While Socrates emphasized reflection as crucial to a meaningful life, there needs to be something substantive to reflect upon. Pure contemplation without lived experience could become a kind of hollow philosophical exercise.
There’s a point where self-reflection can spiral into a kind of paralytic introspection or self-commiseration.
When examination turns into rumination, we find ourselves in an echo chamber of our own thoughts. This detaches us from the vitality of direct experience. Excessive self-examination can also drain experiences of their natural meaning and immediacy.
Yet, I wonder if the issue isn’t with examination itself, but with its nature and purpose. There’s a difference between examination that enriches our engagement with life – helping us understand our patterns, make better choices, appreciate moments more fully – and examination that becomes a form of self-absorbed withdrawal from life.
A little more sun – I’d have been embers, A little more blue – I’d have been beyond. To reach it, I lacked the stroke of wings… If only I had stayed beneath…
Wonder or peace? In vain… All faded In a vast, deceitful sea of foam; And the grand dream awakened in mist, The grand dream – oh pain! – almost lived…
Almost love, almost triumph and flame, Almost the beginning and end – almost expansion… But in my soul, everything spills out… And yet nothing was mere illusion!
Everything had a start… and all went astray… – Oh, the pain of being – almost, endless pain… I failed others, failed myself, A wing that entwined but didn’t fly…
Moments of soul that I squandered… Temples where I never raised an altar… Rivers I lost without leading to the sea… Yearnings that passed but I never held…
If I wander, I find only traces… Gothic arches toward the sun – I see them closed; And hands of heroes, without faith, cowardly, Set bars over the precipices…
In a diffuse impulse of despair, I began everything and possessed nothing… Today, of me, only disillusion remains, Of the things I kissed but never lived…
A little more sun – and I’d have been embers, A little more blue – and I’d have been beyond. To reach it, I lacked the stroke of wings… If only I had stayed beneath…
(AI translation)
Here's the original poem, Quase by Mário de Sá Carneiro:
Um pouco mais de sol – eu era brasa, Um pouco mais de azul – eu era além. Para atingir, faltou-me um golpe de asa… Se ao menos eu permanecesse aquém…
Assombro ou paz? Em vão… Tudo esvaído Num grande mar enganador de espuma; E o grande sonho despertado em bruma, O grande sonho – ó dor! – quase vivido…
Quase o amor, quase o triunfo e a chama, Quase o princípio e o fim – quase a expansão… Mas na minh’alma tudo se derrama… Entanto nada foi só ilusão!
De tudo houve um começo … e tudo errou… – Ai a dor de ser – quase, dor sem fim… Eu falhei-me entre os mais, falhei em mim, Asa que se enlaçou mas não voou…
Momentos de alma que, desbaratei… Templos aonde nunca pus um altar… Rios que perdi sem os levar ao mar… Ânsias que foram mas que não fixei…
Se me vagueio, encontro só indícios… Ogivas para o sol – vejo-as cerradas; E mãos de herói, sem fé, acobardadas, Puseram grades sobre os precipícios…
Num ímpeto difuso de quebranto, Tudo encetei e nada possuí… Hoje, de mim, só resta o desencanto Das coisas que beijei mas não vivi…
Um pouco mais de sol – e fora brasa, Um pouco mais de azul – e fora além. Para atingir faltou-me um golpe de asa… Se ao menos eu permanecesse aquém…
Yes, that “agony of the almost” is the heart of what makes this poem so powerful and painful. Sá-Carneiro captures something uniquely torturous about consciousness – not just the pain of failure, but the specific suffering that comes from knowing you came close and fell short. All the intention was there – just not the final decisive action. It’s the difference between never having talent and having talent you squandered.
There’s also something especially modern about this kind of suffering. In earlier times, one’s path might have been more predetermined by circumstances. But now, we face a growing burden of choice and possibility. This makes the failure to realize potential feel like a personal shortcoming instead of an external limitation.
And, again, the same question, is the unlived life worth examining? Awareness itself can be a curse. As Sá-Carneiro, we don’t just lament missed opportunities, but also knowing about them – and wish we “had stayed beneath.” Self-reflection does have a potential to become self-commiseration – when awareness of what could have been overwhelms and paralyzes rather than motivates. And we stay trapped between worlds – neither fully engaged in life nor able to transcend it (“To reach it, I lacked the stroke of wings…”)
If, as Joan Didion wrote “We are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not”, we might as well learn how to come to terms with the people we did not become.
References Adam Phillips, Missing Out: In Praise of the Unlived Life
If there was a biography about you, what would the title be?
when I remained true to myself and moved closer to becoming the person I aspire to be.
when I was able to connect to someone and was genuinely interested in what they had to say
And it would always be a summer day, suspended in timeless radiance—no beginning, no end. Just the feeling of endless warmth and light, a moment stretched into infinity.
Here, in this eternal instant, warmth becomes more than temperature—it is a sensation that permeates skin, memory, and imagination.
No clock measures these moments. No shadow hints at morning or evening. There is only this: pure, uninterrupted radiance. A day that is not a day, but a feeling—boundless, perfect, suspended between breath and memory, where time loses all meaning and only sensation remains.
On a perfect day at the perfect time, when those beautiful colors combine, I’ll be wide awake, I’ll be living free cause that perfect feeling is inside of me
that he has an uncanny ability to know exactly what I need and that he has been the reason to keep going on for the past four years, that even though he’s not able to read, he has written his love into every little detail of my day to day.
If you could make your pet understand one thing, what would it be?
I do not know how I got here. Time is a difficult concept for me and, I really do not know the answer to how do significant life events or the passage of time influence my perspective on life.
I remember a few negative experiences from my childhood but can’t be really precise on the when; up to now I have been fortunate enough not to loose my parents, getting divorced felt more like a failure than a significant life event, most probably because getting married felt like a mistake. This, my therapist says, suggests a kind of emotional self-protection, a way of minimizing the impact of what could have been a deeply transformative experience. Perhaps this speaks to a broader coping mechanism – the ability to reframe potentially painful experiences in a way that doesn’t allow them to become definitional moments.
Loosing my grandmother was hard but I can’t remember the exact year, 2011, maybe. In November 2014 I was alone in Vietnam for work and, on the 16th I received a text message saying that my great aunt (my grandmother’s sister) had died. I can’t remember what the movie on the hotel TV was but the final credits rolled in to the sound of Into My Arms. Violeta, who was also there for work as well and whom I had never met before, and have never seen again but 10 years on still says I’m her “One Night Best Friend Forever” spent the whole day and evening with me the next day wandering the streets, parks, shops and cafés of Hanoi. We spent same time at a particular coffee shop watching life happen on the other side of the street while the radio played a Vietnamese rendition of Seasons in the Sun.
If I could, I’m pretty sure I can’t, speak of myself as a “curator”, I would say that my memories seem to be curated not by chronological accuracy, but by emotional resonance. The day in Hanoi, the loss of my great aunt, these moments have been preserved with a kind of tender, even if painful, clarity.
The inaccuracy of our memories—where dates and childhood experiences are unclear—indicates that we perceive time differently, more instinctively than in a straight line. We don’t recall events in order but through how they made us feel. Memories linger not due to exact times, but because of their ability to change us.
I don’t know if I have changed but I did learn that I too have the ability to be vulnerable, to allow a stranger to witness my grief, and to be remarkably open to human connection.
I have also learned how to find beauty in uncertainty, meaning in transient connections. The Vietnamese rendition of “Seasons in the Sun” playing while life unfolded on a street in Hanoi became a metaphor for what I think is my approach to existence – finding poetry in unexpected moments, creating meaning from seemingly random encounters.
I haven’t created a clear plan for my life and I, definitely don’t have everything figured out. When I’m being kind to myself, I think of my experiences as improvisational music. Maybe because I am too lazy to do it differently, I have accepted that it’s not about sticking to a script; it’s about discovering harmony in unexpected moments and finding meaning in random encounters. The strangers who are briefly but unconditionally there for me and the music that captures emotions too complex for words – these are the true landmarks of my journey.
How do significant life events or the passage of time influence your perspective on life?
Sonnet 30: When to the sessions of sweet silent thought BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste: Then can I drown an eye, unus’d to flow, For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night, And weep afresh love’s long since cancell’d woe, And moan th’ expense of many a vanish’d sight; Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restor’d, and sorrows end.
In 1937, the Soviet Writers’ Union instructed its members to sign a manifesto supporting the death penalty for General Yona Yakir and Marshal Mikhail Tukhachevsky, who were accused of conspiracy. During the Union’s congress, when Pasternak refused to sign this manifesto, everyone thought he would be arrested. When he stood up to speak at the congress, he only said “30” and 2,000 people stood up and recited Sonnet 30. This story is told by George Steiner here, because knowing a poem by heart is a form of resistance (like in Fahrenheit 451). During the years when Mandelstam was imprisoned (he died during this time), his wife, Nadezhda, memorized and taught others everything he had written so that after Stalin’s death, she could finally publish it.
Nadezhda (Надежда) is the Slavic and original form of my name. It means “hope.”
This is a powerful story about literary resistance in the Soviet era. The name Nadezhda is particularly meaningful in this context – the concept of hope was especially significant during the dark periods of Soviet repression. Nadezhda Mandelstam’s act of preserving her husband’s poetry through memorization became one of the most famous examples of maintaining cultural memory under totalitarianism. Her memoir “Hope Against Hope” is considered one of the most important accounts of life during the Stalinist period.
Nadezhda (Надежда) holds deep cultural and spiritual significance in Slavic culture, particularly in Russian tradition. Let me elaborate:
In religious context, Nadezhda is one of the three theological virtues celebrated in Orthodox Christianity, alongside Vera (Faith) and Lyubov (Love). This trinity is so important that there’s a feast day (September 30) celebrating Saint Sofia and her three daughters named after these virtues. The story of their martyrdom has made these names particularly meaningful in Orthodox Slavic culture.
The concept of hope (nadezhda) appears frequently in Russian literature and poetry. For example, in Pushkin’s works, hope is often portrayed as a light in darkness, reflecting the Russian cultural understanding of hope as a sustaining force during difficult times. This resonates deeply with how the name was embodied by Nadezhda Mandelstam.
In everyday Russian culture, the name is often shortened to Nadya (Надя), which maintains its warm, positive associations while being more informal. The name was particularly popular during the Soviet era, perhaps as a reflection of people’s need for hope during challenging times.
Interestingly, in Slavic naming traditions, names were often chosen for their protective or aspirational qualities. Giving a child the name Nadezhda was seen as bestowing them with the quality of hope itself, making them both a bearer and symbol of hope for their family and community.
There’s also a fascinating linguistic aspect: the word nadezhda is related to the Old Church Slavonic word “надѣяти” (nadeyati), meaning “to lay upon, to rely on.” This etymology suggests that hope in Slavic culture isn’t just about optimism for the future, but about having something solid to rely on – a more grounded, resilient kind of hope.
Or, quoting Nick Cave in Faith, Hope and Carnage, ‘Hope is optimism with a broken heart’.
Write about your first name: its meaning, significance, etymology, etc.
In Oliver Hermanus’s “Living” (2022), we witness a remarkable cultural translation that spans continents and decades. The film, starring Bill Nighy in a masterfully restrained performance, reimagines Akira Kurosawa’s 1952 masterpiece “Ikiru,” itself inspired by Leo Tolstoy’s “The Death of Ivan Ilyich.” This layered adaptation creates a fascinating meditation on bureaucracy, mortality, and the search for meaning in one’s life.
I watched this movie last Monday, January 6, and since I couldn’t come up with any New Year’s resolutions, I figured I’d use this movie as a bit of a wake-up call during that time of year when SAD usually kicks in, leaving me feeling as bare as a dormant tree. It will serve as a reminder that there is more to life than killing time and adjusting your reactions to whatever is thrown at you.
The film transposes Kurosawa’s narrative from post-war Tokyo to 1950s London with remarkable precision. The setting shift illuminates fascinating parallels between Japanese and British societies – both deeply hierarchical, bound by tradition, and struggling with the weight of their own formalities. Where Kurosawa’s film depicted Japanese bureaucracy through the lens of post-war reconstruction, Hermanus explores British civil service during the dawn of the welfare state.
The film’s portrayal of working life in 1950s London is meticulously crafted. The film’s opening credits sequence serves as a masterful visual overture to its themes of conformity and class structure. Shot from above, we witness a mesmerizing choreography of dark-suited men crossing London Bridge, their bowler hats creating a hypnotic pattern of black circles moving in mechanical precision. This aerial view transforms individual civil servants into an abstract pattern – a visual metaphor for the system’s absorption of individual identity.
The sequence pays homage to the famous “Umbrella Scene” in Kurosawa’s “Ikiru,” but recontextualizes it for 1950s London. Where Kurosawa used umbrellas to suggest the anonymity of bureaucratic life, Hermanus employs the bowler hat – a quintessentially British symbol of middle-class respectability. The camera’s careful composition turns these hats into a kind of musical notation, with the men’s movements creating a visual rhythm that echoes the mechanical nature of their working lives.
The credits themselves, appearing in a clean, period-appropriate typeface, float above this sea of conformity. Their precise placement and timing work in concert with the movement below, creating a multi-layered opening that establishes both the film’s aesthetic restraint and its concern with systems and structures.
As the sequence progresses, we begin to distinguish Mr. Williams among the crowd – a feat that becomes significant only in retrospect, as we watch him gradually break free from this uniformity throughout the film. The way he emerges from this abstract pattern of hats and suits foreshadows his journey from anonymity to individuality.
The Public Works department where Mr. Williams (Nighy) serves as a senior civil servant becomes a microcosm of British society. The carefully arranged desks, the ritualistic shuffling of papers, and the precise adherence to tea times all speak to a system where order masks stagnation.
Costume designer Sandy Powell crafts a visual hierarchy that speaks volumes about social status and personal transformation. The film opens with a sea of identical bowler hats and dark suits flooding London Bridge – a powerful image of conformity within the civil service. Mr. Williams’s bowler hat serves as a symbol of his position and the rigid system he inhabits. When illness forces him to leave it behind, its absence marks the beginning of his transformation.
The subsequent adoption of a Borsalino hat represents more than a mere change in headwear. The Italian-made fedora, with its softer lines and continental associations, symbolizes Mr. Williams’s gradual liberation from the constraints of his former life. This subtle costume change speaks to a broader rebellion against the suffocating propriety of British bureaucracy.
The precision in costume extends beyond headwear. The gradual loosening of Mr. Williams’s tie, the eventual unbuttoning of his collar, and even the slight dishevelment of his usually impeccable suit all chart his journey from rigid conformity to a more authentic existence. These changes are particularly striking against the unchanged appearance of his colleagues, who remain locked in their sartorial prison.
Wearing Existence: Costume as Existential Metaphor
The costume design in both “Ikiru” and “Living” serves as a powerful visual metaphor for the existential journey that Tolstoy first explored in “The Death of Ivan Ilyich.” Each film uses clothing to express both the weight of social conformity and the gradual awakening to authentic existence, though they do so through distinctly different cultural vocabularies.
The Uniform of Non-Existence
In both films, the protagonists’ initial costumes represent what Tolstoy called a life lived “most ordinarily” – a form of spiritual death disguised as propriety:
– Watanabe’s dark suits and hat in “Ikiru” reflect the standardization of post-war Japanese bureaucracy, where Western business attire represented both modernization and loss of traditional identity
– Mr. Williams’s bowler hat and precisely tailored suit in “Living” embody the British civil service’s rigid hierarchy and emotional suppression
These initial costumes serve as armor against life itself, much as Ivan Ilyich’s dedication to propriety served as a shield against authentic experience.
The Gradual Undressing of the Soul
Both films use subtle changes in costume to chart their protagonists’ awakening:
In “Ikiru”:
– Watanabe’s gradual dishevelment mirrors his breaking free from social constraints
– His hat, initially perfectly positioned, begins to sit askew
– The loosening of his tie reflects his loosening grip on social conventions
– His final appearance in the swing scene, where his clothing moves freely in the snow, suggests a return to childlike authenticity
In “Living”:
– The loss of the bowler hat marks the first crack in Mr. Williams’s facade
– The Borsalino hat represents not just rebellion but a conscious choice of a new identity
– The subtle relaxing of his suit’s precision mirrors his internal liberation
– His final outfit maintains dignity while suggesting comfort in his own skin
The way each film handles this sartorial journey reflects deep cultural differences:
– Watanabe’s transformation involves a more complete dishevelment, reflecting Japanese culture’s understanding of liberation as a form of surrender
– Mr. Williams’s changes are more subtle, suggesting the British capacity for rebellion within conformity
– Both contrast with Tolstoy’s Ivan Ilyich, whose physical deterioration serves as the primary metaphor for his spiritual transformation
Class, Clothing, and Authenticity
Each film uses costume to explore how class structures inhibit authentic existence:
In “Ikiru”:
– The contrast between bureaucrats’ Western suits and the working-class traditional clothing
– The young office girl’s modern dress representing post-war freedom
– Watanabe’s final dishevelment as a rejection of class-based propriety
In “Living”:
– The precise gradations of suit quality marking civil service ranks
– The young woman’s colorful clothing suggesting life outside the system
– Mr. Williams’s Borsalino as a subtle sign of continental sophistication challenging British class rigidity
The Final Garment
Both films end with powerful costume statements:
– Watanabe dies in his loosened, snow-covered clothing, suggesting a final liberation from social constraints
– Mr. Williams’s final appearance shows him in his modified uniform – the Borsalino replacing the bowler – indicating that true liberation can occur within, rather than in rejection of, one’s social role
These costume choices echo Tolstoy’s message that awareness of death can lead to authentic life, but they do so through carefully chosen cultural idioms. The Japanese dishevelment and the British modified propriety represent different paths to the same truth: that genuine existence requires shedding, or at least transforming, the uniforms society demands we wear.
Beyond the Physical
In all three works, clothing serves as a metaphor for what Tolstoy called the “fictional life” – the life lived according to external expectations rather than internal truth. Both films use costume design to visualize what Tolstoy could only describe: the gradual awakening from this fiction to authenticity.
The genius of both adaptations lies in recognizing that this universal journey must be expressed through particular cultural languages of dress and deportment. In doing so, they make Tolstoy’s abstract existential concerns tangible and immediate, showing how the great questions of existence play out in the minute details of how we present ourselves to the world.
The Existential Thread: From Tolstoy to Kurosawa to Hermanus
At the heart of “The Death of Ivan Ilyich,” Tolstoy poses a devastating question: “What if my whole life has been wrong?” This existential inquiry echoes through both “Ikiru” and “Living,” each adaptation finding its own cultural language to explore this universal concern. The visual grammar of both films serves this central question, though they approach it through distinctly different cultural prisms.
Tolstoy’s novella examined this question through the lens of 19th-century Russian society, where Orthodox Christianity and aristocratic values shaped the understanding of a “proper life.” Kurosawa translated this inquiry into post-war Japanese society, where questions of purpose became particularly acute amid reconstruction and changing values. Hermanus relocates it to 1950s Britain, where class structures and emotional restraint created their own form of spiritual imprisonment.
In each iteration, the protagonist’s awakening to life’s true meaning is preceded by a recognition of social performance. Ivan Ilyich realizes his life has been lived “most simply and most ordinarily and therefore most terribly.” Kurosawa’s Watanabe finds that his decades of stamping papers have produced nothing of value. Mr. Williams discovers that his perfect embodiment of civil service propriety has been a form of living death.
Visual Languages of Awakening
Where Tolstoy used precise prose to dissect his protagonist’s spiritual crisis, both films employ careful visual strategies to externalize this internal journey:
– Kurosawa uses stark contrast and dramatic weather to reflect Watanabe’s emotional states, with snow and rain serving as powerful metaphors for cleansing and renewal.
– Hermanus employs the gradual softening of visual rigidity – from the geometric patterns of bowler hats to the free-flowing movement of children in the playground – to show Mr. Williams’s liberation from social constraints.
Both films share a crucial understanding: that the answer to Tolstoy’s terrible question lies not in grand gestures but in small, meaningful actions. Watanabe’s playground and Mr. Williams’s park represent more than public works projects – they are physical manifestations of their creators’ breakthrough to authentic living.
The Weight of Time
All three works deal poignantly with time’s passage:
– Tolstoy’s Ivan Ilyich realizes too late that his life has been misspent
– Kurosawa’s Watanabe races against time to complete his playground
– Mr. Williams’s measured transformation suggests that even a brief period of authentic living can redeem a lifetime of conformity
Cultural Translations of Truth
What makes both film adaptations remarkable is how they maintain Tolstoy’s essential truth while speaking through their own cultural idioms:
– Kurosawa expresses it through the lens of giri (duty) transformed into meaningful action
– Hermanus finds it in the British capacity for quiet revolution within seemingly rigid structures
Legacy and Memory
Each work concludes by examining how others remember the protagonist:
– Tolstoy’s mourners are primarily concerned with promotion opportunities
– Kurosawa’s bureaucrats briefly celebrate Watanabe before returning to their old ways
– Hermanus’s colleagues maintain their reserve, but with a new understanding glimpsed through their constrained emotions
Yet in all three versions, there’s a small group who truly understand the transformation they witnessed. This understanding becomes a kind of torch, passed from Tolstoy’s pages through Kurosawa’s lens to Hermanus’s camera – the possibility that one life, properly lived even for a short time, can illuminate the way for others.
In the end, “Living” accomplishes something remarkable: it takes Tolstoy’s existential question and Kurosawa’s humanist answer and filters them through the precise visual language of British society, creating something both culturally specific and universally resonant. Through its careful attention to visual detail – from the geometric patterns of bowler hats to the free movement of the final scenes – it shows how the great questions of existence can be explored through the smallest details of human behavior and social custom.
The film reminds us that the search for meaning, while universal, is always experienced through the particular – through specific hats and suits, through precise ways of moving through space, through culturally determined ways of showing or hiding emotion. In doing so, it achieves what great art should: it makes the universal deeply personal, and the personal universally understood, making you question (again) what is after all the purpose of living.
“A veces uno amanece con ganas de extinguirse… Como si fuéramos velitas sobre un pastel de alguien inapetente. A veces nos arden terriblemente los labios y los ojos y nuestras narices se hinchan y somos horribles y lloramos y queremos extinguirnos… Así es la vida, un constante querer apagarse y encenderse.”
Todos los días del mundo algo hermoso termina. Jaroslav Seifert
Duélete: como a una vieja estrella fatigada te ha dejado la luz. Y la criatura que iluminabas (y que iluminaba tus ojos ciegos a las nimias cosas del mundo) ha vuelto a ser mortal. Todo recobra su densidad, su peso, su volumen, ese pobre equilibrio que sostiene tu nuevo invierno. Alégrate. Tus vísceras ahora son otra vez tus vísceras y no crudo alimento de zozobras. Ya no eres ese dios ebrio e incierto que te fue dado ser. Muerde el hueso que dan, llega a su médula, recoge las migajas que deja la memoria.
Every day of the world something beautiful ends. Jaroslav Seifert
Suffer: as if you were an old, tired star, light has left you. And the creature you lighted (and who lighted your eyes, blind to the world’s trivial things) is now mortal again. Everything recovers its density, its weight, its volume, the poor balance that supports your new winter. Be glad. Your entrails are now again your entrails and not coarse food of anxiety. You’re no longer that drunk and uncertain god that you turned out to be. Bite the bone they give you, down to the marrow, pick up the crumbs memory leaves behind.
Standing at fearful attention, we’re grateful to fear, which keeps us from going mad. Decision and courage are bad for our health; life without living is safer.
Adventurers whose adventures are history, standing in fear we struggle against ironic ghosts in our ongoing quest for what we never were and won’t be.
Standing in fear with no voice of our own, our heart ground up by our teeth, we are the madmen, we’re our own ghosts.
A flock of sheep pursued by fear, we live so together and so alone that life’s meaning has disappeared.
Alexandre O’Neill (1962) , Translation: 1997, Richard Zenith
Perfilados de medo, agradecemos o medo que nos salva da loucura. Decisão e coragem valem menos e a vida sem viver é mais segura.
Aventureiros já sem aventura, perfilados de medo combatemos irónicos fantasmas à procura do que fomos, do que não seremos.
Perfilados de medo, sem mais voz, o coração nos dentes oprimido, os loucos, os fantasmas somos nós.
Rebanho pelo medo perseguido, já vivemos tão juntos e tão sós que da vida perdemos o sentido . . .
…of a Chevrolet on the road to Sintra, Through moonlight and dreams, on the deserted road, I drive alone, drive almost slowly, and it almost Seems to me, or I almost force myself to think it seems, That I’m going down another road, another dream, another world, That I’m going on without having left Lisbon, without Sintra to go to, That I’m going on, and what is there to going on except not stopping, but going on?
I’ll spend the night in Sintra because I can’t spend it in Lisbon, But, when I get to Sintra, I’ll be sorry I didn’t stay in Lisbon. Always this groundless worry, no purpose, no consequence, Always, always, always, This excessive anguish for nothing at all, On the road to Sintra, on the road to dreams, on the road tolife…
Alert to my subconscious movements at the wheel, Around me, with me, leaps the car I borrowed. I smile at the symbol, at thinking of it, and at turning right. In how many borrowed things do I move through the world? How many borrowed things do I drive as if they were mine? How many borrowed things — oh God — am I myself?
To my left, ahovel— yes, ahovel— by the roadside. To my right an open field, the moon far off. The car, which seemed just now to give me freedom, Is now something I’m shut up in, That I can only drive shut up in, That I can only tame if I includeit,if it includes me.
To my left, back there, that modest, that more thanmodesthovel. Life must be happy there: it’s not mine. If someone saw me from the window, they’d think: Now that guy’s happy.
Maybe a child spying at the upstairs window Would see me, in my borrowed car, as a dream, a fairy tale come true. Maybe, for the girl who watched me, hearing my motor out the kitchen window, On packed earth, I’m some kind of prince of girls’ hearts, And she’ll watch me sideways, out the window, past this curve where I lose myself. Will I leave dreams behind me? Will the car? I, the borrowed-car-driver, or the borrowed car I drive?
On the road to Sintra in moonlight, in sadness, before the fields and night, Forlornly driving the borrowed Chevy, I lose myself on the future road, I disappear in the distance I reach.
And in a terrible, sudden, violent, inconceivable desire I speed up, But my heart stayed back on a pile of rocks I veered from, seeing without seeing it, At the door of the hovel — My empty heart, My dissatisfied heart, My heart more human than me, more exact than life.
On the road to Sintra, near midnight, in moonlight, at the wheel, On the road to Sintra, oh my weary imagination, On the road to Sintra, ever nearer to Sintra, On the road to Sintra, ever farther from me…
In The Collected Poems of Álvaro de CamposVol. 2 (1928–1935) .translated by Chris Daniels
Ao volante do Chevrolet pela estrada de Sintra,
Ao luar e ao sonho, na estrada deserta,
Sozinho guio, guio quase devagar, e um pouco
Me parece, ou me forço um pouco para que me pareça,
Que sigo por outra estrada, por outro sonho, por outro mundo,
Que sigo sem haver Lisboa deixada ou Sintra a que ir ter,
Que sigo, e que mais haverá em seguir senão não parar mas seguir?
Vou passar a noite a Sintra por não poder passá-la em Lisboa,
Mas, quando chegar a Sintra, terei pena de não ter ficado em Lisboa.
Sempre esta inquietação sem propósito, sem nexo, sem consequência,
Sempre, sempre, sempre,
Esta angústia excessiva do espírito por coisa nenhuma,
Na estrada de Sintra, ou na estrada do sonho, ou na estrada da vida…
Maleável aos meus movimentos subconscientes do volante,
Galga sob mim comigo o automóvel que me emprestaram.
Sorrio do símbolo, ao pensar nele, e ao virar à direita.
Em quantas coisas que me emprestaram guio como minhas!
Quanto me emprestaram, ai de mim!, eu próprio sou!
À esquerda o casebre — sim, o casebre — à beira da estrada.
À direita o campo aberto, com a lua ao longe.
O automóvel, que parecia há pouco dar-me liberdade,
É agora uma coisa onde estou fechado,
Que só posso conduzir se nele estiver fechado,
Que só domino se me incluir nele, se ele me incluir a mim.
À esquerda lá para trás o casebre modesto, mais que modesto.
A vida ali deve ser feliz, só porque não é a minha.
Se alguém me viu da janela do casebre, sonhará: Aquele é que é feliz.
Talvez à criança espreitando pelos vidros da janela do andar que está em cima
Fiquei (com o automóvel emprestado) como um sonho, uma fada real.
Talvez à rapariga que olhou, ouvindo o motor, pela janela da cozinha
No pavimento térreo,
Sou qualquer coisa do príncipe de todo o coração de rapariga,
E ela me olhará de esguelha, pelos vidros, até à curva em que me perdi.
Deixarei sonhos atrás de mim, ou é o automóvel que os deixa?
Eu, guiador do automóvel emprestado, ou o automóvel emprestado que eu guio?
Na estrada de Sintra ao luar, na tristeza, ante os campos e a noite,
Guiando o Chevrolet emprestado desconsoladamente,
Perco-me na estrada futura, sumo-me na distância que alcanço,
E, num desejo terrível, súbito, violento, inconcebível,
Acelero…
Mas o meu coração ficou no monte de pedras, de que me desviei ao vê-lo sem vê-lo,
À porta do casebre,
O meu coração vazio,
O meu coração insatisfeito,
O meu coração mais humano do que eu, mais exacto que a vida.
Na estrada de Sintra, perto da meia-noite, ao luar, ao volante,
Na estrada de Sintra, que cansaço da própria imaginação,
Na estrada de Sintra, cada vez mais perto de Sintra,
Na estrada de Sintra, cada vez menos perto de mim…
11-5-1928
Poesias de Álvaro de Campos. Fernando Pessoa. Lisboa: Ática, 1944 (imp. 1993).- 37
I chose part of this poem to say goodbye to someone today. I did not go the funeral. “Do you want me to go?”, I asked. He didn’t. I didn’t know his father, I have never met him, I heard stories of beautiful cars and saw fading photos of a once happy life.
Photo: Not really a Chevrolet at Bastelicaccia, Corsica, August 2018
The body does not wait. Neither for us
nor for love. This groping of hands,
researching with such reticence
the warm, silky aridness
that twitches from embarrassment
in movements quick and random;
this groping attended not by us
but by a thirst, a memory, whatever
we know about touching the bared
body that does not wait; this groping
that doesn’t know, doesn’t see, doesn’t
dare to be afraid of feeling scared…
The body’s so hasty! All is over and done
when one of us, or when love, has come.
Translation: 1997, Richard Zenith
GLOSA À CHEGADA DO OUTONO
O corpo não espera. Não. Por nós
ou pelo amor. Este pousar de mãos,
tão reticente e que interroga a sós
a tépida secura acetinada,
a que palpita por adivinhada
em solitários movimentos vãos;
este pousar em que não estamos nós,
mas uma sede, uma memória, tudo
o que sabemos de tocar desnudo
o corpo que não espera: este pousar
que não conhece, nada vê, nem nada
ousa temer no seu temor agudo…Tem tanta pressa o corpo! E já passou,
quando um de nós ou quando o amor chegou.
Now, dear, it isn’t the bold things, Great deeds of valour and might, That count the most in the summing up of life at the end of the day. But it is the doing of old things, Small acts that are just and right; And doing them over and over again, no matter what others say; In smiling at fate, when you want to cry, and in keeping at work when
you want to play— Dear, those are the things that count.
And, dear, it isn’t the new ways Where the wonder-seekers crowd That lead us into the land of content, or help us to find our own. But it is keeping to true ways, Though the music is not so loud, And there may be many a shadowed spot where we journey along
alone; In flinging a prayer at the face of fear, and in changing into a song a
groan— Dear, these are the things that count.
My dear, it isn’t the loud part Of creeds that are pleasing to God, Not the chant of a prayer, or the hum of a hymn, or a jubilant shout or
song. But it is the beautiful proud part Of walking with feet faith-shod; And in loving, loving, loving through all, no matter how things go
wrong; In trusting ever, though dark the day, and in keeping your hope when
I sing the will to love: the will that carves the will to live, the will that saps the will to hurt, the will that kills the will to die; the will that made and keeps you warm, the will that points your eyes ahead, the will that makes you give, not get, a give and get that tell us what you are: how much a god, how much a human. I call on you to live the will to love.
Stories from A Closet of Errors 