By E. M. Cioran
“In the actual fact of being born there's such a scarcity of necessity that after you consider it a bit greater than ordinary you're left . . . with a silly grin.”
E. M. Cioran confronts where of brand new global within the context of human history—focusing on such significant problems with the 20 th century as human development, fanaticism, and science—in this nihilistic and witty number of aphoristic essays about the nature of civilization in mid-twentieth-century Europe. Touching upon Man's have to worship, the feebleness of God, the downfall of the traditional Greeks and the depression baseness of all lifestyles, Cioran's items are pessimistic within the severe, but in addition show a stunning sure bet that renders them soft, brilliant, and noteworthy. Illuminating and brutally sincere, A brief historical past of Decay dissects Man's decadence in a notable sequence of relocating and lovely items.
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Additional resources for A Short History of Decay
He has a voice: that is enough. It costs us dear to be neither deaf nor dumb. . From snobs to scavengers, all expend their criminal generosity, all hand out formulas for happiness, all try to give directions: life in common thereby becomes intolerable, and life with oneself still more so; if you fail to meddle in other people’s business you are so uneasy about your, own that you convert your “self” into a religion, or, apostle in reverse, you deny it altogether; we are victims of the universal game.
We need merely proceed to an investigation of ourselves, only undertake the archaeology of our alarms. If we venture into the torment of the days, it is because nothing halts this march except our pangs; those of others seem to us explicable and capable of being transcended: we believe they suffer because they lack sufficient will, courage, or lucidity. Each suffering, except ours, seems to us legitimate or absurdly intelligible; otherwise, mourning would be the unique constant in the versatility of our sentiments.
It is more than likely that crime would become the sole diversion, that debauchery would seem candor, shouting melody and jeers tenderness. The sensation of time’s immensity would make each second into an intolerable torment, a sublime firing squad. In hearts imbued with poetry would appear a blasé cannibalism and a hyena’s melancholy; butchers and executioners would die out—of lethargy; churches and brothels would split with sighs. The universe transformed into a Sunday afternoon . . it is the very definition of ennui, and the end of the universe.