Página de acesso à obra Mensagem, Lisboa, PESSOA, Fernando, Mensagem / Fernando Pessoa. - Lisboa: Parceria A.M. Pereira, one book of Portuguese poetry that Fernando Pessoa published in his lifetirne. academic critic-properly approach Mensagem seeking to reconstruct a. Simbolos Na Mensagem de Fernando Pessoa. Uploaded by FabiSandro Martins. Símbolos Download as DOCX, PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd. Flag for.
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Then, in the second part of this poem, Pessoa brings the reader abruptly to the My page is not intended as a source on Fernando Pessoa or Mensagem for. Mensagem, a collection of poems on patriotic themes, won a prize in a national A little larger than the entire universe: selected poems / Fernando Pessoa ;. THE FIRST COLLECTION OF ESSAYS ON FERNANDO PESSOA AS ENGLISH POET The English Poetry of Fernando Sonnet VIII from Fernando Pessoa's 35 Sonnets, self-published in Lisbon The variant “dullness” in l. .. Mensagem.
Ideas are sensations, but of things not placed in space and sometimes not even in time. Logic, the place of ideas, is another kind of space. Dreams are sensations with only two dimensions. Ideas are sensations with only one dimension.
A line is an idea. Every sensation of a solid thing is a solid body bounded by planes, which are inner images of the nature of dreams — two-dimensioned , bounded themselves by lines which are ideas, of one dimension only. Sensationism pretends, taking stock of this real reality, to realise in art a decomposition of reality into its psychic geometrical elements.
The end of art is simply to increase human self-consciousness. Its criterion is general or semi-general acceptance, sooner or later, for that is the proof that it does tend to increase self-consciousness in men. The more we decompose and analyse into their psychic elements our sensations, the more we increase our self-consciousness. Art has, then, the duty of becoming increasingly conscious. In the classic age, art developped consciousness on the level of the three-dimension sensation — that is, art applied itself to a perfect and clear visioning of reality considered as solid.
Purged of whatever was fragmentary and incomplete, the book would have gained novelistic virtues such as plot and dramatic tension, but it would have run the risk of becoming just another book, instead of what it remains: a monument as wondrous as it is impossible.
Pessoa published twelve excerpts from The Book of Disquiet in literary magazines and left, in the famous trunk that contained his extravagant written life, about additional texts marked L.
A new edition, published in —91 the rst volume of which was republished, with extensive revisions, in , presented improved readings and over one hundred previously unpublished texts, most of which were not explicitly identi ed with The Book of Disquiet, although the majority of them could have been penned or typed with Bernardo Soares in mind.
I was more cautious about embracing material not speci cally marked or set aside by Pessoa for inclusion. The borders of this work are fuzzy, but they exist. They exclude, for instance, the reams of political theory written by Pessoa.
Nor is there a place for his writings in pure philosophy and literary criticism. But there are a number of stray and unidenti ed texts — my edition includes about fty — that do seem to belong here. Seem to me, that is.
Chronological order? Text , conversely, is dated 18 September but reads exactly like Soares from the s. It is true that many passages from the nal phase were dated, but even then not the majority, and Pessoa never suggested that these be published as a group apart, separately from the older material. What Pessoa did suggest shows only what a loss he was at to organize his Book. Another passage Text carries the heading written in English Chapter on Indi erence or something like that, suggesting a thematic organization.
And how was it? Mixed up with hundreds of other texts, large and small, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle without a discernible picture or pattern. Since a loose-leaf edition is impractical, and since every established order is the wrong order, the mere circumstance of publication entails a kind of original sin. In this edition, the dated passages from the last phase —34 serve as a skeleton — an infallibly Soaresian skeleton — for articulating the body of the text.
I saw no reason to disrupt the chronological order of the passages forming the skeleton, as this makes for a certain objectivity in this otherwise subjective arrangement, but I relegated the dates to the Notes, lest readers who skip this paragraph suppose that the passages falling between the dated ones are contemporaneous.
Some of them are, but others go back to the s. They complement each other. For no other reason than to facilitate consultation and referral, I have assigned numbers to the passages in the rst section most of which are untitled , and arranged the texts from the second section by their titles, alphabetically.
Pessoa left over six hundred alternate words or phrasings in the margins and between the lines of the manuscripts that constitute The Book of Disquiet. For the purposes of this translation, I have usually preferred the rst word or phrasing. Only those few alternate wordings that might interest a general reader are recorded in the Notes, which also provide archival references, composition and publication dates, and explanations of the cultural, historical and literary references.
My edition of the original text, Livro do Desassossego, o ers more detailed information about the editorial procedures followed with regard to the transcriptions, for example and includes, in an Appendix, some fragmentary material not found here. Many of the manuscripts that Pessoa labelled for inclusion in The Book of Disquiet were really just notes or sketches for longer, polished pieces that he never nally wrote.
This is especially evident in passages where the paragraphs are separated by spaces, as in Text 14 or Text Even uent, well-articulated passages are sometimes pocked, as it were, by blank spaces for words or phrases that Pessoa never got around to supplying.
Often these lacunas correspond to a missing adjective or non-essential connective and could be smoothed over in a translation — made to disappear, that is — without being unfaithful to the meaning of the original sentence.
The text presented here re ects the blips and roughness of the original but aims, at the same time, to be reader-friendly. In a few cases, where the basic sense of the missing word s seems obvious to the point of being inevitable, a word or two with that sense has been inserted in square brackets. The translation is also generally faithful to the use or not of capital letters in the original. The translated edition of this work that I published in as The Book of Disquietude Carcanet Press informs important aspects of the Portuguese edition I produced in and of this revised, reorganized and expanded English edition.
Some of the discrepancies between this and other English translations including my rst e ort are due to the rather di erent source text that has emerged as I and other researchers have reexamined the original manuscripts. I especially thank Teresa Rita Lopes and Manuela Parreira da Silva for their generous help in deciphering the original manuscripts; Manuela Neves and Manuela Rocha for their similar generosity in helping me interpret di cult passages; and Martin Earl for his insightful critique of my Introduction.
In these rst- oor dining rooms, fairly empty except on Sundays, one often comes across odd sorts, unremarkable faces, a series of asides in life. There was a time in my life when a limited budget and the desire for quiet made me a regular patron of one of these rst- oor restaurants.
Fairly tall and thin, he must have been about thirty years old. It seemed to suggest various kinds: hardships, anxieties, and the su ering born of the indi erence that comes from having already suffered a lot. He always ate a small dinner, followed by cigarettes that he rolled himself.
He conspicuously observed the other patrons, not suspiciously but with more than ordinary interest. It was this peculiar trait that first got me interested in him. I began to look at him more closely. I noticed that a certain air of intelligence animated his features in a certain uncertain way. But dejection — the stagnation of cold anguish — so consistently covered his face that it was hard to discern any of his other traits. I happened to learn from a waiter in the restaurant that the man worked in an office near by.
One day there was an incident in the street down below — a Everyone in the st ght between two men. I made a casual remark to him and he replied in like manner. But perhaps it was absurd to see this in my supper-time peer. And then one day, perhaps drawn together by the stupid coincidence that we both arrived for dinner at ninethirty, we struck up a conversation.
At a certain point he asked me if I wrote. I said that I did. He praised it, he praised it highly, and I was taken aback. I told him I was surprised, for the art of those who write in Orpheu speaks only to a few. He said that perhaps he was one of the few. He had taken particular pains with the armchairs, which were soft and well-padded, and with the drapes and rugs.
In rooms decorated in the modern style, tedium becomes a discomfort, a physical distress. Nothing had ever obliged him to do anything. He had spent his childhood alone. He never joined any group. He never pursued a course of study.
He never belonged to a crowd. He never had to face the demands of society or of the state. He even evaded the demands of his own instincts.
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Nothing ever prompted him to have friends or lovers. I was the only one who was in some way his intimate. Even in this respect circumstances were strangely favourable to him, for they brought him somebody of my character, who could be of use to him. A Factless Autobiography In these random impressions, and with no desire to be other than random, I indi erently narrate my factless autobiography, my lifeless history. And since the human spirit naturally tends to make judgements based on feeling instead of reason, most of these young people chose Humanity to replace God.
I reasoned that God, while improbable, might exist, in which case he should be worshipped; whereas Humanity, being a mere biological idea and signifying nothing more than the animal species we belong to, was no more deserving of worship than any other animal species.
The cult of Humanity, with its rites of Freedom and Equality, always struck me as a revival of those ancient cults in which gods were like animals or had animal heads. And so, not knowing how to believe in God and unable to believe in an aggregate of animals, I, along with other people on the fringe, kept a distance from things, a distance commonly called Decadence.
Decadence is the total loss of unconsciousness, which is the very basis of life. Could it think, the heart would stop beating. Impassive to the solemnity of any and all worlds, indi erent to the divine, and disdainers of what is human, we uselessly surrender ourselves to pointless sensation, cultivated in a re ned Epicureanism, as be ts our cerebral nerves.
Retaining from science only its fundamental precept — that everything is subject to fatal laws, which we cannot freely react to since the laws themselves determine all reactions — and seeing how this precept concurs with the more ancient one of the divine fatality of things, we abdicate from every e ort like the weak-bodied from athletic endeavours, and we hunch over the book of sensations like scrupulous scholars of feeling.
Taking nothing seriously and recognizing our sensations as the only reality we have for certain, we take refuge there, exploring them like large unknown countries. But everything is imperfect. I see life as a roadside inn where I have to stay until the coach from the abyss pulls up. I leave who will to stay shut up in their rooms, sprawled out on beds where they sleeplessly wait, and I leave who will to chat in the parlours, from where their songs and voices conveniently drift out here to me.
Night will fall on us all and the coach will pull up. If what I write in the book of travellers can, when read by others at some future date, also entertain them on their journey, then fine. Detesting both, I choose neither; but since I must on occasion either dream or act, I mix the two things together. Walking on these streets, until the night falls, my life feels to me like the life they have.
By day I am nothing, and by night I am I. There is no di erence between me and these streets, save they being streets and I a soul, which perhaps is irrelevant when we consider the essence of things. Future married couples pass by, chatting seamstresses pass by, young men in a hurry for pleasure pass by, those who have retired from everything smoke on their habitual stroll, and at one or another doorway a shopkeeper stands like an idle vagabond, hardly noticing a thing.
Army recruits — some of them brawny, others slight — slowly drift along in noisy and worse-than-noisy clusters.
Occasionally someone quite ordinary goes by. Cars at that time of day are rare, and their noise is musical. All of this passes, and none of it means anything to me.
And its irony is my blood. The nocturnal glory of being great without being anything! The sombre majesty of splendours no one knows… And I suddenly experience the sublime feeling of a monk in the wilderness or of a hermit in his retreat, acquainted with the substance of Christ in the sands and in the caves of withdrawal from the world. Through the window the sound of another reality arrives, and the sound is banal, like the tranquillity around the shelves.
But I make no mistake: I write, I add, and the bookkeeping goes on, performed as usual by an employee of this office. Sadly I write in my quiet 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 for 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 live more because I live on high. I feel a religious force within me, a species of prayer, a kind of public outcry. Me in this fourth- oor room, interrogating life! Me, here, a genius! In my dream I experienced freedom, as if the South Seas had o ered me marvellous islands to be discovered.
It would all be repose, artistic achievement, the intellectual fulfilment of my being. Yes, I say it as if confronted by the actual circumstance: I would feel regret. Vasques my boss, Moreira the head bookkeeper, Borges the cashier, all the young men, the cheerful boy who takes letters to the post o ce, the boy who makes deliveries, the gentle cat — all this has become part of my life.
Besides, if tomorrow I were to bid them all farewell and take o my Rua dos Douradores suit, what other activity would I end up doing for I would have to do something , or what other suit would I end up wearing for I would have to wear some other suit? Other people answer to vanity, or to the lure of wealth, glory, immortality. For my boss I prefer the man named Vasques, who in di cult moments is easier to deal with than all the abstract bosses in the world.
Some are exploited by God himself, and they are prophets and saints in this vacuous world. And in the same way that others return to their homes, I retreat to my non-home: the large o ce on the Rua dos Douradores.
I arrive at my desk as at a bulwark against life. What is this man to me besides an occasional obstacle, as the owner of my time, in the daylight hours of my life?
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But why does he occupy my thoughts? Is he a symbol? A cause? What is he? Vasques — the boss. I see him today from that future as I see him today from right here: medium height, stocky, a bit coarse but a ectionate, frank and savvy, brusque and a able, a boss not only in his handling of money but also in his unhurried hands, in their thick hair and veins that look like small coloured muscles, in his full but not fat neck, and in his ruddy and taut cheeks with their dark, always close-shaven whiskers.
I see him, I see his energetically deliberate gestures, his eyes thinking within about things outside. Perhaps the lack of some more distinguished gure in my immediate world explains why Senor Vasques, a common and even brutish man, sometimes gets so enmeshed in my thoughts that I forget myself. I believe or almost believe that somewhere, in a remote life, this man was something much more important to me than he is today.
Vasques my boss is Life — monotonous and necessary, imperious and inscrutable Life. This banal man represents the banality of Life. For me he is everything, externally speaking, because for me Life is whatever is external.
Mensagem - Poemas Esotéricos
Yes, Art, residing on the very same street as Life, but in a di erent place. Art, which gives me relief from life without relieving me of living, being as monotonous as life itself, only in a di erent place. Yes, for me the Rua dos Douradores contains the meaning of everything and the answer to all riddles, except for the riddle of why riddles exist, which can never be answered.
Everything in me tends to go on to become something else. My soul is impatient with itself, as with a bothersome child; its restlessness keeps growing and is forever the same. Everything interests me, but nothing holds me. I attend to everything, dreaming all the while. We are two abysses — a well staring at the sky. In these random impressions, and with no desire to be other than random, I indi erently narrate my factless autobiography, my lifeless history. What I confess is unimportant, because everything is unimportant.
I make landscapes out of what I feel. I make holidays of my sensations. I can easily understand women who embroider out of sorrow or who crochet because life exists. My elderly aunt would play solitaire throughout the endless evening.
I unwind myself like a multicoloured skein, or I make string spread gures of myself, like those woven on ngers and passed from child to child.
I take care only that my thumb not miss its loop. Then I turn over my hand and the figure changes. And I start over.
To live is to crochet according to a pattern we were given. But while doing it the mind is at liberty, and all enchanted princes can stroll in their parks between one and another plunge of the hooked ivory needle.
Needlework of things… Intervals… Nothing… Besides, what can I expect from myself? My worthless self lives on at the bottom of every expression, like an indissoluble residue at the bottom of a glass from which only water was drunk. I write my literature as I write my ledger entries — carefully and indi erently.
All of this is dream and phantasmagoria, and it matters little whether the dream be of ledger entries or of well-crafted prose. Does dreaming of princesses serve a better purpose than dreaming of the front door to the o ce? All that we know is our own impression, and all that we are is an exterior impression, a melodrama in which we, the self-aware actors, are also our own spectators, our own gods by permission of some department or other at City Hall.
Worse, however, is the work we never do.The post-Symbolist texts with misty forests, lakes, kings and palaces are crucial, for they are the imaginary substance, the very dreams of Soares, put into words. Edited by Maria Aliete. Edward Carpenter. He is the editor of La Divina Comedia: I crave time in all its duration, and I want to be myself unconditionally.
We are our dreams of ourselves souls by gleams, And each to each other dreams of others' dreams.