Emil Cioran Quotes: A Dive into the Philosophy of Pessimism
There is no other world, no other hope, no other victory than to touch the depths of defeat.
The most profound conversations are the ones we never have.
We have lost, being born, as much as we shall lose, dying. Everything.
A single sentence will suffice for modern man: He fornicated and read the papers.?
Having always lived in fear of being surprised by the worst, I have tried in every circumstance to get a head start, flinging myself into misfortune long before it occurred.
One does not inhabit a country; one inhabits a language. That is our country, our fatherland – and no other.
Man cannot live without madness, without an exaggeration of his intelligence.
Music exists to make us forget the noise.
Negation is the mind’s first freedom, yet a negative habit is fruitful only so long as we exert ourselves to overcome it, adapt it to our needs; once acquired it can imprison us.
We are all deep in a hell each moment of which is a miracle.
One should not write one’s memoirs when one still has so many confidences to keep.
What would be left of our tragedies if an insect were to present us his?
Expression is born at the moment when thought wants to escape, yet is retained by will.
Only a God can still save us. I mean, of course, a new God.
Anyone can escape into sleep, we are all geniuses when we dream, the butcher?s the poet?s equal there.
All is vanity: life, death, existence.
There is no real tragedy in life, only misinterpreted events.
Only optimists commit suicide, optimists who no longer succeed at being optimists.
Music is the refuge of souls ulcerated by happiness.
Everybody rushes towards happiness, not noticing they’re rushing right past it.
Like all those possessing a library, Aurelian was aware that he was guilty of not knowing his in its entirety.
To be happy is to be able to become aware of oneself without fright.
What would be left of our tragedies if an insect were to present us his?
Suffering makes for sarcasm, sarcasm makes for sufferance. It is the eternal cycle.
Man starts over again every day, in spite of all he knows, against all he knows.
Being is undesirable because it is irreversible and ironical.
Is it possible that existence is our exile and nothingness our home?
To venture upon an undertaking of any kind, even the most insignificant, is to sacrifice to envy.
Anyone can escape into sleep, we are all geniuses when we dream, the butcher’s the poet’s equal there.
We have lost, being born, as much as we shall lose, dying. Everything.
It is not worth the bother of killing yourself, since you always kill yourself too late.
Only by living absurdly is it possible to break out of this infinite absurdity.
Eternity is the recovery of the illusory time. It must not be a prolongation, but a resurrection.
True confessions are written with tears only. But my tears would drown the world, as my inner fire would reduce it to ashes.
I don’t understand why we must do things in this world, why we must have friends and aspirations, hopes and dreams. Wouldn’t it be better to retreat to a faraway corner of the world, where all its noise and complications would be heard no more? Then we could renounce culture and ambitions; we would lose everything and gain nothing; for what is there to be gained from this world?
Words – so innocent and powerless as they are, as standing in a dictionary, how potent for good and evil they become in the hands of one who knows how to combine them.
Man is what he believes.
A book is a suicide postponed.
Only optimists commit suicide, optimists who no longer succeed at being optimists. The others, having no reason to live, why would they have any to die?
Chaos is rejecting all you have learned, chaos is being yourself.
True religion is a profound unease about our highest values.
To venture upon an undertaking of any kind, even the most insignificant, is to sacrifice to envy.
Rather than thinking: I’m an optimist, I think it should suffice to say: I am persevering.
Whoever does not degrade himself cannot recognize his divine lineage.
We are all dreaming of some magical rose garden over the horizon instead of enjoying the roses blooming outside our windows today.
What would be left of our tragedies if an insect were to present us his?
Each desire prolongs and adorns life, tormenting us with its delicacy.
I don?t understand why we must do things in this world, why we must have friends and aspirations, hopes and dreams. Wouldn?t it be better to retreat to a faraway corner of the world, where all its noise and complications would be heard no more? Then we could renounce culture and ambitions; we would lose everything and gain nothing; for what is there to be gained from this world?
Our first intuitions are the true ones.
In a world without melancholy, nightingales would belch.
Everything in this world can be robbed and stolen, except one thing; this one thing is the love that emanates from a being, for it is unknowable.