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@emilcioran
To be a hero—in the most universal sense of the word—means to aspire to absolute triumph. But such triumphs come only through death. Heroism means transcending life; it is a fatal leap into nothingness.
Emil Cioran, “Disintegration,” On the Heights of Despair
There is both mad delight and infinite irony in the thought of my ashes scattered to the four winds, sown frenetically in space, an eternal reproach to the world.
Emil Cioran, “The Bath of Fire,” On the Heights of Despair
There are many things one could regret in this world in which one shouldn't regret anything. But I ask myself: Is the world worthy of my regrets?
Emil Cioran, “On Sadness,” On the Heights of Despair
Neither melancholy nor sadness explodes; neither shatters lives. One speaks of a sad sigh, never a scream of sadness.
Emil Cioran, “On Sadness,” On the Heights of Despair
But how can those who violently experience hatred, despair, chaos, nothingness, or love, who burn with each passion and gradually die with each in each, those who can only breathe on the heights, who are always alone, especially when they are with others—how can they grow in linear fashion and crystallize into a system? All that is form, system, category, frame, or plan tends to make things absolute and springs from a lack of inner energy, from a sterile spiritual life. Life's great tensions verge on chaos and the madness of exaltation. Rich spiritual life must know chaos and the effervescent paroxysm of illness, because in them inspiration appears to be essential for creation and contradictions become expressions of high inner temperatures. Nobody who does not love chaos is a creator, and whoever is contemptuous of illness must not speak of the spirit. There is value only in that which bursts forth from inspiration, which springs up from the irrational depths of our being, from the secret center of our subjectivity.
Emil Cioran, “The Contradictory and the Inconsequential,” On the Heights of Despair
One must descend all the circles of an inner hell to turn one's destiny into a subjective yet universal problem. If you are not burned to ashes, you will then be able to philosophize lyrically.
Emil Cioran, “The World in Which Nothing Is Solved,” On the Heights of Despair
On the heights of despair, nobody has the right to sleep.
Emil Cioran, “The World in Which Nothing Is Solved,” On the Heights of Despair
Even when you want to die, you do it with an implicit regret for your own desire. I want to die, but I am sorry that I want to die. This is the feeling experienced by those who abandon themselves to nothingness.
Emil Cioran, “Weariness and Agony,” On the Heights of Despair
Any true ecstasy is dangerous. It resembles the last stage of initiation in the Egyptian mysteries when, instead of ultimate knowledge, one is told, "Osiris is a black divinity." The absolute remains unknowable.
Emil Cioran, “Ecstasy,” On the Heights of Despair
Wouldn't it be better if I buried my tears in the sand on a seashore in utter solitude? But I never cried, because my tears have always turned into thoughts. And my thoughts are as bitter as my tears.
Emil Cioran, “Nothing Is Important,” On the Heights of Despair
Although I feel that my tragedy is the greatest in history—greater than the fall of empires—I am nevertheless aware of my total insignificance. I am absolutely persuaded that I am nothing in this universe; yet I feel that mine is the only real existence.
Emil Cioran, “Nothing Is Important,” On the Heights of Despair
At the end of all melancholy there is a chance of consolation or resignation. The latter ends in the irrevocable, the former in graceful dream.
Emil Cioran, “Melancholy,” On the Heights of Despair
The great solitaries retreated from the world not to prepare themselves for life but, rather, to await with resignation its end. No messages about life ever issue forth from deserts and caves. Haven't we proscribed all religions that began in the desert? All the illuminations and dreams of great solitaries reveal an apocalyptic vision of downfall and the end rather than a crown of lights and triumphs.
Emil Cioran, “Melancholy,” On the Heights of Despair
Real solitude implies a painful intermission in man's life, a lonely struggle with the angel of death. To live in solitude means to relinquish all expectations about life. The only surprise in solitude is death.
Emil Cioran, “Melancholy,” On the Heights of Despair
Progressive detachment from all that is particular and concrete raises one to a vision which gains in size what it loses in substance. No melancholy state can exist without this ascent, this flight toward the heights, this elevation above the world. Neither pride nor scorn, despair nor any impulse toward infinite negativity, but long meditation and vague dreaminess born of weariness lead to this kind of elevation. Man grows wings in melancholy not in order to enjoy the world but in order to be alone.
Emil Cioran, “Melancholy,” On the Heights of Despair
Men's eyes see outwardly that which troubles them internally. Ecstasy is never a purely internal consummation; it externalizes a luminous inner intoxication.
Emil Cioran, “Melancholy,” On the Heights of Despair
Philosophy is the art of masking inner torments.
Emil Cioran, “On Death,” On the Heights of Despair