All The Names - Jose Saramago

...
Such was the force of this blow that, once his disoriented feet were out in the street again, it took
Senhor José a while to realise that a very fine, almost diaphanous rain was falling on him, the sort of rain
that soaks you vertically and horizontally, and from every other angle as well. It might be a good idea to
try looking her up in the phone book, the old girl had remarked slyly as they said goodbye, and each of
those words, innocent in themselves, incapable of offending even the most susceptible of creatures, was
transformed in an instant into an aggressive insult, a proof of insufferable stupidity, as if, throughout that
conversation, so rich in emotions after a certain point, she had been observing him coldly and had come to
the conclusion that this awkward official sent by the Central Registry to seek out things both distant and
hidden was incapable of seeing what was right in front of his eyes and within reach of his hands. Having
no hat or umbrella, Senhor José received the fine spray of water directly on his face, the swirling
confusion of drops resembling the disagreeable thoughts coming and going inside his head, but all of them,
he noticed, were circling round one central point, still barely discernible, but which, little by little, was
becoming clearer. It was true that he hadn't even thought of doing something as simple and everyday as
consulting the telephone book in order to find out both the telephone number and the address of the person
whose name they were listed under. If he wanted to discover the unknown woman's whereabouts, that
should have been his first action, in less than a minute he would have found out where she was, then, on
the pretext of clearing up some imaginary query in her file at the Central Registry, he could arrange to
meet her at her home, saying that he wanted to save her having to pay a bit of tax, for example, and then,
immediately afterwards, risking everything with one bold gesture, or days later, when he had gained her
confidence, saying to her, Tell me about your life. He hadn't done that, and although he was fairly ignorant
of the arts of psychology and the secrets of the unconscious, he was beginning now, with considerable
accuracy, to understand why he hadn't. Let's imagine a hunter, he was saying to himself, let's imagine a
hunter who has lovingly gathered together his equipment, the rifle, the cartridge belt, the bag of
provisions, the canteen of water, the net bag to collect his booty in, his walking shoes, let's imagine him
setting out with his dogs, determined, confident, prepared, as one should be on these hunting expeditions,
for a long day, and then, as he turns the next corner, he comes across a flock of partridges right by his
house, ready and willing to be killed, and although they take flight, however many of them are brought
down, they still don't actually fly away, to the delight and surprise of the dogs, who have never in their
lives seen manna fall from heaven in such quantities. What interest could such an easy kill have for the
hunter, with those partridges offering themselves up, so to speak, to his gun, wondered Senhor José, and
he gave the obvious answer, None. That's what has happened to me, he added, inside my head, and
probably inside everyone's head, there must be a kind of autonomous thought that thinks for itself, that
decides things without the participation of any other thought it is the thought we have known for as Ions as
we have known ourselves and which we address familiarly as "tu," the one that allows itself to be guided
by us in order to take us where we think we consciously want to go, but that, in the end, might be being led
along an entirely different path, in another direction, and not towards the nearest corner, where a flock of
partridges is waiting for us all unknowing, although we know that it is the search that gives meaning to any
find and that one often has to travel a long way in order to arrive at what is near. The clarity of this
thought, whether the former or the latter, the special thought or the habitual one, the truth that, once you've
arrived, it matters little how you arrived there, was so dazzling that Senhor José stopped, stunned, in the
middle of the pavement, wrapped in the misty drizzle and in the light of a street lamp that happened to
come on at that very moment. Then, from the depths of a contrite and grateful soul, he regretted the evil,
unmerited thoughts, those all too conscious thoughts he had heaped upon the kind old lady in the ground-