Classic · Collection · Excerpt · Passage · Philosophy · Poetry · Portuguese Culture · Portuguese Literature

Fernando Pessoa

Being tired of all illusions and of everything about illusions – the loss of illusions, the uselessness of having them, the prefatigue of having to have them in order to lose them, the sadness of having had them, the intellectual shame of having had them knowing that they would have to end this way. ―… Continue reading Fernando Pessoa

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Classic · Collection · Excerpt · Fiction · Passage · Philosophy · Poetry · Portuguese Culture · Portuguese Literature

Fernando Pessoa

I have at this moment so many fundamental thoughts, so many truly metaphysical things to say, that I suddenly get tired and decide not toa write any more, not to think any more, but to allow the fever of speaking to make me sleepy, and with my eyes closed, like a cat, I play with… Continue reading Fernando Pessoa

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Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Excerpt · Lyricism · Passage · Poetry · Portuguese Culture · Portuguese Literature

Eugénio de Andrade

We’ve worn our words to death, when now I say: my love, nothing happens, absolutely nothing. And yet, before the words were spent, I’m certain that everything trembled at the mere murmur of your name in the silence of my heart. Now we have nothing to give. There is nothing within you that asks me… Continue reading Eugénio de Andrade

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Classic · Collection · Excerpt · Fiction · Passage · Philosophy · Poetry · Portuguese Culture · Portuguese Literature

Fernando Pessoa

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. — Fernando Pessoa, The Book… Continue reading Fernando Pessoa

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Anthology · Classic · Collection · Excerpt · Passage · Poetry · Portuguese Culture · Portuguese Literature

Fernando Pessoa

When will this inner night—the universe—end And I—my soul—have my day? When will I wake up from being awake? I don’t know. The sun shines on high And cannot be looked at. The stars coldly blink And cannot be counted. The heart beats aloofly And cannot be heard. When will this drama without theater —Or… Continue reading Fernando Pessoa

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