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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.

-Emile M. Cioran

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You Are Done For

Emile M. Cioran

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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.

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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.

There Is No Limit To Suffering.

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

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

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

Knowledge Subverts Love: In Proportion As We Penetrate Our Secrets, We Come To Loathe Our Kind, Precisely Because They Resemble Us.

He Who Hates Himself Is Not Humble.

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

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

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

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

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.

The Sole Means Of Protecting Your Solitude Is To Offend Everyone, Beginning With Those You Love.

Consider Love: Is There A Nobler Outpouring, A Rapture Less Suspect? Its Shudders Rival Music, Compete With The Tears Of Solitude And Of Ecstasy: Sublime...but A Sublimity Inseperable From The Urinary Tract: Transports Bordering Upon Excretion, A Heaven Of The Glands, Sudden Sancitity Of The Orifices. It Takes No More Than A Moment Of Attention For This Intoxication, Shaken, To Cast You Back Into The Ordures Of Physiology Or A Moment Of Fatigue To Recognize That So Much Ardor Produces Only A Variety Of Mucous.

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

That History Just Unfolds, Independently Of A Specified Direction, Of A Goal, No One Is Willing To Admit.

Man Is A Robot With Defects.

To Accomplish Nothing And Die Of The Strain

Accomplish Nothing

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

The Universal View Melts Things Into A Blur.

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

Under Each Formula Lies A Corpse.

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.

The Limit Of Every Pain Is An Even Greater Pain.

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

Utopia Is A Mixture Of Childish Rationalism And Secularized Angelism.

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

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

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

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

To Want Fame Is To Prefer Dying Scorned Than Forgotten.

To Act Is To Anchor In An Imminent Future, So Imminent It Becomes Almost Tangible; To Act Is To Feel You Are Consubstantial With That Future.

Jealousy - That Jumble Of Secret Worship And Ostensible Aversion.

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

Skepticism Is The Elegance Of Anxiety.

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

Existing Is Plagiarism.

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

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

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?

Everything Is Pathology, Except For Indifference.

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.

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

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.

The Premonition Of Madness Is Complicated By The Fear Of Lucidity In Madness, The Fear Of The Moments Of Return And Reunion... One Would Welcome Chaos If One Were Not Afraid Of Lights In It.

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

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.

Every Thought Should Recall The Ruin Of A Smile.

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

Try To Be Free: You Will Die Of Hunger.

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

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.

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.

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.

Melancholy: An Appetite No Misery Satisfies.

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

A Civilization Is Destroyed Only When Its Gods Are Destroyed.

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.

We Derive Our Vitality From Our Store Of Madness.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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?

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

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.

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

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?

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

Normal People Have Nothing To Forget.

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.

Discretion Is Deadly To Genius; Ruinous To Talent.

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

History Proves Nothing Because It Contains Everything.

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

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

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.

Humanity Adores Only Those Who Cause It To Perish.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

The Need For Novelty Is The Characteristic Of An Alienated Gorilla.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

Positive Atheism

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

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

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.

There Is Only One Thing Worse Than Boredom, And That Is The Fear Of Boredom.

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.

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.

Philosophers Write For Professors; Thinkers For Writers.

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

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.

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

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

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."

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

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 Are Afraid Of The Enormity Of The Possible.

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.

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

The More Intense A Spiritual Leader's Appetite For Power, The More He Is Concerned To Limit It To Others.

Between Ennui And Ecstasy Unwinds Our Whole Experience Of Time.

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.

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

No One Can Enjoy Freedom Without Trembling.

To Possess A High Degree Of Consciousness, To Be Always Aware Of Yourself In Relation To The World, To Live In The Permanent Tension Of Knowledge, Means To Be Lost For Life.

Thinking Should Be Like Musical Meditation. Has Any Philosopher Pursued A Thought To Its Limits The Way Bach Or Beethoven Develop And Exhaust A Musical Theme? Even After Having Read The Most Profound Thinkers, One Still Feels The Need To Begin Anew. Only Music Gives Definitive Answers.

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.

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.

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

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.

To Exist Is Equivalent To An Act Of Faith, A Protest Against The Truth, An Interminable Prayer. As Soon As They Consent To Live, The Unbeliever And The Man Of Faith Are Fundamentally The Same, Since Both Have Made The Only Decision That Defines A Being.

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

As Long As One Believes In Philosophy, One Is Healthy; Sickness Begins When One Starts To Think.

Ambition Is A Drug That Makes Its Addicts Potential Madmen.

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

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.

Nothing Proves That We Are More Than Nothing.

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

Only One Thing Matters: Learning To Be The Loser.

Word - That Invisible Dagger.

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.

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?

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

Our First Intuitions Are The True Ones.

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

An Existence Transfigured By Failure.

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.

Life Without Utopia Is Suffocating, For The Multitude At Least: Threatened Otherwise With Petrifaction, The World Must Have A New Madness.

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

Tolerance Cannot Seduce The Young.

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.

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

We Change Ideas Like Neckties.

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.

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

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

What Strangely Enchanted Tunes Gush Forth During Those Sleepless Nights!

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.

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

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.

Reality Is A Creation Of Our Excesses.

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

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

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

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

Wherever We Go, We Come Up Against The Human, A Repulsive Ubiquity Before Which We Fall Into Stupor And Revolt, A Perplexity On Fire.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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?

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

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.

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?

Ideas Come As You Walk, Nietzsche Said. Walking Dissipates Thoughts, Shankara Taught.

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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