tomrum

You’re on earth. There’s no cure for that.

My imagination will get me a passport to hell one day.

Don’t let us forget that the causes of human actions are usually immeasurably more complex and varied than our subsequent explanations of them.

New Year’s Eve always terrifies me life knows nothing of years. now the horns have stopped and the firecrackers and the thunder… it’s all over in five minutes… all I hear is the rain on the palm leaves, and I think, I will never understand men, but I have lived it through.

And the silly people sing: "Don't Look Back in Anger" And the morons sing and sway: "Don't Look Back in Anger" I can assure you I will look back in anger 'till the day I die.

This year felt like being awake during surgery

No beautiful surfaces without a terrible depth.

Beauty is made up of an eternal, invariable element, whose quantity it is excessively difficult to determine, and of a relative, circumstantial element, which will be, if you like, whether severally or all at once, the age, its fashions, its morals, its emotions.

The keenest sorrow is to recognize ourselves as the sole cause of all our adversities.

Opinions have caused more ills than the plague or earthquakes on this little globe of ours

We’re riddled with pointless talk, insane quantities of words and images. Stupidity’s never blind or mute. So it’s not a problem of getting people to express themselves but of providing little gaps of solitude and silence in which they might eventually find something to say. Repressive forces don’t stop people expressing themselves but rather force them to express themselves; what a relief to have nothing to say, the right to say nothing, because only then is there a chance of framing the rare, and ever rarer, thing that might be worth saying.

We have entertainment in order not to die from truth.

What shall we tell the blind woman in Rilke’s poem who lamented that ‘I can no longer live with the sky upon me’? Would it comfort her if we told her we can no longer live with the earth underneath our feet? — Emil Cioran, Tears and Saints.

Maybe Nostalgia is the only home you get

“I hear you.” Not “You’re right.” I don’t even need to agree. Just acknowledge. I hear you. I hear your frustration. I get it.

I see nothing but a world of ruins, where a kind of front line is possible in the catacombs

Your passion decomposes you scrupulously.