“At first, we think we advance toward the light; then, wearied by an aimless search, we lose our way: the earth, less and less secure, no longer supports us; it opens under our feet… And we, once in love with the peaks, then disappointed by them, we end by fondling our fall, we hurry to fulfil it, instruments of a strange execution, fascinated by the illusion of reaching the limits of the darkness, the frontiers of our nocturnal fate.
Fear of the void transformed into a kind of voluptuous joy, what luck to gainsay the sun!”

Emil M. Cioran, Précis de décomposition, 1949.