Autopsychography. The poet is a man who feigns. And feigns so thoroughly, at last. He manages to feign as pain. The pain he really feels, And those who read what once he wrote. Feel clearly, in the pain they read, Neither of the pains he felt, Only a pain they cannot sense. And thus, around its jolting track. There runs, to keep our reason busy, The circling clockwork train of ours. That men agree to call a heart.
Fernando PessoaAbout author
- Author's profession: Author
- Nationality: portuguese
- Born: June 13, 1888
- Died: November 30, 1935
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The light struck upon the trees in the garden, making one leaf transparent and then another. One bird chirped high up; there was a pause; another chirped lower down. The sun sharpended the walls of the house, and rested like the tip of a fan upon a white blind and made a fingerprint of a shadow under the leaf by the bedroom window. The blind stirred slightly, but all within was dim and unsubstantial. The birds sang their blank melody outside.
Virginia Woolf
Here comes Mamma Vauquerr, fair as a starrr; and strung up like a bunch of carrots. Aren't we suffocating ourselves a wee bit?' he asked, placing a hand on the top of her corset. 'A bit of a crush in the vestibule, here, Mamma! If we start crying, there'll be an explosion. Never mind, I'll be there to collect the bits--just like an antiquary.'
'Now, there's the language of true French gallantry,' murmured Madame Vauquer in an aside to Madame Couture.
Honore de Balzac
