For as much as I claim to agree with Emerson that self-reliance is the basis of all virtue, I often feel as if I have no self, no natural state of thought and feeling that is distinctly mine, and on which I can stubbornly rely. Rather, I find within myself many competing voices, all engaged in a continual struggle for power. And I find, further, that what I choose to read plays a substantial role in this power struggle.
I first noticed this when reading Cioran. His dour pessimism seemed to enliven the more melancholy voices within me, to give them an advantage over those that opposed them. And I am noticing the same thing with Pessoa. His praise of a certain form of lethargy rouses what in me inclines to torpor, and I become more torpid. Why, then, read Pessoa? What in his work provides value that overcomes this negative effect?
I had this thought after reading the following passage from The Book of Disquiet:
Whether I like it or not, everything that isn’t my soul is no more for me than scenery and decoration. Through rational thought I can recognize that a man is a living being just like me, but for my true, involuntary self he has always had less importance than a tree, if the tree is more beautiful. That’s why I’ve always seen human events – the great collective tragedies of history or of what we make of history – as colourful friezes, with no soul in the figures that appear there. I’ve never thought twice about anything tragic that has happened in China. It’s just scenery in the distance, even if painted with blood and disease. (§165)
This is a thought that I do not, on balance, endorse. If needed, I could argue with this passage, point out the one subtle flaw that unravels it. But that is not the point. There is a part of me that thinks this way, and when I read this passage that part is emboldened, for it has been externally validated. No amount of arguing rids me of it, nor particularly do I want to be rid of it. At most I want to control it, to allow it to contribute to the richness of my experience without destroying me.
The main value in reading Pessoa is that he has taken this voice, which is not unique to me, and fleshed it out into an entire person, one who is, if not fully consistent, at least more persistently under the thumb of this mood and feeling than I am. Bernardo Soares, the invented author of The Book of Disquiet, is a magnification of this element of myself. In reading this book, I am thus able to study this element writ large without fully giving myself over to it. It is a highly useful means of self-scrutiny.