Cioran

Dreams, by abolishing time, abolish death.  The deceased take advantage of them in order to importune us.  Last night, there was my father.  He was just as I have always known him, yet I had a moment's hesitation.  Suppose it wasn't my father?  We embraced in the Rumanian manner but, as always with him, without effusion, without warmth, without the demonstrativeness customary in an expansive people.  It was because of that sober, icy kiss that I knew it was indeed my father.  I woke up realizing that one resuscitates only as an intruder, as a dream-spoiler, and that such distressing immortality is the only kind there is.



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