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The premonition of madness is complicated by the fear of lucidity in madness, the fear of the moments of return and reunion... One would welcome chaos if one were not afraid of lights in it.

Emile M. Cioran

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Emile M. Cioran
Complicated
Afraid
Premonition
Return
Lucidity
Fear
Reunion
Moments
Lights
Light
Madness
Would
Welcome
Chaos

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When we cannot be delivered from ourselves, we delight in devouring ourselves.
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All great ideas should be followed by an exclamation mark - a warning signal similar to the skull and crossbones drawn on high-voltage transformers.
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Progress is the injustice each generation commits with regard to its predecessors.
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The fanatic is incorruptible: if he kills for an idea, he can just as well get himself killed for one in either case, tyrant or martyr, he is a monster.
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Life is possible only by the deficiencies of our imagination and memory.
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Thinking should be like musical meditation. Has any philosopher pursued a thought to its limits the way Bach or Beethoven develop and exhaust a musical theme? Even after having read the most profound thinkers, one still feels the need to begin anew. Only music gives definitive answers.
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A garbled quotation is equivalent to a betrayal, an insult, a prejudice.
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Skepticism is the elegance of anxiety.
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God: a disease we imagine we are cured of because no one dies of it nowadays.
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To live... in any sense of the word... is to reject others to accept them, one must renounce, do oneself violence.
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The only free mind is one that, pure of all intimacy with beings or objects, plies its own vacuity.
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I do not forgive myself for being born. It is as if creeping into this world, I had profaned a mystery, betrayed some momentous pledge, committed a fault of nameless gravity.
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My mission is to kill time, and time's to kill me in its turn. How comfortable one is among murderers.
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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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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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The wise man, the sage, is hostile to the new. Disabused, he abdicates: that is his form of protest.
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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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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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Our first intuitions are the true ones.
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The mind is the result of the torments the flesh undergoes or inflicts upon itself.
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