All your life, you live so close to truth, it becomes a

Hear the piercing words of Tom Stoppard, a dramatist who knew how fragile our certainties can be: “All your life, you live so close to truth, it becomes a permanent blur in the corner of your eye. And when something nudges it into outline, it is like being ambushed by a grotesque.” In these words he reveals the strange condition of human life—that we walk daily beside truth, yet seldom look it in the eye. It lingers at the edges of our vision, familiar yet avoided, until suddenly it rises before us with terrifying clarity. Then the comfort of illusion is shattered, and what was always there strikes us with the force of revelation.

The ancients knew this pattern well. Plato told the story of men chained in a cave, watching shadows on the wall, believing them to be reality. When one prisoner was dragged into the light, the truth seared his eyes. What had been near him all along—the fire, the figures, the sun—appeared not as gentle revelation but as something monstrous, a grotesque overturning everything he thought he knew. Stoppard echoes this ancient parable: we live close to reality, but only when forced to confront it do we realize how little we understood.

Consider the story of the Great Depression. For years, many believed the wealth of the 1920s would last forever. Prosperity seemed permanent, and the truth of fragile systems and reckless speculation blurred in the corners of sight. Then came the crash of 1929, and the outline of reality was suddenly revealed. Millions lost their livelihoods. The nation was ambushed by a grotesque vision of poverty, hunger, and despair. What had always been true—that wealth built on illusion cannot endure—was ignored until it arrived as disaster.

History also gives us the tale of the Second World War. In the early years, many nations chose to avert their gaze from the rise of tyranny. The truth of Hitler’s ambition loomed at the edge of their vision, but it was easier to live in the comfort of denial. When at last the grotesque outline could no longer be ignored—when Poland fell, when bombs rained on London—the world realized too late what had always been near: unchecked evil grows until it devours. Once again, the blur of ignored truth became a monstrous reality.

Why do we live this way? Because truth unsettles. It threatens our comforts, our illusions, our fragile certainties. To keep it blurred is easier than to bring it into focus. But this safety is false, for every truth deferred will return, and often its return is fierce. When it steps into outline, it feels like an ambush, a grotesque that leaves us trembling. Yet it is not the truth that is grotesque, but our long refusal to face it.

The lesson is clear: do not ignore the blur at the corner of your vision. Do not let truth linger unseen until it strikes you like an ambush. Instead, turn toward it daily, however uncomfortable. Examine your life with honesty, confront your weaknesses, admit the injustices you witness, question the illusions you prefer. For to look steadily at truth is to lessen its terror, to make it not grotesque but guiding.

Therefore, let this teaching be etched upon your soul: the truth is always near, but it is your choice whether to face it as a friend or be struck by it as an enemy. Do not live forever in the comfort of blurred vision. Seek clarity, even when it pains you. For those who train their eyes upon truth need not fear its ambush—they walk with it as light, not as a grotesque. And in this courage lies both wisdom and freedom.