Oct 07, 2017 19:53
It came to mean nothing to me that I knew the truth. The truth that mattered was how to make others know it. The lowest charlatan possessed something I felt I never could, something without which I was nothing.
Someone I confided in asked me what all the great religions had in common.
They're lies, I said.
Yes, but not only that: they're lies that replace a reality all of us know. The problem with what I was selling was that it was true. What the charlatans knew that I did not was that people want to be lied to, so long as they feel sure that lie will never be exposed. That's what the charlatan is pitching: the durability of his lies. Don't convince them you're telling the truth. Convince them that, at least about what counts, you never will. With that they'll rest easy. That forgives them all of the lies they've told, the lies they feel they've become, and all the lies they mean to get to. You're not there to tell them they're wrong, you're there to show them how to be even wronger.
So my task is hopeless.
Not at all. Lie about not being a liar. Tell all the lies at once, then slant them slowly into truth.
Tell a story, you mean.
You say that like anything else has ever worked.