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Baltasar and Blimunda

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LOVE IN THE TIME OF INQUISITION

What's love got to do in a society that is governed by religious bigotry and royal whims? Apparently nothing. But it is love between two ordinary human beings around which José Saramago, weaves his tale of historical fantasy, `Baltasar and Blimunda'. And to what great effect! The romance, spanning almost a lifetime, traversing the length and breadth of Portugal, even soaring into the sky, brings a breath of fresh air to a plot that abounds in filth, brutality, indifference and decay. The tenderness of the relationship serves to make the surrounding evil appear murkier, while the all-pervading depravity indirectly gives more substance to the experience of love.

The lovers, Baltasar, a former solider and Blimunda, a woman with a mysterious power of clairvoyance, meet each other in the killing fields of Inquisition. While Baltasar has lost an arm fighting a war for his motherland, Blimunda has been separated from her mother who has been banished to a far-off land by the Holy Office of Inquisition. But wars and Inquisition are not the only forces of evil that are eroding the foundations of a nation that has left its glory far behind. 18th-century Portugal is full of blood and gore. Take for instance, the brutal bull-fight sessions so vividly presented by Saramago, `The place smells of burned flesh, but this odour gives no offence to nostrils accustomed to the great barbecue of the auto-da-fe, besides the bull ends up on somebody's plate and is put to good use in the end' (page-90). There are also murdered bodies scattered in the streets of Lisbon. Famines, plague, earthquake, Spanish invasions, poverty and squalour -- all add to the misery of the land.

Strange it may seem, but this harsh milieu spurs the ambitions of two very different characters in the novel. The king, Dom Joćo, the Fifth, wants to build the biggest Basilica in the country to redeem a pledge, when God grants him a male heir. `In a king, modesty would be a sign of weakness' (Page-4). Padre Bartolemeu, a scholar priest entertains the ambition to fly in a machine made of steel and cane, one that is fuelled by human `will'. The king's project is a product of his fancy, while the priest's is born of true conviction.

Baltasar and Blimunda get drawn into both these projects, by turns. After conquering the sky with the help of the Padre's machine, they move to Mafra to work on the construction of the Basilica. Wherever they are, their ardour for each other remains undiminished. Doing justice to their nick names -- Seven-Suns and Seven-Moons -- they attract each other like heavenly bodies, eternally.

The author excels in his depiction of contrasts. The king and the queen present the most incongruous pair in the novel. But even the seemingly harmonious Baltasar and Blimunda are at bottom quite disparate. Baltasar's iron arm and capacity for tough physical labour represents hard reality whereas Blimunda with her visions, dreams and the `collection of wills' appears magical and ethereal. But the biggest contrast is reserved for the two long and arduous processions, which make up a substantial part of the narrative. The frustrations, accidental deaths and other painful incidents during the expedition to transport a big slab of stone to the construction site is skillfully counterpoised by the opulence, pomp and ceremony of the royal family is cavalcade. The cumbersome and labourious journey of the slab also finds a matching antithesis in the free soaring of the flying-machine.

The breathlessly long, run-on sentence is Saramago's trademark. He strays from or gets involved in the narrative as the situation demands. The pithy one-liners, though less frequent here than in `The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis', lend colour to the narrative. (`By eating frugally, we can purify our thoughts, through suffering we can purge our souls' (Page-20)). To check the severity of the proceedings, the author intervenes with humour from time to time, (`... stone slabs suspended from yokes that rest on their necks and shoulders, forever be praised whoever invented the pad that lessens the pain' (Page-224)).

`Baltasar and Blimunda' is a compelling novel, which celebrates the power of love and human will, even in the face of dark and sinister forces. Magical elements like visions, dreams, fantasies and so on give a new perspective to the hard reality and a new dimension to our experience of history.

( Quotations from The Harvill Press,London edition.)

There seems to be an affinity among Hispanic authors like Garcia Marquez, Vargas Llosa, and Carlos Fuentes, whose fiction tends to combine rich, often fantastical, narrative landscapes with sensitive attention to socioeconomic issues and political and religious oppression. Jose Saramago is Portugese, but "Baltasar and Blimunda" shows that he is very much part of this esteemed group.

The novel takes place in Portugal in the early eighteenth century. An ex-soldier named Baltasar "Sete-Sois" (Seven Suns) Mateus arrives in Lisbon in 1711 looking for work. His options are limited, as he has lost his left hand in battle and replaced it with a hook, which qualifies him for employment in a slaughterhouse. He meets and falls in love with a girl named Blimunda, whose mother, accused of heresy by the Inquisition, has been banished to Africa. Blimunda purports to having some strange powers: She can look inside people's souls and even collect their "wills", a skill which will prove invaluable later in the novel.

Baltasar and Blimunda befriend a learned and mechanically-minded Brazilian priest named Padre Bartolomeu Lourenco, who is something of a flight pioneer. He convinces Baltasar to help him build a flying machine called the Passarola, which, he envisions, would be powered by a complex system of components including human "wills" that Blimunda, conveniently enough, is able to collect. That the Passarola is a ludicrously unfeasible contraption does not stop it from flying fortunately, for it allows its makers to escape angry Inquisitors.

Meanwhile, the King of Portugal, Dom Joao, anxious for a royal heir, is making a deal with a Franciscan friar to donate money for a new convent if the Queen, Dona Maria Ana, will deliver, so to speak. The Queen makes good on this several times over, so the King buys land from some farmers, one of whom happens to be Baltasar's father, and construction of the new convent is begun. As a source of boastful pride and a symbol of the overt alliance between the Church and the Crown, the convent turns into a Tower-of-Babel-like project, a ruthless shedder of blood, sweat, and tears.

Calling "Baltasar and Blimunda" a love story -- even a brilliant one -- is not giving it full credit. Saramago incorporates real historical figures and events into the plot, such as the Italian harpsichordist Domenico Scarlatti who emigrates to Lisbon; and, apparently, a priest named Lourenco really did build a working flying machine. (Of course, it's unlikely that Lourenco and Scarlatti actually ever met, but for the purpose of fiction, that possibility needs to be milked for all it's worth.) Saramago's prose is like a stiletto wrapped in silk; his sardonic tone offers wry observations on the disparities between royalty and peasantry and the cruelty and pageantry of the Church at the time. Yet, in one of the most beautiful and bittersweet endings I've ever read in any novel, he reminds his reader that love is the ultimate sovereign.

I had the oppurtunity to read this charming novel a few years ago and I have never been able to stop returning and re-reading the book. Saramago does an excellent job of telling a truly beautiful love story without so much as having one word in the novel hinting towards it. His descriptions were so vivid in the book that I felt as if I were in Portugal watching those poor men build a monument for the sole pleasures of the portuguese monarchy. The thing that I love most is that book is also historically correct. There really was a king who had a huge convent built as a thank you for a male heir and there really was a priest who tried to make a flying machine during the Inquisition. I recomend this book to all people. The sheer magic of a beutiful age in Portugal will make you feel one with the author and the characters. And may I add that I have visited the Convent of Mafra and it's absolutely beautiful and it's great to see something that had so much meaning in the novel.

There is something absolutely compelling about the love that exists between the title characters of this masterpiece. It is the sort of love that makes you want to go out and find it for yourself, one that hollows out from the surrounding absurdities of the world a separate peace in which it can exist.

For being a love story, though, Saramago adopts a very original approach to portraying Baltasar and Blimunda. He does not explain their love, he does not justify it, he does not even describe it. They simply love each other -- that is all you know and all you need to know.

The majority of the book isn't even about them. Most of the pages are spent in outright hilarious passages describing the frivolity and ostentations of royalty and the church in 18th century Portugal. Unlike much anti-clerical writing, this is done without anger or bitterness. Saramago takes an almost playful approach to the absurdities of the establishment -- the first 20 pages alone are enough to make the entire book worthwhile. The king and his court are a joke.

In the second half of the book, though, they slowly become a sad joke. This part of the book revolves around the construction of an abbey in Baltasar's home town of Mafra, and Saramago progressively shows the human cost of the royal whims. With heartbreaking resignation and bitterness, he shows how the king's decrees interrupt and destroy the lives of ordinary men and women.

And yet, in the midst of all this, Baltasar and Blimunda persist, neither caught up in the absurdities of the court nor trodden down by the resulting oppressions. They have no intentions in life and are merely happy to live that life by each other's sides. Saramago manages to say more about them in whole chapters of writing about other things entirely than in the scattered paragraphs he devotes to their companionship. The contrast is powerful.

In short, this is a novel at times debilitatingly funny and at times deeply touching, and through it all runs the thread of a man and woman who love each other and need no explanation.

This masterpiece by the Nobel laureate, José Saramago, has an epic quality that raises it above the ordinary. The backdrop against which the story is told is Portugal in the eighteenth century, a superstition-ridden country peopled by masses who still believe in miracles, in times when theological standards are unbending and any deviation from the accepted norm is punished as sorcery.

Baltasar, a crippled soldier returns home from war to such a milieu. He represents Everyman living a life of quiet dignity, pushed around occasionally by circumstance, cherishing little joys and comforts with his consort, Blimunda. The binding force of the story is the tender relationship between Baltasar and Blimunda, a love that is not expressed in words and that does not wane with time. A third character in the novel is Lourenco, the "Flying Priest." The three are brought together by a seemingly impossible dream of constructing a flying machine.

What is special about the book is the writer's narratorial skill: Saramago takes on the traditional role of a story-teller without being clever or fantastical. He narrates a plain, simple story without any superfluous embellishments. It is this simplicity and honesty that goes straight to the heart and lingers on. The author does not pause to indulge in verbal pirouettes or stylistic gymnastics. Nor does he gloss over metaphors and similes to conjure elaborate conceits out of them. Saramago borrows several features from the oral tradition: Baltasar and Blimunda is a stringing together of several loosely-related episodes and incidents, yet there is a structural circularity in the whole. The tone is sometimes easy and conversational when focused on specific incidents, sometimes it has an incantatory quality, sometimes it slows its pace to describe the mire and filth through which the characters must toil; and sometimes it soars high into the skies with the Passarola.

The story of Baltasar and Blimunda seems to get its power from the rhythms of the cosmos which it invokes constantly. The two main characters are nick-named after the sun and the moon. There are repeated references to the wind, the rain, to cyclical motions of time, to the earth, the heavens and the sky. In the attempt to fly into the skies one may detect the Lucifer motif or, more appropriately, the Icarus pattern: human aspirations daring to dream, foraging into the unknown and, of course, paying a price for the dream. Baltasar's fate reminds us that such is man's lot. All the while the heavens remain unperturbed, always beckoning, always tempting man to soar higher and higher. That man's reach should exceed his grasp or what else is the heaven for? This is what the author seems to suggest.

After putting the book aside, the reader is left with a lingering impression of a pair of lovers wrenched apart: he flying high somewhere in the mysterious spaces above, she roaming the world aimlessly, weeping, wailing, searching for a lost love.

BALTASAR AND BLIMUNDA is a wonderful, richly detailed account of life in early 18th century Portugal. It is a time when Portugal fought the ruthless French, maintained an important colony in Brazil, and was constantly under the threat of the Holy Inquisition. The King of Portugal, Dom Joao V, desperately wants an heir to the throne. One night he promises a Franciscan friar that if he can foretell a succession to the throne then he would build a convent in Mafra. After the Queen gives birth Dom Joao V fulfills his promise by building a convent that is destined to be the greatest in Portugal. Meanwhile, after losing his hand on the battlefield Baltasar travels to Lisbon where he eventually meets Blimunda while watching public executions of condemned individuals. An eccentric Padre Bartolomeu Lourenco recruits Baltasar and Blimunda to work in secret creating Passarola, a flying machine that resembles a giant bird. Centuries before the modern airplane is created, the act of flying is often beyond the comprehension of individuals and could be seen as a holy sign. The sections of this book detailing the plight of Passarola are most entertaining and fun. This creates a good balance with the harsh details of the building of the convent. Saramago succeeds in writing entire passages revealing how much work and sweat were involved in such acts as dragging a giant slab of marble a considerable distance. One might think these passages are dull and tedious, but I believe Saramago highlights these arduous aspects of life that are often ignored by other authors who create works of historical fiction. Throughout the years Saramago has solidified his reputation for being a wonderful storyteller who create novels that are both shocking and revealing of the human condition, and BASTASAR AND BLIMUNDA is no exception. Highly recommended.

There is no question in my mind that Jose Saramago is the world's greatest living writer. After carefully reading "Baltasar and Blimunda," there is no other explanation for his absolutely beautiful and experimental writing style. Yes, it is necessary to go into this book with a warning, perhaps 2. Be aware that Saramago does not write like anyone else. He disregards chronology, a single steadfast plot, and above all, punctuation. Some sentences go on for a page-and-a-half. Pay attention to the language. I must have marked 50 pages with passages that I find which impact my life profoundly on a daily basis. Also, take your time. The last thing is to anticipate the end. The ending to this novel is the saddest, most heart-wrenching ending to a book that I have ever read in my entire lifetime, yet it is highly engaging all the way through. So pace yourself, and savor the many characters and subplots that Saramago presents you with. And make sure to read the flying scene (when it was a success) over and over again with your eyes closed. This is my favorite book of all-time. A classic for the modern age and all ages. Pulp fiction crap writers: (I.E. Nora Robers, Tom Clancy, John Grisham) take notes. You may learn a life lesson or two.

For a writer of Saramago's caliber, this should be considered a disappointment, although for mere mortals, it could be considered an admirable accomplishment. The 4 star was a round off of 3.5 stars I wish I could give.

I dissent from the common view expressed in this circle that Saramago tells a beautiful love story. I find it slow, wanting, and monotonous. Sometimes even tedious. I can understand that the two protagonists are not educated and can't be expected to quote Goethe or Keat every other page, but sure there can be more ways to describe their relationship than: 1. the dozen of times they ran to the nearest bushes and found carnal pleasures, and 2. the blind trust they have in each other and the glove-over-hand match which makes words superfluous. These are nice things (the sex part a bit overdone, not because I'm a prude, but because there is no enough "variety" in Saramago's depiction), but not enough to carry a story.

The strength of the book lies elsewhere, quite apart from a mediocre love story. I read it as an allegory of, or a sequel to Adam and Eve, the other famous uneducated couple falling in love. In the middle of the book, Padre Bartelomeu Lourcenco compared the trio to the Holy Trinity. I beg to differ. The two B's strike me as uncanny models of Adam and Eve after their exile, and the Padre is the snake tempting them for another sin, flying. Sure enough, our Adam and Eve did it again. If the book is read in that light, one can come away learning something. Unfortunately, Saramago digressed left and right, with, in my judgment, over-indulgent commentaries on royal lives and senseless exaggeration (or misleading emphasis) of debauchery among the royals, clergymen, and common people alike. I can't see why these extraneous stuff is necessary.

Despite it all, I like Saramago as a writer, and his prose is always first rate.

Set at the time of the Inquisition, a soldier returns from war less a hand and falls in love with a young clairvoyant woman. They spend the rest of their lives together as he works on the building of the spectacular convent at Mafra. Along the way they help a brilliant priest build a flying machine, and meet his friend, the composer Domenico Scarlatti. Fantastical elements mixed with the author's deeply ironic but also deeply compassionate observations throughout, in the form of a love story. One of the best novels by a contemporary writer I have read.

Saramago plays by his own rules, dragging the reader through muddy sentences and lifting him into the ether of imagination. The slow pace of 18th century life is brilliantly replicated in the reading experience; as result a resplendent world of mystery, discovery, faith, and filth is revealed through characters that are down-to-earth and visionary by turns. The secondary characters are all historical figures brought to surreal life in Saramago's intense vision, while Baltasar and Blimunda emerge as flesh-and-blood characters who marvel, as we do, at the world of wonders in which they live. I couldn't wait for the book to end and I wished it would go on forever. Far from being the political blockbuster I expected the Nobel Committee to celebrate, it was an intense sojourn in a completely new country -- the past. I long for more Saramago, because he expands the world.