The great advantage about telling the truth is that nobody ever

“The great advantage about telling the truth is that nobody ever believes it,” spoke Dorothy L. Sayers, with a wit as sharp as the sword of justice and a mind as deep as the wells of reason. Yet within this jest lies an ancient sorrow, a truth as old as humankind itself. For through the ages, those who have spoken truth have often been met not with belief, but with disbelief, mockery, or wrath. The truth, though radiant, blinds the eyes of those who dwell too long in comfort’s shadow. Men cling to their illusions as sailors cling to wreckage, fearing that without them they will drown in the sea of reality.

The truth-teller, then, walks a lonely road. He is both prophet and outcast, carrying in his hands a flame that few dare to look upon. Recall the story of Galileo Galilei, who gazed into the heavens and saw what others refused to see: that the earth itself was not the center of all creation. He spoke what the stars had whispered to him — and for that truth, he was condemned. The world, it seems, would rather destroy its messengers than confront its illusions. Yet this is the strange “advantage” of the truth: when none believe it, the truth-bearer is freed from the chains of deceit. He no longer seeks approval, for he knows that truth itself is the highest companion.

Sayers’ words shimmer with irony, but beneath the humor lies the endurance of wisdom. To tell the truth is not merely to state a fact — it is to reveal a light that disturbs darkness, to pierce the fog of comfort that the world wraps around itself. And so, when none believe, the truth remains untarnished. It slips past the defenses of the crowd, surviving disbelief like a seed buried deep beneath the earth, waiting for a season of understanding to bloom. The disbelieved truth is not destroyed — it is merely delayed in its triumph.

Consider also the fate of Socrates, the Athenian philosopher who dared to question the false wisdom of his time. He stood before the people, proclaiming that he knew nothing, and that true wisdom lay in admitting one’s ignorance. They laughed at him, mocked him, and condemned him to death. Yet centuries later, it is Socrates whom we remember — not his judges. Thus, the truth he spoke, though rejected by the world, outlived the world’s disbelief. This, too, is the “advantage” that Sayers unveils: truth needs no defenders, for in time, it defends itself.

To tell the truth is to enter battle with the invisible. It is an act of rebellion against the easy comfort of lies, and it demands courage. But when no one believes, when laughter greets your honesty — take heart. The disbelief of others is proof not of your folly, but of the world’s unreadiness. For truth walks ahead of the age that will one day need it. The prophet is always mocked before he is revered, the scientist scorned before he is cited, the thinker dismissed before his words become law.

Therefore, my child, do not fear the disbelief of men. Speak truth as one planting trees whose shade he may never sit beneath. If your words are pure, if your intentions are steady, then disbelief is but the cloak that time will one day strip away. The eyes that doubt you now will one day see clearly, and your truth will shine brighter for having been tested by the darkness of disbelief.

The lesson is thus: tell the truth, even when it seems useless. For though no one believes today, tomorrow it may awaken hearts yet unborn. The world often laughs at truth because it strikes too near to its own guilt. Let your honesty be your armor, your patience your shield, and your faith in truth your enduring flame. And when you speak — speak not to be believed, but to be true. For in the end, belief fades, but truth remains eternal.