Book of Disquiet · 265. · The idea of travelling seduces me vicariously, as if it were the perfect idea for seducing someone Iʾm not

265.

The idea of travelling seduces me vicariously, as if it were the perfect idea for seducing someone Iʾm not. All the worldʾs vast panorama traverses my alert imagination like a colourful tedium; I trace a desire as one whoʾs tired of making gestures, and the anticipated weariness of potential landscapes scourges the flower of my drooping heart like a harsh wind.

And as with journeys, so with books, and as with books, so with everything… I dream of an erudite life in the quiet company of the ancients and the moderns, a life in which I would renew my emotions via the emotions of others, and fill myself with contradictory thoughts based on the contradiction between the meditators and those who almost thought (and who are majority of writers). But the very idea of reading evaporates as soon as pick up a book from the table, the physical act of reading abolishing all desire to read.

In the same way, the idea of travelling withers if I happen to go near a platform or port of departure. And I return to the two worthless things that I (likewise worthless) am certain of: my daily life as an inconspicuous passer-by, and the waking insomnia of my dreams.

And as with books, so with everything … As soon as something occurs to me that might interrupt the silent procession of my days, I lift my eyes with heavy protest towards the sylph who perhaps, poor thing, could have my siren had she only learned to sing.

PESSOA, Fernando, The Book of Disquiet, Edited and translated by Richard Zenith. London: Penguin Books, 2015, pp. 235-236