Fernando Pessoa’s The Book of Disquiet is both exactly what I needed and exactly what I didn’t need. Unlike Berryman and Lowell and some other authors I have been reading, Pessoa is rawer than raw. By this I mean he is unapologetically cynical, diabolical, self-absorbed yet deprecating and much more. This can wear on a person like me who is not feeling my healthiest emotionally lately. Four hours of Pessoa was simply too much for me. I was warned, but did not heed that very important warning. A dab will do you of Pessoa … in one night. Like a good scotch, Pessoa seems at first merely calming, comforting, and oddly sweet … but the next thing you know, you’re drunk and haven’t the foggiest idea where you are. All you know is the place where you find yourself is a walled-in dichotomy … a place you want to run from and a place you never want to leave.
Such a Thing as Too Much Pessoa … at least in one night …
