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讴賲蹖 亘夭乇诏鈥屫� 丕夭 鬲賲丕賲 讴丕卅賳丕鬲
賮乇賳丕賳丿賵 倬賭賴 颅爻賵丌貙 卮丕禺氐 颅鬲乇蹖賳 趩賴乇賴颅 蹖 丕丿亘蹖丕鬲 賲毓丕氐乇 倬乇鬲睾丕賱 丿乇 賯乇賳蹖 讴賴 诏匕卮鬲貙 卮毓乇賴丕蹖卮 乇丕 丕睾賱亘 亘丕 爻賴 賳丕賲 賲爻鬲毓丕乇 賲蹖颅賳賵卮鬲 賵 诏丕賴丕賸 賲賳鬲卮乇 賲蹖颅 讴乇丿. 趩賴乇賴颅賴丕蹖蹖 賲鬲卮禺賾氐 讴賴 賴乇 蹖讴 诏匕乇丕賳 賵 乇賵夭诏丕乇貙 毓賯丕蹖丿 賵 丌乇丕亍 賵 丕卮鬲睾丕賱丕鬲 賵 禺氐賵氐丕賸 卮蹖賵賴 颅蹖 卮丕毓乇蹖 賵 丨鬲丕 丿爻鬲颅禺胤 禺丕氐 禺賵丿 乇丕 丿丕卮鬲賳丿. 诏夭蹖丿賴颅 蹖 丨丕囟乇 賳蹖夭 卮丕賲賱 亘蹖卮 丕夭 100 卮毓乇 丕夭 鬲賲丕賲蹖 芦丕蹖卮丕賳禄 丕爻鬲. 亘爻蹖丕乇蹖 卮毓乇 倬賭賴颅 爻賵丌 乇丕 卮毓乇蹖 夭賲夭賲賴颅 诏乇 賵 乇丕夭賵乇夭丕賳賴貙 賵 亘乇禺蹖 丕賵 乇丕 丕夭 倬蹖卮诏丕賲丕賳 夭賵丿乇爻 卮毓乇 倬爻丕賲丿乇賳 (賵 丨鬲賾丕 爻賵乇乇卅丕賱蹖爻鬲蹖) 丿丕賳爻鬲賴 颅丕賳丿.
256 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2006
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About the author
Fernando Pessoa
1,211听books6,096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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May 1, 2025
鈥�What鈥檚 the writing of poetry but a confession that life isn鈥檛 enough?
What鈥檚 art but a way to forget that life is just this?鈥�
-脕lvaro De Campos
(1888-1935) was a living literary masterpiece. Writing in Portuguese, French, and English, Pessoa turned out a staggering, and seemingly endless collection of poetry, translations, literary criticisms and numerous essays on politics, religion and philosophy, as well as the highly praised and highly ponderous , all under a vast collection of heteronyms. Coined by Pessoa, Heteronyms are a literary device somewhat like an extension to the concept of a pseudonyms, being fully fleshed-out character, each with their own unique styles, beliefs, and themes as well as a complete biography through which Pessoa wrote as opposed to simply being a false name 鹿 Through 81 confirmed heteronyms (the complete list is contained below), Pessoa rocked the literary climate of his native Portugal, being credited as the genius behind the three greatest Portuguese poets of his time: Alberto Caeiro, 脕lvaro de Campos, Ricardo Reis.
Richard Zenith鈥檚 introduction to this collection offers an interesting, in-depth look into the life of Pessoa, from his political activism to philosophical musings, and the ideas and inspirations behind the creation of his most famous heteronyms. Pessoa evinced literary greatness very early on in life. writing his first poem at age 7 to his mother:
Alberto Caeiro
Caeiro, an Aries, was written to be a simple country dweller with no education and a desire to perceive life simply as it is without any thought getting in the way to taint it: 鈥�to know how to see without thinking, to know how to see when seeing and not think when seeing nor see when thinking鈥�. Born in 1889 and dying in 1915, Caeiro is said by Pessoa to have come to him 鈥�in a kind of ecstasy鈥� that allowed him to write the majority of Caeiro鈥檚 body of work within a 2 week period.
Ricardo Reis
Reis, born in 1887 虏, was a physician and immersed in the Greek classics, writing epic, metered odes and sonnets about fate. Reis questions religion (often preferring to believe in the Greek gods than his own Christian faith) mocks man, and seeks only for truth.
脕lvaro de Campos
How amazing is that!?
De Campos is my favorite of the heteronyms collected in this book. Born in 1890, De Campos was created to be the antithesis of Pessoa鈥檚 true self. Known for writing scathing criticisms, long poems (which later became very short poems in which he expresses sadness for not being able to create the long poems of his youth) and political activism, De Campos has the most personality and public life of the heteronyms. Often Pessoa would show up in character as De Campos to readings or lectures where Pessoa Himself had been scheduled and proceed to bad mouth the Pessoa Himself, which Zenith points out, didn鈥檛 always sit well with the public.
I鈥檓 gonna throw a bomb into destiny.
Pessoa Himself
Interestingly enough, Pessoa as himself was the least famous of his major poets. Much of his self poetry is spent discussing the ideas of the 鈥榮elf鈥� and consciousness. He wrote several poems in English, which were only marginally received. As he had taught himself English at a young age by reading his favorite writers, Poe, Shakespeare, Keats, Milton, Arthur Conan Doyle and Dickens among others, his English built itself to have a slightly outdated, stuffy academic feel to it that was noted in many of his English poem reviews. However, it was also mentioned that his Elizabethan style felt extremely authentic.
5/5
鹿 While most instances of his are simply considered pseudonyms, had several heteronyms which he used to distance the opinions in certain books or essays of his from the major body of work.
虏 The idea that Reis continued living after the death of Pessoa is explored in Saramago鈥檚 novel , in which Lydia, a woman frequently mentioned in Reis poetry, is a significant character.
THE LIST OF PESSOA鈥橲 HETERONYMS:
1. Fernando Antonio Nogueira Pessoa - Himself - Commercial correspondent in Lisbon
2. Fernando Pessoa - Orthonym - Poet and prose writer
3. Fernando Pessoa - Autonym - Poet and prose writer
4. Fernando Pessoa - Heteronym - Poet; a pupil of Alberto Caeiro
5. Alberto Caeiro - Heteronym - Poet; author of O guardador de Rebanhos, O Pastor Amoroso and Poemas inconjuntos; master of heteronyms Fernando Pessoa, 脕lvaro de Campos, Ricardo Reis and Ant贸nio Mora.
6. Ricardo Reis - Heteronym - Poet and prose writer, author of Odes and texts on the work of Alberto Caeiro
7. Federico Reis - Heteronym / Para-heteronym - Essayist; brother of Ricardo Reis, upon whom he writes
8. 脕lvaro de Campos - Heteronym - Poet and prose writer; a pupil of Alberto Caeiro
9. Ant贸nio Mora - Heteronym - Philosopher and sociologist; theorist of Neopaganism; a pupil of Alberto Caeiro
10. Claude Pasteur - Heteronym / Semi-heteronym - French translator of Cadernos de reconstru莽茫o pag茫 conducted by Ant贸nio Mora
11. Bernardo Soares - Heteronym / Semi-heteronym - Poet and prose writer; author of The Book of Disquiet.
12. Vicente Guedes - Heteronym / Semi-heteronym - Translator, poet; director of Ibis Press; author of a paper
13. Gervasio Guedes - Heteronym / Semi-heteronym - Author of the text 鈥淎 Coroa莽茫o de Jorge Quinto鈥�
14. Alexander Search - Heteronym - Poet and short story writer
15. Charles James Search - Heteronym / Para-heteronym - Translator and essayist; brother of Alexander Search
16. Jean-M茅luret of Seoul - Heteronym / Proto-heteronym - French poet and essayist
17. Rafael Baldaya - Heteronym - Astrologer; author of Tratado da Nega莽茫o and Princ铆pios de Metaphysica Esot茅rica
18. Bar茫o de Teive - Heteronym - Prose writer; author of Educa莽茫o do Stoica and Daphnis e Chloe
19. Charles Robert Anon - Heteronym / Semi-heteronym - Poet, philosopher and story writer
20. A. A. Crosse - Pseudonym / Proto-heteronym - Author and puzzle-solver
21. Thomas Crosse - Heteronym / Proto-heteronym - English epic character/occultist, popularized in Portuguese culture
22. I. I. Crosse - Heteronym / Para-heteronym -
23. David Merrick - Heteronym / Semi-heteronym - Poet, storyteller and playwright
24. Lucas Merrick - Heteronym / Para-heteronym - Short story writer; perhaps brother David Merrick
25. P锚ro Botelho - Heteronym / Pseudonym - Short story writer and author of letters
26. Abilio Quaresma - Heteronym / Character / Meta-heteronym - Character inspired by P锚ro Botelho and author of short detective stories
27. Inspector Guedes - Character / Meta-heteronym(?) - Character inspired by P锚ro Botelho and author of short detective stories
28. Uncle Pork - Pseudonym / Character - Character inspired by P锚ro Botelho and author of short detective stories
29. Frederick Wyatt - Alias / Heteronym - English poet and prose writer
30. Rev. Walter Wyatt - Character - Possibly brother of Frederick Wyatt
31. Alfred Wyatt - Character - Another brother of Frederick Wyatt and resident of Paris
32. Maria Jos茅 - Heteronym / Proto-heteronym - Wrote and signed 鈥淎 Carta da Corcunda para o Serralheiro鈥�
33. Chevalier de Pas - Pseudonym / Proto-heteronym - Author of poems and letters
34. Efbeedee Pasha - Heteronym / Proto-heteronym - Author of humoristic stories
35. Faustino Antunes / A. Moreira - Heteronym / Pseudonym - Psychologist and author of Ensaio sobre a Intui莽茫o
36. Carlos Otto - Heteronym / Proto-heteronym - Poet and author of Tratado de Lucta Livre
37. Michael Otto - Pseudonym / Para-heteronym - Probably brother of Carlos Otto who was entrusted with the translation into English of Tratado de Lucta Livre
38. Sebastian Knight - Proto-heteronym / Alias -
39. Horace James Faber - Heteronym / Semi-heteronym - English short story writer and essayist
40. Navas - Heteronym / Para-heteronym - Translated Horace James Faber in Portuguese
41. Pantale茫o - Heteronym / Proto-heteronym - Poet and prose writer
42. Torquato Fonseca Mendes da Cunha Rey - Heteronym / Meta-heteronym - Deceased author of a text Pantale茫o decided to publish
43. Joaquim Moura Costa - Proto-heteronym / Semi-heteronym - Satirical poet; Republican activist; member of O Phosphoro
44. Sher Henay - Proto-heteronym / Pseudonym - Compiler and author of the preface of a sensationalist anthology in English
45. Anthony Gomes - Semi-heteronym / Character - Philosopher; author of 鈥淗istoria C贸mica do Affonso 脟apateiro鈥�
46. Professor Trochee - Proto-heteronym / Pseudonym - Author of an essay with humorous advice for young poets
47. Willyam Links Esk - Character - Signed a letter written in English on April 13, 1905
48. Ant贸nio de Seabra - Pseudonym / Proto-heteronym - Literary critic
49. Jo茫o Craveiro - Pseudonym / Proto-heteronym - Journalist; follower of Sidonio Pereira
50. Tagus - Pseudonym - Collaborator in Natal Mercury (Durban, South Africa)
51. Pipa Gomes - Draft heteronym - Collaborator in O Phosphoro
52. Ibis -Character / Pseudonym - Character from Pessoa鈥檚 childhood accompanying him until the end of his life; also signed poems
53. Dr. Gaudencio Turnips - Proto-heteronym / Pseudonym - English-Portuguese journalist and humorist; director of O Palrador
54. Pip - Proto-heteronym / Pseudonym - Poet and author of humorous anecdotes; predecessor of Dr. Pancr谩cio
55. Dr. Pancr谩cio - Proto-heteronym / Pseudonym - Storyteller, poet and creator of charades
56. Lu铆s Ant贸nio Congo - Proto-heteronym / Pseudonym - Collaborator in O Palrador; columnist and presenter of Eduardo Lan莽a
57. Eduardo Lan莽a - Proto-heteronym / Pseudonym - Luso-Brazilian poet
58. A. Francisco de Paula Angard - Proto-heteronym / Pseudonym - Collaborator in O Palrador; author of 鈥淭extos scientificos鈥�
59. Pedro da Silva Salles / Z茅 Pad - Proto-heteronym / Alias - Author and director of the section of anecdotes at O Palrador
60. Jos茅 Rodrigues do Valle / Scicio - Proto-heteronym / Alias - Collaborator in O Palrador; author of charades; literary manager
61. Dr. Caloiro - Proto-heteronym / Pseudonym - Collaborator in O Palrador; reporter and author of A pesca das p茅rolas
62. Adolph Moscow - Proto-heteronym / Pseudonym - Collaborator in O Palrador; novelist and author of Os Rapazes de Barrowby
63. Marvell Kisch - Proto-heteronym / Pseudonym - Author of a novel announced in O Palrador, called A Riqueza de um Doido
64. Gabriel Keene - Proto-heteronym / Pseudonym - Author of a novel announced in O Palrador, called Em Dias de Perigo
65. Sableton-Kay - Proto-heteronym / Pseudonym - Author of a novel announced in O Palrador, called A Lucta A茅rea
66. Morris & Theodor - Pseudonym - Collaborator in O Palrador; author of charades
67. Diabo Azul - Pseudonym - Collaborator in O Palrador; author of charades
68. Parry - Pseudonym - Collaborator in O Palrador; author of charades
69. Galli茫o Pequeno - Pseudonym - Collaborator in O Palrador; author of charades
70. Urban Accursio - Alias - Collaborator in O Palrador; author of charades
71. Cec铆lia - Pseudonym - Collaborator in O Palrador; author of charades
72. Jos茅 Rasteiro - Proto-heteronym / Pseudonym - Collaborator in O Palrador; author of charades
73. Nympha Negra - Pseudonym - Collaborator in O Palrador; author of charades
74. Diniz da Silva - Pseudonym / Proto-heteronym - Author of the poem 鈥淟oucura鈥�; collaborator in Europe
75. Herr Prosit - Pseudonym - Translator of El estudiante de Salamanca by Jos茅 Espronceda
76. Henry More - Proto-heteronym - Author and prose writer
77. Wardour - Character (?) - Poet
78. J. M. Hyslop - Poet
79. Vadooisf (?) - Poet
80. Nuno Reis - Psuedonym - Son of Ricardo Reis
81. Jo茫o Caeiro - Character (?) - Son of Alberto Caeiro and Ana Taveir
What鈥檚 art but a way to forget that life is just this?鈥�
-脕lvaro De Campos
(1888-1935) was a living literary masterpiece. Writing in Portuguese, French, and English, Pessoa turned out a staggering, and seemingly endless collection of poetry, translations, literary criticisms and numerous essays on politics, religion and philosophy, as well as the highly praised and highly ponderous , all under a vast collection of heteronyms. Coined by Pessoa, Heteronyms are a literary device somewhat like an extension to the concept of a pseudonyms, being fully fleshed-out character, each with their own unique styles, beliefs, and themes as well as a complete biography through which Pessoa wrote as opposed to simply being a false name 鹿 Through 81 confirmed heteronyms (the complete list is contained below), Pessoa rocked the literary climate of his native Portugal, being credited as the genius behind the three greatest Portuguese poets of his time: Alberto Caeiro, 脕lvaro de Campos, Ricardo Reis.
Richard Zenith鈥檚 introduction to this collection offers an interesting, in-depth look into the life of Pessoa, from his political activism to philosophical musings, and the ideas and inspirations behind the creation of his most famous heteronyms. Pessoa evinced literary greatness very early on in life. writing his first poem at age 7 to his mother:
Here I am in Portugalspending his early childhood creating fake newspapers for his own enjoyment (written by a fake group of journalists whom he wrote biographies for), and publishing short stories and poems through the heteronym, Charles Robert Anon, at age 16. As Pessoa grew as a writer, he began to create more and more identities to suit his needs. 鈥�Each of my dreams,鈥� writes Pessoa as Bernardo Soares in The Book of Disquiet, as soon as I start dreaming it, is immediately incarnated in another person, who is then the one dreaming it, and not I To create, I鈥檝e destroyed myself鈥�. I鈥檓 the empty stage where various actors act out various plays.鈥� Much like a character actor, Pessoa was able to take on the personality of endless characters, leaving so little trace of himself that people often questioned if it was possible for someone to be able to express one set of opinions and style, yet concurrently write such opposing ideas from another heteronym (although many of the critics debating this or publishing analytical essays on the poets turned out to actually be Pessoa again). Pessoa often experimented with automatic writing to 鈥榝ind鈥� new heteronyms, and after studying heavily into astrology, he began to assign astrological signs to his heteronyms to build their personalities. Zenith collects the 鈥榖est of鈥� from each of Pessoa鈥檚 major poets in this collection to exemplify the diversity and sheer genius of Pessoa.
In the lands where I was born.
However much I love them
I love you even more
Alberto Caeiro
If they want me to have mysticism, okay, I鈥檝e got it.
I鈥檓 a mystic, but only in my body,
My soul is simple and doesn鈥檛 think.
My mysticism is not wanting to know.
It鈥檚 living and not thinking about it.
I don鈥檛 know what Nature is: I sing her.
I live on top of a knoll
In a lonely whitewashed house,
And that鈥檚 my definition.
Caeiro, an Aries, was written to be a simple country dweller with no education and a desire to perceive life simply as it is without any thought getting in the way to taint it: 鈥�to know how to see without thinking, to know how to see when seeing and not think when seeing nor see when thinking鈥�. Born in 1889 and dying in 1915, Caeiro is said by Pessoa to have come to him 鈥�in a kind of ecstasy鈥� that allowed him to write the majority of Caeiro鈥檚 body of work within a 2 week period.
O ship setting out on a distant voyage,
Why don't I miss you the way other people do
After you've vanished from sight?
Because, when I don't see you, you cease to exist.
And if I feel nostalgia for what doesn't exist,
The feeling is in relationship to nothing.
It's not the ship but our own selves that we miss.
Ricardo Reis
I want the flower you are, not the one you give.
Why refuse me what I don't ask of you?
听听听听听听You'll have time to refuse
听听听听听听After you've given.
Flower, be a flower to me! If, ungenerous, you're plucked
By the hand of the ill-omened sphinx, you'll wander forever
听听听听听听As an absurd shadow,
听听听听听听Seeking what you never gave.
Reis, born in 1887 虏, was a physician and immersed in the Greek classics, writing epic, metered odes and sonnets about fate. Reis questions religion (often preferring to believe in the Greek gods than his own Christian faith) mocks man, and seeks only for truth.
Whatever ceases is death, and the death
Is ours if it ceases for us. A bush
听听听听听听Withers, and with it
听听听听听听Goes part of my life.
In all I鈥檝e observed, part of me remained.
Whatever I鈥檝e seen, when it passes I passed,
听听听听听听Memory not distinguishing
听听听听听听What I鈥檝e seen from what I鈥檝e been.
---
Let my fate deny me everything except
听听听听听听to see it, for I, an unstrict
Stoic, wish to delight in every letter
听听听听听听of the sentence engraved by Destiny
脕lvaro de Campos
I got off the train
And said good-bye to the man I鈥檇 met.
We鈥檇 been together for eighteen hours
And had a pleasant conversation,
Fellowship in the journey,
And I was sorry to get off, sorry to leave
This chance friend whose name I never learned.
I felt my eyes water with tears鈥�
Every farewell is a death.
Yes, every farewell is a death
In the train that we call life
We are all chance events in one another鈥檚 lives,
And we all feel sorry when it鈥檚 time to get off.
All that is human moves me, because I am a man.
All that is human moves me not because I have an affinity
With human ideas or human doctrines
But because of my infinite fellowship with humanity itself.
The main who hated to go,
Crying with nostalgia
For the house where she鈥檇 been mistreated鈥�.
All of this, inside my heart, is death and the world鈥檚 sadness.
All of this lives, because it dies, inside my heart.
And my heart is a little larger than the entire universe.
How amazing is that!?
De Campos is my favorite of the heteronyms collected in this book. Born in 1890, De Campos was created to be the antithesis of Pessoa鈥檚 true self. Known for writing scathing criticisms, long poems (which later became very short poems in which he expresses sadness for not being able to create the long poems of his youth) and political activism, De Campos has the most personality and public life of the heteronyms. Often Pessoa would show up in character as De Campos to readings or lectures where Pessoa Himself had been scheduled and proceed to bad mouth the Pessoa Himself, which Zenith points out, didn鈥檛 always sit well with the public.
I鈥檓 gonna throw a bomb into destiny.
I鈥檓 nothing.
I鈥檒l never be anything.
I can鈥檛 wish to be anything.
Even so, I have in me all the dreams of the world.
Pessoa Himself
The poet is a faker
Who鈥檚 so good at his act
He even fakes the pain
Of pain he feels in fact.
And those who read his words
Will feel in what he wrote
Neither of the pains he has
But just the one they don鈥檛.
And so around its track
This thing called the heart winds,
A little clockwork train
To entertain our minds.
Interestingly enough, Pessoa as himself was the least famous of his major poets. Much of his self poetry is spent discussing the ideas of the 鈥榮elf鈥� and consciousness. He wrote several poems in English, which were only marginally received. As he had taught himself English at a young age by reading his favorite writers, Poe, Shakespeare, Keats, Milton, Arthur Conan Doyle and Dickens among others, his English built itself to have a slightly outdated, stuffy academic feel to it that was noted in many of his English poem reviews. However, it was also mentioned that his Elizabethan style felt extremely authentic.
All beauty is a dream, even if it exists
for beauty is always more than it is
the beauty I see in you
isn鈥檛 here, next to me.
What I see in you lives where I dream,
Far away from here. If you exist,
I only know it
Because I just dreamed it.
Beauty is a music which, heard
In dreams, overflowed into life.
But it鈥檚 not exactly life:
It鈥檚 the life that dreamed.
5/5
鹿 While most instances of his are simply considered pseudonyms, had several heteronyms which he used to distance the opinions in certain books or essays of his from the major body of work.
虏 The idea that Reis continued living after the death of Pessoa is explored in Saramago鈥檚 novel , in which Lydia, a woman frequently mentioned in Reis poetry, is a significant character.
THE LIST OF PESSOA鈥橲 HETERONYMS:
1. Fernando Antonio Nogueira Pessoa - Himself - Commercial correspondent in Lisbon
2. Fernando Pessoa - Orthonym - Poet and prose writer
3. Fernando Pessoa - Autonym - Poet and prose writer
4. Fernando Pessoa - Heteronym - Poet; a pupil of Alberto Caeiro
5. Alberto Caeiro - Heteronym - Poet; author of O guardador de Rebanhos, O Pastor Amoroso and Poemas inconjuntos; master of heteronyms Fernando Pessoa, 脕lvaro de Campos, Ricardo Reis and Ant贸nio Mora.
6. Ricardo Reis - Heteronym - Poet and prose writer, author of Odes and texts on the work of Alberto Caeiro
7. Federico Reis - Heteronym / Para-heteronym - Essayist; brother of Ricardo Reis, upon whom he writes
8. 脕lvaro de Campos - Heteronym - Poet and prose writer; a pupil of Alberto Caeiro
9. Ant贸nio Mora - Heteronym - Philosopher and sociologist; theorist of Neopaganism; a pupil of Alberto Caeiro
10. Claude Pasteur - Heteronym / Semi-heteronym - French translator of Cadernos de reconstru莽茫o pag茫 conducted by Ant贸nio Mora
11. Bernardo Soares - Heteronym / Semi-heteronym - Poet and prose writer; author of The Book of Disquiet.
12. Vicente Guedes - Heteronym / Semi-heteronym - Translator, poet; director of Ibis Press; author of a paper
13. Gervasio Guedes - Heteronym / Semi-heteronym - Author of the text 鈥淎 Coroa莽茫o de Jorge Quinto鈥�
14. Alexander Search - Heteronym - Poet and short story writer
15. Charles James Search - Heteronym / Para-heteronym - Translator and essayist; brother of Alexander Search
16. Jean-M茅luret of Seoul - Heteronym / Proto-heteronym - French poet and essayist
17. Rafael Baldaya - Heteronym - Astrologer; author of Tratado da Nega莽茫o and Princ铆pios de Metaphysica Esot茅rica
18. Bar茫o de Teive - Heteronym - Prose writer; author of Educa莽茫o do Stoica and Daphnis e Chloe
19. Charles Robert Anon - Heteronym / Semi-heteronym - Poet, philosopher and story writer
20. A. A. Crosse - Pseudonym / Proto-heteronym - Author and puzzle-solver
21. Thomas Crosse - Heteronym / Proto-heteronym - English epic character/occultist, popularized in Portuguese culture
22. I. I. Crosse - Heteronym / Para-heteronym -
23. David Merrick - Heteronym / Semi-heteronym - Poet, storyteller and playwright
24. Lucas Merrick - Heteronym / Para-heteronym - Short story writer; perhaps brother David Merrick
25. P锚ro Botelho - Heteronym / Pseudonym - Short story writer and author of letters
26. Abilio Quaresma - Heteronym / Character / Meta-heteronym - Character inspired by P锚ro Botelho and author of short detective stories
27. Inspector Guedes - Character / Meta-heteronym(?) - Character inspired by P锚ro Botelho and author of short detective stories
28. Uncle Pork - Pseudonym / Character - Character inspired by P锚ro Botelho and author of short detective stories
29. Frederick Wyatt - Alias / Heteronym - English poet and prose writer
30. Rev. Walter Wyatt - Character - Possibly brother of Frederick Wyatt
31. Alfred Wyatt - Character - Another brother of Frederick Wyatt and resident of Paris
32. Maria Jos茅 - Heteronym / Proto-heteronym - Wrote and signed 鈥淎 Carta da Corcunda para o Serralheiro鈥�
33. Chevalier de Pas - Pseudonym / Proto-heteronym - Author of poems and letters
34. Efbeedee Pasha - Heteronym / Proto-heteronym - Author of humoristic stories
35. Faustino Antunes / A. Moreira - Heteronym / Pseudonym - Psychologist and author of Ensaio sobre a Intui莽茫o
36. Carlos Otto - Heteronym / Proto-heteronym - Poet and author of Tratado de Lucta Livre
37. Michael Otto - Pseudonym / Para-heteronym - Probably brother of Carlos Otto who was entrusted with the translation into English of Tratado de Lucta Livre
38. Sebastian Knight - Proto-heteronym / Alias -
39. Horace James Faber - Heteronym / Semi-heteronym - English short story writer and essayist
40. Navas - Heteronym / Para-heteronym - Translated Horace James Faber in Portuguese
41. Pantale茫o - Heteronym / Proto-heteronym - Poet and prose writer
42. Torquato Fonseca Mendes da Cunha Rey - Heteronym / Meta-heteronym - Deceased author of a text Pantale茫o decided to publish
43. Joaquim Moura Costa - Proto-heteronym / Semi-heteronym - Satirical poet; Republican activist; member of O Phosphoro
44. Sher Henay - Proto-heteronym / Pseudonym - Compiler and author of the preface of a sensationalist anthology in English
45. Anthony Gomes - Semi-heteronym / Character - Philosopher; author of 鈥淗istoria C贸mica do Affonso 脟apateiro鈥�
46. Professor Trochee - Proto-heteronym / Pseudonym - Author of an essay with humorous advice for young poets
47. Willyam Links Esk - Character - Signed a letter written in English on April 13, 1905
48. Ant贸nio de Seabra - Pseudonym / Proto-heteronym - Literary critic
49. Jo茫o Craveiro - Pseudonym / Proto-heteronym - Journalist; follower of Sidonio Pereira
50. Tagus - Pseudonym - Collaborator in Natal Mercury (Durban, South Africa)
51. Pipa Gomes - Draft heteronym - Collaborator in O Phosphoro
52. Ibis -Character / Pseudonym - Character from Pessoa鈥檚 childhood accompanying him until the end of his life; also signed poems
53. Dr. Gaudencio Turnips - Proto-heteronym / Pseudonym - English-Portuguese journalist and humorist; director of O Palrador
54. Pip - Proto-heteronym / Pseudonym - Poet and author of humorous anecdotes; predecessor of Dr. Pancr谩cio
55. Dr. Pancr谩cio - Proto-heteronym / Pseudonym - Storyteller, poet and creator of charades
56. Lu铆s Ant贸nio Congo - Proto-heteronym / Pseudonym - Collaborator in O Palrador; columnist and presenter of Eduardo Lan莽a
57. Eduardo Lan莽a - Proto-heteronym / Pseudonym - Luso-Brazilian poet
58. A. Francisco de Paula Angard - Proto-heteronym / Pseudonym - Collaborator in O Palrador; author of 鈥淭extos scientificos鈥�
59. Pedro da Silva Salles / Z茅 Pad - Proto-heteronym / Alias - Author and director of the section of anecdotes at O Palrador
60. Jos茅 Rodrigues do Valle / Scicio - Proto-heteronym / Alias - Collaborator in O Palrador; author of charades; literary manager
61. Dr. Caloiro - Proto-heteronym / Pseudonym - Collaborator in O Palrador; reporter and author of A pesca das p茅rolas
62. Adolph Moscow - Proto-heteronym / Pseudonym - Collaborator in O Palrador; novelist and author of Os Rapazes de Barrowby
63. Marvell Kisch - Proto-heteronym / Pseudonym - Author of a novel announced in O Palrador, called A Riqueza de um Doido
64. Gabriel Keene - Proto-heteronym / Pseudonym - Author of a novel announced in O Palrador, called Em Dias de Perigo
65. Sableton-Kay - Proto-heteronym / Pseudonym - Author of a novel announced in O Palrador, called A Lucta A茅rea
66. Morris & Theodor - Pseudonym - Collaborator in O Palrador; author of charades
67. Diabo Azul - Pseudonym - Collaborator in O Palrador; author of charades
68. Parry - Pseudonym - Collaborator in O Palrador; author of charades
69. Galli茫o Pequeno - Pseudonym - Collaborator in O Palrador; author of charades
70. Urban Accursio - Alias - Collaborator in O Palrador; author of charades
71. Cec铆lia - Pseudonym - Collaborator in O Palrador; author of charades
72. Jos茅 Rasteiro - Proto-heteronym / Pseudonym - Collaborator in O Palrador; author of charades
73. Nympha Negra - Pseudonym - Collaborator in O Palrador; author of charades
74. Diniz da Silva - Pseudonym / Proto-heteronym - Author of the poem 鈥淟oucura鈥�; collaborator in Europe
75. Herr Prosit - Pseudonym - Translator of El estudiante de Salamanca by Jos茅 Espronceda
76. Henry More - Proto-heteronym - Author and prose writer
77. Wardour - Character (?) - Poet
78. J. M. Hyslop - Poet
79. Vadooisf (?) - Poet
80. Nuno Reis - Psuedonym - Son of Ricardo Reis
81. Jo茫o Caeiro - Character (?) - Son of Alberto Caeiro and Ana Taveir
June 8, 2019
...I have in me all the dreams of the world.
脕lvaro de Campos, 鈥淭he Tobacco Shop鈥�
Warning
This is going to be a long, tedious, intense review. If you don't feel like reading an endless bunch of nonsense, you may leave now. However, poetry lover, I seriously suggest you this: get this book. As soon as possible. You have not fully lived until you live through the eyes of Pessoa.
There. You have been fairly warned. It's not my responsibility anymore.
On June 13, 1888, a whole new world was born. It was created out of words, beauty and sorrow, and it was inhabited by numerous souls coexisting in one complex body. Light as air, fragile as bones. That body started doubting about his own existence. He, the one that distrusted thinking and preferred feeling above all things, could not stop thinking, like the rest of us simple mortals that wish to put our brains on hold to enjoy the sight of the world. Despite any doubt, we all know his presence was too real, too strong, bigger than a planet, a little larger than the entire universe.
That man was Fernando Pessoa, who was born under that last name as if he had already something to achieve, for Pessoa means 鈥減erson鈥�, and he have split himself into a multitude of heteronyms to convey the vastness that laid inside of him. A universe of literature and feelings was waiting to be awoken. The rich range of literature that the young Pessoa absorbed and the French symbolists he admired gave form to the brilliant writer we know today. Nonetheless, we should also thank Walt Whitman, since he embodied the most powerful force that made it possible for Pessoa to create four of the greatest poets of the 20th century: Alberto Caeiro, Ricardo Reis, 脕lvaro de Campos and Fernando Pessoa-himself.
Certainly, Pessoa created the four poets aforementioned, but he endowed them with a time and place of birth, diverse thoughts, passion, different views on the world; ultimately, with existence. So it is only fair to speak about them as if they were real writers. Pessoa's mind might have been a common source for them, however, they alienated themselves. They took their own place in the world by force. The force of their art and the willing to live.
Thus, we shall begin.
The first thing we find inside this book is Zenith's remarkable 鈥淚ntroduction: The Birth of a Nation鈥�. There, he skillfully describes Pessoa's most relevant life events and the process of his creations. He did not write a cold biography that merely enumerates certain events in someone's life. With a rich vocabulary, a clear style and the mesmerizing excerpts he intertwines with his own words, he created a true work of art. Be sure to not skip it.
Alberto Caeiro or The Primacy of Reality
Caeiro, born on April 16, 1889, personified the poet of Nature. He, the creator of The Keeper of Sheep, always said he wanted to see things as they are, without the interference of his brain. Without preconceptions. Without prejudices. Only the appreciation for what it really was. He did not consider himself as a materialist nor a deist: just a man that one fine day discovered that Nature existed.
Caeiro, the collector of facts. Facts he embellished with the art of the words. He thought he could detachedly describe Nature.
XXVIII
...I know I understand Nature on the outside,
And I don't understand it on the inside,
Because Nature has no inside.
If it did, it wouldn't be Nature. (31)
That he could dissipate the cloud of sentiment and portray only what his eyes were willing to see. Apparently, he could and, ironically, he made poetry out of that.
II
I believe in the world as in a daisy,
Because I see it. But I don't think about it,
Because to think is to not understand.
The world wasn't made for us to think about it...
鈥�
To love is eternal innocence,
And the only innocence is not to think... (11)
By denying the possibility of thought, he released himself from the torture of expectations. Of anxiety. And doubts. He saw how the world was being handed to him and he accepted it (I accept because it's my nature to accept; 64), without questioning. This suppression of the mind might have led him to happiness.
XXXIV
...Seeing nothing but my thoughts...
I would grow sad and remain in the dark.
The way I am, without thinking, I have the Earth and the Sky. (36)
We will never know, of course. We have to rely on what he wrote... It does sound great in theory. Uncertainties are the rotten apple in someone's inner life. They are born in the mind and quickly reach the soul, creating a void that seems unstoppable.
IX
I'm a keeper of sheep.
The sheep are my thoughts
And each thought a sensation.
I think with my eyes and my ears
And with my hands and feet
And with my nose and mouth.
鈥�
Then I feel my whole body lying down in reality,
I know the truth, and I'm happy. (23)
I have said it was only fair to treat these poets as real people. Since I am human and, therefore, a walking contradiction, I have to say this: Caeiro is a very complex creation by Pessoa. And as much as I enjoy his poetry, I do not believe most of it. Only an invention can live without thinking. Or a charlatan claiming he can.
Even so, I sure find his poetry mesmerizing.
XLIX
May this be my life, now and always:
The day bright with sunshine, or gentle with rain,
Or stormy as if the world were ending,
The evening gentle and my eyes attentive
To the people passing by my window,
With my last friendly gaze going to the peaceful trees,
And then, window shut and the lamp lit,
Without reading or sleeping and thinking of nothing,
To feel life flowing through me like a river between its banks,
And outside a great silence like a god who is sleeping. (46)
I can quote a million poems, even though I do not fully believe him. I believe De Campos, and quote Caeiro.
Coherent.
Anyway, like I said, I can only rely on what Caeiro wrote. I will never know the truth. He expressed that idea in the most beautiful way possible.
If, after I die, someone wants to write my biography,
There's nothing simpler.
It has just two dates鈥攖he day I was born and the day I died.
Between the two, all the days are mine. (61)
Ricardo Reis or The Serene Acceptance of Fate
Born in 1887, this physician and classicist continued Caeiro's vision on the world but in a more measured way. An incurable pagan, he accepted the world as it was and expressed that acceptance through the traditional style of his art. A quiet, modest and structured art.
16 June 1914
...The sun of the Parthenon and Acropolis
Which lit up the slow and weighty steps
of Aristotle speaking.
But Epicurus speaks more
To my heart with his caressing, earthly voice;
His attitude toward the gods is of a fellow god,
Serene and seeing life
At the distance where it lies. (86)
He did not want extremes. He had no desires but the absence of desires.
9 July 1930
...wanting little,
A man has everything. Wanting nothing,
He's free. Not having and not desiring,
He's equal, though man, to the Gods. (129)
He did not like conflict and he probably never had any since he serenely chose to accept fate. He accepted everything鈥攁nd he encouraged us to do the same鈥攅ven though he disliked changes, as he openly manifested in several poems. He seemed to actually enjoy the silent murderer that is the routine of life.
9 October 1916
...Anything whatsoever that changes
The smooth course of my existence,
Though it change it for something better,
Because it means change,
I hate and don't want. May the gods
Allow my life to be a continuous,
Perfectly flat plain, running
To where it ends.
Though I never taste glory and never
Receive love or due respect from others,
It will suffice that life be only life
And that I live it. (102)
It is so beautifully put and yet I struggled with the idea. Some of Reis' poems express simple ideas that my egocentrism could not understand. Who am I to judge if someone loves a dull and plain existence?
Reis' writing lacks the spirited style of Caeiro's poetry. However, it is remarkably evocative. There is so much beauty in his rationalization.
There is a poem called 鈥淭he Chess Players鈥�. Chess always serves as a marvelous parallelism between us and life itself (it immediately reminded me of Zweig's short story). The language that Reis was capable of creating is simply exquisite.
...Glory weighs like an overlarge burden
And fame like a fever,
Love wearies, for it ardently searches,
Science never finds,
And life grieves, for it knows it is passing...
The game of chess
Completely absorbs one's heart but weighs little
When lost, for it's nothing. (99)
Rhythm and structures. Forms and rules. Acceptance of life. Melancholy caused by change. That is Reis, the king of the conflicting verse.
2 March 1933
Each day you didn't enjoy wasn't yours:
You just got trhough it. Whatever you live
Without enjoying, you don't live.
You don't have to love or drink or smile.
The sun's reflection in a puddle of water
is enough, if it pleases you.
Happy those who, placing their delight
In slight things, are never deprived
Of each day's natural fortune. (134)
Alvaro de Campos or The Unstoppable Desire of Everything and Nothing
It's not with the eyes but with the soul that I see; it's not with the ears but with the soul that I hear; it's not with the skin but with the soul that I touch.
And if someone should ask me what the soul is, I'll answer that it's me. (146)
Born in 1890. Lover of machines. Enemy of progress. Pursuer of freedom. Admirer of solitude. Pessoa's playful, sometimes scathing critic.
De Campos was madness. He was intensity, ecstasy, imbalance. The love and hatred for modern civilization. He was the violent desire of breaking loose; the passionate longing for sensations. He was the furious imagination that craved for something new. New people, new places.
The frenetic
explosion
of self.
Everything can be clearly seen in his 鈥淢aritime Ode鈥�:
Ah, to depart! By whatever means and to whatever place!
To set out across the waves, across unknown perils, across the sea! (173)
To take off...
My peaceful life,
My seated, static, orderly and repetitive life! (175)
Ah, pirates! Pirates!
The yearning for lawlessness coupled with brutality,
the yearning for absolutely cruel and abominable things,...
Beat and humiliate me!
鈥�
Make me into something that's dragged
鈥擮 pleasure, O beloved pain!鈥�
As if behind horses whipped by you...
But all this at sea, at se-e-e-ea, at SE-E-E-E-EA! (184)
I have seen what is inside of him. And some of what I have seen should never leave that dark nook of his soul.
As much as De Campos wanted to contain the world (Whitman's presence is unquestionable, there is even a poem called 鈥淪alutation to Walt Whitman鈥�: I salute you, Walt, I salute you, my Universal brother/Forever modern and eternal, the singer of concrete absolutes...), we distinguish two different sides of him. After the part kept inside of him loudly asked to be freed, to see the world, the part he inevitably showed to the world鈥攖he part that mildly asked to be noticed while yearning for solitude鈥攂rought calm and a sense of relief. Relief for myself, since I know now that not everything is an hysterically desire of satisfying his instinctual self.
The same poem portrays it perfectly.
An inexplicable feeling of tenderness,
a tearful and heartfelt remorse...
Ah, how could I think or dream those things?
How far I am from what I was a few minutes ago! (187)
De Campos embodied desire, in all forms. He expected too much. He wanted too much. Having such a strong, almost stubborn desire of experiencing everything, can lead to nothing more than despair. And ultimately, uncertainty. A sense of loss. The lack of meaning that haunts every mortal.
The poet wanted to feel all the sensations of the world while being on the never-ending quest for identity. He did not know who he was; he did not know what he wanted.
Salutation to Walt Whitman
I'm exhausted from being so many things.
The latecomers are finally arriving,
And I suddenly get sick of waiting, of existing, of being.
...
It's good to feel, if for no other reason, so as to stop feeling. (215)
Delightful contradictions from the man that a couple of pages ago wanted to meet the whole world.
Lisbon Revisited (1923)
Don't grab me by the arm!
I don't like my arm being grabbed. I want to be alone,
I already told you that I can only be alone!
I'm sick of you wanting me to be sociable! (216)
He who does not know himself at all, has to settle with wanting everything. And most of the times, he achieves nothing.
Lisbon Revisited (1926)
Nothing holds me.
I want fifty things at the same time.
I long with meat-craving anxiety
For I don't know what鈥�
Definitely something indefinite... (218)
Fernando Pessoa-himself or The Analyst of Being
Another side of the real Pessoa. The sum of different aspects of the three poets analyzed before.
However, this review has reached the longitude of The Great Wall of China without even noticing, so I will control my enthusiasm. (That was a lie; I cannot control anything.)
Melancholy, despair; elements that are often present in FP-himself's poetry. Just like the themes of dreams and creativity, which characterizes the real Pessoa's works.
Seeker of the truth. The analyst of humanity. The intellectual side of sentiments. Lord of disquiet.
We see a man expressing his feelings through a poetic melody that runs aimlessly all over the world. The one thing he had to channelize his emotions and purge himself from whatever was troubling him.
I wonder if he ever succeeded.
Some Ramdon Verses
...What matters is that nothing matter
Anymore... Whether Fate
Hangs over us or quietly and obscurely
Lurks in the distance
Is all the same... Here's the moment...
Let's be it... What good is thinking? (286)
Four poets deal with similar topics from their own perspectives. Each one of them has a unique personality and style. They do the best they can with the little they have.
The haunting past is usually trying to make its way into the life, approaching with firm steps. Calm but steady. Nostalgia is heavy. Ruthless. It can wear us out in a day. FP-himself cannot escape from that, either.
from Songbook
...You are to me like a dream鈥�
In my soul your ringing is distant.
With every one of your clangs
Resounding across the sky,
I feel the past farther away,
I feel nostalgia close by. (274)
Nonetheless, the worst side of nostalgia is the one caused by something that have never existed. Only time can heal the frustrating wounds of missing what we never had.
There is an overwhelming sense of loss and sadness in FP-himself's verses. You inevitably feel empathy with his afflicted soul. I am well acquainted with the desire of breaking the patterns of loneliness while embracing the safe place that solitude provides.
Diary in the Shade
鈥�
Don't you still sense in my sad and calm face
The sad child who always played far away from the others
And sometimes looked at them with sad eyes but without regret?
I know you're watching and don't understand what sadness is
That makes me look sad.
It isn't regret or nostalgia, disappointment or resentment.
No... It's the sadness...
The incurable sadness
Of one who realizes that everything's pointless, worthless,
That effort is an absurd waste,
And that life is a void,
Since disillusion always follows on the heels of illusion
And Death seems to be the meaning of Life... (288)
Beautiful verses, and that kind of life is intolerable.
So. Here we are.
Caeiro, Reis, De Campos, Himself. I have met them all. I am in the same place, inside the same body that cages the same restless soul that quietly longs for something different.
I am in the same place and yet, I feel like I lived a little more.
By meeting one person I have met the entire universe.
Fernando Pessoa or the intellectual dissection of the soul.
Notes
* Painting: Catarina In谩cio
** Also on .
*** Other reviews:
The Book of Disquiet
The Selected Prose of Fernando Pessoa
The Education of the Stoic
El Banquero Anarquista (written in Spanish)
May 28, 2019
賴乇 亘丕乇 讴賴 倬爻賵丌 賲蹖鈥屫堌з嗁� 丕夭 鬲乇爻 丕蹖賳讴賴 趩蹖夭蹖 丕夭 賯賱賲 丕賮鬲丕丿賴 亘丕卮丿 丿賵亘丕乇賴 亘乇賲蹖鈥屭必� 賵 賲蹖鈥屫ㄛ屬嗁� 讴賴 亘賱賴貙 趩蹖夭蹖 賳丕丿蹖丿賴 诏乇賮鬲賴 卮丿賴. 倬爻賵丌 乇丕 賲蹖鈥屫促堌� 丿蹖丿 丕賲丕 賳賲蹖鈥屫堌з� 卮賳丕禺鬲. 倬爻賵丌 74 賳丕賲 賲爻鬲毓丕乇 賵 丿爻鬲 讴賲 3 賲賳賽 丿蹖诏乇 丿丕卮鬲賴. 賲賳鈥屬囏й� 丿蹖诏乇 倬爻賵丌 鬲賳賴丕 丕爻賲 禺卮讴 賵 禺丕賱蹖 賳亘賵丿賳丿. 卮禺氐蹖鬲貙 夭賳丿诏蹖 賳丕賲賴貙 爻亘讴貙 丿爻鬲鈥屫� 賵 丨鬲蹖 爻乇诏匕卮鬲 賲爻鬲賯賱 禺賵丿卮丕賳 乇丕 丿丕卮鬲賳丿. 丕賲丕 丕蹖賳 乇丕 趩诏賵賳賴 亘丕蹖丿 丿蹖丿責 鬲睾蹖蹖乇 賯蹖丕賮賴責 亘丕夭蹖 亘丕賱賲丕爻讴賴責 诏蹖噩 讴乇丿賳 丿蹖诏乇丕賳責 賲丕鬲乇賵卮讴丕蹖 倬乇鬲睾丕賱蹖責!
卮禺氐蹖鬲鈥屬囏й� 賲爻鬲毓丕乇 倬爻賵丌蹖 卮丕毓乇 賴乇 蹖讴 亘賴 賳賵毓蹖 丿丕乇丕蹖 賴賵蹖鬲 卮毓乇蹖 賵 夭蹖亘丕蹖蹖鈥屫促嗀ж� 禺丕氐 賴爻鬲賳丿. 賴乇 蹖讴 丕夭 丕蹖賳 卮禺氐蹖鬲鈥屬囏� 賲毓乇賮 蹖讴蹖 丕夭 毓賯丕蹖丿 丕噩鬲賲丕毓蹖 賵 賳馗乇蹖賴鈥屬囏й� 丕丿亘蹖 倬爻賵丌 丕爻鬲. 賵賱蹖 噩丕賱亘 丕蹖賳噩丕爻鬲 讴賴 賵丕賯毓蹖鬲 賴賳乇蹖 丕蹖賳 丕賮乇丕丿 丕夭 卮禺氐蹖鬲 丕丿亘蹖 倬爻賵丕 噩丿丕爻鬲貙 賴乇趩賳丿 丌賳鈥屬囏� 賲禺賱賵賯 賯賵賴 禺蹖丕賱 丕賵 賴爻鬲賳丿. 倬爻賵丕 亘丕 賴乇 蹖讴 丕夭 丕蹖賳 卮禺氐蹖鬲鈥屬囏� 丕賲讴丕賳 讴卮賮 丿賵亘丕乇賴 賵丕賯毓蹖鬲 賵噩賵丿卮 乇丕 賲蹖鈥屫囏� 賵 丕賵 丿乇 賴乇 蹖讴 丕夭 爻賮乇賴丕蹖 卮丕毓乇丕賳賴鈥屫й� 讴賴 亘賴 丿乇賵賳 禺賵丿 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀� 蹖讴蹖 丕夭 賴賵蹖鬲鈥屬囏й� 禺賵蹖卮 乇丕 夭賳丿賴 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀�. 亘賴 毓亘丕乇鬲蹖 倬爻賵丌 丿乇 噩爻鬲噩賵蹖 丕爻丕賲蹖 賵 賴賵蹖鬲鈥屬囏й� 賲爻鬲毓丕乇 亘乇丕蹖 噩丕賳 亘禺卮蹖丿賳 亘蹖卮鬲乇 亘賴 丕卮毓丕乇 禺賵丿 丕爻鬲 賵 賳賴 丿乇 倬蹖 丌賮乇蹖賳卮 丕卮毓丕乇蹖 亘乇丕蹖 夭賳丿賴 賳诏丕賴丿丕卮鬲賳 趩賴乇賴鈥屬囏й屰� 賳丕丌卮賳丕. 丕夭 丕蹖賳 噩賴鬲貙 倬爻賵丌 禺賵丿 蹖讴蹖 丕夭 卮禺氐蹖鬲鈥屬囏й� 賲爻鬲毓丕乇 丕孬丕乇卮 丕爻鬲 賵 賳丕賲 丕賵 丿乇 讴賳丕乇 賳丕賲鈥屬囏й� 賲爻鬲毓丕乇 丿蹖诏乇卮 賯乇丕乇 賲蹖鈥屭屫必�. 亘賴 丕蹖賳 鬲乇鬲蹖亘 倬爻賵丌 亘丕 丌賮乇蹖丿賳 卮禺氐蹖鬲鈥屬囏й� 賲爻鬲毓丕乇蹖 亘乇丕蹖 卮毓乇 禺賵丿 賵 亘丕 爻賮乇 丕夭 蹖讴 卮禺氐蹖鬲 亘賴 卮禺氐蹖鬲蹖 丿蹖诏乇 賵 丕夭 氐賵乇鬲讴蹖 亘賴 氐賵乇鬲讴蹖 丿蹖诏乇貙 禺賵丿 鬲亘丿蹖賱 亘賴 芦賴蹖趩鈥屭┴陈� 賲蹖鈥屫促堌�. 鬲丕 噩丕蹖蹖 讴賴 丿乇 讴鬲丕亘 丿賱賵丕倬爻蹖 丕夭 夭亘丕賳 亘乇賳丕乇丿賵 爻賵丕乇夭 賲蹖鈥屭堐屫�:" 賲賳 亘賴 爻丕蹖賴鈥屰� 禺賵蹖卮鬲賳 禺賵蹖卮 亘丿賱 卮丿賴 丕賲." 倬爻賵丌 丿乇 夭亘丕賳 倬乇鬲睾丕賱蹖 亘賴 賲毓賳丕蹖 賴蹖趩鈥屭┴� 丕爻鬲. 丕賲丕 賴蹖趩鈥屭┴� 亘賵丿賳 亘乇丕蹖 倬爻賵丌 亘賴 賳賵毓蹖 卮丕毓乇丕賳賴 夭賳丿诏蹖 讴乇丿賳 丕爻鬲. 丕賳诏丕乇 讴賴 丕夭 賳馗乇 倬爻賵丌 丨賯蹖賯鬲 卮毓乇 丿乇 睾蹖丕亘 卮丕毓乇 鬲噩賱蹖 賲蹖鈥屰屫жㄘ� 賵 卮毓乇 丕夭 卮丕毓乇 賲賴賲鈥屫� 丕爻鬲. 賲賴賲 丌賮乇蹖丿賳 丕爻鬲貙 賳賴 倬爻賵丕 亘賵丿賳
賲孬賱丕 蹖讴蹖 丕夭 丕蹖賳 賴賲夭丕丿 賴丕 丌賱亘乇鬲賵 讴丕卅蹖乇賵 賳丕賲 丿丕乇丿
亘夭乇诏鈥屫臂屬� 丌夭乇丿诏蹖 夭賳丿诏蹖 倬爻賵丌 丕蹖賳 亘賵丿賴 讴賴 賴蹖趩诏丕賴 賳賲蹖鈥屫堌з嗀池� 丕夭 賮讴乇 讴乇丿賳 丿爻鬲 亘讴卮丿 賵 賴賲蹖卮賴 丕丨爻丕爻 亘乇 丕賳丿蹖卮賴 爻丕蹖賴 賲蹖鈥屫з嗀ж�. 禺賱賯 丌賱亘乇鬲賵 讴丕卅蹖乇賵 倬丕爻禺蹖 亘賵丿賴 亘賴 丕蹖賳 賳賯氐蹖 讴賴 丌夭丕乇卮 賲蹖鈥屫ж�. 倬爻賵丌 丿乇 丕蹖賳 亘丕乇賴 賲蹖鈥屭堐屫�: 蹖讴 乇賵夭 乇賮鬲賲 爻賲鬲 賲蹖夭 鬲丨乇蹖乇蹖 倬丕蹖賴 亘賱賳丿 賵 讴丕睾匕蹖 亘乇丿丕卮鬲賲貙 卮乇賵毓 讴乇丿賲 亘賴 賳賵卮鬲賳貙 丌賳 賴賲 爻乇倬丕貙 賲孬賱 賴賲蹖卮賴 丕賱亘鬲賴 賴乇 賵賯鬲 讴賴 亘鬲賵丕賳賲 趩蹖夭 亘賳賵蹖爻賲. 爻蹖 賵 丕賳丿蹖 卮毓乇 賳賵卮鬲賲貙 蹖讴 賳賮爻貙 丿乇 蹖讴 噩賵乇 噩匕亘賴 賵 賵噩丿 讴賴 賯丕丿乇 亘賴 鬲氐乇蹖丨 賲丕賴蹖鬲卮 賳蹖爻鬲賲. 丕蹖賳 乇賵夭 丿乇 夭賳丿诏蹖鈥屫з� 乇賵夭 倬蹖乇賵夭賲賳丿蹖 亘賵丿貙 乇賵夭蹖 讴賴 丿蹖诏乇 賴乇诏夭 鬲讴乇丕乇 賳賲蹖鈥屫促堌�. 夭蹖乇 毓賳賵丕賳 诏賵爻賮賳丿亘丕賳 卮乇賵毓 讴乇丿賲貙 賵 賳鬲蹖噩賴鈥屫ж� 馗賴賵乇 讴爻蹖 亘賵丿 丿乇 丿乇賵賳 賲賳貙 讴爻蹖 讴賴 丕爻賲卮 乇丕 賳丕诏賴丕賳 诏匕丕卮鬲賲 丌賱亘乇鬲賵 讴丕卅蹖乇賵. 賲乇卮丿賲 丿乇 賲賳 馗賴賵乇 讴乇丿賴 亘賵丿. 丿乇 賳鬲蹖噩賴 讴丕卅蹖乇賵 亘乇丕蹖 乇賴丕蹖蹖 丕夭 賮讴乇 讴乇丿賳 禺賱賯 賲蹖鈥屫促堌�. 毓賳賵丕賳 丿賮鬲乇 卮毓乇 讴丕卅蹖乇賵 芦诏賵爻賮賳丿亘丕賳禄 丕爻鬲 賵 诏賮鬲丕乇卮 诏賮鬲丕乇 賲乇卮丿蹖鈥屫池� 亘賴 賲乇蹖丿丕賳. 讴丕卅蹖乇賵 趩賵倬丕賳 爻丕丿賴鈥屫й� 丕爻鬲 讴賴 亘乇 亘賱賳丿丕蹖 丿卮鬲 賲蹖鈥屫й屫池� 賵 賳賲蹖鈥屫з嗀屫簇� 亘賱讴賴 丕丨爻丕爻 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀�. 賵 賴賲蹖賳胤賵乇 亘賯蹖賴鈥屰� 賴賲夭丕丿 賴丕貙 賴乇讴丿丕賲 丿乇 毓蹖賳 卮亘丕賴鬲鈥屬囏� 亘賴 禺賵丿 倬爻賵丌 賵 丿蹖诏乇 賴賲夭丕丿 賴丕貙 鬲賮丕賵鬲鈥屬囏й� 亘夭乇诏蹖 亘丕 賴賲 丿丕乇賳丿
丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 鬲乇噩賲賴鈥屰� 诏夭蹖丿賴 丕蹖 丕夭 卮毓乇賴丕蹖賽 倬爻賵丌 賵 鬲賲丕賲 賲賳鈥屬囏й� 丿蹖诏乇 丕賵爻鬲. 丿乇 丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 卮毓乇賴丕蹖 賴乇 蹖讴 丕夭 丕蹖賳 趩賴丕乇 賳賮乇- 蹖毓賳蹖 倬爻賵丌 賵 爻賴 賴賲夭丕丿 丿蹖诏乇卮- 丕夭 賴賲 鬲賮讴蹖讴 卮丿賴鈥屫з嗀�
卮禺氐蹖鬲鈥屬囏й� 賲爻鬲毓丕乇 倬爻賵丌蹖 卮丕毓乇 賴乇 蹖讴 亘賴 賳賵毓蹖 丿丕乇丕蹖 賴賵蹖鬲 卮毓乇蹖 賵 夭蹖亘丕蹖蹖鈥屫促嗀ж� 禺丕氐 賴爻鬲賳丿. 賴乇 蹖讴 丕夭 丕蹖賳 卮禺氐蹖鬲鈥屬囏� 賲毓乇賮 蹖讴蹖 丕夭 毓賯丕蹖丿 丕噩鬲賲丕毓蹖 賵 賳馗乇蹖賴鈥屬囏й� 丕丿亘蹖 倬爻賵丌 丕爻鬲. 賵賱蹖 噩丕賱亘 丕蹖賳噩丕爻鬲 讴賴 賵丕賯毓蹖鬲 賴賳乇蹖 丕蹖賳 丕賮乇丕丿 丕夭 卮禺氐蹖鬲 丕丿亘蹖 倬爻賵丕 噩丿丕爻鬲貙 賴乇趩賳丿 丌賳鈥屬囏� 賲禺賱賵賯 賯賵賴 禺蹖丕賱 丕賵 賴爻鬲賳丿. 倬爻賵丕 亘丕 賴乇 蹖讴 丕夭 丕蹖賳 卮禺氐蹖鬲鈥屬囏� 丕賲讴丕賳 讴卮賮 丿賵亘丕乇賴 賵丕賯毓蹖鬲 賵噩賵丿卮 乇丕 賲蹖鈥屫囏� 賵 丕賵 丿乇 賴乇 蹖讴 丕夭 爻賮乇賴丕蹖 卮丕毓乇丕賳賴鈥屫й� 讴賴 亘賴 丿乇賵賳 禺賵丿 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀� 蹖讴蹖 丕夭 賴賵蹖鬲鈥屬囏й� 禺賵蹖卮 乇丕 夭賳丿賴 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀�. 亘賴 毓亘丕乇鬲蹖 倬爻賵丌 丿乇 噩爻鬲噩賵蹖 丕爻丕賲蹖 賵 賴賵蹖鬲鈥屬囏й� 賲爻鬲毓丕乇 亘乇丕蹖 噩丕賳 亘禺卮蹖丿賳 亘蹖卮鬲乇 亘賴 丕卮毓丕乇 禺賵丿 丕爻鬲 賵 賳賴 丿乇 倬蹖 丌賮乇蹖賳卮 丕卮毓丕乇蹖 亘乇丕蹖 夭賳丿賴 賳诏丕賴丿丕卮鬲賳 趩賴乇賴鈥屬囏й屰� 賳丕丌卮賳丕. 丕夭 丕蹖賳 噩賴鬲貙 倬爻賵丌 禺賵丿 蹖讴蹖 丕夭 卮禺氐蹖鬲鈥屬囏й� 賲爻鬲毓丕乇 丕孬丕乇卮 丕爻鬲 賵 賳丕賲 丕賵 丿乇 讴賳丕乇 賳丕賲鈥屬囏й� 賲爻鬲毓丕乇 丿蹖诏乇卮 賯乇丕乇 賲蹖鈥屭屫必�. 亘賴 丕蹖賳 鬲乇鬲蹖亘 倬爻賵丌 亘丕 丌賮乇蹖丿賳 卮禺氐蹖鬲鈥屬囏й� 賲爻鬲毓丕乇蹖 亘乇丕蹖 卮毓乇 禺賵丿 賵 亘丕 爻賮乇 丕夭 蹖讴 卮禺氐蹖鬲 亘賴 卮禺氐蹖鬲蹖 丿蹖诏乇 賵 丕夭 氐賵乇鬲讴蹖 亘賴 氐賵乇鬲讴蹖 丿蹖诏乇貙 禺賵丿 鬲亘丿蹖賱 亘賴 芦賴蹖趩鈥屭┴陈� 賲蹖鈥屫促堌�. 鬲丕 噩丕蹖蹖 讴賴 丿乇 讴鬲丕亘 丿賱賵丕倬爻蹖 丕夭 夭亘丕賳 亘乇賳丕乇丿賵 爻賵丕乇夭 賲蹖鈥屭堐屫�:" 賲賳 亘賴 爻丕蹖賴鈥屰� 禺賵蹖卮鬲賳 禺賵蹖卮 亘丿賱 卮丿賴 丕賲." 倬爻賵丌 丿乇 夭亘丕賳 倬乇鬲睾丕賱蹖 亘賴 賲毓賳丕蹖 賴蹖趩鈥屭┴� 丕爻鬲. 丕賲丕 賴蹖趩鈥屭┴� 亘賵丿賳 亘乇丕蹖 倬爻賵丌 亘賴 賳賵毓蹖 卮丕毓乇丕賳賴 夭賳丿诏蹖 讴乇丿賳 丕爻鬲. 丕賳诏丕乇 讴賴 丕夭 賳馗乇 倬爻賵丌 丨賯蹖賯鬲 卮毓乇 丿乇 睾蹖丕亘 卮丕毓乇 鬲噩賱蹖 賲蹖鈥屰屫жㄘ� 賵 卮毓乇 丕夭 卮丕毓乇 賲賴賲鈥屫� 丕爻鬲. 賲賴賲 丌賮乇蹖丿賳 丕爻鬲貙 賳賴 倬爻賵丕 亘賵丿賳
賲孬賱丕 蹖讴蹖 丕夭 丕蹖賳 賴賲夭丕丿 賴丕 丌賱亘乇鬲賵 讴丕卅蹖乇賵 賳丕賲 丿丕乇丿
亘夭乇诏鈥屫臂屬� 丌夭乇丿诏蹖 夭賳丿诏蹖 倬爻賵丌 丕蹖賳 亘賵丿賴 讴賴 賴蹖趩诏丕賴 賳賲蹖鈥屫堌з嗀池� 丕夭 賮讴乇 讴乇丿賳 丿爻鬲 亘讴卮丿 賵 賴賲蹖卮賴 丕丨爻丕爻 亘乇 丕賳丿蹖卮賴 爻丕蹖賴 賲蹖鈥屫з嗀ж�. 禺賱賯 丌賱亘乇鬲賵 讴丕卅蹖乇賵 倬丕爻禺蹖 亘賵丿賴 亘賴 丕蹖賳 賳賯氐蹖 讴賴 丌夭丕乇卮 賲蹖鈥屫ж�. 倬爻賵丌 丿乇 丕蹖賳 亘丕乇賴 賲蹖鈥屭堐屫�: 蹖讴 乇賵夭 乇賮鬲賲 爻賲鬲 賲蹖夭 鬲丨乇蹖乇蹖 倬丕蹖賴 亘賱賳丿 賵 讴丕睾匕蹖 亘乇丿丕卮鬲賲貙 卮乇賵毓 讴乇丿賲 亘賴 賳賵卮鬲賳貙 丌賳 賴賲 爻乇倬丕貙 賲孬賱 賴賲蹖卮賴 丕賱亘鬲賴 賴乇 賵賯鬲 讴賴 亘鬲賵丕賳賲 趩蹖夭 亘賳賵蹖爻賲. 爻蹖 賵 丕賳丿蹖 卮毓乇 賳賵卮鬲賲貙 蹖讴 賳賮爻貙 丿乇 蹖讴 噩賵乇 噩匕亘賴 賵 賵噩丿 讴賴 賯丕丿乇 亘賴 鬲氐乇蹖丨 賲丕賴蹖鬲卮 賳蹖爻鬲賲. 丕蹖賳 乇賵夭 丿乇 夭賳丿诏蹖鈥屫з� 乇賵夭 倬蹖乇賵夭賲賳丿蹖 亘賵丿貙 乇賵夭蹖 讴賴 丿蹖诏乇 賴乇诏夭 鬲讴乇丕乇 賳賲蹖鈥屫促堌�. 夭蹖乇 毓賳賵丕賳 诏賵爻賮賳丿亘丕賳 卮乇賵毓 讴乇丿賲貙 賵 賳鬲蹖噩賴鈥屫ж� 馗賴賵乇 讴爻蹖 亘賵丿 丿乇 丿乇賵賳 賲賳貙 讴爻蹖 讴賴 丕爻賲卮 乇丕 賳丕诏賴丕賳 诏匕丕卮鬲賲 丌賱亘乇鬲賵 讴丕卅蹖乇賵. 賲乇卮丿賲 丿乇 賲賳 馗賴賵乇 讴乇丿賴 亘賵丿. 丿乇 賳鬲蹖噩賴 讴丕卅蹖乇賵 亘乇丕蹖 乇賴丕蹖蹖 丕夭 賮讴乇 讴乇丿賳 禺賱賯 賲蹖鈥屫促堌�. 毓賳賵丕賳 丿賮鬲乇 卮毓乇 讴丕卅蹖乇賵 芦诏賵爻賮賳丿亘丕賳禄 丕爻鬲 賵 诏賮鬲丕乇卮 诏賮鬲丕乇 賲乇卮丿蹖鈥屫池� 亘賴 賲乇蹖丿丕賳. 讴丕卅蹖乇賵 趩賵倬丕賳 爻丕丿賴鈥屫й� 丕爻鬲 讴賴 亘乇 亘賱賳丿丕蹖 丿卮鬲 賲蹖鈥屫й屫池� 賵 賳賲蹖鈥屫з嗀屫簇� 亘賱讴賴 丕丨爻丕爻 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀�. 賵 賴賲蹖賳胤賵乇 亘賯蹖賴鈥屰� 賴賲夭丕丿 賴丕貙 賴乇讴丿丕賲 丿乇 毓蹖賳 卮亘丕賴鬲鈥屬囏� 亘賴 禺賵丿 倬爻賵丌 賵 丿蹖诏乇 賴賲夭丕丿 賴丕貙 鬲賮丕賵鬲鈥屬囏й� 亘夭乇诏蹖 亘丕 賴賲 丿丕乇賳丿
丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 鬲乇噩賲賴鈥屰� 诏夭蹖丿賴 丕蹖 丕夭 卮毓乇賴丕蹖賽 倬爻賵丌 賵 鬲賲丕賲 賲賳鈥屬囏й� 丿蹖诏乇 丕賵爻鬲. 丿乇 丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 卮毓乇賴丕蹖 賴乇 蹖讴 丕夭 丕蹖賳 趩賴丕乇 賳賮乇- 蹖毓賳蹖 倬爻賵丌 賵 爻賴 賴賲夭丕丿 丿蹖诏乇卮- 丕夭 賴賲 鬲賮讴蹖讴 卮丿賴鈥屫з嗀�
賲賳 蹖讴 賮乇丕乇蹖鈥屫з�
丿乇 禺賵丿賲 丨亘爻 卮丿賴 亘賵丿賲
亘賴 賲丨囟 鬲賵賱丿
丕賲丕 鬲賵丕賳爻鬲賲 賮乇丕乇 讴賳賲
丕诏乇 賲乇丿賲 禺爻鬲賴 賲蹖鈥屫促堎嗀�
丕夭 賴賲蹖卮賴 丿乇 蹖讴鈥屫� 亘賵丿賳
倬爻 趩乇丕 賳亘丕蹖丿 禺爻鬲賴 卮賵賳丿
丕夭 賴賲蹖卮賴 蹖讴芦禺賵丿禄 乇丕 亘賵丿賳責
乇賵丨 賲賳 丿乇 噩爻鬲噩賵蹖 賲賳 丕爻鬲
賲賳 丕賲丕 賴賲趩賳丕賳 诏乇蹖夭丕賳賲
賵 氐賲蹖賲丕賳賴 丕賲蹖丿賵丕乇
讴賴 賴乇诏夭 倬蹖丿丕 賳卮賵賲
亘乇丕蹖 禺賵丿卮 夭賳丿丕賳蹖鈥屫池� 芦蹖讴 禺賵丿 亘賵丿賳禄
賵 禺賵丿賲 亘賵丿賳 賳亘賵丿賳 丕爻鬲
賲孬賱 蹖讴 賮乇丕乇蹖 禺賵丕賴賲 夭蹖爻鬲
丕賲丕 賵丕賯毓丕賸 賵 丨賯蹖賯鬲丕賸 禺賵丕賴賲 夭蹖爻鬲
. . .
乇賵夭蹖 丕诏乇 讴爻蹖 丿乇賽 禺丕賳賴鈥屫ж� 乇丕 夭丿
賵 诏賮鬲 賮乇爻鬲丕丿賴鈥屰� 賲賳 丕爻鬲
亘丕賵乇 賳讴賳貙 丨鬲丕 丕诏乇 禺賵丿賲 亘丕卮賲
趩乇丕讴賴 丿乇 夭丿賳 丿乇 賯丕賲賵爻賽 睾乇賵乇賲 賳蹖爻鬲
丨鬲丕 亘乇 丿乇賽 睾蹖乇賵丕賯毓蹖賽 丌爻賲丕賳
丕賲丕 丕诏乇貙 亘蹖 丌賳讴賴 亘卮賳賵蹖 讴賴 讴爻蹖 丿乇 賲蹖鈥屫操嗀�
丿乇 乇丕 诏卮賵丿蹖 賵貙 丕賳噩丕 讴爻蹖 乇丕 馗丕賴乇丕賸 蹖丕賮鬲蹖 丿乇 丕賳鬲馗丕乇
亘乇丕蹖 倬蹖丿丕 讴乇丿賳賽 卮賴丕賲鬲賽 丿乇 夭丿賳貙 丌賳鈥屬堎傌� 噩丿蹖 亘诏蹖乇卮
丌賳 卮禺氐 賮乇爻鬲丕丿賴鈥屰� 賲賳 丕爻鬲貙 賵 賲賳 丕爻鬲
賵 丕賳趩賴 睾乇賵乇賽 亘丕賱丕禺乇賴 鬲讴 丕賮鬲丕丿賴鈥屰� 賲賳
乇囟丕 禺賵丕賴丿 丿丕丿 亘賴 丌賳.
亘乇 賲乇丿蹖 丿乇 亘诏卮丕 讴賴 亘乇 丿乇 賳讴賵賮鬲賴 丕爻鬲
January 11, 2019
Here I sit, in Fernando Pessoa's Lisbon, and the slant of the rhyme in his verse I see clearly; in his structurally incomplete, sometimes unrevised stanzas, I hear my heart speak incessantly, listening more intently to his heteronym, Alberto Caeiro's, perception of life, enjoying his avoidance of consciousness, and his bask in the subconscious. Most likely, Pessoa would not have published this collection in its state, his scholar infers, but like Camus's , I find refreshment in this great work of posthumous art.
From: XLVI
I try to say what I feel
Without thinking about what I feel.
I try to place words right next to my idea
So that I won't need a corridor
Of thought leading to words (9-13)
Do you think Pessoa used heteronyms as allusions to the person/persons he could have become, had his childhood not been snatched from him; is it possible he was exiled from the identity he tries to find through these different characters, I asked Richard Zenith, Pessoa's eminent scholar, after his seminar and reading of Pessoa's work at the Casa Fernando Pessoa in Lisbon. For years, scholars have tried to decipher the poet who exists under many veils, his invention a way of revealing variety of thought.
His identity crisis is what I see. He lived in Durban, South Africa, ages seven to seventeen, after, he spent his adult years in Lisbon, Portugal. Zenith agrees that Pessoa's "literary output was clearly the product of the meeting, or clash, of those two environments and their different languages, their different cultures."
I read and see a poet who views himself through place, plants, and people.
From: XXXVI
And I look at the flowers and smile鈥�
I don't know if they understand me
Or if I understand them,
But I know the truth is in them and in me
And in our common divinity (12-16)
To think is not to understand, he often wrote. How can this be, you ask. But try not to think, only observe with your senses, and you'll understand the validity. Make yourself into a well-guarded double self and you view the world as if for the first time, the self inadvertently illuminated, and you start to feel yourself in the pace of others. See more than a garden of who you are and you'll touch the core of the you who has remained hidden.
I review this collection without concrete thoughts of line workings and stanza deductions, because to think is not to understand. So I read and re-read these poems for what they are, lines occurring relentlessly, unapologetically. Potent dream thoughts, these lines, and they speak to you from a place you wouldn't understand if you paused to consider. Let the words flow and you see people, ideas, philosophy, and life in its murky and confusing state.
From: Un Soir 脿 Lima (one of my favorite poems)
I dream because I wallow
In the unreal river of that recollected music,
My soul is a ragged child
Sleeping in a dusky corner
All I have of my own
In true, waking reality
Are the tatters of my abandoned soul
And my head that's dreaming next to the wall.
From: XLVI
I try to say what I feel
Without thinking about what I feel.
I try to place words right next to my idea
So that I won't need a corridor
Of thought leading to words (9-13)
Do you think Pessoa used heteronyms as allusions to the person/persons he could have become, had his childhood not been snatched from him; is it possible he was exiled from the identity he tries to find through these different characters, I asked Richard Zenith, Pessoa's eminent scholar, after his seminar and reading of Pessoa's work at the Casa Fernando Pessoa in Lisbon. For years, scholars have tried to decipher the poet who exists under many veils, his invention a way of revealing variety of thought.
His identity crisis is what I see. He lived in Durban, South Africa, ages seven to seventeen, after, he spent his adult years in Lisbon, Portugal. Zenith agrees that Pessoa's "literary output was clearly the product of the meeting, or clash, of those two environments and their different languages, their different cultures."
I read and see a poet who views himself through place, plants, and people.
From: XXXVI
And I look at the flowers and smile鈥�
I don't know if they understand me
Or if I understand them,
But I know the truth is in them and in me
And in our common divinity (12-16)
To think is not to understand, he often wrote. How can this be, you ask. But try not to think, only observe with your senses, and you'll understand the validity. Make yourself into a well-guarded double self and you view the world as if for the first time, the self inadvertently illuminated, and you start to feel yourself in the pace of others. See more than a garden of who you are and you'll touch the core of the you who has remained hidden.
I review this collection without concrete thoughts of line workings and stanza deductions, because to think is not to understand. So I read and re-read these poems for what they are, lines occurring relentlessly, unapologetically. Potent dream thoughts, these lines, and they speak to you from a place you wouldn't understand if you paused to consider. Let the words flow and you see people, ideas, philosophy, and life in its murky and confusing state.
From: Un Soir 脿 Lima (one of my favorite poems)
I dream because I wallow
In the unreal river of that recollected music,
My soul is a ragged child
Sleeping in a dusky corner
All I have of my own
In true, waking reality
Are the tatters of my abandoned soul
And my head that's dreaming next to the wall.
July 18, 2024
Some poems I will reread again and again, and they make me smile - or shudder - anew. Some pop into my mind regardless. Perhaps it is the beauty of their language which takes my breath away. Perhaps they have made me ponder on a different viewpoint, profound truth or interesting analogy. Perhaps it is just their structure or their form which seems so attractive; satisfying a desire for an elegant, almost mathematical perfection. Or sometimes I might just want to be entertained by a humorous verse. Nevertheless, I expect to feel some sort of reaction to the poems. Does A Little Larger Than the Entire Universe: Selected Poems fulfil this?
Its author, Fernando Pessoa, was born in Lisbon, but spent most of his early years in Durban South Africa. His first poem had been prompted by the prospect of his mother moving there to be with her new husband, leaving him in Portugal with relatives. It was written at the age of seven:
鈥淭o My Dear Mother
Here I am in Portugal,
In the lands where I was born.
However much I love them,
I love you even more.鈥�
He was a bookish child, receiving such high grades at school that he could have taken a degree at Oxford or Cambridge. But for various reasons including red tape, illness, and a student strike he studied elsewhere, and actually dropped out of university before taking his degree. However, he continued to write obsessively, in French, English and Portuguese, had many alter-egos, and published under numerous names. For each he created their own biography, poetics and politics. He did not call them pseudonyms stating that this did not capture their true independent intellectual lives. Instead, he invented a name for them: 鈥渉eteronyms鈥�. The three most famous incarnations, out of around seventy-five, like himself, all found their own true poetic voice in 1914, and all wrote in Portuguese. They are Alberto Caeiro, Ricardo Reis, and Alvaro de Campos, and are all expressions of what Pessoa called 鈥渟ensationism鈥� (another invented term).
鈥淐aeiro has one discipline: things must be felt as they are. Ricardo Reis has another discipline: things must be felt, not only as they are, but also so as to fall in with a certain ideal of classic measure and rule. In Alvaro de Campos things must simply be felt.鈥�
Fernanado Pessoa described Alberto Caeiro thus:
鈥淗e sees things with the eyes only, not with the mind. He does not let any thoughts arise when he looks at a flower 鈥� the only thing a stone tells him is that it has nothing at all to tell him 鈥� this way of looking at a stone may be described as the totally unpoetic way of looking at it. The stupendous fact about Caeiro is that out of this sentiment, or rather, absence of sentiment, he makes poetry.鈥�
Alberto Caeiro had no formal education and lived in the country. He was, Pessoa claimed, 鈥渢he only poet of Nature鈥�, and yet in no way does he conform to what is classed as Nature poetry in the English tradition. The references to Nature here are minimal and spare. It is more of an ideal vision, whose appreciation is abstract.
鈥淚 sometimes stoop
To the stupidity of their senses 鈥�
Because I鈥檝e only taken on this odious role, an interpreter of Nature,
Because there are men who don鈥檛 grasp its language,
Which is no language at all ... 鈥�
鈥�... I try to say what I feel
Without thinking about what I feel.
I try to place words right next to my idea
So that I won鈥檛 need a corridor
Of thought leading to words ...鈥�
鈥�... If you want me to have a mysticism, then fine, I have one.
I鈥檓 a mystic, but only with my body.
My soul is simple and doesn鈥檛 think ...鈥�
鈥�... I find it so natural not to think
That sometimes I start laughing, all by myself
About, I know not quite what, but it has to do
With there being people who think 鈥︹€�
The self-educated Alberto Caeiro, is described as a nature poet and a shepherd. 鈥淐补谤苍别颈谤辞鈥� is Portuguese for sheep, and there are many allusions to being a shepherd in the poems. Two of the collections here are 鈥淭he Keeper of Sheep鈥� and 鈥淭he Shepherd in Love鈥�. He is a realist, but also given to flights of fantasy and idealism:
鈥淎nd I look at the flowers and smile 鈥�
I don鈥檛 know if they understand me
Or if I understand them,
But I know the truth is in them and in me
And in our common divinity ...鈥�
鈥�... To think a flower is to see and smell it,
And to eat a fruit is to know its meaning鈥�
Perhaps he is the most truly existential manifestation of Fernando Pessoa鈥檚 poetic spirit. I quite like this poem as an expression of that:
鈥淎ll the opinions ever formed about Nature
Never made a flower bloom or a blade of grass grow
All the knowledge there is of things
Was never something I could seize, like a thing.
If science aspires to be true,
What truer science than that of things without science?
I close my eyes, and the reality of the hard earth I鈥檓 lying on
Is so real that even the bones in my back feel it.
Where I have shoulder blades I don鈥檛 need reason.
To read his poems is akin to reading a philosophical text:
To think about God is to disobey God,
Since God wanted us not to know him
Which is why he didn鈥檛 reveal himself to us 鈥︹€�
鈥�... What matters is to know how to see,
To know how to see without thinking.
To know how to see when seeing
And not think when seeing
Nor see when thinking ...鈥�
鈥�... Even so, I鈥檓 somebody.
I鈥檓 the Discoverer of Nature.
I鈥檓 the Argonaut of true sensations.
I bring to the Universe a new Universe,
Because I bring to the Universe its own self.鈥�
Ricardo Reis, a physician and classicist, described by Pessoa as 鈥渁 Greek Horace writing in Portuguese鈥� wrote metred non-rhyming odes. As a literary descendant of Horace, Ricardo Reis wants a world which matches his classical ideals.
鈥淪ee life from a distance. Never question it. There鈥檚 nothing it can tell you.鈥�
鈥淲ise is the one who does not seek 鈥� the seeker will find in all things the abyss, and doubt in himself.鈥�
The odes here are about the vanity of life, and the need to accept our fate:
鈥淣o one loves anyone else; he loves
What he finds of himself in the other ...
鈥�... Each thing, in its time, has its time.
The trees do not blossom in winter,
Nor does the white cold
Cover the 铿乪lds in Spring鈥�
This idea that everything has its time, recalls to my mind the Biblical text in Ecclesiastes 3:1-8:
鈥淭o everything there is a season,
A time for every purpose under heaven鈥�
His poetry also feels quite existential, but also full of self-doubt:
鈥淪leep is good because we wake up from it
And know that it鈥檚 good. If death is sleep,
We鈥檒l wake up from it;
If it isn鈥檛, and we won鈥檛,
Then let鈥檚 reject it with all that we are
For as long as the jailer鈥檚 indefinite
Respite allows
Our condemned bodies 鈥︹€�
Having said that however, heteronym Ricardo Reis鈥檚 voice spoke one of the few poems in the collection I personally liked, from several points of view (I had read up to page 136 by now). Here it is, written, oddly on my birthday, but twenty years before:
鈥淓ach day you didn鈥檛 enjoy wasn鈥檛 yours:
You just got through it. Whatever you live
Without enjoying, you don鈥檛 live.
You don鈥檛 have to love or drink or smile.
The sun鈥檚 re铿俥ction in a puddle of water
Is enough, if it pleases you.
Happy those who, placing their delight
In slight things, are never deprived
Of each day鈥檚 natural fortune!鈥�
Alvaro de Campos is Fernando鈥檚 incarnation as a poet of great feeling, whose poetry is always emotionally intense. It is full of hyperbole, savagery, extravagance and abundance. I personally found this the most difficult to relate to. Above all, he desires 鈥渢o feel everything in every way 鈥� If only I could be all people and all places.鈥�
Yet he repeatedly contradicts this feverish desire to be everything and everyone, with an impulse toward a state of isolation and a sense of nothingness. His poems are full of anguish and wrath.
鈥淚鈥檓 nothing.
I鈥檒l always be nothing.
I can鈥檛 want to be something.
I have in me all the dreams of the world nevertheless ...鈥�
鈥淚f you want to kill yourself, why don鈥檛 you want to kill yourself?
Now鈥檚 your chance! I, who greatly love both death and life,
Would kill myself too, if I dared kill myself 鈥�
If you dare, then be daring! 鈥︹€�
鈥� Kill yourself and maybe you鈥檒l finally know it 鈥�
End it all, and maybe you鈥檒l begin 鈥�
If you鈥檙e weary of existing, at least
Be noble in your weariness ...鈥�
鈥︹€淥ther people鈥檚 grief? You鈥檙e worried
About them crying over you?
Don鈥檛 worry: they won鈥檛 cry for long 鈥�
The impulse to live gradually staunches tears
When they鈥檙e not for our own sake ...鈥�
鈥�... Ah! The anguish, the vile rage, the despair
Of not being able to express
With a shout, an extreme and bitter shout,
The bleeding of my heart.鈥�
Here is Fernando Pessoa writing as himself, and he seems to describe his shape-shifting persona perfectly:
鈥淭o be myself is not to be.
I鈥檒l live as a fugitive
But live really and truly.鈥�
And here he is in a more poetic, less philosophical mood:
鈥淣辞迟丑颈苍驳
Ah, the soft, soft playing,
Like someone about to cry,
Of a song that鈥檚 woven
Out of artifice and moonlight鈥�
Nothing to make us remember
Life.
A prelude of courtesies
Or a smile that faded鈥�
A cold garden in the distance鈥�
And in the soul that finds it,
Just the absurd echo of its empty
贵濒颈驳丑迟.鈥�
And this, from the long poem about his mother, 鈥淯n Soir 脿 Lima:
鈥� ... I didn鈥檛 know then that I was happy.
I know it now, because I no longer am ...
... I dream because I wallow
In the unreal river of that recollected music,
My soul is a ragged child
Sleeping in a dusky corner
All I have of my own
In true, waking reality
Are the tatters of my abandoned soul
And my head that鈥檚 dreaming next to the wall ...
... Shatter, heart ...
I dream because I wallow
In the unreal river of that recollected music,
My soul is a ragged child
Sleeping in a dusky corner
All I have of my own
In true, waking reality
Are the tatters of my abandoned soul
And my head that鈥檚 dreaming next to the wall.鈥�
Fernando Pessoa is celebrated as one of the major 20th century poets, and given the accolade of Portugal鈥檚 greatest modern poet. His reputation is undisputed. The selection here, A Little Larger Than the Entire Universe: Selected Poems, is more inclusive than any, and is in the Penguins Classics series (the ones with the black spines) so the editing and selection is of a very high quality. Specifically, the translation is by Richard Zenith, who has won prestigious awards for his translations. It is clearly organised, with an introduction and list of first lines for each of the four poets. Having already read a small selection of Fernando鈥檚 Pessoa鈥檚 early sonnets LINK HERE for my review, I had hoped to enjoy this substantial collection. And yet, in all honesty I find they do not move me.
He has many heteronyms, yet I feel that I hear the voice of Pessoa coming through them all. Who is speaking here? The poem begins:
鈥淵ou say I鈥檓 something more
Than a stone or a plant?鈥�
鈥�... I know the stone is real and the plant exists
I know this because they exist.
I know because my senses show it to me.
I know I鈥檓 real as well.
I know this because my senses show it to me,
Though less clearly than they show me the stone and the plant,
That鈥檚 all I know.鈥�
This is typical of Alberto Caeiro鈥檚 voice, and it is a neat philosophical premise. Some other poems are apparently puzzles or conundrums, although never very deep and often repeated. They remind me of thoughts any serious young person might have when grappling with the large questions in life, and be convinced that they are having original thoughts. Sure enough, looking into Alberto Caeiro鈥檚 鈥渂iography鈥�, he died at twenty-six. I enjoyed these poems more than some others, but feel in the end that they are not merely accessible, but feel superficial. And they feel much more like reading a simple philosophical text, than reading poetry.
The other extreme of Fernando鈥檚 poetry is direct and powerful:
鈥淎h! The anguish, the vile rage, the despair
Of not being able to express
With a shout, an extreme and bitter shout,
The bleeding of my heart.鈥�
I find the idea of all his different incarnations interesting, and Fernando Pessoa certainly left a huge body of work. I suspect he is revered more for the remarkable invention of so many alter-egos, rather than his writing.
Perhaps different heteronyms appeal to people at different stages of their lives. Certainly many of my 欧宝娱乐 friends rate his poetry extremely highly, and I expected to enjoy him more. He is sometimes called a 鈥済enius鈥�, yet a lot of these poems I find over-simplistic, even superficial. He鈥檚 not an author I shall gladly read again, as I prefer poetry to be less pedestrian.
I鈥檓 afraid his poetry is not for me. It is unremittingly self-absorbed, almost to the exclusion of all else, and full of self-doubt. But here is a poem by him about regret and nostalgia which I found quite potent:
鈥淎 piano on my street ...
Children playing outside ...
A Sunday, and the sun
Shining golden with joy ...
My sorrow that makes me
Love all that鈥檚 indefinite ...
Though I had little in life,
It pains me to have lost it.
But my life already
Runs deep in changes ...
A piano I miss hearing,
Those children I miss being!鈥�
Its author, Fernando Pessoa, was born in Lisbon, but spent most of his early years in Durban South Africa. His first poem had been prompted by the prospect of his mother moving there to be with her new husband, leaving him in Portugal with relatives. It was written at the age of seven:
鈥淭o My Dear Mother
Here I am in Portugal,
In the lands where I was born.
However much I love them,
I love you even more.鈥�
He was a bookish child, receiving such high grades at school that he could have taken a degree at Oxford or Cambridge. But for various reasons including red tape, illness, and a student strike he studied elsewhere, and actually dropped out of university before taking his degree. However, he continued to write obsessively, in French, English and Portuguese, had many alter-egos, and published under numerous names. For each he created their own biography, poetics and politics. He did not call them pseudonyms stating that this did not capture their true independent intellectual lives. Instead, he invented a name for them: 鈥渉eteronyms鈥�. The three most famous incarnations, out of around seventy-five, like himself, all found their own true poetic voice in 1914, and all wrote in Portuguese. They are Alberto Caeiro, Ricardo Reis, and Alvaro de Campos, and are all expressions of what Pessoa called 鈥渟ensationism鈥� (another invented term).
鈥淐aeiro has one discipline: things must be felt as they are. Ricardo Reis has another discipline: things must be felt, not only as they are, but also so as to fall in with a certain ideal of classic measure and rule. In Alvaro de Campos things must simply be felt.鈥�
Fernanado Pessoa described Alberto Caeiro thus:
鈥淗e sees things with the eyes only, not with the mind. He does not let any thoughts arise when he looks at a flower 鈥� the only thing a stone tells him is that it has nothing at all to tell him 鈥� this way of looking at a stone may be described as the totally unpoetic way of looking at it. The stupendous fact about Caeiro is that out of this sentiment, or rather, absence of sentiment, he makes poetry.鈥�
Alberto Caeiro had no formal education and lived in the country. He was, Pessoa claimed, 鈥渢he only poet of Nature鈥�, and yet in no way does he conform to what is classed as Nature poetry in the English tradition. The references to Nature here are minimal and spare. It is more of an ideal vision, whose appreciation is abstract.
鈥淚 sometimes stoop
To the stupidity of their senses 鈥�
Because I鈥檝e only taken on this odious role, an interpreter of Nature,
Because there are men who don鈥檛 grasp its language,
Which is no language at all ... 鈥�
鈥�... I try to say what I feel
Without thinking about what I feel.
I try to place words right next to my idea
So that I won鈥檛 need a corridor
Of thought leading to words ...鈥�
鈥�... If you want me to have a mysticism, then fine, I have one.
I鈥檓 a mystic, but only with my body.
My soul is simple and doesn鈥檛 think ...鈥�
鈥�... I find it so natural not to think
That sometimes I start laughing, all by myself
About, I know not quite what, but it has to do
With there being people who think 鈥︹€�
The self-educated Alberto Caeiro, is described as a nature poet and a shepherd. 鈥淐补谤苍别颈谤辞鈥� is Portuguese for sheep, and there are many allusions to being a shepherd in the poems. Two of the collections here are 鈥淭he Keeper of Sheep鈥� and 鈥淭he Shepherd in Love鈥�. He is a realist, but also given to flights of fantasy and idealism:
鈥淎nd I look at the flowers and smile 鈥�
I don鈥檛 know if they understand me
Or if I understand them,
But I know the truth is in them and in me
And in our common divinity ...鈥�
鈥�... To think a flower is to see and smell it,
And to eat a fruit is to know its meaning鈥�
Perhaps he is the most truly existential manifestation of Fernando Pessoa鈥檚 poetic spirit. I quite like this poem as an expression of that:
鈥淎ll the opinions ever formed about Nature
Never made a flower bloom or a blade of grass grow
All the knowledge there is of things
Was never something I could seize, like a thing.
If science aspires to be true,
What truer science than that of things without science?
I close my eyes, and the reality of the hard earth I鈥檓 lying on
Is so real that even the bones in my back feel it.
Where I have shoulder blades I don鈥檛 need reason.
To read his poems is akin to reading a philosophical text:
To think about God is to disobey God,
Since God wanted us not to know him
Which is why he didn鈥檛 reveal himself to us 鈥︹€�
鈥�... What matters is to know how to see,
To know how to see without thinking.
To know how to see when seeing
And not think when seeing
Nor see when thinking ...鈥�
鈥�... Even so, I鈥檓 somebody.
I鈥檓 the Discoverer of Nature.
I鈥檓 the Argonaut of true sensations.
I bring to the Universe a new Universe,
Because I bring to the Universe its own self.鈥�
Ricardo Reis, a physician and classicist, described by Pessoa as 鈥渁 Greek Horace writing in Portuguese鈥� wrote metred non-rhyming odes. As a literary descendant of Horace, Ricardo Reis wants a world which matches his classical ideals.
鈥淪ee life from a distance. Never question it. There鈥檚 nothing it can tell you.鈥�
鈥淲ise is the one who does not seek 鈥� the seeker will find in all things the abyss, and doubt in himself.鈥�
The odes here are about the vanity of life, and the need to accept our fate:
鈥淣o one loves anyone else; he loves
What he finds of himself in the other ...
鈥�... Each thing, in its time, has its time.
The trees do not blossom in winter,
Nor does the white cold
Cover the 铿乪lds in Spring鈥�
This idea that everything has its time, recalls to my mind the Biblical text in Ecclesiastes 3:1-8:
鈥淭o everything there is a season,
A time for every purpose under heaven鈥�
His poetry also feels quite existential, but also full of self-doubt:
鈥淪leep is good because we wake up from it
And know that it鈥檚 good. If death is sleep,
We鈥檒l wake up from it;
If it isn鈥檛, and we won鈥檛,
Then let鈥檚 reject it with all that we are
For as long as the jailer鈥檚 indefinite
Respite allows
Our condemned bodies 鈥︹€�
Having said that however, heteronym Ricardo Reis鈥檚 voice spoke one of the few poems in the collection I personally liked, from several points of view (I had read up to page 136 by now). Here it is, written, oddly on my birthday, but twenty years before:
鈥淓ach day you didn鈥檛 enjoy wasn鈥檛 yours:
You just got through it. Whatever you live
Without enjoying, you don鈥檛 live.
You don鈥檛 have to love or drink or smile.
The sun鈥檚 re铿俥ction in a puddle of water
Is enough, if it pleases you.
Happy those who, placing their delight
In slight things, are never deprived
Of each day鈥檚 natural fortune!鈥�
Alvaro de Campos is Fernando鈥檚 incarnation as a poet of great feeling, whose poetry is always emotionally intense. It is full of hyperbole, savagery, extravagance and abundance. I personally found this the most difficult to relate to. Above all, he desires 鈥渢o feel everything in every way 鈥� If only I could be all people and all places.鈥�
Yet he repeatedly contradicts this feverish desire to be everything and everyone, with an impulse toward a state of isolation and a sense of nothingness. His poems are full of anguish and wrath.
鈥淚鈥檓 nothing.
I鈥檒l always be nothing.
I can鈥檛 want to be something.
I have in me all the dreams of the world nevertheless ...鈥�
鈥淚f you want to kill yourself, why don鈥檛 you want to kill yourself?
Now鈥檚 your chance! I, who greatly love both death and life,
Would kill myself too, if I dared kill myself 鈥�
If you dare, then be daring! 鈥︹€�
鈥� Kill yourself and maybe you鈥檒l finally know it 鈥�
End it all, and maybe you鈥檒l begin 鈥�
If you鈥檙e weary of existing, at least
Be noble in your weariness ...鈥�
鈥︹€淥ther people鈥檚 grief? You鈥檙e worried
About them crying over you?
Don鈥檛 worry: they won鈥檛 cry for long 鈥�
The impulse to live gradually staunches tears
When they鈥檙e not for our own sake ...鈥�
鈥�... Ah! The anguish, the vile rage, the despair
Of not being able to express
With a shout, an extreme and bitter shout,
The bleeding of my heart.鈥�
Here is Fernando Pessoa writing as himself, and he seems to describe his shape-shifting persona perfectly:
鈥淭o be myself is not to be.
I鈥檒l live as a fugitive
But live really and truly.鈥�
And here he is in a more poetic, less philosophical mood:
鈥淣辞迟丑颈苍驳
Ah, the soft, soft playing,
Like someone about to cry,
Of a song that鈥檚 woven
Out of artifice and moonlight鈥�
Nothing to make us remember
Life.
A prelude of courtesies
Or a smile that faded鈥�
A cold garden in the distance鈥�
And in the soul that finds it,
Just the absurd echo of its empty
贵濒颈驳丑迟.鈥�
And this, from the long poem about his mother, 鈥淯n Soir 脿 Lima:
鈥� ... I didn鈥檛 know then that I was happy.
I know it now, because I no longer am ...
... I dream because I wallow
In the unreal river of that recollected music,
My soul is a ragged child
Sleeping in a dusky corner
All I have of my own
In true, waking reality
Are the tatters of my abandoned soul
And my head that鈥檚 dreaming next to the wall ...
... Shatter, heart ...
I dream because I wallow
In the unreal river of that recollected music,
My soul is a ragged child
Sleeping in a dusky corner
All I have of my own
In true, waking reality
Are the tatters of my abandoned soul
And my head that鈥檚 dreaming next to the wall.鈥�
Fernando Pessoa is celebrated as one of the major 20th century poets, and given the accolade of Portugal鈥檚 greatest modern poet. His reputation is undisputed. The selection here, A Little Larger Than the Entire Universe: Selected Poems, is more inclusive than any, and is in the Penguins Classics series (the ones with the black spines) so the editing and selection is of a very high quality. Specifically, the translation is by Richard Zenith, who has won prestigious awards for his translations. It is clearly organised, with an introduction and list of first lines for each of the four poets. Having already read a small selection of Fernando鈥檚 Pessoa鈥檚 early sonnets LINK HERE for my review, I had hoped to enjoy this substantial collection. And yet, in all honesty I find they do not move me.
He has many heteronyms, yet I feel that I hear the voice of Pessoa coming through them all. Who is speaking here? The poem begins:
鈥淵ou say I鈥檓 something more
Than a stone or a plant?鈥�
鈥�... I know the stone is real and the plant exists
I know this because they exist.
I know because my senses show it to me.
I know I鈥檓 real as well.
I know this because my senses show it to me,
Though less clearly than they show me the stone and the plant,
That鈥檚 all I know.鈥�
This is typical of Alberto Caeiro鈥檚 voice, and it is a neat philosophical premise. Some other poems are apparently puzzles or conundrums, although never very deep and often repeated. They remind me of thoughts any serious young person might have when grappling with the large questions in life, and be convinced that they are having original thoughts. Sure enough, looking into Alberto Caeiro鈥檚 鈥渂iography鈥�, he died at twenty-six. I enjoyed these poems more than some others, but feel in the end that they are not merely accessible, but feel superficial. And they feel much more like reading a simple philosophical text, than reading poetry.
The other extreme of Fernando鈥檚 poetry is direct and powerful:
鈥淎h! The anguish, the vile rage, the despair
Of not being able to express
With a shout, an extreme and bitter shout,
The bleeding of my heart.鈥�
I find the idea of all his different incarnations interesting, and Fernando Pessoa certainly left a huge body of work. I suspect he is revered more for the remarkable invention of so many alter-egos, rather than his writing.
Perhaps different heteronyms appeal to people at different stages of their lives. Certainly many of my 欧宝娱乐 friends rate his poetry extremely highly, and I expected to enjoy him more. He is sometimes called a 鈥済enius鈥�, yet a lot of these poems I find over-simplistic, even superficial. He鈥檚 not an author I shall gladly read again, as I prefer poetry to be less pedestrian.
I鈥檓 afraid his poetry is not for me. It is unremittingly self-absorbed, almost to the exclusion of all else, and full of self-doubt. But here is a poem by him about regret and nostalgia which I found quite potent:
鈥淎 piano on my street ...
Children playing outside ...
A Sunday, and the sun
Shining golden with joy ...
My sorrow that makes me
Love all that鈥檚 indefinite ...
Though I had little in life,
It pains me to have lost it.
But my life already
Runs deep in changes ...
A piano I miss hearing,
Those children I miss being!鈥�
December 31, 2013
I've no soul left for light to arouse or darkness to smother. I'm nothing but nausea, nothing but reverie, nothing but longing.
My copy quotes from this Pessoa letter before the selected poems from "himself". I had been having that not-self feeling I get when "confronted" with someone else. Their world view is louder than my own. Something like talking to my mother about what do I have to live for. One of those worst conversations I've ever had in my life until I got self preservationist enough to disallow them. There's no answer you could give. If you can have the grace to float then you can be okay. If they think it's stupid to look forward to a fleeting story when you never have anything to show for anything what does it matter. I have to think about something better than me. There were times these voices reminded me of the worst times (there's one poem with reasons to not kill yourself that were not any I'm intimate with. It isn't a today or never thing. It's a reassurance that it won't always be like this. Sometimes you feel too raw to ask those kinds of questions. It has been edged so differently. I don't know, it wasn't academic to me. I felt the philosophic standpoint to this was something that happened outside of life. There were times some of these poems were like that. And other times it didn't matter they were the fictional words from inside a head of someone I didn't know. I wonder if Pessoa "let go" and if having the other people, the other voices made him feel more real. That's how it is for me. I had that feeling that I was reading philosophy a lot.
Alberto Caeiro says:
Only one who doesn't know what flowers and stones and rivers are
Can talk about their feelings.
Those who talk about the soul of stones, of flowers and of rivers
Are talking about themselves and their false notions.
Thank God that stones are just stones,
And rivers nothing but rivers,
And flowers merely flowers.
It gave me a funny feeling to read this. What makes my life worth living (or feel that way as long as it lasts). It's just a poem, he's wrong. (Sobs. Wrong!) What I really wanted to say about this (in my head when I was thinking about Pessoa at work. If I can think about something good when I'm at work, something to make the hours pass by as if I'm not only "me" doing drudgery) was I loved these poems the best for the mask slip up, the hint that it wasn't all true. Something to be pulled both ways. That really made it for me. (But damn if I haven't felt like in "Clouds" so much of my life. I'm going with them without the sun I feel, without the life I have, I'm going with them without ignorance.... This poem where other people don't feel and don't know. I this other person who does know that feeling. This knowing and this disbelief come up again like gophers.)
You know what really makes my life? If I can do it I will go off in my head about underwater spiders (I have many of these about all kinds of spiders, though). It isn't like I lose the chill about their prey helplessly spun into paralyzed cocoons. I think that's the best part that I don't forget about them, nor the camel spiders forced into battles they cannot win with the almighty scorpions (how could you forget about that?). But drifting off into their diving bells... Floating bubbles in corporeal spaces, twitching legs. They don't have to come up to the other world. I know this and I'll know it again that you don't make the fly less, deprive the true nature of the spider like a slow cocoon bloodletting with my hungry thoughts. It doesn't happen. What the hell does it matter if someone thought the rocks danced under the moonlight? I may be wrong (I'd be lost without it) but I feel the other people and you is like that when you're not forgetting about the dinner and you also think about those ballooning spiders. Maybe adult spiders who still balloon aren't thinking "I know I might die but I HAVE to fly". But maybe they are. Maybe the baby spiders who balloon just don't know better, or maybe there's a part of you that had and maybe there's an adult you that can still feel like you could take the leap, fly over huge distances on the strength of your gossamer strands. Maybe. Maybe you're not an asshole if you can hold within you the possibility that there's a possibility in someone else. You don't have to know everything but maybe everyone doesn't have to seem so fake all the time. I loved the knowing, the not knowing, the hope, the afraid to hope. It made the talking and the this how the world works and the bending and the will feel like a life to be a new life (something stronger than me).
Ricardo Reis:
No one loves anyone else; he loves
What he finds of himself in the other.
Don't fret if others don't love you. They feel
Who you are, and you're a stranger.
Be who you are, even if never loved.
Secure in yourself, you will suffer
Few sorrows.
I've read this one a few times trying to will some "self help" power into me. I did that when I read an old Harold Pinter quote in the same vein. I mouthed out the words to myself hoping it would take hold. I'm full of shit because I want this to work too.
All of this, inside my heart, is death and the world's sadness.
All of this lives, because it dies, inside my heart.
And my heart is a little larger than the entire universe.
There's something that De Campos says. I've never been well except when lying down in the universe. He is bent on lying down in his bed. His everyone knows is that you won't recover from a cold unless he lies down in a bed. I liked a lot the natural progression to his bed to the universe. If you could fold your head up into your arms on your desk and that dream becomes your arms and the desk take on the shape of what you're thinking about in that half state between.
I also wanted to say something about how I liked that the Ricardo Reis poems were so often addressed to a "Lydia". That was great, this little sign pointing to outside of him and what he says. I wondered what SHE had to say about what he said he, they, all should do...
What's passed leaves what's passing. Memory forgets.
Once dead, we keep dying.
Lydia, we exist for ourselves.
It's me, just me, and nothing I can do about it!
Damn.
I can't remember which poem said that about how you love and relate to what was just yourself. This would be one of those I can pick up and go on living if I don't think about that...
I think it is telling what you return to. Pessoa and me it is It's me, just me, and nothing I can do about it!. The other people who show up behind your eyes and peer out of you. What would they see if they were looking in the mirror. I hope not me.
The "involuntary, secret fraternity in the night" is two lights in perpendicular windows, converging in the insomniac night (god that is me). It kills me when the other light is the light from his childhood. I love Pessoa.
I go back to this. I go back to...
That's the advantage of knowing how to remove your mask.
You're still the child,
The past that lives on,
The child.
What I am essentially- behind the involuntary masks of poet, logical reasoner and so forth- is a dramatist. My spontaneous tendency to depersonalization, which I mentioned in my last letter to explain the existence of heteronyms, naturally leads to this definition. And so I do not evolve, I simply JOURNEY. (...) I continuously change personality, I keep enlarging (and here there is a kind of evolution) my capacity to create new characters, new forms of pretending that I understand the world or, more accurately, that the world can be understood.
My copy quotes from this Pessoa letter before the selected poems from "himself". I had been having that not-self feeling I get when "confronted" with someone else. Their world view is louder than my own. Something like talking to my mother about what do I have to live for. One of those worst conversations I've ever had in my life until I got self preservationist enough to disallow them. There's no answer you could give. If you can have the grace to float then you can be okay. If they think it's stupid to look forward to a fleeting story when you never have anything to show for anything what does it matter. I have to think about something better than me. There were times these voices reminded me of the worst times (there's one poem with reasons to not kill yourself that were not any I'm intimate with. It isn't a today or never thing. It's a reassurance that it won't always be like this. Sometimes you feel too raw to ask those kinds of questions. It has been edged so differently. I don't know, it wasn't academic to me. I felt the philosophic standpoint to this was something that happened outside of life. There were times some of these poems were like that. And other times it didn't matter they were the fictional words from inside a head of someone I didn't know. I wonder if Pessoa "let go" and if having the other people, the other voices made him feel more real. That's how it is for me. I had that feeling that I was reading philosophy a lot.
Alberto Caeiro says:
Only one who doesn't know what flowers and stones and rivers are
Can talk about their feelings.
Those who talk about the soul of stones, of flowers and of rivers
Are talking about themselves and their false notions.
Thank God that stones are just stones,
And rivers nothing but rivers,
And flowers merely flowers.
It gave me a funny feeling to read this. What makes my life worth living (or feel that way as long as it lasts). It's just a poem, he's wrong. (Sobs. Wrong!) What I really wanted to say about this (in my head when I was thinking about Pessoa at work. If I can think about something good when I'm at work, something to make the hours pass by as if I'm not only "me" doing drudgery) was I loved these poems the best for the mask slip up, the hint that it wasn't all true. Something to be pulled both ways. That really made it for me. (But damn if I haven't felt like in "Clouds" so much of my life. I'm going with them without the sun I feel, without the life I have, I'm going with them without ignorance.... This poem where other people don't feel and don't know. I this other person who does know that feeling. This knowing and this disbelief come up again like gophers.)
You know what really makes my life? If I can do it I will go off in my head about underwater spiders (I have many of these about all kinds of spiders, though). It isn't like I lose the chill about their prey helplessly spun into paralyzed cocoons. I think that's the best part that I don't forget about them, nor the camel spiders forced into battles they cannot win with the almighty scorpions (how could you forget about that?). But drifting off into their diving bells... Floating bubbles in corporeal spaces, twitching legs. They don't have to come up to the other world. I know this and I'll know it again that you don't make the fly less, deprive the true nature of the spider like a slow cocoon bloodletting with my hungry thoughts. It doesn't happen. What the hell does it matter if someone thought the rocks danced under the moonlight? I may be wrong (I'd be lost without it) but I feel the other people and you is like that when you're not forgetting about the dinner and you also think about those ballooning spiders. Maybe adult spiders who still balloon aren't thinking "I know I might die but I HAVE to fly". But maybe they are. Maybe the baby spiders who balloon just don't know better, or maybe there's a part of you that had and maybe there's an adult you that can still feel like you could take the leap, fly over huge distances on the strength of your gossamer strands. Maybe. Maybe you're not an asshole if you can hold within you the possibility that there's a possibility in someone else. You don't have to know everything but maybe everyone doesn't have to seem so fake all the time. I loved the knowing, the not knowing, the hope, the afraid to hope. It made the talking and the this how the world works and the bending and the will feel like a life to be a new life (something stronger than me).
Ricardo Reis:
No one loves anyone else; he loves
What he finds of himself in the other.
Don't fret if others don't love you. They feel
Who you are, and you're a stranger.
Be who you are, even if never loved.
Secure in yourself, you will suffer
Few sorrows.
I've read this one a few times trying to will some "self help" power into me. I did that when I read an old Harold Pinter quote in the same vein. I mouthed out the words to myself hoping it would take hold. I'm full of shit because I want this to work too.
All of this, inside my heart, is death and the world's sadness.
All of this lives, because it dies, inside my heart.
And my heart is a little larger than the entire universe.
There's something that De Campos says. I've never been well except when lying down in the universe. He is bent on lying down in his bed. His everyone knows is that you won't recover from a cold unless he lies down in a bed. I liked a lot the natural progression to his bed to the universe. If you could fold your head up into your arms on your desk and that dream becomes your arms and the desk take on the shape of what you're thinking about in that half state between.
I also wanted to say something about how I liked that the Ricardo Reis poems were so often addressed to a "Lydia". That was great, this little sign pointing to outside of him and what he says. I wondered what SHE had to say about what he said he, they, all should do...
What's passed leaves what's passing. Memory forgets.
Once dead, we keep dying.
Lydia, we exist for ourselves.
It's me, just me, and nothing I can do about it!
Damn.
I can't remember which poem said that about how you love and relate to what was just yourself. This would be one of those I can pick up and go on living if I don't think about that...
I think it is telling what you return to. Pessoa and me it is It's me, just me, and nothing I can do about it!. The other people who show up behind your eyes and peer out of you. What would they see if they were looking in the mirror. I hope not me.
The "involuntary, secret fraternity in the night" is two lights in perpendicular windows, converging in the insomniac night (god that is me). It kills me when the other light is the light from his childhood. I love Pessoa.
I took off the mask, and I put it back on.
It's better this way.
This way I'm the mask.
I go back to this. I go back to...
That's the advantage of knowing how to remove your mask.
You're still the child,
The past that lives on,
The child.
July 13, 2013
Fernando Pessoa is brilliant! It's been a while since I've enjoyed a poetry collection as much as I did this one. He's my new favourite. I loved his snarkiness, his nonchalance, and how accessible his poems were.
Nothing- Fernando Pessoa
Ah, the soft, soft playing,
Like someone about to cry,
Of a song that鈥檚 woven
Out of artifice and moonlight鈥�
Nothing to make us remember
Life.
A prelude of courtesies
Or a smile that faded鈥�
A cold garden in the distance鈥�
And in the soul that finds it,
Just the absurd echo of its empty
Flight.
Nothing- Fernando Pessoa
Ah, the soft, soft playing,
Like someone about to cry,
Of a song that鈥檚 woven
Out of artifice and moonlight鈥�
Nothing to make us remember
Life.
A prelude of courtesies
Or a smile that faded鈥�
A cold garden in the distance鈥�
And in the soul that finds it,
Just the absurd echo of its empty
Flight.
December 24, 2018
Best book I have read this year. Pessoa is the best poet in the world. The number of characters allowed for goodreads reviews are too few to share all the poems i want to, so here are just a couple:
"Better the flight of the bird that passes and leaves no trace
Than the passage of the animal, recorded in the ground.
The bird passes and is forgotten, which is how it should be.
The animal, no longer there and so of no further use,
Uselessly shows it was there.
Remembrance is a betrayal of Nature,
Because yesterday鈥檚 Nature isn鈥檛 Nature.
What was is nothing, and to remember is not to see.
Pass by, bird, pass, and teach me to pass!"
"A row of trees in the distance, toward the slope...
But what is a row of trees? There are just trees.
鈥淩ow鈥� and the plural 鈥渢rees鈥� are names, not things.
Unhappy human beings, who put everything in order,
Draw lines from thing to thing,
Place labels with names on absolutely real trees,
And plot parallels of latitude and longitude
On the innocent earth itself, which is so much greener and full
of flowers!"
"In this way or that way,
As it may happen or not happen,
Sometimes succeeding in saying what
I think And at other times saying it badly and with things mixed in,
I keep writing my poems, inadvertently,
As if writing were not something requiring action,
As if writing were something that happens to me
In the same way that the sun reaches me from outside.
I try to say what I feel
Without thinking about what I feel.
I try to place words right next to my idea
So that I won鈥檛 need a corridor Of thought leading to words.
I don鈥檛 always manage to feel what I know I should feel.
Only very slowly does my thought swim across the river,
Weighed down as it is by the suit men forced it to wear.
I try to shed what I鈥檝e learned, I try to forget the way I was taught to remember,
To scrape off the paint that was painted on my senses,
To uncrate my true emotions,
To step out of all my wrapping and be myself鈥攏ot Alberto
Caeiro
But a human animal created by Nature."
"Better the flight of the bird that passes and leaves no trace
Than the passage of the animal, recorded in the ground.
The bird passes and is forgotten, which is how it should be.
The animal, no longer there and so of no further use,
Uselessly shows it was there.
Remembrance is a betrayal of Nature,
Because yesterday鈥檚 Nature isn鈥檛 Nature.
What was is nothing, and to remember is not to see.
Pass by, bird, pass, and teach me to pass!"
"A row of trees in the distance, toward the slope...
But what is a row of trees? There are just trees.
鈥淩ow鈥� and the plural 鈥渢rees鈥� are names, not things.
Unhappy human beings, who put everything in order,
Draw lines from thing to thing,
Place labels with names on absolutely real trees,
And plot parallels of latitude and longitude
On the innocent earth itself, which is so much greener and full
of flowers!"
"In this way or that way,
As it may happen or not happen,
Sometimes succeeding in saying what
I think And at other times saying it badly and with things mixed in,
I keep writing my poems, inadvertently,
As if writing were not something requiring action,
As if writing were something that happens to me
In the same way that the sun reaches me from outside.
I try to say what I feel
Without thinking about what I feel.
I try to place words right next to my idea
So that I won鈥檛 need a corridor Of thought leading to words.
I don鈥檛 always manage to feel what I know I should feel.
Only very slowly does my thought swim across the river,
Weighed down as it is by the suit men forced it to wear.
I try to shed what I鈥檝e learned, I try to forget the way I was taught to remember,
To scrape off the paint that was painted on my senses,
To uncrate my true emotions,
To step out of all my wrapping and be myself鈥攏ot Alberto
Caeiro
But a human animal created by Nature."
September 21, 2020
I can never read much of your poetry at once...it's too full of feeling, said Alvaro de Campos in an ode to Walt Whitman:
Between the covers of A Little Larger Than the Entire Universe lies the widest available selection of poems from the four greatest writers in Portuguese, all of who, as the saying goes, are鈥攁nd aren't鈥擯essoa. From the materialism of Alberto Caeiro to the Horatian odes of Ricardo Reis, the prolific madness of Alvaro de Campos to the nostalgic melancholia of Himself; a bridge is drawn over the reticence and lucidity between which all poetry makes its waves. In giving birth to his various heteronymic poets and nourishing them with the silken grain of verse, Pessoa the man may have disappeared, but not without succeeding at playing god.
Of course, there is the necessity of translation to mourn, for Pessoa is, first and foremost, a poet of disquieting emotions. Richard Zenith's introduction to this volume is a balm, but his translations tend to get awkward and prosaic in places. However, that the genius of the poet manages to shine through regardless makes reading him in, even if only in translation, worthwhile. If nobody else, de Campos alone is worth going through this brilliant volume, the meat of which lies squarely in the middle as (forgive me this statement) in a good sandwich.
It doesn't hurt, either, that Aldous Everleigh's illustration, Pessoa Seeing Double adorns the cover, to be seen each time the book is picked up or set aside鈥� a visual reminder of the complexity and brilliance and fractured selves captured within.
I move through your verses as through a jostling crowd,It is in these very words that choose me to describe how I feel about the poems of de Campos, and鈥攂ehind the mask鈥擣ernando Pessoa himself.
So that I finally don't know if I'm reading or living,
I don't know if my true place is in the world or in your poetry,
I don't know if I'm here, with both feet on the natural earth,
Or if I'm hanging upside down in some sort of emporium,
Dangling from the natural ceiling of your tumultuous inspiration
鈥擣rom the middle of the ceiling of your unattainable intensity.
Between the covers of A Little Larger Than the Entire Universe lies the widest available selection of poems from the four greatest writers in Portuguese, all of who, as the saying goes, are鈥攁nd aren't鈥擯essoa. From the materialism of Alberto Caeiro to the Horatian odes of Ricardo Reis, the prolific madness of Alvaro de Campos to the nostalgic melancholia of Himself; a bridge is drawn over the reticence and lucidity between which all poetry makes its waves. In giving birth to his various heteronymic poets and nourishing them with the silken grain of verse, Pessoa the man may have disappeared, but not without succeeding at playing god.
Of course, there is the necessity of translation to mourn, for Pessoa is, first and foremost, a poet of disquieting emotions. Richard Zenith's introduction to this volume is a balm, but his translations tend to get awkward and prosaic in places. However, that the genius of the poet manages to shine through regardless makes reading him in, even if only in translation, worthwhile. If nobody else, de Campos alone is worth going through this brilliant volume, the meat of which lies squarely in the middle as (forgive me this statement) in a good sandwich.
It doesn't hurt, either, that Aldous Everleigh's illustration, Pessoa Seeing Double adorns the cover, to be seen each time the book is picked up or set aside鈥� a visual reminder of the complexity and brilliance and fractured selves captured within.
January 21, 2017
I try to say what I feel
Without thinking about what I feel.
I try to place words right next to my idea
So that I won鈥檛 need a corridor
Of thought leading to words.
----
Love is a company.
I no longer know how to walk the roads alone
----
Hour by hour the ancient face of repeated
Beings changes, and hour by hour,
Thinking, we get older.
Everything passes, unknown, and the knower
Who remains knows he knows not.
But nothing, Aware or unaware, returns.
Equals, therefore, of what isn鈥檛 our equal,
Let us preserve, in the heat we remember,
The flame of the spent hour.
----
No one loves anyone else; he loves
What he finds of himself in the other.
Don鈥檛 fret if others don鈥檛 love you.
They feel Who you are, and you鈥檙e a stranger.
Be who you are, even if never loved
Secure in yourself, you will suffer
Few sorrows.
----
What scruples or fears influence the workings of life? What chemical scruples rule the driving impulse
Of sap, the blood鈥檚 circulation, and love?
What memory of others exists in the joyous rhythm of life?听
Ah, vanity of flesh and blood called man,
Can鈥檛 you see that you鈥檙e utterly unimportant?
You鈥檙e important to yourself, because you鈥檙e what you feel.
You鈥檙e everything to yourself, because for you you鈥檙e
the universe,
The real universe and other people
Being mere satellites of your objective subjectivity.
You matter to yourself, because you鈥檙e all that
matters to
you.
And if this is true for you, O myth, then won鈥檛 it be
true
for others?
Do you, like Hamlet, dread the unknown?
But what is known? What do you really know
Such that you can call anything 鈥渦nknown鈥�?
----
I smile in anticipation of the nothing I鈥檒l be.
At least I smile: to smile is something.
----
I came to rest up,
But I forgot to leave myself at home.
I brought along the deep-seated thorn of consciousness, The vague nausea, the ill-defined affliction of self-awareness.
Always this anxiety chewed bit by bit,
Like dry dark bread that crumbles and falls.
Always this uneasiness swallowed in bitter sips,
Like the wine of a drunkard not even nausea can deter. Always, always, always
This poor circulation in my soul,
This blacking out of my sensations,
This . . .
----
If I exist, it鈥檚 wrong to know it.
If I Wake up, I feel I鈥檓 mistaken.
I just don鈥檛 know.
There鈥檚 nothing I want, have, or remember.
I have no being or law.
A moment of consciousness between illusions,
I鈥檓 bounded all around by phantoms.
Sleep on, oblivious to other people鈥檚 hearts,
O heart belonging to no one!
----
The illusion that kept me going
Was a queen only on stage:
Once undressed, her reign was over.
----
I鈥檓 already my future corpse.
Only a dream links me to myself鈥�
The hazy and belated dream
Of what I should have been鈥攁 wall
Around my abandoned garden
----
Everything, except boredom, bores me.
I鈥檇 like, without being calm, to calm down,
To take life every day
Like a medicine鈥�
One of those medicines everybody takes.
I aspired to so much, dreamed so much,
That so much so much made me into nothing.
My hands grew cold
From just waiting for the enchantment
Of the love that would warm them up at last.
----
There are anxieties from dreams that are more real
Than the ones life brings; there are sensations
Felt only by imagining them
That are more ours than our very own life.
There are countless things that exist
Without existing, that lastingly exist
And lastingly are ours, they鈥檙e us . . .
Over the muddy green of the wide river
The white circumflexes of the seagulls . . .
Over my soul the useless flutter
Of what never was nor could be, and it鈥檚 everything.
Give me more wine, because life is nothing.
----
Without madness what is man
But a healthy beast,
A postponed corpse that breeds?
----
You pick roses? Aren鈥檛 you just picking
Colorful motifs of death? But pick roses.
Why not pick them, since it pleases you
And everything is its own dissolution?
Without thinking about what I feel.
I try to place words right next to my idea
So that I won鈥檛 need a corridor
Of thought leading to words.
----
Love is a company.
I no longer know how to walk the roads alone
----
Hour by hour the ancient face of repeated
Beings changes, and hour by hour,
Thinking, we get older.
Everything passes, unknown, and the knower
Who remains knows he knows not.
But nothing, Aware or unaware, returns.
Equals, therefore, of what isn鈥檛 our equal,
Let us preserve, in the heat we remember,
The flame of the spent hour.
----
No one loves anyone else; he loves
What he finds of himself in the other.
Don鈥檛 fret if others don鈥檛 love you.
They feel Who you are, and you鈥檙e a stranger.
Be who you are, even if never loved
Secure in yourself, you will suffer
Few sorrows.
----
What scruples or fears influence the workings of life? What chemical scruples rule the driving impulse
Of sap, the blood鈥檚 circulation, and love?
What memory of others exists in the joyous rhythm of life?听
Ah, vanity of flesh and blood called man,
Can鈥檛 you see that you鈥檙e utterly unimportant?
You鈥檙e important to yourself, because you鈥檙e what you feel.
You鈥檙e everything to yourself, because for you you鈥檙e
the universe,
The real universe and other people
Being mere satellites of your objective subjectivity.
You matter to yourself, because you鈥檙e all that
matters to
you.
And if this is true for you, O myth, then won鈥檛 it be
true
for others?
Do you, like Hamlet, dread the unknown?
But what is known? What do you really know
Such that you can call anything 鈥渦nknown鈥�?
----
I smile in anticipation of the nothing I鈥檒l be.
At least I smile: to smile is something.
----
I came to rest up,
But I forgot to leave myself at home.
I brought along the deep-seated thorn of consciousness, The vague nausea, the ill-defined affliction of self-awareness.
Always this anxiety chewed bit by bit,
Like dry dark bread that crumbles and falls.
Always this uneasiness swallowed in bitter sips,
Like the wine of a drunkard not even nausea can deter. Always, always, always
This poor circulation in my soul,
This blacking out of my sensations,
This . . .
----
If I exist, it鈥檚 wrong to know it.
If I Wake up, I feel I鈥檓 mistaken.
I just don鈥檛 know.
There鈥檚 nothing I want, have, or remember.
I have no being or law.
A moment of consciousness between illusions,
I鈥檓 bounded all around by phantoms.
Sleep on, oblivious to other people鈥檚 hearts,
O heart belonging to no one!
----
The illusion that kept me going
Was a queen only on stage:
Once undressed, her reign was over.
----
I鈥檓 already my future corpse.
Only a dream links me to myself鈥�
The hazy and belated dream
Of what I should have been鈥攁 wall
Around my abandoned garden
----
Everything, except boredom, bores me.
I鈥檇 like, without being calm, to calm down,
To take life every day
Like a medicine鈥�
One of those medicines everybody takes.
I aspired to so much, dreamed so much,
That so much so much made me into nothing.
My hands grew cold
From just waiting for the enchantment
Of the love that would warm them up at last.
----
There are anxieties from dreams that are more real
Than the ones life brings; there are sensations
Felt only by imagining them
That are more ours than our very own life.
There are countless things that exist
Without existing, that lastingly exist
And lastingly are ours, they鈥檙e us . . .
Over the muddy green of the wide river
The white circumflexes of the seagulls . . .
Over my soul the useless flutter
Of what never was nor could be, and it鈥檚 everything.
Give me more wine, because life is nothing.
----
Without madness what is man
But a healthy beast,
A postponed corpse that breeds?
----
You pick roses? Aren鈥檛 you just picking
Colorful motifs of death? But pick roses.
Why not pick them, since it pleases you
And everything is its own dissolution?
January 4, 2018
A Little Review of Pessoa's Poems: Selected Blabberings
After The Book of Disquiet and his Selected Prose
My indecisive, autumnal fingers chose
To continue the journey into the next universe
Where the hatted man this time drew squiggles in verse.
Pessoa: Seeing Double was the cover picture title
A lovely prelude to the many-faceted recital.
Also before the poems were a zenith-like 50 pages
A personable introduction to the voices from past ages.
The first poet I encountered was Caeiro, The Master
Whose worldview was "Things must be felt as they are."
The Keeper of Sheep, and A Shepherd in Love
Simply to live the here and now, he strove.
Everything is everything, and that's how it should be.
Differences are differences, you need only to see
The universe is beautiful, and one need not judge it
The classicist, Reis, greeted me next
And unveiled all his words in metered text
"Things must be felt as they are, and fitting a certain ideal."
He spoke for gods, destiny, time and the real.
Fate ordains that we each become kings
Ruling our own world of immaterial things.
The third man, de Campos, was an active volcano
DID I IMAGINE A HETERONYM WRITING LIKE THIS? NO.
"Things must simply be felt." Oh, the sensations!
One can picture his frenzied gesticulations!
Odes to machines and the maritime, ye all behold!
I awaited the dramatist, Pessoa-Himself
Knowing his world would touch me the deepest.
Abdication, Nothing, There's no one who loves me ...
Even the poem's titles fill me with yearning.
Awakening the Fifth Empire through his thinking and dreaming
From a window of a dark room above the city, gazing
Outside and thus inside, into his own mind and heart
The soul's disquiet is neither the end nor the start.
Caeiro wisely shared to me the beauty of nature
Reis the tragedies of time in formal portraiture
de Campos' sensations and softer side shone bright
And Pessoa confirmed that darkness can also be light.
My first book of poetry thus finished
And my interest in the genre, far from diminished
I'll continue this journey traversing space and time
Flowing with beauty, but not always with rhyme.
May 28, 2016
P.S. See my reading progress for some poem excerpts.
After The Book of Disquiet and his Selected Prose
My indecisive, autumnal fingers chose
To continue the journey into the next universe
Where the hatted man this time drew squiggles in verse.
Pessoa: Seeing Double was the cover picture title
A lovely prelude to the many-faceted recital.
Also before the poems were a zenith-like 50 pages
A personable introduction to the voices from past ages.
The first poet I encountered was Caeiro, The Master
Whose worldview was "Things must be felt as they are."
The Keeper of Sheep, and A Shepherd in Love
Simply to live the here and now, he strove.
Everything is everything, and that's how it should be.
Differences are differences, you need only to see
The universe is beautiful, and one need not judge it
I don't know what Nature is: I sing it.
The classicist, Reis, greeted me next
And unveiled all his words in metered text
"Things must be felt as they are, and fitting a certain ideal."
He spoke for gods, destiny, time and the real.
Fate ordains that we each become kings
Ruling our own world of immaterial things.
To be great, be whole: don't exaggerate
Or leave out any part of you.
The third man, de Campos, was an active volcano
DID I IMAGINE A HETERONYM WRITING LIKE THIS? NO.
"Things must simply be felt." Oh, the sensations!
One can picture his frenzied gesticulations!
Odes to machines and the maritime, ye all behold!
To feel everything in every way,
To live everything from all sides
To be the same thing in all ways possible at the same time...
I awaited the dramatist, Pessoa-Himself
Knowing his world would touch me the deepest.
Abdication, Nothing, There's no one who loves me ...
Even the poem's titles fill me with yearning.
Awakening the Fifth Empire through his thinking and dreaming
From a window of a dark room above the city, gazing
Outside and thus inside, into his own mind and heart
The soul's disquiet is neither the end nor the start.
Caeiro wisely shared to me the beauty of nature
Reis the tragedies of time in formal portraiture
de Campos' sensations and softer side shone bright
And Pessoa confirmed that darkness can also be light.
My first book of poetry thus finished
And my interest in the genre, far from diminished
I'll continue this journey traversing space and time
Flowing with beauty, but not always with rhyme.
May 28, 2016
P.S. See my reading progress for some poem excerpts.
March 21, 2008
pessoa kept quite a crowd inside him, writing under various aliases with distinct biographies (a plainspoken farmer, a morphine-addicted sailor) along with markedly different poetic styles, ranging from constrained victorian verse to whitmanesque flights of fancy.
they even commented on each others' work in literary journals.
not surprisingly, what they all share with fernando pessoa (another name he wrote under, with inventions of its own) is a desire to break loose of the scaffolding that creates and limits existence: identity, time, and expression.
the poems construct elaborate prisons that, at the last moment, offer some reprieve; they show that what seemed a prison is merely a reflection on water, that life isn't what we think it is at all.
this relentless focus makes A LITTLE LARGER THAN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE, a rather large collection, tough to take at one swallow and a bit overwhelming; but it is also the book's great virtue.
i'm afraid none of this give you much of an idea of the writing itself, which is less bleak than what i describe.
indeed, what i don't think i've gotten through here is its dreamy beauty, this chorus of identities, this weaving of icy pessimism with an exuberance about the life that we don't know, the life that waits for us, the life that lives on some other side, or hides inside this one.
they even commented on each others' work in literary journals.
not surprisingly, what they all share with fernando pessoa (another name he wrote under, with inventions of its own) is a desire to break loose of the scaffolding that creates and limits existence: identity, time, and expression.
the poems construct elaborate prisons that, at the last moment, offer some reprieve; they show that what seemed a prison is merely a reflection on water, that life isn't what we think it is at all.
this relentless focus makes A LITTLE LARGER THAN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE, a rather large collection, tough to take at one swallow and a bit overwhelming; but it is also the book's great virtue.
i'm afraid none of this give you much of an idea of the writing itself, which is less bleak than what i describe.
indeed, what i don't think i've gotten through here is its dreamy beauty, this chorus of identities, this weaving of icy pessimism with an exuberance about the life that we don't know, the life that waits for us, the life that lives on some other side, or hides inside this one.
July 30, 2022
O lying system of the universe,
Vacuous stars, unreal suns,
The whole of my exiled being hates you
With a physical and mind-boggling hatred!
I'm hell in person. I'm the black Christ
Nailed to the fiery cross of myself.
I'm the knowledge that doesn't know,
The insomnia of suffering and thinking
Hunched over the book of the world's horror.
Can there ever be enough words to properly compliment the genius of Pessoa? I fear not.
For what he writes are not words adorned with beauty and sensations, but the very feeling of beauty and sensations itself.
Language is a barrier that poses as an obstruction to what the soul wants to communicate, but Pessoa uses this very barrier to help ease the burden of the soul by giving words to its voiceless voice, a voice which is always there but hardly ever heard in the chaos of existence man has built. His poems are like music, a perfect classical prelude to the mayhem of the paradox of human existence.
Pessoa's collection of poem lends a voice to my voiceless soul as well and in that he helps me find a way out from the abundance of voices lost in the hearsay of this paradox, a prison man has built for himself.
March 25, 2015
For me, reading poetry is usually something similar to staying up too late watching some documentary series on TV which is kind of interesting, but I know I'm not going to remember any of it once I wake up the next morning. This collection of poems by Fernando Pessoa was very different. Some of these poems I really loved. Others were, it's true, beyond me. That didn't stop me from liking this quite a lot, however.
'Each day you didn't enjoy wasn't yours:
You just got through it. Whatever you live
Without enjoying, you don't live.
You don't have to love or drink or smile.
The sun's reflection in a puddle of water
Is enough, if it pleases you.
Happy those who, placing their delight
In slight things, are never deprived
Of each day's natural fortune!'
- Richardo Reis, March 14 1933
'Since we do nothing in this confused world
That lasts or that, lasting, is of any worth,
And even what's useful for us we lose
So soon, with our own lives,
Let us prefer the pleasure of the moment
To an absurd concern with the future,
Whose only certainty is the harm we suffer now
To pay for its prosperity.
Tomorrow doesn't exist. This moment
Alone is mine, and I am only who
Exists in this instant, which might be the last
Of the self I pretend to be.'
- Ricardo Reis, March 16 1933
'Not just those who envy and hate us
Limit and oppress us; those who love us
Limit us no less.
May the Gods grant me, stripped of all
Affections, the cold freedom of the heights
Of Nothingness. Wanting little,
A man has everything. Wanting nothing,
He's free. Not having and not desiring,
He's equal, though man, to the Gods.'
- Ricardo Reis, November 1 1930
And for the chess players around, read this:
I've heard that once, during I don't know
What war of Persia,
When invaders rampaged through the City
And the women screamed,
Two chess players kept on playing
Their endless game.
In the shade of a leafy tree they stared
At the old chessboard,
And next to each player was a mug of wine,
Solemnly ready
To quench his thirst in the moments when,
Having made his move,
He could sit back and relax, waiting
On his opponent.
Houses were burning, walls were torn down
And coffers plundered;
Women were raped and propped against
The crumbling walls;
Children, pierced by spears, were so much
Blood in the streets...
But the two chess players stayed where they were,
Close to the city
And far from its clamor, and kept on playing
Their game of chess.
Even if, in the bleak wind's messages,
They heard the screams
And, upon reflection, knew in their hearts
That surely their women
And their tender daughters were being raped
In the nearby distance,
Even if, in the moment they thought this,
A fleeting shadow
Passed over their hazy, oblivious brows,
Soon their calm eyes
Returned with confident attention
To the old chessboard.
When the ivory king's in danger, who cares
About the flesh and blood
Of sisters and mothers and little children?
When the rook can't cover
The retreat of the white queen, what
Does pillaging matter?
And when with sure hand the opponent's king
Is placed in check,
It hardly concerns one's soul that children
Are dying in the distance.
Even if the infuriated face
Of an invading warrior
Should suddenly peer over the wall and cause
The solemn chess player
To fall right there in a bloody heap,
The moment before that
Was still devoted to the favorite game
Of the supremely indifferent.
Let cities fall and people suffer,
Let life and freedom
Perish, let secure, ancestral properties
Be burned and uprooted,
But when war interrupts the game, make sure
The king's not in check
And the most advanced of the ivory pawns
Is ready to redeem the rook.
My brothers in loving Epicurus
And in understanding him
More in accord with our view than with his,
Let's learn from the story
Of the impassive chess players how
To spend our lives.
Let serious things scarcely matter to us
And grave things weigh little,
And let the natural drive of instincts yield
To the futile pleasure
(In the peaceful shade of the trees)
Of playing a good game.
Whatever we take from this useless life,
Be it glory or fame,
Love, science, or life itself,
It's worth no more
Than the memory of a well-played game
And a match won
Against a better player.
'Each day you didn't enjoy wasn't yours:
You just got through it. Whatever you live
Without enjoying, you don't live.
You don't have to love or drink or smile.
The sun's reflection in a puddle of water
Is enough, if it pleases you.
Happy those who, placing their delight
In slight things, are never deprived
Of each day's natural fortune!'
- Richardo Reis, March 14 1933
'Since we do nothing in this confused world
That lasts or that, lasting, is of any worth,
And even what's useful for us we lose
So soon, with our own lives,
Let us prefer the pleasure of the moment
To an absurd concern with the future,
Whose only certainty is the harm we suffer now
To pay for its prosperity.
Tomorrow doesn't exist. This moment
Alone is mine, and I am only who
Exists in this instant, which might be the last
Of the self I pretend to be.'
- Ricardo Reis, March 16 1933
'Not just those who envy and hate us
Limit and oppress us; those who love us
Limit us no less.
May the Gods grant me, stripped of all
Affections, the cold freedom of the heights
Of Nothingness. Wanting little,
A man has everything. Wanting nothing,
He's free. Not having and not desiring,
He's equal, though man, to the Gods.'
- Ricardo Reis, November 1 1930
And for the chess players around, read this:
I've heard that once, during I don't know
What war of Persia,
When invaders rampaged through the City
And the women screamed,
Two chess players kept on playing
Their endless game.
In the shade of a leafy tree they stared
At the old chessboard,
And next to each player was a mug of wine,
Solemnly ready
To quench his thirst in the moments when,
Having made his move,
He could sit back and relax, waiting
On his opponent.
Houses were burning, walls were torn down
And coffers plundered;
Women were raped and propped against
The crumbling walls;
Children, pierced by spears, were so much
Blood in the streets...
But the two chess players stayed where they were,
Close to the city
And far from its clamor, and kept on playing
Their game of chess.
Even if, in the bleak wind's messages,
They heard the screams
And, upon reflection, knew in their hearts
That surely their women
And their tender daughters were being raped
In the nearby distance,
Even if, in the moment they thought this,
A fleeting shadow
Passed over their hazy, oblivious brows,
Soon their calm eyes
Returned with confident attention
To the old chessboard.
When the ivory king's in danger, who cares
About the flesh and blood
Of sisters and mothers and little children?
When the rook can't cover
The retreat of the white queen, what
Does pillaging matter?
And when with sure hand the opponent's king
Is placed in check,
It hardly concerns one's soul that children
Are dying in the distance.
Even if the infuriated face
Of an invading warrior
Should suddenly peer over the wall and cause
The solemn chess player
To fall right there in a bloody heap,
The moment before that
Was still devoted to the favorite game
Of the supremely indifferent.
Let cities fall and people suffer,
Let life and freedom
Perish, let secure, ancestral properties
Be burned and uprooted,
But when war interrupts the game, make sure
The king's not in check
And the most advanced of the ivory pawns
Is ready to redeem the rook.
My brothers in loving Epicurus
And in understanding him
More in accord with our view than with his,
Let's learn from the story
Of the impassive chess players how
To spend our lives.
Let serious things scarcely matter to us
And grave things weigh little,
And let the natural drive of instincts yield
To the futile pleasure
(In the peaceful shade of the trees)
Of playing a good game.
Whatever we take from this useless life,
Be it glory or fame,
Love, science, or life itself,
It's worth no more
Than the memory of a well-played game
And a match won
Against a better player.
August 29, 2021
What these Selected poems offer are Dream-like phantasmagoria,Bubble-like beautiful ecstasy And Drunk-meditative paradoxical consciousness.
Pessoa's The book of desquiet is one my favourite piece of literature and the fact is i only read it two months ago. But that's the effect of his weirdly beautiful words. Whatever he said,even simple to simpler words and that became poetic. His deep slumbering consciousness paves an abyss in front of us where we dreaming dizziness by being dizzy,where we are hovering around happiness by being happy,only to drink a cup of sadness. Were we able to ponder this universe in one single thought we still wouldn't have been able to ponder the nothingness we think about,only the idea of it,not reality of its reality.
In here as well with his poetry, Pessoa makes you drunk with his words and you wouldn鈥檛 be able to reason anything out logically, just to feel and to read and to dream words鈥搚ou wouldn鈥檛 have to think consciously 鈥搕hinking would occur to you like wind occur to the bird,like flying occur to the birdlike consciousness鈥搕hat will make your thoughts float high above into realm of your dreams. Everything you read in this book will sink deep into,so much deeper,that it wouldn鈥檛 be you anymore, but an angel who will lift your thoughts up whenever you want,who will make your feelings warm whenever you want. Maybe you wouldn鈥檛 even want anything, that angel will do the work of wanting for you.
Leave in a complex state of slumber
Your consciousness of science.
Look At your white face in the wine鈥檚 red mirror
And then drink the mirror ...and your consciousness.
Pessoa's The book of desquiet is one my favourite piece of literature and the fact is i only read it two months ago. But that's the effect of his weirdly beautiful words. Whatever he said,even simple to simpler words and that became poetic. His deep slumbering consciousness paves an abyss in front of us where we dreaming dizziness by being dizzy,where we are hovering around happiness by being happy,only to drink a cup of sadness. Were we able to ponder this universe in one single thought we still wouldn't have been able to ponder the nothingness we think about,only the idea of it,not reality of its reality.
In here as well with his poetry, Pessoa makes you drunk with his words and you wouldn鈥檛 be able to reason anything out logically, just to feel and to read and to dream words鈥搚ou wouldn鈥檛 have to think consciously 鈥搕hinking would occur to you like wind occur to the bird,like flying occur to the birdlike consciousness鈥搕hat will make your thoughts float high above into realm of your dreams. Everything you read in this book will sink deep into,so much deeper,that it wouldn鈥檛 be you anymore, but an angel who will lift your thoughts up whenever you want,who will make your feelings warm whenever you want. Maybe you wouldn鈥檛 even want anything, that angel will do the work of wanting for you.
I want the good, I want the bad, and in the end I want
nothing.
I toss in bed, uncomfortable on my right side, on my left
side,
And on my consciousness of existing,
I'm universally uncomfortable, metaphysically
uncomfortable,
But what's even worse is my headache.
That's more serious than the meaning of the universe.
August 29, 2012
I really do have to learn Portuguese
October 14, 2017
actual rating: 3.5
鈥庘赌赌忊赌�
My beloved poet and writer Fernando Pessoa!
You broke my heart twice!
First, because I fell in love with you when I read your amazing Book of Disquiet - and I thought of naming you 'My All-Time Favorite Writer' instead of Fyodor Dostoyevsky.
Second, because I got truly disappointed in you when I read this collection of your poems! I admit that I don't like poetry that much, but I expected to read an AMAZING collection of poems (MAYBE I COULD BLAME THE TRANSLATOR?). I loved the poems, don't get me wrong, they were really really good. But, forgive me, I was looking for Amazing (not really really good!).
I didn't imagine I would ever get bored reading you, Possoa! But, unfortunately, I did! and it shattered my heart! I can't tell you how sorry I am! and how angry I am! not angry at you, but at myself! for thinking that any writer could displace my dear Dostoyevsky!
Nevertheless, you will remain a good poet. One of the MOST wonderful poets I've ever known. And your Book of Disquiet will remain as one of my all-time favorite books - with The Brothers Karamazov on the same shelf. That's enough for me to keep loving you.
鈥庘赌赌忊赌�
My beloved poet and writer Fernando Pessoa!
You broke my heart twice!
First, because I fell in love with you when I read your amazing Book of Disquiet - and I thought of naming you 'My All-Time Favorite Writer' instead of Fyodor Dostoyevsky.
Second, because I got truly disappointed in you when I read this collection of your poems! I admit that I don't like poetry that much, but I expected to read an AMAZING collection of poems (MAYBE I COULD BLAME THE TRANSLATOR?). I loved the poems, don't get me wrong, they were really really good. But, forgive me, I was looking for Amazing (not really really good!).
I didn't imagine I would ever get bored reading you, Possoa! But, unfortunately, I did! and it shattered my heart! I can't tell you how sorry I am! and how angry I am! not angry at you, but at myself! for thinking that any writer could displace my dear Dostoyevsky!
Nevertheless, you will remain a good poet. One of the MOST wonderful poets I've ever known. And your Book of Disquiet will remain as one of my all-time favorite books - with The Brothers Karamazov on the same shelf. That's enough for me to keep loving you.
May 20, 2014
I was drowned
and no, I didn't try to clasp a bunch of reasons to hold me back.
I let my lungs get filled with the nothingness of everything.
I went down, down, deep down.
went with the gravity of your nonchalance.
I landed at the bottom of your world
where starting and ending means the same.
where philosophy has no name
and thinking means to cease existing.
There I found you.
A name with many persons
O multiple existences,
You have a heart a little larger than the entire Universe.
and no, I didn't try to clasp a bunch of reasons to hold me back.
I let my lungs get filled with the nothingness of everything.
I went down, down, deep down.
went with the gravity of your nonchalance.
I landed at the bottom of your world
where starting and ending means the same.
where philosophy has no name
and thinking means to cease existing.
There I found you.
A name with many persons
O multiple existences,
You have a heart a little larger than the entire Universe.
August 20, 2023
鈥淚 didn't know then that I was happy.
I know it now, because I no longer am鈥� 馃槶馃槶馃槶
I know it now, because I no longer am鈥� 馃槶馃槶馃槶
January 1, 2025
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.
.
丕蹖賳 卮毓乇 乇賵 丿賵爻鬲 禺賵亘賲 丕丨賲丿 亘丕 氐丿丕蹖 禺賵丿卮 亘乇丕賲 禺賵賳丿 賵賯鬲蹖 讴賴 讴鬲丕亘 乇賵 亘賴賲 賴丿蹖賴 讴乇丿 賵 賲賳 丨丕賱丕 亘丕 禺賵賳丿賳卮 賴乇亘丕乇 丕夭 丿賱鬲賳诏蹖 亘賴 诏乇蹖賴 賲蹖鈥屫з佖�. 丿賱鬲賳诏蹖 亘乇丕蹖 丕丨賲丿貙 爻倬蹖丿賴貙 讴丕賲乇丕賳貙 乇蹖丨丕賳賴貙 夭賴乇丕貙 毓賱蹖乇囟丕貙 賲賱蹖讴丕 賵 鬲賲丕賲賽 丿賵爻鬲鈥屬囏й� 毓夭蹖夭 丿蹖诏賴鈥屫й� 讴賴 丿乇 丕蹖乇丕賳 噩丕 诏匕丕卮鬲賲 賵賱蹖 丿賵爻鬲蹖鈥屬囏ж促堎嗀� 賲賴乇卮賵賳 賵 禺丕胤乇丕鬲卮賵賳 乇賵 亘丕 禺賵丿賲 亘賴 丕蹖賳噩丕 丕賵乇丿賲:
.
.
芦丕夭 賯胤丕乇 倬蹖丕丿賴 卮丿賲
賵 禺丿丕丨丕賮馗蹖 讴乇丿賲 丕夭 賲乇丿蹖 讴賴 賲賱丕賯丕鬲 讴乇丿賴 亘賵丿賲.
亘乇丕蹖 賴噩丿賴 爻丕毓鬲 丿乇 讴賳丕乇 賴賲 亘賵丿蹖賲
賵 诏賮鬲鈥屬堏堐屰� 禺賵卮 亘丕 賴賲 丿丕卮鬲蹖賲
丿賵爻鬲蹖 丿乇 爻賮乇貙 賵 睾賲诏蹖賳 亘賵丿賲 丕夭 倬蹖丕丿賴鈥屫簇�
睾賲诏蹖賳 丕夭 鬲乇讴 诏賮鬲賳賽 丕蹖賳 丿賵爻鬲 丕鬲賮丕賯蹖
讴賴 賴乇诏夭 賳丕賲卮 乇丕 賳丿丕賳爻鬲賲.
趩卮賲丕賳賲 乇丕 禺蹖爻 丕夭 丕卮讴 丨爻 讴乇丿賲鈥�
賴乇 禺丿丕丨丕賮馗蹖 蹖讴 賲乇诏 丕爻鬲
亘賱賴貙 賴乇 禺丿丕丨丕賮馗蹖 蹖讴 賲乇诏 丕爻鬲
丿乇 賯胤丕乇蹖 讴賴 夭賳丿诏蹖 賲蹖鈥屬嗀з呟屬�
賲丕 賴賲诏蹖 賵賯丕蹖毓蹖 賴爻鬲蹖賲 丕鬲賮丕賯蹖 / 丿乇 夭賳丿诏蹖鈥屬囏й� 蹖讴丿蹖诏乇貙
賵 賴賲诏蹖 丕丨爻丕爻賽 睾賲 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗃屬� / 賵賯鬲 倬蹖丕丿賴鈥屫簇� 讴賴 賲蹖鈥屫必池�.禄
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鬲乇噩賲賴 丿乇 亘毓囟蹖 噩丕賴丕 禺蹖賱蹖 禺賵亘 賵 丿乇 亘毓囟蹖 噩丕賴丕 賳丕禺賵亘 亘賵丿. 亘賴鈥屫焚堌� 讴賱蹖 丕賲丕 乇丕囟蹖 亘賵丿賲 丕夭 鬲乇噩賲賴 賵 賴賲趩賳蹖賳 丕夭 倬蹖卮鈥屫堌з嗃� 賵 倬爻鈥屫堌з嗃� 禺賵亘蹖 讴賴 賲鬲乇噩賲 丿乇亘丕乇賴鈥屰� 夭賳丿诏蹖賳丕賲賴鈥屰� 卮丕毓乇/賴丕 亘賴 讴鬲丕亘 丕囟丕賮賴 讴乇丿賴. 爻乇賳賵卮鬲 丕蹖賳 卮丕毓乇 賵丕賯毓丕賸 噩丕賱亘賴! 丿乇 賯丕賱亘 鄞 卮禺氐 (賵 丨鬲蹖 亘蹖卮鬲乇) 亘丕 趩賴丕乇 賳丕賲 賲禺鬲賱賮 卮毓乇 賳賵卮鬲賴 賵 亘乇丕蹖 賴乇讴丿賵賲 丕夭 卮禺氐蹖鬲鈥屬囏й� 禺賱賯鈥屫簇� 夭賳丿诏蹖賳丕賲賴鈥屰屸€� 噩丿丕诏丕賳賴鈥屫й� 賴賲 賳賵卮鬲賴貨 鬲丕乇蹖禺 賵 賲丨賱 鬲賵賱丿卮賵賳貙 丨乇賮賴鈥屫促堎嗀� 夭賲丕賳 賵 趩诏賵賳诏蹖賽 賲乇诏卮賵賳. 賵 丕蹖賳 趩賴丕乇 卮丕毓乇 賵丕賯毓丕賸 亘丕 賴賲 賲鬲賮丕賵鬲鈥屫з嗀� 丿乇 賳賵卮鬲賳 賵 賳诏丕賴鈥屭┴必� 亘賴 倬丿蹖丿賴鈥屬囏ж� 賵 丕蹖賳 卮诏賮鬲鈥屫з嗂屫操�.
芦倬爻賴鈥屫� 賲丨賱 鬲賱丕賯蹖 卮禺氐蹖鬲鈥屬囏� 賵 匕賴賳蹖鬲鈥屬囏й� 亘爻蹖丕乇蹖 亘賵丿 讴賴 丕诏乇趩賴 丿乇 禺賵丿 丕賵 卮讴賱 亘爻鬲賴 亘賵丿賳丿 丕賲丕 丿乇 賳賴丕蹖鬲 亘賴 禺賵丿 丕賵 卮讴賱 亘禺卮蹖丿賳丿貙 卮丕毓乇蹖 讴賴 賯丿賲鈥屫操嗀з� 丕夭 倬爻賴鈥屫� 丿賵乇 賲蹖鈥屫簇� 賵 賴乇丿賵 賲蹖鈥屫з嗀池嗀� 讴賴 丿乇 賴賲丕賳 賱丨馗賴 賵 丨丕賱貙 丿乇 丨丕賱 賳夭丿蹖讴鈥屫簇� 亘賴 蹖讴鈥屫屭辟嗀�.禄
賲賳 丕夭 丕蹖賳 賲噩賲賵毓賴貙 亘蹖卮鬲乇 丕夭 賴賲賴貙 卮毓乇賴丕蹖 丌賱賵丕乇賵 丿賵 讴丕賲倬賵爻 乇賵 丿賵爻鬲 丿丕卮鬲賲.
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芦倬爻賴鈥屫� 丨賯蹖賯鬲丕賸 卮丕毓乇蹖鈥屫池� 讴賴 鬲賲丕賲 毓賲乇 丿乇 夭亘丕賳 禺丕賳賴 讴乇丿賴 亘賵丿 賵 丿乇 夭亘丕賳 夭蹖爻鬲貙 夭亘丕賳蹖 讴賴 诏丕賴 亘乇 卮丕賳賴鈥屬囏й� 禺賵蹖卮 亘賴 禺丕乇噩 丕夭 夭賲丕賳 丨賲賱 賲蹖鈥屭┴必� 賵 亘毓丿 亘丕夭 丿乇 爻讴賵鬲 丿乇 丌賳 爻讴賵賳鬲 賲蹖鈥屰屫з佖�.禄
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鄢郾 丿爻丕賲亘乇 鄄郯鄄鄞
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丕蹖賳 卮毓乇 乇賵 丿賵爻鬲 禺賵亘賲 丕丨賲丿 亘丕 氐丿丕蹖 禺賵丿卮 亘乇丕賲 禺賵賳丿 賵賯鬲蹖 讴賴 讴鬲丕亘 乇賵 亘賴賲 賴丿蹖賴 讴乇丿 賵 賲賳 丨丕賱丕 亘丕 禺賵賳丿賳卮 賴乇亘丕乇 丕夭 丿賱鬲賳诏蹖 亘賴 诏乇蹖賴 賲蹖鈥屫з佖�. 丿賱鬲賳诏蹖 亘乇丕蹖 丕丨賲丿貙 爻倬蹖丿賴貙 讴丕賲乇丕賳貙 乇蹖丨丕賳賴貙 夭賴乇丕貙 毓賱蹖乇囟丕貙 賲賱蹖讴丕 賵 鬲賲丕賲賽 丿賵爻鬲鈥屬囏й� 毓夭蹖夭 丿蹖诏賴鈥屫й� 讴賴 丿乇 丕蹖乇丕賳 噩丕 诏匕丕卮鬲賲 賵賱蹖 丿賵爻鬲蹖鈥屬囏ж促堎嗀� 賲賴乇卮賵賳 賵 禺丕胤乇丕鬲卮賵賳 乇賵 亘丕 禺賵丿賲 亘賴 丕蹖賳噩丕 丕賵乇丿賲:
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芦丕夭 賯胤丕乇 倬蹖丕丿賴 卮丿賲
賵 禺丿丕丨丕賮馗蹖 讴乇丿賲 丕夭 賲乇丿蹖 讴賴 賲賱丕賯丕鬲 讴乇丿賴 亘賵丿賲.
亘乇丕蹖 賴噩丿賴 爻丕毓鬲 丿乇 讴賳丕乇 賴賲 亘賵丿蹖賲
賵 诏賮鬲鈥屬堏堐屰� 禺賵卮 亘丕 賴賲 丿丕卮鬲蹖賲
丿賵爻鬲蹖 丿乇 爻賮乇貙 賵 睾賲诏蹖賳 亘賵丿賲 丕夭 倬蹖丕丿賴鈥屫簇�
睾賲诏蹖賳 丕夭 鬲乇讴 诏賮鬲賳賽 丕蹖賳 丿賵爻鬲 丕鬲賮丕賯蹖
讴賴 賴乇诏夭 賳丕賲卮 乇丕 賳丿丕賳爻鬲賲.
趩卮賲丕賳賲 乇丕 禺蹖爻 丕夭 丕卮讴 丨爻 讴乇丿賲鈥�
賴乇 禺丿丕丨丕賮馗蹖 蹖讴 賲乇诏 丕爻鬲
亘賱賴貙 賴乇 禺丿丕丨丕賮馗蹖 蹖讴 賲乇诏 丕爻鬲
丿乇 賯胤丕乇蹖 讴賴 夭賳丿诏蹖 賲蹖鈥屬嗀з呟屬�
賲丕 賴賲诏蹖 賵賯丕蹖毓蹖 賴爻鬲蹖賲 丕鬲賮丕賯蹖 / 丿乇 夭賳丿诏蹖鈥屬囏й� 蹖讴丿蹖诏乇貙
賵 賴賲诏蹖 丕丨爻丕爻賽 睾賲 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗃屬� / 賵賯鬲 倬蹖丕丿賴鈥屫簇� 讴賴 賲蹖鈥屫必池�.禄
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鬲乇噩賲賴 丿乇 亘毓囟蹖 噩丕賴丕 禺蹖賱蹖 禺賵亘 賵 丿乇 亘毓囟蹖 噩丕賴丕 賳丕禺賵亘 亘賵丿. 亘賴鈥屫焚堌� 讴賱蹖 丕賲丕 乇丕囟蹖 亘賵丿賲 丕夭 鬲乇噩賲賴 賵 賴賲趩賳蹖賳 丕夭 倬蹖卮鈥屫堌з嗃� 賵 倬爻鈥屫堌з嗃� 禺賵亘蹖 讴賴 賲鬲乇噩賲 丿乇亘丕乇賴鈥屰� 夭賳丿诏蹖賳丕賲賴鈥屰� 卮丕毓乇/賴丕 亘賴 讴鬲丕亘 丕囟丕賮賴 讴乇丿賴. 爻乇賳賵卮鬲 丕蹖賳 卮丕毓乇 賵丕賯毓丕賸 噩丕賱亘賴! 丿乇 賯丕賱亘 鄞 卮禺氐 (賵 丨鬲蹖 亘蹖卮鬲乇) 亘丕 趩賴丕乇 賳丕賲 賲禺鬲賱賮 卮毓乇 賳賵卮鬲賴 賵 亘乇丕蹖 賴乇讴丿賵賲 丕夭 卮禺氐蹖鬲鈥屬囏й� 禺賱賯鈥屫簇� 夭賳丿诏蹖賳丕賲賴鈥屰屸€� 噩丿丕诏丕賳賴鈥屫й� 賴賲 賳賵卮鬲賴貨 鬲丕乇蹖禺 賵 賲丨賱 鬲賵賱丿卮賵賳貙 丨乇賮賴鈥屫促堎嗀� 夭賲丕賳 賵 趩诏賵賳诏蹖賽 賲乇诏卮賵賳. 賵 丕蹖賳 趩賴丕乇 卮丕毓乇 賵丕賯毓丕賸 亘丕 賴賲 賲鬲賮丕賵鬲鈥屫з嗀� 丿乇 賳賵卮鬲賳 賵 賳诏丕賴鈥屭┴必� 亘賴 倬丿蹖丿賴鈥屬囏ж� 賵 丕蹖賳 卮诏賮鬲鈥屫з嗂屫操�.
芦倬爻賴鈥屫� 賲丨賱 鬲賱丕賯蹖 卮禺氐蹖鬲鈥屬囏� 賵 匕賴賳蹖鬲鈥屬囏й� 亘爻蹖丕乇蹖 亘賵丿 讴賴 丕诏乇趩賴 丿乇 禺賵丿 丕賵 卮讴賱 亘爻鬲賴 亘賵丿賳丿 丕賲丕 丿乇 賳賴丕蹖鬲 亘賴 禺賵丿 丕賵 卮讴賱 亘禺卮蹖丿賳丿貙 卮丕毓乇蹖 讴賴 賯丿賲鈥屫操嗀з� 丕夭 倬爻賴鈥屫� 丿賵乇 賲蹖鈥屫簇� 賵 賴乇丿賵 賲蹖鈥屫з嗀池嗀� 讴賴 丿乇 賴賲丕賳 賱丨馗賴 賵 丨丕賱貙 丿乇 丨丕賱 賳夭丿蹖讴鈥屫簇� 亘賴 蹖讴鈥屫屭辟嗀�.禄
賲賳 丕夭 丕蹖賳 賲噩賲賵毓賴貙 亘蹖卮鬲乇 丕夭 賴賲賴貙 卮毓乇賴丕蹖 丌賱賵丕乇賵 丿賵 讴丕賲倬賵爻 乇賵 丿賵爻鬲 丿丕卮鬲賲.
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芦倬爻賴鈥屫� 丨賯蹖賯鬲丕賸 卮丕毓乇蹖鈥屫池� 讴賴 鬲賲丕賲 毓賲乇 丿乇 夭亘丕賳 禺丕賳賴 讴乇丿賴 亘賵丿 賵 丿乇 夭亘丕賳 夭蹖爻鬲貙 夭亘丕賳蹖 讴賴 诏丕賴 亘乇 卮丕賳賴鈥屬囏й� 禺賵蹖卮 亘賴 禺丕乇噩 丕夭 夭賲丕賳 丨賲賱 賲蹖鈥屭┴必� 賵 亘毓丿 亘丕夭 丿乇 爻讴賵鬲 丿乇 丌賳 爻讴賵賳鬲 賲蹖鈥屰屫з佖�.禄
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鄢郾 丿爻丕賲亘乇 鄄郯鄄鄞
September 3, 2023
more mid than expected.
Read
February 20, 2017I don't read full books of poetry often, and that goes double for translated poetry. This was my first attempt at Pessoa's poetry-proper -- I'd read The Book of Disquiet before, and I don't think that counts, really, but if it does, this is my first attempt at Pessoa's verse, as he uses his multiple-personality approach to write in any damn way he sees fit. Some of these heteronyms are delightful, and others are downright obnoxious, as you might expect (although the obnoxious ones are self-consciously so, I think?). There are some other semi-futurist voices, which I'm not quite sure about yet, but I feel are important.
August 24, 2015
There are anxieties from dreams that are more real
Than the ones life brings; there are sensations
Felt only by imagining them
That are more ours than our very own life.
There are countless things that exist
Without existing, that lastingly exist
And lastingly are ours, they鈥檙e us鈥�
Than the ones life brings; there are sensations
Felt only by imagining them
That are more ours than our very own life.
There are countless things that exist
Without existing, that lastingly exist
And lastingly are ours, they鈥檙e us鈥�
July 8, 2010
My first encounter with Pessoa was probably a photocopy in one of Hoa Nguyen's workshops, followed by the Exact Change edition of The Book of Disquiet. I acquired another collection on the way (somewhere in the San Antonio library...by which I mean my parents' house), but didn't really get into it.
It was poetry, so I was left (somewhat daftly) thinking that I liked Pessoa for his prose, and for bequeathing to future generations the concept of heteronyms. O, was I ever wrong! This edition is superb. Really this book requires three or four reviews, and I am not just being quippy.
Alberto Caeiro truly is the master! His concise philosophical and spiritual poems...I must use a cliche here, but which? Left a deep impression? Resonated strongly? It was like I had found a clear, pure and strongly flowing stream from which to irrigate my mind. I also found this book close on the heals of a Taoism kick, for what it's worth.
Ricardo Reis affected me as well. [more review perhaps to follow?:]
Alvaro de Campos - I had very little patience for his Whitmanesques with their dashes of Futurism.
I will return to him and his big breathe, tho'.
I think it's fascinating that none of Pessoa's personas were female.
It was poetry, so I was left (somewhat daftly) thinking that I liked Pessoa for his prose, and for bequeathing to future generations the concept of heteronyms. O, was I ever wrong! This edition is superb. Really this book requires three or four reviews, and I am not just being quippy.
Alberto Caeiro truly is the master! His concise philosophical and spiritual poems...I must use a cliche here, but which? Left a deep impression? Resonated strongly? It was like I had found a clear, pure and strongly flowing stream from which to irrigate my mind. I also found this book close on the heals of a Taoism kick, for what it's worth.
Ricardo Reis affected me as well. [more review perhaps to follow?:]
Alvaro de Campos - I had very little patience for his Whitmanesques with their dashes of Futurism.
I will return to him and his big breathe, tho'.
I think it's fascinating that none of Pessoa's personas were female.
April 21, 2022
If you haven鈥檛 read Pessoa yet, please, don鈥檛 start here. This is a hold-all for the leftovers, the b-sides. It鈥檚 the parts of his oeuvre where Pessoa 鈥� modernism鈥檚 great underachiever 鈥� spreads himself so thin he almost evaporates. Its translator, Richard Zenith, while acutely grasping the paradoxes of the prose (see The Book of Disquiet), writes prosaic poetry. In his earlier collection, Pessoa & Co, he got away with it, just, on the strength of the originals. (The long poem 鈥淭ime鈥檚 Passage鈥�, otherwise unavailable in English, was worth the price of purchase alone.) But here, even the choice of title does damage to the legacy. Quirky and throwaway? Yeah, Pessoa could be both 鈥� it鈥檚 part of what makes him so inspiring, so unique, the fact that he so often flirted with failure. But I like a little meat with my seasoning. Get Penguin鈥檚 Selected Poems instead.
August 2, 2014
I got to Pessoa because I met a wealthy businessman who I suppose to ask for his successful experiences, instead, we talked Pessoa and his poems.
His poems are very philosophical, and his ideas are somehow of the same traits like Susan Sontag's. They both think sensations are more important than reason, because the world and universe itself is for our human being to feel, not to think, and judge.
I read those poems in short times, could read them again definitely.
Without literature, we cannot be rich.
His poems are very philosophical, and his ideas are somehow of the same traits like Susan Sontag's. They both think sensations are more important than reason, because the world and universe itself is for our human being to feel, not to think, and judge.
I read those poems in short times, could read them again definitely.
Without literature, we cannot be rich.
December 29, 2014
Very monastic. Couldn't say philosophical, but that's probably the most accurate. It's spiritual, but not. It, really, makes you want to join a monastery. It made me think of the Baron of Arizona when Vincent Price is doing field work and says he prefers field work. Sure, he was being a swindler, there, but there was still something genuine. Vincent Price knew how to fake a real love for the world. Pessoa, in a sense, acted something akin to a swindler with his heteronyms. I guess it's like a similar situation. He knew how to take a real love for the world.
April 21, 2019
鬲乇噩賲賴鈥屰� 卮毓乇貙 睾蹖乇 丕夭 鬲乇噩賲賴鈥屬囏й� 丿蹖诏賴鈥屫池�. 蹖賴 賲乇丨賱賴貙 丕囟丕賮賴鈥屫� 丿丕乇賴貙 賵 丕賵賳貙 卮毓乇讴乇丿賳 鬲乇噩賲賴 丕爻鬲 讴賴 丌賯丕蹖 賲賴鬲丿蹖貙 丕賮鬲囟丕丨 亘賵丿賳丿 鬲賵蹖 丕蹖賳 賯爻賲鬲. 賵賱蹖 禺亘貙 倬爻賵丌 乇賵 丿賵爻鬲 倬蹖丿丕 讴乇丿賲.
July 31, 2022
"Memory not distinguishing
What I've seen from what I've been."
What I've seen from what I've been."
February 29, 2024
So the thing is I know that I am extremely picky when it comes to poetry and it's obviously delusional that I expect to find a gut-wrenching, heartbreaking poem that I simply want to tattoo into my soul in every collection I pick up.
I know that, trust me, but even if I try to look at it from a more rational point of view, A Little Larger Than the Entire Universe did very little for me.
It鈥檚 not that the poems were terrible, or the writing was bad; it鈥檚 simply that I felt completely indifferent about nearly all of them, with only a handful of poems that were not utterly forgettable, like the poem about the two chess players. Feeling indifferent about it sucked, but I could probably somewhat forgive it. The thing I am most disappointed about, though, are Pessoa鈥檚 "writers," because that is the one thing he is known for and what intrigued me enough to buy this book in the first place.
So Pessoa wrote under dozens of different names, creating for every single one of his alias an own personality, biography, religious and political beliefs and so on. Even going so far as to have one of his alter egos exclaim that 鈥淔ernando Pessoa strictly speaking doesn鈥檛 exist鈥� which is one of the most badass things I鈥檝e heard in a while.
In A Little Larger Than the Entire Universe are different sections where we get to meet his different writers. Sadly though, it turns out all the different personas felt incredibly similar. Sure, one wrote poems about the sea and another about the beauty of nature, but they all more or less felt the same; too dramatic and coming across as very self centered which was interesting at first but got old very fast.
Maybe if I鈥檇 been able to read the book in its original language instead of a translation, things would鈥檝e been different but since I am certainly not planning on learning Portuguese anytime soon and (what is probably more important) not planning on revisiting this book ever again, I guess I will never know.
But in the end, whether it is the translation, my shitty (nearly) unreachable expectations for poetry in general, or maybe (which is always a possibility) my own ignorance at appreciating the beauty and variety of the poems better, what it comes down to is that I simply did not enjoy A Little Larger than the Entire Universe very much and that鈥檚 ok for me.
I know that, trust me, but even if I try to look at it from a more rational point of view, A Little Larger Than the Entire Universe did very little for me.
It鈥檚 not that the poems were terrible, or the writing was bad; it鈥檚 simply that I felt completely indifferent about nearly all of them, with only a handful of poems that were not utterly forgettable, like the poem about the two chess players. Feeling indifferent about it sucked, but I could probably somewhat forgive it. The thing I am most disappointed about, though, are Pessoa鈥檚 "writers," because that is the one thing he is known for and what intrigued me enough to buy this book in the first place.
So Pessoa wrote under dozens of different names, creating for every single one of his alias an own personality, biography, religious and political beliefs and so on. Even going so far as to have one of his alter egos exclaim that 鈥淔ernando Pessoa strictly speaking doesn鈥檛 exist鈥� which is one of the most badass things I鈥檝e heard in a while.
In A Little Larger Than the Entire Universe are different sections where we get to meet his different writers. Sadly though, it turns out all the different personas felt incredibly similar. Sure, one wrote poems about the sea and another about the beauty of nature, but they all more or less felt the same; too dramatic and coming across as very self centered which was interesting at first but got old very fast.
Maybe if I鈥檇 been able to read the book in its original language instead of a translation, things would鈥檝e been different but since I am certainly not planning on learning Portuguese anytime soon and (what is probably more important) not planning on revisiting this book ever again, I guess I will never know.
But in the end, whether it is the translation, my shitty (nearly) unreachable expectations for poetry in general, or maybe (which is always a possibility) my own ignorance at appreciating the beauty and variety of the poems better, what it comes down to is that I simply did not enjoy A Little Larger than the Entire Universe very much and that鈥檚 ok for me.
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