/lit/ - Literature

All of his arguments againts suicide seems like mental gymnastics. It's almost as if he just enjoyed parading around as a depresso without having the balls to do anything about it.

>>22270033
On the Heights of Despair is the height of his virility and sovl. He becomes bookish, denounces fascism, drinks onions in France, takes photos like pic related, and chooses the nursing home over heroism.

Recommend some nihilistic/existential philosophy/philosophers please. (Interested in Nishitani Keiji, is he worth reading?)

>couldn’t fall asleep on time

Any other texts/writers besides Cioran that justify or support suicide from a philosophical standpoint? Looking specifically for texts that rationalize an otherwise healthy and sane person’s decision to commit suicide more than defend euthanasia for the crippled or chronically ill, for example.

>renounces fascism and starts writing academic goyshit
Who castrated him?

>Laruelle's questionng of the dualistic arbitrariness of all philosophies inevitably returns us to a monism that is theological, and an immediacy of experience that is religious. -Catherine Pickstock

OH NO NO NO NO NO NO LARUELLE BROS... ???

>Cow urine was the only medicine monks had permission to use in the early Buddhist communities. A most sensible measure. If one covets peace, one will attain it only in rejecting whatever may cause trouble, whatever man has grafted onto his original simplicity, his original health. Nothing speaks of our fall more eloquently than the spectacle of a drugstore: remedies for every ailment but the essential one, which no human nostrum will ever cure.

How can one man....

When the ticking of a watch breaks the silence of eternity, arousing you out of serene contemplation, how can you help resenting the absurdity of time, its march into the future, and all the nonsense about evolution and progress? Why go forward, why live in time? The sudden revelation of time at such moments, conferring upon it a crushing preeminence otherwise nonexistent, is the fruit of a strong contempt for life, an unwillingness to go on. If this revelation happens at night, the sensation of unutterable loneliness is added to the absurdity of time, because then, far from the crowd, you face time alone, the two of you caught in an irreducible duality. Time, in this nocturnal desolation, is no longer populated with actions and objects: it becomes an evergrowing nothingness, a dilating void, a threat from beyond. Silence resounds then with the mournful clamor of bells knelling for a dead universe. Only he who has separated time from existence lives this drama: fleeing the latter, he is crushed by the former. And he feels how time, like death, gains ground.

How tall was he? Did it influence his philosophy?

>wrote philosophical texts about how it’s better if we all just die
>lived to old age
Was Cioran just an edgelord who never grew up?

blah blah blah ideology ideology ideology morality morality good evil good evil equality equality human rights human rights do this do that do this do that. no. never

>life
>meaning

>>17378673
>meaningful music
Imagine saying this right after calling someone dumb. incredible

>>17309107
>I'm 34 years old
> and ... reading Evola

>>17241860
The Renegade

He remembers being born somewhere, having believed in native errors, having proposed principles and preached inflammatory stupidities. He blushes for it . . . and strives to abjure his past, his real or imaginary fatherlands, the truths generated in his very marrow. He will find peace only after having annihilated in himself the last reflex of the citizen, the last inherited enthusiasm. How could the heart’s habits still chain him, when he seeks liberation from genealogies and when even the ideal of the ancient sage, scorner of all cities, seems to him a compromise? The man who can no longer take sides because all men are necessarily right and wrong, because everything is at once justified and irrational-—that man must renounce his own name, tread his identity underfoot, and begin a new life in impassibility or despair. Or otherwise, invent another genre of solitude, expatriate himself in the void, and pursue—by means of one exile or another—the stages of uprootedness. Released from all prejudices, he becomes the unusable man par excellence, to whom no one turns and whom no one fears because he admits and repudiates everything with the same detachment. Less dangerous than a heedless insect, he is nonetheless a scourge for Life, for it has vanished from his vocabulary, with the seven days of the Creation. And Life would forgive him, if at least he relished Chaos, which is where Life began. But he denies the feverish origins, beginning with his own, and preserves, with regard to the world, only a cold memory, a polite regret.

Cioran understood life. Buddha might have caught a glimpse, but he couldn't handle the sheer blackpillingness of it, and started coping in riddles and nonsense

Why is he so sad?

>>17222208
>I don't really understand this...
A universal understanding of Cioran would depopulate the earth in a day.

Help an autistic anon out, /lit/

I'm a big pseud, I can't make an argument but rail on in a Donna Haraway-esque way and namedrop philosophers. My writing is infected by empty playing on words and bad syntax. There's also some cognitive damage because of all the drugs and having my speech faculties stressed out for years and years on end.

How to fix such a pathetic state of being, lit?

I FUCKING HATE THIS GUY, I FUCKING HATE ALL HIS BOOKS, NOT PHILOSOPHY, HARDLY POETRY, HARDLY ANYTHING FUCK ALL. ALL HIS IDEAS WERE ALREADY COINED BY ARTAUD HE BRINGS NOTHING NEW TO THE TABLE FUCKKK HIM

Yet, I cannot stop reading him

>In Turin, at the beginning of his madness, Nietzsche would rush to his mirror, look at himself, turn away, look again. In the train that was taking him to Basel, the one thing he always asked for was a mirror. He no longer knew who he was, kept looking for himself, and this man, so eager to protect his identity, so thirsty for himself, had no instrument at hand but the clumsiest, the most lamentable of expedients.

>"I don't cry but my thoughts are as bitter as tears"
>"Most people don't ever consider death because you can't live life thinking about death"
>"I don't ever understand why we must do things"

I like Cioran but theres only so many original things he's ever said, infact most of what he writes about is a straight copy of Artaud, still needs more praise than he gets.