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The Book of Disquiet: The Complete Edition
The Book of Disquiet is the Portuguese modernist master Fernando Pessoa鈥檚 greatest literary achievement. An 鈥渁utobiography鈥� or 鈥渄iary鈥� containing exquisite melancholy observations, aphorisms, and ruminations, this classic work grapples with all the eternal questions. Now, for the first time the texts are presented chronologically, in a complete English edition by master translator Margaret Jull Costa. Most of the texts in The Book of Disquiet are written under the semi-heteronym Bernardo Soares, an assistant bookkeeper. This existential masterpiece was first published in Portuguese in 1982, forty-seven years after Pessoa鈥檚 death. A monumental literary event, this exciting, new, complete edition spans Fernando Pessoa鈥檚 entire writing life.
433 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1982
13.9k people are currently reading
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About the author
Fernando Pessoa
1,199听books6,076听followersFernando Ant贸nio Nogueira Pessoa was a poet and writer.
It is sometimes said that the four greatest Portuguese poets of modern times are Fernando Pessoa. The statement is possible since Pessoa, whose name means 鈥榩erson鈥� in Portuguese, had three alter egos who wrote in styles completely different from his own. In fact Pessoa wrote under dozens of names, but Alberto Caeiro, Ricardo Reis and 脕lvaro de Campos were 鈥� their creator claimed 鈥� full-fledged individuals who wrote things that he himself would never or could never write. He dubbed them 鈥榟eteronyms鈥� rather than pseudonyms, since they were not false names but 鈥渙ther names鈥�, belonging to distinct literary personalities. Not only were their styles different; they thought differently, they had different religious and political views, different aesthetic sensibilities, different social temperaments. And each produced a large body of poetry. 脕lvaro de Campos and Ricardo Reis also signed dozens of pages of prose.
The critic Harold Bloom referred to him in the book The Western Canon as the most representative poet of the twentieth century, along with Pablo Neruda.
It is sometimes said that the four greatest Portuguese poets of modern times are Fernando Pessoa. The statement is possible since Pessoa, whose name means 鈥榩erson鈥� in Portuguese, had three alter egos who wrote in styles completely different from his own. In fact Pessoa wrote under dozens of names, but Alberto Caeiro, Ricardo Reis and 脕lvaro de Campos were 鈥� their creator claimed 鈥� full-fledged individuals who wrote things that he himself would never or could never write. He dubbed them 鈥榟eteronyms鈥� rather than pseudonyms, since they were not false names but 鈥渙ther names鈥�, belonging to distinct literary personalities. Not only were their styles different; they thought differently, they had different religious and political views, different aesthetic sensibilities, different social temperaments. And each produced a large body of poetry. 脕lvaro de Campos and Ricardo Reis also signed dozens of pages of prose.
The critic Harold Bloom referred to him in the book The Western Canon as the most representative poet of the twentieth century, along with Pablo Neruda.
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March 22, 2019
Here is the only Portuguese literary joke I know: Q. Who are the four greatest Portuguese poets of the 20th century? A. Fernando Pessoa. Trust me, it's funny. But it does take a little explaining.
Fernando Pessoa, in order to express various philosophical and poetic moods, constructed a series of what he termed 鈥渉eteronyms.鈥� The heteronym, although similar to the mask or persona, differs in that each one is equipped with a name, a personality, a biography, and a physical description, as well as a distinct writing style. Although Pessoa made use of more than five dozen heteronyms in the course of his thirty-five years, the best known are Alberto Caeiro, Ricardo Reis, 脕lvaro de Campos, and Bernardo Soares. Of these four, his greatest creation--and perhaps the heteronym closest to Pessoa's self--is Bernardo Soares, the "author" of The Book of Disquiet.
The Book of Disquiet, if not unique, is close to it. It is a little like a novel, often like a collection of prose poems, and often like a series of aphorisms and philosophical reflections. The heteryonum that is Soares enables Pessoa to communicate a disciplined, definite vision of the world, necessarily limited in scope, but intensified and concentrated. In this sense, it resembles Roman and English satire, its authorial mask as carefully crafted and resonant as those of Horace and Juvenal, Pope and Swift. Soares, however, takes no interest in vice, let alone the reform of humankind; in fact, he seems to care little about humanity in general, or people in particular.
It is here that the novelistic aspect of this work becomes interesting. Soares is a shy, isolated man, a clerk at a Lisbon commercial firm who adds up columns of figures, and seems to do little else. Although he mourns his colleagues when they pass away, he never seems to communicate with them when they are alive; the closest he seems to get to fellowship are his encounters with the waiter in the little cafe where he eats his nightly dinner and consumes his nightly bottle of wine. At first, we feel sorry for him, for we feel his great isolation and are moved by his great passion and profound love for beauty which he can only express through his journal.
Slowly, however, we begin to see that this isolation is a personal and artistic choice, a way of refining his art and his being . If he cares about human beings at all, it is only because they are useful adjuncts to his own magnificent loneliness, because they resonate as discrete elements of the poet's imagination, much as a certain play of light on a Lisbon street may reflect one particular color of the canvas that is the poet's consciousness. Perhaps this is why the book 鈥淭he Book of Disquiet鈥� reminds me of most is The Chants of Maldoror, that uncompromising paean to the magnificent isolation of evil.
There is of course a great difference. Maldoror could only have been produced by a very young man hiding beneath a very old mask. His persona is a posture of isolation through which he begins to know himself. The Book of Disquiet, on the other hand, is the work of someone who knows himself well, and cares only about reaching a kind of existential purity: a clarity of view, a refinement of mood, the isolation of particular beauties that resonate more deeply and linger longer than the others.
Soares is a monk of the poetic mind, for whom aloneness is a vocation. Its fruit, this memorable book, is rare and delicious, filled with vivid descriptions, evocative language, and refined reflections.
December 19, 2009
Humans are social beings, to the extent that those who prefer solitude to the company of others are usually perceived as troubled individuals, outside of the norm; it took me a long time to feel comfortable with being alone, with dampening the guilt that flared up in me every time I begged off going out with a group of friends. It is always a welcome reinforcement when I come across a book penned by a fellow recluse鈥攁nd The Book of Disquiet could be a solitary soul's bible, so powerfully does it speak in the language of single-place table settings, corner-chair cobwebs and bachelor apartments. It has achieved pride of place on my bedside stack, where I can ladle myself servings of Pessoa's wisdom at leisure.
This book's voluntarily alone author is Fernando Pessoa, a Portuguese poet, writer, and polylinguist who invented fully-fleshed out heteronyms鈥攄istinct and separate personalties of differing nationality and gender鈥攊n order to pursue his writing in various idiosyncratic shades and styles. The Book of Disquiet is a collection of the aphoristic prose-poetry musings of one such heteronym, that of Bernardo Soares, assembled from notes, entries, and jottings made over a span of some thirty years and left unpublished at the time of Pessoa's death in 1935. Richard Zenith, the editor and translator of this stunning, haunting, and achingly beautiful paean to the imaginary potentiality of man, has compiled the definitive edition of this tome in a truly outstanding translation that captures the expressive eloquence of Pessoa and his magical, metaphorically rich manner of constructing word images to portray his unique way of life.
There is no finer encomium to the shattering melancholy and bracing affirmation of loneliness and solitude than the five hundred plus entries that make up The Book of Disquiet; and few better descriptions of existential nausea, of the desperate efforts to perceive a reason to continue with the painful disappointments, shadow terrors, and numbing meaninglessness of human existence. As Pessoa鈥攚riting as Soares鈥攓uietly and unassumingly goes about his daily rituals of walking, working as a book-keeper and inhabiting the well-trod spaces of his rented room in the real world, he is living a rich existence within the wildly creative contours of his mind: as a knight errant, a rich merchant, a pirate, a voyager, a lover of countless women, a guide to the cosmos, an inhaler of sunrises and embracer of sunsets, the guiding hand of every drop of Lisbon's morning showers, the leaves shaken by a sudden burst of wind. Having been sentenced to a term of life by an errant universe, Pessoa decided to renounce action and ambitions in what we hold to be real life to pursue a variegated and abundant existence within the realm of dreams. As our life is measured through the archived clippings of one's memory, whether one actually performed the deeds recalled matters less than the detail and substance they contain.
Such, at least, is the defense offered by Pessoa; yet often his solipsistic persuasions are contradictory, defensive; and when the mask slips we can see the depth of pain and loneliness underneath the placid surface of his imaginary life. There is much repetition and mulling over of themes from different angles, but the writing is so expressive and raw and honest that, to myself at least, it never becomes tedious鈥攅ven as the tedium of existence, the stretching of the soul on the rack of time, is one of the principal ideas that populate Pessoa's thoughts and entries. It is as if tedium was experienced as a box of chocolates, each colour and coating, each form and flavour, each taste and texture, mulled over, pondered, drawn out and examined, and then set to paper as a running record to remind of an eccentric daily pleasure.
This is a book to be mused upon and savored, one that can be imbibed in different ways: it can be read straight through鈥攖he way I approached it, drawn into a white heat of blistered enthrallment鈥攐r sparingly sampled over weeks, months, even years. The order the aphorisms are assembled in is purely a construction of Zenith; he stresses such in his introduction and encourages each reader to create their own sequence for the collected entries. However the reader decides to approach The Book of Disquiet, they will be rewarded with the inventive honesty of a hale and wounded man from a work that is truly sui generis.
I've recently picked up the edition, which features a translation by Margaret Jull Costa, who performed similar duties for Jos茅 Saramago's last half-dozen books. Distinct from Zenith, obviously, but just as potent and powerful鈥攁nd the differently parsed words and sentences only serve to present Pessoa's incomparable poetry of loneliness in a new light, equally fulgent and searing, just focussed from an alternate angle. A richly marbled interiority of immanent pain and transcendent beauty.
Revisiting the disquietude of early modern Lisbon, I'm reminded anew how this collection of Pessoa's dispassionate passion is one whose title is so perfectly matched to the content within that one can sit there (all by oneself, of course) cushioned within the utter silence of an unvoiced existence, serving as an unexciting urban renewal zone for migratory dust motes and unimpressive highland anchored lethality for predatory silken arachnids, with a nigh sardonic set to the tight-lipped, hesitantly-committed smile of satisfaction that imprints itself upon one's otherwise stoney visage, and marvel at how much one man's textually decanted imaginative impressions and gossamer ruminations running the interior gauntlet of unlived memories, unacted performances, unconsummated affairs, unshed tears, unwatched observations, unwinged flights, ungrounded fears, unfelt kisses, untouched caresses, uninvolved emotions, unexercised exertions, untasted repasts, unliked friendships, unmet acquaintances, untold stories, unpoured libations, undone happenings, unannounced recollections, unlit umbrages, unformed expressions, untraveled journeys, unnoticeable leavenings, unhoused guilts, and unarticulated speechifications resonate, to the fullest extent, with the plucked strings ever aquiver within the utterly empty, lonely, and withdrawn chambers of the mind- and/or house-bound soul.
This book's voluntarily alone author is Fernando Pessoa, a Portuguese poet, writer, and polylinguist who invented fully-fleshed out heteronyms鈥攄istinct and separate personalties of differing nationality and gender鈥攊n order to pursue his writing in various idiosyncratic shades and styles. The Book of Disquiet is a collection of the aphoristic prose-poetry musings of one such heteronym, that of Bernardo Soares, assembled from notes, entries, and jottings made over a span of some thirty years and left unpublished at the time of Pessoa's death in 1935. Richard Zenith, the editor and translator of this stunning, haunting, and achingly beautiful paean to the imaginary potentiality of man, has compiled the definitive edition of this tome in a truly outstanding translation that captures the expressive eloquence of Pessoa and his magical, metaphorically rich manner of constructing word images to portray his unique way of life.
There is no finer encomium to the shattering melancholy and bracing affirmation of loneliness and solitude than the five hundred plus entries that make up The Book of Disquiet; and few better descriptions of existential nausea, of the desperate efforts to perceive a reason to continue with the painful disappointments, shadow terrors, and numbing meaninglessness of human existence. As Pessoa鈥攚riting as Soares鈥攓uietly and unassumingly goes about his daily rituals of walking, working as a book-keeper and inhabiting the well-trod spaces of his rented room in the real world, he is living a rich existence within the wildly creative contours of his mind: as a knight errant, a rich merchant, a pirate, a voyager, a lover of countless women, a guide to the cosmos, an inhaler of sunrises and embracer of sunsets, the guiding hand of every drop of Lisbon's morning showers, the leaves shaken by a sudden burst of wind. Having been sentenced to a term of life by an errant universe, Pessoa decided to renounce action and ambitions in what we hold to be real life to pursue a variegated and abundant existence within the realm of dreams. As our life is measured through the archived clippings of one's memory, whether one actually performed the deeds recalled matters less than the detail and substance they contain.
Such, at least, is the defense offered by Pessoa; yet often his solipsistic persuasions are contradictory, defensive; and when the mask slips we can see the depth of pain and loneliness underneath the placid surface of his imaginary life. There is much repetition and mulling over of themes from different angles, but the writing is so expressive and raw and honest that, to myself at least, it never becomes tedious鈥攅ven as the tedium of existence, the stretching of the soul on the rack of time, is one of the principal ideas that populate Pessoa's thoughts and entries. It is as if tedium was experienced as a box of chocolates, each colour and coating, each form and flavour, each taste and texture, mulled over, pondered, drawn out and examined, and then set to paper as a running record to remind of an eccentric daily pleasure.
This is a book to be mused upon and savored, one that can be imbibed in different ways: it can be read straight through鈥攖he way I approached it, drawn into a white heat of blistered enthrallment鈥攐r sparingly sampled over weeks, months, even years. The order the aphorisms are assembled in is purely a construction of Zenith; he stresses such in his introduction and encourages each reader to create their own sequence for the collected entries. However the reader decides to approach The Book of Disquiet, they will be rewarded with the inventive honesty of a hale and wounded man from a work that is truly sui generis.
I've recently picked up the edition, which features a translation by Margaret Jull Costa, who performed similar duties for Jos茅 Saramago's last half-dozen books. Distinct from Zenith, obviously, but just as potent and powerful鈥攁nd the differently parsed words and sentences only serve to present Pessoa's incomparable poetry of loneliness in a new light, equally fulgent and searing, just focussed from an alternate angle. A richly marbled interiority of immanent pain and transcendent beauty.
Revisiting the disquietude of early modern Lisbon, I'm reminded anew how this collection of Pessoa's dispassionate passion is one whose title is so perfectly matched to the content within that one can sit there (all by oneself, of course) cushioned within the utter silence of an unvoiced existence, serving as an unexciting urban renewal zone for migratory dust motes and unimpressive highland anchored lethality for predatory silken arachnids, with a nigh sardonic set to the tight-lipped, hesitantly-committed smile of satisfaction that imprints itself upon one's otherwise stoney visage, and marvel at how much one man's textually decanted imaginative impressions and gossamer ruminations running the interior gauntlet of unlived memories, unacted performances, unconsummated affairs, unshed tears, unwatched observations, unwinged flights, ungrounded fears, unfelt kisses, untouched caresses, uninvolved emotions, unexercised exertions, untasted repasts, unliked friendships, unmet acquaintances, untold stories, unpoured libations, undone happenings, unannounced recollections, unlit umbrages, unformed expressions, untraveled journeys, unnoticeable leavenings, unhoused guilts, and unarticulated speechifications resonate, to the fullest extent, with the plucked strings ever aquiver within the utterly empty, lonely, and withdrawn chambers of the mind- and/or house-bound soul.
August 24, 2023
If you read this, you need to know what you are signing up for, so, below, I鈥檒l let Pessoa speak for himself. It鈥檚 a series of vignettes, random thoughts and meditations all written between 1913 and 1935.
It鈥檚 a work of genius, of course. Pessoa, the famous Portuguese writer and poet was known for his multiple writing personalities (heteronyms). Disquiet was supposedly written by Bernardo Soares, an excruciatingly lonely and socially dysfunctional man. He鈥檚 a shipping clerk at a textile wholesaling firm and spends his entire life a few blocks from his tiny apartment with one window on a balcony. He goes to the same restaurant, same tobacconist and same barber for thirty years. All of them die one by one in their 70s, which he only discovers by going into their shop and finding out they died the day before. The first two passages below show some of his severe social issues.
鈥淢oreover, I am bothered by the idea of being forced into contact with someone. A simple invitation to dine with a friend provokes in me an anguish it would be hard to define. The idea of any social obligation 鈥� going to a funeral, discussing an office matter face-to-face with someone, going to the station to wait for someone I know or don鈥檛 know - the mere idea disturbs a whole day鈥檚 thoughts. Sometimes I am concerned all through the night and sleep badly. And the real thing, when it happens, is absolutely insignificant, justifying nothing; and the thing repeats itself and I don鈥檛 ever learn to learn.鈥�
鈥淪ometimes saying hello to someone intimidates me. My voice dries up, as if there were a strange audacity in having to say that word out loud.鈥�
鈥淭here are metaphors that are more real than the people walking down the street. There are images in the secret corners of books that live more clearly than many men and women. There are literary phrases that possess an absolutely human individuality. There are passages in paragraphs of mine that chill me with fear, so clearly do I feel them to be people, standing alone so freely from the walls of my room, at night, in shadows鈥︹€�
鈥淵es, dreaming that I am, for example, simultaneously, separately, unconfusedly, a man and a woman taking a walk along a riverbank, To see myself, at the same time, with equal clarity, in the same way, with no mixing, being the two things, integrated equally in both, a conscious boat in a southern sea and a printed page in an ancient book. How absurd this seems! But everything is absurd, and this dream is the least of the absurdities.鈥�
鈥淭here is nothing that reveals poverty of mind more quickly than not knowing how to be witty except at the expense of others.鈥�
鈥淚 go forward slowly, dead, and my vision is no longer mine, it鈥檚 nothing: it鈥檚 only the vision of the human animal who, without wanting, inherited Greek culture, Roman order, Christin morality, and all the other illusions that constitute the civilization in which I feel.鈥�
鈥淚n the dark depth of my soul, invisible, unknown forces were locked in a battle in which my being was the battleground, and all of me trembled because of the unknown struggle. A physical nausea at all of life was born when I awakened. A horror at having to live rose up with me from the bed. Everything seemed empty, and I had the cold impression that there is no solution for any problem.鈥�
鈥淓nnui is not the illness of the boredom of not having anything to do, but the more serious illness of feeling that it鈥檚 not worthwhile doing anything. And being that way, the more there is to do, the more ennui there is to feel.鈥�
鈥淗ow many times, how many, as now, has it pained me to feel what I am feeling 鈥� to feel something like anguish only because that鈥檚 what feeling is, the disquiet of being here, the nostalgia for something else, something unknown, the sunset of all emotions, the yellowing of myself fading into ashy sadness in my external awareness of myself.鈥�
鈥淒uring certain very clear moments of meditation, like these in which, at the beginning of the afternoon, I wander observingly through the streets, every person brings me a message, every house shows me something new, every sign has an announcement for me.鈥�
鈥淪ometimes, with a sad delight, I think that if some day, in a future to which I may not belong, these words I鈥檓 writing will endure and receive praise, I will finally have people who 鈥榰nderstand鈥� me, my people, the true family to be born into and to be loved by. But far from being born into it, I will have already died a long time before. I will be understood only in effigy, when affection no longer compensates the dead person for the disaffection he experienced when alive.鈥�
鈥淚 consider life an inn where I have to stop over until the coach from the abyss arrives. I don鈥檛 know where it will take me because I don鈥檛 know anything. I could consider this inn a prison because I鈥檓 force to stay inside it; I could consider it a place for socializing because I meet others here鈥 slowly sing, only to myself, songs that I compose as I wait.鈥�
鈥淓verything is emptier than the void鈥�.If I think this and look around to see if reality is killing me with thirst, I see inexpressive houses, inexpressive faces, inexpressive gestures. Stone, bodies, ideas 鈥� everything鈥檚 dead. All movements are stopping points, all of them the same stopping point. Nothing says anything to me. Nothing is familiar to me, not because I find it strange but because I don鈥檛 know what it is. The world is lost. And in the depth of my soul 鈥� the only reality at this moment 鈥� there is an intense, invisible anguish, a sadness, like the sound of someone weeping in a dark room.鈥�
Not an easy or a pleasant read, but genius.
Top painting from
Sculpture of Pessoa in Lisbon from alamy.com
Photo of Lisbon in 1940 from atlaslisboa.com
[Edited 8/24/23]
It鈥檚 a work of genius, of course. Pessoa, the famous Portuguese writer and poet was known for his multiple writing personalities (heteronyms). Disquiet was supposedly written by Bernardo Soares, an excruciatingly lonely and socially dysfunctional man. He鈥檚 a shipping clerk at a textile wholesaling firm and spends his entire life a few blocks from his tiny apartment with one window on a balcony. He goes to the same restaurant, same tobacconist and same barber for thirty years. All of them die one by one in their 70s, which he only discovers by going into their shop and finding out they died the day before. The first two passages below show some of his severe social issues.
鈥淢oreover, I am bothered by the idea of being forced into contact with someone. A simple invitation to dine with a friend provokes in me an anguish it would be hard to define. The idea of any social obligation 鈥� going to a funeral, discussing an office matter face-to-face with someone, going to the station to wait for someone I know or don鈥檛 know - the mere idea disturbs a whole day鈥檚 thoughts. Sometimes I am concerned all through the night and sleep badly. And the real thing, when it happens, is absolutely insignificant, justifying nothing; and the thing repeats itself and I don鈥檛 ever learn to learn.鈥�
鈥淪ometimes saying hello to someone intimidates me. My voice dries up, as if there were a strange audacity in having to say that word out loud.鈥�
鈥淭here are metaphors that are more real than the people walking down the street. There are images in the secret corners of books that live more clearly than many men and women. There are literary phrases that possess an absolutely human individuality. There are passages in paragraphs of mine that chill me with fear, so clearly do I feel them to be people, standing alone so freely from the walls of my room, at night, in shadows鈥︹€�
鈥淵es, dreaming that I am, for example, simultaneously, separately, unconfusedly, a man and a woman taking a walk along a riverbank, To see myself, at the same time, with equal clarity, in the same way, with no mixing, being the two things, integrated equally in both, a conscious boat in a southern sea and a printed page in an ancient book. How absurd this seems! But everything is absurd, and this dream is the least of the absurdities.鈥�
鈥淭here is nothing that reveals poverty of mind more quickly than not knowing how to be witty except at the expense of others.鈥�
鈥淚 go forward slowly, dead, and my vision is no longer mine, it鈥檚 nothing: it鈥檚 only the vision of the human animal who, without wanting, inherited Greek culture, Roman order, Christin morality, and all the other illusions that constitute the civilization in which I feel.鈥�
鈥淚n the dark depth of my soul, invisible, unknown forces were locked in a battle in which my being was the battleground, and all of me trembled because of the unknown struggle. A physical nausea at all of life was born when I awakened. A horror at having to live rose up with me from the bed. Everything seemed empty, and I had the cold impression that there is no solution for any problem.鈥�
鈥淓nnui is not the illness of the boredom of not having anything to do, but the more serious illness of feeling that it鈥檚 not worthwhile doing anything. And being that way, the more there is to do, the more ennui there is to feel.鈥�
鈥淗ow many times, how many, as now, has it pained me to feel what I am feeling 鈥� to feel something like anguish only because that鈥檚 what feeling is, the disquiet of being here, the nostalgia for something else, something unknown, the sunset of all emotions, the yellowing of myself fading into ashy sadness in my external awareness of myself.鈥�
鈥淒uring certain very clear moments of meditation, like these in which, at the beginning of the afternoon, I wander observingly through the streets, every person brings me a message, every house shows me something new, every sign has an announcement for me.鈥�
鈥淪ometimes, with a sad delight, I think that if some day, in a future to which I may not belong, these words I鈥檓 writing will endure and receive praise, I will finally have people who 鈥榰nderstand鈥� me, my people, the true family to be born into and to be loved by. But far from being born into it, I will have already died a long time before. I will be understood only in effigy, when affection no longer compensates the dead person for the disaffection he experienced when alive.鈥�
鈥淚 consider life an inn where I have to stop over until the coach from the abyss arrives. I don鈥檛 know where it will take me because I don鈥檛 know anything. I could consider this inn a prison because I鈥檓 force to stay inside it; I could consider it a place for socializing because I meet others here鈥 slowly sing, only to myself, songs that I compose as I wait.鈥�
鈥淓verything is emptier than the void鈥�.If I think this and look around to see if reality is killing me with thirst, I see inexpressive houses, inexpressive faces, inexpressive gestures. Stone, bodies, ideas 鈥� everything鈥檚 dead. All movements are stopping points, all of them the same stopping point. Nothing says anything to me. Nothing is familiar to me, not because I find it strange but because I don鈥檛 know what it is. The world is lost. And in the depth of my soul 鈥� the only reality at this moment 鈥� there is an intense, invisible anguish, a sadness, like the sound of someone weeping in a dark room.鈥�
Not an easy or a pleasant read, but genius.
Top painting from
Sculpture of Pessoa in Lisbon from alamy.com
Photo of Lisbon in 1940 from atlaslisboa.com
[Edited 8/24/23]
January 30, 2022
The Book of Disquiet is incredibly aphoristic 鈥� one can take almost any sentence at random and use it as an aphorism鈥�
The Book of Disquiet is an anthem to the futility of life and a hymn of life鈥檚 preciousness.
And Fernando Pessoa fearlessly proceeds right from the point where Ecclesiastes stopped鈥�
鈥淚 have seen all the works that are done under the sun; and, behold, all is vanity and vexation of spirit鈥︹€� Ecclesiastes 1:14
And so we keep moving through our reality and through our illusions until our 鈥渄ust returns to the earth as it was鈥︹€�
And so, not knowing how to believe in God and unable to believe in an aggregate of animals, I, along with other people on the fringe, kept a distance from things, a distance commonly called Decadence. Decadence is the total loss of unconsciousness, which is the very basis of life.
The Book of Disquiet is an anthem to the futility of life and a hymn of life鈥檚 preciousness.
And so we were left, each man to himself, in the desolation of feeling ourselves live. A ship may seem to be an object whose purpose is to sail, but no, its purpose is to reach a port. We found ourselves sailing without any idea of what port we were supposed to reach. Thus we reproduced a painful version of the Argonauts鈥� adventurous precept: living doesn鈥檛 matter, only sailing does.
And Fernando Pessoa fearlessly proceeds right from the point where Ecclesiastes stopped鈥�
鈥淚 have seen all the works that are done under the sun; and, behold, all is vanity and vexation of spirit鈥︹€� Ecclesiastes 1:14
To recognize reality as a form of illusion and illusion as a form of reality is equally necessary and equally useless鈥�
And so we keep moving through our reality and through our illusions until our 鈥渄ust returns to the earth as it was鈥︹€�
March 19, 2013
I have this habit of keeping a pencil close by when I'm reading a book which I know is going to have some passages I want to remember. So, whenever I come across a sentence or a paragraph that strikes me for some reason, I underline it.
Well now, what's mostly happened with my copy of the "The book of disquiet" by Fernando Pessoa is that there is something underlined in almost every page of the book. Which is the same to say that this is a memorable book on the whole. I'd even dare to say that this is more than a mere book, it is a gate to upper thinking, a new way of understanding the world, a new philosophy, a daring and maybe even scary but sincere approach to what is hidden in our human souls, if we are brave enough to look.
I knew a bit of Pessoa before I picked up this book. Vastly known Portuguese poet, famous for his ability to create different "personalities" and stick to them closely to perfection, writing in different styles according to the voice of each character. Schizophrenia? Or the mind of a genius who fooled everyone who knew him? Or a man who disguised himself out of boredom and who was able to live more than 70 different and complete lives through all these invented "characters" to become a complete real person? Maybe all these options at once. Maybe none. We'll never know.
Anyway, even though I knew about Pessoa, I wasn't prepared for this book.
Not only unconnected recollections of the "supposed" life of Bernardo Soares, one of Pessoa's characters, but also unanswerable questions which left me kind of anxious and peaceful at the same time, if that makes any sense...
Questions regarding consciousness, the almost obsession about dreams and the state of peaceful lethargy of sleeping, doubts aroused regarding deities, love and death. And about what it is to be happy or to feel nostalgia about a non existent past, or about egoism and solitude. But all this questions made even more intense with this overflowing passion for writing, and for literature. And for Lisbon.
A privileged mind which opens for us, humble readers who want to witness an amazing transformation of the world surrounding us, seeing for the first time what our lives really are, or what they aren't and what we should expect them to be.
An experience which will leave you exhausted but with renewed energy to face this extenuating and unavoidable journey which we call life.
Well now, what's mostly happened with my copy of the "The book of disquiet" by Fernando Pessoa is that there is something underlined in almost every page of the book. Which is the same to say that this is a memorable book on the whole. I'd even dare to say that this is more than a mere book, it is a gate to upper thinking, a new way of understanding the world, a new philosophy, a daring and maybe even scary but sincere approach to what is hidden in our human souls, if we are brave enough to look.
I knew a bit of Pessoa before I picked up this book. Vastly known Portuguese poet, famous for his ability to create different "personalities" and stick to them closely to perfection, writing in different styles according to the voice of each character. Schizophrenia? Or the mind of a genius who fooled everyone who knew him? Or a man who disguised himself out of boredom and who was able to live more than 70 different and complete lives through all these invented "characters" to become a complete real person? Maybe all these options at once. Maybe none. We'll never know.
Anyway, even though I knew about Pessoa, I wasn't prepared for this book.
Not only unconnected recollections of the "supposed" life of Bernardo Soares, one of Pessoa's characters, but also unanswerable questions which left me kind of anxious and peaceful at the same time, if that makes any sense...
Questions regarding consciousness, the almost obsession about dreams and the state of peaceful lethargy of sleeping, doubts aroused regarding deities, love and death. And about what it is to be happy or to feel nostalgia about a non existent past, or about egoism and solitude. But all this questions made even more intense with this overflowing passion for writing, and for literature. And for Lisbon.
A privileged mind which opens for us, humble readers who want to witness an amazing transformation of the world surrounding us, seeing for the first time what our lives really are, or what they aren't and what we should expect them to be.
An experience which will leave you exhausted but with renewed energy to face this extenuating and unavoidable journey which we call life.
March 18, 2025
There you go, friend, you鈥檙e ambling amiably across the vast antiseptically postmodern, socially distanced, desolate landscape of Pessoa...
And peaceably enough ensconced in your own little zeitgeist, so much so that you don鈥檛 notice he鈥檚 got a heavy bludgeoning blackjack poised above your skull...
With your name on it.
And you see, don鈥檛 you, that he鈥檚 going to clobber you with that steel blackjack, conk you out and deep-six you? No kidding.
He鈥檒l turn you into an Undead Ringwraith.
I mean it!
Inscribed on this blunt instrument is the cryptic line from Mallarme: I鈥檓 going to go and see the Shadow you鈥檒l become!
For Pessoa, we鈥檙e ALL turning into Shadows.
So read him and you鈥檒l spend Forty Years in the Desert.
As T.S.Eliot wept:
鈥淐ry cry what should I cry?!鈥�
***
But hold on a sec.
If we鈥檙e gonna travel through the desert, maybe we can do something.
Can we plant a Flag there?
A Flag saying, 鈥渢his parched Land is me, is mine. I鈥檓 gonna live with it, thrive in it, raise my kids in it...?鈥�
Cause that鈥檚 exactly what we鈥檙e doing when we don鈥檛 wanna become a Ringwraith.
And Tomorrow, we鈥檒l be in the Promised Land!
And on the bright colours of our Flag is a Big, Four-Letter Word:
HOPE.
Hope beyond ALL the Naysayers.
Hope beyond ALL the Bullies.
Hope, Hope, Hope: because Hope is WHERE OUR HEART IS!
***
Yes, Postmodernism hits hard.
But we can HIT BACK.
We can hit back with every nerve, every sinew and every fibre of Love we鈥檝e got in us.
We鈥檙e NOT Finished Yet!
This world鈥檚 ugly, alright, but we鈥檙e NOT GIVING IN.
So Pessoa鈥檚 not a dead end, after all, is he?
He鈥檚 just our ETERNAL RE-BEGINNING!
And the rest is Up To Us.
And peaceably enough ensconced in your own little zeitgeist, so much so that you don鈥檛 notice he鈥檚 got a heavy bludgeoning blackjack poised above your skull...
With your name on it.
And you see, don鈥檛 you, that he鈥檚 going to clobber you with that steel blackjack, conk you out and deep-six you? No kidding.
He鈥檒l turn you into an Undead Ringwraith.
I mean it!
Inscribed on this blunt instrument is the cryptic line from Mallarme: I鈥檓 going to go and see the Shadow you鈥檒l become!
For Pessoa, we鈥檙e ALL turning into Shadows.
So read him and you鈥檒l spend Forty Years in the Desert.
As T.S.Eliot wept:
鈥淐ry cry what should I cry?!鈥�
***
But hold on a sec.
If we鈥檙e gonna travel through the desert, maybe we can do something.
Can we plant a Flag there?
A Flag saying, 鈥渢his parched Land is me, is mine. I鈥檓 gonna live with it, thrive in it, raise my kids in it...?鈥�
Cause that鈥檚 exactly what we鈥檙e doing when we don鈥檛 wanna become a Ringwraith.
And Tomorrow, we鈥檒l be in the Promised Land!
And on the bright colours of our Flag is a Big, Four-Letter Word:
HOPE.
Hope beyond ALL the Naysayers.
Hope beyond ALL the Bullies.
Hope, Hope, Hope: because Hope is WHERE OUR HEART IS!
***
Yes, Postmodernism hits hard.
But we can HIT BACK.
We can hit back with every nerve, every sinew and every fibre of Love we鈥檝e got in us.
We鈥檙e NOT Finished Yet!
This world鈥檚 ugly, alright, but we鈥檙e NOT GIVING IN.
So Pessoa鈥檚 not a dead end, after all, is he?
He鈥檚 just our ETERNAL RE-BEGINNING!
And the rest is Up To Us.
September 16, 2021
Livro do Desassossego = The Book of Disquiet, Fernando Pessoa
The Book of Disquiet is a work by the Portuguese author Fernando Pessoa (1888鈥�1935).
Fernando Pessoa was many writers in one. He attributed his prolific writings to a wide range of alternate selves, each of which had a distinct biography, ideology, and horoscope.
When he died in 1935, Pessoa left behind a trunk filled with unfinished and unpublished writings, among which were the remarkable pages that make up his posthumous masterpiece.
In Lisbon there are a few restaurants or eating houses located above decent-looking taverns, places with the heavy, domestic look of restaurants in towns far from any rail line. These second-story eateries, usually empty except on Sundays, frequently contain curious types whose faces are not interesting but who constitute a series of digressions from life. 鈥斺€塅ernando Pessoa, from The Book of Disquiet, trans. Alfred MacAdam.
毓賳賵丕賳賴丕蹖 趩丕倬 卮丿賴 丿乇 丕蹖乇丕賳: 芦讴鬲丕亘 丿賱鈥� 賵丕倬爻蹖禄貨 芦丿賱 賵丕倬爻蹖 亘乇賳丕乇丿賵 爻賵丕乇夭 讴賲讴 丨爻丕亘丿丕乇禄貨 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴: 賮乇賳丕賳丿賵 倬爻賵丕貨 鬲丕乇蹖禺 賳禺爻鬲蹖賳 禺賵丕賳卮: 乇賵夭 卮丕賳夭丿賴賲 賲丕賴 丌诏賵爻鬲 爻丕賱 2011賲蹖賱丕丿蹖
毓賳賵丕賳: 讴鬲丕亘 丿賱鈥� 賵丕倬爻蹖貨 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴: 賮乇賳丕賳丿賵 倬爻賵丕貨 賲鬲乇噩賲: 噩丕賴丿 噩賴丕賳卮丕賴蹖貨 鬲賴乇丕賳貙 賳诏丕賴貙 1384貨 丿乇 335氐貨 卮丕亘讴: 9643512746貨 毓賳賵丕賳 丿蹖诏乇 丿賱 賵丕倬爻蹖 亘乇賳丕乇丿賵 爻賵丕乇夭 讴賲讴 丨爻丕亘丿丕乇貨 賲賵囟賵毓: 爻乇诏匕卮鬲 卮丕毓乇丕賳 倬乇鬲睾丕賱 - 爻丿賴 20賲
倬爻 丕夭 倬蹖丿丕 讴乇丿賳 丿爻鬲 賳賵卮鬲賴鈥� 賴丕蹖 芦倬爻賵丕禄貙 丿乇 爻丕賱 1982賲蹖賱丕丿蹖貙 噩賴丕賳蹖丕賳 亘蹖鈥屫辟嗂� 亘賴 卮丕蹖爻鬲诏蹖鈥屬囏й� 爻鬲賵丿賳蹖 丕蹖卮丕賳貙 倬蹖 亘乇丿賳丿貙 賵 丿乇蹖丕賮鬲賳丿 讴賴 丕蹖卮丕賳 賴賲夭賲丕賳貙 亘夭乇诏鬲乇蹖賳 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴 蹖 爻丿賴 亘蹖爻鬲賲 賲蹖賱丕丿蹖 芦倬乇鬲睾丕賱禄貙 賵 賳禺爻鬲蹖賳 倬丕蹖賴鈥� 诏匕丕乇 芦賳賵诏乇丕蹖蹖禄 丿乇 讴卮賵乇 禺賵蹖卮貙 賵 賳禺爻鬲蹖賳 亘丕賳蹖 芦倬爻丕賳賵诏乇丕蹖蹖禄 丿乇 噩賴丕賳 亘賵丿賴鈥� 丕賳丿貨 芦賮乇賳丕賳丿賵 倬爻賵丕禄 亘賴 卮丿鬲 鬲丨鬲 鬲兀孬蹖乇 跇乇賮鈥� 丕賳丿蹖卮蹖貙 賵 噩賴丕賳鈥� 賳诏乇蹖 芦禺蹖丕賲禄 亘賵丿賴 丕賳丿貙 賵 賴乇噩丕 讴賴 賮乇氐鬲蹖 蹖丕賮鬲賴 丕賳丿貙 賱亘 亘賴 爻鬲丕蹖卮 丕蹖卮丕賳 亘诏卮賵丿賴鈥� 丕賳丿貨 芦讴鬲丕亘 丿賱賵丕倬爻蹖禄 賳蹖夭貙 亘賴 诏賵賳賴鈥� 丕蹖 亘丕 丕賳丿蹖卮賴 蹖 芦禺蹖丕賲禄 诏乇賴 禺賵乇丿賴鈥� 丕爻鬲貨 芦倬爻賵丕禄 乇丕 丿乇 夭賲蹖賳賴 蹖 爻乇丕蹖賳丿诏蹖 賵 卮毓乇 (賳馗賲)貙 亘丕 芦乇蹖讴賱賴禄貙 賵 丿乇 夭賲蹖賳賴 蹖 賳诏丕乇卮 (賳孬乇) 亘丕 芦卮讴爻倬蹖乇禄 亘乇丕亘乇 丿丕賳爻鬲賴鈥� 丕賳丿貨 丕蹖卮丕賳 賮乇夭賳丿 倬丿乇蹖 芦賲賵爻蹖賯蹖鈥屫з喡回� 賵 賲丕丿乇蹖 鬲丨氐蹖賱 鈥屭┴必囏� 亘賵丿賳丿貙 丌卮賳丕蹖蹖 倬丿乇 賵 賲丕丿乇卮 亘丕 丕丿亘蹖丕鬲貙 爻亘亘 卮丿貙 讴賴 丕丿亘蹖丕鬲貙 亘禺卮 噩丿丕蹖蹖鈥屬嗀з矩佰屫� 夭賳丿诏蹖 芦倬爻賵丕禄 诏乇丿丿貨 讴鬲丕亘 芦丿賱 鈥屬堌з矩驰屄� 卮丕賲賱 賯胤毓賴鈥� 賴丕蹖 诏賵賳丕诏賵賳蹖 丕爻鬲貙 讴賴 讴賳丕乇 賴賲 趩蹖丿賴 鈥屫簇団€� 丕賳丿貨 丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 卮丕賲賱 爻蹖氐丿 賯胤毓賴 丕爻鬲貙 讴賴 賴乇 讴丿丕賲 丕夭 丌賳賴丕貙 趩讴蹖丿賴鈥� 丕蹖 丕夭 鬲兀賲賱丕鬲 賮賱爻賮蹖 芦賮乇賳丕賳丿賵 倬爻賵丕禄貙 丿乇亘丕乇賴 鈥屰� 夭賳丿诏蹖 賴爻鬲賳丿貨 賳禺爻鬲蹖賳 亘禺卮鈥屬囏й� 讴鬲丕亘貙 丿乇 爻丕賱鈥屬囏й� 1913賲蹖賱丕丿蹖 賳诏丕卮鬲賴鈥� 卮丿賴貙 賵 賳賵卮鬲丕乇 倬丕蹖丕賳亘禺卮鈥� 丌賳貙 亘賴 爻丕賱 1934賲蹖賱丕丿蹖 亘丕夭 賲蹖鈥屭必� 亘蹖卮 丕夭 亘蹖爻鬲 爻丕賱貙 賳诏丕乇卮 丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 亘賴 丿乇丕夭丕 讴卮蹖丿賴貙 賵 丿爻鬲 賳賵卮鬲賴 賴丕蹖卮貙 趩賴賱 賵 賴賮鬲 爻丕賱貙 倬爻 丕夭 丿乇诏匕卮鬲 丕蹖卮丕賳貙 倬蹖丿丕 卮丿賴 丕爻鬲
賳賯賱 丕夭 賲鬲賳 讴鬲丕亘: (丕诏乇 讴爻蹖 賲丕賱讴 乇賵丿禺丕賳賴 丕蹖 乇賵丕賳 亘丕卮丿貙 丌蹖丕 亘丕丿 賵夭賳丿賴 賳蹖夭 賲蹖鬲賵丕賳丿 丕夭 丌賳 讴爻蹖 亘丕卮丿責 賲丕 賳賴 氐丕丨亘 丕賳丿丕賲蹖賲 賵 賳賴 丨賯蹖賯鬲 賵 賳賴 丨鬲丕 乇丐蹖丕貨 賲丕 丕卮亘丕丨 倬丕 诏乇賮鬲賴 丕夭 丿乇賵睾蹖賲貙 丕夭 爻丕蹖賴 賴丕蹖 鬲賱賯蹖賳蹖賲貙 賵 夭賳丿诏蹖 賲賳 丕夭 丿乇賵賳貙 賴賲趩賵賳 亘乇賵賳 賴蹖趩 丕爻鬲貨 讴爻蹖 讴賴 賲乇夭賴丕蹖 乇賵丕賳 禺賵丿 乇丕 賲蹖卮賳丕爻丿 賲蹖鬲賵丕賳丿 亘诏賵蹖丿 賲賳貙 賲賳 丕賲責 賵賱蹖 賲賳 賲蹖丿丕賳賲 丌賳趩賴 乇丕 丨爻 賲蹖讴賳賲 丕夭 噩丕賳亘 賲賳 丕丨爻丕爻 賲蹖卮賵丿貨 賲丕 趩賴 趩蹖夭 乇丕 賲丕賱讴蹖賲責 賵賯鬲蹖 賳賲蹖丿丕賳蹖賲 趩賴 丕蹖賲貙 倬爻 趩胤賵乇 賲蹖丿丕賳蹖賲 讴賴 賲丕賱讴 趩賴 丕蹖賲)貨 倬丕蹖丕賳 賳賯賱 丕夭 讴鬲丕亘
賳賯賱 丿蹖诏乇 丕夭 讴鬲丕亘: (賲丕 丕讴賳賵賳 賴乇賯丿乇 賴賲 讴賴 賳禺賵丕賴蹖賲貙 亘乇丿诏丕賳 夭賲丕賳 丿乇 丕卮讴丕賱 賵 乇賳诏鈥屬囏й� 賲禺鬲賱賮 賴爻鬲蹖賲 賵 賲胤蹖毓 賮乇賲丕賳鈥屬囏й� 丌爻賲丕賳 賵 夭賲蹖賳蹖賲貨 丨鬲蹖 丌賳鈥屭┵� 丿乇 噩賲毓 賲丕 亘賴 鬲賲丕賲 賵 讴賲丕賱 丿乇 禺賵丿 賲禺賮蹖 賲蹖鈥屫促堌� 賵 倬蹖乇丕賲賵賳 禺賵丿 乇丕 賳丕丿蹖丿賴 賲蹖鈥屫з嗂ж必� 亘丕夭 亘賴 賴賳诏丕賲 亘丕乇丕賳貙 賵 夭賲丕賳蹖 讴賴 丌爻賲丕賳 氐丕賮 丕爻鬲貙 亘賴 賴賲丕賳 卮讴賱 丿乇 禺賵丿 賲禺賮蹖 賳賲蹖鈥屫促堌� 丿诏乇诏賵賳蹖鈥屬囏й� 鬲蹖乇賴 讴賴 卮丕蹖丿 鬲賳賴丕 丿乇 跇乇賮丕蹖 丕丨爻丕爻鈥屬囏й� 賲噩乇丿 丿乇讴 卮賵賳丿貙 亘賴 鈥屬聚屫� 賲蹖鈥屫辟堎嗀� 趩乇丕 讴賴 亘丕乇丕賳 賲蹖鈥屫ㄘж必� 蹖丕 丕夭 丌賳鈥屫辟� 讴賴 亘賳丿 丌賲丿賴貙 亘蹖鈥屫①嗂┵� 丕賳爻丕賳 亘鬲賵丕賳丿 丨爻 讴賳丿貙 丨爻 卮丿賳蹖 丕爻鬲貙 夭蹖乇丕 亘蹖鈥屫①嗂┵� 亘賴 鈥屫必ж池� 丕丨爻丕爻 讴賳蹖賲貙 賴賵丕 乇丕 丨爻 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗃屬�
賴乇 蹖讴 丕夭 賲丕 亘蹖鈥屫促呚ж� 丕爻鬲貙 亘爻蹖丕乇 丕爻鬲貙 讴孬乇鬲蹖 丕夭 禺賵蹖卮鬲賳 丕爻鬲.貨 丕夭 丕蹖賳鈥屫辟堌� 丌賳鈥屭┵� 倬蹖乇丕賲賵賳 禺賵丿 乇丕 鬲丨賯蹖乇 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀� 亘丕 丌賳讴賴 禺卮賳賵丿 賲蹖鈥屫促堌� 蹖丕 丕夭 丌賳 乇賳噩 賲蹖鈥屫ㄘ必� 蹖讴蹖 賳蹖爻鬲貨 丿乇 賲爻鬲毓賲乇賴鈥� 蹖 倬賴賳丕賵乇 賴爻鬲蹖 賲丕貙 丕賳爻丕賳鈥屬囏й� 賲鬲賳賵毓蹖貙 亘賴 诏賵賳賴鈥� 賴丕蹖 賲鬲賮丕賵鬲 賮讴乇 賵 丨爻 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗁嗀� 丿乇 丕蹖賳 賱丨馗賴 讴賴 賲賳 丿乇 丿乇賳诏蹖 賲噩丕夭 馗乇賮 丕賲乇賵夭貙 讴丕乇 丕賳丿讴 丕蹖賳 鬲兀孬蹖乇丕鬲 賮讴乇蹖 賲禺鬲氐乇 乇丕 賲蹖鈥屬嗁堐屫迟呚� 讴爻蹖 賴爻鬲賲 讴賴 丌賳鈥屬囏� 乇丕 亘賴鈥� 丿賯鬲 賲蹖鈥屬嗁堐屫迟呚� 禺卮賳賵丿賲 讴賴 丿乇 丕蹖賳 爻丕毓鬲 讴爻蹖 讴賴 丌爻賲丕賳 賳丕賲乇卅蹖 乇丕 丕夭 丕蹖賳噩丕 賲蹖鈥屫ㄛ屬嗀� 賵 丿乇亘丕乇賴鈥� 蹖 賴賲賴 蹖 丕蹖賳鈥屬囏� 賲蹖鈥屫з嗀屫簇� 丕賳丿丕賲卮 乇丕 卮丕丿 賵 丿爻鬲鈥屬囏й屫� 乇丕 賴賳賵夭 賴賲 讴賲蹖 丿乇 賯蹖丿 丨爻 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀� 賳蹖丕夭蹖 亘賴 讴丕乇 讴乇丿賳 賳丿丕乇丿.貨 賵 丕蹖賳 讴賱 趩賴丕乇 賲賳 亘乇丌賲丿賴 丕夭 賲乇丿賲丕賳 亘蹖诏丕賳賴 亘丕 禺賵丿貙 趩賵賳 禺蹖賱 噩賲毓蹖鬲 诏賵賳丕诏賵賳 賲鬲賳賵毓 賮賯胤 蹖讴 爻丕蹖賴 賲蹖鈥屫з嗀ж藏� - 丕賳丿丕賲 丌乇丕賲 爻乇诏乇賲 讴丕乇 讴乇丿賳 賲賳貙 讴賴 亘賴 鈥屬堎傌� 丕蹖爻鬲丕丿賳貙 丿乇 倬卮鬲 賲蹖夭 鬲丨乇蹖乇 亘賱賳丿 丌賯丕蹖 芦亘賵乇禺爻禄 亘賴 丌賳 賱賲 賲蹖鈥屫ж呚� 賴賲鈥屫操呚з� 丿乇 噩爻鬲噩賵蹖 賲丿丕丿 倬丕讴 鈥屭┵嗃� 亘賵丿 讴賴 亘賴 丕賵 賯乇囟 丿丕丿賴 亘賵丿賲.鈥�)貨 倬丕蹖丕賳 賳賯賱
鬲丕乇蹖禺 亘賴賳诏丕賲 乇爻丕賳蹖 14/09/1399賴噩乇蹖 禺賵乇卮蹖丿蹖貨 24/06/1400賴噩乇蹖 禺賵乇卮蹖丿蹖貨 丕. 卮乇亘蹖丕賳蹖
The Book of Disquiet is a work by the Portuguese author Fernando Pessoa (1888鈥�1935).
Fernando Pessoa was many writers in one. He attributed his prolific writings to a wide range of alternate selves, each of which had a distinct biography, ideology, and horoscope.
When he died in 1935, Pessoa left behind a trunk filled with unfinished and unpublished writings, among which were the remarkable pages that make up his posthumous masterpiece.
In Lisbon there are a few restaurants or eating houses located above decent-looking taverns, places with the heavy, domestic look of restaurants in towns far from any rail line. These second-story eateries, usually empty except on Sundays, frequently contain curious types whose faces are not interesting but who constitute a series of digressions from life. 鈥斺€塅ernando Pessoa, from The Book of Disquiet, trans. Alfred MacAdam.
毓賳賵丕賳賴丕蹖 趩丕倬 卮丿賴 丿乇 丕蹖乇丕賳: 芦讴鬲丕亘 丿賱鈥� 賵丕倬爻蹖禄貨 芦丿賱 賵丕倬爻蹖 亘乇賳丕乇丿賵 爻賵丕乇夭 讴賲讴 丨爻丕亘丿丕乇禄貨 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴: 賮乇賳丕賳丿賵 倬爻賵丕貨 鬲丕乇蹖禺 賳禺爻鬲蹖賳 禺賵丕賳卮: 乇賵夭 卮丕賳夭丿賴賲 賲丕賴 丌诏賵爻鬲 爻丕賱 2011賲蹖賱丕丿蹖
毓賳賵丕賳: 讴鬲丕亘 丿賱鈥� 賵丕倬爻蹖貨 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴: 賮乇賳丕賳丿賵 倬爻賵丕貨 賲鬲乇噩賲: 噩丕賴丿 噩賴丕賳卮丕賴蹖貨 鬲賴乇丕賳貙 賳诏丕賴貙 1384貨 丿乇 335氐貨 卮丕亘讴: 9643512746貨 毓賳賵丕賳 丿蹖诏乇 丿賱 賵丕倬爻蹖 亘乇賳丕乇丿賵 爻賵丕乇夭 讴賲讴 丨爻丕亘丿丕乇貨 賲賵囟賵毓: 爻乇诏匕卮鬲 卮丕毓乇丕賳 倬乇鬲睾丕賱 - 爻丿賴 20賲
倬爻 丕夭 倬蹖丿丕 讴乇丿賳 丿爻鬲 賳賵卮鬲賴鈥� 賴丕蹖 芦倬爻賵丕禄貙 丿乇 爻丕賱 1982賲蹖賱丕丿蹖貙 噩賴丕賳蹖丕賳 亘蹖鈥屫辟嗂� 亘賴 卮丕蹖爻鬲诏蹖鈥屬囏й� 爻鬲賵丿賳蹖 丕蹖卮丕賳貙 倬蹖 亘乇丿賳丿貙 賵 丿乇蹖丕賮鬲賳丿 讴賴 丕蹖卮丕賳 賴賲夭賲丕賳貙 亘夭乇诏鬲乇蹖賳 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴 蹖 爻丿賴 亘蹖爻鬲賲 賲蹖賱丕丿蹖 芦倬乇鬲睾丕賱禄貙 賵 賳禺爻鬲蹖賳 倬丕蹖賴鈥� 诏匕丕乇 芦賳賵诏乇丕蹖蹖禄 丿乇 讴卮賵乇 禺賵蹖卮貙 賵 賳禺爻鬲蹖賳 亘丕賳蹖 芦倬爻丕賳賵诏乇丕蹖蹖禄 丿乇 噩賴丕賳 亘賵丿賴鈥� 丕賳丿貨 芦賮乇賳丕賳丿賵 倬爻賵丕禄 亘賴 卮丿鬲 鬲丨鬲 鬲兀孬蹖乇 跇乇賮鈥� 丕賳丿蹖卮蹖貙 賵 噩賴丕賳鈥� 賳诏乇蹖 芦禺蹖丕賲禄 亘賵丿賴 丕賳丿貙 賵 賴乇噩丕 讴賴 賮乇氐鬲蹖 蹖丕賮鬲賴 丕賳丿貙 賱亘 亘賴 爻鬲丕蹖卮 丕蹖卮丕賳 亘诏卮賵丿賴鈥� 丕賳丿貨 芦讴鬲丕亘 丿賱賵丕倬爻蹖禄 賳蹖夭貙 亘賴 诏賵賳賴鈥� 丕蹖 亘丕 丕賳丿蹖卮賴 蹖 芦禺蹖丕賲禄 诏乇賴 禺賵乇丿賴鈥� 丕爻鬲貨 芦倬爻賵丕禄 乇丕 丿乇 夭賲蹖賳賴 蹖 爻乇丕蹖賳丿诏蹖 賵 卮毓乇 (賳馗賲)貙 亘丕 芦乇蹖讴賱賴禄貙 賵 丿乇 夭賲蹖賳賴 蹖 賳诏丕乇卮 (賳孬乇) 亘丕 芦卮讴爻倬蹖乇禄 亘乇丕亘乇 丿丕賳爻鬲賴鈥� 丕賳丿貨 丕蹖卮丕賳 賮乇夭賳丿 倬丿乇蹖 芦賲賵爻蹖賯蹖鈥屫з喡回� 賵 賲丕丿乇蹖 鬲丨氐蹖賱 鈥屭┴必囏� 亘賵丿賳丿貙 丌卮賳丕蹖蹖 倬丿乇 賵 賲丕丿乇卮 亘丕 丕丿亘蹖丕鬲貙 爻亘亘 卮丿貙 讴賴 丕丿亘蹖丕鬲貙 亘禺卮 噩丿丕蹖蹖鈥屬嗀з矩佰屫� 夭賳丿诏蹖 芦倬爻賵丕禄 诏乇丿丿貨 讴鬲丕亘 芦丿賱 鈥屬堌з矩驰屄� 卮丕賲賱 賯胤毓賴鈥� 賴丕蹖 诏賵賳丕诏賵賳蹖 丕爻鬲貙 讴賴 讴賳丕乇 賴賲 趩蹖丿賴 鈥屫簇団€� 丕賳丿貨 丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 卮丕賲賱 爻蹖氐丿 賯胤毓賴 丕爻鬲貙 讴賴 賴乇 讴丿丕賲 丕夭 丌賳賴丕貙 趩讴蹖丿賴鈥� 丕蹖 丕夭 鬲兀賲賱丕鬲 賮賱爻賮蹖 芦賮乇賳丕賳丿賵 倬爻賵丕禄貙 丿乇亘丕乇賴 鈥屰� 夭賳丿诏蹖 賴爻鬲賳丿貨 賳禺爻鬲蹖賳 亘禺卮鈥屬囏й� 讴鬲丕亘貙 丿乇 爻丕賱鈥屬囏й� 1913賲蹖賱丕丿蹖 賳诏丕卮鬲賴鈥� 卮丿賴貙 賵 賳賵卮鬲丕乇 倬丕蹖丕賳亘禺卮鈥� 丌賳貙 亘賴 爻丕賱 1934賲蹖賱丕丿蹖 亘丕夭 賲蹖鈥屭必� 亘蹖卮 丕夭 亘蹖爻鬲 爻丕賱貙 賳诏丕乇卮 丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 亘賴 丿乇丕夭丕 讴卮蹖丿賴貙 賵 丿爻鬲 賳賵卮鬲賴 賴丕蹖卮貙 趩賴賱 賵 賴賮鬲 爻丕賱貙 倬爻 丕夭 丿乇诏匕卮鬲 丕蹖卮丕賳貙 倬蹖丿丕 卮丿賴 丕爻鬲
賳賯賱 丕夭 賲鬲賳 讴鬲丕亘: (丕诏乇 讴爻蹖 賲丕賱讴 乇賵丿禺丕賳賴 丕蹖 乇賵丕賳 亘丕卮丿貙 丌蹖丕 亘丕丿 賵夭賳丿賴 賳蹖夭 賲蹖鬲賵丕賳丿 丕夭 丌賳 讴爻蹖 亘丕卮丿責 賲丕 賳賴 氐丕丨亘 丕賳丿丕賲蹖賲 賵 賳賴 丨賯蹖賯鬲 賵 賳賴 丨鬲丕 乇丐蹖丕貨 賲丕 丕卮亘丕丨 倬丕 诏乇賮鬲賴 丕夭 丿乇賵睾蹖賲貙 丕夭 爻丕蹖賴 賴丕蹖 鬲賱賯蹖賳蹖賲貙 賵 夭賳丿诏蹖 賲賳 丕夭 丿乇賵賳貙 賴賲趩賵賳 亘乇賵賳 賴蹖趩 丕爻鬲貨 讴爻蹖 讴賴 賲乇夭賴丕蹖 乇賵丕賳 禺賵丿 乇丕 賲蹖卮賳丕爻丿 賲蹖鬲賵丕賳丿 亘诏賵蹖丿 賲賳貙 賲賳 丕賲責 賵賱蹖 賲賳 賲蹖丿丕賳賲 丌賳趩賴 乇丕 丨爻 賲蹖讴賳賲 丕夭 噩丕賳亘 賲賳 丕丨爻丕爻 賲蹖卮賵丿貨 賲丕 趩賴 趩蹖夭 乇丕 賲丕賱讴蹖賲責 賵賯鬲蹖 賳賲蹖丿丕賳蹖賲 趩賴 丕蹖賲貙 倬爻 趩胤賵乇 賲蹖丿丕賳蹖賲 讴賴 賲丕賱讴 趩賴 丕蹖賲)貨 倬丕蹖丕賳 賳賯賱 丕夭 讴鬲丕亘
賳賯賱 丿蹖诏乇 丕夭 讴鬲丕亘: (賲丕 丕讴賳賵賳 賴乇賯丿乇 賴賲 讴賴 賳禺賵丕賴蹖賲貙 亘乇丿诏丕賳 夭賲丕賳 丿乇 丕卮讴丕賱 賵 乇賳诏鈥屬囏й� 賲禺鬲賱賮 賴爻鬲蹖賲 賵 賲胤蹖毓 賮乇賲丕賳鈥屬囏й� 丌爻賲丕賳 賵 夭賲蹖賳蹖賲貨 丨鬲蹖 丌賳鈥屭┵� 丿乇 噩賲毓 賲丕 亘賴 鬲賲丕賲 賵 讴賲丕賱 丿乇 禺賵丿 賲禺賮蹖 賲蹖鈥屫促堌� 賵 倬蹖乇丕賲賵賳 禺賵丿 乇丕 賳丕丿蹖丿賴 賲蹖鈥屫з嗂ж必� 亘丕夭 亘賴 賴賳诏丕賲 亘丕乇丕賳貙 賵 夭賲丕賳蹖 讴賴 丌爻賲丕賳 氐丕賮 丕爻鬲貙 亘賴 賴賲丕賳 卮讴賱 丿乇 禺賵丿 賲禺賮蹖 賳賲蹖鈥屫促堌� 丿诏乇诏賵賳蹖鈥屬囏й� 鬲蹖乇賴 讴賴 卮丕蹖丿 鬲賳賴丕 丿乇 跇乇賮丕蹖 丕丨爻丕爻鈥屬囏й� 賲噩乇丿 丿乇讴 卮賵賳丿貙 亘賴 鈥屬聚屫� 賲蹖鈥屫辟堎嗀� 趩乇丕 讴賴 亘丕乇丕賳 賲蹖鈥屫ㄘж必� 蹖丕 丕夭 丌賳鈥屫辟� 讴賴 亘賳丿 丌賲丿賴貙 亘蹖鈥屫①嗂┵� 丕賳爻丕賳 亘鬲賵丕賳丿 丨爻 讴賳丿貙 丨爻 卮丿賳蹖 丕爻鬲貙 夭蹖乇丕 亘蹖鈥屫①嗂┵� 亘賴 鈥屫必ж池� 丕丨爻丕爻 讴賳蹖賲貙 賴賵丕 乇丕 丨爻 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗃屬�
賴乇 蹖讴 丕夭 賲丕 亘蹖鈥屫促呚ж� 丕爻鬲貙 亘爻蹖丕乇 丕爻鬲貙 讴孬乇鬲蹖 丕夭 禺賵蹖卮鬲賳 丕爻鬲.貨 丕夭 丕蹖賳鈥屫辟堌� 丌賳鈥屭┵� 倬蹖乇丕賲賵賳 禺賵丿 乇丕 鬲丨賯蹖乇 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀� 亘丕 丌賳讴賴 禺卮賳賵丿 賲蹖鈥屫促堌� 蹖丕 丕夭 丌賳 乇賳噩 賲蹖鈥屫ㄘ必� 蹖讴蹖 賳蹖爻鬲貨 丿乇 賲爻鬲毓賲乇賴鈥� 蹖 倬賴賳丕賵乇 賴爻鬲蹖 賲丕貙 丕賳爻丕賳鈥屬囏й� 賲鬲賳賵毓蹖貙 亘賴 诏賵賳賴鈥� 賴丕蹖 賲鬲賮丕賵鬲 賮讴乇 賵 丨爻 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗁嗀� 丿乇 丕蹖賳 賱丨馗賴 讴賴 賲賳 丿乇 丿乇賳诏蹖 賲噩丕夭 馗乇賮 丕賲乇賵夭貙 讴丕乇 丕賳丿讴 丕蹖賳 鬲兀孬蹖乇丕鬲 賮讴乇蹖 賲禺鬲氐乇 乇丕 賲蹖鈥屬嗁堐屫迟呚� 讴爻蹖 賴爻鬲賲 讴賴 丌賳鈥屬囏� 乇丕 亘賴鈥� 丿賯鬲 賲蹖鈥屬嗁堐屫迟呚� 禺卮賳賵丿賲 讴賴 丿乇 丕蹖賳 爻丕毓鬲 讴爻蹖 讴賴 丌爻賲丕賳 賳丕賲乇卅蹖 乇丕 丕夭 丕蹖賳噩丕 賲蹖鈥屫ㄛ屬嗀� 賵 丿乇亘丕乇賴鈥� 蹖 賴賲賴 蹖 丕蹖賳鈥屬囏� 賲蹖鈥屫з嗀屫簇� 丕賳丿丕賲卮 乇丕 卮丕丿 賵 丿爻鬲鈥屬囏й屫� 乇丕 賴賳賵夭 賴賲 讴賲蹖 丿乇 賯蹖丿 丨爻 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀� 賳蹖丕夭蹖 亘賴 讴丕乇 讴乇丿賳 賳丿丕乇丿.貨 賵 丕蹖賳 讴賱 趩賴丕乇 賲賳 亘乇丌賲丿賴 丕夭 賲乇丿賲丕賳 亘蹖诏丕賳賴 亘丕 禺賵丿貙 趩賵賳 禺蹖賱 噩賲毓蹖鬲 诏賵賳丕诏賵賳 賲鬲賳賵毓 賮賯胤 蹖讴 爻丕蹖賴 賲蹖鈥屫з嗀ж藏� - 丕賳丿丕賲 丌乇丕賲 爻乇诏乇賲 讴丕乇 讴乇丿賳 賲賳貙 讴賴 亘賴 鈥屬堎傌� 丕蹖爻鬲丕丿賳貙 丿乇 倬卮鬲 賲蹖夭 鬲丨乇蹖乇 亘賱賳丿 丌賯丕蹖 芦亘賵乇禺爻禄 亘賴 丌賳 賱賲 賲蹖鈥屫ж呚� 賴賲鈥屫操呚з� 丿乇 噩爻鬲噩賵蹖 賲丿丕丿 倬丕讴 鈥屭┵嗃� 亘賵丿 讴賴 亘賴 丕賵 賯乇囟 丿丕丿賴 亘賵丿賲.鈥�)貨 倬丕蹖丕賳 賳賯賱
鬲丕乇蹖禺 亘賴賳诏丕賲 乇爻丕賳蹖 14/09/1399賴噩乇蹖 禺賵乇卮蹖丿蹖貨 24/06/1400賴噩乇蹖 禺賵乇卮蹖丿蹖貨 丕. 卮乇亘蹖丕賳蹖
March 20, 2017
1
Some books wrap me up in dreams and fantasy, creating a protective bubble in which I can leisurely gaze at the world in comfort. The opposite happened when reading 鈥淭he Book of Disquiet鈥�, a book that lives up to its title like no other. I didn鈥檛 get wrapped up in anything. With every sentence I read I felt myself being unwrapped, as layers of self-deceit and unconsciousness were shed.
2
I held the book in my hands. I could decide to open and close it. I could decide to put it away. But despite all that it didn鈥檛 take long for me to realise that I was not the one in power, as the book firmly grasped me in turn. Not through my mind, like good books. Not through my heart, like great books. It grasped my soul and never let go. While I was reading this book, I couldn鈥檛 shake the feeling that it had beaten me to it, in that the book was reading me and that it did so more quickly and effectively than I could read its pages. This book is a mirror for my soul, a mirror in which my reflection always sees me first, a mirror where my reflection waves to me and I wave back.
3
I鈥檓 compelled to take over the book鈥檚 structure in this review, and that鈥檚 not only because of Junta鈥檚 shining example. There is no plot weaving together the pages. The book is made up of more than two hundred diary entries. But this is a special diary. The entries seldom talk of work, of interactions with other people, of the goings-on in the day. They deal with the author鈥檚 rich inner life, to which the outside reality offers only a background at best. Pessoa sat down at his desk and just wrote what he thought. Streams of thoughts are often fragmentary, and so is this book. Every number allows a new idea to carry you through poetic landscapes until the author reaches the shores of that idea and he starts over, sometimes with a new idea, sometimes with the same, sometimes leading to the same shore, sometimes further away or closer by. As a result, my notes of my reactions to the book are equally fragmentary, each note representing a new stream as I glide to the next number and I start over.
4
One of my favorite things to do is to stand in between two mirrors that stand directly opposite of each other. To see my reflection multiplied to infinity is the most humbling ego-boost I can think of. I say infinity but if you look far enough into that world of infinite reflections there is a dark hole at the end of it, there where the light ceases to reach and where my beholding eye ceases to behold.
Consciousness is a mirror. Consciousness of consciousness leads to a similar infinity that seemingly leads to nothingness.
5
Infinity sharpens my mind and elates my heart as a concept, but it numbs my mind and shrinks my heart as a reality. Nothingness is just one version of infinity. Equating everything to zero is the easiest solution to find, but the most difficult one to accept.
6
I don鈥檛 know if this book has changed my life. It added a layer of consciousness to my consciousness and makes me more aware of inner processes. On the other hand, it couldn鈥檛 have done so if it didn鈥檛 confirm my consciousness, if it didn鈥檛 confirm what I already felt and knew without knowing. My soul was stripped of the comfort and warmth of the mundane, but already I feel myself slipping back into the world and out of myself.
7
A connection feels meaningful when it is direct, goes deep and is complete.
8
Dreams I鈥檝e never bothered to write down, thoughts and follies that were interrupted: much of what I have said, written and thought is lost. Only the abstract memory of having said, written and thought lingers. Before I go to sleep, thoughts wash over me, turning around in my head, taking five paths at once and dancing in harmony. The mind is cleared and cleansed with these high-speed thought-cycles but then, a jolt of consciousness, the spell is broken and the thoughts are forever lost, hiding away in dreams. The heavy weight of consciousness doesn鈥檛 last as another torrent of thoughts sweeps down and I fall into a peaceful sleep. How I would like to commit those thoughts to paper, to catch the wild torrents and be at peace.
9
In my mind鈥檚 eye a castle is easily conjured up, the atmosphere is palpable, the potential for storytelling enormous. I pick up my pen. The jester is no longer a concept, but a living thing in need of adventures and adjectives. The scene becomes heavy and slow and I grind to a halt.
10
An unlikable side-effect of my consciousness is that I can鈥檛 help but feel special. That feeling doesn鈥檛 start at the cerebral level. Somewhere in the depths of my diaphragm there is this core, a source of that intuition. Sometimes that core is cold and the feeling fades, but this book made it burn brightly. I look at the reviews page and I see that it did so for others. My feeling special makes way for a special feeling.
11
Like Pessoa, I find a lot of philosophy in the exceedingly small. That which does not matter, matters precisely because of it. When I look at an ant hard at work, I find that its essence is its being. This goes for everything, but it is in the insignficant that this is made the most obvious to me. A blade of grass sticking out of the pavement. Small numbers written in pencil on a wall that now have lost all significance. A bug. An abandoned shack that has fallen in disuse.
I was hiking in a wild, rough coastal region in France. On the sandy path there was a small patch of pebbles and I resolved to pick one up and throw it into the sea far below when I'd get close enough. During my walk I thought about what had brought the pebble to that patch, what had brought me there, and as ever, one thought led to the other. The pebble became heavy with my ponderings. I could not bring myself to throw it into the anonymity of the crashing waves when the time came.
12
13
Whenever I find wonder in the banal, nothingness becomes less likely. Banality is a virtue, importance is a sin. There is no wonder in importance, only design.
The situation of the spider crawling on my book only a few moments after I had read the small chapter on "millimeters" held wonder, but the picture I took was designed, flipping back to the relevant page so that spider could walk on it. It felt important to share the moment so I turned wonder into an anecdote.
14
Sometimes reality feels like the dream that my inaction brought to fruition.
Sometimes reality feels like the remnants in the sieve through which my dreams are poured.
Some books wrap me up in dreams and fantasy, creating a protective bubble in which I can leisurely gaze at the world in comfort. The opposite happened when reading 鈥淭he Book of Disquiet鈥�, a book that lives up to its title like no other. I didn鈥檛 get wrapped up in anything. With every sentence I read I felt myself being unwrapped, as layers of self-deceit and unconsciousness were shed.
2
I held the book in my hands. I could decide to open and close it. I could decide to put it away. But despite all that it didn鈥檛 take long for me to realise that I was not the one in power, as the book firmly grasped me in turn. Not through my mind, like good books. Not through my heart, like great books. It grasped my soul and never let go. While I was reading this book, I couldn鈥檛 shake the feeling that it had beaten me to it, in that the book was reading me and that it did so more quickly and effectively than I could read its pages. This book is a mirror for my soul, a mirror in which my reflection always sees me first, a mirror where my reflection waves to me and I wave back.
3
I鈥檓 compelled to take over the book鈥檚 structure in this review, and that鈥檚 not only because of Junta鈥檚 shining example. There is no plot weaving together the pages. The book is made up of more than two hundred diary entries. But this is a special diary. The entries seldom talk of work, of interactions with other people, of the goings-on in the day. They deal with the author鈥檚 rich inner life, to which the outside reality offers only a background at best. Pessoa sat down at his desk and just wrote what he thought. Streams of thoughts are often fragmentary, and so is this book. Every number allows a new idea to carry you through poetic landscapes until the author reaches the shores of that idea and he starts over, sometimes with a new idea, sometimes with the same, sometimes leading to the same shore, sometimes further away or closer by. As a result, my notes of my reactions to the book are equally fragmentary, each note representing a new stream as I glide to the next number and I start over.
4
One of my favorite things to do is to stand in between two mirrors that stand directly opposite of each other. To see my reflection multiplied to infinity is the most humbling ego-boost I can think of. I say infinity but if you look far enough into that world of infinite reflections there is a dark hole at the end of it, there where the light ceases to reach and where my beholding eye ceases to behold.
Consciousness is a mirror. Consciousness of consciousness leads to a similar infinity that seemingly leads to nothingness.
5
Infinity sharpens my mind and elates my heart as a concept, but it numbs my mind and shrinks my heart as a reality. Nothingness is just one version of infinity. Equating everything to zero is the easiest solution to find, but the most difficult one to accept.
6
I don鈥檛 know if this book has changed my life. It added a layer of consciousness to my consciousness and makes me more aware of inner processes. On the other hand, it couldn鈥檛 have done so if it didn鈥檛 confirm my consciousness, if it didn鈥檛 confirm what I already felt and knew without knowing. My soul was stripped of the comfort and warmth of the mundane, but already I feel myself slipping back into the world and out of myself.
7
A connection feels meaningful when it is direct, goes deep and is complete.
8
Dreams I鈥檝e never bothered to write down, thoughts and follies that were interrupted: much of what I have said, written and thought is lost. Only the abstract memory of having said, written and thought lingers. Before I go to sleep, thoughts wash over me, turning around in my head, taking five paths at once and dancing in harmony. The mind is cleared and cleansed with these high-speed thought-cycles but then, a jolt of consciousness, the spell is broken and the thoughts are forever lost, hiding away in dreams. The heavy weight of consciousness doesn鈥檛 last as another torrent of thoughts sweeps down and I fall into a peaceful sleep. How I would like to commit those thoughts to paper, to catch the wild torrents and be at peace.
9
In my mind鈥檚 eye a castle is easily conjured up, the atmosphere is palpable, the potential for storytelling enormous. I pick up my pen. The jester is no longer a concept, but a living thing in need of adventures and adjectives. The scene becomes heavy and slow and I grind to a halt.
10
An unlikable side-effect of my consciousness is that I can鈥檛 help but feel special. That feeling doesn鈥檛 start at the cerebral level. Somewhere in the depths of my diaphragm there is this core, a source of that intuition. Sometimes that core is cold and the feeling fades, but this book made it burn brightly. I look at the reviews page and I see that it did so for others. My feeling special makes way for a special feeling.
11
Like Pessoa, I find a lot of philosophy in the exceedingly small. That which does not matter, matters precisely because of it. When I look at an ant hard at work, I find that its essence is its being. This goes for everything, but it is in the insignficant that this is made the most obvious to me. A blade of grass sticking out of the pavement. Small numbers written in pencil on a wall that now have lost all significance. A bug. An abandoned shack that has fallen in disuse.
I was hiking in a wild, rough coastal region in France. On the sandy path there was a small patch of pebbles and I resolved to pick one up and throw it into the sea far below when I'd get close enough. During my walk I thought about what had brought the pebble to that patch, what had brought me there, and as ever, one thought led to the other. The pebble became heavy with my ponderings. I could not bring myself to throw it into the anonymity of the crashing waves when the time came.
12
13
Whenever I find wonder in the banal, nothingness becomes less likely. Banality is a virtue, importance is a sin. There is no wonder in importance, only design.
The situation of the spider crawling on my book only a few moments after I had read the small chapter on "millimeters" held wonder, but the picture I took was designed, flipping back to the relevant page so that spider could walk on it. It felt important to share the moment so I turned wonder into an anecdote.
14
Sometimes reality feels like the dream that my inaction brought to fruition.
Sometimes reality feels like the remnants in the sieve through which my dreams are poured.
November 17, 2018
Es curiosa la cadena de novelas que a veces se produce. Si en un comentario a mi anterior lectura (Madame Bovary) resaltaba la importancia casi absoluta de la forma narrativa en mi apreciaci贸n de las obras, me topo con esta donde esa forma, la m煤sica que del texto brota se manifiesta con tal fuerza y belleza que consigue que saboree cada uno de sus desasosiegos sin importarme lo m谩s m铆nimo compartirlos o no e, incluso, como me ha ocurrido en varias ocasiones, si no comprendo un carajo.
Pero hay m谩s. Como en la novela del insigne franc茅s, tambi茅n aqu铆 nos las tenemos que ver con un atormentado rom谩ntico insatisfecho, aunque de 铆ndole bien distinta que la protagonista de aquella otra lectura: si all铆 la rom谩ntica inocente e inconsciente era capaz de perseguir sus quim茅ricos sue帽os hasta el infinito y m谩s all谩, aqu铆 estamos ante un rom谩ntico reflexivo, de esos que quieren 鈥渓a luna como si hubiera manera de obtenerla鈥�, pero que, sabedor de la imposibilidad de su empe帽o, se refugia en la inactividad, en la contemplaci贸n, en el dejarse ir, en el no vivir, recurriendo a la escritura, por lo dem谩s in煤til, para disminuir 鈥渓a fiebre de sentir鈥�, 鈥渃omo fuga y refugio鈥�.
Pessoa nos seduce porque es capaz de expresar como nadie esa tristeza de la vida, la tan mencionada saudade, que todos hemos sentido alguna vez y que 茅l parece haber padecido cada segundo de su vida. Ni amado ni amante m谩s que de sue帽os, sin llegar siquiera a la categor铆a de malfollado, aun pareci茅ndolo, Pessoa es la gran zorra de la vida (la de la f谩bula y no la de M茅rim茅e).
Desde el inicio, me he alegrado maliciosamente por su desconsuelo. Primero porque gracias a su desdichada alma he disfrutado como un loco de este maravilloso, triste y sombr铆o texto, pero, seg煤n le铆a, m谩s y m谩s me alegraba por lo irritante que a veces resulta el personaje y la persona. Pessoa crea en este libro un mundo terrible a los ojos de este raro ser llamado Bernardo Soares, cuya vida es un quedarse al margen de todo y de todos, incluso, si se pudiera, de s铆 mismo, un ser que por encima de todo ambiciona 鈥渦na cosa mucho m谩s horrorosa y profunda, el dejar de ni siquiera haber existido鈥�.
Y aunque esta postura ante la vida parece terrible, el autor/personaje lo pasa bien, yo dir铆a que incluso realmente bien, pas谩ndolo mal. Se siente y se sienta orgulloso en su elevado trono desde el que desprecia toda vida, toda humanidad. Pero no es tonto y tiene el grave defecto de reflexionar, de pensar, quiz谩s a lo 煤nico que le da alg煤n valor, y es plenamente consciente de la trampa en la que ha ca铆do.
Es un libro que se presta a un tipo de lectura a sorbitos, como si se tratara de una biblia po茅tica, lleno de iluminaciones y contradicciones, humanidades y divinidades. Es este un libro infinito, de innumerables lecturas y relecturas, de los de cabecera perpetua, de los de leer de corrido una vez y al azar el resto de la vida, de los que no hay que subrayar pues tonter铆a es subrayarlo todo.
En definitiva, El libro del desasosiego es el triste, tremendo y sincero reconocimiento de una derrota:
Pero hay m谩s. Como en la novela del insigne franc茅s, tambi茅n aqu铆 nos las tenemos que ver con un atormentado rom谩ntico insatisfecho, aunque de 铆ndole bien distinta que la protagonista de aquella otra lectura: si all铆 la rom谩ntica inocente e inconsciente era capaz de perseguir sus quim茅ricos sue帽os hasta el infinito y m谩s all谩, aqu铆 estamos ante un rom谩ntico reflexivo, de esos que quieren 鈥渓a luna como si hubiera manera de obtenerla鈥�, pero que, sabedor de la imposibilidad de su empe帽o, se refugia en la inactividad, en la contemplaci贸n, en el dejarse ir, en el no vivir, recurriendo a la escritura, por lo dem谩s in煤til, para disminuir 鈥渓a fiebre de sentir鈥�, 鈥渃omo fuga y refugio鈥�.
鈥淵 as铆 soy, f煤til y sensible, capaz de impulsos violentos y absorbentes, malos y buenos, nobles y viles, pero nunca de un sentimiento que subsista, nunca de una emoci贸n que prolongue y entre hasta la sustancia del alma. Todo en m铆 es tendencia para ser a continuaci贸n otra cosa; una impaciencia del alma consigo misma, como un ni帽o inoportuno; un desasosiego siempre creciente y siempre igual. Todo me interesa y nada me cautiva.鈥�
Pessoa nos seduce porque es capaz de expresar como nadie esa tristeza de la vida, la tan mencionada saudade, que todos hemos sentido alguna vez y que 茅l parece haber padecido cada segundo de su vida. Ni amado ni amante m谩s que de sue帽os, sin llegar siquiera a la categor铆a de malfollado, aun pareci茅ndolo, Pessoa es la gran zorra de la vida (la de la f谩bula y no la de M茅rim茅e).
鈥漄uiero ser tal como quise ser y no soy. Si viviera, me destruir铆a. Quiero ser una obra de arte, del alma por lo menos, ya que del cuerpo no puedo serlo. Por eso no me esculp铆 en calma y en extra帽amiento y me coloqu茅 en invernadero, lejos de los aires frescos y de las luces claras鈥� donde mi artificiosidad, flor absurda, pueda florecer en lejana belleza.鈥�
Desde el inicio, me he alegrado maliciosamente por su desconsuelo. Primero porque gracias a su desdichada alma he disfrutado como un loco de este maravilloso, triste y sombr铆o texto, pero, seg煤n le铆a, m谩s y m谩s me alegraba por lo irritante que a veces resulta el personaje y la persona. Pessoa crea en este libro un mundo terrible a los ojos de este raro ser llamado Bernardo Soares, cuya vida es un quedarse al margen de todo y de todos, incluso, si se pudiera, de s铆 mismo, un ser que por encima de todo ambiciona 鈥渦na cosa mucho m谩s horrorosa y profunda, el dejar de ni siquiera haber existido鈥�.
鈥淔eliz quien no exige de la vida m谩s de lo que ella espont谩neamente le ofrece, dej谩ndose guiar por el instinto de los gatos, que buscan el sol cuando hay sol, y, cuando no lo hay, el calor donde quiera que el calor se encuentre. Feliz quien renuncia a su personalidad con la imaginaci贸n, y se deleita en la contemplaci贸n de las vidas ajenas, viviendo, no todas las impresiones, sino el espect谩culo exterior de todas las impresiones ajenas. Feliz, en fin, el que renuncia a todo, y al que, por renunciar a todo, nada le puede ser ni arrebatado ni reducido (鈥�) El campesino, el lector de relatos, el asceta puro鈥攅stos tres son los que viven una vida feliz, porque son estos tres los que renuncian a la personalidad鈥� uno porque vive del instinto, que es impersonal, otro porque vive de la imaginaci贸n, que es olvido, el tercero porque no vive y, no habiendo muerto, duerme.鈥�
Y aunque esta postura ante la vida parece terrible, el autor/personaje lo pasa bien, yo dir铆a que incluso realmente bien, pas谩ndolo mal. Se siente y se sienta orgulloso en su elevado trono desde el que desprecia toda vida, toda humanidad. Pero no es tonto y tiene el grave defecto de reflexionar, de pensar, quiz谩s a lo 煤nico que le da alg煤n valor, y es plenamente consciente de la trampa en la que ha ca铆do.
鈥淣ecesito acorazarme contra la vida. Como todo estoicismo no pasa de un severo epicure铆smo, deseo hacer en lo posible que mi desgracia me divierta. No s茅 hasta qu茅 punto lo consigo. No s茅 hasta qu茅 punto consigo alguna cosa. No s茅 hasta qu茅 punto existe alguna cosa que pueda conseguirse... En el fondo, nada de esto es estoico. Es s贸lo en las palabras donde reside la nobleza de mi sufrimiento. Me quejo, como una criada enferma. Me atormento como un ama de casa. Mi vida es completamente f煤til y absolutamente triste.鈥�
Es un libro que se presta a un tipo de lectura a sorbitos, como si se tratara de una biblia po茅tica, lleno de iluminaciones y contradicciones, humanidades y divinidades. Es este un libro infinito, de innumerables lecturas y relecturas, de los de cabecera perpetua, de los de leer de corrido una vez y al azar el resto de la vida, de los que no hay que subrayar pues tonter铆a es subrayarlo todo.
En definitiva, El libro del desasosiego es el triste, tremendo y sincero reconocimiento de una derrota:
鈥淪iempre quise agradar. Siempre me doli贸 que me mostraran indiferencia. Hu茅rfano de la Fortuna, tengo, como todos los hu茅rfanos, la necesidad de ser objeto del cari帽o de alguien. Pas茅 siempre hambre de la realizaci贸n de esa necesidad. Tanto me adapt茅 a esa hambre inevitable que, a veces, ni s茅 si siento la necesidad de comer... Juzgo a veces que me gusta sufrir. Pero, francamente, yo preferir铆a otra cosa.鈥�
August 2, 2023
鈥濧l葲ii s卯nt mari seduc膬tori c膬rora nu 卯ndr膬znesc s膬 le reziste nici m膬car femeile inexistente鈥�.
Pessoa a l膬sat 卯n manuscris o oper膬 imens膬. 葮i valoric, 葯i cantitativ. Zeci de mii de texte (de m卯n膬 sau dactilo). Mai precis, dac膬 este s膬-i credem pe biografi, 27.543 de texte, poezii, 卯nsemn膬ri filosofice, povestiri poli葲iste f膬r膬 concluzie, note poematice sau confesive. Publicate 卯n 卯ntregime, textele ar alc膬tui aproximativ 200 de volume. Opera lui Tolstoi s-a tip膬rit 卯n 90 de volume. Mai po葲i spune ceva?
Iat膬 ce crede despre faim膬 Bernardo Soares (semi-heteronimul lui Pessoa): 鈥濪e c卯te ori eu 卯nsumi, care 卯mi bat joc de asemenea seduc葲ii, bune numai s膬 ne distreze, nu m-am surprins imagin卯ndu-mi c卯t de agreabil mi-ar fi s膬 devin celebru, c卯t de pl膬cut s膬 fiu adulat, c卯t de str膬lucitor s膬 m膬 v膬d triumf卯nd. 脦ns膬 nu ajung niciodat膬 s膬 m膬 卯nchipui coco葲at pe asemenea 卯n膬l葲imi, f膬r膬 s膬 am parte de r卯sul batjocoritor al celuilalt eu, cel care se afl膬 mereu prin preajma mea... M膬 v膬d celebru? 脦nseamn膬 c膬 s卯nt celebru ca ajutor de contabil... M膬 v膬d aplaudat de mul葲imi pestri葲e? Aplauzele urc膬 p卯n膬 la etajul 4 葯i se izbesc de muchiile mobilelor mele ieftine, din camera s膬r膬c膬cioas膬, se izbesc de tot ceea ce m膬 卯nconjoar膬 葯i m膬 umile葯te... Nu mi-am construit nici castele 卯n Spania, cum fac acei granzi de Spania ai tuturor iluziilor. Castelele mele au fost doar din c膬r葲i de joc, vechi, soioase... Voi muri a葯a cum am tr膬it, 卯n acest bric-脿-brac [amestec de nimicuri, n. m.] de periferie, apreciat la kilogram, la capitolul de post-scriptum al tuturor rebuturilor鈥� (pp.82-83).
Pe acest fundal metafizic, mai degrab膬 cinic dec卯t stoic, cum se explic膬, totu葯i, fecunditatea ie葯it膬 din comun a lui Fernando Pessoa? De ce nu s-a l膬sat prad膬 lehamitei, plictisului, de葯ert膬ciunii? G膬sesc chiar 卯n notele poetului acest r膬spuns luminos:
鈥濻ingura atitudine demn膬 de un om superior este s膬 persiste cu tenacitate 卯ntr-o activitate pe care o 葯tie inutil膬, s膬 respecte o disciplin膬 pe care o 葯tie steril膬 葯i s膬 foloseasc膬 norme de g卯ndire filosofic膬 葯i metafizic膬 despre care simte c膬 n-au nici o importan葲膬鈥� (p.122).
February 19, 2019
'We're well aware that every creative work is imperfect and that our most dubious aesthetic contemplation will be the one whose object is what we write. But everything is imperfect. There's no sunset so lovely it couldn't be yet lovelier, no gentle breeze bringing us sleep that couldn't bring yet sounder sleep.'
Almost all my feelings鈥�
As soon as I turned the last page, I realized how much I was going to miss . For it has been my faithful companion for over two weeks, as my friends are witness for their company was always there with me. As soon as I turned the last page, I worried, what am I going to do now? But now it seems my only consolation is all the quotes I collected during this lavish period. So I now populate my new solitude with these gems, with 鈥檚 amazing dreams.
'I've never done anything but dream. This, and this alone, has been the meaning of my life. My only real concern has been my inner life. My worst sorrows have evaporated when I've opened the window on the street of my dreams and forgotten myself in what I saw there.'
I鈥檝e always been a dreamer, but I dream mainly through readings that I always carried along with me in my life鈥檚 journey. I cannot now pretend to be a dreamer like Fernando Pessoa, or Bernardo Soare: I鈥檝e never done anything but dream. This, and this alone, has been the meaning of my life. For I lived more in the real world than Pessoa confessedly did. Every dream is the same dream, for they're all dreams. Let God change my dreams, but for my gift of dreaming. For him they were his nourishment, his own life. But for me they are my leisure. Yes, my dreams might not be his dreams but they are as alive as his, as dear to me as his were to him.
'I read and I am liberated. I acquire objectivity. I cease being myself and so scattered. And what I read, instead of being like a nearly invisible suit that sometimes oppresses me, is the external world鈥檚 tremendous and remarkable clarity, the sun that sees everyone, the moon that splotches the still earth with shadows, the wide expanses that end in the sea, the blackly solid trees whose tops greenly wave, the steady peace of ponds of farms, the terraced slopes with their paths overgrown with grape-vines.'
We might be distinct souls, but there is one thing that we are one and that I felt is his anxiety and is also my own:
'My tedium takes on an air of horror, and my boredom is a fear. My sweat isn鈥檛 cold, but my awareness of it is. I鈥檓 not physically ill, but my soul鈥檚 anxiety is so intense that it passes through my pores and chills my body.'
Yes, it seems we could even be related,
'It sometimes occurs to me, with sad delight, that if one day (...) the sentences I write are read and admired, then at last I'll have my own kin, people who 'understand' me, my true family in which to be born and loved.'
The main difference is that I am not a writer, I am only a reader. And so I am his soul mate for I complete him when I leaf through the pages of his book. As are all his readers that give life to his writings. His prose so beautiful it is heartbreaking, despite his own insecurities. But I would I wish to be a writer if the price is to not live? Better to write to dare to live...
Do you suppose that that is the reason of my contentment? Should you ask if I鈥檓 happy, I鈥檒l say that I鈥檓 not. For me there is not so much solitude, no lack of friendship, no ceaseless tedium. Only unhappiness is elevating, and only the tedium that comes from unhappiness is heraldic like the descendants of ancient heroes. So, I could not ever be a good poet and I am glad I had never desired so high. Although I have to confess that I had some dreams of being a poet. But these were only dreams鈥�
Perhaps I could have never been a poet, for above all I love. I love my friends, I love my children, I loved a man and I love life. And I could never declare like Pessoa, We never love anyone. What we love is the idea we have of someone. It鈥檚 our concept 鈥� our own selves 鈥� that we love. Or even that [l]ife hinders the expression of life. If I actually lived a great love, I would never be able to describe it. Maye I should read other poets鈥� But I have to agree with him when he states, I wake up to make sure I exist... Aren鈥檛 we all always unsure if we truly exist?
Am I ordinary?, for most of the time I realize I think with my feelings. While Pessoa confesses: I believe most people think with their feelings, whereas I feel with my thoughts. Yes, I am happily ordinary. While his happiness is as painful as [his] pain.
However, the more I say I don鈥檛 agree with our poet, the more I believe him. Am I saying nonsense? Sometimes to be a poet is to unbelieve. Oh, I believe we can travel through our dreams, we can imagine unimaginable places within our dreams:
'What can China give me that my soul hasn't already given me? And if my soul can't give it to me, how will China give it to me? For it's with my soul that I'll see China, if I ever see it. I could go and seek riches in the Orient, but not the riches of the soul, because I am my soul's riches, and I am where I am, with or without the Orient.'
But after all my incoherence, I can only agree with Pessoa:
'It's the central error of the literary imagination: to suppose that others are like us and must feel as we do. Fortunately for humanity, each man is just who he is, it begin given only to the genius to be others as well.'.
But our natures are diverse, for I am not as solitary as he was. I am solitary, you might say, but I have my books. What does he have? Only his dreams or a poignant and fruitful solitude. To understand, I destroyed myself. To understand is to forget about loving. Can we be that alone? I ask myself, or only genius and poets have that gift? Perhaps, if so that is a sad truth.
Some closing remarks鈥�
I feel I need to add a few considerations, besides my ramblings above.
Pessoa called this work as a factless biography. It might present distinct tones of the absurd, and despite its hints of indifference or even cynicism, it鈥檚 nevertheless a quintessential trait of its writer. He reveals an ethereal existence, or his own life, through his willful approach towards his own disquietude; through his sense of a consciousness that suffers with a tedium that results basically from his own senselessness existence. And in that he could not be more truthful.
Faced with the life鈥檚 adversity, and aiming to overcome the anguish to him so acute, he imagines, he dreams. This may be one of the reasons for his so many personalities (his heteronyms, who could each write in distinct literary styles) to be born. He is not one, he is many. So he can experience different lives in only one existence. According to him:
'My intellect has attained a pliancy and a reach that enable me to assume any emotion I desire and enter at will into any state of mind.'
For me, his flow of thoughts or dreaming that we read in The Book of Disquiet captures the writer鈥檚 mind, reveals a structure and a repetition in thoughts that talks about solitude, dream, tedium, love or un-love and unhappiness. It is ultimately passionate and painful.
Bernardo Soares is Pessoa鈥檚 heteronym considered to be the closest to Pessoa鈥檚 real self; and his writings strongly express Pessoa鈥檚 aspiration to live an imagined life, as if in a dream, so as to forget his self in real life. He continually writes about his dreams, their nature and importance to his survival:
'Live your life. Don鈥檛 be lived by it. Right or wrong, happy or sad, be your own self. You can do this only by dreaming, because your real life, your human life, is the one that doesn鈥檛 belong to you but to others. You must replace your life with your dreaming, concentrating only on dreaming perfectly. In all the acts of your real life, from that of being born to that of dying, you don鈥檛 act 鈥� you鈥檙e acted; you don鈥檛 live 鈥� you鈥檙e merely lived.'
Rain frequently appear in his writings and it could be viewed as a symbol of his disquietude, his unrelenting dreaming that pours over his own existence. What a wistful and beautiful vision Pessoa gifts us:
鈥淓ach drop of rain is my failed life weeping in nature. There鈥檚 something of my disquiet in the endless drizzle, then shower, then drizzle, then shower, through which the day鈥檚 sorrow uselessly pours itself out over the earth. It rains and keeps raining. My soul is damp from hearing it. So much rain鈥� My flesh is watery around my physical sensation of it.
And he dialogues with the readers, but mainly he questions or even doubts himself and his own writing:
'What will I be ten years from now, or even five? My friends say I'll be one of the greatest contemporary poets - they say this based on what I've written, not what I may yet write. But even if this is true, I have no idea what it will mean. I have no idea how it will taste. Perhaps glory tastes like death and futility, and triumph smells of rottenness.'
The Book of Disquiet moved and overwhelmed me fiercely. Pessoa bit by bit immersed himself into my own self, made me wonder and tremble with his alluring and poignant words, much above a mere understanding. I perceived his disquiet, and I shared with him many uncertainties or yet his certainties. His solitude and his dreaming are written down in my soul and will certainly come back to me in the future. Ah, to be such a poet, what a dream and what sufferings!
___
Other quotes
鈥� 'I weep over my imperfect pages, but if future generations read them, they will be more touched by my weeping than by any imperfection I might have achieved, since perfection would have kept me from weeping and, therefore, from writing. Perfection never materializes.'
鈥� 'When all by myself, I can think of all kinds of clever remarks, quick comebacks to what no one said, and flashes of witty sociability with nobody. But all of this vanishes when I face someone in the flesh: I lose my intelligence, I can no longer speak. Only my ghostly and imaginary friends, only the conversations I have in my dreams, are genuinely real and substantial, and in them intelligence like an image in a mirror.'
鈥� 'I've undertaken every project imaginable. The Iliad composed by me had a structural logic in its organic linking of epodes such as Homer could never have achieved. The meticulous perfection my unwritten verses makes Virgil's precision look sloppy and Milton's power slack. My allegorical satires surpassed all of Swift's in the symbolic exactitude of their rigorously interconnected particular. How many Horaces I've been.'
鈥� 'When I put away my artifices and lovingly arrange in a corner all my toys, words, images and phrases, so dear to me I feel like kissing them, then I become so small and innocuous, so alone in a room so large and sad, so profoundly sad.'
鈥� 'Sadly I write in my quiet room, alone as I have always been, alone as I will always be. And I wonder if my apparently negligible voice might not embody the essence of thousands of voices, the longing of self-expression of thousands of lives, the patience of millions of souls resigned like my own to their daily lot, their useless dreams and their hopeless hopes.'
鈥� 'I鈥檓 dazed by a sarcastic terror of life, a despondency that exceeds the limits of my conscious being. I realize that I was all error and deviation, that I never lived, that I existed only in so far as I filled time with consciousness and thought. I feel, in this moment, like a man who wakes up after a slumber full of real dreams, or like a man freed by an earthquake from the dim light of the prison he鈥檇 grown used to.'
鈥� 'It sometimes occurs to me, with sad delight, that if one day (...) the sentences I write are read and admired, then at last I'll have my own kin, people who 'understand' me, my true family in which to be born and loved. But from being born into it, I'll have already died long ago. I'll be understood only in effigy, when affection can no longer compensate for the indifference that was the dead man's lot in life.'
鈥� 'Not only am I dissatisfied with the poems I write now; I also know that I will be dissatisfied with the poems I write in the future...
So why do I keep writing? Because I still haven't learned... I haven't been able to give up my inclination to poetry and prose. I have to write, as if I were carrying out a punishment. And the greatest punishment is to know that whatever I write will be futile, flawed and uncertain.'
鈥� 'My state of mind compels me to work hard, against my will, on The Book of Disquiet. But it's all fragments, fragments, fragments...'
____
May 23, 2021
God, this was so bad it was almost funny. This is literally just a book full of philosophical emo journal entries.
鈥淚'd woken up early, and I took a long time getting ready to exist.鈥�
"Each face, even if it belongs to someone we saw only yesterday, is different today simply because today is not yesterday."
"I've just re-read these pages, in which I write with a clarity that will last only as long as they last, and I ask myself: What is this, and what is it for? Who am I when I feel? What dies in me when I am?"
馃檮 Sometimes I really think I should have kept my old journals from when I was thirteen.
鈥淚'd woken up early, and I took a long time getting ready to exist.鈥�
"Each face, even if it belongs to someone we saw only yesterday, is different today simply because today is not yesterday."
"I've just re-read these pages, in which I write with a clarity that will last only as long as they last, and I ask myself: What is this, and what is it for? Who am I when I feel? What dies in me when I am?"
馃檮 Sometimes I really think I should have kept my old journals from when I was thirteen.
November 25, 2017
賱賲 兀胤賱亘 爻賵賷 丕賱賯賱賷賱 賲賳 丕賱丨賷丕丞 貙 賵丨鬲賷 匕賱賰 丕賱賯賱賷賱 乇賮囟鬲 丕賱丨賷丕丞 賲賳丨賷 廿賷丕賴 .. 胤賱亘鬲 丨夭賲丞 賲賳 囟賵亍 丕賱卮賲爻 貙 丕賱賯賱賷賱 賲賳 丕賱爻賰賷賳丞 賲毓 賯賱賷賱 賲賳 丕賱禺亘夭 貙 兀賱丕 鬲孬賯賱 毓賱賷賾 賰孬賷乇丕賸 賲毓乇賮鬲賷 亘兀賳賳賷 賲賵噩賵丿 貙 賵兀賱丕 兀胤賱亘 賲賳 丕賱丌禺乇賷賳 卮賷卅丕賸 賵兀賱丕 賷胤丕賱亘賵賳賳賷 賴賲 亘兀賷 卮卅 ..
賮噩兀丞 兀噩丿賳賷 賵丨賷丿丕賸 賮賷 丕賱毓丕賱賲 .. 兀乇賷 賰賱 賴匕丕 賲賳 禺賱丕賱 兀毓丕賱賷 爻胤丨 乇賵丨賷 貙 賵丨賷丿 兀賳丕 賮賷 丕賱毓丕賱賲 .. 兀賳 鬲乇賷 丕賱兀卮賷丕亍 賷毓賳賷 兀賳賰 亘毓賷丿 賵兀賳 孬賲丞 賲爻丕賮丞 .. 兀賳 鬲乇賷 丕賱兀卮賷丕亍 亘賵囟賵丨 賲毓賳丕賴 兀賳 鬲鬲賵賯賮 賵兀賱丕 鬲賰賮 毓賳 丕賱乇丐賷丞 .. 兀賳 鬲丨賱賱 賰賱 卮卅 賷毓賳賷 兀賳賰 睾乇賷亘 !
賰賱 丕賱賳丕爻 賷賲乇賵賳 亘噩丕賳亘賷 亘丿賵賳 兀賳 賷丨鬲賰賵丕 亘賷 .. 賱丕 兀賲賱賰 賴賵丕亍賸 廿賱丕 賮賷賲丕 賷丨賷胤 亘賷 ! 賱賯丿 賵氐賱 賲亘賱睾 廿丨爻丕爻賷 亘毓夭賱鬲賷 丨丿丕 賷噩毓賱賳賷 兀丨爻 亘丕賱賲爻丕賮丞 丕賱賲賵噩賵丿丞 亘賷賳賷 賵亘賷賳 亘丿賱鬲賷
!!
賱賯丿 賲乇乇鬲 兀噩賳亘賷丕賸 亘賷賳賴賲 貙 賱賰賳 賲丕 賲賳 兀丨丿 乇丌賳賷 貙 賱賯丿 毓卮鬲 亘賷賳賴賲 貙 賵賱丕 兀丨丿 貙 丨鬲賷 兀賳丕 貙 兀乇鬲丕亘 賮賷 賰賵賳賷 賰匕賱賰 ! 噩賲賷毓賴賲 丨爻亘賵賳賷 賯乇賷亘丕賸 賱賴賲 貙 賲丕 賲賳 兀丨丿 毓乇賮 兀賳賴賲 賯丿 睾賱胤賵丕 亘丨賯賷 賲賳匕 賵賱丕丿鬲賷 貙 賴賰匕丕 賰賳鬲 賲賲丕孬丕賱丕賸 賱賱睾賷乇 亘丿賵賳 賲卮丕亘賴丞 兀禺丕賸 賱賱噩賲賷毓 丿賵賳 兀賳 兀賰賵賳 賲賳 丕賱毓丕卅賱丞
毓賳丿賲丕 鬲乇賰鬲 噩乇賷丿鬲賷 賮賷 丕賱賲賯賴賷 .. 賮賰乇鬲 賮賷 丕賱賰賷賮賷丞 丕賱鬲賷 賲乇鬲 亘賴丕 賮賷 丨賷丕鬲賷 .. 兀丨爻賳賷 賲孬賱 兀賷 丨賷賵丕賳 丨賷 賲賳賯賵賱 賮賷 爻賱丞 賲賳 鬲賱賰 丕賱爻賱丕賱 丕賱鬲賷 鬲賱賵賷 丕賱匕乇丕毓 貙 亘賷賳 賲丨胤鬲賷賳 賲賳 賲丨胤丕鬲 丕賱囟賵丕丨賷 .. 丕賱氐賵乇丞 爻禺賷賮丞 .. 賱賰賳 丨賷丕鬲賷 丕賱鬲賷 賵氐賮鬲賴丕 丕爻禺賮 賲賳賴丕 賰孬賷乇丕賸 ..
丕丨爻丿 丕賱賳丕爻 噩賲賷毓丕 賱賰賵賳賴賲 賱賷爻賵丕 丕賳丕 !
賮賰賱賲丕 賰丕賳 丕賱廿賳爻丕賳 兀胤賵賱 賯丕賲丞 貙 鬲丨鬲賲 毓賱賷賴 兀賳 賷丨乇賲 賳賮爻賴 賲賳 兀卮賷丕亍 賰孬賷乇丞 貙 賮賷 丕賱賯賲丞 賱丕 賲賰丕賳 爻賵賷 賱賱廿賳爻丕賳 賵丨賷丿丕賸 貙 賰賱賲丕 賰丕賳 兀賰孬乇 廿鬲賯丕賳丕賸 貙 賰丕賳 兀賰孬乇 賰賲丕賱丕賸 貙 賵賰賱賲丕 賰丕賳 兀賰孬乇 賰賲丕賱丕賸 貙 賰丕賳 兀賯賱 丕賳丿賲丕噩丕賸 賲毓 丕賱兀禺乇賷賳 ... 亘賴匕賴 丕賱鬲兀賲賱丕鬲 丕賱爻賷賰賵賱賵噩賷丞 賷鬲爻賱賷 丕賱丨賷賷賵賳 兀賲孬丕賱賷
兀賳賲鬲賱賰 卮賷卅丕賸 賳丨賳 責 廿匕丕 賰賳丕 賱丕 賳毓乇賮 賲丕 賳丨賳 賮賰賷賮 賳毓乇賮 賲丕 賳賲鬲賱賰 責
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廿賳賳賷 亘丨噩賲 賲丕 兀乇丕賴 賱丕 亘丨噩賲 賯丕賲鬲賷 .
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孬賲丞 賱丨馗丕鬲 賷鬲毓亘賳丕 賮賷賴丕 賰賱 卮卅 丨鬲賷 匕賱賰 丕賱匕賷 賷乇賷丨賳丕 貙 賲丕 賷鬲毓亘賳丕 賷鬲毓亘賳丕 賱兀賳賴 賷鬲毓亘賳丕 ..
賲丕 賷乇賷丨賳丕 賷鬲毓亘賳丕 賱兀賳 賮賰乇丞 賳賷賱賴 鬲鬲毓亘賳丕
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賰丕卅賳丕賸 賲丕 兀賰賵賳 貙 兀鬲禺賱賷 毓賲丕 兀賰賵賳 貙 兀鬲禺賱賷 毓賲丕 兀賳丕 廿賷丕賴 貙 乇丕囟賷丕賸 亘賲丕 賷賯爻賲賴 丕賱丨馗 貙 賵賲丕 鬲氐賳毓賴 丕賱賲氐丕丿賮丞 貙 賵賮賷丕賸 賱鬲毓賴丿 賲賳爻賷
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"賱丕 鬲賵噩丿 賲毓囟賱丞 爻賵賷 丕賱賵丕賯毓 匕丕鬲賴 貙 賵賴賷 賲毓囟賱丞 丨賷丞 睾賷乇 賯丕亘賱丞 賱賱丨賱
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賱丕 兀賳丕賲 . 兀鬲賳丕賵賲 !!
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爻毓賷丿 賲賳 賱丕 賷胤賱亘 賲賳 丕賱丨賷丕丞 丕賰孬乇 賲賲丕 鬲賴亘賴 賴賷 鬲賱賯丕卅賷丕
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賵噩毓 賮賷 乇兀爻賷 賵賮賷 丕賱賰賵賳
!
賮噩兀丞 兀噩丿賳賷 賵丨賷丿丕賸 賮賷 丕賱毓丕賱賲 .. 兀乇賷 賰賱 賴匕丕 賲賳 禺賱丕賱 兀毓丕賱賷 爻胤丨 乇賵丨賷 貙 賵丨賷丿 兀賳丕 賮賷 丕賱毓丕賱賲 .. 兀賳 鬲乇賷 丕賱兀卮賷丕亍 賷毓賳賷 兀賳賰 亘毓賷丿 賵兀賳 孬賲丞 賲爻丕賮丞 .. 兀賳 鬲乇賷 丕賱兀卮賷丕亍 亘賵囟賵丨 賲毓賳丕賴 兀賳 鬲鬲賵賯賮 賵兀賱丕 鬲賰賮 毓賳 丕賱乇丐賷丞 .. 兀賳 鬲丨賱賱 賰賱 卮卅 賷毓賳賷 兀賳賰 睾乇賷亘 !
賰賱 丕賱賳丕爻 賷賲乇賵賳 亘噩丕賳亘賷 亘丿賵賳 兀賳 賷丨鬲賰賵丕 亘賷 .. 賱丕 兀賲賱賰 賴賵丕亍賸 廿賱丕 賮賷賲丕 賷丨賷胤 亘賷 ! 賱賯丿 賵氐賱 賲亘賱睾 廿丨爻丕爻賷 亘毓夭賱鬲賷 丨丿丕 賷噩毓賱賳賷 兀丨爻 亘丕賱賲爻丕賮丞 丕賱賲賵噩賵丿丞 亘賷賳賷 賵亘賷賳 亘丿賱鬲賷
!!
賱賯丿 賲乇乇鬲 兀噩賳亘賷丕賸 亘賷賳賴賲 貙 賱賰賳 賲丕 賲賳 兀丨丿 乇丌賳賷 貙 賱賯丿 毓卮鬲 亘賷賳賴賲 貙 賵賱丕 兀丨丿 貙 丨鬲賷 兀賳丕 貙 兀乇鬲丕亘 賮賷 賰賵賳賷 賰匕賱賰 ! 噩賲賷毓賴賲 丨爻亘賵賳賷 賯乇賷亘丕賸 賱賴賲 貙 賲丕 賲賳 兀丨丿 毓乇賮 兀賳賴賲 賯丿 睾賱胤賵丕 亘丨賯賷 賲賳匕 賵賱丕丿鬲賷 貙 賴賰匕丕 賰賳鬲 賲賲丕孬丕賱丕賸 賱賱睾賷乇 亘丿賵賳 賲卮丕亘賴丞 兀禺丕賸 賱賱噩賲賷毓 丿賵賳 兀賳 兀賰賵賳 賲賳 丕賱毓丕卅賱丞
毓賳丿賲丕 鬲乇賰鬲 噩乇賷丿鬲賷 賮賷 丕賱賲賯賴賷 .. 賮賰乇鬲 賮賷 丕賱賰賷賮賷丞 丕賱鬲賷 賲乇鬲 亘賴丕 賮賷 丨賷丕鬲賷 .. 兀丨爻賳賷 賲孬賱 兀賷 丨賷賵丕賳 丨賷 賲賳賯賵賱 賮賷 爻賱丞 賲賳 鬲賱賰 丕賱爻賱丕賱 丕賱鬲賷 鬲賱賵賷 丕賱匕乇丕毓 貙 亘賷賳 賲丨胤鬲賷賳 賲賳 賲丨胤丕鬲 丕賱囟賵丕丨賷 .. 丕賱氐賵乇丞 爻禺賷賮丞 .. 賱賰賳 丨賷丕鬲賷 丕賱鬲賷 賵氐賮鬲賴丕 丕爻禺賮 賲賳賴丕 賰孬賷乇丕賸 ..
丕丨爻丿 丕賱賳丕爻 噩賲賷毓丕 賱賰賵賳賴賲 賱賷爻賵丕 丕賳丕 !
賮賰賱賲丕 賰丕賳 丕賱廿賳爻丕賳 兀胤賵賱 賯丕賲丞 貙 鬲丨鬲賲 毓賱賷賴 兀賳 賷丨乇賲 賳賮爻賴 賲賳 兀卮賷丕亍 賰孬賷乇丞 貙 賮賷 丕賱賯賲丞 賱丕 賲賰丕賳 爻賵賷 賱賱廿賳爻丕賳 賵丨賷丿丕賸 貙 賰賱賲丕 賰丕賳 兀賰孬乇 廿鬲賯丕賳丕賸 貙 賰丕賳 兀賰孬乇 賰賲丕賱丕賸 貙 賵賰賱賲丕 賰丕賳 兀賰孬乇 賰賲丕賱丕賸 貙 賰丕賳 兀賯賱 丕賳丿賲丕噩丕賸 賲毓 丕賱兀禺乇賷賳 ... 亘賴匕賴 丕賱鬲兀賲賱丕鬲 丕賱爻賷賰賵賱賵噩賷丞 賷鬲爻賱賷 丕賱丨賷賷賵賳 兀賲孬丕賱賷
兀賳賲鬲賱賰 卮賷卅丕賸 賳丨賳 責 廿匕丕 賰賳丕 賱丕 賳毓乇賮 賲丕 賳丨賳 賮賰賷賮 賳毓乇賮 賲丕 賳賲鬲賱賰 責
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廿賳賳賷 亘丨噩賲 賲丕 兀乇丕賴 賱丕 亘丨噩賲 賯丕賲鬲賷 .
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孬賲丞 賱丨馗丕鬲 賷鬲毓亘賳丕 賮賷賴丕 賰賱 卮卅 丨鬲賷 匕賱賰 丕賱匕賷 賷乇賷丨賳丕 貙 賲丕 賷鬲毓亘賳丕 賷鬲毓亘賳丕 賱兀賳賴 賷鬲毓亘賳丕 ..
賲丕 賷乇賷丨賳丕 賷鬲毓亘賳丕 賱兀賳 賮賰乇丞 賳賷賱賴 鬲鬲毓亘賳丕
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賰丕卅賳丕賸 賲丕 兀賰賵賳 貙 兀鬲禺賱賷 毓賲丕 兀賰賵賳 貙 兀鬲禺賱賷 毓賲丕 兀賳丕 廿賷丕賴 貙 乇丕囟賷丕賸 亘賲丕 賷賯爻賲賴 丕賱丨馗 貙 賵賲丕 鬲氐賳毓賴 丕賱賲氐丕丿賮丞 貙 賵賮賷丕賸 賱鬲毓賴丿 賲賳爻賷
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"賱丕 鬲賵噩丿 賲毓囟賱丞 爻賵賷 丕賱賵丕賯毓 匕丕鬲賴 貙 賵賴賷 賲毓囟賱丞 丨賷丞 睾賷乇 賯丕亘賱丞 賱賱丨賱
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賱丕 兀賳丕賲 . 兀鬲賳丕賵賲 !!
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爻毓賷丿 賲賳 賱丕 賷胤賱亘 賲賳 丕賱丨賷丕丞 丕賰孬乇 賲賲丕 鬲賴亘賴 賴賷 鬲賱賯丕卅賷丕
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賵噩毓 賮賷 乇兀爻賷 賵賮賷 丕賱賰賵賳
!
February 12, 2025
鈥淯n gran sosiego en la luz deja sentir que el cielo es ya casi todo azul. Pero no hay sosiego -隆ay de m铆, ni lo habr谩 nunca!- en mi coraz贸n, aljibe viejo en el fondo de una quinta vendida, memoria de la infancia clausurada al polvo en el s贸tano de una casa desconocida. No hay sosiego, 隆ay de m铆! Y ni siquiera, el deseo de que lo haya鈥︹€�
Es realmente dif铆cil para un simple lector como yo rese帽ar libro de semejante envergadura, dado que cuesta mucho describir utilizando las palabras adecuadas lo que la lectura de este volumen de Fernando Pessoa genera en uno.
鈥淓l libro del desasosiego鈥� es un libro inacabado e inacabable, inagotable, infinito.
Posee una variedad de sentimientos, emociones y reflexiones tan amplio que deja al desnudo cada peque帽a part铆cula de ese ser tan especial que fue Fernando Pessoa.
Un ser humano 煤nico, vulnerable, so帽ador, desencantado, sentimental y solitario quien vivi贸 toda su vida en la soledad y el retraimiento, acuciado por las enfermedades, arrestos de locura y los embates del alcohol que terminaron minando su vida.
Pessoa fue un ser de luz, cuyo talento innato para la poes铆a le hizo recalar en la prosa de una manera incre铆blemente bella. Es claro que cuando un poeta escribe prosa, el resultado ser谩 un texto con la misma intensidad y belleza que sus versos.
Uno abre este libro, que Pessoa escribi贸 a partir de fragmentos entre 1913 y 1935, a帽o de su muerte, y no importa en qu茅 p谩gina se encuentre, lo que lea le llegar谩 al coraz贸n.
Todo es tan sutil, tan po茅tico y melodiosamente arm贸nico que queda uno extasiado ante tanto arrebato de fragilidad y sinceridad, sin vueltas, ni rodeos ni misterios.
Pessoa escribe a coraz贸n abierto. Centra su prosa en aspectos muy claros y claves de su vida. Vive intensamente aferr谩ndose a las peque帽as cosas que lo motivan a seguir de pie. Es estoico, desencantado, fr谩gil, pero a煤n sue帽a. 驴Complejos? Bueno, obviamente que los tiene, pero no se guarda nada. Lo deja todo a la luz del cristal que el lector utiliza para llegar a 茅l.
No puedo dejar de trazar un paralelismo entre Fernando Pessoa y Franz Kafka (especialmente en sus 鈥淒iarios鈥�), ya que ambos autores luchan internamente contra la soledad adem谩s de un marcado s铆ndrome de inferioridad, dado que sienten de forma similar m谩s puntualmente en lo referente al amor, a la vida y a la muerte.
"Entre la vida y yo hay un cristal tenue. Por m谩s n铆tidamente que yo vea y comprenda la vida, no la puedo tocar", dice Pessoa con profundo desencanto.
"Me siento m谩s inseguro de lo que he estado jam谩s, lo 煤nico que siento es la violencia de la vida. Y estoy absolutamente vac铆o", afirma Kafka en 1913.
Ambos escritores son contempor谩neos y de la misma manera lo son sus pesares.
La escritura puede ser tambi茅n una v铆a de escape como un sacrificio y logra torcer ambas voluntades.
Dice Pessoa: "He escrito, paseando, frases perfectas de las que despu茅s en casa, ya nada me acuerdo. No s茅 si la poes铆a infalible de esas frases formar谩 parte de lo que fueron o parte de lo que no fueron nunca", concordando Kafka quien dice que "Cuando empiezo a escribir despu茅s de bastante tiempo sin hacerlo, saco palabras como del aire vac铆o. Si consigo una, es ella la 煤nica que est谩 ah铆 y todo el trabajo vuelve a empezar desde el principio."
Con la muerte tambi茅n sucede lo mismo, porque Pessoa declara que "Somos muerte. Esto que consideramos vida es el sue帽o de la vida real, la muerte de lo que verdaderamente somos", mientras que Kafka declara: "Morir no significa otra cosa que entregar la nada a la nada, pues, c贸mo podr铆a uno, que es una nada, entregarse con conciencia a la nada."
Tal vez otros lectores enfoquen sus apreciaciones exclusivamente en Pessoa. Yo le铆 todo este libro con Kafka en mente porque todo eso que le铆a me remit铆a directamente al autor checo, dado que como propuse, ambas personalidades y vidas tienen demasiados puntos en com煤n para dejarlas pasar.
La 煤nica diferencia clara es que Pessoa escrib铆a utilizando heter贸nimos (lleg贸 a crear setenta) siendo los m谩s destacados los Bernardo Soares, que es el ayudante de tenedor de libros en Lisboa que supuestamente escribe este libro, Ricardo Reis, 脕lvaro de Campos o tambi茅n el de Vicente Guedes, mientras que Kafka no se amparaba en ning煤n alter ego para su literatura.
Por el otro lado, ambas vidas concuerdan en lo solitario, la vida como empleados de oficinas, las relaciones esquivas y complejas con las mujeres y una constante presi贸n ejercida sobre s铆 mismos, lo que les confer铆a ese halo de desprotecci贸n y auto abandono:
"Conquist茅, palmo a palmo, el terreno interior que naci贸 m铆o. Demand茅, metro a metro, el pantano en que me inmovilic茅 nulo. Par铆 mi ser infinito pero me arranqu茅 a golpes de m铆."
Adem谩s del ep铆grafe que abre esta rese帽a, resuena en mi cabeza constantemente un verso de una canci贸n de Los redonditos de ricota en la que Solari canta 鈥淪iempre fui menos que mi reputaci贸n鈥�, pues Pessoa constantemente descree de s铆 mismo, su inconformismo y su apat铆a por todo aquello que atrae a las personas comunes lo asquea, le repugna.
En un momento choqu茅 con una frase que define cabalmente el desasosiego completo, absorbente y determinante que controla la vida de Fernando Pessoa: 鈥淪iento mi vida como si me golpearan con ella.鈥�
"El libro del desasosiego" es una forma de intentar acercarse a la mente y el coraz贸n de Fernando Pessoa y en cierta forma, mientras lo leemos, de tratar de conocernos a nosotros mismos.
Es realmente dif铆cil para un simple lector como yo rese帽ar libro de semejante envergadura, dado que cuesta mucho describir utilizando las palabras adecuadas lo que la lectura de este volumen de Fernando Pessoa genera en uno.
鈥淓l libro del desasosiego鈥� es un libro inacabado e inacabable, inagotable, infinito.
Posee una variedad de sentimientos, emociones y reflexiones tan amplio que deja al desnudo cada peque帽a part铆cula de ese ser tan especial que fue Fernando Pessoa.
Un ser humano 煤nico, vulnerable, so帽ador, desencantado, sentimental y solitario quien vivi贸 toda su vida en la soledad y el retraimiento, acuciado por las enfermedades, arrestos de locura y los embates del alcohol que terminaron minando su vida.
Pessoa fue un ser de luz, cuyo talento innato para la poes铆a le hizo recalar en la prosa de una manera incre铆blemente bella. Es claro que cuando un poeta escribe prosa, el resultado ser谩 un texto con la misma intensidad y belleza que sus versos.
Uno abre este libro, que Pessoa escribi贸 a partir de fragmentos entre 1913 y 1935, a帽o de su muerte, y no importa en qu茅 p谩gina se encuentre, lo que lea le llegar谩 al coraz贸n.
Todo es tan sutil, tan po茅tico y melodiosamente arm贸nico que queda uno extasiado ante tanto arrebato de fragilidad y sinceridad, sin vueltas, ni rodeos ni misterios.
Pessoa escribe a coraz贸n abierto. Centra su prosa en aspectos muy claros y claves de su vida. Vive intensamente aferr谩ndose a las peque帽as cosas que lo motivan a seguir de pie. Es estoico, desencantado, fr谩gil, pero a煤n sue帽a. 驴Complejos? Bueno, obviamente que los tiene, pero no se guarda nada. Lo deja todo a la luz del cristal que el lector utiliza para llegar a 茅l.
No puedo dejar de trazar un paralelismo entre Fernando Pessoa y Franz Kafka (especialmente en sus 鈥淒iarios鈥�), ya que ambos autores luchan internamente contra la soledad adem谩s de un marcado s铆ndrome de inferioridad, dado que sienten de forma similar m谩s puntualmente en lo referente al amor, a la vida y a la muerte.
"Entre la vida y yo hay un cristal tenue. Por m谩s n铆tidamente que yo vea y comprenda la vida, no la puedo tocar", dice Pessoa con profundo desencanto.
"Me siento m谩s inseguro de lo que he estado jam谩s, lo 煤nico que siento es la violencia de la vida. Y estoy absolutamente vac铆o", afirma Kafka en 1913.
Ambos escritores son contempor谩neos y de la misma manera lo son sus pesares.
La escritura puede ser tambi茅n una v铆a de escape como un sacrificio y logra torcer ambas voluntades.
Dice Pessoa: "He escrito, paseando, frases perfectas de las que despu茅s en casa, ya nada me acuerdo. No s茅 si la poes铆a infalible de esas frases formar谩 parte de lo que fueron o parte de lo que no fueron nunca", concordando Kafka quien dice que "Cuando empiezo a escribir despu茅s de bastante tiempo sin hacerlo, saco palabras como del aire vac铆o. Si consigo una, es ella la 煤nica que est谩 ah铆 y todo el trabajo vuelve a empezar desde el principio."
Con la muerte tambi茅n sucede lo mismo, porque Pessoa declara que "Somos muerte. Esto que consideramos vida es el sue帽o de la vida real, la muerte de lo que verdaderamente somos", mientras que Kafka declara: "Morir no significa otra cosa que entregar la nada a la nada, pues, c贸mo podr铆a uno, que es una nada, entregarse con conciencia a la nada."
Tal vez otros lectores enfoquen sus apreciaciones exclusivamente en Pessoa. Yo le铆 todo este libro con Kafka en mente porque todo eso que le铆a me remit铆a directamente al autor checo, dado que como propuse, ambas personalidades y vidas tienen demasiados puntos en com煤n para dejarlas pasar.
La 煤nica diferencia clara es que Pessoa escrib铆a utilizando heter贸nimos (lleg贸 a crear setenta) siendo los m谩s destacados los Bernardo Soares, que es el ayudante de tenedor de libros en Lisboa que supuestamente escribe este libro, Ricardo Reis, 脕lvaro de Campos o tambi茅n el de Vicente Guedes, mientras que Kafka no se amparaba en ning煤n alter ego para su literatura.
Por el otro lado, ambas vidas concuerdan en lo solitario, la vida como empleados de oficinas, las relaciones esquivas y complejas con las mujeres y una constante presi贸n ejercida sobre s铆 mismos, lo que les confer铆a ese halo de desprotecci贸n y auto abandono:
"Conquist茅, palmo a palmo, el terreno interior que naci贸 m铆o. Demand茅, metro a metro, el pantano en que me inmovilic茅 nulo. Par铆 mi ser infinito pero me arranqu茅 a golpes de m铆."
Adem谩s del ep铆grafe que abre esta rese帽a, resuena en mi cabeza constantemente un verso de una canci贸n de Los redonditos de ricota en la que Solari canta 鈥淪iempre fui menos que mi reputaci贸n鈥�, pues Pessoa constantemente descree de s铆 mismo, su inconformismo y su apat铆a por todo aquello que atrae a las personas comunes lo asquea, le repugna.
En un momento choqu茅 con una frase que define cabalmente el desasosiego completo, absorbente y determinante que controla la vida de Fernando Pessoa: 鈥淪iento mi vida como si me golpearan con ella.鈥�
"El libro del desasosiego" es una forma de intentar acercarse a la mente y el coraz贸n de Fernando Pessoa y en cierta forma, mientras lo leemos, de tratar de conocernos a nosotros mismos.
June 20, 2014
"I follow the course of my dreams, making them images into steps toward other images; folding casual metaphors like fans into grand pictures of interior vision; I untie life from myself, and I toss it aside as if it were a too-tight suit."- Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet
You know a writer is great when he makes you want to learn a new language to understand his work in the original. "The Book of Disquiet" is easily the best book I've read this year, and possibly the one I've copied the most quotes from. I'd only ever read Pessoa's poetry and I had no idea what to expect from his prose. It turns out he does poetry and prose equally well.
I would love to have a conversation with Pessoa, although I would probably be an annoyance to him with his desire for solitude. But having a deep, philosophical conversation with him would be like a dream. He has such fascinating thoughts! He delves into the complexity of humans and helped me to understand the reason for his several heteronyms in his poetry:
"Each of us is various, many people, a prolixity of selves."
I feel that this is the sort of book that people will either think is brilliant or they will think Pessoa is too sentimental and sensitive. I have to say that I rarely come across a writer who thinks so deeply and obsessively about certain things. Pessoa's favourite topics seem to be dreams, solitude, writing, the futility of life (was he an existentialist? He reminds me a bit of Meursault). I may share Pessoa's melancholy to some extent but I don't share his negative outlook, his depression and his misanthropic nature! Even so, this was a brilliant book and one I'm so glad I finally read.
Pessoa's writing really consumed me at times. Definitely a book to be savoured, and a candidate for a re-read.
"When I write, I visit myself solemnly. I have special rooms, remembered by someone else in the interstices of my self-representation, where I take pleasure in analyzing what I do not feel, and I examine myself as if I were a painting in the shadows."
You know a writer is great when he makes you want to learn a new language to understand his work in the original. "The Book of Disquiet" is easily the best book I've read this year, and possibly the one I've copied the most quotes from. I'd only ever read Pessoa's poetry and I had no idea what to expect from his prose. It turns out he does poetry and prose equally well.
I would love to have a conversation with Pessoa, although I would probably be an annoyance to him with his desire for solitude. But having a deep, philosophical conversation with him would be like a dream. He has such fascinating thoughts! He delves into the complexity of humans and helped me to understand the reason for his several heteronyms in his poetry:
"Each of us is various, many people, a prolixity of selves."
I feel that this is the sort of book that people will either think is brilliant or they will think Pessoa is too sentimental and sensitive. I have to say that I rarely come across a writer who thinks so deeply and obsessively about certain things. Pessoa's favourite topics seem to be dreams, solitude, writing, the futility of life (was he an existentialist? He reminds me a bit of Meursault). I may share Pessoa's melancholy to some extent but I don't share his negative outlook, his depression and his misanthropic nature! Even so, this was a brilliant book and one I'm so glad I finally read.
Pessoa's writing really consumed me at times. Definitely a book to be savoured, and a candidate for a re-read.
"When I write, I visit myself solemnly. I have special rooms, remembered by someone else in the interstices of my self-representation, where I take pleasure in analyzing what I do not feel, and I examine myself as if I were a painting in the shadows."
March 27, 2024
(Almost finished.)
鈥渁 factless autobiography鈥�
Vivid. Compelling and Sincere.
A remarkable book. For experienced readers.
鈥渁 factless autobiography鈥�
Vivid. Compelling and Sincere.
A remarkable book. For experienced readers.
March 7, 2018
If I write what I feel, it鈥檚 to reduce the fever of feeling. What I confess is unimportant, because everything is unimportant. I make landscapes out of what I feel. I make holidays of my sensations. (42)
He who does not know how to populate his solitude, does not know either how to be alone in a busy crowd.
- Charles Baudelaire, Crowds
Some dreams want to transcend our minds. They want to feel alive, be outside and become reality. We all have dreamed about things that, even after we woke up, we are not sure if they actually happened or never left the secure yet claustrophobic mind of ours. And so, while those dreams are trying to abandon that place, magic can happen. When they realize they can't, tragedy awaits.
This is the story of a man who lived a thousand lives and wrote about the fragile boundary between reality and dreaming with the most beautiful and heartbreaking prose I've ever encountered.
I wanted to read this book for a long time. When I found it, I did something I try not to do: I skimmed it. I wanted to see something before my better judgment had control over my literary anxiety. Before I knew, I found myself reading a mesmerizing passage that I couldn't leave until I finished it.
Lucid Diary
My life: a tragedy booed off stage by the gods, never getting beyond the first act.
Friends: not one. Just a few acquaintances who imagine they feel something for me and who might be sorry if a train ran over me and the funeral was on a rainy day. The logical reward of my detachment from life is the incapacity I鈥檝e created in others to feel anything for me. There鈥檚 an aureole of indifference, an icy halo, that surrounds me and repels others. I still haven鈥檛 succeeded in not suffering from my solitude. It鈥檚 hard to achieve that distinction of spirit whereby isolation becomes a repose without anguish... (579)
From that moment, I just knew it was going to be an extremely emotional experience. Whoever said that reading is a passive activity, never found a book with the power of taking his soul out for a ride.
What a book. I could relate to almost every word. Every yearning for something that could never happen. Every loss that did happen. Every thought made by a restless mind. And every feeling conceived by an isolated heart longing for an endless dream. A cure. Redemption. Or nothing.
The melancholic beauty of his prose and the heartbreaking honesty of his sorrow made me feel too small. And relieved. Suddenly, many of my thoughts and feelings were exposed in those pages that I was never able to write. And he did it. Pessoa did it with the most exquisite language you could ever hope to find.
The atmosphere is filled with an overwhelming sense of failure and frustration.
I envy 鈥� but I鈥檓 not sure that I envy 鈥� those for whom a biography could be written, or who could write their own. In these random impressions, and with no desire to be other than random, I indifferently narrate my factless autobiography, my lifeless history. These are my Confessions, and if in them I say nothing, it鈥檚 because I have nothing to say. (42)
Each drop of rain is my failed life weeping in nature. There鈥檚 something of my disquiet in the endless drizzle, then shower, then drizzle, then shower, through which the day鈥檚 sorrow uselessly pours itself out over the earth.
It rains and keeps raining. My soul is damp from hearing it. So much rain... (177)
Solitude.
Solitude devastates me; company oppresses me. (80)
Again, fluid and uncertain, the rain pattered. Time dragged to its accompaniment. My soul鈥檚 solitude grew and spread, invading what I felt, what I wanted, and what I was going to dream. The room鈥檚 hazy objects, which shared my insomnia in the shadows, moved with their sadness into my desolation. (285)
Uncertainties.
And so, not knowing how to believe in God and unable to believe in an aggregate of animals, I, along with other people on the fringe, kept a distance from things... Could it think, the heart would stop beating. (30)
I've never had anyone I could call 鈥楳aster鈥�. No Christ died for me. No Buddha showed me the way. No Apollo or Athena, in my loftiest dreams, ever appeared to enlighten my soul. (533)
And many other displays of human nature. Devastating situations that contrast themselves with the lyrical beauty of this man's writing.
His crude words are still little sunbeams that could enlighten the obscure depths of our souls, only if we let them. In that so human selfishness of ours, we always think nobody is suffering more than we do. We are the only ones struggling to survive in this world that we never asked for. Well, we are not; that is not an extraordinary epiphany. But reading the words of a man whose thoughts are so familiar to us always represents an inspirational experience. We feel like we just found the necessary balm to soothe our pain. That is the healing power of understanding. Of empathy.
We are not alone. We never were. Like Soares in this book, I am acquainted with isolation more than I would have wanted to. I breathe it. I am made of it. And still, somehow, I am not alone.
A breath of music or of a dream, of something that would make me almost feel, something that would make me not think. (57)
Being fatally sensitive can be exhausting and a perpetual cause of sorrow. But the so-desired inability to feel resembles to being dead inside a living body. Human existence doesn't limit itself to some functional organs. Feeling nothing is not the answer. You might as well be truly dead.
So, yes. This book is my newest treasure. My diary and sanctuary. I can't help but to be grateful. It filled my head with many questions that I wish I could find the answers by myself.
What to do when we are forced to leave the safe place our dreams represent? Can they make us do it? Will we ever find the strength enough to face the world? Do we have to?
Do we dare?
I sleep when I dream of what doesn't exist; dreaming of what might exist wakes me up. (179)
Life should be about finding a sane balance between reality and fantasy. That reminds me of something I found the other day. I don't know if the following words really belong to Pizarnik鈥攖hey sure sound like her鈥攁nd since I couldn't find them in English, I kind of translated them. Trust me, they are too beautiful in Spanish. So, I apologize in advance.
I am simply not from this world... I frenziedly dwell in the moon. I am not afraid of dying; I am afraid of this foreign, aggressive land...
I cannot think about specific things; I am not interested. I cannot speak like everybody else. My words are foreign, they come from far away... What will I do when I plunge myself in my wildest dreams and cannot ascend? Because that is going to happen, eventually. I will go and I won't know how to come back. Moreover, I will not know that there is a "coming back". I will not want it, perhaps.
No. Pessoa was not alone.
According to this book, Soares was not a pessimist. He was sad. He suffered and dreamed. And he complained without knowing if suffering was the norm, if he deserved it for some reason. However, he rejoiced in the fact that he could play with his complaints and made them musical because he was an artist. He could give beauty to his complaints and dreams.
But, if you can't do that, if you are not an artist... well. What then?
Note: I read the English (Zenith) and Spanish (Crespo) translations at the same time. I prefer the English one.
Apr 27, 14
* Also on
** Other reviews:
A Little Larger Than the Entire Universe: Selected Poems
The Selected Prose of Fernando Pessoa
The Education of the Stoic
El Banquero Anarquista (written in Spanish)
December 12, 2023
The Book of Disquiet portrays the condition of the human soul, where the author brings us confessions and sensations exposed in each loose fragment. Here, Fernando Pessoa seeks to take us on a poetic and reflective journey into the human mind, simultaneously an intense and emotional journey.
February 20, 2015
Flow lightly, life that does not even feel itself, a silent, supple stream beneath forgotten trees! Flow softly, soul that does not know itself, a murmur hidden from view by great fallen branches! Flow vainly, aimlessly, consciousness conscious of nothing, a vague, distant glimmer through leafy clearings, with no known source or destination. Flow on, flow on and leave me to forget!
Flow smoothly, book that does not realize its influence, supple prose poem with ignitions of profundity. Read slowly, reader who wishes never to see it end.
One cannot read this book of fragmentary thoughts as quickly as one would others, for instead of plot or story, one finds style and syntax that reveal the human condition and psyche. So I read this one intentionally, wishing it would go on and on. Our protagonist and 鈥渧oice鈥� is that that of the solitary and observant older man, a writer who has never known the affections of childhood because he lost both his parents at a young age. What it must feel like to be loved, to feel the warmth of a mother鈥檚 hug, he ponders. He has never been in love, nor has he had any friends. In fact, he鈥檚 never had ambition, only his imagination and dreams:
Between myself and life there have always been panes of opaque glass, undetectable to me by sight or touch; I never actually lived life according to a plan, I was the daydream of what I wanted to be, my dream began in my will, my goal was always the first fiction of what I never was.
It is said that we learn more about life when we write, that we find ourselves within our prose (especially memoir writers). As I write this, I understand more about myself, and as I read his words, I realize that he and I are nothing alike, and yet we have so much in common:
I am, for the most part, the very prose that I write. I shape myself in periods and paragraphs, I punctuate myself and, in the unleashed chain of images, I make myself king, as children do, with a crown of made from a sheet of newspaper or, in finding rhythms in mere strings of words, I garland myself, as madmen do, with dried flowers that in my dreams still live.
This is the beauty of poignant prose, when we find pieces of ourselves within it. Someone should have given me this book years ago, when I was a teenager in a new country, recovering from war and struggling to find myself in a new world of structured freedom. Back then, I was living in tedium, as the narrator puts it. My new world was invigorating, yet scary, this idea that I could walk the streets freely (and not have to keep myself secluded from men and guns), that I could attend public high schools and apply for federal aid for college, that I could go to a library and read any book鈥攂etter yet, buy books freely and form my very own library? Although this was great, it was also painful, to be faced with the realization that this world had existed even while I'd been in a different world of imprisonment. I never knew how to verbalize that pain until now:
The pain of not understanding the mystery of life, the pain of being unloved, the pain of others鈥� injustice to us, the pain of life crushing us, suffocating and imprisoning us鈥�
To live in tedium is to die while still being alive, even while believing in staying alive: "Life chills me. My existence is all damp caves and dark catacombs." To live in tedium is to hope for a second chance at life, where one can do the things one has always imagined doing. This is the core expression of this book, I believe, this art of mastering self-consciousness. The book is a solemn but necessary read, this is why I鈥檝e recommended it to my students who are war survivors and to my veteran students who have just returned from Iraq and Afghanistan. And this is also why I would recommend it to anyone who is frustrated by, yet still fascinated with this thing called life.
These pages are the doodles of my intellectual consciousness of myself. I set them down in a torpor of feeling, like a cat in the sun, and re-read them at times with a dull, belated pang, as if remembering something I had always previously forgotten.
January 20, 2014
鈥淢y soul is a hidden orchestra; I know not what instruments, what fiddlestrings and harps, drums and tamboura I sound and clash inside myself. All I hear is the symphony.鈥�
An Orchestra of over 70 musicians, playing their own instruments, each producing an individual sound, a discrete voice, adding up from each corner, playing the distinctive notes of solitude, dream, rain and tedium, rising at one place while falling at another and producing a symphony so striking in its completion that it cannot be complete, like a painting frozen in time, striving for an expression it cannot possibly attain, and not because the painter isn鈥檛 skillful enough but because he chooses not to part from one, deliberately made imperceptible in the strokes, which is inherently his own. So while he did create 81 heteronyms* , each distinctly dissimilar in their style, we do not yet know who Pessoa actually was or what he believed in.
Fernando Pessoa, strictly speaking, doesn鈥檛 exist.*
Pessoa called this work as his 鈥渇actless biography鈥� I also came across the words 鈥淧蝉测肠丑辞驳谤补辫丑测鈥� and 鈥済eography of self awareness鈥� for the book. In my opinion, it has distinct tones of the absurd, and can be looked upon as an absurdist writing albeit on an altogether different level, though the hints of stoicism and cynicism are apparently evident too. You will not notice the 鈥渂abble/despair鈥� - characteristic of Beckett鈥檚 writing or 鈥淩ational absurd鈥� - quintessential trait of Camus鈥� writing, but a willful approach towards attaining the disquietude because his consciousness is a tedium resulting from the conclusion of senselessness of existence; an existence not of this world or life but his life.
鈥淚t sometimes happens, more or less suddenly, that in the midst of my sensations I鈥檓 overwhelmed by such a terrible weariness of life that I can鈥檛 even conceive of any act that might relieve it. Suicide seems a dubious remedy, and natural death 鈥� even assuming it brings unconsciousness 鈥� an insufficient one. Rather than the cessation of my existence, which may or may not be possible, this weariness makes me long for something far more horrifying and profound: never to have existed at all, which is definitely impossible.鈥�
His conviction of being a passer-by reminds me of Beckett鈥檚 belief of being a passer-by who finds himself over and over again (The Unnameable).
鈥淭his is my morality, or metaphysics, or me: passer-by of everything, even of my own soul, I belong to nothing, I desire nothing, I am nothing 鈥� just an abstract center of impersonal sensations, a fallen sentient mirror reflecting the world鈥檚 diversity. I don鈥檛 know if I鈥檓 happy this way. Nor do I care.鈥�
To overcome the anguish of life which he is so acutely aware of, he engages in imagination and dreaming. Perhaps this is the reason he created so many personalities, so as to be able to experience different lives within him. In fact, his approach is distinct in the sense that he is not only aware of his sensations, but he also exercises a control over them which is clearly visible from the number of heteronyms he created for himself, who could each write in distinct literary styles. According to him:
鈥淢y intellect has attained a pliancy and a reach that enable me to assume any emotion I desire and enter at will into any state of mind.鈥�*
This writing, which is a compilation of over 500 fragments, where each fragment, written perhaps on different days, seemingly an attempt at expressing the flow of thoughts or imagination capturing writer鈥檚 mind, does seem to have a structure in thoughts and more than often talks about solitude, dream, tedium and rain.
鈥淚t鈥檚 so hard to describe what I feel when I feel I really exist and my soul is a real entity that I don鈥檛 know what human words could define it. I don鈥檛 know if I have a fever, as I feel I do, or if I鈥檝e stopped having the fever of sleeping through life. Yes, I repeat, I鈥檓 like a traveller who suddenly finds himself in a strange town, without knowing how he got there, which makes me think of those who lose their memory and for a long time are not themselves but someone else. I was someone else for a long time鈥搒ince birth and consciousness 鈥揳nd suddenly I鈥檝e woken up in the middle of a bridge, leaning over the river and knowing that I exist more solidly than the person I was up till now. But the city is unknown to me, the streets are new, and the trouble has no cure. And so, leaning over the bridge, I wait for the truth to go away and let me return to being fictitious and non-existent, intelligent and natural.鈥�
Keeping in mind that this work is written by Bernardo Soares, the heteronym considered to be the closest to Pessoa鈥檚 real self, these lines acutely express Pessoa鈥檚 yearning to live an imagined life, as if in a dream, so as to forget his actual self in real life. He writes about his dreams, their nature and importance and goes as far as giving advice regarding them:
鈥淟ive your life. Don鈥檛 be lived by it. Right or wrong, happy or sad, be your own self. You can do this only by dreaming, because your real life, your human life, is the one that doesn鈥檛 belong to you but to others. You must replace your life with your dreaming, concentrating only on dreaming perfectly. In all the acts of your real life, from that of being born to that of dying, you don鈥檛 act 鈥� you鈥檙e acted; you don鈥檛 live 鈥� you鈥檙e merely lived.鈥�(Art of effective dreaming II)
Rain, which frequently appears in the text, seems a symbol of the incessant thoughts, pouring over writer鈥檚 mind and submerging his awareness in the disquiet that he experiences:
鈥淓ach drop of rain is my failed life weeping in nature. There鈥檚 something of my disquiet in the endless drizzle, then shower, then drizzle, then shower, through which the day鈥檚 sorrow uselessly pours itself out over the earth. It rains and keeps raining. My soul is damp from hearing it. So much rain鈥� My flesh is watery around my physical sensation of it.鈥� ( Rainy Landscape)
He profoundly expresses his tedium in words when he experiences it and also present to us different situations where one may feel tedium:
鈥淭edium鈥� Perhaps, deep down, it is the soul鈥檚 dissatisfaction because we didn鈥檛 give it a belief, the disappointment of the sad child (who we are on the inside) because we didn鈥檛 buy it the divine toy. Perhaps it is the insecurity of one who needs a guiding hand and who doesn鈥檛 feel, on the black path of profound sensation, anything more than the soundless night of not being able to think, the empty road of not being able to feel鈥︹€�
And what is still more astonishing is that though he wrote these fragments in solitude, over perhaps a decade or more, he wrote it as a dialogue between him and the future reader, allowing for either acceptance or rejection on the part of reader.
And I offer you this book because I know it is beautiful and useless. It teaches nothing, inspires no faith, and stirs no feeling. A mere stream that follows towards an abyss of ashes scattered by the wind, neither helping nor harming the soil..... I put my whole soul into making it, but without thinking about it as I made it, for I thought only of me, who am sad, and of you, who aren鈥檛 anyone. And because this book is absurd, I love it; because it is useless, I want to give it away; and because it serves no purpose to want to give it to you, I give it to you鈥�
As I conclude my review, I want to admit that this book overwhelmed me immensely, I witnessed Pessoa seeping inside me slowly, making me quiver with the words he spoke to me, more as I understood them. Perceiving the disquiet which so fiercely plagued him, the solitude that he opted to dream to somehow conquer it, but still returning to the unrest because he understood the futility, made his thoughts trace through my mind, linger there for sometime before finally coming home to me. But my effort at writing a more personal review didn鈥檛 ensue because if written, it would have been nothing but babble.
I am yet to complete reading Philosophical essays by Pessoa and the poems he wrote by the name of Albert Caeiro, but still I feel privileged to place him on the altar alongside Camus and Beckett.
---------------------------------------
*source - wikipedia
*Written by his creation, 脕lvaro de Campos, Notes for the Memory of My Master Caeiro (Editorial Estampa, 1997).
*From a 鈥淧ersonal note鈥�, 1910
February 20, 2012
...亘丿丕賷丞 賷噩亘 兀賳 兀匕賰乇 兀賳賷 鬲毓乇賮鬲 毓賱賶 亘賷爻賵丕 賲氐丕丿賮丞 賱賲 兀賰賳 兀毓乇賮 賴匕丕 丕賱卮丕毓乇 賵賱賲 兀爻賲毓 毓賳賴 賯亘賱 兀賳 兀賲丿 賷丿賷 賮賷 賲毓乇囟 丕賱賰鬲丕亘 毓賱賶 丿賷賵丕賳賴 乇亘丕毓賷丕鬲 賵丕賱匕賷 賰鬲亘 賮賷賴 兀乇賯 賵兀毓匕亘 賯氐丕卅丿 丕賱丨亘 賵賴賷 丕賱賯氐丕卅丿 丕賱賵丨賷丿丞 丕賱鬲賷 賰鬲亘賴丕 賮賷 丕賱丨亘 賱賯丿 卮丿鬲賳賷 毓匕賵亘丞 賴匕丕 丕賱卮丕毓乇 賵乇賵丨賴 丕賱卮賮賷賮丞 賵鬲氐賵賷乇丕鬲賴 丕賱乇賯賷賯丞 賰兀賳 賷賯賵賱
丕賱賲乇賷賵賱 丕賱匕賷 兀禺匕鬲賴 賲賳 丕賱丿乇噩
兀賱賷爻 賱賴 噩賷亘
賱兀囟毓 賳賮爻賷 賮賷賴
賱兀賰賵賳 賯乇亘賰 丿丕卅賲丕 !
賵賷賯賵賱
兀丿乇鬲賽 賵噩賴賰 賽 丨賷賳
賴賲賲鬲 兀賳 兀賯賵賱 賱賰賽 賮賷 丕賱賳賴丕賷丞
亘兀賳賰 賽 賱賵 兀丿乇鬲 賽 賵噩賴賰
賱賳 賷囟丕賷賯賳賷 匕賱賰 !
兀賷囟丕
兀噩賷亍 賵丨丿賷 廿賱賶 丕賱卮丕胤賶亍
兀噩賷 廿賱賶 丕賱卮丕胤賶亍 , 兀賮賰乇
亘丕賱丨乇賰丞 丕賱鬲賷 鬲孬賷乇賴丕 鬲賳賵乇鬲賰
毓賳丿賲丕 鬲噩賷卅賷賳 兀賳鬲賽 廿賱賶 丕賱卮丕胤賶亍 !
賵賴賰匕丕 賳卮兀鬲 亘賷賳賷 賵亘賷賳 亘賷爻賵丕 毓賱丕賯丞 丨亘 賮胤丕乇丿鬲 丨乇賮賴 丨鬲賶 賵噩丿鬲購 賱賴 丿賷賵丕賳賴 丨丕乇爻 丕賱賯胤賷毓 賵亘丨孬鬲 兀賷囟丕 賮賵噩丿鬲 賱賴 兀賷囟丕 丿賷賵丕賳 丌禺乇 亘鬲乇噩賲丞 丕賱賲賴丿賷 兀禺乇賷賮 賳爻禺丞 廿賱賰鬲乇賵賳賷丞 賵兀禺匕鬲 兀毓亘賾 賲賳 賳賴賱 賴匕丕 丕賱卮丕毓乇 丕賱賲賲鬲賱賶亍 亘丕賱廿丨爻丕爻 丨鬲賶 賯乇兀鬲 賲丐禺乇兀 毓賳 賰鬲丕亘 丕賱賱丕胤賲兀賳賷賳丞 賵賴賵 毓亘丕乇丞 毓賳 卮匕乇丕鬲 賳氐賵氐 賵鬲兀賲賱丕鬲 , 賵丕賱丨賲丿 賱賱賴 鬲賷爻乇 賱賷 丕賱丨氐賵賱 毓賱賶 丕賱賰鬲丕亘 賲賳 禺賱丕賱 廿丨丿賶 丕賱氐丿賷賯丕鬲 丕賱鬲賷 噩賱亘鬲賴 賱賷 賲賳 賲氐乇 ..
賰鬲丕亘 丕賱賱丕胤賲兀賳賷賳丞 毓亘丕乇丞 毓賳 賲賯丕胤毓 兀胤賱賯 毓賱賷賴丕 亘賷爻賵丕 丕賱賵囟毓 丕賱乇丕賴賳 賱賱丕賰賷賳賵賳丞 , 賵賴賷 賱賷爻鬲 賷賵賲賷丕鬲 賰賲丕 賷毓鬲賯丿 丕賱亘毓囟 廿賳賲丕 賰賲丕 賷賯賵賱 丕賱賲鬲乇噩賲 賴賷 丨賮乇賷丕鬲 賮賷 丕賱匕丕鬲 , 賰鬲丕亘 賲賳 丕賱廿丨爻丕爻 賵丕賱鬲兀賲賱 丕賱匕賷 賷賲囟賷 亘丕賱廿賮賰丕乇 廿賱賶 兀亘毓丿 丨丕賮丕鬲賴丕 丕賱賯氐賵賶 賲胤賱丕 亘賯賴賯丞 賵丕賴賳丞 毓賱賶 賴丕賵賷丕鬲 賱賲 賷禺鬲亘乇 賯乇丕乇賴丕 爻賵賶 亘賷爻賵丕 , 賴賵 賰鬲丕亘 賳孬乇 賵賱賰賳賴 賰鬲亘 亘賱睾丞 卮丕毓乇賷丞 賵賯丿 丕爻鬲睾乇賯 馗賴賵乇賴 賱賱賳賵乇 兀賰孬乇 賲賳 毓卮乇 爻賳賵丕鬲 亘爻亘亘 丕賱毓乇丕賯賷賱 丕賱鬲賷 賵噩丿賴丕 丕賱賲鬲乇噩賲 , 賵賷匕賰乇 兀賳 丕賱賰鬲丕亘 賱賲 賷賳卮乇 賮賷 丨賷丕丞 亘賷爻賵丕 亘賱 賴賵 賲丕丿丞 禺丕賲 賱賲 賷鬲賲賰賳 亘賷爻賵丕 賲賳 丕賱鬲毓丿賷賱 兀賵 丕賱廿囟丕賮丞 兀賵 鬲丨賯賷賯 丕賱賰鬲丕亘 , 廿賳 丕賱噩賴丿 丕賱匕賷 亘匕賱賴 丕賱賲鬲乇噩賲 賮丕賯 賰賱 丨丿賵丿 丕賱鬲氐賵乇 , 賰賲丕 賷噩亘 丕賱廿卮丕乇丞 廿賱賶 廿賳 賴賳丕賰 丕賱賰孬賷乇 賲賳 丕賱賲賯丕胤毓 丕賱睾賷乇 賲賰鬲賲賱丞 賵丕賱鬲賷 廿囟胤乇 丕賱賲鬲乇噩賲 廿賱賶 鬲乇賰 賮乇丕睾 賷卮亘賴 賴匕丕 ( --- ) 廿卮丕乇丞 廿賱賶 兀賳 噩夭亍 賲賳 丕賱賳氐 賲賮賯賵丿 兀賵 () 廿卮丕乇丞 廿賱賶 兀賳 賴賳丕賰 廿囟丕賮丞 賲賳 丕賱賳丕卮乇 ..
賷賯賵賱 亘賷爻賵丕 賮賷 鬲賯丿賷賲賴 賱賰鬲丕亘賴: 賵丕丨丿丞 賲賳 賲丌爻賷 丕賱乇賵丨 丕賱賰亘乇賶 兀賳 鬲賳賮匕 毓賲賱丕賸 孬賲 鬲丿乇賰貙 賮賵乇 丕賳鬲賴丕卅賰 賲賳賴貙 兀賳賴 賱賷爻 賲賳 丕賱噩賵丿丞 賮賷 卮賷亍貙 鬲賰亘乇 丕賱賲兀爻丕丞 禺氐賵氐丕賸 毓賳丿賲丕 賷丿乇賰 丕賱賲乇亍 兀賳 賴匕丕 丕賱毓賲賱 賴賵 賯氐丕乇賶 賲丕 賷爻鬲胤賷毓 亘匕賱賴貙 賵賱賰賳貙 兀賳 鬲賰鬲亘 毓賲賱丕賸貙 賵兀賳鬲 鬲毓乇賮 賲爻亘賯丕賸 兀賳賴 賲禺鬲賱 賵賳丕賯氐貙 賵兀賳鬲 鬲賰鬲亘賴貙 賲禺鬲賱丕賸 賵賳丕賯氐丕賸 賮賴匕賴 匕乇賵丞 丕賱毓匕丕亘 賵丕賱匕賱 丕賱乇賵丨賷賷賳貙 賱爻鬲 乇丕囟賷丕賸 毓賳 丕賱賯氐丕卅丿 丕賱鬲賷 兀賰鬲亘賴丕 丕賱丌賳 賮丨爻亘貨 亘賱 兀毓乇賮 廿賳賷 賱賳 兀乇囟賶 兀賷囟丕賸 毓賳 丕賱賯氐丕卅丿 丕賱鬲賷 爻兀賰鬲亘賴丕 賮賷 丕賱賲爻鬲賯亘賱貙 兀毓乇賮 賴匕丕 賮賱爻賮賷丕賸 賵亘賱丨賲 噩爻丿賷貙 賲賳 丕爻鬲卮乇丕賮 囟亘丕亘賷 賱丕 兀丿乇賶 賲賳 兀賷賳 丕爻鬲賯賷鬲賴貙 賮廿匕賳貙 賱賲丕匕丕 兀爻鬲賲乇 亘丕賱賰鬲丕亘丞責 賱兀賳賷 賱賲 兀鬲毓賱賲 亘毓丿 丕賱賲夭丕賵賱丞 丕賱鬲丕賲丞 賱賱鬲禺賱賷 丕賱匕賷 兀毓馗 亘賴貙 賱賲 兀鬲賲賰賳 亘毓丿 賲賳 丕賱鬲禺賱賷 毓賳 賲賷賱賷 廿賱賶 丕賱卮毓乇 賵丕賱賳孬乇貙 毓賱賷賾 亘丕賱賰鬲丕亘丞貙 賵賰兀賳賳賷 兀賳賮匕 毓賯賵亘丞 賲丕貙 賵丕賱毓賯賵亘丞 丕賱賯氐賵賶 賴賷 兀賳 兀毓乇賮 兀賳 賰賱 賲丕 兀賰鬲亘賴 毓丿賷賲 丕賱噩丿賵賶貙 賳丕賯氐 賵賷賮鬲賯丿 廿賱賶 丕賱賷賯賷賳
亘賷爻賵丕 丕禺鬲賱賯 卮禺氐賷丞 亘乇賳丕乇丿 爻賵丕乇卮 丕賱匕賷 鬲爻亘亘 賱賴 賵賱賱賯丕乇賶亍 丕賱賰孬賷乇 賲賳 丕賱廿乇亘丕賰 賮賴賵 賰孬賷乇丕 賲丕 賷鬲爻丕亍賱 賴賱 賴賵 兀賳丕 丌禺乇 賱賴貙 兀賲 賲噩乇丿 卮禺氐賷丞 兀丿亘賷丞貙 賵丕賱賲賱丕丨馗 廿賳 賴賳丕賰 丕賱賰孬賷乇 賲賳 丕賱丨賵丕乇丕鬲 丕賱鬲賷 丿丕乇鬲 亘賷賳賴 賵亘賷賳 賴匕賴 丕賱卮禺氐賷丞 丕賱賲禺鬲賱賯丞 丨鬲賶 廿賳賴丕 兀丨賷丕賳丕 鬲胤睾賶 毓賱賶 賵噩賵丿賴 丨鬲賶 賷禺鬲賮賷 賴賵 賵賷亘乇夭 丕賱丌禺乇
賵 賷賵囟丨 丕賱賳丕賯丿 兀賳禺賷賱 賰乇賷爻亘賵 兀賳 卮禺氐賷丞 爻賵丕乇卮 丕禺鬲乇毓賴丕 亘賷爻賵丕 賮賷 兀賷丕賲賴 丕賱兀禺賷乇丞貙賵賴賷 鬲亘丿賵 賲賰鬲賵亘丞 亘丕賱兀爻賱賵亘 丕賱兀賳囟噩 賵丕賱兀賰孬乇 鬲胤賵乇丕賸貙 賲賲丕 賷爻鬲丿毓賷 丕賱鬲賮賰賷乇 亘兀賳賴丕 賰購鬲亘鬲 禺賱丕賱 兀賷丕賲賴 丕賱兀禺賷乇丞 ..
廿賳 丕賱賲鬲兀賲賱 賮賷 丨賷丕丞 亘賷爻賵丕 賷乇賶 兀賳 兀睾賱亘 賰鬲丕亘丕鬲賴 鬲賲賷賱 賱賱毓夭賱丞 賵鬲賰卮賮 毓賳 賲毓丕賳丕丞 丨賯賷賯賷丞 毓丕卮賴丕 丕賱卮丕毓乇 賵賴賵 賷鬲爻賰毓 賮賷 卮賵丕乇毓 賱卮亘賵賳賴 兀賵 賵賴賵 賷胤賱 毓賱賶 丕賱毓丕賱賲 賲賳 禺賱丕賱 賳丕賮匕鬲賴 賮賷 丕賱胤丕亘賯 丕賱乇丕亘毓
( 孬賲丞 卮賷亍 賷睾賲賳賷 , 賯賱賯 賲噩賴賵賱 乇睾亘丞 睾賷乇 賲丨丿丿丞 賮賷 卮賷亍 睾賷乇 賲丨丿丿 , 廿丨爻丕爻賷 亘兀賳賳賷 丨賷 乇亘賲丕 噩丕亍賳賷 賲鬲兀禺乇丕 , 賵毓賳丿賲丕 兀胤賱賱鬲 賲賳 丕賱賳丕賮匕丞 丕賱毓丕賱賷丞 噩丿丕 毓賱賶 丕賱卮丕乇毓 丕賱匕賷 乇兀賷鬲賴 亘丿賵賳 兀賳 丕乇丕賴 , 兀丨爻爻鬲賳賷 賮噩兀丞 賵丕丨丿丕 賲賳 丕賱禺乇賯 丕賱乇胤亘丞 丕賱賲禺氐氐丞 賱鬲賳馗賷賮 兀卮賷丕亍 賲鬲爻禺丞 鬲賵囟毓 毓賱賶 丕賱賳丕賮匕丞 賱鬲噩賮 , 賱賰賳賴丕 鬲購賳爻賶 賲賱賮賵賮丞 毓賱賶 丕賱噩丿丕乇 丕賱匕賷 鬲賲囟賷 賲賱胤禺丞 廿賷丕賴 亘亘胤亍 ! )
廿賳 賴匕丕 丕賱賰鬲丕亘 賱丕 賷賲賰賳 兀賳 鬲鬲賲丕卮賶 賲毓賴 兀賷 鬲爻賲賷丞 兀禺乇賶 賴賵 賰鬲丕亘 禺丕賱賷 賲賳 丕賱胤賲兀賳賷賳丞 丕賱鬲賷 賷亘丨孬 毓賳 兀賷 廿賳爻丕賳 毓賱賶 賵噩賴 丕賱兀乇囟 爻鬲氐賱賰 兀丨丕爻賷爻 丕賱卮丕毓乇 賲賳 禺賱丕賱 丨乇賮賴 丕賱爻賵丿丕賵賷 賵乇亘賲丕 賷賳賯賱賰 賱丨丕賱丞 賲賳 丕賱賰丌亘丞 賵丕賱丨夭賳 賵丕賱卮毓賵乇 亘丕賱賱丕賲毓賳賶 !
丕賱賲乇賷賵賱 丕賱匕賷 兀禺匕鬲賴 賲賳 丕賱丿乇噩
兀賱賷爻 賱賴 噩賷亘
賱兀囟毓 賳賮爻賷 賮賷賴
賱兀賰賵賳 賯乇亘賰 丿丕卅賲丕 !
賵賷賯賵賱
兀丿乇鬲賽 賵噩賴賰 賽 丨賷賳
賴賲賲鬲 兀賳 兀賯賵賱 賱賰賽 賮賷 丕賱賳賴丕賷丞
亘兀賳賰 賽 賱賵 兀丿乇鬲 賽 賵噩賴賰
賱賳 賷囟丕賷賯賳賷 匕賱賰 !
兀賷囟丕
兀噩賷亍 賵丨丿賷 廿賱賶 丕賱卮丕胤賶亍
兀噩賷 廿賱賶 丕賱卮丕胤賶亍 , 兀賮賰乇
亘丕賱丨乇賰丞 丕賱鬲賷 鬲孬賷乇賴丕 鬲賳賵乇鬲賰
毓賳丿賲丕 鬲噩賷卅賷賳 兀賳鬲賽 廿賱賶 丕賱卮丕胤賶亍 !
賵賴賰匕丕 賳卮兀鬲 亘賷賳賷 賵亘賷賳 亘賷爻賵丕 毓賱丕賯丞 丨亘 賮胤丕乇丿鬲 丨乇賮賴 丨鬲賶 賵噩丿鬲購 賱賴 丿賷賵丕賳賴 丨丕乇爻 丕賱賯胤賷毓 賵亘丨孬鬲 兀賷囟丕 賮賵噩丿鬲 賱賴 兀賷囟丕 丿賷賵丕賳 丌禺乇 亘鬲乇噩賲丞 丕賱賲賴丿賷 兀禺乇賷賮 賳爻禺丞 廿賱賰鬲乇賵賳賷丞 賵兀禺匕鬲 兀毓亘賾 賲賳 賳賴賱 賴匕丕 丕賱卮丕毓乇 丕賱賲賲鬲賱賶亍 亘丕賱廿丨爻丕爻 丨鬲賶 賯乇兀鬲 賲丐禺乇兀 毓賳 賰鬲丕亘 丕賱賱丕胤賲兀賳賷賳丞 賵賴賵 毓亘丕乇丞 毓賳 卮匕乇丕鬲 賳氐賵氐 賵鬲兀賲賱丕鬲 , 賵丕賱丨賲丿 賱賱賴 鬲賷爻乇 賱賷 丕賱丨氐賵賱 毓賱賶 丕賱賰鬲丕亘 賲賳 禺賱丕賱 廿丨丿賶 丕賱氐丿賷賯丕鬲 丕賱鬲賷 噩賱亘鬲賴 賱賷 賲賳 賲氐乇 ..
賰鬲丕亘 丕賱賱丕胤賲兀賳賷賳丞 毓亘丕乇丞 毓賳 賲賯丕胤毓 兀胤賱賯 毓賱賷賴丕 亘賷爻賵丕 丕賱賵囟毓 丕賱乇丕賴賳 賱賱丕賰賷賳賵賳丞 , 賵賴賷 賱賷爻鬲 賷賵賲賷丕鬲 賰賲丕 賷毓鬲賯丿 丕賱亘毓囟 廿賳賲丕 賰賲丕 賷賯賵賱 丕賱賲鬲乇噩賲 賴賷 丨賮乇賷丕鬲 賮賷 丕賱匕丕鬲 , 賰鬲丕亘 賲賳 丕賱廿丨爻丕爻 賵丕賱鬲兀賲賱 丕賱匕賷 賷賲囟賷 亘丕賱廿賮賰丕乇 廿賱賶 兀亘毓丿 丨丕賮丕鬲賴丕 丕賱賯氐賵賶 賲胤賱丕 亘賯賴賯丞 賵丕賴賳丞 毓賱賶 賴丕賵賷丕鬲 賱賲 賷禺鬲亘乇 賯乇丕乇賴丕 爻賵賶 亘賷爻賵丕 , 賴賵 賰鬲丕亘 賳孬乇 賵賱賰賳賴 賰鬲亘 亘賱睾丞 卮丕毓乇賷丞 賵賯丿 丕爻鬲睾乇賯 馗賴賵乇賴 賱賱賳賵乇 兀賰孬乇 賲賳 毓卮乇 爻賳賵丕鬲 亘爻亘亘 丕賱毓乇丕賯賷賱 丕賱鬲賷 賵噩丿賴丕 丕賱賲鬲乇噩賲 , 賵賷匕賰乇 兀賳 丕賱賰鬲丕亘 賱賲 賷賳卮乇 賮賷 丨賷丕丞 亘賷爻賵丕 亘賱 賴賵 賲丕丿丞 禺丕賲 賱賲 賷鬲賲賰賳 亘賷爻賵丕 賲賳 丕賱鬲毓丿賷賱 兀賵 丕賱廿囟丕賮丞 兀賵 鬲丨賯賷賯 丕賱賰鬲丕亘 , 廿賳 丕賱噩賴丿 丕賱匕賷 亘匕賱賴 丕賱賲鬲乇噩賲 賮丕賯 賰賱 丨丿賵丿 丕賱鬲氐賵乇 , 賰賲丕 賷噩亘 丕賱廿卮丕乇丞 廿賱賶 廿賳 賴賳丕賰 丕賱賰孬賷乇 賲賳 丕賱賲賯丕胤毓 丕賱睾賷乇 賲賰鬲賲賱丞 賵丕賱鬲賷 廿囟胤乇 丕賱賲鬲乇噩賲 廿賱賶 鬲乇賰 賮乇丕睾 賷卮亘賴 賴匕丕 ( --- ) 廿卮丕乇丞 廿賱賶 兀賳 噩夭亍 賲賳 丕賱賳氐 賲賮賯賵丿 兀賵 () 廿卮丕乇丞 廿賱賶 兀賳 賴賳丕賰 廿囟丕賮丞 賲賳 丕賱賳丕卮乇 ..
賷賯賵賱 亘賷爻賵丕 賮賷 鬲賯丿賷賲賴 賱賰鬲丕亘賴: 賵丕丨丿丞 賲賳 賲丌爻賷 丕賱乇賵丨 丕賱賰亘乇賶 兀賳 鬲賳賮匕 毓賲賱丕賸 孬賲 鬲丿乇賰貙 賮賵乇 丕賳鬲賴丕卅賰 賲賳賴貙 兀賳賴 賱賷爻 賲賳 丕賱噩賵丿丞 賮賷 卮賷亍貙 鬲賰亘乇 丕賱賲兀爻丕丞 禺氐賵氐丕賸 毓賳丿賲丕 賷丿乇賰 丕賱賲乇亍 兀賳 賴匕丕 丕賱毓賲賱 賴賵 賯氐丕乇賶 賲丕 賷爻鬲胤賷毓 亘匕賱賴貙 賵賱賰賳貙 兀賳 鬲賰鬲亘 毓賲賱丕賸貙 賵兀賳鬲 鬲毓乇賮 賲爻亘賯丕賸 兀賳賴 賲禺鬲賱 賵賳丕賯氐貙 賵兀賳鬲 鬲賰鬲亘賴貙 賲禺鬲賱丕賸 賵賳丕賯氐丕賸 賮賴匕賴 匕乇賵丞 丕賱毓匕丕亘 賵丕賱匕賱 丕賱乇賵丨賷賷賳貙 賱爻鬲 乇丕囟賷丕賸 毓賳 丕賱賯氐丕卅丿 丕賱鬲賷 兀賰鬲亘賴丕 丕賱丌賳 賮丨爻亘貨 亘賱 兀毓乇賮 廿賳賷 賱賳 兀乇囟賶 兀賷囟丕賸 毓賳 丕賱賯氐丕卅丿 丕賱鬲賷 爻兀賰鬲亘賴丕 賮賷 丕賱賲爻鬲賯亘賱貙 兀毓乇賮 賴匕丕 賮賱爻賮賷丕賸 賵亘賱丨賲 噩爻丿賷貙 賲賳 丕爻鬲卮乇丕賮 囟亘丕亘賷 賱丕 兀丿乇賶 賲賳 兀賷賳 丕爻鬲賯賷鬲賴貙 賮廿匕賳貙 賱賲丕匕丕 兀爻鬲賲乇 亘丕賱賰鬲丕亘丞責 賱兀賳賷 賱賲 兀鬲毓賱賲 亘毓丿 丕賱賲夭丕賵賱丞 丕賱鬲丕賲丞 賱賱鬲禺賱賷 丕賱匕賷 兀毓馗 亘賴貙 賱賲 兀鬲賲賰賳 亘毓丿 賲賳 丕賱鬲禺賱賷 毓賳 賲賷賱賷 廿賱賶 丕賱卮毓乇 賵丕賱賳孬乇貙 毓賱賷賾 亘丕賱賰鬲丕亘丞貙 賵賰兀賳賳賷 兀賳賮匕 毓賯賵亘丞 賲丕貙 賵丕賱毓賯賵亘丞 丕賱賯氐賵賶 賴賷 兀賳 兀毓乇賮 兀賳 賰賱 賲丕 兀賰鬲亘賴 毓丿賷賲 丕賱噩丿賵賶貙 賳丕賯氐 賵賷賮鬲賯丿 廿賱賶 丕賱賷賯賷賳
亘賷爻賵丕 丕禺鬲賱賯 卮禺氐賷丞 亘乇賳丕乇丿 爻賵丕乇卮 丕賱匕賷 鬲爻亘亘 賱賴 賵賱賱賯丕乇賶亍 丕賱賰孬賷乇 賲賳 丕賱廿乇亘丕賰 賮賴賵 賰孬賷乇丕 賲丕 賷鬲爻丕亍賱 賴賱 賴賵 兀賳丕 丌禺乇 賱賴貙 兀賲 賲噩乇丿 卮禺氐賷丞 兀丿亘賷丞貙 賵丕賱賲賱丕丨馗 廿賳 賴賳丕賰 丕賱賰孬賷乇 賲賳 丕賱丨賵丕乇丕鬲 丕賱鬲賷 丿丕乇鬲 亘賷賳賴 賵亘賷賳 賴匕賴 丕賱卮禺氐賷丞 丕賱賲禺鬲賱賯丞 丨鬲賶 廿賳賴丕 兀丨賷丕賳丕 鬲胤睾賶 毓賱賶 賵噩賵丿賴 丨鬲賶 賷禺鬲賮賷 賴賵 賵賷亘乇夭 丕賱丌禺乇
賵 賷賵囟丨 丕賱賳丕賯丿 兀賳禺賷賱 賰乇賷爻亘賵 兀賳 卮禺氐賷丞 爻賵丕乇卮 丕禺鬲乇毓賴丕 亘賷爻賵丕 賮賷 兀賷丕賲賴 丕賱兀禺賷乇丞貙賵賴賷 鬲亘丿賵 賲賰鬲賵亘丞 亘丕賱兀爻賱賵亘 丕賱兀賳囟噩 賵丕賱兀賰孬乇 鬲胤賵乇丕賸貙 賲賲丕 賷爻鬲丿毓賷 丕賱鬲賮賰賷乇 亘兀賳賴丕 賰購鬲亘鬲 禺賱丕賱 兀賷丕賲賴 丕賱兀禺賷乇丞 ..
廿賳 丕賱賲鬲兀賲賱 賮賷 丨賷丕丞 亘賷爻賵丕 賷乇賶 兀賳 兀睾賱亘 賰鬲丕亘丕鬲賴 鬲賲賷賱 賱賱毓夭賱丞 賵鬲賰卮賮 毓賳 賲毓丕賳丕丞 丨賯賷賯賷丞 毓丕卮賴丕 丕賱卮丕毓乇 賵賴賵 賷鬲爻賰毓 賮賷 卮賵丕乇毓 賱卮亘賵賳賴 兀賵 賵賴賵 賷胤賱 毓賱賶 丕賱毓丕賱賲 賲賳 禺賱丕賱 賳丕賮匕鬲賴 賮賷 丕賱胤丕亘賯 丕賱乇丕亘毓
( 孬賲丞 卮賷亍 賷睾賲賳賷 , 賯賱賯 賲噩賴賵賱 乇睾亘丞 睾賷乇 賲丨丿丿丞 賮賷 卮賷亍 睾賷乇 賲丨丿丿 , 廿丨爻丕爻賷 亘兀賳賳賷 丨賷 乇亘賲丕 噩丕亍賳賷 賲鬲兀禺乇丕 , 賵毓賳丿賲丕 兀胤賱賱鬲 賲賳 丕賱賳丕賮匕丞 丕賱毓丕賱賷丞 噩丿丕 毓賱賶 丕賱卮丕乇毓 丕賱匕賷 乇兀賷鬲賴 亘丿賵賳 兀賳 丕乇丕賴 , 兀丨爻爻鬲賳賷 賮噩兀丞 賵丕丨丿丕 賲賳 丕賱禺乇賯 丕賱乇胤亘丞 丕賱賲禺氐氐丞 賱鬲賳馗賷賮 兀卮賷丕亍 賲鬲爻禺丞 鬲賵囟毓 毓賱賶 丕賱賳丕賮匕丞 賱鬲噩賮 , 賱賰賳賴丕 鬲購賳爻賶 賲賱賮賵賮丞 毓賱賶 丕賱噩丿丕乇 丕賱匕賷 鬲賲囟賷 賲賱胤禺丞 廿賷丕賴 亘亘胤亍 ! )
廿賳 賴匕丕 丕賱賰鬲丕亘 賱丕 賷賲賰賳 兀賳 鬲鬲賲丕卮賶 賲毓賴 兀賷 鬲爻賲賷丞 兀禺乇賶 賴賵 賰鬲丕亘 禺丕賱賷 賲賳 丕賱胤賲兀賳賷賳丞 丕賱鬲賷 賷亘丨孬 毓賳 兀賷 廿賳爻丕賳 毓賱賶 賵噩賴 丕賱兀乇囟 爻鬲氐賱賰 兀丨丕爻賷爻 丕賱卮丕毓乇 賲賳 禺賱丕賱 丨乇賮賴 丕賱爻賵丿丕賵賷 賵乇亘賲丕 賷賳賯賱賰 賱丨丕賱丞 賲賳 丕賱賰丌亘丞 賵丕賱丨夭賳 賵丕賱卮毓賵乇 亘丕賱賱丕賲毓賳賶 !
June 2, 2018
螘委谓伪喂 蟻蔚 蟺伪喂未委 渭慰蠀 魏维蟿喂 尾喂尾位委伪 蟺慰蠀 蟽慰蠀 未委谓慰蠀谓 蟿畏谓 伪委蟽胃畏蟽畏 蠈蟿喂 伪谓 未喂未维蟽魏慰谓蟿伪谓 蟽蟿伪 蟽蠂慰位蔚委伪 伪谓蟿委 蟿蠅谓 尾喂尾位委蠅谓 蟺慰蠀 未喂未维蟽魏慰谓蟿伪喂 蟿蠋蟻伪 委蟽蠅蟼 畏 魏慰喂谓蠅谓委伪 渭伪蟼 谓伪 萎蟿伪谓 未喂伪蠁慰蟻蔚蟿喂魏萎. 螛伪 渭慰蠀 蟺蔚委蟿蔚 渭伪 魏伪位维 胃伪 萎蟿伪谓 未喂伪蠁慰蟻蔚蟿喂魏萎 未喂伪尾维味慰谓蟿伪蟼 苇谓伪 尾喂尾位委慰 蟺慰蠀 伪纬纬委味蔚喂 蟿伪 蠈蟻喂伪 蟿畏蟼 魏伪蟿维胃位喂蠄畏蟼 伪谓 未蔚谓 蟿伪 尉蔚蟺蔚蟻谓维蔚喂 纬喂伪 魏维蟺慰喂慰蠀蟼, 苇谓伪 尾喂尾位委慰 蟺慰蠀 蟽蟿喂纬渭苇蟼 渭蟺慰蟻蔚委 谓伪 蟽蔚 尾维位蔚喂 蟽蟿畏 未喂伪未喂魏伪蟽委伪 谓伪 伪谓伪蠁蠅谓萎蟽蔚喂蟼 魏伪位维 蟽慰尾伪蟻维 蔚纬蠋 蟿蠋蟻伪 纬喂伪蟿委 蟿慰 未喂伪尾维味蠅 伪蠀蟿蠈 魏伪喂 魏维胃慰渭伪喂 魏伪喂 魏伪蟿伪胃位委尾慰渭伪喂 伪蟺蠈 渭蠈谓畏 渭慰蠀.
螝伪喂 蠈渭蠅蟼 谓伪喂 胃伪 萎蟿伪谓 纬喂伪 蟿慰谓 蔚尉萎蟼 位蠈纬慰. 螤苇蟻伪 蟿慰蠀 蠈蟿喂 蟽伪谓 伪谓维纬谓蠅蟽渭伪 蔚委谓伪喂 伪蟺蠈 魏蔚委谓伪 蟺慰蠀 蟽蔚 蔚蟺畏蟻蔚维味慰蠀谓 尾伪胃喂维 蟽蟿畏 蟽蠀谓蔚委未畏蟽畏 蟽慰蠀 魏伪喂 渭苇谓蔚喂 伪谓蔚尉委蟿畏位慰 蟽蟿畏 渭谓萎渭畏 渭慰蠀 胃蔚蠅蟻蠋 蠈蟿喂 蟺蔚蟿蠀蠂伪委谓蔚喂 伪蠀蟿蠈 蟺慰蠀 位委纬伪 尾喂尾位委伪 蟺蔚蟿蠀蠂伪委谓慰蠀谓 蟽蟿喂蟼 渭苇蟻蔚蟼 渭伪蟼. 螡伪 蟽慰蠀 伪谓伪未蔚委尉蔚喂 渭喂伪 蠅渭萎 蟺蟻伪纬渭伪蟿喂魏蠈蟿畏蟿伪, 谓伪 蟽慰蠀 伪位位维尉蔚喂 蟿慰谓 蟿蟻蠈蟺慰 渭蔚 蟿慰谓 慰蟺慰委慰 尾位苇蟺蔚喂蟼 蟿伪 蟺蟻维纬渭伪蟿伪, 谓伪 蟽蔚 魏维谓蔚喂 谓伪 胃蔚蟼 谓伪 蟽魏维蠄蔚喂蟼 蟺喂慰 尾伪胃喂维 渭苇蟽伪 蟽蟿畏谓 蠄蠀蠂慰蠉位伪 蟽慰蠀 魏伪喂 蟽蟿畏谓 蟺喂慰 蟽魏慰蟿蔚喂谓萎 蟺位蔚蠀蟻维 蟿畏蟼 魏伪喂 谓伪 蟿畏谓 魏慰喂蟿维尉蔚喂蟼 魏伪蟿维渭伪蟿伪. 螘委渭伪喂 伪蟺蠈 魏蔚委谓慰蠀蟼 蟿慰蠀蟼 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺慰蠀蟼 蟺慰蠀 谓伪喂 蟺慰位位苇蟼 蠁慰蟻苇蟼 蔚纬魏位蠅尾委味慰渭伪喂 渭苇蟽伪 蟽蟿畏 蟽魏苇蠄畏 渭慰蠀, 蟺慰蠀 渭慰蠀 蔚委谓伪喂 蟺喂慰 蔚蠉魏慰位慰 谓伪 魏伪蟿蔚蠀胃蠉谓蠅 蟿慰 渭蠀伪位蠈 渭慰蠀 蟽蔚 蠈蟽伪 蟺维谓蠅 魏维蟿蠅 伪谓伪蟻蠅蟿喂苇蟿伪喂 魏伪喂 慰 螤蔚蟽蟽蠈伪 渭苇蟽伪 伪蟺蠈 蟿慰 苇蟻纬慰 蟿慰蠀 慰蟺蠈蟿蔚 渭慰蠀 蔚委谓伪喂 蔚尉伪喂蟻蔚蟿喂魏维 未蠉蟽魏慰位慰 伪谓 胃苇位蔚蟿蔚 魏维蟺慰喂蔚蟼 蠁慰蟻苇蟼 谓伪 魏维谓蠅 芦蠂蠅蟻喂蠈禄 渭蔚 维蟿慰渭伪 蠂蠅蟻委蟼 魏慰喂谓蠅谓喂魏蠈 蟺蟻慰蟽伪谓伪蟿慰位喂蟽渭蠈, 渭蔚 维蟿慰渭伪 蟺慰蠀 未蔚谓 魏维胃喂蟽伪谓 蟺慰蟿苇 蟺伪蟻苇伪 渭蔚 蟿慰谓 蔚伪蠀蟿蠈 蟿慰蠀蟼 .
螤维位喂 蔚未蠋 胃伪 渭慰蠀 蟺蔚委蟿蔚 魏伪位维 尾蟻蔚 魏慰蟺苇位伪 渭慰蠀 蟿喂 渭伪蟼 位蔚蟼 蟽蠀渭尾慰蠀位蔚蠉蔚喂蟼 蟿慰谓 魏蠈蟽渭慰 谓伪 蟺伪胃伪委谓蔚喂 魏伪蟿维胃位喂蠄畏 渭蟺伪蟼 魏伪喂 魏伪蟿伪蠁苇蟻蔚喂 谓伪 尾蟻蔚喂 蟿畏谓 蟺蟻伪纬渭伪蟿喂魏萎 蠄蠀蠂喂魏萎 蟿慰蠀 蠀蟺蠈蟽蟿伪蟽畏. 螌蠂喂 伪蟺位维 蟺蟻慰蟽蟺伪胃蠋 谓伪 蟺蠅 蠈蟿喂 未蔚谓 蟺蟻苇蟺蔚喂 蟺维谓蟿伪 谓伪 蟿慰 尾位苇蟺慰蠀渭蔚 蠅蟼 渭喂伪 蟺蟻慰蟽蠅蟺喂魏萎 萎蟿蟿伪 渭伪蟼 伪位位维 蠈蟿喂 渭蔚 未喂魏萎 渭伪蟼 蟺蟻慰蟽蠅蟺喂魏萎 未慰蠀位蔚喂维 渭蟺慰蟻慰蠉渭蔚 谓伪 尾纬慰蠉渭蔚 伪蟺蠈 伪蠀蟿蠈 蟿慰 未蠉蟽尾伪蟿慰 渭慰谓慰蟺维蟿喂 魏伪喂 谓鈥� 伪谓伪蟺谓蔚蠉蟽慰蠀渭蔚 尉伪谓维 魏维谓慰谓蟿伪蟼 蟺蟻维纬渭伪蟿伪 蟽伪谓 谓伪 蔚委谓伪喂 畏 蟺蟻蠋蟿畏 蠁慰蟻维. 螤慰蟿苇 未蔚谓 蔚委谓伪喂 伪蟻纬维 纬喂伪 伪蠁蠉蟺谓喂蟽畏. 螡伪喂 蟺慰蟿苇 未蔚谓 渭蟺慰蟻蔚委蟼 谓伪 尉苇蟻蔚喂蟼 蟺蠈蟽畏 未蠉谓伪渭畏 苇蠂蔚喂 蟿慰 蟿苇蟻伪蟼 蟿畏蟼 魏伪蟿维胃位喂蠄畏蟼 渭苇蟽伪 蟽慰蠀 魏伪喂 蟺蠈蟿蔚 胃伪 蔚渭蠁伪谓喂蟽蟿蔚委 尉伪谓维 伪位位维 蟽蟿慰 蔚谓未喂维渭蔚蟽慰 蠀蟺维蟻蠂蔚喂 蟺维谓蟿伪 畏 味蠅萎 魏伪喂 慰蠁蔚委位蔚喂蟼 谓伪 蟿畏 味蔚喂蟼.
危畏渭蔚委蠅蟽伪 蟽蠂蔚未蠈谓 蟿慰 渭喂蟽蠈 尾喂尾位委慰. 螛伪 渭蟺慰蟻慰蠉蟽伪 谓伪 蟽伪蟼 纬蟻维蠁蠅 蠂喂位喂维未蔚蟼 伪蟺慰蟽蟺维蟽渭伪蟿伪 蟺慰蠀 渭慰蠀 渭委位畏蟽伪谓 蠈渭蠅蟼 蔚蟺苇位蔚尉伪 谓伪 渭慰喂蟻伪蟽蟿蠋 渭伪味委 蟽伪蟼 蟿慰 蟽蠀纬魏蔚魏蟻喂渭苇谓慰:
鈥溛斘滴� 尉苇蟻蠅 蟿喂 胃苇位蠅 魏伪喂 蟿喂 未蔚 胃苇位蠅. 螆蠂蠅 蟽蟿伪渭伪蟿萎蟽蔚喂 谓伪 尉苇蟻蠅 蟿喂 胃苇位蠅, 谓伪 尉苇蟻蠅 蟺蠅蟼 胃伪 胃蔚位萎蟽蠅, 未蔚谓 伪谓伪纬谓蠅蟻委味蠅 蟺喂伪 蟿喂蟼 蟽蠀纬魏喂谓萎蟽蔚喂蟼 萎 蟿喂蟼 蟽魏苇蠄蔚喂蟼 渭蔚 蟿喂蟼 慰蟺慰委蔚蟼 魏伪蟿伪位伪尾伪委谓慰蠀渭蔚 蟽蠀谓萎胃蠅蟼 蟺蠅蟼 胃苇位慰蠀渭蔚 萎 蟺蠅蟼 胃苇位慰蠀渭蔚 谓伪 胃蔚位萎蟽慰蠀渭蔚. 螖蔚谓 尉苇蟻蠅 蟺慰喂慰蟼 蔚委渭伪喂 萎 蟿喂 蔚委渭伪喂. 螝蔚委渭伪喂 魏维蟿蠅 伪蟺蠈 蟿畏谓 纬魏蟻蔚渭喂蟽渭苇谓畏 魏蔚谓蠈蟿畏蟿伪 蟿慰蠀 蟽蠉渭蟺伪谓蟿慰蟼 慰位蠈魏位畏蟻慰蠀, 蟽伪谓 谓伪 苇蠂蠅 胃伪蠁蟿蔚委 魏维蟿蠅 伪蟺蠈 苇谓伪 蟿慰委蠂慰 蟺慰蠀 魏伪蟿蔚未伪蠁委蟽蟿畏魏蔚. 螝伪喂 苇蟿蟽喂 蟺维蠅, 伪魏慰位慰蠀胃蠋谓蟿伪蟼 蟿伪 委未喂伪 渭慰蠀 蟿伪 委蠂谓畏, 渭苇蠂蟻喂蟼 蠈蟿慰蠀 蟺苇蟽蔚喂 畏 谓蠉蠂蟿伪, 魏伪喂 畏 渭喂魏蟻萎 伪谓伪魏慰蠉蠁喂蟽畏 蟺蠅蟼 蔚委渭伪喂 未喂伪蠁慰蟻蔚蟿喂魏蠈蟼 苇蟻胃蔚喂 谓伪 伪谓蔚渭委蟽蔚喂 蟽伪谓 伪蠉蟻伪 蟺维谓蠅 蟽蟿畏谓 伪蟻蠂萎 伪蠀蟿萎蟼 蟿畏蟼 伪谓蠀蟺慰渭慰谓畏蟽委伪蟼 伪蟺苇谓伪谓蟿喂 蟽蟿慰谓 蔚伪蠀蟿蠈 渭慰蠀. 鈥�
螝伪喂 蠈渭蠅蟼 谓伪喂 胃伪 萎蟿伪谓 纬喂伪 蟿慰谓 蔚尉萎蟼 位蠈纬慰. 螤苇蟻伪 蟿慰蠀 蠈蟿喂 蟽伪谓 伪谓维纬谓蠅蟽渭伪 蔚委谓伪喂 伪蟺蠈 魏蔚委谓伪 蟺慰蠀 蟽蔚 蔚蟺畏蟻蔚维味慰蠀谓 尾伪胃喂维 蟽蟿畏 蟽蠀谓蔚委未畏蟽畏 蟽慰蠀 魏伪喂 渭苇谓蔚喂 伪谓蔚尉委蟿畏位慰 蟽蟿畏 渭谓萎渭畏 渭慰蠀 胃蔚蠅蟻蠋 蠈蟿喂 蟺蔚蟿蠀蠂伪委谓蔚喂 伪蠀蟿蠈 蟺慰蠀 位委纬伪 尾喂尾位委伪 蟺蔚蟿蠀蠂伪委谓慰蠀谓 蟽蟿喂蟼 渭苇蟻蔚蟼 渭伪蟼. 螡伪 蟽慰蠀 伪谓伪未蔚委尉蔚喂 渭喂伪 蠅渭萎 蟺蟻伪纬渭伪蟿喂魏蠈蟿畏蟿伪, 谓伪 蟽慰蠀 伪位位维尉蔚喂 蟿慰谓 蟿蟻蠈蟺慰 渭蔚 蟿慰谓 慰蟺慰委慰 尾位苇蟺蔚喂蟼 蟿伪 蟺蟻维纬渭伪蟿伪, 谓伪 蟽蔚 魏维谓蔚喂 谓伪 胃蔚蟼 谓伪 蟽魏维蠄蔚喂蟼 蟺喂慰 尾伪胃喂维 渭苇蟽伪 蟽蟿畏谓 蠄蠀蠂慰蠉位伪 蟽慰蠀 魏伪喂 蟽蟿畏谓 蟺喂慰 蟽魏慰蟿蔚喂谓萎 蟺位蔚蠀蟻维 蟿畏蟼 魏伪喂 谓伪 蟿畏谓 魏慰喂蟿维尉蔚喂蟼 魏伪蟿维渭伪蟿伪. 螘委渭伪喂 伪蟺蠈 魏蔚委谓慰蠀蟼 蟿慰蠀蟼 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺慰蠀蟼 蟺慰蠀 谓伪喂 蟺慰位位苇蟼 蠁慰蟻苇蟼 蔚纬魏位蠅尾委味慰渭伪喂 渭苇蟽伪 蟽蟿畏 蟽魏苇蠄畏 渭慰蠀, 蟺慰蠀 渭慰蠀 蔚委谓伪喂 蟺喂慰 蔚蠉魏慰位慰 谓伪 魏伪蟿蔚蠀胃蠉谓蠅 蟿慰 渭蠀伪位蠈 渭慰蠀 蟽蔚 蠈蟽伪 蟺维谓蠅 魏维蟿蠅 伪谓伪蟻蠅蟿喂苇蟿伪喂 魏伪喂 慰 螤蔚蟽蟽蠈伪 渭苇蟽伪 伪蟺蠈 蟿慰 苇蟻纬慰 蟿慰蠀 慰蟺蠈蟿蔚 渭慰蠀 蔚委谓伪喂 蔚尉伪喂蟻蔚蟿喂魏维 未蠉蟽魏慰位慰 伪谓 胃苇位蔚蟿蔚 魏维蟺慰喂蔚蟼 蠁慰蟻苇蟼 谓伪 魏维谓蠅 芦蠂蠅蟻喂蠈禄 渭蔚 维蟿慰渭伪 蠂蠅蟻委蟼 魏慰喂谓蠅谓喂魏蠈 蟺蟻慰蟽伪谓伪蟿慰位喂蟽渭蠈, 渭蔚 维蟿慰渭伪 蟺慰蠀 未蔚谓 魏维胃喂蟽伪谓 蟺慰蟿苇 蟺伪蟻苇伪 渭蔚 蟿慰谓 蔚伪蠀蟿蠈 蟿慰蠀蟼 .
螤维位喂 蔚未蠋 胃伪 渭慰蠀 蟺蔚委蟿蔚 魏伪位维 尾蟻蔚 魏慰蟺苇位伪 渭慰蠀 蟿喂 渭伪蟼 位蔚蟼 蟽蠀渭尾慰蠀位蔚蠉蔚喂蟼 蟿慰谓 魏蠈蟽渭慰 谓伪 蟺伪胃伪委谓蔚喂 魏伪蟿维胃位喂蠄畏 渭蟺伪蟼 魏伪喂 魏伪蟿伪蠁苇蟻蔚喂 谓伪 尾蟻蔚喂 蟿畏谓 蟺蟻伪纬渭伪蟿喂魏萎 蠄蠀蠂喂魏萎 蟿慰蠀 蠀蟺蠈蟽蟿伪蟽畏. 螌蠂喂 伪蟺位维 蟺蟻慰蟽蟺伪胃蠋 谓伪 蟺蠅 蠈蟿喂 未蔚谓 蟺蟻苇蟺蔚喂 蟺维谓蟿伪 谓伪 蟿慰 尾位苇蟺慰蠀渭蔚 蠅蟼 渭喂伪 蟺蟻慰蟽蠅蟺喂魏萎 萎蟿蟿伪 渭伪蟼 伪位位维 蠈蟿喂 渭蔚 未喂魏萎 渭伪蟼 蟺蟻慰蟽蠅蟺喂魏萎 未慰蠀位蔚喂维 渭蟺慰蟻慰蠉渭蔚 谓伪 尾纬慰蠉渭蔚 伪蟺蠈 伪蠀蟿蠈 蟿慰 未蠉蟽尾伪蟿慰 渭慰谓慰蟺维蟿喂 魏伪喂 谓鈥� 伪谓伪蟺谓蔚蠉蟽慰蠀渭蔚 尉伪谓维 魏维谓慰谓蟿伪蟼 蟺蟻维纬渭伪蟿伪 蟽伪谓 谓伪 蔚委谓伪喂 畏 蟺蟻蠋蟿畏 蠁慰蟻维. 螤慰蟿苇 未蔚谓 蔚委谓伪喂 伪蟻纬维 纬喂伪 伪蠁蠉蟺谓喂蟽畏. 螡伪喂 蟺慰蟿苇 未蔚谓 渭蟺慰蟻蔚委蟼 谓伪 尉苇蟻蔚喂蟼 蟺蠈蟽畏 未蠉谓伪渭畏 苇蠂蔚喂 蟿慰 蟿苇蟻伪蟼 蟿畏蟼 魏伪蟿维胃位喂蠄畏蟼 渭苇蟽伪 蟽慰蠀 魏伪喂 蟺蠈蟿蔚 胃伪 蔚渭蠁伪谓喂蟽蟿蔚委 尉伪谓维 伪位位维 蟽蟿慰 蔚谓未喂维渭蔚蟽慰 蠀蟺维蟻蠂蔚喂 蟺维谓蟿伪 畏 味蠅萎 魏伪喂 慰蠁蔚委位蔚喂蟼 谓伪 蟿畏 味蔚喂蟼.
危畏渭蔚委蠅蟽伪 蟽蠂蔚未蠈谓 蟿慰 渭喂蟽蠈 尾喂尾位委慰. 螛伪 渭蟺慰蟻慰蠉蟽伪 谓伪 蟽伪蟼 纬蟻维蠁蠅 蠂喂位喂维未蔚蟼 伪蟺慰蟽蟺维蟽渭伪蟿伪 蟺慰蠀 渭慰蠀 渭委位畏蟽伪谓 蠈渭蠅蟼 蔚蟺苇位蔚尉伪 谓伪 渭慰喂蟻伪蟽蟿蠋 渭伪味委 蟽伪蟼 蟿慰 蟽蠀纬魏蔚魏蟻喂渭苇谓慰:
鈥溛斘滴� 尉苇蟻蠅 蟿喂 胃苇位蠅 魏伪喂 蟿喂 未蔚 胃苇位蠅. 螆蠂蠅 蟽蟿伪渭伪蟿萎蟽蔚喂 谓伪 尉苇蟻蠅 蟿喂 胃苇位蠅, 谓伪 尉苇蟻蠅 蟺蠅蟼 胃伪 胃蔚位萎蟽蠅, 未蔚谓 伪谓伪纬谓蠅蟻委味蠅 蟺喂伪 蟿喂蟼 蟽蠀纬魏喂谓萎蟽蔚喂蟼 萎 蟿喂蟼 蟽魏苇蠄蔚喂蟼 渭蔚 蟿喂蟼 慰蟺慰委蔚蟼 魏伪蟿伪位伪尾伪委谓慰蠀渭蔚 蟽蠀谓萎胃蠅蟼 蟺蠅蟼 胃苇位慰蠀渭蔚 萎 蟺蠅蟼 胃苇位慰蠀渭蔚 谓伪 胃蔚位萎蟽慰蠀渭蔚. 螖蔚谓 尉苇蟻蠅 蟺慰喂慰蟼 蔚委渭伪喂 萎 蟿喂 蔚委渭伪喂. 螝蔚委渭伪喂 魏维蟿蠅 伪蟺蠈 蟿畏谓 纬魏蟻蔚渭喂蟽渭苇谓畏 魏蔚谓蠈蟿畏蟿伪 蟿慰蠀 蟽蠉渭蟺伪谓蟿慰蟼 慰位蠈魏位畏蟻慰蠀, 蟽伪谓 谓伪 苇蠂蠅 胃伪蠁蟿蔚委 魏维蟿蠅 伪蟺蠈 苇谓伪 蟿慰委蠂慰 蟺慰蠀 魏伪蟿蔚未伪蠁委蟽蟿畏魏蔚. 螝伪喂 苇蟿蟽喂 蟺维蠅, 伪魏慰位慰蠀胃蠋谓蟿伪蟼 蟿伪 委未喂伪 渭慰蠀 蟿伪 委蠂谓畏, 渭苇蠂蟻喂蟼 蠈蟿慰蠀 蟺苇蟽蔚喂 畏 谓蠉蠂蟿伪, 魏伪喂 畏 渭喂魏蟻萎 伪谓伪魏慰蠉蠁喂蟽畏 蟺蠅蟼 蔚委渭伪喂 未喂伪蠁慰蟻蔚蟿喂魏蠈蟼 苇蟻胃蔚喂 谓伪 伪谓蔚渭委蟽蔚喂 蟽伪谓 伪蠉蟻伪 蟺维谓蠅 蟽蟿畏谓 伪蟻蠂萎 伪蠀蟿萎蟼 蟿畏蟼 伪谓蠀蟺慰渭慰谓畏蟽委伪蟼 伪蟺苇谓伪谓蟿喂 蟽蟿慰谓 蔚伪蠀蟿蠈 渭慰蠀. 鈥�
October 15, 2024
It's near impossible to review a book that has sat by the bedside for a decade and read in short bursts - yet it comes with big doses of ideas. When I would read a paragraph (aphorism, insight, what are these?) they console the mind that has to live (at times reluctantly) inside a body within the physical world. If only all things were mind I think while reading Pessoa. He is a writer who almost exists outside human form in a state of thought himself; perhaps he continues to exist as a set of ideas, the way he existed as a set of heteronyms, or personas attempting to escape the constraints of body. Expressing what I think of this book is pointless, reading it - even piecemeal - is essential.
Addit 18-1-2021
A few thoughts more about Pessoa鈥檚 Book of Disquiet
Words carry our thoughts. Some thoughts defy understanding. They are so ambiguous, so disharmonious, so disquieting that they need their own interpreter to the world beyond. So we need Fernando Pessoa, who gave us the most thorough examination of particular thoughts that rarely find expression, who found the words regardless, and placed them in the Book of Disquiet. And we almost didn鈥檛 have his works, mostly found in a trunk after his death and reassembled by readers who understood his poetics and his thoughts. Less 'book'; more collection of estray documents and thoughts. [the word 'estray' comes from the world of archiving. A document out of place, misplaced, not fitting the location which created it. It troubles and challenges the archivist to find a home, or examine it more closely. Pessoa often comes across as the epitome of the not quite belonging in this world.]
He himself wondered if these words in a trunk might ever happen. Possibility and impossibility are opposites, yet to Pessoa they breathe in a new place in the world of ideas:
It sometimes occurs to me with sad delight, that if one day (in a future to which I won't belong) the sentences I write are read and admired, then at last I鈥檒l have my own kin, people who 鈥榰nderstand鈥� me, my true family in which to be born and loved. But far from being born to it, I鈥檒l have already died long ago.
A Pessoa idea captures both hope, and the despair of not hoping. He calls it sad delight: opposites. That is one Pessoa idea that exists because he gave it hope. Here is another one of his between places:
Before summer ends and autumn arrives, in the warm interim when the air weighs heavy and the colours dim, the late afternoons wear an almost tangible robe of imitation glory.
鈥業mitation glory鈥�?.
What is that but an imagined place, somewhere in the 鈥榳arm interim鈥�. Perhaps it鈥檚 just the weather in Portugal, the Mediterranean, perhaps it鈥檚 only of place. But in this place:
"going and stopping are the same impossible thing鈥�
鈥淗ope and doubt are equally cold and grey鈥�
鈥淚鈥檓 a shelf of empty jars鈥�
鈥淎nd yet what nostalgia for the future鈥�*
How can the future be a place of nostalgia, hope and doubt equal, except in a poetic universe where the study of a single incomprehensible emotional location is possible? Like the quest for the sensation of death:
the physical sensation of ceasing to live**
I think of Emily Dickinson, who also sought indefinable states of being, some in-betweens of human understanding:
I heard a fly buzz - when I died -
The stillness in the room
was like the stillness in the air -
Between the heaves of storm
Or
After great pain, a formal feeling comes
These are the locations poets and writers pursue, that most of us give only passing consideration to and move on. Poets, though, are in for the long haul to come up with lines like:
I鈥檓 dazed by a sarcastic terror of life, a despondency that exceeds the limits of my conscious being. I realise that I was all error and deviation, that I never lived, that I existed only insomuch as I filled time with consciousness and thought
This is what we need poets and writers for, to tease out what we ignore - or stopped thinking about - as adults. And perhaps what preoccupied many of us as children, too. I can鈥檛 help thinking of a child bored in their thought on a rain sodden day with nothing to do. That boredom turns to thoughts unbound by time and physical necessity. Pessoa at times is that little child that sees the limitless possibility of ideas before the world engulfs him in the practice and routine of programmed life.
Writing, too, is the imagined pastime 鈥� if you can imagine writing, you can imagine more than just the imposition of other people鈥檚 structures 鈥� and worry as you walk down the street that all these people around you might lose those imagined thoughts 鈥� so where are all their lost thoughts? Pessoa attempted to gather some of them for us.
That is all writing is, the relentless pursuit of an idea. But an idea in writing can only be a kind of imitation, a copy of an idea. Imperfect:
Everything we do in art or in life is the imperfect copy of what we thought of doing
________________________________
*Much later than Pessoa, I came across this idea of the nostalgia for the future in the ideas of Slavo Zizek the Slovenian philosopher and critic. He wondered what it was about writing about an immediate future dystopia, he was referring to the Handmaid's Tale, but there are others, it seems a bit of a popular genre. He said of such books that the have "A nostalgia for the immediate future". I found that a compelling way to understand a fantasy for proving that you can imagine a dystopian world and expect it to come true.
** compare this to
Death is nothing to us; for the body, when it has been resolved into its elements, has no feeling, and that which has no feeling is nothing to us.
Diogenes La毛rtius, Epicurean Principal Doctrines
SEE ALSO:
Saramago鈥檚 Life in Death of Ricardo Reis /book/show/2...
罢补产耻肠肠丑颈鈥檚
Pereira Declares /book/show/1...
and
Requiem /book/show/1...
Addit 18-1-2021
A few thoughts more about Pessoa鈥檚 Book of Disquiet
Words carry our thoughts. Some thoughts defy understanding. They are so ambiguous, so disharmonious, so disquieting that they need their own interpreter to the world beyond. So we need Fernando Pessoa, who gave us the most thorough examination of particular thoughts that rarely find expression, who found the words regardless, and placed them in the Book of Disquiet. And we almost didn鈥檛 have his works, mostly found in a trunk after his death and reassembled by readers who understood his poetics and his thoughts. Less 'book'; more collection of estray documents and thoughts. [the word 'estray' comes from the world of archiving. A document out of place, misplaced, not fitting the location which created it. It troubles and challenges the archivist to find a home, or examine it more closely. Pessoa often comes across as the epitome of the not quite belonging in this world.]
He himself wondered if these words in a trunk might ever happen. Possibility and impossibility are opposites, yet to Pessoa they breathe in a new place in the world of ideas:
It sometimes occurs to me with sad delight, that if one day (in a future to which I won't belong) the sentences I write are read and admired, then at last I鈥檒l have my own kin, people who 鈥榰nderstand鈥� me, my true family in which to be born and loved. But far from being born to it, I鈥檒l have already died long ago.
A Pessoa idea captures both hope, and the despair of not hoping. He calls it sad delight: opposites. That is one Pessoa idea that exists because he gave it hope. Here is another one of his between places:
Before summer ends and autumn arrives, in the warm interim when the air weighs heavy and the colours dim, the late afternoons wear an almost tangible robe of imitation glory.
鈥業mitation glory鈥�?.
What is that but an imagined place, somewhere in the 鈥榳arm interim鈥�. Perhaps it鈥檚 just the weather in Portugal, the Mediterranean, perhaps it鈥檚 only of place. But in this place:
"going and stopping are the same impossible thing鈥�
鈥淗ope and doubt are equally cold and grey鈥�
鈥淚鈥檓 a shelf of empty jars鈥�
鈥淎nd yet what nostalgia for the future鈥�*
How can the future be a place of nostalgia, hope and doubt equal, except in a poetic universe where the study of a single incomprehensible emotional location is possible? Like the quest for the sensation of death:
the physical sensation of ceasing to live**
I think of Emily Dickinson, who also sought indefinable states of being, some in-betweens of human understanding:
I heard a fly buzz - when I died -
The stillness in the room
was like the stillness in the air -
Between the heaves of storm
Or
After great pain, a formal feeling comes
These are the locations poets and writers pursue, that most of us give only passing consideration to and move on. Poets, though, are in for the long haul to come up with lines like:
I鈥檓 dazed by a sarcastic terror of life, a despondency that exceeds the limits of my conscious being. I realise that I was all error and deviation, that I never lived, that I existed only insomuch as I filled time with consciousness and thought
This is what we need poets and writers for, to tease out what we ignore - or stopped thinking about - as adults. And perhaps what preoccupied many of us as children, too. I can鈥檛 help thinking of a child bored in their thought on a rain sodden day with nothing to do. That boredom turns to thoughts unbound by time and physical necessity. Pessoa at times is that little child that sees the limitless possibility of ideas before the world engulfs him in the practice and routine of programmed life.
Writing, too, is the imagined pastime 鈥� if you can imagine writing, you can imagine more than just the imposition of other people鈥檚 structures 鈥� and worry as you walk down the street that all these people around you might lose those imagined thoughts 鈥� so where are all their lost thoughts? Pessoa attempted to gather some of them for us.
That is all writing is, the relentless pursuit of an idea. But an idea in writing can only be a kind of imitation, a copy of an idea. Imperfect:
Everything we do in art or in life is the imperfect copy of what we thought of doing
________________________________
*Much later than Pessoa, I came across this idea of the nostalgia for the future in the ideas of Slavo Zizek the Slovenian philosopher and critic. He wondered what it was about writing about an immediate future dystopia, he was referring to the Handmaid's Tale, but there are others, it seems a bit of a popular genre. He said of such books that the have "A nostalgia for the immediate future". I found that a compelling way to understand a fantasy for proving that you can imagine a dystopian world and expect it to come true.
** compare this to
Death is nothing to us; for the body, when it has been resolved into its elements, has no feeling, and that which has no feeling is nothing to us.
Diogenes La毛rtius, Epicurean Principal Doctrines
SEE ALSO:
Saramago鈥檚 Life in Death of Ricardo Reis /book/show/2...
罢补产耻肠肠丑颈鈥檚
Pereira Declares /book/show/1...
and
Requiem /book/show/1...
January 13, 2013
Heternonymy 101
This be possibly the biggest, most self indulgent pre-PoMo existential angst wank fest. Ever. 500 pages of self centered, whiny, petulant, attention seeking, self important and self obsessed essays, which, were they written by a woman, would no doubt have been classed as the insipid diary blather of sexually frustrated spinster in need of a good seeing to.
The main thoroughfare here is a subdued Munchian scream about the 鈥榯edium鈥� of life, examined from every angle: a diary of emotional bowel movements which Pessoa attends to lovingly on practically a daily basis, with a German stool inspecting precision. And I鈥檓 not kidding about that neither. Who else but the Germans could conceive of an epic such as this? Huh, huh? Is this the ultimate dichotomy of a Buschean 鈥榦ben und unten鈥� or what?
He鈥檚 in a dream, then waking from a dream, depressed, then a little better, then a little doldrummy, then dreaming again, then emotional, then done with emotions, then rediscovers emotions, then definitely, positively is done with them, then, perhaps they鈥檙e not so overdone after all......Ay Ay Ay Caramba. He鈥檚 worse than I am on the rag.
Pessoa wallows in misery like a pig in shit. 鈥楥ause some people get off on that type of thing. And if there is no misery to be found at hand, a malaise will be conjured, like a bunny out of a magician鈥檚 hat. Think I鈥檓 messing? Check this guy鈥檚 gripe out:
263
Tedium....To suffer without suffering, to want without desire, to think without reason.
Well isn鈥檛 that just dandy. To suffer without suffering. Exactly what the hell is that supposed to mean? Is it like, white man鈥檚 disease?
Here is Pessoa鈥檚 real problem in life: he鈥檚 in love with himself. It unrequited. He does nothing all day, every day, except gaze upon his navel , like an overbloated narcissistic hypochondriac, and bleats about it like a little girl.
I鈥檝e got two words, mister:
Heteronymy PH
I don鈥檛 know what that crazy bitch is going on about up there. Its not even two words, is it? And Oben and uten? Puhlease. What the fcuk is that? Some people should just stick to 50 shades of grey and leave the big boys to those (e.g. us) who can appreciate a finely tuned study of the self. Because this genre has not really been attempted before: a prolific, no holds barred, intense and microscopic examination of the 鈥榮elf鈥�, pared down to its core and microscopically dissected over the scope of thirty years: an elegiac etude of states of consciousness, terpischoreanily spanning the circle of life with juxtaposing nuances of acceptance and rejection, always seeking to align the individual with the vast cosmos of uncertainty, loneliness and dissonance of meaning which life throws our way. At times ebullient with joy, at times succumbed with sadness, this understated tapestry of febrile ruminations is sure to strike a chord with everyone at certain meeting points: particularly moments when the divide between self and others runs deepest.
What idiot on this earth does not question the meaning of life and crawl into a deep hole to lick away the wounds of a quotidian existence? Pessoa is a master dissector of the soul, and its multi-faceted permutations, a paladin of negation and confirmation, a harbinger of death and phoenixing. Sublime.
Heteronymy shteronymy
Holy Shit I just don鈥檛 ken. They鈥檙e both right. What the hell, who cares. Pessoa manstruates, and the world is alright.
This be possibly the biggest, most self indulgent pre-PoMo existential angst wank fest. Ever. 500 pages of self centered, whiny, petulant, attention seeking, self important and self obsessed essays, which, were they written by a woman, would no doubt have been classed as the insipid diary blather of sexually frustrated spinster in need of a good seeing to.
The main thoroughfare here is a subdued Munchian scream about the 鈥榯edium鈥� of life, examined from every angle: a diary of emotional bowel movements which Pessoa attends to lovingly on practically a daily basis, with a German stool inspecting precision. And I鈥檓 not kidding about that neither. Who else but the Germans could conceive of an epic such as this? Huh, huh? Is this the ultimate dichotomy of a Buschean 鈥榦ben und unten鈥� or what?
He鈥檚 in a dream, then waking from a dream, depressed, then a little better, then a little doldrummy, then dreaming again, then emotional, then done with emotions, then rediscovers emotions, then definitely, positively is done with them, then, perhaps they鈥檙e not so overdone after all......Ay Ay Ay Caramba. He鈥檚 worse than I am on the rag.
Pessoa wallows in misery like a pig in shit. 鈥楥ause some people get off on that type of thing. And if there is no misery to be found at hand, a malaise will be conjured, like a bunny out of a magician鈥檚 hat. Think I鈥檓 messing? Check this guy鈥檚 gripe out:
263
Tedium....To suffer without suffering, to want without desire, to think without reason.
Well isn鈥檛 that just dandy. To suffer without suffering. Exactly what the hell is that supposed to mean? Is it like, white man鈥檚 disease?
Here is Pessoa鈥檚 real problem in life: he鈥檚 in love with himself. It unrequited. He does nothing all day, every day, except gaze upon his navel , like an overbloated narcissistic hypochondriac, and bleats about it like a little girl.
I鈥檝e got two words, mister:
Heteronymy PH
I don鈥檛 know what that crazy bitch is going on about up there. Its not even two words, is it? And Oben and uten? Puhlease. What the fcuk is that? Some people should just stick to 50 shades of grey and leave the big boys to those (e.g. us) who can appreciate a finely tuned study of the self. Because this genre has not really been attempted before: a prolific, no holds barred, intense and microscopic examination of the 鈥榮elf鈥�, pared down to its core and microscopically dissected over the scope of thirty years: an elegiac etude of states of consciousness, terpischoreanily spanning the circle of life with juxtaposing nuances of acceptance and rejection, always seeking to align the individual with the vast cosmos of uncertainty, loneliness and dissonance of meaning which life throws our way. At times ebullient with joy, at times succumbed with sadness, this understated tapestry of febrile ruminations is sure to strike a chord with everyone at certain meeting points: particularly moments when the divide between self and others runs deepest.
What idiot on this earth does not question the meaning of life and crawl into a deep hole to lick away the wounds of a quotidian existence? Pessoa is a master dissector of the soul, and its multi-faceted permutations, a paladin of negation and confirmation, a harbinger of death and phoenixing. Sublime.
Heteronymy shteronymy
Holy Shit I just don鈥檛 ken. They鈥檙e both right. What the hell, who cares. Pessoa manstruates, and the world is alright.
November 29, 2018
The Book of Disquiet should be read slowly and thoughtfully, savored and sipped like fine wine. It鈥檚 a groundbreaking work of Modernist experimentation that consists of a collection of writings found on disorganized scraps of paper in a chest found in the author鈥檚 home after his death. These scraps were assembled into a book for the first time in the 1960s. Pessoa, who was Portuguese, wrote the segments over the course of the last twenty years of his life, which ended in 1935.
Pessoa invented multiple personas for himself that he called heteronyms, and each of his novels or collections of poetry was written from the perspective of an alter ego. He essentially invented multiple authors and wrote from their perspective. It鈥檚 a distinct approach from having a character narrate a novel, especially when it comes to writing a collection of poetry, but even in this 鈥渘ovel鈥� because there is no plot to speak of, only an internal landscape. Pessoa makes no effort to distinguish his own critique of the 鈥渁uthor鈥檚 opinions,鈥� he merely embodies them. In other words, there is no authorial distance, no 鈥渦nreliable narrator鈥� theme, there is only the narrator. It is as if Pessoa had a multiple personality disorder in artistic form. The collection of writings in this book are measures of the interior life of one Bernardo Soares, which Pessoa described as being a 鈥渕utilated version鈥� of himself, but perhaps the closest to his own beliefs of all his heteronyms. He describes Soares as rather like 鈥渉imself minus the affection.鈥�
Indeed, Soares comes across as so purely intellectual (although he does have the occasional overwhelming emotional response to small occurrences) that he is rather distant and cold鈥攃ompletely self-absorbed and narcissistic, in fact. Soares lives a life that is almost entirely metaphysical. In one of the 276 segments in the book, he refers to this collection as a 鈥渂ook of disconnected impressions.鈥� Some might say that this isn鈥檛 a novel! But in the case of what is important to Soares (or to Pessoa), intellectual thought is apparently the only process that sustains his life. It is the story of his life, which was very little but intellectual.
We get glimpses of this persona at work, as an accountant poring over ledgers (which is what Pessoa did as well), and walking the streets of Lisbon, but for the most part, nothing ever happens. Soares lives a life only in his mind and in his daydreams. He is scared and reluctant to say hello or even shake hands with others. It is too shocking, too much for him. Much like Proust who wrote an entire series of book triggered by the taste of a single Madeleine cookie, Soares believes that an artist must be able to wring the greatest emotional effect out of the smallest incidents. So why write of large incidents when small ones suffice?
What subjects does Soares ponder as we make our way through this book? What is the book about? Walking and weather. Fame and ambition, rain and dreams. Banality, the banality of existence. Change or the lack there of. Dreams, especially dreams. Work. God. Writing and art. Identity and being.
At times he can seem quite humble, or more precisely, assured of his own inadequacy and contemptuous of himself, believing that everything he writes is worthless and a failure, railing at his own鈥攁nd by proxy, every writers鈥欌€攊nability to truly represent ideas or thoughts in words (this being quite reminiscent of Wittgenstein鈥檚 view that language mediates our understanding of reality). Yet other times he can seem utterly arrogant in his narcissism. Other people are merely props for his internal dreams and thinking, and in fact he boldly declares at one point, 鈥溾€� of what importance is to me what life is to other people?鈥� Because, he would say, we can only live life from our own perspective and to attempt 鈥渆mpathy鈥� is a delusion. Other people aren鈥檛 even real to any of us鈥攅xcept as dreams.* Sometimes this seems almost Buddhist鈥攚e are dreaming life and because all is change, nothing is real and all there is is nothing. 鈥淭he self is nothing more than all it is thinking in the moment.鈥� Other times, it comes across as clearly Nietzschean, which would seem close to Pessoa's own ideology because he was a royalist of sorts. Soares believes that humans want to be enslaved not free. He has certain fascist tendencies that peek through his primarily apolitical musings. For example, he declares himself both anti-revolutionary and anti-reformist. Much like Nietzsche who sought to create amoral 眉bermen, he is anti-social and believes that pursuing matters of social justice are not only a waste of time, but also a false presumption of pride and ambition in the self, to shape society. Furthermore, such actions support the premise that other people are 鈥渞eal鈥� when in fact they are only dreams.** And then on the flipside of this, humans are unimportant and vulgar animals anyway: "Life disgusts me."
When he talks about work, he seems to say that work (not artist work, but paid commercial work) is an opportunity to become nothing鈥攁 mere tool, a non-thing鈥攁nd to Soares, this is good, this is the enslavement that people want. The more the self can vanish as meaningless, the better. He criticizes ambition to 鈥渄o something better鈥� as pure vanity.
How can I give this book four stars when there are such disagreeable elements? Well, firstly, one doesn鈥檛 have to agree with everything in a book philosophically to find it a great book. Sometimes, finding a point of view that one can disagree with is just as valuable. And secondarily, he spends most of the book pondering apolitical questions on the nature of perception, emotion, and identity revealing brilliant bon mots that remind me of Montaigne such as, 鈥淭here is nothing that shows poverty of mind more quickly than not knowing how to be witty except at the expense of others.鈥� Admittedly, I did feel at times as though I were slogging through an ambiguous fog that didn鈥檛 quite make sense, but then I would come to a burst of insight like a spotlight that illuminates the way. In the end, these insights (whether they be about life in general, or whether they gave me insights into certain types of people with tendencies like the narrator), were often profound enough to elevate this book to quite a high status.
All in all, this book will only appeal to those readers comfortable with deep thoughts lacking a plot, and willing to persevere, but the rewards can be great.
*I counter this by noting that if everything is a dream and everyone is a dream then all that matters is dreams and empathy for dreams is just as valid as non-empathy for dreams.
**It鈥檚 important to recognize that someone is always shaping society鈥攖hose who are already in power. Therefore, in fact, passively supporting the status quo is just as much a political action as resisting the status quo. It鈥檚 merely the path of least resistance鈥hat is, until your freedom or means of survival are at stake.
Pessoa invented multiple personas for himself that he called heteronyms, and each of his novels or collections of poetry was written from the perspective of an alter ego. He essentially invented multiple authors and wrote from their perspective. It鈥檚 a distinct approach from having a character narrate a novel, especially when it comes to writing a collection of poetry, but even in this 鈥渘ovel鈥� because there is no plot to speak of, only an internal landscape. Pessoa makes no effort to distinguish his own critique of the 鈥渁uthor鈥檚 opinions,鈥� he merely embodies them. In other words, there is no authorial distance, no 鈥渦nreliable narrator鈥� theme, there is only the narrator. It is as if Pessoa had a multiple personality disorder in artistic form. The collection of writings in this book are measures of the interior life of one Bernardo Soares, which Pessoa described as being a 鈥渕utilated version鈥� of himself, but perhaps the closest to his own beliefs of all his heteronyms. He describes Soares as rather like 鈥渉imself minus the affection.鈥�
Indeed, Soares comes across as so purely intellectual (although he does have the occasional overwhelming emotional response to small occurrences) that he is rather distant and cold鈥攃ompletely self-absorbed and narcissistic, in fact. Soares lives a life that is almost entirely metaphysical. In one of the 276 segments in the book, he refers to this collection as a 鈥渂ook of disconnected impressions.鈥� Some might say that this isn鈥檛 a novel! But in the case of what is important to Soares (or to Pessoa), intellectual thought is apparently the only process that sustains his life. It is the story of his life, which was very little but intellectual.
We get glimpses of this persona at work, as an accountant poring over ledgers (which is what Pessoa did as well), and walking the streets of Lisbon, but for the most part, nothing ever happens. Soares lives a life only in his mind and in his daydreams. He is scared and reluctant to say hello or even shake hands with others. It is too shocking, too much for him. Much like Proust who wrote an entire series of book triggered by the taste of a single Madeleine cookie, Soares believes that an artist must be able to wring the greatest emotional effect out of the smallest incidents. So why write of large incidents when small ones suffice?
What subjects does Soares ponder as we make our way through this book? What is the book about? Walking and weather. Fame and ambition, rain and dreams. Banality, the banality of existence. Change or the lack there of. Dreams, especially dreams. Work. God. Writing and art. Identity and being.
At times he can seem quite humble, or more precisely, assured of his own inadequacy and contemptuous of himself, believing that everything he writes is worthless and a failure, railing at his own鈥攁nd by proxy, every writers鈥欌€攊nability to truly represent ideas or thoughts in words (this being quite reminiscent of Wittgenstein鈥檚 view that language mediates our understanding of reality). Yet other times he can seem utterly arrogant in his narcissism. Other people are merely props for his internal dreams and thinking, and in fact he boldly declares at one point, 鈥溾€� of what importance is to me what life is to other people?鈥� Because, he would say, we can only live life from our own perspective and to attempt 鈥渆mpathy鈥� is a delusion. Other people aren鈥檛 even real to any of us鈥攅xcept as dreams.* Sometimes this seems almost Buddhist鈥攚e are dreaming life and because all is change, nothing is real and all there is is nothing. 鈥淭he self is nothing more than all it is thinking in the moment.鈥� Other times, it comes across as clearly Nietzschean, which would seem close to Pessoa's own ideology because he was a royalist of sorts. Soares believes that humans want to be enslaved not free. He has certain fascist tendencies that peek through his primarily apolitical musings. For example, he declares himself both anti-revolutionary and anti-reformist. Much like Nietzsche who sought to create amoral 眉bermen, he is anti-social and believes that pursuing matters of social justice are not only a waste of time, but also a false presumption of pride and ambition in the self, to shape society. Furthermore, such actions support the premise that other people are 鈥渞eal鈥� when in fact they are only dreams.** And then on the flipside of this, humans are unimportant and vulgar animals anyway: "Life disgusts me."
When he talks about work, he seems to say that work (not artist work, but paid commercial work) is an opportunity to become nothing鈥攁 mere tool, a non-thing鈥攁nd to Soares, this is good, this is the enslavement that people want. The more the self can vanish as meaningless, the better. He criticizes ambition to 鈥渄o something better鈥� as pure vanity.
How can I give this book four stars when there are such disagreeable elements? Well, firstly, one doesn鈥檛 have to agree with everything in a book philosophically to find it a great book. Sometimes, finding a point of view that one can disagree with is just as valuable. And secondarily, he spends most of the book pondering apolitical questions on the nature of perception, emotion, and identity revealing brilliant bon mots that remind me of Montaigne such as, 鈥淭here is nothing that shows poverty of mind more quickly than not knowing how to be witty except at the expense of others.鈥� Admittedly, I did feel at times as though I were slogging through an ambiguous fog that didn鈥檛 quite make sense, but then I would come to a burst of insight like a spotlight that illuminates the way. In the end, these insights (whether they be about life in general, or whether they gave me insights into certain types of people with tendencies like the narrator), were often profound enough to elevate this book to quite a high status.
All in all, this book will only appeal to those readers comfortable with deep thoughts lacking a plot, and willing to persevere, but the rewards can be great.
*I counter this by noting that if everything is a dream and everyone is a dream then all that matters is dreams and empathy for dreams is just as valid as non-empathy for dreams.
**It鈥檚 important to recognize that someone is always shaping society鈥攖hose who are already in power. Therefore, in fact, passively supporting the status quo is just as much a political action as resisting the status quo. It鈥檚 merely the path of least resistance鈥hat is, until your freedom or means of survival are at stake.
May 1, 2021
"The magical power of words, whether isolated or brought together to form a musical chord, full of intimate resonances and meanings that diverge even as they converge, the pomp of sentences placed in between the meanings of other sentences, malicious vestiges, hopeful woods, and nothing but the peaceful pools in the childhood gardens of my subterfuges鈥� Thus, between the high walls of absurd audacity, among the lines of trees and the startled shivers of things withering, someone other than me would hear from sad lips the confession denied to the more insistent. Not even if the knights were to ride back down the road visible from atop the castle wall would there be more peace in the Castle of the Last Lost Men, where once lances clashed and clanged in the courtyard, nor would anyone recall another name on this side of the road, apart from the one that used to enchant us nightly, like the tale about the Moorish ladies, and the child who died afterwards from life and wonder."
April 21, 2021
賴乇 诏丕賴 讴鬲丕亘蹖 賲蹖鈥屫堌з嗁� 賵 賳賲蹖鈥屫堌з嗁� 亘丕 丌賳 丕乇鬲亘丕胤 亘乇賯乇丕乇 讴賳賲 賵 蹖丕 丌賳 乇丕 丿乇讴 讴賳賲 爻乇蹖毓 亘賴 禺賵丿 賲蹖鈥屭堐屬� 丕蹖賳 賲卮讴賱 鬲賵 丕爻鬲 賳賴 讴鬲丕亘. 卮丕蹖丿 亘丕蹖丿 丌賳 乇丕 丿乇 夭賲丕賳 賵 爻賳 賵 丨丕賱 賵 賴賵丕蹖 賲賳丕爻亘蹖 亘禺賵丕賳蹖 鬲丕 亘鬲賵丕賳蹖 亘丕 丌賳 丕乇鬲亘丕胤 亘乇賯乇丕乇 讴賳蹖. 賴乇 讴丕乇 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗁� 丿乇亘丕乇賴鈥屰� "讴鬲丕亘 丿賱賵丕倬爻蹖" 賳賲蹖鈥屫堌з嗁� 丕蹖賳 丨乇賮 乇丕 亘夭賳賲 趩乇丕 讴賴 賮讴乇 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗁� 鬲乇噩賲賴鈥屰� 讴鬲丕亘 讴賴 丕夭 鬲乇噩賲賴鈥屰� 丌賱賲丕賳蹖 丌賳 亘乇诏乇丿丕賳 卮丿賴 亘賴 賴蹖趩 賵噩賴 賯丕亘賱 賯亘賵賱 賳蹖爻鬲. 賯亘賱 丕夭 禺賵丕賳丿賳 讴鬲丕亘 丿蹖丿賲 賳馗乇丕鬲 丿賵爻鬲丕賳 丿乇亘丕乇賴鈥屰� 鬲乇噩賲賴鈥屰� 丌賯丕蹖 噩賴丕賳卮丕賴蹖 賲胤賱賵亘 賳亘賵丿. 亘丕 丕蹖賳 丨丕賱 賲卮鬲丕賯 禺賵丕賳丿賳 丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 亘賵丿賲. 丕诏乇 丕賲讴丕賳 禺賵丕賳丿賳 賲鬲賳 亘賴 夭亘丕賳 丕氐賱蹖 蹖丕 丕賳诏賱蹖爻蹖 乇丕 丿丕乇蹖丿 亘爻蹖丕乇 毓丕賱蹖 丕爻鬲 賵 丕诏乇 賯氐丿 丿丕乇蹖丿 趩賵賳 賲賳 鬲乇噩賲賴鈥屰� 丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 乇丕 亘禺賵丕賳蹖丿貙 賯亘賱 丕夭 禺乇蹖丿 賵 蹖丕 賯亘賱 丕夭 丕賲丕賳鬲 诏乇賮鬲賳 丨鬲賲丕 亘乇诏鈥屬囏й屰� 丕夭 丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 乇丕 亘禺賵丕賳蹖丿 賵 丕诏乇 亘丕 賲賳 賲賵丕賮賯 亘賵丿蹖丿 丕氐賱丕 爻乇丕睾 丌賳 賳乇賵蹖丿 讴賴 倬卮蹖賲丕賳 賲蹖鈥屫促堐屫�. 趩賳丿 賲賯丕蹖爻賴鈥屰� 讴賵趩讴 亘蹖賳 鬲乇噩賲賴 噩賴丕賳卮丕賴蹖 賵 鬲乇噩賲賴 丕賳诏賱蹖爻蹖 讴鬲丕亘 亘賴 氐賵乇鬲 乇賳丿賵賲 丕賳鬲禺丕亘 讴乇丿賴鈥屫з� 讴賴 丿乇 丕丿丕賲賴 亘乇丕蹖鬲丕賳 賲蹖鈥屭柏ж辟�.
This isn鈥檛 the viewpoint of pessimists like Vigny, for whom life was a
prison in which he wove straw to keep busy and forget. ( Pessoa, F., The Book of Disquiet, tr. Richard Zenith).
丕蹖賳 鬲氐賵乇蹖 亘丿亘蹖賳丕賳賴 趩賵賳 鬲氐賵乇丕鬲 賵蹖跇賳蹖 賳蹖爻鬲 讴賴 夭賳丿诏蹖 乇丕 夭賳丿丕賳 賲蹖鈥屫屫� 賵 丿乇 丌賳 丕夭 爻乇 鬲賮乇蹖丨 讴丕賴 乇丕 賳賮乇蹖賳 賲蹖鈥屭┴必�. 鬲乇噩賲賴 噩賴丕賳卮丕賴蹖. 氐賮丨賴 28 讴鬲丕亘.
I see life as a roadside inn where I have to stay until the coach from the
abyss pulls up. I don鈥檛 know where it will take me, because I don鈥檛 know
anything. I could see this inn as a prison, for I鈥檓 compelled to wait in it; I
could see it as a social centre, for it鈥檚 here that I meet others. ( Pessoa, F., The Book of Disquiet, tr. Richard Zenith).
夭賳丿诏蹖 丿乇 賳诏丕賴 賲賳 亘賴 賲賴賲丕賳禺丕賳賴鈥屫й� 賲蹖鈥屬呚з嗀� 讴賴 亘丕蹖丿 丿乇 丌賳 亘蹖丕爻丕蹖蹖賲 鬲丕 讴丕賱爻讴賴 睾乇賯丕亘 丕夭 乇丕賴 亘乇爻丿. 賳賲蹖鈥屫з嗁� 賲乇丕 亘賴 讴噩丕 賲蹖鈥屫ㄘ必� 夭蹖乇丕 趩蹖夭蹖 賳賲蹖鈥屫з嗁�. 賲蹖鈥屫堌з嗁� 丕蹖賳 賲賴賲丕賳禺丕賳賴 乇丕 趩賵賳 夭賳丿丕賳 亘亘蹖賳賲貙 趩乇丕 讴賴 亘賴 賳丕趩丕乇 亘丕蹖丿 丿乇 丌賳 亘賴 丕賳鬲馗丕乇 亘賳卮蹖賳賲. 賴賲趩賳蹖賳 賲蹖鈥屫堌з嗁� 賲丨賱 爻乇賵乇 亘丿丕賳賲卮貙 趩乇丕 讴賴 丿乇 丌賳 亘賴 丕賳爻丕賳鈥屬囏й� 丿蹖诏乇蹖 亘乇 賲蹖鈥屫堌辟�. 鬲乇噩賲賴 噩賴丕賳卮丕賴蹖. 氐賮丨賴 28 讴鬲丕亘.
The tedium of Khayy谩m isn鈥檛 the tedium of those who, because they
don鈥檛 know how to do anything, naturally don鈥檛 know what to do. This
tedium belongs to those who were born dead and who understandably turn
to morphine or cocaine. The tedium of the Persian sage is more noble and
profound. It鈥檚 the tedium of one who clearly considered and saw that
everything was obscure, of one who took stock of all the religions and
philosophies and said, like Solomon: 鈥業 saw that all was vanity and vexation of spirit.鈥�( Pessoa, F., The Book of Disquiet, tr. Richard Zenith)
亘蹖 丕卮鬲蹖丕賯蹖 禺蹖丕賲 亘賴 夭賳丿诏蹖 亘蹖 丕卮鬲蹖丕賯蹖 讴爻蹖 賳蹖爻鬲 讴賴 賳賲蹖鈥屫з嗀� 趩賴 亘丕蹖丿 亘讴賳丿貙 趩乇丕 讴賴 丿乇 丕氐賱 賴蹖趩 讴丕乇蹖 賳賲蹖鈥屫堌з嗀� 亘讴賳丿 蹖丕 爻乇 丿乇 賳賲蹖鈥屫①堌必�. 丕蹖賳 丕賳丿賵賴 讴爻丕賳蹖 丕爻鬲 讴賴 賲乇丿賴 亘賴 丿賳蹖丕 丌賲丿賴鈥屫з嗀� 賵 讴爻丕賳蹖 讴賴 亘賴 胤賵乇 賲噩丕夭 禺賵丿 乇丕 亘丕 賲乇賮蹖賳 蹖丕 讴賵讴丕卅蹖賳 鬲賳馗蹖賲 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗁嗀�. 丕賳丿賵賴 禺乇丿 丕蹖乇丕賳蹖 毓賲蹖賯鈥屫� 賵 丕氐蹖賱鈥屫� 丕爻鬲. 丕蹖賳 丕賳丿賵賴 讴爻蹖 丕爻鬲 讴賴 卮賮丕賮 丕賳丿蹖卮蹖丿賴 賵 賳鬲蹖噩賴鈥� 诏乇賮鬲賴 丕爻鬲 讴賴 賴賲賴 趩蹖夭 爻蹖丕賴 丕爻鬲貙 丕賵 亘賴 賴賲賴鈥屰� 丕丿蹖丕賳 賵 賮賱爻賮賴鈥屬囏� 賮讴乇 讴乇丿賴 賵 賴賲趩賵賳 爻賱蹖賲丕賳 诏賮鬲賴 丕爻鬲: 芦賲賳 丿蹖丿賲 讴賴 賴賲賴鈥屰� 亘胤賱丕賳 賵 丿乇诏蹖乇蹖鈥屬囏� 夭丕丿賴鈥屰� 丕賳丿蹖卮賴 丕爻鬲禄. 鬲乇噩賲賴 噩賴丕賳卮丕賴蹖. 氐賮丨丕鬲 298 賵 299 讴鬲丕亘
That鈥檚 why the Persian insists on the use of wine. 鈥楧rink! Drink!鈥� sums up
his practical philosophy. It鈥檚 not the kind of drinking inspired by happiness, which drinks to become even happier, more itself. Nor is it the drinking inspired by despair, which drinks to forget, to be less itself. Happiness adds vigour and love to the wine, and in Khayy谩m we find no note of energy, no words of love. The wispy, gracile figure of S谩ki appears only occasionally in the Rub谩iy谩t, and she is merely 鈥榯he girl who serves the wine鈥�. The poet appreciates her elegant shape as he appreciated the shape of the amphora containing the wine. ( Pessoa, F., The Book of Disquiet, tr. Richard Zenith).
鬲丕讴蹖丿 賲丿丕賲 丕蹖乇丕賳蹖丕賳 亘乇 賳賵卮蹖丿賳 卮乇丕亘 丕夭 丕蹖賳 乇賵 丕爻鬲貙 賮賱爻賮賴鈥屰� 讴丕賲賱丕 毓賲賱蹖 禺蹖丕賲 賲蹖鈥屭堐屫�: 亘賳賵卮! 亘賳賵卮! 丕蹖賳 賳賵卮蹖丿賳 卮丕丿賲丕賳賴 賳蹖爻鬲 讴賴 亘賳賵卮丿 賵 卮丕丿鬲乇 卮賵丿貙 亘賱讴賴 亘丕 賳賵卮蹖丿賳 亘蹖卮 丕夭 倬蹖卮貙 禺賵丿 卮賵丿. 丕蹖賳 賳賵卮蹖丿賳 賲乇丿丕賳賴 賳蹖爻鬲貙 讴賴 賲蹖鈥屬嗁堌簇� 鬲丕 賮乇丕賲賵卮 讴賳丿 賵 讴賲鬲乇 賲乇丿丿 亘丕卮丿. 賱丕夭賲賴鈥屰� 卮乇丕亘貙 卮丕丿蹖 賵 乇賮鬲丕乇 毓卮賯 丕爻鬲貙 賵 倬蹖 賲蹖鈥屫ㄘ臂屬� 讴賴 丿乇 爻乇賵丿賴鈥屬囏й� 禺蹖丕賲 賵丕跇賴鈥屫й� 賯丕胤毓 賵 噩賲賱賴鈥屫й� 毓丕卮賯丕賳賴 蹖丕賮鬲 賳賲蹖鈥屫促堌�. 爻丕賯蹖貙 讴賴 丕賳丿丕賲 丿賱乇亘丕蹖卮 丿乇 乇亘丕毓蹖丕鬲 賳丕賲卮禺氐 噩賱賵賴 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀� (亘賴 賳丿乇鬲 噩賱賵賴 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀�!) 賮賯胤 芦丿禺鬲乇蹖 丕爻鬲 讴賴 亘丕丿賴 賲蹖鈥屫臂屫藏�. 卮丕毓乇 賯丿乇丿丕賳 丕賳丿丕賲 讴卮蹖丿賴鈥屰� 丕賵 丕爻鬲貙 賴賲丕賳 胤賵乇 賴賲 賯丿乇丿丕賳 讴賵夭賴鈥屫й� 丕爻鬲 讴賴 丕夭 卮乇丕亘 鬲賴蹖 卮丿賴 亘賵丿. 鬲乇噩賲賴 噩賴丕賳卮丕賴蹖. 氐賮丨賴 299 讴鬲丕亘.
Dean Aldrich* is an example of how happiness speaks of wine:
If all be true that I do think,
There are five reasons we should drink;
Good wine 鈥� a friend 鈥� or being dry 鈥�
Or lest we should be by and by 鈥�
Or any other reason why.
The practical philosophy of Khayy谩m is essentially a mild form of
Epicureanism, with only a slight trace of desire for pleasure. To see roses
and drink wine is enough for him. ( Pessoa, F., The Book of Disquiet, tr. Richard Zenith).
丕賵 賳蹖夭 賴賲趩賵賳 丕爻鬲丕丿 丌賱丿乇蹖卮 卮丕丿賲丕賳賴 丕夭 卮乇丕亘 賲蹖鈥屭堐屫�:
賮賱爻賮賴鈥屰� 毓賲賱蹖 禺蹖丕賲 丕夭 丕蹖賳 噩賴鬲 亘賴 丕倬蹖讴賵乇诏乇丕蹖蹖 賱胤蹖賮 禺賱丕氐賴 賲蹖鈥屫促堌� 讴賴 亘賴 丨丿丕賯賱 丌乇夭賵蹖 賱匕鬲 倬賳丕賴 亘乇丿賴 丕爻鬲. 亘乇丕蹖 禺蹖丕賲 鬲賲丕卮丕蹖 诏賱 爻乇禺 賵 爻乇讴卮蹖丿賳 亘丕丿賴 讴賮丕蹖鬲 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀�. 鬲乇噩賲賴 噩賴丕賳卮丕賴蹖. 氐賮丨賴 299 讴鬲丕亘.
賳爻賱蹖 讴賴 賲賳 亘賴 丌賳 鬲毓賱賯 丿丕乇賲 鬲丕 夭丕丿賴 卮丿 噩賴丕賳蹖 乇丕 倬蹖卮 乇賵蹖 禺賵丿 丿蹖丿 讴賴 亘賴 賲乇丿賲 卮噩丕毓貙 賮讴賵乇貙 丕賲丕 亘丿賵賳 丨丕賲蹖 鬲毓賱賯 丿丕卮鬲. 讴丕乇 賵蹖乇丕賳诏乇丕賳賴 賳爻賱 倬蹖卮蹖賳 鬲丕孬蹖乇 禺賵丿 乇丕 诏匕丕卮鬲賴 亘賵丿 鬲丕 丿乇 丿賳蹖丕蹖蹖 讴賴 賲丕丿乇 丌賳 夭丕丿賴 卮丿蹖賲貙 讴賵趩讴鈥屫臂屬� 丕賲賳蹖鬲蹖 丿乇 毓乇氐賴鈥屰� 丿蹖賳蹖貙 鬲讴蹖賴 诏丕賴蹖 丿乇 毓乇氐賴鈥屰� 丕禺賱丕賯 賵 讴賲鬲乇蹖賳 丌乇丕賲卮蹖 丿乇 毓乇氐賴鈥屰� 爻蹖丕爻蹖 賵噩賵丿 賳丿丕卮鬲賴 亘丕卮丿. 賲丕 丿乇 鬲乇爻 丕夭 賲丕賵乇丕 賵 賴乇丕爻 丕夭 丕禺賱丕賯 賵 丌卮賵亘鈥屬囏й� 爻蹖丕爻蹖 夭丕丿賴 卮丿賴 亘賵丿蹖賲. 氐 23 讴鬲丕亘
丿乇 毓氐乇蹖 夭丕丿賴 卮丿賲 讴賴 丕讴孬乇 噩賵丕賳丕賳 亘丕賵乇 亘賴 禺丿丕 乇丕 丕夭 丿爻鬲 丿丕丿賴 亘賵丿賳丿貙 丿乇爻鬲 亘賴 賴賲丕賳 丿賱蹖賱 蹖丕丿 卮丿賴貙 趩乇丕 讴賴 倬蹖卮蹖賳蹖丕賳 丌賳賴丕 亘賴 禺丿丕 丕毓鬲賯丕丿 丿丕卮鬲賳丿貙 亘蹖 丌賳讴賴 亘丿丕賳賳丿 趩乇丕. 賵 丕蹖賳 亘賵丿 讴賴 丕讴孬乇 丕蹖賳 噩賵丕賳丕賳 丕賳爻丕賳蹖鬲 乇丕 噩丕蹖诏夭蹖賳 禺丿丕 讴乇丿賳丿. 氐 26 讴鬲丕亘
賮賯胤 趩蹖夭蹖 賮乇丕鬲乇 丕夭 丨賲丕賯鬲貙 讴賴 丕睾賱亘 丕賳爻丕賳鈥屬囏� 亘丕 丌賳 夭賳丿诏蹖 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗁嗀� 賲乇丕 亘賴 鬲毓噩亘 賵丕 賲蹖鈥屫ж必� 賵 丌賳 丿乇丕蹖鬲蹖 丕爻鬲 讴賴 丿乇 丕蹖賳 丨賲丕賯鬲 賳賴賮鬲賴 丕爻鬲. 氐 34 讴鬲丕亘
賴乇 讴爻 賴爻鬲蹖 禺賵丿 乇丕 蹖讴賳賵丕禺鬲 丕丿丕乇賴 讴賳丿 毓丕賯賱 丕爻鬲. 趩賴 丿乇 丌賳 氐賵乇鬲 賴乇 丨丕丿孬賴鈥屰� 讴賵趩讴蹖 丕夭 賳毓賲鬲 賲毓噩夭賴 亘乇禺賵乇丿丕乇 賲蹖鈥屫促堌�. 卮讴丕乇趩蹖 卮蹖乇 倬爻 丕夭 爻賵賲蹖賳 卮讴丕乇 丿蹖诏乇 賲丕噩乇丕蹖蹖 賳賲蹖鈥屫ㄛ屬嗀�. 氐 36 讴鬲丕亘
賲蹖鈥屫堌з囐� 丿乇 賳賯卮 丕賳爻丕賳鈥屬囏й� 诏賵賳丕诏賵賳 丿乇 爻乇夭賲蹖賳鈥屬囏й� 丿賵乇 夭賳丿诏蹖 讴賳賲. 賲丕蹖賱賲 賲丕賳賳丿 讴爻 丿蹖诏乇蹖貙 亘蹖賳 倬乇趩賲鈥屬囏й� 賳丕卮賳丕禺鬲賴 亘賲蹖乇賲. 賲蹖鈥屫堌з囐� 丕賲倬乇丕鬲賵乇 丕毓氐丕乇 丿蹖诏乇 禺賵丕賳丿賴 卮賵賲 讴賴 丕賲乇賵夭 亘乇丕蹖賲 亘賴鬲乇 噩賱賵賴 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀� 賵 丿乇爻鬲 亘丿蹖賳 爻亘亘 讴賴 亘賴 丕賲乇賵夭 鬲毓賱賯 賳丿丕乇賳丿. 氐 63 讴鬲丕亘
賲賳 賵丕賯毓蹖鬲 乇丕 亘乇 丨賯蹖賯鬲 鬲乇噩蹖丨 賲蹖鈥屫囐呚� 賵 丿乇 丕氐賱 夭賳丿诏蹖 乇丕 亘乇 禺賵丿 禺丿丕 讴賴 丌賳 乇丕 倬丿蹖丿 丌賵乇丿賴貙 鬲乇噩蹖丨 賲蹖鈥屫囐�. 夭賳丿诏蹖 乇丕 亘賴 賲賳 趩賳蹖賳 丕乇夭丕賳蹖 丿丕卮鬲賴貙 趩賳蹖賳 禺賵丕賴賲 夭蹖爻鬲. 氐 65 讴鬲丕亘
賴乇 讴爻 丕賱讴賱 禺賵丿卮 乇丕 丿丕乇丿. 賲賳 丿乇 夭蹖爻鬲賳 丕賱讴賱 讴丕賮蹖 倬蹖丿丕 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗁�. 賲爻鬲 丕夭 丕丨爻丕爻 卮禺氐蹖 丿乇 丕胤乇丕賮 賵賱 賲蹖鈥屭必� 賵 丿乇爻鬲 賲蹖鈥屫辟堎�: 賵賯鬲蹖 夭賲丕賳卮 亘乇爻丿 賲孬賱 丿蹖诏乇丕賳 爻乇 丕夭 丿賮鬲乇 讴丕乇賲 丿乇 賲蹖鈥屫①堌辟�. 丕诏乇 夭賲丕賳卮 賳乇爻丿 亘賴 爻賵蹖 乇賵丿禺丕賳賴 賲蹖鈥屫辟堎� 賵 賲孬賱 丿蹖诏乇丕賳 乇賵丿禺丕賳賴 乇丕 鬲賲丕卮丕 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗁�. 賲賳 賴賲丕賳蹖 讴賴 亘賵丿賴鈥屫з� 賴爻鬲賲. 賵 賮乇丕鬲乇 丕夭 丕蹖賳賴丕貙 丌爻賲丕賳 卮禺氐蹖 禺賵丿賲 乇丕 賲禺賮蹖丕賳賴 爻鬲丕乇賴 亘丕乇丕賳 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗁� 賵 噩丕賵丿丕賳诏蹖 禺賵丿賲 乇丕 丿丕乇賲. 氐 116 讴鬲丕亘
禺丿丕 賲乇丕 讴賵丿讴 丌賮乇蹖丿 賵 賲賴賱鬲 丿丕丿 鬲丕 賴賲蹖卮賴 讴賵丿讴 亘賲丕賳賲. 倬爻 趩乇丕 丕噩丕夭賴 丿丕丿 鬲丕 夭賳丿诏蹖 乇丕 丿乇 賴賲 亘讴賵亘丿賲貙 丕爻亘丕亘 亘丕夭蹖鈥屬囏й屬� 乇丕 亘乇丿丕卮鬲 賵 丿乇 夭賳诏鈥屬囏й� 鬲賳賮爻 鬲賳賴丕蹖賲 诏匕丕卮鬲貙 鬲丕 亘丕 丿爻鬲鈥屬囏й� 賳丨蹖賮賲 讴賴 丕夭 賮乇胤 诏乇蹖賴 丌賱賵丿賴 亘賵丿貙 倬蹖卮鈥屫ㄙ嗀� 丌亘蹖 亘丕夭蹖賲 乇丕 倬丕乇賴 讴賳賲責 丕诏乇 趩賵賳 讴賵丿讴蹖 馗乇蹖賮 卮丕蹖爻鬲賴 夭賳丿诏蹖 亘賵丿賲 趩乇丕 馗乇丕賮鬲 賲乇丕 亘賴 夭亘丕賱賴鈥屫з嗃� 乇賵丕賳賴 讴乇丿責 氐 142 讴鬲丕亘
讴爻蹖 讴賴 賴乇诏夭 鬲丨鬲 賮卮丕乇 賳夭蹖爻鬲賴 亘丕卮丿貙 丌夭丕丿蹖 乇丕 賱賲爻 賳賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀�. 氐 201 讴鬲丕亘
夭賳丿诏蹖 讴賱丕賮蹖 丕爻鬲 讴賴 讴爻蹖 丌賳 乇丕 丿乇 賴賲 乇蹖禺鬲賴 丕爻鬲. 氐 212 讴鬲丕亘
亘乇丕蹖 賲丕 讴賴 賴賲蹖卮賴 丕夭 禺賵蹖卮鬲賳 禺賵蹖卮 毓亘賵乇 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗃屬� 趩卮賲鈥屫з嗀ж槽� 睾蹖乇 丕夭 丌賳趩賴 禺賵丿賲丕賳 賴爻鬲蹖賲貙 賵噩賵丿 賳丿丕乇丿貙 趩乇丕 讴賴 賲丕 丨鬲蹖 氐丕丨亘 禺賵丿賲丕賳 賴賲 賳蹖爻鬲蹖賲. 賲丕 賴蹖趩 趩蹖夭 賳丿丕乇蹖賲貙 趩乇丕 讴賴 賴蹖趩蹖賲. 讴丿丕賲 丿爻鬲鈥屬囏� 乇丕 賲賳 亘丕蹖丿 亘賴 爻賵蹖 讴丿丕賲 讴丕卅賳丕鬲 丿乇丕夭 讴賳賲責 讴丕卅賳丕鬲 丕夭 丌賳 賲賳 賳蹖爻鬲: 賲賳 讴丕卅賳丕鬲賲. 氐 267 讴鬲丕亘
鬲丕讴蹖丿 賲丿丕賲 丕蹖乇丕賳蹖丕賳 亘乇 賳賵卮蹖丿賳 卮乇丕亘 丕夭 丕蹖賳 乇賵 丕爻鬲貙 賮賱爻賮賴鈥屰� 讴丕賲賱丕 毓賲賱蹖 禺蹖丕賲 賲蹖鈥屭堐屫�: 亘賳賵卮! 亘賳賵卮! 丕蹖賳 賳賵卮蹖丿賳 卮丕丿賲丕賳賴 賳蹖爻鬲 讴賴 亘賳賵卮丿 賵 卮丕丿鬲乇 卮賵丿貙 亘賱讴賴 亘丕 賳賵卮蹖丿賳 亘蹖卮 丕夭 倬蹖卮貙 禺賵丿 卮賵丿. 丕蹖賳 賳賵卮蹖丿賳 賲乇丿丕賳賴 賳蹖爻鬲貙 讴賴 賲蹖鈥屬嗁堌簇� 鬲丕 賮乇丕賲賵卮 讴賳丿 賵 讴賲鬲乇 賲乇丿丿 亘丕卮丿. 賱丕夭賲賴鈥屰� 卮乇丕亘貙 卮丕丿蹖 賵 乇賮鬲丕乇 毓卮賯 丕爻鬲貙 賵 倬蹖 賲蹖鈥屫ㄘ臂屬� 讴賴 丿乇 爻乇賵丿賴鈥屬囏й� 禺蹖丕賲 賵丕跇賴鈥屫й� 賯丕胤毓 賵 噩賲賱賴鈥屫й� 毓丕卮賯丕賳賴 蹖丕賮鬲 賳賲蹖鈥屫促堌�. 爻丕賯蹖貙 讴賴 丕賳丿丕賲 丿賱乇亘丕蹖卮 丿乇 乇亘丕毓蹖丕鬲 賳丕賲卮禺氐 噩賱賵賴 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀� (亘賴 賳丿乇鬲 噩賱賵賴 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀�!) 賮賯胤 芦丿禺鬲乇蹖 丕爻鬲 讴賴 亘丕丿賴 賲蹖鈥屫臂屫藏�. 卮丕毓乇 賯丿乇丿丕賳 丕賳丿丕賲 讴卮蹖丿賴鈥屰� 丕賵 丕爻鬲貙 賴賲丕賳 胤賵乇 賴賲 賯丿乇丿丕賳 讴賵夭賴鈥屫й� 丕爻鬲 讴賴 丕夭 卮乇丕亘 鬲賴蹖 卮丿賴 亘賵丿... 賮賱爻賮賴鈥屰� 毓賲賱蹖 禺蹖丕賲 丕夭 丕蹖賳 噩賴鬲 亘賴 丕倬蹖讴賵乇诏乇丕蹖蹖 賱胤蹖賮 禺賱丕氐賴 賲蹖鈥屫促堌� 讴賴 亘賴 丨丿丕賯賱 丌乇夭賵蹖 賱匕鬲 倬賳丕賴 亘乇丿賴 丕爻鬲. 亘乇丕蹖 禺蹖丕賲 鬲賲丕卮丕蹖 诏賱 爻乇禺 賵 爻乇讴卮蹖丿賳 亘丕丿賴 讴賮丕蹖鬲 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀�. 賳爻蹖賲蹖 賲賱丕蹖賲貙 诏賮鬲诏賵蹖蹖 亘蹖 賲賳馗賵乇 賵 亘乇賳丕賲賴貙 噩丕賲蹖 丕夭 卮乇丕亘 賵 诏賱貙 丕賵噩 丌乇夭賵蹖 賳賴丕蹖蹖 丨讴蹖賲 丕蹖乇丕賳蹖 賴賲蹖賳 丕爻鬲 賵 亘爻. 氐 299 讴鬲丕亘
This isn鈥檛 the viewpoint of pessimists like Vigny, for whom life was a
prison in which he wove straw to keep busy and forget. ( Pessoa, F., The Book of Disquiet, tr. Richard Zenith).
丕蹖賳 鬲氐賵乇蹖 亘丿亘蹖賳丕賳賴 趩賵賳 鬲氐賵乇丕鬲 賵蹖跇賳蹖 賳蹖爻鬲 讴賴 夭賳丿诏蹖 乇丕 夭賳丿丕賳 賲蹖鈥屫屫� 賵 丿乇 丌賳 丕夭 爻乇 鬲賮乇蹖丨 讴丕賴 乇丕 賳賮乇蹖賳 賲蹖鈥屭┴必�. 鬲乇噩賲賴 噩賴丕賳卮丕賴蹖. 氐賮丨賴 28 讴鬲丕亘.
I see life as a roadside inn where I have to stay until the coach from the
abyss pulls up. I don鈥檛 know where it will take me, because I don鈥檛 know
anything. I could see this inn as a prison, for I鈥檓 compelled to wait in it; I
could see it as a social centre, for it鈥檚 here that I meet others. ( Pessoa, F., The Book of Disquiet, tr. Richard Zenith).
夭賳丿诏蹖 丿乇 賳诏丕賴 賲賳 亘賴 賲賴賲丕賳禺丕賳賴鈥屫й� 賲蹖鈥屬呚з嗀� 讴賴 亘丕蹖丿 丿乇 丌賳 亘蹖丕爻丕蹖蹖賲 鬲丕 讴丕賱爻讴賴 睾乇賯丕亘 丕夭 乇丕賴 亘乇爻丿. 賳賲蹖鈥屫з嗁� 賲乇丕 亘賴 讴噩丕 賲蹖鈥屫ㄘ必� 夭蹖乇丕 趩蹖夭蹖 賳賲蹖鈥屫з嗁�. 賲蹖鈥屫堌з嗁� 丕蹖賳 賲賴賲丕賳禺丕賳賴 乇丕 趩賵賳 夭賳丿丕賳 亘亘蹖賳賲貙 趩乇丕 讴賴 亘賴 賳丕趩丕乇 亘丕蹖丿 丿乇 丌賳 亘賴 丕賳鬲馗丕乇 亘賳卮蹖賳賲. 賴賲趩賳蹖賳 賲蹖鈥屫堌з嗁� 賲丨賱 爻乇賵乇 亘丿丕賳賲卮貙 趩乇丕 讴賴 丿乇 丌賳 亘賴 丕賳爻丕賳鈥屬囏й� 丿蹖诏乇蹖 亘乇 賲蹖鈥屫堌辟�. 鬲乇噩賲賴 噩賴丕賳卮丕賴蹖. 氐賮丨賴 28 讴鬲丕亘.
The tedium of Khayy谩m isn鈥檛 the tedium of those who, because they
don鈥檛 know how to do anything, naturally don鈥檛 know what to do. This
tedium belongs to those who were born dead and who understandably turn
to morphine or cocaine. The tedium of the Persian sage is more noble and
profound. It鈥檚 the tedium of one who clearly considered and saw that
everything was obscure, of one who took stock of all the religions and
philosophies and said, like Solomon: 鈥業 saw that all was vanity and vexation of spirit.鈥�( Pessoa, F., The Book of Disquiet, tr. Richard Zenith)
亘蹖 丕卮鬲蹖丕賯蹖 禺蹖丕賲 亘賴 夭賳丿诏蹖 亘蹖 丕卮鬲蹖丕賯蹖 讴爻蹖 賳蹖爻鬲 讴賴 賳賲蹖鈥屫з嗀� 趩賴 亘丕蹖丿 亘讴賳丿貙 趩乇丕 讴賴 丿乇 丕氐賱 賴蹖趩 讴丕乇蹖 賳賲蹖鈥屫堌з嗀� 亘讴賳丿 蹖丕 爻乇 丿乇 賳賲蹖鈥屫①堌必�. 丕蹖賳 丕賳丿賵賴 讴爻丕賳蹖 丕爻鬲 讴賴 賲乇丿賴 亘賴 丿賳蹖丕 丌賲丿賴鈥屫з嗀� 賵 讴爻丕賳蹖 讴賴 亘賴 胤賵乇 賲噩丕夭 禺賵丿 乇丕 亘丕 賲乇賮蹖賳 蹖丕 讴賵讴丕卅蹖賳 鬲賳馗蹖賲 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗁嗀�. 丕賳丿賵賴 禺乇丿 丕蹖乇丕賳蹖 毓賲蹖賯鈥屫� 賵 丕氐蹖賱鈥屫� 丕爻鬲. 丕蹖賳 丕賳丿賵賴 讴爻蹖 丕爻鬲 讴賴 卮賮丕賮 丕賳丿蹖卮蹖丿賴 賵 賳鬲蹖噩賴鈥� 诏乇賮鬲賴 丕爻鬲 讴賴 賴賲賴 趩蹖夭 爻蹖丕賴 丕爻鬲貙 丕賵 亘賴 賴賲賴鈥屰� 丕丿蹖丕賳 賵 賮賱爻賮賴鈥屬囏� 賮讴乇 讴乇丿賴 賵 賴賲趩賵賳 爻賱蹖賲丕賳 诏賮鬲賴 丕爻鬲: 芦賲賳 丿蹖丿賲 讴賴 賴賲賴鈥屰� 亘胤賱丕賳 賵 丿乇诏蹖乇蹖鈥屬囏� 夭丕丿賴鈥屰� 丕賳丿蹖卮賴 丕爻鬲禄. 鬲乇噩賲賴 噩賴丕賳卮丕賴蹖. 氐賮丨丕鬲 298 賵 299 讴鬲丕亘
That鈥檚 why the Persian insists on the use of wine. 鈥楧rink! Drink!鈥� sums up
his practical philosophy. It鈥檚 not the kind of drinking inspired by happiness, which drinks to become even happier, more itself. Nor is it the drinking inspired by despair, which drinks to forget, to be less itself. Happiness adds vigour and love to the wine, and in Khayy谩m we find no note of energy, no words of love. The wispy, gracile figure of S谩ki appears only occasionally in the Rub谩iy谩t, and she is merely 鈥榯he girl who serves the wine鈥�. The poet appreciates her elegant shape as he appreciated the shape of the amphora containing the wine. ( Pessoa, F., The Book of Disquiet, tr. Richard Zenith).
鬲丕讴蹖丿 賲丿丕賲 丕蹖乇丕賳蹖丕賳 亘乇 賳賵卮蹖丿賳 卮乇丕亘 丕夭 丕蹖賳 乇賵 丕爻鬲貙 賮賱爻賮賴鈥屰� 讴丕賲賱丕 毓賲賱蹖 禺蹖丕賲 賲蹖鈥屭堐屫�: 亘賳賵卮! 亘賳賵卮! 丕蹖賳 賳賵卮蹖丿賳 卮丕丿賲丕賳賴 賳蹖爻鬲 讴賴 亘賳賵卮丿 賵 卮丕丿鬲乇 卮賵丿貙 亘賱讴賴 亘丕 賳賵卮蹖丿賳 亘蹖卮 丕夭 倬蹖卮貙 禺賵丿 卮賵丿. 丕蹖賳 賳賵卮蹖丿賳 賲乇丿丕賳賴 賳蹖爻鬲貙 讴賴 賲蹖鈥屬嗁堌簇� 鬲丕 賮乇丕賲賵卮 讴賳丿 賵 讴賲鬲乇 賲乇丿丿 亘丕卮丿. 賱丕夭賲賴鈥屰� 卮乇丕亘貙 卮丕丿蹖 賵 乇賮鬲丕乇 毓卮賯 丕爻鬲貙 賵 倬蹖 賲蹖鈥屫ㄘ臂屬� 讴賴 丿乇 爻乇賵丿賴鈥屬囏й� 禺蹖丕賲 賵丕跇賴鈥屫й� 賯丕胤毓 賵 噩賲賱賴鈥屫й� 毓丕卮賯丕賳賴 蹖丕賮鬲 賳賲蹖鈥屫促堌�. 爻丕賯蹖貙 讴賴 丕賳丿丕賲 丿賱乇亘丕蹖卮 丿乇 乇亘丕毓蹖丕鬲 賳丕賲卮禺氐 噩賱賵賴 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀� (亘賴 賳丿乇鬲 噩賱賵賴 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀�!) 賮賯胤 芦丿禺鬲乇蹖 丕爻鬲 讴賴 亘丕丿賴 賲蹖鈥屫臂屫藏�. 卮丕毓乇 賯丿乇丿丕賳 丕賳丿丕賲 讴卮蹖丿賴鈥屰� 丕賵 丕爻鬲貙 賴賲丕賳 胤賵乇 賴賲 賯丿乇丿丕賳 讴賵夭賴鈥屫й� 丕爻鬲 讴賴 丕夭 卮乇丕亘 鬲賴蹖 卮丿賴 亘賵丿. 鬲乇噩賲賴 噩賴丕賳卮丕賴蹖. 氐賮丨賴 299 讴鬲丕亘.
Dean Aldrich* is an example of how happiness speaks of wine:
If all be true that I do think,
There are five reasons we should drink;
Good wine 鈥� a friend 鈥� or being dry 鈥�
Or lest we should be by and by 鈥�
Or any other reason why.
The practical philosophy of Khayy谩m is essentially a mild form of
Epicureanism, with only a slight trace of desire for pleasure. To see roses
and drink wine is enough for him. ( Pessoa, F., The Book of Disquiet, tr. Richard Zenith).
丕賵 賳蹖夭 賴賲趩賵賳 丕爻鬲丕丿 丌賱丿乇蹖卮 卮丕丿賲丕賳賴 丕夭 卮乇丕亘 賲蹖鈥屭堐屫�:
賮賱爻賮賴鈥屰� 毓賲賱蹖 禺蹖丕賲 丕夭 丕蹖賳 噩賴鬲 亘賴 丕倬蹖讴賵乇诏乇丕蹖蹖 賱胤蹖賮 禺賱丕氐賴 賲蹖鈥屫促堌� 讴賴 亘賴 丨丿丕賯賱 丌乇夭賵蹖 賱匕鬲 倬賳丕賴 亘乇丿賴 丕爻鬲. 亘乇丕蹖 禺蹖丕賲 鬲賲丕卮丕蹖 诏賱 爻乇禺 賵 爻乇讴卮蹖丿賳 亘丕丿賴 讴賮丕蹖鬲 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀�. 鬲乇噩賲賴 噩賴丕賳卮丕賴蹖. 氐賮丨賴 299 讴鬲丕亘.
賳爻賱蹖 讴賴 賲賳 亘賴 丌賳 鬲毓賱賯 丿丕乇賲 鬲丕 夭丕丿賴 卮丿 噩賴丕賳蹖 乇丕 倬蹖卮 乇賵蹖 禺賵丿 丿蹖丿 讴賴 亘賴 賲乇丿賲 卮噩丕毓貙 賮讴賵乇貙 丕賲丕 亘丿賵賳 丨丕賲蹖 鬲毓賱賯 丿丕卮鬲. 讴丕乇 賵蹖乇丕賳诏乇丕賳賴 賳爻賱 倬蹖卮蹖賳 鬲丕孬蹖乇 禺賵丿 乇丕 诏匕丕卮鬲賴 亘賵丿 鬲丕 丿乇 丿賳蹖丕蹖蹖 讴賴 賲丕丿乇 丌賳 夭丕丿賴 卮丿蹖賲貙 讴賵趩讴鈥屫臂屬� 丕賲賳蹖鬲蹖 丿乇 毓乇氐賴鈥屰� 丿蹖賳蹖貙 鬲讴蹖賴 诏丕賴蹖 丿乇 毓乇氐賴鈥屰� 丕禺賱丕賯 賵 讴賲鬲乇蹖賳 丌乇丕賲卮蹖 丿乇 毓乇氐賴鈥屰� 爻蹖丕爻蹖 賵噩賵丿 賳丿丕卮鬲賴 亘丕卮丿. 賲丕 丿乇 鬲乇爻 丕夭 賲丕賵乇丕 賵 賴乇丕爻 丕夭 丕禺賱丕賯 賵 丌卮賵亘鈥屬囏й� 爻蹖丕爻蹖 夭丕丿賴 卮丿賴 亘賵丿蹖賲. 氐 23 讴鬲丕亘
丿乇 毓氐乇蹖 夭丕丿賴 卮丿賲 讴賴 丕讴孬乇 噩賵丕賳丕賳 亘丕賵乇 亘賴 禺丿丕 乇丕 丕夭 丿爻鬲 丿丕丿賴 亘賵丿賳丿貙 丿乇爻鬲 亘賴 賴賲丕賳 丿賱蹖賱 蹖丕丿 卮丿賴貙 趩乇丕 讴賴 倬蹖卮蹖賳蹖丕賳 丌賳賴丕 亘賴 禺丿丕 丕毓鬲賯丕丿 丿丕卮鬲賳丿貙 亘蹖 丌賳讴賴 亘丿丕賳賳丿 趩乇丕. 賵 丕蹖賳 亘賵丿 讴賴 丕讴孬乇 丕蹖賳 噩賵丕賳丕賳 丕賳爻丕賳蹖鬲 乇丕 噩丕蹖诏夭蹖賳 禺丿丕 讴乇丿賳丿. 氐 26 讴鬲丕亘
賮賯胤 趩蹖夭蹖 賮乇丕鬲乇 丕夭 丨賲丕賯鬲貙 讴賴 丕睾賱亘 丕賳爻丕賳鈥屬囏� 亘丕 丌賳 夭賳丿诏蹖 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗁嗀� 賲乇丕 亘賴 鬲毓噩亘 賵丕 賲蹖鈥屫ж必� 賵 丌賳 丿乇丕蹖鬲蹖 丕爻鬲 讴賴 丿乇 丕蹖賳 丨賲丕賯鬲 賳賴賮鬲賴 丕爻鬲. 氐 34 讴鬲丕亘
賴乇 讴爻 賴爻鬲蹖 禺賵丿 乇丕 蹖讴賳賵丕禺鬲 丕丿丕乇賴 讴賳丿 毓丕賯賱 丕爻鬲. 趩賴 丿乇 丌賳 氐賵乇鬲 賴乇 丨丕丿孬賴鈥屰� 讴賵趩讴蹖 丕夭 賳毓賲鬲 賲毓噩夭賴 亘乇禺賵乇丿丕乇 賲蹖鈥屫促堌�. 卮讴丕乇趩蹖 卮蹖乇 倬爻 丕夭 爻賵賲蹖賳 卮讴丕乇 丿蹖诏乇 賲丕噩乇丕蹖蹖 賳賲蹖鈥屫ㄛ屬嗀�. 氐 36 讴鬲丕亘
賲蹖鈥屫堌з囐� 丿乇 賳賯卮 丕賳爻丕賳鈥屬囏й� 诏賵賳丕诏賵賳 丿乇 爻乇夭賲蹖賳鈥屬囏й� 丿賵乇 夭賳丿诏蹖 讴賳賲. 賲丕蹖賱賲 賲丕賳賳丿 讴爻 丿蹖诏乇蹖貙 亘蹖賳 倬乇趩賲鈥屬囏й� 賳丕卮賳丕禺鬲賴 亘賲蹖乇賲. 賲蹖鈥屫堌з囐� 丕賲倬乇丕鬲賵乇 丕毓氐丕乇 丿蹖诏乇 禺賵丕賳丿賴 卮賵賲 讴賴 丕賲乇賵夭 亘乇丕蹖賲 亘賴鬲乇 噩賱賵賴 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀� 賵 丿乇爻鬲 亘丿蹖賳 爻亘亘 讴賴 亘賴 丕賲乇賵夭 鬲毓賱賯 賳丿丕乇賳丿. 氐 63 讴鬲丕亘
賲賳 賵丕賯毓蹖鬲 乇丕 亘乇 丨賯蹖賯鬲 鬲乇噩蹖丨 賲蹖鈥屫囐呚� 賵 丿乇 丕氐賱 夭賳丿诏蹖 乇丕 亘乇 禺賵丿 禺丿丕 讴賴 丌賳 乇丕 倬丿蹖丿 丌賵乇丿賴貙 鬲乇噩蹖丨 賲蹖鈥屫囐�. 夭賳丿诏蹖 乇丕 亘賴 賲賳 趩賳蹖賳 丕乇夭丕賳蹖 丿丕卮鬲賴貙 趩賳蹖賳 禺賵丕賴賲 夭蹖爻鬲. 氐 65 讴鬲丕亘
賴乇 讴爻 丕賱讴賱 禺賵丿卮 乇丕 丿丕乇丿. 賲賳 丿乇 夭蹖爻鬲賳 丕賱讴賱 讴丕賮蹖 倬蹖丿丕 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗁�. 賲爻鬲 丕夭 丕丨爻丕爻 卮禺氐蹖 丿乇 丕胤乇丕賮 賵賱 賲蹖鈥屭必� 賵 丿乇爻鬲 賲蹖鈥屫辟堎�: 賵賯鬲蹖 夭賲丕賳卮 亘乇爻丿 賲孬賱 丿蹖诏乇丕賳 爻乇 丕夭 丿賮鬲乇 讴丕乇賲 丿乇 賲蹖鈥屫①堌辟�. 丕诏乇 夭賲丕賳卮 賳乇爻丿 亘賴 爻賵蹖 乇賵丿禺丕賳賴 賲蹖鈥屫辟堎� 賵 賲孬賱 丿蹖诏乇丕賳 乇賵丿禺丕賳賴 乇丕 鬲賲丕卮丕 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗁�. 賲賳 賴賲丕賳蹖 讴賴 亘賵丿賴鈥屫з� 賴爻鬲賲. 賵 賮乇丕鬲乇 丕夭 丕蹖賳賴丕貙 丌爻賲丕賳 卮禺氐蹖 禺賵丿賲 乇丕 賲禺賮蹖丕賳賴 爻鬲丕乇賴 亘丕乇丕賳 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗁� 賵 噩丕賵丿丕賳诏蹖 禺賵丿賲 乇丕 丿丕乇賲. 氐 116 讴鬲丕亘
禺丿丕 賲乇丕 讴賵丿讴 丌賮乇蹖丿 賵 賲賴賱鬲 丿丕丿 鬲丕 賴賲蹖卮賴 讴賵丿讴 亘賲丕賳賲. 倬爻 趩乇丕 丕噩丕夭賴 丿丕丿 鬲丕 夭賳丿诏蹖 乇丕 丿乇 賴賲 亘讴賵亘丿賲貙 丕爻亘丕亘 亘丕夭蹖鈥屬囏й屬� 乇丕 亘乇丿丕卮鬲 賵 丿乇 夭賳诏鈥屬囏й� 鬲賳賮爻 鬲賳賴丕蹖賲 诏匕丕卮鬲貙 鬲丕 亘丕 丿爻鬲鈥屬囏й� 賳丨蹖賮賲 讴賴 丕夭 賮乇胤 诏乇蹖賴 丌賱賵丿賴 亘賵丿貙 倬蹖卮鈥屫ㄙ嗀� 丌亘蹖 亘丕夭蹖賲 乇丕 倬丕乇賴 讴賳賲責 丕诏乇 趩賵賳 讴賵丿讴蹖 馗乇蹖賮 卮丕蹖爻鬲賴 夭賳丿诏蹖 亘賵丿賲 趩乇丕 馗乇丕賮鬲 賲乇丕 亘賴 夭亘丕賱賴鈥屫з嗃� 乇賵丕賳賴 讴乇丿責 氐 142 讴鬲丕亘
讴爻蹖 讴賴 賴乇诏夭 鬲丨鬲 賮卮丕乇 賳夭蹖爻鬲賴 亘丕卮丿貙 丌夭丕丿蹖 乇丕 賱賲爻 賳賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀�. 氐 201 讴鬲丕亘
夭賳丿诏蹖 讴賱丕賮蹖 丕爻鬲 讴賴 讴爻蹖 丌賳 乇丕 丿乇 賴賲 乇蹖禺鬲賴 丕爻鬲. 氐 212 讴鬲丕亘
亘乇丕蹖 賲丕 讴賴 賴賲蹖卮賴 丕夭 禺賵蹖卮鬲賳 禺賵蹖卮 毓亘賵乇 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗃屬� 趩卮賲鈥屫з嗀ж槽� 睾蹖乇 丕夭 丌賳趩賴 禺賵丿賲丕賳 賴爻鬲蹖賲貙 賵噩賵丿 賳丿丕乇丿貙 趩乇丕 讴賴 賲丕 丨鬲蹖 氐丕丨亘 禺賵丿賲丕賳 賴賲 賳蹖爻鬲蹖賲. 賲丕 賴蹖趩 趩蹖夭 賳丿丕乇蹖賲貙 趩乇丕 讴賴 賴蹖趩蹖賲. 讴丿丕賲 丿爻鬲鈥屬囏� 乇丕 賲賳 亘丕蹖丿 亘賴 爻賵蹖 讴丿丕賲 讴丕卅賳丕鬲 丿乇丕夭 讴賳賲責 讴丕卅賳丕鬲 丕夭 丌賳 賲賳 賳蹖爻鬲: 賲賳 讴丕卅賳丕鬲賲. 氐 267 讴鬲丕亘
鬲丕讴蹖丿 賲丿丕賲 丕蹖乇丕賳蹖丕賳 亘乇 賳賵卮蹖丿賳 卮乇丕亘 丕夭 丕蹖賳 乇賵 丕爻鬲貙 賮賱爻賮賴鈥屰� 讴丕賲賱丕 毓賲賱蹖 禺蹖丕賲 賲蹖鈥屭堐屫�: 亘賳賵卮! 亘賳賵卮! 丕蹖賳 賳賵卮蹖丿賳 卮丕丿賲丕賳賴 賳蹖爻鬲 讴賴 亘賳賵卮丿 賵 卮丕丿鬲乇 卮賵丿貙 亘賱讴賴 亘丕 賳賵卮蹖丿賳 亘蹖卮 丕夭 倬蹖卮貙 禺賵丿 卮賵丿. 丕蹖賳 賳賵卮蹖丿賳 賲乇丿丕賳賴 賳蹖爻鬲貙 讴賴 賲蹖鈥屬嗁堌簇� 鬲丕 賮乇丕賲賵卮 讴賳丿 賵 讴賲鬲乇 賲乇丿丿 亘丕卮丿. 賱丕夭賲賴鈥屰� 卮乇丕亘貙 卮丕丿蹖 賵 乇賮鬲丕乇 毓卮賯 丕爻鬲貙 賵 倬蹖 賲蹖鈥屫ㄘ臂屬� 讴賴 丿乇 爻乇賵丿賴鈥屬囏й� 禺蹖丕賲 賵丕跇賴鈥屫й� 賯丕胤毓 賵 噩賲賱賴鈥屫й� 毓丕卮賯丕賳賴 蹖丕賮鬲 賳賲蹖鈥屫促堌�. 爻丕賯蹖貙 讴賴 丕賳丿丕賲 丿賱乇亘丕蹖卮 丿乇 乇亘丕毓蹖丕鬲 賳丕賲卮禺氐 噩賱賵賴 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀� (亘賴 賳丿乇鬲 噩賱賵賴 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀�!) 賮賯胤 芦丿禺鬲乇蹖 丕爻鬲 讴賴 亘丕丿賴 賲蹖鈥屫臂屫藏�. 卮丕毓乇 賯丿乇丿丕賳 丕賳丿丕賲 讴卮蹖丿賴鈥屰� 丕賵 丕爻鬲貙 賴賲丕賳 胤賵乇 賴賲 賯丿乇丿丕賳 讴賵夭賴鈥屫й� 丕爻鬲 讴賴 丕夭 卮乇丕亘 鬲賴蹖 卮丿賴 亘賵丿... 賮賱爻賮賴鈥屰� 毓賲賱蹖 禺蹖丕賲 丕夭 丕蹖賳 噩賴鬲 亘賴 丕倬蹖讴賵乇诏乇丕蹖蹖 賱胤蹖賮 禺賱丕氐賴 賲蹖鈥屫促堌� 讴賴 亘賴 丨丿丕賯賱 丌乇夭賵蹖 賱匕鬲 倬賳丕賴 亘乇丿賴 丕爻鬲. 亘乇丕蹖 禺蹖丕賲 鬲賲丕卮丕蹖 诏賱 爻乇禺 賵 爻乇讴卮蹖丿賳 亘丕丿賴 讴賮丕蹖鬲 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀�. 賳爻蹖賲蹖 賲賱丕蹖賲貙 诏賮鬲诏賵蹖蹖 亘蹖 賲賳馗賵乇 賵 亘乇賳丕賲賴貙 噩丕賲蹖 丕夭 卮乇丕亘 賵 诏賱貙 丕賵噩 丌乇夭賵蹖 賳賴丕蹖蹖 丨讴蹖賲 丕蹖乇丕賳蹖 賴賲蹖賳 丕爻鬲 賵 亘爻. 氐 299 讴鬲丕亘
October 15, 2020
O Grande Salto
Este livro retrata uma Humanidade Son芒mbula 鈥� embrenhada numa Escurid茫o Desconexa, Ela mexe e fala apenas porque vive!
Em Pessoa encontramos uma Permanente Avidez de Sentido que lhe rouba a Paz e o afasta do Trilho da Felicidade.
Ser谩 essa Busca Ingl贸ria?
Uma Pesquisa que gera no pr贸prio ventre a Semente do Fracasso?
Estou em crer que N茫o desde que tenhamos presentes as Ferramentas Necess谩rias:
Humildade:
- "Eu s贸 sei que nada sei" para Abrir Alas ao Conhecimento
滨苍迟别濒颈驳锚苍肠颈补:
- Para Descobrir e Analisar
Amor ao Todo:
- Para Mover Montanhas e Concretizar Milagres
Julgo ser esta, a Trindade Parteira M谩gica do Sentido da Vida!
Se labutarmos nela, 茅 prov谩vel que um dia sejamos recompensados com aquele Salto Qualitativo que nos aproximar谩 da Solu莽茫o do Enigma da Cria莽茫o!... 馃槉馃槈
Este livro retrata uma Humanidade Son芒mbula 鈥� embrenhada numa Escurid茫o Desconexa, Ela mexe e fala apenas porque vive!
Em Pessoa encontramos uma Permanente Avidez de Sentido que lhe rouba a Paz e o afasta do Trilho da Felicidade.
Ser谩 essa Busca Ingl贸ria?
Uma Pesquisa que gera no pr贸prio ventre a Semente do Fracasso?
Estou em crer que N茫o desde que tenhamos presentes as Ferramentas Necess谩rias:
Humildade:
- "Eu s贸 sei que nada sei" para Abrir Alas ao Conhecimento
滨苍迟别濒颈驳锚苍肠颈补:
- Para Descobrir e Analisar
Amor ao Todo:
- Para Mover Montanhas e Concretizar Milagres
Julgo ser esta, a Trindade Parteira M谩gica do Sentido da Vida!
Se labutarmos nela, 茅 prov谩vel que um dia sejamos recompensados com aquele Salto Qualitativo que nos aproximar谩 da Solu莽茫o do Enigma da Cria莽茫o!... 馃槉馃槈
May 7, 2023
Lisbon is a place to fall in love. Doorways with mosaics promise romance. Outside, the air is salty as flesh from the sea. Inside, the soulful sound of fado is not a dream but wears a shawl or dark mustache. When you rise to leave, the owner stops you. "I'm going to play," he says and leads you back. He orders a table and chair brought next to the stage. You sit. He takes up a guitar. That's my Lisbon, not Pessoa's.
Yet, we share another Lisbon. That is the city in which writers, particularly poets, dwell. It is built on words that wind up narrow streets so steep there are stairs. We traverse this city with pens. Alone, yet never lonely. As Pessoa says, "words are tangible bodies, visible sirens, sensualities made flesh." And there are "delights in surrender." Suffering, too.
As a guidebook to that Lisbon of the mind, expect no maps. Just open The Book of Disquiet and wander its pages.
Yet, we share another Lisbon. That is the city in which writers, particularly poets, dwell. It is built on words that wind up narrow streets so steep there are stairs. We traverse this city with pens. Alone, yet never lonely. As Pessoa says, "words are tangible bodies, visible sirens, sensualities made flesh." And there are "delights in surrender." Suffering, too.
As a guidebook to that Lisbon of the mind, expect no maps. Just open The Book of Disquiet and wander its pages.
August 26, 2014
The Book of Disquiet is a LiveJournal blog as written by E.M. Cioran or Albert Camus.
Bernardo Soares, Pessoa鈥檚 leading alter-ego, imagines 鈥渢he corpse of [his] prose鈥� being 鈥渓owered into general oblivion鈥� upon his death. This might have been the case had not archivists rescued his fragmented idlings from the black void and published them in this volume.
It strikes me, given Soares鈥檚 desire for extinction, and the delusion of posterity, that this selection of writing is redundant. What impact can one man鈥檚 daydreams, solipsistic tracts, repetitive observations, written from a chronically depressed mind, have on another? What is the function of this book? If the writer is so intent on being ignored, on doting on life鈥檚 gloominess, why should we waste our time lauding the prettiness of his prose?
Would he care that a legion of people find this book a philosophical masterpiece, that we empathise with his eternal struggle with everyday life, with his permanent existential misery? No: he is only happy in dreams.
This is similar to 鈥檚 : it is the very fact of its valuelessness that gives it its value. In practice, at least. With The Book of Disquiet, Soares has written himself into extinction.
Bernardo Soares, Pessoa鈥檚 leading alter-ego, imagines 鈥渢he corpse of [his] prose鈥� being 鈥渓owered into general oblivion鈥� upon his death. This might have been the case had not archivists rescued his fragmented idlings from the black void and published them in this volume.
It strikes me, given Soares鈥檚 desire for extinction, and the delusion of posterity, that this selection of writing is redundant. What impact can one man鈥檚 daydreams, solipsistic tracts, repetitive observations, written from a chronically depressed mind, have on another? What is the function of this book? If the writer is so intent on being ignored, on doting on life鈥檚 gloominess, why should we waste our time lauding the prettiness of his prose?
Would he care that a legion of people find this book a philosophical masterpiece, that we empathise with his eternal struggle with everyday life, with his permanent existential misery? No: he is only happy in dreams.
This is similar to 鈥檚 : it is the very fact of its valuelessness that gives it its value. In practice, at least. With The Book of Disquiet, Soares has written himself into extinction.
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