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Truths begin by a conflict with the police - and end by calling them in.

Emile M. Cioran

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Emile M. Cioran
Ends
Truths
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More quotes by Emile M. Cioran

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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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Utopia is a mixture of childish rationalism and secularized angelism.
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Nothing is so wearing as the possession or abuse of liberty.
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Each time I fail to think about death, I have the impression of cheating, of deceiving someone in me.
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To Live signifies to believe and hope - to lie and to lie to oneself.
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Let us not be needlessly bitter: certain failures are sometimes fruitful.
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To hope is to contradict the future.
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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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To want fame is to prefer dying scorned than forgotten.
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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?
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Write books only if you are going to say in them the things you would never dare confide to anyone.
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One doesn't live in a country, one lives in a language.
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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.
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No human beings more dangerous than those who have suffered for a belief: the great persecutors are recruited from the martyrs not quite beheaded. Far from diminishing the appetite for power, suffering exasperates it.
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I dream of a language whose words, like fists, would fracture jaws.
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Society is not a disease, it is a disaster. What a stupid miracle that one can live in it.
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One is and remains a slave as long as one is not cured of hoping.
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Basis of society: anonymous sweat.
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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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What would be left of our tragedies if an insect were to present us his?
Emile M. Cioran