The Book of Disquiet

Starred review from July 3, 2017
Reviewed by Marcela Valdes A triumph of scholarship and translation, this collaboration between editor Pizarro and translator Jull Costa presents in English one of the greatest works of Portuguese fiction in its entirety for the first time. Composed mostly on the eve and during the aftermath of World War I, The Book of Disquiet looks movingly at inertia and refusal; it’s the Portuguese cousin of “Bartleby, the Scrivener” and Waiting for Godot.First published in 1982, 47 years after Pessoa’s death, The Book of Disquiet presents a series of “random impressions,” diarylike passages that double as articulations of personal philosophy. Arranging these fragments chronologically for the first time, Pizarro reveals that Pessoa composed them in the voices of two distinct characters: the office clerk Vicente Guedes and the bookkeeper Bernardo Soares.Pessoa wrote Guedes’s section first, and it’s easy to see why these earlier texts, which date from 1913 to 1920, have been left out or buried among Soares’s entries in previous editions of the novel. Guedes is all preening self-absorption and jejune metaphysics; he’s like an introverted version of Dadaist Tristan Tzara. “I want your reading of this book to leave you with the sense of having lived through some voluptuous nightmare,” he declares.Pessoa himself planned a “rigorous” pruning and revision of Guedes’s droning that never occurred, and newcomers to The Book of Disquiet should consider skipping straight to Soares’s half. This is the text that has earned the novel’s standing as Pessoa’s pièce de resistance. Where Guedes imagines himself a gifted dreamer trapped in a prison cell, Soares wryly likens himself to a “little girl embroidering pillowcases” to pass the time. This is more than a difference in tone; Soares sees an existential fraternity that Guedes does not. Sitting in his “pokey office,” he recognizes himself as one of many people who make their way through life with “sad, exalted hearts.” He notes: “I had great ambitions and extravagant dreams, but so did the errand boy and the seamstress.... The only thing that distinguishes me from them is that I can write.”Embroidering the skies and streets of Lisbon, and his own interior moodscapes, into words is the one comfort left to an orphan who has witnessed “so many noble ideas fallen onto the dungheap.” Jull Costa, who first took a crack at The Book of Disquiet early in her career, gorgeously renders Soares’s melancholy descriptions. In a novel almost entirely stripped of plot and secondary characters, the fresh translation of these exquisite scenes is everything.Pessoa created more than 70 authorial characters, or “heteronyms,” over his lifetime, but Soares was the one most similar to the author. His final entries were composed in 1934, a year before Pessoa’s death. Through Soares, we can begin to fathom why Pessoa produced trunks full of manuscripts that were published only after he died. Pursuing anything in this world is folly, Soares thinks, but “to know how to exist through the written voice and the intellectual image! That’s what life is about.”Marcela Valdes is a contributing writer for the New York Times Magazine and a former board member of the National Book Critics Circle.

November 11, 2002
When Pessoa died in 1935, a few years short of 50, he left behind a trunk of mostly unpublished writing in a variety of languages; his Lisbon publishers and variously translators are still sifting them. This perpetually unclassifiable and unfinished book of self-reflective fragments was first published in Portuguese in 1982, and it is arguably Pessoa's masterpiece. Four previous English translations, all published in 1991, were compromised either by abridgement, poor translation or error-laden source texts. While he's now a Pessoa veteran—having edited and translated Fernando Pessoa & Co.: Selected Poems, the 1999 PEN Award for Poetry in Translation winner—Zenith's first pass at this book was one of the four misses. He bases this new translation on his own Portuguese edition of 1998, and has done an admirable job in bringing out the force and clarity in Pessoa's serpentine and sometimes opaque meditations. Pessoa often wrote as various personae (as Pessoa & Co.
carefully demonstrated); Disquiet
is no exception, being putatively the work of "Bernardo Soares, assistant bookkeeper in the city of Lisbon." Thus it is impossible to ascribe the book's anti-humanist logophilia directly to the author: "I weep over nothing that life brings or takes away, but there are pages of prose that have made me cry." That is just one of many permutations of similar sentiments, but the genius of Pessoa and his personae is that readers are left weighing each and every such sentence for sincerity and truth value. (Dec. 3)Forecast:The release of this book as part of the newly redesigned Penguin Classics series should further assure Pessoa's place in the modernist pantheon.
Pessoa and Co. was well reviewed, but the fact that
Disquiet's previous appearances in English were relatively recent may limit review attention.

July 1, 2017

Born in Lisbon but schooled in South Africa, Pessoa (1888-1935) was a prolific modernist poet/aphorist famous for the staggering number of pseudonyms he used to express his various facets. First published in Portuguese in 1982 and once called the "solitary person's Bible," this diary-like meditation on major questions has been translated into English four times since 1991. Although its desultory thoughts have been variously organized by different editors, it is only in this edition, for the first time, that the pieces are presented chronologically, including those written before 1920. "What do I care if no one reads what I write? I write to distract myself from living, and I publish because those are the rules of the game," says the text. But in actuality, the manuscript, as well as most of Pessoa's work, languished in a trunk after his death--he hardly published anything while alive. Thus, much of what he writes is contradictory, but the originality of his expression easily deflects accusations of self-indulgence: "I asked for so little from life and life denied me even that." VERDICT Pessoa may have been a reclusive bookkeeper who lived most of his life in a single room, but in this work, he offers contemplative readers a veritable "thought banquet."--Jack Shreve, Chicago

Copyright 2017 Library Journal, LLC Used with permission.

June 15, 2017
Complete edition of a haunted autobiographical novel--or is it a fictionalized autobiography?--that has emerged as an existentialist classic in the 80-plus years since its author's death.Born in Lisbon in 1888, Pessoa might have taught J.D. Salinger and Thomas Pynchon a thing or two about anonymity. He wrote prolifically in three languages but published relatively little, and he hid behind assumed names and identities, some 75 of them in all, which he called "heteronyms." The present volume is a case in point, written over the course of many years in the person of two such assumed names, Vicente Guedes and, later, Bernardo Soares. As for Guedes, Pessoa opens, "This book is not by him, it is him": it is a catalog of Kierkegaard-ian moods, of fears and loathings and the constant presence of death in a fundamentally tragic world. "I failed life even before I had lived it, because even as I dreamed it, I failed to see its appeal," writes Pessoa, and he proceeds to make sun-splashed Lisbon a gray and gloomy place. Though often somber, Pessoa is rarely tiresome; he reflects interestingly on such things as the development of science and aesthetics, the pleasures of wasting time ("For those subtle connoisseurs of sensations, there is a kind of handbook on inertia, which includes recipes for every kind of lucidity"), and, always, mortality: "We are born dead, we live dead, and we enter death already dead." Readers with a liking for Walter Benjamin and Miguel de Unamuno, Pessoa's intellectual kin, will find much of interest in Pessoa's pages, which add up to a sort of philosophical journal more than a storyline as such. And readers already familiar with Pessoa's poetry will appreciate the care of his language, although some of its fluency is better captured in the Penguin translation of 2001.Cheerlessly brilliant and full of memorable observations ("Life is an experimental journey undertaken involuntarily"): just the thing for the young goth in the family and a fine introduction to a writer deserving more attention.

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