The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis by José Saramago
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

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.








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