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They have a broad range of Hindi films and they have a separate file of the latest films that they update on a daily basis. They have some popular Web and TV series available as well. They also have Hollywood movies and TV series. They also have Tamil, Telugu and Hollywood movies on their website. What dies in me when I am? Recommended to Rakhi by: Tej. Shelves: favorites , to-re-read , pessoa. All I hear is the symphony. In my opinion, it has distinct tones of the absurd, and can be looked upon as an absurdist writing albeit on an altogether different level, though the hints of stoicism and cynicism are apparently evident too.

Suicide seems a dubious remedy, and natural death — even assuming it brings unconsciousness — an insufficient one. Rather than the cessation of my existence, which may or may not be possible, this weariness makes me long for something far more horrifying and profound: never to have existed at all, which is definitely impossible.

Nor do I care. Perhaps this is the reason he created so many personalities, so as to be able to experience different lives within him. In fact, his approach is distinct in the sense that he is not only aware of his sensations, but he also exercises a control over them which is clearly visible from the number of heteronyms he created for himself, who could each write in distinct literary styles. But the city is unknown to me, the streets are new, and the trouble has no cure.

And so, leaning over the bridge, I wait for the truth to go away and let me return to being fictitious and non-existent, intelligent and natural. And I offer you this book because I know it is beautiful and useless. It teaches nothing, inspires no faith, and stirs no feeling. A mere stream that follows towards an abyss of ashes scattered by the wind, neither helping nor harming the soil And because this book is absurd, I love it; because it is useless, I want to give it away; and because it serves no purpose to want to give it to you, I give it to you… As I conclude my review, I want to admit that this book overwhelmed me immensely, I witnessed Pessoa seeping inside me slowly, making me quiver with the words he spoke to me, more as I understood them.

Perceiving the disquiet which so fiercely plagued him, the solitude that he opted to dream to somehow conquer it, but still returning to the unrest because he understood the futility, made his thoughts trace through my mind, linger there for sometime before finally coming home to me.

I am yet to complete reading Philosophical essays by Pessoa and the poems he wrote by the name of Albert Caeiro, but still I feel privileged to place him on the altar alongside Camus and Beckett. View all 54 comments. The Book of Disquiet should be read slowly and thoughtfully, savored and sipped like fine wine.

These scraps were assembled into a book for the first time in the s. Pessoa, who was Portuguese, wrote the segments over the course of the last twenty years of his life, which ended in Pessoa invented mul The Book of Disquiet should be read slowly and thoughtfully, savored and sipped like fine wine. Pessoa invented multiple personas for himself that he called heteronyms, and each of his novels or collections of poetry was written from the perspective of an alter ego.

He essentially invented multiple authors and wrote from their perspective. It is as if Pessoa had a multiple personality disorder in artistic form. Soares lives a life that is almost entirely metaphysical. But in the case of what is important to Soares or to Pessoa , intellectual thought is apparently the only process that sustains his life.

It is the story of his life, which was very little but intellectual. We get glimpses of this persona at work, as an accountant poring over ledgers which is what Pessoa did as well , and walking the streets of Lisbon, but for the most part, nothing ever happens.

Soares lives a life only in his mind and in his daydreams. He is scared and reluctant to say hello or even shake hands with others. It is too shocking, too much for him. Much like Proust who wrote an entire series of book triggered by the taste of a single Madeleine cookie, Soares believes that an artist must be able to wring the greatest emotional effect out of the smallest incidents.

So why write of large incidents when small ones suffice? What subjects does Soares ponder as we make our way through this book? What is the book about? Walking and weather. Fame and ambition, rain and dreams. Banality, the banality of existence. Change or the lack there of. Dreams, especially dreams. Writing and art. Identity and being.

Yet other times he can seem utterly arrogant in his narcissism. Soares believes that humans want to be enslaved not free. He has certain fascist tendencies that peek through his primarily apolitical musings. For example, he declares himself both anti-revolutionary and anti-reformist. The more the self can vanish as meaningless, the better. How can I give this book four stars when there are such disagreeable elements?

Sometimes, finding a point of view that one can disagree with is just as valuable. In the end, these insights whether they be about life in general, or whether they gave me insights into certain types of people with tendencies like the narrator , were often profound enough to elevate this book to quite a high status. All in all, this book will only appeal to those readers comfortable with deep thoughts lacking a plot, and willing to persevere, but the rewards can be great.

Therefore, in fact, passively supporting the status quo is just as much a political action as resisting the status quo. View all 16 comments. Heternonymy This be possibly the biggest, most self indulgent pre-PoMo existential angst wank fest. Who else but the Germans could conceive of an epic such as this? Huh, huh? Ay Ay Ay Caramba.

Pessoa wallows in misery like a pig in shit. To suffer without suffering, to want without desire, to think without reason.

To suffer without suffering. Exactly what the hell is that supposed to mean? It unrequited. He does nothing all day, every day, except gaze upon his navel , like an overbloated narcissistic hypochondriac, and bleats about it like a little girl. Its not even two words, is it? And Oben and uten?

What the fcuk is that? Some people should just stick to 50 shades of grey and leave the big boys to those e.

At times ebullient with joy, at times succumbed with sadness, this understated tapestry of febrile ruminations is sure to strike a chord with everyone at certain meeting points: particularly moments when the divide between self and others runs deepest. What idiot on this earth does not question the meaning of life and crawl into a deep hole to lick away the wounds of a quotidian existence?

Pessoa is a master dissector of the soul, and its multi-faceted permutations, a paladin of negation and confirmation, a harbinger of death and phoenixing. What the hell, who cares.

Pessoa manstruates, and the world is alright. View all 9 comments. Not even if the knights were to ride back down the road visible from atop the castle wall would there be more peace in the Castle of the Last Lost Men, where once lances clashed and clanged in the courtyard, nor would anyone recall another name on this side of the road, apart from the one that used to enchant us nightly, like the tale about the Moorish ladies, and the child who died afterwards from life and wonder.

View all 8 comments. A trifecta of absolute favorites? Well, not favorites. Existence definers, then. I'll have to say though, this self-discovery wasn't nearly as enjoyable as it was with Of Human Bondage or The Magic Mountain.

I'd turn a page, and there was one of my innermost thoughts, laid out on the page in all its proud solitude. It takes one intimate with this word and all its facets of life to appreciate this book. The author created an entire world of characters in himself, seeing no journey more i A trifecta of absolute favorites?

The author created an entire world of characters in himself, seeing no journey more important than that of the one into oneself. I have not created my own host of fellow souls, but I am intimately familiar with the ever present malaise, the hesitance toward human interaction, the constant worry over ones reputation with others strangers on the streets to valued friends to all levels of knowing.

Ever present dreaming, ever present distraction, ever present evaluation alongside analysis of the self. Proclaiming the uselessness of everything, yet never making the final step. Dreaming of the novel yet knowing that the novel will never happen so long as the familiar remains itself. Playing mental games to deal with the thinking, the feeling, the hopes and desires suffocated in a soul with myriad reasons for not chasing them.

What is the cause of this? What chemical pattern of brain influenced by the combination of genes sinks the self down into introversion, into deep safe waters, always craving yet disdaining yet loving yet loathing the concept and existence of the sun.

Who knows. I have not gone as deep as this one here though, and I would have to say that this is better. I don't envy his existence. I see what he has written and can claim multitudes of passages as original thoughts, made by myself upon analysis of our similar existences. There is a quote that says loneliness conveys the sorrow of being alone, while solitude expresses the joy.

I look at this book, twenty years of solitude, and I see no solution beyond that of a mindset that I am unwilling to embrace. Falling back on religion is not something I plan on doing anytime soon.

Nor will I turn the pain of loneliness into pleasure. I am not so vindictive against humanity as of yet. This book defines a patch of my soul, but I will not let that patch define me; reading this is just another milestone in my path of figuring out my self, and how to allow myself to live as I desire.

A wake up call, of sorts. It will be worth rereading if I ever start sinking into this train of thought; it'll definitely be a sign that I need a change, a vacation of sorts. I haven't yet lost the appreciation of the novel, and I'll be using this book as a reminder of what can happen if I ever do so. A resource against calamity indeed.

View all 12 comments. However, ultimately, I found it both fascinating and just a little bit frustrating. One source of frustration is that, upon completing it, I discovered that the version I had read translated by Margaret Jull Costa was pages, whereas the Penguin Classics version translated by Richard Zenith is pages.

I hate it when this happens. I feel duped. Nothing had forewarned me o Like a Version Touched for the Very First Time This is an exceptional book or work or whatever you want to call it. Nothing had forewarned me of this possibility. Readers have different views on the merits of the translations. I was perfectly happy with the quality of the text in the version I read plus I love the cover! However, the sheer difference in length has made me question whether and, if so, how much, text was omitted from the earlier version.

This might not be such a big deal. If indeed there is a difference in the amount of text, I imagine that much of it might have replicated what was included in the original version. There is already considerable duplication in the work. Alternatively, it might have consisted of complementary material, the absence of which did not detract from the content of the original version. Regardless, the fact that this issue occurred at all points to another cause of my frustration.

Fragments from under the Floorboards Both versions of the work have been presented to the reader as if it was a novel. It's even suggested that it's one of the great Modernist novels of the 20th Century.

I don't want to be precious about the definition of the word "novel". As far as I'm concerned, if the author thinks their work is a novel, that's good enough for me. However, here, the work as a whole in whatever version has been assembled by a team of experts and editors from a trunk full of hundreds or thousands of fragments. It's not clear whether Pessoa regarded the project as a novel. Nor is it clear whether he regarded any version or part of the project as a finished work.

Or in what order he would have presented the work or novel, had he finished it. The sequence in which the fragments have been ordered presumably, from a selection is actually a triumph of sympathetic editing.

However, I'm not sure whether, if the author intended the work to be a novel, it would have looked anything like what I read. To the extent that its formal concerns might qualify it as a work of Modernist fiction, you have to ask whether they derive from the author or his editors.

Textual Personae I am nevertheless equally fascinated by the metafictional pretence behind its submission to the reader. The work purports to be the product of the heteronymic author, Bernardo Soares, a figment of Pessoa's imagination. Soares was not just a pseudonym for Pessoa writing as himself. He was a fully-fledged persona, clearly differentiated from Pessoa and many other heteronyms he used to imagine and write other discrete aspects of his work.

Thus, the existence of the heteronym allowed Pessoa to fully explore aspects of his imagination, aesthetics and philosophy, without any limitation inferred from its ultimate source in the one person. Mind you, Pessoa acknowledged that Soares most resembled his true self [ "me minus reason and affectivity" ], to the extent there might only have been one.

The result is that this work is not just fragmentary in its own right. It is the product of a fragmented author. Whether or not it was ever intended to be a novel by either of its "authors" , the work itself or at least the analysis of it fits within the concerns of Modernism, if not Post-Modernism which I maintain is a branch of Modernism, a sub-movement, not a separate movement.

Melancholy Nihilism The fragmentation also reflects the philosophical concerns of the author s. Ultimately, I sense that this is a philosophical work, rather than a fictional work.

It's a fragmented, but ultimately comprehensive and systematic, contemplation of the narrator's world and his place in it. The narrator is a thinker, not a man of action. Little happens in the work other than thinking about the self and its relationship with others and the world.

It's not quite solipsistic, because the narrator acknowledges the existence of the outside world. However, for him, his own mind is of paramount concern. The editors have assembled the fragments in a thematic way, even though the same themes appear multiple times in the finished text. It could equally have been organised a different way. Or distilled into a short work of melancholy wisdom. The work is a testament to inveterate egoism, miserabilism and misanthropy.

Yet, it's been fashioned into a comprehensible philosophy. If sub-headings were added as signposts, it would make a fantastic guide to nihilism or whatever you want to call this particular philosophy. I am reluctant to describe it as Existentialism, because of the apparent lack of Humanism. Whatever you call it, it purports to be a philosophy made by a melancholy person for melancholy people, to the extent that there is any concern for others at all.

Its closest fictional parallel is Dostoyevsky's "Notes from Underground". Prepossessing Aphorisms It's hard to say how much readers are expected to distance themselves from the ostensible authors or their philosophy. Even if it's serious, it would be ironic if only sad or self-pitying readers related to or enjoyed this work. Its beauty resides in the quality of writing, which can be enjoyed by all readers with a metaphysical bent. Indeed, if all philosophy were conceived and written this lyrically, it wouldn't be the preserve of desk-bound, incomprehensible polysyllabists and LL.

You can understand and enjoy it, even if you don't agree or sympathise with its underlying philosophy. Ultimately, for this reason alone, it is a creative work, if not necessarily fiction. Still, there is always the possibility that the fiction lies in the creation of a non-fiction work by a fictitious author, narrator or character as ably assisted by the experts and editors!

It's hard to tell whether the metaphysics is bona fide or purely metafictional. The whole text or philosophy might even be ironic. Who knows? Perhaps Johnny Marr could put it to music! At least this prospect makes it good for a laugh or maybe even a dance.

Roger Wilco Foxtrot! The human soul is an abyss of viscous darkness Quite against my wishes, what I feel is felt in order for me to write it down.

I demand nothing more from life than to be a spectator of it. I demand nothing more from myself than to be a spectator of life. In me every tiny detail is recorded and magnified in order to form part of a whole. I concern myself only with myself.

For me the external world is pure sensation. I never forget what I feel. I belong to nothing, I desire nothing, I am nothing except an abstract centre of impersonal sensations, a sentient mirror fallen from the wall but still turned to reflect the diversity of the world. I don't care if this makes me happy or unhappy, and I don't much care. We were born into a state of anguish, both metaphysical and moral, and of political disquiet.

We love only our idea of what someone is like. We love an idea of our own; in short, it is ourselves that we love The onanist may be an abject creature but in truth he is the logical expression of the lover. He is the only one who neither disguises nor deludes himself. Love disturbs and wearies, action dissipates and disappoints, no one truly knows how to know, and thinking confuses everything. Better then to put a stop to all our desires and hopes, to our futile attempts to explain the world, or to any foolish ambitions to change or govern it.

Everything is nothing I think this because this is all nothing. Nothing, nothing, just part of the night and the silence and of whatever emptiness, negativity and inconstancy I share with them, the space that exists between me and me, a thing mislaid by some god I also wrote a story that I placed in comment 1 in the thread.

Company oppresses us, Despite its ritual. Through them trickles The plangent sound Of the constant rain Outside the window. I don't fantasise; I don't imagine. I keep whole a heart, Given over to Unreal destinies. For then, for them, Tiny incidents Are imbued with Great significance. II Wise men protect their souls With just their human senses.

At the onset of any sadness, They assert their innocence. The wise shirk the disquiet Of other men's existence, And defy successive tragedies With consummate indifference. View all 33 comments. Shelves: 6-star , favourites , alter-ego-reviews , pessoa , portuguese , books-writing-reading , reviewed , fictional-reviews. The Review of Disquiet Ken. Bach Edited and Translated by Junta 1 I was born in a time when possibilities were expanding by the day.

However, so did the proportion of young people who lost touch with their dignity. It seems the trend will only continue. Visible and invisible disparities. I am proud, but not vain. I know my defects are too strong for me to love myself as much as the idea of myself. One is much more comfortable living The Review of Disquiet Ken. One is much more comfortable living inside the mind. My weaknesses can all be mended tomorrow. All I need to do is open my heart.

However, the heart can only be opened in darkness. The exception to this is when there is a ray of light so beautiful and innocent that white meets blue, blue meets pink, pink meets white and the whole world is bathed in every imaginable colour.

The tremor of a cherry blossom branch, the sophistication of a hydrangea, the humility of a eucalyptus tree. The winds carry our thoughts, the rain washes away our fears, and the sun warms us up from the inside. The convict with the death sentence who is as tranquil as if they are already in heaven. It seems that an extended period of inaction cancels out the fruits of past action.

It has always puzzled me how people can have so many opinions. Indifference is the first step in living inwardly. Prey is taken in, but the predator never comes out. It would become prey out of its web.

Just how alone do we want to be? Rarer still for the attraction to be mutual. If my emotions are asleep, I am asleep. No, it is not sensitive to many things, but to those that actually deserve our respect and love.

The lofty possibilities of each one are combined into rich sensations. Unlike the relationship between life and fiction, in which the latter may be more enticing, living inside a dream is much more real than life itself, and much more beautiful than any fiction that, at the end of the day, is not concerned with us.

Reading is life's second biggest luxury. It is a shame dreaming is considered a part of life, and not the other way around. The meaning of life. They have spent too much time with me that they must be apathetic. Words are the physical value of gold. Thoughts are its intrinsic beauty. The things you can change are not essential to your own being. Dreams are where the impossible become possible. My person lies in the boundary between the two, a boundary that will never be broken down.

Growing in one language means leaving the other behind. Since time is not given to catch up, the two are journeying along two paths becoming more divergent by the day. These persons all have one thing in common, and it is ironic that this attribute they share is what I often long for.

In reality, it is unattainable. A world where thought is action, one's purpose is clear, and art, science and sport all co-exist. One can comprehend the causal chain, and be transported onto a plane where they hold the power to infinite and truth. One only loses because they deserve to lose. My essence lies in a deep sleep in a plain of never-melting snow under the sun from a decade ago, when I realised the incompatibility between my self and the environment.

New lands bring new sensations, but the decision to venture forth took too long. I'm not sure how much I lost in those plains. I believe they exist inside myself too, though it will be a long time before the snow there melts. It is just that I am pessimistic about how receptive I am to change. Thoughts are not published or broadcast, but I am always writing the draft. Today I'm an ascetic in my religion of myself. A cup of coffee, a cigarette and my dreams can substitute quite well for the universe and its stars, for work, love, and even beauty and glory.

I need virtually no stimulants. I have opium enough in my soul. I do not bother with interpretations, only impressions. I am used to it, and it does not bother me so much. I am the same old person from year to year, but every moment I am also becoming someone new. As much as I live in my mind already, I don't entirely embrace this future. Living in the mind is a voluntary privilege, luxury and virtue that should not be accessible to everyone. The concept of acting, becoming another person is wonderful, but I could not bear other people watching this psychological rendezvous.

However, the latter is tragic and beautiful. The smell of the lawn with a passionate discussion over whisky. The translucence of a window with a mental exercise. The taste of sake with the crescent moon. The beauty of prose with the mediocrity of people around me.

Whole new worlds will open up when distant planes merge onto one. Principles on Tuesday. Taste on Wednesday. Kindness on Thursday. Indifference on Friday. Perverseness on Saturday. Optimism on Sunday. It is a blessing to find like-minded people because most of humanity is disagreeable or distasteful. Quantity of quality over quality of quantity. It is a question of purpose. Do you want to make the world a better place, or be the best you can be?

Both, or neither? I can journey around the whole universe in my mind in the comfort of home. I am selfish, and am happy with the rare purchases I make myself. I know what I want and don't want. Thus, what someone may give me blindly is appreciated but not necessary. The Tropic of Spontaneity divides them. After they go their separate ways, each marrying someone else since they think too much alike to marry each other , if one day they happen to look at these pages, I think they recognise what they never said and will be grateful to me for so accurately interpreting not only what they really are but also what they never wished to be nor ever knew they were Taking turns is unaesthetic, but there is only space for one pen on the line.

A narrow comfort zone. It's a shame there is no 'Pause' function. On the crucial level, the chances of reaching a checkpoint can be They are the most similar to me. Thankfully I do not mind them so much now. At the moment I'm incapable of writing a few lines. For now I shall stick with reading. The one in solitude, the one in the mirror, the one in the photograph or the one in the mind?

You're doing it again. Now I read instead and wallow in indifference. In others I'm just good at hiding my ineptitude, or avoid them altogether. However, I do look down on others who behave stupidly by choice. Things could be a lot worse. This is a natural occurrence, but is worth analysing.

To place in the realms of exact science the hum of a passerby, the glance of a waitress, the gaiety of a retiree, the hesitancy of an acquaintance, the struggles of a friend, the concerns of a lover. The fountain, the cave, the sky. The waves, the sand, the tide. The piercing sunshine, the stuttering rain, the air we breathe. The future, the past, the present. The chaos, the structure, the universe. View all 48 comments.

Cioran or Albert Camus. This might have been the case had not archivists rescued his fragmented idlings from the black void and published them in this volume. What is the function of this book? Would he care that a legion of people find this book a philosophical masterpiece, that we empathise with his eternal struggle with everyday life, with his permanent existential misery? No: he is only happy in dreams.

In practice, at least. With The Book of Disquiet , Soares has written himself into extinction. View all 43 comments. The four months it took me to read Fernando Pessoa's posthumously-published collection of thought fragments have been some of the most fraught and chrysalis-splitting days of my adult life. This book will forever be synonymous with transition and grief, exploration and longing.

I could read only bits at a time, for Pessoa's struggle to understand the world and his place in it mirrored my own and my many gasps of recognition left me breathless. Of course, this is not a book to be read in an order The four months it took me to read Fernando Pessoa's posthumously-published collection of thought fragments have been some of the most fraught and chrysalis-splitting days of my adult life.

Of course, this is not a book to be read in an orderly fashion, within a time frame, for a singular purpose. It is meant to be read as it was written, in fragments, unending, one you can pick up at any time, turn to any page, read forwards and back and inside-out.

It is a kaleidoscope of dreams and reflections, a rumination on what it means to be a writer, the terrible weight of being human. Of The Book of Disquiet writer Rabih Alameddine says, "A book tells you quite a bit about its author; a great book tells you quite a bit about you. When I first encountered Disquiet, I felt like laundry — the book dunked me in pristine water, then battered and wrung me and hung me out to dry in sunshine, rejuvenated.

I was forced to examine the choices I'd made, the beliefs I'd held, the loves I'd forsaken and the gods I'd worshipped. Pessoa penned his musings from Lisbon over the course of many years, from WWI to his death in We are seeing a dark time in the life of a nation, in the life of a solitary man with few friends and family, working at a clerical job which offered little but time to ponder.

The melancholic tone woven throughout reflects not only Europe between the wars but a particular 21st century angst, as well. How does one live in the world without being swallowed by it? I found myself longing for the type of solitude Pessoa experienced, those many decades before our lives were invaded by television and the world was cinched tight by the Internet and social media.

Their value lies chiefly in the poetry itself, moving from sublime passages about the gods and heroic exploits to passages expressing deep human emotion. Uploaded by Hystorie on April 13, Internet Archive's 25th Anniversary Logo.

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