/lit/ - Literature

was he an incel?

>>16261703
>My only wish is that I could find more works by him for purchase
Bro, serious talk right now. You could just put as input The Book of Disquiet onto the AI GPT-3 and it'll create new content of Pessoa's work. Not even kidding right now, you just can't tell the difference. g

How much does an author's biography matter to you?

If you found out a piece of writing you enjoyed was written by a guy who worked for a gambling company, would you feel less inclined to read any further work than if you found out he was a teacher or bus driver or something?

>>13580324
What are you talking about? just go to the store and buy it lmao. Nobody cares.

>tfw walking around college campus with the book in my hand showing the cover proudly

Somebody explain to me the appeal of Pessoa's Book of Disquiet.

Would it be creepy and / or autistic if I handed my favourite musician a wrapped copy of The Book of Disquiet as a gift when I go see him this weekend?

His shows attract around 50-60 people so I'm worried he'll think I'm a stalker.

>There are dozens of brilliant books that you will never get to read because you don't understand the language and the translation doesn't do it justice
It hurts, lads.

Anyone got names of original works of Pessoa written in English or French? Translation butchers poetry most of the time so I want to read original work in a language I understand.

Book of Disquiet

was it autism?

Rec me some Portuguese literature only person I have read is Pessoa

anime is the most agreeable way of ignoring life

Any love for Pessoa on /lit/?

Surprised he appears to be so unknown outside of Portugal, the Book of Disquiet is truly a beauty. He was basically a proto-NEET, nowadays he'd been on /r9k/ I'm sure.

Caeiro was the Mozart
Reis was the Salieri
Campos was the Beethoven
Pessoa was the ???

What do you make of heteronyms, lit?
https://www.poetrysociety.org/psa/poetry/crossroads/tributes/fernando_pessoa_his_heteronyms/

Do my sock puppets count?
Wikipedia says kierkegaard had it all figured out

>be me
>be ~14 yo and get bored of vidya every day all day
>mom gives me her old Dean Koontz novels and dad gives me his old Sci-Fi stuff
>read it without a problem
>think to myself “well now it’s time to read something harder I guess”
>ask dad for something harder and he hands me Blood Meridian
>sounds like a badass cowboy novel so I’m into it
>it takes me ~4 months but I finally finish it and decide for something even harder
>go to B&N and pick up Moby-Dick
>it takes me ~4 months as well but I finally finish it
>gradually build up a larger library and start reading more and more each day
>start using 4chan at around 15 yo becuase of /mu/
>one day I saw the /lit/ tab and clicked it
>been here ever since

>tfw no gf

>Should you ask me if I’m happy
>I’ll answer that I’m not

definitely a reifag

Gen Z wont be the next conquerers? Feels bad man (i never win at anything)

>>11823933

>>11804933
No, this is

The superior man differs from the inferior man and his animal brothers by the simple trait of irony. Irony is the first sign that our consciousness has become conscious, and it passes through two stages: the one represented by Socrates, when he says, ‘All I know is that I know nothing,’ and the other represented by Sanches,* when he says, ‘I don’t even know if I know nothing.’ In the first stage we dogmatically doubt ourselves, and every superior man arrives there. In the second stage we come to doubt not only ourselves but also our own doubt, and few men have reached that point in the already so long yet short span of time that the human race has beheld the sun and night over the earth’s variegated surface. To know oneself is to err, and the oracle that said ‘Know thyself’ proposed a task more difficult than the labours of Hercules and a riddle murkier than the Sphinx’s. To consciously not know ourselves – that’s the way! And to conscientiously not know ourselves is the active task of irony. I know nothing greater, nor more worthy of the truly great man, than the patient and expressive analysis of the ways in which we don’t know ourselves, the conscious recording of the unconsciousness of our conscious states, the metaphysics of autonomous shadows, the poetry of the twilight of disillusion. But something always eludes us, some analysis or other always gets muddled, and the truth – even if false – is always beyond the next corner. And this is what tires us even more than life (when life tires us) and more than the knowledge and contemplation of life (which always tire us). I stand up from the chair where, propped distractedly against the table, I’ve entertained myself with the narration of these strange impressions. I stand up, propping my body on itself, and walk to the window, higher than the surrounding rooftops, and I watch the city going to sleep in a slow beginning of silence. The large and whitely white moon sadly clarifies the terraced differences in the buildings opposite. The moonlight seems to illuminate icily all the world’s mystery. It seems to reveal everything, and everything is shadows with admixtures of faint light, false and unevenly absurd gaps, inconsistencies of the visible. There’s no breeze, and the mystery seems to loom larger. I feel queasy in my abstract thought. I’ll never write a page that sheds light on me or that sheds light on anything. A wispy cloud hovers hazily over the moon, like a coverture. I’m ignorant, like these rooftops. I’ve failed, like all of nature.

anyone have that passage where pessoa said he was a 2d fag?