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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
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Leper
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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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In order to have the stuff of a tyrant, a certain mental derangement is necessary.
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Just as ecstasy purifies you of the particular and the contingent, leaving nothing except light and darkness, so insomnia kills off the multiplicity and diversity of the world, leaving you prey to your private obsessions.
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Normal people have nothing to forget.
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Knowledge, having irritated and stimulated our appetite for power, will lead us inexorably to our ruin.
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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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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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How good would it be if one could die by throwing oneself into an infinite void.
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There was a time when time did not yet exist. … The rejection of birth is nothing but the nostalgia for this time before time.
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The amount of chiaroscuro an idea harbors is the only index of its profundity.
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What I know at sixty, I knew as well at twenty. Forty years of a long, superfluous, labor of verification.
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One does not inhabit a country one inhabits a language. That is our country, our fatherland - and no other.
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An existence transfigured by failure.
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When we cannot be delivered from ourselves, we delight in devouring ourselves.
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It is not worth the bother of killing yourself, since you always kill yourself too late.
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What strangely enchanted tunes gush forth during those sleepless nights!
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Society is not a disease, it is a disaster. What a stupid miracle that one can live in it.
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Sometimes I wish I were a cannibal – less for the pleasure of eating someone than for the pleasure of vomiting him.
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Is it possible that existence is our exile and nothingness our home?
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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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