Picture this: I'm sitting on the steps of the central market in Porto, a large glass of white sangria in my hand. I'm basking in the sunlight and reading Saramago as locals and tourists bustle around me. The magic of reading a (good) book by a local author while traveling envelops me. 

So yeah, that was nice. 

This is my second Saramago (after blindness), and another book in which he asks a big "what if". What if death just... Stopped reaping? What happens to those ready to die, to the funeral directors, to the clergy, to the life insurance salesmen? I particularly appreciated the formation of the maphia (a mafia, but not quite), which smuggled the dying over the border so that they could leave this plane of existence. 

Death operating within the confines of a country's borders implied that she is a federal employee, so I guess we have something in common. (Or a lot in common - death, if you're reading this I am free whenever you are free). 

Recommended if you don't mind your literature experimental (no named characters and few paragraphs breaks or proper punctuation , not unlike this review), enjoy a slow paced reflection, and have some sangria to sip in the sun. 3.5 stars on SG rounded up to 4 on GR.