Tomorrow I too – this feeling and thinking soul, the universe I am to myself – yes, tomorrow I too will be someone who no longer walks these streets, someone others will evoke with a vague: 'I wonder what's become of him?” And everything I do, everything I feel, everything I experience, will be just one less passer-by on the daily streets of some city or other.
The supreme empire is that of the Emperor who renounces all normal life, that of other men, and in who the care of supremacy doesn't weigh like a load of jewels.
My boredom with everything has numbed me.
And leaning out the window, enjoying the day above the varying volume of the entire city, only one thought swells my soul – the intimate will to die, to finish, not to see more light over any city, not to think, not to feel, to leave behind like wrapping paper the course of the sun and the days, to rid myself, at the edge of the grand bed, as of a heavy suit, of the involuntary effort to be.
My homeland is the portuguese language.
I feel closer ties and more intimate bonds with certain characters in books, with certain images I’ve seen in engravings, than with many supposedly real people with the metaphysical absurdity known as ‘flesh and blood’. In fact, ‘flesh and blood’ describes them very well: they resemble cuts of meat laid out on the butcher’s marble slab, dead creatures bleeding as though still alive.
Isn't joyful or painful this pain in which I rejoice
FIRST WATCHER Why do people die? SECOND WATCHER Perhaps because they don't dream enough.
All pleasure is a vice, for seeking pleasure is what everybody does in life, and the only dark vice is doing what everybody does.
Life hurls us like a stone, and we sail through the air saying, "look at me move.
I seek and don’t find myself. I belong to chrysanthemum hours, neatly lined up in flowerpots.
The poet is a pretender. / He pretends so completely, / that he even pretends that it is pain / the pain he really feels.
Never having discovered qualities in myself which could attract someone else, I could never believe that anyone felt attracted to me.
Time, which grays hair and wrinkles faces, also withers violent affections, and much more quickly.
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.
Since I wasn't able to leave a succession of beautiful lies, I want to leave the smidgen of truth that the falsehood of everything lets us suppose we can tell.
I enjoy wording. Words for me are tangible bodies, visible sirens, incarnate sensualities.
Wasting time has an esthetics to it.
We 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.
Ser compreendido é prostituir-se.
I look for myself but find no one. I belong to the chrysanthemum hour of bright flowers placed in tall vases. I should make an ornament of my soul.
Nobody appropriates novelties as readily as the Portuguese.
And let our despite go to those who work and fight and our hate to those who hope and trust.
It's in an inland sea that the river of my life ended.
To choose ways of not acting was ever the concern and scruple of my life.
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