Reading Fernando Pessoa in Portugal [being the good traveller I am], I get chided on page three itself. Writing about Soares, one of Pessoa’s heteronyms, and Pessoa himself, the translator writing the preface says to me as I sit on the train from Porto to Lisbon staring at the country going by:
“Like Pessoa, Soares never goes anywhere, for he can journey to the infinite in a ride across town on the tram. “If I were to travel,” he says, “I’d find a poor copy of what I’ve already seen without taking one step.”
I look up from The Book of Disquietitude to my laptop screen where I’ve begun writing the first of a series of pieces for Kafila on travel, the cities that I have just left behind and those I am headed towards. I think of a boy in another city by another bay who once said the same thing to me. I think of the hours I spent planning this trip. I realize that I’m already dreaming of the next one even as I’m on this one. I sulk for a moment. I feel bereft of imagination; a victim-consumer of a Lonely Planet travel guide that I do not even own. The backpack on the luggage rack above stares at me accusingly. I plead guilty.
It occurs to me that there is a need for another preface. A because. An I travel because. To silence Pessoa’s baleful glare at me that has become my baleful glare at myself. So here goes.
Continue reading For Movement

