Anyone can escape into sleep, we are all geniuses when we dream, the butcher's the poet's equal there. - Emil Cioran

So it is that after each night, facing a new day, the impossible necessity of dealing with it fills us with dread; exiled in light as if the world had just started, inventing the sun, we flee from tears—just one of which would be enough to wash us out of time.

How many disappointments are conducive to bitterness? One or a thousand, depending on the subject.

We must suffer to the end, to the moment when we stop believing in suffering.