A man who lies to himself, and believes his own lies, becomes unable to recognize truth, either in himself or in anyone else, and he ends up losing respect for himself and for others. When he has no respect for anyone, he can no longer love, and in him, he yields to his impulses, indulges in the lowest form of pleasure, and behaves in the end like an animal in satisfying his vices. And it all comes from lying--to others and to yourself.
Ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies.
An atmosphere of lies like that infects and poisons the whole life of a home. In a house like that, every breath that the children take is filled with the germs of evil.
There ain't nothin' more powerful than the odor of mendacity...You can smell it. It smells like death.
- By the false spirits' nice contrivance thus
- A little truth oft leavens all the false,
- The better to delude us.
You know I hate, detest, and can't bear a lie, not because I am straighter than the rest of us, but simply because it appalls me. There is a taint of death, a flavour of mortality in lies which is exactly what I hate and detest in the world what I want to forget. It makes me miserable and sick, like biting something rotten would do. Temperament, I suppose.
It is no use lying to one's self.
The best liar is he who makes the smallest amount of lying go the longest way.
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