Quotes About Truth

I am stupid, am I not? What more can I want? If you ask them who is brave--who is true--who is just--who is it they would trust with their lives?--they would say, Tuan Jim. And yet they can never know the real, real truth....

She had said he had been driven away from her by a dream,--and there was no answer one could make her--there seemed to be no forgiveness for such a transgression. And yet is not mankind itself, pushing on its blind way, driven by a dream of its greatness and its power upon the dark paths of excessive cruelty and of excessive devotion. And what is the pursuit of truth, after all?

It's queer how out of touch with truth women are. They live in a world of their own, and there has never been anything like it, and never can be.

There is a taint of death, a flavor of mortality in lies,—which is exactly what I hate and detest in the world—what I want to forget.

You know I hate, detest, and can't bear a lie, not because I am straighter than the rest of us, but simply because it appals me. There is a taint of death, a flavour of mortality in lies—which is exactly what I hate and detest in the world—what I want to forget. It makes me miserable and sick, like biting something rotten would do. Temperament, I suppose.

For history is made with tools, not with ideas; and everything is changed by economic conditions - art, philosophy, love, virtue - truth itself!

A diplomatic statement ... is a statement of which everything is true but the sentiment which seems to prompt it.

Vosotros sabéis que odio, detesto, que me resulta intolerable la mentira, no porque sea más recto que los demás, sino porque sencillamente me espanta. Hay un tinte de muerte, un sabor de mortalidad en la mentira que es exactamente lo que más odio y detesto en el mundo, lo que quiero olvidar. Me hace sentir desgraciado y enfermo, como la mordedura de algo corrupto.

The idleness of a passenger, my isolation amongst all these men with whom I had no point of contact, the oily and languid sea, the uniform sombreness of the coast, seemed to keep me away from the truth of these things, within the toil of a mournful and senseless delusion. The voice of the surf now and then was a positive pleasure, like the speech of a brother. It was something natural, that had its reason, that had a meaning.

He must meet that truth with his own true stuff—with his own inborn strength. Principles? Principles won't do. Acquisitions, clothes, pretty rags—rags that would fly off at the first good shake. No; you want a deliberate belief.

Ja sabeu que odio, detesto, no suporto la mentida, i no perquè sigui més íntegre que vosaltres, sinó simplement perquè m'horroritza. A les mentides hi ha un tint de mort, un regust de mortalitat - exactament el que més odio del món - una cosa que vull oblidar. Em fa sentir malalt i miserable, com si mossegués alguna cosa putrefacta. Qüestió de temperament, suposo.

There is a taint of death, a flavour of mortality in lies--which is exactly what I hate and detest in the world--what I want to forget.

True, he had made that last stride, he had stepped over the edge, while I had been permitted to draw back my hesitating foot. And perhaps in this is the whole difference; perhaps all the wisdom, and all truth, and all sincerity, are just compressed into that inappreciable moment of time in which we step over the threshold of the invisible.

You know I hate, detest, and can't bear a lie, not because I am straighter than the rest of us, but simply because it appalls me. There is a taint of death, a flavor of mortality in lies,—which is exactly what I hate and detest in the world—what I want to forget. It makes me miserable and sick, like biting something rotten would do. Temperament, I suppose.

But what I felt most was my being a stranger to the ship; and if all the truth must be told, I was somewhat of a stranger to myself.

But sometimes, by the deserving and the fortunate, even that task is accomplished. And when it is accomplished— behold!— all the truth of life is there: a moment of vision, a sigh, a smile— and the return to an eternal rest.

And when it is accomplished—behold!—all the truth of life is there: a moment of vision, a sigh, a smile—and the return to an eternal rest.

It's queer how out of touch with truth women are. They live in a world of their own, and there had never been anything

No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one's existence,—that which makes its truth, its meaning—its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream—alone. . . . He

There is a taint of death, a flavor of morality in lies,-which is exactly what I hate and detest in the world-what I want to forget.

No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one's existence,—that which makes its truth, its meaning—its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream—alone. . .

Danger lies in the writer becoming the victim of his own exaggeration ... and in the end coming to despise truth itself as something too cold, too blunt for his purpose—as, in fact, not good enough for his insistent emotion. From laughter and tears the descent is easy to sniveling and giggles.

Kummallista, miten naisilta puuttuu kosketus totuuteen. He elävät omassa maailmassaan, jonka kaltaista ei ole koskaan ollut eikä voi koskaan tulla. Se on kerta kaikkiaan liian kaunis, ja jos he sellaisen saisivat pannuksi pystyyn, se menisi pirstaleiksi ennen ensimmäistä päivänlaskua. Jokin kirottu tosiasia, jonka kanssa me miehet olemme luomisen päivästä asti eläneet kaikessa sovussa, ponkaisisi pystyyn ja kaataisi koko kapistuksen.

we had approached nearer to absolute Truth, which, like Beauty itself, floats elusive, obscure, half submerged, in the silent still waters of mystery.