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The fear of your own solitude, of its vast surface and its infinity… Remorse is the voice of solitude. And what does this whispering voice say? Everything in us that is not human anymore.

Emile M. Cioran

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Emile M. Cioran
Fear
Whispering
Doe
Remorse
Human
Infinity
Everything
Vast
Humans
Solitude
Surface
Anymore
Voice

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Under each formula lies a corpse.
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The task of the solitary man is to be even more solitary.
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The more one has suffered, the less one demands. To protest is a sign one has traversed no hell.
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One is and remains a slave as long as one is not cured of hoping.
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There is no other world. Nor even this one. What, then, is there? The inner smile provoked in us by the patent nonexistence of both.
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Once you see that everything is unreal, you can't see why you should bother to prove it.
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Skepticism is the sadism of embittered souls.
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Never to have occasion to take a position, to make up one's mind, or to define oneself - there is no wish I make more often.
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Our place is somewhere between being and nonbeing - between two fictions.
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I have always struggled, with the sole intention of ceasing to struggle. Result: zero.
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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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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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Shame on the man who goes to his grave escorted by the miserable hopes that have kept him alive.
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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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Crime in full glory consolidates authority by the sacred fear it inspires.
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No one can do without some semblance of immortality, and even less will they deny themselves the right to seek it out in the form of this or that reputation, starting with the literary... Since death has come to be accepted by all as the absolute end, everyone writes.
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Melancholy: an appetite no misery satisfies.
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Only superficial minds approach an idea with delicacy.
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A people represents not so much an aggregate of ideas and theories as of obsessions.
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No one can enjoy freedom without trembling.
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