Spoiler: the secret to deeper truth was held by only one creature on Earth - the depressed penguin that waddled into the Antarctic mountains and took the burden of that truth to his small, flippered grave.

The "accountant's truth." What a descriptive and accurate term

An ecstasy of truth 🌸

Werner, simply the best

It is very good to see that Werner Herzog knows of the Ancient Greek "aletheia", very good indeed. Kudos

If he finds there's an ecstasy of truth in great poems, then he should try Ecstasy - he'll go MAD FOR IT

There is the bean counter truth, and the truth words can't describe, ... but this is a wonderful attempt. Wish there were more, but to speak the truth you say almost nothing.

title too

Bravo !

Werner's even sexier than he thinks he is. (Please correct the spelling of his name in your info section, AFI!)

bet he'd get on with lennart green

Bright man.. of course german... with Croatian genes, just like Tesla 😁

Beautiful vagueness. I guess he just can talk about his conception of truth by means of circumlocutions; avoiding any direct reference; avoiding giving a straight definition, although he tries to imply it; although he supposes that it is possible to talk about it, by means of certain uses of language, such as cinema. Still, verbosity regarding truth, the copious amounts of hyperbolic adjectives to illuminate a supposedly extraordinary event as the unveiling of reality, the manifestation of truth, even when it comes from such a consecrated artist like Herzog, should be taken with skepticism. Expressions as 'deeper truth', 'reaching the core of reality', loaded with excessive romantic semantic, might just well be an excuse for bad poetry and art (hasn't poetry, along with the disenchantment of the world, consumed itself, reduced itself to nothing?). We might feel something special when we read good poetry or contemplate good art, but does that mean we're experiencing the truth? or, more precisely, a 'deeper truth'? The simple "you just know it," as a reason to believe it, just doesn't work anymore nowadays, for many crazy fucks, who believe insane stuff, simply 'know that it was the truth'; we might feel some sort of illumination, some sort of extasis, but who says that is truth? Any immediate sensation of enlightenment could be a self-deception. What is the guarantee that we have that it is the truth beyond a blind belief? The truth may be, in fact, to our horror and dread, something very superficial, accountant-like, kafkian, monstrous and grotesque, and trying to think otherwise could be an effort to run away from the awfulness of the human condition. Please, all of you who read this long perorate, excuse me: I'm terribly bored, in a bad mood, and I have relentless insomnia. I'm like the drunkard in the well known, small, piss-smelling bar at the skirts of town, that, very late at night, almost when it is closing down, and the dawn is smoothly announcing the new day on the horizon, says insane stuff because he doesn't want to, or can't, go home.