Still, also Blindness by José Saramago is a suitable choice, If you're looking for a book to read to reflect on people and life around you without being too dry and full of the gospel.
José Saramago begins with a megacity without a name but with all the rudiments of a real megacity. We can fluently catch some of its shadows right in the megacity we live in. The megacity has no name, nor does the main character have a name. He brought the story to a high position of conception, the particular pressing the general and vice versa.
In this work, there's a common denominator. That's blindness. One day, while stopping at a crossroad on his way home, a man suddenly went eyeless. Before his eyes, there was only a glowing white rather than colors or at least the thick darkness of ordinary blindness. latterly, people called this complaint" white blindness." With no symptoms and no incubation period, the prognosticated mode of transmission is when the eyes of an eyeless person meet the eyes of a healthy person. Just like that, there were further victims one by one. The first man's woman was eyeless. The hack motorist took the couple to see the ophthalmologist. The ophthalmologist was this croaker's case. Until the last nanosecond, they were all eyeless. The whole country is eyeless. perhaps the whole world is eyeless. No one knows, because everyone is eyeless and every machine and vehicle that needs a sighted person has to stop working. But in the morning, it was believed that insulation measures could stop the epidemic. The first eyeless people — the novel's central characters are confined to an insane shelter. As the number of cases increased, as fear spread both inside and outside the insulation ward, all those wretched, eyeless brutes had to fight for their own survival.
The motif of the struggle for survival isn't new, but José Saramago has chosen a unique exploitation direction. As in the work, someone formerly compared, their life is like that of ancient humans; all ultramodern conveniences can not be reckoned on, and they must fight to live, but they're different from their ancestors in that the world is different. The world of history wasn't exhausted, not destroyed, and most importantly, they were eyeless. The chorus of blindness reprises, at times choking with despair, at times in rage, at times like graduation to lift the character to the door that opens up the doctrines of life, and occasionally, blindness is the end.
The most prominent character in the novel is the croaker's woman. She does not appear on the morning of the work, but the story ends with what she sees. She isn't eyeless. As with white blindness arising, the croaker's woman's impunity has no reason, and in fact, the reason isn't important. It's hard to describe in just many lines how I feel about this character. She's a nonfictional and tropological kind of enlightened figure. She saves and helps those she can, with a kind heart, perceptivity, courage, and wisdom. She observes and understands; she doesn't just see, she sees. People's blindness enlightens the croaker's woman and, again, she guides them. At times, there was a figure of a saint in her, though the only praise she was given was when she was called beautiful by two other eyeless women. They had workshops way seen her ahead.
What tropical meaning does the epidemic of blindness have that José Saramago elaborates on in his work? Is the blindness of this world indeed when their eyes are bright? Is it a call to awakening in each of us? There have been numerous papers opining on this. For me tête-à -tête, I just feel the reanimation. Poverty can stifle humanity, but not all. There's always one and the other, in any situation. Survival doesn't turn people into wild creatures; not indeed can it make a canine forget its pious instincts and blandish and console its proprietor.
Reading some workshops on the same subject, one may jolt, but reading Blind, one may exfoliate gashes. That, in my opinion, is the difference. José Saramago's gift is irrefutable, but more importantly, he obviously has to be a great philanthropist to be suitable to write a work like this. Throughout the work, indeed in the darkest part with death and despair, it's filled with love and trust in man, as the final ending says
The croaker's woman got up and went to the window. She looked down at the trash- bestrew road, down at the screaming, singing people. also, she raised her head to the sky and saw everything white. It's her turn, she allowed. Fear made her snappily lower her eyes. The megacity is still there.