If I'd written all the truth I knew for the past ten years

Hear the fiery words of Hunter S. Thompson, prophet of gonzo journalism, who thundered: “If I'd written all the truth I knew for the past ten years, about 600 people—including me—would be rotting in prison cells from Rio to Seattle today. Absolute truth is a very rare and dangerous commodity in the context of professional journalism.” In this confession lies a raw and unsettling wisdom: that absolute truth, though long praised as the goal of every writer, can be so volatile, so combustible, that it can destroy both the speaker and the spoken of. It is not always ignorance that keeps the truth hidden, but danger, for to speak too much of what one knows is to unleash chaos upon the fragile structures of society.

The ancients too knew this peril. Socrates was condemned to death not for lies, but for speaking too much truth, stripping away illusions and exposing hypocrisy. In every age, those who revealed uncomfortable truths threatened the powerful, and the powerful struck back. Thompson, with his cynicism and wild humor, echoes this same warning: that truth in journalism is not a gentle light, but a lightning bolt, and lightning does not illuminate without also burning.

Consider the story of Daniel Ellsberg and the Pentagon Papers. By revealing hidden truths about the Vietnam War, he exposed lies told to the public for years. The revelation shook a nation, brought trials, and nearly destroyed him. Here we see Thompson’s meaning: absolute truth may liberate, but it can also endanger, destabilize, and ruin lives. The journalist who knows and tells everything may be revered as a prophet or cursed as a traitor, but he will never walk safely.

The origin of Thompson’s words lies in his own life, lived on the edge of chaos and clarity. He saw corruption, greed, and hidden crimes among the elite—politicians, businessmen, entertainers. But he also knew the laws of the jungle that governed his profession. To write all he knew would not only expose the guilty, it would condemn himself, for in journalism, proximity to power often means complicity in its shadows. Thus he declared that absolute truth is rare and dangerous, a commodity not fit for constant trade.

This teaching carries a heavy warning for us. We live in a world that cries for transparency, yet trembles at what transparency would reveal. People say they want the truth, but when the unfiltered, unshaped, absolute truth is placed before them, they recoil, for it demands action, judgment, and upheaval. Journalists, then, walk a perilous path: to reveal enough to enlighten without revealing so much as to ignite destruction beyond repair.

The lesson is clear: respect the power of truth. Do not treat it as a trinket, to be tossed about carelessly. Truth has weight; it can topple empires, it can ruin reputations, it can imprison or free. The wise understand that truth must be handled with courage, but also with discernment. To speak it recklessly is to burn bridges and lives. To silence it entirely is to serve falsehood. The true seeker of wisdom, like the true journalist, must walk between cowardice and recklessness, honoring truth while respecting its fire.

Practical steps follow. When you speak, ask yourself: does this truth serve justice, or merely destruction? When you write, consider whether your words are born of courage or of recklessness. Seek to expose falsehoods that harm the many, but temper your hunger to reveal everything, for some truths must be weighed before they are released. And in your own life, practice discernment: speak honestly, but not cruelly; reveal boldly, but not thoughtlessly. For truth is a sword—it must be wielded with both strength and skill.

Thus Thompson’s words endure as both confession and prophecy: absolute truth is rare, and dangerous, and those who wield it pay a heavy price. Yet without it, society rots in lies. Let us, then, walk wisely—brave enough to speak truth when silence serves injustice, but humble enough to know that not all truths can be borne at once. For truth is both gift and fire, and the one who carries it must be strong enough to withstand the blaze.