“ A book is a suicide postponed. ”
Man starts over again everyday, in spite of all he knows, against all he knows.
~ Emil M. Cioran
The fact that life has no meaning is a reason to live --moreover, the only one.
Knowledge subverts love: in proportion as we penetrate our secrets, we come to loathe our kind, precisely because they resemble us.
To live entirely without a goal! I have glimpsed this state, and have often attained it, without managing to remain there: I am too weak for such happiness.
