The most enlightenting experience in the universe. He is the person I think about most in life. This man understood life down to its deepest depth. The greatest genius who ever walked on this planet. This last sentence might be a bloat but that's how I truly feel about him.
Why yes, yes I have (in English translation). Not shown: Fall into Time, the two major English biographies.
He repeats himself a lot, but I suppose we all do to some extent. But it's much more noticeable when you confine yourself to short lines and smaller works. A personal favorite is the essay "Odyssey of Rancor", appearing in History and Utopia. It's this sustained, withering screed on the superiority of negative emotions to positive ones. When we take action, we are primarily motivated by hatred, by the desire to win and get one over on the other guy, to beat him. We are only secondarily motivated by love. You can guess what he thinks of the idea of magnaminity. The ideas aren't terribly deep in themselves, but I was so impressed with his all-important "style" (in English translation) that I re-read it almost straight away and took notes specific to that one essay, in addition to the general notes.
Interestingly, he doesn't seem to settle down (on the page at least) as he gets older and loses t. In later books like The New Gods and here and there in the last couple, he openly states how he'd like to kill people, smash their heads into the wall etc with somewhat greater frequency than when he was younger.
I think probably the best overall one is Short History of Decay. That's the one he really worked hard on, really poured his little black heart and soul into, made sure it was absolutely perfect before getting it published. When it was acclaimed in the press and he got his prize (which he actually accepted!), he had won. He got one over on the other guy, who in this case was Camus. Camus had read a draft of it and sort of sneered at him, saying that he had yet to "enter the circulation of great ideas". Just the simple fact of putting out a well-regarded, prize-winning book that the Parisian literati ate up was enough. In his own mind, he had "beaten" Camus. And that's what counts.
He really was a winner, in his own way. Never wagecucks, never gets cucked in warfare on behalf of any country, never gets suckered into marrying or having children or going into debt on some house. Has regular sex with a woman who genuinely loves him (very strange relationship). Maintains full head of hair until his death. Writes out his nasty little thoughts and gets praised and remembered for it. HATES his home country of Romania, loves Western Europe and wants to get as far west as possible. Lands in the center of Western civilization and becomes a "respected" writer there.
I read it when I was suffering from insomnia due to a bad reaction to some medication. It was really nice because of that, I read All Gall is Divided first and a lot of what he said was weirdly comforting and relatable, especially his stuff about insomnia. I also enjoyed his takes on Nietzsche, because I had thought similar things for a while. The Trouble with Being Born is also a fun read as well.
He's a really interesting author with some pretty unique takes and a really succinct and clear style. If you do read him, anon, I hope you enjoy it 🙂
I've read five of his books. "All Gall Is Divided" was the most compelling of the bunch. I've said this a few times on here already, but Cioran's work is comically depressing. You'll read it and, if you have any sense, you'll come out the other side with a renewed vigour for life. Cioran represents the very worst of Western civilization's self-destructive and anti-natalistic thoughts and impulses. To take him seriously and to follow his often self-contradictory assertions is to miss the point, so to speak.
he wanted to be anything else but european romanian or whatever hell he was about, i think hes a man that hates titles and he was more ok with being french than romanian although those countries arent often so liked.
In order to venture a preliminary assessment of the value of a writer’s intellectual output, it is not necessary to know precisely what he was thinking about, or what he has thought; this would require us to have read all of his works; – instead it is sufficient in the first instance to know how he has thought. His style is an exact impression of this how of his thinking, of its essential constitution and consistent quality. For this demonstrates the formal constitution of all of someone’s thoughts, which must always remain the same, no matter what and about which he may think. Here we have the dough, so to speak, from which all his thoughts are kneaded, however different they may be. When someone asked Eulenspiegel how long he would need to walk to reach the next town, he would reply with the apparently absurd answer ‘walk!’ with the intention of measuring on the basis of his stride how far he could go in a given span of time. Thus I read a couple of pages of an author and I already know pretty well how far he can bring me.
Secretly aware of this state of affairs, every mediocrity attempts to mask his own particular and natural style. This requires him first of all to dispense with any naïveté, which remains the prerogative of superior minds who feel themselves and therefore emerge with confidence. Those ordinary minds just cannot resolve to write what they think, because they suspect that then the product could assume a very simplistic appearance. But still this would be something, at least. Thus if only they set to work honestly, and simply tried to convey that little bit of commonplace trivia that they have actually thought, just as they thought it, then they would be readable in their limited sphere, and even instructive. Instead, they strive to give the appearance of having thought much more and deeper than is the case. Accordingly they advance what they have to say in contrived, difficult expressions, newly coined words and long-winded periods that circumvent their thoughts and disguise them. They vacillate between striving to communicate and to conceal their thoughts. They would like to trim their thoughts in such a way that they acquire a scholarly or profound appearance, so that people will think there is much more to them than meets the eye. Accordingly they dash it off in fragments, in brief, ambiguous and paradoxical utterances which seem to signify much more than they actually say (magnificent examples of this kind are provided by Schelling’s writings in natural philosophy); or they present their thoughts in a torrent of words, with the most unbearable prolixity, as if who knows what miraculous preparation might be needed to render their meaning intelligible – whereas it is quite a simple insight, or even worse a mere triviality.
heard some guy saying it was just some homosexual telling you to kill yourself. that being said i hope o read him soon
It’s literally him telling you to do the opposite
all atheists get depressed and fear the solution
he wasnt really religious although there are a lot of traces of it in his books
I liked how he said the only way to restore the church is to elect an insane lunatic as pope
was a line in his book that said something similar to "when you want to kill yourself its always too late"
his books are based homosexualry. theyre really good to read if you luv metahphors
“I live only because it is in my power to die when I choose to: without the idea of suicide, I'd have killed myself right away.”
The most enlightenting experience in the universe. He is the person I think about most in life. This man understood life down to its deepest depth. The greatest genius who ever walked on this planet. This last sentence might be a bloat but that's how I truly feel about him.
you and me fit together 4ever i <3 emil
I can relate to most of his works
If he was insightful in anyway, he would have solved suffering, instead of whining about it.
he is one of my favourite writers behind Mishima and Berhard.
this anon has put it well.
>Berhard
Any novel which totally deals with disease?
Depressing and funny, like a car wreck
If you ask this question to American crime writers they will seethe and act like divas.
typical
What American crime writers have read Cioran that you know?
Why yes, yes I have (in English translation). Not shown: Fall into Time, the two major English biographies.
He repeats himself a lot, but I suppose we all do to some extent. But it's much more noticeable when you confine yourself to short lines and smaller works. A personal favorite is the essay "Odyssey of Rancor", appearing in History and Utopia. It's this sustained, withering screed on the superiority of negative emotions to positive ones. When we take action, we are primarily motivated by hatred, by the desire to win and get one over on the other guy, to beat him. We are only secondarily motivated by love. You can guess what he thinks of the idea of magnaminity. The ideas aren't terribly deep in themselves, but I was so impressed with his all-important "style" (in English translation) that I re-read it almost straight away and took notes specific to that one essay, in addition to the general notes.
Interestingly, he doesn't seem to settle down (on the page at least) as he gets older and loses t. In later books like The New Gods and here and there in the last couple, he openly states how he'd like to kill people, smash their heads into the wall etc with somewhat greater frequency than when he was younger.
I think probably the best overall one is Short History of Decay. That's the one he really worked hard on, really poured his little black heart and soul into, made sure it was absolutely perfect before getting it published. When it was acclaimed in the press and he got his prize (which he actually accepted!), he had won. He got one over on the other guy, who in this case was Camus. Camus had read a draft of it and sort of sneered at him, saying that he had yet to "enter the circulation of great ideas". Just the simple fact of putting out a well-regarded, prize-winning book that the Parisian literati ate up was enough. In his own mind, he had "beaten" Camus. And that's what counts.
He really was a winner, in his own way. Never wagecucks, never gets cucked in warfare on behalf of any country, never gets suckered into marrying or having children or going into debt on some house. Has regular sex with a woman who genuinely loves him (very strange relationship). Maintains full head of hair until his death. Writes out his nasty little thoughts and gets praised and remembered for it. HATES his home country of Romania, loves Western Europe and wants to get as far west as possible. Lands in the center of Western civilization and becomes a "respected" writer there.
he must be superior... id consider him more succesful than ive ever been despite his suffering, my favorite is the trouble with being born.
I read it when I was suffering from insomnia due to a bad reaction to some medication. It was really nice because of that, I read All Gall is Divided first and a lot of what he said was weirdly comforting and relatable, especially his stuff about insomnia. I also enjoyed his takes on Nietzsche, because I had thought similar things for a while. The Trouble with Being Born is also a fun read as well.
He's a really interesting author with some pretty unique takes and a really succinct and clear style. If you do read him, anon, I hope you enjoy it 🙂
I've read five of his books. "All Gall Is Divided" was the most compelling of the bunch. I've said this a few times on here already, but Cioran's work is comically depressing. You'll read it and, if you have any sense, you'll come out the other side with a renewed vigour for life. Cioran represents the very worst of Western civilization's self-destructive and anti-natalistic thoughts and impulses. To take him seriously and to follow his often self-contradictory assertions is to miss the point, so to speak.
>Cioran represents the very worst of Western civilization's self-destructive and anti-natalistic thoughts and impulses.
Poor take.
His passion for scepticism makes him a true European.
he wanted to be anything else but european romanian or whatever hell he was about, i think hes a man that hates titles and he was more ok with being french than romanian although those countries arent often so liked.
Once you hit your twenties, you'll think twice about your statements here. You're not Hamlet, kid.
In the words of his mentor
In order to venture a preliminary assessment of the value of a writer’s intellectual output, it is not necessary to know precisely what he was thinking about, or what he has thought; this would require us to have read all of his works; – instead it is sufficient in the first instance to know how he has thought. His style is an exact impression of this how of his thinking, of its essential constitution and consistent quality. For this demonstrates the formal constitution of all of someone’s thoughts, which must always remain the same, no matter what and about which he may think. Here we have the dough, so to speak, from which all his thoughts are kneaded, however different they may be. When someone asked Eulenspiegel how long he would need to walk to reach the next town, he would reply with the apparently absurd answer ‘walk!’ with the intention of measuring on the basis of his stride how far he could go in a given span of time. Thus I read a couple of pages of an author and I already know pretty well how far he can bring me.
Secretly aware of this state of affairs, every mediocrity attempts to mask his own particular and natural style. This requires him first of all to dispense with any naïveté, which remains the prerogative of superior minds who feel themselves and therefore emerge with confidence. Those ordinary minds just cannot resolve to write what they think, because they suspect that then the product could assume a very simplistic appearance. But still this would be something, at least. Thus if only they set to work honestly, and simply tried to convey that little bit of commonplace trivia that they have actually thought, just as they thought it, then they would be readable in their limited sphere, and even instructive. Instead, they strive to give the appearance of having thought much more and deeper than is the case. Accordingly they advance what they have to say in contrived, difficult expressions, newly coined words and long-winded periods that circumvent their thoughts and disguise them. They vacillate between striving to communicate and to conceal their thoughts. They would like to trim their thoughts in such a way that they acquire a scholarly or profound appearance, so that people will think there is much more to them than meets the eye. Accordingly they dash it off in fragments, in brief, ambiguous and paradoxical utterances which seem to signify much more than they actually say (magnificent examples of this kind are provided by Schelling’s writings in natural philosophy); or they present their thoughts in a torrent of words, with the most unbearable prolixity, as if who knows what miraculous preparation might be needed to render their meaning intelligible – whereas it is quite a simple insight, or even worse a mere triviality.
Who wrote that?
Basically the Roumanian Schopenhauer.
He fucking hated Romania. But Schopenhauer was a systematic philosopher so there's big difference