An unsuccessful analysis of truth

There are many ways to write what is true. That is to say, you and I might agree on the facts yet state them differently. Moreover, we might draw different conclusions from them. One such conclusion might be that you cannot draw conclusions from the facts in question. That is both a conclusion and a refutation of any conclusion. An anticlusion, to be facetious.

I find the truth to be a bit of a burden. The truth. No particular reason why. I have nothing against it.

But I seem to feel the pressure of it whenever I write. Circling me like a strict schoolmaster ready to bring ruler down on my hand with a deliberate snap.

Not that I’ve been abused or anything. Let’s not be melodramatic.

But I read today that Hemingway advised writers to ‘start with one true sentence”.

Great advice. Direct. Final. Imposing. Like the man himself. Just the kind of writing advice you might conjure up while puffing on a cigar in Havana.

What I like though is how complicated this advice is.

You could meditate your entire life searching for a single truth and not find it. Or you could look around the room and start with something obvious. Like my bedroom door that is open about 3.25 inches.

But to tell the truth, I’m just guessing. From across the room it seems like the sensible thing to do. Though I have to admit. As I’m sure you’d agree. That the position of my door could hardly be a more mundane fact.

I’m just fresh out of interesting truths at the moment. Like a fishmonger all out of fish. Here I am. All dressed up in my rubber pants with the built in boots and there’s nothing left but a melting pile of discoloured ice. Kind of sad. Kind of gross. Come to think of it, even my metaphors seem to have run out of steam.

I really hate to say it.

But I ought to.

And that’s the truth.

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