I always seek inspiration in Emil Cioran, a Romanian philosopher who settled in France, broke with his own language and began writing in French as few. Some of his books, unfortunately, do not have Portuguese translation, such as the wonderful Aveux et Anathèmes and Solitude et destin — however, there are honorable initiatives in translating it, such as that of Professor José Thomaz Brum, through Editora Rocco. Fierce moralist, endowed with enviable erudition, it is common to see in Cioran a cruel sentence interspersed with some absurd, comical or risible metaphor. This, from the first reading, made me a very strong impression, at first generating a certain misunderstanding. Mockery amid moral matters? And then that I realized the obvious: it is impossible to reflect in depth not having a sense of humor. Our end is dust, our existence is a breath; stupid is take everything so seriously. And since the most serious things are in essence fleeting, everything is liable to laughter and derision. That is, true intelligence manifests itself through good humor. Cioran taught me to laugh at everything: at the others, the world, the death and myself. With him, I learned to provoke by grace, to disdain by charm, to denying only to prove to myself that I do not cling to anything. I discovered, in Cioran, that cynicism is noble as an exalted face of good humor; it is a sign of maturity, not the other way around… So sometimes I imagine myself lying in a bed in front of death. I still have one last wish. I can ask for the salvation of humanity, a dose of morphine, whatever I want. But I am going to die, that is for sure. Then I extend the view and address the figure that accompanies my torment: “Please, please… Only tell me the last joke.”
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