Reading about the life of Fernando Pessoa, we might be tempted to believe he was a solitary soul, a man without friends. In a way, that was true. From childhood, he spent much of his time alone and often preferred the company of imagined companions. With them, he created projects and games—writing poetry, even hand-producing little newsletters to share with family and anyone willing to read them.
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He was well regarded by students and teachers alike, yet there remained something set apart about him—a quiet distance, a self-contained world.

Fernando was deeply attached to his family. The loss of his father to tuberculosis when he was only four, followed by the death of his younger brother just months later, must have marked him profoundly. Still, he remained close to his mother.

Not long after, she remarried—a kind man she met on a streetcar—and moved to Durban, South Africa, where he had been appointed consul. For Fernando, this departure was a rupture. He followed later, accompanied by a beloved uncle, and spent his formative years in Durban with his mother, stepfather, and their growing family.

By all accounts, he adapted well and maintained good relationships there. After his stepfather’s death, he returned to Lisbon, once again among extended family—sisters, aunts, uncles—who remained important presences in his life. His nieces and nephews, in particular, delighted in his playful humor.

His adult relationships were few but meaningful. The most significant was his friendship with Mário de Sá-Carneiro, whose early death by suicide left a lasting wound. There was also his tender, largely platonic love for Ofélia Queiroz—a relationship he ultimately ended, believing it incompatible with his vocation as a poet.

One might even say that Álvaro de Campos, his most forceful heteronym, intervened—declaring such a life could not be sustained.
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Yet the connection lingered. After Pessoa’s death, Ofélia married, but she would later say that he was the only man she ever truly loved. She once told friends that the first time she saw him, he seemed to be walking on air.

Pessoa’s social life did not follow conventional patterns. He worked as a translator and correspondent in business offices, getting along well with colleagues, but not forming deep social bonds there. Instead, he gathered with writers and artists, contributing to projects such as the journal Orpheu.

They met in Lisbon cafés like A Brasileira and Martinho da Arcada. Those who knew him described him as soft-spoken and reserved, yet when he spoke, he was often uncannily precise—almost always right.

His biographer, Richard Zenith, writes that what astonishes us is Pessoa’s ability to live so much of his emotional and mental life on an imagined, literary plane—to “depersonalize” his inner world into multiple selves.
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In The Book of Disquiet, Pessoa writes:
“I’m the naked stage where various actors act out various plays.”

In The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis, José Saramago imagines conversations between Pessoa—now dead—and his heteronym Ricardo Reis.

They stroll through Lisbon, speaking as friends might, often pausing at the Miradouro de Santa Catarina beneath the looming figure of Adamastor. No one else sees Pessoa. Only his shadow appears to others.

Still, the conversations continue—measured, thoughtful, companionable.

So perhaps Pessoa was not without friends. They were simply not always visible to the passerby.

I imagine his walks were not so different from my own: a weaving of observation, reflection, memory, and imagined futures. The more I try to know the “real” Pessoa, the more elusive he becomes.

Even Zenith’s remarkable biography reveals only one version—his Pessoa.

We each carry our own.

And I am content to walk beside him in my mind…
sometimes in Lisbon, sometimes far from it.

Friendship has many ways of revealing itself.
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Loyalty is one.
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“Tudo vale a pena se a alma não é pequena.”  
— Fernando Pessoa, Mensagem

Seagulls stood on sand in the middle of the gallery.

Around them, ghosts of dark figures in wide hats sat at a table as if engaged in quiet conversation, their pale faces emerging from deep shadows. Visitors moved slowly through the room, pausing before the paintings as though they had stepped into a dream. Sacred archeological pieces of Pessoa's life were shown in paintings surrounding the setting of a table from Pessoa's favorite restaurant Cafe Martinho on the water front where he met with fellow artists to plan the introduction of Portuguese culture to the rest of the world.

It was 1981, and I was standing in an exhibition at the Calouste Gulbenkian Foundation in Lisbon. The Portuguese artist António Costa Pinheiro had created the series as a tribute to Fernando Pessoa and the mysterious world of voices he brought to life through his heteronyms.

In the gallery, Pessoa’s universe had been transformed into a kind of theatrical landscape. The figures seemed both familiar and enigmatic—echoes perhaps of Álvaro de Campos, Ricardo Reis, or Bernardo Soares. The seagulls standing on sand suggested the harbor and the river, as though Lisbon itself had quietly entered the room.

I did not yet know that this exhibition would open a doorway into Pessoa’s imagination—or that Pessoa himself would eventually lead me to Lisbon.

The artist had lived through the years of the Salazar dictatorship, a time when many Portuguese writers and artists endured imprisonment or exile. When he was finally released, he left Portugal for Paris and later Munich, carrying his country with him through his art. He proved to be a sweet and generous man, willing to correspond and share his thoughts. I was fortunate enough to acquire several of his works, small anchors to a cultural world that was just beginning to reveal itself to me.

Through that exhibition I entered the writings of Fernando Pessoa, and Pessoa, inevitably, led me to Lisbon.

One of the works that affected me most deeply was Pessoa’s small but powerful book of poems, Mensagem. In it he evokes the historical figures who shaped Portugal’s destiny—kings, navigators, dreamers who imagined a nation reaching beyond its shores.

Among them, the figure who stayed with me most strongly was King Dinis.

D. Dinis was known as both the Farmer King and the Poet King. He planted the great pine forests along the Portuguese coast, forests that would later provide timber for the ships of the navigators. But in Pessoa’s poem those pines become something more than a practical enterprise. The wind moving through their branches seems almost to whisper toward the sea, as if the trees themselves were dreaming of voyages yet to come.

The image is simple and haunting: the murmur of the forest becoming the murmur of the ocean.

When I later walked among the pines near Belém, close to the great monastery of Jerónimos where so many explorers once prayed before sailing into the unknown, I suddenly understood the poem in a new way. The scent of resin in the air, the wide river opening toward the Atlantic, the quiet movement of wind through the trees—it felt as though the landscape itself was repeating Pessoa’s lines.

Lisbon is a city where history and imagination mingle easily.

At the Miradouro de Santa Catarina, beneath the brooding stone figure of Adamastor gazing toward the Tagus, the city gathers each evening to watch the light fade over the water. In Chiado, I like to sit quietly toward the back of A Brasileira, imagining Pessoa and his companions among the artists and writers who once gathered there. Along the river in the afternoon, the broad movement of the Tagus seems to carry centuries of departures and returns.

Other writers soon joined Pessoa in guiding my understanding of the city. The elegant social observations of Eça de Queirós, the philosophical depth of José Saramago, and more recently the searching psychological voice of António Lobo Antunes all reveal different facets of Lisbon’s soul. I also discovered inspired lovers of Portugal like the Swiss Pascal Mercier and Italian Antonio Tabucchi whose writing has brought Lisbon to me through philosophical and poetic images in works like Night Train to Lisbon, Requiem, an Hallucination, and Pereira Maintains.
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Together they show that Lisbon is not only a place but a cultural inheritance—one that extends across centuries of poetry, philosophy, and memory.

A line from Night Train to Lisbon has often returned to me: we leave something of ourselves behind when we leave a place, and there are parts of ourselves we can recover only by going back there.

Perhaps that is why Lisbon never feels entirely distant.

Some part of my life still sits quietly at a café in Chiado. Another part walks along the river in the afternoon light. And somewhere among the pines near Belém, the wind still moves through the branches, carrying that soft murmur Pessoa heard so long ago.

The whisper of the pines calling to the sea.

And when I think back to that gallery in Lisbon in 1981, I realize that the journey had already begun there, among the seagulls and the silent figures gathered around Pessoa’s table.

Mafra central to Saramago's wonderful saga of Balthasar and Blimunda

Luxurious evenings in a neighborhood park.

Antonio Tabucci offers recipes in his wandering amongst old friends in search of answers to old questions In Requiem, an Hallucination

Strolling on Avenida Libertad.

A literary group still meeting here after 40 years. The conversations continue at Brasileira..

You cannot cross the same river twice as the River goes on and on. (Heraclitus)

My son Justin was down last weekend for a much needed visit. I had been very down physically for three or four weeks and actually off and on for most of the winter. Justin’s visit just gave me new energy. 

Somehow my illness began turning around and we had a wonderful day, chatting and eating together and during that time, since he had brought his animal spirit cards with him, we looked at my year and my spirits for this year. 

My animal spirit for the year is the elephant, a very good omen and a very appropriate animal, I believe, to guide me through this year.

ELEPHANT
UNSTOPPABLE, AUSPICIOUS, WISE
The Elephant is arguably the most auspicious figure in the deck. Like Ganesh, the Elephant represents immense wisdom, as well as good fortune. It is said that the great Elephant is the destroyer of obstacles, so if this card appears when you feel
"stuck," rest assured the path will soon become clear. To add to the mystery, the Elephant is also known to create obstacles in order to steer us in the right direction. Trust this gentle, noble creature.it illuminates the way with the light of self-knowledge.
WHEN IN BALANCE: one-pointed focus, generous, loving
WHEN OUT OF BALANCE: misunderstands fate
TO BRING INTO BALANCE: trust.

In fact, I had been feeling stuck with this extended “illness” that had me in pain and in and out of bed which is very unusual for me. It was something I could not understand and still do not fully understand but feel I am overcoming.  I had lost hope and lost the belief I could move forward with my dreams of an energetic future. The elephant has helped me to see this as an obstacle I can overcome and I am resuming the forward looking attitude I have treasured most of my life. 

The tiger, my February card, encourages me to take in the wild darkness of this “illness” and awaken my own power!

TIGER
LUNAR FORCE, EASE IN DARKNESS, FEMININE ENERGY
The Tiger hunts at night...at one with the silence... fearing nothing. This card reminds us to take in the wild darkness, to allow the lunar forces to soothe and heal our spirits. Sensuality, receptivity, and devotion are all heightened in the midnight hour, and the Tiger takes advantage of these boons. spend some time in silence this evening, drinking in the potent calm. There is nothing to fear in the stillness except the awakening of your own power.
WHEN IN BALANCE: passionate, strong, sensual
WHEN OUT OF BALANCE: over stimulated
TO BRING INTO BALANCE: trataka (candle gazing)

Thank you Justin for your visit, your kindness and your inspiration!

Two of my favorite writers were featured in the New York Times last week: Orhan Pamuk and Haruki Murakami. And they weren’t obituaries. They are both alive and well and producing wonderful images of their experience.

I am giving you pieces of these articles because the New York Times often limits viewing of the entire articles unless you are a subscriber.  However I wanted to give you a taste via these quotes.

From The New York Times article on Orhan Pamuk:

“Six years ago, the Turkish author and Nobel laureate Orhan Pamuk received the plot summary of a planned television adaptation of one of his most celebrated novels, "The Museum of Innocence." As he flipped through its pages, he was horrified.

The production company had taken liberties far beyond what Mr. Pamuk considered reasonable in condensing for the screen his 500-page-plus tale of obsessive love in Istanbul in the 1970s and '80s, adding plot twists that he felt egregiously diverted his narrative.

So he struck back, suing the producer to reclaim the rights to his story.
"I had nightmares during that period, paying a lot of money by my standards to the California lawyer and worrying about, what if they shoot it the way they wrote it?" Mr. Pamuk said, speaking in his book-lined office on the top floor of the apartment building that his family built in Istanbul and where he grew up.”

I will be watching for the February 13th release of Museum of Innocence on Netflix and hope you will give it a look as well. Pamuk finally worked hand and hand with the Turkish producer of the film to ensure the story portrayed the Istanbul he knew without embellishments. It took 4 years but apparently is well worthwhile. 
My interest in Pamuk came from my sister who lived in Turkey during the same period and her close friend went to school with him. When he was awarded the Nobel prize she called to tell me of it. His many novels include the celebrated mystery of manuscript illustrators of the Ottoman period called Red, Snow, an intriguing story of politics and daily life in the eastern Anatolia region of Kars, and Istanbul, which paints the picture of his childhood and family life.  Of course there are so many more!

From Murakami article in the New York Times:
"I don't have any plan, I'm just writing, and while I'm writing, strange things happen very naturally, very automatically," Murakami said during an interview in New York in December.
"Every time I write fiction, I go into another world — maybe you can call it subconsciousness — and anything can happen in that world," he continued. "I see so many things there, then I come back to this real world and I write it down."
Murakami doesn't regard himself as a masterly prose stylist or a brilliant storyteller. In his telling, his one unique skill is his ability to travel between worlds and report back.”
Murakami’s novels have fascinated me ever since I read my first of his novels, The Windup Bird Chronicle, and was blown away. Here Murakami passes from one reality to another in his telling. Since then I have read at least 10 more including the marvelous Killing Commendatore and Kafka on the Shore. I am always tantalized by his style and magical adventures. 
A great fan of jazz—in fact in his 20’s he had a jazz bar in Tokyo—his writing is peppered with references that invite you into the experience. His culinary accounts also bring one into everyday life in Tokyo.

At 77 he is still writing and loving it. There are several new books I am anxious to read including one to be released in the fall, Abandoning a Cat, which apparently takes on his relationship with his father. Because of this article I have discovered many titles I must explore.

The beat goes on and I am pleased to be able to report to you these pleasant surprises from our international artistic community inspiring us even in these otherwise dark times.

https://www.nytimes.com/2026/02/12/world/europe/orhan-pamuk-istanbul-turkey-museum-of-innocence.html?smid=nytcore-ios-share

https://www.nytimes.com/2026/02/08/books/haruki-murakami-profile.html?smid=nytcore-ios-share

It was in Lisbon, at an Argentine restaurant, that I first felt my conscience stir. Above my table hung a large painting of a cow’s face, its eyes meeting mine as I ate a plate of beautifully prepared beef carpaccio. The meal was exquisite, the setting warm and convivial, yet I found myself oddly unsettled. I kept looking up at the painting, then back down at my plate, aware of a quiet tension I couldn’t immediately name.

Not long after that evening, I began to notice a subtle shift in myself. At the market, meat no longer appeared as it once had. I would think, Yes, I love a steak, and then hesitate—seeing not just the food, but the animal behind it, as if it were looking back at me again.

Lately, I’ve found myself quietly turning away from meat. I look at it in the market and think, Oh yes, I love a steak—but then the price is too high, and at the same time I have this image of the cow looking at me. The same thing happens with lamb chops, with chickens, with pork. I find myself imagining each animal, as if it were asking, “Why me?”
So I thought perhaps I should try being vegetarian. But the truth is, I’m not especially fond of many vegetable-only dishes, and that makes the idea less appealing. I began asking myself what it is about meat that is bothering me, and I think it comes down to that moment of recognition—the sense of the animal as a living being, not just food.

My son is a farmer, and he raises animals for meat. He and his family are very careful about how their animals live and about whom they use for processing. They believe—and I trust—that the animals are treated humanely. I know this is worlds apart from industrial livestock practices, which I find deeply disturbing. There is something important to me about animals being well cared for during their lives and handled with compassion at the end.

These thoughts led me to ask my usual source—AI—about when and why humans began eating meat. What I learned made sense to me. Meat was available. Early humans observed other animals hunting and eating prey. As they developed tools and skills, they were able to hunt or scavenge animals themselves. With the discovery of fire, they could cook meat, making it easier to digest and more appealing. Seen this way, eating meat was not a moral decision but a matter of survival.

Today, of course, the situation is different. For many of us, eating meat is a choice—and therefore potentially a moral one. That’s where I find myself uncertain. I’m not quite able to commit to avoiding meat entirely. I worry about getting enough protein. I’m not very fond of soy, and although I adore cheese, I’ve been warned to limit it because of cholesterol issues. I do love nuts and eat them often, but I’m not convinced that a fully vegetarian diet is right for me.

So for now, I’m thinking rather than deciding. I’m trying to balance my desire to reduce animal suffering with the need to nourish myself properly at this stage of life. At nearly 84, with low bone density and high cholesterol, this feels less like a moral puzzle with a clear answer and more like a careful, ongoing negotiation.
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I’ve decided, at least for now, not to decide. I’m allowing the question to stay with me, rather than pushing it toward a resolution that doesn’t yet feel true. At nearly 84, I’m learning that not every question needs an answer—some ask instead for presence. I want to remain awake to animal suffering and equally awake to my own need for nourishment, and to move forward with care for animals, for my aging body, and for the complicated space where those concerns meet. For now, I’m content to live with the question, trusting that attention itself is a form of compassion.

Image of Empire of Lights by René Magritte—Rene Magritte painted this house over 30 times, each slightly different. Did he have the same dream I had? And is this his mystery house?

National Autonomous University of Mexico that was in my dream

Hotel Imperial on Reforma in Mexico City that I dreamed before ever seeing it. Attempting  to understand my past and pursue knowledge?