Without desire, women bored me beyond all expectation, and obviously I bored them too. No more gambling and no more theater – I was probably in the realm of truth. But truth, cher ami, is a colossal bore (5.6).
But what do I care? Don’t lies eventually lead to the truth? And don’t all my stories, true or false, tend toward the same conclusion? Don’t they all have the same meaning? So what does it matter whether they are true or false if, in both cases, they are significant of what I have been and of what I am? Sometimes it is easier to see clearly into the liar than into the man who tells the truth. Truth, like light, blinds. Falsehood, on the contrary, is a beautiful twilight that enhances every object (6.2).