eSubtitles by tranquil87 (Etienne-Emile Antikatastaseis)In the beginning of the '80s,21 de l'Odeon Street, Paris,In three garret rooms joined together to serve as an apartmentlives a sage.The legend says that, insomniac,he works during the night and never sees anyone.Even though many of his books have been rewarded with prizes,which he has all refused,the general public ignores who he is.But the man is indifferent towards it.Emil Cioran, or simply Cioran, like we sayVoltaire, Rousseau or Nietzsche,contents himself with thinking and writing at his own rhythmn."It is incredible that the prospect of having a biographerhas made no one renounce having a life.""A portrait is only interestingif we record its ridiculousness.This is why it is so difficult to write about a friendor on a contemporary author that we esteem.It is the absurdities that humanize a character.""If Nietzsche, Proust, Baudelaire or Rimbaud survive the fluctuations of fashions,they owe it to the disinterestedness of their cruelty,to their demonic surgery,to the generosity of their spleen.What makes a work last,what prevents it to age,is its ferocity.A gratuitous affirmation?Consider the prestige of the Gospels,that aggressive book,a venomous text if ever there was one."In 1986,A small book of portraits,"Anathemas and Admirations",finally makes him known.Cioran becomes a reference;The moralist of the end of our era.But of this moralist we know next to nothing.Only that he is of Romanian origins,and that he abandonned his original language for Frenchuntil he became one of our greatest writer of proseand that, contrary to the legend,he knows a lot of people."But who really is Cioran?"To see things as they really are...renders life almost completely intolerable.Myself because I have, I believe, at least in partthings as they really are,I could never act.I have always remained on the fringe of actions.So, is it desirable that people come to see things as they really are?I don't know...I believe that, in general,people are incapable of it.So therefore it is true that only a monstercan see things as they really are,because the monster lies outside of humanity."Cioran doesn't profit from his recent successin France and abroad.Afflicted with Alzheimer's diseasehe is hospitalized at the Broca Hospital,where he will never get out ofand where he dies four years later,the 21st of June, 1995."Death is the solidest thing life has invented, so far."Right then, the polemic explodes.The very night of his burial,An article in "Le Monde" ("The World") initiates the attack:Cioran was, in his youth,close to the Iron Guard,a Romanian crypto-fascist movement.And thus, the adversary of utopias,had praised Hitler;the paragon of tolerance had been anti-semitic.Only just inaugurated, the new godbecomes the devil...but who really is Cioran?"Am I a renegade like you insinuate?"A homeland is but a camp in the desert",says a Tibetan text.I don't go as far:I would give all the landcapes of the world for that of my childhood.And I must add, though, that if I make a paradise out of it,only the tricks or infirmity of memorycan be held responsible.Pursued by our origins, we all are."I was born in a village in,the Carpathian Mountains,at 12 Km from Sibiu - Harmannstadt.I liked the farmers very much.Really, I kind of worshiped them.I really loved this village.My father was a priest,My mother, curiously, was not a believerand because of that was much more open-minded than my father,he had faith, but he wasn't some kind of fanatic,not at all, it was just his career.Pope in a large village,Cioran's father is an important character,a prominent citizenand a man of letters,Who will later teach theology courses,at the faculty of theology of Sibiu.Orthodoxy is then in Transilvania, much more than just a religion.It is, with the language, the only national cement of Romania.Even though they have the majority rule, they have lived for centuriesunder Hungarian domination.The Cioran family is very united.Will be born successively:Virginia, said 'Gica',then Emiland, finally Aurel, nicknamed Relu,with whom Cioran will correspond during all his life.Initially I despised my mother,then one day she told me:"For me, there is only Bach."From this moment on,I realized I resembled her."When I bring to mind my years in the Carpathians,I have to make an effort not to cry.It's very simpleI cannot imagine that there could be someone whose childhoodcould compare to mine.The sky and the earth belonged to me, literally,even my apprehensions were joyful:I would get up and go to bedas master of creation.I was conscious of my happiness and could forsee that I was going to lose it.A secret fear was eating away at my days.""I sensed in this afternoon of my childhood,that a very severe event had just occurred:it was the first awakening, the first clue:the precusory sign of self-awareness.Up until that day I had only been a being,starting at that point I was more and less than that.Every 'I' begins with a crackand a revelation.""When I left this village, at 10 years oldto go to college in Sibiu...I will never forget the day my father brought me to Sibiu.I was crying,I had some kind of premonition: paradise was over.""The task of the solitary man is to be even more solitary.""Adrift in the Vague,I clign to each wisp of affliction as to a drowning man's plank.""Children whose parents do not make them blushare irrevocably condemned to mediocrity.Nothing leads to sterility more than to admire one's progenitors."At the beginning of classes in September 1921,Emil is transfered in a pension in Sibiu,where he follows the courses of the college Gheorghe Lazar.Solitude, associated with boredomis for him a painful discovery.He will later go on to speak of a sentiment of a "fall into time".Essentially, boredom is centered upon timeon the horror of time, on the fear of time,the disclosure of time,the awareness of time.those who are not aware of time passing do not get bored.It's not the time that passes,it's the time that doesn't pass."Excellent student,Cioran accumulates the 'very good' marks on his school reportsHe is also an avid reader.At the Astra libraryfounded in the 19th century, by Romanian Nationalists,he becomes passionate about Dostoeyvskyand he discovers the 18th century French literature: Voltaire, Diderot and Rousseau,from whom he copies entire pages."In my early youth-he would later write, to his friend, the philosopher Constantin Noica-seduced me solely the libraries and the brothels."Founded by German colonists in the 12th century,Sibiu was first named Hermannstadtand only took its actual name in 1920,during the rejoining of Transylvania with the Greater Romania.Sibiu is then a great cosmopolitan citywhere we speak three languages: German, Hungarian and Romanian.In 1924, the father of Cioran is nominated Proto-Pope in Sibiu,a sort of archdeacon, we could say.His family comes over to join him; they move into a large Bourgeois home,on Tribunal Street,located right next to the Orthodox Church.50 years later, Cioran will write to his brother:"My dear Relu,I contemplated with an unspeakable nostalgiathis little solitary streetwhere I would love to walk at this moment.Impossible to imagine my youth without it.The decaying of the houses confers to them an additional poetic trait;and the color of these large roofs...a city for adolescents and old men."After my city of birththis is the city that I have adored the most,this is where, I told myself, the biggest drama of my life occured,which lasted multiple years:I lost my ability to sleep.And I consider that to be the biggest dramathat can happen in a life.I would go out after midnight walk around in the streets,where there was only me and prostitutes.The nights in Sibiu were the most extraordinary moments in my life.""During hours I would walk around at night,similar to a ghost.People thought I was deranged."Insomnia will follow Cioran during all his lifeit will be the foundation, in part, of his worldview."More than once I happened to get out of my house...""...because if I had stayed, I wasn't sure that I could resistsome sudden resolution.The street is more reassuring, because we think less about ourself,and everything there just weakens and deteriorates,starting with dismay.""We learn more during one sleepless nightthan we do during one year of being able to sleep.Might as well say thatgetting beaten up is much more instructive than napping."The Bucarest where Cioran comes to frequent the courses of the Faculty of Philosophyis no longer the peaceful capital of the small off-centered kingdom ofMoldavia and Wallachia.It's the industrial center, financial and cultural, of a country that has nearlydoubled in both surface and population.It's a city which wants itself to be elegant, European:the "little Paris of the Balcans",which Paul Morand will later come to describein a famous book titled,"Bucarest".Cioran integrates himself rapidly within the intellectual milieu of the capital.He frequents the fashionable establishments:Capsa, the Corso Cafe, the brewery Caru cu Bere.This doesn't prevent him from obtaining his degree with distinction in Philosophy.He is published at 23 years old, withhis first book with noticeable Nietzschean accents:"On the Heights of Despair".The Romanian youth of the '30s,lead by Mircea Eliade,the future great historian of religions,recognizes him as one of them;but Cioran is far already.Having obtained a scholarship he goes to study in Germany.Initially in Berlin, then in Dresdenand finally in Munich.He witnesses the establishing of Hitler's dictatorship,He observes the auto-da-fé's, the pogrom of the "Night of Broken Glass",the major Nazi gatherings.and the future skeptic . . . is enthusiastic.Correspondent of the weekly, far-right Romanian paper "Vremea" ("The Time"),he praises the Nazi lifestyle:its heroism, its mysticism.He applauds the taking-out of the SA during the "Night of the Long Knives".He finally writes: "there are no political men in today's worldwhich inspire in me more sympathy and admiration than Hitler".Back in his country, in the grip of a permanent political crisis,Cioran publishes a nationalist book:"The Transfiguration of Romania", which contains anti-semitic chapters.While praising the Jewish as the most intelligent,talented and insolent peoples in the world;he also writes: "We must understand once and for all,that the Jews are not interested in living in a strong Romania,one conscious of itself".But Cioran is not an activist,He is a passionate man, who is enthusiastic about the Iron Guard,a strange Fascist - but also mystical - movement.Its leader, Codreanu the Captain,wants to operate a moral regeneration of Romania;but contrarily to Mircea Eliadeand to the majority of the young Romanian intelligentsia,Cioran will never adhere to the Legionary a text recovered after his death,undoubtedly written in the '50s,Cioran will do his self-criticism.I'm very knowledgeable on the topic of obsessionI have had more of them than anybody.I know how much grip an idea can have on you,how far it can take you, what it can lead you to do;the dangers of madness to which it exposes you.The bigotry and the idolatry which it implicates,the obligation of inconsiderateness that stems from it.As such, it occurred to me well before my thirtiesof developing a passion for my countrya desperate passion: aggressive, a dead end,which tormented me for years.My country!I desperately wanted to hang on to itbut I had no means to.I couldn't find in it any reality - neither in the present nor in the past.I wanted it to be powerful, excessive, insane,Like an evil force, a fatality which would make the world tremble;but it was small, modestwithout any of the attributes that contribute to a destiny.A kind of movement began during this time,which wanted to reform everything, even the past.I believed in it sincerely only for a moment,but this movement was the only hint that our countrycould be something other than a fiction.And it was a cruel movement,a mix of prehistory and prophecy,a mysticism of the prayer and the revolverand which all authorities persecutedand sought out to be persecuted.Because it had committed the inexpiable fault ofconceiving of a future to that which could have none.All of the leaders were beheaded,their corpses thrown in the streets:they had a destiny,the ones who exempted their country of having one.They redeemed their motherland with their insanity,because they were bloody martyrs.Us, the youth of my country,lived through senselessness: it was our daily bread.Situated in a corner of Europe,despised or neglected by the universe,we wanted to be known: "making history"were the words which were constantly on our lips;it was the "magic word".I was writing a book at that time about my country.Perhaps no one has ever attacked his country with such violence.It was the ranting of a demented man,It was like the hymn of an assassin or the howling theory of a patriotwithout a homeland.I was thirsty for inexorableness.Those were the good days:when I believed in the prestige of the unfortunate passions,I loved the struggle.Truth is, during that time I had an insatiable need for folly,of an active folly; I needed to destroyand I spent my days conceiving of images of annihilation.The idea that something came to exist and could existwithout care for my will for destruction,gave me fits of rage,made me tremble for entire nights.And this is when I understood that the cruelty of mansurpasses significantly the one of animals:it is everything, while that of the beastlasts only for a momentand only applies to the immediate object,but our own reaches such proportions,that, not knowing whom to destroy anymore, becomes fixed on ourselves.This is what happened with me:I became the center of my hatred.I had hated my country, the whole of mankind and the universe;all that was left to lash out against was myself,which is what I did by the means of despair.In 1937, Cioran, after getting his scholarship,leaves Romania definitively,and moves to Paris."We must side with the oppressedon every occasion,even when they are in the wrong,though without losing sight of the fact thatthey are molded of the same mclay as their oppressors.""Having always lived in fear of being surprised by the worst,I have tried in every circumstance to get a head start, flinging myselfinto misfortune long before it occurred.""You are done for - a living dead man - not when you stop loving,but stop hating. Hatred preserves."I've been living in hotels for 25 years.this has a benefit,we are fixed nowhere, we depend on nothing,we lead the life of a passer-by;feeling like we are always on the point of departure,perception of a reality supremely provisional."Notebooks"Cioran first lives on Sommerard Street,not far from the Sorbonne University,where he is supposed to prepare a doctoral thesis on Bergson.He will never start it."I am without a doubt the most inoccupied person in the world",he ironizes."I was ready to do anything not to earn a living,and accept all humilitations.To be free, one must be ready to endure every single humilitation,it was somewhat the program of my life.In Paris I had organized my life,but it didn't turn out like I wanted.I have always lived here in the Latin Quarter,as a student,and I can tell you that until 1950...I was subscribed--registered at the Sorbonne University,living as a student...really, simply as a student.In 1950, I was convoked, they said:"Listen, you're now 40 years old...It's over. You can no longer eat from the canteens", etc.It was for me a devastating hit...I lived as a parasite of the university,even though I had nothing in common with this university.If it could have continued, my life planning was done,until my death I would have kept living as a student."During the occupation, Cioran leads a Bohemian lifestyle.Every afternoon he goes to the "Café de Flore","to warm myself up", he says.He bumps into Sartre, but never introduces himself to him.He qualifies him as an 'entrepreneur of ideas' rather than a philosopher.In fact, he mostly frequents the Romanians:Ionesco, and the great Jewish essayist Benjamin Fondane,who will die during deportation in 1944,despite the efforts of Cioran to try and save him.Every day he goes to the library of the Romanian Church of Paris."I have learned more Romanian during my first years living in Francethan I have during the whole of my youth in Romania", he admits.In brief, Cioran indulges himself."The guy who gets up in the morninghas the illusion of starting something;but if you've been up all night, you won't be starting anything.For the insomniac there is no difference between day and night.It's a sort of never-ending period."Cioran then decides to explore France on his bicycle."During months...I was staying in youth hostels,and it was the strenuous physical effort, doing 100 kilometers per day,that allowed me to overcome the crisis.Thanks to his travels, his scholarship is renewed."If his doctoral thesis isn't advancing,then at least he is getting to learn about our country.""During the time where I was biking for months,through France,my greatest joy was to stop in countryside cemetaries,lying down between two tombs and smoking for hours.I remember it as the most active period of my life.""I was in a village in Dieppe, trying to translate Mallarmé into Romanian.Suddenly, I realized it was totally stupid:"But why?... I have no talent for this."Abruptly I made the decision to start writing in Frenchand it revealed itself being much more difficult than I would have thought."Cioran converts himself to the French language,a decision which will change everything for him.It would be to embark upon the telling of a nightmare,to tell you the story of my relationsin great detail with this borrowed idom,with all these words that are thought and rethought,refined, subtle to the point of no longer existing,curved under the exactions of nuance,inexpressive for having expressed everything,frighteningly precise, charged with fatigue and reserve,so discreet as to assume vulgarity.A syntax so rigid,of a cadaveric dignity which encircles themand assigns them a position where God himself couldn't remove them.What a consumption of coffee, of cigarettes and of dictionariesto write a somewhat correct sentencein this inaccessible language,which to me is too noble, too distiguished.I unfortunately realized it afterwards,when it was too late to turn away from it;had I known, I would have never abandoned ours,which I sometimes regret for its smell of freshness and rottenness,the mix of sun and dung, the nostalgic ugliness,the superb slovenliness."One does not inhabit a country; one inhabits a language.That is our country, our fatherland - and no other."Cioran begins the writing of "A Short History of Decay".The writing of his first book in Frenchtakes him long years to complete.It necessitated no less than four complete rewritings.The "Short History" was an explosion.While writing it, I was under the impression of escaping from a feeling of oppression,without which I would have never been able to keep going for very long:it was necessary to breathe, necessary to explode.I felt the need for a decisive explanation,not so much with men than with existence itself,which I would have liked to provoke in a duel,if only to see who would prevail in the end.With his first book, Cioran detaches himself from his extremist youth."Genealogy of Fanaticism""Scaffolds, dungeons, jails flourishonly in the shadow of a faith -of that need to believe which has infested the mind forever.The devil pales beside the man who owns a truth,*his* truth."Published in 1949,The book is given an entire page in "Combat",the great intellectual daily of the epoch.Three years later, appears the "Syllogisms of Bitterness".In 10 years, this book only ends up selling 200 copies,whereas today it is his most read collection of aphorisms."I was totally unknown for 30 years.My books weren't selling at all.I accepted this condition very well,it corresponded with my vision of things.The only important years are those lived in anonymity,because being unknown is a delight.I was being presented in salons...because there was a time where I liked to drink whisky, I went to receptions...they'd introduce me as the friend of Ionesco and Beckett." (laughs)Before glory came, Cioran was a kind of password...when we stumbled upon someone who read him,we felt mysteriously ensured of a certain complicityand no less mysteriously even,ensured of an indulgence.That Cioran could lead to indulgencethat is also one of his paradoxes."If I had to renounce my dilettantism,it is in howling that I would specialize.""A great character is not open but closed:its strength resides in his massive refusals."Cioran is completely counter-current to the present dominating ideas.While the Sartrian norm of'engaged literature' triumphs,he publishes his great political book: "History and Utopia".Which in the name of realism, denounces the deadly effects ofthe dream in politics.Whenever I happen to be in a city of any size,I marvel that riots do not break out every day:massacres, unspeakable carnage, a doomsday chaos.How can so many people coexist in a space so confinedwithout destroying each other, without hating each other *to death*?As a matter of fact, they do hate each other, but they do not measure up to their hatred.This mediocrity, this impotence saves society,ensures its continuance and its stability.Yet I marvel more that, society being what it is,certain people have ventured to conceive of another one which is totally different.What could be the cause of so much naiveté, or of so much inanity?We act only under the fascination of the impossible:which is to say that a society incapable of generating-and of dedicating itself to-a utopia is threatened with fossilisation and collapse.But utopia, let's remember, signifies 'no where'.And from where are those cities which evil doesn't touch,where we bless labour and where no one fears death?We are compelled to a felicity formed of geometrical idylls,of regulated ecstasies, of a thousand nauseating wondersas the ones necessarily presentedin a world which is perfect, fabricated.Utopia is the grotesque en rose,the need to associate happiness - that is, the improbable- with becoming,and to coerce an optimistic aerial visionto the point where it rejoins its own source:the very cynicism it sought to combat. In sum, a monstruous fantasy.But life is rupture, heresy, derogation from the norms of matter.And man, in relation to life, is heresy to the second degree,victory of the individual, of whim, aberrant apparition,schismatic animal that society -sum of sleeping monsters-aims to bring back on the right path.Thus he gains his reputation: Cioran is a pessimist."What spoils the French revolution for me' is that its promoters are born actors,that the guillotine is merely a decor.The history of France, as a whole, seems a bespoke history,an acted history:everything in it is perfect from the theatrical point of view.It is a performance, a series of gesturesand events which are watched rather than suffered,a spectable that takes ten centuries to put on.Whence the impression of frivolity which even the Terror affords,seen from a distance".I believe he was contented observing the events of May '68,and that it hadn't troubled him much. As is the case for the pessimistwho cannot adhere to many illusions."The last leaves dance as they fall.It takes a big dose of insensitivity to confront autumn."After "History and Utopia"He will publish a work every 3 or 4 years,Which have titles sounding like many statements of intentions."The Fall into Time""The Evil Demiurge""The Trouble with Being Born""Drawn and Quartered"In the beginning of the '70s,thanks to the sister of one of his admirers,Cioran moves into his legendary apartment located on de l'Odeón Street."It is sometimes useful to write books."Contrary to his reputation of being a hermit,he's been living since 1947with his partner: Simone Boué."If a writer lives with a woman who earns a living, he's a procurer;in this sense, I have also been a procurer",he comments ironically.If he reads and writes enormously, he also sees many people.As he recounts in his "Anathemas and Admirations",Henri Michaux brings him to see scientific films at the "Museé de l'Homme";he meets regularly with Beckett in Luxembourg,and his friendship with Ionesco remains intact.Detached from the concerns of history,his quest is but only within:How to live? How to exist?The central question of philosophy since the Antiquity."What has saved me is the idea of suicide.Without the idea of suicide I would have surely killed myself.What has allowed me to go on knowing that I had this option, always in sight.Truly, without this thought I would have never been able to endure life;this feeling of being stuck down here or something...For me, the idea of suicide was always linked to the idea of freedom.""We are all jokers: we survive our problems"."The desolation expressed by a gorilla's eyes.A funeral mammal.I am descended from that gaze.""I have remarked that, in life, very few beings have understood.You can meet great writers who have understood absolutely nothing!People with talent, but who are worth nothing!In contrast you can meet someone on the streets, in a bar,and it's eye-opening,someone who has gone in-depth, who has tackled the great problems."The anxious caretakeris more interesting than the philosopher who is infatuated with himself.But really, I have really learned a lot by being in contact with all kinds of people.In that sense, I can say that I haven't enormously frequented intellectual environments.I like talking with strangers, I have a certain liking of the people, you could say.It comes from Romania essentially, I must say...I was deeply touched by by people who would have never read a book.""I was walking late one night along a tree-lined path;a chestnut fell at my feet.The noise it made as it burst, the resonance it provoked in me,and an upheaval out of all proportion to this insignificant event,thrust me into miracle, into the rapture of the definitive,as if there were no more questions— only answers.I was drunk on a thousand unexpected discoveries, none of which I could make use of.This is how I nearly reached the Supreme.But instead I went on with my walk."Despite having become stateless, Cioran keeps in contact with his country,notably with his letters to his brother Aurel (Relu).My dear Relu,One year has gone by since the death of our mother,it appears to me as infinitely distant.After a certain time, everything becomes unreal,even the memory of someone that we have loved.Yet, I often think of our mother,of everything that was exceptional about her, of her vivacity,of her vanity-why not?-but especially, of her melancholiahaving transmitted to us its flavor and its poison.Have you gone to Rasinari?Try not to think too much about our losses.Have you taken a vacation? Write to me.Affectionately..."Since "Tears and Saints", his third book written in Romania,Cioran has an interest in the mystics.What caught his attention in them is the 'vertical adventure',the desire to speak on a one-to-one basis with God,to go outside of life,to revolt.At bottom, for me, the act of writingis a sort of dialogue with God.I say with God, but I am not a believer,although I cannot say that I am an unbeliever either.But for me, this meeting with God is in the act of writing...A solitude which meets another, a solitude in front of another solitude...'God' being more alone than oneself."Such a shame that, to reach God, there is no bypassing faith.""I would not want to live in a world drained of all religious feeling.I am not thinking of faith but of that inner vibration,which, independant of any belief in particular, projects you intoand sometimes *above* God...""Without Bach, theology would be devoid of an object,Creation would be fictive, and Nothingness peremptory.If there is anyone who owes everything to Bach, it is certainly God".I would say that one of my great most important passion has been Bach.It has been a very significant passion,and one which stayed... 653 00:40:37,836 --> 00:40:40,828 Of all my passions,it is the one which has remained absolutely intact.I had to admit that even my passion for Dostoevsky has diminished,unlike with Bach.It has been, for me, a kind of religion."This lucid man, who has demonstrated the heights of clear-sightedness,decidedly cannot believe."I have always lived within contradictions and have never suffered from it.If I had been a systematic being I would have had to liein order to find a solution.Instead, not only did I accept this insolvable character of things,but I've even found in it a certain delight,the delight of the insolvable.I have never sought out to smooth down, to reunite, or as the French say,to reconcile the irreconcilable.I have always let in contradictions as they came,as much in my private life as in theory.I have never had a goal, I have sought out no result.I think that there cannot be, in general just as well as for ourselves,neither goal nor result.Everything isn't without meaning -the word slightly puts me off'-but without necessity."This complete refusal of transcendenceshould logically lead Cioran to an integral realism;but this would also be an impasse,since lucidity has a price: inaction.Tempted by Buddhist wisdom,despite all his efforts to reach it,Cioran remains a tormented Westerner,incapable of detachment from his self."All knowledge pushed to its limit can be dangerous, and morbid,because life is endurable solely because we don't see it through to the end.An undertaking is only possible if we have conserved a minimum of illusions.Complete lucidity is the void!"I'm not a nihilist...I am... it's very hard to say...I am probably a negator, but even is not an abstract negation, like an exercise;It's a visceral negation, isn't it...which is an affirmation despite everything ... an explosion.Is a slap [in the face] a negation?Think of a slap... -It's an affirmationWhat I do is a negation which is a slapwhich is an affirmation.""The fact that life has no meaning is a reason to livemoreover, the only one"."Truths"... we no longer wish to bear their buden nor be deceived by them or be their accomplice...I dream of a world where one could die for a comma".Finally appeasedhaving almost become a sage,Cioran is reconciled with life, by way of style.Indeed, style represents for himmuch more than a literary demand,it is an art of living, a 'dandy ethic',founded on elegance, moderation, grace, silence.But in 1987, after "Anathemas and Admirations",Cioran puts down his pen for good."I've had enough of fulminating against the world, against God, and for what?"It's the tone also that is important.We have a tone and that is really mysterious, because we cannot define it,we can only feel it.There is a kind of unreality,in all that is literature.It's what we call a 'lack of necessity'.With daily company it is the same thing.You meet with some guy which you haven't seen in a long time,you talk for hours, and it's the void.You meet another person, you talk..and then you go home devastated, overwhelmed.This is the real originality of beings."We say: he has no talent, only tone.But tone is precisely what cannot be invented--we're born with it.Tone is an inherited grace,the privilege some of us have of making our organic pulsations felt,tone is more than talent, it is its essence.""Models of style: the swearword, the telegram, the epitaph."What is mysterious is this vitality which pushes to do something.and maybe this is what life is...without getting caught up in fancy words.It's that we do things which we adhere to without believing in them.That's pretty much it."In the end, with time, everything exhausts itself even cynicism.I haven't exceeded cynicism,as a theoretical attitude, I haven't surpassed it;But we end up surpassing it at the emotional level.Everything wears out.I have no reason to go back on what I have written.Of saying: I was wrong, after all things are not as terrible as that... No.But the things that we have expressed, we believe a little less in..Why? Because they detach themselves from you.In that sense, really the fact of writing-and everyone says it-is a kind of profanation.Because the things in which you believe fully,from the moment you have said them,they mean less to you."There is of course love, and I have always asked myself:when we have figured it all out, when our gaze has pierced through everything,how can we still be infatuated with anything at all?Yet, such a thing happens.It's even what in life is real and interesting.We can doubt of absolutely everything, declare ourselves to be nihilistsand yet fall in love like the greatest fool.This theoretical impossibily of passion, and which real life constantly evades,renders life to have an indisputable, irresistible charm.We suffer, we laugh of our sufferings,and this fundamental contradictionfinally might be what makes life still worth living.The fact of living is something so extraordinary,precisely when we have seen things as they truly are;because this life which is totally depreciated,let's say, theoretically,somehow appears extraordinary at the practical level.To live against [or despite] the evidence:every moment becomes a sort of heroism."After all, I have not wasted my time, I too have fidgeted, like anyone else,in this aberrant universe.""We are all deep in a helleach of which moment is a miracle".Subtitles by tranquil87 (Emil Sinclair)


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