by
Lauren Groff
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Because it’s true: more than the highlights, the bright events, it was in the small and the daily where she’d found life. The hundreds of times she’d dug in the soil of her garden, each time the satisfying chew of spade through soil, so often that this action, the pressure and release and rich dirt smell, delineated the warmth she’d found in that house in the cherry orchard. Or this: every day they woke in the same place, her husband waking her up with a cup of coffee, the cream still swirling into the black. Almost unremarked upon, this kindness. He would kiss her on the crown of her head before leaving, and she’d feel something in her rising through her body to meet him. These silent intimacies made their marriage, not the ceremonies or parties or opening nights or occasions or spectacular fucks.
“Who cares. She loved you. A good wife. Made your life beautiful, calm. Did the bills. You never worried about a thing.”
“We were married for twenty-three years, and she never told me she’d been a whore. Or an adulteress. Or both. Hard to tell. Pretty huge lie of omission.”
“Huge thing’s your ego. Awful that you weren’t the only man for her. Girl scrubs your toilets for twenty-three years, you begrudge her the life she had when you weren’t around.”
“But she lied,” he said.
“Please. Marriage is made of lies. Kind ones, mostly. Omissions. If you give voice to the things you think every day about your spouse, you’d crush them to paste. She never lied. Just never said.”
<3
[...] Campos was the dynamic, free-spirited heteronym—a bisexual dandy who studied in Glasgow, traveled to the Orient, and lived it up in London, acting out many things Pessoa dreamed of but never dared to do. Or never cared to? Whatever the case, Pessoa had no reason to regret having delegated his adventurous streak to Campos, who eventually wearied of his boisterous, footloose existence, coming home to Lisbon and to the realization that all his travels and shenanigans had been quite useless, since, as he had already discerned in an early poem, “however much I felt I never felt enough,/ And life always pained me, it was always too little, and I was unhappy.” So that Campos, besides sparing his creator the bother of living, vindicated Pessoa’s decision to let himself be spared.
[...] The only way Pessoa could conceive of being a poet was by not being, by pretending, by achieving complete insincerity:
The poet is a faker
Who’s so good at his act
He even fakes the pain
Of pain he feels in fact.
And those who read his words
Will feel in what he wrote
Neither of the pains he has
But just the one they don’t.
ahh!!!
From “Autopsychography”
Or should we call those writings an expanding universe? Over the last ten years, as new texts from the archives have been transcribed and published and with many new players entering the picture, Fernando Pessoa & Co. has proved to be a larger, more complex enterprise than anyone had imagined. When Pessoa called his heteronymic venture a drama, he meant it quite literally, for his personae interacted, with him and with each other. They collaborated on publication projects, critiqued, and even translated one another. To use a trendy term, they networked. And so, in the heyday of Sensationism, his most fruitful literary theory, Pessoa invented Antonio de Seabra to serve as one of its critics and Sher Henay to compile an English-language “Sensationist Anthology,” which —had it been executed—would have featured work by Álvaro de Campos and Alberto Caeiro, the movement’s two most illustrious practitioners. Another movement, Neo-paganism, was ardently defended by Pessoa’s philosophical persona, Antonio Mora, who wrote at length about the importance of Alberto Caeiro and Ricardo Reis for the cause. Interaction was most intense among the main writer-characters, with Campos and Reis frequently commenting on Caeiro’s poetry, usually in glowing terms, while they were rather harsher on each other’s work.
amazing?
Any nostalgia I feel is literary. I remember my childhood with tears, but they’re rhythmic tears, in which prose is already being formed. . . . I feel nostalgia for scenes. Thus someone else’s childhood can move me as much as my own; both are purely visual phenomena from a past I’m unable to fathom, and my perception of them is literary. They move me, yes, but because I see them, not because I remember them.
Disquietude, p 125
In what appears to be a cynical act of self-promotion, some of today’s theorists are building high-visibility careers on their “discovery” that the subject is a fiction, that there is only text born of text and leading to more text. Pessoa, acting on better faith, lived out the textual dream, or nightmare, paying the logical price of self-effacement, and he was well aware of the limits and potentialities of his enterprise and of verbal expression in general. Consider the following observation, which many a deconstructionist could subscribe to without qualms:
Everything stated or expressed by man is a note in the margin of a completely erased text. From what’s in the note we can extract the gist of what must have been in the text, but there’s always a doubt, and the possible meanings are many.
from disquietude p 88
[...] The opposite of Faust, this troubled Portuguese soul traded in real life for the spiritual world of his writing. Perhaps most writers do this to some extent, but who has annulled himself like Pessoa? Not Joyce. Not Pound. Not even Franz Kafka. We can see Joyce as the brilliant conductor of his daringly dissonant narratives. We can see Pound hyper-actively promoting literary, political, and personal causes. We can see Kafka suffering—as it were in his own flesh—the agony of his negative metamorphoses. With Pessoa all we can visualize is what a handful of surviving photos show: a materialized nondescriptness endowed with a mustache. Pessoa was no language master à la Joyce or Pound. He wrote careful, elegant Portuguese, inventing new locutions and recasting worn-out clichés, but his project was not to deform and reform words and syntax. His project was the universe, with himself as the raw material. He was the object clay, endlessly molded, twisted, divided, and reworked by his writing. And in this autometamorphosis there was no torment or suffering à la Kafka. As if following the recommendation of a Reis poem to “Leave pain on the altar/ As an offering to the gods,” Pessoa stoically endured nonsuffering.
love this writing
And the man fell silent, looking at the sunset.
But what good is a sunset to one who hates and loves?
PERHAPS THOSE WHO ARE GOOD AT SEEING ARE POOR AT FEELING
Perhaps those who are good at seeing are poor at feeling
And do not enchant because they don’t know how to act.
There are ways for doing all things,
And love also has its way.
Those whose way of seeing a field is by seeing the grass
Cannot have the blindness that makes a man stir feelings.
I loved, and was not loved, which I only saw in the end,
For one is not loved as one is born but as may happen.
She still has beautiful lips and hair, like before.
And I am still alone in the field, like before.
I think this and my head lifts up
As if it had been bent down,
And the divine sun dries the small tears I can’t help but have.
How vast the field is and how tiny love!
I look, and I forget, as the world buries and trees lose their leaves.
Because I am feeling, I cannot speak.
I listen to my voice as if it belonged to another.
And my voice speaks of her as if this other were speaking.
Her hair is yellow-blond like wheat in bright sunlight,
And when she speaks, her mouth utters things not told by words.
She smiles, and her teeth gleam like the river’s stones.
18 NOVEMBER 1929