“Every man has some reminiscences which he would not tell to everyone, but only to his friends. He has others which he would not reveal even to his friends, but only to himself, and that in secret. But finally there are still others which a man is a even afraid to tell himself, and ever decent man has a considerable number of such things stored away… Man is bound to lie about himself.
- Fyodor Dostoyevsky (Notes from Underground)
I am supposed to be writing a paper on literary styles used in revealing a motif of self-deception in two novels. It's got me inquiring as to my own level of self-deception and I can't seem to focus as much on the paper as the importance of truth. I find that it is easy to be allured by the profound facade of something of this title. But truth, like love, is not a victory march. Its a cold, and its a broken "hallelujah." (credit, of course, to Leonard Cohen) Truth isn't whatever is convenient to believe or whatever sounds the most noble. This is a scape-goat truth. This truth is one that simply allows avoidance of social realities, hindering relationships. And it also, and more importantly, avoidance of ones darkest self.
More often than not, I think, truth will be dirty. It will be a disturbing thing that we have to come to terms with. But supposedly it will set us free...
To what lengths do we go to hide from ourselves? And how brave must we be to backtrack into the dark to become free of our masks?
I'm also distracted by the few red leaves that I have noticed from my fourth floor window perch in the library. I guess fall is here...
