Read in the New York Times this morning:
"Mr. Lourenço gathered his thoughts one more time. 'He [Fernando Pessoa] is the most tragic of the Portuguese poets,' he said. 'The pleasure of unhappiness is particularly Portuguese.'"
I lived in Portugal for 16 months in the early 80's. This quote made me think of a particular image: an older man, grey haired and grizzled, wearing a worn black suit. He has the look of a fisherman, dressed in the clothes he wears to Mass. On the lapel of his suit is a bright red carnation, providing a striking contrast to the somber colors of everything else about his being. There is a look of anguish on his face, as he aimlessly walks, noises of grief emerging through his clenched lips. If memory serves, this day is a holiday, the Dia de Liberdade (Day of Freedom) in which the Portuguese celebrate the coup that led to the current democratic regime.
When I asked someone to explain why the man seemed so sad, she replied: "This holiday is a day for people to remember how great Portugal once was and how low it has sunk in the world's estimation." This man became emblematic for me of that quintessential Portuguese trait, "the pleasure of unhappiness," the yearning for things lost.
