Every so often, I sit down and write a letter to Fernando Pessoa, the Portuguese poet and writer.
I not only write but also send each letter to the postal address where Pessoa spent the last fifteen years of his life before dying at the age of 47 with cirrhosis of the liver - most likely due to alcoholism.
He hasn't written back to me yet, even though I put my own name and address on every missive I send.
One day he, or someone very much like him, will perhaps write back.
I live in hope.
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Every so often, I sit down and write a letter to Fernando Pessoa, the Portuguese poet and writer.
I not only write but also send each letter to the postal address where Pessoa spent the last fifteen years of his life before dying at the age of 47 with cirrhosis of the liver - most likely due to alcoholism.
He hasn't written back to me yet, even though I put my own name and address on every missive I send.
One day he, or someone very much like him, will perhaps write back.
I live in hope.
"Sadly, or perhaps not, I recognize that I have an arid heart. An adjective matters more to me than the real weeping of a human soul. But sometimes I’m different."
Living The Book of Disquiet
Every so often, I sit down and write a letter to Fernando Pessoa, the Portuguese poet and writer.
I not only write but also send each letter to the postal address where Pessoa spent the last fifteen years of his life before dying at the age of 47 with cirrhosis of the liver - most likely due to alcoholism.
He hasn't written back to me yet, even though I put my own name and address on every missive I send.
One day he, or someone very much like him, will perhaps write back.
I live in hope.
