Was I lying? No, I simply understood. Because a lie — apart from the childish, spontaneous lie born of a desire to dream — is merely a recognition that other people exist and an acknowledgement of the need to shape that existence to our own, which cannot be shaped to theirs. A lie is simply the ideal language of the soul, for just as we use words — which are sounds articulated in an absurd manner — to translate into real language the most intimate and subtle movements of emotion and thought, which words alone could never translate, so we make use of lies and fictions in order to understand and
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