I shall go on painting the second picture but I know it will never be finished. I have tried without success and there is no clearer proof of my failure and frustration than this sheet of paper on which I am starting to write. Sooner or later I shall move from the first picture to the second and then turn to my writing, or I shall skip the intermediate stage or stop in the middle of a word to apply another brushstroke to the portrait commissioned by S. or to that other portrait alongside it which S. will never see. When that day comes I shall know no more than I know today (namely, that both pictures are worthless). But I shall be able to decide whether I was right to allow myself to be tempted by a form of expression which is not mine, although this same temptation may mean in the end that the form of expression I have been using as carefully as if I were following the fixed rules of some manual was not mine either. For the moment I prefer not to think about what I shall do if this writing comes to nothing, if, from now on, my white canvases and blank sheets of paper become a world orbiting thousands of light-years away where I shall not be able to leave the slightest trace. If, in a word, it were dishonest to pick up a brush or pen or if, once more in a word (the first time I did not succeed), I must deny myself the right to communicate or express myself, because I shall have tried and failed and there will be no further opportunities. (p. 3, tr. Giovanni Pontiero)
The start of José Saramago's Manual of Painting and Calligraphy is unmistakable in its trademark tone. The lulls and pauses in the phrasing are searching for a way forward. The prose is laden with qualifications, trying to overcome the clauses that skirt away from the general idea. The ideas are spreading like ripples in the pond, while above hovers a unique voice, a singular mind, a ruthless thought process. The only comparison I can instantly think of is the masterful opening of a Javier Marías.
Manual of Painting and Calligraphy is a work of fiction, a novel, but it is an essay in the same way that Blindness and Seeing are essays on blindness and lucidity. It is narrated by H., a fifty-year old painter commissioned by S. for a portrait. The first few pages unfold slowly, telling of H.'s difficulties in producing two simultaneous portraits of his client. In order to get around to this problem, or more like to escape from it, H. decided to produce another third portrait of S., but this time the image will be in words. Through some hidden impulse or instinct or whatever, H. decided to turn into writing (the "calligraphy" in the title).
I never expected this book to develop in the opening chapter a similar theme of another novel I finished last year, also from the Portuguese language. The Stream of Life by Clarice Lispector (tr. Elizabeth Lowe and Earl Fitz) is narrated by a female painter who writes of her innermost consciousness and feelings the way paint drips from her brush pallette, i.e., the way consciousness streams forth from a fountain of imagination. But where Lispector's prose issues forth quick as quicksilver, Saramago's brush paints from a slow easel, building from primary colors as he established his plot. But as in Lispector's "art book," plot is probably the least of Saramago's concern here. Manual is, from the outset, a novel of ideas: ideas about art, about the expressions and forms that art makes, and the relationships of these art forms.
Manual de Pintura e Caligrafia first came out in 1976, only the author's second published novel at that time. The first, the still untranslated The Land of Sin, appeared almost thirty years earlier. In between, he produced some collections of poetry and newspaper articles. The English translation of Manual appeared in hardcover from Carcanet Press in 1994, and in paperback from the same publisher a year later. Among his earliest works in the original Portuguese, this is the first "window" to his works as it remains to be the earliest with an English translation. But the translation has since gone out of print.
Last year The Collected Novels of José Saramago was released in e-book format, as an exclusive compendium of Saramago's fiction (twelve novels and one novella). This collection is missing Manual of Painting and Calligraphy. Why this book was not reprinted or included in the collected edition of his fiction is a mystery to me. Was it due to the quality of the translation? Saramago was known for being very exacting about translation of his books. There was an instance when the novelist requested for a more faithful English translation of Baltasar & Blimunda as the first published version contains editorial amendments that he wished to be overruled. What could be the reason for him to suppress this translation while he was still alive?
Maybe initial sales of Manual were poor so the publisher did not produce any more copies? But Saramago, Nobel laureate, is a big name now, almost a brand. His name recall alone will be enough to pull new readers and drive sales of this book, especially a book with such a lyrical title.
Perhaps Saramago consider this work to be minor, not at par with his later novels which are considered masterpieces? But the book has been released lately in other languages. So is it the English translation again? But Giovanni Pontiero is a multi-awarded translator and well-regarded even by Saramago.
Maybe there are some copyright issues with this book? Or maybe the supposedly overt political theme of the book is the reason? I doubt it. Saramago courted controversy like black ink stain on bright white paper.
Whatever the reason, the rarity of this novel makes it Saramago's priciest book.
Okay. Here's the bragging part.
I happen to own both the paperback and hardcover. A month or so before the Senhor died, the OOP book suddenly appeared online at a very cheap price. Through a friend, I was able to snag a copy of the hardback. The paperback I got from the book swapping site BookMooch, of all places.
