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Today, feeling almost physically ill because of that age-old anxiety which sometimes wells up, I ate and drank rather less than usual in the first-floor dining room of the restaurant responsible for perpetuating my existence. And as I was leaving, the waiter, having noted that the bottle of wine was still half full, turned to me and said: “So long, Senhor Soares, and I hope you feel better.”
The trumpet blast of this simple phrase relieved my soul like a sudden wind clearing the sky of clouds. And I realized something I had never really thought about: with these cafe and restaurant waiters, with barbers and with the delivery boys on street corners I enjoy a natural, spontaneous rapport that I cannot say I have with those I supposedly know more intimately.
-- Fernando Pessoa, “The Book of Disquiet”
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Today, feeling almost physically ill because of that age-old anxiety which sometimes wells up, I ate and drank rather less than usual in the first-floor dining room of the restaurant responsible for perpetuating my existence. And as I was leaving, the waiter, having noted that the bottle of wine was still half full, turned to me and said: “So long, Senhor Soares, and I hope you feel better.”
The trumpet blast of this simple phrase relieved my soul like a sudden wind clearing the sky of clouds. And I realized something I had never really thought about: with these cafe and restaurant waiters, with barbers and with the delivery boys on street corners I enjoy a natural, spontaneous rapport that I cannot say I have with those I supposedly know more intimately.
-- Fernando Pessoa, “The Book of Disquiet”
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