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Home » POETRY » WHEN, OF ALL THINGS, THE WORST IS HAVING BEEN BORN – Antero de Quental: Writing poems, between pessimism and depression.

WHEN, OF ALL THINGS, THE WORST IS HAVING BEEN BORN – Antero de Quental: Writing poems, between pessimism and depression.

Poetry, a sincere confession of the most intimate thought of an era.

Ponta Delgada https://www.visitportugal.com/en/NR/exeres/6B6EEBF7-573E-4DD7-A758-8D260C6CA546, where to experience whale and dolphin watching, or a private tour of Sete Cidades and Lagoa do Fogo. Here you can also relax in the hot springs of an active volcano, heading towards the Furnas volcanic complex (in Povoação), bathing in the warm waters of Poça da Dona Beija. Then, you can celebrate this experience by enjoying the famous cozido, obviously cooked inside the volcanic caldera. A famous Portuguese poet, famous for his pessimism, was born right under this sky.

He began to write poetry at an early age, becoming poet and writer whose works became a milestone in the Portuguese language. https://www.amazon.com/Sonnets-poems-Anthero-Quental-Antero/dp/B0067D54LO. Born in Ponta Delgada (São Miguel Island, Azores), into an April day, 1842, he followed path to the University of Coimbra to study law. ANTERO DE QUENTAL became leader of the student movement that incited the country’s citizens to embrace European modernity. Throughout the latter part of his life, he would dedicate his studies to poetry and philosophy.

Throughout his life, he had oscillated between pessimism and depression. In 1866 ANTERO DE QUENTAL went to live in Lisbon, worked as a typographer (a job that he also continued in Paris), in 1867. Around 1891, he returned once again to Ponta Delgada, where in a September day he committed suicide by a double gunshot wound. In tihis way he died one of the greatest examples of universal poetry, thinking “Of all things, the worst is having been born.”

WORDS OF A CERTAIN DEAD MAN – I have been dead for over a millennium, exposed, on this cliff, to wind and rain. Not even a ghost has a thinner frame, and no abortion is more misshapen. Only my spirit lives, absorbed by a single, inexorable thought: “Dead and buried in life!” That is my torment, the rest I ignore. I know I lived, but it was all of a day, just one and the next day Idolatry built me an altar. Ah! They all bowed as if I were someone! As if Life could be someone! Then they decided I was a God, and wrapped me in a shroud!

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