I confess that I do not read much fiction. My tastes involve the borderline insane attention to useless details and monotony. In this vein, I have found a kindred, modern spirit in Jose Saramago. I recently decided to set aside my theology books and refresh my soul with this atheist's stories.

I have quite the collection of Saramago. And most of it lies read once — some twice — but one particular book continued to haunt me. I had attempted to read Small Memories a couple of years ago during a Christmas break. I got sick and had to set the book aside. By the time that I was feeling better my break was over, I was back to the grind of work and studying.

Until last week the book has taunted me from its place on my bookshelf. Every glance towards it a reminder that I wished to read it but had not set aside the time. Last week that all changed and I picked up the book.

Saramago's writing style is unlike any other. The poetic nature of his stories is captivating even when nothing particularly important is being said. Despite not reading Saramago in quite some time, I felt myself sitting down with a friend and learning his story. It has been a good week. It has also been an encouraging week.

In the beaming light of Small Memories, I am going to perform a rather stupid attempt to document some of my early memories from my childhood. I am not an old man. But my 10th wedding anniversary and 30th birthday loom ahead of me in the coming days and months. I am moved to write about the silly things that I still recall before I go to sleep.

If you have never read anything by Jose Saramago, you could certainly do better than Small Memories. Then again, it is probably better than much of what is currently read in popular literature. Ultimately, you should read what you want. Be inspired by what you love. And if you feel inclined, enjoy the silliness of my own small memories as I write them.