lies, though each thing in it is fair fact, I fail as an Artist.
It is strange about lies—any lies, all lies. They are muscularly stronger than truths. They come more readily to human tongues. They fit more easily into the games of this life. And in me they seem needful to my Artist mind.
I mean not the lies I may tell but the lies I think.
I mean not my falseness. That is a different thing, one I feel someway responsible for. But the thinking lies feel to be a heritage from ancient evil selves.
I lie to myself, to the air around me—I blow lies into space from my quiet lips. And one half of me knows them for lies and the other half of me believes them.
Those half-known lies, the need of the lies half-believed, are the realization of an essential Artist-spirit.
The oblique belief in them and the recognition of them as lies proclaim me to myself, as a writing-person: Liar and Artist.
