Pinocchio is one of my favourite characters. We all know him because of his nose, which grew an inch or so every time he told a lie.
It’s a terrific metaphor because, as sure as day is day and night is night, as Johnny Cash sang, something grows every time we tell a lie. Our guilt for starters, I’m tempted to say, though in this post-Hancockian world of ours I’m not sure the world has enough space for all these extended noses.
But what is a lie, and does every lie cause our (metaphorical) nose to grow? What about that story we tell our children and grandchildren and each other every year about a fat man who carries a sack and comes down the chimney with presents? What about all those wee teeth the fairies have taken away to build their castles, leaving a penny, and in these inflationary days, a pound under the pillow for thanks?
Och, these aren’t lies. These are stories. Stories always tell a greater truth than fact. They stretch time, so that the best things happened once upon a time, meaning now and forever more.
The politician who promises to deal with your problem and instead files it away in a drawer steals from time itself. The liar always becomes the victim of his own lie
The main character is called John or Jean. That’s you. The story takes place in a far away land, which is your bedroom or back garden: that magic tree you climbed as a child, the slip gate that took you into the mysterious forest; the cupboard that opened up, and once you put that hat on and lifted your dad’s walking stick, you were Long John Silver, haaar haaar.
You can tell a fabulous untrue story that isn’t a lie
In contrast, lies reduce wonders. The fisherman who claims the salmon he caught weighed 20 pounds when it really only weighed two pounds diminishes both himself and the fish: it cheats the fish of the truth. The politician who promises to deal with your problem and instead files it away in a drawer steals from time itself. The liar always becomes the victim of his own lie.
As far as I’m aware, all cultures disapprove of lying. The basic reason is that it always breaks trust: you simply cannot trust someone who lies persistently. And no relationship, no household or community can survive without trust.
You have to trust that the chair you’re going to sit on will hold your weight, otherwise every time you sit down you will be filled with anxiety, over and above checking the chair this, that and every other way before you gingerly sit down on it. How much more with the person you live with or nation you live in, exemplified by a Health Minister telling you to keep your distance while snogging his aide?
And yet, you can tell a fabulous (untrue) story about that very chair and sit down in it every time with renewed delight and hope and expectation. I told my children that the chair was a boat and a throne and a magic carpet and a book, and any time they sat down on it they wondered whether this time they’d be Captain Pugwash or King Kong or Aladdin or Charlie in his chocolate factory.
When I played football I was always Denis Law, and even now as I wander along the local forest path I’m often Laurie Lee, walking out on a midsummer’s morning all the way to Spain.
Lies are always selfish – stories come from love
Proverbs never tell the whole truth: they tend always to validate rather than challenge the status quo, but nevertheless they more or less sum up a culture’s attitude to things. Our most accessible one in Gaelic is Skyeman Alexander Nicolson’s majestic collection from 1881, which contains around 4,000 proverbs and phrases from the wider Gàidhealtachd.
Ultimately, there is no believing a liar, even when he finally tells the truth
The index tells me that most proverbs centred on physical objects, like water and wind and stones and ploughing and the sea and horses and dogs and hens and so forth. No wonder, because these were the daily bread of life. But more existential issues do appear: evil has 11 proverbs to itself, while good outpaces it, with 15. Truth has six, lies eight, and for a wee bit of added punch, the word liar itself an extra five. Liars should have good memories, it advises.
Stories about lying abound in every culture. The emperor walking about stark naked and everyone implicated in the great lie, and then the boy who cried wolf so often that when the real deal came along no one believed him because, ultimately, there is no believing a liar, even when he finally tells the truth.
Lies are always selfish, whereas stories, however untrue, are things of love, which is the only truth.
Angus Peter Campbell is an award-winning writer and actor from South Uist
