Man has always found it easy enough to speak about truth abstractly and equally hard to express the truth verbally. This bitter experience has a many-thousand-year history. Still, dreaming obstinately about two inaccessible things, immortality and knowledge of an ultimate truth, is so typically human. The latter is impossible due to the discontinuity of human existence, so it is a dream that will never come true. There is a surrogate, though. It is the so-called “truth of one’s own.”

Beyond the shadow of a doubt, ours is the age of simulations when, all too often, a replica replaces the archetype. Jean Baudrillard’s simulacra have become symbols of modern culture and the media which are constructing a new reality. What is, for example, a journalist, for whom the truth has dissolved in flows of informational fakes, supposed to do? What should a reader wandering in this info-labyrinth do? What is to be done in cases of the supreme authorities becoming the late lamented of whom either good things or nothing must be said? What are we to do when the whole world has got entangled in the webs of the endless post-truth and it is next to impossible to make out what kind of stuff we are consuming? How can we make head or tail of anything in the whirlwind of different truths replacing each other in history textbooks? Brothers the day before yesterday, fallen-out relatives yesterday, hard-nosed enemies today, what shall we be tomorrow? I suppose, it has always been so. All-holy gods became nothing but wooden idols only to perform a job swap at the top once again in the future. Temples became swimming pools and vice versa.

Lara Lychagina,


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