It comes to mind the radical decision of Cioran who, banishing his mother tongue from his hand and tongue, vowed never to earn a living except by penning, that is, never to betray his recognized vocation in order to earn more money in some other occupation. The result was an obvious and permanent lack of comfort, to say the least for a writer who isolated himself in a rented cubicle, supporting himself on handouts and eating in a popular restaurant, when his intellect would have allowed him infinitely greater possibilities. All this seems to suggest that we should always ask ourselves mentally before opening a book: how much did this gentleman give up to write?