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spaceisavacuum 's review for:
The Book of Disquiet
by Fernando Pessoa
emotional
sad
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Complicated
Loveable characters:
N/A
Diverse cast of characters:
N/A
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
I will treat this book with the proper reverence due. Seeing as The author is far more laconic, and sagacious than I… than I... My radio station is giving away Tix for Lisbon, an all expenses paid luxury vacation! I called and called, and got no answer. Going to Lisbon would fix all of my problems. It's attainable to reach into far distances w/ planning and coordination, but infeasible to rely on the luck of a radio sweepstake. the big unattainable dream of nothing. I mimic purplescence badly.
Here’s my dream; in poetry courses don’t learn poetry, learn the different styles and how to write them. How to write a limerick, a sonnet, or haiku. Even the simple art of haiku is lost. In painting classes, learn art history, and how to use mixing techniques like tempera. Not, simply, painting pictures. In band, learn how to play an instrument, not simply how to march to a beat like a f*cking cadet in boot camp. Learn how to write in cursive!
Admitting it is a conversational piece of lit, not unlike the raving lunacy of Henry Miller, but beautiful and depressing. Numerous literature from authors compels the excitable admiration of followers. painstakingly febrile semantics; this isn’t even one of those novels that I find worthwhile reading. I read to gather information, not to feel. I seem to have lost feeling.
Fernando enumerates that the only meaning to life is in the writing of it. It is as necessary to keep track of projects as breathing. It is not necessary to take opium to be happy. It is necessary to find talents and abilities to pass the unbearable hours of awakening. These things that are positive, liberating, and astonishing.
I envy after knowledge, I want chemistry, I want language, and algebra, and everything this life of mine could not fit into the daylight. I don't want to sleep, ip; I can't afford to dream. Only to make the best of it. After all these years, I still have the time of my life doing this.
I am not astonished, I am complacent. The Book of Disquiet was no more significant to me than the next book I’m reading_ and this is the only meaning that my life has.
Here’s my dream; in poetry courses don’t learn poetry, learn the different styles and how to write them. How to write a limerick, a sonnet, or haiku. Even the simple art of haiku is lost. In painting classes, learn art history, and how to use mixing techniques like tempera. Not, simply, painting pictures. In band, learn how to play an instrument, not simply how to march to a beat like a f*cking cadet in boot camp. Learn how to write in cursive!
Admitting it is a conversational piece of lit, not unlike the raving lunacy of Henry Miller, but beautiful and depressing. Numerous literature from authors compels the excitable admiration of followers. painstakingly febrile semantics; this isn’t even one of those novels that I find worthwhile reading. I read to gather information, not to feel. I seem to have lost feeling.
Fernando enumerates that the only meaning to life is in the writing of it. It is as necessary to keep track of projects as breathing. It is not necessary to take opium to be happy. It is necessary to find talents and abilities to pass the unbearable hours of awakening. These things that are positive, liberating, and astonishing.
I envy after knowledge, I want chemistry, I want language, and algebra, and everything this life of mine could not fit into the daylight. I don't want to sleep, ip; I can't afford to dream. Only to make the best of it. After all these years, I still have the time of my life doing this.
I am not astonished, I am complacent. The Book of Disquiet was no more significant to me than the next book I’m reading_ and this is the only meaning that my life has.