Born on this day in 1888 was that strange, fascinating, very Portuguese - quintessentially Lisbonese - writer whose natal name was Fernando Pessoa. There's a good essay on him - and, in particular, on The Book Of Disquiet - by John Gray here (though I'm not sure I go along with Gray's equation of 'the postmodern condition' with individual loss of a single strong identity). Gray doesn't mention that, though born in Lisbon, Pessoa spent his early years in Durban, where his stepfather was Portuguese consul, and his first published poems appeared in, of all things, the Natal Mercury. He was 17 when he returned to Lisbon, and he never left it again. It was the perfect city for him to live his life of determined obscurity and boredom (tedio) - as Gray says, 'no one has lived an ineffectual life as intrepidly as Pessoa did, or written about it with such insight and charm' - or through so bewilderingly many aliases. His literary career was barely noticeable - the creation of a short-lived modernist magazine and the publication of some poems and other odds and ends, in English. When he died, he had published only one unsung work in Portuguese. His legacy was the inchoate treasure trove that became, one way and another, The Book Of Disquiet.
Saturday, 13 June 2009
Intrepidly Ineffectual
Born on this day in 1888 was that strange, fascinating, very Portuguese - quintessentially Lisbonese - writer whose natal name was Fernando Pessoa. There's a good essay on him - and, in particular, on The Book Of Disquiet - by John Gray here (though I'm not sure I go along with Gray's equation of 'the postmodern condition' with individual loss of a single strong identity). Gray doesn't mention that, though born in Lisbon, Pessoa spent his early years in Durban, where his stepfather was Portuguese consul, and his first published poems appeared in, of all things, the Natal Mercury. He was 17 when he returned to Lisbon, and he never left it again. It was the perfect city for him to live his life of determined obscurity and boredom (tedio) - as Gray says, 'no one has lived an ineffectual life as intrepidly as Pessoa did, or written about it with such insight and charm' - or through so bewilderingly many aliases. His literary career was barely noticeable - the creation of a short-lived modernist magazine and the publication of some poems and other odds and ends, in English. When he died, he had published only one unsung work in Portuguese. His legacy was the inchoate treasure trove that became, one way and another, The Book Of Disquiet.
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A sort of "Nuggets from the Portuguese", then?
ReplyDeleteApart from the spelling error, obviously.
ReplyDeleteSome friends taught English in Lisbon in the late 1970s, from their reenactment of their time there it (apart from the odd Revolução dos Cravos) must have remained a static city since Pessoa's time. They described it as Surbiton with Dao.
ReplyDeleteIn the late seventies in the hills north of Lagos a substantial villa complete with a Daimler Benz in the garage could be had for £2000. Hey ho.
The Portuguese, being our oldest allies, are a wonderfull people, what on earth have they done to deserve the English.
Thanks for the reminder, Nige. When I interviewed a Portuguese biologist some years ago, he flowered when I mentioned my admiration of Pessoa. He was proud an American knew the great poet's work. Politically, Jose Saramago is a cretin but I recommend his novel The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis. The eponymous heteronym returns to Portugal after Pesso's death. A wonderful novel.
ReplyDeleteThanks Patrick - I've read it actually, and enjoyed it very much. As you say, politically a cretin , but sometimes a wonderful writer. I enjoyed his History of the Siege of Lisbon too. I love that city, and what I've seen of the Portuguese - indeed, Malty, What did they do to deserve us? Or Salazar, come to that...
ReplyDelete