Death bites the dust in Nobel winner's latest

Death is usually not the most comfortable topic to think about, or, say, talk about, with friends. It just isn’t. Death can be traumatic and sad, and if you were forced to put your finger on exactly what death is, the definition may elude you. Death is when something ceases to live; the act of dying, according to the dictionary. But what is death itself?

In Nobel Prize winning-author, Jose Saramago’s latest work of fiction, “Death With Interruptions,” the definition of death is not what one would expect. The novel begins with an impossible idea: “The following day, no one died,” and although impossible, it is interesting to imagine a day when absolutely no one, even those involved in otherwise fatal accidents and disasters, is able to die. Through the witness of our unnamed narrator, and the setting of our unnamed country, we see the blind joy in the people when they are informed that they will not have to face the dreaded, unwelcome moment of death at their door. Unity and pride erupts within the country, and flags wave in honor of their new exception.

But, as with most good things, they must come to and end, and the positive attitude toward the lack of deaths is rather quickly marred when the people realize that they haven’t enough room for everyone living and unexpectedly sticking around.

In this book, the thing about not dying is that, while it sounds like a marvelous idea at first grasp, there are other things to consider.

Imagine being mangled in a car accident, lying on your deathbed, only to find that you simply cannot die. You are a vegetable, stuck in a kind of limbo, in which those near and dear to you are forced to fight for your accommodations.

With the onslaught of death not being an option, funeral homes take a beating, as do life insurance companies. They actually form a policy that requires the age of “dying” to be 80, and people are therefore required to pay up until that age. They can take out an additional policy if they choose, and perhaps a third if they wish. The chaos only grows more immense when people, finding that they do not have the space or the means to house and care for these people who are dead, but not dead, begin carting the bodies across the border to a neighboring county to die. It is an act that is known about, and slyly encouraged, and human smuggling is suddenly the new hot topic, involving the “maphia,” as well.

While the story is very interesting, it would be impossible not to notice Saramago’s at times frustrating writing style. There are no paragraph breaks, odd punctuation, random capital letters, and a near impossible differentiation of speakers due to lack of quotation marks. I felt like I was reading with an odd urgency and anxiety due to the constant relentless wording. The style fit the subject matter I suppose, but it was difficult for me to distinguish time and place, as well as characters because of this. The book is translated form Portuguese, and I will have to say, the humor and wit, if not the punctuation, came out intact.

Saramago weaves an intricate tale, which interestingly takes a turn for the sweeter side. In the second half of the 238 page work, death becomes a character, writing her death notices on violet-colored stationary, informing the unlucky that they have one week to tie up their lose knots, and be ready to ship out. But when the unimaginable happens, and a letter is returned, death begins a back and forth struggle that distracts her from her duties. Enraptured with the man who returned the letter, she finds she is caught up in his slightly mundane, cello-playing life. Death is a skeleton, but she disguises herself as a woman in order to be pleasing to the eye, because as she assumes, skeletons are not the most widely accepted creatures in society.

The story from here on out truly becomes a love story. Death experiences human joys, and wants, paralleling with her inevitable job of delivering her final death note to the man.

I enjoyed this part of the novel much more than the first, mainly because it was easier for me to follow and find a common ground with the now-indentified characters. The ending was perfect, and my previous doubts from the first half were relinquished. Saramago’s writing itself is a work of art. The intricacy and subtle undertones of the prose were powerful throughout, but the beauty was in was in the details, and the way he was able to take a fantasy-like situation and make it comprehendible. Hypothetical conundrums are Saramago’s claim to fame, and “Death With Interruptions,” is no exception.