This weblog is devoted to contemporary portuguese literature in translation. Contact: contemporaryportugal@yahoo.com
I will start working on individual blogs about Contemporary Portuguese Authors on translation. I am starting by young Jose Luis Peixoto, but I will soon move to other authors. If you have any material and if you feel like sending it (about any author), it will be highly apreciated. To check my recent work on the blog about Peixoto, click HERE.
Sophia de Mello Breyner Andresen, died on July 2nd, 2004, in Lisbon. Her death is a major loss for contemporary portuguese poetry.
Read "Portrait of an unknown princess"
Jose Saramago
Germany - Rowohlt
Spain - Alfaguara
Korea - Hainaim Publishing, Moonhak Publishing
Denmark - Samleren
Finland - Tammi
France - Seuil
Greece - Alexandria, Kastanioti
Israel - Hakibbutz Hameuhad
Hungary - Európa Könyvkiadónál
U.S. - Harcourt
Italy - Einaudi
Norway - Cappelens Forlag
Poland - Plus
Romania - Editura Univers
Russia - Editorial Raduga
Sweden - Wahlström & Widstrand
Jose Luis Peixoto
France - Grasset
Italy - La Nuova Frontiera
Nederland - Meulenhoff
Spain - Hiru
Turkey - Arkada
Croatia - VBZ
Finland - Wsoy
Bulgaria - Pet Plus
Czech Republic - Barrister
António Lobo Antunes
Germany - Luchterhand Literaturverlag
France - Christian Bourgois
Spain - Siruela
U.S. - Grove Press
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About Antonio Lobo Antunes:
In Spanish
In French
In German
About Jose Luis Peixoto:
In English
In English
In French
In German
In Dutch
In Dutch
In Italian
In Italian
In Russian
About Eugenio de Andrade:
In Spanish
In Spanish
In French
About Jose Saramago:
In English
In Spanish
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António Lobo Antunes born in Lisbon in 1942. Antonio Lobo Antunes is one of a handful of Portuguese writers who is named regularly as a possible candidate for the Nobel Prize for Literature. Lobo Antunes emerged in the 1980s as one of Portugal's most important post-revolutionary authors.
He graduated in Medecine and later specialised in Psychiatry. He has devoted his life to both the practice of medicine and the writing of a number of books. He was awarded the Portuguese Writers' Association (APE) Grand Prize in 1985 for the novel "Auto dos Danados" (Act of the Damned) and, in 2000, for "Exortação aos Crocodilos" (Exhortation to the Crocodiles). His work has been widely translated.
Excerpt of "The Inquisitor's Manual".
Translated by Richard Zenith
And as I walked into the courtroom in Lisbon I thought about the farm. Not the farm as it is today, with the garden statues all smashed, the swimming pool without water, the kennels and the flower beds overrun by couch grass, the old manor house full of leaks in the roof, the rain falling on the piano with the autographed picture of the queen, on the chess table missing half the chessmen, on the torn-up carpet and on the aluminum cot that I set up in the kitchen, next to the stove, where I toss and turn all night, afflicted by the cackling of the crows.
as I walked into the courtroom in Lisbon I didn't think about the farm as it is today but about the farm and the house in my father's day, when Setúbal.
(a city as insignificant as a provincial small town, a few lights dancing around the bandstand in the square, flickers in the dark night pierced by the dogs' anguished howls).
hadn't yet reached the main gate and the willows along the wall but sloped straight down to the river in a jumble of trawlers and taverns, Setúbal where the housekeeper did the shopping on Sunday mornings, dragging me along by the elbow under the flurrying pigeons.
the house and farm from my father's day with the staircase flanked by granite angels, with hyacinths growing all along the walls, and with a bustle of maids in the hallways like the people bustling in the lobby outside the courtroom.
(it was July and the trees on the Rua Marquês da Fronteira twisted in the sun against the building façades).
in clusters that hurriedly formed and disbanded around the elevators, and amid all the witnesses and defendants and bailiffs, my lawyer, holding the sleeve of my sweater, pointed out the steps.
"This way, Senhor João, divorces are this way."
and I, oblivious to him, oblivious to the courtroom, remembered that long-ago July in Palmela.
(I must have been fifteen or sixteen years old because the new garage next to the beech trees was being built, the tractor rumbled beyond the vegetable garden, and the metal blades of the windmill creaked in the heat).
when I heard murmurs and whispers and steps in the chapel, not the sounds of chickens or turtledoves or magpies but of people, perhaps the gypsies from Azeitão making off with the Virgin Mary and the carved candlesticks.
(women in black skirts, men blowing on flames under coffeepots, sad scrawny mules).
and I grabbed one of the canes from the stoneware umbrella stand in the foyer and trotted across the dining room.
"This way, Senhor João, divorces are this way."
where the chandelier sprinkled glass shadows onto the tablecloth, I leapt over the flower bed with birds-of-paradise, I leapt over the petunias, the chapel door was open, the candles fluttered under the arches, but I didn't find the gypsies from Azeitão.
(women in black skirts, men blowing on flames under coffeepots, sad scrawny mules).
I found the cook lying flat out on the altar, her clothes all tousled, with her apron around her neck, and my father beet red, cigarillo in his mouth and hat on his head, holding on to her hips and looking at me without anger or surprise, and on that same Sunday, after yelling his responses to the priest's Latin along with the steward, the housekeeper, and the maids, lighting up his cigarillos during communion, my father.
(the wind shook the withered dahlias and the swamp's eucalyptus trees, which expanded and contracted to the rhythm of the algae's breathing).
called me into his office whose window faced the greenhouse of orchids and the murmur of the sea.
"Let's hope your wife is on time, so the judge doesn't reschedule your divorce for the Greek calends".
(but there weren't any seagulls, you don't find seagulls on that side of the mountains).
and he stood up from his desk, walked around it toward me, pulled his Zippo lighter from his vest, and placed his hand around my neck as if he were inspecting a lamb or a calf from the stable.
"I do everything a woman wants except take my hat off, so that she won't forget who's boss."
My father with his hand on the neck of the steward's teenage daughter, a dirty, barefoot redhead who squatted on a wooden stool while squeezing the cows' teats, my father grabbing her by the neck and forcing her to bend over the manger while still holding on to the pails of milk, my father once more beet red as he rammed his navel into her buttocks, the tip of his lit cigarillo pointing at the rafters without the steward's daughter ever once protesting, without the steward ever protesting, without anyone ever protesting or thinking of protesting, my father lifting his hand from my neck and disdainfully waving toward the kitchen, the maids' quarters, the orchard, the whole farm, the whole world.
Antonio Lobo Antunes///Jose Luis Peixoto///Jose Saramago
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Eugénio de Andrade was born in 1923 in Povoa de Atalaia, a small village in Portugal close to the Spanish border. He published his first poem at the age of sixteen, his first book three years later. He has received every literary prize his country offers, as well as several international ones, including, by acclaim, the Portuguese language's most prestigious award, the Camoes Prize (2000), among whose previous winners are Jorge Amado and José Saramago.
STILL LIFE WITH FRUIT
Translated by Alexis Levitan
1.
The morning blood of raspberries
chooses the whiteness of linen to love.
2.
Morning filled with sparklings and sweetness
settles its purest face upon the apples.
3.
In the orange, the sun and moon
are sleeping hand in hand.
4.
Each grape knows by heart
the names of all of summer’s days.
5.
In pomegranates, this I love—
the stillness in the center of the flame.
Born in 1974, Jose Luis Peixoto is the author of both poetry books and novels. His first novel "Nenhum Olhar" won the prestigious Jose Saramago's Literary Award. He is also the author of "Morreste-me" (novella), "Uma casa na escuridao" (novel), "A crianca em ruinas" (poetry) and "Antidote" (novella). His books have been translated to several languages. He is the greatest promisse of portuguese contemporary literature.
From "A Crianca em Ruinas"
when it was time to set the table, we were five:
my father, my mother, my two sisters
and me. then, my older sister
got married. then, my younger sister
got married. then, my father died. today,
when it is time to set the table, we are five,
except for my older sister who is
at her house, except for my younger sister
who is at her house, except for my
father, except for my widowed mother. each one
is an empty place at this table where
I eat alone. but they will always be here.
when it is time to set the table, we will always be five.
as long as one of us is alive, we will always be five.
José Saramago was born in 1922 to a family of farmers in the little village of Azinhaga (Ribatejo) north of Lisbon. For financial reasons he abandoned his high-school studies and trained as a mechanic. After trying different jobs in the civil service, he worked for a publishing company for twelve years and then for newspapers, at one time as assistant editor of Diário de Notícias, a position he was forced to leave after the political events in November 1975. In 1969 he joined the then illegal Communist Party, in which however he has always adopted a critical standpoint. Between 1975 and 1980 Saramago supported himself as a translator but since his literary successes in the 1980s he has devoted himself to his own writing. His international breakthrough came in 1982 with the blasphemous and humorous love story "Baltasar and Blimunda", a novel set in 18th century Portugal. Since 1992 he has been living on Lanzarote, the northeasternmost of the Canaries. Saramago's oeuvre totals 30 works, and comprises not only prose but also poetry, essays and drama. His awards include Prémio Cidade de Lisboa 1980, Prémio PEN Club Português 1983 and 1984, Prémio da Crítica da Associação Portuguesa 1986, Grande Prémio de Romance e Novela 1991, Prémio Vida Literária 1993, Prémio Camões 1995. Saramago won the Nobel Prize in 1998.
Excerpt of "The Gospel According to Jesus Christ".
Translated by Giovanni Pontiero.
Jesus was prepared and showed no surprise when the woman asked him his name as she rubbed ointment into the sores on his foot, which rested on her lap. I am Jesus he replied, without adding, of Nazareth, for he had said so earlier, just as the woman who lived here was clearly from Magdala, and when he asked her name, she replied only Mary. Having carefully examined and dressed his injured foot, Mary Magdalene tied the bandage with a firm knot That should do, she said. How can I thank you, asked Jesus, and for the first time his eyes met hers, eyes black and bright as coals, also like water running over water, veiled with a sensuality that Jesus found irresistible. The woman did not answer at once, she looked at him as if weighing him, the boy obviously had no money, at length she said, Remember me, that is all I ask, and Jesus assured her, I will never forget your kindness, and then, summoning his courage, Nor will I forget you. Why do you say that, she asked, smiling. Because you are beautiful. You should have seen me in my youth. You are beautiful as you are. Her smile faded, Do you know what I am, what I do, how I earn my living. I do. You only had to look at me, and you knew everything. I know nothing. Not even that I'm a prostitute. That I know. I sleep with men for money. Yes. Then, as I said, you know everything about me. That is all I know. The woman sat down beside him, gently stroked his hand, touched his mouth with the tips of her fingers, If you really want to thank me, spend the day here with me. I cannot, Why, I have no money to pay you, That's no surprise. Please do not mock me. You may not believe me, but I'd sooner mock a man with a full purse. It's not only a question of money. What is it, then. Jesus fell silent and turned his face away. She made no attempt to help him, she could have asked, Are you a virgin, but said nothing and waited. The silence was so great, only their hearts could be heard beating, his louder and faster hers restless and agitated. Jesus said, Your hair reminds me of a flock of goats descending the mountain slopes of Gilead. The woman smiled but said nothing. Then Jesus said, Your eyes are like the pools of Heshbon by the Gate of Bath-Rabim. The woman smiled again but still said nothing. Then Jesus slowly turned to look at her and said, I have never been with a woman. Mary held his hands, This is how everyone has to begin, men who have never known a woman, women who have never known a man, until the day comes for the one who knows to teach the one who does not. Do you wish to teach me. So that you may thank me a second time. In this way, I will never stop thanking you. And I will never stop teaching you. Mary got to her feet, went to lock the gate, but only after hanging a sign outside, to tell any clients who might come looking for her that she had closed her window because it was now the hour to sing, Awake, north wind, and come, you south, blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out, let my beloved come into his garden and eat his pleasant fruits. Then together, Jesus' hand once more on the shoulder of Mary, this whore from Magdala who dressed his sores and is about to receive him in her bed, they went inside, into the welcome shade of a clean, fresh room. Her bed was no primitive mat on the floor with a coarse sheet on top, the sort Jesus remembered from his parents' house, this was a real bed, as once described elsewhere, I have adorned my bed with covers and embroidered sheets of Egyptian linen, I have perfumed my couch with myrrh, aloes, and cinnamon. Leading Jesus to the hearth, with its floor of brick, Mary Magdalene insisted on removing his tunic and washing him herself, stroking his body with her fingertips and kissing him softly on the chest and thighs, first one side, then the other. The delicate touch of hands and lips made Jesus shiver, the nails grazing his skin gave him gooseflesh, Don't be frightened, she whispered. She dried him and led him to the bed, Lie down I'll be with you in a moment. She drew a curtain, there was the sound of splashing water, a pause, perfume filled the air, and Mary reappeared, completely naked. Jesus too was naked, lying as she had left him, he thought, This must be right, for to cover the body she had uncovered would give offense. Mary lingered at the side of the bed gazed on him with an expression both passionate and tender, and told him, You are so handsome, but to be perfect you must close your eyes. Jesus hesitantly closed them, opened them again, and in that moment he understood the true meaning of King Solomon's words, Your thighs are like jewels, your navel is like a round goblet filled with scented wine, your belly is like a heap of wheat set about with lilies, your breasts are like two fawns that are the twins of a gazelle, and he understood them even better when Mary lay down beside him and took his hands in hers, and drew them to her, and guided them slowly over her body, her hair, face, neck, shoulders, her breasts, which he gently squeezed, her belly, navel, her lower hair, where he lingered, twining and untwining it with his fingers, then the curve of her smooth thighs, and as she moved his hands, she repeated in a whisper, Come, discover my body, come discover my body. Jesus breathed so fast, for one moment he thought he would faint when her hands, the left hand on his forehead, the right hand on his ankles, began caressing him, slowly coming together, meeting in the middle, then starting all over again. You've learned nothing, begone with you, Pastor had told him, and who knows, perhaps he meant to say that Jesus had not learned to cherish life. Now Mary Magdalene instructed him, Discover my body, and she said it again, but in a different way, changing one word, Discover your body, and there it was, tense, taut, roused, and she, naked and magnificent, was above him and saying, There is nothing to fear, do not move, leave this to me. Then he felt part of him, this organ, disappearing inside her, a ring of fire around it, coming and going, a shudder passed through him, like a wriggling fish slipping free with a shout, surely impossible, fish do not shout, no, it was he, Jesus, crying out as Mary slumped over his body with a moan and absorbed his cry with her lips, with a hungry kiss that sent a second, unending shudder through him.
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Born in 1974, Jose Luis Peixoto is the author of both poetry books and novels. His first novel "Nenhum Olhar" won the prestigious Jose Saramago's Literary Award. He is also the author of "Morreste-me" (novella), "Uma casa na escuridao" (novel), "A crianca em ruinas" (poetry) and "Antidote" (novella). His books have been translated to several languages. He is the greatest promisse of portuguese contemporary literature.
Check out my web site devoted to Peixoto's work. CLICK HERE
Excerpt from "Antidote".
Translated by Richard Zenith.
The gleam on the stones of the sidewalk. Points of light flickering on the watery film left there by the night, by the rain. I walk on the sidewalk s pattern of stones, on a carpet of illuminated points that flicker and then go out. Their life is short. My life is short. Points of light that open up paths for me to follow. My boots fall amid these points that light up, live for an instant, and die forever. A thousand points of light dying at different moments, in different places, ignorant of each other and yet part of the same order. A thin sheet of water runs down the garden walls, the crystalline skin of a glass, water clear as poison. Hanging from the top of the wall, like an arrested avalanche, there are plants, leaves, tree branches: green arms that froze just as they were reaching down to grab someone who, like me, was walking on the sidewalk. On the leaves and on the skin of the wall there are also evanescent points of light. As in sincerely shining eyes. Handfuls of glittering dust thrown on the sidewalk s stones, on the garden wall, and on the branches overhanging it.
A breeze rises from inside the earth and reaches me, my awareness of myself: my face, my lips, my body touched by that breeze. I walk through that breeze in me as if through an invisible multitude. The breeze, when it touches my eyes, changes into tears that run coldly down my cheeks. My lips. I feel them and feel the memory of the times when I ve wept the saddest, most obdurate despair, with tears rolling slowly down my cheeks. Time passes by me like something that passes by but I can t imagine what, and my tears, which were merely the breeze touching my eyes, begin to be tears of real despair. I stop walking. The world stops. And I remember you like a penetrating knife, the infinite blade of a knife infinitely thrust into me. Not much time has passed since the morning dawned. An eternity has passed since you left me alone among the shadows of the night. On other nights we looked at the moon. Last night we didn t look at the moon. On other nights we looked at the moon and were filled with desire. Last night we didn t look at the moon and we suffered. On other nights, we looked at the moon and didn t know what suffering was. Darkness and hope. In the moon we saw more than our dreams, more than the reflection of what we wished to invent. We saw a future that was greater than our dreams and that encompassed us and pulled us into itself. We knew that something much greater than what we could dream was waiting for us. We were deceived. Here, on these stones that gleam, under these tears on my face, I know we were deceived and I know the infinite blade of a knife.
Here in the south where I was born, my body inside my mother s body, under her skin, next to her bones, here there are whitewashed houses, fields and plains that now are far away from me and that are here at the same time, for they are the memory of something that I know exists. Within that memory my mother, during the first full and brightly glowing moon after I was born, waited till everyone else in the house had gone to sleep. Laying the shawl I was wrapped in on the kitchen table, she went through doors and down the steps to the yard. Her bare feet touched the earth. It was the end of summer. In the middle of the night sky, the moon stood still in the explosion of its icy white light. My mother s fingers were thick when, with both hands, she lifted me up over her head, toward the moon, and said: O moon that brightly glows, / I brought him into the world, / now you make him grow! I was tiny and white. My mother s eyes reflected her raised arms and my body in the white circle of the moon.
Last night, before and after we separated, the very same moon was in the sky. It existed in a place where we didn t try to see it, but now I know that it existed, and to know that is to know that the world is immeasurably vast. Now, in this moment, I don t know where you are. I imagine you doing so many things. I imagine you not remembering me. Now, in this land of the south where I was born, I look at my boots and see a mist begin to rise off the ground and to slowly wrap my knees. The points of light that flicker on the ground are less bright. And a terrible, black voice passes through me. I can t make out the words it says. I slowly lift my gaze to the sky. Above me there s an infinite place much larger than I am. Above me the morning sky is the infinite space where everything that exists in my breast can exist. Like the pale shadow of my heart, I can discern the white shape of the moon in this morning sky, in the darkly luminous sky of my breast. The day was born on top of the night, and the night continues under the gray light of this morning. The night that s made of smoky and misty shapes. When it was still completely night and you were at my side, you said: we won t be happy together. I desired you so much. I saw your eyes through the night air, I knew you were at my side, and I knew we were going to separate. I saw you leave. Your footsteps drawing away from me. I was seized by horror, fear. You drew away from me. You entered your house as if you were leaving me forever. You were leaving me forever. The moment you closed the door: me overwhelmed by all the blackness, by all the black poison. An infinite knife. Me realizing that you would remain forever shut up inside that house. You will never, never be able to leave. The night, surrounding me, was the black place of terrible certainties: death, the death of everything. Among the walls of the houses, your house. The glass of your closed windows reflected the world s darkness. My eyes wept darkness over the world. You were still close to me, I looked at the place where I knew you were, the house that contained you, but that house was now a black place, a well, it was as if you had plunged into the black vastness that exists within each of us. I knew I would never see you again. I desired you so much. I desire you still. I know there are cemeteries. I know that the house where you are now, the place where I imagine you doing so many things and not remembering me, is a place of ruins. Our lives are surrounded by cemeteries. What we were is buried all around us, and we can never know where we left all the things we won t see again. My footsteps in the night. My footsteps and, slowly, the day is born on top of the things of the night. The night firmly in its place, in objects, in houses, in the sky, and the day slowly wraps it like a mantle of gray light. This moonlit morning. This morning that s a morning and that s still night. The moon in this white sky. I lower my eyelids. Haze, mist. Your eyes were a path. Your hair was like a horizon. I don t know how we could believe that words were simple. We dreamed and were deceived. Smiling, we bathed our lips in poison when we thought we were drinking the antidote.
I open my eyes, and the morning is still the same. The cool mist on my skin. In the sky the icy white moon: shapes and patterns made of ice. In the sky: the image of eternity. I lower my gaze and see the shut houses and the real, deserted streets. There is something cold in the reality of this morning. The mist covering my feet. A voice passing through me. I can make out the words it says: we can t be happy together. Those words penetrate me like the mist. I continue walking. My footsteps are me, and I am this moonlit morning. I walk as if I were again being offered by my mother s arms to the moon. When I was a child, I feared death. Now I am getting old. I fear death but know that, if I try to flee it, I will only run toward it. I walk over the sidewalk s stones. I listen to my steps beneath the mist. I flee death because I want to run toward it.
Memory is like a curse. We fall into eternity, and memory is a weight that keeps pulling us to where we can never go back to. O moon that brightly glows, / I brought him into the world, / now you make him grow! Memory is like my mother s hope on the night when she lifted me up to the moon and unknowingly decided my destiny. I remember when we met, and that day remains beneath your gaze and beneath last night. I remember my hand resting on yours, and that instant remains beneath the word solitude. I remember so many impossible things. Now I walk in this deserted morning. The sidewalk s stones exist under my footsteps. No one, not even I, asks where I am headed. On the empty streets I am a multitude of mutilated people walking. I am the one who, last night, saw you leave, who looked at you when your eyes said goodbye and who couldn t do anything but look at you, at your body, as you drew farther and farther away from my arms. I am the one who was born in the south, far away from all disillusions, in the place where the past stops, in the last outpost of the past. I am the one who dreamed of all that we are forbidden to dream. I am the one who is all of this and much more than this, walking through the mist on a deserted sidewalk, walking over the dying gleam in the wet stones, walking under a gray sky and the moon like a point where everything tends. I walk in this morning as if I were entering an empty house, a house that I knew, that was mine and that I abandoned, as if I were climbing the steps of that house of dead rooms, dead chairs, dead beds, as if I were going up to the window and looking outside, as if a black and terrible voice were passing through me.
The morning is still moonlit.
I will never again be able to abandon my body at your side without a care in the world. With the world existing only next to your skin. My fingers running over the skin of your hands. And desire deceived us. My fingers passing through your hair and innocence. The brightness of the days that dawned in your white skin, in the soft touch of your skin made of silence. The innocence repeated in each word of your voice, like the water of a fountain, like my hand slicing the air on the way to your face. Your gaze was innocence. My gaze. And the silence of each time we wished to speak of matters more impossible than memory. I will never again be able to dream, because you won t be at my side and, as I discovered today, I can only dream with you at my side. An infinite knife, infinitely thrust into me. I have stopped imagining the future, which may or may not arrive, and which for me is draped in a much blacker veil than the past. I cannot look through that black time. The future lies beyond many nights, but I have stopped imagining those nights. I know that, just as last night was covered by morning, this morning can turn into night. I can imagine each shade of its colors turning black. I cannot imagine this time changing into another time. With you I lost all that I was to become nothing else. I lost myself in the dreams we had. I gave myself up. Never again will we understand the moon as when we believed that its light crossing through the night warmed us up. Never again. Never again will we be able to dream. Never again.
The gleam on the stones of the sidewalk. There are larger points of light that flicker through the mist. Coins thrown into a pond full of wishes. I walk through the gleam. My footsteps take me away from nothing. There are wafts of fear in the breeze I walk through. Traces of fear that touch my skin. I walk through the breeze, and a voice runs through me that says: we can t be happy together. Fear. Above me the sky is the time of the world. All the time of all the world. The sky is never again. The moon is us, what we were. Like memory, the moon exists in this morning to remind us of the nights that existed, of the night just ended in which we separated. I walk over the sidewalk s pattern of stones, the pattern of the mist. Surrounded by the time of the world, by never again, the moon is us.
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Born in 1919, this lady poet commenced composing poetry at the age of 16. As a classical style poet she first published some works in 1941 under the title of “Poesia”. Later works include “Geografia” (1967), “Ilhas” (1990), “Musa” (1994), and “Signo” in 1994. She also published a collection of children’s stories that brought her more popular appeal. In 1999 she was awarded the laureate “Camões Prize for her outstanding contribution to Portuguese culture.
PORTRAIT OF AN UNKNOWN PRINCESS
(Translated by Richard Zenith)
For her to have such a slender neck
For her wrists to bend like flower stems
For her eyes to be so clear and direct
Her back so straight
Her head so high
With such a natural glow on her forehead
It took successive generations of slaves
With stooping bodies and patient rough hands
Serving successive generations of princes
Still a bit coarse still a bit crude
Cruel greedy and conniving
It took an enormous squandering of life
For her to be
That lonely exiled aimless perfection
José Saramago was born in 1922 to a family of farmers in the little village of Azinhaga (Ribatejo) north of Lisbon. For financial reasons he abandoned his high-school studies and trained as a mechanic. After trying different jobs in the civil service, he worked for a publishing company for twelve years and then for newspapers, at one time as assistant editor of Diário de Notícias, a position he was forced to leave after the political events in November 1975. In 1969 he joined the then illegal Communist Party, in which however he has always adopted a critical standpoint. Between 1975 and 1980 Saramago supported himself as a translator but since his literary successes in the 1980s he has devoted himself to his own writing. His international breakthrough came in 1982 with the blasphemous and humorous love story "Baltasar and Blimunda", a novel set in 18th century Portugal. Since 1992 he has been living on Lanzarote, the northeasternmost of the Canaries. Saramago's oeuvre totals 30 works, and comprises not only prose but also poetry, essays and drama. His awards include Prémio Cidade de Lisboa 1980, Prémio PEN Club Português 1983 and 1984, Prémio da Crítica da Associação Portuguesa 1986, Grande Prémio de Romance e Novela 1991, Prémio Vida Literária 1993, Prémio Camões 1995. Saramago won the Nobel Prize in 1998.
Excerpt from "Baltasar and Blimunda".
Translated by Giovanni Pontiero.
Now they are ready to leave. Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço contemplates the clear blue expanse above, cloudless and with a sun as brilliant as a glittering monstrance, then he looks at Baltasar, who is holding the rope with which they will close the sails, and then at Blimunda, and he dearly wishes that she could divine what the future holds for them, Let us commend ourselves to God, if there is a God, he murmured to himself, and then in strangled tones he said, Pull, Baltasar, but Baltasar did not react at once, for his hand was trembling, besides, this was like saying Fiat, no sooner said than done, one pull and we end up who knows where. Blimunda drew near and placed her two hands over that of Baltasar and, with a concerted gesture, as if this were the only way it could be done, both of them pulled the rope. The sail veered to one side, allowing the sun to shine directly on the amber balls, and now what will happen to us. The machine shuddered, then swayed as if trying to regain its balance, there was a loud creaking from the metal plates and the entwined canes, and suddenly, as if it were being sucked in by a luminous vortex, it went up making two complete turns, and no sooner had it risen above the walls of the coach-house than it recovered its balance, raised its head like a seagull, and soared like an arrow straight up into the sky. Shaken by those rapid spins, Baltasar and Blimunda found themselves lying on the wooden deck of the machine, but Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço had grabbed one of the plummets that supported the sails, which allowed him to see the earth shrink at the most incredible speed, the estate was now barely visible, then lost amid the hills, and what's that yonder in the distance, Lisbon, of course, and the river, ah, the sea, that sea which I, Bartolomeu Lourenço de Gusmão, sailed twice from Brazil, that sea which I sailed to Holland, to how many more continents on land and in the air will you transport me, Passarola, the wind roars in my ears, and no bird ever soared so high, if only the King could see me now, if only that Tomás Pinto Brandão who mocked me in verse could see me now, if only the Holy Office of the Inquisition could see me now, they would all recognise that I am the chosen son of God, yes, I, Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço, who am soaring through the skies aided by my genius, aided, too, by Blimunda's eyes, if there are such eyes in heaven, and also assisted by Baltasar's right hand, Here I bring you God, one who also has a left hand missing, Blimunda, Baltasar, come and look, get up from there, don't be afraid.
They were not afraid, they were simply astounded at their own daring. The priest laughed and shouted. He had already abandoned the safety of the handrail and was running back and forth across the deck of the machine in order to catch a glimpse of the land below, north, south, east, and west, the earth looked so vast, now that they were so far away from it, Baltasar and Blimunda finally scrambled to their feet, nervously holding on to the cords, then to the handrail, dazed by the light and the wind, suddenly no longer frightened, Ah, and Baltasar shouted, We've done it, he embraced Blimunda and burst into tears, he was like a lost child, this soldier who had been to war, who had killed a man in Pegões with his spike, and was now weeping for joy as he clung to Blimunda, who kissed his dirty face. The priest came up to them and joined in their embrace, suddenly perturbed by the analogy the Italian had drawn when he had suggested that the priest himself was God, Baltasar his son, and Blimunda the holy ghost, and now all three of them were up there in the skies together, There is only one God, he shouted, but the wind snatched the words from his mouth. Then Blimunda said, Unless we open the sail, we shall go on climbing, and we might even collide with the sun.
We never ask ourselves whether there might not be some wisdom in madness, even while recognising that we are all a little mad. These are ways of keeping firmly on this side of madness, and just imagine, what would happen if madmen demanded to be treated as if they were equals with the sane, who are only a little mad, on the pretext that they themselves still possess a little wisdom, so as to safeguard, for example, their own existence like Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço, If we were to open the sail abruptly, we should fall to the ground like a stone, and it is he who is manoeuvring the rope and adjusting the slack so that the sail opens gradually, casting its shadow on the balls of amber and causing the machine to slow down, who would ever have thought that it would be so easy to fly, now we can go in search of new Indies. The machine has stopped climbing and hovers in the sky, its wings extended, its beak pointing northward, and it has every appearance of being motionless. The priest opens the sail a little more, three-quarters of the amber balls are already covered in shadow, and the machine starts to descend gently, it is like sailing across a tranquil lake in a small boat, a tiny adjustment to the rudder, a stroke with one oar, those little touches that only mankind is capable of inventing. Slowly, land begins to appear, Lisbon looms into sight, the uneven rectangle of the Palace Square, the labyrinth of streets and alleyways, the frieze of the veranda where the priest lives and where even now the officers of the Holy Office of the Inquisition are forcing an entry to arrest him, they have come too late, officers who are so scrupulous in the affairs of heaven, yet who forget to look up at the blue sky, where they would see the machine, a tiny dot in the remote distance, but how could they raise their eyes when they are confronted, to their horror, with a Bible whose pages have been torn out at the Pentateuch, when they are confronted by the Koran reduced to indecipherable fragments, they leave at once and head for the Rossio and the headquarters of the Holy Office of the Inquisition to report that the priest they had gone to arrest has already escaped, and it never occurs to them that he has taken refuge in the great celestial dome, which they will never know, because it is quite true that God has a weakness for madmen, the disabled, and eccentrics, but most certainly not for officers of the Holy Office of the Inquisition. The Passarola descends a little further, until the estate of the Duke of Aveiro comes into sight, and these three fliers are clearly beginners, they lack the experience that would enable them to distinguish important landmarks at a glance, rivers and streams, lakes, villages sprinkled like stars on earth, dense forests, they can see the four walls of the coach-house, the airport from which they launched their flight, Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço suddenly remembers that he has a spyglass in the chest, he fetches it at once and trains it downwards, ah, how wonderful to be able to live and invent things, he can now distinguish the pallet in the corner, and the forge, but the harpsichord has disappeared, what has become of the harpsichord, we know, and are able to reveal, that Domenico Scarlatti called at the estate just in time to see the machine rising into the sky with a great shuddering of wings, and just think what would happen if those wings could flap, and once inside the coach-house, the musician found the debris of their departure, broken tiles scattered all over the floor, battens and joists sawn off or broken away, there is nothing sadder than an empty space, the machine is already on its way and gaining altitude, only to leave behind the most acute melancholy, and this sends Domenico Scarlatti to the harpsichord where he starts to play a bagatelle, barely skimming his fingers over the keys, as if stroking someone on the face when all words have been spoken or when words fail, he knows full well that it is dangerous to leave the harpsichord there, so he drags it outside, over the rough ground, awkwardly bumping it as he goes, it emits jarring chords, and this time the jacks really will be dislodged beyond repair, Scarlatti eases the harpsichord to the mouth of the well, which fortunately is set low, and, heaving it off the ground with one mighty push, he drops it down, the frame knocks against the inside walls twice and it emits woeful chords as it finally sinks into the water, who can tell what destiny awaits it, a harpsichord that played so beautifully and now sinks like a drowning man gurgling ominously until it settles in the mud. The musician above has disappeared from sight, already he is beating a hasty retreat along narrow lanes away from the main road, perhaps if he were to raise his eyes he would see the Passarola once more, he waves with his hat, just once, better to dissemble and pretend that he knows nothing, this explains why they did not spot him from the airship, and who knows if they will ever meet him again.
There is a southerly wind, a breeze that scarcely ruffles Blimunda's hair, with this wind they will not be going anywhere, it would be like trying to swim across the ocean, so Baltasar asks, Shall I use the bellows, every coin has two sides, first the priest proclaimed, There is only one God, now Baltasar wants to know, Shall I use the bellows, from the sublime to the ridiculous, when God refuses to blow, man has to make an effort. But Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço seems to have been struck dumb, he neither speaks nor moves, simply stares at the vast circumference of the earth, part river and sea, part mountain and plain, If that is not spray he perceives in the distance, it could be the white sails of a ship, unless it is a trail of mist, it could be smoke from some chimney, yet one cannot help feeling that the world has come to an end, and mankind as well, the silence is distressing, the wind has fallen, not a single hair on Blimunda's head is disturbed, Use the bellows, Baltasar, the priest commands.
Eugénio de Andrade was born in 1923 in Povoa de Atalaia, a small village in Portugal close to the Spanish border. He published his first poem at the age of sixteen, his first book three years later. He has received every literary prize his country offers, as well as several international ones, including, by acclaim, the Portuguese language's most prestigious award, the Camoes Prize (2000), among whose previous winners are Jorge Amado and José Saramago.
THE SMILE
I think it was the smile,
it was the smile who opened the door.
It was the smile with light, much light
inside, I longed to
enter it, take off my clothes, and stay,
naked there within that smile.
To run, to sail, to die within that smile.
