A Fact (n.) piled up around a second-hand idea hides the poverty of the idea: the narrower the point of view, the more impressive the accumulation.
A Fact (n.) counts for the intuitive only as a stepping-stone — acknowledged only if it opens a way beyond itself and out of its own power.
A Fact (n.) worshipped is a primitive survival: concretism projects inner factors into the data and breeds an almost superstitious veneration of mere facts.
A Fact (n.) never exists purely in itself; it also exists as we see it.
Fact (n.) are neither favourable nor unfavourable; they are merely interesting — people rarely want to know what a thing is, only whether it is good or bad. Things are as we take them.
A Fact (n.) by itself means nothing; a concrete event can never create meaning without the way it is understood.
Fact (n.) piled in mountains are our compensation for a lost world that pulsed with our blood; they bury us, and whoever dares to speculate is promptly tripped up by them.
Fact (n.) make excellent stories, but not much more.