Alucard
Wizard
- Feb 8, 2019
- 606
Non-resistant to night
At first, we think we advance toward the light; then, wearied by an aimless march, we lose our way: the earth, less and less secure , no longer supports us; it opens under our feet. Vainly we should try to follow a path toward a sunlit goal; the shadows mount within and below us. No gleam to slow our descent: the abyss summons us, and we lend an ear. Above still remains all we wanted to be, all that has not had the power to raise us higher. And we , once in love with the peaks, then disappointed by them, we end by fondling our fall, we hurry to fulfill it, instruments of a strange execution, fascinated by the illusion of reaching the limits of the darkness, the frontiers of our nocturnal fate. Fear of the void transformed into a kind of voluptuous joy, what luck to gainsay the sun! Infinity in reverse, god that hegins beneath our hells, ectasy before the crevices of being, and thirst for a black halo, the Void is an inverted dream in which we are engulfed.
If delirium becomes our law, let us wear a subterranean nimbus, a crown in our fall. Dethroned from this world, let us carry its scepter in order to honor the night with a new splendor.
(And yet this fall - but for some moments of posturing - is far from being solemn and lyric. Habitually we sink into a nocturnal mud, into a darkness quite as mediocre as the light . . . Life is merely a torpor in chiaroscuro, an inertia among the gleams and shadows, a caricature of that inward sun which makes us believe, illegitimately, in ou eminence over the rest of matter. Nothing proves that we are more than nothing. In order to experience that continual expansion in which we rival the gods, in which our fevers triumph over our fears, we should have to remain at so high a temperature that it would finish us off in a few days. But our illuminations are instantaneous; falls are our rule. Life is what decomposes at every moment; it is a monotonous loss of light, an insipid dissolution in the darkness, without scepters, without halos . . .)
Cioran, A short history of decay
At first, we think we advance toward the light; then, wearied by an aimless march, we lose our way: the earth, less and less secure , no longer supports us; it opens under our feet. Vainly we should try to follow a path toward a sunlit goal; the shadows mount within and below us. No gleam to slow our descent: the abyss summons us, and we lend an ear. Above still remains all we wanted to be, all that has not had the power to raise us higher. And we , once in love with the peaks, then disappointed by them, we end by fondling our fall, we hurry to fulfill it, instruments of a strange execution, fascinated by the illusion of reaching the limits of the darkness, the frontiers of our nocturnal fate. Fear of the void transformed into a kind of voluptuous joy, what luck to gainsay the sun! Infinity in reverse, god that hegins beneath our hells, ectasy before the crevices of being, and thirst for a black halo, the Void is an inverted dream in which we are engulfed.
If delirium becomes our law, let us wear a subterranean nimbus, a crown in our fall. Dethroned from this world, let us carry its scepter in order to honor the night with a new splendor.
(And yet this fall - but for some moments of posturing - is far from being solemn and lyric. Habitually we sink into a nocturnal mud, into a darkness quite as mediocre as the light . . . Life is merely a torpor in chiaroscuro, an inertia among the gleams and shadows, a caricature of that inward sun which makes us believe, illegitimately, in ou eminence over the rest of matter. Nothing proves that we are more than nothing. In order to experience that continual expansion in which we rival the gods, in which our fevers triumph over our fears, we should have to remain at so high a temperature that it would finish us off in a few days. But our illuminations are instantaneous; falls are our rule. Life is what decomposes at every moment; it is a monotonous loss of light, an insipid dissolution in the darkness, without scepters, without halos . . .)
Cioran, A short history of decay
