Against destiny I fulfilled my duty. Uselessly? No, for I fulfilled it.
Only sterility is noble and dignified. Only killing what never was is elevated and perverse and absurd.
Man shouldn't be able to see his own face. That's what's most terrible. Nature gave him the possibility of not seeing it, as well as the incapacity of not seeing his own eyes.
The chill of what I won't feel gnaws at my present heart.
I don't write in Portuguese. I write myself.
To live strikes me as a metaphysical mistake of matter, a dereliction of inaction.
I never cared about whatever tragic event happened in China. It's faraway decoration, even if in blood and plague.
The idea of any social obligation ... just the idea of it embarasses my thoughts for a day, and sometimes it's since the day before that I worry, and don't sleep well, and the real affair, when it happens, is absolutely insignificant and justifies nothing; and the case repeats itself and I never learn to learn.
I come closer to my desk as to a bulwark against life.
If a man can only write well when drunk, I'll tell him: get drunk. And if he tells me that his liver suffers with it, I'll answer: what's your liver? It's a dead thing that lives as long as you live, and the poems you'll write will live without a as long as.
And as well as I dream, I reason if I want, for that's just another kind of dream.
God wills, man dreams, the work is born.
To have defined and sure opinions, fixed and known instincts, passions and character - all that is the horror of turning our soul into a fact, materialize it and make it external.
Talking to people makes me feel like sleeping. Only my ghostly and imaginary friends, only the conversations I have in my dreams, are genuinely real and substantial.
I never was but an isolated bon vivant, which is absurd; or a mystic bon vivant, which is an impossible thing.
If I had written King Lear, I would regret it all my life afterwards. Because that work is so big, that its defects show as huge, its monstrous defects, things even minimal in between some scenes and their possible perfection. It's not the sun with spots; it's a broken greek statue.
We’ve been devastated by the severest and deadliest drought in history – that of our profound awareness of the futility of all effort and the vanity of all plans.
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