Messalina and The Truth

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,