The title of this post is also the title of the Novel that I re - read over the last few days. By Dianne Setterfield, the Novel covers many topics, love, longing, bonding between twins, secrets, incest, betrayal, truth and much more besides. What I like the most about the novel and what I find most interesting is the self depreciating criticism that Dianne pokes at writers and the art of writing.
It takes a good deal of courage to admit albeit even obliquely that essentially one's gift lies in the basis of one's ability to lie.
Falsehoods in any form are falsehoods and are generally viewed with distaste. But look around you today and you will find that people are enamored with lies - in the form of movies, books, advertising - rosy dreams and promises of better tomorrows that will seldom if ever come true.
And yet we tolerate these falsehoods much better than we would tolerate the falsehoods of our lovers, friends and family. Little white lies that comfort us and protect us but seldom are told with bad intentions at heart. We find them distasteful. Butt we are willing to accept the nice plump fabrications that passes for pop culture in the form Novels, books, Short stories, movies, etc.
An open question to any readers that I might have - Why do we feel hurt by white lies told by loved ones but find comfort in the huge blatant fabrications that society inflicts on us?
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