To be reincarnated in a stone or a speck of dust my soul weeps with this yearning.

I'm losing my taste for everything, including even my taste for finding everything tasteless.

403.

I have no meaning I can fathom... Life weighs on me... Any emotion is too much for me... Only God knows my heart... What corteges from my past cause a tedium of unremembered splendours to cradle my nostalgia? And what canopies? what starry sequences? what lilies? what pennants? what stained-glass windows?

What shady path of mystery was followed by our best fantasies, which so vividly remember this world's trickling waters, cypress trees and boxwoods, and which can find no canopies for their processions except in the fruits of abdication?

KALEIDOSCOPE.

Don't speak... You happen too much... If only I didn't see you... When will you be just a fond memory of mine? How many women you'll be until that happens! And my having to suppose I can see you is an old bridge no one uses... Yes, this is life. The others have dropped their oars... The cohorts have lost their discipline... The knights left at daybreak with the sound of their lances... Your castles passively waited to be deserted... No wind abandoned the rows of trees on the summit... Useless porticos, hidden silverware, prophetic signs all of this belongs to vanquished twilights in ancient temples and not to our meeting in this present moment, for there is no reason for lindens to give shade apart from your fingers and their belated gesture...

All the more reason for remote territories... Treaties signed by stained-glass kings... Lilies from religious pictures... Whom is the retinue waiting for?... Where did the lost eagle go?

404.

To wrap the world around our fingers, like a thread or ribbon which a woman twiddles while daydreaming at the window...

Everything comes down to our trying to feel tedium in such a way that it doesn't hurt.

It would be interesting to be two kings at the same time: not the one soul of them both, but two distinct, kingly souls.

405.

Life, for most people, is a pain in the neck that they hardly notice, a sad affair with some happy respites, as when the watchers of a dead body tell anecdotes to get through the long, still night and their obligation to keep watch. I've always thought it futile to see life as a valley of tears; yes, it is a valley of tears, but one in which we rarely weep. Heine said that after great tragedies we always merely blow our noses. As a Jew, and therefore universal, he understood the universal nature of humanity.

Life would be unbearable if we were conscious of it. Fortunately we're not. We live as unconsciously, as uselessly and as pointlessly as animals, and if we anticipate death, which presumably (though not assuredly) they don't, we anticipate it through so many distractions, diversions and ways of forgetting that we can hardly say we think about it.

That's how we live, and it's a flimsy basis for considering ourselves superior to animals. We are distinguished from them by the purely external detail of speaking and writing, by an abstract intelligence that distracts us from concrete intelligence, and by our ability to imagine impossible things. All this, however, is incidental to our organic essence. Speaking and writing have no effect on our primordial urge to live, without knowing how or why. Our abstract intelligence serves only to elaborate systems, or ideas that are quasi-systems, which in animals corresponds to lying in the sun. And to imagine the impossible may not be exclusive to us; I've seen cats look at the moon, and it may well be that they were longing to have it.

All the world, all life, is a vast system of unconscious agents operating through individual consciousnesses. Like two gases that form a liquid when an electric current passes through them, so two consciousnesses that of our concrete being and that of our abstract being form a superior unconsciousness when life and the world pass through them.

Happy the man who doesn't think, for he accomplishes instinctively and through organic destiny what the rest of us must accomplish through much meandering and an inorganic or social destiny. Happy the man who most resembles the animals, for he is effortlessly what the rest of us only are by hard work; for he knows the way home, which the rest of us can reach only through byways of fiction and hazy return routes; for he is rooted like a tree, forming part of the landscape and therefore of beauty, while we are but myths who cross the stage, walk-ons of futility and oblivion dressed in real-life costumes.

406.

I don't much believe in the happiness of animals, except when I want to use this conceit as a frame for highlighting a particular feeling. To be happy, it's necessary to know that one's happy. The only happiness we get from sleeping without dreaming is when we wake up and realize that we've slept without dreaming. Happiness is outside of happiness.

There's no happiness without knowledge. But the knowledge of happiness brings unhappiness, because to know that you're happy is to realize that you're experiencing a happy moment and will soon have to leave it behind. To know is to kill, in happiness as in everything else. Not to know, on the other hand, is not to exist.

Only the absolute of Hegel managed to be two things at once, but in writing. Being and non-being do not mix and meld in the sensations and laws of life; they exclude one another, by a kind of reverse synthesis.

What to do? Isolate the moment like a thing, and be happy now, in the moment we're feeling happiness, thinking of nothing but what we're feeling and completely excluding everything else. Trap all thought in our sensation.....

That's what I believe this afternoon. It's not what I'll believe tomorrow morning, because tomorrow morning I'll be someone else. What kind of believer will I be tomorrow? I don't know; I would already have to be there to know. Not even God eternal, in whom today I believe, could know today or tomorrow anything about me tomorrow. Because today I'm I, and tomorrow it's possible that he'll have never existed.

407.

God created me to be a child and willed that I remain a child. But why did he let Life beat me up, take away my toys and leave me alone during playtime, my weak hands clutching at my blue, tear-stained smock? If I couldn't live without loving care, why was this thrown out with the rubbish? Ah, every time I see a child crying in the street, left there on his own, the jolting horror of my exhausted heart grieves me even more than the child's sadness. I grieve with every pore of my emotional life, and it is my hands that wring the corner of the child's smock, my mouth that is contorted by real tears, my weakness, my loneliness... And all the laughs from the adult life passing by are like the flames of matches struck against the sensitive fabric* of my heart.

408.

He sang, in a soft and gentle voice, a song from a faraway country. The music made the strange words familiar. It sounded like the soul's fado,* though it didn't in the least resemble fado.

Through its veiled words and human melody, the song told of things that are in the hearts of us all and that no one knows. He sang in a kind of stupor, a kind of ecstasy right there in the street, his gaze oblivious to his listeners.

The crowd that had gathered listened to him without any discernible scoffing. The song belonged to everyone, and the words sometimes spoke to us an oriental secret of some lost race. We didn't hear the city's noises, even if we heard them, and the carts passed by so close that one of them brushed against my coat. But I only felt it; I didn't hear it. There was a rapt intensity in the stranger's song that was soothing to what in us dreams or doesn't succeed. It was a street incident, and we all noticed the policeman slowly turning the corner. He approached with the same slow gait, then stood still for a while behind the boy selling umbrellas, as if something had caught his eye. That's when the singer stopped. No one said anything. Then the policeman intervened.

409.

For some reason or other, I'm alone in the office. Although this dawns on me suddenly, I had already vaguely sensed it. In some corner of my consciousness I'd felt a great sigh of relief, a deeper breathing with different lungs.

This is one of the strangest sensations that the fortuity of encounters and absences can bring: that of finding ourselves alone in a place that is normally full of people and noise, or that belongs to someone else. We suddenly have a feeling of absolute ownership, of vast and effortless dominion, and as I said of relief and serenity.

How good it feels to be completely alone! To be able to talk to ourselves out loud, to walk around without being looked at, to lean back in an undisturbed reverie! Every house becomes an open field, every room has the breadth of a farm.

The usual sounds are all strange, as if they belonged to a nearby but independent universe. We are kings at last. This is what we all truly long to be, and the most plebeian among us perhaps more ardently than those full of false gold. For a moment we are the universe's pensioners, recipients of a steady income, with no needs and no worries.

Ah, but in those footsteps climbing the stairs I recognize someone who's coming here, someone who will interrupt my amused solitude. My implicit empire is about to be invaded by barbarians. The footsteps don't tell me who it is that's coming; they don't recall the footsteps of anyone I know. But I have a gut instinct that I'm the destination of what for now are merely footsteps, climbing up the stairs which I suddenly see, since I'm thinking about who's climbing them. Yes, it's one of the clerks. He stops, the door opens, he enters. I see all of him. And as he enters he says: 'All alone, Senhor Soares?' And I answer: 'Yes, for some time now...' And then, taking off his jacket while eyeing his other, older one that's hanging up, he says: 'To be here all alone is a real bore, Senhor Soares, and not only that...' 'A real bore, no doubt about it,' I answer. 'It almost makes you feel like sleeping,' he says, already wearing the frayed jacket and walking towards his desk. 'It certainly does,' I agree, smiling. And reaching for my forgotten pen, I graphically re-enter the anonymous wholesomeness of normal life.

410.

Whenever they can, they sit opposite a mirror. While talking to us, they look at themselves with infatuated eyes. Sometimes, as happens to people in love, they lose track of the conversation. They always liked me, because my adult aversion to my physical appearance made me automatically turn my back to whatever mirror I found. And so they treated me well, for they instinctively recognized that I was the good listener who would always let them show off and have the pulpit.

As a group they weren't so bad; as individuals, some were better and some were worse. They had tender and generous feelings that an observer of average behaviour would never expect, mean and petty attitudes that a normal human being would hardly imagine. Pathetic, envious and self-deluded that sums them up, and the same words would sum up whatever part of this milieu has infiltrated the work of worthy men who happened to get caught for a time in its mire. (This explains the presence, in Fialho's* writings, of flagrant envy, rank vulgarity, and an abominable lack of elegance.) Some are witty, others have nothing but wit, and still others don't exist. Cafe wit may be divided into jokes about those who are absent and jibes at those who are present. This kind of wittiness is known elsewhere as mere vulgarity. There's no greater proof of an impoverished mind than its inability to be witty except at other people's expense.

I passed by, I saw, and unlike them I conquered. Because my victory consisted in seeing. I saw that they were no different from other inferior social groups: in the house where I rent a room, I found the same squalid soul that the cafe s had already revealed to me, but without thank all the gods any delusions of making a hit in Paris. My landlady dreams of Lisbon's newer section in her moments of imaginative fancy, but she's spared from the myth of going abroad, and my heart is touched.

From that time I spent at the tomb of human will, I remember a couple of funny jokes and otherwise being bored sick.

They're heading to the cemetery, and it seems that their past was left behind at the cafe, for they don't even mention it now.

...and posterity will never know of them, forever hidden from its view under the rotten heap of pennants they won in their verbal battles.

411.

Pride is the emotional certainty of our own greatness. Vanity is the emotional certainty that others see this greatness or attribute it to us. These two sentiments don't necessarily coincide, nor do they naturally oppose each other. They're different but compatible.

Pride all by itself, unaccompanied by vanity, manifests itself in timid behaviour. One who feels he's great but isn't convinced that others recognize him as such will be afraid to pit his opinion about himself against other people's opinion.

Vanity all by itself, unaccompanied by pride, which is rare but possible, manifests itself through audacity. One who is certain that others think highly of him will fear nothing from them. Both physical courage and moral courage can exist without vanity, but audacity cannot. And by audacity I mean boldness in taking the initiative. Audacity can exist without physical or moral courage, for these character traits are of a different, incommensurable order.

412.

DOLOROUS I INTERLUDE.

I don't even have the consolation of pride. And even if I did have something I could brag about, how much more I have to be ashamed of!

I spend life lying down. And not even in my dreams can I make a move to get up, so complete is my incapacity for any and all effort.

The creators of metaphysical systems and of psychological explanations are still in the primary stage of suffering. What is systematizing and explaining but of psychological explanations are still in the primary stage of suffering. What is systematizing and explaining but and construction? And what is all this arranging, ordering, organizing but achieved effort? And how deplorably this is life! and construction? And what is all this arranging, ordering, organizing but achieved effort? And how deplorably this is life!

No, I'm not a pessimist. Happy those who are able to translate their suffering into a universal principle. I don't know if the world is sad or arbitrary, nor do I care, because I'm indifferent to what other people suffer. As long as they don't weep or moan, which I find bothersome and unpleasant, I don't even shrug my shoulders at their suffering. That's how deep my disdain for them runs.

I like to think of life as half light, half darkness. I'm not a pessimist. I don't complain about the horror of life; I complain about the horror of my life. The only fact I worry about is that I exist and suffer and can't even dream of being removed from my feeling of suffering.

The happy dreamers are the pessimists. They shape the world to their likeness and thus always feel at home. What grieves me the most is the disparity between the world's happy bustle and my own glum, wearisome silence.

For those who live it, life with all its sorrows and fears and jolts must be a good and happy thing, like a journey in an old stagecoach, when one is in good company (and can enjoy it).

I can't even consider my suffering a sign of Greatness. I don't know if it is or isn't. But I suffer things that are so trivial, and am hurt by things so banal, that this hypothesis if I dared entertain it would be an insult to the hypothesis that I might be a genius.

The splendour of a beautiful sunset saddens me with its beauty. When gazing at one I always think: what a thrill it must be for a happy man to see this!

And this book is a lament. Once written, it will replace Alone Alone* as the saddest book in Portugal.

Next to my pain, all other pains seem unreal or insignificant. They're the pains of people who are happy or who live life and complain. My pains are of a man who finds himself incarcerated, cut off from life...

Between me and life...

And so I see all the things which cause anguish and feel none of the things which bring joy. And I've noticed that suffering is seen more than felt, whereas happiness is felt more than seen. Because if one doesn't see or think, he will know a certain contentment, like that of the mystics and the bohemians and the riffraff. It's by the door of thought and the window of observation that suffering comes into one's house.

413.

Let us live by dreams and for dreams, distractedly dismantling and recomposing the universe according to the whim of each dreaming moment. Let us do this while being consciously conscious of the uselessness and of doing it. Let us ignore life with every pore of our body, stray from reality with all of our senses, and abdicate from love with our whole heart. Let us fill the pitchers we take to the well with useless sand and empty them out, so as to refill and re-empty them, in utter futility. of doing it. Let us ignore life with every pore of our body, stray from reality with all of our senses, and abdicate from love with our whole heart. Let us fill the pitchers we take to the well with useless sand and empty them out, so as to refill and re-empty them, in utter futility.

Let us fashion garlands so that, once finished, they can be thoroughly and meticulously taken apart.

Let us mix paints on a palette without having a canvas on which to paint. Let us order stone for chiselling without having a chisel and without being sculptors. Let us make everything an absurdity and turn all our sterile hours into pure futilities. Let us play hide-and-seek with our consciousness of living.

Let us hear God* tell us we exist with a delighted and incredulous smile on our lips. Let us watch Time paint the world and find the painting not only false but also empty.

Let us think with sentences that contradict one another, speaking out loud in sounds that aren't sounds and colours that aren't colours. Let us affirm and grasp, which would be impossible that we are conscious of not being conscious, and that we are not what we are. Let us explain all this by way of a hidden, paradoxical meaning that things have in their divine, reverse-side dimension, and let us not believe too much in the explanation so that we won't have to give it up...

Let us sculpt in hopeless silence all our dreams of speaking. Let us make all our thoughts of action languish in torpor.

And over all of this the horror of living will hover remotely* like a blue and unbroken sky.

414.

But the landscapes we dream are just shades of the landscapes we've seen, and the tedium of dreaming them is almost as great as the tedium of looking at the world.

415.

Imaginary figures have more depth and truth than real ones.

My imaginary world has always been the only true world for me. I've never had loves so real and so full of verve and blood and life as the ones I've had with characters I myself created. What madness! I miss them because, like all loves, these kind also come and go...

416.

Sometimes, in my inner dialogues on exquisite afternoons of Imagination, as I carry on weary conversations in imaginary sitting rooms at twilight, it can happen during a lull in the discussion that, finding myself alone with an interlocutor who's more I than the others, I start to wonder why our scientific age's will to understand hasn't been extended to artificial, inorganic things. And one of the questions that I most languidly ponder is why we don't develop, along with the usual psychology of human and subhuman creatures, a psychology (for surely they have one) of artificial figures and of creatures whose existence takes place only in rugs and in pictures. It's a sad view of reality that would limit it to the organic realm and not place the idea of soul in statuettes and needlework. Where there's form there's a soul.

These private deliberations aren't an idle pastime but a scientific lucubration like any other. And so, before having an answer and without knowing if I'll ever have one, I think of what's possible as if it already existed, and with inner analyses and intense concentration I envision the likely results of this actualized desideratum. As soon as I start thinking this way, scientists immediately appear in my mind, hunched over illustrations that they know to be real lives; microscopists of warp and weft emerge from the rugs, physicists emerge from the broad, swirling patterns around their borders, chemists from the idea of shapes and colours in pictures, geologists from the stratified layers in cameos, and finally (and most importantly) psychologists who record and classify one by one the sensations that a statuette must feel, the ideas that pass through the hazy psyche of a figure in a painting or a stained-glass window, the wild impulses, the unbridled passions, the occasional hatreds and sympathies and? found in these special universes marked by death and immobility whether in the eternal gestures of bas-reliefs or in the immortal consciousnesses of painted figures.

More than the other arts, literature and music are fertile territory for the subtleties of a psychologist. Novelistic figures, as we all know, are as real as any of us. Certain aspects of sounds have a swift, winged soul, but they are still susceptible to psychology and sociology. Let all the ignorant be informed: veritable societies exist in colours, sounds and sentences, even as regimes and revolutions, reigns, politics and exist literally, not metaphorically, in the instrumental ensembles of symphonies, in the structured wholes of novels, and in the square feet of a complex painting, where the colourful poses of warriors, lovers or symbolic figures find enjoyment, suffer, and mingle together. exist literally, not metaphorically, in the instrumental ensembles of symphonies, in the structured wholes of novels, and in the square feet of a complex painting, where the colourful poses of warriors, lovers or symbolic figures find enjoyment, suffer, and mingle together.

When one of my Japanese teacups is broken, I imagine that the real cause was not the careless hand of a maid but the anxieties of the figures inhabiting the curves of that porcelain . Their grim decision to commit suicide doesn't shock me: they used the maid as one of us might use a gun. To know this (and with what precision I know it!) is to have gone beyond modern science. . Their grim decision to commit suicide doesn't shock me: they used the maid as one of us might use a gun. To know this (and with what precision I know it!) is to have gone beyond modern science.

417.

I know no pleasure like that of books, and I read very little. Books are introductions to dreams, and no introductions are necessary for one who freely and naturally enters into conversation with them. I've never been able to lose myself in a book; as I'm reading, the commentary of my intellect or imagination has always hindered the narrative flow. After a few minutes it's I who am writing, and what I write is nowhere to be found.

My favourite things to read are the banal books that sleep with me at my bedside. There are two that I always have close at hand: Father Figueiredo's Rhetoric Rhetoric,* and Father Freire's Reflections on the Portuguese Language Reflections on the Portuguese Language.* I always reread these books with pleasure, and while it's true I've read them over many times, it's also true that I've read neither one straight through. I'm indebted to these books for a discipline I doubt I could ever have acquired on my own: to write with objectivity, with reason as one's constant guide.

The affected, dry, monastic style of Father Figueiredo is a discipline that delights my intellect. The nearly always undisciplined verbosity of Father Freire amuses my mind without tiring it, and teaches me without stirring up any worries. Both are learned, untroubled minds that confirm my complete lack of desire to be like them, or like anyone else.