I watched muddy masterpiece The Libertine the other night, and I have to say that I rather like the 2nd Earl of Rochester. He was debauched, drunk and diseased, but he made no excuses. He was essentially true to himself. In a world where we lie almost continually, whether to protect or to pomp, a completely truthful person is rare. I first thought upon this after reading some Camus; The Outsider sees protagonist Mersault live his life without contrivance, but of course it was to be his downfall.
Truth, like light, blinds. Falsehood, on the contrary, is a beautiful twilight that enhances every object.
From Rochester's 'A Satire Against Mankind':
Were I (who to my cost already am
One of those strange, prodigious creatures, man)
A spirit free to choose, for my own share,
What case of flesh and blood I pleased to wear,
I'd be a dog, a monkey, or a bear,
Or anything but that vain animal,
Who is so proud of being rational.
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