The Truth about Lying

JUDITH VIORST
Judith Viorst, poet, journalist, author of children’s books, and
novelist, was born in New Jersey in 1931. She has chronicled
her life in such books as It’s Hard to Be Hip over Thirty and
Other Tragedies of Married Life (1968), How Did I Get to Be
Forty and Other Atrocities (1976), and When Did I Stop Being
Twenty and Other Injustices: Selected Prose from Single to Mid-
Life (1987). In 1981, she went back to school, taking courses at
the Washington Psychoanalytic Institute. This study, along with
her personal experience of psychoanalysis, helped to inspire
Necessary Losses (1986), a popular and critical success. She
wrote the very popular children’s book, Alexander and the
Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day (1972). Her stories about
Alexander, which also include Alexander, Who Used to Be Rich
Last Sunday (1987) and Alexander, Who’s Not (Do You Hear
Me? I Mean It!) Going to Move (1995), deal with the general
nature of emotions. Combining theory, poetry, interviews, and
anecdotes, Viorst approaches personal growth as a shedding of
illusions. Her recent work includes I’m Too Young to Be Seventy:
And Other Delusions (2005), and Unexpectedly Eighty: And
Other Adaptations (2010).

In the following essay, first published in the March 1981

issue of Redbook magazine, the author approaches lying with
 delicacy and candor as she carefully classifies the different
types of lies we all encounter.

WRITING TO DISCOVER: What is your attitude toward lying?

Do you allow yourself “little white lies” or no lies at all, or a lot of
lies in order to get you out of awkward situations? What have
been the consequences of lying in your life?

I’ve been wanting to write on a subject that intrigues and challenges

me: the subject of lying. I’ve found it very difficult to do. Everyone
I’ve talked to has a quite intense and personal but often rather
intolerant point of view about what we can — and can never never —
tell lies about. I’ve finally reached the conclusion that I can’t present
any ultimate conclusions, for too many people would promptly
disagree. Instead, I’d like to present a series of moral puzzles, all
concerned with lying. I’ll tell you what I think about them. Do you
agree?

Most of the people I’ve talked with say that they find social lying
acceptable and necessary. They think it’s the civilized way for folks
to behave. Without these little white lies, they say, our relationships
would be short and brutish and nasty. It’s arrogant, they say, to insist
on being so incorruptible and so brave that you cause other people
unnecessary embarrassment or pain by compulsively assailing them
with your honesty. I basically agree. What about you?
Will you say to people, when it simply isn’t true, “I like your new
hairdo,” “You’re looking much better,” “It’s so nice to see you,” “I had
a wonderful time”?

Will you praise hideous presents and homely kids?

Will you decline invitations with “We’re busy that night — so sorry we
can’t come,” when the truth is you’d rather stay home than dine with
the So-and-sos?

And even though, as I do, you may prefer the polite evasion of “You
really cooked up a storm” instead of “The soup” — which tastes like
warmed-over coffee — “is wonderful,” will you, if you must, proclaim
it wonderful?

There’s one man I know who absolutely refuses to tell social lies. “I
can’t play that game,” he says; “I’m simply not made that way.” And
his answer to the argument that saying nice things to someone
doesn’t cost anything is, “Yes, it does — it destroys your credibility.”
Now, he won’t, unsolicited, offer his views on the painting you just
bought, but you don’t ask his frank opinion unless you want frank,
and his silence at those moments when the rest of us liars are
muttering, “Isn’t it lovely?” is, for the most part, eloquent enough. My
friend does not indulge in what he calls “flattery, false praise, and
mellifluous comments.” When others tell fibs he will not go along. He
says that social lying is lying, that little white lies are still lies. And he
feels that telling lies is morally wrong. What about you?
 -
Many people tell peace-keeping lies; lies designed to avoid irritation
or argument; lies designed to shelter the liar from possible blame or
pain; lies (or so it is rationalized) designed to keep trouble at bay
without hurting anyone.

I tell these lies at times, and yet I always feel they’re wrong. I
understand why we tell them, but still they feel wrong. And whenever
I lie so that someone won’t disapprove of me or think less of me or
holler at me, I feel I’m a bit of a coward, I feel I’m dodging
responsibility, I feel . . . guilty. What about you?

Do you, when you’re late for a date because you overslept, say that
you’re late because you got caught in a traffic jam?

Do you, when you forget to call a friend, say that you called several
times but the line was busy?

Do you, when you didn’t remember that it was your father’s birthday,
say that his present must be delayed in the mail?

And when you’re planning a weekend in New York City and you’re
not in the mood to visit your mother, who lives there, do you conceal
— with a lie, if you must — the fact that you’ll be in New York? Or do
you have the courage — or is it the cruelty? — to say, “I’ll be in New
York, but sorry — I don’t plan on seeing you”?
 And we never can be sure, once we start
to juggle lies, just where they’ll land,
exactly where they’ll roll.

(Dave and his wife Elaine have two quite different points of view on
this very subject. He calls her a coward. She says she’s being wise.
He says she must assert her right to visit New York sometimes and
not see her mother. To which she always patiently replies: “Why
should we have useless fights? My mother’s too old to change. We
get along much better when I lie to her.”)

Finally, do you keep the peace by telling your husband lies on the
subject of money? Do you reduce what you really paid for your
shoes? And in general do you find yourself ready, willing and able to
lie to him when you make absurd mistakes or lose or break things?

“I used to have a romantic idea that part of intimacy was confessing

every dumb thing that you did to your husband. But after a couple of
years of that,” says Laura, “have I changed my mind!”

And having changed her mind, she finds herself telling peace-
keeping lies. And yes, I tell them, too. What about you?
Protective lies are lies folks tell — often quite serious lies — because
they’re convinced that the truth would be too damaging. They lie
because they feel there are certain human values that supersede the
wrong of having lied. They lie, not for personal gain, but because
they believe it’s for the good of the person they’re lying to. They lie to
those they love, to those who trust them most of all, on the grounds
that breaking this trust is justified.

They may lie to their children on money or marital matters.

They may lie to the dying about the state of their health.

They may lie about adultery, and not — or so they insist — to save
their own hide, but to save the heart and the pride of the men they
are married to.

They may lie to their closest friend because the truth about her
talents or son or psyche would be — or so they insist — utterly
devastating.

I sometimes tell such lies, but I’m aware that it’s quite presumptuous
to claim I know what’s best for others to know. That’s called playing
God. That’s called manipulation and control. And we never can be
sure, once we start to juggle lies, just where they’ll land, exactly
where they’ll roll.
And furthermore, we may find ourselves lying in order to back up the
lies that are backing up the lie we initially told.

And furthermore — let’s be honest — if conditions were reversed, we

certainly wouldn’t want anyone lying to us.

Yet, having said all that, I still believe that there are times when
protective lies must nonetheless be told. What about you?

If your Dad had a very bad heart and you had to tell him some bad
family news, which would you choose: to tell him the truth or lie?

If your former husband failed to send his monthly child-support check

and in other ways behaved like a total rat, would you allow your
children — who believed he was simply wonderful — to continue to
believe that he was wonderful?

If your dearly beloved brother selected a wife whom you deeply

disliked, would you reveal your feelings or would you fake it?

And if you were asked, after making love, “And how was that for
you?” would you reply, if it wasn’t too good, “Not too good”?

Now, some would call a sex lie unimportant, little more than social
lying, a simple act of courtesy that makes all human intercourse run
smoothly. And some would say all sex lies are bad news and
unacceptably protective. Because, says Ruth, “a man with an ego
that fragile doesn’t need your lies — he needs a psychiatrist.” Still
others feel that sex lies are indeed protective lies, more serious than
simple social lying, and yet at times they tell them on the grounds
that when it comes to matters sexual, everybody’s ego is somewhat
fragile.

“If most of the time things go well in sex,” says Sue, “I think you’re
allowed to dissemble when they don’t. I can’t believe it’s good to say,
‘Last night was four stars, darling, but tonight’s performance rates
only a half.’ ”

I’m inclined to agree with Sue. What about you?

-
Another group of lies are trust-keeping lies, lies that involve
triangulation, with A (that’s you) telling lies to B on behalf of C
(whose trust you’d promised to keep). Most people concede that
once you’ve agreed not to betray a friend’s confidence, you can’t
betray it, even if you must lie. But I’ve talked with people who don’t
want you telling them anything that they might be called on to lie
about.

“I don’t tell lies for myself,” says Fran, “and I don’t want to have to tell
them for other people.” Which means, she agrees, that if her best
friend is having an affair, she absolutely doesn’t want to know about
it.
“Are you saying,” her best friend asks, “that if I went off with a lover
and I asked you to tell my husband I’d been with you, that you
wouldn’t lie for me, that you’d betray me?”

Fran is very pained but very adamant. “I wouldn’t want to betray you,
so . . . don’t ask me.”

Fran’s best friend is shocked. What about you?

Do you believe you can have close friends if you’re not prepared to
receive their deepest secrets?

Do you believe you must always lie for your friends?

Do you believe, if your friend tells a secret that turns out to be quite
immoral or illegal, that once you’ve promised to keep it, you must
keep it?

And what if your friend were your boss — if you were perhaps one of
the President’s men — would you betray or lie for him over, say,
Watergate?

As you can see, these issues get terribly sticky.

It’s my belief that once we’ve promised to keep a trust, we must tell
lies to keep it. I also believe that we can’t tell Watergate lies. And if
these two statements strike you as quite contradictory, you’re right —
they’re quite contradictory. But for now they’re the best I can do.
What about you?

Some say that truth will out and thus you might as well tell the truth.
Some say you can’t regain the trust that lies lose. Some say that
even though the truth may never be revealed, our lies pervert and
damage our relationships. Some say . . . well, here’s what some of
them have to say.

“I’m a coward,” says Grace, “about telling close people important,

difficult truths. I find that I’m unable to carry it off. And so if something
is bothering me, it keeps building up inside till I end up just not
seeing them anymore.”

“I lie to my husband on sexual things, but I’m furious,” says Joyce,

“that he’s too insensitive to know I’m lying.”

“I suffer most from the misconception that children can’t take the
truth,” says Emily. “But I’m starting to see that what’s harder and
more damaging for them is being told lies, is not being told the truth.”

“I’m afraid,” says Joan, “that we often wind up feeling a bit of

contempt for the people we lie to.”

And then there are those who have no talent for lying.

“I’m willing to lie. But just as a last resort — the truth’s always better.”
“Over the years, I tried to lie,” a friend of mine explained, “but I
always got found out and I always got punished. I guess I gave
myself away because I feel guilty about any kind of lying. It looks as
if I’m stuck with telling the truth.”

For those of us, however, who are good at telling lies, for those of us
who lie and don’t get caught, the question of whether or not to lie can
be a hard and serious moral problem. I liked the remark of a friend of
mine who said, “I’m willing to lie. But just as a last resort — the
truth’s always better.”

“Because,” he explained, “though others may completely accept the

lie I’m telling, I don’t.”

I tend to feel that way, too.

What about you?

1. Viorst divides lying into a series of categories. Do you find

her categories convincing, or do you think she has
overlooked other types of lying? Why or why not?

2. Viorst talks about different kinds of lies: social lies, peace-

keeping lies, protective lies, and trust-keeping lies. Which
 lies is she most in favor of? Why? Do you agree with her
assessments? Why or why not?

3. Of the categories of lies that Viorst writes about in this

essay, which sort are you most likely to commit? Why?

4. What is the difference between yourself accepting a lie that

you tell, and others accepting it? Is the difference between
the two significant? Explain.

5. Some lies may be considered relatively inconsequential

(e.g., “No, honey, that dress does not make you look fat.”)
while others are more significant (e.g., being cheated on by
a lover). What attitude does Viorst reveal towards these
differences, and do you agree with her? Why or why not?

In a small group with one or two classmates, try to list at least

one real-life example of each of the four types of lies that Viorst
describes in her essay. Your examples can be lies that you
personally told or that someone you know told. Can you think of
any white lies or polite lies from your personal experience that
do not fit into any of Viorst’s four categories? If so, what are
they, and how would you categorize them?
1. Viorst believes that the types of lies she describes in this
article are sometimes acceptable, and indeed may be
necessary in order for a society to function. Do you agree
with her? Or do you agree with the person she describes in
paragraph 7, who “says that social lying is lying, that little
white lies are still lies”? Write a brief essay in which you
take a position on this issue. Be sure to respond to at least
one of the specific scenarios that Viorst describes and
explain why you think the lie in that scenario is or is not
acceptable. You may also support your position with
additional examples drawn from your personal experience.

2. Recall a time when someone lied to you with good

intentions — for example, to prevent your feelings from
being hurt, or to prevent an argument from breaking out —
and then you found out about the lie. How did the
experience make you feel? After you found out about the
lie, did you agree with the other person’s initial decision to
lie? Why or why not? Write a brief narrative essay in which
you describe the experience and address these questions.