Editor’s Note

Recently, a friend was convinced by Sam Harris’s book Lying that he should attempt to never lie again. A tall order, I thought. The next time he came to town, he cancelled the after-work drink we’d planned. Why? Because he’d have to tell his wife about it and was afraid she’d get upset. This friend and I have never had a romantic relationship — nothing, nada, zip, fogol, not even a flirting glance — and yet, he felt, he’d rather avoid the drink than get into a whirlwind of lies.

“What other females do you take for drinks when you’re out of town?” she may have asked, or, “Do you prefer having drinks with other people over me?” One lie always leads to the next, he said. Lies always multiply. As writer Robert Brault puts it, “every lie is two lies — the lie we tell others and the lie we tell ourselves to justify it”.

It’s quite an interesting challenge, to never tell a lie, not even a white one. Harris is most firm about those. He says we can radically simplify our lives and improve society by merely telling the truth in situations where others often lie.

How would you cope in a world in which no-one lies? How would politicians gain voters if they always told the truth? How would you keep your job if you told your bosses what you think of them? How would you keep your sense of humour if you told your kid there’s no such thing as the tooth fairy? What would become of our great fiction, a contract between writer and reader based purely on lies? Anna Hartford explores these questions in the main feature.

When I was a kid my mom had a foolproof way of finding out whether I was lying: she’d ask me a question, and if the answer was preceded by a drawn-out “hey …” she knew the answer that followed wouldn’t be strictly true. Apparently, I was giving myself time to come up with a fabrication. I think I’ll try it on my partner the next time he’s out of town.

Have a great Sunday, truthfully.