Certain mornings, poorly wakened, poorly reconciled with the day, I seem to hear my name pronounced by passers-by, carried by the air. Today, November 28, at the post office on the Rue de Vaugirard, an old woman telephoned in a booth, and I heard: Cioran… Even she spoke of me. It is ridiculous and terrible. What a symptom!
There still happen to be people who believe that I am “usable”, no, I cannot get over it!
There is no madness in my family; otherwise, I would live in constant fear.
A skeptic and one all wrapped together…
To remain forever in an unstable equilibrium.
I have the sentiment of nothingness, but I have no humility. The sentiment of nothingness is the contrary of humility.
He who hates himself is not humble.