Semi-autobiographical, semi-observational:

To be proud of knowing a truth seems to me to be a defense mechanism to compensate for the fact that this truth has taken more than it has given, or has given nothing at all. Behind every smirk is a deadening of the spirit, signaled by the subtle twitch of the eyelid. If by spirit we mean the ability to rejuvenate, flourish and dance, then the loss of this is a terrible thing. The man who has nothing but truth has lost everything else - he is a worm, nay, a maggot, a bringer of death, a spiteful, bitter creature who claims to love what he hates and who decomposes before the eyes of others. The lover of truth, in his grandiosity, attempts to steal from others that which he does not have, and thus bring others down (not up) to his level. He is a megalomaniac, a narcissist, a gangster - one who fires deadly ideas into the minds of others as a murderer shoots a gun into his victims. He is also a charlatan, because truth is a snake-oil that has been conveyed magical properties by the crank Socrates. Truth is the last refuge for an aborted prototype, a being who cannot make reality as an artist and thus must submit himself to a tyranny of the absolutely mediocre. They are captured and tortured by it, and develop a deep hatred - and jealousy - of those who still have their freedom and happiness. The lover of truth despises others because they make him suffer alone. The lover of truth is in an unsound mental state, and his propensity for lying about his enamor of truth is a sign of profound self-delusion, the lack of self-restraint, or perhaps most seriously masochism.

Perhaps there is an objection that this is too hedonistic, that what is valuable is not necessarily what is pleasurable or congruent with vitality. But this is a pathetic ruffling of the feathers. Again - the man with nothing else turns to truth. "Truth" - this is the pig with makeup. To value truth for the sake of truth is outrageous and absurd, it is the final gasp of a dying soul. Truth is not valuable in and of itself, and a terrible truth will leave you on the side of the road, nursing your wounds and wondering why you ever thought it was valuable in the first place. It is masochism to want this.

I mistrust and pity self-proclaimed lovers of truth - for they are like a bachelor who proposes without acceptance. High and lofty in their castles in the clouds they rest, laurels on their shoulders, for they know while others do not. Yet the foundation of these glass palaces is the respect and adoration of the masses, without which they instantly wobble and crumble. A lover of truth need not advertise this to others - yet who can be a silent lover of truth? Yes, indeed! Truth is the great pheromone of the intellect - a lover of truth brags and boasts, flutters and flaunts as a prostitute does on the street corner. Indeed, the lover of truth whores his way into public notice through his submission to an idol. Truth is given magical properties and elevated to a status that is wholly undeserved.

Look at me! Listen to me! I have truth, I am the truth! In actuality there cannot be a lover of truth but only lovers of opinion, and more specifically their own. All of this is a charade - ironically, the lover of truth is in a state of profound self-delusion. They do not love the truth, they love their opinion and the power and influence it gives over others. Worse still, they construct a false idol of themselves. They love their image in the mirror, despite the frailty of their bones and the weakness of their heart. What has gone by the name "truth" has caused incalculable harm. Those who love truth for the sake of truth are at best fools, at worst, narcissistic megalomaniacs. Alternatively they may also be masochists.