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#portuguese literature
flowerytale · 2 years
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Fernando Pessoa, from "The Book of Disquiet"
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theoptia · 2 years
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João Guimarães Rosa, from Grande Sertão: Varedas
Text ID: The human heart—dark, dark.
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beljar · 2 years
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If I write what I feel, it's to reduce the fever of feeling.
Fernando Pessoa, from The Book of Disquiet, 1982
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nofatclips · 28 days
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💬 TED-Ed on Fernando Pessoa - Lesson by Ilan Stavans 🎥 Directed by Héloïse Dorsan Rachet
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soircieres · 2 years
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Mario de Sá-Carneiro, ‘Madness’ (Loucura…), 1912.
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ssuzii · 6 months
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Which part of woman’s nature is demonic and which divine and what kind of humanity they have… I was talking about women, who generate beings such as ourselves and who may be responsible, perhaps unknowingly, for this duality in our nature, which is base and yet so noble, virtuous and yet so wicked, tranquil and yet so troubled, meek and yet so rebellious.
(José Saramago, The Gospel According to Jesus Christ)
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jareckiworld · 2 years
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César Azevedo — Fernando Pessoa  (acrylic on canvas, 2020)
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arsanimarum · 1 year
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Alberto Caeiro, Fernando Pessoa’s soul XXXVI
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disgustingposer · 5 months
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"[...] I have no really intimate friends, and even were there one intimate, in world's way, yet he were not intimate in the way I understand intimacy. I am shy and unwilling to make known my woes. An intimate friend is one of my ideal things, one of my day-dreams yet an intimate friend is a thing I never shall have. No temperament fits me; there is no character in this world which shows a chance of approaching to that I dream in an intimate friend. No more of this. - Mistress or sweetheart I have none; it is another of my ideals and one fraught, into the soul of it, with a real nothingness. It cannot be, as I dream. [...]" - Fernando Pessoa
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lionofchaeronea · 1 year
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Current reading is The Lusíads by Luis Vaz de Camões, the 1572 Portuguese epic poem about Vasco da Gama and the beginnings of the Age of Exploration. Wonderful both in its own right and for its complex intertextual relationship with Vergil's Aeneid.
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ariel-seagull-wings · 9 months
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@bixiebeet @spengnitzed @professorlehnsherr-almashy
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flowerytale · 2 years
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Fernando Pessoa, from "The Book of Disquiet"
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theoptia · 2 years
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Adélia Prado, from The Mystical Rose: Selected Poems translated by Ellen Doré Watson; "The Third Way"
Text ID: My spirit — the breath of God in me — / desires you,
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beljar · 1 year
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She was pretty, possibly not the prettiest woman in the audience, but pretty in a very particular, indefinable way that couldn't be put into words, like a line of poetry whose ultimate meaning, if such a thing exists in a line of poetry, continually escapes the translator.
José Saramago, from Death with Interruptions
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lamiantoine · 5 months
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Tobbaconist’s
I am nothing. Never shall be anything. Cannot will to be anything. This apart, I have in me all the dreams of the world. Windows of my room, Room of one of the millions in the world about whom nobody knows who he is (And if they knew who he is, what would they know?), You give on the mystery of a street constantly trodden by people, On a street inaccessible to all thoughts, Real, impossibly real, certain, strangerly certain, With the mystery of the things under the stones and lives, With death to put damp in the walls and white hair on men, With Destiny to drive the car of all down the roadway of nothing. I, today, am defeated, as though I knew the truth. I, today, am lucid, as though I were just going to die And had no longer any connection with things Except a leave-taking, this house and this side of the street turning into The line of carriages of a train, and a whistle blown for departure From inside my head, And a jolt to my nerves and a creaking of bones at moving off. I, today, am perplexed, like a man who has thought and found and forgotten. I, today, am divided between the loyalty I owe To the Tobacconist’s on the other side of the street, as a thing real outside, And to the sensation that all is dream, as a thing real inside. I have failed altogether. As I have not achieved any design, perhaps it was all nothing. The apprenticeship they gave me— I’ve dropped from it out of the window at the back of the house. I went out into the country with grand designs. But there I met with only grass and trees, And when there were people they were just like the rest. I move from the window, sit down in a chair. What shall I think about? What do I know of what I shall be, I who don’t know what I am? Be whatever I think? But I think so many things! And there are so many people thinking of being the same thing of which there cannot be all that many! Genius? At this moment A hundred thousand brains are busy dreaming of themselves as geniuses like me, And history will not mark—who knows?—even one, And nothing but manure will be left of so many future conquests. No, I don’t believe in me… All the lunatic asylums have in them patients with many many certainties! And I, who have no certainty at all, am I more certain or less certain? No, not even in me… In how many garrets, and non-garrets, in the world Are there not at this hour geniuses-in-their-own-eyes dreaming? How many high and noble and lucid aspirations— Yes, really and truly high and noble and lucid— And who knows whether realizable?— Will never see the light of the real sun, or reach the ears of people? The world is for the person who is born to conquer it, And not for the one who dreams he can conquer it, even if he be right. I have dreamed more than Napoleon performed. I have squeezed into a hypothetical breast more loving kindnesses than Christ, I have made philosophies in secret that no Kant wrote. But I am, and perhaps always shall be, the man of the garret, Even though I don’t live there; I shall always be the one who was not born for that; I shall always be the one who had qualities; I shall always be the one who waited for them to open to him the door at the foot of a wall without a door, And sang the ballad of the Infinite in a hen-coop, And heard the voice of God in a well with a lid. Believe in myself? No, and in nothing. Let Nature pour out over my ardent head Her sunshine, her rain, the wind that touches my hair, And the rest that may come if it will, or have to come, or may not. Heart-diseased slaves of the stars, We conquer the whole world before getting out of bed; But we wake up and it is opaque, We get up and it is alien, We go out of the house and it is the entire earth Plus the solar system and the Milky Way and the Indefinite. (Have some chocolates, little girl; Have some chocolates! Look, there’s no metaphysics in the world except chocolates. Look, all the religions teach no more than the confectioner’s. Eat, dirty little girl, eat! If I could eat chocolates with the same truth as you do! But I think and, peeling the silver paper with its fronds of tin, I leave it all lying on the floor, just as I have left life.) But at least there remains, from the bitterness of what will never be, The rapid calligraphy of these verses— Colonnade started towards the Impossible. But at least I dedicate to myself a contempt without tears, Noble at least in the big gesture with which I throw The dirty laundry I am—no list—into the course of things And stay at home without a shirt. (You, who console, who don’t exist and therefore console, Either Greek goddess; conceived as a statue that might be alive, Or Roman matron, impossibly noble and wicked, Or troubadours’ princess, most gentle and bright vision, Or eighteenth-century marquise, décolletée and distant, Or celebrated cocotte of one’s father’s time, Or something modern—I’ve no very clear idea what—, Be any of this whatever, and, if it can inspire, let it! My heart is an overturned bucket. Like the people who invoke spirits invoke spirits I invoke Myself and meet with nothing. I go to the window and see the street with absolute clarity: I see the shops, I see the pavements, I see the traffic passing, I see the living creatures in clothes, their paths crossing, I see the dogs also existing, And all this weighs on me like a sentence to banishment, And all this is foreign, as all is.) I have lived, have studied, have loved, and even believed, And today there is not a beggar I do not envy simply for not being me. I look at each one’s rags and ulcers and lying, And I think: perhaps you never lived or studied or loved or believed (Because it is possible to do the reality of all that without doing any of it); Perhaps you have barely existed, like when a lizard’s tail is cut off And it is a tail short of its lizard squirmingly. I have made of me what I had not the skill for, And what I could make of me I did not make. The fancy dress I put on was the wrong one. They knew me at once for who I was not and I did not expose the lie, and lost myself. When I tried to take off the mask, It was stuck to my face. When I got it off and looked at myself in the glass, I had already grown old. I was drunk, was trying in vain to get into the costume I had not taken off. I left the mask and went to sleep in the cloakroom Like a dog that is tolerated by the management Because he is harmless And here I am, on the point of writing this story to prove I am sublime. Musical essence of my useless verses, If only I could meet with you as something of my own doing, Instead of staying always facing the Tobacconist’s opposite, Trampling underfoot consciousness of existing, Like a carpet that a drunk stumbles over Or a doormat the gipsies stole and was worth nothing. But the Lord of the Tobacco Store has come to the door and stopped in the doorway. I look at him with the unease of a head twisted askew And the unease of a soul understanding askew. He will die and I shall die. He will leave the shop-sign, I shall leave verses. At a certain stage the shop-sign also will die, and the verses also. After a certain stage the street where the shop-sign was will die, And the language the verses were written in. Later will die the revolving planet on which all this took place. On other satellites of other systems something like people Will continue making things like verses and living under things like shop-signs, Always one thing opposite another, Always one thing as useless as another, Always the impossible as stupid as the real, Always the underlying mystery as sure as the sleep of the surface mystery, Always this or always some other thing or neither one thing nor the other. But a man has gone into the Tobacconist’s (to buy some tobacco?) And plausible reality has descended suddenly over me. I half rise energetic, convinced, human, And resolve to write these verses in which I say the contrary. I light a cigarette as I think of writing them And I savour in the cigarette liberation from all thought. I follow the smoke like a route of my own And enjoy, for a sensitive and competent moment, Liberation from all speculations And awareness that metaphysics is a consequence of feeling out of sorts. Then I sink into my chair And continue smoking. As long as Destiny concedes it, I shall continue smoking. (If I married the daughter of my laundress Perhaps I would be happy.) At this I get up from the chair. I go to the window. The man has come out of the Tobacconist’s (putting change into his trousers pocket?). Ah, I know him; it’s Steve, he has no metaphysics. (The Lord of the Tobacco Store has come to the door.) As if by some divine instinct Steve has turned and has seen me. He has waved me a greeting, I have shouted to him Adeus ó Estêves, and the universe Has rebuilt me itself without ideal or hope, and the Lord of the Tobacconist’s has smiled. FERNANDO PESSOA Selected Poems. Penguin Classics, 2000. Translated from the Portuguese by Jonathan Griffin.
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herdingsnails · 1 year
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My unfinished vasquinha is looking a bit sad and apron-like, but I'm pretty sure that after I add the sleeves, buttons and maybe trimming it will look as amazing as it should.
This is part of a project I started ages ago with the goal of deciphering and recreating whatever outfit Camões might be describing in his poem "Descalça vai para a fonte"
I'm basing the overall shape of my vasquinha on the one you can see in this painting of the martyr saints of Lisbon. (it's the black garment worn by the woman on the left)
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If you want to know more about this project and the other pieces I've already done for it you're more than welcome to watch the two videos I've published about it.
Part 1:
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Part 2:
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