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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

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Emil M. Cioran

Despair is the state in which anxiety and restlessness are immanent to existence. Nobody in despair suffers from “problems”, but from his own inner torment and fire. It’s a pity that nothing can be solved in this world. Yet there never was and there never will be anyone who would commit suicide for this reason.… Continue reading Emil M. Cioran

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Emil M. Cioran

I am the beast with a contorted grin, contracting down to illusion and dilating toward infinity, both growing and dying, delightfully suspended between hope for nothing and despair of everything, brought up among perfumes and poisons, consumed with love and hatred, killed by lights and shadows. My symbol is death of light and the flame… Continue reading Emil M. Cioran

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Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Excerpt · Hungarian Culture · Hungarian Literature · Passage · Poetry · Romanian Culture

Anna Szabó

And anything might happen now, I suppose, the way it did that first night there, back then. Though there are only rails and fog. Who knows. Wherever you go now, come with me again. — Anna Szabó, from “This Day,” Wherever I Lie Is Your Bed, edited by Margaret Jull Costa, Marilyn Hacker (Two Lines… Continue reading Anna Szabó

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Classic · Collection · Contemporary · French Culture · French Literature · Poetry · Romanian Culture · Surrealism · Symbolism

Paul Celan

So many constellations that are held out to us. I was, when I looked at you — when? — outside by the other worlds. O these ways, galactic. O this hour, that weighed nights over for us into the burden of our names. It is, I know, not true that we lived, there moved, blindly,… Continue reading Paul Celan

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