preferata mea de pana acum de la el

How does one become a pessimist?

By reading your book, pal. You made Schopenhauer look like one of the Teletubbies. It was a fortunate thing that I didn’t read this during my impressionable adolescence. I still can’t rate it I think a 3-star rating is a good compromise. Many quotes that pulled on my heartstrings, and many chapters I already forgot, out of immunity to certain thoughts and dislike of overly melodramatic prose. Things that belong to the plane of ideas, naturally, since the kind of life that has been portrayed at times is literally impossible, and impracticable ideas which try to convey intellectual depth and are repeated by others, clinging to such pose as hard as they can because "happy people are all stupid and morality is a disgrace and I want to be consumed by fire and I long for the destruction of the world," too exhausting... And I can't shake off a sense of artificiality.
True, if you read this, you're not much of an optimistic, but still. I wholeheartedly agree with the third line of this review.
That being said, these few lines will be engulfed by the beauty of flames and will witness their own amoral destruction from which a proper review will absurdly blossom amid beautiful darkness echoing nothingness...! After restoring my soul with many reruns of Seinfeld.



Feb 18, 17
* Pre-review. Or final review if I forget...
** I'll read The Trouble with Being Born anyway; a more mature work, surely.
*** Also on my blog.

Im shocked cioran wrote this when he was 22 years old..
The content of this book is beyond pessimism and goes to the realms of nhilism, but it is written beautifully with some very interesting insight into the human condition.

I did not expect to find everything that I felt was missing for my life when I picked up this book. It was exactly the darkness and despair I needed to help me understand my own struggle

my first nonfiction, and also the most mentally draining work i've ever read

and yes, all happy people are delusional, morality is stupid, life is just a long, drawn-out agony, let the world crumble into dust, and i would like to be engulfed by the flames and my disintegration would be my masterpiece.

Cioran ventiduenne soffre di insonnia e per non suicidarsi decide di scrivere questo saggio filosofico che riflette in modo cinico, a tratti ironico, ma anche direi quasi terapeutico, sui temi più respingenti cui possiate cercare di (non) pensare: sofferenza, disperazione, morte, malinconia, esistenza.
Bellissimo ma non ci vivrei.
Avrei voluto sottolineare metà libro ma, ahimè, l’ho preso in prestito in biblioteca (con lo scopo evidente di autoflagellarmi, visto il titolo).

Viaggiavo nel piacere della lettura finché non mi sono imbattuta nel paragrafo dedicato al sesso opposto. Già fin dal principio scricchiola in modo sinistro con “Le vere donne sono…” per poi degenerare in un trambusto pregno del maschilismo più becero cui possiate immaginare - credetemi - estremamente retrogrado anche per essere stato scritto nel ‘34, il che è tutto dire. Non so come sia riuscito a condensare tante porcate in una pagina e mezza di pura agonia. Ho tentato di ignorare il tutto, ma quel fracasso è andato inevitabilmente a detrimento del resto della melodia, che invece merita. Ho perso rispetto verso l’intelligenza dell’autore e interesse, portando a compimento la lettura controvoglia.