I've mentioned a book I'm reading, Fernando Pessoa's The Book of Disquiet (Richard Zenith translation). It has me wrapped tightly in its pages. I generally have no problem going through a book in a sitting but there is something about Pessoa. A man that died nearly 40 years before my birth has somehow managed to capture thoughts in ink I assumed were only mine. I'm going through this book laboriously slow with pen in hand, marking passages with astonishment. His words at times give my emotions a clear and resonating sound.
The image of myself I saw in mirrors is the same one I hold against the bosom of my soul. I could never be anything but frail and hunched over, even in my thoughts. (p 27)
Because I'm the size of what I see and not the size of my stature. (p 46, incidentally this is written by one of his heteronyms Caeiro)
Perfection never materializes. The saint weeps, and is human. God is silent. That is why we can love the saint but cannot love God. (p 65)
The book itself was created out of papers in a trunk found after his death. There was no rhyme or reason to the writings. There are several translations because of language and how do you piece together a book that really isn't a book.
He was quite prolific and his work was found on anything from an envelope to the margins of his previous writings. He wrote in English, French and Portugese. He wrote under several names...but didn't just pen these names. He created entire lives including births and deaths for his authors. He was a quiet, creative, introverted genius who wrote because he had no choice.
Pessoa's Trunk has an interesting feature that allows you to see side by side translations of Pessoa's poem Autopsicografia.
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