1. 20:07 4th Jan 2014

    Notes: 6

    Reblogged from puffalump


    I sorely grieve over time’s passage. It’s always with exaggerated emotion that I leave something behind, whatever it may be. The miserable rented room where I lived for a few months, the dinner table at the provincial hotel where I stayed for six days, even the sad waiting room at the station…

  2. 20:06

    Notes: 284

    Reblogged from evocativesynthesis

    By day I am nothing, and by night I am I.
    — Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet (via evocativesynthesis)
  3. 20:06

    Notes: 142

    Reblogged from losaficionados

    It’s human to want what we need, and it’s human to desire what we don’t need but find desirable. Sickness occurs when we desire what we need and what’s desirable with equal intensity, suffering our lack of perfection as if we were suffering for lack of bread. The Romantic malady is to want the moon as if it could actually be obtained.
    — Fernando Pessoa  (via losaficionados)
  4. 20:06

    Notes: 82

    Reblogged from polishfootnotes

    I’ve never tried to live my life.
    My life’s lived itself without me wanting or not wanting.
    I’ve only wanted to see as if I didn’t have a soul
    I’ve always wanted to see as if the eyes I was born with
    were strangers.
    —  Fernando Pessoa (via polishfootnotes)
  5. 20:06

    Notes: 53

    Reblogged from lifting-quotes

    It seems I’ve stopped speaking with my voice. Part of me fell asleep and just watches.
    — Fernando Pessoa (via lifting-quotes)
  6. 20:05

    Notes: 2

    Reblogged from fastreader

    Book of Disquiet 377


    Thee’s a kind of sad happiness in the feeling of convalescence,especially if the sickness that preceeded it affected the nerves. There’s an autumn in our emotions and thoughts, or rather, a beginning of spring that except for the absence of falling leaves seems, in the air and in the sky, like autumn.

  7. 08:02 2nd Nov 2013

    Notes: 21

    Reblogged from heartvoyage

    The snow puts a quiet blanket over everything.
    You don’t feel anything except what goes on in your house.
    I wrap myself in my covers and don’t even think about thinking.
    I feel an animal delight and I think aimlessly,
    And I fall asleep, no more useless than all the actions in the world.
    — Fernando Pessoa, Alberto Caeiro, Complete Poems (via heartvoyage)
  8. 16:02 1st Nov 2013

    Notes: 28

    Reblogged from veemignon

    Knowing clearly that who we are has nothing to do with us, that what we think or feel is always in translation, that perhaps what we want we never wanted - to know this every moment, to feel this in every feeling, is not this what it means to be a stranger in one’s own soul, an exile from one’s own feelings?
    — Fernando Pessoa, from The Book of Disquiet, translated by Margaret Jull Costa (via veemignon)
  9. 08:02

    Notes: 8

    Reblogged from india--rubber

    I need virtually no stimulants. I have opium enough in my soul.
    — Fernando Pessoa “The Book of Disquiet” (via india—rubber)
  10. 16:02 31st Oct 2013

    Notes: 8

    Reblogged from lost-in-social-media

  11. 08:02

    Notes: 16

    Reblogged from richwhitesuburbanite

    I failed in everything.
    Since I had no ambition, perhaps I failed in nothing.
    I left the education I was given,
    Climbing down from the window at the back of the house.
    I went to the country with big plans.
    But all I found was grass and trees,
    And when there were people they were just like the others.
    — The Tobacco Shop, Fernando Pessoa (via largeasalone)
  12. 16:03 30th Oct 2013

    Notes: 20

    Reblogged from richwhitesuburbanite

    I made of myself what I was no good at making,
    And what I could have made of myself I didn’t.
    I put on the wrong costume
    And was immediately taken for someone I wasn’t, and I said nothing and was lost.
    When I went to take off the mask,
    It was stuck to my face.
    When I got it off and saw myself in the mirror,
    I had already grown old.
    — The Tobacco Shop, Fernando Pessoa (via largeasalone)
  13. 08:03

    Notes: 15

    Reblogged from journalofanobody




    “Hey, keeper of flocks,
    There by the side of the road,
    What does the blowing wind say to you?”

    “That it’s the wind, that it blows,
    That it’s blown before
    And will blow again.
    What does it say to you?”

    “So much more than that.
    It speaks to me of many other things.
    Of memories and yearnings
    And things that never were.”

    “You never heard the wind blow.
    The wind only talks about the wind.
    What you heard from it was a lie,
    And the lie is in you.”

    —Fernando Pessoa as Alberto Caeiro

  14. 16:03 29th Oct 2013

    Notes: 42

    Reblogged from india--rubber

    …I’m dazzled by what’s bound to never happen.
    — Fernando Pessoa “The Book of Disquiet (via india—rubber)
  15. 08:03

    Notes: 6

    Reblogged from austur

    The most abject of all needs is to confide, to confess. It’s the soul’s need to externalize.
    Go ahead and confess, but confess what you don’t feel. Go ahead and tell your secrets to get their weight off your soul, but let the secrets you tell be secrets you never had.
    Lie to yourself before you tell that truth. Expressing yourself is always a mistake. Be resolutely conscious: let expression, for you, be synonymous with lying.
    — Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet (via austur)