Information

Pessoa

The Nightmare Yaherra
Owner: BaronOfBirchmen

Age: 1 month, 3 days

Born: February 14th, 2026

Adopted: 1 month, 3 days ago

Adopted: February 14th, 2026

Statistics

• Level: 10
   
• Strength: 15
   
• Defense: 10
   
• Speed: 10
   
• Health: 22
   
• HP: 22/22
   
• Intelligence: 18
   
• Books Read: 18
• Food Eaten: 18
• Job: Patsy

***THE SENSATIONIST - In this twilight of spiritual disciplines, with beliefs dying out and the old cults gathering dust, our sensations are the only reality we have left. The only scruples we have at this point, and the only science that satisfies, are those of our sensations. I’m more convinced than ever that inferior adornment is the highest and most enlightened destiny we can confer on our souls. If my life could be lived in tapestries of the spirit, I’d have no depths of despair to bemoan. I belong to a generation – or rather, to part of a generation – that lost all respect for the past and all belief or hope in the future. And so we live off the present with the hunger and eagerness of those who have no other home. And since it is in our sensations, and particularly in the useless sensations of our dreams, that we find a present which remembers neither past nor future, we smile indulgently at our inner life while yawning with disdain at the quantitative reality of things. Perhaps we are not all that different from those who, in real life, think only of amusing themselves. But the sun of our egoistic concern is setting, and it’s in colours of twilight and contradiction that our hedonism is slowly cooling. We’re convalescents. Most of us are people who never learned an art or a trade, not even the art of enjoying life. Since we’re basically averse to prolonged social contact, even the greatest of friends tend to bore us after half an hour; we long to see them only when we think about seeing them, and the best moments we spend with them occur in our dreams. I don’t know if this is indicative of superficial friendship. Perhaps not. What I do know is that the things we love, or think we love, have their full weight and worth only when simply dreamed. We don’t care for shows. We despise actors and dancers. Every show is a coarse imitation of what should have been only dreamed. We’re indifferent to other people’s opinion – not innately, but because of an education of our sentiments that has generally been forced on us by various painful experiences. But we treat others courteously and even like them, with an indifferent sort of interest, because everyone is interesting and convertible into dreams and into other people..... With no aptitude for loving, we are wearied by the mere thought of the words we would have to say in order to be loved. Besides, who among us wants to be loved? The ‘on le fatigait en l’aimant’* apropos René is not quite the right motto for us. The very idea of being loved wearies us, and to the point of panic. My life is an unrelenting fever, an unquenchable thirst. Real life afflicts me like a hot day, and there’s something mean about the way it afflicts me. ***SELF-EXAMINATION - One who lives life falsely, in dreams, is still living life. Renunciation is an act. Dreaming is a confession of one’s need to live, with real life simply being replaced by unreal life, to compensate for the irrepressible urge to live. What does all this amount to but the search for happiness? And does anyone search for anything else? Have constant daydreaming and endless analysis given me anything essentially different from what life would have given me? Withdrawing from people didn’t help me find myself, nor..... This book is a single state of soul, analysed from all sides, investigated in all directions. Has this attitude at least brought me something new? Not even this consolation is mine. Everything was already said long ago, by Heraclitus and Ecclesiastes: Life is a child’s game in the sand… vanity and vexation of spirit… And in that single phrase of poor Job: My soul is weary of my life. I listen to myself dream. I lull myself with the sound of my images. Strange melodies inside me spell out . A phrase that resonates with images is worth so many gestures! A metaphor can make up for so many things! I listen to myself… Inside me there are ceremonies, cortèges… Spangles in my tedium… Masked balls… I observe my soul with astonishment… Kaleidoscope of fragmented sequences..... Splendour of intensely experienced sensations… Royal beds in deserted castles, jewels of dead princesses, sea coves seen through castle loopholes… Honour and power will doubtless come, and the happiest souls will have cortèges in their exile… Sleeping orchestras, threads embroidering silks… In Pascal: In Vigny: In you..... In Amiel,* so completely in Amiel:… (certain phrases)… In Verlaine and the symbolists: I feel so sick inside, and without even a little originality in my sickness… I do what countless others have done before me… I suffer what’s old and hackneyed… Why do I even think these things, when so many have already thought and suffered them?… And yet I have after all introduced something new, although I’m not responsible for it. It came from the Night and glows in me like a star… All of my effort couldn’t have produced it or snuffed it out… I’m a bridge between two mysteries, with no idea of how I got built. ~~~"Modern things include (1) the development of mirrors; (2) wardrobes. We evolved, body and soul, into clothed creatures. Since the soul always conforms to the body, it developed an intangible suit. We advanced to having a soul that’s basically clothed, in the same way that we advanced – as physical humans – to the category of clothed animals. The point isn’t just that our suit has become an integral part of us; it’s the complexity of this suit and the curious lack of any real relationship between it and the features that make our body and our body’s movements naturally elegant. Were I asked to discuss the social causes responsible for my soul’s condition, I would speechlessly point to a mirror, a clothes hanger, and a pen."

Pet Treasure

Pet Friends