Filme do Desassossego

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In the 20th January of 1913,

Fernando Pessoa wrote this poem and

scribbled vertically on its side,

in capital letters and old writing,

for the first time,

the word "DESASSOCEGO"

(DISQUIET).

I grabbed my heart

And held it in my hand.

I stared at it as if staring

At a leaf or at grains of sand.

I stared as if pale and spent,

As if I knew I were dead,

My soul stirred only by dreaming

And scarcely touched by life.

THE FILM OF DISQUIE

It was in the silence of my disquiet,

at the hour of day

when the landscape is a halo of Life

and dreaming is mere dreaming,

my love,

that I raised up this strange book like the

open doors of an abandoned house.

From

THE BOOK OF DISQUIE

Composed by Bernardo Soares,

bookkeeper apprentice in the city

of Lisbon, by Fernando Pessoa.

I offer you this book because

I know it is beautiful and useless.

It teaches nothing, inspires no faith,

and stirs no feeling.

And because this book is absurd,

I love it;

because it is useless,

I want to give it away;

and because it serves no purpose to

want to give it to you,

I give it to you...

I don't know what time is.

I don't know what its real measure is,

presuming it has one.

I know that the clock's measure is false,

as it divides time spatially,

from the outside.

I know that our emotions' way of

measuring is just as false,

dividing not time but our sensation of it.

The way our dreams measure

it is erroneous,

for in dreams we only

brush against time,

now leisurely, now hurriedly, and what

we live in them is fast or slow,

depending on something

in their flowing that I can't grasp.

Fairly tall and thin, he must have been

about thirty years old.

He hunched over terribly when sitting

down but less so standing up,

and he dressed with a carelessness

that wasn't entirely careless.

In his pale, uninteresting face

there was a look of suffering

that didn't add any interest,

and it was difficult to say just what kind

of suffering this look suggested.

It seemed to suggest various kinds:

Hardships, anxieties, and the suffering

born of the indifference

that comes from having already

suffered a lot.

Later on I came to know

his name was Bernardo Soares.

What a remarkable den!

I want to dance!

This bar has no music.

It didn't, until you ladies arrived.

What can I offer you?

What we want maybe you don't have...

I have a lot of things.

Aznavour, I love it!

If you have this song we will even

drink your shitty champagne!

You may sit down,

I'll serve you in a minute.

First, the music.

Always!

Let me laugh and let me sing

Let me inebriate my soul

So that I can forget the past

That I carry on my shoulders.

Come and pour me the strongest wine

Because the wine sings

Bring and pour more and more

I want to get drunk.

Two guitars on my chest,

a great emotion

revealing the validity

of our existence.

So why do we live, why do we live?

What is the reason for existing?

I'm alive today,

You're dead tomorrow,

and even more dead the day after.

Thank you.

Saturday nights!

One could write a beautiful text

on what just took place.

True. A beautiful text.

Do you write?

Do you know Orpheu?

Yes, I used to enjoy that magazine

very much. The texts were remarkable.

That's strange,

because the art of those

who write in Orpheu is meant for few...

Maybe I am one of the few.

I also write,

but I can't write poems.

Only fragments,

fragments, fragments...

What do you work on?

I have a modest job,

but I don't want to leave it.

I have nowhere to go,

nothing to do.

I have no friends to call on me.

I have no interest in books.

I spend the nights,

in my rented room, writing.

Literature, which is art

married to thought,

and realization untainted by reality,

seems to me the end towards which

all human effort would have to strive.

There is no difference between me

and these streets,

save they being streets and I a soul.

Did you thought it was going to rain?

No. As you may have already noticed,

I have some difficulty walking.

I always bring an umbrella with me.

The dignity of tedium.

In rooms decorated in the modern style,

tedium becomes a discomfort,

a physical distress.

Nothing had ever obliged me

to do anything.

I have spent my childhood alone.

I never joined any group.

I never pursued a course of study.

I never belonged to a crowd.

One could say that

the circumstances of my life

were tailored to the image

and likeness of my instincts,

which tended towards

inertia and withdrawal...

I never had to face the demands

of society or of the state.

I even evaded the demands

of my own instincts.

Nothing ever prompted me

to have friends or lovers.

You are the first who is in some

way my intimate.

Thank you so much.

Maybe you can publish them,

who knows?

I will read them with great curiosity.

Blessed are those who entrust

their lives to no one.

I was born in a time when the majority

of young people had lost faith in God,

for the same reason their elders

had had it, without knowing why.

Most of these young people

chose Humanity to replace God.

I, however, am the sort of person

who is always on the fringe

of what he belongs to,

seeing not only the multitude

he's a part of

but also the wide-open spaces

around it.

I belong to a generation that inherited

disbelief in the Christian faith

and created in itself a disbelief

in all other faiths.

Our fathers still had the

believing impulse,

which they transferred from Christianity

to other forms of illusion.

Some were champions

of social equality,

others were wholly enamoured

of beauty,

still others had faith in science

and its achievements,

and there were some who became

even more Christian,

resorting to various Easts and Wests

in search of new religious forms

to entertain their otherwise hollow

consciousness of merely living.

And so we were left,

each man to himself,

in the desolation of feeling

ourselves live.

Thus we reproduced a painful version

of the argonauts' adventurous precept:

Living doesn't matter,

only sailing does.

Without illusions,

we live by dreaming,

which is the illusion of those

who can't have illusions.

Living was painful because

we knew we were alive;

dying didn't scare us,

for we had lost the normal notion

of what death is.

But those who formed

the Terminal Race,

the spiritual limit

of the Deadly Hour,

didn't have courage enough

for true denial and asylum.

What we lived

was in denial,

discontent and disconsolation,

but we lived it within,

without moving,

forever closed,

at least in the way we lived,

inside the four painted walls

of our room

and the four stone walls

of our inability to act.

Touch me, soft eyes.

Soft, soft hand.

I feel so lonely in here.

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