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Tuesday, December 07, 2004

In the street/Na rua

As i contemplate my eccentric persistance in following my nose at the expense of what would make my life more comfortable, I'm reminded of a poem by Alexander Search. Search was a heteronym of Fernando Pessoa. As with all Pessoa's heteronyms he had a complete biography, history and character that was quite different from the others. And he wrote in English rather than Portuguese. There's a great site (in Portuguese) about Pessoa here. And the "magical world of Fernando Pessoa" (in English) is here. He's a fascinating post-modern character.

Anyway, here are some verses from the poem "In the Street" that I related to today:

If I were born not to aspire
Beyond the life that lead
These people whom life cannot tire,
Who chat and slumber by the fire
Contentedly indeed,
Beyond those curtains, by that light
That to the street is somwhat bright;

Could I no more aspire than these,
Were all my wishes bound
In family or social ease,
In worldly, usual jollities
Or children playing round,
Happy were I but to have then
The usual life of usual men.

But oh! I have within my heart
Things that cannot keep still -
A mystic and delirious smart
That doth a restlessness impart,
An ache, a woe, an ill;
A wearied Sysyphus I groan
Against the world's ironic stone.

Translated into Portuguese in Poesia (Assíro & Alvim), these verses (in "Na Rua") go:

Se eu tivesse nascido p'ra aspirar
A nada mais que a vida destes entes
A quem o viver não faz cansar,
Em conversa à lareira, a dormitar
Na verdade consigo bem contentes,
Por trás das cortinas, nessa luz
Que vista de fora até reluz.

Pudesse mais do que estes não querer,
Fosse todo o desejo confinado
À família, ao fácil conviver,
Às alegrias mundanas do viver,
De filhos a brincar eu rodeado,
Então seria feliz por não ter mais
Que a vida banal dos homens banais.

Mas, ai! Que dentro do meu coração
Tenho algo que não posso sossegar -
Mística e delirante aflição
Que me transmite uma inquietação,
Uma dor, um mal e um pesar;
Eu gemo como um Sísifo cansado
À pedra irónica do mundo encostado.

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