A Little Larger Than the Entire Universe: Selected Poems

There were some good poems in this collection. However, nothing compared to [b:The Book of Disquiet: The Complete Edition 40881621 The Book of Disquiet The Complete Edition Fernando Pessoa https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1591219012l/40881621.SX50.jpg 983806].This is what I have to say about the stylistic aspects of the volume in question. It should be taken with a fair amount of skepticism due to the fact that it is (a) a translation, and (b) a translation by a different translator.Pessoa's use of heteronyms is fascinating, to say the least. They have their distinct style, lifestyle, and even biographies. However, reading these poems from various times and signed by various heteronyms, converges to say something singular in nature:I'm not a materialist or a deist or anything else. I'm a man who one day opened the window and discovered this crucial thing: Nature exists. I saw that the trees, the rivers and the stones are things that truly exist. No one had ever thought about this.I don't pretend to be anything more than the greatest poet in the world. I made the greatest discovery worth making, next to which all other discoveries are games of stupid children. I noticed the Universe. The Greeks, with all their visual acuity, didn't do as much.Most of his poems in this collection, and arguably most he has written in his lifetime are about this materialism (or empiricism perhaps?). While The Book of Disquiet is all about one's inner life, and dreams, these poems are all about one's outer life, often in strong denial of an existence of an inner life.

heart wrenchingly beautiful. a lot of the poems in here were surprisingly life affirming which i wasnt expecting considering how bleak the book of disquiet was, but of course theres your fair share of despair present here as well. pessoa's ruminations on the nature of consciousness, the universe and identity are as incredible as always. the eternal search for a true self, and the purpose as to why were so aware of ourselves, and all the suffering that brings. all the heteronyms cover this topic to an extent, particularly pessoa's, which resulted in some poems that are among my favorites in the collection. it was nice to see a wider variety of heteronyms on display compared to the book of disquiet as well, with the differences in style and sheer personality really being something to behold. the alberto caeiro section in particular has some jaw dropping stuff.

pessoas work has really changed my outlook on identity and consciousness as a whole. its interesting to see how identity being this ever changing fluid thing that we construct ourselves is so present and obvious in pessoas work. i dont think any other writer has done it better. our egos are so fragile and when we take a look at the ‘nobodies' we all are you wonder where our consciousness comes from, why were even aware of this fact, and the fact that we exist at all. the universe gives us no answers, and this struggle gives pessoas work an emotional charge that i just love.

its easy to see how someone may view our self awareness and thinking as a curse and resolve to just not think at all, eliminating ego, instead purely being an “outer self”, reflected in caeiros work. its maybe rooted in a nihilistic sort of thinking but its presented as such a beautiful and powerful thing. it profoundly moved me. to just see the universe and accept it for what it is, and ask for nothing more, is what i hope to accomplish one day, although god knows im not emotionally mature enough for that.

i loved ricardo reis' portion of the book too, which took on more of a deterministic edge and had to do a lot more with fate and death. this seems to be unpopular opinion but alvaro de campos was probably my least favorite of the four voices, although thats basically like being the least shiny diamond in a pile of polished diamonds. that loud and bombastic prose style was NOT something i expected from pessoa, but man am i glad he did it.

nothing i say is going to do justice to the beauty of the passages themselves, so ill just put some of my favorites here.

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When I die and you, meadow,Become something strange to me,There will be better meadowsFor the better self I'll be.And the flowers that are beautifulIn the fields I see down hereWill be stars of many colorsIn the vast fields there.And perhaps my heart, seeingThat other nature, more naturalThan the vision that fooled usInto thinking it was real,Will, like a bird at last alightingOn a branch, look back and recallThis flight of existenceAs nothing at all. —————————————————————————— Seagulls are flying close to the ground.They say this means it's going to rain.But it's not raining yet. Right nowThere are seagulls close to the groundFlying—that's all.Likewise, when there's happiness,They say sadness is on its way.Perhaps, but so what? If todayIs full of happiness, whereDoes sadness fit in?It doesn't. It belongs to tomorrow.When it comes, then I'll be sad.Today is pure and good. The futureDoesn't exist today. There's a wallBetween us and it.Enjoy what you have, drunk on being!Leave the future in its place.Poems, wine, women, ideals—Whatever you want, if it's what is,Is for you to enjoy.Tomorrow, tomorrow . . . . Be, tomorrow,What tomorrow brings you. For nowAccept, be ignorant, and believe.Keep close to the ground, but flying,Like the seagull. —————————————————————————— What matters is to be natural and calmIn happiness and in unhappiness,To feel as if feeling were seeing,To think as if thinking were walking,And to remember, when death comes, that each day dies,And the sunset is beautiful, and so is the night thatremains . . .That's how it is and how I want it to be . . . —————————————————————————— A piano on my street...Children playing outside...A Sunday, and the sunShining golden with joy...My sorrow that makes meLove all that's indefinite...Though I had little in life,It pains me to have lost it.But my life alreadyRuns deep in changes...A piano I miss hearing,Those children I miss being! —————————————————————————— Each day you didn't enjoy wasn't yours:You just got through it. Whatever you liveWithout enjoying, you don't live.You don't have to love or drink or smile.The sun's reflection in a puddle of waterIs enough, if it pleases you.Happy those who, placing their delightIn slight things, are never deprivedOf each day's natural fortune!