APOCALYPSE ACCORDING CIORAN

World histoy is nothing else than a repetition of catastrophes, waiting for a final catastrophe.

Over thousands of years we have been nothing more than mortals, here wea are. Finally promoted to the rank of the dying.

What a perfect parody of the inferno!

Mandkind’s show, what a disgusting action!

Obsession, although these words make me vomit. I wrote all my books for therapeutic reasons. In the theme of futility and death. All the other problems, I have no importance. I noticed that for me, it represents liberation. So that for myself, I truly wrote from necessity. For myself it is therapy.

I am not cured, I am tired.

It helps because, it formulates and articulates things that others feel. It gives them the conscience, to find themselves to fix despair, is not it a way to make our function in life, more coherent.

Everything that is formulated, becomes more tolerable.

I started observing some sort of fatigue in myself, a disgust of expression, that I stopped believing in words. I arrived at some sort of fatigue and therefore I stopped caring. As a warrior aspect, serving negation as means to liberate, a liberation.

It is a simple phenomenon, truly tiredness. Does this tiredness bring with itself some sort of reconciliation?

 It is a form of megalomaniac, I had the feeling, that everybody in illusion with the exception of myself. A power or this is made me give myself the chance of not to be wrong, as if not to participate to anything and to act only in a sort of comedy ofr other, without participating in this comedy. Therefore I was right in the end.

The dignity of a man born in a small culture is always wounded.

Penumbra, because to remain in the shadow while the signs of your existence penetrate the world, challenge it, whip it and steal its illusion, yet is the steady, sea of injured pride. The world gives up by realizing you exist, but just in the moment in which, in the starting of masochism, which defines it, the public wants to see him, and to cheer for him, for the one who provided them the voluptousness of the stylized torments. Their author returns even deeper behind his books, of these plots thoroughly prepared and makes from his silence, from this modesty – judgment, simultaneously; punushment, disdain, and revenge.

But maybe every wounded dignity, which ends by placing the author in a mysteriosu space, is a benevolence for the work itself, because any major work must be like a temple in which the god is never present, but only felt and dubious. The absence, penumbra, the enigmatic have always the advatage of not to dissapoint. This is a science of success.

It is the primitive poetry.

Over the years, in order to escape the ordinary responsibilities, I read. I read everything, hours and hours, everyday. I gained nothing special, except for the fact that I managed to give myself the illusion of an activity. 

Life is bearable only beacause of sleep, in the morning you start a new adventure, or the same adventure but interruption. Insomnia is an extraodinary revalation because it suppresses unconsciousness, as in you spend 24 hours being lucid and impossibility for man to handle.

It is a heroic act, that everyday is a battle, which you lose from the beginning.

Because life is only possible through forgetfulness, it makes you every evening to ofrget and this makes illusion possible. In the morning, you start a new life, truly.

Although, insomnia forces you to experience consiousness, lucidity without interruption. You are in conflict with everybody else and you cannot consider yourself a human being anymore. Because all the others live in unconsciousness.

The first reaction which is an insane dignity, the pride of catastrophe, is the only thing that gives you courage. Because one could say: “I don’t have the destiny of the others.”

And also the flattered feeling that you are not belongin to humanity. You are flattered and punished at the same time.

And this makes the experience of insomnia a capital experience, with the condition that it will last for a long time and the idea of consciousness is fatality. As if life without forgetfulness, this is the morbid aspect for me, in sort of way.

Consciousness may be a wonderful adventure, although the excess of consciousness is fatal. And this is a very complicated reason, when I was suffering of insomnia, I was despising everyone else who was sleeping. They were “animals” to me. How could they permit themselves not to have consciousness?

It was the envy and disdain.

Vigilance of mankind is taken to his limit.

The emotional tonality of the Cioranian ego is of a crepuscular origin. Fatigue of a languagem, the exhaustion of a civilization of history itself, the tired fortress are all the projections of the crepuscular soul, which constantly regrets that something nevertheless, had to exist.

Nothingness is undoubtly more convenient. How hardly it is to break into being.

The Excecutioners of their freedom.

I have become immune to anything. To the old beliefs and to any future beliefs, I have changed my opinion, concerning historical realities, and any participation at the temporal unrests is a waste of time and useless dissipation.

A man, if he wants to keep a spiritual dignity, he must forget his quality of contemporary.