Our power resides in our incapacity to know how alone we are. ― Emil M. Cioran, The New Gods, (University of Chicago Press March 28th 2013) Originally published 1969.
Only those moments count, when the desire to remain by yourself is so powerful that you’d prefer to blow your brains out than exchange a word with someone. ― Emil M. Cioran, The New Gods. (University of Chicago Press March 28th 2013) Originally published 1969.
What is returning?Nearly nothing, but it could be a snowflake — Paul Celan, “Questions & Answers,” Romanian Poems (Green Integer, 2003)
Yes, me, I prefer the hourglass so you can smash it whenI tell you of eternity’s lie — Paul Celan, “[Blinded by giant leaps],” Romanian Poems (Green Integer, 2003)
How you die out in me: down to the lastworn-outknot of breathyou’re there, with asplinterof life. ― Paul Celan, Poems of Paul Celan. (Anvil Press Poetry November 9, 1995) Originally published 1972.
[P]hilosophy is the art of masking inner torments. — Emil M. Cioran, On the Heights of Despair. (University Of Chicago Press; 1 edition October 1, 1996) Originally published 1933.
Life is not, and death is a dream. Suffering has invented them both as self-justification. Man alone is torn between an unreality and an illusion. — Emil M. Cioran, Tears and Saints. (University Of Chicago Press; Reprint edition July 6, 1998) Originally published 1937.
I feel that I am dying of solitude, of love, of despair, of hatred, of all that this world offers me. With every experience I expand like a balloon blown up beyond its capacity. The most terrifying intensification bursts into nothingness. You grow inside, you dilate madly until there are no boundaries left, you reach… Continue reading Emil M. Cioran
Don’t sign your namebetween worlds, surmountthe manifold of meanings, trust the tearstain,learn to live. ― Paul Celan, “Don’t sign your name,” Glottal Stop. Translated by Heather McHugh & Nikolai Popov. (Wesleyan; 1st edition September 30, 2000)
A vague, faintly outlined idea … Then from the furthest reaches of the self, in sonorous transfiguration, may be heard a noise, a sound, a tonality which by its very insistence must either paralyze us forever or preserve our life anew. — E. M. Cioran, The Temptation to Exist (Henry Holt & Co., 1986)