I hate newspapermen. They come into camp and pick up their camp rumors and print them as facts. I regard them as spies which in truth they are.

What is truth? said jesting Pilate and would not stay for an answer.

Memory is a complicated thing a relative to truth but not its twin.

The color of truth is gray.

We were talking about the space between us all and the people who hide themselves behind a wall of illusion. Never glimpse the truth - then it's far too late when they pass away.

Intense feeling too often obscures the truth.

The only way into truth is through one's own annihilation through dwelling a long time in a state of extreme and total humiliation.

Representation of the world like the world itself is the work of men they describe it from their own point of view which they confuse with the absolute truth.

The key to wisdom is this - constant and frequent questioning for by doubting we are led to question and by questioning we arrive at the truth.

I think it better that in times like these a poet's mouth be silent for in truth we have no gift to set a statesman right.