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Fernando Pessoa

Rookie (June 13,1888 - November 30,1935 / Lisbon)

Fernando Pessoa
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Fernando António Nogueira Pessoa (b. June 13,1888 in Lisbon, Portugal — d. November 30,1935 in the same city) was a poet and writer. Critic Harold Bloom referred to him in the book 'The Western Canon' as the most representative poet of the twentieth century, along with Pablo Neruda. Pessoa is unique as an author due to the prevalence of heteronyms in his writing, with few of his poems being signed by himself.

When Pessoa was five years old, his father died of tuberculosis. A year later, his brother also died and his widowed mother was remarried to the Portuguese consul in Durban, South Africa; the family moved to the city in 1896. The young Pessoa received his early education in... more »

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  • Rookie Emma Alone (10/31/2013 12:35:00 PM)

    Pessoa is the most prolific and amazing 'unknown' author and poet of the 20th century. His works are 'one of a kind'. The Book of Disquiet is one of those books that stays with you forever...there are passages and/or lines that 'live' in your mind... His poetry is incredible- -some of my favorites- 'Navegar', 'Vaga no Azul Amplo Solta'...etc, etc.

  • Rookie Annie Ali (6/13/2013 4:27:00 AM)

    I am a huge fan of pessoa..... he s my biggest inspiration... his poems are so close to my heart and soul n gives myself a reason to deal with the world outside.....

  • Rookie Tyron Johnson (5/1/2013 12:50:00 PM)

    I am such a big fan of Pessoa's work. I have a book of sonnets and The Book of Disquiet (quite simply my favourite book of all time) but I'm not much aware of much of his other poetry. It would be good if more of his work could be placed on this site.

  • Rookie Darosey Orchid (7/8/2008 8:42:00 AM)

    Hi' I don't know how to post a poem. Fernando Pessoa has many poems, some of them in English. Here goes one: (I would like to post other fabulous poems of him, but I don't know how, as I already said)

    I don't know how many souls I have...

    I’ve changed at every moment.
    I always feel like a stranger.
    I’ve never seen or found myself.
    From being so much, I have only soul.
    A man who has soul has no calm.
    A man who sees is just what he sees.
    A man who feels is not who he is.



    Attentive to what I am and see,
    I become them and stop being I.
    Each of my dreams and each desire
    Belongs to whoever had it, not me.
    I am my own landscape,
    I watch myself journey -
    Various, mobile, and alone.
    Here where I am I can’t feel myself.



    That’s why I read, as a stranger,
    My being as if it were pages.
    Not knowing what will come
    And forgetting what has passed,
    I note in the margin of my reading
    What I thought I felt.
    Rereading, I wonder: “Was that me? ”
    God knows, because he wrote it.

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