Filme do Desassossego Page #3

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Neither priest nor acolyte.

Poor creature.

A nature's mistake.

If he took after his mother he would be

healthy,

he took after his father

a drunkard.

Better luck next time.

Stillbirth, without a baptism,

he was refused a Christian funeral.

He never awoke.

He won't bother anyone.

What is serious is when a grown man

ends his own life.

That is the worst of all.

To be born lifeless,

what can one do about that?

I'm sick of walking.

The death, there isn't room

for all of them...

This one is small, it occupies little

room...

if all the adults were buried

standing up...

Sitting or kneeling isn't proper.

Standing.

In that position the blood would seep

down to the earth, fertilizing it.

I am so tired! My heart isn't

what it used to be.

Afterall the heart is a pump,

constantly pumping litres of blood.

Some nice day the pump clogs

and then!

When the hell will this be over?

Lungs, heart, liver, old oxidated pumps.

To hell with the rest of it.

Maybe on the last day you will rise,

on judgement day.

Sadly, or perhaps not, I recognize

that I have an arid heart.

An adjective matters more to me than

the real weeping of a human soul.

But sometimes I'm different.

Sometimes I have the warm tears

of those who don't have and never

had a mother;

I don't remember my mother.

She died when I was one year old.

And everything bad about my sensibility

comes from the warmth I didn't have.

They told me later on

that my mother was pretty,

and they say that, when they

told me, I made no comment.

My father, who lived far away,

killed himself when I was three,

and so I never met him.

I still don't know why he lived far away.

I remember his death as a grave

silence

during the first meals we ate after

learning about it.

I remember that the others

would occasionally look at me.

And I would look back,

dumbly comprehending.

Then I'd eat with more concentration,

since they might, when I

wasn't looking, still be looking at me.

That is me!

I wrote that!

Where might the living be?

Nature is the difference between

the soul and God.

Where's the salad?

You don't get paid for chatting.

To need to dominate others

is to need others.

The commander is dependent.

I have a very simple morality:

Not to do good or evil to anyone.

I refrain. I've never loved anyone.

To submit to nothing. Free from

ourselves as well as from others,

contemplatives without ecstasy,

thinkers without conclusions and

liberated from God,

we will live the few moments of bliss

allowed us in the prison yard

by the distraction of our executioners.

A man of true wisdom, with nothing but

his senses and a soul that's never sad,

can enjoy the entire spectacle of the

world from a chair,

without knowing how to read

and without talking to anyone.

Something that would make me

almost feel,

something that would

make me not think.

Every pleasure is a vice,

because to seek pleasure is what

everyone does in life,

and the only black vice is to do

what everyone else does.

Human life is tedious.

An opinion is a vulgarity, even when

it's not sincere.

Every instance of sincerity

is an intolerance.

There are no sincere liberal minds.

There are, for that matter,

no liberal minds.

Enthusiasm is a vulgarity.

To have opinions is to sell out

to yourself.

To have no opinion is to exist.

To have every opinion is to be a poet.

Collective thought is stupid

because it's collective.

We all love each other, and the lie is

the kiss we exchange.

And when lying begins to bring us

pleasure,

let's give it the lie by telling the truth.

Might not God be an enormous child?

Doesn't the whole universe seem

like a game,

like the prank of a mischievous child?

The downfall of classical ideals made

all men potential artists,

and therefore bad artists.

When art depended on solid

construction

and the careful observance of rules,

few could attempt to be artists,

and a fair number of these

were quite good.

But when art, instead of being

understood as creation,

became merely

an expression of feelings,

then anyone could be an artist,

because everyone has feelings.

One tin fell, like the Fate of us all.

There's a thin sheet of glass between

me and life.

However cleary I see and

understand life, I can't touch it.

What they could say while they wait...

they would stop thinking

about their stomach.

What I really needed was a miracle.

Miracles are God's laziness,

or rather, the laziness we ascribe

to God when we invent miracles.

I'm suffering from a headache

and the universe.

What I feel like doing is dying,

at least temporarily,

but this, as I've indicated,

is only because my head aches.

Covering my eyes won't blind me,

but it will keep me from seeing...

My head aches because

my head aches.

The universe hurts me because

my head hurts.

But the universe that actually

hurts me is not the true one,

which exists only to me and which,

should I pass my hands through my hair,

makes me feel that each strand

suffers for no other reason

than to make me suffer.

God is good but the devil isn't so bad.

It's as if my life amounted

to being trashed by it.

What do I have to do with life?

The most contemptible thing about

dreams is that everyone has them.

My sweat isn't cold,

but my awareness of it is.

I'm not physically ill, but my

soul's anxiety is so intense

that it passes through my pores

and chills my body.

So great is this tedium,

so sovereign my horror of being alive...

My God, my god, who am I watching?

How many am I?

Who is I?

What is this gap

between me and myself?

I'm liberated and lost.

I feel.

I shiver with fever.

I'm I.

A cat wallows in the sun

and goes to sleep.

Man wallows in life,

and goes to sleep.

I will always belong

to the Rua dos Douradores,

like all of humanity.

I will always be,

in verse or prose,

an office employee.

I will always be local

and submissive,

a servant of my feelings

and of the moments when they occur.

This posthumous coat,

these old sleepers,

play out in my useless reverie a dream

no different from anybody else's.

The mistery of life distresses

and frightens us in many ways.

Sometimes it comes upon us like

formless phantom,

and the soul trembles with the worst

of fears,

that of the monstrous incarnation

of non being.

At other times it's behind us,

visible only as long as we don't turn

around to look at it,

and it's the truth in its profound horror

of our never being able to know it.

But the horror that's destroying me today

is less noble and more corrosive.

It's a longing to be free of wanting

to have thoughts,

a desire to never have been anything,

a conscious despair in every

cell of my body and soul.

What do we possess?

What do we possess?

What makes us love?

Beauty?

And do we possess it when we love?

If we vehemently, totally possess

a body,

what do we really possess?

Not the body, not the soul,

and not even beauty.

When we grasp an attractive body,

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