Tag: literature

What to say about this Maritime Ode? Without a doubt, the most powerful gust of a brilliant work. Fernando Pessoa, a master in poetic subtlety, in the ability to leave the meaning of his verses in the air, to stimulate infinite interpretations, to create a reflective, mystical, intriguing, and contradictory atmosphere, to meticulously represent the most diverse manifestations, makes his most vivid dimension burst out in this Maritime Ode, taking it to the extreme of euphoria. Structurally, a perfect dramatic construction, a progression whose climax is complete ecstasy and the ending returns to the initial reflective state, loading it with emotion. Technically, showy influence of Walt Whitman, in an almost exhaustion of images and triggers in order to fully engender the desired atmosphere. The poem grows and the reader shivers, feels his blood heat up, experiences adrenaline peaks. Very strong extremes, penetrating images in words that seem to stir on paper. How many works elicit a similar feeling? This Maritime Ode, a poem perhaps without equal in universal literature, is proof that the genius Fernando Pessoa is among the greatest artists of all time.

It is interesting to notice that two of the three fundamental elements of symbolism according to Valéry’s definition —stérilité, préciosité— sum up with great precision the work of Augusto dos Anjos. True, unlike Rimbaud, Verlaine, and Baudelaire, Augustos dos Anjos’ stérilité is the result of a premature death, and not of a voluntary act. In any case, it is admissible: sterility brought potency, either in the French or in Augusto—the latter, owner of perhaps the strongest images ever registered in Portuguese verse.

I have thought a lot, a lot about Nelson Rodrigues, the first and perhaps most important of my masters. The absence of retirement, the illnesses, the censures, the tragedies… all of this molding a conception of the world. The sad and thoughtful look at the corrupted nature of man. The unbelievable succession of misfortunes, the aging process accompanied by continuous breakups, the courage to walk towards death. And yet, the good humor, the immortal irony, and the ability to see light where there seems to be none.

Three months without composing a single, solitary verse. My mind boiling like never before. As an excuse, the other jobs and the stupid imperative of necessity. On more than one occasion, the feeling of a near explosion, the call of the mind to record in art the powerful and terrible judgment, the cry in verse form. And, alas, the silence, the rational inaction to let the impulse slow down. Indeed, it does slow down—and fate has another chance. In vain, however, for it will surely return…