On the Heights of Despair

Only those are happy who never think or, rather, who only think about life’s bare necessities, and to think about such things means not to think at all. True thinking resembles a demon who muddies the spring of life or a sickness which corrupts its roots. To think all the time, to raise questions, to doubt your own destiny, to feel the weariness of living, to be worn out to the point of exhaustion by thoughts and life, to leave behind you, as symbols of your life’s drama, a trail of smoke and blood—all this means you are so unhappy that reflection and thinking appear as a curse causing a violent revulsion in you.

Emil Cioran, ‘On the Heights of Despair’.

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