The difficulty of reading literature that is alive with the consciousness of its author – densely metaphorical, infused with memory, searching for any meaning that will not simply evaporate when the writing is done – is that a single image or turn of phrase can turn one away from the writing to one’s own thoughts and spark the desire to explore and express one’s own consciousness. So, for example, I have been reading Saramago’s Notebook and was lifted out of the text by the following:
In recent years Lisbon has been transformed, has managed to reawaken in the conscience of its citizens that strength that hauled it out of the mire into which it had fallen. In the name of modernization, concrete walls have been erected over ancient stones, the outlines of hills disrupted, panoramas altered, sightlines modified. But the spirit of Lisbon survives, and it is the spirit that makes a city eternal. (pp.5-6)
What Saramago says of Lisbon, one could say of almost any person whom one is lucky enough to love for a long time: that person awakens our conscience, hauls us out of the mire of daily life, and though the vistas and circumstances of life may have altered, the love survives and makes any place we share home. Such meaning was not in Saramago’s writing, but that writing is nevertheless its source. Ultimately, consciousness is one. The difficulty of reading such writing is that it requires a lifetime.