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.

Emil M. Cioran


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I react like everyone else, even like those I most despise; but I make up for it by deploring every action I commit, good or bad.

Emil M. Cioran


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Paradise was unendurable, otherwise the first man would have adapted to it, this world is no less so, since here we regret paradise or anticipate another one. What do do? where to go? Do nothing and go nowhere, easy enough.

Emil M. Cioran


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Extraordinary and null—these two adjectives apply to the sexual act, and, consequently, to everything resulting from it, to life first of all.

Emil M. Cioran


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Once we reject lyricism, to blacken a page becomes an ordeal: what’s the use of writing in order to say exactly what we had to say?

Emil M. Cioran


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I was walking late one night along a tree-lined path; a chestnut fell at my feet. The noise it made as it burst, the resonance it provoked in me, and an upheaval out of all proportion to this insignificant event thrust me into miracle, into the rapture of the definitive, as if there were no more questions—only answers. I was drunk on a thousand unexpected discoveries, none of which I could make use of. …
This is how I nearly reached the Supreme. But instead I went on with my walk.

Emil M. Cioran


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I dream of an ideal confessor to tell everything to, spill it all: I dream of a blasé saint.

Emil M. Cioran


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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. Yet in a less assured mood, birth seems a calamity I would be miserable not having known.

Emil M. Cioran


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What is that one crucifixion compared to the daily kind any insomniac endures?

Emil M. Cioran


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We tell our troubles to someone only to make him suffer, to make him assume them for himself. If we wanted to win him over, we would admit none but abstract worries, the only kind those who love us are eager to hear.

Emil M. Cioran


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