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Music is the refuge of souls ulcerated by happiness.

Emile M. Cioran

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Emile M. Cioran
Refuge
Souls
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Music

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Progress is the injustice each generation commits with regard to its predecessors.
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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.
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True moral elegance consists in the art of disguising one's victories as defeats.
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Truths begin by a conflict with the police - and end by calling them in.
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I do nothing, granted. But I see the hours pass - which is better than trying to fill them.
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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.
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We must learn how to explode! Any disease is healthier than the one provoked by a hoarded rage.
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Under each formula lies a corpse.
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Anyone can escape into sleep, we are all geniuses when we dream, the butcher's the poet's equal there.
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Once you see that everything is unreal, you can't see why you should bother to prove it.
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Tolerance - the function of an extinguished ardor - tolerance cannot seduce the young.
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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?
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Where are my sensations? They have melted into... me, and what is this me, this self, but the sum of these evaporated sensations?
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An individual dies ... when, instead of taking risks and hurling himself toward being, he cowers within, and takes refuge there.
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Democracy: a festival of mediocrity.
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The fact that life has no meaning is a reason to live - moreover, the only one.
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He who has never envied the vegetable has missed the human drama.
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We dread the future only when we are not sure we can kill ourselves when we want to.
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Melancholy redeems this universe, and yet it is melancholy that separates us from it.
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One is and remains a slave as long as one is not cured of hoping.
Emile M. Cioran