READ È Livro do Desassossego por Bernardo Soares

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READ È Livro do Desassossego por Bernardo Soares ↠ ➽ [Reading] ➿ Livro do Desassossego por Bernardo Soares By Fernando Pessoa ➲ – Fernando Pessoa was many writers in one He attributed his prolific writings to a wide range of alternate selves each of which had a distinct biography ideology Fernando Pessoa was many writers in one He Desassossego por PDF #197 attributed his prolific writings to a wide range of alternate Livro do eBook #202 selves each of which had a distinct biography ideology and horoscope When he died in Pessoa left behind do Desassossego por ePUB #180 a trunk filled with unfinis. Here is the only Portuguese literary joke I know Who are the four greatest Portuguese poets of the 20th century A Fernando Pessoa Trust me it's funny But it does take a little explainingFernando Pessoa in order to express various philosophical and poetic moods constructed a series of what he termed “heteronyms” The heteronym although similar to the mask or persona differs in that each one is euipped with a name a personality a biography and a physical description as well as a distinct writing style Although Pessoa made use of than five dozen heteronyms in the course of his thirty five years the best known are Alberto Caeiro Ricardo Reis Álvaro de Campos and Bernardo Soares Of these four his greatest creation and perhaps the heteronym closest to Pessoa's self is Bernardo Soares the author of The Book of Disuiet The Book of Disuiet if not uniue is close to it It is a little like a novel often like a collection of prose poems and often like a series of aphorisms and philosophical reflections The heteryonum that is Soares enables Pessoa to communicate a disciplined definite vision of the world necessarily limited in scope but intensified and concentrated In this sense it resembles Roman and English satire its authorial mask as carefully crafted and resonant as those of Horace and Juvenal Pope and Swift Soares however takes no interest in vice let alone the reform of humankind; in fact he seems to care little about humanity in general or people in particular It is here that the novelistic aspect of this work becomes interesting Soares is a shy isolated man a clerk at a Lisbon commercial firm who adds up columns of figures and seems to do little else Although he mourns his colleagues when they pass away he never seems to communicate with them when they are alive; the closest he seems to get to fellowship are his encounters with the waiter in the little cafe where he eats his nightly dinner and consumes his nightly bottle of wine At first we feel sorry for him for we feel his great isolation and are moved by his great passion and profound love for beauty which he can only express through his journal Slowly however we begin to see that this isolation is a personal and artistic choice a way of refining his art and his being If he cares about human beings at all it is only because they are useful adjuncts to his own magnificent loneliness because they resonate as discrete elements of the poet's imagination much as a certain play of light on a Lisbon street may reflect one particular color of the canvas that is the poet's consciousness Perhaps this is why the book “The Book of Disuiet” reminds me of most is The Chants of Maldoror that uncompromising paean to the magnificent isolation of evilThere is of course a great difference Maldoror could only have been produced by a very young man hiding beneath a very old mask His persona is a posture of isolation through which he begins to know himself The Book of Disuiet on the other hand is the work of someone who knows himself well and cares only about reaching a kind of existential purity a clarity of view a refinement of mood the isolation of particular beauties that resonate deeply and linger longer than the othersSoares is a monk of the poetic mind for whom aloneness is a vocation Its fruit this memorable book is rare and delicious filled with vivid descriptions evocative language and refined reflections

Fernando Pessoa ß 1 READ

Hed and unpublished writings among which were the remarkable pages that make up his posthumous masterpiece The Book of Disuiet an astonishing work that in George Steiner's words gives to Lisbon the haunting spell of Joyce's Dublin or Kafka's PraguePublished for the first time some fifty years after his death th. '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'


Livro do Desassossego por Bernardo SoaresIs uniue collection of short aphoristic paragraphs comprises the autobiography of Bernardo Soares one of Pessoa's alternate selves Part intimate diary part prose poetry part descriptive narrative captivatingly translated by Richard Zenith The Book of Disuiet is one of the greatest works of the twentieth century. 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