Raúl Ruiz (1941-2011)

Raúl Ruiz (or Raoul Ruiz if you prefer the French spelling) died today. I only saw two of his films, "Le Temps Retrouvé" (1999) and "Mistérios de Lisboa" (2010, poster above). I liked both without loving them, but since the second is a major adaptation of the work of a Portuguese writer, Camilo Castelo Branco, shot in Portugal and with a Portuguese cast, I realised I could not but pay homage to him. After all, he has managed to make this XIX century novel a small success in XXI century France. Obrigado.

José Saramago (1922-2010)

José Saramago, the only Portuguese Literature Nobel prize and indeed the only Portuguese-speaking Literature Nobel prize winner, died today. I still remember the joy of finding out he had won.

Controversial, praised, hated, communist, all these describe him, but ultimately he will remembered or not because of his work. I personally loved "Memorial do Convento" ("Balthasar and Blimunda" in English) which I read for school when I was 18. I read 2 more of his books which i liked much less and left a fourth unfinished, and have to admit that his personal style defeats me more than engages me - I can only read him in special moments. Still, I am curious about two of his later novels which I might pick at some stage.

The cover's design, recently replaced for something brighter, was one of the things I always admired in the edition of his books (well, the Portuguese ones, anyway). They were elegant and gave nothing away.

Eça de Queirós by Columbano

Eça de Queirós (1845- 1900) is arguably Portugal's best novelist and one of my favourite writers. Columbano Bordalo Pinheiro (1857 - 1929) is one of the key painters of late 19th Century, early 20th Century and again, a personal favourite. He his known among other things for a series of paintings of Portuguese intelectuals and key figures of the last quarter of the 19th Century. One of the most celebrated at the time was his portrait of Eça de Queirós. Sadly, a few months before the writer's death the painting was lost, with a few others, in a shipwreck while returning from an exhibition in Paris. And obviously, the sitter's death prevented a new one being made.

Fortunately, as I found out recently, there is a surviving photo (below, taken from here). It makes me even more sorry that I can't see it, but at least I can see what the painting looked like. And I love what he did with the hands.

On the ending of a short story

A few months ago I read a Portuguese XIX century short story collection entitled “Contos ao Luar”, by Júlio César Machado, which translates as “[Short] Stories in the Moonlight” or "Stories by the Moonlight" (either translation works). I bought the book because I liked the title and the look of it (lovely blue hardcover from 1889 I think – photo to the right), but the author was a complete unknown to me. The stories weren’t very good, nor were they particularly bad and they abused ellipsis (the three dots or "reticências", if you're Portuguese speaking), probably to create a little pause before the punchline, which invariably wasn't terribly good. However, the ending of the first one, "Os Noivos" (roughly "The Newlyweds") struck a chord with me for some reason.

The plot is banal – young and married pretty thing married is courted by womaniser, who happens to be really in love with her. Everything is blameless and rather platonic, but obviously it doesn’t really appear as such (oh dear…). She also has a mother and a sister which is very virtuous. Anyway, this gentleman gets obsessive, and the husband starts to suspect something. Meanwhile the mother dies, and one when the married couple and the sister go to the cemetery, the other man is there. In order to prevent a scandal, the virtuous sister quickly persuades the man that he must marry her to save everyone’s face.

I warned you of the banality of it. But the ending has struck a chord (it is presented as if selflessly motivated) and for some reason I think the interesting story is to know what would have happened next.

On books and buying them

I love books. I love buying them, owing them and reading them - the order is simply the order of the process. I also love carrying them all over the place and hate when I damage them because of this - once or twice a book had to be replaced (ok, more than that!).

Bookshops are places of pleasure for me, especially those where I have never been and those I know by heart (in case I really just want to get something quickly). But best of all, every year there's a book fair in Lisbon - and for at least a good 10 years now I make a point of being there on the first day. So I book holidays to match (being in London and all that). This year there were a few problems with it and almost didn't happen. But afterwards I was wondering if that would have been such a misery for me.

I can read in Portuguese and English and when I am brave, I even read some stuff in French (not counting with la Bande Dessinée). So I can't say I am limited, can I? However, in a competitive and increasingly uninteresting book market in Portugal less and less books that appeal to me are now published. Furthermore, one of my favourite publishers was absent and I bought only 4 new books for myself, none of which printed in the last 2 years and all originally published before 1970. In contrast I came back with 7 second hand ones, all from the 1900s. With the increasing prospect of an idiotic spelling agreement for the Portuguese language, I believe that in six years time I shall stop buying new books altogether.

There is a bright side - I am now discovering the "alfarrabistas", the second hand bookshops and where I bought some nice books lately. For better or worst, I believe that this is where for Portuguese books, my future of book buying lies.

Feras no Povoado (1947)

I recently finished a book that made me wonder if it wasn't better forgotten: “Feras no Povoado” (published 1947, something like “Beasts in the Village”) by portuguese writer Gomes Monteiro. I had neither heard of the author or the book until a few months ago when the publisher announced its release on their website. Try google it and all you get is a list of sites where you can buy the book. Nevertheless, I bought it because I like the publisher, because I know they are small and because they produce in the same series books that I treasure for their quality.

To be honest, these are the only arguments I can use to make anyone buy the book.

Mixing history and fiction, wanting desperately to be a serious historical novel but never really achieving being more than dull, the book tells the story of a man during one of the most violent and less talked about periods of Portuguese History, the civil war in the XIX century and political chaos that followed.

There are three main problems with the book in my opinion. One is that the story is never really that interesting, mostly because the characters are one-dimensional and sometimes disappear for long periods of time. The second, which bugged me a bit more were the long (very long) passages which are nothing but very subjective and highly arguable takes on the history of the period. Finally, he wants to be a famous writer. Not just any writer but Camilo Castelo Branco (1825-1890) one of the greatest figures of Portuguese literature of any century, and from whom he draws considerably.

Cidade Proibida (2007)

Recently read two works of fiction by Portuguese author Eduardo Pitta, his recent novel “Cidade Proibida” and “Persona”, the later in the recent revised second edition. Neither impressed much and won’t last longer in my memory. I wasn’t impressed by either… but here’re my thoughts on the first.

“Cidade Proibida” (“Forbidden City”) is a short novel, with a plot that centres on the relationship between a british working-class professor in Lisbon and his upper class “native” boyfriend, and the people surrounding them. Somehow, I feel that its length was its greatest asset. I took me about four hours of reading spread over three days, in a few tube rides from home to work and back. I also liked the title, which refers not to any homosexual context (as one would have thought from the subject matter) but to the rarefied upper classes of Portuguese society.

But that’s were the good things stopped. It’s not a bad read, at worst it’s snobbish and pedantic, and at best I felt indifferent. While it describes the Lisbon environment fairly well, with its rules and codes, when the action changes to London, I couldn’t help not believing in it because I live here. It seemed too much stuck in the memories and places from the past and not at all real. The most (unintentional) hilarious moment of the book, which I shared with friends, is when Rupert, raised in London, says he can’t believe how expensive Portuguese houses are. It should be noted that a studio flat within a decent distance from the centre of London will probably buy a two bedroom flats in a nice area of Lisbon.

Often the book is simply a catalogue of unpleasant characters. In the first chapter we are introduced to Nora, Martim’s mother, and immediately, from the way she tells the maid off, and fires her on the spot, I disliked her. As the book progressed I realised neither of the leading men were much better. Rupert’s letter towards the end of the book kills whatever empathy we may have had for him that wasn’t killed from the events set in London. And a similar point could have been made for Martim, Guida, and all the others whose stories we are introduced despite their presence in the main events be little more than a glance.

There’s another issue, which I admit is due to personal taste. In an interview the author mentioned that his characters are not “sexless angels”, but I wonder if the explicitness of some of them is really necessary. I admit that I dislike sex scenes in books. They usually are uncomfortable readings, and the ones in the books are no exception. You require real talent to pull them off rather than just good writing skills. That does not mean that the characters must choose celibacy – but you can imply rather than describe, because in most cases details are unnecessary.

Ultimately books are a matter of taste. And this one isn’t for mine. But I might recommend it to someone who I think will enjoy it.