Emil Cioran VIII, & The Apotheosis of Groundlessness
The eighth set of my translations-variations [translations with changes / additions / subtractions, etc.] of Emil Cioran’s untranslated notebooks [Cahiers], covering the period June 10 1963 — October 20 1963. Underneath that are some half-translations (/half-additions) from Lev Shestov’s The Apotheosis of Groundlessness.
June 10 1963
Twenty-three years ago, I wrote Lacrimi și Sfinți.1 Since then, despite not shedding a single tear, I haven’t stopped crying.
Yeats — a miracle! After Dickinson, how could I possibly love another poet?
A lucid man who endures life to the very end proves he is holy. But had he known in advance he was holy — this would have humiliated him to death.2
There are no pure feelings between people who do the same thing. Novelists hate each other, philosophers hate each other and poets — especially poets — hate each other.
Adam was only a beginner; Cain is our only real ancestor.
The accusation that I am aiming at glory humiliates me; if I achieve it, it will be proved beyond doubt.
June 21 1963
At your age, I wanted to tell the old lady, it’s not appropriate to fear death.
July 9 1963
In their decadence, the Romans wanted only one thing: Grecian relaxation. Exactly what, prior to their decadence, they had hated most.
July 15 1963
Confronted by the bereaved, we fall back on commonplaces: everything dies, great and small, even empires eventually pass away… At least we admit, in repeating these banalities, that there is no such thing as consolation.
‘It’s too late,’ I said, declining to ‘tour the United States.’ The journalist began to argue that it was not too late, he even said that it was never too late. No, it’s always too late; if this were not true, I would have already killed myself.
‘Who has not found the heaven below / will fail of it above3.’ I dream of a total philosophical system consisting only of Emily Dickinsonisms —
X, aged 85, speaks about his death as if it were a distant and unlikely event. Having reached such an advanced age, it’s only natural that he’s become accustomed to life.
This morning, a blind beggar in the metro held out his hand to me. I froze; it was obvious he wished to pass his blindness onto me.
I always go to a meeting with the feeling that I’m missing my only chance to be a genius.
The first condition of a perfect society: being able to kill everyone you hate.
“Nothing authorises you to be sincere with me.”
August 16th 1963
I woke with a start at around four a.m., feeling that I would remain awake forever, that there was no longer a place for me in the world of sleep.