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Transmitting one's flaws [through procreation] to someone else is a crime. I could never consent to give life to someone who would inherent my ailments.

Emile M. Cioran

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Emile M. Cioran
Else
Someone
Transmitting
Give
Procreation
Giving
Ailments
Never
Consent
Would
Flaws
Life
Inherent
Crime

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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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Much more than our other needs and endeavors, it is sexuality that puts us on an even footing with our kind: the more we practice it, the more we become like everyone else: it is in the performance of a reputedly bestial function that we prove our status as citizens: nothing is more public than the sexual act.
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If there is anyone who owes everything to Bach, it is certainly God.
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Knowledge subverts love: in proportion as we penetrate our secrets, we come to loathe our kind, precisely because they resemble us.
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Insomnia is a vertiginous lucidity that can convert paradise itself into a place of torture.
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No one can do without some semblance of immortality, and even less will they deny themselves the right to seek it out in the form of this or that reputation, starting with the literary... Since death has come to be accepted by all as the absolute end, everyone writes.
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True moral elegance consists in the art of disguising one's victories as defeats.
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Every thought derives from a thwarted sensation.
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He who has never envied the vegetable has missed the human drama.
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Ideas should be neutral. But man animates them with his passions and folly. Impure and turned into beliefs, they take on the appearance of reality. The passage from logic is consummated. Thus are born ideologies, doctrines, and bloody farce.
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Music is the refuge of souls ulcerated by happiness.
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All great ideas should be followed by an exclamation mark - a warning signal similar to the skull and crossbones drawn on high-voltage transformers.
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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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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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I dream of a language whose words, like fists, would fracture jaws.
Emile M. Cioran
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It is not worth the bother of killing yourself, since you always kill yourself too late.
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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!
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A golden rule: to leave an incomplete image of oneself.
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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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Society is not a disease, it is a disaster. What a stupid miracle that one can live in it.
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