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What would be left of our tragedies if an insect were to present us his?

Emile M. Cioran

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Emile M. Cioran
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Wisdom disguises our wounds it teaches us how to bleed in secret.
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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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How good would it be if one could die by throwing oneself into an infinite void.
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Pursued by our origins... we all are.
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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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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.
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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.
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Basis of society: anonymous sweat.
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What does the future, that half of time, matter to the man who is infatuated with eternity?
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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.
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There is only one thing worse than boredom, and that is the fear of boredom.
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A garbled quotation is equivalent to a betrayal, an insult, a prejudice.
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Vague a l'ame - melancholy yearning for the end of the world.
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I seem to myself, among civilized men, an intruder, a troglodyte enamored of decrepitude, plunged into subversive prayers.
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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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Crime in full glory consolidates authority by the sacred fear it inspires.
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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.
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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.
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True contact between beings is established only by mute presence, by apparent non-communication, by that mysterious and wordless exchange which resembles inward prayer.
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There was a time when time did not yet exist. … The rejection of birth is nothing but the nostalgia for this time before time.
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