We die in proportion to the words we fling around us. — Emil Cioran

So long as man is protected by madness he functions and flourishes, but when he frees himself from the fruitful tyranny of fixed ideas, he is lost, ruined.

I find in myself as much evil as in anyone, but detesting action — mother of all vices — I am the cause of no one's suffering.

Man starts over again everyday, in spite of all he knows, against all he knows.