Fernando Pessoa Quotes
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Life is a thread that someone entangled.
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And as well as I dream, I reason if I want, for that's just another kind of dream.
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I don't write in Portuguese. I write myself.
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What is a disease is wishing with an equal intensity what is needed and what is desirable, and suffer for not being perfect as you would suffer for not having bread. The romantic error is this wanting the moon as if there was a way to get it.
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I exempt you of being present in my idea of you.
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The beauty of a naked body is felt only by the dressed races.
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A morte é a curva da estrada,Morrer é só não ser visto.Se escuto, eu te oiço a passadaExistir como eu existo.A terra é feita de céu.A mentira não tem ninho.Nunca ninguém se perdeu.Tudo é verdade e caminho.
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Given that we cannot know all the elements in a problem, we never can solve it.
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What is art but the denial of life?
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I'm going to end a life that I thought could contain every kind of greatness but that in fact consisted only of my incapacity to really want to be great. Whenever I arrived at a certainty, I remembered that those with the greatest certainties are lunatics.
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Smell is a strange sight. It evokes sentimental landscapes through a sudden sketching of the subconscious.
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Since I wasn’t able to leave a succession of beautiful lies, I want to leave the smidgen of truth that the falsehood of everything lets us suppose we can tell.
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Knowing not to have illusions is absolutely necessary in order to have dreams.
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A literatura é a maneira mais agradável de ignorar a vida.
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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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It's been a long time since I've been me.
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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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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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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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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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If you cannot live alone, you were born a slave.
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My dreams are a stupid refuge, like an umbrella against a thunderbolt.
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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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What would happen to the world if we were human?