Respect Authority

I’m not entirely sure what I was thinking when I picked up Jose Saramago’s Blindness. Well, that’s a lie – I knew exactly what I was thinking. I was thinking that I really should have shelled out the 15 bucks sooner since my book club meeting was fast-approaching and reading all 326 pages in less than a week was going to cut into my reality television time. But besides that, having seen a few trailers for the book’s imminent film adaptation, and read the back cover, I don’t know why I was still hoping for sunshine and rainbows.

To be frank, Blindness is depressing as all hell. The book, translated from the author’s original Portuguese, tells the story of a city hit by a sudden epidemic that turns the entire population (you guessed it) blind. Less a story of the affliction itself, and more one of what happens to people in the face of disaster (spoiler: they get really fucked up), Blindness is sort of like a more fatalistic Children of Men, which is really saying something.

What Saramago gets right is, ironically, the imagery. Though he seems intentionally undecided on which point of view to use, alternating with some regularity between main characters’ and his own as narrator, the scenes are always detailed where they need to be, and blurry where they don’t. Essentially, what’s relevant to the blind characters becomes relevant to the reader. I found myself growing increasingly less concerned with characters’ names (note: none are disclosed), and more with how it must feel to walk barefoot across hospital floors covered in “excrement” (Fun Fact: According to Amazon, “excrement” appears no less than seven times in the book; my calculations put that number much higher, at approximately one billion). I was often surprised to find that, amidst the scents, smells and sounds of each scene, the plot would have suddenly advanced and I would be in the midst of some new horror.

What Saramago gets wrong, in my opinion, is the extent to which people are compelled by, no pun intended, this kind of shit storm. Undoubtedly the author, who won a Nobel prize in literature for the title, would upon reading this review say he never aimed to coddle the squeamish, to which I would say “Clearly.” But, despite Saramago’s courage in leaving no stone unturned whilst exposing the flaws of humanity, there came a point at which the doom and gloom was too much for me. I found myself in need of semi-frequent reading breaks, during which I would try to overdose on humorous media alternatives. If only laughing baby videos could end world hunger.

I finished the book late one Monday, with little except my body pillow to comfort me after the final page. While the story was both compelling and touching, honest and dramatic, more than anything I kind of really wished I wasn’t blessed with the eyes to read it.