Libro del desasosiego has ratings and reviews. Ahmad said: Livro do Desassossego = The Book of Disquiet, Fernando PessoaThe Book of Disquie . Atribuida por su autor a Bernardo Soares, «personalidad literaria» de quien dijo Pessoa «soy yo menos el raciocinio y la afectividad», esta maravilla es el. Find great deals for Libro Del Desasosiego by Fernando Pessoa (Hardcover). Shop with confidence on eBay!.
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Nov 23, K.
I just tend to find books centered around their writing falling into one of two categories. Not to put too fine a point on it, this book blows.
A better way to compare the sizes of different versions would be with word counts. But, as I was warned both by the book’s title and by more than one Portuguese, I found the comments disquieting, even more depressing.
Libro del desasosiego by Fernando Pessoa on Apple Books
Certainly the idea holds merit. Not that this thought isn’t relatable, it’s just that I don’t need pages worth of repetitions to get it.
Ryan I can think of a couple of reasons for this: I demand nothing more from life than to be a spectator of it. As a single old guy who is more than a bit of a cynic, I began to relate to Pessoa and the more related the more lousy I felt.
Spesso il male di vivere ho incontrato era il rivo strozzato che gorgoglia era l’incartocciarsi della foglia riarsa, era il cavallo stramazzato. In fact, it took me almost a full month to finish this book but I must say that all the many hours I spent pessooa it were all well-spent.
Happiness is easy, even if it is at times short lived. At the onset of any sadness, They assert their innocence.
Using his voice, Pessoa digs into his own soul. Goodreads helps you keep track of books you want to read. It is the story of his life, which was very little but intellectual.
Sad without being necessarily depressing, this book chronicles the inner life of someone who exists in a dual life of a book keeper and dreamer. I tend to stick with books deswsosiego is more focused on story and characters than the writing. And Book of Disquiet is just a part of those findings.
Soares believes that humans want to be enslaved not free. I keep whole a heart, Given over to Unreal destinies. A common dfl theme.
Libro Del Desasosiego by Fernando Pessoa (Hardcover)
These are also the same folks that invented the siesta, as a way to help make the typical, grueling work day fernahdo manageable by adding a nice nap right in the middle after a few slugs from a jug of wine, no less. Though my biggest problem with this book, and the reason why I didn’t go googily-eyed over it, was that the writing was This is not a normal book.
Bernardo Soares is a very unhappy nihilist. It’s not clear whether Pessoa regarded the project as a novel. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be going to pick out something better to read. And, through it all, you can see the poor guy’s love of life. The onanist may be an abject creature but in truth he is the logical expression of the lover.
He was a dreamer and through dreaming he existed. Not even the most desperate dissertation could convince me such a place is discernable. Frankly, the only interesting part was when he talked about Lisbon, his beloved Lisboa. Thoughts, observations, ramblings about this and that. Soares lives a life only in his mind and in his daydreams. Another from the Boxall list.
And if that was the whole of the book, I would have been totally satisfied. He is exasperated with his surroundings and yet, is thankful for them. Highly recommended to all those who have the patience to know fragmented yet beautiful thoughts of an old philosophical man. He was a fully-fledged persona, clearly differentiated from Pessoa and many other heteronyms he used to imagine and write other discrete aspects of his work.
For me, humanity is one vast decorative motif, existing through one’s eyes and ears and through psychological emotion. The idea is novel. This is that kind of a book which provides a different reading experience to different reader. Alot, not all, says a whole lot about nothing, rambling on, contradicting itself and droning on in it’s repetitions.
I realize this is a highly regarded book of poetry by a known writer from Portugal. Though I developed empathy for the author, whoever he was– there was, to me, a portrait of mental illness and severe depression within the book– I found the barrage of bleakness somewhat relentless and was relieved to finally complete the book.