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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.

-Emile M. Cioran

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Death Makes No Sense

Emile M. Cioran

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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.

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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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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?

Man Starts Over Again Everyday, In Spite Of All He Knows, Against All He Knows.

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 Surrounds Us We Endure Better For Giving It A Name - And Moving On.

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

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.

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

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.

If We Manage To Last In Spite Of Everything, It Is Because Our Infirmities Are So Many And So Contradictory That They Cancel Each Other Out.

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

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

The Curtain Of The Universe Is Moth-eaten, And Through Its Holes We See Nothing Now But Mask And Ghost.

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.

Each Concession We Make Is Accompanied By An Inner Diminution Of Which We Are Not Immediately Conscious.

To Want Fame Is To Prefer Dying Scorned Than Forgotten.

Basis Of Society: Anonymous Sweat.

Sometimes I Wish I Were A Cannibal – Less For The Pleasure Of Eating Someone Than For The Pleasure Of Vomiting Him.

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.

My Mission Is To Suffer For All Those Who Suffer Without Knowing It. I Must Pay For Them, Expiate Their Unconsciousness, Their Luck To Be Ignorant Of How Unhappy They Are.

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.

The Limit Of Every Pain Is An Even Greater Pain.

Fear Can Supplant Our Real Problems Only To The Extent -unwilling Either To Assimilate Or To Exhaust It -we Perpetuate It Within Ourselves Like A Temptation And Enthrone It At The Very Heart Of Our Solitude.

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

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

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

There Is No Limit To Suffering.

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.

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

Chaos In The World

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.

The Universal View Melts Things Into A Blur.

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

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

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.

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

A Civilization Is Destroyed Only When Its Gods Are Destroyed.

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?

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

Our Place Is Somewhere Between Being And Nonbeing - Between Two Fictions.

Whenever I Happen To Be In A City Of Any Size, I Marvel That Riots Do Not Break Out Everyday: Massacres, Unspeakable Carnage, A Doomsday Chaos. How Can So Many Human Beings Coexist In A Space So Confined Without Hating Each Other To Death?

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.

Philosophers Write For Professors; Thinkers For Writers.

An Individual Dies ... When, Instead Of Taking Risks And Hurling Himself Toward Being, He Cowers Within, And Takes Refuge There.

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

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.

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

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One Cannot Live Without Motives. I Have No Motives Left, And I Am Living.

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

Every Thought Should Recall The Ruin Of A Smile.

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Only Optimists Commit Suicide, Optimists Who No Longer Succeed At Being Optimists. The Others, Having No Reason To Live, Why Would They Have Any To Die?

Under Each Formula Lies A Corpse.

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

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

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

Our First Intuitions Are The True Ones.

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

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

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.

Jealousy - That Jumble Of Secret Worship And Ostensible Aversion.

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

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

Between Ennui And Ecstasy Unwinds Our Whole Experience Of Time.

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

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Only Superficial Minds Approach An Idea With Delicacy.

What I Know At Sixty, I Knew As Well At Twenty. Forty Years Of A Long, Superfluous, Labor Of Verification.

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

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

We Dread The Future Only When We Are Not Sure We Can Kill Ourselves When We Want To.

Every Profound Dissatisfaction Is Of A Religious Nature: Our Failures Derive From Our Incapacity To Conceive Of Paradise And To Aspire To It, As Our Discomforts From The Fragility Of Our Relations With The Absolute.

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

History Is Nothing But A Procession Of False Absolutes, A Series Of Temples Raised To Pretexts, A Degradation Of The Mind Before The Improbable.

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

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.

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

Every Thought Derives From A Thwarted Sensation.

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

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

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

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.

Man Is A Robot With Defects.

Man Must Vanquish Himself, Must Do Himself Violence, In Order To Perform The Slightest Action Untainted By Evil.

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

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

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

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.

The Mind Is The Result Of The Torments The Flesh Undergoes Or Inflicts Upon Itself.

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

My One And Only

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

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

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

Ideas Should Be Neutral. But Man Animates Them With His Passions And Folly. Impure And Turned Into Beliefs, They Take On The Appearance Of Reality. The Passage From Logic Is Consummated. Thus Are Born Ideologies, Doctrines, And Bloody Farce.

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.

What A Pity That 'nothingness' Has Been Devalued By An Abuse Of It Made By Philosophers Unworthy Of It!

Lucidity's Task: To Attain A Correct Despair, An Olympian Ferocity.

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

What Strangely Enchanted Tunes Gush Forth During Those Sleepless Nights!

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.

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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.

Everything Is Pathology, Except For Indifference.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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

Nothing Proves That We Are More Than Nothing.

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.

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.

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

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

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?

All Great Ideas Should Be Followed By An Exclamation Mark - A Warning Signal Similar To The Skull And Crossbones Drawn On High-voltage Transformers.

Exclamation Marks

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

Skepticism Is The Elegance Of Anxiety.

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.

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

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

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

What Are You Waiting For In Order To Give Up?

Society: An Inferno Of Saviors!

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

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.

I Have Always Struggled, With The Sole Intention Of Ceasing To Struggle. Result: Zero.

Is It Possible That Existence Is Our Exile And Nothingness Our Home?

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

All People See Fires, Storms, Explosions, Or Landscapes; But How Many Feel The Flames, The Lightnings, The Whirlwinds, Or The Harmony? How Many Have An Inner Beauty That Tinges Their Melancholy?

Reality Is A Creation Of Our Excesses.

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

Only One Thing Matters: Learning To Be The Loser.

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

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

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

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

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

If We Had The Courage To Confront The Doubts We Timidly Conceive About Ourselves, None Of Us Would Utter An 'i' Without Shame.

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

Tolerance Cannot Seduce The Young.

My Mission Is To Kill Time, And Time's To Kill Me In Its Turn. How Comfortable One Is Among Murderers.

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

Progress Is The Injustice Each Generation Commits With Regard To Its Predecessors.

History Proves Nothing Because It Contains Everything.

Utopia Is A Mixture Of Childish Rationalism And Secularized Angelism.

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

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

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

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

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

Philosophy: Impersonal Anxiety; Refuge Among Anemic Ideas.

To Hope Is To Contradict The Future.

Intelligence Flourishes Only In The Ages When Belief Withers.

We Have Convictions Only If We Have Studied Nothing Thoroughly.

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.

I Feel Completely Detached From Any Country, Any Group. I Am A Metaphysically Displaced Person

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

Melancholy: An Appetite No Misery Satisfies.

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One Does Not Inhabit A Country; One Inhabits A Language. That Is Our Country, Our Fatherland - And No Other.

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

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

To Have Committed Every Crime But That Of Being A Father.

Discretion Is Deadly To Genius; Ruinous To Talent.

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

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

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?

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

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

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We Are Afraid Of The Enormity Of The Possible.

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Self-conscious Rejection Of The Absolute Is The Best Way To Resist God; Thus Illusion, The Substance Of Life, Is Saved.

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