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By Fernando Pessoa

This selection of the paintings of Portuguese writer Fernando Pessoa (1888–1935) is an important advent to the paintings of 1 of the main unique ecu poets of the 20 th century. It comprises translations of a wide choice of his poems and his impressive prose, in addition to a few of his unique English writings. a tremendous introductory essay through Octavio Paz, a severe anthology, posthumous "interviews," and archived illustrations also are incorporated, revealing the area of Pessoa in all its richness.

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I used to be by no means good with out mendacity down at the universe. Excusez un peu … What a nasty actual chilly! i want fact and aspirin. Ah, a Sonnet… My center is a mad admiral who has deserted the career of the ocean and paces up and down at domestic, his days spent in gradual rituals of reminiscence… And as he paces there (I additionally shift right here in my chair, on the mere considered it) the deserted sea from concentration doesn't glide whilst idleness tires muscle mass scuffling with healthy. Oh, there are yearnings within the legs and arms and yearnings within the mind past them either and amazing rages stirred up from the dregs. yet – this can be wealthy! – it used to be with out defences I spoke… so the place the satan was once I with an admiral rather than with my senses? … Typing on my own in my engineer’s cubicle, I draw up the plan, signal the undertaking, bring to a halt the following, some distance even from who i'm. round the corner, in dully sinister accompaniment, The noisy clacking of typewriters. How in poor health i'm of existence! How reducing this regimen! What a come-down to be like this! in the past, whilst i used to be another individual, there have been castles and knights (Pictures, might be, in a few early life book), some time past, while i used to be actual to my dream, there have been nice Northern landscapes overdone with snow, there have been nice Southern palm groves flush with eco-friendly. some time past. round the corner, in dully sinister accompaniment, The noisy clacking of typewriters. all of us have lives: the real, the only we dream of in youth And cross on dreaming of as adults in a substratum of mist; The fake, the only we are living after we stay with others, the sensible, the important, the only the place we prove via being installed a coffin. within the different there aren't any coffins, no deaths, simply adolescence photos: huge colored books to examine yet to not learn; massive pages of colors to recollect later. within the different we're us, within the different we're alive; during this we will die, that is what residing potential; This second, by way of feeling ailing, I reside within the different… yet round the corner, in dully sinister accompaniment, The voice rises, the noisy clacking of typewriters. On Sunday I shall stroll during the gardens On Sunday I shall stroll throughout the gardens within the individual of others, content material with my anonymity. On Sunday I will likely be satisfied – them, them… On Sunday… at the present time is Thursday in every week that has no Sunday… now not a Sunday. by no means a Sunday. yet there'll continuously be an individual within the gardens this coming Sunday. that's how lifestyles passes, refined for whoever feels, roughly for whoever thinks: there'll consistently be an individual within the gardens on Sunday, now not on our Sunday, now not on my Sunday, no longer on Sunday… yet there'll constantly be others within the gardens and on Sunday! He handed me, got here after me He handed me, got here after me in a downtown road – That shabby guy, a certified beggar who appears one within the face, Who takes to me and that i take to him; And reciprocally, in a grand, overflowing gesture I gave him all I had (Except in fact for what was once within the pocket the place I hold more cash: i'm no idiot nor a hard-working Russian novelist, And romanticism, certain, yet effortless does it…) i think a sympathy for all these humans, specifically once they don’t deserve sympathy.

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