carte trebuie sa adanceasca rani, sa le provoace chiar,
O carte trebuie sa fie o primejdie, “
Cioran This collection of several essaymeditations and "Stabs at Bewilderment," a delightfully titled! collection of aphorisms has less spark, but still some of that tension between anguish and love of life that made his early book Tears and Saints so magnetic.
This is only the second Cioran book I've read I can't speak much yet about On the Heights of Despair which I've only just started.
His aphorisms, personal and philosophical, seem to open a window into a fascinating, delightfully paradoxical soul a poet of anguish who was somehow able to embue inner suffering with humor at times, without reducing its intensity, His thoughts quite different from my own often astonished me, and I wanted to open my mind and heart to receive these intellectual and emotional heights and depths although not as great in range as in his earlier books more weary but also more willing to laugh at himself even in his choice of title.
I admit to feeling a bit of contempt at times for the seemingly relentless despair, but at other times the expression of darkness was quite cathartic and then I'd catch undertones of joy.
I often laughed aloud. I marked many aphorisms to come back and reread, Among the essays, the highlight or perhaps high darkness was "Urgency of the Worst," a vastly despairing meditation on the End of History, very much in spirit of the midtwentieth century.
As if pessimism talks to you about what it is like, still it is so good and informative that you can't stop reading "Esistere è un plagio"
Giunta a pagina settantacinque su centosettantasette ho un'urgenza di stellinatura.
Procedo con l'operazione.
Visto che ci sono, qualche minuto dopo, riporto uno dei trenta passaggi che vorrei trascrivere, Questo:
"Quello che ci rovina, no, quello che ci ha rovinati, è la sete di un destino, di un destino qualunque e se questa debolezza, chiave del divenire storico, ci ha distrutti, ci ha annientati, nello stesso tempo ci avrà salvati, dandoci il gusto della rovina, il desiderio di un avvenimento che superasse tutti gli avvenimenti, di una paura che superasse tutte le paure.
Dato che la catastrofe è l'unica soluzione, e la poststoria, nell'ipotesi che possa seguire ad essa, l'unico sbocco, l'unica possibilità è lecito chiedersi se l'umanità quale essa è non avrebbe interesse a cancellarsi adesso piuttosto che estenuarsi e afflosciarsi nell'attesa, esponendosi ad un'era di agonia in cui rischierebbe di perdere ogni ambizione, anche quella di sparire".
Aggiungo due righe per riprendere coscienza e procedere serena ! obbligandomi a ricordare che, quando si parla di Cioran, per definire 'catastrofe' e 'cancellazione' si può comodamente attingere alla mistica, anzi, si deve.
Il che rende più che plausibile la riconciliazione tra atteggiamento antistorico e disposizione storica, E mi risolve un fastidiosissimo senso di appagamento fisico a prescindere, qualsiasi pronunciamento accompagni le irruzioni del Solitario nei miei giorni,
Continuo a leggere, A pagina ottantasei trovo questo:
"Ciò che non si può tradurre in termini di mistica non merita di essere vissuto", What a bummer. The End of the End
Drawn and Quartered begins with an account of the Gnostic myth of the origin of mankind.
Originally part of the heavenly host, human beings were unable to make up their minds whether to join the battle of the angels for or against God.
For this indecision, we were banished to earth, The essential feature of our existence here is its lack of meaning, an appropriate punishment indeed, which we constantly attempt to escape by inventing stories like the Gnostic myth.
This “truth of no truth” is the ultimate truth, as it were, “Our only choice is between irrespirable truths and salutary frauds, ” We must hide from the truth in order to exist at all, This is “an inhuman truth,” one that is both inhumane and beyond the ability of our species to comprehend it, So we do our best to avoid it, The principal tool of our selfdelusion is history, Without history we are already in what theologians call the eschaton , the end times, “History is the obstacle to ultimate revelation, ”
Francis Fukuyama was right therefore when he declared the End of History in, but not in the sense he imagined.
Cioran anticipated his point, and radicalized it, long before Fukuyama had made it: “Henceforth there will be no more events!” they will exclaim” in.
Fukuyama was referring to the inevitability of democratic capitalism as the future of the political world, Given subsequent events, Fukuyama was merely guilty of wishful thinking, Cioran got it right: it is when a political system looks most permanent that it is most vulnerable to being swept away, This is the truth hiding in Fukuyamas error,
This is what the eschaton looks like, We inhabit it. We have always lived in it but have taught ourselves not to notice, This is an error whose truth we cannot conceive, In the midst of the end we are unable to appreciate it for what it is: the absence of any meaning we have been trying incessantly to impose upon the world.
There is nothing more beyond this, Even the end has no meaning, “The truth is, history does not quite lack essence, since it is the essence of deception, key to all that blinds us, all that helps us live in time.
” For Cioran , history is “the rush toward a future where nothing ever becomes again” His suggestion is that we stop rushing we have arrived.
Proverb chinezesc: "Când un singur câine seapucă să latre la o umbră, zece mii de câini fac din ea o realitate.
" De pus ca motto înaintea oricărui comentariu despre ideologii, Todo el recorrido histórico de este libro, más el plus de realidad ha sido muy oportuno,
Doubt works deep within you like a disease or, even more effectively, like a faith,I am incapable of tiring of Cioran, His pessimism is so freaking lyrical, his aphorisms so exquisitely timbered, his arpeggiated paragraphs and chorded essays so harmonic in their opaline darkness, their existential deliquescence, their inertial braggadocio, that I'm reduced to fanboy relish every time.
Our only choice is between irrespirable truths and salutary frauds,Et cetera, inter alia, e pluribus unum, . .
Like tragedy, history resolves nothing, because there is nothing to resolve, It is always by failure that we study the future, Too bad we cannot breathe as if events, in their totality, were
suspended! Each time they evidence themselves a little too much, we suffer a fit of determinism, of fatalistic rage.
By free will we explain only the surface of history, the appearances it assumes, its external vicissitudes, but not its depths, its real course, which preserves, in spite of everything, a baffling, even a mysterious character.
We are still amazed that Hannibal, after Cannae, did not fall upon Rome, Had he done so, we should be boasting today of our Carthaginian ancestry, To maintain that whim, that accident, hence the individual, play no part, is folly, Yet each time we envisage the future as a totality, the verdict of the Mahahharata invariably comes to mind: "The knot of Destiny cannot be untied nothing in this world is the result of our actions.
"
History in slow motion has inexorably been replaced by history out of breath, Institutions, societies, civilizations differ in duration and significance, yet all are subject to one and the same law, which decrees that the invincible impulse, the factor of their rise, must sag and settle after a certain time, this decadence corresponding to a slackening of that energizer which is.
. . delirium. Compared with periods of expansion, of dementia really, those of decline seem sane and are so, are too much sowhich makes them almost as deadly as the others.
Historical time is so tense, so strained, that it is hard to see how it can keep from exploding, At each of its moments it gives the impression that it is on the point of breaking,
Nothing makes us modest, not even the sight of a corpse,
I have always been attracted by lost causes, by individuals without a hope of success, whose follies I have espoused until I suffer from them almost as much as they do.
I do not struggle against the world, I struggle against a greater force, against my weariness of the world,
I try to oppose the interest I take in her, I imagine her eyes, her cheeks, her nose, her lips in a high state of putrefaction.
No help for it: the indefinable element she releases persists, It is in such moments that one understands why life has managed to sustain itself, in spite of Knowledge,
Does he tend to wend the same groove Is his bile, at sixty, a touch less deliriously effervescent, a shade more risible, than when he was a Romanian stripling yearning for the void from Transylvanian thickets Does such as his mistaken belief that the Communist world would outlast an enervated West lay bare the veils and glamours through which his raking eye was selfdeceived Sure.
But with his gorgeous tongue, I say let the man have his blasphemous gall, let him inspiritingly rail, let him prune humanity's shrubs, It's not like contentment or happiness is mandatory, .