ADAM KIRSCH
If ever there was a writer in flight from his name, it
was Fernando Pessoa. Pessoa is the Portuguese word for
“person,” and there is nothing he less wanted to be. Again and again, in both
poetry and prose, Pessoa denied that he existed as any kind of distinctive
individual. “I’m beginning to know myself. I don’t exist,” he writes in one
poem. “I’m the gap between what I’d like to be and what others have made of
me. . . . That’s me. Period.”
In his magnum opus, “The Book of Disquiet”—a collage of aphorisms and
reflections couched in the form of a fictional diary, which he worked on for
years but never finished, much less published—Pessoa returns to the same theme:
“Through these deliberately unconnected impressions I am the indifferent
narrator of my autobiography without events, of my history without a life.
These are my Confessions and if I say nothing in them it’s because I have
nothing to say.”
This might sound like an unpromising basis for a body of
creative work that is now considered one of the greatest of the twentieth
century. If a writer is nothing, does nothing, and has nothing to say, what can
he write about? But, like the big bang, which took next to nothing and turned
it into a cosmos, the expansive power of Pessoa’s imagination turned out to
need very little raw material to work with. Indeed, he belongs to a
distinguished line of European writers, from Giacomo Leopardi, in the early
nineteenth century, to Samuel Beckett, in the twentieth, for whom nullity was a
muse. The ultimate futility of all accomplishment, the fascination of
loneliness, the way sorrow colors our perception of the world: Pessoa’s insight
into his favorite themes was purchased at a high price, but he wouldn’t have
had it any other way. “To find one’s personality by losing it—faith itself
subscribes to that sense of destiny,” he wrote.
The facts of Pessoa’s destiny are briefly told. Born in
Lisbon in 1888, he moved to South Africa at the age of seven, when his
stepfather was appointed Portuguese consul in Durban. He excelled at English,
winning prizes for his school essays, and wrote English verse throughout his
life. In 1905, he moved back to Lisbon to study at the university there. After
two years, however, a student strike shut down the campus, and Pessoa dropped
out.
For the rest of his life, he devoted himself to reading and
writing while supporting himself as a freelance translator of business
correspondence. He never married, and while biographers speculate about his
sexuality—“I was never one who in love or friendship / Preferred one
sex over the other,” he writes in one poem—it is possible that he died a
virgin. He was involved in several literary enterprises, including a famous
magazine, Orpheu, which, though it ran for only two issues, is
considered responsible for introducing modernism to Portugal. He published just
one book during his lifetime—“Message,” a collection of poems inspired by Portuguese history,
which appeared in 1934. He was a familiar figure in Lisbon’s literary world,
but when he died, in 1935, at the age of forty-seven, he had no major
achievements to his name. It might well have seemed that he had had “a history
without a life.”
But Pessoa was to have an extraordinary afterlife, as he
prophesied in his poem “If I Die Young”: “roots may be hidden in the
ground / But their flowers flower in the open air for all to
see. / It must be so. Nothing can prevent it.” Among his belongings
when he died was a large trunk, containing more than twenty-five thousand
manuscript pages—the product of a lifetime of nearly graphomaniacal
productivity. As Richard Zenith, one of his leading English translators, has
written, Pessoa composed “on loose sheets, in notebooks, on stationery from the
firms where he worked, on the backs of letters, on envelopes, or on whatever
scrap of paper happened to be in reach.”
This cache of documents, which now resides in Portugal’s
National Library, contained enough masterpieces to make Pessoa the greatest
Portuguese poet of his century—indeed, probably the greatest since Luís de
Camões, the sixteenth-century author of the country’s national epic, “The Lusiads.” Among the papers, too, were the hundreds of
entries that make up “The Book of Disquiet”—but in no particular order, leaving
successive editors to impose their own vision on the work. The first
publication of the book was in 1982, nearly fifty years after Pessoa’s death. A
newly published English translation, by Margaret Jull Costa, is called “The Book of Disquiet: The Complete Edition” (New
Directions), and it is based on a Portuguese edition by Jerónimo Pizarro,
which came out in 2013. This was the first version that attempted to put all
the entries in chronological order, as best as can be established from Pessoa’s
dating and other sources.
In addition to the size and the disorder of the Pessoa
archive, there is another confounding level of complexity: it is, in a sense,
the work of many writers. In his manuscripts, and even in personal
correspondence, Pessoa attributed much of his best writing to various fictional
alter egos, which he called “heteronyms.” Scholars have tabulated as many as
seventy-two of these. His love of invented names began early: at the age of
six, he wrote letters under the French name Chevalier de Pas, and soon moved on
to English personae such as Alexander Search and Charles Robert Anon. But the
major heteronyms he used in his mature work were more than jokey code names.
They were fully fledged characters, endowed with their own biographies,
philosophies, and literary styles. Pessoa even imagined encounters among them,
and allowed them to comment on one another’s work. If he was empty, as he liked
to claim, it was not the emptiness of a void but of a stage, where these selves
could meet and interact.
In Pessoa’s poetry, three heteronyms were crucial. In
addition to the poems he signed with his own name, he wrote as Alberto Caeiro,
an untutored child of nature; as Ricardo Reis, a melancholic doctor dedicated
to classical forms and themes; and as Alvaro de Campos, a naval engineer and
world traveller who was a devotee of Walt Whitman. Each of these personae was
assigned a date of birth within a few years of Pessoa’s own, and their
mythologies were intertwined: Pessoa once wrote a passage in which Campos
explains how Reis was fundamentally transformed by listening to a reading by
Caeiro.
Ordinarily, we expect important poets to have a distinctive
style, a way of writing that identifies them as surely as a painter is
identified by his brushstroke. But the subdivision of his selves allowed Pessoa
to have at least four such styles at once. Writing under his own name, Pessoa
is terse, metaphysical, sentimental:
I contemplate the silent pond
Whose water is stirred by a breeze.
Am I thinking about everything,
Or has everything forgotten me?
Whose water is stirred by a breeze.
Am I thinking about everything,
Or has everything forgotten me?
Reis, meanwhile, sounds like Horace or Catullus, dwelling on
the fleetingness of life and love in disciplined stanzas:
As if each kiss
Were a kiss of farewell,
Let us lovingly kiss, my Chloe.
Were a kiss of farewell,
Let us lovingly kiss, my Chloe.
Campos, at the opposite extreme, is an excitable futurist,
glorying in the power and the speed of the modern:
Pantheistic rage of awesomely feeling
With all my senses fizzing and all my pores fuming
That everything is but one speed, one energy, one divine line
From and to itself, arrested and murmuring furies of mad speed.
With all my senses fizzing and all my pores fuming
That everything is but one speed, one energy, one divine line
From and to itself, arrested and murmuring furies of mad speed.
And then there is Caeiro, who is said to have died of
tuberculosis in his mid-twenties. Revered by the other heteronyms as their
“Master,” he wrote plainspoken poems that eschew abstract thought and cleave to
the natural world, in an almost Zen spirit of wisdom:
I thank God I’m not good
But have the natural egoism of flowers
And rivers that follow their path
Unwittingly preoccupied
With only their flowering and their flowing.
But have the natural egoism of flowers
And rivers that follow their path
Unwittingly preoccupied
With only their flowering and their flowing.
For many readers, the heteronyms, with their complicated
mythology, are a large part of Pessoa’s appeal; other readers might consider
them an unnecessary and cumbersome apparatus. But they are undoubtedly one of
the elements that mark him as a supreme modernist. This was a generation of
poets that believed in what Oscar Wilde called “the truth of masks.” T. S.
Eliot, who was never more Eliotic than when he was J. Alfred Prufrock, has a
particular kinship with Pessoa. Born just months apart, both poets had a
fondness for dandyism, a contempt for the ordinary, a principled attachment to
impersonality, and a tendency to cherish unhappiness.
Pessoa, however, went beyond masking to a kind of deliberate
dissociation. In a section of “The Book of Disquiet” titled “How to Dream
Metaphysics,” he prescribes a method for dissolving consciousness, which in its
rigor resembles a manual on self-hypnosis, or a set of religious exercises.
First comes the reading of novels, which trains you to care more about a
fictional world than about the real one. Then comes the ability to physically
feel what you imagine—for instance, “the sensualist” should be able to
“experience an ejaculation when such a moment occurs in his novel.” Finally,
after several more stages, comes what Pessoa calls “the highest stage of
dreaming”: “Having created a cast of characters, we live them all, at the same
time—we are all those souls jointly and interactively.” This, of course,
is what he achieved, and if, on one side, it sounds like self-abnegation, on
another side it resembles self-worship: “I am God,” the entry concludes. After
all, if your imagination is so powerful that it can people the world, then
there is no need for the existence of actual people.
This kind of solipsism was a great temptation for Pessoa, as
“The Book of Disquiet” reveals. The material that he marked for inclusion in
the book was written in two phases, each with its own heteronym, separate from
the four characters who dominate his poetry. During the first phase, from
1913 to 1920, he attributed the work to Vicente Guedes, whom he describes in an
introductory vignette as “a man in his thirties, thin, fairly tall, very
hunched when sitting though less so when standing, and dressed with a not
entirely unself-conscious negligence.” The passage goes on to describe Guedes’s
austerity, melancholy, intelligence, and seeming insignificance—all qualities
that he shared, of course, with his creator. Thus, when Pessoa describes “The
Book of Disquiet” as “the autobiography of someone who never existed,” he is
simultaneously telling a factual truth (there was no such person as Guedes) and
making a poetic confession: he himself never lived what the world considers a
full life.
During the nineteen-twenties, Pessoa set the book aside,
turning his attention to poetry and indulging a lifelong fascination with
occultism and astrology. When he returned to it, in 1929, he had reimagined its
author. Now it was to be the work of Bernardo Soares, an assistant bookkeeper
in a Lisbon fabric company. Soares, too, is spiritually akin to Pessoa: indeed,
Pessoa wrote that he was only a “semi-heteronym,” because “his personality,
though not my own, doesn’t differ from my own but is a mere mutilation of it.”
Soares is a more fully imagined character than his predecessor, Guedes. He
makes observations about his neighborhood of Baixa, his workplace in the Rua
dos Douradores, and his boss, Vasques, in a way that gives the second phase of
the book a more novelistic feeling. Indeed, the Penguin Classics edition of
“The Book of Disquiet,” edited by Richard Zenith, places a number of these
passages near the beginning, smoothing the reader’s entry with a kind of
miniature narrative.
The chronological method of the new edition precludes any
kind of thematic organization, and the result is a book that is less
approachable than its predecessor. This is partly because it opens with the
weakest material, which dates from when Pessoa was a twenty-five-year-old
heavily under the influence of French Symbolism and the Decadent Movement, of
the eighteen-nineties. (Portugal seems to have been about a generation behind
the literary mean time of Paris and London.) “My soul is a hidden orchestra,”
the first entry reads. “I do not know what instruments, what violins and harps,
drums and tambours sound and clash inside me. I know myself only as a
symphony.”
This passage sets the tone for the florid prose poetry that
dominates the first part of the work. Some entries have ponderous titles, such
as “Litany of Despair” or “An Aesthetics of Abdication.” Others consist of impressionistic
sketches of skies and landscapes, as in “Rainy Day”: “The air is a concealed
yellow, like a pale yellow seen through a grubby white.” There are perverse
reveries about nameless women who are half Virgin Mary, half Belle Dame Sans
Merci: “You are the only form that does not radiate tedium, because you change
with our feelings, because, in kissing our joy, you cradle our grief and
tedium, you are the opium that comforts and the sleep that brings rest, and the
death that gently folds our hands on our breast.”
If this were all that “The Book of Disquiet” contained, it
would not be a modern masterpiece but a time capsule. Still, it was from the
late-nineteenth-century cult of decadence that the first seeds of modernism
germinated; and in Pessoa the transition from the nineteenth century to the
twentieth is fascinatingly visible. Decadence was founded on an impertinent
reversal of the values of the time: in place of hard work and moral
earnestness, writers like Wilde and Joris-Karl Huysmans elevated imaginative
indolence and provocative paradox. For the young Pessoa, this message
resonated, since it turned his own tendency toward hesitation and withdrawal
into an artistic virtue. “I never try too hard,” he writes in a 1915 entry.
“Fortune, if it so wishes, may come and find me. I know all too well that my
greatest efforts will never meet with the success that others enjoy.”
As he grew older, however, and particularly once he returned
to “The Book of Disquiet” in his forties, Pessoa fashioned this literary pose
into something more serious and sharp-edged. It became a kind of metaphysical
nihilism, in which the great truth the artist had to communicate was that
nothing matters. Crucial to this shift was the decision to drop Guedes, with
his rhetorical grandeur, and speak through Soares, who lacks glamour of any
kind. Indeed, with his shabby rented room and his boring, repetitive job,
Soares is as ordinary as can be—the kind of person an aesthete would recoil
from, or simply not notice. In “The Waste Land,” Eliot saw crowds of people
like Soares flowing over London Bridge and considered them as already dead: “I
had not thought death had undone so many.”
For Pessoa, however, the ultimate paradox is that it is
precisely this living death that offers the best vantage point on human
existence. If you had to describe Soares in one word, it would be “undeceived”:
because he wants nothing, he can see through everything. “Yes, that’s what
tedium is: the loss by the soul of its capacity to delude itself,” Pessoa writes.
Among the things that fail to impress him in “The Book of Disquiet” are travel
(“The idea of travelling makes me feel physically sick”), politics (“All
revolutionaries are as stupid as all reformers”), and love (“I’ve had neither
the patience nor the concentration of mind to want to make that effort”).
History is conspicuously absent from Pessoa’s work: though he lived through the
First World War, and a series of political crises in Portugal that resulted in
the establishment of a Fascist regime, he rigorously excludes such matters from
his consideration. He seems at his happiest simply observing the weather, and
many entries include quiet descriptions of the sun and sky, the rain and
clouds.
This indifferentism is hard to reconcile with the effort and
the artistry that Pessoa devoted to his work. If nothing is worth doing, why
write twenty-five thousand pages? At times, he suggests that thinking and
writing are simply a way of killing time—an occupation for the mind the way
crocheting is for the hands, as he says in his poem “Impassively”:
I also have my crochet.
It dates from when I began to think.
Stitch on stitch forming a whole without a whole . . .
A cloth, and I don’t know if it’s for a garment or nothing.
It dates from when I began to think.
Stitch on stitch forming a whole without a whole . . .
A cloth, and I don’t know if it’s for a garment or nothing.
If thinking is considered the mere absence of activity, then
it might well look like a repudiation of life, and “The Book of Disquiet” is
shot through with expressions of boredom, regret, and despair. At the same
time, however, Pessoa is convinced that thinking is the greatest of adventures,
far superior to any possible action. Indeed, since we never have access to the
world except through our private perceptions and ideas, action in the world is,
strictly speaking, unnecessary. Why do things when you can imagine them? In
this way, Soares the clerk turns out to be the ultimate aristocrat, who has no
need of things like accomplishment and status, because he considers himself
infinitely superior to them. “The higher a man rises up the scale, the more
things he must relinquish. On the mountain peak there is only room for that man
alone,” Soares says, sounding rather like Nietzsche’s Zarathustra. Writing is
both the reason for and the proof of this superiority:
“Literature . . . seems to me the goal towards which all human
effort should be directed.”
In its alternations between self-loathing and
self-exaltation, “The Book of Disquiet” can seem like a quintessentially
manic-depressive epic. Pessoa’s achievement, deliberate or inadvertent, is to
show how the roots of a certain kind of misery lie in solipsism—the belief that
nothing outside the self really matters, so that the mind can never be truly
affected by what it experiences. “Freedom is the possibility of isolation,” he
writes in the final entry. “If you cannot live alone, then you were born a
slave.” But even Pessoa, finally, could not live alone; he kept himself company
by inventing his heteronyms, which, unlike actual people, would always remain
under his control. Only death could free them—and him—from his imagination’s
all too powerful grip. ♦
This article appears in other versions of the September
4, 2017, issue, with the headline “Voices from the Void.”
- Adam
Kirsch directs the M.A. program in Jewish Studies at Columbia University.
His new book, “The People and the Books,” comes out in October.
__
De THE NEW YORKER, 04/09/2017Ilustración: Riccardo Vecchio
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