Fernando Pessoa Quotes
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These are Fortunate Islands, These are lands without a place
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I reread? I lied! I don't dare to reread. I cannot reread. What's the point, for me, in rereading?
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In today's life, the world belongs only to the stupid, the insensitive and the agitated. The right to live and triumph is now conquered almost by the same means by which you conquer internment in an asylum: the inability to think, amorality and hiperexcitation.
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If you cannot live alone, you were born a slave.
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These pages are not my confession; they’re my definition. And I feel, as I begin to write it, that I can write it with some semblance of truth.
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They were two and beautiful and wanted to be something else; love delayed itself to them in the tedium of the future, and regret of what would happen to be was already being the daughter of the love they hadn't had.
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If I had written King Lear, I would regret it all my life afterwards. Because that work is so big, that its defects show as huge, its monstrous defects, things even minimal in between some scenes and their possible perfection. It's not the sun with spots; it's a broken greek statue.
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A literatura é a maneira mais agradável de ignorar a vida.
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They bring me faith like a closed package in someone else's plate. They want me to accept it so that I don't open it.
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Smell is a strange sight. It evokes sentimental landscapes through a sudden sketching of the subconscious.
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Given that we cannot know all the elements in a problem, we never can solve it.
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You breathe better when you're rich.
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What is art but the denial of life?
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The superiority of the dreamer is that dreaming is much more practical than living, and that the dreamer extracts from life a much vaster and varied pleasure than the action man. In better and more direct words, the dreamer is the real action man.
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We adore perfection because we can't have it; it would disgust us if we had it. Perfect is inhuman, because human is imperfect.
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It is noble to be shy, illustrious not to know how to act, great not to have a gift for living.
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Then a overflowing desire comes to me, absurd, of a sort of satanism before Satan, in that one day ... an escape out of God can be found and the deepest of us stops, I don't know how, to be a part of being or not being.
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I exempt you of being present in my idea of you.
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My dreams are a stupid refuge, like an umbrella against a thunderbolt.
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To have defined and sure opinions, fixed and known instincts, passions and character - all that is the horror of turning our soul into a fact, materialize it and make it external.
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The house clock, place certain there at the bottom of things, strikes the half hour dry and null. All is so much, all is so deep, all is so dark and cold!
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Between me and life is a faint glass. No matter how sharply I see and understand life, I cannot touch it.
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I don't write in Portuguese. I write myself.
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Oh Portugal, today you are fog... The Hour has come!