If it weren't for my continuous dreaming, my perpetual state of alienation, I could very well call myself a realist - someone, that is, for whom the outer world is an independent nation. But I prefer not to give myself a name, to be somewhat mysterious about what I am an to be impishly unpredictable even to myself.
Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet, ch. 221
Over the years I've often noted that my internal battle between being a realist and a dreamer - a product of the Enlightenment or a product of Romanticism - takes on the nature and dimension of the battle of Stalingrad. I have always definitely thought of myself as a realist, but maybe that's actually a part of my nature that I dislike. At the same time, I am undeniably a dreamer, which is probably why I've fallen so deeply into The Book of Disquiet and Pessoa's own dreamlike existence (or at least ambition). Or, maybe it would be more honest to admit that this is part of my bigger desire not to be known, "impishly unpredictable" to others, although, as Pessoa proposed, "even to myself." Maybe if you're known by others then you're also owned by others, and being unknown leaves you in control of yourself.
Side note: I started a series at Champlain entitled Books That Matter, where people are encouraged to come give an hour talk on a book that they think is important. I presented The Book of Disquiet, and exactly four people showed up for the talk, which is a pretty good example of the general exhaustion that people feel with me. My dear friend Sandy officially retired last week and it hit me pretty hard, and made me think about my own retirement. At this point it's probably the disinterest and disrespect of my colleagues that is inspiring the decision to step away more than my own physical collapse. As I've always joked, when I'm no longer the scariest person in the room I don't want to be in the room anymore; I think I've reached the point where no one even realizes that I'm in the room.
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