Detachment from the world as an attachment to the ego... Who can realize the detachment in which you are as far away from yourself as you are from the world?

As incompetent in life as in death, I loathe myself and in this loathing I dream of another life, another death. And for having sought to be a sage such as never was, I am only a madman among the mad. Haven't people learned yet that the time of superficial intellectual games is over, that agony is infinitely more important than syllogism, that a cry of despair is more revealing than the most subtle thought, and that tears always have deeper roots than smiles? How important can it be that I suffer and think? My presence in this world will disturb a few tranquil lives and will unsettle the unconscious and pleasant naiveté of others. Although I feel that my tragedy is the greatest in history — greater than the fall of empires — I am nevertheless aware of my total insignificance. I am absolutely persuaded that I am nothing in this universe; yet I feel that mine is the only real existence. In 1949, his first French book, A Short History of Decay, was published by Gallimard and was awarded the Prix Rivarol in 1950 for the best book written by a non-French author. [27] Throughout his career, Cioran refused most literary prizes awarded to him. [28] Later life and death [ edit ] The tomb of Cioran and Simone Boué To detach yourself elegantly from the world; to give contour and grace to sadness; a solitude in style; a walk that gives cadence to memories; stepping towards the intangible; with the breath in the trembling margins of things; the past reborn in the overflow of fragrances; the smell, through which we conquer time; the contour of the invisible things; the forms of the immaterial; to deepen yourself in the intangible; to touch the world airborne by smell; aerial dialogue and gliding dissolution; to bathe in your own reflecting fragmentation...American electronic musician Oneohtrix Point Never named a song for Emil on their 2009 release Zones Without People. [43] There is something to be said for Cioran, for the way he impugns the vanity of our hopes and expectations, rails at the mute impotence of our idols, and preaches silence. Self-conscious rejection of the absolute is the best way to resist God; thus illusion, the substance of life, is saved. This is how I recognize an authentic poet: by frequenting him, living a long time in the intimacy of his work, something changes in myself, not so much my inclinations or my tastes as my very blood, as if a subtle disease had been injected to alter its course, its density and nature. To live around a true poet is to feel your blood run thin, to dream a paradise of anemia, and to hear, in your veins, the rustle of tears. Ideas should be neutral. But man animates them with his passions and folly. Impure and turned into beliefs, they take on the appearance of reality. The passage from logic is consummated. Thus are born ideologies, doctrines, and bloody farce.

Wampole, Christy. (2012) "Cioran's Providential Bicycle." Revista Transilvania, January, pp. 51–54. No one has the audacity to exclaim: "I don't want to do anything!" — we are more indulgent with a murderer than with a mind emancipated from actions. Where do you get those superior airs of yours?" "I've managed to survive, you see, all those nights when I wondered: am I going to kill myself at dawn?" The poor maidservant who used to say that she only believed in God when she had a toothache puts all theologians to shame.One of the biggest paradoxes of our world: memories vanish when we want to remember, but fix themselves permanently in the mind when we want to forget. Regier, Willis (2004). "Cioran's Insomnia". MLN. 119 (5): 994–1012. doi: 10.1353/mln.2005.0018. JSTOR 3251887. S2CID 170780097– via JSTOR. William H. Gass called Cioran's The Temptation to Exist "a philosophical romance on the modern themes of alienation, absurdity, boredom, futility, decay, the tyranny of history, the vulgarities of change, awareness as agony, reason as disease". [37]

From the cradle to the grave, each individual pays for the sin of not being God. That's why life is an uninterrupted religious crisis, superficial for believers, shattering for doubters. True confessions are written with tears only. But my tears would drown the world, as my inner fire would reduce it to ashes.

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A harmonious being cannot believe in God. Saints, criminals, and paupers have launched him, making him available to all unhappy people.