After wandering aimlessly for some time through other countries, I almost forget who I am, I can neither remember the atmosphere nor the landscape, let alone the people around me. I doubt that I am myself, I convince myself that I am not. I have never believed that we are complete in ourselves, the surrounding milieu is surely also part of us. Therefore our souls (and even perhaps our bodies) must vary according to the countries in which we live. That is why I hate it when someone I admire goes away, leaving me with the fear of their return, and when I wait at the station for a friend who has been absent for some months, a great confusion grips me when I see him, I stutter and stammer, barely able to bring myself to address him as 'tu' as I used to do before.
— Mário de Sá-Carneiro, The Great Shadow ‎- visions of swastikas in my head
Everything that moves me has become sexualised and it is through sex alone that I sense it, desire it, suffer it. That is why I have always consciously and excitedly catalogued splendid, naked bodies, tumultuous European cities, perfumes, shimmering theatres carpeted in purple, moonlit waterscapes, noisy cafes, restaurants at night, long journeys, the contemporary murmur of vast mills and factories, madness and iced drinks, particular flowers such as violets and camellias, certain fruits, such as pineapples ... and strawberries, with their sharp, naked, capricious acidity. ‎- visions of swastikas in my head
I imagine the utter devastation of my life as a series of zinc lozenges, bruised and twisted, spattered with various colours, in particular, by a shade of dirty red. And many a night, in bed, reviewing the stagnant nausea of my existence, a ridiculous longing arises in me to make of my body a triangle and to have the vertices honed into sharp steel blades. Ah, if only I could shape my body into a thread, then - I think confidently - my desolation would end. ‎- visions of swastikas in my head
The dazzling effect of those discarded jewels could not just have been caused by the multicoloured light, and I can only describe it in fantastic terms: first, a luminous scintillation, like lightning, emanated from the fiery stones, then, suddenly, in mid-trajectory, that scintillating light condensed in the blue shadows into a crystalline nucleus out of which, in turn, there emerged a halo of rainbow-coloured reverberations that left actual traces on the air. That was the most bizarre and inexplicable thing: the light was both fluid and substantial, its brilliance and its colours produced clear, capricious, palpable effects. ‎- visions of swastikas in my head
Great viscous cables, capillary filaments made out of a purplish substance twist and twine picaresquely before my eyes. And in my moments of greatest fear I feel, physically feel, as if tiny trains were travelling through my soul, pulled along on a string, and that my guts had become a complex system of glass and ivory wheels, tiny multicoloured discs, rusty clock hands - everything spins madly, like some aimless clockwork mechanism. ‎- visions of swastikas in my head

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