I’ve always rejected being understood. To be understood is to prostitute oneself. I prefer to be taken seriously for what I’m not, remaining humanly unknown, with naturalness and all due respect. I suffer from life and from other people. I can’t look at reality face to face. Even the sun discourages and depresses me. Only at night and all alone, withdrawn, forgotten and lost, with no connection to anything real or useful — only then do I find myself and feel comforted. I’ve never done anything but dream. This, and this alone, has been the meaning of my life. My only real concern has been my inner life. Everything around … Continue reading The Book of Disquiet (Fernando Pessoa)