[P]hilosophy is the art of masking inner torments. — Emil M. Cioran, On the Heights of Despair. (University Of Chicago Press,1996) Originally published 1933.
The Death of Apollinaire (La Mort de Guillaume Apollinaire) We know nothing We know nothing of grief The bitter season of cold Ploughs long furrows in our muscles He would have rather enjoyed delight in victory We wise beneath calm sorrows caged Unable to do a thing If the snow… Continue reading Tristan Tzara
A poem, being an instance of language, hence essentially dialogue, may be a letter in a bottle thrown out to the sea with the—surely not always strong—hope that it may somehow wash up somewhere, perhaps on the shoreline of the heart. In this way, too, poems are en route: they are headed towards. Toward what?… Continue reading Paul Celan
If the birds were among us to be mirrored In the tranquil lake above our heads WE MIGHT UNDERSTAND Death would be a long and beautiful voyage And an endless holiday for the flesh for structure for bone — Tristan Tzara, from “The Death of Apollinaire (La Mort de Guillaume Apollinaire),” (1919) The… Continue reading Tristan Tzara
Tell me how you want to die, and I’ll tell you who you are. ― Emil M. Cioran, Tears and Saints. (University of Chicago Press; Reprint edition, July 6, 1998) Originally published 1937.
I have tried to be faithful to my knowledge, to force my instincts to yield, and realized that it is no use wielding the weapons of nothingness if you cannot turn them against yourself. — Emil M. Cioran, “Cosmogony of Desire,” A Short History of Decay. (Arcade Publishing; 1st Arcade paperback ed edition September 15,… Continue reading Emil M. Cioran
Seven years of sleeplessness, and my vision of things is the result of this years-long wakefulness. I saw that philosophy had no power to make my life more bearable. Thus I lost my belief in philosophy. — Emil M. Cioran, from “Novelist And Philosopher of Despair” (Eric Pace, June 22, 1995, The NeSeven years of… Continue reading Emil M. Cioran