I have loathed the planet’s noons and midnights, I have longed for a
world without weather, without hours and the fear that swells them, I
have hated the sighs of mortals under the weight of ages. Where is the
moment without end and without desire, and that primal vacancy
insensitive to the presentiments of disaster and of life? I have sought
for the geography of Nothingness, of unknown seas and another sun – pure
of the scandal of life-bearing rays – I have sought for the rocking of a
skeptical ocean in which islands and axioms are drowned, the vast
liquid narcotic, tepid and sweet and tired of knowledge…
This earth – sin of the Creator! But I no longer want to expiate others’ sins. I want to be cured of my begetting in an agony outside the continents, in some fluid desert, in an impersonal shipwreck.”
— Cioran, A Short History of Decay
This earth – sin of the Creator! But I no longer want to expiate others’ sins. I want to be cured of my begetting in an agony outside the continents, in some fluid desert, in an impersonal shipwreck.”
— Cioran, A Short History of Decay
1 comment:
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