Cioran made me do it

scribbles in the dark abyss

An optimist and a pessimist by Vladimir Makovsky (1893). I provide only the pessimist, however.

I actually considered whether my spirit held enough support within its own bosom to get me through this rather debilitating inactivity I’ve suffered these past few days. I thought that writing was supposed to be the thing I loved most, and yet, here I am, making it angry with me by not being faithful—no consistency I have with any of it, unfortunately. It's so late, my sleep schedule is ruined, my attitude is flying to pieces, and my thoughts are distraught. I don’t know why I’m even attempting this so late in the night. Writing, what are you to me truly? Why do you torture me so? Why do I love you so? Why do I love reading the writings of others more than I do my own? Why, why, why?

What has gotten into me? What can I convey that I haven’t already? Perhaps I read the works of others—men and women far greater than I am—to much more appreciate what it is I myself think on any matter. When one has written enough, I suppose they tend to become bored with their own profundity. I hope this is a pattern that will not replicate itself, but seeing as I have found myself enclosed by my schedule, ruined by my own stupidity, and unable to lift a finger in the hopes of changing my distraught soul, I deem it better to relish in sloth than to actually change for the better.

I now think I understand what despondency is—what depths of hollow hate a heart endures when the world offers nothing but spite and dreadful scorn; when every action a normal-thinking man would comprehend seemingly as a design against our life. I suppose I try to make up for it here with this tearful, deprecating, thoroughly propitiating offering. I’m such a little bundle of misery and lowly devices that any means I have of changing the world seem like epic mockeries. I am nothing, an utterly lifeless individual, a sapless, rambling mole sack. I’m not even a good writer, for Christ’s sake. Look to Cioran, Montaigne, Hazlitt, Macaulay, Nietzsche, Emerson, Goethe, Kierkegaard—those are the great masters of the universe. Those are the ones with real command of prose, so poised are they to enter the fray without preparation. They come upon such hopeful aspirants as myself with so much vigor and candor in every remark that one becomes immobilized at the utterance of every phrase.

There is a kind of playful lightness in their syntax; an enviable ease seems to expose itself throughout even the most terse readings of their works. Within their diction, one finds nothing but truth, power, unwavering conviction to every syllable—a tour de force in what true writing is. I must confess, very recently—and by recently, I mean literally yesterday—I have found myself imbued with a kind of brash attitude towards life, a confidence quite unnatural to my character. A similar thing happened to me back in August of 2024, when I first heard the prelude to Act Three of Wagner's Lohengrin. Instantly, I felt an overwhelming power of manly vigor; restored was I in my perspective as to what is possible to conceive, what I can make of myself, what I can do within my life—a new spiritual awakening, one I had not known I was under.

I had experienced firsthand what Nietzsche later described as Wagner’s most decadent aspect: the aspect that makes a man think only of luxury, of pleasure, of unending joy without effort put in to afford himself it, inspired by the music. This was a kind of temporary divinity, not a consistency in habit, but a deprecating inspiration. Everyone knows that inspiration lasts only as long as the source of it maintains itself. Like great rivers, a population may use it to form civilizations, but once it’s dry and gone, they must move, lest they become like the cracked soil that once flowed with water, that once nourished their crops, that once quenched the people’s thirst.

Wagner gave me a new outlook on life; his music was the embodiment of what I wished to perform in prose—a kind of eulogy that encapsulated every aspect of my soul, all the emotions and feelings I had collected over the interstices of my short span. I had wanted to make myself free—no, more free than free itself, if such a thing was possible. At the time, Nietzsche and Emerson were my primary muses, but since then, after much trial and error, innumerable failures, and debilitating periods of self-doubt, I have found a way to tap into my spirit—a method of approaching the ideas that come naturally to me in such a way that how I give them upon initially writing them down satisfies me to no end. I have mastered the art of obeying myself, of having confidence in what I say, of listening to my own genius, of placing my ear against my heart, and agreeing with whatever it tells me—that is true writing in my think-so.

What we experience cannot be accurately conveyed ever, I think. Rather, what we writers do when we attempt to write a novel, or essay, or journal entry, or poem, is tap into the overpowering spirit of feeling that raptures us upon the immediacy of its delicate grace. There is feeling and passion within our bosom, and that sensation alone is all the proof we need to express ourselves with the utmost truth. True writing is writing honestly pulled from the head, in laconics of inestimable beauty—culled, organized, displayed, and praised by all who know the vibes. The aura of deep reflection is felt within all hearts who feel something towards the divine.

The divine spark of creative genius—a kind of poetic metaphor that gives us life, that makes us happy, that pleases us to no end—because to play around with such thoughts is the greatest boon the human mind can indulge in. Nothing is more poetic, more beautiful, more fear-inducing than realizing your own genius. Once you find the power within you to make something grand of yourself, there’s no stopping you. Once you know what it is like to be a part of something glorious, something beyond you, something that transcends you, you realize at once what you’re capable of, and never are you to return to your former ways of mediocrity.

The grand shift in perspective, though it comes on without your recognition or deliberate input, is like a new mode of being. You view everything that follows in a kinder, gentler, greater aspect—everything seems light, you learn to enjoy life more, and you instill within yourself a desire to never become wicked or foolish again. It is a transformation that can only occur once you stop relying on the opinions of others.

Only you decide what perspective to take on things in the world; and that can be for greater or lesser purposes, but either way, you must still take the leap into the unknown. You must face the world dauntlessly and decide what is truly the point of your existence.

The hardest thing a person must do is undertake a great project, lifelong usually, that demands consistency all the way through. Who can bear the burden of so heavy a task? Why do so many live lives of quiet desperation—passing their fiftieth year without the slightest clue what they’ve been doing this whole time?

I can’t live life without first understanding the initiatives I make regarding my conduct and what it is I hope to achieve. I don’t see how anyone can live without undertaking this serious, burdensome task of introspection. Like I said at the start of this entry, I would rather flagellate myself while being burned alive or endure the torture of the rack followed by lingchi (death by a thousand cuts) than go a day without giving my thoughts upon my life.

I make it dramatic, but I do that for good reason, for writing is a serious matter that cannot be easily ignored or scoffed at; there are no excuses one should give themselves when it comes to reflection upon their day—reflections are the necessary thoughts that one experiences in the action of experience. Every second are we bombarded by sensory stimuli, every second constantly seeing and experiencing—are these experiences nothing? I say they contain within them the whole universe. One can learn more by contemplating the rustle of leaves within the wind than in a full course on philosophy.

Life is not meant to be merely passed through; it is meant to be experienced in such a way that affords the subject new interpretations and manners of thinking. We must become our own philosophy—we must embody the practices that give us meaning and joy. I don’t care where this comes from; anywhere shall do—so long as it is true to you, then it’s all worthy of being followed and enjoyed.

I mentioned that I got it from Wagner initially, and now, having passed those six months with much profit and wise contemplations, I pull it all from my own brain in such a way that affords me nothing but profit and mirth—I’m more enjoyable to be around, more open to experience, less disagreeable, more hopeful for the future, more earnest in my strivings to inspire others through my own path, which I follow with complete confidence. Just do things, become something, find an interest that invades your life and becomes impossible to remove without loss to yourself.

This is the kind of affirmation I seek—my will to power is my will to affirmation, to find meaning in all things, to love every aspect of misery, to become a stronger individual through the endurance of obstacles, and the overcoming of uncertainties by not fearing what may lurk within them. I seek to love life for the sake of life itself, for life is a beautiful thing that cannot possibly be cherished enough, even by the most thankful of votaries.

The countless ages have produced poets of staggering genius, who devoted their whole essences for the sake of praising the sky, the bee, the sun, the plants, the growth of crops—now everything lies lifeless and dead, as if what we experience presently is just a fleeting experience made meaningless by the impending end of our vain existences. No, not me. Doom shall not be my bedfellow. I know enough suffering to know that while it strengthened me and has made me a greater person, it is not the only path for spiritual growth and development. There are smoother slopes to incline towards.

The path of least resistance is the one taken by all natural phenomena, so why should we not follow it? The catenary minimizes potential energy, and so, why should we not minimize the anxiety of our lives by following a course of action that is most natural and harmonious to us, just as the chain bounded on both ends obeys gravity when it curves towards the center of Earth and gives us that nearly parabolic shape? Such is the course I tried my best to inculcate.

The manners of men differ as a result of upbringing and chance, but still is it possible for us to find ways of making our lives greater than what they presently are. It’s possible for all of us, and never impossible for any of us—we merely need to desire it. But I have gone way off track in this great diatribe of mine.

I originally made reference to a newfound confidence within me that has propelled my prose, and then I followed it up by relating a similar experience I had inspired by Wagner, and now we are here—it always happens that when I mention Wagner, an overwhelming spirit compels me to scribble forth and onwards with unwavering conviction and strength.

The question now is, what is this newfound confidence, where has it sprung forth, how did I tap into it initially? Simple: I watched a documentary on Emil Cioran, where he talked about his life and perspectives in his native, pure, occasionally hesitant Romanian, and found myself in love with his attitude towards life—that carefree pessimism and lack of any concern regarding what is to happen to him.

I suppose this infatuation has replaced Schopenhauer’s for me, and the better I am for it, for while Schopenhauer was the original pessimist and gave me much to think about and pursue, Cioran gives me more than mere advice; he gave me hope in existence. I love it when he said, “I’m not cured. I'm tired.” An old man, nearing the end of his life, and he knew it, but still went about his days as if all was coming to an end anyway.

He found life unendurable, caused by his invidious insomnia, but found life in the thought of suicide—it was the thought of death itself that made him live! O, what a lifesaving paradox, what a confusing application of reasoning—how can the thought of dying be the thing that prevents you from it?

He admitted that the thought of death was always a fascination for him. As a kid, he saw the funeral processions, the wailings at the wakes, the sobs and tears of remembrance as the coffin was slowly lowered into the ground, flowers placed upon it for a final time, as people placed themselves atop it, preferring themselves dead over their loved one—the casket bears more tears than the soil on a rainy day.

Death is troubling, so troubling that even the most stoic among us fear and tremble when confronted with the mysterious nature of it—so elusive is it that the mind conjures up dreadful thoughts, thoughts unlikely of occurring but done so nonetheless. One does not convalesce so quickly when the thought of the reaper making his rounds comes finally upon us, where we shall become like death itself and perish into dust and bones, buried beneath the dirt, and forgotten about long after the memory of us fades away into nothingness.

That is what Cioran feels like to me, like a man who knows his place in the world by exclaiming, if you were to ask him what his purpose is, “I haven’t figured it out yet—if you ask me closer to death, I shall reply the same.” His aphorisms are among the greatest ever penned. His phrases, even in extempore conversation, were like fresh water brought from the Hebrides. His life gave my prose life because he embodied a kind of attitude I find respectable and honorable—indeed, necessary in a writer. He had no plans, no course of action, no desires, no nothing—just the clothes on his back and a will to endure his life.

He found, being a natural intellectual, that the only solution to his misery was reading and writing. As Werther was to Goethe—a character made with the purpose of enduring suffering, all to end in a tragic romantic fashion, with the implicit purpose of allowing the author to survive harrowing misery—Cioran was his own romantic character. His life was endured for the sake of itself—no other reason was given aside from the fact that he loved reading about death and writing about his own misery. His writings were a reflection of his inner turmoil, and who doesn’t love having their feelings confirmed and affirmed by another who endures the same things we do?

It’s why I fell in love with literature myself—I found a subject by which I could address my own failings in a way that was invigorating and helpful to my existence. I endured my own existence for the sake of writing about it. I receive more life the closer I come to death. Every second and every breath is but a nearing of the eventual end; but while I still breathe and have my wits about me, you can be damn sure that I will not stop fighting the good fight, reading the good book, loving the same things, finding new journeys to go on, new avenues of pleasure to take, more people to meet and speak to—all the comforts of life are mine the more I acknowledge how little I actually care about them.

I care about so little, my own misfortunes are pleasurable to me. A little toy to play with, I fondle every curve of existence and relish how sensual I become at the thought of being master of my own world. This is my life, and I command it fully. I may or may not commit suicide, but why should that matter to me? Nothing matters aside from the pleasures of excess in life. Yes, I go on because writing in the manner I do presently, so freely and without care, is worth the endurance of any misery; and I hope such words will be exemplar of a kind of revolution in prose—a kind of rejection of all that is traditional, all that is establishment, all that is coveted by fools.

That is why Cioran was so impactful for me recently. In him was a lived example of a man who wrote prose poetically and in such a manner that all living things were encapsulated in it. Nothing escapes the heights of despair, all is but a brief history of decay, nothing worse conceivable than the trouble of being born. The sentences stood on their own, no relation to the former, all naked thought in aphoristic form; no real system, no rhyme or reason other than expression distilled into a kind of carousel of comparative thoughts: all substance, all matter, abject form, great form, nothing but the greatest form—abject in that it had no consistency, but one cannot deny the beauty of it.

So many nouns, verbs, and adjectives used, the best use of superlatives the world has seen, all collated together in great contrast, all while being contained with great brevity—the conciseness was to kill for. This is to say nothing of his essays, dear lord, so much better than Bacon’s or Johnson’s, so much like Hazlitt or Montaigne, with a bit of Kierkegaard and Schopenhauer sprinkled in—a perfect blend of sensuality and restraint, a cordial game between two lovers who hate each other.

Few come close, lesser nearly touch, no one surpasses. I love Cioran because he gave me life, my prose now lives and breathes just as I wished it originally to—I throw off Schopenhauer and Plato to return to what I only wanted in prose, a vivacious ecstasy—an orgasm at the end of every thought. Let it all be free, and all shall be made good. I saw my creation and deemed it good, and that was enough for me.