S
Bernardo Soares
He was a very large man, about thirty years of age; He was extremely slouched when he sat, and his back straightened a little when he stood; Maybe he didn't take care of himself, but he couldn't be said to have let himself go completely either. There was a pained air on his pale face, which had nothing remarkable about it, and which did not add any features to his features. It was not easy to understand what kind of pain lay behind it - it was as if he had gathered many sufferings within himself, deprivation, depression, pain arising from indifference, which indifference comes from suffering.
He always had a light dinner and smoked cigarettes that he rolled with his own hands. he was extraordinarily attentive to the people around him; He examined them not with suspicion but with special interest; He cared for them without scrutiny, avoiding staring at their faces or trying to read their personalities. It was this strange attitude that aroused my interest in him.
It started to become clearer in my eyes. Even if vaguely, I caught a glimmer of intelligence in the lines on his face. However, his expression was filled with such exhaustion, such an icy stillness resulting from heart trouble, that it was difficult to read anything beyond it.
(…) and then he shyly said that since he had nothing better to do, nowhere to go, no friends to see, and he did not enjoy reading much, he spent his time writing in the evenings in the hostel he was staying in.
*
He furnished the two rooms he lived in luxuriously, though not very well, at the cost of giving up some basic needs. He had a particular fondness for things to sit on – he bought deep and soft armchairs – curtains and carpets. In this way, he said, he created an interior that would “add dignity to his suffering.” If it were in a room decorated in a modern style, boredom would make one uncomfortable and turn into physical pain.
Until then, they had never had to. He had stayed away from people in his childhood. Apparently he neither joined a group nor went to school. He was never part of the herd. What happened to him was what happened to others (maybe, who knows, everyone): the unexpected events in his life were shaped according to his instincts, on the path his instincts drew – to stay still, to break away from life.
He had never had to deal with the obligations imposed by the state or society. He had even ignored his instinctive needs. For whatever reason, he could not feel close to people with whom he could have been lovers or friends. I became, at least to some extent, the only being accepted in his inner world. however – a borrowed personality from the beginning; Even though I lived hiding behind his personality and I doubted the sincerity of his friendship, I had a feeling that one day he would need someone to entrust his book to, and that's what happened. At first, I was a little hurt when I realized that he had approached me with a certain intention, to have his book published; However, when I look at it from the perspective of the only criterion befitting a psychologist, I now enjoy thinking that I did not disappoint my initial hope and that I always remained his friend.
my favorite part:
travel? one neef only exist to travel. i go from day to day, as from station to station, in the train of my body ot my destiny, leaning out over the streets and squares, over people’s faces and gestures, always the same and always different, just like scenery.
if i imagine, i see. what more do i do when i travel? only extreme poverty of imagination justifies having to travel to feel.
“any road, this simple entepfuhl road, will lead you to the end of the world”* but the end of the world, when we go around it full circle, is the same entepfuhl from which we started out. the end of the world, like the beginning, is in fact our concept of the world. it is in us that the scenery is scenic. if i imagine it, i create it; if i create it, it exist; if it exist, then i see it like any other scenery. so why travel? in madrid, berlin, persia, china, and at the north or south pole, where would i be but in myself, and in my particular type of sensations?
life is what we make of it. travel is the traveler. what we see isn’t what we see but what we are.
He was a very large man, about thirty years of age; He was extremely slouched when he sat, and his back straightened a little when he stood; Maybe he didn't take care of himself, but he couldn't be said to have let himself go completely either. There was a pained air on his pale face, which had nothing remarkable about it, and which did not add any features to his features. It was not easy to understand what kind of pain lay behind it - it was as if he had gathered many sufferings within himself, deprivation, depression, pain arising from indifference, which indifference comes from suffering.
He always had a light dinner and smoked cigarettes that he rolled with his own hands. he was extraordinarily attentive to the people around him; He examined them not with suspicion but with special interest; He cared for them without scrutiny, avoiding staring at their faces or trying to read their personalities. It was this strange attitude that aroused my interest in him.
It started to become clearer in my eyes. Even if vaguely, I caught a glimmer of intelligence in the lines on his face. However, his expression was filled with such exhaustion, such an icy stillness resulting from heart trouble, that it was difficult to read anything beyond it.
(…) and then he shyly said that since he had nothing better to do, nowhere to go, no friends to see, and he did not enjoy reading much, he spent his time writing in the evenings in the hostel he was staying in.
*
He furnished the two rooms he lived in luxuriously, though not very well, at the cost of giving up some basic needs. He had a particular fondness for things to sit on – he bought deep and soft armchairs – curtains and carpets. In this way, he said, he created an interior that would “add dignity to his suffering.” If it were in a room decorated in a modern style, boredom would make one uncomfortable and turn into physical pain.
Until then, they had never had to. He had stayed away from people in his childhood. Apparently he neither joined a group nor went to school. He was never part of the herd. What happened to him was what happened to others (maybe, who knows, everyone): the unexpected events in his life were shaped according to his instincts, on the path his instincts drew – to stay still, to break away from life.
He had never had to deal with the obligations imposed by the state or society. He had even ignored his instinctive needs. For whatever reason, he could not feel close to people with whom he could have been lovers or friends. I became, at least to some extent, the only being accepted in his inner world. however – a borrowed personality from the beginning; Even though I lived hiding behind his personality and I doubted the sincerity of his friendship, I had a feeling that one day he would need someone to entrust his book to, and that's what happened. At first, I was a little hurt when I realized that he had approached me with a certain intention, to have his book published; However, when I look at it from the perspective of the only criterion befitting a psychologist, I now enjoy thinking that I did not disappoint my initial hope and that I always remained his friend.
my favorite part:
travel? one neef only exist to travel. i go from day to day, as from station to station, in the train of my body ot my destiny, leaning out over the streets and squares, over people’s faces and gestures, always the same and always different, just like scenery.
if i imagine, i see. what more do i do when i travel? only extreme poverty of imagination justifies having to travel to feel.
“any road, this simple entepfuhl road, will lead you to the end of the world”* but the end of the world, when we go around it full circle, is the same entepfuhl from which we started out. the end of the world, like the beginning, is in fact our concept of the world. it is in us that the scenery is scenic. if i imagine it, i create it; if i create it, it exist; if it exist, then i see it like any other scenery. so why travel? in madrid, berlin, persia, china, and at the north or south pole, where would i be but in myself, and in my particular type of sensations?
life is what we make of it. travel is the traveler. what we see isn’t what we see but what we are.
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