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La tentación de existir
El perfecto Clásico un autor peligrosamente adictivo y un libro (inencontrable durante años) con el que caer rendidos a su raro encanto. En este libro clave de Cioran, los lectores se reencontrarán con su voz irónica, serena y al tiempo desesperada. El autor se enfrenta con lucidez al pragmatismo acrítico, y escribe con mirada perpleja sobre Occidente, el destino histórico de pueblos «extremos» como España o Rusia, el significado del exilio para el escritor, la tarea de crear, la soledad, la locura y la muerte. Aunque a primera vistael nihilismo de Cioran parece severo y hastiado, su energía y sus contradicciones resultan profundas, poderosas y muy estimulantes. Crí «El libro que despliega todas las preocupaciones pasadas y futuras de la obra de Cioran; el que forja su estilo y da rienda suelta a su pesimismo alucinado».
Luna Miguel «No se consideraba ni filósofo ni escritor, pero logró ser ambas cosas. Su reflexión va inextricablemente unida a un estilo (una literatura) e hizo de su subjetividad su mundo filosófico. Su universo es el de un nostálgico de la mística transformada en un bisturí mortífero».
Juan Malpartida, ABC
Luna Miguel «No se consideraba ni filósofo ni escritor, pero logró ser ambas cosas. Su reflexión va inextricablemente unida a un estilo (una literatura) e hizo de su subjetividad su mundo filosófico. Su universo es el de un nostálgico de la mística transformada en un bisturí mortífero».
Juan Malpartida, ABC
248 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1956
322 people are currently reading
9323 people want to read
About the author
Emil M. Cioran
179 books4,334 followersBorn in 1911 in Rășinari, a small village in the Carpathian Mountains of Romania, raised under the rule of a father who was a Romanian Orthodox priest and a mother who was prone to depression, Emil Cioran wrote his first five books in Romanian. Some of these are collections of brief essays (one or two pages, on average); others are collections of aphorisms. Suffering from insomnia since his adolescent years in Sibiu, the young Cioran studied philosophy in the “little Paris” of Bucarest.
A prolific publicist, he became a well-known figure, along with Mircea Eliade, Constantin Noïca, and his future close friend Eugene Ionesco (with whom he shared the Royal Foundation’s Young Writers Prize in 1934 for his first book, On the Heights of Despair).
Influenced by the German romantics, by Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and the Lebensphilosophie of Schelling and Bergson, by certain Russian writers, including Chestov, Rozanov, and Dostoyevsky, and by the Romanian poet Eminescu, Cioran wrote lyrical and expansive meditations that were often metaphysical in nature and whose recurrent themes were death, despair, solitude, history, music, saintliness and the mystics (cf. Tears and Saints, 1937) – all of which are themes that one finds again in his French writings. In his highly controversial book, The Transfiguration of Romania (1937), Cioran, who was at that time close to the Romanian fascists, violently criticized his country and his compatriots on the basis of a contrast between such “little nations” as Romania, which were contemptible from the perspective of universal history and great nations, such as France or Germany, which took their destiny into their own hands.
After spending two years in Germany, Cioran arrived in Paris in 1936. He continued to write in Romanian until the early 1940s (he wrote his last article in Romanian in 1943, which is also the year in which he began writing in French). The break with Romanian became definitive in 1946, when, in the course of translating Mallarmé, he suddenly decided to give up his native tongue since no one spoke it in Paris. He then began writing in French a book that, thanks to numerous intensive revisions, would eventually become the impressive 'A Short History of Decay' (1949) -- the first of a series of ten books in which Cioran would continue to explore his perennial obsessions, with a growing detachment that allies him equally with the Greek sophists, the French moralists, and the oriental sages. He wrote existential vituperations and other destructive reflections in a classical French style that he felt was diametrically opposed to the looseness of his native Romanian; he described it as being like a “straight-jacket” that required him to control his temperamental excesses and his lyrical flights. The books in which he expressed his radical disillusionment appeared, with decreasing frequency, over a period of more than three decades, during which time he shared his solitude with his companion Simone Boué in a miniscule garret in the center of Paris, where he lived as a spectator more and more turned in on himself and maintaining an ever greater distance from a world that he rejected as much on the historical level (History and Utopia, 1960) as on the ontological (The Fall into Time, 1964), raising his misanthropy to heights of subtlety (The Trouble with being Born, 1973), while also allowing to appear from time to time a humanism composed of irony, bitterness, and preciosity (Exercices d’admiration, 1986, and the posthumously published Notebooks).
Denied the right to return to Romania during the years of the communist regime, and attracting international attention only late in his career, Cioran died in Paris in 1995.
Nicolas Cavaillès
Translated by Thomas Cousineau
A prolific publicist, he became a well-known figure, along with Mircea Eliade, Constantin Noïca, and his future close friend Eugene Ionesco (with whom he shared the Royal Foundation’s Young Writers Prize in 1934 for his first book, On the Heights of Despair).
Influenced by the German romantics, by Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and the Lebensphilosophie of Schelling and Bergson, by certain Russian writers, including Chestov, Rozanov, and Dostoyevsky, and by the Romanian poet Eminescu, Cioran wrote lyrical and expansive meditations that were often metaphysical in nature and whose recurrent themes were death, despair, solitude, history, music, saintliness and the mystics (cf. Tears and Saints, 1937) – all of which are themes that one finds again in his French writings. In his highly controversial book, The Transfiguration of Romania (1937), Cioran, who was at that time close to the Romanian fascists, violently criticized his country and his compatriots on the basis of a contrast between such “little nations” as Romania, which were contemptible from the perspective of universal history and great nations, such as France or Germany, which took their destiny into their own hands.
After spending two years in Germany, Cioran arrived in Paris in 1936. He continued to write in Romanian until the early 1940s (he wrote his last article in Romanian in 1943, which is also the year in which he began writing in French). The break with Romanian became definitive in 1946, when, in the course of translating Mallarmé, he suddenly decided to give up his native tongue since no one spoke it in Paris. He then began writing in French a book that, thanks to numerous intensive revisions, would eventually become the impressive 'A Short History of Decay' (1949) -- the first of a series of ten books in which Cioran would continue to explore his perennial obsessions, with a growing detachment that allies him equally with the Greek sophists, the French moralists, and the oriental sages. He wrote existential vituperations and other destructive reflections in a classical French style that he felt was diametrically opposed to the looseness of his native Romanian; he described it as being like a “straight-jacket” that required him to control his temperamental excesses and his lyrical flights. The books in which he expressed his radical disillusionment appeared, with decreasing frequency, over a period of more than three decades, during which time he shared his solitude with his companion Simone Boué in a miniscule garret in the center of Paris, where he lived as a spectator more and more turned in on himself and maintaining an ever greater distance from a world that he rejected as much on the historical level (History and Utopia, 1960) as on the ontological (The Fall into Time, 1964), raising his misanthropy to heights of subtlety (The Trouble with being Born, 1973), while also allowing to appear from time to time a humanism composed of irony, bitterness, and preciosity (Exercices d’admiration, 1986, and the posthumously published Notebooks).
Denied the right to return to Romania during the years of the communist regime, and attracting international attention only late in his career, Cioran died in Paris in 1995.
Nicolas Cavaillès
Translated by Thomas Cousineau
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June 30, 2021
The Sin of Obsessive Assurance
Susan Sontag’s introduction to these essays cites their dependence on Dostoevsky and Nietzsche. But I don’t think she is correct in her claim that Cioran merely restates their arguments. Rather he makes them even more extreme in their already radical alienation by recognising the source of the problem: language, that very tool through which the problem is formulated. This self-referentiality is spiritually, politically, and very often physically intolerable.
Being trapped within the bubble of language is a horrible fate. It obsesses us; it frustrates us; and it can often drive us insane. So Cioran laments, “The fact... that our first ancestor left us, for our entire legacy, only the horror of paradise. By giving names to things, he prepared his own Fall and ours. And if we seek a remedy, we must begin by debaptizing the universe, by removing the label which, assigned to each appearance, isolates it and lends it a simulacrum of meaning.”
There is no escape from the bubble. We increase its strength every time we attempt to denounce it. It is a universe that expands without limit faster than we can measure it. Because we casually use it, we believe we control it. But this is its hidden strength: it feigns impotence. Cioran speaks of “the stupidities inherent in the cult of truth.” Language simply never approaches reality. Truth is merely a conceit that language insinuates into defective lives.
The therapy we typically employ to break out of the bubble is action. Action is real; action seems to pierce the bubble, to neutralise it. But, of course, the motive for action, the ideal, the goal, the value and intended effects of action are already infected by the contents of the bubble. Even in action we cannot but increase its power: “The man who unmasks his fictions renounces his own resources and, in a sense, himself. Consequently, he will accept other fictions which will deny him, since they will not have cropped up from his own depths.”
Cioran says, “The aspiration to ‘save’ the world is a morbid phenomenon of a people’s youth.” Youth eventually finds that saving the world demands power. Power is the universal currency of the idealists who have emerged from youth strengthened in their resolve to push on. So they spend their lives collecting it. “Contaminated by the superstition of action, we believe that our ideas must come to something.” Language leads us into an abyss of delusion that we seek to impose everywhere, on everything and everyone.
Those who seek power within the bubble don’t realise that to the degree they succeed in their quest, they become oppressed under the weight of their own language. Their personal bubble collapses to the literary density of a neutron star in which substance is so uniform that there is no chemical or atomic interaction. Their expression becomes repetitive and formulaic. Cant is the ultimate reduction of language to disassociated atoms of linguistic matter. Action becomes increasingly violent to compensate for the vacuity of language. The result is predictable:
Most people are satisfied to remain placidly within the bubble of language because it promises happiness, contentment, advancement, and ultimate peace. Liberation, redemption, and salvation are the terms used to provide assurance that the bubble is fundamentally benign. That this is a delusion is rejected by the mass and exploited by the rest. Language provides to the ambitious an unlimited vocabulary of novel ideas that please those who need assurance:
Nietzsche and Dostoevsky had some minimal confidence that their writing might be noted, perhaps heeded by some to improve life within the bubble. Cioran had no such hope. He knows that attacking the bubble is a task of intellectual vanity. The compulsion to carry out such attacks leads only to exhausted compliance:
Cioran, therefore presents more than an atheist spirituality. He wants to combat the grave sin of optimism rampant in a world that considers idealism a virtue. Salvation does not come from triumph against physical or social adversity but the renunciation of ideals tout court. Seen in this light, as a mystical prophet, Cioran presents a call perhaps not heard since Isaiah to attend to oneself rather than everyone else’s defects.
*It is difficult for me to read this passage without thinking of Trump’s incitement to riot on January 6th.
Susan Sontag’s introduction to these essays cites their dependence on Dostoevsky and Nietzsche. But I don’t think she is correct in her claim that Cioran merely restates their arguments. Rather he makes them even more extreme in their already radical alienation by recognising the source of the problem: language, that very tool through which the problem is formulated. This self-referentiality is spiritually, politically, and very often physically intolerable.
Being trapped within the bubble of language is a horrible fate. It obsesses us; it frustrates us; and it can often drive us insane. So Cioran laments, “The fact... that our first ancestor left us, for our entire legacy, only the horror of paradise. By giving names to things, he prepared his own Fall and ours. And if we seek a remedy, we must begin by debaptizing the universe, by removing the label which, assigned to each appearance, isolates it and lends it a simulacrum of meaning.”
There is no escape from the bubble. We increase its strength every time we attempt to denounce it. It is a universe that expands without limit faster than we can measure it. Because we casually use it, we believe we control it. But this is its hidden strength: it feigns impotence. Cioran speaks of “the stupidities inherent in the cult of truth.” Language simply never approaches reality. Truth is merely a conceit that language insinuates into defective lives.
The therapy we typically employ to break out of the bubble is action. Action is real; action seems to pierce the bubble, to neutralise it. But, of course, the motive for action, the ideal, the goal, the value and intended effects of action are already infected by the contents of the bubble. Even in action we cannot but increase its power: “The man who unmasks his fictions renounces his own resources and, in a sense, himself. Consequently, he will accept other fictions which will deny him, since they will not have cropped up from his own depths.”
Cioran says, “The aspiration to ‘save’ the world is a morbid phenomenon of a people’s youth.” Youth eventually finds that saving the world demands power. Power is the universal currency of the idealists who have emerged from youth strengthened in their resolve to push on. So they spend their lives collecting it. “Contaminated by the superstition of action, we believe that our ideas must come to something.” Language leads us into an abyss of delusion that we seek to impose everywhere, on everything and everyone.
Those who seek power within the bubble don’t realise that to the degree they succeed in their quest, they become oppressed under the weight of their own language. Their personal bubble collapses to the literary density of a neutron star in which substance is so uniform that there is no chemical or atomic interaction. Their expression becomes repetitive and formulaic. Cant is the ultimate reduction of language to disassociated atoms of linguistic matter. Action becomes increasingly violent to compensate for the vacuity of language. The result is predictable:
“Faithful to his appearances, the man of violence is not discouraged, he starts all over again, and persists, since he cannot exempt himself from suffering. His occasional efforts to destroy others are merely a roundabout route to his own destruction. Beneath his self-confidence, his braggadocio, lurks a fanatic of disaster. Hence it is among the violent that we meet the enemies of themselves. And we are all violent— men of anger who, having lost the key of quietude, now have access only to the secrets of laceration.”*
Most people are satisfied to remain placidly within the bubble of language because it promises happiness, contentment, advancement, and ultimate peace. Liberation, redemption, and salvation are the terms used to provide assurance that the bubble is fundamentally benign. That this is a delusion is rejected by the mass and exploited by the rest. Language provides to the ambitious an unlimited vocabulary of novel ideas that please those who need assurance:
“As for our redeemers, come among us for our greater harm, we love the noxiousness of their hopes and their remedies, their eagerness to favor and exalt our ills, the venom that infuses their “lifegiving” words. To them we owe our expertise in a suffering that has no exit.”
Nietzsche and Dostoevsky had some minimal confidence that their writing might be noted, perhaps heeded by some to improve life within the bubble. Cioran had no such hope. He knows that attacking the bubble is a task of intellectual vanity. The compulsion to carry out such attacks leads only to exhausted compliance:
“One does not abuse one’s capacity to doubt with impunity... Those who have found answers for nothing are better at enduring the effects of tyranny than those who have found an answer for everything.”
Cioran, therefore presents more than an atheist spirituality. He wants to combat the grave sin of optimism rampant in a world that considers idealism a virtue. Salvation does not come from triumph against physical or social adversity but the renunciation of ideals tout court. Seen in this light, as a mystical prophet, Cioran presents a call perhaps not heard since Isaiah to attend to oneself rather than everyone else’s defects.
*It is difficult for me to read this passage without thinking of Trump’s incitement to riot on January 6th.
Read
April 13, 2012Really, Emil? You’re tempted to exist? God, talk about your first-world problems. Outside the Latin Quarter, has anyone ever troubled their head about such a ridiculous pseudo-dilemma?
A lot of smart people around here seem to love Cioran, but I just don’t get the attraction. True, he’s a gifted stylist, but what’s the point of filling book after book with beautiful sentences if your only theme is the utter futility of everything, including beautiful sentences? And what enlightenment, if any, are we supposed to derive from windy aphorisms like this: “The only free mind is the one that, pure of all intimacy with beings or objects, plies its own vacuity.” Um, okay. But just FYI, Emil: we do that all the freaking time. It’s called television.
But why am I even bothering? George Orwell has already said everything that needed to be said about this strain of high-toned whining. Reviewing a book by Cyril Connolly, who happened to be an old friend of his, Orwell wrote:
Obviously, modern mechanised life becomes dreary if you let it. The awful thraldom of money is upon everyone and there are only three immediately obvious escapes. One is religion, another is unending work, the third is the kind of sluttish antinomianism - lying in bed till four in the afternoon, drinking Pernod - that Mr. Connolly seems to admire. The third is certainly the worst, but in any case the essential evil is to think in terms of escape. The fact to which we have got to cling, as to a lifebelt, is that it is possible to be a normal decent person and yet be fully alive.
Well, exactly. And for what it's worth, I'd say that last line contains more wisdom and nobility than the entire published output of Emil Cioran.
A lot of smart people around here seem to love Cioran, but I just don’t get the attraction. True, he’s a gifted stylist, but what’s the point of filling book after book with beautiful sentences if your only theme is the utter futility of everything, including beautiful sentences? And what enlightenment, if any, are we supposed to derive from windy aphorisms like this: “The only free mind is the one that, pure of all intimacy with beings or objects, plies its own vacuity.” Um, okay. But just FYI, Emil: we do that all the freaking time. It’s called television.
But why am I even bothering? George Orwell has already said everything that needed to be said about this strain of high-toned whining. Reviewing a book by Cyril Connolly, who happened to be an old friend of his, Orwell wrote:
Obviously, modern mechanised life becomes dreary if you let it. The awful thraldom of money is upon everyone and there are only three immediately obvious escapes. One is religion, another is unending work, the third is the kind of sluttish antinomianism - lying in bed till four in the afternoon, drinking Pernod - that Mr. Connolly seems to admire. The third is certainly the worst, but in any case the essential evil is to think in terms of escape. The fact to which we have got to cling, as to a lifebelt, is that it is possible to be a normal decent person and yet be fully alive.
Well, exactly. And for what it's worth, I'd say that last line contains more wisdom and nobility than the entire published output of Emil Cioran.
January 11, 2011
Poor Cioran. I often think of him as he was depicted in the introduction to
On the Heights of Despair
, a withered old man with a thick sprouting of silver straw flaming from his skull, softly admitting to Ilinca Zarifopol-Johnston that he was weary of slandering the universe; in the end, even the great decrier slumped back against the walls of our earthly prison. Imagine being such an acute and acerbic diagnostician of despair, decay, and delusion, and yet fully aware that not only was there no escape from the dimensional consciousness erected by the Western mind, but that our every avenue of thought traversed, every force of will summoned in an effort to pierce its epistemological and ontological glamours and perceive a means of exiting its limitative reality - arising from a well fashioned from the stones of this very confining metastructure, fed by its waters, breezed by its air, and enthused by its fires - was doomed from the beginning, by its very origin and fabric, to dissipate and dissolve within the actuality it was trying to penetrate. The Solar Empire, having been ruptured and divided into Subjects and Objects by the rebellious hordes of the individuating Devil, inflamed by the Outside, cannot again be a unitary domain of the Absolute; and every act of rebellion - violent action brought about by a delusion of free-will, of overthrowing the legal code of Being - consumes itself and its own before sinking back into the stagnant waters from which, in a furious breaching, it hurled itself upwards.
With the first ballpark estimation of the speed of light occurring during the Enlightenment, would Cioran have begun marking our progress along the paths of acute existential suffering, of philosophic systems and scientific analysis erected under History, of the birth pangs of Ideology and the mad lust for rebellion, along a scale aligned to human awareness of the spatial velocity of the Sun's burning caresses? What if we add to the mixture our dawning comprehension that we travel at the exact same rate of speed through the enigmatic tunnel of our great nemesis, Time? How does this knowledge - with its horrifyingly incomprehensible intimations of contingency being subsumed within the necessary even as freedom is quashed by a determinism that has encircled the rosie in a vermicular manner that cannot be empirically understood, or even grasped, within the vast, empty rictus of our temporal reality - link to the fiery vision that Cioran received in those blearily grim, but starkly limned pre-dawn hours when he could not shut down that spinning top of a mind and enter the realm of dreams where he so longed to reside? For it is within Time, the flattening of our rational, systematic, and sterile Western existence under its dominion and the filling of the space thus abandoned with the fear of Death, that Cioran espies the triumph of this great Enemy.
A spiritual man hostile to atheists, the religious and God; widely read whilst despising novels and poems for exposing torments and passions that should radiate (and burn) solely in subcutaneous concealment; a connoisseur of suffering and despair who mocked and dismissed the modern forms of art and psychology as tried to illumine or alleviate such inherently human sentiments; a salvager of the great cultural and mental edifices erected by past civilizations whilst reserving his highest praise for the wanton destruction and savagery of the barbarian, or the guileless and mendicant ways of the beggar; an opponent of any living that was not taken to the furthest margins or extremes who railed against those who dared such reaches if he didn't approve of their proving grounds; a haughty observer and glint-eyed vivisectionist of European malaise who could never distance himself from, nor fully deny, those cultural and societal tropes he ridiculed and abhorred; a firm-jawed surveyor of the nullifying pathways of the eternal void whose greatest dream was to transplant that same abyssal emptiness into the lyrical souls of mankind in order to disintegrate History and expose all hopeless hopes and loveless loves, all pastless pasts and futureless futures to the zero-point inertia of the vacuum; the seesaw contradictions and juxtapositions that abound in The Temptation to Exist only further the potency of his own percolating, prussic genius and the impish tremors that glitter in his diamantine prose.
He was spared the madness of Nietzsche, but perhaps, in the end, was afforded a ruder treatment: sane enough to understand what had happened, aware enough to perceive that all of that passion and emotion and lyricism expended in denunciation was really for naught but the aesthetic beauty of its expression. As Susan Sontag points out in her brilliant introduction, there is little that Cioran could take from his vituperation other than the satisfaction of understanding. Is suffering ameliorated when its cause and its ineradicable necessity are comprehended? When the Romanian exile states that such is the case, it lacks an unwavering conviction. There is perhaps no victory to be claimed by either expounding such a ferocious nihilgnostic doctrine or imbibing it; but there is a definite pleasure gained by the manner in which it is put to the page, and in the stimulation it provides to the boiler rooms of the imagination and thought - and, for many, that is more than reason enough to make Cioran a habit.
With the first ballpark estimation of the speed of light occurring during the Enlightenment, would Cioran have begun marking our progress along the paths of acute existential suffering, of philosophic systems and scientific analysis erected under History, of the birth pangs of Ideology and the mad lust for rebellion, along a scale aligned to human awareness of the spatial velocity of the Sun's burning caresses? What if we add to the mixture our dawning comprehension that we travel at the exact same rate of speed through the enigmatic tunnel of our great nemesis, Time? How does this knowledge - with its horrifyingly incomprehensible intimations of contingency being subsumed within the necessary even as freedom is quashed by a determinism that has encircled the rosie in a vermicular manner that cannot be empirically understood, or even grasped, within the vast, empty rictus of our temporal reality - link to the fiery vision that Cioran received in those blearily grim, but starkly limned pre-dawn hours when he could not shut down that spinning top of a mind and enter the realm of dreams where he so longed to reside? For it is within Time, the flattening of our rational, systematic, and sterile Western existence under its dominion and the filling of the space thus abandoned with the fear of Death, that Cioran espies the triumph of this great Enemy.
A spiritual man hostile to atheists, the religious and God; widely read whilst despising novels and poems for exposing torments and passions that should radiate (and burn) solely in subcutaneous concealment; a connoisseur of suffering and despair who mocked and dismissed the modern forms of art and psychology as tried to illumine or alleviate such inherently human sentiments; a salvager of the great cultural and mental edifices erected by past civilizations whilst reserving his highest praise for the wanton destruction and savagery of the barbarian, or the guileless and mendicant ways of the beggar; an opponent of any living that was not taken to the furthest margins or extremes who railed against those who dared such reaches if he didn't approve of their proving grounds; a haughty observer and glint-eyed vivisectionist of European malaise who could never distance himself from, nor fully deny, those cultural and societal tropes he ridiculed and abhorred; a firm-jawed surveyor of the nullifying pathways of the eternal void whose greatest dream was to transplant that same abyssal emptiness into the lyrical souls of mankind in order to disintegrate History and expose all hopeless hopes and loveless loves, all pastless pasts and futureless futures to the zero-point inertia of the vacuum; the seesaw contradictions and juxtapositions that abound in The Temptation to Exist only further the potency of his own percolating, prussic genius and the impish tremors that glitter in his diamantine prose.
He was spared the madness of Nietzsche, but perhaps, in the end, was afforded a ruder treatment: sane enough to understand what had happened, aware enough to perceive that all of that passion and emotion and lyricism expended in denunciation was really for naught but the aesthetic beauty of its expression. As Susan Sontag points out in her brilliant introduction, there is little that Cioran could take from his vituperation other than the satisfaction of understanding. Is suffering ameliorated when its cause and its ineradicable necessity are comprehended? When the Romanian exile states that such is the case, it lacks an unwavering conviction. There is perhaps no victory to be claimed by either expounding such a ferocious nihilgnostic doctrine or imbibing it; but there is a definite pleasure gained by the manner in which it is put to the page, and in the stimulation it provides to the boiler rooms of the imagination and thought - and, for many, that is more than reason enough to make Cioran a habit.
November 20, 2014
Cioran mi diverte, nel senso più puro e completo del termine. In un'epoca dominata da un pragmatismo acritico ai limiti dell'idiozia, i suoi pensieri sfondano le più elementari barriere concettuali con sfrontatezza. E con profonda, potente e nascosta, ironia. Il suo nihilismo appare pesante, funereo e privo di respiro, solo a chi non riesce mai a liberarsi dal proprio "determinismo necessario"; a chi è incatenato alla propria, militante, monodimensionalità di vedute. Ai finti scettici, ai superbi, ai sinistri stakanovisti della congiunzione avversativa («sì, ma... »); alla debolezza sub-stanziale degli auto-referenti, di ogni livello e grado. Tutti gli altri (pochi, sembra), credenti, non credenti o agnostici, ma allenati e aperti all'agilità delle idee, non possono che divertirsi. E sentirsi positivamente stimolati. Salvo poi, in caso, non condividere; comunque ringraziando.
Questo è un testo fondativo, essenziale, nel quale riconoscere i cardini della speculazione contemporanea sull'essere. Precorre i tempi, anche storici, disegnando implicitamente (già nel 1956) i contorni del degrado inglorioso dell'Uomo, cui assistiamo oggi.
Questo è un testo fondativo, essenziale, nel quale riconoscere i cardini della speculazione contemporanea sull'essere. Precorre i tempi, anche storici, disegnando implicitamente (già nel 1956) i contorni del degrado inglorioso dell'Uomo, cui assistiamo oggi.
May 18, 2008
How can one resist this title - just the title alone! One of the great cynical thinkers in the 20th Century. I recently discovered him, and once I read this book, i had to go out and get every title by this incredible writer. Good volume to have by the bedside, when you have one of those nightmares that wake you up. When he's there, the real nightmare happens!
January 7, 2024
Magnifico. Lo considero uno dei saggi necessari. Consigliato a chiunque ami la conoscenza in tutti i suoi aspetti.
November 18, 2017
"The Temptation to Exist" makes an interesting complement (or foil?) to Paul Tillich's "The Courage To Be." The two map opposite poles of our spiritual life, as well as revealing two different meanings that ultimate lucidity can have. Read on its own, Cioran's perspective seems incomplete, forced. Only in this fertile opposition does it get its full sense for me.
“Every work turns against its author: the poem will crush the poet, the system the philosopher, the event the man of action. Destruction awaits anyone who, answering to his vocation and fulfilling it, exerts himself within history; only the man who sacrifices every gift and talent escapes: released from his humanity, he may lodge himself in Being. (...) One always perishes by the self one assumes: to bear a name is to claim an exact mode of collapse.”
Cioran takes Nietzscheanism to its ultimate, self-undermining conclusion. Ultimate lucidity is to be found in a turning against oneself - a self-unraveling - that at times borders on the morbid,. Any positive stance we take on the question of Being is not just a gamble anymore, but pre-determines its own "exact mode of collapse." The self creates its world ex-nihilo, unsupported by any meaning-producing encounter with the world. Because of this, all positions that the creative self constructs specify a determinate mode of delayed self-annihiliation.
One wonders at times how much of this work is a self-inebriating literary exercise. But then, I'd be lying to myself if I took such a no-nonsense, naturalistic approach and denied that such essential questioning had its place, and that really, we all know life is grand doesn't need questioning. Ultimately, Cioran shows just how little grounding is left for the self that is determined to place its -entire- life into question (and not just select domains within that life, as past philosophers did).
I find Zagajewski's thought about Cioran to be right on the mark:
“Doubt is more intelligent than poetry, insofar as it tells malicious tales about the world, things we’ve long known but struggled to hide from ourselves. But poetry surpasses doubt, pointing to what we cannot know. Doubt is narcissistic; we look at everything critically, including ourselves, and perhaps that comforts us. Poetry, on the other hand, trusts the world, and rips us from the deep-sea diving suits of our “I”; it believes in the possibility of beauty and its tragedy. Poetry’s argument with doubt has nothing in common with the facile quarrel of optimism and pessimism. The twentieth century’s great drama means that we now deal with two kinds of intellect: the resigned and the seeking, the questing. Doubt is poetry for the resigned. Whereas poetry is searching, endless wandering. Doubt is a tunnel, poetry is a spiral. Doubt prefers to shut, while poetry opens. Poetry laughs and cries, doubt ironizes. Doubt is death’s plenipotentiary, its longest and wittiest shadow; poetry runs toward an unknown goal. Why does one choose poetry while another chooses doubt? We don’t know and we’ll never find out. We don’t know why one is Cioran and the other is Milosz.”
Or why one is Cioran and the other is Tillich. Reading this, the same question keeps coming back to one: what inner force in the thinker ultimately determines the nature of his/her commitment to being? What determines whether *I* will choose on the side of meaning or on the side of doubt? That primordial decision certainly determines the course of all one's other thoughts.
Cioran is the master of the negative epiphany, of the anti-epiphany. He will specify the precise "mode of collapse" of any of the meanings and revelations that sustain us through life. Eugene O'Neill described these very well in "A Long Day's Journey Into Night":
"...And several other times in my life, when I was swimming far out, or lying alone on a beach, I have had the same experience, became the sun, the hot sand, green seaweed anchored to a rock, swaying in the tide. Like a saint's vision of beatitude. Like the veil of things as they seem drawn back by an unseen hand. For a second you see, and seeing the secret, you are the secret. For a second there is meaning! Then the hand lets the veil fall and you are alone, lost in the fog again, and you stumble on towards nowhere for no good reason.”
These fleeting experiences of meaning reveal a sense of unity, of reconciliation with the rest of being, and bring, temporarily, a great sufficiency. All this Cioran denies and treats as a self-alienating projection onto the inhuman world of meanings that we create. The only genuine meaning to be found is in absolute, vacuous independence and in a "pure" act of self-reflexivity that withdraws from all such projection and psychological outsourcing onto the world. There's something almost Manichean in his rejection of any relation with the non-human background world. Perhaps this is what we get when we philosophize from the presumption that there can be an I without a Thou.
But, of course, nobody actually lives on the bread of negation. He himself is tortured by this self-contradiction: he can never quite fully realize his own stance. Negation is always parasitic. There is thus something either dishonest, or repressed, about a work that seeks to build itself solely on the lucidity of negation. It doesn't express its true motive force. So what is the positive force that drives the negation of a Cioran? Engaging with such questions as this book opens up - sometimes directly, sometimes implicitly, by its very presence - can yield a lot of insight into the human psyche and into the sources of philosophy in our lives.
“Every work turns against its author: the poem will crush the poet, the system the philosopher, the event the man of action. Destruction awaits anyone who, answering to his vocation and fulfilling it, exerts himself within history; only the man who sacrifices every gift and talent escapes: released from his humanity, he may lodge himself in Being. (...) One always perishes by the self one assumes: to bear a name is to claim an exact mode of collapse.”
Cioran takes Nietzscheanism to its ultimate, self-undermining conclusion. Ultimate lucidity is to be found in a turning against oneself - a self-unraveling - that at times borders on the morbid,. Any positive stance we take on the question of Being is not just a gamble anymore, but pre-determines its own "exact mode of collapse." The self creates its world ex-nihilo, unsupported by any meaning-producing encounter with the world. Because of this, all positions that the creative self constructs specify a determinate mode of delayed self-annihiliation.
One wonders at times how much of this work is a self-inebriating literary exercise. But then, I'd be lying to myself if I took such a no-nonsense, naturalistic approach and denied that such essential questioning had its place, and that really, we all know life is grand doesn't need questioning. Ultimately, Cioran shows just how little grounding is left for the self that is determined to place its -entire- life into question (and not just select domains within that life, as past philosophers did).
I find Zagajewski's thought about Cioran to be right on the mark:
“Doubt is more intelligent than poetry, insofar as it tells malicious tales about the world, things we’ve long known but struggled to hide from ourselves. But poetry surpasses doubt, pointing to what we cannot know. Doubt is narcissistic; we look at everything critically, including ourselves, and perhaps that comforts us. Poetry, on the other hand, trusts the world, and rips us from the deep-sea diving suits of our “I”; it believes in the possibility of beauty and its tragedy. Poetry’s argument with doubt has nothing in common with the facile quarrel of optimism and pessimism. The twentieth century’s great drama means that we now deal with two kinds of intellect: the resigned and the seeking, the questing. Doubt is poetry for the resigned. Whereas poetry is searching, endless wandering. Doubt is a tunnel, poetry is a spiral. Doubt prefers to shut, while poetry opens. Poetry laughs and cries, doubt ironizes. Doubt is death’s plenipotentiary, its longest and wittiest shadow; poetry runs toward an unknown goal. Why does one choose poetry while another chooses doubt? We don’t know and we’ll never find out. We don’t know why one is Cioran and the other is Milosz.”
Or why one is Cioran and the other is Tillich. Reading this, the same question keeps coming back to one: what inner force in the thinker ultimately determines the nature of his/her commitment to being? What determines whether *I* will choose on the side of meaning or on the side of doubt? That primordial decision certainly determines the course of all one's other thoughts.
Cioran is the master of the negative epiphany, of the anti-epiphany. He will specify the precise "mode of collapse" of any of the meanings and revelations that sustain us through life. Eugene O'Neill described these very well in "A Long Day's Journey Into Night":
"...And several other times in my life, when I was swimming far out, or lying alone on a beach, I have had the same experience, became the sun, the hot sand, green seaweed anchored to a rock, swaying in the tide. Like a saint's vision of beatitude. Like the veil of things as they seem drawn back by an unseen hand. For a second you see, and seeing the secret, you are the secret. For a second there is meaning! Then the hand lets the veil fall and you are alone, lost in the fog again, and you stumble on towards nowhere for no good reason.”
These fleeting experiences of meaning reveal a sense of unity, of reconciliation with the rest of being, and bring, temporarily, a great sufficiency. All this Cioran denies and treats as a self-alienating projection onto the inhuman world of meanings that we create. The only genuine meaning to be found is in absolute, vacuous independence and in a "pure" act of self-reflexivity that withdraws from all such projection and psychological outsourcing onto the world. There's something almost Manichean in his rejection of any relation with the non-human background world. Perhaps this is what we get when we philosophize from the presumption that there can be an I without a Thou.
But, of course, nobody actually lives on the bread of negation. He himself is tortured by this self-contradiction: he can never quite fully realize his own stance. Negation is always parasitic. There is thus something either dishonest, or repressed, about a work that seeks to build itself solely on the lucidity of negation. It doesn't express its true motive force. So what is the positive force that drives the negation of a Cioran? Engaging with such questions as this book opens up - sometimes directly, sometimes implicitly, by its very presence - can yield a lot of insight into the human psyche and into the sources of philosophy in our lives.
April 16, 2024
Cioran è un esistenzialista, realista, ateo, pessimista cosmico e mi diverte molto perché pur esponendo pensieri negativi e negativissimi lo fa con spiccato umorismo e grande ironia lucida. Molto affine al mio sentire.
"La plebe vuol essere stordita da invettive, minacce e rivelazioni, da discorsi roboanti: ama gli imbonitori."
"Vivere immediatamente l'eternità significa vivere giorno per giorno."
"Esistere è una tentazione che non dispero di far mia."
"La plebe vuol essere stordita da invettive, minacce e rivelazioni, da discorsi roboanti: ama gli imbonitori."
"Vivere immediatamente l'eternità significa vivere giorno per giorno."
"Esistere è una tentazione che non dispero di far mia."
June 18, 2017
Bir başka yazım sırasına göre okuduğum kişi ve kitaplar da Cioran'ın eserleridir.
Eğer bilmediğim başka eser yoksa 2 kitap sonra bitiyor ve tüm eserleri kapsayan genel bir yazı yazmaya çalışacağım.
Eğer bilmediğim başka eser yoksa 2 kitap sonra bitiyor ve tüm eserleri kapsayan genel bir yazı yazmaya çalışacağım.
October 20, 2017
Who the fuck would actually want to exist?
March 23, 2011
I've spent 2-3 hours with this now, spread over a couple of days -- and I'm sorry to say I can't find anything very interesting in it. Maybe it's me... The only essay that grabbed me at all is "on a winded civilization". It has some fine insights on the meta-psychology (I'm just making up a word that doesn't really mean anything here) of cultural decay -- which he dates (Anti-Enlightenment guy that he is) from the end of the 18th cen.
And even that very brief essay mostly bored me. A lot of it is just verbal fluff, I'm afraid.
But then again, maybe it's me...
One problem is, in talking about the decay of Europe, and the vitality of the Huns -- there's a not-so-subtle glorification here of the Nazis -- and this, long AFTER he's supposed to have given up that particular vice.... he predicts (1956), that the triumphant civilization of the coming century would be....
Russia.
How did that turn out, Cioran?
If he were a stock guru -- reading that -- I'd have to cancel my sub.
Anyway... I'll try the next one now (Trouble), which is a collection of aphorisms... maybe he does better with twitter-sized writing.
And even that very brief essay mostly bored me. A lot of it is just verbal fluff, I'm afraid.
But then again, maybe it's me...
One problem is, in talking about the decay of Europe, and the vitality of the Huns -- there's a not-so-subtle glorification here of the Nazis -- and this, long AFTER he's supposed to have given up that particular vice.... he predicts (1956), that the triumphant civilization of the coming century would be....
Russia.
How did that turn out, Cioran?
If he were a stock guru -- reading that -- I'd have to cancel my sub.
Anyway... I'll try the next one now (Trouble), which is a collection of aphorisms... maybe he does better with twitter-sized writing.
June 27, 2016
Sure, Cioran is an edgeprince. But he is the philosopher-king of edgeprinces, whose slightly cracked marble bust stands amongst the ruins of a once palatial antechamber which slowly but surely is rotting away-elegantly-into time.
May 11, 2018
"Pătrunzând în infernul literar, îi vei cunoaște minciuna și veninul; rupt de realitate, caricatură a propriei tale ființe, nu vei putea trăi decât experiențe formale, indirecte; vei fi înghițit de cuvânt. În afară de cărți, nici un alt subiect de discuție. Cât despre oamenii de litere, ei nu-ți vor fi de nici un folos. De asta însă ai să devii conștient prea târziu, după ce anii tăi cei mai buni se vor fi irosit într-o lume superficială, lipsită de substanță." Citindu-i întreaga operă cronologic, am ajuns la a treia sa carte din cele scrise în limba franceză. Este, pentru mine, de departe cea mai bună carte a lui Cioran (a scris-o pe când avea 45 de ani). Pasajul preferat din carte poartă titlul: "Scrisoare despre câteva impasuri". Ce mult îmi place acum scriitorul liniștit, lucid, calm, cu tonalitate naturală din care izvorăște spiritul ca un izvor de munte. Ce departe sunt acum de isteriile și lirismul frenetic al tineretilor sale! Și când mă gândesc cât îmi mai ardea sângele la acele urlete pe care acum (cand imi par nesfarsit de ridicole!) abia dacă le mai pot îndura. Am 26 de ani și sunt mai aproape de tonul lui de "bătrân" de 45 de ani decât de frenezia lui țipătoare din "Pe culmile disperării" și celelalte cărți scrise în românește. Semn bun? Sper, deși nu cred. Cel mai probabil, am un suflet prea mic pentru trăiri mari, nu pot simți intens decât pentru o perioadă scurtă, și, în toate cazurile, doar iluzionându-mă; în clipa când nu mai cred în lucruri, ele își pierd savoarea și, odată cu ele, îmi pierd și eu avântul și nebunia. Scepticismul mi-a rumegat pasiunea - singura care avea vreo însemnătate pentru mine. Acum nu mă mai pot oferi în mod absolut decât îndoielii, care nu necesită din parte-mi nicio intensitate - ba dimpotrivă, pentru a-și asigura viitorul, pentru a putrezi liniștită în mine, îndoiala îmi cultivă calmul, paralizându-mă în blândețe și duioșie, dorindu-mă incapabil să mă revolt, condamnându-mă să rămân până în mormânt, un cumpătat prin nehotarâre. Destinul unui mediocru leneș, blazat în indecizie...
July 15, 2018
Bu kitabında zaman konusuna eğilmemiş (ben aslında böyle bir beklenti içindeydim) ama eğilmediği de konu kalmamış.
İyi kitaptı.
İyi kitaptı.
August 16, 2008
i kept thinking, while reading cioran, of what sheeper said about edward dahlberg: "Read [him] but pay no attention to anything he says. He is so critical and cantankerous, so grum, small, and jealous, that if you took him at all seriously he would drive you as batty as he is. The quotations he burdens his work with are never to the point, and, as he is incapable of placing two sentences in logical order, such a thing as a quiet, scholarly paragraph let alone essay or chapter is outside his reach. But he is the poet of sentence design, and the quirk that shocks you with delight in the half-dozen books he has left behind is not an accident ...but itself is the hand-tended blossom... [H]e is a great pure writer in the sense that he will sacrifice any meaning however important he may have made it out to be for any flourish or conceit, and he would sell his soul to the devil and mine too for the power to write one unalterably beautiful sentence" (Sheeper p. 123)
but guess i'm just not a western philosophy reader... while i enjoy the cioran aphorism when i come across it there's something that seems untruthful when i read a whole essay (unlike a dahlberg fiction, despite his lies).
i'll admit part of the rub for me was that first essay, which has as its point the justification or rationalization of "western man's" inability to accept the "eastern truth" of taoism and the buddha. there's something car-crash attractive about watching a subtle mind try to speak to that vast and porous and often ineffable difference of the so-called east and the so-called west--but it gets quickly boring to me because invariably the writer draws your attention to the finger-pointer and not the proverbial moon. see jung and roland barthes and pound for some entertaining and not ungreat examples.
anyway, it's probably me not you emil. will try you again sometime down the line...
but guess i'm just not a western philosophy reader... while i enjoy the cioran aphorism when i come across it there's something that seems untruthful when i read a whole essay (unlike a dahlberg fiction, despite his lies).
i'll admit part of the rub for me was that first essay, which has as its point the justification or rationalization of "western man's" inability to accept the "eastern truth" of taoism and the buddha. there's something car-crash attractive about watching a subtle mind try to speak to that vast and porous and often ineffable difference of the so-called east and the so-called west--but it gets quickly boring to me because invariably the writer draws your attention to the finger-pointer and not the proverbial moon. see jung and roland barthes and pound for some entertaining and not ungreat examples.
anyway, it's probably me not you emil. will try you again sometime down the line...
January 7, 2022
"Esistere equivale a un atto di fede, a una protesta contro la verità, a una preghiera interminabile..." Luce contro i deliri della ragione e dei suoi prodotti. L'immobilità, la quiete si illuminano in questo abisso di vita come bagliori irraggiungibili, salvezza distante da questa valle di insensatezza.
January 1, 2023
"La tentazione di esistere", E.M. Cioran, 1956.
La tentazione di leggerlo, quella c'è sempre stata.
La consapevolezza di aver letto qualcosa di straordinario, anche.
La certezza di essere stato travolto da uno tsunami di conoscenza.
La bocca aperta ad ogni rigo, alla fine di ogni capitolo.
La felicità assoluta di aver iniziato il mio 2023 letterario come meglio non potevo sperare.
Cioran è un orafo delle parole, uno scultore del pensiero.
Ogni termine usato alla perfezione, ogni periodo potrebbe essere oggetto di studio.
Lo stile degli eletti, di chi ha un rapporto diretto con l'essenza del Verbo.
Attento osservatore di quel "lato notturno" della Storia che avvolge il il mondo, Cioran è fra gli "animali metafisici" più addestrati nel riconoscere l'odore del Tempo.
Questo libro ha riempito quel vuoto che spesso sento intorno a me; illuminato quel buoio ove a volte mi perdo ed inciampo.
Un regalo per tutti.
Buon 2023.
"(...) come esistere senza distruggersi a ogni istante?"
La tentazione di leggerlo, quella c'è sempre stata.
La consapevolezza di aver letto qualcosa di straordinario, anche.
La certezza di essere stato travolto da uno tsunami di conoscenza.
La bocca aperta ad ogni rigo, alla fine di ogni capitolo.
La felicità assoluta di aver iniziato il mio 2023 letterario come meglio non potevo sperare.
Cioran è un orafo delle parole, uno scultore del pensiero.
Ogni termine usato alla perfezione, ogni periodo potrebbe essere oggetto di studio.
Lo stile degli eletti, di chi ha un rapporto diretto con l'essenza del Verbo.
Attento osservatore di quel "lato notturno" della Storia che avvolge il il mondo, Cioran è fra gli "animali metafisici" più addestrati nel riconoscere l'odore del Tempo.
Questo libro ha riempito quel vuoto che spesso sento intorno a me; illuminato quel buoio ove a volte mi perdo ed inciampo.
Un regalo per tutti.
Buon 2023.
"(...) come esistere senza distruggersi a ogni istante?"
October 29, 2017
Çürümenin Kitabı'ndan sonra kalemine vurulduğum Cioran'dan bir inci daha. Agresif, öfkeli ve umutsuz bir yazar Cioran. Dili ağır ve tumturaklı. Bu kitapta da yine dinleri, din adamlarını, sanatı, romanı, sanatçıyı ve var olmayı sorunsallaştırıyor. İntihara eğilimli olsa da yazarak hayata tutunuyor Cioran. Hem kendine hem de dünyaya kin, öfke ve nefret kusuyor ama yine de dünyayı sevmekten alıkoyamıyor kendini. Depresif, melankolik ve kasvetli yazılar yazmış olsa da Cioran'ın 84 yaşına kadar yaşamış olması da bir parça ironik. Cioran'ın dili beni ne kadar yaralasa da ben de onu okumaktan alıkoyamıyorum kendimi. Yalnız tek seferde sindirilebilecek bir kitap değil bu, tekrar okumak üzere rafa kaldırıyorum. Beyin yakan, zihin açan ve can acıtan bir şeyler okumak istiyorsanız Cioran'ı mutlaka okuyun.
May 17, 2015
He lost me during 'Beyond The Novel'.
It's hard for me to see beyond a cynicism, brooding fascism, and a genuine disdain for the human condition. This is my second try, and every time I pick Cioran up I just end up wanting to throw the book across the room.
There's just something about a guy who refers to the construct of the novel as 'The rubbish of Western Civilization...' then goes on to proclaim the need for the return to the Philosophical antiquarians because to attempt to study the character of man through literature is futile, because apparently we already know ourselves to be nothing.
Maybe it's just me.
That being said, the man is clearly educated, and his book is rage/thought provoking in its own right. Read it if only to formulate your own opinion.
It's hard for me to see beyond a cynicism, brooding fascism, and a genuine disdain for the human condition. This is my second try, and every time I pick Cioran up I just end up wanting to throw the book across the room.
There's just something about a guy who refers to the construct of the novel as 'The rubbish of Western Civilization...' then goes on to proclaim the need for the return to the Philosophical antiquarians because to attempt to study the character of man through literature is futile, because apparently we already know ourselves to be nothing.
Maybe it's just me.
That being said, the man is clearly educated, and his book is rage/thought provoking in its own right. Read it if only to formulate your own opinion.
January 11, 2023
«Siamo tutti in fondo a un inferno, dove ogni attimo è un miracolo.»
Cioran filosofo esistenzialista tendente al pessimismo, seguace di Nietzsche e Heidegger, discreto misantropo, quindi che dire....lo si ama!!!
L'opera è comunque una raccolta di pensieri sui più disparati argomenti, non tutti di mio interesse, ma sicuramente da leggere, quel che tedia me potrebbe esaltare qualcun'altro.
Non c'è opera che non si ritorca contro l'autore: il poema annienterà il poeta, il sistema il filosofo, l'avvenimento l'uomo d'azione.
La liberazione, se realmente ci sta a cuore, deve procedere da noi stessi: a nulla serve cercarla altrove, in un sistema già fatto in qualche dottrina orientale.
Dopo tante frodi e imposture, conforta starsene a guardare un mendicante. Lui almeno non mente, né mente a se stesso: la sua dottrina, se ne ha una, egli la incarna; il lavoro, non lo ama e lo dimostra, poiché non desidera possedere nulla, coltiva la propria spoliazione, condizione della propria libertà. Il suo pensiero si risolve nel suo essere e il suo essere nel suo pensiero. Manca di tutto, egli è se stesso, egli dura: vivere immediatamente l'eternità significa vivere giorno per giorno.
Il giorno ci sottrae i doni che la notte ci dispensa.
.Di un essere che ha sofferto, potete ben enumerare, classificare, spiegare le vicissitudini, ma quel che egli "è", la sua sofferenza reale, è al di là di voi stessi.
Più lo avvicinerete, più vi sembrerà inaccessibile.
Alla vostra età ebbi la fortuna di conoscere delle persone capaci di smaliziarmi, di farmi arrossire delle mie illusioni; mi hanno veramente educato. Senza di loro, avrei avuto il coraggio di affrontare o sopportare gli anni? Imponendomi le loro amarezze, mi avevano preparato alle mie.
Una nazione sulla via del declino s'impoverisce su tutti i piani. «Ogni degradazione individuale o nazionale» osserva Joseph de Maistre «è immediatamente annunciata da una degradazione rigorosamente proporzionale del linguaggio». Le nostre manchevolezze traspaiono nella nostra scrittura; così in una nazione accade che il suo istinto, sempre meno sicuro, la trascini a una equivalente incertezza in tutti i campi.
E' l'individuo che fa l'arte, non è più l'arte che fa l'individuo, come non è più l'opera che conta ma il commento che la precede o la segue. E la cosa migliore che un artista produce sono le sue idee su quello che avrebbe potuto compiere. E' diventato il critico di se stesso, come l'uomo qualunque lo psicologo di se stesso.
Siamo di fronte al fallimento di un'epoca in cui la storia dell'arte si è sostituita all'arte, quella delle religioni alla religione.
Colui che afferma di essere vivo, lo è solo se ha eluso o superato l'idea del proprio cadavere.
Il Nulla era senz'altro più confortevole. Com'è difficile "dissolversi" nell'Essere!
"Esistere" è una inclinazione che non dispero di far mia. Imiterò gli altri, i furbi che ci sono riusciti, i transfughi della lucidità, saccheggerò i loro segreti e perfino le loro speranze, ben felice di aggrapparmi insieme a loro alle indegnità che conducono alla vita. Il no mi esaspera, il sì mi tenta. Esaurite le mie riserve di negazione, e forse la negazione stessa, perché non uscire in strada a gridare a squarciagola che mi trovo sulla soglia di una verità, dell'unica che valga? Ma quale sia, ancora non so; ne conosco solamente la gioia che la precede, la gioia e la follia e la paura.
Cioran filosofo esistenzialista tendente al pessimismo, seguace di Nietzsche e Heidegger, discreto misantropo, quindi che dire....lo si ama!!!
L'opera è comunque una raccolta di pensieri sui più disparati argomenti, non tutti di mio interesse, ma sicuramente da leggere, quel che tedia me potrebbe esaltare qualcun'altro.
Non c'è opera che non si ritorca contro l'autore: il poema annienterà il poeta, il sistema il filosofo, l'avvenimento l'uomo d'azione.
La liberazione, se realmente ci sta a cuore, deve procedere da noi stessi: a nulla serve cercarla altrove, in un sistema già fatto in qualche dottrina orientale.
Dopo tante frodi e imposture, conforta starsene a guardare un mendicante. Lui almeno non mente, né mente a se stesso: la sua dottrina, se ne ha una, egli la incarna; il lavoro, non lo ama e lo dimostra, poiché non desidera possedere nulla, coltiva la propria spoliazione, condizione della propria libertà. Il suo pensiero si risolve nel suo essere e il suo essere nel suo pensiero. Manca di tutto, egli è se stesso, egli dura: vivere immediatamente l'eternità significa vivere giorno per giorno.
Il giorno ci sottrae i doni che la notte ci dispensa.
.Di un essere che ha sofferto, potete ben enumerare, classificare, spiegare le vicissitudini, ma quel che egli "è", la sua sofferenza reale, è al di là di voi stessi.
Più lo avvicinerete, più vi sembrerà inaccessibile.
Alla vostra età ebbi la fortuna di conoscere delle persone capaci di smaliziarmi, di farmi arrossire delle mie illusioni; mi hanno veramente educato. Senza di loro, avrei avuto il coraggio di affrontare o sopportare gli anni? Imponendomi le loro amarezze, mi avevano preparato alle mie.
Una nazione sulla via del declino s'impoverisce su tutti i piani. «Ogni degradazione individuale o nazionale» osserva Joseph de Maistre «è immediatamente annunciata da una degradazione rigorosamente proporzionale del linguaggio». Le nostre manchevolezze traspaiono nella nostra scrittura; così in una nazione accade che il suo istinto, sempre meno sicuro, la trascini a una equivalente incertezza in tutti i campi.
E' l'individuo che fa l'arte, non è più l'arte che fa l'individuo, come non è più l'opera che conta ma il commento che la precede o la segue. E la cosa migliore che un artista produce sono le sue idee su quello che avrebbe potuto compiere. E' diventato il critico di se stesso, come l'uomo qualunque lo psicologo di se stesso.
Siamo di fronte al fallimento di un'epoca in cui la storia dell'arte si è sostituita all'arte, quella delle religioni alla religione.
Colui che afferma di essere vivo, lo è solo se ha eluso o superato l'idea del proprio cadavere.
Il Nulla era senz'altro più confortevole. Com'è difficile "dissolversi" nell'Essere!
"Esistere" è una inclinazione che non dispero di far mia. Imiterò gli altri, i furbi che ci sono riusciti, i transfughi della lucidità, saccheggerò i loro segreti e perfino le loro speranze, ben felice di aggrapparmi insieme a loro alle indegnità che conducono alla vita. Il no mi esaspera, il sì mi tenta. Esaurite le mie riserve di negazione, e forse la negazione stessa, perché non uscire in strada a gridare a squarciagola che mi trovo sulla soglia di una verità, dell'unica che valga? Ma quale sia, ancora non so; ne conosco solamente la gioia che la precede, la gioia e la follia e la paura.
February 26, 2025
Pensador rumano, apátrida desde 1946 y residente durante gran parte de su vida en Francia, E.M Cioran, destaca por su exacerbado pesimismo que conlleva, a quienes leen sus obras, a sufrir zozobras existenciales debido a la carga interrogadora que implica su obra.
La tentación de existir, escrita en 1953, está compuesta por 10 ensayos y una serie de breves reflexiones que logran, en su conjunto, componer una imagen desbordada acerca del pensamiento de Cioran. Paradójico, contradictorio y profundamente crítico, Cioran se repele así mismo y a sus propias ideas, socavando cualquier intento de sistema formal que pueda enlazársele, siendo esta la característica que atraviesa el conjunto de su libro, originalidad que permite divagar y perderse en la recreación de pensamientos acerca de una variedad de perspectivas y temas tratados de forma abismal y descarnada, que recuerdan a tradiciones y pensadores tales como Nietzsche, Kant, Hegel, Kierkegaard, Camus, Platón, y por supuesto, Schopenhauer, entre otros.
El porte de la literatura, las interrogantes acerca de la vida, y la muerte como su garante, la condición de masa y la necesidad de la acción, las naciones degradadas y exhaustas, las narrativas de sentido caídas sin posibilidad de erigirse, son solo algunos de los temas con los que Cioran tienta a sus lector@s, sin prenda de otorgar respuestas claras y firmes. Dentro de los resultados, el incensante oficio de remugar la historia de la humanidad en clave pesimista; lector@s de una sombría veta que mantiene un pulso casi imposible de vitalismo en sus líneas, que otorga, sin lugar a dudas, incomodidad, extrañeza y, por supuesto, la potencia de la reflexión indudablemente.
"¿Cómo existir sin destruirse a cada instante?" (225)
"Sabemos mucho de nosotros mismos; por otra parte, no somos nada" (152)
"Ignoro si es legítimo hablar del fin del hombre, pero estoy seguro de la caída de todas las ficciones en las que hemos vivido hasta la fecha" (132)
La tentación de existir, escrita en 1953, está compuesta por 10 ensayos y una serie de breves reflexiones que logran, en su conjunto, componer una imagen desbordada acerca del pensamiento de Cioran. Paradójico, contradictorio y profundamente crítico, Cioran se repele así mismo y a sus propias ideas, socavando cualquier intento de sistema formal que pueda enlazársele, siendo esta la característica que atraviesa el conjunto de su libro, originalidad que permite divagar y perderse en la recreación de pensamientos acerca de una variedad de perspectivas y temas tratados de forma abismal y descarnada, que recuerdan a tradiciones y pensadores tales como Nietzsche, Kant, Hegel, Kierkegaard, Camus, Platón, y por supuesto, Schopenhauer, entre otros.
El porte de la literatura, las interrogantes acerca de la vida, y la muerte como su garante, la condición de masa y la necesidad de la acción, las naciones degradadas y exhaustas, las narrativas de sentido caídas sin posibilidad de erigirse, son solo algunos de los temas con los que Cioran tienta a sus lector@s, sin prenda de otorgar respuestas claras y firmes. Dentro de los resultados, el incensante oficio de remugar la historia de la humanidad en clave pesimista; lector@s de una sombría veta que mantiene un pulso casi imposible de vitalismo en sus líneas, que otorga, sin lugar a dudas, incomodidad, extrañeza y, por supuesto, la potencia de la reflexión indudablemente.
"¿Cómo existir sin destruirse a cada instante?" (225)
"Sabemos mucho de nosotros mismos; por otra parte, no somos nada" (152)
"Ignoro si es legítimo hablar del fin del hombre, pero estoy seguro de la caída de todas las ficciones en las que hemos vivido hasta la fecha" (132)
June 10, 2019
He is my fav
August 15, 2020
Un amore viscerale per le essenze e una sfiducia radicale nella comunicazione mi paiono le caratteristiche della riflessione condotta da Cioran in quest’opera.
Barbari e decadenti, antichi e moderni, francesi, russi e americani, ebrei e gentili ecc. Con le essenze Cioran si balocca come un bambino – e con l’irresponsabilità di un bambino: basta leggere il capitolo Un popolo di solitari, dedicato agli ebrei e alla monumentalizzazione di una certa idea del popolo ebraico (ma costruita su quali basi, sulla base di quali stereotipi, generalizzazioni, pregiudizi? – mi chiedo). Cioran infiocchetta le essenze di rosso o di nero coi suoi aforismi fulminanti, senza problematizzarle, accettandole anzi come eterne… Siamo dunque in presenza di uno scrittore sommamente rassicurante. Dalla Tentazione di esistere si esce con l’impressione di un mondo ben catalogato: i vasi contengono rifiuti e pezzi di carbone invece di dolci e chicche, ma le etichette sono allo stesso modo chiare, ordinate e ben scritte. Cioran si rende certamente conto della natura delle essenze, frutti eternati di storicissimi (e quindi mutevoli) pregiudizi. Ritiene tuttavia che questi ultimi siano necessari – che servano.
«La distruzione degli idoli porta con sé quella dei pregiudizi. Ora, i pregiudizi – finzioni organiche di una civiltà – assicurano la sua durata, ne conservano la fisionomia. Essa deve rispettarli, se non tutti, almeno quelli che le sono peculiari e che nel passato ebbero l’importanza di una superstizione o di un rito. Se li considera quali pure convenzioni, se ne disferà sempre più, senza potere, con i propri mezzi, sostituirli.»
Il punto è: perché una persona così acuta da mettere nero su bianco questa riflessione non si è chiesta se sia un dovere, per una civiltà, conservare la propria fisionomia? Perché il pensiero di Cioran si è arrestato di fronte a questo interrogativo? La riflessione arriva fino alle consuete dinamiche: decadenza, conservazione, cambiamento ecc. ma si arresta di fronte a una problematizzazione radicale.
Quanto Cioran idolatri le essenze emerge dal modo in cui si rivolge a Paolo di Tarso: «Un Ebreo non ebreo, un Ebreo snaturato, un traditore. Da qui l’impressione di insincerità che proviene dai suoi richiami, dalle sue esortazioni, dalle sue violenze». Le riflessioni di Paolo suonano false perché egli si è discostato dalla sua natura, dalla sua essenza – e ha staccato una delle etichette. L’identità e la sua riconoscibilità sono quindi centrali e costituiscono per Cioran un valore – o per meglio dire: Cioran ne ha bisogno: non potrebbe infatti sfornare taglienti aforismi se dovesse problematizzare gli oggetti e addirittura gli strumenti del suo studio. Guai quindi a rinnegare l’identità e ad ostacolare il suo riconoscimento. Da qui la condanna della ragione in quanto anti-identitaria e accessibile a tutti: «non è un semplice caso», infatti, «se Lutero la chiamò puttana: lo è sia per natura sia per contegno. Non vive forse di simulazione, di volubilità e d’impudenza? Poiché non si lega a nulla, […] non è nulla, si concede a tutti, e tutti possono avvalersene: i giusti e gli ingiusti, i martiri e i tiranni. Non c’è causa che non serva, mette tutto sulle stesso piano […]: il primo venuto ottiene i suoi favori». Come dire: la ragione è uno strumento a disposizione di tutti, intrinsecamente democratica, antigerarchica, votata al superamento della chiusura di ogni essenza e alla comunicazione.
La condanna della comunicazione (se viviamo in un mondo di immutabili essenze, a che pro comunicare?) fa sì che l’odio per la ragione si accompagni in Cioran a quello per la parola: «La ‘vera vita’ è fuori della parola. E tuttavia la parola ci obnubila e ci domina: non siamo giunti fino al punto di farne scaturire l’universo? e non abbiamo assimilato le nostre origini alle chiacchiere, alle improvvisazioni di un dio parolaio? Ricondurre la cosmogonia al discorso, innalzare il linguaggio a strumento della Creazione, attribuire i nostri inizi a un’illusoria antichità del Verbo!». Cioran comprende perfettamente che porre al cuore stesso del cosmo la parola significa imporre ai suoi ospiti il dovere di comunicare, di condividere, di superare le proprie chiusure essenziali. «Non ho provato una sensazione di verità, un fremito d’essere che a contatto con l’analfabeta»; e poi: «decisamente non sapremo mai perché i nostri antenati non si siano trincerati nelle loro caverne». Fin troppo esplicito. La comunicazione viene condannata insieme alla riflessione: meglio essere, in modo aproblematico, senza chiedersi e cercare di capire perché: dottrine, considerazioni, commenti e spiegazioni sono esecrate – e si tratta di atti che presuppongono un ascoltatore, qualcuno a cui si sente la necessità di spiegare che cosa si fa e si è e perché lo si fa o lo si è. Atti che provocano una problematizzazione della propria essenza – che possono condurre a un cambiamento. Ma Cioran odia il cambiamento, che si riduce a un tradimento della propria essenza. Passare dall’essere al riflettere su ciò che si è implica una decadenza – un indebolimento della fibra.
Ovvio, poi, che se si ragiona in termini di essenze e si nega la possibilità stessa (anche solo la desiderabilità) della comunicazione, ci si condanna a un immobilismo totale (una parodia di conservatorismo): «che tutti i nostri disastri risalgano a quando abbiamo cominciato a intravedere la possibilità di un meglio, questa banalità…». Definire una banalità l’imputazione dei disastri del genere umano all’utopismo, alla teorizzazione e al perseguimento di ciò che ancora non c’è, di ciò che appare migliore rispetto al presente… questo è un conservatorismo tanto radicale (epidermico) da essere del tutto immotivato – non argomentabile. L’esito? Non a caso lo troviamo nel capitolo Oltre il romanzo, dedicato a smontare pezzo per pezzo quella grande manifestazione di umanità che è, per l’appunto, il romanzo – che Cioran odia. Perché? È presto detto: «Il romanzo? Veto opposto al disintegrarsi delle nostre apparenze, punto lontanissimo dalle nostre origini, artificio per eludere i nostri veri problemi, cortina che si frappone tra le nostre realtà primordiali e le nostre finzioni psicologiche».
Le origini, le realtà primordiali… Presupposti inesplorabili, fondanti, rassicuranti e aproblematici del nostro essere. Guai ad analizzare, a tentare di comunicare ad altri le conclusioni delle nostre analisi. E infatti confessa: «sogno le profondità dell’Urgrund, sostrato anteriore alle corruzioni del tempo, e la cui solitudine, superiore a quella di Dio, mi separerebbe per sempre da me stesso, dai miei simili, dal linguaggio dell’amore, dalla prolissità che comporta la curiosità per gli altri».
Sulle ambiguità (si fa per dire…) del pensiero di Cioran e sui suoi impresentabili trascorsi ideologici, è interessante la lettura di Il fascismo rimosso: Cioran, Eliade, Ionesco: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/9...
Barbari e decadenti, antichi e moderni, francesi, russi e americani, ebrei e gentili ecc. Con le essenze Cioran si balocca come un bambino – e con l’irresponsabilità di un bambino: basta leggere il capitolo Un popolo di solitari, dedicato agli ebrei e alla monumentalizzazione di una certa idea del popolo ebraico (ma costruita su quali basi, sulla base di quali stereotipi, generalizzazioni, pregiudizi? – mi chiedo). Cioran infiocchetta le essenze di rosso o di nero coi suoi aforismi fulminanti, senza problematizzarle, accettandole anzi come eterne… Siamo dunque in presenza di uno scrittore sommamente rassicurante. Dalla Tentazione di esistere si esce con l’impressione di un mondo ben catalogato: i vasi contengono rifiuti e pezzi di carbone invece di dolci e chicche, ma le etichette sono allo stesso modo chiare, ordinate e ben scritte. Cioran si rende certamente conto della natura delle essenze, frutti eternati di storicissimi (e quindi mutevoli) pregiudizi. Ritiene tuttavia che questi ultimi siano necessari – che servano.
«La distruzione degli idoli porta con sé quella dei pregiudizi. Ora, i pregiudizi – finzioni organiche di una civiltà – assicurano la sua durata, ne conservano la fisionomia. Essa deve rispettarli, se non tutti, almeno quelli che le sono peculiari e che nel passato ebbero l’importanza di una superstizione o di un rito. Se li considera quali pure convenzioni, se ne disferà sempre più, senza potere, con i propri mezzi, sostituirli.»
Il punto è: perché una persona così acuta da mettere nero su bianco questa riflessione non si è chiesta se sia un dovere, per una civiltà, conservare la propria fisionomia? Perché il pensiero di Cioran si è arrestato di fronte a questo interrogativo? La riflessione arriva fino alle consuete dinamiche: decadenza, conservazione, cambiamento ecc. ma si arresta di fronte a una problematizzazione radicale.
Quanto Cioran idolatri le essenze emerge dal modo in cui si rivolge a Paolo di Tarso: «Un Ebreo non ebreo, un Ebreo snaturato, un traditore. Da qui l’impressione di insincerità che proviene dai suoi richiami, dalle sue esortazioni, dalle sue violenze». Le riflessioni di Paolo suonano false perché egli si è discostato dalla sua natura, dalla sua essenza – e ha staccato una delle etichette. L’identità e la sua riconoscibilità sono quindi centrali e costituiscono per Cioran un valore – o per meglio dire: Cioran ne ha bisogno: non potrebbe infatti sfornare taglienti aforismi se dovesse problematizzare gli oggetti e addirittura gli strumenti del suo studio. Guai quindi a rinnegare l’identità e ad ostacolare il suo riconoscimento. Da qui la condanna della ragione in quanto anti-identitaria e accessibile a tutti: «non è un semplice caso», infatti, «se Lutero la chiamò puttana: lo è sia per natura sia per contegno. Non vive forse di simulazione, di volubilità e d’impudenza? Poiché non si lega a nulla, […] non è nulla, si concede a tutti, e tutti possono avvalersene: i giusti e gli ingiusti, i martiri e i tiranni. Non c’è causa che non serva, mette tutto sulle stesso piano […]: il primo venuto ottiene i suoi favori». Come dire: la ragione è uno strumento a disposizione di tutti, intrinsecamente democratica, antigerarchica, votata al superamento della chiusura di ogni essenza e alla comunicazione.
La condanna della comunicazione (se viviamo in un mondo di immutabili essenze, a che pro comunicare?) fa sì che l’odio per la ragione si accompagni in Cioran a quello per la parola: «La ‘vera vita’ è fuori della parola. E tuttavia la parola ci obnubila e ci domina: non siamo giunti fino al punto di farne scaturire l’universo? e non abbiamo assimilato le nostre origini alle chiacchiere, alle improvvisazioni di un dio parolaio? Ricondurre la cosmogonia al discorso, innalzare il linguaggio a strumento della Creazione, attribuire i nostri inizi a un’illusoria antichità del Verbo!». Cioran comprende perfettamente che porre al cuore stesso del cosmo la parola significa imporre ai suoi ospiti il dovere di comunicare, di condividere, di superare le proprie chiusure essenziali. «Non ho provato una sensazione di verità, un fremito d’essere che a contatto con l’analfabeta»; e poi: «decisamente non sapremo mai perché i nostri antenati non si siano trincerati nelle loro caverne». Fin troppo esplicito. La comunicazione viene condannata insieme alla riflessione: meglio essere, in modo aproblematico, senza chiedersi e cercare di capire perché: dottrine, considerazioni, commenti e spiegazioni sono esecrate – e si tratta di atti che presuppongono un ascoltatore, qualcuno a cui si sente la necessità di spiegare che cosa si fa e si è e perché lo si fa o lo si è. Atti che provocano una problematizzazione della propria essenza – che possono condurre a un cambiamento. Ma Cioran odia il cambiamento, che si riduce a un tradimento della propria essenza. Passare dall’essere al riflettere su ciò che si è implica una decadenza – un indebolimento della fibra.
Ovvio, poi, che se si ragiona in termini di essenze e si nega la possibilità stessa (anche solo la desiderabilità) della comunicazione, ci si condanna a un immobilismo totale (una parodia di conservatorismo): «che tutti i nostri disastri risalgano a quando abbiamo cominciato a intravedere la possibilità di un meglio, questa banalità…». Definire una banalità l’imputazione dei disastri del genere umano all’utopismo, alla teorizzazione e al perseguimento di ciò che ancora non c’è, di ciò che appare migliore rispetto al presente… questo è un conservatorismo tanto radicale (epidermico) da essere del tutto immotivato – non argomentabile. L’esito? Non a caso lo troviamo nel capitolo Oltre il romanzo, dedicato a smontare pezzo per pezzo quella grande manifestazione di umanità che è, per l’appunto, il romanzo – che Cioran odia. Perché? È presto detto: «Il romanzo? Veto opposto al disintegrarsi delle nostre apparenze, punto lontanissimo dalle nostre origini, artificio per eludere i nostri veri problemi, cortina che si frappone tra le nostre realtà primordiali e le nostre finzioni psicologiche».
Le origini, le realtà primordiali… Presupposti inesplorabili, fondanti, rassicuranti e aproblematici del nostro essere. Guai ad analizzare, a tentare di comunicare ad altri le conclusioni delle nostre analisi. E infatti confessa: «sogno le profondità dell’Urgrund, sostrato anteriore alle corruzioni del tempo, e la cui solitudine, superiore a quella di Dio, mi separerebbe per sempre da me stesso, dai miei simili, dal linguaggio dell’amore, dalla prolissità che comporta la curiosità per gli altri».
Sulle ambiguità (si fa per dire…) del pensiero di Cioran e sui suoi impresentabili trascorsi ideologici, è interessante la lettura di Il fascismo rimosso: Cioran, Eliade, Ionesco: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/9...
June 2, 2025
2,5-3,0
i thought i’d enjoy it more or feel more connected to it. sure, there are a few memorable and relatable quotes, but overall it didn’t really do much for me, and honestly, i don’t know if i’d recommend it.
i used to think i was a pessimist, but now i think i just don’t care anymore whether things go right or wrong. that’s life.
i thought i’d enjoy it more or feel more connected to it. sure, there are a few memorable and relatable quotes, but overall it didn’t really do much for me, and honestly, i don’t know if i’d recommend it.
i used to think i was a pessimist, but now i think i just don’t care anymore whether things go right or wrong. that’s life.
April 2, 2012
Cioran is just humorous enough in his pessimism, and acerbic in his irony (though I'm not convinced that a lot of his most outrageous statements were actually as ironic for him as they've been perceived to be by many critics and commentators), and anyone who loves a mental exercise, murky and inside-out as they can be, will enjoy this collection of post-Nietzschean philosophical essays. And the introduction by Susan Sontag is engaging and informative. Now, down to some specifics:
"Thinking Against Oneself": I couldn't agree more with Cioran's statement about it being a mistake for Western minds to expect themselves to be able to live Eastern philosophies, "truths incompatible with their nature." Joseph Campbell said much the same thing: that it was a mistake for people raised in Western culture to seek a guru and try to transform themselves into something totally alien to their history. "No sage among our ancestors," Cioran says, "but malcontents, triflers, fanatics whose disappointments or excesses we must continue." "Our disease? Centuries of attention to time, the idolatry of becoming." We're "captives of duration", "invalids of duration". We are less capable than many of us would like to believe of merely being in eternity. Instead, "Contaminated by the superstition of action, we believe that our ideas must come to something." If it sounds like Cioran wishes things could be different for us, he admits that "Taoism seems to me wisdom's first and last word: yet I resist it, my instincts reject it..."
There's a lot more, but that's a little of what stood out to me.
"On a Winded Civilization": Here's a Eurocentric quotation (from the 1950's) that anyone observing America's meltdown recently might find interesting: "America stands before the world as an impetuous void, a fatality without substance. Nothing prepared her for hegemony; yet she tends toward it... Unlike the other nations which have had to pass through a whole series of humiliations and defeats, she has known till now only the sterility of an uninterrupted good fortune. If, in the future, everything should continue to go as well, her appearance on the scene will have been an accident without influence. Those who preside over her destiny, those who take her interests to heart, should prepare her for bad times; in order to cease being a superficial monster, she requires an ordeal of major scope. Perhaps she is not far from one now. Having lived, hitherto, outside hell, she is preparing to descend into it. If she seeks a destiny for herself, she will find it only on the ruins of all that was her raison d'être."
"Thinking Against Oneself": I couldn't agree more with Cioran's statement about it being a mistake for Western minds to expect themselves to be able to live Eastern philosophies, "truths incompatible with their nature." Joseph Campbell said much the same thing: that it was a mistake for people raised in Western culture to seek a guru and try to transform themselves into something totally alien to their history. "No sage among our ancestors," Cioran says, "but malcontents, triflers, fanatics whose disappointments or excesses we must continue." "Our disease? Centuries of attention to time, the idolatry of becoming." We're "captives of duration", "invalids of duration". We are less capable than many of us would like to believe of merely being in eternity. Instead, "Contaminated by the superstition of action, we believe that our ideas must come to something." If it sounds like Cioran wishes things could be different for us, he admits that "Taoism seems to me wisdom's first and last word: yet I resist it, my instincts reject it..."
There's a lot more, but that's a little of what stood out to me.
"On a Winded Civilization": Here's a Eurocentric quotation (from the 1950's) that anyone observing America's meltdown recently might find interesting: "America stands before the world as an impetuous void, a fatality without substance. Nothing prepared her for hegemony; yet she tends toward it... Unlike the other nations which have had to pass through a whole series of humiliations and defeats, she has known till now only the sterility of an uninterrupted good fortune. If, in the future, everything should continue to go as well, her appearance on the scene will have been an accident without influence. Those who preside over her destiny, those who take her interests to heart, should prepare her for bad times; in order to cease being a superficial monster, she requires an ordeal of major scope. Perhaps she is not far from one now. Having lived, hitherto, outside hell, she is preparing to descend into it. If she seeks a destiny for herself, she will find it only on the ruins of all that was her raison d'être."
April 20, 2022
duriamo finché durano le nostre finzioni.
July 26, 2018
Fixar o que de importante aqui foi dito:
Em parêntesis: a verdade, esse falso absoluto, é investigação inútil. Prestemos antes os nossos cuidados às evidências que atestam a nossa irredutibilidade.
«Aniquilamento primaveril, consumação mais do que abismo, a morte dá-nos vertigens apenas para melhor nos elevar acima de nós próprios, como faz o amor, com o qual ela se aparenta sob diversos aspectos: uma e outro, forçando o quadro da nossa existência até o fazer explodir, desintegram-nos e fortificam-nos, arruínam-nos pelos atalhos da plenitude. Os seus elementos tão irredutíveis como inseparáveis compõem um equívoco fundamental. Se, até certo ponto, o amor nos perde, através de que sensações de dilatação e orgulho o não faz! E se a morte nos perde por completo, com que frémitos nos arrasta! Sensações e frémitos através dos quais transcendemos o homem que há em nós e os acidentes do eu.»
Em parêntesis: a verdade, esse falso absoluto, é investigação inútil. Prestemos antes os nossos cuidados às evidências que atestam a nossa irredutibilidade.
April 5, 2024
I prefer his aphorisms, but these dreamy essays are thought-provoking if a trifle uneven.
January 6, 2022
Se volete suicidarvi, questo è il libro che fa per voi.
PS: Emil non ci sei riuscito :)
PS: Emil non ci sei riuscito :)
August 26, 2020
It’s the destiny of every profound idea to be checkmated by another idea which it implicitly generated
Thought and existence are neither brute facts nor logical givens, but paradoxical, unstable situations
The mind is a voyeur. But not of the world. Of itself
Wittgenstein’s idea that philosophy is something like a disease and the job of the philosopher is to study philosophy as the physician studies malaria, not to pass it on but rather to cure people of it
Free use of the mind is, ultimately, anti-social, detrimental to the health of the community
ALMOST all our discoveries are due to our violences, to the exacerbation of our instability
Every work turns against its author: the poem will crush the poet, the system the philosopher, the event the man of action
Only the man who sacrifices every gift and talent escapes
All our efforts come down to undermining the sensibility which leads to the absolute
I am nothing but an acolyte of time, an agent of decrepit universes
If we would regain our freedom, we must shake off the burden of sensation, no longer react to the world by our senses, break our bonds. For all sensation is a bond, pleasure as much as pain, joy as much as misery. The only free mind is the one that, pure of all intimacy with beings or objects, plies its own vacuity
It is by our works, not by our silences, that we have chosen to disappear
I am both wound and knife — that is our absolute, our eternity
What we venerate in our gods are our own defeats
We shall never accept history
We measure an individual’s value by the sum of his disagreements with things
Devil — Melancholic rebel who doubts
His paradoxes, his contradictions are our own: he is the sum of our impossibilities
History — man’s aggression against himself
Between serenity and blood, it is toward blood one finds it natural to incline
Wisdom and Revolt: two poisons
Neither one a formula for salvation
Remedy — debaptizing the universe, by removing the label which, assigned to each appearance
To suffer — to exist: unique means of safeguarding our destruction
THE MAN who belongs, organically belongs to a civilization cannot identify the nature of the disease which undermines it
A civilization exists and asserts itself only by acts of provocation. Once it begins to calm down, it crumbles
Europe has doubted for a long time
Europe has ceaselessly sapped her idols in the name of tolerance
Even her doubts were merely convictions disguised
To act is one thing — to know one is acting is another
The man who unmasks his fictions renounces his own resources and, in a sense, himself
Bind me with the chains of Illusion
Today minds need a simple truth, an answer which delivers them from their questions, a gospel, a tomb
Without a strong dose of madness, no initiative, no enterprise, no gesture
Reason — the rust of our vitality
It is the madman in us who forces us into adventure; once he abandons us, we are lost
The future belongs to the suburbs of the globe
CERTAIN peoples are so haunted by themselves that they pose themselves as a unique problem
Spain is a paradox which touches them intimately and which they cannot reduce to a rational formula
Life reveals its essence only to eyes inflamed with blood
To be a man is a drama
To write books is to have a certain relation with original sin. For what is a book if not a loss of innocence, an act of aggression, a repetition of our Fall?
Flaubert: I am a mystic and I believe in nothing
Words have the same destiny as empires
France — nation of words
Reason is dying not only in philosophy, but also in art
There is only one thing worse than boredom, and that is the fear of boredom
Why not write a novel without a subject?
Western civilization — a civilization of the novel
Mystic describes his inner torments, focuses his expectation on an object within which he manages to anchor himself
The novel translates our every face, assumes all our possibilities of expression
Today, Descartes would probably be a novelist. Pascal certainly
Nietzsche’s philosophy — a meditation on his whims
For it is not suffering which liberates, but the desire to suffer
We ascend to the abyss, we fall into heaven. Where are we?
Life betrays and corrupts Life
Nothingness may well have been more convenient. How difficult it is to dissolve oneself in Being!
Thought and existence are neither brute facts nor logical givens, but paradoxical, unstable situations
The mind is a voyeur. But not of the world. Of itself
Wittgenstein’s idea that philosophy is something like a disease and the job of the philosopher is to study philosophy as the physician studies malaria, not to pass it on but rather to cure people of it
Free use of the mind is, ultimately, anti-social, detrimental to the health of the community
ALMOST all our discoveries are due to our violences, to the exacerbation of our instability
Every work turns against its author: the poem will crush the poet, the system the philosopher, the event the man of action
Only the man who sacrifices every gift and talent escapes
All our efforts come down to undermining the sensibility which leads to the absolute
I am nothing but an acolyte of time, an agent of decrepit universes
If we would regain our freedom, we must shake off the burden of sensation, no longer react to the world by our senses, break our bonds. For all sensation is a bond, pleasure as much as pain, joy as much as misery. The only free mind is the one that, pure of all intimacy with beings or objects, plies its own vacuity
It is by our works, not by our silences, that we have chosen to disappear
I am both wound and knife — that is our absolute, our eternity
What we venerate in our gods are our own defeats
We shall never accept history
We measure an individual’s value by the sum of his disagreements with things
Devil — Melancholic rebel who doubts
His paradoxes, his contradictions are our own: he is the sum of our impossibilities
History — man’s aggression against himself
Between serenity and blood, it is toward blood one finds it natural to incline
Wisdom and Revolt: two poisons
Neither one a formula for salvation
Remedy — debaptizing the universe, by removing the label which, assigned to each appearance
To suffer — to exist: unique means of safeguarding our destruction
THE MAN who belongs, organically belongs to a civilization cannot identify the nature of the disease which undermines it
A civilization exists and asserts itself only by acts of provocation. Once it begins to calm down, it crumbles
Europe has doubted for a long time
Europe has ceaselessly sapped her idols in the name of tolerance
Even her doubts were merely convictions disguised
To act is one thing — to know one is acting is another
The man who unmasks his fictions renounces his own resources and, in a sense, himself
Bind me with the chains of Illusion
Today minds need a simple truth, an answer which delivers them from their questions, a gospel, a tomb
Without a strong dose of madness, no initiative, no enterprise, no gesture
Reason — the rust of our vitality
It is the madman in us who forces us into adventure; once he abandons us, we are lost
The future belongs to the suburbs of the globe
CERTAIN peoples are so haunted by themselves that they pose themselves as a unique problem
Spain is a paradox which touches them intimately and which they cannot reduce to a rational formula
Life reveals its essence only to eyes inflamed with blood
To be a man is a drama
To write books is to have a certain relation with original sin. For what is a book if not a loss of innocence, an act of aggression, a repetition of our Fall?
Flaubert: I am a mystic and I believe in nothing
Words have the same destiny as empires
France — nation of words
Reason is dying not only in philosophy, but also in art
There is only one thing worse than boredom, and that is the fear of boredom
Why not write a novel without a subject?
Western civilization — a civilization of the novel
Mystic describes his inner torments, focuses his expectation on an object within which he manages to anchor himself
The novel translates our every face, assumes all our possibilities of expression
Today, Descartes would probably be a novelist. Pascal certainly
Nietzsche’s philosophy — a meditation on his whims
For it is not suffering which liberates, but the desire to suffer
We ascend to the abyss, we fall into heaven. Where are we?
Life betrays and corrupts Life
Nothingness may well have been more convenient. How difficult it is to dissolve oneself in Being!
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