The Trouble With Being Born is a collection of morbidly gratifying aphorisms about death, religion, time, history, and self-ness. The book has a bit of everything. No utterance of thought feels out of place. There is not a single alienated sentence in the book. Not the slightest trace of dissimilarity between the passages.
I can read it over and over again - it is reality and unreality itself. What is when nothingness is the norm? And what dies when nothing can?
For my thoughts on Cioran’s On The Heights of Despair, here’s my Instagram post: [ Ссылка ]
I apologize for the incorrect pronunciation of Cioran’s name. I tried countless times to get his name right but this is as close as I could possibly get.
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