Filme do Desassossego Page #6

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which are beautiful

and thus imperfect things,

but the vast, maternal night,

the undivided splendour

of the bottomless abyss!

I will be your maternal wife,

the twin sister you've at long last

recovered.

And with all your anxieties

married to me,

you yourself will become lost

in my mystic substance,

in my forsworn existence,

in my breast where things smother,

in my breast where souls drown,

in my breast where the gods vanish.

Sovereign King of Detachment

and Renunciation,

Emperor of Death and Shipwreck

living dream that grandly wanders

among the world's ruins and wastes!

Sovereign King of Despair amid

splendours,

grieving lord of palaces

that don't satisfy,

master of processions

and pageants

that never succeed

in blotting out life!

Sovereign King

Shepherd of the Watches,

knight errant of Anxieties

travelling on moonlit roads

without glory and without even

a lady to serve,

lord in the forests and on the slopes,

a silent silhouette with visor

drawn shut,

Sovereing King consecrated

by Death to be her own,

consecrated by Death

to be her own.

Bring the goblets,

platters

and garlands,

all you pages

and damsels

and servants!

Bring them for the feast!

Bring them and come dressed in black,

With your heads crowned by myrtle.

Death is Life's triumph!

Death is Life's triumph!

Death is Life's triumph!

It is by death that we live

when we dream,

since to dream is to deny life.

Death guides us,

death seeks us,

death accompanies us.

Your love for things dreamed

Was your contempt for things lived.

Virgin King who disdained love,

Shadow King who despised light,

Dream King who denied life!

Amid the muffled racket

of cymbals and drums,

Darkness acclaims you Emperor!

Yes, it's the sunset.

Slowly and distractedly I reach the

end of the Rua da Alfndega and see,

beyond the Terreiro do Pao, a clear

view of the sunless western sky.

An immense peace that I don't have

is coldly present in the abstract fall air.

Not having it, I experience the feeble

pleasure of imagining it exists.

But in reality there is no peace

nor lack of peace,

just sky, fuzzy hues of distant clouds

that aren't clouds.

And all of this is a vision

that vanishes as soon as it occurs,

a winged interlude between

nothing and nothing

that takes place on high,

in shades of sky and grief,

diffuse and indefinite.

Ah, who will save me from existing?

It's neither death nor life that I want:

It's that other thing shining

in the depths of longing,

like a possible Diamond

in a pit one can't descend.

It all amounts to the absence

of a true God, an absence

that is the empty cadaver

of the lofty heavens and the closed soul.

Infinite prison, since you're infinite,

there's no escaping youl

Your ships, Lord,

didn't make a greater voyage

than the one made by my thought,

in the disaster of this book.

They rounded no cape

and sighted no far-flung beach,

beyond what daring men had dared

and what minds had dreamed,

to equal the capes I rounded

with my imagination.

I too have finally arrived

at the port-in-no-place

of the World's abstract chasm,

at the vacant end of things.

I have entered,

Lord, that Port.

I have wandered, Lord,

over that sea.

I have gazed, Lord,

at that invisible chasm.

I dedicate this work

of supreme Discovery

to the memory of your

Portuguese name,

of your Portuguese name,

creator of argonauts.

I'm so cold,

so weary in my abandonment.

Go and find my Mother,

O Wind.

Give me back my nursemaid,

O vast Silence,

and my crib and the lullaby

that used to put me to sleep.

SENTIMENTAL:

EDUCATION:

For those who choose

to make dreams their life,

and to make a religion and

politics out of cultivating sensations

like plants in a hothouse,

the sign that they've successfully taken

the first step

is when they feel the tiniest things in

an extraordinary and extravagant way.

That's all there is to the first step.

To know how to sip a cup of tea

with the extreme voluptuousness

that the normal man experiences only

when overcome by joy

at seeing his ambition

suddenly fulfilled

or himself suddenly

cured of a terrible nostalgia,

or when he's in the final,

carnal acts of love,:

To be able to achieve in the vison

of a sunset or in the contemplation

of a decorative detail

that intensity of feeling

which generally can't occur

through sight or hearing

but only by way of the carnal senses,

touch, taste and smell,

when they sculpt the object

of sensation on our consciousness,:

The creation of an automatically

heightened and complex awareness

of the simplest and commonest

sensations

leads not only to a vast increase in the

enjoyment we get from feeling

but also to a tremendous upsurge

in the amount of pain we experience.

The second step for the dreamer

should therefore be to avoid pain.

He shouldn't avoid it like the

stoics or the early Epicureans,

by abandoning the nest,

for that will harden him against pleasure

as well as against pain.

He should, instead,

seek pleasure in pain,

and then learn how to feel pain falsely,

to feel some kind of pleasure, that is,

whenever he feels pain.

There are various paths

for reaching this goal.

One is to hyperanalyse our pain

but only after we've first trainded

ourselves to react to pleausure

by exclusively feeling it,

with no analysis.

This is an easier technique than it

seems, at least for superior souls.

To analyse pain and to get in the habit

of submitting all pains to analysis,

until we do it automatically,

by instinct,

will endow every pain imaginable

with the pleasure of analysing it.

Once our ability and instinct

to analyse grow large enough,

our practice of it will absorb

everything,

and there will be nothing left of pain

but an indefinite substance for analysis.

Another method, more subtle

and more difficult,

is to develop the habit of

incarnating the pain in an ideal figure.

First we must create another I,

charged with suffering, in and for us,

everything we suffer.

Next we need to create an inner sadism,

completely masochistic,

that enjoys its suffering

as if it were someone else's.

This method, which on first reading

seems impossible, isn't easy,

but it is eminently attainable,

presenting no special difficulties

for those who are well versed

in lying to themsleves.

Once this is achieved, pain and suffering

acquire an absolutely tantalizing

flavour of blood and disease,

an incredibly exotic pungency

of decadent gratification!

The feeling of pain

resembles the anguished,

troubled height of convulsions,

and suffering, the long and slow kind,

has the intimate yellow which colours

the vague bliss

of a profoundly felt convalescence.

And an exquisite exhaustion

tinged with disquiet

and melancholy evokes the

complex sensation of anguish

that our pleasures arouse in the thought

that they will vanish,

as well as the melancholy

pre-weariness

we feel in our sensual delights, when

we think of the weariness they'll bring.

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