The Truth Is...

Well, that's the question, isn't it? In so many stories, the search for truth--out in the world, within one's self, in any number of places and ways--is of paramount importance.

The truth of what happened to their mother, drives David Rose. And truth is mentioned 40 times, in Cucariva. A passage:

A sensibility cellular in nature: she was the love of his life, this he knew in his blood and in his bones. The one person for whom he’d been procreated into existence—blood and bones and organs and musculature and tissue—his, in its precise assembling—that he might those decades hence meet and love this woman. Who until recently had professed a devotion no less profound. And so he brimmed with this imperative and wanted to tell her he loved her, for so he did. Not to persuade her toward some starry end, but simply, because it was truth, of the most unassailable type.  And truth had become an inestimable, if faltering beacon, upon the fringe of this fathomless sea.

Every now and then I think of this melancholic musing from the late, great, Lenny Bruce. A sobering, but perhaps quietly hopeful notion, which has pervaded my thinking and my work, in no small measure...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DYlCfRiOEhM