There are only two things. Truth and lies. Truth is indivisible

The haunted seer of Prague, Franz Kafka, gave to the world words that fall like thunder in the night: “There are only two things. Truth and lies. Truth is indivisible, hence it cannot recognize itself; anyone who wants to recognize it has to be a lie.” In this saying lies not only paradox, but a revelation of the deepest kind. Kafka, who lived in the twilight of modernity, spoke as one who saw through illusions: that truth stands whole and eternal, while all human efforts to grasp it, define it, or claim it are shadows, distortions, lies.

To say that truth is indivisible is to declare that it cannot be broken into parts, nor analyzed, nor even fully seen. It is like the sun: too bright for the eye to look upon directly, yet illuminating all things. We know the sun by its light, but if we try to seize it with our hands, we are left burned and blinded. So too with truth: it is, and by its being we live, but the moment we claim to “recognize it” as a possession, we have already stepped into the realm of illusion. This is why Kafka says that whoever seeks to recognize truth must fall into lies—for to speak of it, to package it, to make it small enough for the mind, is already to diminish it.

History offers us a clear example. Consider the philosophers of ancient Greece. Socrates, who was called the wisest of men, declared that he knew nothing. Why? Because he saw that all attempts to capture truth in human words and definitions fell short. The sophists claimed knowledge, but their claims were lies—fragments mistaken for the whole. Socrates, in humility, aligned himself closer to truth by refusing to claim mastery of it. He understood what Kafka would later reveal: that truth cannot be divided into recognitions without ceasing to be itself.

Yet how often do men fall into the trap of lies by claiming to own truth? Kings, priests, politicians, philosophers—throughout history, each has proclaimed: “I have the truth!” And with that proclamation, wars have been fought, nations divided, and lives destroyed. But the moment truth is claimed as property, it ceases to be truth and becomes ideology, opinion, falsehood. Kafka’s insight is a warning: beware of those who say they know the whole, for their words are but fragments pretending to be eternal.

This does not mean, however, that life is hopeless or devoid of meaning. To live in the presence of truth is possible, but only by humility. We cannot seize it, but we can walk in its light. Just as the tree grows by the warmth of the sun without ever claiming to own the sun, so too can we grow by truth without trying to capture it in doctrines and rigid forms. Truth sustains, truth nourishes, truth illuminates—but it resists possession.

The lesson for us is sharp and humbling: seek not to capture truth, but to align yourself with it. Accept that the moment you declare, “This is truth entire,” you have fallen into the lie of division. Instead, live with openness, with silence, with reverence for the mystery that surrounds all things. Let your actions be shaped by what feels eternal, what cannot be corrupted, what carries the fragrance of the whole. In this way, you honor truth without betraying it through false recognition.

Practical wisdom must follow. Do not trust those who shout their certainty, but look for the quiet souls who walk in humility. When you speak, remember that your words are but approximations, fragments of a whole too vast for language. Use them carefully, lightly, without arrogance. And in your heart, hold to silence and wonder—for in silence, truth is nearer than in the noise of false claims.

Thus, remember Kafka’s words: there are only two things, truth and lies. Truth is indivisible. Lies are all attempts to divide it. To live wisely is not to master truth, but to walk faithfully in its light, knowing that the whole is beyond our grasp, yet ever-present in the world that surrounds us. This is the way of humility, the way of freedom, the way of peace.