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Boredom Dismantles The Mind, Renders It Superficial, Out At The Seams, Saps It From Within And Dislocates It.

-Emile M. Cioran

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Boredom Dismantles The Mind,

Emile M. Cioran

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Boredom Dismantles The Mind, Renders It Superficial, Out At The Seams, Saps It From Within And Dislocates It.

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Every Word Affords Me Pain. Yet How Sweet It Would Be If I Could Hear What The Flowers Have To Say About Death!

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.

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

I Lost My Sleep, And This Is The Greatest Tragedy That Can Befall Someone. It Is Much Worse Than Sitting In Prison.

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

We Are So Lonely In Life That We Must Ask Ourselves If The Loneliness Of Dying Is Not A Symbol Of Our Human Existence.

We Define Only Out Of Despair, We Must Have A Formula... To Give A Facade Tot He Void.

The More We Try To Rest Ourselves From Our Egos, The Deeper We Sink Into It.

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

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

We Inhabit A Language Rather Than A Country.

A Sudden Silence In The Middle Of A Conversation Suddenly Brings Us Back To Essentials: It Reveals How Dearly We Must Pay For The Invention Of Speech.

Were We To Undertake An Exhaustive Self-scrutiny, Disgust Would Paralyze Us, We Would Be Doomed To A Thankless Existence.

There Was A Time When Time Did Not Yet Exist.

Where Are My Sensations? They Have Melted Into... Me, And What Is This Me, This Self, But The Sum Of These Evaporated Sensations?

Philosophers Write For Professors; Thinkers For Writers.

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

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

A People Represents Not So Much An Aggregate Of Ideas And Theories As Of Obsessions.

The Limit Of Every Pain Is An Even Greater Pain.

Imaginary Pains Are By Far The Most Real We Suffer, Since We Feel A Constant Need For Them And Invent Them Because There Is No Way Of Doing Without Them.

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

One Doesn't Live In A Country, One Lives In A Language.

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

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

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

Those Who Believe In Their Truth -- The Only Ones Whose Imprint Is Retained By The Memory Of Men -- Leave The Earth Behind Them Strewn With Corpses. Religions Number In Their Ledgers More Murders Than The Bloodiest Tyrannies Account For, And Those Whom Humanity Has Called Divine Far Surpass The Most Conscientious Murderers In Their Thirst For Slaughter.

The Importance Of Insomnia Is So Colossal That I Am Tempted To Define Man As The Animal Who Cannot Sleep. Why Call Him A Rational Animal When Other Animals Are Equally Reasonable? But There Is Not Another Animal In The Entire Creation That Wants To Sleep Yet Cannot.

What Music Appeals To In Us It Is Difficult To Know; What We Do Know Is That Music Reaches A Zone So Deep That Madness Itself Cannot Penetrate There.

Society: An Inferno Of Saviors!

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

What Pride To Discover That Nothing Belongs To You - What A Revelation.

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

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

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.

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.

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

Man Is A Robot With Defects.

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

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

Life Creates Itself In Delirium And Is Undone In Ennui.

Delirium Tremens

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

Only Those Moments Count, When The Desire To Remain By Yourself Is So Powerful That You'd Prefer To Blow Your Brains Out Than Exchange A Word With Someone.

Skepticism Is The Elegance Of Anxiety.

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

We Have Lost, Being Born, As Much As We Shall Lose Dying: Everything!

Between Ennui And Ecstasy Unwinds Our Whole Experience Of Time.

Nostalgia, More Than Anything, Gives Us The Shudder Of Our Own Imperfection. This Is Why With Chopin We Feel So Little Like Gods.

To Want Fame Is To Prefer Dying Scorned Than Forgotten.

Ambition Is A Drug That Makes Its Addicts Potential Madmen.

To Live Entirely Without A Goal! I Have Glimpsed This State, And Have Often Attained It, Without Managing To Remain There: I Am Too Weak For Such Happiness.

Humanity Adores Only Those Who Cause It To Perish.

Life Is Possible Only By The Deficiencies Of Our Imagination And Memory.

Tolerance Cannot Seduce The Young.

To Live In Any True Sense Of The Word Is To Reject Others; To Accept Them, One Must Be Able To Renounce, To Do Oneself Violence, To Act Against One's Own Nature, To Weaken Oneself; We Conceive Freedom Only For Ourselves - We Extend It To Our Neighbours Only At The Cost Of Exhausting Efforts; Whence The Precariousness Of Liberalism, A Defiance Of Our Instincts, A Brief And Miraculous Success, A State Of Exception, At The Antipodes Of Our Deepest Imperatives.

Far From Diminishing The Appetite For Power, Suffering Exasperates It.

Jealousy - That Jumble Of Secret Worship And Ostensible Aversion.

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

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

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

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.

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.

It Is Enough For Me To Hear Someone Talk Sincerely About Ideals, About The Future, About Philosophy, To Hear Him Say “we" With A Certain Inflection Of Assurance, To Hear Him Invoke "others" And Regard Himself As Their Interpreter - For Me To Consider Him My Enemy.

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

Society Is Not A Disease, It Is A Disaster. What A Stupid Miracle That One Can Live In It.

Every Form Of Talent Involves A Certain Shameless-ness.

We Cannot Be Normal And Alive At The Same Time.

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

I Do Not Want To See Bp Nickel And Diming These Businesses That Are Having A Tough Time.

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.

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

To Venture Upon An Undertaking Of Any Kind, Even The Most Insignificant, Is To Sacrifice To Envy.

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

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

We Change Ideas Like Neckties.

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.

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?

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?

Consciousness Is Nature's Nightmare.

Time Is Heavy Sometimes; Imagine How Heavy Eternity Must Be.

Normal People Have Nothing To Forget.

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.

Once You See That Everything Is Unreal, You Can't See Why You Should Bother To Prove It.

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

Speech And Silence. We Feel Safer With A Madman Who Talks Than With One Who Cannot Open His Mouth.

Chaos Is Rejecting All You Have Learned, Chaos Is Being Yourself.

Chaos In The World

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

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

I Have Tried To Protect Myself Against Men, To React Against Their Madness To Discern Its Source; I Have Listened And I Have Seen--and I Have Been Afraid Of Acting For The Same Motives Or For Any Motive Whatever, Of Believing In The Same Ghosts Or In Any Other Ghost, Of Letting Myself Be Engulfed By The Same Intoxications Or By Some Other... Afraid, In Short, Of Raving In Common And Of Expiring In A Horde Of Ecstasies.

No One Can Enjoy Freedom Without Trembling.

The More One Has Suffered, The Less One Demands. To Protest Is A Sign One Has Traversed No Hell.

Transmitting One's Flaws [through Procreation] To Someone Else Is A Crime. I Could Never Consent To Give Life To Someone Who Would Inherent My Ailments.

History Proves Nothing Because It Contains Everything.

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

Tolerance - The Function Of An Extinguished Ardor - Tolerance Cannot Seduce The Young.

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

I Would Like To Explode, Flow, Crumble Into Dust, And My Disintegration Would Be My Masterpiece.

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

I Don’t Understand Why We Must Do Things In This World, Why We Must Have Friends And Aspirations, Hopes And Dreams. Wouldn’t It Be Better To Retreat To A Faraway Corner Of The World, Where All Its Noise And Complications Would Be Heard No More? Then We Could Renounce Culture And Ambitions; We Would Lose Everything And Gain Nothing; For What Is There To Be Gained From This World?

Life Inspires More Dread Than Death - It Is Life Which Is The Great Unknown.

A Distant Enemy Is Always Preferable To One At The Gate.

The Capital Phenomenon, The Most Catastrophic Disaster, Is Uninterrupted Sleeplessness, That Nothingness Without Release.

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

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

A Self-respecting Man Is A Man Without A Country. A Fatherland Is Birdlime.

I Cannot Contribute Anything To This World Because I Only Have One Method: Agony.

If We Could See Ourselves As Others See Us, We Would Vanish On The Spot.

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.

"the Holy Ghost," Luther Instructs Us, "is Not A Skeptic." Not Everyone Can Be, And That Is Really Too Bad.

It Has Been A Long Time Since Philosophers Have Read Men's Souls. It Is Not Their Task, We Are Told. Perhaps. But We Must Not Be Surprised If They No Longer Matter Much To Us.

What Would Be Left Of Our Tragedies If An Insect Were To Present Us His?

The Wise Man, The Sage, Is Hostile To The New. Disabused, He Abdicates: That Is His Form Of Protest.

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

We Derive Our Vitality From Our Store Of Madness.

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

Negation Is The Mind's First Freedom, Yet A Negative Habit Is Fruitful Only So Long As We Exert Ourselves To Overcome It, Adapt It To Our Needs; Once Acquired It Can Imprison Us.

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.

The Reaction Against Your Own Thought In Itself Lends Life To Thought. How This Reaction Is Born Is Hard To Describe, Because It Identifies With The Very Rare Intellectual Tragedies. The Tension, The Degree And Level Of Intensity Of A Thought Proceeds From Its Internal Antinomies, Which In Turn Are Derived From The Unsolvable Contradictions Of A Soul. Thought Cannot Solve The Contradictions Of The Soul. As Far As Linear Thinking Is Concerned, Thoughts Mirror Themselves In Other Thoughts, Instead Of Mirroring A Destiny.

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.

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.

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.

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.

A Book Has To Dig Through The Wounds, More, It Has Cause A New One, A Book It Has To Be Dangerous.

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

An Existence Transfigured By Failure.

A Marvel That Has Nothing To Offer, Democracy Is At Once A Nation's Paradise And Its Tomb.

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

Nothing Sweeter Than To Drag Oneself Along Behind Events; And Nothing More Reasonable. But Without A Strong Dose Of Madness, No Initiative, No Enterprise, No Gesture. Reason: The Rust Of Our Vitality. It Is The Madman In Us Who Forces Us To Adventure; Once He Abandons Us, We Are Lost; Everything Depends On Him, Even Our Vegetative Life; It Is He Who Invites Us, Who Obliges Us To Breathe, And It Is Also He Who Forces Our Blood To Venture Through Our Veins. Once He Withdraws, We Are Alone Indeed! We Cannot Be Normal And Alive At The Same Time.

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

Doubt Works Deep Within You Like A Disease Or, Even More Effectively, Like A Faith.

We Are All Deep In A Hell Each Moment Of Which Is A Miracle.

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

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

The Task Of The Solitary Man Is To Be Even More Solitary.

Old Age, After All, Is Merely The Punishment For Having Lived.

So Long As Man Is Protected By Madness - He Functions - And Flourishes.

Anyone Can Escape Into Sleep, We Are All Geniuses When We Dream, The Butcher's The Poet's Equal There.

One Is And Remains A Slave As Long As One Is Not Cured Of Hoping.

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

Vague A L'ame - Melancholy Yearning For The End Of The World.

Existing Is Plagiarism.

I Try--without Success--to Stop Finding Reasons For Vanity In Anything. When I Happen To Manage It Nonetheless, I Feel That I No Longer Belong To The Mortal Gang. I Am Above Everything Then, Above The Gods Themselves. Perhaps That Is What Death Is: A Sensation Of Great, Of Extreme Superiority.

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.

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

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

Only Superficial Minds Approach An Idea With Delicacy.

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.

Tyranny Destroys Or Strengthens The Individual; Freedom Enervates Him, Until He Becomes No More Than A Puppet. Man Has More Chances Of Saving Himself By Hell Than By Paradise.

As Art Sinks Into Paralysis, Artists Multiply. This Anomaly Ceases To Be One If We Realize That Art, On Its Way To Exhaustion, Has Become Both Impossible And Easy.

Death Makes No Sense Except To People Who Have Passionately Loved Life. How Can One Die Without Having Something To Part From? Detachment Is A Negation Of Both Life And Death. Whoever Has Overcome His Fear Of Death Has Also Triumphed Over Life. For Life Is Nothing But Another Word For This Fear.

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

I Live Only Because It Is In My Power To Die When I Choose To: Without The Idea Of Suicide, I'd Have Killed Myself Right Away.

I Have Always Lived With The Awareness Of The Impossibility Of Living. And What Has Made Existence Endurable To Me Is My Curiosity As To How I Would Get From One Minute, One Day, One Year To The Next.

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

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

As The Years Pass, The Number Of Those We Can Communicate With Diminishes. When There Is No Longer Anyone To Talk To, At Last We Will Be As We Were Before Stooping To A Name.

If You're Unlucky Enough Not To Have Alcoholic Parents, It Takes You A Whole Lifetime Of Intoxication To Overcome The Dead Weight Of Their Virtues.

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

My One And Only

The History Of Ideas Is The History Of The Grudges Of Solitary Men.

Basis Of Society: Anonymous Sweat.

It Is Not Worth The Bother Of Killing Yourself, Since You Always Kill Yourself Too Late.

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

Utopia Is A Mixture Of Childish Rationalism And Secularized Angelism.

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

All The Concessions We Make To Eros Are Holes In Our Desire For The Absolute.

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

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.

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

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

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.

In Order To Have The Stuff Of A Tyrant, A Certain Mental Derangement Is Necessary.

The Only Way Of Enduring One Disaster After The Next Is To Love The Very Idea Of Disaster: If We Succeed, There Are No Further Surprises, We Are Superior To Whatever Occurs, We Are Invincible Victims.

Our First Intuitions Are The True Ones.

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

Futility Of Life

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

Positive Atheism

What Is Pity But The Vice Of Kindness.

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

If Truth Were Not Boring, Science Would Have Done Away With God Long Ago. But God As Well As The Saints Is A Means To Escape The Dull Banality Of Truth.

Philosophy: Impersonal Anxiety; Refuge Among Anemic Ideas.

Paradise Was Unendurable, Otherwise The First Man Would Have Adapted To It; This World Is No Less So, Since Here We Regret Paradise Or Anticipate Another One. What To Do? Where To Go? Do Nothing And Go Nowhere, Easy Enough.

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

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.

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

Glory - Once Achieved, What Is It Worth?

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?

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."

Everything Turns On Pain; The Rest Is Accessory, Even Nonexistent, For We Remember Only What Hurts. Painful Sensations Being The Only Real Ones, It Is Virtually Useless To Experience Others.

At This Very Moment, I Am Suffering—as We Say In French, J’ai Mal. This Event, Crucial For Me, Is Nonexistent, Even Inconceivable For Anyone Else, For Everyone Else. Except For God, If That Word Can Have A Meaning.

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.

What Strangely Enchanted Tunes Gush Forth During Those Sleepless Nights!

Under Each Formula Lies A Corpse.

We Are Afraid Of The Enormity Of The Possible.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

Word - That Invisible Dagger.

All Philosophers Should End Their Days At Pythia's Feet. There Is Only One Philosophy, That Of Unique Moments.

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