The poet is a faker.
His faking is so real
That he even fakes that is pain,
The pain he truly feels.
And those who read his writings
In the read pain they feel
Not the two pains that were his,
But only the one that is not theirs.
And so in its little tracks
Runs, to entertain reason,
That clockwork train
The thing that is called the heart
(Fernando Pessoa, himself)
04/25 Links Pt2: It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like 1938; Camping Out at
Columbia’s Communist Coachella; When Western culture goes mad, it attacks
Jews
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From Ian:
It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like 1938
If Jews do not feel safe on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, in New York
City, in the United States of...
2 hours ago
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