True or false, the guy tries to pack so many facts into the opening sentence that he may have well have started with Bulwer-Lytton's famous opening:

"It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents--except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness."

The bigger issue I'm having now is that even "The Lifespan of a Fact" is not true. Fingal and D'Agata have said that the notes in the book are mostly re-created. A lot of the animosity that makes it a fun read was added after the fact.

The whole thing is just too complicated. I feel like we've somehow transcended truth.