We become sphynxes, though fake, up to the point we no longer know who we are.

Fernando Pessoa
Portuguese poet, writer, and philosopher (1888–1935); creator of the heteronymic system including Alberto Caeiro, Ricardo Reis, Álvaro de Campos, and Bernardo Soares
150 pieces
- Lived
- 1888–1935
- Born
- Lisbon
- Died
- Lisbon
- Nationality
- Kingdom of Portugal, Portugal
- Known as
- poet, writer, translator, publisher
- Era
- 20th century
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Works (150)
The train slows down, it's the Cais do Sodré. I arrived to Lisbon, but not to a conclusion.
A tedium that includes only the anticipation of more tedium; the regret, now, of tomorrow regretting having regretted today.
We are two abysses — a well staring at the sky.
I come closer to my desk as to a bulwark against life.
There are those that even God exploits, and they are prophets and saints in the vacuousness of the world.
Strength without agility is a mere mass.
Having touched Christ's feet is not an excuse for punctuation mistakes.
I think of life as an inn where I have to stay until the abyss coach arrives. I don't know where it will take me, for I know nothing.
Whether or not they exist, we're slaves to the gods.
Walking on these streets, until the night falls, my life feels to me like the life they have. By day they’re full of meaningless activity; by night, they’re full of meaningless lack of it. By day I am nothing, and by night I am I. There is …
Oh Portugal, today you are fog... The Hour has come!
These are Fortunate Islands, These are lands without a place
Pity him who lives at home Happy with his life, Without a dream, a flexing of wings, To make him relinquish Even the warmest ember of his hearth!Pity him who is happy! He lives because life lasts.
God gave the sea the danger and the abyss, but it was in it that He mirrored the sky.
Who wants to go beyond the Bojador Must go beyond pain.
Was it worthwhile? Everything is worthwhile if the soul is not small.
Oh salty sea, how much of your salt are tears of Portugal!
Here lies, on the small farthest beach, the Captain of the End.
The sea with an end can be Greek or Roman: the endless sea is Portuguese.
The sea is fulfilled, and the Empire fell apart. Lord, Portugal must yet fulfill itself!
God wills, man dreams, the work is born.
Without madness what is man more than the healthy beast, corpse adjourned that procreates?
Faithful to the word given and the idea had. All else is up to God!