The writer writes.

The writer of this blog has been reading a book, quite a wonderful book, in which the sentences ramble on yet always with purpose and interspersed with dialogue that emerges within the narrative, flowing uninterrupted by punctuation, or at least quotation marks, Puzzling he says aloud and waits for a response from anyone near by, to which his wife replies, Come down for supper you lunkhead, and he sighs and searches for the end of sentence which approaches but never seems to arrive, until at last he can hit the small white square on his keyboard that denotes a full stop.

How in the hell does Jose Saramago write whole novels that way?

(Finally getting around to reading Blindness).