The Book of Disquiet

Soares tries to distract himself from his feelings by listening to other people’s conversations. He records a series of exchanges, inserting invented lines of dialogue. He admits these conversations are absurd but embraces this absurdity. Life is nothing more than an experiment anyway. He likes to imagine himself traveling to other places and being other people.

Soares takes a walk and studies the city. The sights exhaust him, but he’s unsure if it’s the city or himself.

Weeks and months pass. Soares doesn’t write anything. He’s been walking, observing, and dreaming, but unable to record his experiences. He’s overcome by “boredom with the world” (316). All of life feels like a performance.

Soares observes the hazy city, unsure if it’s fog or smoke he’s seeing. He feels incapable of doing or engaging with anything. He takes a walk and records his observations of the falling leaves. He muses on his passive, observational relationship with images and landscapes. His idleness gives him time to meditate. He believes that human life, like the lives of animals, is banal and defined by suffering and sleep.

It rains for days. When the sky clears, Soares observes the streets, buildings, and passersby, trying to understand their impact on him. Looking out the window, he is overcome by the desire to die, but he does not want to die by suicide. He takes a walk, mentally inventing sentences he’ll inevitably forget by the time he returns home.

Soares takes another walk through the city, musing on sorrow, death, and God. He feels purposeless. Back at home, he daydreams at the window. He feels numb to life and decides people are only happy if they don’t think. He hears music from below and watches passersby in the street.

Soares reports to the office. He is the only one there and revels in his solitude. He visits a café and studies the other patrons, seeing them as examples of vanity and pride, pessimism and happiness. He jots some notes, unsure if he’ll ever finish his book because it’s such a sad account. Even still, he feels that dreaming and writing is the only way to live.

Soares muses on reading and writing. He enjoys reading because it lets him abandon himself. Then he decides that reading is boring. He has a select few books he enjoys. Most books are trivial, and he can’t engage with them—always drifting off into his own dreams instead. He looks out the window; everything he sees is inexplicable. Even his dreams feel oppressive. He keeps writing but is bored by the writing, too. He struggles to distinguish between his imaginings and his reality. He wishes he could rid himself of all desires and hopes. He wishes he could experience love but doubts anyone would fall in love with him.

Soares wishes he were better at feeling his own emotions. He feels frustrated with his personality and circumstances. He feels alienated, as if no one sees him. He decides that everyone is anonymous in their own way.

It rains and rains. Lisbon feels as if it’s in the midst of the apocalypse. He lies in bed but feels restless. He can’t enjoy his own mind anymore and can’t sleep. He drifts into half-consciousness, fluttering between dreams.

The rain passes and Lisbon is quiet. Soares lies in bed, feeling relaxed and happy. He wakes up later and studies the city through the window. He writes at his desk. The days pass and the weather is pleasant. Soares observes each day as it dawns and sets. He realizes he exists, and muses on the interconnection between all things, feelings, and people.

During another sleepless night, Soares rereads what he’s written. He is disappointed in his work and realizes it’s a reflection of his monotonous life. Even still, he keeps writing. He decides he is recording an impression of himself.

Over the following days, Soares feels oppressed by work, home, writing, and the city. His inner life is in conflict with his surroundings. Every time he looks up from his work at the office, he is confronted with the stupidity of life again.

Soares muses on the Persian poet Omar Khayyám (1048-1131). He considers his poem on truth. He reflects on religion and suffering, the body and soul.

A dark sky hovers over Lisbon. Soares sees it as an omen. He leaves work at six, bidding Vasques and Moreira goodbye. Walking through the city, he considers the purpose of traveling again, deciding the soul is free to travel of its own accord. He visits a café and studies the people around him. The light changes, and he feels excited by the mystery of ordinary life.

Days pass and Soares doesn’t write at all. He feels outside of himself. He doubts everything he feels, dreams, and remembers. Even his surroundings feel tenuous.

Soares takes a walk one morning, observing the city as it wakes. He notices the activity around him, the sounds and smells. All of these things seem momentarily real to him. However, he’d like the city even better if he were able to live in the country. He knows he’s hyper-sensitive to his surroundings. Even his tiny room is filled with annoyances. At the same time, he has chosen to live this way. He studies his squalid space and thinks of suicide again—once more dismissing the thought.

One cloudy day, Soares wakes and feels uplifted. Nothing bothers him, and the day is beautiful. He returns to his writing, delighted by his dreams and imaginings. Meanwhile, the weather begins to change. Months have passed, and spring is coming. He takes a walk, visits a friend, and reads him pages from his book.

Another day, Soares learns that his other friend has been hospitalized for a surgery. He feels no sympathy and has no interest in visiting him. He feels guilty but doesn’t know how to assuage it. Reality and his identity remain amorphous to him. Even his writing seems superficial and lacking.

Another day still, Soares takes a walk and studies the buildings, rooftops, shadows, and streets. He feels happier, invested in his observations and reverie. Then he visits the barbershop, where the barber informs him that his colleague recently died. Soares’s good mood disappears. He’s overcome by nostalgia. Out in the street, he realizes that his whole life will fade away.