SOCRATES, SHAKESPEARE & FAULKNER

If I asked Socrates to define for me truth, he would wet his lips with wine, laugh uproariously and answer, "I am nothing. That is the only truth."

If I asked Shakespeare to define for me truth, he would take a deep drink from his goblet and recall a note he once scribbled on a pad of paper, "To be or not to be? That is the question. Do you want to live because existence intrigues you or do you want to die because you find existence absurd?"

If I asked William Faulkner to define for me truth, over a bottle of whiskey he would use the "N" word as he pointed to a black man walking down the road and drawl, "He makes sacrifices to his Chickasaw gods every night and if there is a definition for truth, it certainly hasn't set him free."

I don't seek the truth. If it exists, I will never know it. There are only two facts: We are born and we die. In between these two dates we fill up our closets with so many skeletons that if we opened the doors we would be crushed under an avalanche of bones.

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