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I seem to myself, among civilized men, an intruder, a troglodyte enamored of decrepitude, plunged into subversive prayers.

Emile M. Cioran

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Emile M. Cioran
Civilized
Among
Decrepitude
Seem
Intruder
Prayer
Intruders
Seems
Plunged
Men
Enamored
Subversive
Prayers

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Since all life is futility, then the decision to exist must be the most irrational of all.
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The history of ideas is the history of the grudges of solitary men.
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Torment, for some men, is a need, an appetite, and an accomplishment.
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Music is the refuge of souls ulcerated by happiness.
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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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We cannot be normal and alive at the same time.
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It is because we are all impostors that we endure each other. The man who does not consent to lie will see the earth shrink under his feet: we are biologically obliged to the false
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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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There is no limit to suffering.
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An existence transfigured by failure.
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My enthusiasms...constitute my reserves, my unexploited resources, perhaps my future.
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I try--without success--to stop finding reasons for vanity in anything. When I happen to manage it nonetheless, I feel that I no longer belong to the mortal gang. I am above everything then, above the gods themselves. Perhaps that is what death is: a sensation of great, of extreme superiority.
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The mind is the result of the torments the flesh undergoes or inflicts upon itself.
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Great persecutors are recruited among martyrs whose heads haven't been cut off.
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As art sinks into paralysis, artists multiply. This anomaly ceases to be one if we realize that art, on its way to exhaustion, has become both impossible and easy.
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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 Art of Love: knowing how to combine the temperament of a vampire with the discretion of an anemone.
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All people see fires, storms, explosions, or landscapes but how many feel the flames, the lightnings, the whirlwinds, or the harmony? How many have an inner beauty that tinges their melancholy?
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A garbled quotation is equivalent to a betrayal, an insult, a prejudice.
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Nothing is so wearing as the possession or abuse of liberty.
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