On truth in language

4 min readNov 30, 2022

Heartaches thinking about the exploration we put into music, we are often too regretful with our taste or too vain but again who am I to define what vanity is? We often put ourselves into the position of caretaking but are we really the caretaker?
The evening once again has brought me to the idea of Altruism, do I owe anyone any bearings for why I think the way I think? My words often come out as propaganda, a disgusting front to hide my discontentment, and further shame. I’ve started reading a lot again since if you follow my essays you’ll know when I’m thinking and why I’m thinking the way I am thinking. I remember a journalist once asked Pauline Kael about her autobiography and if she’ll ever write one. She simply said, “I already have.” And she is right, if we read Pauline Kael’s every piece in chronological order we find and learn everything about her; it’s her way of putting her legacy. To an extent without being too vain how great is it to put out your legacy in written words where you can be figured out in simple words through your opinions on art and culture? Writing must not become simple words, it must carry with it a poignant view that cuts through blankets of reality, it should not just be a burning memory.

Neuroscientist Roland Benoit said “Our memory is not made for the past but for the future”

The topic at hand here is really sensitive; to bring it to your eyes in a crafty, willy, cunning, artful, and ingenious manner would be just a front to hide minute cowardice. Truth should be pure, then only can it not be called intellectually slothful, then only can it not be incontestable. The consequences of belief in truth yet can be profoundly damaging. We don’t have many days to clearly understand that, do we?
I’ve tried many times to consciously eradicate my morally taut attitude and views. I’ve often forgotten that flexibility if applied can become the reason for the death of your relevance. Heads can be cut based on how you think your truth functions, knowing the sense of value it carries I still want to believe that it can be as small and big as an atom, yet again I’ve become incontestable; yet again if someone were to ask me I would be a hypocrite drifting in the late afternoon.

I remember the opening lines of Harold Pinter’s Nobel prize acceptance speech. “a thing is not necessarily either true or false; it can be both true and false”

The act of love itself has been coded into the desire that has seen its evolutionary tracts to stop at loneliness and isolation. We are slightly bewildered by our choices of love, by looking at those childishly fresh eyes, we don’t forget what adultery is and how capable of it we are, we don’t forget what sex is, we are just very much morally bound to not think about it, and if so, we must be ashamed about it and simply hide it from our reality. There is no pontification needed to desire things that are beautiful and transient. All that follows is true. Everything at the bulldozing temperamental end of time.

This week was passionately spent on PopPedia, Tarantino’s literature, and God of War. All things should not be sexualized into poetry. The essence of poetry lies in its subservient nature. Tarantino’s observation on cinema is fathomless and I use that word in every context possible. He might not be a good essayist, but he is a great writer. Throughout his takes on movies, his cinema speculation goes beyond and above the cinema. It is that which makes ‘Cinema Speculation’ a great book. He writes as if he is the only one who knows what he is talking about, his reviews are not just reviews but manifestos.

I’ve exposed myself in this piece but I've corrupted it with truth, it’s disguised in the forms of letters…

D.H. Lawrence wrote in his poetry.

“If I could have put you in my heart,
If I could have wrapped you in myself,
How glad I should have been!

And oh, that you had never, never been
Some of your selves, my love, that some
Of your several faces, I had never seen!

For all your life of asking and despair,
I own that some of me is dead to-night.”




I’m Kunal Rajput, I’m a writer based out of Ahmedabad. I write weekly essays/Articles on Art, Culture, philosophy and Politics.