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176 pages, Paperback
First published August 30, 1991
I am in prison in the small town of my childhood.
I’m not a criminal. I’m here because my papers are not in order; my visa has expired. I’ve also run into debt.
In the morning my guard brings me breakfast – milk, coffee, bread. I drink some coffee and then shower. My guard finishes my breakfast and cleans my cell. The door is left open; I can go out into the courtyard if I want.
There are no more flames; the fire has gone out and the street is only soft ashes cooling.
I ask the child, “You’re my brother, aren’t you? Were you waiting for me?”
The child shakes his head. “No, I have no brother and I’m not waiting for anyone. I am the guardian of eternal youth. The one waiting for his brother is sitting on a bench in Central Square. He’s very old. Perhaps he’s waiting for you.”
The white house with green shutters on a quiet street, the kitchen in which my mother sang, the yard in which my father chopped wood – was it once a reality, the perfect happiness in the white house, or had I merely hallucinated it or dreamed it up during the long nights of five years spent in a hospital?
And he who lay in the other bed in the little room, who breathed at the same rhythm as me, the brother whose name I still believe I know, was he dead or had he never existed?
Verdade, mentira, certeza, incerteza…
Verdade, mentira, certeza, incerteza…
Aquele cego ali na estrada também conhece estas palavras.
Estou sentado num degrau alto e tenho as mãos apertadas
Sobre o mais alto dos joelhos cruzados.
Bem: verdade, mentira, certeza, incerteza o que são?
O cego pára na estrada,
Desliguei as mãos de cima do joelho.
Verdade, mentira, certeza, incerteza são as mesmas?
Qualquer coisa mudou numa parte da realidade — os meus joelhos e as minhas mãos.
Qual é a ciência que tem conhecimento para isto?
O cego continua o seu caminho e eu não faço mais gestos.
Já não é a mesma hora, nem a mesma gente, nem nada igual.
Ser real é isto.
— Alberto Caeiro
به او میگویم که من تلاش میکنم قصهی زندگیام را تعریف کنم، ولی نمیتوانم، جرأتش را ندارم، خیلی عذابم میدهد. آنوقت، همه چیز را خوشگل میکنم و اتفاقها را نه آنطور که افتادهاند، بلکه جوری تعریف میکنم که دلم میخواست بیفتند.
" أقول لك إن الحياة بلا جدوى تمامًا ، وليس لها معنى ، إنها انحراف ، معاناة لانهائية "
