Lies and truth

Last night's pre-bed time was steeped in thoughts on writings, in particular autobiographical tales. I recall the knot starts at the thread called 'tacky souvenir'... for which I happily wrote and rewrote multiple times (in my mind, another fickle space). In the end I realized it was all very rubbish and meaningless, even for the sake of writing itself. Don't go into slash that serves the sole purpose of entertaining but for all other intensive purposes, dishonest.

It's only natural (and easiest to do) to base a story on your own experience which includes you in first person or a witness, or marginally affected but deeply impressed. But as far as 'personal' goes, how many of us are totally honest about ourselves. Henry Miller spent his whole life striving to be an honest man and he never saw his books published in his life on earth. Even if he's honest about himself, his world wasn't ready to face him nude yet. Years later contemporaries would lament 'what a pity and shame this great man and his banned books and all that...'

Then there was another form of 'untruth' that can't be simply accused, for fiction is often sugarcoated peppered and heavily sauced reality... Twisted for 'art's purpose' to possess a more powerful tool to drill into our vulnerable spot. 'A well-told lie is worth a thousand facts' - Ondaatje, so you know when his grandma's corpse drifted down the monsoon tides, nobody was there to witness. He heard stories passed down from many mouths, each adding his own spice. The factual death stripped of all colors was less dramatic than the monsoon itself.

Do you write exactly the way you talk or think? Would you admit candidly to your burning chagrin and ink stains. We say 'a bunch of lies' but not 'a bunch of truths' for it's usually 'the truth'. Whitewashing what you don't want to be judged by to accentuate a nobility that turns many admiring eyes. After the vanity's fed, what remains is an invariable stamp that says we're only human. Can't we be human. Isn't this imperfection lovable.

Read between the lines and you might for a split second think, it might not be like this. But the truth bears no living witness and the case closes silently behind your back, as if it never existed. That's all the dead man hoped for.

At last there remains the essential question, is the truth important (to the liar).

So after a round of short circuited thoughts, I lost all interest to write my own story. After all it's much more enjoyable to read others' lies as I don't have to confront my truth, neither is it important to question the author's. As long as you entertain me and make my heart ache coz you're such a brilliant liar.