Did the discovery of autism reduce many literary characters' problems into a simple neurological thing? Hamlet, Underground Man, and Holden Caufield are all figures literary critics love to analyze and explore their meaning or whatever but all of that becomes pretty pointless when you find out they all just have autism.
It's a mixture of well written literature with some anti-neitzschean philosophy. The dude could write but oh boy was he an insecure pussy.
For me the novel was a constant reflection of his own life from several angles (possibly why he goes under many pseudonyms), where he layers questions upon questions without reaching an answer. It was unique, but I felt frustrated that he just wold dive deeper and deeper in his own insecurities.
Do you realize that, at least part of the book, is supposed to be written by one of Pessoa's heteronym - Bernardo Soares; Yeah, surely, later the person of Soares somewhat dissolves with Pessoa (as well as in the case of later poems by Álvaro de Campos), but noone can be sure, especially since the whole fuckin book was in the chest, on separate papers and so on. Surely, personality of Pessoa would probably somehow fit, BUT it's imo huge simplification and misunderstading to take The Book of disquiet as just 'tumblr diary'.
>>7620029 I said anti neitzschean because of all the questions he asks, yet never has that moment of realization or finality...like the neitzschean hero has, standing atop of a mountain saying I've finally conquered it
>>7620067 As well as he created a ton of heteronyms and they have their own meaning. Is Alberto Caeiro whole Pessoa? I don't think so, it's part of Pessoa but definitely not the whole, same for Álvaro de Campos.
I'm not sure if it was some sort of game (like that Pessoa created biographies of some heteronyms, he even wrote fictional critics for those poets and so on), or if it was a necessity for him. And it doesn't matter if it was one or another.
Some analogy would be Kierkegaard, he used pseudonyms to discuss things from different points of view. The fictional writer who wrote Seducer's diary wasn't whole Kierkegaard (even though he possibly related to that position) and so on.
I hope I was able to make more clear what I meant to say.
>>7620130 Nothing irks me more than the vocabulary of social responsibility. The very word ‘duty’ is unpleasant to me, like an unwanted guest. But the terms ‘civic duty’, ‘solidarity’, ‘humanitarianism’ and others of the same ilk disgust me like rubbish dumped out of a window right on top of me. I’m offended by the implicit assumption that these expressions pertain to me, that I should find them worthwhile and even meaningful.
I recently saw in a toy-shop window some objects that reminded me exactly of what these expressions are: make-believe dishes filled with make-believe tidbits for the miniature table of a doll. For the real, sensual, vain and selfish man, the friend of others because he has the gift of speech and the enemy of others because he has the gift of life, what is there to gain from playing with the dolls of hollow and meaningless words?
Government is based on two things: restraint and deception. The problem with those glittering expressions is that they neither restrain nor deceive. At most they intoxicate, which is something else again.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a reformer. A reformer is a man who sees the world’s superficial ills and sets out to cure them by aggravating the more basic ills. A doctor tries to bring a sick body into conformity with a normal, healthy body, but we don’t know what’s healthy or sick in the social sphere.
I see humanity as merely one of Nature’s latest schools of decorative painting. I don’t distinguish in any fundamental way between a man and a tree, and I naturally prefer whichever is more decorative, whichever interests my thinking eyes. If the tree is more interesting to me than the man, I’m sorrier to see the tree felled than to see the man die. There are departing sunsets that grieve me more than the deaths of children. I keep my own feelings out of everything, in order to be able to feel.
To submit to nothing, whether to a man or a love or an idea, and to have the aloof independence of not believing in the truth or even (if it existed) in the usefulness of knowing it – this seems to me the right attitude for the intellectual inner life of those who can’t live without thinking. To belong is synonymous with banality. Creeds, ideals, a woman, a profession – all are prisons and shackles. To be is to be free. Even ambition, if we take pride in it, is a hindrance; we wouldn’t be proud of it if we realized it’s a string by which we’re pulled. No: no ties even to ourselves! Free from ourselves as well as from others, contemplatives without ecstasy, thinkers without conclusions and liberated from God, we will live the few moments of bliss allowed us in the prison yard by the distraction of our executioners. Tomorrow we will face the guillotine. Or if not tomorrow, then the day after. Let us stroll about in the sun before the end comes, deliberately forgetting all projects and pursuits. Without wrinkles our foreheads will glow in the sun, and the breeze will be cool for those who quit hoping.
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