Emil Cioran (1911 – 1995)
Romanian writer, noted for his somber works in the French language; known in French as Émile Cioran.
To love only indefinite thought that never reaches words, and the instantaneous thought that lives by words alone: divagation and boutade.
It makes no sense to say that death is the goal of life, but what else is there to say?
Basis of society: anonymous sweat.
"Every time I think of Christ's crucifixion, I commit the sin of envy." — I love Simone Weil when she vies with the greatest saints for pride.
Once we are grazed by certainty, we no longer mistrust ourselves and others. Confidence, in all its forms, is a source of action, hence of error.
What to think of other people? I ask myself this question each time I make a new acquaintance. So strange does it seem to me that we exist, and that we consent to exist.
What an incitation to hilarity, hearing the word goal while following a funeral procession!
For two thousand years, Jesus has revenged himself on us for not having died on a sofa.
Never to have occasion to take a position, to make up one's mind, or to define oneself — there is no wish I make more often.
No position is so false as having understood and still remaining alive.
Timidity, inexhaustible source of misfortunes in practical life, is the direct, even the unique cause of all inner wealth.
Woe to the book you can read without constantly wondering about the author!
"Truths"... we no longer wish to bear their burden nor be deceived by them or be their accomplice... I dream a world where one could die for a comma.
When you no longer believe in yourself, you stop producing or struggling, you even stop raising questions or answering them, whereas it is the contrary that should have occurred, since it is precisely at this moment that, free of all bonds, you are likely to grasp the truth, discern what is real and what is not. But once your belief in your own role, your own lot, has dried up, you become incurious about everything else, even the "truth," though you are closer to it than ever before.
Woes and wonders of power, that tonic hell, synthesis of poison and panacea.
Everything that disturbs me I could have translated, had I been spared the shame of not being a musician.
To think we could have spared ourselves from living all that we have lived!
There is no false sensation.
In relation to any act of life, the mind acts as a killjoy.
Not taking revenge only half flatters us, considering that we never know whether our behavior is based on nobility or cowardice.