We cannot love, son. Love is the most
carnal of illusions. Listen: to love is to possess. And what does a
lover possess? The body? To possess it we would have to incorporate
it, to eat it, to make its substance our own. And this
impossibility, were it possible, wouldn't last, because our own body
passes on and transforms, because we don't even possess our body
(just our sensation of it), and because once the beloved body were
possessed it would became ours and stop being other, and so love,
with the disappearance of the other, would likewise disappear. (…)
How can I possess with my body, when I
don't even possess my body? How can I possess with my soul, when I
don't possess my soul? How can I understand with my mind, when I
don't understand my mind? There is no body or truth we possess, nor
even any illusion. We are phantoms made of lies, shadows of
illusions, and our life is hollow on both the outside and the inside.
Fernando Pessoa
The Book of Disquiet
translation: Richard Zenith
p. 300-302
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