Response to “Metaphysics has always struck me as a prolonged form of latent insanity” by Fernando Pessoa

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The Lost Origins  of the Essay

There are many writers whom we have read who inspire me to copy, emulate, and experiment with their approaches in order to grow as a writer and to improve my own writing. With Pessoa, however, I feel that he is actually me, in another life. I like to underline things while I read, things that are interesting and things that really speak to me. After the first couple of pages, I’ve noticed myself underlining every other sentence because it felt like he was speaking for me and revealing things I never even realized about myself. It is hard for me to analyze this essay critically because I feel so personally attached it. Nevertheless, I will try.

Some parts of the essay are thoroughly philosophical. For example, “to recognize reality as a form of illusion and illusion as a form of reality is equally necessary and equally useless” and “That is why the contemplative person, without ever leaving his village, will nevertheless have the whole universe at his disposal. There’s infinity in the cell or in a desert.” Other parts of the essay a personal. For example, “While I once took the smile is an insult, because it seemed to imply a superior attitude, today I see it as a sign of an unconscious doubt. Just as adults often recognize in children a quick – wittedness they don’t have” and “I am still obsessed with creating a false world, and will be until I die” and “I have a world of friends inside me, with their own real, individual, and perfect lives. Some of them are full of problems, while others live the humble and picturesque life of Bohemians. Others are traveling salesman. (To be able to imagine myself as a traveling salesman has always been one of my great ambitions – unattainable, alas!) Others live in the rural towns and villages of a Portugal inside me.”

Then of course there are parts of the essay (the best!) where the personal and philosophical bleed into one: “Better and happier those who, recognizing that everything is fictitious, write the novel before someone writes it for them and, like Machiavelli, don courtly garments to write in secret” and “ I am at one of those points, and I write these lines as if to prove that I’m at least alive.”

It is hard to separate the philosophical from the personal parts of the essay and it is even harder to know if they truly belong to the author. What I do find curious, however, is that perhaps it is like this with many writers. The only difference is that Pessoa and possibly a handful of others are honest enough to create authentic and independent and often contradictory personas that exists within all of us.

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