On rereading The Book of Disquiet in a noisy kitchen
I keep a second copy in the kitchen drawer, next to the tea towels, because the
only reliable reading hour left in the week is the twenty minutes while the
kettle cools. Pessoa survives this treatment better than almost anything else
I own. The fragments are already interrupted; one more interruption costs
nothing.
“Literature is the most agreeable way of ignoring life.”
What strikes me on the fourth pass is how much of the book is weather
reporting. Rain on Rua dos Douradores, the particular grey of an office
afternoon, light that arrives without warming anything. Strip the metaphysics
out and you are left with a very long, very careful diary of a man watching a
street he refuses to walk down.
I underlined three passages this time and none of them were the famous ones.
Started a file called streets.md in April; it is now four thousand
words of nothing in particular. The argument, such as it is: a city's street
names are the only history that every resident is obliged to memorise, and the
only history that gets quietly overwritten without anybody voting on it.
Sources so far are thin. Two municipal gazetteers, one very good chapter in
a book about Naples, and a postcard collection I have been scanning at 600dpi
on Sunday mornings. If you know of anything written about renaming as a
municipal practice rather than a political one, the address is at the bottom.