#boue

Nettoyage de printemps

E. M. Cioran died on June 20, 1995. In a sense, however, he had already left before he died. For the last several years he had suffered from Alzheimer’s and had been interned at the Broca Hospital in Paris. Fearing precisely such an ending, he had planned to commit suicide. Cioran and his longtime partner, Simone Boué, were to die together, like the Koestlers. But the disease was faster, the plan failed, and Cioran had to die the most humiliating of deaths, one that took several years to do its work. At first there were just some bothering signs: one day Cioran could not find his way back home from the city, which he — a consummate walker — knew like the back of his hand. He then started losing some of his memories; at times he didn’t seem to have a very clear sense of himself. His fabulous sense of humor apparently he lost last. One day a passerby asked him in the street, “Are you Cioran by any chance?” His answer was: “I used to be.” But the signs became too many and too serious: Cioran started to forget at such an alarming rate that he had to be interned. Eventually, the words failed him: one of the finest writers of his time, Cioran could no longer name the most basic things. Then it was the mind’s turn. In the end he forgot who he was altogether. At one point during his long, final suffering, in a brief moment of lucidity, Cioran whispered to himself: “C’est la démission totale!” [This is total resignation!"] It was the grand, ultimate failure, and he didn’t fail to recognize it for what it was.