450.

Something still more portentous, like a black expectation, now hovered in the air, so that even the rain seemed intimidated; a speechless darkness fell over the atmosphere. And suddenly, like a scream, a dreadful day shattered. The light of a cold hell swept through the contents of all things, filling minds and crannies. Everything gaped in awe, and then heaved a sigh of relief, for the strike had passed. The almost human sound* of the sad rain was happy. Hearts automatically pounded hard, and thinking made one dizzy. A vague religion formed in the office. No one was himself, and Senhor Vasques appeared at the door of his office to say he didn't quite know what. Moreira smiled, the fringes of his face still yellow from the sudden fright, and his smile was no doubt saying that the next bolt of thunder would strike further away. A swift wagon loudly broke in on the usual noises from the street. The telephone shivered uncontrollably. Instead of retreating to his private office, Vasques stepped towards the phone in the common office. There was a respite, a silence, and the rain fell like a nightmare. Vasques forgot about the phone, which had stopped ringing. The office boy fidgeted in the back of the office like a bothersome object.

An enormous joy, full of deliverance and peace of mind, disconcerted us all. We returned to our work a bit light-headed, becoming spontaneously sociable and pleasant with each other. Without being told to, the office boy opened wide the windows. The fragrance of something fresh entered with the damp air into the office. The now gentle rain fell humbly. The sounds from the street, which were the same as before, were different. We could hear the voices of the wagoners, and they were really people. The clear-ringing bells of the trams a block over participated in our sociability. A lone child's burst of laughter was like a canary in the limpid atmosphere. The gentle rain tapered off.

It was six o'clock. The office was closing. Through the half-open door of his private office Senhor Vasques said, 'You can all go now,' pronouncing the words like a business benediction. I immediately stood up, closed the ledger and put it away. I returned my pen with a deliberate gesture to its place in the inkstand, walked towards Moreira while pronouncing a 'See you tomorrow' full of hope, and then shook his hand as if he'd done me a big favour.

451.

Travel? One need only exist to travel. I go from day to day, as from station to station, in the train of my body or my destiny, leaning out over the streets and squares, over people's faces and gestures, always the same and always different, just like scenery.

If I imagine, I see. What more do I do when I travel? Only extreme poverty of the imagination justifies having to travel to feel.

'Any road, this simple Entepfuhl road, will lead you to the end of the World.'* But the end of the world, when we go around it full circle, is the same Entepfuhl from which we started out. The end of the world, like the beginning, is in fact our concept of the world. It is in us that the scenery is scenic. If I imagine it, I create it; if I create it, it exists; if it exists, then I see it like any other scenery. So why travel? In Madrid, Berlin, Persia, China, and at the North or South Pole, where would I be but in myself, and in my particular type of sensations?

Life is what we make of it. Travel is the traveller. What we see isn't what we see but what we are.

452.

The only real traveller with soul that I've known was an office boy at another firm where I was once employed. This young fellow collected promotional brochures for cities, countries and transportation companies; he had maps that he'd torn out of journals or that he'd asked for here and there; he had illustrations of landscapes, prints of exotic costumes, and pictures of boats and ships that he'd clipped out of newspapers and magazines. He would go to travel agencies in the name of some imaginary office, or perhaps in the name of a real office, perhaps even the one where he worked, and he would ask for brochures about trips to Italy, brochures about excursions to India, brochures listing the boat connections between Portugal and Australia.

He was not only the greatest because truest traveller I've known, he was also one of the happiest people I've had the privilege to meet. I regret not knowing what's become of him, or rather, I pretend I should regret it; in fact I don't, because by now, ten years or more after the brief period when I knew him, he must be a grown-up, a responsible idiot who fulfils his duties, perhaps as a married man, somebody's provider dead, that is, while still alive. And maybe he has even travelled in body, he who travelled so well in his soul.

I just remembered: he knew the exact route of the train from Paris to Bucharest as well as the routes of all the trains in England, and as he mispronounced the strange names, I could see the glowing certainty of his greatness of soul. Today, yes, he probably exists as a dead man, but perhaps one day, in his old age, he will remember how it's not only better but also truer to dream of Bordeaux than to actually go there.

Then too, all of this may have some other explanation: he may just have been imitating someone. Or... Yes, I sometimes think, given the appalling difference between the intelligence of children and the stupidity of adults, that in childhood we're accompanied by a guardian spirit who lends us his own astral intelligence, and that later, perhaps with regret but compelled by a higher law, he abandons us like animal mothers after they've nursed their young to our destiny as fattened pigs.

453.

From the terrace of this cafe I look at life with tremulous eyes. I see just a little of its vast diversity concentrated in this square that's all mine. A slight daze like the beginning of drunkenness reveals to me the soul of things. Visible, unanimous life proceeds outside me in the clear and distinct steps of passing pedestrians, in the regulated fury of all their motions. In this moment when my feelings are but a lucid and confused mistake, when my senses have stagnated and everything seems like something else, I spread my wings without moving, like an imaginary condor.

Man of ideals that I am, perhaps my greatest ambition is really no more than to keep sitting at this table in this cafe.

Everything is futile, like stirring dead ashes, and hazy like the moment before dawn breaks.

And the light strikes things so perfectly and serenely, gilding them with sadly smiling reality! All the world's mystery descends until I see it take shape as banality and street.

Ah, the mysteries grazed by ordinary things in our very midst! To think that right here, on the sunlit surface of our complex human life, Time smiles uncertainly on the lips of Mystery! How modern all this sounds! And yet how ancient, how hidden, how full of some other meaning besides the one we see glowing all around us!

454.

Reading the newspaper is always unpleasant from an aesthetic point of view, and often from a moral point of view as well, even for those who don't worry much about morality.

Reading about the effects of wars and revolutions there's always one or the other in the news* doesn't make us feel horror but tedium. What really disturbs our soul isn't the cruel fate of all the dead and wounded, the sacrifice of all who die in action or who die without seeing action, but the stupidity that sacrifices lives and property to some inevitably futile cause. All ideals and all ambitions are a hysteria of prattling women posing as men. No empire justifies breaking a child's doll. No ideal is worth the sacrifice of a toy train. What empire is useful or what ideal profitable? It's all humanity, and humanity is always the same variable but unimprovable, with fluctuations but unprogressive. Vis-a-vis Vis-a-vis the intransigent march of all things, the life that we were given without knowing why and that we'll lose we don't know when, the ten thousand chess games that constitute our life in common and in conflict, the tedium of uselessly contemplating what we'll never accomplish ..... the intransigent march of all things, the life that we were given without knowing why and that we'll lose we don't know when, the ten thousand chess games that constitute our life in common and in conflict, the tedium of uselessly contemplating what we'll never accomplish ..... vis-a-vis vis-a-vis all that, what can the wise man do but ask to retire, to be excused from having to think about life (since living it is already burdensome enough), to have a little sun and fresh air and at least the dream that there's peace on the other side of the hills? all that, what can the wise man do but ask to retire, to be excused from having to think about life (since living it is already burdensome enough), to have a little sun and fresh air and at least the dream that there's peace on the other side of the hills?

455.

All those unfortunate occasions in life when we've been ridiculous or boorish or woefully late should be seen, in the light of our inner serenity, as the vicissitudes of travel. We are but tourists in this world, travelling willingly or unwillingly between nothing and nothing or between everything and everything, and we shouldn't worry too much about the bumps along the way and the mishaps of the journey. I take comfort in this thought, either because there's something in it that's comforting, or simply because I take comfort in it. But fictitious comfort, if I don't think about it, is real enough.

And there are so many things that comfort! There's the blue sky above, clear and calm, where odd-shaped clouds are always floating. There's the light breeze, which in the country shakes the thick branches of trees, while in the city it whips the laundry hanging from the fourth and fifth floors. There's warmth when it's warm, and coolness when it's cool, and always a memory with its nostalgia, its hope, and a magic smile at the window of the world, and what we want knocking on the door of what we are, like beggars who are the Christ.

456.

How long since I last wrote something! In the past few days I've lived through centuries of wavering renunciation. I've stagnated, like a forsaken pond, among landscapes that don't exist.

Meanwhile I've been going through the varied monotony of every day, the never-equal succession of the equal hours, life. Everything has been going well. If I'd been sleeping, it wouldn't have gone any differently. I've stagnated, like a pond that doesn't exist, among forsaken landscapes.

It often happens that I don't know myself, which is typical in those who know themselves. I look at myself in the various disguises that make me alive. Of all that changes, I possess whatever remains the same; of all that is accomplished, whatever amounts to nothing.

I remember far-off inside me, as if I were journeying within, the monotony of that old house in the country, so different from the monotony I feel now... I spent my childhood in that house, but I couldn't say (if I ever wanted to) whether it was happier or sadder than my life today. It was a different self that lived back then. That life and this one are different, diverse, incomparable. The same monotonies that link them on the outside are undoubtedly different on the inside. They're not just two monotonies, but two lives.

Why do I bother to remember? Weariness. Remembering is a repose, for it means not doing. For even greater repose, I sometimes remember what never was, and my memories of the countryside where I really lived can't begin to compare, in sharpness and nostalgia, to my memories that inhabit floorboard by creaking floorboard the vast rooms of yesteryear that I never inhabited.

I've become so entirely the fiction of myself that any natural feeling I may have is immediately transformed, as soon as it's born, into an imaginary feeling. Memories turn into dreams, dreams into my forgetting what I dreamed, and knowing myself into not thinking of myself.

I've so stripped myself of my own being that existence consists of dressing up. I'm only myself when disguised. And all around me expiring, unknown sunsets gild the landscapes I'll never see.

457.

Modern things include (1) the development of mirrors; (2) wardrobes.

We evolved, body and soul, into clothed creatures. Since the soul always conforms to the body, it developed an intangible suit. We advanced to having a soul that's basically clothed, in the same way that we advanced as physical humans to the category of clothed animals.

The point isn't just that our suit has become an integral part of us; it's the complexity of this suit and the curious lack of any real relationship between it and the features that make our body and our body's movements naturally elegant.

Were I asked to discuss the social causes responsible for my soul's condition, I would speechlessly point to a mirror, a clothes hanger, and a pen.

458.

In the light morning fog of mid-spring, the downtown area wakes up groggy and the sun rises as if sluggishly. There's a calm joy in the slightly cold air, a kind of non-breeze softly blows, and life vaguely shivers from the cold that has ceased not from the bit of cold that lingers but from the memory of the cold; not from today's weather but in comparison with the approaching summer.

The shops are still closed except for the cafes and dairy bars, but the stillness isn't one of torpor, like on Sundays it's just stillness. A blond tinge streaks the air that's emerging from the night, and through the dissipating fog the blueness lightly blushes. The first signs of movement dot the streets, with each pedestrian standing out distinctly, while up above hazy figures can be seen stirring in the few open windows. The clanging trams trace their yellow, numbered furrows in mid-air. Little by little the streets begin to undesert.

I drift without thoughts or emotions, just sense impressions. I woke up early and came out to the street without preconceptions. I observe as if in a reverie. I see as if deep in thought. And a gentle mist of emotion absurdly rises up in me. The fog that's disappearing outside seems to be seeping into me.

I realize that I've been inadvertently thinking about my life. I hadn't noticed, but that's what I was doing. I thought I was no more in my leisurely stroll than a reflector of given images, a blank screen on which reality projects colours and light instead of shadows. But I was unwittingly more than that. I was also my self-denying soul, and even my abstract observing was a denial.

As the mist diminishes, the air darkens, imbued by a pale light that seems to have incorporated the mist. I suddenly notice that it's much noisier and that many more people exist. The steps of the now more numerous pedestrians are less hurried. And then, breaking in on everyone else's lesser haste, the sprightly fishwives pop into view, bakers come swaying under their monstrously large breadbaskets, and the diverse sameness of the street vendors is only demonotonized by the contents of their baskets, in which the colours vary more than the actual objects. The unequal cans of the milkmen jangle like absurd hollow keys. The policemen stand stock-still in the intersections, like civilization's uniformed denial of the invisibly rising day.

How I would love right now to be able to see all this as somebody whose only relation to it was visual to view everything as an adult traveller who has just arrived at the surface of life! To not have learned from birth to attach predetermined meanings to all these things. To be able to see them in their natural self-expression, irrespective of the expressions that have been imposed on them. To be able to recognize the fishwife in her human reality, independent of her being called a fishwife and my knowing that she exists and sells fish. To see the policeman as God sees him. To notice everything for the first time, not as apocalyptic revelations of life's Mystery, but as direct manifestations of Reality.

Bells or a large clock strike what, without counting, I know must be eight o'clock. I awaken from myself because of the banality of measured time, that cloister which society imposes on time's continuity, a border to contain the abstract, a boundary around the unknown. I see that the mist which has completely quit the sky (except for the quasi-blue that still lingers in the blueness) has indeed penetrated into my soul, and has likewise penetrated to the depths of things where they have contact with my soul. I've lost the vision of what I was seeing. My eyes see, but I am blind. I've begun to perceive things with the banality of knowledge. What I see is no longer Reality, it's just Life.

...Yes, the life to which I also belong, and which also belongs to me; and no longer Reality, which belongs only to God or to itself, which contains neither mystery nor truth, and which since it is real or pretends to be real exists somewhere invariably, free from having to be temporal or eternal, an absolute image, the external equivalent to the idea of a soul.

I turn and walk slowly, though faster than I think, to the door that will lead me back up to my rented room. But I don't enter; I hesitate; I keep going. Praca da Figueira,* gaping with variously coloured wares and filling up with customers, blocks the horizon from my view. I advance slowly, lifelessly, and my vision is no longer mine, it's no longer anything: it's merely the vision of a human animal that inexorably inherited Greek culture, Roman order, Christian morality, and all the other illusions that form the civilization in which I feel and perceive.

Where are the living?

459.

I'd like to be in the country to be able to like being in the city. I like being in the city in any case, but I'd like it twice over if I were in the country.

460.

The greater the sensibility and the subtler its capacity for feeling, the more absurdly it shivers and shudders over little things. It takes extraordinary intelligence to feel anxiety because of an overcast day. Humanity, basically insensitive, doesn't get anxious over the weather, because there's always weather; humanity doesn't feel the rain unless it's falling on its head.

The hazy, torpid day humidly swelters. Alone in the office, I review my life, and what I see is like the day that oppresses and afflicts me. I see myself as a child happy for no reason, as an adolescent full of ambition, as a full-grown man without happiness or ambition. And it all happened in a haze and a torpor, like this day that makes me see or remember it.

Who among us, looking back down the path of no return, can say they followed it in the right way?

461.

Knowing how easily the littlest things can torture me, I deliberately avoid contact with the littlest things. If I suffer when a cloud passes in front of the sun, how will I not suffer from the darkness of the forever overcast day that's my life?

My isolation isn't a search for happiness (which my soul wouldn't know how to feel), nor for tranquillity (which no one obtains unless he never really lost it), but for sleep, for effacement, for a modest renunciation.

The four walls of my squalid room are at once a cell and a wilderness, a bed and a coffin. My happiest moments are those when I think nothing, want nothing and dream nothing, being lost in a torpor like some accidental plant, like mere moss growing on life's surface. I savour without bitterness this absurd awareness of being nothing, this foretaste of death and extinction.

I've never had anyone I could call 'Master'. No Christ died for me. No Buddha showed me the way. No Apollo or Athena, in my loftiest dreams, ever appeared to enlighten my soul.

462.

But my self-imposed exile from life's actions and objectives and my attempt to break off all contact with things led precisely to what I tried to escape. I didn't want to feel life or to touch anything real, for the experience of my temperament in contact with the world had taught me that the sensation of life was always painful to me. But in isolating myself to avoid that contact, I exacerbated my already overwrought sensibility. If it were possible to cut off completely all contact with things, then my sensibility would pose no problem. But this total isolation cannot be achieved. However little I do, I still breathe; however little I act, I still move. And so, having exacerbated my sensibility through isolation, I found that the tiniest things, which even for me had been perfectly innocuous, began to wrack me like catastrophes. I chose the wrong method of escape. I fled via an uncomfortable and roundabout route to end up at the same place I'd started from, with the fatigue of my journey added to the horror of living there.

I've never seen suicide as a solution, because my hatred of life is due to my love of life. It took me a long time to be convinced of this unfortunate mistake in how I live with myself. Convinced of it, I felt frustrated, which is what I always feel when I convince myself of something, since for me each new conviction means another lost illusion.

I killed my will by analysing it. If only I could return to my childhood before analysis, even if it would have to be before I had a will!

My parks are all a dead slumber, their pools stagnating under the midday sun, when the drone of insects swells and life oppresses me, not like a grief but like a persistent physical pain.

Far-away palaces, pensive parks, narrow paths in the distance, the dead charm of stone benches where no one sits any more perished splendours, vanished charm, lost glitter. O my forgotten yearning, if I could only recover the grief with which I dreamed you!

463.

Peace at last. All that was dross and residue vanishes from my soul as if it had never been. I'm alone and calm. It's like the moment when I could theoretically convert to a religion. But although I'm no longer attracted to anything down here, I'm also not attracted to anything up above. I feel free, as if I'd ceased to exist and were conscious of that fact.

Peace, yes, peace. A great calm, gentle like something superfluous, descends on me to the depths of my being. The pages I read, the tasks I complete, the motions and vicissitudes of life all has become for me a faint penumbra, a scarcely visible halo circling something tranquil that I can't identify. The exertion in which I've sometimes forgotten my soul, and the contemplation in which I've sometimes forgotten all action both come back to me as a kind of tenderness without emotion, a paltry, empty compassion.

It's not the mild and languidly cloudy day. It's not the feeble, almost non-existent breeze, hardly more perceptible than the still air. It's not the anonymous colour of the faintly and spottily blue sky. It's none of this, because I feel none of it. I see without wanting to see, helplessly. I attentively watch the non-spectacle. I don't feel my soul, just peace. External things, all of them distinct and now perfectly still, even if they're moving, are to me as the world must have been to Christ when, looking down at everything, Satan tempted him. They are nothing, and I can understand why Christ wasn't tempted. They are nothing, and I can't understand why clever old Satan thought they would be tempting.

Go swiftly by, life that's not felt, a stream flowing silently under forgotten trees! Go gently by, soul that's not known, an unseen rustle beyond large fallen branches! Go uselessly by, pointlessly by, consciousness conscious of nothing, a hazy flash in the distance amid clearings in the leaves, coming from and going to we don't know where! Go, go, and let me forget!

Faint breath of what never dared live, dull sigh of what failed to feel, useless murmur of what refused to think, go slowly, go slackly, go in the eddies you have to have and in the dips you're given, go to the shadow or to the light, brother of the world, go to glory or to the abyss, son of Chaos and of the Night, but remember in some obscure part of you that the Gods came later and that they will also pass.

464.

Whoever has read the pages of this book will by now surely have concluded that I'm a dreamer. And he will have concluded wrongly. I lack the money to be a dreamer.

Great melancholies and sorrows full of tedium can exist only in an atmosphere of comfort and solemn luxury. That's why Poe's Egaeus,* pathologically absorbed in thought for hours on end, lives in an ancient, ancestral castle where, beyond the doors of the lifeless drawing room, invisible butlers administer the house and prepare the meals.

Great dreams require special social circumstances. One day, when the doleful cadence of a certain passage I'd written made me excitedly think of Chateaubriand, it didn't take me long to remember that I'm not a viscount, nor even a Breton. On another occasion, when I'd written something whose content seemed to recall Rousseau, it likewise didn't take long for me to realize that, besides not being the noble lord of a castle, I also lack the privilege of being a wanderer from Switzerland.

But there is also the universe of the Rua dos Douradores. Here God also grants that the enigma of life knows no bounds. My dreams may be poor, like the landscape of carts and crates from among whose wheels and boards I conceive them, but they're what I have and am able to have.

The sunsets, to be sure, are somewhere else. But even from this fourth-floor room that looks out over the city, it's possible to contemplate infinity. An infinity with warehouses down below, it's true, but with stars up above... This is what occurs to me as I look out my high window at the close of day, with the dissatisfaction of the bourgeois that I'm not, and with the sadness of the poet that I can never be.

465.

The advent of summer makes me sad. It seems that summer's luminosity, though harsh, should comfort those who don't know who they are, but it doesn't comfort me. There's too sharp a contrast between the teeming life outside me and the forever unburied corpse of my sensations what I feel and think, without knowing how to feel or think. In this borderless country known as the universe, I feel like I'm living under a political tyranny that doesn't oppress me directly but that still offends some secret principle of my soul. And then I'm slowly, softly seized by an absurd nostalgia for some future, impossible exile.

What I mostly feel is slumber. Not a slumber that latently brings like all other slumbers, even those caused by sickness the privilege of physical rest. Not a slumber that, because it's going to forget life and perhaps bring dreams, bears the soothing gifts of a grand renunciation on the platter with which it approaches our soul. No: this is a slumber that's unable to sleep, that weighs on the eyelids without closing them, that purses the corners of one's disbelieving lips into what feels like a stupid and repulsive expression. It's the kind of sleepiness that uselessly overwhelms the body when one's soul is suffering from acute insomnia.

Only when night comes do I feel, not happiness, but a kind of repose which, since other reposes are pleasant, seems pleasant by way of analogy. Then my sleepiness goes away, and the confusing mental dusk brought on by the sleepiness begins to fade and to clear until it almost glows. For a moment there's the hope of other things. But the hope is short-lived. What comes next is a hopeless, sleepless tedium, the unpleasant waking up of one who never fell asleep. And from the window of my room I gaze with my wretched soul and exhausted body at the countless stars countless stars, nothing, nothingness, but countless stars...