Filme do Desassossego







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In the 20th January of 1913,

Fernando Pessoa wrote this poem and

scribbled vertically on its side,

in capital letters and old writing,

for the first time,

the word "DESASSOCEGO"


I grabbed my heart

And held it in my hand.

I stared at it as if staring

At a leaf or at grains of sand.

I stared as if pale and spent,

As if I knew I were dead,

My soul stirred only by dreaming

And scarcely touched by life.


It was in the silence of my disquiet,

at the hour of day

when the landscape is a halo of Life

and dreaming is mere dreaming,

my love,

that I raised up this strange book like the

open doors of an abandoned house.



Composed by Bernardo Soares,

bookkeeper apprentice in the city

of Lisbon, by Fernando Pessoa.

I offer you this book because

I know it is beautiful and useless.

It teaches nothing, inspires no faith,

and stirs no feeling.

And because this book is absurd,

I love it;

because it is useless,

I want to give it away;

and because it serves no purpose to

want to give it to you,

I give it to you...

I don't know what time is.

I don't know what its real measure is,

presuming it has one.

I know that the clock's measure is false,

as it divides time spatially,

from the outside.

I know that our emotions' way of

measuring is just as false,

dividing not time but our sensation of it.

The way our dreams measure

it is erroneous,

for in dreams we only

brush against time,

now leisurely, now hurriedly, and what

we live in them is fast or slow,

depending on something

in their flowing that I can't grasp.

Fairly tall and thin, he must have been

about thirty years old.

He hunched over terribly when sitting

down but less so standing up,

and he dressed with a carelessness

that wasn't entirely careless.

In his pale, uninteresting face

there was a look of suffering

that didn't add any interest,

and it was difficult to say just what kind

of suffering this look suggested.

It seemed to suggest various kinds:

Hardships, anxieties, and the suffering

born of the indifference

that comes from having already

suffered a lot.

Later on I came to know

his name was Bernardo Soares.

What a remarkable den!

I want to dance!

This bar has no music.

It didn't, until you ladies arrived.

What can I offer you?

What we want maybe you don't have...

I have a lot of things.

Aznavour, I love it!

If you have this song we will even

drink your shitty champagne!

You may sit down,

I'll serve you in a minute.

First, the music.


Let me laugh and let me sing

Let me inebriate my soul

So that I can forget the past

That I carry on my shoulders.

Come and pour me the strongest wine

Because the wine sings

Bring and pour more and more

I want to get drunk.

Two guitars on my chest,

a great emotion

revealing the validity

of our existence.

So why do we live, why do we live?

What is the reason for existing?

I'm alive today,

You're dead tomorrow,

and even more dead the day after.

Thank you.

Saturday nights!

One could write a beautiful text

on what just took place.

True. A beautiful text.

Do you write?

Do you know Orpheu?

Yes, I used to enjoy that magazine

very much. The texts were remarkable.

That's strange,

because the art of those

who write in Orpheu is meant for few...

Maybe I am one of the few.

I also write,

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Submitted on August 05, 2018


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"Filme do Desassossego" STANDS4 LLC, 2020. Web. 27 Jan. 2020. <>.

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