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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!

Emile M. Cioran

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Emile M. Cioran
Word
Pain
Death
Every
Affords
Would
Flowers
Flower
Sweet
Hear

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There is no limit to suffering.
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We cannot consent to be judged by someone who has suffered less than ourselves. And since each of us regards himself as an unrecognized Job.
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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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Our place is somewhere between being and nonbeing - between two fictions.
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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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We are afraid of the enormity of the possible.
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I cannot contribute anything to this world because I only have one method: agony.
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The mind is the result of the torments the flesh undergoes or inflicts upon itself.
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Do I look like someone who has something to do here on earth?' —That's what I'd like to answer the busybodies who inquire into my activities.
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Society: an inferno of saviors!
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Reality is a creation of our excesses.
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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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Only those moments count, when the desire to remain by yourself is so powerful that you'd prefer to blow your brains out than exchange a word with someone.
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In every man sleeps a prophet, and when he wakes there is a little more evil in the world.
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Woes and wonders of power, that tonic hell, synthesis of poison and panacea.
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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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God: a disease we imagine we are cured of because no one dies of it nowadays.
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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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In order to have the stuff of a tyrant, a certain mental derangement is necessary.
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Fear can supplant our real problems only to the extent -unwilling either to assimilate or to exhaust it -we perpetuate it within ourselves like a temptation and enthrone it at the very heart of our solitude.
Emile M. Cioran