José Saramago, master of what-ifs

When I met José Saramago in Lisbon, in the late autumn of 2008, he was frail, but clearly relishing a reprieve. He had just recovered from a near-fatal respiratory illness, and was bemused by his escape, though he refused, as a die-hard atheist, to consider it a miracle. Writing with renewed energy, he was excited about his José Saramago Foundation moving into new premises in the Casa dos Bicos – the 16th-century House of Spikes near the sea – and was about to begin a tour of Brazil.

Mais.