The Truth: I went to the British Museum the day after I returned from my pilgrimage, and happened to come across the vase that Keats wrote his ode about. Well, I thought, looking at the thing, so truth is not a black swan gliding, or a bunch of dancers dancing. Truth is an ugly duckling with big ears, truth is whatever it may be, and beauty is whatever it may be, and they are not the same, not at all, not even close. That urn had it all wrong. I knew that much now, and for sure.