Reference: The Book of Disquiet, page 19 “The Banality of Life”
You can say that life is a lot of things: horrific, lovely, complicated, wondrous, agonizing. But how. the. fuck. can you say that life is “banal”? That’s just a blatant rebellion against reality… Oh. Right. I’m dealing with Pessoa. But still! Life is everything wrapped into a perfect burrito handed to you for lunch. Sure you might get violently ill later, but it tasted good and nourished you for the time being, right? There is nothing else besides life. Why do people renounce it? Put so much pressure onto it? Are you that much of a control freak that life needs to be this towering accomplishment of awesomeness? Just fucking live! Life will be epic no matter what. Just the fact that you existed is fucking epic! What kind of experience is P.a.S. (Pessoa as Soares) hoping for that life, to him, is banal? It’s like he’s too good to accept the existence that was bestowed on him by the universe. Oh. Right. He’s hoping for “heaven.” For immortality. But why isn’t life good enough?
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