149 ordspråk av Emile M. Cioran
Emile M. Cioran
What pride to discover that nothing belongs to you - what a revelation.
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What surrounds us we endure better for giving it a name- and moving on.
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What we crave, what we want to see in others eyes, is that servile expression, an unconcealed infatuation with our gestures.
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What we want is not freedom but its appearances. It is for these simulacra that man has always striven. And since freedom, as has been said, is no more than a sensation, what difference is there between being free and believing ourselves free?
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What would be left of our tragedies if an insect were to present us his?
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When we cannot be delivered from ourselves, we delight in devouring ourselves.
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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?
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Wherever we go, we come up against the human, a repulsive ubiquity before which we fall into stupor and revolt, a perplexity on fire.
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Who Rebels? Who rises in arms? Rarely the slave, but almost always the oppressor turned slave.
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Woes and wonders of Power, that tonic hell, synthesis of poison and panacea.
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Word - that invisible dagger.
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Write books only if you are going to say in them the things you would never dare confide to anyone.
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You are alive only when you live by the skin of your teeth.
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You are done for - a living dead man - not when you stop loving but stop hating. Hatred preserves: in it, in its chemistry, resides the "mystery" of life.
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