Quote of the Day – 22 September 2017: Twilight of Thoughts – Emil Cioran
God has every interest in watching his truths. Sometimes a simple jerk in his shoulders knocks them all down, for his thoughts have long gone through. If a worm is capable of metaphysical unrest, he too disturbs his sleep.
The thought of God is an obstacle to suicide, but not to death. He does not tame at all the darkness that God will be frightened of when he sought his pulse through the terror of nothing….
They say Diogenes would have handled counterfeiting money. – Any man who doesn't believe in the absolute truth has the right to fake everything.
Diogenes, if he was born after Christ, he would have been a saint. – Admiration for cynics and two thousand years of Christianity what can it take us to? A sweet Diogene…
Plato called Diogenea crazy Socrates. It's hard to save Socrates…
If the deaf agitation in me caught a voice, every gesture would be a kneeling at a wall of complaint. I bear a mourning from birth – the mourning of this world.
Everything that's not forgetting wears out our substance; remorse is at the antibridge of oblivion. That's why she rises menacingly like an ancient monster that takes you out of your gaze or fills your moments with sensations of melted lead in your blood.
Simple people feel remorse from some act; they know why they have them, because the reasons are under their eyes. In vain we would talk to them about "tantanies", they could not understand the strength of unnecessary torment.
Metaphysical remorse is a disorder without cause, an ethical restlessness on the edge of life. You have no guilt to regret, and yet you feel remorse. You don't remember anything, but you're getting a painful infinity of the past. You didn't do any evil, but you feel responsible for the evil of the universe. Sensations of Satan in scrupulous delirium. The principle of evil in the nets of ethical issues and the immediate terror of solutions.
The less indifferent you are to evil, the closer you are to the essential remorse. This is sometimes cloudy and equivocal: then you bear the burden of the absence of good.
Purple is the color of remorse. (What is strange in him leaves the battle between frivolity and melancholy, with the triumph of the last.)
Remorse is the ethical form of regret. (Sorry becomes trouble, and not sadness.) A high regret to the rank of suffering.
She doesn't solve anything, but it all starts. The appearance of morality is identical to the first rub of remorse.
A painful dynamite makes it a sumptuous and futile waste of the soul. – Only the sea – and cigarette smoke – give us her image.
Sin is the religious expression of remorse, such as regret its poetic expression. The first is a higher limit; last, lower one.
You're repenting of something that happened under neath you… You were free to take a different course, but the attraction of evil or vulgarity defeated ethical reflection. Ambiguity departs from the mixture of theology and vulgarity from any remorse.
In nothing you feel the irreversibility of time more painful than in it. Irreparable is merely the moral interpretation of this irreversibility.
Evil reveals the demonic substance of time; the eternal potential of becoming. Evil is abandonment; good, an inspired calculation. No one knows rational difference from each other. But we all feel the painful heat of evil and the ecstatic coldness of good.
Their dualism translates into the world of values a deeper one: innocence and knowledge.
What reveals remorse for despair, hatred or horror is a touching, pathetic of incurable.
There are so many people that she separates from death only her nostalgia! In this, death creates a mirror from its life so that it can admire. Poetry is nothing but the instrument of a narcissist rope.
Both animals and plants are sad, but they have not discovered sadness as a process of knowledge. Only to the extent that man uses it ceases to be nature. Looking around us, who doesn't notice that we've granted friendship to plants, animals and how many minerals! – but no man.
The world is nothing but a universal nowhere. That's why you have nowhere to go…
All those moments when life shuts up, so you can hear your loneliness… In Paris, as in a distant poun, time recedes, freezes in a corner of consciousness, and you stay with yourself, with your shadows and lights. The soul has isolated itself and undefined squid rises to your surface, like a corpse fished in the depths. And then you realize that there is another sense of loss of the soul than the biblical one.
All thoughts seem like the moans of a earthworm run over by angels.
You can't understand what "meditation" means if you're not used to listening to silence. Her voice is an exhortation to renunciation. All religious inthions are immersions in its depths. From buddha's mystery, I began to suspect the moment I was afraid of silence. Cosmic muce tells you so many things, that cowardice pushes you into the arms of this world.
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