Capital T

People who talk only about truth seldom care about the facts.

Truth is transcendent, a high ideal, ethereal, its ghostly presence haunting every crusade, every pogrom, every witch-burning. Truth accounts for more bloodshed than the mere facts could muster. Even religion has fewer martyrs and victims than the truth.

When our bigotry and obscurantism need justification, truth is there to do the job for us. It is a cancer of feelings unchecked by knowledge or reason.

The truth is seldom in touch with reality. Reality, after all, is fleeting, down to earth, unambitious, and superficial, but truth is blindly certain, deep, and unchangeable. It can not be figured out. The truth doesn't even have to make sense. It exists beyond doubt, it is immune to inquiry and proof. It demands our acceptance, unconditionally, without reservation.

Truth hurts.

We can argue the facts, but truth is something we gotta die for.

Don't trust people trying to sell you on truth, capital T.

Be a smart animal. Trust the senses, and keep them keen. Test the truth against the hard, cold gleam of the facts. Don't be seduced by the immaterial glamour of truth--or its arrogant half-wit sibling, honor--the facts, hard, limited and finite, are usually enough--the facts and the good sense to reason clearly and justly.