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He searched for the arguments, shaking his head to separate the voices, oblivious to the askance looks, the shuffling feet.
You think that truth is objective? That there is a single representation that we edge toward? There is no truth; there is only absurdity.
Hedley’s stained fingers worked the noxious weed. The smoldering fag flared with each breath, the argument escaping in mumble.
Truth and free will are but inventions of a moral conscience. There is no universal morality for all people.
He traced the outline of his well-thumbed copy of Nietzsche’s polemic in his back pocket. He could see the pages in his mind’s eye, read the words.
Man is beyond good and evil. He is interested in power, rather than meaning, or pleasure.
Hedley smiled fleetingly across the chess board. He had taught that gambit to Ilsa under the peppercorn in Yurong Street, but that was long gone.
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