From the book
I’ve never done anything but dream. This, and this alone, has been the meaning of my life.
My worst sorrows have evaporated when I’ve opened the window on to the street of my
dreams and forgotten myself in what I saw there.
What I basically do is convert other people into my dreams. I take up their opinions, which I
develop through my reason and intuition in order to make them my own, turning their
personalities into things that have an affinity with my dreams.
My life inhabits the shells of their personalities. I reproduce their footsteps in my spirit’s clay,
absorbing them so thoroughly into my consciousness that I, in the end, have taken their
steps and walked in their paths even more than they.
I have a world of friends inside me, with their own real, individual, imperfect lives.
Some of them are full of problems, while others live the humble and picturesque life of
bohemians. Others are traveling salesman. (To be able to imagine myself as a traveling
salesman has always been one of my great ambitions – unattainable, alas!) Others live in
the rural towns and villages of a Portugal inside me; they come to the city, where I
sometimes run into them, and I open wide my arms with emotion. And when I dream this,
pacing in my room, talking out loud, gesticulating – when I dream this and picture myself
running into them, then I rejoice, I’m fulfilled, I jump up and down, my eyes water, I throw
open my arms and feel a genuine, enormous happiness.
Ah, nostalgia never hurts as much as it does for things that never existed!
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