In prison this morning we look at E.M.Cioran (1911-1995):
“Meditate but one hour upon the selfs nonexistence and you will feel yourself to be another man.” said a priest of the Japanese Kusha sea to a Western visitor.
Without having frequented the Buddhist monasteries, how many times have I not lingered over- the world’s unreality, and hence my own? I have not become another man for that, no, but there certainly has remained withme the feeling that my identity is entirely illusory, and that by losing it I have lost nothing, except something, except everything.
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Instead of clinging to the fact of being born, as good sense bids, I take the risk, I turn back, I retrogress increasingly toward some unknown beginning,I move from origin to origin. Some day, perhaps, I shall manage to reach origin itself, in order to rest there, or be wrecked.
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X insults me. I am about to hit him. Thinking it over, I refrain.
Who am I? which is my real self: the self of the retort or that of the
refraining? My first reaction is always energetic; the second one, flabby.
What is known as “wisdom” is ultimately only a perpetual “thinking it
over,” i.e., non-action as first impulse.
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If attachment is an evil, we must look for its cause in the scandal of birth, for to be born is to be attached. Detachment then should apply itself to getting rid of the traces of this scandal, the most serious and intolerable of all.
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Amid anxiety and distress, sudden calm at the thought of the foetus one has been.
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At this precise moment, no reproach proceeding from men or gods can affect me: I have as good a conscience as if I had never existed.
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It is a mistake to believe in a direct relation between suffering reverses and being dead set against birth. Such opposition has deeper, more distant roots, and would occur even if one had only the shadow of a grievance against existence. In fact it is never more virulent than in cases of extreme good fortune.
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Thracians and Bogomils—I cannot forget that I have haunted the same whereabouts as they, nor that the former wept over the newborn and the latter, in order to justify God, held Satan responsible for the infamy of Creation.
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During the long nights in the caves, how many Hamlets must have
murmured their endless monologues—for it is likely that the apogee of
metaphysical torment is to be located well before that universal insipidity which followed the advent of Philosophy.
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The obsession with birth proceeds from an exacerbation of memory, from an omnipresence of the past, as well as from a craving for the impasse, for the first impasse. —No openness, hence no joy from the past but solely from the present, and from a future emancipated from time.
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For years, in fact for life, to have meditated only on your last moments,
only to discover, when at last you approach them, that it was of no use, that the thought of death helps in everything save in dying!
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It is our discomforts which provoke, which create consciousness; their task accomplished, they weaken and disappear one after the other.
Consciousness however remains and survives them, without recalling what it owes to them, without even ever having known. Hence it continually proclaims its autonomy, its sovereignty, even when it loathes itself and would do away with itself.
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According to the Rule of Saint Benedict, if a monk became proud of or
merely satisfied with the task he was performing, he was to forsake it then and there.
One danger not dreaded by the man who has lived in the thirst for
unsatisfaction, in an orgy of remorse and disgust.
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If it is true that God dislikes taking sides, I should feel no awkwardness in His presence, so pleased would I be to imitate Him, to be like Him, in everything, “without opinion.”
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To get up in the morning, wash and then wait for some unforeseen variety of dread or depression.
I would give the whole universe and all of Shakespeare for a grain of
ataraxy.
Nietzsche’s great luck—to have ended as he did: in euphoria!
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Endlessly to refer to a world where nothing yet stooped to occurrence,
where you anticipated consciousness without desiring it, where, wallowing in the virtual, you rejoiced in the null plenitude of a self anterior to selfhood….
Not to have been born, merely musing on that—what happiness, what freedom, what space!
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(—from The Trouble with Being Born, by E.M.Cioran, 1973)