Quotes About Truth

remembered the words of the man in the brown suit, and how they had echoed around the rafters of my rooms under the eaves. Yet the man in the brown suit was a figment of her imagination. I should have expected it. She was a spinner of yarns, wasn't she? A storyteller. A fabulist. A liar. And the plea that had so moved me—Tell me the truth—had been uttered by a man who was not even real. I was at a loss to explain to myself the bitterness of my disappointment.

Ask him to tell you about when he was born. What you get won't be the truth; it will be a story.

Margaret Lea." "The biographer.

How horribly dull. I could never have been a biographer. Don't you think one can tell the truth much better with a story?" "Not in the stories you have told the world so far.

To make it true? Was it for me or for her that he made these thankless efforts to connect us? It was an impossible task.

And is it better to know?" he asked me. "I can't tell you. But once you know, it's impossible to go back.

Mr. Lomax had signed for Emmeline. That told me that she had survived the fire, at least. And on the second line, the name I had been hoping for. Vida Winter. And after it, in brackets, the words, formerly known as Adeline March. Proof. Vida Winter was Adeline March. She was telling the truth.

I was not transparent, that she could not see straight through me

Don't you think one can tell the truth much better with a story?

It was Hester herself, made word.

And will you tell me the truth?" "I will tell you the truth.

I will ask you three things. Things that are a matter of public record. When I leave here, I will be able to check what you tell me. If I find you have told me the truth about them, I will accept the commission." "Ah, the rule of three . . . The magic number.

Diane Setterfield

Once you said a thing, it could never be taken back and would be taken up and repeated and altered and told again, no matter how misshapen and out of true. Better to say nothing.

The beginning, perhaps. The girl without the mother. But after that . . . I wish someone could tell me what it means. I wish there was someone who could just tell me the truth.

My gripe is not with lovers of the truth but with truth herself. What succor, what consolation is there in truth, compared to a story? What good is truth, at midnight, in the dark, when the wind is roaring like a bear in the chimney? What you need are the plump comforts of a story. The soothing, rocking safety of a lie.

And is it better to know? he asked me. I can't tell you. But once you know, it's impossible to go back.

It was laconic, but it was true. As soon as you started to put more words in, you came to unreason.

I smiled into the clever eyes. "Find out for me," I said, "whether Oliver

What I've come to learn in my long life is that ignorance is not bliss; it is time consuming and costly as hell.

When you shoot right and truth and justice down, the more right and truth and justice will rise up.

Was mir vor allen Dingen unbestreitbar vorkommt, ist die Tatsache, das ein solches Ausbleiben des Klassengefühls eine bürgerliche Kindheit kennzeichnet. Die Herrschenden merken nicht, dass ihre Welt nur einer partikularen, situierten Wahrheit entspricht (so wie ein Weißer sich nicht seines Weißseins und ein Heterosexueller sich nicht seiner Heterosexualität bewusst ist).

Lack of accomplishment is one thing; deceit is quite another. Everyone who has followed her career knows that Hillary is dishonest to the core, a "congenital liar" as columnist William Safire once put it. The writer Christopher Hitchens titled his book about the Clintons No One Left to Lie To. Even Hollywood mogul David Geffen, an avid progressive, said a few years ago of the Clintons, "Everybody in politics lies but they do it with such ease, it's troubling."3

The truth is that socialism is consistent with human nature; it draws on its worst impulses, which cannot be publicly acknowledged. This may be why the true motives of today's socialists are not easily recognized.