[Do you suppose Mitch took it easy on me the next time around, gave me a chance to catch my breath with a lighter question? Not a chance.]

Mitch: Let me make sure I am understanding you correctly. It seems to me that you are indicating truth is relative. In other words, when you hear a view, you then compare that view with other views. When you make those comparisons, are you comparing all of the views to some standard to determine which view is better/true? Or do you just compare the views to each other, in which case you have just determined that the views are different?

You also said, "The limitations of our senses and faculties come into play for this question, too—not just for question #2 [see part 1 of this blog series]. The absolute truth may lie outside of our existence or understanding." How do you know this to be true if you are limited by your senses and faculties? If it is true, is it absolutely true for all people at all times, or is it just relatively true?

[Okay, here's what I had to say to that.]

Me: One of the things I love about the arts is that they relegate this kind of heady business to the rear of the bus, the driving purpose of art being to entertain.

But on to the task at hand! Look at how many books have been written in the pursuit of some kind of truth. It's a complicated matter. But no, I don't think truth is strictly relative. What I was getting at with the business of comparing ideas was that certain ideas/images/thoughts/artistic expressions massage the same nerve in me when I encounter them. Whenever I'm thus massaged, I find myself thumbing through my memory of previous instances and comparing those instances to the current one. And sometimes it's not so much a matter of comparison as it is an accretion, a sense that I've found yet another brick with which to lay the foundation of my understanding of the world.

Now, not everyone's "truth nerves" are massaged by the same events, but surely we all have "truth nerves" that are capable of being massaged by something. The source of the massaging may be relative, but the truth that gets revealed (if you're really using your "truth nerve" and not some other nerve)? I'm not so sure. I tend to think we're all plugged into the same socket, but not everyone is interested in finding meaning in life. It's not going to come calling on the aloof.

At any rate, it's quite the opposite of determining that the aforementioned views are different, as you suggest. It's more like determining that they are very similar. In fact, they may not even be separate views, but parts of an aggregate revelation. Some writers can write truth after truth after truth, while others have to wend their way to islands of it through a sea of uncertainty. It's the islands that are the most interesting (this is why art must entertain if it hopes to carry its passengers to all the islands before they abandon ship).

As for your question about how I can know that absolute truth may lie outside of our existence or understanding if we're limited by our senses and faculties, I'd answer simply that I cannot. I suppose faith is the concept we're skirting around here. And faith is a powerful force in all of us, regardless of religious bent. We need faith in the laws of physics, if nothing else, just to get out of bed in the morning, even if we've never heard the word "gravity" and have no idea how it works. Most people have faith that tomorrow's worth living for, that gloom tends to be followed by joy. That's why war and terrorism are so disturbing; they threaten the very foundations of the faith we have in our ability to move forward, both individually and as a people.

But this is all just a long-winded way of saying that we help to write the truth as we go along. Even as you pursue truth and meaning, you may be contributing to another's progression toward true understanding. Again, I don't think that's the same as saying that truth is relative. It just means that I'm not convinced anyone in earthly raiment has ever actually found the stuff. But I'll stand by my definition of its being the translation of reality into universal wisdom. It may not be the most easily proven contention in the world, but I think it has some meat on its bones.

I'd like to close this response with a quotation I came across in Harper's a few years ago: "Euclid proved the number of primes to be infinite, but the infinity of primes is slightly smaller than the infinity of the rest of the numbers. It is here, exactly at this point, that my ability to comprehend begins to fail."—Eula Biss.

[Indeed. I also mentioned that I'd be curious to know Mitch's take on some of these issues. Was there common ground here? Uncommon ground? Mud? In short, were we getting anywhere? You'll have to tune in next time to find out, I'm happy to say. I look forward to it and you should too.]

[I have to admit that I didn't expect my response from part 1 to lead us into ever deepening waters, but I was underestimating Mitch's capacity to draw me out. After discussing my answers with his students, he came back to me with the following:]

Mitch: Let me probe your mind a little more. My guys had a chance to look over your responses and some good discussion has already been generated. The first question is about your truth response. The original question asked was "what is truth" or "how can we identify things as being true vs. untrue?" Your answer seemed to be a bit more aimed at the results of truth rather than what truth is. You did say that "truth is the translation of reality into universal wisdom." If that statement is true, does that translate into universal wisdom? If so, how? If you are willing to put the thinking cap on again, can you give us more of a definition of truth, or identify how you evaluate whether something is true? After that, we can go from there. Thanks again. This is awesome.

[Aha! A challenge. As if my thinking cap had blown off in a strong wind! I couldn't see the quicksand for the quagmire and thereby stumbled thusly onward ...]

Me: You wrote, "If that statement is true, does that translate into universal wisdom? If so, how?" I would reverse your first question and state that if my definition translates into universal wisdom, then it's true. I'm not sure that the person attempting to provide the truth can always be certain that he's done so. It may be something like a democratic process.

One way that I tend to identify truth is, in fact, by taking a constant, silent "poll" of thinkers (friends, artists, writers, etc.) whose authority I trust on the topic at hand. When a writer, for instance, makes a strong claim, an antenna shoots up somewhere in my brain, and I start comparing and contrasting that claim with viewpoints expressed by other writers. Same thing when I'm moved by a painting. I immediately start asking questions of it, based on other works of art I've admired or books that I've read on the subject, films that I've seen. When a work holds up to this kind of scrutiny, I feel that I'm on to something, that I've added to my understanding of the world—narrowed the gap between myself and something important.

The limitations of our senses and faculties come into play for this question, too—not just for question #2 [see part 1 of this blog series]. The absolute truth may lie outside of our existence or understanding (surely there was some version of truth before homo sapiens sprang up). But we can't let that stop us from being curious as to the nature of things. We all peer through different lenses, but we're after the same general answers. As you may gather, I take most of my cues from the arts. Some people prefer religious or philosophical approaches. Others look to science. We're probably wise to rely on some blend of these as we chip away at the mountain of reality to free the work of perfection we suspect is at its center. Maybe we never find it until we die, but maybe it matters that we spend our time looking for it while we're alive.

[Now, if you think this was enough to silence my friendly interrogator, you still don't know Mitch very well. You are therefore humbly invited to tune in next time, for another rousing bout of mental fencing, Mitch with his proud sabre and me with my saucy épée. It'll be well worth your time, I promise. Money-back guarantee, &c.]

[There's a guy named Mitch. You probably don't know him, but you will by the end of this. Don't worry, you'll be the richer for it. He's a super nice guy. Now, there was a span of some years during which Mitch and I were virtually strangers to each other as well. He and I were childhood friends, you see, and as is often the case with such friendships, we drifted apart. I'm sure you're way ahead of me here, but this is where Facebook comes in.

Yup, I found him on everyone's favorite social-networking site, and the next thing I knew he was laying some reasonably heavy subject matter on my virtual doorstep. To wit, he asked if I'd be willing to answer a few philosophical questions so he could share my responses with a group of students he teaches such things to. Here's how he put it:]

1) What is truth? How can we identify anything as true?
2) How did the universe and life get here?
3) Where does morality come from? Everybody calls some things right/good and other things wrong/bad. Where does that come from?

[How could I resist? I'm not sure we've made much headway on the morality question yet, but I've definitely got some banter to share with you regarding numbers 1 and 2. I suspect that Mitch and I will continue to volley this kind of stuff back and forth when the mood strikes, but something like a story arc has completed itself, and it begs to be shared. I expect to intersperse posts for this series with posts on unrelated topics, but do stick with me. It'll be fun. Without further delay, then, here are my answers to Mitch's questions.]

1. Truth is the translation of reality into universal wisdom. Because truth often challenges the beliefs by which we operate on a daily basis, and because it knows no religious or philosophical boundaries, most people eschew it, or mock it when confronted. Certain poets, philosophers, musicians, scientists, etc., on the other hand, seek the truth, invite it in and process it for us.

2. Frankly, I don't believe that our five senses, or the capacity of our brains, are sufficient for understanding the origins of the universe. I can appreciate the scientific enthusiasm for tracking down some kind of big-bang event that may have resulted in the pocket of the cosmos that we occupy. But the idea that there was only one such event, and that it was preceded by nothingness, is as ridiculous a claim as I've ever come across. I tend to think of time as being like a number line, extending both forward and back into infinity. After all, can we really pinpoint the beginning of anything? We say that such-and-such an event was a turning point in our lives, or that this made me do that, but can't those events also be traced back to earlier causes? I admit, it's mind-boggling to consider that there may not have been a beginning to the cosmos, but it's the closest I've come to satisfying my curiosity on the subject.

3. Here I think we can take our lead from Charles Darwin, and others who have fine-tuned his theories over the years. So-called moral behavior allows us to get along, keep ourselves out of scary, disgusting prisons, and avoid getting our heads bashed in by those we might have angered with our immoral activities. There's a strong biological tendency to behave immorally, driven by hedonism. But we've also adapted numerous countermeasures to insure that we survive long enough to pass on our genes to offspring who in turn have a decent chance of living long enough to do the same, and so on. So that's part of it. We might further look to the likes of Dante for a more grim outlook on morality. If he had it right, we're all in big trouble, so we might as well start living it up.

[Check back next time to see where all of this leads ...]

The role of personal pain in the creation of art is an old topic, but that doesn't mean we can't still discuss it. Love has been with us for a while, too, and certain tribal cultures in Papua New Guinea still engage in that bizarre ritual. And look, already we've merged the concepts of pain and love. This is beginning to take shape.

I'm mostly interested in the effects that two types of suffering have on the creative process: profound and petty. The ugly truth is that profound suffering is probably the only avenue to really great writing. Maybe a genius comes along every fifty years or so and serves as an exception to this rule, but by and large, I suspect the great ones have paid a heavy price for their talents. If we engage in the writing of fiction, we should want to be great, but no one wants to invite horrors into their lives. This paradox is a constant and exquisite torment. That's a start.

Much has been said and written, of course, about the potential healing aspects of writing, and I think there's a great deal to this. Writing that acknowledges its place in the shadow of all meaningful work that has come before it has wonderful potential as a balm to inner pain, both for the writer and the reader. But here's the rub: The writer has to find other ways to plane down the gnarly outer shell of hurt before tackling the business of what F. Paul Wilson refers to as making a symmetry of chaos. In other words, you can't sit down mad as hell at the world and expect a story to emerge. The very process of writing is such a hopeful endeavor that any attempt to strong-arm it will immediately show itself to be false. It's this petty pain that needs to be abolished before anything like art can take place, and it's probably a hell of a lot easier for some to accomplish than others. But that's neither here nor there. The foremost purpose of fiction is to entertain, so the fact remains that it's vital to shed all hate, anger, and prejudice prior to pouring a piece of fiction onto the page, in much the same way that it's inadvisable to write under the influence of drink, lest you overestimate the quality of your output. (I actually question the habit of writing to music for the same reason, but I'm sure many would accuse me of taking things too far with that one; still, isn't it possible to mistake a sweet chord for a brilliantly penned sentence?)

Screw that, fix it in the rewrite? Perhaps, but I'm a firm believer that the aim of revision is to polish what's already a gem, not squeeze a diamond from coal. The energy that goes into a first draft matters. In fact, a lack of passion may be the one flaw that cannot be sufficiently redressed in subsequent drafts.

If you're at all interested in learning how I've addressed some of these frustrating concepts in my own fiction, I would hasten to guide you to my short story "The Singular Talent of Nisqually Joe." But some of these ideas may find subtle expression in virtually all of my work to date—not that there's been all that much of it, but nor am I done producing it.

I am, however, finished for now, and already I look forward to our next meeting. Make every second count, people. You're running out of time. You're dying, for Christ's sake.