Truth is often insignificant, like a feather on a pigeon’s back and sometimes solemn, important, heavy, like a cloud-scorning mountain of the North (North whence cold winter of wisdom comes); but truth is truth, not less, not more, under any circumstances. It is like a moon under a veil of mist, when you see it rather obscure and less impressive; it always exists full and round; it has no ebb nor flow.
It became more a habit of human nature, I dare say, than necessity, to seek truth; in fact, we need so often no-truth to get fire and power and adjust ourselves, just as we go straight to hatred for love. I even think it was started from human weakness; but it has grown a strength in general consent because it protects you. Therefore it was regarded as the most worthy object of life and the world from time immemorial; and I find already in the very old age quite a number of people who left their own record of sad failure in truth-seeking. It is strange enough we mistook it for success; the writing is at best merely an apology. I
