cioran

How good would it be if one could die by throwing oneself into an infinite void.

The terrifying experience and obsession of death, when preserved in consciousness, becomes ruinous. If you talk about death, you save part of yourself. But at the same time, something of your real self dies, because objectified meanings lose the actuality they have in consciousness.

What are the occupations of the sage? He resigns himself to seeing, to eating, etc_., he accepts in spite of himself this __ound with nine openings,_ which is what the Bhagavad-Gita calls the body.__isdom? To undergo with dignity the humiliation inflicted upon us by our holes.

True confessions are written with tears only. But my tears would drown the world, as my inner fire would reduce it to ashes.

If just once you were depressed for no reason, you have been so all your life without knowing it.Becoming: an agony without an ending.The older I grow, the less I enjoy performing my little Hamlet. The desire to die was my one and only concern; to it I have sacrificed everything, even death. If History had a goal, how lamentable would be the fate of those of us who have accomplished nothing!On the frontiers of the self: __hat I have suffered, what I am suffering, no one will ever know, not even I_. Events - tumours of time.Man secretes disaster.The secret of my adaptation to life? - I__e changed despairs the way I__e changed shirts. Each day is a Rubicon in which I aspire to be drowned.

Before man ventures into daydreams about his futuristic society, he shouldfirst immerse himself in the nothingness of his being, and finally restore life to what it is all about: a working hypothesis.

This is how I recognize an authentic poet: by frequenting him, living a long time in the intimacy of his work, something changes in myself, not so much my inclinations or my tastes as my very blood, as if a subtle disease had been injected to alter its course, its density and nature. To live around a true poet is to feel your blood run thin, to dream a paradise of anemia, and to hear, in your veins, the rustle of tears.

Despair is the state in which anxiety and restlessness are immanent to existence. Nobody in despair suffers from __roblems_, but from his own inner torment and fire. It__ a pity that nothing can be solved in this world. Yet there never was and here never will be anyone who would commit suicide for this reason. So much for the power that intellectual anxiety has over the total anxiety of our being! That is why I prefer the dramatic life, consumed by inner fires and tortured by destiny, to the intellectual, caught up in abstractions which do not engage the essence of our subjectivity. I despise the absence of risks, madness and passion in abstract thinking. How fertile live, passionate thinking is! Lyricism feeds it like blood pumped into the heart!

The more we frequent men, the blacker our thoughts; and when, to clarify them, we return to our solitude, we find there the shadow they have cast.

The cynicism of utter solitude is a calvary relieved by insolence.

As far back as I can remember, I__e utterly destroyed within myself the pride of being human. And I saunter to the periphery of the Race like a timorous monster, lacking the energy to claim kinship with some other band of apes.

Animal banished from life, man's condition is tragic, for he no longer finds fulfillment in life's simple values. For animals, life is all there is; for man, life is a question mark. An irreversible question mark, for man has never found, nor will ever find, any answers. Life not only has no meaning; it can never have one.

That there should be a reality hidden behind appearances is, after all, quite possible; that language might render such a thing would be an absurd hope.