For millennia, philosophers and scientists have sought truths of universal value. Yet, it is quite curious that there are countless definitions of what this highly coveted "lady" might actually be. Do so many people seek her without truly knowing what truth is? Despite this, everyone seems to agree that truths do exist. And all indications suggest that—at least in this plural sense—no one would dare deny it. Is the idea of truth merely an instrumental concept tool for dealing with the world and constructing theories that are likewise instrumental?
The issue becomes truly complex when two or more alleged
truths clash. What grounds the attribution of truth to a statement regarding
any fact, hypothesis, or theory? And how, from a moral and ethical standpoint,
do we distinguish truth from a lie? Kant arguably made his most egregious error
in this regard by asserting that a human being should never choose to lie—that
doing so is always reprehensible. Yet, it is easy to imagine a situation that
exposes the nonsense of this view: a revolutionary is hiding in your home
during a bloody dictatorship. The political police arrives and ask, "Is
[so-and-so] hiding in this house?" Telling the truth would mean handing
the fugitive over to his likely killers and colluding with the dictators'
illegitimate power—acts that are ethically abhorrent.
This example also makes it clear that power, legitimacy,
ethics, and truth are inextricably intertwined.
Nietzsche dismantled the notion that truth can be pure and
independent of any human perspective. In other words, he ruled out the
existence of any absolute truth, arguing that all truths are subordinate to
interests that are never explicit—often concealed or even unconscious to those
who utter them. The point, then, is not to deny the existence of truths, but to
highlight that they stem from perspectives and entail specific relations of
social and political power. In short, truths are always relative. In everyday
life, we frequently encounter situations—whether familial, social, or political
—involving conflicts between competing "truths." Proponents of a
given opinion argue their case by invoking logic, coherence, ethical or
religious principles, or even scientific theories to substantiate their choice
of what they proclaim to be *the* truth.
It is evident just how significant a part these debates play
in our lives. It is also noteworthy how heavily passions interfere in them,
usually prevailing over the supposedly rational elements of the argument.
The notion of the "arbiter of truth" is surely
well known—that peculiar figure who never listens to what others say,
especially when their own established "truth" (or that of their
group) is called into question. No matter the evidence to the contrary, their
opinion remains fixed—impregnable and immune to any possible refutation.
Typically, they turn up their noses and turn their backs on dissenters. They recall
the proverbial "blind man who refuses to see."
It is disheartening to observe how common this attitude is
among politicians of all stripes.
Yet, it is not only in ideological, political, or religious
matters that individuals who deem themselves the sole owners of truth emerge;
such figures appear frequently among great scientists as well. Freud policed disciples who dared question
his dogmas; Einstein insisted that God should not play dice... All signs point
to this being an inherent weakness of *Homo sapiens*. Is this a cause for
sadness? Or should we embrace *amor fati* and build something greater, acknowledging
this limitation of ours?
No, there is no need to lament human smallness! *Amor fati*.
It is simply what we have: we are human beings—all too human.
I do not know if truth possesses any sort of essence that
remains invariant over time. A few days ago, an analogy occurred to me
involving a certain human archetype—one embodied countless times by historical
figures, yet one that can be found everywhere. The figure of Messalina is
frequently discussed in the history of Rome. She married Emperor Claudius at
the age of fourteen; he was her uncle and was already forty-eight at the time
of their union. There is no neutral source revealing the impact this age gap
had on the nature of their relationship. What is known is that the young woman
never limited her sexual encounters to her husband alone. Nor did he reproach
her for this; one might even imagine he enjoyed the overflow of erotic passion
from his beautiful, young, and fiery wife—passion fueled by the freedom to take
whomever she pleased, whenever she pleased.
Messalina hosted public orgies in Rome's squares; in one
instance, she challenged another beautiful young woman to a contest to see who
could have full sexual intercourse (culminating in orgasm) with the greatest
number of men in a single afternoon. The empress won the contest with
twenty-five solid fucks!
Such is the nature of truth: like Messalina—a woman of
extreme wantonness—it can never be owned,



