费尔南多·佩索阿(Fernando Pessoa)，葡萄牙作家与诗人。他写得真好！刚读完 The Keeper of Herds, 以及 The Book of Disquiet 的一部分。摘录一些：
Passerby of everything, even of my own soul. I belong to nothing, I desire nothing, I am nothing – just an abstract center of impersonal sensation. A fallen sentient mirror reflecting the world’s diversity. I don’t know if I’m happy this way. Nor I care.
I have no ambitions nor desires. To be a poet is not my ambition. It’s simply my way of being alone.
As long as I feel the fresh breeze in my hair. And see the sun shinning strong on the leaves. I will not ask for more. What better thing could destiny grant me? Other than the sensual passing of life in moments. Of ignorance such as this one?
Not just those who envy and hate us. Limit and oppress us; those who love us. Limit us no less. May the God grant me, stripped of all affections, the cold freedom of the heights Of nothingness, Wanting little, A man has everything. Wanting nothing. He’s free. Not having and not desiring. He’s equal, though man, to the Gods.
I’m a keeper of sheep. The sheep are my thoughts. And each thought a sensation. I think with my eyes and my ears. And with my hands and feet. And with my nose and mouth. To think a flower is to see and smell it. And to eat a fruit is to know its meaning. That is why on a hot day. When I enjoy it so much I feel sad. And I lie down in the grass. And close my warm eyes. Then I feel my whole body lying down in reality. I know the truth, and I’m happy.
From the highest window of my house. I wave farewell with a white handkerchief. To my poems going out to humanity. And I’m neither happy nor sad. that is the fate of poems. I wrote them and must show them to everyone. Because I cannot do otherwise. Even as the flower can’t hide its color. Nor the river hide its flowing. Nor the tree hide the fruit it bears. There they go, already far away, as if in the stagecoach. And I can’t help but feel regret. Like a pain in my body. Who knows who might read them? Who knows into what hands they’ll fall. A flower, I was plucked by my fate to be seen. A tree, my fruit was picked to be eaten. A river, my water’s fate was to flow out of me. I submit and feel almost happy. Almost happy like a man tired of being sad. Go, go away from me! The tree passes and is scattered through the Nature. The flower wilts and its dust lasts forever. The river flows into the sea and its water is forever the water that was its own. I pass and I remain, like the Universe.
If, after I die, someone wants to write my biography. There’s nothing simpler. It has just two dates — the day I was born and the day I died. Between the two, all the days are mine.
