What is truth?

I read a newspaper and I imagine myself to be engaged with truth in some way, or with facts of some kind or other. But what is a fact? My having even a passably accurate sense of the reality any story is attempting to attach itself to depends in that case on my being a very good reader. And just as much, it depends on the writer of that story being a very good writer (that in turn requiring they be a very good reader). Now most writers are far from being very good writers, and I think I’m just as far or further from being a very good reader, so the story I create in my head at the prompting of the story said writer created in their head and then tried to translate from their head to mine and to a dizzying number of other minds… Well, it’s barely better than a game of whispers, is it?

There is no truth but what we feel, and what we feel is more or less locked within us.