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A Golden Rule: To Leave An Incomplete Image Of Oneself.

-Emile M. Cioran

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A Golden Rule: To

Emile M. Cioran

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A Golden Rule: To Leave An Incomplete Image Of Oneself.

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An Aphorism? Fire Without Flames. Understandable That No One Tries To Warm Himself At It.

I Foresee The Day When We Shall Read Nothing But Telegrams And Prayers.

The Truly Solitary Being Is Not The Man Who Is Abandoned By Men, But The Man Who Suffers In Their Midst, Who Drags His Desert Through The Marketplace And Deploys His Talents As A Smiling Leper, A Mountebank Of The Irreparable.

If, At The Limit, You Can Rule Without Crime, You Cannot Do So Without Injustices.

We Are Born To Exist, Not To Know, To Be, Not To Assert Ourselves.

Life Creates Itself In Delirium And Is Undone In Ennui.

Delirium Tremens

A Regret Understood By No One: The Regret To Be A Pessimist. It’s Not Easy To Be On The Wrong Foot With Life.

Knowledge, Having Irritated And Stimulated Our Appetite For Power, Will Lead Us Inexorably To Our Ruin.

Glory - Once Achieved, What Is It Worth?

Trees Are Massacred, Houses Go Up — Faces, Faces Everywhere. Man Is Spreading. Man Is The Cancer Of The Earth.

By All Evidence We Are In The World To Do Nothing; But Instead Of Nonchalantly Promenading Our Own Corruption, We Exude Our Sweat And Grow Winded Upon The Fetid Air.

Criticism Is A Misconception: We Must Read Not To Understand Others But To Understand Ourselves.

Psychoanalysis Is A Technique We Practice At Our Cost; Psychoanalysis Degrades Our Risks, Our Dangers, Our Depths; It Strips Us Of Our Impurities, Of All That Made Us Curious About Ourselves.

What Necessity Impels A Writer Who Has Produced Fifty Books To Write Still One More? Why This Proliferation, This Fear Of Being Forgotten, This Debased Coquetry?

When People Come To Me Saying They Want To Kill Themselves, I Tell Them, "what’s Your Rush? You Can Kill Yourself Any Time You Like. So Calm Down. Suicide Is A Positive Act." And They Do Calm Down.

Melancholy Redeems This Universe, And Yet It Is Melancholy That Separates Us From It.

I Have No Nationality - The Best Possible Status For An Intellectual.

Tolerance Cannot Seduce The Young.

Between The Demand To Be Clear,and The Temptation To Be Obscure, Impossible To Decide Which Deserves More Respect.

Read Day And Night, Devour Books - These Sleeping Pills - Not To Know But To Forget! Through Books You Can Retrace Your Way Back To The Origins Of Spleen, Discarding History And Its Illusions.

Freedom Can Be Manifested Only In The Void Of Beliefs, In The Absence Of Axioms, And Only Where The Laws Have No More Authority Than A Hypothesis.

Not To Be Born Is Undoubtedly The Best Plan Of All. Unfortunately, It Is Within No One's Reach.

Best Laid Plans

If There Is Anyone Who Owes Everything To Bach, It Is Certainly God.

The Limit Of Every Pain Is An Even Greater Pain.

What Is That One Crucifixion Compared To The Daily Kind Any Insomniac Endures?

What Can Be Said, Lacks Reality. Only What Fails To Make Its Way Into Words Exists And Counts.

By What Aberration Has Suicide, The Only Truly Normal Action, Become The Attribute Of The Flawed?

I Do Nothing, Granted. But I See The Hours Pass - Which Is Better Than Trying To Fill Them.

We Must Learn How To Explode! Any Disease Is Healthier Than The One Provoked By A Hoarded Rage.

On Creating — What We Crave, What We Want To See In Others Eyes, Is That Servile Expression, An Unconcealed Infatuation With Our Gestures.

We Die In Proportion To The Words We Fling Around Us.

A Decadent Civilization Compromises With Its Disease, Cherishes The Virus Infecting It, Loses Its Self-respect.

Wisdom Disguises Our Wounds; It Teaches Us How To Bleed In Secret.

Only One Thing Matters: Learning To Be The Loser.

The Source Of Our Actions Resides In An Unconscious Propensity To Regard Ourselves As The Center, The Cause, And The Conclusion Of Time. Our Reflexes And Our Pride Transform Into A Planet The Parcel Of Flesh And Consciousness We Are.

The Desire To Die Was My One And Only Concern; To It I Have Sacrificed Everything, Even Death.

My One And Only

I Am The Beast With A Contorted Grin, Contracting Down To Illusion And Dilating Toward Infinity, Both Growing And Dying, Delightfully Suspended Between Hope For Nothing And Despair Of Everything, Brought Up Among Perfumes And Poisons, Consumed With Love And Hatred, Killed By Lights And Shadows. My Symbol Is Death Of Light And The Flame Of Death. Sparks Die In Me Only To Be Reborn As Thunder And Lightning. Darkness Itself Glows In Me.

The Refutation Of Suicide: Is It Not Inelegant To Abandon A World Which Has So Willingly Put Itself At The Service Of Our Melancholy?

The Deepest And Most Organic Death Is Death In Solitude, When Even Light Becomes A Principle Of Death. In Such Moments You Will Be Severed From Life, From Love, Smiles, Friends And Even From Death. And You Will Ask Yourself If There Is Anything Besides The Nothingness Of The World And Your Own Nothingness.

However Much I Have Frequented The Mystics, Deep Down I Have Always Sided With The Devil; Unable To Equal Him In Power, I Have Tried To Be Worthy Of Him, At Least, In Insolence, Acrimony, Arbitrariness And Caprice.

To Defy Heredity Is To Defy Billions Of Years, To Defy The First Cell

Revenge Is Not Always Sweet, Once It Is Consummated We Feel Inferior To Our Victim.

No One Can Enjoy Freedom Without Trembling.

Nothing Is So Wearing As The Possession Or Abuse Of Liberty.

Every Thought Should Recall The Ruin Of A Smile.

Tragic Paradox Of Freedom: The Mediocre Men Who Alone Make Its Exercise Possible Cannot Guarantee Its Duration.

To Think Is To Take A Cunning Revenge In Which We Camouflage Our Baseness And Conceal Our Lower Instincts.

Impossible To Spend Sleepless Nights And Accomplish Anything: If, In My Youth, My Parents Had Not Financed My Insomnias, I Should Surely Have Killed Myself.

For You Who No Longer Possess It, Freedom Is Everything, For Us Who Do, It Is Merely An Illusion.

A Sensation Must Have Fallen Very Low To Deign To Turn Into An Idea.

No One Recovers From The Disease Of Being Born, A Deadly Wound If There Ever Was One.

Each Time I Fail To Think About Death, I Have The Impression Of Cheating, Of Deceiving Someone In Me.

Does Our Ferocity Not Derive From The Fact That Our Instincts Are All Too Interested In Other People? If We Attended More To Ourselves And Became The Center, The Object Of Our Murderous Inclinations, The Sum Of Our Intolerances Would Diminish.

Great Persecutors Are Recruited Among Martyrs Whose Heads Haven't Been Cut Off.

Much More Than Our Other Needs And Endeavors, It Is Sexuality That Puts Us On An Even Footing With Our Kind: The More We Practice It, The More We Become Like Everyone Else: It Is In The Performance Of A Reputedly Bestial Function That We Prove Our Status As Citizens: Nothing Is More Public Than The Sexual Act.

Intelligence Flourishes Only In The Ages When Belief Withers.

Man Is A Robot With Defects.

In Most Cases We Attach Ourselves To In Order To Take Revenge On Life, To Punish It, To Signify We Can Do Without It, That We Have Found Something Better, And We Also Attach Ourselves To God In Horror Of Men.

To Devastate By Language, To Blow Up The Word And With It The World.

There Is Not Much Difference Between A Mortal Man And A Dying Man. The Absurdity Of Making Plans Is Only Slightly More Obvious In The Second Case.

We Change Ideas Like Neckties.

Life Is Merely A Fracas On An Unmapped Terrain, And The Universe A Geometry Stricken With Epilepsy.

Illusion Begets And Sustains The World; We Do Not Destroy One Without Destroying The Other. Which Is What I Do Every Day. An Apparently Ineffectual Operation, Since I Must Begin All Over Again The Next Day.

Consciousness Is Much More Than The Thorn, It Is The Dagger In The Flesh.

The Only Free Mind Is One That, Pure Of All Intimacy With Beings Or Objects, Plies Its Own Vacuity.

I Am Like A Broken Puppet Whose Eyes Have Fallen Inside.

You Are Done For - A Living Dead Man - Not When You Stop Loving But Stop Hating. Hatred Preserves: In It, In Its Chemistry, Resides The Mystery Of Life.

A Man Who Fears Ridicule Will Never Go Far, For Good Or Ill: He Remains On This Side Of This Talents, And Even If He Has Genius, He Is Doomed To Mediocrity.

One Hardly Saves A World Without Ruling It.

The Fact That Life Has No Meaning Is A Reason To Live - Moreover, The Only One.

Meaning Of Life

I Was Walking Late One Night Along A Tree-lined Path; A Chestnut Fell At My Feet. The Noise It Made As It Burst, The Resonance It Provoked In Me, And An Upheaval Out Of All Proportion To This Insignificant Event Thrust Me Into Miracle, Into The Rapture Of The Definitive, As If There Were No More Questions-only Answers. I Was Drunk On A Thousand Unexpected Discoveries, None Of Which I Could Make Use Of. ... This Is How I Nearly Reached The Supreme. But Instead I Went On With My Walk.

The Fanatic Is Incorruptible: If He Kills For An Idea, He Can Just As Well Get Himself Killed For One; In Either Case, Tyrant Or Martyr, He Is A Monster.

No Position Is So False As Having Understood And Still Remaining Alive.

Every Thought Derives From A Thwarted Sensation.

To Foreswear Vengeance Is To Chain Oneself To Forgiveness, To Flounder In Pardon, To Be Tainted By The Hatred Smothered Within.

Democracy: A Festival Of Mediocrity.

When You Have Understood That Nothing Is, That Things Do Not Even Deserve The Status Of Appearances, You No Longer Need To Be Saved, You Are Saved, And Miserable Forever.

When Every Man Has Realized That His Birth Is A Defeat, Existence, Endurable At Last, Will Seem Like The Day After A Surrender, Like The Relief And The Repose Of The Conquered.

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.

I Saw That Philosophy Had No Power To Make My Life More Bearable. Thus I Lost My Belief In Philosophy.

Show Me One Thing Here On Earth Which Has Begun Well And Not Ended Badly. The Proudest Palpitations Are Engulfed In A Sewer, Where They Cease Throbbing, As Though Having Reached Their Natural Term: This Downfall Constitutes The Heart's Drama And The Negative Meaning Of History.

We Cannot Be Normal And Alive At The Same Time.

I Do Not Forgive Myself For Being Born. It Is As If Creeping Into This World, I Had Profaned A Mystery, Betrayed Some Momentous Pledge, Committed A Fault Of Nameless Gravity.

We Derive Our Vitality From Our Store Of Madness.

Just As Ecstasy Purifies You Of The Particular And The Contingent, Leaving Nothing Except Light And Darkness, So Insomnia Kills Off The Multiplicity And Diversity Of The World, Leaving You Prey To Your Private Obsessions.

God: A Disease We Imagine We Are Cured Of Because No One Dies Of It Nowadays.

True Moral Elegance Consists In The Art Of Disguising One's Victories As Defeats.

By All Evidence We Are In The World To Do Nothing.

I Have Decided Not To Oppose Anyone Ever Again, Since I Have Noticed That I Always End By Resembling My Latest Enemy.

We Would Not Be Interested In Human Beings If We Did Not Have The Hope Of Someday Meeting Someone Worse Off Than Ourselves.

Meeting Someone

I Have All The Defects Of Other People Yet Everything They Do Seems To Me Inconceivable.

If Just Once You Were Depressed For No Reason, You Have Been So All Your Life Without Knowing.

My Mission Is To See Things As They Are. Exactly Contrary Of A Mission.

Positive Atheism

Jealousy - That Jumble Of Secret Worship And Ostensible Aversion.

For A Long Time—always, In Fact—i Have Known That Life Here On Earth Is Not What I Needed And That I Wasn’t Able To Deal With It; For This Reason And For This Reason Alone, I Have Acquired A Touch Of Spiritual Pride, So That My Existence Seems To Me The Degradation And The Erosion Of A Psalm.

Ambition Is A Drug That Makes Its Addicts Potential Madmen.

I Dream Of A Language Whose Words, Like Fists, Would Fracture Jaws.

Afflicted With Existence, Each Man Endures Like An Animal The Consequences Which Proceed From It. Thus, In A World Where Everything Is Detestable, Hatred Becomes Huger Than The World And, Having Transcended Its Object, Cancels Itself Out.

Man Started Out On The Wrong Foot. The Misadventure In Paradise Was The First Consequence. The Rest Had To Follow.

If Each Of Us Were To Confess His Most Secret Desire, The One That Inspires All His Plans, All His Actions, He Would Say: "i Want To Be Praised."

Beware Of Thinkers Whose Minds Function Only When They Are Fueled By A Quotation.

Maniacs Of Procreation, Bipeds With Devalued Faces, We Have Lost All Appeal For Each Other.

True Contact Between Beings Is Established Only By Mute Presence, By Apparent Non-communication, By That Mysterious And Wordless Exchange Which Resembles Inward Prayer.

No One Should Forget: Eros Alone Can Fulfill Life; Knowledge, Never. Only Eros Makes Sense; Knowledge Is Empty Infinity; – For Thoughts, There Is Always Time; Life Has Its Time; There Is No Thought That Comes Too Late; Any Desire Can Become A Regret.

I Never Met One Interesting Mind That Was Not Richly Endowed With Inadmissible Deficiencies.

The Fear Of Your Own Solitude, Of Its Vast Surface And Its Infinity… Remorse Is The Voice Of Solitude. And What Does This Whispering Voice Say? Everything In Us That Is Not Human Anymore.

In Every Man Sleeps A Prophet, And When He Wakes There Is A Little More Evil In The World.

Anyone Who Speaks In The Name Of Others Is Always An Impostor.

Ennui Is The Echo In Us Of Time Tearing Itself Apart.

How Easy It Is To Be "deep": All You Have To Do Is Let Yourself Sink Into Your Own Flaws.

Our Works, Whatever They May Be, Derive From Our Incapacity To Kill Or To Kill Ourselves.

Crime In Full Glory Consolidates Authority By The Sacred Fear It Inspires.

I Would Like To Go Mad On One Condition, Namely, That I Would Become A Happy Madman, Lively And Always In A Good Mood, Without Any Troubles And Obsessions, Laughing Senselessly From Morning To Night.

A Golden Rule: To Leave An Incomplete Image Of Oneself.

Pursued By Our Origins... We All Are.

The Amount Of Chiaroscuro An Idea Harbors Is The Only Index Of Its Profundity.

If I Were To Be Totally Sincere, I Would Say That I Do Not Know Why I Live And Why I Do Not Stop Living. The Answer Probably Lies In The Irrational Character Of Life Which Maintains Itself Without Reason.

When We Cannot Be Delivered From Ourselves, We Delight In Devouring Ourselves.

To Exist Is A Habit I Do Not Despair Of Acquiring.

In The Hours Without Sleep, Each Moment Is So Full And So Vacant That It Suggests Itself As A Rival Of Time.

Each Of Us Is Born With A Share Of Purity, Predestined To Be Corrupted By Our Commerce With Mankind, By That Sin Against Solitude.

Tyrants Are Always Assassinated Too Late. That Is Their Great Excuse.

Do I Look Like Someone Who Has Something To Do Here On Earth?' —that's What I'd Like To Answer The Busybodies Who Inquire Into My Activities.

The Fear Of Being Deceived Is The Vulgar Version Of The Quest For Truth.

Good Health Is The Best Weapon Against Religion. Healthy Bodies And Healthy Minds Have Never Been Shaken By Religious Fears.

True Confessions Are Written With Tears Only. But My Tears Would Drown The World, As My Inner Fire Would Reduce It To Ashes.

In A Republic, That Paradise Of Debility, The Politician Is A Petty Tyrant Who Obeys The Laws.

It Is Because We Are All Impostors That We Endure Each Other. The Man Who Does Not Consent To Lie Will See The Earth Shrink Under His Feet: We Are Biologically Obliged To The False

We Rightly Scorn Those Who Have No Made Use Of Their Defects, Who Have Not Exploited Their Deficiencies, And Have Not Been Enriched By Their Losses, As We Despise Any Man Who Does Not Suffer At Being A Man Or Simply At Being. Hence No Graver Insult Can Be Inflicted Than To Call Someone 'happy', No Greater Flattery Than To Grant Him A 'vein Of Melancholy'... This Is Because Gaiety Is Link To No Important Action And Because, Except For The Mad, No One Laughs When He Is Alone.

The Literary Man? An Indiscreet Man, Who Devaluates His Miseries, Divulges Them, Tells Them Like So Many Beads: Immodesty-the Sideshow Of Second Thoughts-is His Rule; He Offers Himself.

What Do You Do From Morning To Night?" "i Endure Myself.

Shame On The Man Who Goes To His Grave Escorted By The Miserable Hopes That Have Kept Him Alive.

Losing Love Is So Rich A Philosophical Ordeal That It Makes A Hairdresser Into A Rival Of Socrates.

As Far As I Am Concerned, I Resign From Humanity. I No Longer Want To Be, Nor Can Still Be, A Man. What Should I Do? Work For A Social And Political System, Make A Girl Miserable? Hunt For Weaknesses In Philosophical Systems, Fight For Moral And Esthetic Ideals? It’s All Too Little. I Renounce My Humanity Even Though I May Find Myself Alone. But Am I Not Already Alone In This World From Which I No Longer Expect Anything?

Discretion Is Deadly To Genius; Ruinous To Talent.

To Claim You Are More Detached, More Alien To Everything Than Anyone, And To Be Merely A Fanatic Of Indifference!

To Accomplish Nothing And Die Of The Strain

Accomplish Nothing

There Is No Limit To Suffering.

To Live... In Any Sense Of The Word... Is To Reject Others; To Accept Them, One Must Renounce, Do Oneself Violence.

My Enthusiasms...constitute My Reserves, My Unexploited Resources, Perhaps My Future.

No Matter Which Way We Go, It Is No Better Than Any Other. It Is All The Same Whether You Achieve Something Or Not, Have Faith Or Not, Just As It Is All The Same Whether You Cry Or Remain Silent.

It Is An Understatement To Say That In This Society Injustices Abound: In Truth, It Is Itself The Quintessence Of Injustice.

If A Man Has Not, By The Time He Is Thirty, Yielded To The Fascination Of Every Form Of Extremism—i Don't Know Whether He Is To Be Admired Or Scorned, Regarded As A Saint Or A Corpse.

One Can Experience Loneliness In Two Ways: By Feeling Lonely In The World Or By Feeling The Loneliness Of The World.

To Read Is To Let Someone Else Work For You - The Most Delicate Form Of Exploitation.

Torment, For Some Men, Is A Need, An Appetite, And An Accomplishment.

Hungarian Language — Savage It May Be But Of A Beauty That Has Nothing Human About It, With Sonorities Of Another Universe, Powerful And Corrosive, Appropriate To Prayer, To Groans And To Tears, Risen Out Of Hell To Perpetuate Its Accent And Its Aura…words Of Nectar And Cyanide.

Write Books Only If You Are Going To Say In Them The Things You Would Never Dare Confide To Anyone.

Philosophy Is A Corrective Against Sadness. Yet There Still Are People Who Believe In The Profundity Of Philosophy!

Better To Be An Animal Than A Man, An Insect Than An Animal, A Plant Than An Insect, And So On. Salvation? Whatever Diminishes The Kingdom Of Consciousness And Compromises Its Supremacy.

A Garbled Quotation Is Equivalent To A Betrayal, An Insult, A Prejudice.

How Good Would It Be If One Could Die By Throwing Oneself Into An Infinite Void.

What Does The Future, That Half Of Time, Matter To The Man Who Is Infatuated With Eternity?

Existing Is Plagiarism.

Skepticism Is The Elegance Of Anxiety.

To Get Up In The Morning, Wash And Then Wait For Some Unforeseen Variety Of Dread Or Depression. I Would Give The Whole Universe And All Of Shakespeare For A Grain Of Ataraxy.

Since All Life Is Futility, Then The Decision To Exist Must Be The Most Irrational Of All.

Futility Of Life

Tears Do Not Burn Except In Solitude.

Think Of God And Not Religion, Of Ecstasy And Not Mysticism. The Difference Between The Theoretician Of Faith And The Believer Is As Great As Between The Psychiatrist And The Psychotic.

We Must Suffer To The End, To The Moment When We Stop Believing In Suffering.

We Interest Others By The Misfortune We Spread Around Us.

I Don’t Understand How People Can Believe In God, Even When I Myself Think Of Him Everyday.

All That Shimmers On The Surface Of The World, All That We Call Interesting, Is The Fruit Of Ignorance And Inebriation.

Suffering Makes You Live Time In Detail, Moment After Moment. Which Is To Say That It Exists For You: Over The Others, The Ones Who Don't Suffer, Time Flows, So That They Don't Live In Time, In Fact They Never Have.

Consciousness Is Nature's Nightmare.

Woes And Wonders Of Power, That Tonic Hell, Synthesis Of Poison And Panacea.

A Civilization Begins To Decline The Moment Life Becomes Its Sole Obsession.

This Very Second Has Vanished Forever, Lost In The Anonymous Mass Of The Irrevocable. It Will Never Return. I Suffer From This And I Do Not. Everything Is Unique - And Insignificant.

Philosophers Write For Professors; Thinkers For Writers.

Espousing The Melancholy Of Ancient Symbols, I Would Have Freed Myself.

The Aphorism Is Cultivated Only By Those Who Have Known Fear In The Midst Of Words, That Fear Of Collapsing With All The Words.

He Who Has Never Envied The Vegetable Has Missed The Human Drama.

Try To Be Free: You Will Die Of Hunger.

After Having Struggled Madly To Solve All Problems, After Having Suffered On The Heights Of Despair, In The Supreme Hour Of Revelation, You Will Find That The Only Answer, The Only Reality, Is Silence.

Even When Nothing Happens, Everything Seems Too Much For Me. What Can Be Said, Then, In The Presence Of An Event, Any Event?

If You Lack The Power To Demoralize Yourself Along With The Age, To Go As Low And As Far, Do Not Complain Of Being Misunderstood By It.

The Art Of Love: Knowing How To Combine The Temperament Of A Vampire With The Discretion Of An Anemone.

An Existence Transfigured By Failure.

To Write Books Is To Have A Certain Relation With Original Sin. For What Is A Book If Not A Loss Of Innocence, An Act Of Aggression, A Repetition Of Our Fall?

There Was A Time When Time Did Not Yet Exist. … The Rejection Of Birth Is Nothing But The Nostalgia For This Time Before Time.

Normal People Have Nothing To Forget.

Let Us Not Be Needlessly Bitter: Certain Failures Are Sometimes Fruitful.

Our First Intuitions Are The True Ones.

No One Can Keep His Griefs In Their Prime; They Use Themselves Up.

Alone, Even Doing Nothing, You Do Not Waste Your Time. You Do, Almost Always, In Company. No Encounter With Yourself Can Be Altogether Sterile: Something Necessarily Emerges, Even If Only The Hope Of Some Day Meeting Yourself Again.

The Obsession With Suicide Is Characteristic Of The Man Who Can Neither Live Nor Die, And Whose Attention Never Swerves From This Double Impossibility.

How Important Can It Be That I Suffer And Think? My Presence In This World Will Disturb A Few Tranquil Lives And Will Unsettle The Unconscious And Pleasant Naiveté Of Others. Although I Feel That My Tragedy Is The Greatest In History - Greater Than The Fall Of Empires - I Am Nevertheless Aware Of My Total Insignificance. I Am Absolutely Persuaded That I Am Nothing In This Universe; Yet I Feel That Mine Is The Only Real Existence.

No One Can Do Without Some Semblance Of Immortality, And Even Less Will They Deny Themselves The Right To Seek It Out In The Form Of This Or That Reputation, Starting With The Literary... Since Death Has Come To Be Accepted By All As The Absolute End, Everyone Writes.

The Multiplication Of Our Kind Borders On The Obscene; The Duty To Love Them, On The Preposterous.

We Cannot Consent To Be Judged By Someone Who Has Suffered Less Than Ourselves. And Since Each Of Us Regards Himself As An Unrecognized Job.

Every Form Of Talent Involves A Certain Shameless-ness.

Insomnia Is A Vertiginous Lucidity That Can Convert Paradise Itself Into A Place Of Torture.

No Human Beings Are More Dangerous Than Those Who Have Suffered For A Belief

Each Of Us Must Pay For The Slightest Damage He Inflicts Upon A Universe Created For Indifference And Stagnation, Sooner Or Later, He Will Regret Not Having Left It Intact.

I'm Simply An Accident. Why Take It All So Seriously?

You Cannot Protect Your Solitude If You Cannot Make Yourself Odious.

There Is No Means Of Proving It Is Preferable To Be Than Not To Be.

Not One Moment When I Have Not Been Conscious Of Being Outside Paradise.

Mind, Even More Deadly To Empires Than To Individuals, Erodes Them, Compromises Their Solidity.

Philosophy: Impersonal Anxiety; Refuge Among Anemic Ideas.

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