#653 Untitled

They sang as they walked,
and the sound of their voices was happy.

We’re no longer able to give meaning to what we see,
though we see perfectly well what’s there.

The only thing I’ve loved is nothing at all.

The former makes one live; the latter makes one think.

Enthusiasm is a vulgarity.

But those who formed the Terminal Race,
the spiritual limit of the Deadly Hour,
didn’t even have courage enough for true denial and asylum.

Ever since I’ve known the Japanese man who
sits on the convex [surface] of my teapot
he has yet to make a move.

Taking path after path,
cutting silhouettes among the trees,
they moved like cardboard figures across the stage setting of no one.

Perhaps because I think too much or dream too much,
or perhaps for some other reason,
I don’t distinguish between the reality that exists and the world of dreams,
which is the reality that doesn’t exist.

In what is very aptly called a calculating personality,

feelings are shaped by calculation and a kind of
scrupulous self-interest to the point that they seem like something else.

Our life had no inner dimension.

—Cecília, A Pesca das Pérolas