Opened the The Book of Disquiet at random and found this passage (in a section I had not read). Intention was to post it as a little encouragement during a time I am doing what can only be termed “a lot of bad writing” (the end of semester). But my main man Pessoa really knows how to make unwanted work even more depressing, and I can hardly think of one of my essays (of the kind I am writing now) as a positive distraction for anyone, (already) sorrowful or not (soon to be).

Knowing that work will never be finished is bad. Worse, nevertheless, is never-done work. The work that we do, at least, is left done. It may be poor, but it exists, like the miserable plant in the only pot my crippled neighbour has. The plant is her joy—sometimes it’s mine as well. What I write, and recognize to be bad, can also supply a few moments of distraction from worse things to one or another sorrowful or sad spirit. It’s enough for me, or it’s not enough, but in some way it’s useful, and that’s the way my whole life is.

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