Post-Truth Culture
Faith in God as Living in Truth
without claiming to possess it
Post-Truth and Historical Truth
Imagine that, deep down, you think there are no grand narratives, no objective truth, that all words are but copies of copies of copies, that everyone is seeking power over others, and that everything is PR. You live in an age of Post-Truth. The idea of an objective truth is old-fashioned, out of date. You realize that all alleged truths are constructions, and that your own ideas as well are such constructions.
You work for a politician, and your job is to craft narratives that serve his purposes. One of your narratives is that your own narratives are "true" and that news, except the news you promote, is "fake news." This is very effective. You watch as people adopt your version of reality, not because it is logically sound or factually grounded, but because it is emotionally compelling and reinforces their preexisting loyalties. You understand that belief is not about facts; it is about identity, about belonging. And so you shape not just words, but entire worldviews.
You have learned that what matters is not accuracy, but resonance. People don’t crave truth—they crave meaning, security, the feeling of being on the right side of history. Your job is to give them that. You give them enemies to hate, heroes to admire, and crises to fear. You manufacture outrage, stoke division, and reframe every event to fit your chosen narrative. Your politician flourishes because the world you have built for his followers is more gripping, more emotionally satisfying, than reality itself.
At first, you recognize the game you are playing. You know the stories are malleable, that they shift and change depending on what is useful. But over time, something strange happens. The lines blur. You find yourself believing the very fictions you once created strategically. Maybe there is no difference, after all, between constructing reality and living within it. Maybe, just maybe, truth was never what mattered—only the will to impose a version of it.
And so, you press forward, crafting new stories, refining the art of narrative warfare. You no longer hesitate when bending facts to fit the story; after all, the other side is doing the same. You tell yourself that your work is necessary, that in a world where nothing is truly real, power belongs to those who control the illusion. And so you build the illusion, day after day, one "truth" at a time.
*
One evening, you find yourself at a fundraiser, sipping a drink, surrounded by allies and supporters—people who believe in your work, who benefit from the stories you craft. You nod along as they talk about the latest news cycle, the latest scandal you’ve helped spin. But then, a conversation shifts. A man, well-dressed and confident, leans in and says something that stops you cold.
“You know,” he says, “the Holocaust never really happened. Not the way they say it did.”
The words hit you like a slap.
You stare at him, trying to process what he just said. He continues, speaking with the same easy certainty you’ve used a thousand times before when shaping a message. He talks about "exaggerations," "fabrications," "alternative accounts." He sounds calm, rational, like someone explaining an economic policy or a tax reform. Others around him nod.
And then, something shifts inside you.
For years, you’ve told yourself that truth is just a matter of narrative, that history is whatever the powerful say it is. You’ve made a living bending reality into whatever shape was most useful. But now, here, in this moment, you realize something you’ve never admitted before: some things are not just stories.
Because your grandmother and grandfather died at Auschwitz.
You remember their names, spoken in hushed reverence by your parents when you were young. You remember the black-and-white photographs tucked into an old album, faces frozen in time. You remember your mother crying on Yom HaShoah, lighting candles in their memory. You remember the stories—how they were taken from their home, forced onto a train, stripped of their belongings, their dignity, their lives.
You decide you just might believe in objective, historical truths. You wonder where these truths are, even if denied. It occurs to you that they may lie in God's memory.
You work for a politician, and your job is to craft narratives that serve his purposes. One of your narratives is that your own narratives are "true" and that news, except the news you promote, is "fake news." This is very effective. You watch as people adopt your version of reality, not because it is logically sound or factually grounded, but because it is emotionally compelling and reinforces their preexisting loyalties. You understand that belief is not about facts; it is about identity, about belonging. And so you shape not just words, but entire worldviews.
You have learned that what matters is not accuracy, but resonance. People don’t crave truth—they crave meaning, security, the feeling of being on the right side of history. Your job is to give them that. You give them enemies to hate, heroes to admire, and crises to fear. You manufacture outrage, stoke division, and reframe every event to fit your chosen narrative. Your politician flourishes because the world you have built for his followers is more gripping, more emotionally satisfying, than reality itself.
At first, you recognize the game you are playing. You know the stories are malleable, that they shift and change depending on what is useful. But over time, something strange happens. The lines blur. You find yourself believing the very fictions you once created strategically. Maybe there is no difference, after all, between constructing reality and living within it. Maybe, just maybe, truth was never what mattered—only the will to impose a version of it.
And so, you press forward, crafting new stories, refining the art of narrative warfare. You no longer hesitate when bending facts to fit the story; after all, the other side is doing the same. You tell yourself that your work is necessary, that in a world where nothing is truly real, power belongs to those who control the illusion. And so you build the illusion, day after day, one "truth" at a time.
*
One evening, you find yourself at a fundraiser, sipping a drink, surrounded by allies and supporters—people who believe in your work, who benefit from the stories you craft. You nod along as they talk about the latest news cycle, the latest scandal you’ve helped spin. But then, a conversation shifts. A man, well-dressed and confident, leans in and says something that stops you cold.
“You know,” he says, “the Holocaust never really happened. Not the way they say it did.”
The words hit you like a slap.
You stare at him, trying to process what he just said. He continues, speaking with the same easy certainty you’ve used a thousand times before when shaping a message. He talks about "exaggerations," "fabrications," "alternative accounts." He sounds calm, rational, like someone explaining an economic policy or a tax reform. Others around him nod.
And then, something shifts inside you.
For years, you’ve told yourself that truth is just a matter of narrative, that history is whatever the powerful say it is. You’ve made a living bending reality into whatever shape was most useful. But now, here, in this moment, you realize something you’ve never admitted before: some things are not just stories.
Because your grandmother and grandfather died at Auschwitz.
You remember their names, spoken in hushed reverence by your parents when you were young. You remember the black-and-white photographs tucked into an old album, faces frozen in time. You remember your mother crying on Yom HaShoah, lighting candles in their memory. You remember the stories—how they were taken from their home, forced onto a train, stripped of their belongings, their dignity, their lives.
You decide you just might believe in objective, historical truths. You wonder where these truths are, even if denied. It occurs to you that they may lie in God's memory.
Faith in God as
Living in Truth
Marci Shore, professor of history at Yale University, explores the intellectual and historical roots of post-truth in her essay "A Pre-History of Post-Truth, East and West." She traces its development from the Enlightenment’s rejection of God as the ultimate source of truth to postmodernism’s deconstruction of absolute meaning, which has contributed to a world where reality is increasingly shaped by constructed narratives rather than objective facts. She contrasts this with Eastern European thinkers like Václav Havel and Jan Patočka, who argue that while truth cannot be fully possessed, individuals can still commit to seeking and living within it. Whitehead’s concept of the consequent nature of God reinforces this view, presenting a divine reality that holds all experiences—past, present, and potential—as a witness to truth, offering both an ethical counterpoint to post-truth cynicism and a call to align oneself with love and justice.
*
Marci Shore explores the evolution of the post-truth phenomenon by tracing its philosophical and historical roots. In her essay "A Pre-History of Post-Truth, East and West," she argues that the erosion of belief in objective truth is the result of intellectual developments set in motion by the Enlightenment. As the Enlightenment marginalized and eventually dismissed God as the ultimate source of truth, thinkers sought alternative foundations in Reason, History, Human Subjectivity, and Language. Yet, each of these proved inadequate in providing a stable grounding for truth.
Postmodernism accelerated this trajectory by embracing pluralism and play, ultimately blurring the distinction between fact and fiction. In this framework, truth is increasingly perceived as a construct shaped by media and public relations rather than as an objective reality. Shore highlights how contemporary political regimes have weaponized this philosophical shift, transforming postmodern critiques of absolute truth into tools for neo-totalitarian manipulation. In this landscape, truth becomes malleable, and the cultural condition emerges in which “everything is PR,” with objective reality overshadowed by constructed narratives.
Shore then turns to Eastern European philosophers such as Václav Havel, Jan Patočka, and Leszek Kołakowski, who offer an alternative perspective—one that reconciles radical subjectivity with a commitment to objective truth. Their position is not that truth can be possessed or fully grasped, but that individuals can dedicate themselves to the pursuit of truth and to living within that seeking.
A consideration of Whitehead's idea of the consequent nature of God lends support to Shore’s thesis. The consequent nature of God includes everything that has ever happened as the objective content of its ongoing memory—a content that is both particular and holistic. It preserves the particularity of each person’s experience, from birth to death, in relation to all other experiences, even when those particularities are forgotten or denied by successors. For example, the experiences of individuals who lived under totalitarian regimes—those who resisted, suffered, or were erased from official histories—persist within the consequent nature of God, even if omitted from human memory or distorted by political forces. In this sense, the consequent nature serves as an ultimate witness to truth, holding within it the full reality of what has occurred, regardless of how it is framed or obscured by propaganda.
This applies not only to past events but also to present and future situations. The consequent nature of God does not merely passively record what has happened; it also holds what is happening now and what will happen, continually integrating all events into the ongoing fabric of divine memory. Moreover, experiences within the consequent nature are not only known and felt for what they were but also for what they could have been and should have been, given the primacy of love. Every act of deception, every manipulation of truth, and every injustice is not only registered as it occurred but also as it might have been transformed if love had prevailed. The consequent nature of God does not merely contain a ledger of facts; it feels the unrealized possibilities—the roads not taken, the missed opportunities for justice, the moments when compassion could have shaped a different outcome.
In this way, the consequent nature of God stands as a profound counterpoint to the post-truth condition Shore describes, where reality is shaped by constructed narratives rather than by genuine moral and existential commitment. In Whiteheadian terms, the world’s tragedies are not only known but also felt in their full depth—not just as isolated occurrences, but in relation to all that might have been. This introduces a moral weight to the pursuit of truth: to seek truth is not merely to uncover facts but to align oneself with the unrealized good that still calls for recognition. The consequent nature of God, then, serves as both an archive of history and a witness to the ethical responsibility of shaping a better future—one that is more faithful to the lure of love that could have been actualized, and still may be.
If we live in truth, as Havel recommends, we live not only in terms of what has been but also in terms of what can be and should be. We let love and justice be our guide, whether or not we believe in God. We do not claim to know the truth with completeness, nor do we assume mastery over it. Rather, we commit ourselves to seeking and embodying truth in our actions, in our relationships, and in our responsibility to the world. In this way, we live in truth—not as possessors of certainty, but as participants in an ongoing, ethical unfolding. And that, in the end, is enough
*
Marci Shore explores the evolution of the post-truth phenomenon by tracing its philosophical and historical roots. In her essay "A Pre-History of Post-Truth, East and West," she argues that the erosion of belief in objective truth is the result of intellectual developments set in motion by the Enlightenment. As the Enlightenment marginalized and eventually dismissed God as the ultimate source of truth, thinkers sought alternative foundations in Reason, History, Human Subjectivity, and Language. Yet, each of these proved inadequate in providing a stable grounding for truth.
Postmodernism accelerated this trajectory by embracing pluralism and play, ultimately blurring the distinction between fact and fiction. In this framework, truth is increasingly perceived as a construct shaped by media and public relations rather than as an objective reality. Shore highlights how contemporary political regimes have weaponized this philosophical shift, transforming postmodern critiques of absolute truth into tools for neo-totalitarian manipulation. In this landscape, truth becomes malleable, and the cultural condition emerges in which “everything is PR,” with objective reality overshadowed by constructed narratives.
Shore then turns to Eastern European philosophers such as Václav Havel, Jan Patočka, and Leszek Kołakowski, who offer an alternative perspective—one that reconciles radical subjectivity with a commitment to objective truth. Their position is not that truth can be possessed or fully grasped, but that individuals can dedicate themselves to the pursuit of truth and to living within that seeking.
A consideration of Whitehead's idea of the consequent nature of God lends support to Shore’s thesis. The consequent nature of God includes everything that has ever happened as the objective content of its ongoing memory—a content that is both particular and holistic. It preserves the particularity of each person’s experience, from birth to death, in relation to all other experiences, even when those particularities are forgotten or denied by successors. For example, the experiences of individuals who lived under totalitarian regimes—those who resisted, suffered, or were erased from official histories—persist within the consequent nature of God, even if omitted from human memory or distorted by political forces. In this sense, the consequent nature serves as an ultimate witness to truth, holding within it the full reality of what has occurred, regardless of how it is framed or obscured by propaganda.
This applies not only to past events but also to present and future situations. The consequent nature of God does not merely passively record what has happened; it also holds what is happening now and what will happen, continually integrating all events into the ongoing fabric of divine memory. Moreover, experiences within the consequent nature are not only known and felt for what they were but also for what they could have been and should have been, given the primacy of love. Every act of deception, every manipulation of truth, and every injustice is not only registered as it occurred but also as it might have been transformed if love had prevailed. The consequent nature of God does not merely contain a ledger of facts; it feels the unrealized possibilities—the roads not taken, the missed opportunities for justice, the moments when compassion could have shaped a different outcome.
In this way, the consequent nature of God stands as a profound counterpoint to the post-truth condition Shore describes, where reality is shaped by constructed narratives rather than by genuine moral and existential commitment. In Whiteheadian terms, the world’s tragedies are not only known but also felt in their full depth—not just as isolated occurrences, but in relation to all that might have been. This introduces a moral weight to the pursuit of truth: to seek truth is not merely to uncover facts but to align oneself with the unrealized good that still calls for recognition. The consequent nature of God, then, serves as both an archive of history and a witness to the ethical responsibility of shaping a better future—one that is more faithful to the lure of love that could have been actualized, and still may be.
If we live in truth, as Havel recommends, we live not only in terms of what has been but also in terms of what can be and should be. We let love and justice be our guide, whether or not we believe in God. We do not claim to know the truth with completeness, nor do we assume mastery over it. Rather, we commit ourselves to seeking and embodying truth in our actions, in our relationships, and in our responsibility to the world. In this way, we live in truth—not as possessors of certainty, but as participants in an ongoing, ethical unfolding. And that, in the end, is enough
A Pre-History of Post-Truth,
East and West
Marci Shore
"Postmodernism was conceived largely by the Left as a safeguard against totalizing ideologies. Yet today, it has been appropriated on behalf of an encroaching neo-totalitarianism of the Right. Is French literary theory to blame? And can a philosophy of dissent developed in communist eastern Europe offer an antidote?"
The Decline of Truth in the Postmodern Era
The essay argues that postmodernism’s skepticism toward absolute truth—as championed by thinkers like Derrida, Foucault, and Lyotard—has contributed to today’s "post-truth" condition. It traces this trajectory from the Enlightenment, where truth was once grounded in reason and objectivity, to the 20th-century deconstruction of stable meaning, leaving truth vulnerable to political manipulation.
Hannah Arendt’s distinction between philosophical truth (unchanging, like 2+2=4) and factual truth (historical events that could have unfolded differently) is crucial here. She warned that modern political lies no longer just distort facts but construct entire alternative realities—a tactic perfected in totalitarian regimes and now resurfacing in the PR-driven politics of Russia and the West.
From Political Lies to Postmodern Cynicism
The essay examines how postmodernism’s dismantling of grand narratives, originally intended to prevent totalitarianism, paradoxically enabled a world where ‘everything is PR’—a condition described in Peter Pomerantsev’s Nothing is True and Everything is Possible. The dissolution of stable truth means that authoritarian regimes like Putin’s can fabricate entire realities, and concepts like ‘alternative facts’ in Washington reflect a similar breakdown of objective reality.
Truth and Resistance: Lessons from Eastern Europe
The essay contrasts this postmodern relativism with Eastern European dissidents, who insisted on the reality of truth, even under oppression. Václav Havel’s The Power of the Powerless tells the story of a greengrocer who unconsciously sustains a totalitarian regime by displaying a meaningless political slogan—an analogy for how accepting lies perpetuates oppression. Havel’s challenge was to live in truth, rejecting cynical accommodation to falsehoods.
The essay also invokes Jan Patočka, a Czech philosopher who, despite his existentialist leanings, believed that seeking truth is a moral responsibility, even if absolute certainty remains unattainable. His death at the hands of the secret police underscores the cost of resisting lies.
Responsibility in the Face of Postmodernity
The final section turns to the moral implications of postmodernity’s dismantling of truth. While Derrida saw deconstruction as a safeguard against totalitarianism, the weaponization of postmodern skepticism by authoritarian regimes suggests that unmooring truth from reality leaves society vulnerable to manipulation.
Eastern European intellectuals like Leszek Kołakowski and Agnes Heller argue that while absolute truth may be elusive, the pursuit of truth remains an ethical duty. Rejecting truth altogether leads to nihilism, described by Havel as "the modern face of the devil." Instead, figures like Kołakowski emphasize the importance of continued truth-seeking, even in uncertainty.
The Call to "Live in Truth"
The essay ends with Havel’s fundamental imperative: live in truth. While postmodernism dissolved the bridge between subject and object, thinkers like Patočka, Havel, and Kołakowski insist that truth remains essential for ethical life and political resistance. The antidote to post-truth is not the certainty of ideology, but the responsibility of ongoing truth-seeking—a moral imperative in a world of deception.
Understanding Post-Truth
Lessons from Central European Philosophy after 1968
In Western Europe, especially in France, after 1968 continental philosophy took a postmodern turn: a loss of faith not only in grand narratives, but also in a coherent subject, in stable meaning, and in absolute truth. Meaning—Jacques Derrida taught—flickers, subverts itself, is ever in flux. His philosophy of deconstruction represented, he wrote, “the least necessary condition for identifying and combatting the totalitarian risk.”
Postmodernism, conceived in large part by the Left as a safeguard for pluralism and an antidote to totalizing ideologies, has today, half a century later, became a weapon of an encroaching neo-totalitarianism of the Right. As Peter Pomerantsev wrote of Vladimir Putin’s Russia, in this new world “nothing is true and everything is possible.”
In the aftermath of the Prague Spring, the very same tradition of continental philosophy developed differently in East and Central Europe. This difference was very much bound up with a confrontation with the totalitarian legacy: the imperative was to reject grand narratives claiming to possess absolute truth, while not rejecting the existence of truth as such.
Marci Shore is associate professor of history at Yale University and Visiting Fellow at the IWM. She is the author of "Caviar and Ashes: A Warsaw Generation's Life and Death in Marxism, 1918-1968," "The Taste of Ashes: The Afterlife of Totalitarianism in Eastern Europe," and, most recently, "The Ukrainian Night: An Intimate History of Revolution." At the time of the event she was at work on a longer book project titled “Phenomenological Encounters: Scenes from Central Europe.”
Postmodernism, conceived in large part by the Left as a safeguard for pluralism and an antidote to totalizing ideologies, has today, half a century later, became a weapon of an encroaching neo-totalitarianism of the Right. As Peter Pomerantsev wrote of Vladimir Putin’s Russia, in this new world “nothing is true and everything is possible.”
In the aftermath of the Prague Spring, the very same tradition of continental philosophy developed differently in East and Central Europe. This difference was very much bound up with a confrontation with the totalitarian legacy: the imperative was to reject grand narratives claiming to possess absolute truth, while not rejecting the existence of truth as such.
Marci Shore is associate professor of history at Yale University and Visiting Fellow at the IWM. She is the author of "Caviar and Ashes: A Warsaw Generation's Life and Death in Marxism, 1918-1968," "The Taste of Ashes: The Afterlife of Totalitarianism in Eastern Europe," and, most recently, "The Ukrainian Night: An Intimate History of Revolution." At the time of the event she was at work on a longer book project titled “Phenomenological Encounters: Scenes from Central Europe.”