We never love anyone. What we love is the idea we have of someone. It’s our own concept – our own selves – that we love.
**
Love is essential. Sex, a mere accident.
**
They were two and beautiful and wanted to be something else; love delayed itself to them in the tedium of the future, and regret of what would happen to be was already being the daughter of the love they hadn’t had.
**
There is no happiness without knowledge. But knowledge of happiness is unhappy; for knowing ourselves happy is knowing ourselves passing through happiness, and having to, immediatly at once, leave it behind. To know is to kill, in happiness as in everything. Not to know, though, is not to exist.
We never love anyone. What we love is the idea we have of someone. It’s our own concept – our own selves – that we love.
(Nunca amamos ninguém. Amamos, tão-somente, a ideia que fazemos de alguém. É a um conceito nosso – em suma, é a nós mesmos – que amamos.)
**
Love is essential. Sex, a mere accident.
(O amor é que é essencial. O sexo é só um acidente.)
**
We never love someone. We just love the idea we have of someone. It’s a concept of ours – summing up, ourselves – that we love.
(Nunca amamos niguém. Amamos, tão-somente, a ideia que fazemos de alguém. É a um conceito nosso — em suma, é a nós mesmos — que amamos.)
**
They were two and beautiful and wanted to be something else; love delayed itself to them in the tedium of the future, and regret of what would happen to be was already being the daughter of the love they hadn’t had.
(Eram dois e belos e desejavam ser outra coisa; o amor tardava-lhes no tédio do futuro, e a saudade do que haveria de ser vinha já sendo filha do amor que não tinham tido.)
**
There is no happiness without knowledge. But knowledge of happiness is unhappy; for knowing ourselves happy is knowing ourselves passing through happiness, and having to, immediatly at once, leave it behind. To know is to kill, in happiness as in everything. Not to know, though, is not to exist.
(Não há felicidade senão com conhecimento. Mas o conhecimento da felicidade é infeliz; porque conhecer-se feliz é conhecer-se passando pela felicidade, e tendo, logo já, que deixá-la atrás. Saber é matar, na felicidade como em tudo. Não saber, porém, é não existir.)
Nous n’aimons jamais vraiment quelqu’un. Nous aimons uniquement l’idée que nous nous faisons de ce quelqu’un. Ce que nous aimons, c’est un concept forgé par nous — et en fin de compte, c’est nous-mêmes.
par Fernando Pessoa
traduit par Marie-Hélène Piwnik
Nouvelle édition & nouvelle traduction d’un des textes majeurs de la littérature du XXe siècle : Le Livro do Desassossego. Connu en France sous le titre Livre de l’Intranquillité, paru chez Christian Bourgois en 1988 et 1992, la présente édition lui préfère le magnifique nom « d’inquiétude », à la fois mot courant et chargé de densité métaphysique. Outre des fragments non retenus dans l’édition Christian Bourgois, des inédits et déplacements d’attribution figurent dans le nouvel ensemble. La nouvelle traduction remarquable et sans concession de Marie-Hélène Piwnik donne à ce chef-d’oeuvre de la littérature du XXe siècle sa réelle dimension visionnaire. Établi par Teresa Rita Lopes et traduit du portugais par Marie-Hélène Piwnik.
愛する人が愛している人のことを知っていることはない
なぜ愛するのかも 愛が何なのかも
人が本当に誰かを愛するなんて絶対にない。唯一愛するのはその誰かに関して作り上げる観念だけ。愛しているのは自分が作りあげた観念で、結局、それは自分自身なのだ。
Fernando Pessoa
Babelio
https://www.babelio.com/auteur/Fernando-Pessoa/2526