Poem
Antero de Quental
THE UNCONSCIOUS
The familiar ghost who accompanies me(Without, however, showing his face)
And whom I sometimes view with distaste,
Though I usually regard him hopefully,
Is a solemn, sober, ancient ghost,
Who doesn’t seem to like to converse. . .
Before this figure, ascetic and reserved,
My words have always stuck in my throat.
I dared to question him just once.
“Phantom whom I hate and love,
Who are you?” I asked with shame.
He said, “Your fellow human creatures
Have called me God for ten thousand years. . .
But I myself don’t know my name. . .”
© Translation: 1998, Richard Zenith
O Inconsciente
O Inconsciente
O espectro familiar que anda comigo,Sem que pudesse ainda ver-lhe o rosto,
Que umas vezes encaro com desgosto
E outras muitas ansioso espreito e sigo,
É um espectro mudo, grave, antigo,
Que parece a conversas mal disposto. . .
Ante esse vulto, ascético e composto
mil vezes abro a boca. . . e nada digo.
Só uma vez ousei interrogá-lo:
«Quem és (lhe perguntei com grande abalo)
Fantasma a quem odeio e a quem amo?»
– «Teus irmãos (respondeu) os vãos humanos,
Chamam-me Deus, há mais de dez mil anos. . .
Mas eu por mim não sei como me chamo. . .»
© 1886, Antero de Quental
From: Sonetos
Publisher: IN-CM, Lisbon
From: Sonetos
Publisher: IN-CM, Lisbon
Poems
Poems of Antero de Quental
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THE UNCONSCIOUS
The familiar ghost who accompanies me(Without, however, showing his face)
And whom I sometimes view with distaste,
Though I usually regard him hopefully,
Is a solemn, sober, ancient ghost,
Who doesn’t seem to like to converse. . .
Before this figure, ascetic and reserved,
My words have always stuck in my throat.
I dared to question him just once.
“Phantom whom I hate and love,
Who are you?” I asked with shame.
He said, “Your fellow human creatures
Have called me God for ten thousand years. . .
But I myself don’t know my name. . .”
© 1998, Richard Zenith
From: Sonetos
From: Sonetos
THE UNCONSCIOUS
The familiar ghost who accompanies me(Without, however, showing his face)
And whom I sometimes view with distaste,
Though I usually regard him hopefully,
Is a solemn, sober, ancient ghost,
Who doesn’t seem to like to converse. . .
Before this figure, ascetic and reserved,
My words have always stuck in my throat.
I dared to question him just once.
“Phantom whom I hate and love,
Who are you?” I asked with shame.
He said, “Your fellow human creatures
Have called me God for ten thousand years. . .
But I myself don’t know my name. . .”
© 1998, Richard Zenith
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