my being and the invisible raining outside there in the wide world, with a noise so dense that it is impossible, at this same time, it is raining the whole earth The world moves with the murmur of water for the space, such as wheezing top, and dark noise of the rain is constant in my thoughts, my being is the invisible curve traced by the sound of wind blowing insolent, wild horse and free, with invisible hooves flying through these doors and windows while in this room, where just swing, slightly, lampshades, a man surrounded by tall furniture and dark writes a letter, composing and adapting his novel manages to seem absurd that the logical inconsistency perfect linearity, the weakness strength, dignity, humiliation, fear the boldness that is what we have been so much as what we would like to have been, ah, if we had had the courage when we were called to the statement, the knowing is half the journey, as long as we remember and there are less when the forces must take the other half. He hesitated a lot Ricardo Reis had to use the vocative that a letter, after all, is an act worthy threat, the formula does not admit bluntly written, emotional distance or proximity tend to a determination that radical, in one case and in the other, accentuate the character, ceremony or an accomplice, the report will determine that the letter and always ends up being, in some decisive way, a kind of parallel relationship to the real relationship, they do not coincide. There are misunderstandings that started just so sentimental.
José Saramago, The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis
