I have recorded, in these Notes, how amazed I was to go through the three-month diary kept by Pessoa at the age of twenty-four. I remember comparing him to myself at that age, and saying that his routine, to an animal of my species, seemed like literature. What to say, now, when reading the same phase described by Richard Zenith? Fernando Pessoa, no doubt, was much more concerned than I am with posterity. Burning in months an inheritance that could afford him, according to his biographer, a modest life for several years; immersed in debt, rejecting outright the idea of having a “normal” job and instead writing a letter asking a multimillionaire philanthropist for money… This is the kind of attitude that makes a biography worthwhile! And to think that I never thought of such an idea! Instead of sending CVs, send letters asking for money! There is no arguing about how much more fun a biography like this is: how can it be compared to another one of someone who chooses to clock in from Monday to Friday, in an evident lack of creativity? Not to mention the inheritance, which stupidly incinerated makes the biography much more interesting to us…
There Are No More Despicable Human Models…
There are no more despicable human models than those who, when faced with real or imaginary inferiority, make a point of humiliating. Words are lacking… Such a manifestation of bad nature only occurs in vile spirits, deserving of the fullest contempt in all spheres. The satisfaction they derive from this arrogance, which seems to elevate their sense of importance, should, in a just world, be followed by a humiliation so complete that it would forbid, until the end of their lives, the mere idea that they might perhaps be superior to someone else in something.
Few Things Are as Delightful…
Few things are as delightful as planning and foreseeing, in this act, everything happening as foreseen. And then allow oneself to sail on the placid waters of optimism, rejoicing in advance because the planning will go well. What a satisfaction! The best thing is to always be able to do it, and always enjoy this expansive and invigorating feeling that only innocence is capable of delivering.
Literature Does Not Need Readers
Literature, contrary to what it may seem, does not need readers in order for it to survive. In fact, it does not need any readers, ever—a handful of true artists is enough. As long as there is someone, like Pessoa, who sees in Antero a brother in spirit, literature will endure. And it does not matter that humanity does not know these men, that the overwhelming majority will never hear a word about them: all it takes is for one of them to be born, and fulfill the mission of putting another link in the chain.