I’d like to run away, to flee from what I know, from what is mine, from what I love. I want to set off, not for some impossible Indies or for the great islands that lie far to the south of all other l...
If I write what I feel, it's to reduce the fever of feeling. What I confess is unimportant, because everything is unimportant.
I am tired of myself in every way. All things, deep down to the secret of their roots, are stained by the color of my weariness.
Happy the creators of pessimistic systems! Besides taking refuge in the fact of having made something, they can exult in their explanation of universal suffering, and include themselves in it.I don't...
Being eternally at a point where two paths fork!
I'll be living quietly in a house somewhere in the suburbs, enjoying a peaceful existence not writing the book I'm not writing now and, so as to continue not doing so, I will come up with different ex...
Great mysteries inhabit the threshold of my being.
The poet is a faker / Who's so good at his act / He even fakes the pain / Of pain he feels in fact.
انتظرتك ساعتينسأنتظرك سنتينهل انتظر بعد!
We worship perfection because we can't have it; if we had it, we would reject it. Perfection is inhuman, because humanity is imperfect.
To write is to forget. Literature is the most agreeable way of ignoring life. Music soothes, the visual arts exhilarates, the performing arts (such as acting and dance) entertain. Literature, however,...
Se escrevo o que sinto é porque assim diminuo a febre de sentir.
Saudades, só portuguesesConseguem senti-las bem.Porque têm essa palavraPara dizer que as têm.
Não sou nada.Nunca serei nada.Não posso querer ser nada.À parte isso, tenho em mim todos os sonhos do mundo.
My whole life has been a battle lost on the map. Cowardice didn't even make it to the battlefield, where perhaps it would have dissipated; it haunted the chief of staff in his office, all alone with h...
I have no philosophy, I have senses . . . If I speak of Nature it’s not because I know what it is But because I love it, and for that very reason, Because those who love never know what they love Or w...
I feel love for all this, perhaps because I have nothing else to love ... even though nothing truly merits the love of any soul, if, out of sentiment, we must give it, I might as well lavish it on the...
Conta a lenda que dormiaUma Princesa encantadaA quem só despertariaUm Infante, que viriaDe além do muro da estrada.Ele tinha que, tentado,Vencer o mal e o bem,Antes que, já libertado,Deixasse o caminh...
Beside my pain, all other pains seem false or insignificant. They are the pains of happy people or of people who are alive enough to complain. Mine is the pain of someone imprisoned in life, cut off …
12.Se escrevo o que sinto é porque assim diminuo a febre de sentir. O que confesso não tem importância, pois nada tem importânciaPor: Bernado SoaresIn: Livro do Desassossego