Werner Herzog wrote a book about the nature of truth titled “The Future of Truth” (De Toekomst van de Waarheid). A concept much abused these days.

To Werner Herzog, truth is a search, a quest, almost one that distinguishes us from the other, more or less intelligent animals. In this concise yet idea-packed book, he examines the truth from several interesting angles, including political, artistic, historical, and scientific perspectives. He interweaves interesting stories in his arguments, like an artist should.

He looks at people who are considered larger-than-life. Contrary to popular belief, self-proclaimed genius (my words) Elon Musk did not invent the electric car. He didn’t found Tesla. He bought that one. And he bought Twitter. With that truth, he aims to facilitate the spreading of lies. (He did found SpaceX, though.)

The word for truth in Ancient Greek is aletheia, the negation of lethe, meaning forgetfulness or oblivion. Alatheia is that which reveals what was hidden. Alatheia is like a film and photography on celluloid. There is something on it, but it has to be revealed and developed.

Art creates a truth, according to Herzog. In opera, music transforms almost the craziest, unthinkable stories into wondrous truths. (Herzog directed several operas.)

Herzog’s film Family Romance tells the story of how, in Japan, actors are hired to replace a father or husband in their real life. Actors stand in for the father of a girl, the broom for a marriage, and an employee receiving a scrubbing. After the movie was released, Japanese broadcaster NHK produced a documentary about the company that hires out these actors, referred to in Herzog’s movie as Family Romance, and about the people who hire its actors. A bizarre double world emerges in this documentary. A client of the ‘Family Romance’ service was interviewed and questioned about why he wanted the actor to take his place in real life. After the documentary was finished, NHK discovered that the client they had interviewed was also an actor who had been hired to replace the original client. The argument was that the actor could portray the client more effectively than the client himself. Because the actor can speak the absolute truth, and the real person could do nothing but lie. Still with me?

In another movie of his, Herzog plays a priest. He meets a stranger and records a confession from this stranger for the film. During the act, he fabricates several facts as a priest, which the confessor greedily accepts, and the confession is more honest and well-meant than it could ever have been in real life. Making the fake confession more truthful than a real one.

Another story unfolds in Russia during the time of Czarina Catherine II. Potemkin villages were villages created as fronts, much like movie sets, to give the Russian czarina the impression of a prosperous country. A staged world similar to the North Korean Peace Village. Or the Truman Show.

In his films, Herzog attributes celebrity quotes that could have been said, but which he fabricated. He believes that this made-up truth is also a truth: an ecstatic, more profound truth.

Another bizarre story is that of a man on death row who continued to believe in his self-made innocence to the end, even though he was guilty, believing his concoctions til the end. This story reminded me of the song “The Mersey Seat” by Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds. In this unsettling song, a condemned man continues to believe in his innocence until just before his execution, but the truth catches up with him.

And in a way I’m yearning
To be done with all this measuring of proof
Of an eye for an eye
And a tooth for a tooth
And anyway I told the truth
And I’m afraid I told a lie

Of course, AI is impossible to ignore, and Herzog explores the fake images it can generate, such as the AI-created photograph that was awarded the top prize at the Sony Photo Awards.

Herzog discusses how we can protect ourselves from being deceived by fakes. He recommends always approaching information with skepticism—assuming it might be false—and diligently verifying the truth behind any claim. He emphasizes that any request to transfer money should be treated as a red flag. In his view, the digital world is inherently unreliable.

According to Herzog, what helps us navigate this uncertainty are three key practices:

• Education
• Reading extensively
• Walking regularly, with minimal distractions or baggage

In the final chapter, Herzog admits that there is no definitive “future of truth.” Instead, the search for truth remains an essential, existential pursuit.

I read the book in its Dutch translation. When I wanted to buy it for a friend in the US, I discovered—somewhat surprisingly—that the English translation is not yet available. It is scheduled for release in September 2025.

A strange mix of loneliness, connection, and love come together in All the Lovers in the Night by Mieko Kawakami.

Fuyuko is a reclusive proofreader at a publishing house. She has virtually no social life.

One day, Fuyuko comes into contact with Hijiri, who persuades her to go freelance. Fuyuko more or less befriends Hijiri and is somewhat taken out of her isolation by this friendship. Fuyuko learns to drink alcohol, but without any measure.

She meets Mr. Mitsutsuka, an older man, when she attempts to enroll them in a course. She starts meeting him more frequently after an initial reluctance. They have special and increasingly intimate conversations. A strange, affectionate relationship develops.

Not saying a word, just standing there, Mitsutsuka looked like he was waiting patiently for my tears to settle. I heard a car go by, not very far away from us. Using my palm, I wiped the tears dripping down my chin, then rubbed my eyes, covered my face, and started crying again. Mitsutsuka lifted his free hand and rested it on the crown of my head. I thought I could feel the heat of his hand entering my skin. With his palm still on my head, I asked Mitsutsuka if he would spend my birthday with me, in a voice that was almost all sob. Will you walk through the night with me? And will you listen to that song with me, just the two of us?

The character Fuyuko bears resemblance to the strangely named Natsuke in Earthlings by Sayaka Murata. Women who cannot ground themselves in this world, or at least in Japanese society, and live socially isolated lives. Where in Earthlings an unbearable burden develops in the protagonist Natsuke, Kawakami’s story is more loving, and Fuyuko manages to maintain a certain lightness and optimism.

Douglas Coupland predicted that the crafted object might become the emerging “technology” of modern art. Analog experiences are where art is enjoyed.

In Antifragile, Nassim Nicholas Taleb explores technology and art from the perspective of fragility. Technology is designed to replace older, inferior technology.

Technology is at its best when it is invisible. I am convinced that technology is of greatest benefit when it displaces the deleterious, unnatural, alienating, and, most of all, inherently fragile preceding technology.
…
So it may be a natural property of technology to only want to be displaced by itself.

But not all technology disappears. The Lindy effect applies to technology.

For the nonperishable, every additional day may imply a longer life expectancy. So the longer a technology lives, the longer it can be expected to live.
…
But in general, the older the technology, not only the longer it is expected to last, but the more certainty I can attach to such a statement.

People experience new technology like a treadmill effect.

People acquire a new item, feel more satisfied after an initial boost, then rapidly revert to their baseline of well-being. So, when you “upgrade,” you feel a boost of satisfaction with changes in technology. But then you get used to it and start hunting for the new new thing.

Taleb states that this effect does not apply to classical art, as well as to analog and physical experiences. These experiences appear to be exempt from men’s hedonic decline in satisfaction.

But it looks as though we don’t incur the same treadmilling techno-dissatisfaction with classical art, older furniture—whatever we do not put in the category of the technological.
…
I have never heard anyone address the large differences between e-readers and physical books, like smell, texture, dimension (books are in three dimensions), color, ability to change pages, physicality of an object compared to a computer screen, and hidden properties causing unexplained differences in enjoyment.

The big differentiator, according to Taleb, is the infusion of the maker’s love in the created art object.

But consider the difference between the artisanal—the other category—and the industrial. What is artisanal has the love of the maker infused in it, and tends to satisfy—we don’t have this nagging impression of incompleteness we encounter with electronics. It also so happens that whatever is technological happens to be fragile. Articles made by an artisan cause fewer treadmill effects. And they tend to have some antifragility—recall how my artisanal shoes take months before becoming comfortable.

The medicine against our technology addiction is not the upgrade to the latest. The medicine is the downgrade to the analog, real-life experience, and the physical object.

Four Thousand Week – Time Management for Mortals, by Oliver Burkeman, is a book about what Burkeman calls “the paradox of limitation.”

All of this illustrates what might be termed the paradox of limitation, which runs through everything that follows: the more you try to manage your time with the goal of achieving a feeling of total control, and freedom from the inevitable constraints of being human, the more stressful, empty, and frustrating life gets. But the more you confront the facts of finitude instead—and work with them, rather than against them—the more productive, meaningful, and joyful life becomes.

Burkeman shares a wealth of wisdom on how we can achieve more focus in our lives without getting overwhelmed by our social media addiction and how the media manipulates us for the sake of gaining more eyeballs on the media itself (the media is the message, as Marshall McLuhan concluded years ago).

The unsettling possibility is that if you’re convinced that none of this is a problem for you—that social media hasn’t turned you into an angrier, less empathetic, more anxious, or more numbed-out version of yourself—that might be because it has. Your finite time has been appropriated, without your realizing anything’s amiss.
…

It’s been obvious for some time now, of course, that all this constitutes a political emergency. By portraying our opponents as beyond persuasion, social media sorts us into ever more hostile tribes, then rewards us, with likes and shares, for the most hyperbolic denunciations of the other side, fueling a vicious cycle that makes sane debate impossible.

The book is a gem. I conclude with his advice for a more creative life.

In practical terms, three rules of thumb are especially useful for harnessing the power of patience as a creative force in daily life. The first is to develop a taste for having problems.
…
Once you give up on the unattainable goal of eradicating all your problems, it becomes possible to develop an appreciation for the fact that life just is a process of engaging with problem after problem…
…
The second principle is to embrace radical incrementalism.

When you accept that you probably won’t produce very much on any individual day, you will find that you produce much more over the long term.

One critical aspect of the radical incrementalist approach, which runs counter to much mainstream advice on productivity, is thus to be willing to stop when your daily time is up, even when you’re bursting with energy and feel as though you could get much more done.
…
Stopping helps strengthen the muscle of patience that will permit you to return to the project again and again…

The final principle is that, more often than not, originality lies on the far side of unoriginality.

This is the principle known as “Stay On The Bus”. You don’t find originality around the corner. It is in the depth of the work.

… it begins at all only for those who who can muster the patience to immerse themselves in the earlier stage – the trial-and-error phase of copying others, learning new skills, and accumulating experience.

Burkeman uses the metaphor of the long-married couple.

To experience the profound mutual understanding of the long-married couple, you have to stay married to one person; to know what it’s like to be deeply rooted in a particular community and place, you have to stop moving around. Those are the kinds of meaningful and singular accomplishments that just take the time they take.

I somehow thought Looking for Alaska was set somewhere in the state of Alaska. So it isn’t.

Miles is a shy, slouchy boy who seems to know what he can and what he wants. Of his own accord, he goes to a boarding school. He befriends Chip, Takumi, and the peculiar girl Alaska, who are other cost-schoolers from the poorer strata of society. They form a club to take on the arrogant kids from more affluent families.

Miles and his friends are somewhat outcasts at the school. They smoke and drink and share a love of literature. Miles falls in love with Alaska. She had a rather complicated childhood after her mother died at a young age.
At the end of school, Alaska crashes in the middle of the night in her car on her way to her mother’s grave. The question that occupies the teenagers left behind is whether she committed suicide and, more importantly, why she would have done so. The second half of the book finds Miles and his friends searching for the answers to these questions, in addition to bullying the Eagle, the dean of the school. In the second part, I miss the quirks of the Alaska character. But she is dead.

John Green says in the book’s epilogue that this story did not succeed as well as his other books have succeeded, mainly because his regular editor could not help him with this one. I think Green lacks a little self-confidence because Looking for Alaska is just a very good book. In Anthropocene Reviewed style, I give Looking for Alaska … 5 stars.

I am reading Sayaka Murata’s collection of stories, Life Ceremony. The stories describe futuristic societies you can’t imagine could ever become reality. Furniture and clothing are made from the remains of deceased people. Artificial insemination is the norm. Raising children is paid out to specialized organizations. A girl keeps a man as a pet. After a death, the deceased is ceremoniously prepared and served to the bereaved, who proceed to insemination after the meal to fulfill life’s circle.

All this seems ridiculous. Like a democratic society as seemingly impossible as one in which a president has the power to acquit convicted criminals. In which billionaires conspire to ensure they get richer and can draw even more power to themselves. In which a self-proclaimed genius running a car company has no qualms about making a Hitler salute. A Brett Easton Ellis novel turned into reality.

Staying informed is important, but the constant barrage of horrific news from a government populated by narcissists can be overwhelming. Sometimes, it’s necessary to take a step back for the sake of our mental well-being.

Let’s instead focus on the beautiful things people make. Like books by Sayaka Murata’s.