/lit/ - Literature

>>12229933
Making a heteronym gf and busting a nut on her letters to your other heteronym who is cucking you

Is Pessoa the Anti-Nietzsche?

anyone know any writer or thinker that talks about dreams like the way pessoa does?

*rapes machines*
was campos a chad? also post your favorite campos poems.

If you want to kill yourself, why don’t you want to kill
yourself?
Now’s your chance! I, who greatly love both death and life,
Would kill myself too, if I dared kill myself...
If you dare, then be daring!
What good to you is the changing picture of outer images
We call the world?
What good is this cinema of hours played out
By actors with stock roles and gestures,
This colorful circus of our never-ending drive to keep going?
What good is your inner world which you don’t know?
Kill yourself, and maybe you’ll finally know it...
End it all, and maybe you’ll begin...
If you’re weary of existing, at least
Be noble in your weariness,
And don’t, like me, sing of life because you’re drunk,
Don’t, like me, salute death through literature!

You’re needed? O futile shadow called man!
No one is needed; you’re not needed by anyone...
Without you everything will keep going without you.
Perhaps it’s worse for others that you live than if you kill
yourself . . .
Perhaps your presence is more burdensome than your
absence . . .

Other people’s grief? You’re worried
About them crying over you?
Don’t worry: they won’t cry for long . . .
The impulse to live gradually stanches tears
When they’re not for our own sake,
When they’re because of what happened to someone else,
especially death,
Since after this happens to someone, nothing else will...

First there’s anxiety, the surprise of mystery’s arrival
And of your spoken life’s sudden absence...
Then there’s the horror of your visible and material coffin,
And the men in black whose profession is to be there.
Then the attending family, heartbroken and telling jokes,
Mourning between the latest news from the evening papers,
Mingling grief over your death with the latest crime...
And you merely the incidental cause of that lamentation,
You who will be truly dead, much deader than you
imagine...
Much deader down here than you imagine,
Even if in the beyond you may be much more alive...

Next comes the black procession to the vault or grave,
And finally the beginning of the death of your memory.
At first everyone feels relieved
That the slightly irksome tragedy of your death is over...
Then, with each passing day, the conversation lightens up
And life falls back into its old routine...

Then you are slowly forgotten.
You’re remembered only twice a year:
On you birthday and your death day.
That’s it. That’s all. That’s absolutely all.
Two times a year they think about you.
Two times a year those who loved you heave a sigh,
And they may sigh on the rare occasions someone mentions
your name.

Look at yourself in the face and honestly face what we
are...

If you want to kill yourself, then kill yourself...
Forget your moral scruples or intellectual fears!
What scruples or fears influence the workings of life?
What chemical scruples rule the driving impulse
Of sap, the blood’s circulation, and love?
What memory of others exists in the joyous rhythm of life?

name a more based and blackpilled writer than Pessoa

pro tip: you can't

what the fuck was his problem?

itt we post writers who would have watched anime and posted on 4chan if they were alive today
I will post the obvious. probably would have posted on /x/, /lit/, and /a/.

>I sometimes think with sad pleasure that if, one day in a future to which I will not belong, these sentences I write should be met with praise, I will at last have found people who understand me, my own people, a real family to be born into and to be loved by.

FIFTEEN MEN ON A DEAD MAN’S CHEST.
YO-HO-HO AND A BOTTLE OF RUM!

Hey-ey-ey-ey-ey-ey-ey! Hey-ey-ey-ey-ey-ey-ey! Hey-ey-ey-ey-
ey-ey-ey!
Hey-la-oh-la-oh-la-OH-O-O-o-o-la-ah-ah-ah---- ah-ah-ah!

AHO-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O- - - yyy! . . .
SCHOONER AHO-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O- - - - yyy! . . .

Darby M’Graw-aw-aw-aw-aw-aw!
DARBY M’GRAW-AW-AW-AW-AW-AW-AW!
FETCH A-A-AFT THE RU-U-U-U-U-UM, DARBY

Hey-ey-ey-ey-ey-ey-ey-ey-ey-ey-ey-ey-ey!
HEY-EY-EY-EY-EY-EY-EY-EY-EY-EY-EY-EY!
HEY-EY-EY-EY-EY-EY-EY-EY-EY-EY-EY-EY!
HEY-EY-EY-EY-EY-EY-EY-EY-EY-EY-EY-EY-EY!
HEY-EY-EY-EY-EY-EY-EY-EY-EY-EY-EY-EY!

was it autism?

Pirates, piracy, vessels and the hour,
The maritime hour when prey are captured
And the terror of the captured escapes into madness—
that hour
With all its crimes, terror, vessels, people, sea, sky, clouds,
Breezes, latitude, longitude, shouting voices,
I’d like the Whole of this to be the Whole of my body,
suffering,
To be my body and my blood, to form the stuff of my being
in red,
To thrive like an itching wound in my soul’s unreal flesh!

Ah, to be everything in every crime! To be all the component
parts
Of raids on ships, of slaughters and rapes!
To be whatever was on the spot where pillages occurred,
To be whatever lived or was left dead on the site of
gory tragedies!
To be the sum-total-pirate of all piracy at its zenith,
And the flesh-and-blood synthesis of all pirate victims in the
world!

To be in my passive body the woman-all-women
Ever raped, killed, cut and mauled by pirates!
To be in my submissive self the female who needs to be
theirs!
And to feel all this—all these things all at once—running
down my spine!

O my hairy and gruff heroes of adventure and crime!
My seafaring brutes, husbands of my imagination!
Casual lovers of my oblique sensations!
I long to be That Woman who waits for you in ports,
For you, heinous men she loves in dreams with her pirate
blood!
For she would rage with you, though only in spirit,
Over the naked corpses of your victims at sea!
For she would be with you in your crimes, and in your
oceanic orgy
Her witch’s spirit would invisibly dance around each
movement
Of your bodies, your cutlasses, your strangling hands!
On land she would wait for you, and when you came, if you
came,
In your love’s roaring she would drink all the vast,
Foggy and sinister perfume of your conquests,
And as you convulsed in ecstasy she would whistle a red and
yellow sabbat!

Flesh torn, bodies cut open and gutted, the blood spurting!
Now as my dream of your deeds reaches its climax,
I lose myself completely, I stop belonging to you, I am you,
My femininity is not just to be with you, it’s to be your very
souls!

To be inside all your brutality at the time you wreaked it,
To imbibe deep down your consciousness of what you felt
When you tinged the high sea with blood,
When now and then you tossed to the sharks
The still living bodies of the wounded and the pink flesh of
children,
And you dragged their mothers to the deck rails to look at
what happened to them!

>>11935326
>There are people who truly suffer because they weren’t able, in real life, to live with Mr Pickwick or to shake Mr Wardle’s hand. I’m one of those people. I’ve wept genuine tears over that novel, for not having lived in that time and with those people, real people. The disasters of novels are always beautiful, because the blood in them isn’t real blood and those who die in them don’t rot, nor is rottenness rotten in novels. When Mr Pickwick is ridiculous he’s not ridiculous, for it all happens in a novel. Perhaps the novel is a more perfect life and reality, which God creates through us. Perhaps we live only to create it. It seems that civilizations exist only to produce art and literature; words are what speak for them and remain. How do we know that these extra-human figures aren’t truly real? It tortures my mind to think this might be the case…

was pessoa a genius?

I’ve witnessed, incognito, the gradual collapse of my life, the slow foundering of all that I wanted to be. I can say, with a truth that needs no flowers to show it’s dead, that there’s nothing I’ve wanted – and nothing in which I’ve placed, even for a moment, the dream of only that moment – that hasn’t disintegrated below my windows like a clod of dirt that resembled stone until it fell from a flowerpot on a high balcony. It would even seem that Fate has always tried to make me love or want things just so that it could show me, on the very next day, that I didn’t have and could never have them.

But as an ironic spectator of myself, I’ve never lost interest in seeing what life brings. And since I now know beforehand that every vague hope will end in disillusion, I have the special delight of already enjoying the disillusion with the hope, like the bitter with the sweet that makes the sweet sweeter by way of contrast. I’m a sullen strategist who, having never won a battle, has learned to derive pleasure from mapping out the details of his inevitable retreat on the eve of each new engagement.

My destiny, which has pursued me like a malevolent creature, is to be able to desire only what I know I’ll never get. If I see the nubile figure of a girl in the street and imagine for the slightest moment, however nonchalantly, what it would be like if she were mine, it’s a dead certainty that ten steps past my dream she’ll meet the man who’s obviously her husband or lover. A romantic would make a tragedy out of this; a stranger to the situation would see it as a comedy; I, however, mix the two things, since I’m romantic in myself and a stranger to myself, and I turn the page to yet another irony.

Some say that without hope life is impossible, others that with hope it’s empty. For me, since I’ve stopped hoping or not hoping, life is simply an external picture that includes me and that I look at, like a show without a plot, made only to please the eyes – an incoherent dance, a rustling of leaves in the wind, clouds in which the sunlight changes colour, ancient streets that wind every which way around the city.

I am, in large measure, the selfsame prose I write. I unroll myself in sentences and paragraphs, I punctuate myself. In my arranging and rearranging of images I’m like a child using newspaper to dress up as a king, and in the way I create rhythm with a series of words I’m like a lunatic adorning my hair with dried flowers that are still alive in my dreams. And above all I’m calm, like a rag doll that has become conscious of itself and occasionally shakes its head to make the tiny bell on top of its pointed cap (a component part of the same head) produce a sound, the jingling life of a dead man, a feeble notice to Fate.

stop acting

Nothing holds me.
I want fifty things at the same time.
I long with meat-craving anxiety
For I don’t know what—
Definitely something indefinite...
I sleep fitfully and live in the fitful dream-state
Of a fitful sleeper, half dreaming.

All abstract and necessary doors were closed in my face.
Curtains were drawn across every hypothesis I could have
seen from the street.
I found the alley but not the number of the address I was
given.

I woke up to the same life I’d fallen asleep to.
Even the armies I dreamed of were defeated.
Even my dreams felt false while I dreamed them.
Even the life I merely long for jades me—even that life...

At intermittent intervals I understand;
I write in respites from my weariness;
And a boredom bored even of itself casts me ashore.

I don’t know what destiny or future belongs to my anxiety
adrift on the waves;
I don’t know what impossible South Sea islands await me, a
castaway,
Or what palm groves of literature will grant me at least a
verse.

No, I don’t know this, or that, or anything else...
And in the depths of my spirit, where I dream all I’ve
dreamed,
In my soul’s far-flung fields, where I remember for no reason
(And the past is a natural fog of false tears),
On the roads and pathways of distant forests
Where I supposed my being dwelled—
There my dreamed armies, defeated without having been,
And my nonexistent legions, annihilated in God,
All flee in disarray, the last remnants
Of the final illusion.

Once more I see you,
City of my horrifyingly lost childhood...
Happy and sad city, once more I dream here...
I? Is it one and the same I who lived here, and came back,
And came back again, and again,
And yet again have come back?
Or are we—all the I’s that I was here or that were here—
A series of bead-beings joined together by a string of
memory,
A series of dreams about me dreamed by someone outside
me?

Once more I see you,
With a heart that’s more distant, a soul that’s less mine.

Once more I see you—Lisbon, the Tagus and the rest—
A useless onlooker of you and of myself,
A foreigner here like everywhere else,
Incidental in life as in my soul,
A ghost wandering through halls of remembrances
To the sound of rats and creaking floorboards
In the accursed castle of having to live...

Once more I see you,
A shadow moving among shadows, gleaming
For an instant in some bleak unknown light
Before passing into the night like a ship’s wake swallowed
In water whose sound fades into silence...

Once more I see you,
But, oh, I cannot see myself!
The magic mirror where I always looked the same has
shattered,
And in each fateful fragment I see only a piece of me—
A piece of you and of me!

how did he do it?

based. my boi made the list

anyone else in awe of pessoa or find him pretty terrifying? the fact that he was so many people? like who was he really?

how did he do it?

how did he do it?

>To read is to dream, guided by someone else’s hand. To read carelessly and distractedly is to let go of that hand. To be only superficially learned is the best way to read well and be profound. How shoddy and contemptible life is! Note that, for it to be shoddy and contemptible, all it takes is you not wanting it, it being given to you anyway, and nothing depending on your will or even on the illusion of your will. To die is to become completely other. That's why suicide is a cowardice; it's to surrender ourselves completely to life.

>My attempt to say at least who I am, to record like a machine of nerves the slightest impressions of my subjective and ultra-sensitive life - this was all emptied like a bucket that got knocked over, and it poured across the ground like the water of everything. I fashioned myself out of false colors, and the result is an attic made out to be an empire.

>The logical reward of my detachment from life is the incapacity I've created in others to feel anything for me. There's an aureole of indifference, an icy halo, that surrounds me and repels others. I still haven't succeeded in not suffering from my solitude. It's hard to achieve that distinction of spirit whereby isolation becomes a repose without anguish

>A sensitive and honest-minded man, if he's concerned about evil and injustice in the world, will naturally begin his campaign against them by eliminating them at their nearest source: his own person

>I’ve always rejected being understood. To be understood is to prostitute oneself. I prefer to be taken seriously for what I’m not, remaining humanly unknown, with naturalness and all due respect.

>To organize life in such a way that it becomes a mystery to others, that those who are closest to us will only be closer to not knowing us. That is how I’ve shaped my life, almost without thinking about it, but I did it with so much instinctive art that even to myself I’ve become a not entirely clear and definite individual.