Some weeks ago, I've read the last page of "O Evangelho segundo Jesus Cristo", by José Saramago.
Sometime is good to be naive and ignorant: I'm 28, and this is my first Saramago book. I knew his fame, but I never red one of his book. So, here come the pure, unexpected joy of being dragged into this narration, complex until the utmost simplicity, as hard as a stony path in Galilee.
And above all a man, his flesh, his blood, his fear, his doubt, his feeling of being a man and at the same time being what other people (and God) want him to be.
José Saramago is funny, harsh, is many things.
He's a great writer for sure.
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