Sometimes, in biographies, the proper emphasis is not given, or we do not pay enough attention to the times when the subject is helped, encouraged, or spurred on by someone whom the biography ends up overshadowing. One thinks of that anonymous Uncle Cunha, whose importance in the upbringing of the young Fernando Pessoa cannot even be estimated, but was certainly beneficial and fundamental. People like this, like angels, tend to appear only a few times in a lifetime; they exert a decisive influence, but with a subtlety that is often lost over time, frequently leaving no record other than those that should remain forever in the consciousness. It is up to the beneficiary never to forget them: neither when, perhaps, he finds himself in higher realms; nor when he falls and is assailed by the unjustified thought that this earth is deprived of goodness.
Category: Notes
Behaviorism Had the Misfortune…
Behaviorism had the misfortune of being developed by minds with little philosophical depth, who relied on sound experiments but drew flawed conclusions. It certainly taught us a thing or two, but it is now little more than a relic in modern psychology. This is a shame. There was a vast field for proving, through endless avenues, the following truth: man is drawn to the human; the ox to the bovine. Always.
If an Author Takes a Moment to Reflect…
If an author takes a moment to reflect, he will discover that he always has something to teach someone. And if, instead of following the irresistible tendency to imitate what others have done, he focuses on teaching, to the best of his ability but with sincerity and purity of intention, what he knows to those who do not, he will surely gain at least one good reader. But it turns out that, in doing so, he discovers that he knows more than he thought, learns more than he knew before, and manages, all at once, to grow and create something of value.
The Problem With Writing an “Ode to the Futile”…
The problem with writing an “ode to the futile,” as some poets have done, is that the moment the reader encounters such a poem, continuing to read it means accepting the role of someone interested in the author’s trivialities. Most, of course, accept it, and accept it enthusiastically, and such a poem may possess the genius of resembling, through its words, a television program. But here’s the thing: no one is interested in programs from the past decade, because everything futile possesses this attribute that condemns it to oblivion—it is, necessarily, transient.