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.
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The Book of Disquiet
For the first time―and in the best translation ever―the complete Book of Disquiet, a masterpiece beyond comparisonThe Book of Disquiet is the Portuguese modernist master Fernando Pessoa’s greatest literary achieve
Characters
My memories have turned into anxieties.
I wasn’t meant for reality, but life came and found me.
Whenever I see a dead body, death seems to me a departure. The corpse looks to me like a suit that was left behind. Someone went away and didn’t need to take the one and only outfit he’d worn.
The beauty of a naked body is only appreciated by cultures that use clothing. Modesty is important for sensuality like resistance for energy.
I want to be a work of art, at least in my soul, since I can’t be one in my body.
We never love anyone. What we love is the idea we have of someone. It’s our own concept—our own selves—that we love.
My head and the universe ache me.
I’d woken up early, and I took a long time getting ready to exist.
I’ve dreamed a lot. I’m tired now from dreaming but not tired of dreaming. No one tires of dreaming, because to dream is to forget, and forgetting does not weigh on us, it is a dreamless sleep throughout which we remain awake. In dreams I have achieved everything.
I never paid any attention to people who told me to go out and live. I belonged always to whatever was far from me and to whatever I could never be. Anything that was not mine, however base, always seemed to me to be full of poetry. The only thing I ever loved was pure nothingness.
I’ve dreamed a lot. I’m tired now from dreaming but not tired of dreaming. No one tires of dreaming, because to dream is to forget, and forgetting does not weigh on us, it is a dreamless sleep throughout which we remain awake. In dreams I have achieved everything.
I’ve never aspired to be more than a dreamer. I paid no attention to those who spoke to me of living. I’ve always belonged to what isn’t where I am and to what I could never be. Whatever isn’t mine, no matter how base, has always had poetry for me. The only thing I’ve loved is nothing at all. The on…
I want to be a work of art, at least in my soul, since I can’t be one in my body.
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.
Ah, who will save me from existing? It’s neither death nor life that I want.
Literature is the most agreeable way of ignoring life.