It has been ten years since Saramago died, “loved by me, loved by so many.” I am convinced that on that 18th of June, 2010, you as well as me, lost a friend, a big brother, someone whose judgement you trusted, without having to share the same political or religious views.

His common sense, his rationality and his deep humanity were the reason you and I were compelled (and still are) to read Saramago’s books

Dressed in a dark suit, Saramago (born in Azhinhaga on November 16, died in Tia, June 18, 2010) seemed sullen, curt and unfriendly (for many years, in Portugal he was all that and there was a time that they hated him).  But as soon as he opened his mouth we saw the dear and erudite man we will always remember.  He was humane, sensitive, reachable, fun, sharp and profound.  A writer who did not turn his craft into myth and who did not let his Nobel Prize in Literature (1998) make him arrogant. 

He would tell everyone that he never coveted the prize.  “They have given me a Nobel, so what?” he would say, “what does that really mean?  Nothing.” He was seventy six years old and his ego was still intact, therefore the year of the Nobel, was not “the year of Saramago’s death,” because winning the award did not kill the man he always was.  He was not just a person, he was a “character;” a proud character that was not vain and removed from the narcissistic personality some successful writers adopt.

Read complete article here: TodoLiteratura