Emil Cioran Quotes
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All philosophers should end their days at Pythia’s feet. There is only one philosophy, that of unique moments.
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No one recovers from the disease of being born, a deadly wound if there ever was one.
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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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No one has the audacity to exclaim: 'I don’t want to do anything!' -we are more indulgent with a murderer than with a mind emancipated from actions.
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Who Rebels? Who rises in arms? Rarely the slave, but almost always the oppressor turned slave.
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We understand God by everything in ourselves that is fragmentary, incomplete, and inopportune.
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The ideal being? An angel ravaged by humor.
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The skepticism which fails to contribute to the ruin of our health is merely an intellectual exercise.
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How easy it is to be "deep": all you have to do is let yourself sink into your own flaws.
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No matter which way we go, it is no better than any other. It is all the same whether you achieve something or not, have faith or not, just as it is all the same whether you cry or remain silent.
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Criticism is a misconception: we must read not to understand others but to understand ourselves.
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As far as I am concerned, I resign from humanity. I no longer want to be, nor can still be, a man. What should I do? Work for a social and political system, make a girl miserable? Hunt for weaknesses in philosophical systems, fight for moral and esthetic ideals? It’s all too little. I renounce my humanity even though I may find myself alone. But am I not already alone in this world from which I no longer expect anything?
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As the years pass, the number of those we can communicate with diminishes. When there is no longer anyone to talk to, at last we will be as we were before stooping to a name.
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'Neither this world, nor the next, nor happiness are for the being abandoned to doubt.' - This point in the Gita is my death sentence.
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The farther men get from God, the farther they advance into the knowledge of religions.
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They ask you for facts, proofs, works, and all you can show them are transformed tears.
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That history just unfolds, independently of a specified direction, of a goal, no one is willing to admit.
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He who hates himself is not humble.
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By virtue of depression, we recall those misdeeds we buried in the depths of our memory. Depression exhumes our shames.
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I'm simply an accident. Why take it all so seriously?
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Everything exists; nothing exists. Either formula affords a like serenity. The man of anxiety, to his misfortune, remains between them, trembling and perplexed, forever at the mercy of a nuance, incapable of gaining a foothold in the security of being or in the absence of being.
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Having destroyed all my connections, burned my bridges, I should feel a certain freedom, and in fact I do. One so intense I am afraid to rejoice in it.
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How important can it be that I suffer and think? My presence in this world will disturb a few tranquil lives and will unsettle the unconscious and pleasant naiveté of others. Although I feel that my tragedy is the greatest in history - greater than the fall of empires - I am nevertheless aware of my total insignificance. I am absolutely persuaded that I am nothing in this universe; yet I feel that mine is the only real existence.
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Impossible to spend sleepless nights and accomplish anything: if, in my youth, my parents had not financed my insomnias, I should surely have killed myself.