Jose Saramago's Portuguese Journey

The Nobel laureate Jose Saramago may not be widely known in the English speaking world, but his prominence on the Iberian peninsula is certainly a given. His works are noted for their almost austere style and his political interventions are celebrated by the left for their insistence on social and political equality.

Saramago was born in Portugal but left his home country to live most of this life in Spain. When I first read his book 'Blindness' I was struck by the sparse language. At times, his writing reminded me of somebody who writes in a language not his own. Some phrasing was awkward or struck you as poor translation and dialogues were artificial and wooden. His prose possesses an element of artifice that goes well beyond the crafted nature of literature in general. His commitment to equality and freedom however shines through every page and so I was curious to see what he had to say about his home country in his travelogue, The Portuguese Journey.

Saramago appears to have undertaken the journey over the course of several years and the book is written from the perspective of a visitor who is simultaneously familiar and alien to Portugal. He uses the third person singular to create an impression of distance, yet the vignettes of Portuguese life are real and clearly resonated with him as a son of this land. The most curious aspect of Saramago's travel writing is however the absence of those things that were clearly close to his heart, and the abundance of those that he (professedly) hated.

The book is in effect a series of visits to churches, cathedrals and castles, with little snapshots of ordinary lives sprinkled into the (at times somewhat tiring) portrayal of elitist cultural artifacts. For somebody with socialist leanings his obsession with churches and religious paintings is confusing at best and renders the narrative stale. Even where real people push into the picture, they are usually only the pastors or cleaners opening the front doors of churches or chapels for Saramago to visit. The absence of anything apart from churches and castles belies a strange understanding of Portuguese history, where Saramago appears to discount anything that has not been made or founded by a small political or social elite. His writing almost appears to reveal an obsession with the works of those parts of society he fought all his life.

More importantly, however, it's his skewed sense of history that is puzzling. Nothing seems to warrant description that is less than several hundred years old. At times, the Renaissance appears to be the last period of worthy cultural production. This is disturbing given that Saramago's political ideals were forged in the great struggles of the 19th century and 20th century. In fact, Portugal's path through the upheavals of (failed) democratisation is probably one of the most fascinating in Europe, as she first established herself as a republic and slid into a authoritarian regime between the wars. Yet, none of this enters Saramago's travel narrative. He concentrates on a, at times painfully tedious, description of altars, paintings of saints in churches and castles. For somebody who professed a singular disrespect for religion, this absence of anything but church life is bordering on negligence and obsession.

Yet, there is something else that confuses the reader. His main narrating impetus appears to be a deeply felt belief in the need for order and preservation. Saramago's main leanings are certainly not iconoclast yet deeply reverent of high brow culture.

Pessoa's national poems

I have previously made some unflattering comments on Pessoa's writing on this blog, in particular on his 'Book of Disquiet'. After a pause for reflection (and to revive my will to live after his depressing prose), I have embarked on another dangerous liaison with Pessoa's output, this time his Mensagem (Messages).

The poems in Mensagem are the only ones he ever published himself, so they surely reflect to some degree how he wanted to see himself and his work. They are mainly a collection of short pieces on historical figures or critical historical moments of Portugal. Mostly written around the mid to end 1920s, they represent a curious seriousness and lack of healthy distance to the Portuguese national project.

This is the more remarkable for the fact that at this time, Portugal was firmly in the grip of Salazar, who installed a right-wing authoritarian regime with all the trappings of fascist imagery (although Salazar's regime was certainly not fascist, old newsreel clearly documents how much it adopted proto-fascist symbols).

This lack of critical distance to the nationalistic imagery is odd given that at the time of writing, Pessoa must have been well aware of the (short and violent) pedigree of the nation as a unifying project. He must also have been familiar with alternative ideological trajectories, such as the internationalistic rhetoric of communism and socialism. Given that he wrote plenty of prose and poetry for the drawer, there also appears to be no need to write for the censor.

So, why this strange unquestioning proximity to Portuguese 'nationalism'?

I think one reason lies in his lack of humour. There is not a single instance in his 'Book of Disquiet' or in Mensagem where Pessoa uses irony or humour as a rhetorical device. This creates the impression of an overly serious (if not slightly depressed) author.

The second reason may be his mistrust of human behaviour as a trope for realism. Pessoa's world is populated with unreal heros, mainly historical and distant, who cross the dangerous seas or plant the Portuguese banner in hostile places of the world. Whilst they explore the universe, their inner world of feelings and motivations remains hidden. There is a strange contrast here between the excessively introspective character in the mainly auto-biographical 'Book of Disquiet' and the heroic world of explorers in his Mensagem poems.

In a sense, Pessoa may not have trusted his own poetic devices to portray the world as a representation of this inner world of feelings of his heros. So, all he is left with is either the recounting of glorious adventures or his own emotional universe.

But a poetry of human heroism and unbending will is of little interest to others. Where Pessoa stopped short of exploring the meaning of human actions as a reflection of their visions, art begins to flourish. That's why his poetry has a strange shallowness, despite some wonderful turns of phrases.

On the elusiveness of the common good

It always seemed to me that the interwar period in the 20th century is one of the most fascinating historical periods in contemporary history. Whilst some countries veered to the extreme left to state communism, others turned to fascism and right wing authoritarianism. 

The tendency of Marxist historians to lump the latter two together under one category is now widely discredited. However, there are still many white spots in our knowledge about Pilsudski’s Poland or Franco’s Spain despite the more nuanced approach towards these regimes nowadays. 

It would be deeply flawed to term this renewed interests in some of the right wing authoritarian regimes of the interwar period as historical revisionism, which would somehow suggest a more positive appraisal of their past. Spain under Franco was a brutal dictatorship which extracted enormous human costs from its population over the decades. 

Yet, there are some aspects of these regimes that make interesting reading. Pilsudski’s attempt to navigate the country through turbulent times and defending its territory against two murderous neighbours is probably one of these fascinating examples of history that defy easy description. 

Salazar’s Portugal may be another. I have always been fascinated by the strange melancholy that suffuses Pessoa’s writings which somehow seemed to reflect a pessimism bordering on apathy. Whatever the greatness of his poetry, the time in which he lived must have contributed somehow to his despondency and hopelessness. Salazar’s Portugal (he gained power in 1926 and governed until 1968 when he suffered a stroke) strikes a distant observer as a country preserved in aspic. Although Portugal made some progress towards modernisation in the fifties and sixties, it remained far behind most of its Western European allies in terms of economic and social development. 

There is little written in English on Salazar. A search on Amazon produces fewer than half a dozen books but I stumbled over a contemporary account of the man and his country by a British writer. Michael Derrick must have had some Catholic sympathies since his book, written in 1936, is full of praise for the Catholic (yet non-clerical) undertones of Salazar’s regime. 

There can be no doubt that Derrick was a fan of Salazar’s political vision, a corporatist state without political parties or full democratic representation. There is little doubt that Salazar's corporatism is more of a smokescreen for an at times merciless dictatorial regime. 

Yet, Derrick contrasts Salazar’s politics with those of the previous ‘liberal’ government which he describes as a series of ‘squabbles and inter-factional struggles’. And this is where it gets fascinating, since Derrick’s account may just reflect a widely held belief at that time about the shortcomings of democracy. 

First and foremost, there is the notion of the common good as something that is opposed to factional interests. Salazar’s (and Derrick’s) answer to the dilemma of factional strife in society is to invest the idea of the common good in one person, and perceive of it as an immutable entity closely aligned with a set of traditional values and ‘ever-lasting’ social practices. 

It is this hope that there is a fixture in the ever moving universe on which people can peg their life that appears oddly moving today. It was of course a forlorn hope and one that had to disappoint as Salazar’s regime became ever more oppressive. And it is the belief that a notion of the common good could somehow be defined beyond the the clash of interests that is instructive. As Salazar’s regime became increasingly an apparatus to secure the positions of a small social and economic elite, it revealed the hope for a predefined common good as a mirage. 

This leads us to the most instructive parallel between those authoritarian regimes and our own politics. It is was not so much the lack of any separation of powers, or any checks and balances, but the deep belief that there was to be an idea of the common good that ought to be shared by all which animated those regimes and provided some semblance of legitimacy. This belief can be detected in many other ideologies as well, be it Marxism (think of the ‘right consciousness’) or Rousseau’s armour propre (in small communities). 

Neither Salazar’s nor Franco’s regime of course today passes the test that probes the relationship between their declared aspirations and the realities of brutal oppression and persecution of political oppositions. But their avowed belief that there must be something else beyond a common good emerging out of a political 'squabble' or conflict of interests in society reminds us of the weakness of liberal democracy. It is a weakness that we should celebrate as it gives voice to the lack of alternatives to public debate and open discussion. 

Lisbon diary

Of all the cities in Europe I always wanted to visit Lisbon has long been top of the list. Perhaps it's the melancholy writing of Pessoa or the fascinating history of this country. Last year I visited Porto and fell in love with the language and the feel of the city: laid back yet organised, small yet big enough to have a fantastic concert hall and a beautiful city centre.

Now it was Lisbon's turn and I was not disappointed. In fact, I have rarely seen such a wonderful place for living and working. The city is big but not overwhelming, well run and clean. It has charm (and beautiful people needless to say), yet also retains a feeling of normalcy that makes it appealing and exciting at the same time.

The memorial dedicated to the discoverers in Blemel

Yet, the most fascinating aspect of Lisbon and Portugal may be its rich and exciting history. In particular, the last hundred years offer fascinating insights into the clash of modernity with pre-modern elements of life. If you look for manifestations of the recent past, you don't need to look further than Lisbon's trams. Although the city has a functioning and spacious metro system, it also kept its tram lines above ground which still prove a magnet for tourists.

Lisbon's tram

Perhaps the most intriguing detail of Portuguese history however is an aspect that is little discussed: the long 'freeze' under its last dictator, Salazar. The sheer length of his regime provides some staggering figures. Having come to power in 1929, he lived and ruled Portugal until his death in 1970. Although brutal at times, his rule distinguished itself from the previous regime, the last turbulent monarchic rule of Portugal followed by a brief interim republic, and laid the foundations for a semi-modern economy and society.

In a sense perhaps Salazar's dictatorship saw Portugal's slow transformation from a largely aristocratic regime into a modern republic, something that infuriated some because of its slowness and protracted nature, while being admired and envied by others who experienced radical social and economic transformations at the beginning of the 20th century leading to internal strife and civil war. Whatever the lessons of his long rule, Portugal is now fully integrated into the European Union and Lisbon is the Iberian pearl on the Atlantic.