I turned the last page and put the book away. I had thoroughly enjoyed José Saramago’s Blindness. It had been a while since I had immersed myself so deeply into a plot. For years I had never felt such an empathy for the characters. I was one of them.
I looked around me in the living room. Everything was white, uniformly creamy white. I didn’t know on which page it had happened, but it had happened. I had myself become blind.
