E.M. Cioran

Ever since I was born”—that since has a resonance so dreadful to my ears it becomes unendurable.

everything is without basis except itself. Pure to the point of abhorring even the notion of an object

In the deepest part of yourself, aspire to be as dispossessed, as lamentable as God.

In the deepest part of yourself, aspire to be as dispossessed, as lamentable as God.

In the deepest part of yourself, aspire to be as dispossessed, as lamentable as God.

I know that my birth is fortuitous, a laughable accident, and yet, as soon as I forget myself, I behave as if it were a capital event, indispensable to the progress and equilibrium of the world.

I am for the most part so convinced that everything is lacking in basis, consequence, justification, that if someone dared to contradict me, even the man I most admire, he would seem to me a charlatan or a fool

Even in childhood I watched the hours flow, independent of any reference, any action, any event, the disjunction of time from what was not itself, its autonomous existence, its special status, its empire, its tyranny. I remember quite clearly that afternoon when, for the first time, confronting the empty universe, I was no more than a passage of moments reluctant to go on playing their proper parts. Time was coming unstuck from being—at my expense.

Whenever I flag and feel sorry for my brain, I am carried away by an irresistible desire to proclaim. That is the moment I realize the paltry depths out of which rise reformers, prophets, and saviors.

The real, the unique misfortune: to see the light of day.