Last week, the world’s best novelist died. If you know his name, it might be because one of his wonderful books, Blindness, was made into a terrible movie.
I’m not crazy about this author’s personal life or some of the political comments he made, but I am crazy about his novels. He packed hot tubs of wisdom and humor into each sentence. Perhaps he was able to do that because his sentences often ran two pages long…
His name, by the way, is Jose Saramago. He was 87.
In my mind, Saramago did his best work in his mid-70s. Not the mid-70s, his mid-70s. So the next time you hear a 30, 40, 50, or 60-year-old complaining that he’s getting older, that there’s nothing to do at his age, buy him a Saramago.
Guys: Go to Amazon right now and buy The Tale of the Unknown Island for your girlfriend or for that girl you have a crush on.
Do it now. Trust me.
Gals: If you want to know how crazy love can make us guys, pick up All The Names.
For two days, Portugal mourned.
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