Friday, April 8, 2011
In a little under 7 months, I finally turned the last page on Saramago's The Year of The Death of Ricardo Reis. Best thing I've read in some time. Sad to see it go. I think I'll read Fernando Pessoa's Book of Disquiet next.
If all time is eternally present All time is unredeemable. What might have been is an abstraction Remaining a perpetual possibility Only in a world of speculation. What might have been and what has been Point to one end, which is always present. Footfalls echo in the memory Down the passage which we did not take Towards the door we never opened Into the rose-garden. My words echo Thus, in your mind.