[b]Emil M. Cioran from The Trouble with Being Born
Time, fertile in resources, more inventive and more charitable than we think, possesses a remarkable capacity to help us out, to afford us at any hour of the day some new humiliation.[/b]
Like, for the pinheads here, posting. Time after time after time.
In Buddhist writings, mention is often made of “the abyss of birth." An abyss indeed, a gulf into which we do not fall but from which, instead, we emerge, to our universal chagrin.
And it’s not like we were asked for permission.
If death is as horrible as is claimed, how is it that after the passage of a certain period of time we consider happy any being, friend or enemy, who has ceased to live?
Like he didn’t have 84 years in which to end his own.
“Ever since I was born”—that since has a resonance so dreadful to my ears it becomes unendurable.
So, his solution? To endure it for 31,000 days
Every phenomenon is a corrupt version of another, larger phenomenon: time, a disease of eternity; history, a disease of time; life, again, a disease of matter. Then what is normal, what is healthy? Eternity? Which itself is only an infirmity of God.
You know, being optimistic.
An aphorism? Fire without flames. Understandable that no one tries to warm himself at it.
Not counting Nietzsche’s of course.