oatmeal with cioran
when it’s raining outside a little bit of Cioran can warm the soul in an unchicken noodle soup kind of way.
After all, the best presents are those one randomly stumbles upon. I remember taking walks as a little girl after a long rain–kneeling at puddles where swollen earthworms had found their death day. Fascinating, in fact, that it took me more than ten years to learn why rainy days were not good days for worms.
So in looking for this quote by Cioran,
“Bach’s music is the only argument proving the creation of the Universe can not be regarded a complete failure.”
I came to learn there was a woman in the background of Cioran’s life. Little is translated, and there isn’t even a photograph except for a picture of their gravestone and her name carved under his.
What I dug up were a few documents in french and this entry:
When his Cahiers were published two years later, I discovered that during his whole life – or at least since the fifties – there had been a woman, Simone Boué, behind him and supporting him. And by supporting him, I mean that she must really have fed him: she was the working one, the one who plodded along when in France her companion’s books were neglected by mainstream readers. However, she isn’t mentioned in any of Cioran’s books, so that when reading his aphorisms or his essays one might be tempted to believe that he lived in utter loneliness, in a small and damp poet’s garret in rue de l’Odéon, Paris, which is – admittedly – a very attractive picture of a nihilist thinker. Simone Boué was the silent one and led the very normal life of an English teacher in some obscure lycée. I also read that her first assignments as a teacher were very far from Paris. At the same time Cioran kept on babbling about the meaninglessness of life and history and musing about suicide, which he never committed. Then, in the eighties he was discovered by students – and, he ironically added, not even by university students, but by les lycéens. And before that? Before that there had been good Simone Boué, who after Cioran’s death collected and typed Cioran’s notebooks and edited them. After their publication in 1997, Simone Boué died in an accident. A very strange one, though, because apparently she drowned in the Atlantic Ocean, at Dieppe – if I am not mistaken, as I haven’t found any evidence of this in the internet – where the couple had a home. Of course one can’t but think that Simone committed the suicide that her companion had written about for so many years without ever taking the final step.
the rest of the entry here.
are you feeling existentialist?
if so, here’s some fun cioran for a Monday morning: “Is it possible that existence is our exile and nothingness our home?”