Their Security

"To bear all naked truths, and to envisage circumstance, all calm—
That is the top of sovereignty."
— John Keats, Hyperion
 
In the year of our Lord, sixteen hundred and forty-three, on the fourteenth day of June, the Lords of Parliament in England did place the realm of printing under Crown regulation. In righteous defiance of such tyrannical injunction, the poet and polemicist John Milton composed his immortal tract Areopagitica, a thunderous defence of liberty in expression. So potent were its words, they reverberated across the continent of Europe.
 
From the days of Socrates in the third century before Christ, to Galileo in the Middle Ages, to Sister Joan, to Émile Zola, to Voltaire, and onward into the modern century with Upton Sinclair, Solzhenitsyn, and Márquez—voices of truth have dared speak, and dared suffer. Some were exiled, others scourged, but all stood upright, champions of that unfashionable virtue called truth.
 
And now, standing upon the threshold of the twenty-first century, behold—the same ancient threats rise again to challenge the heralds of truth.
 
But what is truth? And what liberty lies in its utterance? What portion of that liberty belongs to man? Milton, in his bold lucidity, proclaimed thus: if a man, from the furnace of his reason, doth publish his thoughts to the world, and in doing so reveals the poverty and shallowness of common intellect—then what truth might surpass this? Had he whispered his gospel in clandestine corridors, it might have been called sedition. But he hath not. Rather, he proclaims in broad daylight, in script visible to all. Did not our Lord Christ Himself declare—He spake always amidst the people, appealing to their conscience?
 
Indeed, that which is written surpasseth even the spoken word in its nakedness. And if that which is written be false, it may be rebuked. There are always men of principle, defenders of virtue and wisdom, who will rise to that task. Those who shrink from this duty deserve not condemnation, but pity—for their timidity and frailty.
 
The processes of dissemination, be they of truth or of falsehood, cannot in themselves thwart ultimate truth—Milton gave us this assurance. And yet, the modern age hath placed twin obstacles before this noble ideal. First, who speaks the truth? Second, against whom is it spoken?
 
In former times, the common man had little difficulty identifying his oppressor—the monarchy, robed in cruelty and steeped in corruption. Thus, any truth uttered against the sovereign was eagerly received. But in these present days, the delineation of light and shadow hath grown most subtle. The character and circumstance of the protester are themselves drawn into suspicion.
 
Should the voice of dissent arise from an institution mightier than the one it seeks to accuse, or should it mirror its adversary in power, then such protest gains wings. It becomes sanctified. Even if built on lies, the protester is crowned as prophet. He receives bodyguards, dines in five-star chambers, and is appointed to parliaments.
 
But let the protester be a common man, armed not with wealth or rank, but with bare reason—then let him dare raise his voice against a colossus, and behold! He is cast out, ridiculed, made into a lunatic or a ghost. In a world governed by the triumvirate of media, money, and sect, the truth of a small man is but a feather cast into the wind.
 
Today, veracity doth not rest upon merit, but upon magnitude—he who hath the greater megaphone becomes the new Yudhishthir. The powerful need not fear the truth, for the powerful speak it into being. But when the powerless speak, and their truth is inconvenient, they are made to bleed.
 
Yet still, Milton admonished us: "If we are assured in the justice and truth of our cause, why should we tremble before another's pen? Why fear his press?"
 
Alas, the ones who suffer most amidst this tumult of falsehood and fact are none other than the non-Superman, as Herr Nietzsche described him—the common man. That nameless, faceless multitude, referred to in the third person plural as “the public.” Freud too discerned a world whose conscious self is encumbered by the vast oceans of the subconscious. The truths that should rise to the mind’s surface are swallowed in that abyss.
 
The id, Freud's dark instinctual force, compels us to keep the truth buried. The soul recognizes the liar—but the conscious mind obeys him, lest by unmasking him, it incurs peril. Thus, truth remains entombed within the unconscious, its bones rattling unheard.
 
What then of truth’s security?
 
Is it so fragile a thing that the slightest blow may shatter it? And who shall defend it against the ferocity of falsehood? Or has the world, in its convenience, learned to live without truth altogether?
 
Can men dance gaily with lies, and find their days unchanged by the absence of truth? Might truth be abandoned, and yet the bread still rise, the carriages still roll, the ledgers still balance?
 
This is grave. If the dance of joy is undisturbed by the demise of truth, then what need have we of its resurrection?
 
Once upon a time, it was taught that truth ennobles man. That it is the solemn charge of the artist, the philosopher, the writer to reveal truth’s shape to mankind, and to denounce injustice by name. For truth is the guardian of humankind. But that mantle, it seems, we have cast into exile.
 
Today, a few coins placed discreetly in our palms blind us to injustice. We no longer see wrong, because we no longer bother to look. The man who cannot tell whether he is wronged is the very portrait of a society without truth. There is no more distinction between good and evil. Hence, no man understands his own rights.
 
This is the rule of the fish in water—the law of the jungle. When both morality and foundation have vanished, we are left with nothing but matsyanyaya—the big fish devouring the small.
 
Thus the guardians of man—the truthbearers—have been banished. And so, mankind lies defenseless before falsehood, injustice, and immorality.
 
Lord Bertrand Russell, in jest but with a dagger’s point, once remarked: “When these men become carnivores, they craft arguments so fine that even the sheep believe the slaughter just.”
 
The conscience of our age lies sold to four masters: the mafia, the politician, the corporation, and the press. The intellectuals search not for truth but for patronage. They are still “rebels”—but rebels only against their rivals. In this drama, there is no truth or untruth, no righteousness or wickedness—only spectacle.
 
Narrative has become caricature. Surreality reigns.
 
Salvador Dalí, in his strange genius, painted tongues drooping beneath lips—visions where truth and illusion were indistinguishable. The discerning eye alone sees that the tongue licks the body of the girl standing afar. The surreal image may be fantasy—but its truth is undeniable.
 
If opium were served with every cup of tea, and the people grew used to the taste, they would soon forget what real tea was like. Thus, if men abandon the desire to know truth, and find life no less easy thereby, shall we not once more lose our Paradise?
 
And now, the final question: is there no one left to speak for the defenseless? That man of whom Herbert Spencer once wrote:
 
“The highest truth he sees he will fearlessly utter; knowing that, let what may come of it, he is thus playing his right part in the world – knowing that if he can effect the change he aims at – well; if not – well also; though not so well.”
 
And in closing, let us recall the tale of Diogenes and Alexander. After conquering the known world, Alexander returned to Greece, and the philosophers of the land came to pay homage. All—except Diogenes. The great king, upon learning this, made his way to the edge of the city, where Diogenes lay in the sun, naked and unbothered. Alexander approached him and said, “I am Alexander. Is there anything I may do for you?” Diogenes, barely lifting his head, replied, “Yes. Stand aside—you are blocking the sunlight.”
 
In this modern world, is there any sage left who dares look the mighty in the eye and say these words?