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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.

Emile M. Cioran

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Emile M. Cioran
Loneliness
Smiling
Truly
Marketplace
Talent
Talents
Suffering
Solitary
Mountebank
Men
Abandoned
Drags
Drag
Leper
Midst
Irreparable
Desert
Suffers

More quotes by Emile M. Cioran

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Democracy: a festival of mediocrity.
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I do nothing, granted. But I see the hours pass - which is better than trying to fill them.
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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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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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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.
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Show me one thing here on earth which has begun well and not ended badly. The proudest palpitations are engulfed in a sewer, where they cease throbbing, as though having reached their natural term: this downfall constitutes the heart's drama and the negative meaning of history.
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If you lack the power to demoralize yourself along with the age, to go as low and as far, do not complain of being misunderstood by it.
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An existence transfigured by failure.
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One is and remains a slave as long as one is not cured of hoping.
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Try to be free: you will die of hunger.
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There is no limit to suffering.
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Torment, for some men, is a need, an appetite, and an accomplishment.
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Psychoanalysis is a technique we practice at our cost psychoanalysis degrades our risks, our dangers, our depths it strips us of our impurities, of all that made us curious about ourselves.
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What strangely enchanted tunes gush forth during those sleepless nights!
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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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Humanity adores only those who cause it to perish.
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No one can enjoy freedom without trembling.
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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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By what aberration has suicide, the only truly normal action, become the attribute of the flawed?
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All the concessions we make to Eros are holes in our desire for the absolute.
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