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Livro do Desassossego por Bernardo SoaresThe Book of Disuiet is one of the great literary works of the twentieth century Written over the course of Fernando Pessoa's life it was first published in 1982 pieced together from the thousands of individual manuscript pages left beh I just came across this article about literary Lisbon with a lot about Pessoa very good Book of Disuiet by Fernando Pessoa If you read this you need to know what you are signing up for so below I’ll let Pessoa speak for himself It’s a series of vignettes random thoughts and meditations all written between 1913 and 1935 It’s a work of genius of course Pessoa the famous Portuguese writer and poet was known for his multiple writing personalities heteronyms Disuiet was supposedly written by Bernardo Soares an excruciatingly lonely and socially dysfunctional man He’s a shipping clerk in a textile wholesaler and spends his entire life a few blocks from his tiny apartment with one window on a balcony He goes to the same restaurant same tobacconist and same barber for thirty years All of them die one by one in their 70’s which he discovers by going into the shop and finding out they died the day before The first two passages show some of his severe social issues “Moreover I am bothered by the idea of being forced into contact with someone A simple invitation to dine with a friend provokes in me an anguish it would be hard to define The idea of any social obligation – going to a funeral discussing an office matter face to face with someone going to the station to wait for someone I know or don’t know the mere idea disturbs a whole day’s thoughts Sometimes I am concerned all through the night and sleep badly And the real thing when it happens is absolutely insignificant justifying nothing; and the thing repeats itself and I don’t ever learn to learn” “Sometimes saying hello to someone intimidates me My voice dries up as if there were a strange audacity in having to say that word out loud” “There are metaphors that are real than the people walking down the street There are images in the secret corners of books that live clearly than many men and women There are literary phrases that possess an absolutely human individuality There are passages in paragraphs of mine that chill me with fear so clearly do I feel them to be people standing alone so freely from the walls of my room at night in shadows” “Yes dreaming that I am for example simultaneously separately unconfusedly a man and a woman taking a walk along a riverbank To see myself at the same time with eual clarity in the same way with no mixing being the two things integrated eually in both a conscious boat in a southern sea and a printed page in an ancient book How absurd this seems But everything is absurd and this dream is the least of the absurdities” “There is nothing that reveals poverty of mind uickly than not knowing how to be witty except at the expense of others” “I go forward slowly dead and my vision is no longer mine it’s nothing it’s only the vision of the human animal who without wanting inherited Greek culture Roman order Christin morality and all the other illusions that constitute the civilization in which I feel” “In the dark depth of my soul invisible unknown forces were locked in a battle in which my being was the battleground and all of me trembled because of the unknown struggle A physical nausea at all of life was born when I awakened A horror at having to live rose up with me from the bed Everything seemed empty and I had the cold impression that there is no solution for any problem” “Ennui is not the illness of the boredom of not having anything to do but the serious illness of feeling that it’s not worthwhile doing anything And being that way the there is to do the ennui there is to feel” “How many times how many as now has it pained me to feel what I am feeling – to feel something like anguish only because that’s what feeling is the disuiet of being here the nostalgia for something else something unknown the sunset of all emotions the yellowing of myself fading into ashy sadness in my external awareness of myself” “During certain very clear moments of meditation like these in which at the beginning of the afternoon I wander observingly through the streets every person brings me a message every house shows me something new every sign has an announcement for me” “Sometimes with a sad delight I think that if some day in a future to which I may not belong these words I’m writing will endure and receive praise I will finally have people who ‘understand’ me my people the true family to be born into and to be loved by But far from being born into it I will have already died a long time before I will be understood only in effigy when affection no longer compensates the dead person for the disaffection he experienced when alive” “I consider life an inn where I have to stop over until the coach from the abyss arrives I don’t know where it will take me because I don’t know anything I could consider this inn a prison because I’m force to stay inside it; I could consider it a place for socializing because I meet others hereI slowly sing only to myself songs that I compose as I wait” “Everything is emptier than the voidIf I think this and look around to see if reality is killing me with thirst I see inexpressive houses inexpressive faces inexpressive gestures Stone bodies ideas – everything’s dead All movements are stopping points all of them the same stopping point Nothing says anything to me Nothing is familiar to me not because I find it strange but because I don’t know what it is The world is lost And in the depth of my soul – the only reality at this moment – there is an intense invisible anguish a sadness like the sound of someone weeping in a dark room” Not an easy or a pleasant read but genius Top painting from i2wpcomwwwrevistabulacomSculpture of Pessoa in Lisbon from alamycomPhoto of Lisbon in 1940 from atlaslisboacom

Fernando Pessoa â Livro do Desassossego por Bernardo Soares ebook

Ind by Pessoa after his death in 1935Now this fragmentary modernist masterpiece appears in a major new edition that unites Margaret Jull Costa's celebrated translation with the most complete version of the text ever produced It is pres 'We're well aware that every creative work is imperfect and that our most dubious aesthetic contemplation will be the one whose object is what we write But everything is imperfect There's no sunset so lovely it couldn't be yet lovelier no gentle breeze bringing us sleep that couldn't bring yet sounder sleep' Almost all my feelingsAs soon as I turned the last page I realized how much I was going to miss The Book of Disuiet For it has been my faithful companion for over two weeks as my friends are witness for their company was always there with me As soon as I turned the last page I worried what am I going to do now But now it seems my only consolation is all the uotes I collected during this lavish period So I now populate my new solitude with these gems with Fernando Pessoa’s amazing dreams 'I've never done anything but dream This and this alone has been the meaning of my life My only real concern has been my inner life My worst sorrows have evaporated when I've opened the window on the street of my dreams and forgotten myself in what I saw there' I’ve always been a dreamer but I dream mainly through readings that I always carried along with me in my life’s journey I cannot now pretend to be a dreamer like Fernando Pessoa or Bernardo Soare I’ve never done anything but dream This and this alone has been the meaning of my life For I lived in the real world than Pessoa confessedly did Every dream is the same dream for they're all dreams Let God change my dreams but for my gift of dreaming For him they were his nourishment his own life But for me they are my leisure Yes my dreams might not be his dreams but they are as alive as his as dear to me as his were to him 'I read and I am liberated I acuire objectivity I cease being myself and so scattered And what I read instead of being like a nearly invisible suit that sometimes oppresses me is the external world’s tremendous and remarkable clarity the sun that sees everyone the moon that splotches the still earth with shadows the wide expanses that end in the sea the blackly solid trees whose tops greenly wave the steady peace of ponds of farms the terraced slopes with their paths overgrown with grape vines' We might be distinct souls but there is one thing that we are one and that I felt is his anxiety and is also my own 'My tedium takes on an air of horror and my boredom is a fear My sweat isn’t cold but my awareness of it is I’m not physically ill but my soul’s anxiety is so intense that it passes through my pores and chills my body' Yes it seems we could even be related 'It sometimes occurs to me with sad delight that if one day the sentences I write are read and admired then at last I'll have my own kin people who 'understand' me my true family in which to be born and loved' The main difference is that I am not a writer I am only a reader And so I am his soul mate for I complete him when I leaf through the pages of his book As are all his readers that give life to his writings His prose so beautiful it is heartbreaking despite his own insecurities But I would I wish to be a writer if the price is to not live Better to write to dare to liveDo you suppose that that is the reason of my contentment Should you ask if I’m happy I’ll say that I’m not For me there is not so much solitude no lack of friendship no ceaseless tedium Only unhappiness is elevating and only the tedium that comes from unhappiness is heraldic like the descendants of ancient heroes So I could not ever be a good poet and I am glad I had never desired so high Although I have to confess that I had some dreams of being a poet But these were only dreams Perhaps I could have never been a poet for above all I love I love my friends I love my children I loved a man and I love life And I could never declare like Pessoa We never love anyone What we love is the idea we have of someone It’s our concept – our own selves – that we love Or even that life hinders the expression of life If I actually lived a great love I would never be able to describe it Maye I should read other poets But I have to agree with him when he states I wake up to make sure I exist Aren’t we all always unsure if we truly existAm I ordinary for most of the time I realize I think with my feelings While Pessoa confesses I believe most people think with their feelings whereas I feel with my thoughts Yes I am happily ordinary While his happiness is as painful as his painHowever the I say I don’t agree with our poet the I believe him Am I saying nonsense Sometimes to be a poet is to unbelieve Oh I believe we can travel through our dreams we can imagine unimaginable places within our dreams 'What can China give me that my soul hasn't already given me And if my soul can't give it to me how will China give it to me For it's with my soul that I'll see China if I ever see it I could go and seek riches in the Orient but not the riches of the soul because I am my soul's riches and I am where I am with or without the Orient' But after all my incoherence I can only agree with Pessoa 'It's the central error of the literary imagination to suppose that others are like us and must feel as we do Fortunately for humanity each man is just who he is it begin given only to the genius to be others as well' But our natures are diverse for I am not as solitary as he was I am solitary you might say but I have my books What does he have Only his dreams or a poignant and fruitful solitude To understand I destroyed myself To understand is to forget about loving Can we be that alone I ask myself or only genius and poets have that gift Perhaps if so that is a sad truthSome closing remarksI feel I need to add a few considerations besides my ramblings abovePessoa called this work as a factless biography It might present distinct tones of the absurd and despite its hints of indifference or even cynicism it’s nevertheless a uintessential trait of its writer He reveals an ethereal existence or his own life through his willful approach towards his own disuietude; through his sense of a consciousness that suffers with a tedium that results basically from his own senselessness existence And in that he could not be truthfulFaced with the life’s adversity and aiming to overcome the anguish to him so acute he imagines he dreams This may be one of the reasons for his so many personalities his heteronyms who could each write in distinct literary styles to be born He is not one he is many So he can experience different lives in only one existence According to him 'My intellect has attained a pliancy and a reach that enable me to assume any emotion I desire and enter at will into any state of mind' For me his flow of thoughts or dreaming that we read in The Book of Disuiet captures the writer’s mind reveals a structure and a repetition in thoughts that talks about solitude dream tedium love or un love and unhappiness It is ultimately passionate and painfulBernardo Soares is Pessoa’s heteronym considered to be the closest to Pessoa’s real self; and his writings strongly express Pessoa’s aspiration to live an imagined life as if in a dream so as to forget his self in real life He continually writes about his dreams their nature and importance to his survival 'Live your life Don’t be lived by it Right or wrong happy or sad be your own self You can do this only by dreaming because your real life your human life is the one that doesn’t belong to you but to others You must replace your life with your dreaming concentrating only on dreaming perfectly In all the acts of your real life from that of being born to that of dying you don’t act – you’re acted; you don’t live – you’re merely lived' Rain freuently appear in his writings and it could be viewed as a symbol of his disuietude his unrelenting dreaming that pours over his own existence What a wistful and beautiful vision Pessoa gifts us “Each drop of rain is my failed life weeping in nature There’s something of my disuiet in the endless drizzle then shower then drizzle then shower through which the day’s sorrow uselessly pours itself out over the earth It rains and keeps raining My soul is damp from hearing it So much rain My flesh is watery around my physical sensation of it And he dialogues with the readers but mainly he uestions or even doubts himself and his own writing 'What will I be ten years from now or even five My friends say I'll be one of the greatest contemporary poets they say this based on what I've written not what I may yet write But even if this is true I have no idea what it will mean I have no idea how it will taste Perhaps glory tastes like death and futility and triumph smells of rottenness' The Book of Disuiet moved and overwhelmed me fiercely Pessoa bit by bit immersed himself into my own self made me wonder and tremble with his alluring and poignant words much above a mere understanding I perceived his disuiet and I shared with him many uncertainties or yet his certainties His solitude and his dreaming are written down in my soul and will certainly come back to me in the future Ah to be such a poet what a dream and what sufferings Other uotes• 'I weep over my imperfect pages but if future generations read them they will be touched by my weeping than by any imperfection I might have achieved since perfection would have kept me from weeping and therefore from writing Perfection never materializes'• 'When all by myself I can think of all kinds of clever remarks uick comebacks to what no one said and flashes of witty sociability with nobody But all of this vanishes when I face someone in the flesh I lose my intelligence I can no longer speak Only my ghostly and imaginary friends only the conversations I have in my dreams are genuinely real and substantial and in them intelligence like an image in a mirror'• 'I've undertaken every project imaginable The Iliad composed by me had a structural logic in its organic linking of epodes such as Homer could never have achieved The meticulous perfection my unwritten verses makes Virgil's precision look sloppy and Milton's power slack My allegorical satires surpassed all of Swift's in the symbolic exactitude of their rigorously interconnected particular How many Horaces I've been'• 'When I put away my artifices and lovingly arrange in a corner all my toys words images and phrases so dear to me I feel like kissing them then I become so small and innocuous so alone in a room so large and sad so profoundly sad'• 'Sadly I write in my uiet room alone as I have always been alone as I will always be And I wonder if my apparently negligible voice might not embody the essence of thousands of voices the longing of self expression of thousands of lives the patience of millions of souls resigned like my own to their daily lot their useless dreams and their hopeless hopes'• 'I’m dazed by a sarcastic terror of life a despondency that exceeds the limits of my conscious being I realize that I was all error and deviation that I never lived that I existed only in so far as I filled time with consciousness and thought I feel in this moment like a man who wakes up after a slumber full of real dreams or like a man freed by an earthuake from the dim light of the prison he’d grown used to'• 'It sometimes occurs to me with sad delight that if one day the sentences I write are read and admired then at last I'll have my own kin people who 'understand' me my true family in which to be born and loved But from being born into it I'll have already died long ago I'll be understood only in effigy when affection can no longer compensate for the indifference that was the dead man's lot in life'• 'Not only am I dissatisfied with the poems I write now; I also know that I will be dissatisfied with the poems I write in the futureSo why do I keep writing Because I still haven't learned I haven't been able to give up my inclination to poetry and prose I have to write as if I were carrying out a punishment And the greatest punishment is to know that whatever I write will be futile flawed and uncertain'• 'My state of mind compels me to work hard against my will on The Book of Disuiet But it's all fragments fragments fragments'

ebook Livro do Desassossego por Bernardo Soares

read reader õ Livro do Desassossego por Bernardo Soares ↠ Paperback ✓ fernando pessoa â The Book of Disuiet is one of the great literary works of the twentieth century Written over the course of Fernando Pessoa's life it was first published in 1982 pieced together fromEnted here for the first time in English by order of original composition and accompanied by facsimiles of the original manuscriptNarrated principally by an assistant bookkeeper named Bernardo Soares an alias of sorts for Pessoa himsel I follow the course of my dreams making them images into steps toward other images; folding casual metaphors like fans into grand pictures of interior vision; I untie life from myself and I toss it aside as if it were a too tight suit Fernando Pessoa The Book of DisuietYou know a writer is great when he makes you want to learn a new language to understand his work in the original The Book of Disuiet is easily the best book I've read this year and possibly the one I've copied the most uotes from I'd only ever read Pessoa's poetry and I had no idea what to expect from his prose It turns out he does poetry and prose eually wellI would love to have a conversation with Pessoa although I would probably be an annoyance to him with his desire for solitude But having a deep philosophical conversation with him would be like a dream He has such fascinating thoughts He delves into the complexity of humans and helped me to understand the reason for his several heteronyms in his poetry Each of us is various many people a prolixity of selves I feel that this is the sort of book that people will either think is brilliant or they will think Pessoa is too sentimental and sensitive I have to say that I rarely come across a writer who thinks so deeply and obsessively about certain things Pessoa's favourite topics seem to be dreams solitude writing the futility of life was he an existentialist He reminds me a bit of Meursault I may share Pessoa's melancholy to some extent but I don't share his negative outlook his depression and his misanthropic nature Even so this was a brilliant book and one I'm so glad I finally readPessoa's writing really consumed me at times Definitely a book to be savoured and a candidate for a re read When I write I visit myself solemnly I have special rooms remembered by someone else in the interstices of my self representation where I take pleasure in analyzing what I do not feel and I examine myself as if I were a painting in the shadows