This book is to Pessoa what "Joey" was to Friends. If I were the ghost of Pessoa, I'd have haunted this guy and put dandruff in his oatmeal. Unfortunately, I am not a ghost and have to resort to a lukewarm book review instead.
Post-WWI, pre-WWII, and mid-Spanish Civil War Portugal is a very interesting backdrop for something like this, and Saramango's creation of a sort of fantasy poetry league is an interesting and occasionally well-executed technique. The problem is that, just like fantasy sports leagues force you to ignore a lot of what makes sports most interesting and engaging, pretend Pessoa and his heteronyms just aren't the real thing. Also, too many of the haunted house-spooky poetical observations are kind of misguided, and I don't think they were intentionally so. What do I know.
Anyway, it was okay, and it was sufficiently interesting to pique my interest in his other books.
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