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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.

Emile M. Cioran

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Emile M. Cioran
Sensations
Experience
Useless
Others
Painful
Remember
Accessory
Everything
Ones
Nonexistent
Real
Rest
Accessories
Even
Hurt
Virtually
Turns
Hurts
Pain

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Whenever I happen to be in a city of any size, I marvel that riots do not break out everyday: Massacres, unspeakable carnage, a doomsday chaos. How can so many human beings coexist in a space so confined without hating each other to death?
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Revenge is not always sweet, once it is consummated we feel inferior to our victim.
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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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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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To read is to let someone else work for you - the most delicate form of exploitation.
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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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The only way of enduring one disaster after the next is to love the very idea of disaster: if we succeed, there are no further surprises, we are superior to whatever occurs, we are invincible victims.
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That history just unfolds, independently of a specified direction, of a goal, no one is willing to admit.
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Time is heavy sometimes imagine how heavy eternity must be.
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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.
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The fact that life has no meaning is a reason to live - moreover, the only one.
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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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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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Tragic paradox of freedom: the mediocre men who alone make its exercise possible cannot guarantee its duration.
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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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As the years pass, the number of those we can communicate with diminishes. When there is no longer anyone to talk to, at last we will be as we were before stooping to a name.
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We must learn how to explode! Any disease is healthier than the one provoked by a hoarded rage.
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No human beings more dangerous than those who have suffered for a belief: the great persecutors are recruited from the martyrs not quite beheaded. Far from diminishing the appetite for power, suffering exasperates it.
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The fear of being deceived is the vulgar version of the quest for Truth.
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Lucidity's task: to attain a correct despair, an Olympian ferocity.
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