“I envy – but I’m not sure that I envy – those for whom a biography could be written, or who could write their own.  In these random impressions, and with no desire to be other than random, I indifferently narrate my factless autobiography, my lifeless history.  These are my Confessions, and if in them I say nothing, it is because I have nothing to say.”

“What is there to confess that’s worthwhile or useful?  What has happened to us has happened to everyone or only to us; if to everyone, then it’s no novelty, and if only to us, then it won’t be understood.  If I write what I feel, it’s to reduce the fever of feeling.  What I confess is unimportant, because everything is unimportant.  I make landscapes out of what I feel.  I make holidays of my sensations.”

Fernando Pessoa (The Book of Disquiet)