Fernando Pessoa

From the mixed sense of being not loved and loving,
Who with feared longing half would know,

In his pale, uninteresting face there was a look of suffering that didn’t add any interest, and it was difficult to say just what kind of suffering this look suggested. It seemed to suggest various kinds: hardships, anxieties, and the suffering born of the indifference that comes from having already suffered a lot.

Though naturally ambitious, he savored the pleasure of having no ambitions at all.

I doubt there has ever been an outwardly human creature who so completely embodied his image of his own self. A dandy in spirit, he paraded the art of dreaming through the pure happenstance of existence.

There are no partial nobilities.

Only Tedium, which is a form of aloofness, and Art, which is a form of scorn, gild our [life] with a semblance of contentment.

Let us not forget to hate those who take pleasure in things because they take pleasure in them, to despise those who are happy because we ourselves do not know how to be happy.

Everything is as vain as stirring up cold ashes, as vague as the moment just before dawn

Great suffering can give us the illusion of being Pain’s Chosen One

I don’t know if the world is sad or bad, nor do I care, because I feel bored and indifferent in the face of other people’s suffering. As long as they don’t cry or moan — which I find irritating and embarrassing — I greet their suffering with a shrug of the shoulders, so deep is my disdain for them.