tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26988715248351403262024-03-13T08:27:21.342-07:00 Forest of EstrangementExistence - system of null-functions activated into partial non-nullity by ignorance.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger182125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2698871524835140326.post-75291493423369437542016-11-22T23:49:00.000-08:002016-11-22T23:49:37.476-08:00Like no one ...In no one did I find who I should be like. And I stayed like that: like no one.<br />
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Antonio PorchiaUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2698871524835140326.post-56480815454500940922016-11-22T06:20:00.000-08:002016-11-22T06:20:33.972-08:00Here I stay ...I have come one step away from everything. And here I stay, far from everything, one step away.<br />
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Antonio PorchiaUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2698871524835140326.post-59282550567279040402016-11-21T18:58:00.000-08:002016-11-21T18:58:22.034-08:00Ortega y Gassat - extracts<br /><br />To be surprised, to wonder, is to begin to understand.<br /><br />For there is no doubt that the most radical division that it is possible to make of humanity is that which splits it into two classes of creatures: those who make great demands on themselves, piling up difficulties and duties; and those who demand nothing special of themselves, but for whom to live is to be every moment what they already are, without imposing on themselves any effort towards perfection; mere buoys that float on the waves.<br /><br /><br />The mass crushes beneath it everything that is different, everything that is excellent, individual, qualified and select. Anybody who is not like everybody, who does not think like everybody, runs the risk of being eliminated.<br /><br /><br />If I were to leave the matter here and strangle off my present essay without more ado, the reader would be left thinking, and quite justly, that this fabulous uprising of the masses above the surface of history inspired me merely with a few petulant, disdainful words, a certain amount of hatred and a certain amount of disgust. This all the more in my case, when it is well known that I uphold a radically aristocratic interpretation of history. Radically, because I have never said that human society ought to be aristocratic, but a great deal more than that. What I have said, and still believe with ever-increasing conviction, is that human society is always, whether it will or no, aristocratic by its very essence, to the extreme that it is a society in the measure that it is aristocratic, and ceases to be such when it ceases to be aristocratic. Of course I am speaking now of society and not of the State.<br /><br /><br />"This grave dissociation of past and present is the generic fact of our time and the cause of the suspicion, more or less vague, which gives rise to the confusion characteristic of our present-day existence. We feel that we actual men have suddenly been left alone on he earth; that the dead did not die in appearance only but effectively; that they can no longer help us. Any remains of the traditional spirit have evaporated. Models, norms, standards are no use to us. We have to solve our problems without any active collaboration of the past, in full actuality, be they problems of art, science, or politics. The European stands alone, without any living ghosts by his side; like Peter Schlehmil he has lost his shadow. This is what always happens when midday comes." *<br />-<br />* The Dehumanisation of Art.<br /><br /><br />The purchasing activity ends in the decision to buy a certain object, but for that very reason it is previously an act of choice, and the choice begins by putting before oneself the possibilities offered by the market. Hence it follows that life, in its "purchasing" aspect, consists primarily in living over the possibilities of buying as such. When people talk of life they generally forget something which to me seems most essential, namely, that our existence is at every instant and primarily the consciousness of what is possible to us. If at every moment we had before us no more than one possibility, it would be meaningless to give it that name. Rather would it be a pure necessity, But there it is: this strangest of facts that a fundamental condition of our existence is that it always has before it various prospects, which by their variety acquire the character of possibilities among which we have to make our choice.<br /><br /><br />… we live at a time when believes himself fabulously capable of creation, but he does not know what to create. Lord of all things, he is not lord of himself. He feels lost amid his own abundance. With more means at its disposal, more knowledge, more technique than ever, it turns out that the world to-day goes the same way as the worst of worlds that have been; it simply drifts.<br /><br /><br />To-day, by the very fact that everything seems possible to us, we have a feeling that the worst of all is possible: retrogression, barbarism, decadence. * This of itself would not be a bad symptom; it would mean that we are once again forming contact with that insecurity which is essential to all forms of life, that anxiety both dolorous and delicious contained in every moment, if we know how to live it to its innermost core, right down to its palpitating vitals. Generally we refuse to feel that fearsome pulsation which makes of a moment of sincerity a tiny fleeting heart; we strain in the attempt to find security and to render ourselves insensible to the fundamental drama of our destiny, by steeping it in habits, usages, topics- in every kind of chloroform. It is an excellent thing, then, that for the first time for nearly three centuries we are surprised to find ourselves with the feeling that we do not know what is going to happen to-morrow.<br /><br /><br />* This is the root-origin of all our diagnoses of decadence. Not that we are decadent, but that, being predisposed to admit every possibility, we do not exclude that of decadence.<br /><br /><br />THIS essay is an attempt to discover the diagnosis of our time, of our actual existence. We have indicated the first part of it, which may be resumed thus: our life as a programme of possibilities is magnificent, exuberant, superior to all others known to history. But by the very fact that its scope is greater, it has overflowed all the channels, principles, norms, ideals handed down by tradition. It is more life than all previous existence, and therefore all the more problematical. It can find no direction from the past. * It has to discover its own destiny.<br /><br /><br />* We shall see, nevertheless, how it is possible to obtain from the past, if not positive orientation, certain negative counsel. The past will not tell us what we ought to do, but it will what we ought to avoid.<br /><br /><br />Surprising condition, this, of our existence! To live is to feel ourselves fatally obliged to exercise our liberty, to decide what we are going to be in this world. Not for a single moment is our activity of decision allowed to rest. Even when in desperation we abandon ourselves to whatever may happen, we have decided not to decide.<br /><br /><br />The mass-man is he whose life lacks any purpose, and simply goes drifting along. Consequently, though his possibilities and his powers be enormous, he constructs nothing.<br /><br /><br />The actual abundance of possibilities will change into practical scarcity, a pitiful impotence, a real decadence. For the rebellion of the masses is one and the same thing with what Rathenau called "the vertical invasion of the barbarians."<br /><br /><br />"The masses are advancing," said Hegel in apocalyptic fashion. "Without some new spiritual influence, our age, which is a revolutionary age, will produce a catastrophe," was the pronouncement of Comte. "I see the flood-tide of nihilism rising," shrieked Nietzsche from a crag of the Engadine. It is false to say that history cannot be foretold. Numberless times this has been done. If the future offered no opening to prophecy, it could not be understood when fulfilled in the present and on the point of falling back into the past. The idea that the historian is on the reverse side a prophet, sums up the whole philosophy of history, It is true that it is only possible to anticipate the general structure of the future, but that is all that we in truth understand of the past or of the present.<br /><br /><br />For, in fact, the common man, finding himself in a world so excellent, technically and socially, believes that it has been produced by nature, and never thinks of the personal efforts of highly-endowed individuals which the creation of this new world presupposed. Still less will he admit the notion that all these facilities still require the support of certain difficult human virtues, the least failure of which would cause the rapid disappearance of the whole magnificent edifice.<br /><br /><br />This leads us to note down in our psychological chart of the mass-man of to-day two fundamental traits: the free expansion of his vital desires, and therefore, of his personality; and his radical ingratitude towards an that has made possible the ease of his existence. These traits together make up the well-known psychology of the spoilt child.<br /><br /><br />To spoil means to put no limit on caprice, to give one the impression that everything is permitted to him and that he has no obligations. The young child exposed to this regime has no experience of its own limits. By reason of the removal of all external restraint, all clashing with other things, he comes actually to believe that he is the only one that exists, and gets used to not considering others, especially not considering them as superior to himself. This feeling of another's superiority could only be instilled into him by someone who, being stronger than he is, should force him to give up some desire, to restrict himself, to restrain himself. He would then have learned this fundamental discipline: "Here I end and here begins another more powerful than I am. In the world, apparently, there are two people: I myself and another superior to me."<br /><br /><br />And these spoiled masses are unintelligent enough to believe that the material and social organisation, placed at their disposition like the air, is of the same origin., since apparently it never fails them, and is almost as perfect as the natural scheme of things. My thesis, therefore, is this: the very perfection with which the XIXth Century gave an organisation to certain orders of existence has caused the masses benefited thereby to consider it, not as an organised, but as a natural system.<br /><br /><br />In the disturbances caused by scarcity of food, the mob goes in search of bread, and the means it employs is generally to wreck the bakeries. This may serve as a symbol of the attitude adopted, on a greater and more complicated scale, by the masses of to-day towards the civilisation by which they are supported.<br /><br /><br />But the man we are now analysing accustoms himself not to appeal from his own to any authority outside him. He is satisfied with himself exactly as he is. Ingenuously, without any need of being vain, as the most natural thing in the world, he will tend to consider and affirm as good everything he finds within himself: opinions, appetites, preferences, tastes. Why not, if, as we have seen, nothing and nobody force him to realise that he is a second-class man, subject to many limitations, incapable of creating or conserving that very organisation which gives his life the fullness and contentedness on which he bases this assertion of his personality?<br /><br /><br />The mass-man would never have accepted authority external to himself had not his surroundings violently forced him to do so. As to-day, his surroundings do not so force him, the everlasting mass-man, true to his character, ceases to appeal to other authority and feels himself lord of his own existence. On the contrary the select man, the excellent man is urged, by interior necessity, to appeal from himself to some standard beyond himself, superior to himself, whose service he freely accepts. Let us recall that at the start we distinguished the excellent man from the common man by saying that the former is the one who makes great demands on himself, and the latter the one who makes no demands on himself, but contents himself with what he is, and is delighted with himself. * Contrary to what is usually thought, it is the man of excellence, and not the common man who lives in essential servitude. Life has no savour for him unless he makes it consist in service to something transcendental. Hence he does not look upon the necessity of serving as an oppression. When, by chance, such necessity is lacking, he grows restless and invents some new standard, more difficult, more exigent, with which to coerce himself. This is life lived as a discipline- the noble life. Nobility is defined by the demands it makes on us- by obligations, not by rights. Noblesse oblige. "To live as one likes is plebeian; the noble man aspires to order and law" (Goethe).<br /><br /><br />That man is intellectually of the mass who, in face of any problem, is satisfied with thinking the first thing he finds in his head. On the contrary, the excellent man is he who contemns what he finds in his mind without previous effort, and only accepts as worthy of him what is still far above him and what requires a further effort in order to be reached.<br /><br /><br />For me, then, nobility is synonymous with a life of effort, ever set on excelling oneself, in passing beyond what one is to what one sets up as a duty and an obligation. In this way the noble life stands opposed to the common or inert life, which reclines statically upon itself, condemned to perpetual immobility, unless an external force compels it to come out of itself. Hence we apply the term mass to this kind of man- not so much because of his multitude as because of his inertia.<br /><br /><br />As one advances in life, one realises more and more that the majority of men- and of women- are incapable of any other effort than that strictly imposed on them as a reaction to external compulsion. And for that reason, the few individuals we have come across who are capable of a spontaneous and joyous effort stand out isolated, monumentalised, so to speak, in our experience. These are the select men, the nobles, the only ones who are active and not merely reactive, for whom life is a perpetual striving, an incessant course of training. Training = askesis. These are the ascetics.<br /><br /><br />I know well that many of my readers do not think as I do. This also is most natural and confirms the theorem. For although my opinion turn out erroneous, there will always remain the fact that many of those dissentient readers have never given five minutes' thought to this complex matter. How are they going to think as I do? But by believing that they have a right to an opinion on the matter without previous effort to work one out for themselves, they prove patently that they belong to that absurd type of human being which I have called the "rebel mass." It is precisely what I mean by having one's soul obliterated, hermetically closed. Here it would be the special case of intellectual hermetism. The individual finds himself already with a stock of ideas. He decides to content himself with them and to consider himself intellectually complete.<br /><br /><br />We find ourselves, then, met with the same difference that eternally exists between the fool and the man of sense. The latter is constantly catching himself within an inch of being a fool; hence he makes an effort to escape from the imminent folly, and in that effort lies his intelligence. The fool, on the other hand, does not suspect himself; he thinks himself the most prudent of men, hence the enviable tranquillity with which the fool settles down, instals himself in his own folly. Like those insects which it is impossible to extract from the orifice they inhabit, there is no way of dislodging the fool from his folly, to take him away for a while from his blind state. and to force him to contrast his own dull vision with other keener forms of sight. The fool is a fool for life; he is devoid of pores.<br /><br /><br />To-day, on the other hand, the average man has the most mathematical "ideas" on all that happens or ought to happen in the universe. Hence he has lost the use of his hearing. Why should he listen if he has within him all that is necessary? There is no reason now for listening, but rather for judging, pronouncing, deciding. There is no question concerning public life, in which he does not intervene, blind and deaf as he is, imposing his "opinions."<br /><br /><br />If anyone in a discussion with us is concerned with adjusting himself to truth, if he has no wish to find the truth, he is intellectually a barbarian. That, in fact, is the position of the mass-man when he speaks, lectures, or writes.<br /><br /><br />Properly speaking, there are no barbarian standards. Barbarism is the absence of standards to which appeal can be made. The varying degrees of culture are measured by the greater or less precision of the standards. Where there is little such precision, these standards rule existence only grosso modo; where there is much they penetrate in detail into the exercise of all the activities.<br /><br /><br />Historical knowledge is a technique of the first order to preserve and continue a civilisation already advanced. Not that it affords positive solutions to the new aspect of vital conditions- life is always different from what it was- but that it prevents us committing the ingenuous mistakes of other times. But if, in addition to being old and, therefore, beginning to find life difficult, you have lost the memory of the past, and do not profit by experience, then everything turns to disadvantage. Well, it is my belief that this is the situation of Europe. The most "cultured" people to-day are suffering from incredible ignorance of history.<br /><br /><br />There might be a deceptive tendency to believe that a life born into a world of plenty should be better, more really a life than one which consists in a struggle against scarcity.<br /><br /><br />All life is the struggle, the effort to be itself. The difficulties which I meet with in order to realise my existence are precisely what awakens and mobilises my activities, my capacities.<br /><br /><br />The specialist serves as a striking concrete example of the species, making clear to us the radical nature of the novelty. For, previously, men could be divided simply into the learned and the ignorant, those more or less the one, and those more or less the other. But your specialist cannot be brought in under either of these two categories. He is not learned , for he is formally ignorant of all that does not enter into his speciality; but neither is he ignorant, because he is "a scientist," and "knows" very well his own tiny portion of the universe. We shall have to say that he is a learned ignoramus, which is a very serious matter, as it implies that he is a person who is ignorant, not in the fashion of the ignorant man, but with an the petulance of one who is learned in his own special line.<br /><br /><br />And such in fact is the behaviour of the specialist. In politics, in art, in social usages, in the other sciences, he will adopt the attitude of primitive, ignorant man; but he will adopt them forcefully and with self-sufficiency, and will not admit of- this is the paradox- specialists in those matters. By specialising him, civilisation has made him hermetic and self-satisfied within his limitations; but this very inner feeling of dominance and worth will induce him to wish to predominate outside his speciality.<br /><br /><br />For philosophy to rule, it is not necessary that philosophers be the rulers- as Plato at first wished- nor even for rulers to be philosophers- as was his later, more modest, wish. Both these things are, strictly speaking, most fatal. For philosophy to rule, it is sufficient for it to exist; that is to say, for the philosophers to be philosophers. For nearly a century past, philosophers have been everything but that- politicians, pedagogues, men of letters, and men of science.<br /><br /><br />This is the gravest danger that to-day threatens civilisation: State intervention; the absorption of all spontaneous social effort by the State, that is to say, of spontaneous historical action, which in the long run sustains, nourishes, and impels human destinies. When the mass suffers any ill-fortune or simply feels some strong appetite, its great temptation is that permanent, sure possibility of obtaining everything- without effort, struggle, doubt, or risk- merely by touching a button and setting the mighty machine in motion. The mass says to itself, "L'Etat, c'est moi," which is a complete mistake.<br /><br /><br />And as, after all, it is only a machine whose existence and maintenance depend on the vital supports around it, the State, after sucking out the very marrow of society, will be left bloodless, a skeleton, dead with that rusty death of machinery, more gruesome than the death of a living organism.<br /><br /><br />Already in the times of the Antonines (IInd Century), the State overbears society with its anti-vital supremacy. Society begins to be enslaved, to be unable to live except in the service of the State. The whole of life is bureaucratised. What results? The bureaucratisation of life brings about its absolute decay in all orders. Wealth diminishes, births are few. Then the State, in order to attend to its own needs, forces on still more the bureaucratisation of human existence. This bureaucratisation to the second power is the militarisation of society. The State's most urgent need is its apparatus of war, its army. Before all the State is the producer of security (that security, be it remembered, of which the mass-man is born). Hence, above all, an army. The Severi, of African origin, militarise the world. Vain task! Misery increases, women are every day less fruitful, even soldiers are lacking. After the time of the Severi, the army has to be recruited from foreigners. Is the paradoxical, tragic process of Statism now realised? Society, that it may live better, creates the State as an instrument. Then the State gets the upper hand and society has to begin to live for the State. * But for all that the State is still composed of the members of that society. But soon these do not suffice to support it, and it has to call in foreigners: first Dalmatians, then Germans. These foreigners take possession of the State, and the rest of society, the former populace, has to live as their slaves- slaves of people with whom they have nothing in common. This is what State intervention leads to: the people are converted into fuel to feed the mere machine which is the State. The skeleton eats up the flesh around it. The scaffolding becomes the owner and tenant of the house.<br />-<br />* Recall the last words of Septimus Severus to his sons: "Remain united, pay the soldiers, and take no heed of the rest."<br /><br /><br />A concrete example of this mechanism is found in one of the most alarming phenomena of the last thirty years: the enormous increase in the police force of all countries. The increase of population has inevitably rendered it necessary. However accustomed we may be to it, the terrible paradox should not escape our minds that the population of a great modern city, in order to move about peaceably and attend to its business, necessarily requires a police force to regulate the circulation. But it is foolishness for the party of "law and order" to imagine that these "forces of public authority" created to preserve order are always going to be content to preserve the order that that party desires. Inevitably they will end by themselves defining and deciding on the order they are going to impose- which, naturally, will be that which suits them best.<br /><br /><br />The majority of men have no opinions, and these have to be pumped into them from outside, like lubricants into machinery. Hence it is necessary that some mind or other should hold and exercise authority, so that the people without opinions- the majority- can start having opinions. For without these, the common life of humanity would be chaos, a historic void, lacking in any organic structure. Consequently, without a spiritual power, without someone to command, and in proportion as this is lacking, chaos reigns over mankind.<br /><br /><br />The world at the present day is behaving in a way which is a very model of childishness. In school, when someone gives the word that the master has left the class, the mob of youngsters breaks loose, kicks up its heels, and goes wild. Each of them experiences the delights of escaping the pressure imposed by the master's presence; of throwing off the yoke of rule, of feeling himself the master of his fate. But as, once the plan which directed their occupations and tasks is suspended, the youthful mob has no formal occupation of its own, no task with a meaning, a continuity, and a purpose, it follows that it can only do one thing- stand on its head. The frivolous spectacle offered by the smaller nations to-day is deplorable.<br /><br /><br />Human life, by its very nature, has to be dedicated to something, an enterprise glorious or humble, a destiny illustrious or trivial. We are faced with a condition, strange but inexorable, involved in our very existence. On the one hand, to live is something which each one does of himself and for himself. On the other hand, if that life of mine, which only concerns myself, is not directed by me towards something, it will be disjointed, lacking in tension and in "form." In these years we are witnessing the gigantic spectacle of innumerable human lives wandering about lost in their own labyrinths, through not having anything to which to give themselves. All imperatives, all commands, are in a state of suspension. The situation might seem to be an ideal one, since every existence is left entirely free to do just as it pleases- to look after itself. The same with every nation. Europe has slackened its pressure on the world. But the result has been contrary to what might have been expected. Given over to itself, every life has been left empty, with nothing to do. And as it has to be filled with something, it invents frivolities for itself, gives itself to false occupations which impose nothing intimate, sincere. To-day it is one thing, to-morrow another, opposite to the first. Life is lost at finding itself all alone. Mere egoism is a labyrinth. This is quite understandable. Really to live is to be directed towards something, to progress towards a goal.<br /><br /><br />When we are really going to do something and have dedicated ourselves to a purpose, we cannot be expected to be ready at hand to look after every passer-by and to lend ourselves to every chance display of altruism. One of the things that most delight travellers in Spain is that if they ask someone in the street where such a building or square is, the asked will often turn aside from his own path and generously sacrifice himself to the stranger, conducting him to the point he is interested in. I am not going to deny that there may be in this disposition of the worthy Spaniard some element of generosity, and I rejoice that the foreigner so interprets his conduct. But I have never, when hearing or reading of this, been able to repress a suspicion: "Was my countryman, when thus questioned, really going anywhere?" Because it might very well be, in many cases, that the Spaniard is going nowhere, has no purpose or mission, but rather goes out into life to see if others' lives can fill his own a little. In many instances I know quite well that my countrymen go out to the street to see if they will come across some stranger to accompany on his way.<br /><br /><br />The man who is capable of steering a clear course through it, who can perceive under the chaos presented by every vital situation the hidden anatomy of the movement, the man, in a word, who does not lose himself in life, that is the man with the really clear head. Take stock of those around you and you will see them wandering about lost through life, like sleep-walkers in the midst of their good or evil fortune, without the slightest suspicion of what is happening to them. You will hear them talk in precise terms about themselves and their surroundings, which would seem to point to them having ideas on the matter. But start to analyse those ideas and you will find that they hardly reflect in any way the reality to which they appear to refer, and if you go deeper you will discover that there is not even an attempt to adjust the ideas to this reality. Quite the contrary: through these notions the individual is trying to cut off any personal vision of reality, of his own very life. For life is at the start a chaos in which one is lost. The individual suspects this, but he is frightened at finding himself face to face with this terrible reality, and tries to cover it over with a curtain of fantasy, where everything is clear. It does not worry him that his "ideas" are not true, he uses them as trenches for the defence of his existence, as scarcecrows to frighten away reality.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2698871524835140326.post-62109922537061278782016-11-21T18:52:00.000-08:002016-11-21T18:52:33.201-08:00Dream<br />And more than this: That no one has any certainty, apart from faith, whether he wake or sleep, seeing that in sleep we firmly believe we are awake, we believe that we see space, figure, and motion, we are aware of the lapse and measure of time; in a word we act as though we were awake. So that half of our life being passed in sleep, we have by our own avowal, no idea of truth, whatever we may suppose. Since then all our sentiments are illusions, who can tell but that the other half of life wherein we fancy ourselves awake be not another sleep somewhat different from the former, from which we wake when we fancy ourselves asleep?<div>
<br />And who doubts that if we dreamt in company, and if by chance men’s dreams agreed, which is common enough, and if we were always alone when awake, we should believe that the conditions were reversed? In a word, as we often dream that we dream, and heap vision upon vision, it may well be that this life itself is but a dream, on which the others are grafted, from which we wake at death; having in our lifetime as few principles of what is good and true, as during natural sleep, the different thoughts which agitate us being perhaps only illusions like those of the flight of time and the vain fantasies of our dreams. . . . (…)<br /><br /><br />Were we to dream the same thing every night, this would affect us as much as the objects we see every day, and were an artisan sure to dream every night, for twelve hours at a stretch, that he was a king. I think he would be almost as happy as a king who should dream every night for twelve hours at a stretch that he was an artisan.<br /><br /><br />Should we dream every night that we were pursued by enemies, and harassed by these painful phantoms, or that we were passing all our days in various occupations, as in travelling, we should suffer almost as much as if the dream were real, and should fear to sleep, as now we fear to wake when we expect in truth to enter on such misfortunes. And, in fact, it would bring about nearly the same troubles as the reality. But since dreams are all different, and each single dream is diversified, what we see in them affects us much less than what we see when awake, because that is continuous, not indeed so continuous and level as never to change, but the change is less abrupt, except occasionally, as when we travel, and then we say, “I think I am dreaming,” for life is but a little less inconstant dream. <br /><br /><br />Pascal</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2698871524835140326.post-74604413581048111052016-11-21T18:43:00.000-08:002016-11-21T18:43:20.043-08:00Our true home<br />'Is it possible that existence is our exile and nothingness our home?'<br /><br /><br /><br />CioranUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2698871524835140326.post-72948996996171226952016-11-21T18:39:00.001-08:002016-11-21T18:39:49.759-08:00Disgust for the worldIf disgust for the world conferred sanctity of itself, I fail to see how I could avoid canonization.<br style="background-color: #fbfab5; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;" /><span class="posthilit" style="background-color: #f3bfcc; border: 0px; color: #bc2a4d; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 18.2px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 2px 1px; vertical-align: baseline;">Cioran</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2698871524835140326.post-52543623385194359442016-11-21T18:36:00.001-08:002016-11-21T18:36:50.425-08:00Where my place might be?On the mantelpiece, the photograph of a chimpanzee and a statuette of the Buddha. This proximity, more accidental than intentional, makes me wonder over and over where my place might be between these two extrems, man's pre and transfiguration.<div>
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Cioran</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2698871524835140326.post-64152846364390239482016-11-21T18:32:00.001-08:002016-11-21T18:32:51.458-08:00Poverty: Mental Stimulant To keep the mind vigilant, there is only coffee, disease, insomnia, or the obsession of death; poverty contributes to this condition in equal measure, if not more effectively: terror of tomorrow as much as that of eternity, money troubles as much as metaphysical fears, exclude repose and oblivion. All our humiliations come from the fact that we cannot bring ourselves to die of hunger. We pay dearly for this cowardice. To be dependent on men, without the vocation of beggars! To abase ourselves before these dressed-up, lucky, infatuated marmosets! To be at the mercy of these caricatures unworthy of contempt! It is the shame of seeking anything which excites the desire to annihilate this planet, with its hierarchies and the degradations they involve. Society is not a disease, it is a disaster: what a stupid miracle that one can live in it! When we contemplate it, between rage and indifference, it becomes inexplicable that no one has been able to demolish its structure, that hitherto there have not been minds desperate and decent enough to raze it to the ground without a trace.<br />
<br />There is more than one resemblance between begging for a coin in the city and waiting for an answer from the silence of the universe. Avarice presides over men’s hearts and over matter. Away with this stingy existence! It hoards money and mysteries: purses are as inaccessible as the depths of the Unknown. But—maybe someday that Unknown will reveal itself and open its treasuries; never, so long as there is blood in his veins, will the Rich Man unearth his wealth. . . . He will confess his shames, his vices, his crimes: he will lie about his fortune; he will make you every confidence, hand you his life: you will not share his last secret, his pecuniary secret. . . .<br /><br />Poverty is not a transitory state: it coincides with the certainty that, whatever happens, you will never have anything, that you are born on the wrong side of the circuit of goods, that you must struggle for even a breath, and conquer air itself, and hope, and sleep, and that even when society disappears, nature will be no less inclement, no less perverted. No paternal principle watched over the Creation; everywhere, buried treasures; behold the Miser as demiurge, the God on high a sly skinflint. It is He who implanted in you the terror of tomorrow: it is scarcely surprising that religion itself should be a form of this terror.<br /><br />For the paupers of eternity, poverty is a kind of stimulant they have taken once and for all, without the possibility of an antidote, or a kind of innate awareness which, before any knowledge of life, could describe its inferno. . . .<br /><br /><br /><br />Cioran, A Short History of Decay<br />translation: Richard HowardUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2698871524835140326.post-74730381039115724932016-11-21T18:27:00.000-08:002016-11-21T18:27:10.077-08:00So terrifying ...<blockquote class="uncited" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: url("./images/quote.gif"); background-origin: initial; background-position: 6px 8px; background-repeat: no-repeat; background-size: initial; border: 1px solid rgb(219, 219, 206); font-stretch: inherit; margin: 0.5em 1px 0px 25px; overflow: hidden; padding: 25px 5px 5px; quotes: none; vertical-align: baseline;">
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One can readily imagine in what terms a man of today would speak if called upon to make a pronouncement on the only religion ever to have introduced a radical formula of salvation: "The quest for deliverance can be justified only if one believes in the transmigration, in the endless vagrancy of the self, and if one aspires to halt it. But for us who do not believe in it, what are we to halt? This unique and negligible duration? It is obviously not long enough to deserve the effort an escape would require. For the Buddhist, the prospect of other existences is a nightmare; for us, the nightmare consists in the termination of this one, this nightmare. Give us another one, we would be tempted to clamor, so that our disgraces will not conclude too soon, so that they may, at their leisure, hound us through several lives.<br /><br />Deliverance answers a necessity only for the person who feels threatened by a surfeit of existence, who fears the burden of dying and redying. For us, condemned not to reincarnate ourselves, what's the use of struggling to set ourselves free from a nonentity? to liberate ourselves from a terror whose end lies in view? Further more, what's the use of pursuing a supreme unreality when everything here-below is already unreal? One simply does not exert oneself to get rid of something so flimsily justified, so precariously grounded.<br /><br />Each of us, each man unlucky enough not to believe in the eternal cycle of births and deaths, aspires to a superabundance of illusion and torment. We pine for the malediction of being reborn. Buddha took exorbitant pains to achieve what? definitive death - what we, on the contrary, are sure of obtaining without meditations and mortifications, without raising a finger." ...<br /><br />That's just about how this fallen man would express himself if he consented to lay bare the depths of his thought. Who will dare throw the first stone? Who has not spoken to himself in this way? We are so addicted to our own history that we would like to see it drone on and on, relentlessly. But whether one lives one or a thousand lives, whether one has at one's disposal a single hour or all of time, the problem remains the same: an insect and a god should not differ in their manner of viewing the fact of existence as such, which is so terrifying (as only miracles can be) that, reflecting on it, one understands the will to disappear forever so as not to have to consider it again in other existences. This is what Buddha emphasized, and it seems doubtful he would have altered his conclusion had he ceased to believe in the mechanism of transmigration.<br /><br /><br /><br />Cioran, The New Gods</div>
</blockquote>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2698871524835140326.post-62185737441001822162016-11-21T18:21:00.000-08:002016-11-21T18:21:58.673-08:00I resign from humanity “As far as I am concerned, I resign from humanity. I no longer want to be, nor can still be, a man. What should I do? Work for a social and political system, make a girl miserable? Hunt for weaknesses in philosophical systems, fight for moral and esthetic ideals? It’s all too little. I renounce my humanity even though I may find myself alone. But am I not already alone in this world from which I no longer expect anything?”<br style="background-color: #cfce95; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;" /><br />
“It is of no importance to know who I am since some day I shall no longer be” – that is what each of us should answer those who bother about our identity and desire at any price to coop us up in a category or a definition”.<br style="background-color: #cfce95; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;" />
CioranUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2698871524835140326.post-59160509070598219992016-11-21T18:12:00.000-08:002016-11-21T18:13:46.725-08:00Mam aspires to eternity but loves time more<br />
What is most essential in us struggles with time. It is impossible to not accept space; it is too great a piece of evidence. But there is a moment from which you don’t want to accept time. The dramatic moment of the individual existence culminates always in the struggle with time. This struggle, however, is without escape, because the being touched by temporality, once having conquered eternity, inevitably regrets time. The desire to flee from time is found only in people ill with time, people who are tied too strongly by the bonds of fleeting moments. Redemption is such an inconsistent aspiration because of the regret experienced by those who are after the joys, surprises, and tragedies that the world, which lives and dies in the meanwhile, has to offer. If there is a temporal pressure, there is also, none the smaller, an infinity pressure. <br />
<br />
Man aspires to infinity, but loves time more. As this life that we live and consume is the only value that we are given, it is impossible not to conceive of eternity as a loss, which we nonetheless respect. The only thing one can love is life itself, which I detest. It is absolutely impossible to get rid of time, without getting rid of life at the same time. Wherever you position yourself, time is the biggest temptation: a greater temptation than life itself, because if death is not in time, then time will become the occasion of death. This is why the pure ecstasy of time reveals to us such bizarre mysteries and it introduces us to the secrets that bind the two worlds. <br />
<br />
When man wouldn’t know the access to eternity through absolute living in the moment, when he wouldn’t be able to leap through eternity already living in the temporal whirlpool and would be forced to choose one of the two for eternity, would he then not hesitate to prefer time? Or when, also for ever, he would have to choose between Cleopatra and Saint Therese, would he hide his predilection for the first?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Cioran<br />
The book of delusions<br />
translation: Camelia EliasUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2698871524835140326.post-52999795399658284842016-11-21T18:03:00.000-08:002016-11-21T18:04:28.612-08:00Skeleton <br />
Much more than skeleton, it is flash, I mean the carrion flesh, which disturb and alarm us – and which alleviates us as well. The Buddhists monks gladly frequented charnel houses: where corner desire more surely and emancipate oneself from it? The horrible being a path of liberation in every period of fervor and inwardness, our remains have enjoyed great favor. In the Middle Ages, a man made a regimen of salvation, he believed energetically: the corpse was in fashion. Faith was vigorous than, invincible; it cherished the livid and the fetid, it knew the profits to be derived from corruption and gruesomeness. Today, an edulcorated religion adheres only to „nice” hallucinations, to Evolution and to Progress. It is not such a religion which might afford us the modern equivalent of the dense macabre.<br />
<br />
„Let a man who aspires to nirvana act so that nothing is dear to him”, we read in a Buddhist text. It is enough to consider these specters, to meditate on the fate of the flash which adhered to them, in order to understand the urgency of detachment. There is no ascesis in the double rumination on the flesh and on the skeleton, on the dreadful decrepitude of the one and the futile permanence of the other. It is a good exercise to sever ourselves now and then from our face, from our skin, to lay aside this deceptive sheathe, then to discard – if only for a moment – that layer of grease which keeps us from discerning what is fundamental in ourselves. Once exercise is over, we are freer and more alone, almost invulnerable.<br />
<br />
In other to vanquish attachments and the disadvantages which derive from them, we should have to contemplate the ultimate nudity of a human being, force our eyes to pierce his entrails and all the rest, wallow in the horror of his secretions, in his physiology of an imminent corpse. This vision would not be morbid but methodical, a controlled obsession, particularly salutary in ordeals. The skeleton incites us to serenity; the cadaver to renunciation. In the sermon of futility which both of them preach to us happiness is identified with the destruction of our bounds. To have scanted no detail of such a teaching and even so to come to terms with simulacra!<br />
<br />
Blessed was the age when solitaries could plumb their depths without seeming obsessed, deranged. Their imbalance was not assigned a negative coefficient, as is the case for us. They would sacrifice ten, twenty years, a whole life, for a foreboding, for a flash of the absolute. The word „depth” has a meaning only in connection with epochs when the monk was considered as the noblest human exemplar. No one will gain – say the fact that he is in the process of disappearing. For centuries, he has done no more than survive himself. To whom would he address himself, in a universe which calls him a „parasite”? In Tibet, the last country where monks still mattered, they have been ruled out. Yet is was a rare consolation to think that thousands of thousands of hermits could be meditating there, today, on the themes of the prajnaparamita. Even if it had only odious aspects, monasticism would still be worth more than any other ideal. Now more then ever, we should build monasteries … for those who believe in everything and for those who believe in nothing. Where to escape? There no longer exist a single place where we can professionally execrate this world.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Cioran, The New GodsUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2698871524835140326.post-80027337820002980712016-04-25T00:45:00.000-07:002016-04-25T00:45:07.930-07:00A deep awareness of the impossibility of being happy"When a truly unfortunate man understands and feels a A deep awareness of
the impossibility of being happy, and the great and certain unhappiness
of humankind, he begins by becoming indifferent about himself, like
someone who can hope for nothing, and neither lose nor suffer more than
what he already knows and expects. But if misfortune reaches its peak,
indifference is not enough, and he loses nearly all his self-love (which
had already been so violated by this indifference), or rather directs
it in a way that is entirely contrary to normal behavior; he begins to
hate life, existence, and himself, he becomes abhorrent to himself, as
though he were an enemy, and that is when the prospect of new
misfortunes, or the idea and act of suicide, gives him a terrible and
almost barbarous joy, especially if he succeeds in killing himself while
being obstructed by others. That is the time of that malign, bitter,
and ironic smile, like that of a cruel man who has carried out a revenge
he has long, fervently, and impatiently desired. That smile is the last
expression of extreme despair and supreme unhappiness."<br />
<br />
<br />
(from
"Zibaldone" by Giacomo Leopardi, Michael Caesar, Franco D'Intino,
Kathleen Baldwin, Richard Dixon, David Gibbons, Ann Goldstein, Gerard
Slowey, Martin Thom, Pamela Williams)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2698871524835140326.post-74461332215852902652015-12-21T04:54:00.002-08:002015-12-21T04:54:36.411-08:00There is only one way out of this, namely, total separation from all the
world. But withdrawal from the world does not mean physical removal
from it. Rather, it is the withdrawal by the soul of any sympathy for
the body. One becomes stateless and homeless. One gives up possessions,
friends, ownership and property, livelihood, business connection, social
life and scholarship. The heart is made ready to receive the imprint of
sacred teaching, and this making ready involves the unlearning of
knowledge deriving from evil habits. To write on wax, one has first to
erase the letters previously written there, and to bring sacred teaching
to the soul one must begin by wiping out preoccupation rooted in
ordinary habits.<br />
<br />
<span class="posthilit">Basil</span> of Caesarea Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2698871524835140326.post-11896115945277456562015-12-21T04:40:00.002-08:002015-12-21T04:40:57.339-08:00Cioran<style type="text/css">BLOCKQUOTE { margin-left: 0.39in; margin-right: 0.39in; }P { margin-bottom: 0.08in; }A:link { color: rgb(0, 0, 128); text-decoration: underline; }</style>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Thinking about C., for who drinking
coffee is the only reason to exist. One day, with a trembling voice,
I was extolling Buddhism, he answered: "Nirvana, yes, but not
without coffee."<br />
We all have some mania that stops us from
unreservedly accepting complete happines.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<blockquote style="margin-left: 0in;">
Cow urine was the only medicine
monks had permission to use in the early Buddhist communities. A most
sensible measure. If one covets peace, one will attain it only in
rejecting whatever may cause trouble, whatever man has grafted onto
his original simplicity, his original health. Nothing speaks of our
fall more eloquently than the spectacle of a drugstore: remedies for
every ailment but the essential one, which no human nostrum will ever
cure.
</blockquote>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
All my life, I have lived with the
feeling that I have been kept from my true place. If the expression
"metaphysical exile" had no meaning, my existence alone
would afford it one.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Without excessive overconfidence, I
think that as regards perception, and even the experience of
emptiness, I went as far as several Buddhist or Tibetan hermits -
because everything I do revolves around this fundamental unreality.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
On the mantelpiece, the photograph of a
chimpanzee and a statuette of the Buddha. This proximity, more
accidental than intentional, makes me wonder over and over where my
place might be between these two extrems, man's pre and
transfiguration.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
,I was alone in that cemetery
overlooking the village when a pregnant woman came in. I left at
once, in order not to look at this corpse-bearer at dose range, nor
to ruminate upon the contrast between an aggressive womb and the
time-worn tombs-between a false promise and the end of all
promises.''<br />
<br />
- The Trouble With Being Born, Sever Books, 1976
(1973), page 151 -<br />
<br />
,And our very being - what a mistake, what
an injury to have adjoined it to existence, when we might have
persevered, intact, in the virtual, the invulnerable! No-one recovers
from the disease of being born, a deadly wound if ever there was one.
Yet it is with the hope of being cured of it some day that we accept
life and endure its ordeals. The years pass, the wound remains.''<br />
<br />
-
The Fall Into time, Quadrangle Books, 1970 (1964), page 69 -<br />
<br />
,,It
is our birth, in fact, that we must attend to if we want to extirpate
the evil at its source. We take a stand against death, against what
must come; birth, a much more irreparable event, we leave to one
side, pay little or no attention to it: to each man it appears as far
in the past as the world's first moment. Only a man who plans to
suppress himself reaches back that far; it seems he cannot forget the
unnamable mechanism of procreation and that he tries, by a
retrospective horror, to annihilate the very seed from which he has
sprung.''<br />
<br />
- The Fall Into time, Quadrangle Books, 1970 (1964),
pages 169-170 -<br />
<br />
,,To procreate is to love the scourge - to
seek to maintain and to augment it. They were right, those ancient
philosophers who identified fire with the principle of the universe,
and with desire, for desire burns, devours: annihilates: At once
agent and destroyer of beings, it is sombre, it is infernal by
essence.''<br />
<br />
- The New Gods, University of Chicago, 2013 (1969),
page 11 -<br />
<br />
,,In the Council of 1211 against the Bogomils, those
among them were anathematized who held that ,,woman conceives in her
womb by the cooperation of Satan, that Satan abides there upon
conception without withdrawing hence until the birth of the child.''
I dare not suppose that the Devil can be concerned with us to the
point of keeping us company for so many months; but I cannot doubt
that we have been conceived under his eyes and that he actually
attended our beloved begetters.'' <br />
<br />
- The New Gods, University
of Chicago, 2013 (1969), page 62 -<br />
<br />
,,The disgust with the
useful aspect of sexuality, the horror of procreation, constitutes
part of the interrogation of the creation: what is the good of
multiplying monsters?''<br />
<br />
- The New Gods, University of Chicago,
2013 (1969), page 62 -<br />
<br />
,,The mediocrity of my grief at
funerals. Impossible to feel sorry for the deceased; conversely,
every birth casts me into consternation. It is incomprehensible, it
is insane that people can show a baby, that they can exhibit this
potential disaster and rejoice over it.''<br />
<br />
- The New Gods,
University of Chicago, 2013 (1969), page 102 -<br />
<br />
,,We do not
rush toward death, we flee the catastrophe of birth, survivors
struggling to forget it. Fear of death is merely the projection into
the future of a fear which dates back to our first moment of life. We
are reluctant, of course, to treat birth as a scourge: has it not
been inculcated as the sovereign good-have we not been told that the
worst came at the end, not at the outset of our lives? Yet evil, the
real evil, is behind, not ahead of us. What escaped Jesus did not
escape Buddha: "If three things did not exist in the world,
disciples, the Perfect One would not appear in the world..." And
ahead of old age and death he places the fact of birth, source of
every infirmity, every disaster.''<br />
- The Trouble With Being Born,
Sever Books, 1976 (1973), page 4 -<br />
<br />
,,Nothing is a better proof
of how far humanity has regressed than the impossibility of finding a
single nation, a single tribe, among whom birth still provokes
mourning and lamentations.''<br />
<br />
- The Trouble With Being Born,
Sever Books, 1976 (1973), page 4 -<br />
<br />
,,To have committed every
crime but that of being a father.''<br />
<br />
- The Trouble With Being
Born, Sever Books, 1976 (1973), page 6 -<br />
<br />
,,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.''<br />
<br />
- The Trouble With Being Born, Sever
Books, 1976 (1973), page 19 -<br />
<br />
,,In Buddhist writings, mention
is often made of "the abyss of birth". An abyss indeed, a
gulf into which we do not fall but from which, instead, we emerge, to
our universal chagrin.''<br />
<br />
- The Trouble With Being Born, Sever
Books, 1976 (1973), page 33 -<br />
<br />
,,Everything is wonderfully
clear if we admit that birth is a disastrous or at least an
inopportune event; but if we think otherwise, we must resign
ourselves to the unintelligible, or else cheat like everyone
else.''<br />
<br />
- The Trouble With Being Born, Sever Books, 1976
(1973), page 98 -<br />
<br />
,,That faint light in each of us which dates
back to before our birth, to before all births, is what must be
protected if we want to rejoin that remote glory from which we shall
never know why we were separated.''<br />
<br />
- The Trouble With Being
Born, Sever Books, 1976 (1973), page 157 -<br />
<br />
,,If it is true
that by death we once more become what we were before being, would it
not have been better to abide by that pure possibility, not to stir
from it? What use was this detour, when we might have remained
forever in an unrealized plenitude?''<br />
<br />
- The Trouble With Being
Born, Sever Books, 1976 (1973), page 147 -<br />
<br />
,,When every man
has realized that his birth is a defeat, existence, endurable at
last, will seem like the day after a surrender, like the relief and
the repose of the conquered.''<br />
<br />
- The Trouble With Being Born,
Sever Books, 1976 (1973), page 181 - <br />
<br />
,,Birth and chain are
synonyms. To see the light of day, to see shackles...''<br />
<br />
- The
Trouble With Being Born, Sever Books, 1976 (1973), page 211 -<br />
<br />
,,Not
to be born is undoubtedly the best plan of all. Unfortunately it is
within no one's reach.''<br />
<br />
- The Trouble With Being Born, Sever
Books, 1976 (1973), page 212 -<br />
<br />
,,Birth, what an exile!''<br />
<br />
-
Cahiers, 1957-1972 -<br />
<br />
,,Anyone who lives is defeated and birth
is a foretaste of capitulation.''<br />
<br />
- Cahiers, 1957-1972
-<br />
<br />
,,Every birth is a capitulation.''<br />
<br />
- Cahiers,
1957-1972 -<br />
<br />
,,The only thing I know - I flatter myself that I
understood it already, when I was twenty years old - that one should
not procreate.''<br />
<br />
- Cahiers, 1957-1972 -<br />
<br />
,,Crime is to
transmit, through procreation, one’s frailties to someone else, to
force someone to experience the same things we are experiencing:
Gehenna, which may be even worse than our own. I could never consent
to give life to someone who would inherent my miseries.''<br />
<br />
-
Cahiers, 1957-1972 -<br />
<br />
,,Compassion makes you not want to be a
,,progenitor''. This is the cruelest word I know.''<br />
<br />
- Cahiers,
1957-1972 -
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2698871524835140326.post-61199637684341288702015-12-21T02:03:00.004-08:002015-12-21T02:03:43.123-08:00Degradation Through Work<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />"Men generally work too much to be themselves. Work is a curse which man has turned into pleasure. To work for work’s sake, to enjoy a fruitless endeavor, to imagine that you can fulfill yourself through assiduous labor—all that is disgusting and incomprehensible. Permanent and uninterrupted work dulls, trivializes, and depersonalizes. Work displaces man’s center of interest from the subjective to the objective realm of things. In consequence, man no longer takes an interest in his own destiny but focuses on facts and things. What should be an activity of permanent transfiguration becomes a means of exteriorization, of abandoning one’s inner self. In the modern world, work signifies a purely external activity; man no longer makes himself through it, he makes things. That each of us must have a career, must enter upon a certain form of life which probably does not suit us, illustrates work’s tendency to dull the spirit. Instead of living for himself—not selfishly but growing spiritually—man has become the wretched, impotent slave of external reality.<br /><br />Where have they all gone; ecstasy, vision, exaltation? Where is the supreme madness or the genuine pleasure of evil? The negative pleasure one finds in work partakes of the poverty and banality of daily life, its pettiness. Why not abandon this futile work and begin anew without repeating the same wasteful mistake? Is subjective consciousness of eternity not enough? It is the feeling for eternity that the frenetic activity and trepidation of work has destroyed in us. Work is the negation of eternity. The more goods we acquire in the temporal realm, the more intense our external work, the less accessible and farther removed is eternity. Hence the limited perspective of active and energetic people, the banality of their thought and actions. I am not contrasting work to either passive contemplation or vague dreaminess, but to an unrealizable transfiguration; nevertheless, I prefer an intelligent and observant laziness to intolerable, terrorizing activity. To awaken the modern world, one must praise laziness. The lazy man has an infinitely keener perception of metaphysical reality than the active one."<br /><br /><br />Emil <span class="posthilit">Cioran</span>, On the Heights of DespairUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2698871524835140326.post-6596457046129240252015-12-21T02:01:00.001-08:002015-12-21T02:01:54.625-08:00The more goods we acquire in the temporal realm, the more intense our external work, the less accessible and farther removed is eternity<blockquote class="uncited">
<div>
The more goods we acquire in the
temporal realm, the more intense our external work, the less accessible
and farther removed is eternity. Hence the limited perspective of active
and energetic people, the banality of their thought and actions. -- <span class="posthilit">Cioran</span></div>
</blockquote>
<br />There's a word in Pali <span style="font-style: italic;">bāhulika</span>
that is usually translated as "luxurious", though in his draft
translation of the Majjhima Nikāya Ven. Ñanamoli sometimes translates it
as "busy". I've always thought of this as being a bit idiosyncratic,
but this passage from <span class="posthilit">Cioran</span> makes it apparent that the two words aren't as dissimilar as one might suppose.<br />
<br />
(from Dhamma forum)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2698871524835140326.post-20978776602100887682015-12-21T01:53:00.000-08:002015-12-21T01:53:08.400-08:00To what extend I am responsible for my own birth?<div class="content">
To what extend I am responsible for my own birth? I am responsible for it, in so far I am glad to be born.<br /><br /><span class="posthilit">Cioran</span><br /><br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2698871524835140326.post-36333150223333882242015-12-21T01:51:00.001-08:002015-12-21T01:51:25.127-08:00The sin of having been born.Here, as always, Proust is completely detached from all moral
considerations. There is no right and wrong in Proust nor in his world.
(Except possibly in those passages dealing with the war, when for a
space he ceases to be an artist and raises his voice with the plebs,
mob, rabble, canaille.) Tragedy is not concerned with human justice.
Tragedy is the statement of an expiation, but not the miserable
expiation of a codified breach of a local arrangement, organised by the
knaves for the fools. The tragic figure represents the expiation of
original sin, of the original and eternal sin of him and all his ‘soci
malorum,’ the sin of having been born.<br /><br /><i>‘Pues el delito mayor<br />Del hombre es haber nacido.’</i><br />
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S. Beckett <i><br /></i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2698871524835140326.post-1274810078906055322015-12-21T01:49:00.000-08:002015-12-21T01:49:19.423-08:00 History is a dimension man could have done without
E M <span class="posthilit">Cioran</span> on Samuel Beckett:<br /><br />
He lives not in time but parallel to it, which is why it has never occurred to me to ask him what he thinks of events. He is one of those beings who make you realize that history is a dimension man could have done without.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2698871524835140326.post-66584036939900054032015-12-21T01:47:00.000-08:002015-12-21T01:47:04.583-08:00Can we conceive a Buddha faithful to his truths and to his palace? “After so much imposture, so much fraud, it is comforting to contemplate a beggar. He, at least, neither lies nor lies to himself: his doctrine, if he has one, he embodies; work he dislikes, and he proves it; wanting to possess nothing, he cultivates his impoverishment, the condition of his freedom. His thought is resolved into his being and his being into his thought. He has nothing, he is himself, he endures: to live on a footing with eternity is to live from day to day, from hand to mouth. Thus, for him, other men are imprisoned in illusion. If he depends on them, he takes his revenge by studying them, a specialist in the underbelly of “noble” sentiments. His sloth, of a very rare quality, truly “delivers” him from a world of fools and dupes. About renunciation he knows more than many of your esoteric works. To be convinced of this, you need only walk out into the street … But you prefer the texts that teach mendicancy. Since no practical consequence accompanies your meditations, it will not be surprising that the merest bum is worth more than you … Can we conceive a Buddha faithful to his truths and to his palace? One is not “delivered-alive” and still a land-owner. I reject the generalization of the lie, I repudiate those who exhibit their so-called “salvation” and prop it with a doctrine which does not emanate from themselves. To unmask them, to knock them off the pedestal they have hoisted themselves on, to hold them up to scorn is a campaign no one should remain indifferent to. For at any price we must keep those who have too clear a conscience from living and dying in peace.”<br /><br />― Emil <span class="posthilit">Cioran</span>, The Temptation to Exist<br /><br /><br />“Explosive force of any mortification. Every vanquished desire affords us power. We have the more hold over this world the further we withdraw from it, the less we adhere to it. Renunciation confers an infinite power.”<br /><br />― Emil <span class="posthilit">Cioran</span>, The Trouble With Being BornUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2698871524835140326.post-12907497789981361002015-12-21T01:44:00.001-08:002015-12-21T01:44:59.923-08:00Our withdrawal from life is a purely practical matter<br />„Nothing is better proof of how humanity has regressed than the impossibility of finding a single nation, a single tribe, among whom birth still provokes mourning and lamentation”. (TBB 4). At the best we can say that humanity has adjusted itself to its temporal condition and learned to survive it without suicide, but that is not much to show for millennia of conscious existence: „After having botched the true eternity, man has fallen into time, where he has managed if not to flourish at least to live; in any case he has adjusted himself to it. The process of this fall and this adjustment is called History. (FT 180)<br /><br />In this circumstance, what Cioran can suggest amounts to no more than an adjustment to that „adjustment”. Like Schopenhauer's instructions for the construction of a fire-proof room, he attempts to adapt to situation that is fundamentally hellish. And like Schopenhauer, his suggestions have a tone that is ascetical, to a point, stoic. But whereas Schopenhauer predicated the idea of withdrawal or resignation from life on the claim that time-consciousness was something fundamentally unreal and that, in approaching nirvana, we actually approach true knowledge, Cioran does not comfort himself with the idea of an alternate reality or a compensatory knowledge. Our withdrawal from life is a purely practical matter: „As for happiness, if this word has a meaning, it consists in the aspiration to the minimum and the ineffectual, in the notion of limitation hypothesized. Our sole recourse: to renounce not only the fruit of action, but action itself (FT 65). Cioran technique then, is to radicalize the isolation that our time-consciousness creates, almost to the point of hermitage. Rather then strive after an impossible renunciation, we should rest (not rest content, just rest) within our boundaries. In this way we will minimize our unhappiness, be free from illusion, and do the least harm to others.(...)<br /><br />Like the earlier pessimists, Cioran associates ends-oriented activity with frustration and suffering. On the daily level, this suggest that we ought to cease our pursuit of objects outside ourselves, whatever their nature: „Civilization instructs us how to take hold of things, wheres it is the art of letting go that it should teach us .. Every new acquisition signifies a new chain” (FT 69). But this behavior if generalized, amounts to an „art of living”, albeit a monastic one – a withdrawal, insofar as humanly possible, from the effects of time. While we cannot leap out of time in ecstatic fashion, we can hunker down, as it were, mark our doors with blood, and let the worst of it pass over us. Thus, to Cioran is the condition that we ought to call freedom: if we were to wrest ourselves from our desires we should thereby wrest ourselves from destiny; … by the sacrifice of our identity we would accede to freedom, inseparable from training in anonymity and abdication. 'I am no one, I have conquered my name' exclaims the man who, reaching the degradation of leaving tracts, tries to conform to Epicurus's commend: „Hide your life'”. (FT 66) While the passage makes the freedom Cioran describes sound entirely negative, elsewhere, as we have seen, he describes the release from destiny as something that should „delight our hearts” on the grounds that it liberates the individual in the most radical way possible (SHD 149).<br /><br />Epicurus is the figure to whom Cioran recurs on several occasions always as an example of the sort philosopher he would like to emulate, one who has stop thinking and .. begun to search for happiness. (TS 50). While showing no interest in Epicurean metaphysic, Cioran directly identifies with the idea of a search for an „art of living” and with a practical approach to pleasure and pain. But where Epicurus recommended friendship as a core element of personal happiness, Cioran's stringent search for nothingness ends in isolation: „I suppressed word after word from my vocabulary. When that massacre was over, only one had escaped: Solitude. I awakened euphoric” (TBB 92). To escape our destiny, we must escape from all trappings of social existence, which constantly threaten, as Rousseau argued, to generate new desires and aims for which we will futilely strive. Even more then hiding our lives, Cioran's advice, in effect, is to hide your soul. He replaces ecstasy of transfiguration with the satisfactions of solitude. The atheist mystic has become an atheistic monk.<br />Joshua Foa Dienstag<br />from: Pessimism: Philosophy, Ethic, SpiritUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2698871524835140326.post-64435009781123555232015-12-21T01:40:00.002-08:002015-12-21T01:40:50.387-08:00It's harder than you think to gain disciples<span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-weight: normal;">"On this immaculate page, a gnat was making a dash for it. "Why be in such a hurry? Where are you going, what are you looking for? Relax!" I screamed out in the middle of the night. I would have been so pleased to see it collapse! It's harder than you think to gain disciples."</span></div>
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<br /><span class="posthilit">Cioran</span>, Anathemas and AdmirationsUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2698871524835140326.post-23671002438456350512015-12-21T01:38:00.003-08:002015-12-21T01:38:56.334-08:00If life occupies the first place in the hierarchy of lies, love comes immediately afterward, lie within the lieIf life occupies the first place in the
hierarchy of lies, love comes immediately afterward, lie within the
lie. Expression of our hybrid position, love is surrounded by an
apparatus of beatitudes and torments thanks to which we find in someone a
substitute for ourselves. By what hoax do two eyes turn us away from
our solitude? Is there any failure more humiliating for the mind? Love
lulls knowledge; wakened, knowledge kills love. Unreality cannot triumph
indefinitely, even disguised in the appearances of the most exalting
lie. And moreover who would have an illusion solid enough to find in the
other what he has vainly sought in himself? Would a furnace of guts
afford what the whole universe could not give us? And yet this is the
actual basis of this common, and supernatural, anomaly: to solve à deux
rather, to suspend—all enigmas; by means of an imposture, to forget that
fiction in which life is steeped; by a double murmur to fill the
general vacuity; and—parody of ecstasy—to drown oneself at last in the
sweat of some accomplice or other. . . .<br />
<br /><span class="posthilit">Cioran</span>, A Short History of Decay<br />translation: Richard Howard<br />p. 56Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2698871524835140326.post-82077479111971596752015-12-21T01:36:00.000-08:002015-12-21T01:39:18.710-08:00Modern complacency is limitless<div style="text-align: justify;">
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Modern complacency is limitless: we suppose ourselves more enlightened, more profound than all the centuries behind us, forgetting that the teaching of a Buddha confronted thousands of beings with the problem of nothingness, a problem we imagine we have discovered because we have changed its terms and introduced a touch of erudition into it. But what Western thinker would survive a comparison with a Buddhist monk? We lose ourselves in texts and terminologies: meditation is a datum unknown to modern philosophy. If we want to keep some intellectual decency, enthusiasm for civilization must be banished from our mind, as well as the superstition of History. As for the great problems, we have no advantage over our ancestors or our more recent predecessors: men have always known everything, at least in what concerns the Essential; modern philosophy adds nothing to Chinese, Hindu, or Greek philosophy. Moreover, there cannot be a new problem, despite our naïvete or our infatuation which would like to persuade us to the contrary. </div>
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<span class="posthilit">Cioran</span>, A Short History of Decay<br />
translation: Richard HowardUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0