Another heteronym, a disparate vantage, a discarded entrée. Pessoa was myriad, his entrances were random and multiple. The titular character here is a stub, a runt, an admixture of about two ideas with a dangling quote to afford it a macabre sheen. I devoted all of two minutes to see if there was a decent biography in English. I couldn't find one. Is that suitable preamble for suicide? As I age the weighty issues are not Death and Peace, nor Sex and the Sublime. Matters these days require more of a technical manual. The heterodoxy on display in this Pessoa is foreign but hardly enticing.

Ash finished Infinite Jest and I feel as if he and I are speaking into soup cans--though these remain unlinked and thus boringly autistic. Much as this text ponders the poets of pessimism, Pessoa and DFW didn't allow the Void to temper their prolix output.

Where to go from here? Casanova is admittedly appetizing at the moment.