The Conduct of Life

But precisely because falsehood is among the most serious of moral errors, it is well to understand and define it clearly. For if we confuse it with other kinds of actions which are not censurable in themselves, the disgust we feel for it is likely to lose something of its force (I realise that conscience is a very delicate instrument, and for its part never makes mistakes which abstract thinkers find it so difficult to avoid).

A first mistake, of a theoretical nature, would be to define falsehood as failure to tell the truth. Thus defined, exceptions and reservations begin to pour in upon us. We are compelled to admit that in many cases the truth not only cannot but should not be told; and along this line we should eventually be driven to a conclusion, as distasteful to logic as to ethics itself, that in many cases lying is justifiable.

In case of physical struggle (for example, when we are resisting the assault of a highwayman, or the like), every one admits that there is no obligation to tell the truth. But there are also situations where no question of physical combat enters: the classic example is that of the invalid who must be deceived as to his condition lest depression reduce his vital resources. In such circumstances conscience tells us that we are not really lying, even that we are doing a duty, in not telling the truth.

On the other hand, we all know that in telling the truth under certain conditions we are committing a shocking offence against righteousness. There is the case of the malicious gossip, who can verify everything he says. Some people habitually torture us with their revelations of the “truth”; and our enemies stand ever watchful to discover not our imaginary but our real shortcomings to turn these to our harm. We may even gather up the gems of truth that fall from poisoned lips and use them for our own purposes: salus ex inimicis, runs the Latin phrase; and not infrequently we derive involuntary profit from people whom, nevertheless, we are thereafter careful to avoid.

When, then, should we tell the truth? And when should we not tell the truth? Just where does falsehood begin and end? Perhaps it would be better to preface these questions with another which is too often disregarded: what does it mean to tell the truth, to communicate the truth, that is, to others?

If we think carefully we see that once we have thought the truth we have already told it—to ourselves, that is, by virtue of the unity of thought and speech. But as for telling it aloud, as for communicating it to others—that is a serious matter, so serious that it is almost desperate. Truth is not a bundle that can be passed along from hand to hand: it is thought itself in the actuality of thinking. How communicate that actuality to others?

In fact, we never really communicate the truth. At best, when we address other people, we send out a series of stimuli which we hope will move them into a state of mind identical with ours, so that they will think the truth that we are thinking. We do not tell the truth even, let us say, in a prepared lecture before an audience, an academy, a class of students. We do not tell the truth because the most that we can do is to send out sounds, which will in their turn provoke consequences quite beyond and apart from anything that is going on in ourselves.

This puts a different face on the matter. The problem of communicating with others, of speaking to others, is no longer a problem of telling or not telling the truth, but of acting on others with a view to provoking certain actions in them. Among the many things required for this, truth-telling, which means truth-thinking, is one; but the overshadowing objective is that the life in people should be stimulated, changed, ennobled.

We realise this purpose by suggesting images which carry with them vitalising potentialities; and the generic form of this kind of action might well be named after its most conspicuous manifestation: eloquence or oratory.

Oratory used to be defined by the ancient grammarians as “the art of moving the emotions”; and it has often been in bad repute with thinkers from the days of Plato down to the days of Kant, on the ground that it “did not tell the truth.” But on all such occasions, the fault has lain less with oratory than with a one-sided criticism which failed to perceive the deeper meaning of eloquence and its peculiar function in life.

It is good sense and good morals for a commander about to lead his soldiers into battle not to stress the possibility (or probability, or even certainty) of defeat that may exist in his mind, along with pictures of the dead and wounded, and of the birds and beasts that will almost surely be feasting on the corpses that will strew the battlefield; but to call attention to the glory of combat and the rewards of victory—among these, let us even grant, booty and plunder. Oratory follows a path directly opposite to that of art: art proceeds from life to imagery, oratory from imagery to life. When the images produced by art are used as instruments, we pass from art to oratory and disputes arise as to educative or corruptive art. Such distinctions may indeed justifiably be drawn, though it is not justifiable to continue using the term “art” for something that has ceased to be such and is now “oratory.” What oratory attempts on solemn or formal occasions, we are attempting at almost every moment in our lives in the words we address to the people about us. Most of what we say has an oratorical purpose, tending to dispose people toward this thing, or that thing, or toward ourselves, in the manner that seems most desirable to us. And every one of us is forever substituting unreality for reality in the things he utters, softening, toning down, modifying, whenever, that is, he fears that the real may hurt or irritate, or hopes that the unreal will soothe or inspire. I need not illustrate, for examples are easy to find. Ibsen, in particular, used to amuse himself collecting them, as he did in the “Wild Duck.” A veritable thesaurus of them stands compiled in the “Praise of Folly” of Erasmus.

In view of this constant suasion that men are forever exercising on one another through suggestions that do not correspond with reality, not a few of us are brought to conclude that “life is falsehood,” or less harshly that “life is illusion,” or more sentimentally that “life is a dream.” And we find correlative attitudes toward life. If life is falsehood, we may curse that falsehood, and look forward to the moment when we can wash ourselves of this dirty thing called life—even by a bath in the Styx or the Acheron! On the other hand, many charitable souls smile ironically at themselves and their fellows, and bow down before the goddess Illusion, benefactress and comforter of men.

As a matter of fact, neither falsehood nor illusion but simply Life, life spontaneous and assertive, intent on finding stimuli to live on, sustenance to perfect itself and grow! For years you thought you had a faithful Achates, a virtuous Penelope, at your side; and you nestled snugly in that confidence, rejoicing that here were friendly faces to greet you, props for you to lean on in days of trouble, sources of strength, security, comfort, encouragement, in your day’s work. And you did work. You lived, and you were happy. But now you suddenly discover that your friend and your wife have not been just as you thought they were, just as they made you think they were. And the discovery brings a bitter disappointment.

But what, pray, can this present anguish take from the joy you had in the past, from the things you accomplished, from the life that was promised? You were living an illusion? But the illusion is an illusion only as you feel it to be such—now, at this moment, that is. In those days it was not illusion—it was not even truth: it was a feeling you had, a feeling of self-confidence and of strength. To the deceiver you may say with a philosophical smile: “Not thee I loved, but One who once had a home and who now has a sepulchre in my heart.” And that One is Life. After the dream, the awakening! Your hope is now dust, scattered on the earth! What can you do but dream a new dream, conceive another hope? And how conceive one? By a scientific investigation? What investigation could ever assure you that this or that person will be unfailingly trustworthy, that this or that situation will persist forever, that the roof above your head will never fall, that the ground on which you take your stand will never give way? No, you must do over again what you did before: accept the images that people give you of themselves in the words they speak, and go on living. You must say as we actually do say: “I must have faith!” So now the essential difference between falsehood and suasion or oratory may be made clearer. To live we must have now truth, and now imagery, now historical fact, and now vital (that is oratorical) stimulation—and of the two needs the latter really is the more essential to us. A liar is not the man who supplies us with the stimuli we need, but the man who withholds the truth (historical truth) when we require it. The person who gives us the truth when the truth is harmful is something worse than a liar: he is a baneful enemy; for one word, one little word, of “truth” has been known to kill a man. Just so the person who gives us pleasant imagery out of time and place, when and where it brings not help but harm, is a flatterer and a sycophant. And when, finally, are truth (historical truth) and imagery not admissible?