"I gathered every flower's soul to write it, and from the fleeting moments of every song of every bird I wove eternity and stagnation. A steady weaver, I sat at the window of my life and forgot that I lied there and existed, shrouding my tedium in the chaste linens I wove for the altars of my silence." Excerpt from 'Peristyle'
"The indefinable breathing of the saps' deep pulsing...oak trees full of knotty centuries made our feet trip over the dead tentacles of their roots...the paths hidden among the brush!...poppies that would remain hidden if their deep red didn't betray them, violets toward the verdant borders of camellias with no scent..." Excerpt from 'In The Forest Of Estrangement'
"We don't even know if what ends with daylight terminates in us as useless grief, or if we are just an illusion among shadows, and reality just this vast silence without wild ducks that falls over the lakes where straight and stiff weeds swoon" Excerpt from 'A Factless Autobiography'
"To make a decision, to finalize something, to emerge from the realm of doubt and obscurity - these are things that seem to me like catastrophes or universal cataclysms...Even the sun discourages and depresses me. Only at night and all alone, withdrawn, forgotten and lost, with no connection to anything real or useful - only then do I find myself and feel comforted." Excerpt from ‘Apocalyptic Feeling'
"To love is to tire of being alone; it is therefore a cowardice, a betrayal of ourselves (It's exceedingly important that we not love)." Excerpt from 'Maxims'
"We never know when we're sincere. Perhaps we never are. And even if we're sincere about something today, tomorrow we may be sincere about its complete opposite." Excerpt from 'A Factless Autobiography'
"Flame transformed into halo, absent presence, rhythmic and female silence, twilight of wispy flesh, goblet that was left out of the banquet, stained-glass window of some painter-dream from the Middle Ages of another Earth." Excerpt from 'Peristyle'
"...sequestered sensations felt in a body that is not our physical body and yet is physical in its own way, with subtleties that fall between the complex and the simple...lakes where pellucid hint of muted gold hovers, hazily divested of ever having been materialized, and no doubt through tortuous refinements, a lily in sheer white hands..." Excerpt from 'Milky Way'
"Like all men endowed with great mental mobility, I have an irrevocable, organic love of settledness. I abhor new ways of life and unfamiliar places." Excerpt from 'A Factless Autobiography'
The Book of Disquiet is a humble compendium of works by Portuguese author Fernando Pessoa (1888–1935). Each segment of the collection, no matter a few lines or pages in length, is a fragmented timeline of the authors life —first published in Portuguese in 1982, 47 years after Pessoa's death.