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What strangely enchanted tunes gush forth during those sleepless nights!

Emile M. Cioran

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Emile M. Cioran
Forth
Night
Gush
Sleepless
Strangely
Enchanted
Insomnia
Nights
Tunes

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Try to be free: you will die of hunger.
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Is it possible that existence is our exile and nothingness our home?
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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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The true hero fights and dies in the name of his destiny, and not in the name of a belief.
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Melancholy: an appetite no misery satisfies.
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The mind is the result of the torments the flesh undergoes or inflicts upon itself.
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Wisdom disguises our wounds it teaches us how to bleed in secret.
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What would be left of our tragedies if an insect were to present us his?
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I try--without success--to stop finding reasons for vanity in anything. When I happen to manage it nonetheless, I feel that I no longer belong to the mortal gang. I am above everything then, above the gods themselves. Perhaps that is what death is: a sensation of great, of extreme superiority.
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Skepticism is the elegance of anxiety.
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What do you do from morning to night? I endure myself.
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Utopia is a mixture of childish rationalism and secularized angelism.
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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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We cannot be normal and alive at the same time.
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I do not want to see BP nickel and diming these businesses that are having a tough time.
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Ideas should be neutral. But man animates them with his passions and folly. Impure and turned into beliefs, they take on the appearance of reality. The passage from logic is consummated. Thus are born ideologies, doctrines, and bloody farce.
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At this very moment, I am suffering—as we say in French, j’ai mal. This event, crucial for me, is nonexistent, even inconceivable for anyone else, for everyone else. Except for God, if that word can have a meaning.
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I have always struggled, with the sole intention of ceasing to struggle. Result: zero.
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I lost my sleep, and this is the greatest tragedy that can befall someone. It is much worse than sitting in prison.
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Great persecutors are recruited among martyrs whose heads haven't been cut off.
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