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Anyone can escape into sleep, we are all geniuses when we dream, the butcher's the poet's equal there.

Emile M. Cioran

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Emile M. Cioran
Escape
Poet
Genius
Equal
Sleep
Anyone
Butcher
Dream
Butchers
Geniuses

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Life is merely a fracas on an unmapped terrain, and the universe a geometry stricken with epilepsy.
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Time is heavy sometimes imagine how heavy eternity must be.
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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.
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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.
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My mission is to see things as they are. Exactly contrary of a mission.
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It is an understatement to say that in this society injustices abound: in truth, it is itself the quintessence of injustice.
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We define only out of despair, we must have a formula... to give a facade tot he void.
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He who has never envied the vegetable has missed the human drama.
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Wisdom disguises our wounds it teaches us how to bleed in secret.
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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.
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Doubt works deep within you like a disease or, even more effectively, like a faith.
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How good would it be if one could die by throwing oneself into an infinite void.
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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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Melancholy: an appetite no misery satisfies.
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The aphorism is cultivated only by those who have known fear in the midst of words, that fear of collapsing with all the words.
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What is pity but the vice of kindness.
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What do you do from morning to night? I endure myself.
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Woes and wonders of power, that tonic hell, synthesis of poison and panacea.
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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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Everything is pathology, except for indifference.
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