Fernando Pessoa Quotes
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Sejamos simples e calmos,Como os regatos e as árvores,E Deus amar-nos-á fazendo de nósBelos como as árvores e os regatos,E dar-nos-á verdor na sua primavera,E um rio aonde ir ter quando acabemos...E não nos dará mais nada, porque dar-nos mais seria tirar-nos mais.
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'Any road', said Carlyle, 'even this road to Entepfuhl, will take you to the end of the world'. But the Entepfuhl road, if taken in its entirety, and to the end, goes back to Entepfuhl; so Entepfuhl, where we already were, is that very end of the world we were seeking.
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Direct experience is the evasion, or hiding place of those devoid of imagination.
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Some sensations are sleeps that take up all the extent of the mind like a fog, don't let us think, don't let us act, don't let us be clearly.
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The end is low, like all quantitative ends, personal or not, and it can be attained and verified.
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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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What would happen to the world if we were human?
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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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Inside the henhouse from where he will be taken to be killed, the cock sings hymns to liberty because he was given two perches.
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Solitude desolates me; company oppresses me.
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I always live in the present. The future I can't know. The past I no longer have.
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I never was but an isolated bon vivant, which is absurd; or a mystic bon vivant, which is an impossible thing.
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The beauty of a naked body is felt only by the dressed races.
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Life is a thread that someone entangled.
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These are Fortunate Islands, These are lands without a place
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Action men are the unvoluntary slaves of wise men.
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Oh Portugal, today you are fog... The Hour has come!
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The train slows down, it's the Cais do Sodré. I arrived to Lisbon, but not to a conclusion.
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I don't write in Portuguese. I write myself.
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To stagnate in the sun, goldenly, like an obscure lake surrounded by flowers.