Since launching into the Book of Disquiet all things Portuguese keep emerging in my wanderings. This is just a perceptual shift - I am merely noticing all things Portugal and Lisbon more than usual, I am sure. Here is a painting that in my opinion plays nicely with the prose of Pessoa. I am keen to understand these affinities, and exactly what there is about Portuguese culture that appears so tantalisingly ‘simpatico’ with my current frame of mind. I have never been to Portugal and don’t know much about the place. That should change.

Luisa Jacinto, b. 1984. “Passing”, oil on canvas, 200 x 240 cm

The Book of Disquiet: Excerpts

Page 82:

When I consider all the people I know or have heard of who write prolifically or who at least produce lengthy and finished works, I feel an ambivalent envy, a disdainful admiration, an incoherent mixture of mixed feelings. The creation of something complete and whole, be it good or bad – and if it’s never entirely good, it’s very often not all bad – yes, the creation of something complete seems to stir in me above all a feeling of envy.

And I, whose self-critical spirit allows me only to see my lapses and defects, I, who dare write only passages, fragments, excerpts of the non-existent, I myself – in the little that I write – am also imperfect. Better either the complete work, which is in any case a work, even if it’s bad, or the absence of words, the unbroken silence of the soul that knows it is incapable of acting.

Page 108:

Why should I care that no one reads what I write? I write to forget about life, and I publish because that’s one of the rules of the game.

Page 136:

I’m astounded whenever I finish something. Astounded and distressed.

hoto by  Kenji Tanimura on Scopio

Fernando Pessoa wasn’t playing around. I love that.

Pessoa put his life where his mouth was, or more correctly, where his pen was - or perhaps the other way around - the life and the illegibly-scrawled prose dovetailed closely, if not perfectly or neatly: I don’t think he claimed to have perfected his chosen way of life, but then again, it was a way of life that needed no perfecting. All it needed was his commitment, which he certainly gave in his actions, or more specifically his commitment to the absence of any action, in both his personal life and in the corpus of the text.

The sheer nakedness of this undertaking is arresting. There is nothing clothing the bareness of Pessoa’s prose or the bareness of the life he lived. Well perhaps not quite nothing, there is a single contradiction here: almost nothing clothed the bareness of his existence except, of course, the proliferation of heteronyms that were undoubtedly masks and clothing of a kind.

Pessoa is my gateway. Long sought, lovingly received.

It’s a curious thing.

Over the course of my fifty years of life (so far), I have always been a reader - I still remember the first book I read myself, an adorable illustrated tale about a bear and his little furry friend (A rabbit? A squirrel?) in a snowy wood. I recall the illustrations. I must have been four or five, at least I think so.

Since childhood I have been been a constant reader and at various moments I have been captured by different writers who spoke to me at the different stages of my life. There has been Baroness Karen Blixen who also wrote as Isak Dinesen, Italo Calvino, Josep Luis Borges, Stanislaw Lem - earlier there were the science fiction giants such as Aasimov and the now-condemned Arthur C. Clarke, as well as some English writers such as George Orwell, Robert Graves and the more recent (but still late) John Mortimer.

My reading habits of a lifetime are peppered by a big mix of greats and not-so-greats, many remarkable and many other not particularly remarkable writers mixed together over five decades of reading. I have been ecumenical: Not Only Geniuses need apply. This is because I primarily have read for entertainment and engagement rather than literary edification, and my habit of reading constantly has been supported by a parallel habit of never forcing myself to finish anything that wasn’t engaging my interest. Many books remain unfinished and neglected in the litter of my personal library.

However, things had slowed down over time. Even while my impulse to write had only grown I had been increasingly finding that nothing I read was speaking directly to me. This went on on for quite some time, a period of more than ten years, in lockstep with the intensification of my writing habits.

I had continued to read and to write during this time, often daily, but little engaged my attention or fired my imagination for very long. Nothing much captured me the way books had in my earlier reading career. I found myself returning to old favourites having become frustrated with new discoveries that did little for me. I was stale, in both reading and writing: I had no model to inspire me, nothing to aspire to in my own writing and no master or pattern to emulate.

However, there were some notable exceptions. Pandaemonium was one, a book by notable British post-war social realist (and socialist) documentary film maker Humphrey Jennings. This astonishing volume is a collection of writings of many different kinds that contemporaneously observed and documented the dawning of the machine in Britain, from a variety of different perspectives. The texts are drawn from a period from 1660 to 1886. Personal letters and correspondence, poetry, articles, journal entries, essays, newspaper snippets and literary fragments taken from many different kinds of manuscript have been assembled to form the book, arranged and presented chronologically. The result is astonishing.

I discovered that book in 1996. Also about that time I discovered Italo Calvino’s Invisible Cities, but more on that and other Calvino gems, such as Six Memos for the Next Millennium, later.

And so to my recent discovery of the Book of Disquiet - a mid-pandemic discovery of 2021.

The parallels between Pandaemonium and the Book of Disquiet are several and distinct. Both books are assemblages of fragments of text (Pandaemonium of different actual authors - the Book of Disquiet of different _heteronymic_ authors). Both books were finalised and assembled, and only published, posthumously, by a good many decades. Both books were also almost Sisyphean labours: the not-quite-lifelong projects of their two progenitors.

Both books are remarkable and both books defy easy categorisation. In fact they make a joyous mockery of categorisation; the effort becomes entirely redundant, a futile and pointless labour - far too reductive in the face of such abundant riches to serve any meaningful purpose.

So that is where I have arrived. The next challenge is the next logical step: the departure.