I moved away from the philosophy at the time that Kant made it impossible to discover any human weakness, no real sadness accent, or Kant or any of the other philosophers. Face the music, mysticism and poetry, from a philosophical activity decreased sap and a deep suspicion that bear no more prestige for the timid and tepid. On the other hand, philosophy-jitter impersonal refuge with anemic ideas-is the use of dodging corrupting the exuberance of life. More or less all philosophers have finished well: it is the ultimate argument against philosophy. The end of Socrates himself is nothing tragic is a misunderstanding to a teacher, and if Nietzsche was sunk as a poet and visionary, atoned for his ecstasies and not its reasoning.
can not avoid the existence with explanations, but you can not bear it, love it or hate it, adore or fear it, in this alternation of happiness and horror that expresses the rhythm of being, its fluctuations, its dissonances, its vehemence bitter or happy.
Who is not exposed, by surprise or by necessity, a confusion irrefutable, then who does not lift his hands in prayer to drop it even more empty then the answers of philosophy? It seems that his mission is to protect while the oversight of luck let us walk this side of the dislocations and leave us as we are forced to dive into it. And how could it be otherwise, when you see how few of the suffering of humanity have happened to his philosophy? The fruitful philosophical exercise is not only honorable. It is always with impunity philosopher: a trade without destination full of thoughts bulky neutral vacancies hours, hours refractory to the Old Testament, Shakespeare and Bach. And perhaps these thoughts have materialized on one page equivalent to a cry of Job, a terror of Macbeth or a cantata? The universe is not disputed, it is expressed. And philosophy does not express it. The real problems do not start after you have run or exhausted after the last chapter of a huge volume that puts the endpoint in a sign of abdication of the unknown, which are rooted all our moments, and with which we must fight because it is naturally more immediate, more important than daily bread. Here the philosopher leaves us: enemy of the disaster, is as sound as the reason and as wise as she. And we were in the company of an old plague, a poet versed in all delusions and a musician whose sublime transcends the sphere of the heart. We did not start to really live rather than at the end of philosophy, on its ruins, when we understand the terrible void, and it was useless to resort to it would not unto us for any assistance.
(Large systems are not at bottom that bright tautologies. What advantage is there to know that the nature of being is the "will to live" in the "idea", or the fantasy of God or the chemistry? Simple proliferation of words, subtle shifts of meaning. What is repels verbal hug and intimate experience does not reveal anything out of the privileged moment and inexpressible. On the other hand, the very being is nothing but a pretense of nothing.
defined only by despair. We need a formula, even take many, nothing more than to give justification to the spirit and a facade to nothing.
Neither the concept nor ecstasy are operational. When the music plunges us to the "intimacy" of being out again quickly to the surface: the effects of the illusion is dispelled and knowledge is declared void.
The things we touch and are so unlikely that we conceive as our senses and our reason we are only safe our verbal universe, easy-to pleasure, and inefficient. Being dumb and spirit charlatan. That is called learn .
The originality of the philosophers is reduced to inventing terms. As there are only three or four attitudes to the world-and little else or less as many ways to die, "the nuances that diversify and multiply only depend on the choice of words, devoid of any metaphysical scope. We
pleonastic engrossed in a world in which the questions and replies are equivalent.)Quoted from the book "Breviary of rot" of the Romanian-French writer.
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