During wakeful nights, the presence of a single thought, or feeling, reigns supreme. It becomes the source of the night’s mysterious music. Thus transformed, the thoughts of wakeful nights are mild enough to stir depths of universal anxiety in mans soul. Death itself, although still hideous, acquires in the night a sort of impalpable transparency, an illusory and musical character. Just as ecstasy purifies you of the particular and the contingent, leaving nothing except light and darkness, so insomnia kills off the multiplicity and diversity of the world, leaving you prey to your private obsessions. What strangely enchanted tunes gush forth during those sleepless nights! Their flowing tones are bewitching, but there is a note of regret in this melodic surge which keeps it short of ecstasy. What kind of regret? It is hard to say, because insomnia is so complex that one cannot tell what the loss is. Or maybe the loss is infinite. On The Heights Of Despair, Emil M. Cioran
Posted on: Fri, 02 Jan 2015 17:00:29 +0000
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