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Emile Cioran Quotes


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What are you waiting for in order to give up?
 

What does the future, that half of time, matter to the man who is infatuated with eternity?
 

What every man who loves his country hopes for in his inmost heart: the suppression of half his compatriots.
 

What is pity but the vice of kindness.
 

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

What pride to discover that nothing belongs to you - what a revelation.
 

What surrounds us we endure better for giving it a name - and moving on.
 

What to do? Where to go? Do nothing and go nowhere, easy enough.
 

What to think of other people? I ask myself this question each time I make a new acquaintance. So strange does it seem to me that we exist, and that we consent to exist.
 

What would be left of our tragedies if an insect were to present us his?
 

When we cannot be delivered from ourselves, we delight in devouring ourselves.
 

When we discern the unreality of everything, we ourselves become unreal, we begin to survive ourselves, however powerful our vitality, however imperious our instincts. But they are no longer anything but false instincts, and false vitality.
 

When you know quite absolutely that everything is unreal, you then cannot see why you should take the trouble to prove it.
 

When you know yourself well and do not despise yourself utterly, it is because you are too exhausted to indulge in extreme feelings.
 

Whenever I happen to be in a city of any size, I marvel that riots do not break out everyday: Massacres, unspeakable carnage, a doomsday chaos. How can so many human beings coexist in a space so confined without hating each other to death?
 

Where are my sensations? They have melted into... me, and what is this me, this self, but the sum of these evaporated sensations?
 

Wherever we go, we come up against the human, a repulsive ubiquity before which we fall into stupor and revolt, a perplexity on fire.
 

Who Rebels? Who rises in arms? Rarely the slave, but almost always the oppressor turned slave.
 

Woes and wonders of power, that tonic hell, synthesis of poison and panacea.
 

Won over by solitude, yet he remains in the world: a stylite without a pillar.
 


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