Det finns en sak som förvånar mig mer än den dumhet med vilken de flesta människor framlever sina liv: det är den intelligens som finns i denna dumhet.
Fernando PessoaWe may know that the work we continue to put off doing will be bad. Worse, however, is the work we never do. A work that’s finished is at least finished. It may be poor, but it exists, like the miserable plant in the lone flowerpot of my neighbour who’s crippled. That plant is her happiness, and sometimes it’s even mine. What I write, bad as it is, may provide some hurt or sad soul a few moments of distraction from something worse. That’s enough for me, or it isn’t enough, but it serves some purpose, and so it is with all of life.
Fernando PessoaTag: art writing letters email letter-writing
Mi sono moltiplicato per sentirmi,
per sentirmi ho dovuto sentire tutto,
sono straripato, non ho fatto altro che traboccarmi.
لدي كتاب صغير
أكتب فيه حين أنساك
كتابٌ ذو غلافٍ أسود
لَم أخُطّ فيه كلمةً بعد
Aquilo que, creio, produz em mim o sentimento profundo, em que vivo, de incongruência com os outros, é que a maioria pensa com a sensibilidade, e eu sinto com o pensamento.
Para o homem vulgar, sentir é viver e pensar é saber viver. Para mim, pensar é viver e sentir não é mais que o alimento de pensar.
I’ve always wanted to be liked. It grieved me that I was treated with indifference. Left an orphan by Fortune, I wanted—like all orphans—to be the object of someone’s affection. This need has always been a hunger that went unsatisfied, and so thoroughly have I adapted to this inevitable hunger that I sometimes wonder if I really feel the need to eat.
Whatever be the case, life pains me.
Tag: angst
Cansado do universo e sociedade,
Da abstracção que não finda o que é fundo
Do meu fatal pôr-olhos sobre o mundo,
Pobre de amor e rico de ansiedade,
Já nada me seduz nem me persuade.
Tag: tiredness
Autopsicografia
O poeta é um fingidor.
Finge tão completamente
Que chega a fingir que é dor
A dor que deveras sente.
E os que lêem o que escreve,
Na dor lida sentem bem,
Não as duas que ele teve,
Mas só a que eles não têm.
E assim nas calhas de roda
Gira, a entreter a razão,
Esse comboio de corda
Que se chama coração.
Autopsychography
The poet is a man who feigns
And feigns so thoroughly, at last
He manages to feign as pain
The pain he really feels,
And those who read what once he wrote
Feel clearly, in the pain they read,
Neither of the pains he felt,
Only a pain they cannot sense.
And thus, around its jolting track
There runs, to keep our reason busy,
The circling clockwork train of ours
That men agree to call a heart.
I never tried to be anything other than a dreamer. I never paid any attention to people who told me to go out and live. I belonged always to whatever was far from me and to whatever I could never be. Anything that was not mine, however base, always seemed to be full of poetry. The only thing I ever loved was pure nothingness.
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