must write in each moment as if it were written by first and last time. Say as much as if it were a farewell speak as well as her debut. Karl Kraus The Saturday, June 19, there were no wreaths or speeches, or concentrations of politicians or journalists, or people who claim to represent the culture in Azinhaga. The Portuguese Alentejo village is not in favor of celebrating death: he prefers to talk about life. Centuries-long death of people supporting the workers, peasants, exploited, children without schools or hospitals to be lovers of ritual ceremonies.
Saramago, the man who first was a child and walked barefoot through the fields and land where was born, and heard the magic words of his grandfather, and knew the names of the plants, rivers, animals and people around him, the farm implements and tools; studies could not high school or college and learned trades that he was proud and knew well what is to be a mechanic, locksmith, and have spent a long time, not only for himself but for his family, own room, and had to be adult to earn money with which to buy books, and was first reader and then writer, and wondered whether to publish was easy and I said no, and rejected his books, and after a silence of many years looking rewrote his own style, until I found silence. That boy who remembered his grandparents and people who knew their land rampant theft expert, extreme crime. What must remain so until the achievement of the centuries?
No. There were flowers and celebrations by his death on the lands of the Alentejo. Saramago had written years ago: Maybe muttered, cursed earth ... damn all convicted and sentenced, pain of being born ... Mary, how death has been seen by these lands.
In Lisbon, if you "celebrate?" death. Broadcast live speeches, words, faces of those attending the ritual. Televisions, radios and newspapers. Soon the politicians, intellectuals, people of power, the media return to their normal lives. They had starred in the drama of the funeral. The ashes of the writer, the man returned to his home, nothing. He was the son of the soil, poverty. He grew silent. Met exclusion, including insults and contempt. And one day he took his knowledge of literature, against them, who represent the world, now, on his death, come to be portrayed by him, he can no longer defend, accuse, or show ironic and lucid look at the extras that do not even hesitate to speak each other, of "commitment."
thought to initiate this second issue of Torch XXI century with a first reflection against intellectuals. Then came the death of Saramago, in which never again to speak, but that has left me many years of friendship and words that surely will arise in some of these jobs. Like: I'ma professional skeptic. We live in a world of systematic lies. The spectacle of the world is quite depressing. If something does not change the history of mankind is the exploitation and manipulation by the Church, politics, personal relationships. Would have to reinvent democracy. The city is merely a facade used by those who rule in democracy: economic and financial policy.
The lies of those in his death spoke the word commitment in their mouths, to Mariano Rajoy El Pais. And kings, prime ministers, politicians, writers market and genuflection. Missing bankers only. Saramago talked on numerous occasions and I on the word commitment. Before writer is to be human. And it is the human being to be committed in all their actions by the search for a less dirty and corrupt, unequal and unfair. So it was bizarre, grotesque ritual burial ceremonies those who monopolized. Saramago always said that some crying in the wilderness, that consumerism has perverted minds. Life is but a lie in a comedy or tragedy. Echo in her words of Goethe: "Men who think deeply serious and are not well regarded by the public ... It is difficult to deal with errors at the time, if we fight, we were alone, and if we yield to them, they get no honor or happiness.
was good that no wreaths, no speeches, no political or intellectual Azinhaga would come to that there is known too much of death, preferring to remember the life of his son rebel without spectacles.
Three days before he died Saramago, Pilar del Rio, his wife, I wrote a few words about this torch whose number 1 I had just published. Told them:
"What a good idea. I wanted to congratulate Andrew. We are quite lost in the world because Bob is not in good health. See if one of these in a loophole that look I call. At home we get your books, what you write about Jose, other news. Neatly set out, one thing is that after thanking fulfill. Sorry, but we lack the basics. And it does not blame the lack of time, which is what it is and not flinch. A kiss and thanks for sending the initiative. Hopefully we can collaborate. Pilar.
Night Saramago's death, I wrote to Pilar: Pilar
: on this day terrible, absurd, I can only tell you that when you replenish, I would talk to you. Now the words are superfluous. It's time to inner feelings, of memory that has been stored memories, words, thoughts, and especially soil rise that we bow to keep fighting for the future, that future that always, always be with us Saramago . Andrew.
I have heard many messages and many contributions to the newspaper. In future issues, as far as possible, we realize each other.
Where appropriate a culture of operetta begin to flaunt their warlike enthusiasm. Its writers are mercenaries. Types totally irresponsible, one day throwing up the news a premiere and the following the outbreak of war. Karl Kraus. 1912
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