Black, blue, big, small, barefaced, honest, and white—lies: there are a billion ways to change the face of reality. In his Republic, Plato made famous the “Noble Lie” to manufacture, from scratch, true social harmony within the city-state. What was this Lie he held so grand? That we humans are made of literal clay, excavated from the earth, and molded into us. Thus we are truly all of a piece. Which is his exact point: if we are all of a single piece, then it is inevitable we should form a single peace. Act accordingly.
Across history1, and today perhaps more than ever, few lies are so noble—most are just plain self-interest. Did you hear about the Harvard Business School Professor, a “rising star” behavioral scientist who researches dishonesty, who, wait for it, wait for it, was just caught falsifying data (for over a godddamn decade)?
Children of the earth we are, starlight dressed as matter, confused as we’ve ever been. Though the urge to bend the truth in our favor is an ordinary one, natural even. It is impossible to embody the Infinite in the finite form that is a human body. For this same reason, we will never fully arrive at our potential, or stop growing. Be skeptical of the influencer (or researcher, for that matter) who tells you they have finally found themselves, or the ultimate answer—because if you look closely enough, there’s no self to be “found.”
Are these “lies” noble, honest, and well-intended? I hold the bar for Nobility a bit higher than most TikToks; and I find the purest and hardest honesty is with oneself—so, I’m willing to give them the benefit of the doubt and grant them “well-intended” status. Beyond that, they’re on their own.
In a certain sense, all language we use is a lie, an abstraction of conceptual symbols trying to map a non-conceptual reality. The many names I’ve been called throughout my life—Alexander, DJ Olo, Al, d-bag, and Frail-o (a choice roast)—are ultimately lies. I am the unverifiable conglomeration of memories that velcro together into a subjective sense of personhood I fondly refer to as “Alex.” Just as “sofa” cannot possibly achieve a full “capture” of Sofahood, so any name shall always fail in its reference. Once again, we have arrived back at Plato, and his notion of the Forms. However, I will acknowledge, you’ve afforded me some leeway with terming these “Lies,” when really, they are “mutually accepted misconceptions” at worst. Still, though, language intrinsically bears falsity in its train.
For most of my life, I stretched the truth to make myself feel bigger than I was. Feel bigger and seem bigger. My exaggerations spanned across every sphere of my world—cheating in classes, athletics, Scrabble. I was also so ashamed of being Jewish that, until I was in recovery, I’d often claim to be “only part Jew.” If there were a corner to cut at work, building and scaling startups, I’d shred it. I robbed, stole, dissembled, equivocated, occluded, and spewed pure bullshit so often, it’s hard to tell what stories are real from my glory days of drugging.
How, you ask, did I manage to stop being such an everyday fibber? Yes, it was in recovery, but that’s not my point right now. My point is I aligned my inner self with my outer self. It was first a choice, and then a muscle. The choice was scary—legit a Kierkegaardian Leap of Faith. It felt like the Biggest Fucking Deal in the world. What if “my truth” was unlikeable, unlovable? What if what was really inside, underneath the garb, wouldn’t be accepted or embraced? What if I get punched in the face?
It was a choice. But then it was a muscle—and I had to work it, Rocky-style, no montage. Every time I told a truth, especially an uncomfortable but necessary one, I built that reflex, that muscle memory. So, when inner self doesn’t bear resemblance to the outer, today I feel the dissonance. I feel the schism. And I know I must correct myself immediately, no matter how white the lie, or else it’ll eat me alive. Like Ron Weasley getting splinched when he tried to apparate back to the forest, part of him was left behind—and he suffered for it. And so did Harry Potter and saintly Hermoine, too.
This is a bodily experience. As Ta-Nehisi Coates relates, to be Black is to move in the world inside a black body, so too all humans occupy their space in the universe in a bodily manner. And all humans, and human activity and experience—as Coates explains so well—must always be interpreted in that bodily light.
The feeling of lying, then, is visceral, intense, a shiv wriggling in the gut, hounding you: Why do you not feel safe right now? Yes, danger. That’s the nausea, that’s the gut-wriggling, that’s why I don’t fuckin’ lie anymore. It feels terrible.
There is simply no adventure quite as grand as committing to tell the truth about everything. And speaking of (supposedly) un-falsified data, it’s clear: telling fewer lies results in better health, well-being, and relationships. Voice nothing but the truth for a year; watch your life transform.
I really hope no one ever writes an article about how I falsified my essay about lies. At the very least, the irony wouldn’t be as gut-splitting as a liar publishing about honesty.
Signing off with the kindest regards to HBS’ Prof. Francesca Gino. I, of all souls, believe in your redemption.
On a topic of meta-language, I would suggest a book "metaphors we live by". It suggests that all language we use are just metaphors and looks into specific example, e.g. how saying "I am running our of steam" equates your mind to complicated controllable machine. It then wonders how this influences the way we see the world.
Language, after all, is just a compressor of a very complex reality!
Thanks for as always beautiful writings!
This essay made my day, especially the fact that you worked in a Harry Potter reference. I am always secretly thinking about how Harry Potter is the key to understanding everything. Thank you!