2-12-2000

FERNANDO PESSOA

 

 

 

Todas as cartas de amor são
Ridículas.
Não seriam cartas de amor se não fossem
Ridículas.

Também escrevi em meu tempo cartas de amor,
Como as outras,
Ridículas.

As cartas de amor, se há amor,
Têm de ser
Ridículas.

Mas, afinal,
Só as criaturas que nunca escreveram
Cartas de amor
É que são
Ridículas.

Quem me dera no tempo em que escrevia
Sem dar por isso
Cartas de amor
Ridículas.

A verdade é que hoje
As minhas memórias
Dessas cartas de amor
É que são
Ridículas.

(Todas as palavras esdrúxulas,
Como os sentimentos esdrúxulos,
São naturalmente
Ridículas.)

Álvaro de Campos, 21-10-1935

 

Alle Liebesbriefe sind

lächerlich.

Sie wären  nicht Liebesbriefe, wären sie nicht

lächerlich.

 

 

 Auch ich schrieb zu meiner Zeit Liebesbriefe,

wie alle anderen,

lächerlich.

 

Die Liebesbriefe

falls Liebe vorhanden ist,

sind notgedrungenermaßen

lächerlich.

 

Letztlich jedoch

sind nur die Leute, die niemals

Liebesbriefe geschrieben haben,

lächerlich.

 

Was gäbe ich um die Zeit, in der ich,

ohne es zu bemerken,

Liebesbriefe verfasste,

lächerlich!

 

Wahr ist, heute sind nur

meine Erinnerungen

an diese Liebesbriefe

lächerlich.

 

(Alle Wörter mit dem Akzent auf der drittletzten Silbe

sind wie die Gefühle

von Hause aus

lächerlich.)

 

 

 

Ó sino da minha aldeia

Ó sino da minha aldeia
dolente na tarde calma,
cada tua badalada
soa dentro da minha alma...

E é tão lento o teu soar,
tão como triste da vida,
que já a primeira pancada
tem o som de repetida.

Por mais que me tanjas perto,
quando passo, sempre errante,
és para mim como um sonho,
soas-me na alma distante.

A cada pancada tua,
vibrante no céu aberto,
sinto o passado mais longe,
sinto a saudade mais perto...

 

CAMPANA DEL MIO VILLAGGIO
 

Campana del mio villaggio
dolente nell'imbrunire,
ogni rintocco tuo
dentro di me risuona.

Così lento è il tuo suonare,
triste come di vita,
che il tuo primo rintocco
già il secondo ricorda.

Per quanto tu sia vicina
quando passo errabondo,
per me sei come un sogno,
mi suoni dentro lontana.

Ad ogni rintocco tuo,
vibrante nel cielo aperto,
è più remoto il passato,

più urgente la nostalgia.

 

 

 

 

The Truth of Masks

by Stephen Trousseé

Zbigniew Kotowicz
Fernando Pessoa: Voices of a Nomadic Soul
Menard, £8.99
ISBN 1 874320 16 0

It is one of the great enigmatic artefacts of the Twentieth Century: following Fernando Pessoa's death in 1935 (from hepatitis - he literally dissolved his identity in alcohol), researchers discovered a vast trunk overflowing with old envelopes, office stationery, handbills, stray scraps of paper and hundreds of notebooks. A merzbau of language: in a meticulous hand or a childish scrawl, with a faulty typewriter or a fancy fountain pen, Pessoa had thoroughly dispersed his self through writing. Never entirely classified until the 1960s, when it is discovered to constitute 27,543 documents, it is a remarkable legacy. In Don Paterson's phrase, it amounts to "His shredded evidence".

Researchers have now ascertained that Pessoa wrote under, or between, or through (by happy serendipity, "pessoa" is the Portuguese for "persona", literally "sounding through") in excess of seventy names. Of these, a handful cohered into heteronyms, discrete creative entities, and flourished into four of the most significant writers of the century: Caeiro, Reis, de Campos, Soares. Where Borges, Pirandello and Calvino meticulously dissect the multiplicity and vertigo of modernity, it was Pessoa's genius to embody these ideas. Like a Greek god, or a Flann O'Brien narrator, characters spring from his brow, fully-formed, to embark on mundane careers and marvellous voyages.

If modern art aspires to the condition of physics, then Rimbaud's prescient declaration of 1871, "je est un autre", may well be its e=mc2. In which case, Pessoa was the father of literary fission, exploding the coherent lyrical self into boundless possibilities. The authentic "I" is replaced with "a sinister well, full of faint echoes, inhabited by ignoble lives, slimy non-beings, lifeless slugs, the snot of subjectivity". He was to recount his discovery of the heteronyms with all the sobriety of Virginia Woolf remarking on the change in human character "on or around December 1910". For Pessoa the world changed on March 8 1914. It began in the spirit of playfulness ("I thought of playing a joke... and inventing a bucolic poet"), before taking a step into the mystic. "I wrote thirty-odd poems straight off, in a kind of ecstasy whose nature I cannot define...what followed was an apparition of someone in me, to whom I immediately gave the name Alberto Caeiro. Forgive me the absurdity of the phrase: my master had appeared in me". On the heels of Caeiro, two further poets follow in rapid succession: the melancholy classicist Ricardo Reis and the acedic futurist Álvaro de Campos.

"I desire to be a creator of myths", Pessoa wrote later, "which is the highest mystery any human being can perform". The glorious 8th is now every bit as mythologised as Bloomsday, yet subsequent manuscript analysis has proved fairly conclusively that the poems were composed on separate occasions. Nevertheless, the poetic truth is clear: what began as a ruse evolved into something authentically mysterious, not least to Pessoa himself.

Pessoa's childhood was marked by the early death of his father and several siblings, and he grew up, fluent in both Portuguese and English, in South Africa, before returning to Lisbon. From an early age he would compose letters to himself from imaginary correspondents. Harold Bloom, while gratiously admitting Pessoa to the exclusive club of the Western Canon, at the same time relegates him to a flounderer in the wake of Whitman, the heteronyms being a symptom of an agonistic struggle with the American. Kotowicz, while noting that Pessoa's anxiety of influence was more likely to have involved the Portuguese poet Camoes, suggests that the splits in Pessoa are representative of a larger fracture in Modernism, the competing claims of the artistic revolutionary and the political reactionary.

But, contra Dawkins, the explanations obscure the rainbow. As Caeiro himself wrote "Thinking about the inner sense of things / is even worse than thinking about health". Irrespective of the motivation, the proliferating personas are a delight. Caeiro is the father in the Pessoan family romance, the original vessel, of which Campos, Reis and Pessoa himself are fallen shards. "Not a pagan, but paganism itself", Caeiro is, strictly speaking, an impossible writer: a shepherd-poet supposedly living in Lisbon at the turn of the century. But he writes with the kind of clarity that the Imagists would appreciate: "Like a great blotch of filthy fire / The sunken sun stalls among remnant clouds. / From afar a vague whistle comes through the calmest afternoon. / It must be a train in the distance".

The other heteronyms bear the mark of Caiero's paganism, but never attain his unthinking contentment: Ricardo Reis, exiled in Brazil, composes wistful odes to fate. De Campos, the most interesting of the group, begins with the dynamic 'Triumphal Ode': "O factories, O laboratories, O music hall, O Luna Parks" before souring into a bitter nephew of Des Esseintes, enduring epic struggles as he packs a suitcase, preferring his opium dreams to the tawdriness of existence. In 'The Tobacconist' he writes with a wonderfully downbeat lyricism, which anticipates early Neruda: "Noble at last in the open-handed way with which I throw / The dirty linen which is me, without a laundry list, into the course of things, / And stay at home without a shirt".

Bernado Soares barely merited the title of heteronym, being so similar to Pessoa (a dismal office clerk) that he is referred to as a "mutilated self". Nevertheless, The Book of Disquietude, which he, for the most part, authored, is formally the most Pessoan of all the works. Like Cioran re-writing Hopscotch, it is a monumental treatise on dejection, consisting of stray aphoristic fragments composed over decades, for which no satisfactory order has ever been deduced. It fulfilled the author's ambition of writing the saddest book in all Portugal.

Kotowicz's extended essay provides a useful background to Pessoa's restless invention, especially on the messianic cult of Sebastianism which inspired the cryptic historiography of the long poem 'Message'. He also writes nicely of the artistic tumult in Pessoa's Lisbon. The book could have been improved by a little proof-reading: there are a number of glaring typos, including one in the sole poem that is appended. The best introduction to the writer remains the wonderful Centenary Pessoa, published by Carcanet in 1997, but Kotowicz has produced an interesting overview.

Today Pessoa maintains a mysterious currency. Quite literally: like his fellow adept of silence, exile and cunning, he has wound up on his country's banknotes. Very generously, he agreed to two posthumous interviews (both collected in the Carcanet festschrift). And in a weird way, his achievement was recognised in 1998, with the award of the Nobel prize to the Portuguese writer José Saramago, author of a book called The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis...

THE POETRY SOCIETY

 

 

 

 

FERNANDO PESSOA

(em especial sobre o LIVRO DO DESASSOSSEGO)

 

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