Who is Fernando Pessoa

Fernando António Nogueira Pessoa (Portuguese: [fɨɾˈnɐ̃du pɨˈsoɐ]; 13 June 1888 – 30 November 1935), commonly known as Fernando Pessoa, was a Portuguese poet, writer, literary critic, translator, publisher and philosopher, described as one of the most significant literary figures of the 20th century and one of the greatest poets in the Portuguese language. He also wrote in and translated from English and French.

Pessoa was a prolific writer, and not only under his own name, for he dreamed up approximately seventy-five others. He did not call them pseudonyms because he felt that did not capture their true independent intellectual life and instead called them heteronyms. These imaginary figures sometimes held unpopular or extreme views.

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Fernando Pessoa Poems

  • Sonnet Xx
    When in the widening circle of rebirth
    To a new flesh my travelled soul shall come,
    And try again the unremembered earth
    With the old sadness for the immortal home, ...
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Top 10 most used topics by Fernando Pessoa

Earth 1 Strange 1 Thought 1 Black 1 Regret 1 Blind 1 Face 1 Sense 1 Small 1 Breath 1

Fernando Pessoa Quotes

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Comments about Fernando Pessoa

  • Fyozaisoul: another author i identify with a lot is fernando pessoa and he's intp 5w4 too lol
  • The_uncreate: "i, far away from the paths in myself, blind to the vision of the life i love... i too, have finally arrived at the vacant end of things..." — fernando pessoa
  • The_uncreate: "...at the imponderable edge of creation's limit, at the port-in-no-place of the world's abstract chasm..." — fernando pessoa
  • The_uncreate: "i have entered, lord that port. i have wandered, lord, over that sea, i have gazed, lord, over the invisible chasm. " — fernando pessoa
  • Frankwr10676914: i have in me like a haze which holds and which is nothing a nostalgia for nothing at all, the desire for something vague. fernando pessoa
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Poem of the day

Vachel Lindsay Poem
On Receiving One Of Gloriana-s Letters
 by Vachel Lindsay

Your pen needs but a ruffle
To be Pavlova whirling.
It surely is a scalawag
A-scamping down the page.
A pretty little May-wind
The morning buds uncurling.
And then the white sweet Russian,
The dancer of the age.

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