streams of consciousness of other great European writers whose magma is less rooted in the ground and plays the cerebral meanderings of a Europe that has lost touch with what is material, that elected the mind and consciousness to top element, which maintains the split between mind and body. Maybe that Europe which for the distance from the roots puts the bomb in the center of the earth, according to the description of Svevo a hundred years ago, but today even more than today. But Saramago, even in the decline of red blood cells, white cells and platelets true in his blood that led to a slow end of life due to lack of oxygen to the cells and proliferation of infections may read the signs. Who knows, maybe I should not wonder if one day we found a paper that talks with the disease.

on YouTube a few weeks ago, I saw his emotion in front of "Blindness" on the film made, the tears of gratitude to those who had managed to materialize on the screen faithfully what he had heard on the page. I believe they were also sad tears, given away by the consciousness of the imminence of the posting that she would separate from the acts of creation, the community of intent for 70 years he had tied to those who read his works to those who facilitated the diffusion. I remember those same sad tears in eyes of watery my farmer father, who was also an old eighties hit by the disease that we have waned a little ways by depriving cells of oxygen. That he had written a few pages, only a few lines to record in an Italian oozing Calabrian dialect of the ancient wisdom handed down through stories and proverbs. These farmers were perhaps the last heirs of the unity of the world that the Grand Old Man was trying to tack on the page. No coincidence that his grandparents had spent the Nobel Prize awarded for literature. Speaking of his grandparents, illiterate peasants, which he defined the wisest person he had ever known, fondly remembered his grandfather ill, before leaving his house to be brought to a doctor's visit the big city had greeted his trees , was directed "from tree to tree in his farm, to embrace the logs, to take leave of them, dai frutti che non mangerà più, dalle ombre amiche".

Per me che sono stata un’accanita lettrice, la cosa che mancherà di più sarà aspettare l’uscita del prossimo romanzo di Saramago, ma forse questa mancanza sarà un motivo in più per onorarne la memoria allenandomi in una scrittura tesa a sbavagliare il mondo e ripercorrerne l’unità.