Adele Asoski

“What do you do from morning to night?"

"I endure myself.”
― Emil Cioran, The Trouble With Being Born

“We stare into the radiant light and stumble blind and mad into the moonless night. We bow not our heads, nor do we ask for mercy.

The world is agony.

This is a journey of pain, ecstasy, and death. We do not seek companionship because this prison of flesh is a solipsism. We straddle the balancing point between light and darkness, love and hate, life and death. We hide our countenance to reveal the hidden face of god.

We hang our self from trees and crosses. We bleed and suffer. All in roaring silence.

Eternity is but an instant.”
― Trepaneringsritualen

“In those months I thought often of what I was trying to do, of how had it is to keep alive someone who doesn't want to stay alive. First you try logic (You have so much to live for), and then you try guilt (You owe me), and then you try anger, and threats, and pleading (I'm old; don't do this to an old man). But then, once they agree, it is necessary that you, the cajoler, move into the realm of self-deception because you can see that it is costing them, you can see how much they don't want to be here, you can see that the mere act of existing is depleting for them, and then you have to tell yourself every day: I am doing the right thing. To let him do what he wants to do is abhorrent to the laws of nature, to the laws of love. You pounce upon the happy moments, you hold them up as proof - See? This is why it's worth living. This is why I've been making him try - even though that one moment cannot compensate for all the other moments, the majority of the moments.”
― Hanya Yanagihara, A Little Life

“There are no arguments. Can anyone who has reached the limit bother with arguments, causes, effects, moral considerations, and so forth? Of course not. For such a person there are only unmotivated motives for living. On the heights of despair, the passion for the absurd is the only thing that can still throw a demonic light on chaos. When all the current reasons—moral, esthetic, religious, social, and so on—no longer guide one's life, how can one sustain life without succumbing to nothingness? Only by a connection with the absurd, by love of absolute uselessness, loving something which does not have substance but which simulates an illusion of life.
I live because the mountains do not laugh and the worms do not sing.”
― Emil Cioran, On the Heights of Despair