Thirty years ago the Romanian genius died. A life to flirt with nothing driven by cosmic pessimism. But it was also great because he betrayed the Cupio dissolved by making incursions in the “debst” life
After courting her for a lifetime, on June 20 of thirty years ago Emil M.Ciran joined his death. He had announced suicide many times, then he would have confessed that that announcement was the only way to survive. The idea of suicide, for him, saves life; It is the art of killing himself with thought. And he had proposed the end of humanity as a joyful apocalypse. Cioran was a writer and nothing, and summarized the two activities by writing from nothing, or as a thinker of nothing. Student of Leopardi, Pascal and Baudelaire but also, especially in style, of Nietzsche, with whom he shared the announcement of the death of God but also the absurd fate of having a priest Father, Pastore Lutherano the German philosopher, Pope Orthodox Him. In his Parisian attic Cioran had posted the verses of theInfinite of Leopardi. Cioran was a hyperbolic Leopardian, but then he traded his love for life, for women, the taste of living, his insulting sociability.
When you stay down and see everything black, Cioran is a homeopathic care or shock therapy. And compared to him you realize that you don’t see everything black. But reading it see which splendid flowers can generate black humor, watered by the most bitter tears. Cioran brings you to nothing, but the peaks of his despair are so sparkling, so lively his apocalyptic vein, so excessive, that it causes a kind of euphoria of the abysses. See the show of intelligence on a course with the world and the dizzying intoxication of Cupio dissolves; The joy of the castaway. A juice of cosmic pessimism and a grotesque juice of dark enthusiasm comes out. Everything appears in vain, suicide included; In the face of evil, think with him at the worst and almost restores you, your private despair drowns in the cosmic one and dilutes in universal fatalism. Even the sun becomes black in the pages of Cioran, as it was with us with Manlio Sgalambro. But the miracle takes place: you find the pleasure of intelligence, the taste of reading, the voluptuousness of imprecation. Grace and ecstasy of nothing.
In a magnificent French Cioran, Romanian exile, expressed the intoxication of the abyss but in life it was far from gloomy and misanthrope. He predicted before Michel Houellebecq and Renaud Camus the invasion of Islam in France and Europe; Provided that Notre-Dame would become a mosque.
Then his mystical-macabre biography: the friendship as a child with the restruct and the assiduous attendance of skeletons and corplants, the regret of the mother of not having aborted instead of giving birth to a desperate one like him, the escape to the bathroom when the father-small recited the prayers at the table, the bike to combat insomnia by pedaling up to the exhaustion, the coquetry to imbach himself from clocard in the cens Even in a ceremony at the Académie Française, among glorious, old Malridotti trombones; Then the lie confessed to having attended the Sorbonne, and the assiduous presence at the tables of the Café de Flore, a favorite place because he was heated, where he wrote having as their respect Jean-Paul Sartre, a nihilistic much more depressing than him with the aggravating circumstance of wanting to change the world, after having preached him. Cioran was a nihilistic but loved beauty.
Cioran lived in Paris in the Latin neighborhood, cultivating a lively aesthetic of bankruptcyin which nihilism made, in prose and lifestyle. He lived from déracinéfrom clochardfrom Bohémien and from flâneur; He felt oriental in the West but western compared to the East, placing himself in the middle ground, between Nirvana and caffeine. He lived sleepless on the ridge, like his Romania. From which Cioran fled, even if in Paris he did not disdain the repatriates with the other Romanian exiles, such as Eugène Ionesco and won Horia. Cioran landed in Italy with the editions of the Borghese, then became author Adelphi. Cioran defined Italy “admirable country, the least worn out, the least lost in the West”, Lecce hit him, “a wonder”. His separate brothers were two Italian writers, Guido Ceronetti and Mario Andrea Rigoni who remembered “extraordinarily alive, warm, lovable, witty, melancholy and fun”.
His relationship with his compatriot Mircea Eliade, a scholar of the sacred and great historian of religions, was intense. The epistolary of half a century processes it, A secret complicity (Adelphi). In their secret complicity there is also a common sin of youth. Unspeakable. They had believed in the National Revolution of the Iron Guard of Corneliu Zelea Codreanu. Ciran in France sympathetic with Doriot’s national-populism and collaborated with the Vichy government. But before Paris, he lived in Germany between 1933 and 1934, while Hitler conquered power.
In the letters to his friend, Cioran tells his need to meet people vulgar and try a genus of dongiovannism born from despair, nausea and passion. Eliade helps him with repeated sending of money knowing that he passed it badly. And Cioran, the cynic, often distributed the sums sent to him by Eliade among the most needy Romanian refugees. Indeed, he – lonely, poor and cursed – takes care of keeping three grandchildren who remained against him, following the death of their mother, his sister. “Just me,” Cioran notes, “that I have morbid horror for the wedding and I did everything to not have a family …”. But it is these contradictions that save Cioran and transform his hatred for the world into a lovable pose and a delicious prose. Read it, his catastrophic vein will make you rediscover the taste of living and thinking.
