Novel by Antonio Tabucchi

Scary to think that had I not been about to head to Portugal I would never have read this wonderful book. It certainly served the purpose of being a conduit to an imaginative sense of Lisbon, but that value is far outstripped by Tabucchi's literary achievement. 107 pages of understated, evocative language, and that's in English translation from Portuguese written by an Italian! Tabucchi avoids explicitness at all costs, and in so doing conveys much more than can be found simply by measuring the words. This is the kind of writing AI could fake but may never master - the kind that will likely die with humans. And no concern at all for resolution (oh how I hate the tyranny of that word, which is the great cliché and limitation of film).

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