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“It’s me, just as I resulted from everything” – writes Fernando Pessoa. If you ask me my favorite author, I’ll say Pessoa. More than Jung, who I studied as a doctorate, and more than Joyce, who I studied as a master. Isn’t it curious to think that who we are today is the result of hundreds of millions of actions?
If you had opened another website, you would not be reading these words… if you had moved to another city, you would be somewhere else. And we can go all the way to birth, to conception. Like that kid who wonders what would have happened if their parents hadn’t met…
My favorite movie, in turn, is Wings of Desire. There is also a poem there that runs through the scenes as Pessoa has through mine, which says:
“Why am I
And why not you?
Why am I here
And why not there?
It’s life under the sun
nothing more than a dream?” (see at the end, complete).
By my momentary free association, I linked one poem to another. Fernando Pessoa and Peter Handke. After all, what makes us who we are?
“How much I went, how much I did not, all of that is me.
As I wanted, as did not want all this way me.
How much I loved or stopped loving is the same longing in me.”
As a teenager, I was overwhelmed by art. Why, how can anyone say something about what I feel so good? Intersubjectivity is the concept, it seems to me. What is more surreal is imagining this being thinking and writing, in his room as I am in mine now, about himself. Thinking, still, that for us to be all of previous humanity it was necessary in a great sequence of interdependence for us to get here. After all, without a lot of engineers there wouldn’t be this iPad. Without many other people there would be no internet, no electricity and… so on… and I would be a guy thinking alone in a city in the interior of Minas Gerais.
This poem by Pessoa is actually a little sad, like a realization that more could have been done or that something remains to be done. He writes:
“And, at the same time, the impression, a little distant,
Like a dream you want to remember in the twilight you wake up,
Of there being better in me than me.
Yes, at the same time, the impression, a little painful,
As from a dreamless awakening to a day of many creditors,
Of having missed everything like tripping over the doormat,
Of having packed everything like a suitcase without brushes,
Of having replaced something for me somewhere in life”.
We all have those days. And the artist allows us to feel and validate this experience and all others. There’s nothing wrong with failing. In making mistakes, in giving up. By the way, theme of our last video on YouTube:
In my interpretation, the poem also warns of the future. Who do we want to be? What do we want to try? What are we going to leave for others who will succeed us in this wonderful world?
“How can it be that I, who am I,
before I was myself I wasn’t me,
and that someday, I, who am I,
will I no longer be who I am?”
Something equally curious when we think about being who we are is the permanence-impermanence relationship. After writing and rereading the text, am I still who I was before writing? And who are you? Or did something change? Maybe a little?
Yes, it’s me, myself, as I resulted from everything,
Kind of accessory or spare part,
Irregular surroundings of my heartfelt emotion,
It’s me here in me, it’s me.
How much I went, how much I did not, all of that is me.
As I wanted, as did not want all this way me.
How much I loved or stopped loving is the same longing in me.
And at the same time, the impression, somewhat inconsequential,
As of a dream formed about mixed realities,
Of having left me on a trolley car seat,
To be found by chance of whoever sits on top of it.
And, at the same time, the impression, a little distant,
Like a dream you want to remember in the twilight you wake up,
Of there being better in me than me.
Yes, at the same time, the impression, a little painful,
As from a dreamless awakening to a day of many creditors,
Of having missed everything like tripping over the doormat,
Of having packed everything like a suitcase without brushes,
Of having replaced something for me somewhere in life.
Enough! It is the somewhat metaphysical impression,
Like the sun for the last time on the window of the house to be abandoned,
What better to be a child than to want to understand the world —
The impression of bread and butter and toys,
Of great peace without Proserpine’s Gardens,
With a good will towards life leaning forehead against the window,
Seeing it rain with sound outside
And not the dead tears that are hard to swallow.
Enough, yes enough! I am myself, the change,
The emissary without letter or credentials,
The clown without laughter, the jester with someone else’s big suit,
Whose head bells tinkle
Like little rattles from an overhead easement.
It’s me, the syncopated charade
That no one from the wheel deciphers in provincial evenings.
I am myself, what a remedy!…
Poem by Peter Handke, in Wings of Desire, by Win Wenders
When the child was a child,
he was waving his arms,
I wish the creek was a river,
that the river was a torrent
and that this puddle was the sea.
When the child was a child,
I didn’t know I was a kid
everything seemed to have a soul,
and all souls were one.
When the child was a child,
had no opinion about anything,
had no custom
always sat cross-legged,
ran out,
had a swirl in her hair
and did not pose when photographing.
When the child was a child
It was the time of these questions:
Why am I me and not you?
Why am I here, and why not there?
When did the time
began, and where does space end?
Isn’t a place in life under the sun just a dream?
What I see and hear and smell
is it not just the appearance of a world before a world?
There really is evil and people
are they really bad?
How can it be that I, who am I,
before I was myself I wasn’t me,
and that someday, I, who am I,
I won’t be who I am anymore?
When a child was a child,
He munched on spinach, peas, rice balls, and boiled cauliflower,
and he ate all this not just because he needed to eat.
When a child was a child,
Once he woke up in a strange bed,
and now it does it again and again.
Many people then looked beautiful
and now only a few seem, with any luck.
I visualized a clear image of Paradise,
and now at best you can only imagine it,
could not conceive of absolute emptiness,
that shudders in your thoughts today.
When a child was a child,
played with enthusiasm,
and now he’s just as excited as he was,
but only when thinking about work.
When a child was a child,
It was enough to eat an apple, an orange, bread,
And now it’s the same thing.
When a child was a child,
blackberries filled her hand as only blackberries can,
and also do now,
Fresh hazelnuts hurt his tongue,
similar to what they do now,
had, on every mountain peak,
the quest for an even higher mountain, and in every city,
the search for an even bigger city,
and it’s still like that,
reached for cherries on the highest branches of the trees
as, with some pride, it still manages to do today,
had a shyness in front of strangers,
as it still is.
I was waiting for the first snow,
As still waiting until now.
When the child was a child,
He hurled a staff like a spear at a tree,
And it’s still there, rattling, to this day.🇧🇷
In German:
Als das Kind Kind war,
ging is mit hängenden Armen,
wollte der Bach sei ein Fluß,
der Fluß sei ein Strom,
und diese Pfütze das Meer.
Als das Kind Kind war,
wußte es nicht, daß es Kind war,
alles war ihm beseelt,
und alle Seelen waren eins.
Als das Kind Kind war,
hatte es von nichts eine Meinung,
hatte keine Gewohnheit,
saß oft im Schneidersitz,
lief aus dem Stand,
hatte einen Wirbel im Haar
und machte kein Gesicht beim fotografieren.
Als das Kind Kind war,
war es die Zeit der folgenden Fragen:
Warum bin ich ich und warum nicht du?
Warum bin ich hier und warum nicht dort?
Wann begann die Zeit und wo endet der Raum?
Ist das Leben unter der Sonne nicht bloß ein Traum?
Ist was ich sehe und höre und rieche
nicht bloß der Schein einer Welt vor der Welt?
Gibt es tatsächlich das Böse und Leute,
die wirklich die Bösen sind?
Wie kann es sein, daß ich, der ich bin,
bevor ich wurde, nicht war,
und daß einmal ich, der ich bin,
nicht mehr der ich bin, sein werde?
Als das Kind Kind war,
würgte es am Spinat, an den Erbsen, am Milchreis,
und am gedünsteten Blumenkohl.
und ißt jetzt das alles und nicht nur zur Not.
Als das Kind Kind war,
erwachte es einmal in einem fremden Bett
und jetzt immer wieder,
erschienen ihm viele Menschen schön
und jetzt nur noch im Glücksfall,
stellte es sich klar ein Paradies vor
und kann es jetzt höchstens ahnen,
konnte es sich Nichts nicht denken
und schaudert heute davor.
Als das Kind Kind war,
spielte es mit Begeisterung
und jetzt, so ganz bei der Sache wie damals, nur noch,
wenn diese Sache seine Arbeit ist.
Als das Kind Kind war,
genügten ihm als Nahrung Apfel, Brot,
und so ist es immer noch.
Als das Kind Kind war,
faithfulen ihm die Beeren wie nur Beeren in die Hand
und jetzt immer noch,
machten ihm die frischen Walnüsse eine rauhe Zunge
und jetzt immer noch,
hatte es auf jedem berg
die Sehnsucht nach dem immer höheren Berg,
und in jeden Stadt
die Sehnsucht nach der noch größeren Stadt,
und das ist immer noch so,
griff im Wipfel eines Baums nach dem Kirschen in einem Hochgefühl
wie auch heute noch,
eine Scheu vor jedem Fremden
und hat sie immer noch,
wartete es auf den ersten Schnee,
und wartet so immer noch.
Als das Kind Kind war,
warf es einen Stock als Lanze gegen den Baum,
und sie zittert da heute noch.
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