He has always fancied himself honest; he still fancies himself honest. It's the world that doesn't understand what true honesty is. They don't realize that in the end, you can only look out for #1. The truest person is the man who doesn't shrink back from doing the ugliest thing in the service of his own destiny. Sacrifices must be made, friendships subverted, the softer virtues dismissed in the name of self-advancement.
What is a man if he does not achieve, his worth if he makes no name for himself? Leave it to the weak, dishonest people to be good—those not brave enough to admit their selfishness, who hide behind the veneer of benevolence. The world is made to be used, and the people in it to use one another, until the able claw their way to the top, and the weak fall behind.
He had friends, once. He even loved. He tried their way, but he realized, soon enough, that it was all a game—the baser passions still raged within, only masked by the bright screen of altruism. Being true to himself, he had finally realized, meant unmasking the cold determination to make his mark on the world. All who could be used for his purposes were safe, for a time. Those who subverted him, whether by design or accident, were doomed to fall under the steel toe of his intentions.
His last look at Othello, the dead Moor, was neither of triumph nor of failure. It was merely the gaze of truth recognized. Finally, the reality of his mind, his every desire, his unholy freezing passion, was expressed in the mutilated chaos of a single room. He had never felt more honest.