To posses in the shade, that nobility
of spirit that makes no demands on life. To be in the whirl of the
worlds like dust of flowers, sailing through the afternoon air on
unknown wind and falling, in the torpor of dusk, wherever it falls,
lost among larger things. To be this with a sure understanding,
neither happy nor sad, grateful to the sun for its brilliance and to
the stars for their remoteness. To be no more, have no more, want no
more … The music of the hungry beggar, the song of blind man, the
relic of the unknown wayfarer, the tracks in the desert of the camel
without burden or destination …
Fernando Pessoa
The Book of Disquiet
translation: Richard Zenith
p. 46
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