Seems that sometimes books come at you in patterns. The pattern this week has been for religious ecstasies, from holy rollers to auto da fes. First I read James Baldwin's Go Tell It on the Mountain. I found it tedious at times, but as I reached the midpoint I was more than hooked. Then I moved on to the wholy delightful though often gory Baltasar and Blimunda by Nobel winner Jose Saramago. Sex and religion make for a heady mix in both books, and both books take a deep look at the effects of religious fervour. What makes the Saramago novel so very engaging is the ironic wink and a nod. Like Stendhal at his best, Saramago colludes with the reader to produce a wry irony with nearly ever sentence. There are some peculiarities of style which made for hard going at first; this is especially true of his handling of dialogue, which I won't try to explain since i don't think I could do so and have it make any sense at all. However, this idiosyncracy seems fitting and natural after a bit. On the other had the bitterness of Go Tell it on the Mountain makes for a less pleasant, but certainly affecting experience.

The picture is a caricature of Saramago.