I have in me like a mist that is and contains nothing nostalgia for nothing at all, the desire for something fine. I am enveloped by it as if by a fog and I see the last star glowing above the stub in my ashtray I smoked life away. How uncertain all I saw or read! And the whole world, a vast open book, smiles at me in an unknown language.
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love him. Read Disquiet several versions translated. Reading now (attempting to) in the original. Visited casa pessoa when in Portugal. where he lived. for a time. with his family. Also love very much another writer who wrote in Portuguese but she is from brazil, Clarice Lispector.
He bought me breakfast once. I was in London. Coming for a bookstore. Blew all my cash for the week on a wonderful book in French about Pessoa. Stopped for a coffee. Sitting at counter, explained to the handsome waiter, couldnt afford anything else as I just blew all my money on this lovely book about a poet I was :involved with named Fernando Pessoa. Pulled out book and hugged it. Turns out it was a Portuguese restaurant. And the waiter was himself from Portugal. And they all love their Pessoa. So, I had to buy the orange juice, but got the rest of my breakfast for free.