A melancholy love
by Arran James
For the one for whom life is a supreme reality, without it being a piece of evidence, what question can torment him other than the one pertaining to this dilemma: can we or can we not love life? This uncertainty is unclear and delicious; but nonetheless it demands an answer. It is both charming and bitter not to know whether you love or don’t love life. You would like not to say either a yes or a no, if only for the pleasure of not clearing a pleasant uneasiness. A yes means a renunciation to imagining and feeling an other life; a no is fear of the illusion of other worlds.
I only love the one who goes beyond there is; the one who can feel his beginnings and the things that precede them; the one who remembers the times when he was not him, the one who jumps in anticipation of individuation. He who has not trembled realizing the deep meaning of individuation, has understood nothing of this world, because he will never have sensed the zones of his beginnings, nor will he able to foresee the moment of his own end. Individuation reveals our birth as an isolation and death as a return. The one who doesn’t cultivate this isolation doesn’t love life, nor does the one who doesn’t fear return, love life. The fact that almost no one loves return proves something else, namely that this is the path towards the world in which we have no name. Individuation gives life a name. We all have a name; the world which precedes individuation is the life without a name, it is the life without a shape. Only individuation gives life a shape. This is why the crashing of individuation in death is a disfiguring. Man doesn’t love his face, which is an accident, but its shape, which is a metaphysical sign.
EM Cioran from The Book of Delusions