I grant that there are those who love the mist
And all that's vague or hidden from the light.
I, on the other hand, prefer what's kissed
By frost or thrown in high relief by bright
And blazing suns. The conscience of my mind
Forbids me from accepting any thought
That's unsupported by the clearest kind
Of evidence. The highest form of ought
Is scrupulous attention to the facts,
Despite the loss of what I thought I knew.
I must not ever let my mind grow lax,
But always strive to honor what is true.
(cf. Human, All Too Human, Volume II, Part I, §26)
Peter Saint-Andre > Writings > Nietzsche