Very properly melancholy, as befits something Portuguese.
On Tue, Aug 9, 2016 at 9:44 AM, david ritchie <profdritchie@xxxxxxxxx>
On Aug 8, 2016, at 5:18 PM, Mike Geary <jejunejesuit.geary2@xxxxxxxxx>wrote:
thinking about all the fun you were going to have waiting in the Dallas
Yes, David, I saw you waving and I waved back, You must have been
airport and didn't even notice me waving back. Too bad, I put on quite a
In re: Pessoa.-- never heard of the man.
Here’s a sample:
The poet is a fake.
His faking seems so real
That he will fake the ache
Which he can really feel.
And those who read his cries
Feel in the paper tears
Not two aches that are his
But one that is not theirs.
And one more excerpt, this from a prose piece titled, “A Conversation in
the Autumn of 1935”
He paid for his brandy and slowly followed the Rua Augusta as far as the
Terreiro do Paco. The square was deserted. He went into the phone box and
dialled a number in Agrigento in Sicily.
“Yes,” said a voice, “Luigi Pirandello speaking.”
“Good evening, Pirandello, Fernando Pessoa here.”
“It’s a great pleasure to hear you,” said Pirandello. “Where are you
“From a phone box in Lisbon.”
“No, it’s not impossible, believe me; I do have some minor powers.”
“And to what do I owe the pleasure of your call?”
“I wanted to talk to you, this being the last autumn of my life.”
“How do you know?”
“I have cast my horoscope.”
“I shall die in 1936,” said Pirandello. “Every Sunday morning I am at
home to my characters: it was Madam Pace who told me so.”
“I’m beginning to be everywhere, all over the place,” said Pessoa, “it’s a
funny feeling. I don’t know if it’s already the prologue to death or to
another kind of life; perhaps the same thing is happening to you.”
“Yes, much the same sort of thing is happening to me too, in effect. I’m
here in Agrigento and I’m there in Lisbon with you, but it’s hard for
anyone else to understand.”
“Oh, but the world is full of unmetaphysical Esteves, my dear Pirandello.
And of minor masters too. Can you imagine, I know one who wanted to make
me take off my mask. My mask, my God, my mask.”
“It’s difficult to be multiple: so many souls do not fit in one body. As
I’ve told you, I set a timetable for my visits but my characters get
impatient, they crowd round my door and often invade my room in an unruly
fashion, besieging me, demanding explanations, knowing that I shall shortly
die. And you, how do you deal with this problem?”
“I don’t know,” said Pessoa. “What happens to me is quite the opposite:
it is I who go looking for my personalities. I try to drag them in by
their coats and make them turn towards me so that I know who they are…”
It continues, but that’s enough for the flavor of the thing.
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