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Knowledge, having irritated and stimulated our appetite for power, will lead us inexorably to our ruin.

Emile M. Cioran

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Emile M. Cioran
Appetite
Ruins
Lead
Knowledge
Power
Inexorably
Stimulated
Irritated
Ruin

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The Art of Love: knowing how to combine the temperament of a vampire with the discretion of an anemone.
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However much I have frequented the mystics, deep down I have always sided with the Devil unable to equal him in power, I have tried to be worthy of him, at least, in insolence, acrimony, arbitrariness and caprice.
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A sensation must have fallen very low to deign to turn into an idea.
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I have always struggled, with the sole intention of ceasing to struggle. Result: zero.
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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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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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Only superficial minds approach an idea with delicacy.
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Losing love is so rich a philosophical ordeal that it makes a hairdresser into a rival of Socrates.
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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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Anyone can escape into sleep, we are all geniuses when we dream, the butcher's the poet's equal there.
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Utopia is the grotesque en rose, the need to associate happiness - that is, the improbable - with becoming, and to coerce an optimistic, aerial vision to the point where it rejoins its own source: the very cynicism it sought to combat. In short, a monstrous fantasy.
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I don’t understand how people can believe in God, even when I myself think of him everyday.
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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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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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My enthusiasms...constitute my reserves, my unexploited resources, perhaps my future.
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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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What do you do from morning to night? I endure myself.
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Insomnia is a vertiginous lucidity that can convert paradise itself into a place of torture.
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How good would it be if one could die by throwing oneself into an infinite void.
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Write books only if you are going to say in them the things you would never dare confide to anyone.
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