TE19 Iberian Adventure

José Luís Peixoto

was all alien to the writer’s will; the human body advances in an independent existence when left alone; it is fortunate that the heart does not await an order to beat, that the lungs organize themselves autonomously in their bustle to breathe, that even the most anonymous strand of hair knows how to grow gray of itself. Behind, the books on the shelves seemed to lean over his shoulders, eager not to miss whatever it was, inquisitive; they too had been like that, before print and critical readings, before the world, protected by the zeal of their creator. Across the study, pulling away from roots fond of the domestic earth, bottled imitation of the fields, silent plants stretched toward the sunlight—effort which made them grow. One might believe that those fleshy leaves themselves made the sunlight increase, such was the abundance with which all of July burst onto that window, early July through those panes, the 2nd of July 1997 gushed in its entirety through that window. From the remaining wall, the door closed, cautious noises that one might define as stillness. With a movement of his neck—an almost indistinct one, it may or may not have happened—Saramago glanced up. He would not call on Pilar immediately; he had this move up his sleeve, anticipated it for months, and nowwanted to savor it. Among his thoughts he was able to hear his own voice calling her, he had a special manner of articulating Pilar’s name at such moments, he could already see the features of her face as soon as he told her the news. To such extent had he animated that image between chapters and writing days, that more than a few times it seemed to be the foremost reason, the truest reason: he had taken the

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