Whether truth is “satisfying” or not seems irrelevant to the main question, which is: offered an unsatisfying reality, what do we do? Hold our noses and swallow, or take refuge against a sea of troubles behind a myth that makes us happy? I have struggled with this all my life, bouncing back and forth between true but depressing and false but satisfying. My current phase is the former. Whatever we decide, it seems obvious that the degree of satisfaction a belief gives has nothing whatsoever to do with how true it is, only with how true it is believed to be. Another depressing truth is that the more a philosophy satisfies, the less certain we can be that it is true, for two reasons. One is our desire for it to be true influences our readiness to accept and defend it; the other is that such philosophies or religions are not generally amenable to the kind of certainty science offers. They depend on reason, intuition, prior programming, and other factors more vulnerable to subjective bias. That is why I tend to distrust such solutions to the extent that they attract me. If I believe something that depresses me, at least I know I’m not fooling myself in order to feel happier.
For the record, I have loathed and avoided science most of my life, except for occasional brief forays into popular physics. I am a poet and painter who feels much more at home in the realm of art and literature than physics and chemistry. But my pesky mind won’t let me alone. It insists on questioning every religion I adopt – and there have been several – until I either justify it or leave. This pattern has made me very skeptical of religious claims, since I have at one time believed them all passionately myself, and used similar arguments to defend them.
I also note that the truths of art and culture are more metaphorical, wispy, and elusive than those of scientific precision. This makes them fun to play with, but maddening as a guide to reality. Just when the secret is about to be unveiled, it slips away, or Oz the Great and Powerful turns into a little man behind a curtain pushing buttons and pulling levers. Now that’s depressing.