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Fernando Pessoa Biography

Fernando Pessoa

Fernando António Nogueira Pessoa (Portuguese: [fɨɾˈnɐ̃dw pɨˈsoɐ]; 13 June 1888 – 30 November 1935), commonly known as Fernando Pessoa, was a Portuguese poet, writer, literary critic, translator, publisher and philosopher, described as one of the most significant literary figures of the 20th century and one of the greatest poets in the Portuguese language. He also wrote in and translated from English and French.

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Fernando Pessoa Quotes

Humanitarianism is rude.

Humanitarianism, Rude

Tomorrow I too - this feeling and thinking soul, the universe I am to myself - yes, tomorrow I too will be someone who no longer walks the streets, someone others will evoke with a vague: 'I wonder what's become of him?' And everything I do, everything I feel, everything I experience, will be just one less passer-by on the daily streets of some city or other.

Become, Cities, Feeling, Soul, Thinking, Vague

There are metaphors more real than the people who walk in the street.

Real, People, Metaphor, Metaphors, Walk

I never was but an isolated bon vivant, which is absurd; or a mystic bon vivant, which is an impossible thing.

Absurd, Impossible Things, Isolated, Mystic, Vivant

Liberty is the possibility of isolation.

Isolation, Liberty, Possibility

Every day things happen in the world that cannot be explained by any law of things we know. Every day they're mentioned and forgotten, and the same mystery that brought them takes them away, transforming their secret into oblivion. Such is the law by which things that can't be explained must be forgotten. The visible world goes on as usual in the broad daylight. Otherness watches us from the shadows.

Day, Law, Mentioned, Oblivion, Secret, Shadow

To think is to destroy.

Destroy, Think, Thinking

Whenever someone tells me he dreamed, I wonder if he realizes that he has never done anything but dream.

Done, Dream, Dreamed, Realizes, Tells, Wonder

God gave the sea the danger and the abyss, but it was in it that He mirrored the sky.

Danger, God, Mirrored, Mirrors, Sea, Sky

I sometimes think, with a sad delight, that if one day, in a future I no longer belong to, these sentences, that I write, last with praise, I will at last have the people who understand me, those mine, the true family to be born in and be loved. . . I will only be understood in effigy, when affection no longer repays the dead the unaffection that was, when living.

Born, Delight, People, Think, Thinking, Writing

I'm the empty stage where various actors act out various plays.

Actors, Empty, Play, Plays, Stage, Various

I read and am liberated. I acquire objectivity. I cease being myself and so scattered. And what I read, instead of being like a nearly invisible suit that sometimes oppresses me, is the external world’s tremendous and remarkable clarity, the sun that sees everyone, the moon that splotches the still earth with shadows, the wide expanses that end in the sea, the blackly solid trees whose tops greenly wave, the steady peace of ponds on farms, the terraced slopes with their paths overgrown by grape-vines.

Cease, Liberated, Moon, Objectivity, Sea, Slopes

The unnatural and the strange have a perfume of their own

Perfume, Strange, Unnatural

If this be to have sense, if to be awake Be but to see this bright, great sleep of things, For the rarer potion mine own dreams I'll take And for truth commune with imaginings

Awake, Dream, Potion, See, Sleep

In this metallic age of barbarians, only a relentless cultivation of our ability to dream, to analyse and to captivate can prevent our personality from degenerating into nothing or else into a personality like all the rest.

Age, Captivate, Cultivation, Dream, Personality, Rest

I never cared about whatever tragic event happened in China. It's faraway decoration, even if in blood and plague.

Blood, China, Decoration, Events, Faraway

On the road halfway between faith and criticism stands the inn of reason. Reason is faith in what can be understood without faith, but it's still a faith, since to understand presupposes that there's something understandable.

Criticism, Philosophical, Reason, Stands, Understand

We never love anyone. What we love is the idea we have of someone. It's our own concept—our own selves—that we love.

Idea, Ideas, Love, Love Is, Self

To love is to tire of being alone; it is therefore a cowardice, a betrayal of ourselves. (It is exceedingly important that we not love. )

Alone, Betrayal, Exceedingly, Important, Love Is, Tire

God wills, man dreams, the work is born.

Born, Dream, God, Man, Men, Work

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