Quotes About Truth

Some secrets were much harder to keep than others, especially ones you kept from yourself.

and if a fool is believed then those who believe him are even bigger fools.

The truth frightens people because it isn't stable. It shifts every day.

I believe in tragedy," Shelby responds coldly. "Not miracles." "Yeah, right. Faith is for idiots." Ben seems relieved. "Statistics speak the truth." "You have to stop thinking. It's going to drive us

You can always tell a liar, for he will not look at you when he speaks, and often he has white spots on his fingernails, one to mark every lie he's told.

Um homem que desaparece ou está morto ou quer que você pense que está. Talvez seja melhor que você pense assim.

Onde havia uma mentira, sempre se descobriam outras.

Você não pode fingir que algo real não existe.

She had the ability to spot a liar, except for the lies spoken by someone she loved. That's what had caught her up; she'd been distracted by love, which seemed, at least at the time, to be the truest thing in the world.

The story is always about searching for the truth, no matter what it might bring. Even when nothing was what it appeared to be, when everything hidden, there was a center not even I could run from: who I truly was, what I felt, what I was deep inside.

that you must be yourself no matter what; anything else was a lie, and a denial of who you were would always cause grief. What you put out into the world came back to you threefold.

the seventh day, a number that represents all that is good and all that is evil. There were seven heavens and seven deadly sins, for seven was the most magical number of all, the one that led to wisdom, even for those who would rather remain blind to the truth.

Some words drew blood, they cut your tongue, they made you know things you couldn't unknow.

She had always been a practical girl, and was one still. "I know there's no such thing as what you say we are. It's a fairy tale, a compilation of people's groundless fears.

Sorry," Mary said. "I had some errands to run." Pauline eyed her. It would be Pauline's way to say, No you didn't. It would be Pauline's way to refuse the decorum of the fib, to embrace the painful honesty. It would be her way to say, You just didn't feel like having lunch with me. Which would have been true, of course. And no less embarrassing, regrettable, awkward, no less vigorously denied, because it was true.

After all, it is quite normal for us to owe a debt of gratitude to our parents and grandparents (or the people standing in for them), even if the treatment we experienced at their hands was sheer unadulterated torture. This is an integral part of morality, as we understand it. But it is a species of morality that consigns our genuine feelings and our own personal truth to an unmarked grave.

Both the depressive and the grandiose person completely deny their childhood reality by living as though the availability of the parents could still be salvaged: the grandiose person through the illusion of achievement, and the depressive through his constant fear of losing "love." Neither can accept the truth that this loss or absence of love has already happened in the past, and that no effort whatsoever can change this fact.

Genuine feelings cannot be produced, nor can they be eradicated.

Individuals who do not want to know their own truth collude in denial with society as a whole, looking for a common enemy on whom to act out their repressed rage. But as the inhabitants of this shrinking planet near the end of the twentieth century, the danger inherent in self-deception is growing exponentially- and we can afford it less than ever. Fortunately, at the same time, we now have the tools we need to truly understand ourselves, as we were and as we are.

Is it possible, then, to free ourselves altogether from illusions? History demonstrates that they sneak in everywhere, that every life is full of them—perhaps because the truth often seems unbearable to us. And yet the truth is so essential that its loss exacts a heavy toll, in the form of grave illness. In order to become whole we must try, in a long process, to discover our own personal truth, a truth that may cause pain before giving us a new sphere of freedom. If

Experience has taught us that we have only one enduring weapon in our struggle against mental illness: the emotional discovery of our truth about the unique history of our childhood.

To escape this vicious cycle we must face the truth. And we can do it. We were humiliated children; we were the victims of our parents' ignorance, the victims of their history, of the unconscious scars with which childhood left them. We had no choice but to deny the truth.

It is our access to the truth that can enable us to prevent such people, who yearn for the order' spawned by violence, from realizing their destructive plans. Fascism will have had its day once society ceases to deny the knowledge we already possess about the production of brutality, violence, and dehumanization in childhood and minimize its dangers. Once this has happened, it won't have a chance in this society.

No longer to be compelled to betray one's own feelings and senses, no longer to allow oneself to be deflected from the truth of facts by ideologies of any kind, is already to lend a hand in the demolition of the inhuman, destructive wall of silence—the wall that we were forced to respect as children and which has again and again resulted in fascist behavior.