The Sensationist

“In this twilight of spirital disciplines, with beliefs dying out and the old cults gathering dust, our sensations are the only reality we have left. The only scruples we have at this point, and the only science that satisfies, are those of our sensations.

I’m more convinced than ever that inferior adornment is the highest and most enlightened destiny we can confer on our souls. If my life could be lived in tapestries of the spirit, I’d have no depths of despair to bemoan.

I belong to a generation – or rather, to part of a generation – that lost all respect for the past and all belief or hope in the future. And so we live off the present with the hunger and eagerness of those who have no other home. And since it is in our sensations, and particularly in the useless sensations of our dreams, that we find a present which remembers neither past nor future, we smile indulgently at our inner life while yawning with disdain at the quantitative reality of things.

Perhaps we are not all that different from those who, in real life, think only of amusing themselves. But the sun of our egoistic concern is setting, and it’s in colours of twilight and contradiction that our hedonism is slowly cooling.

We’re convalescents. Most of us are people who never learned an art or trade, not even the art of enjoying life. Since we’re basically averse to prolonged social contact, even the greatest of friends tend to bore us after half an hour; we long to see them only when we think about seeing them, and the best moments we spend with them occur in our dreams. I don’t know if this is indicative of superficial friendship. Perhaps not. What I do know is that the things we love, or think we love, have their full weight and worth only when simply dreamed.

We don’t care for shows. We despise actors and dancers. Every show is a coarse imitation of what should have been only dreamed.

We’re indifferent to other people’s opinion – not innately, but because of an education of our sentiments that has generally been forced on us by various painful experiences. But we treat others courteously and even like them, with an indifferent sort of interest, because everyone is interesting and convertible into dreams and into other people…

With no aptitude for loving, we are wearied by the mere thought of the words we would have to say in order to be loved. Besides, who among us wants to be loved? The ‘on le fatigait en l’aimant’ apropos René is not quite the right motto for us. The very idea of being loved wearies us, and to the point of panic.

My life is an unrelenting fever, an unquenchable thirst. Real life afflicts me like a hot day, and there’s something mean about the way it afflicts me. ” Fernando Pessoa, A Disquiet Anthology

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About barkingcoins
This author is just another fucking dickhead.

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