The Book of Disquiet, a ‘factless autobiography’ by Portuguese author Fernando Pessoa (1888–1935), feels like a poetic transcription of my insecurities and existential dread. I find echoes of myself in the heteronyms (or personas) of Pessoa’s vividly introspective imagination.
Bleak testimonials have long intrigued me. My favorite book of the Bible isn’t one of the Gospels, as convention might dictate, but Ecclesiastes. Honest and unflinching portrayals of suffering resonate with the harsh realities I’ve observed across various cultures and species. I see a lot of truth, with a lowercase ‘t,’ in them. Indeed, all things are full of weariness.
I can’t gaslight myself into believing life is rosier than it is, nor can I relegate the world’s pain to the recesses of my mind so that I can smile more and leap into a gloss-eyed religious devotion. I hoped something might click if I went through the motions long enough. Despite my attempts to find solace through ritual, I’ve felt little longterm change. Pessoa embraced his nature, a sentiment I can strongly identify with.