Think of it. We know truth for the cruel instrument it is. Beauty is infinitely preferable to truth. We invent beauty. Faiths, political movements, high ideals, belief in love and fellowship. All of them are lies. We tell those lies, among others, endless others. We improve on history and myth and religion, make each more beautiful, better, easier to believe in. Our lies are not perfect, of course. The truths are too big. But perhaps someday we will find one great lie that all humanity can use.

Art is the most beautiful of all lies

Beauty is truth, truth beauty

What’s beauty if it’s not, in the end, true? Beauty is truth, and truth is beauty.

The truth, however ugly in itself, is always curious and beautiful to seekers after it.

There's more beauty in truth, even if it is dreadful beauty.

The truth is not always beautiful, nor beautiful words the truth.

Which is better, truth that is a lie or the lie that is truth?

There is more beauty in truth, even if it is a dreadful beauty. The storytellers at the city gate twist life so that it looks sweet to the lazy and the stupid and the weak, and this only strengthens their infirmities and teaches nothing, cures nothing, nor does it let the heart soar.

For the Greeks, beauty is truth; for the Hebrews, truth is beauty.

Truth is most beautiful undraped.

Beauty is the radiance of truth, Thomas Aquinas once said, and one might add that the distortion of the beautiful is the self-irony of lost truth.

Truth can remain silent. Lies must be spoken.

And, after all, what is a lie? 'Tis but
The truth in masquerade.