Here's something I came across when I was reading this morning:
"I weep over my imperfect pages, but if future generations read them, they will be more touched by my weeping than by any perfection I might have achieved, since perfection would have kept me from weeping and, therefore, from writing. Perfection never materializes. The saint weeps, and is human. God is silent. That is why we can love the saint but cannot love God."
That was section 64 from Fernando Pessoa's The Book of Disquiet (A Factless Autobiography, as he himself called it). Translated by Richard Zenith. Published by Penguin Books (Modern Classics).
Born in Lisbon in 1888, he wrote obsessively in English, Portuguese and French. His literary genius was largely recognized after his death in 1935.
"I weep over my imperfect pages, but if future generations read them, they will be more touched by my weeping than by any perfection I might have achieved, since perfection would have kept me from weeping and, therefore, from writing. Perfection never materializes. The saint weeps, and is human. God is silent. That is why we can love the saint but cannot love God."
That was section 64 from Fernando Pessoa's The Book of Disquiet (A Factless Autobiography, as he himself called it). Translated by Richard Zenith. Published by Penguin Books (Modern Classics).
Born in Lisbon in 1888, he wrote obsessively in English, Portuguese and French. His literary genius was largely recognized after his death in 1935.
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