The beauty of truth is neither tawdry, nor specious. In fact, in the very pain of truth lies the cathartic essence of its beauty.
When we associate beauty with pleasure, or the things we find desirable: I agree, truth offers nothing of that. But until you’ve tasted from the “cup, bitter sweet”, it won’t really make sense.
Haven’t you ever told a lie, then realized the goodness of undoing it? Wasn’t there the kernel of something else in that confession — besides the guilt, beyond the redemption — that made of the honesty itself a kind of gift?
It is this ethereal thing, ineffable, that the philosopher pursues with all his heart, and the world finds easy to discount. But it can’t be pictured. No more easily than explaining love to the feint of heart.
Ecstasy alone can encompass this theme, not utterance nor argument; and whosoever hath dwelt at this stage of the journey, or caught a breath from this garden land, knoweth whereof We speak.