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Shame on the man who goes to his grave escorted by the miserable hopes that have kept him alive.

Emile M. Cioran

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Emile M. Cioran
Kept
Shame
Goes
Escorted
Alive
Grave
Men
Hopes
Graves
Miserable

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Life is possible only by the deficiencies of our imagination and memory.
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We cannot consent to be judged by someone who has suffered less than ourselves. And since each of us regards himself as an unrecognized Job.
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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.
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Even when nothing happens, everything seems too much for me. What can be said, then, in the presence of an event, any event?
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By what aberration has suicide, the only truly normal action, become the attribute of the flawed?
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The Holy Ghost, Luther instructs us, is not a skeptic. Not everyone can be, and that is really too bad.
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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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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.
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Every word affords me pain. Yet how sweet it would be if I could hear what the flowers have to say about death!
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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.
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All that shimmers on the surface of the world, all that we call interesting, is the fruit of ignorance and inebriation.
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I cannot contribute anything to this world because I only have one method: agony.
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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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A civilization begins to decline the moment Life becomes its sole obsession.
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Wisdom disguises our wounds it teaches us how to bleed in secret.
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Everything turns on pain the rest is accessory, even nonexistent, for we remember only what hurts. Painful sensations being the only real ones, it is virtually useless to experience others.
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The desire to die was my one and only concern to it I have sacrificed everything, even death.
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Knowledge subverts love: in proportion as we penetrate our secrets, we come to loathe our kind, precisely because they resemble us.
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Democracy: a festival of mediocrity.
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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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